University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

Anster Fair.

The Hunchback.

The festival of St. Therese, Blanche's birth-day,
so anxiously looked for by the younger inhabitants
of St.Mary's, and scarcely less heartily welcomed
by the elder, at length came round. Towards sunset
of an evening, mild in temperature and resplendent
with the glorious golden-tipped clouds of the

October sky, the air fraught with that joyful freshness
which distinguishes this season in Maryland,
groups of gay-clad persons were seen passing on the
high road that led from the town to the Rose Croft.
The greater number, according to the usage of that
day, rode on horseback, the women seated on pillions
behind their male escort. Some of the younger
men trudged on foot, and amongst these was even
seen, here and there, a buxom damsel cheerily making
her way in this primitive mode of travel and
showing by her merry laugh and elastic step how
little she felt the inconvenience of her walk.

It must not be supposed from this account that the
luxury of the coach was altogether unknown to the
good people of the province. Two of these vehicles
were already within the dominions of the Lord Proprietary;
one belonging to his Lordship himself, and
the other to Master Thomas Notley, of Notley Hall,
member of the Council, and sometime, during the
Proprietary's late visit to London, the Lieutenant-General
of the province. They were both of the
same fashion, stiff, lumbering, square old machines
which had been imported some twenty years past,
and were often paraded in the street of St. Mary's
with their bedizened postillions and footmen, to
the no inconsiderable enhancement, in the eyes of
the burghers, of the dignity and state of their possessors.
The bountiful foresight and supreme authority,
it may be said, of the Lady Maria had procured
the aid of both of these accommodations for the service
of the evening, and they were, accordingly,

now plying backward and forward between the Port
and the Collector's, for the especial ease and delectation
of sundry worshipful matrons whose infirmities
rather inclined them to avoid the saddle, and also
for the gratification of such favourites of the good
lady, amongst the younger members of the population,
as she vouchsafed to honour by this token of
her regard. By the help of these conveniences a
considerable number of guests had been set down,
at the scene of festivity, a full hour before sunset—
this early convocation being in strict conformity with
the social usages by which our ancestors were accustomed,
on occasions of jollity, to take time by
the forelock.

The fame of the preparations at the Rose Croft
had attracted, in addition to the invited guests, all
such mere idlers as the humbler ranks of the townspeople
supplied. These were chiefly congregated
about the principal gateway, drawn thither by their
desire to witness the coming of the visiters and to
gratify that inquisitive love of observation at the display
of holiday finery, which furnishes so large a
fund of marvel to those whose lot excludes them
from participating in its exhibition. This crowd was
composed of serving-men and maids, idle apprentices
and vagrant strollers, of both sexes, with a due
admixture of ragged, bare-legged boys, who drove
a business of some little gain, by taking charge of
the horses of such as dismounted at the verge of the
enclosure that surrounded the dwelling. In their
estimation Willy of the Flats, ordinarily a comrade

of the idle craft, but now elevated into a character
of some importance on a theatre of higher honour,
was a personage at the present moment of no mean
consideration, and he did not fail to let his consequence
be seen and felt by his old compeers. His
rough shoes were greased to give them a more
comely exterior, his linen, new-washed, was ambitiously
displayed upon his breast, and his dilapidated
garments, put in the best condition their weather-stricken
service would allow, were ostentatiously
freshened up with knots of parti-coloured ribands
which, especially upon his veteran beaver, flared in
streamers, and audibly fluttered in the zephyr that
played across his brow. His fiddle, which was soon
to be called into active employment, was as yet suspended
to the kitchen wall in its green bag, and he
strutted, in vacant leisure, across the lawn in the
presence of his envying cronies at the gateway, with
a vain-glorious and self-gratulating step, that showed,
at least, how complacently he viewed his own exaltation,
even if he did not win as much worship from
the spectators.

“Troth, Michael Mossbank,” he said with a significant
twinkle of the eye; “but we will make dainty
work of it to-night—our junketing shall be spoken
of on both sides of the bay, come this many a long
year. The quality themselves do not often see the
like,—and the simple folks that have had the luck to
to be let in, will not forget it, or I am mistaken, till
the young down turns into old bristles. It is like to
be a most capersome and I may say melodious

merry-making. You had no light hand, Michael, in
the ordering of it.”

“You may make Bible oath to that,” replied the
gardener; “and you would never be fore-sworn.
Order it, I did, truly—the out-door work, the kitchen-work
and the hall-work. Here was the trimming of
hedges to make all smooth at the bank side, and the
setting out of the lawn—not a straggling leaf shall
you see upon it; then the herbs for the kitchen, and
the flowers for the hall!—Faith it was a handful of
work for a week past. If it had not been for Michael
there would have been but tame sport to-night.”

“Oh, but you have a great head, for such monstrous
contrivances, Master Michael: you are a
gardener of gardeners! Adam was of the trade
before you,—but he had no jig-muster to set out, I
trow, in his time:—his noddle could never have
compassed it—or his five wits would have buzzed
till he grew blind,—and then all his children would
have given up the trade for ever after. Oh, was it
not lucky for us that Father Adam was not put to
the ordering of a jig muster?”

“Out, you beet-face,” exclaimed the gardener,
half angrily; “go put your gibes upon them that
have an ear for such cracks! Why dost thou stand
grinning there with thy flaunting ribands, when there
is work for thee elsewhere? Look to yon gaping
herd of beggars at the gate—they will presently so
crowd the way that no one may enter. Look to it,
until you are wanted in the hall, and you shall earn
your penny-fee and broken victual the better for it.”

