AUD ADAM OLLIVER “SEES ABOUT IT.”
“Age, by long experience well informed,
Well read, well tempered, with religion warmed,
That fire abated which impels rash youth,
Proud of his speed to overshoot the truth,
As time improves the grapes’ authentic juice,
Mellows and makes the speech more fit for use,
And claims a reverence in his shortening day,
That ’tis an honour and a joy to pay.”
_Cowper._
“Cum, Balaam! Stor yer pins, aud chap, or we sahn’t get te d’ Marlpit
Wood afoore dinner tahme.” Adam Olliver, astride his faithful but
laggard donkey, sought with small success to put that philosophic
quadruped to a quicker pace. Balaam was not to be flurried out of the
jog-trot which had become a part of his nature, and walking or
galloping was equally out of the question. This Adam well knew, but he
had got into the habit of talking to his four-footed retainer in his
lonely labours in valley and hill-side, and, doubtless, if all his
confidential talk with his long-eared but not particularly retentive
listener could be reported, a volume, considerable alike in size and
sense, might easily be forthcoming.
“Balaam, aud chap, ah think there’s mair donkeys wi’ two legs then
there is wi’ fower. Blithe Natty’s as good a fello’ as ivver put a
pair o’ shoes on, but he’s as blinnd as a bat, and as dull as a donkey
aboot that blessid lahtle lass ov his. She’s cryin’ her e’es oot, an’
spoilin’ her pratty feeace ower that yung sprig ov a squire; an’ her
dodderin’ fayther wunthers what’s matter wiv ’er, an’s freeten’d te
deead ’at he’s gannin’ te loss ’er like ’er mother. He dizn’t seeam te
see wheear t’ mischief ligs. Thoo mun tell ’im, Balaam. Thoo mun tell
’im”--for Old Adam had got into a way of identifying the old donkey
with himself, and in his monologues with his dumb companion, used to
give it the advice on which he himself intended to act--“it weean’t
deea for t’ sweetest lass i’ Waverdale to be meead a feeal on biv a
young whippersnapper like that. Ah’ve neea doot he thinks it’s good
fun te trifle wiv a pratty lass, an’ get ’er te wosship t’ grund he
walks on, an’ then leeave ’er te dee ov a brokken heart. Bud,” said
the old hedger, in a gush of indignation, “Ah’ll be hanged if he sall!
Balaam, thoo sall gan te-neet, an’ tell Natty Blyth a bit o’ thi’
mind.”
Here, in his excitement, Old Adam rose up in his stirrups and
unconsciously brought his stick down on the flanks of his Rosinante,
with a thwack that would have startled any other steed into at least a
momentary spurt. Balaam, however, only cocked his ears in mild
astonishment, as who should say, “What in the world is the matter with
the old man now?” or, rather, for it isn’t possible to think of him
cogitating in any other language than his master’s, “What i’ t’
wolld’s up wi’ t’ aud chap noo?”
Just at this point Adam had reached a narrow gate which opened into a
grassy lane, leading to Marlpit Wood, the scene of his labours for the
day. There, bestriding a handsome bay, and in the act of attempting to
open the gate with the handle of his riding whip, was a fine, handsome
young gentleman, whose dark eyes gleamed with good temper, and whose
general appearance was indicative of rank, high spirits, and
kindliness of heart. This was none other than Philip Fuller, and no
sooner did Adam Olliver set his eyes upon him than he resolved there
and then to fulfil his promise to Judith to “see about it,” and to
“have it out” with the delinquent himself.
“Ah’ll oppen t’ yat fo’ yo’ if y’ll wayte a minnit;” and, dismounting,
he fulfilled his promise, and stood with his limp and battered “Jim
Crow” hat in his hand, before the young gentleman had an opportunity
to reply.
“Thank you,” said Philip, with a bright, open smile, and, putting his
hand in his pocket, he pulled out a coin with the view of paying for
the favour he had received.
“Nay,” said Adam, “Ah deean’t want payin’ for it. Ah sud hae ’ad te
oppen it for mysen; an’ if ah hedn’t it wad hae been varry meean te
see yo’ bother’d, an’ gan on indifferent. Bud if yo’ll excuse ma’,
sor, ah sud like te say a wod or two te yo’, an’ ah wop yo’ weean’t be
offended. Mah neeam’s Adam Olliver, an’ ah lives next deear te Nathan
Blyth, an’ ah thinks as mitch aboot his lahtle Lucy as ah deea aboot
me’ aun bairns. Oh, sor!” and Adam lifted his honest sun-brown face in
strong appeal, “deean’t draw Natty’s yow’ lam’ away frev ’im, poor
fellow! He hez bud’ hor, an’ if onny ’arm sud ’appen tiv her, it’ll
breck his ’art an’ hor’s an’ all. She’s as good as she’s pratty, bless
’er! an’ it wad be twenty thoosand pities, as weel as an awful sin, te
bring disgrace on ’er heead, an’ sorrow tiv’ ’er ’art. Deean’t, ah
pre’ you, rob Natty of his darlin’. Yisterday, ah was clippin’ a hedge
yonder by Marlpit Wood, an’ ah saw a muther-bod teeachin’ ’er yung ’un
te flee. T’ aud bod flutter’d and chirrup’t up an’ doon, an’ roond
aboot, the varry picther o’ happiness, an’ t’ poor lahtle gollin’
cheep’d an’ hopp’d, an’ flew as happy as it’s mother. A sparro’-hawk
com’ doon, like a flash o’ leetnin’, an’ teeak’d lahtle thing away iv
his claws. Ah tell you, Maister Philip, t’ way that poor muther-bod
pleean’d an’ twitter’d, an’ hopp’d, frae bush te tree, an’ frae tree
te bush, wild wi’ grief, was aneeaf te melt a flint. Maister Philip!
deean’t be a hawk; bud let Natty’s pratty lahtle singin’-bod be, an’
God’ll bless yo’.”
