← catalogue

Mary Anerley: A Yorkshire Tale

by R. D. Blackmore · English · Gutenberg #6824 · 1,089,348 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Mary Anerley: A Yorkshire Tale
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Mary Anerley: A Yorkshire Tale

Author: R. D. Blackmore


        
Release date: June 6, 2006 [eBook #6824]
                Most recently updated: November 26, 2018

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6824

Credits: Produced by Don Lainson; David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARY ANERLEY: A YORKSHIRE TALE ***




Produced by Don Lainson





MARY ANERLEY


by R. D. Blackmore



1880



CHAPTER I

HEADSTRONG AND HEADLONG


Far from any house or hut, in the depth of dreary moor-land, a road,
unfenced and almost unformed, descends to a rapid river. The crossing is
called the “Seven Corpse Ford,” because a large party of farmers, riding
homeward from Middleton, banded together and perhaps well primed through
fear of a famous highwayman, came down to this place on a foggy evening,
after heavy rain-fall. One of the company set before them what the power
of the water was, but they laughed at him and spurred into it, and one
alone spurred out of it. Whether taken with fright, or with too much
courage, they laid hold of one another, and seven out of eight of them,
all large farmers, and thoroughly understanding land, came never upon it
alive again; and their bodies, being found upon the ridge that cast them
up, gave a dismal name to a place that never was merry in the best of
weather.

However, worse things than this had happened; and the country is not
chary of its living, though apt to be scared of its dead; and so the
ford came into use again, with a little attempt at improvement. For
those farmers being beyond recall, and their families hard to
provide for, Richard Yordas, of Scargate Hall, the chief owner of the
neighborhood, set a long heavy stone up on either brink, and stretched
a strong chain between them, not only to mark out the course of the
shallow, whose shelf is askew to the channel, but also that any one
being washed away might fetch up, and feel how to save himself. For the
Tees is a violent water sometimes, and the safest way to cross it is to
go on till you come to a good stone bridge.

Now forty years after that sad destruction of brave but not well-guided
men, and thirty years after the chain was fixed, that their sons might
not go after them, another thing happened at “Seven Corpse Ford,” worse
than the drowning of the farmers. Or, at any rate, it made more stir
(which is of wider spread than sorrow), because of the eminence of the
man, and the length and width of his property. Neither could any one at
first believe in so quiet an end to so turbulent a course. Nevertheless
it came to pass, as lightly as if he were a reed or a bubble of the
river that belonged to him.

It was upon a gentle evening, a few days after Michaelmas of 1777. No
flood was in the river then, and no fog on the moor-land, only the usual
course of time, keeping the silent company of stars. The young moon was
down, and the hover of the sky (in doubt of various lights) was gone,
and the equal spread of obscurity soothed the eyes of any reasonable
man.

But the man who rode down to the river that night had little love of
reason. Headstrong chief of a headlong race, no will must depart a
hair's-breadth from his; and fifty years of arrogant port had stiffened
a neck too stiff at birth. Even now in the dim light his large square
form stood out against the sky like a cromlech, and his heavy arms swung
like gnarled boughs of oak, for a storm of wrath was moving him. In
his youth he had rebelled against his father; and now his own son was a
rebel to him.

“Good, my boy, good!” he said, within his grizzled beard, while his eyes
shone with fire, like the flints beneath his horse; “you have had your
own way, have you, then? But never shall you step upon an acre of
your own, and your timber shall be the gallows. Done, my boy, once and
forever.”

Philip, the squire, the son of Richard, and father of Duncan Yordas,
with fierce satisfaction struck the bosom of his heavy Bradford
riding-coat, and the crackle of parchment replied to the blow, while
with the other hand he drew rein on the brink of the Tees sliding
rapidly.

The water was dark with the twinkle of the stars, and wide with the
vapor of the valley, but Philip Yordas in the rage of triumph laughed
and spurred his reflecting horse.

“Fool!” he cried, without an oath--no Yordas ever used an oath except in
playful moments--“fool! what fear you? There hangs my respected father's
chain. Ah, he was something like a man! Had I ever dared to flout him
so, he would have hanged me with it.”

Wild with his wrong, he struck the rowel deep into the flank of his
wading horse, and in scorn of the depth drove him up the river. The
shoulders of the swimming horse broke the swirling water, as he panted
and snorted against it; and if Philip Yordas had drawn back at once, he
might even now have crossed safely. But the fury of his blood was up,
the stronger the torrent the fiercer his will, and the fight between
passion and power went on. The poor horse was fain to swerve back at
last; but he struck him on the head with a carbine, and shouted to the
torrent:

“Drown me, if you can. My father used to say that I was never born
to drown. My own water drown me! That would be a little too much
insolence.”

“Too much insolence” were his last words. The strength of the horse was
exhausted. The beat of his legs grew short and faint, the white of his
eyes rolled piteously, and the gurgle of his breath subsided. His
heavy head dropped under water, and his sodden crest rolled over, like
sea-weed where a wave breaks. The stream had him all at its mercy, and
showed no more than his savage master had, but swept him a wallowing
lump away, and over the reef of the crossing. With both feet locked in
the twisted stirrups, and right arm broken at the elbow, the rider
was swung (like the mast of a wreck) and flung with his head upon his
father's chain. There he was held by his great square chin--for the
jar of his backbone stunned him--and the weight of the swept-away horse
broke the neck which never had been known to bend. In the morning a
peasant found him there, not drowned but hanged, with eyes wide open, a
swaying corpse upon a creaking chain. So his father (though long in the
grave) was his death, as he often had promised to be to him; while he
(with the habit of his race) clutched fast with dead hand on dead bosom
the instrument securing the starvation of his son.

Of the Yordas family truly was it said that the will of God was nothing
to their will--as long as the latter lasted--and that every man of them
scorned all Testament, old or new, except his own.



CHAPTER II

SCARGATE HALL


Nearly twenty-four years had passed since Philip Yordas was carried to
his last (as well as his first) repose, and Scargate Hall had enjoyed
some rest from the turbulence of owners. For as soon as Duncan (Philip's
son, whose marriage had maddened his father) was clearly apprised by the
late squire's lawyer of his disinheritance, he collected his own little
money and his wife's, and set sail for India. His mother, a Scotchwoman
of good birth but evil fortunes, had left him something; and his
bride (the daughter of his father's greatest foe) was not altogether
empty-handed. His sisters were forbidden by the will to help him with
a single penny; and Philippa, the elder, declaring and believing that
Duncan had killed her father, strictly obeyed the injunction. But Eliza,
being of a softer kind, and herself then in love with Captain Carnaby,
would gladly have aided her only brother, but for his stern refusal. In
such a case, a more gentle nature than ever endowed a Yordas might
have grown hardened and bitter; and Duncan, being of true Yordas fibre
(thickened and toughened with slower Scotch sap), was not of the sort to
be ousted lightly and grow at the feet of his supplanters.

Therefore he cast himself on the winds, in search of fairer soil, and
was not heard of in his native land; and Scargate Hall and estates were
held by the sisters in joint tenancy, with remainder to the first son
born of whichever it might be of them. And this was so worded through
the hurry of their father to get some one established in the place of
his own son.

But from paltry passions, turn away a little while to the things which
excite, but are not excited by them.

Scargate Hall stands, high and old, in the wildest and most rugged part
of the wild and rough North Riding. Many are the tales about it, in the
few and humble cots, scattered in the modest distance, mainly to look up
at it. In spring and summer, of the years that have any, the height and
the air are not only fine, but even fair and pleasant. So do the shadows
and the sunshine wander, elbowing into one another on the moor, and
so does the glance of smiling foliage soothe the austerity of crag and
scaur. At such time, also, the restless torrent (whose fury has driven
content away through many a short day and long night) is not in such
desperate hurry to bury its troubles in the breast of Tees, but spreads
them in language that sparkles to the sun, or even makes leisure to
turn into corners of deep brown study about the people on its
banks--especially, perhaps, the miller.

But never had this impetuous water more reason to stop and reflect upon
people of greater importance, who called it their own, than now when it
was at the lowest of itself, in August of the year 1801.

From time beyond date the race of Yordas had owned and inhabited this
old place. From them the river, and the river's valley, and the mountain
of its birth, took name, or else, perhaps, gave name to them; for
the history of the giant Yordas still remains to be written, and the
materials are scanty. His present descendants did not care an old song
for his memory, even if he ever had existence to produce it. Piety
(whether in the Latin sense or English) never had marked them for her
own; their days were long in the land, through a long inactivity of the
Decalogue.

And yet in some manner this lawless race had been as a law to itself
throughout. From age to age came certain gifts and certain ways of
management, which saved the family life from falling out of rank
and land and lot. From deadly feuds, exhausting suits, and ruinous
profusion, when all appeared lost, there had always arisen a man of
direct lineal stock to retrieve the estates and reprieve the name. And
what is still more conducive to the longevity of families, no member
had appeared as yet of a power too large and an aim too lofty, whose
eminence must be cut short with axe, outlawry, and attainder. Therefore
there ever had been a Yordas, good or bad (and by his own showing more
often of the latter kind), to stand before heaven, and hold the land,
and harass them that dwelt thereon. But now at last the world seemed to
be threatened with the extinction of a fine old name.

When Squire Philip died in the river, as above recorded, his death, from
one point of view, was dry, since nobody shed a tear for him, unless it
was his child Eliza. Still, he was missed and lamented in speech, and
even in eloquent speeches, having been a very strong Justice of the
Peace, as well as the foremost of riotous gentlemen keeping the order of
the county. He stood above them in his firm resolve to have his own way
always, and his way was so crooked that the difficulty was to get out of
it and let him have it. And when he was dead, it was either too good
or too bad to believe in; and even after he was buried it was held that
this might be only another of his tricks.

But after his ghost had been seen repeatedly, sitting on the chain and
swearing, it began to be known that he was gone indeed, and the relief
afforded by his absence endeared him to sad memory. Moreover, his
good successors enhanced the relish of scandal about him by seeming
themselves to be always so dry, distant, and unimpeachable. Especially
so did “My Lady Philippa,” as the elder daughter was called by all the
tenants and dependents, though the family now held no title of honor.

Mistress Yordas, as she was more correctly styled by usage of the
period, was a maiden lady of fine presence, uncumbered as yet by
weight of years, and only dignified thereby. Stately, and straight, and
substantial of figure, firm but not coarse of feature, she had reached
her forty-fifth year without an ailment or a wrinkle. Her eyes were
steadfast, clear, and bright, well able to second her distinct calm
voice, and handsome still, though their deep blue had waned into a
quiet, impenetrable gray; while her broad clear forehead, straight nose,
and red lips might well be considered as comely as ever, at least by
those who loved her. Of these, however, there were not many; and she was
content to have it so.

Mrs. Carnaby, the younger sister, would not have been content to have
it so. Though not of the weak lot which is enfeoffed to popularity, she
liked to be regarded kindly, and would rather win a smile than exact a
courtesy. Continually it was said of her that she was no genuine Yordas,
though really she had all the pride and all the stubbornness of that
race, enlarged, perhaps, but little weakened, by severe afflictions.
This lady had lost a beloved husband, Colonel Carnaby, killed in battle;
and after that four children of the five she had been so proud of. And
the waters of affliction had not turned to bitterness in her soul.

Concerning the outward part--which matters more than the inward at first
hand--Mrs. Carnaby had no reason to complain of fortune. She had started
well as a very fine baby, and grown up well into a lovely maiden,
passing through wedlock into a sightly matron, gentle, fair, and showing
reason. For generations it had come to pass that those of the Yordas
race who deserved to be cut off for their doings out-of-doors were
followed by ladies of decorum, self-restraint, and regard for their
neighbor's landmark. And so it was now with these two ladies, the
handsome Philippa and the fair Eliza leading a peaceful and reputable
life, and carefully studying their rent-roll.

It was not, however, in the fitness of things that quiet should reign
at Scargate Hall for a quarter of a century; and one strong element of
disturbance grew already manifest. Under the will of Squire Philip the
heir-apparent was the one surviving child of Mrs. Carnaby.

If ever a mortal life was saved by dint of sleepless care, warm
coddling, and perpetual doctoring, it was the precious life of Master
Lancelot Yordas Carnaby. In him all the mischief of his race revived,
without the strong substance to carry it off. Though his parents were
healthy and vigorous, he was of weakly constitution, which would not
have been half so dangerous to him if his mind also had been weakly.
But his mind (or at any rate that rudiment thereof which appears in the
shape of self-will even before the teeth appear) was a piece of muscular
contortion, tough as oak and hard as iron. “Pet” was his name with his
mother and his aunt; and his enemies (being the rest of mankind) said
that pet was his name and his nature.

For this dear child could brook no denial, no slow submission to his
wishes; whatever he wanted must come in a moment, punctual as an
echo. In him re-appeared not the stubbornness only, but also the keen
ingenuity of Yordas in finding out the very thing that never should be
done, and then the unerring perception of the way in which it could be
done most noxiously. Yet any one looking at his eyes would think how
tender and bright must his nature be! “He favoreth his forebears; how
can he help it?” kind people exclaimed, when they knew him. And the
servants of the house excused themselves when condemned for putting up
with him, “Yo know not what 'a is, yo that talk so. He maun get 's own
gait, lestwise yo wud chok' un.”

Being too valuable to be choked, he got his own way always.



CHAPTER III

A DISAPPOINTING APPOINTMENT


For the sake of Pet Carnaby and of themselves, the ladies of the house
were disquieted now, in the first summer weather of a wet cold year, the
year of our Lord 1801. And their trouble arose as follows:

There had long been a question between the sisters and Sir Walter
Carnaby, brother of the late colonel, about an exchange of outlying
land, which would have to be ratified by “Pet” hereafter. Terms
being settled and agreement signed, the lawyers fell to at the linked
sweetness of deducing title. The abstract of the Yordas title was nearly
as big as the parish Bible, so in and out had their dealings been, and
so intricate their pugnacity.

Among the many other of the Yordas freaks was a fatuous and generally
fatal one. For the slightest miscarriage they discharged their lawyer,
and leaped into the office of a new one. Has any man moved in the
affairs of men, with a grain of common-sense or half a pennyweight of
experience, without being taught that an old tenter-hook sits easier to
him than a new one? And not only that, but in shifting his quarters he
may leave some truly fundamental thing behind.

Old Mr. Jellicorse, of Middleton in Teesdale, had won golden opinions
every where. He was an uncommonly honest lawyer, highly incapable of
almost any trick, and lofty in his view of things, when his side of them
was the legal one. He had a large collection of those interesting boxes
which are to a lawyer and his family better than caskets of silver
and gold; and especially were his shelves furnished with what might be
called the library of the Scargate title-deeds. He had been proud to
take charge of these nearly thirty years ago, and had married on the
strength of them, though warned by the rival from whom they were wrested
that he must not hope to keep them long. However, through the peaceful
incumbency of ladies, they remained in his office all those years.

This was the gentleman who had drawn and legally sped to its purport the
will of the lamented Squire Philip, who refused very clearly to leave
it, and took horse to flourish it at his rebellious son. Mr. Jellicorse
had done the utmost, as behooved him, against that rancorous testament;
but meeting with silence more savage than words, and a bow to depart,
he had yielded; and the squire stamped about the room until his job was
finished.

A fact accomplished, whether good or bad, improves in character with
every revolution of this little world around the sun, that heavenly
example of subservience. And now Mr. Jellicorse was well convinced, as
nothing had occurred to disturb that will, and the life of the testator
had been sacrificed to it, and the devisees under it were his own good
clients, and some of his finest turns of words were in it, and the
preparation, execution, and attestation, in an hour and ten minutes
of the office clock, had never been equalled in Yorkshire before, and
perhaps never honestly in London--taking all these things into conscious
or unconscious balance, Mr. Jellicorse grew into the clear conviction
that “righteous and wise” were the words to be used whenever this will
was spoken of.

With pleasant remembrance of the starveling fees wherewith he used to
charge the public, ere ever his golden spurs were won, the prosperous
lawyer now began to run his eye through a duplicate of an abstract
furnished upon some little sale about forty years before. This would
form the basis of the abstract now to be furnished to Sir Walter
Carnaby, with little to be added but the will of Philip Yordas, and
statement of facts to be verified. Mr. Jellicorse was fat, but very
active still; he liked good living, but he liked to earn it, and could
not sit down to his dinner without feeling that he had helped the Lord
to provide these mercies. He carried a pencil on his chain, and liked to
use it ere ever he began with knife and fork. For the young men in the
office, as he always said, knew nothing.

The day was very bright and clear, and the sun shone through soft
lilac leaves on more important folios, while Mr. Jellicorse, with happy
sniffs--for his dinner was roasting in the distance--drew a single line
here, or a double line there, or a gable on the margin of the paper, to
show his head clerk what to cite, and in what letters, and what to omit,
in the abstract to be rendered. For the good solicitor had spent some
time in the chambers of a famous conveyancer in London, and prided
himself upon deducing title, directly, exhaustively, and yet tersely, in
one word, scientifically, and not as the mere quill-driver. The title
to the hereditaments, now to be given in exchange, went back for many
generations; but as the deeds were not to pass, Mr. Jellicorse, like an
honest man, drew a line across, and made a star at one quite old enough
to begin with, in which the little moorland farm in treaty now was
specified. With hum and ha of satisfaction he came down the records,
as far as the settlement made upon the marriage of Richard Yordas, of
Scargate Hall, Esquire, and Eleanor, the daughter of Sir Fursan de Roos.
This document created no entail, for strict settlements had never been
the manner of the race; but the property assured in trust, to satisfy
the jointure, was then declared subject to joint and surviving powers of
appointment limited to the issue of the marriage, with remainder to the
uses of the will of the aforesaid Richard Yordas, or, failing such will,
to his right heirs forever.

All this was usual enough, and Mr. Jellicorse heeded it little,
having never heard of any appointment, and knowing that Richard, the
grandfather of his clients, had died, as became a true Yordas, in a
fit of fury with a poor tenant, intestate, as well as unrepentant.
The lawyer, being a slightly pious man, afforded a little sigh to this
remembrance, and lifted his finger to turn the leaf, but the leaf stuck
a moment, and the paper being raised at the very best angle to the
sun, he saw, or seemed to see, a faint red line, just over against that
appointment clause. And then the yellow margin showed some faint red
marks.

“Well, I never,” Mr. Jellicorse exclaimed--“certainly never saw these
marks before. Diana, where are my glasses?”

Mrs. Jellicorse had been to see the potatoes on (for the new cook simply
made “kettlefuls of fish” of every thing put upon the fire), and now at
her husband's call she went to her work-box for his spectacles, which
he was not allowed to wear except on Sundays, for fear of injuring his
eyesight. Equipped with these, and drawing nearer to the window, the
lawyer gradually made out this: first a broad faint line of red, as if
some attorney, now a ghost, had cut his finger, and over against that in
small round hand the letters “v. b. c.” Mr. Jellicorse could swear that
they were “v. b. c.”

“Don't ask me to eat any dinner to-day,” he exclaimed, when his wife
came to fetch him. “Diana, I am occupied; go and eat it up without me.”

“Nonsense, James,” she answered, calmly; “you never get any clever
thoughts by starving.”

Moved by this reasoning, he submitted, fed his wife and children and
own good self, and then brought up a bottle of old Spanish wine to
strengthen the founts of discovery. Whose writing was that upon the
broad marge of verbosity? Why had it never been observed before? Above
all, what was meant by “v. b. c.”?

Unaided, he might have gone on forever, to the bottom of a butt of Xeres
wine; but finding the second glass better than the first, he called to
Mrs. Jellicorse, who was in the garden gathering striped roses, to come
and have a sip with him, and taste the yellow cherries. And when she
came promptly, with the flowers in her hand, and their youngest little
daughter making sly eyes at the fruit, bothered as he was, he could not
help smiling and saying, “Oh, Diana, what is 'v. b. c.'?”

“Very black currants, papa!” cried Emily, dancing a long bunch in the
air.

“Hush, dear child, you are getting too forward,” said her mother, though
proud of her quickness. “James, how should I know what 'v. b. c.' is?
But I wish most heartily that you would rid me of my old enemy, box C.
I want to put a hanging press in that corner, instead of which you turn
the very passages into office.”

“Box C? I remember no box C.”

“You may not have noticed the letter C upon it, but the box you must
know as well as I do. It belongs to those proud Yordas people, who hold
their heads so high, forsooth, as if nobody but themselves belonged to a
good old county family! That makes me hate the box the more.”

“I will take it out of your way at once. I may want it. It should
be with the others. I know it as well as I know my snuff-box. It was
Aberthaw who put it in that corner; but I had forgotten that it was
lettered. The others are all numbered.”

