her mistress, Brindle, from the colours of her coat. Tamar had learned
to milk Brindle, and this was always her first work. One morning in the
beginning of August, it happened, or rather, was so ordered by
Providence, that the Laird was constrained through the extreme activity
of his imagination, which had prevented him from sleeping after
midnight, to arise and go down to his study in order to put these
valuable suggestions on paper. It was, however, still so dark when he
descended into his study, that he was compelled to sit down awhile in
his great chair, to await the break of day; and there that happened to
him, which might as well have happened in bed,--that is he fell asleep,
and slept soundly for some hours. All this, however, had not been done
so quietly, but that he had awakened his sister and Tamar, who slept in
the adjoining room; the consequence of which was, that Tamar got up and
dressed herself, and having ascertained the situation of the Laird, and
informed Mrs. Margaret that all was well in that quarter, she descended
again into the kitchen, and proceeded to open the house-door. The shades
of night were as yet not dispersed, although the morning faintly dawned
on the horizon; but the air was soft, fragrant, and elastic, and as it
filled the chest of Tamar, it seemed to inspire her with that sort of
feeling, which makes young things whirl, and prance, and run, and leap,
and perform all those antics which seem to speak of naught but folly to
all the sober and discreet elders, who have forgotten that they were
ever young.
Almost intoxicated with this feeling inspired by the morning air, Tamar
bounded from the step of the door, and ran a considerable way, first
along the bottom of the glen, and then in a parallel line on the green
side thereof; suddenly coming to a stand, she looked for Brindle, and
could not at first discern her; a minute afterwards, however, she saw
her at the higher end of the glen, just where it opened on the moor, and
where it had hitherto been protected from the inroads of the sheep, or
other creatures feeding on the common, by a rail and gate. This rail and
gate had wanted a little repair for several weeks, the Laird having
promised to give it that repair; and he was well able so to have done,
having at one time of his life worked several months with the village
carpenter. But the good man had not fulfilled his promise, and it had
only been the evening before that Tamar had tied up the gate with what
came nearest to her hand, namely, certain tendrils of a creeper which
hung thereabouts from the rock that formed the chasm by which the valley
was approached in that direction. These tendrils she had twisted
together so as to form a band, never supposing that Brindle, though a
young and female creature, could possibly be sufficiently capricious to
leave her usual fragrant pasturage, in order to pull and nibble this
withering band. But, however, so it was, as Tamar asserted, for there
when she came up to the place, the band was broken, the gate forced
open, and Brindle walking quietly forward through the narrow gully
towards the moor.
Tamar being come to the gate, stopped there, and called Brindle, who
knew Tamar as well as she knew her own calf. But the animal had snuffed
the air of liberty which came pouring down the little pass, from the
open moor, and she walked deliberately on with that air which seemed to
say,--"I hear your voice, but I am not coming."
Tamar was provoked; had it been a human creature who was thus acting she
might perhaps have recollected that it is not good to give way to anger;
as it was, she made no such reflection, but exclaiming in strong terms
against the creature, she began to run, knowing that if Brindle once got
on the moor it would probably cost her many a weary step before she
could get her back again. In measure however, as she quickened her pace,
so did Brindle, and in a few minutes the truant animal had reached the
open moor and began to career away in high style, as if rejoicing in the
trouble she was giving.
But even on the open moor it was yet very dusk; the dawn was hardly
visible on the summits of the distant hills, and where there were woods
or valleys the blackness was unbroken.
Tamar stood almost in despair, when she found that the animal had
reached the open ground; but whilst watching how she could get round
her, so as to turn her back, the creature rather slackened her pace, and
began to browze the short grass among the heather. Tamar now slowly
advancing was taking a compass to come towards her head, when she,
perceiving her, turned directly round, and trotted on straightforward to
the knoll, which was at most not half a quarter of a mile from the
dingle; Tamar followed her, but could not reach her till she had pushed
her way in among the trees and bushes, and when Tamar reached the place,
she found her quietly feeding in the green area, surrounded by the
ruins. The light was still very imperfect, and Tamar was standing half
hid by the bushes and huge blocks of granite, doubting whether she
should not leave the cow there whilst she ran back to call the Laird to
assist her, when suddenly she was startled by the sound of voices. She
drew closer behind the block, and remained perfectly still, and ceased
to think of the cow, so great was her amazement to find persons in a
place, generally deserted by the country people, under the impression
that things were there which should not be spoken of. She then also
remembered her adventure with Sappho, and what Mrs. Margaret had told
her of the concealed passage; and now recollecting that secret passage,
she was aware that she stood not very far from the mysterious door-way.
