M M w^* '--^ \ t/^ '^■^ K^/' \X % OPINIONS OF THE PRESS OF MR. MILLER'S PREVIOUS WORKS. " The author is enamoured of wood- land scenery and rural amusements ; he is, indeed, so imbued with the love of sylvan solitudes, that one would almost suppose him the resuscitated resurrec- tion of an Arcadian fawn, frisking in the labyrinths of a boundless forest. He is essentially poetical, he sees every object with the eye of a poet, and expresses his conceptions in language poetical, equally as to rhythm, metre, and figure. His prose is also good, both as to clearness of expression and correctness of style. He is a much better writer than many modern authors who, doubtless, think themselves his betters." The Times, May 19, 1836. "The high reputation which Mr. Miller had acquired as a novelist by • Royston Gower,' must excite in those who have read that able work a feeling which curiosity, with all its ardour, but imperfectly describes. The outline of * Fair Rosamond's ' story, as handed down by history, is powerfully calculated to affect the imagination — and it is but justice to Mr. Miller, to say that he has executed his task with the hand of a master ; the mind is hurried along with an impetuous anxiety, and made, as it were, a sort of actor in the scene, through the illusive power which genius imparts to its creations. The characters of Henry, and of the celebrated Thomas a Becket, are well drawn and sustained, Rosamond herself is drawn with a very touching and delicate pen; and there are some imaginative characters introduced, among them that of a half idiot, which remind us of the wild power of Scott." Morning Herald, June 3, 1839. " Mr. Miller never indulges in the fantastic verbiage with which our modern verse writers eke out the staple of a flimsy thought, nor does his muse throw the glittering garb of sentiment over the form of vice. We like his ' Beauties of the Country' much, it is Gilbert White written by a poet ; and possesses not only the quaint simplicity, but the high and honest enthusiasm of love for nature which we find in the works of that old Englisli gentleman, Evelyn." Bell's Messenger, June 22, 1837. " In his descriptions of the scenes, the objects, and the customs, which make up the attractions of rural life in Eng- land, there is no rancid cockneyism, no puling affectation, no mawkish senti- mentality — the reader is neither sickened by superfine humanities, wearied by artificial enthusiasm, nor offended by rustic grossness, — had he sojourned with Southey or Wordsworth on the pictu- resque shores of the Cumberland lakes, he could hardly have breathed over the minute and multifarious details of his subject a warmer hue of life, and love, and poetry." Morning Post, Feb. 27, 1837. *' This is a singular production, bear- ing in every page the stamp of origin- ality and genius; it is filled with deep pathos and picturesque description, and every page is crowded with thoughts and images, gathered from the rich store- house of nature. It teems with beautiful descriptions of old woods, flowery valleys, green leaves, and murmuring waters. The author seems ,to have been born a poet."— Globe, Oct. 4, 1836. " Mr. Miller seems to have been born a poet. His verse is the very personifi- cation of tenderness and feeling. There is so genuine a spirit, and such taste, harmony, and originality about his poetry, as to stamp him a man whose concep- tions emanate from the genuine sources of poetic inspiration. He is indeed nature's poet." Courier, June 16, 1836. *' Mr. Miller's descriptions of country life, which he has thrown into a series of sketches, are fresh, vivid, and natural. The subjects of these sketches are such as a homely countryman might be ex- pected to select, the old customs of the interior, snatches of rustic stories, pic- tures of rural life, references to ancient pastoral poetry, and the good old cheer- ful slumbering practices of our ancestors. We have some passages which have so much intrinsic beauty and fidelity in them, that we might almost venture to look for counterparts to them in Thom- son's Seasons." Atlas, May 4, 1839. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS— continued. *' There is a picturesqueness in the arrangement and colouring of his scenes (in * Lady Jane Grey') — an occasional glimpse, now of pathos, now of humour, quaint and popular but never vulgar, an ease in the use and combination of such few historical materials as suffice for his purpose, which put to shame the efforts of many who have been crammed in schools and lectured in colleges." AxHENiEUM, Feb. 22, 1840. " Mr. Miller already occupies a high rank among the writers of historical romance, he has taken the utmost pains to draw his historical characters with accuracy, from patient investigation of the best authorities. We have Lady Jane Grey, Northumberland, and others, all painted with singular fidelity. There is no exaggeration in aught that concerns the real actors on the scene. Another of his admirable qualities is that which we would expect from his former pro- ductions, his feeling in poetry, and his fine perception of external nature." Literary Gazette, Feb. 8, 1840. Royston Gower. *' The utmost an- ticipations that could have been formed of his powers are more than realized in this present performance. There was nothing in the * Day in the Woods,' brilliant and fanciful as many passages in it were, that betokened the possession of those qualities of an historical romance writer, which are in this work so strik- ingly exhibited. He has, in short, com- pletely verified the most complimentary predictions of his friends, and has secured a place among the many clever romance writers of the age." Court Journal, Feb. 3, 1838. " The author looks on nature with the enthusiasm of a poet, and on man with the benevolence of a christian ; he feels strongly and writes forcibly." Dispatch, Jan. 22, 1837. " Mr. Miller's poetry contains an in- trinsic excellence, which need not fear a competition with the most successful writers of the day." New Monthly Magazine, July, 1837. "Endowed with an innate love of nature and nature's beauties, he paints with a degree of enthusiasm and elo- quence, and elegance of style, which have rarely been excelled. Every sub- ject that he touches he paints with the pencil of a master." Morning Advertiser, Feb. 19, 1838. " Having spent the greater portion of his life in the country, he has been en- abled to describe its pleasures, pastimes, and enjoyments, its green fields, fragrant woods, and ever- varying scenes, with the pencil of the painter and the language of the poet." — Naval and Military Gazette, Feb. 4, 1837. ** It is gratifying to meet with a novel like * Fair Rosamond,' from the circum- stances that the author is a man who has not only well studied and considered his- tory, but that he is also one who conceives, reflects, and appreciates, in correct taste. As a minute and tasteful painter of scenery, both in reference to the quietude of sylvan nature and the portraiture of humanity in its various positions, Mr. Miller cannot be surpassed at the present day; he has, in fact, most carefully looked to nature in all her variety, and he is happily gifted with a power of per- ception not often possessed." Sunday Times, June, 2, 1839. " The author's tasteful eye for soft landscape and for forest scenery, and his love of ancient rustic sports and usages, impart grace to his narrative. He has made himself acquainted with the man- ners of the age which he undertakes to describe, and never outrages costume by those glaring anachronisms into which some historical romance writers are apt to fall."— Tait's Magazine, April,1838. " He has infused life and blood into his subject, has caught the true spirit of the age, depicted and shewn himself not only to be familiar with the habits and feelings of knights, of ladies fair, and all the characters and machinery of the olden time, but has transplanted himself with heart and soul to their situations, bringing out in respect of scenery, action, and character, a true, lively, and pic- turesque representation." Monthly Review, March, 1838. " The pictures of a country life — we can assure our city friends, are the life themselves, and such only as a man born and brought up in a village could have given us." Eclectic Review, July, 1839. " This is the book of a clever and earnest man, who thoroughly under- stands the subject he writes about, and a pleasant book accordingly he writes. It presents to the half-smoked, half- stifled indwellers of cities a healthy and fresh. blowing picture of life in the country." — Examiner, May, 12, 1839. EJi 1 n _;, -'L., __L„. GIDEON GILES THE ROPER. BY THOMAS MILLER, AUTHOR OP HOYSTON GOWER," " RURAI, SKETCHES," "BEAUTIES OF THE COUNTRY," " FAIR ROSAMOND," *' LADY JANE OREY," ETC. ETC. WITH THIRTY SIX ILLUSTRATIONS BY EDWARD LAMBERT, LONDON : JAMES HAYWARD & CO., 53, PATERNOSTER ROW, 184L LONDONs Printed by Manning and Mason, Ivy Lane, Paternoster Row. LIST OF THE PLATES. 1 Kitchen in the Fallow Deer 2 The Escape of Ellen Giles 3 Gideon Giles meets the Baronet 4 Walter Northcot's Reception at the Hall 5 Ben and Cousin William at Supper 6 Mr. Banes re-captures his Victim ... 7 Squire Bellwood's Interview with Black Boswell 8 Gideon Giles rescues his Daughter 9 Gideon Giles before the Justice 10 Banes visited by his Friends 11 The Quarrel at the Pump 12 The Attack on Walter Northcot 13 Banes consoling the Baronet ... 14 Ben Brust's Second Course 15 Black Boswell's Encampment ... 16 Gideon Giles taken up for Hawking his Goods 17 Ben Brust at the Prison Gate 18 Ellen Giles recognises her Guide ... 19 Ben Brust raising a Dinner 20 The Fate of Mrs. Brown's Finery ... 21 The Return from Prison 22 Banes' House on Fire 23 Squire Bellwood's return Home 24 The Marriage ... PAGE ... To face Title. 1 26 ... 39 51 69 81 ... 109 118 ... 137 153 ... 169 184 ... 207 218 ... 231 251 272 279 ... 290 313 ... 329 342 ... 355 369 Together with Twelve Wood- Engravings. PREFACE. In this volume I have attempted to produce a true English work — to make the scenery and characters thoroughly English, while the chief events of the story are such as have fallen under my own observation, and the interest centres on the effect produced by an unjust and cruel English law : and one which, for the love I bear to my country, I am ashamed to say, is in force at this very hour. To shew how great a check such a law is to honesty and industry, I have written this book, confident that every right-minded and honest- hearted man will agree with me, in wishing for the abolition of an Act, which has the power of imprisoning a poor man who, without a license, offers for sale the goods which his own hands have manu- factured. This law requires no learned man to unravel it, for unlike most English laws, it is " clear as the sun at noon-day." A poor man can sell the goods he himself makes in the town or parish in which he lives 5 he can sell them (without a license) at the very doors of those high-rented and heavily-rated shops which deal in the self-same articles he offers for sale, and which this Act was made to protect. Change the scene ; and let him offer the same goods for sale in the neighbouring villages, or at the doors of odd, lonely, and out-of-the-way houses, where there are none of these high-rented and high-rated shops to injure — where the inhabitants are compelled to go miles to purchase such articles as he brings to tlieir doors, and he is liable to a penalty of forty pounds, or three months' imprisonment ! How little does this Act vary from the hated Norman forest-laws — the '*vert and venison" of the feudal ages? Substitute parish boundary for forest boundary, and there is the same narrow neck of land on which the Saxon serf trod -, the doom is the same — a heavy fine, or the prison. PREFACE. Reader! supposing* you and I were journeymen (no matter about our trade); and were discharged by some master whom we had long worked for ? business becomes slack, and he is compelled to reduce his hands — such things occur every day ; we set out to seek work ; we wander, like Gideon Giles, many weary miles, but find none ; we return home to our families, — they have fared as we have done while away. We come home ; the workhouse stares us in the face. We I'esolve to sell part of our goods, or our clothes, the bed we have slept upon, or anything to muster a few shillings to begin with, in a small way of business for ourselves ; we will make any sacrifice to keep out of the workhouse. We begin to work ; make a few brushes, baskets, ropes, pails, no matter what ; we work on until we have laid out our last shilling ; but there are goods now, and we can sell them ; the cupboard is empty — perhaps the children crying for bread. Well, we go out to hawk our goods, pass the parish boundary, are informed against, taken up, and imprisoned for three months. Wife, children, home, all gone " at one fell swoop !" Such is the law of England at this very hour; and there are hundreds now living who have suffered under it. I need go no further than the case of the poor man who was imprisoned little more than a year ago for offering a work-box for sale, which he was the maker of, at Pimlico. Respecting the rest of my story I have nothing to say ; truth and fiction are here blended together, to make the work readable: as doctors disguise the taste of their pills by coating them over with something palatable, so have I here covered the truth, well knowing how difficult it is to get it down in this age. Nay, I have even forborne to lead Gideon Giles through such scenes of misery as I could have done, from the circumstances into which he falls, having sacrificed "the effect" which might have been produced by consigning his family to the poor-house while he is in prison. THOMAS MILLER. Southwark, Feb. 25, 1841. THE FALLOW DEER INN. GIDEON GILES THE ROPER, CHAPTER I. ^ THE FALLOW DEER INN, WITH AN ACCOUNT OF THE CONVERSATION WHICH TOOK PLACE BETWEEN BEN BRUST AND THE HOST, AND HOW BEN DISCOVERED AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. It was early on a fine May morning, nearly three years ago, when a young man of gentleman-like appearance, alighted from one of the northern mails at the front of the Old Fallow Deer Inn, Newark, — a comfortable-looking public-house, as all know who have travelled that road, which faces the "sweet south," and overlooks one of those rich pastoral landscapes, such as are to be found nowhere but in England. A rudely-clad, merry-faced hostler issued from an opposite stable, whistling the tune of " We '11 all be married when plums come in;" when nodding to the coachman, he patted one of the horses, and said: "This off-side leader improves a little, William ;" then, shouldering the heavy portmanteau, walked into the house. The guard touched his hat in acknowledgment of the handsome fee he had received from the young traveller; swung himself once more into his seat, blew his horn to warn a sluggish // waggoner to alter the course of his team, and the coach (with all its 2 GIDEON GILES muffled and thoughtful passengers) was soon lost to the eye in a dis- tant turning of the road. The young stranger, who appeared to be under twenty, followed the course of the vehicle with a calm meditative glance until it was no longer visible, when unlooping his heavy travelling cloak, he threw it carelessly over his arm, and stood gazing in silence upon the beautiful scenery which opened before him. The river Trent, curved its silver arm in the morning sunshine, and flowed along with a calm, sleepy, motion, through rich and expansive meadow- lands, where the gold of the kingcup and the radiant whiteness of the daisy, mingled with the varied green of the grass, over which the eye wandered with delight; until it was lost amid the sunny slopes of the uplands, the dim foliage of the far-off trees, and the dazzling distance of hill and sky. His reverie was, however, suddenly broken by the re-appearance of the hostler, who pausing in the midst of his favourite tune, looked with a smile upon the landscape, and said, " It's likely to be a fine hay-season, sir. I never saw the meadows look better; there's a good depth of grass." The young man turned round, stared at the hostler, and replied, "indeed," and was proceeding to link the beautiful lines together, so descriptive of morning, in Milton's "L' Allegro," when his matter- of-fact intruder again broke the thread of his meditations by saying, "Are you bound to journey further to-day, sir?" " Yes, to Burton Woodhouse," answered the traveller (for such shall we denominate the place fixed upon for the chief scenes of our story); "at what hour does the coach set out for the Low-road ?" " There is no coach along the Low-road now, sir," answered the man. " Those that used to run have gone all to smash long ago. Bill Bowley run himself into Lincoln gaol, and Frank Farrow, that started the opposition, got into debt all he could, then started off to America. He owed me a month's wages, sir." " But the road," said the stranger, " is there then no conveyance ?" " None that you would like to go by/' replied the hostler; " there's Turner, the carrier, but he doesn't go above two miles an hour, and stays to bait a long while at Newton. To be sure, there's the land- lord of the Black Swan will be past here about ten in his gig, but he only goes as far as Long CoUingham. As to a postchaise, they won't run that heavy sand road for less than double the common charge." THE roper: .3 The young man shook his head, paused a few moments, and said, *' Then I must hire some saddle-horse, and send the luggage by the carrier you have named. Who is there hereabout that keeps a good hackney V^ "Why, Matthew Garland has a pretty-going tit he lets out,'* answered the hostler, " but it ^s at grass now ; and a horse ought to be kept up over night on hard meat, to make it fit to run over twenty miles of heavy sand road. Let me see," and scratching his head a moment, he looked on the ground, then added, "there's Mr. Slack, but Jackson the exciseman had his little bay galloway out about