'You would, Mr. Phillipson? Do you say that sincerely? The widow and the orphan have not had much of your sympathy and care hitherto; and the book which I have so little heeded says, "Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots?"'
'If I give you my oath, Stauncy, what can I do more? That's not a thing to wriggle out of. You might put my life in the scale against it.'
The bolt grated harshly in the lock as the merchant uttered these words, and the turnkey apprised them that the interview must terminate. Bidding the prisoner farewell, Mr. Phillipson hastily retreated from a place where all the while he seemed to hear accusing voices—endeavouring to feel self-satisfied, but in reality self-condemned; and as the door closed once more on the captain, the prisoner stretched himself again on the hard mattress, to weigh the chances that favoured him and the worth of the merchant's promise.
It required some effort on the part of Mr. Phillipson to secure the admission of a second visitor on the same day; but, having golden methods at hand when others failed, he was seldom baulked in his purpose. With a show of sympathy and concern, he accompanied the captain's wife in a hackney coach to the jail gate, and consigned her to the guidance of the porter. With beating heart and trembling steps she followed her conductor; but the dread that stole over her spirit as she crossed the yard, with its repulsive signals of branded character and penal suffering, and the thought of meeting her loved and trusted one in a prison cell, so overcame her that she sought the support of the mechanical official, who displayed an amount of considerate sympathy unusual in men of his calling.
The obscure and dripping passage was traversed; the ponderous door was thrown open; and the broken-hearted wife fell into the arms of her wretched, repentant husband.
It is a blessed thing that the sorrows of our nature have outlets by which to relieve themselves. Pent up within the bosom, recoiling and reacting, they would surely demolish the frail framework of flesh and spirit—scatter the fire of intelligence—still the wondrous machinery of life. It sometimes is so, indeed, when grief can find no vent, that it paralyzes the brain and chills the life-blood; but, generally, relief is found for pent-up sorrow, and Mary Stauncy found it so in this her first great trouble.
The captain regained his composure and self-control in a few moments, and was able in some degree to calm his weeping wife. Seating her gently on his hard couch, and taking a place beside her, he broke the silence of that dreary cell, whose walls had so often listened to confessions and blasphemies, to cries of penitence and ravings of despair, by saying affectionately, 'Try to bear it, Mary. Little do I care myself; but I shall soon be unmanned and go mazed if you grieve so. Our destiny must be met, whatever it is; and though it come in such a shape as to cut us to the heart, it's better to yield than to struggle. Endeavour to be resigned, dearest, and strengthen spirit by your own calm endurance.'
'I will, James,' she replied. 'I feel better now.' For not only had the outburst of grief which such a meeting occasioned relieved her, but his plea for a fortifying example immediately roused the energies of her Christian spirit. 'It's sorrow indeed; but God can help me to act as I ought, and He will. I want strength to nerve my heart and wisdom to shape my counsel; and Mrs. Lloyd's last words to me were, "Remember, Mary, as thy day is, so shall thy strength be." The innocent may sometimes suffer with the guilty, and even for them, but justice shall surely prevail.'
'I am not innocent,' replied the captain in a firm but husky voice; 'I will not deceive you any longer, Mary. I scuttled the brig off Lundy, and Jim Ortop was in the hold watching me. It's a true bill; and as it has been found out, I must give in. What must be, must.'
'And why did you scuttle the brig, James?' his wife inquired, drawn off from her sad reflections by the unexpected disclosure, and having a new class of feelings excited.
'Because the merchant tempted me to do it, gave me money to do it, ordered me to do it, bound me by an oath to do it, and so made it my duty.'
'Duty, James! That's a strange word. It's no one's duty to do wrong, and that bad man must have spellbound you with his irreligious sophistry, to fasten such a thought on your mind. I see it all now. He beguiled you with that fifty-pound note. He made you believe that crime could be smothered by obedience. Well! that note will be a swift witness against him. It will tell its own tale of bribery, and the tempter will get his desert. I feel lighter of heart, James. There's some hope yet.'
'There's no hope, Mary. I have no witness, and he is a wealthy and influential man; besides, I couldn't turn king's evidence and peach, were it to save my life.'
'Peach, James! Is telling the plain truth peaching? Is clearing yourself from a foul blot peaching? Is your character and the good name of your children nothing? Is it of no consequence whether you are separated from us for ever or spared to bless us all your days? Do be yourself, James, and listen to your heart a little.'
'You're getting too warm, Mary. Your strong mind has gone in for the mastery over your sensitive spirit. There'll be a volcano of excitement, instead of a fountain of tears, and the one is as bad as the other in overcoming reason.'
'How you talk, James! Have I any wish or object that is not bound up in your happiness? What I say has reason as well as feeling in it. Your duty is to clear yourself, and to change places with the real criminal.'
'My duty is pre-engaged,' he replied, mournfully shaking his head. 'A vow is upon me. My tongue is bound by an oath which cannot be broken without letting loose a curse. To violate that vow would be an unpardonable sin, and make me the hopeless prey of the evil one. No, no, Mary, I'll take what comes rather than sell myself to perdition.'
'A delusion, James, a strong delusion to believe a lie. Your superstitious fears have been wrought upon, and he who is beguiling you the most is the father of lies. A wicked vow can never be binding. There's more sin, far more sin, in keeping than in breaking it. Whatever you may have said or done, the only way is to throw all off as a vile thing, instead of clenching the sin in the way you speak of. No one is bound by evil, to do evil, because he has sworn to it.'
'You and I see things differently, Mary. I have sins on my conscience which all the truth-speaking in the world wouldn't rid me of. To betray the merchant after what has passed between us when I took the oath, would utterly prevent me from hoping for God's mercy. I would rather the law should take its course, than add to the weight which oppresses me by doing violence to my conscience.'
'But there is no real evidence against you,' his wife replied, diverting his thoughts until a more auspicious moment occurred for pursuing her main argument; 'who would listen to Jim Ortop, when the mate and Pickard are so strong on your side?'
'You must not comfort yourself with that, Mary. There's more evidence than you think for. The Sarah Ann will speak herself. The poor dumb thing will be made to say, in spite of everything, "Guilty, guilty."'
'I ASK YOU TO SPARE YOURSELF FOR MY SAKE,' SAID MARY.'I ASK YOU TO SPARE YOURSELF FOR MY SAKE,' SAID MARY.
'And are you really going to give yourself up to justice, James, without one effort on your own behalf, or my behalf, or the children's behalf? Will you give your life for the life of such a deep-dyed villain as the merchant is? Will you hold your peace to spare him, and throw away a righteous chance of turning this fearful darkness into light? Oh, James, James! woe is me that I have seen this day! My poor heart will break with all this trouble. Is Phillipson dearer to you than your own Mary? Can you bear that your loved home should become a desolation, a place of weeping and reproach, of poverty and heart-stricken wretchedness? What shall I say to persuade you that wicked vows are only written in the sand, and that you are committing the worst of sins by concealment, when your life, and my life, and everything is at stake? And is this to be our parting, James? I cannot weep now. I am stunned, paralyzed. I feel as if my senses were fast going from, me, as though I must sink down and die. Have pity on me, James! On my knees I ask you to spare yourself for my sake, and to look up believingly to Him who will forgive you all. Don't let me leave you with a hopeless heart, or I shall go beside myself; and who will thank you for the sacrifice? Tell me, James, that you will not throw yourself away, and kiss me as the pledge of it.'
