CHAPTERCVI.A GLANCE AT BROXBRIDGE—THE ROBBERY AT NETTLETHORP—A VISIT TO MOTHER BAGLEY—A STRANGER AT THE FARM HOUSE.We must beg of the reader to accompany us once more to Broxbridge, which has been the scene of so many important events in connection with our history. Since our last visit to this place time has made many sad alterations.Old Mr. Jamblin has passed away from the living things of the earth, and his daughter and son-in-law are in full possession of Stoke Ferry Farm. The old rascal with the scythe, forelock, and hour-glass, has dealt mercifully with the noble earl at the Hall; nevertheless Lord Ethalwood gives unmistakable indications of advancing years.He does not shoot or hunt so much as he used to do of yore, his fine frame is a little bent, and his step has lost a something of its elasticity; but despite all these drawbacks he is a fine specimen of England’s boasted aristocracy, and it is pretty generally admitted that there is not such another aristocracy in the world.Think of the American honourables, and spit from nausea as they do from fashion; think of the Continental counts, who are as numerous and as dirty as the paving-stones of a London street.An English nobleman has the breeding of a French marquis before the Revolution, the majesty of a Spanish hidalgo, the phlegm and equanimity of a German baron. He can show you a pedigree which has no beginning, for its roots are buried in the obscurity of tradition, and which will end only with the world itself. He can show you his name crowned with fresh laurels in each fresh generation, and then he can show you himself—brave and loyal as his ancestors, should his services be needed for his country or his sovereign.It has been said that we live in degenerate times, that the age of chivalry has passed, and that the English aristocracy are not the proud and noble race they were. And it cannot be denied that some members of noble families are frivolous, enervated, and deficient in mental power, but they are the exceptions, not the rule.Lord Ethalwood, as we have already intimated, was a fine sample of his order. His leading fault was his indomitable pride and his undisguised contempt for the lower classes.When his daughter was divorced from her husband he seemed for some time to have taken a fresh lease of his life. As a matter of course the Lady Aveline was surrounded with admirers, and the greater portion of her time was spent in London.Mr. Jakyl, like his master, was falling into the “sear and yellow leaf,” but he had the same soft, unobtrusive, respectful manner as of yore. As to the radiant footman, Henry Adolphus, he got sick of service, and yearned to be his own master.He jilted the young female he was engaged to, and paid marked and persistent attention to Nell Fulford, whom Peace had been smitten with in an earlier day, and who afterwards became the mistress of Philip Jamblin.These circumstances, however, did not appear to have any great weight with Henry Adolphus, who, in the course of time, made up his mind to pop the question. At first he was refused, but as he was a man not to be easily cast on one side, and chose to press his suit again and again, he was ultimately accepted, and he led Nell to the hymeneal altar.After his wedding he started in the green-grocery line, had a big plate-glass front put into the old shop, originally owned by Nell’s aunt, and drove a very prosperous trade; he served the hall, Brickett, and a host of the surrounding gentry and tradespeople; and it is but justice to him for us to signify that he made Nell an excellent husband.Brickett still kept the “Carved Lion,” and would often, when in a contemplative mood, wonder what had become of Charles Peace, but it was only to his particular cronies that he would broach the subject, for Peace by this time was looked upon as a daring and hardened offender, and the more discreet portion of the villagers forbore from mentioning his name or making any allusion to him.Let us now take a glance at Stoke Ferry Farm. The external appearance of this English homestead we described in a preceding chapter.Now there is seated on the roughly-hewn bench before the front door, a bright-eyed, dimpled-cheeked young woman twittering to a baby which she holds in her arms, the female in question being none other than she whom we have known as Patty Jamblin. She is now Mrs. Richard Ashbrook.She caresses the child—she talks sweet gibberish to it with her lips; doubtless the words she gave utterance to were but a mere sound to the child, but, to all appearance, it is a pleasing sound, for the little thing “rears its creasy arms” and smiles, and sometimes the young mother, sustaining her offspring with one arm, would stroke its face with her fingers, which were soft and delicate.And ever and anon she would look down the long white road, which was only lost to view among the dark and distant woods.She was evidently expecting something or someone, for her glance was earnest and frequent.Presently her eyes brightened, and she tossed the baby gaily in the air, the infant uttering loud and rapid screams, which no one but a mother or one who had been accustomed to children could have understood to be demonstrations of delight.The black dot in the distance had now become a man on horseback, who galloped towards the farmhouse enthroned in a cloud of dust.“It is Richard,” cried Patty. “I knew it by the manner he rode—it is he.”She was right enough, it was her husband, who upon arriving at the front gate called lustily out for Joe, the same Joe who had been so intimately connected with the discovery of the murderer of Philip Jamblin. He was still retained on the establishment.His master gave him injunctions to rub the mare down well.“I’d no business to put her out to such a pace, especially as there’s a bit of a hill. However, she’ll be none the worse for it if she’s well looked after. A horse should always go cool into the stable—rub her down. I’m desperately behind to-day, there’s no doubt about that, but she went along bravely though, and is as good as gold to any man.”“She’ll be all right,” said Joe. “I’ll see to that; don’t you concern yourself about her.”“Dear me, you have been a time,” cried Patty. I thought you would never come back; but here you are—and that’s enough.”She placed her hand upon his broad shoulder, and rising on tiptoe kissed him tenderly.He took her in his arms and they kissed each other repeatedly. Oh, it is a pretty sight these meetings of husband and wife after the day’s work is done.When they have been separated for a few hours they greet each other with the warmth which follows an absence of years.They have carried each other’s photographs in their mind; having cherished the emblems all day long, they spring to each other’s arms with transports which the forethought has prepared.What a contrast these two persons afford to the matrimonial life of Mr. and Mrs. Bourne—the one is unalloyed happiness, the other supreme misery.