a week ago, and got drunk, and broke both its knees ; it would hardly be fit to run yet. Joe Brommet's gone to Bingham, and won't be back before noon, then his horse will want a little rest ; Kitchen's has got the bots — no, I know of nothing at this end o' the town, sir. You'd better go by Lincoln away in the Defiance. It isn't above ten miles round ; and there's no other way of going with- out you walk." "And how long will that coach be before it arrives?" inquired the young man. The hostler pulled up one side of his waistcoat, straddled out his legs, and laying hold of a faded red ribbon, to which was appended a brass seal and key (bought of some hawker for gold), dragged forth a little old-fashioned watch, and said, " about three hours, sir. It 's now on the turn of six, London time ; my watch goes very regular ; I set it by the coachman's chronometer. Old Jim's generally here within a minute or so of nine." " I hope breakfast is not so scarce a matter along this road as coaches," said the young gentleman. " How say you, can I be accom- modated?" "With breakfast? O yes, sir! though ours isn't what's called a tip-top inn, you'll find every thing as clean and comfortable as if it was, and a good deal more so than some that I know." So saying, he led the way into the house. Notwithstanding the hostler's boast about cleanliness and comfort, the room into which the traveller was conducted presented an ap- pearance the very reverse of what was promised. This the guide (who had doubtless forgotten himself for the moment) detected at a glance, and he made off under caver of his favourite tune, though not before he received a volley of abuse from the servant girl, who was blackleading the grate, and exclaimed, " How could you think B 2 4 GIDEON GILES John hostler, of bringing a gentleman into the parlour when it*s in this state, and when you knew that Mr. Clark held his boot and shoe-club here last night; you might have shewn him into the kitchen till I'd done here; it is clean and sweet; but you never have no thought for one." And replacing the handkerchief which had slipped aside and exposed her neck somewhat too freely, she recommenced brushing the grate. The hint was not lost upon the stranger, nor did the room offer any temptation that might induce him to stay; for the tables bore visible signs of the overnight's business — the marks of ale-jugs, half- burnt splints, broken pipes, and the ashes of tobacco, with scraps of paper in which were left the remnants of unsmoked "penny- worths." The floor also was strewn with sand, which had received its share of the homely libation, while the chairs stood at all angles, and one or two which were overturned, seemed no bad emblems of the state in which the guests had departed; added to which, the apartment smelt strongly of tobacco-smoke, that (however pleasant it might have been on the previous evening) offered up such an odour, as even a lover of the "soothing weed" would fain have avoided. The kitchen or tap-room, into which the traveller now entered, was, as the servant-maid had described it, "clean and sweet," and very unlike such places as go under the same denomination in crowded cities. The slabbed floor was dry and white, having been well scoured with freestone, and looked (to use a country phrase) " as if you could have eaten your dinner off it." The tables had also the same clean appearance ; the long settle was bright and free from dust; and in a large old-fashioned fireplace hung the huge kettle, " singing its quiet tune," even at that early hour; while a good-looking damsel, niece to mine host, was already setting out the breakfast-table. The hams and flitches which hung around, told that this was a "land of plenty," while a goodly array of brass, copper, and block-tin uten- sils, plated spurs, bits and stirrup irons, with a number of other etceteras, such as are only to be found with their proper names in an auctioneer's catalogue, told that Betty the servant-maid must have a good deal of " rubbing and scrubbing" to keep them all in such excellent order. At one end of the settle sat the landlord, his foot cased in a large listing-shoe, and resting on a stool, telling at once a tale of good eating, good drinking, and — the gout. He was still a fine, tall, THE ROPER. 5 hearty, old fellow, with a twinkle of good humour in his eye, and a glow of health in his countenance, which was mottled with hundreds of small red lines, telling (as he once said in a merry mood) " of the number of bottles of brandy he had drank in his lifetime." He had been a horse-soldier, and guard of the mail ; had fought at more than one battle in the field, and encountered highwaymen on the road ; and now seventy, hale, and sound (excepting an occasional twinge of the gout), had, for the last twenty years of his life, settled down, staidly and (sometimes) soberly, into the character of mine host of the Fallow Deer. He made an attempt to rise as the young traveller entered, caught his gouty foot against the table-leg in so doing, swore a huge round oath, and bade him good morning in the same breath ; then smoothing down the wry face the accident had called up, resumed the conversation, in which he seemed deeply interested, with a man who sat on the same settle, and who, although at so early an hour, had already made deep inroad into a quart jug of ale. This personage was a man of remarkable exterior, large and fat, with a countenance that seemed as if it had never known care ; there was a kind of "come-day, go-day" appearance about him; he looked, to use a homely phrase, "a jolly-hearted fellow." And such a man in reality was Ben Brust, — one who never troubled his head with what his neighbours thought about him, — who never worked until he was fairly forced, or thought of obtaining new clothes until the old ones had all but dropped from his back. He looked too fat to think ; he was too weighty a man for care to bend down ; " waking thought" seldom sat on Ben's eyelids, for he had been heard to say, that " he never remembered being in bed five minutes without falling asleep ;" he was a philosopher in his own peculiar way. If he was hungry, he could make a meal in a turnip-field ; a bean-stack was to Ben a banquet : had you named poverty to him he would have stared, and said " he knew no farmer of that name," — still he loved a good dinner. A comfortable man was Ben Brust. Ben was married ; his wife was a thin, spare, cross-grained little woman, with a sharp vinegar aspect, so thin that she was nicknamed " Famine," while Ben was called " Plenty ;" he would have bumped down three wives, the size of his own, in any fair scale in England. Famine went out to work, while Plenty lay sleeping in the sunshine ; she was " scratching and saving," washed and cleaned for people in the village. Plenty sat on gates and stiles, whistling, or sometimes standing on the bridge would spit in the water and watch it float 6 GIDEON GILES away ; and, when the day was not very hot indeed, go on the other side to see it come through. "O, he is a lazy good-for-nowt !" his wife would exclaim, " but I never let him finger a farthing of my gettings. I keep my own cupboard under lock and key, and never trouble him for a bite or a sup, year in and year out ; all I desire him to do is to keep himself/' Ben, on the other hand, used to say, "a man's a fool that kills himself to keep himself. When a rich man dies he can't take his wealth with him, and I've heard the parson advise folks to take no thought for the morrow ; besides, it was a saying before I was born, that there is but a groat a year between work and play, and they say play gets it ; all the comforts of life consist in " snoring and brusting" (for such were the elegant terms he chose for sleep and food) ; as to clothes, a flower and a butterfly are finer than anybody in the land." Such were Ben Brust's sentiments, who now sat with his eyes fixed on the table, as if wondering to himself " why a quart jug was no bigger, and why they could not charge so much for a bellyful, without having such troublesome things as measures, which were only made to keep a waiter running in and out like a dog in a fair." There he sat, with his breeches knees unbuttoned, the tie of his neckerchief twisted in a line with his ear, one stocking half down, his waistcoat, just as he had slipped it on, and his boots covered with dust, for a brush, had never passed over theni since the day they were first given him by butcher Hyde. But let us not wrong Ben, for he could both feel and think ; and he who cared so little for himself, had been known to heave a sigh for the sorrows of others. And he was then talking with the host about old times, — and old faces passed before him. Death had re- moved many good dinners. Harvest-homes, and May-games, and all the good things he so well remembered, that were passing away with these ancient customs. And Ben sighed, a longer and a fainter sigh than what other people heave, but nevertheless as sincere. But we will resume the conversation which was carried on between these worthies, leaving our traveller, meantime, engaged with a good breakfast. " Hey! it's a many years then," said Ben, "since you left our village. I should think almost before my time ?" "A long while ! a long while !" answered the host, with a mournful shake of the head. " It's fifty years come next Lady-day, Ben. I THE ROPER. 7 was born in that old thatched cottage, that fronts the large elm on the green. My grandfather was born under the same roof." " It's been pulled down above seven years," replied Ben. " Farmer Rudsdale has built a new house on the spot ; you wouldn't know the place now, it's so altered;" and he drank another glass of ale. " Pulled down, is it?" muttered the host, with a sigh. " Then I shall never leave this house, until I'm carried out. I had thought, that if ever my niece got married, of leaving this business to her, and ending my days in that old cottage ; but it's pulled down at last; well! well! And the old rose-tree, that covered the front, it's gone too ! Do you remember the tree, Ben ? 1 set it when I was about the height of this table." *^ I do," answered Ben, " and many a May-garland it has helped to make. I've robbed it many a time, while Patty Simpson watched ; but she's dead and gone, poor thing. It was a fine old tree, and bore to the last." " It was! it was!" echoed the landlord, in a tone of voice which partook of sadness. " The last roses I gathered from it, Ben, were to put in a coffin, and the next day I went for a soldier— that's fifty years ago. Rebecca," added he, calling to his niece, " bring me my medicine ; I'm forced to take a glass of brandy in a morning, else I feel shaky." " It's a good thing at any time," answered Ben, "and far before tea; poor Joe Robinson used to say it was meat, drink, and clothing." " Ah, poor Joe ! " said the landlord, lifting the glass to his lips, then gazing thoughtfully at the fire, "I'd quite forgotten that he was dead, though Black Ralph, that drove the Diligence, wrote me word at the time ; but in some things I find my memory fails me ; poor Joe ! — he was on the box when I was guard of the Edinburgh mail, and we were stopped by highwaymen between Darlington and Durham. You've heard me tell that story (Ben nodded) ; well, he's gone! brandy and old age finished him, as it will me some day; poor Joe — a better hearted lad never sat behind four horses," and he once more drank deeply; when, after another long pause, as if calling up the images of those with whom he was once familiar, he said, " I reckon poor old Giles the roper, is dead and gone?" " Been dead a many years," answered Ben ; " he came down very low in the world before he died — lost his rope-walk — and had to become journeyman to his former apprentice, Tom Brown; poor fellow, he had his ups and downs." 8 GIDEON GILES " And his son, Gideon/^ continued the landlord, " he was over here some time ago; I hope he's more fortunate than his father/' " Not a whit," replied Ben, with a sigh; "he's getting into years now ; I should say past middle life ; and still works journey-work for Mr. Brown, as his father did beforetime. Poor fellow; he's had a deal of bother with Sir Edward Lee, about that hut and bit of waste land by the road-side ; and since the parish took up cudgels for him, and beat the baronet at law, he never seemed to like Gideon after. Lady Lee took Gideon's eldest daughter, Ellen, into service some time ago, but she left last week all of a sudden; there's been a deal said about it, for Ellen's reckoned very good-looking, and they tell strange tales about Sir Edward. Be this as it may, the lady and Miss Amy have often visited Gideon's hut, since Ellen left the hall, and never a week passes without their sending something by the footman in a basket; but it will all be known one day or other." Ben drank off his glass, and took up the jug to replenish it again, but it was empty. He looked into the jug twice, as if to make sure that his eyes had not deceived him ; something he would have said, had not his attention been attracted by the voice of the young traveller, who had listened attentively to their conversation, and now said, " Does Miss Lee still reside at Burton Woodhouse with her father?" Ben and the landlord looked with astonishment at the strano^er, for so engrossed had they been with their own conversation, that they had all but forgotten he was present, and had left him to discuss his breakfast in silence. Ben's look, however, was the most intent ; he raised his head gradually from the settle, muttered half aloud, "It is, no it's not, and yet, it looks like him" (the traveller smiled), and Ben sprung up, exclaiming, with a voice that made the roof ring, "Master Walter! Master Walter! to think that you should sit here so long, and me not know you, so often has I 've helped you to fish, and look for nests, when Miss Amy was — " " Yes, yes, I remember it well," said Walter, interrupting him, while his cheek coloured, and extending his hand with a familiar frankness, Ben shook it heartily. THE ROPER. 9 CHAPTER II. CONTAINS A FURTHER ACCOUNT OF THE HOST, THE TRAVELLER, AND BEN BRUST ALSO HOW BEN FELL ASLEEP BY THE ROAD- SIDE, WITH WHAT HE FOUND WHEN HE AWOKE, AND WHAT BEFEL HIS BULLOCK AND THE TINKER. We shall not trouble our readers with the conversation which im- mediately followed this recognition, — it was full of homely inquiries and plain answers about the living and the dead, and the changes which had taken place at Burton Woodhouse in seven brief years. Perhaps the young gentleman would have thought it beneath his dignity to have shaken the brown hard hand of Ben Brust, if he had met him in the village street; but Ben was the first object that brought "home'' before his eyes, and if our better feelings are awakened by gazing on some old familiar tree, stile, or footpath, after a long absence, why should we seek to shun the honest, though poorest, inmate of the lowliest cottage, if we have known him in former days? The human heart contains a thousand kindly sympathies, which are only held back by false pride. Ben's jug was again replenished, at the expense of the young traveller, and the cold roast-beef (which had done duty at the break- fast table) placed before him. The ale-glass was filled, and taking off his hat, Ben said, " I drink to your very good health, and safe return. Master Walter, and hope you'll never leave us again." And Ben held his peace for a long period, — even until the beef weighed a pound and a half less than it did when first put before him. Once he did speak, in answer to the host, who, observing he had eaten up all the bread, said, " there 's plenty more bread, Ben." "Thank you," answered Ben; "but I wouldn't give a pin for a man who can't make a meal of good beef, without bread. I think it's wilful extravagance." And helping himself to another huge slice, he proceeded, according to his own notions, to follow this new system of economy. Walter Northcot (for such was the name of our traveller) had resided, up to within the last seven years of his life, with his uncle, who was the rector of Burton Woodhouse. His mother died while he was but an infant; nor did his father (who had occupied the rank 10 GIDEON GILES of colonel in the army) long survive her death. Left thus early to the charge of the worthy clergyman, he felt not the loss of his parents, for never did a father love his son more affectionately than the good old bachelor did his nephew. Walter had been educated at Cambridge, and had already distinguished himself by winning the prize given by that celebrated University, for the best poem on the " Pyramids of Egypt," which had been printed and duly forwarded to his respected uncle. His limited funds had saved him from launching into those excesses which too many of the young students plunge into; but this had not prevented him from making friends amongst those to whom genius is ever the chief recommendation. But he had now quitted the " great seat of learning," and was about to spend the summer at the rectory, previous to entering the army ; for the wealth he inherited from his father was but little more than sufficient to purchase his commission. His uncle had written him numerous epistles, in which he pointed out the advantages to be gained by preparing himself for either the bar or the pulpit; but Walter's " voice was still for war," and his reason was, " my father was a soldier." Such was the position in which Walter Northcot stood at the time we bring him before our readers; and, as he is destined to play so prominent a part in our story, we deem it necessary to divulge thus much of his history. The worthy host of the " Fallow Deer " had known the young gentleman's father in former years, and now kindly remembered that he had some business with farmer Watkinson of Torksey, which was within two miles of Burton Woodhouse. "And now," con- tinued he, " as the day is fine, I '11 just have yon little black pony of mine put in the gig and drive over, if you've no objection to take a seat beside me." The young traveller frankly accepted the offer, and thanked him for his kindness in such a manner as made the host proud of his proposition, for he was one of that class who like not their generosity to be rejected, who offer not their favours for mere form's sake, but have more pleasure in giving than others have in receiving — and there are many such kind-hearted men as our host in the world. '^ If you would stay and take a bit of dinner with me," continued the landlord, " I should feel greatly obliged. We shall dine early, and the pony would run all the better after a good feed of corn, as it's been all night at grass. I'll warrant him to take us to Torksey within three hours, heavy as the road is ; and it will do me good to THE ROPER. 