Victorian Short Stories: Stories of Courtship
(her hat and cloak lay beside her on a stool). She had fair, fluffy
hair, cut short behind her neck; large, round eyes, heightened by a
fringe of dark lashes; rough, ruddy cheeks, and a rosy, full-lipped,
unstable mouth. She was dressed quite simply, in a black, close-fitting
bodice, a little frayed at the sleeves. Her hands and neck were coarsely
fashioned: her comeliness was brawny, literal, unfinished, as it were.
When at last the ponderous chords of the Amen faded slowly into the
twilight, flushed, breathing a little quickly, she paused, listening to
the stillness of the church. Presently a small boy emerged from behind
the organ.
'Good evenin', Miss Rosa', he called, trotting briskly away down the
aisle.
'Good night, Robert', she answered, absently.
After a while, with an impatient gesture, as if to shake some
importunate thought from her mind, she rose abruptly, pinned on her hat,
threw her cloak round her shoulders, blew out the candles, and groped
her way through the church, towards the half-open door. As she hurried
along the narrow pathway that led across the churchyard, of a sudden, a
figure started out of the blackness.
'Who's that?' she cried, in a loud, frightened voice.
A man's uneasy laugh answered her.
'It's only me, Rosa. I didna' think t' scare ye. I've bin waitin' for
ye, this hoor past.'
She made no reply, but quickened her pace. He strode on beside her.
'I'm off, Monday, ye know,' he continued. And, as she said nothing,
'Will ye na stop jest a minnit? I'd like t' speak a few words wi' ye
before I go, an tomorrow I hev t' git over t' Scarsdale betimes,' he
persisted.
'I don't want t' speak wi' ye: I don't want ever to see ye agin. I jest
hate the sight o' ye.' She spoke with a vehement, concentrated
hoarseness.
'Nay, but ye must listen to me. I will na be put off wi' fratchin
speeches.'
And gripping her arm, he forced her to stop.
'Loose me, ye great beast,' she broke out.
'I'll na hould ye, if ye'll jest stand quiet-like. I meant t' speak fair
t' ye, Rosa.'
They stood at a bend in the road, face to face quite close together.
Behind his burly form stretched the dimness of a grey, ghostly field.
'What is't ye hev to say to me? Hev done wi' it quick,' she said
sullenly.
'It be jest this, Rosa,' he began with dogged gravity. 'I want t' tell
ye that ef any trouble comes t'ye after I'm gone--ye know t' what I
refer--I want t' tell ye that I'm prepared t' act square by ye. I've
written out on an envelope my address in London. Luke Stock, care o'
Purcell and Co., Smithfield Market, London.'
'Ye're a bad, sinful man. I jest hate t' sight o' ye. I wish ye were
dead.'
'Ay, but I reckon what ye'd ha best thought o' that before. Ye've
changed yer whistle considerably since Tuesday. Nay, hould on,' he
added, as she struggled to push past him. 'Here's t' envelope.'
She snatched the paper, and tore it passionately, scattering the
fragments on to the road. When she had finished, he burst out angrily:
'Ye cussed, unreasonable fool.'
'Let me pass, ef ye've nought mare t'say,' she cried.
'Nay, I'll na part wi' ye this fashion. Ye can speak soft enough when ye
choose.' And seizing her shoulders, he forced her backwards against the
wall.
'Ye do look fine, an' na mistake, when ye're jest ablaze wi' ragin','
he laughed bluntly, lowering his face to hers.
'Loose me, loose me, ye great coward,' she gasped, striving to free her
arms.
Holding her fast, he expostulated:
'Coom, Rosa, can we na part friends?'
'Part friends, indeed,' she retorted bitterly. 'Friends wi' the likes o'
you. What d'ye tak me for? Let me git home, I tell ye. An' please God
I'll never set eyes on ye again. I hate t' sight o' ye.'
