Bladys of the Stewponey | Page 2

stamen, fair flower," said Hoole. "And if you'll not
take it amiss I'll just wipe your nose wi' my apron, and have it off in a
jiffy, and an honour it will be to the apron."
"Oh, Mister Hoole, you 're such a flatterer!" said the woman, fresh,
stout, matronly; then, "But for all--I don't understand."
"But I do," said the host. "Cornelius is going to be married to that
woman--you know whom I mean," with a contemptuous shrug of the
shoulder and a curl of the lip.
"I don't know as it's wuss than the goings-on as has been."
"But she's not been in the house; and he can't bring her in till he has got
Bladys out."
"But to put her up to be bowled for!"
"That's the doings of the gentlemen--a parcel of bucks and
good-for-noughts that frequent the tavern. He's not the man to say them
nay. He dussn't go contrary to them--they spend a lot o' money there."
"But who will go in for her?"
"Nay, that's more than I can say. She's a wonderful handsome girl."
"Can't see it," answered the woman.
"No--I always say that for good-looking faces you might go through the
three counties and not see one like your own. But, Mrs Fiddian, you're
spoiled by looking at your own charms in the glass--it incapacitates you
for seeing moderate beauty in another."
"Go along, Mr Hoole."
"How can I go along, when I am opposite you?"
"Come, ha' done with this nonsense. Who are they that have taken a
fancy to this white-faced mawken?"

"For one, there is Crispin Ravenhill."
"He can't take her--hasn't enough money."
"He has his barge."
"Wot's that? His uncle would have a word to say about that, I calculate.
Who else?"
"There is a stranger staying at the Stewponey that they call Luke
Francis."
"What is his trade?"
"Don't know."
"Any others."
"There's Captain Stracey."
"He can't marry her--he's a gentleman; and what about Nan--has he
broke with her? What others?"
"Nibblers, only."
"Well, Mr Hoole, I must back to my bakery."
"And I sink back to darkness out of light."
Kinver village occupies a basin in the side of the great rocky ridge that
runs for many miles through the country and ends abruptly at the edge,
a bluff of sandstone crowned by earthworks, where, as tradition says,
King Wulfhere of Mercia had his camp. So far is sure, that the church
of Kinver is dedicated to his murdered sons, Wulfhad and Ruffinus.
The place of their martyrdom was at Stone, in Staffordshire; but it is
possible that their bodies were removed to Kinver.
As already said, the hamlet of Kinver consists mainly of one long street,
composed largely of inns, for a highway passes through it; but also of

habitations on the slope of the basin.
When the crier had reached the end of the street, he proceeded to
ascend a shoulder of hill till he reached a strip of deep red in the
sandstone, the colour of clotted blood. Here, according to tradition, a
woman was murdered by the Danes, who had ascended the Stour and
ravaged Shropshire. From the day of the crime the rock has been dyed
blood-red.
At this point the town crier paused and looked about him. The
impudent and aggravating boys fell back and pursued him no farther. A
sudden awe and dread of consequences came on them, and they
desisted from further annoyance. The reason for this will presently
transpire.
Kinver parish occupies a peculiar position--it adjoins Shropshire and
Worcestershire, and is, in fact, wedged in between the main bulk of
Shropshire and an outlying islet in which is Halesowen. It is as though
the three counties had clashed at this point, and had resolved their
edges into broken fragments, tossed about with little regard to their
position.
Kinver takes its name from the Great Ridge, Cefn vawr, of sandstone
rock, 542 feet high, that rises as a ness above the plain of the Stour. In
that remote period, when the Severn straits divided Wales from
England, and the salt deposits were laid that supply brine at Droitwich
and in the Weaver Valley, then Kinver Edge stood up as a fine bluff
above the ruffling sea. At that time also, a singular insulated sandstone
rock that projects upwards as an immense tooth near the roots of the
headland stood detached in the water, amidst a wreath of foam, and was
haunted by seagulls, and its head whitened with their deposits, whilst
its crannies served as nesting-places.
This isolated rock of red sandstone, on and about which Scotch firs
have rooted themselves by the name of Holy Austin Rock; but whether
at any time it harboured an anchorite of the name of Augustine is a
point on which history and