 1 Headstrong and Head Long. Far from any house or hut, in the depth of dreary moorland, a road, unfenced and almost unformed, descends to a rapid river. The crossing is called the Seven Corpse Ford, because a large party of farmers riding homeward from Middleton, banded together and perhaps, well-primed through fear of a famous highwayman, came down to this place on a foggy evening, after heavy rainfall. One of the company set before them what the power of the water was, but they laughed at him and spurred into it, and one alone spurred out of it. Whether taken with fright or with too much courage, they laid hold of one another, and seven out of eight of them, all large farmers and thoroughly understanding land, came never upon it alive again, and their bodies being found upon the ridge that cast them up, gave a dismal name to a place that never was merry in the best of weather. However worse things than this had happened, and the country is not cherry of its living, though apt to be scared of its dead. And so the Ford came into use again with a little attempt at improvement. For those farmers being beyond recall, and their families hard to provide for, Richard Yordass of Scargate Hall, the chief owner of the neighbourhood, set a long, heavy stone up on either brink, and stretched a strong chain between them, not only to mark out the course of the shallow, whose shelf is askew to the channel, but also that any one being washed away might fetch up, and feel how to save himself. For the teases of violent water sometimes, and the safest way to cross it, is to go on till you come to a good stone bridge. Now forty years after that sad destruction of brave but not well-guided men, and thirty years after the chain was fixed, that their sons might not go after them, another thing happened at Seven Corpse Ford, worse than the drowning of the farmers, or, at any rate, it made more stir, which is of wider spread than sorrow, because of the eminence of the man, and the length and width of his property. Neither could anyone at first believe in so quiet an end, to so turbulent a course. Nevertheless, it came to pass, as lightly as if he were a reed or a bubble, of the river that belonged to him. It was upon a gentle evening, a few days after Mikkelmus of 1777, no flood was in the river then, and no fog on the moorland, only the usual course of time keeping the silent company of stars. The young moon was down, and the hover of the sky, in doubt of various lights, were gone, and the equal spread of obscurity, soothed the eyes of any reasonable man. But the man who rode down to the river that night had little love of reason, headstrong chief of a headlong race, no will must depart a hares-breath from his, and fifty years of arrogant port had stiffened a neck, too stiff at birth. Even now in a dim light his large square form stood out against the sky like a crumbleck, and his heavy arms swung like gnarled boughs of oak, for a storm of wroth was moving him. In his youth he had rebelled against his father, and now his own son was a rebel to him. Good my boy, good! he said, within his grizzled beard, while his eyes shone with fire like the flints beneath his horse. You have had your way, have you then, but never shall you step upon an acre of your own, and your timber shall be the gallows. Done, my boy, once and forever. Philip the squire, the son of Richard, and father of Duncan Yordus, with fierce satisfaction struck the bosom of his heavy Bradford riding-coat, and the crackle of parchment replied to the blow, while with the other hand he drew rain on the brink of the tees, sliding rapidly. The water was dark with the twinkle of the stars, and wide with the vapour of the valley, but Philip Yordus, in the rage of triumph, laughed and spurred his reflecting horse. Fool, he cried, without an oath. No Yordus ever used an oath except in playful moments. Fool, what fear you? There hangs my respected father's chain. He was something like a man. Had I ever dared to flout him so, he would have hanged me with it. Wild with his wrong, he struck the roll deep into the flank of his wading horse, and in scorn of the depth drove him up the river. The shoulders of the swimming horse broke the swirling water, as he panted and snorted against it, and if Philip Yordus had drawn back at once, he might even now have crossed safely. But the fury of his blood was up, the stronger the torrent, the fiercer his will, and the fight between passion and power went on. The poor horse was feigned to swerve back at last, but he struck him on the head, with a carbine, and shouted to the torrent, Drown me if you can, my father used to say that I was never born to drown, my own water drown me. That would be a little too much insolence. Too much insolence were his last words, the strength of the horse was exhausted, the beat of his legs grew short and faint, the white of his eyes rolled piteously, and the gurgle of his breath subsided. His heavy head dropped under water, and his sudden crest rolled over, like seaweed, where a wave breaks. The stream had him all at its mercy, and showed no more than his savage master had, but swept him a wallowing lump away, and over the reef of the crossing, with both feet locked in the twisted stirrups, and right arm broken at the elbow, the rider was swung, like the mast of a wreck, and flung with his head upon his father's chain. There he was held by his great square chin, for the jar of his backbone stunned him, and the weight of the swept away horse broke the neck, which never had been known to bend. In the morning a peasant found him there, not drowned, but hanged, with eyes wide open, a swaying corpse upon a creaking chain. So his father, though long in the grave, was his death, as he often had promised to be to him, while he, with the habit of his race, clutched fast with dead hand on dead bosom, the instrument securing the starvation of his son. Of the Yorda's family truly was it said that the will of God was nothing to their will, as long as the latter lasted, and that every man of them scorned Old Testament, old or new, except his own. End of Chapter 1 Recording by Annika Lintout Marry an Early by Richard Dodridge Blackmore Chapter 2 Scargate Hall Nearly 24 years had passed since Philip Yorda's was carried to his last, as well as his first, repose, and Scargate Hall had adored some rest from the turbulence of owners. For as soon as Duncan, Philip's son, whose marriage had maddened his father, was clearly apprised by the late squire's lawyer of his inheritance, he collected his own little money and his wife's, and set sail for India. His mother, a Scotch woman of good birth, but evil fortunes, had left him something, and his bride, the daughter of his father's greatest foe, was not altogether empty-handed. His sisters were forbidden by the will to help him with a single penny, and Philip, the elder, declaring and believing that Duncan had killed her father, strictly obeyed the injunction. But Eliza, being a softer kind, and herself then in love with Captain Carnaby, would gladly evaded her only brother, but for his stern refusal. In such a case, a more gentle nature than ever in Doty Yorda's might have grown hardened from bitter, and Duncan, being of true Yorda's fibre, began to toughen with slower Scotch sap, was not of the sort to be ousted lightly, and grow at the feet of his supplanters. Therefore, he cast himself on the winds, in search of fairer soil, and was not heard of in his native land, and Scargate Hall and estates were held by the sisters in joint tenancy, with remainder to the first son-born of whichever it might be of them, and this was so worded through the hurry of their father to get someone established in this place of his own son. But from paltry passions turn away a little wild to the things which excite, but are not excited by them. Scargate Hall stands, high and old, in the wildest and most rugged part of the wild and rough north riding, many other tales about it, in a few and humble cots, scattered in the modest distance, mainly to look up at it. In spring and summer of the years that have any, the height and the air are not only fine, but even fair and pleasant. So do the shadows in the sunshine wonder, elbowing into one another on the moor, and so does the glance of smiling foliage soothe the austerity of crag and score. At such time, also, the restless torrent, through fury has driven content away through many a short day and long night, is not in such desperate hurry to bury its troubles in the breast of tees, but spreads them in language that sparkles to the sun, or even makes leisure to turn into corners of deep brown study about the people on its backs, especially perhaps the mill. But never had this impetuous water more reason to stop and reflect upon people of greater importance, who called it their own, but now, when it was at the lowest of itself, in August of the year 1808. From time beyond date, the race of Yordes had owned and inhabited this old place. From then the river and the rivers valley and the mountain of its birth took name, or else perhaps gave name to them, for the history of the giant Yordes still remains to be written, and the materials are scanty. His present descendants did not care an old song for his memory, even if he ever had existence to produce it. Petey, whether in a Latin sense or English, never had marked them for her own. Their days were long in the land, through a long inactivity of the deck alone. And yet in some manner, this lawless race had been as a law to itself throughout. From age to age came certain gifts and certain ways of management, which saved the family life from falling out of rank and land and lot. From deadly feuds, exhausting suits, and ruinous profusion, when all appeared lost, they had always arisen a man of direct colonial stock to retrieve the estates and reprieve the name. And what is still more conducive to the longevity of families? No member had appeared as yet of power too large and an aim too lofty, whose eminence must be cut short with acts outlawry and attainder. Therefore there ever had been a Yordes, good or bad, and by his own showing more often of the latter kind, to stand before heaven and hold the land and harass them that dwell thereon. But now at last the world seemed to be threatened with the extinction of a fine old name. When Squire Philip died in the river, as above recorded, his death from one point of view was dry, since nobody shed a tear for him, unless it was his child Eliza. Still, he was missed and lamented in speech, and even in eloquent speeches, having been a very strong justice of the peace, as well as the foremost righteous gentleman keeping the order of the country. He stood above them in his fair resolve to have his own way always, and his way was so crooked that the difficulty was to get out of it and let him have it. And when he was dead it was either too good or too bad to believe in, and even after he was buried it was held that this might be only another of his tricks. But after his ghost had been seen repeatedly, sitting on the chain and swearing, it began to be known that he was gone indeed, and the relief afforded by his absence endeared him to sad memory. Moreover, his good successes enhanced the relish of scandal about him, by seeming themselves to be always so dry, distant and unimpeachable. Especially so did my Lady Philippa, as the elder daughter was called by all the tenants and dependents, though her family now hold no title of honour. Mistress Yordes, as she was more correctly styled by usage of the period, was a maiden lady of fine presence, uncovered as yet by weight of years, and only dignified