Bladys of the Stewponey | Page 5

a scandal and a nuisance.
The great canal planned and carried out by Telford runs from the Stour
at Stewponey, and passes under a low bluff that is dug out into houses
still in occupation. This canal follows the river Stour and connects the
Severn, where navigable, with the Grand Trunk Canal, that links the
Mersey with the Trent, and connects the St George's Channel with the
German Ocean. At the Stewponey, it is joined by the Stourbridge canal.
This point is accordingly a centre about which much water traffic
gathers, and did gather to a far larger extent before the railroads carried
away the bulk of the trade from the canals.
Cornelius Rea, landlord of the Stewponey Inn, was in his cellar,
tapping a cask of ale.

He was a stout man, coarse in feature, yet handsome, with one of those
vast paunches which caricaturists represent as not uncommon a century
ago, but which we never encounter at present. We might suppose that
these caricatures were extravagant had we not here and there preserved,
as bequests from the past, mahogany dining-tables, with semi-circles
cut out of them for the accommodation of the stomachs of stout diners.
The face of Cornelius was red and puffed. It looked peculiarly so, as he
stooped at the spigot, by the light of a lamp held by his daughter Bladys.
He was in his shirt sleeves, and wore a white nightcap on his head, a
yellow, long-flapped waistcoat, and black, shabby knee-breeches.
Bladys was tall and slender--an unusual feature in the district, where
women are thickset and short; she had inherited from her Spanish
great-grandmother a pale face and dark hair and eyes. She held the light
with a trembling hand, not above her head, lest she should set fire to the
drapery of cobwebs that hung from the vault. What little daylight
penetrated to the cellar fell from the entrance door, and lay pale on the
steps that led down into it, in gradually reduced brilliancy, and left the
rest of the cellar wholly unillumined.
"It's well up--prime!" said the host. "Fine October brew, this. One cask
will never suffice 'em. I'll e'en tap another. Bush-sh-sh! It spits out like
an angry cat. It smells good."
He heaved up his clumsy person.
"This stooping don't suit me at my time o' life, girl. What! has the ale
spurted into and washed your face?"
"No, father."
"I say it has. Don't contradict me. Your cheeks are wet. I see them
glitter. Why dost say 'No, father,' when I say Yes?"
Then all at once a sob broke from her heart.
The heavy man turned his red face and looked at his child. Instinctively

she lowered the light.
"Hold up the lamp that I may see!"
She obeyed, but let her head sink on her bosom.
With an oath--he seasoned his every sentence with one--he thrust his
hand under her chin, and forced her to raise her face.
"Turn your cheek, wench! What's the sense of this, eh?"
"O father! you put me to shame."
"I--by Ginger! How so?"
"By this bowling match, that is hateful to me--a dishonour; I am
ashamed to be seen--and then to send round the crier!"
"Pshaw! Some wenches don't know when they are well off."
"Father! you disgrace me in all men's eyes,--on all lips."
"I! never a bit. It's an honour to any woman to be bowled for. 'Taint
every wench can boast she's been an object of contest. My grandmother
used to say that in Spain swords were often crossed before a woman
could be wed, and that a lady never deemed herself properly married
till blood had flowed on her account. Now folk will pay their shillings
and half-crowns to see which is the best man. Bless you! There came
round a caravan with a giraffe and a laughing hyena, and a roaring lion.
Hundreds of people paid sixpence to see these beasts all the way from
Africa. Just you think of that. A roaring lion, the king of beasts, only
sixpence, let alone the giraffe and the hyena: and shilling and
half-a-crown to see you. There's honour and glory, if you like it. I didn't
think I'd have lived to see the day and feel such a father's pride, but I
do--and I bless you for it. I bet you a spade guinea we shall take the
money up in shovels."
"I do not wish it, father."

"I don't care a hanged highwayman whether you wish or not. It is as I
choose. Who is the proper person to care and provide for his child but
the father? I'm not going to be put off for any foolish girl's whimsies.
All the take--every stiver--shall go to you as your portion. I have none
other to make."
"I do