The Bantams of Sheffield

Preface

. 0 It were no easy matter to clothe the busy work-a-day town of Sheffield in the lofty and idealistic garb of romance, while it were an easy one to descend to a realism that might be painful to the " gentle reader " whom it is hoped is yet to be found, even in the very heart of Hallamshire. The via media is the way whereon the writer of these few pages has endeavoured to plod, not un mindful of the lofty idealism of the chivalrous champion of romance who, in the days gone by, did well to immortalise the valley of the Don ; and at the same time not unmindful of that realism of to-day, whereby many writers make their characters stand out as portraits true to Nature in her kindlier moods. The author has, as far as is possible, abstained from using the wealth of the dialect of the town and its vicinage which he loves so well, but has found it impossible to leave out the manner of speech of some of the middle classes prevalent not many years ago.

He would not have it thought, whatever may be herein written to the contrary, that he, in writing these pages, wished to slight the town that gives the title to his story. Guy Balguy. Hampstead Heath, London, N.W. (& goob TOfo THE SHARER OF MY JOYS AND SORROWS, 3 ©ebicftfe THIS SMALL VOLUME, "FOR LOVE AND NO ENDS ELSE.':

Part I. Chapter

I. As Kenneth Millwood, getting quite away from the smoke of Sheffield, passed by the trellised gateway of the old weather-beaten cottage known as St Osyth's, he fondly gazed, as was his wont, towards the little window that was level with the grass plot, and as he did so he could feel his heart beat somewhat quicker, although he could see no one at the window ; but he heard the rich, sweet, and melodious voice of the girl he longed to see. She was singing that simple and restful little song, " Children's Voices." He paused a little, looked about him shyly, and then walked homeward. At dinner, as he sat between his mother and father, he was more than usually uncommunicative; indeed, he seemed to be altogether absent-minded, and ate his food in quite a mechanical manner. His mother could not but observe his mental abstraction, and to rouse him from his reverie asked, " Busy to-night, dear?"

"No, thank you; I would rather not — I have got a headache." " Whatever are you dreaming about, boy ? I simply asked if you would be busy to-night." " Beg pardon, mother dear ; I thought you asked whether I was going to the Spelling Bee to-night." His mother and father exchanged glances. The latter helped himself to another glass of Madeira, and asked for another omelette, which he pronounced " lovely," and then observed to his wife — " Kenneth's headaches coincide remarkably with our weekly gatherings at the chapel." Kenneth ventured no reply, although his mother's look towards him plainly said, "'Tis remarkable, dear, is it not?" The conversation flagged. The Rev. Theodore Millwood helped himself to another glass of Madeira, and to another omelette — the last omelette ! — which he called " beautiful."

After a while the Rev. Theodore finished his dinner, and then produced a big golden toothpick from his waistcoat pocket, which he used in a manner the reverse of polite. Suddenly turning towards Kenneth, he said — " I am very pained to think, Kenneth, that you purposely absent yourself from all our gatherings. It seems to me that you are gradually ' drifting away ' from the good old moorings. Yes, ' drifting away,' as the Bible says." Kenneth shrugged his shoulders somewhat and sighed, but ventured no reply. "We pray for you, don't we, darling?" said the minister, casting a sanctimonious glance towards his wife, and putting the tips of his forefingers together — such sleek, sausage-like digits ! — " yet ofttimes we grieve," continued he, " to think that our prayers are unanswered as yet, and that a son of ours " "I am not your son, sir," said Kenneth, as he got up from the table and strode out of the room, apparently with his " dandher up," as the Irish say.

He went straight to his bedroom, and threw himself on the bed, and then thoughts — such thoughts ! — multitudinously crowded upon him, and buried him in their depths, while a scalding tear burned his face. Immediately after Kenneth had left the dining room Mr Millwood opened his big grey eyes a little wider, digged both his thumbs deep into the armholes of his waistcoat, and casting a wild questioning glance at Mrs Millwood, said — " Matilda ! " " Theodore ! " she replied, uplifting her head, and putting on an air of effrontery, as if her sincerity were being doubted. " Have you ever breathed to him anything con cerning his paternity ? " " Not a syllable, dear." " But he knows," said Theodore, rolling his eyeballs in a sort of kaleidoscopic maze. Then his beetling eyebrows fell. Uneasy thoughts seemed to darken his face, while " Confound the fellow !