thereby. Stately and straight and substantial of figure, firm but not coarse of feature, she had reached her 45th year without an ailment or wrinkle. Her eyes were steadfast, clear and bright, well able to second her distinct calm voice and handsome still, though their deep blue had waned into a quiet impenetrable grey, while her broad clear forehead, straight nose and red lips might well be considered as comely as ever, at least by those who loved her. Of those, however, there were not many, and she was content to have it so. Mistress Carnaby, the younger sister, would not have been content to have it so, though not of the weak lot which is in fief to popularity. She liked to be regarded kindly and would rather win a smile than exact a courtesy. Continually it was said of her that she was no genuine Yordes, though really she had all the pride and all the stubbornness of that race, enlarged perhaps, but little weakened by severe afflictions. This lady had lost a beloved husband, Colonel Carnaby, killed in battle, and after that four children of the five she had been so proud of. And the waters of affliction had not turned to bitterness in her soul. Concerning the outward path, which matters more than the inward at first hand, Mistress Carnaby had no reason to complain of fortune. She had sadded well as a very fine baby and grown up well into a lovely maiden, passing through red lock into a slightly matron, gentle, fair and showing reason. For generations it had come to pass that those of the Yordes race who deserved to be cut off for their doings outdoors were followed by ladies of jacqueline, self-restraint, and regard for their neighbour's landmark. And so it was now with these two ladies, the handsome Philippa and the fair Eliza, leading a peaceful and reputable life and carefully studying their red roll. It was not, however, in the fitness of things that quiet should reign at Scargate Hall for a quarter of a century, and one strong element of disturbance grew already manifest. Under the world of Squire Phillip, the heir apparent was the one surviving child of Mistress Carnaby. If ever a mortal life was saved by dint of sleepless care, warm coddling, and a petrol doctoring, it was the precious life of Master Lancelot Yordes Carnaby. In him all the mischiefs of his race revived, without the strong substance to carry it off. Though his parents were healthy and vigorous, he was of weekly constitution, which would not have been half so dangerous to him if his mind also had been weekly. But his mind, or at any rate the rudiment thereof which appears in the shape of self-will, even before the teeth appear, was a piece of muscular contortion, tough as oak and hard as iron. Pet was his name with his mother and his aunt, and his enemies, being the rest of mankind, said that Pet was his name and his nature. For this dear child could brook no denial, no slow submission to his wishes. Whatever he wanted must come in a moment, punctual as an echo. In him reappeared, not the stubbornness only, but also the keen ingenuity of Yordes in finding out the very thing that never should be done, and then the nearing perception of the way in which it could be done most noxiously. Yet anyone looking at his eyes would think how tender and bright must his nature be. He favoureth his forebears, how can he help it, kind people explained, when they knew him. And the servants of the house excused themselves when condemned for putting up with, you know, not what it is when you talk so. He more wanted to get his own gate, less wise, though, would chop him. Being too valuable to be choked, he got his own way always. Chapter 3 of Mary Annoly This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Mary Annoly by Richard Dodridge Blackmore. Chapter 3 For the sake of Pet Carnaby and of themselves, the ladies of the house were disquieted now, in the first summer weather of a wet cold year, the year of our Lord, 1801, and their trouble arose as follows. There had long been a question between the sisters and Sir Walter Carnaby, brother of the late Colonel, about an exchange of outlying land, which would have to be ratified by Pet hereafter. Terms being settled and agreement signed, the lords fell too at the linked sweetness of deducing title. The abstract of the Yordish title was nearly as big as the parish Bible, so in and out had their dealings been, and so intricate their prognacity. Among the many other of the Yordish freaks was a fatuous and generally fatal one. For the slightest miscarriage they discharged their lawyer and leapt into the office of a new one. Has any man moved in the affairs of men, with a grain of common sense or half a penny-weight of experience, without being taught that an old tenterhook sits easier to him than a new one? And not only that, but in shifting his quarters he may leave some truly fundamental thing behind. Old Mr. Gellicourse, of Middleton and Teasdale, had won golden opinions everywhere. He was an uncommonly honest lawyer, highly incapable of almost any trick, and lofty in his view of things, when his side of them was the legal one. He had a large collection of those interesting boxes which are to a lawyer and his family, better than caskets of silver and gold, and especially were his shelves furnished with what might be called the Library of Scargate title deeds. He had been proud to take charge of these nearly thirty years ago, and had married on the strength of them, though warned by the rival from whom they were rested that he must not hope to keep them long. However, through the peaceful incumbency of ladies, they remained in his office all those years. This was the gentleman who had drawn and legally spent to its purport the wool of the lamented Squire Philip, who refused very clearly to leave it, and took horse to flourish it at his rebellious son. Mr. Gellicourse had done the utmost, as behooved him, against that rancorous testament, but meeting with silence more savage than words, and about to depart, he had yielded, and the Squire stamped about the room until his job was finished. The fact accomplished, whether good or bad, improves in character with every revolution of this little world around the sun, that heavenly example of subservience. And now Mr. Gellicourse was well convinced, as nothing had occurred to disturb that will, and the life of the testator had been sacrificed to it, and the devises under it were his own good climes. And some of his finest terms of words were in it, and the preparation, execution, and attestation, in an hour and ten minutes of the office-clock, had never been equaled in Yorkshire before, and perhaps never honestly in London. Taking all these things into conscious or unconscious balance, Mr. Gellicourse grew into the clear conviction that righteous and wise were the words to be used whenever this will was spoken of. With pleasant remembrance of the starvelling fees wherewith he used to charge the public, ere ever his golden spurs were won, the prosperous lawyer now began to run his eye through a duplicate of an abstract furnished upon some little sale about forty years before. This would form the basis of the abstract now to be furnished to Sir Walter Carnaby, with little to be added but the will of Philip Yordis, and statement of facts to be verified. Mr. Gellicourse was fat, but very active still. He liked good living, but he liked to earn it, and could not sit down to his dinner without feeling that he had helped the Lord to provide these mercies. He carried a pencil on his chain, and liked to use it ere ever he began with knife and fork. For the young man in his office, as he always said, knew nothing. The day was very bright and clear, and the sun shone through soft lilac leaves on more important folios, while Mr. Gellicourse, with happy sniffs, for his dinner was roasting in the distance, drew a single line here, or a double line there, or a gable on the margin of the paper, to show his head clerk what to cite, and in what letters, and what to admit in the abstract to be rendered. For the good solicitor had spent some time in the chambers of a famous conveyancer in London, and prided himself upon deducing title directly, exhaustively, and yet tersely, in one word, scientifically, and doth as a mere quill-driver. The title to the hereditments, now to be given in exchange, went back for many generations. But as the deeds were not to pass, Mr. Gellicourse, like an honest man, drew a line across, and made a star at one quite old enough to begin with, in which the little moral and farm and treaty now was specified. With Hum and Ha of satisfaction he came down the records, as far as the settlement made upon the marriage of Richard Jordus of Scargate Hall, Esquire, and Eleanor, the daughter of Sir Furson de Ruse. This document created no entail, for strict settlements had never been the manner of the race, but the property assured in trust. To satisfy the jointure was then declared subject to joint and surviving powers of appointment, limited to the issue of the marriage, with remainder to the uses of the will of the aforesaid Richard Jordus, or, failing such will, to his right ears forever. All this was usual enough, and Mr. Gellicourse heeded it little, having never heard of any appointment, and knowing that Richard, the grandfather of his clients, had died, as became a true Jordus, in a fit of fury with a poor tenant, interstate, as well as unrepentant. The lawyer, being a slightly pious man, afforded a little sigh to this remembrance, and lifted his finger to turn the leaf. But the leaf stuck a moment, and the paper being raised at the very best angle to the sun, he saw, or seemed to see, a faint red line, just over against that appointment clause. And then the yellow margin showed some faint red marks. Well, I never, Mr. Gellicourse exclaimed. Certainly never saw these marks before. Diana, where are my glasses? Mrs. Gellicourse had been to see the potatoes on, for the new cook simply made kettlethoes of fish, of everything put upon the fire, and now at her husband's call she went to her work box for his spectacles, which he was not allowed to wear except on Sundays, for fear of injuring his eyesight. Equipped the thieves and drawing nearer to the window, the lawyer gradually made out this. First, a broad faint line of red, as if some attorney, now a ghost, had cut his finger, and over against that in small round hand the letters V, B, C. Mr. Gellicourse could swear that they were V, B, C. Don't ask me to eat any dinner today, he exclaimed, when his wife came to fetch him. Diana, I am occupied. Go and eat it up without me. Nonsense, James, she answered calmly. You'd never get any clever thoughts by starving. Moved by this reasoning, he submitted. Then his wife and children and own good self, and then brought up a bottle of old Spanish wine to strengthen the fountains of discovery. Whose writing was that upon the broad barge of verbosity? Why had it never been observed before? Above all, what was meant by V, B, C? Unaided he might have gone on forever, to the bottom of a butt of hair as wine, but finding the second glass better than the first he called to Mr. Gellicourse, who was in the garden gathering striped roses, to come and have a sip with him and taste the yellow cherries. And when she came promptly, with the flowers in her hand, and the youngest little daughter making sly eyes at the fruit, bartered as he was he could not help smiling and saying, Oh Diana, what is V, B, C? Very black currents, Papa, cried Emily, dancing a long bunch in the air. Hush dear child, you were getting too forward, said her mother, though proud of her quickness. James, how should I know what