The blacksmith of Voe : a novel

Front matter

_ 0 ^ 0 k * \X X

Q? s 4

C 0 N C X- * * xV\ N

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

Prologue, i

I. — A Dark Horse, 13

Chapter I A Dark Horse

“ Gentlemen, it is time to begin business. Gentlemen, I solicit your attention, and would ask for silence.”

Rat, tat, tat went the auctioneer’s hammer on the back of the stout arm-chair upon which he was standing.

The hum of voices ceased, and the auctioneer continued: “I am here to-day, gentlemen, to sell a very valuable piece of property. It will be sold in one lot.”

Murmurs from different parts of the room.

“Such are my instructions, gentlemen. The land must go with the house and the shop. There is no reserve price. It will become the property of the highest bidder. The house and smithy alone are worth four hundred pounds of any man’s money.”

Ironical laughter from the crowd.

“Gentlemen laugh! I don’t wonder. I meant five hundred pounds, not four.”

Louder ironical laughter.

“Oh, I dare say you think, gentlemen, that two hundred would have been nearer the mark ? ”

“Hear! hear!” in a chorus.

“Yes, to be sure; exactly so. But I’m not so green, gentlemen, as I evidently look. My instructions are to sell, not to give away. John Marsden is an auctioneer, not a relieving officer. But the matter is in your own hands, gentlemen; the place isn’t worth a farthing more than you will give for it. But this I will say: gentlemen, for a widower, or a bachelor, or a man with economical ideas regarding the size of his family, there isn’t a prettier, snugger, neater cottage within a dozen miles of Voe. And then the business that goes with it! Didn’t our poor dead friend, known to most of us here from our cradle up as honest Jack Wragg, drive as fine a smithy as you’ll find in Peakshire? He made money enough at it. And, gentlemen, remember that honest Jack Wragg left behind him a poor, sorrowing widow, with no child to work for her and comfort her in her old age. All her fortune is in this small estate; and with the image of poor Jack Wragg’s sorrowing widow before your eyes, who will be stony-hearted enough to say that the place is not dirt cheap at five hundred pounds?”

A dead silence followed this appeal, and the auctioneer smjled a benediction on the group of upturned faces.

“Gentlemen, I knew it would be so,” he said solemnly.

He paused a moment or two, then he continued in secular style: “In addition to house, smithy, and the adjoining garden, there are two acres one rood and seventeen poles of land. It consists of two small meadows beside the river Scarthin, and separates the squire’s land from Miller Boden’s, who, I am glad to see, is present. Gentlemen, you know the land as well as I do: better grass-land is not to be found in the whole valley of the Scarthin; it is worth a hundred pounds an acre. Gentlemen, what offer do you make for the house, smithy, garden, and meadow-land? Any offer, gentlemen! Start it at anything you please.”

“ Fifty pounds,” sang out a gentleman in a smock-frock, who was well known to everybody, and was not worth fifty shillings in the world.

Loud guffaws greeted this outburst of spirit.

“ Fifty pounds; thank you, sir. Fifty pounds only is offered for — sixty, eighty, a hundred, a hundred and — fifty; thank you, Mr. Boden. Is there any advance on a hundred and — sixty, seventy, eighty, two hundred; thank you, Mr. Sims. If the squire gets it for the money, he — two hundred and ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty — fifty. Two hundred and fifty pounds only is offered for the — sixty, seventy, eighty, ninety; thank you, Mr. Sims. Two hun — three hundred it is, and thank you, Mr. Boden. Going for three hundred pounds; is there any advance on three hundred pounds? Gentlemen, I must tell you a story — a true story,” said the auctioneer, thrusting his hands in his trousers pockets, and putting on the well-known comical expression that always heralded one of his famous stock of true stories.

The common room at the Nag’s Head Inn, where the sale was taking place, was crowded with dwellers in and about Voe. The event had been looked forward to with unusual interest for some weeks, during which time it had formed the staple of conversation in the village, and had been discussed from every point of view accessible to local knowledge.

