Part 5

The story would become tiresome by going over the catalogue of a thousandth part of young Davy Lidgitt's doings in the "improving way," during the dozen years that intervened between the visit to the Wise man of Welton and old Davy's retirement from business as a carrier. Nor is it needful to chronicle similar deeds of the son that occurred from that period to the day of the father's death,—though some of these latter sorely harassed the old man's temper,—especially young Davy's purchase of coloured collars for the horses, and a fancy tilt, that cost thrice the price of the old one, and let in the rain! It was when old Davy was "safe under the sod," as the sexton said when he had finished the covering of his grave, and clapped it soundly with his spade in token of admiration for his own work,—it was then that young Davy began to let all the world in Long Ludforth see there was a man amongst them that possessed brains.

First, the "reformer" pulled down his father's low cottage, and engaged a swaggering builder to erect a tall four-storied house of brick, with a slated roof, on the same spot, taking in the little spot that had glowed so delightfully for many a year with roses, and pansies, and marigolds. True, the purse of two hundred spade-aces, left by his economical parent, did not suffice to finish the house in the style he had devised; so he warned the bricklayer to stop at three stories, and to leave out some of the fantastic stone ornaments he had procured at Louth. He sold the ornaments and some of the other extra materials which had already been brought upon his premises; but he permitted a tradesman to take them on credit, and was never paid for them. Then, finding the house was likely to remain unroofed for lack of money, he was constrained to go a-borrowing; but the errand and the reception he met reminded him strongly of one of his old father's sayings, which he used to think very simple when the old man was alive,—"He that goes a-borrowing goes a-sorrowing!"—but young Davy did not think the proverb quite so simple, now. The farmers shook their heads at him, wherever he went, and said "No;" without a syllable of preface or addenda. And as for the monied men at Louth, they had all taken their gauge of young Davy Lidgitt, as well as the Wise Man of Welton; and the "man of improvements" could only borrow on a hard mortgage.

"And who are you to put into this new house when it is finished, _Mister_ Lidgitt?" asked Grumley, the grocer, of Louth, very politely, one day, as he was riding past, and saw young Davy standing by to look at the builders.

Young Davy looked foolish at the question; for, having neither father nor mother, brother nor sister, in the world, he could only answer that he had no one to put into it but himself.

The grocer earnestly begged his company to dinner, when he next came to Louth; and young Davy felt so much flattered by so unusual an invitation, that he instantly accepted it. And young Davy found Mr. Grumley very cordial, and Mrs. Grumley exceedingly kind,—but, above all, the _Misses_ Grumley were the most interesting creatures he had ever seen! The eldest, especially, won his respect,—or, he did not exactly know what to call it,—for he had thought more about improvements in horses, and carts, and stables, and houses, than aught else, all his life. But the eldest Miss—_the_ Miss Grumley, by emphasis of courtesy—talked so sensibly about the clever improvements that young Mr. Brown had made in his farm-house, at Raithby, now his father was dead; and how he had married Miss Green, the chandler's daughter, and had bought such a nice gig!

To tell the reader at once, what he plainly sees is about coming to pass, young _Mister_ Davy Lidgitt married _Miss_ Grumley; and he also bought a nice gig—but it was bought on credit!

Proceeding with his "reforms" and "improvements," Davy turned _daily_ carrier from Long Ludforth to Louth, in a smart, light van, having disposed of his father's old cart. But now young Davy began _to think_,—not willingly, but perforce,—for bills were pouring in upon him that he could not pay. But Mr. Grumley was ready to _join in a note_, since young Davy had already performed that kindness, more than once, for his father-in-law. Still young Davy was compelled to think; for, more than once, his grand _daily_ trip in the new van to Louth did not afford freightage enough to cover the expense of the two toll-gates which "improvement" had set up between Long Ludforth and Louth market-place. So Davy fell off to "every other day" as a carrier. This was his first retrograde "reform," but, alas! it was not his last.