V, B, C is? But I wish most heartily that you would rid me of my old enemy, Box C. I want to put a hanging press in that corner, instead of which you turn the very passages into office. Box C. I remember no Box C. You may not have noticed the letter C upon it, but the Box you must know as well as I do. It belongs to those proud Yordus people who hold their heads so high, forsooth, as if nobody but themselves belong to a good old county family. That makes me hate the Box the more. I will take it out of your way at once. I may want it. It should be with the others. I know it as well as I know my Snuff Box. It was Aberthaugh who put it in that corner, but I had forgotten that it was lettered. The others are all numbered. Of course Mr. Gellicourse was not weak enough to make the partner of his bosom, the partner of his business, and as much as she longed to know why he had put an unusual question to her, she trusted to the future for discovery of that point. She left him, and he with no undue haste, for the business, after all, was not his own. Began to follow out his train of thought in manner much as follows. This is that old Duncombe's writing. Dunderhead Duncombe as used to be called in his lifetime, but longed at Duncombe afterward. None but his wife knew whether he was a wise man or a wise acre. Perhaps either according to the treatment he received. Richard Yordus treated him badly. That may have made him wiser. VBC means VD Box C, unless I am greatly mistaken. He wrote those letters as plainly and clearly as he could against this power of appointment as recited here, but afterward, with knife and pounce, he scraped them out, as now becomes plain with his magnifying glass. Probably he did so when all these archives, as he used to call them, were rudely ordered over to my predecessor. A nice bit of revenge if my suspicions are correct, and a pretty confusion will follow it. The lawyer's suspicions proved too correct. He took that box to his private room, and with some trouble, unlocked it. A damp and musty smell came forth, as when a man delves a potato berry, and then appeared layers of parchment yellow and brown, in and out with one another, according to the curing of the sheepskin, perhaps, or the age of the sheep when he began to die. Skins much older than any man's who handled them, and drier than the brains of any lawyer. Anno Giacobi Tercio and Quadra Gissemo Elisa Beta. How nice it sounds, Mr. Gellichorps exclaimed. They ought all to go in and be charged for. People to be satisfied with sixty years' title. Why bless the Lord I am sixty-eight myself, and could buy and sell the grammar school at eight years old. It is no security, no security at all. What did the learned backupiston say? If a rogue only lives to be a hundred and eleven, he may have been for ninety years deceased, and nobody alive to know it. Older and older grew the documents as the lawyer's hand traveled downward. Any flaw or failure must have been healed by lapse of time, long and long ago. Dust and grime and mildew thickened. Ink became paler, and the contractions more contorted. It was rather an antiquary's business now than a lawyer's to decipher them. What a fool I am, the solicitor thought. My cuffs will never wash white again, and all I have found is a marriage-ness. However, I'll go to the bottom now. There may be a gold seal. They used to put them in with the deeds three hundred years ago. A charter of Edward IV. I declare! Ah, the Yordes' were Yorkists. Hello! What is here? By the touchstone of Shepard. I was right after all. Well done, long-headed Duncombe! From the very bottom of the box he took a parchment comparatively fresh and new, endorsed, appointment by Richard Yordes' squire, and Eleanor his wife, of lands and heretics at Scargate and elsewhere in the county of York, dated November 15, A.D., 1751. Having glance at the signatures and seals, Mr. Gellicor spread the document, which was of a moderate compass, and soon convinced himself that his work of the morning had been wholly thrown away. No title could be shown to Whitestone Farm, nor even to Scargate Hall itself, on the part of the present owners. The appointment was by deed-pole, and strictly in accordance with the powers of the settlement. Duly executed and attested, clearly though clumsily expressed, and beyond all question genuine, it simply nullified, as concerned the better half of the property, the will which had cost Philip Yordes' life. For under this limitation Philip held a mere life interest, his father and mother giving all men to know by those presence that they did thereby from and after the deceased of their said son Philip grant limit and appointment, etc., all in singular the said lands, etc., to the heirs of his body, lawfully begotten, etc., etc., entail general, with remainder over, and finally were made into the right heirs of the said Richard Yordes, forever. From all of which it followed that while Duncan Yordes, or child, or other descendant of his, remained in the land of a living, or even without that, if he having learned it had been able to bar the entail and then sell or devise the lands away, the ladies in possession could show no title, except a possessory one, as yet unhollowed by the lapse of time. Mr. Gellicorse was a very pleasant-looking man, also one who took a pleasant view of other men and things, but he could not help pulling along in sad face as he thought of the puzzle before him. Duncan Yordes had not been heard of among his own hills and valleys since 1778, when he embarked for India. None of the family ever had care to write or read long letters, their correspondence, if any, was short, without being sweet by any means. It might be a subject for prayer and hope that Duncan should be gone to a better world, without leaving hostages to fortune here, but sad it is to say that neither prayer nor hope produces any faith in the council who prepares requisitions upon title. On the other hand, inquiry as to Duncan's history since he left his native land would be a delicate and expensive work, and perhaps even dangerous, if he should hear of it, and inquire about the inquirers. For the last thing to be done from a legal point of view, though the first of all from a just one, was to apprise the rightful owner of his unexpected position. Now Mr. Jolokorce was a just man, but his justice was due to his clients first. After a long brown study, he reaped his crop of meditation thus. It is a ticklish business, and I will sleep three nights upon it. End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 of Mary Annerley This is a Labour Fox recording. All Labour Fox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librabux.org. Mary Annerley by Richard Doddridge Blackmore Disquietude The ladies of Scargate Hall were uneasy, although the weather was so fine. Upon this day of early August, in the year now current, it was a remarkable fact that in spite of the distance they slept asunder, which could not be less than five and thirty yards, both had been visited by a dream, which appeared to be quite the same dream until examined narrowly, and being examined, grew more surprising in its points of difference. They were much above paying any heed to dreams, though instructed by the pay tracks to do so, and they seemed to be quite getting over the effects when the lesson and the punishment astonished them. Lately it had been established, although many leading people went against it, and threatened to prosecute the man for trespass, that here, in these quiet and reputable places, where no spy could be needed, a man should come twice every week with letters, and in the name of the king be paid for them. Such things were required in towns, perhaps, as corporations and gutters were, but to bring them where people could mind their own business, and charge them two grotes for some fool who knew their names, was like putting attacks upon their christening, so it was the hope of many, as well as everyone's believe that the post-pan being of Lancastrian race would very soon be bogged, or famished, or get lost in a fog, or swept off by a flood, or go and break his own neck from a precipice. The postman, however, was a wiry fellow, and as tough as any native, and he rode a pony even tougher than himself, whose cradle was a marsh, and whose mother a mountain, his first breath a fog, and his weaning meat, wire grass, and his form a combination of sole leather and corundum. He wore no shoes for fear of not making sparks at night, to know the road by, and although his bit had been a blacksmith's rasp, he would yield to it only when it suited him. The postman, whose name was George King, which confounded him with King George, in the money to pay, carried a sword and a blunderbuss, and would use them sooner than argue. Now this man and horse had come slowly along, without meaning any mischief, to deliver a large sealed packet, with sixteen pence to pay put upon it, to Mistress Philippa Yordus, etc., her own hands, and speed, speed, speed, which they carried out duly by stop, stop, stop, whensoever they were hungry, or saw anything to look at. Nonetheless, for that, though with certainty much later, they arrived in good trim by the middle of the day, and ready for the comfort which they both deserved. As yet, it was not considered safe to trust any tidings of importance to the post in such a world as this was, and even were it safe, it would be bad manners from a man of business. Therefore, Mr. Jelly Course had sealed up little, except his respectful consideration and request, to be allowed to wait upon his honored clients, concerning a matter of great moment. Upon the afternoon of Thursday then, next ensuing, and the post had gone so far, to give good distance for the money, that the Thursday of the future came to be that very day. The present century opened with a chilly and dark year, following three bad seasons of severity and scarcity, and in the northwest of Yorkshire, though the summer was now so far advanced, there had been very little sunshine for the last day or two. The sun had labored to sweep up the mist and cloud, and was beginning to prevail so far that the mists drew their skirts up and retired into haze, while the clouds fell away to the ring of the sky, and there lay down to abide their time, wherefore it happened that Yordis House, as the ancient building was an old time called, had a clearer view than usual of the valley and the river that ran away, and the road that tried to run up to it. Now this was considered a wonderful road, and in fair truth it was wonderful, withstanding all efforts of even the royal male pony to knock it to pieces. In its rapidity downhill it surpassed altogether the river, which galloped along by the side of it, and it stood out so boldly with stones of no shame that even by moonlight nobody could lose it, until it abruptly lost itself, but it never did that, until the house it came from was two miles away, and no other to be seen, and so why should it go any further? At the head of this road stood the old gray house, facing toward the south of east, to claim whatever might come up the valley, sun, or storm, or columned fog. In the days of the past it had claimed much more goods and cattle and tribute of the traffic going northward, as the loop-hold quadrangle for impounded stock, and the deeply embroidered tower shewed. At the back of the house rose a mountain spine, blocking out the western sun, but cut with one deep portal, where a pass ran into Westmoreland, the scoring gate, whence the house was named, and through this gate of Mount Noften, when the day was waning, a bar of slanting sunset entered, like a plume of