Part 2

'It was a crool thing to do, but it wasn't exactly what ye could call a Jew's swindle--but, damn Smithson aal the same, I says; for here's me, Geordie Crozier, left a po'r orphin i' the warld wi' none o' his fam'ly property to belang to him, 'cept two gifts--the yen for drinkin' an' t'other for gamblin', an' it's damn Smithson, says I.'

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Northumberland Plate, or Pitmen's Derby.

[2] 'Mevvies' = maybe, perhaps. The true Northumbrian is in a threefold danger of betraying his origin: phonetically, by the 'burr'; dialectically, by constant use of 'mevvies,' 'wor' (our), and 'I's warned' (I warrant you); psychologically, by a perpetual readiness to back himself, his dog, or any of his belongings, against any other man's in the world, and for any amount, at a moment's notice.

[3] Atlas, presumably.

THE SQUIRE'S LAST RIDE

'Ay, that's the priest, the Catholic Priest,' said Eph Milburn, after a white-haired, cassock-clad old gentleman, who had nodded slightly in reply to my companion's greeting, had passed over the bridge and departed out of hearing.

'He looks as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth now,' continued Milburn, a long-legged, ruddy-bearded, hawk-eyed son of the moorlands, 'and aal his time nowadays he spends in his garden over his bees or his flowers, or thumbing his Mass-book in his library; but it wasn't so once-a-day, not he, not when the old Squire was above ground, and he came up by to stop wiv him.

'Ye'll have heard tell o' the old Squire an' aal his goin's on, I'll be bound? Ay, o' course, but there's one thing nobody kens o', not even Father Blenkinsop, and that's where the Squire's bones are lyin', for they never found his body, ye ken.

'Squire Dally was the last o' the fam'ly that had lived in the old Pele Tower o' Dally from generation to generation, and he was the wildest o' a wild lot--riders an' reivers in the old times, canny hard fox-hunters, drinkers, an' gam'lers this century. They were bound to get through their property soon or late, an' the last Squire, Tom Dally o' Dally, he says, "I leave my property tiv a South-countryman? Not I, by Gad!" says he; "why, damme, but I'll cheat him yet," an' sae he spends hissel' right an' left on any mortal thing he took a fancy for.

'The Hall--which was an old Pele wi' two wings added, ye ken--an' a good bit o' the property, had gone before that. The last Squire's grandfeythor had got shot o' that, the mortgages on it bein' far ower heavy to keep up; but there was still a fair property left, an' a nice canny house that had once been a dower-house, an' was now a farm, an' that was where Squire Tom lived with his fighting-cocks, an' his hounds, an' his hawks an' aal.

'His missus had died early, ye ken, an' that had been the ruin ov him, for she was a clivvor woman, wiv a turn o' management--just what ye would call good hands i' the matter ov a horse; that was her faculty, an' she was a bonny-featured woman for-bye.

'Ay, she could manage him fine.

'There was a grand scene, 'twas always said, when he brings her home after their furrin' tower, an' one night, bein' merry wiv his bottle, he forgets hissel', an' swears at her before company. Up she gets swiftly, pale, but determined, an' leanin' a wee bit ower the table she speaks straight at him. "Tom," she says, "you forget yourself; and until you apologize to me for your rudeness I'll sit no more at table wi' ye," an' oot she gans frae the dining-room, haughty as the Queen in Scripture, leavin' the Squire gapin' an' speechless, never havin' been treated that fashion before.

'There was two or three other men wiv him dinin' that night, an' on they sat drinkin' steadily, the Squire in a towerin' temper aal the while, noo damnin' hissel', next cursin' his neighbour, an' backin' his horses, an' hawks, an' hissel', wi' gun an' rod, against anyone, or the lot o' them together.

'They tried to soothe him a bit, but the mair they tried the hotter he got, an' had the Pope hissel' been his visitor that night, Squire Tom would have d----d him too, an' been glad o' the opportunity. After a bit mair snarling an' sneerin', an' snappin' he sits quiet for a while, then he glares round at his guest friends, an' he cries:

'"Ye're nowt better than a lot o' 'momenty morries,'"--meanin' skeletons, ye ken--"the wife's worth the whole boilin' o' ye, an' I'm d----d if I don't apologize," an' he glared round to see if anyone would dare laugh at him for't; but no one spoke save a little fam'ly lawyer chap, up for the night frae the toon, an' he chirrups up an' he says, "Qui' right, qui' right," he hiccoughs, an' the Squire glares right through him as he growls, "When I ask ye for an opinion I pay ye for't, but if ye advise me unasked again, I'll fling ye oot at window," he says.

