Produced by sp1nd, obstobst and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) TALES OF NORTHUMBRIA BY THE SAME AUTHOR BORDERLAND STUDIES THE MARK O' THE DEIL THE WHITE-FACED PRIEST TALES OF NORTHUMBRIA BY HOWARD PEASE METHUEN & CO. 36 ESSEX STREET, W.C. LONDON 1899 TO EARL GREY EVER KEENLY INTERESTED IN WHATEVER CONCERNS HIS NATIVE COUNTY THESE SKETCHES OF NORTHUMBRIAN CHARACTER ARE DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR CONTENTS PAGE NORTHUMBERLAND 1 'A LONG MAIN' 7 THE SQUIRE'S LAST RIDE 29 À L'OUTRANCE 41 'T'OWD SQUIRE' 59 AN 'AMMYTOOR' DETECTIVE 79 'IN MEMORIOV'M' 109 'THE HECKLER' UPON WOMENFOLK 121 THE 'CALEB JAY' 133 GEORDIE ARMSTRONG 'THE JESU-YTE' 147 'GEORDIE RIDE-THE-STANG' 165 YANKEE BILL AND QUAKER JOHN 187 THE PROTÉGÉ 209 THE SPANISH DOUBLOON 243 The tales that go to make up this small volume have already appeared in print: the first part of the Introduction, 'A Long Main,' 'In Memoriov'm,' in the _National Observer_; 'The Protégé,' in the _Queen_; 'Quaker John and Yankee Bill,' 'T'Owd Squire,' 'An Ammytoor Detective,' in the _Newcastle Courant_; 'À l'Outrance,' in the _Newcastle Weekly Chronicle_; and the remaining six in the _Newcastle Daily Leader_. I desire to tender my thanks herewith to the various editors concerned. TALES OF NORTHUMBRIA NORTHUMBERLAND It is generally admitted that your Northumbrian pre-eminently possesses the quality which the pious but worldly Scotchman was used to pray for, namely, 'a guid conceit o' hissel'.' It is the more unfortunate, therefore, that of late years a considerable landslip should have taken place in the ground whereon his reputation rested. The local poet no longer hymns the 'Champions o' Tyneside,' for Chambers and Renforth and other heroes have long since departed, leaving 'no issue.' Advancing civilization, again, has, it is to be feared, made havoc of the proud insularity of the Northumbrian squirearchy. No longer are they content, like the Osbaldistones of yore, to devote themselves to cellar and stable, to stay at home, contemptuous of London and its politics, of travel and of new ideas. 'Markham's Farriery' and the 'Guide to Heraldry' have lost their pristine charm, and the Northumbrian is, as a consequence, foregoing his ancient characteristics merely to become provincial. 'Geordie Pitman' alone makes a stand against all modern innovation. Firm in his pele tower of ancient superiority, he is still convinced of the superiority of all things Northumbrian. 'Champions' may have died out elsewhere, and patriotism be decayed in the higher social ranks, but in the pit-village there still lingers an admirable quantity of the old self-love. In each separate village you may find some half-dozen self-styled 'champions' who will match themselves against 'any man in the world' for £10 or £15 a side at their own particular hobby or pastime. Defeat has little effect upon a 'champion': like Antæus, he picks himself up the stronger for a fall, and having advertised himself in the papers as 'not being satisfied' with his beating, challenges another attempt forthwith. * * * * * Now this self-satisfaction--though somewhat decayed of late--is probably one of the oldest strains in the Northumbrian character, having been developed, doubtless, in the first instance, under stress of constant raid and foray, and but little affected thereafter--owing to the remoteness of the county both from the universities and from London--by the higher standards of softer and more civilized centres. After this, the next most predominant trait is a love of sport, for which the climate, together with the physical conformation of the county, may be held responsible; for the open aspect of the plain, the crown of bare western hills, the wind-swept moorland and the sea, suggest a life of hard endurance and fatigue, the strenuous toil of the hunter, the keen excitements of the chase. Still, as of old, the wide and spreading grasslands try horse and rider with a tempting challenge, as of one who cries, 'Come, who will tire first?' The music of the hounds sweeps down the brae: 'Yoi--yoi--yoi!' quivers the cry from the streaming pack. Onward the rider gallops, the plover perchance rising at his horse's heels, the long note of the curlew sounding in his ears, the breath of the west wind racing in his nostrils; he may see on this side the purple bar of Cheviot, on the other the blue, flat line of the sea, and therewith--if ever in his life--may taste of the primeval joy of living--of the joy of the early hunter who lived with his horse as with a comrade, drew from the sea the 'sacred fish,' from the moorland the 'winged fowl,' and knew not discontent. The beauty of the southern counties is not to be met with here. The south is the well-dowered matron, the north a bare-headed gipsy-lass, freckled with sun and wind, who 'fends' for her living with strategies of hand and head. Still, in the northern blood, the heritage of the 'raid' and the 'foray' abides, and still, as of old, are the children of the Borderland nursed by the keen wind of the moorland and the sea. 