Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  “If we did right, Mall, we’d let that poor little bird go.” She had the cage again on her knee, by this time, and was looking, through the wires at the bird.

  “Hoot, lass! I’s no sa awpy as firtle in any such lids. If Mrs. Gillyflower came home and tound her wee bird fleed — woe werth Mall! Be ma sang, she’d be stark beside hersel’!”

  Mall, having seen the holocaust of the fowl, believed the strange girl capable of anything.

  “I like pets — all my people do. I had a squirrel called ‘Jacka,’ and a green parrot; it died, pool little thing, and I buried it near Wyndale, in Derbyshire, under the middle tree of the three hawthorns that grow on the moor’s side, just at the turn of the brook. I was sick crying after it Lussha Lee had a pet fox, that frightened it, I think, and it died It would call me by my name; and it slept every day on its stick, after its dinner, not with its head under its wing, but just like an old gorgio, and its chin on its breast I’d have a parrot for a pet, or any outlandish bird that don’t live wild here; but these small things, when they see their companions and the green leaves, don’t you believe but their little hearts is sore — they’re looking for the old life? And, Mall, will ye miss me when I’m gone? I’ll be often thinking of ye all, and the pleasant fields of Haworth.”

  “Ye’re no gangin’ yet, lass, and I’ll no greet till sorrow comes,” said Mall, heartily.

  The stranger laughed kindly.

  “Hark! — hear! The birds are all singing. The chimney shadow is away as far as Hazelden wolds; and Mrs. Gillyflower will be coming home again, and then the Squire. Is all ready, lass? Run and see, and trim the fire; the frost is coming, and all is ready here.”

  And with the tip of her strong but tidy shoe she poked the edge of the ashes.

  Mall had hardly returned, when Mrs. Gillyflower appeared; and her handmaid’s heart sunk, as she thought of the murdered pullet and the unboiled potatoes and saw Martha, who was not to be trifled with, descend from the taxcart before it reached the yard-gate, and cross the low’ stile, and stump over the sward towards the smouldering bonfire.

  “Now mind, ye sid ye wod na let her flite me,” whispered Mall, in awful trepidation.

  “Never you fear,” said the girl; and before Mrs. Gillyflower had quite reached them, the stranger called:

  “I’m glad ye’re come home, ma’am; there has been sad doings. What do you think? Somebody has stolen the black pullet, Mrs. Gillyflower — what do ye think o’ that?”

  “Stolen the black pullet!” echoed Mrs.

  Gillyflower, corning to a standstill, and looking herself as black as the pullet.

  “Tell her it’s there — can’t ye?” whispered Mall, in her agony.

  “Ay, burnt to a cinder; why, it’s all afire, ye fool, like a bit o’ peat!” whispered the stranger, scornfully.

  “Ay! it’s gone — ay, the black pullet” (blacker than ever) she said, aside to Mall.

  “And what’s the fire here for?” exclaimed Mrs. Gillyflower, breaking again into speech.

  “We were terrible cold, ma’am.”

  “And why not sit be the kitchen-fire — what’s the matter wi’ ye all?”

  “Why, Mall let it out, and we were almost famished. The cat’s come out, and the dog, and the bird even.”

  “La! But, ma’am— “ broke in Mall.

  “And whaar’s the pittayties for supper?” gasped Mrs. Gillyflower, with her hand pugilistically raised, and a stamp of distraction. “Whaar’s the pittayties?”

  “Well,” said the stranger, “I do suppose they’re where they were, for there’s none in the pot, though I told her she’d get into a row about them — I did.”

  “Aw! la! Look at ye — weel!” broke out the betrayed Mall.

  “The black pullet gone, and narra pittayta!” exclaimed the old lady, with both her open hands thrown back in distraction. “If I had a souple-jack in my hand, wouldn’t I ken whaar to lay it Don’t ye stand there ogglin’ like a gowk, ye strackle-brain’d scollops! Not a word out o’ yer head. I’ll hae nane o’ yer miff-maff here. Sarts! it’s bonny doins; fires out, and narra pittayta, and the best pou’t o’ the lot stole, and you sittin’ here croodlin’ in a scog! By my sang! it’s a good bevellin’ ye want, and if I had a widdy in my fist yer worse than nothin’. There’s the master cornin’, and wet and cold, and not a spark o’ fire in the study. If ever there was a rue-bargain, you’re ane; woe werth the day I saw yer foolish face! I can’t wait noo, but I’ll be talkin’ to ye i’ now.”

