The Monctons Part 15

"Oh! yes. If such a gentleman as you will condescend to enter my humble kitchen," was the reply.

I did condescend--heaven only knows how gladly; and soon found myself comfortably seated before an excellent fire, in company with a stout, red-faced, jolly old farmer, and a thin, weazel-faced, undersized individual, dressed in a threadbare suit of pepper and salt, who kept his hat on, and wore it on one side with a knowing swagger, talked big, and gave himself a thousand consequential airs.

This person I discovered to be the barber, and great politician of the village; who talked continually of King George and the royal family; of the king's ministers; the war in Rooshia, the burning of Moscow, and the destruction of that monster Bonyparty.

The farmer, who was no scholar, and looked upon him of the strop and razor as a perfect oracle, was treating him to a pot of ale, for the sake of the news; the barber paying twopence a week for the sight of a second-hand newspaper.

Mrs. Archer went softly up to the maker of perukes, and whispered something in his ear. He answered with a knowing nod, and without moving, stared me full in the face.

"Not an inch will I budge, Mrs. Archer. One man's money is as good as another man's money. No offence to the gemman, 'A man's a man for a'

that.' That's what I call real independence, neighbour Bullock."

And his long, lean fingers descended upon the fat knee of the farmer with a whack that rang through the kitchen.

"Deuce take you! Sheldrake. I wish you'd just show it in some other way," said the farmer, rubbing his knee. "Why, man, your fingers are as long and as lean as a crow's claws, and as hard as your own block, and sting like whip-cord. One would think that you had dabbled long enough in oil and pomatum, and such like messes, to make them as white as a lady's hand, and as soft as your own head."

"They have been made tough by handling such hard numskulls as yours, neighbour Bullock. That chin of yours, with its three days' growth of bristles, would be a fortune to a bricklayer, whilst it spoils my best razors, and never puts a penny into the pocket of the poor operator."

"_Operator!_" repeated the farmer, with a broad, quizzical grin, "is that your new-fangled name for a shaver? It's a pity you didn't put it on the board with the farrago of nonsense, by which you hope to attract the attention of all the fool bodies in the town."

"Don't speak disrespectfully of my sign, sir," quoth the little barber, waxing wroth. "My sign is an excellent sign--the admiration of the whole village; and let me tell you that it is not in _spite_ and _envy_ to put it down, let spite and envy try as hard as they can. The genius which suggested that sign is not destined to go unrewarded."

"Ha! ha! ha,!" roared the chewer of bacon.

"Mrs. Archer," said the offended shaver, turning to the pretty widow with an air of wounded dignity truly comic, "did you ever before hear a Bullock laugh like a hog?"

"Dang it! man, such conceit would make a cow caper a horn-pipe, or a Sh.e.l.led Drake crow like a c.o.c.k."

"I beg you, _Mister_ Bullock, to take no liberties with my name, especially in the presence of the fair s.e.x," bowing gracefully to Mrs.

Archer, who was leaning upon the back of my chair, half suffocated with suppressed laughter.

"What are you quarrelling about, Sheldrake?" said the good-natured widow. "Bullock, can't you let his sign alone? It is something new, I hear--something in praise of the ladies."

"I was always devoted to the ladies," said the barber, "having expended the best years of my life in their service."

"Well, well, if so be that you call that powetry over your door a compliment to the women-folk, I'll be shot!" said the farmer. "Now, sir," turning to me, "you are a stranger, and therefore unprejudiced; you shall be judge. Come, barber, repeat your verses, and hear what the gemman says of them."

"With all my heart;" and flinging his shoulders back and stretching forth his right arm, the barber repeated, in a loud theatrical tone--

"I, William, Sheldrake, shave for a penny, Ladies and gentlemen--there can't come too many-- With heads and beards--I meant to say Those who've got none may keep away."

A hearty burst of laughter from us all greatly disconcerted the barber, who looked as ruefully at us as a stuck pig.

"You hairy monster!" quoth Mrs. Archer, "what do you mean by shaving the ladies? You deserve to be ducked to death in a tub of dirty suds.

Beards, forsooth!" and she patted, with evident complacency, her round, white, dimpled chin; "who ever saw a woman with a beard? Did you take us all for Lapland witches? I wonder what our pretty young lady up at Elm Grove would say to your absurd verses."

"That is no secret to me, Mrs. Archer. I do know what she thinks of it. Miss Lee is a young lady of taste, and knows how to appreciate fine poetry, which is more than some folks, not a hundred miles off, does. She rode past my shop yesterday on horseback, and I saw her point to my sign with her riding-whip, and heard her say to the London chap that is allers with her, 'Is not that _capital_?'

"And he says, '_Capital!_ If that does not draw custom to the shop, nothing will.' So now, neighbour Bullock, you may just leave off sneering at my sign."

"I did not think Miss Lee had been such a fool," said Bullock, "but there's no accounting for taste."

