One evening, as the two sisters were hastening along the road through
the woods on their way homewards, a young farmer drove up in his
spring-cart, cast a look at them, stopped, and said: “Young women, if
you are going my way, I shall be glad of your company. You are quite
welcome to ride.”
The sisters looked at each other. “Dunna be afreed,” said the young
farmer; “my name’s James Cheshire. I’m well known in these parts; you
may trust yersens wi’ me, if it’s agreeable.”
To James’ surprise, Nancy said, “No, sir, we are not afraid; we are much
obliged to you.”
The young farmer helped them up into the cart, and away they drove.
“I’m afraid we shall crowd you,” said Jane.
“Not a bit of it,” replied the young farmer. “There’s room for three
bigger nor us in this seat, and I’m no ways tedious.”
The sisters saw nothing odd in his use of the word “tedious,” as
strangers would have done; they knew it merely meant “not at all
particular.” They were soon in active talk. As he had told them who he
was, he asked them in their turn if they worked at the mills there.
They replied in the affirmative, and the young man said:--
“I thought so. I’ve seen you sometimes going along together. I noticed
you because you seemed so sisterly like, and you are sisters, I reckon.”
They said “Yes.”
“I’ve a good spanking horse, you see,” said James Cheshire. “I shall get
over th’ ground rayther faster than you done a-foot, eh? My word,
though, it must be nation cold on these bleak hills i’ winter.”
The sisters assented, and thanked the young farmer for taking them up.
“We are rather late,” said they, “for we looked in on a friend, and the
rest of the mill-hands were gone on.”
“Well,” said the young farmer, “never mind that. I fancy Bess, my mare
here, can go a little faster nor they can. We shall very likely be at
Tidser as soon as they are.”
“But you are not going to Tidser,” said Jane, “your farm is just before
us there.”
“Yay, I’m going to Tidser though. I’ve a bit of business to do there
before I go hom.”
On drove the farmer at what he called a spanking rate; presently they
saw the young mill-people on the road before them.
“There are your companions,” said James Cheshire, “we shall cut past
them like a flash of lightning.
“Oh,” exclaimed Jane Dunster, “what will they say at seeing us riding
here?” and she blushed brightly.
“Say!” said the young farmer, smiling, “never mind what they’ll say;
depend upon it, they’d like to be here theirsens.”
James Cheshire cracked his whip. The horse flew along. The party of the
young mill-hands turned round, and on seeing Jane and Nancy in the cart,
uttered exclamations of surprise.
“My word, though!” said Mary Smedley, a fresh buxom lass, somewhat
inclined to stoutness.
“Well, if ever!” cried smart little Hannah Bowyer.
“Nay, then, what next!” said Tetty Wilson, a tall, thin girl, of very
good looks.
The two sisters nodded and smiled to their companions; Jane still
blushing rosily, but Nancy sitting as pale and as gravely as if they
were going on some solemn business.
The only notice the farmer took was to turn with a broad smiling face,
and shout to them, “Wouldn’t you like to be here too?”
“Ay, take us up,” shouted a number of voices together; but the farmer
cracked his whip, and giving them a nod and a dozen smiles in one, said,
“I can’t stay. Ask the next farmer that comes up.”
With this they drove on; the young farmer very merry and full of talk.
They were soon by the side of his farm. “There’s a flock of sheep on the
turnips there,” he said, proudly; “they’re not to be beaten on this side
Ashbourne. And there are some black oxen going for the night to the
straw-yard. Jolly fellows, those--eh? But I reckon you don’t understand
much of farming stock?”
“No,” said Jane, and was again surprised at Nancy adding, “I wish we
did. I think a farmer’s life must be the very happiest of any.”
“You think so?” said the farmer, turning and looking at her earnestly,
and evidently with some wonder. “You are right,” said he. “You little
ones are knowing ones. You are right; it’s the life for a king.”
They were at the village. “Pray stop,” said Jane, “and let us go down. I
would not for the world go up the village thus. It would make such a
talk!”
“Talk, who cares for talk?” said the farmer; “won’t the youngsters we
left on the road talk?”
“Quite enough,” said Jane.
“And are _you_ afraid of talk?” said the farmer to Nancy.
“I’m not afraid of it when I don’t provoke it wilfully,” said Nancy;
“but we are poor girls, and can’t afford to lose even the good word of
our acquaintance. You’ve been very kind in taking us up on the road, but
to drive us to our door would cause such wonder as would perhaps make
us wish we had not been obliged to you.”
