CHAPTERCXLIV.

CHAPTERCXLIV.A GLANCE AT STOKE FERRY FARM HARVEST HOME.For some days after Peace’s return to the Evalina-road he was in a furious savage state. He did not tell anyone of his escapade at the residence of Lady Marvlynn, but those about him were at no loss to divine that something had occurred which not only roused his temper, but made him as sharp and snappish as a rabid dog.Mrs. Thompson, who had been putting an enemy into her mouth, incurred his displeasure. With brutal ferocity he struck her mercilessly about the face and head. So violent was his attack that one of the unhappy woman’s eyes was closed, in addition to several other bruises, which she received at the hands of her brutal companion; the only wonder is that she consented to remain with him so long.It was in vain for Mrs. Peace to interfere, for she knew that the chances would have been that she would have been subjected to a similar course of treatment, for Peace ruled his two female companions with a rod of iron.Bill Rawton strove to pacify the tyrant. He was a man who never at any time of his life treated one of the opposite sex with unkindness, and Peace’s conduct towards the “ladies” of his establishment met with Bill’s unqualified disapproval.As time went on, however, the owner of the home in the Evalina-road toned down, and it is said that he expressed his regret for his barbarity—anyway, he became more considerate towards those who might at any given moment have handed him over to the officers of the law.But we must leave the brutal burglar for a while, to take a glance at some of the other characters, who figure in this history.In the succeeding chapters it will be our purpose to chronicle the career of our hero, with something like an unbroken course of action.It is, perhaps, needless to say that Mr. Algernon Sutherland dodged the police; he did not present himself at the police-court, where the second examination should have taken place, and the magistrate, Mr. Kensett, felicitated himself upon the fact that the young man had contrived to give his enemies the slip.Many months had passed over since the capture, and fresh examination of Sutherland took place, and the affair had by this time been nearly if not quite forgotten.It was autumn, and the harvest time was over, the fields were no longer forests of waving corn, but bare and yellow stubble; the yards of the farmers were filled with portly and imposing sacks of corn, warm and sweet beneath thin roofs of pale clean thatch.Harvest time is the holiday of country labourers—one of hard work and high wages, which is the best holiday of all.At harvest time men and women, who in some parts of England are still preferred to machines, earn the chance of buying for themselves and families new corduroy trousers, cotton gowns, and nailed boots for the ensuing year.But there are few (however temperately they may have lived during the other months of the year) who do not spend a great deal of their money on filthy debauches over poisoned beer. This is called the “harvest drunken touch.” With some it lasts no longer than one night; with others a week, a fortnight, or even longer. It is one of the sacred impurities of our forefathers, which descend from generation to generation, fathers and grandfathers industriously setting the bad example.I have to describe a jovial and a far happier scene, and to take you to aPlator orchard, belonging to Stoke Ferry Farm. John Ashbrook was, as we have already seen, a most prosperous man.It was a bright day for him when he left Oakfield House to take to Stoke Ferry Farm, and to espouse its then owner’s charming daughter.Very different was it with the other brother.Richard Ashbrook, who had married the girl Jane Ryan, seemed to go from bad to worse after his brother had left him, and his wife died.He seemed to lose all heart, and the consequence was that his farm was neglected, for the simple reason that he did not appear to care about anything. The result may be easily imagined. Richard was as unprosperous as his brother was flourishing.Nevertheless, when the harvest festivities were about to take place at Stoke Ferry, John insisted upon his brother and sister doing honour to them by their presence.It was a goodly gathering. Brickett was present, as were also old Nat, whom the reader will doubtless remember as one of the parlour customers of the “Carved Lion;” Mother Bagley, the personification of spotlessness in dress, and sedateness in demeanour; and Master John Ashbrook, puffing out his cheeks like the sides of a red balloon, and rubbing his broad brown hands, and Patty as loveable and charming as she had ever been.There were sports to be played at, and prizes to be contended for; pole-climbing, jumping in sacks, wheelbarrow races blindfold, hurdle jumping, ball throwing, and quoit throwing were the order of the day.These games occupied the whole of the forenoon, and when six brawny fellows took their places, the whole of their bodies being encased in sacks, with nothing but their heads visible, there was a roar of laughter, and peal after peal followed in quick succession as one or more stumbled, and frantically strove to rise upon his legs again.When these sports were over, they adjourned to the barn, and commenced an onslaught upon brown loaves, Cheshire cheese, and a barrel of home-brewed beer.After lunch it was announced that the lamb race was to come off.Heralds in corduroys spouted it forth with their voices, loud and brazen as trumpets; ballmen cleared the course with their wands of stout ground-ash.“Come, Kitty,” said John Ashbrook, “Why be dull a day like this? Brighten up, lass, brighten up, there’s plenty of sun behind the clouds yet, though, for my part I cant see any clouds at all.”“There be clouds, nevertheless, master,” said the young woman. “I be thinkin’ as how he be dead and gone. The clouds are in my heart, where it’s not for the eyes of man to see.”“It may be so, that be true enough, I dessay, lass, but ye see it beant o’ no manner o’ yoose for a lad or lass a settin’ their minds to be for ever a mournin’. Look at my brother—he can’t forget, poor chap, the one as be dead and gone. Don’t ee follow his example. Look at Joe—he’s the honestest and truest lad in the hull county, and he’s bin after ee ever so long, but you won’t speak to un, though all the maids be a dyin’ for un. Don’t ee like him, Kitty?”I like him well enough—I could not help doing that there, if it were only for his fondness and attachment to Mr. Phillip, but I couldna marry him.”“And why not?”“I couldna without a tellin’ him, and I wouldna do that to save my life.”“Ye be a strange gell, self-willed and wayward, I’m thinkin’. I dessay, if the truth may be spoken, Joe knows all about what you ha’ to tell him.”“Does he? Well may be as how he does.”“And so ye see, lass, there beant no yoose your being so obstinate. You must say a kind word or two to Joe or else——”“Or else, what, master?”“Well, maybe you and I shall fall out.”“We ha’ never done that as yet, anyhow.”“Noa, an’ I hopes as how we never shall.”“Tell him what you like then, it won’t alter his love, you foolish hussey; and now go and have your thumbs tied.”“What, run for the lamb!” she cried, shrinking back a little.“Aye, run for the lamb. Ye’re the straightest-limbed girl in these parts, and the strongest. Joe Doughty is the Lord of the Harvest, and so, gell, you must be the Lady of the Lamb.”The lamb race, as it is termed, is thus regulated. A young lamb is run for by the young maidens, who have their thumbs tied behind their backs. Whoever succeeds in first seizing the lamb with her mouth, retains it as her prize, and receives the title of the Lady of the Lamb.The custom is an ancient one—the relic, perhaps, of a less refined age than the present—and it cannot be considered a very elegant performance. Nevertheless, it generally affords amusement to most persons who witness it.Ten young women had already stood forward as candidates.It fell to the sweetheart of each to tie her thumbs for her. If by chance any one of them did not happen to have a sweetheart, one of the young men volunteered to perform the amorous duty; and this was perhaps the prettiest part of the sport.Sometimes there was a little confusion when a belle happened to possess more than one recognised lover.They would stand watching her with their sheepish eyes, and she would be compelled to choose once for all which of the two she would keep company with for the future.When Kitty appeared the girls looked at each other anxiously, for they recognised in her a formidable antagonist.All the young men made way for Joe Doughty, who went up to her and asked her if he might tie her hands for her.