"Well, well, sit down and cheer yourself, Goody Lamb," said Stephen
Gimlet, after an interval of thirty hours--for I must pass over for
the present those other events affecting more important characters in
this tale, which filled up the intervening time in the neighbourhood
of Tarningham--"let bygones be bygones, as they say in the country
where you have lived so much. Here you are, in as comfortable a
cottage as any in the country. I have plenty, and to spare; and,
forgetting all that's past and done, I will try to be a son to you and
a brother to poor Bill."
"Thank you, Stephen, thank you," said the old woman, to whom he
spoke--a quiet, resigned-looking person, with fine features, and large
dark eyes, undimmed by time, though the hair was as white as snow, the
skin exceedingly wrinkled, and the frame, apparently, enfeebled and
bowed down with sickness, cares, or years; "I am sure you will do what
you can, my poor lad; but still I cannot help feeling a little odd at
having to move again at my time of life. I thought, when I and my poor
husband, Davie Lamb, came up here to Tarningham, out of Scotland, it
was the last time I should have to change. But we can never tell what
may happen to us. I fancied, when I went to Scotland with stiff old
Miss Moreton, that I was to be settled there for life. There I married
Lamb, and thought it less likely than ever that I should change, when,
suddenly, he takes it into his head to come up here to the place where
I was born and brought up, and never told me why or wherefore."
"Ay, he was a close, hard man," said Stephen Gimlet; "he was not
likely to give reasons to any one; he never did to me, but just said
two or three words, and flung away."
"He was a kind husband and a kind father," said the widow, "though he
said less than most men, I will acknowledge."
"He was not kind to his poor, dear girl," muttered Stephen Gimlet, in
a tone which rendered his words scarcely audible; but yet the widow
caught, or divined their sense clearly enough; and she answered:
"Well, Stephen, don't let us talk about it. There are some things that
you and I cannot well agree upon; and it is better not to speak of
them. Poor Davie's temper was soured by a great many things. People
did not behave to him as well as they ought; and, although I have a
notion they persuaded him to come here, they did not do for him all
they promised."
"That's likely," answered the _ci-devant_ poacher; "though I have no
occasion to say so, either; for people have done much more for me than
they ever promised, and more than I ever expected. See what good Sir
John Slingsby has done, after I have been taking his game for this
many a year; and Mr. Beauchamp, too--why, it was a twenty-pound note
he gave me, just because he heard that my cottage had been burnt down,
and all the things in it destroyed--but it was all owing to Captain
Hayward, who began it by saving the dear boy's life, that lies
sleeping there in t'other room, and spoke well of me--which nobody
ever took the trouble to do before--and said I was not so bad as I
seemed; and, please God, I'll not give his promises the lie, anyhow."
"God bless him for a good man," said Widow Lamb: "he is one of the
few, Stephen, whose heart and soul are in doing good."
"Ay, that he is," answered the gamekeeper; "but I did not know you
knew him, goody."
"No, I do not know much of him," answered the old lady, "but I know he
has been very kind to my boy Bill; and before he went off for London
t'other day, had a long talk to him, which is better, to my thinking
than the money he gave him--but who is is this Mr. Beauchamp, you say
is such a kind man, too? I've heard Bill talk of him, and he tells me
the same; but I can't well make out about him."
"Why, he is a friend of Captain Hayward's," rejoined the gamekeeper;
"he has been staying a long while at the White Hart, and just the same
sort of man as the other, though a sadder-looking man, and not so
frank and free."
"But what looking man is he?" asked the old woman. "You can tell one
what a dog's like, or what a ferret's like, Stephen, well enough; and
I should like to hear about him; for I have a curiosity, somehow."
"Why, he is a tall man and a strong man," answered Stephen Gimlet,
"with a good deal of darkish hair, not what one would say curling, but
yet not straight, either; and large eyes, in which you can see little
or no white; very bright and sparkling, too. Then he's somewhat pale
and sunburnt; and very plain in his dress, always in dark clothes; but
yet, when one looks at him, one would not like to say a saucy thing to
him; for there is something, I don't know what, in his way and his
look, that, though he is as kind as possible when he speaks, seems to
tell every body, 'I am not an ordinary sort of person.' He never wears
any gloves, that I saw; but, for all that, his hands are as clean as
if they had been washed the minute before, and the wristbands of his
shirt are as white as snow."
Goody Lamb paused, thoughtfully, and rubbed her forehead once or
twice, under the gray hair:
"I have seen him, then," she said at length, in a very peculiar tone;
"he has passed my little window more than once--and his name is
Beauchamp is it?"
"So they say," answered Stephen Gimlet, in some surprise; "why should
it not?"
"Oh! I don't know," answered the widow; and there she ceased.
"Well, you are very droll to-night, goody," said Stephen Gimlet; "but
I should like a cup of tea before I go out upon my rounds; so I'll
just get some sticks to make the fire burn; for that kettle does
nothing but simmer."
Thus saying, he went into the little passage, and out into a small
yard, whence he brought a faggot or two. He then laid them on the hot
embers, blew up a flame, made the kettle boil; and, all this time, not
a word passed between him and Goody Lamb; for both seemed very busy
with thoughts of their own. At length, when a teapot and some cups had
been produced, and a small packet of tea wrapped up in a brown paper,
the old lady sat down to prepare the beverage for her son-in-law, as
the first act of kindly service she rendered him since she had
undertaken to keep his house. To say the truth, it was more for
herself than for him that the tea was made; for Stephen Gimlet did not
like the infusion, and was not accustomed to it; but he knew the good
dame's tastes, and was anxious to make her as comfortable as he could.
