Collected works of j s f.., p.36
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 36
As for enemies, we had none save the Watsons of Castle Hill, who were yeomen like ourselves, and had been on the land and in deadly feud with the Dales for many a century. Never did a Dale speak to a Watson unless provoked thereto by anger or wrong done, and then the word was as oft as not accompanied by a blow. And the cause of dispute was this — between our land and that of the Watsons lay a broad strip of moorland, over which each family claimed a right, to the exclusion of the other. When, as often happened for years, neither house strove to take possession of the debateable piece of ground, matters were quiet between them, but when one drove thereon a herd of cattle or flock of sheep, then arose a conflict and hot argument, and heads were broken. So it had continued to be for many a generation, and so it was when I came into the world, so that people made the matter a proverb, and spoke of far removed things as being as widely separated as a Dale and a Watson. But out of that ancient feud and the ill blood and evil passions it engendered much misery was to result, as I shall show ere this story be brought to an end.
CHAPTER III.
OF MY FIRST MEETING WITH ROSE LISLE.
UPON a certain fine afternoon in the early spring of 1631, dinner being well over, and my father smoking his pipe in the chimney corner, while my mother was busied elsewhere on some matter of domestic importance, I went out into the fold, and there came across Jacob Trusty, our cowherd, who was just then feeding twelve fat beasts intended for an approaching cattle-fair at Wakefield. And having nought to do I approached Jacob with a view of hearing him talk. Many an hour, indeed, had I spent with Jacob Trusty in and about the farmstead, listening to his stories of bygone days, of which he carried a various collection in his mind, side by side with much legendary lore concerning ghosts, fairies, and hobgoblins. My mother, to be sure, said that Jacob was never so content as when talking to me, which perhaps was a natural thing, seeing that he had nursed me on his knee almost as soon as I was born, and had always manifested a great interest in my doings. Nevertheless, to most other people Jacob Trusty was as cross-grained and surly as man well can be, and was hardly ever known to give a civil answer to any that made inquiry of him. He was even accustomed to give advice to my father, and to comment upon what things were done on the farm; and this, my father said, must be excused in Jacob, because he had been, man and boy, at Dale’s Field for a matter of fifty-three years, and had fed the cattle in our fold under three Dales. A tall, powerfully fashioned man was Jacob Trusty, with a great stoop in his broad shoulders, and a somewhat large nose which stood out of his face between the roundest and reddest cheeks that ever man had. As for his attire, it was always the same: a long smock that reached below his knee, and a round cap which was secured to his head by a woollen scarf that came over his ears, and was tied beneath his chin. From underneath his smock peeped Jacobs grey stockings, terminating in large boots of undressed leather, the soles of which were of such prodigious thickness as to make me wonder. When Jacob’s duties took him to market at Pontefract or Wakefield, he added no more to his accustomed garb than a scarlet neckcloth which he had once bought of a mercer in York. With this round his neck, and his thick ash cudgel in his hand, Jacob considered himself fit for the best company in the land.
Upon this particular afternoon, Jacob Trusty, when I drew near, was engaged in throwing a cart-load of turnips into the shed wherein his twelve fat cattle were then chained. Seeing me approach, he left off his work, and leaned both hands on the head of his four-pronged fork, looking waggishly at me across the turnip-heap.
“Well, Master William,” said Jacob Trusty.
“Well, Jacob,” said I.
“Hast had a good dinner, William?” inquired Jacob.
“Very good, Jacob,” I answered.
“That’s well, William. For if there be one thing to thank the Lord heartily for, ’tis a good appetite. Beef, lad, and beer; sound, home-brewed beer, is what a Dale wants, for the Dales are always big, great-boned men, and need support. Thy grandfather now — ah, what a man was that!”
“What! bigger than father, Jacob?”
“Od, man, ay, by two inches all ways.
Natheless, thy father will do — only thou wilt be a bigger man than he is by an inch. At least, if thou dost thy duty with cup and trencher. Ah, as for good ale, well, there was never ale like ours at Dale’s Field. I have been through the Riding, and should know.”
Jacob wiped his mouth with his hand, and stuck one prong of his fork into a turnip that betrayed an intention to roll down the hill. On beholding Jacob’s hand pass across his mouth, I knew what he wanted.
