Popular Edition of Tales and Sketches of Lancashire Life. (Tales and Sketches of Lancashire Life.)

Front matter

TALES AND SKETCHES OF LANCASHIRE LIFE, By BEN BRIERLEY. COTTERS OF MOSSBURN. jKlcmdjesfer : ABEL HEYWOOD & SON, 56 & 58, OLDHAM STREET, Jonbon : SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & Co., STATIONERS' HALL COURT. 1886. CONTENTS. PAGE Introduction 5 Notice to Quit 7 A Quarrel and a Reconciliation 15 A Ragged Philosopher 30 An Introduction 43 A General "Knock-down" 55 A Retrospect 70 Prospective 81 Sunshine on the Path 89 A Brighter Gleam 100 Digressive 108 Progress 114 Decidedly Go-ahead 126 The Factotum in a Fog 136 A Light in the Lift 144 Floored, but not Vanquished 156 Gone ! 165 A Surprise 178 "Stop!" 189 A Duck Swim 196 Baulked 203 A Little Game 218 Explanations 236 FORESHADOWINGS OF THE END 253 Two Homes 262 XXV. and Last By Ben Bkierley. introduction. Mossburn was, I believe, the last place in the civilised world upon which the light of progress dawned.

Socially speaking, it was the most conservative of villages. It would not give up one inch of its old social landmarks, nor yield one iota of its prejudice against new institutions. To alter a fence, or reconstruct a drain, would have been an act of such thorough Vandalism as no " local board " would ever have dared to sanction ; whilst to have pulled down any of the dwellings, and rebuilt them after a modem fashion, would have set up the back of every Mossburner who professed to have the welfare of the viUage at heart. And who had not these professions, when every native was as deeply rooted to the soil as any of the oaks that grew in its cloughs ? Most of the cottages in Mossburn were thatched, and from the dimensions of the windows, as well as from the manner in which they were glazed, were evidently afraid of too much light.

The gardens about them were of the most primitive character. If it be true that Noah, whilst confined in the ark, occupied himself with plans for the relaying out B of Eden, they must have been faithfully handed down to the present generation ; for these garden plots were pretty without art, and wildly luxuriant without Nature having had too much of her own way. Situated in the flattest part of Cottonshire, fenced off at one extremity by a bog, and on two sides by deep and tangled doughs, it obtained a degree of isolation that accounted much for the slowness of its growth. That point of the village which Nature left unprotected was made inaccessible by defences formed of brawny arms and un compromising clogs, that from some cause or other were frequently brought into sturdy action. It would accept no light offered by a neighbour, but would go on groping stumblingly through its old and cherished darkness, content if it feasted coarsely, slept profoundly, and kept its looms going in that drowsy monotonousness that had distinguished past generations.

Introduction

. 7 trailed over with honeysuckle, the flaming red brick mansion now reared itself. Where the garden was once, odorous of onions and " potyarbs," mingled with the wadflower and the white rose, the greenhouse now sheltered delicate exotics ; and the atmosphere of the country generally was more of an artificial flavour, much to the alarm of its sod grown denizens, who could not foresee where such things would end. Leases were falling in everywhere around ; and one in Mossburn was drawing to a close. It drew nearer; the notice to quit was at last to be served upon the tenants. This cottage was the sweetest-looking and best-kept dweUing in Mossburn. Standing, as it did, in the midst of a garden where the alder-trees drooped from the high backed fences, where patches of orchard straggled amongst flower-beds and low fruit-shrubbery, it could scarcely be seen from the narrow trough of lane that bisected the viUage, except when the annual coat of whitewash was applied to its waUs, and the sun's rays made it flash out keen glances through each opening in the jealously watching fences.

In the interior of the dwelling everything was of the nicest primness ; the oaken chest, the eight-day clock, the couch-chair with panels black as ebony, the elaborately carved arm chairs that always stood in the same places, the mantel-shelf laden with rare household things, the hearth broad, and always shining with a red glow, the window overspread with a network of flowering plants, and the waUs of such a whiteness that a fly lighting on them looked like a giant fly from its shadow being reflected there, the old dame's weU-preserved china and daintily-used crockery glistening on the thickly-piled shelf and full-bosomed corner cupboard, all contributed to form as sweet a picture of a domestic nest, in which the prevailing spirit was repose, and where the softer harmonies of life attuned themselvos in heavenly concord, as could be found anywhere in our much-loved island.

