“Balaam, aud chap, ah think there’s mair donkeys wi’ two legs then there is wi’ fower. Blithe Natty’s as good a fello’ as ivver put a pair o’ shoes on, but he’s as blinnd as a bat, and as dull as a donkey aboot that blessid lahtle lass ov his. She’s cryin’ her e’es oot, an’ spoilin’ her pratty feeace ower that yung sprig ov a squire; an’ her dodderin’ fayther wunthers what’s matter wiv ’er, an’s freeten’d te deead ’at he’s gannin’ te loss ’er like ’er mother. He dizn’t seeam te see wheear t’ mischief ligs. Thoo mun tell ’im, Balaam. Thoo mun tell ’im”—for Old Adam had got into a way of identifying the old donkey with himself, and in his monologues with his dumb companion, used to give it the advice on which he himself intended to act—“it weean’t deea for t’ sweetest lass i’ Waverdale to be meead a feeal on biv a young whippersnapper like that. Ah’ve neea doot he thinks it’s good fun te trifle wiv a pratty lass, an’ get ’er te wosship t’ grund he walks on, an’ then leeave ’er te dee ov a brokken heart. Bud,” said the old hedger, in a gush of indignation, “Ah’ll be hanged if he sall! Balaam, thoo sall gan te-neet, an’ tell Natty Blyth a bit o’ thi’ mind.”
Here, in his excitement, Old Adam rose up in his stirrups and unconsciously brought his stick down on the flanks of his Rosinante, with a thwack that would have startled any other steed into at least a momentary spurt. Balaam, however, only cocked his ears in mild astonishment, as who should say, “What in the world is the matter with the old man now?” or, rather, for it isn’t possible to think of him cogitating in any other language than his master’s, “What i’ t’ wolld’s up wi’ t’ aud chap noo?”
Just at this point Adam had reached a narrow gate which opened into a grassy lane, leading to Marlpit Wood, the scene of his labours for the day. There, bestriding a handsome bay, and in the act of attempting to open the gate with the handle of his riding whip, was a fine, handsome young gentleman, whose dark eyes gleamed with good temper, and whose general appearance was indicative of rank, high spirits, and kindliness of heart. This was none other than Philip Fuller, and no sooner did Adam Olliver set his eyes upon him than he resolved there and then to fulfil his promise to Judith to “see about it,” and to “have it out” with the delinquent himself.
“Ah’ll oppen t’ yat fo’ yo’ if y’ll wayte a minnit;” and, dismounting, he fulfilled his promise, and stood with his limp and battered “Jim Crow” hat in his hand, before the young gentleman had an opportunity to reply.
“Thank you,” said Philip, with a bright, open smile, and, putting his hand in his pocket, he pulled out a coin with the view of paying for the favour he had received.
“Nay,” said Adam, “Ah deean’t want payin’ for it. Ah sud hae ’ad te oppen it for mysen; an’ if ah hedn’t it wad hae been varry meean te see yo’ bother’d, an’ gan on indifferent. Bud if yo’ll excuse ma’, sor, ah sud like te say a wod or two te yo’, an’ ah wop yo’ weean’t be offended. Mah neeam’s Adam Olliver, an’ ah lives next deear te Nathan Blyth, an’ ah thinks as mitch aboot his lahtle Lucy as ah deea aboot me’ aun bairns. Oh, sor!” and Adam lifted his honest sun-brown face in strong appeal, “deean’t draw Natty’s yow’ lam’ away frev ’im, poor fellow! He hez bud’ hor, an’ if onny ’arm sud ’appen tiv her, it’ll breck his ’art an’ hor’s an’ all. She’s as good as she’s pratty, bless ’er! an’ it wad be twenty thoosand pities, as weel as an awful sin, te bring disgrace on ’er heead, an’ sorrow tiv’ ’er ’art. Deean’t, ah pre’ you, rob Natty of his darlin’. Yisterday, ah was clippin’ a hedge yonder by Marlpit Wood, an’ ah saw a muther-bod teeachin’ ’er yung ’un te flee. T’ aud bod flutter’d and chirrup’t up an’ doon, an’ roond aboot, the varry picther o’ happiness, an’ t’ poor lahtle gollin’ cheep’d an’ hopp’d, an’ flew as happy as it’s mother. A sparro’-hawk com’ doon, like a flash o’ leetnin’, an’ teeak’d lahtle thing away iv his claws. Ah tell you, Maister Philip, t’ way that poor muther-bod pleean’d an’ twitter’d, an’ hopp’d, frae bush te tree, an’ frae tree te bush, wild wi’ grief, was aneeaf te melt a flint. Maister Philip! deean’t be a hawk; bud let Natty’s pratty lahtle singin’-bod be, an’ God’ll bless yo’.”
Philip Fuller listened in amaze. A bright ingenuous blush tinged his cheek at the mention of Lucy’s name, and as the old man proceeded, in rude, homely eloquence, to plead, as he thought, the cause of injured innocence, the colour deepened until it might easily have been misread as an evidence of conscious guilt. Not the slightest shadow of anger, however, rested on his features, as he looked into the gleaming eyes of the “old man eloquent.” On the contrary, his clear perception showed him in Old Adam the true and knightly sympathiser with innocence and beauty; the chivalrous knight in corderoy and hodden grey, who, if needs be, would peril life and limb to champion his darling against all comers suspected of unrighteous intent.
“Deean’t be vexed, Maister Philip,” he proceeded. “Ah meean neea harm, you knoa ah deean’t, but ah can’t abide te see lahtle Lucy pinin’ away i’ sorro’, an’ ’er fayther gannin’ aboot like a man iv a dreeam. She’s nut the lass for you, yo’ knoa. A lennet an’ a eeagle’s ill matched, an’ ah want yo’ te promise mah ’at yo’ll let her alooan, weean’t yo’?”
“Vexed! No,” said Philip; “on the contrary, I esteem you for your love to Lucy, and I respect you for your candour; but you are under a great mistake. God is my witness, Adam Olliver; I mean no harm to Lucy Blyth, and would rather suffer the loss of my right arm than bring a tear to her eye, or sorrow to her father’s hearth.”
“God i’ heaven bless yo’ for that wod,” said Adam, with deep feeling; “you lahtle knoa hoo it releeaves mi’ mind, an’ ah’s sorry ’at ah’ve judg’d yo’ hardly, but ah’ve seen yo’ mair than yance or twice, when ah thowt ’at there was room te fear.”