Between the pulses of the sun
(The light and dark still fitful coming)
You heard the birds deep in the leaves,
And in the flowers the brown bees humming;
But louder than the bees or birds
The voices of the boys were sounding,
As, like a living thing, the ball
O’er beds of flowers went gaily bounding.
“To-morrow,” thought the Huguenot,
“I gain my suit and win that title.”
“To-morrow,” thought the lady fair—
“And yet those dreams,—I spent the night ill.”
“To-morrow,” laughed the little page,
“I wear my new gilt Milan dagger.”
“To-morrow,” growled the butler old,
“I’ll tap some wine ’ll make ’em stagger.”
The dial’s shadow glided on,
Severing the golden hours for ever;
The leaves each moment fell away,
When breezes made the poplars shiver.
One little handful of dark cloud
Over the glistening vanes was lowering.
But no one heeded it, as they
Paced where the yellow leaves were showering.
The morrow came: in smoky fire,
The sun arose—a blood-globe burning;
The shrieks of women pierced the air;
The hiding mothers’ hearts were yearning;
And through the streets, all red with gore,
Where Guise’s men were dancing, quaffing,
In funeral state, with crown and sword,
The skeleton, King Death, rode laughing.
Walter Thornbury.
VERNER’S PRIDE.
BY THE AUTHORESS OF “EAST LYNNE.”
CHAPTER XV. PECKABY’S SHOP.
On passing through Deerham from Verner’s Pride, a little below the shop of Mrs. Duff, you come upon an opening on the left hand, which led to quite a swarm of cottages. Many of the labourers congregated here. If you took this turning, which was called Clay Lane, and continued your way past the cottages in a straight line over the fields, you would arrive at the residence of the gamekeeper, Broom, leaving some brick-fields to the right, and the Willow-pool, which had been the end of poor Rachel Frost, on the left. But, unless you climbed hedges, you could not get to the pool from this quarter without going a round near the gamekeeper’s. The path which led to Verner’s Pride past the pool, and which Rachel had taken that unfortunate night, had its commencement higher up in the village, above Mrs. Duff’s. A few cottages were scattered again beyond the gamekeeper’s, and one or two on this side it: but we have nothing to do with them at present.
A great part of the ill-feeling rife on the estate was connected with these brick-fields. It had been a great mistake on Mr. Verner’s part ever to put Roy into power: had Mr. Verner been in the habit of going out of doors himself, he would have seen this, and not kept the man on a week. The former bailiff had died suddenly; he, the bailiff, had given some little power to Roy during his lifetime; had taken him on as a sort of inferior helper; and Mr. Verner, put to shifts by the bailiff’s death, had allowed Roy so to continue. Bit by bit, step by step, gradually, covertly, the man made good his footing: no other was put over his head, and in time he came to be called Roy the bailiff, without having ever been formally appointed as bailiff. He drew his two pounds per week—his accorded wages—and he made, it is hard to say what, besides. Avarice and tyranny were the predominant passion of Roy’s mind; bad qualities, and likely to bring forth bad fruits, when joined to petty power.
About three years previous to Mr. Verner’s death, a stranger had appeared in Clay Lane, and set up a shop there. Nearly every conceivable thing in the shape of eatables was sold in it; that is, such eatables as are in request amidst the poor. Bread, flour, meat, potatoes, butter, tea, sugar, red herrings, and the like. Soap and candles were also sold; and afterwards the man added green vegetables and coals, the latter doled out by the measure, so much a “kipe.” The man’s name was Peckaby: he and his wife were without family, and they managed the shop between them. A tall, strong, brawny man was he; his wife was a remarkably tall woman, fond of gossip and of smart caps. She would go gadding out for hours at a stretch, leaving him to get through all the work at home, the preparing meals, the serving customers.
Folks fly to new things; to do so is a propensity inherent in the human, female nature; and Mr. Peckaby’s shop flourished. Not that he was much honoured with the complimentary “Mr.;” his customers brought it out short—“Peckaby’s shop.” Much intimacy had appeared to exist, from the first, between him and Roy, so that it was surmised they had been previously acquainted. The prices were low, the shop was close at hand, and Clay Lane flocked to it.
New things, however, like new faces, are apt to turn out no better than the old: sometimes not as good. And thus it proved with Peckaby’s shop. From rather underselling the shops of the village, Peckaby’s shop grew to increase its charges until they were higher than those of anybody else: the wares also deteriorated in value. Clay Lane awoke to this by degrees, and would have taken its custom away. But that was more easily contemplated than done: a good many of them had been allowed to get on Peckaby’s books, and they also found that Roy set his face against their leaving the shop. For Roy to set his face against a measure, was a formidable affair, not readily contended with: the labourers did not dare to fly in his face, lest he should make an excuse to take their work from them. He had already discharged several. So Clay Lane, for the most part, found itself tied to Peckaby’s shop, and to paying some thirty per cent. beyond what they would have paid at the