'Be off wi' ye, then,' he answered, pushing her roughly back into the
road. 'Be off wi' ye, ye silly. Ye canna say I hav na spak fair t' ye,
an', by goom, ye'll na see me shally-wallyin this fashion agin. Be off
wi' ye: ye can jest shift for yerself, since ye canna keep a civil
tongue in yer head.'
The girl, catching at her breath, stood as if dazed, watching his
retreating figure; then starting forward at a run, disappeared up the
hill, into the darkness.
III
Old Mr. Blencarn concluded his husky sermon. The scanty congregation, who
had been sitting, stolidly immobile in their stiff, Sunday clothes,
shuffled to their feet, and the pewful of school children, in clamorous
chorus, intoned the final hymn. Anthony stood near the organ, absently
contemplating, while the rude melody resounded through the church,
Rosa's deft manipulation of the key-board. The rugged lines of his face
were relaxed to a vacant, thoughtful limpness, that aged his expression
not a little: now and then, as if for reference, he glanced
questioningly at the girl's profile.
A few minutes later the service was over, and the congregation sauntered
out down the aisle. A gawky group of men remained loitering by the
church door: one of them called to Anthony; but, nodding curtly, he
passed on, and strode away down the road, across the grey upland
meadows, towards home. As soon as he had breasted the hill, however, and
was no longer visible from below, he turned abruptly to the left, along
a small, swampy hollow, till he had reached the lane that led down from
the fell-side.
He clambered over a rugged, moss-grown wall, and stood, gazing
expectantly down the dark, disused roadway; then, after a moment's
hesitation, perceiving nobody, seated himself beneath the wall, on a
projecting slab of stone.
Overhead hung a sombre, drifting sky. A gusty wind rollicked down from
the fell--huge masses of chilly grey, stripped of the last night's mist.
A few dead leaves fluttered over the stones, and from off the fell-side
there floated the plaintive, quavering rumour of many bleating sheep.
Before long, he caught sight of two figures coming towards him, slowly
climbing the hill. He sat awaiting their approach, fidgeting with his
sandy beard, and abstractedly grinding the ground beneath his heel. At
the brow they halted: plunging his hands deep into his pockets, he
strolled sheepishly towards them.
'Ah! good day t' ye, Anthony,' called the old man, in a shrill,
breathless voice. ''Tis a long hill, an' my legs are not what they were.
Time was when I'd think nought o' a whole day's tramp on t' fells. Ay,
I'm gittin' feeble, Anthony, that's what 'tis. And if Rosa here wasn't
the great, strong lass she is, I don't know how her old uncle'd manage;'
and he turned to the girl with a proud, tremulous smile.
'Will ye tak my arm a bit, Mr. Blencarn? Miss Rosa'll be tired, likely,'
Anthony asked.
'Nay, Mr. Garstin, but I can manage nicely,' the girl interrupted
sharply.
Anthony looked up at her as she spoke. She wore a straw hat, trimmed
with crimson velvet, and a black, fur-edged cape, that seemed to set off
mightily the fine whiteness of her neck. Her large, dark eyes were fixed
upon him. He shifted his feet uneasily, and dropped his glance.
She linked her uncle's arm in hers, and the three moved slowly forward.
Old Mr. Blencarn walked with difficulty, pausing at intervals for breath.
Anthony, his eyes bent on the ground, sauntered beside him, clumsily
kicking at the cobbles that lay in his path.
When they reached the vicarage gate, the old man asked him to come
inside.
'Not jest now, thank ye, Mr. Blencarn. I've that lot o' lambs t' see to
before dinner. It's a grand marnin', this,' he added, inconsequently.
'Uncle's bought a nice lot o' Leghorns, Tuesday,' Rosa remarked.
Anthony met her gaze; there was a grave, subdued expression on her face
this morning, that made her look more of a woman, less of a girl.
'Ay, do ye show him the birds, Rosa. I'd be glad to have his opinion on
'em.'
The old man turned to hobble into the house, and Rosa, as she supported
his arm, called back over her shoulder:
'I'll not be a minute, Mr. Garstin.'
