As for the gudewives' household necessaries, they were got by the
carrier who passed once a fortnight on their road; and for the rest, if
aught was wanting more than that which they had, they did without, and,
according to the local saying, "want was t' master."
Society of a cultured kind there was none. The clergyman was an old man
little if it all superior to the flock to which he ministered. He was a
St. Bees man, the son of a handloom weaver, speaking broad Cumberland
and hopelessly "dished" by a hard word in the Bible. He was fond of his
glass, and was to be found every day of his life from three to nine at
the Blucher, smoking a clay pipe and drinking rum and milk. He had never
married, but he was by no means an ascetic in his morals, as more than
one buxom wench in his parish had proved; and in all respects he was an
anachronism, the like of which is rare now among the fells and dales,
though at one time it was the normal type for the clergy of the remoter
North Country districts.
This old sinner--Priest Wilson as he was called--and Miss Gryce of Windy
Brow represented the wealth and intellect of a place which was at the
back of everything, out of the highway of life and untouched by the
progress of history or science. And the one was not very much superior
to the other save in moral cleanliness; which, however, counts for
something.
If North Aston had said with a sniff that Mr. Gryce was not
thoroughbred, what would have been its verdict on Sister Keziah? He at
least had rubbed off some of the native fell-side mould by rolling about
foreign parts, gathering experience if not moss, and becoming rich in
knowledge if not in guineas; but Keziah, who had spent the last twenty
years of her life in close attendance on a paralytic old mother, had
stiffened as she stood, and the local mould encrusting her was very
thick.
Pages:
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219