Expenses daily became heavier. Mrs. Lidgitt was gay when a grocer's daughter in a market town; but she felt it requisite and becoming to "take the lead" in dress, since her settlement in a village, where the affair, too, was so comparatively easy. And then, in the course of two years, two little Lidgitts were squalling about the house; and, in addition to one regular maid-servant, and an occasional help from a stable-boy, a nurse was introduced as a constant member of Davy's household establishment.

The visit of a lawyer, one day, put the family into a flutter. Davy was taken aside, and informed that Mr. So-and-so had resolved to call in his mortgage. Davy's heart sunk, until he thought he must have dropped; but how overjoyed he became when Lawyer Gripple so cheerfully offered himself as mortgagee to succeed his client Mr. So-and-so! Yet, when the new mortgage-deed was completed, Davy found himself, somehow or other, a hundred pounds more in debt for his house than before!

Young Davy Lidgitt now began to _think_ more deeply, and proposed some curtailments of weekly expenditure to his wife; but she wept so passionately at the mention of them, that Davy's heart smote him for his cruelty. Then he tried to resolve on lessening his own "appearances;" but pride gat the better of him, and he dashed along, till at the end of one more year, Lawyer Gripple suddenly "called in his money," and followed up the call ere Davy could answer it, or procure another friend, by taking possession of Davy's house, and telling him that thenceforth he ceased to be any thing but a tenant, and for that title must pay him—Lawyer Gripple—twenty pounds a-year.

Before Davy could recover his surprise at this rapacious deed, Mr. Grumley failed in very heavy responsibilities, with very small assets, and young Davy was sent to prison for the debts to which he had pledged himself on account of his father-in-law.

To end a sorrowful story as speedily as possible, it remains but to say, that when poor Davy got out of gaol he found his wife and her children nearly starving and in rags, and living in a scanty, down-coming cottage, not half the size of that wherein his father and mother had lived so many years in contentment and prosperity—his house was not only entirely gone, but his van and horses were sold, and his business had passed, months before, into the hands of an industrious stranger.

Penniless, sick, and wretched, poor Davy Lidgitt was compelled to apply to the parish for bread, and he had no alternative but to obey their direction, and break stones on the road!

He was beheld in that employ for many years after—a fallen, broken-spirited man;—and often would the aged women observe to each other,—as they passed him by to work in the fields, and remembered Tom Cussitt's prophecy, to which Davy's father would so often recur in his neighbours' hearing,—"So much for the man who hath brought his ninepence to nought!"

THE FISHERMAN AND THE FIDDLER; OR, "DON'T SAY SO TILL YOU ARE SURE."

It is a long day since Zed Marrowby and Phil Garrett passed quietly away from this wilderness of confusion and wrong, and their names are well-nigh forgotten. But they were, each of them, so unlike other folk in their way of life, and in their old-fashioned habits of thinking and talking, that there is no wonder they have slipped out of the world's memory as well as out of the world itself. Two odd old fellows they were deemed for many a year, albeit there are few happier old fellows, upon the whole, than they were. And who were they?

Zed was an humble fishermen on the Trent, and never knew what it was to be possessed, at once, of twenty shillings in his life. His father was called Zedekiah, but the son never reached that long-name dignity. Zed was taught the art and mystery of fishing with an angle, fishing with set lines and hooks, fishing with nets—in brief, all kinds of fresh-water fishing, when a boy, by his father,—whose father and grandfather before him were each and all fishermen. Zed was a bachelor all his life long, and that means fourscore and five; and Zed never had but one bosom-friend, and that was blind Phil Garrett the fiddler.

Phil could not trace his ancestry in an uninterrupted line for several generations like his friend Zed. In fact, it may seem strange to a world so wise as the world is now-a-days, but Phil Garrett never knew who was his own father! His earliest recollections were of hard usage by all around him save his mother, who herself died of hard usage, and left him to the ruthless world, a blind orphan at a tender age. There was as great doubt about Phil's true Christian name as there was about his parentage: some said it was Philip, and others said it ought to be Philander; here and there one contended it must be Philibert, while his godmother, Abigail, inclined to believe it was Philemon, but even she could not justly remember—for, as she used to say, "the parson quite took away her recollection of it, by hemming and hawing, and being so long about the trifling matter of sprinking the child—and all the while she was pretty sartain the christening-cake would be burnt under the wood-ashes, for she made it herself, and placed it under the dish at the last moment, in order that it might not be spoilt while they were at church." However, Phil contrived to teach himself to play on the fiddle when a boy, and thereby managed to win his own living, without ever seeing the sun, or knowing exactly, either his own name, or the name of his father.