golden dusk, and hovered on a broad black patch of weather-beaten fir trees. The day was waning now, and every steep ascent looked steeper, while down the valley light and shade made longer cast of shuttle, and the margin of the West began to glow with a deep wine color as the sun came down. The tinge of many mountains and the distant sea, until the sun himself settled quietly into it, and there grew richer and more ripe, as old bottled wine is fed by the crust, and bowed his Rubicon to farewell, through the poster of the score gate, to the old hall, and the valley, and the face of Mr. Jelly Course. That gentleman's countenance did not, however, reply with its usual brightness to the mellow salute of evening, wearied and shaken by the long, rough ride, and depressed by the heavy solitude. He hated and almost feared the task which every step brought nearer, as the house rose higher and higher against the red sky, and grew darker, and as the sullen roar of bloodhounds, terrors of the neighborhood, roused the slow echoes of the crags. The lawyer was almost feigned to turn his horse's head and face the risks of wandering over the moor by night, but the hoisting of a flag, the well-known token confirmed by large letters on a rock that strangers might safely approach, and as much as the savage dogs were kenneled, this, and the thought of such an entry for his daybook, kept Mr. Jelly Course from ignominious flight. He was in for it now, and was carry it through. In a deep, embayed window of leaden glass, Mistress Yordis and her widowed sister sat for an hour, without many words, watching the zigzag of shale and rock, which formed their chief communication with the peopled world. They did not care to improve their access, or increase their traffic, not through cold or rossety, or even proud indifference, but because they had been so brought up, and so confirmed by circumstance, for the Yordis blood, however hot and wild and savage in the gentlemen, was generally calm and good, though steadfast, in the weaker vessels. For the main part, however, a family takes it character more from the sword than the spindle, and their sword hand had been like Esau's, little as they meddled with the doings of the world, of one thing at least these stately madams, as the baffled squires of the writing called them, were by no means heedless. They dressed themselves according to their rank, or perhaps above it, many a nobleman's wife in Yorkshire had not such apparel, and even of those so richly gifted, few could have come up to the purpose better. Nobody, unless of their own sex, thought of their dresses when looking at them. He rides very badly, Philippa said. The people from the lowlands always do. He may not have courage to go home tonight, but he ought to have thought of that before. Poor man, we must offer him a bed, of course. Mrs. Carnaby answered, but he should have come earlier in the day. What shall we do with him when he has done his business? It is not our place to amuse our lawyer. He might go and smoke in the justice room, and then Welldrum could play bagatelle with him. Philippa, you forget that the Jelligy courses are of a good old county stock. His wife is a stupid, pretentious thing, but we need not treat him as we must treat her. And it may be as well to make much of him, perhaps, if there really is any trouble coming. You are thinking of Pet by the by. Are you certain that Pet cannot get at Ceryson? You know how he led him loose last Easter, when the flag was flying, and the poor man has been in his bed ever since. Jordus will see to that. He can be trusted to mind the dogs well. Ever since you find him in a fortnight's wages? That was an excellent thought of yours. Jordus might have been called the keeper, or the hind, or the henchman, or the ranger, or the porter, or the bailiff, or the reeve, or some other of some fifty names of office in a place of more civilisation. So many and so various were his tasks. But here his professional name was the dog man, and he held that office according to an ancient custom of the Scargate race, whence also his surname, if such it were, arose. For of old time, and in outlandish parts, a finer humanity prevailed, and a richer practical wisdom upon certain questions, irregular offsets of the stock, instead of being cast upon the world as waves and strays, were allowed a place in the kitchen garden or stable yard, and flourished there without disgrace, while useful and obedient. Thus for generations here the legitimate son was Jordus, and took the house and manners. The illegitimate became Jordus, and took to the gate, and the minding of the dogs, and any other office of fidelity. The present Jordus was, however, of less immediate kin to the owners, being only the son of a former Jordus, and in the enjoyment of a Christian name, which never was provided for a first-hand Jordus. And now as his mistress looked out on the terrace, his burly figure came duly forth, and his keen eyes ranged the walks and courts, in search of master Lancelot, who gave him more trouble in a day, sometimes, than all the dogs cost in a twelve month. With a fine sense of mischief, this boy delighted to watch the road for visitors, and then, if barbarously denied his proper enjoyment and that of the dogs, he still had goodly devices of his own for producing little tragedies. Mr. Jelly Course knew Jordus well, and felt some pity for him, because, if his grandmother had been wiser, he might have been the master now, and the lawyer, having much good feeling, liked not to make a groom of him. Jordus, however, knew his place, and touched his hat respectfully, then helped the solicitor to dismount. The witch was sorely needed. You came not by the way of the Ford, sir, the dogman asked, while considering the leathers. The water is down. You might have saved three miles. Better lose thirty than my life. Will any of your men, Master Jordus, show me a room where I may prepare to wait upon your ladies? Mr. Jelly Course walked through the old arched gate of the Reaver's Court, and was shown to a room where he unpacked his fleece, and changed his writing clothes, and refreshed himself. A jug of scargate ale was brought to him, and a bottle of foreign wine, with the cork drawn, lest he should hesitate. Also a cold pie, bread and butter, and a small case bottle of some liqueur. He was not hungry, for his wife had cared to victual him well for the journey. But for fear of offense he ate a morsel, found it good, and ate some more. Then after a sipper, two of the liqueur, and a glance or two at his black silk stockings, buckled shoes, and best small clothes, he felt himself fit to go before a duchess. As once upon a time he had actually done, and expressed himself very well indeed. According to the dialogue delivered whenever he told the story about it every day, Weldram, the butler, was waiting for him, a man who had his own ideas, and was going to be put upon by nobody. If my father could only come to life for one minute, he would spend it in kicking that man. Mrs. Carnaby had exclaimed about him, after carefully shutting the door. But he never showed airs before Miss Yordis. Come along, sir, Weldram said, after one professional glance at the tray, to ascertain his residue. My ladies have been waiting this half hour, and for sure, sir, you looks wonderful. This way, sir, and have a care of them oak faggots. My ladies, lawyer Jellicourse. End of Chapter 4 Chapter 5 of Mary Annerley. This is a Labor Fox recording. All Labor Fox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit laborfox.org. Mary Annerley by Richard Doddbridge Blackmore. Decision. The sun was well down and away behind the great fell at the back of the house, and the large and heavily furnished room was feebly lit by four wax candles, and the glow of the West reflected as a gleam into eastern windows. The lawyer was pleased to have it so, and to speak with a dimly lighted face. The ladies looked beautiful. That was all that Mr. Jellicourse could say when Cross examined by his wife next day concerning their lace and velvet, whether they wore lace or net was almost more than he could say, for he did not heed such trifles, but velvet was within his knowledge, though not the color or the shape, because he thought it hot for summer, until he remembered what the climate was. Really, he could say nothing more, except that they looked beautiful. And when Mrs. Jellicourse jerked her head, he said that he only meant, of course, considering their time of life. The ladies saw his admiration and felt that it was but natural. Mrs. Carnaby came forward kindly and offered him a nice warm hand while the elder sister was content to bow and thank him for coming and hope that he was well. As yet, it had not become proper for a gentle man visiting ladies to yawn and throw himself into the nearest chair and cross his legs and dance one foot and ask how much the toy terrier cost. Mr. Jellicourse made a fine series of bows, not without a scrape or two, which showed his good leg half. And after that he waited for the gracious invitation to sit down. If I understood your letter clearly, Mistress Yordus began, when these little rites were duly accomplished, you have something important to tell us concerning our poor property here. A small property, Mr. Jellicourse, compared with that of the Duke of Lundale, but perhaps a little longer in one family. The Duke is a new-fangled interloper, replied hypocritical Jellicourse. Though no other Duke was the husband of the Duchess of whom he indicted daily, properties of that sort come and go, and only tradesmen notice it, your estates have been longer in the season of one family, madam, than any other in the riding, or perhaps in Yorkshire. We never seize them, cried Mrs. Carnaby, being sensitive as to ancestral thefts, through tales about cattle lifting. You must be aware that they came to us by grant from the crown, or even before there was any crown to grant them. I beg your pardon for using a technical word without explaining it. Season is a legal word, which simply means possession, or rather the bodily holding of a thing, and is used especially of corporal hereditiments. You ladies have season of this house and lands, although you never seized them. The last thing we would think of doing, answered Mrs. Carnaby, who was more impulsive than her sister, also less straightforward, how often we have wished that our poor lost brother had not been deprived of them, but our father's will was sacred, and you told us we were helpless. We struggled, as you know, but we could do nothing. That is the question which brought me here, the lawyer said, very quietly, at the same time producing a small roll of parchment sealed in cartridge paper. Last week I discovered a document which I am forced to submit to your judgment. Shall I read it to you, or tell its purport briefly? Whatever it may be, it cannot in any way alter our conclusions. Our conclusions have never varied, however deeply they may have grieved us. We were bound to do justice to our dear father. Certainly, madam, and you did it. Also, as I know, you did it as kindly as possible toward other relatives, and you only met with perversity. I had the honor of preparing your respected father's will, a model of clearness and precision, considering the time afforded and other disturbing influences. I know for a fact that a copy was laid before the finest draftsman in London by those who were displeased with it, and his words were beautiful, beautiful. Every word of it holds water. Now that, madam, cannot be said of many. Indeed, of not one in pardon me for interrupting you, but I have always understood you to speak