I endeavoured to liberate myself from his grasp, and asked him who he
was and what he wanted.
'Pretty innocent!' said he. 'I suppose you really don't know.'
'If you come from Mr. Sharpley,' said I, 'tell him I shall not live with
him any longer. I mean to go to London.'
'You will go with me first, my dear,' replied the man, 'and, as you will
most likely see Mr. Sharpley this morning, you may tell him your message
yourself; so come along.'
'Where are you going to take me to?' said I, struggling to free myself
from his hold.
'I am going to take you to prison, where you will see your worthy
friend, Mr. Sharpley. You will all be tried for your lives for the
robbery you committed yesterday.'
When I heard this, I no longer resisted, but walked on in silence,
meditating on the wretched state to which we were all reduced by the
dishonesty of Mr. Sharpley. When we entered the road I found, to my
surprise, that I had in the gloom of the night retraced my steps, and
was within a short distance of the house where the robbery had been
committed.
I was conducted into the town, which, in our hasty flight the day
before, we had not dared to visit. I was then taken to the magistrate's
house and locked up in a room with a stone floor, grated windows, and
no furniture but a wooden bench. There I was left for nearly two hours,
and had full leisure to think over my melancholy situation. It appeared
to me most likely that we should all be condemned to die, and when I
thought of my past life--how very little I had known but sorrow--when I
reflected that I had no relations to be sorry for my death, I thought
that, if it was not for the disgrace of dying as a thief, I should not
wish to live, but be glad to die, that I might be free from all the
troubles of this world.
In the midst of these reflections the man who had awakened me in the
field opened the door and told me to come, for I was now going to be
tried for my life. I instantly arose. He took me by the arm and led me
into a large room, where there were a great many people assembled. Some
were standing, and others sitting on benches. At the upper end of a
large table sat a gentleman with a very severe countenance.
From the description often given me by Mr. Sharpley of a justice-room I
instantly concluded that this was one, and that the gentleman I saw was
the justice. By his side sat another gentleman and some ladies. I heard
the people near me whisper that they were the persons who had been
robbed, and that they were come to swear to the things. I did not look
at them more than merely to see that three persons were there, for in
one corner of the room stood Mr. Sharpley and his wife, guarded by two
men; and on the floor near the table was placed the pack and our two
boxes.
'All is over with us,' thought I, as I was led up to the table, which I
found was called being put to the bar. I was then ordered to take off my
hat, which I did, and the justice asked me what was my name.
'Lady Anne,' I replied.
A general laugh circled round the room.
'What is your surname?' demanded the justice, with great severity.
'I do not know,' answered I.
I must here observe that these very short answers were such as, in our
mock trials, Mr. Sharpley had taught me to give, for he said I must
never say more than was necessary to answer the question asked.
'What is your father's name?' with increased severity demanded the
justice.
'I do not know.'
'What is the name you yourself generally go by?'
'Lady Anne.'
'Well, Lady Anne, since that is the name you choose to be called, what
are you to Mr. Sharpley?'
'His servant.'
'Do you know for what reason you are brought here?'
'I cannot say.'
'Astonishing calmness!' said the justice in a low tone to the gentleman
beside him. Then again addressing me: 'Lady Anne, you are accused of
robbing, in conjunction with your master, James Sharpley, the Earl of
Malbourne of various articles of plate. What do you say to this charge?'
'I did not take anything myself,' replied I, 'nor did I see my master
take anything.'
'It is melancholy to see one so young in years so old in vice,' observed
the justice. 'Who generally carries that small box?'
'I do.'
'Did you carry it yesterday?'
'I did.'
'Where is the key of it?'
I now with horror remembered that when I left the barn in the night I
had forgot to take the key from my neck, and that it was still in my
possession. With my eyes fixed on the ground, I remained silent. The
question was angrily repeated.
'I have it,' I falteringly answered.
'Hand it over. We must see the contents of that box.'
