Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 10/The blacksmiths of Holsby - Part 2
THE BLACKSMITHS OF HOLSBY.
BY
LOUISA CROW.
CHAPTER V. THE RETURN TO HOLSBY.
The fires in the smithy at Holsby were glowing through the thick mist, and flinging their rays here and there into the gathering darkness of a wintry twilight; and men on their way home from field-work paused to awhile in the inviting warmth, and to jest and gossip with the brawny smiths as they gathered round the anvil to weld the tires on some huge waggon-wheels, when a weary-looking, mud-bespattered female cautiously peered in, and after some minutes succeeded in catching the eye of “Old Bill,” who, uttering one or two rough exclamations of surprise, left his employment and then hobbled out.
“Why, ’taint you, is it? they said you’d gone abroad!”
“Where are they?” cried Annie; “my father—John—there are strangers in the house! where are they gone?”
“Eh? gone? what, don’t ye know, then? why, where ha’ ye been all this long while?”
“Where are they? oh, do tell me, pray tell me!”
Young Mrs. Thorley, the tall, dashing daughter of a wealthy innkeeper in the county town, drew nearer to her husband, and asked in an audible whisper if this was the sister who was spoken of; and Annie heard him reply in the affirmative.
But she had not come to remonstrate, or to welcome her father.
“Why, up to the farm, sure, old Jennings’ farm. Didn’t ye know they’d sold the forge, and tooken to t’other? They did not above half like leaving t’old place when it come to t’last, I can tell ’ee.”
“Where is this farm you speak of?”
“What, don’t ’ee know where Jennings’ farm is? Bickley Farm o’ the side o’ May Hill. Ye know where May Hill is, sure? Who’d ha’ thought master’s pockets were so well lined! It mun a taken a tight bit o’ money to buy that place out and out as he has. An’ where ha’ ye been to after all, an’ why didn’t ye come to t’weddin’?”
John was married, then!
“Tell me how far it is to this farm, and which way I must go?” she urged, ignoring his questions.
With much circumlocution the garrulous old man at length supplied her with the necessary directions; and bidding him farewell, Annie walked out of the village where she dreaded recognition.
The trim farmhouse on the hillside, with its white walls and extensive out-buildings, was visible in the pale moonlight long before Annie reached the newly painted gates; and the view of its rural opulence, the lowing of the many cows, the bleating of the carefully folded sheep—sounds and sights at which under other circumstances she would have rejoiced—now filled her with indignation; and it was with a firm step and almost defiant look that she stepped into the well-furnished sitting-room, and suddenly presented herself to the astonished party cosily seated at the tea-table.
Ralph was the last to perceive her entrance. His chair drawn close to the fire, his hands on his knees, the appearance of that bent form and those grizzled locks touched the heart of his child with a feeling of pity; and unheeded, hope began to awaken in them those better qualities supposed to be dormant in all.
The men cast a furtive glance at each other, both possessed with the same idea, that Annie, tiring of her monotonous life, had come to terms with them, and perhaps intended to rid them of her presence for ever; and influenced by this thought, with extraordinary graciousness John bade his wife pour out some tea for their guest, and asked how she had come.
“I have walked from London,” she replied, roused by the query to a sense of extreme fatigue.
“Humph,” said John; “I suppose you must stay to-night.”
“If you please,” said Annie, meekly.
Mrs. Thorley coughed significantly; but her husband did not appear to notice the signal, and a long silence ensued, during which the anxious girl carefully perused the deepened lines on her father’s face, and at last asked him if it had not pained him to give up his cheerful, laborious calling.
Ralph heaved a sigh, and the young wife hastened to reply, “Yes, it is dull for Mr. T. here, very dull indeed. If his business had not been such a dirty, low sort of trade, Mr. John Thorley and myself wouldn’t have wished him to give it up; but my relations are all so highly respectable! Oh! it’s awfully dull for him here, and we do wonder,” her voice sunk to a tone, “that having such a nice row of pleasant houses of his own just out of London, he don’t go and live in one of them. It would be a great relief to us to see him comfortably settled.”
