“'Tis done, 'tis done!The gate is passed, and heaven is won!”
Before we proceed to inquire how the fugitives sped after their arrival at the end of their journey, it may interest the reader to be informed, that they very narrowly escaped detection and pursuit, in consequence of an odd accident, that happened through their very precautions to be safe; and which, had it unfortunately occurred some hour or two earlier, would inevitably have frustrated their design.
Very early in the morning, and before the family had arisen, the house-dogs began barking most furiously, which, from some unknown cause, rang an alarm from cellar to garret, of the whole establishment. Both servants and master were soon in motion, anxious to discover the cause of this unusual hurly-burly. The latter looked first out of his window; but discovering nothing, then attempted to ring his bell; whereupon the wire dropped down into his hands, as it had very cleverly been unhooked by his son Roger, from the crank outside, in preparation for any contingency of the kind which now arose. He next tried his door, and was still more astonished to find it secured outside, so that all egress was, for the present, prevented. While this was going on, various others of the household were going through similar operations, and discovering themselves placed in similar predicaments until, at length, it became generally believed throughout the house, that a gang of thieves must have entered it, and converted the place into a temporary prison, in order the better to effect their nefarious designs.
When, however, fortune had so far favoured them as to allow of an escape, a search was instantly instituted; but still the cause of the disturbance remained as unexplained as before.
By the time that every person under the roof had arisen and assembled, under feelings of the most anxious inquiry, it was remarked by one or two of the more sagacious and reflecting amongst them, that neither Miss Jane nor Mr. Roger appeared to have been aroused by the same noise, which had put themselves into such an extraordinary consternation. This fact appeared unaccountable, for the rooms of both commanded as audible hearing of any external commotion as any rooms on the premises. Some of them cleverly imagined that the pair alluded to must have slept uncommonly sound, and assigned as good reason for that belief, the fact of Jane's previous ill health, and Roger's well known activity in all sorts of laborious exercises; but while these last mentioned were speculating upon probabilities, Mr. Calvert himself had hastened off to Roger's room, and his eldest daughter to that of Jane, in order to ascertain from those two individuals themselves the actual andbona fidestate of the case. What was their amazement to find both nests cold, and the birds flown! Mr. Calvert felt so amazed at this discovery, that he was obliged to sit down on the stairs a few minutes in order to recover himself; while his daughter, with the natural feeling and action of a woman so circumstanced, flew back again, the moment she discovered the deficiency alluded to, screaming all the way she went, that Jane had been stolen away.
A good guess at the real truth instantly flashed across the mind of every one present. A conspiracy, to which nobody but themselves were privy, had evidently been entered into and executed by Jane and Colin, aided by Roger, and all agreed, in their own minds, that, instead of ever seeingJaneagain, they should be, somehow or other, introduced to Mrs. Colin Clink.
Mr. Calvert, at first, took the thing in uncommon dudgeon, and ordered his horses out to pursue the flying trio, but, by the time every saddle and harness were got ready, it luckily chanced to be discovered that nobody knew whether to prefer the east, west, north, or south quarters, in the proposed search after them. Not the remotest clue could be obtained as to which road they had taken. Probabilities, however, being in favour of Kiddal Hall, Mr. Calvert and his son very shortly afterwards set out together on a hurried expedition to that residence, in hopes of arriving there and learning tidings of the runaways, in time to prevent that marriage which, under his present feelings, Mr. Calvert felt determined never to sanction, in any shape.
In the mean time Colin and his friend were making the best use of their time, by a series of civil forced marches along the road, and beguiling the hours thus occupied, by forming all sorts of ludicrous conjectures as to the progress of events at the house from which they had so ably effected their escape; thus endeavouring to rally Jane's spirits.
It was in the course of the following day that our little party had the pleasure of beholding the walls within which they were to be made secure of future happiness; secure, at least, so far as mutual affection, well tried, and an earnest heart for each other's welfare, may be considered capable of effecting that end. Thus felt Colin and his pretty companion, while Roger regarded his first view of the house with remarkable interest, since it also contained her who was everything to him, and with whom it had long since been decided he should eventually join his fortunes, for better and for worse.
Mr. Woodruff's residence was situated in one of the pleasantest portions of Leicestershire.
It was one of those old, large, and substantial brick buildings, so characteristic of a particular period of our domestic architecture, but which can scarcely be better described, with their ornamental brickwork, cornices, and mouldings, than by simply saying they convey an idea of comfort, stability, and even of substantial well-doing, on the part of the occupant, which is in vain sought for in any other class of either old or modern erections. Its grounds were full of old and stately trees, which almost seemed to speak their own dignity, and declare to the passer-by, that beneath their branches had flourished some generations of the true old English gentleman.
To this place were they most heartily welcomed by Mr. Woodruff and his daughter, on their arrival.
It was on this occasion Colin learned, to his astonishment, from the lips of Fanny, that her father and herself, on paying their first visit of inspection to their newly-recovered property, found it occupied by the family of that identical Miss Wintlebury whom he and she had so strangely met in London, and of whom they both had reason to think so well. At the mention of that name, Colin blushed so deeply that Jane felt sudden misgivings as to his perfect fidelity, and, in a manner half joke, half earnest, charged him with deception, either towards herself, or, perhaps, to some now far less happy creature; an observation to which Colin could not in any manner so well reply as by giving a brief statement of that short story respecting Miss Wintlebury, with which the reader is already acquainted, and which he did in a manner at once so frank, open, and considerate, as instantly raised his general character very highly in Jane's esteem. His own goodness of heart could not but shine through his narrative, tinging even his errors, if such there were, with that warm feeling of generosity as rendered them, if not amiable, at least certainly not criminal.