'Hard and heather-bred' ran the ancient North-Tyne slogan; 'hard and heather-bred--yet--yet--yet.' 'A LONG MAIN' 'So you're a county family?' I echoed, and, though it may have been impolite, I could not forbear a smile, for never had I seen County Family so well disguised before. 'Ay,' replied Geordie Crozier, 'I is,' and forthwith proceeded to search in the pocket of his pit-knickerbockers for his 'cutty.' He had just come up to 'bank' from the 'fore-shift,' and was leaning on a waggon on the pit-heap, about to have a smoke before going home for a 'wesh,' dinner, and bed. 'The last ov us,' he continued, having lit his pipe, 'that had Crozier Hall was grandfeythor--Jake Crozier, of Crozier Hall, was his name an' address, an'--an'--I's his relics.' I glanced at the 'relics' afresh--six foot two if he was an inch, and broad in proportion, a magnificent pair of arms--he was champion hewer at the colliery--with legs to match, though slightly bowed through the constant stooping underground. Under the mask of coal-dust his eyes gleamed like pearls, and a thrusting lower lip, backed by a square jaw, gave evidence of determination and the faculty of enjoyment. A short, well-trimmed beard put the finishing touch to 'the Squire,' for so his friends styled him, half in jest. 'Well, and how was it lost?' said I. 'Was "cellar and stable," the good old Northumbrian motto, his epitaph? Or did your grandfather take an even quicker road to the bailiffs?' 'Grandfeythor was like us, I b'lieve; he was a fine spender but an ill saver, an' he had a h---- ov a time till the mortgages gave oot, for he was a tarr'ble tasteful man--lasses, greyhounds, an' horses, racin', drinkin', cockin', an' card-playin' were aal hobbies ov his at one time or another, but what was warse than aal this put togither was that he never wud be beat. Everything he had must be the best, an' the fact that anythin' belonged to him was quite enough to prove to him it was the best o' the sort i' the county. Well, for a while as a young man things went well wi' him. He win the Plate[1] two years runnin', an' many was the cock-fight an' coursin' match he pulled off wiv his cocks an' his hounds; but there was a chap came oot o' Aadcastle who was one too many for him at the finish. This chap had made a vast o' brass i' the toon at ship-buildin' or such like, an' bein' wishful to set hisself up as a big pot, had hired a big place next grandfeythor's i' the country. Well, grandfeythor couldn't abide him, for, bein' a red-hot Tory, he didn't believe i' one man bein' as good as another at aal, an' when, as happened shortlies, his neighbour's son came sweetheartin' his daughter, he says, "No Crozier lass ever yet married a shopkeeper's son, an' they never shall as long as I'm above ground--orffice boys mun marry wi' orffice gals," says he. 'Well, the lad's feythor was tarr'ble vext at this, an' he swears he'll have his revenge on the Squire--an' it wasn't long before he got his opportunity. 'He'd set hissel' up as a sportin' man, ye ken, when he come to the country, an' wes tarr'ble keen o' shootin' wiv a gun, an' occasionally he meets grandfeythor at a shootin' party, an' always takes the opportunity to differ from him i' a polite sort o' way on every topic under the sun. 'Well, after their dinners one day, grandfeythor, bein' fairly full up wi' beer, ye ken, begins sneering at all toon's folk settin' up as sportsmen. "It stan's to reason," says he, "if a man's forbears have never handled a gun, nor shot nowt mevvies[2] but a hoody crow or a seagull on a holiday, that the bairns canna shoot either, for it's bred an' born in a man--it's part o' his birthright, like a fam'ly jool," says he; "a heditary gift, the same as a proper knowledge o' horseflesh, fightin' cocks, greyhounds an' aal; money won't buy it, an' it's no use argifyin' aboot it, for it's a fact, and the will o' Providence," says he. 'Noo, when grandfeythor got on aboot Providence, most folks, I b'lieve, used to say nowt, but Smithson--that was the chap's name--he gies a sort o' tee-hee at this oot loud, which would be the same as if you or me were to say, "It's just d----d nonsense." 'Well, there was a tarr'ble tow-row at this, grandfeythor as red as a bubbly-jock an' swearin' like a drunken fishwife, and Smithson as polite as a counter-jumper wiv his "pardon me's" and "pray be seated, sirs"--aal to no effect. 