North, South and Over the Sea by M.E. Francis (Mrs. Francis Blundell)

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_"COUNTRY LIFE"
Library of Fiction._

NORTH, SOUTH
AND
OVER THE SEA.

By
M.E. FRANCIS
(Mrs. Francis Blundell.)

_with Illustrations by H.M. BROCK._

1902.

NOTE

_Some of these stories have already appeared in "The Cornhill Magazine,"
"Longmans' Magazine," and "Country Life," and are reprinted by kind
permission of the Editors of these periodicals._

CONTENTS

NORTH

GOLDEN SALLY
"TH' OWDEST MEMBER"
THE CONQUEST OF RADICAL TED
HEATHER IN HOLBORN
SENTIMENT AND "FEELIN'"

SOUTH

THE ROMANCE OF BROTHER JOHN
GILES IN LUCK
"THE WOLD LOVE AND THE NOO"
BLACKBIRD'S INSPIRATION
THE GIRL HE LEFT BEHIND HIM

OVER THE SEA

ELLENEY
IN ST. PATRICK'S WARD
THE FLITTING OF THE OLD FOLKS
"THE SPIDER AND THE GOUT"
ROSEEN

GOLDEN SALLY

The long warm day was drawing to its close; over the sandhills yonder
the sun was sinking in a great glory of scarlet and purple and gold.
The air was warm still, and yet full of those myriad indescribable
essences that betoken the falling of the dew; and mingling with, yet
without dominating them, was the sweet penetrating odour of newly-cut
hay.

John Dickinson walked moodily along the lane that led first to his
uncle's wheat-field, and then to the sandhills. He was a tall,
strapping young fellow, broad of shoulder and sturdy of limb, with
nevertheless something about him which betokened that he was not
country bred. His face was not brown enough, his hands were not rough
enough, the shirt sleeves, rolled up above his elbow, were not only
cleaner than those of the ordinary rustic after a hard day, but
displayed arms whereof the tell-tale whiteness proclaimed that they
were little used to such exposure. These arms ached sorely now; all
day long had John been assisting in "carrying," and the hours spent in
forking the hay from the ground to the cart had put his new-found
ardour for a country life to a severe test.

John had been born and brought up in Liverpool, having since he left
school acted as assistant in his father's shop. But on the latter's
death, his affairs were found to be so hopelessly involved that it was
impossible for his family to carry on the business. Mrs. Wilson and
her daughters had obtained employment in "town," and John had
announced his intention of taking to farming. Having been more or less
master in his father's small establishment he could not brook the idea
of accepting a subordinate post in the same way of business; and,
indeed, as his mother's brother, burly old Richard Waring of
Thornleigh, had offered to take him into his household and teach him
his work, there seemed to be no reason why he should not adopt the
career which was more to his mind.

John had frequently made expeditions into the country before, and had
spent many pleasant hours in the company of his aunt and uncle, and
their buxom daughter Jinny; but he found a vast difference between
these pleasure excursions and the steady routine to which he was now
subjected. All the household were abed at nine, an arrangement to
which John objected. As his aunt opined that it was "a sin an' a shame
to burn good lamps i' summer time when days was long enough for
onybody as was reasonable," he bought a supply of candles out of his
own meagre store, and, being fond of reading, spent an hour or two
with book or paper before retiring to rest. But the worst of this
arrangement was that when, as it appeared to him, he had just settled
comfortably to his first sleep, it was time to be astir again. His
uncle thumped at his door, his aunt, from the bottom of the stairs,
called out shrilly that if he wanted any breakfast he had best make
haste, for she was "goin' to side the things in a twothree minutes."
Jinny made sarcastic comments on his tardy appearance, and laughed at
his heavy eyes. That was the worst of it--Jinny was always laughing at
him; she "made little" of him on every possible occasion. His "town"
speech, his "finicky" ways, his state of collapse at the end of the
day, his awkwardness in handling unaccustomed tools, were to her
never-failing sources of amusement. John set his teeth and made no
sign of being wounded or annoyed, the sturdy spirit inherited from his
mother's people forbidding him to cry out when he was hurt; but his
spirits were at a low ebb, and to-day he had walked forth after tea
with a heart as sore and heavy as those over-strained arms of his.
Jinny had come out to the field with the "drinkin's," and her face
looked so bewitching under the sun-bonnet, and her waist so tempting
and trim beneath the crisp folds of her clean bed-gown, that John had
made bold in cousinly fashion to encircle it with his arm, whereupon
she had freed herself with an impatient twirl, remarking that she
didn't want no counter-jumpers to be measurin' of her--a sally which
had been regarded as exquisitely humorous by the bystanders. John's
cheeks burned as he thought of it.