Respecting Miss Wintlebury herself, Colin was happy to be informed that she had materially improved in health; since, not only her residence in the country, but likewise the widely altered circumstances in which her father had placed her, assisted to throw in her way almost every possible advantage that one in her situation could require. She still remembered Colin's conduct with the most grateful feelings, and testified them by entertaining his friends, Fanny and her father, in the best manner their house could afford. Besides which, on Mr. Wintlebury being farther informed of the particulars of their story in connexion with Doctor Rowel, of which already he had heard much from common fame, he volunteered at once to quit the premises he occupied and give Mr. Woodruff as early possession of his own again as circumstances rendered possible.
Accordingly, a short time afterwards he left it, and took a farm hard by; after which the house and gardens were re-arranged in accordance with the views of the proprietor, and he and his daughter entered upon its enjoyment.
IT was a proud morning, a glorious day for Colin, when, with Jane Calvert on his arm, he hastened to the little rural church which stood hard by Mr. Woodruff's residence, there to pronounce openly what he had long felt in his heart,—the sacred promise to love and cherish till death, in sickness and in health, through weal and woe, the beautiful and good creature beside him. Singularly enough, the bride was accompanied by the two young ladies who, on one hand or the other, might each have been expected to fill her place.
Fanny Woodruff and Harriet Wintlebury officiated as bridesmaids; one who had loved him, and one whom he had loved. By both, however, was his marriage with another looked upon with pleasure, since the altered circumstances under which both were now placed, rendered envy or jealousy incapable of finding a place in either breast.
The marriage ceremony was not yet wholly over,—the priest had just uttered the solemn injunction, “Those whom Heaven hath joined together let no man put asunder,”—when a stir was heard at the church door, and Mr. Calvert and his son, in a state of great excitement, hurried in. The former rushed towards the altar, and suddenly seizing his daughter Jane by the arm, exclaimed, “I forbid the marriage!” The priest waved his hand as signifying him to draw back, and pronounced before all present that Colin and Jane were man and wife together, concluding with that blessing which so beautifully finishes the Church ceremony on these occasions.
As the party retired in confusion and pain, Mr. Calvert approached them, and taking the newly-made wife's hand,—“Jane!” said he, “as you are my daughter, I never expected this. However, I will not reproach you now. The thing is done, and cannot now be undone. It is not for me to put asunder whom God hath joined together: Imustmake the best of it in my power, and therefore, seeing there is no remedy, let me join in the blessing that has been pronounced, and ask of Heaventhat ye may so live in this life, that in the world to come ye may have life everlasting.”
At these words and this conduct, poor Jane burst into tears and wept bitterly as she clung round her father's neck; while Colin stood by, deeply affected both by the distress of his wife, and the manner in which, at this last scene of all, Mr. Calvert had conducted himself.
Roger complimented his father and brother in a good-humoured manner upon their being too late; and declared the uncommon gratification with which he found them thus disappointed: while Fanny and Miss Wintlebury could not refrain expressing in their countenances, if not in words, the sincerity with which they joined in the young man's sentiments.
On the return of the whole party to the residence of Mr. Woodruff, Jane's father informed them how he had, in the first instance, directed his steps to Kiddal Hall, and thence to the place where he now was, in hopes of arriving in time to prevent a marriage in which he did not, at that time, acquiesce: and the more particularly did he feel objections upon the occasion, as he found on his arrival at the Hall that his old acquaintance and friend, Mrs. Lupton, was in a state of health that promised nothing less than a speedy dissolution. Under those circumstances, he had felt anxious at least to defer for awhile, if he could not finally prevent, the ceremony which had that morning taken place. These intentions, however, being now altogether frustrated, nothing remained but to endeavour to reconcile matters finally with all parties interested therein, in the best manner of which they were susceptible; and, in order to effect this, Mr. Calvert deemed it needful that the newly-married pair should return with him to Kiddal,—where, indeed, on receiving the intelligence of the marriage, Mrs. Lupton afterwards most strongly invited them. This step he considered the more advisable, because in case of the unfortunate lady of that house desiring to see them before her death, their immediate presence on the spot would prevent the otherwise possible contingency of her dying wishes being disappointed.
Accordingly, at an early and convenient period they set out; and, on their arrival at Kiddal, were welcomed by the Squire with a degree of satisfaction scarcely to be expressed sufficiently. A portion of the house was, for the present, devoted entirely to their use; and, for awhile, a degree of unmixed happiness would have reigned throughout that building so unaccustomed to such scenes, but for the situation of Mrs. Lupton, who now rapidly sunk under an accumulation of anxieties and grief, with part of which the reader is already acquainted, but the great and unsustainable weight of which no heart could ever truly know save her own.
At length, upon some inquiries that she herself had made respecting Jane Calvert, it was cautiously communicated to her that she had married Mr. Clink, and believed she should be as happy with him as their lives were long.
“Never!” she exclaimed,—“never! I feel this last blow deeply. Yet it is useless—very useless. I might as well persuade myself to be happy, only unhappily there is no such thing as a feeling left that will be persuaded. Mary!” And Miss Shirley approached her.
“Whoever you live with when I am gone, be it with a woman. There is no faith in any else; and none in her sometimes. That Jenny Calvert now—Well, well,—I must see the young people—both of them,—and talk to them myself. Let them be asked up now, for I cannot sit in this chair much longer. I must see them.”