highly of it, and in such a case what can be the matter? The matter of all matters, madam, is that the testator should have disposing power. He could dispose of his own property as he was disposed, you mean. You misapprehend me. Mr. Jelly Course now was in his element for a love to lecture, an absurdity just coming into vogue. Indulge me one moment. I take this silver dish. For instance, it is in my hands. I have the use of it, but can I give it to either of you ladies? Not very well, because it belongs to us already. You misapprehend me. I cannot give it because it is not mine to give. Mrs. Carnaby looked puzzled. Eliza, allow me, said Mistress Yordis, in her stiffer manner, and now for the first time interfering. Mr. Jelly Course assures us that his language is a model of clearness and precision. Perhaps he will prove it by telling us now, in plain words, what his meaning is. What I mean, madam, is that your respected father could devise you apart only of this property, because the rest was not his to devise. He only had a life interest in it. His will, therefore, fails as to some part of the property. How much? And what part, if you please? The larger and better part of the estates, including this house and grounds and the home farm. Mrs. Carnaby started and began to speak, but her sister moved only to stop her and showed no signs of dismay or anger for fear of putting too many questions at once, she said, with a slight bow and a smile, let me beg you to explain, as shortly as possible, this very surprising matter. Mr. Jelly Course watched her with some suspicion, because she called it so surprising, yet showed so little surprise herself. For a moment he thought that she must have heard of the document now in his hands, but he very soon saw that it could not be so. It was only the ancient Yordis pride, perversity, and stiff neckedness, and even Mrs. Carnaby, strengthened by the strength of her sister, managed to look as if nothing more than a tale of some tenant were pending, but this, or ten times this, availed not to deceive Mr. Jelly Course. That gentleman, having seen much of the world, whispered to himself that this was all hijinks, felt himself placed on the stool of authority, and even ventured upon a pinch of snuff. This was unwise, and cost him dear, for the ladies would not have been true to their birth if they had not started against him. He, however, with a friendly mind, and a tap now and then upon his document, to give emphasis to his story, recounted the whole of it, and set forth how much was come of it already, and how much it might lead to, to scargate hall, and the better part of the property always enjoyed their width. Philippa Yardus and Eliza Carnaby had no claim, whatever, except on the score of possession, until it could be shown that their brother Duncan was dead, without any errors or assignment, which might have come to pass through a son, adult, and even so, his widow might come forward and give trouble. Concerning all that, there was time enough to think, but something must be done at once to cancel the bargain with Sir Walter Carnaby, without letting his man of law get sent of the fatal defect entitled, and now that the ladies knew all, what did they say? In answer to this, the ladies were inclined to put the whole blame upon him for not having managed matters better, and when he had shown that the whole of it was done before he had anything to do with it, they were firmly convinced that he ought to have known it and found a proper remedy, and in the finished manner of well-born ladies, they gave him to know, without a strong expression, that such an atrocity was a black stain on every legal son of Satan, living, dead, or still to issue from charism. That cannot affect the title now, I assure you, madam, that it cannot, the unfortunate lawyer exclaimed at last, and as for damages, poor old Duncombe has left no representatives. Poor old Duncombe has left no representatives, even if an action would lie now, which is simply out of the question. On my part, no neglect can be shown, and indeed for your knowledge of the present state of things, if humbly I may say so, you are wholly indebted to my zeal. Sir, I heartily wish, Mrs. Carnaby replied, that your zeal had been exhausted on your own affairs. Eliza, Mr. Jelly-Course has acted well, and we cannot feel too much obliged to him. Miss Yordus, having humor of a sword, smiled faintly at the double meaning of her own words, which was not intended. Whatever is right must be done. Of course, according to the rule of our family, in such a case it appears to me that mere niceties of laws and quibbs and quirks are entirely subordinate to high sense of honor. The first consideration must be thoroughly unselfish and pure justice. The lawyer looked at her with admiration. He was capable of large sentiments, and yet a faint shadow of disappointment lingered in the folios of his heart. There might have been such a very grand long suit upon which his grandson, to be born next month, might have been enabled to settle for life and bring up a legal family. Justice, however, was justice and more noble than even such prospects, so he bowed his head and took another pinch of snuff. But Mrs. Carnaby, who had wept a little in a place beyond the candlelight, came back with a passionate flush in her eyes and a resolute bearing of her well-formed neck. Philippa, I am amazed at you, she said. Mr. Jelly-Course, my share is equal both my sisters and more because my son comes after me. Whatever she may do, I will never yield a pin's point of my rights and leave my son a beggar. Philippa, would you make Pet a beggar and his turtle in bed before the sun is on the window and his sturgeon jelly when he gets out of bed? There never was anyone, by a good providence, less sent into the world to be a beggar. Mrs. Carnaby, having discharged her meaning, began to be overcome by it. She sat down, in fear of hysteria, but with her mind made up to stop it, while the gallant Jelly-Course was swept away by her eloquence, mixed with professional views. But it came home to him, from experience with his wife, that the less he said, the wiser. But while he moved about and almost danced in his strong desire to be useful, there was another who sat quite still and meant to have the final say. From some confusion of ideas, I suppose, or possibly through my own fault, Philippa Yordis said, with less contempt in her voice than in her mind, it seems that I cannot make my meaning clear, even to my own sister. I said that we first must do the right and scorn all legal subtleties, that we must maintain unselfish justice and high sense of honor. Can there be any doubt what these dictate? What sort of daughters should we be if we basely betrayed our own father's will? Excellent, madam, the lawyer said. That view of the case never struck me, but there is a great deal in it. Oh, Philippa, how noble you are, her sister Eliza cried, and cried no more, so far as tears go, for a long time afterward. End of chapter 5, chapter 6 of Mary Annerley. This is a labor box recording. While labor box recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer, please visit laborbox.org. Mary Annerley by Richard Dodd-Ridge Blackmore. Annerley Farm. On the eastern coast of the same great county, at more than 90 miles of distance for a homing pigeon, and some hundred and twenty for a carriage from the Hall of Yordis, there was in those days, and there still may be found, a property of no vast size, snug, however, and of good repute, and called universally Annerley Farm. How long it has borne that name it knows not, neither cares to moot the question, and there lives no antiquary of enough antiquity to decide it. A place of smiling hope, and comfort, and content with quietude, no memory of man about it runneth to the country, while every ox, and horse, and sheep, and fumble, and frisky porker, is full of warm domestic feeling, and each homely virtue, for this land, like a happy country, has escaped, for years and years, the affliction of much history. It has not felt the desolating tramp of lawyer or land agent, nor been bombarded by fine and recovery, lease and release, bargain and sale, dough and row, and god-free styles, and the rest of the pitiless shower of slugs, ending with a charge of demons, blows, and blights, and plagues of that sort have not come to Annerley, nor any other drain of nurture to exhaust the green of meadow, and the gold of harvest. Here stands the homestead, and here lies the meadowland. There walk the kind, having no call to run, and yonder the wheat in the hollow of the hill, bowing to the silvery stroke of the wind, is touched with the promise of increasing gold. As good as the cattle and the crops themselves are the people that live upon them, or at least, in a fair degree, they try to be so, though not of course so harmless, or faithful, or peaceful, or charitable, but still in proportion, they may be called as good, and in fact they believe themselves much better, and this from no conceit of any sort, beyond what is indispensable. For nature not only enables but compels a man to look down upon his betters. From generation to generation, man and beast, and house and land, have gone on in succession here, replacing, following, renewing, repairing, and being repaired, demanding and getting more support, with such judicious give and take, and thoroughly good understanding, that now in the August of this year, when Scargate Hall is full of care, and afraid to cart a load of dung, Annerley Farm is quite at ease, and in the very best of heart, man, and horse, and land, and crops, and the cock that crows the time of day, nevertheless, no acre in Yorkshire, or in the whole wide world, has ever been so farmed or fenced as to exclude the step of change. From father to son, the good lands had passed, without even a will to disturb them, except at distant intervals, and the present owner was Stephen Annerley, a thrifty and well to do Yorkshire farmer of the olden type. Master Annerley was turned quite lately of his 52nd year, and hopeful, if so pleased the Lord, to turn a good many more years yet, as a strong horse works his furrow, for he was strong and of a cheerful face, ready, square, and steadfast, built up also with firm body to a wholesome stature, and able to show the best man on the farm the way to swing a pitchfork, yet might he be seen upon every Lord's day, as clean as a new shelled chestnut, neither at any time of the week was he dirtier than need be, happy alike in the place of his birth, his lot in life, and the wisdom of the powers appointed over him. He looked up with the substantial faith, yet a solid reserve of judgment, to the church, the justices of the peace, spiritual lords and temporal, and above all his Majesty George III, without any reserve of judgment, which could not deal with such low subjects, he looked down upon every dissenter, every pork dealer, and every Frenchman, what he was brought up to, that he would abide by, and the sin beyond repentance, to his mind, was the sin of the turncoat, with all these hard-set lines of thought, or of doctrine, the scabbard of thought, which saves its edge, and keeps it out of mischief. Stephen Annerley was not hard, or stern, or narrow-hearted, kind, and gentle, and good to everyone who knew how to behave himself, and dealing to every man full justice, meted by his own measure. He was liable even to generous acts, after being severe and having his own way, but if anybody ever got the better of him by lies, and not fair-bettering, that man had wiser not begin to laugh inside the writing. Stephen Annerley was slow, but sure, not so very