So he was already in the way; and he knew it, for his eyes gleamed vindictively under their shaggy brows, and he shrugged his shoulders. 18G4.
10,
you would be
ance, and if est toil."
ither could ith
nor * nigh
s
" Does any one better
do
tndescend-
Annie, his put lier tlircat of the farm lads harry to
to
I
ohaise was brought out, and long before Mr. John Thorley returned y message left for him, bed, little dreaming that her what her husband most
while the presence of his sister he betrayal of his secret a remote .
to themselves, with a voice that strength as she proceeded, Annie
left
simply but pathetically described the Aylmer family, from her first acquaintance with them
and her own diswould She dwelt strongly
arrival of Ethelind,
that the contents of the iron chest to affluence.
upon the generosity of Arthur's disposition, and her conviction that a frank avowal of tho circumstances under which they were tempted to possess themselves of
the hidden treasure would disarm what anger he might justly express offering to be herself the mediator, and her recital with an earnest appeal to
'
all
worldly passions, and, the; hoped for God's mercy, to make instant restitution to the innocent and
whom
this one sinful act Borrow and penury. you forget you forget that he ill and could not find it i
ich
it
—
..
given
dp wh
it
wonld have
Iain hid-
?
or have
hinted this
you —on your honour ?" ?
" On my honour," said Annie, " He looked keenly at her.
no."
" You seem strangely interested young man ready to do anything
in
—
this
for
his
on her cheek, but she
re-
sake.
The blood
rose
plied firmly,
"
Anything but betray you." if we refuse to compromise ourselves, what course do you intend to take, eh ? " She raised her hands entreatingly. " Put not such a fearful alternative before
" And
On
!
one
side, the fair
of those nearest to
me
save
me
fame, the safety,
on the other
What
right.
could I do ? from such a strait
God "
side, the
help me, and
!
John
strode forward, and fiercely grasped his father's arm.
"In
defiance of
my
better
judgment you
have kept those accursed papers ; where are " they ? produce them, I say "Safe, boy, safe," said Ralph, writhing in that powerful clutch. "Are we safe?" his son retorted, signifi" "Can we be safe until He cantly. " I will not be the towards fire. pointed played with any longer you have them about !
produce them, I say." " I wiU not No," said Ralph, doggedly, While I hold them I hold power. Do ye understand? This farm's yours, the land's
you "
the
yours,
money
bank
in the
yours, all
is
"
yours
" Tush
!
in
my name
mere!
your name and your hands; it's all yours, John, but the few bits o' houses that W< re mine before this windfall
"Ay,
hadnM I,
any one
affair to
me
iiity.
that
"]NT o."
to be
ben he wanted her,
them
"
.
restore
He stopped before the and darker. kneeling Annie, and asked abruptly Does Mr. Aylmer know of your coming ?"
still
Ea
horley'a
Thus
Ralph bent his head on his hands, and John walked to and fro, his brow gr
- i
if b]
1
be by
rich, let it
'
and
•ut,
in
for the old forge
has
your bag; an Cm only an here, away, and a'most told to go twenty 1
Etalph. itisfy
i
.
•ly into
his
mayhap,
as
1
heard ye i.
I
1
wunna
1
a ioa i
.
the police,
and
Ralph, cautiously,
"
w< ONCE A WEEK. Jan. 16, 1864.
talk o thid to-morrow. Annie won’t do aught to hurt her poor old father, and maybe she’ll think better of it after a night’s rest.” He persisted in avoiding her reproachful glance; and after a momentary struggle between anger and prudence, John flung himself into a chair. While Annie was hesitating whether it would be wiser to wait, or to resume the subject at once, Ralph hobbled awayfor a light. “Now, my maid, you're tired ; I'll show yo where you're to sleep.” She rose and twined her arms round him. “But, father, you will not let me go to bed without some hope? Tell me that you will think seriously of what I have been urging, and pray for divine guidance, will you?”