'Sae oot he strides into the hall, an' cries up the stairs: "Nell, my lass, Nell, ho-way doon, an' I'll apologize to ye, ay, d----, I will," an' doon she comes, an' on tiv his knees he gans, an' she holds oot her hand, an' the Squire he kisses it like a lover.

'Well, she manages him clivvor, but in her first child-bed she was taken ill, poor lady, an' dies vary shortly, leavin' him wiv a baby girl.

'After that the Squire was never the same man again. He turned reckless, for what was the use ov "a filly" to him, he says; an' havin' no son an' heir to live an' save for, he sets hissel' to spend aal he can an' spite his next o' kin--a barrister chap in London toon, whom he hated for bein' no sportsman--"a priest-faced, pauper chap iv a black gown an' wig," he called him, an' no love was lost between the pair o' them. He was a good bit older than the Squire, an' had a largish fam'ly, the second son bein' none other than Father Blenkinsop--the priest that's just passed us by.

'He was the only one the Squire could take up wi' at aal, an' as a boy he was often there for shootin', an' huntin', an' fishin', though his father liked ill his bein' there, for fear o' his gettin' into bad ways under the Squire's guidance, who was gettin' wilder an' wilder wiv every year that passed. He was just a boy then, was Father Blenkinsop, havin' left his schoolin', an' bein' aboot to gan tiv a college to be turned into a Jesu-yte, an' nowt pleased the Squire mair, after a long day's huntin' or hawkin', than to fill the lad up wi' liquor an' sneer at religion, an' Mass, an' priests, an' aal.

'"Chuck it, my boy, chuck it," he would say, clappin' him on the shoulder, as he passed the bottle about. "Divv'nt put on the black petticoat; ye're ower much ov a man for that. Ye can ride, an' ye can shoot, an' ye can look a gal i' the face, an' ye can crack a bottle, but if ye turn priest, ye'll neither be man nor woman, but a ---- bad mixture o' both."

'So he would talk o' nights, pourin' oot his ribaldries an' drinkin' doon his wine, yet never gettin' fair drunk; for he had a marvellous stomach for liquor, had the Squire--no butt o' Malmsey wine could ever have drooned him, I's warn'd--an' the only way he betrayed himself was by gettin' a bit hotter i' the face an' fiercer i' his talk.

'Well, one night he vexed his young cousin beyond bearin'--what wi' blackguardin' his father an' his mother, an' wi' one thing an' another--an' sudden the boy leaps up--mevvies he was a little above hissel' wi' liquor that evenin'--an' he bangs wiv his fist on the table, an' he cries, "Look here, Cousin Tom, I'll stand it no longer, an' to prove I'm no coward, I'll challenge ye to ride to the big Black Stone on Glowrorum Fell an' back across the Moor this very night."

'"Done wi' ye, lad, done wi' ye!" shouts the Squire, bangin' wiv his fist in his turn, "an' I'll tell ye what the stakes shall be. If I win, you chuck the Jesu-yte business an' come an' live wi' me, an' if you win, you can take your pick o' the horses i' my stable. Agreed?"

'"Ay!" shouted the boy recklessly; "done wi' ye."

'Fifteen minutes after this the two o' them starts off with a wild hallo up the brae side, an' so across the Moor, the Squire "yoickin'" an' "tally-hooin'" as he went.

'The Moor was mevvies aboot two miles across--an' a tarr'ble bad place for hard gallopin', for there was a stone wall or two i' the middle o't, bogs to the left hand, an' some old workin's--pit-shafts or the like--to the right.

'So right across Towlerhirst Moor they galloped--hell-to-leather--the Squire to the right an' the boy to the left.

'Tom Brewis, the old herd up at Windyneuk, happened to be passin' along the sheep-track that leads by the Moor edge that night, an' hearin' the sound ov a horse gallopin', an' a lively hollerin' as tho' to a pack o' hounds, he comes across a bit to find oot what it might be.

'It was a dampish, daggyish sort o' night, but at times there was a drift o' moonlight, an' in one o' thae glimpses he caught a sight ov a dark figure on horseback, aboot two hundred yards from him, tryin' to jump a big black horse across one o' thae open shafts. "You won't, won't you? Then d---- ye, ye ---- black de'il, ye shall!" an' clappin' his spurs deep into his sides, an' layin' his huntin' crop aboot his ears, he forced him some paces backward an' sent him at it again.

