The Squire of Sandal-Side A Pastoral Romance

CHAPTER I.

SEAT-​SAN­DAL.

“This hap­py breed of men, this lit­tle world.”

“To know That which be­fore us lies in dai­ly life Is the prime wis­dom.”

“All that are lovers of virtue ... be qui­et, and go a-​an­gling.”

There is a moun­tain called Seat-​San­dal, be­tween the Dun­mail Raise and Grisedale Pass; and those who have stood up­on its sum­mit know that Gras­mere vale and lake lie at their feet, and that Win­der­mere, Es­th­waite, and Con­is­ton, with many arms of the sea, and a grand broth­er­hood of moun­tains, are all around them. There is al­so an old gray manor-​house of the same name. It is some miles dis­tant from the foot of the moun­tain, snug­ly shel­tered in one of the loveli­est val­leys be­tween Con­is­ton and Torv­er. No one knows when the first stones of this house were laid. The San­dals were in San­dal-​Side when the white-​hand­ed, wax­en-​faced Ed­ward was build­ing West­min­ster Abbey, and William the Nor­man was lay­ing plans for the crown of Eng­land. Prob­ably they came with those Norse­men who a cen­tu­ry ear­li­er made the Isle of Man their head­quar­ters, and from it, land­ing on the op­po­site coast of Cum­ber­land, set­tled them­selves among val­leys and lakes and moun­tains of primeval beau­ty, which must have strong­ly re­mind­ed them of their na­tive land.

For the pre­vail­ing names of this dis­trict are all of the Nor­we­gian type, es­pe­cial­ly such abound­ing suf­fix­es and pre­fix­es as _seat_ from “set,” a dwelling; _dale_ from “dal,” a val­ley; _fell_ from “fjeld,” a moun­tain; _garth_ from “gard,” an en­clo­sure; and _thwaite_, from “thveit,” a clear­ing. It is cer­tain, al­so, that, in spite of much An­glo-​Sax­on ad­mix­ture, the salt blood of the rov­ing Viking is still in the Cum­ber­land dales­man. Cen­turies of bu­col­ic iso­la­tion have not oblit­er­at­ed it. Ev­ery now and then the sea calls some farmer or shep­herd, and the rest­less drop in his veins gives him no peace till he has found his way over the hills and fells to the port of White­haven, and gone back to the cradling bo­som that rocked his an­ces­tors.

But in the main, this love­ly spot was a north­ern Lo­tus-​land to the Viking. The great hills shut him in from the sight of the sea. He built him­self a “seat,” and en­closed “thwait­es” of greater or less ex­tent; and, for­get­ting the world in his green par­adise, was for cen­turies al­most for­got­ten by the world. And if long de­scent and an an­cient fam­ily have any spe­cial claim to be held hon­or­able, it is among the Cum­ber­land “states­men,” or free­hold­ers, it must be looked for in Eng­land.

The San­dals have been wise and for­tu­nate own­ers of the acres which Loeg­berg San­dal cleared for his de­scen­dants. They have a fam­ily tra­di­tion that he came from Ice­land in his own gal­ley; and a late gen­er­ation has writ­ten out por­tions of a saga,--long oral­ly trans­mit­ted,--which re­lates the in­ci­dents of his voy­age. All the San­dals be­lieve im­plic­it­ly in its au­then­tic­ity; and, in­deed, though it is full of fight­ing, of the plun­der of gold and rich rai­ment, and the car­ry­ing off of fair wom­en, there is noth­ing im­prob­able in its re­la­tions, con­sid­er­ing the peo­ple and the time whose sto­ry it pro­fess­es to tell.

Doubt­less this very Loeg­berg San­dal built the cen­tral hall of Seat-​San­dal. There were gi­ants in those days; and it must have been the hands of gi­ants that piled the mas­sive blocks, and eyes ac­cus­tomed to great ex­pans­es that mea­sured off the large and lofty space. Small­er rooms have been built above it and around it, and ev­ery gen­er­ation has added some­thing to its beau­ty and com­fort; but Loeg­berg's great hall, with its enor­mous fire­place, is still the heart of the home.

