The Squire of Sandal-Side: A Pastoral Romance

The sheep-shearing.

     “Plain living and high thinking … 
        The homely beauty of the good old cause,
       ...our peace, our fearful innocence,
     And pure religion breathing household laws.”

     “A happy youth, and their old age
      Is beautiful and free.”

The sheep-shearings at Up-Hill Farm were a kind of rural Olympics.  Shepherds came there from far and near to try their skill against each other,—­young men in their prime mostly, with brown, ruddy faces, and eyes of that bright blue lustre which is only gained by a free, open-air life.  The hillside was just turning purple with heather bloom, and along the winding, stony road the yellow asphodels were dancing in the wind.  Everywhere there was the scent of bog-myrtle and wild-rose and sweetbrier, and the tinkling sound of becks babbling over glossy rocks; and in the glorious sunshine and luminous air, the mountains appeared to expand and elevate, and to throw out glowing peaks and summits into infinite space.

Hand in hand the squire and his daughter climbed the fellside.  They had left home in high spirits, merrily flinging back the mother’s and Sophia’s last advices; but gradually they became silent, and then a little mournful.  “I wonder why it is, father?” asked Charlotte; “I’m not at all tired, and how can fresh air and sunshine make one melancholy?”

“Maybe, now, sad thoughts are catching.  I was having a few.  Eh?  What?”

“I don’t know.  Why were you having sad thoughts?”

“Well, then, I really can’t understand why.  There’s no need to fret over changes.  At the long end the great change puts all right.  Charlotte, I have been coming to Barf Latrigg’s shearings for about half a century.  I remember the first.  I held my nurse’s hand, and wore such a funny little coat, and such a big lace collar.  And, dear me! it was just such a day as this, thirty-two years ago, that your mother walked up to the shearing with me, Charlotte; and I asked her if she would be my wife, and she said she would.  Thou takes after her a good deal; she had the very same bright eyes and bonny face, and straight, tall shape thou has to-day.  Barf Latrigg was sixty then, turning a bit gray, but able to shear with any man they could put against him.  He’ll be ninety now; but his father lived till he was more than a hundred, and most of his fore-elders touched the century.  He’s had his troubles too.”

“I never heard of them.”

“No.  They are dead and buried.  A dead trouble may be forgot:  it is the living troubles that make the eyes dim, and the heart fail.  Yes, yes; Barf is as happy as a boy now, but I remember when he was back-set and fore-set with trouble.  In life every thing goes round like a cart-wheel.  Eh?  What?”

In a short time they reached the outer wall of the farm.  They were eight hundred feet above the valley; and looking backwards upon the woods from their airy shelf, the tops of the trees appeared like a solid green road, on which they might drop down and walk.  Stone steps in the stone wall admitted them into the enclosure, and then they saw the low gray house spreading itself in the shadow of the noble sycamores—­

     ... “musical with bees;
     Such tents the patriarchs loved.”

As they approached, the old statesman strode to the open door to meet them.  He was a very tall man, with a bright, florid face, and a great deal of fine, white hair.  Two large sheep-dogs, which only wanted a hint to be uncivil, walked beside him.  He had that independent manner which honorable descent and absolute ownership of house and land give; and he looked every inch a gentleman, though he wore only the old dalesman’s costume,—­breeches of buckskin fastened at the knees with five silver buttons, home-knit stockings and low shoes, and a red waistcoat, open that day, in order to show the fine ruffles on his shirt.  He was precisely what Squire Sandal would have been, if the Sandals had not been forced by circumstances into contact with a more cultivated and a more ambitious life.

“Welcome, Sandal!  I have been watching for thee.  There would be little prosperation in a shearing if thou wert absent.  And a good day to thee, Charlotte.  My Ducie was speaking of thee a minute ago.  Here she comes to help thee off with thy things.”

Charlotte was untying her bonnet as she entered the deep, cool porch, and a moment afterward Ducie was at her side.  It was easy to see the women loved each other, though Ducie only smiled, and said, “Come in; I’m right glad to see you, Charlotte.  Come into t’ best room, and cool your face a bit.  And how is Mrs. Sandal and Sophia?  Be things at their usual, dear?”

