Collected works of j s f.., p.42
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 42
Though I had somewhat hung back from it, being always loth to put myself forward, they had forced me, saying it was the proper thing, to take the chair at the head of the long table, and preside over this great feast. So there I sat in my best, feeling as if every eye was fixed upon me, and yet very proud withal of the honour, and Jacob Trusty and Timothy Grass, being our oldest men, sat one on either side of me, while Parson Drumbleforth sat at the foot of the table as vice-chairman. While the supper was being discussed, every man was too busily engaged to think of aught else; but when all had eaten their fill, and their minds had a chance, certain of the older men began to look at Jacob Trusty and cough in a significant manner, so that I immediately grew very hot about the ears, knowing right well that they wanted Jacob to propose my health, which would oblige me to make a speech in reply. For a time, however, Jacob Trusty did not choose to take the hint. Perhaps he was already composing his speech in his own mind, or waiting for an idea to come to him. However, the silence and the expectant looks continuing, Timothy Grass thought it well to call Jacobs attention to the matter.
“I think, Jacob,” said Timothy Grass, “I think the folks expect a word or two from you, it being a great occasion, and you the oldest man present. So up, Jacob, and let us hear what hast got to say, man.”
I think that Jacob was secretly pleased with his mission, and felt his own importance in the matter, though, like other greater men, he pretended that he rose with diffidence, and was unprepared to sustain so difficult a part. Jack Drumbleforth, too, said that he was minded to believe that Jacob had been committing his little speech to memory, and practising it in spare moments; but I paid no heed to Jack, knowing of old that Jacob was a ready talker, and never fast for words. However, I question whether Jacob ever had so large an audience, or such an attentive one as upon that occasion, for every eye was turned upon him, and the youngest stable-boy ran outside into the fold to drive away the hens which were cackling and clucking without the barn-door.
“Master William, and friends all,” said Jacob, when he had fairly gotten upon his legs, and Parson Drumbleforth had rapped loudly upon the table to command attention— “Master William, and friends all, this is a great occasion, and has been honoured accordingly. I thank God that I have lived to see it, to see the lad grow into a man. And such a man! Friends, I have seen three generations of Dales, and they have all been big men; but this is bigger all ways, length and breadth, wherefore, I say, I am glad, because the old stock is as fine as ever. Now, there’s some among you who can remember Master William being born, and how he grew up to a lad, and you’ve seen him change from a lad to a man. All that I’ve seen too, perhaps a bit closer than most of you, because he’s been mine from the very first, and he’ll not deny it. Who showed him his first bird’s-nest but Jacob Trusty? Who made him his first whip, or gave him his first ride a-horseback, but me? I ha’ done a deal for him, child and boy, and I feel a sort o’ right in him. Well, friends all, Master William has come to manhood at last, and here he sits amongst us, master of the good old acres on which you and me have toiled. Here he sits for all to look at and admire — a fine, big man, like his fathers, six foot four in his stockings, and strong as a bull. And so, friends, having seen him grow up to manhood, I have seen all I wished for, and can die happy. ’Tis but a poor way of saying it, but Master William knows how old Jacob loves him and the old place. So now, friends, young and old, fill your glasses. Fill ’em up, and drink ’em off to the health and long life of William Dale.” I can see him now as he stood there, tall, erect, silver-haired, in his clean smock and gay neckerchief, his old weather-beaten, wrinkled face shining with good humour, and a tear in his bright blue eye as he lifted his glass to drink my health. I can feel the clasp of his hard, horny hand as he grasped mine and said, “God bless thee, William, lad, God bless thee!” No heartier or truer hand-clasp ever met mine than that, for no man ever loved me more than Jacob Trusty.
There was quite a storm of shouting and cheering when Jacob had done, and I was outfaced with the warmth of the reception given to me. Then came Jack Drumbleforth to the back of my chair, whispering me to rise and speak while the iron was hot, and then I found myself on my legs, staring at the eager faces before me, and wondering what I was going to say. As to what I did say I cannot tell, though I can remember everything that old Jacob said. But I spoke from my heart, and thanked them for their kindly feeling to me and mine, and promised to be a good master to all who worked, and should work for me, and swore that no man who ever tilled my land should want food or shelter if any evil day fell upon him and his, which vow I have faithfully kept to this present. And after that there were more healths drunk, and Parson Drumbleforth made us a serious speech, after which his son Jack made us a merry one, whereat everybody laughed heartily. And then the whole company adjourned into the orchard, where the elder people sat about under the trees, and the children played at various sports, devised by Ben Tuckett and my sister Lucy, and everything went as merry as a marriage bell. As for Jack Drumbleforth he was here, there, and everywhere, superintending this, and arranging that, while his father and my mother and I walked about from group to group, saying a word to every one, and bidding all hearty welcome to Dale’s Field. When all were tired of further merrymaking there was more ale and refreshment served out, and then I stood at the orchard gate and shook hands with all as they went homeward, receiving their blessings as they passed away.
“Odd’s fish!” said Jack Drumbleforth, when the last was gone; “I am as dry as if I had sat before a lime-kiln this five hours. It is hard work this merrymaking, after all, Will. However, what matters a dry throat and tired legs, if other folk are pleased? Thy guests — I think they all enjoyed their entertainment, Will?”
