THE BAILIFF'S VISIT.
One day at noon, ere the first week well was over since the
fortunate discovery of gold, as Roger lay upon his bed, recovering from
an overnight's excess, tossed with fever, vexation, and anxiety, he was
at once surprised and frightened by a visit from no less a personage
than Mr. Simon Jennings. And this was the occasion of his presence:
Directly the gathering storm of rumours had collected to that focus of
all calumny, the destruction of female character and murder charged upon
the innocent, Grace Acton had resolved upon her course; secresy could be
kept no longer; her duty now appeared to be, to publish the story of her
father's lucky find.
Grace, we may observe, had never been bound to silence, but only imposed
it on herself from motives of tenderness to one, whom she believed to be
taken in the toils of a temptation. She, simple soul, knew nothing of
manorial rights, nor wotted she that any could despoil her father of his
money; but even if such thoughts had ever crossed her mind, she loathed
the gold that had brought so much trouble on them all, and cared not how
soon it was got rid of. Her father's health, honour, happiness, were
obviously at stake; perhaps, also, her brother's very life: and, as for
herself, the martyr of calumny looked piously to heaven, offered up her
outraged heart, and resolved to stem this torrent of misfortune.
Accordingly, with a noble indignation worthy of her, she had gone
straightway to the Hall, to see the baronet, to tell the truth, fling
aside a charge which she could scarcely comprehend, and openly vindicate
her offended honour. She failed--many imagine happily for her own peace,
if Sir John had not been better than his friends--in gaining access to
the Lord of Hurstley; but she did see Mr. Jennings, who serenely
interposed, and listened to all she came to say--"her father had been
unfortunate enough to find a crock of money on the lake side near his
garden."
When Jennings heard the tale, he started as if stung by a wasp: and
urging Grace to tell it no one else (though the poor girl "must," she
said, "for honour's sake"), he took up his hat, and ran off breathlessly
to Acton's cottage. Roger was at home, in bed, and sick; there was no
escape; and Simon chuckled at the lucky chance. So he crept in,
carefully shut the door, put his finger on his lips to hush Roger's note
of admiration at so little wished a vision; and then, with one of his
accustomed scared and fearful looks behind him, muttered under his
breath,
"Man, that gold is mine: I have paid its price to the uttermost; give me
the honey-pot."
Roger's first answer was a vulgar oath; but his tipsy courage faded soon
away before old habits of subserviency, and he faltered out,
"I--I--Muster Jennings! I've got no pot of gold!"
"Man, you lie! you have got the money! give it me at once--and--" he
added in a low, hoarse voice, "we will not say a word about the murder."
"Murder!" echoed the astonished man.
"Ay, murder, Acton:--off! off, I say!" he muttered parenthetically, then
wrestled for a minute violently, as with something in the air; and
recovering as from a spasm, calmly added,
"Ay, murder for the money."
"I--I!" gasped Roger; "I did no murder, Muster Jennings!"
A new light seemed to break upon the bailiff, and he answered with a
tone of fixed determination,
"Acton, you are the murderer of Bridget Quarles."
Roger's jaw dropped, dismay was painted on his features, and certainly
he did look guilty enough. But Simon proceeded in a tenderer tone;
"Notwithstanding, give me the gold, Acton, and none shall know a word
about the murder. We will keep all quiet, Roger Acton, all nice and
quiet, you know;" and he added, coaxingly, "come, Roger, give me up this
crock of gold."
"Never!" with a fierce anathema, answered our hero, now himself again:
the horrid accusation had entranced him for a while, but this coaxing
strain roused up all the man in him: "Never!" and another oath confirmed
it.
"Acton, give it up, I say!" was shouted in rejoinder, and Jennings
glared over him with his round and staring eyes as he lay faint upon his
bed--"Give up the crock, or else--"
"Else what? you whitened villain."
The bailiff flung himself at Roger's neck, and almost shrieked, "I'll
serve you as I--"
There was a tremendous struggle; attacked at unawares, for the moment he
was nearly mastered; but Acton's tall and wiry frame soon overpowered
the excited Jennings, and long before you have read what I have
written--he has leaped out of bed--seized--doubled up--and flung the
battered bailiff headlong down the narrow stair-case to the bottom. This
done, Roger, looking like Don Quixote de la Mancha in his penitential
shirt, mounted into bed again, and quietly lay down; wondering,
half-sober, at the strange and sudden squall.