Her wishes were shortly afterwards obeyed, and Colin and Jane were conducted into Mrs. Lupton's apartment.
“So you are married, Jenny?” said Mrs. Lupton, as she took the young wife by the hand and kissed her.
“I hope we shall always be very happy,” replied she.
“SoIhoped once,” returned Mrs. Lupton; “and now see what has come of it! Yet I loved him just as you may now; only I found there were other women in the world besides me, just as I had persuaded myself that he thought me the only one. That may seem strange to you, but it is plain enough in itself, and a sad thing to think on.—Well! as it is so, my dear,—love your husband: think him the best of men, living or dead,—the handsomest,—the kindest,—the most worthy,—the only man deserving of that curious treasure your whole heart. And even then, perhaps, though all this be done,—you may fail to be happy, as others have who have done quite as much before you. But it is best to do it, as being your duty before heaven and in your own conscience.”
“And as for you, sir—” said she, addressing Colin, “look that you never despise what you once loved; that you do not take up as a jewel what you afterwards cast away as a stone. I have loved that girl from her childhood; and now she is married, I would not have you do as some men do. Take care of that. For if you do,—if you forget to look upon her when she expects you,—if you leave her as an unwelcome thing in her own house,—I tell you it will break her heart. I say you will break her heart,—even as mine,—Heaven knows,—isbroken!”
And so saying, Mrs. Lupton shrieked hysterically, and fell back insensible.
Grieved to the soul, Colin and his wife retired in tears, while Miss Shirley assisted in having the poor lady conveyed to her own room and laid in bed, where such restoratives were resorted to as her case seemed to require. When she had somewhat recovered—“Walter!” she exclaimed—“Walter! I want to see my husband.”
After a while Mr. Lupton entered the chamber, and all present retired into an adjoining room.
“Walter!” said she faintly, “I am going—but I wish to tell you I die in peace—inlovewith you, even now. Very soon and I shall trouble you no more. But if I can come back to you, I will. I have loved and watched over you here—I will do so hereafter. You shall see me—but do not be afraid, for I would not injure you even to gain heaven. Try to be good for the future, and then perhaps we may meet again. I have lost happiness here, but I hope for it to come. It is mine, I know it is! Heaven will not make me miserable for ever, as I have endured so much. Give me your hand—say one good kind word to me—nay, kiss me truly, and I am content. See you! There about the bed angels are asking me to come. I knew they would. I knew those blessed creatures would pity my misery, and wait for me when the gate of the Everlasting was opened. Heaven bless you—bless you!” And as she uttered those words the gripe of her hand on his became convulsive.
“I will come again!” she exclaimed with preternatural energy, as she strove to rise up towards her husband, but sunk back dying,—dead, in the effort.
If ever grief was in any house it was there on this occasion, when the death of Mrs. Lupton became known. All the household, as well as those who were not of it, flocked round the bed whereon she was laid, to weep in truth and earnest heart over the corpse of one who had won all love from all but him who should have loved her most—though from him she had won it even at last when such love became useless. And if ever the living felt truly that the dead should be strewn with flowers—“sweets to the sweet,”—if ever it were felt that a funeral garment ought to be decked with the choicest offerings of the garden, and the melancholy grave be made beautiful,—assuredly was it felt then. Not one but felt that a friend was lost,—that an emptiness existed in the bosom unknown before, and never to be remedied; while some gave loose to that expression of grief which tells us that all hope was gone with the departed, and that the world had nothing more left in it for man to love, or by man to be beloved.
Amongst those latter must be numbered Mr. Lupton himself. The words of his dying wife had sunk deep into his soul—too deep ever again to be eradicated. Misery had made him wise. Or, as Shakspeare has it—
“Being gone,—The hand would call her back that pushed her on.”
But it was now too late. Nature's fiat had been pronounced, and man was left to reconcile himself to her decree as best he might.
I shall not linger over this scene of death, save just to record how, during some days, the body lay in solemn state in a certain room always appropriated to that purpose; during which time it was looked upon by many eyes that grew dim as they gazed, and spoken of by many a voice that faltered and failed in the stifling effort to record the kindnesses and virtues of the dead.
Mr. Lupton, it was observed, frequently haunted that room alone. There lay a charm in it that he could not resist, and one that evidently day by day gained power upon his mind.
Amongst other signs of his having become in some respects a changed man, it was remarked that he gave strict orders that the private sitting room of the departed lady should not under any circumstances be disturbed, but that everything should remain exactly in the state in which she had last left it. And so it remained. The very work-table stood open as when last she had sat there; the snow-white muslin was thrown negligently upon it; and there also lay the opened book with which, in some perhaps painful moment, she had tried to beguile her weary heart, and to forget her own too real sorrows in the imaginary joys described of another.
At length the night for the interment came. The doors which opened into the court-yard, conducting to the little chapel, were thrown back upon their reluctant hinges, and, amidst the uncertain and mingled light and shadow produced by flickering torches, while all friends attended in a black and mournful troop, the corpse of the Lady of Kiddal was carried in and laid in like state beside the similar remains of many a fanciful beauty and many a stalwart man who had laid down their beauty and their strength, and gone in there before her.
Some time ere midnight the solemn ceremony was concluded, and the grave doors were closed, not to be opened again, perhaps, until that widowed man who now walked slowly from them should himself return, and, with the tongue of death, demand a lodging there.