“As well you as any other,” was the answer.She exceeded Ashbrook’s expectations, and the forebodings of the other candidates were verified.Kitty, open-jawed, and as agile as a young leopardess, had soon pounced upon the lamb, and won the prize with her teeth.Whether she would have been a match for the female acrobat who recently astounded the frequenters of a London music-hall, with the tenacious power and strength of her teeth, is another question, but she took the shine out of all her rustic competitors, and her master, Mr. John Ashbrook, felt proud of the victory she had obtained.Now the old wives were marshalled into a line to run a race for a pound of tea.Mother Bagley, who indignantly refused “to beneath herself by joining in such a rabbling concern,” condescended, however, to drink hot tea against other dames who worshipped the refreshing beverage.The scalding twankey brought the tears into her eyes, but comfort to her heart.Snuff had now become her staff of life, the prop of her old age. To be out of snuff was to be snuffed out—a dead charred wick instead of a bright and constant flame.A tub of water was brought out and placed in the centre of the plat. Apples were called for, the largest that could be had.The boys immediately formed themselves into a procession, and proceeded to wassail the orchard, or to go apple-howling, as it was otherwise termed.No.78.Illustration: DEADLY STRUGGLE.DEADLY STRUGGLE BETWEEN PEACE AND CONSTABLE ROBINSON.One of them had a cow’s horn, from which he extracted horribly discordant notes. Then they marched to one of the apple trees and encircled it, chanting a prayer for the next year’s crop.Stand fast, root—bear well, top—Pray the Lord send us a good heavy crop.Every twig apples big—Every bough apples enow:Hats full, caps full,Full quarters, sacks full.They shouted in chorus with the cow-horn accompaniment, rapped the trees with sticks, which each bore in his hand, and concluded the ceremony by knocking down three monster red-cheeked pippins, which were soon floating in the tub, ready to be mouthed for by the youngsters, who endeavoured to earn them under the same conditions as the lamb race.Indeed, the sports and pastimes on this occasion were singularly varied and amusing.Old Mr. Jamblin had, throughout his life, taken great delight in keeping up the old English customs of his forefathers, and John Ashbrook proved a worthy successor, in this respect, to his father-in-law.At six o’clock they sat down to the harvest dinner, which was spread and served on a table of fabulous length in a corner of the plat, where the grass had been mowed for the purpose.It was still warm enough foral frescorepasts—at least, on such an evening as this, when the air was fragrant, when the nightingale was singing, and when the last rays of sunlight fell goldenly and gloriously upon the scene.As soon as the sirloins of beef and huge plum puddings had disappeared from the table, and pipes with tobacco had taken their place, a low whisper ran backwards and forwards, and more than one voice cried audibly for Joe Doughty.Joe had earned the rank of the Lord of the Harvest by reaping more corn than any other labourer on the farm. It was one of the duties of this nobleman to propose the health of the reapers.He was, like a good many more, unaccustomed to public speaking. So he rose and said—“Pr’aps as Master Cheadle was the vice, sitting opposite to Master Ashbrook and all——”“Strike me into brandy pop, you’re a coming it strong, young man,” said Cheadle, with affected sternness, “Don’t go puttin’ your pack upon other pipple’s shoulders.”“There, that’s just like my Joe,” cried Doughty’s mother. “He knows I want him to speechify, and he’s a tryin’ to get out of it on purpose to worrit me.”“All right, mother,” cried Doughty, “you shan’t be worrited. I aint much of a hand at speechifying, but I dunno as I ought to shirk my duty; so you see I shall ha’ to cut the matter as short as the stubble in the whate-fields. I’m a goin’ to ax you to drink the health of the most considerate and kindest of masters as ever mortal man had. From the first drop of the dew-cup to what we are drinking now, when ha’ we had to ask for beer and couldn’t get it?”Chorus of voices: “Never!”[The dew-cup is the first draught of beer given to reapers before they begin harvest work.]“We’ve had kindness always, and beer always, and money always when we have earned it, sometimes afore that wi’ some on ye, and to-day we’ve had sports and prizes as we don’t get every day in England; so I ax ye to drink the health of Master Ashbrook.”The health was drunk with wild enthusiasm.“And, now,” said Doughty, “let’s hear you join in wi’ me in the harvest song, and we’ll sing it in the good old style.”When the harvest song (which has appeared too often in print to need further recording) was concluded, John Ashbrook rose and thanked them, and then, without sitting down, sang a song in praise of the “Lord of the Harvest.” All rose while Doughty remained seated. At the end of the song Joe commenced a song in praise of the head carter. The company rose again and joined him in the characteristic chorus, “With a halt, with a ree, with a wo, with a gee;”—then the carter sang to the shepherd, the shepherd to the thatcher, and so on.All these little musical arrangements had been decided on weeks before the appointed day, and it had taken some of the vocalists months to learn their parts.By the time their complimentary songs were ended it was quite dark. A large camphine lamp, which occupied the centre of the table, supplied the place of the moon, and half a dozen candles played their parts of fixed stars.“Who’s to be knocked down for the next song?” roared the wood-cutter, in his stentorian voice. “It’s my call—and I calls on—calls on——”“Come, say it, and ha’ done wi’ it,” said Nat, peevishly. “It rouses my corruption to hear a growed-up man hogglin’ and bogglin’ like that ’ere.”“Then I calls on you, Nat.”The rustics laughed, and sang, “Poor old hoss—poor old hoss!”“Don’t ee be fools,” cried Joe. “I aint a-going to let ee sing that to-night.”“Spiff a song, ould un, and don’t be ranty tanty—coom.”“I bean’t ranty tanty,” said Nat, “but it meks me rankled to think as we ha’ no fitchet pie for supper. We allers yoosed to ha’ it, and I can’t sing wi’out it, nother.”“We used to ha’ fitchet pie, sartinly,” said the old wood-cutter, “but we didn’t yoose to ha’ such good meat nor such fine plum puddings as we’s had to-day, and there’s no lack o’ beer. Pour him out a noggin and then he’ll sing.”“There’s something better than that coming. My eyes alive, look ee here.”“Buckle-my-buff, and a gallon on it,” shouted an enthusiastic clown.“There’s another coming,” said the girls, as they set it down upon the table.The beer mugs were speedily emptied, and sent in half-dozens to the bowl, before which a servant lass, ladle in hand, laboured without ceasing.“My blessing to all on you,” cried Nat, with a devotional expression of countenance.“Yes, that’s all very well, Nat, but we want your song first, and your toast afterwards.”“I doesn’t care a dump for yer wants; I’ll sing when I has a mind to, and not afore.”“Well, there’s plenty as can if you can’t.”“Can’t. Who says I cant sing? I’ll sing e’er a man here for a pint.”And he broke out into the following pastoral:—THE GAY PLOUGHBOY.Come, all you merry ploughboys, and listen to my song;A tale I have to tell you, which doth to love belong.He that doth rise up early to lead his team with joy,And so bravely does his duty like a gay ploughboy.Like a gay ploughboy.Says the mother to the daughter, “You seem to love him well—It seems as if your tender breast all on his head could dwell;Young lads they are so rakish, young maids they do decoy,And some day we’ll see you on the knee of a gay ploughboy.”Of a gay ploughboy.“Oh, no, oh no,” said Jenny, “he’s just the lad for me;With him I could live happy, his heart’s so gay and free,And he does rise so early to lead his team with joy,And he bravely does his duty, like a gay ploughboy.”Like a gay ploughboy.Young William in the evening, returning home from plough.He showed to me a gay gold ring, how could my tongue say No?“Oh, take this ring, dear Jenny, and the parson we’ll employ,And they may see you on the knee of a gay ploughboy.”Of a gay ploughboy.’Twas so they were united, and William goes to plough,And Jenny rises with delight to milk her spotted cow.Down in a lonely cottage, where none can them annoy,Ah, who so happy as Jenny and her gay ploughboy?And her gay ploughboy.“Where’s measter?” said a cowboy, addressing himself to the multitude. “Here’s the fiddlers coom, and wants to know whether they may stop or no.”“Yes, they may stop,” said Nat, in a confident tone. “I’m head man here.”“You’ve got bit by a barn-mouse already—aint you?” inquired the wood-cutter.“Or bin to Hatcham Fair and broke both his legs,” said Joe.“That’ll be first-class if we ha’ a dance, won’t it?” said a young lady, with an elegant motion, which was probably intended for a pirouette.“Dancin’!” cried Nat, scornfully. “Drat it, what d’ye want to be got at dancin’ for We be very well as we are, and I means to call upon the thatcher for a song, cos he and I allers bin such very partikiller friends.”“I aint heard your toast as yet,” said the thatcher, “and I’ve been listening for it hard, tew.”“If you’d listened harder wi them stupid ears, you’d ha’ herd me gi’ it afore ever I sung. Here’s another for ee, you darned deaf adder, ‘Two In and One Out’—d’ye know what that be? It’sinhealth,inwealth, andoutof debt.”“And a downright good toast too,” said John Ashbrook, who had left the company for a while and had now returned, “and an excellent toast, Nat.”“Aye, that it be, measter.”“But what say ee to a dance?” said Ashbrook.“There, I knew all your pretty girls would like to dance. Tell ’em to come in, some of ee.”Half a dozen scampered off with the glad tidings, and in a few minutes returned with three men, each of whom carried something wrapped up in green baize beneath his arm.“I want my call answered first, though,” said old Nat, “and the thatcher he aint no true friend o’ mine, so I calls on——”“Be quiet, you flabbergullion, talking like that ’ere, afore measter.”“He knows as much about civility as a fly does of a gaiter strap,” said the indignant Mrs. Doughty.“There, when he gets into that drunken guret it aint no yoose talkin’ to him. If the angel Gibbriel commed down he’d try and push him out of the way. I never seed such an obstinate fellow in all my born days.”“I intend to ha’ my call,” cried Nat, “and so I calls on Kitty Morgan.”“I don’t know any songs,” said Kitty.”“Get out! you know a wheelbarrow full,” returned Nat.“And she can sing even as sweetly as a barley bird (a nightingale),” said the farmer.There was no getting out of it—so Kitty tried to do her best.