“And now, sir,” said Patty, endeavouring to call up a frown, “what have you to say for yourself? How is it you have kept your wife waiting in this way?”“Couldn’t help it, dear.”“And why not?”“Well, in the first place, I had got to start ’em right with their sowing for the spring wheat, and after that I made over to Oakfield.”“To Oakfield, eh?”“Yes, one of my chaps told me John was not at all the thing, and I was a bit anxious, you see.”“And how did you find him then?”“Oh, only middling—very middling one might say. He don’t seem to ha’ a bit a life about him.”“Nothing serious, I hope?”“Oh, no; but Maude, poor gell, troubles herself a goodish bit. Well, it aint to be wondered at. He gets such strange notions in his head. I must go over there for a day or two, and give him a good talking to, else—hang me, if he won’t go melancholy mad or summat.”“However, let’s hope he’ll mend. I suppose dinner’s pretty well cooled by this time, eh?”“It won’t be too hot, I dare say, but the girl has set it down before the fire.”The husband and wife went into the front parlour, where dinner was served. Richard Ashbrook was as hungry as a hunter, and did ample justice to the repast set before him.“I’m sorry to hear so poor an account of John, though,” observed Patty. “Very sorry, but he mustn’t give way.”“No, of course not; half his ailment proceeds from the mind. The doctor says he’s a—hip—adriach, or summat of that sort. I aint quite got hold of the right word, but I dessay we shouldn’t be much the wiser if I had.”“It’s a longish word, aint it?”“Oh, yes; an’ you’ve got to jolt it out if you want to make anything of it; but I say, old gell, I’ve got some news to tell ’ee—summat as ’ill surprise ’ee.”“Lor! Out wi’ it, then; tell us what it is.”“Why, I dessay you remember carroty-head Nettlethorpe, him as you used to be spooney on before you were silly enough to marry me.”“Spooney on Nettlethorpe! Get out with you.”“Well, we won’t dispute about that.”“Don’t be so foolish, Richard!” cried Patty, pouting.“There, don’t be crabby. I was only joking, you know that well enough.”“Go on with what you were about to say.”“Old Nettlethorpe’s been robbed.”“Never! Why it will kill him.”“Oh, you may well say that. He’s been robbed, house broken into, strong-box opened, and all the money he and his amiable sister had stinted themselves of, for I don’t know how many years, gone in one night. Think of that.”“Well you do surprise me,” returned Patty. “Poor fellow, it is cruel though, most cruel of anyone to take a man’s all.”“It is, you are quite right; but do you know people—a goodish many—say that it serves the beggarly screws right? They starved themselves, and worse than that starved their servants and watered the men’s beer at harvest time.”“So father used to say.”“Yes, and he was right; they gave the men shorter wages than any other farmer, and when there was a holiday given all over the land made ’em do work the night before, and that they did, too, and ploughed by moonlight.”“But suppose there was no moon,” said Patty, with a laugh, “did they find the men rushlights?”“Ah, you may make light of the matter, missus, but it’s a fact nevertheless. Still I don’t wish Nettlethorpe any harm; he’s a pinch-and-starve farmer, it is true, but that’s no reason for his being robbed, for after all it can’t be less trouble to them to lose what they came by hardly and honestly than it is for folks as be more open-handed, and we oughn’t be glad that mischief is done to a neighbour, whatever that neighbour may be. ‘Never rejoice at nobody’s downfall,’ my old father used to say, and a good saying it be.”“You are quite right—it must be a hard blow for them, and it must be harder to find that people are glad because of it. But how did it occur? Whoever could have been wicked enough to commit such an act?”“Oh, there are plenty who are wicked enough if they only had the chance—you may depend upon that; but I haven’t heard the particulars. I tell you what we’ll do.”“Well—what?”“Presently we’ll go up to old mother Bagley’s, and she’ll be sure to know the whole history of the affair by heart—trust her for that.”“Excellent thought; we’ll pay a visit to the old dame then.”Soon after this Mrs. Ashbrook went upstairs to put on her things, for the purpose of paying the visit agreed upon.Upon coming down again she found her husband waiting at the front door, when he scolded her good-humouredly for having been so long with her bonnet and shawl.This is by no means an uncommon complaint with husbands.She gave him back his jokes transformed into repartees, and thrust her wrist through the loop of his arm.They walked along the bare white road for about a mile and a half. As they proceeded along Ashbrook said—“I tell’ee what it is, Patty—it’s my belief that Charles Peace ’as had a hand in this business. People say he’s the most desperate and determined burglar out.”“Oh, Richard, dear, be just,” returned his wife. “It don’t seem fair to accuse a man without the faintest scrap of evidence against him.”“Well, I dunno as it is, but it’s just like one of his tricks.”“But he has not been seen in the neighbourhod for years.”They presently turned aside through a gate which opened on a footpath which led to Mother Bagley’s cottage.This humble habitation stood in a field, with no safeguards from solitude but a walnut tree, hollowed by lightning, a pair of apple trees, a microscopic garden of cabbages and potatoes, and a high untrimmed hedge, in which bloomed, side by side, the last convolvoluses of summer and the first berries of approaching winter.The cottage was small and compact. It did not ramble over a fraction of an acre as most cottages do, and its appearance made one believe that it was not the home of a common peasant.In point of fact, Mrs. Bagley was the relict of an old servant of the earl’s.When her husband died Lord Ethalwood made her a present of the habitation in which she now resided, and in addition to this he settled on her a small annuity, which sufficed for all her wants.The earl never let any of his dependents come to want, and this was only one instance out of numberless others of his kindness in this respect.Mrs. Bagley lived a secluded, almost solitary life, and yet contrived to acquaint herself with every tittle of parish gossip. She knew everything, and anybody wanting information need only to consult her.Whenever there was a mystery it was to old Mother Bagley that the cronies of the village resorted, as if she had been a sibyl or