“BLACK MORRIS.”
“What dreadful havoc in the human breast
The passions make, when, unconfined and mad,
They burst, unguided by the mental eye,
The light of reason, which, in various ways,
Points them to good, or turns them back from ill.”
_Thompson._
At the opposite end of the village to that where Nathan Blyth resided,
there was a cluster of small tumble-down cottages, whose ragged
thatch, patched windows, and generally forlorn appearance denoted the
unthrifty and “unchancy” character of their occupants. This
disreputable addendum to the charming village of Nestleton was known
as Midden Harbour, a very apt description in itself of the unsavoury
character of its surroundings, and the unpleasant manners and customs
of most of the denizens of that locality. Squire Fuller had often
tried to purchase this unpleasant blotch, which lay in the centre of
his own trim and well-managed estate. Its owner, however, old Kasper
Crabtree, a waspish dog-in-the-manger kind of fellow, could not be
induced to sell it. Indeed, there is every reason to believe that
“Crabby,” as the villagers fitly called him, found sincere
gratification in the fact that the property and its possessors were a
universal nuisance, for Crabby was one of that numerous family of
social Ishmaelites whose hand was against every man, and so every
man’s hand and tongue were against him.
Of the colony of Midden Harbour, one family was engaged in the sale of
crockery-ware, which was hawked around the country in a cart,
accompanied by both man and woman kind. The former were clad in
velveteen coat and waistcoat and corduroy breeches, all notable for
extent of pocket and an outbreak of white buttons, with which they
were almost as thickly studded as a May pasture is with daisies. The
latter were clad in cotton prints notable for brevity of skirt,
revealing substantial ankles, graced with high laced-up boots which
would have well served a ploughboy. A second family were besom-makers,
whose trade materials were surreptitiously gathered on Kesterton Moor
and from the woods of Waverdale; the “ling” of the one and the
“saplings” of the other sufficing to supply both heads and handles. A
third family was of the tinker persuasion, travelling about the
country with utensils of tin. They were great in the repair of such
pots and pans as required the use of solder, which was melted by the
aid of an itinerant fire carried in an iron grate. Midden Harbour also
boasted a rag-and-bone merchant on a small scale, a scissors-grinder,
who united umbrella-mending with his primal trade, and a pedlar also
had pitched his tent within its boundaries; altogether, its limited
population was about as queer a medley as could well be found. Most of
the Harbourites had the character of being more or less, chiefly more,
given to making nocturnal excursions in quest of game, and Squire
Fuller, Sir Harry Everett, and other large land-owners in the
neighbourhood were being perpetually “requisitioned” by clever and
successful poachers, who either defied or bribed all the gamekeeperdom
of the country side.
Just behind Midden Harbour was a much larger and somewhat more
respectable house, though discredited by being in such an
unrespectable locality. It stood in what might by courtesy be called a
garden, but, like that which dear old Isaac Watts stood to look at,
and which belonged to a neighbour of his who was late o’ mornings, you
might see “the wild briar, the thorn and the thistle grow higher and
higher.” The garden-gate was hung by one hinge, and was generally so
much aslant that one might imagine, that, like its owner, it was given
to beer. The garden wall, the house, the outbuildings were all first
cousins to Tennyson’s Moated Grange.
“With blackest moss the flower-pots
Were thickly crusted, one and all;
The rusted nails fell from the knots
That held the peach to the garden wall.
The broken sheds looked sad and strange,
Unlifted was the clinking latch;
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.”
In this house lived a man, well known for many a mile round as “Piggy”
Morris, so called by reason of his pig-jobbing proclivities, though he
varied his calling in that direction by dealing in calves, sheep,
dogs, old horses--in fact, he was quite ready to buy or sell anything
by which he could gain a profit, or, as he put it, “finger the rhino.”
Piggy Morris was once a respectable farmer, a tenant of Squire
Fuller’s, but his drinking habits had been his ruin. His farm
deteriorated so much that his landlord gave him notice to quit, and
had threatened to prosecute him for damages into the bargain. From the
day he was expelled from Eastthorpe to the time of which I am writing
Piggy Morris had nursed and cherished a deadly hatred to Squire
Fuller, and though some years had now elapsed, he still thirsted for
vengeance on the man who had “been his ruin.”
The victims of intemperance are marvellously skilful in laying the
blame of their downfall on men and circumstances, and Piggy Morris
attributed all his melancholy change of fortune to a hard landlord and
bad times.
