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 atrocious prosecution 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 with
happy 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 some serious 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 and cultivation 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 an answer 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, as he 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. Through the 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 I poured 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, and showed 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 seven times, 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 deemed him 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 in the 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 he walked 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. He pulled 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 to reign, 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, opened the 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 quitting the
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 being
laughed 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 that Nathan 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 and her 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—a
pitchfork 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 it back
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 the look 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 that any 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 in the 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 one
day 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 last thing 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 across the 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 the mare 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 being assured 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 on Hopcraft 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 reaping with 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 300_l._ 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, as you live so near and may
have seen something of the real fact, if you and I could bring it
home to Scammel, that 300_l._ 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 you _do_ hear
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 back stairs. 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
John o’ 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.