The Beckside Boggle and other Lake Country Stories

Front matter

{Frontispiece, p. 3. The Scene of Desolation, THE BECKSIDE BOGGLE AND OTHER LAKE COUNTRY STORIES BY ALICE REA ■govCit&xx T FISHER UN WIN 26 PATERNOSTER SQUARE 1SS6 CONTENTS. I'AGE THE BECKSsDE BOGGLE . . . . i HOLLY AND MISTLETOE. CHAP. I. CHILDHOOD 33 II. CHRISTMAS 59 III. AT HOME 8? IV. DAVEY 112 V. BEATRICE 142 VI. FRIENDS IN NEED 1 55 VII. LESS TWENTY POUNDS 190 VIII. CHRISTMAS EVE 211 IX. THE DARK NIGHT . 222 LOST ON THE MOOR 279 HOW OUR FATHERS WENT A-BURYING . THE BECKS IDE BOGGLE. I j£#ga|V«sJ U T few of the ordinary lake country Ifelsllssfig visitors will be aware of the existence of iff wil?./ I t'ie sma^ valley which is the scene of this story or tradition. It is a quiet, narrow little dale, situated at the foot of Scawfell, on the west side. Pedestrian tourists, crossing by the mountain track from Eskdale to Wastdale, leave it unnoticed.

The black tarn at one side, and the giant fells around, with the treacherous bog beneath their feet, absorb their whole attention. But, to those who do know it, the little dale has an interest all its own. A quiet hush pervades the place, different from the undisturbed silence of the wild fells above. There is an air of sadness in its solitude, and as you emerge from the narrow gorge, which forms its head, and follow the sheep track by the beckside, where trees and fields and signs of man appear, the riddle is solved. It is no unexplored nook of Nature's own keeping, but a once populous little dale, now forsaken and deserted. Here and there you stumble over heaps of stones — all that remains of what was once a cluster of rude cottages, inhabited, perhaps, in the days when the great peat-bog that surrounds the tarn above was a part of the vast forest of Eskdale and Wastdale.

Further still down the dale a few yards of double walling remain to remind us of the ancient pack horse road to Kendal. Between these low walls, when our grandfathers were young, did the gallant bell-horses of nursery lore and their patient followers trot with their heavy packs, eager to rest their weary limbs in the hospitable stable of the " Nanny Horns." Of this once busy house of entertainment for man and beast, one gable and a weed-grown garden alone remain. Before we reach the ruins of the " Nanny Horns," however, we come to more hopeful signs of habitation. Here, by the beckside, stands a small farm house, with barn, cowhouse, and stable complete. A rude stone bridge spans the stream, and large trees wave solemnly overhead. But one look at the house, and the sense of desolation becomes stronger than before.

Chapter I. Childhood

gp^pass^lHE great barn at Holm Place Farm, in KgIe«§^I t'ie Par'sh °f Bleabank, presented a S&lw tilll ver^' appearance on a certain February evening in the year 18 — . All the cobwebs within reach of a long brush had been cleared from its rough granite walls, its floor had been well swept, lamps and candles, decorated in various fanciful ways, were secured to the walls, or hung from the strong oak beams, and now shed their light upon a very merry party of dancers, who wound in and out, up and down, in full enjoyment of the ample space thus afforded for their amusement. Around the barn were ranged rough forms and benches of various kinds for the accommodation of those who might, either through age or choice,prefer to be lookers on only. At the end of the barn, on a slightly raised platform, sat the musicians of the evening : three fiddlers, each vying with the others in the grace and style of his performance.