All these thoughts crowded to her mind, but perfect quiet was needful at
the moment. As the disk of the sun approached the horizon, the light was
rapidly increasing; the dawn in those higher latitudes is however long,
but those who knew the signs of the morning were aware that it would
soon terminate, and that they whose deeds feared the light had no
time to lose.
Tamar accordingly heard low voices, speaking, as it were in the mouth of
the cavern, and then a voice of one without the cavern--of one as in
the act of departing, saying distinctly, "twelve then at midnight!" The
answer from within did not reach Tamar's ears, at least, she heard only
an indistinct murmur, but the voice without again came clear to her, and
the words were to this effect, "I will not fail; I will take care that
he shall be in no condition to return;" the answer was again lost to
Tamar, and probably some question, but the reply to this question was
clear. "It is his day to go,--the garrison can't live without
provision,--if he don't go to-day, we must skulk another twenty-four
hours,--we must not venture with him, there will be murder!" then
followed several sentences in such broad slang, as Tamar could not
comprehend, though she thought she understood the tendency of these
words, which were mixed with oaths and terms so brutal, that her blood
ran cold in thinking of them; "Caught in his own snare,--he will sink
in his own dyke,--we have him now, pelf and all." After this, Tamar
heard parting steps, and various low rumbling noises as if proceeding
from under ground; then all was still, and no farther sound was heard by
her, but the rustling of leaves, the chirping of birds, and the cropping
of the herb by the incisors of Brindle. In the mean time the morning
broke, the light of day was restored, and Tamar creeping gently from her
hiding-place, left Brindle, whilst she ran back to the cottage.
She had not gone far, before she met the labourer who was accustomed to
assist her in the care of the garden. She told him that the cow had
strayed to the knoll, and that she had seen her enter among the trees;
and he undertook, with his dog, to drive her back to the glen, though,
he said, he would on no account go up on the knoll, but his dog would
drive her down, and he would see her home.
"And why not go on to the knoll?" said Tamar. The man replied, that the
place was known to be uncanny, and that not only strange noises, but
strange sights had been seen there.
"Lately?" asked Tamar, "have they been seen and heard lately?"
The poor man could not assert that they had, and Tamar was not going to
tell him what she had seen and heard. No! this mystery was to be left
for the consideration of Dymock and Shanty, and she was anxious to know
if their thoughts agreed with hers.
When she arrived at the cottage, and the labourer had brought back
Brindle, and fastened the gate, and Tamar had milked her cow, and done
her usual services, she went to Dymock who was just awake, and brought
him out to breakfast with Mrs. Margaret, "You shall not say any thing
about posterity, and the benefits which you are doing to them by
recording your thoughts, this morning, sir," she said, "but you shall
hear what I have to tell you, and I will not tell you, but in the
presence of Mrs. Margaret." When Dymock heard what Tamar had to say, he
was at first quite amazed, for it seems, that if he had ever heard of
the secret passage he had forgotten it, and Mrs. Margaret had had her
reasons, for not stirring up his recollections; but when he was made
acquainted with this fact, and had put together all that Tamar had
related, he made the same reflections which she had done, and said that
he had no doubt, but that these ruins had been the rendezvous of
vagrants for years, and that there was now a plan to rob Mr. Salmon,
through the means of the secret passage. He went further, for he had no
lack of imagination, and proceeded to conjecture, that it was through
the manoeuvreing of these very vagrants, that the old curmudgeon had
been brought to Dymock's Tower, and following the connexion, he began to
put together the appearance of the young blacksmith, the gipsy who had
left Tamar at Shanty's, her second appearance and rapid disappearance,
the coming of Mr. Salmon, his supposed riches, his strange whim of
shutting himself up, and every other extraordinary circumstance, in a
jumble even more inexplicable and confusing, than any of his previous
speculations upon these events,--and when he had so done he put on his
hat, and declared that he must go forthwith to Shanty.
