Volume II Part 54 (1/2)

”Ay--belike,” said the old man. ”Lovers and loiterers make mickle haste to part. Our dame is with the maids and the milkpans i' the dairy.”

The elder Buckley was a hale hearty yeoman, of a ruddy and cheerful countenance. A few wrinkles were puckered below the eyes; the rest of his face was sleek and comfortably disposed. A beard, once thick and glossy, was grown grey and thin, curling up short and stunted round his portly chin. Two bright twinkling eyes gave note of a stirring and restless temper--too sanguine, maybe, for success in the great and busy world, and not fitted either by education or disposition for its suspicions or its frauds. Yet he had the reputation of a clever merchant. Rochdale, even at that early period, was a well-known mart for the buyers and sellers of woollen stuffs and friezes. Many of the most wealthy merchants, too, indulged in foreign speculations and adventures, and amongst these the name of Nicholas Buckley was not the least conspicuous.

They pa.s.sed on to the dairy, where Dame Eleanor scolded the maids and skimmed the cream at the same moment, by way of economy in time.

”What look ye for here?” was her first inquiry, for truly her temper was of a hasty and searching nature; somewhat p.r.o.ne, as well, to cavilling and dispute, requiring much of her husband's placidity to furnish oil for the turbulent waters of her disposition.

”Thou wert better at thy father's desk than idling after thine unthrifty pleasures: to-morrow, maybe, sauntering among the hills with hound and horn, beating up with all the rabble in the parish.”

”Nay, mother, chide not: I was never made for merchandise and barter--the price of fleeces in Tod Lane, and the broad ells at Manchester market.”

”And why not?” said the dame, sharply; ”haven't I been the prop and stay of the house? Haven't I made bargains and ventures when thou hast been idling in hall and bower with love-ditties and ladies' purfles?”

She was now moved to sudden choler, and Gervase did not dare to thwart her further--letting the pa.s.sion spend itself by its own efforts, as he knew it were vain to check its torrent.

Now Dame Eleanor Buckley was of a sharp and florid countenance--short-necked and broad-shouldered, her nose and chin almost hiding a pair of thin severe lips, the two prominences being close neighbours, especially in anger. In truth she guided, or rather managed, the whole circle of affairs; aiding and counselling the speculations of her husband, who had happily been content with the produce and profit of his paternal acres, had not his helpmate, who inherited this mercantile spirit from her family, urged her partner to such unwonted l.u.s.t and craving for gain.

A huge bundle of keys hung at her girdle, which, when more than usually excited, did make a most discordant jingle to the tune that was a-going. Indeed, the height and violence of her pa.s.sion might be pretty well guessed at by this index to its strength.

When the storm had in some degree subsided, Gervase held up the ring.

”What's that, silly one? A wedding-ring!”

She grew almost pale with wrath. ”How darest thou?--thee!--a ring!--to wed ere thou hast a home for thy pretty one. Ye may go beg, for here ye shall not tarry. Go to the next buckle-beggar! A pretty wedding truly! When thou hast learned how to keep her honestly 'twill be time enough to wed. But thou hast not earned a doit to put beside her dower, and all our ready moneys, and more, be in trade; though, for the matter o' that, the pulling would be no great business either. But I tell thee again, thy father shall not portion an idler like thyself and pinch his trade. Marry, 'tis enough to do, what with grievous sums lost in s.h.i.+pwrecks, and the time we have now to wait our returns from o'er sea.”

She went on at this rate for a considerable s.p.a.ce, pausing at last, more for lack of breath than subject-matter of discourse.

”Mother,” said he, when fairly run down; ”'tis not a purchase--'tis a gift.”

”By some one sillier than thyself, I warrant.”

”I know not for that; I had it from a stranger.”

”Stranger still,” she replied sharply, chuckling at her own conceit.

”Look at it, mother. Know you such a one?”

The dame eyed it with no favour, but she turned it over with a curious look, at the same time lifting her eyes now and then towards the ceiling, as some train of recollection was awakening in her mind.

”Where gat ye this?” said Dame Eleanor, in a subdued but still querulous tone.

”On the hill-top yonder.”

”Treasure-trove belongs to Sir John Byron.[21] The lord of the manor claims all from the finders.”

”It was a gift.”

”Humph. Hast met gold-finders on the hills, or demons or genii that guard hidden treasure?”

”We've seen the Red Woman!”

Had a sudden thunder-clap burst over them, she could not have been more startled. She stood speechless, and seemingly incapable of reply.