CHAPTER II. HARLEY STREET
CHAPTER III. BEFORE THE BLOW
CHAPTER IV. LOST
CHAPTER V. THE STONE GARDEN
CHAPTER VI. THE SEARCH
CHAPTER VII. WHAT WAS IN THE COVERED CART
CHAPTER VIII. THE PROCESSION
CHAPTER IX. AMONG FRIENDS
CHAPTER X. A DETECTIVE OF HALF A CENTURY AGO
CHAPTER XI. THE BANK-NOTES
CHAPTER XII. A BENEVOLENT STRANGER
CHAPTER XIII. BETTER THAN A BLUNDERBUSS
CHAPTER XIV. THE FALSE SCENT
CHAPTER XV. "LET IT BE PETER'S GODCHILD"
CHAPTER XVI. TAKING THE SEALS OFF
CHAPTER XVII. THE FAIRY'S WAND
CHAPTER XVIII. FOUND
CHAPTER XIX. L'ENVOI
LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
CHAPTER I.
OUT OF MIND, OUT OF SIGHT.
Notwithstanding the baronet's polite invitation, and although Mr. Long
did not return, as expected, upon the ensuing morning, I felt no
inclination to exchange my solitude for the society of Mr. Gilmore at
bowls. I was, indeed, rather curious to see the bowling-green, which I
had heard from my tutor was one of the very finest in England, fenced in
by wondrous walls of yew; but, to arrive there, it was necessary to pass
close to the Hall, and, consequently, to run great risk of meeting Sir
Massingberd, my repugnance to whom had returned with tenfold strength
since the preceding day. My reason, it is true, could suggest no
possible harm from my having enclosed his letter to Marmaduke, but still
an indefinable dread of what I had done oppressed me. I could not
imagine in what manner I could have been outwitted; but a certain
malignant exultation in Sir Massingberd's face when he was taking his
leave, haunted my memory, and rendered hateful the idea of meeting it
again. Moreover, the companionship of Gilmore, the butler, was not
attractive. He bore a very bad character with the villagers, among whom
he was said to emulate in a humble manner the vices of his lord and
master; he had been his companion and confidential servant for a great
number of years, and it was not to be wondered at, even supposing that
he commenced that servitude as an honest man, that his principles
should have been sapped by the communication.
Those who had known Richard Gilmore best and longest, however, averred
that his nature had not been the least impaired by this companionship,
inasmuch as it had been always as bad as bad could be. I never saw his
pale secretive face, with the thin lips tightly closed, as if to prevent
the escape of one truant word, without reflecting what a repository of
dark and wicked deeds that keeper of Sir Massingberd's conscience needs
must be. Such men usually hold such masters in their own hands; for they
know too much about them, and it is that species of knowledge which,
above all others, is power. But it was not so in this case; the
antecedents of Gilmore's master were probably as evil as those of any
person who has ever kept a valet, but there was this peculiarity about
the baronet--that he cared little or nothing whether people knew them or
not. When a thoroughly unprincipled man has arrived at the stage of
being entirely indifferent to what his fellow-creatures think of him, he
has touched his zenith; he is as much a hero to his _valet-de-chambre_
as to anybody else. It was Gilmore's nature to be reticent; but, for all
Sir Massingberd cared, he might have ascended the steps at the
stone-cross at Crittenden upon market-day, and held forth upon the
subject of his master's peccadillos. Sir Massingberd stood no more in
fear of him than of any other man; otherwise, he would scarcely have
used such frightful language to him as he did whenever the spirit-case
had not been properly replenished, or he happened to mislay the key of
his own cigar-chest. It was no delicate tending that the lord of
Fairburn Hall required; no accurate arrangement of evening garments ere
he returned from shooting; no slippers placed in front of the fire. As
he was attired in the morning, so he remained throughout the day, and,
if it were the poaching season, throughout the night also. He never was
ill, and only very rarely was he so overcome with liquor as to require
any assistance in retiring. The putting Sir Massingberd to bed must have
been a bad quarter of an hour for Mr. Gilmore. I have mentioned that
when I paid my only visit to the Hall, the front-door bell was answered
by the butler with very commendable swiftness, under the impression that
it was his master; and, indeed, it was rumoured that, on more than one
occasion, the baronet had felled his faithful domestic like an ox, for
dilatoriness. Wonder was sometimes expressed that Mr. Gilmore, who was
supposed, as the phrase goes, to have feathered his nest very agreeably
during his master's prosperous days, should cleave to him in his present
poverty--the mere sentiment of attachment being deemed scarcely strong
enough to retain his gratuitous services; but the reply commonly made to
this was, I have no doubt, correct--namely, that, however matters might
seem, Mr. Richard Gilmore, we might be well assured, knew his own
business best, and on which side his bread was buttered.
