The Squire of Sandal-Side | Page 7

had his troubles too."
"I never heard of them."
"No. They are dead and buried. A dead trouble may be forgot: it is the
living troubles that make the eyes dim, and the heart fail. Yes, yes; Barf
is as happy as a boy now, but I remember when he was back-set and
fore-set with trouble. In life every thing goes round like a cart-wheel.
Eh? What?"
In a short time they reached the outer wall of the farm. They were eight
hundred feet above the valley; and looking backwards upon the woods
from their airy shelf, the tops of the trees appeared like a solid green
road, on which they might drop down and walk. Stone steps in the
stone wall admitted them into the enclosure, and then they saw the low
gray house spreading itself in the shadow of the noble sycamores--
... "musical with bees; Such tents the patriarchs loved."
As they approached, the old statesman strode to the open door to meet
them. He was a very tall man, with a bright, florid face, and a great deal
of fine, white hair. Two large sheep-dogs, which only wanted a hint to
be uncivil, walked beside him. He had that independent manner which
honorable descent and absolute ownership of house and land give; and
he looked every inch a gentleman, though he wore only the old
dalesman's costume,--breeches of buckskin fastened at the knees with
five silver buttons, home-knit stockings and low shoes, and a red
waistcoat, open that day, in order to show the fine ruffles on his shirt.
He was precisely what Squire Sandal would have been, if the Sandals

had not been forced by circumstances into contact with a more
cultivated and a more ambitious life.
"Welcome, Sandal! I have been watching for thee. There would be little
prosperation in a shearing if thou wert absent. And a good day to thee,
Charlotte. My Ducie was speaking of thee a minute ago. Here she
comes to help thee off with thy things."
Charlotte was untying her bonnet as she entered the deep, cool porch,
and a moment afterward Ducie was at her side. It was easy to see the
women loved each other, though Ducie only smiled, and said, "Come in;
I'm right glad to see you, Charlotte. Come into t' best room, and cool
your face a bit. And how is Mrs. Sandal and Sophia? Be things at their
usual, dear?"
"Thank you, Ducie; all and every thing is well,--I hope. We have not
heard from Harry lately. I think it worrits father a little, but he is never
the one to show it. Oh, how sweet this room is!"
She was standing before the old-fashioned swivel mirror, that had
reflected three generations,--a fair, bright girl, with the light and hope
of youth in her face. The old room, with its oak walls, immense bed,
carved awmries, drawers, and cupboards, made a fine environment for
so much life and color. And yet there were touches in it that resembled
her, and seemed to be the protest of the present with the past,--vivid
green and scarlet masses of geranium and fuchsia in the latticed
window, and a great pot of odorous flowers upon the hearthstone. But
the peculiar sweetness which Charlotte noticed came from the polished
oak floor, which was strewed with bits of rosemary and lavender, to
prevent the slipping of the feet upon it.
Charlotte looked down at them as she ejaculated, "How sweet this room
is!" and the shadow of a frown crossed her face. "I would not do it,
Ducie, for any one," she said. "Poor herbs of grace! What sin have they
committed to be trodden under foot? I would not do it, Ducie: I feel as
if it hurt them."
"Nay, now; flowers grow to be pulled dear, just as lasses grow to be

loved and married."
"Is that what you think, Ducie? Some cherished in the jar; some thrown
under the feet, and bruised to death,--the feet of wrong and sorrow,"--
"Don't you talk that way, Charlotte. It isn't lucky for girls to talk of
wrong and sorrow. Talking of things bespeaks them. There's always
them that hear; them that we don't see. And everybody pulls flowers,
dearie."
"I don't. If I pull a rose, I always believe every other rose on that tree is
sad about it. They may be in families, Ducie, who can tell? And the
little roses may be like the little children, and very dear to the grown
roses."
"Why, what fancies! Let us go into the yard, and see the shearing.
You've made me feel as if I'd never like to pull a posy again. You
shouldn't say such things, indeed you shouldn't: you've given me quite
a turn, I'm sure."
As Ducie