[1]Every lad in my position, not yet turned twenty-one, was a "young gentleman" in these times; we were not so tenacious of our dignity as the young men of to-day.
[1]Every lad in my position, not yet turned twenty-one, was a "young gentleman" in these times; we were not so tenacious of our dignity as the young men of to-day.
It was arranged, to my infinite joy, before retiring to rest that night, that I was to make one of the Bank party. Marmaduke insisted on accompanying us, being above measure curious about the matter, and eager to know the worst (or the best) regarding it. Mr. Long had to return to Fairburn for his Sunday's duty, and Mr. Clint could not spare the time from his parchments; so Mr. Harvey Gerard and we two young men went forth upon the trail together. As the paper-chase is the most glorious pursuit undertaken by boys, as fox-hunting is the sport of sports for men, so man-hunting is the avocation fitted for heroes. I know nothing like it for interest and excitement—nothing. If I could only imbue my readers with one-tenth of the absorbing concern with which we, the subordinate actors in this drama of mystery, now began to be devoured, they would be sorry indeed when this narrative comes to a conclusion. We three were at the appointed spot some minutes before the hour which had been agreed upon for meeting the Bow Street runner; but before the chimes of the Old Exchange clock had ceased their "Life let us cherish"—the tune which they always played on Fridays—the Bow Street runner appeared.
Passing through a great room within the Bank, in which, to my unaccustomed eye, were displayed the riches of Croesus, and where the golden showers seemed unceasingly to rain, we were conducted into a private apartment, where sat some grey-headed official, uncommunicative, calm, like one who has had his glut even of wealth, and to whom money, whether in bullion or paper, was no longer any object.
"Well, Mr. Townshend, what can I do for you?" inquired he, sedately. "I trust you are not come about any fresh wrongs against the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street. I never see your face but I think of an imitation bank-note, and diminution of the stock in our cellar."
"Thank you, sir," responded the runner, cheerfully; "I am afraid that I shall have to see you in a day or two respecting a matter of that very kind, but to-day I am come on a different business. A gentleman of high rank has been missing for three weeks, or more; and his absence has given the greatest anxiety to these, his friends. He was known to have in his possession certain one-pound Bank of England notes, twenty in all, of which the numbers are known. We wish to know whether they have been paid in hither in the meantime, and if so, by whom."
"Have you any order from the deputy-governor?"
"Why, no, sir," responded the runner, insinuatingly. "I thought that would not be necessary between you and me."
"Well, well, I suppose you must have your own way, Townshend. You're a dangerous man to cross." And the old gentleman wagged his head in a blandly humorous manner, and made a little golden music with his bunch of seals. "The numbers of the notes are here, are they? From 82961 to 80. Very good." Here he rang a silver bell, which presently produced an official personage, something between a gentleman-usher and a pew-opener. "You may show this party over the cancelled department, James; and let Mr. Townshend investigate anything he pleases."
With a not over-courteous nod, the old gentleman resumed his study of a certain enormous volume, that looked, said Marmaduke, like the quarto edition of Chaucer, but which, it is reasonable to conclude, was something else. We were straightway conducted through several vast and echoing chambers, into a spacious fire-proof vault, where the notes that had been paid into the Bank awaited the periodical cremation.
"A week later, and we might not have been in time," remarked the Bow Street runner, "since every bank-note is burned within a month of its having found its way home again. If Sir Massingberd has come to a violent end, and been robbed of his money, we shall probably find it all here, as those who despoiled him would be anxious to get the notes changed at once." Our guide led the way to a certain department of the chamber, with the same accuracy which a student would evince with respect to a shelf in his own library, and took up in his hand a bundle of one-pound notes; they were for the most part very dirty and greasy, but he separated one from the other with a surprising ease and celerity, reading out the numbers as he did so. "82900, 1, 2, 3—now we are getting near it," observed the official. "Let us see, 951, is it not?"
"82961," gasped I, "and the next nineteen." I could scarcely frame the words, so great was my excitement. Marmaduke's eyes gleamed with anxiety and impatience; and even Mr. Gerard held his breath, while the clerk continued, in a dry, mechanical tone:
"51, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 wanting—7, 8, 9 all wanting. 82960—-here you have it; 61 wanting; 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9. There are none of them here. Stop a bit. 82977—that's one, isn't it?"
"Yes," cried I, "that's one. Pray, let me look at it."
"Certainly not, sir," responded the official, severely. "With regard to Mr. Townshend, I have my orders, but as respects him only."
"Perfectly right," remarked the Bow Street runner, approvingly. "Then please to give it to me, my man. Are there any more?"
"Yes, there are—78, 79, 80."
"Good. That is four in all, then." The detective took them up, and showed them to me: of course, I could not identify them; but still I felt some awe to think what hands—hands imbued with blood, perchance—those notes might have passed through since I had seen Sir Massingberd thrust them into his pocket.
"I cannot carry these away with me, my good friend, I suppose?" inquired Mr. Townshend, persuasively.
"By no manner of means, Mr. Runner," replied the guardian of these unctuous treasures, with dignity. "His Majesty himself would never be so mad as to ask such a thing. A written order from the governor himself would not permit you to do it."
"Very good, sir; then we won't trouble the governor to write one," returned the detective, dryly. "What I must know, however—permission or no permission—is this: by whose hand were these sweet-smelling and precious articles paid into the Bank of England?"
It would have been amusing, under less anxious circumstances, to have watched the demeanour of these two personages, each jealous of the dignity of those by whom he was employed, and neither in the least disposed to surrender one tittle of his delegated authority.
"That information will, no doubt, be supplied to you," replied the official, stiffly, "if it is thought right—and not otherwise. Follow me, gentlemen, if you please, and I will direct you to the office where such an application may be made."
This we did; and I am bound to say, met with very great civility from the superintendent of the department in question. In spite of the admirable and systematic manner in which the huge establishment was carried on, it was not easy, and in many cases would have been impossible, to discover what individual had paid in any particular note; but every pains and trouble were taken in our behalf, to effect this. Out of the four notes, only one, No. 82979, could be identified as having been received from any particular person—one Mr. Worrall, a silk-merchant in the City. Having expressed our warmest thanks to the authorities, we immediately called a coach, and started off to this gentleman's warehouse. We were so fortunate as to find him in, although he was just upon the point of setting forth to his private residence. Upon an examination of his books, we discovered no record of the bank-note about which we were concerned; still, he frankly owned to us that such memoranda were not kept with excessive accuracy. "It is possible yet that the people at the Bank may have been correct," observed he. "You had better return there; and since the matter is one of life and death, I do not mind confiding to you, that if that note has passed through our hands at all, it will have the letter W, in red, upon the back of it; it is very small, but still can be deciphered without a magnifying-glass."
"There was no mark," observed I, "upon any of the notes I saw."
"Therewasa mark," remarked the Bow Street runner, reflectively; and I am pretty sure it was upon this very note.—"It is no wonder that you did not see it, young gentleman, since your livelihood does not depend, as mine does, upon keeping my eyes about me. The mark in question was also almost obliterated by the red "Cancelled" which the Bank had placed upon the note; but as far as I could make it out, it was the letter O."