a priestess of the oracle of Delphos.The interior of her house was remarkably clean and neat, the articles of furniture were so many varied mirrors, her tiny poker, tongs, and shovel were as bright as a set of surgical instruments, and the very smoke seemed to go carefully up the chimney, curling and twisting and rolling itself into the smallest possible compass, as if doing its best not to leave any soot behind.Mrs. Bagley was a character in her way—one of those oddities one seldom meets with nowadays. She possessed a Bible, prayer-book, a pair of spectacles, and a snuff-box.With these she amused herself all day long, or, to speak more correctly, during that portion of it upon which she was not otherwise engaged, for, being a lady of gregarious habits for all her solitary life, she had innumerable droppers in, who were, of course, village gossips.Like most old peasant women, she was an inveterate tea drinker, and her favourite beverage was always brewing by the fireside.The teapot was a round, red, little thing about the size and shape of an apple dumpling, with a spout like a baby’s finger, and the lid made fast to the handle with a silver chain.This cleanly old woman took snuff, it is true—of the light yellow pungent species—for she was a victim to headaches, the natural result of incessant twankay or souchong, but she took it without permitting a grain to fall upon her Bible or her dress.When Mr. and Mrs. Ashbrook entered her unpretending dwelling, she was sitting like “Simon, the Cellarer,” in her high-backed chair, enjoying the faint warmth and rosy light of the fire, and bestowing a glance every now and then upon a baby which reposed in a cradle by her side.Patty saw this cradle as soon as she opened the door, for it was a sight which was pretty sure to attract the attention of any young mother.She gazed upon the tiny creature with evident interest.It was a sweet little infant about six months old. Its hair was already dark, and promised to be black as the raven’s wing; silky eyelids fringed the pearl-white lids, and its skin was as delicate and soft as satin.“I say, missus,” cried Ashbrook, “what’s the meaning of this? What have you been up to? Going to turn baby farmer, eh?”The old woman laughed good-humouredly.“No, Master Ashbrook; thanks to his lordship I don’t need anything of that sort. The little thing belongs to one of my neighbours. They often bring their children here for me to take care of when they go to work or to market, or anywhere for a day. But won’t you take a seat, sir, and you as well, madam?”“You are very good, I am sure, to take charge of your neighbour’s children. What a sweet little thing it is!” observed Mrs. Ashbrook.“A very nice child, and so good-tempered, too—don’t give any trouble,” said Mrs. Bagley, rising and wiping with her apron two chairs, which she placed at the disposal of the visitors.“Thank ye,” said Ashbrook. “You are looking just the same as ever, Mrs. Bagley—not a bit altered since I last saw you—not a day older.”“Ah, Master Ashbrook, I be older, and, what be more, I find it out. My back is so weak at times that I hardly know how to hold myself up; but I haven’t any great reason to complain, all things considered.”“You are happy and contented—that’s the chief thing.”“Well I do hope as I never was one of the complaining sort, poor dear Bagley used to say.”“Oh,” thought the farmer, “if I once let her loose on that string, we shall have to listen to her for heaven knows how long.”He therefore interrupted her with a sharp query.“We have called here, being in the hopes of learning something about the robbery at Nettlethorpe’s. Do you know anything about it?” cried Ashbrook, all in a breath.“Aye, Master Ashbrook; I know something about it.”“Well, then, tell us—there’s a good soul.”“It went this way, Master Ashbrook. You must know that, four or five days it might be—I couldn’t swear which it was—two men came a drivin’ round the country in a gig; I saw ’em myself—one a rare big black-mouthed-looking fellow as ever you’d wish to see.”“Or, rather, wouldn’t care about seeing on a dark night in a lonely road—eh?”“That’s more like it, master. Well, the other was a poor weazened bit of a chap as ever you’d set eyes on in a day’s travel. The pair on ’em were goin’ about like bagmen with japanned tea-trays; but instead of going to the towns and doing business only with the shops, they went round the country and called at the houses themselves, and among others they went to farmer Nettlethorpe’s, not to sell trays (for everybody, yourself among the rest know that Master Nettlethorpe aint the man to spill money over such like things), but to take the measure of his kitchen window with a piece of tape.”“Goodness me, is it possible?” exclaimed Patty, in a tone of alarm.“It be the solemn truth, mum, as sure as I be a speaking to you this very minnit. They not only measures the window wi’ tape, but they take the shape of his lock wi’ a bit of bread paste.”“Never!”“Oh, we knows this, because the sarvint caught one man at the window afore he’d quite done, and found a bit of bread crumb in the lock that same evening, but she being a poor silly morsel of a field wench, didn’t think no harm ’ud come of it.”“She must have been a born idiot. That’s what she must be,” cried Ashbrook. “Well, what followed?”“Harm did come, as we all on us know, for last night the house was broken into by the kitchen window and the passage door; the master and missus were gagged and bound wi’ cord a by two men wi’ crape on their faces, and wi’ pistols in their hands, and every farden in the house was robbed right away.“Oh! but I be very sorry for poor Mr. Nettlethorpe and his sister. They say as how she was senseless for hours, and the doctor had a hard job to bring her to at all.”“I am sorry for both of them, but I tell ’ee that there’s summat more to be said in the business. It was only yesterday as farmer Cheadle met me out riding, and he told me about a couple of impudent fellows as had driven up to his house, and one on ’em had got out and come into the kitchen, and asked his housekeeper, Dorcas, if she wanted any tea-trays, and she said ‘No.’”“Is it possible?”“Yes, and then they told her to go in and ask her master if he wanted any trays, and she said she knew he didn’t, because she had bought one for him not long before that, and she had the control of these things herself; and she declared that she wasn’t going to trouble her master for nothing. When they saw she wasn’t to be got out of the room, they did abuse her frightfully, and she did not stir for all their bullying. Oh, she’s a tartar, and no mistake.”Mrs. Bagley heard the farmer out so far, on the chance of picking up some additional gossip, under which circumstances alone she consented to listen to anyone’s tongue but her own.Ashbrook having told his story, she fired away again, and related to him, at full length, all the burglaries which had been committed in the neighbourhood and the surrounding districts for years past.