“The great race up a hill, they say, and over a scawr; that’s what makes them old and tired before they’re well begun, spending their lives chasing — nothing! — in place of learning how little will make a man happy, and living in freedom.”
He looked in her face, and somehow he felt that the girl was right, and life a fallacy and a perversion.
“I dare say you are right,” he said, with a sigh. “I’m sure you are right; but we are entered so early for the race — in for the combat before we know; and then habit and pride, You speak truth, I think; but after a certain point is past, truth only makes us sad.”
“I’m going now, sir; in— “
“And — and — you won’t tell me your name?”
“I could tell you many names, sir, that would do as well as mine.”
“As well! — How?”
“As well to call me by, for a day.”
“Well, you won’t trust me.”
“There’s none but enemies near here that knows my name. I’d rather not, sir.”
“I must only make a guess, then — shall’ I?”
“No harm, sir — no good; you’ll never guess it,” she answered, carelessly.
“Will you tell me truly if I make a good guess?”
“I don’t think you will.”
“I think I could tell you one that is very like it.”
“Perhaps you could, sir.”
“Well, then, I think it is not very unlike — Euphemia,” said William Haworth, with a smile.
His meaning glance was met by a sudden flash from the girl’s splendid eyes; and she looked at him, for a moment or two, with a sort of startled expectation. It subsided in a moment more, but the Squire had made his inferences.
“You see, I’m not quite so much in the dark as you supposed,” said he, still smiling; and then more earnestly he continued: “But you are not to suppose — I am sure you could not do me that wrong — that if an accident has told me more than you intended to confess, I could be base and cowardly enough to permit any human being, while you honor my poor house with your presence, to trouble your quiet, or endanger your liberty. Pray rely upon me. We have never been cowards — never been traitors. I would defend you with my life!”
She looked with a side-glance of her large eyes in the face of the enthusiastic young man, and then down on the flowers that lay in a blooming sheaf on her arm, and said: —
“Some folks say you northern squires are hard — but all agree you’re proud — and you’ll allow none, small or great, that depends on you to be wronged; and I think you’re kind beside, sir, and would not like to see any one in trouble. Is not that so?”
William smiled.
“You give us north - countrymen a good character, and me in particular; and I am too much gratified by your commendation to refuse it. But, be that how it may, rely on us; we will take good care of you while you remain at Haworth.”
“You are good to me — all,” said the girl; “and please, sir, I’ll go in with these roses now — very kind; and I hope God will bless you!”
“And, mind, you’ve promised you stay over tomorrow?”
“Yes, sir — thanks.”
“Give me your hand upon it.”
And so she did, instantly. What a pretty slender hand it was! He was holding it longer than need be.
“I keep my word, sir, always. I’m grateful, sir, for your kindness,” she said, with a grave and gentle air, drawing her hand back at the same time, as if to settle the straggling flowers on her arm; and so she was gone, and he alone.
And William Haworth sighed, and leaned his shoulder against the tree, and sighed again. He was thinking of liberty, and sighing, to think that yeaning for it was vain as for heaven. And yet — why?
CHAPTER VIII.
“YOCK, NACK, BALLO.”
THAT evening, in his study, William was disturbed by faint and far-away sounds of merriment from the kitchen. It is a house of thick walls and strong doors, but in the silence of his room the merry vibration reached him. He went into the hall and listened, and heard, at the end of the passage which leads to the kitchen, such a hurlyburly of hilarity as he could not have conceived it possible for only three people to make.
The old housekeeper was screaming peal after peal of laughter, such as he did not think mortal could utter, and retain any breath at all. A wonderful grunting or snoring sound, uttered with a sort of rhythm, accompanied one of the oddest songs he had ever heard, the melody of which resembled a piece of church-music, with a wild comic refrain attached to it at every verse. It was sung by a very sweet voice — a demi-contralto, rich and powerful, which somehow he had no difficulty in allotting to the stranger.
Now what could the row be, he wondered: some fun, of course, that delightful girl has set going.
Well, certainly, she was the mistress of these revels, and very funny the fun was to witness, “if hot to describe.
