CHAPTER XVI.“Thinkest thou, that he but sleeps?Long shalt thou wait his awaking.”
“Thinkest thou, that he but sleeps?Long shalt thou wait his awaking.”
“Thinkest thou, that he but sleeps?Long shalt thou wait his awaking.”
“Thinkest thou, that he but sleeps?Long shalt thou wait his awaking.”
Thesick nurse ought not to have been asleep. Yet it appears that she certainly must have slept; for when the sound of something like a door shutting made her start forward from the deep, high back, of her easy-chair, she found, not only that her eyes had been shut, but that she had dreamed, what she considered a most remarkable dream. She was our old acquaintance from Edinburgh, and was very superstitious. The dream, and the particulars attending it, were as follows. We shall give them in her own words, as she ventured, nearly thirteen years after, to relate them, under a promise of secrecy, to her countrywoman, Mrs. Smyth, while they sat together at their tea in the housekeeper’s room.
“The peur lady,” said the nurse, “had fall’n intle a sweet sleep, wi’ the baby at her breast. The chamber was dark, exceptin’ a dull bit lamp, that was blinking doon on the hearth-stane; for being summer time, there was nae fire. I mysell’ was sitting quietly e the great chair; every thing e the hoose was se still, that I amaste thought ’at I could hear the far-aff voises o’ the folk, ’at was making rejoicing around the bonfires. My ane mind, you see, being quite easy like; for, nor mother, nor child, could be doing better nor they were doing; I must just ha’ dozed a bit; for Ibegun a-dreaming, tho’ I canna’ say precisely the purport of my dreams, until I thought I saw Mr. Henry, as plain as I see you, slip on tip-toe, and stop half-way e the middle e the floor. And then, I was se parfect certain, that I heard him ask, in a whisper, hoo Lady L. was; that I meant to reply, ‘As weel as can be expected, Sir;’ bit tho’ I begun working my jaw frae side to side, to strive to get the words oot, it was se stiff it wad na move. I can remember naething maer, till I thought I heard a soond like a watchman’s rattle; and then, I thought it was naething bit the crumpling o’ a piece o’ paper, ’at I dreamed the doctor was taking aff o’ a bottle o’ medicine. I was sure ’at I saw him quite plain, standing wi’ the bottle in his hand, near the table. Nor was I that far gane, but that I kent weel enough, through aw my sleep, ’at I ought tlerise and reach him a glass; bit I had na poor tle stir a limb. I could nae ha’ been weell mysell’, for it was mere like tle a trance, woman, nor tle common sleep. And then, I thought, ’at to my great surprise, the doctor had the vara face o’ Mr. Henry, bit oulder like; and while I was wondering at this, and looking at the doctor, and the doctor, I thought, looking hard at me, the doctor, and the bottle, and the table, and the foot o’ the bed-curtain, aw disappeared; and I can remember naething mere, bit a deal o’ confusion about being hame again in Edinburgh; until I was wakened ootright, by what I thought at the time, was the shutting o’ the door frae the dressing-room intle the gareden. Bit it must ha’ been the doctor’s rap, for he cam’ in amaste immediately. What was vara remarkable was, that after I should ha’ dreamed o’ seeing yon bottle in thedoctor’s hand, that there should hae been se mickle said and done about yon vara bottle; and that it should ha’ been yon bottle, that I mysell’ blamed for every thing! Weel! the doctor he could na get the bit tie undoone; and he sais to me, ‘Mrs. Mowbray, will you favour me weth a pin?’ I remember it as weel as it was but yesterday. And he said, at the same time, that he never had afore, in aw the hale course o’ his practice, used a double knot wi’ tying down a bottle, but a’y a single ane, wi’ the ends twisted. And then he said, in his curious way, ye ken, as he shook the bottle afoor he poured the medicine intle the glass, that the good lady need na to be afeared to tack it, for that he aye mixed his medicines afoor dinner. And then, he pleased his sell’, honest man, wi’ laughing a bit at his ane joke. And then he geed the lady the glass; bit yeer mistress, whahad come in soon after the doctor did, and wha was standing at the bedside, just eased the lily-white hand o’ the weight, for a moment or twa, while she observed, that as her daughter had had some refreshing sleep, it might no be necessary to gie her a composing draught. Weel, the doctor, he alood his sell’, that there was naething like natural rest; bit tho’ he was amang the best o’ them, he was like them aw, in that particular, he wad hae his ane ill-savoured trash swallowed, right or wrong—and wrong enough it proved. However, the doctor said, that they might depend upon it, it was a maste benign and salubrious mixture; and that having slept se much a’ready, the lady might the mere likely be wakefu’ in the night-time, if she did na tack her sleeping-draught. And se, her peur mither, she was over-ruled, and geed her back the glass. And she swallowed thedraught sure enough, and slept sure enough, and lang enough, for she never waked more!”
