CHAPTER III.
A WONDERFUL DREAM.
In the flush of happiness which immediately followed the acquittal of Mr. Woodburn, the long-deferred marriage of Ann Woodburn was celebrated. Sir Henry Clavering had proved himself a most noble and indefatigable friend through the whole dark season, and all were eager to confer on him his long and patiently sought prize, and to claim him as one of the family of the Grange. It was a pleasant morning in April when the wedding took place, the ceremony being performed by Sir Henry’s worthy uncle, Thomas Clavering, assisted by Mr. Markham, who, to his honour be it said, had most heartily protested against what he termed the atrociousprosecution of Mr. Woodburn. Not only was the outward spring breaking forth with her buds and dews and violets, but the inner spring of peace and joy was come back to the lovely fields of Woodburn. We need not say that all Woodburn, many friends from Castleborough, Cotmanhaye Manor, and all round there, some even from Rockville, had flocked to this auspicious scene, and many a warm wish was sent after the happy pair as they dashed away after the breakfast at the Grange, in Sir Henry’s carriage, on their way towards Paris. God’s blessing go with them, was the fervent prayer of the crowd of felicitating friends, as it is ours.
When they were gone, and the friends too, and that silence and strange vacancy fell on the house, which is deep in proportion to the love for the fair inmate carried away, Letty, who had worn on that morning something of her former bloom and gaiety, dashed withhappy tears, said to her mother and father as they sat together in their old sitting-room, “None of us will ever forget the presentiment of Mrs. Heritage at our memorable May fête, for how strangely has it been realised? But perhaps you have forgotten that she pointed to an afterglow, and said that the days after the gloom should be more lovely and happy than before. As that dear, good woman spoke truth in one part of her prediction, I shall believe that she did in the other. Is not the present happy issue of that hideous, odious darkness a proof and a commencement of it? Is not this happy day another proof? And now I will read you a letter from my husband, which, though it may seem to you sad, is to me full of the happiest confidence.”
“What! have you at last heard from Thorsby again?” said her mother.
“Yes, dear mother; it is now seven months since I heard, and I began to have someserious fears of what might have befallen him: but you shall hear:—
“Cincinnati, March 7th, 18—.“My Dearest Letty,—Probably you have thought me dead, and were not very sorry for it. No; you have always, even in the worst periods of my wretched life, shown such an admirable love for me, so undeserved, so badly requited; you have had such a wonderful faith in my coming some day right side uppermost, that I still flatter myself that you will be glad to see my hand-writing again. But the truth is, I have been at Death’s door, and all but in his ancient house. When I wrote to you in the autumn, I said I was going into Indiana. I had heard rumours of a man who very much resembled the one I was wanting to come up with, though out of no love to him, and was making my way to Indianopolis. I had reached a village not far from the Wabash, in a deep valley, and amongst enormous woods, where clearings andcultivation are but partial and scattered. I put up at a rude wooden public-house, where I was very miserably accommodated, but that was nothing new to me. When I came out of my room in the morning, which was on the ground-floor, my landlord, a tall, lanky woodsman, said, ‘Stranger, I guess I have but poor news for you. Some one in the night has entered the shed, and ridden off with your horse.’“In my astonishment and consternation, I asked him why he thought so. ‘Just,’ said he, ‘because the crittur is not there.’ I rushed out as if I would be satisfied, but my horse, saddle, and bridle had disappeared, and my landlord, for my consolation, assured me that such scamps going through the country were often showing such a preference of riding over walking, at any one’s expense. The horror of my situation may be conceived. I had not money with me sufficient to purchase another horse, and to wait for ananswer and remittance from New York would throw me into the winter. I determined to set out and reach Indianapolis on foot. For days I walked on in extreme anxiety, through woods, marshes, and intricate hills. Wet through and through, I at length took up my quarters for the night in the inn of another hamlet. The next morning I staggered forward on rising out of bed, from excessive dizziness, and in two or three days lost my consciousness in a delirious attack of fever. A week after that I awoke, weak beyond expression, and unable to move. I was told I had been in a raging condition, and corded down on my bed. It was some time before I could get out of bed, and on looking for my clothes, found my coat gone, and with it the whole of my money. I could get no satisfaction. The people of the house said there had been many strangers coming and going, and some one of them had clearly been a thief.“What a situation! Here was I, above six hundred miles from New York, without a dollar, and without a full suit of clothing! My watch, too, was gone! I sat down in a mood of absolute despair, and wished I had died in my delirium. The people bade me cheer up, they said they would not charge me anything for their trouble. My inmost conviction was that they need not—they had paid themselves too well out of my property. But what was I to do? The man gave me an old coarse rough coat of his own: I accepted it, for it would prevent me from perishing. But how should I live? Winter was coming down, there was no work, but that of felling timber, and ploughing the new enclosures, and I had no strength for it; besides, the deep snow would soon put an end to that. But there was sufficient food to be had; the people of the inn said I might stay and recruit myself a little. I did so. I believed I owed them nothing, that the balance was really to my credit.“But there was one man always busy, that was the blacksmith. I heard his hammer ringing on the anvil long before it was light in a morning, and often till late at night. In my lack of anything to occupy my time with, I wandered to his forge, and fell into conversation with him. He had heard my case, and rough as he seemed, he said he felt for me. ‘I wish I could swing a hammer like you,’ I said, ‘I would come and help you, for you seem to have too much to do.’