Mark Brundrett had inherited this cottage from his father. It had seen three generations of the Brundretts come and go, and the fourth was standing at the gate, ready for his departure. Mark was in his eightieth year, and shrivelling up, like the leaves in November. His dame was several years his junior, but feeble, and in constant watching for the summons that was to call her hence — a change she was quite prepared to meet. The pair had lived quiet and unobtrusive lives. They had seen no man in their day perish for the want of that which they could spare ; nor had they ever forgotten in their prayers that there were needy souls beside their own yearning for the " grace that aboundeth." They were good and upright people, with a hand for their own support, and one to help a neighbour ; and if the world can say greater things of any of the mites that creep upon its sur face, let it trumpet them forth.

A son and a daughter, the youngest and only surviving of man)' children, were the pride and stay of the elder Brundretts. The two had followed in the track that had been well trodden by heaven-tending feet, swerving not to the right hand nor to the left, but keeping steadily in the narrow path, and treading lightly and reverently in the footprints of those who had gone before.

INTRODUCTION.

. 9 The elder of the two, Luke Brundrett, was a young man of superior mould. He had the ambition to look beyond Mossburn, and had attained all he had aspired to. When quite a youth he left his native home to serve an appren ticeship with a distant relative in Manchester, a tradesman of high standing in the commercial world, but a man of very eccentric disposition, who, in addition to being a con firmed bachelor, was looked upon as being extremely penurious in his habits. Luke, however, knew how to manage his employer, and had not been long in the latter's service before he had obtained his fullest confidence. The young fellow went right to the head of the concern as soon as he was ready for the position, and he fulfilled the trust reposed in him with honour to himseh and profit to the man he served.

A weekly portion of his almost princely salary found its way to the old cottage at Mossburn, for the support of his parents ; and, being a man of abstemious habits himself, depositing in the concern a large percentage of his wages as they fell due, he soon had the reputation of not only being rich, but of being a partner with his kins man, a circumstance upon which no words of his own ever threw the faintest light. Rich he deserved to be, and rich he undoubtedly was ; but the Mossburners knew nothing of the real fact — they only surmised. Grace Brundrett was the premier flower of all that bloomed in the garden of Mossburn. Of personal attrac tions — of which she was not the least vain, if she was at all aware of their possession — she had something more than the allotted share ; but there was an inward loveliness, an emanation of the soul, that threw up these outward endowments, so that every line was an idyl in the poetry of beauty.

Even her simplicity, that went about with her as a faithful handmaiden, was, as it were, a casket, setting off the worth, if not the brilliancy of the gem, in a soft liquid light, from which the eye might drink inspiration for ever. She was the idol of her brother. Had he forgotten his Christian duties, and worshipped only her, it might not have been too great a sin to be atoned for, seeing that ho was only flesh ; and, for aught he knew, Grace might have been an angel on an earthly mission. Although past the age when the pulse begins to quicken at the exchange of glances that mean more than mere friendship, she was stiU as fresh as a rose newly blown, if the simde is not too hackneyed. Light wavy hair she had, that would not be kept under control by ever so charming a knot or girdle, but would have its own way, and flowed freely about her shoulders, and surged round her neck in wanton playfulness, like the tide of a golden sea.

Eyes she had whose blue had no peer in the softest summer sky, or in the depths of that fabled ocean whose floors are of sap phire ; and when I say that the column supporting this exquisite apex had all the elegance of symmetry that her name could suggest, I shall have done my best to convey to the reader's imagination an idea of what I conceive to be a woman in the truest and highest sense of that great but much disparaged word. Such were the Brundretts as I knew them ; and if they deserved a better fate than would appear to be in store for them, perhaps there was an eye watching over their welfare that would — well, to the incidents of the story.

