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Chapter II A Family Legend

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THE Dalesford folk had a reputation for credulity, and certainly deserved it in this instance. Pleased with the fiddling, and looks, and pleasant manner of Warwick, they were disposed to believe implicitly in any tale he chose to tell them. He, knowing the value of silence, held his peace, and let Mistress Sally say what she would; and, as the foolish woman was firmly convinced in her own mind of his gentility, she soon promulgated this belief amongst the rustics. By dawn a fine crop of stories had sprung up round the personality of the tramp, and the gossips told one another that he assuredly must be an eccentric young nobleman in disguise. For the nonce the Golden Age was come again, and the Olympians walked familiarly amongst mortals.

Mistress Sally, whose naturally shrewd wits had been sharpened by contact with town-bred servants, did not go so far as to dub her guest a lord; nevertheless she saw in him a man of birth. That he fiddled round the countryside was no bar to this belief, as she well knew that gentlefolk were eccentric, and, not unnaturally, wearying of their grandeur, condescended at times to mix with the common herd. Hence, hopeful that Warwick would confess his freak before he left the “Lelanro Arms,” she gave him a bedroom far beyond his purse, and the next morning set before him as excellent a meal as could be cooked. Warwick, who had descended in the expectation of a repetition of the bread and ale supper, expostulated vainly against this hospitality being thrust upon him.

“I can’t pay for these dainties, ma’am,” said he, when the landlady pressed him to take a seat at the well-spread table. “I have only fifteen shillings and a fiddle in the world.”

“No doubt, sir,” replied Mistress Sally, nodding meaningly, “but if you wanted a score of pounds at a pinch, I dare say your friends in London—”

“I have no friends in London—I have no friends in the world. Why will you persist in ascribing to me a greatness which I do not possess? If I eat your goodies and don’t pay for them, you’ll have me put in the stocks for a vagabond.”

“Lord forbid, Mr. Warwick!” said the startled Sally. “Sit down and eat, sir. If you can’t pay, it won’t ruin me; and, after all, you’re too young a lad to go tramping on an empty stomach. Eat well, sir, and pay your bill with a tune on your fiddle. I’ve had worse payments in my time,” finished she, thinking of the poet’s rhymes, which were certainly less congenial to her than the heart-stirring strains of the violin.

“Well, ma’am,” said Warwick, taking his seat, “I accept your offer. But never did I expect to meet with such kindness in the world. I might starve in London before any one would give me a crust of bread.”

“Dear heart,” cried Mistress Sally, patting her breast, “what wicked people! Why not stay here a week, sir, and fiddle to the lads and lasses? They’d give you a trifle for your work, I’ll be bound; and the bill at the “Lelanro Arms” won’t drain your purse, I promise you.”

“It’s very kind of you, dame, but I must push on at once. There is somebody waiting for me in London who may do me a good turn; although,” added he sadly, “I am by no means sure of his goodwill.”

“Your father, no doubt, sir?”

“I have no father, no mother! I am an orphan,” responded the young man, with a sigh; “but there, there!” he added hastily, “let us talk of other things. My story is too common to be worth the telling.”

Thus baulked of her curiosity, Mistress Sally swallowed her disappointment as best she could, and proceeded to retail the local news. Of this she was well informed, as the inn was a rural Ear of Dionysius, into which was breathed all the scandal of the neighbourhood.

“Lord Lelanro and Mistress Celia are up in London,” said she. “He is the owner of the land hereabouts, and she is his grand-daughter—a fair and kindly young lady.”

“Heiress to the estates, no doubt?”

“No!” replied the landlady, pursing up her lips; “the estates go with the title to a distant cousin of the family. With Lord Lelanro the direct line ceases, unless—”

“Unless what, ma’am?” asked Warwick, noting the abrupt pause.

“Never mind, sir. Every family has its skeleton, and it is not for me to show that of the Lelanros. It is a fine house, is it not?” she added, evidently desirous of turning the conversation.

“What I saw of it,” answered Algernon, falling in with her humour; “a steep wall rising from the banks of the stream; turrets and gables beyond, encircled by a park. Why is the house defended in that fashion, Mistress Sally? Is the owner misanthropic, or is he merely doubtful of the world’s honesty?”

“He is not partial to strangers,” muttered the other reluctantly; “at least, not at the Manor. In London my lord keeps open house,”

From the way in which she spoke Warwick saw that the subject was distasteful, and wondered what could be the reason of her obvious embarrassment. Evidently there was some secret connected with house or inmates; and being a loyal servant of the family, she was bent on saying as little as possible. Nevertheless, as Warwick had kept his own counsel, he could not very well question her further on her private affairs, therefore went on with his breakfast in silence.

In a few minutes Mistress Sally left the room, and returned speedily with a portrait in a silver frame, which she placed proudly before her guest.

“This is a picture of Miss Celia, sir,” replied she, “given to me by herself. Isn’t she a beauty, Mr. Warwick?”

“A very charming young lady,” answered Warwick, examining the photograph, “but her expression is rather sad.”

“Aha!” coughed Mistress Sally awkwardly, “she has reason to look sad. All the Lelanros are sad—after twenty.”

“Why after twenty?”

“I’m not the one to tell tales,” said Mistress Sally, hastily snatching up the picture. “If my dear pretty Miss Celia is sad, that has nothing to do with you or me sir. Let sleeping dogs lie. That is what I always say.”

After which significant remark she left the room for a second time, nor did she re-enter it again, and Warwick guessed thereby that she was afraid of saying too much. Indeed, her hints had already roused his curiosity, and he burned to know the meaning of this ambiguous talk. The sadness which came to the Lelanros when they reached the age of twenty years; the steep wall overhanging the swift stream; the remark anent the failure of the direct line with the unspoken reservation; all these things stimulated the desire of the young man to know more of the Manor House, and of the family who dwelt therein. However, his own immediate affairs soon withdrew his attention from such unnecessary matters.