Indeed, the discussion had generated no little heat, and had led to the making of a good number of small bets. The smallness of the bets, moreover, in no way diminished the interest in the result. The area of speculation was very limited, the only

A DARK HORSE

*5

question being whether Squire Saxton or Miller Boden would be the purchaser. It was conceded on all hands that the contest would lie between these two; the very idea of any foreign competition was excluded.

That there should be a sale at all was a matter to be regretted; for the Wraggs had been the smiths of Voe time out of mind. Honest Jack liked a glass of beer as well as any man in the dale, and now and then, at long intervals, would get a little market pert. At such times Jack Wragg grew mighty proud of his forbears, and cracked of his ancestry as bravely as a lord.

“ My fathers have stood on this hearthstone for over three hundred years. Squire Saxton is a gentleman and I bain’t; but I’m better than a hundred years older than he is,” he had been known to say, more than once, in his lively moments.

But the line had at last run out, and the smith of Voe would no longer bear the almost official and historic name of Wragg. This was evil enough, forsooth, in the eyes of the natives, and was inevitable. But if the Wragg place was to be sold, of course the miller or the squire would buy it. And it was equally a matter of course that the squire’s purse was a foot to the miller’s inch in depth; but it was not equally certain which of the two was prepared to dip the deeper into his purse.

Naturally the squire would like to get hold of that two acres one rood and seventeen poles of land along the riverside; everybody knew that it was a kind of Naboth’s vineyard, for which a long line of squires had lusted. But it was the kingdom, power, and glory of the Wraggs, and they had clung to it with a pride in which there was something royal.

As for the miller, the natives were all sure that he wanted the land, and would run a tight race with the squire to get it; but there was less unanimity of opinion as to the real reason why he wanted it. Among the reasons admitted to be probable, and discussed as such, were the following:

No. I. The miller owned just ninety-seven acres two roods and twenty-three poles of land already; and if you added to this, two acres one rood and seventeen poles more, the result would be exactly one hundred acres. Any one could understand that the miller would like to get the round number of acres, especially as the Wragg land lay next to his own, and was second to none in the parish. The authority for the exact number of acres, roods, and poles owned by the miller was not shown or inquired for: in Voe, folk are not of the breed of breath-wasters, who are all for argument and proof, and will i6 not believe a brick wall is made of bricks till they have run their heads against it.

No. II. The miller did not get on very well with the squire, and wanted the land to spite him.

No. III. The miller got on very well with the squire; but there was no doubt he was at heart a Radical, though he professed — no, he did not profess — he was always, like a wise man, dumb on politics

No. IV. The miller was a stanch Conservative, and wanted to strengthen his influence in that direction. Soil is weighty in good honest Tory scales, and many a mickle makes amuckle.

No. V. The miller had a sour, gloomy devil in him, and though he did not care a brass farthing for the land really, it was his satanic whim to oppose whoever did.

No. VI. The miller hated young Abel Boden, Jack Wragg’s assistant. It was twenty years ago that the quarrel took place; and his brother Abel had gone off to foreign parts to avoid arrest, and was probably dead now. The miller could not bear the sight of his brother’s lad, and had been heard to say he wished him a hundred miles off. It was not the land he wanted, but the smithy. If he once had that, his nephew Abel would never shoe another horse in Voe.

The general hope was that the squire would get the place; but when it came to the betting, the odds were in favor of the miller. He was known as one who was bad to beat, tenacious in purpose, obstinate in will, dogged in determination. Still, everything depended upon the squire’s instructions to his agent, Mr. Sims; and the prospect of a close contest had produced a state of feeling in Voe that bordered upon excitement.

The auctioneer told his story; it was a good one, altogether too good to be true, but it was too long to be reproduced here. A burst of long and loud laughter, such as many an actor would give a month’s salary to provoke, attested its success; then to business again.

The bidding was fairly brisk, though it advanced chiefly in spurts that rose and fell as if obedient to a mechanical law. For some time, several outsiders contributed to keep the ball rolling, much to the disgust of the natives, who were eager for the great home contest to begin.