“Shall I fetch you a pot of ale, Jacob?” said I.
“Why,” said Jacob, meditatively, “a quart had I at dinner-time, and yet I do feel drouthy.”
Whereupon I went to the pantry, where my mother was counting out a sitting of eggs for the speckled hen to hatch, and begged a pot of ale for Jacob Trusty, the which I got with very little trouble, Jacob being an old and valued servant, and deserving of little comforts now that he was getting into years. “Ah,” said Jacob, leaning against the tail of his cart, and removing the pewter from his mouth. “That does me a power o’ good, William. What a pity ’tis that the Lord in His mercy didn’t make all the rivers run good ale! What beautiful drinking there would ha’ been then.”
“But you couldn’t make ale without water, Jacob; and then, if the rivers ran ale, what would the cattle do?”
“Ah, what, indeed!” answered Jacob. “Poor ignorant creatures! Mind thee, William, lad, as thou goest through the world thou wilt see this difference ‘twixt Christians and heathen men, namely, that the Christian man drinketh his ale like a man should, while your heathen cannot away with it! What did not Will Stripe, that went to the wars from Badsworth village, and did travel almost to the world’s end, come back and tell us in the alehouse there, that he had been in lands where there was no ale to be had? Wherefore, be thankful, lad, that thou art a Yorkshireman. As for me, I have lived on good ale, and true-fed beef, and wheaten bread, and am now sixty-and-eight years old, come Martinmas, and a strong man.”
Whereupon he tossed off his pot, and, putting it down, turned to the turnips, and began to fling them into the shed with such energy that the air was dark with them, and the twelve fat oxen tugged at their chains in fear.
“An I were thee, Master William,” suddenly said Jacob Trusty, looking up from his task, and leaning his double-chin meditatively upon the cross-bar of his fork— “an I were thee, I should go a bird’s-nesting this fine afternoon.”
“Bird’s-nesting, Jacob! Why, there aren’t any yet, are there? Isn’t it too early?”
“Hist, lad! Dost know the old sheepfold in Went Vale yonder? I saw a storm-cock’s nest in the elm above it a week since. There will be eggs in that, I doubt not. Mind—”
But I was gone. I had not been a bird’s-nesting that year, for it was but the second or third week in March, and with us the birds do not generally nest before April, saving the storm-cock, or missel-thrush, as some call it, which builds in March, so that when Jacob spoke of the matter I was fresh and eager, and crossed the fold and was over the wall and running across the home meadows ere he could tell me to mind not to break my neck, with which counsel all his information usually ended.
It was a beautiful day, one of those perfect days which come in spring, and make us thank God for very joy of life. As I ran across the meadows that lie between Dale’s Field and the head of Went Vale, I noticed that the grass wore a brighter green, that the hedgerows were beginning to bud, that the ash and elm were already starting into new life, and that everything was foretelling the new arrival of what Master Herrick the poet calls “the sweet o’ the year,” Yea, as I ran alongside a great hedge seeking some convenient gap or opening, I became aware of the odour of violets, which is, I think, the most beautiful scent that ever delighted a man’s nostrils. And eager as I was to get forward to the old sheepfold, I could not but stop on smelling the violets, and gather a few. Only a country-bred lad, indeed, could find them so quickly as I did, for mark you, the violets are a modest and retiring people, and love to hide themselves from the common eye. So you must turn up the glossy broad leaves which cover their retreat, and push aside the brambles under whose protection they love to grow, and then you will find them, heavenly blue and fragrant, nestling under the hedges like tender children that dread the rough world. And not only violets did I find that afternoon, but also early primroses, whose pale yellow faces met me as soon as I entered the wood. And at seeing them I laughed aloud for joy, for it is a saying with us that spring is fairly come when primroses flower. And, laughing and singing, I went through the woods that stretch along the right bank of Went, making a posy of violets and primroses, and thinking how pleased my mother would be when I took them to her, and how she would put them in ajar of fresh water, and place them in the window-sill of her own chamber. For we country folk, though some might not think it of us, are fond of the flowers and blossoms that are all about our homes, and do make as much of our first primrose or violet as a town-bred fine dame will of a rare jewel.