'Mary, my heart will break too,' replied the captain, sobbing, 'if you talk so. Idare notpromise. A chain is about me which I cannot rend. What must be, must.' And then, to soothe her, he added, 'Nothing you have said shall be forgotten; and if we part to meet no more on earth, remember the merchant will provide for you—you may trust him in that, I know; and through the mercy of the Almighty we shall meet again soon, where the shadows of sin never darken and the tears of sorrow never fall.'
'Yours is a strange state of heart, James,' she answered. 'You think you are bound before God by a vow; andIthink He cannot be pleased with you if you keep it. It's a false state of conscience, which your tempter has helped to bring about; but my prayer for you shall be that there may be light.'
'The time's up,' said the turnkey, considerately giving the notice without unfastening the door, and waiting still, that the last farewell might be spoken. A convulsive embrace—a nervous pressure of those marble lips—a burning tear on that pallid cheek—and again the tottering wife was treading that gloomy passage, emerging from the sepulchre of living men. Again the awe of solitude, made doubly impressive by the presence and absence of such a wife, settled down on the soul of the wretched prisoner.
By order of the authorities, James Stauncy was removed from Exeter to London, and lodged in Newgate. According to the law of those times, it was necessary for him to be tried before the Lords of the Admiralty; and on the 25th of February, 1755, the case came on in Justice Hall, at the Old Bailey.
The court was crowded, as is usual on such occasions, by worthless idlers, by men and women whose curiosity and morbid interest in criminal cases bespoke a low mental and moral standard, and by a large number of respectable persons interested in mercantile law, some of whom knew about Mr. Phillipson, and had heard the rumour that he was in fact the guilty man.
No pains or money had been spared by Mr. Phillipson to secure an efficient counsel; and when the prisoner was placed at the bar and the trial commenced, there was not a countenance in that motley company of barristers, jurymen, witnesses, and on that did not give evidence of intense excitement. The captain looked pale and careworn, but he answered when appealed to, with a firm voice, 'Not guilty;' for though he had determined to give his life rather than break his vow by betraying his tempter, he would not publicly confess to a crime, when in his conviction, mistaken as it was, he had only discharged a duty.
Jim Ortop, on being sworn, related the facts of the case in a straightforward way; but, becoming sadly bewildered by a severe cross-questioning, the general opinion went in favour of the prisoner. The next witness, however, most effectually turned the scale. He was a short, thick-set man, who described himself as a diver in the employment of the Government. He stated that, having sailed in a diving-bell ship from Plymouth to Lundy, he was ordered, in company with another man now in court, to look for and examine the Sarah Ann, and found her on a sandy bottom in seven fathoms water. He went on to say that they discovered a hole in the side of the ship, which had been purposely bored, no doubt; and that he was prepared to swear the brig had been scuttled. This worthy searcher of the seas and revealer of marine mysteries could neither be twisted nor shaken by the clever counsel for the defence; and when the augur was held up to view, there was a confused hum of many voices in Stauncy's disfavour.
Mr. Mogford and the cook were next examined, but they could not directly oppose the evidence of the diver. They lauded the captain as he deserved to be lauded, extolled his seamanship during the storm, and declared it was utterly impossible for him to be guilty of the charge. The latter was particularly eloquent in his defence, and, when drawn out purposely by counsel, unfolded all the secrets of his heart as to the criminality of the merchant. So clear and truth-like were his assertions, so fervid and telling was his declamation, that the tide set in strong again on Stauncy's side, and the sympathies of the people were his from that time forward. So general was the conviction that he had been a deeply injured man, and was but a scapegoat for the merchant, that he was requested, at the special desire of the jury, to throw some light on Pickard's evidence; but he declined. The judge summed up therefore, and the twelve arbiters of his fate retired to consider their verdict. A buzz of earnest voices increased to an unmistakable clamour; and the cook, freed from the restraint of the witness-box, defamed the merchant in the strongest language he could command, vowing vengeance in terms which gained the sympathy of a multitude by no means unwilling to make a demonstration on the captain's behalf.
The jurymen returned; the usual form was observed, and the fatal word 'GUILTY' was uttered by the foreman.
There were those then present who felt more than Stauncy did when the verdict was announced. A flush of emotion for a moment suffused his cheek, but it passed quickly away; and, whilst others were weeping in sorrowful compassion, he stood calmly waiting the sentence of death.
'Andthat'sthe end of it!' said Mogford to the cook, as they left the court together. 'Why, Sam, he's as bad as a suicide. He ought to have turned king's evidence against that old rogue in Appledore. Why didn't he let it all out?'
'Can't tell, Mr. Mogford,' replied Pickard; 'it's unfathomable; but the end of it hasn't come yet. If those Lords of the Admiralty don't take notice of what I said, I'll swear information against the merchant, and feel certain that diver will bring him to judgment. Bales of broadcloth, Mr. Mogford! nothing but list, I'll lay my life; and if the cap'n held his tongue to screen that varnished hypocrite,Iwon't.'
'Whatdoyou mean, Sam?'
'I mean that Phillipson intended to kill two birds with one stone—to get a heavy insurance on the brig, which he consigned to the deep, and a heavy insurance on the sham cargo. It isn't the first time, neither, that them bales have done service in that way.'
'The dodger!' exclaimed the mate.
'The villainous scamp!' responded Sam warmly. 'His money and his station have guarded him so far, and no one has dared to whisper the truth without suffering for it; but let the wind set in another way, and you'll see that many of his prime supporters will turn out to be his prime foes. Opinions chop right round often.'
In consequence of his depositions, a second request was made to the Government by the insurance company concerned that the Sarah Ann might be again examined; and a couple of detectives were sent to Appledore to keep an eye on the merchant, who was in first-rate spirits when he heard the issue of the trial, and had no doubt any more of Stauncy's fidelity.
His rejoicing, however, was short. That bright gleam of sunshine was followed by portentous signs of a coming tempest in the persons of the two strangers, and the barometer of hope sank rapidly every hour. Those vigilant gentlemen appeared to take note of everything, and turned up everywhere. Without interfering with any one, they seemed to be minding everybody's business, and were specially attentive to the merchant's residence. No vessel left the port without being carefully scrutinized; nor could a 'butt' pass through the place without being favoured with an examination. They seemed gifted with ubiquity, and were set down at last by the merchant's conscience as spies on himself. This conviction grew into absolute assurance when a rumour reached him that the Sarah Ann was to be raised by order of the Government, and he began to tremble for his safety. Neither money nor friends could help him, as he foresaw, so that he was left to the exercise of his wits, on the acuteness of which he prided himself, and which had never failed him yet.
As a means of securing timely information, he despatched his son to Lundy in a yacht, and engaged the services of smugglers up and down the coast, to give him a sign in case of threatening appearances. A week had not passed after these precautions had been taken before the tub-shaped ship, which had aforetime excited the curiosity of the Appledore mariners when lying in the Pool, appeared off Lundy; but ere the waters were touched by the hive-shaped home of the divers, young Phillipson weighed anchor and stood in for Bideford Bar. The wind was unfavourable, and before he could pass the fair-way buoy a six-oared gig sped swiftly by, and landed a gentleman whose acquaintance we have already made at West Appledore. Mr. Cocks immediately put himself in communication with the detectives, who proceeded at once to mount guard at Mr. Phillipson's house; so that he felt himself a prisoner. He was too knowing, however, to take any notice of the new movement; and though his ingenuity was greatly taxed, he did not betray his uneasiness.
