WHY SIR MASSINGBERD DID NOT MARRY.
"I suppose you have heard, Peter Meredith, young as you are," began the
old woman, "a great deal of ill-speaking against us Wanderers. We not
only kill game, but even domestic poultry, if the opportunity is given
to us; we not only steal wood, but horse-flesh; and since we are so
partial to carrion, it is not to be wondered at that we sometimes
suffocate a sheep with a piece of his own wool, in order to get the
carcass cheap from the farmer. Yet whatever false charges are current
about us now, these are nothing, either in gravity or number, to what
they were when I was a young girl--that is, fifty years ago. Every
man's hand, every woman's tongue, was against us: magistrates committed
us without testimony; rogues made a trade of accusing us solely to get
blood-money. Our name was more than a by-word, it was a brand; to call a
man a gipsy, was to say vagabond and thief in one. Under these
circumstances, Massingberd Heath left his father's house yonder, and
came to live with us as congenial company. We were in this very wood the
day he did so. The sun shone as brightly as now, the streamlet ran just
as blithe, the air was filled, as now, with the sweet-smelling pine. The
people only are changed--ah me, how changed!--who made up that scene.
There was my father; he died! ten years younger than I am now; is not
that strange, boy? his brother Morris, dead; poor Stanley Carew, you
shall hear of him presently, a handsomer lad by far than his nephew
there; my beautiful Sinnamenta, compared to little Mina yonder, though
she is pretty enough, like a blush-rose to a mere peony, the flower of
womankind. If there are ladies and women born into the world, then she
was a lady. There are no such beauties now; no, friend, not even at the
Dovecot. Let me see; I have counted four; then I was there also, comely
enough, 'twas said, but not to be spoken of for looks with my younger
sister.
"We were occupied pretty much as you see us now, for life in the
Greenwood possesses but little variety, when Massingberd Heath strode in
among us, with his gun upon his shoulder. We knew him well, but were not
inclined to dislike him. He was a dissipated, wild, young fellow, but,
as yet, his heart was thought, as the saying is, to be in the right
place; his popularity, however, was principally owing to his antagonism
to his father. Sir Wentworth had long passed through the spendthrift
stage, and was very close with respect to money-matters; a harsh and
griping landlord, and it is probable enough a niggard parent. His son's
extravagances were at that time insignificant compared to what they
afterwards became, yet the old man was for ever complaining. He
persecuted all who were poor and in his power, but the gipsies
especially. He feared for his deer, for his game, for his fences, and,
besides, I verily believe he detested us for our improvidence. I
remember he sent two of my young brothers to prison for tossing for
halfpence upon a Sunday--he who made not even a pretence of religion
himself, and had been used invariably to pass his day of rest in town
at Tattersall's, betting his thousands on some approaching race. It is
said that this wretched old man used to horse-whip young Massingberd
almost daily, until a certain occasion, when the latter found himself
stronger than he imagined, and reversed the process. After that, Sir
Wentworth confined himself to cursing his offspring whenever they
quarrelled. It was after some dreadful outbreak of passion on the part
of the old man that Massingberd Heath left house and home, and elected
to join our wandering fortunes. We were very unwilling that this should
be. It was by no means so unusual a proceeding then as now, for persons
of good birth, but broken fortunes, to become gipsies, but such had
usually their private reasons for remaining so for life. They were very
rarely criminals, but generally social outlaws, for whom there could be
no reconciliation at home, or younger sons of respectable families,
with quite a mountain of debt upon their shoulders. These were regularly
nationalized among us; and if they conducted themselves for sufficient
time in accordance with our regulations, they were permitted to
intermarry with us.
"Now it was certain that Massingberd Heath sought only a temporary home;
as soon as his father died, or even offered terms to him, he would leave
us, and resume his proper station. Moreover, how was the maintenance of
discipline and obedience to the chief of our tribe, absolutely essential
as it is, to be kept up in the case of this new-comer? Even at that
time, he was a headstrong, wilful man, to whom all authority, however
lawful or natural, was hateful. Was it to be expected that he who defied
his own father, himself a man of iron will, would obey Morris
Liversedge? On the other hand, Uncle Morris rather liked the young
fellow. He had connived at many a raid on his father's own preserves--to
such a pitch had the quarrel grown between them--and kept our pot
boiling with bird and beast. Many and many a time had he led the
Fairburn keepers to one extremity of the preserves, while the slaughter
was going on in the other. Moreover, it would be of great importance,
could we make a friend of the man who would one day own all these
pleasant haunts of ours, and who could say a good word, and a strong
one, for the poor persecuted gipsies, when it was needed. Poor Morris
did not know that the rebel but too often turns out a tyrant, when he
gets his chance. He could not foresee Sir Massingberd Heath sending
folks to prison, or getting them kidnapped, and sent across the seas,
for snaring the hares that he held so cheaply when they did not happen
to belong to himself. If you want to find a gentleman who in his youth,
and landless, has been a poacher whenever the opportunity offered, look
you among the game-preservers on the bench of justices. This, however,
is among the least of the basenesses of him of whom I speak. It is not
for his bitter guardianship of bird and beast, or his hateful oppression
of his fellow-creatures, that my heart cries out for judgment against
this man, that I look with eager longing for that hour when God shall
take him into His own hand."