“Blame me, if you arn’t right again!” said the young farmer,
thoughtfully. “These are scandal-loving times, and th’ neebors might
plague you. That’s a deep head of yourn, though,--Nancy, I think your
sister caw’d you. Well, here I stop then.”
He jumped down and helped them out.
“If you will drive on first,” said Jane, “we will walk on after, and
we’re greatly obliged to you.”
“Nay,” said the young man, “I shall turn again here.”
“But you’ve business.”
“Oh! my business was to drive you here--that’s all.”
James Cheshere was mounting his cart, when Nancy stepped up, and said:
“Excuse me, Sir, but you’ll meet the mill-people on your return, and it
will make them talk all the more as you have driven us past your farm.
Have you no business that you can do in Tidser, Sir?”
“Gad! but thou’rt right again! Ay, I’ll go on!” and with a crack of his
whip, and a “Good night!” he whirled into the village before them.
No sooner was he gone than Nancy, pressing her sister’s arm to her side,
said: “There’s the right man at last, dear Jane.”
“What!” said Jane, yet blushing deeply at the same time, and her heart
beating quicker against her side. “Whatever are you talking of, Nancy?
That young farmer fall in love with a mill-girl?”
“He’s done it,” said Nancy; “I see it in him. I feel it in him. And I
feel, too, that he is true and staunch as steel.”
Jane was silent. They walked on in silence. Jane’s own heart responded
to what Nancy had said; she thought again and again on what he said. “I
have seen you sometimes;” “I noticed you because you seemed so
sisterly.” “He must have a good heart,” thought Jane; “but then he can
never think of a poor mill-girl like me.”
The next morning they had to undergo plenty of raillery from their
companions. We will pass that over. For several days, as they passed to
and fro, they saw nothing of the young farmer. But one evening, as they
were again alone, having staid at the same acquaintance’s as before, the
young farmer popped his head over a stone wall, and said, “Good evening
to you, young women,” He was soon over the wall, and walked on with them
to the end of the town. On the Sunday at the chapel Jane saw Nancy’s
grave face fixed on some object steadily, and, looking in the same
direction, was startled to see James Cheshire. Again her heart beat
pit-a-pat, and she thought “Can he really be thinking of me?”
The moment chapel was over, James Cheshire was gone, stopping to speak
to no one. Nancy again pressed the arm of Jane to her side as they
walked home, and said--“I was not wrong.” Jane only replied by returning
her affectionate pressure.
Some days after, as Nancy Dunster was coming out of a shop in the
evening after their return home from the mill, James Cheshire suddenly
put his hand on her shoulder, and, on her turning, shook her hand
cordially, and said, “Come along with me a bit. I must have a little
talk with you.”
Nancy consented without remark or hesitation. James Cheshire walked on
quickly till they came near the fine old church which strikes travellers
as so superior to the place in which it is located; when he slackened
his pace, and taking Nancy’s hand, began in a most friendly manner to
tell her how much he liked her and her sister. That, to make a short
matter of it, as was his way, he had made up his mind that the woman of
all others in the world that would suit him for a wife was her sister.
“But, before I said so to her, I thought I would say so to you, Nancy,
for you are so sensible, I’m sure you will say what is best for us all.”
Nancy manifested no surprise, but said, calmly: “You are a well-to-do
farmer, Mr. Cheshire. You have friends of property; my sister, and--”
“Ay, and a mill-girl; I know all that. I’ve thought it all over, and so
far you are right again, my little one. But just hear what I’ve got to
say. I’m no fool, though I say it. I’ve an eye in my head and a head on
my shoulders, eh?”
Nancy smiled.
“Well now, it’s not _any_ mill-girl; mind you, it’s not _any_ mill-girl;
no, nor perhaps another in the kingdom, that would do for me. I don’t
think mill-girls are in the main cut out for farmers’ wives, any more
than farmers’ wives are fit for mill-girls; but you see, I’ve got a
notion that your sister is not only a very farrantly lass, but that
she’s one that has particular good sense, though not so deep as you,
Nancy, neither. Well, I’ve a notion she can turn her hand to anything,
and that she’s a heart to do it, when it’s a duty. Isn’t that so, eh?
And if it is so, then Jane Dunster’s the lass for me; that is, if it’s
quite agreeable.”
Nancy pressed James Cheshire’s hand, and said, “You are very kind.”
“Not a bit of it,” said James.
“Well,” continued Nancy; “but I would have you to consider what your
friends will say; and whether you will not be made unhappy by them.”