One by one the foreigners were silenced and driven off the field; the competition grew narrower and narrower, until at last it lay between Miller Boden for himself and Mr. Sims for the squire. The battle had begun. The auctioneer forgot to joke, the on-lookers to cough; not a whisper was heard, not a foot was shuffled. All lips were parted and many mouths were

A DARK HORSE

*7 open ; had the necessary muscles been at hand, every ear would have been pricked.

The figures had mounted up high. Five hundred pounds was the last bid, and Miller Boden had made it. The market value of the lot was already exceeded by a clear fifty pounds, and whoever got it now would pay a fancy price for it. The miller stood with one foot on a chair, in front of the auctioneer, with a stern, sullen look on his face. To his left, near the window, was Mr. Sims, smiling a little nervously just now, for he felt that all eyes were upon him.

“Any advance on five hundred pounds? Going at — five hundred and ten pounds."

A low murmur of applause.

“Five hundred and ten pounds. Mr. Boden, you will not lose it for ten pounds? Shall I say twenty, twenty? Twenty it is, and thank you. Five hundred and twenty pounds; going at ”

“ Thirty."

Another murmur of applause, at which the miller frowned heavily.

“Thank you, Mr. Sims. Five hundred and thirty pounds; any advance on — come, Mr. Boden, it would be a pity to lose it for a paltry ten pounds. Shall I make it forty ? just another ten? Going— forty, and I thank you. Five hundred and forty pounds only" (a laugh) “is offered; going at five hundred and — you have not done yet, Mr. Sims, I am sure; another ten? You will be sorry when it is over — is it fifty ? Going, going "

“ Fifty," said Mr. Sims, and his mouth closed with a snap.

A deep murmur of approval filled the room, and threatened to break out in a ringing cheer.

“Gentlemen, I am offered five hundred and fifty pounds. Going at five hundred and fifty pounds; once

“ Sixty," growled the miller, and again that deep murmur filled the room; for his pluck was admirable.

He looked surprised and pleased, and sank his hands deep into his pockets. But the squire’s representative thrust his thumbs into the arm-holes of his waistcoat and shook his head significantly. He had done. The squire was beaten and the fight was over, thought the crowd, and something like a great pent-up sigh of disappointment broke forth; those near the door began to move out to spread the news.

“ Five hundred and sixty pounds is offered. Going, going, go "

“ Seventy!" cried a voice a little in the rear of the auctioni8 eer; and if a bomb had suddenly exploded in their midst, it would hardly have caused a greater sensation.

The hammer fell from the auctioneer’s hand and rattled on to the floor, where it lay unnoticed; while the auctioneer himself turned round in his chair to get a look at the new bidder. The miller stood up and glared at him furiously. Those that had moved out came trooping back, and stood on tiptoe by the door, trying hard to get a glimpse of the stranger.

On every face was depicted wonder, and every man asked his neighbor the same question, “Who is he?” and each gave the same answer, “Blest if I know.”

He was a man who looked a hale sixty, of medium height, dressed in a cutaway suit of dark blue serge, with a billycock hat thrown back well off his forehead, thus affording a good view of his face. His close-cropped hair was pretty well frosted, but his short thick beard and mustache were almost the color of a chestnut. His eyes were gray and of kindly aspect; his nose was doubtless originally a good specimen of the Roman type, but by some catastrophe it had apparently been broken and turned askew; under his left eye was a deep scar, extending across the greater part of his cheek. He was magnificently bronzed, and mellowed as is no human fruit under the sky of Old England.

Another foreign trick — he held a wooden toothpick between his teeth, and amused himself by gnawing the end.

What with oblique nose and scarred cheek, there was a certain grimness in his appearance; but his eyes, genial and humorous, gave away his savagery entirely, and blabbed of the sweet milk of human kindness.

