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" ■ . ■, !!(' ■:* V .•!^ / r^v» ■Hi. •i?^ ':* \4 .1 ' • ^ .: V-.' ^» >•<■!. .«i ■. ■ *^J>yi',l .^t■:i4^' THE Red, Red Wine A TEMPERANCE STORV. HY J. JACKSON WRAY. Author of "Nestleton Magna," 'Matthew Mellowdew,' etc. TORONTO: WILLIAM BRIGGS, WESLEV BUILDINGS. C W. COAXES, Montreal, Que, S. F. HUESTIS. Halifax N S 1895. g^-yt«WWK Myy»gy y_;^ K 3 J EnterwI. aocordinn to the Act of the Parliament of Canada, In the year one thoii8at)(l ei^ht hundred and ninet.v-flve, by William Bkiouh, Toronto, in the Uttli'e of the Miniater cf Agriculture, Ottawa. PREFACE. T T is a source of satisfaction to me to have the privilege ■*■ of publishing the Rev. J. Jackson Wray's last, and perhaps his most powerfully-written, tale. Like the author's other works, it has a purpose, and in this in- stance it is that of advocating the claims of temperance. For years, in season and out of season, he was a champion In the cause of total abstinence. With voice and pen he denounced the traffic which is carrying woe into the happy homes of this and other lands, and filling to overflowing our prisons, workhouses, and asylums. The scene of the story is laid in East Yorkshire, his native district, which he knew and loved so well. After toiling beyond his strength in busy London, he would return to breathe his native air, and gain strength for future undertakings. Here he would collect facts for illustration of sermon, speech, and s:ory, and from his own remembrarces and from his own folk were the materials gathered for this book. In the first instance the facts were used for temperance addresses, called "Through VI PREFACE. One Street." This street was the main thoroughfare of the village where he spent his early life. Mr. T. Jackson VVray, the author's son, tells me that the work was cuticised when in serial form as being overdrawn, too tragical, in fact. The fault is due not to the narrator, but to ihe drink, for there is not one incident, however terrible, which has not had its counterpart in the lives of those who at one time dwelt in that "One Street." It now only remains for me to thank the author's son for going carefully over the work before it was printed m its present form, and to express a hope that it will be welcomed by the reading public, and induce many to join the temperance ranks. The illustrations in this volume are by Mr. Kenneth M. Skeaping, and the frontispiece is from a photograph by Mr. Barry, of Hull, taken shortly before Mr. Wray's death. William Andrews. Tub Hull Press. CONTENTS. Chapter 1. Chapter II. Chapter III. Chapter IV. Chapter V. Chapter VI. Chapter VII. Chapter VIII. Chapter IX. Chapter X. Chapter XI. Chapter XII. Chapter XIII. Chapter XIV. Chapter XV. Chapter XVI. Chapter XVII. Chapter XVIII Chapter XIX. Chapter XX. Chapter XXI. Chapter XXII. rAGR I 9 17 »5 32 41 48 59 67 7? 79 86 94 lOI 106 116 122 127 U3 143 150 155 .iiriki m U \l- J ^t'- f viu CONTENTS Chapter XXIII. Chaptkr XXIV. Chapter XXV. - Chapter XXVI. - Chapter XXVII. Chapter XXVIII. Chapter XXIX. Chapter XXX. - Chapter XXXI. Chapter XXXII. Chapter XXXIII. Chapter XXXIV. Chapter XXXV. Chapter XXXVI. Chapter XXXVII. .Chapter Chapter XXXVIII. XXXIX. Chapter XL. Chapter XLI. Chapter XLIL - Chapter XLIIL - Chapter XLIV. - Chapter XLV. . PAGE I 60 186 '95 201 206 213 218 223 232 237 244 249 254 263 270 276 282 290 295 30Q % ,tl«mib'i,hUn^ u> — THE RED, RED WINE. > • < CHAPTER I. IT was Sabbath moniing. The midsummer glory was over all. Midsummer scents and sounds filled the genial air, and the melodious music of the Netherborough bells, wafted across field and brook and garden, fell upon the ears of the church-going towns-folk as a fitting accompaniment. The peal of bells that swung in the square, squpt, red-brick steeple of Netherborough Parish Church, was quite notable for its silvern harmonies for many and many a mile around ; but 1 dare to say that never since they left the moulds of the bell-foundry had they given forth mellower music than on that Midsummer Sabbath morning, full fifty years ago. That, at any rate, was the opinion of old Aaron Brigham, as he left his little cottage on the Spaldon Road, and bent his steps towards "Zion Chapel," the humble temple wherein, for well-nigh fourscore years, he had. been accustomed to worship God. Try to get a good look at him. See, he doffs his low felt hat respectfully as the Vicar passes by, for the Reverend Septimus Bartley has also heard the summons of the Sabbath bells, and is on his way to Church, and to his high and holy duty there. The vicar has a warm, hearty greeting for his aged parishioner, though he is going I --"S! F' a. >. ^^ .M -il*- JsSiM.^ 2 THE RED, RED WINE. like a stray sheep to the conventicle yonder, near the market place, rather than to the true fold where the Vicar is the shepherd of the sheep. Mr. Bartley knows old Aaron well, and admires and respects him ; and Aaron, staunch Nonconformist as he is, never bends his head in " Zion " without offering a prayer for the Vicar in his desk and pulpit, that God will " help him from on high, an' give him a good tahme while he leads his congregation i' prayer an' praise, an' while he breaks to 'em the bread o' life." It would probably not be too much to say that old Aaron had offered exactly that prayer, without gap or change, Sunday by Sunday, for a good half-hundred years. Aaron's locks, as the June sunshine falls on them, are seen to be long and thin, silky white in texture and in colour ; and, in the light of the midsummer morning, it is not any great stretch of fancy to imagine a halo round them, and sure I am, that never a saint in the calendar could have carried his coronal more fittingly than he. The old man is tall in stature still, though the burden of his fourscore years has bowed him somewhat. His step is wonderfully firm and steady, and with the aid of his " trusty staff," he can get over the ground a good deal more quickly than some of his contemporaries, who are twenty years his junior, — but of this, as the old authors say, more anon. Just as old Aaron was nearing his destination, he was met by a little maid of some six summers, or seven at most. She came bounding towards him, as with an absolute certainty that a loving reception awaited her. She was very poorly clad ; the boots upon her feet were so worn and broken that they were scarcely deserving of the name, and her little frock was but " a thing of shreds and patches," a small and tattered banneret that told how the battle had gone in the fierce fight with poverty and want. It was an old young face, painfully pinched and pale, that looked up into the old man's eyes ; but the glad smile that beamed all TH^ RED, REJ WINE. over it at the sight of him, brought out an innocent beauty that sorrow had failed to kill The Httle fingers that twined around the horny hand of the aged patriarch were rough, and red, and swollen, with such labour as nevev ought to be the hap of so wee a toiler. The old man bent low and kissed her, then lifted her in his arms, and kissed her again, as he said : " Why, Kitty, my bairn ! My sweet lahtle Kitty. What's browt tl.oo here this mornin'? Is the' goin' te t* chapil wi' me?" Kitty looked at her ragged frock, and broken boots ; and as the smile left her face, she shook her head sadly, and heaved a half sigh, half sob, and drooped her curly little head on the old man's shoulder. "Nivver mind, lahtle lassie!" said Aaron tenderly, patting her back in soothing fashion. *' I might ha' knoan. Nivver mind. Thoo can say thy prayers at home, can't tha' ? What hez tha' cum for, Kitty ? " "Only to see you," she whispered lovingly, and folding her Utile arms around his neck, she kissed him again and again and again. Then she gave him to understand that the interview was over, that her object was attained, and climbing down from her sweet resting-place, she hastened away, as fast as her wee legs could carry her, to the mean and miserable shelter which she called " home ! " " Poor lahtle Kitty ! " said Aaron to himself, as he entered the Chapel. He did not wipe away the kisses from his lips. Why should he ? No worshipper in " Zion " that morning brought a more precious or acceptable offering to the Lord, and never "a pair of turtle-doves, or two young pigeons" was so dearly valued by the Master of the House ! The Master of the House, and He alone, knew how earnestly, how lovingly, how pleadingly, Aaron Brigham eiii.