I attempted to obey, but the key had slipped so low into my bosom that
it had somehow got fixed in the ribbon belonging to my father's picture,
and I trembled so violently that I could not disentangle it without
drawing the picture entirely out, and holding it in my hand while I
disengaged the key. The keen eye of the justice instantly caught it.
'What fine picture is that, set in gold and adorned with pearls?' said
he. 'Hand it over, and let me look at it.'
'It is my father's picture,' I replied; 'it is my own property, and I
will not part with it to anybody.'
'You must part with it to me,' said the justice. 'Hand it over
immediately.'
I slipped it within my stays and spread my hands over my bosom, while I
replied:
'It is my father's picture. It does not belong to anybody in the world
but myself, and I will sooner die than part with it.'
'Take it from her, Johnson,' said the justice.
In vain I struggled. The man forced my hands from my bosom, and,
catching hold of the ribbon, dragged the picture from me, and handed it
to the justice. My misery was now complete--I could endure no more--and
with a bitter scream I sunk to the ground in a swoon.
How long my insensibility lasted I do not know; but when recollection
returned I found myself supported in a chair by a woman who was a
spectator, and Johnson, the officer, was sprinkling me with water. It
was some minutes before I could speak or stand, but, as soon as I could,
I arose and earnestly entreated to have the picture restored to me.
'Keep your seat, Lady Anne,' said the justice. 'If the picture is yours,
it certainly shall be returned to you; but try to recollect yourself,
and give me some account how it came into your possession.'
'It is my father's picture,' I replied. 'My mother always wore it; and
when she died a gentleman--Mr. Sanders, the clergyman of the
parish--took care of it for me, and when I was sent to London he let me
have it myself, that I might, if I should ever meet with my father, be
able to know him. That is all I know. Now, pray, sir, let me have the
picture again, for it is the only comfort I have in the world, and if
you take it from me I shall die.'
'Do you not, then, child, know your father's name? Do you not know who
he is?'
'Oh, if I knew his name I should not be here; but I do not know his
name, and I do not know who he is.'
'Did you ever see him?'
'Yes; but it is very long since. He went away when I was five years old,
and I have never seen him since.'
During these questions many heavy sighs had proceeded from some person
near, but at my last answer that gentleman who was seated beside the
justice rose up, and, coming round to me, took my hands, saying:
'Look at me, my child, and tell me if you think you ever saw _me_
before.'
I did look at him; but, oh! how can I describe the astonishment and joy
I felt when in his countenance I traced, though more advanced in life,
the features of that portrait that had so long been my greatest
comfort? I sunk down before him, and, clasping his knees, exclaimed:
'Surely, surely, you are my father--you are my mother's dear Frederick!'
Overpowered by my feelings, I again fainted. When I recovered, I found
myself laid upon a sofa in a handsome apartment. One of the ladies whom
I had seen in the justice-room was sprinkling me with water, another
holding a vinaigrette to me, my father chafing my temples, and the
justice standing near, looking on, not with the stern countenance he had
before shown, but as if he really pitied me. I tried to rouse myself,
and, as soon as I could speak, apologised to the ladies for the trouble
I had given them.
'Compose yourself, my dear,' said the elder of the two. 'To see you well
is all we wish.'
I was now able to sit upright. My father sat beside me, and, putting his
arms around me, pressed me to his bosom. I leaned my head against him,
and the tears rolled fast down my face; but they were no longer the
chilling tears of sorrow I had long been used to shed, they were tears
of joy and gladness at being restored to a kind father, to whom I had
feared I was lost for ever. When he spoke, I seemed to recollect the
tones of his voice; the scenes of my early childhood returned to my
memory, and I asked him if he had not been used to call me his Annie and
his little darling.
'Yes, my dear,' he replied, 'that I certainly did, But tell me, my
child, by what miracle your life was preserved from the perils of the
sea, and what was the final fate of your unfortunate mother.'
'My dear mother died at E----,' I replied; 'but I do not know what you
mean by the perils of the sea, for I was never upon it that I know of
in my life; and now, my dear father, tell me why you went away and left
us, and has the Earl forgiven you yet?'