“Well, I’m much obliged to you for the information you have given us, Mrs. Bagley, and that be all I can gi’ ye in return,” said Ashbrook, rising, and preparing to take his departure.“I don’t want anything else—nay, not even that—for you are quite welcome, and I be glad to see ’ee and miss—I beg pardon—Mrs. Ashbrook as is, and Miss Jamblin as was.”“But I say,” cried the farmer, “your hedge wants trimming; it’s the only untidy thing about the place. I’ll send a man up to do it for ’ee.”“I am sure you are very kind, sir,” said the old woman, dropping a curtsey. “It do mek me wild like, when I ses it, but I aint strong enough to do a job like that, and the earl, if he were to pass by, I know he’d be more annoyed than what I be myself. ’Course, he’s a very particular gentleman, and so kind I’m sure I ought to pray for him, for he’s been that kind.”“Oh, no doubt, he is to all his tenants, dependents, and, in short, everybody,” said Ashbrook sidling towards the door, and nudging Patty to follow him.“I’ll send round one of my people, either to-morrow or next day, depend upon that,” cried Ashbrook, as he passed out of the house. “Good-bye.”The farmer and his wife returned home.“I tell you what it is, Richard,” said Patty, “we had best be on our guard, for probably these tea-tray men may pay us a visit—who knows?”“Oh, we none of us know. The burglary committed at Oakfield House years agone has proved to be almost a curse—certainly it has been attended with fatal effects to one member of our family.”“Fatal! To whom?”No.57.Illustration: FARMER ASHBROOKSEIZING A STOUT ASH STICK FARMER ASHBROOK PROCEEDED TO GIVE THE VILLAIN A THRASHING.“To poor Jane,” said Richard Ashbrook. “And it has not ended with her death. John is no longer the same man. I think, of all men in the world, the Ashbrooks have reason to dread any attack of that nature. So, as you say, we’ll be prepared—to be forewarned is to be forearmed. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Patty.”“Well—what?”“I’ll just step round to Brickett’s for half an hour or so. I shall learn more about this business at the ‘Lion.’”“Very well—only don’t stop late, Richard.”“I’ll take good care of that.”“It being market-day there’ll be a goodish many people there, I expect.”“Likely enough I may pick up some information.”Richard Ashbrook sallied forth, and in a few minutes’ time he was in the snug little parlour of the “Carved Lion.”The room was full of people, many of whom were very well known to the farmer, who was a special favourite with the frequenters of the room.A young swell, who was a stranger to all present, was holding forth to the yokels. To all appearance he was a gentleman. There was an air of refinement and condescension about him which seemed to indicate that he was of gentle birth.He affected to commiserate with the person who had been the victim of the burglars, and assumed such a high tone of morality that all present were under the impression that he was a person of great rectitude.But Ashbrook was not furnished with much more information than he had already gathered from Mother Bagley.Nevertheless, he remained for some time listening to what the people had to say. As he was about leaving the stranger rose also, and made his way towards the bar. By this time it had commenced to rain in torrents.“A most wretched night, it must be confessed, sir,” said the stranger, addressing himself to Ashbrook.“Yes, sir. I thought we should have it before morning, but didn’t expect it to come on so suddenly.”“This is very awkward,” remarked the stranger to Brickett. “Are you sure you cannot accommodate me?”“I’m sorry to say I’m quite full. This is market day, and I have got more than my average number of visitors. Every bed in the house is engaged.”A magnificent black horse was brought by the ostler in front of the “Carved Lion,” and the stranger mounted. It was at this time pouring in torrents. Brickett, who was holding a horn lantern, seemed much annoyed that he could not find the rider a bed.“Do you know of any other house where I am likely to meet with the accommodation I require?” said the stranger.“Well, there’s the ‘Frighted Horse’ about two miles and a half down the road, but it’s not a place I should like to recommend,” returned Brickett.“What does the gentleman want?” cried Ashbrook. “A bed?”“Yes.”“Well, you surely are not going to turn him out such a night as this?”“It goes against the grain for me to do so,” said the host of the “Carved Lion,” “but there’s no help for it as I can see.”“Have you far to go, sir?” inquired the farmer of the stranger.“Well, that depends upon what luck I have,” answered he, with a winning smile. “I’ve a good horse, and don’t much care about a soaking, and must take my chance, I suppose.”“Dall it all, but it seems cruel, Brickett,” cried Ashbrook, rubbing his head in a puzzled manner. “Look at the night.”“It seems like cruelty, I admit.”“I tell ’ee what ’ee can do—I can give you accommodation for one night, at all events.”“I am sure you are extremely kind, sir, and I hardly know how to sufficiently thank you for the offer, but I should not like to intrude upon a stranger.”“Oh, ye be quite welcome, for the matter of that,” said the good-natured Ashbrook. “I expect you are a stranger to these parts.”“Yes, quite a stranger. I am from London.”“Aye, well you mustn’t go back with a bad account of the hospitality of the pipple of Broxbridge—must he, Brickett?”“I hope he won’t do that, Master Ashbrook,” said the landlord.After some further discussion it was eventually arranged that the gentlemanly young man from the metropolis was to become the guest of farmer Ashbrook.He was conducted by his host to Stoke Ferry Farm, and upon arriving there Ashbrook told his wife to see the things were well aired, and everything got ready in the spare bedroom.Patty did not quite like the presence of a stranger under the circumstances, but in the course of a quarter of an hour or so she found him so courteous and pleasant-spoken a gentleman that she became more reconciled.Richard Ashbrook, who was hospitable to a fault, conducted his guest to the spare bedroom, wished him good night, and the inmates of Stoke Ferry farmhouse then retired to their respective chambers.
We must beg of the reader to accompany us once more to Broxbridge, which has been the scene of so many important events in connection with our history. Since our last visit to this place time has made many sad alterations.