-*- m ::^ THE RED, RED WINE. prayed that morning for * lahtle Kitty," for her "feyther," and her "home." I think I had better, at this point, tender to my readers another word or two of explanation. Story-writers — " novelist " I am not, and never shall be — are always supposed to introduce a "hero" and a "heroine." They are exp'jcted to deal with love-passages, and entanglements, and trials, to prove that the " course of true love never did run smooth," and all the rest of it. Now, I desire to say that my " hero " in this history is Aaron Brigham, whose years are fourscore years and five ; and my " heroine " is • none other than " lahtle Kitty," whose years are six, or as she would certainly have put it — " going of seven." They are an oddly-assorted couple, I know ; but love levels all distinctions, and never a fonder pair of lovers ever shone in the pages of romance, and by the time we shall have to take our leave of them — not without tears^ as I fully expect — it shall go hard with me, my readers, if you are not head and ears in love with them, too ! Let me introduce them properly. Aaron Brigham, eighty-five. Kitty Smart, six. Aaron had a " good time " at Zion that morning. He generally had, for he never went but with a firm intent^ to gain a personal interview with the Master of the House, and as the Master was always of the same mind, Aaron was able, like the two disciples, to return, saying, " I have seen the Lord." On this occasion, however, there were special reasons why the hour of worship should be an hour of gladness and of peace. His heart and soul were filled with strong sympathy and desire for another's well-being, though that other was only a ragged little maiden from the street. That is worship such as our Elder Brother dearly loves and owns ; and the Jewish proverb is true, my masters, true as the dear love of Christ, " He that pnys for another is heard for himself." THE RED, RED WINE. 5 There must have been some show of all this in Aaron Brigham's bearing as he strode home with buoyant step and cheerful mien. He was met on the way by two of the towns-folk, George Gaffer, the painter, and Philip Lambert, the barber, a pair of cronies who had three things in common — unusual skill and ability in their callings, unusual subjection to the bondage of John Barleycorn, an unusual antipathy to the Ghristian and the Ghristian creed. " Hallo, Aaron," said Gaffer, with a ready jeer, he had already had to have a " refresher " at the sign of the " Swinging Gate," day of rest though it was. *' Why, where ha' yo' been, nian ? You should ha' been with us. My word, but it hez been grand. What ha' yo' been doin' ? You look as though summat was worth fetchin' ; quite blithe like, and lithesome as a young four-year-old." " Hey, that you do," interposed Lambert, with a view to uphold his comrade. Aaron stood still, drew himself up to his full height, looked down with a serene smile on the two cror.ies who were trying to draw him out, and said, " An' so would you if you'd had sense to be where I was, •^n* to hear what I've heeard." "Where? What? Tell us?" said they in a breath. " I've been to the readin' o' my Feyther's will." *' O that's it, is it ?" said Gaffer, with a sneer, fully under- standing the allusion. "An* how much has He left yo', eh?" "A hundred-fold more in this present life, and in the world to come, life everlasting." As the old man spoke, his face bore witness to the wealth of his present legacy, and as* he lifted his eyes to the cloud- less heavens overhead, the silenced listeners felt that he had " a good hope through grace " of the bequest of glory that would fall to him by-and-by. " Good mornin', neighbours," said Aaron, as ihe shallow rr I I 6 THE RED, RED WINE. pair passed onward ; " an' don't forget that your names are in the will.'' " Phil," said George Caffer, as they sauntered homeward, "there must be something in it after all." " Aye, lad," quoth Lambert, not without a certain reverence in his tone, "if there was more Aaron Brighams about, there would be fewer '' septics,' as they call us. But the bulk on 'em isn't up to sample, an' their faith shakes hands wi' their works so seldom, that I for one think precious lahtle about either." Then there fell upon them a spell of silence as they turned to watch the aged " preacher of righteousness," until he passed into the little garden which fronted his cottage home. " Come in, Aaron. Come in. Your dinner's waitin' for yo', an' it's never right to spoil good vitals by lettin' 'em get cowd before yo' eat 'em." Aaron had lingered a little on the threshold. He was loth to shut out the June sunshine, loth to turn his eyes away from the June roses that embowered his cottage door, loth, too, to break away from the happy flow that rippled through the soul of him, as he thought of the provisions of his Father's will. But he had to. The dispenser of the invitation just quoted was Esther Harland, tl)£ middle-aged and most capable housekeeper, who had constituted herself the keeper of Aaron, as well as of his house, and who fulfilled her self-imposed mission cheerily and well. If Esther was just a little imperative and self-assertive, and slightly impatient of contradiction, it was all and always for his comfort and srfe-guarding, and that he knew right well. " Look here, owd friend," she insisted, pointing to the well-plenished round table in the middle of the kitchen Boor, "You never had a nicer meal o' meat since the day you wore short frocks, tho' I daresay a worse 'un tasted better i' them days. Cum an' hev it while its warm." JB| t';^":. THE RED. RED WINE. 7 A smile flitted across Esther's pleasant face as she pictured to herself tall old Aaron in the juvenile garb referred to, and laying her hand on his arm, she gently forced him into the Windsor chair placed ready for him. "Why to tell the *'uth, Esther, I was in no great hurry. I was hevin' a good meal o' meat all to myself, standin' among them pratty roses i' the sunshine, an' thinkin' o' whrt my Heavenly Feyther's preparin' — " " Preparin'," said Esther, whose mind was set just then on far more material things. " I should think you could afford to let what's preparin', as you call it, wait a bit till it's wanted, an' take your chance when yo' hev' it o' meking the best o' what is prepared already, — an' that's your dinner Ask a blessin' on it, Aaron. I feel a bit sharp set myself.' " O," said Aaron, dryly, " that explains it," and quietly did as he was told, for the old man had a vein of humour in him. Such was Aaron Brigham, and such were his surroundings in the long, long ago when it was the writer's privilege to wear short frocks ; and such they were on that subsequent morning, when pinafores had given way to clothing more akin to r^ian's attire. Now it was during this same midsummer