Old Tommy Atkinson, " Fiddler Tommy," as he was called, who had been dancing-master to the district for many a long year, sat in the centre, with his son, Tommy the younger, on his left hand, and Geordie Banks, fresh from Whitehaven, and full of " all maks " of new-fangled ideas and tunes, on his right hand. This had been a great day at Holm Place. The eldest daughter had that morning been married, and as the match was considered a very good one, the merry-makings were on a more than usually extensive scale. There was one figure, however, in the barn which seemed somewhat out of harmony with its surround ings. By the fiddlers' platform, leaning in a careless attitude against the wall, stood the Rev. Charles Armstrong, Vicar of Bleabank. He was a man of CHILDHOOD. 35 about thirty years of age, tall and well-made, the natural expression of his face was bright and pleasing, his manner friendly and genial, and it was certainly not his ordinary habit to stand silently aloof, as he had been doing for the last quarter of an hour, watching the dancers in a listless manner, and answering any remarks mad« to him with a preoccupied air.

A little old man, who had taken note of Mr. Arm strong's long reverie from across the barn, made his way quietly to his side, and laying his hand gently upon his arm, suggested, in a somewhat marked tone of voice, " Yan can't get everything in this world, just exactly as yan wad like, thee kens." The Rev. Charles started slightly at being thus suddenly addressed, and the bright eyes of the little old man looked meaningly, almost sympathetically, into his face as he continued, "When yan can't get t' first prize, yan can be middling comfortable wid t' second, or t' highly commended card, either, maybe ; " and then away he slipped to take his share of the refresh ments to be found in the farmer's hospitable kitchen, and Charles Armstrong was again left to his thoughts. It was a new sensation for him to be a looker-on only HOLLY AND MISTLETOE. in such a scene; his young blood tingled and danced within him to the time of the vigorous fiddling, and as the floor gave with the dancing feet, and the flushed cheeks and bright eyes of the gay couples flashed past him, he felt very young, for all his thirty years, and also very — alas! be it said, in spite of his black waistcoat and white, well-starched tie — very human.

Again, as often before during the last two years, he asked himself, almost with anger, Why was he to be left out of all that, apart from his work, made life worth living? A dance more or less was nothing, of course, though it had a strange power of calling again to his mind many scenes, pleasures, and hopes of the past ; but why were the truly good things of this life to be denied to him ? who would ever dance at his wedding ? when could he ever marry ? When, indeed ! And he laughed a short, bitter little laugh of contempt at himself and his circumstances. He was no monk of the Thebeid, no bright and shining light, but just an honest, religious young Englishman, full of life and spirit. In his college days he had been highly popular, but, being utterly careless for the future, had made CHILDHOOD. 37 the worst possible use of his advantages, having given his whole mind to work and play, and never having made as much as one friend, with an eye to future patronage and assistance.

Thus, when his working days began, he found himself left entirely to the gentle care of Dame Fortune herself, and now, at the age of thirty, here he is apparently settled for life, as the Vicar of Bleabank, away amongst the Cumberland Fells, with an income of eighty pounds a year, a comfortably built cottage, and some thirty acres of land. And yet Dame Fortune might have treated so improvident a child much more hardly. His parishioners were " real honest dale folk," who liked their pleasant young vicar fairly well, and were always pleased to hear his bright, cheery voice calling good-day to them over the field walls when they were at their work. " He is a real nice spoken gentleman," they would say, " free and open with a body, not yan of them set-up sort that yan sees in some spots." His cottage was dry and comfortable, the chimneys even did not smoke ; his land included some of the richest acres in the parish, and he had been fairly successful in his small farming ventures, and yet — HOLLY AND MISTLETOE.

In each one's journey through life it must, at some time or other, happen that we stand where two roads stretch before us, and our choice must be made between them. Sometimes the guide-post helps us clearly to a decision ; " this is the way " is plainly written, and woe to the man who shrinks from walking therein, however strait and dark and thorny may be the road. Tread down the thorns, and light up the way, if you can, or stumble on in darkness, but take it and push on. But at other times the lettering on the post is indistinct and uncertain, or they may both lead to the same end, but by different ways ; then the choice being one of expediency, becomes perplexing, and the traveller is apt to follow any stray leading that may cross his path ; the flight of a bird, the remark of a passer-by, may give the required bias, and thus, from the slightest influence, the whole life-history may be cast.

