We must pass over the space of two days, and then return to the
cottage, of which we have spoken in the last chapter, having now to
dwell for some time upon the fate and history of persons in a very
different station of life, and of a very different character from Sir
Morley Ernstein. Yet let not the reader think that we thus go from
scene to scene, and from person to person--leaving those for whom we
have just created an interest, almost as soon as that interest is
excited, and turning to others whom the reader cares little
about--from any wantonness of imagination, or carelessness of plan. On
the contrary, it is done deliberately and designedly; not only because
it is in the ordinary course of nature, and because the fates of the
great and the small, the good and the bad, the wise and the foolish,
are linked together in such a manner throughout the whole scheme of
human life, that they all affect each other in the most intimate
manner, but also because it is absolutely necessary to pursue such a
course, in order that the reader may, in the least degree, comprehend
the story of this book. Let him be forewarned, then, that if he misses
one chapter, one page, or perhaps one sentence, he may very probably
lose the key to the whole, and understand no more at the end than he
did at the beginning; for the destiny of each person herein spoken of,
was so twined and intertwisted with that of the others, by the decree
of fate, that the life, property, and happiness of the greatest and
the best amongst them, was often entirely dependent upon the actions
of the least and the worst, and the ultimate result of all was brought
about by circumstances that seemed the most trivial.
To the cottage, then, we must turn, on the evening of the second day
after that on which Sir Morley Ernstein had visited it; premising,
that the young Baronet had set off for London on the day after we last
saw him. The little tenement had undergone a considerable change, and
though it may seem strange to attribute anything like poetry to tables
and chairs, yet I must say there was the poetry of comfort about
it--ay, dear reader, there is a poetry in anything which calls up
before the eye of imagination all the sweet relationships of domestic
life; the household joys, the bright hearth's happy circle, parental
fondness, the husband's protecting care, the wife's devoted love.
There is a poetry in it all, the blandest, the most soothing to the
human heart; for it is the poetry of the purest happiness that man is
permitted to know on earth. That sort of poetry had been produced in
the cottage I have spoken of, by the change from the vacant rooms, and
dull uncovered walls, to the cheerful, furnished cottage-kitchen, with
the bright fire blazing on the hearth, the long row of shelves loaded
with various articles for daily use, all clean and shining; the
polished oaken table in the midst, the stools and seats around, the
large chair by the fire, and a thousand little objects, not of
absolute necessity, perhaps, but which all more or less contribute to
comfort; for good old Adam Gray had taken an interest in the orders
his masters gave him, and had forgotten nothing--no, not even a small
crib for the child.
At the moment that we speak of, the elder woman, whom the little boy
himself has introduced to us by the name of Granny, was seated in the
arm-chair by the fire, and looking round with a feeling of relief and
satisfaction, though her face was somewhat worn with the anxiety and
watching which she had undergone during the last week, and with being
hunted, as she expressed it, like a wild beast, over the moors. The
boy, her grandson, was on the floor near her feet, rolling to and fro
a large round mass of wood, which was used to keep the cottage-door
open in fine weather; while his mother was gazing down upon him with a
look of sorrowful affection; and in her eyes might be read deep and
sad comments upon, the fate of her child, upon human love, and human
errors. Oh! could one have seen into her heart at that moment, how
touching--how strangely touching--would have been the terrible
blending of intense affection, and strong anxiety, and profound
sorrow, which would have been found there as she gazed upon her boy!
The two women had been in the house for several hours, but had been
busily engaged in arranging all things in their future abode, so that
this was the first moment that leisure had been found for calm
contemplation. Neither mother nor daughter spoke for some time, and
nothing was heard but the ticking of the clock behind the door, and
the rolling to and fro of the wooden ball by the little boy. Suddenly,
however, there was a footfall in the garden, and the younger woman
started and listened, but the moment after she shook her head,
saying--"It is not he."
The well-known music of the step we love, the sweetest of all sounds
to those who have been long absent from the arms of affection, was not
there. It was the slow and heavy tread of an old man, and in another
minute, after tapping at the door, good Adam Gray entered the cottage
and approached the fire. He had not thought fit to be present when the
little party took possession of their new dwelling; but he now came,
both to see that his young master's orders had been executed, and to
satisfy, in some degree, his own curiosity upon more than one point.
