It is reported in the village, that great confusion exists in the parish register, respecting the christenings and weddings of many families, including the butchers. We think, however, that it must be by a mistake of the old clerk, when a christening appears actually upon record before the wedding, the circumstance being quite out of the course of nature.
Betsy’s father, to do him justice, though he joined in wishing to see his daughter married to a gentleman, and though he was sturdily determined, if such a thing should ever happen, to have her publicly acknowledged; yet would he have disapproved of all the methods pursued by his wife for forwarding such views, had he been aware of them; nor did he permit the slightest familiarity in his presence, from the time that Betsy began to assume at all the appearance of a woman. Indeed he often took her seriously to task; and one memorable day, in particular, as he sat before his house fire, he drew his pipe, which he had been smoking for some time in moody silence, from his mouth, and addressed his daughter thus:—
“If thoo has a mind tle be a gintleman’s woife, or an honest man’s outher, kep thee sell’ to thee sell’, and behave theesell’ decently.” Turning half round, with both hands resting on his knees, he seemed to measure her height and form with his eyes, and then said, “Thoo’s gitting up, Bess! dinna let the lads owr nigh thee!” She blushed and smiled. “Coome,” he continued, “thoo may kiss thee fayther tho’!”
After a rough caress, he recommenced, still looking at her, “Thoo’s a fine lass thoo! It wad be a pity ti—a, that thoo shouldst coome tle ney bitter end, than tle mac devartion for scholar lads!—And sham to thee fayther!” he subjoined, after a pause, and in an altered tone.
After another pause he proceeded thus:—“Bonny devartion truly! bonny devartion! Nay, nay, Betsy, thoo’s worthy to be sum’ot bether nor that, my barne! If thoo sould niver be a gintleman’s woife, thoo may be a farmer’s woife, and ha’ plenty and decency roond thee aw thee days, and bonny bairns, like what thoo was thee sell, aboot thee. And when I’s tired wee killing swine,” he added, pleased with the picture he had drawn, “I can coome to thee chimney corner, and tack the wee things on my knee, and gee thee good-man sum’ot be the week for my leeving. I think I sould like that bether, after aw Betsy, nor yon gentleman hunting!”
“A weel, fayther,” said Betsy, affected, “and I’ll dee whativer thoo wilt. Bit Mr. Henry’s a nice enough lad, tee—a! and civiler grown nor he used to be.”
“Weel, weel, lass! Bit tack care o’ thee sell: the civiler the war, may be.”
That evening Henry brought one of his suppers to be cooked; and, among other good things, a jar of smuggled spirits, a delicacy which he had latterly contrived, by some secret means, to add to his feasts. On this occasion he seemed already to have taken himself a foretaste of the potent beverage. He found Betsy unusually distant. He kept following her about and deranging all her culinary proceedings, in the hope of provoking a game of romps. At last he got her up into a corner and kept teasing her, and coming up so close that it was impossible to get by without a struggle, which was just what he wanted. At this moment her father came in.
“Kep off the lass!” he cried; “kep off the lass!” And, pushing Henry roughly aside, he stood between him and his daughter. “I tell you what, Mr. Henry St. Aubin,” he said, “I been’t a gintleman, to be sure; bit she is my flesh and blood for au’ that, and the best gintleman in the land shan’t coome nigh hand her, withoot he gangs to church wee her first! She’s a fine lass, and a bonny lass, and a good lass; and worthy till be an honest man’s wife, and the mother o’ bonny bairns; and she sha’n’t be sport for scholar lads, as long as her fayther has twa hands tle knock him doon that mislests her!”