'Ah! my child,' said my father, with a deep sigh, 'I see that we have
each a tale to tell, but it must be deferred till your spirits are more
composed. And now, Sir Robert,' turning to the justice, 'I can only
apologise for the great trouble we have given you this morning.'
'My dear lord,' replied the justice, whose name was Sir Robert Eldridge,
'accept my warmest congratulations on the happy discovery of your
daughter; and to you, Lady Anne, I beg leave to return the portrait of
your father, which has fortunately been the means of your being restored
to his protection.'
A few more compliments having passed, we were departing, when Sir Robert
said:
'What is your lordship's pleasure respecting the Sharpleys? Shall I
remand them to prison for another examination?'
'My dear father,' said I, 'for my sake have pity on Mr. Sharpley and his
wife, for indeed they have been very kind to me.'
'If they have been so, my child,' replied my father, 'I shall certainly
show them lenity, but I wish first to hear your story, and then I shall
know how to proceed. So, Sir Robert, if you will please to detain these
people till to-morrow, I shall esteem it a favour.'
We then took our leave, and returned home in my father's carriage, and
was soon conveyed to that house where the day before I had stood as a
poor little pedlar, but which I now entered as the only child of the
Earl of Malbourne.
[Illustration: _Lady Anne finds her father.--Page 405._]
We proceeded to the drawing-room, and my father then informed me that
the lady who had shown me so much kindness was his sister, Lady Caroline
Beaumont. The young lady, who appeared about thirteen, was my cousin,
Miss Beaumont; and another young lady, who seemed about eleven, was also
my cousin, Miss Ellen Beaumont.
Refreshments were now brought, and my father and aunt, when they
understood that I had been up the whole night, insisted that I should go
to bed, and try to get a little rest before dinner, which I did, and in
about two hours arose very much refreshed.
In the course of the evening I gave my father and new-found relations a
circumstantial detail of everything that had happened to me as far back
as I could remember. When I gave the account of my mother's death at the
inn they were affected even to tears.
'Oh! how unfortunate was I to be out of England at that time,' said my
father; 'and how cruel was my father by his resentment and ambition thus
to occasion the death of the most amiable of women. But proceed, my
child, with your melancholy story, and afterwards I will tell you mine,
and explain circumstances of which you seem to have some recollection.'
I accordingly went on, and finished my narrative, by which time it was
so late, and I was so much exhausted, that my father said he would defer
his narration till the following day.
My aunt and cousins were extremely kind to me, and, when I retired to
bed, I was furnished with night-clothes from Miss Beaumont's wardrobe.
* * * * *
[_On the next day the Sharpleys, on their promising never to steal
again, were released, and later Sir Robert told Lady Anne the story of
her life._]
* * * * *
'It is a painful story, my dear child,' said he; 'and I must spare your
feelings by relating it as briefly as I can. Your mother was of a very
good family, and, during the earlier part of her youth, her parents were
in affluence.
She was a boarder at the same school as my sister Caroline; and, by
frequently going to see my sister, I became acquainted with Miss Norman,
and was sincerely attached to her before I thought that I felt more for
her than a common friendship. This, in some respects, was an unfortunate
circumstance, for my father, who was then Earl of Malbourne, wished me
to marry a lady of high birth and large fortune; but she was of such a
disagreeable imperious temper that I could not endure the thought of
passing my life with her.
'When Miss Norman was a little turned of seventeen, her mother died, and
she went home to live with her father. I still visited her in company
with my sister, for I hoped that my father would, at some time, consent
to my marrying her. About a year after this, her father engaged in some
mercantile business that failed; he was also very much defrauded by his
agents, so that, from being what might be called a rich man, he was
suddenly reduced to poverty. This sad change in his affairs affected him
so much that he fell ill. I was grieved to my heart to see him in such a
state, and to see Miss Norman pining, as it were, to death.
'I was certainly old enough to choose a wife for myself, for I was
twenty-five, had a handsome estate, and was then major of a regiment. I
had often told my father that I could never marry Lady Clara Froward,
for that I was attached to another lady, and only wished for his consent
to marry her. That, said my father, I never should have, for that he
would never consent to my marrying anybody but Lady Clara Froward.
