Mrs. Loudon

“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.