month of June, that Netherborough came to be in a state of excitement, without parallel in the mstory of the place. The oldest inhabitant declared that he had seen nothing like it since the day when the big bon-fire was kindled on the market hill to celebrate the final defeat of " Bonyparty " at Waterloo. It is well known that " the oldest inhabitant " is a very useful authority, quoted on countless occasions by writers of every sort and size. In general, however, he is a very indefinite and unproducible individual. In this case, how- ever, I am able, and proud in being able, to produce tl^ very man. d THE RED, RED WINE. The oldest inhabitant of Netherborough was none other than old Aaron Brigham. I am aware that there were those among the townsfolk who callea the fact into question. But what of that? There are people who seem able to do nothing else. Everything in turn is questioned by somebody. The Netherborough doubters gave the palm of seniority to Geordie Hewitson, the parish clerk. Geordie's grey head had been a familiar sight in the lower desk of Netherborough church for nobody knows how long, and it had never been aught but grey, as everybody knew. This latter remarkable phenomenon may be accounted for by the fact that Geordie wore a wig. As an argument it had no value, for the honest old clerk himself declared for Aaron. " Aaron was older than me from the very first," he says. " We was boys together, an' we sat on the very same form in Mother Elliker's dame school. I alius admired him, an' I dearly wanted to be as big an' as old as him, but" — he used to add, dropping into broad Yorkshire — " I've riivver owertakken 'im to this day. I'm neeather as owd nor as big, an' we're both on us growin' downwards noo, an' if I was only hauf as good, I reckon I should be riddy to join the angels ony minnit." This was surely an admirable certificate of character for Aaron Brigham, and all the more satisfactory that it was the testimony of an uncompromising Churchman concerning a Nonconformist who was never suspected, by his more assertive brethren, of having any " weakness in the knees." The time is coming, God speed it ! when Judah's vexings and Ephraim's envyings shall cease for ever ; all such sorrowful possibilities being swept away by the on-flow and [he influx of the love of the Tnrist who is Brother and Lord of all. # X -i-'* i f- .« Al i CIIAPTF.R IT. IT was a red-letter day at Netherboroiigli, and if ever the annals of that incipient city come to be written, that never-to-be-forgouen fifteenth of June, i8 — , will certainly be recorded in the reddest of red ink, headed with an illuminate capital, after the fashion of the missals of medieval days. Not even at the 'lumination, as it .vas called in local history, at the coronation of Queen Victoria, were the people of Netherborough so greatly stirred as now. And yet that 2vas a time. I can remember it, though I was but " a wee bit bairnie" at the time. Every window in the town had a lighted candle in it, and many windows had a candle gleaming in every pane. Many of these candles were wax, blue, red, green, yellow, my goodness ! and as tall as a walking-stick, and as thick as a man's wrist. The children of the various Sunday Schools had each a medal and a ribbon, and marched through the town, all but bowed to the earth with pride, ai d then feasted on the fat of the land until they could scarce walk home for the weight they carried. O, but that was a day. Still, Netherborough had never, never been so profoundly stirred as now. Aaron Brigham himself was as much excited as his juniors. This in itself is strong evidence that there was abundant reason why. Old age is not very sensitive to surprise. The organ of wonder flattens a good deal in the presence of whitening hairs. Yet old Aaron was filled with wonderment. On the market hill, at the churchyard corner, in front '^ .4*:' ..;:,;.;!, ..-i-jiii"- W-.^ M*A fd THE RKI), RED WINE. -l t; of the Netherborough Arms, and elsewhere, clusters of townsfolk were discussing the news of the day ; the news, mark you, news which, after all, was scarcely discussible, for this reason, that it almost took their breath away. There was to be a York and Netherborough Railway 1 Fifty years ago, railways were not by any means so numerous as they are to-day, and, as a rule, the lesser provincial towns had reaped but small advantage from the introduction of the iron highways and their iron steeds. Such places as were situated on the few existing main lines were, of course, exceptions to the general rule ; but branch lines were few ind far between, and the daily coach and the weekly waggon were the only means of commercial com- munication with the great world outside. As yet, the Netherburgers were far away beyond the reach of train transport, and seemed, in all likelihood, to be condemned to isolation for many a long year to come. Netherborough v/as a small market town of some fifteen hundred inhabitants. It was situated about half-way between the ancient city of York and the thriving seaport of Kingston-upon-Hull. It lay directly at the foot of the far-famed Yorkshire Wolds, and on the borders of the great plain of York, through which the sluggish streams of the Ouse and the Trent wandered deviously to the sea. It was a region of large and fertile farms, and its crops of wheat and 'other cereals were noted alike for quality and quantity far beyond the Loundaries of the Riding and the shire. The chronic difF.culty was that of transportation — how to get the grain, the roots, the cattle, and other agricultural produce to market, for markets of value and importance were so very far away. "If we only had a railway," the town folk said, "we could compete with all the county," and they proudly added, " we could hold a foremost place in the competition, too." But the " if " in this case was a formidable matter, :S^fe THE RItl), RED WINE. a and a railway was regarded as a boon far away beyond their reach. Even vhile they longed for it, they laughed at the idea of getting it, and honestly thought that to ask for it would be as futile a recjuest as the proverbial operation of crying for the moon. The French have a proverb to the elTect that it is the impossible chat happens. It will hardly pass muster, perhaps, for absolute truthfulness, but in this instance it was true both in substance and in fact, for Netherborough was to have a railway, nay more, it was to have it without the asking. The great Railway King, George Huddlestone, Esq., M.P., had said it, and "where the voice of a king is, there is power." In the excited state of the share-markets of that period, speculating thousands said of him, as another crowd of simpletons said of Herod, " It is the voice of a god, and not of a man," and the voice had said, " Nether- borough shall have a railway !" His Railway Majesty never let the grass grow under his feet in those palmy days of his prosperity. In an incredibly short time the Bill had passed both Houses of Parliament ; the necessary land-purchases had been made, the contracts had been signed, and on this never-to-be-forgotten day, the 15th of June, 18 — , the first sod was to be cut in the field where the Netherborough Station was to be erected, amid ceremonials, festivities, and rejoicings such as Netherborough had never before known. Old Aaron Brigham, who was quite as excited as his juniors, wandered to and fro among the clusters of curious gossipers who enlivened the streets that morning. He was quite unable to continue in one stay, and equally unable to repress his desire to be on friendliest terms with all and sundry. The group of