“Very prettily sung, my gell,” said Ashbrook when she concluded. “Now for the dance—it will be bull’s noon (midnight) else before we begin. The Harvest Lord and the Lady of the Lamb lead off. What’s it to be, Joe?”“‘Speed the Plough’s’ my sort, sir,” said Joe, touching his cap; “it’s one of the best country dances we have.”“I quite agree with you, Joe—it is,” said the farmer. “Now, fiddlers, strike up for ‘Speed the Plough.’”The musicians tuned their instruments, ran over the first few bars, and were satisfied that they were up to the mark, and then dashed off.“Speed the Plough” was danced through and played through as country people dance and as country fiddlers play.As far as vigour was concerned there was no reason to complain. The farmer stopped the dance out, and then left them entirely to their own devices.This was turned to profit by the fiddlers, who had been secretly paid by him. Disguising this fact, they sent one round with a tambourine, as they were wont to do in public-houses.On Saturday night and village revels one penny was the accustomed fee for man and partner.“Now then,” cried the musician, going his rounds and jingling the coppers in his tambourine, “now then, for the next dance. Six down; who makes eight? Now then, mates and partners, for double lead through the next country dance. Ten down; who makes twelve? Oh, there isn’t a twelve (cheerfully); then we’ll go on as we are.”All the other popular dances were done in due notation. “Step-and-Fetch-it,” “The Tramp,” “Lee Po,” “Hands Across,” “Six Bond,”&c.“Want more corn vith your galop?” inquired a man, bringing the almost but never quite exhausted musicians some mugs of “Mickle my buff.”“Ah, we shan’t hurt to-night,” they said. “It’s real fiddlers’ fare here—meat, drink, and money.”Several single dances were next performed, such as hornpipes, “The Dunhill Parson,” “The Broom Dance,” “The Pipe Dance,” and others of the same calibre, after which a kind of cushion dance, called “Bob-in-the-Bowster,” which was provocative of much kissing and enjoyment.In the meantime the old women were steadily drinking all the while, amusing themselves at same time with a game of cards, called “Laugh and Lay Down,” and with another game, which none but rustics can understand, and which is played by inscribing chalk lines both ways upon a table, and making spots between the squares.Kate Morgan, the Lady of the Lamb, as she was termed on the eventful day, had withdrawn from the throng of merry-makers, and Joe Doughty, who had not ceased watching her the whole evening, followed her.She turned and saw him. Then his heart, which had been so stout in the furrowed field, began to tremble like a timid bird.“Well,” said his companion.“I hope as how it is well,” he answered. “Kitty, I’ve got a serious word or two to say to ee.”“Ha’ ee?”“Yes, my gell.”And what be it then?”“In foreign seas, so I’ve bin told, lass, there’s fishes as ha’ teeth upon their tongues, and there be many a woman as can set teeth upon him which will bite a man’s life and happiness in two.”“An’ what if they be? Has that anything to do wi’ me?”She looked at him keenly. Poor girl, she had had bitter experiences.“I want you to understand,” said Joe Doughty, in a serious tone of voice, “that the will of a woman has a deal to do wi’ me, for ye must know how much my future happiness depends upon one single word uttered by you.”“By me?”“Aye, lass, that be true enough—by you. Often and often, when alone in the field of waving corn, or it may be yellow stubble, I ha’ thought of one who had it in her power to mek or mar me. Now doant ye be shakin’ yer head, ’cause what I be sayin’ is the solemn truth, and there’s no gettin’ away from it. Indeed, it aint o’ no yoose tryin’. Where was I? Oh, I know, in the field, either a ploughin’, sowin’, or reapin’, it matters not which; but, anyway, I ha’ thought this matter over and over again, and though I ha’ not sed anything, not as yet, I ha’ felt all the deeper perhaps. Kitty, you must not look so coldly on me; indeed you mustn’t. Shall I tell you why?”“If you like.”“Because I love you, and none other but you. I aint rich, that you know, but I’ve saved a bit of money, for I haven’t bin like a good many others on the farm, a spending what I earn afore I earned it.”“I know you have been careful and frugal,” she answered.“Well, I aint afraid of work—that you know also.”“I do.”“An’ if so be as you consent to be my wife, which I hope and believe you will, I shall work wi’ greater energy, for I shall ha’ something to work for. A man ain’t a mite o’ yoose in this world if he be all alone, as I ha’ bin all these lonely years, and I want ee for a partner, and if I canna ha’ ee, then there be no other woman as I care about having. Answer me! Dang it all, say yes or no Kitty, without further ado.”“Hark ee, Joe Doughty,” said the woman, with a boldness and energy that fairly astonished him.“I be not fit for an honest man. I tell ee plainly that, years agone, when you were away from Stoke Ferry, summut happened as will for ever prevent me from becoming your wife.”“It won’t do, Kitty; you must find some better excuse than that,” said he, placing his hands upon her shoulder. “It wunno do, lass.”“Wunno do!” she ejaculated, in unfeigned surprise. “May be ee don’t understand me rightly. I tell ee agen and agen—I ain’t fit to be the wife of an honest man.”“And why not?”“Ye maun to force me into a confession. Well, so be it. I am already a mother.”“What if ee be? Don’t ee think I ha’ considered all that. He who be dead and gone did ee a wrong, and it appears to me that ye are not the only woman as he wronged, for there’s——”“I know what you are going to say,” she said, interrupting him, but, if you care about me, don’t ee say a word agen Master Philip, ’cause I can’t bear that. Whatever his faults may have bin, it ain’t right and proper to be a-talkin’ about em now. He was wayward and wilful, and did not take heed of timely warning, but he be dead and gone; he met with a cruel death, and so say no more about ’im.”“You are right—I will not refer to the subject again, seeing as how it be a trouble to ee; but it doesn’t follow that, because in a foolish hour you forgot all but your love for him, that ye’re no fit to be my wife, and I say agen you must find some better excuse.”“I should not like to ha’ a husband taunt me wi’ the shame that has fallen on me. I should no like that.”“And do you think, you foolish lass, that I am likely to do so? You ought to know me better—a deal better nor that there.”“Are you in earnest, Joe?”“Earnest! Dall it, I never was so much in earnest—no not in the whole course of my life.”“And you mean what you say?”“Of course I do; every word I ha’ sed.”“And you’ll ha’ me for all that ha’ past?”“Aye, lass, I will.”“What be left of my heart be yours,” she cried, “and what be left of my life will be devoted to you, and so, if ye’ll tek me ye may ha’ me.”Her lusty companion wound his arms around her, and embraced her with fervour. And so Joe Doughty and Kate Morgan were betrothed in this simple and homely fashion.When farmer Ashbrook was informed of the circumstance, he was greatly pleased, and promised to give the bride a handsome dowry; not that Joe had for a moment been actuated by mercenary feelings when he declared his passion and besought the girl to bestow her hand and heart upon him, for he was strongly attached to her, and had never at any time flirted with any other village maiden.Mr. Philip Jamblin, the ill-fated young man who was murdered by Giles Chudleigh, had not been altogether so circumspect as his relations and friends could have desired.It was pretty plainly demonstrated that he had seduced two young women before he was sent to his account by the brutal Giles, and there were some evil-disposed persons still living who hinted that the young farmer had been brought to his end from this cause.He was a free-hearted fine young fellow, who at times let his passions run riot.Many of his betters are apt to do the same thing. This is evidenced by the conduct of Lord Ethalwood, but two blacks do not make a white, and the late Philip Jamblin was, as we have already seen, not without fault.We have taken but little notice of Richard and Maude Ashbrook, who had been present througout the festivities at Stoke Ferry.They had not taken a very active part in any of the proceedings, remaining for the nonce but passive spectators.Richard Ashbrook seemed to be a completely broken-down man. He did not appear to have any relish for the sports—occasionally, it is true, a wan smile passed over his melancholy features, but that was all.He appeared to be thankful when the sports were brought to a conclusion, and pleading indisposition he retired to bed.For the next few days he grew worse, and it soon became manifest to those about him that his life was drawing to a close. He said he had no desire to live, and that he knew his final time was approaching. He was continually mentioning the name of his deceased wife, Jane Ryan, whose spirit, so he averred, had appeared to him on three separate occasions.Those about him strove to disposses his mind of this idea, but, for all they could say or do, Richard Ashbrook persisted in his declaration, and so he prepared to settle his worldly affairs.His brother John, who was almost heart-broken, agreed to take charge of his child and his sister Maude. It was arranged that Oakfield Farm was to be sold, the proceeds of the same were to be handed over to Maude; and in less than a fortnight after the harvest-home at Stoke Ferry Richard Ashbrook breathed his last.It will be remembered by the reader that the first scene of this history was laid at Oakfield, when Jane Ryan played so conspicuous a part on the night of the burglary by Charles Peace, Gregson, and Cooney.

