of discussion which had hitherto been supported, and talked in couples.
The earth-stopper and Abel Harris, by their looks and gestures, seemed
to be maintaining a warm debate; the herbalist crossed over and took
a place next the supervisor, which tailor Mudford relinquished in his
favour, and sat down by the side of farmer Salter. So many persons
speaking together, had not, for some time, been heard in The Chough and
Stump; but though his customers made a great noise, as Gough observed
to the exciseman, they drank but little. This was, indeed, the case; for
the interest created by the subject of their discourse, made them almost
forget their cups. Each of the speakers grew louder in his tone, in
order to make himself heard and understood, amid the “hubbub,” by his
listening neighbour; and thus the general noise was increased to such a
degree, that the exciseman had already taken up his empty mug to strike
the table, and call “order,” when, in an instant, every tongue was
motionless, and every eye turned toward the door. A man, on the autumnal
side of the prime of life, exceeding the middle stature, with rather
handsome features, had just entered. He was dressed in a round, grey,
frock coat, a deer-skin waistcoat, corduroy smallclothes, and jean
gaiters. His frame was athletic, but by no means clumsy; he looked
calmly about him, or, perhaps, rather affected to do so; for, as the
herbalist afterwards remarked, his lips appeared as if they had
just been blanched with boiling water. A very large, stout-built,
liver-coloured dog, stood before him, wagging his tail, and looking up
in his master's face, as the latter remained, for a moment, motionless,
and with his eyes seeking for a vacant place on the settle. Every seat
had its tenant, and no one moved for the newly-arrived guest, or spoke
either to him or to any other person present.
“Why, volks! you do all zeem dazed ov a zudden!” said the man,
ironically; and then immediately assuming an angry expression of
countenance, he turned to the landlady, who had just entered the
kitchen, and, in a sharp, surly tone, called for “a pint o' drink.”
“I ha' been trying to squeeze room for thee, Zaul,” said the landlord,
addressing his new guest; “but I can't.”
“Don't trouble thyself, Gough,” said farmer Salter, from the opposite
side of the settle; “I be vor home, and Braintree can take my corner in
a minute.”
“Thankye, master Zalter,” replied Saul; “but Abel Harris ha' just
stepped out, and, may be, won't come back; zo I'll zit down in his
place; and iv a' do return, 1 can but gie't up to un again; and by that
time, you can vinish your pipe wi' comfort” So saying, Braintree
took possession of a nook in the settle, which Abel had quitted, in
consequence of the landlady having beckoned him out, while Gough was
speaking to Saul. Two or three of the guests attempted to strike out new
subjects for conversation, but their efforts were ineffectual; and when
Dame Gough came in, with Saul's ale, she found her customers, who had
lately been so clamorous, silent as statues. Braintree lifted the cup
to his lips, but immediately placed it on the table again, without
swallowing a spoonful.
“Why, what's the matter, Zaul?” said Gough; “have a mad dog bit'ee, that
you do gasp and heave at the liquor so?”
“There were a bit o' hop got in my mouth,” replied Saul; “and your yeale
bean't zo good to-night, I think, as'twere;--han't it got a strawberry
smack?”
“No, no, Zaul; your mouth be out o' taste wi' trouble,--that be
it;--there's no fault in the ale. You do want comfort in a closer
compass; and if you'll ha'a drop o' Hollands, my wife will give'ee some
and welcome. Though I don't sell spirits, I can't help Dame Gough's
keeping a bottle in her bureau;--it stops her tooth-ache.”
“You be cruel good, master Gough,” replied Saul; “and I do thank'ee
vor't; but I don't like to drink in a public-house, wi'out paying my
penny for a landlord's penn'orth.”
“Oh! that be folly,” said Gough; “but come; gi'e me your pint o'
drink, and I'll treat you wi' a glass o' Hollands.--Dame, bring in a
thimble-full.”
Dame Gough bustled out, and soon returned with a small old-fashioned
tea-cup, full of the liquor. Saul took the cup, and so far forgot his
manners, as to swallow the spirits it contained, without a word, or even
a nod, to Gough, or any of his guests. A dead silence succeeded.