“Out upon thee, Michael, thyself, for a churl, a
cockle weed! I eat no broken victual, I trow, at
thy hands: he would have scant fare who waited on
thy charity. A crowder has as much worship as a
spade-lifter any day in the year—so, cock your nose
at some one below you!”

“A jest for a gibe, Willy,” returned the gardener
good humouredly; “a jest for a gibe! Play turkey
cock and swell to your heart's content!—and when
you have let off your spite go to the gate where you
are wanted. Go, friend Willy,—I would not vex
you, in faith.”

The fiddler, after this short and ruffling encounter,
having regained his equanimity, and not displeased
at the chance of showing his importance to the loiterers
about the gate, went to the post assigned to
him; where, with a self-complacent tone of admonition,
he addressed the assemblage, consisting of some
dozen auditors, with a discourse upon the behaviour
expected of them on this interesting occasion both by
himself and the master of the feast.

Prominent amongst those upon whom this instruction
was bestowed, was one who had ever regarded
Willy with singular deference: this was a lean and
freckled lad, just on the verge of manhood, whose
unmeaning eye, relaxed fibre and ever present smile
denoted a stinted intellect, whilst his unoffending inquisitiveness
gained him admission to the skirts of
all gatherings, whether festive or sad. His restless
foot and characteristic thirst for knowledge habitually

impelled him to seek the most conspicuous post
of observation, and he was now, accordingly, in the
foremost rank of Willy's hearers. Wise Watkin,
(for by this name he was familiarly greeted by young
and old,) notwithstanding the parsimony with which
nature had doled out to him the gift of wit, was remarkable
for his acquaintance with all classes of
persons, and for a certain share of cunning in picking
up the shreds of whatever rumour might chance,
for the time, to agitate the gossip of the town: he
was still more remarkable for his inordinate admiration
of the fiddler.

Willy had just concluded his lecture of advice to
his cronies, when his attention was arrested by the
rumble of wheels heard at a distance, and by a cloud
of dust which was seen rising in the neighbouring
wood through which the road lay from the town.

“Hearken, neighbours,—his Lordship's coach!”
he cried out. “We shall have it here anon, stuffed
with people of worship. Take ranks on each side of
the road—quickly, I beseech you! I will see you all
cared for at the feast. Now remember, at my signal,
thus,—hands to your caps, lads,—and wenches, sink:
—do it comely and altogether.”

“Ranks, ranks!” exclaimed Wise Watkin who,
with officious alacrity, began to push the crowd into
the array indicated by the fiddler. “Heed Willy,
and do as he bids. I warrant you, he knows what
will please the gentle-folks—hands to your caps!”

The motley ranks being formed according to the

fiddler's direction, awaited the arrival of those for
whom this formal salutation was designed.

Instead of the Proprietary's coach, a few moments
disclosed a cart with a little thickset, shaggy pony
attached to it, coming at high gallop upon the road.
On the bench above the shafts was descried the jolly
figure of the landlady of the Crow and Archer, in
the identical suit of green and scarlet in which we
have heretofore noticed her, playing the part of charioteer.
Beside her sat the terrified Garret Weasel
who, of too light bulk to maintain a solid seat, jolted
fearfully to and fro at every spring of the vehicle.
The pony had manifestly taken the speed of his journey
into his own discretion, and, with the shank of
the bit gripped between his teeth, and head curved
side wise, set his course doggedly for the gate, in
obstinate resistance of the dame who, with both arms
at stretch, reddened brow and clenched teeth, tugged
at the reins, to turn him into a road that led,
by a circuit, towards the rear of the dwelling, whither
she was now conveying sundry articles of provision
which she had undertaken to supply for the
feast.

“For the Lord's sake, friends, stop the beast!”
shouted the treble voice of the vintner as soon as he
perceived Willy's corps—“stop us for the love of
mercy!”

As the crowd gathered to arrest the runaways, a
waive of the hand from the dame suspended their
purpose. Her mettle was roused by the contumacy
of the pony; whereupon, in disdain of the proffered
aid, she gave loose rein to her beast, and, at the

same time plying her whip across his flanks, whilst
her forlorn help-mate, with eyes starting from their
sockets, shouted aloud for help, flew through the
gateway with increased velocity,—a broad smile playing
upon the face of the dame as she cried out to the
lookers on,—“Never heed the babe, a gay ride will
mend his health.”

The address of the landlady in safely passing
through the narrow way, elicited a general burst of
applause, which rang in shouts until she had fairly
got the better of the self-will of her four footed antagonist,
and had halted him, panting, at the back of
the house.

“By my gossip,” exclaimed Willy; “it was no
such great mistake to set down dame Dorothy's tumbrel
for my Lord's coach! If it had been a coach
and six it could not have made more dust or better
speed.”

“It could not, on my conscience!” shouted Wise
Watkin, in a shrill response to Willy's laugh.—
“There's a tickle to the ribs!—that fiddler Willy
should take dame Dorothy's cart and bow-necked
Bogle for my Lord's coach!”—and with this reflection
he joined still louder in the chorus which echoed
the general merriment, not doubting that the laugh
was occasioned by Willy's mistake.