Sagacious, however, as this gentleman doubtless was, I did not fancy him
as a companion to play bowls with; and, instead of going in the
direction of the bowling-green, I took my way to Fairburn Chase. I had
not set foot within it for more than a year, and the season was much
further advanced then when I had last been there. The stillness which
pervaded it in summertime was now broken by the flutter of the falling
leaf and the plash of the chestnuts on the moist and sodden ground; the
autumn rains had long set in; there was that "drip, drip, drip" in the
woods which so mournfully reminds us that the summer, with all its life
and warmth, has passed away; and the dank earth was sighing from beneath
its load of tangled leaves, which, "hanging so light and hanging so
high," but lately danced in the sunny air. The presentiment of evil
which overshadowed me was deepened by the melancholy of Nature. I moved
slowly through the drippling fern towards the heronry; from the little
island suddenly flew forth, not the stately birds who ordinarily reigned
there, but a pair of ravens. I knew that such had taken up their
residence in the old church tower, for I had seen them flying in and out
of its narrow ivied window-slits; but their appearance in the present
locality was most unexpected. I was far from being superstitious, but I
would rather have seen any other birds just then. A few steps further
brought me to that bend in the stream which had been such a favourite
haunt of mine before I had dreamed there so unpleasantly. The lime-trees
stood ragged and bare, and weeping silently, deprived of their summer
bee-music; the sparkling sand, wherein I had seen the mysterious
footprints, was dark and damp; a few steps further brought me to the
stepping-stones, by which that unknown visitant must have crossed over,
if she were indeed of mortal mould; the wood upon the other side was no
longer impenetrable to sight; and through its skeleton arms I could see
some building of considerable size at no great distance. I knew where
such of the keepers and gardeners as lived upon the estate resided, and
it puzzled me to imagine to what purpose this cottage was assigned.
While I hesitated as to whether I should cross the turbid and swollen
current, whose waters almost entirely covered the stepping-stones, a
laugh prolonged and shrill burst forth from the very direction in which
I was looking. It was the same mocking cry, never to be forgotten, which
I had heard at that very spot some fifteen months before. Anywhere else,
I should have recognized it; but in that place it was impossible to
doubt its identity. Knife-like, it clove the humid and unwilling air;
and, before the sound had ceased, a short, sharp shriek succeeded
it--the cry of a smitten human creature. In a moment I had crossed the
stream, and was forcing my way through the wood. As I drew nearer, I
perceived the edifice before me was of stone, and with a slated roof,
instead of being built with clay, and thatched, as were the rest of Sir
Massingberd's cottages. There was no attempt at ornamentation, but the
place was unusually substantial for its size, the door being studded
with nails, while the window upon either side of it was protected by
iron bars.
I was just emerging from the fringe of the wood, when another sound
smote on my ear, which caused me to pause at once, and remain where the
trunk of an elm tree intervened between me and the cottage; it was
merely the bark of a dog, but it checked my philanthropic enthusiasm
upon the instant. There was no mistaking that wheezy note, telling of
canine infirmity, and days prolonged far beyond the ordinary span of
dogs. Besides there was but one dog permitted to be at large in Fairburn
Chase. It was the execrable Grimjaw. I could see him from my place of
concealment turning his almost sightless eyes in my direction as he sat
at the cottage door. Immediately afterwards, it opened, and out came
Richard Gilmore; he looked about him suspiciously, but having convinced
himself that there was nobody in the neighbourhood, he administered a
kick to Grimjaw's ribs, reproached him in strong language for having
made a causeless disturbance, and turning the key, and pocketing it,
walked away by a footpath that doubtless led, although by no means
directly, to the Hall. He had a dog-whip in his hand when I first saw
him, which I thought was an odd thing for a butler to carry, and he
seemed to think so, too, for he put it in a side-pocket before he
started, and buttoned it up. Grimjaw, gathering his stiffened limbs
together, slowly followed him, not without turning his grey head ever
and anon towards my covert, but without venturing again to express his
suspicions. I waited until the charming pair were out of sight, ere I
advanced to the cottage.
The door of course, was fast; so, approaching the right-hand window, I
cautiously looked in through its iron bars; there was no casement
whatever, therefore all the objects which the room contained were as
clear to me as though I were in it. I beheld a sitting-room, the
furniture of which was costly, and had been evidently intended for a
much larger apartment, but which in variety was scanty enough. At a
mahogany table, which retained little more of polish than if it had just
been sawn from its trunk in Honduras, sat an ancient female, with her
back towards me, supporting her chin on both hands; a cold chicken in a
metal dish was before her, but neither a plate nor knife and fork; she
was muttering something in a low tone to herself, which, if it was a
grace, must have been a very long one. Her hair was scanty, and white as
snow, but hung down almost to the ground; she was miserably thin; and
her clothes, although they had once been of rich material, were ragged
and old.