“Thank you, Ducie; all and every thing is well,—­I hope.  We have not heard from Harry lately.  I think it worrits father a little, but he is never the one to show it.  Oh, how sweet this room is!”

She was standing before the old-fashioned swivel mirror, that had reflected three generations,—­a fair, bright girl, with the light and hope of youth in her face.  The old room, with its oak walls, immense bed, carved awmries, drawers, and cupboards, made a fine environment for so much life and color.  And yet there were touches in it that resembled her, and seemed to be the protest of the present with the past,—­vivid green and scarlet masses of geranium and fuchsia in the latticed window, and a great pot of odorous flowers upon the hearthstone.  But the peculiar sweetness which Charlotte noticed came from the polished oak floor, which was strewed with bits of rosemary and lavender, to prevent the slipping of the feet upon it.

Charlotte looked down at them as she ejaculated, “How sweet this room is!” and the shadow of a frown crossed her face.  “I would not do it, Ducie, for any one,” she said.  “Poor herbs of grace!  What sin have they committed to be trodden under foot?  I would not do it, Ducie:  I feel as if it hurt them.”

“Nay, now; flowers grow to be pulled dear, just as lasses grow to be loved and married.”

“Is that what you think, Ducie?  Some cherished in the jar; some thrown under the feet, and bruised to death,—­the feet of wrong and sorrow,”—­

“Don’t you talk that way, Charlotte.  It isn’t lucky for girls to talk of wrong and sorrow.  Talking of things bespeaks them.  There’s always them that hear; them that we don’t see.  And everybody pulls flowers, dearie.”

“I don’t.  If I pull a rose, I always believe every other rose on that tree is sad about it.  They may be in families, Ducie, who can tell?  And the little roses may be like the little children, and very dear to the grown roses.”

“Why, what fancies!  Let us go into the yard, and see the shearing.  You’ve made me feel as if I’d never like to pull a posy again.  You shouldn’t say such things, indeed you shouldn’t:  you’ve given me quite a turn, I’m sure.”

As Ducie talked, they went through the back-door into a large yard walled in from the hillside, and having in it three grand old sycamores.  One of these was at the top of the enclosure, and a circle of green shadow like a tent was around it.  In this shadow the squire and the statesman were sitting.  Their heads were uncovered, their long clay pipes in their hands; and, with a placid complacency, they were watching the score of busy men before them.  Many had come long distances to try their skill against each other; for the shearings at Latrigg’s were a pastoral game, at which it was a local honor to be the winner.  There the young statesman who could shear his six score a day found others of a like capacity, and it was Greek against Greek at Up-Hill shearing that afternoon.

“I had two thousand sheep to get over,” said Latrigg, “but they’ll be bare by sunset, squire.  That isn’t bad for these days.  When I was young we wouldn’t have thought so much of two thousand, but every dalesman then knew what good shearing was. Now,” and the old man shook his head slowly, “good shearers are few and far between.  Why, there’s some here from beyond Kirkstone Pass and Nab Scar!”

It was customary for young people of all conditions to give men as aged as Barf Latrigg the honorable name of “grandfather;” and Charlotte said, as she sat down in the breezy shadow beside him, “Who is first, grandfather?”

“Why, our Stephen, to be sure!  They’ll have to be up before day-dawn to keep sidey with our Steve.—­Steve, how many is thou ahead now?” The voice that asked the question, though full of triumph, was thin and weak; but the answer came back in full, mellow tones,—­

“Fifteen ahead, grandfather.”

“Oh, I’m so glad!”

“Charlotte Sandal says ‘she’s so glad.’  Now then, if thou loses ground, I wouldn’t give a ha’penny for thee.”

Then the women who were folding the fleeces on tables under the other two sycamores lifted their eyes, and glanced at Steve; and some of the elder ones sent him a merry jibe, and some of the younger ones, smiles, that made his brown handsome face deepen in color; but he was far too earnest in his work to spare a moment for a reply.  By and by, the squire put down his pipe, and sat watching with his hands upon his knees.  And a stray child crept up to Charlotte, and climbed upon her lap, and went to sleep there, and the wind flecked these four representatives of four generations all over with wavering shadows; and Ducie came backwards and forwards, and finally carried the sleeping child into the house; and Stephen, busy as he was, saw every thing that went on in the group under the top sycamore.