“Sharpish weather vor the young wheats,” at length observed Salter.
“Main and sharp!” was the reply of the herbalist; and another pause took
place.
“I ha'n't a' zeed Jacob Wall lately;” was the next observation made:
it came from the lips of tailor Mudford, but no one honoured it with a
reply.
Braintree now began to feel that he was in an unpleasant situation; and
guessing on what subject the minds of those about him were brooding, he
observed, with a sigh, “A bad job this, o' mine, neighbours!”
“Bad, indeed, Braintree!” replied Gough; “but I hope your son may get
over it!”
“Hope, did'ee zay, landlord? why, d'ye think there be any vear on't,
then?”
“Excuse me, friend,” observed the supervisor; “I am a stranger to
you; but, in my opinion, that is,--speaking candidly,--I'm sorry to
say--remember I've no ill-will toward your son--nor, understand me, do
I wish to bear on a bruised reed; but its folly to buoy a man up with
false hopes;--the case is, if what I've heard be true, most decisive
against the young man.”
“And what have'ee heard, old gentleman?--what have'ee heard, zir?”
“That, Saul,”--said the exciseman, “that, it is--needless to
repeat;--but the shoe-marks,--Saul--”
“Well, and what o' them?” interrupted Braintree; “mightn't my zon ha'
gone that way avore Govier were killed? or mightn't he ha' vound un
dead, and come whoam straight, intending to tell the news az zoon az he
axed I how a' should act?”
“True, Zaul, true,” replied Salter, who had not yet departed; “it do
zeem ztrange that no vootsteps were vound in the snow 'proaching towards
the zpot.”
“I can easily account for that, I think,” said the supervisor, with a
smile of self-complacency: “the snow--”
“But hark to this,” cried Saul, again interrupting the old man; “hark
to this:--how be we to know, that they what zaid they vound the body
wer'n't the criminals, eh?”
“Lord bless us and zave us, Zaul!” exclaimed the little tailor, starting
up; “Bless us, Zaul! why, 'twere I, good now, what raised the hue and
cry. I were coming vrom varmer Butt's, vive mile off, where I a' been
dree days at work, making a coat; I'd a' started avore 'twere day, zo
as to get to work about Jack Blake's new suit, what he's a going to
be married in o' Zinday;--and zharp doings it will be to vinish it
as'tis:--zo I took the path through the copse, because it zaves a mile,
you do know; and anan, my little dog, rin into the hazels and back again
in a minute, barking as iv he'd a' zeen a ghost I were a bit vrightened,
you may judge, vor I'd a' got my zilver watch, and half-a-crown, (my
dree days' wages,) wi' ten shillings bezides, what the varmer had paid
me vor a pig he bought o' me last Zinday vort-night, when he comed over
to church. Well, and anan, my little dog, rin into the copse again, and
come back growling worse nor avore. Thirdly and lastly, I patted the
back o' un, and away he rin again, and when he overtook me,--d'ye
mind?--by the light'o the moon, I zeed there were blood upon the nose
o' un!--Wi' that, I and the dog rin vit to break our necks,'till we
got whoam. Zo then I raised the hue and cry, and Phil's body were
vound:--but I had no more hand in the death o' un than you, Zaul. I can
handle a reap-hook, or a needle, wi' one here and there, but I never
vired a gun off in my life--wish I may die if I did!”
“Well, well, Mudford,” said Braintree, advancing toward the tailor; “I
didn't know 'twere thee; gi'e us thy hand;--there--we be vriends, bean't
us?”
“I do hope zo, Zaul Braintree,” replied the still terrified tailor; “but
you shouldn't--”
“There, do'ee hold your tongue and zit down,” interrupted Saul: “I were
wrong; but,--d'ye mind?--Bob be my zon; and if counzel can zave un, he
sha'n't lack; vor I'll zell my zhirt to zee un righted.”
Braintree had scarcely reached his seat again, when constable Abel,
pale, almost breathless looking very important, and bearing his staff of
office in his hand, strode into the kitchen, and immediately laid hands
on Saul. “Braintree, thou'rt my prisoner,” said he; “aid and assist, if
need be--every body--but especially you,--earth-stopper,--in the King's
name.”