All gathered together in the great hall itself that night; and few, save those to whom it was absolutely necessary to visit other portions of the building, ventured out even with a light. The dead, somehow, seemed to pervade every place under the roof, to have become endued, as it were, with the principle of ubiquity, and to affright, with its presence, the air of the whole house. The servants fancied they heard noises and groanings, and took abundant pains to alarm one another with the most horrible stories they could produce by the combination of memory and invention. Neither, at last, did they retire to bed until, by common consent, all had finished their work exactly at the same point of time, so as to enable them to make their transit, from the great kitchen to the top of the staircase, in one compact though small squadron.
Now, whether there be or be not any truth in the supposed appearance of such disembodied forms as were here evidently dreaded to be seen, I shall leave to the reader to determine for himself; but I am bound to relate a curious occurrence which took place during the night, as being—I can vouch for—a true part and parcel of this our history.
Relates what happened to Mr. Lupton on the night of the funeral.—Together with some curious information respecting Longstaff, and Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Pale-thorpe.
IT was late when Colin Clink and his wife retired to rest. Their apartment lay in a snug recess formed by the projection outside of two tower-like portions of the building, in one of which also his father's room was situated.
Setting aside all melancholy and superstitious influences arising from the mournful ceremony which, so short a time before, had taken place, the night seemed sad and forbidding in itself. When he looked a few moments from the window it was as though the blind, dead sky came close to the panes. The landscape that lay far below appeared a black gulf, over which the soughing of the wind sounded like the fitful panting breath, the expiring complaints, of some vast unseen creature of the darkness, whose existence might thus be shadowed to the ear, though not to the eyes, of man. But when associated with the melancholy subject which weighed heavily on all hearts, its influence became far more sensibly felt; and Colin could not but feel as though nature had conspired with death to impress the loss that had just been sustained more solemnly upon the mind.
During an hour or more after Mr. Lupton had retired, Colin indistinctly heard his footsteps as he paced restlessly up and down the room, musing, perhaps, on both long past and recent events, contrasting each, and planning how the actions of his life, could that race but be run over again, should assume a form and regulation different, in many things, to those that had been.
Colin himself could not sleep, but lay awhile lost in thoughtful abstraction, until at length he was startled by the sound of heavier and more hasty feet in Mr. Lupton's chamber; just as though, in turning round, a man should suddenly encounter one whom he did not wish to see, and hastily fall back to avoid a closer meeting. A moment or two afterwards he heard a heavy fall upon the ground.
Our hero instantly leaped up and hurriedly dressed himself again; but before he had time to get out of his room, Mr. Lupton's bell had been rung, and his valet summoned to him. Finding such to be the case, Colin remained within his chamber. But shortly afterwards a knocking was heard at his door, and on opening it he found the valet standing in fear outside, and scarcely able to deliver in intelligible language the message with which he was charged, desiring Colin, at Mr. Lupton's earnest request, to go into the other chamber to him immediately.
This, fearing something had happened, he accordingly did; and having bid the servant wait with a light in an unoccupied room not far off, shut the door after him.
Near the old fire-place, in which yet burned the last embers of what had been a comfortable fire, he found Mr. Lupton sitting in an antique carved arm-chair, with a marvellous appearance of composure, an expression of stillness that seemed almost unnatural, as though the finger of some awful event had been laid upon his vital powers, and had suddenly almost stopped them. It was as though his heart feared to beat or his lips to breathe. At the same time his flesh was ghastly white, his features were rigid, and his eyes dilated with an indescribable expression of terror.
“Are you ill, sir?” demanded Colin with much concern. Mr. Lupton only pressed the hand of the young man, as if glad once more to lay hold of flesh and blood, and then drew him close to his side, by way of reply.
“I hope nothing has occurred?” again observed Colin. “But you are ill,—I see you are.”
“No!”—at length stammered his father tremulously, “but—my boy—I—I—have seen her!”
And at the recollection of what he had seen, or fancied he had seen, he shook violently, as though every nerve in his body was shattered.
“Seen who, sir?” exclaimed Colin, though turning pale with the instant flash of consciousness that heknew who, as well as he that sat there unmanned and trembling.
“She has been back to me, true enough,” said he again; and shaking his head just as might a man upon whom the awful doubt of an after-life has just been made a woful certainty,—a plain and demonstrative certainty,—by the vision of an immateriality far more positive in itself, than the plainest of those whom Shelley has so finely described as
“The ghastly people of the realm of dream.”
“Never heed it now, sir,” rejoined the young man; “endeavour to calm yourself, and try to forget it.”
“Forget it!” repeated Mr. Lupton incredulously: “never,—never!—Oh no,—no!” And as he spoke with more energy, and raised his voice in a pathetic manner as addressing some being unseen, he continued,—“Oh, my wife, my wife!—I am indeed wretched, very wretched!”
Again Colin endeavoured to persuade him out of this painful fear; but it was not until a considerable time had elapsed in these efforts that he even partially succeeded. Having, however, at length done so, he sat down beside his father and remained with him, engaged in serious conversation until daylight on the following morning. During that discourse it is believed Mr. Lupton informed his son of every particular touching the sight or the imagination which had thus affected him; but farther than that they were never made known. Mr. Lupton himself, during the whole remainder of his life, was never known upon any occasion even to allude to such a circumstance as having ever even happened; and no one ever ventured to speak of it before him. While Colin himself, who on various occasions was questioned by his friends as to the nature of the occurrences on that mysterious night, invariably returned this answer, “that if any supernatural revelation had been made to his father, to him alone it belonged to reveal it if he would: but as for himself, he could not have anything to do with the especial secrets and the bosom business of another individual.”