Zed and Phil were nearly of an age, and became attached to each other when they were in their teens: indeed, from that period of life they were inseparable, except on special occasions. It was a singular companionship, was that of Zed Marrowby, the fisherman, and blind Phil Garrett, the fiddler. As soon as day broke, through spring, summer, and autumn, Zed might be seen wending his way among the osiers, on the banks of old Trent, towards his small narrow boat; and blind Phil, with his fiddle-case under his arm, might be seen leaning on Zed's left shoulder, and hurrying along with him. No matter how heavily it rained, or strongly it blew, the two happy old fellows were as constant in their time of rising, and of their embarkation, as the sun was in mounting above the east, unless Phil happened to be engaged for a wedding or a wake, for the blind fiddler was in high request for all the rustic rejoicings around Torksey, where the singular companions lived—I mean, at Marton, and Sturton, and Fenton, and Newton, on the Lincolnshire side of the Trent; and not less at Laneham, and Dunham, and Drayton, and Rampton, and Leverton, on the side of merry Nottinghamshire.

Winter, you would say, would be but a dreary season for the two old cronies, since it would put a stop to their voyaging, and, by confining them within doors, would make them impish and melancholy. But you are wrong, if you say so. There were nets and lines to make and to mend, and the past to recount, and the future to reckon upon; and Phil would play on his fiddle while Zed would sing, and when Phil's arm was weary with scraping, and Zed's throat was sore with piping, Zed would listen till he fell asleep with Phil telling ghost-stories and fairy-tales, and love-ditties and robber-ventures,—all of which he had learned from his godmother, old Abigail Cullsimple, at once the most famous herb-woman, midwife, and tale-teller, in her own day and generation, for threescore miles round about ancient Torksey on the Trent,—nay, it were perilous to assert that she ever had an equal, in these three combined qualifications, throughout the whole region of Lindsey.

It would take some thousands of pages to narrate half the adventures in rain and fair weather, of the fisherman and fiddler, during their threescore years of friendship. Let it suffice to take up their life-story for some two or three days of the last summer they spent together in this world, commencing with a fine morning in which they unmoored their little boat somewhat earlier than usual, in order to reach Littleborough for a wedding, before the turn of the tide. The morning was such a delicious one, that, old as they were, the two old voyagers could not restrain their feeling of pleasure at the balmy and refreshing effect it had upon their weather-beaten frames; and, blind as poor Phil was, you could not have failed, had you seen his expressive face when under very pleasurable emotion, to discern that it scarcely needs the language of eyes to demonstrate the heart's happiness. Their little skiff darted like a fowl along the stream, so finely did opening nature seem to nerve the old men's arms, and puff their little sail; the very fishes seemed scarcely to have time to take alarm while the oars plashed amid the liquid silver, but darted and gambolled after each other,—the rapid dace and the delicate bleak, and the golden-finned perch,—every moment to the surface of the stream, exulting, as it seemed, in the solar glory. It was a morning to fill with music every human soul that has any music in itself. The sweet matin lute of the lark thrilled through the heavens, and the still sweeter voice of the blythe milk-maid, as she tripped it, fresh and rosy, over the lea, was heard waking the echoes with her plaintive love-melody. Zed and Phil were too true children of Nature to disobey her influences, and thus chanted their hearts' sedate joy, as they bent at the oar:—

"Merrily we go, my man— Merrily with the tide! Catch the breezes while you can— Here we'll not abide!

Storm and calm will soon be o'er— Spread the flowing sail! Lift thy heart with sorrow sore— Catch the fav'ring gale!

Wouldst thou weep till set of sun— From the break of day? This life's stream will soon be run— Laugh, then, while you may!