For some days after Peace’s return to the Evalina-road he was in a furious savage state. He did not tell anyone of his escapade at the residence of Lady Marvlynn, but those about him were at no loss to divine that something had occurred which not only roused his temper, but made him as sharp and snappish as a rabid dog.

Mrs. Thompson, who had been putting an enemy into her mouth, incurred his displeasure. With brutal ferocity he struck her mercilessly about the face and head. So violent was his attack that one of the unhappy woman’s eyes was closed, in addition to several other bruises, which she received at the hands of her brutal companion; the only wonder is that she consented to remain with him so long.

It was in vain for Mrs. Peace to interfere, for she knew that the chances would have been that she would have been subjected to a similar course of treatment, for Peace ruled his two female companions with a rod of iron.

Bill Rawton strove to pacify the tyrant. He was a man who never at any time of his life treated one of the opposite sex with unkindness, and Peace’s conduct towards the “ladies” of his establishment met with Bill’s unqualified disapproval.

As time went on, however, the owner of the home in the Evalina-road toned down, and it is said that he expressed his regret for his barbarity—anyway, he became more considerate towards those who might at any given moment have handed him over to the officers of the law.

But we must leave the brutal burglar for a while, to take a glance at some of the other characters, who figure in this history.

In the succeeding chapters it will be our purpose to chronicle the career of our hero, with something like an unbroken course of action.