Of course Mr. Jellicorse was not weak enough to make the partner of his
bosom the partner of his business; and much as she longed to know why
he had put an unusual question to her, she trusted to the future for
discovery of that point. She left him, and he with no undue haste--for
the business, after all, was not his own--began to follow out his train
of thought, in manner much as follows:

“This is that old Duncombe's writing--'Dunder-headed Duncombe,' as he
used to be called in his lifetime, but 'Long-headed Duncombe' afterward.
None but his wife knew whether he was a wise man, or a wiseacre. Perhaps
either, according to the treatment he received. Richard Yordas treated
him badly; that may have made him wiser. V. b. c. means 'vide box C,'
unless I am greatly mistaken. He wrote those letters as plainly and
clearly as he could against this power of appointment as recited here.
But afterward, with knife and pounce, he scraped them out, as now
becomes plain with this magnifying-glass; probably he did so when all
these archives, as he used to call them, were rudely ordered over to my
predecessor. A nice bit of revenge, if my suspicions are correct; and a
pretty confusion will follow it.”

The lawyer's suspicions proved too correct. He took that box to his
private room, and with some trouble unlocked it. A damp and musty smell
came forth, as when a man delves a potato-bury; and then appeared layers
of parchment yellow and brown, in and out with one another, according to
the curing of the sheep-skin, perhaps, or the age of the sheep when
he began to die; skins much older than any man's who handled them, and
drier than the brains of any lawyer.

“Anno Jacobi tertio, and Quadragesimo Elisabethae! How nice it sounds!”
 Mr. Jellicorse exclaimed; “they ought all to go in, and be charged for.
People to be satisfied with sixty years' title! Why, bless the Lord,
I am sixty-eight myself, and could buy and sell the grammar school at
eight years old. It is no security, no security at all. What did the
learned Bacupiston say--'If a rogue only lives to be a hundred and
eleven, he may have been for ninety years disseized, and nobody alive to
know it!'”

Older and older grew the documents as the lawyer's hand travelled
downward; any flaw or failure must have been healed by lapse of time
long and long ago; dust and grime and mildew thickened, ink became
paler, and contractions more contorted; it was rather an antiquary's
business now than a lawyer's to decipher them.

“What a fool I am!” the solicitor thought. “My cuffs will never wash
white again, and all I have found is a mare's-nest. However, I'll go to
the bottom now. There may be a gold seal--they used to put them in with
the deeds three hundred years ago. A charter of Edward the Fourth, I
declare! Ah, the Yordases were Yorkists--halloa! what is here? By the
Touchstone of Shepherd, I was right after all! Well done, Long-headed
Duncombe!”

From the very bottom of the box he took a parchment comparatively fresh
and new, indorsed “Appointment by Richard Yordas, Esquire, and Eleanor
his wife, of lands and heredits at Scargate and elsewhere in the county
of York, dated Nov. 15th, A.D. 1751.” Having glanced at the signatures
and seals, Mr. Jellicorse spread the document, which was of moderate
compass, and soon convinced himself that his work of the morning had
been wholly thrown away. No title could be shown to Whitestone Farm, nor
even to Scargate Hall itself, on the part of the present owners.

The appointment was by deed-poll, and strictly in accordance with the
powers of the settlement. Duly executed and attested, clearly though
clumsily expressed, and beyond all question genuine, it simply nullified
(as concerned the better half of the property) the will which had cost
Philip Yordas his life. For under this limitation Philip held a mere
life-interest, his father and mother giving all men to know by those
presents that they did thereby from and after the decease of their said
son Philip grant limit and appoint &c. all and singular the said lands
&c. to the heirs of his body lawfully begotten &c. &c. in tail general,
with remainder over, and final remainder to the right heirs of the said
Richard Yordas forever. From all which it followed that while Duncan
Yordas, or child, or other descendant of his, remained in the land
of the living, or even without that if he having learned it had been
enabled to bar the entail and then sell or devise the lands away, the
ladies in possession could show no title, except a possessory one, as
yet unhallowed by the lapse of time.

Mr. Jellicorse was a very pleasant-looking man, also one who took a
pleasant view of other men and things; but he could not help pulling a
long and sad face as he thought of the puzzle before him. Duncan Yordas
had not been heard of among his own hills and valleys since 1778, when
he embarked for India. None of the family ever had cared to write or
read long letters, their correspondence (if any) was short, without
being sweet by any means. It might be a subject for prayer and hope that
Duncan should be gone to a better world, without leaving hostages to
fortune here; but sad it is to say that neither prayer nor hope produces
any faith in the counsel who prepares “requisitions upon title.”

On the other hand, inquiry as to Duncan's history since he left his
native land would be a delicate and expensive work, and perhaps even
dangerous, if he should hear of it, and inquire about the inquirers. For
the last thing to be done from a legal point of view--though the
first of all from a just one--was to apprise the rightful owner of his
unexpected position. Now Mr. Jellicorse was a just man; but his justice
was due to his clients first.

After a long brown study he reaped his crop of meditation thus: “It is a
ticklish job; and I will sleep three nights upon it.”



CHAPTER IV

DISQUIETUDE


The ladies of Scargate Hall were uneasy, although the weather was so
fine, upon this day of early August, in the year now current. It was a
remarkable fact, that in spite of the distance they slept asunder, which
could not be less than five-and-thirty yards, both had been visited by
a dream, which appeared to be quite the same dream until examined
narrowly, and being examined, grew more surprising in its points of
difference. They were much above paying any heed to dreams, though
instructed by the patriarchs to do so; and they seemed to be quite
getting over the effects, when the lesson and the punishment astonished
them.

Lately it had been established (although many leading people went
against it, and threatened to prosecute the man for trespass) that here
in these quiet and reputable places, where no spy could be needed, a man
should come twice every week with letters, and in the name of the
king be paid for them. Such things were required in towns, perhaps, as
corporations and gutters were; but to bring them where people could mind
their own business, and charge them two groats for some fool who knew
their names, was like putting a tax upon their christening. So it was
the hope of many, as well as every one's belief, that the postman, being
of Lancastrian race, would very soon be bogged, or famished, or get lost
in a fog, or swept off by a flood, or go and break his own neck from a
precipice.

The postman, however, was a wiry fellow, and as tough as any native, and
he rode a pony even tougher than himself, whose cradle was a marsh, and
whose mother a mountain, his first breath a fog, and his weaning meat
wire-grass, and his form a combination of sole-leather and corundum. He
wore no shoes for fear of not making sparks at night, to know the road
by, and although his bit had been a blacksmith's rasp, he would yield
to it only when it suited him. The postman, whose name was George King
(which confounded him with King George, in the money to pay), carried a
sword and blunderbuss, and would use them sooner than argue.

Now this man and horse had come slowly along, without meaning any
mischief, to deliver a large sealed packet, with sixteen pence to pay
put upon it, “to Mistress Philippa Yordas, etc., her own hands, and
speed, speed, speed;” which they carried out duly by stop, stop, stop,
whensoever they were hungry, or saw any thing to look at. None the less
for that, though with certainty much later, they arrived in good trim,
by the middle of the day, and ready for the comfort which they both
deserved.

As yet it was not considered safe to trust any tidings of importance to
the post in such a world as this was; and even were it safe, it would be
bad manners from a man of business. Therefore Mr. Jellicorse had sealed
up little, except his respectful consideration and request to be allowed
to wait upon his honored clients, concerning a matter of great moment,
upon the afternoon of Thursday then next ensuing. And the post had gone
so far, to give good distance for the money, that the Thursday of the
future came to be that very day.

The present century opened with a chilly and dark year, following three
bad seasons of severity and scarcity. And in the northwest of Yorkshire,
though the summer was now so far advanced, there had been very little
sunshine. For the last day or two, the sun had labored to sweep up the
mist and cloud, and was beginning to prevail so far that the mists drew
their skirts up and retired into haze, while the clouds fell away to the
ring of the sky, and there lay down to abide their time. Wherefore it
happened that “Yordas House” (as the ancient building was in old time
called) had a clearer view than usual of the valley, and the river
that ran away, and the road that tried to run up to it. Now this
was considered a wonderful road, and in fair truth it was wonderful,
withstanding all efforts of even the Royal Mail pony to knock it to
pieces. In its rapidity down hill it surpassed altogether the river,
which galloped along by the side of it, and it stood out so boldly with
stones of no shame that even by moonlight nobody could lose it, until
it abruptly lost itself. But it never did that, until the house it came
from was two miles away, and no other to be seen; and so why should it
go any further?

At the head of this road stood the old gray house, facing toward the
south of east, to claim whatever might come up the valley, sun, or
storm, or columned fog. In the days of the past it had claimed much
more--goods, and cattle, and tribute of the traffic going northward--as
the loop-holed quadrangle for impounded stock, and the deeply embrasured
tower, showed. At the back of the house rose a mountain spine, blocking
out the westering sun, but cut with one deep portal where a pass ran
into Westmoreland--the scaur-gate whence the house was named; and
through this gate of mountain often, when the day was waning, a bar of
slanting sunset entered, like a plume of golden dust, and hovered on a
broad black patch of weather-beaten fir-trees. The day was waning now,
and every steep ascent looked steeper, while down the valley light and
shade made longer cast of shuttle, and the margin of the west began to
glow with a deep wine-color, as the sun came down--the tinge of many
mountains and the distant sea--until the sun himself settled quietly
into it, and there grew richer and more ripe (as old bottled wine is fed
by the crust), and bowed his rubicund farewell, through the postern of
the scaur-gate, to the old Hall, and the valley, and the face of Mr.
Jellicorse.

That gentleman's countenance did not, however, reply with its usual
brightness to the mellow salute of evening. Wearied and shaken by the
long, rough ride, and depressed by the heavy solitude, he hated and
almost feared the task which every step brought nearer. As the house
rose higher and higher against the red sky, and grew darker, and as the
sullen roar of blood-hounds (terrors of the neighborhood) roused the
slow echoes of the crags, the lawyer was almost fain to turn his horse's
head, and face the risks of wandering over the moor by night. But the
hoisting of a flag, the well-known token (confirmed by large letters
on a rock) that strangers might safely approach, inasmuch as the savage
dogs were kennelled--this, and the thought of such an entry for his
day-book, kept Mr. Jellicorse from ignominious flight. He was in for it
now, and must carry it through.

In a deep embayed window of leaded glass Mistress Yordas and her widowed
sister sat for an hour, without many words, watching the zigzag of shale
and rock which formed their chief communication with the peopled world.
They did not care to improve their access, or increase their traffic;
not through cold morosity, or even proud indifference, but because they
had been so brought up, and so confirmed by circumstance. For the Yordas
blood, however hot and wild and savage in the gentlemen, was generally
calm and good, though steadfast, in the weaker vessels. For the main
part, however, a family takes it character more from the sword than the
spindle; and their sword hand had been like Esau's.

Little as they meddled with the doings of the world, of one thing at
least these stately Madams--as the baffled squires of the Riding called
them--were by no means heedless. They dressed themselves according to
their rank, or perhaps above it. Many a nobleman's wife in Yorkshire
had not such apparel; and even of those so richly gifted, few could have
come up to the purpose better. Nobody, unless of their own sex, thought
of their dresses when looking at them.

“He rides very badly,” Philippa said; “the people from the lowlands
always do. He may not have courage to go home tonight. But he ought to
have thought of that before.”

“Poor man! We must offer him a bed, of course,” Mrs. Carnaby answered;
“but he should have come earlier in the day. What shall we do with him,
when he has done his business?”

“It is not our place to amuse our lawyer. He might go and smoke in the
Justice-room, and then Welldrum could play bagatelle with him.”

“Philippa, you forget that the Jellicorses are of a good old county
stock. His wife is a stupid, pretentious thing; but we need not treat
him as we must treat her. And it may be as well to make much of him,
perhaps, if there really is any trouble coming.”

“You are thinking of Pet. By-the-bye, are you certain that Pet can not
get at Saracen? You know how he let him loose last Easter, when the flag
was flying, and the poor man has been in his bed ever since.”

“Jordas will see to that. He can be trusted to mind the dogs well,
ever since you fined him in a fortnight's wages. That was an excellent
thought of yours.”

Jordas might have been called the keeper, or the hind, or the henchman,
or the ranger, or the porter, or the bailiff, or the reeve, or some
other of some fifty names of office, in a place of more civilization, so
many and so various were his tasks. But here his professional name was
the “dogman;” and he held that office according to an ancient custom of
the Scargate race, whence also his surname (if such it were) arose. For
of old time and in outlandish parts a finer humanity prevailed, and a
richer practical wisdom upon certain questions. Irregular offsets of the
stock, instead of being cast upon the world as waifs and strays, were
allowed a place in the kitchen-garden or stable-yard, and flourished
there without disgrace, while useful and obedient. Thus for generations
here the legitimate son was Yordas, and took the house and manors; the
illegitimate became Jordas, and took to the gate, and the minding of the
dogs, and any other office of fidelity.

The present Jordas was, however, of less immediate kin to the owners,
being only the son of a former Jordas, and in the enjoyment of a
Christian name, which never was provided for a first-hand Jordas; and
now as his mistress looked out on the terrace, his burly figure came
duly forth, and his keen eyes ranged the walks and courts, in search of
Master Lancelot, who gave him more trouble in a day, sometimes, than all
the dogs cost in a twelvemonth. With a fine sense of mischief, this
boy delighted to watch the road for visitors, and then (if barbarously
denied his proper enjoyment and that of the dogs) he still had goodly
devices of his own for producing little tragedies.

Mr. Jellicorse knew Jordas well, and felt some pity for him, because, if
his grandmother had been wiser, he might have been the master now; and
the lawyer, having much good feeling, liked not to make a groom of him.
Jordas, however, knew his place, and touched his hat respectfully, then
helped the solicitor to dismount, the which was sorely needed.

“You came not by the way of the ford, Sir?” the dogman asked, while
considering the leathers. “The water is down; you might have saved three
miles.”

“Better lose thirty than my life. Will any of your men, Master Jordas,
show me a room, where I may prepare to wait upon your ladies?”

Mr. Jellicorse walked through the old arched gate of the reever's court,
and was shown to a room, where he unpacked his valise, and changed his
riding clothes, and refreshed himself. A jug of Scargate ale was brought
to him, and a bottle of foreign wine, with the cork drawn, lest
he should hesitate; also a cold pie, bread and butter, and a small
case-bottle of some liqueur. He was not hungry, for his wife had cared
to victual him well for the journey; but for fear of offense he ate a
morsel, found it good, and ate some more. Then after a sip or two of the
liqueur, and a glance or two at his black silk stockings, buckled shoes,
and best small-clothes, he felt himself fit to go before a duchess, as
once upon a time he had actually done, and expressed himself very well
indeed, according to the dialogue delivered whenever he told the story
about it every day.

Welldrum, the butler, was waiting for him--a man who had his own ideas,
and was going to be put upon by nobody. “If my father could only come
to life for one minute, he would spend it in kicking that man,” Mrs.
Carnaby had exclaimed, about him, after carefully shutting the door; but
he never showed airs before Miss Yordas.

“Come along, Sir,” Welldrum said, after one professional glance at the
tray, to ascertain his residue. “My ladies have been waiting this half
hour; and for sure, Sir, you looks wonderful! This way, Sir, and have a
care of them oak fagots. My ladies, Lawyer Jellicorse!”



CHAPTER V

DECISION


The sun was well down and away behind the great fell at the back of the
house, and the large and heavily furnished room was feebly lit by four
wax candles, and the glow of the west reflected as a gleam into eastern
windows. The lawyer was pleased to have it so, and to speak with a
dimly lighted face. The ladies looked beautiful; that was all that
Mr. Jellicorse could say, when cross-examined by his wife next day
concerning their lace and velvet. Whether they wore lace or net was
almost more than he could say, for he did not heed such trifles; but
velvet was within his knowledge (though not the color or the shape),
because he thought it hot for summer, until he remembered what the
climate was. Really he could say nothing more, except that they looked
beautiful; and when Mrs. Jellicorse jerked her head, he said that he
only meant, of course, considering their time of life.

The ladies saw his admiration, and felt that it was but natural. Mrs.
Carnaby came forward kindly, and offered him a nice warm hand; while the
elder sister was content to bow, and thank him for coming, and hope that
he was well. As yet it had not become proper for a gentleman, visiting
ladies, to yawn, and throw himself into the nearest chair, and cross
his legs, and dance one foot, and ask how much the toy-terrier cost.
Mr. Jellicorse made a fine series of bows, not without a scrape or two,
which showed his goodly calf; and after that he waited for the gracious
invitation to sit down.

“If I understood your letter clearly,” Mistress Yordas began, when these
little rites were duly accomplished, “you have something important
to tell us concerning our poor property here. A small property, Mr.
Jellicorse, compared with that of the Duke of Lunedale, but perhaps a
little longer in one family.”

“The duke is a new-fangled interloper,” replied hypocritical Jellicorse,
though no other duke was the husband of the duchess of whom he indited
daily; “properties of that sort come and go, and only tradesmen notice
it. Your estates have been longer in the seisin of one family, madam,
than any other in the Riding, or perhaps in Yorkshire.”

“We never seized them!” cried Mrs. Carnaby, being sensitive as to
ancestral thefts, through tales about cattle-lifting. “You must be aware
that they came to us by grant from the Crown, or even before there was
any Crown to grant them.”

“I beg your pardon for using a technical word, without explaining it.
Seisin is a legal word, which simply means possession, or rather
the bodily holding of a thing, and is used especially of corporeal
hereditaments. You ladies have seisin of this house and lands, although
you never seized them.”

“The last thing we would think of doing,” answered Mrs. Carnaby, who was
more impulsive than her sister, also less straightforward. “How often
we have wished that our poor lost brother had not been deprived of them!
But our father's will was sacred, and you told us we were helpless. We
struggled, as you know; but we could do nothing.”

“That is the question which brought me here,” the lawyer said, very
quietly, at the same time producing a small roll of parchment sealed in
cartridge paper. “Last week I discovered a document which I am forced
to submit to your judgment. Shall I read it to you, or tell its purport
briefly?”

“Whatever it may be, it can not in any way alter our conclusions. Our
conclusions have never varied, however deeply they may have grieved us.
We were bound to do justice to our dear father.”

“Certainly, madam; and you did it. Also, as I know, you did it as kindly
as possible toward other relatives, and you only met with perversity.
I had the honor of preparing your respected father's will, a model of
clearness and precision, considering--considering the time afforded,
and other disturbing influences. I know for a fact that a copy was laid
before the finest draftsman in London, by--by those who were displeased
with it, and his words were: 'Beautiful! beautiful! Every word of it
holds water.' Now that, madam, can not be said of many; indeed, of not
one in--”

“Pardon, me for interrupting you, but I have always understood you to
speak highly of it. And in such a case, what can be the matter?”

“The matter of all matters, madam, is that the testator should have
disposing power.”

“He could dispose of his own property as he was disposed, you mean.”

“You misapprehend me.” Mr. Jellicorse now was in his element, for he
loved to lecture--an absurdity just coming into vogue. “Indulge me one
moment. I take this silver dish, for instance; it is in my hands, I have
the use of it; but can I give it to either of you ladies?”

“Not very well, because it belongs to us already.”

“You misapprehend me. I can not give it because it is not mine to give.”
 Mrs. Carnaby looked puzzled.

“Eliza, allow me,” said Mistress Yordas, in her stiffer manner, and
now for the first time interfering. “Mr. Jellicorse assures us that his
language is a model of clearness and precision; perhaps he will prove it
by telling us now, in plain words, what his meaning is.”

“What I mean, madam, is that your respected father could devise you a
part only of this property, because the rest was not his to devise. He
only had a life-interest in it.”

“His will, therefore, fails as to some part of the property? How much,
and what part, if you please?”

“The larger and better part of the estates, including this house and
grounds, and the home-farm.”

Mrs. Carnaby started and began to speak; but her sister moved only to
stop her, and showed no signs of dismay or anger.

“For fear of putting too many questions at once,” she said, with a
slight bow and a smile, “let me beg you to explain, as shortly as
possible, this very surprising matter.”

Mr. Jellicorse watched her with some suspicion, because she called it
so surprising, yet showed so little surprise herself. For a moment he
thought that she must have heard of the document now in his hands; but
he very soon saw that it could not be so. It was only the ancient
Yordas pride, perversity, and stiffneckedness. And even Mrs. Carnaby,
strengthened by the strength of her sister, managed to look as if
nothing more than a tale of some tenant were pending. But this, or
ten times this, availed not to deceive Mr. Jellicorse. That gentleman,
having seen much of the world, whispered to himself that this was all
“high jinks,” felt himself placed on the stool of authority, and even
ventured upon a pinch of snuff. This was unwise, and cost him dear,
for the ladies would not have been true to their birth if they had not
stored it against him.