“‘I wish you could then,’ said he, ‘for I want a help dreadfully. But why should not you soon?’“I shook my head. ‘I am too weak yet,’ I said.“‘But there’s strength in hominy and pork and peach-brandy,’ he said. ‘Come to my log-hut; you can rest and feed till you feel your strength, and by-and-by, you can do a little.’“I accepted his offer. Our living was, ashe said, almost literally hominy and pork, but these suited my reduced system excellently, and in a few weeks I was strong enough to strike with the hammer against him. He had plough-shares and all the irons for ploughs and harrows, shoes for horses, and tiring and bushes for drays for the farmers around to make, and having nothing much else to do in the winter, they were always coming to demand them.“Well, to make a short story of it, by degrees I became capable of striking with the big hammer against him. Day after day, from early morning till night, I thus toiled and sweltered. Oh, what mortal weariness, what aching bones were mine! Many a night I could not sleep for aching, bone-weary fatigue. There was a young child which cried continually in the room next to my little cabin of a place, and though the stout blacksmith snored through it all, it kept me awake when I could have slept. Throughthe long dreary winter I continued to beat the anvil, and earn my hominy and pork, hominy and molasses, hominy and milk. These were my chief articles of diet, and my three dollars a-week. There was no help for it. The forests around were impassable for snow; there was no communication with New York.“But in those long laborious days, those dreary nights, in that dreary village of Tunckhannock, the scenes of my past life came before me in very different colours. Oh! what an idiot I saw myself to have been. The letter of Mrs. Heritage, which the thief had carried off in my coat—may it do him the good he greatly needs!—but which was engraven on my memory, and the words of that good old Jesse Kersey, they stood as if written in fire on my soul. I acknowledged the hand that had thus led me into this school of hard discipline, which had stripped me, and bruised me to the very core, and Ipoured out my soul in tears and wrestling prayers for the gifts of soberness and wisdom. If I am not greatly deceived, the fire-spirit, as Jesse Kersey called it, is beaten out of me. That big hammer and its ever-straining blows have tamed the wild blood in me. I feel another, ‘a sadder but a wiser man.’“The favour of God, indeed, seems to be returning to me. In this city of the west, at the principal inn, whom should I discover but the man of my long and vain search. As I entered the room I saw him at a table opposite. He was no longer the brown-headed, sandy-whiskered man, but one with a head of raven hair, a clean-shaven face, and spectacles,—but I could never mistake those features. I cautiously withdrew and returned with a constable. My man very coolly assured us we were entirely mistaken in him. ‘If I am,’ I said, ‘this black hair is not false,’ and with that I lifted off his wig, andshowed the brown crop beneath. We now searched his portmanteau, found papers fully identifying him, and to my joyful surprise three thousand pounds of my own money. A good Providence seemed to have compelled him to wander like a Cain, and to carry his spoil always with him.“I have stayed to see him put on the treadmill of the prison for three years, and now I am about to travel on to New York. Boat and carriage are now at my command. In the summer I trust once more to see England, and a wife who will add to all her other undeserved goodness that of receiving her repentant and for-ever sobered“Henry Thorsby.”
“Cincinnati, March 7th, 18—.
“My Dearest Letty,—Probably you have thought me dead, and were not very sorry for it. No; you have always, even in the worst periods of my wretched life, shown such an admirable love for me, so undeserved, so badly requited; you have had such a wonderful faith in my coming some day right side uppermost, that I still flatter myself that you will be glad to see my hand-writing again. But the truth is, I have been at Death’s door, and all but in his ancient house. When I wrote to you in the autumn, I said I was going into Indiana. I had heard rumours of a man who very much resembled the one I was wanting to come up with, though out of no love to him, and was making my way to Indianopolis. I had reached a village not far from the Wabash, in a deep valley, and amongst enormous woods, where clearings andcultivation are but partial and scattered. I put up at a rude wooden public-house, where I was very miserably accommodated, but that was nothing new to me. When I came out of my room in the morning, which was on the ground-floor, my landlord, a tall, lanky woodsman, said, ‘Stranger, I guess I have but poor news for you. Some one in the night has entered the shed, and ridden off with your horse.’
“In my astonishment and consternation, I asked him why he thought so. ‘Just,’ said he, ‘because the crittur is not there.’ I rushed out as if I would be satisfied, but my horse, saddle, and bridle had disappeared, and my landlord, for my consolation, assured me that such scamps going through the country were often showing such a preference of riding over walking, at any one’s expense. The horror of my situation may be conceived. I had not money with me sufficient to purchase another horse, and to wait for ananswer and remittance from New York would throw me into the winter. I determined to set out and reach Indianapolis on foot. For days I walked on in extreme anxiety, through woods, marshes, and intricate hills. Wet through and through, I at length took up my quarters for the night in the inn of another hamlet. The next morning I staggered forward on rising out of bed, from excessive dizziness, and in two or three days lost my consciousness in a delirious attack of fever. A week after that I awoke, weak beyond expression, and unable to move. I was told I had been in a raging condition, and corded down on my bed. It was some time before I could get out of bed, and on looking for my clothes, found my coat gone, and with it the whole of my money. I could get no satisfaction. The people of the house said there had been many strangers coming and going, and some one of them had clearly been a thief.