Although the 5th of March had been appointed as the day for the execution of James Stauncy, for some reason not explained by the law annals of those times it was deferred to the 7th of May. The interval passed slowly and drearily, relieved, however, by the kindly visits of the Ordinary, specially by a visit from his cousin, and by a regular correspondence with his beloved wife—his last letter to her being still extant. At first he endeavoured to show that the course he had taken was the only one which could satisfy him or benefit her. He brought forward the argument of the merchant as his own—that an open confession would at least have been so far unavailable, for want of evidence, as to be no security against transportation for life, and added that by making the merchant an enemy he would have cut off all hope of support for herself and children. He besought her to forgive him, and to remember him always, promising to give heed to her counsel, and to seek the mercy of God through the Saviour. That he did this, his letters, as the fatal day approached, hear testimony; and touchingly and lovingly did she answer him, just hinting at her sad disappointment, without any upbraiding, and assuring him, though broken-hearted, of her hope in the care and sufficiency of a merciful Creator and Redeemer.
Before the month of March was quite run out, the captain's worthy relative, who had entertained him at his home in Clovelly after the loss of the brig, partly on foot, partly by waggon, partly by coach, accomplished that difficult thing in those days, a journey to London; designing, as far as possible, to be a minister of instruction and comfort to the condemned man. He found the captain so altered in appearance as to be scarcely recognizable, especially in his prison dress. Instead of the robust and ruddy man of former days, he saw before him a sallow, shrunken being, with hollow eyes and cheeks, and wretchedness traceable in every feature. In his inner man, however, but little change had at that time taken place, though he admitted with much humility and self-reproach that the more he considered it, the more inexplicable and insane his conduct appeared.
'You did very wrong, Stauncy,' said the cousin, 'in refusing to listen to your wife's advice. One duty cannot be performed by breaking another to perform it. If you thought it a duty to screen the merchant, you should have thought it a duty to screen yourself; and the love we owe to our neighbour must be regulated by the love we owe to ourselves. As Mary told you, it's a greater sin to keep a bad promise than to break it.'
'It may be, William,' replied the captain; 'but don't trouble me with that now. Things right in themselves become wrong whenever they are done in opposition to our convictions, and my conscience bid me do as I have done. I haven't any compunction to feel on that score; and what must be, must.'
'Don't say that, James; "what must be must" is as deplorably false in one sense as it is righteously true in another, and, with regard to conscience, your remark cuts two ways. A thing that is evil cannot be made good by any erroneous conceptions of ours respecting it. Our consciences frequently stimulate us to what is wrong, under the false notion that we are right. They are not safe guides without the light of life.'
'No doubt you're right, cousin, but a man must take his conscience as it is, and be faithful to it. If I saw as you did, I should reason in the same way.'
'I wish you had seen differently, James; but now the sentence cannot be reversed. If we form a wrong judgment of the quality of our actions, we form a wrong judgment of all associated with and resulting from them. But I will not say any more on that matter. I came up here not to argue with you on such points, but to show you God's argument when He says, "As I live, I have no pleasure in the death of the wicked. Come now, and let us reason together: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson they shall be as wool."' And so he went on to preach in a prison, as an apostle had done before him, the glorious gospel of the blessed God. Day after day he visited the cell, and read and conversed on that word which enlightens the eyes and converts the soul. Nor were his efforts unavailing. The truth as it is in Jesus came to the condemned seaman in demonstration of the Spirit. It dissipated darkness. It showed the way of life. It rectified false conceptions of right and wrong. It caused 'old things to pass away, and all things to become new.'
'What a mystery,' he said to his cousin, at their last interview, 'is the human heart! deceitful truly above all things. Worse than the man who makes a deity out of a log of wood, I created within me a false sense of duty and worshipped it. I truly deserve to suffer; and now I turn away from the mystery of my own ignorance and depravity, to the mystery of godliness—God in Christ reconciling the world unto Himself. What a comforting contrast to my case is the story of the cross! It was from no motive of affection that I, as guilty as Phillipson, stood in his place; but "God commendeth His love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us, theJustfor the unjust, to bring us to God." My only concern now is about Mary and the children; but with your word of promise I know I have your heart of affection, and you will look after them in my stead.'
The last night set in, and passed but tardily in the apprehension of the prisoner, who counted the hours with strangely mingled emotions, as they were told out by iron tongues in all directions, until the morning dawned, penetrating the cell with its golden light. A clearer sky or a brighter sun the face of nature never saw. A lovely May morning poured forth a flood of brightness on the scaffold, as though it would surround it with some token of heaven's mercy, whilst it bore so melancholy a testimony to earth's justice.
A noisy crowd, composed principally of the lowest and worst of characters, assembled to witness the sad spectacle. It might have been a holiday, so light and mirthful was the throng, so hearty was their laugh, so ribald their conversation. Instead of the impressive awe and the deterring fear which such an occasion ought to have brought with it, the looks, the words, the acts of that jostling mass were expressive only of reckless hardihood and of wanton inhumanity.
As the captain ascended the scaffold he was greeted with a yell by the crowd, but it did not discompose him; and there, in the bright light of early day, suffusing the scene with genial glow, he forfeited the life he might have preserved. His last words were words of intercession for Mary, for the little ones, for himself; and ere the final syllable left those trembling lips his spirit had fled from its earthly tabernacle. He was a mistaken man, who sacrificed himself on what he considered the altar of duty; but he was a renewed man, plucked by the hand of mercy as a brand from the burning.
On the outskirts of the crowd the kind-hearted cousin continued to linger, enduring much mental anguish as he gazed on the lifeless remains of his relative. He could scarcely realize the fact that he was attending an execution, and that James Stauncy was no more, and continued to pace up and down, lost in thought, until the body was removed.
'I've seen the last of him in this life, poor fellow,' he said aloud; 'and now farewell, till we meet in a better!'
With a heavy heart he turned his face westward, and, knowing that coach or waggon would overtake him some time, walked on until nightfall, and then took up his quarters in an inn by the roadside. Heated and wearied with his journey, the damp bed assigned him as his place of rest proved all the more fatal in its chilling effects; and ere he reached his home the checked tide of life had already begun to ebb. Feebler and feebler, shadowy and more shadowy, the poor man grew. The colour departed from his cheek, the lustre faded from his eye; and sooner than he had thought, when speaking of a reunion in another world, did a reunion take place; for when the autumn sun smiled blandly and benign on blooming gardens and golden fields, its mellow rays fell brightly on the sod which covered the reposing dust of William Hockeridge.
Within the last few years there was still to be seen in Appledore, as a broken overhanging background to the new quay, the remains of large brick buildings which in the middle of the last century constituted an extensive porter brewery. A brisk trade was carried on in this beverage, which in 1750 was as celebrated as Barclay's stout or Guinness's XX is now; and never a week passed that did not witness the shipping off of several cargoes. The whole concern belonged to Mr. Phillipson, who found it exceedingly profitable in augmenting his hoards, and was able, at this critical period of his history, to turn it to useful account in helping himself out of a difficulty.
'So they're ransacking the Sarah Ann again, are they?' Mr. Phillipson said, as his son made his appearance in the office. 'It's a done job, Ben, a done job; but I'll double on them, you'll see. Begin at once to take away the puncheons that stand in the outhouse. There's a vessel now lading that will run out next tide, and you can start in the yacht at the same time.'