Mean time the company continued to arrive. The
coaches came with new freights, and fresh parties
on horseback alighted at the gate. The Collector,
more than usually precise in apparel, stood at the
door receiving the frequent comers with all that particularity
of observance which so strongly marked

the manners of the past century; and group after
group was ushered into the hall. Here Mistress
Alice, in sad-coloured, silken attire, plain and becoming
in its fashion, gave welcome to her visiters;
whilst the Lady Maria, in character of what might
be termed the patroness of the revel, took post by
her side. The neat little figure of the Proprietary's
sister received a surprising accession of bulk from
the style of her dress, which was according to a mode
yet new in the province. Her hair, laid flat and
smooth upon the crown of the head, was tortured
into a sea of curls that fell over either ear to the
point of the shoulder, and to the same depth upon
the back, fringing her brow with light and fleecy
flakes—the whole powdered to a pearly, brownish
hue, and inlaid with jewelled bands. Her gown,
both body and skirt, was of rich, flowered tabby,
whose coruscating folds rustled with portentous dignity,
as the lady moved slowly from place to place.
This derived still greater increment of stateliness
from a stomacher and huge farthingale, or hoop,
made after a fashion which the queen of Charles the
Second, nearly twenty years before, had brought
from Portugal and introduced to the wondering eyes
of the merry court dames of England. The glory
of this array gave a world of condescension to the
deep and awfully formal courtesy with which the
benevolent spinster made her salutations to the freshly
arriving troops; who, in their turn, it was obvious,
were duly impressed with the grandeur of the accost,
and did full homage to the claims of the lady as the
presiding genius of the ball.

Blanche Warden, with a playfulness that vibrated
between the woman and the girl, abandoned the reception
of the guests to the elders of the family, and
gave herself up to the guidance of her prevailing
humour, as she appeared, at one moment, in the
hall smiling amidst the congratulations of friends,
and at another, skimming across the lawn with a
dozen of her school-mates in the random flight of
their wild fancies. Her dress was characterized by
the simplicity of a maiden as yet unambitious to assume
the privileges of womanhood. It consisted of
a boddice of light blue velvet accurately fitted to
her shape, and laced across the bosom with silken
cords, the tasseled extremities of which depended
almost to the ground; short white sleeves looped to
the shoulder by bands of the colour of the boddice;
a skirt of white lawn sparingly trimmed with blue,
and divested of that cumbrousness of volume which
belonged to the costume of women of that day; and
a low white slipper disclosing a foot and ankle of
faultless proportions. Her neck and shoulders, of
matchless beauty, were given uncovered to the evening
breeze; and her glossy hair, constrained above
her brow by a fillet of blue riband, fell in rich
volume down her back. No jewel or jem contributed
its lustre to grace her person; but a bouquet of
choice flowers planted on the upper verge of the
boddice, and a white rose nestling amongst the
braided tresses on her forehead, better than carcanet

or chain of gold, diamond clasp or ear-ring, consorted
with the virgin purity and artless state of the
wearer.

For a time, until the thickening shades of twilight
and the keenness of the evening air began to admonish
them of the comfort of the house, many of the
guests, attracted by the unusual mildness of the season,
loitered about the door or strolled across the
grounds. Near the brink of the cliff which over-looked
the river might have been seen Captain Dauntrees
amusing a group of idle comrades. Here and
there, a priest from the Jesuit House of St. Inigoe's,
in his long cassock, diversified the general aspect of
gay costumes, with a contrast grateful to the eye.
The Proprietary, with the buxom old host, Mr. Warden,
and the aged Chancellor, essayed to make merry
with some venerable matrons who, with a sagacious
presentiment of rheumatic visitations, were effecting
a retreat towards the chimney corner of the parlour.
Talbot played the gallant amongst a half score maidens,
who flitted along the margin of the cliff with a
clamour that almost amounted to riot, whilst in his
wake, Master Benedict Leonard, as gaudy as a jay,
strutted swaggeringly along, apparently but to indulge
his admiration of his kinsman or to discharge
some shot of saucy freedom amongst the maidens.

With the lighting of candles the first notes of Willy's
fiddle were heard in a bravura flourish summoning
the dancers to the hall; and here the ball was
opened, according to prescriptive custom, with the
country-dance, which was led off by no less a personage

than the Lady Maria, attended by the worshipful
Collector himself as her partner, the couple
affording, both in costume and movement, the richest
imaginable portraiture of that “ancientry and state”
which so wonderfully pleased the fancy of our progenitors.
Other dances of the same character, mingled
with jigs and reels, succeeded, and the company
soon rose into that tone of enjoyment which the contagious
merriment of the dance diffuses over all such
assemblages. Cards, at that day, even more than at
present, constituted the sober resource of the elder and
graver portions of society of both sexes; and accordingly,
by degrees, the Collector had drawn off to the
parlour a respectable corps of veterans, who, grouped
around the small tables, pursued this ancient pastime
with that eagerness which it has always inspired
amongst its votaries, leaving the hall to the unchecked
mirth of the dancers.

“We heard it said that Master Cocklescraft, of the
Olive Branch, was to be here to-night,” said Grace
Blackiston, as she encountered Blanche in the dance.
“He told father Pierre that he was coming: and I
have heard it whispered too, that he has brought
some pretty presents with him from abroad. I do
not behold him yet, and here is the evening half gone.
Oh, I do long to see him, for they say he dances so
well. Is he not coming?”

“He has been bidden,” replied Blanche, “though
not much with my will: I care not whether he comes
or stays away.”

“Ha, Blanche has no eye but for Master Albert,”

said the merry maiden, as she turned off and addressed
herself to a school-mate who stood near; “yet a
good dancer is not to be scorned now-a-days, even if
the Secretary were a better. And if he were a better,
he does n't dance so much that we should content
ourselves with him. The Secretary has not been
on the floor to-night, but must needs be tracking and
trailing father Pierre about the room. I do believe
he does so for no purpose but to win sights of Blanche
Warden. I wonder if the dullard can be in love? It
looks hugely like it.”