“What a situation! Here was I, above six hundred miles from New York, without a dollar, and without a full suit of clothing! My watch, too, was gone! I sat down in a mood of absolute despair, and wished I had died in my delirium. The people bade me cheer up, they said they would not charge me anything for their trouble. My inmost conviction was that they need not—they had paid themselves too well out of my property. But what was I to do? The man gave me an old coarse rough coat of his own: I accepted it, for it would prevent me from perishing. But how should I live? Winter was coming down, there was no work, but that of felling timber, and ploughing the new enclosures, and I had no strength for it; besides, the deep snow would soon put an end to that. But there was sufficient food to be had; the people of the inn said I might stay and recruit myself a little. I did so. I believed I owed them nothing, that the balance was really to my credit.
“But there was one man always busy, that was the blacksmith. I heard his hammer ringing on the anvil long before it was light in a morning, and often till late at night. In my lack of anything to occupy my time with, I wandered to his forge, and fell into conversation with him. He had heard my case, and rough as he seemed, he said he felt for me. ‘I wish I could swing a hammer like you,’ I said, ‘I would come and help you, for you seem to have too much to do.’
“‘I wish you could then,’ said he, ‘for I want a help dreadfully. But why should not you soon?’
“I shook my head. ‘I am too weak yet,’ I said.
“‘But there’s strength in hominy and pork and peach-brandy,’ he said. ‘Come to my log-hut; you can rest and feed till you feel your strength, and by-and-by, you can do a little.’
“I accepted his offer. Our living was, ashe said, almost literally hominy and pork, but these suited my reduced system excellently, and in a few weeks I was strong enough to strike with the hammer against him. He had plough-shares and all the irons for ploughs and harrows, shoes for horses, and tiring and bushes for drays for the farmers around to make, and having nothing much else to do in the winter, they were always coming to demand them.
“Well, to make a short story of it, by degrees I became capable of striking with the big hammer against him. Day after day, from early morning till night, I thus toiled and sweltered. Oh, what mortal weariness, what aching bones were mine! Many a night I could not sleep for aching, bone-weary fatigue. There was a young child which cried continually in the room next to my little cabin of a place, and though the stout blacksmith snored through it all, it kept me awake when I could have slept. Throughthe long dreary winter I continued to beat the anvil, and earn my hominy and pork, hominy and molasses, hominy and milk. These were my chief articles of diet, and my three dollars a-week. There was no help for it. The forests around were impassable for snow; there was no communication with New York.
“But in those long laborious days, those dreary nights, in that dreary village of Tunckhannock, the scenes of my past life came before me in very different colours. Oh! what an idiot I saw myself to have been. The letter of Mrs. Heritage, which the thief had carried off in my coat—may it do him the good he greatly needs!—but which was engraven on my memory, and the words of that good old Jesse Kersey, they stood as if written in fire on my soul. I acknowledged the hand that had thus led me into this school of hard discipline, which had stripped me, and bruised me to the very core, and Ipoured out my soul in tears and wrestling prayers for the gifts of soberness and wisdom. If I am not greatly deceived, the fire-spirit, as Jesse Kersey called it, is beaten out of me. That big hammer and its ever-straining blows have tamed the wild blood in me. I feel another, ‘a sadder but a wiser man.’
“The favour of God, indeed, seems to be returning to me. In this city of the west, at the principal inn, whom should I discover but the man of my long and vain search. As I entered the room I saw him at a table opposite. He was no longer the brown-headed, sandy-whiskered man, but one with a head of raven hair, a clean-shaven face, and spectacles,—but I could never mistake those features. I cautiously withdrew and returned with a constable. My man very coolly assured us we were entirely mistaken in him. ‘If I am,’ I said, ‘this black hair is not false,’ and with that I lifted off his wig, andshowed the brown crop beneath. We now searched his portmanteau, found papers fully identifying him, and to my joyful surprise three thousand pounds of my own money. A good Providence seemed to have compelled him to wander like a Cain, and to carry his spoil always with him.
“I have stayed to see him put on the treadmill of the prison for three years, and now I am about to travel on to New York. Boat and carriage are now at my command. In the summer I trust once more to see England, and a wife who will add to all her other undeserved goodness that of receiving her repentant and for-ever sobered
“Henry Thorsby.”
“Well,” said Mr. Woodburn, “God grant that he may be as completely sobered as he says. That big hammer is one of the best things for taming a man I ever heard of. If it has effected a cure, as we will hope it has,Thorsby ought to have it emblazoned in his arms.”
“Yes, truly,” said Mrs. Woodburn; “and I pray that it may have done that good work with all my heart.”
“And you can still forgive him, Letty?” said Mr. Woodburn.
“My dear father,” said Letty, smiling, “do you think I never say the Lord’s Prayer?”
“Oh! as to that,” said Mr. Woodburn, “I know scores who say it every night and morning, and yet never forgive anybody. They hug their spites like dear babies, and remember a small offence ten or twenty years after as keenly as they felt it the moment it occurred.”
“I don’t understand such people,” said Letty.
“They don’t understand themselves,” said her father. “Many of these people think themselves admirable Christians.”
“But,” said Letty, “if I am required by my Redeemer to forgive a brother, not seventimes, but seventy times seven, how many times should I forgive a husband, whom I have sworn to take for better for worse? My notion is that so long as you can hope to reform and save a fellow-creature, you should not only forgive, but work hard for his restoration. If God permits me to reclaim an immortal being that He has thought it good to make, I don’t think I can be better employed.”
“Nor I, neither,” said Mr. Woodburn.