It is, perhaps, needless to say that Mr. Algernon Sutherland dodged the police; he did not present himself at the police-court, where the second examination should have taken place, and the magistrate, Mr. Kensett, felicitated himself upon the fact that the young man had contrived to give his enemies the slip.

Many months had passed over since the capture, and fresh examination of Sutherland took place, and the affair had by this time been nearly if not quite forgotten.

It was autumn, and the harvest time was over, the fields were no longer forests of waving corn, but bare and yellow stubble; the yards of the farmers were filled with portly and imposing sacks of corn, warm and sweet beneath thin roofs of pale clean thatch.

Harvest time is the holiday of country labourers—one of hard work and high wages, which is the best holiday of all.

At harvest time men and women, who in some parts of England are still preferred to machines, earn the chance of buying for themselves and families new corduroy trousers, cotton gowns, and nailed boots for the ensuing year.

But there are few (however temperately they may have lived during the other months of the year) who do not spend a great deal of their money on filthy debauches over poisoned beer. This is called the “harvest drunken touch.” With some it lasts no longer than one night; with others a week, a fortnight, or even longer. It is one of the sacred impurities of our forefathers, which descend from generation to generation, fathers and grandfathers industriously setting the bad example.

I have to describe a jovial and a far happier scene, and to take you to aPlator orchard, belonging to Stoke Ferry Farm. John Ashbrook was, as we have already seen, a most prosperous man.

It was a bright day for him when he left Oakfield House to take to Stoke Ferry Farm, and to espouse its then owner’s charming daughter.

Very different was it with the other brother.

Richard Ashbrook, who had married the girl Jane Ryan, seemed to go from bad to worse after his brother had left him, and his wife died.

He seemed to lose all heart, and the consequence was that his farm was neglected, for the simple reason that he did not appear to care about anything. The result may be easily imagined. Richard was as unprosperous as his brother was flourishing.

Nevertheless, when the harvest festivities were about to take place at Stoke Ferry, John insisted upon his brother and sister doing honour to them by their presence.

It was a goodly gathering. Brickett was present, as were also old Nat, whom the reader will doubtless remember as one of the parlour customers of the “Carved Lion;” Mother Bagley, the personification of spotlessness in dress, and sedateness in demeanour; and Master John Ashbrook, puffing out his cheeks like the sides of a red balloon, and rubbing his broad brown hands, and Patty as loveable and charming as she had ever been.

There were sports to be played at, and prizes to be contended for; pole-climbing, jumping in sacks, wheelbarrow races blindfold, hurdle jumping, ball throwing, and quoit throwing were the order of the day.

These games occupied the whole of the forenoon, and when six brawny fellows took their places, the whole of their bodies being encased in sacks, with nothing but their heads visible, there was a roar of laughter, and peal after peal followed in quick succession as one or more stumbled, and frantically strove to rise upon his legs again.

When these sports were over, they adjourned to the barn, and commenced an onslaught upon brown loaves, Cheshire cheese, and a barrel of home-brewed beer.

After lunch it was announced that the lamb race was to come off.

Heralds in corduroys spouted it forth with their voices, loud and brazen as trumpets; ballmen cleared the course with their wands of stout ground-ash.

“Come, Kitty,” said John Ashbrook, “Why be dull a day like this? Brighten up, lass, brighten up, there’s plenty of sun behind the clouds yet, though, for my part I cant see any clouds at all.”

“There be clouds, nevertheless, master,” said the young woman. “I be thinkin’ as how he be dead and gone. The clouds are in my heart, where it’s not for the eyes of man to see.”

“It may be so, that be true enough, I dessay, lass, but ye see it beant o’ no manner o’ yoose for a lad or lass a settin’ their minds to be for ever a mournin’. Look at my brother—he can’t forget, poor chap, the one as be dead and gone. Don’t ee follow his example. Look at Joe—he’s the honestest and truest lad in the hull county, and he’s bin after ee ever so long, but you won’t speak to un, though all the maids be a dyin’ for un. Don’t ee like him, Kitty?”

I like him well enough—I could not help doing that there, if it were only for his fondness and attachment to Mr. Phillip, but I couldna marry him.”

“And why not?”

“I couldna without a tellin’ him, and I wouldna do that to save my life.”

“Ye be a strange gell, self-willed and wayward, I’m thinkin’. I dessay, if the truth may be spoken, Joe knows all about what you ha’ to tell him.”

“Does he? Well may be as how he does.”

“And so ye see, lass, there beant no yoose your being so obstinate. You must say a kind word or two to Joe or else——”

“Or else, what, master?”

“Well, maybe you and I shall fall out.”

“We ha’ never done that as yet, anyhow.”

“Noa, an’ I hopes as how we never shall.”

“Tell him what you like then, it won’t alter his love, you foolish hussey; and now go and have your thumbs tied.”

“What, run for the lamb!” she cried, shrinking back a little.

“Aye, run for the lamb. Ye’re the straightest-limbed girl in these parts, and the strongest. Joe Doughty is the Lord of the Harvest, and so, gell, you must be the Lady of the Lamb.”

The lamb race, as it is termed, is thus regulated. A young lamb is run for by the young maidens, who have their thumbs tied behind their backs. Whoever succeeds in first seizing the lamb with her mouth, retains it as her prize, and receives the title of the Lady of the Lamb.

The custom is an ancient one—the relic, perhaps, of a less refined age than the present—and it cannot be considered a very elegant performance. Nevertheless, it generally affords amusement to most persons who witness it.

Ten young women had already stood forward as candidates.

It fell to the sweetheart of each to tie her thumbs for her. If by chance any one of them did not happen to have a sweetheart, one of the young men volunteered to perform the amorous duty; and this was perhaps the prettiest part of the sport.

Sometimes there was a little confusion when a belle happened to possess more than one recognised lover.

They would stand watching her with their sheepish eyes, and she would be compelled to choose once for all which of the two she would keep company with for the future.

When Kitty appeared the girls looked at each other anxiously, for they recognised in her a formidable antagonist.

All the young men made way for Joe Doughty, who went up to her and asked her if he might tie her hands for her.

“As well you as any other,” was the answer.

She exceeded Ashbrook’s expectations, and the forebodings of the other candidates were verified.

Kitty, open-jawed, and as agile as a young leopardess, had soon pounced upon the lamb, and won the prize with her teeth.

Whether she would have been a match for the female acrobat who recently astounded the frequenters of a London music-hall, with the tenacious power and strength of her teeth, is another question, but she took the shine out of all her rustic competitors, and her master, Mr. John Ashbrook, felt proud of the victory she had obtained.

Now the old wives were marshalled into a line to run a race for a pound of tea.

Mother Bagley, who indignantly refused “to beneath herself by joining in such a rabbling concern,” condescended, however, to drink hot tea against other dames who worshipped the refreshing beverage.

The scalding twankey brought the tears into her eyes, but comfort to her heart.

Snuff had now become her staff of life, the prop of her old age. To be out of snuff was to be snuffed out—a dead charred wick instead of a bright and constant flame.