Chapter I

notice to quit. It was the noon of a summer day — a June day, I believe — and. about eight or nine years ago, that, as old Mark Brundrett was enjoying his after-dinner nap in a rude bit of summer-house, he was startled by the clinking of the latch of the garden gate, the sound being accompanied by a cough that struck the old man as being of a not very pleasant omen. He got up from his couch, and was in the act of giving a loud yawn, when his half-opened eyes en countered a face that was not altogether imfamdiar. It was that of the Squire's bailiff, the factotum of Mr. Hulton Gerrard, of Mossburn Hall. " Been havin' yer comfortable, I see, Mr. Brundrett," said Mit Johnson, taking off his hat to the old man, and brushing up his short hair with a brown and clumsy -looking hand. The visitor — why they caUed him " Mit " I do not know, but I never heard him caUed by any other name — was a burly feUow, who seemed to have no idea but that his rudely-formed and heavy limbs were peculiarly adapted to the functions of a dancing-master, as he would scrape and bow, and give his body sudden and awkward twists, that were undoubtedly set down by him as exceedingly graceful movements.

He had evidently studied his employer's manners, with a determination to copy them as closely as his ungainly figure would permit, even to the affectation of a simper that Mr. Hulton Gerrard had doubtless acquired in the atmosphere of some very tight-laced drawing-room. This latter was, perhaps, the most ludicrous of his weak nesses, as his tongue could never have been formed for the purpose of discoursing soft and musical nonsense, or of syllabling the sweet English of a lady's boudoir. It was a farmer's tongue all over, and the hand that waved an awkward salute to Mark Brundrett was as much a portion of a plough as is the share or framework of that rustic implement. " Just a bit," replied the old man to Mit's polite-put query. " Splendiferous weather," said the bailiff, with another brush of his hair.

Ay, nice, very nice," responded Mark. Fine gooseberries." For th' time." Intended for show ? " Hardly." Hem ! What is them onions — capes or ports ? Noather ; tripilo." 0, 1 see ; yes. Good crop." Middlin'. Short o' rain." Ready for getting towards — let me see ; ha " Two months or so." '■• Yes; pity." " Why ? " ' Have to leave them, or get them up before they're ready." ' What dun yo meean ? " :' Notice to quit. Lease expires on the first of August." " I thowt I'd been prepared for that," said the old man, his chin faUing on his breast, and his whole body quivering with a convulsive shock. " I thowt I'd been prepared for it, but I find I'm not. When ? " ' On the first of August." " That's but a short time for younger folk to look eaut a new whoam," said Mark, giving a mournfully affectionate glance at the old cottage, that seemed half inclined to com mit suicide, and thus prevent the guilt of the contemplated murder.

" But for owd folk like us, it'll be like cuttin' limbs ofl'. Look thee here, Mit, we're rooted to th' spot. There is no' a yard o' greaund that I dunno' love as if it -wur a part o' mysel', an' to have it torn fro' me is moore than I can bear. Conno' summat be done that we can tarry end way ? It wid no' be long ; an' then booath th' heause an' me, an' yon owd dame o' mine, can come deawn together." Affected and impervious to genial impressions as Mit might seem, he could not help feehng that he was engaged in very unpleasant business, and would much have preferred a commission to extend the lease of the old tenement than to be the bearer of its death warrant. He twisted himself round, played with his watch chain, gazed up at the sultry sky, and down at the drought-cracked ground, but could not fumble out or discover the slightest opening for a satisfactory answer.

He would willingly have done so, no doubt, but the capabilities of discernment failed him in this instance. The only reply he could make was : " I'm very sorry, Mr. Brundrett, but landlords is landlords, yo know ; like havin' their own way. Fact, they will have ; so that's aU about it." " But why conno' I have another year or two ? I conno' live long, an' I dar'say I con find means to pay him th' extry rent, if he wants extry." And the old man groped about his pockets, as if he was feeling for the means wherewith to satisfy the claims of a hungry landlord about to devour him. " Nay, yo' need not be axin' me," said Mit, in a most con vincing manner. " I can't argy strong enough for them as is almighty ; not I. Your lease is out, yo' know. Mister Gerrard wants the land. He sends me to give yo' notice to quit.