While she was making the tea after her own peculiar fashion--and
almost every one has a mode of his own--Gimlet stood on the other side
of the little deal table and watched her proceedings. At length he
said, somewhat suddenly, "Yes, Mr. Beauchamp was up here, yesterday,
just when Doctor Miles was talking to me, and he asked me a great many
questions about--" and here he paused, thinking he might be violating
some confidence if he mentioned the subject of his visitor's
inquiries. The next instant he concluded his sentence in a different
way from that which he first intended, saying--"about a good many
things; and then he went into the church with me and looked at all the
tombs of the Moretons, and especially that of the last gentleman."
"Ay, well he might," answered Goody Lamb.
"Indeed!" exclaimed Stephen Gimlet, with a slight laugh; "then you
seem to know more of him than I do."
Goody Lamb nodded her head; and her son-in-law proceeded with some
warmth: "Then I am sure you know no harm of him."
"No, Stephen, no," she said, "I do not! I saw him as a young lad, and
I have not seen him since; but I have not forgotten him; for he came
down to my house--what is called the Grieves-house in Scotland--on the
morning of a day that turned out the heaviest day of his life; and he
was a gay young lad then; and he saw my poor boy, who was then a
little fellow of four years old, that all the folks there used to gibe
at on account of his misfortunes; but this gentleman took him on his
knee and patted his head and was kind to him, and said he was a clever
boy, and gave him a couple of shillings to buy himself a little flute,
because the poor fellow was fond of music even then, and used to
whistle so sweetly, it was enough to break one's heart to hear such
sounds come from such a poor body. The gentleman has never thought of
me or mine since then, I'll warrant, but I have thought of him often
enough; and I'll ask him a question or two someday, please God."
"The heaviest day in his life," repeated Stephen Gimlet, who had
marked every word she uttered with strong attention; "how was that,
Goody?"
"Ay," answered Widow Lamb, shaking her head, "as they say in that
country, it is no good talking of all that; so ask me no more
questions, Stephen; but sit down and take your tea, my man, and then
go about your work."
Stephen Gimlet sat down and, with not the greatest pleasure in the
world, took a cup of the beverage she had prepared; but still he was
very thoughtful; for there was something in Mr. Beauchamp, even in the
grave sadness of his ordinary manner, which created a kind of interest
in a man of a peculiarly imaginative character; and he would have
given a good deal to know all that Widow Lamb could tell, but would
not. He did not choose to question her, however; and, after having
finished a large slice of brown bread, he rose and unfastened the only
dog he had remaining, in order to go out upon his night's round.
Just at that moment, however, some one tried the latch of the cottage,
and then knocked for admission; and the dog, springing forward,
growled, barked, and snarled furiously.
The gamekeeper chid him back, and then opened the door, when, to his
surprise, he saw the figure of young Harry Wittingham before him. The
dog sprang forward again, as if he would have torn the visitor to
pieces; and, to say the truth, Stephen Gimlet felt a great inclination
to let the beast have his way; but, after a moment's thought, he drove
it back again, saying, with a bitter laugh,
"The beast knows the danger of letting you in. What do you want with
me, Sir?"
"I want you to do me a great service, Ste," said Harry Wittingham,
with a familiar and friendly air; "and I am sure you will, if--"
"No, I won't," answered Stephen Gimlet, "if it were to save you from
hanging, I would not put my foot over that doorstep. It is no use
talking, Mr. Wittingham; I will have nothing more to do with any of
your tricks. I don't wish ever to see you again; I am in a new way of
life, and it won't do, I can tell you."
"Oh, I have heard all about that," answered the young man, in a light
tone; "and, moreover, that you have taken a silly fancy into your
head, that I set fire to your cottage. It is all nonsense, upon my
word. Your boy must have done it, playing with the fire that was on
the hearth."
Stephen Gimlet's face turned somewhat pale with the effort to keep
down the anger that was in his heart; but he replied shortly and
quickly, for fear it should burst forth:
"The boy had no fire to play with--you knew well he was locked up in
the bedroom, and there he was found, when you burned the place down."
"Well, if I had any hand in it," said young Wittingham, "it must have
been a mere accident."
"Ay, when you knew there was a poor helpless child in the house," said
Stephen Gimlet, bitterly, "it was a sort of accident which well-nigh
deserved hanging."
"Nonsense, nonsense, my good fellow," said the young man, "you are
angry about nothing; and though you have got a good place, I dare say
you are not a man to refuse a couple of guineas when they are offered
to you."
"If you offer them," cried Stephen Gimlet, furiously, "I'll throw them
in your face--an accident, indeed! to burn my cottage, and nearly my
poor child! I suppose it was by accident that you stopped the carriage
in the lane? And by accident that you set a man to fire at your own
father through the window?"
"Hush, hush, Stephen," cried Widow Lamb, catching hold of his coat and
attempting to keep him back, as he took a step towards Harry
Wittingham, who turned very pale.
The young man recovered his audacity the next moment, however, and
exclaimed:
"Pooh! let him alone, good woman; if he thinks to bully me, he is
mistaken."
"Get out of this house," cried Stephen Gimlet, advancing close to him.
"Get out of this house, without another word, or I'll break your
neck!"
"You are a fool," answered young Wittingham; "and, if you don't mind,
I'll send you to Botany Bay."
The words were scarcely out of his mouth, when Stephen Gimlet aimed a
straight blow at him with his right hand, which was immediately
parried; for the young vagabond was not unskilful in the science of
defence; but, the next instant, the gamekeeper's left told with
stunning effect in the midst of his face, and he fell prostrate, with
his head out of the doorway and his feet within. Stephen Gimlet looked
at him for a moment, then, stooping down, lifted him in his strong
arms, pitched him headlong out, and shut the door.
"There!" said Gimlet;--"now I'll sit down for a minute and get cool."