Tales of Northumbria Part 5

'"Whatever's that?" cries Mistress Heron quickly, as she catches the sound of it.

'"Why, it's t' hounds," cries t' Squire, with a stabbing laugh. "I thowt it might help him t' jump t' black beck an' win his wager to have t' hounds after him, an' so it will, for there's a bit aniseed sprinkled on Gamec.o.c.k's fetlock bandages, an' Cunliffe's stepped into some himself."

'"'Tis the deed of a savage!" says my lady, and with a proud contempt of him she steps away from his side as far as t' battlements will permit.

'Away go t' hounds wi' riotous music hot upon t' scent; on, forrard on they go, right over t' haha and up and across t' pasture beyond, at t'

end of which, and beside t' beck, Cunliffe was galloping up an' down trying to find an easier place. It appears he hadn't, in his excitement, taken notice of t' hounds giving tongue, or looked behind him, but all of a sudden he perceives it, and halting his horse stockstill, looks behind him. Then it seemed to flash upon him what's up, and he forces back t' horse some twenty yards or so--first hounds racing towards him about hundred yards behind--rams in t' spurs, cuts him with t' whip, and claps him at it. Gamec.o.c.k tries it bravely, and leaping high into the air just lands on t' further bank, but short a bit, and on t' soft edge, and pecks forward badly on his head, sending Cunliffe somersaulting over like a shot rabbit.

'"T' bet's won!" shouts the Squire, marking t' horse pick himself up before his rider and gallop away by himself over t' far field; "t'

d.a.m.ned c.o.c.kney cannot ride at all."

'"Yes, you've won your bet," replies my lady, gathering her skirts together and holding them close as she pa.s.ses him by, "but possibly you may have lost remembrance that you were born a gentleman," and with that she proudly turns her back and sweeps away down t' stairs.

'Well, t' hounds couldn't get across t' beck, and t' Squire's first whip was ready wi' t' horn to fetch them back again; so Cunliffe was safe enough, but sorely damaged an' bruised, an' 'twas a full week before he left his house, when straight he goes abroad on foreign travel.

'Things gradually went on from bad to worse twixt t' Squire and Mistress Heron after that night's play; she used to lament for Lunnon an' its fas.h.i.+ons, an' on t' last night of all she set t'owd Squire's blood blazin' by sneerin' at "country yokels" and their drunken ways.

'"Why, d.a.m.n t' ----!" cries he, quite forgetting himself, and using a word more suitable to t' kennels than t' drawing-room, "ain't we been here since King Alfred? An' what can ye want more than that?"

'Swift as fire she answers him, "One might wish that they were gentlemen," says she, an' cold an' contemptuous she walks past him out of the drawing-room and up into her own room, where she orders her maid to pack up for her at once, an' 'tis but an hour later when she drives away in t' carriage an' never sees t'owd place again.

'Well, they separate by law, an' shortly after, when t' bairn comes to live with his father, Mistress Heron gets much taken up with one of those father parsons, famous as a preacher in Lunnon at that time.

'Finally, she goes into a sort of retirement and becomes head of a sisterhood shortly, which gets to be very famous for its Good Samaritan sort of deeds.

'Grandfather used to say that whatever she took up she would be sworn to do better than anybody else. "Fox-'untin' she learnt clever in six months' time, an' if ye can larn that ye can larn owt," says he.

'As for t'owd Squire, he hunts harder than ever he had done before; an' nowt, positively nowt, can stop him across country, nor liquor stagger him, so that many thought he was heartier an' happier than ever he had been before.

'His son, as he grew up, was a bit trouble to him, certainly, as he was a wild lad--just like himself, but with a touch of his mother's pride, so that it was just as well when he went into t' army an' was sent to t' Indies.

'Well, time sped on, and t'owd Squire's hair was turnin' gray, when news came that his wife--Sister Eva, as they called her--had died suddenly in her retreat or convent.