" was written on his every feature. " Matilda," said he again, with a stern and almost monosyllabic articulation, " something must be done ; our peace is at stake ; the lad means mischief. Did you not see the contemptuous curl of his lip as he strode off? As I said before, he is ' drifting away.' But, my darling, who has told him this secret ? You must question him, love. You must worm it out of him." " Worm, indeed ! " said Mrs Millwood. " Rubbish, Theodore, rubbish ! Don't you think my boy will tell me when I ask him straightforwardly ? " " Of course," said Theodore dubiously ; " but a little strategy sometimes " "Makes a muddle of it, dear," she added good naturedly. "You men don't understand how these little matters are managed. Really now, Theodore, can't you see what's the matter with the boy ?

" " For the life of me, no," said Theodore. "Were you never in love?" asked she, lowering her voice to a dovelike sweetness. "Certainly," said he, as though it were a highly disputable point. "But what has this got to do with Kenneth, pray ? " " He, yes, he — is in love, dear." " Fiddlesticks ! " " Theodore ! Do you doubt me ? " " N-n-n-o, dear," said he, shaking his head, lifting up his hands, and opening out his fingers, as though he were wiping his hands of all knowledge of such a carnal matter as love. " But of whom do you suspect the boy is enamoured ? " " Cathie," she said, with a significant nod. " What ! the parlour-maid ? " Mrs Millwood again nodded knowingly, as she twirled her thumbs. " Why, she's Irish ! " said Theodore, with an in credible air. Another nod. " A Catholic too. Good heavens !

The oracle nodded. " Rather a pretty little minx ? " One more nod, and a little pursing of the lips. " A most awkward predicament, dear. How came you to know it ? " " Intuitively," she replied, trying to assume the charming naivete" of a schoolgirl of sweet seventeen. " Are you blind, Theodore ? Have you not seen the sly glances, the blushes, the tell-tale eyes, the unmistak able pensiveness, the absent-mindedness, and, above all, that supine indifference to the most delicate cuisine " " Ah, that's a clencher ! " interjaculated Theodore, " that ever was placed before mortal man. Why, darling, the thing's as plain as a pikestaff." " You're right, Matilda. We must get rid of Cathie," said the minister. Then, suddenly looking at the clock, he exclaimed — " My dear, look at the time ; we shall be late for the meeting."

In less than two minutes they were off, arm in arm, towards the lecture-room. Kenneth, upstairs, hearing them go, peeped through the Venetian blinds, and as he saw them going out of the garden, he soliloquised : " She loves me still, but as for him, never ! " He shook his head and repeated, " Never ! " " Whatever made her marry him passeth all understanding. Twice to soup — thrice to fish — thrice to lamb — three omelettes — ugh ! Good heavens ! he may well be so corpulent. No, he — never — married — for love ! Love ! wheugh ! I know his secret now ; but I am independent, and shall never need any of his gold — the vile trash." Kenneth's thoughts suddenly veered round, and in a very short time he was faring St Osyth-wards. He left his headache behind him. His pulse beat quicker as he drew near that enchanted ground.

Fondly he looked towards the beloved room. She was there, sitting at her davenport by the open window, and dressed in loose attire — some soft shade of silk. She looked like an Attic goddess uprisen from the past. Her wild dishevelled hair fell over and wellnigh hid from view the sweet, warm curve of her fair neck. Her right hand was supporting her head, while a quill pen was lovingly clasped 'twixt her long white fingers, and her arm rose bare from her long loose sleeve. She saw him not. She was thinking, dreamily thinking, and gazing at nothing. What was she dreaming about ? Ah ! at that moment Kenneth would have given all he possessed to have known that her thoughts were as arrows winged with love, singing through immensity to find a hero worthy of her heroine's heart. How he loved her ! and yet they had never spoken to each other — never had whispered one little word together, nor touched each others' hands ; but he had met her often in the pleasant by-ways of Ecclesall Woods, and their eyes had spoken.

