name of Earle. Mr. Earle, the proprietor, was in somewhat embarrassed
circumstances, and was mixed up with some of the plots then rife. He was
much away from the Hall--generally in London; but the house was full of
servants, under the control of a steward, Philip Laurie, and a
housekeeper, named Marian--a comely woman, just passing into middle age.
One day, when Laurie was absent, two gentlemen arrived at the Hall,
cloaked, with their hats drawn over their eyes, and were admitted by
Marian. One of these was Mr. Earle himself, anxious to escape
recognition. Who the other was did not transpire. After some
conversation with the housekeeper, Marian summoned the servants into the
hall, and ordered them immediately to collect and pack the plate and
pictures--everything that was of value and readily movable. Mr. Earle
did not show himself--he remained in the housekeeper's room; but his
companion appeared, and announced that he and Marian were acting under
the authority of Mr. Earle, and he read them a letter from that
gentleman requiring the removal of his valuable property as the
housekeeper should direct.
The servants were much surprised; but as it was known that their master
was in difficulties, and as some suspicion seems to have entered their
heads that he was engaged in a plot, their wonder died away; they
diligently discharged their duty, and everything that was required was
speedily collected and stowed away in leather bags or wooden boxes in
the hall. The housekeeper then dismissed the servants, and she and the
stranger conveyed the articles packed up into her room.
Where were they next to be conveyed to, so as to be readily removed? Mr.
Earle expected a warrant for his arrest on the charge of high treason,
and the confiscation of all his property. He was therefore desirous to
remove all he could in time to escape to France.
To avoid observation, it was advisable that his valuables should be
secreted somewhere near, but not in the house. Marian then, with some
hesitation, told the master that an attachment subsisted between her and
the gamekeeper, a man named Martin Giles; that she could rely on his not
divulging the secret, and trust him with the custody of the plate, &c.,
till it suited the convenience of Mr. Earle to take them away. She was
accordingly despatched to the gamekeeper's cottage, and he was brought
to the Hall, and as much of the secret confided to him as could not well
be retained. He promised most frankly to do what was desired of him, and
as he was a Roman Catholic, Mr. Earle felt satisfied that he could trust
him not to betray a master who professed the same faith.
When Philip Laurie returned he found to his surprise that the house had
been stripped of everything precious. He was extremely incensed, and in
an angry interview with Marian charged her with having told tales of him
to her master, and so of having lost him the confidence of Mr. Earle.
She did not deny that she mistrusted his honesty, unhappily recalled a
circumstance he thought she knew nothing of, and took occasion to give
him "a bit of her mind"; but she protested that she had not spoken on
the subject to her master.
Philip Laurie asked where the property was removed to. She refused to
tell him. He swore he would know. He did not trust her story. The house
had been plundered; the opportunity had been taken when he was absent,
and Marian was privy to a robbery.
After violent words on both sides they parted. As he left the room the
steward turned, fixing his eyes, blazing with deadly hate, upon the
housekeeper, and muttered a few inarticulate words.
It was not long before Laurie suspected or discovered where the
valuables were secreted.
Chance had thrown in his way a labourer of bad character named William
Vasey, a poacher and a reputed thief. Laurie walked through the park to
the cottage of this miscreant, and it was resolved between them that the
housekeeper should be murdered, and then that the lodge of the
gamekeeper should be robbed.
In the evening Marian was taking her accustomed walk along a beech
avenue beside the Ouse. It was evening, and the red evening sky was
reflected in the water, which looked like a streak of blood. The rooks
were cawing and wheeling about the tree-tops, settling for the night.
A white owl that lived in the ivy that covered the north side of the
house floated, ghostlike, through the gathering darkness. Marian in her
white cap walked quietly in the avenue. She was a Roman Catholic, and
was reciting her beads. Laurie knew that she was accustomed every
evening to retire into this walk to say her rosary.
At one point a beech-tree had been blown over, and had left a gap to the
west, through which the faint reflection of the evening sky fell,
leaving the shadows beyond it in deeper gloom. For some unaccountable
reason, as Marian came to this gap, instead of passing it and continuing
her walk, she stood still, and then turned. A second time she walked the
avenue and came to this gap. A mysterious repugnance to advance caused
her to hesitate and halt.
Thinking that this was an unreasonable feeling, she walked on a couple
of steps, and then stood still, turned round, and looked at the spot
where the sun had gone down.
At that moment Vasey sprang from behind a tree, and thrust Marian over
the brink. With a shriek she sank.
Next morning the body was found, a part of the rosary clenched in her
hand, and the other portion was discovered caught in the stump of the
broken beech. Prints of a man's boots in the mud showed that Marian had
not died by accidentally falling into the water.