"She needn't be afraid--I'll not come nigh her again," he muttered
vengefully.

He was skirting the wheat-field now, the tall, green ears stirring
with a pleasant rustling sound; in some distant reeds a bunting was
warbling, a belated lark was circling slowly downwards over his head.
From the village yonder voices and laughter fell faintly on his ear,
and all these mingled sounds served but to accentuate the prevailing
impression of peace and stillness; as John strolled onwards, his heavy
steps crushing out the aromatic perfume of the thyme which grew
profusely along the path, he was insensibly soothed and calmed by the
evening quietude.

Over the wooden railings now, and across the dewy pasture and up the
tallest sandhill, from the top of which he could, as he knew, look
down upon the sea. The waters would be ruddy and golden at this hour,
but by day ran brown and sluggish enough over the mud banks of the
Alt. On the other side of the shining expanse the houses of New
Brighton would stand forth all flecked with gold, and farther still
the very smoke of Liverpool would appear as a luminous yellow haze,
and the masts and riggings of the ships lying at anchor would be
turned into bars of gold. John knew these things by heart, but was
never tired of gazing upon them, and as he climbed the hill his heart
grew lighter and lighter; the salt, tart breeze that lifted his hair
as he topped it gave new vigour to his tired limbs, and a sudden sense
of exhilaration to his whole being. He stood at last with folded arms
on the summit letting it sing past him, and gazing about him in vague
delight. A golden world indeed; just what he had expected to find. A
golden sea, a golden sky, the very sand and grasses at his feet
appeared to be golden too.

Now, what was that? About twenty paces beneath him, on the seaward
side of the dune, he caught a glimpse of another golden object, an
unusual object, the nature of which he did not at once identify. He
shaded his eyes with his hand, and presently began to laugh softly.
That golden thing which had caught his eye was the uncovered head of a
girl. She was seated in a hollow of the hill, and the tall star-grass
and blossoming ragwort grew so freely at this spot that only her head
was visible. All at once a hand was thrust out from behind the screen,
and a sudden shower of gold fell downwards from that glittering crown.
John laughed again as the girl began very composedly to comb her hair.

He came down the hill, stepping as lightly as he could, and paused in
front of her quaint 'tiring-room. She looked up as his shadow fell
across her, paused a moment with the comb poised in mid-air, and then
calmly drew it through her yellow locks. What hair it was! It fell
round her like a veil as she sat: it would reach almost to her knees,
John thought, if she were standing. He looked at her with a kind of
awe; for a moment the strange tales he had so often heard of mermaids
and witches recurring to his mind. But he was reassured on a closer
inspection of the girl and her attire. She wore a bed-gown and apron
like Jinny's, but not, alas! so neat or clean; her stuff petticoat,
too, was ragged and old, and the feet, which were stretched forth from
under its folds, were brown and bare as the hands which so deftly
wielded the comb.

John's eyes rested with intense disapproval on these shapely feet, and
travelled slowly backwards over the ragged petticoat and the pink
cotton jacket--which, instead of being neatly buttoned over at the
neck, fell loosely open, disclosing the girl's throat, firm and round
as a pillar--and so on till they reached her face; then suddenly
drooped before the disconcerting gaze of another pair of eyes, very
large and bright.