keen, perhaps, but grained with curns of maximed thought, to meet his uses as they came, and to make a rogue uneasy. To move him from such thoughts was hard, but to move him from a spoken word had never been found possible. The wife of this solid man was solid and well-fitted to him. In early days, by her own account, she had possessed considerable elegance, and was not devoid of it even now. Whenever she received a visitor capable of understanding it. But for home use, that gift had been cut short, almost in the honeymoon, by a total want of appreciation on the part of her husband, and now, after five and twenty years of studying and entering into him, she had fairly earned his firm belief that she was the wisest of women, for she always agreed with him when he wished it, and she knew exactly when to contradict him. And that was before he had said a thing at all. And while he was rolling it slowly in his mind, with a strong tendency against it, in outdoor matters she never meddled, without being specially consulted by the master, but indoors she governed with watchful eyes, a firm hand, and a quiet tongue. This good woman now was five and forty years of age, vigorous, clean, and of a very pleasant look, with that richness of color which settles on fair women when the fugitive beauty of blushing is passed, when the work of the morning was done, and the clock in the kitchen was only ten minutes from twelve, and the dinner was fit for the dishing. Then Mistress Annerley remembered, as a rule, the necessity of looking to her own appearance. She went upstairs, with a quarter of an hour to spare, but not to squander, and she came down so neat that the farmer was obliged to be careful in helping the gravy, for she always sat next to him, as she had done before there came any children, and it seemed ever since to be the best place for her to manage their plates and their manners as well. Alas, that the kindest and wisest of women have one, if not twenty, blind sides to them, and if any such weakness is pointed out, it is sure to have come from their father. Mistress Annerley's weakness was almost conspicuous to herself. She worshipped her eldest son, perhaps the least worshipped full of the family. Willie Annerley was a fine young fellow, two inches taller than his father, with delicate features and curly black hair, and cheeks as bright as the maidens. He had soft blue eyes and a rich clear voice, with a melancholy way of saying things, as if he were above all this, and yet he looked not like a fool. Neither was he one altogether, when he began to think of things. The worst of him was that he always wanted something new to go on with. He never could be idle, and yet he never worked the end, which crowns the task. In the early stage he would labor hard, be full of the greatness of his aim, and demand everybody's interest, exciting, also mighty hopes of what was safe to come of it. And even after that he sometimes carried on with patience, but he had not perseverance. Once or twice he had been on the very nick of accomplishing something, and had driven home his nail, but then he let it spring back without clenching. Oh, any fool can do that, he cried, and never stood to it, to do it again, or to see that it came not undone. In a word he stuck to nothing, but swerved about, here, there, and everywhere. His father, being of so different to cast, and knowing how often the wisest of men must do what any fool can do, was bitterly vexed at the flighty ways of Willie, and could do no more than hope, with a general contempt, that when the boy grew older he might be a wiser fool. But Willie's dear mother maintained, with great consistency, that such a perfect wonder could never be expected to do anything not wonderful. To this the farmer used to listen with a grim, decorous smile, then grumbled, as soon as he was out of hearing, and fell to, and did the little jobs himself, sore jealousy of Willie, perhaps, and keen sense of injustice, as well as high spirit and love of adventure, had driven the younger son, Jack, from home, and launched him on a seafaring life, with a stick and a bundle he had departed from the ancestral fields and lanes, one summer morning about three years since, when the cows were lowing for the milkpill, and a royal cutter was cruising off the head. For a twelve-month nothing was heard of him, until there came a letter beginning, dear and respected parents, and ending, your affectionate and dutiful son, Jack. The body of the letter was of three lines only, occupied entirely with kind inquiries as to the welfare of everybody, especially his pup, and his old pony, and dear sister Mary, Mary Annerley, the only daughter and the youngest child, well deserved the best remembrance of the distant sailor, though Jack may have gone too far in declaring, as he did till he came to his love time, that the world contained no other girl fit to hold a candle to her, no doubt it would have been hard to find a girl more true and loving, more modest and industrious, but hundreds and hundreds of better girls might be found, perhaps even in Yorkshire, for this maiden had a strong will of her own, which makes against absolute perfection. Also she was troubled with a strenuous hate of injustice, which is sure, in this world, to find cause for an outbreak and too active a desire to rush after what is right, instead of being well content to let it come occasionally, and so firm could she be when her mind was set that she would not take parables or long experience or even kindly laughter as a power to move her from the thing she meant, her mother knowing better how the world goes on promiscuously and at leisure, and how the right point slides away when stronger forces come to bear, was very often vexed by the crotchets of the girl, and called her wayward headstrong and sometimes nothing milder than a saucy miss. This, however, was absurd, and Mary scarcely deigned to cry about it, but went to her father as she always did when any weight lay on her mind. Nothing was said about any injustice, because that might lead to more of it, as well as be from a proper point of view, most in decorous. Nevertheless, it was felt between them when her pretty hair was shed upon his noble waistcoat that they too were in the right and cared very little who thought otherwise. Now it was time to leave off this for Mary without he and almost of any but her mother had turned into a full-grown damsel, comely, sweet, and graceful. She was tall enough never to look short, and short enough never to seem too tall, even when her best feelings were outraged, and nobody, looking at her face, could wish to do anything but please her. So kind was the gaze of her deep blue eyes, so pleasant the frankness of her gentle forehead, so playful the readiness of rosy lips for a pretty answer, or a lovely smile, but if any could be found so callous and morose as not to be charmed or nicely cheered by this, let him only take a longer look, not rudely, but simply in a spirit of polite inquiry, and then would he see, on the delicate rounding of each soft and dimple cheek, a carmine hard to match on palette, morning sky, or flowerbed. Lovely people ought to be at home in lovely places, and though this cannot be so always as a general rule, it is. At Annerley Farm the land was equal to the stock it had to bear, whether of trees, or corn, or cattle, hogs, or mushrooms, or mankind. The farm was not so large or rambling as to tire the mind or foot, yet wide enough and full of change, rich pasture, hazel cobs, green valleys, fallows brown, and golden breastlands pillowing into nicks of fern, clumps of shade for horse or heifer, and for rabbit sandy wharn, fursy cleave for hair and partridge, not without a little mirror for willows and for wild ducks. And the whole of the land, with a general slope of liveliness and rejoicing, spread itself well to the sun with a strong inclination toward the morning to catch the cheery import of his voyage across the sea. The pleasure of this situation was the more desirable because of all the parts above it being bleak and dreary, round the shoulders of the upland, like the arch of a great armchair, ran a barren scraggie ridge, whereupon no tree could stand upright, no cow be certain of her own tail, and scarcely a crow breasted the violent air by stooping ragged pinions. So furious was the rush of wind when any power awoke the clouds, or sometimes when the air was jaded with continual conflict. A heavy settlement of brackish cloud lay upon a waste of chalky flint. By dint of persevering work there are many changes for the better now, more shelter and more root hold, but still it is a battleground of winds which rarely change their habits, for this is the chump of the spine of the wolves, which hulks up at last into flamborough head, flamborough head, the furthest forefront of a bear and jagged coast stretches boldly off to eastward, a strong and rugged barrier. Away to the north the land falls back with coving bends and some straight lines of precipice and shingle, to which the german ocean sweeps seldom free from sullen swell in the very best of weather, but to the southward of the head a different spirit seems to move upon the face of everything, for here is spread a peaceful bay, and plains of bright or sea more gently furrowed by the wind, and cliffs that have no cause to be so steep, and bathing places and scarcely freckled sands, where towns may lay their drainpipes undisturbed, in short to have rounded that headland from the north is as good as to turn the corner of a garden wall in march, and pass from a buffeted back and bear shivers to a sunny front of hope, all as busy as a bee, with pears spurring forward into creamy buds of promise, peach trees already in a flush of tasseled pink, and the green lobe of the apricot shedding the snowy bloom, below this point the gallant skipper of the British Collier, slouching with a heavy load of grime for London, or waddling back in ballast to his native north, alike is delighted to discover storms ahead, and to cast his tarry anchor into soft gray calm, for here shall he find the good shelter of friends like minded with himself, and of hospitable turn, having no cause to hurry any more than he has, all too wise to command their own ships, and here will they all jolify together while the sky holds a cloud, or the locker a drop, nothing here can shake their ships, except a violent east wind against which they wet the other eye lazy boats visit them with comfort and delight, while white waves are leaping in the offing, they cherish their well-earned rest, and eat the lotus, or rather the onion, and drink ambrosial grog, they lean upon the ball works, and contemplate their shadows, the noblest possible employment for mankind, and low, and low, if they care to lift their eyes, in the south shines the key of Bridlington, inland the long ridge of priory stands high, and whispered in a nook if they level well a clear glass after holding on the slope so many steamy ones, they may spy annerly farm, and sometimes marionnerly herself, for she, when the ripple of the tide is fresh, and the glance of the summer morn glistening on the sands, also if a little rocky base and absence to be fit for shrimping, and only some sleepy ships at anchor in the distance look at her, fearless she, because all sailors are generally down at breakfast, techs up her skirt and gaily runs upon the accustomed playground, with her pony left to wait for her, the pony is old, while she is young, although she was born before him, and now he belies his name, Lord Keppel, by starting at every soft glimmer of the sea, therefore now he is left to roam at