An old brick house of a good size, with a little green court in front,
stood before Henry Hayley and the pedlar at the end of the lane.
Across the court, which was surrounded by low walls, was a narrow
gravel path leading from a little gate in the wall to the door of the
house; and on each side of this path was a range of yew-trees, which
had formerly been cut into a thousand strange and fantastic shapes,
according to the principles of the topiarian art--an art long now
disused in this our land of England. For many years, it is true, the
shears and the pruning-knife had not been used on the venerable yews;
and the cocks and hens, and obelisks and pyramids, which they had once
represented, had now burgeoned and sprouted, still leaving some
fantastic degree of resemblance to the animal or thing first
represented, in the midst of the efforts of nature to restore the
native form of the tree.
By this time the pale edge of the moon was rising over the flat lines
of the common, which lay below, and the gleam shone through the
intervals between the trees, paving the little avenue with chequered
light and shade.
Along this varied pathway Henry Hayley was pursuing his course when
the pedlar touched his arm, saying--
"You had better let me go first, sir. Master Graves is a difficult man
to deal with for a stranger; but I have known him for many years, and
can manage him, I think."
Henry suffered him to lead the way; and advancing towards the door of
the house, which was sheltered from the winds by a projecting porch
with a peaked roof, the man struck a single blow with a large iron
knocker, consisting of a single bar, thicker at one end than the
other, somewhat like the pestle of a mortar.
They had not waited half-a-minute when the door was suddenly thrown
open, and the master of the house himself appeared before them. He was
a very tall man, perhaps six feet two or six feet three in height,
with a forehead equally broad and high, rising from a pair of shaggy
white eyebrows. The crown of his head was completely bald, and the
hair upon the temples and at the back, though curling lightly, was as
white as snow. His frame must once have been very powerful, and the
broad shoulders and well-knit limbs seemed still not in the least
affected by time, although he must have been very nearly seventy years
of age; his hand was thin and bony, and his skin somewhat wrinkled.
His teeth, however, were very fine, and his dark eyes as bright and
clear as ever. Time had not, certainly, bent him with his iron hand,
though it had thinned his flowing hair; for he stood straight and
upright, rolling his eyes for a moment from the face of the pedlar to
that of the stranger behind him, and then demanded, in a loud, stern
tone--
"What do you want?"
"You forget me, Master Graves," said the pedlar, "though I have often
sold you many a little thing, and you always owned that my wares
proved good."
"I don't forget you, Joshua," answered the farmer, sharply; "I never
forget. But what do you want at this time of night? and who is that?"
"He is a gentleman to whom I was showing his way, Mr. Graves," said
the pedlar hastily, seeing that Henry was about to answer for himself.
"We were attacked and robbed by four men, down at the end of the lane.
They have taken my pack and the gentleman's pocket-book, and had very
nearly killed him into the bargain; for he had to fight three of them,
while one held me down. I thought he was dead, for that matter, for
two or three minutes; but he was only stunned by the beating about the
head, and so I brought him on here; for I was quite sure you would
never refuse to let us rest a bit, after what has happened."
"You know, Joshua, I never receive visiters," replied the farmer,
gazing first at one and then the other, with evident hesitation. "If
men want to speak with me on business, they can find me at the market,
in the fields, or in the farm-yard; if they want to speak of anything
else but business, they had better not speak to me at all."
"Well, sir," said the pedlar, in a tone of grave reproach, "I did not
think that of you; but we can go elsewhere."
Henry felt inclined to interpose, for he did not intend to go
elsewhere if he could help it; but the farmer, who was better
understood by his old acquaintance, replied more kindly to this
appeal.
"No, no, Joshua," he answered; "I did not say that. I will not be
wanting in hospitality. England was famous for it, when Englishmen
were honest and man could trust man, and I will keep to it still,
though those times have gone by. I must break through my rule. Come
in--come in, sir; you shall be welcome, though there are few feet that
have ever crossed that threshold for seven-and-twenty years."
Thus saying, and telling the pedlar to shut the door after him and
bolt it, he led the way into a small sitting-room on the right hand
side. Henry followed him, and when he entered the room, the farmer,
still holding a candle in his hand, gazed at him gravely from head to
foot, with a deliberate, meditating look. He seemed struck with his
guest's appearance; but after a moment, as if conscious that his stare
was rude, he said--
"I should think few men would like to deal with you single-handed,
sir. You must be nearly as tall as I am, and a great deal stronger
now."
"I am upwards of six feet," replied Henry, "and not easily
overpowered. In the daylight I think I could have matched all three,
but in the darkness I could not see whence the blows came."
"That's a bad knock upon your forehead there," said the farmer: "sit
down, sir, and I'll make the old woman bring you some vinegar. You
seem one who would not like to carry a great black lump on his
forehead about the world."
"There's a worse wound on the back of my head," replied the young
gentleman, seating himself. "I believe it would have fractured my
skull, but fortunately my hair is very thick."