Mrs. Smyth made no reply, for she was rocking herself from side to side, with the tears rolling down her face.
“The doctor, peur old man, he is dead and gane,” resumed the nurse, “or I wad na say what I am going to say, even to yoursell’, Mrs. Smyth; but I have often thought syne,” and here she lowered her voice, “that yon sleeping-draught was stronger nor the hold o’ life in her that drank it.” Mrs. Smyth only shook her head. “My dream,” added the old nurse, after a short silence, “certainly cam’ oot, about the bottle; and that’s what I blame mysell’ for: I should ha’ spoken up, and talt the vision; for never did I, nor ony belanging to me, dream o’ seeing ony thing, so distinct as I saw yon bottle, that some harm did na come o’ ’t. And thedoctor, too, he was na long for this warld, after I dreamed o’ seeing his face changed. It’s never good to dream o’ seeing ony body wi’ another body’s face.”
“Bonfires, indeed!” murmured Mrs. Smyth to herself, as if thinking aloud. “Aye,” she added, in a spiritless tone, when aroused to attention by the ceasing of nurse’s voice, “it was a particular dream, to be sure. And some of the folk was saying, too, that there was ane seen oot by that night, that keeped be his sell’, like the angel o’ death. He went near nowther bonfires nor drink, and was seen ne more, when aw was over wi’ them within.”
CHAPTER XVII.“He lies beside the dead; at frantic starts,Kisses the cold lips of Julius.”“At such a moment, piety becomesThe only passion of the soul!”
“He lies beside the dead; at frantic starts,Kisses the cold lips of Julius.”“At such a moment, piety becomesThe only passion of the soul!”
“He lies beside the dead; at frantic starts,Kisses the cold lips of Julius.”“At such a moment, piety becomesThe only passion of the soul!”
“He lies beside the dead; at frantic starts,Kisses the cold lips of Julius.”“At such a moment, piety becomesThe only passion of the soul!”
Althoughthe conversation related in our last chapter, was not, as we have already hinted, held between the parties till thirteen years after the present era, owing to the nurse’s unwillingness to confess that she had slept when she should have watched; yet, as the subjects of which it treats, belong strictly to this epoch of our history, we do not consider that we anticipate unjustifiably, in giving the conversation itself the place it now fills.
The melancholy events to which it alludes, divested only of the additions made by superstition, did indeed but too truly, too surely, take place at this period. Lady L.’s infant died at her breast, soon after the closing in of evening had rendered the illuminations for its birth conspicuous; and in less than half an hour she herself expired.
When once the termination of the miserable scene had separated the remaining members of the family, Lord L. could not be prevailed on to see again, even for a moment, Mrs. Montgomery or the children. He lay, day and night, without retiring, on the sofa in his dressing-room, till the funeral was over, and then fled to the continent in a state of mind the most alarming.
Henry, now destined to a naval life, went with him as far as the port where both embarked, though on board different vessels.
Henry, usually so unamiable, had, on the present occasion, greatly endeared himself both to Mrs. Montgomery and Lord L. by the excessive grief he had evinced. Indeed, his countenance appeared haggard, and expressive not only of sorrow, but almost of despair.
Mr. Jackson was the only person who had conducted any thing like business; not only the family, but the very servants, were in consternation; and even the doctor had been quite unable to give the slightest assistance. He, indeed, from the time that Lady L.’s unfavourable symptoms had appeared, had behaved as if seized with sudden insanity; while life remained, he had continued in the sick room, in a state of uncontrollable perturbation; he haddrained or tasted every bottle from which the patient had taken medicine; his hand had trembled to that degree, that he had broken almost every thing he had attempted to take up; he had repeated incessantly the word “No, no, no,” beginning with low murmurs, and increasing gradually in quickness and loudness, and again declining into whispers; till, finally, the moment Lady L. had expired, he rushed from the house without hat or cane, and ran till he reached home, while his horse stood in the stables at Lodore.
It was Mr. Jackson too, who had put all the household in mourning, and who had made the arrangements for the funeral: at which, what was remarkable, was the concourse of the poor, and, perhaps, the unpremeditated part taken by our hero in the solemn pageant; for, when the hearse arrived at its destination, and thebody was about to be lifted out, poor Edmund, to the astonishment of every one, was discovered lying across the coffin. He had not fainted; for, when brought into the light, he looked all round him vacantly, and, with a sudden movement, hid his face again.
