The moor was covered with great limestone rocks, and intersected here and there by streamlets.The nearest habitation to ours was situated about a mile and a half off, where a strip of the fertile land stretched out into the waste like a tongue.Here the outbuildings of the great Moor Farm, then in the possession of my husband's father, began.The farm-lands stretched down gently into a beautiful rich valley, lying nicely sheltered by the high platform of the moor.When the ground began to rise again, miles and miles away, it led up to a country house called Holme Manor, belonging to a gentleman named Knifton.Mr.Knifton had lately married a young lady whom my mother had nursed, and whose kindness and friendship for me, her foster-sister, I shall remember gratefully to the last day of my life.These and other slight particulars it is necessary to my story that I should tell you, and it is also necessary that you should be especially careful to bear them well in mind.
My father was by trade a stone-mason.His cottage stood a mile and a half from the nearest habitation.In all other directions we were four or five times that distance from neighbors.Being very poor people, this lonely situation had one great attraction for us--we lived rent free on it.In addition to that advantage, the stones, by shaping which my father gained his livelihood, lay all about him at his very door, so that he thought his position, solitary as it was, quite an enviable one.I can hardly say that I agreed with him, though I never complained.I was very fond of my father, and managed to make the best of my loneliness with the thought of being useful to him.Mrs.Knifton wished to take me into her service when she married, but I declined, unwillingly enough, for my father's sake.If I had gone away, he would have had nobody to live with him; and my mother made me promise on her death-bed that he should never be left to pine away alone in the midst of the bleak moor.
Our cottage, small as it was, was stoutly and snugly built, with stone from the moor as a matter of course.The walls were lined inside and fenced outside with wood, the gift of Mr.Knifton's father to my father.This double covering of cracks and crevices, which would have been superfluous in a sheltered position, was absolutely necessary, in our exposed situation, to keep out the cold winds which, excepting just the summer months, swept over us continually all the year round.The outside boards, covering our roughly-built stone walls, my father protected against the wet with pitch and tar.This gave to our little abode a curiously dark, dingy look, especially when it was seen from a distance;and so it had come to be called in the neighborhood, even before I was born, The Black Cottage.
I have now related the preliminary particulars which it is desirable that you should know, and may proceed at once to the pleasanter task of telling you my story.
One cloudy autumn day, when I was rather more than eighteen years old, a herdsman walked over from Moor Farm with a letter which had been left there for my father.It came from a builder living at our county town, half a day's journey off, and it invited my father to come to him and give his judgment about an estimate for some stonework on a very large scale.My father's expenses for loss of time were to be paid, and he was to have his share of employment afterwards in preparing the stone.He was only too glad, therefore, to obey the directions which the letter contained, and to prepare at once for his long walk to the county town.
Considering the time at which he received the letter, and the necessity of resting before he attempted to return, it was impossible for him to avoid being away from home for one night, at least.He proposed to me, in case I disliked being left alone in the Black Cottage, to lock the door and to take me to Moor Farm to sleep with any one of the milkmaids who would give me a share of her bed.I by no means liked the notion of sleeping with a girl whom I did not know, and I saw no reason to feel afraid of being left alone for only one night; so I declined.No thieves had ever come near us; our poverty was sufficient protection against them; and of other dangers there were none that even the most timid person could apprehend.Accordingly, I got my father's dinner, laughing at the notion of my taking refuge under the protection of a milkmaid at Moor Farm.He started for his walk as soon as he had done, saying he should try and be back by dinner-time the next day, and leaving me and my cat Polly to take care of the house.
I had cleared the table and brightened up the fire, and had sat down to my work with the cat dozing at my feet, when I heard the trampling of horses, and, running to the door, saw Mr.and Mrs.
Knifton, with their groom behind them, riding up to the Black Cottage.It was part of the young lady's kindness never to neglect an opportunity of coming to pay me a friendly visit, and her husband was generally willing to accompany her for his wife's sake.I made my best courtesy, therefore, with a great deal of pleasure, but with no particular surprise at seeing them.They dismounted and entered the cottage, laughing and talking in great spirits.I soon heard that they were riding to the same county town for which my father was bound and that they intended to stay with some friends there for a few days, and to return home on horseback, as they went out.
I heard this, and I also discovered that they had been having an argument, in jest, about money-matters, as they rode along to our cottage.Mrs.Knifton had accused her husband of inveterate extravagance, and of never being able to go out with money in his pocket without spending it all, if he possibly could, before he got home again.Mr.Knifton had laughingly defended himself by declaring that all his pocket-money went in presents for his wife, and that, if he spent it lavishly, it was under her sole influence and superintendence.