his leisure above high water mark, poking his nose into black dry weed, probing the winnow casts of yellow drift for oats, and snorting disappointment through a gritty dance of sandhoppers, Mary has brought him down the old Dane's Dyke, for society rather than surface, and to strengthen his nerves with the dew of the salt for the sake of her jack who loved him, he may do as he likes, as he always does, if his conscience allows him to walk home, no one will think the less of him, having very little conscience at his time of life, after so much contact with mankind, he considers convenience only, to go home would suit him very well, but his crib would be empty till his young mistress came, moreover, there is a little dog that plagues him when his door is open, and in spite of old age, it is something to be free, and in spite of all experience, to hope for something good, therefore Lord Keppel is as faithful as the rocks, he lives his long heavy head, and gazes wistfully at the anchored ships, and Mary is sure that the darling pines for his absent master, but she, with the malty tutedness, tingle of youth, runs away rejoicing, the buoyant power and brilliance of the morning are upon her, and the air of the bright sea lifts and spreads her, like a pillowy skates egg, the polish of the wet sand flickers like veneer of maple wood at every quick touch of her dancing feet, her dancing feet are as light as nature and high spirits made them, not only quit of spindle heels, but even free from shoes and socks left high and dry on the shingle, and lighter even than the dancing feet the merry heart is dancing, laughing at the shadows of its own delight, while the radiance of blue eyes springs like a fount of brighter heaven, and the sunny hair falls, flows, or floats, to provoke the wind for playmate, such a pretty sight was good to see for innocence and largeness, so the buoyancy of nature springs anew in those who have been weary, when they see her brisk power inspiring the young, who never stands still to think of her, but are up and away with her, where she will, at the breath of her subtle encouragement, end of chapter six. Chapter seven of Mary Annaly This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Mary Annaly by Richard Dodridge Blackmore Chapter seven A Dane in the Dyke Now whether spyglass had been used by a watchful mariner, or whether only blind chance willed it, sure it is that one fine morning Mary met with somebody, and this was the more remarkable when people come to think of it, because it was only the night before that her mother had almost said as much. You might have got to know to see by yourself, Mistress Annaly said to her daughter, Apon you might be one too many. Master Annaly's wife had been at boarding school, as far south as Suffolk, and could speak the very best of southern English, like her daughter Mary, upon polite occasion, but family cares and farmhouse life had partly cured her of her education, and from troubles of distant speech she had returned to the ease of her native dialect. And if I go not to the sea by myself, asked Mary with natural logic, why who is there now to go with me? She was thinking of her sadly missed comrade Jack, Apon some day perhaps one too many. The maiden was almost too innocent to blush, but her father took her part as usual. The little lass all good own, he said, whenever she likes. And so she went down the next morning. A thousand years ago the Dane's dyke must have been a very grand entrenchment, and a thousand years ago that perhaps it was still grander, for learned men say that it is a British work wrought out before the Dane's ever learned to build a ship. Whatever however may be argued about that, the wise and the witless to agree about one thing. The strong hold inside it has been held by Dane's, while severed by the dyke from inland parts, and these Dane's made a good colony of their own, and left to their descendants distinct speech and manners, some traces of which are existing even now. The dyke, extending from the rough North Sea to the calmer waters of Bridlington Bay, is nothing more than a deep, dry trench, skillfully following the hollows of the ground, and cutting off flambora head and a solid candle of high land from the rest of Yorkshire. The corner so intercepted used to be and is still called Little Denmark, and the Indwellers feel a little contempt for all their outer neighbours, and this is sad because Annerley Farm lies wholly outside of the dyke, which for a long crooked distance serves as its eastern boundary. Upon the morning of the self-same day that saw Mr. Jelly-course set forth upon his return from Scargate Hall, armed with instructions to defy the devil and to keep his discovery quiet, upon a lovely August morning of the first year of a new century, Mary Annerley, Blythe and Gay, came riding down the grassy hollow of this ancient Dane's dyke. This was her shortest way to the sea, and the tide was soot, if she could only catch it, for a take of shrimps and perhaps even prawns, in time for her father's breakfast. And not to lose this she arose right early and rousing Lord Keppel set forth for the spot where she kept her net covered with seaweed. The sun, though up and brisk already upon sea and foreland, had not found time to rout the shadows skulking in the dingles. But even here, where sap of time had breached the turfy ramparts, the hover of the dew mist passed away, and the steady light was unfolded. For the season was early August still, with beautiful weather come at last, and the green world seemed to stand on tiptoe to make the extraordinary acquaintance of the sun. Humble plants, which had long lain flat, stood up with a sense of casting something off, and the damp, heavy trunks, which had trickled for a twelve-month, or been only sponged with moss, were hailing the fresher light with keener lines and dove coloured tints upon their smoother balls. Then conquering the barrier of the eastern land-quest, rose the glorious sun himself, strewing before him trees and crags in long, steep shadows down the hill. Then the sloping rays through furs and brush-land, kindling the sparkles of the dew, descended to the brink of the dike, and, scawning to halt at petty obstacles with a hundred golden hurdles, bridged it wherever any opening was. Under this luminous span, or through it, where the crossing gullies ran, Mary Annaly rode at leisure, allowing her pony to choose his pace. That privilege he had long secured in right of age, wisdom, and remarkable force of character. Considering his time of life he looked well and sleek, and almost sprightly, and so without any reservation did his gentle and graceful rider. The maiden looked well in a place like that, as indeed in almost any place, but now she especially set off the colour of things and was set off by them. For instance, how could the silver of the dew cloud and golden weft of sunrise, playing through the dapples of a partly wooded glen, do better in the matter of variety, than frame a pretty moving figure in a pink-checked frock, with a skirt of russet Murray, and a bright brown hat. Not that the hat itself was bright, even under the kiss of sunshine, simply having seen already too much of the sun, but rather that its early luster seemed to be revived by a sense of the happy position it was in. The clustering hair, and the bright eyes beneath it, answering the sunny dance of life and light. Many a handsome face, no doubt, more perfect, grand and lofty received, at least if it was out of bed, the greeting of that morning sun, but scarcely any prettier one, or kinder, or more pleasant, so gentle without being weak, so good tempered without looking void of all temper at all. Suddenly the beauty of the time and place was broken by sharp, angry sound. Bang! Bang! came the roar of muskets fired from the shore at the mouth of the dyke, and echoing up the winding glen. At the first report the girl, though startled, was not greatly frightened, for the sound was common enough in the week when those most gallant volunteers entitled the Yorkshire Invincibles came down for their annual practice of skilled gunnery against the French. The habit was to bring down a red cock, and tether him against a chalky cliff, and then vie with one another in shooting at him. The same cock had tested their skill for three summers, but failed hitherto to attest it, preferring to return in a hamper to his hens, with a story of moving adventures. Mary had watched those Invincibles sometimes from a respectful distance, and therefore felt sure, when she began to think, that she had not them to thank for this little scare, for they always slept soundly in the first watch of the morning, and even supposing they had jumped up with a nightmare, where was the jubilant crow of the cock? For the cock, being almost as invincible as they were, never could deny himself the glory of a crow when the bullet came into his neighbourhood. He replied to every volley with an elevated comb, and a flapping of his wings and a clarion peel, which rang along the foreshore, ere the musket roar died out. But before the girl had time to ponder what it was all wherefore, round the corner came somebody running very swiftly. In a moment Mary saw that this man had been shot at, and was making for his life away, and to give him every chance she jerked her pony aside, and called and beckoned, and without a word he flew to her. Words were beyond him till his breath should come back, and he seemed to have no time to wait for that. He had outstripped the wind, and his own wind, by his speed. "'Poor man!' cried Mary Annerley. "'What a hurry you are in! But I suppose you cannot help it. Are they shooting at you?' The runaway nodded, for he could not spare a breath, but was deeply inhaling for another start, and could not even bow without hindrance. But to show that he had manners he took off his hat. Then he clapped it on his head and set off again. "'Come back!' cried the maid. "'I can show you a place. I can hide you from your enemies forever.'" The young fellow stopped. He was come to that pitch of exhaustion in which a man scarcely cares whether he is killed or dies. And his face showed not a sign of fear. "'Look, that little hole up there, by the fern, up at once and this cloth over you!' He snatched it and was gone. Like the darting lizard, up a little puckering side-issue of the dike. At the very same instant that three broad figures and a long one appeared at the lip of the mouth, the quick-quitted girl rode on to meet them to give the poor fugitive time to get into his hole and draw the brown skirt over him. The dazzle of the sun pouring over the crest made the hollow a twinkling obscurity, and the cloth was just in keeping with the dead stuff around. The three broad men with heavy fusils cocked, came up from the seamouth of the dike, steadily panting, and running steadily with a long-enduring stride. Behind them a tall bony man with a cutlass was swinging it high in the air and limping and swearing with great velocity. "'Co-striders,' thought Mary, and he a free trader. Four against one is cowardice.' "'Holt!' cried the tall man, while the rest were running past her. "'Holt! Ground arms! Never scare young ladies.' Then he flourished his hat with a grand bow to Mary. Fair young Mistress Annerley, I fear we spoil your ride. But his Majesty's duty must be done. Hat soft fellows in the name of your king. Mary, my dear, the most daring villain, the devil's own son, has just run up here, scarcely two minutes. You must have seen him. Wait a minute, tell no lies. "'Excuse me, I mean Phibbs. Your father is the right sort. He hates those scoundrels. In the