Mrs. Smyth had, it seems, some days before shown him the chamber of death, with all its awful circumstances; and on this morning, when dressing him, she had, inconsiderately, given vent to the petulance which often accompanies sorrow, in the following words:—“And its her ain sel ’at brought ye in aff the cald stanes, boy, and tak the wet rags aff ye, and put the warm clothing on ye, and geed ye bread when ye were hungry, boy; its hersel’ they’re goin’ to carry oot the day, and leave her by hersel’, in the cald church-yard!”
Edmund made no reply; but soon after thishe stole from the nursery, and lingered about the halls. Presently the bearers brought out the coffin; he followed at their feet, and when they lifted it into the hearse, he too clambered up unheeded. But here, no sooner was the hearse closed, and the consequent darkness complete, than the situation into which an impulse of grateful affection had led the poor child, proved too much for his strength. A strange sensation of awe, and worse than loneliness, at once silenced the sobs which had hitherto shaken his frame; the tears, which had been streaming over his cheeks, ceased to flow; his forehead became covered with the cold dew of superstitious terror; he was motionless; his very breathing was suspended; while still the wretched consciousness remained, that his little heart was breaking. And had the funeral not arrived at the church door at the moment itdid, most probably either life or reason must have yielded to a combination of feelings so overwhelming.
Mr. Jackson also preached the funeral sermon. All he was able to deliver were a few broken sentences of passionate admiration and pathetic regret, mingled with the tender hopes of piety, for the triumphant ones he could not reach.
And now it was painful to witness, even on the outside, the appearance of the late gay Lodore House. All was silent; the very bells were taken off the necks of the sheep that fed on the lawn; no sound was heard, but the uninterrupted murmur of the fall; every window was closed by a blind or shutter; and when any symptom of remaining life was seen, it was, at times, the figure of Mr. Jackson, in deep mourning, both of habit and attitude,leaning against the paling, and looking fixedly at the two little girls, in their little black frocks, walking, one on each side of Edmund, also dressed in black, up and down the gravel before the door, without speaking a word, or deviating from the direct path. If a meal of the children happened to be ready, Mrs. Smyth would come to the door, and preserving silence, beckon them in; then letting them pass her, and following them, look at them, and shake her head mournfully.
CHAPTER XVIII“Am I indeed the cause of this?”
“Am I indeed the cause of this?”
“Am I indeed the cause of this?”
“Am I indeed the cause of this?”
Inone of the streets of Keswick stood an old, gloomy, but respectable house. In this house was a small back parlour, receiving light from a back lane, and surrounded with shelves, covered with bottles and jars; while ranged beneath the shelves were small drawers, on the outsides of which appeared, labelled, the names of every medicine in use. In the midst of this parlour stood a table; on the table stood a number of bottles, with the apparatus forvarious chemical experiments; and before the table, wrapped in a loose dressing-gown, slippers on his feet, his grey hair uncombed, stood Doctor Dixon. On his face a haggard expression of fear, inverted the lines of harmless mirth which had so often mingled, gleefully, with those of age, on the poor man’s features. His step was uncertain, and his hand trembled, as he selected another and another bottle from a shelf, or another paper from a drawer. His whole frame seemed to have undergone a species of dissolution; and all the infirmities of old age, which he had hitherto, with so much gaiety, warded off, seemed to have been suddenly let in upon him. In short, his heart was broken!
A terrible suspicion had for some days pressed upon his mind; his experiments, his researches, had failed to throw any light uponthe subject; he had not dared to communicate his thoughts to any one. He sat down. At length he exclaimed, “I—I, who should have healed, have I destroyed?” Tears came to his relief. “I am an old man,” he said, in a faltering tone, “I cannot live long: would I had died before this had happened!” After a long silence, during which he moved his lips often, and seemed to undergo a powerful inward struggle, he pronounced, with the air of one refusing an importunate request, “Never! never! never!”
The cruel thoughts which so agonized the poor man’s mind were these. From Lady L.’s symptoms, he suspected that her death had been occasioned by poison; every medicine she had taken had been mixed by himself, and here was the distracting thought! Some ingredients in his dispensary must then, hefeared, have come to him wrong labelled; and, in mixing these, he must have formed some combination, hitherto unknown in chemistry, which had produced a deadly poison. To decide this point, he made numerous experiments. When every mixture proved wholesome, or at least innocent, and every label seemed rightly placed, he would say to himself. “But, they are dead!” Then, after pausing, and wearying his mind with vain conjectures, he would break forth again: “And the symptoms of both were those of poison, which the babe, doubtless, imbibed with its mother’s milk. And I mixed every medicine myself; my own servant took them over; they lay on the table in Lady L.’s own bedroom, till I, with my own hands, administered them, taking care to see that my own labels were upon them! Yet,” he added, shuddering, “the dregs in one of thebottles had neither exactly the colour, nor exactly the taste, that I should have anticipated.” And whenever this conviction forced itself upon him, he turned cold, and the pulsations of his heart ceased for some seconds.