They had been drinking their tea together — Mrs. Gillyflower, the guest, and Mall. Tea ended, the girl had resumed her work, and old Martha and the stranger began to talk. A very voluble companion, in truth, was this guest, and kept the old woman, who loved a talk and a story, very agreeably employed.
Now she was telling her a long story — the sort of thing that old housekeepers like to gossip over. It was about her mother’s last illness, and her death.
There were touching incidents at the close, and the young girl told them with a true simple eloquence, that moved good Martha Gillyflower, albeit she despised the melting mood, to tears.
That strange girl did not weep, although she drew tears from the proud energetic old woman.
“Come — come, ma’am, you must cry no more; I’ll bite your little finger if you do.”
The old woman looked at her, not knowing what to make of her threat; for she seemed very serious, and showed the tiny edge of her white teeth.
“Na — na, lass! ye’ll no bite my finger,” said Mrs. Gillyflower, drying her eyes quickly, with a little severity.
“Don’t you tempt me, Mrs. Gillyflower.”
“Don’t ye talk nonsense, child.”
“Well ye’ve stopped crying, and that’s all I wanted. Mall’s done her work; we’re going to dance a dance for ye. Give her leave to come — do, please; pray do. — Mall! Mrs. Gillyflower says ye may come.”
Well, Mrs. Gillyflower did agree, with just reluctance and conditions enough to reserve her’ importance, and in a moment the tiled floor was cleared.
“Where’s the bellows? that’s right — and here’s a stick. Now, Mrs. Gillyflower — mind, I’m the bear-leader, and a fiddler beside; and the bear is sick, and I’m lamenting with him over his sickness, and we try a dance now and then, but it won’t do; and Mall is the bear. I’ll have her ready in a minute; and may I throw this wood on the fire to make a good blaze, that you may see us well? Come in, Mall — bring your candle — come into the room, till I dress you for the bear.”
Grinning from ear to ear, in marched Mall, with lengthy strides, and in two or three minutes emerged with a vizard on, made of brown-paper stitched over with tufts of black wool, a clever imitation of a bear’s head; her arms and legs encased in long black stockings, the feet of which were stuffed out so as to resemble two long paws. The gait of the bear had been carefully rehearsed. The bear was muzzled, and a cord from its nose tied round the fiddler’s arm: and with bent knees, lifting its feet high at every step, and paws raised after the manner of a begging dog — her dark dress so disposed and tied about her as to harmonize with the other dispositions, and make a very good rough imitation of the brute — in came the interesting invalid, hanging his head, now on this side, now on that, and emitting dolorous grunts; while the woebegone fiddler, with his bellows to his chin, the stick, by way of bow, across it, and the cord about his arm — turning up his eyes in agony, or rolling them on the bear with rueful affection — gave a final charge to his associate performer:
“Now, mind all I said. Remember when y
e sit down, and when ye stand up; and every time I call ye ‘Sir Bruin, the Bear,’ ye make a low bow, mind; and when I sing ‘My son! my son!’ ye hug me with your arms; and when I sing quick, ‘Oh, poor fallow — Yock, nack, ballo!’ (In a foreign language, which the stranger understood, these words mean “Eyes, nose, hair and were introduced in the refrain describing the ubiquity of the offerings of Sir Bruin, every part being affected) then ye dance round, first on one leg and then on the other; and when I say ‘Chatters, mooie, cherro — (In the same language, and similarly introduced, these words mean, “Teeth, mouth, head.”) We’ll drive him in the barrow,’ you sit down fainting-like. And now look, Mrs. Gillyflower, please; we’re just beginning.”
It needed no such exhortation, for that good woman, with a recluse’s appetite for fun, was staring and listening, all eye and ear, with a preparatory grin on.
So the dramatic dance and song commenced: and to those who have ever witnessed it performed with the gravity of genuine humor, the mutual and somewhat ceremonious respect of the bear and the fiddler, the suffering and the sympathy, ‘ the tender affection and condolings, and the momentary gleams of hope and hilarity — it will be no wonder that, before it had proceeded far, old Martha was in such screams of laughter that it was a marvel she did not roll off her chair, or die in the struggle to catch her breath.
