PART II.
Hors d'œuvres (hot).—A species of very light entrées, such as small patties, ox-piths, brains, cock's combs, croquettes, etc.
Hors d'œuvres (cold).—Sardines, anchovies, prawns, tunny, prepared herrings, savoury butters, radishes, caviar, and many other things are served as hors d'œuvres. They should be eaten immediately after the soup and fish, as they are considered as appetisers.
Jardinière.—A mixed preparation of vegetables cut in dice or, more generally, fancy shapes—small balls, diamonds, etc.—and stewed in their own sauce, with a little butter, sugar, and salt.
Julienne.—Vegetables cut in very thin strips, and used for soup; also in some ways of cooking fish and meat.
Jus.—The gravy that runs from roast meat, or strong, good gravy made from meat.
Kilogramme is equal to two pounds and one-fifth of a pound avoirdupois. It contains 1,000 grammes, so one generally takes 500 grammes as equal to one pound.
Laitance.—Soft rows of fish.
Larder.—Larder is sometimes confounded with piquer. Larder is to stick pieces of ham, tongue, truffles, or bacon into meat or poultry, after making little holes in it to receive them, so that when it is cut it looks marbled, and the meat gains in flavour from the truffles or whatever it may be that is inserted.
Lit.—A bed or layer; articles in thin slices with seasoning or other things placed between them.
Liaison.—Thickening. By this word is understood a thickening made with one or more yolks of eggs. They are used for many sauces and some soups; sometimes a little cream or milk is added to them.
Litre.—A French measure, equal to a pint and a half English measure.
Luting.—A paste made of flour and water only, and used for fastening down the lids of fireproof pans and jars when preserving game, etc., in them, so as to prevent evaporation.
Macaroncini.—A small kind of macaroni, larger than vermicelli.
Macedoine.—Vegetables prepared and cooked as for jardinière, but with the addition of some white sauce to them.
Macedoine of fruit.—Mixed fruits in jelly.
Madeleine.—Very like queen cake.
Maigre.—Without meat; sauces, soups, or broths made with vegetables, etc., but without meat or meat stock.
Maitre d'hotel.—A sauce made with white sauce, parsley, and lemon juice, if to use hot; if cold, it is made by kneading butter, parsley, and lemon-juice together. Made thus, it is often put on fillet or rump steaks before they are sent to table.
Manier.—This word is applied to the preparation of butter or other fat used for making different kinds of paste. It consists in pressing the fat in a cloth until it is quite soft and all the moisture is removed from it.
Massepains.—Sweetmeats made from almond paste (similar to that put over wedding cakes), cut or moulded into shapes, and glazed on the outsides. They are easy to make, and very nice for dessert.
Matelotte.—A rich and expensive fish stew, made properly of mixed fresh-water fish, but sometimes of only one kind. Trout, eels, or carp are most used. Wine enters largely into the composition of this dish.
Marinades.—Cooked marinade is prepared with vinegar, water, vegetables, parsley, herbs, and bayleaves. If it is not cooked, it consists of chopped onions, parsley, herbs, oil, and lemon-juice, or vinegar. Marinade is a pickle.
Mayonnaise.—Yolks of eggs worked into a stiff cream by slowly dropping oil and vinegar into them as they are stirred.
Mazarines.—Ornamented entrées made of forcemeats, with either fillets of fish or pieces of chicken or game.
Menu.—A bill of fare.
Meringue.—A kind of sweetmeat or icing, made by beating whites of eggs and sugar to snow, and then baking in a slow oven.
Mignonette Pepper.—A preparation of either black or white peppercorns, which, after being broken in a mortar to about the size of mignonette-seed, is sifted to remove the dust from it.
Minestrone.—Clear stock, with peas, rice, carrots and tomato sauce in it, served with grated Parmesan cheese.
Mirepoix.—A compound used to impart flavour to braised meats.
Miroton.—Pieces of meat larger than collops, such as would be put in a stew.
Mitonner.—Same as mijoter; to simmer or cook very slowly.
Mouiller.—To add liquor to anything.
Nougats.—A mixture of baked almonds and boiled sugar.
Nouilles.—Paste made of yolks of eggs and flour, which is cut in fine strips like vermicelli.
Panada.—A preparation of sopped bread wrung in a cloth, then cooked with butter, or of flour, water, and butter. Panada of bread or of flour is needed in the preparation of many forcemeats.
Paner.—To cover meat or anything else with very fine breadcrumbs before broiling, frying, or baking it.
Panure.—Scollops, croquettes, cutlets, or any other entrée that is breadcrumbed or pané.
Papillottes (en).—Cooked in buttered papers.
Piping.—This is the name given to the sugar work used for ornamenting cakes, tartlets, etc. It is done by working white of egg and fine sugar together, and then pressing the sugar through a sort of funnel. An india-rubber implement is made for this purpose, which is much easier to use than a tin one.
Piquer.—To lard; that is to say, to put strips of bacon fat in a larding-needle and draw the needle through the surface of the meat or game, so that the two ends of each strip of bacon stick out.