Old Mr. Jamblin has passed away from the living things of the earth, and his daughter and son-in-law are in full possession of Stoke Ferry Farm. The old rascal with the scythe, forelock, and hour-glass, has dealt mercifully with the noble earl at the Hall; nevertheless Lord Ethalwood gives unmistakable indications of advancing years.
He does not shoot or hunt so much as he used to do of yore, his fine frame is a little bent, and his step has lost a something of its elasticity; but despite all these drawbacks he is a fine specimen of England’s boasted aristocracy, and it is pretty generally admitted that there is not such another aristocracy in the world.
Think of the American honourables, and spit from nausea as they do from fashion; think of the Continental counts, who are as numerous and as dirty as the paving-stones of a London street.
An English nobleman has the breeding of a French marquis before the Revolution, the majesty of a Spanish hidalgo, the phlegm and equanimity of a German baron. He can show you a pedigree which has no beginning, for its roots are buried in the obscurity of tradition, and which will end only with the world itself. He can show you his name crowned with fresh laurels in each fresh generation, and then he can show you himself—brave and loyal as his ancestors, should his services be needed for his country or his sovereign.
It has been said that we live in degenerate times, that the age of chivalry has passed, and that the English aristocracy are not the proud and noble race they were. And it cannot be denied that some members of noble families are frivolous, enervated, and deficient in mental power, but they are the exceptions, not the rule.
Lord Ethalwood, as we have already intimated, was a fine sample of his order. His leading fault was his indomitable pride and his undisguised contempt for the lower classes.
When his daughter was divorced from her husband he seemed for some time to have taken a fresh lease of his life. As a matter of course the Lady Aveline was surrounded with admirers, and the greater portion of her time was spent in London.
Mr. Jakyl, like his master, was falling into the “sear and yellow leaf,” but he had the same soft, unobtrusive, respectful manner as of yore. As to the radiant footman, Henry Adolphus, he got sick of service, and yearned to be his own master.
He jilted the young female he was engaged to, and paid marked and persistent attention to Nell Fulford, whom Peace had been smitten with in an earlier day, and who afterwards became the mistress of Philip Jamblin.
These circumstances, however, did not appear to have any great weight with Henry Adolphus, who, in the course of time, made up his mind to pop the question. At first he was refused, but as he was a man not to be easily cast on one side, and chose to press his suit again and again, he was ultimately accepted, and he led Nell to the hymeneal altar.
After his wedding he started in the green-grocery line, had a big plate-glass front put into the old shop, originally owned by Nell’s aunt, and drove a very prosperous trade; he served the hall, Brickett, and a host of the surrounding gentry and tradespeople; and it is but justice to him for us to signify that he made Nell an excellent husband.
Brickett still kept the “Carved Lion,” and would often, when in a contemplative mood, wonder what had become of Charles Peace, but it was only to his particular cronies that he would broach the subject, for Peace by this time was looked upon as a daring and hardened offender, and the more discreet portion of the villagers forbore from mentioning his name or making any allusion to him.
Let us now take a glance at Stoke Ferry Farm. The external appearance of this English homestead we described in a preceding chapter.
Now there is seated on the roughly-hewn bench before the front door, a bright-eyed, dimpled-cheeked young woman twittering to a baby which she holds in her arms, the female in question being none other than she whom we have known as Patty Jamblin. She is now Mrs. Richard Ashbrook.
She caresses the child—she talks sweet gibberish to it with her lips; doubtless the words she gave utterance to were but a mere sound to the child, but, to all appearance, it is a pleasing sound, for the little thing “rears its creasy arms” and smiles, and sometimes the young mother, sustaining her offspring with one arm, would stroke its face with her fingers, which were soft and delicate.
And ever and anon she would look down the long white road, which was only lost to view among the dark and distant woods.
She was evidently expecting something or someone, for her glance was earnest and frequent.
Presently her eyes brightened, and she tossed the baby gaily in the air, the infant uttering loud and rapid screams, which no one but a mother or one who had been accustomed to children could have understood to be demonstrations of delight.
The black dot in the distance had now become a man on horseback, who galloped towards the farmhouse enthroned in a cloud of dust.
“It is Richard,” cried Patty. “I knew it by the manner he rode—it is he.”
She was right enough, it was her husband, who upon arriving at the front gate called lustily out for Joe, the same Joe who had been so intimately connected with the discovery of the murderer of Philip Jamblin. He was still retained on the establishment.
His master gave him injunctions to rub the mare down well.
“I’d no business to put her out to such a pace, especially as there’s a bit of a hill. However, she’ll be none the worse for it if she’s well looked after. A horse should always go cool into the stable—rub her down. I’m desperately behind to-day, there’s no doubt about that, but she went along bravely though, and is as good as gold to any man.”
“She’ll be all right,” said Joe. “I’ll see to that; don’t you concern yourself about her.”
“Dear me, you have been a time,” cried Patty. I thought you would never come back; but here you are—and that’s enough.”
She placed her hand upon his broad shoulder, and rising on tiptoe kissed him tenderly.
He took her in his arms and they kissed each other repeatedly. Oh, it is a pretty sight these meetings of husband and wife after the day’s work is done.
When they have been separated for a few hours they greet each other with the warmth which follows an absence of years.
They have carried each other’s photographs in their mind; having cherished the emblems all day long, they spring to each other’s arms with transports which the forethought has prepared.
What a contrast these two persons afford to the matrimonial life of Mr. and Mrs. Bourne—the one is unalloyed happiness, the other supreme misery.
“And now, sir,” said Patty, endeavouring to call up a frown, “what have you to say for yourself? How is it you have kept your wife waiting in this way?”
“Couldn’t help it, dear.”
“And why not?”
“Well, in the first place, I had got to start ’em right with their sowing for the spring wheat, and after that I made over to Oakfield.”
“To Oakfield, eh?”
“Yes, one of my chaps told me John was not at all the thing, and I was a bit anxious, you see.”