A tub of water was brought out and placed in the centre of the plat. Apples were called for, the largest that could be had.

The boys immediately formed themselves into a procession, and proceeded to wassail the orchard, or to go apple-howling, as it was otherwise termed.

No.78.

Illustration: DEADLY STRUGGLE.DEADLY STRUGGLE BETWEEN PEACE AND CONSTABLE ROBINSON.

DEADLY STRUGGLE BETWEEN PEACE AND CONSTABLE ROBINSON.

One of them had a cow’s horn, from which he extracted horribly discordant notes. Then they marched to one of the apple trees and encircled it, chanting a prayer for the next year’s crop.

Stand fast, root—bear well, top—Pray the Lord send us a good heavy crop.Every twig apples big—Every bough apples enow:Hats full, caps full,Full quarters, sacks full.

Stand fast, root—bear well, top—

Pray the Lord send us a good heavy crop.

Every twig apples big—

Every bough apples enow:

Hats full, caps full,

Full quarters, sacks full.

They shouted in chorus with the cow-horn accompaniment, rapped the trees with sticks, which each bore in his hand, and concluded the ceremony by knocking down three monster red-cheeked pippins, which were soon floating in the tub, ready to be mouthed for by the youngsters, who endeavoured to earn them under the same conditions as the lamb race.

Indeed, the sports and pastimes on this occasion were singularly varied and amusing.

Old Mr. Jamblin had, throughout his life, taken great delight in keeping up the old English customs of his forefathers, and John Ashbrook proved a worthy successor, in this respect, to his father-in-law.

At six o’clock they sat down to the harvest dinner, which was spread and served on a table of fabulous length in a corner of the plat, where the grass had been mowed for the purpose.

It was still warm enough foral frescorepasts—at least, on such an evening as this, when the air was fragrant, when the nightingale was singing, and when the last rays of sunlight fell goldenly and gloriously upon the scene.

As soon as the sirloins of beef and huge plum puddings had disappeared from the table, and pipes with tobacco had taken their place, a low whisper ran backwards and forwards, and more than one voice cried audibly for Joe Doughty.

Joe had earned the rank of the Lord of the Harvest by reaping more corn than any other labourer on the farm. It was one of the duties of this nobleman to propose the health of the reapers.

He was, like a good many more, unaccustomed to public speaking. So he rose and said—

“Pr’aps as Master Cheadle was the vice, sitting opposite to Master Ashbrook and all——”

“Strike me into brandy pop, you’re a coming it strong, young man,” said Cheadle, with affected sternness, “Don’t go puttin’ your pack upon other pipple’s shoulders.”

“There, that’s just like my Joe,” cried Doughty’s mother. “He knows I want him to speechify, and he’s a tryin’ to get out of it on purpose to worrit me.”

“All right, mother,” cried Doughty, “you shan’t be worrited. I aint much of a hand at speechifying, but I dunno as I ought to shirk my duty; so you see I shall ha’ to cut the matter as short as the stubble in the whate-fields. I’m a goin’ to ax you to drink the health of the most considerate and kindest of masters as ever mortal man had. From the first drop of the dew-cup to what we are drinking now, when ha’ we had to ask for beer and couldn’t get it?”

Chorus of voices: “Never!”

[The dew-cup is the first draught of beer given to reapers before they begin harvest work.]

“We’ve had kindness always, and beer always, and money always when we have earned it, sometimes afore that wi’ some on ye, and to-day we’ve had sports and prizes as we don’t get every day in England; so I ax ye to drink the health of Master Ashbrook.”

The health was drunk with wild enthusiasm.

“And, now,” said Doughty, “let’s hear you join in wi’ me in the harvest song, and we’ll sing it in the good old style.”

When the harvest song (which has appeared too often in print to need further recording) was concluded, John Ashbrook rose and thanked them, and then, without sitting down, sang a song in praise of the “Lord of the Harvest.” All rose while Doughty remained seated. At the end of the song Joe commenced a song in praise of the head carter. The company rose again and joined him in the characteristic chorus, “With a halt, with a ree, with a wo, with a gee;”—then the carter sang to the shepherd, the shepherd to the thatcher, and so on.

All these little musical arrangements had been decided on weeks before the appointed day, and it had taken some of the vocalists months to learn their parts.

By the time their complimentary songs were ended it was quite dark. A large camphine lamp, which occupied the centre of the table, supplied the place of the moon, and half a dozen candles played their parts of fixed stars.

“Who’s to be knocked down for the next song?” roared the wood-cutter, in his stentorian voice. “It’s my call—and I calls on—calls on——”

“Come, say it, and ha’ done wi’ it,” said Nat, peevishly. “It rouses my corruption to hear a growed-up man hogglin’ and bogglin’ like that ’ere.”

“Then I calls on you, Nat.”

The rustics laughed, and sang, “Poor old hoss—poor old hoss!”

“Don’t ee be fools,” cried Joe. “I aint a-going to let ee sing that to-night.”

“Spiff a song, ould un, and don’t be ranty tanty—coom.”

“I bean’t ranty tanty,” said Nat, “but it meks me rankled to think as we ha’ no fitchet pie for supper. We allers yoosed to ha’ it, and I can’t sing wi’out it, nother.”

“We used to ha’ fitchet pie, sartinly,” said the old wood-cutter, “but we didn’t yoose to ha’ such good meat nor such fine plum puddings as we’s had to-day, and there’s no lack o’ beer. Pour him out a noggin and then he’ll sing.”

“There’s something better than that coming. My eyes alive, look ee here.”

“Buckle-my-buff, and a gallon on it,” shouted an enthusiastic clown.

“There’s another coming,” said the girls, as they set it down upon the table.

The beer mugs were speedily emptied, and sent in half-dozens to the bowl, before which a servant lass, ladle in hand, laboured without ceasing.

“My blessing to all on you,” cried Nat, with a devotional expression of countenance.

“Yes, that’s all very well, Nat, but we want your song first, and your toast afterwards.”

“I doesn’t care a dump for yer wants; I’ll sing when I has a mind to, and not afore.”

“Well, there’s plenty as can if you can’t.”

“Can’t. Who says I cant sing? I’ll sing e’er a man here for a pint.”

And he broke out into the following pastoral:—

THE GAY PLOUGHBOY.

Come, all you merry ploughboys, and listen to my song;A tale I have to tell you, which doth to love belong.He that doth rise up early to lead his team with joy,And so bravely does his duty like a gay ploughboy.Like a gay ploughboy.Says the mother to the daughter, “You seem to love him well—It seems as if your tender breast all on his head could dwell;Young lads they are so rakish, young maids they do decoy,And some day we’ll see you on the knee of a gay ploughboy.”Of a gay ploughboy.“Oh, no, oh no,” said Jenny, “he’s just the lad for me;With him I could live happy, his heart’s so gay and free,And he does rise so early to lead his team with joy,And he bravely does his duty, like a gay ploughboy.”Like a gay ploughboy.Young William in the evening, returning home from plough.He showed to me a gay gold ring, how could my tongue say No?“Oh, take this ring, dear Jenny, and the parson we’ll employ,And they may see you on the knee of a gay ploughboy.”Of a gay ploughboy.’Twas so they were united, and William goes to plough,And Jenny rises with delight to milk her spotted cow.Down in a lonely cottage, where none can them annoy,Ah, who so happy as Jenny and her gay ploughboy?And her gay ploughboy.