With the blue sky peeping at me through the trees, and the crying of new-born lambs (true and blessed sign that spring is come again) in my ears, I went along the woods. I passed above the mill at Wentbridge, where the stream was pouring through the wheel-house like a cataract, and turned by a steep path towards the old sheepfold, which was a rough place of four walls and a thatched roof, where we had kept sheep at such times as they were out at pasture in the valley just beneath. There was a clearing all round the sheepfold, and this was hedged in from the wood by a straggling belt of trees, amongst which the most prominent was a great elm that had once been struck by lightning, and had since only blossomed in a few of its boughs. And it was in the thick of these, where the fresh green shoots were just beginning to bud, that I espied the storm-cock’s nest of which Jacob Trusty had told me.
Now, I had never yet been daunted in the matter of climbing tree or tower, and as for fear, I knew not what it was, nevertheless I paused and meditated before climbing the elm that afternoon. For the storm-cock, wise beyond his station, had fixed his house where the boughs were not strong enough to bear me or any boy capable of climbing. Nevertheless, I was not to be easily worsted, and spying a bough underneath the nest from which it seemed probable that I should be able to reach over, I took off cap and coat and began to climb up the rough trunk of the elm. This part of the business was easy enough, for a quantity of ivy grew round that elm, and the twisted strands made good purchase. Likewise, it was easy enough, when, having done with the ivy, I clambered out along the bough towards the spot where the nest hung swaying in the twigs above. But being arrived there I came to a standstill, for the nest was a good foot above the full stretch of my arm, and therefore out of my reach. This disconcerted me for a time, but I had made up my mind to carry home an egg in triumph, and therefore cast about for fresh means. And nothing seeming better than to lay hold of an overhanging bough, and swing myself up to the level of the nest, I seized upon one that hung conveniently, and proceeded to climb it hand over hand, my body meanwhile swinging in mid-air, in what my mother, had she been there, would have considered a dangerous fashion. And dangerous indeed it proved to be, for I had no sooner got to the level of the nest and peeped over and seen four eggs lying therein, than my right hand slipped, and I went tumbling through branch and bough with a great noise, and came to earth with such a prodigious bump that my eyes flashed fire, and my senses went clean away from me.
It was perhaps due to the thickness of my skull and the strength of my neck and shoulders that I was preserved from broken bones, for in falling I had turned clean over, and so pitched right upon my crown, just as a cat will always fall upon her feet. However, my head is a thick and somewhat wooden one, and after a time I sat up, and by dint of hard rubbing brought back my wits to their proper place, not without a feeling that they had else gone a woolgathering, and a knowledge that my forehead and neck ached as though I had fallen from the church tower. Yet I minded the aches and pains not so much as that the storm-cock’s nest still hung swaying in the branches high above me. For I had never, since being first put into breeches, liked to be beaten in anything, and I now reflected that the storm-cock had proved itself my master.
While I sat rubbing my head, and wondering what Jacob Trusty would say to my tumble, I heard a sound which made me pause and listen. It was the voice of a girl singing in the wood close by, a pure, sweet, clear voice, though childish, and the words it sang were these:
“Spring is coming o’er the hill!
Primrose pale and daffodil,
Daisies white and rosy,
Now are springing from the soil.
Tread ye lightly, lest ye spoil
My Lady’s posy.
“Bring me, from some mossy stone,
Violets that all alone Burst to perfect flower.
These, with snowdrops pure and white,
Wet with morning’s dew, shall light
My Lady’s bower!”
Now as this song went on, the sounds came nearer and nearer, and at length I saw, coming up the path by which I had climbed towards the sheepfold, a girl who carried a little basket of primroses and violets in one hand, and swung her little hood in the other. She saw me not as she came along the path, for I lay there still as any mouse, wondering who she might be. But when she came into the clearing and looked round her, she espied me, and stopped short as she was beginning another verse of her song. And so there we were, neither saying aught, but both staring wide-eyed at each other. And now if I were a poet or a spinner of fine words, such as they use in Courts and fashionable places, I might perhaps tell you with justice how my dear love, as she came to be in after years, looked upon that afternoon when I first set eyes upon her. For though she was then but a child of eight years old, she was already so bewitching that I could not but gaze at her with something like wonder in my lad’s heart. She was like Little Red Riding Hood in the fairy tale, for her hood, swinging loosely from her tiny brown hand, was red, and the little cloak above her grey, homespun gown, was red, and she had dainty scarlet shoes upon her feet such as I had never seen.