'It was a big black stallion he was ridin'--a fiery-tempered brute, a proper match for the Squire--an' up he reared on end, fightin' him, shriekin' wi' pain an' rage; but he couldn't get shot ov his rider, so wiv a sudden bound he starts forward an' tries to clear the shaft wiv one great leap.

'Just at that moment the moonlight faded, an' Tom Brewis couldn't tell exactly what happened, but he saw a dark mass leapin', he heard a rattle o' stones, then a heavy thud deep down somewhere, a sort o' splash, an' aal was still.

'Tom stands there aal a-gliff wi' terror, half dazed, not kennin' whether he can have seen or heard aright; then, pullin' hissel' together, walks slowly thither to see if any trace can be seen of horse or rider.

'But there wasn't a one--neither o' horse nor Squire--nowt but a tramplin' o' horse's hoofs an' a white gash as o' a half horse-shoe on a big boulder o' rock two feet below the surface t'other side. Sae Tom gans slowly back, an' doon to the Squire's house to find if he can hear anything ov him doon there; for he half hoped it might be a sort o' dream after aal.

'Just as he gets to the door a figure comes up the drive leadin' to the house, draggin' a lame horse after him, an' "Ha ye seen anything o' the Squire?" it shouts at him. "No-o," says Tom, startled-like, "that was just what I was comin' to ask for myself;" an' he peers through the shadows to see who his questioner could be, an' recognises Master Fred, the Squire's cousin, bleedin' frae a wound i' the head, an' leadin' a horse wi' two fearfu' broken knees.

'He win his wager,' concluded my companion slowly, 'but after that ride he was never the lad he had been before, an' perhaps it's scarcely likely that he should be, I'm thinkin'.'

À L'OUTRANCE

We were standing on the fencing-room floor--Jake Carruthers and I--leaning our backs against the armoury, our foils still in our hands, slowly recovering our breath, after a rapier and dagger contest which had lasted a good half-hour.

He was much less 'winded' than myself, for all his sixty-five years; and as I had positively worn myself out against his iron wrist I was delighted to gain a breathing space, and occupied the time in drawing out from my companion some old-time memories of the fencing floor.

'Have you ever seen a duel?' I inquired. 'I don't mean a semi-drunken, nose-chopping bout, or a garden-party affair, with coffee and liqueurs, as in France, but a genuine "throat-cutting, blood-letting" matter, such as Porthos or D'Artagnan would have loved?'

'No,' replied Jake reflectively, drawing the length of his foil lovingly along the soft sleeve of his jacket; 'the time's past, I doubt, for that sort of performance. The Divorce Court is what "my lord" appeals to nowadays for "satisfaction," and Trimmer Joe or Bricklayer Tom, they just "bash" the trespasser upon their family preserves on the head, and there's an end on't.

'The cleverest, best-fought fight I ever saw--and I believe there was a bit something of what you're meanin' in it--was, strange to say, twixt a man and a woman--leastways, a gentleman an' a lady. It was a fair battle, proper fightin' on her side; for she was sworn to win, and sair wishful to punish him, I's warn'd; and he, though he was tarr'ble keen to win too, found it took him all his time to keep her from letting daylight into him--an', by the way, this is the varra tale ye used always to be askin' for, an' I'll tell it ye noo, for ye've improved i' your fencin', I'm thinkin', since ye began. You'll have heard tell of Squire Dennington of Dennington Hall? A great rider he was once, and a sportsman generally--"Jockey Jack" his own private friends called him, and his horse, "Pit Laddie"--ye'll heard of him?--won the "Plate" some thirty years back.

'Well, his lady, Mrs. Dennington, was just the proudest woman in the whole county of Northumberland--scarcely what ye would call "bonny," but just tarr'ble handsome, and the Squire, he fair worships her. He had married her in Berlin, and there was some queer odds an' ends o' stories about her, but he'd never have hearkened to them any more than he would listen to anyone shoutin' to him the way to go out hunting.

'He was in the army at that time, ye ken--the Northumberland Fusiliers, "The Old and Bold," with "Where the Fates calls ye" in Latin for their motto--and I was his man-servant, joining the army along of him, as my forbears had often done with his forbears beforetime.