Pluche.—The leaves of parsley, tarragon, chervil, lettuce, or sorrel broken or cut into small pieces—not chopped. They are mixed or used separately. The word is sometimes spelled with an "s," instead of a "c."
Poivrade.—A sauce made with pepper, vinegar, shalots, bunch of parsley, salt, and broth.
Poelée, or Poële.—A braise or stock used for boiling turkeys, fowls, sweetbreads, etc., to render them less insipid. It is made from suet, veal, vegetable, lemon-pulp, water, etc.
Poêle.—A pan, a frying-pan, or a stove.
Pot-au-feu.—Soup with boiled meat.
Potiron.—Pumpkin soup.
Profitrolles.—Pastry of a very light kind, filled with custard, whipped cream, or prepared chocolate, etc.
Purée.—Meat or vegetables that have been sufficiently cooked and then rubbed through a sieve. A purée retains its name when sufficient stock is added to it to form a thick sauce or soup.
Quenelles.—A delicate kind of forcemeat used in the preparation of various entrées. It is made usually of poultry, game, or fish, with panada, rich sauces, or yolks of eggs, etc.
Ragoût.—A stew; sometimes a very rich dish, sometimes little more than a hash.
Ravioles.—Kind of rissoles made in nouilles paste, served with Parmesan cheese over them, or in soup.
Ravigotte.—Mayonnaise with chopped cress, parsley, tarragon, chervil, and chives added to it.
Relevés, or Removes.—The dishes that, when put on table, would take the places of the soup and fish.
Rêmoulade.—A salad dressing made with parsley, tarragon, chervil, chives, capers, anchovies, mustard, oil, and vinegar.
Rissoles.—Light puff pastry filled with meat, fish, or sweets, and boiled in fat of some kind.
Roux.—Brown roux (used for thickening) is made by frying butter and flour together until of a nice brown colour. White roux is made in the same way, but the flour must be cooked well without being allowed to colour. It is best made in a saucepan, and should be stirred all the time over a moderate fire. Sometimes flour is baked, then mixed with butter, for roux.
Salpicon.—Poultry, fish, or other things prepared with truffles, etc., for croustades, timbales, croquettes, etc.
Salmi.—A highly-finished hash of cooked game or wild-fowl, cut up and prepared with rich sauce or made gravy.
Sauté.—To fry cutlets, scollops of game, poultry, or fish, etc., lightly in butter.
Sautoir.—A very shallow stewpan used for sautés.
Soufflé.—The word means something puffed up. Soufflés are very light puddings. They may be made with any kind of farinaceous substance, with the addition of well-beaten eggs flavoured with fruits, liqueurs, or essences. They must be served the moment they are ready. They can also be made with fruit. Iced soufflés are made in various ways; but the mixture is iced, instead of baked.
Sparghetti.—Naples vermicelli.
Stock.—Unthickened broth or gravy, with which soups or sauces can be made.
Tartare.—Mayonnaise, with the addition of chopped shalots, gherkins, tarragon, chervil, and a little chili vinegar and mustard.
Tamis, or Tammy.—A cloth made for straining through. It should be of goat's hair, but is frequently only woollen canvas.
Timbale is a sort of pie made in a mould and turned out before it is sent to table.
Tourner is used for stir; but it also means to turn—that is to say, to shape, as cutting vegetables into the form of olives, balls, pears, etc.
Tourte.—A delicate sort of tart, baked usually in a shallow tin. It may contain fish, meat, or fruit.
Trousser.—To truss.
Truffer.—To stuff with truffles. This is generally for pheasants, turkeys, or capons.
Turbans.—Ornamental entrées made of game, poultry, or fish, and forcemeats.
Velouté.—The white sauce used as a basis for so many others. It is rich double stock, made with veal, poultry, ham, vegetables, etc., and thickened with flour and butter. It must always be white.
Vol-au-vent.—Puff paste of the lightest kind, filled with a delicate ragoût or fricassée. Fruit may also be enclosed in a vol-au-vent crust.
Vinaigrette.—Oil, vinegar, pepper, and salt together.
Water-souchet.—A simple way of dressing fish by boiling it with parsley roots and leaves, and pepper and salt, and serving it in its own broth, with plates of brown bread-and-butter.
Zeste.—Lemon rind. Sometimes orange and Seville orange rind are called "zeste."
Zita.—Naples macaroni.
By Mrs. G. LINNÆUS BANKS, Authoress of "God's Providence House," "The Manchester Man," "More than Coronets," etc.
There is no part of inhabited England, rural or urban, to be found precisely in the same condition, or presenting the same aspect, as in the days of King Henry the Third. And if the baronial hall of the Bellamonts is no longer to be found in situ at Swarkstone, on the Derbyshire banks of the Trent, the devastating hands of Time and Warfare must be blamed, not the present chronicler.