'At the finish, when matters were quieted doon a bit, Smithson offers to back hissel' at a shootin' match wi' grandfeythor for £1,000 a side, an' also at a cockin' match--"a long main" it was to be--twenty battles at £100 the "battle" and £1,000 the "main." 'Well, aal the comp'ny thought it was just a bit swagger on the part o' Smithson, an' that when the time came he'd just cry off an' pay forfeit, for the match was to take place in three weeks' time, and never a cock had Smithson in his place ava, whereas grandfeythor, he had a rare breed, the best i' the county--mixed Rothbury an' Felton--an' the old Felton breed was the one the King o' England win his brass ower formerly. 'The time comes, an' the comp'ny is aal assembled i' the cock-pit at Bridgeton, grandfeythor, full o' beans an' bounce, backin' hissel' like a prize-fighter, takin' snuff an' handin' roon' the box to his friends, an' sayin' noo an' again, "Where's that dam' fellow Smithson?" 'Well, the clock on the old tower was just on the stroke of ten, when in saunters Smithson, cool as a ha'penny ice, an' behind him, in green and gold liv'ries, come ten flunkies each wi' two big bags behind his shoulder, an' in each bag a tarr'ble fine fightin' cock. 'Where he'd gathered them nobody knew save old Ned Stevison--an ancient old cock-fighter o' Bridgeton, who loved cocks more than many a man his missus. "The Moonlight Breed" he called them, but they had a strain of the famous old Lord Derby's breed i' them, and were blood uns to the bone. 'Some half dozen were Stevison's own, but the remainder 'twas said he had stolen from awa doon Sooth for Smithson, an' anyways "Captain Moonlight" was his nickname ever afterwards. 'Well, they weighs aal the cocks; from six to six and a half pounds their weight was to be, an' the fight commences. 'Bob Stevison fought Smithson's cocks for him, an' grandfeythor fought his own, kneelin' doon on the cock-pit floor wiv his coat off so as to handle them the better. 'The first two or three battles grandfeythor wins easy, Stevison using his warst cocks at the first, d'ye see, oot o' craft mevvies to get longer odds i' the bettin', so that at one time grandfeythor was five battles to two to the good; a bit later it was eight all, an' the excitement was immense, bets flyin' aboot like snowflakes at Christmas. 'Then Stevison oots wiv a beauty--a perfect picture it was ov a fighter; eyes like a furnace at night, liftin' his legs like a Derby winner, wings an' tail clipped short--aal glossy wi' health an' shinin' like mahogany. 'Stevison runs him up an' doon the floor to heat his blood, an' tweaks a feather doon from his rump--that was a clever trick he had, to madden his cock just before the start--an' holds him ready for the battle. 'Then grandfeythor, he oots wiv his champion cock--"Stingo," he called him--an old favouryte ov his, a gran' bird too, six years old, an' a little past his prime mevvies, though he'd never lost a battle in his life. 'As soon as they sees each other "Stingo" gies a bit triumphant crow, an' leans forward from his master's hand to try an' nip hold o' the other wiv his beak. The other says nowt, just looks at him wi' fiery eyes red hot wi' murder, an' as soon as ever his feet touch the sawdust bends low, then springs straight for Stingo, drivin' wiv his spur o' shinin' steel right for his heart. 'Just i' the nick o' time Stingo leaps i' the air to meet him; there's a "click, click," "click, click," as o' daggers crossin', an' pantin' from the shock, doon sinks either bird to the ground. 'Stevison's mouth was tremblin' like a bairn's as he took his favouryte up, for there was blood on his lower breast feathers, but Stingo wasn't touched ava, an' grandfeythor, puffed oot wi' pride, claps a bit mair o' the fam'ly property on to his champion. 'It was a bit lesson for the other cock; he was just as determined as ever, but a bit quieter like; round an' round Stingo he goes like a prize-fighter, clickin' in noo an' again as he thought he saw his openin', an' when they grappled tegither wi' their beaks, though his comb was almost torn in two, he hammered for Stingo's eye as a blacksmith hammers on his anvil. 'After about fifteen minutes neither cock could stand straight; at a distance you'd have said they was both as drunk as my lord; both were drippin' blood; Stingo had lost an' eye, an' neither o' t'other's were much use to him, bein' bunged up wi' bruised flesh. They staggered aboot here an' there; knocked up against each other in a blind-man's "beg-pardin" sort o' way. Every noo and again the Moonlight cock would pull himself together, hop feebly into the air, an' strike wiv his spurs, but as often as not the air was all he hit, for, his eyesight bein' aal askew, he couldn't aim straight, an' doon he would flop on his tail end, coughin' an' choakin' wi' blood--powerless, yet mad to gan on fightin'. 