The Secretary had, in truth, not yet mingled in
the dance, but from the beginning of the evening had
loitered in the hall, apparently watching the sports,
and, now and then, communing with father Pierre,
who, though a priestly, was far from being a silent
or grave looker-on. The benevolent churchman
enjoyed a commanding popularity with the
younger portions of the society of the province, and
took so much pleasure in the manifestation of it, that
he was seldom absent from such of their gatherings
as the course of his duty would allow him to attend.
For the same reason he was generally to be found
amongst the assemblages of his children, as he called
them, rather than mingling in the graver coteries of
those of his own period of life. On the present occasion
he had scarcely quitted the dancing apartment
during the evening, but stood by, a delighted spectator
of the mirth that sparkled in the faces of the happy
groups, and heard with glee, almost equal to their
own, the wild laughter that echoed through the hall.

“They will presently begin to think Master Albert
Verheyden intends to set himself up for a philosopher,”
he said, as the Secretary encountered him on
the skirts of the dancers, the eye of the priest beaming
with a good-natured playfulness. “It is not usual
for a squire of dames to be so contemplative. My
son, have you given over the company of damsels to
consort with an old priest in so gay a scene as this?”

“Father, I would dance if there were need; but
there is not often an empty space upon the floor, nor
lack of those who seek to fill it. It pleases me as
well to hold discourse with you.”

“Ah, benedictus! my son, it is not at your time of
life that you may gain credence for such self-denial.
More than one of the maidens has put the question to
me to-night, how this should come to pass.”

“Reverend father, though I will not deny I love the
dance, yet my nurture long made me a stranger to
it; and now, since my fortune has brought me into
the gay world, I scarce may conquer the diffidence I
feel to exhibit myself in such unaccustomed exercise.”

“It is an innocent pleasure, son Albert, and a
graceful. There is healthful virtue in these laughing
faces and active limbs. St. Ignatius forbid that I
should commend an unseemly sport! but it hath ever
been my belief that the young men can find no better
instructers in the gentle perfections of charity and
good will than in their sport-mates amongst the maidens,—and
so I preach in mine office: nor, truly, may
the maidens better learn how to temper their behaviour

with the grace of pleasing—which hath in it a
summary of many excellences, Master Albert—than
in the fellowship of our sons. Now, away with thee!
There is Blanche Warden, who has sent her eye
hither a dozen times, since we have been speaking,
to ask the question why I detain thee from thy duty.
Ah, blessed Therese! daughter Blanche does not suspect
I am chiding thee for that very fault. Go, my
son; it were shame to see you so little dainty in
your company to prefer the cassock to the petticoat.
Go, go!”

The lively gesture of the priest and his laughing
face, as he dismissed the Secretary from his side, attracted
the notice of Blanche, who, as Albert Verheyden
approached her, saluted him with

“I am right glad, Master Albert, that father Pierre
has seen fit to bestow upon you such chiding as, with
a will, I would have given you myself. I looked to
you to help me through my ball to-night, and made
sure of it that you would lead out some of the maidens
to dance; for there are many here that have not yet
had their turn:—there's Mistress Hay, the Viewer's
sister,—she has sat there all night, unregarded by
mortal man. Ah, Master Albert, you are no true
friend to desert me in my need.”

“Fair Mistress Blanche,” replied the Secretary
with a downcast look, “I stand under your displeasure,
and acknowledge my undeserving. Indeed, my
dull brain did not perceive your straits. I waited for
your bidding. You will pardon me that, being trained
to obedience on your command, I did not now

presume to move without it. I will away and lead
forth the Viewer's sister on the instant.”

“Nay, stay now: I have saved you that errand.
Captain Dauntrees, upon my petition, has proffered
his hand, and, you may see, they are now standing on
the floor ready to begin. You shall find other duty.”

“To dance with you, gentle mistress, an' it like
you.”

“How can it but like me, Master Albert? Oh, but
I do affect this dancing! And yet, truly, I much better
like it as we have danced many a time at the
Rose Croft, on a winter's night, with our handful of
cronies, and sister Alice to touch the spinnet to a gay
tune, and you to teach us these new over-sea dances.
These were pleasant hours, Master Albert, and worth
a world of our stately birth-day junketings. Was it
not so?”

“I love not the crowd,” returned the Secretary
with a lively emotion; “but these fire-side pastimes!
you may praise them with your most prodigal speech,
and still fall short of their just meed. We had no
holiday finery there to make proud the eye, nor
glozing speech to set up perfections which we did
not own, nor studied behaviour to win opinion by;
but what we were we seemed, and what we felt we
said. There is more virtue in these hearth-side communings
than you shall find in a hemisphere of
shows.”

“Ah, Master Albert, you have seen the gaudy
world on the other side of the water, and can speak
of it with assurance. Our little, unfurnished province

hath but scant pleasures for you: it is a make-believe
to praise our homely hearths.”

“Now, by the blessed virgin Therese! I speak,
Mistress Blanche, the very breathings of my secret
heart, and tell you, though little I can boast of acquaintance
with that gaudy world, nothing have I
seen, dreamed or tasted of worldly pleasure,—nay,
nothing have I, in the wildest flight of fond imagination,
ever fancied of human happiness, that might
exceed the rich delight of those household scenes you
speak of.”

“Were they not happy!” exclaimed Blanche, kindling
into a rapture excited by the fervour of the
Secretary's earnest and eloquent manner. “We owe
so much of it to you, Master Albert. Until you came
into the province, we sometimes had a weary hour at
the Rose Croft: now, my father finds it weary when
you are away. I do not,—because I may surely count
that it shall never be long until you are here again.
—Sancta Maria! did we not stand here to dance?
and, look you, our turn has past all unheeded. Truly,
they will say we were both distraught! We will to
the foot again and take another turn.”