Besides the Danish Sverk or Swark's tun (or territorial enclosure), Sinfin Moor, Chellaston, and all the lands down to the broad river, had been included in the demesne granted to his Norman follower and his descendants by William the Conqueror, who took and gave the property of the conquered with a like lavish profusion. But the lands have been denuded of wood, partitioned, bought, sold, passed in heirship or exchange for centuries since a Bellamont held sway over all.
The very eminence from which their castellated hall looked down upon the distant river has been levelled and ploughed up, as if to score out all record of Bellamont possession.
Yet the Bellamonts left a memorial of their occupancy which should have embalmed their name in history, and kept it sweet and fresh in the memories of men, had gratitude been as vital or hereditary as a benefaction.
How many travellers from London, or Oxford, or Leicester, or Ashby-de-la-Zouch, to Derby, passing in all those centuries over Swarkstone Bridge, have paused to ask when, or why, or by whom it was there erected for their convenience?
Tradition is best preserved when crystallised in a story.
There were gay doings in the hall and the villages around Bellamont in the June of 1258, when a noble party of guests had assembled at the hall to share the festivities at the forthcoming marriage of the ladies Idonea and Avice, the twin daughters of Richard Earl Bellamont and his noble countess.
More than one disappointed suitor was there amongst the party, either too proud to show his wounds, or gallantly indifferent; for as the earl's only son had been drowned in his childhood, the fair maidens were known to be co-heiresses, and not a neighbouring lord or knight but would have been well pleased to add a slice of the Bellamont lands to his own estate.
Then report said the sisters were wonderfully fair and virtuous; that their lady-mother had early initiated them into the mysteries of good housewifery; and the learned Prior of Burton (John de Stretton) had opened unto them the still greater mysteries of reading, writing, accounts, and religion—not least, if last.
No wonder, then, that many a lance was set in rest and broken in tilt or tourney for one or other of the sisters, seeing they were endowed with beauty, wealth, thrift, learning, and the Christian graces.
Such prizes are not often offered for the winning.
The Countess Joan would fain have given one of her daughters to a kinsman, William Harpur, of Ticknall, but fate, and, it may be, Prior John, had determined otherwise.
Idonea had promised her hand to Sir Ralph de Egginton; and Sir Gilbert Findern—in whose gardens bloomed the fair blossoms his father had brought from the Holy Land—was the heart's-chosen of sweet Avice.
"Two as gallant knights, my lady," said the earl to his busy spouse, "as father could desire for the honour and protection of his girls, when his own arm grows feeble, or his grey head rests on a stone pillow. Methinks thy kinsman, Will Harpur, covets most my coffer and lands, he was so willing to bid for Avice when Idonea said 'nay' to his suit."
However that might be, both he and the prior joined the gay cavalcade that issued from the triply arched gateway of the hall, bent on flying their hawks on Sinfin Moor. Gay, indeed, if brilliant apparel, buoyant hearts, and bounding steeds might count for gaiety. Luxury in dress was an enormity of the time, as of this.
The young Ladies Bellamont, considering their rank, made less ostentatious display of wealth in their attire than any of their companions that bright June morning. Each wore a cyclas, or tunic of purple velours (velvet) bordered with gold, over a tawny silken robe, that hid the long points of their embroidered shoes, as they reined in their palfreys, gracefully seated on the new high-backed side-saddles, the observed of all observers.
Yet they did not court undue observation. Indoors the sunny curls of Avice or the darksome tresses of Idonea flowed freely over their shoulders, simply confined by a ribbon fillet or a chaplet of fresh flowers. But then a kerchief of white Cyprus-lawn, cunningly folded as a wimple o'er the head, and a gorget round the throat, served as a modest screen alike from the ardent sun and the free glances of strangers. And, as was their wont when the year was in its prime, over her wimple Idonea wore a chaplet of rare red roses, Avice one of blushing white.
The earl was wont to call them his two sweet roses and laughingly bid their wooers beware the thorns. But little of thorns did their favoured knights think as down the steep hill they rode together, each displaying in his velvet cap and cyclas of embroidered silken samite the colour of his ladye-love.
Deep as the red heart of the rose was the cyclas worn over the buff-leather surcoat of Sir Ralph de Egginton, and a carbuncle blazed in his dagger hilt. White as purity was the samite cyclas of Sir Gilbert Findern, but it was girdled by a leathern dagger-belt, bestudded with pink coral and pearls, as was the haft of his weapon, and in either cap or bonnet was his lady's symbol, in token the wearer laid his life at her feet, and was equally ready to live or die for her.
There was more thought of living than of dying that bright morning, as, following closely Prior John and the old earl, each knight with his hooded sacret perched on his hawking-glove, each lady with her merlin, they laughed and jested merrily, or whispered words of sweetness not for second ears; and the happiness of the fine young couples, their means and their future homes were freely discussed behind them in the midst of arguments on the merits of favourite falcons.