Come, all you merry ploughboys, and listen to my song;

A tale I have to tell you, which doth to love belong.

He that doth rise up early to lead his team with joy,

And so bravely does his duty like a gay ploughboy.

Like a gay ploughboy.

Says the mother to the daughter, “You seem to love him well—It seems as if your tender breast all on his head could dwell;Young lads they are so rakish, young maids they do decoy,And some day we’ll see you on the knee of a gay ploughboy.”Of a gay ploughboy.

Says the mother to the daughter, “You seem to love him well—

It seems as if your tender breast all on his head could dwell;

Young lads they are so rakish, young maids they do decoy,

And some day we’ll see you on the knee of a gay ploughboy.”

Of a gay ploughboy.

“Oh, no, oh no,” said Jenny, “he’s just the lad for me;With him I could live happy, his heart’s so gay and free,And he does rise so early to lead his team with joy,And he bravely does his duty, like a gay ploughboy.”Like a gay ploughboy.

“Oh, no, oh no,” said Jenny, “he’s just the lad for me;

With him I could live happy, his heart’s so gay and free,

And he does rise so early to lead his team with joy,

And he bravely does his duty, like a gay ploughboy.”

Like a gay ploughboy.

Young William in the evening, returning home from plough.He showed to me a gay gold ring, how could my tongue say No?“Oh, take this ring, dear Jenny, and the parson we’ll employ,And they may see you on the knee of a gay ploughboy.”Of a gay ploughboy.

Young William in the evening, returning home from plough.

He showed to me a gay gold ring, how could my tongue say No?

“Oh, take this ring, dear Jenny, and the parson we’ll employ,

And they may see you on the knee of a gay ploughboy.”

Of a gay ploughboy.

’Twas so they were united, and William goes to plough,And Jenny rises with delight to milk her spotted cow.Down in a lonely cottage, where none can them annoy,Ah, who so happy as Jenny and her gay ploughboy?And her gay ploughboy.

’Twas so they were united, and William goes to plough,

And Jenny rises with delight to milk her spotted cow.

Down in a lonely cottage, where none can them annoy,

Ah, who so happy as Jenny and her gay ploughboy?

And her gay ploughboy.

“Where’s measter?” said a cowboy, addressing himself to the multitude. “Here’s the fiddlers coom, and wants to know whether they may stop or no.”

“Yes, they may stop,” said Nat, in a confident tone. “I’m head man here.”

“You’ve got bit by a barn-mouse already—aint you?” inquired the wood-cutter.

“Or bin to Hatcham Fair and broke both his legs,” said Joe.

“That’ll be first-class if we ha’ a dance, won’t it?” said a young lady, with an elegant motion, which was probably intended for a pirouette.

“Dancin’!” cried Nat, scornfully. “Drat it, what d’ye want to be got at dancin’ for We be very well as we are, and I means to call upon the thatcher for a song, cos he and I allers bin such very partikiller friends.”

“I aint heard your toast as yet,” said the thatcher, “and I’ve been listening for it hard, tew.”

“If you’d listened harder wi them stupid ears, you’d ha’ herd me gi’ it afore ever I sung. Here’s another for ee, you darned deaf adder, ‘Two In and One Out’—d’ye know what that be? It’sinhealth,inwealth, andoutof debt.”

“And a downright good toast too,” said John Ashbrook, who had left the company for a while and had now returned, “and an excellent toast, Nat.”

“Aye, that it be, measter.”

“But what say ee to a dance?” said Ashbrook.

“There, I knew all your pretty girls would like to dance. Tell ’em to come in, some of ee.”

Half a dozen scampered off with the glad tidings, and in a few minutes returned with three men, each of whom carried something wrapped up in green baize beneath his arm.

“I want my call answered first, though,” said old Nat, “and the thatcher he aint no true friend o’ mine, so I calls on——”

“Be quiet, you flabbergullion, talking like that ’ere, afore measter.”

“He knows as much about civility as a fly does of a gaiter strap,” said the indignant Mrs. Doughty.

“There, when he gets into that drunken guret it aint no yoose talkin’ to him. If the angel Gibbriel commed down he’d try and push him out of the way. I never seed such an obstinate fellow in all my born days.”

“I intend to ha’ my call,” cried Nat, “and so I calls on Kitty Morgan.”

“I don’t know any songs,” said Kitty.”

“Get out! you know a wheelbarrow full,” returned Nat.

“And she can sing even as sweetly as a barley bird (a nightingale),” said the farmer.

There was no getting out of it—so Kitty tried to do her best.

“Very prettily sung, my gell,” said Ashbrook when she concluded. “Now for the dance—it will be bull’s noon (midnight) else before we begin. The Harvest Lord and the Lady of the Lamb lead off. What’s it to be, Joe?”

“‘Speed the Plough’s’ my sort, sir,” said Joe, touching his cap; “it’s one of the best country dances we have.”

“I quite agree with you, Joe—it is,” said the farmer. “Now, fiddlers, strike up for ‘Speed the Plough.’”

The musicians tuned their instruments, ran over the first few bars, and were satisfied that they were up to the mark, and then dashed off.

“Speed the Plough” was danced through and played through as country people dance and as country fiddlers play.

As far as vigour was concerned there was no reason to complain. The farmer stopped the dance out, and then left them entirely to their own devices.

This was turned to profit by the fiddlers, who had been secretly paid by him. Disguising this fact, they sent one round with a tambourine, as they were wont to do in public-houses.

On Saturday night and village revels one penny was the accustomed fee for man and partner.

“Now then,” cried the musician, going his rounds and jingling the coppers in his tambourine, “now then, for the next dance. Six down; who makes eight? Now then, mates and partners, for double lead through the next country dance. Ten down; who makes twelve? Oh, there isn’t a twelve (cheerfully); then we’ll go on as we are.”

All the other popular dances were done in due notation. “Step-and-Fetch-it,” “The Tramp,” “Lee Po,” “Hands Across,” “Six Bond,”&c.

“Want more corn vith your galop?” inquired a man, bringing the almost but never quite exhausted musicians some mugs of “Mickle my buff.”

“Ah, we shan’t hurt to-night,” they said. “It’s real fiddlers’ fare here—meat, drink, and money.”

Several single dances were next performed, such as hornpipes, “The Dunhill Parson,” “The Broom Dance,” “The Pipe Dance,” and others of the same calibre, after which a kind of cushion dance, called “Bob-in-the-Bowster,” which was provocative of much kissing and enjoyment.