We have seen the doctor completing the last of his experiments. He had reflected for a short time, in dreadful agitation, whether he were not in duty bound to declare his belief respecting the cause of Lady L.’s death to the family. He had decided that the information could only add to their affliction; while the confession, to himself, would be worse than ten thousand deaths! It was at this conclusion he had arrived, when we heard him exclaim, “Never! never! never!”
He destroyed the whole contents of his dispensary, never more prescribed for any one, or mixed another medicine. All observed a general decay, a total failure both of strength and faculties, in their friend, the good doctor. He never smiled again, nor made another pun; and in a few weeks he died, carrying with him to the grave, the dreadful secret, or rather surmise, which was the occasion of his death.
CHAPTER XIX.“He spoke of thee, but not by name.”
“He spoke of thee, but not by name.”
“He spoke of thee, but not by name.”
“He spoke of thee, but not by name.”
Aboutsix months after the death of Lady L., Mrs. Montgomery, in looking over papers of all descriptions, which had accumulated on her dressing-table, while she had been unable to attend to any thing, found one, folded and wafered, which had the appearance of a petition. On being opened, however, it proved to be a sort of letter, but vulgarly written, badly spelt, and without signature. It was also without date of time or place. It bore, notwithstanding, in its simplicity, strong marks of truth.
It professed to be from a person, calling herself Edmund’s nurse. Yet it gave him no name but that of the “young masther; or, be rights, the young lord, sure; only he was too young, the crathur, to be calling him any thing, barring the misthress’s child.” In like manner, it called Edmund’s father “the lord,” and his mother “the lady,” but did not mention the title of the family. The writer asserted, that having laid the child down for a moment, on the grass of the lawn, at a time when the family were from home, it was stolen by a strolling beggar, for the sake of the fine clothes it had on; for, that the “lord and the lady” were, that very day, expected at the castle. That afraid of blame, she had substituted her own infant. That it had been received without suspicion by the parents, who, having been “mostly in London town and other foreign parts,” had seen but little of their boy. It then went on as follows:—“A little while after, sure, I seen the poor child, with hardly a tack on him, of a winter’s day, in the arms of the divil’s own wife, at laste, if it was’nt the divil himself, the strolling woman, I mane, in the big town, hard by. I went up to her, and abused her all to nothing, and offered to take the child from her. And glad enough he was, the crathur, to see me, and stretched out his poor arms to come to me. But the woman, she hits him a thump, and houlds down both his little hands with one of her great big fists, and turns to me, and says, smelling strong wid spirits all the while, (but for a drunkard as she was, she had cunning enough left,) and she says, spakin’ low, and winking her eye,like, ‘And whose young master is that, dressed up at the castle, yonder?’ says she. ‘And it’s my boy, to be sure,’ says I, ‘and small blame to me, when you didn’t lave me the right one.’ ‘And are you going to send the right one there now, if you get him?’ says she. ‘And what’s that to you?’ says I. And with that, she gives a whistle like, and snaps her fingers afore my face, and thrusts her tongue in her cheek, and begins jogging off. ‘And’ says I, following of her, ‘and what do you want o’ the child?’ says I; ‘and haven’t you got the clothes? and can’t yee be satisfied? I’m not going, sure, to ax them of yee, and can’t yee give me the child! when it’s I that ’ill kape him warm, any how, and fade him well too; I that gave him the strame o’ life from my own breast,’ says I; ‘and what ’ud I be grudging of him afther that?’ says I. ‘Then nothingat all sure, but jist what belongs to him!’ says she, ‘But the divil a bit of him you’ll get, any how; for there’s not a day since I’ve carried him, that I haven’t got the price of a dram, at laste, by the pitiful face of him!’ says she. ‘And for that mather,’ says she, ‘if any one takes him to the castle,’ says she, ‘it’ll be myself that’ll do it,’ says she, ‘and git the reward too.’ ‘You the reward!’ says I; ‘is it for stailing him? It’s the gaol’s the reward you’ll get, my madam!’ says I. ‘It’s the resaver’s as bad as the thafe,’ says she. ‘And it’s you, and yours, that’ll git more by the job than iver I will. But it’s I that’ll make my young gintleman up at the castle yonder, pay for his sate in the coach, and his sate in the parler, too, one o’ these days,’ says she, wagging her head, and looking cunning like. And so it was, to make a long story short, the diviltempted me; and I couldn’t think te take my own boy out o’ the snug birth he had got safe into; and the divil a bit o’ her ’at was worse nor the divil, that ’ud give up the mistress’s boy quietly, at all, at all; and so, I was forced, without I’d a mind to tell the whole truth, to say no more why about it, and let her take the poor child away wid her, tho’ my heart bled for him. Well, sure, twis every year, she came to the big town, begging, and brought him with her, sure enough; but looking miserable like, and starved like; for it was less of him there was every time, instead o’ more. And be the time he was near