The History of David Grieve | Page 7

'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, and he fell muttering to himself indistinctly.
David, bending over him, could not make out whether it was Charles or
his interlocutor speaking, and began to be afraid that the old man's
performance was over before it had well begun. But on the contrary,
'Lias emerged with fresh energy from the gulf of inarticulate argument
in which his poor wits seemed to have lost themselves awhile.
'But I'm no blamin yo awthegither,' he cried, raising himself, with a
protesting wave of the hand. 'Theer's naw mak o' mischief i' this world,
but t' women are at t' bottom o't. Whar's that proud foo of a wife o'
yourn? Send her here, man; send her here! 'Lias Dawson ull mak her
hear reason! Now, Davy!'
And the old man drew the lad to him with one hand, while he raised a
finger softly with the other.
'Just study her, Davy, my lad,' he said in an undertone, which swelled
louder as his excitement grew, 'theer she stan's, by t' side o' t' King.
She's a gay good-lookin female, that I'll confess to, but study her; look
at her curls, Davy, an her paint, an her nakedness. For shame, madam!

Goo hide that neck o' yourn, goo hide it, I say! An her faldaddles, an
her jewles, an her ribbons. Is that a woman--a French hizzy like that--to
get a King out o' trooble, wha's awready lost aw t' wits he wor born wi?'
And with sparkling eyes and outstretched arm 'Lias pointed sternly into
vacancy. Thrilled with involuntary awe the boy and girl looked round
them. For, in spite of herself, Louie had come closer, little by little, and
was now sitting cross-legged in front of 'Lias. Then Louie's shrill voice
broke in--
'Tell us what she's got on!' And the girl leant eagerly forward, her
magnificent eyes kindling into interest.
'What she's got on, my lassie? Eh, but I'm feart your yead, too, is fu' o'
gauds!--Wal, it's but nateral to females. She's aw in white satin, my
lassie,--an in her brown hair theer's pearls, an a blue ribbon just howdin
down t' little luve-locks on her forehead--an on her saft neck theer's
pearls again--not soa white, by a thoosand mile, as her white skin--an t'
lace fa's ower her proud shoothers, an down her luvely arms--an she
looks at me wi her angry eyes--Eh, but she's a queen!' cried 'Lias, in a
sudden outburst of admiration. 'She hath been a persecutor o' th'
saints--a varra Jeezebel--the Lord hath put her to shame--but she's moor
sperrit--moor o't' blood o' kingship i' her little finger, nor Charles theer
in aw his body!'
And by a strange and crazy reversal of feeling, the old man sat in a kind
of ecstasy, enamoured of his own creation, looking into thin air. As for
Louie, during the description of the Queen's dress she had drunk in
every word with a greedy attention, her changing eyes fixed on the
speaker's face. When he stopped, however, she drew a long breath.
'It's aw lees!' she said scornfully.
'Howd your tongue, Louie!' cried David, angrily.
But 'Lias took no notice. He was talking again very fast, but
incoherently. Hampden, Pym, Fairfax, Falkland--the great names
clattered past every now and then, like horsemen, through a maze of

words, but with no perceptible order or purpose. The phrases
concerning them came to nothing; and though there were apparently
many voices speaking, nothing intelligible could be made out.
When next the mists cleared a little from the old visionary's brain,
David gathered that Cromwell was close by, defending himself with
difficulty, apparently, like Charles, against 'Lias's assaults. In his youth
and middle age--until, in fact, an event of some pathos and mystery had
broken his life across, and cut him off from his profession--'Lias had
been a zealous teacher and a voracious reader; and through the dreams
of fifteen years the didactic faculty had persisted and grown amazingly.
He played schoolmaster now to all the heroes of history. Whether it
were Elizabeth wrangling with Mary Stuart, or Cromwell marshalling
his Ironsides, or Buckingham falling under the assassin's dagger at
'Lias's feet, or Napoleon walking restlessly up and down the deck of the
'Bellerophon,' 'Lias rated them every one. He was lord of a shadow
world, wherein he walked