saying, "I now take leave, dear child, of the life of a gentleman;
henceforward I must content myself with the corner of a kitchen ingle;
and this, truly, is a berth," he added, "too good for a cumberer of the
ground, such as I am." He said this as he passed through the gate of the
court, giving his adopted one time only to snatch his hand and kiss it,
and he was gone beyond her hearing before she could relieve her heart
with a burst of tears. After a while, however, she dried them up, and
began to busy her mind in thinking what she could do to render the
cottage comfortable for her beloved guardian; and having at length
formed her plan, she ran to Mrs. Margaret, and asked her permission to
take the arrangement of their new house.
"Let me," said she, "see all the things put in their places; you and I,
dear aunt Margaret, will have to ourselves a kitchen as neat as a
palace, and we will make a study of the inner room for Mr. Dymock."
"What!" said the old lady, "and give up our parlour?"
"Dear mother," replied the young girl carelessly, "if there is to be no
maid but poor Tamar, why should not the kitchen be the happiest place,
for her own dear mother? You shall have your chair in the corner,
between the window and the fire-place, and your little work-table by it,
and then you can direct me without moving from your needle. Oh! dear,
aunt Margaret," she added, "I am beginning to think that we shall be
happier in the cottage, than we have been in the Castle; we shall have
fewer cares, and shall have a pleasure in putting our small means to
the best. Do not the scatterings of the flock, aunt Margaret, make us as
warm hose as the prime of the fleece?"
"That may be doubted child," replied the old lady with a smile, "but go
young creature, take your way; I believe ere yet you have done, that
you, with your sunny smile, will cheat me into contentment before
I know what I am about; but mind, my lovely one," she added, "I
will tell you how it is. I have been led to see how God in his
displeasure,--displeasure, I say, on account of the pride of ancestry
and station, which I have hitherto persisted in cherishing,--how God, I
repeat, in his displeasure has remembered mercy, and, in taking away
that which is worthless, has left me that which is most precious, even
you my bright one."
The old lady then kissed Tamar, and gave her the permission she
required, to arrange the cottage according to her own fancy. When the
day of removal actually arrived, being the day after the Laird had
walked himself off, the neighbours, with Shanty at their head, came
to assist.
Tamar had determined upon having the room within the kitchen, for her
beloved father by adoption; a village artist having understood her pious
wish, had stained the walls of light grey, and painted the frame of the
casement window of the same colour. Tamar had prepared a curtain of some
light drapery for the window; a well-darned carpet covered the floor,
the Laird's bookcases occupied one entire end of the room opposite the
window, the wonted table of the old study at the Tower was placed in the
centre of the floor, and was covered with its usual cloth, a somewhat
tarnished baize, with a border worked in crewels by Mrs. Margaret in
days gone by. In the centre of this table the inkstand was placed, and
on the opposite wall, a venerable time-piece, asserted, with what truth
we presume not to say, to be nearly as old as the clock sent by Haroun
Al Raschid to the emperor Charlemagne. A few high-backed chairs, certain
strange chimney ornaments, and other little matters dear to the Laird,
finished the furniture of this room, and Tamar perfectly laughed with
joy, when, having seen all done, she became aware that this small
apartment was in fact more comfortable than the cold, wide, many-drafted
study in the Tower.
Those who were with her caught the merry infection and laughed too, and
Shanty said, "But dear one, whilst you thus rejoice in your own
contrivances, have you not a word of praise to give to Him, who has
spread such glories as no human skill could create, beyond yon little
window?" The old man then opened the casement, and showed the sweet and
peaceful scene which there presented itself; for the cottage was
enclosed in a small dell, the green sides of which seemed to shut out
all the world, enclosing within their narrow limits, a running brook,
and hives of bees, and many fragrant flowers.
Tamar was equally successful, and equally well pleased with her
arrangements in other parts of the cottage; the kitchen opened on one
side to a little flower garden, on the other to the small yard, where
Mrs. Margaret intended to keep her poultry, and the whole domain was
encompassed by the small green field, which made up the extent of the
dell, and was the only bit of land left to the representative of the
house of Dymock. But Mrs. Margaret had reckoned that the land would keep
a little favourite cow, and with this object Tamar had taken great pains
to learn to milk.