He, however, with a friendly mind, and a tap now and then upon his
document, to give emphasis to his story, recounted the whole of it, and
set forth how much was come of it already, and how much it might lead
to. To Scargate Hall, and the better part of the property always enjoyed
therewith, Philippa Yordas and Eliza Carnaby had no claim whatever,
except on the score of possession, until it could be shown that their
brother Duncan was dead, without any heirs or assignment (which might
have come to pass through a son adult), and even so, his widow might
come forward and give trouble. Concerning all that, there was time
enough to think; but something must be done at once to cancel the
bargain with Sir Walter Carnaby, without letting his man of law get
scent of the fatal defect in title. And now that the ladies knew all,
what did they say?

In answer to this, the ladies were inclined to put the whole blame upon
him, for not having managed matters better; and when he had shown that
the whole of it was done before he had any thing to do with it, they
were firmly convinced that he ought to have known it, and found a proper
remedy. And in the finished manner of well-born ladies they gave him
to know, without a strong expression, that such an atrocity was a black
stain on every legal son of Satan, living, dead, or still to issue from
Gerizim.

“That can not affect the title now--I assure you, madam, that it can
not,” the unfortunate lawyer exclaimed at last; “and as for damages,
poor old Duncombe has left no representatives, even if an action would
lie now, which is simply out of the question. On my part no neglect can
be shown, and indeed for your knowledge of the present state of things,
if humbly I may say so, you are wholly indebted to my zeal.”

“Sir, I heartily wish,” Mrs. Carnaby replied, “that your zeal had been
exhausted on your own affairs.”

“Eliza, Mr. Jellicorse has acted well, and we can not feel too much
obliged to him.” Miss Yordas, having humor of a sort, smiled faintly at
the double meaning of her own words, which was not intended. “Whatever
is right must be done, of course, according to the rule of our family.
In such a case it appears to me that mere niceties of laws, and quips
and quirks, are entirely subordinate to high sense of honor. The first
consideration must be thoroughly unselfish and pure justice.”

The lawyer looked at her with admiration. He was capable of large
sentiments. And yet a faint shadow of disappointment lingered in the
folios of his heart--there might have been such a very grand long suit,
upon which his grandson (to be born next month) might have been enabled
to settle for life, and bring up a legal family. Justice, however, was
justice, and more noble than even such prospects. So he bowed his head,
and took another pinch of snuff.

But Mrs. Carnaby (who had wept a little, in a place beyond the
candle-light) came back with a passionate flush in her eyes, and a
resolute bearing of her well-formed neck.

“Philippa, I am amazed at you,” she said, “Mr. Jellicorse, my share
is equal with my sister's, and more, because my son comes after me.
Whatever she may do, I will never yield a pin's point of my rights, and
leave my son a beggar. Philippa, would you make Pet a beggar? And his
turtle in bed, before the sun is on the window, and his sturgeon jelly
when he gets out of bed! There never was any one, by a good Providence,
less sent into the world to be a beggar.”

Mrs. Carnaby, having discharged her meaning, began to be overcome by it.
She sat down, in fear of hysteria, but with her mind made up to stop it;
while the gallant Jellicorse was swept away by her eloquence, mixed with
professional views. But it came home to him, from experience with his
wife, that the less he said the wiser. But while he moved about, and
almost danced, in his strong desire to be useful, there was another who
sat quite still, and meant to have the final say.

“From some confusion of ideas, I suppose, or possibly through my own
fault,” Philippa Yordas said, with less contempt in her voice than in
her mind, “it seems that I can not make my meaning clear, even to my
own sister. I said that we first must do the right, and scorn all legal
subtleties. That we must maintain unselfish justice, and high sense of
honor. Can there be any doubt what these dictate? What sort of daughters
should we be if we basely betrayed our own father's will?”

“Excellent, madam,” the lawyer said; “that view of the case never struck
me. But there is a great deal in it.”

“Oh, Philippa, how noble you are!” her sister Eliza cried; and cried no
more, so far as tears go, for a long time afterward.



CHAPTER VI

ANERLEY FARM


On the eastern coast of the same great county, at more than ninety
miles of distance for a homing pigeon, and some hundred and twenty for
a carriage from the Hall of Yordas, there was in those days, and there
still may be found, a property of no vast size--snug, however, and of
good repute--and called universally “Anerley Farm.” How long it has
borne that name it knows not, neither cares to moot the question; and
there lives no antiquary of enough antiquity to decide it. A place of
smiling hope, and comfort, and content with quietude; no memory of man
about it runneth to the contrary; while every ox, and horse, and sheep,
and fowl, and frisky porker, is full of warm domestic feeling and each
homely virtue.

For this land, like a happy country, has escaped, for years and years,
the affliction of much history. It has not felt the desolating tramp of
lawyer or land-agent, nor been bombarded by fine and recovery, lease and
release, bargain and sale, Doe and Roe and Geoffrey Styles, and the rest
of the pitiless shower of slugs, ending with a charge of Demons. Blows,
and blights, and plagues of that sort have not come to Anerley, nor any
other drain of nurture to exhaust the green of meadow and the gold of
harvest. Here stands the homestead, and here lies the meadow-land;
there walk the kine (having no call to run), and yonder the wheat in the
hollow of the hill, bowing to the silvery stroke of the wind, is touched
with the promise of increasing gold.

As good as the cattle and the crops themselves are the people that live
upon them; or at least, in a fair degree, they try to be so; though
not of course so harmless, or faithful, or peaceful, or charitable.
But still, in proportion, they may be called as good; and in fact they
believe themselves much better. And this from no conceit of any sort,
beyond what is indispensable; for nature not only enables but compels a
man to look down upon his betters.

From generation to generation, man, and beast, and house, and land, have
gone on in succession here, replacing, following, renewing, repairing
and being repaired, demanding and getting more support, with such
judicious give-and-take, and thoroughly good understanding, that now in
the August of this year, when Scargate Hall is full of care, and afraid
to cart a load of dung, Anerley farm is quite at ease, and in the very
best of heart, man, and horse, and land, and crops, and the cock that
crows the time of day. Nevertheless, no acre yet in Yorkshire, or in the
whole wide world, has ever been so farmed or fenced as to exclude the
step of change.

From father to son the good lands had passed, without even a will to
disturb them, except at distant intervals; and the present owner was
Stephen Anerley, a thrifty and well-to-do Yorkshire farmer of the olden
type. Master Anerley was turned quite lately of his fifty-second year,
and hopeful (if so pleased the Lord) to turn a good many more years yet,
as a strong horse works his furrow. For he was strong and of a cheerful
face, ruddy, square, and steadfast, built up also with firm body to a
wholesome stature, and able to show the best man on the farm the way to
swing a pitchfork. Yet might he be seen, upon every Lord's day, as
clean as a new-shelled chestnut; neither at any time of the week was he
dirtier than need be. Happy alike in the place of his birth, his lot in
life, and the wisdom of the powers appointed over him, he looked up with
a substantial faith, yet a solid reserve of judgment, to the Church, the
Justices of the Peace, spiritual lords and temporal, and above all His
Majesty George the Third. Without any reserve of judgmemt which could
not deal with such low subjects, he looked down upon every Dissenter,
every pork-dealer, and every Frenchman. What he was brought up to, that
he would abide by; and the sin beyond repentance, to his mind, was the
sin of the turncoat.

With all these hard-set lines of thought, or of doctrine (the scabbard
of thought, which saves its edge, and keeps it out of mischief), Stephen
Anerley was not hard, or stern, or narrow-hearted. Kind, and gentle, and
good to every one who knew “how to behave himself,” and dealing to
every man full justice--meted by his own measure--he was liable even
to generous acts, after being severe and having his own way. But if any
body ever got the better of him by lies, and not fair bettering, that
man had wiser not begin to laugh inside the Riding. Stephen Anerley
was slow but sure; not so very keen, perhaps, but grained with kerns
of maxim'd thought, to meet his uses as they came, and to make a rogue
uneasy. To move him from such thoughts was hard; but to move him from a
spoken word had never been found possible.

The wife of this solid man was solid and well fitted to him. In early
days, by her own account, she had possessed considerable elegance, and
was not devoid of it even now, whenever she received a visitor capable
of understanding it. But for home use that gift had been cut short,
almost in the honey-moon, by a total want of appreciation on the part
of her husband. And now, after five-and-twenty years of studying and
entering into him, she had fairly earned his firm belief that she was
the wisest of women. For she always agreed with him, when he wished it;
and she knew exactly when to contradict him, and that was before he had
said a thing at all, and while he was rolling it slowly in his mind,
with a strong tendency against it. In out-door matters she never
meddled, without being specially consulted by the master; but in-doors
she governed with watchful eyes, a firm hand, and a quiet tongue.

This good woman now was five-and-forty years of age, vigorous, clean,
and of a very pleasant look, with that richness of color which settles
on fair women when the fugitive beauty of blushing is past. When the
work of the morning was done, and the clock in the kitchen was only
ten minutes from twelve, and the dinner was fit for the dishing, then
Mistress Anerley remembered as a rule the necessity of looking to her
own appearance. She went up stairs, with a quarter of an hour to spare,
but not to squander, and she came down so neat that the farmer was
obliged to be careful in helping the gravy. For she always sat next to
him, as she had done before there came any children, and it seemed ever
since to be the best place for her to manage their plates and their
manners as well.

Alas! that the kindest and wisest of women have one (if not twenty)
blind sides to them; and if any such weakness is pointed out, it is sure
to have come from their father. Mistress Anerley's weakness was almost
conspicuous to herself--she worshipped her eldest son, perhaps the least
worshipful of the family.

Willie Anerley was a fine young fellow, two inches taller than his
father, with delicate features, and curly black hair, and cheeks as
bright as a maiden's. He had soft blue eyes, and a rich clear voice,
with a melancholy way of saying things, as if he were above all this.
And yet he looked not like a fool; neither was he one altogether, when
he began to think of things. The worst of him was that he always wanted
something new to go on with. He never could be idle; and yet he never
worked to the end which crowns the task. In the early stage he would
labor hard, be full of the greatness of his aim, and demand every body's
interest, exciting, also, mighty hopes of what was safe to come of it.
And even after that he sometimes carried on with patience; but he
had not perseverance. Once or twice he had been on the very nick of
accomplishing something, and had driven home his nail; but then he let
it spring back without clinching. “Oh, any fool can do that!” he cried,
and never stood to it, to do it again, or to see that it came not
undone. In a word, he stuck to nothing, but swerved about, here, there,
and every where.

His father, being of so different a cast, and knowing how often the
wisest of men must do what any fool can do, was bitterly vexed at the
flighty ways of Willie, and could do no more than hope, with a general
contempt, that when the boy grew older he might be a wiser fool. But
Willie's dear mother maintained, with great consistency, that such a
perfect wonder could never be expected to do any thing not wonderful.
To this the farmer used to listen with a grim, decorous smile; then
grumbled, as soon as he was out of hearing, and fell to and did the
little jobs himself.

Sore jealousy of Willie, perhaps, and keen sense of injustice, as well
as high spirit and love of adventure, had driven the younger son, Jack,
from home, and launched him on a sea-faring life. With a stick and a
bundle he had departed from the ancestral fields and lanes, one summer
morning about three years since, when the cows were lowing for the milk
pail, and a royal cutter was cruising off the Head. For a twelvemonth
nothing was heard of him, until there came a letter beginning, “Dear
and respected parents,” and ending, “Your affectionate and dutiful son,
Jack.” The body of the letter was of three lines only, occupied entirely
with kind inquiries as to the welfare of every body, especially his pup,
and his old pony, and dear sister Mary.

Mary Anerley, the only daughter and the youngest child, well deserved
the best remembrance of the distant sailor, though Jack may have gone
too far in declaring (as he did till he came to his love-time) that the
world contained no other girl fit to hold a candle to her. No doubt it
would have been hard to find a girl more true and loving, more modest
and industrious; but hundreds and hundreds of better girls might be
found perhaps even in Yorkshire.

For this maiden had a strong will of her own, which makes against
absolute perfection; also she was troubled with a strenuous hate
of injustice--which is sure, in this world, to find cause for an
outbreak--and too active a desire to rush after what is right, instead
of being well content to let it come occasionally. And so firm could
she be, when her mind was set, that she would not take parables, or long
experience, or even kindly laughter, as a power to move her from the
thing she meant. Her mother, knowing better how the world goes on,
promiscuously, and at leisure, and how the right point slides away when
stronger forces come to bear, was very often vexed by the crotchets
of the girl, and called her wayward, headstrong, and sometimes nothing
milder than “a saucy miss.”

This, however, was absurd, and Mary scarcely deigned to cry about it,
but went to her father, as she always did when any weight lay on her
mind. Nothing was said about any injustice, because that might lead to
more of it, as well as be (from a proper point of view) most indecorous.
Nevertheless, it was felt between them, when her pretty hair was shed
upon his noble waistcoat, that they two were in the right, and cared
very little who thought otherwise.

Now it was time to leave off this; for Mary (without heed almost of any
but her mother) had turned into a full-grown damsel, comely, sweet,
and graceful. She was tall enough never to look short, and short enough
never to seem too tall, even when her best feelings were outraged;
and nobody, looking at her face, could wish to do any thing but please
her--so kind was the gaze of her deep blue eyes, so pleasant the
frankness of her gentle forehead, so playful the readiness of rosy lips
for a pretty answer or a lovely smile. But if any could be found so
callous and morose as not to be charmed or nicely cheered by this,
let him only take a longer look, not rudely, but simply in a spirit of
polite inquiry; and then would he see, on the delicate rounding of each
soft and dimpled cheek, a carmine hard to match on palette, morning sky,
or flower bed.

Lovely people ought to be at home in lovely places; and though this can
not be so always, as a general rule it is. At Anerley Farm the land was
equal to the stock it had to bear, whether of trees, or corn, or cattle,
hogs, or mushrooms, or mankind. The farm was not so large or rambling
as to tire the mind or foot, yet wide enough and full of change--rich
pasture, hazel copse, green valleys, fallows brown, and golden
breast-lands pillowing into nooks of fern, clumps of shade for horse
or heifer, and for rabbits sandy warren, furzy cleve for hare and
partridge, not without a little mere for willows and for wild-ducks. And
the whole of the land, with a general slope of liveliness and rejoicing,
spread itself well to the sun, with a strong inclination toward the
morning, to catch the cheery import of his voyage across the sea.

The pleasure of this situation was the more desirable because of all
the parts above it being bleak and dreary. Round the shoulders of the
upland, like the arch of a great arm-chair, ran a barren scraggy ridge,
whereupon no tree could stand upright, no cow be certain of her own
tail, and scarcely a crow breast the violent air by stooping ragged
pinions, so furious was the rush of wind when any power awoke the
clouds; or sometimes, when the air was jaded with continual conflict, a
heavy settlement of brackish cloud lay upon a waste of chalky flint.

By dint of persevering work there are many changes for the better now,
more shelter and more root-hold; but still it is a battle-ground of
winds, which rarely change their habits, for this is the chump of the
spine of the Wolds, which hulks up at last into Flamborough Head.

Flamborough Head, the furthest forefront of a bare and jagged coast,
stretches boldly off to eastward--a strong and rugged barrier. Away
to the north the land falls back, with coving bends, and some straight
lines of precipice and shingle, to which the German Ocean sweeps, seldom
free from sullen swell in the very best of weather. But to the southward
of the Head a different spirit seems to move upon the face of every
thing. For here is spread a peaceful bay, and plains of brighter sea
more gently furrowed by the wind, and cliffs that have no cause to be so
steep, and bathing-places, and scarcely freckled sands, where towns
may lay their drain-pipes undisturbed. In short, to have rounded that
headland from the north is as good as to turn the corner of a garden
wall in March, and pass from a buffeted back, and bare shivers, to a
sunny front of hope all as busy as a bee, with pears spurring forward
into creamy buds of promise, peach-trees already in a flush of tasselled
pink, and the green lobe of the apricot shedding the snowy bloom.

Below this point the gallant skipper of the British collier, slouching
with a heavy load of grime for London, or waddling back in ballast to
his native North, alike is delighted to discover storms ahead, and to
cast his tarry anchor into soft gray calm. For here shall he find the
good shelter of friends like-minded with himself, and of hospitable
turn, having no cause to hurry any more than he has, all too wise to
command their own ships; and here will they all jollify together while
the sky holds a cloud or the locker a drop. Nothing here can shake their
ships, except a violent east wind, against which they wet the other eye;
lazy boats visit them with comfort and delight, while white waves are
leaping, in the offing; they cherish their well-earned rest, and eat the
lotus--or rather the onion--and drink ambrosial grog; they lean upon the
bulwarks, and contemplate their shadows--the noblest possible employment
for mankind--and lo! if they care to lift their eyes, in the south
shines the quay of Bridlington, inland the long ridge of Priory stands
high, and westward in a nook, if they level well a clear glass (after
holding on the slope so many steamy ones), they may espy Anerley Farm,
and sometimes Mary Anerley herself.

For she, when the ripple of the tide is fresh, and the glance of the
summer morn glistening on the sands, also if a little rocky basin
happens to be fit for shrimping, and only some sleepy ships at anchor
in the distance look at her, fearless she--because all sailors are
generally down at breakfast--tucks up her skirt and gayly runs upon the
accustomed play-ground, with her pony left to wait for her. The pony is
old, while she is young (although she was born before him), and now he
belies his name, “Lord Keppel,” by starting at every soft glimmer of the
sea. Therefore now he is left to roam at his leisure above high-water
mark, poking his nose into black dry weed, probing the winnow casts
of yellow drift for oats, and snorting disappointment through a gritty
dance of sand-hoppers.

Mary has brought him down the old “Dane's Dike” for society rather than
service, and to strengthen his nerves with the dew of the salt, for
the sake of her Jack who loved him. He may do as he likes, as he always
does. If his conscience allows him to walk home, no one will think the
less of him. Having very little conscience at his time of life (after
so much contact with mankind), he considers convenience only. To go home
would suit him very well, but his crib would be empty till his young
mistress came; moreover, there is a little dog that plagues him when his
door is open; and in spite of old age, it is something to be free, and
in spite of all experience, to hope for something good. Therefore Lord
Keppel is as faithful as the rocks; he lifts his long heavy head, and
gazes wistfully at the anchored ships, and Mary is sure that the darling
pines for his absent master.

But she, with the multitudinous tingle of youth, runs away rejoicing.
The buoyant power and brilliance of the morning are upon her, and the
air of the bright sea lifts and spreads her, like a pillowy skate's egg.
The polish of the wet sand flickers like veneer of maple-wood at every
quick touch of her dancing feet. Her dancing feet are as light as nature
and high spirits made them, not only quit of spindle heels, but even
free from shoes and socks left high and dry on the shingle. And lighter
even than the dancing feet the merry heart is dancing, laughing at the
shadows of its own delight; while the radiance of blue eyes springs like
a fount of brighter heaven; and the sunny hair falls, flows, or floats,
to provoke the wind for playmate.

Such a pretty sight was good to see for innocence and largeness. So the
buoyancy of nature springs anew in those who have been weary, when they
see her brisk power inspiring the young, who never stand still to think
of her, but are up and away with her, where she will, at the breath of
her subtle encouragement.



CHAPTER VII

A DANE IN THE DIKE


Now, whether spy-glass had been used by any watchful mariner, or whether
only blind chance willed it, sure it is that one fine morning Mary met
with somebody. And this was the more remarkable, when people came to
think of it, because it was only the night before that her mother had
almost said as much.

“Ye munna gaw doon to t' sea be yersell,” Mistress Anerley said to her
daughter; “happen ye mought be one too many.”

Master Anerley's wife had been at “boarding-school,” as far south as
Suffolk, and could speak the very best of Southern English (like her
daughter Mary) upon polite occasion. But family cares and farm-house
life had partly cured her of her education, and from troubles of distant
speech she had returned to the ease of her native dialect.

“And if I go not to the sea by myself,” asked Mary, with natural logic,
“why, who is there now to go with me?” She was thinking of her sadly
missed comrade, Jack.

“Happen some day, perhaps, one too many.”

The maiden was almost too innocent to blush; but her father took her
part as usual.

“The little lass sall gaw doon,” he said, “wheniver sha likes.” And so
she went down the next morning.