It was as the maiden had said. In the engrossment
of their conversation they had been passed by
in the country-dance. As they now went to the foot
to bring themselves into place, Blanche whispered,
“I rejoice the Skipper is not come to-night: his
shrewdness has taught him, notwithstanding my father's
good will, that there is but little relish for his
company at the Rose Croft.”

“You reckon without your host, Mistress Blanche,”
replied the Secretary. “There is the Skipper outside
of the window; and not well pleased with his own
ruminations, if I may judge by his folded arms and
thoughtful eye.”

Cocklescraft had been in the porch, looking in upon
the scene, some moments before he was observed; a
crowd of domestics having so pre-occupied the same
station as almost to shield him from the notice of
those within. Whilst Blanche and Albert now danced,
he had planted himself in the door. His countenance
was grave, his attitude statue-like, and his eye sharply
followed the motions of the maiden. His dress,
somewhat outlandish but still within the license of
that period, was of a Spanish fashion, profusely decorated
with embroidery and set off by jewels of exceeding
richness. It was too ambitious of ornament
to be compatible with good taste, and manifested that
love of finery which is the infallible index of a tawdry
and sensual nature. The thoughtfulness of his countenance
denoted an abstraction, of which he was obviously
not conscious at the moment, for he no sooner
caught the glance of Blanche than his whole bearing
underwent a sudden change; his eye sparkled, his
lip assumed a smile, and he became at once, in appearance,
the gay and careless reveller.

“God save the Rose of St. Mary's, the beautiful
flower of our New World!” he said, as he approached
the maiden with what she could not fail to note
as an over-acted effort to assume the cavalier. “Viva
la Padrona, tutta bella, tutta bona! The damsels of

Portugal will teach you the meaning of that speech,
pretty mistress. St. Iago! but you have a gallant
company to-night,” he added, as he cast his eyes
around; in doing which he recognised Albert Verheyden
with a scarcely perceptible nod of the head,
and then turned his back upon him. “By your leave,
Mistress Blanche, I would dance with you at your
first leisure: the next dance, or the next,—I am thine
humble servant for as long as you will. Shall it not
be the next dance, lady?”

“I will tell you anon: I know not whether I may
dance again to-night, Master Cocklescraft,” replied
the maiden coldly.

“There spoke the same tongue that refused my
mantle! Your cruelty, mistress, exceeds that beauty
which all men so boast of in this province. I would
that I might bring you to look upon me with compassion.
Not even a dance with the queen of our
feast! A poor, rough-spoken sailor meets but little
grace in a lady's favour, when white-handed lute-players
and ballad-singing pages stand ready at her
call. It is even as you will! damsels have the privilege
of denial all the world over, and I am too
much of a gallant to trouble you with an unwelcome
suit—”

“I will dance with you, Master Cocklescraft,” said
Blanche anxiously, as she saw the chafed spirit of the
Skipper working in his face notwithstanding his effort
to disguise it; whilst, at the same time, she feared that
his peevish allusion to the Secretary might have been

overheard; “call on me for the next set, and I will
dance with you.”

“Now by the light, I thought your goodness would
relent! 'Tis not in your nature to be unkind. Gracias!
I am at your feet, Senora—I shall be on the
watch. Scotch jig, reel, or country-dance, they all
come pat to me. I can dance the bransle, cinquepace,
or minuet—the corant, fandango, or gailliard.
You shall find me at home, mistress, in every clime.
Meantime, I will seek our host, the worshipful Collector:
I have not seen him yet.”

This unusual familiarity in the address of the Skipper,
and the importunate and even offensive freedom
of his manner were the result of an endeavour to
conceal a discontented temper under the mask of
gaiety. He had brooded over the incidents connected
with his late visit to the Rose Croft, until he had
wrought himself into a tone of feeling that might
engender any extravagance of behaviour. The coldness
of the maiden, we have seen, he imputed to
causes altogether independent of her goodwill or
aversion; and he was, therefore, determined to persevere
in his aim to win her favour—an enterprise
which, in his harsh and rude estimate of the proprieties
of conduct, he did not deem in any respect hopeless.
He made sure, in his reckoning, of the friendship
of the Collector, from whom he had experienced
those manifestations of good feeling which a hospitable
and kind-hearted man flings around him almost
at random, but which Cocklescraft's self-flattering
temper magnified into indications of special regard.

The agitation of these topics had thrown him into
a perplexed thoughtfulness which alone was the cause
of his tardy appearance at the ball; and now that he
had arrived, the same rumination kept him vibrating,
in a moody abstraction, between total silence at one
period, and an unnatural exhibition of mirth at the
next, giving to the latter that gairish flippancy of
manner which was so annoying to the maiden.

The cordial and frank civility with which the Collector
recognised the Skipper amongst the guests,
unfortunately contributed to confirm him in the
opinion of Master Warden's favour.

“Why, Richard Cocklescraft,” said the host, upon
looking up from the cards which had been absorbing
his attention, and discovering the Skipper, “art
thou here amongst the grey beards? Why should you
flock to the old fowl when the young are gathered
in the hall? There is no gout in your toe, I warrant.
Get thee back, man—we will have no deserters here!
You promised to bring a blithe foot for a jig, Master
Cocklescraft; art tired of the sport already?”

“In truth, worshipful Master Warden,” replied the
Skipper, “I have, but within this half hour, arrived
at the house; 'tis not long since I left my brigantine,
where matters on board detained me.”