idlers, whose customary gathering-place was at the "Church Corner," abutting on the market-place, stood expectant of the old man's greeting ; a motley cluster «k><4k.'MML if \2 THE RED, RED WINE. of men with dilapidated characters, whose idle hands were thrust as usual into the pockets of their equally dilapidated garments- -votaries of John Barleycorn, every man of them, and every man bearing on his reddened face and ragged rai'-.ent the tokens of their debasing servitude to that enslaving tyrant of the town. " VVeel, weel, weel, ' said Aaron, pausing as he passed. *' I've never seen nowt like this, lads. To think that I should live to see t' iron hoss come canterin' ower t' Shipham hills, an' gallopin' under t' Springwell hills, an' nowt to stop it. An' t' Toon Close is to he level'd as flat as the back o' my hand, an' a railway station is to be built on it. Steam-injuns ar^ goin' to snort an' whistle, an' scream, an' play all sorts o' cantrips where I used to play at roonders well-nigh fourscore years since. To think that I should live to see the day ! Folks say that wonders never cease. I think surely they're only just beginin'." " Nay, Aaron, nay j not so fast, owd friend. It hasn't come to that, yit." The speaker was Tommy Smart, a loafing "labourer,'* who did not labour except under strong compulsion, and whose smartness was ijiost apparent when somebody asked him to have a glass of ale. A strong, good-looking, and capable man was Smart when he was at his best, which was sadly seldom ; and utterly weak, ill-looking, and incapable, when under the influence of the " curse of Netherborough," which, alas, was almost all the time. "It'll tek some time," continued Smart, "before what you say can happen. Big jobs like new railways can't be done like magic, Aaron ; an* mebbe you won't live to see it through. You're a very owd man, you see." " Thoo's quite right, Tommy," said the old man, " but I expect to see it through for all that. I isn't quite as .strong on my pins as I used to be, but I'm worth a good many dead 'uns yet. Not that I'm at all afeeard o' goin' when my THE RED, RED WINE. »3 time comes. I put that matter into Good Hands mair than fift)*years back, an' I can afford to leave it there. They're well-kept that God keeps, and I isn't Hkely to seek a change. Can thoo say as much, Tom Smart ?" "There, tak' thy change oot o' that, Smart," said Joe Hepton, with a laugh. " Still, you know its true, Aaron. You are gettin' owd." ** Gettin' ? Nay, I've gotten owd, an' very owd, but I'll tell yo' what, I'm younger than either of you." As the old veteran spoke, he stood upright, struck the end of his stick firmly or the ground, and faced the two men, as if confident that then and there the life within him was sounder, livelier, and wholesomer than theirs. The cheers of the bystanders gave the old patriarch a unanimous vote, though both Smart and Hepton were his juniors by near fifty years. The old man continued with a dry humour peculiar to him : " Lads ! t'ney don't sell good medicine at the *Red Cow,' an' it's you that get's milked, not it, both o' money, an' meals, an' manhood, an' what's left meks even the joys o' John Barleycorn a mighty poor brew. I may live to see t' new railway oppen'd, or I may not, but, at ony rate," he continued, looking meaningly at the bibulous Smart, " I shall tek' novvt into my inside that puts me to a disad- vantage. I reckon that the railway will be finished in a couple o' years, an' I expect that strong ale will hap some o' you up under yon churchyard grass, before my time comes. Hey, poor lads, I do wish you would tak' a turn an' mend !" It was very true. Old Aaron was likely enough to outlast a good many of his contemporaries. He had a strong constitution, which, thanks to temperate habits, a common- sense diet, fresh air and exercise, and a life-walk in the fear of God was wondrously well preserved. He was neither dull of Jjearing^ jipj: dim of vision, nor was his natural aOEBC M THE RED, RED WINE. ! I strength so very greatly abated for all his fourscore years and five. " Why you are a wonder," said Tommy Smart, willing to conciliate, " there's no mistake about that. You must ha' some magic mixture that keeps you goin'." " Right you are," said Aaron, with a happy smile on his weather-browned face, " an I'll tell yo' what it is. It's made up o' cowd water an' broon bre-T^ honest work, an' a good conscience afore God an' man. That's the prescription. Tommy. I'll mek' yo' a present on it. It's a magic mixture that wil'. keep ^<7.; goin', an' keep yo^ from goin* to the * Red Cow,' or to any other spot where the devil's mixture is always on the tap." " That's right, Aaron, that's right. Talk to him for his good. Tommy Smart's a good deal too much of a toss- pot. It will be a good thing well done if you can get him to take a turn and mend." The words were ypoken by a new-comer, who had appeared upon the scene in time to hear old Aaron's final sentences. His words were greeted by the by-standers with a burst of laughter and applause. There was nothing very witty in what was said ; but it was said by Mr. Norwood Hayes, and as that gentleman was decidedly the most popular man in Netherborough, whatever he said was to be received with cheers. A tall, shapely, even handsome, man, was Mr. Norwood Hayes, eminently intelligent as well as attractive in face and feature. He held a good position in the town as a corn- factor, an agricultural implement maker, and was also great in parochial affairs. A very worthy man, a very worthy man indeed, was Mr. Norwood Hayes, and as this life-story will need his presence oft and much, I bespeak for him, my readers, favourable regard. . Aaron Brigham did not appear to receive the support of Mr. Hayes with any great amwnt of gratitude, judging from THE RED, RED WINE. >5 the quiet way in which he "looked him over," and the equally quiet way in which he replied. "There's toss-pot and toss-/>orf, sir. It's hard to say which on 'em tosses farthest. Both on 'em can toss to the devil ; and it won't mek' much difference to the tossed 'uns which it was that tossed 'em there. Tak' a turn an' mend is a good game to play at. It's like roonders, where every- \ body gets their innin's, or owt to do." Of course this sally was not greeted with apolause, at least not until Mr. Norwood Hayes had passed on, for the Netherborough lop.fers, like some more respectable people, had more freedom of utterance behind the backs of the parties most concerned. « Mr. Hayes smiled, and nodded affably at old Aaron — he was seldom greatly ruffled — as he retired, saying : *' True, Aaron, very true. ' Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed, lest he fall.' " Aaron Brigham watched his retreating form with some- what of sadness mingled with admiration in his eyes. There was a look on his aged face as if he was thinking deeply ; but he never saia a word. Had he spoken, he would have said, I think, something like this : " You're a good man, Norwood Hayes, and a strong one ; what a pity you are not something more. Nobody could do so much to lift the cu;se of Netherborough as you, i you only were so minded. You will be, some day, but how much will it take of pain and sorrow, I wonder, to bring it about ?" As the time was drawing near for the special ceremonial of the day, the various groups of gossipers dissolved, and as even Tommy Smart could find no satisfaction in lounging by himself, he, too, adjourned to his familiar resort — the bar of the " Red Cow." There were a few coppers in his pocket, and talking had made him thirsty. That was, at any rate, the excuse he made to himself