For nowhere bet­ter than among these “dales­men” can the En­glish el­emen­tal re­sis­tance to fu­sion be seen. On­ly at the ex­treme point of ne­ces­si­ty have they ex­changed ideas with any oth­er sec­tion, yet they have left their mark all over En­glish his­to­ry. In Cum­ber­land and West­more­land, the most pa­thet­ic ro­mances of the Red Rose were en­act­ed. In the strength of these hills, the very spir­it of the Ref­or­ma­tion was cra­dled. From among them came the Wyck­lif­fite queen of Hen­ry the Eighth, and the no­ble con­fes­sor and apos­tle Bernard Gilpin. No lover of Protes­tantism can af­ford to for­get the man who re­fused the bish­opric of Carlisle, and a provost­ship at Ox­ford, that he might tra­verse the hills and dales, and read to the sim­ple “states­men” and shep­herds the un­known Gospels in the ver­nac­ular. They gath­ered round him in joy­ful won­der, and lis­tened kneel­ing to the Scrip­tures. On­ly the death of Mary pre­vent­ed his mar­tyr­dom; and to-​day his mem­ory is as green as are the ivies and sycamores around his old home.

The Protes­tant spir­it which Gilpin raised among these En­glish North­men was ex­cep­tion­al­ly in­tense; and here George Fox found ready the strong mys­ti­cal el­ement nec­es­sary for his doc­trines. For these men had long wor­shipped “in tem­ples not made with hands.” In the solemn “high places” they had learned to in­ter­pret the voic­es of winds and wa­ters; and among the stu­pen­dous crags, more like clouds at sun­set than frag­ments of sol­id land, they had seen and heard won­der­ful things. All over this coun­try, from Kendal to old Ul­ver­ston, Fox was known and loved; and from Swarth­moor Hall, a manor-​house not very far from Seat-​San­dal, he took his wife.

Af­ter this the Stu­arts came march­ing through the dales, but the fol­low­ers of Wyck­liffe and Fox had lit­tle sym­pa­thy with the Stu­arts. In the re­bel­lion of 1715, their own lord, the Earl of Der­went­wa­ter, was be­head­ed for aid­ing the un­for­tu­nate fam­ily; and the hills and wa­ters around are sad with the mem­ories of his la­dy's hero­ic ef­forts and suf­fer­ings. So, when Prince Charles came again, in 1745, they were moved nei­ther by his beau­ty nor his ro­man­tic dar­ing: they would take no part at all in his bril­liant blun­der.

It was for his stanch loy­al­ty on this oc­ca­sion, that the Christo­pher San­dal of that day was put among the men whom King George de­ter­mined to hon­or. A baronet­cy was of­fered him, which he de­clined; for he had a feel­ing that he would deeply of­fend old Loeg­berg San­dal, and per­haps all the rest of his an­ces­tral wraiths, if he merged their an­cient name in that of Baron of Torv­er. The sen­ti­ment was one the Ger­man King of Eng­land could un­der­stand and re­spect; and San­dal re­ceived, in place of a cost­ly ti­tle, the lu­cra­tive of­fice of High Sher­iff of Cum­ber­land, and a good share be­sides of the for­feit­ed lands of the rebel hous­es of Hud­dle­ston and Mil­lom.

Then he took his place among the great coun­ty fam­ilies of Eng­land. He passed over his own hills, and went up to Lon­don, and did homage for the king's grace to him. And that strange jour­ney awak­ened in the moun­tain lord some old spir­it of ad­ven­ture and cu­rios­ity. He came home by the ocean, and per­ceived that he had on­ly half lived be­fore. He sent his sons to Ox­ford; he made them trav­el; he was de­light­ed when the youngest two took to the sea as nat­ural­ly as the ei­der-​ducks fledged in a sea-​sand nest.

