"He spoke of thee, but not by name."
About six months after the death of Lady L., Mrs. Montgomery, in
looking over papers of all descriptions, which had accumulated on her
dressing-table, while she had been unable to attend to any thing, found
one, folded and wafered, which had the appearance of a petition. On
being opened, however, it proved to be a sort of letter, but vulgarly
written, badly spelt, and without signature. It was also without date
of time or place. It bore, notwithstanding, in its simplicity, strong
marks of truth.
It professed to be from a person, calling herself Edmund's nurse. Yet
it gave him no name but that of the "young masther; or, be rights, the
young lord, sure; only he was too young, the crathur, to be calling
him any thing, barring the misthress's child." In like manner, it
called Edmund's father "the lord," and his mother "the lady," but did
not mention the title of the family. The writer asserted, that having
laid the child down for a moment, on the grass of the lawn, at a time
when the family were from home, it was stolen by a strolling beggar,
for the sake of the fine clothes it had on; for, that the "lord and
the lady" were, that very day, expected at the castle. That afraid of
blame, she had substituted her own infant. That it had been received
without suspicion by the parents, who, having been "mostly in London
town and other foreign parts," had seen but little of their boy. It
then went on as follows:--"A little while after, sure, I seen the poor
child, with hardly a tack on him, of a winter's day, in the arms of
the divil's own wife, at laste, if it was'nt the divil himself, the
strolling woman, I mane, in the big town, hard by. I went up to her,
and abused her all to nothing, and offered to take the child from her.
And glad enough he was, the crathur, to see me, and stretched out his
poor arms to come to me. But the woman, she hits him a thump, and
houlds down both his little hands with one of her great big fists, and
turns to me, and says, smelling strong wid spirits all the while, (but
for a drunkard as she was, she had cunning enough left,) and she says,
spakin' low, and winking her eye, like, 'And whose young master is
that, dressed up at the castle, yonder?' says she. 'And it's my boy,
to be sure,' says I, 'and small blame to me, when you didn't lave me
the right one.' 'And are you going to send the right one there now,
if you get him?' says she. 'And what's that to you?' says I. And with
that, she gives a whistle like, and snaps her fingers afore my face,
and thrusts her tongue in her cheek, and begins jogging off. 'And'
says I, following of her, 'and what do you want o' the child?' says I;
'and haven't you got the clothes? and can't yee be satisfied? I'm not
going, sure, to ax them of yee, and can't yee give me the child! when
it's I that 'ill kape him warm, any how, and fade him well too; I that
gave him the strame o' life from my own breast,' says I; 'and what 'ud
I be grudging of him afther that?' says I. 'Then nothing at all sure,
but jist what belongs to him!' says she, 'But the divil a bit of him
you'll get, any how; for there's not a day since I've carried him, that
I haven't got the price of a dram, at laste, by the pitiful face of
him!' says she. 'And for that mather,' says she, 'if any one takes him
to the castle,' says she, 'it'll be myself that'll do it,' says she,
'and git the reward too.' 'You the reward!' says I; 'is it for stailing
him? It's the gaol's the reward you'll get, my madam!' says I. 'It's
the resaver's as bad as the thafe,' says she. 'And it's you, and yours,
that'll git more by the job than iver I will. But it's I that'll make
my young gintleman up at the castle yonder, pay for his sate in the
coach, and his sate in the parler, too, one o' these days,' says she,
wagging her head, and looking cunning like. And so it was, to make a
long story short, the divil tempted me; and I couldn't think te take
my own boy out o' the snug birth he had got safe into; and the divil a
bit o' her 'at was worse nor the divil, that 'ud give up the mistress's
boy quietly, at all, at all; and so, I was forced, without I'd a mind
to tell the whole truth, to say no more why about it, and let her take
the poor child away wid her, tho' my heart bled for him. Well, sure,
twis every year, she came to the big town, begging, and brought him
with her, sure enough; but looking miserable like, and starved like;
for it was less of him there was every time, instead o' more. And be
the time he was near hand five years ould, she brought him, at last,
sure, lainin' up on crutches, and only one leg on him! I flewd upon
her like a tiger, to be sure, and just fastening every nail o' me in
the face of her, I axed her where the rest o' the boy was. And she
tould me, but not till she was tired bateing me for what my nails had
done, that the leg o' him was safe enough in the bag. And a dirty rag
of a bag there was, sure enough, hanging where the tother leg should
be. And jist then, cums by the coach and six from the castle! And up
she makes to the side of it, with the brazen face of her, driving the
poor cripple before her. And, sure, I see my mistress throw money out
to him, little thinking it was her own child, with the one bare foot
of him over the instip in mud, and them crutches, pushing his little
shoulders a'most as high as his head, and his poor teeth chattering
with the could, and the tears streaming from his eyes, (for she'd given
him a divil of a pinch, to make him look pitiful.) And there was my boy
sitting laughing on the mistress's knee. But he looked quite sorry
like, when the little cripple said he was hungry, and he throw'd him
out a cake he was ateing. 'Well!' says I, (quite low to myself,) 'that
you should be throwing a mouthful of bread to the mistress's child!'