11 hobble out, and shew you my little garden, and stable before we start ; you'll find I'm comfortably situated in my old age." Walter Nortlicot was too much of a gentleman to refuse an offer which promised so much gratification to the feelings of the kind old host, anxious as he was to meet his guardian at the rectory ; and the landlord again proceeded. " Your father was a much younger man than me, but a kinder- hearted gentleman never lived. I remember his going up to London one bitter winter's day, many years ago, when I was guard of the mail; he was the only passenger, and he would have me dine with him where we stopped, when he found I was a native of the same village as himself. And he always spoke to me, meet where we would, ever after. Colonel Noi-thcot had none of your stuck up pride about him. Ah ! he was a kind gentleman." And the old man heaved a deep sigh, then took a long pull at the glass. " Well," said Ben, having now eaten until he was full to the throat, " I must think about going, as yon bullock I have to take is very fat, and butcher Hyde said, I was to drive it slowly, for you see, if I was to hurry it, the fat wouldn't set so well when it's killed. I dare say you'll overtake me on the road. Mr. Hyde pays for the quart of ale I had at first, as usual. I've another quart, and bread and cheese, allowed me at Besthorpe." "What, do you live without money yet, Ben?" said the host, casting a merry glance at his guest. " I thought you'd got weary of that plan before now." " No," said Ben, undoing the last button of his waistcoat, " I've never carried money with me since I heard that clever man lecture, as they call it, at Lincoln, when he fairly shewed that money's all moonshine, and made it appear as plain as the nose on your face, by proving that money can't be eaten. He was right, and so I've found it ever since by doing without ; yesterday I went to butcher Hyde's for some meat, and he says, * Ben, you owe me three shillings;' it's right said I, I do. ' Well,' says he, * you must fetch yon bullock I've bought from Newark, before I trust you any more.' Well, says I, if I must, I must ; and accordingly I came. He pays for all refreshment that's allowed me, next time he goes by. By the same rule, when I've run up a bit of a score with Matthew Fisher at the Windmill, for ale, and he won't trust me any more, I grind his malt, or what- ever he wants doing ; same with the baker, same with everybody. Clothes I never buy. No Master, lock vou up in a room full of money 1^ GIDEON GILES without victuals, and you would soon want to come out. It's all moonshine." " You are a strange fellow Ben," said the host, " and folks say queer things about you." " God forgive 'em," said Ben, " words do no harm. Lord bless you ! they talk against the king sometimes, but who believes 'em ? I wish they would talk against nobody else but me." And Ben chatted away at such a rate, that however much it might amuse the host, we fear it would but be wearisome to our readers ; but, be it remembered, he had drank two quarts of strong home-brewed ale. He then thanked the young gentleman for his kindness, grasped his huge stick, called to the dog, and puffing as if he had eaten until he found a difficulty in breathing, left the room with the grace of an elephant. Walter availed himself of the time occupied by the landlord and his niece at breakfast, in washing himself, and making such arrange- ments in his person, as, after a night's travelling, are almost as re- freshing as sleep. He was shewn into a neat little chamber for this purpose, the window of which overlooked the delicious landscape we have so faintly described. The walls of the room were hung with coloured prints, illustrating the History of Ruth,— the corn-field in which she was gleaning was painted in most "dashing yellow." The scene representing Boaz in bed, would have moved the staid muscles of a bishop — the set was unique. The bed was white and sweet, and as honest old Izaak Walton says, "you longed to lie in a pair of sheets that smelt so sweet, in a room stuck with lavender." The young traveller felt strongly inclined to rest himself for an hour or two, but was ashamed of being rallied by the host, who no doubt had many a tale in reserve, of the days and nights he had passed without sleeping. Walter Northcot was not one of those young men who think that gentility is enhanced by assuming habits of effeminacy, or that it was a lessening of his dignity to dine with the humble host of a road-side inn. The world would be all the better if the fetters which are worn by " high society" were broken ; if rich and poor were to meet together on a more equal footing ; if they would but oftener bear in mind that the king and the beggar are formed of the same " common earth ;" and that even the dog becomes endeared to his master by kindness. Rank requires a necessary distance, but assuredly it would lose nothing if the chain was not always kept at full stretch. Respect is a cold, unmeaning term, and stands for THE ROPER. 1^ nothing, without kindness and love. We have heard of a poor man who took off his hat to a great lord's dog ; he but paid the same compliment to " my lord." After breakfast, the host put on his best suit, in honour of his guest ; and, considering his years and the gout, managed to move about with tolerable freedom. He had many a little story to tell, and one connected with the blackthorn walking-stick on which he sup- ported himself; it was a present from some one who had gone some- where, whose brother once kept some inn, and lost so much money by " having" so many coaches, with a long tale of how much his father left him when he died. And Walter was much puzzled to disen- tangle the web of this intricate narrative; for brother was twisted with brother, and then came the father and his father, with such a confusion of tenses, as would have frightened a learned gram- marian ; and far be it from such unlettered wights as ourselves to venture upon a full explanation. The old man took the offered arm of his companion, paused at the door to point out the beauty of the landscape, uplifted his stick to mark the course of the river, shewed how far his own fields extended, told how many acres each contained, what plan he had adopted to bring them into such an excellent state of cultivation, gave him an account of "bush harrowing," and many other matters, to which his guest listened without once thinking he was a " bore." He then took the young gentleman across the road into his little garden, bid him not be afraid of the bees which were humming in the sweet sunshine, pointed out his promising crop of peas, pulled up a few radishes and onions to shew their size, told how many years such and such trees had been planted, what prizes he had won by his gooseberry bushes, in which he took especial pride. He then gathered a beautiful nosegay, supporting himself on his stick as he stooped, and having tied it up neatly, presented it to his companion. Having drawn Walter's attention to two cows which were feeding in the neighbouring paddock, he then led the way to the stable. The handsome pony was already munching its corn (for the hostler had lost no time in "fetching it up,") and pricked up his ears at the well-known voice of the host; he took a handful of grain from the crib, and next called his poultry together. Two of the finest pullets were that morning condemned to death, and a deep incision made in the primest ham, and many another little " kick-shaw," as Justice Shallow says, was in preparation for dinner. But lest our readers should have less patience than Walter North- ¥4 GIDEON GILES cot, we will pass by all the little kindnesses which our worthy host shewed to his guest ; make no mention of the good dinner he pro^ vided, and the "generous old wine" that sparkled on his board. We have a land of " wild adventure" before us, but must reach it in our own way ; and those who journey with us must be content to travel at the same pace as ourselves, remembering that we have set out in an old-fashioned vehicle along a cross-road, which neither Mac Adam nor railways have yet improved. Wishing them, however, to bear in mind that whatever tricks we may play with names and lo- calities, our characters are drawn from the life, and that the events we are about to record, are "ALAS ! TOO TRUE." After our handsome traveller had paid a parting salute to the sweet lips of the fair niece (an old-fashioned country custom), he entered the gig, and from the low curtsey of Betty the maid, and the many quick short bows of John hostler, there was but little doubt that he had remembered these worthy functionaries. The hostler led the pony a few paces, then off they set in gallant style, for our host was a most excellent driver. The town of Newark was soon past, and they made good progress along that little-known road, where a finger-post yet stands, and makes the humble pedestrian sigh, who knows the weary way, as he reads, "TO GAINSBRO' 25 MILES ;" and 25 miles of such road cannot be found in all England in the present day. Sand ! heavy, deep sand ; with but few alterations ; no doubt presenting nearly the same features as it did one hundred years ago. And what footsteps are now plodding wearily over it, and lialting by some bank to empty the sand^ from their heavy shoes, or cooling their feet in a wayside brook? we know not; years have passed away since we went on pilgrimage and penance along that path^ And poor Ben Brust broiled as he followed the bullock, for he was hot with ale and full of beef. Peter Pindar's pilgrim never cursed his unboiled peas more heartily than Ben did that sandy road in the " sweat of his great agony." Plod, plod, went the bullock, and ankle-deep went Ben. O! that cursed common beyond Besthorpe. Ben sat down on a bank to swear. He pulled his heavy boots off to ease his feet; by degrees he threw his head back on the bank, he watched a skylark as it soared singing into the sky, and wondered how it ever managed to mount that height, so hot as it was ; and then he fell asleep. While Ben was asleep, a tinker came by whose shoes were in a wretched plight, one of the soles having THE ROPER. 15 come off a mile before he reached that spot. He tried on Ben's boots, and found them a capital fit, and he walked away, leaving a shoe and a piece behind. Ben's dog was a long way a-head, keeping guard over the bullock, or the "mender of pans" would not so easily have made the exchange. The tinker looked hard at Ben^s hat, which lay beside him on the bank, compared it carefully with his own, and finding it the worst, kicked it into the middle of the road, and passed on. Shortly after, a cart, in which the driver lay asleep, came by ; the heavy wheel went over Ben's hat, and almost buried it in the sand. A boy in a smock-frock went whistling past before Ben awoke, he picked up the hat and examined it, without ever bestowing a thought on the sleeper, and saying, " It i'll dow femously for our Measter's scarecrow," walked off with the prize — but Ben slept on. Within the space of an hour our travellers drew up, and the merry host, on perceiving the sleeper, placed his hand to his mouth, and commenced a thundering " view hallo," which caused Ben to start like an affrighted fox. His dog too, which had by this time returned, added to the noise, by its loud barking. Ben rubbed his eyes, then stood staring at the travellers without speaking a word 5 he then looked round for his boots, and his eye alighted upon the wreck of a pair of shoes. " Well, I 'm ;" the words stuck in Ben's throat : he stooped, picked one up, and holding it by a flying patch, said, " Some cursed thief's stole my boots, and look what he 's left. I shall never be able to walk home ; the man that wore these shoes had two left feet. Whatever will my wife say?" " Bad job, Ben," replied the host, " make you remember sleeping with your boots off; but where 's the bullock? I don't see it on the road." Ben stared, and shading the sun from his eyes with his hand, gazed in silence down the long line of road ; but, saving a donky that was tethered to a post, no living object met his glance. Ben threw the shoes east and west, and bareheaded and barefooted (for he wore what is called " leggings," — stockings with the feet either cut or worn off), he set off at full speed to search for the bullock, whose course he was able to trace by its footmarks in the sand. The travellers slackened their pace to keep company with the unfortunate drover, for Walter would not consent to leave him in such a dilemma, and another mile brought them to the entrance of the next village. The dog ran on^ first, and halted before the pinfold, where it stood 16 GIDEON GILES barking. Ben looked through the gate, and saw his bullock in the pound ! he took hold of the lock, and his eye alighted upon a huge stone ; but he remembered the law, and began to damn the Pinder most heartily. ^^ Money's not all moonshine now, Ben," said the host, "you've found the beast with a vengeance, as Mossy found his mare." " It will take a good white shilling to liberate him," said Ben ; " and what the devil harm could he do on this road, without he could live on sand. Boots and hat gone too ; and I don't know a likelier man than this Pinder to have stolen 'em. A pretty day's work I shall make of it before I've done." " We must find this Pinder," said Walter, laughing at Ben, who stood scratching his head and looking through the gate ; then calling to a lubberly lad who stood by, he inquired where the Pounder of cattle was to be found. "You'll find him at th' yeal-house, zur," answered the peasant; " he alios goes there when he's pinned aught." " Never knew a Pinder far from the ale-pot," said the host. And they alighted at the Old Black Bull, for, as the landlord said, " a mouthful of corn, and a draught of water, would do the pony no harm after a run of ten miles." In the kitchen they found the Pinder, beside him reared his long staff, and before him stood a jug of ale. He was a tall, weather- beaten fellow, with legs well adapted to stride along a heavy road. He knew Ben at a glance, and offered him a glass of ale. A thin, grim-looking man, who sat beside the hob, began to buckle on his budget as the guests entered, and was making for the door, when Ben caught a glance at his boots. " Not so fast, my fine fellow," said Ben, " turn and turn about is fair play they say, and as my boots have carried you one stage so comfortably, why I think I'll just try them myself again for the next." " What do you mean," said the tinker, " by looking at my boots ?" " Come, off with 'em," said Ben, who had seized him by the collar, " you'll find the shoes you left behind none the worse for wear since you exchanged." And Ben uplifted his huge fist as he spoke. " These are none of your boots," said the tinker. " Had your boot a plate off the left heel ?" inquired Ben. "Yes, it had," replied the tinker, without hesitation. " Then mine had not," replied Ben, and he tripped up the heels of the tinker in a moment, to convince the company that he spoke the truth. THE ROPER. 