At such a point was Charlie Armstrong standing this night. Once before he had found himself at the parting of two roads, but then the writing had been quite clear. He had chosen his work honestly and bravely, knowing at the outset that no influence would be used for him, no favour shown, in the pro- CHILDHOOD. 39 session most needing it ; upon this road he had met with no first prize, nor, indeed, had he expected one. And now he felt himself again drawing towards another place for choice. One of the first discoveries made about the human race was, that it was not good for man to be alone ; so it is not to be wondered at that, at the mature age at which he had now arrived, this point should rather urgently press upon Charlie Armstrong, demanding immediate consideration. It was not a new dis covery by any means, but the last years of living alone in that little cottage, waited upon by a stern looking dame of advanced years, and not the most gentle of manners, had brought it before him in a more urgent light.

The old and, as it now seemed, almost childish fairy-princess visions had receded far away in the distance of his early youth. What had he, the Vicar of Bleabank, the proud owner of three cows and a few black -faced herdwick sheep, to do with any " airy fairy Lillians," with any " pretty little Lillians," such as he had so often danced with and flirted with in the days gone by ? No, all that sort of folly was over : he could not win a first prize there either. Should he — and that was the question that he knew he must answer at once, if he could— should he take something lower, a second prize, as Dixon had suggested? He knew it was there if he would take it; knew that old Dixon's remark had not been altogether without significance. If he had doubted it, he need only have followed the old man's eyes, which had glanced rapidly past the dancers, over to a slight, girlish figure at the opposite end of the barn, who also had been watching the clergy man's reverie, even while chatting quietly with her companions.

Agnes Ritson was a girl that many a young farmer would have given some good acres to have danced with or talked to all night, and yet to-night, though all around were so merry and gay, Agnes let one dance after another pass. There was a preoccupied air about her that deterred, once and again, her numerous admirers from requesting her to join them. In fact they had long learned to respect the moods of the " finest-looking lass in the dale," as many of them termed her. She was an only child, and per haps a slightly spoiled one. She had a habit of at times withdrawing herself from the company sur- CHILDHOOD. 41 rounding her, and quietly thinking her own thoughts in a way slightly incomprehensible to her blunt, out-spoken neighbours, and they had at last learned to leave her to herself at such times, for Agnes was by no means a perfect young woman; as one somewhat subdued youth expressed it, "she could look that scornful-like at one."

There was no scornful look in her eyes now, as, turning her head, she met Charlie Armstrong's glance. The warm colour mounted up to her dark hair, and she slipped quietly away amongst the other guests. She is good, he thought. Her old father and mother knew best how loving and gentle she could be. She was pleasant for the eyes to rest upon, and if her speech were somewhat broad, and her phrases did at times jar upon his better tuned ear, the tones of her voice were soft and sweet — sweet enough to draw out the hearts of all the little children in the village. There was not one among all the numerous sheep-dogs on the farm but would wag its tail and blink its eyes at a word from Agnes, however tired or savage it might be. And so it came to pass that Charlie Armstrong wooed and won the sweetest and fairest, if not the best, of his parishioners.

The day came, the feast was spread, the bells rang out, the fiddles were tuned, and the whole aspect of Bleabank Parsonage was changed. All was bright and cheerful. Warm firelight glowed through the well-cleaned windows, and was reflected in the polished furniture ; bright flowers bloomed in the little garden, and their sweet scent found its way through door and window ; daintily prepared meals and gentle ministrations replaced old Jane's rough attendance, and Charlie learned the delights, after a hard day's work, of returning to a happy, cheerful home of his own. As time passed on children's voices rang about the house, and small feet pattered up and down the stairs and in and out of the garden, making new paths about the old plac.s to sheltered nooks and corners of orchard and coppice, till the little cottage and glebe perfectly overflowed with life.