I does it. What more ? If I'd told him it was a shame yo' oughtn't have it longer, he'd ha' given me notice to quit, and I'm not yet pervided for. Do ye see ? " " What does he want this bit o' lond for, when he's plenty beside ? " Mark ventured to ask. " That's his bisness," replied the bailiff. " If Mister Gerrard thought it was my bisness, he'd soon ask me which was master. He don't half-an'-half it." " Well, but dun yo' think there's no chance of a poor mon's prayer bein' yeard ? " pleaded Mark. " Look yo' here," said the official, in a confiding manner, " yo' ought to know by this time what landlords is. If yo' don't, I can't tell yo'. Without the land they're as good men as is anywheere. But when they gets hold o' property, it hardens them quite natural. I knows by myself. When old Sir Horton Gerrard gave me the bit o' garden up at my place, an' said it was for me an' my heirs for ever, it made me into quite an altered man.

I felt stony ; an' if I hadn't felt stony, I couldn't have come here to-day, an' should have lost my sitiwation. That would have been it." " Then there's no hope ? " " Hope, do yo' say ? Mister Brundrett, if yo'd lived in a fine house, an' kept a carriage, yo' might have hoped ; but these tumble-down smithies are a eyesore to the Squire. They're pigsties, he saj7s ; an' them as lives in 'em he calls varment." " Varment ! " exclaimed Mark, with indignation flashing out of his old eyes, " varment ! Look thee theere, Mit," he said, pointing a quivering hand towards some object in the immediate distance, " an' teU me if that's varment. Look at that figure — look at that face, an' if there's any o' th' breed o' Gerrard's con match her, then he may co' us what he may. Va rment, indeed ! " Mit Johnson, as if he had momentardy forgotten the errand he was upon, stood gazing at the object that Mark had pointed out ; possibly with an expression on his lips that would not have done for the ears of Hulton Gerrard.

The object that so much entranced the susceptible factotum was the figure of Grace Brundrett, just emerging from the porch, and casting inquiring glances at the visitor, as if half divining the purpose of his visit. It was the first time Mit had seen the girl, though he had frequently heard of her beauty. Often as he had visited the cottage she somehow managed to keep out of sight, and he had not sufficient curiosity in his nature to pry too closely into the character of what he considered to be household ornaments. He was the father of a family, so what had beauty to do with him, except in the little surroundings of his own home — the flaxen-haired troop of urchins, and the patient matron who had the care and the delight of their youthful training ? Notwithstanding all this, the bailiff was smitten with Grace's beauty ; but not to the extent of that idolatry that consumes the yearning madcap of sixteen, who fancies there is no world outside the circle in which his mistress moves.

It was simply a feeling of admiration, which created no flutter in his breast, nor detracted one iota from the charm of his own home-idols. After staring at Grace Brundrett till it possibly occurred to him that he was making a fool of himself, Mit Johnson turned to old Mark ; and with a heave of the chest that denoted a temporary neglect of the respiratory organs, exclaimed, " Varment ! " " Ay, varment," responded Mark, " ut yo'd hunt eaut o'th' country, like rottens an' foumarts, ut ate yo'r corn an' yo'r roots, an' stale yo'r chickens an' ducks, and make waste wheere should be plenty. Mit, th' clog's on the t'other fout ; eaur landlords are th' varment. If they see a nice cosy place, like this bit o' th' spot o' mine, they come on it like wolves, an' will no' be satisfied tdl they've devoured it.

What help have I, or any other poor mon ? Their will's law, and we mun abide by it." " Yo' must," assented the bailiff, as if unconsciously delivering himself of the affirmation. " Look," continued Mark, " heaw owd Worra i' Chatter thorpe has been sarved. He made his farm like a garden ; on' when his bit o' th' lease w7ur run eaut his londlord nearly doubled his rent. When Worra' said it wurno' fair, and objected to payin' th' extry rent, he're very soon towd ut he'd nobbut one other chance — leeavin'. An' leeave he did, poor an' broken-hearted, as I shall leeave here. ' " Mark, give me yo'r fist ! " exclaimed the baditf, seizing the old man by the hand, as the latter was struggling with his emotion ; " yo' shaU no leave this place, by " " Husht, Mit," said old Brundrett, checking the oath that was evidently on the bailiff 's lips ; " between these fences, an' under that roof, God's name wur never takken i' vain.