hand five years ould, she brought him, at last, sure, lainin’ up on crutches, and only one leg on him! I flewd upon her like a tiger, to be sure, and just fastening every nail o’ me in the face of her, I axed her where the rest o’ theboy was. And she tould me, but not till she was tired bateing me for what my nails had done, that the leg o’ him was safe enough in the bag. And a dirty rag of a bag there was, sure enough, hanging where the tother leg should be. And jist then, cums by the coach and six from the castle! And up she makes to the side of it, with the brazen face of her, driving the poor cripple before her. And, sure, I see my mistress throw money out to him, little thinking it was her own child, with the one bare foot of him over the instip in mud, and them crutches, pushing his little shoulders a’most as high as his head, and his poor teeth chattering with the could, and the tears streaming from his eyes, (for she’d given him a divil of a pinch, to make him look pitiful.) And there was my boy sitting laughing on the mistress’s knee. Buthe looked quite sorry like, when the little cripple said he was hungry, and he throw’d him out a cake he was ateing. ‘Well!’ says I, (quite low to myself,) ‘that you should be throwing a mouthful of bread to the mistress’s child!’ And it was for dropping on my knees I was, and telling all, to the mistress herself; but just then, they brought her out a sight o’ toys she was waiting for, and she drawd up the winder, and the coach druv off. And the next time the woman cum, she cum’d without him, at all, at all! ‘And,’ says I, ‘the last time you cum’d, you brought but a piece of him, and now you’ve brought none at all of him!’ But she tould me, sure, his fortune was made, and that he was with grand people that ’ud do for him. But I wouldn’t believe her, you see, and gave her no pace, any way, but threat’nin’ te hav’ her hanged at the ’sizes, if I was hangedmyself along with her, till she took’d my husband with her over seas, and let him see the boy. And he seen him, sure enough, walking with a nice ould lady, that’s been your ladyship, I suppose. And he had his two legs, my husband said, which I was particular glad to hear. And he was getting fat, too, and rosy-like, and was dressed, as the mistress’s child (heaven love the boy) should be. And this made my mind a dale asier, for now there was little wrong dun him.
“But, by and bye, troubles came upon me, and my husband died; but, before he died, he thought, and I thought about our sin in regard to the child, and so I made him write down the way to get a letter to your ladyship’s hands; and it was a thing that my husband, as he was a dying, seemed to hear to. Well, when I buried my husband, sure, I fell sickmyself, and then I begun to think the hand of Heaven was upon me, and I sat up in my bed, and wrote this long letter to your ladyship; which, becourse of what my husband set down for me before he died, I give to one that’s going over seas to the harvest, to give to your ladyship’s own hand. He’ll tell your ladyship all my husband thought it best not to put down in the letter. But just ax him that takes it what is nurse’s name, and he’ll tell you fast enough, and all about the great folk at the castle. And it’s he that can tell that too, for its he that ought to know it, for his father, and grandfather before him, got bread under them, and he might have got bread under them himself, only for his tricks. But no matter for that. He knows no more o’ what’s inside the letter, than one that never seen the outside of it; and he’s sworn too, before the praist, atthe bedside of the sick, and may be of the dying, to deliver it safe, for the ase of the conscience of the living, and the rest of the soul of him that’s dead.
“And now I have no more to add, but that the young masther (that’s him that’s with your ladyship this present time,) when he has all, should take it to heart to do for his foster-brother, that’s innocent of all harm, and that has larned to lie on a soft bed, without fault o’ his, and that throwd him the cake he was aiting in the coach, poor boy, when he thought it was his own, and that may be too.—But no matter for that now: the penance has been done for that, and the absolution has been given for that, and the priest has had his dues. And it’s not like the sin that satisfaction can be done for, and that it must be done for too, before the absolution can serve the soul: sich as giving backto the owner his own, or the likes of that; or the setting up of the misthress’s child again in his own place, and the pulling down of him that a mother’s heart blades for, but that has no business where he is; though it would be hard, for all that, if his father’s child should want. But don’t be frightening yourself with the thoughts of that, Molly. The young masther, after all that cum and gone, will surely do for him that’s his foster-brother, any way; and may be do something for his foster-sister too.
“Why I trouble your ladyship I forgot to mintion, but thim that it concarns most are not to the fore, and, besides, you have the boy.—Your sarvent till death: and that, I think, won’t be long now.
“I’m jist thinking, that may be your ladyship would’nt be happy without you’d a boy to be doing for: and there’s him, sure, that’s upat the castle now, my poor boy, and there isn’t a finer boy in the wide world; and if I thought that your ladyship would jist take him in place of the misthress’s child, and do for him, I would die quite aisy.”