He hastily put her away from him.
“To-morrow, my maid; to-morrow.”
“And why not now?” she still pleaded, but only to receive the same evasive reply; so, depressed and very doubtful of what that morrow would bring forth, she followed him up a staircase leading to a small servants’ room over the kitchen.
Here he bade her good night, and moved away; but while she still stood where he left her, almost overpowered with emotion and weariness, yet excitedly blaming herself for not having pressed the matter more closely and eloquently, a returning step smote on her ear. She drew nearer the door, and listened ; the key was outside, and Ralph was creeping back to lock her in. As he gently seized it his daughter confronted him.
“No, father, you shall not make me your prisoner! Shame upon you !”
Muttering something, she knew not what, the old man retreated, and, her suspicions thoroughly awakened by this act, Annie resolved to return to the room below, and stay there for the rest of the night.
John and his father had now drawn their chairs into the chimney-corner, and, leaning over the dying embers, were conversing in whispers. So absorbed had they become that her approach was unheard, and she was hesitating whether to advance or retreat, when her own name, coupled with words of terrible significance, arrested her, and, shrinking down on the lowest stairs, she breathlessly endeavoured to hear more.
By-and-by they spoke with less caution. “It’s all true enough, boy; but she’s my own child, an’ I can’t abide the thoughts on it.”
“Can you propose anything better?”
“We’ll maybe talk her over,” suggested Ralph.
“Bosh!” cried John. “Can’t you see she’s over head and ears in love with this young chap, and that she’ll not let anything stand in her way to serve him? I tell ye we’re in the toils, and there’s no other way of saving ourselves.”
“But how could ye do it? There’s doctor’s certificates to get; and then, mind ye, I won’t have her ill used; nor I won’t have it done till I’ve tried to make her give in to us quietly.”
“What good will that do?” asked John, contemptuously. “I tell ye, father, once for all, you must and shall do one thing or t’other at once. Burn them papers now, this moment, and let us set her blabbing at defiance; or give me free will to put her where she’ll be safe, and we too. Now, no maundering, because I’ve got myself to look after, and I mean to do it. Which is it to be?”
Annie’s pulses seemed to cease beating as she listened for the decision. Which would turn the scale—his child, or his money?
Ralph rocked himself to and fro, and ran his withered hands through his hair.
“It’s a hard thing to do—a hard thing !”
“But life’s sweet, an’ I’m an old man now; an’ the shame an’ the ’prisonment would just kill me downright. And, for all she talks so fair, it’d be ’most sure to come to that in the long run. Couldn’t we sell up an’ go to ’Meriky, boy?”
“What, at a day’s notice?”
“Ay, that’s true; I forgot that. But, eh! dear, dear! it’s a hard thing to do!”
“Well?” asked John, “is it to be yes or no?”
Ralph groaned and rocked.
“Eh, dear, dear; ye’ll have your way, I suppose; but, mind ye, boy, I won’t ha’ her ill used.”
“Leave it all to me,” cried his son, “and by this time to-morrow—”
Unable to restrain herself any longer, Annie now rushed forward:
“No, no, you cannot—shall not do it! Wretch that you are! I am not mad! I will be your victim no longer. There are magistrates who will hear and protect me from your vile stratagems. This very moment I will go!”
She ran towards the door, but ere the bolts yielded to her efforts, John had seized and brought her back.
The old man, abject and trembling, cowered closer to the fire.
“Listen to me, Annie. Listen quietly. What you in your romantic folly have been proposing is impossible. We cannot restore this money without exposing ourselves to a prosecution. You need not repeat your belief in our safety. Neither father nor me can share it; nor will we trust to such a broken reed. Be still, I say, and listen. I will not sink myself again into the blacksmith and the drudge. There lies nothing between me and safety but your meddling tongue, and that must be silenced."
"You cannot!-you dare not !" shrieked the struggling girl,
He laughed grimly.