“Why, as to that,” said James Cheshire, interrupting her, “mark me, Miss
Dunster. I don’t ask my friends for anything. I can farm my own farm;
buy my own cattle; drive my spring-cart, without any advice or
assistance of theirs; and therefore I don’t think I shall ask their
advice in the matter of a wife, eh? No, no, on that score I’m made up.
My name’s Independent, and, at a word, the only living thing I mean to
ask advice of is yourself. If you, Miss Dunster, approve of the match,
it’s settled, as far I’m concerned.”
“Then so far,” said Nancy, “as you and my sister are concerned, without
reference to worldly circumstances--I approve it with all my heart. I
believe you to be as good and honest as I know my sister to be. Oh! Mr.
Cheshire! she is one of ten thousand.”
“Well, I was sure of it;” said the young farmer; “and so now you must
tell your sister all about it; and if all’s right, chalk me a white
chalk inside of my gate as you go past i’ th’ morning, and to-morrow
evening I’ll come up and see you.”
Here the two parted with a cordial shake of the hand. The novel signal
of an accepted love was duly discovered by James Cheshire on his
gate-post, when he issued forth at daybreak, and that evening he was
sitting at tea with Jane and Nancy in the little cottage, having brought
in his cart a basket of eggs, apples, fresh butter, and a pile of the
richest pikelets (crumpets), country pikelets, very different to
town-made ones, for tea.
We need not follow out the courtship of James Cheshire and Jane Dunster.
It was cordial and happy. James insisted that both the sisters should
give immediate notice to quit the mill-work, to spare themselves the
cold and severe walks which the winter now occasioned them. The sisters
had improved their education in their evenings. They were far better
read and informed than most farmers’ daughters. They had been, since
they came to Tideswell, teachers in the Sunday-school. There was
comparatively little to be learned in a farm-house for the wife in
winter, and James Cheshire therefore proposed to the sisters to go for
three months to Manchester into a wholesale house, to learn as much as
they could of the plain sewing and cutting out of household linen. The
person in question made up all sorts of household linen, sheets,
pillow-cases, shirts, and other things; in fact, a great variety of
articles. Through an old acquaintance he got them introduced there,
avowedly to prepare them for house-keeping. It was a sensible step, and
answered well. At spring, to cut short opposition from his own
relatives, which began to show itself, for these things did not fail to
be talked of, James Cheshire got a license, and proceeding to
Manchester, was then and there married, and came home with his wife and
sister.
The talk and gossip which this wedding made all round the country, was
no little; but the parties themselves were well satisfied with their
mutual choice, and were happy. As the spring advanced, the duties of the
household grew upon Mrs. Cheshire. She had to learn the art of
cheese-making, butter-making, of all that relates to poultry, calves,
and household management. But in these matters she had the aid of an old
servant who had done all this for Mr. Cheshire, since he began farming.
She took a great liking to her mistress, and showed her with hearty
good-will how everything was done; and as Jane took a deep interest in
it, she rapidly made herself mistress of the management of the house, as
well as of the house itself. She did not disdain, herself, to take a
hand at the churn, that she might be familiar with the whole process of
butter-making, and all the signs by which the process is conducted to a
successful issue. It was soon seen that no farmer’s wife could produce a
firmer, fresher, sweeter pound of butter. It was neither _swelted_ by
too hasty churning, nor spoiled, as is too often the case, by the
buttermilk or by water being left in it, for want of well kneading and
pressing. It was deliciously sweet, because the cream was carefully put
up in the cleanest vessels and well attended to. Mrs. Cheshire, too,
might daily be seen kneeling by the side of the cheese-pan, separating
the curd, taking off the whey, filling the cheese-vat with the curd, and
putting the cheese herself into press. Her cheese-chamber displayed as
fine a set of well-salted, well-colored, well-turned and regular cheeses
as ever issued from that or any other farm-house.
James Cheshire was proud of his wife; and Jane herself found a most
excellent helper in Nancy. Nancy took particularly to housekeeping; saw
that all the rooms were exquisitely clean; that everything was in nice
repair; that not only the master and mistress, but the servants had
their food prepared in a wholesome and attractive manner. The eggs she
stored up; and as fruit came into season, had it collected for market,
and for a judicious household use. She made the tea and coffee morning
and evening, and did everything but preside at the table. There was not
a farm-house for twenty miles round, that wore an air of so much
brightness and evident good management as that of James Cheshire. For
Nancy, from the first moment of their acquaintance, he had conceived a
most profound respect. In all cases that required counsel, though he
consulted freely with his wife, he would never decide till they had had
Nancy’s opinion and sanction.