Mariners in life's frail boat— Sighs and tears are vain! Cheerily let's onward float— Soon the port we'll gain!

Merrily we go, my man— Merrily with the tide! Catch the breezes while you can— Merrily onward glide!"

Again and again they doubled the last verse, those brave old voyagers! until many a milk-maid came up the banks of Trent, leaving her cows on the lea, to listen more nearly to the merry song they had so often heard before from the two quaint companions of the fishing-boat.

The little ferry of Littleborough was at length gained, and Zed leaped as gaily on shore as if he were yet in his youth, and then handed Phil out, with his fiddle-case under his arm; and when the skiff was moored, away they hasted to the "Ferry Boat Inn," as the humble public-house was loftily termed, and where the intended wedding and merry-making was about to be held. After half-a-dozen hearty gripes of the hand, and as many congratulations on their good looks, the two old men were zealously pressed to "eat and drink, and not spare," by the bluff landlord. And, nothing loth, Zed and Phil sat down on the long-settle, and made free with a good hearty beef-steak pie, and a tankard of ale; and the landlord was ready to fill again ere the latter was fairly empty. "Don't ye be dainty about it, my hearties," said he, "for the youngsters will be down-stairs soon; they've been dressing this I don't know how long; and you'll ha' plenty to do, I warrant ye, when they happen to find that you're come: so do justice to your fare!"

And anon the bride that was to be was brought down-stairs by a crowd of laughing lasses, and, blushing like the May, was placed in a chair adorned with flowers; and soon the lads burst in with the bridegroom, all in best array of plush and velveteen; and when he stepped up to the chaired beauty for a morning's buss, the lads pulled him away and said "nay;" and then all clapped their hands with delight when they first saw Zed and Phil in the corner, and all shouted, as if they were mad, for a good thumping ditty that would put mettle in their heels. So Phil struck up first "Malbrook's gone to battle," and then "Gee-ho, Dobbin," and then "Grist the Miller," and then "She will and she won't," and then, "Nelly is gone to be married;" and each lad took his lass, and led up or followed the dance to the capers of Phil's bow, till "The parson's come!" resounded through the kitchen; and the marriage-procession was immediately formed, and the kitchen was deserted, for even Zed and Phil went off, the one to see, and the other to hear, lovely Polly of the Ferry-Boat Inn given away to sprightly and honest young farmer Brown that morning, at the neighbouring parish church of Sturton-le-Steeple.

The ceremony over, and the kitchen regained, feasting, fun, and frolic, were the order of the day. Phil's fiddle and Zed's throat were worked till the owners of them could scarcely work longer; and oh, the tales that Phil told, and the songs that Zed sung, in the course of that merry wedding-day! why, the like of 'em could not be said or sung by man or maid, wife or widow, within all Christendom!

Don't imagine, either, that the fun and frolic were partaken of merely by the younkers: let me tell you, that even the fat landlord himself, although verging on fourscore, caught so much of the spirit of the time, that he jumped up, all of a sudden, after watching the nodding head and smirking face of Dame Dinah Brown, the grandmother of the bridegroom, and discerning how she began to fidget, like himself,—I say he jumped up all of a sudden, and, seizing her hand, whirled her away, not in the least unwilling, to show the young lads and lasses that they had not forgotten a quick step, and all that, as old as they were. And, by Jingo! how all-alive did Phil look, while he screwed up his catgut for a new strain; and never was any thing seen in mortal man more wonderful than the ecstatic changes of his blind face, while he struck up "Green leaves all grow sere!" as an accompaniment to the frisking feet of Dame Dinah and the fat old landlord. And then he changed the strain for one of rich merriment, while his sightless and strangely expressive countenance depicted every shade of wild and wilder glee, and vibrated throughout its whole surface with every thrill of the melody and gambol of the bow; insomuch that more than one youth forgot every thing around, and stood gazing at Phil's face, thinking they would never forget how it looked, if they lived even to be as old as Methusaleh.