"I hope ye'll know me again," said the girl.

John looked up with a grin. "It'll be hard work if you keep your face
covered up with all that hair," he said.

She gathered together the heavy yellow masses with both hands, twisted
them up with astonishing speed and deftness, and let her arms fall
upon her lap.

"Theer!" she said.

It was not a pretty face John at first decided; tanned as it was to
the colour of ripe corn, and the eyes, such a light blue and with such
blue whites, looking so strange in this setting. The cheeks, moreover,
were not rosy like those of his cousin Jinny, nor rounded in their
contours--the chin was too pointed; yet even as John looked a sudden
dimple flashed there, and a smile, swift and mischievous, lit up the
whole face. Then he did not feel quite so sure.

[Illustration: GOLDEN SALLY
"I hope ye'll know me again," said the girl]

"What in the name of fortune are you doing here?" he asked abruptly,
almost roughly, for the smile nettled him. "Can't you find some better
place than this to do your dressing in?"

"If I didn't comb my hair i' th' sandhills I wouldn't comb it at all,"
she returned. "It's the on'y place I have to do onythin' in. Mony a
time when th' owd lad is fuddled, me an' my Aunt Nancy sleep on 'em."

"Sleep out o' doors!" ejaculated John, much scandalised.

"Aye, oftener than not, I can tell you. Tisn't so very coomfortable
when theer's snow about--though we mak' up a bit o' fire an' that; but
it's reet enough this time o' year. Aye, I like to lay awake lookin'
up at the stars, an' listenin' to the wayter yon. The rabbits coom
dancin' round us, an' th' birds fly ower we'r 'eads when the leet
cooms. It's gradely."

John slowly lowered himself down on the sand beside her, as if to
endeavour to look on this strange aspect of life from her level. His
respectable commercial soul was shocked, but he was nevertheless
interested.

"My word!" he ejaculated; and then, after a pause, "What's your name,
if I may ask?"

"Sally."

"Sally? It's a good enough name. What's th' other one?"

"I haven't got no other one as I ever heerd on. My uncle's Jim
Whiteside, an' soom folks call'n me Sally Whiteside, an' then he gets
mad an' says 'tisn't none o' my name. An' soom folks call'n me 'Cockle
Sally.' Aye, that's what they call'n me mostly."

Dickinson looked at her disapprovingly. He had heard of the wild,
disreputable "Cockle Folk" who roamed about the sandhills; who were
worse than tramps in the opinion of respectable people, and who had,
many of them, no fixed abode of any kind.

"Well," he remarked, "it's a pity. I could ha' wished ye'd ha'
belonged to different folks. I don't hold with these cocklers. They're
a rough lot, ar'n't they?"

The girl laughed.

"My Aunt Nancy says I'm as rough as ony mysel'. Would ye like soom
cockles?" she asked, breaking off suddenly. "I'd fetch ye soom
to-morrow if I've ony luck. They're chep enough--an' big ones. Wheer
do ye live?"

"At Mr. Waring's farm," responded John, distantly; adding, more
truthfully than politely, "I doubt you'd best keep away though. My
aunt 'll be none too pleased if you come yonder."

"Aye, I knows her. Hoo buys mony a quart of me, an' then hoo chivies
me out o' th' road. I'll coom. If you're not there, I'll coom to the
field."

"Well, you might do that," agreed John, accommodatingly. "Some o' th'
other chaps 'ud be glad enough to take a few of these cockles off you.
'Twould be a bit of a change wi' th' bread and cheese. We're goin' to
cut the big meadow to the right as you go to the village. Come to the
top of the hill, and I'll show it you."

"Nay, I'll not go near field if they're all theer. I went once, an'
farmer he said he'd set dog at me; an' th' lads began o' jokin' an'
laughin' at me. Aye, I get mad wi' nobbut thinkin' on't."