'What are you going to do with the puncheons?' asked the son in astonishment.
'Do as I bid you, and ask no questions,' said the merchant. 'The bottle will uncork itself soon enough.'
Accordingly the son proceeded to fulfil his instructions. A truck arrived at the house, and a couple of empty puncheons were borne off towards the quay, after they had been carefully examined by the detectives on duty. In a short time two others followed them, and then two more, and two more, until suspicion was lulled, and the great man of the place felt confident and easy in ensconcing his person in one of the eighth pair, a few air-holes having been bored by his own hand in the top before it was fastened. His position was uncomfortable and humiliating; but he knew well enough how much was at stake, when he was borne away in that inglorious hiding-place, and lodged amongst a multitude of barrels in the hold of a vessel whose 'blue peter' streamed out in the wind.
As soon as possible she was swung out into the rising tide, and when the flood was sufficiently on was started for the bar, with a fair and brisk breeze. An hour after, the same track was pursued by Mr. Benjamin in his pleasure-boat, and, having overtaken the schooner off Hartland Point, he transferred himself to her deck, and proceeded to release his parent from his narrow prison-house below. They conversed for several hours on family and business matters, making such arrangements for the future as circumstances required; and amongst the last things which the moneyed runaway laid on the conscience of his son, was the duty of providing for Mary Stauncy.
'I charge you, Ben,' he said, 'as though it were my last charge, to take care of the widow and her children. Stauncy was faithful to me, and I'll be faithful to him. Nothing would make me more wretched than the thought of neglect in this matter. I should never be easy, living or dying, if I had any suspicion that you would not scrupulously fulfil my wish—I may say my command, Ben.'
'Of course,' the son replied, 'I'll attend to anything you say; I'm only steward at present, and your orders shall be obeyed.'
'Steward or proprietor, Ben, it doesn't matter. I charge you, as long as you live, to look after them, and to make provision, in case of anything happening to yourself.'
'Very well, sir, I'll not forget,' the son responded, as he jumped into a boat alongside; and, having returned to his yacht, he bore up for Clovelly.
To what part of the Continent that laden vessel steered, or where the merchant passed the remainder of his days, has never transpired. The manner of his life, the manner of his death, are unknown. That he never returned to England is certain; and it is to be hoped that solitude and reflection gave opportunity for some improvement in a character which the love of money had so thoroughly perverted.
The ship in which he escaped could not have been out of sight many hours, when the Dutchman, as the sailors called her, which had graced the Pool aforetime, cast anchor in her old quarters. The divers had brought to the light the so-called bales of broadcloth, on which a large insurance had been effected, but which in reality contained narrow lengths of a coarse material, measuring the quantity specified; and it transpired, in course of time, that similar packages had more than once been employed for fraudulent purposes by the Appledore merchant.
A warrant was immediately obtained for his apprehension; but, to the dismay of the outwitted detectives, the culprit was nowhere to be found. A large reward was offered for his apprehension, but his hiding-place was never revealed, and probably was unknown to any save the members of his own family.
That family continued for some years to take a leading position in the little seaport and neighbourhood; but it gradually dwindled and became comparatively obscure. Its wealth was squandered; its houses and lands were mortgaged; its character sank lower and lower, and no one now remains to perpetuate the name, even, of that ancient and notable house.
A heart that has tasted life's bitter waters is able to administer suitable solace to an afflicted soul; and hence it was that Grace Lloyd approved herself such an angel of mercy to Mary Stauncy when the news of the captain's execution reached the village. 'I'll step in,' she said to herself, 'before Mary hears of it from rougher tongues, and it may be that a little tender womanly comfort will prove a balm to her wounded spirit.'
On entering the house, she found her seated in the captain's arm-chair, with her children on 'crickets' beside her, reposing their heads on her lap, and looking up occasionally for a smile, which played mechanically for a moment around her lips, and then disappeared before a settled sadness, which had already given a new impression to her features. Cautiously and kindly did the good woman reveal to her the melancholy fact that she was a widow, and endeavoured to break the force of the shock by referring to her own trying experiences when left with six little ones to struggle for life. To her great surprise no very extraordinary emotion was manifested. The heart of the bereaved one seemed stunned; and when Grace bade her good-night, it was with the reflection, 'Would that she had wept! the strands of that fine mind will begin to unravel, unless she is wonderfully supported from above.'
And truly her vigorous nature, strengthened by a Divine hand, bore up marvellously. It is true she became, as people were pleased to call her, 'the melancholy widow,' so fixed and habitual was her dejection, so silent and reserved her demeanour; but every one respected as well as pitied her, and no one thought of treating her less considerately because of the stigma of the captain's end. In all probability she would have recovered something of her former cheerfulness in time, if the clouds had not returned again after the rain, and the sorrows of bereavement, like chasing billows, swept over her head once more. Her children sickened and died. Scarce three months had elapsed from the time of her great trouble, when the youngest fair one was taken away, and ten days after her sister followed her.
The afflicted woman was stricken to the earth, and the trembling balance which had given promise of adjustment was unable to right itself. Her reason reeled, and from that time forth she was all weakness or all wildness. At first, and for more than a twelve-month, she seemed constantly elevated, courting conversation, and carrying herself with an appearance of gaiety more pitiable than her previous despondency. There appeared to be no intermission to the pleasing fancies of her unsettled mind, and day after day was passed amid the imaginary life pictures which her disordered brain created. Every evening she arranged the tea-table, in expectation of Stauncy's return, and would converse with him, just as though he were present, until the church clock struck eleven, the hour at which he left her for his last voyage; when, bidding him farewell, she would retire to rest satisfied and happy.
In course of time, however, a change, a great change, took place. The smile departed from her countenance, and she became irritable and restless. Her conversation, instead of being marked by strange and even amusing fancies, became sarcastic and bitter. She looked on all around her as enemies, and treated them as such, scarcely tolerating the presence even of her old and faithful friend Grace Lloyd. Though comparatively young, she began to wear the appearance of an old woman; and as she talked to herself when walking abroad, and had a wild and threatening eye, the children shunned her as something to be dreaded. In one sense the strength and acuteness of her mind returned, but it was power displaced, and wielded by a nature that had become completely inverted. So smart, so truthful and revealing, so charged with knowingness and pungency, in many cases so personal were her utterances, that, amongst a people superstitiously disposed, she came at length to be regarded as a witch. They both courted and feared her; and when ten long years had passed away from the time of her husband's death, no one would have recognised in that sallow, shrunken, scowling woman, who kept every one at bay, the blithe, generous, high-minded wife of Captain Stauncy.
During the whole of those years Mr. Benjamin Phillipson most faithfully kept his father's charge. A weekly sum was allowed to the widow, sufficient to provide both necessaries and comforts; but suddenly the supply ceased, without any explanation being given. It was currently reported that, as the gentleman had married, the change was effected by his wife, who, ignorant of the facts of the case, considered that parish pay would be amply sufficient. Be that as it may, the lonely and avoided widow was left destitute at a time she especially needed assistance, and a change of residence was the first thing rendered necessary. A small cottage at the top of the village was taken for her by Grace Lloyd, who made herself responsible for the rent, and managed, by appealing to a few well-disposed friends, to add something to the workhouse allowance.
