Part 15 (2/2)

”I did not think Miss Lee had been such a fool,” said Bullock, ”but there's no accounting for taste.”

”Who is the gentleman that is staying at the Elms just now?” asked Mrs. Archer. ”Do you know his name?”

”I've heard,” said Suds, ”but really I quite forget. It either begins with an M or an N.”

”That's a wide landmark to sail by, Sheldrake. You might as well have added a P or a Q.”

”Stop,” said the barber, ”I can give you a clue to it. Do you remember, Bullock, the name of the fine sporting gemman who ran off with Parson Rivers's daughter? I was a boy then, serving my time with Sam Strap.”

I started from the contemplation of the fine well-grilled beef-steak which Mrs. Archer was dis.h.i.+ng for my especial benefit.

”Well,” said Sheldrake, ”he is either a son or a nefy of his, and has the same name.”

”The deuce he is! That was Moncton, if I mistake not. Yes, yes, Moncton was the name. I well remember it, for it was the means of our losing our good old pastor.”

”How was that?” said I, trying to look indifferent.

”Why, sir, do you see. Mr. Rivers had been many years in the parish.

He married my father and mother, and baptized me, when a babby. He did more than that. He married me to my old woman, when I was a man--but that was the worse job he ever done. Well, sir, as I was telling you.

He was a good man and a Christian; but he had one little weakness. We have all our faults, sir. He loved his pretty daughter too well: wise men will sometimes play the fool, and 'tis a bad thing to make too much of woman-kind. Like servants they grow saucy upon it. They always gets the advantage, any how; and our old parson did pet and spoil Miss Ellen to her heart's content. There was some excuse too for him, for he was an old man and a widower. He had lost his wife and a large family. Parsons always have large families. My wife do say, that 'tis because they have nothing else to do. But I'se very sure, that I should find preaching and sermon-work hard enough.”

”Lord! man, what a roundabout way you have of telling a story,” cried Suds, who was impatient to hear his own voice again. ”Get on a little quicker. Don't you see, the gemman's steak is a-getting cold--and he can't eat and listen to you at the same time, an art I learnt long ago.”

”Mind your own business, Sheldrake,” said the farmer: ”I never trouble my head with the nonsense which is always frothing out of your mouth.”

”Well, sir,” turning again to me, ”as I was saying; his wife and family had all died in the consumption, which made him so afraid of losing Miss Ellen, that he denied her nothing; and truly, she was as pretty a piece of G.o.d's workmans.h.i.+p as ever you saw--and very sweet-tempered and gentle, which beauties seldom are. I had the misfortune to marry a pretty woman, and I knows it to my cost. But I need not trouble you with my missus. It's bad enough to be troubled with her myself. So, sir, as I was telling you, there came a mighty fine gentleman down from London, to stay at the Elm Grove, with my old landlord Squire Lee, who's dead and gone. This Squire Lee was the son of old-Squire Lee.”

”I dare say, Bullock, the gemman does not care a farthing whose son he was,” cried the impatient barber. ”You are so fond of genealogies, that it's a pity you don't begin with the last squire, and end with, 'which was the son of Seth, which was the son of Adam,' &c.”

These interruptions were very annoying, as I was on the tenter-hooks to get out of the mountain of flesh, the head and tail of the story he found such difficulty in bringing forth.

”Pray go on with your story, friend,” said I, very demurely, for fear of hurrying him into becoming more discursive, ”I feel quite interested.”

”Well, sir, this young man came to stay at the Grove, during the shooting-season; and he sees Miss Ellen at church, and falls desperately in love with her. This was all very natural. I was a youngster myself once, and a smart active chap, although I be clumsy enough now, and I remember feeling rather queerish, whenever I cast a sheep's eye into the parson's pew.”

”But the young lady and her lover?” for I perceived that he was trotting off at full gallop in another direction, ”how did they come on?”

”Oh, ay! As young folk generally do in such cases. From exchanging looks, they came to exchanging letters and then words. Stolen meetings and presents of hearts cut out of turnips, with a skewer put through them, to show the desperation of the case. That was the way at least that I went a courting my Martha, and it took amazingly.”

”Hang you, and your Martha!” thought I, as I turned helplessly to the beef-steak, but I felt too much excited to do it the least justice.

After deliberately knocking the ashes from his pipe, and taking a long draught of ale from the pewter-pot beside him, the old farmer went on of his own accord.

”I s'pose the young man told Miss Ellen that he could not live without her. We all tell 'em so, but we never dies a bit the sooner, for all that; and the pretty Miss told him to speak to her father, and he did speak, and to his surprise, old parson did not like it at all, and did not give him a very civil answer; and turned the young chap out of the house. He said that he did not approve of sporting characters for sons-in-law, and Miss Ellen should never get his consent to marry him.

But as I told you before, sir, the women-folk will have their own way, especially when there is a sweet-heart or a new bonnet in the case; and the young lady gave him her own consent, and they took French leave and went off without saying a word to n.o.body. Next morning old parson was running about the village, asking everybody if they had seen his child, the tears running over his thin face, and he raving like a man out of his head.”

”And were the young people ever married?” and in spite of myself I felt the colour flush my face to crimson.

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