As time had worn on, after Mr. Woodburn’s acquittal, the first satisfaction of it had given way in his mind to deeper and deeper reflections on the brand which his neighbours had put upon him, in publicly accusing him of so atrocious a crime as murder. The more he pondered on it, the more it appeared like an ugly dream. No single trace of an explanation had yet shown itself of the real nature of the catastrophe. He knew that the Rockville faction still amongst themselves deemedhim guilty of the death of Mr. Drury, and denominated the result of the trial a lucky escape for him. These reflections were intolerable to him, and he became extremely low and depressed. He did not like to be seen in public. He spent much time in hoeing and weeding in his garden, where he was out of the way of observation. Whenever he took a ride it was down the hollow road and up the narrow hedge-embowered cart-road by the river to Cotmanhaye Mill, and so out into Sir Henry Clavering’s fields. He sat for whole days together over his old classical authors, and in the society of his family fell into long and deep silences. All noticed this state of things, and became anxious on account of its effect both on his mind and his health.
Towards midsummer Sir Henry and Lady Clavering returned to Cotmanhaye Manor, and it was delightful to her family and friends to see her in her new home all brightness and happiness. A lovely home it was,and Sir Henry seemed proud of it because it gave so much pleasure to his wife. A series of dinners and fêtes were given after the reception days, at which all their friends from town and country assembled, and not only Letty appeared there with much of her early gaiety, but Millicent Heritage was observed to be cheerful and soberly happy. At these fêtes, however, Mr. Woodburn was rarely seen, he preferred walking up and talking with Sir Henry, his daughter, and the Rector in quiet hours, when they were alone. It was clear that unless some light could be thrown on the tragedy of Wink’s Ferry, his spirits never again could regain their wonted buoyancy; he must be a retiring and melancholy man: which was a heavy weight on the hearts of his family.
One day, towards the end of July, a traveller dropped from the top of the Derby coach at the manufacturing village of Beeton, and took his way across the wide meadows inthe direction of Woodburn. The hay had been cleared, and numerous herds of cattle were grazing in them on the new-springing grass. The flowers of the meadow-sweet yet breathed out their fragrance as the traveller walked on by the long hedge sides, and along the dry footpath, with his eyes fixed on the distant heights of Woodburn and the woods of Rockville. He had evidently chosen this path that he might not be much seen; and as he observed some peasants coming along the footpath towards him, he crossed a gate, and sat down under the fence until they had passed. He then recrossed and pursued his way. This traveller was Henry Thorsby; but what a change! Instead of that bustling, mercurial air, he looked grave, and even sad. He was wondering, after all, notwithstanding Letty’s goodness, what sort of a reception he would meet with. He knew that he deserved nothing but reproach, and all the causes of such reproach rose up in his memory as hewalked on. He had learned, too, from Letty’s letters, and the English newspapers, the whole strange story of Mr. Woodburn’s arrest and trial. It seemed that he was drawing near to a very different Woodburn from that of past times; and on reaching the river he hesitated whether to cross and go boldly on to the Grange, or sit down and spend his time in the solitary fields till he could steal away unnoticed to his house in Castleborough. But he knew that Letty was at the Grange, where she spent most of her time in endeavouring to cheer the spirits of her father. He resolved, therefore, to go resolutely on. If he were coldly received by the family, he knew that he deserved it, and he was prepared to endure his just punishment.
At Wink’s Ferry he paused and looked round, revolving in his mind the strange occurrence of Mr. Drury’s death. All looked calm, and serenely smiling as ever. Hepulled himself over, and passing through the branches of a great old hazel-bush—a way well known to him and George Woodburn—entered the orchard, and so proceeded through the garden to the house. With a hesitating step and beating heart he entered the well-known sitting-room, and the next moment found himself with a wild cry of joy in the arms of his wife. Mr. and Mrs. Woodburn stood in silent surprise, and with feelings that it would be in vain to attempt to describe. Over that sacred scene of the Return of the Prodigal Son, and the forgiving hands that were extended to him, let us draw the veil of domesticity, and of silence.
For some time Thorsby remained at the Grange, and only ventured to take the secluded path in the dusk of evening towards Cotmanhaye Manor, where he was cordially received. The letters he had written to Letty, and the altered appearance of his person, where the solidity of middle age seemed toreign, and the subdued tone of his mind, had produced a great revulsion in his favour. It was some weeks before Letty could inspirit him to face Castleborough and all the comments of his old townsmen, but at length even this was effected; and people saw with astonishment Thorsby going with sober steps from his house to his warehouse. The surprise of this re-appearance was extreme; and afforded subject for abundance of discussion. Thorsby sought no recognition from his old acquaintances; when he met them, spoke passingly to them; and when anyone offered him a hand he took it cordially; but there was a gravity about him that strangely impressed even those of the greatest levity. He looked like a man who had passed through some severe furnace of affliction, some profound trouble of which the shadow still haunted him. All thought he looked ten years older; and by degrees his steady devotion to business, and the assurances of Mr.Barnesdale that he was a wonderfully changed man, began to give him a new status in public opinion. His wife seemed as happy as if no grief had ever passed over her, and she and her husband, with their now lovely flaxen-curled little boy between them, might be seen driving after business hours towards Woodburn. There it was that Thorsby seemed most at home, except in his own house. He felt deeply grateful for the kind reception he had met from every one of the family, and was very anxious to contribute all he could towards diverting that load of melancholy which weighed more and more on the spirits of Mr. Woodburn.