And James Cheshire prospered. But, spite of this, he did not escape the
persecution from his relations that Nancy had foreseen. On all hands he
found coldness. None of them called on him. They felt scandalized at his
_evening_ himself, as they called it, to a mill-girl. He was taunted
when they met at market, with having been caught with a pretty face; and
told that they thought he had had more sense than to marry a dressed
doll with a witch by her side.
At first James Cheshire replied with a careless waggery, “The pretty
face makes capital butter, though, eh? The dressed doll turns out a
tolerable dairy, eh? Better,” added James, “than a good many can, that I
know, who have neither pretty faces, nor have much taste in dressing to
crack of.”
The allusion to Nancy’s dwarfish plainness was what peculiarly provoked
James Cheshire. He might have laughed at the criticisms on his wife,
though the envious neighbors’ wives did say that it was the old servant
and not Mrs. Cheshire who produced such fine butter and cheese; for
where-ever she appeared, spite of envy and detraction, her lovely person
and quiet good sense, and the growing rumor of her good management, did
not fail to produce a due impression. And James had prepared to laugh it
off; but it would not do. He found himself getting every now and then
angry and unsettled by it. A coarse jest on Nancy at any time threw him
into a desperate fit of indignation. The more the superior merit of his
wife was known, the more seemed to increase the envy and venom of some
of his relatives. He saw, too, that it had an effect on his wife. She
was often sad, and sometimes in tears.
One day when this occurred, James Cheshire said, as they sat at tea,
“I’ve made up my mind. Peace in this life is a jewel. Better is a dinner
of herbs with peace, than a stalled ox with strife. Well, now, I’m
determined to have peace. Peace and luv,” said he, looking
affectionately at his wife and Nancy, “peace and luv, by God’s blessing,
have settled down on this house; but there are stings here and stings
there, when we go out of doors. We must not only have peace and luv in
the house, but peace all round it. So I’ve made up my mind. I’m for
America!”
“For America!” exclaimed Jane. “Surely you cannot be in earnest.”
“I never was more in earnest in my life,” said James Cheshire. “It is
true I do very well on this farm here, though it’s a cowdish situation;
but from all I can learn, I can do much better in America. I can there
farm a much better farm of my own. We can have a much finer climate than
this Peak country, and our countrymen still about us. Now, I want to
know what makes a man’s native land pleasant to him?--the kindness of
his relations and friends. But then, if a man’s relations are not
kind?--if they get a conceit into them, that because they are relations
they are to choose a man’s wife for him, and sting him and snort at him
because he has a will of his own?--why, then I say, God send a good big
herring-pool between me and such relations! My relations, by way of
showing their natural affection, spit spite and bitterness. You, dear
wife and sister, have none of yourn to spite you. In the house we have
peace and luv. Let us take the peace and luv, and leave the bitterness
behind.”
There was a deep silence.
“It is a serious proposal,” at length said Jane, with tears in her eyes.
“What says Nancy?” asked James.
“It is a serious proposal,” said Nancy, “but it is good. I feel it so.”
There was another deep silence; and James Cheshire said, “Then it is
decided.”
“Think of it,” said Jane earnestly,--“think well of it.”
“I have thought of it long and well, my dear. There are some of these
chaps that call me relation that I shall not keep my hands off, if I
stay amongst them,--and I fain would. But for the present I will say no
more; but,” added he, rising and bringing a book from his desk, “here is
a book by one Morris Birkbeck,--read it, both of you, and then let me
know your minds.”
The sisters read. On the following Lady-day, James Cheshire had turned
over his farm advantageously to another, and he, his wife, Nancy, and
the old servant, Mary Spendlove, all embarked at Liverpool, and
transferred themselves to the United States, and then to the State of
Illinois. Five-and-twenty years have rolled over since that day. We
could tell a long and curious story of the fortunes of James Cheshire
and his family: from the days when, half-repenting of his emigration and
his purchase, he found himself in a rough country, amid rough and
spiteful squatters, and lay for months with a brace of pistols under his
pillow, and a great sword by his bedside for fear of robbery and murder.
But enough, that at this moment, James Cheshire, in a fine cultivated
country, sees his ample estate cultivated by his sons, while as Colonel
and magistrate he dispenses the law and receives the respectful homage
of the neighborhood. Nancy Dunster, now styled Mrs. Dunster, the Mother
in Israel--the promoter of schools and the councillor of old and
young--still lives. Years have improved rather than deteriorated her
short and stout exterior. The long exercise of wise thoughts and the
play of benevolent feelings, have given even a sacred beauty to her
homely features. The dwarf has disappeared, and there remains instead, a
grave but venerable matron,--honored like a queen.