The wrong which had been done her was keenly felt by the forlorn widow, and bitterly did she execrate the name of Phillipson. Unfortunately everything went wrong with Mary in her new abode. She disliked it thoroughly, and, having the strongest repugnance to parish pay, would pass whole days without tasting food of any kind. From no hands but those of her old friend would she receive anything; and, what with insufficient support and the wearing influence of her excited mind, her health began visibly to decline. Grace Lloyd watched over her with a mother's tenderness, though often abused and repulsed. Whilst others forsook her, declaring that she had an evil eye, this constant friend stood by and shielded her, the memory of the past being an ever-living presence in her affectionate heart.
One fine bright morning, in the month of June 1766, having treated herself at breakfast to that Devonshire luxury, a potato cake, she took part of it to Mary, whom she found rocking herself in a high-backed chair, and looking unusually wild and haggard. 'I've brought you something warm for breakfast, Mary,' she said in a soothing voice, 'and I'll make you a cup of tea in a minute.'
'Keep your gifts for those who want them!' the widow replied hastily and with an angry look. 'The hawk flutters over the sparrow, but the eagle pounces on the hawk. If one world cannot bind a Phillipson, another can. I shall have a breakfast fit for a queen directly.'
'I am glad to hear it, Mary,' said Grace, willing to humour her fancy; 'but won't you take what your old friend has brought you first?'
'No,' she answered snappishly. 'You think I'm raving; but I tell you that old Phillipson came to me last night, and said, "Mary, you've been a neglected woman, but you shall be provided for again before the sun is high." I saw him with my own eyes. I heard him with my own ears. As sure as the lamp of day is lighted again this morning, so sure will his words come true.'
She had scarcely concluded these strange remarks when a tap was heard at the door, and Mrs. Benjamin Phillipson entered, followed by a footman carrying a large basket.
'Mary,' she said, 'I've brought you some nice nourishing things, and Mr. Phillipson will renew his weekly payments as before. I'm sorry you've not been comfortable lately, but we'll try to make you so.'
'False! false as ever!' replied the widow in a contemptuous tone; 'this is not your choice. You have come at a dead man's bidding, haven't you? A pleasant dream you must have had, and a visitor that won't be trifled with, or you wouldn't have been such an early bird. And now let me tell you what I see. The snow is on the ground, and Ben Phillipson is in his coffin. There is a midnight funeral. His two hounds sit at the posts of the churchyard gate, as the bier is borne slowly along, and whine for their master. A widow sits husbandless, then childless, then— Fine lady, depart the way you came, to him who sent you, and say the ban of heaven forbids his gifts.'
Remarkable as these coincidences must appear, they really occurred. The writer attempts no explanation. Possibly it was the very night when the old merchant, hiding in some foreign land, was summoned to his account. Of such coincidences many examples are on record, not in popular experience only, but in the books of medical science and philosophical observation. Certain also it is, that the young merchant endeavoured to ingratiate himself into Mary's good favour from that day, and would have supplied her with money enough to provide for every want, but she refused his assistance, and would never tolerate his presence.
The summer passed away. The snows of winter began to fall; but, bitterly cold and biting as the season was, a dense crowd assembled in Northam Churchyard one frosty night, to witness a funeral appointed for the hour of twelve. The moon shone faintly on the nodding plumes which adorned the hearse, and aided with its sombre light the solemnity of the scene, as the remains of Benjamin Phillipson were borne to their last resting-place. His two hounds sat at the gateway, and howled dismally as the sad procession walked toward the church, and near at hand was a diminutive woman, wrapped in a cloak, who laughed, and thanked them for their funeral ode. She tarried until the coffin had been lowered into the family vault, and then, talking wildly to herself, hasted to her home, and rocked herself into a frenzy.
The day passed, and Mary's door remained unopened. The night followed, but no light gleamed from her cottage window, and when morning dawned again the signs of life were still wanting. The door had been more than once tried by Grace Lloyd, but, becoming alarmed, and having secured the assistance of a neighbour, an entrance was effected through the window.
The high-backed rocking-chair was turned over, so that its top rested against the hatch, and across it, with her head downwards, lay Mary Stauncy, dead. How she came into that position there was no one to tell. The common belief was—and it lingers as a superstition to this day—that she had been roughly handled by the evil spirit with whom she had communion, and that in the struggle she had fallen over and perished. But wiser minds and tenderer hearts knew another interpretation. In a fit of delirium she had torn her garments, and paced the cottage floor a raving maniac. And as her hour came on, and the death-throe troubled her, she had leant for support on that rolling chair, overturning it as she fell. Thus died a woman whose character would have shone brighter and brighter but for the merchant's temptation and the captain's sin, and who perished untimely, as the pitiable victim of AN UNHOLY AND FATAL VOW.
In the yard of a third-rate inn, in a large market town of one of the Midland counties, stood a carrier's cart, ready to start for home. In large letters on its side was painted 'John Sparks, Carrier to Parker's Due and Stoney Gates.' Some of the passengers were seated; others were busy arranging their goods ready for transit; some were resting on their empty baskets, till the carrier appeared, talking over the events of the market, and comparing prices. The landlord was in and out perpetually, with a glass for one and a joke for another, looking with anxious (and, of course, benevolent) solicitude around, lest a customer should escape through want of care.
'Will John Sparks go to-night?' asked an old woman peevishly. Her question was not addressed to any one in particular; but the ostler, who was passing, answered, 'He's not in the best company for making haste at this present,' and nodded to a group of men standing at the entrance of the yard, to which group the busy landlord had made frequent visits, never going empty-handed.
A general murmur arose as this speech circulated among the passengers. 'Go and tell him to come, granny,' said one; 'he'll mind you; if he stays drinking there, we shall be upset, depend upon it.'
'And what's the use of my telling him?' replied the old woman. 'It's hard work I have to make him mind when he's sober; he'll only sauce me now he's the worse for liquor.'
'You should get him to take the pledge,' said the ostler; 'carriers' work is full of temptations, 'specially if a man's got a taste that way.'
While Granny Sparks was considering how to get John away from his companions, the thing was done by the arrival of a fish-basket, followed by a smart-looking maid-servant.
'Oh, not gone! that's well. Where's Mr. Sparks? I was kept so long, I was quite afraid of being too late. Put the fish in under that seat. Things there? oh, they must come out then; the fish must go in safe. Where's Mr. Sparks, I say? I should think the fish for the Hall is to have the proper place.'
It was soon made known to the speaker that Mr. Sparks was not far off, and, almost as soon, he was seen hurrying from his companions, with a somewhat blustering manner, which people are apt to put on when they expect a deserved rebuke, and want to get out of it.
'We'd a' ought to a' been on the road this half-hour, John,' muttered his granny.
'We're all right, Mr. Sparks,' cried those from inside. 'You may do what you like with my basket,' said several, who would not attempt to arrange themselves till the maid from the Hall had chosen her seat. 'I hope you will start at once,' said that damsel, who looked with superiority on those around; 'the fish is for dinner, and we are never later than eight.'
'Off at once, miss, when you're seated,' said John in as sober a tone as he could assume, and looking a thundering look at his granny, who imprudently kept up a low grumbling remonstrance on his behaviour. The luggage was soon settled, in defiance of all opposition, so that the fish had honourable stowage; and the Hall maiden, declaring, as she stepped jauntily up, that she could not abide the van, but it was a great convenience, took the seat at the front, and all was ready.
