SHADOW AND SUNSHINE.
“Now at the end of this valley was another, called the Valley
of the Shadow of Death.”—_Pilgrim’s Progress._
“Oh! this is fearful! this is more terrible than all!” muttered Mark,
as he regained slowly the consciousness that he had half lost. He
attempted to raise himself, but motion was torture. He called out, but
no one answered to his cry; he had been crossing the fields by a shorter
path than the highroad, and therefore was not in the direct line of any
thoroughfare, and might lie there for hours unnoticed. Mark felt as
though the Shadow of Death were upon him; his mind was too confused and
dizzy for prayer; it seemed to grasp nothing but the consciousness that
something horrible had occurred. For long he lay there, half delirious
with pain. The Pilgrim was passing through, perhaps, the darkest passage
of his life.
How different was the fate of young Lord Fontonore, as, with his tutor
seated beside him in his splendid carriage, he rolled along the highroad
towards the north!
“I am so glad that yesterday’s storm is over!” cried he. “There’s nothing
like travelling in an open carriage, except when it pours as it did last
night. It raises one’s spirits, passing fast through the air, when the
horses dash on without touch from the whip; and the air is so fresh, and
the sky so blue, and every turn of the wheel brings us nearer to home!”
“Then you are not sorry to return to the castle?”
“Sorry! oh no! I am too fond of it, too proud of it, for that! I shall be
glad, too, to see the old faces again; Aunt Matilda, pretty Clemmy, my
uncle, and all. I hope that I shall find my pony all right. I shall enjoy
a good gallop again! Oh, I shall be delighted to see my own home with
the drawbridge, and the moat, and the old yew hedge; and the flag will
wave on the tower, I know, on my return, to welcome the little master
back! Then we must go to see my tenants, especially old Widow Grove; I am
impatient to take her the shell ornament which I have bought for her: and
my poor dear old friend who lives at the mill—what a welcome I shall have
from him! Oh, my tenants will not be sorry to have me amongst them again!
And yet,” rattled on the lively boy, “I have enjoyed myself exceedingly
here. How I delighted in our visit to that old ruin; don’t I see it
there, just beyond the fields? Now, Mr. Ewart, I have something to remind
me of everything but that; just let me stop the coachman,” he continued,
drawing the check-string, “and run off for one stone.”
“I think, Charles, that we have a long journey before us; it is hardly
desirable to delay.”
“Oh, but I’ll not be two minutes, you’ll see. I’ll be back again, like
the lightning!” and, without waiting for the steps to be let down, he
sprang lightly out of the carriage.
“Heaven bless the dear boy!” inwardly prayed Mr. Ewart, as he saw the
graceful form bounding away. “Heaven bless him, and make him a blessing
to many! A noble career seems to be before him, and he has a kind, a
noble, a generous heart, which has already, I trust, been given to God.
But I fear for him, the dangers of his position; he will have so much to
nourish pride; and pride, alas! is his besetting sin. His guardian, and
his aunt, rather foster than check it; and London, to which he is to be
taken in the winter, will be full of snares to the young peer. But why
should I thus take anxious thought? I earnestly strive to impress on his
heart the truths of our holy religion. He is willing to listen, and ready
to learn; can I doubt that a blessing will rest on my prayerful efforts,
or that he who is ever a Father to the orphan, will guard my dear pupil
in the hour of temptation?”
The clergyman was suddenly arrested in his meditations by a loud call
from Lord Fontonore, who had reached the other end of the field; and
looking in that direction, he saw the boy waving his hat, and making
impatient and excited gestures as if to entreat him to come to him.
Convinced that no trifle thus moved his pupil, Mr. Ewart instantly
descended from the carriage, and ordering the man-servant to follow,
proceeded rapidly towards the spot.
[Illustration: MARK DISCOVERED BY LORD FONTONORE.]
“Oh, sir! oh, Mr. Ewart, only look here!” exclaimed Charles, as soon as
his tutor came within hearing. “Poor Mark Dowley, only see how they have
treated him. He is not dying—oh, I trust that he is not dying!”
“Help me to raise him,” said the minister quietly, though his blood ran
cold at the spectacle before him. “Do you not think, Charles, that you
could find a little water?” The boy was off almost before the sentence
was concluded. “Jones, we must draw off his jacket very gently,—softly,
you pain him; we must examine his hurts.”
With a hand gentle as a woman’s, Mr. Ewart removed the garment from the
half senseless sufferer, to stanch the blood, and ascertain the amount of
his injuries. But he had scarcely laid bare the poor bruised shoulders of
the boy, when he started with an expression of such extreme surprise that
Jones looked in wonder to see what could be its cause.