'The Squire had to go out to Berlin with his mother, and he gets leave for me to accompany him, and there it was that he met with his lady that was to be--Miss Maxwell as she was then.

'She was the handsomest woman in Berlin, 'twas said, but quite poor, living as a companion with the wife of one of the Ambassador's party, being a kind of cousin, and many were the stories about her.

'Gossip said that one of them grand dukes with a name a yard long had wanted her for his mistress, but when he made his proposition he got such an answer that he never dared speak to her again. Then it was reported that she was engaged to the Ambassador's chief secretary, Oxencourt his name was--Sir Henry Oxencourt as he is now--and that she had even run away with him, but that at the last moment he turned round and said that he couldn't afford to marry her till his father died, so there and then she leaves him, walks the night through till she can get a conveyance, and arrives just in time to stay the mouth of scandal from ruining her reputation.

'Well, the Squire meets her, falls desperately into love--for he cares nothing for gossips--and in three weeks' time she accepts him for good and all.

'They marries at once, and travel for a year or more, and finally settle down at Dennington Hall.

'The Squire after a bit sends for me, buys my discharge, makes me his body-servant, and sets up the old banqueting-room as a fencing hall--for he was always tarr'ble keen at fencing, boxing, single-stick, and all manly sports--and it was part of my duty to give them both a turn of fencing most mornings of the week.

'Well, one winter, after about three years of marriage, the Squire goes off to Algeria to shoot gazelle, leaving Mrs. Dennington and his sister behind at the Hall, and he hadn't been gone more than a week before Sir Henry Oxencourt turns up at the Hall.

'Well, when I see him there, I was fair dismayed, for I kenned nicely there was but one thing he could be wantin', for his repute in the matter of women was notorious. Forbye that ancient gossip at Berlin had always reported that he had been mad at missing his chance with her, and had sworn he would win her back again--get her a divorce and marry her himself at the finish.

'His father had died since then, and he was now a rich man, and as handsome and masterful a man as ever I saw in my life.

'Well, he comes and he courts her the live-long day, quiet-like and respectful, but never missing an opportunity, and she seems to enjoy his company. They go out hunting together; she dares him to jump this and he dares her to jump that, and so the play goes on, and all the while I was fearing he was getting a fast hold upon her, for she liked power and was tarr'ble ambitious, and Sir Henry, they said, might have been one of the cleverest diplomatists in the world if he could but have kept clear of women.

'It was easy to see that he was just mad keen for her, but I was not so sure after a bit that she was so keen for him. It seemed to me she was leading him on, and leading him on, but with what purpose I couldn't guess.

'Well, one afternoon she comes to me and she says, off-hand like, "Sir Henry Oxencourt would like to show me some new tricks of fence he has learnt abroad; kindly see that the fencing-room is in order to-night, and, by the way, I want to show him the pair of duelling rapiers, with the silver foxes on the hilts, that Mr. Dennington is so fond of."

'Well, all afternoon I wondered what it meant; for though her manner was cool enough, there was something curious about my mistress's expression as she gave her orders.

'"If possible," I thinks to myself, "I'll have a peep also at Sir Henry's tricks to-night," and as I polished up the rapiers that afternoon I thought of the story the Squire used to tell of them. One of them had a stain on the "foible" which would not come out for any quantity of rubbing--it was the blood, the Squire said, of a certain "Black Rutherford," who had made love to the then Lady Dennington when her Knight was away fighting for King Charlie. Sir John comes back, having heard about it, but says nothing, and asks him to dinner; they have a game of cards after; Sir John accuses him of cheating, and there and then in the banqueting-hall they have a set-to with their rapiers before my lady's eyes; in five minutes Sir John disarms him, and before the rapier touches the floor, runs him clean through the right lung and out below the shoulder-blade.

'Well, after taking in coffee that evening, I went to the fencing-room, and on the pretence of looking after the fire, mending jackets, straightening masks, and so forth, stayed on there till about ten o'clock, when in comes Mrs. Dennington, followed by Sir Henry.

'She gives a sort of start when she sees me, then she says curtly, "You needn't stay, Carruthers," and walks past me into the middle of the room.

'Well, I felt bound to see that fencing, whatever it might be, and the only way I could manage it was to go round and up to the old musicians' gallery at the southern end. If I could open the door without attracting notice, I might then lie down at full length and see pretty well what was going on below.