"I can, and I dare! Look at me! do I look like a man to be frightened out of my purpose by a weak, silly girl, already believed insane! Swear to keep what you know a secret, and I have done with you; but unless you take the oath I shall proposeyou have heard the consequence."
Annie was no heroine; of her brother she had always stood in awe; and now, as his brawuy hands held her with a vice-like te- nacity, her utter helplessness appalled her. He saw the advantage.
"Will you swear ?"
"Never!" "cried Annie. "Father, father! save me! Can you sit by and see me so cruelly used ?"
But Ralph was deaf to the appeal.
"You will not swear?" said John deliberately. "Father, come here."
He rose in obedience to the imperative call.
"Our lives are not safe with a mad woman in the house. Call up one of the shepherds, and bid him go to the town for a fly."
Ralph hesitated, and wrung his hands.
"Mun it come to this, my maid? Ye'll remember, both on yo, that it's been no fault o' mine. I'm an old man—a very old man—nigh upon seventy-five, an' I um die in my bed."
"Are you going " asked his son, sternly. He moved towards the door.
"No, no!" shrieked the overwrought girl, exaggerating in her alarm the real perils of her position. "Come back—come back! Oh, father! John! have mercy upon me!"
"Swear!" said John, relentlessly; and still held by his cruel hands, menaced with his ruthless eyes, and overcome with fatigue and misery, Annie at last repeated the fearful oath.
The reaction came instantly. Flinging off the relaxing grasp of her captor, and bitterly reproaching herself for the momentary cowardice, she cursed them wildly, and again strove to fly; but only, ere she reached the outer porch, to fall in a swoon, so deep that even John began to fear for the consequences; and it was with unusual tenderness that he raised her and carried her back to the bed, which it was many weeks ere she was again able to quit.
CHAPTER VI. DARK DAYS.
A hot June afternoon, in one of the poorer suburbs of the metropolis, where rows of six and eight-roomed houses, all bearing a wonderful similarity in their staring red-brick nakedness, cover acres and acres of what were once well-cultivated gardens—and up and down the strangely named Pleasant Retreats, Prospect Places, and Bellevue Cottages, a couple were wandering and scrutinising those dwellings—and they were many where cards in the windows proclaimed that the tenants had "Apartments to Let."
It was no easy task, however, to find such a domicile as they required. At some places the rent demanded was too high, at others the slatternly appearance of the landlady, or the miserable want of accommodation, compelled them to turn away. At last both simultaneously paused.
"Well, Arthur, where next?"
He looked hopelessly round.
"We must give it up, Grace, for to-day, at least,"
She shook her head.
"And stay another night at that extravagant hotel? No, my brother, we must not give it up yet. Have we tried this street? or that turning? See, the houses there are respectable. Come, courage, mon frère!"
He followed reluctantly.
"Poor Ethelind will be wearied to death with the children."
Grace hesitated: but the thought of another day's search was so disheartening, that she said, with a coaxing smile:
"Give me one more half-hour, and then we will turn our steps homeward."
To this he assented, and, quickening their pace, they again vainly traversed several streets, till their attention was attracted by the efforts of an old man to affix a limp paper to the middle pane of a parlour window with some sticky wafers.
The house looked unusually clean and neat for a London tenement. The ledges of the casements were filled with flowers—not rare, but choice of their kind, and carefully tended —and the morsel of garden was gay with blossoms.
"Let us try here," whispered Grace, and Arthur stopped forward and raised the knocker. The wheezy cough of an asthmátic, and the shuffling step of old age, were instantly heard in the tiny hall. But with all their reverence for the hoary head, neither the brother nor sister could resist a sensation of repugnance as they met the eager, avaricious glances which disparagingly scanned their well-worn habiliments, and rudely scrutinised their faces.
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How came he there? he was tricked, robbed; the packet on which so much depended was in the hands of strangers who were eagerly devouring its contents. Who had done this?