What a quenchless, fiery, flaming brand is youth's first love ! How deeply hidden from all vulgar eyes ! Only twenty one, yet thus he went by, sighing and consuming away like a roaring furnace. Slowly he passed the hallowed spot ; unheeded his longing, wistful gaze. Towards the loveliest and loneliest part of Ecclesall Wood he went, listlessly strolling about, till tired out, he laid him down amongst the bracken, near where the trailing brambles and the long, lank swordgrass commingle, and where the pensile birch was fitfully quivering in the sun's mellowing rays. There he lay flat on the bracken, supporting his head with his right hand, dreamily thinking, gazing at nothing too, unconsciously imitating his beloved nameless one. The air was still, and the mellow light of the setting sun was enkindling as with shimmering gold each tender blade and airy spray.

Alas ! be it said, the splendour of departing day was unbeholden of him. But hark ! he hears a rustling, a stirring amongst the grass, a footstep. She comes, she passes by, she sees him not. She stands motionless, wrapt, as it were, in deep poetic thought. Thud, thud, thud — how his heart beats ! She glides along. She disappears amongst the silvery tangle of the birches. He buries his head in the bracken earthwards, and utters a sigh that surely is heard in the remotest Antipodes. Poor Kenneth ! He was hard hit. As he lifted up his head he could see her receding in the distance, thridding her way through the woody by-ways towards St Osyth's. He saw her fair form disappear over the brow of the hill, and then he got up and sauntered along the shady path. He lingered about the woods until dusk came on, and afterwards night ; until one by one the starry sentinels began to peep from the deep silence of infinite space.

Then he turned homeward — not straight homeward. He must needs deviate a little — just to see if he could catch one more glimpse of her, or hear once more her entrancing voice. So he passed along by the pathway whereon her airy feet had trod, and once more fondly gazed towards the windows of St Osyth's. Yes, she had returned to her beloved alcove. How cosy the room looked ! There was a rich harmony of colour about the blinds and the curtains. The lamp-shades cast a sweet mellow light through the open lattice ; and indeed, to Kenneth's imagination, the room seemed to be quite lit and warm with love. What would he have given that minute to be inside ! He paused a little, then stood listening on the path behind the brick wall, that was lichened and grey with age. There was nobody there. He felt like a guilty eavesdropper at the court of love, and yet he felt chained to the spot.

How charming he thought was her voice ! What a grand undertone of feeling in it ! What poetry ! At that moment he did not hear footsteps behind him. Had he done so he would have moved on. As it was, a tall, lithe young fellow, dressed in flannels and with noiseless tennis shoes on, got close up to him unaware, and startled him considerably, especially when he turned' round and saw Bryan Wolverton's face. " Murther alive ! you here ? " exclaimed Bryan, putting on a little of his native Irish brogue. Kenneth was confused and almost speechless, but muttered something about music having a strange " fascination by moonlight." " What nonsense you talk, sowl," said Bryan ; " it's not the moonlight lends fascination at all — divil a bit, Kenneth ; 'tis a pretty girl that gives the fascination and the witchery ; but come along with me, boy, and it's meself will show you the charmer," continued he, as he proceeded to open the gate of St Osyth's, and seized Kenneth by the arm.

" Don't be an idiot, man," said Kenneth, drawing back. " I have no wish to make a fool of myself there. I am known in these parts, and moreover, a perfect lady lives in that cottage." "It's an obsthinate animal you are," said Bryan, " but if yer won't be led, it's coairce you I will." Kenneth began to move on homeward, but Bryan grasped hold of his arm. " You hear that sweet girl singing ? " says he. "Yes." " She's my sister. She's living here with her aunt, and I've just come up from town to see her; and you're going in with me, or it's slauthered ye'll be in a minnit," said he, literally dragging Kenneth through the gateway. " Bryan, is that you ? " said the voice of one, running down the garden path to greet him. " Sure, it's meself, love, and it's an eavesdropper I've caught. Mr Kenneth Millwood — my sister Connie," said Bryan, introducing them to each other, and still holding Kenneth by his arm, as the latter awkwardly and confusedly raised his hat, blushing to the very roots of his hair.