It was on a beautiful morning in August that Mr. and Mrs. Woodburn, George and Letty were sitting in the cool old house-place. Breakfast was just over, and Letty had nodded a loving greeting to her husband as he rode past the front garden on his way to business, holding up in her arms little Leonard,to make his greetings with a pair of little chubby but active hands. George had taken down the Bible, for they had adopted the custom of the Friends of Fair Manor, of reading a chapter after breakfast. He had just commenced the reading of the twelfth chapter of St. Luke, and reached the second verse,—“For there is nothing covered, that shall not be revealed; neither hid, that shall not be known.”
Mr. Woodburn did not wait for the conclusion of the reading, but said, “Ay, see there now! that is one of those promises which are so freely made in these Gospels, and that are not fulfilled. We know that too well.”
George paused, and was about to go on again, for such remarks were too frequent from Mr. Woodburn to be immediately replied to, when there came the postman’s rat-tat at the door, and Letty sprung up with all a woman’s eagerness for letters, openedthe door and took in a letter. She looked at it a moment, and said,
“For you, dear George. Bless me, a ship letter, and, as I live, from Dr. Leroy! Why, that is the first news of him that has reached England, so far as I know.”
She handed it to George, who began running it over to himself.
“He is well, I hope,” said two or three voices at once.
“But I have scarcely read a line,” said George. “How can I tell? You will hear all presently. It is dated from on board the Aurungzebe, in the Hoogly. Yes, he says he is quite well.” And George read on in silence again. Suddenly they saw a deeper interest expressed in his face. He read on with a sort of hurrying avidity.
“What is it? What is it?” asked the impatient Letty.
“What is it?” said George. “It is most extraordinary, and yet it is only a dream.”
“A dream? Oh, a dream only, and does that so astonish you George, as I see it does?” continued Letty.
“Listen then,” said George; “listen, father. It is the most extraordinary thing I ever heard of, though it is but a dream. One thing, however, I observe, the letter must have lain somewhere a good while, it is much out of date.”
“On board the ‘Aurungzebe’ in the Hoogly,July 4th, 18—.
“My Dear George Woodburn,—I write to you the first line of a letter that I have sent to any one since leaving England; you will see why. We have had a long, but a prosperous voyage. We discharged part cargo at the Cape, and another at the Mauritius, and have just cast anchor here. I have not yet visited Calcutta, that city of palaces, for yesterday as we came to anchor I felt a most unaccountable and gloomy weight oh my spirits. Amid all the bustle of quittingthe ship by the passengers and saying good-bye to those who had become so familiar through a long voyage, this weight lay on me. In the night I dreamed a most frightful and extraordinary dream. Now you know that I am not superstitious; that my medical education has made me a firm believer in the invariable prevalence of law in God’s creation. Dreams, visions, stories of apparitions, are all to me furniture of the nursery; and yet how inconsistent I am! Twice in my life I have had dreams so vivid and life-like that, contrary to the ordinary run of my dreams, which I rarely remember, they have remained as clearly and firmly on my mind as actual broad-day facts, and, what is the more wonderful, they were found each to represent something which at the same moment was really passing in a distant place.
“God forbid that this should prove so, but it is exactly of the same kind, and I feel impelled to tell it you at the risk of beinglaughed at. Certainly I do hope that you will be able to laugh at me. All I ask is that if it be not true, you keep my counsel.
“Well then, I seemed to be somewhere in the great meadows between Woodburn and Beeton. The hay was all abroad, and numbers of people were busily getting it up. It was a splendid, still, reposing evening. I saw Mr. Drury amongst his work-people on his well-remembered tall, roan horse.”
“Oh!” was ejaculated by every one present.
“How odd too,” said George, looking at the date, “and this dream occurred on the night following the death of Mr. Drury. But to proceed.”
“As I looked round I saw two men cross Wink’s Ferry into the meadows, one with a hay-fork in his hand. They seated themselves under the alder bushes near the ferry and on the banks of the river. One of these men I recognised at once. It was thatNathan Hopcraft, who lives just below you, and whose powers of gormandising I have witnessed to my astonishment in your kitchen. His short, thick figure was exact. As usual in hot weather, his shirt-collar and bosom were open, displaying his red, sunburnt, and hairy chest, and his thick, muscular neck, which I remember him once speaking of in his stupid and cart-before-the-horse-way, saying, ‘I have a bull like a neck,’ meaning he had a neck like a bull. There he sat in his shirt sleeves, and with him a man I never saw before. He was a tall, muscular fellow of about thirty. At first view I thought him a keeper, for he had on leather leggings and a velveteen shooting-jacket, with ample skirts and pockets, capable of holding a hare each if necessary. He had black curly hair, and full black whiskers. His face was burnt brown with exposure, and on looking closer his expression was sullen and savage.”
“Oh, heavens!” exclaimed both Letty andher brother together. “Scammel! Scammel to the life! How extraordinary!”
“I soon saw,” continued the letter, “that he was no keeper; but the man had the look of one who had been degraded from a keeper to a poacher and ruffian. His clothes were dirty and weather-beaten; his coat was sun-burnt, of a ruddy brown, his hat was battered and shapeless. As I again looked towards the hay-field, I saw Mr. Drury leaving the people and riding towards the ferry. As he did that the poacher-looking fellow slunk into the bushes and disappeared. Hopcraft went upon the boat and stood ready to pull it over. As Mr. Drury rode on to the boat he touched his hat, and Mr. Drury appeared to say something to him, and then rode towards the prow of the boat, and sat looking forward ready to issue to the shore. But at the very moment that the horse set his feet on the boat, the ugly fellow issued from the bushes armed with the hay-fork, a very heavy one—apitchfork for loading the hay on the waggons. He carried his shoes in his left hand, and set them down softly but quickly on the boat, and then, with the spring of a tiger, he darted forward, and struck Mr. Drury on the back of the head a furious blow. I shouted, as it seemed, as I saw the murderous intention; but the deed was done. Mr. Drury fell backward from his horse, dragging the saddle round after him, and would have gone overboard but that he was caught by the ruffianly looking fellow, and stretched on the deck of the boat. In the fright the horse reared, and, springing forward, fell into the river. For some time he seemed embarrassed by the saddle under his chest, and floundered about as if he would drown, but then he recovered himself, and got footing in the shallower part of the river.