“Ha, and you have not danced to night? Then you
owe Blanche a turn of duty. Go quickly back,
Richard, and foot it with my girl. I have praised
your leg, man, and said enough to put you on your
mettle. Back to the hall, Master Cocklescraft, and

say to Blanche I sent thee for a straight-backed comrade
to hold her to the pledge of a reel.”

“I am already bound to that pledge, and the time
is at hand to make it good. I but stole away for an
instant to pay my duty here,” replied the Skipper;
and taking heart from the familiar greeting of his
host, returned to the dancing apartment with lighter
step and more cheerful face.

Blanche took the earliest moment to perform her
engagement, hoping by this alacrity to acquit herself
of her obligation in a manner least calculated to occasion
remark, and soonest to disembarrass herself
of her partner's importunity. The dance, on her part,
was a reluctant courtesy, and was accordingly so
manifested in her demeanour, in spite of her resolution
to the contrary. Cocklescraft, however, was too
much elated to perceive how ill he stood in the
maiden's grace. Scant encouragement will suffice
to feed the hopes of a lover; still more scant in a
lover of such a temperament as that of the heady
seaman. His vanity was quick to interpret favourably
every word of civility that fell from Blanche's
lips; and the little that escaped her during the dance
seemed anew to brighten his hopes and inspire the
zeal of his pursuit.

When the engagement was accomplished the
maiden quickly escaped from her distasteful suitor,
by retiring from the hall and mingling with other
companions.

The guests were now summoned to supper. In a
wing of the dwelling house the tables were loaded

with dainty cheer, more to be remarked for its capacity
to please the palate, than for the enticements
which modern epicurism has invented to gratify the
eye. An orderly division of matrons in damask and
brocade, escorted by quaint cavaliers in periwigs,
moved forward at a measured pace to make the first
onslaught. These were followed by active bevies of
youthful revellers who rushed pell-mell to the scene
of assault.

In the housekeeper's apartment which looked into
the supper-room, sundry women, intent upon supplying
the tables, might have been seen ministering their
office with scarcely less clamour than that which
echoed from the consumers of the feast. Here, in
a post of usurped control over the domestics, busy in
rinsing glasses, cleansing platters, adjusting pasties,
and despatching comfits, was the merry landlady of
the Crow and Archer whose saucy, laughing, and not
unhandsome face, grew lustrous with the delight
afforded by her occupation. Full as she was of the
appropriate business of her station, she still had time
to watch the banquet and make her comments upon
the incidents which transpired there.

“Ho, Bridget Coldcale! Bridget, this way look you!”
she exclaimed, as with napkin in hand, and eye glistening
with delight, she beckoned to the thin and busy
housekeeper. “If you would live and laugh, pray come
this way and take a peep at the table. Who should we
have here, as pert and proud as if she was the lady of
my Lord, but our gossip, Dolly Cadger? Think of it,
—the dame herself, in her own true flesh and blood
amongst all these gentlefolk. Marry! Master Anthony

Warden was in straits to choose comers when he
went to the mercer's shop to find them. What a
precious figure the sea-tortoise makes with her yellow
camblet, blue sarsnet, and green satin! And that lace
pinner stuck upon her head, with great lappets flaunting
down like hound's ears! I cannot but laugh my
sides into a stitch—it is such a dainty tire for a mercer's
wife. It all comes, you may swear, bran new
out of the mercer's pack—for the poor man had never
the soul to deny her; there shall be a twelve month's
bragging on the top of this. Good lack! yonder is
Dauntrees, like an humble bee, beside the Viewer's
sister! The old pot-guzzler is never a man to flinch
from his trencher. Master Ginger, I know the measure
of thy stomach of old! I have warmed thy insides
for thee!”

“For the blessing of charity and the love of good
works, Dame Dorothy, some drink!” cried Willy,
the fiddler, who had just stolen from his post and
elbowed his way into the housekeeper's room. “Some
drink, beautiful mistress! my throat is as dry as a
midsummer chimney; swallows are building nests in
it: my lips are dusty from long drought, and my
elbow is not able to wag for want of oil. Quick,
good dame, or I shall crisp! Ha, the piper's benison
upon thy head! that is smooth and to the purpose,”
he exclaimed, after tossing off a glass which the
dame presented him. “Now, worthy hostess, a bone
to gnaw, for I am fearfully empty and like to cave
in! speed thee, dame: the dancers will be calling before
I am filled.”

“So,—Willy, set you down and comfort your stomach

at your leisure; there will be no haste to leave
the supper-table this half hour,” replied the landlady,
as she laid a plate before the fiddler, furnished with
good store of pasty; “take your time and make a
belly full of it, child—thou hast earned thy provender.
I warrant you, Willy, you never had a merrier
pair of legs to `Hunt the Squirrel,' than our old
Captain gave thee to night.”

“Haw, haw!” shouted Willy; “Captain Dauntrees
is a king of Captains, dame. Troth, he hath put a
new spring in Master Warden's old floor. I would
have given a piece of eight out of my own pocket,
Mistress Dorothy—that is if I had so much—to have
seen thee on the plank to-night footing it to `Hunt
the Squirrel' with the Captain, or to `Moll Pately,'
or some such other merry frisk as I could have made
for you: it would have been as good as a month's
schooling to some of our gentlefolks.”

“Me on the floor, indeed!” ejaculated the dame,
with an affected laugh. “Faith, I might be there as
well as some that crow under a hood, and the ball
suffer no shame neither. But Master Warden doth
not drop his favour so low as a vintner's wife; he
must needs stop short with the mercer. Willy, didst
think before, that the publican was of less worship
than the pedler? Hath Dame Cadger better reason
to hold up her head than Dame Weasel? Speak the
truth, man, honestly.”