" So Charlie Armstrong has settled at last ! " remarked one of his old friends to another. " Whom has he married, did you say ? " was the reply. CHILDHOOD. 43 " Oh, a farmer's daughter in the neighbourhood." " Rather a pity, is it not ? He was such a very gentlemanly, nice fellow ; but I suppose a man must marry some time, and who but a native would go and live in such an out-of-the-way place as Blea bank! " " She is a nice-looking, quiet girl, they say, and he might have done worse perhaps." So his former friends discussed his affairs. And when, after a first appearance or two together at the few and far between social gatherings in the neighbouring parishes, he generally appeared alone, his excuse for his wife's absence on the score of the baby or the children was received with no further remark than that " it was an awkward distance for a lady."

And so things arranged themselves com fortably. The vicar did his work with a lighter heart for the thought of his bright little home to return to at night, and Mrs. Armstrong lived her life of full and complete self-abnegation to her handsome, clever husband. Hers was the world of home ; public affairs or opinions only affected her in so much as they ruffled or smoothed his brow. The two eldest children were girls. The death of the second, just as she entered her tenth year, was a great grief to her father and mother, who seemed to lavish a double portion of care and love upon the one still left to them. Beatrice, the eldest, in due time grew into a tall, graceful girl, and quickly passed from paternal tuition, through a clergy daughters' school, to the world beyond. After a brief career as a governess, one bright summer day the old church bells rang out a merry wedding peal, and Bee and her husband, young Tom West of the Riverford Banking Company, settled in a comfortable house of their own in Riverford, whence papers and reviews came at intervals to cheer her father's leisure.

A year or two behind these elder ones arrived the two children, " Charlie the Second," as his sisters called him, and little Ann ; Charlie, so bright and brave, and full of mischief, and Ann, so small, and delicate, and fragile, that her mother could never trust her from beneath her own watchful eyes, nor out of reach of her motherly arms. All the grand educational theories, and perhaps resources, seemed to have been expended upon Bee, and these two little ones grew to quite an advanced CHILDHOOD. 45 age before any one had thought it time for them to try their young wings in independent flight. The time did at last arrive, however, when the paternal nest had to be stirred up : " the stronger of the fledgelings must take wing." A desk was found for Master Charlie in his brother-in-law's office, and he and little Ann, now a slight, thoughtful girl of fourteen, had to take their last walk, with their friend Rothery Parker, over the fell to the vicarage of the next parish, where they three had gone daily for several years to receive lessons from Mr. Green, the vicar, varied, on Ann's part, by instruction in the more feminine accomplishments from Mrs. Green.

Mr. and Mrs. Green had been good friends to the children, and there were three sad young faces that turned for a good-bye look towards the little white house at the fell foot as they reached the point where the path began to descend to the Blea bank side of the fell. " Our last walk to school together," sighed Charlie : " to-morrow I shall be in Riverford, glued to a desk." And he impatiently kicked the grass in contempt for the said most useful article of office furniture. " You, Roth, will be at Whitehaven, hammering your nails, and Ann — ah ! you have the best of it : girls need not grind for a living, though perhaps Riverford won't be so bad ; and any way," laughing at Ann's sympathetic face, " I would not be a girl ; but still, you will be here with mother, and every thing. I wish I were you, Rothery," he continued, as the others walked on in silence.

" If you are only hammering nails, still you are driving them into a good ship's side, and when your time is out you may go sailing away over the ocean free, and all in a ship of your own building." " Not exactly," laughed Rothery ; " but still I mean to try for something more than nail hammering, I can tell you, when I have, as you say, worked my time out. And meanwhile I shall come to see father every month, for the week end." A tone of satisfaction crept into his voice at the last few words, as his eyes rested, not upon his father's joiner's shed and cottage, which were now visible below them — white specks among green trees — but upon Ann's sad little face at his side. " You make a fortune fast with your money bags, Charlie. A bank ought to go faster than a ship-yard. Then you shall pay for the ship, and I CHILDHOOD. 47 will build it, and off we shall go, round the world and far away."

