And, when the eventful day arrived, of course Enoch was the first to turn up, being nearest. He was arrayed in his very Sundayest Sunday suit, black broadcloth, somewhat rusty to be sure, knee breeches, pale blue worsted stockings, oft darned, patched shoes with bright steel buckles, a satin stock, a frilled shirt front, and a broad-brimmed beaver hat, which he had borrowed for the occasion from an uninvited and envious neighbour. Then about two o’clock, after Ruth had run half a score of times to the road and strained her eyes down the valley, returning each time somewhat ruffled in temper, up came Jim and his mother, not as we had supposed on Shanks’ mare, but, if you’ll believe me, in a bone-shaking rattletrap of a gig which, with a sorry quadruped to draw it, Jim had beguiled the trustful landlord of the “Hanging Gate” to lend him for that day only. I hastened to help Mary out, and would have ushered her into the parlour, but that she declared she would not sit till such times as she had put herself to rights.
“Aw were nivver so shakken afore i’ my life, an’ nivver so fleyed. That hoss mun be of a varry pious frame o’ mind for it wanted to go down on its knees ivvry twenty yards. Up hill, an’ it’s mostly up hill, it puffed, an’ coughed, an’ wheezed—hoopin’ cough, an’ asthma, an’ brownchitis isn’t to be named i’ th’ same week wi’ th’ way that hoss went on. An’ down hill it were warse. Th’ harness may ha’ fitted it once, though aw doubt it. But now it fair dances all ovver th’ poor beast’s body. An’ th’ trap creaked, an’ groaned, an’ rattled, an’ th’ seat kept slippin’ up an’ dahn, an’ back’ards an’ forrards, till aw could nivver be sewer whether aw sud fall out at th’ back or tipple a somersaut ovver th’ hoss’s yead. Aw wanted to ger aat an’ walk, but Jim said this being th’ do as it is, it were nobbut a due compliment to Pole Moor to drive up i’ style. But aw’st noan go back i’ that owd bone-shaker if aw’m to crawl o’ my hands an’ knees ovver th’ moor. But theer! aw’m rested now, aw’ll turn to an’ wash some o’ them pots. My, what a seet o’ pots to be sewer. They’ll none be all your own, aw’m thinkin’.”
Ruth explained that we had ventured to borrow some of the crockery used for Chapel and Sunday school anniversaries.
“Oh! well, then, them ’versaries is some good,” commented Mary. “But see yo’,” she exclaimed suddenly, “if aw hadn’t clean forgotten. Wheer’s that Jim? In th’ shippon puttin’ owd Barebones up? He’ll be fodderin’ her wi’ mi’ parcel if aw’m noan quick.”
But at this moment Jim appeared with a great parcel, wrapped in thick brown paper, in his hands.
“Aw’m noan come empty-handed,” explained Mary, “it’s noan my way. I suppose it isn’t other o’ you young women’s birth-day, is it? No? Weel, it can’t be helped; we mun mak’ believe it is. Yo’ mun tak’ these wi’ my good wishes. Aw med ’em missen, an’ aw’m thinkin’ they’ll noan be th’ waur for bein’ hand-made. Men med machines, an’ aw’m not denyin’ some on ’em’s a fair marvel; but God med hands.” And Mary undid the parcel and proudly displayed its contents. My father had come into the kitchen and greeted Mary heartily, and won her heart at once by his kindly welcome and some quite unmerited praise of the graceless Jim. And now Mary drew forth a woollen comforter, long, broad, thick, and soft, that you could almost have wound round and round my father’s whole body.
“This is for you, Mr. Holmes, if yo’ll be so kind as to wear it. Aw’n often heard how yo’ go trapezin’ ovver th’ moors i’ all sorts o’ weather, which, axin’ yo’r pardon, yo’n no right to do at yo’r time o’ life, though weel aw know it’s waste o’ breath to gi’ guid advice to th’ best o’ men. An’ wishin’ yo’ health an’ strength to wear it threadbare an’ me to live to mak’ yo’ another when that’s done. An’ these vests is for yo’ lasses. Yo’ can wear ’em ovver yo’r shimmies i’ winter time; they’d happen be a bit rough next to th’ skin. An’ these stockin’s is for yo’ girls, too. They’re happen a bit big i’ th’ cauf o’ th’ leg, but yo’ll thicken aat theer afore them stockin’s is ready for th’ rag bag, and they’ll mak’ varry guid floorcloths then. Aw did think while aw were about it aw’d mak’ some little socks aat o’ th’ wool aw had to spare ’at ’ud come in handy some day. But aw once knew a woman, up Harrop Edge way—Laban’s wife, yo’d mebbe know her, sir—an’ oo med a set o’ babby things when oo’d nobbut just started courtin’, and never chick nor child did she have to wear ’em.” But here Jim and I were hustled out of the kitchen, and what other confidences Mary might have to narrate were reserved for gentler ears.
Now into the details of that great revel I must not enter. The meal had been put off an hour beyond our usual time, which was enough of itself to put an edge on appetites kept in good fettle by daily labour, frugal fare, cleanly lives, and mountain air. So that I fear we listened with little patience and not over-much attention to the long, long grace my father must needs offer before we were at liberty to fall to. I daresay there are people who wonder at those who take a delight in a hearty feed. I expect these are the folk who all their lives have always had more than enough to eat. We were not in that case—far otherwise. The fare at Pole Moor was ample enough, but ever of the plainest, porridge and buttermilk, buttermilk and porridge, bacon and pork, pork and bacon, with haver bread—Ruth had as neat a turn of the wrist for swishing the meal and water on to a bakestone as ever you saw—butcher’s meat and white bread perhaps once a week, and now and then a dish of tea. For puddings and pies we fell back on fruit of our own growing, rhubarb and gooseberries mainly. Now I’ve often reflected—there’s nothing like a good dinner for inducing pious meditation—that it is a sure proof of the infinite goodness and wisdom of the great Architect of the universe that the best and most wholesome and necessary things are ever the most abundant and cheapest, and accessible to all God’s creatures. What, for instance, is cheaper than cold water? And what water is to man, inside and outside, the stupid creature never realises till he is compelled at times to do without. What fruit of the earth can a man turn to with such unfailing relish as the potato that any cottager can grow on a rough patch of ground, what vegetable more medicinal than the cabbage, what fruit more toothsome than rhubarb when the shoots are yet tender, or the gooseberry whilst still green and tart. I suppose your “gret fo’k,” as Mary called the quality, set much store on their grapes, and pines, and peaches, and other precious fruits I don’t even know the names of, but old Dr. Dean—and a better doctor never trod—would often say that a man would sooner stall of grapes, and pines, and peaches, and all such fallalls, than he would of rhubarb and gooseberries, and that for keeping a man’s innards in order those luxuries of the rich were not to be mentioned in the same week with the hardy produce of the cottage garden. But, there, all these sage thoughts were very far from my head as I sat next to Miriam at table, and, what time I was not kept busy passing cups and plates, did my level best to eat up to the standard Jim had set for himself and confided to me for my own guidance. We had been taught in our early days that company manners forbade the partaking twice of the same dish, and Jim had carefully modelled his slow and steady progress through the viands on that precept. So his bill of fare, to which he heroically adhered, was something like this:—
Pork-pie—1 plateful.
Roast goose with apple sauce—1 plateful.