Even before sundown, the last batch of sheep were fleeced and smitten,[Smitten.  Marked with the cipher of the owner in a mixture mostly of tar.] and turned on to the hillside; and Charlotte, leaning over the wall, watched them wander contentedly up the fell, with their lambs trotting beside them.  Grandfather and the squire had gone into the house; Ducie was calling her from the open door; she knew it was tea-time, and she was young and healthy and hungry enough to be glad of it.

At the table she met Stephen.  The strong, bare-armed Hercules, whom she had watched tossing the sheep around for his shears as easily as if they had been kittens under his hands, was now dressed in a handsome tweed suit, and looking quite as much of a gentleman as the most fastidious maiden could desire.  He came in after the meal had begun, flushed somewhat with his hard labor, and perhaps, also, with the hurry of his toilet; but there was no embarrassment in his manner.  It had never yet entered Stephen’s mind that there was any occasion for embarrassment, for the friendship between the squire’s family and his own had been devoid of all sense of inequality.  The squire was “the squire,” and was perhaps richer than Latrigg, but even that fact was uncertain; and the Sandals had been to court, and married into county families; but then the Latriggs had been for exactly seven hundred years the neighbors of Sandal,—­good neighbors, shoulder to shoulder with them in every trial or emergency.

The long friendship had never known but one temporary shadow, and this had been during the time that the present squire’s mother ruled in Sandal; the Mistress Charlotte whose influence was still felt in the old seat.  She had entirely disapproved the familiar affection with which Latrigg met her husband, and it was said the disputes which drove one of her sons from his home were caused by her determination to break up the companionship existing between the young people of the two houses at that time.

The squire remembered it.  He had also, in some degree, regarded his mother’s prejudices while she lived; but, after her death, Sophia and Charlotte, as well as their brother, began to go very often to Up-Hill Farm.  Naturally Stephen, who was Ducie’s son, became the companion of Harry Sandal; and the girls grew up in his sight like two beautiful sisters.  It was only within the past year that he had begun to understand that one was dearer to him than the other; but though none of the three was now ignorant of the fact, it was as yet tacitly ignored.  The knowledge had not been pleasant to Sophia; and to Charlotte and Stephen it was such a delicious uncertainty, that they hardly desired to make it sure; and they imagined their secret was all their own, and were so happy in it, that they feared to look too curiously into their happiness.

There was to be a great feast and dance that night:  and, as they sat at the tea-table, they heard the mirth and stir of its preparation; but it came into the room only like a pleasant echo, mingling with the barking of the sheep-dogs, and the bleating of the shorn sheep upon the fells, and the murmur of their quiet conversation about “the walks” Latrigg owned, and the scrambling, black-faced breed whose endurance made them so profitable.  Something was also said of other shearings to which Stephen must go, if he would assure his claim to be “top-shearer,” and of the wool-factories which the most astute statesmen were beginning to build.

“If I were a younger man, I’d be in with them,” said Latrigg.  “I’d spin and weave my own fleeces, and send them to Leeds market, with no go-between to share my profits.”  And Steve put in a sensible word now and then, and passed the berry-cake and honey and cream; and withal met Charlotte’s eyes, and caught her smiles, and was as happy as love and hope could make him.

After tea the squire wished to go; but Latrigg said, “Smoke one pipe with me Sandal,” and they went into the porch together.  Then Steve and Charlotte sauntered about the garden, or, leaning on the stone wall, looked down into the valley, or away off to the hills.  Many things they said to each other which seemed to mean so little, but which meant so much when love was the interpreter.  For Charlotte was eighteen and Stephen twenty-two; and when mortals still so young are in love, they are quite able to create worlds out of nothing.

After a while the squire lifted his eyes, and took in the bit of landscape which included them.  The droop of the young heads towards each other, and their air of happy confidence, awakened a vague suspicion in his heart.  Perhaps Latrigg was conscious of it; for he said, as if in answer to the squire’s thought, “Steve will have all that is mine.  It’s a deal easier to die, Sandal, when you have a fine lad like Steve to leave the old place to.”

“Steve is in the female line.  That’s a deal different to having sons.  Lasses are cold comfort for sons.  Eh?  What?”

“To be sure; but I’ve given Steve my name.  Any one not called Latrigg at Up-Hill would seem like a stranger.”