She coloured as she spoke, and John's face clouded over, as though her
indignation had infected him. In fact, he had too recently suffered
from the rude jests and laughter of his fellow-labourers not to
sympathise with Sally.

"I know them," he said bitterly, "and a rough lot they are. They leave
me no peace; they give me plenty of their impudence too, if it's any
comfort to you, Sally, to know that."

"Eh dear!" cried Sally in amazement. "Why, whatever can they find
amiss wi' you?"

The blue eyes were upturned with such genuine and admiring
astonishment that John could not but be touched and flattered. In this
actual mood, moreover, when his spirit was still smarting from the
remembrance of the manner in which scornful Jinny had turned him into
a laughing-stock, Sally's respectful appreciation was doubly sweet to
him.

"I'll bring ye th' cockles if ye'll coom up th' lane at dinner-time,"
she went on. "I'll stand near the white gate. Coom, I'll show ye."

She sprang up and began quickly to ascend the hill. Her figure had the
erectness common to those accustomed to carry burdens on their heads,
and also a grace and freedom of movement which impressed John with
vague astonishment. As she turned upon the summit to point out the
place of meeting, her face sparkling with animation, her eyes alight
and eager, the golden coronet of hair radiant in the mellow glow, he
gave a little gasp of amazement. The girl was beautiful! What a pity
she should lead such a life!

"Yonder, see," she continued. "Aye--why do ye stare at me that way?"

"Sally," said practical, plain--spoken John, "I'm lookin' at you
because I think you're real handsome, an' I think it's a terrible pity
for ye to be traipsin' about like this. Why don't you leave your uncle
and aunt and go to live with decent people--and put on shoes and
stockings?" he added severely.

The girl gazed at him in amazement.

"Whatever put that i' your 'ead? Decent folks wouldn't have nought to
say to me. I'd as soon go cocklin' as do onythin' else--an' I couldn't
do wi' shoes an' stockin's."

"Didn't you ever go to school?"

"Nay, scarce at all. We was wonderful clever 'bout that. We shifted
an' shifted an' gi'ed 'em all th' slip."

"Don't you go to church on Sundays?"

"Eh dear! I wonder what they'd say if me an' Aunt Nancy an' Uncle Jim
was to go paddlin' in among all the fine folks--wi' bare feet an'
all."

She laughed grimly.

"Will yo' coom yonder for the cockles?" she inquired presently.

John nodded, and, turning, she ran down the hill, fleet as a hare, and
disappeared round its curved base.

John walked homewards thoughtfully, his own troubles quite forgotten
in the consideration of Sally's lot. All that evening, and even during
his work on the following morning, he pondered over it, and it was
with a portentous face that he betook himself at noon to the
trysting-place. So punctual was he that he stood there for some
minutes before a musical cry of "Cockles! fine cockles!" came ringing
down the lane, and presently Sally appeared, the basket poised upon
her head throwing a deep shadow over her face, but the curves of her
figure strongly defined by the brilliant summer sunlight. Halting by
the gate she balanced her basket on the upper bar, and immediately
measured out a quart by way of greeting.

"How much?" inquired business-like John.

"Ye may have 'em for nought; I've got plenty, see. They're fine ones,
ar'n't they?"

"I'd sooner pay you for them. You want the money perhaps."

"Well, then," said Sally, and thrust out her brown palm.

"Sally," said John, seriously, "I've been thinking a deal about you. I
think it is somethin' dreadful the way you are livin'--you so comely
an' all. It's an awful thing to think you don't know anythin' and
never go to church or that. Do you never say your prayers?"

Sally looked at him, and twisted open a cockle before replying.

"Nay, I dunnot. Aunt Nancy doesn't neither."

"Do you know who made you, Sally?"

"I larned at school, the on'y time I went, but I forget now."

"Well, Sally, I've been thinkin'--somebody ought to teach you. I could
teach you myself of an evening if you'd come yonder to the big
sandhill."

Sally looked reflective, but presently nodded.

