LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2670, 27 October 1882, Page 4

LITERATURE.

the BOUNTY SHILMN&

Dick Haelowb, cross between yeoman an 1 farm laborer, living In the outskirts < f Nnnsoroft, one of the pleasant little villages of Warwickshire, on the borders of Wor--0 ster and skirting the Vale of Evesham, almost magical in its summer beauty and tedolent ol memories of Simon de ntontfors and King Edward Longshanks iok Hor lowe was decidedly in that mood fitting him to bs operated npon by any doubtful agent, when he went out from his mother’s thatched cottage on a certain September evening during the great war of England with Napoleon I. Eit at that moment to have been met by Mephistophsles, in any of the shapes which ho as mm as in those weird legends of which the young farmer had never heard ; fit to be operated upon by any mere human instrumentality falling in his way and having motive to influence him. Fit, especially tit, for that government agonoy and inflaenoe, through so many ages known to Englishmen as the * recruiting sergeant.’ Diok was yonng, round-faced, good-, coking generally, and so athletic as to be a proverb of nimblenets in that aotlve portion of the West country. He had that cornshness which belongs to his years, nnd alas I that nervous sonbiiiveues so apt to belong to the same age, not dependent on any great keenness of Intellect, and quite capable of making tbe holder unhappy without afford ing the necessary wisdom for extrication from unpleasant surroundings. He knew quite enough to feel acutely and to become very unhappy ; but—poor fallow I—he did not know enough to plaos himself beyond the neoosrity of that feeling—as, Indeed, how small a percentage will he found to have that power, in any given hundred or hundred thousand I Hot to make any mystery of the mattar — things had ‘gone wrong with him,’to quote the phr .so which ha would himself have used if he used any—in the farming of the. small glebe held by his father before him, and alterwards entrusted to himself and his mother, the widow. The season had been rainy; help was beyond his means, and much of what might have been the product of his fields had been lost through ioeffiriency combined with s certain am"nnt of Inattention. In fact, so doleful tad become the prospect for the ensuing winter that he had been ekoipg out subsistence for the present, and preparing in a miserable way for the dark hour by working half as farm hand and half as overseer, on the luckier or better tilled fields of some of the other landholders in the neighborhood He was consequently poor.dall. dlscfurigad, sad-hearted,without quite knowing the whole meaning of the phrase, and with that sort of indefinite feeling sometimes characterised, nowadays, as ‘down In the month.’ Then, the evening was that of Monday ; and on the previous day, coming back from the little church to the abode of that ‘neathanded Phillis,’ he had managed to get np a sort of lover’s quarrel with pretty Susan Ackley, his fiancee for the previous twelvemonth and bis playmate and admiration from childhood —this quarrel 1 ading tim to the belief that he was the most miserable, worthless, and wronged dog In crest'on ; and that the sooner he was one of the way, and Susan made happy by that indefinite removal, the better for all parties. (N.B. —Diok would have pounded to a jelly, in five minutes, any man who dared hint that Susan would be the happier for parting with him; that peculiar and peculiarly foolish asserton he held as his own private right and property ; and held it, of course, all the more solemnly and sacredly on that account,) Then ho had another grief or grievance, manifested in a row with his mother, the widow, who was certainly not in the habit of inflicting unheard of cruelties npon any one fall ng under her charge. It Is not necessary to state, at the present moment, what was that grievance; indeed, to do so would remove it, and so the little story coaid not be told at all. Enough to say that the fact will develop itself in due time ; a little more to that disproof of old maxims and general levelling of arrogant statements which will no donbt be found necessary before the coming of the millennium. Bat the sense of injury was sufficient to induce him, jaat after changing the oordnroy pants and smock frock in which ha had been at work afield daring the day, to an old bat mors becoming salt of velveteens, for ‘ evening promenade, to hurl at the window a very in jared-innooent expression of wrathful disappointment, his hands meanwhile thrust deep enough into his breeches pocket to produce the belief that be had a covert Yankee somewhere among hla ancestry. ‘I do think that yon might ha’done it, mother!’ he ejaculated on that occasion, with an amount of feeling showing that the wrong had struck very near to the fountain of bis life. * It was main little to do, for a woman like yon ; and, dang it I—l am a chap that needs taking a little care of jnst now—that I do 1 I don’t a bit like to have what you promised to do neglected in that way, seeing that I am not one that asks for favors very often ; faarkee to that, now 1 And when I come back, if I do came back at all,’— ‘ Why, b:y. what are you talking of 1’ interrupted the gray-headed and snnglycappad poor widow, just in time to prevent the utterance of that no donbt awful threat Her kind and motherly appearance, however bumble, seemed to make It donbtfnl whether she could have perpetrated any crime beyond forgiveness, against her only son; and here was a promise of reparation In what follows. 1 Sure it was only a little miss, Dick, and I’ll do it to morrow, true as I am a woman. Don’t ’ee grieve old mother by making so much ado about so smsll a thing ! And then to talk of staying away 1 Why, Susan— ’ ‘Dang Snsan, and all girls like her!’ exclaimed the son, Interrupting iu his turn, and with maoh more than the widow’s force of expression. 1 Don’t talk to me any more about finsan Ackley, mother—never. She and I be off—that’s all and that’s enough.’ • Yon and Snsan! Why, Dick —— l That was all that the widow, literally overwhelmed by snch intelligence, found to say; for Dick, bearing both his old and new griefs about him, strode away from the little cottage poroh in which his mother was standing under the yet nnfaded vines and climbing flowers—strode away through the rustic gate, closing It with bang enough to have shown his tamper without any other evidence, and took his way, as the widow could see in the lingering September light, toward that portion of the picturesque straggling hamlet of Nnnaoroft where stood the noted alehouse known as the “Nine Chickens,” the watering place of all the carriers who traversed that well-frequented road; the lounging place, and, alas, the tippling place of the thriftless and the Idle of a whole neighborhood, as such houses have been time out of mind in other sections of Merrie England than that bordering the vale of Evesham. Good old Dame Harlowe would much have preferred that Diok should assuage his grief, even at a quarrel with Susan Ackley, as well as any discontent with herself, in some other mode than by a night at the alehouse with its company lower than himsdf, as well as much less intelligent; bat she sighed a remembrance that 4 his father before him, God rest bis soul, did so!’ closed the door, and went in to what night labor yet remained to do by the dim evening lamp. She was resolving, meanwhile, that the forgetfulness of which her son complained should not again occur—that she would do yet that night or certainly on the morrow, what she had so grieved and angered him by neglecting to do that day, Diok Harlowe, meanwhile, strode on towards the * Nine Chickens.’ He was just In rhat desperate folly of yontb, so qnick to find duplicated at any earnest search, so hard to resist, so easy for anyone except the sufferer to ridicule or argue away. He had not a penny in his pockets, not a ha’penny, not a fartbing; perhaps it bad been to make that discovery that his hands went down so deep into his trousers pockets; bat he had credit at thealebonsa, and a score consequent thereupon; and If he had any intention at all as be strode It was to get as ‘ boosy ’ that night as stiff old ale oonll make him, and then deoida in the morning (we do decide those things so much better in the morning, with eyes reddened and head splitting 1) what he would especially do to spite cruel Susan, and batter, his dull prospects. Arrived at the ale-honae, fortune proved more kind to the young fellow, in the way of providing cheap potables for at least a part of that wise resolution, than he oonld possibly have anticipated. Iwa or three of his village companions dropped into the taproom of the ‘Nino Chickens ’ very soon after hla arrival; and they guzzled ale comfortably at each meeting, with Diok Harlowe rucking more gtupld and ineffectual attempts to bs