" And what can I do ? " said Ann, somewhat wistfully ; for they seemed to her to be then starting for almost as great a voyage from the old home and child life as even a ship could take them in years to come. " You," replied Charlie, with good - natured, brotherly condescension — " oh you must stay at home and take care of father and help mother, and we will bring you all kinds of grand things when we come back from our travels — shawls and fans, monkeys and poll parrots, and beads and oranges and things, and perhaps, if you are very nice and obliging when we come home, and make lots of cakes and jam to take away with us, we will bring you a real live Red Indian, war paint and all, like the picture in my old book that you used to cry about when you were in bed in the dark. Oh, and a white elephant, of course, and lots of lovely things, and sweeties like Beatrice brought us from Paris.

Oh, won't you have to make your drawers and cupboards larger when we come home ! " " But," protested Ann, laughing at the medley, " I shall be quite an old woman before you can get all that, and then I won't care for your sweeties and poll parrots so much, you know." " Oh yes you will ; old ladies always like shawls, and poll parrots too, when they have handsome sailor brothers to bring them to them from over the sea ; only don't you go and get married like Bee, you know, or — I say, Roth, what if Ann should go and get married while we are away ? that would be a swindle ; only fancy, to come home from everywhere, and not have her to tell the yarns to, unless," as a bright thought struck him, " we brought home a wife each ourselves." " I think," said Rothery, " the best way would be to take Ann with us.

Will you come, Ann ? " he continued, as she glanced gratefully towards him. " I shall have the building of the ship, you know, and you shall have a gorgeous cabin, all velvet and gold and mahogany7, most splendid." " Would you take me ? " and Ann's eyes sparkled with delight. "Oh, that would be glorious, and I too would see all the world. Oh, that would be just splendid," and she drew a long breath, as though drinking in the idea, then shut her eyes to ima- CHILDHOOD 49 gine all the glories which rose before her mental vision. "Ah! yes," assented Charlie : " then, you know, you could marry the Indian chief upon the spot." " And be squaw to his Serene Highness the Great Buffalo," laughed Ann, coming down from her high flight. " Thank you, sir ; there is mother watching for us at the gate. You will come in for our last children's tea together, Rothery, won't you ?

" Four years have passed away since we took our last peep at the children ; four years of growth and development, Charlie Armstrong and Rothery Parker have passed through the dark days of hobble-de-hoyhood into the golden age of young manhood. Charlie, with his straight, active figure, fair, frank face, and merry ways, is still a favourite with the entire dale. On winter evenings, when he draws the old fashioned footstool to his mother's side, and in the warm firelight takes his old place, with his head resting upon her knee, her whole heart seems to go out in the look of love which meets the roguish blue eyes turned so honestly to her own. " Had ever mother so good and fair a son as mine ? " she thinks, as she tries to twine his short, curly locks round her fingers, and laughs as merrily as Ann herself at his first successful attempt to pull the silky down on his upper lip within reach of his teeth, revelling in a perfect feast of mother's love and pride.

Every one likes Charlie, his holidays are looked forward to by young and old. Business, politics, crops, gossip, funerals, weddings, dances, christen ings, come equally within range of his sympathies. Even the credit of the ever popular Riverford Banking Company rose in the estimate of these cautious Cumbrians from the mere fact of Charlie being connected therewith. Some of the most timid at the sight of his honest face and sound of his cheery laugh began to think less well of the proverbial old stocking as a keeping-place for their money, remembering that though there might be a satisfaction in knowing where you had it, still there might be a greater satisfaction in finding it gradually increasing, as Charlie quite confidently assured them it would do in competent hands. CHILDHOOD. 51 " He's a real fine lad," they would say, " and his sadder, likely, kens what mak o' folks he has sent him amang, and they've not hurt t' lad, howiver."