"Let me look at the wound," said the farmer. "I understand something
about those things;" and holding down the candle, he parted the large
curls of the young gentleman's hair, and as he did so, Henry heard him
murmur, "I never saw any but one who had hair like that."
"Nor I either," said the pedlar, who was standing close at his elbow,
and caught the sound of the words likewise.
"Ha!" exclaimed the former, starting up to his full height, and gazing
at the man with a look of surprise. "Do you recollect her, then?"
"To be sure I do," replied the other, in a calm and quiet tone; "I
shall never forget her as long as I live, nor her beautiful hair
either--it was so thick, so soft, and so dark, except when the light
fell upon it, and then it was like gold. I put it in a comb for her
once--I recollect quite well."
The tears rolled from the old man's eyes, and going hurriedly to the
door, he called aloud--
"Madge! Madge! bring some vinegar here, and some of the balsam."
He remained looking down the passage for about a minute, and when he
returned the tears were gone.
When the vinegar and the balsam were brought, by a servant-woman
apparently nearly as old as himself, he applied his remedies with his
own hands; and often in doing so he muttered something to himself, but
taking care that what he now said should not be heard.
When he had done, he sat down and gazed very earnestly at Henry's
countenance, speaking, however, at the same time, as if to cover the
scrutiny he was making.
"And so, sir, you have lost your pocket-book," he said; "was it very
valuable?"
"It contained things to me of the utmost value," replied Henry: "a
paper that can never be replaced, and a lock of my poor mother's hair,
which I have carried over almost all the world with me."
"Is she living or dead?" asked the farmer, with a good deal of
agitation in his tone.
"Dead," replied the young gentleman: "she died almost immediately
after my birth, now six-and-twenty years ago."
Farmer Graves moved uneasily in his chair; but he answered, looking up
towards the ceiling--
"It must be found, that pocket-book--it must be recovered."
"I have offered a reward of a hundred guineas to any one who will
bring it to me," replied the young gentleman; "for one of your men and
a man from the common came to help us, Mr. Graves, when we were
attacked, otherwise I believe we should both have been murdered."
"I think I can get it back," said the pedlar: "my own pack is gone for
ever, but that's a small matter."
"What will you take, sir?" said the farmer, abruptly, still looking at
Henry. "I should think a little tea is the best thing for you."
"If you please," replied the young gentleman; "but I think I must soon
go on."
"No, no," said the farmer warmly; "you had a great deal better stay
here for to-night. There's the room my son sometimes has. It can be
got ready for you in a minute, and I'll contrive to lodge friend
Joshua here. I never thought to let two strange men into my house
again, but now I am glad I did not shut you out."
"Why so?" demanded Henry with a grave smile.
"There--don't look so," cried the farmer, turning away his head; "you
put me more and more in mind of her, every minute. Young gentleman,"
he continued, laying his large hand upon Henry's arm, "you think me
very strange, I dare say; and I am strange--misfortunes have made me
strange. But I'll tell you why I've shut all men out, up to this day,
and why I am glad I have not shut out you. I was once as glad to see
my fellow-creatures as any one, and I let one man into my house--a
stranger to me, as you may be--a gentleman, too, who paid me a high
price for a horse I had to sell, and was rich and smart in his
apparel. I let him in, I say, and he stole away the most precious
thing I had. He well-nigh broke my heart, sir, and well-nigh turned my
brain; and I have never let another in within these doors till now."
"But you know, Master Graves," said the pedlar, "that he did not do
you the wrong that you once thought, so that should be some
consolation to you."
"Yes, yes--I was wrong," said the old man, hastily; "I wronged him,
and I wronged my poor girl too, by my suspicions; but yet what could I
think? As she was his wife, why couldn't he acknowledge her as his
wife? But she was his wife--I saw the certificate with my own eyes;
she showed it me when she was dying."
"Have you got it?" inquired Henry Hayley, in as calm a tone as he
could assume.
"No," replied the farmer; "I rushed out of the house like a madman,
and came back here as soon as the last breath was drawn. I could not
wait to put her in the earth--to see the dust shovelled upon the head
of my poor, beautiful Mary. I came away at once; and when I came back,
it was all over, the house empty, and the poor child, too, gone."
There was a dead silence for several minutes; and then Henry said, in
a low tone--
"You should not think too hardly of her husband; there might be many
most important motives to lead him to conceal his marriage: at all
events, you should forgive, as you would be forgiven."
"I do forgive," answered the old man; "I have long forgiven; but there
has been a bitter tree planted in my heart, which bears its fruit
still. And now, young gentleman, let me ask your name; for you are so
strangely like my own dear girl that I feel glad I have opened those
long-closed doors to you. I have always had a notion that before I die
I shall see my poor Mary's boy; and though I know that the name the
man took was a false one, yet I caught a sight of the real one in the
certificate, and I should recollect it if your name came somewhat
near. I looked at it but little, it is true, in that terrible hour;
but still I think I should remember."
Henry paused thoughtfully for a moment or two, and then replied--
"I am called Frank Middleton; but we will talk more about this, Mr.
