THE KNIGHT IN THE SADDLE.
NEXT morning it was Tuesday — the fair-day of Willarden. William had boasted to his young guest that he would take his gun, and walk half round the moss in search of game.
Instead of doing this, at daybreak he mounted his horse and rode away toward the old Northumbrian town of Willarden.
There was a light and pleasant autumnal frost in the air as the sun rose over the landscape, and showed sharply for a while the distant peaks of the fells of Golden Friars. The Squire was riding away from Haworth, and the scenery before him was wild and picturesque. Long stretches of light sward, with gray rocks peeping through, and masses of fern and furze, made a breezy undulating outline — steep enough at times, and relieved every here and there with groups of dwarf oak, and birch, and thorn.
This scenery though never beautiful, is always cheery, and sometimes even pretty. To William it seemed prettier than it had ever looked before. What way ever seemed dull to the man whose head is full of the beautiful imagery of romance, and who is speeding, in the way of his knight-errantry, on the service of his ladylove?
Exploit more foolish, passion more romantic, never animated the enterprise of gallant knight, in the days of prowess and beauty, than that which the breast of the Squire of Haworth harbored, as he rode over the wide plain that separated his hall from the fair-green of Willarden. We shall see how he sped.
As you approach Willarden, the character of wildness and loneliness, which gives its peculiar charm to the scenery, does not diminish. Wide slopes and gentle hollows swell and dip softly, showing shallow scaurs of gray rock here and there, traced in broken lines, like timeworn and fantastic battlements and fortifications; and through the crannies twisted hawthorn-trees stoop wildly, and birch-trees in twos and threes crown their summits.
These picturesque but hungry pastures, with their thin close grass and wavy fern, and hoar rocks peeping through, are browsed by scattered sheep of some old Northumbrian breed, small and agile, who seldom lie down to repose, like their fatter cousins of the South — can gallop far and lightly, and climb the rocks like goats. These sheep crop diligently the thin but sweet herbage which more highly-bred animals would despise, and are doubtless the descendants of those harried animals who made so many forced marches, this way and that, across the border, and saw the steel caps, lances, and shaggy ponies of the Scottish rievers.
And now, at last, the quaint little town of Willarden appears in view, as William Haworth reaches the summit of a long low undulation.
There four narrow roads meet — or, if you will, two long lines of road cross — the little town clumping itself upon and about the point of union. Stone houses with steep gables, look in the distance as if planted at random, as a child places dominoes. There was some tillage near; com stood in stooks and stacks, orchards and gardens made an irregular girdle about its walls; and the gray spire, with its gilded vane, glimmered pleasantly in the early sun, with a background of statelier foliage.
Cattle and carts were still pouring into the town as William approached, and the picture, without the sounds of bustle, was pleasant in the distance.
As you draw near, the scene loses something of its gentler charm, and that which was a picture becomes instinct with the character and vulgarity of actual life. Now you hear laughter and bawling and women’s prattle, the cries of the cattle-drovers. There are a few late carts and wagons making their way through Church Street to the fair-green. Cows are driving this way and that, with their horns low, on the same route; and sheep and horses and pigs are still moving in the same direction.
William draws bridle at die porch of the “Goat in Boots;” people are going in and out through the crowd, and two broad fellows, whom William has to shove asunder, already deep in a bargain about three cows. They both look shrewd and dogged — I wonder which will have the best of it On such days, with the flurry and flush of excitement all about, who would recognize the silent little inn of all the rest of the year?
William is hicky to find a nook in which to eat his breakfast A fat hearty fellow, with a shrewd hale face, wearing leather breeches and top-boots, a long red waistcoat and a blue cut-away with brass buttons, clapped his big hand on William’s shoulder, with a grin, and greeted him with a salutation:
“Ech! Willie Haworth — is thou here, lad? And how’s a’ wi’ thee? Thou’s summat late, though. I a’ selt my kye weel, an hour sin’.”
And he laughed and wagged his head.
“Glad to see you, Dick. Mind you come down again this winter to Haworth, to the duck-shooting. I’ll have your corner by the fire, and your pipe and your mug ready; and you’ll stay a week, and bring your retriever, the best dog I ever saw — and I’ll take no excuse. So that’s settled.”
Dick laughed a huge laugh. “Maybe — who kens?” he responded joyously. “Thou’s sellin’ or buyin’?” he inquired, thinking that the young Squire might be pleasant to deal with either way.
“No; I have no business here except to look after a rogue.”
“Agoy! Weel — what more?” said Dick.
“Only, as you’ve nothing better to do, you’ll come with me and see the fun. I’m going to send him out o’ the county, and he won’t like it; and there will be a jolly row, I daresay.”
“Thou’s a justice, noo. Thou’ll be givin’ him a jerkin’ o’ stean. One raggard the less. I’ll lend ye a hand, but there’s constables if need be, and thou’ll hev the warrant in thy pocket.”
“Come then, Dick. We’ll go down to the fair-green; I like your company — that’s a glorious cudgel you’ve got!”
“Well, it do drive connily; a skelp o’ that wud make yer lug sing.”
“So I think. Come, let’s be off.”
So down Church Street the Squire of Haworth and Dick Hoggen the yeoman — a man of cattle, money, and mark in those regions — made their way; and over the narrow bridge, with its now roofless guard-tower, and so into the pretty fair-green of Willarden.