When all was ready, Mrs. Margaret with many tears took leave of Dymock's
Tower; she had not seen the process of preparation in the cottage, and
was therefore perfectly astonished when she entered the house. Tamar
received her with tears of tenderness, and the worthy lady having
examined all the arrangements, blessed her adopted one, and confessed
that they had all in that place that man really required. Neither did
she or Tamar find that they had more to do than was agreeable; if they
had no servants to wait upon them, they had no servants to disarrange
their house. They had engaged an old cottager on the moor to give them
an hour's work every evening, and for this they paid him with a stoup of
milk, or some other small product of their dairy; money they had not to
spare, and this he knew,--nor did he require any; he would have given
his aid to the fallen family for nothing, had it been asked of him.
In wild and thinly peopled countries, there is more of neighbourly
affection,--more of private kindness and sympathy than in crowded
cities. Man is a finite creature; he cannot take into his heart many
objects at once, and such, indeed, is the narrowness of his
comprehension, that he cannot even conceive how the love of an infinite
being can be generally exercised through creation. It is from this
incapacity that religious people, at least too many of them, labour so
sedulously as they do to instil the notion of the particularity of the
work of salvation, making it almost to appear, that the Almighty Father
brings beings into existence, merely to make them miserable,--but we are
wandering from our story.
Aunt Margaret and Tamar had been at the cottage a fortnight before
Dymock returned; Tamar saw him first coming down the glen, looking
wearied, dispirited and shabby.
She ran out to meet her adopted father, and sprang into his arms; his
eyes were filled with tears, and her bright smiles caused those eyes
to overflow.
She took his hand, she brought him in, she set him a chair, and Mrs.
Margaret kissing him, said "Come Dymock brighten up, and thank your God
for a happy home."
Dymock sighed, Tamar took his heavy knapsack from him, and placed before
him bread and butter, and cheese, and a stoup of excellent beer.
"Eat, dear father," she said, "and then you shall go to bed, (for it was
late in the evening,) and to-morrow you will see what a sweet place this
is;" but poor Dymock could not rally that night. Tamar had always slept
with Mrs. Margaret, and the best room of the two above stairs had been
prepared for Dymock, Mrs. Margaret having found a place under the
rafters for her innumerable boxes.
The poor Laird slept well, and when he awoke the sun was shining into
his room, and aunt Margaret had arranged his clean clothes at the foot
of his bed; he arose in better spirits, and dressing himself, he went
down; he found Tamar in the kitchen, and she, without speaking, took his
hand and led him to his study.
The poor gentleman could not bear this: he saw the sacrifice his aunt
had made for him, and the exertions also which Tamar must have made to
produce this result, and he fairly wept; but this burst of agitation
being over, he embraced his adopted child, and expressed his earnest
hope that henceforward he might be enabled to live more closely with
his God.
But the mind of Dymock was not a well balanced one; he could not live
without a scheme, and he had scarcely been two days in the cottage, when
he re-aimed at the ideas which he had formerly indulged of becoming an
author, and of obtaining both fame and money by his writings. Mrs.
Margaret was fretted when she was made aware of this plan, and sent
Tamar to Shanty, to ask him to talk him out of the fancy, and to
persuade him to adopt some employment, if it were only digging in his
garden, which might bring in something; but Shanty sent Tamar back to
Mrs. Margaret to tell her that she ought to be thankful that there was
anything found which would keep the Laird easy and quiet, and out of the
way of spending the little which he had left. Poor Dymock, therefore,
was not disturbed in his attempts at authorship, and there he used to
sit in his study with slip-shod feet, an embroidered dressing gown,
which Mrs. Margaret had quilted from an old curtain, and a sort of
turban twisted about his head, paying no manner of attention to hours or
seasons. As Mrs. Margaret only allowed him certain inches of candle, he
could not sit up all night as geniuses ought to be permitted to do; but
then he would arise with the lark and set to work, before any of the
labourers on the moor were in motion. In vain did Mrs. Margaret complain
and expostulate; she even in her trouble sent Tamar again to Shanty to
request him to plead with the Laird, and beg him to allow himself to
enjoy his regular rest; but in this case when she required Shanty's aid,
she had reckoned without her host.