'I had waited a long time in the hope that he would change his mind, but
he did not; and, when I saw Mr. Norman and his daughter in such
distress, I determined not to wait any longer, but offered my hand to
your mother, and urged her father to consent to the marriage. It was a
long time before he would agree to it; but, finding his health every day
worse, he gave his consent, and we were married.
'A few days afterwards I informed my father of our marriage, and
entreated him to receive my amiable wife as his daughter. He wrote me
word that I had married without his consent, he disowned me as his son,
and would never receive either me or my wife.
'This determination was the subject of regret to us all; but we lived in
hopes that time would soften his resentment, and that in the end he
would relent. About two months after our marriage Mr. Norman died; and,
after the funeral, I and my wife removed to a house I had in Piccadilly,
near the park. There we lived very happily for a length of time; my
sister, who had been bridesmaid to your mother, frequently came to see
us; there you were born, and my sister was one of your godmothers. The
reason of your being called Lady Anne was entirely owing to a whim of
your maid's, for at that time you had no right to the title of Lady; but
she said you would soon have, and that she should call you so now, that
she might be used to it; and, from her continually calling you so, it by
degrees became a general custom, not only with our own family, but also
with our visitors.
'Time passed away very happily till you had just completed your fifth
year, when I received orders to join my regiment, which was going upon
foreign service. It is needless to say anything of the deep grief that
your mother and I felt on this occasion. We parted, and I went abroad
in the hope that I should return again in a few months.
'Two or three letters passed between your mother and me after my
departure, when they suddenly ceased on her side. Unable to account for
this strange silence, I wrote to my sister, entreating her to write
immediately, and inform me if anything had happened. I soon received her
answer, which informed me that my father, taking advantage of my
absence, had unfortunately thought proper to pay a visit to your mother,
and reproach her in the most cruel manner for having married me. Your
dear mother was so terrified that it made her very ill.'
'Oh!' said I, interrupting my father, 'I remember it. The Earl was a
tall, thin, old gentleman; and he was in such a passion that my dear
mother fainted away on the ground, and a servant, I think her name was
Sally, came and helped her up, and brought her to her recollection
again.'
'My dear child, you are quite right,' said my father, holding his
handkerchief to his eyes; 'that unfortunate visit was the cause of all
the misery that has since befallen us. Your mother, being fearful of
receiving such another visit, soon after the Earl was gone, sent Sally
out to take lodgings for her in a private street, to which she removed
the same evening, attended only by Sally and another woman servant. She
then wrote an account of all that had passed to my sister (who was
married to Sir Henry Beaumont), and concluded her letter by saying that
she should continue in privacy in those apartments till my return, as
she dreaded a repetition of the Earl's visit if she remained in
Piccadilly. A few days after she had been in these lodgings she saw the
Earl pass by on the other side of the street, accidentally he has since
assured me it was. The idea instantly seized her that he was searching
for her, and, not knowing what might be the consequences should he
discover her retreat, she determined to leave England and come over to
Holland to me. She wrote a few lines to my sister, telling her of her
fears and determination, and that she intended to take her passage in a
packet from H----. That very day a post-chaise was sent for. She would
not allow Sally to accompany her; but, taking you for her only
companion, and a few clothes in a small trunk, she set out on her
melancholy journey. No letter has since been received from her, and my
sister had hoped and believed she was with me in Holland.