“Master Perry Cadger hath done with peddling
more than a year past,” replied Willy; “he is now a
'stablished mercer, with freehold in the town and
trade in the common: and they do say, Mistress Dorothy,

that he makes money over-hand; marry, he will
be worshipful anon; money makes worship, dame,
all the world over.”

“May be it doth; but I would fain know, hath not
Garret Weasel as goodly a freehold in the town, as
old a trade in the common, and as full a pouch as
Perry Cadger? better, older, and fuller, on my word!
Now, where is that same mortal, my husband?”
inquired the dame, looking around her; “as I live by
food, there he is at the chimney-cheek, fast asleep in
the midst of all this uproar! The noddipeake is of
too dull a spirit for such a place as this. Wake him
up, Willy! Garret, man!” she screamed, in a tone
which instantly brought him to his feet; “if thou'rt
weary, put Bogle in the cart and get thee home to
bed; Matty will bring the cart back and wait for
me.”

“I sleepy!” returned the husband, in a husky voice,
and with a bewildered drowsy eye which he endeavoured
to light up with a laugh; “good woman,
if you wait here until I grow sleepy, you will be a
weary loiterer,—that's all I have to say. Sleepy,
dame! If a man but wink his eye in the light, you
would swear to a snore. Adsheartlikens! I have
been in many a rouse, wife, as you well know; day-dawn
is my twelve of the clock; chanticleer hath
crowed himself hoarse many a time before he could
get me to bed. I'll see thee out.”

“Oh, chops, chops! here's an honest night's work
for you!” drawled out Wise Watkin, who had, ever
since dark, occupied a station at a window as a spectator

of the dancing, and now had pryingly thrust
his head into the housekeeper's apartment; “here be
eatables and drinkables, wet and dry, to set any
stomach a laughing! Why how now, Willy!” he
ejaculated, with a chuckle, as he discovered the fiddler
regaling himself in the room, and advanced towards
him with the skulking step of a dog that is
doubtful of his reception; “you know where the fat
and the sweet are, I warrant you. Oh, Master Willy,
you are a wise fiddler! their worships do well to
make much of you. Have you never a crust for
Watkin?”

“Out, you dotterel!” shouted Mistress Coldcale, in
a key that thrilled through the frame of the simpleton,
and turned him precipitately towards the door.
“Hav'nt we idlers enough in our way without you?
Here, take this and begone amongst thy cronies,”
she continued, as relenting she gave the witless intruder
a plate of provisions. “And as for you, Willy,
the young folks are gathering again in the hall, there
will be a message for you presently.”

“I stay for no message,” replied the crowder, as
he rose and shook the crumbs from him, and, with
jaws still occupied, withdrew from the apartment,
followed by the admiring Watkin.

Upon the lawn in front of the house, Albert Verheyden
had erected a bower, which sheltered a rustic
altar dedicated to St. Therese, over which the
name of Blanche had been wrought in large letters,
formed by a number of suspended lamps, which threw
a softened light for a considerable space around.
Hither, after supper, Mr. Warden, with a small party

of his guests, had strolled, in the interval before the
sports of the evening were resumed. Cocklescraft
had watched the opportunity, and now, somewhat
elated with wine as well as buoyed up with hope,
had tracked the Collector's footsteps until he found
him separated some little space from his company.

“Well met, Master Warden!” was the Skipper's
accost, so familiarly whispered in the ear of his host
as to produce a slight movement of surprise. “Well
met, Caballero! I have a word for thy private ear;
this way, if you please. It is somewhat cool, so I
will to my purpose roundly, in seaman's fashion.”

“Speak what thou wilt, but quickly, Master Cocklescraft,
and in plain phrase: I shall like it the better.”

“Master Warden, then, without mincing the matter,
I would have your leave to woo our beautiful
maiden, your daughter.”

“Who,—what,—how?” interrupted the Collector,
in a voice that spoke his astonishment.

“Your daughter, Mistress Blanche; ay, and have
your good word to the suit: I love her like a true
son of the sea—heartily, and in that sort would woo
her.”

“What is it you ask?” again spoke the host with
increased surprise.

“I have gear enough, Master Warden; no man
may turn his heel on me for lack of gold.”

“How now, sirrah!” interrupted the Collector, as
in this brief space the storm had gathered to the
bursting point: “You would woo my daughter?—
woo her?—my Blanche? Richard Cocklescraft, hast
lost thy wits—turned fool, idiot; or is thy brain

fevered with drink? You make suit to my daughter!
You win and wear a damsel of her nurture! Hear
me. Thy craft is a good craft—I do not deny it;
an honest calling, when lawfully followed! a brave
calling! but thou sail'st on a false reckoning when
thou hopest to find favour with my girl Blanche.
Thy rough sea-jacket and thy sharking license on
the salt sea mates not with daughter of mine:—the
rose leaf and the sea-nettle! You venture too largely
on your welcome, sirrah!” he said, as his anger began
to show itself in his quickened speech, above his
effort to restrain it. “Master Skipper, there is insolence
in this. Hark you, sir! if you would not have
me disown your acquaintance and forbid you my
house, you will never speak again of my daughter.”