Saul was paralysed; he stared vacantly at Abel, and before he could
recover his self-possession, the dexterous constable had handcuffed, and
almost completed the task of tying his right wrist to the left arm of
the earth-stopper.
“Thy prisoner, Yeabel!” at length uttered Braintree; “thou bee'st
joking, zure!--Dowl ha' me if I can make out--”
“You'll make it out well enough by-and-by, Saul,” interrupted Abel, as
he pursued his task of knitting the earth-stopper fast to Saul; “I ha'
been sent for by the 'squire, and I've got his warrant. Master Cockle,
of The New Inn, churchwarden of the present year, ha' been making
inquiries; and things ha come out, Saul, that do look black against
thee.”
“What be'em, Yeabel?--What be'em, pr'ythee?”
“Why, _imprimis_,” replied the constable, pompously, “it is well known,
Ponto never followed anybody but thee--nothing could make him do so; and
he and Bob never were friends. Surgeon Castle saith, that the shot went
horizontally into Phil Govier's forehead; and as he was not above five
feet six, the gun that killed him must have been fired from the shoulder
of a man as tall as you be:--if Bob had done it, seeing that he's
shorter than Phil were, the shot would ha' gone almost upward; but,
no, they didn't:--lastly, and most formidably, Saul, as the magistrate
saith, the marks in the snow were printed there, by shoes made
right-and-left fashion; and the right-foot shoe being marked o' the
left-foot side, and the left o' t'other,--it don't seem likely they
could ha' been worn by the feet they were made for.--So now you do know
what you've a' got to answer, come along quietly.” In a few minutes
The Chough and Stump kitchen was utterly deserted; even Gough himself
followed his customers, who, without exception, accompanied the
constable and his prisoner, to Stapleton Hall, the magistrate's
residence. After a brief examination, Saul was ushered into an
apartment, three stories above the ground floor, called “The
Wainscot-room;”--which, on account of its peculiar situation and
construction, although it had once been used for better purposes, was
then appropriated to the reception of those who happened to be under
the ban of the law, previously to their discharge, on finding “good and
sufficient mampernors” for their appearance at the ensuing assizes or
sessions, or their removal to the county gaol, according to the nature
of the offence. For the honour of the village it is proper to remark,
that “The Wainscot-room” was but seldom occupied. It was there Saul had,
only an hour before, taken leave of Robert, who was now far on his
road to an accused felon's cell. Braintree had just been told by the
magistrate that, early on the ensuing morning, he must follow his son;
but he suffered a strong rope to be fastened round his waist, by a
slip-knot, and tied to an iron bar in the chimney, not only without
murmuring or resisting, but actually joking with those who performed the
operation. Although Mr. Stapleton considered that it was impossible
for the prisoner to escape from his temporary prison, yet for better
security, on account of the crime with which Saul was charged, he
ordered the constable to keep watch, either in, or at the door of the
room, during the night.
Before the earth-stopper quitted “The Wainscot-room” to go on his
solitary task, Saul had made him promise to acquaint Martin Stapleton,
the 'squire's only son, that he, Braintree, earnestly desired to see the
young gentleman, before he went to bed. The old man so well performed
his promise, and urged Braintree's request to young Stapleton with such
warmth, that in less than an hour Martin entered the room.
“Abel,” said he to the constable, as he came in, “you may go down
stairs; I'll remain with Braintree while you get something for supper.”
Abel, “nothing loath,” tripped down to the hall, and Martin, who was
a fine young man, just verging on manhood, walked up, with a sorrowful
countenance and a heart full of grief, toward the man, under whose
humble roof he had passed some of his happiest hours. Martin's mother
died in giving him birth, and Saul's wife had been his nurse. Although
disgraced by 'Squire Stapleton, Saul Braintree had ever been a favourite
companion of young Martin, not only on account of his intimate
acquaintance with those sports in which Martin delighted, but because
Saul had always testified a fondness for him from his boyhood upward;
and, besides these attractions, the poacher's cottage contained a
magnet, in the person of his pretty daughter, Peggy, which often drew
Martin beneath its roof, when his father thought he was otherwise
occupied.