The beautiful creature who played the fiddler could not, do what she would, divest herself of her grace and her prettiness, and her clever acting was made but the more irresistible by these pleasant incongruities.
Old Martha shook — she shrieked — she rolled; down her cheeks streamed tears of merriment; she inarticulately waved her hands imploringly, to arrest the fun that was convulsing her. But it proceeded to the end, and caused the uproar that disturbed William, who, I am afraid, was beginning to grow more idle than was right.
He would have liked to pay his visit to Mrs. Gillyflower then, but he feared he might interrupt the fun. He stood, and listened to the strange hurlyburly, highly amused, and also interested. Sometimes he lost patience with honest Martha, whose roars of laughter almost drowned the song, which he thought wonderfully quaint and pretty, and the voice quite beautiful. I think he was fast falling in love with his mysterious guest.
“Well,” said old Martha, breaking in on his solitude, “that’s the lithesomest lass that ever I sid. If you’d a’ sin how connily she did it!”
“I heard you laughing, and I thought I heard singing.”
“So you did,” cried Martha, hilariously, and she described the whole performance with boisterous merriment “I tell you what, I never laughed so in my life before; an’ I saw a play in the York theatre, an’ singin’ an’ dancin’ there, but nothin’ like this to make a body laugh. Hoot, man! where war ye that ye didn’t come and see it? — ye’d a’ never forget it while ye lived. I wish she may be as skilled in graver things, tho’, but I don’t know what to make of her.”
“What is it, then? tell me what you mean,” said he, struck by the sudden gravity of her looks.
“Well, I’ll tell ye. I took down the Bible this evening, when we had done our tea, and I read a chapter; and she listened quite quiet, and when I shut it she asked me, ‘What book is that?’ I looked at her, thinkin’ she was funnin’ me. But twasn’t nothin’ o’ the kind. Then I consayted she meant, ‘What book o’ the Old Testament is it?’ So I said, ‘Genesis.’
‘And who wrote Genesis?’ says she.
‘The Bible,’ says I, ‘is the Word of God.’
‘Ay, but you said this is Genesis,’ says she. ‘An’ don’t you know,’ says I, ‘that Genesis is a part o’ the Bible?’
‘I might a’ known it,’ says she, ‘if I liked.’ Well, that puzzled me a bit, and I looked at her in a sort o’ jummlement, for I didn’t know what to make o’ her; and seein’ me look so earnest, she laughed hearty, you’d think she’d a’ died a’most. Well, I considered, an’ remembrin’ what ye said, I thought, if she be a nun she must be a Catholic, an’ Catholics, as I’ve heard say, never reads their Bibles; so just to try, says I, ‘Tomorrow’s Sunda, ye’ll be cornin’ to church, I suppose?’
‘The Squire goes to church?’ says she. ‘Yes, an’ reads his Bible, too,’ says I. ‘I don’t mind if I do,’ says she; ‘but my bonnet blew off on the moss the evening I came, and can ye lend me anything to put on my head? — and’ I’ve no good clothes, nothin’ with me.’ So Mall is stayin’ at home, and she’ll lend her Sunda bonnet, an’ she’s cornin’ to church; so she can’t be a Catholic, ye see.”
“That does not follow — it is no proof at all. I’ve seen Roman Catholics in church. They have no objection — at least no difficulty. They can say their own prayers to themselves while ours are being read, and so don’t hear one word of them. Have you ever seen her tell her beads, though, or tap her breast with her closed hand at her prayers?”
“I don’t go into her room for her candle till she’s in bed, so I can’t say what her prayers may be.”
“Have you ever seen her ‘cross herself like this, before or after meals, when we say grace?”
“No, sir.”
“They do it very quietly, to avoid singularity; but watch her tomorrow, and we’ll see how church will please her. Her not being well up in her Bible looks very like it. I rely very much on first impressions. I think she is a foreigner, and I think she is a Roman Catholic. We shall see.”
“Well,” said Martha, “I’m jealous of that myself.”