  And with a florid complexion and angry brow away trotted she, to see after the Squire’s fire.

  “He is coming — I see him down yonder by the hedge. See his flies, they’re caught in the bush,” said the stranger.

  “Sit you here while I run in for the things.”

  Away she ran, leaving Mall confounded and sore at the treatment she had received. And in a minute more she returned with two dishes and two tin covers, and a great knife and fork, and a huge cloth.

  First from the glowing ashes forth came the potatoes, cased in their hard-baked skins, like roasted chestnuts; and well rubbed in the cloth and placed in the dish, did ever potatoes look so tempting?”

  Mall began to feel happier. Next, in its thick black crust of burnt straw and feathers, emerged the fowl. Off came this crust, and never had Mall seen or dreamed of so savory and appetizing a dish as was now before her.

  “By Jen!” gasped Mall Darrell, with a broad grin, and eyes jumping out of her head.

  “Didn’t I tell you to do just as I bid you, and all would be well? And I told you to kill the black pullet because Mrs. Gillyflower was thinking this morning she’d a’ killed it, only she thought it would not a’ been a cold evening, but I knew better. Come, you bring in the pullet, and I’ll bring the potatoes, and ye’ll see how pleased she’ll be.”

  And so she was, and forgave them both; and laughed and wondered, and wondered and laughed, and called the blackeyed stranger a “naughty pack;” and she told William the history of that eccentric cookery — how it was done in a bonfire, in a nook of the hedge, by the big ash-tree, under the open sky.

  Nothing better was ever eaten: epicures would do well to try it

  CHAPTER XIV.

  THE KNIGHT IN THE SADDLE.

  NEXT morning it was Tuesday — the fair-day of Willarden. William had boasted to his young guest that he would take his gun, and walk half round the moss in search of game.

  Instead of doing this, at daybreak he mounted his horse and rode away toward the old Northumbrian town of Willarden.

  There was a light and pleasant autumnal frost in the air as the sun rose over the landscape, and showed sharply for a while the distant peaks of the fells of Golden Friars. The Squire was riding away from Haworth, and the scenery before him was wild and picturesque. Long stretches of light sward, with gray rocks peeping through, and masses of fern and furze, made a breezy undulating outline — steep enough at times, and relieved every here and there with groups of dwarf oak, and birch, and thorn.

  This scenery though never beautiful, is always cheery, and sometimes even pretty. To William it seemed prettier than it had ever looked before. What way ever seemed dull to the man whose head is full of the beautiful imagery of romance, and who is speeding, in the way of his knight-errantry, on the service of his ladylove?

  Exploit more foolish, passion more romantic, never animated the enterprise of gallant knight, in the days of prowess and beauty, than that which the breast of the Squire of Haworth harbored, as he rode over the wide plain that separated his hall from the fair-green of Willarden. We shall see how he sped.

  As you approach Willarden, the character of wildness and loneliness, which gives its peculiar charm to the scenery, does not diminish. Wide slopes and gentle hollows swell and dip softly, showing shallow scaurs of gray rock here and there, traced in broken lines, like timeworn and fantastic battlements and fortifications; and through the crannies twisted hawthorn-trees stoop wildly, and birch-trees in twos and
threes crown their summits.

  These picturesque but hungry pastures, with their thin close grass and wavy fern, and hoar rocks peeping through, are browsed by scattered sheep of some old Northumbrian breed, small and agile, who seldom lie down to repose, like their fatter cousins of the South — can gallop far and lightly, and climb the rocks like goats. These sheep crop diligently the thin but sweet herbage which more highly-bred animals would despise, and are doubtless the descendants of those harried animals who made so many forced marches, this way and that, across the border, and saw the steel caps, lances, and shaggy ponies of the Scottish rievers.