Bryan kissed Connie, while Kenneth stood amazed. " Pardon my brother's want of ceremony, Mr Millwood, please. He has become quite a wild Irish man since he has been home to Connemara," said Miss Wolverton. They went inside the house, through the old passage to the " beloved room," where Kenneth was introduced to Aunt Dorothy, with whom Connie was living. Kenneth stammered forth apologies about such a late and unceremonious visit. " Pray don't apologise, Mr Millwood ; I am delighted to see a friend of Bryan's. Besides, I think we have seen each other before." Connie said this with a sweet air of unconcern, looking with her soft pitying eyes at poor Kenneth's deeply-blushing face. " Yes, I live near here," he said, " and have often met you in the delightful woods hereabouts, and have often seen you as I pass this very window."

" This is your nearest way from Ecclesall to town, maybe?" she asked, with a sweet Irish accent. "Well — er — not exactly, but I prefer this way," said he, looking painfully guilty. "Exactly," said Biyan, with a mischievous smile, as he seated himself at the piano and began to sing " Father O'Flynn." After he had done " Father O'Flynn " ample justice, he turned round on the music-stool, and, facing Connie and Kenneth, began— " It's nothing short of a miracle, Millwood, that I should have dropped upon you by chance, listening to Connie's singing. Why didn't you ever tell me you lived up here ? " " Well, because I don't want everyone in Sheffield to know my quiet sylvan retreat." " But why ? " " Because they would be dropping in to see me, and wouldn't find over-much hospitality at Patmos Lodge, where our people live."

" What ! are you ashamed of the old folk, eh ? " "Well, this is a painful subject," said Kenneth, suddenly looking rather unhappy. "Is it? I beg pardon, old man. Play the young man a tune, Connie ; he's getting melancholic." She did not require any more asking. She immediately began to sing " Auld Marie," and sang it with such exquisite taste and pathos that at the end even Bryan snouted " Bravo ! " and Kenneth, in thanking her, spoke straight from his heart and said, " I never heard anything half so sweet in my life, Miss Wolverton. The whole thing is a delightful poem." " You are right, Mr Millwood," she said ; " the song creates such a pleasant crowd of thoughts — such a sweet melancholy. One can almost hear childhood and old age lisping the same sad song, as the withered leaves of perished hopes are whirled away."

" Connie ! Connie, acushla ! it's fairly bewildhered I'll be if you talk like that. But tell me, my jewil, how are you getting on with the novel you are writing ? " B " I have lost the hero, and I am in a terrible fix," she said. " Murther ! " said Bryan, " that's awkward, anyway. Have you looked in the Preface, or the Addenda, or the Advertisements ? " " He's not there," she said, laughing. " I've lost his ethereal essence, I mean. He has fallen earthward. He has told his future mother-in-law an abominable lie, and for the life of me I cannot see any possible or honourable way of retraction." " If that's all he's done, absolve him, love, absolve him. What do you say, Kenneth ? " " I should suggest a death-bed repentance," said Kenneth. " But that's out of the question, Mr Millwood ; he is not going to die," she said, with a sweet smile.

" Let him grant her an annuity, then ; surely that would rehabilitate him in her good graces and in his former ethereal sphere," said Bryan. " The Three per Cents, go a long way," added Kenneth dryly. "Well, yes, perhaps you are right," she said, " although, mark me, this is not my ideal of what is right. It is but a poor makeshift, only worthy of this poor mundane travesty of ours ; but to change the subject, do not you sing, Mr Millwood ? " " A little sometimes," he said, " but nothing new ; only one or two old English songs, which I fear have a certain barrel-organ and metallic ring about them." " Sing us ' Tommy mak room-for-yer-runcle,' then," said Bryan. But Kenneth caught sight of a song that he knew, and asked Miss Wolverton to play the accompani ment. It was Ben Johnson's old song, " Drink to me only with thine eyes."

He sang it with considerable tenderness of feeling, and was not a little flattered when Connie told him, with sweet frankness, that she was quite delighted with his singing. They sang many more songs, and chatted about music generally, and then the conversation drifted on to painting. Connie showed her last attempt in water-colours. It was criticised rather severely by her brother Bryan, who was an artist by profession ; but Kenneth pointed out beauties that were invisible but to the eyes of hope, and spoke highly of the exquisitely tender light she had produced by her delicate pencilling and subtle colouring. Connie was pleased to have one of her first attempts so lovingly criticised. Kenneth had been so charmed and overcome by Miss Wolverton's conversation, singing, and playing, and indeed so delighted was he at this happy intro duction to such a sweet girl, that he had forgotten how the time was passing.