In the meantime the old women were steadily drinking all the while, amusing themselves at same time with a game of cards, called “Laugh and Lay Down,” and with another game, which none but rustics can understand, and which is played by inscribing chalk lines both ways upon a table, and making spots between the squares.

Kate Morgan, the Lady of the Lamb, as she was termed on the eventful day, had withdrawn from the throng of merry-makers, and Joe Doughty, who had not ceased watching her the whole evening, followed her.

She turned and saw him. Then his heart, which had been so stout in the furrowed field, began to tremble like a timid bird.

“Well,” said his companion.

“I hope as how it is well,” he answered. “Kitty, I’ve got a serious word or two to say to ee.”

“Ha’ ee?”

“Yes, my gell.”

And what be it then?”

“In foreign seas, so I’ve bin told, lass, there’s fishes as ha’ teeth upon their tongues, and there be many a woman as can set teeth upon him which will bite a man’s life and happiness in two.”

“An’ what if they be? Has that anything to do wi’ me?”

She looked at him keenly. Poor girl, she had had bitter experiences.

“I want you to understand,” said Joe Doughty, in a serious tone of voice, “that the will of a woman has a deal to do wi’ me, for ye must know how much my future happiness depends upon one single word uttered by you.”

“By me?”

“Aye, lass, that be true enough—by you. Often and often, when alone in the field of waving corn, or it may be yellow stubble, I ha’ thought of one who had it in her power to mek or mar me. Now doant ye be shakin’ yer head, ’cause what I be sayin’ is the solemn truth, and there’s no gettin’ away from it. Indeed, it aint o’ no yoose tryin’. Where was I? Oh, I know, in the field, either a ploughin’, sowin’, or reapin’, it matters not which; but, anyway, I ha’ thought this matter over and over again, and though I ha’ not sed anything, not as yet, I ha’ felt all the deeper perhaps. Kitty, you must not look so coldly on me; indeed you mustn’t. Shall I tell you why?”

“If you like.”

“Because I love you, and none other but you. I aint rich, that you know, but I’ve saved a bit of money, for I haven’t bin like a good many others on the farm, a spending what I earn afore I earned it.”

“I know you have been careful and frugal,” she answered.

“Well, I aint afraid of work—that you know also.”

“I do.”

“An’ if so be as you consent to be my wife, which I hope and believe you will, I shall work wi’ greater energy, for I shall ha’ something to work for. A man ain’t a mite o’ yoose in this world if he be all alone, as I ha’ bin all these lonely years, and I want ee for a partner, and if I canna ha’ ee, then there be no other woman as I care about having. Answer me! Dang it all, say yes or no Kitty, without further ado.”

“Hark ee, Joe Doughty,” said the woman, with a boldness and energy that fairly astonished him.

“I be not fit for an honest man. I tell ee plainly that, years agone, when you were away from Stoke Ferry, summut happened as will for ever prevent me from becoming your wife.”

“It won’t do, Kitty; you must find some better excuse than that,” said he, placing his hands upon her shoulder. “It wunno do, lass.”

“Wunno do!” she ejaculated, in unfeigned surprise. “May be ee don’t understand me rightly. I tell ee agen and agen—I ain’t fit to be the wife of an honest man.”

“And why not?”

“Ye maun to force me into a confession. Well, so be it. I am already a mother.”

“What if ee be? Don’t ee think I ha’ considered all that. He who be dead and gone did ee a wrong, and it appears to me that ye are not the only woman as he wronged, for there’s——”

“I know what you are going to say,” she said, interrupting him, but, if you care about me, don’t ee say a word agen Master Philip, ’cause I can’t bear that. Whatever his faults may have bin, it ain’t right and proper to be a-talkin’ about em now. He was wayward and wilful, and did not take heed of timely warning, but he be dead and gone; he met with a cruel death, and so say no more about ’im.”

“You are right—I will not refer to the subject again, seeing as how it be a trouble to ee; but it doesn’t follow that, because in a foolish hour you forgot all but your love for him, that ye’re no fit to be my wife, and I say agen you must find some better excuse.”

“I should not like to ha’ a husband taunt me wi’ the shame that has fallen on me. I should no like that.”

“And do you think, you foolish lass, that I am likely to do so? You ought to know me better—a deal better nor that there.”

“Are you in earnest, Joe?”

“Earnest! Dall it, I never was so much in earnest—no not in the whole course of my life.”

“And you mean what you say?”

“Of course I do; every word I ha’ sed.”

“And you’ll ha’ me for all that ha’ past?”

“Aye, lass, I will.”

“What be left of my heart be yours,” she cried, “and what be left of my life will be devoted to you, and so, if ye’ll tek me ye may ha’ me.”

Her lusty companion wound his arms around her, and embraced her with fervour. And so Joe Doughty and Kate Morgan were betrothed in this simple and homely fashion.

When farmer Ashbrook was informed of the circumstance, he was greatly pleased, and promised to give the bride a handsome dowry; not that Joe had for a moment been actuated by mercenary feelings when he declared his passion and besought the girl to bestow her hand and heart upon him, for he was strongly attached to her, and had never at any time flirted with any other village maiden.

Mr. Philip Jamblin, the ill-fated young man who was murdered by Giles Chudleigh, had not been altogether so circumspect as his relations and friends could have desired.

It was pretty plainly demonstrated that he had seduced two young women before he was sent to his account by the brutal Giles, and there were some evil-disposed persons still living who hinted that the young farmer had been brought to his end from this cause.

He was a free-hearted fine young fellow, who at times let his passions run riot.

Many of his betters are apt to do the same thing. This is evidenced by the conduct of Lord Ethalwood, but two blacks do not make a white, and the late Philip Jamblin was, as we have already seen, not without fault.

We have taken but little notice of Richard and Maude Ashbrook, who had been present througout the festivities at Stoke Ferry.

They had not taken a very active part in any of the proceedings, remaining for the nonce but passive spectators.

Richard Ashbrook seemed to be a completely broken-down man. He did not appear to have any relish for the sports—occasionally, it is true, a wan smile passed over his melancholy features, but that was all.

He appeared to be thankful when the sports were brought to a conclusion, and pleading indisposition he retired to bed.

For the next few days he grew worse, and it soon became manifest to those about him that his life was drawing to a close. He said he had no desire to live, and that he knew his final time was approaching. He was continually mentioning the name of his deceased wife, Jane Ryan, whose spirit, so he averred, had appeared to him on three separate occasions.

Those about him strove to disposses his mind of this idea, but, for all they could say or do, Richard Ashbrook persisted in his declaration, and so he prepared to settle his worldly affairs.

His brother John, who was almost heart-broken, agreed to take charge of his child and his sister Maude. It was arranged that Oakfield Farm was to be sold, the proceeds of the same were to be handed over to Maude; and in less than a fortnight after the harvest-home at Stoke Ferry Richard Ashbrook breathed his last.

It will be remembered by the reader that the first scene of this history was laid at Oakfield, when Jane Ryan played so conspicuous a part on the night of the burglary by Charles Peace, Gregson, and Cooney.

Back to Index Next