Anthony strolled round to the yard behind the house, and waited,
watching a flock of glossy-white poultry that strutted, perkily pecking,
over the grass-grown cobbles.
'Ay, Miss Rosa, they're a bonny lot,' he remarked, as the girl joined
him.
'Are they not?' she rejoined, scattering a handful of corn before her.
The birds scuttled across the yard with greedy, outstretched necks. The
two stood, side by side, gazing at them.
'What did he give for 'em?' Anthony asked.
'Fifty-five shillings.'
'Ay,' he assented, nodding absently.
'Was Dr. Sanderson na seein' o' yer father yesterday?' he asked, after a
moment.
'He came in t' forenoon. He said he was jest na worse.'
'Ye knaw, Miss Rosa, as I'm still thinkin' on ye,' he began abruptly,
without looking up.
'I reckon it ain't much use,' she answered shortly, scattering another
handful of corn towards the birds. 'I reckon I'll never marry. I'm jest
weary o' bein' courted--'
'I would na weary ye wi' courtin',' he interrupted.
She laughed noisily.
'Ye are a queer customer, an' na mistake.'
'I'm a match for Luke Stock anyway,' he continued fiercely. 'Ye think
nought o' taking oop wi' him--about as ranty, wild a young feller as
ever stepped.'
The girl reddened, and bit her lip.
'I don't know what you mean, Mr. Garstin. It seems to me ye're might
hasty in jumpin' t' conclusions.'
'Mabbe I kin see a thing or two,' he retorted doggedly.
'Luke Stock's gone to London, anyway.'
'Ay, an' a powerful good job too, in t' opinion o' some folks.'
'Ye're jest jealous,' she exclaimed, with a forced titter. 'Ye're jest
jealous o' Luke Stock.'
'Nay, but ye need na fill yer head wi' that nonsense. I'm too deep set
on ye t' feel jealousy,' he answered, gravely.
The smile faded from her face, as she murmured:
'I canna mak ye out, Mr. Garstin.'
'Nay, that ye canna. An' I suppose it's natural, considerin' ye're
little more than a child, an' I'm a'most old enough to be yer father,'
he retorted, with blunt bitterness.
'But ye know yer mother's took that dislike t' me. She'd never abide the
sight o' me at Hootsey.'
He remained silent a moment, moodily reflecting.
'She'd jest ha't' git ower it. I see nought in that objection,' he
declared.
'Nay, Mr. Garstin, it canna be. Indeed it canna be at all. Ye'd best jest
put it right from yer mind, once and for all.'
'I'd jest best put it off my mind, had I? Ye talk like a child!' he
burst out scornfully. 'I intend ye t' coom t' love me, an' I will na tak
ye till ye do. I'll jest go on waitin' for ye, an', mark my words, my
day 'ull coom at last.'
He spoke loudly, in a slow, stubborn voice, and stepped suddenly towards
her. With a faint, frightened cry she shrank back into the doorway of
the hen-house.
'Ye talk like a prophet. Ye sort o' skeer me.'
He laughed grimly, and paused, reflectively scanning her face. He seemed
about to continue in the same strain; but, instead, turned abruptly on
his heel, and strode away through the garden gate.
IV
For three hundred years there had been a Garstin at Hootsey: generation
after generation had tramped the grey stretch of upland, in the
spring-time scattering their flocks over the fell-sides, and, at the
'back-end', on dark, winter afternoons, driving them home again, down
the broad bridle-path that led over the 'raise'. They had been a race of
few words, 'keeping themselves to themselves', as the phrase goes;
beholden to no man, filled with a dogged, churlish pride--an upright,
old-fashioned race, stubborn, long-lived, rude in speech, slow of
resolve.
Anthony had never seen his father, who had died one night, upon the
fell-top, he and his shepherd, engulfed in the great snowstorm of 1849.
Folks had said that he was the only Garstin who had failed to make old
man's bones.
After his death, Jake Atkinson, from Ribblehead in Yorkshire, had come