"I will while I'm here," she said; "but we's be shiftin' afore aught's
along--we're allus shiftin'. We have to be terrible careful not to get
cotched for sleeping out. They're that sharp wi' us they won't let a
body do naught, so we dursen't stay too long i' one place. But I'll
coom, an' ye can teach me if ye've a mind. If ye dunnot see me when ye
coom to th' top o' hill, jest call out 'Cockle Sally! Cockle Sally!'
an' I'll coom."

"No; that's an ugly name," said John, who had been idly watching the
play of the sunbeams on the little curling strands of hair which were
lightly lifted by the summer breeze. "I could find you a better name
than that, I think. You look like--"

He paused.

"What do I look like?" inquired Sally.

John's glance once more travelled over her whole figure. The faded
buff jacket, the not altogether immaculate apron of unbleached calico,
were transfigured by the all-pervading sunshine; golden lights
outlined the tanned face and hands; as for the hair, it was at that
moment a very glory.

"I reckon I'd call you Golden Sally," he said with a laugh. "You look
as if you were made of gold this morning, and I'll engage you're as
good as gold," he added gallantly.

"Coom, that's too fine a name for me," cried Sally, well pleased,
nevertheless, and smiling broadly.

"I'll christen you by it all the same," replied John, smiling too.
"You must be good and mind what I tell you," he added with mock
severity. "If you don't, I must find some other name for you."

Sally's long eyelashes suddenly drooped, and she drummed on the gate
nervously.

"I'll do my best to please ye," she said. "I'll coom when ye call,"
she added after a pause.

Lifting up her basket, and balancing it once more on her head, she
raised her downcast lids, and flashed a farewell smile at John as she
turned away. In another moment she was speeding in the opposite
direction.

John was vexed and disappointed that she should terminate the meeting
so abruptly, but consoled himself with the reflection that he was free
to assume the office of instructor that very evening if he chose.

The long, toilsome day seemed slow of passing, the company of the
farmer and his men more tedious even than usual, but by way of
compensation Jinny's sallies seemed to have lost their power to wound
him. It was late when, the last waggon-load having been conveyed from
the field and the evening meal disposed of, he found himself free to
attend to Sally's education. He strode along the sandy lane and across
the field at a very different pace to that of the previous evening,
and was almost breathless when he found himself on the top of the tall
dune, gazing about with anxious eyes. No golden head was to be seen
amid the star-grass and ragwort this time; no graceful girl's figure
was outlined against the evening sky. His heart sank, and it was in a
disconsolate, uncertain voice that he called aloud:

"Golden Sally! Golden Sally!"

Then, starting up, as if by magic, from some unsuspected place of
ambush, she came quickly towards him. Her face was blushing and eager,
her hands outstretched; and John was somehow so glad to see her after
the chill disappointment of the moment before, that he not only
grasped the hands, but kissed the glowing cheek.

It would be difficult to say how much Sally learnt from her zealous
young instructor--for zealous he was, sincere and earnest in his
desire to improve her mind. But he taught her one thing very rapidly
and completely--to love himself with all her undisciplined heart.
After a time she made no secret of this devotion, and John was oddly
abashed and disconcerted by her occasional outbursts of affection. He
was much interested in Sally, very much attracted by her. Her worship
of him was distinctly pleasant, if a little too demonstrative. Now and
then he himself could not refrain from a tender word or a caress; but
he was thoroughly convinced of her inferiority, and nothing could have
been further from his thoughts than the wish to marry her.

Sally sometimes made him presents: bags of cockles, which, on leaving
her, he not infrequently dropped into a ditch; a few flowers, procured
he knew not how; and once she astonished him by producing, carefully
wrapped up in paper, a very handsome silk handkerchief, with a curious
pattern of sprigs and flowers.

"Why, Sally," he cried, "I scarcely like to take this. It's worth a
deal of money I'm sure."

"It is," said Sally, with an odd look. "Aye, I am fain that ye like
it. I wish I could find summat better to give ye. Theer's nought too
good for ye."