“That indeed they did, Jack, thanks to you.”
“Nay, man, no thanks to me. But I am so hungry that I must inside and persuade Lucy to give me a cut of game pie and a pint of ale. ’Tis supper-time already. Come in, Will, and join me.”
But I was in no humour for it just then. My head was all in a whirl with the events of the evening, and I was anxious to take a quiet walk round my meadows in the moonlight to get the heat and noise out of my brain. Already through the lighted window I could see my mother and Lucy and Ben Tuckett and Parson Drumbleforth gathering round the supper-table, well pleased with the day’s proceedings. I bade Jack go in and join them.
“I am going for a walk round the meadow, Jack,” I said. “Tell them I will come in presently when my head cools. The noise rings in it yet.”
So I went away through the orchard into the home meadows and wandered, thinking of many things, across the dewy grass in the direction of the woods. The harvest-moon was at its full, and the air was soft and warm. From the road beyond Dale’s Field came the sound of a post-chaise driven rapidly onward by the hurrying post-boy. The sound of the wheels died away as I walked across the shining grass; and then the silence was complete. I lifted my hat and let the cool air sweep over my forehead. I thought of what good old Jacob had said, and of the hearty expressions of good-will which had come to me on every side. These thoughts were serious and weighty, and made me think much of my new responsibilities. For I was now Dale of Dale’s Field, and the broad acres around me were mine.
I was in no hurry to turn homewards, and half-unconsciously I passed into the wood and went down the path that led to the mill by the river-side. The wheel was turning slowly and the spray darted like silver in the moonlight. I stood in the lane and watched it for a while, and then I turned down towards Wentbridge, thinking to reach home by the road. I remembered that I must say good night to Parson Drumbleforth and Jack before they drove homewards, and I hurried my steps, chiding myself that my thoughts had carried me so far afield. But as I reached the foot of the lane and was turning up the hill I came upon two figures in the moonlight, at sight of whom I stopped. A man, on horseback, evidently booted and spurred for a journey, sat bending down to speak to a female whose hand lay on his horse’s bridle. At sound of my foot the man looked up. I could not see his face, but the moon shone full on my own. He raised his hand.
“Ah!” said he, “an that is not Will Dale, I am dreaming! Will, is it not you? It is years since we met, lad, and ’twas a sad time; but, why, it is I, Philip Lisle, Will, and here is Rose — thou wilt remember Rose, though she is no longer a little maiden, but grown almost a woman.”
CHAPTER XI.
OF MY SECOND MEETING WITH ROSE LISLE.
NOW it seemed to me when I heard Philip Lisle’s voice, that I was walking in a dream from which I should presently wake to find myself elsewhere, so strange was it to meet with him and Rose standing almost where I had left them so many years before. Yet the strange thrill of pleasure which shot through my heart was no dream, and the clasp of Black Phil’s hand was warm and real as he bent from his saddle to greet me.
“Ha!” said he, “I am glad to meet thee, Will Dale. Rose, give Will thy hand. How many years ago is it, I wonder, since thou and he rode together down yonder bank on horse Caesar’s back? Ye have both grown somewhat since then, and I have grown older and greyer.”
Rose stretched out her hand to me and looked curiously at me in the moonlight. She must indeed have wondered to find the lad she remembered grown into such a strapping man as I was then. Yet she could not be more surprised than I was when I came to look at her in the full light of the moon. She had grown into a tall and stately maiden of gracious presence and rare beauty, in which I could still trace some resemblance to the child that had bent over me in the wood when I fell down from the storm-cock’s nest. Now I had never until then looked much upon maidens, always having my mind intent on other matters, but I felt that having once seen Rose Lisle I could go on watching her dark eyes for ever.
So we stood looking at each other in the moonlight, each no doubt wondering by what magic means time had so soon wrought this great change in us.
“Well,” said Philip Lisle, “and how goes the world with you, Will? I have never ridden this way since that sad night many a year ago, and I dare say ye have all well-nigh forgotten me.”
“That, indeed, we have not, sir. We have thought often of you and of Mistress Rose here, and wondered why you brought her not to see us as you promised.”
“Ah, lad, I have had much to do. My time has been spent far north, Carlisle way, this ten years. For dost know, Will, I had given up my old trade when I found thee kneeling by thy poor father’s body that night. I have been a King’s man since then, nay, I was even then upon the King’s business. Rose and I have had a quiet billet in Carlisle this many years.”
I was glad to hear that and said so.
“But who knows, lad, how much longer it may be quiet? There is trouble afoot. You have heard of it, Will?”
“We have heard such news as travellers bring,” I answered.
“There is war at hand, Will,” said he. “War and no less. You have heard that the King and Commons are at daggers drawn. I fear it will be a great struggle, of which no man can yet see the end.”
Now in our parts we knew very little of the discussion between the King and the Parliament, for news travelled slowly, and we had enough to do to look after our own concerns without troubling about those of our betters. Nevertheless, so unsettled had been the times during the past ten years that people had talked more than usual about the doings of those in high places, and we were thus somewhat familiar with certain great events which had lately happened.