"To see," said Tamar, "what he can hammer out of it all, but something
must and ought to be done to put Mr. Salmon on his guard, for otherwise,
assuredly he will be robbed this night."
"And perhaps murdered," exclaimed Mrs. Margaret; "but go, brother, be
quick, and let us have Shanty's advice."
"And I," said Tamar, after the Laird was departed, "will go to the
Tower, and if possible get admittance. I will stop the going off
of Jacob."
Mrs. Margaret expostulated with her, but all her pleadings came to
this,--that she should send a neighbour to watch for Tamar on the side
of the moat, the young girl having assured her kind protectress, that
she had nothing to fear for her, and that as the Laird was proverbially
a procrastinator, he might let half the day pass, before he had settled
what was to be done.
Poor Mrs. Margaret was all tremor and agitation; at the bottom of her
heart, she did not like to be left in the cottage, so near a gang of
thieves as she felt herself to be; she was not, however, a selfish
character, and after some tears, she kissed Tamar and bade her go,
watching her the whole way through the glen, as if she were parting with
her for years.
The light step of the young girl, soon brought her to the edge of the
moat, and she arrived, as it was ordered by Providence, at a very
convenient time, for she met Rebecca on the moor, the old woman having
just parted from Jacob, whose figure was still to be seen jogging along
the heath. The first words of Tamar were to entreat Rebecca to call
Jacob back, and when she found that she was speaking to one who chose to
lend a deaf ear, she raised her own voice, but with equal ill success;
turning then again to Rebecca, she saw that she was hastening to the
bridge, on which she followed her, and was standing with her under the
Tower, before the old woman could recollect herself.
The creature looked yellow with spite, as she addressed the young maiden
with many bitter expressions, asking her what she did there, and bidding
her to be gone.
"I am come," replied Tamar, "to see your master, and I will see him."
"It is what you never shall again," replied the dame; "he has never
been himself since he last saw you."
"How is that?" said Tamar; "What did I do, but press him to act as an
honourable man, but of this I am resolved," she added, "that I will now
see him again," and as she spoke, she proceeded through the postern into
the courts, still passing on towards the principal door of the Tower,
Rebecca following her, and pouring upon her no measured abuse. Tamar,
however, remarked, that the old woman lowered her voice as they advanced
nearer the house, on which she raised her own tones, and said, "I must,
and will see Mr. Salmon, it is a matter of life and death I come
upon;--life and death I repeat, and if you or your master, have any
thing on your minds or consciences, you will do well to hear what I have
to tell you; a few hours hence and it will be too late."
"In that case," said Rebecca, looking at one angry and terrified, "come
with me, and I will hear you."
"No," exclaimed Tamar, speaking loud, "I will see your master, my errand
is to him," and at the same instant, the quick eye of the young girl,
observed the face of Salmon peering through a loop-hole, fitted with a
casement, which gave light to a closet near the entrance. Encouraged by
this she spoke again, and still louder than before, saying, "See him I
will, and from me alone, shall he hear the news I am come to tell." The
next minute she heard the casement open, and saw the head of the old man
obtruded from thence, and she heard a querulous, broken voice, asking
what was the matter? Tamar stepped back a few paces, in order that she
might have a clearer view of the speaker, and then looking up, she said,
"I am come Mr. Salmon as a friend, and only as a friend, to warn you of
a danger which threatens you,--hear me, and you may be saved,--but if
you refuse to hear me, I tell you, that you may be a ghastly livid
corpse before the morning."
"Rebecca, Rebecca!" cried the old man, "Rebecca, I say, speak to her,"
and his voice faltered, the accents becoming puling.
"Hear her not," said the dame, "she is a deceiver, she is come to get
money out of you."
"And heaven knows," cried Mr. Salmon, "that she is then coming to gather
fruit from a barren tree. Money, indeed! and where am I to find money,
even for her,--though she come in such a guise, as would wring the last
drop of the heart's blood?"
"Tush!" said Rebecca, "you are rambling and dreaming again;" but the old
man heard her not, he had left the lattice, and in a few seconds he
appeared within the passage. During this interval, Rebecca had not been
quiet, for she had seized the arm of Tamar, and the young girl had
shaken her off with some difficulty, and not without saying, "Your
unwillingness to permit me to speak to your master, old woman, goes
against you, but it shall not avail you, speak to him I will," and the
contest between Tamar and the old woman was still proceeding, when
Salmon appeared in the passage.