Sparks, a little steadied, was mounting, and the horse, which through the whole hurried scene had stood motionless, his head hanging down, as if dreaming of his own particular interests and affairs, awoke up and prepared to step forward. But patience was to be tried that day. In the entrance of the yard appeared a tall thin individual, dressed in sober and somewhat shabby clothes. He had his arms full of packages of all sorts and sizes, and an urchin followed, bearing a large basket.
'Deary me!' said Sparks, dropping the reins; 'if there isn't Shady Eggs. Well, to think of his being so late! Folks ought to be more considerate.'
'How excessive troublesome!' said the Hall servant, who had herself wasted so much time in the town that she had lost the early carrier, and run the risk of being too late with the fish for the second.
Meantime, 'Shady Eggs' advanced. 'I rejoice, Mr. Sparks, that you are yet here; be so good as to accommodate these articles. Young man,' he continued, to the boy with the basket, 'you can return; there is a small remuneration for your trouble.' The lad grinned, pocketed the remuneration, and the basket, etc., were with some difficulty placed in the van. Miss from the Hall kept up a continual series of shruggings: her dress was invaded in some way by every package that was put in, and there was as much vinegar in her expression as beer in that of Sparks.
'If you'd a' knowed of coming, Mr. Eggs, it's a pity you wasn't more for'ard,' she said tartly.
'It is a pity—I sit corrected,' he replied meekly, trying to put his long legs into the least inconvenient place.
'Nobody never quarrels with Mr. Eggs,' said the carrier good-humouredly. The maid looked scornful; but Shady acknowledged the courtesy by a bland smile. They had cleared the town, and were advancing at a reasonable pace up the road, pleasant hedges on either side, and green fields around and before them, when again they were brought to a halt. A traveller, who, sitting on a milestone, was apparently awaiting their arrival, stood up as they advanced, and cried out, 'Room?'
Sparks looked dubious; the maid said 'No;' but Shady Eggs, with a complacent look, suggested that with management room might be found. All the company, except the one objector, seemed willing to accommodate; they took their packages on their knees, and sat closer.
'How excessive awk'ard!' said the angry servant; 'I really cannot carry more than this; I must have room for this parcel on the seat.'
'Allow me to convey it for you, ma'am,' said the imperturbable Shady; and, taking it from her as gently as if it had been a baby, he placed it on his knees and encompassed it with his arms. It was indeed a fragile thing—enveloped in paper, like a light-brown cloud, and bearing a printed declaration that it came from Mrs. Davy's fashionable millinery establishment.
'It's our cook's bonnet,' condescended the maid, not vouchsafing to thank Shady any further. Shady looked affectionately at his delicate burden, as if the whole van should perish before it should come to grief, and the stranger was installed a passenger.
It was not very hard to read the characters of his fellow-passengers. On faces worn by labour and bronzed by exposure might be chiefly read family cares—questionings of mind, perchance, as to whether the 'second-handed shoes' would fit Tommy, or whether Eliza would like her new place. Some were enjoying the opportunity of canvassing village matters, and others slept through all the joggings of the van. Such as they were, he scrutinized all, and then fixed his keen grey eyes on Shady. An amused expression passed over his face as he noticed the grave care he bestowed on his charge. Turning to the driver, he began to question him as to the surrounding objects. Not a building escaped; he would know everything, and John was as communicative as any questioner could wish.
'That building in the distance, among trees,' said the stranger; 'it looks well—what is it?'
'What! you?' said Sparks. 'Why, that's theJew, sir; we shall pass it—it's one of my places I stop at.'
'The Jew?' said the stranger.
'The Dew, sir,' interposed Shady, with a look of benevolent pity for Sparks' ignorance,—'Parker's Dew, as it is commonly, but erroneously called.' This was added with solemn importance.
'And what is the proper name?' asked the stranger.
Shady, with a conscious look round the van, that betrayed his self-satisfaction, replied, rather pompously, 'Par grâce de Dieu, sir, which, if, as I suppose, you are a French scholar' (another glance at the passengers), 'you are aware means, "By the grace of God."' The stranger nodded. 'Originally, sir,' continued Shady, drawing up his back to its full length, 'it was given by the Norman William to the founder of the family of De la Mark, in whose possession it has ever since continued. There were strange ideas of right in those days, as you, sir, if a student of history, must know, and that which men got by the violence of the sword they considered to be theirs by the grace of God. But whether the name was invented by the Conqueror, or given to the place by Mark de la Mark, the first lord of the manor, and founder of the distinguished line, I have not been able to discover.'
'What! have you ever tried?' said the stranger, laughing. The laugh was infectious; Sparks laughed, the Hall maid laughed, with something like scorn, and all the van grinned, though those at the back had not heard the conversation. Shady's equanimity was not broken; he surveyed all with a surprised—perhaps a little injured—but forgiving air, and was silent.
But the stranger had no wish to silence him. He plied him with numerous questions as to the place, its owner, etc., to all of which Shady replied with perfect good temper, but more reserve.
'You seem to know much about it; you live there, do you?'
'I have the honour to be a retainer of the family,' said Shady, with much dignity.
'In what capacity?' said the stranger, looking at the milliner's address on the package he carried. For the first time an answer was difficult, for many were the posts combined in one that Shady occupied.
'Librarian,' he would have said, or 'secretary,' for these he was; but he feared the van,—for he was well known to be also serving-man in chief, and figured at different times as tutor, valet, butler,—and at length he replied with calmness, 'I execute any commission I may be honoured with: I superintend the library, arrange the steward's books, etc.; sometimes I have the honour of assisting in the studies of my young lady.'
'And you does a bit of dressing for Sir Valary sometimes, doesn't you, Shady?' asked Sparks, who thought he might get up a good laugh at him with impunity, and so obtain the lead in the conversation, which he was impatient at Shady's engrossing.
The colour rose to the pale face, and an emotion of pain and reproach agitated it for a moment; but, soon recovering himself, he replied gently, 'Yes, I am sometimes so far favoured by Sir Valary, I am proud to say.'
'A sort of man of all work,' said the maid, with a sneer.
'Ah, I see,' cried the stranger at the same time; 'you are Sir Valary's right hand—not many either willing or able to fill so onerous a post. I congratulate you on being both.'
Gratitude danced in Shady's eyes; he said nothing, and the stranger now turned to Sparks. He inquired if he could obtain a lodging at Stoney Gates. Sparks told him it was only a village, with no house fit for any but a poor man to live in except the Hall.
'A lodging fit for a poor man will suit me,' said the stranger, 'if I can get it.'
'Well, sir,' said Sparks, 'then maybe granny might let you have the parlour; it's got a very handsome chest o' drawers as makes into a bed. Eh, granny?'
Mrs. Sparks demurred—she was afraid it wouldn't suit.
'Take me in to-night,' said the stranger; 'to-morrow I will tell you about it.' And so it was agreed. After which the maid from the Hall looked with ineffable contempt on him.
The branch road leading to Parker's Dew now came in sight, and Shady prepared to alight. He placed the bonnet tenderly on his vacant seat, and gathered his many goods from their various hiding-places. 'You can't carry them all,' said Sparks.
'I expected Robinson to be here,' replied the librarian.
'I'm here, please,' said a little lad, springing up from under the hedge.
'That is well, Robinson,' said he, with dignity; and, having nearly covered him with parcels, he took the basket, and, bowing courteously to the stranger, with a somewhat patronizing nod to Sparks, he took his way to 'the Jew.'