There was a motley following of esquires, yeomen, pages, villeins on horseback and on foot, with every species of hawk the law permitted; grooms with dogs in the leash; but chief of all the falconer, conspicuous in his green cloth surcoat, with the square frame he held around him, on which were perched and held by silken jesses the peregrine falcons of his master, and the sparrow-hawk of the prior, who had doffed his cowl and frock for the occasion, as freely as the earl and his friends their rough-weather mantles.
On went they all at a gentle trot, with the bright day before them, and were crossing the common road which ran from Derby to the river, some of the more eager galloping on ahead to Sinfin Moor, when suddenly the loud blast of a horn wakened the echoes, and startled speech to silence.
It was not the horn of a huntsman, but a sharp imperative blast that spoke of emergency.
Again and again it was repeated. Horses neighed, and eyes were turned to other eyes in silent question. The lips of Avice turned pale, the cheeks of Idonea flushed crimson as her own roses, her heart beat quick as that of her gentler sister seemed to stop its beating.
"What can it bode?" rose to the lips of both in different intonations.
"No evil, Avice, rest assured," answered Sir Gilbert, cheerily, "and if there were, am I not here to guard you with my life?" Yet as he spoke he bethought him that a dagger was but a sorry trust to warrant such high words, and longed for his good sword.
The cavalcade had come to a standstill, and the horses pawed the ground impatiently, the hot-blooded earl chafing almost as impatiently as his steed.
"Marry!" cried he, "for what are we waiting here, like a brood of frightened chicks? Let us on and meet the messenger, whatever be his tidings." And forward he went, with the bold prior by his side, and the whole hawking party after him—some brave, all curious.
Two minutes more, and a mounted herald came in sight, guarded by four pursuivants; their horses' limbs and trappings wet, as if they had forded the river, then lowered by long draughts of the thirsty sun.
"Weareth he not the Earl of Leicester's badge and cognisance?" asked the earl. "My old eyes are hardly to be trusted."
"Aye, my lord, and he spurs as if in haste," replied the prior.
In haste, indeed! The herald bore a double message from his noble lord, Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester; first—without the herald's long preamble—as the mouthpiece of their sovereign lord, King Henry, to summon his loyal barons and knights to assemble in a parliament at Oxford on the eleventh of that same month of June; and secondly from Simon de Montfort's self, to bid those same barons and knights come to the Oxford parliament armed, and with armed attendants, in order, if needful, to wrest from the king the ratification of the great charter they had obtained from his weak predecessor by like means at Runnymede.
They were moreover bidden to meet for conference in Leicester the following day. Desiring first to learn how many of the county knights were of the Bellamont company, so as to spare him needless journeying, the herald then set spurs to his steed, and was off with his followers in all haste to Derby, urgency serving as his excuse for declining the proffered hospitality of the good earl.
Here was a summons as startling as it was sudden and peremptory!
The falconer might carry his hawks back to the mews. There was a duty more imperative than filling the larder under the name of sport.
Back went the gallant hawking party, in more of haste and excitement, if less of glee, than when they had left the great gateway at a canter scarce half an hour before, by the sun.
The warder on the watch threw open the great gates in consternation, certain some mischance had happened.
Lady Joan left her housewifery, and was there in her lap-cloth (or apron) to receive them, with a face full of apprehension.
"There can be no hawking to-day, Joan," said her lord, "we must don harness and speed to Leicester. The king hath summoned a parliament to meet him at Oxford."
"Arm! A parliament! Do parliaments assemble in arms?"
"This will, good Joan, for so hath decided Simon de Montfort. But never look so scared, my lady. And you, my blooming roses, need not droop; there will be no bloodshed. You will have your gallant bridegrooms back ere another week be out," answered the earl, cheerily.
"But the bridal—the banquet?" cried the dame, in dismay.
The young knights helping their downcast fair ones to alight, seemed each to put a like question in an undertone, pressing the gloved hands they were so loth to relinquish, even for an hour.
"If the bridegrooms be impatient, and the earl be willing, the bridal can precede the parliament," suggested the prior. "I am here, and Father Paul"—referring to his attendant priest—"can have his vestments and the chapel ready long ere noon. What say ye, Bellamont, and Lady Joan? And these fair maidens, Idonea and Avice, what say ye? Shall the church bind ye ere the bridegrooms go?"
The damsels blushed; the two knights looked eagerly for their replies.
Ere they could speak the old earl blurted forth, "Nay, nay, Prior John, the nation's charter must take precedence of private contracts. And whoe'er heard of a happy wedding without a feast; a feast to rich and poor. And, look up, my bonny roses, I will bring your brave knights back ere this day week. Say I not well? The banquet will not suffer from delay."
What could they say?
That was the ninth, the twelfth had been appointed for the nuptials. Great were the preparations. Their lady-mother would be displeased if aught of state were wanting at the ceremony or the banquet.
"Our private inclinations must give place to duty," answered Idonea, proudly, red as the roses round her wimple.
"Be it as my good father and Sir Gilbert will," was the response of Avice, in lower and milder tone.