“During this time, for I seemed to see both things at once, I saw the ruffian take Mr. Drury’s watch from his pocket and put itback again. He then took out a pocket-book from the breast-pocket of his coat, opened it, looked at some papers, and put the book back. Then he felt in his small-clothes pockets and drew out what seemed to be a considerable roll of bank-notes. These he thrust into his coat-pocket, and seizing the dead man by the shoulders, and Hopcraft seizing him by the feet, they flung him into the river. The ruffian then hurriedly slipped on his shoes, whilst Hopcraft pulled the boat to land. As soon as they set foot on land the ruffian gave some part of his roll to Hopcraft, who went down the river bank towards his house, driving the horse further down before him.
“But whilst seeing all this, in some singular manner, I saw during the whole transaction, two old people, man and woman, occasionally peep forth from amongst the bushes near the entrance to the hollow road leading to the village. The man had thelook of a tramp with a sackcloth wallet on his back. The woman was in an old faded red cloak and battered black bonnet. Both walked with sticks.”
During this description the amazement of the listeners had momently increased, and their exclamations of surprise were continual. Now they said, “Oh! those are the Shalcrosses—exactly—to a hair! How wonderful!”
“But,” said Mr. Woodburn, “Dr. Leroy had heard, or read, in some newspaper of the affair.”
George looked forward in the letter, and said, “No; he says, he had not at the writing of this heard a syllable of news, or received a single letter, though he hoped for letters at Calcutta, but they could not possibly convey any such news. For you forget this dream occurred on the night immediately succeeding the catastrophe at the ferry.”
All sat in silent wonder. “Certainly,”said Mr. Woodburn, at length, “it is the most amazing dream that ever occurred;—but go on, George.”
“As the ruffian approached the end of the hollow road, these two old people came out and confronted him. They pointed towards the ferry, as if telling him that they had seen all, and the man made violent gestures in return, clenching his fist and seeming to menace them. Then he took out his roll, gave them some part of it, and they then hasted along the river-side cart-track, and disappeared together in the wooded glen above on Mr. Woodburn’s estate. Whilst they were yet in sight, Mr. Drury’s horse galloped up the river-side and turned up the hollow road towards the village. In a few minutes more men appeared looking full of affright, went down to the ferry, and were evidently seeking Mr. Drury.
“That was my dream. I trust that it is but a dream. I cannot persuade myself thatany such horrible transaction has taken place: yet, shall I confess it? the distinctness as of life itself with which the whole of it was seen, and with which it remains, combined with my two former experiences of similar, though not so tragical a kind, makes me uneasy. Write to me, dear George, at the ship agents’, Calcutta, Messrs. Mac Campbell and Dimsdale; I shall get it, perhaps, as I come back, for Captain Andrews, of the Aurungzebe, is going to China with a cargo of opium, to reload there with tea for England, and has persuaded me to accompany him. He offers me great terms to accompany him home again, when he expects distinguished passengers, and as I have taken a great liking to him, perhaps I may,—who knows? Ah, if I had but one happy word from England, I would accept the invitation as the message of an angel. But England lies cold on my heart: and I have flattering prospects held out to me of a practice amongst the invalids inthe Nilgherry Hills. Well, time must decide.”
“There are messages of friendship to you all,” said George, “and to others; the rest we can read another time, but the surprising nature of this dream makes my head swim.”
“I believe every word of it,” said Letty, “is as true as gospel. The facts, as far as they are known, are as exact as if related by an eye-witness. Why should the rest not be equally exact? That Dr. Leroy should see in his dream Scammel and the Shalcrosses whom he does not know, is so extraordinary that it is to me a pledge of the truth. And did not the Gospel, at breakfast, say that whatever is hidden shall be revealed?”
“The coincidence,” said Mr. Woodburn, “is certainly very curious—the dream is very curious; but would to God that it were anything but a dream!”
“Father,” said George, “one thing is certain,it has put us on a track that we can quickly follow out. We can set on foot a careful, well arranged inquiry after these people mentioned. I have not seen Scammel or the Shalcrosses for a long time. If Scammel be the murderer, he has good reason to avoid the neighbourhood, and to keep the Shalcrosses away. A fellow more likely to do such an act I do not know: and another thing strikes me. Hopcraft, who used to be so famous for his cabbage and potato-garden, his fat pigs and his hens—look at him now; he has, almost ever since the date of Mr. Drury’s death, been going back in the world. He killed his pigs at Christmas, but has not bought any fresh ones, though young pigs are plentiful and cheap. His hens are gone, and his garden is a chaos. He seems to have no heart to work it. He has, as you know, been on the parish these six months, and his wife looks more like a scarecrow than a woman. I asked him how all this has come about oneday lately, and he said he had no luck. That is true; he has no luck because his conscience, it is my firm conviction, is not at ease. But I will ride up to Sir Henry, and show him the letter, and if he thinks it warrants it, we will set about to sound these fellows.”