Suspicion of the guilt of the murder fell upon Martin Giles, the
gamekeeper. Laurie was in the Hall the whole time, and therefore no one
supposed him implicated in the commission of the crime. The gamekeeper
had behaved mysteriously for the last day or two. He had avoided his
usual friends; he had been seen privately conversing with the
housekeeper. Only Marian and he knew that their master had been in the
house; his presence had been concealed from the other servants, who only
saw his companion. The removal of the valuables to the house of Giles
had been accomplished by the two gentlemen with the assistance of the
gamekeeper alone. After the valuables had been taken away, the two
gentlemen in disguise had ridden off.
The servants, who had noticed that there was some mystery to which Giles
and Marian were privy, thought that the keeper had killed the poor woman
out of dread lest she should prove an untrustworthy depositary of the
secret, whatever it was. It was known also that the lovers had been
accustomed to meet in the beech avenue, the place where the murder had
been committed.
Whilst the tide of popular indignation ran strong against the
unfortunate gamekeeper, Laurie and Vasey resolved on committing the
robbery--before also Mr. Earle and his companion had found means to
remove the property entrusted to his custody.
At midnight Vasey and the steward went to the gamekeeper's cottage.
Laurie was to remain outside, and the other ruffian to enter and rob the
house. They thought that Martin Giles was sure to be asleep; but they
were mistaken. The man had been sincerely attached to poor Marian, and
lay tossing in bed, wondering who could have murdered her, and vainly
racking his brain to discover some clue which could guide him to a
solution of the mystery. As he thus lay, he thought he heard a slight
sound down-stairs. But the wind was blowing, and the trees roaring in
the blast; the little diamond panes in the latticed windows clattered,
and the keeper thought nothing of it.
Presently, however, he heard the latch of his door gently raised, and in
the darkness he just distinguished the figure of a man entering the
room. He immediately jumped out of bed, but was felled to the ground. As
he struggled to rise he was again struck down, and for the moment was
stunned. But he recovered consciousness almost immediately. He had
fallen upon a sheep net, which lay in a heap on the floor. He quietly
gathered up the net in his hands, sprang to his feet, and flinging the
net over the murderer, entangled his arms so that he could not extricate
himself.
He wrenched the bludgeon out of his hand, and struck him over the head
with it, so that he measured his length, insensible, on the floor.
Had Martin only known that this ruffian had been the murderer of her
who had been dearer to him than anyone else in the world, there is no
doubt but the blow would have fallen heavier, and would have spared the
hangman his trouble.
Giles then threw open his window and fired off his gun, to alarm the
inmates of the Hall.
In a few minutes the servants made their appearance, amongst them Philip
Laurie, with a ghastly face. A sign passed between him and Vasey, and he
recovered some of his composure. The captured ruffian had assured him he
would not betray his accomplice.
Vasey was taken into custody, and on the following day was removed to
York Castle, where he was committed for burglary with intent to commit
murder.
When Mr. and Mrs. Earle heard of what had taken place, the latter came
with the utmost speed into Yorkshire. Mr. Earle, fearing arrest for
treasonable practices, did not venture to do so.
Laurie's conduct had already excited suspicion. He had not been seen
issuing from the Hall on the night of the attempted robbery with the
other servants, and was found on the spot fully dressed, and that not in
his usual costume, but one which looked as if intended for a disguise.
Mrs. Earle sent for him to her boudoir, and dismissed him from her
service. As yet there was no charge sufficiently established against him
to warrant her committing him to custody; but, she added, Vasey had
declared his full intention to confess before his execution.
Laurie, a desperate man, flung himself on his knees, and implored his
mistress not to send him away; or if, as he heard, she was about to
escape with Mr. Earle to France, would she allow him to accompany them?
She indignantly thrust the wretch from her. He started to his feet,
drew a pistol from his coat-pocket, and presented it at her head. She
struck up his hand, and the contents of the pistol shivered the glasses
of a chandelier that hung in the room. He rushed out of the room, ran to
his own apartment, put another pistol to his forehead, and blew his
brains out.
Vasey now confessed everything, and was executed at the Tyburn, outside
Micklegate Bar, at York, on August 18th, 1670.
It is said that at night a pale, female figure is seen to steal along
the bank of the Ouse, where the avenue stood in olden time, and to
disappear in the churchyard of Newton, which adjoins the park, where
Marian was buried.
A YORKSHIRE BUTCHER.
The subject of this memoir has been dead but a few years, and therefore
I do not give his name, lest it should cause annoyance to his relatives.