17 The Tinker sat on the floor, and pulled off the boots without saying a word. " And now," said Ben, as he put them on, "just keep him a moment till I'm ready, and we'll settle this matter without going to law." Ben got up, and made his boots so rattle on the tinker's leather breeches, that the host swore he would never forget the sound while he lifted hammer to tin. The mender of pans roared out most lustily, as he ran off crest-fallen and barefooted through the village, amid the hootings and hissings of the guests. The Pinder was so well pleased with Ben's method of doing justice, that he offered to liberate the bullock without the fine being paid, though he swore he himself should have to pay the lord of the manor half the fee out of his own pocket. " That you will soon make up," said th« host. " It is only going out in the moonlight and throwing open a few gates, the cattle will soon find their way to the high-road, and then you know where to drive them to be safe." The Pinder grinned, but said nothing, and our traveller arose to depart. " Well," said Ben, looking at the Pinder and then at the ale-jug, *' we'll never part over an empty pot, as the saying is." " Fill it again, then," said the host ; and turning to Walter, he added, " you can tell them at Burton-Woodhouse, that Ben's never coming home again; for if he and the Pinder wont part over an empty pot, I'll be sworn they never will over a full one." This sally was received by the topers with such a laugh as even gratified the host, who had paid for the liquor. Walter was seen to slip something into Ben's hand before he departed, and the gig was again speedily in motion, and soon left the marks of its deep narrow wheels in another mile of weary sand. " Now," said the host, as they rode along, " Ben has settled yon business in a much better way than dragging the thief of a tinker before a justice. Fending and proving, and committing the fellow to prison, would never have had half the effect on him that this public punishment has. I '11 be sworn its the first time in his life that ever he was ashamed to shew his face in the open day." They passed along, by homesteads and villages of but little interest — places were a club-feast, a wedding, or a death, were the only changes that seemed to move the dreamy and listless inhabitants. They arrived safely at Torksey; and as Walter Northcot had formerly known the wealthy farmer where the host stopped, he 18 GIDEON GILES could not well refuse the invitation to stay tea, which the handsome daughter, with a low curtsey, said, " was already on the table." The sun was sinking behind the woody uplands of Nottingham- shire when Walter bade a kind adieu to the host ; and as the distance he had to traverse was but short, and every spot of ground familiar to him from his boyish days, he refused the offer of a horse, and set out alone on the footpath, which on the one hand skirted the river Trent, and on the other sloped down into green and luxuriant meadows. CHAPTER III. A DASH OF THE DESCRIPTIVE WITH A DISCOVERY MADE BY WALTER NORTHCOT, WHICH SOMEWHAT PUZZLES HIM, AND WHICH THE READER WILL IN DUE TIME BECOME ACQUAINTED WITH. Walter Northcot was then alone, and for the first time after many years traversing the very scenes which were endeared to him by a thousand fond recollections, — he cast his eyes on the ruins of the old castle which were gilded by the last rays of sunset, that shot a dusky splendour through the rugged loop-holes and shattered mullions, now shorn of all their gaudy glass, and remembered that the last time he visited those ruins, he was not alone, — and how should he be received by that beautiful being, whom he had handed up the broken turret-stairs? for whom, at the risk of his neck, he had climbed those crumbling battlements to gather the sweet wall- flowers ? He sighed, and walked thoughtfully along, as he uncon- sciously answered, "Amy Lee is now a woman;'' and his fancy again conjured up the image of her stern father; but he knew not then into what an awful abyss the proud baronet was plunged. On he wandered in that lovely May evening, inhaling the balmy aii', which came with all the sweetness of heaven upon earth, for the hawthorn was in full bloom, and threw out a rich aroma from its white and pinky blossoms. The willows on the banks waved to and fro like flowers in a stream, and the river glided along in the rich sunset like a moving mirror of gold. Sometimes the surface was broken by the finny tribe, as they rose to snatch at the hovering insects, and the ruddy ripples circled out to the reedy shore, bowing. ' THE ROPER. 19 for a moment the tall water-flags and the rustling sedge. Walter Northcot saw a beauty in the scene he had never before witnessed ; he had heard the ring-dove coo a thousand times from the fir- plantations, but the sound had never before fallen upon his heart so subdued aiid spirit-like a voice that seemed calling him home. The grey twilight began to dim the face of nature as he sauntered along the river banks, and while within the last field or two that led to the village, he heard a light footstep behind him, and turning round, beheld a beautiful peasant-girl, who made a low curtsey as she passed, and without raising her eyes after the first glance, whispered a low sweet " good night," in answer to his greeting, and was soon lost in the deepening twilight. Walter was more struck by the symmetry of her figure, which was almost faultless, than the beauty of her countenance, for there was a natural grace in her motion very different to that of most country maidens ; a tripping lightness in her step, and a freedom in the waving of her arm, while the little basket she carried sat upon her elbow more with the ease of an ornament than a burthen. The young man thought he had seen her face before, but it was associated with the figure of a girl, and he tried in vain to recal to mind the handsome young woman whom he doubted not was a native of the village. That she was poor, the humble neatness of her attire foretold, and he went on musing to himself until other thoughts occupied his mind. At length he descended the bank, and passing between the barrier of willows, pursued his way along the edge of the river, for it was now near low-water, and the ground, which the ebb had left dry, was smooth and hard. The sun had by this time set, and nothing was discernible in the west but the billowy gold of the clouds, which like broken and crested waves had swallowed up the wreck of glory that still shone through the depths into which it had descended. The distant line of hills, was dim and indistinct, and saving the dreamy whisper of the willows, and the low faint murmur of the river, all along the shore was silent. Leaving him for a few moments to enjoy the beauty of the scenery, and proceed homewards at his leisure, we must follow the steps of the maiden who passed before him on the bank, and having climbed the stile, was lost to sight by the high hedge that divided the fields. She had not proceeded far before she was met by a tall man who,^ from his looks, must have been between forty and fifty, and whose outward garments bespoke him a gentleman. The young woman c 2 20 GIDEON GILES trembled as he approached, and looked back in alarm, as if to see if the stranger was at hand that she had before passed. But Walter had descended the bank, and had it even been broad daylight, the height of the willows would have shut him out from her gaze. " Be not alarmed, Ellen," said the stranger, who saw that it was her intent to descend the bank to avoid him, " on mine honour I will not harm you." " I am not afraid," answered the maiden, in a voice tremulous with affright, as she made a circle through the wet grass, and passed before him. '^ Walk not so fast," continued the man, keeping pace with her, for she seemed to hesitate whether or not she should run. " I have much to say to you ; many things that you must know. I have a plan for bettering the circumstances of your family — of placing you in a station that becomes your beauty. Ellen, I would be a friend to you." " God, in his goodness, will send us help when we need it," answered the young woman. " Seek not to do me further injury 5 you have already compelled me to leave the service of a kind lady: and — " she was silent, and walked along at a quicker pace. *' Well, well, that is past," said he, placing his hand on her shoulder, and drawing forth a well-filled purse which he attempted to force upon her; but she slided from his grasp and descended the bank, although the grass was wet as a river with the dew. " Come, be not so foolish," he continued, holding out the purse, " here is what will make up for a long loss of service; when it is gone I will give you more. Come, Ellen, and be friends with me." The girl shook her head, and again passed on before him in silence. '^ Think of the offer I have made you," continued her tormentor ; " accept it, and I will purchase the cottage to-morrow, furnish you with a servant, or you shall choose one. Will not this be better than marrying some clown, and rearing up a race of beggars to fill yonder New Poor-house, and living in rags and misery all your days? Come, be kind to me, Ellen, you know how madly I love you." He made a sudden stride, and unexpectedly threw his arms round her waist. *' Let me go, for Heaven's sake," exclaimed the girl, sturggling to free herself. " Let me go, I entreat you. My little brother is very ill, and I have been to Torksey for his medicine ; this hindrance may be his death, for the doctor bid me speed. Some other time I will THE ROPER. 21 listen to you. Remember that you have daughters of your own ;— that they may — '* But she pleaded in vain, for he held her securely in his grasp, and drawing her face towards his own, stopped her breath with his lips; he swore he loved her, called her his angel, his dear Ellen, and vowed that without her he could not live a day or an hour. His breathing became thick, his eyes flashed with fierce passion ; and while he released his arm from her neck, to draw her yet closer, she raised her voice and called aloud for help, and extricating herself by a powerful effort from his grasp, let fall her basket, and shot from him like an affi'ighted fawn. Walter heard the scream, and, dashing through the willows, soon gained the summit of the bank, though at a short distance from the spot where the man still stood : as for the maiden, she was already out of sight. He halted within a few paces of the stranger, and, without observing him closely, glanced around as if in search of the object that had raised the alarm -, but seeing no one saving the indi- vidual that stood before him, he said, " I heard a voice as of some one calling for help, and having seen a young woman pass by a few minutes ago, feared that she had been attacked by some ruffian. Heard you no one call, sir V " It might be some boy shouting to his cows, or the creaking of a gate," answered the stranger, and was about to pass on, when Walter drew nearer and said, " I have the honour of speaking to Sir Edward Lee, if I mistake not ? I am Walter Northcot." " Ay, indeed ! I hope Mr. Northcot is well," said the baronet. " I should scarcely have recognised you had it been noon- day, instead of this owl-light. Do you purpose making any stay at the rectory?" "It is uncertain," replied Walter. "It will probably be at the end of autumn before I take up my comrnission. I hope Lady Lee and and the family are well." There was another name on his lips, but he remembered himself. "Why yes, all tolerably," answered Sir Edward, coldly. "You will of course look in amongst us when you have leisure." "Thank you, I shall not be unneighbourly," replied Walter; " but intend paying my respects to the ladies in the morning. But what is here ?" said he, observing the basket, and the articles it had contained, which lay scattered on the grass. " If I err not, this is the very basket which the young woman bore that passed by so recently. 22 GIDEON GILES Did you not meet her, Sir Edward? she would scarcely have had time to pass the park-lodge." " I might/' answered the baronet, colouring ; " but I observe not the rustic maidens so closely as to notice what they carry. Good night, sir." He raised his hat and passed on. Walter stooped down to collect the scattered contents of the basket, as he said to himself, '^ I will leave them at the first cottage I pass; they may be of consequence to some poor family.'^ So met, for the first time after seven years, the father and the lover of Amy Lee. Walter went along musing to himself, and sorely puzzled how to account for the appearance of things. That he had heard a voice calling for help he could not doubt ; but then — Sir Edward Lee so near at hand — and no other person visible ! he could not suppose that the baronet himself had molested the maiden. Indeed such a thought did pass through his mind, but it was only to confirm the impossibility of such a thing happening; and having reached the park-lodge, he deposited the basket with the old gatekeeper, who, as it was dusk, and she somewhat near-sighted, failed to recognise his features; nor did he make himself known. The old woman shook her head, as if to say, she knew too well to whom it belonged. The baronet walked on until he came to the stile before mentioned, when, waiting for a few seconds, a man approached stealthily along the hedge-side. *< Is it you, Banes?" was the first question. *' It is," answered the man. "I have been waiting this half hour, and should have come up before, had I not seen a stranger loitering about the banks." "She has escaped us for the present," answered Sir Edward; **you will turn the horses' loose into the far-field nearest the wood. Some other night we may succeed. Is the woman you spoke of to be depended on ?" "There is no fear of her," answered the man; "for since the affair about her child, which was found drowned, she seems to have no wish to change her quarters; and nobody's likely to trouble her while she keeps herself snug up yonder by the wood." "I should think not," answered the baronet. "But there's no doubt, I believe, about the child's being drowned by accident." " I have none," replied the man ; *^ if I had, although I don't pretend to be better than my neighbours, I would not live under the same roof with her." THE ROPER. 23 '* Well, then, hold yourself in readiness," said Sir Edward. "I have hunted too long to despair of running down the prey. If you can get her safe up yonder without my help, all the better. Use her as gently as circumstances will permit, and remember she has every thing she desires excepting her freedom." The man promised, touched his hat, and departed, muttering to himself, *' I'll be sworn a heiress of twenty thousand might be carried off with half the trouble ; but old fools they say ." And so mumbling as he went along, he reached the bottom of the field, unloosed the horses from the gate, and the sound of their hoofs was soon lost as they passed the brow of the opposite hill. Sir Edward Lee retraced his steps, and entered the gateway of the park in the moonlight, without ever deigning to cast a glance at the couchant greyhounds, which, cut in stone, were stretched on the summit of either pillar, or the escutcheon with its sinister hand couped, and erected gules, which his forefathers had so dearly pur- chased when escutcheons were first sold by the politic king James. The proud baronet was madly in love, — for so is the name profaned to express a guilty passion ; — and how to gratify this all absorbing feeling occupied his waking and sleeping thoughts. CHAPTER IV. IN WHICH THE READER REACHES THE COTTAGE OF THE ROPER, AND BEGINS TO SEE HIS WAY A LITTLE CLEARER; AND WHAT MRS. BRUST SAID TO BEN, AND HOW FOLKS OUGHT TO BEHAVE AT A DINNER-TABLE BEFORE COMPANY. A little way beyond the field, which was the scene of the adven- ture narrated in our last chapter, and upon one of those slips of land which so commonly skirt the road-side, and are denominated "Waste," stood the cottage of Gideon Giles the rope-maker; or roper, as he was usually called. A narrow garden of considerable extent stretched to the right of the cottage, and was fenced off from the highway, by a low, thick-set hedge. The ground itself bore the marks of most excellent cultivation, and considering that it was wnai is commonly called " a kitchen garden," displayed no small degree of taste. The strength of the closely-clipped hedge, and the dimen- 24 GIDEON GILES sions of several of the fruit-trees, told at once that this was no very modern enclosure. A neatly-built stye and cowhouse shewed that the proprietors had formerly been " comfortably situated ;" but these were now empty, — and from the moss and lichen which were fast overgrowing the lumber thrown into the sheds, an experienced eye might easily discover that they had long remained unoccupied. There was a look of comfort in the exterior of the cottage; the windows were clean, the door-stone white, the very besom looked clean, the mop was well wrung and reared an-end to dry ; the pails were left to drain, and many another sign of neatness proclaimed that "woman's ready hand was there !" On the opposite side of the road extended the moss-grown wall of the park, which stretched along the whole length of the village, then forming an abrupt angle, — again ran in a westerly direction, beside delicious meadows, and was bounded by the broad and beautiful Trent. And many a time did the proud owner of those rich domains sigh, as from his hall windows he beheld the blue smoke arise from that humble cottage, and curl amid the foliage of the huge oak by which it was overhung. And long would he gaze in the moonlight on that thatched roof which sheltered the beautiful form of Ellen Giles. King Cophetua, in the old ballad, pined not more for the fair beggar-maid he so fondly loved, than did the proud baronet for the lowly daughter of the Roper. But it is into the interior of Gideon Giles's cottage that we must now conduct our readers. The moon had by this time climbed beyond the dark line of woods that crown the range of hills above Burton-Woodhouse, and lighting the thatched roofs of the village, shone full upon the case- ment of the Roper's cottage, as it broke in between the broad leaves of the ivy, which partially overrun the lattice, and here and there threw a chequered light on the floor. Before the fire sat Gideon Giles, nursing a sickly child, while his wife was busied in the affairs of her household. There seemed something stern in the countenance of the Roper, as it caught the full blaze of the firelight ; a marked decision on the brow, which plainly told that he was not a man to be trifled with ; and this look was strengthened at the moment by the deep frown which clouded his features as he gazed thoughtfully upon the fire. Although naturally a man of strong passions, care and suffering had done much in sobering down these dark colours ; but if the fire had become low, and wasted, the hot embers were not yet extinguished, and few men were sooner roused by oppression or THE ROPER. 25 insult than Gideon Giles. It might be that hard work and the " struggling" a poor man has to rear up a large family, had some- what soured his temper ; yet he complained not, but kept his priva- tions to himself; — he troubled no one for assistance. Sometimes on a Saturday night, when he went to drink his pint of ale, and smoke his pipe at the White Swan, he ventured his opinions on politics, biit these were never severe. If he thought the poor man would fare better with a cheap loaf, he had no wish to pull down the industrious farmer ; he looked beyond this, and thought that the wealthy land- holder ought to let his tenants sit under easier rents. But other thoughts occupied his mind at the time he enters upon our pages. " Ellen is late," said he, without changing his position, " you had better hold the child ; and I will set out to meet her. It is but a lonely path across those fields." " It was seven when she set out," answered the wife : " and if she had to wait, she has scarce had time to go and come already, for it has not yet struck nine. And perhaps the doctor might be down at Nanny Penny's, for John Marshall called in as he went past at dark- hour, and said, she'd had a sudden touch of her old complaint." And she opened the door, and stepped out as if to fetch something, while she listened a moment for the returning footsteps of her daughter. " You should not have sent her so late," said the husband. " I could have gone over myself when I had left the rope-walk, — but, take the child, — after what has happened, it is not safe for her to be out at this hour alone." " I will but make him a little camomile tea first," said the wife, becoming every moment more alarmed, yet wishing to conceal it. "But lors-a-mercy, there's Martha Barker often goes as late as ten o'clock, and nought happens her. But I shouldn't have sent her so late, had, not Billy's cough been worse, and beside, I thought you would be tired, for you've walking enough all day, backwards and forwards in that long ropery, and — But I hope nothing's happened her." '* Happened her ! " said Gideon, starting in his seat, and awaking the child, which gave a low moan, and called for " Elle, want Elle," — and, Ellen Giles rushed into tlie cottage. " Thank God, I have escaped him !" were the first words she uttered, as she fell into the arms of her mother. " Him ! who ? what ? has he again dared to molest you, after the 26 GIDEON GILES warning I gave him?