Tamar instantly sprang to meet him, and seeing that his step was feeble
and tottering, she supported him to a chair, in a small parlour which
opened into the passage, and there, standing in the midst of the floor
between him and Rebecca, she told her errand; nor was she interrupted
until she had told all, the old man looking as if her recital had turned
him into stone, and the old woman expressing a degree of terror, which
at least cleared her in Tamar's mind, of the guilt of being connected
with the thieves of the secret passage.
As soon as the young girl had finished, the old miser broke out in the
most bitter and helpless lamentations. "My jewels!--my silver!--my
moneys!" he exclaimed, "Oh my moneys!--my moneys! Tell me, tell me
damsel, what I can do? Call Jacob. Where is Jacob? Oh, my
moneys!--my jewels!"
"Peace, good sir! peace!" said Tamar, "we will befriend you, we will
assist you, we will protect you; the Laird is an honourable man, he will
protect you. I have known him long, long,--since I was a baby; and he
would perish before he would wrong any one, or see another wronged."
"The Laird did you say," asked Salmon, "your father; he is your father
damsel is he not?"
"I have no other," replied Tamar, "I never knew another. Why do you ask
me?"
"Because," said Rebecca, "he is doting, and thinks more of other
people's concerns than his own."
"Has he ever lost a daughter?" asked Tamar.
"He lost a wife in her youth," answered the old woman, "and he was
almost in his dotage when he married her, and he fancies because you
have black hair, that you resemble her; but there is no more likeness
between you two, than there is between a hooded crow and a raven."
"There is more though, there is much more though," muttered the old man,
"and Jacob saw it too, and owned that he did."
"The fool!" repeated Rebecca, "the fool! did I not tell him that he was
feeding your poor mind with follies; tell me, how should this poor girl
be like your wife?"
The old man shook his head, and answered, "Because, he that made them
both, fashioned them to be so; and Rebecca, I have been thinking that
had my daughter lived, had Jessica lived till now, she would have been
just such a one."
"Preserve you in your senses, master," exclaimed Rebecca, "such as they
are, they are better than none; but had your daughter lived, she would
have been as unlike this damsel as you ever were to your bright browed
wife. Why you are short and shrivelled, so was your daughter; your
features are sharp, and so were hers; she was ever a poor pining thing,
and when I laid her in her grave beside her mother, it was a corpse to
frighten one; it was well for you, as I ever told you, that she died
as soon."
"Yet had she lived, I might have had a thing to love," replied the old
man; and then, looking at Tamar, he added, "They tell me you are the
Laird's daughter,--is it so, fair maid?"
Rebecca again interrupted him. "What folly is this," she said, raising
her voice almost to a shriek, "how know you but that, whilst you are
questioning the damsel, your chests and coffers are in the hands of
robbers; your money, I tell you, is in danger: your gold, your oft-told
gold. You were not wont to be so careless of your gold; up and look
after it. You will be reduced to beg your bread from those you hate;
arise, be strong. Where are your keys? Give them to the damsel; she is
young and active; she will swiftly remove the treasure out of the way.
Can you not trust her? See you not the fair guise in which she comes?
Can you suspect a creature who looks like your wife, like Rachel? Is not
her tale well framed; and are you, or are you not deceived by her fair
seemings? She is the daughter of a beggar, and she knows herself to be
such; and there is no doubt but that she has her ends to answer by
giving this alarm."
The old man had arisen; he looked hither and thither; he felt for his
keys, which were hanging at his girdle; and then, falling back into his
chair, he uttered one deep groan and became insensible, his whole
complexion turning to a livid paleness.
"He is dying!" exclaimed Tamar, holding him up in his chair, from which
he would have otherwise fallen. "He is dying, the poor old man is dying;
bring water, anything."
"He has often been in this way since he came here," replied Rebecca. "We
have thought that he has had a stroke; he is not the man he was a few
months since; and had I known how it would be, it is strange but I would
have found means to hinder his coming."