  And now, at last, the quaint little town of Willarden appears in view, as William Haworth reaches the summit of a long low undulation.

  There four narrow roads meet — or, if you will, two long lines of road cross — the little town clumping itself upon and about the point of union. Stone houses with steep gables, look in the distance as if planted at random, as a child places dominoes. There was some tillage near; com stood in stooks and stacks, orchards and gardens made an irregular girdle about its walls; and the gray spire, with its gilded vane, glimmered pleasantly in the early sun, with a background of statelier foliage.

  Cattle and carts were still pouring into the town as William approached, and the picture, without the sounds of bustle, was pleasant in the distance.

  As you draw near, the scene loses something of its gentler charm, and that which was a picture becomes instinct with the character and vulgarity of actual life. Now you hear laughter and bawling and women’s prattle, the cries of the cattle-drovers. There are a few late carts and wagons making their way through Church Street to the fair-green. Cows are driving this way and that, with their horns low, on the same route; and sheep and horses and pigs are still moving in the same direction.

  William draws bridle at die porch of the “Goat in Boots;” people are going in and out through the crowd, and two broad fellows, whom William has to shove asunder, already deep in a bargain about three cows. They both look shrewd and dogged — I wonder which will have the best of it On such days, with the flurry and flush of excitement all about, who would recognize the silent little inn of all the rest of the year?

  William is hicky to find a nook in which to eat his breakfast A fat hearty fellow, with a shrewd hale face, wearing leather breeches and topboots, a long red waistcoat and a blue cutaway with brass buttons, clapped his big hand on William’s shoulder, with a grin, and greeted him with a salutation:

  “Ech! Willie Haworth — is thou here, lad? And how’s a’ wi’ thee? Thou’s summat late, though. I a’ selt my kye weel, an hour sin’.”

  And he laughed and wagged his head.

  “Glad to see you, Dick. Mind you come down again this winter to Haworth, to the duck-shooting. I’ll have your corner by the fire, and your pipe and your mug ready; and you’ll stay a week, and bring your retriever, the best dog I ever saw — and I’ll take no excuse. So that’s settled.”

  Dick laughed a huge laugh. “Maybe — who kens?” he responded joyously. “Thou’s sellin’ or buyin’?” he inquired, thinking that the young Squire might be pleasant to deal with either way.

  “No; I have no business here except to look after a rogue.”

  “Agoy! Weel — what more?” said Dick.

  “Only, as you’ve nothing better to do, you’ll come with me and see the fun. I’m going to send him out o’ the county, and he won’t like it; and there will be a jolly row, I daresay.”

  “Thou’s a justice, noo. Thou’ll be givin’ him a jerkin’ o’ stean. One raggard the less. I’ll lend ye a hand, but there’s constables if need be, and thou’ll hev the warrant in thy pocket.”

  “Come then, Dick. We’ll go down to the fair-green; I like your company — that’s a glorious cudgel you’ve got!”

  “Well, it do drive connily; a skelp o’ that wud make yer lug sing.”

  “So I think. Come, let’s be off.”

  So down Church Street the Squire of Haworth and Dick Hoggen the yeoman — a man of cattle, money, and mark in those regions — made their way; and over the narrow bridge, with its now roofless guard-tower, and so into the pretty fair-green of Willarden.

  CHAPTER XV.

  COWPER.

  HERE were, of course, the proper scenery and furniture of a fair-green — tents and booths, merry-go-rounds, “Aunt Sally,” wheels of fortune, Rocks of Scilly, thimblerig and stacks of gingerbread, and horses and other quadrupeds. The “Step in, ladies and gentlemen!” of the polite showman resounded, and the milder invitation to the peep-show, and the jokes of Mr. Merryman; the big drum and trumpet thundered, the merry squeak of the fiddle was heard, and the stentorian “saucy Arethusa” of the two British sailors, in the usual mutilated condition of that gallant service, mingling now and then with the screaming of a refractory pig. All these sights and sounds failed to divert William from his purpose. He carried about with him two remarkable and very distinct pictures. He was looking about sharply for the originals, and was so absorbed in his search as to lose much of Dick Hoggen’s agreeable conversation.