This latter sentiment, however praiseworthy, I very strongly suspect to be but a variation of one which he had often heard, and had picked up in the learned school of Mr. Peter Veriquear.
Deprived as the curious thus were and are of information in that direction, it yet became well known all over the country-side, some time afterwards, that Mr. Lupton had become remarkably serious very soon after his wife's death; and, unlike many in similar predicaments, from whom such conduct might more have been expected, had actually continued so ever since.
All the able theories that had been set afloat touching his second marriage, for everybody, who knew nothing about it, believed he would be married again, were found, day after day, and month after month, never to be carried out on his part by any corresponding action; so that at length the interested portion of the neighbourhood in this question were fain to give him credit for being a good widower, who could not find in his heart to marry again.
Another step also, which he subsequently took, must be here recorded. After the occurrence of the important events so recently described, Colin's father would no longer think of permitting him and his wife again to leave the Hall and take up their residence elsewhere, as had originally been intended. Considering all things that had happened, and the state of his own feelings and sentiments thereon, Mr. Lupton now declared it to be his fixed intention to instal the young couple at once in that family residence, which he had already made provision for eventually bequeathing to them, and of having them considered as constituting, along with himself, the family and owners of the place. At the same time he expressed his earnest desire that his son Colin should take the management of his estates, as far as possible, into his own hands; to which end he devoted considerable pains to qualify him; observing that, however strange it might appear, he now felt but little interest in those matters which formerly had occupied nearly all his attention, and that for the future he wished to devote his time to such study and pursuits as would be found more congenial with his feelings, as well as better adapted to fit him for that great change which in no very distant years he must undergo.
This arrangement being agreed to, and eventually acted upon, much to the satisfaction of all parties, Colin was soon looked upon as the greatest man in that parish where once we found him, a miserable child of misfortune, turned rudely out of his cradle at night, and sent by a hard-hearted steward to starve with his mother beneath the naked sky, or find a shelter under the poorest hovel of the fields.
As to that same steward, the notorious Mr. Longstaff, whom, it may be remembered, Colin's mother had once charged with having, in conjunction with his wife, been the cause of her betrayal and misfortune, he had now grown an old man, but still occupied the same situation, now that Colin became his master, as he did when first the reader was introduced to him.
Prophecies sometimes come true; or, rather let me say, that observations made perhaps without a definite meaning, occasionally become prophetical as proved by the event. When Mr. Longstaff turned Mrs. Clink out of her house on the eventful night we have just alluded to, it will not perhaps have been forgotten that she pointed towards the little bed in which our then little hero lay, and addressing the steward, exclaimed, “There's a sting in that cradle for you yet!” Mr. Longstaff himself remembered these words, and trembled when he found to what influence and station the Squire had exalted his son. And though, I verily believe, notwithstanding his deserts, that Colin would never have molested him, but rather have forgiven and returned good for evil, yet, as though retributive justice was not to be turned aside, it oddly enough was discovered by Colin and Mr. Lupton, on examining his accounts, that certain defalcations to a large extent and of long standing existed, and by the produce of which knavery it was supposed he had contrived to bribe a sufficient number of independent ten pounders in a neighbouring town to get his son, Mr. Chatham B. Longstaff, returned to Parliament, as well as to portion off his two daughters, Miss Æneasina Laxton and Miss Magota, on their respective marriages; one with a well-to-do musician, and the other a ditto draper and haberdasher.
On this discovery the steward was peremptorily discharged, on Mr. Lupton's authority, by Colin in person, and afterwards threatened with a prosecution. But as he made himself quite as humble as he had before been proud, said a great many pitiful things about the dignity of his family and the ruin of his character, as well as promised to pay the several sums back again, if not before, at least very soon after his son should have got a place under Government, the Squire consented, under the influence of his son's persuasions, to let the old boy off and suffer the grievance to be hushed up by them, and misrepresented for the better by Mr. Longstaff himself and his clever family.
I am not certain, but to the best of my memory Mr. Longstaff eventually established himself as landlord of a small inn in a country town some sixty or seventy miles from the scene of his former exploits. For this duty, in fact, he was by nature quite as well, if not better qualified, than for some other of a more ambitious nature which he had previously taken upon himself.
To return to our more immediate friends, it is necessary now to state, that although Mr. Lupton had practically given up almost every power and authority connected with his own extensive establishment and estates, and placed them in the hands of his son, he yet deemed it his duty to continue those official duties connected with the administration of justice which he had fulfilled during so long a period of years. Owing to this determination on his part it is that we stand indebted for a scene between two old and familiar acquaintances of the reader's, which otherwise we could not have enjoyed any possible opportunity of witnessing.
Some months had elapsed after the establishment of our hero in the house of his father, when, one day, as he was pacing up and down the lawn, with his wife upon his arm, he observed an unfortunate-looking woman, with a countenance deeply expressive of disappointment and indignation, advancing towards the Hall, and apparently from the direction of the Whinmoor-road. The harsh and half-prim, half-slatternly outline of the figure would instantly have assured him, even if other characteristics had failed, that in the individual who approached he beheld the never-to-be-forgotten Miss Sowersoft.
When sufficiently near to recognise her and be recognised by her, she came to a full-stop, in order at a respectful distance to pass her compliments, and evince her good-breeding by courtesying very low, and muttering, “Good morning to you, sir!”
