Part 2 (1/2)

Here the old man blew out a long cloud of curling smoke, and laying down his short pipe by the side of him, he gave a low chuckle of satisfaction at having come out triumphant from an attack on the only weakness of which he could be convicted.

”Ah see,” said he, ”'at you've getten Lucy yam ageean, an' a feyn smart wench she is. They say 'feyn feathers mak's feyn bods,' but she's a bonny bod i' grey roosset, an' depends for her prattiness mair on 'er feeace an' manners then on 'er cleease.”

”Yes,” said Natty, well pleased with this genuine compliment on his darling; ”Lucy is a fine la.s.s and a good 'un, and makes the old house, which has been gloomy enough, as bright as suns.h.i.+ne.”

”G.o.d bless 'er,” said the old man, warmly; ”an' if she gets t' grace o' G.o.d she'll be prattier still. There's neea beauty like religion, Natty, an' t' robe o' righteousness sets off a cotton goon as mitch as silk an' velvet.”

”Hey, that's true enough,” said Nathan Blyth; ”an' Lucy's all right on that point. She isn't a stranger to religion. She loves her Bible and her Saviour, and her conduct is all that heart can wish.”

”Ah's waint an' glad to hear it,” said Adam. ”Meeast o' d' young la.s.ses noo-a-days seeam to me te mind nowt but falderals an' ribbins.

They cover their backs wi' tinsel an' fill their brains wi' caff till they leeak like moontebanks, an' their heeads is as soft as a feather bed.

'Mary i' the dairy Wad fain be a fairy, Wi' wings an' a kirtle o' green; Mary spoils 'er b.u.t.ter, Puts t' good wife in a flutter, A lazy good-for-nothing quean.

Silly, silly Mary!

Bid good-bye te the fairy, Leeak te the b.u.t.ter an' the cheese; Be quick an' 'arn the siller.

Marry Matt the Miller, Then live as happy as you pleease.'”

”Who's going to marry Matt, the miller, I wonder, Adam Olliver?” said Lucy Blyth, suddenly peeping over her father's shoulder by the garden gate.

”Odd's bobs,” said the startled hedger; ”'you come all at yance,' as t' man said when t' sack o' floor dropt on his n.o.b. Why, Lucy, me'

la.s.s, is it you? Ah's waint an' glad to see yer' bonny feeace ageean.

Come in a minnit. Judy! Judy! Here's somebody come 'at it'll deea your and een good te leeak at.”

Out came Judith Olliver, in her brown stuff gown and checked ap.r.o.n, a small three-cornered plaid shawl across her shoulders, and with her white hair neatly gathered beneath a cap of white muslin, double frilled and tied beneath the dimpled chin--as comely and motherly an old cottager as you could wish to see.

”Dear heart,” said Mrs. Olliver, as Lucy kissed her cheek, looking on the bright girl in unconstrained admiration, ”Can this be little Lucy Blyth?”

At that moment a fine, tall, gentlemanly youth of some two-and-twenty summers, paused as he pa.s.sed the garden gate. Turning his open handsome face toward the speaker, his eyes fell on the radiant beauty of the blacksmith's daughter; he recognised the features of his childish ”sweetheart” with a thrill of something more than wonder, and, resuming his walk, ”Master Philip” repeated again and again Judith Olliver's inquiry, ”Can this be little Lucy Blyth?”

CHAPTER V.

”BLACK MORRIS.”

”What dreadful havoc in the human breast The pa.s.sions make, when, unconfined and mad, They burst, unguided by the mental eye, The light of reason, which, in various ways, Points them to good, or turns them back from ill.”

_Thompson._

At the opposite end of the village to that where Nathan Blyth resided, there was a cl.u.s.ter of small tumble-down cottages, whose ragged thatch, patched windows, and generally forlorn appearance denoted the unthrifty and ”unchancy” character of their occupants. This disreputable addendum to the charming village of Nestleton was known as Midden Harbour, a very apt description in itself of the unsavoury character of its surroundings, and the unpleasant manners and customs of most of the denizens of that locality. Squire Fuller had often tried to purchase this unpleasant blotch, which lay in the centre of his own trim and well-managed estate. Its owner, however, old Kasper Crabtree, a waspish dog-in-the-manger kind of fellow, could not be induced to sell it. Indeed, there is every reason to believe that ”Crabby,” as the villagers fitly called him, found sincere gratification in the fact that the property and its possessors were a universal nuisance, for Crabby was one of that numerous family of social Ishmaelites whose hand was against every man, and so every man's hand and tongue were against him.

Of the colony of Midden Harbour, one family was engaged in the sale of crockery-ware, which was hawked around the country in a cart, accompanied by both man and woman kind. The former were clad in velveteen coat and waistcoat and corduroy breeches, all notable for extent of pocket and an outbreak of white b.u.t.tons, with which they were almost as thickly studded as a May pasture is with daisies. The latter were clad in cotton prints notable for brevity of skirt, revealing substantial ankles, graced with high laced-up boots which would have well served a ploughboy. A second family were besom-makers, whose trade materials were surrept.i.tiously gathered on Kesterton Moor and from the woods of Waverdale; the ”ling” of the one and the ”saplings” of the other sufficing to supply both heads and handles. A third family was of the tinker persuasion, travelling about the country with utensils of tin. They were great in the repair of such pots and pans as required the use of solder, which was melted by the aid of an itinerant fire carried in an iron grate. Midden Harbour also boasted a rag-and-bone merchant on a small scale, a scissors-grinder, who united umbrella-mending with his primal trade, and a pedlar also had pitched his tent within its boundaries; altogether, its limited population was about as queer a medley as could well be found. Most of the Harbourites had the character of being more or less, chiefly more, given to making nocturnal excursions in quest of game, and Squire Fuller, Sir Harry Everett, and other large land-owners in the neighbourhood were being perpetually ”requisitioned” by clever and successful poachers, who either defied or bribed all the gamekeeperdom of the country side.

Just behind Midden Harbour was a much larger and somewhat more respectable house, though discredited by being in such an unrespectable locality. It stood in what might by courtesy be called a garden, but, like that which dear old Isaac Watts stood to look at, and which belonged to a neighbour of his who was late o' mornings, you might see ”the wild briar, the thorn and the thistle grow higher and higher.” The garden-gate was hung by one hinge, and was generally so much aslant that one might imagine, that, like its owner, it was given to beer. The garden wall, the house, the outbuildings were all first cousins to Tennyson's Moated Grange.

”With blackest moss the flower-pots Were thickly crusted, one and all; The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the peach to the garden wall.

The broken sheds looked sad and strange, Unlifted was the clinking latch; Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.”