name of his Majesty, which way is he gone?' "'Was it? Oh, was it a man, if you please? Captain Carroway, don't say so. "'A man? Is it likely that we shot at a woman? You are trifling. It will be the worst for you. Forgive me, but we are in such a hurry. Whoa, whoa, pony!' "'You always used to be so polite, sir, that you quite surprised me. And those guns look so dreadful. My father would be quite astonished to see me not even allowed to go down to the sea, but hurried back here, as if the French had landed. How can I help it if your pony runs away, sir?' For Mary all this time had been cleverly contriving to increase and exaggerate her pony's fear. And so brought the gunners for a long way up the dyke, without giving them any time to spy at all about. She knew that this was wicked from a loyal point of view. Not a bit the less she did it. What a troublesome little horse it is, she cried. Or Captain Carroway, hold him just a moment. I will jump down, and then you can jump up and ride after all his Majesty's enemies.' But Lord forbid, he slews all out of gear like a coronade with rotten lashings. If I boarded him, how could I get out of his way? No, no, my dear, brace him up sharp and bare clean. But you wanted to know about some enemy, Captain, an enemy as bad as my poor Lord Keppel. Mary, my dear, the very biggest villain, a hundred golden guineas on his head, and half for you. Think of your father, my dear, and Sunday gowns, and you must have a young man by and by, you know, such a beautiful maid as you are, and you might get a leather purse and give it to him. Mary, on your duty now. Captain, you drive me so, what can I say? I cannot bear the thought of betraying anybody. Of course not, Mary, dear, nobody asks you. He must be half a mile off by this time. You could never hurt him now, and you can tell your father that you have done your duty to the king. Well, Captain Caraway, if you are quite sure that it is too late to catch him, I can tell you all about him. But remember your word about the fifty guineas. Every farthing, every farthing, Mary, whatever my wife may say to it, quick, quick, which way did he run, my dear? He really did not seem to me to be running at all. He was too tired, to be sure, to be sure, a worn-out fox. We have been two hours after him. He could not run, no more can we. But which way did he go, I mean? I will not say anything for certain, sir, even for fifty guineas, but he may have come up here. Mind, I say not that he did. And if so, he might have set off again for Sueby. Slowly, very slowly, because of being tired, but perhaps after all, he was not the man you mean. Forward, double quick, we are sure to have him, shouted the lieutenant, for his true rank was that, flourishing his cutlass again and setting off at a wonderful pace considering his limp. Five guineas, every man, Jack of you, thank you, young mistress, most heartily thank you, dead or alive, five guineas. With gun and sword in readiness, they all rushed off, but one of the party, named John Cadman, shook his head and looked back with great mistrust at Mary, having no better judgment of women than this, that he could never believe even his own wife, and he knew that it was mainly by the grace of womankind that so much contraband work was going on. Nevertheless, it was out of his power to act upon his own low opinions now. The maiden, blushing deeply with the sense of her deceit, was informed by her guilty conscience of that nasty man's suspicions, and therefore gave a smack with her fern whip to Lord Keppel, impelling him to join, like a loyal little horse, the pursuit of his majesty's enemies. But no sooner did she see all the men dispersed and scouring the distance, with trustful ardour, than she turned her pony's head toward the sea again and rode back round the bend of the hollow. What would her mother say if she lost the Murray skirt, which had cost six shillings at Bridlington Fair, and ten times that money might be lost much better than for her father to discover how she lost it? For Master Stephen Annerley was a straight-backed man and took three weeks of training in the land defence yeomanry at periods not more than a year apart, so that many people caught him captain now, and the loss of his suppleness at knee and elbow had turned his mind largely to politics, making him stiffly patriotic, and especially hot against all free traders putting bad bargains to his wife at the cost of the king and his revenue. If the bargain were a good one, that was no concern of his. Not that Mary, however, could believe, or would even have such a bad mind as to imagine that any one, after being helped by her, would be mean enough to run off with her property, and now she came to think of it, there was something high and noble, she might almost say something downright honest, in the face of that poor, persecuted man. And in spite of all his panting, how brave he must have been, what a runner, and how clever to escape from all those cowardly co-striders shooting right and left at him. Such a man steeled that poultry skirt that her mother made such a fuss about. She was much more likely to find it in her clothes-press, filled with golden guineas. Before she was as certain as she wished to be of this, by reason of shrewd nativity, and while she believed that the fugitive must have seized such a chance and made good his escape toward North Sea, or Flambora, a quick shadow glanced across the long shafts of the sun, and a bodily form sped after it. To the middle of the dyke leaped a young man, smiling, and forth from the gully which had saved his life. To look at him, nobody ever could have guessed how fast he had fled, and how close he had lain hid, for he stood there as clean and spruce and careless as even a sailor can be wished for. Limba yet stalwart, agile though substantial, and as quick as a dart while as strong as a pike, he seemed cut out by nature for a true blue jacket, but condition had made him a smuggler. Or, to put it more gently, a free trader. Britannia being then at war with all the world and alone in the right, as usual, had need of such lads, and produced them accordingly, and sometimes won too many. But Mary did not understand these laws. This made her look at him with great surprise, and almost doubt whether he could be the man, until she saw her skirt neatly folded in his hand, and then she said, How do you do, sir? The free trader looked at her with equal surprise. He had been in such a hurry, and his breath so short, and the chance of a fatal bullet after him so sharp, that his mind had been astray from any sense of beauty, and of everything else, except the safety of the body. But now he looked at Mary, and his breath again went from him. You can run again now, I am sure of it, said she, and if you would like to do anything to please me, run as fast as possible. What have I to run away from now? he answered in a deep sweet voice. I run from enemies, but not from friends. That is very wise, but your enemies are still almost within call of you. They will come back worse than ever when they find you are not there. I am not afraid, fair lady, for I understand their ways. I have led them a good many dances before this, though it would have been my last without your help. They will go on, or the morning, in the wrong direction, even while they know it. Caroway is the most stubborn of men. He never turns back, and the further he goes, the better his bad leg is. They will scatter about among the fields and hedges and call one another like partridges, and when they cannot take another step, they will come back to Annerley for breakfast. I dare say they will, and we shall be glad to see them. My father is a soldier, and his duty is to nourish and comfort the forces of the king. Then you are young, Mistress Annerley. I was sure of it before. There are no two such, and you have saved my life. It is something to owe it so fairly. The young sailor wanted to kiss Mary's hand, but not being used to any gallantry, she held out her hand in the simplest manner to take back her riding-skirt, and he, though longing in his heart to keep it, for a token or pretext for another meeting, found no excuse for doing so, and yet he was not without some resource. For the maiden was giving him a farewell smile, being quite content with the good she had done, and the luck of recovering her property, and that sense of right which in those days formed a part of every good young woman said to her plainly that she must be off, and she felt how unkind it was to keep him any longer in a place where the muzzle of a gun, with a man behind it, might appear at any moment, but he, having plentiful breath again, was at home with himself to spend it. Fair young lady he began, for he saw that Mary liked to be called a lady, because it was a novelty. Owing more than I ever can pay you already, may I ask a little more? Then it is that, on your way down to the sea, you would just pick up, if you should chance to see it, the fellow ring to this, and perhaps you will look at this to know it by. The one that was shot away flew against a stone, just on the left of the mouth of the dike, but I just not stop to look for it, for I must not go back that way now. It is more to me than a hat full of gold, though nobody else would give a crown for it. And they really shot away one of your earrings, careless, cruel, wasteful men, what could they have been thinking of? They were thinking of getting what is called blood money, one hundred pounds for robin life, dead or alive, one hundred pounds. It makes me shiver with the sun upon me, of course they must offer money for, for people, for people who have killed other people and bad things, but to offer a hundred pounds for a free chader, and fire great guns at him to get it. I never should have thought it of Captain Caraway. Caraway only does his duty, I like him none the worst for it. Caraway is a fool of course, his life has been in my hands fifty times, but I will never take it. He must be killed sooner or later, because he rushes into everything, but never will it be my doing. The new are the celebrated robin life. The new robin hood as they call him, the man who can do almost anything. Mr. Zanley, I am robin life, but as you have seen, I cannot do much, I cannot even search for my own earring. I will search for it till I find it. They have shot at you too much, cowardly, cowardly people. Captain Life, where shall I put it if I find it? If you could hide it for a week and then, then tell me where to find it in the afternoon toward four o'clock in the lane, toward Bempton Cliffs. We are off to-night upon important business, we have been too careless lately from laughing at poor Caraway. You are very careless now, you quite frighten me almost, the co-striders might come back at any moment, and what could you do then? Run away gallantly as I did before, with this little difference, that I should be fresh, while they are as stiff as nutcracks. They have missed the best chance they ever had at me, it will make their temper very bad. If they shot at me again, they could do no good, crooked mood makes crooked mode. You forget that I should not see such things, you may like very much to be shot at, but, but you should think of other people. I shall think only of you. I mean your great kindness, and your promise to keep my ring for me. Of course you will tell nobody. Caraway will have me like a tiger if you do. Farewell, young lady, for one week, farewell. With a wave of his hat he was gone, before Mary had time to retract her promise, and she thought of her mother, as she rode on slowly to look for the smuggler's trinket. End of chapter 7