Good for­tune did not spoil the old, cau­tious fam­ily. It went “can­ni­ly” for­ward, and knew how “to take oc­ca­sion by the hand,” and how to choose its friends. To­wards the close of the eigh­teenth cen­tu­ry, an op­por­tune loan again set the doors of the House of Lords open to the San­dals; but the head of the fam­ily was even less in­clined to en­ter it than his grand­fa­ther had been.

“Nay, then,” was his an­swer, “t' San­dals are too old a fam­ily to hide their heads in a coro­net. Hap­pen, I am a bit opin­ion-​tied, but it's over late to loosen knots made cen­turies ago; and I don't want to loosen them, nei­ther.”

So it will be per­ceived, that, though the San­dals moved, they moved slow­ly. A lit­tle change went a great way with them. The men were all con­ser­va­tive in pol­itics, the wom­en in­tense­ly so in all do­mes­tic tra­di­tions. They made their own sweet wa­ters and unguents and po­mades, long af­ter the near­est chemist sup­plied a far bet­ter and cheap­er ar­ti­cle. Their spin­ning-​wheels hummed by the kitchen-​fire, and their shut­tles glid­ed deft­ly in the weav­ing-​room, many a year af­ter Manch­ester cot­tons were cheap and plen­ti­ful. But they were pleas­ant, kind­ly wom­en, who did won­der­ful needle­work, and made all kinds of dain­ty dish­es and cor­dials and sirups. They were fa­mous florists and gar­den­ers, and the very neat­est of house­wives. They vis­it­ed the poor and sick, and nev­er went emp­ty-​hand­ed. They were hearty Church­wom­en. They loved God, and were tru­ly pi­ous, and were hard­ly aware of it; for those were not days of much in­quiry. Peo­ple did their du­ty and were hap­py, and did not rea­son as to “why” they did it, nor try to as­cer­tain if there were a le­git­imate cause for the ef­fect.

But about the be­gin­ning of this cen­tu­ry, a dif­fer­ent day be­gan to dawn over San­dal-​Side. The young heir came to his own, and sig­nal­ized the event by mar­ry­ing the rich Miss Lowther of White­haven. She had been fine­ly ed­ucat­ed. She had lived in large cities, and been to court. She dressed el­egant­ly; she had a pi­ano and much grand fur­ni­ture brought over the hills to San­dal; and she filled the old house dur­ing the sum­mer with lords and ladies, and po­ets and artists, who flit­ted about the idyl­lic lit­tle vil­lage, like gay but­ter­flies in a love­ly gar­den.

The hus­band and chil­dren of such a wom­an were not like­ly to stand still. San­dal, en­cour­aged by her po­lit­ical in­flu­ence, went in­to Par­lia­ment. Her chil­dren did fair­ly well; for though one boy was wild, and cost them a deal of mon­ey, and an­oth­er went away in a pas­sion one morn­ing, and nev­er came back, the heir was a good son, and the two girls made splen­did mar­riages. On the whole, she could feel that she had done well to her gen­er­ation. Even af­ter she had been long dead, the old wom­en in the vil­lage talked of her beau­ty and spir­it, of the tight hand she kept over ev­ery one and ev­ery thing per­tain­ing to San­dal. Of all the mis­tress­es of the old “seat,” this Mis­tress Char­lotte was the most promi­nent and the best re­mem­bered.

Ev­ery one who steps with­in the wide, cool hall of Seat-​San­dal faces first of all things her pic­ture. It is a life-​size paint­ing of a beau­ti­ful wom­an, in the queer, scant cos­tume of the re­gen­cy. She wears a white satin frock and white satin slip­pers, and car­ries in her hand a bunch of white ros­es. She ap­pears to be com­ing down a flight of wide stairs; one foot is lift­ed for the de­scent, and the dark back­ground, and the dim light in which it hangs, give to the il­lu­sion an al­most startling re­al­ity. It was her fan­cy to have the paint­ing hung there to wel­come all who en­tered her doors; and though it is now old-​fash­ioned, and rather shab­by and fad­ed, no one of the present gen­er­ation cares to or­der its re­moval. All hold qui­et­ly to the opin­ion that “grand­moth­er would not like it.”