“And now I’ll take my pipe to the kitchen; she won’t mind, and it would be a pity to break an old custom,” said the Squire.
CHAPTER IX.
THE RUINS OF HAZELDEN.
NEXT day William walked to Wymering Church, five miles away, whither Clinton drove Martha Gillyflower and her guest. The tall girl with her dark-gray cloak on, and a borrowed black straw bonnet of Mall’s, and a black veil supplied by the good old woman, was a demure and nun-like figure enough. If she knew nothing of our church service, she nevertheless went through — shall I call it? — her drill very exactly; she imitated, I suppose, the down-sittings and up-risings, the kneelings and the courtesies, and the reverential air of the worthy old housekeeper, close by whose side she stood, enjoying, as they did in the quaint little church, a small seat to themselves near the door.
It is not possible, however, quite to veil such beauty as that of the young girl who stood beside Mrs. Gillyflower. That devout woman was made uneasy and indignant by the marked attention with which the three persons who constituted the worth and gallantry of that primitive place of worship regarded her companion. Squire Belleston, who lived four miles away at the other side, and is a lean young fellow of 50, with a good deal of gold-chain and jewelry, and a flower always in his button hole, ogled the pew, with marked but sly benignity, during the admirable sermon of the Rev. Doctor Runt. Short Mr. Alfred Runt, the rector’s eldest son and heir, did, in more earnest if less graceful fashion, the same thing; and young Mr. Sudors, the doctor’s assistant, who had come all the way from Golden Friars to spend the day, sacrificed the entire Litany to ogling in a lost sweet way the selfsame point of observation — sucking all the while the polished ivory ball that forms the handle of his cane, and which he was very near swallowing in consequence of a sudden look of fierce detection from Mrs. Martha Gillyflower.
These interesting young gentlemen would possibly have given that discreet chaperone further trouble, had they not been entangled in the porch by their, young lady acquaintances and others. So Martha in the taxcart led by Peter Clinton, and the strange girl on foot, found themselves quite unmolested ascending the steep bit of hill under the old ash-trees near the church.
Perched on a bough of one of these great ash-trees that stoop over that narrow road, and half-hid among the ivy that thickly covers it, a little blackeyed sunburnt boy looked down on them as they slowly made their way up the hill. He dropped from the branch to the road, and ran after the girl, begging with the whine of a professed mendicant.
When the horses had reached the top of the hill, the girl had fallen some way behind, and was talking with the little fellow, who was walking slowly up the hill beside her. She questioned the boy sharply, and lent an attentive ear, with a very thoughtful face, as he answered volubly. When Clinton looked back, he saw her dismiss him with a wave of her hand; and then she hurried after the taxcart, and got up in silence, with an anxious and pale face, and did not speak to Martha till they had got a long way towards home.
“How long have you lived, Mrs. Gillyflower?” she asked, at last.
“Hoot, lass — there’s a question! Well, a good while, ye may suppose.”
“Well — well! well — well!” said the girl, sadly.
“And what’s the matter now, wisehead?”
“I was thinking ye must be pretty well tired,” she said, sweetly, with a shrug.
“Tired! Not I, lass; I’m good for twenty years yet.”
“I don’t know what we’re put here for. Life’s a fire that burns sore, Mrs. Gillyflower; I’d rather mine was cold,” wailed the girl. “‘Taint long cutting a grave, and then there’s no more trouble about a poor fool!”
“By Jen, here’s a doleful homminy!” said the old woman. “Do you want to put us in the dumps? Awa’ wi’ ye, ye goose!”
“Goose and gander; your parson said the same to-day — up in his box,” said the girl, more like herself. “If I’m a fool, he’s a bigger! And what are you, Mrs. Gillyflower, to go all that way to listen to his preachment?”
“There’s a wide difference between a parson in a pulpit and a chit like you, lass, jiggin’ heam in a gig. Can’t ye talk o’ something else, dear, and leave those things to sich as understand them?”
“That’s a secret we’ll all understand some day,” said the girl, and laughed gently.
About an hour later William tapped at the kitchen-window, close to which the girl was whistling to the bullfinch.
Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu Page 768
