The Salamanca Corpus: Yeoman Fleetwood (1900 ... - Gredos

The Salamanca Corpus: Yeoman Fleetwood (1900)
bargains which certain clever people, who kept their eyes open and their tongues quiet,
could occasionally drive with ignorant folk who did not know the value of the stuff in
their own cellars, enlivened occasionally by anecdotes of by-gone treaties with
smugglers. Meanwhile Mr. Gifford's glass was emptied many times and promptly
refilled; his face had become flushed and his speech a little thick; a second bottle had
followed the first, and now the cloth was removed and the famous port placed on the
table.
Mr. Renshaw's hand trembled, not from the effect of his potations, but from sheer
excitement, as he poured out a full bumper for his appreciative guest; and he smiled
broadly as he watched him raise it to his lips. But, apparently, struck by a sudden
thought, Gifford paused midway, and stretching out the hand which held the glass and
rising to his feet, cried in stentorian tones:—
“I call upon you to drink a toast, gentlemen: Here's to my bride, my bonny winsome
bride, and to our speedy union."
Simon had partly risen in politeness to his host, who had stiffly got on to his gouty old
legs, but now reseated himself. Gifford observing this, inquired angrily what he meant
by such lack of gallantry, and whether it could be possible that he meant to decline to
drink the lady's health.
“I will not drink her health," replied Simon, "until I know her name."
[142]
"Her name; d—me, you know it well enough. Why, Rachel, lovely Rachel, the daintiest,
charmingest, sweetest bride that ever a man laid claim to. Confound it all, you will not
be such a cur as to refuse to drink her health, sir.”
"I will drink her health with all my heart, but not as your bride, sir," responded Simon
with flashing eyes. Then, springing up, he lifted his glass and continued in low
deliberate tones — "To Miss Rachel Charnock, our Squire's daughter: Long Life,
Honour and Prosperity. May God Almighty bless her, and send her one day a husband
worthy of her!"
"Pooh! it's the same thing," cried Gifford, impatient to drain his glass; "the port is too
good to be kept waiting while we split hairs. I, too, will drink that toast To Rachel