We had heard, for example, of the levying of ship-money on the port towns which had caused so much ill-feeling throughout the country, and travellers had told us of the resistance offered to it by Mr. John Hampden and others. We had heard, too, of the harsh punishment meted out to Prynne, the lawyer, and to his companions Burton and Bastwick, whose path from the prison to the pillory in Palace Yard the populace had strewn with flowers. Then had come to us news of the disturbances in Scotland, where the King was fighting against numerous malcontents. Nothing but trouble and sorrow, indeed, seemed to follow the King at that time, and every traveller brought bad news of great affairs. The Earl of Strafford had been executed. The House of Commons had passed its Grand Remonstrance against the King, who, in his turn, had impeached five of its members of high treason, and attempted to seize them in the House itself.
Things, indeed, were in a sad state, and yet because we were a long way from London it seemed to us that we were out of danger and need do nothing but attend to our own matters and thank God that we had been born to quiet lives.
“Think you we shall hear aught of it in these parts?” I asked, thinking these matters over as I stood by Philip Lisle’s horse.
“Nay, lad, I cannot say. But, hark ye, Will, I am on my way to Nottingham, where is to be a meeting of the King’s friends this week, and I shall hear news there. And so little faith have I of returning to Carlisle yet awhile that I have brought Rose southwards with me. We came here but an hour ago, and Rose is going to stay with the old woman at the inn yonder for a couple of days until I return with more certain news.”
“Nay,” said I, “why should Mistress Rose stay at the inn when Dale’s Field is so near? Mistress Rose, persuade your father to bring you up to Dale’s Field. Come, sir, if you are in no great need to ride on, go up and sup with me. My mother and sister will be glad to see you once more, and they will welcome your daughter heartily.”
“Thou speakest kindly, Will,” said Philip Lisle. “What do you say, Rose? Wouldst rather stay with Mistress Dale than at the inn yonder?”
“I would rather stay with Mistress Dale,” said Rose.
“Then we will go up with thee, Will. Indeed, man, I should have come to see thee but for fear of waking sad memories. It was but a sad time when I saw thy poor mother last. But now, here is Rose’s horse at the inn stable. What shall we do with him?”
“I will send a man for him, sir,” said I. “Make yourself easy about that.”
So we went up the hill and turned in at the orchard gate of Dale’s Field and went into the house. Parson Drumbleforth and Jack had gone homeward, but Ben Tuckett had gotten himself a few days’ holiday and was to stay with us over the festivities, and we now found him making himself agreeable to my mother and Lucy. I led Philip and Rose into my mother’s parlour and fetched her in to them from the great kitchen, whispering to her who our visitors were and what I wanted. And she, receiving them with hearty hospitality, would not be content until they sat down and ate and drank, and she sent Lucy off to prepare a chamber for Rose, and herself pressed Philip Lisle to remain overnight with us and continue his journey next day. But to that he could not consent.
“Indeed,” said he, “I ought to be an hour on my journey now, and should have been, only I must needs linger on the bridge saying farewell to this maid of mine until Will yonder comes up and presses me to enjoy your hospitality, Mistress Dale. And glad enough I am, I assure you, to leave my Rose in such good hands for a day or two, for ’tis but poor work for young maidens to stay at a wayside inn, though well enough for old campaigners like myself.”
“We shall take good care of her here, sir,” said my mother, stroking Rose’s hand with her own as she sat by her. “Please God you will bring us back good news, for we need better than we have had lately.”
But on that point Philip Lisle could say nothing certain. Presently he rose and bid my mother and Lucy farewell, and kissed Rose, and I went out with him and walked by his horse’s side to the gate, where he stayed a moment to speak to me.
“I may return this way, Will,” said he, “to-morrow night, or next day. When I come I shall have news. Say naught to any one, lad, but I fear that there are great things at hand.”
“You fear war?”
“Ay, and such war as is worse than war ‘twixt two nations. It will be war of brother upon brother, which is a bad and sorry matter. However, let us do our best. Fare thee well, good Will, till I come again.”
And with that he shook Caesar’s bridle and rode away into the moonlight, and I stood there until the sound of the horse’s hoofs died away, and then went indoors to find Lucy and Ben Tuckett telling Rose about our doings that day and of the grand entertainment we were to have on the morrow.
Now to see Rose Lisle sitting there in my own house by my mother’s side was to me the greatest delight I had ever known. For it seemed somehow as if Rose and I were old and familiar friends, though, indeed, we had only met once in all our lives, and that many years before when we were but boy and girl. I could not choose but look at her as she sat there talking to my mother, and I wondered if there were any other maidens in the world who were half so fair as she. I had never forgotten how she looked that afternoon when I tumbled out of the elm-tree, having kept the memory of her fresh in my heart. Then she was a little dark-eyed, gipsy-looking maiden, with a merry laugh and an arch way of looking at you. Now she had become tall and stately and graver of face, but she was more beautiful, and when she smiled I saw the old arch look in her dark eyes. Very often she glanced at me as I sat watching her, and it seemed to me that a man could have no greater happiness than to have such eyes for his light all through life.