The old woman paused a moment with closed eyes, and muttered something
that was inaudible to me, rocking herself at the same time to and fro.
"Massingberd Heath became one of us, Peter Meredith as far as it is
possible for such a wretch to be so; he ate with us, and drank with us,
which they say is a sacred bond among even savages. It was not so with
him. He cast his evil eyes upon Sinnamenta, to love her after the
fashion of his accursed race. Perhaps you may think, Peter Meredith,
that such an occurrence should have been foreseen by her father or her
uncle Morris, and, for my part, I always thought that it was the
presence of my lovely sister which mainly caused this man to join our
company; but, at all events, neither they nor I dreaded any ill
consequences. A gipsy girl is not a light-of-love maiden, like those of
fairer skins. Heaven, who gives her beauty, gives her virtue also: this
is not denied, even by our enemies. When you call your sweetheart
'Gipsy,' it is in love, not in reproach. Massingberd Heath knew this
well, and therefore it was foe took such pains in the matter. It is true
that we do not marry in church, but when we wed among ourselves, the
marriage is not less sacred; It was a wedding of this sort, indissoluble
by one party, but not by the other, which this man wished to compass. He
did not gain his end."
The old woman's eyes sparkled with triumph for a moment as she said
these words, but her voice sank low as she continued:
"Peter Meredith, if you have a sister, think of her while I speak of
mine; she cannot be more pure than little Sinnamenta, nor less
designing. Her weakness was one common to all women, but especially to
those of our unhappy race; she was fond of finery--fine clothing,
jewels, shawls; they became her; she looked like any princess when
attired in them. Stanley Carew, who loved her in all honesty, could
give her no such costly gifts as Massingberd Heath showered upon her,
and, to help his end, even upon me. The gipsy's ragged coat looked mean
and poor beside that of our guest. This man, too, whom you know but as a
scowling tyrant, with a face scarred with passion and excesses, was then
a handsome youth. You smile, Peter, at the wonder of it; it is, however,
not less true than that the wrinkled hag to whom you are now listening
was then a bonny girl. Imagine <i>that</i>, Peter, and you can imagine
anything. Ah, Time, Time, surely at the end of you, there will be
something to recompense us for all that you have taken away!"
Once more Rachel Liversedge paused as if in pain; then with eyes whose
sight seemed to receive but little of what was present, but were fixed
on the unreturning Past, continued as follows:
"Yes, Massingberd Heath was handsome enough, unless when enraged; his
wrath always brought the horse-shoe out upon his forehead.[1] Ay, and he
was agreeable enough, too. He could smile as though he had a heart, and
vow as though he owned a God. By his devilish art he managed to
ingratiate himself with Sinnamenta; he caused her to treat poor Stanley
ill, and then, pretending to take his part, got credit for generosity.
There are many who call us gipsies a base people, yet this excess of
meanness was quite new to us; my little sister--that was what I always
called her, because I loved her so--she believed him. She would have
trusted to his word, and married him, according to our rites, and been
his wife and drudge for all her life; but since this could not be
without the consent both of her father and Morris, he had to ask it of
them. He might as well have asked it of Sir Wentworth; they had got to
know him well by close companionship, for men fathom men better than
women do--even gipsy women, who foretell men's fortunes for them--and
they answered, 'No.' They did not believe that he had the least
intention of being with us longer that it suited him, and they
peremptorily refused his request. After one burst of passionate threats,
the young man pretended to yield assent to their decision. Morris was
inclined to think this acquiescence genuine; but my father, more warmly
interested in the matter, and therefore perhaps less credulous, kept on
his guard. Finding out that Massingberd Heath had secretly made
overtures of reconciliation to his father, and missing him one night
from the camp, he caused Morris to strike tent at once; and before
morning we had put twenty miles between us and Fairburn. Nor was this
effected too soon, for, as we heard long afterwards, the constables were
searching this very wood for us at day-break.
"Our company was bound on a long travel to Kirk-Yetholm, Roxburghshire,
one of the few places in Scotland, although but one mile from the
frontier of Northumberland, where the gipsies reside in any number.
There we should meet with friends, and be safe from all molestation. It
was late in the year to travel so far and into such a climate, but there
was no help for it; and moreover, some of the Carews had a house there,
to which Stanley said we should be welcome; and so it turned out. I
believe Sinnamenta would rather that we had camped out of doors, even in
that northern clime, so disinclined was she to be beholden to him or his
friends, after what had happened, although she did not dare to say so.
Poor Stanley imagined that, now we had removed from the neighbourhood of
his rival, he might renew his suit with success; but the proud girl
would not listen to him. She did not exactly pine after the man whose
wiles she had so narrowly escaped, but her life seemed henceforth
saddened. The domestic duties which had hitherto sat so lightly upon
her, became burdensome, and she set about them languidly. The whole of
the time we remained at Kirk-Yetholm, and it was many, many months, she
never mentioned Massingberd Heath, but never ceased to think of him. It
was fated that she was to be undeceived about that man too late."
[1] I am reminded by a friendly critic of the "suspicious coincidence"
of a horse-shoe on the forehead, in the case of "Redgauntlet." I never
think of Sir Massingberd without thinking of that worthy; and it has
been a matter of doubt with me, whether Sir Walter Scott might not
himself have seen the Squire of Fairburn and drawn him from the
life--both as to mind and feature--in his famous novel.