"That is the private mark of the Metropolitan Oil Company," exclaimed Mr. Worrall, without hesitation. "Although, indeed, because I have told my own secrets, I am not sure that I am justified in revealing those of other people. Their offices are in the very next street to this."
Off we started like hounds, who, after, a check, have once more struck the scent. Business in the City had by this time greatly diminished, and many of the shops were closed; but the Oil Company's emporium, as behoved it, was lighted up from cellar to garret, to give assurance to the world that what they sold could turn night, and even London fog, into day. Notwithstanding the extreme luminosity of the premises, we found the accounts of the establishment, however, rather opaque and complicated; and although nothing could exceed the pains which the clerks put themselves to upon our account, it was several hours before No. 82979 could be identified, both as respected its incoming and outgoing. Finally, however, we gleaned the certain information that the note in question had been received only a day or two previously by the Oil Company from a Mr. Vanderseld, the skipper of a foreign vessel, then lying in the port of London, but which, he had informed them, was to sail immediately. He had bought a small quantity of oil for his cabin lamps, and taken it with him, but had ordered a large supply to be sent to his address in Hamburg, and with this address we were made acquainted.
"Well, Mr. Townshend," quoth Mr. Harvey Gerard, as we rolled homewards in a hackney-coach, after seven hours of this man-hunting, "what think you that this news portends? Is the game still afoot, or is it only dead game—quarry?"
"I can speak with no sort of certainty yet," replied the Bow Street runner; "but next to all the notes having been paid into the Bank on the 17th or so—which, as I told you, would have almost indicated Sir Massingberd's murder and robbery, without any doubt—I know of no worse tidings than this, of their having come from Hamburg. There's a regular agency abroad, and particularly in that town, for the sale of Bank of England notes dishonestly come by. If a thief cannot get to the Bank immediately, to turn his plunder into gold, he sends it across the water; and then it comes back to us at home, through honest hands enough. We must communicate, of course, with Vanderseld; but the probability is that he will be unable to give us any information. These sea-fellows take account of nothing except what concerns their own trade. He may remember the quarter that the wind was blowing from upon the day he had the note, to a nicety; but he won't have a notion, bless you, as to who paid it him. No—it's the worst sign yet, to my mind, that that 'ere note has come through foreign hands. But don't you be down-hearted, my young gentleman," added the Bow Street runner, addressing himself to Marmaduke, who looked very fagged and anxious; "I'll find your respected uncle, mind you, let him be where he will; and if he's dead, why, you shall see his corpse, though I have to dig it up with my finger-nails." With which comforting statement we had, for that evening, to be content.
Having written to Mr. Vanderseld of Hamburg, there was nothing, pending the reception of his reply, for even Mr. Townshend to do beyond his favourite occupation of keeping his eyes open. We advertised, however, in the "Morning Chronicle" (a print that at that time was far from looking forward, to death from want of circulation, and the having its eyes closed by a penny piece), in the "Times," and in the "Sun," and offered a reward of one hundred guineas for tidings of the missing baronet; nor, in spite of the Bow Street Runner's depreciating remarks upon this point, were our efforts in that direction wholly thrown away. A full description of Sir Massingberd had appeared in the above newspapers for ten successive days, and on the eleventh, the following information came of it. We were all breakfasting in Harley Street, Mr. Long having come up from Fairburn the previous day, when the butler informed us that there was a man waiting in the hall, who wished to see "H.G.," who had put a certain advertisement into the "Sun" newspaper. "Show him in here at once, George," quoth Mr. Gerard, rubbing his hands. "How pleased I shall be if we learn what we wish to know, after all, without any help from Bow Street. I beg you will take a chair, sir." These last words were addressed to a very respectable-looking person, whom the servant had ushered in, and who bowed to us in a very decorous and unassuming fashion. He was attired in half-mourning, and carried a little black leather bag and an umbrella—the latter a less common companion in these days than a cane is now—as though he had just come off a journey.
"I have called, gentlemen," said he, "simply in consequence of seeing a notice respecting the disappearance of a certain individual of whose whereabouts I am in a position to inform you."
"Is Sir Massingberd Heath alive, sir?" gasped Marmaduke.
"Heaven be praised, heis, sir," responded the stranger, fervently.
"Umph," ejaculated Mr. Gerard, with less piety.
Mr. Long coughed behind his fingers, but otherwise kept a discreet silence.
"You know him, do you, sir?" inquired our host.
"I know him well enough by sight, if, at least, your advertised description of his personal appearance is accurate," resumed our visitor. "His height, his beard, the curious indentation upon his forehead, are all characteristic of the man whom I saw last night, and whom I have seen every day for weeks. He is living under the name of Daneton, at Nutgall, a village in Cambridgeshire, near which I reside. I have not the slightest doubt whatever of his identity. As for knowing him, except by sight, however, I cannot say that I do. Without meaning offence, or wishing to hurt the feelings of relations, I may observe that his mode of life is scarcely one to make acquaintance with him advantageous. If I may speak without reserve upon the matter, I should state that he drank considerably, to the extent, indeed, the landlord of the inn has informed me, of, at least, a bottle and a half of French brandyper diem."
"Thatmustbe my uncle," observed Marmaduke, naïvely.
"He is so, sir, without a doubt," continued the stranger. "I do not seek for any pecuniary reward; but having seen your advertisement, I thought it my duty to come up hither, and relieve the feelings of anxious relatives."
Here the door opened, and Mr. Townshend walked in unannounced, as it was his custom to do. Merely nodding to us all, as though he was an inmate of the house, he sat down at the table with his back to the visitor, and helped himself to a roll and butter.
Mr. Gerard explained briefly the stranger's errand to the officer of justice, and then observed, "Are we to understand, then, that you have been so good as to come all the way from Nutgall hither, expressly to give us this information?"
"No, sir," responded the man with frankness; "I should deceive you if I were to say that much. I have business in the City to-day, and arrived so far by coach; I came on hither, merely a few miles beyond my mark; that is all for which you are indebted to me."
"That is a great deal," observed Mr. Long, warmly. "We take it very kindly that you should have done so much."
"I thought it only my duty, sir," replied the visitor, modestly. "The trouble I do not take into account."
"What a pity the gentleman did not think of writing by the post," observed Mr. Townshend, still proceeding with his breakfast; "that would have saved him this long expedition, and us many days of anxiety."
"That is very true," returned the stranger; "but the fact is, one does not always like to answer advertisements in that way. How did I know who 'H.G.' was? I thought also that a personal interview would be more satisfactory. I am a poor man, but I did not grudge the chance of losing an hour or two on an errand of charity."
"You are very good," answered Marmaduke, gloomily.
"And you must, please, permit us," added Mr. Long, taking out his purse, "to at least reimburse you for that loss of time."
"It seems to me," observed Mr. Townshend, speaking with his mouth full, "that this gentleman is about to be rather hardly dealt by. It is true that a guinea, or even half a one, may repay him for his lost time; but if his intelligence respecting Sir Massingberd Heath turns out to be such as he represents it, he will be entitled to the hundred guineas reward."