'On the receipt of this distressing intelligence, I made every possible
inquiry to ascertain the fate of my beloved wife and child; and, after
some days, had the misery to hear that the hull of a packet had been
found floating at sea keel upwards. Its name and port were legibly
painted upon it, and on inquiry it was found that this very packet had
left H---- two days after your mother's departure from London, and, none
having sailed for some days before, no doubt could be entertained but
that your mother and you had been lost at sea. What misery was mine! How
often did I wish that I had been with you, and that we had all been
buried in the same watery grave! When the campaign was ended I returned
to England, and resigned my commission. My grief was so great that I
believed I should have lost my senses had it not been for the kindness
of my sister and Sir Henry, who obliged me almost by force to reside
with them. My father, too late repenting of his cruelty, and shocked at
the dreadful calamity it had occasioned, sought a reconciliation with
his wretched son. I shall not dwell upon the particulars of the
distressing interview that passed between us; we were reconciled, but my
father could never forgive himself for the misery his ambition had
occasioned. Our firm belief that your mother and you had been lost at
sea prevented our making any inquiries by land, and we were too much
absorbed by grief to read the newspapers, so that we never saw the
advertisements that you say were inserted. Since that time, my dear
child. I have passed a very unhappy life. I have several times been on
the Continent on government business. When in England, I reside chiefly
with my sister and brother-in-law. Your uncle, Sir Henry, is at present
at Vienna, and, during the time of his absence, your aunt and two
cousins are staying with me. These, my dear, are the principal
circumstances of my life.
'I will now say something of the events of yesterday. When my servants
told me of the robbery committed by the pedlar there appeared to me so
much ingratitude as well as roguery in the transaction, for the man had
taken more than ten pounds in money for his goods, that I determined to
let the law take its course with respect to him, and my servants were at
the justice's to swear to the things; but the description the two women
servants gave me of you interested your aunt and me very much in your
favour, and we thought that if you were so young and innocent as they
represented you to be it would be a deed of kindness to rescue you from
the guardianship of such people, and it was for that purpose that we
attended.
'When you were led forward to the bar the great resemblance you bear to
your mother instantly struck me, and when in tones so dear, and so
familiar to my ear you said that your name was Lady Anne, my agitation
was extreme, though still without thinking it possible that you could be
my daughter, but when at last my own portrait was produced, and you
declared it to be your father's, then I thought it possible that your
life might have been preserved, and I whispered Sir Robert, for I was
too much agitated to question you myself, to inquire particularly how it
had come into your possession. To what a happy discovery did that
examination lead. My child is restored to me, and I am happier than I
ever expected to be again in this world.'
My father tenderly embraced me at the conclusion of his narrative, so
did my aunt and cousins, with many kind expressions of joy at my being
restored to my family.
'Your likeness to your mother is very great,' said my aunt. 'She was my
chosen friend at school from the time she came to it, which was when she
was twelve years old. In features, in voice, you are as like what she
was at your age as if you were the same person.'
In the course of the evening my father told me that in a few days, when
I should have had a proper assortment of clothes made up for me, it was
his intention to make a tour.
'We will go to town,' said he, 'again, and pay a visit to all those
people who have been your friends, and even those who have been
otherwise. I intend to go to those cruel people in the Borough. A few
words of proper admonition may be of service to them, and induce them to
treat another poor child with more humanity. And to Mrs. Williams,
honest Davis, and that good man Joseph we must show our gratitude by
deeds as well as words.'
About a week after this we went to town, and soon after paid a visit to
Davis's cottage. We knocked at the door, which was opened by Mrs. Davis,
who seemed surprised at so many fine people coming to her cottage, and
asked, 'What was our pleasure?' My father told her that he was come to
thank her for the kindness she had shown to a little friendless girl who
went by the name of Lady Anne, and whom he had lately discovered to be
his daughter. She looked astonished, but, fixing her eyes upon me,
instantly recollected me, and burst into a flood of tears.
'Do not cry, Mrs. Davis,' said I, for I was grieved at seeing her weep.
'I do sincerely thank you, for you were very kind to me till just the
last.'
'Ah, Lady Anne,' said she, 'I have never been happy since I sent you
away. My husband was dreadfully angry with me, and I don't believe he
has forgiven me yet. He said that I had turned an orphan out of doors,
and that it would bring ill luck upon our heads, and so it proved, for
about a week after Mr. Freeman himself caught Susan as she was filling
her pockets with plums, and discharged her instantly. Luckily Phoebe had
none in her pocket, and Tom they knew to be an honest boy, so they two
escaped, but we had a world of trouble with Susan, for, as she had lost
her character, we could hardly get her a place at all, but at last a
woman in the village who takes in washing agreed to take her. There she
has a great deal of work to do for very little money, but she is
determined to be honest, and to stay there for a year that she may
recover her character, and then we hope that she will do better, but it
grieves me to the heart to think that I encouraged her to bring the
fruit home, for if I had scolded her for it at the first, she would have
left it off, and might now have been at Mr. Freeman's.'