'At the finish he gets Stingo pinned up against the cockpit bars, an', thinkin' he has him noo, gies a feeble craw, lifts hissel' into the air, an' claps for his heart wiv his spurs. 'There was a bit clash in the held-breath stillness of the place, then a tiny moan, an', by Gox! there was Moonlight lyin' flat on his back on the sawdust wiv one leg broke in two an' danglin' wiv its spur like a watch-chain on his breast. 'Such a hullaballoo as there was, grandfeythor yellin' like an Injun! "Pick up yo'r bird," he cries, "he's a dead un!" for there was Stingo a-top o' Moonlight peckin' at what was left ov his head-piece like a blackbird at a snail. 'Stevison never moved, but his gills went flutterin' like those ov a dyin' fish; he couldn't speak, but I b'lieve he was prayin' for his favouryte. 'A minute passed, then Moonlight comes to; he beats wiv his wings, struggles, crawls an inch or two, manages to shake off Stingo, then hoistin' hissel' up once again wiv his one leg an' wings slashes wiv his spur, and by the damn'dest luck lands it in Stingo's eye. 'Doon in a motionless heap they falls, an' when they're separated Stingo's dead as a leg o' mutton. 'The rest o' the comp'ny yells and shouts; some says Moonlight's a dead un, too, an' it's a drawn battle, an' grandfeythor, he swears his bird can still fight, while Stevison, unable to find his voice, picks up Moonlight, an' finally claps a great kiss on to the middle ov his back, an' when he sets him doon again wiv a drop brandy in his mouth he sets up a feeble craw of defiance, plainly axin', "Who the deevil says I's a dead un?" 'After that it was all up wi' grandfeythor; the stuffin' seemed knocked oot o' him an' his cocks by the loss ov his favouryte, an' in the next battle another of his best birds had his heart squashed oot, like a ripe gooseberry, at the vary first encounter. 'It was a black day that for grandfeythor, but, as I was sayin' at the start, he never gies in, an' he comforts hissel' wi' thinkin' he'd make matters square up an' a bit to spare by the shootin' match which was to follow in a fortnight's time. 'Smithson had agreed to shoot off the match at Crozier Hall, for grandfeythor had aboot the best shootin' in the county at the time, an' there was one place famous for the grand shots ye got overhead between two woods planted on either side of a dene, ye ken. 'There was stubbles an' beanfields usuallies beyond, an' the pheasants, when driven off, used to fly right across the haugh below over into the woods beyond--mevvies aboot two hundred yards awa'. 'Well, the great day comes. A fine, sunshiny October day it was, wiv a bit o' wind from the west--the way the birds was to fly, ye ken, an' a tarr'ble big comp'ny was assembled to see grandfeythor gie "the furrinor" his gruel. 'Grandfeythor was i' tremendous spirits that mornin', an' as full o' gob as a torkey-cock; nothin' could hold him; the world was a toy to him--like the geography chap[3] i' the bairns' books, ye ken--he felt sae tarr'ble strong an' healthy. "Eyeball clear as a bairn's," says he, "hand steady as a rock, digestion a marvel," an' he pats hissel' on the stomach as pleased as Punch. 'They tosses as to who shoots first, an' the coin comes doon for grandfeythor, an' mighty delighted he was to be the first to shoot. There wasn't much chance o' grandfeythor's bettin' as much as he wished for, for naebody thought Smithson had a chanst, but what he could get he gobbled up like a hungry trout--fearfu' odds they was--six to one on himself he had to lay, an' often a bit more. 'The match was for £1,000 a side, a hundred shots each at the first hundred pheasants within shot, an' the referee to decide any disputed points. 'Grandfeythor takes up his stand aboot thirty yards awa' from the wood's edge; then the referee fires a pistol, the head-beater i' the wood above waves a white flag, an' there's a dead stillness as though we were aal i' church prayin'. 