“Coom, lad,” said Daniel, noways offended at his companion’s wish on his behalf. “A’m noan flush mysel’, but here’s half a crown, and tuppence, it’s a’ a’ve gotten wi’ me; but it’ll keep thee and t’ beast i’ food and shelter this neet, and get thee a glass o’ comfort, too. A had thought o’ taking one mysel’, but a shannot ha’ a penny left, so a’ll just toddle whoam to my missus.”
Daniel was not in the habit of feeling any emotion at actions not directly affecting himself; or else he might have despised the poor wretch who immediately clutched at the money and overwhelmed that man with slobbery thanks whom he had not a minute before been cursing. But all Simpson’s stronger passions had been long ago used up; now he only faintly liked and disliked, where once he loved and hated; his only vehement feeling was for himself; that cared for, other men might wither or flourish as best suited them.
Many of the doors which had been close shut when the crowd went down the High Street were partially open as Daniel slowly returned; and light streamed from them on the otherwise dark road. The news of the successful attempt at rescue had reached those who had sate in mourning and in desolation an hour or two ago, and several of these pressed forwards as from their watching corner they recognised Daniel’s approach; they pressed forward into the street to shake him by the hand, to thank him (for his name had been bruited abroad as one of those who had planned the affair), and at several places he was urged to have a dram—urgency that he was loath for many reasons to refuse, but his increasing uneasiness and pain made him for once abstinent, and only anxious to get home and rest. But he could not help being both touched and flattered at the way in which those who formed his “world” looked upon him as a hero; and was not insensible to the words of blessing which a wife, whose husband had been impressed and rescued this night, poured down upon him as he passed.
“There, there—dunnot crack thy throat wi’ blessing. Thy man would ha’ done as much for me, though mebbe he mightn’t ha’ shown so much gumption and capability; but them’s gifts, and not to be proud on.”
When Daniel reached the top of the hill on the road home, he turned to look round; but he was lame and bruised. He had gone along slowly, the fire had pretty nearly died out; only a red hue in the air about the houses at the end of the long High Street, and a hot lurid mist against the hill-side beyond where the Mariners’ Arms had stood, were still left as signs and token of the deed of violence.
Daniel looked and chuckled. “That comes o’ ringing fire-bell,” said he to himself; “it were shame for it to be telling a lie, poor oud story-teller.”
A Game of Blind-man’s-buff
From Sylvia’s Lovers, 1863
Moss Brow, Molly Corney’s old home, is still in existence, and the room in which the game was played can be seen.
Sylvia was by all acknowledged and treated as the belle. When they played at blind-man’s-buff, go where she would, she was always caught; she was called out repeatedly to do what was required in any game, as if all had a pleasure in seeing her light figure and deft ways. She was sufficiently pleased with all this to have got over her shyness with all except Charley. When others paid her their rustic compliments she tossed her head, and made her little saucy repartees; but when he said something low and flattering, it was too honey-sweet to her heart to be thrown off thus. And, somehow, the more she yielded to this fascination the more she avoided Philip. He did not speak flatteringly—he did not pay compliments—he watched her with discontented, longing eyes, and grew more inclined every moment, as he remembered his anticipation of a happy evening, to cry out in his heart vanitas vanitatum.