A thousand years ago the Dane's Dike must have been a very grand
intrenchment, and a thousand years ere that perhaps it was still
grander; for learned men say that it is a British work, wrought out
before the Danes had even learned to build a ship. Whatever, however,
may be argued about that, the wise and the witless do agree about one
thing--the stronghold inside it has been held by Danes, while severed by
the Dike from inland parts; and these Danes made a good colony of their
own, and left to their descendants distinct speech and manners, some
traces of which are existing even now. The Dike, extending from the
rough North Sea to the calmer waters of Bridlington Bay, is nothing more
than a deep dry trench, skillfully following the hollows of the ground,
and cutting off Flamborough Head and a solid cantle of high land from
the rest of Yorkshire. The corner, so intercepted, used to be and is
still called “Little Denmark;” and the in-dwellers feel a large contempt
for all their outer neighbors. And this is sad, because Anerley Farm
lies wholly outside of the Dike, which for a long crooked distance
serves as its eastern boundary.

Upon the morning of the self-same day that saw Mr. Jellicorse set forth
upon his return from Scargate Hall, armed with instructions to defy the
devil, and to keep his discovery quiet--upon a lovely August morning
of the first year of a new century, Mary Anerley, blithe and gay, came
riding down the grassy hollow of this ancient Dane's Dike. This was
her shortest way to the sea, and the tide would suit (if she could only
catch it) for a take of shrimps, and perhaps even prawns, in time for
her father's breakfast. And not to lose this, she arose right early,
and rousing Lord Keppel, set forth for the spot where she kept her net
covered with sea-weed. The sun, though up and brisk already upon sea
and foreland, had not found time to rout the shadows skulking in
the dingles. But even here, where sap of time had breached the turfy
ramparts, the hover of the dew-mist passed away, and the steady light
was unfolded.

For the season was early August still, with beautiful weather come
at last; and the green world seemed to stand on tiptoe to make the
extraordinary acquaintance of the sun. Humble plants which had long lain
flat stood up with a sense of casting something off; and the damp heavy
trunks which had trickled for a twelvemonth, or been only sponged with
moss, were hailing the fresher light with keener lines and dove-colored
tints upon their smoother boles. Then, conquering the barrier of the
eastern land crest, rose the glorious sun himself, strewing before him
trees and crags in long steep shadows down the hill. Then the sloping
rays, through furze and brush-land, kindling the sparkles of the dew,
descended to the brink of the Dike, and scorning to halt at petty
obstacles, with a hundred golden hurdles bridged it wherever any opening
was.

Under this luminous span, or through it where the crossing gullies ran,
Mary Anerley rode at leisure, allowing her pony to choose his pace. That
privilege he had long secured, in right of age, wisdom, and remarkable
force of character. Considering his time of life, he looked well and
sleek, and almost sprightly; and so, without any reservation, did his
gentle and graceful rider. The maiden looked well in a place like that,
as indeed in almost any place; but now she especially set off the color
of things, and was set off by them. For instance, how could the silver
of the dew-cloud, and golden weft of sunrise, playing through the
dapples of a partly wooded glen, do better (in the matter of variety)
than frame a pretty moving figure in a pink checked frock, with a skirt
of russet murrey, and a bright brown hat? Not that the hat itself was
bright, even under the kiss of sunshine, simply having seen already too
much of the sun, but rather that its early lustre seemed to be revived
by a sense of the happy position it was in; the clustering hair and the
bright eyes beneath it answering the sunny dance of life and light. Many
a handsomer face, no doubt, more perfect, grand, and lofty, received--at
least if it was out of bed--the greeting of that morning sun; but
scarcely any prettier one, or kinder, or more pleasant, so gentle
without being weak, so good-tempered without looking void of all temper
at all.

Suddenly the beauty of the time and place was broken by sharp angry
sound. Bang! bang! came the roar of muskets fired from the shore at the
mouth of the Dike, and echoing up the winding glen. At the first report
the girl, though startled, was not greatly frightened; for the sound was
common enough in the week when those most gallant volunteers entitled
the “Yorkshire Invincibles” came down for their annual practice of
skilled gunnery against the French. Their habit was to bring down a
red cock, and tether him against a chalky cliff, and then vie with one
another in shooting at him. The same cock had tested their skill for
three summers, but failed hitherto to attest it, preferring to return in
a hamper to his hens, with a story of moving adventures.

Mary had watched those Invincibles sometimes from a respectful distance,
and therefore felt sure (when she began to think) that she had not them
to thank for this little scare. For they always slept soundly in the
first watch of the morning; and even supposing they had jumped up with
nightmare, where was the jubilant crow of the cock? For the cock, being
almost as invincible as they were, never could deny himself the glory of
a crow when the bullet came into his neighborhood. He replied to every
volley with an elevated comb, and a flapping of his wings, and a clarion
peal, which rang along the foreshore ere the musket roar died out. But
before the girl had time to ponder what it was, or wherefore, round the
corner came somebody, running very swiftly.

In a moment Mary saw that this man had been shot at, and was making for
his life away; and to give him every chance she jerked her pony aside,
and called and beckoned; and without a word he flew to her. Words were
beyond him, till his breath should come back, and he seemed to have no
time to wait for that. He had outstripped the wind, and his own wind, by
his speed.

“Poor man!” cried Mary Anerley, “what a hurry you are in! But I suppose
you can not help it. Are they shooting at you?”

The runaway nodded, for he could not spare a breath, but was deeply
inhaling for another start, and could not even bow without hinderance.
But to show that he had manners, he took off his hat. Then he clapped it
on his head and set off again.

“Come back!” cried the maid; “I can show you a place. I can hide you
from your enemies forever.”

The young fellow stopped. He was come to that pitch of exhaustion in
which a man scarcely cares whether he is killed or dies. And his face
showed not a sign of fear.

“Look! That little hole--up there--by the fern. Up at once, and this
cloth over you!”

He snatched it, and was gone, like the darting lizard, up a little
puckering side issue of the Dike, at the very same instant that three
broad figures and a long one appeared at the lip of the mouth. The
quick-witted girl rode on to meet them, to give the poor fugitive time
to get into his hole and draw the brown skirt over him. The dazzle of
the sun, pouring over the crest, made the hollow a twinkling obscurity;
and the cloth was just in keeping with the dead stuff around. The three
broad men, with heavy fusils cocked, came up from the sea mouth of
the Dike, steadily panting, and running steadily with a long-enduring
stride. Behind them a tall bony man with a cutlass was swinging it high
in the air, and limping, and swearing with great velocity.

“Coast-riders,” thought Mary, “and he a free-trader! Four against one is
cowardice.”

“Halt!” cried the tall man, while the rest were running past her; “halt!
ground arms; never scare young ladies.” Then he flourished his hat, with
a grand bow to Mary. “Fair young Mistress Anerley, I fear we spoil your
ride. But his Majesty's duty must be done. Hats off, fellows, at the
name of your king! Mary, my dear, the most daring villain, the devil's
own son, has just run up here--scarcely two minutes--you must have seen
him. Wait a minute; tell no lies--excuse me, I mean fibs. Your father is
the right sort. He hates those scoundrels. In the name of his Majesty,
which way is he gone?”

“Was it--oh, was it a man, if you please? Captain Carroway, don't say
so.”

“A man? Is it likely that we shot at a woman? You are trifling. It will
be the worse for you. Forgive me--but we are in such a hurry. Whoa!
whoa! pony.”

“You always used to be so polite, Sir, that you quite surprise me. And
those guns look so dreadful! My father would be quite astonished to see
me not even allowed to go down to the sea, but hurried back here, as if
the French had landed.”

“How can I help it, if your pony runs away so?” For Mary all this time
had been cleverly contriving to increase and exaggerate her pony's fear,
and so brought the gunners for a long way up the Dike, without giving
them any time to spy at all about. She knew that this was wicked from a
loyal point of view; not a bit the less she did it. “What a troublesome
little horse it is!” she cried. “Oh, Captain Carroway, hold him just a
moment. I will jump down, and then you can jump up, and ride after all
his Majesty's enemies.”

“The Lord forbid! He slews all out of gear, like a carronade with rotten
lashings. If I boarded him, how could I get out of his way? No, no, my
dear, brace him up sharp, and bear clear.”

“But you wanted to know about some enemy, captain. An enemy as bad as my
poor Lord Keppel?”

“Mary, my dear, the very biggest villain! A hundred golden guineas on
his head, and half for you. Think of your father, my dear, and Sunday
gowns. And you must have a young man by-and-by, you know--such a
beautiful maid as you are. And you might get a leather purse, and give
it to him. Mary, on your duty, now?”

“Captain, you drive me so, what can I say? I can not bear the thought of
betraying any body.”

“Of course not, Mary dear; nobody asks you. He must be half a mile off
by this time. You could never hurt him now; and you can tell your father
that you have done your duty to the king.”

“Well, Captain Carroway, if you are quite sure that it is too late to
catch him, I can tell you all about him. But remember your word about
the fifty guineas.”

“Every farthing, every farthing, Mary, whatever my wife may say to it.
Quick! quick! Which way did he run, my dear?”

“He really did not seem to me to be running at all; he was too tired.”

“To be sure, to be sure, a worn-out fox! We have been two hours after
him; he could not run; no more can we. But which way did he go, I mean?”

“I will not say any thing for certain, Sir; even for fifty guineas. But
he may have come up here--mind, I say not that he did--and if so, he
might have set off again for Sewerby. Slowly, very slowly, because of
being tired. But perhaps, after all, he was not the man you mean.”

“Forward, double-quick! We are sure to have him!” shouted the
lieutenant--for his true rank was that--flourishing his cutlass again,
and setting off at a wonderful pace, considering his limp. “Five guineas
every man Jack of you. Thank you, young mistress--most heartily thank
you. Dead or alive, five guineas!”

With gun and sword in readiness, they all rushed off; but one of the
party, named John Cadman, shook his head and looked back with great
mistrust at Mary, having no better judgment of women than this, that he
never could believe even his own wife. And he knew that it was mainly
by the grace of womankind that so much contraband work was going on.
Nevertheless, it was out of his power to act upon his own low opinions
now.

The maiden, blushing deeply with the sense of her deceit, was informed
by her guilty conscience of that nasty man's suspicions, and therefore
gave a smack with her fern whip to Lord Keppel, impelling him to join,
like a loyal little horse, the pursuit of his Majesty's enemies. But no
sooner did she see all the men dispersed, and scouring the distance with
trustful ardor, than she turned her pony's head toward the sea again,
and rode back round the bend of the hollow. What would her mother say if
she lost the murrey skirt, which had cost six shillings at Bridlington
fair? And ten times that money might be lost much better than for her
father to discover how she lost it. For Master Stephen Anerley was
a straight-backed man, and took three weeks of training in the Land
Defense Yeomanry, at periods not more than a year apart, so that many
people called him “Captain” now; and the loss of his suppleness at knee
and elbow had turned his mind largely to politics, making him stiffly
patriotic, and especially hot against all free-traders putting bad
bargains to his wife, at the cost of the king and his revenue. If the
bargain were a good one, that was no concern of his.

Not that Mary, however, could believe, or would even have such a bad
mind as to imagine, that any one, after being helped by her, would be
mean enough to run off with her property. And now she came to think of
it, there was something high and noble, she might almost say something
downright honest, in the face of that poor persecuted man. And in spite
of all his panting, how brave he must have been, what a runner, and how
clever, to escape from all those cowardly coast-riders shooting right
and left at him! Such a man steal that paltry skirt that her mother
made such a fuss about! She was much more likely to find it in her
clothes-press filled with golden guineas.

Before she was as certain as she wished to be of this (by reason of
shrewd nativity), and while she believed that the fugitive must have
seized such a chance and made good his escape toward North Sea or
Flamborough, a quick shadow glanced across the long shafts of the sun,
and a bodily form sped after it. To the middle of the Dike leaped a
young man, smiling, and forth from the gully which had saved his life.
To look at him, nobody ever could have guessed how fast he had fled, and
how close he had lain hid. For he stood there as clean and spruce and
careless as even a sailor can be wished to be. Limber yet stalwart,
agile though substantial, and as quick as a dart while as strong as a
pike, he seemed cut out by nature for a true blue-jacket; but condition
had made him a smuggler, or, to put it more gently, a free-trader.
Britannia, being then at war with all the world, and alone in the right
(as usual), had need of such lads, and produced them accordingly, and
sometimes one too many. But Mary did not understand these laws.

This made her look at him with great surprise, and almost doubt whether
he could be the man, until she saw her skirt neatly folded in his hand,
and then she said, “How do you do, Sir?”

The free-trader looked at her with equal surprise. He had been in such
a hurry, and his breath so short, and the chance of a fatal bullet after
him so sharp, that his mind had been astray from any sense of beauty,
and of every thing else except the safety of the body. But now he looked
at Mary, and his breath again went from him.

“You can run again now; I am sure of it,” said she; “and if you would
like to do any thing to please me, run as fast as possible.”

“What have I to run away from now?” he answered, in a deep sweet voice.
“I run from enemies, but not from friends.”

“That is very wise. But your enemies are still almost within call of
you. They will come back worse than ever when they find you are not
there.”

“I am not afraid, fair lady, for I understand their ways. I have led
them a good many dances before this; though it would have been my
last, without your help. They will go on, all the morning, in the wrong
direction, even while they know it. Carroway is the most stubborn of
men. He never turns back; and the further he goes, the better his bad
leg is. They will scatter about, among the fields and hedges, and call
one another like partridges. And when they can not take another step,
they will come back to Anerley for breakfast.”

“I dare say they will; and we shall be glad to see them. My father is a
soldier, and his duty is to nourish and comfort the forces of the king.”

“Then you are young Mistress Anerley? I was sure of it before. There are
no two such. And you have saved my life. It is something to owe it so
fairly.”

The young sailor wanted to kiss Mary's hand; but not being used to any
gallantry, she held out her hand in the simplest manner to take back
her riding skirt; and he, though longing in his heart to keep it, for a
token or pretext for another meeting, found no excuse for doing so. And
yet he was not without some resource.

For the maiden was giving him a farewell smile, being quite content with
the good she had done, and the luck of recovering her property; and that
sense of right which in those days formed a part of every good young
woman said to her plainly that she must be off. And she felt how unkind
it was to keep him any longer in a place where the muzzle of a gun, with
a man behind it, might appear at any moment. But he, having plentiful
breath again, was at home with himself to spend it.

“Fair young lady,” he began, for he saw that Mary liked to be called
a lady, because it was a novelty, “owing more than I ever can pay you
already, may I ask a little more? Then it is that, on your way down to
the sea, you would just pick up (if you should chance to see it) the
fellow ring to this, and perhaps you will look at this to know it by.
The one that was shot away flew against a stone just on the left of the
mouth of the Dike, but I durst not stop to look for it, and I must not
go back that way now. It is more to me than a hatful of gold, though
nobody else would give a crown for it.”

“And they really shot away one of your ear-rings? Careless, cruel,
wasteful men! What could they have been thinking of?”

“They were thinking of getting what is called 'blood-money.' One hundred
pounds for Robin Lyth. Dead or alive--one hundred pounds.”

“It makes me shiver, with the sun upon me. Of course they must offer
money for--for people. For people who have killed other people, and bad
things--but to offer a hundred pounds for a free-trader, and fire
great guns at him to get it--I never should have thought it of Captain
Carroway.”

“Carroway only does his duty. I like him none the worse for it. Carroway
is a fool, of course. His life has been in my hands fifty times; but I
will never take it. He must be killed sooner or later, because he rushes
into every thing. But never will it be my doing.”

“Then are you the celebrated Robin Lyth--the new Robin Hood, as they
call him? The man who can do almost any thing?”

“Mistress Anerley, I am Robin Lyth; but, as you have seen, I can not do
much. I can not even search for my own earring.”

“I will search for it till I find it. They have shot at you too much.
Cowardly, cowardly people! Captain Lyth, where shall I put it, if I find
it?”

“If you could hide it for a week, and then--then tell me where to find
it, in the afternoon, toward four o'clock, in the lane toward Bempton
Cliffs. We are off tonight upon important business. We have been too
careless lately, from laughing at poor Carroway.”

“You are very careless now. You quite frighten me almost. The
coast-riders might come back at any moment. And what could you do then?”

“Run away gallantly, as I did before; with this little difference, that
I should be fresh, while they are as stiff as nut-cracks. They have
missed the best chance they ever had at me; it will make their temper
very bad. If they shot at me again, they could do no good. Crooked mood
makes crooked mode.”

“You forget that I should not see such things. You may like very much to
be shot at; but--but you should think of other people.”

“I shall think of you only--I mean of your great kindness, and your
promise to keep my ring for me. Of course you will tell nobody, Carroway
will have me like a tiger if you do. Farewell, young lady--for one week
farewell.”

With a wave of his hat he was gone, before Mary had time to retract her
promise; and she thought of her mother, as she rode on slowly to look
for the smuggler's trinket.



CHAPTER VIII

CAPTAIN CARROWAY


Fame, that light-of-love trusted by so many, and never a wife till a
widow--fame, the fair daughter of fuss and caprice, may yet take the
phantom of bold Robin Lyth by the right hand, and lead it to a pedestal
almost as lofty as Robin Hood's, or she may let it vanish like a bat
across Lethe--a thing not bad enough for eminence.

However, at the date and in the part of the world now dealt with, this
great free-trader enjoyed the warm though possibly brief embrace of
fame, having no rival, and being highly respected by all who were
unwarped by a sense of duty. And blessed as he was with a lively nature,
he proceeded happily upon his path in life, notwithstanding a certain
ticklish sense of being shot at undesirably. This had befallen him
now so often, without producing any tangible effect, that a great many
people, and especially the shooters (convinced of the accuracy of their
aim), went far to believe that he possessed some charm against wholesome
bullet and gunpowder. And lately even a crooked sixpence dipped in holy
water (which was still to be had in Yorkshire) confirmed and doubled
the faith of all good people, by being declared upon oath to have passed
clean through him, as was proved by its being picked up quite clean.

This strong belief was of great use to him; for, like many other
beliefs, it went a very long way to prove itself. Steady left hands now
grew shaky in the level of the carbine, and firm forefingers trembled
slightly upon draught of trigger, and the chief result of a large
discharge was a wale upon the marksman's shoulder. Robin, though so
clever and well practiced in the world, was scarcely old enough yet to
have learned the advantage of misapprehension, which, if well handled by
any man, helps him, in the cunning of paltry things, better than a truer
estimate. But without going into that, he was pleased with the fancy of
being invulnerable, which not only doubled his courage, but trebled
the discipline of his followers, and secured him the respect of all
tradesmen. However, the worst of all things is that just when they are
establishing themselves, and earning true faith by continuance, out of
pure opposition the direct contrary arises, and begins to prove itself.
And to Captain Lyth this had just happened in the shot which carried off
his left ear-ring.

Not that his body, or any fleshly member, could be said directly to have
parted with its charm, but that a warning and a diffidence arose from so
near a visitation. All genuine sailors are blessed with strong faith, as
they must be, by nature's compensation. Their bodies continually going
up and down upon perpetual fluxion, they never could live if their minds
did the same, like the minds of stationary landsmen. Therefore their
minds are of stanch immobility, to restore the due share of firm
element. And not only that, but these men have compressed (through
generations of circumstance), from small complications, simplicity.
Being out in all weathers, and rolling about so, how can they stand
upon trifles? Solid stays, and stanchions, and strong bulwarks are their
need, and not a dance of gnats in gossamer; hating all fogs, they blow
not up with their own breath misty mysteries, and gazing mainly at
the sky and sea, believe purely in God and the devil. In a word, these
sailors have religion.

Some of their religion is not well pronounced, but declares itself
in overstrong expressions. However, it is in them, and at any moment
waiting opportunity of action--a shipwreck or a grape-shot; and the
chaplain has good hopes of them when the doctor has given them over.

Now one of their principal canons of faith, and the one best observed
in practice, is (or at any rate used to be) that a man is bound to wear
ear-rings. For these, as sure tradition shows, and no pious mariner
would dare to doubt, act as a whetstone in all weathers to the keen
edge of the eyes. Semble--as the lawyers say--that this idea was born of
great phonetic facts in the days when a seaman knew his duty better
than the way to spell it; and when, if his outlook were sharpened by
a friendly wring from the captain of the watch, he never dreamed of a
police court.

But Robin Lyth had never cared to ask why he wore ear-rings. His nature
was not meditative. Enough for him that all the other men of Flamborough
did so; and enough for them that their fathers had done it. Whether his
own father had done so, was more than he could say, because he knew of
no such parent; and of that other necessity, a mother, he was equally
ignorant. His first appearance at Flamborough, though it made little
stir at the moment in a place of so many adventures, might still be
considered unusual, and in some little degree remarkable. So that
Mistress Anerley was not wrong when she pressed upon Lieutenant Carroway
how unwise it might be to shoot him, any more than Carroway himself was
wrong in turning in at Anerley gate for breakfast.

