THE HISTORY OF TIM THE SNAMMER.
"My father was a small farmer in Hampshire. He had about thirty-six
acres of his own, all well cultivated and well stocked, and free of all
mortgage and encumbrance of that kind. The farm was small enough, God
knows; but it yielded a decent living,—for my father was as industrious
as a bee,—always out by sunrise,—and my mother was as saving, thrifty,
and prudent a housewife as any in the county. They were not, however,
mean: no—very far from that. The beggar was never turned away unassisted
from their door; and if a neighbour got a little behind-hand with his
rent, and deserved aid, it was ten to one if the china tea-pot in my
mother's cupboard did not contain a few pounds, which were speedily
placed at his disposal. Farmer Splint, as my father was called, was
always regular in his attendance at the village church on Sunday; and
the only person who looked upon him as a mean-spirited fellow, was the
landlord of the ale-house—because my father so seldom entered the
_George and Dragon_ even to take a glass of beer at the bar,—and never
stopped there to pass an evening.
"My mother was a very handsome woman, and had been the village-belle
before her marriage with Farmer Splint. This marriage was one of
affection on both sides; for though my mother's parents were very poor
and unable to give their daughter any thing, yet Farmer Splint preferred
her to the wealthier young women of the neighbourhood. On her side,
though my father was nearly ten years older than herself, she refused
the offer of a rich young farmer, and became the spouse of a man whom
she could respect and esteem as well as love. The fruits of this
marriage were two children,—a daughter, named Marion, and myself. Our
mother found time, even amongst the numerous duties and cares of the
household, to teach us to read and write. The village schoolmaster then
taught us a little arithmetic, history, and geography; and we were as
well instructed as the children of poor parents were likely to be, and
much better than those of even many richer people living in our
neighbourhood.
"Now, from all I have just told you, you will see plain enough that our
mother and father were good, honest, moral, and well-intentioned people.
Their only care was to toil with all possible diligence, to make both
ends meet,—put by a little savings, when the harvest was very
plentiful,—and bring up their children in a respectable and decent
manner. My father was particularly anxious to prevent his boy from
resembling the young black-guards of the village: he would never let me
play about in the high road at marbles,—nor yet go bird's-nesting, which
he said encouraged cruelty, and was also the first step to poaching. But
he did all he could to render me hardy, and promoted innocent sports of
an athletic nature. Altogether, farmer Splint's family was considered to
be the best-behaved and the happiest in all the county.
"It was in the year 1807, that my history now dates from. I was then
thirteen years old: my sister, Marion, was eighteen, and a sweet
beautiful girl she was, with fine blue eyes, flaxen hair, and a figure
that couldn't have been made more graceful if clothed in silk or satin.
She was at that time engaged to be married to the only son of a farmer
in the neighbourhood, and who was well to do in the world. A finer
fellow than young George Dalton you would never wish to see; and when he
and Marion walked to church arm-in-arm, on a Sunday, every one noticed
them, as much as to express a conviction of the fitness of the intended
union of such a handsome, manly youth, and such a modest pretty girl.
Well, it was the summer of 1807, and the marriage was to take place in
October, when all the harvest was got in, and the good ale was brewed
for the ensuing year. Every thing appeared gay and smiling for the young
people; for George's father had promised to give up his farm to his son,
but to continue to live in the house, as soon as Marion should have
become his daughter-in-law.
"About three miles from our farm stood the beautiful seat of Squire
Bulkeley. This gentleman had been left an orphan when young; and his
estates were managed by his guardians, until he came of age, he living
with one of them in London. But when he attained his majority, he soon
showed himself to be tired of a London life; and he came down to take
possession of Bulkeley Hall, and settle there. This was in the beginning
of 1807; but for two or three months the Squire kept himself pretty
quiet. All of a sudden, however, he became as gay as he was before
tranquil and retired; and this change, we learnt, arose in consequence
of his guardians leaving him, they having accompanied him to the Hall
and remained there until all the papers and deeds connected with his
accession to his property were signed. The moment they were gone, a
number of fashionable gentlemen from London arrived as guests at the old
mansion; and the long silent rooms echoed to the sounds of their late
revellings. Then there were steeple-chases, and horse-racing, and
cock-fighting, and badger-baiting, and all kinds of sports of that
nature; and sometimes the young squire was more than half tipsy when he
lounged into church in the middle of the Sunday evening service. His
residence at the Hall did no good to the village tradespeople, because
he had every thing sent down from London;—and thus no one was rejoiced
at his settling in that neighbourhood. My parents, particularly, had no
good opinion of Squire Bulkeley; but, as the farm was their own, they
had no positive fear of him, although our land joined his estates. This
was not so, however, with the Daltons, who were only tenant-farmers, and
rented their fifty or sixty acres of the Squire. The farm had been in
old Dalton's family for many, many years, and was one of the best tilled
and best stocked in the county; and as Mr. Dalton was always regular
with his rent, it did not seem probable that the lease, which was
shortly to expire, would be refused renewal.