When he looked at his watch, and found that it was half-past eleven, he was horrified. He said he must be off, as he had no latch key, and his people at home might possibly lock him out. So, after thanking Miss Wolverton for the charming evening he had spent there, he set off homeward, but not before she had told him how glad she would be to see him again with Bryan. The latter, who was going in another direction, stayed a few minutes longer to arrange about a pic-nic to Wharncliffe Crags. Kenneth's apprehensions as to his being locked out were not ill-founded, for, much to his disgust and annoyance, every light was out at Patmos Lodge, the house where his mother and Mr Millwood lived. He rang the bell and knocked thrice, but no one came. He could hear no one stirring, so he turned round and left the house, and determined, if need be, to spend the night in Ecclesall Woods.

Had he known that, after the third knock, Cathie stole quietly downstairs to let him in — against all orders, too — he would not have uttered a half-smothered malediction against all the indwellers of that house, save one, his mother, whom he pitied and loved from the bottom of his heart. Mr and Mrs Millwood had heard Kenneth's knocking, and the former had steeled the latter's wavering heart — for, in truth, her heart was not encased in the lifeless ashes of the faith that he had long ago sacrificed on the altar of expediency. She still loved the boy, with all his faults, and was secretly glad when she heard some one go downstairs to let him in. Theodore heard too. He peeped out of his bedroom door to see who had dared to disobey his mandate. Alas ! he saw Cathie on the stairs. It was enough.

As the huge man crawled into bed again, he said, " Matilda, your intuition was right." " Why, dear ? " she asked. " Because she has dared to let him in." But they were wrong. Kenneth had strode off towards Nether Edge, an outlying suburb of Sheffield. Their suspicions had no more foundation than " the baseless fabric of a vision."

Chapter II

That night Kenneth found rest, not in Ecclesall Wood, but in the rooms of the junior partner of the firm to which he had been apprenticed, and with which he was still supposed to be learning the business of a Sheffield manufacturer. Kenneth, finding himself locked out, made for the apartments of this junior partner, who rejoiced in the name of Dandelow Bantam, of the house of Bantam, Underwedge & Shout, Otterclough Forge, Sheffield. This gentleman had apartments at Nether Edge, hard by Bannercross, so Kenneth had not a long distance to walk from Patmos Lodge in the Abbeydale Road, where he had been locked out. Fortunately Mr Bantam was just going to rest, after returning from Mrs Humphrey Shout's party. After Kenneth had gone to bed he found that he could not sleep at' all till near day-dawn, so many thoughts took possession of his mind.

The feeling of disgust at being locked out of home exercised him but a little, whereas the thought of having had such an unlooked-for introduction to Miss Wolverton thrilled him with an excitement sufficiently delightful to keep the drowsy wings of sleep at bay. The Rev. Theodore and his spouse were likewise unable to slumber and snore as was their wont. The latter's heart was indeed more than touched by pity for Kenneth — a pity all the keener to bear because she had no one with whom to share it. The former, on the contrary, was never over-harassed by pity, therefore it was not this that kept him wakeful and restless in his bed ; but what weighed upon him with so heavy a load was the thought that some one had told Kenneth of his right parentage, and that what he — the Rev. Theodore — had been so careful to conceal, should have been revealed to Kenneth from some unknown source.

The more he tried to unravel the mystery the more intricate became the tangled skein. As he tossed about on his bed, Matilda quietly asked — " Restless, darling? " " That omelette ! " he replied in a husky voice between a guttural grunt and a groan. "What, dear?" " It's that omelette worries me, that's all," said he. " Nothing else, darling ? " she asked, hoping that perhaps his conscience was smiting him also. " Don't worry, Matilda, don't worry," said he of the cloth, rolling nearly all the bedclothes round his unwieldy bulk, and leaving her but the fringe thereof. After a short space the omelette or his conscience ceased to worry him, for a heavy snoring proclaimed that the Rev. Mr Millwood had entered the domain, and was denizen of, the land of Nod. On the morrow following, Kenneth Millwood and Dandelow Bantam sat at breakfast in a cosy little room overlooking the stretch of fields towards Ecclesall.

