Old Country Life

"Why! for sure, you're not going to be such a fool as that!" exclaimed the housekeeper.

"I don't know but what it may be a folly," growled Chowne; "but, Sally, it's a folly you are bent on committing too."

To this Sally, who for some time had been keeping company with one Joe, made no reply.

"Now look'ye here," said Chowne. "I don't want you to marry, Sally. It's no reason because I make a fool o' myself, that you should go and do likewise."

"But why not, master?"

"Because I want'y to stay here and see that my wife don't maltreat me," answered Chowne. "And I'll tell'y what, Sally – if you'll give up Joe, I'll give thee the fat pig. Which will'y now prefer, Joe or the porker?"

Sally considered for a moment, and then said, "Lauk! sir, I'd rayther have the pig."

And now must be told how it was that Chowne was brought to the marriage state.

There was in the neighbourhood a yeoman family named Heathman, and there was a handsome daughter belonged to the house. Chowne had paid her some of his insolent attentions, that meant, if they meant anything, some contemptuous admiration. Her brothers were angry. It was reported that Chowne had spoken of their sister, moreover, in a manner they would not brook; so they invited him to their house, made him drunk, and when drunk sign a paper promising to marry Jane Heathman before three months were up, or to forfeit £10,000. They took care to have this document well attested, and next morning presented it to Chowne, who had forgotten all about it. He was much put out, blustered, cajoled, tried to laugh it off – all to no purpose. The brothers insisted on his either taking Jane to wife, or paying the stipulated sum. He asked for delay, and rode off to consult his friend Hannaford.

"Bless 'y," said Hannaford, "ten thousand pounds is a terrible big sum to pay. Take the creature."

Thus it came about that Chowne yielded to the less disagreeable alternative. Poor Jane Heathman! she little thought of what was in store for her. Her brothers had shown her a cruel kindness in forcing her into the arms of a reluctant suitor.

To return to the wedding day, after the offer made to and accepted by Sally.

About one o'clock Chowne returned alone, seated himself composedly in his dining-room, and ordered dinner.

"But where be the wife?" asked Sally. "Haven't 'ee been married then?"

"Aye, married I have been, though."

"But where be Mistress Chowne?"

"She's at the public-house good three miles from here, Sally. She said to me as we were coming along, 'That is a point on which I differ from you.' Some point on which we were speaking. So I stopped, and looked her in the face, and I said to her, 'Mrs. Chowne, I never allow any one outside my house to differ from me, and not everlastingly repent it afterwards. And I won't allow any one inside my house to differ from me. So you can remain at this tavern and turn the matter over in your mind. If you intend to have no will of your own, and no opinion other than mine, then you can walk on at your leisure to Blackamoor. If not, you can turn back and go home to where you came from. Nobody expects you at Blackamoor, and nobody wants you there. So you are heartily welcome to keep away. So – serve the dinner, Sally, for one."

An hour and a half later the bride arrived on foot, forlorn and humbled, and met with an ungracious reception from Sally.

Sally had the pig that had been promised her killed, cut up, and sold. After a while Chowne suspected that she was still keeping company with Joe. He was very angry, for he felt that he had been done out of the pig on false pretences; so he went off with his wife to stay with Parson Hannaford, and gave out he would not return for a week. On the second evening, however, he suddenly returned, and came bounding in at the door; and sure enough Joe was there, come courting, and to eat his supper with Sally. The housekeeper, hearing the tread of her master, bade Joe fly and get out of his reach. But the back-door was fastened, and Joe, in his alarm, jumped into the copper. Sally put the lid on, and dashed into the passage to meet her master.

"Where's Joe? I'm sure he's here. You've cut too much of my ham to fry for yourself alone. You've drawn too much ale. I'm sure Joe is here!" shouted Chowne, looking about him.

"Deary life, sir!" exclaimed the housekeeper, "I protest! I don't know where he can be. Why, master, you know I gave him up for the sake of the pig."

Chowne's eye wandered about the kitchen, and noticed – what was unusual – the lid on the copper in the adjoining back-kitchen, that served also as laundry.

"Sally," said he, "put some water into the copper to boil. I'm going to dip the pups. They've got the mange."

"Ain't there enough in the kettle, master?"

"No, there is not. Put water into the copper."

Accordingly Sally was forced to fill a can at the pump, and pour water into the copper over her lover, removing for the purpose only a corner of the cover.

"There, master. Do'y let me serve you up some supper, and I'll get the water heated after."

"No," said Chowne, "I'll stand here till it boils. Shove in some browse" (light firewood).

Reluctantly the browse was put in under the cauldron, and was lighted. It flared up.