'Up goes t' Squire to Lunnon without a word, an' when the chief mourners--all of them ladies of t' sisterhood, in their white dresses--were liftin' up t' coffin ropes to carry it to t' graveside, an' ancient gentleman, clad in a queer, long, bottle-green tail-coat, with a high stock and beaver hat on t' back of his head, comes forward an' quietly takes hold of t' head ropes.

'T' sisters remonstrate with him, and ask him who he is. "Mesdames,"

says he, "I was her unworthy husband," and he doffs his hat as he speaks, and without another word spoken helps to carry her to her grave.

"Twas said that they were t' same clothes he had worn on his wedding-day.

'It would be some months after this that my grandfather was dinin'

with t'owd Squire, after t' opening meet of t' season.

'"Here's to fox-huntin'!" cries he, after t' cloth was removed; an' a bit later he rises solemnly in his chair, an' he says, "And here's to a saint in heaven!" an' as he drinks it down grandfather sees a tear tricklin' on his cheek.

'Little by little he tells him all about t' quarrel and what had completed it: "And she was right, by G----!" cries t' Squire at the end of it, "as she always was, though I was too proud to say so then; and now it's too late, for she's a saint in heaven."

'That was the only time he spoke of her; but for all that, grandfather said it was clear that he was just broken-hearted, was t' poor owd Squire, even though five minutes after he was challenging him to ride for a fiver when 'ounds should find on t' morrow's mornin'.

'T'owd Squire never went better in his life, they said, than he did that day; but just at t' close of it his horse made a mistake over some timber, and he came a cropper in a ploughed field, with his horse on top of him, and had three of his ribs broken.

'It was a baddish fall; but though the doctors pulled him through he never got the better of it, and was taken away before t' season was out; and he was glad to go, was poor owd Squire, for he said he believed she had forgiven him, but he couldn't rest till he knew for certain.'

AN 'AMMYTOOR' DETECTIVE

'Tell me about that mysterious affair of "Tom the Scholar," and Jack Jefferson's sudden death, and how you ran him to ground when suspicion had given up the chase. If all I have heard is true, you ought to have been at Bow Street, high up in the Criminal Investigation Department.

Tell me,' I said again, 'how you came to play the part of amateur detective.'

'There was nowt o' the ammytoor aboot it,' retorted 'the Heckler' with aggressive dignity, 'it was a proper perfessional bit o' wark, an' the pollis was fine put oot that they hadn't had a hand in it. Wey, there was Scott, wor pollis; he came to us an' he says, "If ye had only tell't me about it I could hev made a job on 't," says he, "'stead o'

lettin' him gan an' commit a fellor, d' y' see?"

'"No," says I, "I divvn't see; it was him that done it, an' it was us as copped him, an' if I hadn't taken it intiv hand, wey, thoo would have still been usin' long words an' followin' up yor clue like an aad blind man followin' efter his dog," says I, "for I've no sort o'

notion o' the pollis; they nivvor finds out nowt for themselves, ye hev elwis ti tell them what it is ye want done, an' then at the finish gan an' do it yorsel'."

'No, no; the pollis is just what the lawyer chaps call "accessories efter the fac'"--meanin' they comes up ti ye when aal's ower an' done wi', like the bairns at the school-sports, each one expectin' a prize.

'Well, as I was sayin', I copped "Tom the Scholar" aal maa lane, an' I doot whether anyone else could hev done it but me. I had suspected him a while back, for he was a mistetched[4] chap, ye ken, one o' the sort that has a bit grudge against everythin', an' vicious same as horses is sometimes, unforgettin', unforgivin'--just a nasty disagreeable beggor, ye ken.

'He was a scholar, though--"Tom the Scholar" they called him--an' was aye busy wi' books, nivvor had his head oot o' them, whether at the Inst.i.tute or at aad Mistress Swan's, where he lodged.

