Bladys of the Stewponey | Page 7

pale and stately beauty of foreign cast had brought many
admirers about her. Amongst others she had been subjected to the
addresses of a certain Captain George Stracey, who occupied a small
house in the parish, was in good society, and seemed possessed of
means. But both she and her father were well aware that his addresses
were not honourable. She had repelled him with icy frigidity, that was
but an intensification of her ordinary demeanour to the guests.
Another who had been forward in his endeavours to win her regard was
a man then lodging at the inn, who had been there a fortnight, and gave
Luke Francis as his name. His home, he intimated, was at Shrewsbury,
his profession something connected with the law. He was a fine man,
with broad shoulders, a firm mouth, and high cheek-bones.
There was a third admirer, Crispin Ravenhill, a bargeman, owning his
own boat on the canal. But although his admiration might be gathered
from his deep earnest eyes, he never addressed a word to the girl to
intimate it. He was a reserved man of nearly thirty, who associated with
few of his fellows. It was held that the influence of his uncle, Holy
Austin, who had reared him from boyhood, still surrounded him and
restrained him from those vices which were lightly esteemed in that age
and by the class of men to which he pertained.

There was yet another, Lewis Falcon, a young man of private means
sufficient to free him from the obligation of working for his livelihood,
and who spent his substance in drink, gambling, and dog-fighting.
Bladys looked at the cobwebs. Never had she seen a fly in the cellar,
yet here they hung, dense, long, ghostly. And she--was not she
enveloped in cobwebs? Whither could she escape? In what direction
look? Where see light? She remained with her head between her hands
till hope, expectation of release, died in her heart; her tears dried up;
her agitation ceased. She had become as stone in her despair.

Chapter 3.
CRISPIN
"Bla! run, take a jug of ale to Ravenhill," called the host down the
cellar stairs. "He's come for his luncheon."
Bladys hastily wiped her eyes and mounted the steps, fetched what was
required, and went into the guest-room, where Crispin, the bargeman,
was pacing.
"I will not have it here. Outside," said he, "under the elm." And then
went forth.
The girl followed.
Crispin Ravenhill was a tall man, with fair hair, yet were his eyes dark;
they were large, velvety; and a gentle, iridescent light played, passing
in waves through them. Unlike the men of his time, he was completely
unshaven, and wore a long light beard and moustache.
He seated himself on a bench beneath one of those "Worcester weeds,"
as the small-leaf elm is termed; and as Bladys placed his bread and
cheese on a table there, he looked attentively at her.

"You have been weeping," said he.
"I have cause, when about to be thrust from my home," she answered,
in a muffled voice. She resented his remark, yet was unable to restrain
an expression of the bitterness that worked within.
"And with whom will you leave home?" he asked.
"That the bowls decide, not I."
Then she turned to leave; but he caught her wrist. "You shall not go.
Much depends on what now passes between us," said he.
"What passes between us is bread and cheese from me to thee, and
seven-pence in return."
"If that be all, go your way," said he. "Yet no; you have tears in your
heart as well as in your eyes. Sit down and let us speak familiarly
together."
"I cannot sit down," answered she--for indeed it would have been
indecorous for her to seat herself along with a customer. She might
converse with him standing for half-an-hour with impunity, but to sit
for one minute would compromise her character. Such was tavern
etiquette.
"I pity you, my poor child, from the deep of my heart; in very deed I
am full of pity."
There was a vibration in his rich, deep voice, a flutter of kindly light in
his brown eyes that sent a thrill through the heart of Bladys. In a
moment her eyes brimmed, and he was conscious of a quiver in the
muscles of the wrist he grasped.
"They make sport of you. 'Give not that which is holy unto dogs,
neither cast ye your pearls before swine,' was not spoken of lifeless
objects, but of living jewels, of consecrated beings. They make sport of
you to your shame, and to that of the entire place. But the place can

take of itself--not so thou, poor child."
She did not speak.
"God help you," he continued. "A frail, white lily