^' were the hurried inquiries of the father as he arose and placed the child on a little bed made on two chairs at the far corner of the cottage. " I will go and tear him out of his hall by the throat. I will do it, in the very teeth of his servants:" and he made for the door; but his wife suddenly turned round, and with her daughter still leaning upon her bosom, firmly planted her back against it. Gideon raised his arm, but lowered it again in an instant; he was a man of "iron frame," and one swing of his long muscular arm would have hurled mother and daughter across the apartment, but he drew back, and with the palm of his hand, struck his forehead. " Not to-night, Gideon," said the wife, waving him back as she spoke, " not to-night ! It may but be some drunkenly meddler she hath met with returning from the ' Statice ,' and he is far away before this time. Perhaps he but tried to steal a kiss, as young chaps will when they've had a sup of drink, and you know how shy she is." Gideon sank back into his seat, and sat for a few moments, with his face buried in his hands, vowing vengeance against the Baronet, for on none other did his suspicion even glance. Meantime, Ellen gradually recovered herself; for hers were not nerves to be long shaken after a fright ; but the speed at which she had escaped had left her almost breathless, and she sank as much from fatigue, as fear; nor had her senses for an instant forsaken her: for when her father arose with the threat upon his lips, she made signs for him to desist, although he observed them not, — her heart beat too quickly to speak. When she recovered, the quick drawing of her breath, the fad.ed colour of her cheek, and the confusion of her dress, still shewed signs of the late struggle ; for her bonnet would have fallen, had it not been for the firm tie of the ribbon, and her shawl only escaped through the secure hold of a pin, while the front of her gown shewed more plainly the marks of the invader, for the bosom had been dragged at with such force, as to tear out one or two of the loop- holes by which it was fastened. But Ellen Giles looked lovely even in her disarray, though her hair had slipped from the braid, and her bosom panted like that of a dove that had just escaped from the pouncing hawk. It was sometime before she could acquaint her father with what our readers already know : many of the strong points she softened down, — " Sir Edward offered to carry her basket—perhaps she was LC>y €:6i^l^y /TT- (0^^!/^y7l/ A^^ THE ROPER. 27 too fi'ightened — he had hold of the handle — he might have taken too much wine." And as she from time to time caught the eye of her mother, so did her narrative subside, and the assault appear less aggravated ; for she knew that her father was a lion in his wrath. Gideon paced the cottage as he listened to her, his step sometimes slow and measured, then again increasing as his passion rose 5 for it was sufficient that his daughter had been insulted, and his anger was not easily to be lulled. " Is it not enough," said he, *^ that I have slaved early and late to bring up my children; that I have taught them to distinguish right from wrong, and shewn them that poverty and virtue are preferable to riches : that now, they are able to reward me for all my care, the spoiler should come with his strong hand and proud name, and because they are poor, snatch them up as things worthless ; as if our very blood must be made to pay tribute to their pleasures ! But face to face will I meet him, and put him to shame. He shall see, that poor as I am, the feelings of a father are not to be trampled upon, that the arm of a humble Roper, when uplifted in a right cause, is as strong as that of a Baronet's \" " Passion," says an old writer, " vents itself in poetry or oaths, and the lover, like the wrathful man, can but vow, or tenderly swear." But Gideon Giles was no common man, although a roper. He was a deep reader and a deep thinker, and though James Kitchen had been heard to say, ^'he was almost too ' cute' for a poor man," yet he confessed that a man might be both poor and "nationly clever" at the same time. ** But think, Gideon," said the wife, a lover of peace at whatever price she might purchase it, " how kind Lady Lee has been to little Billy since he was ill. And that never a day's passed without Miss Amy calling to see the bairn. I believe if it hadn't been for her sending John over on horseback as she did, he might have been dead afore this time ; and her sister Lavinia — how kind they both are ! And you ought to remember, that bad as Sir Edward is, he is still their father. And I am sure they love our Ellen almost as much as if she was one of their own." The worthy woman uplifted the corner of her apron, while Ellen pressed her young brother to her bosom, for she knew not what to say. "They are very kind," replied Gideon, "nor do I wish to shut my door on their favours : they but do what I have done to others — it is their privilege. But these are not things to be bought at the price of our child's good name. Poor we are, God knows, but we are above want ; and I would have the humble head stone that marks 28 GIDEON GILES the grave of my father free from a stain ; and that lowly plot of ground in which we shall all one day sleep, known as the resting- place of the poor but honest roper's. But I will meet him on the morrow." He walked about for some time until his passion had subsided, and then brought forth <^ the big old Bible, once his father's pride." It fell open at that beautiful chapter which contains Christ's sermon on the mount. Gideon read it through with a feeling of deep reve- rence, while his wife and daughter listened with profound attention. While he was reading, the old woman from the lodge brought in the basket which Walter Northcot had left in her care. She set it down without speaking a word, and waited in silence until he had done reading, then, bidding them all "good nighf , departed. She was at no loss to divine the cause of Ellen's flight. Although Gideon Giles made no profession of religion, still he read a chapter from the Bible almost every night. It was an old custom of his father's, and he was never known to omit it. Gideon, however, did not read on Saturday nights after he came from the White Swan — his reasons he never assigned. Trouble must not prevent poor men from working ; and the humble roper climbed up the ladder that led to his welcome bed, for he knew that he must rise early to labour. He had decided that he would call on the Baronet as he returned from breakfast. His pas- sion was now cooled down j for he knew, that although a poor man, if reason and shame had no effect on the wealthy landowner, Eng- land had still her pow^erful laws, and these were strong enough to protect the daughter of the honest peasant from the grasp of the proudest peer. But the wheels of justice too often move reluctantly along, unless set a-going on a golden railway. We shall not at present follow the footsteps of Walter Northcot to the rectory, where his uncle received him with open arms, while the kind-hearted old housekeeper stood by and wept for joy at his return. Walter was weary through travelling on the previous night, and retired early to rest; but not before he had looked through his window at the hall of the Baronet, and seen a light shine through the same casement that had been his evening-star in former years. And had Amy Lee forgotten him ? No ! her cham- ber wundow darkened, and she saw the well-known light across the park, which told that her lover had returned. She might have met the old housekeeper by chance that evening, at the lodge, and heard THE ROPER. 2§ tidings of his coming,— but the old woman told no tales: though when Walter was seated at the supper-table, and the Parson's back was turned, she said, " Somebody, I know, sat in that chair this morning, master Walter; but if you guess, I shan't say who, and she forgot her glove, and here it is." The young man snatched it up iii an instant, but what he did with it, our story sayeth not. Meantime, Ben Brust had reached home in safety, and gone to bed. He inquired of the next neighbours if they had seen his wife. " Yes, she had gone out with a basket, and they dare say wouldn't be long." Ben was fast asleep when she came home. His slumber was, however, somewhat shaken by a blow in the ribs, and the sharp shrill voice of his wife exclaiming, " how you snore ! — do you hear what I say? my cousin William's come over from Corringham." Ben grunted, in the darkness, and began to snore again. "He's coming to dinner to-morrow," continued the wife, "and I've bought a nice bit of a loin of mutton." " How much," inquired Ben, for he at last began to hear. " Two pounds seven ounces, good weight," answered Mrs. Brust, " and as I 've got to go out to wash to-morrow at Mr. Thornton's, you must stay at home and cook it, and try to make cousin William comfortable. He's about the only relation I care for." " Is he much of a eater?" inquired Ben, whose thoughts began to run on the forthcoming dinner, — " two pounds seven ounces a'int much." " It's plenty, though, and would last me a week," replied the spouse, " and I shall leave you fourpence for a quart of ale, and see that you make him at home, — and put the meat down to roast exactly at twelve, and set the potatoes on at a quarter or twenty minutes past ; he comes at one. And don't let the meat be done to death on one side, and left raw on th' other." " I reckon there's plenty of bread and potatoes, to make up, if we should run short?" said Ben. " There's plenty of everything," replied Famine, "and a good deal more than you would get for the nearest relation you have. And what's more, not a farthing of the money that bought it, is of your ' addling,' (earning), I can tell you that, Ben. And another thing I've got to say, if you don't nail yon palings up, to keep the pig in, I'll sell it next market-day, and you may go cough for your next year's bacon for me. It's been out to day, and eaten up nearly all the young cabbages in Mrs. Farr's garden, and she swears ven- geance against it." 30 GIDEON GILES " The pig must have a living," replied Ben, " and she should keep her garden-gate shut ; how could the poor dumb animal know it was doing wrong? But I'll drive a few nails in to-morrow or next day.*' " Well, see and do," said the wife. " I shall set the table out before I go to work in the morning, and try if you can make shift, without putting your fingers in the salt-cellar. And don't sop every drop of gravy up with bread while the meat's cooking, nor eat such big mouthfuls ; and remember not to lay hold of the meat with your hand when you carve — such filthy ways. Cousin William lived groom in a gentleman's family, and knows how to carry himself I can tell you. I've a receipt how to behave yourself like a Christian when you dine with folks, which cousin William copied from a foot- man's book, as had some money left him, and got to live among bettermost-sort of folks. I wish you would read it afore he comes to-morrow; they tell me it contains a deal of good advice; but you're snoring again, you lazy brute, and one had as good try to teach a pig how to be polite as you." Benjamin had indeed fallen asleep during the latter part of this admonition. To the curious in matters of etiquette, we submit the following hints, copied literally from cousin William's receipt, and entitled — - "how to goe on when yu goe out to see cumpenny at a dinner. " Item, If yo hav to eat fish, and happen to swallor a bone, and bee choked, dont make no more noise nor yo can help, but drink lots of watter. Nor dont stick it on yure fork if it aint ower sweet, and say this smells ^queerish;' and if yo hant a knife, and cant get it up well wi bread, leave it, for its reckoned not the thing to scope it up wi your fist. " Item. When yo sup broth, be sure yo dont take the dish up wi both hands, and sup it soe, for it may happen to all run down your busum and so scald you nationly. Nor yo musn't lick your spewn when yuve done, and look at it and say, " O," it looks soe, slaping your tung out. Nor dont stick it in your teeth, and make meagrams wi it, to set folks laughing, and make em choak their sens. ^^ Item. If yuve a lump of fat, or ought on yure plate yo dont like, dont goe and slap it on somebody else's plate, and say, ^ I cant eat fat,' cos it looks as if you'd had no broughting up. Best way is, to slip it on, on the sly, when they aint (are not) looking ; same THE ROPER. ai if yo want to take aught off their plates, do it, and say nought; but real gentlemen never do these things. " Item. If anybody axes you to hand 'em aught at a table, and yo don't want, don't say, ^ I shan't, my meat ell get caud,' but seem as if you didn't hear 'em, and eat awa^. If it's a lady, you may be polite enough to speak, and say, ' I wood rather not malm, axe th' next chap.' ^^ Item. If yo happen to cum into a room afore th' dinner's cum'd in, and don't no anybody much, it 's reckned polite to speak, and yo can say, ' fine day zur, or malm,' just as it hoppens, but don't say, ' Do yo think we shall hev ought that 's good for dinner, an if yo hev to carve, will yo cut me a good lot,' for it looks as if you 'd bed nought to eat for a month. " Item. In tip-top company, yo'U see a great glass bason full of watter, staning again your plate : this ai'nt to sup, but to wesh your hands and face in, when yo 've dun, — though there aint no soap, but you mun may shift wehout. Sometimes they bring rose- watter round in real silver; you musn't drink this neither, for though it smells nicish, it aint very nice to sup. Yo may dip your hankercher in, if it's clean. " Item. If anybody axes you to tek wine we hem. It doesn't mean yure to go and fetch their's away and sup it ; neither are yo both to drink out o' th' same glass. Yure to do nought but look at 'em, and mek a polite bow, touching your yhead we your hand, like a lad does when he meets the parson o' th' parish, — then sup it all off. If you aint a glass, don't be sure you sup it out of the dick-canter, but say, ^Waiter, I'll be nationly obleged to you, if you'll just bring me a glass to sup my wine in ;' You munt tek a spewn. ^' Item. You ought alios to eat we a fork, but I've seen a book called ^ Hints on Eat-a-cat,' where they say a spewn 's best for some things. For if you cut your meat and things up first, then teck a table-spewn to shuve 'em into your mouth we, why it ell do, thofi'the forks are nobert spewns we nicks in, yo may manage wi a fork if yo shuv the stuff" on forst (first) wi (with) your fingers." " There 's a good deal more in John the footman's book, which he's promised to lend me some other time, then I'll copy it all out." 32 GIDEON GILES CHAPTER V. SHEAVS HOW BEN BRUST COOKED THE DINNER, AND HOW A SLIGHT MISTAKE OF TIME AFFECTED COUSIN WILLIAM. The next morning found Ben Brust at his post, for there was no employment upon earth more suited to his taste than that his wife had left him, — it was no pleasure in perspective, for there lay the reality before his eyes. He bestowed great care on the fire, and sat about half an hour before it with his coat off, until the whole front was one glowing red. The clock struck, Ben was punctual to a moment, and before the last stroke had sounded, the mutton was turning before the fire. No miner about to blow up a fortress had arranged his materials more carefully than Ben had: the fork was stuck in the hole of the mantelpiece; the worsted all ready for action, the stool planted to an inch, and the dish put in the right spot to catch the gravy; the skewer had long before been thrust into the joint. He turned the worsted round, and soon saw the delicious joint follow the right motion, the sure-slow pace, that told how "regularly" it would be done; and he rubbed his hands with delight — he licked his lips in ecstasy. When the fat began to drop, he could not resist the temptation of breaking off a piece of bread from the loaf, and having a sop : he thrust it at once into his mouth, and it so tickled his palate that he exclaimed, " deli- cious! sweetest bit of mutton that ever looked into a fire!" He then put on the saucepan, for the potatoes were ready peeled. He looked the very picture of happiness : as he saw the mutton begin- ning to " brown," his countenance was lighted up with " sweet anti- cipation;" the pleasure, that, feeding the eye, was so soon to be relished by the mouth. Then he began to wonder what sort of a man this cousin of his wife's was. " If he's not a big eater," mused Ben to himself, " I shall come in for three ribs out of the ^Ye. If he is, I must contrive to cut my two the thickest, and so make it up that way." And he stopped the progress of the meat for a moment, and taking up a knife, drew a line across it, to ascertain how he might manage to cut himself the best share, and yet give his wife's cousin the three ribs. THE ROPER. 