"Did jealous hate inspire thee?"
Meanwhile the unamiable Henry, every time he returned from his school
for the vacations, was filled with fresh envy and hatred on beholding
Edmund more and more established in the rank of a child of the family,
and more and more beloved by every one; while he, Henry, felt as if at
enmity with the whole world, merely because his own unworthy nature
could not divest itself of an instinctive consciousness, that he did
not deserve to be loved. He, however, explained the business very
differently: he persuaded himself that the beggar-brat (as he called
Edmund in his own thoughts, for Mrs. Montgomery would not suffer him to
do so to be heard) had got into his place, and deprived him of every
body's regard.
As soon as Mrs. Montgomery had been aware of her nephew's lodging, she
had had him removed to one more eligible; but his low habits were too
strongly confirmed to be much amended by this salutary change. He still
spent his leisure hours at the butcher's house, and carried thither the
fruits of all his depredations, namely, the spoils of robbed orchards,
and scaled poultry-yards. There the wife and daughter would first cook
for him, and then, joining in the carousal, help to demolish. His
rompings too, with Miss Betsy Park, for so was the butcher's daughter
named, grew daily more frequent.
The sagacious mother did not choose to interfere, observing, that
though Betsy had become very saucy to Mr. Henry, and sometimes even
gave him a smart slap in the face, he, instead of threatening to beat,
and not unfrequently to kick her, as he used to do, was now often heard
to menace her with a good kissing if she did not behave herself. The
damsel, however, by no means alarmed, would most generally repeat her
offence, and, snapping her fingers, tell him she defied him; upon which
he would pursue her round the house, back yard, or garden, to put his
threat into execution. On such occasions, however, he could not so
entirely get rid of his old habits, as to let Miss Betsy off, without
following up his new species of vengeance, by some of those cruel
pinches which, in childhood, had so often diversified the snowy surface
of the young lady's skin, with the various tints of black, blue, and
green.
Yet Miss Betsy was, by this time, become a very fine girl: she was
fair, had a glowing colour, a quantity of light auburn hair, laughing
blue eyes, a saucy nose, full pouting lips, good white teeth, and was
tall and well made, though, if any thing, a little too fat; but, in
consequence of her youth, this, at present, rather gave luxuriance to
her beauty, than coarseness to her appearance.
It may be asked, why any thing in the shape of a mother sanctioned
such scenes as we have alluded to. But too many S-- B-- mothers, in
Mrs. Park's way, speculated on marrying their daughters to scholar
lads, as the boys and young men are indiscriminately termed; and the
questionable means employed by Mrs. Park were not only, in her opinion,
the best to obtain her end, but those sanctioned by the customs of the
village, time immemorial.
By such mothers, while their daughters were permitted--we had almost
said counselled--to cast off all delicacy, a sort of worldly prudence
was taught, by which the necessity of not forfeiting their chance of
marrying a gentleman was duly impressed on young creatures, whose
habitual manners, from childhood, had early deprived them of the
natural guard of modesty. Thus, a girl who was forsaken (before
marriage we mean) by a scholar-lad, incurred direful suspicions in the
village; while one who had so successfully balanced her blandishments,
as to decoy one into marriage, was ever after held up as a pattern
of virtue! This was the more easily managed, when we consider the
respective ages of the parties.
When once these lads left the school, their brides saw no more of them.
The ladies, however, as soon as the schoolmaster's authority was at an
end, proclaimed their marriage in the village, called themselves by the
gentleman's name, had some allowance, particularly if there was a child
in the case, and considered themselves a step higher in the ranks of
society.
Henry was not yet seventeen, but he would be older before he finally
quitted the school; and most of the S-- B-- weddings took place between
mere boys and girls a few years their seniors.
A custom too prevailed in this village, and its vicinity, very
favourable to suitors--we mean among the elevated rank of which we
are now speaking. All received sweethearts, as they are called, were
permitted to sit the whole of the night by the embers of the kitchen
fire, without witness or candle, beside the damsel to whom they wished
to plead their cause. This indulgence was granted, whether scholar
lad or labourer, on the plea of the swain, in either case, having no
leisure for love-making by day. It was a custom, however, which David
Park never permitted in his house, though he had himself been so
favoured when courting Betsy's mother.
It is reported in the village, that great confusion exists in the
parish register, respecting the christenings and weddings of many
families, including the butchers. We think, however, that it must be by
a mistake of the old clerk, when a christening appears actually upon
record before the wedding, the circumstance being quite out of the
course of nature.
Betsy's father, to do him justice, though he joined in wishing to
see his daughter married to a gentleman, and though he was sturdily
determined, if such a thing should ever happen, to have her publicly
acknowledged; yet would he have disapproved of all the methods pursued
by his wife for forwarding such views, had he been aware of them; nor
did he permit the slightest familiarity in his presence, from the time
that Betsy began to assume at all the appearance of a woman. Indeed he
often took her seriously to task; and one memorable day, in particular,
as he sat before his house fire, he drew his pipe, which he had been
smoking for some time in moody silence, from his mouth, and addressed
his daughter thus:--
"If thoo has a mind tle be a gintleman's woife, or an honest man's
outher, kep thee sell' to thee sell', and behave theesell' decently."