“And how did you find him then?”
“Oh, only middling—very middling one might say. He don’t seem to ha’ a bit a life about him.”
“Nothing serious, I hope?”
“Oh, no; but Maude, poor gell, troubles herself a goodish bit. Well, it aint to be wondered at. He gets such strange notions in his head. I must go over there for a day or two, and give him a good talking to, else—hang me, if he won’t go melancholy mad or summat.”
“However, let’s hope he’ll mend. I suppose dinner’s pretty well cooled by this time, eh?”
“It won’t be too hot, I dare say, but the girl has set it down before the fire.”
The husband and wife went into the front parlour, where dinner was served. Richard Ashbrook was as hungry as a hunter, and did ample justice to the repast set before him.
“I’m sorry to hear so poor an account of John, though,” observed Patty. “Very sorry, but he mustn’t give way.”
“No, of course not; half his ailment proceeds from the mind. The doctor says he’s a—hip—adriach, or summat of that sort. I aint quite got hold of the right word, but I dessay we shouldn’t be much the wiser if I had.”
“It’s a longish word, aint it?”
“Oh, yes; an’ you’ve got to jolt it out if you want to make anything of it; but I say, old gell, I’ve got some news to tell ’ee—summat as ’ill surprise ’ee.”
“Lor! Out wi’ it, then; tell us what it is.”
“Why, I dessay you remember carroty-head Nettlethorpe, him as you used to be spooney on before you were silly enough to marry me.”
“Spooney on Nettlethorpe! Get out with you.”
“Well, we won’t dispute about that.”
“Don’t be so foolish, Richard!” cried Patty, pouting.
“There, don’t be crabby. I was only joking, you know that well enough.”
“Go on with what you were about to say.”
“Old Nettlethorpe’s been robbed.”
“Never! Why it will kill him.”
“Oh, you may well say that. He’s been robbed, house broken into, strong-box opened, and all the money he and his amiable sister had stinted themselves of, for I don’t know how many years, gone in one night. Think of that.”
“Well you do surprise me,” returned Patty. “Poor fellow, it is cruel though, most cruel of anyone to take a man’s all.”
“It is, you are quite right; but do you know people—a goodish many—say that it serves the beggarly screws right? They starved themselves, and worse than that starved their servants and watered the men’s beer at harvest time.”
“So father used to say.”
“Yes, and he was right; they gave the men shorter wages than any other farmer, and when there was a holiday given all over the land made ’em do work the night before, and that they did, too, and ploughed by moonlight.”
“But suppose there was no moon,” said Patty, with a laugh, “did they find the men rushlights?”
“Ah, you may make light of the matter, missus, but it’s a fact nevertheless. Still I don’t wish Nettlethorpe any harm; he’s a pinch-and-starve farmer, it is true, but that’s no reason for his being robbed, for after all it can’t be less trouble to them to lose what they came by hardly and honestly than it is for folks as be more open-handed, and we oughn’t be glad that mischief is done to a neighbour, whatever that neighbour may be. ‘Never rejoice at nobody’s downfall,’ my old father used to say, and a good saying it be.”
“You are quite right—it must be a hard blow for them, and it must be harder to find that people are glad because of it. But how did it occur? Whoever could have been wicked enough to commit such an act?”
“Oh, there are plenty who are wicked enough if they only had the chance—you may depend upon that; but I haven’t heard the particulars. I tell you what we’ll do.”
“Well—what?”
“Presently we’ll go up to old mother Bagley’s, and she’ll be sure to know the whole history of the affair by heart—trust her for that.”
“Excellent thought; we’ll pay a visit to the old dame then.”
Soon after this Mrs. Ashbrook went upstairs to put on her things, for the purpose of paying the visit agreed upon.
Upon coming down again she found her husband waiting at the front door, when he scolded her good-humouredly for having been so long with her bonnet and shawl.
This is by no means an uncommon complaint with husbands.
She gave him back his jokes transformed into repartees, and thrust her wrist through the loop of his arm.
They walked along the bare white road for about a mile and a half. As they proceeded along Ashbrook said—
“I tell’ee what it is, Patty—it’s my belief that Charles Peace ’as had a hand in this business. People say he’s the most desperate and determined burglar out.”
“Oh, Richard, dear, be just,” returned his wife. “It don’t seem fair to accuse a man without the faintest scrap of evidence against him.”
“Well, I dunno as it is, but it’s just like one of his tricks.”
“But he has not been seen in the neighbourhod for years.”
They presently turned aside through a gate which opened on a footpath which led to Mother Bagley’s cottage.
This humble habitation stood in a field, with no safeguards from solitude but a walnut tree, hollowed by lightning, a pair of apple trees, a microscopic garden of cabbages and potatoes, and a high untrimmed hedge, in which bloomed, side by side, the last convolvoluses of summer and the first berries of approaching winter.
The cottage was small and compact. It did not ramble over a fraction of an acre as most cottages do, and its appearance made one believe that it was not the home of a common peasant.
In point of fact, Mrs. Bagley was the relict of an old servant of the earl’s.
When her husband died Lord Ethalwood made her a present of the habitation in which she now resided, and in addition to this he settled on her a small annuity, which sufficed for all her wants.
The earl never let any of his dependents come to want, and this was only one instance out of numberless others of his kindness in this respect.
Mrs. Bagley lived a secluded, almost solitary life, and yet contrived to acquaint herself with every tittle of parish gossip. She knew everything, and anybody wanting information need only to consult her.
Whenever there was a mystery it was to old Mother Bagley that the cronies of the village resorted, as if she had been a sibyl or a priestess of the oracle of Delphos.
The interior of her house was remarkably clean and neat, the articles of furniture were so many varied mirrors, her tiny poker, tongs, and shovel were as bright as a set of surgical instruments, and the very smoke seemed to go carefully up the chimney, curling and twisting and rolling itself into the smallest possible compass, as if doing its best not to leave any soot behind.