Thus ended the nurse’s epistle.
“I should certainly,” observed Mrs. Montgomery to Mr. Jackson, “believe this strange letter to be genuine, from the perfect simplicity of the style, but that the writer appears to be too illiterate to have been any thing so decent as a nurse in such a family as is here described.”
“That,” replied Mr. Jackson, “does not at all invalidate the evidence of this extraordinary document; for, nurses intended merely to supply the nutriment denied by unnatural mothers to their offspring, must be chosen with reference chiefly to their youth, health, and wholesomeness of constitution; and, in great country families, they are naturally selected from among the simplest of the surrounding peasantry.”
The letter, bearing, as we have said, no date of time or place, the first and most obvious step seemed to be, to inquire very particularly where, and by whom, it had been brought to the house. The outside of the mysterious dispatch was shown to, and examined, by most of the servants, without other effect than a disclaiming shake of the head, although each turned it upside down, and downside up, and viewed it, not only before the light, but through the light, as with the light through, is generally expressed.
Mrs. Smyth, indeed, allowed that, as the bit of a scrawl was vara like a petition, it was no impossible that she hersel’ meud ha’ just laid it o’ the mistress’s table; for the mistress, to besure, never refused tle read ony peur body’s bit o’ paper, however unlarned or dirty it meud be.
At length John, the under-footman, made his appearance, and after examining the shape, hue, and dimensions of the folded paper, said, that it was not unlike one which he had taken about six months since from a strange looking man, who had come to the door, requesting to see his mistress, on the very day that ——, and he hesitated—that every body was in so much trouble, he added.
Mr. Jackson, seeing Mrs. Montgomery turn pale, took up the questioning of John. And here, lest the said John’s powers of description should not do justice to his subject, we shall give the scene between him and the nurse’s messenger, exactly as it occurred.
The stranger was tall and well made, with a countenance, the leading characteristic of whichwas, now drollery, and now defiance; whilst its secondary, and more stationary expression, was equally contradictory, being made up of shrewdness and simplicity, most oddly blended. He carried a reaping-hook in one hand, and, with the other, held over his shoulder a large knotted stick, with a bundle slung on the end of it.
This personage, on the melancholy day alluded to, arrived at the closed and silent entrance of Lodore House. Disdaining to use the still muffled, and therefore, in his opinion, noneffective knocker, he substituted the thick end of his own stick. This strange summons was answered by John.
“And is it affeard of a bit of a noise you are?” was the first question asked by the stranger. Without, however, waiting for reply, he was about to pass in, saying, “Just show us which is the mistress, will yee?”
The powdered lackey, astonished at such want of etiquette, placed an opposing hand against the breast of the intruder; upon which the stranger, after a momentary look of unfeigned surprise, very quietly laid down his reaping-hook, bundle, and stick, behind him, (for the latter he would not deign to use against an unarmed foe,) then planting his heels as firmly together as though he had grown out of the spot whereon he stood, he cocked his hat (none of the newest) on three hairs, put his arms a-kimbo, and his head on one side; and, his preparations thus completed, with a knowing wink, said, “Now I’ll tell you what, my friend, I’d as soon crack the scull of yee, as look at yee!”
John, even by his own account, stepped back a little, while saying, “You had better not raise a hand to me: for if you do, there are half a dozen more of us within, to carry you to Carlisle gaol.”
“Half a dozen!” cried our unknown hero, in a voice of contempt, and snapping his fingers as he spoke, “the divil a much I’d mind half a dozen of you, Englishers, with your gingerbread coats, and your floured pates, for all the world as if you had been out in the snow of a Christmas day, with never a hat on; that is, if I had you onest in my own dacent country, where one can knock a man down in pace and quietness if he desarve it, without bothering wid yeer law for every bit of a hand’s turn.”
During the latter part of this speech he turned to his bundle, and kneeling on one knee, untied it, took a small parcel out of it, unrolled a long bandage of unbleached linen cloth from about the parcel, next a covering of old leather, that seemed to have once formed a part of a shamoy for cleaning plate, then several pieces of torn and worn paper, and at length, from out the inmost fold, he produced a letter, which,as he concluded, he held up between his thumb and finger, saying, “There it is now! I mane no harm at all at all, to the misthress; nothing but to give her this small bit of paper, that the dying woman put into my hands, in presence of the priest, and that hasn’t seen the light o’ day since till now.”
John told him, that if that was all, he might be quite easy, as his delivering the letter at the house was the same thing as if he handed it to his lady herself; for that all his lady’s letters were carried in by the servants.
“And is she so great a lady as all that,” said the stranger, “that a poor man can’t have spache of her? But I’ve had spache, before now, of the great lady up at the castle, sure, and its twiste, aye, three times as big as that house.”