'There was a big clump o' fir-trees standin' right oot from the thick o' the wood's edge about fifty yards off mevvies, an' two o' the firs stood oot high above their fellows, an' that was where the pheasants always broke oot, whizzin' up like rockets as they came ower the top o' them, an' it was just at that point that grandfeythor had always nicked them clever--just as they cleared the rise of the topmost tree, ye ken, an' started on their level flight for the opposite side. If ye missed them i' front ye hadn't much chanst behind, for they swept awa' like lightnin' doon the wind before ye could get turned round. Well, aal was stillness as I said, when sudden there comes a far-away cry through the clear air--"Cock forrard, cock forrard!" an' in another two seconds there comes a clap o' wings from above. Bang! gans grandfeythor's gun, as a fine cock sweeps overhead. "D----!" says he, wiv a flush on his cheek; for aal there was to show was some half-dozen tail feathers left twirlin', as if in mock'ry, forty yards in the air above him. '"Cock forrard, cock forrard!" comes the cry again, an' grandfeythor grips a firmer stand wiv his feet, an' grasps his weapon a bit tighter than before. Bang, bang! this time, an' the cock gies a frightful lurch as though about to fall headlong, but steadies hissel', rises a bit, an' wins over to the other side. '"H----!" yells grandfeythor, trembling wi' rage, an' stamps upon the ground. "Cock forrard, cock forrard!" again comes the beater's cry, an' half a dozen come flightin' overhead at once. 'Bang! once again, an' grandfeythor wiv a groan flings his gun to the ground, for he had missed altogether that time. '"I'm fair bewitched," he cries, and aal the while the pheasants were streamin' overhead. 'He trembled aal over, an' we thought he was gannin' to have a fit, for his brow was damp wi' drops o' sweat, an' his eye wild an' glassy. "Thoo damned fellow," he cries, glancing round at Smithson, an' takes a step towards him, "thoo's cozened me somehow, thoo must have poisoned my beer!" he yells. '"Steady, sir, for God's sake, steady!" says the keeper in his ear, an' offers him his gun again ready loaded for another shot, for aal the while the pheasants came liftin' above their heads. 'Well, he takes it up again, looks at it an' feels as though he didn't recognise it, as though it had injured him somehow, an', tremblin' aal over, takes up a stand again. After a shot or two he kills one in beautiful style, an' gradually getting back a bit o' confidence he gets warmed up, an' at the finish he has seventy-five oot o' the hundred--oot o' the last twenty never missin' one. 'And noo it was Smithson's turn. 'He makes a splendid start, wipin' up the first fifteen birds wivvoot an error; after that again the pheasants come wilder, an' gettin' flurried belike, he tailors them. Then he gets steadied once more, an' at the finish has ten cartridges left an' seventy birds doon. 'A wunnerfu' chap for nerve he was, was Smithson; the mair excitement the cooler he gets. 'A hen pheasant comes sailin' awa' to the right some sixty yards off. '"In shot?" asked he, as though he were passin' the time o' day. '"Shoot," cries the referee, an' ping, ping! gans two cartridges, but he cannot stop her, she was ower far off, though she left a trail o' feathers ahint her. 'He gets another fearfu' hard one to the left this time, an' it takes two cartridges to settle number seventy-one--six cartridges left an' five birds to bag. 'Wow! but the excitement was painfu', an' folks fell to bettin' i' quick whispers, "Two to one against Smithson," an' he takes it wiv a nod, smilin' if you please. 'The next three he gets, then he misses a longish shot, two cartridges left an' two birds to knock doon. 'Here they come--two cocks high together overhead--be-eauties; suthin' seems wrang wi' trigger or cartridge, an' Smithson misses first barrel. '"I've won!" yells grandfeythor, an' tosses his cap i' the air. Bang! says Smithson's second barrel, an' doon comes the two cock pheasants togither. The first had swerved, d'ye see, an' jostled up against the second, an' Smithson cops 'em both wiv his last cartridge an' wins on the post, seventy-six to seventy-five. Gox! but it was the nearest touch an' go thing ever seen i' the North Country, I's warn'd, an' wi' that last cartridge bang gans Crozier Hall.' 'Was there any trickery?' I inquired; 'had Smithson tampered with your grandfather's cartridges, for instance?' 'No, he'd not done that; he couldn't ha' done that, but he had tricked grandfeythor a bit, though it wasn't found out till afterwards. 'The way of it was this: Smithson was a d----d clever feller, ye ken, an' knowin' as he did that grandfeythor had a wunnerfu' way o' pickin' off the pheasants just as they came over the topmost trees, he had sent two or three o' his men i' the night-time, an' had fixed up a young fir right on to the top o' the highest tree, so that Mr. Pheasant had to rise another six feet afore he cam' ower. 'Well, this was just enough to put grandfeythor oot ov his reckonin's, an' when he misses the first one, as he'd never done before, he cannot make it oot, he went clean flustered, thought he must have had a stroke, an' swore he was bewitched, or poisoned, or such like. '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
{'title': 'Tales of Northumbria by Howard Pease', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}