He was a tall, red-faced, jovial man, with a merry twinkle in his small
eyes; a man who could tell a good story with incomparable drollery, and
withal was the gentlest, kindest-hearted man, who would never wound the
most sensitive feelings by ridicule. He had a splendid bass voice, and
sang in the church choir; his knowledge of music was not inconsiderable,
and for some time he was choir-master, and performed a feat few other
men have been able to accomplish--he was able to keep the discordant
elements of a choir in harmony. His inimitable tact, unvarying good
nature, and readiness to humour the most self-consequential of the
performers, made him vastly popular with them, and prevented or healed
those jars which are proverbial among professed votaries of harmony.
This worthy butcher thus narrated his courtship:--
"It's a queer thing, sir, hoo things turns oot sometimes. Noo it war a
queer thing hoo I chanced to get wed. I war at Leeds once, and I'd na
mair thowts aboot marrying na mair 'an nowt; and I war just going doon
t' street, tha knaws, sir, when I met wi' my wife--that's her 'at's my
wife noo, tha knaws. I'd kenned her afore, a piece back; soa shoo comes
oop to me, an' shoo ses, 'Why, James, lad, is that thee?'--'Aye,' I ses,
'it is awever.'--'Weel, James,' ses she, 'what's ta doing wi' thysen
noo?'--'Why,' I ses, 'I's joost getten me a new hoose.' Soa wi' that she
ses, 'Then I lay, James, if tha's getting a new hoose, tha'll be
wanting a hoosekeeper.' Soa I ses to 'er, ses I, 'Tha ma' coom and be t'
wife if ta likes; tha mawn't be t' hoosekeeper, tha knaws, but tha ma'
coom and be t' wife.' And soa shoo ses, 'I ain't partikler. I don't mind
if I do.' So we never had na mair to do aboot t' job."
I asked him if he ever had found occasion to regret such an expeditious
way of settling the matter. He shook his head and said, "Noa, sir,
niver. Shoo's made a rare good wife. But shoo's her mawgrums a' times.
But what women ain't got 'em? They've all on 'em maggots i' their heads
or tempers. Tha sees, sir, when a bone were took out o' t' side o' Adam,
to mak a wife for 'm, 't were hot weather, an' a blue-bottle settled on
t' rib. When shoo's i' her tantrums ses I to her, 'Ma dear,' ses I, 'I
wish thy great-great-grand ancestress hed chanced ta be made i' winter."
When he was married he took his wife a trip to Bolton, and spent a week
on his honeymoon tour. As soon as he was returned home, the first thing
he did was to put his wife into the scales and weigh her. Then the
butcher took out his account-book, and divided the expenses of the
marriage and wedding-tour by the weight of the wife. "Eh! lass!" said
he, "thou'st cost me fourteen pence ha'penny a pound. Thou'st the
dearest piece o' meat that iver I bought."
He had a barometer. The glass stood at set-fair, and for a whole week
the rain had been pouring down. On the eighth day the glass was still
telling the same tale, and the rain was still falling. Our friend lost
his patience, and holding the barometer up to the window he said,
"Sithere, lass! thou'st been telling lees. Dost thou see how it's
pouring? I'll teach thee to tell lees again!" And he smashed the glass.
He was laid up with gout. The doctor had tried all sorts of medicines,
but nothing seemed to profit him. At last the medical man said, "Try
smoking. I daresay smoking would do you a deal of good."
"Ah," said the wife, "it's possible it might. But thou seest, doctor,
chimleys is made so narrow nowadays that one cannot hang un up i' t'
reek (smoke) as one did wi' one's bacon i' bygone days."
His wife was dying. She was long ill, and during her sickness was always
exclaiming, "Eh! I'm boun' to dee. It win't be long afore I dee. I
shan't be long here"--and the like. Our jolly butcher heard these
exclamations day after day, and said nothing. At last he got a little
impatient over them, and said one day, as she was exclaiming as usual,
"O dear! I'm goin' to dee!"--"Why, lass, thou'st said that ower and ower
again a mony times. Why doan't thou set a time, and stick to it?"
On another occasion his wife slightly varied the tune to "Eh! the poor
bairns! What will become o' t' bairns when I dee? Who will mind t'
bairns when their mother is dead?"
"Never thee trouble thy head about that," said her husband; "go on wi'
thy deein'. I'll mind t' bairns."
He was going to York with his son, a boy of eighteen. He took a ticket
for himself and a half-one for the boy. When the train drew near to
York, the ticket-collector came round, and exclaimed at this
half-ticket, "Where's the child?"
"Here," said the butcher, pointing to the tall, awkward youth.