As for her face, it was dark and gipsy-like, and her hair, black as night, tumbled loosely on each side, and fell across her shoulders; and her eyes, large and wondering as she looked at me, were darker than her hair. Yet can I give no true account of her with words, for it would need the brush of some great painter to represent her as she seemed to me then, and as I remember her to this day.
Now when we had looked at each other for some minutes I tried to rise to my feet. But the buzzing in my head was by no means gone, and I was no sooner up than down again. Wherewith my new acquaintance cast down her basket and ran to me, and looked at me with pitying eyes.
“Oh,” cried she, “you are hurt, poor boy!”
“Nay,” quoth I, “’tis nought. I have tumbled from higher trees than yon elm.”
But she stayed not to hear me, but seized upon my cap and ran away, and presently came back with water in it, with which she wet my forehead like any skilled nurse, all the time telling me to lie still lest in rising I grew sick and fainted away. Howbeit, I, like all lads, grew restive under female treatment, and presently rose and put on my jacket, and gave myself a mighty shake and felt right again, save for a slight ache in the back of my head. And this done, I stood looking at the little maiden, saying nothing, but wondering a good deal.
“And now,” quoth she, “take hold of my hand, else you will fall again going down the path.”
But I laughed and shook my head. “I am all right now,” said I, and glanced up at the storm-cock’s nest, half minded to try it again. But my head was still running somewhat, and I made a vow to come back next day, so that if I fell once more there should be none to witness my defeat.
“What is your name?” said the little maid, presently.
“William Dale; and my father’s name is William Dale too, and we live at Dale’s Field,” said I. “What is yours?”
“Mine is Rose Lisle.”
“Lisle? There are no Lisles hereabouts,” said I. “Where do you come from?”
“From a long way off — near London. Father brought me on his horse to Wentbridge two days since, and in a day or two he will come and take me away again.”
Now, I know not why, but when Rose Lisle said that she was going away, there was a feeling of regret came into my heart. For indeed, I had never seen aught like her before, and might never, for aught I knew, see aught like her again.
CHAPTER IV.
OF PHILIP LISLE AND HIS GOOD HORSE CÆSAR.
“I AM going to find primroses,” said Rose, picking up her basket.
“I know where they grow,” said I. “Come along, and I will show you the best places.”
And so we went through the wood, gay as the spring air that breathed upon us, and talking childlike about ourselves and our fathers and of such matters as children best love to dwell on. And presently the shyness wore off and we ran along hand in hand amongst the trees, and I showed her where I had climbed the crags for the jack-daw’s nest, and took her to the bank of the Went at the place where you can throw a stone across five times in one cast, and from thence we wandered down stream to the mill, where the miller and his men peered at us through a mist of dusty whiteness, and the Went ran howling through the great wheel and fled away in thick circles of spume. And I told her about our farm of Dale’s Field, and how many horses we had, and how many cattle and sheep, with many particulars concerning Dumpling the pony, and Jacob Trusty, and Timothy Grass, and other matters upon which I loved to talk. She, in return, told me that she lived in a town a long, long way off, as indeed it must have been, seeing that it was but an hour’s ride from London itself. As for mother, or sister, or brother, she had none, nor ever remembered having, nor any other relation save her father, who was called Philip Lisle, and had business that took him much from home. And at Barnet, which was where they lived, they stayed with Mistress Goodfellow, who, said Rose, was an old woman, and sometimes cross-grained. But her father, she said, was the most admirable man that ever lived, for he could sing and dance, and play music upon several instruments, and tell stories and legends, so that when he was at home they were as happy as the day is long. But sometimes, she said, he was away a long time, and she was lonely until he came again, bringing her various rare things which he had found in his travels, and then they were happy once more. And now and then he took her with him when the weather was fine, she riding before him on his great horse, and he telling her stories of the fine houses they passed, or the dark woods through which they rode. Much did she tell me too about her father’s horse, which understood him when he talked to it as if it had been a Christian, and would follow him about, and ate bread and sugar out of his hand, and had more than once saved his life, though how she did not know.