joTy, than any of the others remembered of him But these dropped away aga n somewhat early—the evening being a remarkably unproductive one, for eome cause, to tlia hostelry ; and, at uo very late hour, Tbics found himself alone In the company of the very pleasantest fellow he bad ever mat — c rtalnly the most entertaining conversation3,‘i,t. and quite as certainly the most liberalhaoded. This gentleman, who sat at one of the tide tab'es i.i the taproom, termed to t;.ke -u especial interest In Dick from the moment of m eting—an interest highly flattering to that young person. He wore a red moat, and had a bunch of colored ribbons on his cooked hat; he told the most interesting and appetising s’o-ies of the adventures lie hid met in His Mjasty’s service, in dpam, Flanders, America —everywhere. Ho insisted on being paymaster for the sis, a join and again ; and then, deoUringthat the malt seemed to be flat and stale to one who had drunk wine in the countries where the grapes grow, ordered a bottle of that beverage, followed it with a second, and insisted npen Dick appropriating much more than half of most of the orders. Dick Harlowo grew a’most confidential with the vary pleasant stranger who treated him like an old friend and a prince—confided to him (it is feared) some of his few hopes and all his many troubles—had a dbn Imp-ession of being Invited by him to join in the gayest, brightest, easiest, best-paid of lives —that of the soldier—and of refusing to arrange for doing so —at least before the following morning—and then he did not seem to remember anything more, and he did not; for he dropped his head over on the table and slept the sleep of the young and the—dragged! . , „ Yes, dragged—that was precisely the misfortune into which Hatlowe had fallen. He was, as the recruiting sergeant at once recognised, a valuable prize, for whom the premium paid would be much higher than for any ordinary clodhopper, and ho had engaged tbe young fellow in conversation without naming his, peculiar profession or business while any sobriety remained in his victim—then substituted wine _ when he found ole too slow and doubtful in bringing him to the proper state of unconsciousness, adding secretly a few drops of a well-known preparation carried in his pocket for extreme oases. . • How the deed was accomplished his Majesty had another servant sure and certain, for he had extracted enough drunken words from Dick to be able to awear to hla willing acceptance of what ho had, at the last moment, adroitly dropped into the gaping pocket of his velveteen trousers —the ‘ King’s Stalling.’ When he had slept perhaps an hour, and no other victims seemed likely to present themselves, the sergeant pinched a bunch of colored ribbons, like that he himself wore, to the hat of the young fellow (as the Fracch a d some others adorn and be ribbon prize calves and bullocks for slaughter), then edged him on his feet, took him, half dead and entirely stupefied as he was, to the slot plng-room already engaged, and passed the night with his prize so fastened to him that escape was impossible, A little alarmed by the words which Dick had spoken when leaving her, the widow Harlowe became much more so as hour after hour went by and she did not hear his returning step. The night wore on, and there was no return, and consequently no sleep for the anxious mother. What it it that Induces mothers to place especial dependence npon tbe wives or fiancees of their sons, and to believe that those people exercise some Influence beyond theirs, remains a question to bo hereafter solved; enough to know that some snob impression prevails. With the first rays of daylight the widow was stirring ; and before the snn had risen she presented herself at the still smaller thatched cottage of her neighbor. Widow Ackley, tapping at Susan's window. The young girl sprang up, en deshabille and alarmed—then reddened with shame to see that the early visitor was the mother cf the yonng man whom (in spite of occasional quarrels) she loved so dearly. She presented a very pretty pio’ure at that moment, with her sweet girlish face. Saxon-blue eyes, and blonde hair, and a bewitching, plnmp, neat figure, which had never (of course) blessed Diok Harlowe’s eyes to any such extent as It radiated npon his mother’s. * What ever is the matter, dama Harlowe ? Have anything happened to—to Dick ?’ was the natnral thongn shame faced Inquiry of the yonng girl, as she threw np the window.