"I never thought of that," observed Mr. Long, returning his purse to his pocket not without a blush. "I hope, sir, that you will acquit me of any sordid design in what I proposed to do."
"Most certainly, sir," returned the stranger, with animation; "and indeed your views, as you just expressed them, are quite in accordance with my own. I have no wish whatever for the reward in question; to have done my duty is, I hope, a sufficient recompense for me. On the other hand, I cannot well afford to lose these two or three hours which have been expended in your service. A couple of guineas would quite repay me for this, and even leave the obligation upon my side."
There was a silence for a little, during which Mr. Long gazed inquiringly at Mr. Gerard, and he, in his turn, looked towards Mr. Townshend; then, as though the back of that gentleman's head had been cognizant that counsel was demanded of it, the Bow Street runner spoke as follows:
"It would be nothing less than a fraud, in my opinion, if this good gentleman's generosity is taken advantage of in the way he suggests. If the management of this business is to be in my hands, I should say let us behave with rectitude at least, if not with liberality. The hundred guineas are fairly his, if he is correct in what he has told us; whereas, if he isnotcorrect—since no mistake can have occurred in the matter, by his own showing—why, this is merely an attempt to extort money under false pretences."
"Really, Mr. Townshend," cried my tutor, starting to his feet, "I think your profession of thief-catching makes you very unscrupulous in your imputations."
For my own part, I felt excessively indignant too; and so, I think, would Marmaduke have done, had he not been preoccupied with his own thoughts. Lucy blushed, and cast down her eyes. Her father quietly observed, "Mr. Townshend may have been somewhat plain-spoken, but what he has said is common sense. If you will be good enough to leave your address at Nutgall with us, sir, we shall communicate with you as soon as we have convinced ourselves of the truth of your suspicions; and then we shall not only have compensation but apologies to offer you."
"Very good, sir," rejoined the visitor coolly. "My address is upon that card. If I had known the sort of reception that awaited me here, I should not perhaps have been so anxious to do my duty. Gentlemen, I wish you good-day. I am sorry to have interrupted your repast."
"Don't mention it, my good sir," observed the Bow Street runner, as he disposed of his third slice of ham. "I have treated you as no stranger, I assure you."
To this sarcasm the visitor made no reply, but bowing to the rest of the company, was about to withdraw with polite severity, when Mr. Long stepped forward, and took him by the hand. "I believe you are a kindly-hearted man," cried he, "who has been grievously wronged by those whom you have attempted to benefit; but in any case, it cannot do you any harm to have shaken hands with an honest man, and one who is a humble minister of the gospel."
I could have jumped up and shaken hands with the stranger also, but a false shame prevented me. I thought that Townshend was only waiting for the poor fellow to go to become contemptuously cynical upon those who had shown any belief in him. The Bow Street runner, however, said never a word, but proceeded with his interminable breakfast.
Mr. Long was speechless with indignation. I saw Lucy Gerard cast an approving glance at my excellent tutor, and then an imploring one towards her father, who was biting his lips, as if to restrain his laughter.
At last, the rector broke silence. "I gather from what you have stated, Mr. Townshend, that you will scarcely consider it worth while to go down to Nutgall, or make any further inquiry into the circumstances of which you have just heard."
"It will certainly not be worthmywhile," returned the Bow Street runner curtly.
"Then I shall go down into Cambridgeshire myself," observed my tutor.
"Very good, sir. If time were less valuable to me, it would give me a great deal of pleasure to accompany you."
"My dear Peter," remarked my tutor, taking no notice of this wicked banter, "what do you say to coming with me?"
Even if I had been less disposed to do this than I was, I should still have readily consented to be the rector's travelling companion, for to refuse would have been to declare myself upon the enemy's side.
Accordingly, we set off upon this amateur detective expedition that very day; and on the following evening returned to Harley Street, having possessed ourselves of this important information: That benevolence is sometimes assumed for the base purpose of making a few shillings, and that advertisements are occasionally taken advantage of to the confusion of those who insert them. There was really a village called Nutgall; that was the one fact that the respectable person in half-mourning had brought along with his black leather bag and silk umbrella. There was not a public-house in the place where Sir Massingberd could have procured that bottle and a half of French brandy, had he been ever so disposed to dissipation, or even where we ourselves could get bread and cheese.
I verily believe, at the time of his disenchantment, my revered tutor would rather that the baronet had been really at Nutgall, and in the humour and condition to wage implacable war against poor Marmaduke, than have given such an opportunity of triumph to the man of Bow Street.
It was the Runner's custom to call at Mr. Gerard's every evening, no matter how often he might have been there during the day, in order to report progress, or that there was none; and when his knock at the front-door was heard, I perceived the rector wince upon his chair, like one who has been roasted a little already, and expects to be before the fire again immediately. Mr. Townshend, however, did not even so much as allude to our Will-o'-the-Wisp pursuit, cautioned, perhaps, not to do so by our host, or besought by his daughter, as I fancy. I do not think that the gravity of the intelligence he brought with him would, of itself, have blunted Mr. Townshend's appetite for acrimonious jesting, which was insatiable; and, indeed, the issues of Death or Life, and of Lost or Found, formed so much the ordinary business of his life, that any discovery, no matter of what nature, disturbed him as little as finding a gentleman with his head off disturbs the King of Dahomey.
"Well, Mr. Long, I am glad to see you back again," said he; "you are the very man I want. Does a farmer of the name of Arabel happen to reside in or near your parish?"
"He lives at Fairburn, within a stone's throw——"
"You will never make a Bow Street runner," interrupted Mr. Townshend, shaking his head.
"Well, then," continued my tutor good-humouredly, "if accuracy is so essential, I will say within half a mile and a few yards of my own Rectory."
"That is better, sir," returned the detective gravely. "And what sort of a character do you consider this man to bear?"
"Mr. Arabel is an honest man and a good churchman," replied the rector positively; "and but for a little occasional excess——"
"A drunkard, eh?" observed the Bow Street officer, briskly.
"No, certainly not, Mr. Townshend. He takes too much liquor now and then, I believe; but, I regret to say it, there are few more sober persons in my parish than Richard Arabel."
"Indeed," observed the other reflectively; "and yet he was the man who paid No. 82979 to Mr. Vanderseld, who trades in grain. I have heard from Hamburg, and have traced the note back again to Fairburn. I start for that place this evening by post-chaise; and if you or Mr. Meredith want a lift, I shall be happy to take one or both of you along with me."
This intelligence astonished us all immensely, and my tutor and myself, who knew the farmer, more than the rest. Such news would have been itself sufficient to have taken the rector home at once; besides, he was not only anxious, as usual, to get back to his own parish, but somewhat grudged our long-continued absence and intellectual holiday. There did not seem, too, to be any sort of necessity for my remaining longer with Marmaduke, who had found, it was impossible to doubt, a companion far more capable of upholding and encouraging him than I. The Bow Street runner's offer was therefore accepted by both of us; and in a few hours we took our seats in the same vehicle for Midshire. The chaise was as roomy a one as could be procured, but still, as there was but one seat, I had to assume the position of "bodkin" between my two companions. Their conversation was at first entirely confined to the subject of our expedition, namely, Farmer Arabel, concerning whom the detective expressed his suspicions the more darkly, the more extravagantly he was eulogized by Mr. Long. So vehement was their dispute, that I did not like to interrupt it for a considerable period, during which I endured great inconvenience from sitting upon a substance at once both sharp and hard, contained in one of Mr. Townshend's pockets. If he had been a lady of the present day, I should have known what it was, and perhaps have modestly suffered on without remonstrance; but since he was not of the softer sex, and certainly did not wear crinoline, I ventured to ask what it was which inflicted such torture.