  His scrutiny was not rewarded. It was now twelve o’clock. I don’t know how it is now, but in those days there was a toll collected at the entrance to the fair-green. To the man who received this money William put some questions.

  To the best of his recollection he had seen no such men that day; and certainly no such person as the tall young man whom William described had brought a gray and a chestnut horse into the fair.

  William was disappointed. He and his friend Dick strolled up again to the “Goat in Boots,” and had some luncheon. On a sudden a direful thought dawned on the young Squire’s mind.

  What if these two miscreants had been spying out his plans, and in his absence had made a descent upon Haworth Hall, and carried off his ladylove — to be immured, perhaps, in a convent? Who could say where Clinton might be, with the farm to look after? Possibly two miles away at the forge! What an awful fool he (William Haworth) was! He had left her, in fact, to the protection of an old woman and a simple girl, with two wily kidnappers on her track. If they happened to have found a clue to her present refuge, how frightful might prove the consequences of his blunder!

  It was now one; he told the people to saddle his horse forthwith, but, on second thoughts, he resolved to visit the fair-green once more, in quest of the villains whom he had come in pursuit of.

  And now, it was past one o’clock. Dick Hoggen — who had played at most of the games on the green, had his fling at Aunt Sally, and peeped into the shows — was now for mounting and overtaking the sheep he had bought, which were already some way on their march to Crink Farm.

  “Come down once more to the green, Dick; and if there’s still no news of my rogues, we’ll say good-by.”

  So — down they went, and at the gate the man told William: “There has been a gray and a chestnut in since, and a tall greyhoundy chap, gypsy-like, w’ ‘em.”

  “Thank you,” said William, with a pleasant nod; “I’m looking for a gray. Which way did he go?”

  “Right in — right fomit — right atort the middle o’ the green. I’ve no kennin noo, though — there’s such a jummlement here.”

  “Thanks,” William smiled, and nodded again.

  He nodded and smiled, but there was the sudden thrill and suspense of coming battle at his heart — he had resolved on an exploit. His eye, as it searched the crowd, was brighter, his face paler and sterner, his step more resolute, and in a sudden silence his talk with honest Dick came untimely to an end.

  On reaching a part of the green a little less crowded, he saw a figure — the most barbarous, perhaps, he had ever seen before on English ground; he thought he recognized the outline which his guest had given him — he had found his game.

  This was an old square man, with the swarthiest face he had ever seen, broad-furrowed and forbidding, with long soot-black hair, a thick lock of which was brought straight down at each side before his ears. He had jet-black
large eyes, the fire of which was sinister in sockets so lined and wrinkled. He wore a high-crowned broad-brimmed felt hat, such as Germans sometimes affect; he had a short chocolate-colored coat, and a sky-blue waistcoat — both faded and worn at the seams — and a pair of trousers, the lower parts of which were thrust into a pair of old topboots, which, in deep brown wrinkles, hung lower than the calves of his legs.

  This strange figure, pacing up and down a short bit of sward, was totally alone, and twisting an oak cudgel, of about a yard long, by the middle — seemed without object or occupation.

  A stranger or more savage figure he had never seen. It might have been taken for a Zamiel, or the smoked idol of some infernal worship, or a child’s ideal of an ogre.

  “Keep beside me now,” said William Haworth to his friend; “I may want to borrow your cudgel.”

  “I say, Cowper!” cried William.

  The swarthy old man turned on his heel, and, stopping short, confronted the young Squire, fixing on him his glare from under his savage brows. At the same time he shifted his hold of his cudgel, and planted the end of it on the ground.

  “Ho! who wants me? — I’m Cowper,” said he, in a hard loud voice.

  “Where’s the young fellow that came with you?” said William. “I’m told he has horses to sell, and his gray might answer me.”

  “You’ll see ‘em there,” said the old man, indicating the direction with a prod of his cudgel.

  “Where? — in a booth?”

  “Ye can see a gray horse in daylight, I — expect.”

  William laughed. “I’ll try,” said he.

  “On this ground a man and his nag won’t be far apart,” growled the man with the cudgel. “The lad will be having a pot o’ swipes, mayhap.”