JACK AND JILL GO DOWN THE GILL
Upon a little beck that runs away into the Lune, which is a tributary of
the Tees, there stood at this time a small square house of gray stone,
partly greened with moss, or patched with drip, and opening to the sun
with small dark windows. It looked as if it never could be warm inside,
by sunshine or by fire-glow, and cared not, although it was the only
house for miles, whether it were peopled or stood empty. But this cold,
hard-looking place just now was the home of some hot and passionate
hearts.
The people were poor; and how they made their living would have been a
mystery to their neighbors, if there had been any. They rented no land,
and they followed no trade, and they took no alms by land or post; for
the begging-letter system was not yet invented. For the house itself
they paid a small rent, which Jordas received on behalf of his ladies,
and always found it ready; and that being so, he had nothing more to
ask, and never meddled with them. They had been there before he came
into office, and it was not his place to seek into their history; and if
it had been, he would not have done it. For his sympathies were (as
was natural and native to a man so placed) with all outsiders, and
the people who compress into one or two generations that ignorance of
lineage which some few families strive to defer for centuries, showing
thereby unwise insistence, if latter-day theories are correct.
But if Master Jordas knew little of these people, somebody else knew
more about them, and perhaps too much about one of them. Lancelot
Carnaby, still called “Pet,” in one of those rushes after random change
which the wildness of his nature drove upon him, had ridden his pony to
a stand-still on the moor one sultry day of that August. No pity or care
for the pony had he, but plenty of both for his own dear self. The pony
might be left for the crows to pick his bones, so far as mattered to Pet
Carnaby; but it mattered very greatly to a boy like him to have to go
home upon his own legs. Long exertion was hateful to him, though he
loved quick difficulty; for he was one of the many who combine activity
with laziness. And while he was wondering what he should do, and
worrying the fine little animal, a wave of the wind carried into his
ear the brawling of a beck, like the humming of a hive. The boy had
forgotten that the moor just here was broken by a narrow glen, engrooved
with sliding water.
Now with all his strength, which was not much, he tugged the panting and
limping little horse to the flat breach, and then down the steep of the
gill, and let him walk into the water and begin to slake off a little of
the crust of thirst. But no sooner did he see him preparing to rejoice
in large crystal draughts (which his sobs had first forbidden) than he
jerked him with the bit, and made a bad kick at him, because he could
bear to see nothing happy. The pony had sense enough to reply, weary as
he was, with a stronger kick, which took Master Lancelot in the knee,
and discouraged him for any further contest. Bully as he was, the boy
had too much of ancient Yordas pith in him to howl, or cry, or even
whimper, but sat down on a little ridge to nurse his poor knee, and
meditate revenge against the animal with hoofs. Presently pain and wrath
combined became too much for the weakness of his frame, and he fell back
and lay upon the hard ground in a fainting fit.
At such times, as everybody said (especially those whom he knocked about
in his lively moments), this boy looked wonderfully lovely. His features
were almost perfect; and he had long eyelashes like an Andalusian girl,
and cheeks more exquisite than almost any doll's, a mouth of fine curve,
and a chin of pert roundness, a neck of the mould that once was called
“Byronic,” and curly dark hair flying all around, as fine as the very
best peruke. In a word, he was just what a boy ought not to be, who
means to become an Englishman.
Such, however, was not the opinion of a creature even more beautiful
than he, in the truer points of beauty. Coming with a pitcher for some
water from the beck, Insie of the Gill (the daughter of Bat and Zilpie
of the Gill) was quite amazed as she chanced round a niche of the bank
upon this image. An image fallen from the sun, she thought it, or at any
rate from some part of heaven, until she saw the pony, who was testing
the geology of the district by the flavor of its herbage. Then Insie
knew that here was a mortal boy, not dead, but sadly wounded; and she
drew her short striped kirtle down, because her shapely legs were bare.
Lancelot Carnaby, coming to himself (which was a poor return for him),
opened his large brown eyes, and saw a beautiful girl looking at him. As
their eyes met, his insolent languor fell--for he generally awoke from
these weak lapses into a slow persistent rage--and wonder and unknown
admiration moved something in his nature that had never moved before.
His words, however, were scarcely up to the high mark of the moment.
“Who are you?” was all he said.
“I am called 'Insie of the Gill.' My father is Bat of the Gill, and my
mother Zilpie of the Gill. You must be a stranger, not to know us.”