And it was for dropping on my knees I was, and telling all, to the
mistress herself; but just then, they brought her out a sight o' toys
she was waiting for, and she drawd up the winder, and the coach druv
off. And the next time the woman cum, she cum'd without him, at all, at
all! 'And,' says I, 'the last time you cum'd, you brought but a piece
of him, and now you've brought none at all of him!' But she tould me,
sure, his fortune was made, and that he was with grand people that 'ud
do for him. But I wouldn't believe her, you see, and gave her no pace,
any way, but threat'nin' te hav' her hanged at the 'sizes, if I was
hanged myself along with her, till she took'd my husband with her over
seas, and let him see the boy. And he seen him, sure enough, walking
with a nice ould lady, that's been your ladyship, I suppose. And he had
his two legs, my husband said, which I was particular glad to hear.
And he was getting fat, too, and rosy-like, and was dressed, as the
mistress's child (heaven love the boy) should be. And this made my mind
a dale asier, for now there was little wrong dun him.
"But, by and bye, troubles came upon me, and my husband died; but,
before he died, he thought, and I thought about our sin in regard to
the child, and so I made him write down the way to get a letter to
your ladyship's hands; and it was a thing that my husband, as he was a
dying, seemed to hear to. Well, when I buried my husband, sure, I fell
sick myself, and then I begun to think the hand of Heaven was upon me,
and I sat up in my bed, and wrote this long letter to your ladyship;
which, becourse of what my husband set down for me before he died, I
give to one that's going over seas to the harvest, to give to your
ladyship's own hand. He'll tell your ladyship all my husband thought
it best not to put down in the letter. But just ax him that takes it
what is nurse's name, and he'll tell you fast enough, and all about the
great folk at the castle. And it's he that can tell that too, for its
he that ought to know it, for his father, and grandfather before him,
got bread under them, and he might have got bread under them himself,
only for his tricks. But no matter for that. He knows no more o' what's
inside the letter, than one that never seen the outside of it; and he's
sworn too, before the praist, at the bedside of the sick, and may be
of the dying, to deliver it safe, for the ase of the conscience of the
living, and the rest of the soul of him that's dead.
"And now I have no more to add, but that the young masther (that's him
that's with your ladyship this present time,) when he has all, should
take it to heart to do for his foster-brother, that's innocent of all
harm, and that has larned to lie on a soft bed, without fault o' his,
and that throwd him the cake he was aiting in the coach, poor boy, when
he thought it was his own, and that may be too.--But no matter for that
now: the penance has been done for that, and the absolution has been
given for that, and the priest has had his dues. And it's not like the
sin that satisfaction can be done for, and that it must be done for
too, before the absolution can serve the soul: sich as giving back
to the owner his own, or the likes of that; or the setting up of the
misthress's child again in his own place, and the pulling down of him
that a mother's heart blades for, but that has no business where he is;
though it would be hard, for all that, if his father's child should
want. But don't be frightening yourself with the thoughts of that,
Molly. The young masther, after all that cum and gone, will surely do
for him that's his foster-brother, any way; and may be do something for
his foster-sister too.