'Efter a bit he takes up wi' courtin' Mary Straughan, her who got married on Jack Jefferson, an' I b'lieve she had a mind for him once, but not for long, for he frightened her biv his strange ways, an' a pa.s.sionate way o' talk he had, an' she gave up walkin' wiv him an'

took up wi' Jack instead--a south-country chap that had come frae Yorks.h.i.+re--a big, burly, thick-headed sort o' chap, but tarr'ble good-natured.

'Well, Tom, he takes it varry badly, an' just before they gets "called" i' church he tarrifies Mary wi' vague threats as ti what'll happen if she dares ti wed wi' Jack. Noo, Tom was a "spirritualist,"

ye ken, as weel as a scholar, an' he swears that the spirits forbade the match, an' would be properly savage if they was disobliged.

'She was a narvious sort, was Mary, an' she tell't Jack ov't, an'

Jack, he says, iv his queer clipp't Yorks.h.i.+re way o' talk, "T'

spirrits be d----d!" says he; "an' if that softy Tom comes interferin'

'twixt thoo an' me, I'll make him softier than ever," he says, shakin'

a great big hairy fist that looked like a bullock's head.

'Well, they gets theirsel's married wivoot askin' leave either o' the "spirrits" or o' Tom, an' as nowt happened, an' Jack forbye was tarr'ble lucky iv his cavils[5] just efter his marriage, even Mary began ti laugh at the idea o' Tom an' his "spirrits" an' aal.

'They was tarr'ble happy those two, an' I mind well hoo proud and triumphant-like Jack looked as he slapped us on the back one early summer mornin' as we went ti the pit on the fore-s.h.i.+ft, for I was only a hewer then, same as himsel', an' not what I is now--checkweighman, an' half ov a magistrate as well, bein' vice-chairman o' wor lokil District Council[6]--an' he cries, "Geordie," he says, "Geordie, man, I's that happy I can scarcely haud myself in. There's nowt I couldn't do. I could hew as much in one s.h.i.+ft as any five men together in two; I could lepp ower a hoos, I's that cobby. I could challenge wee Bob Aitchison, t' sprinter, to a quarter-mile, an' lay t' fortnight's wages that I'd best him too. I could sing, I b'lieve," he says, an'

wiv a solemn voice on him he adds: "Ay, an' I could even put up a bit prayer--though I's not much ov a Churchman--almost as weel as t'

priest himself. An' I'll tell thoo why. It's because Mary tells me that there's likely gawin' to be an addition to the fam'ly party sometime shortly. She's a rare well-bred un, too, is Mary, an' I'll lay it's twins." "I'll gie ye the best o' luck," says I, "but twins is tarr'ble expensive, for I've tried 'em," says I. "Man alive!" cries he, holdin' up his arm--a proper colossyum ov a limb--"look at that.

If that cannot win bread for a dozen o' twins, then a lighted candle cannot fire gas," says he.

'He was a fine brave man,' continued 'the Heckler' slowly, 'an' I can see him still standin' on the heapstead, an' I mind hoo pleased he was that he could hear a lark singin' high i' the air ower heid just as the sun peeped up before we went doon i' the cage that mornin' for the last time together--just as full o' life an' vigour he was as thoo is noo--but for all that it was the last time I saw him alive i' this world.

'It was the vary next mornin' that he was killed, but I wasn't doon the pit that day, for I had happened a bit accident the day before through a shot that went wrang on us, an' I was laid up i' bed for a week wiv a bandage ower my eyes. I bear the marks yet,' and he pointed to some small blue punctures, not unlike shot marks, that the gunpowder had left round about his left eyelid and cheekbone.

'Aal I could hear was that he had been knocked doon biv a runaway galloway pony that a lad called Harry Nicholson used to drive. Harry, ye must ken, was a bit weak iv his intellectuals, hevin' been born iv an ower great hurry like before his bit intellect had had time ti ripen, through his mother's gettin' a gliff at an accident that had happened her man doon the pit.