Character always peeps out through the eyes. Every other organ of the body will, upon occasions, lie. The facial muscles will make lying their regular occupation, and carve upon the face most eloquent fictions. But the eye mirrors only reality; therein, if anywhere, is visible the true nature unmasked and naked. Therein one may catch a glimpse of that coy mystery, the soul. The stranger’s eyes were his salvation.

At this moment, perhaps the most remarkable thing about him was his exquisite self-possession. He knew the sensation he had made; he knew that all eyes were upon him; he could not fail to hear the buzz of inquiry and astonishment that filled the room. But it seemed only to amuse him. He was, indeed, conscious of a momentary tingle; but the tingle was pleasant.

Right hand in trousers pocket, left playing with his beard, toothpick between his teeth, a good-natured smile flitting over

A DARK HORSE his face, he stood easily, and met in turn one-half the eyes that made of him a cynosure.

One of the very best forms of introduction is a good, honest look in the eye. Among simple, primitive people, it precedes and almost supersedes speech. And those of the company who met the glance of the stranger felt very much as though they had shaken him by the hand. Also, these were they that formed, on the spur of the moment, a new party, and gave the stranger their sympathy, and straightway backed him in the coming contest with the miller. On the other hand, the miller had his backers; good, honest folk enough they were, whose motto was, Voe for the Voese, and who entertained a proper contempt of foreigners.

Presently the auctioneer got down, and securing his hammer, remounted his chair and continued: “Gentlemen, while there is life there is hope. Faint heart never won fair lady. Only the brave deserve the fair. Nil desperandum. Hang on like a bull-dog, etc., etc. Gentlemen, time is going, and our friends here are both eager to get at each other’s throat — I speak in a parable. Five hundred and seventy pounds is offered — gentlemen, if you have set your hearts upon it, it will be cheap at a

thousand. Any advance on ”

“Eighty,” growled the miller stubbornly.

But the stranger evidently meant business, and without any loss of time called out, “ Ninety! ”

This seemed to sting the miller; he began to wake up and look sharp; and for some time, amid breathless silence, with no interruption save the verbal repetition of the bid on the part of the auctioneer, the fight went on so:

Miller. “ Six hundred. ” •

Auctioneer. “ Six hundred.”

Stranger. “And ten.”

Miller. “ Twenty. ”

Stranger. “Thirty.”

Miller. “Forty.”

Stranger. “ Fi f ty . ”

Miller. “Sixty.”

Stranger. “ Seventy. ”

Miller. “Eighty.”

Stranger. “ Ni nety .

Miller (with a fierce grunt). “Seven hundred.”

For a moment or two, the auctioneer raised himself from his bent-forward position, in which he acknowledged the bids, and eased his back. The crowd did very much the same thing ; throats were cleared, noses blown, feet shuffled; then silence fell again.

“Gentlemen, another start, and success to the bravest! Seven hundred pounds is offered. Any advance?”

Stranger. “And ten.”

Miller . “Twenty.”

Stranger. “Thirty.”

Miller. “Forty.”

Stranger. “ Fifty. ”

A long, a fearfully long pause seemed to follow. Perfect silence reigned; but if glances had been audible, there had been a tumult. The miller, with his foot on the chair, with bended head and downward eyes, did not look beaten ; and yet his ominous silence!

“ Any advance on seven hundred and fifty pounds ? Once — twice ”

“Five,” said the miller, with an upward jerk of his head.

A thrill went through the crowd. The miller had come down to a fiver. He was bending. He was breaking. There was a general catching of the breath in surprise; it sounded like the gasp of a Thor.

“ Seven hundred and fifty-five. Any ”

“Sixty-five,” cried the stranger, working the toothpick with his teeth from side to side of his mouth, in a manner that said, as plainly as if spoken in Voe dialect: “Marry come up! none of your fivers for me. We’ll fight it out in fifties if you like! ”

There was another pause before the miller answered the challenge.

“Eighty,” he growled, and a many-folded “Ah!” was breathed by the crowd.

All eyes turned to the stranger. Slowly he drew from his waistcoat pocket another toothpick, and put it between his teeth; it was a clean, pointed, wiry, unchewed toothpick, and seemed good for another five hundred pounds.