“I never heard of you in all my life; although you seem to be living on
my land. All the land about here belongs to me; though my mother has it
for a little time.”
“I did not know,” she answered, softly, and scarcely thinking what she
said, “that the land belonged to anybody, besides the birds and animals.
And is the water yours as well?”
“Yes; every drop of it, of course. But you are quite welcome to a
pitcherful.” This was the rarest affability of Pet; and he expected
extraordinary thanks.
But Insie looked at him with surprise. “I am very much obliged to you,”
she said; “but I never asked any one to give it me, unless it is the
beck itself; and the beck never seems to grudge it.”
“You are not like anybody I ever saw. You speak very different from the
people about here; and you look very different ten times over.”
Insie reddened at his steadfast gaze, and turned her sweet soft face
away. And yet she wanted to know more. “Different means a great many
things. Do you mean that I look better, or worse?”
“Better, of course; fifty thousand times better! Why, you look like a
beautiful lady. I tell you, I have seen hundreds of ladies; perhaps you
haven't, but I have. And you look better than all of them.”
“You say a great deal that you do not think,” Insie answered, quietly,
yet turning round to show her face again. “I have heard that gentlemen
always do; and I suppose that you are a young gentleman.”
“I should hope so indeed. Don't you know who I am? I am Lancelot Yordas
Carnaby.”
“Why, you look quite as if you could stop the river,” she answered, with
a laugh, though she felt his grandeur. “I suppose you consider me nobody
at all. But I must get my water.”
“You shall not carry water. You are much too pretty. I will carry it for
you.”
Pet was not “introspective;” otherwise he must have been astonished at
himself. His mother and aunt would have doubted their own eyes if
they had beheld this most dainty of the dainty, and mischievous of the
mischievous (with pain and passion for the moment vanquished), carefully
carrying an old brown pitcher. Yet this he did, and wonderfully well,
as he believed; though Insie only laughed to see him. For he had on
the loveliest gaiters in the world, of thin white buckskin with agate
buttons, and breeches of silk, and a long brocaded waistcoat, and a
short coat of rich purple velvet, also a riding hat with a gray ostrich
plume. And though he had very little calf inside his gaiters, and not
much chest to fill out his waistcoat, and narrower shoulders than a
velvet coat deserved, it would have been manifest, even to a tailor,
that the boy had lineal, if not lateral, right to his rich habiliments.
Insie of the Gill (who seemed not to be of peasant birth, though so
plainly dressed), came gently down the steep brook-side to see what was
going to be done for her.
She admired Lancelot, both for bravery of apparel and of action; and
she longed to know how he would get a good pitcher of water without any
splash upon his clothes. So she stood behind a little bush, pretending
not to be at all concerned, but amused at having her work done for her.
But Pet was too sharp to play cat's-paw for nothing.
“Smile, and say 'thank you,'” he cried, “or I won't do it. I am not
going up to my middle for nothing; I know that you want to laugh at me.”
“You must have a very low middle,” said Insie; “why, it never comes half
way to my knees.”
“You have got no stockings, and no new gaiters,” Lancelot answered,
reasonably; and then, like two children, they set to and laughed, till
the gill almost echoed with them.
“Why, you're holding the mouth of the pitcher down stream!” Insie could
hardly speak for laughing. “Is that how you go to fill a pitcher?”
“Yes, and the right way too,” he answered; “the best water always comes
up the eddies. You ought to be old enough to know that.”
“I don't know anything at all--except that you are ruining your best
clothes.”
“I don't care twopence for such rubbish. You ought to see me on a
Sunday, Insie, if you want to know what is good. There, you never drew
such a pitcher as that. And I believe there is a fish in the bottom of
it.”
“Oh, if there is a fish, let me have him in my hands. I can nurse a fish
on dry land, until he gets quite used to it. Are you sure that there is
a little fish?”
“No, there is no fish; and I am soaking wet. But I never care what
anybody thinks of me. If they say what I don't like, I kick them.”
“Ah, you are accustomed to have your own way. That any one might know
by looking at you. But I have got a quantity of work to do. You can see
that by my fingers.”
The girl made a courtesy, and took the pitcher from him, because he was
knocking it against his legs; but he could not be angry when he looked
into her eyes, though the habit of his temper made him try to fume.
“Do you know what I think?” she said, fixing bright hazel eyes upon him;
“I think that you are very passionate sometimes.”