Let it be free fro' wicked sayin's an' wicked ways for th' short time I have to be here, whatever it may be after I'm gone. I'll tak' thy word for it's honesty an' well-meanin', witheaut takkin a greater peawer i'th' bargain. Thank thee, Mit, thank thee ! But what can theau do ? " " Forget to leave this notice," replied Mit, fumbling with a paper he had taken from his pocket. "That would be lyin," said the old man; "an' no good could come of it, noather to thee nor me." " Well, then, I'U tell Mister Gerrard I'll see him d d first ; wid that do ? " and Mit took a long breath, as if the utterance of the expletive had relieved him. " But He'll happon pardon thee," said Mark, after a pause, during which the old man appeared to have been communing with something that lodged in the very depths of his soul.

" But dunno say that word again." " Well, if I've said worse things than I meant, yo'll forgive me, I know ; and that's summat to'ard puttin' it right. But I maun be off afore I change my mind." And Mit, thrusting into his pocket the missive he had been charged to deliver, suddenly turned to go. " Good-day ; Mister Brundrett ! " he said, w7aving his hand to the old man. " Next time yo' see me I hope to bring yo a lease that'U last yo'r lifetime." " Good-day ! " said Mark, as Mit Johnson made a dash at the gate. The latter was, however, suddenly brought up by his observing a pair of eyes gazing intently on him as he was about to hft the latch. The eyes were suddenly averted on their encountering the semi-rude glance of the factotum. " Ay, the old un's right," the bailiff muttered to himself, as Grace turned away.

" Nothin' in the Gerrard line like that. Miss Louisa's a good figure, certainly, but waxy. Miss Alice has a good face in a mornin', but, somehow, it fades afore night. Then she squeezes herself so awfully to make believe she isn't fat, as if it was a shame to turn up a good skin. This lass is perfect everywhere. Mister Gerrard's young, but he hates women ; well, sich women as he has about him. Plenty o' brass but nothin' spicy. If he didn't want to come here a second time, I'd give him up But he's so close. Can't get him to stir anywhere. Now I've a good mind to tell him plump that I won't serve this notice ; and if he can't get any one else he must do it him self. He'll go on awfully at first, but I think I see my way. If that lass's face doesno' make him int' a new chap, I shall think something's the matter with his eyesight, or ut there's nothin' under his waistcoat only shirt and red flannel.

No heart, nor feelin' o' no sort." If Mit Johnson did not exactly give verbal utterance to these sentiments, he turned them over in his mind, and played with them upon his lips, as if he would like to have made a confidant of the air he breathed, or of the blossom wiiitened hedgerows that shed their perfume so gratefully about him. He had left old Brundrett's garden, but dallied at the gate, which he was at some trouble to fasten, because of the wilful latch, that would not drop into its proper place, like an old humbug that it was, but would stick, and turn awry, and slip off the catch — anything but do as it ought. Then there was such provoking peepholes in the fence, through which he could obtain glimpses of something that made him linger, as if he had forgotten part of his errand, and was cudgelling his memory to bethink himself. At last he tore himself away, and made straight for Mossburn HaU.

Chapter II

A QUARREL AND A RECONCILIATION. The seat of Hulton Gerrard, Esquire, nephew of old Sir Horton Gerrard, Knight, from whom the estates of Mossburn had descended, was situated more than a mile from the vdlage ; and as the then proprietor stirred little abroad, and mingled less with his tenantry, he was as much a stranger to the people about him as if he had Uved a hundred miles away. The mansion, which for generations had been the residence of the Gerrards, had nothing of pretention about it. It was simply a large farmhouse, budt in a mixed style, but despoded of its farm offices, and slightly modernised wherever repairs had been found necessary. It stood on a lonely spot, overlooking a clough that had the reputation of being haunted : and much of the weird character of the place attached itself to the person of Mr. Hulton Gerrard.