This he had not done without good cause of honest and loyal necessity.
Free-trading Robin had predicted well the course of his pursuers.
Rushing eagerly up the Dike, and over its brim, with their muskets, that
gallant force of revenue men steadily scoured the neighborhood; and the
further they went, the worse they fared. There was not a horse standing
down by a pool, with his stiff legs shut up into biped form, nor a cow
staring blandly across an old rail, nor a sheep with a pectoral cough
behind a hedge, nor a rabbit making rustle at the eyebrow of his hole,
nor even a moot, that might either be a man or hold a man inside it,
whom or which those active fellows did not circumvent and poke into.
In none of these, however, could they find the smallest breach of the
strictest laws of the revenue; until at last, having exhausted their
bodies by great zeal both of themselves and of mind, they braced them
again to the duty of going, as promptly as possible, to breakfast.

For a purpose of that kind few better places, perhaps, could be found
than this Anerley Farm, though not at the best of itself just now,
because of the denials of the season. It is a sad truth about the
heyday of the year, such as August is in Yorkshire--where they have no
spring--that just when a man would like his victuals to rise to the mark
of the period, to be simple yet varied, exhilarating yet substantial,
the heat of the summer day defrauds its increased length for feeding.
For instance, to cite a very trifling point--at least in some
opinions--August has banished that bright content and most devout
resignation which ensue the removal of a petted pig from this troublous
world of grunt. The fat pig rolls in wallowing rapture, defying his
friends to make pork of him yet, and hugs with complacence unpickleable
hams. The partridge among the pillared wheat, tenderly footing the way
for his chicks, and teaching little balls of down to hop, knows how
sacred are their lives to others as well as to himself; and the less
paternal cock-pheasant scratches the ridge of green-shouldered potatoes,
without fear of keeping them company at table.

But though the bright glory of the griddle remains in suspense for the
hoary mornings, and hooks that carried woodcocks once, and hope to do
so yet again, are primed with dust instead of lard, and the frying-pan
hangs on the cellar nail with a holiday gloss of raw mutton suet, yet
is there still some comfort left, yet dappled brawn, and bacon streaked,
yet golden-hearted eggs, and mushrooms quilted with pink satin, spiced
beef carded with pellucid fat, buckstone cake, and brown bread scented
with the ash of gorse bloom--of these, and more that pave the way into
the good-will of mankind, what lack have fine farm-houses?

And then, again, for the liquid duct, the softer and more sensitive,
the one that is never out of season, but perennially clear--here we have
advantage of the gentle time that mellows thirst. The long ride of the
summer sun makes men who are in feeling with him, and like him go up and
down, not forego the moral of his labor, which is work and rest. Work
all day, and light the rounded land with fruit and nurture, and rest at
evening, looking through bright fluid, as the sun goes down.

But times there are when sun and man, by stress of work, or clouds, or
light, or it may be some Process of the Equinox, make draughts upon the
untilted day, and solace themselves in the morning. For lack of dew the
sun draws lengthy sucks of cloud quite early, and men who have labored
far and dry, and scattered the rime of the night with dust, find
themselves ready about 8 A.M. for the golden encouragement of gentle
ale.

The farm-house had an old porch of stone, with a bench of stone on
either side, and pointed windows trying to look out under brows of
ivy; and this porch led into the long low hall, where the breakfast was
beginning. To say what was on the table would be only waste of time,
because it has all been eaten so long ago; but the farmer was vexed
because there were no shrimps. Not that he cared half the clip of a
whisker for all the shrimps that ever bearded the sea, only that he
liked to seem to love them, to keep Mary at work for him. The flower
of his flock, and of all the flocks of the world of the universe to his
mind, was his darling daughter Mary: the strength of his love was upon
her, and he liked to eat any thing of her cooking.

His body was too firm to fidget; but his mind was out of its usual
comfort, because the pride of his heart, his Mary, seemed to be hiding
something from him. And with the justice to be expected from far clearer
minds than his, being vexed by one, he was ripe for the relief of
snapping at fifty others. Mary, who could read him, as a sailor reads
his compass, by the corner of one eye, awaited with good content the
usual result--an outbreak of words upon the indolent Willie, whenever
that young farmer should come down to breakfast, then a comforting
glance from the mother at her William, followed by a plate kept hot for
him, and then a fine shake of the master's shoulders, and a stamp of
departure for business. But instead of that, what came to pass was this.

In the first place, a mighty bark of dogs arose; as needs must be, when
a man does his duty toward the nobler animals; for sure it is that the
dogs will not fail of their part. Then an inferior noise of men, crying,
“Good dog! good dog!” and other fulsome flatteries, in the hope of
avoiding any tooth-mark on their legs; and after that a shaking down
and settlement of sounds, as if feet were brought into good order, and
stopped. Then a tall man, with a body full of corners, and a face of
grim temper, stood in the doorway.

“Well, well, captain, now!” cried Stephen Anerley, getting up after
waiting to be spoken to, “the breath of us all is hard to get, with
doing of our duty, Sir. Come ye in, and sit doon to table, and his
Majesty's forces along o' ye.”

“Cadman, Ellis, and Dick, be damned!” the lieutenant shouted out to
them; “you shall have all the victuals you want, by-and-by. Cross legs,
and get your winds up. Captain of the coast-defense, I am under your
orders, in your own house.” Carroway was starving, as only a man with
long and active jaws can starve; and now the appearance of the farmer's
mouth, half full of a kindly relish, made the emptiness of his own more
bitter. But happen what might, he resolved, as usual, to enforce strict
discipline, to feed himself first, and his men in proper order.

“Walk in gentlemen, all walk in,” Master Anerley shouted, as if all men
were alike, and coming to the door with a hospitable stride; “glad to
see all of ye, upon my soul I am. Ye've hit upon the right time for
coming, too; though there might 'a been more upon the table. Mary, run,
that's a dear, and fetch your grandfather's big Sabbath carver. Them
peaky little clams a'most puts out all my shoulder-blades, and wunna
bite through a twine of gristle. Plates for all the gentlemen, Winnie
lass! Bill, go and drah the black jarge full o' yell.”

The farmer knew well enough that Willie was not down yet; but this was
his manner of letting people see that he did not approve of such hours.

“My poor lad Willie,” said the mistress of the house, returning with a
courtesy the brave lieutenant's scrape, “I fear he hath the rheum again,
overheating of himself after sungate.”

“Ay, ay, I forgot. He hath to heat himself in bed again, with the sun
upon his coverlid. Mary lof, how many hours was ye up?”

“Your daughter, Sir,” answered the lieutenant, with a glance at the
maiden over the opal gleam of froth, which she had headed up for
him--“your daughter has been down the Dike before the sun was, and doing
of her duty by the king and by his revenue. Mistress Anerley, your good
health! Master Anerley, the like to you, and your daughter, and all of
your good household.” Before they had finished their thanks for this
honor, the quart pot was set down empty. “A very pretty brew, Sir--a
pretty brew indeed! Fall back, men! Have heed of discipline. A chalked
line is what they want, Sir. Mistress Anerley, your good health again.
The air is now thirsty in the mornings. If those fellows could be given
a bench against the wall--a bench against the wall is what they feel for
with their legs. It comes so natural to their--yes, yes, their legs, and
the crook of their heels, ma'am, from what they were brought up to sit
upon. And if you have any beer brewed for washing days, ma'am, that is
what they like, and the right thing for their bellies. Cadman, Ellis,
and Dick Hackerbody, sit down and be thankful.”

“But surely, Captain Carroway, you would never be happy to sit down
without them. Look at their small-clothes, the dust and the dirt! And
their mouths show what you might make of them.”

“Yes, madam, yes; the very worst of them is that. They are always
looking out, here, there, and every where, for victuals everlasting. Let
them wait their proper time, and then they do it properly.”

“Their proper time is now, Sir. Winnie, fill their horns up. Mary, wait
you upon the officer. Captain Carroway, I will not have any body starve
in my house.”

“Madam, you are the lawgiver in your own house. Men of the coast-guard,
fall to upon your victuals.”

The lieutenant frowned horribly at his men, as much as to say, “Take no
advantage, but show your best manners;” and they touched their forelocks
with a pleasant grin, and began to feed rapidly; and verily their wives
would have said that it was high time for them. Feeding, as a duty,
was the order of the day, and discipline had no rank left. Good things
appeared and disappeared, with the speedy doom of all excellence. Mary,
and Winnie the maid, flitted in and out like carrier-pigeons.

“Now when the situation comes to this,” said the farmer at last, being
heartily pleased with the style of their feeding and laughing, “his
Majesty hath made an officer of me, though void of his own writing.
Mounted Fencibles, Filey Briggers, called in the foreign parts
'Brigadiers.' Not that I stand upon sermonry about it, except in the
matter of his Majesty's health, as never is due without ardent spirits.
But my wife hath a right to her own way, and never yet I knowed her go
away from it.”

“Not so, by any means,” the mistress said, and said it so quietly that
some believed her; “I never was so much for that. Captain, you are a
married man. But reason is reason, in the middle of us all, and what
else should I say to my husband? Mary lass, Mary lof, wherever is your
duty? The captain hath the best pot empty!”

With a bright blush Mary sprang up to do her duty. In those days no girl
was ashamed to blush; and the bloodless cheek savored of small-pox.

“Hold up your head, my lof,” her father said aloud, with a smile of
tidy pride, and a pat upon her back; “no call to look at all ashamed,
my dear. To my mind, captain, though I may be wrong, however, but to my
mind, this little maid may stan' upright in the presence of downright
any one.”

“There lies the very thing that never should be said. Captain, you have
seven children, or it may be eight of them justly. And the pride of
life--Mary, you be off!”

Mary was glad to run away, for she liked not to be among so many men.
But her father would not have her triumphed over.

“Speak for yourself, good wife,” he said. “I know what you have got
behind, as well as rooks know plough-tail. Captain, you never heard me
say that the lass were any booty, but the very same as God hath made
her, and thankful for straight legs and eyes. Howsoever, there might be
worse-favored maidens, without running out of the Riding.”

“You may ride all the way to the city of London,” the captain exclaimed,
with a clinch of his fist, “or even to Portsmouth, where my wife came
from, and never find a maid fit to hold a candle for Mary to curl her
hair by.”

The farmer was so pleased that he whispered something; but Carroway put
his hand before his mouth, and said, “Never, no, never in the morning!”
 But in spite of that, Master Anerley felt in his pocket for a key, and
departed.

“Wicked, wicked, is the word I use,” protested Mrs. Anerley, “for all
this fribble about rooks and looks, and holding of candles, and curling
of hair. When I was Mary's age--oh dear! It may not be so for your
daughters, captain; but evil for mine was the day that invented those
proud swinging-glasses.”

“That you may pronounce, ma'am, and I will say Amen. Why, my eldest
daughter, in her tenth year now--”

“Come, Captain Carroway,” broke in the farmer, returning softly with a
square old bottle, “how goes the fighting with the Crappos now? Put your
legs up, and light your pipe, and tell us all the news.”

“Cadman, and Ellis, and Dick Hackerbody,” the lieutenant of the
coast-guard shouted, “you have fed well. Be off, men; no more neglect of
duty! Place an outpost at fork of the Sewerby road, and strictly observe
the enemy, while I hold a council of war with my brother officer,
Captain Anerley. Half a crown for you, if you catch the rogue, half
a crown each, and promotion of twopence. Attention, eyes right, make
yourselves scarce! Well, now the rogues are gone, let us make ourselves
at home. Anerley, your question is a dry one. A dry one; but this is
uncommonly fine stuff! How the devil has it slipped through our fingers?
Never mind that, inter amicos--Sir, I was at school at Shrewsbury--but
as to the war, Sir, the service is going to the devil, for the want of
pure principle.”

The farmer nodded; and his looks declared that to some extent he felt
it. He had got the worst side of some bargains that week; but his wife
had another way of thinking.

“Why, Captain Carroway, whatever could be purer? When you were at sea,
had you ever a man of the downright principles of Nelson?”

“Nelson has done very well in his way; but he is a man who has risen too
fast, as other men rise too slowly. Nothing in him; no substance,
madam; I knew him as a youngster, and I could have tossed him on a
marling-spike. And instead of feeding well, Sir, he quite wore himself
away. To my firm knowledge, he would scarcely turn the scale upon a good
Frenchman of half of the peas. Every man should work his own way up,
unless his father did it for him. In my time we had fifty men as good,
and made no fuss about them.”

“And you not the last of them, captain, I dare say. Though I do love to
hear of the Lord's Lord Nelson, as the people call him. If ever a man
fought his own way up--”

“Madam, I know him, and respect him well. He would walk up to the devil,
with a sword between his teeth, and a boarder's pistol in each hand.
Madam, I leaped, in that condition, a depth of six fathoms and a half
into the starboard mizzen-chains of the French line-of-battle ship Peace
and Thunder.”

“Oh, Captain Carroway, how dreadful! What had you to lay hold with?”

“At such times a man must not lay hold. My business was to lay about;
and I did it to some purpose. This little slash, across my eyes struck
fire, and it does the same now by moonlight.”

One of the last men in the world to brag was Lieutenant Carroway.
Nothing but the great thirst of this morning, and strong necessity
of quenching it, could ever have led him to speak about himself, and
remember his own little exploits. But the farmer was pleased, and said,
“Tell us some more, Sir.”

“Mistress Anerley,” the captain answered, shutting up the scar, which he
was able to expand by means of a muscle of excitement, “you know that
a man should drop these subjects when he has got a large family. I have
been in the Army and the Navy, madam, and now I am in the Revenue; but
my duty is first to my own house.”

“Do take care, Sir; I beg you to be careful. Those free-traders now are
come to such a pitch that any day or night they may shoot you.”

“Not they, madam. No, they are not murderers. In a hand-to-hand conflict
they might do it, as I might do the same to them. This very morning my
men shot at the captain of all smugglers, Robin Lyth, of Flamborough,
with a hundred guineas upon his head. It was no wish of mine; but my
breath was short to stop them, and a man with a family like mine can
never despise a hundred guineas.”

“Why, Sophy,” said the farmer, thinking slowly, with a frown, “that
must have been the noise come in at window, when I were getting up
this morning. I said, 'Why, there's some poacher fellow popping at the
conies!' and out I went straight to the warren to see. Three gun-shots,
or might 'a been four. How many men was you shooting at?”

“The force under my command was in pursuit of one notorious
criminal--that well-known villain, Robin Lyth.”

“Captain, your duty is to do your duty. But without your own word for
it, I never would believe that you brought four gun muzzles down upon
one man.”

“The force under my command carried three guns only. It was not in their
power to shoot off four.”

“Captain, I never would have done it in your place. I call it no better
than unmanly. Now go you not for to stir yourself amiss. To look thunder
at me is what I laugh at. But many things are done in a hurry, Captain
Carroway, and I take it that this was one of them.”

“As to that, no! I will not have it. All was in thorough good order.
I was never so much as a cable's length behind, though the devil, some
years ago, split my heel up, like his own, Sir.”

“Captain, I see it, and I ask your pardon. Your men were out of reach of
hollering. At our time of life the wind dies quick, from want of blowing
oftener.”

“Stuff!” cried the captain. “Who was the freshest that came to your
hospitable door, Sir? I will foot it with any man for six leagues, but
not for half a mile, ma'am. I depart from nothing. I said, 'Fire!' and
fire they did, and they shall again. What do Volunteers know of the
service?”

“Stephen, you shall not say a single other word;” Mistress Anerley
stopped her husband thus; “these matters are out of your line
altogether; because you have never taken any body's blood. The captain
here is used to it, like all the sons of Belial, brought up in the early
portions of the Holy Writ.”

Lieutenant Carroway's acquaintance with the Bible was not more extensive
than that of other officers, and comprised little more than the story
of Joseph, and that of David and Goliath; so he bowed to his hostess for
her comparison, while his gaunt and bristly countenance gave way to
a pleasant smile. For this officer of the British Crown had a face of
strong features, and upon it whatever he thought was told as plainly as
the time of day is told by the clock in the kitchen. At the same time,
Master Anerley was thinking that he might have said more than a host
should say concerning a matter which, after all, was no particular
concern of his; whereas it was his special place to be kind to any
visitor. All this he considered with a sound grave mind, and then
stretched forth his right hand to the officer.

Carroway, being a generous man, would not be outdone in apologies. So
these two strengthened their mutual esteem, without any fighting--which
generally is the quickest way of renewing respect--and Mistress Anerley,
having been a little frightened, took credit to herself for the good
words she had used. Then the farmer, who never drank cordials, although
he liked to see other people do it, set forth to see a man who was come
about a rick, and sundry other business. But Carroway, in spite of all
his boasts, was stiff, though he bravely denied that he could be; and
when the good housewife insisted on his stopping to listen to something
that was much upon her mind, and of great importance to the revenue, he
could not help owning that duty compelled him to smoke another pipe, and
hearken.



CHAPTER IX

ROBIN COCKSCROFT


Nothing ever was allowed to stop Mrs. Anerley from seeing to the
bedrooms. She kept them airing for about three hours at this time of the
sun-stitch--as she called all the doings of the sun upon the sky--and
then there was pushing, and probing, and tossing, and pulling, and
thumping, and kneading of knuckles, till the rib of every feather was
aching; and then (like dough before the fire) every well-belabored tick
was left to yeast itself a while. Winnie, the maid, was as strong as a
post, and wore them all out in bed-making. Carroway heard the beginning
of this noise, but none of it meddled at all with his comfort; he lay
back nicely in a happy fit of chair, stretched his legs well upon a
bench, and nodded, keeping slow time with the breathings of his pipe,
and drawing a vapory dream of ease. He had fared many stony miles afoot
that morning; and feet, legs, and body were now less young than they
used to be once upon a time. Looking up sleepily, the captain had idea
of a pretty young face hanging over him, and a soft voice saying, “It
was me who did it all,” which was very good grammar in those days; “will
you forgive me? But I could not help it, and you must have been sorry to
shoot him.”

“Shoot every body who attempts to land,” the weary man ordered,
drowsily. “Mattie, once more, you are not to dust my pistols.”

“I could not be happy without telling you the truth,” the soft voice
continued, “because I told you such a dreadful story. And now--Oh! here
comes mother!”

“What has come over you this morning, child? You do the most
extraordinary things, and now you can not let the captain rest. Go round
and look for eggs this very moment. You will want to be playing fine
music next. Now, captain, I am at your service, if you please, unless
you feel too sleepy.”

“Mistress Anerley, I never felt more wide-awake in all my life. We of
the service must snatch a wink whenever we can, but with one eye open;
and it is not often that we see such charming sights.”

The farmer's wife having set the beds to “plump,” had stolen a look at
the glass, and put on her second-best Sunday cap, in honor of a real
officer; and she looked very nice indeed, especially when she received a
compliment. But she had seen too much of life to be disturbed thereby.

“Ah, Captain Carroway, what ways you have of getting on with simple
people, while you are laughing all the time at them! It comes of the
foreign war experience, going on so long that in the end we shall all
be foreigners. But one place there is that you never can conquer, nor
Boneypart himself, to my belief.”

“Ah, you mean Flamborough--Flamborough, yes! It is a nest of
cockatrices.”

“Captain, it is nothing of the sort. It is the most honest place in all
the world. A man may throw a guinea on the crossroads in the night, and
have it back from Dr. Upandown any time within seven years. You ought to
know by this time what they are, hard as it is to get among them.”

“I only know that they can shut their mouths; and the devil himself--I
beg your pardon, madam--Old Nick himself never could unscrew them.”

“You are right, Sir. I know their manner well. They are open as the sky
with one another, but close as the grave to all the world outside them,
and most of all to people of authority like you.”

“Mistress Anerley, you have just hit it. Not a word can I get out of
them. The name of the king--God bless him!--seems to have no weight
among them.”

“And you can not get at them, Sir, by any dint of money, or even by
living in the midst of them. The only way to do it is by kin of blood,
or marriage. And that is how I come to know more about them than almost
any body else outside. My master can scarcely win a word of them even,
kind as he is, and well-spoken; and neither might I, though my tongue
was tenfold, if it were not for Joan Cockscroft. But being Joan's
cousin, I am like one of themselves.”

“Cockscroft! Cockscroft? I have heard that name. Do they keep the
public-house there?”

The lieutenant was now on the scent of duty, and assumed his most
knowing air, the sole effect of which was to put every body upon guard
against him. For this was a man of no subtlety, but straightforward,
downright, and ready to believe; and his cleverest device was to seem to
disbelieve.