"Go back to Mrs. Margaret, damsel," he said, "go and tell the lady that
as long as she can keep the Laird from work by candle light, so long no
harm is done, and if instead of murmuring at this early rising, fair
child, you will take example by him, and leave your bed at the same time
that your hear him go down, you will do well. He that lies in bed gives
a daily opportunity to his servants, if he has any to serve him, to do
mischief before he is up, and she that rises with the sun and goes
straight forward, like an arrow in its course, in the path of her
duties, shall find fewer thorns and more roses in that path, than those
who indulge in ease. Through divine mercy," continued the old man, "our
own exertions are not needed for the assurance of our salvation, but
sloth and carelessness tend to penury and misery, in this present life;
and there is no sloth more ruinous to health and property than that of
wasting the precious morning hours in bed."
Tamar was not deaf to the pleadings of Shanty; she began immediately to
rise with the first crowing of the cock, and thus obtained so much time
for her business, that she could then afford herself some for reading.
Mrs. Margaret took also to rise early, so that instead of breakfasting
as formerly at eight o'clock, the family took that meal at seven; but
the Laird often managed to have such bright and valuable thoughts just
at breakfast time, that for the sake of posterity, as he was wont to
say, he could by no means endanger the loss of them by suffering such a
common place interruption as that of breakfast, such an every day and
vulgar concern. On these occasions Tamar always took in his coffee and
toast, and set it before him, and she generally had the pleasure of
finding that he took what she brought him, though he seldom appeared to
be aware either of her entrance or her exit, Mrs. Margaret invariably
exclaiming when Tamar reported her reception in the study, "Lord help
him! see what it is to be a genius!"
In the meantime, the moat around Dymock's Tower was repaired and filled
up, or was fast filling up; the draw-bridge was in its place, and the
gates and walls restored; and as the neighbours said, the Tower wanted
nothing but men and provisions to enable it to stand a siege. At length,
all being pronounced ready, though no interior repairing had taken
place, the new possessor arrived, bringing with him two servants, an old
man and an old woman, and many heavy packages, which were stowed in a
cart, and lifted out by himself and his man-servant, whom he called
Jacob. This being done, he and his people were heard of no more, or
rather seen no more, being such close housekeepers, that they admitted
no one over the moat, though the man Jacob, rode to the nearest market
every week on the horse which had dragged the baggage, to bring what was
required, which, it was said, was not much more than was necessary to
keep the bodies and souls of three people together.
Numerous and strange were the speculations made by all people on the
moor upon these new tenants of Dymock's Tower, and Shanty's shed was a
principal scene of these speculations. Various were the reproaches which
were cast on the strangers, and no name was too bad for them.
"Our old Laird," one remarked, "was worth ten thousand such. As long as
he had a crust, he would divide it with any one that wanted it. Mark but
his behaviour to the poor orphan, who is now become the finest girl,
notwithstanding her dark skin, in all the country round."
Then followed speculations on the parentage of Tamar, and old Shanty
asserted that he believed her to be nothing more or less than the
daughter of the gipsy hag who had laid her at his door. Some said she
was much to good to be the child of a gipsy; and then Shanty asserted,
that the grace of God could counteract not only the nature of a child of
a vagrant of the worst description, but even that of such vagrant
himself; the Spirit of God being quick and powerful, and sharper than a
two-edged sword.
Shanty was a sort of oracle amongst his simple neighbours, and what he
said was not often disputed to his face; nevertheless, there was not an
individual on the moor who knew Tamar, who did not believe her to be a
princess in disguise or something very wonderful; and, at the bottom of
her heart, poor Tamar still indulged this same belief, though she did
not now, as formerly express it.
