Half a Life-time Ago

rty acres of land by which it was surrounded. She had also an hereditary right to a sheep-walk, extending to the wild fells that overhang Blea Tarn. In the language of the country she was a St

al umbrageous yew, making a solemn shadow, as of death, in the very heart and centre of the light and heat of the brightest summer day. On the side away from the house, this yard slopes down to a dark-brown pool, which is supplied with fresh water from the overflowings of a stone cistern, into which some rivulet of the brook before-mentioned continu

ceive them as lodgers. They would give no trouble, they said; they would be out rambling or sketching all day long; would be perfectly content with a share of the food which she provided for herself; or would procure what they required from the Waterhead Inn at Coniston. But no liberal sum — no fair words — moved her from her stony manner, or her monotonous tone of indifferent refusal. No persuasion could induce her to show any more of the house than that first room; no appearance of fatigue procured for the weary an invitation to sit down and rest; and if one more bold and less delicate did so without being asked, Susan stood

with them. If she was peculiar and silent, they knew her, and knew that she might be relied on. Some of them had known her from her childh

as the “Paradise Lost” and “Regained,’” “The Death of Abel,” “The Spiritual Quixote,” and “The Pilgrim’s Progress”), were to be found in nearly every house: the men occasionally going off laking, i.e. playing, i.e. drinking for days together, and having to be hunted up by anxious wives, who dared not leave their husbands to the chances of the wild precipitous roads, but walked miles and miles, lantern in hand, in the dead of night, to discover and guide the solemnly-drunken husband home; who had a dreadful headache the next day, and the day after that came forth as grave, and sober, and virtuous looking as if there were no such thing as malt and spirituous liquors in the world; and who were seldom reminded of their misdoings by their wives, to whom such occasional outbreaks were as things of course, when once the immediate anxiety produced by them was over. Such were — such are — the characteristics of a class now passing away from the face of the land, as their compeers, the yeomen, have done before them. Of such was William Dixon. He was a shrewd clever farmer, in his day and generation, when shrewdness was rather shown in the breeding and rearing of sheep and cattle than in the cultivation of land. Owing to this character of his, statesmen from a distance from beyond Kendal, or from Borrowdale, of g

d always been strong and notable, and had been too busy to attend to the early symptoms of illness. It would go off, she said to the woman who helped in the kitchen; or if she did not feel better when they had got the hams and bacon out of hand, she would take some herb-tea and nurse up a bit. But Death could not wait till the hams and bacon were cured: he came on with rapid strides, and shooting arrows of portentous agony. Susan had never seen illness — never knew how much she loved her mo

ying. She motioned Susan to her bedside, for she could only whisper; and then, while the father was out of the room, she spo

or woman’s face began to work and her fingers to move nervously as they lay on the bed-quilt —“lile Will will miss me most of all. Father’s often vexed with him because he’s not a quick strong lad; he is not, my poor lile chap. And father thinks he’s saucy, because he cannot always stomach

see her. That dear face! those precious moments while yet the eyes could look o

t ought I can give or get for him, least of all the kind words which

tender of him when I’m gone, for my sake. And, Susan, there’s one thing more. I never spoke on it for fear of the bairn being called a tell-tale, but I just comforted him up. He

of the moment. Her mother had spoken too much, and now came on the miserable faintness. She never spoke again coherently; but when her children and her husband stood by her bedside, she took lile Will’

ply he was loved. For Susan was merely comely and fine looking; Michael was strikingly handsome, admired by all the girls for miles round, and quite enough of a country coxcomb to know it and plume himself accordingly. He was the second son of his father; the eldest would have High Beck farm, of course, but there was a good penny in the Kendal bank in store for Michael. When harvest was over, he went to Chapel Langdale to learn to dance; and at night, in his merry moods, he would do his steps on the flag floor of the Yew Nook kitchen, to the secret admiration of Susan, who had never learned dancing, but who flouted him perpetually, even while she admired, in accordance with the rule she seemed to have

Michael, who had just been vaunting his proficiency. “Does it help you plough, reap, or even cli

to do anything which made the pr

, Michael, that would not

during which he had expected in vain that

s a man, Susy; you’d be

ent a tone as she could assume, but which yet had a tou

ncing class; but she is all milk and water. Her eyes never flash like yours when you’re put out; why, I can see them flame across the kitche

oking up and perceiving that

right in this way,” said

And she boxed his ears pretty sharply. He went back to his seat discomfited and out of temper. She could no longer see to look, even if her face ha

of Will’s. “Thou great lounging, clumsy chap, I’ll teach thee better!” and with one or two good round kicks he sent the lad whimpering away into the back-kitchen. When he had a little recovered hims