'Isn't he a speciment?' said Sparks to the stranger.
'A most benevolent spirit,' replied the stranger. And at the same time Biddy Sparks, who now sat next her grandson, administered a cautioning nudge.
'What are ye poking me for, granny?' he cried out. 'I suppose there's no purtickler harm in that; he is a speciment, and I maintains it.'
As if in defiance of her, he immediately began a long description of Shady's life and occupations, to which the stranger listened with interest.
'Is Sir Valary poor, then, that his man is so variously employed?' he asked.
'There it is,' replied Sparks; 'there's a deal of talk about it; he 'adn't a' ought to be poor; but what becomes of his money there's nobody knows. There's some as thinks—I tell 'ee what, granny, if you goes on for to poke me at that rate, you may just drive the van yourself. Why, how can I help folks talking? I'm sure I never said no harm of Sir Val'ry. You know, sir,' turning to the stranger, 'when people has queer ways they're bound to be called over; and there's a many as says'—
'John Sparks,' cried his grandmother, 'are you out of your senses to go and talk of Sir Val'ry in this way, and him the squire's own brother!' This was accompanied with a glance at the Hall maiden, intended to strengthen the warning.
'I meant no offence to the squire,' grumbled he; 'he's a gentleman, and no mistake; there's nobody about him but looks the better for it, is there, miss?' The Hall servant did not deign to reply, except with a faint smile. 'There's nobody at Brimble Hall as looks as if they'd breakfasted on tin-tacks, is there, miss? I knows as the squire has his vally, and his butler, and everything else in proper style, hasn't he, miss? And he haven't got Steward Bloodworth to rack the tenants, and pocket the rents neither,' said Sparks, who had now in this back-handed way delivered himself of the substance of what his granny had tried to make him keep in.
'Bloodworth!' said the stranger; 'what a very unpleasant name!'
'Him as 'as got it's a deal unpleasanter—I'm sure you'll hold wi' that, granny. Why, we had as pretty a bit of land, belonging to the Jew, as you'd wish to see, sir; and if that man didn't turn us out without why or wherefore, just because'—
'Never mind that,' said Biddy; 'forget and forgive.'
'How can I forget it, when I pass the land every time I goes to the Jew? and as to forgiving him, he haven't asked me. Why, sir,' turning to the stranger, 'if it hadn't 'a been that the squire—long life to him—took pity on us, and set me up in this van, and gave granny the cottage and garden we live in, she must 'a gone to the Union; we couldn't get a yard of land, and the stock went at ruin's price; so we had only enough to pay up rent and our little debts.'
'Then this steward has full power over the estates? I mean Sir Valary doesn't interfere?'
'You'll excuse me making so bold, sir,' said Biddy, 'but it ain't becoming of John to make free with anything about Sir Valary. Poor folks like us had best leave the quality alone; and in the van too,' she once more whispered to Sparks. The carrier whistled, laid his whip over his horse's back, and little more was said in the front of the van till a pair of handsome bronzed gates opening on a broad avenue appeared.
'Brimble Hall, sir,' said Sparks. 'Now, miss, will you please tounlight here, or go round?'
'Miss' would go round, for there was not even 'a Robinson' to help her, and she preferred going in at the kitchen entrance to carrying the fish.
Sparks now spent all his eloquence on the beauty of the Hall, and the benevolence of Squire Brimble, who was, as he said, the very pattern of a squire—such a landlord, such a master! there wasn't a man or woman in the neighbourhood but would run at his call. The remaining passengers, who chiefly lived at Stoney Gates and around, left the van; and the stranger and miss, with Spark and his granny, were alone.
Sparks pointed out the stables with great pride to the stranger, telling him the squire was the man for a horse. 'It's well worth getting up early to see him start for the hunt. He's as good a sight as sunrise,' was his concluding speech as he turned in the direction of the back premises, and brought the van to the servants' door. Here he was encountered by the cook.
'A pretty time of night, John Sparks!' she cried. 'Where's the fish? I thought you'd broke down on the road.'
'Why ever didn't you come by the other van?' she cried to the maid, who had now dismounted; 'I'm sure you hadn't so much to do but what you might; and madam has been wondering at you ever so, for the young ladies wanted their things; and I'm sure I don't know what the squire'll say at waiting all this time for dinner.'
'It's aralelove of a beauty,' said the maid, handing the bonnet to the angry cook; 'I had to wait while they finished it.'
'Ah,' said she in a mollified tone, 'those shopkeepers are so troublesome. I told Phipps to put it to madam that you were sure to be kept for something;' and, calling the scullery maid to fetch the fish, she carried off the bonnet that had wrought so happy a change in her disposition.
No one noticed the stranger, who, however, quietly saw and heard everything, and who only left the van to take possession of his humble lodging at Biddy Sparks. A shabby portmanteau and a large portfolio made up his luggage, and, having seen what appliances Biddy could afford, he speedily dismissed her to procure any supper at hand, and arranged them himself in somewhat military order, and, throwing open the window, told her not to be alarmed if she heard him early in the morning, for it was his custom to rise with the dawn.
When the stranger was fairly settled down in the humble dwelling of Mrs. Sparks, he seemed well pleased with his quarters.
'He've been brought up hard, granny,' said John; 'that's how he's so contented.'
'I don't believe it, John; he's the rale gentleman, only he've got the sense to come down to his means.'
At this juncture their lodger appeared, and cut short the conference. He has been partially described. To finish the portrait, the reader must add to his penetrating grey eyes a mouth indicating great decision of character, a head finely formed, with hair changing to grey. In the vigour of his expression, carriage, and manner, you would read his age to be thirty; but the worn look of his cheek, his furrowed brow, and his changing hair put many years on him: he might be forty or forty-five. Leaning over the garden gate with a paper in his hand, he nodded pleasantly to John, who was gardening, while his grandmother kept watch lest he should slip from his work.
'This Parker's Due that you told me of,' he said, 'how shall I find it by walking?'
John and his granny, having almost quarrelled about the nearest way, gave him a direction at last, as plain as a Chinese puzzle.
'Bring me a jug of milk, Mrs. Sparks, and some of your good brown bread; I see I have a long walk before me, and must be fortified.' Wouldn't he have some bacon, or wait for her to make a pan pudding with two or three eggs? No, he would not; he drank the milk, and putting the bread in his knapsack, took his iron-ended staff, or spud, and was opening the gate when two young ladies rode up, and, dismounting, the younger, who was exceedingly handsome, threw the bridle with an air of condescension into his hands. The elder, less beautiful, but pleasant-looking, hesitated to follow her example, and regarded him inquiringly.
Biddy Sparks came out, calling, 'John, John;' but John, reckoning on her having a longer talk with her lodger, and being tired of digging, had escaped to the Brimble Arms.
'Oh, ladies, I'm never so sorry—please, sir—I beg a hundred pardons, miss—couldn't I hold the horses, sir?—where can John be gone? You seen him here this minute, sir?'
Biddy knew well where he was gone, but did not hint at it, for fear of injuring his character before the ladies. The stranger, meantime, quietly tethered the horses securely to the strong fence, and, raising his cap to the young ladies, said to Biddy, 'I will find your grandson, and send him; they will stand quite safely,' looking at the horses, and then turned towards the inn, where he expected to see him.
Miss Brimble watched him out of sight; but her sister Flora scarcely allowed him to be beyond hearing before she asked who he was, adding, 'I thought it was one of the farm people.'