It was an owlish-looking old place, as though it slept all day long, and only opened its eyes when the gloaming came ; and then only just to watch the "boggarts" commence their pranks, and " mouse " over the clough like a dreamy ogre, that preferred to steal abroad at tho time when " all cats are grav," to following the examplo of other mansions — airing itself in broad daylight, and at eventide coming out merrily and hospitably, and shaking its old sides with tho good humour of genial revelry. No wonder, then, that the Gerrards were touched with eccentricity : that old Sir Horton was a gloomy bachelor ; and that his heir, through living with him for several years, had inherited much of his character. The hitter's youth had been a chequered one. At school he was the genius ofharm less mischief; a sprightly boy, who knew not what lack of spirits meant, nor ever nursed a care till it had time to grow.

The death of his parents, and the subsequent consignment of himself and sisters to the charge of their uncle, wrought such a change in the young man's disposition that ho would scarcely have been recognised as the same person. He became thoughtful and solitary in his habits, eschewed all society except that of his two sisters, and at last shut him self up in the old hall, and became comparatively speaking, a recluse. It was in one of these gloomy fits that his factotum, Mit Johnson, found him, on his return from his visit to Mark Brundrett's. Mr. Gerrard was in his library, poring over the pages of a treatise on the liver, when Mit broke upon his privacy. " Well, have you served the notice ? " demanded the Squire, laying down the book, but without in the slightest degree altering the sombre expression of his countenance.

Mit stole a glance at the gloomy face, and gave way to sundry and twinging forebodings touching the issue of that momentous interview. Gathering courage out of his hair, which he pulled, and brushed, and rumpled with a some what nervous hand, the worthy badiff made bold to give the only answer possible : No." " No ?" exclaimed the Squire, with a suddenly assumed frown ; " what do you mean ?" " I means to say as I haven't served the notice," was the other's reply. And why not ? Explain yourself." Why, because I couldn't." You couldn't ! You can read, can't you ?" "Yes, and pretty well, too, for me, as never had any larnin'. But it wasn't along o' not bein' able to read." " What then ?" " Mr. Hulton — Mr. Gerrard, I mean — I'm not made o' stone." " Nobody would ever suspect you were ; more likely wood, since you've such a wooden head."

" Them's hard words, Mr. Gerrard, an' sich as yo'r uncle never spoke to me aU the time I was with him ; no, not when I was only a milk-boy, in cast-off charities that I brought from the workhouse. Draw back the wood, Mister Gerrard, if you wouldn't hurt the feelings of a — a — honest man." Mit was within an ace of saying " gentleman," but he withheld that term, and substituted the plainer one. c " Well, you say you couldn't serve the notice, I have your own words for it," said Mr. Gerrard, in a softened manner. " You haven't yet given me an intelligible reason for not doing so." " As I said before, Mr. Gerrard, I'm not stone," pursued the bailiff, recovering a httle of his lost firmness. " I've a heart as can feel for another. I'd rather this minit — " " I anticipate what you're going to say," interrupted the Squire, with a significant wave of the hand.

" I'll save you the trouble of finishing the sentence. Take your hat, and go ; I'll send your month's wages by one of the servants." " But, Mister Gerrard—" " I will not hear another word. Begone ! " " But " " The door's behind you. You know the way out. If I have to remind you, it may be unpleasant." " If I hadn't once seen you smde, Mr. Hulton," said Mit, retreating towards the door, " when you was a little un, an' romped on my knee, an' played wi' my whiskers that was just a-comin', I wouldn't ha' cared ; but them words from you touches me here, they does." And Mit placed his hand to his breast as he bowed his departure, and gave way to something that required a vigorous application of his greasy sleeve to the part affected. " Stay ! " shouted the Squire, as soon as the discharged bailiff had quitted his sight, and was firing smaU artillery with his heavy shoes in the ringing corridor.