The younger woman had said--"Come in!" and her mother had turned round
to see who it was that entered, but the eye of the latter rested upon
the form of the old butler without the slightest sign of recognition.
He gazed upon her in return as he advanced; but whether it was that
his memory was better, or that she was less changed by time than he
was, it was very evident, from the expression of his countenance, that
he saw in her an old acquaintance.
"Good evening," he said--"good evening. I hope you find everything
comfortable here. It was my young master's strict order that I should
do everything to make you so."
"I thank you, sir," replied the younger woman, with a tone and manner
that would not have disgraced any society, "we are deeply indebted to
Sir Morley Ernstein, and have found everything far more comfortable
than we could even hope, certainly far more than we had any right to
expect."
"I am glad to hear it--I am glad to hear it," said good Adam Gray. "But
by your leave, ma'am, I will take a chair. I have come here as an old
friend, Mrs. More; do you not recollect me? Do you not recollect Adam
Gray?"
The old woman looked in his face with some surprise--"And are you Mr.
Gray, the butler?" she asked. "Why, your hair used to be as black as
jet, and you seemed to me taller by a couple of inches."
"Ay," answered old Adam, "'tis very true, good dame--'tis very true
indeed; but time, you know, will whiten the hair and bow the body, and
I do not stand near so tall as I once did. Good lack! when I look in
the looking-glass, I can scarcely recollect what I was like twenty
years ago. You are much changed, too, Dame More, though not so much as
I am, I think. You were a buxom woman in those days, and we were all
sorry when you left the village, though some said it was for your own
good; but others shook the head, you know, Dame More."
"Well they might," said the old woman, in a low, sad tone, fixing her
eyes upon the fire--"well they might, indeed!"
Adam Gray and his old acquaintance sat silent for several minutes,
evidently engaged in meditations over the past; and the younger woman;
feeling, perhaps, that their thoughts were busy about things which
were not familiar to her own mind, laid hold of the arm of her little
boy, who was staring inquisitively in the face of the stranger,
saying--"Come, Dick, it is time for you to go to bed, boy, and rest
your young limbs."
The child went away willingly enough, and the old man and woman were
left alone.
"Well, Mrs. More," said Adam Gray, "I am glad that we have met once
again in life, though I suppose you will be as silent about all the
stories of those days as you were when last I saw you."
"I don't know that," answered the old woman, musing; "times have
changed, Mr. Gray, and I may not care to talk about things now that I
did not choose to talk about then. Sir Morley Ernstein has been kind
to me, too--"
"And I am sure so was his father," said the butler.
"Yes," replied she, "so he was; but, as I have said, times have
changed, and those who were then befriending me and mine, may now be
persecuting us. However, I shall say nothing till I see what comes of
it."
"I should like very much, however, to hear all that story," rejoined
Adam Gray, "and I am sure I would not say a word to any one. It is
only for my own satisfaction I speak, and to know if my good master
was right or wrong in what he said."
The old woman gazed for an instant down upon the ground, then turned
her eyes upon the old man with a very strange expression, saying--"He
was wrong, M. Gray; and I told him what was true. Yet, odd as it may
seem, he was right too, and I deceived him. I will tell you what, you
where always a good-hearted man, and a sensible one, and some day or
another I'll tell you the whole story, but it sha'n't be now."
"It must be every soon, then," said Adam Gray, "for I am going to
London in two days, and to the Continent immediately after."
"That will do!" cried the old woman--"that will do quite well."
"Do you mean when I come back again?" demanded Adam Gray. "Who can
tell, good dame, when that may be? Who can tell whether it ever will
be?"
"I don't mean that," said the old woman, somewhat peevishly, "but I
mean that you are not likely to tell it again till I am dead and
buried, and then you may tell it if you like; so you shall hear all
before you go, if you will promise to keep it a secret, as I have
done, till I be gone to join my husband and my son."
"Why, where are they?" Asked Adam Gray. "I thought you were a widow,
Dame More. Did you leave your husband and your son in India?"
"Yes," replied the old woman, fixing her eyes upon the fire--"I left
them in the grave."