Mrs. Bagley was a character in her way—one of those oddities one seldom meets with nowadays. She possessed a Bible, prayer-book, a pair of spectacles, and a snuff-box.
With these she amused herself all day long, or, to speak more correctly, during that portion of it upon which she was not otherwise engaged, for, being a lady of gregarious habits for all her solitary life, she had innumerable droppers in, who were, of course, village gossips.
Like most old peasant women, she was an inveterate tea drinker, and her favourite beverage was always brewing by the fireside.
The teapot was a round, red, little thing about the size and shape of an apple dumpling, with a spout like a baby’s finger, and the lid made fast to the handle with a silver chain.
This cleanly old woman took snuff, it is true—of the light yellow pungent species—for she was a victim to headaches, the natural result of incessant twankay or souchong, but she took it without permitting a grain to fall upon her Bible or her dress.
When Mr. and Mrs. Ashbrook entered her unpretending dwelling, she was sitting like “Simon, the Cellarer,” in her high-backed chair, enjoying the faint warmth and rosy light of the fire, and bestowing a glance every now and then upon a baby which reposed in a cradle by her side.
Patty saw this cradle as soon as she opened the door, for it was a sight which was pretty sure to attract the attention of any young mother.
She gazed upon the tiny creature with evident interest.
It was a sweet little infant about six months old. Its hair was already dark, and promised to be black as the raven’s wing; silky eyelids fringed the pearl-white lids, and its skin was as delicate and soft as satin.
“I say, missus,” cried Ashbrook, “what’s the meaning of this? What have you been up to? Going to turn baby farmer, eh?”
The old woman laughed good-humouredly.
“No, Master Ashbrook; thanks to his lordship I don’t need anything of that sort. The little thing belongs to one of my neighbours. They often bring their children here for me to take care of when they go to work or to market, or anywhere for a day. But won’t you take a seat, sir, and you as well, madam?”
“You are very good, I am sure, to take charge of your neighbour’s children. What a sweet little thing it is!” observed Mrs. Ashbrook.
“A very nice child, and so good-tempered, too—don’t give any trouble,” said Mrs. Bagley, rising and wiping with her apron two chairs, which she placed at the disposal of the visitors.
“Thank ye,” said Ashbrook. “You are looking just the same as ever, Mrs. Bagley—not a bit altered since I last saw you—not a day older.”
“Ah, Master Ashbrook, I be older, and, what be more, I find it out. My back is so weak at times that I hardly know how to hold myself up; but I haven’t any great reason to complain, all things considered.”
“You are happy and contented—that’s the chief thing.”
“Well I do hope as I never was one of the complaining sort, poor dear Bagley used to say.”
“Oh,” thought the farmer, “if I once let her loose on that string, we shall have to listen to her for heaven knows how long.”
He therefore interrupted her with a sharp query.
“We have called here, being in the hopes of learning something about the robbery at Nettlethorpe’s. Do you know anything about it?” cried Ashbrook, all in a breath.
“Aye, Master Ashbrook; I know something about it.”
“Well, then, tell us—there’s a good soul.”
“It went this way, Master Ashbrook. You must know that, four or five days it might be—I couldn’t swear which it was—two men came a drivin’ round the country in a gig; I saw ’em myself—one a rare big black-mouthed-looking fellow as ever you’d wish to see.”
“Or, rather, wouldn’t care about seeing on a dark night in a lonely road—eh?”
“That’s more like it, master. Well, the other was a poor weazened bit of a chap as ever you’d set eyes on in a day’s travel. The pair on ’em were goin’ about like bagmen with japanned tea-trays; but instead of going to the towns and doing business only with the shops, they went round the country and called at the houses themselves, and among others they went to farmer Nettlethorpe’s, not to sell trays (for everybody, yourself among the rest know that Master Nettlethorpe aint the man to spill money over such like things), but to take the measure of his kitchen window with a piece of tape.”
“Goodness me, is it possible?” exclaimed Patty, in a tone of alarm.
“It be the solemn truth, mum, as sure as I be a speaking to you this very minnit. They not only measures the window wi’ tape, but they take the shape of his lock wi’ a bit of bread paste.”
“Never!”
“Oh, we knows this, because the sarvint caught one man at the window afore he’d quite done, and found a bit of bread crumb in the lock that same evening, but she being a poor silly morsel of a field wench, didn’t think no harm ’ud come of it.”
“She must have been a born idiot. That’s what she must be,” cried Ashbrook. “Well, what followed?”
“Harm did come, as we all on us know, for last night the house was broken into by the kitchen window and the passage door; the master and missus were gagged and bound wi’ cord a by two men wi’ crape on their faces, and wi’ pistols in their hands, and every farden in the house was robbed right away.
“Oh! but I be very sorry for poor Mr. Nettlethorpe and his sister. They say as how she was senseless for hours, and the doctor had a hard job to bring her to at all.”
“I am sorry for both of them, but I tell ’ee that there’s summat more to be said in the business. It was only yesterday as farmer Cheadle met me out riding, and he told me about a couple of impudent fellows as had driven up to his house, and one on ’em had got out and come into the kitchen, and asked his housekeeper, Dorcas, if she wanted any tea-trays, and she said ‘No.’”
“Is it possible?”
“Yes, and then they told her to go in and ask her master if he wanted any trays, and she said she knew he didn’t, because she had bought one for him not long before that, and she had the control of these things herself; and she declared that she wasn’t going to trouble her master for nothing. When they saw she wasn’t to be got out of the room, they did abuse her frightfully, and she did not stir for all their bullying. Oh, she’s a tartar, and no mistake.”
Mrs. Bagley heard the farmer out so far, on the chance of picking up some additional gossip, under which circumstances alone she consented to listen to anyone’s tongue but her own.
Ashbrook having told his story, she fired away again, and related to him, at full length, all the burglaries which had been committed in the neighbourhood and the surrounding districts for years past.