"If he were ever so before," said Tamar "why did you work him up, and
talk to him, as you did, about his daughter; but, fetch some water,"
she added.
"I shall not leave him with you," answered Rebecca.
"Nor shall I abandon him to your tender mercies," replied Tamar,
"whilst he is in this condition. I am not his daughter, it is true,--but
he is a feeble old man, and I will befriend him if I can."
The old gentleman at this moment fell forward with such weight, that
Tamar ran from behind him, and dropping down on her knees, received his
head on her shoulder, then, putting one arm round him, she was glad to
hear a long, deep sigh, the prelude of his returning to partial
consciousness; and as he opened his eyes, he said,--"Ah, Rachel, is it
you? You have been gone a long time."
Tamar was at that moment alone with the old man. Rebecca had heard
voices at a distance, and she had run to pull up the bridge.
"I am not your Rachel, venerable Sir," she said; "but the adopted
daughter of the Laird of Dymock," and she gently laid his head back.
"Then why do you come to me like her?" said the old man. "That is
wrong, it is very cruel; it is tormenting me before my time. I have not
hurt you, and I will give you more gold if you will not do this again."
"You rave, Sir," said Tamar. "Who do you take me for?"
"A dream," he answered. "I have been dreaming again;" and he raised
himself, shook his head, rubbed his hands across his eyes, and looked as
usual; but before he could add another word, Dymock and Shanty entered
the parlour.
Rebecca had been too late in preventing their crossing the bridge, and
they with some difficulty made the old gentleman understand that if he
had any valuables, they must ascertain whether the place in which they
were kept was any way approachable by the cavern. They also told him
that they had taken means to have the exterior mouth of the cavern upon
the knoll, stopped up, after the gang were in it; that they had
provided a considerable force for this purpose; and that they should
bring in men within the Tower to seize the depredators. Dymock then
requested Tamar to return to Mrs. Margaret, and remain quietly with her;
and when she was gone, the bridge was drawn up, and she went back to
the cottage.
She had much to tell Mrs. Margaret, and long, very long,--after they had
discussed many times the singular scene between Salmon, Rebecca, and
Tamar, and spoken of what might be the plans of Dymock and Shanty for
securing the Tower,--did the remainder of the day appear to them.
Several times they climbed to the edge of the glen, to observe if aught
was stirring; but all was still as usual. There stood the old Tower in
solemn, silent unconsciousness of what might soon pass within it; and
there was the knoll, looking as green and fresh as it was ever wont
to do.
At sun-set Tamar and Mrs. Margaret again visited this post of
observation, and again after they had supped at eight o'clock. They then
returned and shut their doors; they made up their fires; and whilst
Tamar plied her needle, Mrs. Margaret told many ancient tales and dismal
predictions of secret murders, corpse-candles, and visions of
second-sight, after which, as midnight approached, they became more
restless and anxious respecting their friends, wondering what they would
do, and expressing their hopes, or their fears, in dark sentences, such
as these:--"We trust no blood may be shed!--if there should be
blood!--if Dymock or poor Shanty should be hurt!" Again, they turned to
form many conjectures, and put many things together:--"Was Mr. Salmon
connected with the gipsies who had brought Tamar to the moor?--Was it
this gang that proposed robbing him?--Was the young blacksmith called
Harefoot connected with the gipsy?--Had he persuaded Salmon to bring
his treasures there, in order that he might pilfer them?--And lastly,
wherefore was Mr. Salmon so affected both times he had seen Tamar?"
Here, indeed, was a subject for conjecture, which lasted some hours, and
beguiled the sense of anxiety. At length the morning began to dawn on
that long night, and Tamar went out to milk Brindle, whose caprices had,
in fact, the day before, been the first mover in all this confusion.
Cows must be milked, even were the master of the family dying; and Tamar
wished to have this task over before any message should come from the
Tower; and scarcely had she returned to the cottage, when the lad who
administered the wind to Shanty's forge, came running with such haste,
that, to use his own words,--"he had no more breath left for speaking
than a broken bellows."
"For the love of prince Charles," he said, "can you give us any
provender, Mrs. Margaret? It is cold work watching all night, with
neither food nor drink, save one bottle of whiskey among ten of us, and
scarce a dry crust."
"But what have you done?" asked Tamar.