"Who is the gentleman that is staying at the Elms just now?" asked Mrs. Archer. "Do you know his name?"

"I've heard," said Suds, "but really I quite forget. It either begins with an M or an N."

"That's a wide landmark to sail by, Sheldrake. You might as well have added a P or a Q."

"Stop," said the barber, "I can give you a clue to it. Do you remember, Bullock, the name of the fine sporting gemman who ran off with Parson Rivers's daughter? I was a boy then, serving my time with Sam Strap."

I started from the contemplation of the fine well-grilled beef-steak which Mrs. Archer was dishing for my especial benefit.

"Well," said Sheldrake, "he is either a son or a nefy of his, and has the same name."

"The deuce he is! That was Moncton, if I mistake not. Yes, yes, Moncton was the name. I well remember it, for it was the means of our losing our good old pastor."

"How was that?" said I, trying to look indifferent.

"Why, sir, do you see. Mr. Rivers had been many years in the parish.

He married my father and mother, and baptized me, when a babby. He did more than that. He married me to my old woman, when I was a man--but that was the worse job he ever done. Well, sir, as I was telling you.

He was a good man and a Christian; but he had one little weakness. We have all our faults, sir. He loved his pretty daughter too well: wise men will sometimes play the fool, and 'tis a bad thing to make too much of woman-kind. Like servants they grow saucy upon it. They always gets the advantage, any how; and our old parson did pet and spoil Miss Ellen to her heart's content. There was some excuse too for him, for he was an old man and a widower. He had lost his wife and a large family. Parsons always have large families. My wife do say, that 'tis because they have nothing else to do. But I'se very sure, that I should find preaching and sermon-work hard enough."

"Lord! man, what a roundabout way you have of telling a story," cried Suds, who was impatient to hear his own voice again. "Get on a little quicker. Don't you see, the gemman's steak is a-getting cold--and he can't eat and listen to you at the same time, an art I learnt long ago."

"Mind your own business, Sheldrake," said the farmer: "I never trouble my head with the nonsense which is always frothing out of your mouth."

"Well, sir," turning again to me, "as I was saying; his wife and family had all died in the consumption, which made him so afraid of losing Miss Ellen, that he denied her nothing; and truly, she was as pretty a piece of G.o.d's workmanship as ever you saw--and very sweet-tempered and gentle, which beauties seldom are. I had the misfortune to marry a pretty woman, and I knows it to my cost. But I need not trouble you with my missus. It's bad enough to be troubled with her myself. So, sir, as I was telling you, there came a mighty fine gentleman down from London, to stay at the Elm Grove, with my old landlord Squire Lee, who's dead and gone. This Squire Lee was the son of old-Squire Lee."

"I dare say, Bullock, the gemman does not care a farthing whose son he was," cried the impatient barber. "You are so fond of genealogies, that it's a pity you don't begin with the last squire, and end with, 'which was the son of Seth, which was the son of Adam,' &c."

These interruptions were very annoying, as I was on the tenter-hooks to get out of the mountain of flesh, the head and tail of the story he found such difficulty in bringing forth.

"Pray go on with your story, friend," said I, very demurely, for fear of hurrying him into becoming more discursive, "I feel quite interested."

"Well, sir, this young man came to stay at the Grove, during the shooting-season; and he sees Miss Ellen at church, and falls desperately in love with her. This was all very natural. I was a youngster myself once, and a smart active chap, although I be clumsy enough now, and I remember feeling rather queerish, whenever I cast a sheep's eye into the parson's pew."

"But the young lady and her lover?" for I perceived that he was trotting off at full gallop in another direction, "how did they come on?"

"Oh, ay! As young folk generally do in such cases. From exchanging looks, they came to exchanging letters and then words. Stolen meetings and presents of hearts cut out of turnips, with a skewer put through them, to show the desperation of the case. That was the way at least that I went a courting my Martha, and it took amazingly."

"Hang you, and your Martha!" thought I, as I turned helplessly to the beef-steak, but I felt too much excited to do it the least justice.

After deliberately knocking the ashes from his pipe, and taking a long draught of ale from the pewter-pot beside him, the old farmer went on of his own accord.

"I s'pose the young man told Miss Ellen that he could not live without her. We all tell 'em so, but we never dies a bit the sooner, for all that; and the pretty Miss told him to speak to her father, and he did speak, and to his surprise, old parson did not like it at all, and did not give him a very civil answer; and turned the young chap out of the house. He said that he did not approve of sporting characters for sons-in-law, and Miss Ellen should never get his consent to marry him.

But as I told you before, sir, the women-folk will have their own way, especially when there is a sweet-heart or a new bonnet in the case; and the young lady gave him her own consent, and they took French leave and went off without saying a word to n.o.body. Next morning old parson was running about the village, asking everybody if they had seen his child, the tears running over his thin face, and he raving like a man out of his head."

"And were the young people ever married?" and in spite of myself I felt the colour flush my face to crimson.