'He's my lodger, miss, and quite a gentleman, for all he's put up here,' said Biddy. 'Please walk in, ladies. The chickens are all alive, Miss Flora—I'm proud to say I haven't lost one; you'll please to come and look at them; and belike Miss Brimble will look at the beautiful pictures as Mr. Jobson have put up in the parlour.'
'Beautiful indeed!' said Miss Brimble, standing before a rough water-colour drawing of an extensive country scene. 'Oh, Flora, look! how exceedingly clever!' she exclaimed, and pointed out the merits of distance, colour, etc. Flora had no doubt it was all true, but did not examine it with much interest. While Miss Brimble stood before it in silent admiration, she went with Biddy to visit her chickens, plying her with innumerable questions about her lodger.
'Jobson—what a name! poor old man! I daresay he's some map-maker, or surveyor, or that kind of thing. And so he plays the flute? Why, how entertaining he must be! And you don't know where he came from, nor where he is going, nor what he wants here, nor how long he is going to stay? Well, if he had but a better name, he would be delightfully mysterious; but Jobson—and Matthew Jobson, too—there's no harmonizing that with mystery.'
Miss Brimble had well surveyed, not only the drawing described but several others,—some unintelligible to a common eye, from their roughness,—and seemed disinclined to leave them, when Flora returned from her visit to her pet chickens. As they rode through the long narrow lane that formed with its overhanging boughs an avenue almost private to the Hall, Flora upbraided her sister with not having visited her pets—' the sweetest little creatures in the world,' she said.
'Who can this person be?' said Miss Brimble, musingly, and not noticing her sister's reproaches.
'Oh, some poor old broken-down artist—or—or—but what does it signify? I do believe, Charity, you are more interested in him than in my little darlings.'
'I wish,' said Miss Brimble, 'I had asked more questions of Biddy about him.'
'Don't be unhappy,' said Flora; 'I asked every conceivable question while you were looking at those things on the wall. His name is Matthew Jobson; he gets up at some unearthly hour—four or five—after sleeping on a mat on the floor, miserable man, with his window open; when the milk comes in, he drinks one long draught, and eats brown bread, and that's his breakfast; then he shuts himself up in the parlour, and makes those smudges and scratches—I should call them—but of course you know best; then he starts off with hard-boiled eggs and brown bread, and walks no one knows where, and doesn't return till evening, and finishes the day with a solo on the flute, and some more bread and milk. Well, stop—I haven't done; he is undoubtedly very poor, but very honest, for he pays his reckoning every evening, which makes Biddy afraid he won't stay very long. He gives John the best advice—he knows everything, and has been everywhere—there!'
'I wonder if he would give drawing-lessons,' said Charity.
'Not to me,' said Flora; 'not even to be able to do those wonderful things that you admire so would I take lessons of such a sharp-looking old man.'
'Old!' said Miss Brimble; 'he's not old; I was quite struck with his appearance and manner; I believe he's a gentleman in reduced circumstances.'
'Gentleman Jobson,' said Flora.
'As for that, I think Jobson quite as good a name as Brimble.'
'I admit it—how could it be worse? but please to remember we are notbona fideBrimbles, as papa says; woe worth the day that turned us out of honourable "De la Marks" into people so ignoble!'
The ride ended, and the story of the stranger was soon told to the family. Squire Brimble, who was the essence of indulgent fathers, promised to see him, and ascertain if Charity's wish could be accomplished.
Accordingly, the next morning he set off to Stoney Gates to fulfil his promise. He found Mrs. Sparks at her wheel before the door, and the stranger leaning against the large walnut tree, sketching her. Mr. Brimble advanced with an air of easy kindness. 'Mr. Jobson, I believe.' The stranger, with a half-suppressed smile, returned his bow. 'My name is Brimble. I live at yon old red house. My daughters were here yesterday, and had the pleasure of seeing a drawing of yours which they admired exceedingly.' Again the stranger bowed. 'MayIhave the pleasure of seeing it?'
'By all means, if you will find it a pleasure;' and they entered the house together. Mr. Brimble walked to the largest drawing. He had no doubt Charity was right, and admired it in nearly the same terms in which she had praised it to him; but he wondered whether Flora might not be right—smudge and scratch.
'There's something very extraordinary in genius,' he said. 'It seems to make people forget the ordinary things of life. You, for instance, are so interested in your art, that I daresay you are insensible to half that you are exposed to in this queer place.'
'Queer place!' said the stranger; 'I wish genius may never fare worse. What can a man enjoy more than ease and sumptuous abundance?' and he seated himself carelessly on his portmanteau, while he pushed the only chair towards Mr. Brimble.
The squire answered with a chuckle. Biddy Sparks' lodger revelling in ease and sumptuous abundance! The stranger smiled at his merriment, and said, 'If you had passed through what some travellers have,—I speak not of myself,—you would call this accommodation fit for a prince.'
The tone and manner which accompanied these words convinced Mr. Brimble that the person before him was no starved-out son of genius, that fed ill from an empty pocket; and as the conversation continued he became more and more impressed with the feeling that he was a gentleman who wanted no help, and, moreover, a man of highly gifted and cultivated mind. A thorough lover of ease in mind and body, Mr. Brimble enjoyed nothing more than amusement without the cost of exertion; he was quite elated at the idea of having found a pleasant companion in so near a neighbour, whose company could be enjoyed without the bondage of ceremony. On the other hand, the stranger, keen in the perception of character, had at a glance read that of his visitor; kindness and candour were its leading features: the effect was mutual satisfaction.
At last, being satisfied that the stranger was travelling merely from amusement, and lived as he did from preference, the squire said, with a frank smile, as he proffered his snuff-box, 'Well, now for the truth. I came here fancying that you were a poor genius, at your wits' end for money, and I intended asking you to give lessons to my daughter; but, as I happen to be wrong in everything but the genius, instead of that come and dine with us to-day. We shall be alone, I believe; but even then we may hope to be as entertaining as Sparks and his granny.'
The stranger smiled, but shook his head. He glanced at his dress. 'I have no means of making a toilet here,' he said, 'and couldn't appear thus before ladies.'
'Nonsense!' said Mr. Brimble; 'you are fit for court. Mrs. Brimble and my children are quite indifferent to such matters; you are an idle man, and you've no excuse. Walk down with me now, and make a long day of it.' The stranger, still declaring that he could not then accept his hospitality, added that he would gladly walk with him, and they left the house together.
'This avenue, you see,' said the squire, 'amounts to a private road. None but our own people intrude on it; so that my daughters can ride or walk to their favourite haunts in the village and around it, without any fear of molestation, without the tediousness of an attendant. We are all for liberty; it is as much our delight as if we had been born birds of the air. Anything like etiquette—when it is constraint—is our torment. Now you see that little pathway that opens into a very pretty little wood, where there are all sorts of rustic gimcracks put together to please the ladies, who by the way seldom go there,—dove-house, hermitages, labyrinths, and so on. Over yonder hill lies the Dew, a fine old place going to ruin; the estate at one point joins mine, or would, but for a trout stream. Are you an angler? Capital! then we shall have some sport together. I preserve, or pretend to do, but I'm poached on most unmercifully, and can't help myself. There's the house—"Hall," we call it—a good place enough. But before we go in, I must take you round my stables; I have just bought a hunter, high price—you shall judge him,' etc.