“The Cockscrofts keep no public-house,” Mrs. Anerley answered, with a
little flush of pride. “Why, she was half-niece to my own grandmother,
and never was beer in the family. Not that it would have been wrong, if
it was. Captain, you are thinking of Widow Precious, licensed to the Cod
with the hook in his gills. I should have thought, Sir, that you might
have known a little more of your neighbors having fallen below the path
of life by reason of bad bank-tokens. Banking came up in her parts like
dog-madness, as it might have done here, if our farmers were the fools
to handle their cash with gloves on. And Joan became robbed by the fault
of her trustees, the very best bakers in Scarborough, though Robin never
married her for it, thank God! Still it was very sad, and scarcely bears
describing of, and pulled them in the crook of this world's swing to
a lower pitch than if they had robbed the folk that robbed and ruined
them. And Robin so was driven to the fish again, which he always had
hankered after. It must have been before you heard of this coast,
captain, and before the long war was so hard on us, that every body
about these parts was to double his bags by banking, and no man was
right to pocket his own guineas, for fear of his own wife feeling them.
And bitterly such were paid out for their cowardice and swindling of
their own bosoms.”

“I have heard of it often, and it served them right. Master Anerley knew
where his money was safe, ma'am!”

“Neither Captain Robin Cockscroft nor his wife was in any way to blame,”
 answered Mrs. Anerley. “I have framed my mind to tell you about them;
and I will do it truly, if I am not interrupted. Two hammers never yet
drove a nail straight, and I make a rule of silence when my betters wish
to talk.”

“Madam, you remind me of my own wife. She asks me a question, and she
will not let me answer.”

“That is the only way I know of getting on. Mistress Carroway must
understand you, captain. I was at the point of telling you how my
cousin Joan was married, before her money went, and when she was really
good-looking. I was quite a child, and ran along the shore to see it.
It must have been in the high summer-time, with the weather fit for
bathing, and the sea as smooth as a duck-pond. And Captain Robin, being
well-to-do, and established with every thing except a wife, and pleased
with the pretty smile and quiet ways of Joan--for he never had heard of
her money, mind--put his oar into the sea and rowed from Flamborough all
the way to Filey Brigg, with thirty-five fishermen after him; for the
Flamborough people make a point of seeing one another through their
troubles. And Robin was known for the handsomest man and the uttermost
fisher of the landing, with three boats of his own, and good birth, and
long sea-lines. And there at once they found my cousin Joan, with her
trustees, come overland, four wagons and a cart in all of them; and
after they were married, they burned sea-weed, having no fear in those
days of invasions. And a merry day they made of it, and rowed back by
the moonshine. For every one liked and respected Captain Cockscroft on
account of his skill with the deep-sea lines, and the openness of his
hands when full--a wonderful quiet and harmless man, as the manner is of
all great fishermen. They had bacon for breakfast whenever they liked,
and a guinea to lend to any body in distress.

“Then suddenly one morning, when his hair was growing gray and his eyes
getting weary of the night work, so that he said his young Robin must
grow big enough to learn all the secrets of the fishes, while his father
took a spell in the blankets, suddenly there came to them a shocking
piece of news. All his wife's bit of money, and his own as well, which
he had been putting by from year to year, was lost in a new-fangled
Bank, supposed as faithful as the Bible. Joan was very nearly crazed
about it; but Captain Cockscroft never heaved a sigh, though they say
it was nearly seven hundred guineas. 'There are fish enough still in the
sea,' he said; 'and the Lord has spared our children. I will build a new
boat, and not think of feather-beds.'

“Captain Carroway, he did so, and every body knows what befell him. The
new boat, built with his own hands, was called the Mercy Robin, for his
only son and daughter, little Mercy and poor Robin. The boat is there
as bright as ever, scarlet within and white outside; but the name is
painted off, because the little dears are in their graves. Two nicer
children were never seen, clever, and sprightly, and good to learn; they
never even took a common bird's nest, I have heard, but loved all the
little things the Lord has made, as if with a foreknowledge of going
early home to Him. Their father came back very tired one morning, and
went up the hill to his breakfast, and the children got into the boat
and pushed off, in imitation of their daddy. It came on to blow, as it
does down there, without a single whiff of warning; and when Robin awoke
for his middle-day meal, the bodies of his little ones were lying on the
table. And from that very day Captain Cockscroft and his wife began to
grow old very quickly. The boat was recovered without much damage; and
in it he sits by the hour on dry land, whenever there is no one on the
cliffs to see him, with his hands upon his lap, and his eyes upon the
place where his dear little children used to sit. Because he has always
taken whatever fell upon him gently; and of course that makes it ever so
much worse when he dwells upon the things that come inside of him.”

“Madam, you make me feel quite sorry for him,” the lieutenant exclaimed,
as she began to cry, “If even one of my little ones was drowned, I
declare to you, I can not tell what I should be like. And to lose them
all at once, and as his own wife perhaps would say, because he was
thinking of his breakfast! And when he had been robbed, and the world
all gone against him! Madam, it is a long time, thank God, since I heard
so sad a tale.”

“Now you would not, captain, I am sure you would not,” said Mistress
Anerley, getting up a smile, yet freshening his perception of a tear as
well--“you would never have the heart to destroy that poor old couple by
striking the last prop from under them. By the will of the Lord they are
broken down enough. They are quietly hobbling to their graves, and would
you be the man to come and knock them on their heads at once?”

“Mistress Anerley, have you ever heard that I am a brute and inhuman?
Madam, I have no less than seven children, and I hope to have fourteen.”

“I hope with all my heart you may. And you will deserve them all, for
promising so very kindly not to shoot poor Robin Lyth.”

“Robin Lyth! I never spoke of him, madam. He is outlawed, condemned,
with a fine reward upon him. We shot at him to-day; we shall shoot at
him again; and before very long we must hit him. Ma'am, it is my duty
to the king, the Constitution, the service I belong to, and the babes I
have begotten.”

“Blood-money poisons all innocent mouths, Sir, and breaks out for
generations. And for it you will have to take three lives--Robin's, the
captain's, and my dear old cousin Joan's.”

“Mistress Anerley, you deprive me of all satisfaction. It is just my
luck, when my duty was so plain, and would pay so well for doing of.”

“Listen now, captain. It is my opinion, and I am generally borne out by
the end, that instead of a hundred pounds for killing Robin Lyth, you
may get a thousand for preserving him alive. Do you know how he came
upon this coast, and how he has won his extraordinary name?”

“I have certainly heard rumors; scarcely any two alike. But I took no
heed of them. My duty was to catch him; and it mattered not a straw to
me who or what he was. But now I must really beg to know all about him,
and what makes you think such things of him. Why should that excellent
old couple hang upon him? and what can make him worth such a quantity
of money? Honestly, of course, I mean; honestly worth it, ma'am, without
any cheating of his Majesty.”

“Captain Carroway,” his hostess said, not without a little blush, as she
thought of the king and his revenue, “cheating of his Majesty is a thing
we leave for others. But if you wish to hear the story of that young
man, so far as known, which is not so even in Flamborough, you must
please to come on Sunday, Sir; for Sunday is the only day that I can
spare for clacking, as the common people say. I must be off now; I have
fifty things to see to. And on Sunday my master has his best things on,
and loves no better than to sit with his legs up, and a long clay pipe
lying on him down below his waist (or, to speak more correctly, where
it used to be, as he might, indeed, almost say the very same to me), and
then not to speak a word, but hear other folk tell stories, that might
not have made such a dinner as himself. And as for dinner, Sir, if
you will do the honor to dine with them that are no more than in the
Volunteers, a saddle of good mutton fit for the Body-Guards to ride
upon, the men with the skins around them all turned up, will be ready
just at one o'clock, if the parson lets us out.”

“My dear madam, I shall scarcely care to look at any slice of victuals
until one o'clock on Sunday, by reason of looking forward.”

After all, this was not such a gross exaggeration, Anerley Farm being
famous for its cheer; whereas the poor lieutenant, at the best of times,
had as much as he could do to make both ends meet; and his wife, though
a wonderful manager, could give him no better than coarse bread, and
almost coarser meat.

“And, Sir, if your good lady would oblige us also--”

“No, madam, no!” he cried, with vigorous decision, having found many
festive occasions spoiled by excess of loving vigilance; “we thank you
most truly; but I must say 'no.' She would jump at the chance; but a
husband must consider. You may have heard it mentioned that the Lord is
now considering about the production of an eighth little Carroway.”

“Captain, I have not, or I should not so have spoken. But with all my
heart I wish you joy.”

“I have pleasure, I assure you, in the prospect, Mistress Anerley. My
friends make wry faces, but I blow them away, 'Tush,' I say, 'tush, Sir;
at the rate we now are fighting, and exhausting all British material,
there can not be too many, Sir, of mettle such as mine!' What do you say
to that, madam?”

“Sir, I believe it is the Lord's own truth. And true it is also that our
country should do more to support the brave hearts that fight for it.”

Mrs. Anerley sighed, for she thought of her younger son, by his own
perversity launched into the thankless peril of fighting England's
battles. His death at any time might come home, if any kind person
should take the trouble even to send news of it; or he might lie at the
bottom of the sea unknown, even while they were talking. But Carroway
buttoned up his coat and marched, after a pleasant and kind farewell. In
the course of hard service he had seen much grief, and suffered plenty
of bitterness, and he knew that it is not the part of a man to multiply
any of his troubles but children. He went about his work, and he thought
of all his comforts, which need not have taken very long to count,
but he added to their score by not counting them, and by the self-same
process diminished that of troubles. And thus, upon the whole, he
deserved his Sunday dinner, and the tale of his hostess after it, not
a word of which Mary was allowed to hear, for some subtle reason of her
mother's. But the farmer heard it all, and kept interrupting so, when
his noddings and the joggings of his pipe allowed, or, perhaps one
should say, compelled him, that merely for the courtesy of saving common
time it is better now to set it down without them. Moreover, there are
many things well worthy of production which she did not produce, for
reasons which are now no hinderance. And the foremost of those reasons
is that the lady did not know the things; the second that she could not
tell them clearly as a man might; and the third, and best of all, that
if she could, she would not do so. In which she certainly was quite
right; for it would have become her very badly, as the cousin of Joan
Cockscroft (half removed, and upon the mother's side), and therefore
kindly received at Flamborough, and admitted into the inner circle, and
allowed to buy fish at wholesale prices, if she had turned round upon
all these benefits, and described all the holes to be found in the
place, for the teaching of a revenue officer.

Still, it must be clearly understood that the nature of the people is
fishing. They never were known to encourage free-trading, but did their
very utmost to protect themselves; and if they had produced the very
noblest free-trader, born before the time of Mr. Cobden, neither the
credit nor the blame was theirs.



CHAPTER X

ROBIN LYTH


Half a league to the north of bold Flamborough Head the billows have
carved for themselves a little cove among cliffs which are rugged, but
not very high. This opening is something like the grain shoot of a mill,
or a screen for riddling gravel, so steep is the pitch of the ground,
and so narrow the shingly ledge at the bottom. And truly in bad weather
and at high tides there is no shingle ledge at all, but the crest of the
wave volleys up the incline, and the surf rushes on to the top of it.
For the cove, though sheltered from other quarters, receives the full
brunt of northeasterly gales, and offers no safe anchorage. But the
hardy fishermen make the most of its scant convenience, and gratefully
call it “North Landing,” albeit both wind and tide must be in good
humor, or the only thing sure of any landing is the sea. The long
desolation of the sea rolls in with a sound of melancholy, the gray fog
droops its fold of drizzle in the leaden-tinted troughs, the pent cliffs
overhang the flapping of the sail, and a few yards of pebble and of weed
are all that a boat may come home upon harmlessly. Yet here in the old
time landed men who carved the shape of England; and here even in these
lesser days, are landed uncommonly fine cod.

The difficulties of the feat are these: to get ashore soundly, and then
to make it good; and after that to clinch the exploit by getting on
land, which is yet a harder step. Because the steep of the ground, like
a staircase void of stairs, stands facing you, and the cliff upon either
side juts up close, to forbid any flanking movement, and the scanty
scarp denies fair start for a rush at the power of the hill front. Yet
here must the heavy boats beach themselves, and wallow and yaw in the
shingly roar, while their cargo and crew get out of them, their gunwales
swinging from side to side, in the manner of a porpoise rolling, and
their stem and stern going up and down like a pair of lads at seesaw.

But after these heavy boats have endured all that, they have not found
their rest yet without a crowning effort. Up that gravelly and gliddery
ascent, which changes every groove and run at every sudden shower, but
never grows any the softer--up that the heavy boats must make clamber
somehow, or not a single timber of their precious frames is safe. A big
rope from the capstan at the summit is made fast as soon as the tails of
the jackasses (laden with three cwt. of fish apiece) have wagged their
last flick at the brow of the steep; and then with “yo-heave-ho” above
and below, through the cliffs echoing over the dull sea, the groaning
and grinding of the stubborn tug begins. Each boat has her own special
course to travel up, and her own special berth of safety, and she knows
every jag that will gore her on the road, and every flint from which she
will strike fire. By dint of sheer sturdiness of arms, legs, and lungs,
keeping true time with the pant and the shout, steadily goes it with
hoist and haul, and cheerily undulates the melody of call that rallies
them all with a strong will together, until the steep bluff and the
burden of the bulk by masculine labor are conquered, and a long row of
powerful pinnaces displayed, as a mounted battery, against the fishful
sea. With a view to this clambering ruggedness of life, all of these
boats receive from their cradle a certain limber rake and accommodating
curve, instead of a straight pertinacity of keel, so that they may ride
over all the scandals of this arduous world. And happen what may to
them, when they are at home, and gallantly balanced on the brow line of
the steep, they make a bright show upon the dreariness of coast-land,
hanging as they do above the gullet of the deep. Painted outside with
the brightest of scarlet, and inside with the purest white, at a little
way off they resemble gay butterflies, preening their wings for a flight
into the depth.

Here it must have been, and in the middle of all these, that the very
famous Robin Lyth--prophetically treating him, but free as yet of fame
or name, and simply unable to tell himself--shone in the doubt of the
early daylight (as a tidy-sized cod, if forgotten, might have shone)
upon the morning of St. Swithin, A.D. 1782.

The day and the date were remembered long by all the good people of
Flamborough, from the coming of the turn of a long bad luck and a bitter
time of starving. For the weather of the summer had been worse than
usual--which is no little thing to say--and the fish had expressed their
opinion of it by the eloquent silence of absence. Therefore, as the
whole place lives on fish, whether in the fishy or the fiscal form,
goodly apparel was becoming very rare, even upon high Sundays; and
stomachs that might have looked well beneath it, sank into unobtrusive
grief. But it is a long lane that has no turning; and turns are the
essence of one very vital part.

Suddenly over the village had flown the news of a noble arrival of
fish. From the cross-roads, and the public-house, and the licensed
head-quarters of pepper and snuff, and the loop-hole where a sheep had
been known to hang, in times of better trade, but never could dream of
hanging now; also from the window of the man who had had a hundred
heads (superior to his own) shaken at him because he set up for making
breeches in opposition to the women, and showed a few patterns of what
he could do if any man of legs would trade with him--from all these
head-centres of intelligence, and others not so prominent but equally
potent, into the very smallest hole it went (like the thrill in a
troublesome tooth) that here was a chance come of feeding, a chance
at last of feeding. For the man on the cliff, the despairing watchman,
weary of fastening his eyes upon the sea, through constant fog and
drizzle, at length had discovered the well-known flicker, the glassy
flaw, and the hovering of gulls, and had run along Weighing Lane so
fast, to tell his good news in the village, that down he fell and
broke his leg, exactly opposite the tailor's shop. And this was on St.
Swithin's Eve.

There was nothing to be done that night, of course, for mackerel must be
delicately worked; but long before the sun arose, all Flamborough, able
to put leg in front of leg, and some who could not yet do that, gathered
together where the land-hold was, above the incline for the launching
of the boats. Here was a medley, not of fisher-folk alone, and all their
bodily belongings, but also of the thousand things that have no soul,
and get kicked about and sworn at much because they can not answer.
Rollers, buoys, nets, kegs, swabs, fenders, blocks, buckets, kedges,
corks, buckie-pots, oars, poppies, tillers, sprits, gaffs, and every
kind of gear (more than Theocritus himself could tell) lay about,
and rolled about, and upset their own masters, here and there and
everywhere, upon this half acre of slip and stumble, at the top of the
boat channel down to the sea, and in the faint rivalry of three vague
lights, all making darkness visible.

For very ancient lanterns, with a gentle horny glimmer, and loop-holes
of large exaggeration at the top, were casting upon anything quite
within their reach a general idea of the crinkled tin that framed them,
and a shuffle of inconstant shadows, but refused to shed any light on
friend or stranger, or clear up suspicions, more than three yards off.
In rivalry with these appeared the pale disk of the moon, just setting
over the western highlands, and “drawing straws” through summer haze;
while away in the northeast over the sea, a slender irregular wisp of
gray, so weak that it seemed as if it were being blown away, betokened
the intention of the sun to restore clear ideas of number and of figure
by-and-by. But little did anybody heed such things; every one ran
against everybody else, and all was eagerness, haste, and bustle for the
first great launch of the Flamborough boats, all of which must be taken
in order.

But when they laid hold of the boat No. 7, which used to be the Mercy
Robin, and were jerking the timber shores out, one of the men stooping
under her stern beheld something white and gleaming. He put his hand
down to it, and, lo! it was a child, in imminent peril of a deadly
crush, as the boat came heeling over. “Hold hard!” cried the man, not in
time with his voice, but in time with his sturdy shoulder, to delay the
descent of the counter. Then he stooped underneath, while they steadied
the boat, and drew forth a child in a white linen dress, heartily asleep
and happy.

There was no time to think of any children now, even of a man's own
fine breed, and the boat was beginning much to chafe upon the rope, and
thirty or forty fine fellows were all waiting, loath to hurry Captain
Robin (because of the many things he had dearly lost), yet straining
upon their own hearts to stand still. And the captain could not find his
wife, who had slipped aside of the noisy scene, to have her own little
cry, because of the dance her children would have made if they had lived
to see it.

There were plenty of other women running all about to help, and to talk,
and to give the best advice to their husbands and to one another;
but most of them naturally had their own babies, and if words came to
action, quite enough to do to nurse them. On this account, Cockscroft
could do no better, bound as he was to rush forth upon the sea, than lay
the child gently aside of the stir, and cover him with an old sail, and
leave word with an ancient woman for his wife when found. The little boy
slept on calmly still, in spite of all the din and uproar, the song and
the shout, the tramp of heavy feet, the creaking of capstans, and the
thump of bulky oars, and the crush of ponderous rollers. Away went these
upon their errand to the sea, and then came back the grating roar and
plashy jerks of launching, the plunging, and the gurgling, and the quiet
murmur of cleft waves.

That child slept on, in the warm good luck of having no boat keel
launched upon him, nor even a human heel of bulk as likely to prove
fatal. And the ancient woman fell asleep beside him, because at her time
of life it was unjust that she should be astir so early. And it happened
that Mrs. Cockscroft followed her troubled husband down the steep,
having something in her pocket for him, which she failed to fetch to
hand. So everybody went about its own business (according to the laws
of nature), and the old woman slept by the side of the child, without
giving him a corner of her scarlet shawl.

But when the day was broad and brave, and the spirit of the air was
vigorous, and every cliff had a color of its own, and a character to
come out with; and beautiful boats, upon a shining sea, flashed their
oars, and went up waves which clearly were the stairs of heaven; and
never a woman, come to watch her husband, could be sure how far he had
carried his obedience in the matter of keeping his hat and coat on;
neither could anybody say what next those very clever fishermen might
be after--nobody having a spy-glass--but only this being understood
all round, that hunger and salt were the victuals for the day, and
the children must chew the mouse-trap baits until their dads came home
again; and yet in spite of all this, with lightsome hearts (so hope
outstrips the sun, and soars with him behind her) and a strong will,
up the hill they went, to do without much breakfast, but prepare for a
glorious supper. For mackerel are good fish that do not strive to live
forever, but seem glad to support the human race.

Flamburians speak a rich burr of their own, broadly and handsomely
distinct from that of outer Yorkshire. The same sagacious contempt for
all hot haste and hurry (which people of impatient fibre are too apt to
call “a drawl”) may here be found, as in other Yorkshire, guiding and
retarding well that headlong instrument the tongue. Yet even here there
is advantage on the side of Flamborough--a longer resonance, a larger
breadth, a deeper power of melancholy, and a stronger turn up of the
tail of discourse, by some called the end of a sentence. Over and above
all these there dwell in “Little Denmark” many words foreign to the
real Yorkshireman. But, alas! these merits of their speech can not be
embodied in print without sad trouble, and result (if successful)
still more saddening. Therefore it is proposed to let them speak in our
inferior tongue, and to try to make them be not so very long about it.
For when they are left to themselves entirely, they have so much solid
matter to express, and they ripen it in their minds and throats with a
process so deliberate, that strangers might condemn them briefly, and be
off without hearing half of it. Whenever this happens to a Flamborough
man, he finishes what he proposed to say, and then says it all over
again to the wind.