“Well, Master Martin,” said Saul, as the young 'squire approached; “here
you be at last! I were vool enow to think, I shouldn't ha' been here
vive minutes avore you'd ha' come, if it were only to zay 'How are'ee,
Zaul?'--But there, why should I grumble? Hit a deer in the shoulder,
and then put the dogs on his scent, and what will the herd do?--Why, vly
vrom un, to be zure, and no vools, neither;--but come, vine preaching
doant cure corns:--virst and voremost--will'ee get me a drop o' brandy,
Master Martin?--I be zo low az the grave, az you may guess; get me a
thimble-vull, and then we'll talk a bit.”
“I have brought my shooting-flask, Saul,” replied Martin; “there is not
much left in it.”
“Ah! this be kind!--this be good of 'ee, Master Martin. What, you thought
how it would be with me? You knowed me long enow, to be zure that I
should want summat to cheer me up, did 'ee? Never mind the cork, Master
Martin,” continued Saul, as Martin, with a trembling hand, fruitlessly
endeavoured to extract the cork; “put it betwixt my teeth, and pull;
I'll warrant I do hould vast enow; or knock off the neck o' un against
my handcuffs. What, it bean't your leather vlask, be it? Odd! cut un
open wi' a knife.--I be a choaking for it, Master Martin;--I be, truly.”
By this time, Martin had pulled out part of the cork, and thrust the
remainder of it through the neck. He handed the flask to Saul, who
gulped down one half of its contents in a few seconds.
“There is not enough to divide,” observed Martin, “you may as well
finish it.”
“No, thank'ee, Master Martin,” replied Braintree, returning the flask;
“you'll want a drop for yourself, presently.”
“I, Saul!”
“Ay! you, Martin!--Look thee, lad,--there be times when the best ov us
would be glad ov it Brandy be a God-send; but we don't use it--that is,
zuch as I be, doan't--as we should. There be times, I tell'ee, when it
be needed.”
“That's true enough,” said Martin, endeavouring to force a smile; “I
have often been glad of it, after a three hours' tramp through the
stubble and turnips, on a cold day, under a heavy double-barrelled gun,
with a belt brimful of shot, and no birds in my pocket.”
“That were for thy body, lad; but thoult want it, anan, for thy soul.
I be gwain to vright--to terrify thee!--Thou'st a tightish heart, and
thou'st need ov it now. Mind me, Martin, I bean't romancing. It ha' been
smooth roads and no turnpikes wi' thee all thy life; there's a bit o'
rough coming, thee doesn't dream of.”
“Good God! Braintree! your manner alarms me!--What do you mean?”
“Martin!--I zuppoze thee thinks, I ought to be obliged to thee, vor
coming to me;--vor bringing a man accused as I be, brandy,--but I
bean't. If thee hadst not a' come, I'd ha' brought thee, though a waggon
and zix horses were pulling thee t'other way. There's my hand; I ha'
put it to thee through a hole in the window at whoam, a'ter thou'st a'
wished me good night, and the door were vast;--I do put it out to thee
now through a velon's wristband--wou'st take it?”
“Excuse me, Braintree!--I would do all I could;--I have even gone beyond
the line that a sense of propriety dictates: but you must not take such
advantage of the familiarity which commenced when I was a child, and has
since, through peculiar circumstances, continued;--you must not, I say,
presume upon that, to ask me, to shake hands with a man--”
“Accused ov murder! that's what thee means, yean't it?” asked Saul; and
his brows were knit, and his lips slightly quivered, as he spoke. Martin
stood silent.
“Then I'll tell thee what, lad,” pursued Saul, vehemently; “that stomach
o' thine shall come down:--I'll _make_ thee!”
“Braintree,” said the young man seriously, but in considerable
agitation; “what do you mean by this?--Are you mad?”
“Noa, noa;--not yet, not yet;--but handy to it--Not mad!” exclaimed
Saul, striking the iron, which bound his wrists, against his head; “but
don't trouble about I, lad; look to thy own wits, young chap.”
“Really, Saul, I cannot put up with a continuance of this:--you are not
drunk; I know it by your manner. I have never seen you thus before. I
pity you; and pray to God, that you may obtain a deliverance, by the
verdict of a jury.”