It was in the month of June, very soon after, Mr. Salmon had arrived at
the Tower, and before Dymock, who was a woful procrastinator, had gone
to demand the last payment, that Tamar, who was extraordinarily light
and active, had undertaken to walk to the next village to procure some
necessaries; she had three miles to go over the moor, nor could she go
till after dinner. Her way lay by Shanty's shed; and Mrs. Margaret
admonished her, if anything detained her, to call on Shanty, and ask him
to walk over the remainder of the moor with her on her return.
When she came down from preparing herself for this walk, all gay and
blooming with youth and health, and having a basket on her arm, she met
Dymock in the little garden.
"Whither away? beautiful Maid of Judah," said the genius. "My
bright-eyed Tamar," he added, "I have been thinking of a poem, and if I
can but express my ideas, it will be the means of lifting up my family
again from the destitution into which it has fallen. My subject is the
restoration of Jerusalem in the latter days, and the lifting up of the
daughters of Zion from the dust. The captives of Israel now are hewers
of wood and carriers of water; but the time will come when the hands
that now wear the manacles of servitude shall be comely with rows
of jewels."
"If no daughter of Judah," replied Tamar, "wears heavier manacles than I
do, dear father, they may bear them with light hearts;" and, as she
passed quickly by her adopted father, she snatched his hand and kissed
it, and soon she disappeared beyond the boundary of the glen.
Tamar reached the village in so short a time, and did her errands so
quickly, that having some hours of light before her, she thought she
would try another way of return, over a small bridge, which in fact
spanned the very water-course which ran through her glen; but being
arrived at this bridge, to her surprise she found it broken down. It
was only a single plank, and the wood had rotted and given way. The
brook was too wide and deep in that place to permit her to cross it, and
the consequence was, that she must needs go round more than a mile; and,
what added to her embarrassment, the evening, which had been fine, was
beginning to cloud over, the darkness of the sky hastening the approach
of the dusk. She had now farther to walk than she had when in the
village; and, added to the threatenings of the clouds, there were
frequent flashings of pale lightning, and remote murmurings of thunder.
But Tamar was not easily alarmed; she had been brought up independently,
and already had she recovered the direct path from the village to
Shanty's shed, when suddenly a tall figure of a female arose, as it
were, out of the broom and gorse, and stepped in the direction in which
she was going, walking by her side for a few paces without speaking
a word.
The figure was that of a gipsy, and the garments, as Tamar glanced
fearfully at them as they floated in a line with her steps, bespoke a
variety of wretchedness scarcely consistent with the proud and elastic
march of her who wore them.
Whilst Tamar felt a vague sense of terror stealing over her, the woman
spoke, addressing her without ceremony, saying, "So you have been driven
to come this way at last; have you been so daintily reared that you
cannot wade a burn which has scarcely depth enough to cover the pebbles
in its channel. Look you," she added, raising her arm, and pointing her
finger,--"see you yon rising ground to the left of those fir trees on
the edge of the moor,--from the summit of that height the sea is
visible, and I must, ere many hours, be upon those waters, in such a
bark as you delicately-bred dames would not confide in on a summer's
day on Ulswater Mere."
Whilst the woman spoke, Tamar looked to her and then from her, but not a
word did she utter.
"Do you mind me?" said the gipsy; "I have known you long, aye very long.
You were very small when I brought you to this place. I did well for you
then. Are you grateful?"
Tamar now did turn and look at her, and looked eagerly, and carefully,
and intently on her dark and weather-beaten countenance.
"Ah!" said the gipsy, whilst a smile of scorn distorted her lip,--"so
you will demean yourself now to look upon me; and you would like to know
what I could tell you?"
"Indeed, indeed, I would!" exclaimed Tamar, all flushed and trembling.
"Oh, in pity, in mercy tell me who I am and who are my parents?--if
they still live; if I have any chance or--hope of seeing them?"
"One is no more," replied the gipsy. "She from whom I took you lies in
the earth on Norwood Common. I stretched the corpse myself,--it was a
bonny corpse."
Tamar fetched a deep, a very deep sigh. "Does my father live?" she
asked.
"Your father!" repeated the gipsy, with a malignant laugh,--"your
father!"