"I beg your pardon, young gentleman," observed the Bow Street runner, removing the article objected to; "you was only sitting upon a pair of bracelets with which I may have perhaps to present Mr. Richard Arabel."
"You don't mean to say that you carry handcuffs in your pocket!" observed my tutor, with a shudder of disgust.
"I mean to say I do, and should as soon think of moving about without 'em, as without my hat and breeches," returned the runner, with a coolness that froze us both into a protracted silence.
The rain fell heavily, as the night drew on, and dashed against the streaming panes with fitful violence. The wind and wet poured in together whenever the window was put down to pay the postboys. I pitied the poor fellows, exposed to such weather, and was glad to see that Mr. Townshend paid them liberally. "There are no persons who are more open-handed travellers than your Bow Street runners," observed Mr. Long, when I remarked to him upon this circumstance in the absence of our friend, who had stepped out while we were changing horses somewhere, for brandy and water; "and the reason of their generosity is this, that other people have to pay for it." I had never heard my tutor utter so severe a speech, and I gathered from it that his indignation against our fellow-wayfarer was as poignant as ever; and yet within half an hour it was fated that all his resentment should be neutralized by gratitude, leaving a large margin of the latter sentiment over and above.
The next stage was over a desolate, treeless heath, where the elements had their own way against us more than ever, and our vehicle seemed actually to shrink and shudder from the force of their onslaught. All of a sudden, I was thrown forward against the opposite window by the stoppage of the postchaise. At first I thought a horse had fallen; but immediately afterwards the window next to Mr. Long was violently pushed down from without, and a something black and small, which was a pistol, was protruded into the carriage.
"Your money or your life! Come, be quick, curse you, and don't keep gentlemen waiting in the wet," said a rough voice. "Be quick, I say." A volley of oaths accompanied this unpleasant request.
"I have only a couple of guineas with me," cried Mr. Long, quietly, "and you will not make it more by swearing."
"That's a lie!" remarked the voice very uncivilly, "for you're a parson, you are, and they've always money enough. Ain't he a parson, postboy? Didn't you say so, when. I asked you who you'd got inside there? Come here, won't yer?"
At these words, one of the wretched postboys, shivering and dripping, came forward to the window, and stammered out, "Really, gentlemen, I couldn't help it; he swore as he'd blow out my brains, if I didn't tell; so I told him as one was a clergyman, I believed, but the other two——"
"My name is Townshend," interrupted the Bow Street runner, with great distinctness. "If you had happened to know that, boy, and had informed these gentlemen of the circumstance, I am sure they would never have stopped us, unless, indeed, it was to inquire after my health." At the same time he thrust his broad face out of the window into the light thrown by a lantern carried by one of the robbers; for there were several dim forms on horseback, as I could now perceive. If a blunderbuss had been exhibited instead, it could not have caused one-half of the panic which the sight of his features occasioned; each robber turned his back at once, as though to prevent the recognition being mutual, and spurred away into the darkness, leaving nothing but the dismounted postboy to evidence that they were not mere phantoms of the night.
"Get to your saddle, and make you up for lost time," said the Runner sternly; and when this mandate had been obeyed, and we were once more on our way, he added, "That postboy sold us; I saw him whispering to a man on horseback in the inn-yard while I was taking some drink in the back-parlour; he was never asked any question when the chaise was stopped. That was Jerry Atherton, too, who put his shooting-iron in at that window; I should know his voice though a mob were shouting with him. A man who wishes to do something of which the consequences are so very serious, should not only wear crape, but keep his mouth shut."
"We have to thank you very much, I am sure," said Mr. Long. "It was a great providence for us that you were with us."
"Very likely, sir," returned Mr. Townshend, grimly; "but not for Jerry, nor yet for the postboy."
I am now drawing near the end of this strange eventful narrative, and my readers will learn in a chapter or two what has in reality become of Lost Sir Massingberd: whether he lies dead in Fairburn Chase, notwithstanding that strict search of ours, or somewhere else, conveyed by foemen's hands; or if, alive, he keeps in hiding nigh, for some evil end, or has even left British soil for a time, to return, according to his threat, on a day when he is least expected. If his real whereabouts and true position have been guessed, then is he who hit upon it a wiser man, not only than I was at that time (which might easily be), but wiser than that genius of Bow Street, whose eye was reported to see further into very millstones than any man alive of his time. He arrived at Fairburn with his handcuffs and his suspicions, and would, I verily believe, have made me his stalking-horse whereby to come down upon the guileless Farmer Arabel, and extract what might be tantamount to a confession.
"You know him, Mr. Meredith," he had observed to me in his frankest tone, as we walked out together after breakfast, on the morning after our arrival; "and I look to you to make the matter easy. We will step over to the farm at once, if you please, and have a glass of home-brewed with the good man, when, I dare say, he will tell us what we want to know, and exculpate himself at the same time."
"Mr. Townshend," I replied, gravely, "I have been made a catspaw of already, within a few weeks, and until the remembrance of that event has worn off very considerably, I shall not act that part again."
"Very good, sir," responded the Runner, cheerfully. "I only thought, that being a well-wisher to the person in question, you might have made the thing less unpleasant for him. If you went with me, introducing me as a gentleman from London, anxious to see good farming, for instance—that 'ud tickle him—I could bring the subject of the note into conversation; then, if he explained to my satisfaction, as he will doubtless be able to do, how he got possession of it, it will not be necessary to inquire further. He need never know as a police-officer had been down here with darbies in his pocket, upon the chance of having to fit them on his wrists upon the charge of Wilful Murder."
"There is certainly something in that," said I, musingly.
"There is everything in it," returned Mr. Townshend, stepping carelessly over the style, on the other side of which ran the pathway to Mr. Arabel's residence. "The idea of this man's guilt being, as you say, quite preposterous, it would only be a kindness on your part to spare his feelings. That's a fine stout old fellow looking at those men at work in yonder field, a sort of man that carries his years better than one sees people do in London: I should say, now, that might be the farmer himself."
"Really," said I, stopping short, "I think you had better do this business of yours alone, Mr. Townshend. I have eaten and drunk in Mr. Arabel's house, and to be concerned in any such errand as this seems but a poor return for his hospitality."
"Ah, itishim, is it? Very good, sir. Well, you may just please yourself as to accompanying me now. When I have once set eyes on my man it is not my habit to lose sight of him. Still, you might have made it easier—forhim, that is. It is no matter to me whether the thing is done soft or hard." And the Bow Street runner stepped along as he spoke, like a diligent man who sees his work cut out before him.