With this brief rebuke of the Skipper's aspirations
the host retreated hastily, and much out of humour,
into the house, leaving his guest in a state of bewilderment
at the sudden and unexpected issue of the interview.
For a moment the seaman stood fixed on
the spot, his lips compressed, his hands clenched,
and his eye directed to the retiring figure of the
Collector: at length, beginning to find breath and
motion, he muttered, “So, it has come to this! he
has been playing the hypocrite! It was but a holiday
welcome, after all! I shall note it for future remembrance.
A sea-nettle! By Saint Anthony he shall
find me one! And that sharking license he spoke of:
he shall taste its flavour. This girl hath been trained
in her dislikes. Oh, it is his sport to see me foiled!
I am brought here express to the ball by his persuasion,—nay,
command; I am caressed with courtesies,

and even challenged to romps with the maiden by
his own lips. Who so free in his admission here as I?
—Richard Cocklescraft, forsooth! One would have
thought we had been fellow thieves in our time; there
was such cronying in his phrase: and then, at last,
when frankly I tell him my purpose, I am to be huffed
and hectored off the ground with bullying speeches!
He must bounce me as if I were a cowardly boy.
Oh, wind and wave and broad-sea sky! it was not in
your nursing I learned the patience to bear this
wrong. Thou'rt not too old yet, Anthony Warden,
to be taught the hazard of rousing a Bloody Brother!
And as for thee, gay maiden, dream on of thy bookish
ballad-singer, Master Albert! I have a reckoning to
settle with him. It will be a dainty exploit to send
him, feet foremost, into the Chapel for a blessing.
Luckily, Sir Secretary, you owe me the worth of
an unsatisfied grudge! Softly—Master Verheyden
himself! we meet at a fortunate hour.”

The soliloquy of the Skipper was interrupted by
the approach of the Secretary, who entered alone
into the bower and paused a moment before the little
altar. A light tap on the shoulder made Albert aware
of the presence of Cocklescraft, and turning round to
confront the person who gave it, he was immediately
greeted with the accost, “I have a word for your ear,
sir;—if you be a man you will follow me out of this
broad light. What I have to say is better told where
no one may observe us; follow me, sir.”

“You are somewhat too peremptory,” replied the
Secretary, as he stepped after the Skipper toward the
cliff: “I follow, though I think more courtesy would

befit your station. I have once before marked and
reproved your rudeness.”

“I have no courtesies to waste on thee,” said
Cocklescraft, sharply; “my business is with thy
manhood. You have the maiden to thank that I did
not bring you to instant account for that insolent reproof
you speak of. I come to deal with you upon
it now. Art thou a man? Dar'st thou meet me to-morrow,
at noon, at Cornwaleys's Cross?”

“I dare meet you and any or all who have right to
claim it of me,” replied Albert, promptly, “in the
way of honourable quarrel, if such be the meaning
of your challenge. And although I am ignorant of
your degree, and may question your right to defy
me to equal contest, yet honoured as you have been
under this roof, I shall rest content with that as sufficient
pledge of your claim to my attention. You
shall find me, sir, punctual to your summons.”

“I scorn the shallow claim,” returned the Skipper,
“to such honour as they who inhabit here may confer.
The master of the Olive Branch need not vail
his top to a clerkish spinner of syllables, even though
the minion's writing-stool be found in my Lord's own
ante-chamber. I shall see you to-morrow at noon,
at the Cross.”

“To-morrow at noon,” replied the Secretary,
“you shall not complain of my absence, sir.”

“It is well! So good night, Master Secretary!”
rejoined the Skipper, scornfully, as he bowed to his
antagonist and set forth to seek his boat which lay
in waiting beneath the bank.

The Secretary turned towards the dwelling, somewhat

disturbed by the novel situation into which he
had been so unexpectedly thrown, but resolved to
conceal the disquiet of his mind and preserve the
same outward composure which had marked his
deportment during the previous portion of the evening.

“Who lurks there?” he demanded in a stern voice,
as he perceived the figure of a man stealing off from
his path immediately in the vicinity of the spot where
the interview with Cocklescraft had terminated,
“Who is it?” he added, checking himself and speaking
in a gentler tone, “that plays hide and seek here
on the lawn?”

“Nobody,” returned a voice from the shelter of
the shrubbery, “nobody but me, honourable Master
Verheyden: me, Watkin,” continued the half-witted
lad, as he came visibly into the presence of the Secretary.
“Hav'nt we had a famous junketing? Oh, what
I have eaten and drunk this blessed night! and what
dancing, Master Verheyden! was there ever such
fiddling? Willy is a treasure to the quality, I warrant
you. Where have you such another?”

“You should be looking on at the dancing,” said
Albert, anxious to ascertain from the lad if he had
heard any thing of what had just passed between
himself and Cocklescraft. “How comes it, Watkin,
that you are away from your post?”

“Oh, bless you, Master Verheyden, I have more
on my hands than you would guess in a week's striving.
Now, what should Mistress Coldcale say to me
when I had gobbled up my supper, but, Watkin, take
this trencher and this pot down to the bank side, and
there feed the seamen of Master Cocklescraft's boat,

which you shall find at the landing below the garden.
And so, truly, there I found the hungry tarpaulins:
and they did eat, Master Albert, like fishes, and drink
like wolves. It is Mistress Blanche's birth-day, says
I, so we will have no hungry bellies here, comrades.
And they laughed, and I came up the bank as I went,
running almost out of breath to see fiddler Willy
strike up again. And that's the way I fell pop upon
you, Master Secretary.”

“It was a lucky speed, Watkin; now get thee
gone!” said Albert, as he slowly bent his steps towards
the hall and mingled again in the bustle of the
scene.

As midnight drew near the elder guests had all
retired; and at last even the most buoyant began to
yield to that weariness of limb, by which nature has
set her limit to the endurance of social pleasure, no
less peremptorily to those in the prime of youth than
to such as wane in their days of decline.