Philip Fuller listened in amaze. A bright ingenuous blush tinged his
cheek at the mention of Lucy’s name, and as the old man proceeded, in
rude, homely eloquence, to plead, as he thought, the cause of injured
innocence, the colour deepened until it might easily have been misread
as an evidence of conscious guilt. Not the slightest shadow of anger,
however, rested on his features, as he looked into the gleaming eyes
of the “old man eloquent.” On the contrary, his clear perception
showed him in Old Adam the true and knightly sympathiser with
innocence and beauty; the chivalrous knight in corderoy and hodden
grey, who, if needs be, would peril life and limb to champion his
darling against all comers suspected of unrighteous intent.
“Deean’t be vexed, Maister Philip,” he proceeded. “Ah meean neea harm,
you knoa ah deean’t, but ah can’t abide te see lahtle Lucy pinin’ away
i’ sorro’, an’ ’er fayther gannin’ aboot like a man iv a dreeam. She’s
nut the lass for you, yo’ knoa. A lennet an’ a eeagle’s ill matched,
an’ ah want yo’ te promise mah ’at yo’ll let her alooan, weean’t yo’?”
“Vexed! No,” said Philip; “on the contrary, I esteem you for your love
to Lucy, and I respect you for your candour; but you are under a great
mistake. God is my witness, Adam Olliver; I mean no harm to Lucy
Blyth, and would rather suffer the loss of my right arm than bring a
tear to her eye, or sorrow to her father’s hearth.”
“God i’ heaven bless yo’ for that wod,” said Adam, with deep feeling;
“you lahtle knoa hoo it releeaves mi’ mind, an’ ah’s sorry ’at ah’ve
judg’d yo’ hardly, but ah’ve seen yo’ mair than yance or twice, when
ah thowt ’at there was room te fear.”
“Well, well,” said Philip, with a smile, “you need be under no concern
of that kind, for, on the honour of a gentleman, and the faith of a
Christian, I mean all that I have said.”
“Prayse the Lord!” said Adam. “As for t’ honour ov a gentleman, sum
gentlemen hae queer nooations aboot that, an’ ah wadn’t trust ’em as
far as ah could fling ’em on t’ strength on’t. Bud t’ faith ov a
Christian’s anuther thing, an’ if yo’ hae _that_ it’ll keep beeath you
an’ hor an’ ivveryboddy else oot o’ harm’s way. The blood ov Jesus
Christ cleansis frae all sin, an’ ah pray ’at yo’ may knoa it an’ feel
it all t’ days o’ yer life. Excuse mah for makkin’ sae free wi’ yo’,
sor,” said Adam, again touching his time-worn hat, “bud you’ve teean a
looad off my heart as big as Kesterton Hill.”
With mutual “Good-mornings” they separated; the one to ply his
slashing-knife on Farmer Houston’s quick-wood, the other to pursue his
homeward way to Waverdale Hall, with a new subject for study and new
material for thought.
Leaving Adam Olliver to jog along the grassy lane on the back of
patient and unwitting Balaam, let us accompany the handsome scion of
the house of Fuller, and listen to his communings, stirred as he was
by his interview with Lucy’s rustic friend and champion.
“She loves me,” was his first thought; “to me she would never own it.
But Adam Olliver knows it, and misreads my heart as much as one man
can misread another’s. Lucy, my darling, for love of you I would
barter Waverdale Hall without a sigh; I would harden my hands at the
anvil, and hammer and sing as merrily as Blithe Natty, if you might
brighten my cottage home! What shall I do? My proud and stately father
will never permit such an unequal match but, with all his pride, he
loves me dearly, and I cannot, will not, be disloyal to so great a
love, and disobey his will.”
He heaved a sigh from the depths of his perplexed and anxious spirit;
then his mind reverted to Adam Olliver’s words, “The blood of Jesus
Christ cleanseth from all sin.” And again the refrain heard in the
cottage service rung in his ears,--
“To you is it nothing that Jesus should die?”
“What _does_ it mean? I would give the world to know and feel that
cleansing power, to know and feel that Jesus died for me.”
Slowly, but definitely and surely, the young patrician was being led
by Providence and Grace to the Lamb of God that taketh away the sins
of the world.
Nor were the cogitations of the grand old hedger less interesting. His
shrewd, observant mind had noted the clear, transparent character of
the youthful squire, had been struck with the honest ring of his manly
disclaimer, and lapsing into his old habit of making Balaam his
confidant, he said,--
“Balaam, thoo an’ me’s a cupple ov aud feeals. What business hae we te
jump te conclusions aboot uther fooaks’ faults? We mun try te leeak at
yam a bit mair. Here ah’ve been at it fotty year an’ mair, talkin’
aboot an’ praisin’ t’ charity ’at thinks nae evil, an’ here ah’ve been
bleeamin’ that yung fello’ withoot judge or joory. Oh, Adam, Adam!
Thoo mun gan te skeeal ageean an’ larn t’ a-b ab’s o’ Christian
charaty! Them ’at’s fost te fling a steean had better keep their aun
winder-shutters in, or they’ll hae plenty o’ brokken glass, an’ ah
feel as meean as though I hadn’t a woll payne left i’ mahn. Ah’s
waintly misteean if that’s nut as feyn a young chap as ivver rayd a
hoss, an’ ah’ll pray ’at the Lord may mak’ him a bonnin’ an’ a shinin’
leet.”
Adam Olliver’s prayers were not wont to be in vain.