"Be it as I will, children. And now, on with your lap-cloths and away to help your busy mother and her handmaidens to provide a hasty meal, whilst we exchange our hawking-gear for shirts of mail. And you, Prior John, may say your Benedicite over our hasty repast, to bless our enterprise. And I pray you, and such of our friends as go not with us, of your courtesy abide here our return. Will Harpur here will do devoir for me."
The two knights, conversing earnestly apart, looked at each other with contracted brows, as if Will Harpur were no favourite with either.
The old earl turned to them. "Lack you aught, sirs, that would call you to Egginton or Findern ere you ride to Leicester, or go you on with me?"
"With you, my lord," replied Sir Ralph for both. "We but seek to despatch a trusty messenger to our homes to keep back preparations there, and cool expectations."
"Friar Paul will do your errand faithfully, sir knights," kindly volunteered the obliging prior; "he starts in an hour with a scroll of mine for the monastery, and can take Findern and Egginton by the way."
"Thanks, prior. Our own esquires and foot-pages must follow us."
With that the group dispersed, to add to the general commotion. In the great hall there was a hurrying of serving men from kitchen and buttery with large dishes to cover the boards on movable tressels, that did duty as tables, already spread by dainty handmaids with fair linen napery, and platters of coarse bread (to serve afterwards as doles to the poor). Solid joints and lighter dainties, already prepared for the deferred wedding-feast, were brought forward to grace this parting meal—a parting meal, indeed, and it seemed to cast a shadow on the hurried preparations beforehand.
The lady was not pleased to surrender the peacock with his outspread tail, or the plumed cygnet for aught but the grand occasion, if the lamb and the salmon had to share the fate of the great joints; and when the bearer of the great silver saltcellar (set midway on the board to mark the bounds of rank from dependents) stumbled and shed his precious condiment upon the floor, she was as much disposed to shed tears as to rate him for his clumsiness.
There were other moist eyes besides the troubled dame's. In the maidens' bower the gentle Avice scarcely could cast aside her wimple, and don her lap-cloth for the tears she shed, and stronger-nerved Idonea had scarcely self-command to comfort her.
"I feel as if Sir Gilbert was leaving me for ever," said the former, through her tears, "and there would be no bridal."
"And what of Sir Ralph? Nay, Avice, do not be cast down. We must show braver faces to our betrothed, or we may dishearten and unfit them for the work before them. Come, dry your eyes, and haste with me to relieve our dear mother of her many cares."
There was a clink of metal everywhere, a running to and fro of foot-pages, with casques or coats of mail, a clank of hoofs and hammers in the courtyard and the blacksmith's shed, the rivetting of armour, the nailing of horseshoes, the harnessing of steeds; and then the clangour of a bell to announce refection ready.
It was a hurried repast, partaken of by mailed knights, lacking only gauntlets and helmets to be fully armed, as were their attendant esquires and pages. And as none knew if the parliament so attended would pass peacefully, it was aught but a gladsome gathering.
As was the custom, the ladies shared the platters of their spouses or betrothed, and so there were opportunities for hopeful or consoling words between the lovers; and then with full cups drained to "The King and Magna Charta!" earl and knights were up with the rest. Idonea and Avice clasped on the casques of their lovers, and were gallantly repaid.
A fatherly kiss from the earl, and he was off with a goodly train of armed knights and esquires, two of whom carried symbolic roses in their casques, the spoil of maidens' chaplets.
A pattering of young feet up the oaken stairs, a straining of eyes and waving of kerchiefs from the bower-window. Soon the party was seen to cross the Swarkstone ford, the sun shining on helms of gold and silver and steel, on lance-heads and waving pennons, and then—and then—came the waiting, whilst Prior John discoursed to them of Christian hope and trust, and William Harpur dwelt on the probability of strife and bloodshed, and my lady called on them for help to entertain such guests as still remained at Swarkstone Hall.
(To be concluded.)
Andrews Norton.
By JOS. CULLEN SAWTELL.
A PASTORALE.
By DARLEY DALE, Author of "Fair Katherine," etc.
JACK'S SMOCK-FROCK
Fairy's education had been a puzzle to Mrs. Shelley, though at first Jack had taught her to read and write, until she was five years old, when the problem had been solved by the rector, Mr. Leslie, who had always taken a great deal of notice of the pretty child, offering to let her learn with his girls of their governess, who was a Frenchwoman, and from that day Fairy's mornings and afternoons till four o'clock were spent at the rectory, and in the evenings Jack helped her to prepare her lessons for the next day.
By this means Jack learnt French, and had access to many books which would otherwise have been impossible for him to get hold of. He made the most of his opportunities, and was always far ahead of Fairy in all her studies except French, and in this Fairy was the teacher, and her silvery laugh was often heard to ring out merrily at Jack's English accent, for she had begun to learn it so early that her accent was perfect; indeed, she seemed to have a gift for languages, so quickly did she pick up French; but then she had a very quick ear and a talent for mimicry, both of which are great helps in learning a foreign language.