“Well, I’m much obliged to you for the information you have given us, Mrs. Bagley, and that be all I can gi’ ye in return,” said Ashbrook, rising, and preparing to take his departure.
“I don’t want anything else—nay, not even that—for you are quite welcome, and I be glad to see ’ee and miss—I beg pardon—Mrs. Ashbrook as is, and Miss Jamblin as was.”
“But I say,” cried the farmer, “your hedge wants trimming; it’s the only untidy thing about the place. I’ll send a man up to do it for ’ee.”
“I am sure you are very kind, sir,” said the old woman, dropping a curtsey. “It do mek me wild like, when I ses it, but I aint strong enough to do a job like that, and the earl, if he were to pass by, I know he’d be more annoyed than what I be myself. ’Course, he’s a very particular gentleman, and so kind I’m sure I ought to pray for him, for he’s been that kind.”
“Oh, no doubt, he is to all his tenants, dependents, and, in short, everybody,” said Ashbrook sidling towards the door, and nudging Patty to follow him.
“I’ll send round one of my people, either to-morrow or next day, depend upon that,” cried Ashbrook, as he passed out of the house. “Good-bye.”
The farmer and his wife returned home.
“I tell you what it is, Richard,” said Patty, “we had best be on our guard, for probably these tea-tray men may pay us a visit—who knows?”
“Oh, we none of us know. The burglary committed at Oakfield House years agone has proved to be almost a curse—certainly it has been attended with fatal effects to one member of our family.”
“Fatal! To whom?”
No.57.
Illustration: FARMER ASHBROOKSEIZING A STOUT ASH STICK FARMER ASHBROOK PROCEEDED TO GIVE THE VILLAIN A THRASHING.
SEIZING A STOUT ASH STICK FARMER ASHBROOK PROCEEDED TO GIVE THE VILLAIN A THRASHING.
“To poor Jane,” said Richard Ashbrook. “And it has not ended with her death. John is no longer the same man. I think, of all men in the world, the Ashbrooks have reason to dread any attack of that nature. So, as you say, we’ll be prepared—to be forewarned is to be forearmed. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Patty.”
“Well—what?”
“I’ll just step round to Brickett’s for half an hour or so. I shall learn more about this business at the ‘Lion.’”
“Very well—only don’t stop late, Richard.”
“I’ll take good care of that.”
“It being market-day there’ll be a goodish many people there, I expect.”
“Likely enough I may pick up some information.”
Richard Ashbrook sallied forth, and in a few minutes’ time he was in the snug little parlour of the “Carved Lion.”
The room was full of people, many of whom were very well known to the farmer, who was a special favourite with the frequenters of the room.
A young swell, who was a stranger to all present, was holding forth to the yokels. To all appearance he was a gentleman. There was an air of refinement and condescension about him which seemed to indicate that he was of gentle birth.
He affected to commiserate with the person who had been the victim of the burglars, and assumed such a high tone of morality that all present were under the impression that he was a person of great rectitude.
But Ashbrook was not furnished with much more information than he had already gathered from Mother Bagley.
Nevertheless, he remained for some time listening to what the people had to say. As he was about leaving the stranger rose also, and made his way towards the bar. By this time it had commenced to rain in torrents.
“A most wretched night, it must be confessed, sir,” said the stranger, addressing himself to Ashbrook.
“Yes, sir. I thought we should have it before morning, but didn’t expect it to come on so suddenly.”
“This is very awkward,” remarked the stranger to Brickett. “Are you sure you cannot accommodate me?”
“I’m sorry to say I’m quite full. This is market day, and I have got more than my average number of visitors. Every bed in the house is engaged.”
A magnificent black horse was brought by the ostler in front of the “Carved Lion,” and the stranger mounted. It was at this time pouring in torrents. Brickett, who was holding a horn lantern, seemed much annoyed that he could not find the rider a bed.
“Do you know of any other house where I am likely to meet with the accommodation I require?” said the stranger.
“Well, there’s the ‘Frighted Horse’ about two miles and a half down the road, but it’s not a place I should like to recommend,” returned Brickett.
“What does the gentleman want?” cried Ashbrook. “A bed?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you surely are not going to turn him out such a night as this?”
“It goes against the grain for me to do so,” said the host of the “Carved Lion,” “but there’s no help for it as I can see.”
“Have you far to go, sir?” inquired the farmer of the stranger.
“Well, that depends upon what luck I have,” answered he, with a winning smile. “I’ve a good horse, and don’t much care about a soaking, and must take my chance, I suppose.”
“Dall it all, but it seems cruel, Brickett,” cried Ashbrook, rubbing his head in a puzzled manner. “Look at the night.”
“It seems like cruelty, I admit.”
“I tell ’ee what ’ee can do—I can give you accommodation for one night, at all events.”
“I am sure you are extremely kind, sir, and I hardly know how to sufficiently thank you for the offer, but I should not like to intrude upon a stranger.”
“Oh, ye be quite welcome, for the matter of that,” said the good-natured Ashbrook. “I expect you are a stranger to these parts.”
“Yes, quite a stranger. I am from London.”
“Aye, well you mustn’t go back with a bad account of the hospitality of the pipple of Broxbridge—must he, Brickett?”
“I hope he won’t do that, Master Ashbrook,” said the landlord.
After some further discussion it was eventually arranged that the gentlemanly young man from the metropolis was to become the guest of farmer Ashbrook.
He was conducted by his host to Stoke Ferry Farm, and upon arriving there Ashbrook told his wife to see the things were well aired, and everything got ready in the spare bedroom.
Patty did not quite like the presence of a stranger under the circumstances, but in the course of a quarter of an hour or so she found him so courteous and pleasant-spoken a gentleman that she became more reconciled.
Richard Ashbrook, who was hospitable to a fault, conducted his guest to the spare bedroom, wished him good night, and the inmates of Stoke Ferry farmhouse then retired to their respective chambers.