'Well, my good woman,' said my father, 'you seem so sensible of your
error, both with respect to encouraging your daughter in dishonesty, and
your ill-treatment of mine at the last, that I shall say nothing further
to you on the subject, but thank you for the kindness you did show to my
child during the greater part of the time she was with you. Now I wish
to see your husband. Is he here or gone to town?'
'He is at the garden, sir, for Richard and the women quarrelled about
the money that they took, and at last one of them told Mr. Freeman of
the tricks they played, so Richard and some of the women were
discharged, and the rest had such a lecturing that I don't believe there
is now a creature in the garden would dare to take so much as a
gooseberry from it, but my husband is there a good deal to look after
them, for Mr. Freeman says he shall not trust them too far.'
'Ah,' said my father, 'you see that honesty is still the best policy.
Well, I wish you good-day, and hope you will continue in your good
resolutions.'
I shook hands with the poor woman, and we then proceeded to Mr.
Freeman's gardens. The door being open we entered. Mr. Joseph soon
appeared, and came up to us with a bow.
'We would look at your greenhouses,' said my father. 'I wish to choose
some plants.'
Joseph looked at me with a doubting, curious look, but without uttering
any observation, and led the way to the nearest greenhouse. We looked at
the plants, and my cousins took occasion to address me by my title. At
this Joseph again gazed very earnestly at me, and hesitatingly said:
'I beg pardon, but this young lady is so like a child that used to be
here last summer, and went by that name, that I could almost swear she
was now before me.'
'And so she is, my good man,' replied my father, 'and I am come to thank
you for the kindness you showed to her.'
'Well now,' said Joseph, 'this is the most joyful day that I have seen
for this long time. To see the little drooping rose transplanted into
its own garden was more than I ever expected, but I am glad to my heart
that it has happened, and, Lady Anne, forgive the freedom of an old man
when I say that I loved you as if you had been one of my own
grandchildren, and had I known how uncomfortable you were at Davis's you
should have been removed into the family of one of my own daughters, who
lives near, and she would have treated you as one of her own children;
but you see all things happen for the best, for by your being turned out
of doors, as it were, you have discovered your father, and are much
better off than ever we could make you.'
We all very cordially shook hands with this honest good man, and my
father compelled him to accept of a handsome present.
Mr. Freeman was in town, so my father left his compliments and thanks to
him for having given me employment, and ordered plants to the amount of
twenty pounds to be sent to his house in Piccadilly. We went to a
different part of the garden in quest of Davis and his son Tommy. We
soon found them, and, on making myself known to the father, the poor man
could not forbear shedding tears, and said he should be ashamed as long
as he lived to think how I had been turned out of his cottage. My father
begged him not to think of it any longer, for that we did not, and it
was with difficulty that he prevailed on him to accept a present which
Davis said he did not deserve, and that it was like a reproach to him.
'Say no more, I beg of you,' said my father; 'my daughter can only think
of the kindness you showed her, and we shall always remember it with
gratitude.'
Little Tommy, as soon as he felt convinced that I was the same Lady
Anne that used to live in their cottage, took my hand, kissed it, and
said he would make me a prettier box than I had ever seen, for that he
made them much better now than when I lived with them. I gave the little
fellow a guinea, and I gave his sister Phoebe five shillings, for though
I did not entertain any resentment against her, yet I did not think it
would be just to give her as much as her brother, who had always been
kind to me, and was an honest boy. We then took leave of them, and
returned to town.