After the loss of his farm, Morris had taken his present house because
of a malt-kiln which was on the premises, and he hoped to gain a trade
and position as maltster, which would equal if not surpass the
opportunity he had lost. But alas! the ball was rolling down the hill,
and neither malt-kiln nor brewery could stop it; indeed, as was most
probable, they gave it an additional impetus, and poor Morris was fast
descending to the low level of Midden Harbour. He was a keen, clever,
long-headed fellow, and could always make money in his huckstering
fashion, but he was sullen, sour, ill-tempered; at war with his better
self, he seemed to be at war with everybody else, which is perhaps one
of the most miserable and worriting states of mind into which sane men
can fall. His wife, poor soul, an amiable and thoroughly respectable
woman, was cowed and broken-spirited, and lived an ailing and
depressed life, sighing in chronic sorrow over the happiness and
comfort of other days.
This misfitting pair had four children. The eldest, a fine stalwart
fellow of twenty-four, had made some proficiency in the art and
science of farriery. He had received no special training to equip him
as a veterinary surgeon, but in practical farriery he was accounted
very clever, and might have done well in that particular line. But the
sins of the fathers are often visited upon their children. Young
Morris was sadly too frequent a guest at the Red Lion, and in spite of
his education and native talents, was only a sort of ne’er-do-weel,
very popular in the taproom and similar centres of sociality;
“nobody’s enemy but his own,” but, withal, slowly and surely
gravitating towards ruin, “going to the dogs.” He had an intimate
acquaintance with dogs and guns, snares and springs, and was oft
suspected of carrying on a contraband trade in fish, flesh, and fowl,
captured in flood and field. His coal-black hair and beard, and his
swarthy though handsome features, had gained for him the soubriquet of
Black Morris; and though he did not much relish the cognomen, it
speedily became fixed, and there is no doubt that his wild and
reckless conduct made the name, in some degree at least, appropriate.
His two brothers, Bob and Dick, were in the employ of Kasper Crabtree,
and his sister Mary, a quick and amiable girl of eighteen, was the
loving helper, nurse, and companion of her ailing mother.
Since Lucy Blyth’s return home, Black Morris, who had seen her oft, on
his visits to her father’s forge and in other parts of the village,
had ventured at length to accost her, receiving, as her wont was, a
pleasant smile and a courteous reply. Black Morris was made of very
inflammable material, and speedily fell over head and ears in love
with the blacksmith’s daughter. With his usual impetuosity of
character, he swore that he and no other would capture the charming
village belle, and took his steps accordingly. To carry out his
purpose, his visits to the forge increased in number, his conduct was
thoroughly proper and obliging, and his manners at their best, which
is saying much, for when Black Morris chose he could be a gentleman.
He often wielded the big hammer for Blithe Natty with muscle and
skill, and that shrewd knight of the anvil was more than half inclined
to change his opinion of his voluntary helper, and come to the
conclusion that he was a “better fellow than he took him for.”
One evening, after Black Morris had been rendering useful and unbought
aid in this way, Nathan Blyth felt constrained to thank him with
unusual heartiness, and with his usual plainness of speech, he blurted
out,--
“Morris, there’s the makings of a good fellow i’ you. What a pity it
is that you don’t settle steadily down to some honest work, and give
up loafing about after other folks’ property! ‘A rolling stone
gathers no moss,’ and ‘a scone o’ your own baking is better than a
loaf begged, borrowed, or taken.’”
Black Morris’s swarthy features flushed up to the roots of his hair,
his old temper leaped at once to the tip of his tongue, and his hand
was involuntarily closed, for “a word and a blow” was his mode of
argument. The remembrance that the speaker was Lucy’s father
restrained him, and he replied,--
“Look here, Nathan Blyth, when you say I loaf about other folk’s
property, you say more than you know; an’ as for settling down, give
me your daughter Lucy for a wife, and I’ll be the steadiest fellow in
Nestleton, aye, and in all Waverdale besides!”
“Marry Lucy!” exclaimed Natty, shocked at the idea of entrusting his
darling to the keeping of such a reckless ne’er-do-weel, “I’d rather
see her dead and in her grave! and so, good-night!”
Turning on his heel, Nathan Blyth went indoors, and Black Morris stood
with lowering brow and flashing eyes. Shaking his fist at the closed
door, he thundered out an oath, and said,--
“Mine or nobody’s, you ----, if I swing for it;” and strode homeward
in a towering rage.
O Nathan Blyth! Nathan Blyth! Your hasty and ill-considered words have
sown dragon’s teeth to-night! The time is coming, coming on wings as
black as Erebus, when you will wish your tongue had cleaved to the
roof of your mouth before you uttered them. You have beaten a
ploughshare to-night which shall score as deep a furrow through your
soul as ever did coulter from the ringing anvil by your smithy
hearth.