Tamar became more and more agitated; but excessive feeling made her
appear almost insensible. With great effort she repeated,--"Does my
father live?"
"He does," replied the woman, with a malignant smile, "and shall I tell
you where and how?--shut up, confined in a strong-hold, caught like a
vile animal in a trap. Do you understand me, Tamar? I think they call
you Tamar."
"What!" said the poor girl, gasping for breath, "is my father a
convicted felon?"
"I used no such words," replied the gipsy; "but I told you that he lies
shut up; and he is watched and guarded, too, I tell you."
"Then he has forfeited his liberty," said Tamar; "he has committed some
dreadful crime. Tell me, Oh! tell me, what is it?"
The gipsy laughed, and her laugh was a frightful one.
"What!" she said, "are you disappointed?--is the blight come over you?
has the black fog shut out all the bright visions which the foolish
Laird created in your fancy? Go, child!" she said, "go and tell him what
I have told you, and see whether he will continue to cherish and flatter
the offspring of our vagrant race."
"He will," replied Tamar; "but tell me, only tell me, what is that mark
burnt upon my shoulder?"
"Your father branded you," she answered, "as we do all our children,
lest in our many wanderings we should lose sight of our own, and not
know them again; but come," she added, "the night draws on, darkness is
stealing over the welkin; you are for the shed; there is your pole-star;
see you the fitful glare of the forge?--I am for another direction;
fare-you-well."
"Stay, stay," said Tamar, seizing her arm, "Oh, tell me more! tell me
more! My father, if I have a living father, I owe him a duty,--where is
he? Tell me where he is, for the love of heaven tell me?"
The woman shook her off,--"Go, fool," she said, "you know enough; or
stay," she added, in her turn seizing Tamar's arm,--"if you like it
better, leave those Dymocks and come with me, and you shall be one with
us, and live with us, and eat with us and drink with us."
"No! no!" said Tamar, with a piercing shriek, disengaging herself from
the gipsy, and running with the swiftness of a hare, towards the
friendly hovel.
Old Shanty was alone, when, all pale and trembling, Tamar entered the
shed, and sunk, half fainting, on the very bench on which the gipsy had
sate on the eventful night in which she had brought her to the hovel
fourteen years before.
Shanty was terrified, for he had a paternal feeling for Tamar; he ceased
immediately from his hammering, and sitting himself by her on the bench,
he rested not until she had told him every thing which had happened; and
when she had done so,--"Tamar," he said, "I am not surprised; I never
thought you any thing else than the child of a vagrant, nor had you ever
any ground for thinking otherwise. There are many imaginations," added
the pious old man, "which attend our nature, which must be destroyed
before we can enter into that perfect union with the Son, which will
render us one with the Father, and will insure our happiness when God
shall be all in all, and when all that is foretold in prophecy
respecting this present earth shall be completed. Sin," continued the
old man, "is neither more nor less than the non-conformity of the will
of the creature with that of the Creator; and when the will of every
child of Adam is brought into unison with the divine pleasure, then, as
far our race is concerned, there will be an end of sin; and, in
particular cases, Tamar, as regarding individuals in the present and
past days, each one is happy, not as far as he indulges the imaginations
suggested by his own depraved nature, but as far as he is content to be
what his God would have him to be, as indicated by the circumstances and
arrangements of things about him."
It was marvellous (or rather would have been so to a stranger,) to hear
this poor old dusky blacksmith, speaking and reasoning as he did; but
who shall limit or set bounds to the power of the Lord the Spirit in
enlightening the mind, independently as it were, of human ministry, or
at least of any other ministry than that which teaches and promulgates
the mere letter of Scripture?
Tamar's mind was at that time fully prepared to receive all that Shanty
said to her, and, insensibly to themselves, they were presently led
almost to forget the information given by the gipsy, (which in fact left
Tamar just as it had found her,) whilst new thoughts were opening to
them; and the young girl was brought to see, that in her late anxiety to
render the kind friends who had adopted her, comfortable as to outward
circumstances, she had failed in using her filial influence to draw
their attention to thoughts of religion.