After a moment's indecision, I followed upon Mr. Townshend's heels.
"That's right, young gentleman," observed he, approvingly, but without even turning his head. "Those is turnips, I suppose, and very good they are with capers and a leg of mutton; as to wheat, I am not acquainted with it, at least, so as to know it from oats and barley, unless when it's in ear. Agriculture is one of them things to which I have not yet given my attention; but I means to do so, and I have come here for wrinkles concerning it, remember that, if you please."
"Very well," said I, sheepishly, for I was obliged to confess to myself that Mr. Townshend had got the better of me; and in a few more strides we had got within earshot of the farmer. This was not indeed very near, but Mr. Arabel had excellent lungs, and bade me welcome as soon as he had recognized me.
"Glad to see you, as likewise any friend of yours, Master Meredith. So the rector is back, I hear; and the wise folks in London can tell no more what has become of Sir Massingberd than we poor folks."
"No, Mr. Arabel, they cannot; on the contrary," said I, determined that there should be no hypocrisy upon my part at least, "here is one of them, who is come down to Fairburn for information, and relies upon you to give it to him too."
"I should like to know when you saw Sir Massingberd last," observed the Bow Street runner quietly, "and under what circumstances?"
"That is soon told," returned the farmer simply; "but perhaps you would rather step in out of the cold, and take a drop of something while you hear it."
"No, I thank you," said I, firmly, determined that the laws of hospitality should not be thus infringed with my consent, "I must return to the Rectory at once."
"Then I will walk with you," observed the farmer civilly, "and tell you all I know in a few words. The fact is, the squire and I had not been on good terms for a length of time before his disappearance. He was a bad landlord, and did not know how to behave to a tenant as would have done his duty by him. He wanted his own rent paid to the day, and never had to ask it from me, for that matter; but when he owed a little money himself, it was dreadful hard to get it out of him. There happened to be something due from him to me—it was a small matter, made up of little things—corn for that horse he bought for Master Marmaduke, among others, but the thing had been owing for a year or more. I had not deducted it from the rent, and therefore he ought to have been the readier to pay it; but he was not; and at last I cut up rough about it, and went to the Hall myself on the 15th of last month, and then we rather fell out together, the Squire and me."
"You quarrelled, did you?" remarked Mr. Townshend, carelessly.
"Well, yes, we did quarrel; leastways,Idid. Sir Massingberd always quarrelled with whoever asked him for payment, so that was nothing. I said that I would not leave the house without the money; but at last I did leave upon his solemn promise to pay me the next day, that was the very day of his disappearance, and he did pay me, with as many oaths as one-pound notes into the bargain."
"He paid you these on the 15th of November, then," observed the detective.
"On the 16th," replied the farmer. "I've got a memorandum of it in my pocket-book; here it is, and the number of the notes 82977 to 80; there was four in all."
"And those notes you sent to your London agent along with more, and you got some foreign stuff back from Hamburg in exchange for them."
"And how the deuce come you to know that?" exclaimed the farmer in extreme astonishment.
"Well, it is my business to know a good many things," returned the Bow Street runner, getting over the stile rather sulkily, for he was well aware by this time that there would be no employment for his favourite bracelets.
"Well, that may be your friend's business," quoth Mr. Arabel, looking after his retreating form, "but I'm gormed if he looks like it. I should have said he was an individual in the same line as myself, only fatter, and though I say it as shouldn't say it, a sight more foolish."
"Nay," said I, "he is not a foolish man, Mr. Arabel, far from it; although I think he has come down to Fairburn upon a fool's errand."
I have said that I am approaching the conclusion of this my story, and so in truth I am, so far as the readers thereof are concerned in it. They will soon be put in possession of its secret, and close this volume, not altogether without regret, as I hope. But for me, and those who played their parts in this drama of mystery, months and years went by without the least clue to its solution. Fairburn Hall remained without a master, although not untenanted. The same servants occupied it as before, and expected, although with less and less of certainty, that the Squire would presently return and claim his own again. The principal rooms, as was stated, had been locked up and sealed ever since his disappearance, and the very neighbourhood of their doors had begun to be avoided after dark. Noises were affirmed to have been heard in them, both canine and human—doubtless the ghostly talk held between Grimjaw and Sir Massingberd, who had now no longer any reason for silence concerning that evil deed in which they had been concerned together so long ago. The baronet's voice was also heard in the Park and Chase, especially upon windy nights, cursing and threatening in a very vehement and life-like manner, so that his preserves were almost as well protected by the terror of his absence as they had been by that of his presence. Reckless, indeed, must have been the poacher who wired hares or slaughtered pheasants in the Home Spinney, where the dread Sir Massingberd must have met with his end, or been spirited away, no man knew how or whither. Had it not been for this superstitious awe, Oliver Bradford would have found it difficult to guard his master's game, for the old keeper, crippled with age and rheumatism, could no longer watch o' nights himself, nor could he easily induce his subordinates to do so, unless in pairs. They, too, had little liking to be alone in the Home Spinney after dusk, nor near the Wolsey Oak, which of late years had had certain portentous tenants in the shape of the two ravens, which were for ever flying to and fro between it and their lodging in the church tower. The old ancestral saying—
"Ill for Heaths when raven's croakBodeful comes from Wolsey's Oak"—
was remembered and repeated by the old folks of Fairburn to the rising generation with many a solemn head-shake and significant pursing of the lips. Yet, oddly enough, the general opinion, even of these ancient gossips, was, that Sir Massingberd was yet alive. The misfortune prophesied by the ravens was held to concern the family, or, in other words, young Marmaduke, rather than his uncle. If the behaviour of these intelligent birds proclaimed that the Squire was dead, they deserved rather to be held as doves of good tidings than what they were. No; Sir Massingberd was alive, and would turn up some day or other, wickeder than ever. His return was as confidently looked for by many of his vassals, as that of Barbarossa was wont to be.
This was not, of course, the case with reasonable persons, like Mr. Long, and, I may add, myself. When a twelvemonth had elapsed since his disappearance, we both entreated Marmaduke to come down to Fairburn, and take possession of what might fairly be considered his own. Mr. Gerard and Mr. Clint were equally anxious that he should do this, but all persuasion was unavailing. The most that could be extracted from him was the promise that, when he came of age, a year and a half hence, he would do as we pleased. It seemed to us, indeed, the height of improbability that his uncle should still be in the land of the living; it seemed so to the money-lenders, who showed themselves anxious to accommodate the young man with enormous loans at a very trifling rate of interest; but to the heir himself it by no means appeared so certain. There was something characteristic, he thought, of his terrible uncle in this mysterious withdrawal from human ken, with the fiendish object of throwing everything out of gear for years, and thus striking terror by his sudden reappearance. If he did reappear and found another—and that one his hated nephew—in the enjoyment of his property, how diabolical would be his wrath! There was often quite a sublimity of passion evinced by the old baronet upon very slight occasions; but all such displays, compared to what would happen in the case supposed, would have been but as a cavalry inspection at the Curragh to the Balaklava charge. Such were the thoughts, I am convinced, which actuated Marmaduke, although he did not express them. He confined himself to stating that he did not consider he had a right to take possession of Fairburn until the time he mentioned had elapsed (nor, indeed, was he legally entitled to do so for seven years), and I doubt if he would have given even that promise, had he not felt sure that some revelation would be made in the meantime.