33 BEN BRUST PREPARING FOR COUSIN WILLIAM. " cutting aslant will do it," muttered Ben, and the joint was again set in motion : "it would have made five prime chops," continued he, for he had counted the number of bones a dozen times : " it must have been a sweet, pretty loin before it was cut ; five chops ainH much for two full-grown men, and meat looses a little weight in cooking." His mouth then began to water, for the smell was growing delicious, his broad nostrils dilated, he snuflTed up the rich fragrance with de- light, and uttered a long, deep " Ah, glorious ! " The potatoes were boiling beautifully ; he took off the lid to pre- vent them from doing too fast, he tried them with a fork, they were becoming soft, all was going on as it ought to do ; the red gravy had began to fall, he had another sop, and this time sprinkled a little salt on it, "Capital!" said Ben: he looked again at the potatoes, they were beginning to crack, he got up and poured out the water, threw a little salt over them, let them stand over the fire a few seconds, shook them up, and taking another survey, exclaimed with delight, " Mealy as flour ! " then sticking his fork into one, he dipped it into the gravy, and then into the salt, and it went down almost whole ; it did burn his throat, but O ! the flavour it had, Ben thought it worth the suffering of a thousand such momentary pangs. "The meat is about done," said Ben, "I'll away and fetch the ale before he comes, else he'll * maybe' be having a sop whilst Fm 34 GIDEON GILES out." And he took the fourpence his wife had left on the mantel- piece, and trudged off for a quart of ale, taking care, however, to lock the door, for fear his wife's cousin should come. Ben had not far to go, and was soon back, and when he again opened the door, he stood still a moment on the threshold to inhale the provoking scent, which came both stronger and richer after the fresh air he had breathed. Just as he had taken down the meat, the clock struck twelve — he had mistaken the time one hour, and what made it more provoking, he had tasted the meat — a little morsel that stuck out and was crisped — Ben sighed at the disappointment. He sat down in his chair and contemplated the little joint, he looked lovingly upon it, his jaws began to move, his mouth became moist, he wiped his lips with his sleeve, and said, "Pity it should spoil when it's just done to a turn, and one so hungry, I'm afraid I can't wait a whole hour — while one might walk four miles ! and the clock's got to tick — let's see — sixty seconds is a minute, sixty sixties — one, two — how slow time goes 1 Happen he mayn't come, but I won't look at the meat." He shut his eyes, determined to resist the temptation; but it was of no use, he saw the luscious joint — the very spots that were browned, the mealy potatoes that were piled on the dish, just as well with his eyes shut as open, for they were imprinted on his "mind's eye," and while his eyes were shut he licked his lips. " He's none of my cousin," said Ben, opening his eyes, "although he's my wife's, and I don't think he would wait of me if the dinner was spoiling ; I don't know him, never was beholden to him for a bite or a sup in my life, then why the devil should I wait for him? I'll get my dinner, and leave him a fair half." Ben felt hungry, and his reasoning went in favour of his appetite ; he was not a man divided against himself. He lifted the dish on the table with as much ease as if it had been a cork, "Mutton soon sets," said he, and he dashed through two of the ribs in an instant ; he eat the first at seven mouthfuls, the second at eight, and it was mar- vellous to see his handiness in cleaning the bones, but his knife was veiy sharp. '* Happen he's not a big eater," said Ben, looking wist- fully at the remainder of the joint, "and if he is, he can fill up with bread, what right has he to the best half, and me only one out of the middle? he hasn't come to see me, and what's two little chops for a big man like myself? I '11 have another." No sooner said than done. Ben knew to a hair's breadth where to strike for the joint, his knife gi'azed upon the next bone: "This one's prime," said he, "a good THE ROPER. 35 thickness.'' He took up the dish and poured all the gravy on his potatoes, saying, "It's no good cold." Ben was just four minutes finishing the last chop, then he drank two glasses of ale. The potatoes now caught his eye ; there were but two left, and these were small ; he took up his fork and mashed them, they looked less. ^* Plenty of bread, however," said Ben. He then gazed at the meat, it appeared like one single chop, he turned it all ways, saw how it looked laid down, tried both sides, shoved a piece of bread under to raise it. It seemed nothing; '*Wish I'd an onion," said Ben, ^'1 would make him a little hash ; plenty of water and cut it small, he would never notice the meat, and I 'm sure I 've had none too much. What is two pounds and a half? Why the bones and the cooking would waste half a pound; I hope he'll not come — dang it, it does look a bit, I'm ashamed of seeing it." He twisted the dish round, took off the meat and put it on his own plate, but he could make no more of it ; " Good mind to go out," said Ben, '*and leave him to make the best of it, else throw the bones away and swear some dog stole the meat. Dang my buttons ! I won 't, I '11 eat it all, I may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb." Ben went to work once more and cleared the dish, even to the last drop of gravy, which he cleaned up with his bread, he then drank off the ale. " And now," said he, " I '11 lock the door and go lay down, when he comes he may knock till he's tired, he can't get butter out of a dog's throat, and grumbling 'ell take away his appe- tite." Ben was as good as his word ; he locked the door, went to bed, and in a few minutes was fast asleep. Ben had only just buttoned up his eyes, when cousin William made his appearance. He was a tall, gaunt fellow, with a heavy stoop in his shoulders and an im- mensely wide mouth ; he also possessed that enormous length of jaw which is said to be the unerring sign of a good "trencherman." He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his smockfrock, before uplifting the latch, for Mrs. Brust had promised to get him a "bit of fresh- meat for dinner," and he had been living on bacon nearly the whole of the last twelvemonth : — he wiped his mouth and thought how much he should enjoy it ; then he tried the door, and found it locked. " Gone for the ale happen," said cousin William, and he looked down the village street, in the direction of the White Swan, but beheld no Benjamin. He then began to reconnoitre the interior of the cottage, by peeping through the keyhole; he saw the table, and caught a glimpse of the plates, and then made for the window, and saw at a glance that dinner was indeed over — hopelessly over ; for there lay d2 36 GIDEON GILES the clean bare bones. Cousin William had discovered that the key was inside, and having no doubt but Benjamin was there also, com- menced a loud knocking at the door, saying, "I'll let him noah a piece o' my mind afore I goe." Benjamin heard, but answered not ; the chamber window was, however, observed to shake, and one of the neighbours said she "believed it was owing to Ben shaking his great fat sides we laughing to think how he'd done his wife's cousin." William walked down to the White Swan, and called for half a pint of ale and a slice of bread and cheese, and while he was eating it, told the company how he had been invited to dine with Ben Brust, and said, "I believe he's eaten up all the dinner, and gone and laid him down." "Very likely," said the landlord, "he came here about twelve for a quart of ale, and said that he expected you, and that his wife had bought two pounds and a half, off a prime loin of mutton, and it was just done to a turn when he was here; but I dare say you was behind your time, and he thought you wouldn't come, so eat it, for fear it should spoil." " Why dang his buttons ! " said cousin William, " I was there to the very minute, and then I was too late." He finished his bread and cheese , and called Benjamin everything but a gentleman. CHAPTER VI. description of the park of burton - woodhouse, and the meeting of gideon giles and the baronet with sundry reflections, which have puzzled wiser heads than the author's. True to his promise, on the following morning Gideon Giles entered the park, determined to reproach the Baronet for his misconduct to his daughter, and to warn him of the course he intended pursuing in case she was again assaulted. The old porteress at the lodge lifted up her hands as he passed, and said, " God speed you on your errand, Gideon." He muttered a low " amen," and trod the broad carriage- road with a firm, and fearless step. The humble Roper traversed the winding avenue, which was overshadowed with tall and stately elms — the growth of nearly three centuries — and sighed as he thought of THE ROPER. 37 the owner of those rich domains. He mused over its proud posses- sors, whom death had swept away — of the triumphs and festivals which had ushered in their " coming of age" — the gloomy train of mourners mustering in solemn array when they died — the black hearse and nodding plumes, wedding favours and music, that had waved, and sounded, down that long aisle of elm-trees— and he walked along, sad and thoughtful. Sometimes his eye caught a glimpse of level and lawn-like pastures, where the sunshine slept on swards of velvet, that glowed in the richest green of spring. Further on, the broad river heaved in sight, now sparkling through the distant landscape, and again hidden by some clump of noble oaks, until it was once more revealed through the opening of the copse, that seemed to sweep, winding and woody, to its very brink. In some places the ground swelled into verdurous hillocks, reared pile above pile, like waves of flowers, then sank again into deep and delicious valleys, above which peered the thatched roof of a deer-shed, or the topmost boughs of the sheeted hawthorn. Gideon looked around, and marvelled why one so undeserving should dwell in such a paradise, forgetting for the moment that every bosom must have within itself its own quiet heaven. In some places little enclosures extended to the barriers of thicket and underwood, and in these green solitudes flocks of sheep were seen grazing; their long flaky wool forming beautiful contrasts beside the foliage, and breaking the monotonous colour of the uplands, by masses of dingy white. Sometimes a straggling deer crossed the sunlight of a distant glade, and moved leisurely along, until only his lofty antlers were seen above the burnished gold of the furze or broom. Then the eye swept over a sea of foliage, masses of light and shade, bronzy, and silver-bright, some hanging lightly together, or overspread by gloomy pines, that darkened the springing under- wood, and saddened the sunshine which streamed feebly onhazel or hawthorn beneath. Anon, the road diverged into wild bridlepaths, or ridings, and wound through wooded solitudes, where the ring- dove built and the grey rabbit burrowed, and the gaudy plumage of the pheasant might be seen peeping between the briars and bracken — spots where a care-worn man might sit and brood, until he reconciled himself to the follies of the world, and learnt to pity and forgive mankind for all the injuries they had done to him. Seek out these sweet solitudes, all ye who are sick and weary at heart! for nature hath a balm that will heal a thousand maladies ; she will send a gushing thrill through the sinking spirit, will raise the 38 GIDEON GILES drooping head and the desponding heart, and shed over the darkened soul a tranquil light, that will fall upon it like a rich sunset, and streak the coming night of the grave with a subdued and solemn splendour. There is something in lonely fields and silent woods that seems to subdue the iron of our nature — that melts the sterner feelings, and makes us feel a spiritual alliance with the green and living things around ; and we think how other eyes, in future years will be gazing on those very scenes, while we, freed from all feelings of hatred or love, sleep beside friend or foe, unconsciously ; while suns rise and set upon our graves, and the busy world, with all its cares and heartaches, can interest us no more. And from these thoughts spring others of a more tender nature ; we become wiser, and grow better ; we see our own weaknesses, and feel our own follies ; and we seem more able to bear with the faults of our fellow-creatures ; for we know that in a few brief years, the fever and the fret of this life will be at an end, and the great eternal morning break at last upon all alike, and that mystery, which the fading eye of king and clown sought in vain to penetrate, shall be revealed. It might be that some such thoughts as these passed through the mind of the humble Roper as he threaded his way along the wooded paths of the park, and he muttered to himself, " We shall at last sleep in the same churchyard.'' He turned up one of those secluded bridlepaths which we have already mentioned, and which was the nearest way to the hall, — for the park covered an immense space of ground. The road he now pursued was one that was but seldom traversed, for it wound past a spot which tradition had associated with some murder, committed many years ago by one of Sir Edward's ancestors, and the place bore an evil name. Owing to this, the pathway had been neglected, the grass rose high and rank in the very centre of it, and the straggling bramble and rugged furze, grew on unmolested in the very spot which in former days the beautiful daughter of the hall, and the humble domestics, were wont to traverse. The trees had also mingled their branches together overhead without interruption, and so intertwisted bough with bough, that it was only in a few places, in the height of summer, when the gloomy pathway was enlivened and chequered by the piercing sunbeams. By degrees the road widened, until it shewed a more open and desolate space than any the Roper had hitherto passed. A dark and sluggish pool of water, extending to a considerable distance, was overhung with black-firs, and other trees of dense foliage, which added to its gloomy and melancholy appear- rS^^y?-r6y q£Zs^-^ ^ru^^^' -^M^' ^^ ^^ OyUTTZSl.^ THE ROPER. m ance. An old fountain, now partially overgrown with long moss and wild weeds, which had shot out from the fissures, stood in ruins amid the solitude ; for it had been partly destroyed, and suffered to fall into decay, and all that remained was the lower portion and the shattered head of a dolphin, from the jaws of which still trickled forth a stream of water, fed from some neighbouring spring on the hill. The low mournful sounding of the waterfall was the only voice that broke the silence which reigned around. Beside the ruined fountain stood a bold, bare, and blasted oak, presiding like a huge skeleton over the scene; it seemed to tell a tale of leven- fire and forgotten thunder-storms, for the bolt and the blaze had long ago laid low its ancient head, and it stood like a landmark of time, pointing out to its own destruction. Gideon Giles paused a moment to gaze upon the scene we have described, and*when he again raised his eyes, Sir Edward Lee stood before him. The Baronet might have stolen away unperceived, so deeply was the Roper wrapt up in his own thoughts, and so noiseless was the approach of the former on the grassy pathway, had not his dog first given the alarm. As it was, however, they met face to face, and stood gazing on each other for the space of a few moments in silence. Although the Baronet stood erect, and tried to appear composed before his opponent, still his colour changed from red to pale, and his eye quailed before the fixed glance of Gideon, as the latter exclaimed, with a firm deep voice, " Sir Edward Lee ! art thou not ashamed to look upon my face, after the insult offered to my daughter?" He raised his arm as he spoke, and pointed out his finger, and the rich man stood appalled before the poor one, but answered not a word. "Was I a wealthy man like yourself," continued the undaunted Roper, " the society in which you move would no longer consider me worthy of the name of a man unless I made an attack upon your life; — I am not a man of blood, — if I were, on this spot would I wreak my revenge." " Do you dare to threaten me. Sir," said the Baronet, now bridling up, though his voice trembled as he spoke ; " Remember who I am, and where you now stand." " I dare defend the honour of my child," said Gideon, his look growing sterner as he spoke ; " Provoke me not to do what I dare in this spot we are at least equal." He clenched his teeth together, and his hand closed as if involuntary ; another angry word, at that moment, and he would have struck the proud Baronet to 40 GIDEON GILES the earth; — but he spoke not, and Gideon mastered the rising" passion which was fast overpowering him : he turned pale as death for an instant — then again seemed to become calm. '* Let us change places/' continued Gideon : " fancy for a moment it is your own daughter— that you stand face to face with a man who has attempted the dishonour of Miss Lee, — it was last night, — and you meet him now in this solitude. Ten years ago. Sir Edward Lee, and had this happened, that dark lake should have closed over either your body or mine ; — then I knew no law saving my own passions ; — even now I am tempted ." The words seemed to stick in his throat. — Ten years ago, and the face of the Baronet would have blackened beneath such emotions. Gideon Giles would have taken justice into his own hands and even then the old devil raged furiously within him ; and man in his anger, like the brute, seems still to pant for blood. The law itself can in some cases only be appeased by taking away life : can it be expected, then, while this is done with a shew of pity — perpetrated coolly with hymns, and prayers, and tears — no passion, even no ill feeling, but done with signs of love and sorrow — that a man deeply injured, should, in the height of his anger, shew mercy ? Oh God ! what solemn mockeries are daily displayed before thee ! Well might that great poet "who spake o' th' people as if he were a god — not a man of their infirmity,'' before whose eyes the human heart stood bared like a book plainly written, exclaim — "Man, proud man, Drest in a little brief authority, Most ignorant of what he's most assured — His glassy essence — like an angry ape, Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven As make the angels weep." " I can offer no excuse," said the Baronet, after a long pause : " I am no longer what I was. Your daughter's image hath taken possession of me — sleeping or waking, she is ever before me. There is a curse upon our race ; I foresee my ruin but cannot prevent it. Gideon ! I love your daughter, and were I free would make her my wife. Wave not. your hand — I cannot help it — it may be madness; I have tried to forget her, but in vain. I will deal plainly with you, how- ever this interview may end. I am no longer my own master." Gideon Giles kept his eye riveted on the Baronet as he spoke ; and there appeared something so sincere in this unexpected con- THE ROPER. 