"One morning,—it was in the month of June, I remember, Marion and myself
happened to be alone together in the house, when the Squire, attended by
his groom, rode up to the door. Marion sent me out to learn the cause of
his visit. 'This is Farmer Splint's, my boy, I believe?' said the
Squire, who, I should observe, was a handsome young man in spite of his
dissipated appearance. I replied in the affirmative, adding, that my
father was not at home. 'Who is at home, then?' asked the Squire; 'for I
caught a glimpse of a face so pretty just now at the window, that I
should not mind beholding it again.'—'That was my sister, Marion, sir,'
I answered, not seeing any thing insolent in his remark; but, perhaps,
rather pleased by it, as it flattered a sister of whom I was very
fond.—'Well, my boy,' said the Squire, leaping from his horse, 'here is
a crown for you; and now be off and try and find your father, as I want
to speak to him. In the mean time I will walk in and rest myself.'
Catching the coin which he threw me, I hurried away, delighted with the
handsome present, and naturally thinking that the visit of so liberal a
gentleman must be with a motive beneficial to my father. But after
hunting every where for him about the farm, I remembered that he and my
mother had gone to the village to make some purchases. The village was a
mile and a half distant from our house; and as I knew that they would be
back to dinner at one, I returned straight home, expecting to find them
already arrived. The groom was walking the horses up and down at a
little distance; and, therefore, I was convinced that the Squire was
still waiting within. My hand was just upon the latch of the door, when
a scream burst upon my ears; and immediately afterwards I heard Marion's
voice reproaching the Squire bitterly for some insult which he had
offered her. I hastened into the house, and my presence appeared to
disconcert Mr. Bulkeley completely. He was standing in the middle of the
room, as if uncertain what course to adopt in a case of embarrassment;
and he turned as red as scarlet when he saw me. Marion was at the
further end of the apartment, near a door opening into the kitchen; and
she was arranging her hair, which had been disordered; while her cheeks
were also crimsoned, but, as I thought, with the glow of indignation;
whereas the face of the Squire was flushed with shame.
"I advanced towards Marion, asking, 'What is the matter? why did you
scream out? and what has he been doing to you?'—'Nothing, Tim,' she
replied, but with a profound sob. 'Have you met father?'—'No; I forgot
that he'd gone to the village; but he will be home in a minute or two,
as it's close on one.'—'I shall call another day, then, Miss,' said the
Squire; and he hurried abruptly away. For some minutes neither Marion or
myself spoke a word. I suppose she was endeavouring to compose herself,
and also deliberating what course she should pursue; while, on my side,
I did not like to question her. At length she approached me, and said,
'Tim, you are a good boy, and always do what sister tells you. Now, mind
and don't mention a word about that gentleman having been rude to me. I
have reasons of my own for it. And don't say either, that you were so
long away when he was here.' I promised to follow Marion's injunctions;
for I was very fond of her, as I have before said. Accordingly, when my
father and mother had come back, and we were all seated at dinner,
Marion remarked in an indifferent manner that the Squire had called to
see our father, and that he had given me a five-shilling piece. 'I
wonder what he can want with me?' said my father: 'it was certainly very
kind of him to make Tim such a handsome present; but after all I have
heard of him, I would rather that he should honour us with his visits as
rarely as possible. However, he can do us no harm—nor any good, that I
know of; for he has no land to let at present, and I am not disposed to
hire any even if he had.' There the subject was dismissed, at least so
far as remarks thereon were concerned; but I saw that Marion was
thoughtful and even melancholy during the remainder of the day.