In that qui­et acre on the hill­side, which holds the gen­er­ations of the San­dals, she had been at rest for ten years. But her son still bared his gray head when­ev­er he passed her pic­ture; still, at times, stood a minute be­fore it, and said with ten­der re­spect, “I salute thee, moth­er.” And in her grand­daugh­ter's lives still she in­ter­fered; for she had left in their fa­ther's charge a sum of mon­ey, which was to be used sole­ly to give them some plea­sure which they could not have with­out it. In this way, though dead, she kept her­self a part of their young lives; be­came a kind of fairy grand­moth­er, who gave them on­ly de­light­ful things, and her name con­tin­ued a house­hold word.

On­ly the moth­er seemed averse to speak it; and Char­lotte, who was most ob­ser­vant, no­ticed that she nev­er lift­ed her eyes to the pic­ture as she passed it. There were rea­sons for these things which the chil­dren did not un­der­stand. They had been too young at her death to es­ti­mate the bondage in which she had kept her daugh­ter-​in-​law, who, for her hus­band's sake, had been ev­er pa­tient and ret­icent. Noth­ing is, in­deed, more re­mark­able than the pa­tience of wives un­der this par­tic­ular tri­al. They may be restive un­der many far less wrongs, but they bear the moth­er-​in-​law grievance with a dig­ni­ty which shames the grim jok­ing and the petu­lant abuse of men to­wards the same re­la­tion­ship. And for many years the young wife had borne nobly a do­mes­tic tyran­ny which pressed her on ev­ery hand. If then, she was glad to be set free from it, the feel­ing was too nat­ural to be severe­ly blamed; for she nev­er said so,--no, not even by a look. Her chil­dren had the ben­efit of their grand­moth­er's kind­ness, and she was too hon­or­able to de­prive the dead of their meed of grat­itude.

The present hold­er of San­dal had none of his moth­er's am­bi­tious will. He cared for nei­ther po­lit­ical nor fash­ion­able life; and as soon as he came to his in­her­itance, mar­ried a hand­some, sen­si­ble daleswom­an with whom he had long been in love. Then he re­tired from a world which had noth­ing to give him com­pa­ra­ble, in his eyes, with the sim­ple, dig­ni­fied plea­sures in­ci­dent to his po­si­tion as Squire of San­dal-​Side. For dear­ly he loved the old hall, with its shel­ter­ing sycamores and oaks,--oaks which had been young trees when the knights ly­ing in Fur­ness Abbey led the Gras­mere bow­men at Cre­cy and Ag­in­court. Dear­ly he loved the large, low rooms, full of com­fort­able el­egance; and the sweet, old-​fash­ioned, Dutch gar­den, so green through all the snows of win­ter, so cheer­ful­ly grave and fra­grant in the sum­mer twi­lights, so shady and cool even in the hottest noons.

Thir­ty years ago he was com­ing through it one Ju­ly evening. It had been a very hot day; and the flow­ers were droop­ing, and the birds weary and silent. But Squire San­dal, though flushed and rum­pled look­ing, had still the air of drip­py morn­ings and hazy af­ter­noons about him. There was a creel at his back, and a fish­ing-​rod in his hand, and he had just come from the high, un­plant­ed places, and the broomy, breezy moor­lands; and his broad, rosy face ex­pressed noth­ing but hap­pi­ness.