John, much flattered, and moreover sufficiently of a dandy to rejoice
in the possession of a handsome and unusual article of wearing
apparel, thanked her warmly, and assured her that he would value it
all the days of his life.

On the following Sunday he was tempted to wear it, and came down to
breakfast much pleased with his appearance; but he was both astonished
and alarmed at his aunt's demeanour on beholding it.

"Lor', John, wheerever did ye get yon 'andkerchief? Dear, now, I could
swear it's the same as the one Mr. Lambert, of Saltfield, lost a five
or six week ago. Mrs. Lambert towd me 'bout it when we drove yon on
neighbourin' day. Eh, hoo was in a way! It's been i' th' family for
years an' years; and hoo'd weshed it hersel' an' put it on th' hedge
to dry, an' soombry coom an' whipped it off. Eh, I mind it well. Hoo'd
often showed it me. Hoo thought a dale of it."

John coloured up to his temples, a horrible suspicion darting through
his mind; but he was nevertheless determined to carry off the
situation in a high-handed manner.

"This can't be hers, anyhow," he returned angrily, "seein' it's mine."

"Well, I could ha' sworn it were the same," retorted his aunt. "Such
an old-fashioned thing too. It's strange ye should get one of the same
pattern. How long have ye had it, John? Happen them as stole it sold
it again."

John hated telling a lie, but conceived it advisable to tell one now.

"I've had this years an' years. My father gave it to me."

"Well, if he gave it you so long ago as that it can't be the same, I
suppose, but it's wonderful like it. I wonder wheer he got it. It's a
pity we can't ask him, but he's dead, as how 'tis, poor fellow! Coom,
pull up an' tak' your breakfast."

John dutifully drew his chair to the table, but he felt as though
every morsel choked him. His own falsehood, to begin with, stuck in
his throat, while the thought of Sally's possible perfidy seemed to
turn the wholesome farmhouse bread to sand in his mouth. Was it
possible, could it be possible, that this love-token of hers was
stolen? Had she dared to offer him that which it was a disgrace to
possess If such were the case, of what avail was all his teaching? To
what purpose had he stooped to associate so constantly with one so
much beneath him?

Meanwhile the eyes of all the Waring family were fixed upon his
luckless neckerchief in a manner which made him feel more and more
uncomfortable; and he was fairly beside himself when, after church,
his aunt informed him that she was thinking of axin' Margery Formby,
who was Mrs. Lambert's sister, to step round after dinner and have a
look at it, "It's so amazin' like the one Mr. Lambert lost, I reckon
it 'ud be a kind o' comfort if hoo could tell Mrs. Lambert hoo needn't
set sich store by it, as sich things is easy to be got."

"Well, aunt, I'm not goin' to stop in to have Margery Formby pokin'
and pryin' at my things. I never see such queer folk in my life.
'Tisn't thought manners in other places to be passin' remarks an'
askin' questions about a fellow's clothes."

"Well I never!" ejaculated Mrs. Waring, scarlet with indignation.
"Upon my word, John, if it's thought manners in town to be givin'
impudence to your own aunt ye'd best go back theer. It's not thought
manners here, and what's more, we won't put up with it. Your uncle'll
ha' summat to say, I'll warrant."

John heard no more, for, seeing that the good woman was working
herself up into a most unchristian fury, and being, moreover, in no
mood to meet the astonished queries of Margery Formby, he went quickly
out of the room and out of the house, resolved to extract an
explanation from Sally without delay.

Very bitter and angry was his mood, far more bitter and angry than on
the evening when he had first beheld her. That which he had originally
dismissed as an unjust suspicion had now grown to be almost certainty;
and he waited doggedly the word which must confirm it. His blood
boiled within him as he thought of Sally's effrontery. It was an
insult, an unpardonable impertinence; one which he was, indeed,
resolved never to pardon. He would make her confess, and then he would
have done with her for ever.

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