“I'll never be tried!” exclaimed Saul in a loud whisper.--“I'll never be
tried! Zaul Braintree ha'n't kept his wits brooding all these years,
to be caught like a quail, and ha' his neck twisted! No, no; they ha'
brought me to the wrong gaol for that; it's like putting a rat in a
fishing-net.”
“I don't think, Saul, there is any probability of your escaping,” said
young Stapleton; “and I advise you not to make the attempt.”
“Don't talk to I.--Ha'n't I, when you was a buoy, no bigger round than
my thigh,--ha'n't I heard you read, when you zat a-top o' my knee,
about the mouse gnawing the lion out o' the znare:--han't I?--Ah! you do
recollect, do'ee?”
“I do, I do, too well, Saul,” replied Martin, as a tear trickled down
his cheek; “and I am sorry--I am grieved--I feel more than you can
imagine to see you here. But what has the fable to do with you?”
“Every thing--I shall get out--strength can't do it for me, but--”
“Saul Braintree, I now see what you are driving at,” said Martin; “but
do not flatter yourself with so vain a hope. You are accused of a crime,
of which, I hope--nay, I think--you will prove yourself guiltless:
but though I am but young, I feel that I ought not, dare not, cannot
interfere between you and the laws of your country. My father--”
“Now, doan't'ee preach; doan't'ee make a zimpleton o' your-zelf, I
tell'ee:--but, can any body hear us?--be the constable nigh?” eagerly
inquired Saul, dropping his voice to a low tone.
“No,” said Martin, “you may be sure of that; or I would not have
remained, thus long, exposed to the madness or insolence of your
remarks;--I know not which to call it.”
“Why, thou jackanapes!” said Saul, sneeringly, though his eye, at
the same time, glared with an expression of the utmost fury on
young Stapleton; “thou young jackanapes! dost thee tell I about
insolence?--Thee shalt down on thy knees for this.”
“Braintree, good night,” said Martin, moving toward the door: “I did not
expect this conduct.”
“What, thee'rt gwain to leave me, then? Zurely, thee bean't in earnest?”
Martin had, by this time, reached the door, and was evidently
determined on quitting the room. The prisoner, perceiving his intention,
immediately assumed a tone of supplication. “Now, doan't thee go, Master
Stapleton,” said he; “doan't thee!--do come back--do hear me, if it be
but vor a minute. I were wrong, I were, indeed. Doan't thee leave
me yet--doan't thee--doan't thee--doan't thee! Come back, Master
Martin;--on my knees I do but of thee:--do come back--for Peggy's zake.”
Martin withdrew his hand from the door and returned. “Saul,” said he, as
he approached, “I never felt till now, the truth of what you have often
told me, namely,--that if I encouraged an affection for your daughter, I
should rue it. I _do_ now, most bitterly. Poor--poor Peggy!”
“Ah! poor girl!--Come nearer, Master Martin--poor Peggy!”
“Now, Saul, I'll hear you for one minute only; and this must--this shall
be our last interview--unless--”
“Vor one minute, didst say?” exclaimed Saul triumphantly, as he clutched
the wrist of Martin in his powerful grasp; “thou shalt hear me vor
an hour;--thou sha' not quit me, till thou and I do leave this place,
hand-in-hand, together. Ah! thou mayst struggle; but thou knowest the
old zaying, 'A Braintree's grip is as zafe as a zmith's vice--if thee
wast a horse I'd hold thee.”
“Scoundrel! villain!” exclaimed Martin, endeavouring, with all his
might, to release himself; “let go your hold, or I'll--”
“Ah! do--hit me now, do--now I ha' got the handcuffs on; any child might
gi'e Zaul Braintree a zlap o' the face now. Hit me--why doan't 'ee,--wi'
your t'other hand? There's no danger o' my drashing'ee vor't Hit
me--doan't'ee unclench your vist--here's my head--hit me, Master
Martin.”
“For heaven's sake, Saul!” exclaimed young Stapleton, “if you ever
esteemed me, let me go!--If you do not, I must alarm the house.”
