The History of David Grieve | Page 6

a loud 'Good mornin' to the old man, who was toiling up the knoll on which the smithy stood.
'Lias responded feebly, panting hard the while. He sank down on a stone outside the smithy, and for a while had neither breath nor voice. Then he began to look about him; his heaving chest subsided, and there was a rekindling of the strange blue eyes. He wore a high white stock and neckcloth; his plaid hung round his emaciated shoulders with a certain antique dignity; his rusty wideawake covered hair still abundant and even curly, but snow-white; the face, with its white eyebrows, was long, thin, and full of an ascetic delicacy.
'Wal, Davy, my lad,' the old man said at last, with a sort of pompous mildness; 'I winna blame yo for 't, but yo interrupted me sadly wi yur whistlin. I ha been occupied this day wi business o' graat importance. His Majesty King Charles has been wi me since seven o'clock this mornin. And for th' fust time I ha been gettin reet to th' bottom o' things wi him. I ha been probin him, Davy--probin him. He couldno riddle through wi lees; I kept him to 't, as yo mun keep a horse to a jump--straight an tight. I had it aw out about Strafford, an t'Five Members, an thoose dirty dealins wi th' Irish devils! Yo should ha yerd it, Davy--yo should, I'll uphowd yo!'
And placing his stick between his knees, the old man leant his hands upon it, with a meditative and judicial air. The boy stood looking down at him, a broad smile lighting up the dark and vivid face. Old 'Lias supplied him with a perpetual 'spectacle' which never palled.
'Coe him back, 'Lias, he's soomwheer about. Yo need nobbut coe him, an he'll coom.'
'Lias looked fatuously pleased. He lifted his head and affected to scan the path along which he had just travelled.
'Aye, I daur say he's not far.--Yor Majesty!'
And 'Lias laid his head on one side and listened. In a few seconds a cunning smile stole over his lips.
'Wal, Davy, yo're in luck. He's noan so onwillin, we'st ha him here in a twinklin. Yo may coe him mony things, but yo conno coe him proud. Noa, as I've fund him, Charles Stuart has no soart o' pride about him. Aye, theer yo are! Sir, your Majesty's obleeged an humble servant!'
And, raising his hand to his hat, the old man took it off and swept it round with a courtly deliberation. Then replacing it, he sat with his face raised, as though to one standing near, his whole attitude full of a careful and pompous dignity.
'Now then, yor Majesty,' said 'Lias grimly,' I'st ha to put that question to yo, yance moor, yo wor noan so well pleased wi this mornin. But yo shouldno be soa tender, mon! Th' truth can do yo noa harm, wheer yo are, an I'm nobbut askin for informashun's sake. Soa out wi it; I'st not use it agen yo. That--wee--bit--o'--damned--paper,--man, what sent poor Strafford to his eend--yo mind it?--aye, 'at yo do! Well, now'--and the old man's tone grew gently seductive--'explain yursel. We'n had their tale,' and he pointed away to some imaginary accusers. 'But yo mun trust an Englishman's sense o' fair play. Say your say. We 'st gie yo a varra patient hearin.'
And with chin thrown up, and his half-blurred eyes blinking under their white lashes, 'Lias waited with a bland imperativeness for the answer.
'Eh?' said 'Lias at last, frowning and hollowing his hand to his ear.
He listened another few seconds, then he dropped his hand sharply.
'What's 'at yo're sayin?' he asked hastily; ''at yo couldno help it, not whativer--that i' truth yo had nothin to do wi't, no moor than mysel--that yo wor forcit to it--willy-nilly--by them devils o' Parliament foak--by Mr. Pym and his loike, wi whom, if God-amighty ha' not reckoned since, theer's no moor justice i' His Kingdom than yo found i' yours?'
The words came out with a rush, tumbling over one another till they suddenly broke off in a loud key of indignant scorn. Then 'Lias fell silent a moment, and slowly shook his head over the inveterate shuffling of the House of Stuart.
''Twinna do, man--'twinna do,' he said at last, with an air of fine reproof. 'He wor your friend, wor that poor sinner Strafford--your awn familiar friend, as t' Psalm says. I'm not takin up a brief for him, t' Lord knows! He wor but meetin his deserts, to my thinkin, when his yed went loupin. But yo put a black mark agen yore name when yo signed that bit paper for your awn skin's sake. Naw, naw, man, yo should ha lost your awn yed a bit sooner fust. Eh, it wor base--it wor cooardly!'
'Lias's voice dropped,