But no such revelationwasmade, and the day of Marmaduke Heath's majority came round at last. Whether he would even then have put his purpose of coming down to Fairburn into effect, had it depended solely upon himself, I cannot say, but he had by that time other interests to consult beside his own. Marmaduke Heath and Lucy Gerard were man and wife; nor, if you had sought all England through, would you have chanced upon a nobler-looking couple. At that period, although it was not so afterwards, the dependence, the reliance, the looking up for comfort and for counsel, so natural and so endearing in wedded life, were upon the wrong side—upon Marmaduke's, not Lucy's. All that was done in respect to his affairs was done by her; he only thought about doing them, and resisted their being done until the very last, when, all other means having failed, her sweet voice was called in by the councillors for his good, and always succeeded. In one matter only had Marmaduke refused even to listen to her—he had insisted upon raising a very large sum upon his now excellent expectations, and settling it upon her before his marriage. In vain he had been assured that such a settlement was unnecessary, and the interest he would have to pay for the money borrowed, absolutely thrown away. The young man had his way in this; and on the day after the execution of the deed in question they were married. I had determined within myself not to be present at that wedding, in spite of a very pressing invitation, and although Mr. Long himself attended it.
"What, not go to see Marmaduke married?" cried my tutor, when I told him of this intention. I call him still by that name, although he was at this time merely my host, with whom I was stopping during one of my Oxford vacations. "Why, Meredith, you astonish me beyond measure. I am sure that neither of them will think I have rightly married them, unless you are there to be bridegroom's man. Why, Lucy Gerard loves you, Peter, almost as much as she does Marmaduke himself; while Mr. Gerard, between you and me, would, I think, have preferred——" Then I broke down all of a sudden, and laid my face between my hands upon the table, and sobbed like a child.
"Peter, Peter, my dear boy," exclaimed the Rector, laying his fingers—ah, so pitifully—upon my head; "I had not dreamed of this. Poor lad, poor lad, God comfort you and strengthen you; I feel for you as though you were my very own son. What blind worms must we have been not to have seen this before; or, rather, how bravely must you have hidden it from us all! She doesn't know it, does she? I trust not. Then let her never know it, Peter. I do not speak of others, for your feelings deserve to be considered as much, and more, dear lad. But, oh, think of hers. What bitterness will mingle with her cup of happiness upon that day, when she feels that you are absent from such a cause—for she will guess the cause at once, Peter."
"I will be ill," groaned I. "Heaven knows that I shall feel ill enough, and that shall be my excuse."
"And do you think Marmaduke would marry, knowing that his best friend lies ill and alone here? He would never do that. They would feel, I hope, too, that if it were so, I should not have left you. No, Peter; you have been very strong hitherto—be strong unto the end. Let her never know that you have suffered and are suffering now for her sweet sake."
"I will do what you think is best, dear old friend," said I; "but please to leave me by myself a little just now."
And he did so; and I battled with my own heart and subdued it, and when Marmaduke and Lucy were married I was present.
"My dear Peter, your hand is as cold as a stone!" exclaimed the bridegroom, when he wished me "Good-bye" that day. But Lucy said nothing, save "Good-bye, Peter;" and even to that I could not reply. They were very happy, those two, as indeed they deserved to be. Whatever was wanting at that time in him, her good sense supplied; while in her, neither then nor afterwards, was there anything wanting. She had sympathized as much as lay in her power in the tastes and opinions of her father; she had had a bringing-up which, in these days, would have at least resulted in what is called a strong-minded woman, rather as opposed to a gentle one. This could scarcely, indeed, have been the case with Lucy, but her marriage with Marmaduke made it impossible. Her mind had heretofore been, as it were, all orchard, bringing forth fine and vigorous fruit; a portion of it now became a garden, producing flowers dainty and rare. Her teacher being also her lover, it was no wonder that her progress was rapid; and it is probable that the young student had never found his studies so sweet as when communicating them to such a pupil. From her father, she had learned philosophy; from her husband, how to appreciate all that was beautiful in Nature and touching in Song. As for her politics, Marmaduke was infinitely more solicitous to imbue her with correct views respecting the poets, which, perhaps, was fortunate enough. She would never have admitted, even to please him, that her beloved, father was wrong, or even extreme in his views of government; and, in truth, those opinions of hers—so enthusiastic, so trustful, and founded upon the mistake of believing all her fellow-creatures as guileless as herself—gave her conversation, an added charm. To hear her talk of wrongs and rights, with heightened colour and earnest eyes—no matter how elevated the rank of the person addressed, nor how nearly connected with the very executive of whose acts she was complaining—was enough to make a bishop exchange his mitre for a white hat, and adopt the Thirty-nine Articles recommended by Mr. Hone.
"Judge Jeffreys himself could never have had the heart to condemn my Lucy for a rebel," Mr. Harvey Gerard was wont to say; "although," he would add, with a cynical twinkle in his eye, "I would not trust my Lord Ellenborough."
Mr. Long and myself were both in Harley Street upon the day when Marmaduke came of age; and after dinner, Mr. Clint made a little speech, not without connivance, I think, beforehand with others of the party. He observed, that gratifying as was the occasion in question in all respects, it was most satisfactory to himself, as concluding the period which Marmaduke had assigned as the limit of his abstaining from taking his rightful position in the world. He ventured to say this much upon his own part, as having been connected with the Heath family for a lengthened period; but he would also say for others—what he knew they would be backward to say for themselves—that his young friend owed it to them also not to delay the matter any longer.
Marmaduke's face expressed more painful agitation than I had seen it wear for months. "I suppose you are right, Mr. Clint," he returned; "and, at all events, I will be as good as my word, which I passed to Mrs. Heath," and he looked at his wife, as though he would have appealed to her to release him from that promise.
"Of course, I am right, sir," returned the lawyer quickly; "but you are wrong and very uncivil not to give your wife her proper title. Lady Heath, I beg to drink your very good health; Sir Marmaduke, here's to your better manners;" and the lawyer emptied his glass, and filled it up again, in case any other excuse should arise for the drinking of good liquor.
"Lady Heath's health; her husband's better manners," echoed laughingly round the table.
Marmaduke nerved himself by a strong effort, and replied to this toast with feeling and eloquence. He promised to accede to the request made by Mr. Clint, and to that end would return with us to Fairburn on the next day but one to make his arrangements personally for coming to reside at the Hall. As for his not having assumed the title, he protested, amidst merriment, that he had not hitherto done so, solely out of deference to the feelings of his father-in-law, whom he had once heard describe a baronet as a something only not quite so bad as a lord.