At his side walked his fa­vorite daugh­ter Char­lotte,--his dear com­pan­ion, the con­fi­dant and shar­er of all his syl­van plea­sures. She was tired and dusty; and her short print­ed gown showed traces of green, spongy grass, and lichen-​cov­ered rocks. But her face was a joy to see: she had such bright eyes, such a kind, hand­some mouth, such a cheer­ful voice, such a mer­ry laugh. As they came in sight of the wide-​open front-​doors, she looked rue­ful­ly down at her feet and her grass-​and-​wa­ter-​stained skirt, and then in­to her fa­ther's face.

“I don't know what Sophia will say if she sees me, fa­ther; I don't, in­deed.”

“Nev­er you mind her, dear. Sophia's rather high, you know. And we've had a rare good time. Eh? What?”

“I should think we have! There are not many plea­sures in life bet­ter than per­suad­ing a fine trout to go a lit­tle way down stream with you. Are there, fa­ther?”

“You are right, Char­lotte. Trout are the kind of com­pa­ny you want on an out­ing. And then, you know, if you can on­ly per­suade one to go down stream a bit with you, there's not much dif­fi­cul­ty in per­suad­ing him to let you have the plea­sure of see­ing him to din­ner. Eh? What?”

“I think I will go round by the side-​door, fa­ther. I might meet some one in the hall.”

“Nay, don't do that. There isn't any need to shab off. You've done noth­ing wrong, and I'm ready to stand by you, my dear; and you know what a good time we've been hav­ing all day. Eh? What?”

"Of course I know, fa­ther,--

“Show­ers and clouds and winds, All things well and prop­er; Trail­er, red and white, Dark and wily drop­per. Midges true to fling Made of plover hack­le, With a gaudy wing, And a cob­web tack­le.”

“Cob­web tack­le, eh, Char­lotte? Yes, cer­tain­ly; for a hand that can man­age it. Lan­cie Crossth­waite will land you a trout, three pounds weight, with a line that wouldn't lift a dead weight of one pound from the floor to the ta­ble. I'll up­hold he will. Eh? What?”

“I'll do it my­self, some day; see if I don't, fa­ther.”

“I've no doubt of it, Char­lotte; not a bit.” Then be­ing in the en­trance-​hall, they part­ed with a smile of con­fi­dence, and Char­lotte has­tened up-​stairs to pre­pare her­self for the evening meal. She gave one quick glance at her grand­moth­er's pic­ture as she passed it, a glance of min­gled dep­re­ca­tion and an­noy­ance; for there were times when the com­pla­cent seren­ity of the per­fect face, and the per­fect pro­pri­ety of the white satin gown, gave her a lit­tle spasm of in­dig­na­tion.

She dressed rapid­ly, with a cer­tain deft grace that was part of her char­ac­ter. And it was a de­light­ful sur­prise to watch the meta­mor­pho­sis; the more so, as it went on with a per­fect un­con­scious­ness of its won­der­ful beau­ty. Here a change, and there a change, un­til the bright brown hair was loos­ened from its net of knot­ted silk, to fall in wavy, curly mass­es; and the print­ed gown was ex­changed for one of the finest muslin, pink and flow­ing, and pinned to­geth­er with bows of pale blue satin. A dar­ing com­bi­na­tion, which pre­cise­ly suit­ed her blonde, bril­liant beau­ty. Her eyes were shin­ing; her cheeks touched by the sun till they had the charm­ing tints of a peach on a south­ern wall. She looked at her­self with a lit­tle nod of sat­is­fac­tion, and then tapped at the door of the room ad­join­ing her own. It was Miss San­dal's room; and Miss San­dal, though on­ly six­teen months old­er than Char­lotte, ex­act­ed all the def­er­ence due to her by the right of pri­mo­gen­iture.

“Come in, Char­lotte.”

“How did you know it was I?”

“I know your knock, how­ev­er you vary it. No­body knocks like you. I sup­pose no two peo­ple would make three taps just the same.” She was far too po­lite to yawn; but she made as much of the move­ment as she could not con­trol, and then put a mark in her book, and laid it down. A very dif­fer­ent girl, in­deed, was she from her younger sis­ter; a stranger would nev­er have sus­pect­ed her of the same parent­age.