And Rothery Parker : Rothery, too, had grown up to manhood, perhaps even more quickly than Charlie. The difference in their social position showed itself more plainly in this than in any other way. The children of the working classes are brought earlier into more direct contact with the real things of life than those of a higher grade in society : there is consequently less of the careless, merry abandon ment of youth about them ; and Rothery was no exception to this rule. Though brought up almost entirely with the parsonage children, surrounded as nearly as possible by the same influences, still there was a steadiness and caution, a self-reliance and quiet tenacity of purpose about him, that years of experience and many a tussle in the world struggle could alone give to Charlie, if, indeed, he ever attained to them.

Whence the difference came, I cannot tell you ; I must leave that to others more wise in such matters than myself. You had but to see the two young men to feel it, and yet their education, in the ordinary acceptance of the term, had been much the same. The church parsonage and old Parker's cottage were on the opposite side of the river from the village, a rough cart-road connected the two houses, while from the parsonage a good road led past the church, along the banks of the river, and then turned over a stone bridge into the village street, a good half-mile distant. Occasionally old Parker, who was of a rather taciturn, shy disposition, would drive his horse and cart through the river, by the uneven ford, below his own wood-shed, and thus gain the high-road without passing any other house ; but that was not the ordinary custom ; as a general rule all that came and went to the joiner's shop was duly observed from the parsonage windows or doors.

Thus, cut off from all other neighbours, the children were almost entirely dependent upon each other for companionship, and, added to the isolation of their position, another circumstance had occurred to draw still more closely the bond between the two houses. When Rothery was a little, helpless toddle of CHILDHOOD. 53 some three years old, his quiet, gentle mother died, her last moments being cheered by Mr. Armstrong's spiritual ministrations, and his wife's tender care. It was Mrs. Armstrong's motherly arms that had held the baby face down for its mother's last kiss, and upon her shoulders had dropped the little weary head, in contented baby sleep, on that first night of its bereavement, all unconscious of its loss. As Mrs. Armstrong laid the little motherless sleeper by her own cherished darling in his dainty bed, she knelt down by the side of the two little ones, and then renewed the promise she had made that morning to Mrs. Parker, that never, in so far as she could supply the place, should Rothery lack a mother's care or guidance.

The first year she kept the child entirely under her own care, and then the poor father could spare his one comfort no longer, and Rothery returned home. Most tender, however, still was the watch which Mrs. Armstrong kept over his welfare. The woman whom Parker engaged as housekeeper proved a decent enough person, so that as time passed on a daily report of himself became the extent of the supervision Mrs. Armstrong deemed necessary. When Ann and Charlie became pupils of Mr. Green, most urgent were the demands from both of them that Rothery should go too, and thus from babyhood the three had grown together, read the same books, played the same games, and been even nourished upon the same description of food, and yet, even in their childhood, the same difference existed between the two boys, that became more apparent as they grew towards manhood.

Were they at play, sailing boats in the becks or busy with games of their own invention among the crags on the fell, it was to Rothery's care that Mrs. Armstrong en trusted little Ann. Many a time, with a kind smile, she would lay her hand upon his shoulder, and say — " I don't know how I should manage on busy days without you, Rothery, to take care of Ann; I always feel she is safe with you." And the lad would blush and look up into her face with a glow of pleasure in his eyes, as he would reply — " But you know, Mrs. Armstrong, I like to take care of her, she is so little, and I am so strong — I am stronger than Charlie." As for Mr. Charlie, one day, when he and Rothery had formed a temporary dam across the beck, making CHILDHOOD. 55 what they termed a splendid " dub," Charlie persuaded Ann to trust herself upon a raft, in the shape of an old door, assuring her that it was quite safe, and would be certain just to float down the stream and ground on the pebbles a little lower down on the other side ; but when her untrustworthy craft had grounded upon a rock, and the little voyager, though no coward, began to look at the rushing water all round her, and her little red lips began to tremble, and cheeks grow pale, it was Rothery who had plunged in and carried her in his arms safely to land.