for spending them iMacwaM i6 THE RED, RED WINE. in beer, though in his m'serable "home" down in South- gate, yonder, there are four small children, including the wee white slave, little Kitty Smart — Old Aaron Brigham's child-lover, on whose brave shoulders the whole burden of the "mitherless bairns" was laid. I must defer a more specific introduction of my " heroine " for a while, for I mean to do justice to her, so far as my poor pen can manage iu % i^* :^lBfe'^ ;.U'>1-'" _Lll*A^^' CHAPTER III. ALONG the main street of Netherborough went Mr. Norwood Hayes, walking erect as was his wont, looking, as folks say, every inch n man, and with a gentlemanly and courteous bearing which was eminently characteristic of him. He had a nod and a smile for everybody who seemed to expect it. He had a pause, a salutation, and a hand-grip for the selected few ; and once, on his ^^ay, he put his hand within the arm of a young man whom he overtook, and walked with him, winning a new and stronger hold on his affection and regard. Mr. Norwood Hayes was very popular with the young men of Net'ierborough, and rightly so, for he was deeply interested in them, and did his best, at least he thought so, for their welfare. In that, however, good man, he was sadly mistaken, at least in one all-important particular, as will be manifest to the reader all too soon. At length he reached his office, a quite imposing edifice, measured on the Netherborough scale, of brick and stoiie. Here and there the stone was sculptured into stony sheaves of corn, a stony Ceres and her well plenished cornucopia, stony reapers at work with stony sickles in their hands. These and many other devices of the sculptor's chisel illustrated the secular calling of Mr. Norwood Hayes. This was still more plainly set forth on the wire window-blinds of the office, where the following legend in gilded capitals was inscribed : " Norwood Hayes, Corn Merchant and Miller, Depot for Agricultural Implements of every description. Agent for the Yorkshire Fire and Life Insurance Co." Behind the offi.ces lay the warehouses, sheds, and other 9 ■iH^^J^a&mi Piiw^np ^mm^^ 18 THE RED, RED WINE. buildings, in which were stored sacks, corn, seeds, linseed cakes, ploughs, harrows, and all other matters connected with Mr. Hayes' large and inclusive trade. At the further end of the long yard was a broad and brawling brook, which at times was so swollen with freshets from the wolds ''s to be quite a river. This stream was known as the Nether- borough Beck. A pleasant pathway bordered it, and provided the townsfolk with an attractive sauntering place through green pastures and fair fields. Mr. Norwood Hayes did not "live at the business," though he lived by it, and made a good thing of it beyond the cost of doing so. He had quite a delightful place of his own, a little out of town, on the Scanton Road. It was hardly a " mansion," perhaps, but it was worthy of a better name than •' villa," that hackneyed French importation that suggests stucco and semi-detachments. Mr. Hayes himself had named it Throstle's Nest, and the name suited it to a T, as they say, though why a B or a P or a W would not do as well, passes the wit of man to discover. It was a snug rural nest, and as luxuriously cosy as anybody could well desire. Mrs. Hayes, their son Cuthbert, their daughter Alice, and himself, constituted the entire household at Throstle's Nest, with the exception of two maids, a man- servant, and a boy, who probably made as much work as they performed, and so kept the balance even. The " first sod " of the new railway was to be cut at four o'clock precisely, and no less important an individual than George Huddlestone, Esq., the great railway king, was to perform the ceremony. That great financier and adventurous speculator was rightly regarded as the best friend that Netherborough had ever known. He had purchased a large landed estate in the imm.ediate neighbourhood, and had already given clear proof of his belief that if property has its rights it has its duties and its obligations too. THE RED, RED WINE. »9 Now this was an astounding innovation. The good folks of Netherborough had not been at all accustomed to that kind of thing. Fifty years ago the duties, obligations, and responsibilities of the landed classes were not very generally recognised. Things are more promijing now, and even yet there is abundant room to mend. The Dukes of Debenham, from whom the estate had passed, were of no more use to Netherborough than was the celebrated Duke Humphrey. Not so much, for according to tradition he does accept your company to dinner, though the meal is of the scantiest. The Dukes of Debenham, on the contrary, were never seen at all, and seldom heard of, except on rent days, when the tenants were actually invited to dine with — the steward ! With Mr. Huddleston, matters were managed in a very different way. As soon as his great purchase was completed, he set to work to improve the condition, and to advance the interests, of the little market town close by. What wonder that Netherborough swore by George Huddleston ? What wonder that the Debenhams and all their ducal traditions vanished into thin air, which precisely represented their genuine value. It was the new lord of the manor that lighted Netherborough's sombre streets with gas, and he it was who had brought the crowning gift — the railway ! Is it to be wondered at that the railway king was the man whom the townsfolk delighted to honour ? The fact is that his majesty is held in true regard and grateful remembrance at Netherborough to this day. Of course on that great day of the turning of the first sod, the townspeople were resolved that the place should be dressed in its very best, and indeed it was well-nigh "dressed to death," that is to say, it was almost smothered in flags and bunting ; and both banners and bunting bore strange mottoes and devices illustrative of Netherborough genius and wit. On the town pump itself, which held its 20 THE RED, RED WINE. time-honoured place on the market hill, was hoisted a flag, which waved "Success to our Railway !" before the eyes of all who passed that way. Right across the front of the big square inn, known as the '* Netherborough Arms," was i^tretched a long broad strip of crimson cloth, bearing in white letters the grateful inscription, " Welcome to Netherborough's Best Friend." Quite remarkable, was it not, that everybody knew this referred to (ieorge Huddleston, and that not a single being linked it with the name of any Duke of Debenham that ever wore a coronet, or carried away the rents ? There was a coach running every day between York and Hujl, which always stopped at the " Netherborough Arms " for change of horses. The daily advent of the " Highflier" gave quite a throb of life to the sleepy little town. The sound of the guard's horn, as he blew a ringing blast, not musical but strong, at the *' town-end," called out the children to shout, the dogs to bark, and the folk to gaze in curious wonder at the strangers who came and went. This was Netherborough's daily dram of excitement, and was so very mild a stimulus that the veriest teetotaler could not have found the heart to dash it from their lips. Now the " Highflier " used once upon a time to put up at the " Grapes," a rival hotel a few doors distant from the " Netherborough Arms." When, in consequence of some disagreement, the coach transferred its patronage to the last named inn, the " Grapes " took huge offence, and never lost an opportunity of belittling the " Highflier," and predicting the time when its pride would have a fall. Now its time had come. The " Grapes " displayed a large and roughly effective picture, " The Death of the * Highflier.' " A railway train was crashing at full speed into the obnoxious coach, which was sadly smashed by the force of the collision. The horses were drawn in every inconceivable and impossible position of frantic alarm. ■"\ THE RED, RED WINE. 21 The coachman was hurled into mid-air, and the guard was laid on his back, blowing a lugubrious blast through his horn, from which a thin white cloud was issuing with this legend on it, "The 'Highflier' is a Low-lier." The " Netherborough Arms " had not grace enough to forbear an ill-natured retort — there are few people who have, more's the pity — and so it made answer in its wrath, " Not the ' Highflier,' but Peter Ransdell !" Now Peter Ransdell was mine host of the "drapes." It was very naughty and very rude, and it will be seen from this little episode that Netherborough folks had all the failings common to poor weak human nature. Mine host Sampson, of the " Netherborough Arms," ought to have been well scolded for his spiteful sentence, but then, let him who is innocent of this despicable trick of the tongue cast the first stone. At the hour of three, or soon afterwards, an open carriage with four horses came rolling through the main street of the town, driven in dashing style by a coachman 'in brilliant livery. Two footmen, clad, as the old song says, in garments gorgeous to behold, stood behind, keeping guard over the occupants of the carriage. These were Mr. and Mrs. George Huddleston, together with Miss Huddleston and the young Lord Seaton, son-and-heir of the Right Honourable the Earl of Thaxendale, who, it was said, was a suitor for the young lady's hand and heart. People said — but then that is poor authority — that the impecunious young patrician would have been content to get on without either, if he could have their full value in railway shares. Judging from appearances, his lordship, on the other hand, was not likely to be much of a bargain at any price. The railway king was a somewhat short, stout personage, whose general appearance made it tolerably evident that he had " sprung from the rank-s." Shrewdness and energy were depicted in every line of his face, and so was geniality and •--•m. I ' 33 THK RED, RED WINE. good nature. Those who were most intimate with him spoke warmly of him. Most people do so speak of those from whom they hope to receive great things, and railway shares were great things and precious in those days, and his majesty held the bestowing of them in his own right hand of power. While the great man and his party were partaking of some light refreshments at the " Netherborough Arms," quite a crowd had gathered in front of the inn, standing with straining eye and ear to catch sight or sound of the illustrious guest within. Some of the rudest and most daring flattened their noses against the windows, if haply they might catch one poor glimpse of the profile of the monarch of the railway world. And what wonder? For at that time George Huddleston was supposed to have in his possession the philosopher's stone that turned all he touched into gold, red gold ! Not only the general public, but lords and ladies, dukes and duchesses, aye, princes and princesses, crawled and fawned about the feet of the golden idol whom their cupidity had set up on high, and worshipped as a god. All this was the shameful truth full fifty years ago. At last the eventful hour arrived, the carriage was at the door. The great man's appearance was greeted with a deafening burst of cheers. Then the eager crowd followed the carriage at a run, as it led the way to the green fields and the chosen spot where the first sod was to be turned in state of the new railway, which was to link Netherborough with the city of York, and with the open markets of the great world outside. I have no space to narrate in detail the historic events that followed. Are they not written in the columns of the York Herald of that period ? The Rev. Septimus Bartley, vicar of Netherborough, rotund, rubicund, and genial, standing with a select few within an enclosure of ropes and stakes, presented Mr. Huddleston with an address, and a ;^^^i;V-. ^sh'. ' ?*■• THi: Rl-t), Rt:i) WINE. «3 few added words of welcome. The contractor for the line presented the hero of the hour with a " silver spade." A little polished wheelbarrow, constructed for the purpose, was placed, with its dainty wheel upon a plank, the "sod was cut in a workman-like manner," so the reporters wrote, and was placed in the barrow for removal. His Majesty wheeled it along the plank, and overturned it at the appointed place with a smile and a nod that roused afresh the crowd to cheer. No navvy could have done it better, most likely not so well. Mounting a platform, improvised for the purpose, Mr. Huddleston delivc;ed a short and stirring speech. He congratulated the townfolk on " this auspicious turn of the tide of fortune, and predicted a rapid rise in the trade of the town and district. He referred to the fact that he had become a near neighbour as the purchaser of the Debenham estates, and gave an earnest and truthful promise to do his best to promote the interests of the good town of Netherborough." Mr. Norwood Hayes proposed a vote of thanks to their honoured visitor in his usual graceful and winsome style, and using, as he always did, words apt and fit and few. This was seconded by Dr. Marcus Medway, whose local popularity was based on his professional faith in port wine, which he freely prescribed and inbibed. Indeed he was accounted to be at his best and cleverest when moderately under the influence of that stimulating inspira- tion. Alas, for certain of his patients, the moderation often failed at need. Dr. Medway cut short his remarks with the intimation that a banquet was impending, and that a supply of ale ad libitum was awaiting the patronage of the crowd, " free, gratis, and for nothing." A treble volley of cheers was the least return that could be made for such a peep into a prospective land of bliss. At this point Miss Alice Hayes, a young lady of eighteen summers, stepped forward and presented a big bouquet. 1 -J ,- --rx ^ rfiMii JBSSm u THE RED, RED WINE. almost as sweet and lovely as herself, to Mrs. Hufldlestoil, who received it with a bow, a smile, and a blush, though the latter perhaps was not distinctly understood by some of the lookers on. Then the " Nelh'irborough celebrated brass band," with more metal than music in it, played " God save the Queen," and that portion of the ceremonial came to an end. The crowd dispersed. The select hundred and twenty, who had tickets for the bantjuet, retired to get ready for the evening's ceremonial, which was to be held in the big club- room of the Netherborough Arms. The crowd in general found their way to "The Green," which had become a veritable land of Goshen, where beef and beer and bread and cheese and ale were waiting to satisfy the hunger and to quench the thirst of all who chose to put in their claim. !^k»i: sJfifsik^- .■'i,j^--.5c'.^i>(*-'ii ■'-.-' . CHAPTER IV. OLD Aaron Brigham had been an intensely interested spectator at the afternoon's proceedings, but there was quite a shadow on his dear old face as he retired from the spot, and his white head was bowed as if the heart within him had been made sad. He was overtaken by Mr. Norwood Hayes. •* Well, Aaron," said he, " this is a good day for Nether borough, isn't it ? " •' Why," said the old man, speaking slowly and thought- fully, " I isn't so sure about it, as I was a bit since. I'se a good de?