She had dark, fine eyes, which, how­ev­er, did not ex­press what she felt: they rather gave the idea of stor­ing up im­pres­sions to be re-​act­ed up­on by some in­te­ri­or pow­er. She had a del­icate com­plex­ion, a great deal of soft, black hair com­pact­ly dressed, and a neat fig­ure. Her dis­po­si­tion was dreamy and self-​willed; oc­cult stud­ies fas­ci­nat­ed her, and she was pas­sion­ate­ly fond of moon­light. She was sim­ply dressed in a white muslin frock, with a black rib­bon around her slim waist; but the rib­bon was clasped by a buck­le of heav­ily chased gold, and her fin­gers had many rings on them, and looked--a very rare cir­cum­stance--the bet­ter for them. Hav­ing put down her book, she rose from her chair; and as she dipped the tips of her hands in wa­ter, and wiped them with elab­orate nice­ty, she talked to Char­lotte in a soft, de­lib­er­ate way.

“Where have you been, you and fa­ther, ev­er since day­break?”

“Up to Blae­ber­ry Tarn, and then home by Holler Beck. We caught a creel full of trout, and had a very hap­py day.”

“Re­al­ly, you know?”

“Yes, re­al­ly; why not?”

“I can­not un­der­stand it, Char­lotte. I sup­pose we nev­er were sis­ters be­fore.” She said the words with the air of one who rather states a fact than asks a ques­tion; and Char­lotte, not at all com­pre­hend­ing, looked at her cu­ri­ous­ly and in­ter­rog­ative­ly.

“I mean that our re­la­tion­ship in this life does not touch our an­te­ri­or lives.”

“Oh, you know you are talk­ing non­sense, Sophia! It gives me such a feel, you can't tell, to think of hav­ing lived be­fore; and I don't be­lieve it. There, now! Come, dear, let us go to din­ner; I'm that hun­gry I'm fit to drop.” For Char­lotte was watch­ing, with a feel­ing of in­jury, Sophia's leisure­ly method of putting ev­ery book and chair and hair­pin in its place.

The sis­ters' rooms were pre­cise­ly alike in their gen­er­al fea­tures, and yet there was as great a rel­ative dif­fer­ence in their apart­ments as in their na­tures. Both were large, low rooms, fac­ing the sun­rise. The walls of both were of dark oak; the roofs of both were of the same som­bre wood; so al­so were the floors. They were lit­er­al­ly oak cham­bers. And in both rooms the draperies of the beds, chairs, and win­dows were of white dim­ity. But in Sophia's, there were many pic­tures, sou­venirs of girl­hood's friend­ships, needle­work, fin­ished and un­fin­ished draw­ings, and a great num­ber of books most­ly on sub­jects not usu­al­ly at­trac­tive to young wom­en. Char­lotte's room had no pic­tures on its walls, and no odds and ends of memo­ri­als; and as sewing was to her a du­ty and not a plea­sure, there was no crotch­et­ing or Berlin-​wool work in hand; and with the ex­cep­tion of a hand­some copy of “Iza­ak Wal­ton,” there were no books on her ta­ble but a Bible, Book of Com­mon Prayer, and a very shab­by Thomas a Kem­pis.

So dis­sim­ilar were the girls in their ap­pear­ance and their tastes; and yet they loved each oth­er with that calm, ha­bit­ual, fam­ily af­fec­tion, which, un­demon­stra­tive as it is, stands the wear and tug of life with a won­der­ful tenac­ity. Down the broad, oak stair­way they saun­tered to­geth­er; Char­lotte's tall, erect fig­ure, bright, loose hair, pink dress, and flow­ing rib­bons, throw­ing in­to ef­fec­tive con­trast the dark hair, dark eyes, white drap­ery, and gleam­ing or­na­ments of her el­der sis­ter.