“Good morning, Miss Sowersoft!” answered Colin.
Again she courtesied as she addressed Mrs. Jane with another “Good morning to you, ma'am!” She then continued, “I beg your pardon, sir, but I am not Miss Sowersoft now. I am sure I never expected to say that Iregrettedbeing Mrs. Palethorpe!”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Colin. “How is that?”
“Oh, sir!” rejoined Mrs. Palethorpe, “I do not wish to remind you of those circumstances—unfortunate circumstances I am sure they were—which brought me into connexion with you in your juvenile days; but I am sure you cannot forget what a brute that man was from first to last: you must be aware that it was next to impossible for anybody to live in the same house with him even at that time. But I have been a poor infatuated creature!” Here she began to cry. “Though I am paying dearly for it now! He is a sad man indeed!”
Colin now observed that his old mistress had very recently been favoured with a remarkably black eye.
“Does he ill-use you?” demanded Colin more seriously.
“He is a disgrace, sir,—though I say it that should not,—a disgrace and scandal to the name of man! I have come here, sir, I assure you, to see if the Squire will bind him over to keep the peace towards me; for only last night,—and it is his regular work now he is married, and master of the farm,—only last night he came down from Barwick as drunk as a lord, and he insisted on having a posset immediately. The fire was out, sir,”—Mrs. Palethorpe here wept afresh,—“and Dorothy was gone to bed.”
Mrs. Palethorpe could not (for human nature will fail and sink sometimes) get any further.
Though Colin and Jane had much ado to forbear laughing at this account of her grievances, the former yet requested her to be comforted; and assured her that he had no doubt Mr. Lupton would very soon take such steps with Mr. Palethorpe as should effectually prevent him from resorting to personal violence for the future.
“As, I suppose,” he continued, “this black eye is an evidence of some of his handiwork?”
“It is, sir!” exclaimed Mrs. Samuel, with passionate firmness. “I simply told him as gently as I could how circumstances stood, when he made no more to do than strike me two or three blows—he repeated them—in the face, and made me this figure, that I am ashamed of anybody seeing me!” And then she covered her face with her handkerchief.
Without farther parley, Colin now bade Mrs. Palethorpe follow him, and led her into the presence of the Squire. That gentleman, for the first time since the death of his wife, was observed to smile when made acquainted with the poor woman's story. In the course of making out her case, she informed Mr. Lupton how, upon her visit with Palethorpe to London, she had somehow consented in a foolish moment to be married to him, immediately on their return; that, accordingly, that event had taken place at Barwick Church; how tipsy he got the first day of their wedding; how scandalously he had neglected everything since, except his drinking; and how abominably he had treated her almost from that very day up to the present moment.
As Mr. Lupton had previously been made familiar with the whole story of their love and their conduct by Colin, he did not feel any very deep grief at Mrs. Palethorpe's present case; though, at the same time, he rejoiced at the opportunity afforded him for punishing as degraded and criminal a being as ever was brought before him. He accordingly issued a warrant for Palethorpe's apprehension, and during the same day had him brought up. When he made his appearance Colin was in the next room, and beheld a countenance more expressive at once of the ferocious brute and the sot than could probably be met with anywhere else throughout the country side. Mr. Palethorpe seemed indeed to have made himself so uncommonly glorious the night before, as to forestall all the glory of the ensuing forty-eight hours. His eyes had much the look of a couple of red coddled gooseberries, and his mouth that of one of those sun-made rifts which, during the dry summer-time he trod over in his own baked fallow fields.
“I didn't mean to hurt meesis!” said he, in reply to the complaint urged against him. “I was raither insinuated in drink when I did it.”
“But you must be a most brutal fellow,” replied the Squire, “to strike your own wife.”
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“I didn't want to marry her!” exclaimed Palethorpe. “She collyfugled me into it, by dint of likker and possets; and so she has herself to thank for't!”
And on the delivery of this heroic sentiment Mr. Palethorpe stared at all present with the confidence of one who feels that the victory is already his. Unluckily for him, however, Mr. Lupton did not take that sort of logic as correspondent with law; but instead, ordered him to pay a crown for having been drunk, and committed him for a fortnight to that identical place to which the prisoner himself and his lady had once threatened to send Colin,—I mean York Castle,—for the assault upon his wife. In addition to this, it is perhaps scarcely necessary to add, he was bound in sureties to keep the peace towards all the King's subjects for the space of one year;—a restriction which not only materially lessened the amount of domestic revolutions in the farm at Whinmoor, but also the number of physical outbreaks at the various pot-houses and village wakes throughout the surrounding neighbourhood.
Unblessed with any of those delightful little children to rear up and spoil, upon which she had so enthusiastically counted,—rendered still more crabbed than ever before by the lasting disappointment she had experienced, Mrs. Palethorpe passed a life of that peculiar kind of misery which has no parallel here on earth, but which any married couple desirous of testing may do so by carrying on against each other, in small matters as well as in great, an everlasting war of mutual annoyances and reprisals upon each other's happiness.
In other words, she and her husband, during their whole after journey through the world, regarded each other as the most mortal enemy that either had ever encountered.
A village festival on a great occasion.—The woes of Mr. Peter Veriquear.