We were all delighted not only with the intentions Marmaduke thus expressed, but with the cheerfulness and gaiety of his manner in speaking of them; and when the rest had retired for the night, and my old friend and I were in my room having that last chat by the midnight fire which is perhaps the zenith of human converse, as the curtain lecture is undoubtedly the nadir, I could not help congratulating him on his change of spirits. "That you are a happy man, I know," said I; "you would be ungrateful indeed if you were otherwise. But I cannot say how pleased I am to find that the good Genius, who has so blessed you in other respects, has exorcised this phantom fear of yours; that you no longer dread that childish bugbear, Sir Massingberd."
"Hush!" cried he, looking involuntarily over his shoulder; "do not mention that name, Peter. I would gladly give up house and land this moment, never to go back to Fairburn; I have a presentiment that evil will come of it. She would absolve me from my promise even now—Heaven bless her, as it must do, for she is of the angels!—but that there will be another soon whose interests must be looked to as well as our own. You will be godfather, dear Peter, will you not? Lucy and I both wish it. 'Let it be Peter's godchild, Marmaduke,' she said to me only yesterday, although I should not divulge these secrets to an old bachelor like you."
Of course, I promised readily enough, but long after he had bidden me good-night, I sat over the paling embers, thinking, thinking; and when every coal was charred, and the black bars cold that held them, I sat thinking still. My hopes, for a few fleeting hours, long ago, had been as bright and warm as they, and were now as dark—and dead.
Marmaduke Heath came down to Fairburn according to his promise, but it cost him a great effort. With every stage his spirits seemed to fall and fail; and when Mrs. Myrtle at last clasped him in her arms—for Master Marmaduke was ever a great favourite of hers, and the fact of his having grown up and got married weighed with her not a feather—his wan face was paler than when she had seen it last, notwithstanding its three years of happiness and freedom. It was Christmas-time; the Rectory was a bower of ivy and holly-berries; and just within the threshold, the locality which the good housekeeper had chosen for her embrace, hung a huge bough of mistletoe, the finest that could be found in all the Chase. In the spotless kitchen, so exquisitely clean that you might, as the phrase goes, "have eaten your dinner off the floor," if it had not happened to have been a sanded one, there were preparations for sumptuous feasting; a delightful fragrance, suggestive of mince-pies with plenty of citron, pervaded Mrs. Myrtle's private parlour, where the divine mysteries of Apicius were being celebrated. The little larder, cold and immaculate as a dead sucking-pig ready for the spit, was victualled with noble meats as for a siege; while monstrous pasties and plum-puddings, too many for the broad stone slabs, reposed upon the Dutch tiles that formed its carpet. It was not intended that the inhabitants of the Rectory should eat all the good things themselves; but it was a custom of Mr. Long, aided and abetted by Mrs. Myrtle, to keep open house for about a fortnight at this festive period, and to entertain certain worthy persons, who were old and indigent, in the sanded kitchen daily. Attempts to edify the poor in those days were not made so often as they are at present, but it was held essential by all good Christian country folk to keep Christmas as a feast, and to see that others kept it. I suppose Fairburn Hall was the only house in the county where that blessed time was ignored and taken no account of; Sir Massingberd had never suffered the slightest honour to be paid to it; and his worthy deputy andlocum-tenens, Richard Gilmore, treated it with the like contumely.
The change from the bright little Rectory, with all its hospitable preparations, to the gloomy grandeur of the masterless mansion, was very striking, when we three crossed the road next morning, to take the seals off, which Mr. Long had placed upon the principal rooms, and so, as it were, to break the blockade caused by the baronet's disappearance. The contrast began even with things without. Half one of the globes had been sliced from its pedestal on one side of the great iron gates; and in the very centre of the avenue, the grass grew long and rank. The sun-dial was cracked and gaped in zigzag, an emblem of the uncertainty that overhung the place. The heraldic beasts at the foot of the entrance-steps were much more mutilated than when I had seen them last, and had indeed only one stone fore-paw or claw between them. Disuse is sister to Abuse, but still how comes it that mere absence should beget, as it always does, such absolute Ruin? Had the Squire been at home the last three years, the globe upon the pedestal would have been whole, the dial flawless, the griffins with at least their larger limbs intact; and yet no man was ever seen to work this mischief. When the great door swung reluctantly back to admit the new possessor, he took my hand, and bade me Welcome, but his tone was far from gay. Every glance he cast around him evoked, I could see, some unpleasant association, and even, perhaps, a vague terror.
There is something uncanny in exploring any dwelling the rooms of which have been locked up and unvisited for years—places that have been once consecrated to humanity, but have afterwards been given up to Solitude and slow decay. Memories of their ancient inmates seem to hang gloomily about them, like the cobweb in their corners; they are eloquent of desertion and of death. The shriek of the mouse, and the singing of the blue fly in the pane, have perhaps alone been heard there in the interim; but there seem to have been other and ghostlier noises, which cease at our approach. Who knows what eerie deeds our sudden intrusion may have interrupted!
"What faces glimmered through the doors,What footsteps trod the upper floors,"
ere we broke in! The peculiar circumstances under which our search was made intensified these feelings in us three, and even Gilmore, who accompanied us, was affected by them.
"O'er all there hung the shadow of a fear;A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,And said, as plain as whisper in the ear,This place isworsethan haunted."
The library was the first room we entered, which, even in the palmiest days of Fairburn Hall had been a dreary room, because the least in use. Except Marmaduke himself, no one ever sat there; the wicked books, which were the only sort read and patronized by Sir Massingberd, were all in the Squire's private sitting-room, and the gaps in the shelves that lined the present apartment, revealed that the Heaths had laid in a considerable stock of them. Old Sir Wentworth, a miser in his old age, had been a dunce in his youth, and was once heard openly to regret that circumstance from the fact, that he was unable to peruse the loose continental literature which his ancestors had provided for his delectation, free of expense. In the rare cases when the Oak Parlour had not sufficient accommodation for the guests of the missing Squire, they had been wont to adjourn to the present apartment, to smoke and lounge through half the night; but it bore no trace of having been so used. Every chair and sofa were in their appointed place, as though they had grown up like trees through the dusty carpet. Upon the tables and mantelpieces, the dust had settled inches thick. The grate was laid ready for lighting; but over the coals and sticks hung a sort of mildew, that looked as if it would have defied a pine-torch to set light to it. These things we remarked gradually, one by one, for the butler had only opened the shutters of one window, and the extent of the apartment was prodigious. The shelves were filled almost entirely with quartos—books were not hand-books in those days—rich with plates, and "meadows of margin;" you could not have sent a child on an errand to bring one of them; if he had managed to extricate a tome at all by painfully loosening it at head and foot, it might have fallen out and brained him. A fourth of the entire stock was composed of books of Catholic theology. "Those," observed Mr. Long, "are the most valuable things in the library. Sir Nicholas is supposed to have won his bride by paying that costly tribute to her faith. The illuminations are most rare and splendid. Why, what is this, Gilmore? I can't get this volume down. It seems stuck to the others."
The butler grinned maliciously. "I think you will find them all like that, sir. There's nothing but the wood-backs left. The Squire disposed of these books soon after Mr. Marmaduke left, and got this imitation stuff put up instead."
Mr. Long broke out into wrathful indignation, but the young heir kept silence, only smiling bitterly.
"Perhaps he was afraid that their heterodoxy might do his nephew harm," remarked I, rather tickled, I confess, by this characteristic fraud.