The good old servant seemed somewhat shocked that he had called up
such painful memories, and after remaining silent for a short time,
Dame More, as he called her, went on--"There is many a thing, Mr.
Gray," she said, "that I may weep for, and many a thing that I wish
had gone otherwise; but there is only one thing that I repent, and
that is what we are now talking about. If you will come to me
to-morrow, however, I will tell you all about it, for I do wish some
one person to know the thing besides myself. Your master is too young,
or I would have told him; and Harry, my girl's husband, is too wild
and not to be trusted; and if I told Jane herself, she would never
keep it from her husband; so I will tell you, because I believe you
have always been an honest man--I should like to know that Harry gets
safe away first, however, for if that man persecutes him, I will stop
him, or have vengeance."
"Vengeance!" observed the old man--"vengeance, my good dame, is like a
sword without a hilt, sure to cut the hands of those that use it."
"It may be so, Mr. Gray," replied the old woman--"it may be so,
indeed, but I must save him, for my poor girl's sake."
"I do not exactly understand what you mean," said Adam Gray. But the
old woman shook her head, replying, "You had better not. However, I
will tell you at all events, for it is fit that some one should know.
Life is uncertain at the best, and at my years it's but like the
dying flame of a candle, flickering up and down before it goes out
for ever.--Come, you shall hear the story now," she continued; "but
first let me go and tell the girl not to come down. Poor Jane! she
has enough sad secrets of her own without having to bear mine too."
The old woman rose from her chair, supporting herself by the arm, for
she seemed somewhat stiff, and was turning towards the door which led
to the staircase, when her daughter's step was heard descending
quickly, and Jane Martin entered with an eager look, saying--"He is
there--he is there! I heard his step in the garden. I am sure he is
there!" and as she spoke, she turned her eyes with an apprehensive
glance from the countenance of her mother to that of Adam Gray.
"You may trust him--you may trust him!" cried the old woman. "Open the
door, Jane, and see. Do not be afraid, girl--you may trust him, I
say."
The younger woman approached the door with a quiet and noiseless step,
and lifting the latch, looked out. A quick and eager respiration was
all that was heard, but the moment she had opened the door, she darted
out, and returned the instant after, with her fair slight form clasped
round by the powerful arm of her husband.
The eyes of Harry Martin rested at once upon Adam Gray, as he sat by
the fire, but it was with no expression of apprehension, and he
answered some words which his wife whispered rapidly to him, by
saying--"I understand--I understand, Jane."
Adam Gray, however, saw at once that there was something more in the
situation of the parties than had been communicated to him by his
master; and, being a prudent and sagacious man, though not without his
share of curiosity, he rose after a few brief words had passed between
him and the rest, and took his leave, promising to return on the
following day, and have a further chat with Mrs. More.
The night was somewhat dark as the old butler issued forth, and,
accustomed as his eyes had lately been to the light within the
cottage, he could scarcely see his way along the narrow gravel
foot-path which led from the door to the end of the little garden.
When he reached the low gate, however, a sudden light, proceeding from
some object which he could not distinguish, came in his face and
nearly blinded him, but the moment after, it ceased, and he caught the
faint outline of a man standing close by the palings.
The appearance of this personage, who seemed to have a dark lantern
with him, was not at all satisfactory to good Adam Gray, but judging
that civility would be the best policy, he merely said, "Good night,"
and passed through the gate. His friend with a lantern made no reply,
and Adam hurried down the little path which led towards the mansion
house, not by any means sure that certain notes, together with sundry
round pieces of gold and silver, which at that moment tenanted his
breeches pocket, would be permitted to remain in occupation till he
reached Warmstone Castle.
On arriving at the high road, however, he saw another man advancing
rapidly towards him, but bearing in no degree the aspect of a person
of that neighbourhood. The stranger stopped exactly opposite to him,
but seemed more inclined to examine than to annoy him, and suffered
him to pass on, replying, "Good night," to Adam's salutation, in a
civil tone, but without any Northumbrian accent. The sight of a
post-chaise, standing in the road at some distance, put an end to the
good old man's apprehensions, though it did not clear up the mystery;
but wisely judging that the affair was no business of his, he made the
best of his way back to the castle, without taking any farther notice,
or enquiring into things that did not concern him.