COULD the good reader who has patiently travelled with me so far, and at length has reached the last milestone, as it were, upon our journey, could he, I repeat, have been present at Kiddal Hall, some five or six years later than the occurrence of the last described events, he would have seen a joyous sight. Once more did the old house look gay. A grand entertainment was given to all the surrounding residents, as well as the private friends of the occupants. Various gay devices adorned the walls; temporary bowers and archways trimmed with ribands and flowers, were erected in the gardens; a flag waved gloriously from the topmost peak of the building; tables were spread over the green open space, in the middle of the village of Bramleigh; labour was laid aside, and every soul seemed to rejoice over the occasion of this holiday. It was May time. The pleasant farms seemed buried in the pink and white bloom of the orchards; the lilacs drooped over garden-walls, borne down by the weight of their own flowers; and the sunshine flecked with beautiful patches of light the hollow green lanes, which, throughout that rural district, formed a welcome substitute for the hard pavement and the unpicturesque dwellings of a great city.
By a special act on the part of Mr. Lupton, it had some time before been settled, that Colin and his wife should thenceforth take the family name, as though no other had been borne by them. This had accordingly been done; and therefore, I may now declare, that on this day (the happy day here spoken of) was celebrated the birth of the first son of Colin and Jane Lupton. Already had they been blessed with two girls, that now had become by far the prettiest ornaments, the most beloved treasures, of the house. But the birth of a son was, as usual in similar cases, an event to be regarded with far greater interest, arising from circumstances which it would be superfluous to explain. Proudly did these two young and happy people walk amongst the tenantry, rejoicing in the earnest good wishes which, were heard on every side, for their long life and continued happiness: though in one sense, more proudly still did the father of Colin himself look upon the generous homage thus paid them, and in the silent thankfulness of his own breast contemplate the rising and beautiful little family around him.
To add to the general joy of the friends assembled at the Hall, Mr. Roger Calvert and Fanny Woodruff, after a courtship of unaccountable duration, had selected that day also as their wedding-day; and now, along with the father of the latter, and the whole family of the former, (for it is needless almost to say, that a reconciliation between them and Colin had long ago been effected,) joined at once in each other's pleasure, and that of the inhabitants of Kiddal.
One incident alone, which is worthy of particular record, occurred to cast a temporary sadness over this scene of festive rejoicing: an incident which, though it began in mirth, concluded with a brief tale of misfortune and endurance, which for some time afterwards caused Colin to forget his own happiness, in contemplating the misfortune and helpless poverty of one whom we may term an old acquaintance.
Somewhere about dusk in the evening, Colin walked forth into the village, for the purpose of witnessing the enjoyment of others; and amongst many other signs that all were happy and contented, he observed a knot of country bumpkins gathered round something which had attracted their attention in the middle of the highway, and that appeared to afford them the highest degree of amusement, judging by the frequent and loud peals of boisterous laughter which broke from the assembled crowd. No sooner did the latter observe who approached, than they respectfully fell back, in order to allow him a sight of the object they had surrounded. Colin instantly perceived a man past the middle age, and, apparently, worn down by trouble and poverty combined, with a pack on his back, not unlike a travelling pedlar,—a stick in his hand to assist him in his progress, and a small, shaggy, wiry-haired terrier, cringing in alarm close at his heels.
The first sight of this odd figure was quite sufficient to assure Colin that he beheld no other than poor Peter Veriquear himself! Colin instantly ordered the people to stand back; and, to the amazement of all the clod-hoppers around, hurriedly seized him by the hand, with the exclamation—“Mr. Veriquear!—Or is it possible I can be mistaken?”
“Whether you are mistaken or not,” replied the individual thus addressed, “is your own business and not mine. Just as it is my business to say I am very glad to see my old assistant, Mr. Colin Clink.”
“But how,—under what strange circumstances have you come here, and in this manner?” demanded Colin.
“That,” replied Peter, “you must be aware is my own concern and not yours. Though perhaps,”—and he paused a moment,—“perhaps I ought to make it my business to tell you all about it.”
“Certainly,” responded Colin, “for I can assure you, in your own language, that I feel it to be my business to know. But come,” he continued, and at the same time motioning as though to lead him away,—“let me conduct you to better quarters than you will at present find in the village, and where we can talk over in a more private manner those things which I certainly feel somewhat anxious to hear.”
To this proposal Mr. Veriquear at once assented, with the remark that as Mr. Clink made it his own business to take him to good quarters, it could not possibly be any concern of his to object. And accordingly Mr. Peter Veriquear and his dog accompanied Colin to Kiddal Hall, where the first-named gentleman soon found himself seated at a plentiful table in the great kitchen, while the companion of his travels was accommodated, much to his satisfaction, with equally as abundant a meal provided for him at the entrance to an empty kennel which stood in the court-yard.
When Peter had sufficiently satisfied himself after this fashion, he attended the summons of the friend who assuredly in former times had been indebted to him, and was conducted into a private room where Colin had proposed to meet him alone.
“Ah, sir!” said Peter, as he took a chair and placed himself over against Colin, “you will feel quite as much astonished to find me sunk so low, as I am to see how high you have risen. Though to be sure,” he continued hesitatingly, “it is your business to be astonished at me, as it is mine to do the same by you.”
“Why, what can possibly have happened?” asked the other.