George ordered his horse, and rode off; in less than an hour he and Sir Henry came riding back together.
“Well,” said Sir Henry, “this is a very wonderful affair.”
“You believe it then?” said Mr. Woodburn, who was evidently getting into a state of great excitement.
“I believe every word of it, and so does Ann—by the by, she will be down here directly,” said Sir Henry. “My father would have been delighted with it. He had been so much in the East, that he had seen a great deal of the amazing powers of what are called magic, or the occult, which are exercised there by some of the most powerful chiefs. The lastthing that he would believe was in their fixed notion of the evil eye; but one day, in Greece, riding a most valuable and favourite horse, he saw a man sitting by the roadside, noted and dreaded for the possession of this evil power. On coming opposite, and the man looking hard at his horse, it dropped suddenly as if shot, under him, and was stone dead. A wonderful coincidence, at least, my father used to say.
“But now, for prosecuting this important inquiry. It must be cautiously and unobtrusively done. That Joe Scammel is a desperate fellow, and as wide awake as a hare in March. The slightest suspicion, and he would be gone far enough, for he ranges over a great extent of country. I was surprised to find him as well known to keepers of Staffordshire as he is here. I have an idea which George approves. This is to set Tom Boddily on this quest. He is the most knowing fellow I have come across anywhere round here.He is an old soldier, and his living up and down in quarters has sharpened his wits. It was but yesterday that he came before us at the county hall in a very droll way. Our friend, Sylvanus Crook, was sent on Miss Millicent’s mare to Castleborough on an errand. It was a good distance from the town-house of the Heritages, where his errand lay. So instead of Sylvanus taking the mare to their own stable, he put her up for the time at the Spread Eagle. It was market-day, and the stables were crowded. When he went back for the mare, behold she was not there.
“‘Where is my mare?’ asked Sylvanus in great alarm.
“‘Mr. Heritage’s groom took her,’ said the hostler, ‘and said you must ride home this,’ pointing to a wretched animal not worth ten pounds. Sylvanus asked what sort of a man this groom was, and was told a man in a drab jockey coat with large buttons and top boots.
“‘That,’ said Sylvanus, ‘is no groom of ours; it is a hoax. Dear! dear! what will master, what will Millicent say? Man! man! thou hadst no business to let any person have my horse till I came.’
“Sylvanus hurried off to the bank. The theft and description of the horse and the thief were cried through the market; and handbills ordered to placard in all the towns round. You may imagine the consternation at Fair Manor, and the grief of Miss Heritage at the loss of her favourite May Dew. But about three o’clock next morning, Tom Boddily, who lives at a cottage on the green opposite to Fair Manor gates, sprung up in bed, saying,
“‘That’s May Dew.’
“‘You’re dreaming, Tom,’ said his wife.
“‘No,’ replied Tom; ‘I heard her neigh. I know that sharp, clear neigh well enough. And there it is again.’
“Tom slipped on his clothes; out and acrossthe green towards the place whence the sound came, when, to his amazement, he saw May Dew standing at Fair Manor gates, with her nose put through the bars, and a great fellow fast asleep on her back, and his head resting on her neck. Quick as lightning, Tom ran back; with a handful of gravel woke up Tim Bentley at the Grey Goose, and told him to come down in a moment. Tim was soon down, wondering what was on foot, when Tom took him, making motions to keep still, and showed him May Dew with the fellow on her back. Tom then took May Dew by the bridle, and led her gently to the door of the Grey Goose.
“‘Now, Bentley,’ he said, in a whisper, ‘you must have this fellow in; he has evidently drunk some drugged beer somewhere, and the mare has come home with him. You must have the fellow in, and let him lie on the squab till morning. I’ll put up themare and be back and get Latter, and we’ll secure the fellow.’
“Bentley then shook the fellow. ‘Heigh-ho!’ said he, ‘won’t you get down, stranger?’
“‘What is it?’ asked the fellow, drowsily.
“‘It is the Grey Goose public-house,’ said Bentley; ‘you’ll put up your horse, and have your nap out.’”
“‘Grey Goose?’ said the fellow. ‘Have you oats—have you good ale?’
“‘Both,’ said Bentley, and with Tom’s help they got the stupified fellow down, and into the house. Then he looked about rather more wakefully, and said—
“‘It’s queer how I came here; there’s d—d hockley indyberries in this beer. Landlord, you’ve a good tap, eh?’
“‘First-rate!’ said Bentley, ‘no bacca nor hockley-indy in our beer.’ He fetched the man a pint, who drank it off at a breath, said, ‘You’ve a safe stable, eh?’ and beingassured of that, lay along on the squab, a sort of wooden sofa, and fell asleep again. Meantime, Tom Boddily led the mare to her own stable, and woke up Job Latter, who came with his handcuffs and a strap, and secured the fellow as he still slept in a stupid, drunken sleep. You may imagine the surprise and joy at Fair Manor in the morning; and I can assure you that Tom Boddily yesterday won great credit among the justices for his adroitness, when the case came before them.
“That really was very clever,” said Mr. Woodburn; “but what is Boddily to do? Had you not better take up Hopcraft on suspicion?”
“I doubt that,” said Sir Henry. “We must create no alarm. I would employ Tom to sound Hopcraft a little without exciting his alarm too much, and if he thinks him guilty, to set out to beat up Scammel before we arrest Hopcraft. We can keep an eye onHopcraft meantime, he is so stupid a fellow that it won’t be difficult.”