41 fession that he was staggered for the moment, and almost at a loss to reply. At length he said, "You admit, then, that you are doing that which is evil, yet persevere in the crime. How would the robber fare in a court of justice who offered the same plea ?" '* He would be shewn no mercy," answered the Baronet ; " he would deserve none. Justice hath raised up this maiden to be a scourge to me, for the wrongs I have done to you. Yet they sprung not from any bad feeling towards yourself, and now I would well, it matters not ; all my resolves are weak." " Whatever dispute there may have been between us respecting the slip of land I hold," said Gideon, "the law has already ended. But my daughter is dearer to me than these things, and that justice, which has once protected me from ruin, will not be appealed to in vain. It will be painful for me again to have recourse to it, and I would fain avoid it. Consider yourself for a moment, sir, — the fame of your daughter, your own name standing so high in this county — the honour of your family. Then think of what you are doing — of what you have already done — of the pain your conduct inflicts upon others — of the punishment it must in the end call down if you per- severe. Pause ere it be too late." The Baronet was not naturally a bad-hearted man: but ''love," says an old writer, "is the loss of reason; neither is it to be sup- pressed by wisdom, for it is the strongest possession nature main- tains ;" and his imagination had clothed Ellen Giles in a thousand charms which she never possessed. He saw in her nothing but perfection ; in his eyes, she was an angel upon earth ; and the world has contained many fools like Sir Edward Lee ; for love is a bedlam into which men shut themselves — the brain becomes a madhouse, where reason raves with reason of its own making, and clamours down every other thought that may spring up, until the whole man is mad, and sober sense walks away, or sleeps until he again recovers. Marriage, the great keeper of this bedlam, daily performs a thousand marvellous cures : he is a good, sound, sensible physician, and has done more to bring mankind to their senses than all your Socialists will ever do, were a million of years allotted them. The bit and the spur of matrimony manages the most restive steed — it makes your cooing lover talk like a rational being ; it would have restored the Baronet to his senses : but there was a bar to his passing through the sober hands of this great keeper of bedlam, so he assigned his malady to fate — this was the reason for his madness. Neither are we in all 42 GIDEON GILES things masters of ourselves — the drunkard still drinks in spite of good resolutions. The man at death's door sometimes recovers, and for- getting all past vows, and, even with them weighing upon his conscience, follows his former evil habits. The thief who, two years ago, was all but drowned in the Serpentine river, and walked away with the coat of a fellow-sufferer who was just struggling between life and death, and when even he himself had been given up for dead, might have resolved five minutes before to leave off his evil practices, and doubtless consoled himself, when he had done the deed, with the old comfortable thought, " that all human resolutions are weak." '* I have thought of all these things,'^ answered Sir Edward Lee, ^* and yet I cannot forget her. I cannot live without her. I know this is folly — madness — call it what you will. Would to God I had never seen her, since she can never be mine" he checked himself, and averted his head. "Yours she can never be," answered Gideon, "nor ever should, were there no obstacle. To her own good sense will I trust, well knowing that she will never disgrace me, by aspiring to a station beyond that to which she was born. Such as you, Sir Edward, have ere now made many a poor but happy home miserable — have taken away the daughters that gladdened the eyes of the parent — have nursed them in luxuries for which they never were born, and, when wearied of them, sent them back, sad and broken-hearted, and left them nought to hope for but a speedy grave, to hide their shame. Was this to be the lot of my daughter. Sir Edward, I should curse the day of her birth. You must, before we part, satisfy me that you will never again molest her. I will not quit you until you have pledged yourself to this. For what is past I will demand no repa- ration at present; that I will leave to be settled between God and your own conscience." ** I will endeavour to forget her," said the Baronet with deep emotion ; and he was sincere at the moment. " I will not again throw myself in her way. It will be a strong struggle ; for were these my last words, Gideon, and my tongue could never again find utterance; before God ! I love her beyond aught on earth — even above name, power, wealth, and honour. My hall has seemed desolate since she left it. It was a pleasure for me to sit and watch her as she moved about it — as she swept from room to room singing snatches of sweet songs. I have sighed, and cursed the fate that has thrown such an THE ROPER. 43 impassable gulf between us. My food had no relish unless I re- ceived it from her own hand, and every hour I sat conjuring up new wants that she might wait upon me; and she, unconscious of the passion that tormented me, passed to and fro with modest and down- cast look — a thing too holy for me to look upon. Gideon, she hath driven me mad; but I will ere long quit a neighbourhood, every spot of which is haunted by her presence. For weeks past I have shunned the church in which my forefathers assembled to worship. The very presence of my family is a pain to me. I Avould fain shun my own thoughts ; the poorest peasant that tills my ground is happier than myself: — but I will forget her." Saying which he struck down a wild, dark avenue, and long after the bell had proclaimed the hour of dinner, did he remain alone in that solitude. The Baronet was deeply and madly in love ; and like the lion in the hunter's toils, only drew the net more firmly around him in the struggles he made to extricate himself. And did Sir Edward Lee keep his promise ? We shall see ere long. His peace of mind was poisoned ; he had drank deeply of the maddening opiate of love : the fair face of a lowly-born maiden had driven away all rest from the pillow of the proud Baronet. He had before tried to forget her, when no one but himself knew that she occupied his thoughts. He had bustled about in the business of the county — done much to ameliorate the condition of those children of misfortune who are crammed into English Bastiles — those cursed prisons, called Workhouses. He had ridden miles, and obtained the promise of numerous votes, and was determined to offer himself at the next election. He tried business, and he tried pleasure: but when he again entered his own hall, the foot-fall of Ellen Giles set all his blood in a ferment. Her voice rung in his ears all night: love had taken possession of his haughty heart. He felt jealous if he but heard her laugh with her fellow-servants ; and had turned away a faithful footman for imprinting a kiss on her lips beneath the misletoe-bough at Christmas tide. Nay, he so far demeaned himself in his own hall, Avhen flushed with wine, on that very occasion, as to lead forth Ellen Giles himself and salute her : from that hour he had never been at rest. Wherever he moved, the image of the Roper's daughter was before him, and at last he said, <^ I have struggled with virtue long enough ; I will possess her." And he began to wrestle anew with this dangerous passion, and he began earnestly. But other things were gathering upon him that would call forth all his powers 44 GIDEON GILES of thought to counteract, for he was soon to be torn by strong and divided passions. That rich man was doomed to be unhappy. Gideon Giles retraced his steps across the park, sad and full of thought: but there were a few moments, though they soon passed away, in which his heart felt lightened somewhat of its load. It was when he thought that Sir Edward Lee loved his daughter, and that but for circumstances, she might have been the wife of a baronet. True, he reproached himself for allowing such thoughts to enter his mind, and they soon vanished: but they had elevated him for the moment. Now Gideon Giles was a man of strong sense, and not in love like the baronet ; and though he reproached himself for this, it made him acknowledge the weakness of our nature. It might be that the feelings of the father were gratified for the moment at the thought, that she should be held worthy of filling so high a station : it might arise from excess of affection for his daughter. Be this as it may, it was nevertheless human weakness — a rising of one of those vain bubbles that mount up in the human heart, and springs from we know not what; that are to glitter, burst, and deceive us, as if only to shew how weak we are. The radical who, professing to dislike royalty, never lost an opportunity of telling the company he was in, that King William had bowed to him in passing, felt he had been honoured. But as the roaring of the tide warns the traveller on the sands that he must reach firm land before the breakers overtake him, and tell him sullenly how incompetent he is to struggle with the sea ; so did these thoughts warn Gideon Giles of the dangerous ground he stood upon, and when he left the park he was again a firm and collected man ; and he walked along, proud of his poverty. And that very pride was still a weakness. CHAPTER VII. CONTAINS AN ACCOUNT OF MR. BANES, AND WHAT HE SAID TO MR. BROWN THE ROPER WITH A CONVERSATION OVER THE WASH-TUBS. In a former chapter we introduced a Mr. Banes ; — it was twilight, and the reader but saw him imperfectly, as he skulked along the hedge-side, then led the horse over the distant hill, which was to have borne away Ellen Giles. This man was Sir Edward's game- THE ROPER. 46 keeper, and looked after the immense woods which stood without the park. He lived in a large and lonely cottage, far away from any other human habitation, which overlooked a desolate heath on the one hand, and on the other was sheltered by the gloomy wood. He was a man of a morose disposition, and had been tried for shooting a poacher dead ; but, through the influence of Sir Edward Lee, he was acquitted. He bore an ill name, and the villagers were afraid of him, for somehow or other he had managed to obtain great influence over the Baronet. He had accused many of trespassing and poaching, who had never either broken into an enclosure or set a snare; — he was both feared and hated. Ben Brust only, seemed a match for this savage keeper, and he gained the ascendancy through once giving him a hearty drubbing at the village-feast. Ben beat him until he was obliged to be put to bed, after a fair, manly, "stand- up" English fight. To Benjamin he was never rude — although the greatest poacher in Burton -Woodhouse. Mr. Banes had been instrumental in sending several young men to the tread-mill, and they had not forgotten it. They wanted but a leader, and they were ready to revenge these injuries ; — the beautiful footpath through the Long Plantation had been shut up through his interference, — this they had never foi-gotten. He was a low-bred brutal tyrant, but, nevertheless, a good gamekeeper. He was as useful as the huge mastiff* which the rich man keeps chained beside his gate, and as much beloved as the same brute is by the poor beggar. Very few would have been sorry to have heard of his death ; and when such a man is found in a quiet English village, he must be bad indeed —for our rudest peasants will give a man a good word, if they can but find in him the slightest redeeming quality. He had offered himself to Ellen Giles — been refused — and, it was believed, now hated her; and he consoled himself by saying, " she is pretty, but devilish poor." He was quite a favourite with young Squire Bellwood, whose father was one of the richest men in the county. Rumour said the young Squire was to marry Amy Lee, and it was true that her father had given his consent to the match; — but then there was Walter Northcot, and — a great deal of gossip. And that very morning Walter had been seen to pass from the rectory to the hall, where we shall in due time follow him. Our readers are aware of what passed between the gamekeeper and the Baronet ; and how the latter had expressed a wish that Ellen Giles should be seized, and carried to the cottage by the wood. Now 40 GIDEON GILES the keeper was afraid of Gideon Giles — for the Roper had forbidden him to enter his dwelling, and had even threatened what he would do if he again crossed his threshold ; and Gideon was a man famed far and wide for keeping his word. It was during the time that Gideon Giles was absent, and while the interview we have described in our last chapter took place, that the gamekeeper made his appearance at the Rope-walk. Mr. Brown (the master roper) was busy in checking off a load of hemp, which his apprentice and journeyman were weighing : he raised his eyes from the book in astonishment, when the keeper expressed a wish to speak with him privately, and led the way into the shed. '* You seem pretty busy here, Mr. Brown," said the gamekeeper, looking round at the piles of hemp and rope, and the numerous barrels of tar which were ranged in rows on each side. " A thriving trade, ready money, and sitting at low rent, — that's the way to get rich, eh !" and he forced out a laugh, as if satisfied with himself at having said something very clever. " Why as to the rent," answered Mr. Brown, " there's nothing to find fault with on that score at present. But if Sir Edward raises us, as you was saying he intended to do, why I am afraid I shall be compelled to shorten my rope-walk, and give up my garden." — Mr. Brown's orchard alone brought in double the amount of his rent. " No fear of that at present, I think," said the gamekeeper, "since I see that Gideon Giles is no longer in your employ. Has he left you long?" . "Left me! no," replied Mr. Brown; "he was at work this morning, and said he had a little business to do, that would hinder him an hour or so. I expect him back every minute. I have pro- mised farmer Swift his new well-rope home to-night, and they can't raise a drop of water until it's done. I hope Gideon will not be long." " Look you, Mr. Brown," said the gamekeeper, striking the butt- end of his gun upon the ground as he spoke ; " you know what's what as well as I do, and I needn't tell you how Sir Edward and your man Gideon stand with each other, need I ?" Mr. Brown nodded. " Well, then," continued he, " if Gideon Giles didn't work for you, he would have to go and seek employment somewhere else; and let me tell you," added he with a knowing wink, " the further THE ROPER. 47 he went off, the better it would be for you. How was it, think you, that Peatfield got the order for all the sheep-nets last winter ?