‘Oh, lass, I do not know,' sighed the widow. * Dick have been gone all night, and be did say anch wild words before he went away, about being off with thee, aud ibont never earning back - * ‘ Hash ! do not let my mother hear you, dame I Wait only a moment till I slip on my clothes, and then we will go over the wide world after him, if need be I Poor Disk 1 poor Dick 1 ’tht|/onng girl muttered, as she made her hasty toilet, ‘ did he take my worda ao badly to heart that he oonld talk of leaving mother and me ? What a bad girl I mnst be, to be ante I And if I have driven him away, why then I must bring him back again—that ia my duty, and I must do that, yen know 1’ Certainly, Satan—always do ‘duty;’ but duty la more pleasant when there ia a little love mixed with it, as more thou one of us have had occaaslon to ascertain 1

Less than five minutes, dame Harlowe waiting at the window, and her neighbor widow undisturbed brought Snsan without, bright eyed, even in the midst of her anxiety, short-skirted, neat-ankled, nnbonneted.

* What can have ha pened to Diok ? When did you see him last, dama?’ asked the young girl, eagerly. ‘He went away from tbe cottage last night at dnsk, and he never stays out of a night—never 1 What has happened between yon, lass, to make my boy speak and aot so?’

‘Oh, nothing but a little tiff, dame,’ replied Snsan. * Nothing that 1 remembered for an hour afterwards. Off with me, Is ho —the silly, handsome fellow 1 I will teach him better things than that, once we find him I ’

‘Ay, lass, once we find him!' said the widow, in a tone of discouragement, 1 But what if we should not find him—if he has gone away and left my poor old heart to break, and you !— ’ ‘Me to wear tbe willow ! broka in Snsan. energetically. ‘No dame, nought of tae sort, be snre of that! But, tall me—-had he any mony, do yon think V ‘Over little, if any, I think, lass,’ responded the mother. * ForJI remember that he said how little there was to put into his pockets, when— ’ * Don't yon see thoe, dame, that he cannot have gone far away ? ’ was the Inquiry, constituting another interruption. ‘ Diok may be a trifle eilly, when he is In hie humors ; bnt he is not silly enough for that —to go away without any money and without seeing me. And which way did he go when he left the cottage ? ’ It will be observed that this young female was, like so many of her aex, halfway an Incarnate lawyer, and that she had at least the legal propensity for beginning at beginnings and tracing out things to. their end. ‘ He struck across the field towards the alehouse, where, belike, he has been somewhat too often of late,' was the reply of the widow. * But what then, lass ? Surely he has not stayed there nntil this time of the morning.’ • Humph, I do not know that one way or the other,’ eald Pusan. ‘At all events, we will go first to the alehouse, see whether he was there at all last night, and then—’ ‘ Yon go to the alehouse, Snsan ? —looking for a man, too. if that man is my boy ?’ inquired Dame Harlowe, in a mixture of surprise and helplessness. ‘ Yes, Why not, dame ?’ was the response, with the whole face of the young girl showing that she did not at all admit the force of the objection, even If she recognised it. ‘Why not, I say ? Oh, because people will say that I am a girl, and after him. Bah ! who cares for what they ssy. Everybody knows that I am promised to Diok for his wife, or they ought to know j and why shouldn’t I look for him as I might for my hnsband that he is to be some day ? Answer me that, dame?’ ‘ He onght to be your hnsband, lass, and a better man than he is, to be worthy of yon ; for you are a brave and steady one,’ ex. claimed the widow, a little dazed, bnt looking at the bright face and plnmp form with a sort of dim Idea that if she bad been a man It would have been no light temptation that drew her away Irom each a prize, ‘Oome, then—come, dame ; let us go after onr ale to the * Nine Chickens ’ * Dame Harlowo obeyed, in more than one sense carried away by the enthusiasm of tbe young girl; and the walk was a brief ona

tbe younger lego harrying along the older to the fall measure of their capacity. Not five minutes had elapsed when they reached the hostelry, and found themselves In the midst of a moat singular rceno occurring in aid at the door of the tap room, with supplementary portions without, and extending right aorots the green lane fronting the old Inn.

At the door and near It were gathered not fors than fify or sixty of the village clodpcles snd farmers’ men from the fields close about, with a few of retter condition among them—blacksmiths, carpenters, and the like. Some had sticks of f .rmidablo pattern ; all looked excited and a trifle dangerous ; and two or three of them uttered exclamations of mingled icy, sorrow, and suspense, when they recognised the coming of widow Harlows and pretty Susan Ackley. (To ie continued )