It made several quick passages from one corner of the mouth to the other; then it halted for an instant on the larboard quarter, while its owner called out, “ Eight hundred! ”

Plump down on his chair went the miller — beaten.

“At eight hundred pounds, going, going — GONE! What name, sir?”

“Christopher Kneebone,” answered the stranger, pulling out of his hip pocket a large roll of bank-notes.

Chapter II Below The Belt

Outside the Nag’s Head it was a white February afternoon, cold and cheerless. The sky looked surly, and the air was full of snowflakes, not dry and crisp, but wet and heavy like halfdrowned butterflies. I suppose every flake remained true to its scientific character, and assumed the shape of a six-rayed star — every ray the axis of a little world of exquisite beauty. But to ordinary eyes whose lids were roofs and whose lashes were spouts running with melted snow, there was nothing visible of this cunning architecture. The beautiful stellar shapes were nothing but vicious white dabs of water, of great sticking power, which suddenly melted into rivers, lakes, and waterfalls, seas, bays, and gulfs, and other interesting bodies of water, all over one’s personal landscape. So the crowd, not caring to face the weather in a hurry, now that the sale was over, dispersed itself quickly into the various rooms of the inn, and for some hours discussed the situation, and rehearsed in detail the moving drama of the auction. East and west along the valley, north and south over the hills and the moors, the tale travelled swiftly and in perfect form. A little goldenbreasted romance on wings, it flew hither and thither, and sang its song, and passed like a quick gleam of color, until the whole country-side was talking of the battle at the Nag’s Head.

It was the evening of the day of the sale. In a little cosey sitting-room in a quiet part of the inn, in front of a merrily burning fire, sat Christopher Kneebone. The tea things had not been long removed, the white cloth had given place to a red one, and in the centre of the table stood a glass lamp of yellow tinge. The chair occupied by the man was an arm-chair covered with horsehair, and very low; the springs were feeble, and there was a deep sag in the seat, which, however, added to the comfort of sitting in it. When new, the seat had resembled a tolerably stiff ball, on which it would have been an acrobatic feat to sit without the aid of the supporting arms. The man’s legs were crossed, which brought his top knee on a line with his chin. He was smoking a long-stemmed pipe of cherry-wood, and reading at intervals the morning Standard. Like a potent and jealous spirit, the paper appealed to him with its own peculiar charm, and would not let him rest. Yet the magician was unable to hold his attention for more than a few minutes at a stretch; then the paper would fall upon his knee, and he would puff slowly, with his eyes upon the ruddy fire. Now and then from afar came the sound of a loud voice or a ringing laugh, mellowed by distance and muffled by the heavy red curtains that hung before the door. It was snowing still outside; and looking at the window, which overlooked an orchard, one could see the snow driving against the panes, and already piled high up on the sill. The man, catching sight of the heaped-up snow against the window, got up, and putting his face close to the panes, while he cut off the light with his hands, peered out into the night. White orchard; white boughs and black trunks; black wall with white coping; a well windlass and bucket quite white, and three feet of hangingchain quite black; beyond the orchard the Scarthin, a broad black band; a white slope, and then the high hills, steep, covered with firs with white arms and black poles. A wild, sad, dismal, eerie world to look upon. The man shivered with imagination, and came back, and sat enjoying the company of the man-loving and man-beloved spirit of the flame. Presently the landlord came into the room and said:

“ Mr. Boden, the miller, sir, is outside, and would like to see you for a few minutes, if it’s agreeable to you.”

“Oh, yes; show him in,” answered Kneebone, and the landlord retired. In a little while there was a knock at the door, and Kneebone called out, “Come in.” The door opened, and in walked the miller.