— why because Gideon was still your journeyman ; and more I can tell you, if he'd left before now, you never would have heard a word about your rent being raised." " But Sir Edward never hinted a word of this to me," said the master roper ; " if he had, you may be sure I would have done nothing that could have given him offence, letting alone the losing of his custom." "Say anything to you!" echoed the keeper; "you don't think that a gentleman would be seen in such a mean affair, do you ? I should have thought that Peatfield's having done all the work lately had said sufficient of itself. But some folks can neither see nor feel until their nose is brought to the grindstone." "But you don't mean to say that I must part with Gideon?" said Mr. Brown ; " consider, I was apprentice with his father, and ." " If you like to let Peatfield get the rope-walk out of your hands," continued Banes, why keep him, and lose everybody else's custom, as you've done Sir Edward's, and go to the devil in your own way. Remember, I have but given you a friendly hint, and between our- selves, no one must know about this. Trade's slack, and Gideon must go on Saturday night. Very sorry, and so on; — you know — you understand me." " Well, if he must, he must," said Mr. Brown, with a sigh ; " but, poor fellow, I 'm afraid he '11 have to go a long way before he gets work just now. But I can 't be expected to go to rack and ruin to keep him on, though I would sooner lose a ten-pound note than part with him. But if you say I must, why ." "You will of course," said the keeper, "and by the bye, we shall want live thousand more yards of netting for next winter, and you can get on with it when you like ; we could hardly separate the sheep in the turnips this last winter for want of it. No bad order, Mr. Brown?" "It's many a long day since I took such an order," said the other with a smile, "will you step into the White Swan and take a drop of something this morning, to drink luck to it?" Mr. Banes had no objection, and they retired to the old-fashioned parlour, and sat together alone, in deep conversation, for more than an hour. 48 GIDEON GILES Now this scheme had kept Mr. Banes awake a great portion of the night; '^Once get your father out of the way," said he, "then, Ellen Giles, you're mine.'' He knew right well that it would never reach the Baronet's ears, and if it did what matter; Brown dare say nothing. "And let me only get her up yonder, beside the wood," said he to himself, "and it shall go hard if I don't cry ^Halves, master!' and come in for my share of the game. I begin to be tired of yonder pale-faced maiden, that does nothing but wring her hands, and wet her cheeks all day long, as if crying would bring her child to life. Well, well ; I have set a snare at last that will catch Master Gideon." So muttering to himself, he called his dogs together, and passed along the village street, until he came to a green lane which wound between the hills, and led to the wild heath and lonely cottage we have before mentioned. Two women were washing outside their doors as he passed before a row of tumble-down places, which contained nearly all the crime and poverty of Burton- Woodhouse, and stood at the end of the lane. How different were these places to the residence of the Roper ! "Yonder goes Never-do-good and his dogs," said one of the women, who stood up to her elbows in suds, "what devil's errand's brought him down this morning, I wonder ? " "Some mischief or other you may be sure," said the other, wringing out a course towel as she spoke, and making a very wry face, then adding, as she threw it into a broken basket, " I wish I 'd the washing and wringing of him out, I would have my water scalding hot, though it fetched the skin off my hands. Our Tom's never forgotten the three months he got him at Kirton, just for catching a hare ; it '11 come home by him some day or other, now mark my words if it don't. We shall live to see him come to th' dogs, lass; give us a pinch, and bad luck to him." The other wiped off the suds from her arms on her coarse checked apron, and pulling out an old horn box filled with "high dried," handed it to her companion of the tub. Each took a long pinch. ^'Did you hear what our Jack said last night, Nanny?" said the other in a low voice, as she deposited the box in her huge patchwork pocket, "there's something in the wind, old girl, more than 'ell dry our clothes." "I didn't mark it," said Nanny — "bless me, this is hard soap — but I saw him and Tom whispering together, and thought they'd fun (found) a mare's nest somewhere or other." THE ROPER. 49 "Ay, they hev that," replied the other, "there's a woman up yon- der, at Cut- throat Cottage, as they call it, they heard Master Banes and her at high words the other night while they were out, and Jack says he would take his corporal oath that something was said about a child been murdered: — and a good deal more they would have heard hadn't the dogs barked." "I'll goe see him hung," said Nanny, ''if I have to walk to Lin- coln and back on foot, and sit up all night to do my washing after I get home — that I wdll if God spares me. So he 's murdered a child has he ! I alios said he had it in his looks. I wonder what poor mother's bairn he has collyfoggled up yonder and ruined ? " " That we mun find out," was the answer. " I 've been thinking whether it isn't one of the Rawsons, they've worn a deal finer things lately than they could ever come honestly by, for the father 's only fourteen shillings a week, and if that ell find 'em boas, and veils, and Leghorn bonnets, and dresses that cost a pound a-piece, I '11 eat my old shoes ! We have'nt seen her that we called the pretty one for some time." " You mean Mary," said Nanny, '' no it isn't her, she's living in sarvice at Gainsbro', I saw her only a week ago cum Tuesday." "Then whoever can it be?" said the other, making a dead stand. '* I don 't know," answered Nanny, also pausing in the midst of the finest lather she had produced from the hard soap, "I shouldn't wonder if it isn't one of the Wilsons." And she again scrubbed away. "Or what think you of the Trippetts?" — there was another rest, and then the soap was passed very slowly over the linen ; " look how they've been lifting up their heads lately; why that shawl that Bet had on, at the mart couldn't have cost less than a pound, and where was she to get the pound?" "Ay, where indeed;" echoed Nanny, "where could you or I get a pound, honestly, eh?" and the old women scrubbed away, and scandalized half the families that lived within five miles of the neighbourhood, nor ceased until they were fairly out of breath. And they got through as much genuine abuse and hearty detraction over their wash-tubs, as any brace of old gossips could have managed at a tea-table, though they had sat together through their sixth cup. 50 GIDEON GILES CHAPTER VIII. WE ARRIVE AT THE HALL OF BURTON-WOODHOUSE, OBTAIN A GLIMPSE OF 'squire BELLWOOD, amy lee, and others; and indulge IN A LITTLE PHILOSOPHY WHICH, LIKE A JACKASs's GALLOP, IS "sHORT AND sweet/' Sir Edward Lee left the hall about the same time that Walter Northcot opened the little wicket-gate at the end of the rectory- garden, and entered the park on his way to visit the family of the Baronet. His heart beat quicker as he drew nearer the ancient pile, which rose with its twisted chimneys and picturesque gables through the trees. He passed by many a well-known spot, which seemed to have become more endeared to him by absence; sunny banks and moss-covered stems, where he had sat side by side with Amy Lee. There they had read Shakspeare together ; in that spot he had heard her sweet laughter, while Malvolio seemed pacing before them in Olivia's garden, and Sir Toby, hidden behind the shrubbery, wished " for a stone-bow to hit him in the eye." Further on, he had seen her sit, with the tears coursing down her cheeks, while they sighed over the love of the ill-starred Juliet ; or reposed at her feet, while she, as Rosalind, taught him how to make love — a sweet lesson he had never forgotten. His passion had mellowed by absence, for when away, he but kept count of time by the scenes it recalled to his memory. His was love subdued and cherished long : the seed that dropped unaware into the heart, had grown on unchecked, and at hrst unheeded, until it shot up like a tall and stately tree, and over- shadowed all that grew around. At length he caught a glimpse of the huge bay window, on which the morning sun flashed brightly, and his fancy recalled every object in that old summer-parlour, wherein he had spent so many happy hours in former days. He crossed the lawn and the wide carriage road, and set foot on the broad hall steps : the door was wide open, and each side of the passage ornam^i^led with choice flowers, which stood on neat frames. He paused a moment, with his hand on the huge knocker, and looked around as if in expectation of seeing some _^i%<;W^ ^a//^^'^yi^ ^^-t/Zuy^/^^ /^.ey^e/^/r^ 7^?7y THE ROPER. 51 domestic. He saw the door of the ancient parlour stand open, and he heard a voice that drove the blood back into his heart. At length he summoned up courage enough to enter the apartment unannounced, for an old homely feeling came over him, and made him forget for the moment that years had passed avray since his footsteps echoed through the hall. It was the sound of that voice which clave through the space of time, for it came upon his ear just as low and sweet as when he heard it last at parting. He entered the room, and before he had uttered a word, the hand of Amy Lee was within his own ; for, forgetful of all form and cere- mony, she sprang up the instant she perceived him, her colour heightened and her eyes bright, while she exclaimed, ^* Walter ! I am — " then paused, and glanced upon the floor, as if ashamed of having received him so warmly, she remained silent. The young man saluted her sister Lavinia, without releasing Amy's hand 5 in- deed, he scarcely knew what he was doing. As for Lady Lee, she sat still beside her little work-table, as if she could scarcely credit her eyes, while she exclaimed, '* Is it really Walter Northcot ? Why a few years have made you look so manly, and so thoughtful, that I should never have known you again had I even met you face to face. God bless you, my boy! somehow, I've always been led to think, and feel for you, as if you were one of my own." The kind-hearted lady rose and folded him in her arms, while a tear stole down her cheek; he had been her favourite from a child. Even the eyes of Walter Northcot filled with tears : it was but for an instant, a sudden gush of affection; a silent thrill, in which the heart tries to speak, but bursts amid its full utterance, — bowing every feeling beneath its powerful eloquence ; — the struggle of the soul to find words. So much had been felt and said within a few brief moments, that they had entirely forgotten a horse-jockey-looking young gentleman who stood with his back to the fireplace, and who, having made his teeth ache through biting the butt-end of his whip, now drew their attention by beating the devil's tattoo on his boot-tops. " I beg pardon," said Lady Lee, " for being so neglectful, but our feelings make us forgetful of all forms for the moment ; and — Mr. Bellwood, this is our long-talked of acquaintance and favourite Walter Northcot. It will be a long time, Walter, before I learn to call you Master Northcot, but I know you love our plain old-fashioned e2 52 GIDEON GILES country manners too well to quarrel with them. Amy, my dear, I see you are as rude and forgetful as myself; but why should Walter wait to be invited to take a seat in this house that for so many years has been like his own home ?" Walter went through the ceremony of introduction with a good grace, while Squire Bellwood just condescended to favour him with a slight nod ; then again began to gnaw the end of his riding- whip ; in fact, he disliked him. The cordial manner of his reception was gall and wormwood to the great foxhunter. Now, Walter Northcot was a gentleman, and in spite of the forbidding aspect of the young Squire, was too well bred to pass over this cold reception in sullen silence; but began to discourse on the beauty of the weather, the delight he had experienced in revisiting the scenes endeared to him by absence ; the gladness the river inspired him with ; what he felt while running his eye over the monuments in the old churchyard ; and, above all, the pleasure in meeting with the smiling faces of old friends. Mr. Bellwood stared ; then he nodded ; then said that the river had spoilt many a good chase ; that he left the state of the weather to clowns who had to look after their crops ; and concluded by add- ing, *^ But I believe, Mr. Northcot, you are troubled a little with the poetical itch, and may scratch something out of these trees and flowers, which will keep young ladies at home, when a good airing on horseback after the hounds would be all the better for their health. For my part, I read nothing but the newspapers, and they are devilish dull, except in the hunting season. But I must ride over and see what Banes is doing with yon brace of puppies I bought the other day. They promise to be fine fellows. Miss Lee, — thick heads, short noses, large in the nostrils, ears thin and hanging low, tails like rushes, and capital wind. Good morning, ladies, good morning, sir." The bell was rung for Mr. Bellwood's horse, but he hurried out to see after it himself, and have a little chat with the groom, muttering as he passed across the court-yard, '* All your poor gentlemen turn fools, and talk poetry, — the fellow 's a bore.'' But Walter soon forgot him, for he was again seated beside Amy Lee, and her mother sat with her eyes riveted upon them in silence, and sighing she knew not why, at that moment, though Lady Lee would have exchanged her high estate for a humble grange, and peace of heart: — for happiness reigned not in the old hall of Burton- Woodhouse. THE ROPER. 53 Walter cast his eyes around the apartment ; it seemed just the same as when he first knew it. There hung the breastpiece and hehnet, which had stood the blows of CromwelFs iron-sided soldiers, when the gallant Colonel Cavendish fell in the neighbouring marsh ; the spot which to this day retains the name of Cavendish Bog. Walter had gazed on it many a time in his boyish days, until his heart had taken fire and his imagination kindled, while his ears rung with the fancied sounds of trumpets, and the clashing of sword and mail ; until he wished he had lived to fight on that forgotten day, and deal a blow in the defence of that gallant leader. The bay window, the old portraits on the wall, the harp that Amy was just beginning to play when he left ; the roof, with its rich scroll-work, — the pride of Elizabethan architecture, — were all unaltered. Lady Lee gazed upon him; and while a smile lighted her face, such as had not played there for many a day, she said, " Walter, you are thinking of past times. The old apartment, you see, is unchanged; the very pane you cracked when playing with Amy at Christmas-tide, has never been replaced. We alone are altered," and she sighed heavily as she spoke. '' We shall be happier now, mother," said Lavinia, " since Walter has returned. We have had no one to make us cheerful of late ; as for Bellwood, all his talk is about hounds and horses ; for if he sees anything beautiful, he begins to think of building either a stable or a kennel after the same model." Amy hung down her head, but said nothing. There was a striking contrast between the two sisters. Amy was shy and sensitive ; Lavinia bold and open, — what she thought, she in general gave utterance to without reserve ; for there was an artless* ness about her, — a kind of rude innocence, wdiich when once under* stood, never failed of pleasing. She was gay and thoughtless ; would cry and laugh almost in the same minute ; but nevertheless she was high-spirited, and tender-hearted to a degree of weakness, — a strange compound was Lavinia Lee, and dearly did she love her sister. Amy, on the other hand, was the more intellectual of the two. She was a dreamer, a lover of poetry and music, a timid retiring creature; her feelings were deep and noiseless ; she could endure disappoint- ment and trouble, without much outward show, — would brood over her own sorrows in silence, rather than make another unhappy by sympathizing with her. She might droop the soonest under acute suffering, but she would bear it the longest without murmuring. 54 GIDEON GILES Her's was a heart, that once tenanted, may be crushed and ruined, but never can be made to receive a new occupant. She once had a favourite nightingale which died, but the empty cage still hung in her chamber, never to be inhabited again. That cage was an emblem of Amy's heart,^ — what had once been cherished might die, but the space remained sacred for evermore. Amy Lee was a character that almost baffles description; the be- holder felt at once that she was beautiful, but it seemed to exist more in the harmony of the whole than in any separate feature. Her eyes were blue and soft, but it required some emotion to light them up, — then their expression could never be forgotten ; they seemed to search rather than look upon you: — you felt their power unaware. Her face was like a fine picture broken up into different groups, wherein the whole story comes upon you by degrees. The longer you look at it, the more you discover to admire; and when you have examined each proportion, then, and then only, does it strike you with astonish- ment, and you marvel how much you have discovered that at a first glance seemed hidden. But, " the light, the light,^' did much. She was, in a word, a woman that made man feel thankful that this gross earth was blessed by the presence of a being so loving, gentle, and worthy of heaven itself. Even the cross old crones in the village — those whose natures were soured by age and infirmities, declared that the sound of her sweet voice made them forget all their pains. The little children forgot their rags, their hunger, and their wretchedness when she passed, and the countenance of the sullen drunkard would brighten to look upon her. There was not a lip in Burton Wood- house but would bless the name of Amy Lee. The loops of that little silk bag which she carried were never drawn, while want and misery stood in her path. Pity that such forms should ever leave the earth! little suns that light and cheer the dark underwoods of this world, and but for death and evil men, would make " a little heaven below." She was slender, and fairer than Lavinia. The old gardener called her the Lily, and her sister the Rose, and by these names were they known to many a one for miles around Burton- Woodhouse. And as such had they been coupled together and toasted at the county ball ; albeit, a rich matter-of-fact old florist rose up, and in his cups proposed the tulip and dahlia next, adding, " I *ve made a deal most money out on 'em." After staying some time, Walter expressed a wish to look round THE ROPER. 55 the park, and Lady Lee proposed to accompany him, then added, after a pause, '* But Amy will, I doubt not, be the most cheerful companion; and I have now other matters to care for, than your books, and your poets, and there are some things which you must hear sooner or later. I had thought, Walter ; but God^s will be done ; Lavinia shall walk out with you in the evening." The Rose hung its head a moment, but was too sweet-tempered to prevent the lovers from being alone. They set out arm in arm, and were soon lost in a winding of the road, as they made their way to the banks of the river. For some time there was a mutual silence between them ; for both had many things to say, and Walter had learnt a good deal from his uncle's garrulous old housekeeper that was unpleasant to hear. At length they reached their old and favourite walk, beside the " pasture Trent." ^