“Sad things!” replied Peter. “In the first place, I have lost every one—there is not a single soul left—of all my family. Mrs. Veriquear,—the little Veriquears that you used to take such pleasure in drawing about in the coach,—all have been taken away from me. One of those horrible fevers which it is the business of Providence sometimes to send into the heart of a great city like that in which I lived, laid them down almost all together on beds of sickness. They lay ill for some time, during which the doctor made it his affair to physic them so much that the stock of bottles in my warehouse was very materially increased. At the same time the rag trade was torn to rags by competition; while the 'rents' became bigger every year in proportion. One after another the family dropped off; until really, grieved as I was, I could not help thinking that the undertaker did nothing in the world else but make it his business to go backwards and forwards from his own house to mine.”
Colin scarcely knew in what manner to reply to this statement, as it would have raised a smile on the face of Pity herself; but by dint of considerable efforts he contrived to look sufficiently grave, and bid Mr. Veriquear proceed.
“The consequence of all this was that nearly everything I had saved to keep my family alive, was spent in putting them into the ground. The marrow, as I may say, of my bone of fortune was picked out, and my poverty was left with scarcely a rag to cover her. However, I thought it my best way to bottle up my complaints; and since Providence had made it her business to visit me with afflictions, I would make it mine to endure as patiently as I could.”
“A worthy resolution!” observed his auditor, “and very highly to your credit.”
“However,” continued Peter, “after these misfortunes were over, my old house seemed such a desert to me that I could not endure it. Everywhere it appeared that I ought to meet one or other of them, and yet I was always disappointed,—always alone! Used to having those little people for ever about my feet,—to feed them at my table,—to talk about them to my wife,—to think how I should dispose of them as they grew up, and speculate on their luck in after-life,—and thus suddenly to be deprived of them all,—to have all swept away,—not one left,—not a solitary one! to be myself the only one where there had been many,—I assure you, sir, that sometimes I felt terrified at my own shadow as it chased along the wall by lamplight, and seemed to reproach me with being the only creature left there alive. I could have fancied myself like a solitary spider in a huge closet of a house without any other tenant, and that has nothing to do but sit in the heart of its own web, silently waiting and waiting for other living things besides itself, which never come, until at length it withers imperceptibly, and is found dead in its home by some visitor at last.”
Peter's feelings had now made him too eloquent even for himself, and certain hard tears which appeared to be looking about for, and puzzled to find a furrow to run in, scrambled oddly down his cheeks.
“The place,” he continued, “made me nervous. Sometimes I fancied I heard the voices of my children crying above stairs, or below, or laughing in the yard. I have even been foolish enough, weak enough, to make it my business to go up or down sometimes to see. The little chairs and stools were there, or, perhaps, the playthings I had once chidden them for breaking. How I then regretted it! Could I have had them back again, they might have pulled my very house to pieces, but I should have been a happy man! If you have children, sir, may you never lose them as I have done!”
Colin could not but feel Mr. Veriquear's words, while he requested him to conclude his narrative.
“At last,” added Peter, “I made it my business to dispose of my business, and sell all off I had. And though it was a good deal to look at, it produced me little money. However, as I could no longer endure the place, I made the best of the case I could, and resolved to travel back to the place where I originally came from, and pass the rest of my life there, without any other attempt to make my fortune.”
“And, pray, Mr. Veriquear,” asked his entertainer, “in what part of the country may that be?”
“I was born,” answered Peter, “in one of the Orkney Islands, and am now going back on foot, as you see me; only as I supposed very possibly I might find you here, or, at least, hear something of you, I came partly out of my way in order to do so; and, in fact, I was making inquiries of those clowns at the very time that you made it your business to come up to me.”
Mr. Colin Lupton certainly felt more on hearing this story than he expressed in words to the relater of it. But by his actions its effect upon him may be judged, as he insisted on poor Peter being well lodged for the night, and before his departure on the following day, made him such a present as, most probably, would entitle him to be considered a man of some small substance in the little Orkney Island, towards which he shortly afterwards finally steered his course.
Having now brought the fortunes of most of the principal characters who have figured in these pages to a close, it only remains for me to relate some few stray scraps of information upon subjects on which the reader may not now feel fully satisfied.
It will, perhaps, be remembered, that the last time we parted with Doctor Rowel,—that infamous agent in as infamous a description of practice as ever man carried on and escaped the gallows,—we left him in a state of high mental excitement, bound in his carriage and conveyed by his friends to the house of his brother, on the borders of Sherwood forest. To reduce that excitement, or even to prevent its eventually increasing to a state of violent and confirmed madness, all medicine, restraint, or care, was found unavailing; and, eventually, he was confined for life in a public institution for the reception of demented individuals. There he raved almost continually about an imaginary skeleton, in an imaginary box, which he supposed to be placed close to his bedside. He declared it lied for having told such tales of him; and often gave utterance to certain unintelligible jargon, wherein the names of Woodruff, of his sister Frances, and of his niece, were mingled in curious confusion. Sometimes he would roll on the ground, and cry out, as though some powerful hand was on his throat, and a weight upon his breast—telling, almost, that the fearful struggle between his former prisoner and himself, yet retained doubtful hold upon his mind, and yet occasionally punished him over again, more severely perhaps than even at the period of its actual occurrence. Altogether he continued to exhibit to the very last a picture of misery and horror, not easily, even if it were needful, to be described.
With respect to Mrs. Luptons early friend, Miss Mary Shirley, her entire devotion to that unfortunate lady, through a long period of years, the tenderness with which she had comforted her in her afflictions, and the constancy with which she had maintained the spirits of that unhappy wife, endeared her to all who in the least were acquainted with her merits. For a while she took upon herself, at Mrs. Jane's earnest entreaty, and in conjunction with herself, the management of Colin's little family.