After some more parleying, in the course ofwhich John disclosed the peculiar circumstances in which his mistress then was, our faithful messenger, after ejaculating, with a countenance of true commiseration, “And has she, the crathur?” at length seemed to feel the necessity of consenting to what he considered a very irregular proceeding, namely, the sending in of the letter; not, however, till he had first compelled John to kiss the back of it, and, in despite of the evidence of his own senses, to call it a blessed book, and holding one end, while our pertinacious friend held the other, to repeat after him the words of a long oath, to deliver it in safety. This, John proceeded to say, he did immediately, by giving the letter to one of the women to carry into his mistress’s room.
“I suppose,” said Mrs. Montgomery, with a sigh, “I must have laid it down without opening, and forgotten it.”
Mr. Jackson observed, that from the expression, “over seas to the harvest,” and also the man’s appearance, it was very evident he must be one of those poor creatures who come over in shiploads from the north of Ireland to Whitehaven, during the reaping season; and that this fact, once admitted, seemed to render it more than probable, that the noble family spoken of were Irish. As to the important particulars of names and titles, there seemed but one chance of obtaining them; which was, to institute an immediate search after the young man who had brought the letter. Every inquiry was accordingly made, but in vain.
After some months, Mr. Jackson himself, in the warmth of his zeal, undertook a journey to Ireland; but returned, without having been able to discover any clue to the business. Advertisements were next resorted to, but no oneclaimed Edmund. The letter had said, that “those it concerned most were,” in the nurse’s phraseology, “not to the fore.” Whether death, or absence from the kingdom was meant, it was impossible to say.
The harvest season of the next year came and went, but the wandering knight of the reaping-hook was heard of no more; and Mrs. Montgomery, while her better judgment condemned the feeling, could not conceal from herself, that she experienced a sensation of reprieve, on finding that she was not immediately to be called upon to resign her little charge. Poor Edmund had now become to her a kind of sacred pledge; every thought and feeling that regarded him, was associated with the memory of her dear departed child, who had taken so benevolent a delight in protecting and cherishing the helpless being she had rescued frommisery, and almost certain death. Could the mourning mother then leave undone any thing that that dear child, had she lived, would have done? The absolute seclusion too, in which grief for the loss of her daughter, induced Mrs. Montgomery to live, gave all that concerned this object, of an interest thus connected with the feelings of the time, an importance in her eyes, which, under any other circumstances, would scarcely, perhaps, have been natural.
Gradually, however, the prospect of discovering who Edmund’s parents were, faded almost entirely away; but the conviction that they must be noble was, from the period of the receipt of the nurse’s packet, firmly fixed on the mind, both of his benefactress and of Mr. Jackson. The style, indeed, of the letter itself, left no doubt of the veracity of the writer; while the manners of him who hadbeen the bearer of the strange epistle, the conversation of the man and woman on the Keswick road, nay, the very state in which the poor child was first found—were all corroborating evidences.
CHAPTER XX.“Thy fame, like the growing tree of the vale,Shall arise in its season, and thy deedsShine like those of thy fathers. But go notYet to the bloody strife; for thy young armscarce can draw the heavy sword of Artho,Or lift Temora’s spear.”“The blue arms of the lovely boyInvest him, as grey clouds the rising sun.”
“Thy fame, like the growing tree of the vale,Shall arise in its season, and thy deedsShine like those of thy fathers. But go notYet to the bloody strife; for thy young armscarce can draw the heavy sword of Artho,Or lift Temora’s spear.”“The blue arms of the lovely boyInvest him, as grey clouds the rising sun.”
“Thy fame, like the growing tree of the vale,Shall arise in its season, and thy deedsShine like those of thy fathers. But go notYet to the bloody strife; for thy young armscarce can draw the heavy sword of Artho,Or lift Temora’s spear.”“The blue arms of the lovely boyInvest him, as grey clouds the rising sun.”
“Thy fame, like the growing tree of the vale,Shall arise in its season, and thy deedsShine like those of thy fathers. But go notYet to the bloody strife; for thy young armscarce can draw the heavy sword of Artho,Or lift Temora’s spear.”“The blue arms of the lovely boyInvest him, as grey clouds the rising sun.”
LordL. remembered, and even experienced, something of a consolatory feeling, in faithfully performing the promise which, within the first happy year of his marriage, he had made to his beloved wife, and which had seemed to give her so much pleasure: we mean that which respected placing and advancing Edmund in the navy. His lordship accordingly wrote from abroad to his friend, Lord Fitz Ullin, and Edmund, at the age of twelve, was received into the naval college at Portsmouth.
