The Squire of Sandal-Side | Page 4

to give him comparable, in his eyes, with the simple,
dignified pleasures incident to his position as Squire of Sandal-Side.
For dearly he loved the old hall, with its sheltering sycamores and
oaks,--oaks which had been young trees when the knights lying in
Furness Abbey led the Grasmere bowmen at Crécy and Agincourt.

Dearly he loved the large, low rooms, full of comfortable elegance; and
the sweet, old-fashioned, Dutch garden, so green through all the snows
of winter, so cheerfully grave and fragrant in the summer twilights, so
shady and cool even in the hottest noons.
Thirty years ago he was coming through it one July evening. It had
been a very hot day; and the flowers were drooping, and the birds
weary and silent. But Squire Sandal, though flushed and rumpled
looking, had still the air of drippy mornings and hazy afternoons about
him. There was a creel at his back, and a fishing-rod in his hand, and he
had just come from the high, unplanted places, and the broomy, breezy
moorlands; and his broad, rosy face expressed nothing but happiness.
At his side walked his favorite daughter Charlotte,--his dear companion,
the confidant and sharer of all his sylvan pleasures. She was tired and
dusty; and her short printed gown showed traces of green, spongy grass,
and lichen-covered rocks. But her face was a joy to see: she had such
bright eyes, such a kind, handsome mouth, such a cheerful voice, such
a merry laugh. As they came in sight of the wide-open front-doors, she
looked ruefully down at her feet and her grass-and-water-stained skirt,
and then into her father's face.
"I don't know what Sophia will say if she sees me, father; I don't,
indeed."
"Never you mind her, dear. Sophia's rather high, you know. And we've
had a rare good time. Eh? What?"
"I should think we have! There are not many pleasures in life better
than persuading a fine trout to go a little way down stream with you.
Are there, father?"
"You are right, Charlotte. Trout are the kind of company you want on
an outing. And then, you know, if you can only persuade one to go
down stream a bit with you, there's not much difficulty in persuading
him to let you have the pleasure of seeing him to dinner. Eh? What?"
"I think I will go round by the side-door, father. I might meet some one

in the hall."
"Nay, don't do that. There isn't any need to shab off. You've done
nothing wrong, and I'm ready to stand by you, my dear; and you know
what a good time we've been having all day. Eh? What?"
"Of course I know, father,--
"Showers and clouds and winds, All things well and proper; Trailer, red
and white, Dark and wily dropper. Midges true to fling Made of plover
hackle, With a gaudy wing, And a cobweb tackle."
"Cobweb tackle, eh, Charlotte? Yes, certainly; for a hand that can
manage it. Lancie Crossthwaite will land you a trout, three pounds
weight, with a line that wouldn't lift a dead weight of one pound from
the floor to the table. I'll uphold he will. Eh? What?"
"I'll do it myself, some day; see if I don't, father."
"I've no doubt of it, Charlotte; not a bit." Then being in the
entrance-hall, they parted with a smile of confidence, and Charlotte
hastened up-stairs to prepare herself for the evening meal. She gave one
quick glance at her grandmother's picture as she passed it, a glance of
mingled deprecation and annoyance; for there were times when the
complacent serenity of the perfect face, and the perfect propriety of the
white satin gown, gave her a little spasm of indignation.
She dressed rapidly, with a certain deft grace that was part of her
character. And it was a delightful surprise to watch the metamorphosis;
the more so, as it went on with a perfect unconsciousness of its
wonderful beauty. Here a change, and there a change, until the bright
brown hair was loosened from its net of knotted silk, to fall in wavy,
curly masses; and the printed gown was exchanged for one of the finest
muslin, pink and flowing, and pinned together with bows of pale blue
satin. A daring combination, which precisely suited her blonde, brilliant
beauty. Her eyes were shining; her cheeks touched by the sun till they
had the charming tints of a peach on a southern wall. She looked at
herself with a little nod of satisfaction, and then tapped at the door of

the room adjoining her own. It was Miss Sandal's room; and Miss
Sandal, though only sixteen months older than Charlotte, exacted all
the deference due to her by the right of primogeniture.
"Come in, Charlotte."
"How did you know it was I?"