III
Of My First Meeting with Rose Lisle
Upon a certain fine afternoon in the early spring of , dinner being well over, and my father smoking his pipe in the chimney-corner, while my mother was busied elsewhere on some matter of domestic importance, I went out into the fold, and there came across Jacob Trusty, our cowherd, who was just then feeding twelve fat beasts intended for an approaching cattle-fair at Wakefield. And having nought to do I approached Jacob with a view of hearing him talk. Many an hour, indeed, had I spent with Jacob Trusty in and about the farmstead, listening to his stories of bygone days, of which he carried a various collection in his mind, side by side with much legendary lore concerning ghosts, fairies, and hobgoblins. My mother, to be sure, said that Jacob was never so content as when talking to me, which perhaps was a natural thing, seeing that he had nursed me on his knee almost as soon as I was born, and had always manifested a great interest in my doings. Nevertheless, to most other people Jacob Trusty was as cross-grained and surly as man well can be, and was hardly ever known to give a civil answer to any that made inquiry of him. He was even accustomed to give advice to my father, and to comment upon what things were done on the farm; and this, my father said, must be excused in Jacob, because he had been, man and boy, at Dale’s Field for a matter of fifty-three years, and had fed the cattle in our fold under three Dales. A tall, powerfully fashioned man was Jacob Trusty, with a great stoop in his broad shoulders, and a somewhat large nose which stood out of his face between the roundest and reddest cheeks that ever man had. As for his attire, it was always the same: a long smock that reached below his knee, and a round cap which was secured to his head by a woollen scarf that came over his ears, and was tied beneath his chin. From underneath his smock peeped Jacob’s gray stockings, terminating in large boots of undressed leather, the soles of which were of such prodigious thickness as to make me wonder. When Jacob’s duties took him to market at Pontefract or Wakefield, he added no more to his accustomed garb than a scarlet neckcloth which he had once bought of a mercer in York. With this round his neck, and his thick ash cudgel in his hand, Jacob considered himself fit for the best company in the land.
Upon this particular afternoon, Jacob Trusty, when I drew near, was engaged in throwing a cartload of turnips into the shed wherein his twelve fat cattle were then chained. Seeing me approach, he left off his work, and leaned both hands on the head of his four-pronged fork, looking waggishly at me across the turnip-heap.
“Well, Master William,” said Jacob Trusty.
“Well, Jacob,” said I.
“Hast had a good dinner, William?” inquired Jacob.
“Very good, Jacob,” I answered.
“That’s well, William. For if there be one thing to thank the Lord heartily for, ’tis a good appetite. Beef, lad, and beer; sound, home-brewed beer, is what a Dale wants, for the Dales are always big, great-boned men, and need support. Thy grandfather now—ah, what a man was that!”
“What! bigger than father, Jacob?”
“Od, man, ay, by two inches all ways. Natheless, thy father will do—only thou wilt be a bigger man than he is by an inch. At least, if thou dost thy duty with cup and trencher. Ah, as for good ale, well, there was never ale like ours at Dale’s Field. I have been through the Riding, and should know.”
Jacob wiped his mouth with his hand, and stuck one prong of his fork into a turnip that betrayed an intention to roll down the hill. On beholding Jacob’s hand pass across his mouth, I knew what he wanted.
“Shall I fetch you a pot of ale, Jacob?” said I.
“Why,” said Jacob meditatively, “a quart had I at dinnertime, and yet I do feel drouthy.”
Whereupon I went to the pantry, where my mother was counting out a sitting of eggs for the speckled hen to hatch, and begged a pot of ale for Jacob Trusty, the which I got with very little trouble, Jacob being an old and valued servant, and deserving of little comforts now that he was getting into years. “Ah!” said Jacob, leaning against the tail of his cart, and removing the pewter from his mouth. “That does me a power o’ good, William. What a pity ’tis that the Lord in His mercy didn’t make all the rivers run good ale! What beautiful drinking there would ha’ been then!”
“But you couldn’t make ale without water, Jacob; and then, if the rivers ran ale, what would the cattle do?”
“Ah, what, indeed!” answered Jacob. “Poor ignorant creatures! Mind thee, William lad, as thou goest through the world thou wilt see this difference ’twixt Christians and heathen men, namely, that the Christian man drinketh his ale like a man should, while your heathen cannot away with it! What did not Will Stripe, that went to the wars from Badsworth village, and did travel almost to the world’s end, come back and tell us in the alehouse there, that he had been in lands where there was no ale to be had? Wherefore be thankful, lad, that thou art a Yorkshireman. As for me, I have lived on good ale, and true-fed beef, and wheaten bread, and am now sixty-and-eight years old, come Martinmas, and a strong man.”
Whereupon he tossed off his pot,