"What do you mean?" asked the indignant ticket-collector. "He ain't a
child; he's a young man!"
"Ah! so he is, now," answered the butcher; "but that's thy fault, not
mine. I know when we got in at Wakefield he were nobbut a bairn; but
tha'st been going so confounded slow that he's growed sin' we started!"
Many years ago, on a rare occasion, James took a glass too much. It was
the last time such a misfortune took place with him. His clergyman was
obliged to speak to him about it, and in doing so said--"You know,
James, beasts do not get drunk."
"There's a deal o' things belonging to all things," answered the worthy
butcher, who never suffered himself to be cornered. "If a horse were o'
one side o' a pond, and another on t' other side, and t' first horse ses
to t' other, 'Jim, I looks towards ye!' and t' other ses to the first,
'Thank y' kindly, Tom; I catches your eye.' And the first horse ses
again, 'Tha'll tak' another sup, lad, and drink ma health'; the second
will be sewer to say, 'I will, and I'll drink to lots o' your healths.'
Why, sir, them two horses will be nobbin to one another iver so long.
Lor bless ye! them two horses win't part till they's as drunk as
Christians."
James at one time was not well off. He had a brother whom we will call
Tom, who had some money.
Now James happened to hear that his brother was very ill, and as they
had not latterly been very good friends, he was afraid lest, if Tom
died, he would not leave him his money.
So he immediately set off to his brother's house, and on his arrival
found him ill in bed. He went up to the room in which his brother lay,
and began--"Weel, Tommy, an' hoo art a'?"
"Oah, James!" said Tom, "I'se vara bad. I thinks I's boun' to dee."
"Eh!" said James, "well, mebbe tha'lt outlive me, Tommy; I nobbut feels
vara middlin' mysen. I hain't felt weel for a long while, and I war just
thinking, Tommy, o' sending to Mr. Smith, t' lawyer, to mak' me a bit o'
a will, tha knaws. Hast a' made _thy_ will, Tommy?"
"Noa," said Tom, "I hain't; but I was thinking wi' thee, James, o'
sending for Lawyer Smith. Noo, who wast a' thinking o' making thy heir,
James?"
"Weel, tha knaws, Tommy," said James, "mebbe thou and me hain't lately
been vara particklers; but I war thinking it ever owt ta be, 'Let
bygones be bygones'; and soa I was thinking o' leaving my bit o' brass
to thee. Noo, Tommy, hoo wast a' thinking o' leaving thy money?"
"Why," said Tommy, "as thou'st been sa good as leave thy money ta me, I
think it wadn't be reet if I didn't do t' same by thee, and leave thee
my brass."
"Weel," said James, "I think thou couldn't do better; and soa let's send
for Mr. Smith to mak' our wills, and I think mebbe, Tommy, _thou'd
better ha' thy will made fust_."
So these two men sent for the lawyer to make their wills. Tommy's was
made first, and a very few days after he died. His money then came to
James, who in reality was not ill in the least, but had only pretended
to be so.
One of James the butcher's sayings I well remember. He was addressing a
young man who was courting a girl, and was very hot and eager in his
pursuit of her.
"I'll gi'e thee a bit o' advice, Joa: Don't bother to shuttle a
happle-tree to get t' fruit; tak' it easy; wait, and t' apples will fall
into thy lap o' their selves. Don't go coursing over hedges and threw
ditches after rabbits; wait a bit, and t' rabbits 'all come into thy
springes without trouble. Don't take on running after t' lasses; take it
easy, and thou'lt find, Joa, lad, that t' lasses will run after thee."
At one time James rented some land of a neighbouring gentleman of large
fortune and estates who was well known for his hospitality. James was
invited with other tenants to dine on Court day at the Hall, and dinner
was served up in the best style. On his return home to his wife, he gave
her an account of it "Eh! Phoebe, but it wad ha' capped owt. There were
beef and mutton, and chickens and game, and ivery thing one could think
of. I's sewer I were fair an' bet wi' it all; but what bet ma moast o'
all were 'at we'd ivery one on us a small loaf lapped up i' a clout."
Liqueurs were handed round after dinner. Our good friend took his little
glass of the, to him, unknown tipple, and after drinking it off at one
gulp, and considering a while, turned round to the waiter and said,
"John, bring us some o' this 'ere i' a moog."
At a club dinner, a wedding breakfast, or a funeral lunch, James was
overflowing with anecdotes. He was generally the hero of his stories;
but I do not believe that they all in reality happened to himself. The
stories often told against the principal actor in them, and therefore he
may have thought it legitimate to appropriate to himself tales which
made him appear in a ludicrous light.
I can remember only a few of these stories.