The next morning, after breakfast was over, my father ordered the
carriage, and we drove to Covent Garden to pay a visit to Mrs. Williams
and her family. When we arrived at the Garden I led the way to the shop,
and found her and her two daughters busy in setting out the fruit and
flowers. I asked her the price of some of them, and though she answered
me as a stranger, yet I saw that she looked at me very earnestly, but
her daughter Jane, having observed me, whispered to her mother:
'I am sure that is the little girl that we took in who was in such
distress; I am positive it was her.'
Mrs. Williams again looked at me very intently. I smiled, and said:
'Yes, Mrs. Williams, I am that poor child that you were so kind as to
take in and feed and clothe.'
'Bless your sweet face,' said she, 'and so you are; and have you found
your friends, and is your father living?'
'Yes, my good friend,' replied my father, 'I am that happy father, and
can never be sufficiently grateful to you for befriending my poor child
when she was almost dying of cold and hunger.'
Mrs. Williams made many exclamations of joy and surprise at the happy
change that had taken place in my situation. We all entered the shop,
and, seating ourselves as well as we could, my father gave her a slight
detail of the circumstances that had brought me to his knowledge. We
stayed with her nearly an hour, and, before leaving the shop, my father
obliged her to accept of bank-notes to the amount of a hundred pounds.
We then returned to the carriage, and my father ordered the coachman to
drive to D---- Street in the borough.
'For,' said he, 'we will now go and make our acknowledgment to Mr. Smith
and his wife, for I think it is as proper to reprove them for their
barbarity as to reward those who have treated you with kindness.'
When we arrived at the street I pointed out the house, but it was now in
a different business. We entered the shop, and on inquiring for Smiths,
were told that they had been gone away for some time, for that the
husband had given himself up to drinking, and the wife to gambling till
they were involved in debt to everybody that would trust them; and at
last they had moved away in the night without paying anyone, and it was
not known where they were gone to.'
'It is very well,' said my father, 'these people by their bad management
and ill conduct have brought a punishment upon themselves. I shall not
seek for them any further. It is not my wish to reproach those who are
fallen into distress, and that, I think, is likely to be their present
state.'
We then returned home, and my father informed us that it was his
intention, in the course of two or three days, to take a longer journey,
which would give us much pleasure and also much pain.
'For,' said he, 'we will go to E----. I wish to visit Mr. Sanders and
your good nurse, and to go to the grave of your dear mother. She must
not lie there; I must have her removed and laid in our family vault at
Malbourne. Though so cruelly separated from her during my life, yet one
tomb shall contain us at our death.'
* * * * *
CONCLUSION.
_Mr. Sanders was very happy to know that Lady Anne had found her father,
and the Earl gave him a living worth two hundred pounds a year. He also
provided for Nurse Jenkins and her children, and reprimanded the
overseers of the workhouse, but made a present to the parish for the
benefit of the poor children. Some time later the reformed Sharpleys
called at Sir Robert's house, and being now honest pedlars, were
liberally patronized._
Captain Murderer
Captain Murderer's mission was matrimony, and the gratification of a
cannibal appetite with tender brides. On his marriage morning he always
caused both sides of the way to church to be planted with curious
flowers; and when his bride said, 'Dear Captain Murderer, I never saw
flowers like these before; what are they called?' he answered, 'They are
called garnish for house-lamb,' and laughed at his ferocious practical
joke in a horrid manner, disquieting the minds of the noble bridal
company with a very sharp show of teeth, then displayed for the first
time. He made love in a coach-and-six, and married in a
coach-and-twelve, and all his horses were milk-white horses with one red
spot on the back, which he caused to be hidden by the harness; for the
spot _would_ come there, though every horse was milk-white when Captain
Murderer bought him. And the spot was young bride's blood. (To this
terrific point I am indebted for my first personal experience of a
shudder and cold beads on the forehead.) When Captain Murderer had made
an end of feasting and revelry, and had dismissed the noble guests, and
was alone with his wife on the day month after their marriage, it was
his whimsical custom to produce a golden rolling-pin and a silver
pie-board. Now, there was this special feature in the Captain's
courtships, that he always asked if the young lady could make pie-crust,
and if she couldn't by nature or education, she was taught. Well, when
the bride saw Captain Murderer produce the golden rolling-pin and silver
pie-board, she remembered this, and turned up her laced-silk sleeves to
make a pie. The Captain brought out a silver pie-dish of immense
capacity, and the Captain brought out flour and butter and eggs and all
things needful, except the inside of the pie. Of materials for the
staple of the pie itself the Captain brought out none. Then said the
lovely bride: 'Dear Captain Murderer, what pie is this to be?' He
replied: 'A meat pie.' Then said the lovely bride: 'Dear Captain
Murderer, I see no meat.' The Captain humorously retorted: 'Look in the
glass.' She looked in the glass, but still she saw no meat, and then the
Captain roared with laughter, and suddenly frowning and drawing his
sword, bade her roll out the crust. So she rolled out the crust,
dropping large tears upon it all the time, because he was so cross, and
when she had lined the dish with crust, and had cut the crust all ready
to fit the top, the Captain called out: '_I_ see the meat in the glass!'