Once or twice John Shelley—who had a great dread lest his eldest son should spend too much time over books, time which, unless the book was the Bible, the simple shepherd thought wasted—had suggested that Charlie should help Fairy, and Jack look after the sheep, but Fairy soon settled this; Jack could not follow the sheep in the evenings, and as for Charlie, he could read and write and do a little ciphering, but he hated books, and was no use to her at all. The three boys had only been sent to the village school till they were twelve years old, when Jack had been taken away to follow the sheep and learn a shepherd's duties, Willie had gone to sea, and Charlie, for the present, worked in the garden, looked after the pigs and poultry, and helped his mother in various ways.
"When will Jack be in, John? I want him to do my arithmetic for me," said Fairy, helping herself to a kind of harvest cake, called in Sussex plum-heavy, a dainty that was heavy by nature as well as by name, and the way in which the shepherd and his boys devoured them spoke well for their digestive organs.
"As soon as he has folded the sheep—that is, about eight o'clock," said the shepherd.
And a little after eight, just as Fairy, after a deal of puckering of her pretty brows, had given up her sums in despair, Jack came in. He was a tall, fine, handsome lad of seventeen, darker than his brothers and more like Mrs. Shelley than the shepherd in appearance, with a look of keen, quick intelligence in his brown eyes, and a sweet smile which lighted up his whole face. He was quick in all his actions, and had laid aside his hated crook and changed his clothes, and washed and seated himself by Fairy's side before he had been ten minutes in the house. Mrs. Shelley looked with pride at her darling son as he bent his curly brown head over Fairy's slate, and in his clear voice, quite free from the Sussex brogue in which his parents and brothers spoke, explained decimal fractions to her.
Jack's manner to Fairy was rather a puzzle to his mother, for while it was more deferential than the shepherd's and less familiar than Charlie's, who, when he was clean, Fairy allowed to be on brotherly terms with her, at the same time he assumed a tone of intellectual superiority which Fairy quite acquiesced in and seemed to think quite natural, and yet she ordered him about just as she did the other boys, and he was certainly never so happy as when in her presence and doing her bidding.
Sometimes Mrs. Shelley feared for her boy's happiness, for though Fairy was only a child in age and everything else, Jack was five years older, and already his mother dreaded lest his affection and admiration should develop into a stronger feeling, although, for she was very ambitious for her boy, if she could know that in the far future Fairy would respond to the feeling, hope, and not fear, would have been the feeling with which she watched them.
When the sums were finished, Mrs. Shelley laid the cloth for supper, while Jack and Fairy discussed their plans for the next day.
"Where is father?" asked Jack, suddenly.
"Now coming in to supper; he is cross with you, you naughty boy, because you have not set the wheatear traps properly, and he only caught two dozen," said Fairy.
These wheatear traps are excavations in the turf, about a foot long, in the shape of a T. The birds run up the trenches and get entangled by the head in a noose.
"Well, that is five or six shillings, and there'll be another two dozen poor little things snared to-morrow," said Jack.
"More, I expect, Jack; your father has been after the traps himself this evening; but here he is, so don't mention them unless he does. Look what Fairy and I have been making for you, Jack. Show him, Fairy," said Mrs. Shelley, who was making a huge hasty pudding over the fire for supper.
"Yes, look here, Jack: a beautiful smock, a real smock! Isn't it lovely? John insisted on your wearing one, so we made it for your birthday; but don't look so unhappy, I have got a prettier present for you to-morrow," said Fairy, holding the heavy smock up in her tiny fingers.
"But why did you make me such a thing, mother? You might have known I could not possibly wear it," said Jack, flushing angrily, and ignoring Fairy's part in the manufacture of the unwelcome garb.
"Not wear it! What do you mean, Jack?" asked the shepherd, as he came in, followed by the other boys.
"Here's a joke! we shall have a row now," said Charlie, in an undertone, to Willie, boy-like, rejoicing in the prospect.
"I back old Jack to win this time," whispered Willie.
"Mean, father? Why, what I say. No power on earth shall induce me to wear a smock frock," said Jack, infusing all the scorn he could muster into the objectionable name of the still more objectionable thing.
It was some minutes before the shepherd could take in the full meaning of his son's words. He supposed there was some objection to this smock in particular, for as he wore a smock himself, and his father and grandfather and great-grandfather had done the same before him, it never occurred to him that Jack could object to smocks in general. Shepherds wore smocks; Jack was of course a shepherd because he, John Shelley, was a shepherd, therefore Jack must wear a smock.
"What is the matter with this smock? Is it too big, or too small, or what?" he asked, slowly.
"I don't know, I am sure, what size it is; I only know it is no use to me."
"But if you have not tried it on, how can you possibly tell? Put it on and let's see," said the shepherd, taking the smock from Fairy and handing it to Jack.
"I tell you, father, I won't wear a smock; it is bad enough to have to be a shepherd; wear a smock I won't," cried Jack, his eyes flashing dangerously.