"Why I trouble your ladyship I forgot to mintion, but thim that
it concarns most are not to the fore, and, besides, you have the
boy.--Your sarvent till death: and that, I think, won't be long now.
"I'm jist thinking, that may be your ladyship would'nt be happy without
you'd a boy to be doing for: and there's him, sure, that's up at the
castle now, my poor boy, and there isn't a finer boy in the wide world;
and if I thought that your ladyship would jist take him in place of the
misthress's child, and do for him, I would die quite aisy."
Thus ended the nurse's epistle.
"I should certainly," observed Mrs. Montgomery to Mr. Jackson, "believe
this strange letter to be genuine, from the perfect simplicity of the
style, but that the writer appears to be too illiterate to have been
any thing so decent as a nurse in such a family as is here described."
"That," replied Mr. Jackson, "does not at all invalidate the evidence
of this extraordinary document; for, nurses intended merely to
supply the nutriment denied by unnatural mothers to their offspring,
must be chosen with reference chiefly to their youth, health, and
wholesomeness of constitution; and, in great country families, they
are naturally selected from among the simplest of the surrounding
peasantry."
The letter, bearing, as we have said, no date of time or place, the
first and most obvious step seemed to be, to inquire very particularly
where, and by whom, it had been brought to the house. The outside of
the mysterious dispatch was shown to, and examined, by most of the
servants, without other effect than a disclaiming shake of the head,
although each turned it upside down, and downside up, and viewed it,
not only before the light, but through the light, as with the light
through, is generally expressed.
Mrs. Smyth, indeed, allowed that, as the bit of a scrawl was vara like
a petition, it was no impossible that she hersel' meud ha' just laid it
o' the mistress's table; for the mistress, to be sure, never refused
tle read ony peur body's bit o' paper, however unlarned or dirty it
meud be.
At length John, the under-footman, made his appearance, and after
examining the shape, hue, and dimensions of the folded paper, said,
that it was not unlike one which he had taken about six months since
from a strange looking man, who had come to the door, requesting to see
his mistress, on the very day that ----, and he hesitated--that every
body was in so much trouble, he added.
Mr. Jackson, seeing Mrs. Montgomery turn pale, took up the questioning
of John. And here, lest the said John's powers of description should
not do justice to his subject, we shall give the scene between him and
the nurse's messenger, exactly as it occurred.
The stranger was tall and well made, with a countenance, the leading
characteristic of which was, now drollery, and now defiance;
whilst its secondary, and more stationary expression, was equally
contradictory, being made up of shrewdness and simplicity, most oddly
blended. He carried a reaping-hook in one hand, and, with the other,
held over his shoulder a large knotted stick, with a bundle slung on
the end of it.
This personage, on the melancholy day alluded to, arrived at the
closed and silent entrance of Lodore House. Disdaining to use the
still muffled, and therefore, in his opinion, noneffective knocker, he
substituted the thick end of his own stick. This strange summons was
answered by John.
"And is it affeard of a bit of a noise you are?" was the first question
asked by the stranger. Without, however, waiting for reply, he was
about to pass in, saying, "Just show us which is the mistress, will
yee?"
The powdered lackey, astonished at such want of etiquette, placed
an opposing hand against the breast of the intruder; upon which the
stranger, after a momentary look of unfeigned surprise, very quietly
laid down his reaping-hook, bundle, and stick, behind him, (for
the latter he would not deign to use against an unarmed foe,) then
planting his heels as firmly together as though he had grown out of
the spot whereon he stood, he cocked his hat (none of the newest) on
three hairs, put his arms a-kimbo, and his head on one side; and, his
preparations thus completed, with a knowing wink, said, "Now I'll tell
you what, my friend, I'd as soon crack the scull of yee, as look at
yee!"
John, even by his own account, stepped back a little, while saying,
"You had better not raise a hand to me: for if you do, there are half a
dozen more of us within, to carry you to Carlisle gaol."
"Half a dozen!" cried our unknown hero, in a voice of contempt, and
snapping his fingers as he spoke, "the divil a much I'd mind half
a dozen of you, Englishers, with your gingerbread coats, and your
floured pates, for all the world as if you had been out in the snow
of a Christmas day, with never a hat on; that is, if I had you onest
in my own dacent country, where one can knock a man down in pace and
quietness if he desarve it, without bothering wid yeer law for every
bit of a hand's turn."