After a while the latter, who was a plain, middle-sized man, with sandy hair and a nose some what retrousse, and who, by-the-bye, had an undis guised preference for the good old Sheffield vernacular, observed — "So you werr over at St Osyth's last night, eh, young man?" " Yes," replied Kenneth. "An' what d'ye think of Connie?" asked Dandy, who was quietly eating a plateful of oatmeal porridge. Kenneth put on a look of surprise and annoyance at the curt matter-of-fact way in which the name of that goddess of his imagination was mentioned. "What! Do you know Miss Wolverton?" he asked. " Of course I do. I kno' ivveribody in Sheffild ; an' what's more, ivveribody kno's me. Why, we're related some'oworruther, I think ; but she's no catch." " What do you mean ? " " Why, she's wuth nowt." ■ " Beg pardon, I didn't quite catch the expression."

" ' Wuth nowt,' I said, which is plainer Inglish nor sayin'she's afflicted with an unfortunate impecuniosity." " I understand," said Kenneth. " But you surely would not, in the case of a lady, measure worth merely by the monetary standard." " Why not ? That's exactly what ivveribody else does — beggar or banker, saint or priest. I mean to marry for munny — there ! I b'lieve in t' Poit Loriet, who sez, ' Doant thou marry for munny, but goa wheer munny is.' " " But you surely wouldn't fall into a pit because most fools do. You will live to change your mind about this. Gold is not real wealth ; it is but the token or counter thereof, and is no more real wealth than is a collier's cast-iron ' motty.' Yes, Dandy, you will change your mind some day, if I am not very much mistaken." " I never shall," said Dandy ; " never !

" You see, I've been brought up ' to horder, regulation pattern,' as we say in Sheffild ; and in matters of this sort my muther and father have been very careful over my eddication." " And what about your brothers and sisters ? " asked Kenneth. " Why, they're all cast i' t' same mould, but they haven't gotten t' straightforrardness to confess it, more's the pity." " May I ask how Miss Wolverton is related to your family ? " " Well, to be plane, I believe her great-grandmother was a Shout." " Beg pardon, I didn't quite catch the name," said Kenneth. " A Shout, I said ; and the Shouts are related to the Underwedges, and the Underwedges to the Bantams, and if I'm not much mistaken, we s'll soon be a bit closer related, for Barbara Shout has accepted this child. She's my ' feeanzy,' as they calls it."

Dandelow said this with a broad grin, chuckling to himself the while, as though he was about to make the best of the bargain. " But," he continued more meditatively, "it's a pity she isn't a bit younger, although that's better nor bein' owre young and flighty, like Connie Wolverton." " What do you mean by flighty, Mr Bantam ? " asked Kenneth, feeling rather annoyed. " Well, I'll tell yer. At the last Freemasons' ball — not that I'm a Freemason, not I — no sich rubbidge for me " " No, but you accept their hospitality ? " interrupted Kenneth. "Yes, of course; just as you're acceptin' mine, and not agoin' to pay for it. But as I was sayin', at the last Freemasons' ball Connie was reckoned t' belle, although, mind yer, our lasses had spent ten times more apiece on their get-up. 'Owever, she was reckoned t' belle, and that's enough.

Well, d'ye kno, she danced a walse with me, and we danced it through. She danced as light as a feather, and looked so nice and becomin'-like, that, as we sat down together, I felt a bit gone, and I axed her a plane question." "Yes, I understand — a plain question," said Kenneth, rather impatient with Dandy's prosiness. " Certinly ; I axed her 'ow she'd like to become Mrs Dandelow Bantam." Kenneth burst into a loud laugh at this piece of information. " Whatyer laffin' at ? " said Dandy, looking wild as an irate bull. " I think it was such an odd conceit on your part, Mr Bantam ; and the idea teems with such a delightful incongruity, that I cannot but laugh." " Them as laffs last laffs best," said Dandy, looking very cross ; " but what d'ye think she did ? Why, the hussy cracked out laffin' like an 'iena — yes, yes, that's it — exactly as you're doin' now ; and then she scuttled across the ballroom, and left me gorpin' alone like a bloomin' scarecrow.