“Is it possible!” exclaimed the clergyman, “can it be really so! Yes, for
the countenance confirms it, so like the mother; it struck me the first
moment that I saw him! And the woman—ah!” he cried, pressing his hand
on his forehead, “I remember she would not see me; she dared not, the
base—the treacherous! It must be so; I see all now—but the motive, what
could be the motive!”
“Please, sir,” said Jones, touching his hat, “shall I go to yonder
cottage for assistance?”
“Carry the boy to the carriage;—no, I will bear him myself; it is not
the first time that he has been in my arms. And listen, Jones, say not a
word of what we have found, but seek out two or three stout labourers at
once; the police would be better, but we must not lose time, everything
depends upon secrecy and despatch.”
While the wondering servant went in search of the required aid, Mr.
Ewart, with feelings almost resembling those of a father, after binding
with his own handkerchief and neckcloth Mark’s most severe wounds, gently
carried him to where the carriage stood waiting. Once the poor boy
unclosed his eyes, and uttered an exclamation of pleasure on recognizing
the clergyman, but he seemed almost too feeble to speak. Mr. Ewart had
scarcely reached the high road when he was joined by Lord Fontonore, who,
flushed and panting in the eagerness of his haste, brought some cold
water in his cap.
“Go back with him, Charles, to the house which we have just left, and
call upon the surgeon in your way. Oh, be tender with him, as if he were
your brother!” the clergyman’s voice trembled as he spoke.
“And you—”
“I have a sterner duty to perform, but it is one of the utmost
importance. There, support the poor fellow’s head on your breast, you
see that the water has made him revive; all will be right yet, by the
blessing of Heaven!”
As the carriage was turned round, and driven rapidly towards Marshdale,
Jones came up with two powerful-looking ploughmen, and almost at the
same time Mr. Searle, who was walking along the road, reached the spot
where they were now standing together.
“Most opportunely met!” cried the minister, grasping his hand; “you are a
magistrate, you will go with us, and lend sanction to our proceedings.”
He drew the old gentleman aside, and whispered rapidly a few sentences
in his ear, at which the watchful Jones observed that Mr. Searle looked
surprised and shocked. Then, turning towards the three, “Follow me, my
men,” said Mr. Ewart, abruptly; “a great crime has been committed, we go
to seize the criminals.” And without giving any further explanation, he
led them rapidly towards the cottage of Dowley.
If Dowley felt any remorse for the barbarous manner in which he had
treated Mark, he was now occupied in drowning all memory and feeling in
that fiery drink which ruins so many souls. He had even filled the cups
of his children with spirits, and the cottage was a scene of wild, unholy
mirth, such as might make the pure angels weep. The sudden entrance of
Mr. Ewart without knock or previous warning, a grave, stern expression
on that usually mild face, startled the party as though he had been an
apparition. He fixed his piercing eye upon Ann, who shrank back and
covered her face with her hands, then turned it full upon Dowley whose
flushed face showed mingled emotions of anger and fear.
“I think that I have seen you before,” said the clergyman; “is not your
name John Lawless? were you not once gamekeeper to Lord Fontonore?”
“That’s not my name, nor never was,” replied the man surlily; “and I
never heard of Lord Fontonore in my life.”
“What! not from your wife there, who was nurse in the family, and
intrusted with the charge of the eldest son?”
“I say, what,” exclaimed the man, starting up furiously, “I don’t know
what brings you here, forcing yourself into a man’s home without his
leave; you shall go out a little quicker than you came—”
“Ay, but I shall not go alone,” replied Mr. Ewart, striking the table
with his hand. At the signal, in rushed Jones and the two countrymen,
followed by the magistrate; and after a short but furious struggle, they
succeeded in securing their prisoner.
Ann attempted to make her escape by the back-door; Mr. Ewart laid his
hand upon her arm.
“You are our prisoner also,” he said, “unhappy woman! nothing remains to
you now but to make all the reparation in your power, by a frank and full
confession.”
Ann wrung her hands in despair.
“What is to be done with the children?” said Mr. Ewart to the magistrate,
looking round on the frightened, miserable family.
“Their proper home is the workhouse—I will see to them; and these
prisoners must be sent to the jail.”
The clergyman gazed on the children with strong compassion. “We must
consider if nothing better can be done for them,” thought he. “Poor
inheritors of misery in this world, Heaven grant that they may have been
taken from evil influence in time to preserve them, through God’s grace,
from misery in that which is to come!”