"Now some hard wood, Sally," said the parson.

Still more reluctantly were sawn logs inserted. A moment after up went the copper lid, and out scrambled Joe, hot and dripping.

"Ah! I reckoned you was there," shouted Chowne, and went at him with his horse-whip, and lashed the fellow about the kitchen, down the passage, into the hall, and out at the front door, where he dismissed him with a kick.

I tell the tale as it was told to me, but I suspect the conclusion of this story. It reminds me of a familiar folk-tale. But then – is it not the prerogative of such tales to attach themselves to the last human notoriety?

That this same crop, or hunting-whip, was applied to Mrs. Chowne's shoulders and back was commonly reported in Blackamoor, and indeed is so reported even unto this day.

The following story is on the authority of Jack Russell, Vicar of Swimbridge. He had called one day at Blackamoor parsonage, and found Chowne sitting over his fire smoking, and Mrs. Chowne sitting in one corner of the room, against the wall. Her husband had turned his back on her. Russell was uneasy, and asked if Mrs. Chowne were unwell. Chowne turned his head over his shoulder and asked, "Mrs. Chowne, be you satisfied or be you not? You know the terms of agreement come to between us. If you are not satisfied, you can go home to your friends, and I won't hinder you from going. I don't care a hang myself whether you stay or whether you go."

"I am content," said the lady faintly.

"Very well," said Chowne. "Then we'll have a drop of cider, Jack. Go and fetch us a jug and tumblers, madam."

In The Maid of Sker Chowne is represented as torn to pieces by his hounds. The real Chowne did not meet this fate. His death was, however, tragic in another aspect. He had left his rectory, and lived in a more sheltered spot in a house of his own. Before the windows grew a particularly handsome box-tree. Now Chowne had done some dastardly mean and cruel act to a young farmer near, tricking him out of a large sum of money in a way peculiarly base.

One night the box-tree was taken up and carried away, no one knew whither, though every one suspected by whom. Chowne raged over this insult; and as he was unable to bring the act home to the culprit, his rage was impotent. But the uprooting of the box-tree was apparently the death of him. He felt that the dread he had inspired was gone, his control over the neighbourhood was lost, the spell of his personality was broken. This thought, even more than mortified rage at being unable to discover and punish the man who had pulled up his box-tree, broke him down, and he rapidly sank, intellectually and physically, into a ruin, and died.

Chowne had a friend, a man, if possible, worse than himself, him whom we will call Jack Hannaford, who was Vicar of Wellclose. It was said that Hannaford was brutal, but Chowne fiendish.

Hannaford was an immensely powerful man. He said one day to his groom, "Come on, Bill, we'll go over to Bidlake and take a rise out of Welford" – afterwards Lord Lundy. So they blackened their faces, disguised themselves in cast-off clothes, and went to the lodge at Bidlake. They were denied admittance, but forced their way in and walked up the drive. The lodge-keeper ran after them and attacked the groom, who at once buckled-to for a fight. Then a couple of keepers burst out from the shrubbery.

"Leave them alone," said Hannaford. "It's a pretty sight. Don't interfere to spoil sport."

However, one of the keepers went at the groom, to the relief of the lodge-keeper.

"Oh, you will, will you," said Hannaford. He caught him with his huge hand and cast him on the gravel. The other keeper fared no better. The groom had in the meantime demolished his man; so he and his master sauntered along the drive without further molestation till they reached the house. Hannaford went to the door to ring, when the Hon. Mr. Welford appeared, and angrily inquired what was their business.

"Work, your honour," answered Hannaford, pulling a forelock.

"Work is it you want? But did not my keepers stop your coming up this way?"

"They tried it, but they couldn't do it," answered Hannaford. "There they be – skulking along."

"They could not stop you?"

"We flung three of them in the road," answered Hannaford. "And now I reckon your honour will give us something to drink your health."

Mr. Welford gave them a crown and dismissed them – also, it is said, the keepers. If so, that was hardly fair, for Hannaford was the strongest man in England. He was beaten but once, and that was in Exeter, when drunk. He had gone over to the city for a spree, and had put up at a low public-house. There he met with a Welshman, and had a fight with him, and was horribly mauled about the head and body. Next day, when sober, Hannaford followed the man by train to Bristol, and thence tracked him to some little out-of-the-way place in Wales. He proceeded to his door, knocked, called the man out, and fought him there and then – and this time utterly thrashed him. When the fellow was so knocked about that he could not speak and hold up, "There," said the Devonshire parson, "now take care how you lay a finger on Jack Hannaford again when he is drunk. If you wish for a return bout, call at your will at Wellclose Parsonage, and you'll find him ready."