^ crubbled in my mind. Don't yo' think it was a bit heathenish, all that? Was there none o' yo' that felt like askin' God's blessin' on it? Didn't you nivver read aboot the man that put his money in a bag full of holes ? I did think o' puttin' a bit o' money into the railway myself. I hevn't much, as you know ; but there's a lahtle lassie that I'se varry fond of, an' I thowt it might help her some day. But if God has nowt to do with it, it's a bad investment, an* it won't do neither for Kitty nor me." "Why, youi see, Aaron," said Mr. Hayes, with a little laugh, though as a Christian and a deacon he felt a little bit uncomfortable. "A railway isn't exactly a religious thing, and—" '* Then it's an irreligious thing, an' neither you nor me has ony business with it. The devil nivver hit on a cleverer device than when he got folks .o call some things ' worldly things,' an' other things religious. Why, the very world itself is the temple o' God, isn't it ? An' there's nowt that owt to be goin' on it that isn't according/^. I teks mv n i 26 THE REt), RED VVlKE. IS hymn-book when I go to chapel ; and I teks my spade when I go to work i' my garden ; an' I try to praise God wi' both of 'em ; and I don't see that one of 'em's more religious than t'other. If it's right to have a railway, it's right that God should hev a hand in it ; His blessing will be like the wind in the mill-sails yonder — just the thing to make it go." " Well, well, no doubt you're right," said Deacon Hayes, «• but—" " Aye, aye, that's just i*:," said Aaron, striking his stick upon the ground ; " it's right, fiuf, an' the enemy o' souls sprinkles them * buts ' so thickly that the * right ' smothered out o' life like thin corn in a bed o couch-grass. O, Mr. Hayes, when will folks, an' specially religious folk, do what's right an' stick to it, an* leave the devil to use all the ' buts ' hisself." "Still, you will own tha*^ it's a good day for Nether- borough ? " *' I'se not so sure on it," said the straightforward old puritan. " You've not been content wi' leaving God oot o' the day's proceedings, but you've ta'en a bit o' special trubble to bring the devil into 'em." " What do you mean, Aaron ? " The old man stood still, laid his wrinkled hand on the arm of his companion, and said, " Mr. Hayes, what is the one great curse of Nether- borough? What is it that has made this little market-toon notorious, all the way to York on one side and all the way to Hull on t'other." " Why, intemperance, I'm sorry to say," was the reply. •' There's no denying that." " An' yet on this good day for Netherborough, as you call t, you've arranged for more than a hundred and twenty of your toonsmen to eat an' drink till midnight or the small hours of the mornin' ; an' you can mention the names of as many of 'em as will take twice across your ten fingers V* THE RED, RED WINE. 27 s i to tick 'em off who are sure to croon the festive gatherin' by being carried home dead drunk ! Worse than that, you've rolled whole hogsheads of strong ale on to the Green yonder for free consumption, an' before nine o'clock to-night scores of men an' lads an' women an' lasses will be reeling drunk or lying daft and senseless about the streets. That an worse things that I won't mention are to be the crownin glory of this good day for Netherborough, and what the newspapers will call the festivities of the occasion ! An' a clergyman and a deacon are to the front of it all. You've kept God oot, an' you've brought the devil in, and I don't envy you your pillow, Mr. Hayes." It was a strong talk, and, for old Aaron Brigham, a very long one ; but this Christian of strong moral fibre and old- fashioned strictness of principle, was angry and indignant, and was filled with sorrow as he thought upon the scenes on which the pallid moon would look down on the midnight of that memorable day. Mr. Norwood Hayes, good man, did not feel much like talking just then, which was much to his credit, for he could not in his conscience deny the truth of the allegations, and he was too manly a man to make light of what the old patriarch felt so keenly. Just as they were turning out of the Town-close towards the Green, the bonnie-faced, ill-clad, little mite whom old Aaron had lifted into his arms on Sunday morning, came shyly up to them, and looking askance at Mr. Hayes, as though she feared to intrude, placed her rough, red little fingers in the old man's hand, then looked him in the face with, oh, such an anxious look, and said, ** Ha' yo' seen anythin' o' feyther. " " No, my dear," said the old man, with a tender cadence in his voice, " not this afternoon. 1 saw him this mornin' an'," said he, lowering his voice, " he was all right then. I'll go an' look for him." MkMiil m.-'A- tA« ffW sS THE RED, RED WIKE. But little Kitty shook her curly head, and turned to scan the pathway for any sign of the object of her search. "Thenk you," she said, sighing as she spoke, i'but nobody'll do but me. I want to tek' him home. He won't go wi' nobody else. Mebbe, he won't go wi' me to-day." No, little Kitty, not even for you will " feyther " go home to-day, for is it not a " good day for Netherborough ? " And are there not barrels of strong ale running, sparkling and free, on Netherborough Green ? Old Aaron evidently felt the force of the little maiden's fear, for again he lifted her in his arms, and this time he whispered in her ear a few words, which had become familiar to the. child from his lips. "Jesus helps me, always will : I will trust in Jesus still." " Noo, then," continued the old man, still whispering, " say it to me, Kitty, if yo' mean it." In a moment the child's red little lips were at his ear, and the gleam in her eyes told that she meant it, as she repeated the words, "Jesus helps me, alius will : I will trust in Jesus still." Then she waited with her ear attent for the words she knew were coming. And they came, a precious message from the orphan's Helper, by the mouth of His servant, Aaron Brigham, — and, whispered as the aged lover whispered them, there was the voice of the gentle Jesus in every word. " Tell my darling little Kitty All my love and all my pity, Help her ? Yes, I always will | Kitty darling, trust me still." Before Kitty Smart was released from the old man's arms, tha little private service being over, Mr. Norwood Hayes "**'- 'li.lV-.: Jt.. ■ THE RED, RED WINE. 29 had passed on, wondering at Aaron's familiarity v/iLh such a forlorn little waif. Not that he would not have been glad to show favour to the poorest, for he was kind-hearted and sympathetic, and had ever an open hand. But what he saw between these two was love. A love which gleamed in the eyes, sounded in the tones of their voice, and made his own eyes glisten, though he was a mere looker on. Suddenly he heard a child's voice crying out loudly, " Feyther ! Feyther ! Stop. Ah want yo' ! " Mr. Hayes turned to look, and this is what he saw. Aaron Brigham's " lahtle lassie" was running along the road towards the Green, calling *' Feyther ! " In the distance was Tommy Smart, making his way with eager step towards the beef and beer — especially the beer. For a while he did not hear, and still held on his way towards the goal of his desires. Poor little Kitty was growing breathless in the chase. " Feyther ! " she cried in a louder key. Smprt turned round at once, and Kitty stopped, not willing to go further than was necessary from her dear old friend behind her. Tom Smart approached her with a smile, for he loved his " lahtle wench " as he called her ; as he came nearer his brow clouded, for he feared her ; she was the only being on God's earth who had any control of him. Just then the