Sir Henry immediately went up to Fair Manor, and returned, saying, “Mrs. Heritage believed Dr. Leroy’s letter was the Lord’s work, and Boddily should be put at once and wholly at our service.”
Soon after Tom made his appearance, and the matter being explained to him in confidence, he said at once—
“That’s it! My word for it, gentlemen, you have hit it. There is something wrong about that Hopcraft. He is sunk into a wretched pauper, and have not you noticed he is always looking behind him, at any little noise, as if he were afraid of a constable after him. As to that Scammel, I have not seen him for many a month. There’s something in that. He used to come to the Grey Goose of an evening, every now and then. But I’ll hunt him up if he is in the land of the living.”
As Hopcraft was in the cornfield reapingwith other men, it was thought best not to say anything to him till evening, when he had gone home. In the meantime, Boddily went to prepare for his expedition after Scammel. In the course of the day he sent to the Grange a coarse brown linen bag to wait for him. In the evening he came hastily into the Grange, and being sent for into the parlour, where Sir Henry Clavering was again, he said, “It is a case! I have seen Hopcraft; I looked in as if in passing, and remarked that I thought he could not be well, his garden was so out of order. He said no, it was bad luck; he did not know how, but everything went wrong. I then asked where Scammel was now-a-days, I had not seen him for long. He was evidently alarmed at the mention of his name. He did not know, he said, and did not want to know; Scammel was a terrible fellow. ‘Do you think he had any hand in that murder at the ferry there?’ said I.
“‘Murder!’ said Hopcraft, ‘it was no murder—the horse kicked him.’ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘I’ve some queer thoughts about that, and you know, Hopcraft, there are 300l.for any one who can find out who did that; a pretty sum. Suppose you and I were to go shares at that?’
“‘Don’t you meddle with it, Boddily,’ he said, evidently greatly frightened, ‘Scammel is a devil; he will be down on you like a shower of rain. Let him alone, I say, let him alone, in the devil’s name.’
“‘Then he must be somewhere near, to be so quickly down on one.’
“‘I know nothing about that; I say let him alone. Everybody says it was an accident.’
“‘On the contrary,’ said I, ‘a little bird has whispered something to me. There were two people who saw the whole thing.’
“‘What who?’ said Hopcraft, pale and trembling—‘who said so—them Shalcrosses?’
“‘No matter,’ said I, ‘only, Hopcraft, asyou live so near and may have seen something of the real fact, if you and I could bring it home to Scammel, that 300l.would be a very nice thing.’
“Hopcraft was now thoroughly frightened. ‘Mind,’ said he, ‘I know nothing, and I’ve said nothing; so don’t you bring me in any way.’
“‘Well,’ said I, ‘how can I, when you know nothing, and have said nothing?’
“‘Well, then,’ said Hopcraft, ‘you won’t say that you have had any talk with me, eh’?—you won’t, Boddily?’
“‘Oh, make yourself easy, Hopcraft,’ I said. ‘As you know nothing, what is the use of mentioning you? But now I must go, our folks will be wondering where I am. But, Hopcraft, if ever youdohear anything, tell me first about it, and let us get the three hundred.’
“This seemed to quiet him, and he said, ‘You may trust to me, Boddily; only be snug, eh? You won’t say a word of this?’
“‘What would be the use?’ I said, ‘if we are some day to find out something. As you say, Snug’s the word.’ And with that I came away, Hopcraft uneasily watching me through his garden hedge. He’s got a fright, and it will be well to talk to him a little cheerfully in the cornfield, occasionally, to allay any suspicions.”
“At all events,” said Sir Henry, “we will have an eye on him, he won’t escape us. But his mentioning the Shalcrosses is a settler. We have the thing by the end now. I congratulate you, dear Mr. Woodburn; all will soon be cleared up, depend upon it.”
“God grant it,” said Mr. Woodburn; and all present.
“And when are you off, Boddily?” asked Sir Henry; but receiving no answer he looked round, and saw that Boddily had disappeared. “Where’s Boddily?” he asked.
“Here!” answered a dirty, grimy, limping, shabby fellow, coming down the backstairs. All looked in astonishment: could that be Boddily? It was a regular lounging-looking tramp, in a ragged old surtout, and ragged drab trousers, worn off very much behind at the heel. A pair of very slip-shod shoes on, and great holes, or potatoes, according to Midland county phrase, in his stocking heels. A very old, battered hat on his head, and a canvas wallet on his back, tied up like a sack at the top, and suspended over his shoulders by very old cracked straps. “Can your worships bestow your charity on a poor fellow who has not tasted bit nor sup these three days?”
There was one general burst of laughter, for Tom had so completely metamorphosed himself that nobody knew him till he made this petition. Then, changing his tone, he said, “Gentlemen, now I am off—in my wallet I carry a suit of my ordinary clothes. You will hear from me every few days, and may God prosper us, for I mean to go to Johno’ Groat’s or the Land’s End, but I’ll have that Scammel.”
With that Tom made a grave bow, put on his hat, and with a shuffling, limping gait, left the house by the front door, and with a dirty, ugly stick, very much in keeping with his whole appearance, he went slowly up the road till he was out of sight.
“That is a most extraordinary fellow,” said Sir Henry. “I would bet anything on his success; so now we must wait in patience for news from him.” With that he shook hands heartily all round, mounted his horse, and rode home.