He weighed his lean purse, counted and re-counted the three coins, and sighed to think that he must part with one of them for the discharge of his night’s ‘entertainment. Still, with twelve and sixpence he would do very well for the next few days, and he trusted when this was spent to replenish his exchequer by music and song. Having come to this conclusion he pulled out a clay pipe, and loading it with a morsel of tobacco from his scanty store, he proceeded to indulge in the luxury of a smoke. Then he picked up his bundle, tucked the fiddle under his arm, and repaired in search of Mistress Sally, to say good-bye.

She was blocking the porch with her portly form, and turned to greet him with a smile. In the bright sunlight, with her be-ribboned cap, rosy face, and buxom figure, she resembled one of those delightful landladies who enliven the optimistic pages of Fielding and Dickens. And why should she not resemble them? she who was their lineal descendant and worthy representative.

“I must go now, Mistress Sally,” said Warwick, tendering his poor coin, “and here is all I can pay for board and lodging. A miserable return for so capital a bed and supper.”

“Put it up, sir,” said the good-hearted landlady, waving it away. “Heaven forbid that Sarah Ballard should take from those who need.”

And in spite of his half-laughing, half-earnest expostulations, she absolutely refused to take the money. Nay more, she handed him a small parcel of provisions, for his midday meal, with a rubicund smile of goodwill and kindly hospitality.

“You’ll be hungry at noon,” said she, forcing this into his hand. “And there’s a meat-pie and bread and cheese and ale in there. And maybe, sir, you’ll find a trifle of tobacco,” she added, with a shy smile. “I see you spoil those white teeth of yours by smoking.”

Warwick had never before experienced such kindness, and was so deeply moved that he hardly knew how to thank the hostess. However, he managed to stammer out a few words, and shook her heartily by the hand, a salutation hardly relished by the buxom landlady, who would have turned her rosy cheek willingly to the lips of so handsome a traveller.

“If ever I become that which you take me to be,” said he earnestly, “you may be sure I shall return to thank you in other ways than mere words.”

“Come when you will, and you’ll ever be welcome,” responded Mistress Sally, and patted him on the back as he stepped out into the sunshine.

The fiddler would have moved away at once, for it was already late in the morning, when, looking up to note the weather tokens of the cloud-dappled sky, he again caught sight of the queerly-pictured sign creaking overhead. Curious to know the meaning of the representation, he asked Mistress Sally to afford him an explanation. Which she did, nothing loth to retain him longer by her side.

“That picture, sir,” replied Mistress Sally, with unconcealed pride, “was painted by a gentleman who is now great. I have been offered no end of money for it, Mr. Warwick, as his name is signed to it, and that makes it valuable.”

“But the meaning of the picture?”

“Read the words, sir, and see what you make of them.”

Warwick mounted on the bench, and had no difficulty in deciphering the following quatrain:

To those false lords my crown I gave,

Now they would have my head I ween;

Be Leal Andrew for aye, my knave,

Be leal and row to save your queen.

“Those words describe the picture,” said Mistress Sally, when he stepped down, “it is the beginning of the Lelanro family. On the other side of the sign, Mr. Warwick, you will see their arms; a boat on a sea with the motto ‘Be Leal and Row.’ ”

“What is the story, ma’am?” asked Algernon, sitting down on the bench.

“When the Queen of Scots fled from her enemies,” said Mistress Sally, with the air of one repeating a lesson, “she came to the banks of a river hard pressed by her false lords. One serving-man had she with her, and urged a ferryman called Andrew, who dwelt on the banks, to put her and her serving-man across to where her friends were gathered. The ferryman, hearing she was the Queen, told her on his knees that he was known as Leal Andrew for his devotion to the House of Stewart, and gladly took her in his boat. Half-way across the stream, the false lords came to the bank and shouted to Leal Andrew that he should give up the fugitive Queen. Her friends on the further side implored him to be no traitor to his lawful sovereign. Leal Andrew rowed hard to save the Queen; but the serving-man, a traitorous knave, tried to upset the ferry-boat so that the Queen might fall into the power of her enemies. But Leal Andrew killed him and again took to the oars, whereat Mary of Scotland cried, punning on his name, ‘Be Leal Andrew still—be leal and row to save your Queen.’ She was landed safely and was saved, so the Lelanros took her words for their motto and their name.”

“How did they rise from ferrymen to lords?”

“The son of the Queen, James of England, rewarded Leal Andrew for his devotion, and gave to him and his descendants the estates of Dalesford, which they have held ever since.”

“I don’t quite understand the punning motto,” said Warwick, in a perplexed tone.

“The Queen said ‘Leal and row,’ which was a pun on his name, ‘Leal Andrew,’ made by altering ‘e’ into ‘o’ in the last syllable. The family now spell the name Lelanro as you see it there.”

“A very interesting legend,” observed Warwick, once more rising to his feet. “I suppose you tell it to every one, Mistress Sally? The Lelanros are a fortunate family.”

“Ah!” sighed the landlady, “they have had bad luck to balance the good. If Leal Andrew brought a blessing, his son brought a curse, which still endures.”

“What is the curse, ma’am?”

“It’s too long a story,” said Mistress Sally hastily; “you had better go, sir, for the sun is high, and see, the children are out from school. They’ll be asking you for a tune, I’m thinking.”

At this hint Warwick again thanked the good-hearted landlady, and took his leave. Half-way across the green he struck up a lively measure, whereat the school-children followed dancing in his wake as he marched along. It was a repetition of the Pied Piper of Hamelin.

The Dwarf's Chamber

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