"No, sir," replied Gilmore, drily; "he merely observed, that, being theological works, there was as much in them now as before."
"Impious wretch!" exclaimed the Rector. "See, he has bartered the Fathers of the Church for a set of empty backgammon boards, and lettered them with their venerable names."
"Here, however, is the Family Bible," said I; "he has not sold that."
The spider had spun his web across the sacred volume, but it opened readily enough at the only place, perhaps, into which its late owner had ever looked—the huge yellow fly-leaf, upon which were inscribed the names of the later generations of the Heaths; Sir Massingberd's birth in his father's own handwriting, and Sir Wentworth's death in that of his son's, and only too probably his murderer's. The autograph was bold and flaring, quite different from the crabbed hand of the parent, is which the names of Gilbert Heath and Marmaduke's mother were also written, as likewise that of Marmaduke himself. There was a little space beneath the last; and the young heir, looking over my shoulder, pointed to it, significantly; doubtless, it had been hoped by the last possessor of the volume that this might one day have been filled up by the date of his nephew's, demise.
We were about to leave the room, when Mr. Long suddenly exclaimed, "Nay, let us try the secret way. You told me, I remember, that you did not know of Jacob's ladder, Marmaduke. The spring lies in the index of Josephus, a wooden volume, which perhaps put this notion of wholesale 'dumbies' into Sir Massingberd's head." This practical satire upon the unpopularity of the Jewish historian was presently discovered, hidden away upon one of those ground-floor shelves, which, if the enthusiastic student investigates at all, it must be upon his knees. After a little manipulation, the spring obeyed, and with a surly creak, as if in protest, the whole compartment of shelves above moved slowly outward on some hidden hinge, and disclosed the narrow stairs that ended in the shepherdess of the state chamber. The steps were worm-eaten, and the wall on both sides hung with moth-devoured and ragged tapestry. Marmaduke shrank back, and gazed upon the aperture with abhorrence and dismay. To what vile purposes might it not have been used, besides that of attempting to overthrow a poor child's reason; nay, was it not possible that what we had sought, yet feared to find for so long, might be in this very place, where no eye could have looked or thought of looking! Might it not have hidden there, and been imprisoned alive in righteous retribution, by the very spring which had ministered to hate and cruelty? "I went up here," said Mr. Long, divining the young man's thoughts, "when I searched the house with Gilmore, and put on the seals. I think we should climb Jacob's ladder, Marmaduke; as you will make the Hall your home, it is well to leave no spot in it associated with any unpleasantness, unfamiliar." So saying, the rector led the way, and we all followed: there was some delay while he opened the door above, and certainly it was not a cheerful position for us in the meantime, cooped up in the darkness, with the arras touching us with its ghostly folds on either side the narrow way; but I think that my tutor's advice was good, and that his old pupil experienced a feeling of satisfaction when the thing was done. Once more we stood together in that state bedroom where Marmaduke had suffered such ghastly terrors when a boy.
"Shall I ever forget those nights!" muttered he with a shudder. "Can this room ever be otherwise than hateful to me! It was here, as I sat weak and ill in that arm-chair, that my uncle struck me for losing——. Stay, now I remember it all. Remove this skirting-board, Gilmore; take the poker; do not spare the rotting wood. Ay, there it is." A yellow something lay amid the dust and rubbish, which on inspection turned out to be a gold pencil-case. "That was lent me by my uncle, a dozen years ago," said Marmaduke musing, "and he chastised me for losing it. It had rolled under yonder skirting-board, but I was too terrified at the time to recollect the fact. I wish I could forget things now. Undo the other shutters, Richard. Light, more light."
And thus we let the blessed sunlight into all the shuttered rooms. It glanced in galleries on knights in all their panoply, and smote the steel upon their visors, as though the flame of battle once more darted from their eyes; it made their tattered pennons blush again, and tipped their rusted spears with sudden fire. It flashed upon the stern ancestral faces on the wall, and through their dust evoked a look of life. That winter sun had not the power to warm, however; all things struck cold. The dark oak-pannels chilled us from their waveless depths; the cumbrous organ, carved with fruit and flowers, kept frozen silence; while in the chapel, Sir Nicholas in stone and mildew struck to our marrow. His lady opposite, upon her knees in her "devout oratory," gave us cold looks, as though we had interrupted her devotions. In vain the painted windows, high and triple arched, cast down "warm gules" upon her marble breast, and filled the sacred place with glorious hues. In vain the gilded scroll, "Praie for hys Soule," appealed to us through dust and damp, and his memorial pane blushed scarlet in its endeavour to perpetuate his infamy. All things seemed cursed in that accursed house; the hallowed places desecrated, and those where hospitality and good fellowship were meant to reign, solitary and barren. There was one apartment still which had been left by common consent to be visited last of all—Sir Massingberd's oak parlour. There he might have been said to have lived, for it was the only sitting-room he used from early morning—and he was no great sleeper—until very late at night. There, as we have seen, he had held his audiences, and dined, and sometimes slept after any deep debauch. By all the household, except Gilmore, it was held as a Bluebeard's chamber, and would not have been entered upon any account, even had it not had the rector's seal upon it. It was here that the lost baronet had passed his last hours within the house, and thither he had intended to return—if he had meant to return at all—before he retired for the night. The butler entered it first, and let the light in; then Mr. Long, then I, then Marmaduke. Although I had been there once before, I scarcely recognized the place, for upon that occasion the squire himself had occupied it, and I had had no eyes except for him. It was doubtless a comfortable room enough when the fire was shining on its polished walls, and the red curtains snugly drawn over the windows; but with that thin December light—for it was afternoon by this time—creeping coldly in upon the three-year-old ashes of the burnt-out fire, and on the panels, smeared with spots and stains, it was very cheerless:
"There was no sign of life, save one:The subtle spider, that from overheadHung like a spy on human guilt and error,Suddenly turned, and up its slender thread,Ran with a nimble terror."
This insect had woven its webs in every nook and cranny, in readiness for the prey that rarely came, and the slanting pillars of motes and light that streamed into the gloom seemed almost as palpable as they. A door led up by three or four steps into Sir Massingberd's bedroom—a bare unfurnished place, where skins of wild animals, instead of carpet, were spread for a banquet to the moth. His shooting-boots stood up still stiff and strong beside the empty grate, although they were white with mildew, and his night-gear lay folded upon the rotting pillow, in preparation for his rest. The sitting-room, however, bore the more striking vestiges of its late proprietor.
The huge arm-chair stood a little aside from the fender, where he had pushed it back as he rose to leave the room; and the book which he had been reading lay open with its face to the table, ready for him to resume its perusal upon his return. A spirit-case with the stoppers in, the couple of cigars which it had been Sir Massingberd's invariable custom to smoke before going to bed, and a few fly-blown lumps of sugar, were set out in hideous travesty of creature-comfort. The rector took up the volume, and with one involuntary glance towards the fire-place, tore the wrinkled and blue-spotted leaves to fragments. A scurrilous French novel had engaged the last hours of the wretched old man, ere he went forth—to his doom.