Graves, hereafter, tor there are some strange circumstances connected
with my own birth, too--at present I feel rather giddy."
"I forgot--I forgot," said the old man. "We will have the tea, and
talk more to-morrow. It is almost too much for my head, and must be
too much for yours."
He rang the bell as he spoke; and then, returning to the subject,
which he seemed to find a difficulty in leaving, he said--
"Where were you brought up, sir?"
"Principally upon the Continent," replied Henry; "in Italy and Spain,
and for some time in Mexico."
"Ay, he was a merchant," said the old man, "and would have the means
of sending the boy abroad. But Middleton--that was not the name."
"I have some reason to believe that my father's real name was not
Middleton," replied Henry, "though that is the name I have gone by for
many years, and perhaps by inquiring we could discover more. However,
to-morrow morning will be time enough."
The last sentence was uttered as the old woman-servant came in with
the tea, which, from her master's well-known habits, she judged was
the object of his ringing the bell. She had brought but one cup,
however; for, never having seen a human creature entertained in that
room, she did not seem to grasp the possibility of two strangers being
invited to share Farmer Graves's meal. His orders were given, however,
to bring more cups and saucers, and more bread and butter, and prepare
two rooms for the accommodation of his unexpected guests.
As soon as she was gone, Henry inquired, in the same quiet and low
tone which he had studiously used, if Mr. Graves was acquainted with
the name of the church at which his daughter had been married.
The old man shook his head.
"No, no," he replied; "no, I did not remark the name; but they were
living then--at least, she had been living--at a small village in
Hertfordshire, a little beyond Harrow, not much above ten miles from
London; and I think I understood that they had been there ever since
she left me. Ah, poor thing! poor thing!--she little knew what she was
doing when she quitted her father's house. God help and forgive us
all! But, as you say, we had better not talk more about it to-night; I
feel the well of bitterness pouring forth all its waters again; and
yet, when I look at your face, it seems to carry me back for nearly
thirty years, and I can hardly think my child dead and gone, in the
cold grave--she who was all life and brightness, while I am left here
upon the sunny face of the earth, like a withered leaf in a summer's
day. There--don't let us talk any more of it to-night."
Henry judged that it might be better not to press the conversation any
farther; and indeed he wished in some degree to collect his own
thoughts, and to determine fully upon his course of action, before he
did so. That he was in the house of his mother's father he was well
aware; but he had entertained no idea that his resemblance to his
mother was so great as at once to awaken suspicion of the fact in the
mind of the old man himself. He had consequently prepared in no degree
for such a contingency; and he was well pleased to have time for
consideration in regard to the next step which he should take. To avow
his real name, and at once give Mr. Graves an explanation of all the
circumstances, did not, as the reader may conceive, enter at all into
his plans; but yet he feared that the discovery of so great a likeness
would render the task of getting full information from the old man
more difficult than he had at first imagined. He contented himself,
therefore, during the evening, with studying his companion's
character. It was not very difficult to comprehend, indeed. Frank,
straightforward and decided, but yet kindly and affectionate, the
apparent sternness proceeded more from rapidity of thought and feeling
than from any real harshness.
"Perhaps, after all," thought Henry towards the close of the evening,
"I have obtained as much information from the good old man as he is
able to give; and although in the future I shall certainly tell him
the whole, perhaps the best way at present may be to leave him
ignorant of any further particulars till I can clear away all clouds
at once."
The farmer seemed very willing to give him the opportunity of doing
so, for till they retired to rest he studiously avoided all further
reference to the subject which had already engrossed so much of their
time. That he was thinking of it still was apparent, for he often fell
into deep reveries; but he made an effort to find other topics of
conversation; and Henry was surprised to find that in speaking of
books or arts he was by no means an illiterate or ill-informed person.
He seemed to have taken a delight in studying the older English poets;
he had not only that general knowledge of English history which is
sufficient to carry a man through ordinary conversation, or through
the House of Commons, where facts mis-stated, or quotations garbled
and perverted, are sufficient for the purposes of party, and very
little likely to be exposed, especially if delivered with emphasis and
the reputation of a good memory; but he had also that thorough and
minute acquaintance with particular periods of history which very few
men possess, but which is absolutely necessary to all who would view
philosophically the motives, deeds, and results of past times, and see
their bearings upon the state of society at present.
At a very early hour for one accustomed to courts and cities, Henry
received an intimation from his host that the usual period of rest at
his house was come. The old woman-servant, two or three other women,
and several labouring men, were called in; and the good farmer,
producing a small volume from a cupboard, read several short prayers
to his household, and dismissed them to repose. He then led Henry to
the room which had been prepared for him, provided him with whatever
articles of apparel he might need, and when turning to leave him, held
up his hand with the air and look of a patriarch, saying--
"God bless you, young man, and watch over you during the night! I do
believe that my child's blood flows in your veins: if not, fortune has
strangely sent you to renew, and yet to soften, the memories of the
past."