'It took me the best part of five minutes to open the door and squeeze through, and when I had crawled to the ledge and looked over, the two combatants were just about to begin.

'"Put the letters on the mantelpiece," I could hear her say with a curiously strung tone to her voice, and Sir Henry bowed in a mocking sort of way. Then he says slowly, after having walked to the chimney-piece and placed a packet on the shelf: "But it is not quite fair, of course, for you cannot see your stakes, whereas I--I have mine before my eyes at the end of my blade--the most beautiful stakes in Europe," and he bowed again to Madame with an air of gallantry and passion and arrogance all in one.

'For reply the mistress only gave a quick nod with her head, nervous, impatient, like a racehorse that must be away.

'I daren't do more than peep over now and again, for the lights were bright below, and I was afraid of being caught; but I could see that she was in a state of great excitement, while he was cool in comparison with her, and wore a proud, triumphing sort of air, as of one who knows full well he has the victory in his grasp.

'They walk to the centre of the hall and take their stands. They "take length," and then salute--she, swiftly, nervously, he in a foreign, bravado sort of fashion.

'"First blood," says Sir Henry, "and the stakes are won," saluting once again in a vainglorious way he had.

'"Yes, but not for a scratch," replies my lady swiftly. Then they cross rapiers, and the play begins.

'My sangs! but it wasn't a play at all, it was a reg'ler battle, a fair duello, and it was all Sir Henry could do to hold his own. They had engaged in "quatre," and no sooner had blades touched than she disengages and feints in "tierce"; then, with an amazing swiftness, she disengages again, and lunges full at him in "sixte"; carelessly he parries with "sixte," and in a flash she disengages again, "beats" his blade downwards, and, for all but a biscuit, has him disarmed. He loses hold of his weapon, his fingers slipping from the quillons, but catches it in mid-air before it drops, leaps back a yard, parrying another lunge clever with his left hand as he does so.

'"'Tis a dirty Italian trick ye have learnt! they haven't improved ye abroad!" my lady sneers at him.

'Now, had she been but one flash of an eye quicker with her lunge after the "beat," she'd have had him in "quatre" nicely, but she hadn't thought she could disarm him so easy, and she just missed her chance. Sir Henry, though, had had his lesson; he drops his careless, tempting manner, such as a professor tries a beginner with, and fights cooler and more careful, chucking his bravado airs, for it's dead in earnest she is, and no mere stage-play for the gallery.

'On she comes again like a tigress, evidently trying to "rush" him, and back and back she presses him till the pair o' them's right under the gallery where I was lying. I had my head right through the bars by that time, I was so keen to see the fight, and it was only by stuffing my handkerchief into my mouth that I could stop myself from shouting advice and encouragement to her, she fought so desperate keen and with such a wild-cat pluck.

'It wasn't exactly scientific, her fencing, it was too rash and all-for-victory straight away, but it was grand to see her flashing her rapier in and out, flickering like a serpent's tongue, and all the while her graceful limbs moved softly, swiftly, like a panther's, beneath her silken evening dress.

'Once Sir Henry's foot slipped, and in she comes like a knife, and he only escapes by adopting another Italian trick--that of dropping with the left hand to the floor. She still presses him harder than ever, and I could hear her breathing hotly, "heck, heck," like an angered hawk. Then swift he "binds" with her, but he does it over-viciously and pays for it, for she's agile as a cat, and freeing herself with a leap backward, suddenly with a lightning-like "cut-over" touches him on the sword arm, and though he wouldn't acknowledge it, I knew she'd pricked him, and I could tell that it had roused him to anger in his turn. "You she-devil!" I heard him hiss between his teeth, and now he turned to the offensive himself.

'He was at a disadvantage, though, for he didn't want to hurt her badly, being a woman, so he tries to disarm her, and give her some slight wound on the sword arm, or high in "quatre" or "tierce."

'That was no good, as I could have told him nicely, for she had the strongest and supplest wrist of any woman ever I saw, and forbye that, disarming can only be done by taking your opponent unawares, and she kenned nicely what he was after.

'Then sudden he gies it up, seeing the uselessness o't, and tries a brute strength game, waits his chance till he can lift up her blade, and then thrusts sideways so as to pink her high in the shoulder, but she twists aside and it only just touches her through the sleeve. "First blood!" he shouts triumphantly, "the stakes are mine," with a low bow and a sweep o' the sword arm. "Phit!" she cries passionately; "it's only a scratch," and she comes again at him with a bound.