The History of David Grieve | Page 5

in any ordinary clearness of

weather, look for and find the eternal smoke-cloud of Manchester.
So the deserted smithy stood as it were spectator for ever of that
younger, busier England which wanted it no more. Human life
notwithstanding had left on it some very recent traces. On the lintel of
the ruined door two names were scratched deep into the whitish
under-grain of the black weather-beaten grit. The upper one ran: 'David
Suveret Grieve, Sept. 15, 1863;' the lower, 'Louise Stephanie Grieve,
Sept. 15, 1863.' They were written in bold round-hand, and could be
read at a considerable distance. During the nine months they had been
there, many a rustic passer-by had been stopped by them, especially by
the oddity of the name Suveret, which tormented the Derbyshire mouth.
In a corner of the walls stood something more puzzling still--a large
iron pan, filled to the brim with water, and firmly bedded on a
foundation of earth and stones. So still in general was the shining
sheltered round, that the branches of the mountain ash which leant
against the crumbling wall, the tufts of hard fern growing among the
stones, the clouds which sailed overhead, were all delicately mirrored
in it. That pan was David Grieve's dearest possession, and those
reflections, so magical, and so alive, had contrived for him many a
half-hour of almost breathless pleasure. He had carried it off from the
refuse-yard of a foundry in the valley, where he had a friend in one of
the apprentices. The farm donkey and himself had dragged it thither on
a certain never-to-be-forgotten day, when Uncle Reuben had been on
the other side of the mountain at a shepherds' meeting in the
Woodlands, while Aunt Hannah was safely up to her elbows in the
washtub. Boy's back and donkey's back had nearly broken under the
task, but there the pan stood at last, the delight of David's heart. In a
crevice of the wall beside it, hidden jealously from the passer-by, lay
the other half of that perpetual entertainment it provided--a store of tiny
boats fashioned by David, and another friend, the lame minister of the
'Christian Brethren' congregation at Clough End, the small factory town
just below Kinder, who was a sea-captain's son, and with a knife and a
bit of deal could fashion you any craft you pleased. These boats David
only brought out on rare occasions, very seldom admitting Louie to the
show. But when he pleased they became fleets, and sailed for new

continents. Here were the ships of Captain Cook, there the ships of
Columbus. On one side of the pan lay the Spanish main, on the other
the islands of the South Seas. A certain tattered copy of the 'Royal
Magazine,' with pictures, which lay in Uncle Reuben's cupboard at
home, provided all that for David was to be known of these names and
places. But fancy played pilot and led the way; she conjured up storms
and islands and adventures; and as he hung over his pan high on the
Derbyshire moor, the boy, like Sidney of old, 'sailed the seas where
there was never sand'--the vast and viewless oceans of romance.
CHAPTER II
Once safe in the smithy, David recovered his temper. If Louie followed
him, which was probable, he would know better how to deal with her
here, with a wall at his back and a definite area to defend, than he did in
the treacherous openness of the heath. However, just as he was settling
himself down, with a sigh of relief, between the pan and the wall, he
caught sight of something through one of the gaps of the old ruin which
made him fling down his book and run to the doorway. There, putting
his fingers to his mouth, he blew a shrill whistle along the side of the
Scout. A bent figure on a distant path stopped at the sound. It was an
old man, with a plaid hanging from his shoulders. He raised the stick he
held, and shook it in recognition of David's signal. Then resuming his
bowed walk, he came slowly on, followed by an old hound, whose gait
seemed as feeble as his master's.
David leant against the doorway waiting. Louie, meanwhile, was
lounging in the heather just below him, having very soon caught him
up.
'What d'yo want 'im for?' she asked contemptuously, as the new-comer
approached: 'he'd owt to be in th' sylum. Aunt Hannah says he's gone
that silly, he owt to be took up.'
'Well, he woan't be, then,' retorted David. 'Theer's nobory about as ull
lay a finger on 'im. He doan't do her no harm, nor yo noather. Women
foak and gells allus want to be wooryin soomthin.'

'Aunt Hannah says he lost his wits wi fuddlin,' repeated