His furious glance fell upon Annie, who sat motionless and speechless, and he sprang upon her with the ferocity of a tiger. But as his fingers clutched the throat of the unresisting girl, paralysis seized him, and he rolled on the floor, helpless and dying.
Greatly shocked, Arthur assisted in conveying him to his bed, and fetched a medical man. There was much he longed to ask; but it was no time to question the devoted daughter; and when, at a late hour the next morning—after a night passed less in sleep than wild conjectures and rapturous thanksgivings—ho descended to seek an interview with her, Ralph Thorley was dead, and Annie had given the necessary directions for his funeral, and departed, none knew whither.
On the day of interment she returned. That she had visited Holsby in the interim was apparent from the fact that the owner of Bickley Farm suddenly disappeared, leaving behind him his wife, and all the flocks and herds it had been his pride to gather together. It was whispered—perhaps truly—that he had been seen on board a ship bound for the Australian diggings, for John Thorley visited England no more.
Into the hands of Arthur Annie put the leases of the farm and all the house-property that Ralph had amassed since the discovery of the chest. “These,” she said, “were purchased with Grace’s fortune, and the gems destined for her and for your wife. You are doubtless expecting from me an explanation of the manner in which my unhappy father became possessed of them. If my evidence is necessary to substantiate your claim, I will come forward and give it—if not, I entreat you to spare me.”
Arthur had too much generosity to press the point, and with the same tearless composure that marked her demeanour during the interview, she ascended to the apartment where Ethelind—her bloom rapidly returning, her blue eyes shining with renewed lustre—was playing merrily with her children.
Over these she bent to give them a parting caress, and was caught to the bosom of Grace.
“Why did you leave us, dear Annie? Do you think we doubt your ability to exonerate yourself?”
But a kiss on her cheek, one fervent pressure of her hand, and Annie was gone.
They saw her no more.
To trace the future career of the Aylmer family is scarcely necessary. The faithful Grace is the wife of one who values her as she deserves; and the lessons of adversity have borne fair fruit, as the good deeds of Arthur and Ethelind continually testify.
Nor was Annie Thorley’s life an unhappy one. The reward of unruffled happiness in this world is not so commonly meted to us as novelists might lead their readers to suppose; but the deeper and truer bliss of looking forward to a home where there shall be no more weeping, is within the reach of all; and perhaps among the many—all honour be to them for their self-denial and Christian love!—who devote themselves to ameliorating the condition of our sick and sorrowful poor, no one more fully appreciates that certain hope, or walks more humbly and trustingly along the path of duty, than the gentle unassuming woman once known as the Blacksmith’s Daughter of Holsby
(Concluded.)
AT COPENHAGEN
We were waiting for the train at Altona, looking vainly for the “lovely and extensive views over the Elbe and Hanoverian territories,” promised by Murray in a moment of enthusiasm to the visitors of that greasy city and suburb of Hamburg. I was taking tickets for Kiel, when the kind little Danish guard recommended all who were for Copenhagen (pronounced Shöbnhafn very quickly) to take through tickets, and by starting at five p.m. to arrive at half-past ten next morning. I recommend this plan to all visitors of Denmark. The search of luggage at the custom-house before leaving Altona would not be worthy of notice were there not such a great difference in the treatment of English or Germans and Danes by the officials. Our troubles were over in a moment; but our neighbour, a Dane, got the contents of his portmanteau emptied out on the floor by the Germanising Holsteiner on duty. The victim took it most good-naturedly, and told us that the Holsteiners took every opportunity of showing small spites against the Danes.
The railway journey to Kiel is uninteresting, and the sea-passage from Kiel to Korsör, across the Great Belt, is much like other passages;
so that we were very glad to get into our last train, which took us across Zeeland. The scenery is occasionally charming on this line. One passes funny little farms, numbered like toy-houses, with solemn storks on the roof; then through long beech woods, with rabbits hopping away, and sometimes past old houses of the feudal times. There are many such in