“I know how you feel about that.  A squire in Seat-Sandal out of the old name would have a very middling kind of time, I think.  He’d have a sight of ill-will at his back.”

“Thou means with them!”

The squire nodded gravely; and after a minute’s silence said, “It stands to reason they take an interest.  I do in them.  When I think of this or that Sandal, or when I look up at their faces as I sit smoking beside them, I’m sure I feel like their son; and I wouldn’t grieve them any more than if they were to be seen and talked to.  It’s none likely, then, that they forget.  I know they don’t.”

“I’m quite of thy way of thinking, Sandal; but Steve will be called Latrigg.  He has never known any other name, thou sees.”

“To be sure.  Is Ducie willing?”

“Poor lass!  She never names Steve’s father.  He’d no business in her life, and he very soon went out of it.  Stray souls will get into families they have no business in, sometimes.  They make a deal of unhappiness when they do.”

Sandal sat listening with a sympathetic face.  He hoped Latrigg was going to tell him something definite about his daughter’s trouble; but the old man puffed, puffed, in silence a few minutes, and then turned the conversation.  However, Sandal had been touched on a point where he was exceedingly sensitive; and he rose with a sigh, and said, “Well, well, Latrigg, good-by.  I’ll go down the fell now.  Come, Charlotte.”

Unconsciously he spoke with an authority not usual to him, and the parting was a little silent and hurried; for Ducie was in the throng of her festival, and rather impatient for Stephen’s help.  Only Latrigg walked to the gate with them.  He looked after Sandal and his daughter with a grave, but not unhappy wistfulness; and when a belt of larches hid them from his view, he turned towards the house, saying softly,—­

“It is like to be my last shearing.  Very soon this life will have been, but through Christ’s mercy I have the over-hand of the future.”

It was almost as hard to go down the fell as to come up it, for the road was very steep and stony.  The squire took it leisurely, carrying his straw hat in his hand, and often standing still to look around him.  The day had been very warm; and limpid vapors hung over the mountains, like something far finer than mist,—­like air made visible,—­giving them an appearance of inconceivable remoteness, full of grandeur; for there is a sublimity of distance, as well as a sublimity of height.  He made Charlotte notice them.  “Maybe, many a year after this, you’ll see the hills look just that way, dearie; then think on this evening and on me.”

She did not speak, but she looked into his face, and clasped his hand tightly.  She was troubled with her own mood.  Try as she would, it was impossible to prevent herself drifting into most unusual silences.  Stephen’s words and looks filled her heart; she had only half heard the things her father had been saying.  Never before had she found an hour in her life when she wished for solitude in preference to his society,—­her good, tender father.  She put Stephen out of her mind, and tried again to feel all her old interest in his plans for their amusement.  Alas, alas!  The first secret, especially if it be a love-secret, makes a break in that sweet, confidential intercourse between a parent and child which nothing restores.  The squire hardly comprehended that there might be a secret.  Charlotte was unthoughtful of wrong; but still there was a repression, a something undefinable between them, impalpable, but positive as a breath of polar air.  She noticed the mountains, for he made her do so; but the birds sang sleepy songs to her unheeded, and the yellow asphodels made a kind of sunshine at her feet that she never saw; and even her father’s voice disturbed the dreamy charm of thoughts that touched a deeper, sweeter joy than moor or mountain, bird or flower, had ever given her.

Before they reached home, the squire had also become silent.  He came into the hall with the face of one dissatisfied and unhappy.  The feeling spread through the house, as a drop of ink spreads itself through a glass of water.  It almost suited Sophia’s mood, and Mrs. Sandal was not inclined to discuss it until the squire was alone with her.  Then she asked the question of all questions the most irritating, “What is the matter with you, squire?”

“What is the matter, indeed?  Love-making.  That is the matter, Alice.”

“Charlotte?”

“Yes.”

“And Stephen Latrigg?”

“Yes.”

“I thought as much.  Opportunity is a dangerous thing.”

“My word!  To hear you talk, one would think it was matterless how our girls married.”

“It is never matterless how any girl marries, squire; and our Charlotte”—­

“Oh, I thought Charlotte was a child yet!  How could I tell there was danger at Up-Hill?  You ought to have looked better after your daughters.  See that she doesn’t go near-hand Latrigg’s again.”