“Oh! if you did, Martin!” replied Saul, “you'd ruin us both. I wouldn't
have'ee do so, vor the hope I've a' got of living a week over the next
zpring assize. If you did 'larm the house, Martin, you'd drop from a
young 'zquire into a poacher's zon, and hang your own vather to boot.”
“Hang my father!”
“Ah! doan't'ee look round the room that vashion:--you be zure there be
no one listening?”
“Positive!”
“Then turn your eyes here, lad:--Meg Braintree was more than your
nurse.--She's your own mother!--Now I'll let go thy wrist; for I've got
a grip at thy heart. There, thee bee'st vree! Why doesn't go?--I doan't
hold thee: go, if thee canst.”
“Saul, you surely are not in your senses!”
“May be I bean't, for trouble turns a man's brain;--but you be,
bean't'ee? You can't ha' vorgot how often I ha' pushed Bob off my knee
to put you upon it. Why did I do so?--'cause thee wert my zon, and he
were'Zquire Ztapleton's.--Haven't I hugged thee up to my breast, until
thee'st a' squalled wi' the squeeze, when nobody was by?--I'd a grudge
against the'zquire;--why, thee know'st well enough;--zo I made Meg,
who nursed'ee both, change buoy for buoy. I thought to ha' made a vine
vellow o' my zon at the'zquire's expence, little thinking I should ever
want un to zave my life. I thought, when you was a man, to ha' comed
up to'ee and zaid, 'Zquire, I be your vather,--zo and zo were the
case,--make me comvortable, or I'll be a tell-tale.' That were
my project; to zay nothing of having a bit of revenge upon
the'zquire!--Lord, Lord! how I ha' chuckled to myzelf thinking on't Can
any man zay I ever used Bob like my own zon? Answer me that. D--n un!
I always hated un, vor his vather's zake: though the lad's a good lad,
and, if he were mine, I should love un;--and I do, zometimes, I dunno'
why:--but I ha; drashed un,--and while I were drashing un, I've a'most
thought, I were drashing the vather o' un. But I ha' done un a good turn
when he didn't know it. I ha' kissed un when he were asleep,--a'most
upon the zly, like, even to myzelf. And when he broke his leg, I tended
upon un, as you do know; and he's a' loved me zo, ever zince, that I ha'
scores and scores o' times been zorry for it; for I do hate un because
he's the zon of his vather:--but what be the matter wi' 'ee? What's
amiss? Why d'ye stare and glower zo?”
“Saul Braintree,” said Martin, “whether your words are true or not--and
what you mention, I have observed--you have made me the most
wretched being on earth; for whatever comes to pass, I must still
suspect--Margaret, my heart tells me, may be--Oh! that horrid _may_,
which is worse than certainty--may be--nay, I cannot pronounce it! Oh!
Saul! if I could but believe you--if I could but make up my mind, even
to the worst, it would be a comfort.”
“Martin Braintree,--for that be your name,” said Saul, “didn't I warn'ee
about Peggy? Didn't I--when I saw you were getting vond of her--didn't I
try to offend'ee, zo az to keep'ee from coming to our cottage? Didn't I
insult'ee?--but you wouldn't take it.”
“You did, Saul, grossly insult me; but my love,--perhaps, my accursed
love,--made me overlook it What a gulph of horror is opened before me!
Peggy my sister! and you--you my father!--It cannot--it is not so, Saul.
Unsay what you have said, and I will save you.”
“I won't unsay it; it's out now, and I can't help it. If thou still
doubt'st, Martin, go down and ask my wife--ask Meg; if thou still
doubt'st, lad,--ask thy own heart--young as thee bee'st--if a vather
could let a zon be hung for a crime of which thic zon bean't guilty!”
“And is Robert innocent, then?”
“Ay, lad, as thou art”
“But you--surely, you--”
“Take a drop of brandy, and I'll tell thee all, buoy: thee'rt my own
vlesh and blood, and I'll talk to thee as I would to my own heart. Now,
do 'ee take the flask; halve it, and gi'e me the rest;--or take it all,
if thee dost veel qualmish.--I be zad enough, but don't stint thyself,
Martin.”