On and on the aged dancers skipped, and "crossed" and "set," looking as gleeful as if they had never known what it was to be grave, until, streaming with sweat, and fairly wearied out with the mad employment they had been giving their heels, and to which they had been strangers for many a long year, they were constrained to sit down, avowing, meanwhile, that "they only wished they were young again, for then they would show the youngsters what a bit o' dancing was in their time!"

When the sun had set, Zed began to feel some degree of uneasiness to be gone. There was the Trent to voyage, for at least three miles, in order to reach their home at Torksey, and Zed knew the stream would be somewhat swollen, but much more he feared the state of his own upper story, since he had not been able to resist the pressing invitations and challenges, first of one and then of another, and, consequently, his potations had been somewhat numerous. Having given Phil the hint, Phil began to complain of exhaustion as to his tale-budget, and of the power of his nerves to direct the bow; but it was long ere this would avail, and many a roaring ditty was launched forth from the thunder of Phil's catgut, amid the thundering heels of the country lads and lasses, before the two aged cronies could manage to obtain leave, once more, to launch their little boat, and strike off for home. The farewell chords were at last struck, the fiddle was boxed; and, accompanied to the water's edge by a merry company, Zed and Phil pushed off from shore amidst the hearty cheers of the merry-makers. Then, each taking his oar, as usual, away they went with the tide, that now swept up the river's course.

Much as they had sung that merry day, the two brave old fellows, nevertheless, trolled forth more than one ditty before they reached Torksey; and neither of them suffered any depression of spirits or strength as they prosecuted their homeward voyage. Zed Marrowby, especially—and, in good faith his alacrity must be fairly confessed to have owed its greater intensity to his most frequent potations—Zed, especially, sprung on shore with the nimbleness of a lad of twenty, as soon as they arrived in front of the ruins of old Torksey castle, which stands like a blighted, and yet beautiful thing of the past, beside the very brink of the noble stream.

"As sure as a gun, Phil," cried the mellow old fellow, stamping with vehemence, as he was leading Phil under a propped fragment of the old fabric, "we'll not go to bed to-night till we've seen whether there be any gold in these vaults, as the story goes! I've heard you tell the tale about folks hiding their coin here, in the time of bloody Oliver, until my patience is worn out. I'm determined, Phil, to know whether any money can be found here, or not!"

"Why, zowks, Zed!" exclaimed Phil Garrett, "you're not so mad with that glass o' rum they gave you before you pushed off as to have taken it into your head to——"

"Don't bother me, Phil!" said the fisherman in a pet, "I'm determined to fish up the gold out of these old vaults before midnight, as late as it is, and that's the long and short on't!"

"'Don't say so till you're sure!'" cried Phil, uttering an old saying that he was very fond of; "how will you dig up the gold, Zed? you have never a shovel nor a pick-axe, you know."

"Then I'll soon have both," replied Zed; "you sit down here on this stone, Phil, and I'll go and slive into the Talbot yard, and I'll warrant it I'll soon have a pick-axe and a shovel." And off Zed scampered as fast as his old heels, impelled by his heated head, could carry him.

"Bring the dark lanthorn with you!" cried Phil, shouting after him as loudly as he dared to shout; and then, sitting down on the grass in lieu of the hard stone, began to think of the oddness and suddenness of Zed's resolution. "What a fool Zed always becomes when he gets a drop of rum!" thought Phil to himself; "and, confound it! I feel queerish, somehow, myself. I wish I had not drunk that tipler o'rum. It was very foolish of me, for I always tell Zed to stick to good old Sir John Barleycorn, and then no great harm can come on it. But what's the use of grumbling and growling at one's self when it's done? I'll e'en make the best on't, since it is so." And Phil was about to troll forth another merry ditty, when he remembered that it was near midnight, that it must be thereabouts pitch dark, and that he was among the ruins of Torksey Castle, where, according to a queer skin-freezing story he was wont to tell himself, the lady without the head was often seen to walk at midnight! So Phil, too muddled to remember that he could not have seen the headless lady if she had appeared, held his peace, and thought it was better to keep quiet in such a queer place and at such a queer time of night.