“I wouldn’t be so foolish, William.  It’s a deal better not to notice.  Make no words about it; and, if you don’t like Stephen, send Charlotte away a bit.  Half of young people’s love-affairs is just because they are handy to each other.”

“‘Like Stephen!’ It is more than a matter of liking, as you know very well.  If Harry Sandal goes on as he has been going, there will be little enough left for the girls; and they must marry where money will not be wanted.  More than that, I’ve been thinking of brother Tom’s boy for one of them.  Eh?  What?”

“You mean, you have been writing to Tom about a marriage?  I would have been above a thing like that, William.  I suppose you did it to please your mother.  She always did hanker after Tom, and she always did dislike the Latriggs.  I have heard that when people were in the grave they ‘ceased from troubling,’ but”—­

“Alice!”

“I meant no harm, squire, I’m sure; and I would not say wrong of the dead for any thing, specially of your mother; but I think about my own girls.”

“There, now, Alice, don’t whimper and cry.  I am not going to harm your girls, not I. Only mother was promised that Tom’s son should have the first chance for their favor.  I’m sure there’s nothing amiss in that.  Eh?”

“A young man born in a foreign country among blacks, or very near blacks.  And nobody knows who his mother was.”

“Oh, yes! his mother was a judge’s daughter, and she had a deal of money.  Her son has been well done to; sent to the very best German and French schools, and now he is at Oxford.  I dare say he is a very good young man, and at any rate he is the only Sandal of this generation except our own boy.”

“Your sisters have sons.”

“Yes, Mary has three:  they are Lockerbys.  Elizabeth has two:  they are Piersons.  My poor brother Launcie was drowned, and never had son or daughter; so that Tom’s Julius is the nearest blood we have.”

“Julius!  I never heard tell of such a name.”

“Yes, it is a silly kind of a foreign name.  His mother is called Julia:  I suppose that is how it comes.  No Sandal was ever called such a name before, but the young man mustn’t be blamed for his godfather’s foolishness, Alice.  Eh?”

“I’m not so unjust.  Poor Launcie!  I saw him once at a ball in Kendal.  Are you sure he was drowned?”

“I followed him to Whitehaven, and found out that he had gone away in a ship that never came home.  Mother and Launcie were in bad bread when he left, and she never fretted for him as she did for Tom.”

“Why did you not tell me all this before?”

“I said to myself, there’s time enough yet to be planning husbands for girls that haven’t a thought of the kind.  We were very happy with them; I couldn’t bear to break things up; and I never once feared about Steve Latrigg, not I.”

“What does your brother and his wife say?”

“Tom is with me.  As for his wife, I know nothing of her, and she knows nothing of us.  She has been in England a good many times, but she never said she would like to come and see us, and my mother never wanted to see her; so there wasn’t a compliment wasted, you see.  Eh?  What?”

“No, I don’t see, William.  All about it is in a muddle, and I must say I never heard tell of such ways.  It is like offering your own flesh and blood for sale.  And to people who want nothing to do with us.  I’m astonished at you, squire.”

“Don’t go on so, Alice.  Tom and I never had any falling out.  He just got out of the way of writing.  He likes India, and he had his own reasons for not liking England in any shape you could offer England to him.  There’s no back reckonings between Tom and me, and he’ll be glad for Julius to come to his own people.  We will ask Julius to Sandal; and you say, yourself, that the half of young folks’ loving is in being handy to each other.  Eh?  What?”

“I never thought you would bring my words up that way.  But I’ll tell you one thing, my girls are not made of melted wax, William.  You’ll be a wise man, and a strong man, if you get a ring on their fingers, if they don’t want it there.  Sophia will say very soft and sweet, ’No, thank you, father;’ and you’ll move Scawfell and Langdale Pikes before you get her beyond it.  As for Charlotte, you yourself will stand ‘making’ better than she will.  And you know that nothing short of an earthquake can lift you an inch outside your own way.”

And perhaps Sandal thought the hyperbole a compliment; for he smiled a little, and walked away, with what his wife privately called “a peacocky air,” saying something about “Greek meeting Greek” as he did so.  Mrs. Sandal did not in the least understand him:  she wondered a little over the remark, and then dismissed it as “some of the squire’s foolishness.”