John Shelley began to understand now; it was pride which was at the bottom of it—pride sprung from all this book-knowledge, which he had always prophesied would lead to no good, and pride which must be trampled upon at once. John had never understood his eldest son, and he could no more enter into the feeling which prompted Jack to shrink from wearing this badge of his lowly calling than he could understand his objection to snaring wheatears.
"And I tell you, Jack, I will have no more of this folly. It all comes from the books you are always poring over instead of attending to your work."
"When have I ever neglected my work? Summer and winter alike, from five in the morning till sunset, am I following the sheep," interrupted Jack, passionately.
"Hush, Jack, dear, hush!" whispered Mrs. Shelley.
"Remember you are speaking to your father; and now no more of this. I order you to put on that smock at once, and sit down and get your supper in it."
"And I refuse ever to put it on," replied Jack.
The shepherd advanced a step towards the angry lad; but Fairy, trembling for the consequences, caught hold of John's arm and held him back, while Mrs. Shelley stood between her husband and Jack, who was shaking with suppressed passion.
"Do you mean you refuse to obey me?" asked the shepherd.
"Yes, in this I do," answered Jack, fiercely.
"Then leave the house until you know how to behave," said the shepherd, seating himself quietly at the supper-table.
No need to tell Jack twice to go. Hungry as he was, having had nothing to eat since his early dinner, he turned at once on his heel, and muttering something about never entering it again, he went out and banged the door after him. The next moment Fairy was running after him, her lovely hair floating in the evening breeze as she hooked her arm in his and tried to keep up with his great hasty strides.
For ten minutes Jack stalked angrily along, so fast that Fairy had almost to run to keep up with him. He had turned sharp to the left on leaving the field in which the shepherd's house stood, and where he was going Fairy could not think, for the road they were in was only a kind of cart-drift leading to a stream which sprung out of the chalk hills, called the Winter-bourne, a mere tiny brook, which Fairy could leap dry-shod in summer; it was an angry rushing torrent in winter. It was a lovely July evening; the sun had set, but the after-glow still lingered in the western horizon; the pale blue sky was cloudless, and melted away into a delicate green and gold over the purple downs, which caught the golden reflection, and looked like golden hills in the evening light. About two miles to the left of Jack and Fairy lay the picturesque old town of Lewes in an amphitheatre of hills, the grand old castle and its ivy-covered walls forming the most attractive object in the picture; behind them, lay the soft rounded outlines of the range of downs, cold and grey under the darkening eastern sky. But Fairy was not much given to admiring sunsets or going into raptures over the Southdown scenery. She was hungry, and wanted to get back to supper as soon as she could persuade this tiresome angry Jack to come with her; and how to accomplish this was the problem she was anxiously trying to solve as she panted along by Jack's side. Her task would be only half done when she had succeeded in this, but this was the worst half. If she could only bring Jack to reason, she would soon persuade the shepherd to capitulate; he had never refused her anything in her life; many a time had she saved the boys from punishment; she was quite certain he would listen to her now. But Jack! She was by no means so sure of him; he required very delicate manipulation.
At last she stopped just as they reached the Winter-bourne, a harmless, innocent-looking little brook, whose violence in winter would have seemed incredible to Jack and Fairy if they had not once had a terrible experience of it.
It was when Fairy and Charlie were eight years old. Charlie having seen the brook the day before, swollen and rushing wildly along, challenged Fairy to wade through it; she, unconscious of the change, and remembering it only as a tiny stream which barely covered her little feet, accepted the challenge, declaring it was the easiest thing in the world to do; and the more Charlie protested she would never be able to succeed, the more determined Fairy was to try. But when they reached the bourne and Fairy saw, instead of a tiny brook, an angry stream thirty feet wide, rushing along, and disappearing under the turf, to rise again further on, and, as Charlie told her, run through the priory grounds, where it was deep enough to drown a cow, her heart sank within her.
"I told you so," said Charlie; "I said you could not do it, but you would not believe me."
"But I will do it. Look here, Charlie, it is not deep here, is it? It can't be, you know, we have often played at mud pies where it is now running; it won't come much above my knees," said Fairy, taking off her shoes and socks.
"You had better not go, Fairy. It mayn't be deep, but it is very rapid; you may be carried away with it," urged Charlie.
"Bah!" laughed Fairy, dipping her pretty feet into the cold water, and shrieking with delight.
"Well, wait a minute till I have taken off my shoes, and we'll go together. It will be up to our waists in the middle, I believe," said Charlie; and the next minute the two children were wading across the angry bourne, laughing and screaming with delight, as each step they took the stream ran stronger and deeper.
But as they neared the centre of the stream the laughter ceased, and suddenly a wild shriek from Fairy, who was taken off her feet, rent the air, and, to Charlie's horror, he saw her carried away by the angry stream towards the spot where it disappeared under the turf, a horrid, dark-looking ditch. He rushed back to the shore, hoping to have time to lean over the ditch and catch her before she disappeared under it, but as his feet touched the dry land Jack, who luckily had seen the pair going towards the Winter-bourne from the down where he was watching the sheep, and knowing it to be a dangerous place, had come to order them home. Jack now rushed to the spot, and leaning over the mouth of the ditch, caught Fairy before she was carried under it. Luckily for Charlie, Jack had left his crook behind him, or there is no telling what harm he might have done to the child in his rage; as it was, he seized him, and would have beaten him unmercifully only Fairy cried to him to come and wring the water out of her clothes for her.
