Upon the lonely moated grange.”
In this house lived a man, well known for many a mile round as “Piggy” Morris, so called by reason of his pig-jobbing proclivities, though he varied his calling in that direction by dealing in calves, sheep, dogs, old horses—in fact, he was quite ready to buy or sell anything by which he could gain a profit, or, as he put it, “finger the rhino.”
Piggy Morris was once a respectable farmer, a tenant of Squire Fuller’s, but his drinking habits had been his ruin. His farm deteriorated so much that his landlord gave him notice to quit, and had threatened to prosecute him for damages into the bargain. From the day he was expelled from Eastthorpe to the time of which I am writing Piggy Morris had nursed and cherished a deadly hatred to Squire Fuller, and though some years had now elapsed, he still thirsted for vengeance on the man who had “been his ruin.”
The victims of intemperance are marvellously skilful in laying the blame of their downfall on men and circumstances, and Piggy Morris attributed all his melancholy change of fortune to a hard landlord and bad times.
After the loss of his farm, Morris had taken his present house because of a malt-kiln which was on the premises, and he hoped to gain a trade and position as maltster, which would equal if not surpass the opportunity he had lost. But alas! the ball was rolling down the hill, and neither malt-kiln nor brewery could stop it; indeed, as was most probable, they gave it an additional impetus, and poor Morris was fast descending to the low level of Midden Harbour. He was a keen, clever, long-headed fellow, and could always make money in his huckstering fashion, but he was sullen, sour, ill-tempered; at war with his better self, he seemed to be at war with everybody else, which is perhaps one of the most miserable and worriting states of mind into which sane men can fall. His wife, poor soul, an amiable and thoroughly respectable woman, was cowed and broken-spirited, and lived an ailing and depressed life, sighing in chronic sorrow over the happiness and comfort of other days.
This misfitting pair had four children. The eldest, a fine stalwart fellow of twenty-four, had made some proficiency in the art and science of farriery. He had received no special training to equip him as a veterinary surgeon, but in practical farriery he was accounted very clever, and might have done well in that particular line. But the sins of the fathers are often visited upon their children. Young Morris was sadly too frequent a guest at the Red Lion, and in spite of his education and native talents, was only a sort of ne’er-do-weel, very popular in the taproom and similar centres of sociality; “nobody’s enemy but his own,” but, withal, slowly and surely gravitating towards ruin, “going to the dogs.” He had an intimate acquaintance with dogs and guns, snares and springs, and was oft suspected of carrying on a contraband trade in fish, flesh, and fowl, captured in flood and field. His coal-black hair and beard, and his swarthy though handsome features, had gained for him the soubriquet of Black Morris; and though he did not much relish the cognomen, it speedily became fixed, and there is no doubt that his wild and reckless conduct made the name, in some degree at least, appropriate. His two brothers, Bob and Dick, were in the employ of Kasper Crabtree, and his sister Mary, a quick and amiable girl of eighteen, was the loving helper, nurse, and companion of her ailing mother.
Since Lucy Blyth’s return home, Black Morris, who had seen her oft, on his visits to her father’s forge and in other parts of the village, had ventured at length to accost her, receiving, as her wont was, a pleasant smile and a courteous reply. Black Morris was made of very inflammable material, and speedily fell over head and ears in love with the blacksmith’s daughter. With his usual impetuosity of character, he swore that he and no other would capture the charming village belle, and took his steps accordingly. To carry out his purpose, his visits to the forge increased in number, his conduct was thoroughly proper and obliging, and his manners at their best, which is saying much, for when Black Morris chose he could be a gentleman. He often wielded the big hammer for Blithe Natty with muscle and skill, and that shrewd knight of the anvil was more than half inclined to change his opinion of his voluntary helper, and come to the conclusion that he was a “better fellow than he took him for.”
One evening, after Black Morris had been rendering useful and unbought aid in this way, Nathan Blyth felt constrained to thank him with unusual heartiness, and with his usual plainness of speech, he blurted out,—
“Morris, there’s the makings of a good fellow i’ you. What a pity it is that you don’t settle steadily down to some honest work, and give up loafing about after other folks’ property! ‘A rolling stone gathers no moss,’ and ‘a scone o’ your own baking is better than a loaf begged, borrowed, or taken.’”