Turning half round, with both hands resting on his knees, he seemed
to measure her height and form with his eyes, and then said, "Thoo's
gitting up, Bess! dinna let the lads owr nigh thee!" She blushed and
smiled. "Coome," he continued, "thoo may kiss thee fayther tho'!"
After a rough caress, he recommenced, still looking at her, "Thoo's a
fine lass thoo! It wad be a pity ti--a, that thoo shouldst coome tle
ney bitter end, than tle mac devartion for scholar lads!--And sham to
thee fayther!" he subjoined, after a pause, and in an altered tone.
After another pause he proceeded thus:--"Bonny devartion truly! bonny
devartion! Nay, nay, Betsy, thoo's worthy to be sum'ot bether nor that,
my barne! If thoo sould niver be a gintleman's woife, thoo may be a
farmer's woife, and ha' plenty and decency roond thee aw thee days,
and bonny bairns, like what thoo was thee sell, aboot thee. And when
I's tired wee killing swine," he added, pleased with the picture he had
drawn, "I can coome to thee chimney corner, and tack the wee things
on my knee, and gee thee good-man sum'ot be the week for my leeving.
I think I sould like that bether, after aw Betsy, nor yon gentleman
hunting!"
"A weel, fayther," said Betsy, affected, "and I'll dee whativer thoo
wilt. Bit Mr. Henry's a nice enough lad, tee--a! and civiler grown nor
he used to be."
"Weel, weel, lass! Bit tack care o' thee sell: the civiler the war, may
be."
That evening Henry brought one of his suppers to be cooked; and, among
other good things, a jar of smuggled spirits, a delicacy which he
had latterly contrived, by some secret means, to add to his feasts.
On this occasion he seemed already to have taken himself a foretaste
of the potent beverage. He found Betsy unusually distant. He kept
following her about and deranging all her culinary proceedings, in the
hope of provoking a game of romps. At last he got her up into a corner
and kept teasing her, and coming up so close that it was impossible
to get by without a struggle, which was just what he wanted. At this
moment her father came in.
"Kep off the lass!" he cried; "kep off the lass!" And, pushing Henry
roughly aside, he stood between him and his daughter. "I tell you what,
Mr. Henry St. Aubin," he said, "I been't a gintleman, to be sure; bit
she is my flesh and blood for au' that, and the best gintleman in the
land shan't coome nigh hand her, withoot he gangs to church wee her
first! She's a fine lass, and a bonny lass, and a good lass; and
worthy till be an honest man's wife, and the mother o' bonny bairns;
and she sha'n't be sport for scholar lads, as long as her fayther has
twa hands tle knock him doon that mislests her!"
Henry laughed coarsely, and muttered some reply which did not seem to
coincide exactly with David's notions of delicacy; for he continued
thus:
"Hoo durst yee tle spack in that undecent fashion afoor the lass? And
what for do you look at her e that gate?"
Henry, whose usually slender stock of good manners had not received
much addition from his late intercourse with the spirit jar, was
getting provoked. He could think, at the moment, of no readier mode of
venting his anger than that which the immediate power of insulting
offered. He seized Betsy, therefore, in pretended jest, and began to
pull her about rudely, in open defiance of David and decency. The
father's ire, at this, so got the better of him, that he forgot all his
speculations.
"Git oot o' my hoose!" he cried; and seizing Henry by the shoulders, he
thrust him into the street, flinging the preparations for the supper at
his heels, and exclaiming, "I'll gar ye! ye greet gapping fiery-faced
deevil! I'll gar ye!"
Henry's countenance, at the time, flushed with intoxication, rage, and
insolence, at once suggested and justified the epithet of 'fiery-faced
deevil,' bestowed by honest David.
The next time Henry found Betsy alone (though, fortunately for her, her
father came in almost immediately) there was so much of ferocity in his
manner; and the determined advances of the urchin, in despite of grave
looks, partook so much more of revenge than of love, that Betsy was
instinctively disgusted, and determined, though with tears, to think no
more of him, and please fayther by marrying John Dixon.
Dixon was a young farmer in the neighbourhood, who could not help
showing a partiality for Betsy, though he did not much like her
intimacy with the scholar lads, nor the thoughts of her having romped
so often with Mr. Henry. He got over all this, however, being a
gentle-tempered, kind-hearted, rather simple young man; and, since he
first fancied Betsy, disposed to melancholy.
The day was accordingly fixed for their wedding, when Henry, who had
been forbid the house, contrived, by the mother's means, to get an
interview with the bride elect. He affected repentance for his late
rudeness, pleaded excessive love by way of an excuse, and, rather
than be ousted by the farmer, proposed marriage. Betsy shed tears of
reconciliation, and poor John Dixon was dismissed.