When the “lavings” of the village (as the weaker part, unfit for sea,
and left behind, were politely called, being very old men, women, and
small children), full of conversation, came, upon their way back from
the tide, to the gravel brow now bare of boats, they could not help
discovering there the poor old woman that fell asleep because she ought
to have been in bed, and by her side a little boy, who seemed to have
no bed at all. The child lay above her in a tump of stubbly grass, where
Robin Cockscroft had laid him; he had tossed the old sail off, perhaps
in a dream, and he threatened to roll down upon the granny. The contrast
between his young, beautiful face, white raiment, and readiness to
roll, and the ancient woman's weary age (which it would be ungracious to
describe), and scarlet shawl which she could not spare, and satisfaction
to lie still--as the best thing left her now to do--this difference
between them was enough to take anybody's notice, facing the
well-established sun.

“Nanny Pegler, get oop wi' ye!” cried a woman even older, but of tougher
constitution. “Shame on ye to lig aboot so. Be ye browt to bed this
toime o' loife?”

“A wonderful foine babby for sich an owd moother,” another proceeded
with the elegant joke; “and foine swaddles too, wi' solid gowd upon
'em!”

“Stan' ivery one o' ye oot o' the way,” cried ancient Nanny, now as
wide-awake as ever; “Master Robin Cockscroft gie ma t' bairn, an'
nawbody sall hev him but Joan Cockscroft.”

Joan Cockscroft, with a heavy heart, was lingering far behind the rest,
thinking of the many merry launches, when her smart young Robin would
have been in the boat with his father, and her pretty little Mercy
clinging to her hand upon the homeward road, and prattling of the fish
to be caught that day; and inasmuch as Joan had not been able to get
face to face with her husband on the beach, she had not yet heard of the
stranger child. But soon the women sent a little boy to fetch her, and
she came among them, wondering what it could be. For now a debate of
some vigor was arising upon a momentous and exciting point, though
not so keen by a hundredth part as it would have been twenty years
afterward. For the eldest old woman had pronounced her decision.

“Tell ye wat, ah dean't think bud wat yon bairn mud he a Frogman.”

This caused some panic and a general retreat; for though the immortal
Napoleon had scarcely finished changing his teeth as yet, a chronic
uneasiness about Crappos haunted that coast already, and they might
have sent this little boy to pave the way, being capable of almost
everything.

“Frogman!” cried the old woman next to her by birth, and believed to
have higher parts, though not yet ripe. “Na, na; what Frogman here?
Frogmen ha' skinny shanks, and larks' heels, and holes down their bodies
like lamperns. No sign of no frog aboot yon bairn. As fair as a wench,
and as clean as a tyke. A' mought a'most been born to Flaambro'. And
what gowd ha' Crappos got, poor divils?”

This opened the gate for a clamor of discourse; for there surely could
be no denial of her words. And yet while her elder was alive and out of
bed, the habit of the village was to listen to her say, unless any man
of equal age arose to countervail it. But while they were thus divided,
Mrs. Cockscroft came, and they stood aside. For she had been kind to
everybody when her better chances were; and now in her trouble all were
grieved because she took it so to heart. Joan Cockscroft did not say
a word, but glanced at the child with some contempt. In spite of white
linen and yellow gold, what was he to her own dead Robin?

But suddenly this child, whatever he was, and vastly soever inferior,
opened his eyes and sent home their first glance to the very heart of
Joan Cockscroft. It was the exact look--or so she always said--of her
dead angel, when she denied him something, for the sake of his poor dear
stomach. With an outburst of tears, she flew straight to the little one,
snatched him in her arms, and tried to cover him with kisses.

The child, however, in a lordly manner, did not seem to like it. He drew
away his red lips, and gathered up his nose, and passion flew out of his
beautiful eyes, higher passion than that of any Cockscroft. And he
tried to say something which no one could make out. And women of high
consideration, looking on, were wicked enough to be pleased at this, and
say that he must be a young lord, and they had quite foreseen it. But
Joan knew what children are, and soothed him down so with delicate
hands, and a gentle look, and a subtle way of warming his cold places,
that he very soon began to cuddle into her, and smile. Then she turned
round to the other people, with both of his arms flung round her neck,
and his cheek laid on her shoulder, and she only said, “The Lord hath
sent him.”



CHAPTER XI

DR. UPANDOWN


The practice of Flamborough was to listen fairly to anything that might
be said by any one truly of the native breed, and to receive it well
into the crust of the mind, and let it sink down slowly. But even after
that, it might not take root, unless it were fixed in its settlement by
their two great powers--the law, and the Lord.

They had many visitations from the Lord, as needs must be in such a very
stormy place; whereas of the law they heard much less; but still they
were even more afraid of that; for they never knew how much it might
cost.

Balancing matters (as they did their fish, when the price was worth it,
in Weigh Lane), they came to the set conclusion that the law and the
Lord might not agree concerning the child cast among them by the latter.
A child or two had been thrown ashore before, and trouble once or twice
had come of it; and this child being cast, no one could say how, to such
a height above all other children, he was likely enough to bring a spell
upon their boats, if anything crooked to God's will were done; and even
to draw them to their last stocking, if anything offended the providence
of law.

In any other place it would have been a point of combat what to say and
what to do in such a case as this. But Flamborough was of all the wide
world happiest in possessing an authority to reconcile all doubts. The
law and the Lord--two powers supposed to be at variance always, and to
share the week between them in proportions fixed by lawyers--the
holy and unholy elements of man's brief existence, were combined in
Flamborough parish in the person of its magisterial rector. He was also
believed to excel in the arts of divination and medicine too, for he was
a full Doctor of Divinity. Before this gentleman must be laid, both for
purse and conscience' sake, the case of the child just come out of the
fogs.

And true it was that all these powers were centred in one famous man,
known among the laity as “Parson Upandown.” For the Reverend Turner
Upround, to give him his proper name, was a doctor of divinity, a
justice of the peace, and the present rector of Flamborough. Of all his
offices and powers, there was not one that he overstrained; and all that
knew him, unless they were thorough-going rogues and vagabonds, loved
him. Not that he was such a soft-spoken man as many were, who thought
more evil; but because of his deeds and nature, which were of the
kindest. He did his utmost, on demand of duty, to sacrifice this nature
to his stern position as pastor and master of an up-hill parish, with
many wrong things to be kept under. But while he succeeded in the form
now and then, he failed continually in the substance.

This gentleman was not by any means a fool, unless a kind heart proves
folly. At Cambridge he had done very well, in the early days of the
tripos, and was chosen fellow and tutor of Gonville and Caius College.
But tiring of that dull round in his prime, he married, and took to a
living; and the living was one of the many upon which a perpetual faster
can barely live, unless he can go naked also, and keep naked children.
Now the parsons had not yet discovered the glorious merits of hard
fasting, but freely enjoyed, and with gratitude to God, the powers with
which He had blessed them. Happily Dr. Upround had a solid income of
his own, and (like a sound mathematician) he took a wife of terms
coincident. So, without being wealthy, they lived very well, and helped
their poorer neighbors.

Such a man generally thrives in the thriving of his flock, and does not
harry them. He gives them spiritual food enough to support them without
daintiness, and he keeps the proper distinction between the Sunday and
the poorer days. He clangs no bell of reproach upon a Monday, when the
squire is leading the lady in to dinner, and the laborer sniffing at his
supper pot; and he lets the world play on a Saturday, while he works his
own head to find good ends for the morrow. Because he is a wise man who
knows what other men are, and how seldom they desire to be told the
same thing more than a hundred and four times in a year. Neither did
his clerical skill stop here; for Parson Upround thought twice about it
before he said anything to rub sore consciences, even when he had them
at his mercy, and silent before him, on a Sunday. He behaved like a
gentleman in this matter, where so much temptation lurks, looking always
at the man whom he did not mean to hit, so that the guilty one received
it through him, and felt himself better by comparison. In a word, this
parson did his duty well, and pleasantly for all his flock; and nothing
imbittered him, unless a man pretended to doctrine without holy orders.

For the doctor reasoned thus--and sound it sounds--if divinity is a
matter for Tom, Dick, or Harry, how can there be degrees in it? He held
a degree in it, and felt what it had cost; and not the parish only, but
even his own wife, was proud to have a doctor every Sunday. And his wife
took care that his rich red hood, kerseymere small-clothes, and black
silk stockings upon calves of dignity, were such that his congregation
scorned the surgeons all the way to Beverley.

Happy in a pleasant nature, kindly heart, and tranquil home, he was also
happy in those awards of life in which men are helpless. He was blessed
with a good wife and three good children, doing well, and vigorous and
hardy as the air and clime and cliffs. His wife was not quite of his
own age, but old enough to understand and follow him faithfully down the
slope of years. A wife with mind enough to know that a husband is not
faultless, and with heart enough to feel that if he were, she would not
love him so. And under her were comprised their children--two boys at
school, and a baby-girl at home.

So far, the rector of this parish was truly blessed and blessing. But
in every man's lot must be some crook, since this crooked world turned
round. In Parson Upround's lot the crook might seem a very small one;
but he found it almost too big for him. His dignity and peace of mind,
large good-will of ministry and strong Christian sense of magistracy,
all were sadly pricked and wounded by a very small thorn in the flesh of
his spirit.

Almost every honest man is the rightful owner of a nickname. When he
was a boy at school he could not do without one, and if the other boys
valued him, perhaps he had a dozen. And afterward, when there is less
perception of right and wrong and character, in the weaker time of
manhood, he may earn another, if the spirit is within him.

But woe is him if a nasty foe, or somebody trying to be one, annoyed for
the moment with him, yet meaning no more harm than pepper, smite him to
the quick, at venture, in his most retired and privy-conscienced hole.
And when this is done by a Nonconformist to a Doctor of Divinity, and
the man who does it owes some money to the man he does it to, can the
latter gentleman take a large and genial view of his critics.

This gross wrong and ungrateful outrage was inflicted thus. A leading
Methodist from Filey town, who owed the doctor half a guinea, came one
summer and set up his staff in the hollow of a limekiln, where he lived
upon fish for change of diet, and because he could get it for nothing.
This was a man of some eloquence, and his calling in life was cobbling,
and to encourage him therein, and keep him from theology, the rector
not only forgot his half guinea, but sent him three or four pairs
of riding-boots to mend, and let him charge his own price, which was
strictly heterodox. As a part of the bargain, this fellow came to
church, and behaved as well as could be hoped of a man who had received
his money. He sat by a pillar, and no more than crossed his legs at the
worst thing that disagreed with him. And it might have done him good,
and made a decent cobbler of him, if the parson had only held him when
he got him on the hook. But this is the very thing which all great
preachers are too benevolent to do. Dr. Upround looked at this sinner,
who was getting into a fright upon his own account, though not a bad
preacher when he could afford it; and the cobbler could no more look up
to the doctor than when he charged him a full crown beyond the contract.
In his kindness for all who seemed convinced of sin, the good preacher
halted, and looked at Mr. Jobbins with a soft, relaxing gaze. Jobbins
appeared as if he would come to church forever, and never cheat any
sound clergyman again; whereupon the generous divine omitted a whole
page of menaces prepared for him, and passed prematurely to the tender
strain which always winds up a good sermon.

Now what did Jobbins do in return for all this magnanimous mercy?
Invited to dine with the senior church-warden upon the strength of
having been at church, and to encourage him for another visit, and being
asked, as soon as ever decency permitted, what he thought of Parson
Upround's doctrine, between two crackles of young griskin (come straight
from the rectory pig-sty), he was grieved to express a stern opinion
long remembered at Flamborough:

“Ca' yo yon mon 'Dr. Uproond?' I ca' un 'Dr. Upandoon.'”

From that day forth the rector of the parish was known far and wide as
“Dr. Upandown,” even among those who loved him best. For the name well
described his benevolent practice of undoing any harsh thing he might
have said, sometimes by a smile, and very often with a shilling, or a
basket of spring cabbages. So that Mrs. Upround, when buttoning up his
coat--which he always forgot to do for himself--did it with the words,
“My dear, now scold no one; really it is becoming too expensive.” “Shall
I abandon duty,” he would answer, with some dignity, “while a shilling
is sufficient to enforce it?”

Dr. Upround's people had now found out that their minister and
magistrate discharged his duty toward his pillow, no less than to his
pulpit. His parish had acquired, through the work of generations, a
habit of getting up at night, and being all alive at cock-crow; and the
rector (while very new amongst them) tried to bow--or rather rise--to
night-watch. But a little of that exercise lasted him for long; and he
liked to talk of it afterward, but for the present was obliged to drop
it. For he found himself pale, when his wife made him see himself; and
his hours of shaving were so dreadful; and scarcely a bit of fair dinner
could be got, with the whole of the day thrown out so. In short, he
settled it wisely that the fishers of fish must yield to the habits of
fish, which can not be corrected; but the fishers of men (who can live
without catching them) need not be up to all their hours, but may take
them reasonably.

His parishioners--who could do very well without him, as far as
that goes, all the week, and by no means wanted him among their
boats--joyfully left him to his own time of day, and no more worried
him out of season than he worried them so. It became a matter of right
feeling with them not to ring a big bell, which the rector had put up to
challenge everybody's spiritual need, until the stable clock behind the
bell had struck ten and finished gurgling.

For this reason, on St. Swithin's morn, in the said year 1782, the
grannies, wives, and babes of Flamborough, who had been to help the
launch, but could not pull the laboring oar, nor even hold the tiller,
spent the time till ten o'clock in seeing to their own affairs--the
most laudable of all pursuits for almost any woman. And then, with some
little dispute among them (the offspring of the merest accident), they
arrived in some force at the gate of Dr. Upround, and no woman liked to
pull the bell, and still less to let another woman do it for her. But an
old man came up who was quite deaf, and every one asked him to do it.

In spite of the scarcity of all good things, Mrs. Cockscroft had
thoroughly fed the little stranger, and washed him, and undressed him,
and set him up in her own bed, and wrapped him in her woollen shawl,
because he shivered sadly; and there he stared about with wondering
eyes, and gave great orders--so far as his new nurse could make out--but
speaking gibberish, as she said, and flying into a rage because it was
out of Christian knowledge. But he seemed to understand some English,
although he could only pronounce two words, both short, and in such
conjunction quite unlawful for any except the highest Spiritual Power.
Mrs. Cockscroft, being a pious woman, hoped that her ears were wrong,
or else that the words were foreign and meant no harm, though the
child seemed to take in much of what was said, and when asked his name,
answered, wrathfully, and as if everybody was bound to know, “Izunsabe!
Izunsabe!”

But now, when brought before Dr. Upround, no child of the very best
English stock could look more calm and peaceful. He could walk well
enough, but liked better to be carried; and the kind woman who had so
taken him up was only too proud to carry him. Whatever the rector and
magistrate might say, her meaning was to keep this little one, with her
husband's good consent, which she was sure of getting.

“Set him down, ma'am,” the doctor said, when he had heard from half a
dozen good women all about him; “Mistress Cockscroft, put him on his
legs, and let me question him.”

But the child resisted this proceeding. With nature's inborn and just
loathing of examination, he spun upon his little heels, and swore with
all his might, at the same time throwing up his hands and twirling his
thumbs in a very odd and foreign way.

“What a shocking child!” cried Mrs. Upround, who was come to know all
about it. “Jane, run away with Miss Janetta.”

“The child is not to blame,” said the rector, “but only the people who
have brought him up. A prettier or more clever little head I have never
seen in all my life; and we studied such things at Cambridge. My fine
little fellow, shake hands with me.”

The boy broke off his vicious little dance, and looked up at this tall
gentleman with great surprise. His dark eyes dwelt upon the parson's
kindly face, with that power of inquiry which the very young possess,
and then he put both little hands into the gentleman's, and burst into a
torrent of the most heart-broken tears.

“Poor little man!” said the rector, very gently, taking him up in his
arms and patting the silky black curls, while great drops fell, and
a nose was rubbed on his shoulder; “it is early for you to begin bad
times. Why, how old are you, if you please?”

The little boy sat up on the kind man's arm, and poked a small
investigating finger into the ear that was next to him, and the locks
just beginning to be marked with gray; and then he said, “Sore,” and
tossed his chin up, evidently meaning, “Make your best of that.” And the
women drew a long breath, and nudged at one another.

“Well done! Four years old, my dear. You see that he understands English
well enough,” said the parson to his parishioners: “he will tell us all
about himself by-and-by, if we do not hurry him. You think him a French
child. I do not, though the name which he gives himself, 'Izunsabe,'
has a French aspect about it. Let me think. I will try him with a French
interrogation: 'Parlez-vous Francais, mon enfan?'”

Dr. Upround watched the effect of his words with outward calm, but an
inward flutter. For if this clever child should reply in French, the
doctor could never go on with it, but must stand there before his
congregation in a worse position than when he lost his place, as
sometimes happened, in a sermon. With wild temerity he had given vent to
the only French words within his knowledge; and he determined to follow
them up with Latin if the worst came to the worst.

But luckily no harm came of this, but, contrariwise, a lasting good.
For the child looked none the wiser, while the doctor's influence was
increased.

“Aha!” the good parson cried. “I was sure that he was no Frenchman.
But we must hear something about him very soon, for what you tell me is
impossible. If he had come from the sea, he must have been wet; it could
never be otherwise. Whereas, his linen clothes are dry, and even quite
lately fullered--ironed you might call it.”

“Please your worship,” cried Mrs. Cockscroft, who was growing wild with
jealousy, “I did up all his little things, hours and hours ere your
hoose was up.”

“Ah, you had night-work! To be sure! Were his clothes dry or wet when
you took them off?”

“Not to say dry, your worship; and yet not to say very wet. Betwixt and
between, like my good master's, when he cometh from a pour of rain, or a
heavy spray. And the color of the land was upon them here and there.
And the gold tags were sewn with something wonderful. My best pair of
scissors would not touch it. I was frightened to put them to the tub,
your worship; but they up and shone lovely like a tailor's buttons. My
master hath found him, Sir; and it lies with him to keep him. And the
Lord hath taken away our Bob.”

“It is true,” said Dr. Upround, gently, and placing the child in her
arms again, “the Almighty has chastened you very sadly. This child is
not mine to dispose of, nor yours; but if he will comfort you, keep him
till we hear of him. I will take down in writing the particulars of the
case, when Captain Robin has come home and had his rest--say, at this
time to-morrow, or later; and then you will sign them, and they shall be
published. For you know, Mrs. Cockscroft, however much you may be taken
with him, you must not turn kidnapper. Moreover, it is needful, as there
may have been some wreck (though none of you seem to have heard of any),
that this strange occurrence should be made known. Then, if nothing is
heard of it, you can keep him, and may the Lord bless him to you!”

Without any more ado, she kissed the child, and wanted to carry him
straight away, after courtesying to his worship; but all the other women
insisted on a smack of him, for pity's sake, and the pleasure of the
gold, and to confirm the settlement. And a settlement it was, for
nothing came of any publication of the case, such as in those days could
be made without great expense and exertion.

So the boy grew up, tall, brave, and comely, and full of the spirit of
adventure, as behooved a boy cast on the winds. So far as that goes, his
foster-parents would rather have found him more steady and less comely,
for if he was to step into their lost son's shoes, he might do it
without seeming to outshine him. But they got over that little jealousy
in time, when the boy began to be useful, and, so far as was possible,
they kept him under by quoting against him the character of Bob,
bringing it back from heaven of a much higher quality than ever it was
upon the earth. In vain did this living child aspire to such level; how
can an earthly boy compare with one who never did a wrong thing, as soon
as he was dead?

Passing that difficult question, and forbearing to compare a boy with
angels, be he what he will, his first need (after that of victuals) is a
name whereby his fellow-boys may know him. Is he to be shouted at with,
“Come here, what's your name?” or is he to be called (as if in high
rebuke), “Boy?” And yet there are grown-up folk who do all this without
hesitation, failing to remember their own predicament at a by-gone
period. Boys are as useful, in their way, as any other order; and if
they can be said to do some mischief, they can not be said to do it
negligently. It is their privilege and duty to be truly active; and
their Maker, having spread a dull world before them, has provided them
with gifts of play while their joints are supple.

The present boy, having been born without a father or a mother (so far
as could yet be discovered), was driven to do what our ancestors must
have done when it was less needful. That is to say, to work his own name
out by some distinctive process. When the parson had clearly shown him
not to be a Frenchman, a large contumely spread itself about, by reason
of his gold, and eyes, and hair, and name (which might be meant for
Isaak), that he was sprung from a race more honored now than a hundred
years ago. But the women declared that it could not be; and the rector
desiring to christen him, because it might never have been done before,
refused point-blank to put any “Isaac” in, and was satisfied with
“Robin” only, the name of the man who had saved him.