thought of the strong ale on the Green came to him ; the laughter of the roysterers who were already enjoying what was as free to him as them fell upon his ears. He stood still. Kitty walked forward to meet him, and then her feyther, rather than face her, rather than dare to gaze into her sweet, but tear-dimmed and reproach- ful eyes, and rather than be deprived of all that free beer, suddenly turned round without a word, dived down a narrow passage, and Mr. Norwood Hayes heard the sound of his retreating feet as he left his " lahtle wench " standing in the road- ^nd ran away like a truant who, if caught, must 30 THE RED, RED WINE. go to school. Can anything in the world but drink make a man such a coward, and at the same time such a cruel crusher of the loves and hearts of those who are nearest and dearest to him ? When Old Aaron overtook his little friend, they sauntered together through the town and along the Southgate all the way to Kitty's " home." And all the way the child wept in silence, unbroken but by sobs which shook her shoulders in their strength. Shr would fain have spoken, for the sake of her white-haired love, but grief choked her ; and it was only after they had got indoors that she was able to say, and then only in speech broken into syllables by sobs : " Feyther ran away fre' me. Ah don't think he'll tek notice o' me ony mair." Then looking at the "childer," as she called them, and thinking of what the loss of her little authority over " feyther " meant in the way of loss of bread, the " wee white slave " rushed to the old man, buried her head upon his knees, and wept such tears as, when they come from children's eyes, are blood and water, like that which came from Christ's pierced heart. From Christ's pierced heart such tears do come, for so sure "as ye do it to these little ones, ye do it unto Me." Of all the crucifiers of Jesus, surely the most cruel and malignant is strong drink — that "good creature" whom Christians not only tolerate, but patronise and enjoy ! As soon as Aaron Brigham had succeeded in drying the tears of his little friend, he left ihe house, promising to make it his special business to *' look efter feyther." Poor old man. His heart was sad and sore as he made his way to the Green. They say that in old age the feelings grow dull, the sensibilities decrease, and the sympathies decline. I hope this is not a necessary outcome of lengthened years. If it is, I think it would be much better for us to die before ' the wrinkles come to tell us that the best thing in us is THE RED, RED WINE. 31 ne. us. dead a'ready. In the case of Aaron Brighanr., however, most certainly this thing was not true. He had the heart of a child, the sympathy and affection possible to woman, the deep feeling which is one of the best characteristics of true manhood, and all these under the control of the Man Christ Jesus ! I knew him, and I aver it to be true. Nearing the Green, he paced the ground slowly, with eyes down looking, his hands behind his back, and a look of deep trouble on his aged face. Poor little Kitty ! That was the burden of his care. He was overtaken by Tommy Smart, who had only just come upon the ground after stealthily following Kitty until he saw her safe indoors. He would dearly have liked to pass the old man in silence ; had he seen him earlier, he would have " gone by another way," that favourite route of cowards and wrongdoers. "Tom !" said Aaron, as soon as he caught sight of him, " If you've the heart of a man i' your breast, yo'll go home to Kitty this minnit. If you don't, T ♦•^ink she'll cry her heart oot, poor bairn." Tommy Smart elected to take a bold style with the old man. " Nonsense, Aaron. The lahtle wench is all right, only let her be. You an' me's a'most ower late. You'd better stir your owd pins a bit. Them as gets on t'ootside o' the crood, are alius t' worst off at times like these. I should like to get into the middle myself." " Aye, and as near the barrels as yo' can get, I'll warrant, you poor simpleton. Tom," he continued seriously, " they say that this is a good day for Netherborough, but it'll be a bad day for a good mony o' yo'. It is a bad day for thy pretty lassie. O Tom, Tom, thoo'lt be the death on her. She'll die of a heart break ! There's sin an' trubble bein' sown to-day that'll bring a harvest o' shame an' sorrow that'll take mony a long year to reap. It's a parlous thing that such it day as this should end i' guz/.ling and wine bibbing, anc all that .hat sort o' thing leads to. But I'm aao 32 THE RED, RED WINE. 1 i most trubblec^ aboot thoo, Tom, not only for thy own, but for Kitty's sake." At this point Aaron la*.' ".iis hand on Tom's arm. The thirsty soul was starting off, anxious alike to get out of the old man's reach, and to get, as he said, " in the swim." "Tom," said Aaron Brigham, "go wi' me ; go home wi' me to my house, I'll give you as good a meal o' meat, an' as good a cup o' tea, and as good a pipe o' "bacca, as yo' ever had i' all your life ; an' I'll put something into a basket for yo' to carry home to Kitty and the childer." But Tom was not to be bribed off the Green at any price that honest Aaron could afford to pay. " No, thenk yo', Aaron, not for me," he answered lightly, " Fse varry much obliged to yo', I'se sure ; but it isn't good enough. It's seldom that a poor fellow like me hez sitch a chance o' gettin' a big drunk on sitch stingo stuff, an' all for nowt, an' I shan't miss it. There's plenty o' bread an' beef there, if I happen .0 be hungry ; an' there's butts an' hogsheads an' gallons of Carter's treble X waiting to be drunk, an' I'll ha' my full share on it, whativer fool turns his back on it. Good neet." So saying, the poor droughty victim of the drink thirst hasted on. The old man looked after him with sorrow in his eyes as he turned away, saying to himself, " * Till a dart strike through his liver. As a bird hastcth to the snare, and knoweth not that it is for his life.' To-day, the first sod's been cut for a new railway, and to-night the first sod will likely enough be cut o' many a* grave : an', I'se sadly 'feared, the grave o' mony a soul." CHAPTER V, WHEN Alice Hayes had returned to Throstle's Nest, she began to retail to her mother, in voluble speech, the great events of the afternoon, in which she had taken part. " O mamma !" said she, " we have had such a lovely time of it ! Mr. Huddleston, let people say of him what they will, is a perfect gentleman. Well, not exactly perfect, you know ; but perfect considering his — what-you-may-call-it — his origin, and — all that, you know. Mother, don't you think there's a lot of sheer nonsense about all that sort of thing? What's origin to do with it? 'A man's a man for a' that.'" " Don't you think that you are talking a good deal of sheer nonsense, Alice? I wish you would not run on so. You give me the headache, or rather, you make the one I have twice as bad, and that is needless, goodness knows. Take your hat off: sit down and be quiet." " Quiet, mother ! Who can be quiet on such a day as this? Nobody ought to, for, as papa said in his speech, * this is an epoch in the history of Netherborough ; * and didn't they cheer him when he said it ; and — oh, I was going to tell you — Mrs. Huddleston took the bouquet I presented to her so nicely and sweetly, and said, 'Thank you very much, my dear.' She's a dear, I'm sure she is, and she's going to have a ladies' party, and — " " Alice, dear ! " said Mrs. Norwood Hayes, raising herself languidly from the sofa on which she was reclining, " Excuse me, but I really must ask you to be silent. If 3 'W. ■■• I ..iii'UMii 'MM'>W. »-' .