And the bride looked up at the glass, just in time to see the Captain
cutting her head off; and he chopped her in pieces, and peppered her,
and salted her, and put her in the pie, and sent it to the baker's, and
ate it all, and picked the bones.
Captain Murderer went on in this way, prospering exceedingly, until he
came to choose a bride from two twin sisters, and at first didn't know
which to choose; for, though one was fair and the other dark, they were
both equally beautiful. But the fair twin loved him, and the dark twin
hated him, so he chose the fair one. The dark twin would have prevented
the marriage if she could, but she couldn't. However, on the night
before it, much suspecting Captain Murderer, she stole out and climbed
his garden-wall, and looked in at his window through a chink in the
shutter, and saw him having his teeth filed sharp. Next day she listened
all day, and heard him make his joke about the house-lamb. And that day
month he had the paste rolled out, and cut the fair twin's head off, and
chopped her in pieces, and peppered her, and salted her, and put her in
the pie, and sent it to the baker's, and ate it all, and picked the
bones.
Now, the dark twin had had her suspicions much increased by the filing
of the Captain's teeth, and again by the house-lamb joke. Putting all
things together when he gave out that her sister was dead, she divined
the truth, and determined to be revenged. So she went up to Captain
Murderer's house and knocked at the knocker and pulled at the bell, and
when the Captain came to the door, said: 'Dear Captain Murderer, marry
me next, for I always loved you, and was jealous of my sister.' The
Captain took it as a compliment, and made a polite answer, and the
marriage was quickly arranged. On the night before it the bride again
climbed to his window, and again saw him having his teeth filed sharp.
At this sight she laughed such a terrible laugh at the chink in the
shutter that the Captain's blood curdled, and he said: 'I hope nothing
has disagreed with me!' At that she laughed again--a still more terrible
laugh--and the shutter was opened and search made, but she was nimbly
gone, and there was no one. Next day they went to church in a
coach-and-twelve and were married. And that day month she rolled the
pie-crust out, and Captain Murderer cut her head off, and chopped her in
pieces, and peppered her, and salted her, and put her in the pie, and
sent it to the baker's, and ate it all, and picked the bones.
But before she began to roll out the paste she had taken a deadly poison
of a most awful character, distilled from toads' eyes and spiders'
knees, and Captain Murderer had hardly picked her last bone when he
began to swell, and to turn blue, and to be all over spots, and to
scream. And he went on swelling and turning bluer, and being more all
over spots and screaming, until he reached from floor to ceiling and
from wall to wall; and then, at one o'clock in the morning, he blew up
with a loud explosion. At the sound of it all the milk-white horses in
the stables broke their halters and went mad, and then they galloped
over everybody in Captain Murderer's house (beginning with the family
blacksmith, who had filed his teeth) until the whole were dead, and then
they galloped away.
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A BOOK OF BALLAD STORIES
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[Illustration: Reduced facsimile of cover.]
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OLD TALES OF GREECE
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End of Project Gutenberg's Forgotten Tales of Long Ago, by E. V. Lucas