In the hall they met the squire. He was very fond and very proud of his daugh­ters; and he gave his right arm to Sophia, and slipped his left hand in­to Char­lotte's hand with an af­fec­tion­ate pride and con­fi­dence that was charm­ing.

“Any news, moth­er?” he asked, as he lift­ed one of the crisp brown trout from its bed of white damask and curly green pars­ley.

“None, squire; on­ly the sheep-​shear­ing at the Up-​Hill Farm to-​mor­row. John of Mid­dle Bar­ra called with the states­man's re­spects. Will you go, squire?”

“Cer­tain­ly. My men are all to lend a hand. Barf La­trigg is age­ing fast now; he was my fa­ther's crony; if I slight­ed him, I should feel as if fa­ther knew about it. Which of you will go with me? Thou, moth­er?”

“That, I can­not, squire. The ser­vant lass­es are all promised for the fleece-​fold­ing; and it's a poor house that won't keep one wom­an busy in it.”

“Sophia and Char­lotte will go then?”

“Ex­cuse me, fa­ther,” an­swered Sophia lan­guid­ly. “I shall have a headache to-​mor­row, I fear; I have been ner­vous and poor­ly all the af­ter­noon.”

“Why, Sophia, I didn't think I had such a fool­ish lass! Tak­ing fan­cies for she doesn't know what. If you plan for to-​mor­row, plan a bit of plea­sure with it; that's a long way bet­ter than ex­pect­ing a headache. Char­lotte will go then. Eh? What?”

“Yes, fa­ther; I will go. Sophia nev­er could bear walk­ing in the heat. I like it; and I think there are few things mer­ri­er than a sheep-​shear­ing.”

“So po­et­ic! So idyl­lic!” mur­mured Sophia, with mild sar­casm.

“Many peo­ple think so, Sophia. Mr. Wordsworth would re­mem­ber Pan and Ar­ca­di­an shep­herds play­ing on reedy pipes, and Chal­daean shep­herds study­ing the stars, and those on Ju­daea's hills who heard the an­gels singing. He would think of wild Tar­tar shep­herds, and hand­some Span­ish and Ital­ian.”

“And still hand­somer Cum­ber­land ones.” And Sophia, hav­ing giv­en this lit­tle sis­ter­ly re­minder, added calm­ly, “I met Mr. Wordsworth to-​day, fa­ther. He had come over the fells with a par­ty, and he looked very much bored with his com­pa­ny.”

“I shouldn't won­der if he were. He likes his own com­pa­ny best. He is a great man now, but I re­mem­ber well when peo­ple thought he was just a lit­tle off-​at-​side. You knew Nan­cy But­ter­worth, moth­er?”

“Cer­tain­ly I did, squire. She lived near Ry­dal.”

“Yes. Nan­cy wasn't very bright her­self. A stranger once asked her what Mr. Wordsworth was like; and she said, 'He's can­ny enough at times. Most­ly he's wan­der­ing up and down t' hills, talk­ing his po-​et-​ry; but now and then he'll say, ”How do ye do, Nan­cy?“ as sen­si­ble as you or me.'”

“Mr. Wordsworth speaks fool­ish­ness to a great many peo­ple be­sides Nan­cy But­ter­worth,” said Sophia warm­ly; “but he is a great po­et and a great seer to those who can un­der­stand him.”

“Well, well, Mr. Wordsworth is nei­ther here nor there in our af­fairs. We'll go up to La­trig­gs in the af­ter­noon, Char­lotte. I'll be ready at two o'clock.”

“And I, al­so, fa­ther.” Her face was flushed and thought­ful, and she had be­come sud­den­ly qui­et. The squire glanced at her, but with­out cu­rios­ity; he on­ly thought, “What a pity she is a lass! I wish Har­ry had her good sense and her good heart; I do that.”