“Well, if I am, it is my own business. Who told you anything about it?
Whoever it was shall pay out for it.”
“Nobody told me, Sir. You must remember that I never even heard of your
name before.”
“Oh, come, I can't quite take down that. Everybody knows me for fifty
miles or more; and I don't care what they think of me.”
“You may please yourself about believing me,” she answered, without
concern about it. “No one who knows me doubts my word, though I am not
known for even five miles away.”
“What an extraordinary girl you are! You say things on purpose to
provoke me. Nobody ever does that; they are only too glad to keep me in
a good temper.”
“If you are like that, Sir, I had better run away. My father will be
home in about an hour, and he might think that you had no business
here.”
“I! No business upon my own land! This place must be bewitched, I think.
There is a witch upon the moors, I know, who can take almost any shape;
but--but they say she is three hundred years of age, or more.”
“Perhaps, then, I am bewitched,” said Insie; “or why should I stop to
talk with you, who are only a rude boy, after all, even according to
your own account?”
“Well, you can go if you like. I suppose you live in that queer little
place down there?”
“The house is quite good enough for me and my father and mother and
brother Maunder. Good-by; and please never to come here again.”
“You don't understand me. I have made you cry. Oh, Insie, let me have
hold of your hand. I would rather make anybody cry than you. I never
liked anybody so before.”
“Cry, indeed! Who ever heard me cry? It is the way you splashed the
water up. I am not in the habit of crying for a stranger. Good-by, now;
and go to your great people. You say that you are bad; and I fear it is
too true.”
“I am not bad at all. It is only what everybody says, because I never
want to please them. But I want to please you. I would give anything to
do it; if you would only tell me how.”
The girl having cleverly dried her eyes, poured all their bright beauty
upon him, and the heart of the youth was enlarged with a new, very
sweet, and most timorous feeling. Then his dark eyes dropped, and he
touched her gently, and only said, “Don't go away.”
“But I must go away,” Insie answered, with a blush, and a look as of
more tears lurking in her eyes. “I have stopped too long; I must go away
at once.”
“But when may I come again? I will hold you, and fight for you with
everybody in the world, unless you tell me when to come again.”
“Hush! I am quite ashamed to hear you talk so. I am a poor girl, and you
a great young gentleman.”
“Never mind that. That has nothing to do with it. Would you like to make
me miserable, and a great deal more wicked than I ever was before? Do
you hate me so much as all that, Insie?”
“No. You have been very kind to me. Only my father would be angry, I am
sure; and my brother Maunder is dreadful. They all go away every other
Friday, and that is the only free time I have.”
“Every other Friday! What a long time, to be sure! Won't you come again
for water this day fortnight?”
“Yes; I come for water three or four times every day. But if they were
to see you, they would kill you first, and then lock me up forever. The
only wise plan is for you to come no more.”
“You can not be thinking for a moment what you say. I will tell you
what; if you don't come, I will march up to the house, and beat the door
in. The landlord can do that, according to law.”
“If you care at all for me,” said Insie, looking as if she had known him
for ten years, “you will do exactly what I tell you. You will think no
more about me for a fortnight; and then if you fancy that I can do you
good by advice about your bad temper, or by teaching you how to plait
reeds for a bat, and how to fill a pitcher--perhaps I might be able to
come down the gill again.”
“I wish it was to-morrow. I shall count the days. But be sure to come
early, if they go away all day. I shall bring my dinner with me; and you
shall have the first help, and I will carve. But I should like one thing
before I go; and it is the first time I ever asked anybody, though they
ask me often enough, I can tell you.”
“What would you like? You seem to me to be always wanting something.”
“I should like very much--very much indeed--just to give you one kiss,
Insie.”
“It can not be thought of for a moment,” she replied; “and the first
time of my ever seeing you, Sir!”
Before he could reason in favor of a privilege which goes proverbially
by favor, the young maid was gone upon the winding path, with the
pitcher truly balanced on her well-tressed head. Then Pet sat down and
watched her; and she turned round in the distance, and waved him a kiss
at decorous interval.
Not more than three days after this, Mrs. Carnaby came into the
drawing-room with a hasty step, and a web of wrinkles upon her generally
smooth, white forehead.
“Eliza,” asked her sister, “what has put you out so? That chair is
not very strong, and you are rather heavy. Do you call that gracefully
sinking on a seat, as we used to learn the way to do at school?”