The rector showed deep knowledge of his flock, which looked upon Jews
as the goats of the Kingdom; for any Jew must die for a world of
generations ere ever a Christian thinks much of him. But finding him not
to be a Jew, the other boys, instead of being satisfied, condemned him
for a Dutchman.

Whatever he was, the boy throve well, and being so flouted by his
playmates, took to thoughts and habits and amusements of his own.
In-door life never suited him at all, nor too much of hard learning,
although his capacity was such that he took more advancement in an hour
than the thick heads of young Flamborough made in a whole leap-year of
Sundays. For any Flamburian boy was considered a “Brain Scholar,” and a
“Head-Languager,” when he could write down the parson's text, and chalk
up a fish on the weigh-board so that his father or mother could tell in
three guesses what manner of fish it was. And very few indeed had ever
passed this trial.

For young Robin it was a very hard thing to be treated so by the other
boys. He could run, or jump, or throw a stone, or climb a rock with the
best of them; but all these things he must do by himself, simply because
he had no name. A feeble youth would have moped, but Robin only grew
more resolute. Alone he did what the other boys would scarcely in
competition dare. No crag was too steep for him, no cave too dangerous
and wave-beaten, no race of the tide so strong and swirling as to scare
him of his wits. He seemed to rejoice in danger, having very little else
to rejoice in; and he won for himself by nimble ways and rapid turns on
land and sea, the name of “Lithe,” or “Lyth,” and made it famous even
far inland.

For it may be supposed that his love of excitement, versatility,
and daring demanded a livelier outlet than the slow toil of deep-sea
fishing. To the most patient, persevering, and long-suffering of the
arts, Robin Lyth did not take kindly, although he was so handy with a
boat. Old Robin vainly strove to cast his angling mantle over him. The
gifts of the youth were brighter and higher; he showed an inborn fitness
for the lofty development of free trade. Eminent powers must force their
way, as now they were doing with Napoleon; and they did the same with
Robin Lyth, without exacting tithe in kind of all the foremost human
race.



CHAPTER XII

IN A LANE, NOT ALONE


Stephen Anerley's daughter was by no means of a crooked mind, but open
as the day in all things, unless any one mistrusted her, and showed it
by cross-questioning. When this was done, she resented it quickly by
concealing the very things which she would have told of her own accord;
and it so happened that the person to whom of all she should have been
most open, was the one most apt to check her by suspicious curiosity.
And now her mother already began to do this, as concerned the smuggler,
knowing from the revenue officer that Mary must have seen him. Mary,
being a truthful damsel, told no lies about it; but, on the other hand,
she did not rush forth with all the history, as she probably would have
done if left unexamined. And so she said nothing about the ear-ring, or
the run that was to come off that week, or the riding-skirt, or a host
of little things, including her promise to visit Bempton Lane.

On the other hand, she had a mind to tell her father, and take his
opinion about it all. But he was a little cross that evening, not with
her, but with the world at large; and that discouraged her; and then she
thought that being an officer of the king--as he liked to call himself
sometimes--he might feel bound to give information about the impending
process of free trade; which to her would be a breach of honor,
considering how she knew of it.

Upon the whole, she heartily wished that she never had seen that Robin
Lyth; and then she became ashamed of herself for indulging such a
selfish wish. For he might have been lying dead but for her; and then
what would become of the many poor people whose greatest comfort he was
said to be? And what good could arise from his destruction, if cruel
people compassed it? Free trade must be carried on, for the sake of
everybody, including Captain Carroway himself; and if an old and ugly
man succeeded a young and generous one as leader of the free-trade
movement, all the women in the country would put the blame on her.

Looking at these things loftily, and with a strong determination not
to think twice of what any one might say who did not understand the
subject, Mary was forced at last to the stern conclusion that she must
keep her promise. Not only because it was a promise--although that went
a very long way with her--but also because there seemed no other chance
of performing a positive duty. Simple honesty demanded that she should
restore to the owner a valuable, and beyond all doubt important, piece
of property. Two hours had she spent in looking for it, and deprived
her dear father of his breakfast shrimps; and was all this trouble to be
thrown away, and herself, perhaps, accused of theft, because her mother
was so short and sharp in wanting to know everything, and to turn it her
own way?

The trinket, which she had found at last, seemed to be a very uncommon
and precious piece of jewelry; it was made of pure gold, minutely chased
and threaded with curious workmanship, in form like a melon, and bearing
what seemed to be characters of some foreign language: there might be
a spell, or even witchcraft, in it, and the sooner it was out of her
keeping the better. Nevertheless she took very good care of it, wrapping
it in lamb's-wool, and peeping at it many times a day, to be sure that
it was safe, until it made her think of the owner so much, and the many
wonders she had heard about him, that she grew quite angry with herself
and it, and locked it away, and then looked at it again.

As luck would have it, on the very day when Mary was to stroll down
Bempton Lane (not to meet any one, of course, but simply for the merest
chance of what might happen), her father had business at Driffield corn
market, which would keep him from home nearly all the day. When his
daughter heard of it she was much cast down; for she hoped that he
might have been looking about on the northern part of the farm, as he
generally was in the afternoon; and although he could not see Bempton
Lane at all, perhaps, without some newly acquired power of seeing round
sharp corners, still it would have been a comfort and a strong resource
for conscience to have felt that he was not so very far away. And this
feeling of want made his daughter resolve to have some one at any
rate near her. If Jack had only been at home, she need have sought no
further, for he would have entered into all her thoughts about it, and
obeyed her orders beautifully. But Willie was quite different, and hated
any trouble, being spoiled so by his mother and the maidens all around
them.

However, in such a strait, what was there to do but to trust in Willie,
who was old enough, being five years in front of Mary, and then to try
to make him sensible? Willie Anerley had no idea that anybody--far less
his own sister--could take such a view of him. He knew himself to be,
and all would say the same of him, superior in his original gifts,
and his manner of making use of them, to the rest of the family put
together. He had spent a month in Glasgow, when the whole place was
astir with the ferment of many great inventions, and another month in
Edinburgh, when that noble city was aglow with the dawn of large ideas;
also, he had visited London, foremost of his family, and seen enough new
things there to fill all Yorkshire with surprise; and the result of such
wide experience was that he did not like hard work at all. Neither could
he even be content to accept and enjoy, without labor of his own, the
many good things provided for him. He was always trying to discover
something which never seemed to answer, and continually flying after
something new, of which he never got fast hold. In a word, he was
spoiled, by nature first, and then by circumstances, for the peaceful
life of his ancestors, and the unacknowledged blessings of a farmer.

“Willie dear, will you come with me?” Mary said to him that day,
catching him as he ran down stairs to air some inspiration. “Will you
come with me for just one hour? I wish you would; and I would be so
thankful.”

“Child, it is quite impossible,” he answered, with a frown which set off
his delicate eyebrows and high but rather narrow forehead; “you always
want me at the very moment when I have the most important work in hand.
Any childish whim of yours matters more than hours and hours of hard
labor.”

“Oh, Willie, but you know how I try to help you, and all the patterns
I cut out last week! Do come for once, Willie; if you refuse, you will
never, never forgive yourself.”

Willie Anerley was as good-natured as any self-indulged youth can be; he
loved his sister in his way, and was indebted to her for getting out of
a great many little scrapes. He saw how much she was in earnest now, and
felt some desire to know what it was about. Moreover--which settled
the point--he was getting tired of sticking to one thing for a time
unusually long with him. But he would not throw away the chance of
scoring a huge debt of gratitude.

“Well, do what you like with me,” he answered, with a smile; “I never
can have my own way five minutes. It serves me quite right for being so
good-natured.”

Mary gave him a kiss, which must have been an object of ambition to
anybody else; but it only made him wipe his mouth; and presently the two
set forth upon the path toward Bempton.

Robin Lyth had chosen well his place for meeting Mary. The lane (of
which he knew every yard as well as he knew the rocks themselves)
was deep and winding, and fringed with bushes, so that an active and
keen-eyed man might leap into thicket almost before there was a fair
chance of shooting him. He knew well enough that he might trust Mary;
but he never could be sure that the bold “coast-riders,” despairing by
this time of catching him at sea, and longing for the weight of gold
put upon his head, might not be setting privy snares to catch him in his
walks abroad. They had done so when they pursued him up the Dike; and
though he was inclined to doubt the strict legality of that proceeding,
he could not see his way to a fair discussion of it, in case of their
putting a bullet through him. And this consideration made him careful.

The brother and sister went on well by the foot-path over the uplands of
the farm, and crossing the neck of the Flamburn peninsula, tripped away
merrily northward. The wheat looked healthy, and the barley also, and a
four-acre patch of potatoes smelled sweetly (for the breeze of them was
pleasant in their wholesome days), and Willie, having overworked his
brain, according to his own account of it, strode along loftily before
his sister, casting over his shoulder an eddy of some large ideas with
which he had been visited before she interrupted him. But as nothing
ever came of them, they need not here be stated. From a practical point
of view, however, as they both had to live upon the profits of the farm,
it pleased them to observe what a difference there was when they had
surmounted the chine and began to descend toward the north upon other
people's land. Here all was damp and cold and slow; and chalk looked
slimy instead of being clean; and shadowy places had an oozy cast; and
trees (wherever they could stand) were facing the east with wrinkled
visage, and the west with wiry beards. Willie (who had, among other
great inventions, a scheme for improvement of the climate) was reminded
at once of all the things he meant to do in that way; and making, as he
always did, a great point of getting observations first--a point whereon
he stuck fast mainly--without any time for delay he applied himself to a
rapid study of the subject. He found some things just like other things
which he had seen in Scotland, yet differing so as to prove, more
clearly than even their resemblance did, the value of his discovery.

“Look!” he cried; “can anything be clearer? The cause of all these evils
is not (as an ignorant person might suppose) the want of sunshine, or
too much wet, but an inadequate movement of the air--”

“Why, I thought it was always blowing up here. The very last time I
came, my bonnet strings were split.”

“You do not understand me; you never do. When I say inadequate, I mean,
of course, incorrect, inaccurate, unequable. Now the air is a fluid; you
may stare as you like, Mary, but the air has been proved to be a
fluid. Very well; no fluid in large bodies moves with an equal velocity
throughout. Part of it is rapid and part quite stagnant. The stagnant
places of the air produce this green scum, this mossy, unwholesome, and
injurious stuff; while the overrapid motion causes this iron appearance,
this hard surface, and general sterility. By the simplest of simple
contrivances, I make this evil its own remedy. An equable impulse given
to the air produces an adequate uniform flow, preventing stagnation in
one place, and excessive vehemence in another. And the beauty of it is
that by my new invention I make the air itself correct and regulate its
own inequalities.”

“How clever you are, to be sure!” exclaimed Mary, wondering that her
father could not see it. “Oh, Willie, you will make your fortune by it!
However do you do it?”

“The simplicity of it is such that even you can understand it. All
great discoveries are simple. I fix in a prominent situation a large
and vertically revolving fan, of a light and vibrating substance. The
movement of the air causes this to rotate by the mere force of the
impact. The rotation and the vibration of the fan convert an irregular
impulse into a steady and equable undulation; and such is the elasticity
of the fluid called, in popular language, 'the air,' that for miles
around the rotation of this fan regulates the circulation, modifies
extremes, annihilates sterility, and makes it quite impossible for moss
and green scum and all this sour growth to live. Even you can see, Mary,
how beautiful it is.”

“Yes, that I can,” she answered, simply, as they turned the corner upon
a large windmill, with arms revolving merrily; “but, Willie dear, would
not Farmer Topping's mill, perpetually going as it is, answer the same
purpose? And yet the moss seems to be as thick as ever here, and the
ground as naked.”

“Tush!” cried Willie. “Stuff and nonsense! When will you girls
understand? Good-by! I will throw away no more time on you.”

Without stopping to finish his sentence he was off and out of sight
both of the mill and Mary, before the poor girl, who had not the least
intention of offending him, could even beg his pardon, or say how much
she wanted him; for she had not dared as yet to tell him what was the
purpose of her walk, his nature being such that no one, not even his own
mother, could tell what conclusion he might come to upon any practical
question. He might rush off at once to put the revenue men on the
smuggler's track, or he might stop his sister from going, or he might
(in the absence of his father) order a feast to be prepared, and fetch
the outlaw to be his guest. So Mary had resolved not to tell him until
the last moment, when he could do none of these things.

But now she must either go on all alone, or give up her purpose and
break her promise. After some hesitation she determined to go on, for
the place would scarcely seem so very lonely now with the windmill
in view, which would always remind her henceforth of her dear brother
William. It was perfectly certain that Captain Robert Lyth, whose fame
for chivalry was everywhere, and whose character was all in all to him
with the ladies who bought his silks and lace, would see her through all
danger caused by confidence in him; and really it was too bad of her
to admit any paltry misgivings. But reason as she might, her young
conscience told her that this was not the proper thing to do, and she
made up her mind not to do it again. Then she laughed at the notion of
being ever even asked, and told herself that she was too conceited; and
to cut the matter short, went very bravely down the hill.

The lane, which came winding from the beach up to the windmill, was as
pretty a lane as may anywhere be found in any other county than that of
Devon. With a Devonshire lane it could not presume to vie, having little
of the glorious garniture of fern, and nothing of the crystal brook that
leaps at every corner; no arches of tall ash, keyed with dog-rose, and
not much of honeysuckle, and a sight of other wants which people feel
who have lived in the plenitude of everything. But in spite of all that,
the lane was very fine for Yorkshire.

On the other hand, Mary had prettier ankles, and a more graceful and
lighter walk, than the Devonshire lanes, which like to echo something,
for the most part seem accustomed to; and the short dress of the time
made good such favorable facts when found. Nor was this all that could
be said, for the maiden (while her mother was so busy pickling cabbage,
from which she drove all intruders) had managed to forget what the day
of the week was, and had opened the drawer that should be locked
up until Sunday. To walk with such a handsome tall fellow as Willie
compelled her to look like something too, and without any thought of it
she put her best hat on, and a very pretty thing with some French name,
and made of a delicate peach-colored silk, which came down over her
bosom, and tied in the neatest of knots at the small of her back, which
at that time of life was very small. All these were the gifts of her
dear uncle Popplewell, upon the other side of Filey, who might have been
married for forty years, but nobody knew how long it was, because he had
no children, and so he made Mary his darling. And this ancient gentleman
had leanings toward free trade.

Whether these goods were French or not--which no decent person could
think of asking--no French damsel could have put them on better, or
shown a more pleasing appearance in them; for Mary's desire was to
please all people who meant no harm to her--as nobody could--and yet
to let them know that her object was only to do what was right, and to
never think of asking whether she looked this, that, or the other. Her
mother, as a matter of duty, told her how plain she was almost every
day; but the girl was not of that opinion; and when Mrs. Anerley
finished her lecture (as she did nine times in ten) by turning the glass
to the wall, and declaring that beauty was a snare skin-deep, with a
frown of warning instead of a smile of comfort, then Mary believed in
her looking-glass again, and had the smile of comfort on her own face.

However, she never thought of that just now, but only of how she could
do her duty, and have no trouble in her own mind with thinking, and
satisfy her father when she told him all, as she meant to do, when there
could be no harm done to any one; and this, as she heartily hoped, would
be to-morrow. And truly, if there did exist any vanity at all, it was
not confined to the sex in which it is so much more natural and comely.

For when a very active figure came to light suddenly, at a little elbow
of the lane, and with quick steps advanced toward Mary, she was lost
in surprise at the gayety, not to say grandeur, of its apparel. A
broad hat, looped at the side, and having a pointed black crown, with a
scarlet feather and a dove-colored brim, sat well upon the mass of crisp
black curls. A short blue jacket of the finest Flemish cloth, and set
(not too thickly) with embossed silver buttons, left properly open the
strong brown neck, while a shirt of pale blue silk, with a turned-down
collar of fine needle-work, fitted, without a wrinkle or a pucker, the
broad and amply rounded chest. Then a belt of brown leather, with an
anchor clasp, and empty loops for either fire-arm or steel, supported
true sailor's trousers of the purest white and the noblest man-of-war
cut; and where these widened at the instep shone a lovely pair of pumps,
with buckles radiant of best Bristol diamonds. The wearer of all these
splendors smiled, and seemed to become them as they became him.

“Well,” thought Mary, “how free trade must pay! What a pity that he is
not in the Royal Navy!”

With his usual quickness, and the self-esteem which added such lustre to
his character, the smuggler perceived what was passing in her mind, but
he was not rude enough to say so.

“Young lady,” he began--and Mary, with all her wisdom, could not help
being fond of that--“young lady, I was quite sure that you would keep
your word.”

“I never do anything else,” she answered, showing that she scarcely
looked at him. “I have found this for you, and then good-by.”

“Surely you will wait to hear my thanks, and to know what made me dare
to ask you, after all you had done for me already, to begin again for
me. But I am such an outcast that I never should have done it.”

“I never saw any one look more thoroughly unlike an outcast,” Mary said;
and then she was angry with herself for speaking, and glancing, and,
worst of all, for smiling,

“Ladies who live on land can never understand what we go through,” Robin
replied, in his softest voice, as rich as the murmur of the summer sea.
“When we expect great honors, we try to look a little tidy, as any one
but a common boor would do; and we laugh at ourselves for trying to look
well, after all the knocking about we get. Our time is short--we must
make the most of it.”

“Oh, please not to talk in such a dreadful way,” said Mary.

“You remind me of my dear friend Dr. Upround--the very best man in the
whole world, I believe. He always says to me, 'Robin, Robin--'”

“What! is Dr. Upandown a friend of yours?” Mary exclaimed, in amazement,
and with a stoppage of the foot that was poised for quick departure.

“Dr. Upandown, as many people call him,” said the smuggler, with a tone
of condemnation, “is the best and dearest friend I have, next to Captain
and Mistress Cockscroft, who may have been heard of at Anerley Manor.
Dr. Upround is our magistrate and clergyman, and he lets people say what
they like against me, while he honors me with his friendship. I must not
stay long to thank you even, because I am going to the dear old doctor's
for supper at seven o'clock and a game of chess.”

“Oh dear! oh dear! And he is such a Justice! And yet they shot at you
last week! It makes me wonder when I hear such things.”

“Young lady, it makes everybody wonder. In my opinion there never could
be a more shameful murder than to shoot me; and yet but for you it would
surely have been done.”

“You must not dwell upon such things,” said Mary; “they may have a very
bad effect upon your mind. But good-by, Captain Lyth; I forgot that I
was robbing Dr. Upround of your society.”

“Shall I be so ungrateful as not to see you safe upon your own land
after all your trouble? My road to Flamborough lies that way. Surely you
will not refuse to hear what made me so anxious about this bauble,
which now will be worth ten times as much. I never saw it look so bright
before.”

“It--it must be the sand has made it shine,” the maiden stammered, with
a fine bright blush; “it does the same to my shrimping net.”

“Ah, shrimping is a very fine pursuit! There is nothing I love better;
what pools I could show you, if I only might; pools where you may fill
a sack with large prawns in a single tide--pools known to nobody but
myself. When do you think of going shrimping next?”

“Perhaps next summer I may try again, if Captain Carroway will come with
me.”

“That is too unkind of you. How very harsh you are to me! I could hardly
have believed it after all that you have done. And you really do not
care to hear the story of this relic?”

“If I could stop, I should like it very much. But my brother, who came
with me, may perhaps be waiting for me.” Mary knew that this was not
very likely; still, it was just possible, for Willie's ill tempers
seldom lasted very long; and she wanted to let the smuggler know that
she had not come all alone to meet him.

“I shall not be two minutes,” Robin Lyth replied; “I have been forced to
learn short talking. May I tell you about this trinket?”

“Yes, if you will only begin at once, and finish by the time we get to
that corner.”

“That is very short measure for a tale,” said Robin, though he liked
her all the better for such qualities; “however, I will try; only walk
a little slower. Nobody knows where I was born, any more than they know
how or why. Only when I came upon this coast as a very little boy, and
without knowing anything about it, they say that I had very wonderful
buttons of gold upon a linen dress, adorned with gold-lace, which I used
to wear on Sundays. Dr. Upround ordered them to keep those buttons, and
was to have had them in his own care; but before that, all of them were
lost save two. My parents, as I call them from their wonderful goodness,
kinder than the ones who have turned me on the world (unless themselves
went out of it), resolved to have my white coat done up grandly, when
I grew too big for it, and to lay it by in lavender; and knowing of a
great man in the gold-lace trade, as far away as Scarborough, they sent
it by a fishing-smack to him, with people whom they knew thoroughly.
That was the last of it ever known here. The man swore a manifest that
he never saw it, and threatened them with libel; and the smack was
condemned, and all her

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/6824