"It was one night in November last that I and my wife Phoebe was sitting
tawking i' t' house. It were a dark night, as black as Warren's best.
Now I mun tell thee that our Rachel Anne--that's our grown up
daughter--were at that age when they mostly likes to ha' a sweetheart,
Shoo'd gotten a young man. I don't like to name names, but as we're all
friends here, I don't mind saying he were a downright blackguard. It
were old Greenwood's son, tha knaws; t' lad as were locked up by t'
police for boiling a cat. Well, Rachel Anne were mad after him, and
nother her mother nor I liked it. We were nicely put out, I promise you.
"To go on with my tale. Phoebe and I were sitting by t' fire, when all
at once I ses to my old woman, 'Phoebe, lass, where's Rachel Anne?
Shoo's not at home, I reckon.'
"'Nay, James, lad,' said she, 'shoo's at a confirmation class.'
"'At a confirmation!' said I, and I whistled. 'I thowt confirmation was
ower.'
"'Ah! I dunnow sure; but that's what shoo said.'
"'Is owd Greenwood's son, Jim, going to confirmation class too?'
"'I cannot tell,' shoo said.
"'No more can I,' said I; 'but I'd like to know?'
"'So should I,' said she.
"'Win't thee look out o' chamber window and see if there's a leet i' t'
school?' said I. So my owd woman went upstairs and looked, and when shoo
came doun, 'No, there ain't,' said she.
"'I thowt not,' said I.
"Well, we sat by t' fire some while, and then my owd lass went into back
kitchen to get a bit o' supper ready. Shoo hadn't been there long afore
shoo come back and said, 'James, lad!'
"'Ah!' says I; 'what's up?'
"'Why, this,' says she; 'there's summun i' t' back yard.'
"'How dost a' know?' says I.
"Says she, 'I heard 'em taukin'; and there's a lanthorn there.'
"'There's impidence!' says I. 'Who is they?'
"'I think Rachel Anne is one,' says Phoebe.
"'And Jim Greenwood is t' other,' says I; 'and I'm glad on't.'
"'Why?' says Phoebe.
"'Lass,' says I, 'I'll pay yond chap out, I will. I'll go out by t'
front door, and I'll come on him, and I'll let him know what I think of
him, coming arter our Rachel Anne. And when I've gotten howd on him,
I'll hollow. Then do thou run out o' t' back door, and I'll howd him
tight, and thou can poise him behind as much as thou like. Since we've
been man and wife these fourteen year,' says I, 'we've taken our
pleasure in common,' says I. 'We've been to Hollingworth Lake together,'
says I. 'And we've been to Southport together,' says I. 'And wunce we've
went together to t' exhibition i' Wakefield together. So,' says I,
'we'll ha' the kicking, and the shuttling, and the rumpling up o' yond
lad o' Greenwood's together. O glory!' And then I run out o' t' front
door as wick as a scoprill,[15] and came shirking round towards t' back
door i' t' yard. Well, t' night were dark, but I could see there were
some folks there, and I could see the glint o' a lanthorn, and t' leet
from t' back kitchen window came on a bit o' gownd, and I know'd it
belonged to Rachel Anne.
"'Drat him!' said I to mysen, 'what is lasses coming to next, when they
brings their young men under the noses o' their parents wot can't abear
them?'
"So I came sloping up along the wall till I was quite near. Will you
believe it?--her young man, that's owd Greenwood's lad Jim, was sitting
as easy as owt i' a chair.
"'Oh, you charmer!' says Rachel Anne. I heard her voice. I know'd it
were she. 'You're near perfect noo!'
"'Oh lawk!' thinks I, 'there's no accounting for tastes.' Jim he ain't
ower much o' a beauty, I promise thee. He's gotten a cast i' one o' his
eyes, and when he washes his face he's gotten a black stock on; and when
he don't, why, then he's all o' a muck, face and neck alike.
"'Can I get thee owt?' says Rachel Anne, as shameless as owt. 'Ah! tha
wants a pair o' boots. I reckon father's gotten an owd pair he win't
miss. I'll get them for thee.' Then sudden, as she was going away to t'
back door, she turns and says, 'My! he ain't got no pipe. I mun get him
one o' father's.'
"'Oh, ye abandoned profligate!' groaned I, 'robbing thy parents to
bestow all on this owdacious waggabone! But I'll be even wi' thee! I'll
let my fine gentleman know the looks o' my back-yard! I'll let un ha' a
taste o' my baccy! I'll let un know the feel o' my boots!'
"'Father's breeches fit un rare!' said Rachel Anne.
"Well, now! if that warn't too much. I yelled--