She was none the worse for her adventure, since Jack, in spite of all their entreaties, remorselessly led the culprits home at once, and, in answer to their fears that Mrs. Shelley would be very angry, only hoped she would, and was even cruel enough, as Fairy told him, to say it served them right when the culprits were sent to bed as soon as Mrs. Shelley heard what had happened.
It was at this bourne that Fairy now stopped Jack, panting, and exclaiming, "Oh, Jack, do stop; I am so hot and tired, I can't walk another step."
"Fairy, why didn't you tell me before, child, and why did you come at all?" asked Jack, reproachfully, though in his heart pleasure at Fairy's coming was almost stronger than his anger with his father, which by this time had nearly vanished, for Jack's temper was as quickly over as it was roused.
"Why did I come? To bring you back to supper, of course; and why didn't I tell you before to stop? Because you would not have listened if I had when you were in such a rage, you tiresome, cross boy, you."
"I am not in a rage now, Fairy, only I am not going to wear a smock. But where is your hat? You will catch cold."
"Of course I shall; I feel rather chilly now. Do take me home, Jack, before it comes on bad," said the little hypocrite, who never caught cold by any chance.
"I'll go back to the house with you, Fairy, but I can't come in, you know. Father has turned me out."
"Oh, I know; John is as bad as you. Between you both you'll bring me and mother to a sick bed, quarrelling in this way. You ought both to be ashamed of yourselves, and all about a stupid smock frock. I don't know which is the silliest about it, you or John."
"I am sure, Fairy, you would not like to see me in a smock," interrupted Jack.
"I never said I should, but you need not have put yourself in such a temper about it, worrying me in this way, and teasing me when I am so hungry. Aren't you very sorry, sir?"
"Yes, you know I am, Fairy, but I can't and won't wear that smock. I'll keep it all my life, because you made it, but I will never——"
"Oh, do stop; I am so tired of that 'I won't wear a smock.' We will write a song for the next sheep-shearing, and that shall be the chorus. I am sure you will sing it most lustily. Now there's John to manage. Now, will you promise me faithfully to wait out here in the garden while I go and talk to him?"
"Yes, I promise," said Jack, as they reached the shepherd's house, and Fairy, leaving him outside, went in to propitiate his father.
The others were at supper, or at least, Mr. and Mrs. Shelley were sitting at the table; the boys had gone to bed.
"Where is Jack, Fairy?" asked Mrs. Shelley.
"He is outside, waiting for John to go and bring him in to supper, and I am so hungry; do go, John," said Fairy, putting one of her slender arms round the shepherd's neck.
John put up one of his brown weather-beaten hands, and took hold of the little delicate white hand resting coaxingly on his shoulder as he answered, "Fairy, Jack has behaved very badly."
"Perhaps he has, but he is very sorry," whispered Fairy.
"Well, for your sake I'll forgive him, then," said the shepherd, rising from his seat.
"Yes, but wait a minute, John. He is very sorry, but he won't wear a smock, so it won't be the least bit of use your asking him," said Fairy.
"I knew he wouldn't, and if Fairy can't persuade him it is no use your making any more fuss about it. Do, for goodness sake, drop it, John, and fetch the lad in to supper. You can't force a boy of his age as a child of twelve, and, after all, he does his work just as well without a smock as with one, so do let us have peace," said Mrs. Shelley, who had been arguing the vexed question with her husband during Jack's absence.
"That is not the point. The question is, who is to be master in this house, Jack or I?" said the shepherd, seating himself again.
"Nonsense! the only question is, are you going to drive your son, as good a son as man can have, away from his home to rack and ruin for the sake of a whim of yours? Times have changed since you were young; people don't do as they did. My mother followed the sheep in shearing-time, but that is no reason why I should do the same."
"Times may have changed, but sons still obey their fathers, and a man is still master in his own house, and if not he ought to be; at any rate, I mean to be master in mine," said John.
"And I mean to be mistress, and I say Jack shan't wear a smock. I hate the ugly things, and if Jack goes away I'll go away too," burst out Fairy, stamping her little foot, and then, as if half-alarmed and half-afraid of the effect of her words, she threw herself into Mrs. Shelley's arms, sobbing out, "and you are very unkind to me, as well as to Jack."
Fairy's violence surprised the shepherd into rising from his seat, but when she burst into tears he laid his hand on her golden head, and saying, "Well, well, well, we won't say any more about it," he went out of the house.
What passed between the shepherd and his son no one ever knew, but they came in to supper together a few minutes later, both of them rather grave, but on good terms with each other. And Jack never wore the smock.
(To be continued.)