I had made no noise, as I thought, in my approach; and the day was so
dull and dark that she could scarcely have perceived my presence by any
shadow of my eavesdropping self; but no sooner had I set my eyes on her
than she began to speak, without looking round, imagining, doubtless,
that I was Gilmore. "So you are there again, peeping and prying, are
you, wicked thief," cried she. "Don't you know that a real lady should
take her meals in peace without being interrupted, especially after she
has been beaten? Think of that, you cur. Why, where's your whip?" She
uttered these last words with a yell of scorn; and turning suddenly,
with one arm raised as if to ward a blow, she met my unexpected face,
and I saw hers. So remarkable was her appearance, that although it was
she, not I, who was taken by surprise, I think I was the more astounded
of the two. Her countenance was that of an old woman, so wrinkled, or
rather shrivelled up, that the furrows might have represented the
passage of a century of time; yet the teeth were as white and regular as
in a young beauty, and the black beaded eyes had a force and fire in
them unquenched by age. In her thin puckered ears hung a pair of
monstrous gilded ornaments, and round her skinny neck was a necklace
such as a stage queen would wear; yet she had naked feet.
"Oh, it is you, is it?" observed she, with a grave distinctness, in
strong contrast to her late excited and mocking tones. "If I had known
that you were coming, young gentleman, I would have put on my bracelets.
The family jewels are not all gone to the pawnbroker's, as is generally
believed. Besides, you should never insult people because they are poor,
or mad; one would not be either one or the other, you know, if one could
help it."
"Heaven forbid, madam, that I should offer you any insult," said I,
touched by the evident misfortune of this poor creature. "I merely ran
hither because I heard the cry, as I thought, of some one in distress."
"Ah, that was the dog, sir," replied the old woman cheerfully; "the
butler was correcting his dog, and it howled a little. Of course it
could not have been me--certainly not; Sir Massingberd is so excessively
anxious that I should have everything that is good for me; he said that
with his own lips. And what a handsome mouth he has, except when he
looks at _you_."
"Why at me?" cried I. "He has no cause to dislike me, has he!"
"No cause!" cried the old woman, coming closer to the bars, and lowering
her voice to a confidential whisper. "Oh no--not if you were dead. I
never wished you worse than myself; no, not when my poor baby died, and
I could not weep. I feel that now; if I could only weep, as in the good
old times with my husband! There was plenty of good weeping
then--plenty."
"But why should you wish me dead, madam, who have never done you any
harm?"
"No harm? What not to have taken the title from my boy? No harm, when
but for you, he would have been the heir to house and land! Why, look
you, if it had not been for something, I would have driven Gilmore's
knife into you that day when you were sleeping under the limes. That was
the very place where I used to meet my love--let me see, how many years
ago?"
The eager eyes for one instant ceased to glitter; some fragment of a
memory of the past claimed the restless brain; then once more she
rambled on. "One, two, three, four--he never struck me more than four
times; that's true, I swear."
"And what was the something that prevented you from killing me when I
was asleep by the heron's island?" inquired I.
"What was it?" replied the old woman sadly. "Did you not cry, 'Mother,
mother,' in your sleep, to make me think of my boy? I wept at that; just
one tear. He might have been such another as yourself--with the
same--Why, what's the matter with your forehead? What have you done
with your horseshoe? Every Heath wears one of them; then why not you,
young Marmaduke?"
"My name is not Heath," said I; "you are taking me for somebody else."
"Dear me--dear me, what a mistake! The fact is, that living in a house
affects one's sight. Now, let me guess. If you are not Marmaduke Heath,
you must be...--What a dark skin you have, and what kind eyes!" She
looked suspiciously round the room, and laying her finger on her lip,
observed beneath her breath: "You are not Stanley Carew, are you? They
told me he was hung, but I know better than that. I have seen him since
a hundred times. To be hung for nothing must be a terrible thing; but
how much worse to be hung for love!"
"I am not Stanley Carew," said I; "I am Peter Meredith, who lives with
Mr. Long at the Rectory."
"I never happen to have heard your name before, sir," replied the old
woman, mincingly; "perhaps you have never heard mine. Permit me to
introduce myself. Don't suppose that our people don't know good manners,
I am Sinnamenta--Lady Heath."
"Madam," said I, deeply moved, "I apprehended as much. If I can do you
any service, be sure that the will shall not be wanting. Pray, tell me
what shall I do?"
"Well," returned the poor creature, quickly, "Marmaduke Heath should be
killed at once, that is all important. We have been thinking of nothing
else, my husband and I. But perhaps you have done it already." (How I
shrank from that random shaft.) "If so, I have no further desire except
to get out. If I could only be once more in the greenwood, my hair would
reassume its natural colour. That is why Mr. Gilmore is so careful to
keep me thus locked up. If my husband only saw me with my black hair
again--it reached to the ground, sir--matters would be very different. I
think I have already observed that it is not customary to watch a lady
while she is partaking of refreshment."
With that, she once more seated herself at the table, with her back to
me; and judging thereby that my presence was distasteful to her, and
having no notion of how I could possibly give her any aid, I withdrew
from the sad scene. I had not, however, gone many steps, when she called
me back again through the iron bars.
"Mr. Meredith," said she, "you arrived somewhat unexpectedly. It is to
that circumstance alone, I beg to repeat, that you must attribute the
absence of bracelets. My very best regards to all your family.
Sinnamenta, you know--Lady Heath."