“No, I do not call it anything of the kind. And if I am heavy, I only
keep my heart in countenance, Philippa. You know not the anxieties of a
mother.”
“I am thankful to say that I do not. I have plenty of larger cares to
attend to, as well as the anxieties of an aunt and sister. But what is
this new maternal care?”
“Poor Pet's illness--his serious illness. I am surprised that you have
not noticed it, Philippa; it seems so unkind of you.”
“There can not be anything much amiss with him. I never saw any one eat
a better breakfast. What makes you fancy that the boy must be unwell?”
“It is no fancy. He must be very ill. Poor dear! I can not bear to think
of it. He has done no mischief for quite three days.”
“Then he must indeed be at the point of death. Oh, if we could only keep
him always so, Eliza!”
“My dear sister, you will never understand him. He must have his little
playful ways. Would you like him to be a milksop?”
“Certainly not. But I should like him first to be a manly boy, and
then a boyish man. The Yordases always have been manly boys; instead of
puling, and puking, and picking this, that, and the other.”
“The poor child can not help his health, Philippa. He never had the
Yordas constitution. He inherits his delicate system from his poor dear
gallant father.”
Mrs. Carnaby wiped away a tear; and her sister (who never was hard to
her) spoke gently, and said there were many worse boys than he, and she
liked him for many good and brave points of character, and especially
for hating medicine.
“Philippa, you are right; he does hate medicine,” the good mother
answered, with a soft, sad sigh; “and he kicked the last apothecary in
the stomach, when he made certain of its going down. But such things are
trifles, dear, in comparison with now. If he would only kick Jordas, or
Welldrum, or almost any one who would take it nicely, I should have some
hope that he was coming to himself. But to see him sit quiet is so truly
sad. He gets up a tree with his vast activity, and there he sits moping
by the hour, and gazing in one fixed direction. I am almost sure that
he has knocked his leg; but he flew into a fury when I wanted to examine
it; and when I made a poultice, there was Saracen devouring it; and the
nasty dog swallowed one of my lace handkerchiefs.”
“Then surely you are unjust, Eliza, in lamenting all lack of mischief.
But I have noticed things as well as you. And yesterday I saw something
more portentous than anything you have told me. I came upon Lancelot
suddenly, in the last place where I should have looked for him. He was
positively in the library, and reading--reading a real book.”
“A book, Phillppa! Oh, that settles everything. He must have gone
altogether out of his sane mind.”
“Not only was it a book, but even a book of what people call poetry. You
have heard of that bold young man over the mountains, who is trying to
turn poetry upside down, by making it out of every single thing he sees;
and who despises all the pieces that we used to learn at school. I
can not remember his name; but never mind. I thought that we ought to
encourage him, because he might know some people in this neighborhood;
and so I ordered a book of his. Perhaps I told you; and that is the very
book your learned boy was reading.”
“Philippa, it seems to me impossible almost. He must have been looking
at the pictures. I do hope he was only looking at the pictures.”
“There is not a picture in the book of any sort. He was reading it, and
saying it quite softly to himself; and I felt that if you saw him, you
would send for Dr. Spraggs.”
“Ring the bell at once, dear, if you will be kind enough. I hope there
is a fresh horse in the stable. Or the best way would be to send the
jumping-car; then he would be certain to come back at once.”
“Do as you like. I begin to think that we ought to take proper
precautions. But when that is done, I will tell you what I think he may
be up the tree for.”
A man with the jumping-car was soon dispatched, by urgency of Jordas,
for Dr. Spraggs, who lived several miles away, in a hamlet to the
westward, inaccessible to anything that could not jump right nimbly.
But the ladies made a slight mistake: they caught the doctor, but no
patient.
For Pet being well up in his favorite tree--poring with great wonder
over Lyrical Ballads, which took his fancy somehow--thence descried the
hateful form of Dr. Spraggs, too surely approaching in the seat of honor
of the jumping-car. Was ever any poesy of such power as to elevate the
soul above the smell of physic? The lofty poet of the lakes and fells
fell into Pet's pocket anyhow, and down the off side of the tree came
he, with even his bad leg ready to be foremost in giving leg-bail to
the medical man. The driver of the jumping-car espied this action;
but knowing that he would have done the like, grinned softly, and said
nothing. And long after Dr. Spraggs was gone, leaving behind him sage
advice, and a vast benevolence of bottles, Pet returned, very dirty and
hungry, and cross, and most unpoetical.