Let us take a good look at him as he stands there, in front of the red curtains, the yellow light of the lamp falling full upon him. It is twenty years last May since we saw him on the edge of the quarry on the moor. There are so many unknown murderers walking the earth that the chances are that we have seen more than one in our time; have probably sat at the same table with one; ridden in a railway carriage together, and through the darkness of a long tunnel. What a sweet sensation we should have had, if we had only known! In the miller’s case, we happen to know a thing or two, and so our eyes are wondrous seeing; but if we had not known, it is a question that we should have detected any trace of the murderer in Miller Boden. He has grown stout, and his hairless face is large and red; his brown eyes are very restless. Still, he looks one in the face frankly enough, and his voice is not unpleasant,

BELOW THE BELT though a trifle gruff. His manner, like that of most of us, depends upon his temper, and his temper is variable. There is something akin to fate in physical organization, and certain types of moral character are strangely allied with certain lines of bodily structure. As the difference between a saint and a sinner may be identical with the quality of the liver, so the mental and moral fibre of a man is determined by certain lines and curves of physical growth. People are easily classified. A few well-known types include most of them. Seeing the individual, we recognize the type; knowing the type, we know fairly well what to expect of the individual, and we are seldom disappointed — for the individual is rarely able to transcend the rigorous limitations of his type. On his face, and, for the matter of that, on every square inch of his body, nature had published the fact that the miller’s temper was short, fiery, irascible. In a subtiler way, she had also notified the fact that a certain element of sullenness and gloom had modified the original quality of his temper. But people pay very little attention to these subtile and vital modifications, of which Nature, however, is so very full and fond. Yet cunning as Nature is in publishing our secrets, there are some that slip through her fingers in a curious fashion. Who would have thought, for instance, that that florid, well-fed man found night a dreadful horror to him? That for twenty years he had awoke nightly with a start, and oftentimes a cry, with the groan of a dying man in his ears? That for twenty years the sensation of a drop of water that had fallen on his under lip had remained with him day and night, burning him like an acid? These were secrets of which Nature gave no sign, or gave it only in hieroglyphics which no one could read. It is just like the eccentric dame. Let a man from Asia, Africa, or America pass our way, and if he be vain, Nature will write upon him this notice, in universal characters, Behold a peacock! Our next-door neighbor shall be a forger, a burglar, or a murderer, however, and Nature will keep as voiceless as a giraffe. A comparatively blameless creature sets a whole continent curling its lip, while a monster may pass to and fro like an angel unawares. Not that we would have it understood that the miller was a monster. Gladly would he have given all he possessed to be able to fish up his brother’s dead body from the old shaft and revivify it.

He was a widower now— his wife, the pretty, piquant Alice Duckmanton, having been dead a dozen years or so. She had left him with one child, a girl named Ruth, rising eighteen. But for Ruth, years agone the miller would have given himself up to justice, and have suffered what penalty the law might have inflicted. He had not been happy with his wife, perhaps because he felt that he had paid too heavy a price for her; but Ruth was his idol. He loved her, not tenderly and Softly, but passionately and fiercely, as a tiger its cub. To an on-looker there was little or nothing that was humanizing in the miller’s love for his daughter. But, then, the on-looker could see only what was to be seen, and in every great love there is much that is not open to the eye, and there are powers of unguessed good.

Christopher Kneebone had risen as the miller came into the room.

“ Good-evening, Mr. Boden. Be good enough to take a seat,” he said, pointing to the leather-covered sofa, broad-bottomed and springless, that stood against the wall to the miller’s left hand.

“ Thank you. I hope I’m not intruding, sir? I wanted to have a bit of talk with you about the sale,” said the miller, settling himself at the head of the sofa, near the fire.

Kneebone pushed the circular table some distance back, and moved his chair to the other side of the hearth, opposite the miller.

“Do you smoke?” he inquired, as he refilled his pipe.

“Well, I don’t mind if I do have a pipe, seeing as how you are smoking. I’m not much of a hand at it, though.”

“ That’s right. What will you have to drink ? ”

“ Hot gin’s my drink.”

Kneebone rang the bell, and ordered a “ church-warden ” and a couple of gins; he furnished his own tobacco. Pipes were lighted, glasses touched, healths drunk; then, having duly mounted this social platform of fraternity, conversation was in order.