” said she, “that lad’s mot

when he’s given me such a burn on my face?” said Mic

But if he did burn thee, it was by accident, and not o’ purpose

ard, and they’d ne’er ha’ said ought but ‘damn ye;’ but yon lad must need

ute or two, while her eyes filled with tears. Then she got up and made for the outer door which led into t

n, Su

r lover while the tears which he had caused to flow were yet unwiped on Will’s cheeks. So she seemed to take no heed, but passe

ered covering of gray moss: and the soughing November wind came with long sweeps over the fells till it rattled among the crackl

or this before thou’st done, I’m afeared. I should ha’ hit thee twice as lungeous kicks as Mik

sick.” And he let his head fall la

cked me far harder for offering to milk her before her legs were tied. See thee! here’s a peppermint-drop, and I’ll make t

, and led him in, hoping to find Michael in the kitchen, and make all straight between them. But the blaze had dropped down into darkness; the wood was a heap of gray ashes in which the sparks ran hither and thither; but even in the groping darkness Susan knew by the sinking at her heart that Michael was not there. She threw another brand on the hearth and lighted the candle, and sat down to her work in silence. Willie cowered on

his sister’s side. “I won’t never play with the fire again; and I’ll not cry if Michael does kick me. Only

supper, and you shall have it; and don’t you be feared on Michael. He s

ming up the brow with the carts, she knew full well, even in that faint moonlight, that his gait was the gait of a man in liquor. But though she was annoyed and mortified to find in what way he had chosen to forget her, the fact did not disgust or shock her as it would have done many a girl, even at that day, who had not been brought up as Susan had, among a class who considered it no crime, but rather a mark of spirit, in a man to get drunk occasionally. Nevertheless, she chose to hold herself very high all the next day when Michael was, perforce, obliged to give up any attempt to do heavy work, and hung about the out-buildings and

r of the barn — run! run!” (He was dragging her along, half reluctant, half desirous of some change in t

re is nothing pretty — what have you brough

el, suddenly loosing his hold as she struggled. But now she was free

with seeming sadness. “You won’t hear

what I should like to hear?” r

me; I want you to hear it and then t

he, turning her back, and beginn

close to

e the other night. He h

e replied. “But you are right

rm. “There is something more I’ve got to say. I w

ying to get away with all her might now; and sh

what is it I w

quiet, and just let me go in, or I shall thi

you shall never have to watch for a drunken husband. If I were your husband, I would come straight home, and count every minut

y off like a lapwing round the corner of the barn, and up in her own little room, cryin

worldly gear that he could give his child had been named by each father, the young folk, as they said, might take their own time in coming to the point which the old men, with the prescience of experience, saw they were drifting to; no need to hurr

led from the two family apartments into the house-place. She tried to look composed and quiet, but it could not be done. She stood side by side with her lover, with her head drooping, her cheeks burning, not daring to look up or move, while her father made the newly-betrothed a somewhat formal address in which he gave his consent, and many a piece of worldly wisdom beside. Susan listened as well as she could for the beating of her heart; but when her father solemnly and sadly referred to his own los

he furnishing of the house. Susan received all this information in a quiet, indifferent way; she did not care much for any of these preparations, which were to hurry her through the happy hours; she cared least of all for the money amount of dowry and of substance. It jarred on her to be made the confidante of occasional slight repinings of Michael’s, a

eak. He kept out of the way, and was apparently occupied in whittling and carving uncouth heads on hazel-sticks in an out-house. But he positively avoi

, he looks so dark and downcast at me.” Michael spoke this jest

ay, and went in search of the boy. She sought in byre and barn, through the orchard, where indeed in this leafless winter-time there was no great concealment; up i

and me seeking you everywh

been away many a time, and no one has ca

m in the hole he had made underneath the great, brown sheafs of wood, and squeezed herself down by

d to like to have me with you. But now, you’ve taken up with Michael, and you’d rather I was away; and I can

rly, lad!” said she, putt

after a little pause, putting her arm away, so that

nt ver

ions. They are not fit for you

you love me!” sai

t I promise thee (as I promised mother before), in the sight of God and with her hearkening now, if ever she can hear

’lt love

— the more thou’lt love Michae

t, for here and now she was all his own, and he did not know when such a time might come again. So the two sat crouched up and silent, till they heard the horn blowing at