This was, no doubt, a very wise and proper arrangement; yet there were those to whom it caused infinite grief: we speak of the twins, who, though they had never been expressly told that Edmund was their brother, had learned to love him as such; and whether they really thought he was so, or never thought about the matter, were in the habit, in all their little plays and pastimes, of calling him brother Edmund, and fancying that nothing could be done without him.
His vacations, however, were all spent at Lodore House, and were joyful in proportion to the sorrows of parting. On the first of thosememorable occasions, Mrs. Montgomery absolutely wept over him; Frances frolicked round him, as if obliged to exhaust herself by fatigue, to moderate her transports; while little Julia stood silently, and with a pensive expression, quite close to him; and when, after performing any extraordinary new feat for the amusement of Frances, he would stoop, and ask of his little favourite what he should do for her, she would answer, with a glow of enthusiasm, “Stay always with me!”
He generally brought some tasks home, which were to be learned before his return to college. When he sat at these, Frances would fidget round the table, in visible discontent—stop straight opposite to him, put her head on one side, watch to meet his eye, and make him laugh; failing in this, try to play alone; and finding this also dreadfully stupid,return to the charge; while Julia would get on a part of his chair, hold his hand and remain perfectly still, till the hand was borrowed to turn over a leaf, when she would follow it with an appealing look, which look, being repaid by a fond caress, she would retake the hand, and sit again as motionless as before. At length, poor Lady Frances, infected by the dullness of her companions, would sometimes bring a chair on the other side, and insist on having the other hand, which would reduce Edmund to the necessity of fastening his book open on the table with another book; after which arrangement, we must confess, that, however unjust the proceeding, and notwithstanding the remonstrances of the injured party, it was always the hand which Frances held, which was borrowed to turn over leaves, &c. &c.
But there was something in little Julia’s enthusiastic manner of showing attachment, which won upon the affections in an extraordinary degree, and made her almost unjustly the favourite; poor Frances, considering her lively temper, loved brother Edmund full as well, in her own way.
Thus passed two years; and at fourteen, Edmund was appointed to the same ship on board which Henry then happened to be. The vessel was ready for sea, and going on a foreign station, on which it was to remain for three years. Our hero, after joining, obtained a few days’ leave, that he might pay a farewell visit to Lodore. Arrived at the last stage of his journey, he stopped at the little inn, and put on his midshipman’s dress, which he had brought with him, from a boyish wish to surprise his two little sisters, as he called the twins, now about seven years old. Accordingly, he entered the domestic circle fullyequipped, and produced, at least, as great a sensation as his beating heart, while jumping out of the carriage, and hastening across the lawn, had anticipated.
As soon as the first clamorous joy of meeting, as well as the first public examination of every part of his dress was over, Frances possessed herself of his cocked-hat, dirk, and belt, and began arraying herself in the spoils. While Mrs. Montgomery, drawing him near her chair, began to question him as to how long he could now remain with them, and when he thought he should be able to return. Little Julia stood close at the other side of her grandmother, her eyes raised, and passing from one countenance to the other, watching every word. When Edmund answering, that he must leave them early in the morning, and that it would be, at least, three years before he could hope to see them again.
“Three years!” exclaimed Julia, turning as red as crimson for one moment, and the next as pale as death! Edmund took her on his knee, kissed her little forehead, and remonstrated fondly. At length, showers of tears came to her relief; and amid reiterated sobs, she articulated, in broken accents, “No! I cannot bear the thoughts of summer coming three times without Edmund! Oh! I’ll hate summer, that I used to love so much!”
“But, Julia! my darling Julia!” said Edmund, “why should you hate summer? You know, I must be far away in the winter also.”
“Then I must only hate winter too!” said Julia, as well as her continued sobs would permit; “but you used to come back in the summer.”
Meanwhile, the little Lady Frances, quite unconscious of the tragic scene, was standingbefore a large mirror, at the far end of the room, contemplating her tiny form, surmounted by the cocked-hat, tried on in all the varieties of fore and aft, athwart ships, &c. &c. Now, perfectly satisfied with her own appearance, she advanced on tip-toe, that her height, as well as her dress, might, as much as possible, resemble Edmund’s. But perceiving Julia’s tears, and being informed of their cause, she flung away hat and dirk, and threw herself into her sister’s arms, and joined in her sobs—with a violence proportioned to the sudden transition of her feelings. Nothing could console the little girls, and it being late in the evening, they were obliged to be sent to bed; to which measure, after some demurring, and many last words, they consented, for the purpose of being up very early, as they could not think of an over-night farewell. Locked in each other’sarms, and planning to stay awake all night, lest they should not be called in time, they cried themselves to sleep; and, alas! ere their eyes started open in the morning, early as that was, the unconscious cheek of each had received Edmund’s parting kiss, and he was already some way on his journey.