During the latter part of this speech he turned to his bundle, and
kneeling on one knee, untied it, took a small parcel out of it,
unrolled a long bandage of unbleached linen cloth from about the
parcel, next a covering of old leather, that seemed to have once formed
a part of a shamoy for cleaning plate, then several pieces of torn
and worn paper, and at length, from out the inmost fold, he produced
a letter, which, as he concluded, he held up between his thumb and
finger, saying, "There it is now! I mane no harm at all at all, to the
misthress; nothing but to give her this small bit of paper, that the
dying woman put into my hands, in presence of the priest, and that
hasn't seen the light o' day since till now."
John told him, that if that was all, he might be quite easy, as his
delivering the letter at the house was the same thing as if he handed
it to his lady herself; for that all his lady's letters were carried in
by the servants.
"And is she so great a lady as all that," said the stranger, "that a
poor man can't have spache of her? But I've had spache, before now, of
the great lady up at the castle, sure, and its twiste, aye, three times
as big as that house."
After some more parleying, in the course of which John disclosed the
peculiar circumstances in which his mistress then was, our faithful
messenger, after ejaculating, with a countenance of true commiseration,
"And has she, the crathur?" at length seemed to feel the necessity of
consenting to what he considered a very irregular proceeding, namely,
the sending in of the letter; not, however, till he had first compelled
John to kiss the back of it, and, in despite of the evidence of his
own senses, to call it a blessed book, and holding one end, while our
pertinacious friend held the other, to repeat after him the words of a
long oath, to deliver it in safety. This, John proceeded to say, he did
immediately, by giving the letter to one of the women to carry into his
mistress's room.
"I suppose," said Mrs. Montgomery, with a sigh, "I must have laid it
down without opening, and forgotten it."
Mr. Jackson observed, that from the expression, "over seas to the
harvest," and also the man's appearance, it was very evident he must
be one of those poor creatures who come over in shiploads from the
north of Ireland to Whitehaven, during the reaping season; and that
this fact, once admitted, seemed to render it more than probable, that
the noble family spoken of were Irish. As to the important particulars
of names and titles, there seemed but one chance of obtaining them;
which was, to institute an immediate search after the young man who had
brought the letter. Every inquiry was accordingly made, but in vain.
After some months, Mr. Jackson himself, in the warmth of his zeal,
undertook a journey to Ireland; but returned, without having been able
to discover any clue to the business. Advertisements were next resorted
to, but no one claimed Edmund. The letter had said, that "those it
concerned most were," in the nurse's phraseology, "not to the fore."
Whether death, or absence from the kingdom was meant, it was impossible
to say.
The harvest season of the next year came and went, but the wandering
knight of the reaping-hook was heard of no more; and Mrs. Montgomery,
while her better judgment condemned the feeling, could not conceal
from herself, that she experienced a sensation of reprieve, on finding
that she was not immediately to be called upon to resign her little
charge. Poor Edmund had now become to her a kind of sacred pledge;
every thought and feeling that regarded him, was associated with the
memory of her dear departed child, who had taken so benevolent a
delight in protecting and cherishing the helpless being she had rescued
from misery, and almost certain death. Could the mourning mother then
leave undone any thing that that dear child, had she lived, would have
done? The absolute seclusion too, in which grief for the loss of her
daughter, induced Mrs. Montgomery to live, gave all that concerned this
object, of an interest thus connected with the feelings of the time,
an importance in her eyes, which, under any other circumstances, would
scarcely, perhaps, have been natural.
Gradually, however, the prospect of discovering who Edmund's parents
were, faded almost entirely away; but the conviction that they must be
noble was, from the period of the receipt of the nurse's packet, firmly
fixed on the mind, both of his benefactress and of Mr. Jackson. The
style, indeed, of the letter itself, left no doubt of the veracity of
the writer; while the manners of him who had been the bearer of the
strange epistle, the conversation of the man and woman on the Keswick
road, nay, the very state in which the poor child was first found--were
all corroborating evidences.