"About a week had elapsed, and my father and I were one afternoon
proceeding along the borders of our land, just where it was separated by
a quick-set hedge from the Squire's estate, when Mr. Bulkeley himself,
alone and on foot, suddenly appeared at a stile. My father and I touched
our hats with the usual respect shown by country people to great folks;
and the Squire, who had for a moment shrunk back on seeing us,
exclaimed, 'Farmer Splint, you are the very man I wanted to fall in
with; and that very field in which you are standing is the object of my
business with you.'—'How so, sir?' asked my father.—'Why,' returned the
Squire, 'you see it cuts awkwardly into my estate, and breaks in on the
very best preserves I have in this quarter.—'Begging pardon, sir,' said
my father, 'I could wish it broke a little more on your preserves: for
your hares and pheasants do a world of harm to my fields when the corn
is just springing up. I lost more than an acre by them last year,
sir.'—'So much the greater folly on your part, Farmer Splint,' exclaimed
the Squire, 'to persist in remaining a landowner. You never can get a
good living out of so small a farm as your's.'—'I get enough for all our
wants sir, and am able to assist a friend now and then,' said my
father.—'Well, but if you sell your land and become a tenant-farmer, you
will be much better off,' observed the Squire. 'Suppose, for instance, I
bought the land? why, you would have received compensation for the
injury done to your crop by the game in my preserves.'—'But I should
lose my independence, sir,' said my father, in a firm though perfectly
respectful manner.—'Your independence!' ejaculated Mr. Bulkeley, with a
sneer. 'Then, I am to imagine that you consider yourself a regular
landowner, one of the lords of the soil. May be you will dub yourself
_Squire_ next! Squire Splint, eh?'—'I am plain Farmer Splint, sir, and
so I hope to remain,' was the answer.—'Then you will not sell me that
field?'—'I had rather not, sir.'—'But you may have an equivalent portion
of my seven-acre field over by the mill yonder; and your property will
be much more compact.'—'But the land is not equally serviceable, sir,'
answered my father, 'and therefore I must decline the bargain. Besides,
it may be fancy on my part; but it is true notwithstanding, that I am
rather superstitious in making boundary changes in a farm that has been
so long in my family; unless it was to extend it by a purchase of land,
and _that_ I can't afford. So good day, sir;' and my father, touching
his hat, walked on. I saw the Squire's lips quivering with rage as he
stood looking after us; and, young as I was, yet I thought my father had
made an enemy of him—for the conversation which I have just detailed,
produced a deep impression upon me.
"Six or seven weeks had passed away since this little incident, when I
one day met the Squire as I was going on an errand for my mother to the
village. He was on horseback, and his groom was in attendance. I was
thinking whether I ought to touch my hat to him or not, after his
insolence to my father, when he pulled up, exclaiming, 'Holloa!
youngster—your name is Splint, I believe?'—'Yes, sir.'—'Ah! I remember.
You are a very good lad, and I should wish to become a friend to you. I
think I gave you a crown once: well, here's another. And now answer me a
question or two. Did your sister ever say a word to her father or mother
about that visit of mine some weeks past, you know?'—I was so bewildered
by the apparent liberality of the Squire, and, boy-like, was so rejoiced
at the possession of the coin which I was rolling over and over in my
hand, that I suffered myself to be sifted by him at will; and I
acquainted him with the injunctions that my sister Marion had given me
on the occasion to which he had alluded. He seemed much pleased, but not
particularly astonished. In fact, it is of course easy to understand
what was passing in his mind, although I could not _then_ fathom his
thoughts. The respect which my father had shown him when they met in the
fields, evidently induced him to believe that Marion had _not_
acquainted her parents with his rudeness to her; and now he was pleased
to receive from my lips a confirmation of his conjecture on that point.
It was also natural for him to imagine that Marion was not in reality so
much offended with him as she had appeared to be; and it was doubtless
with this impression upon his mind that he proceeded to address me in
the following manner:—'To tell you the truth, my boy, I behaved rather
rudely to your charming sister; and I have repented of it ever since. I
do not like to call and offer an apology, because your father or mother,
or both, might be present. But if you will deliver a note to her
privately, I will write one; for I shall not feel happy till I have
convinced her that I am sorry for the past.'—'I am sure, sir,' I
replied, 'I shall be most happy to deliver such a letter to my sister,
and she will be most pleased to receive it; because she has often told
me that we always ought to forgive those who show repentance for their
errors.'—'An excellent maxim, my boy!' cried the Squire. He then desired
me to wait for him in a particular shop, which he named, in the village;
and, turning back, he rode thitherward, followed by his groom. I walked
on, thinking that the Squire was a much better man than he had at first
seemed,—wondering, too, how he could have been so harsh and unjust in
his observations towards my father, and yet so ready to acknowledge the
impropriety of his conduct towards my sister.
"Arrived in the village, I performed the commission entrusted to me by
my mother, and then repaired to the shop of Mr. Snowdon, chemist and
druggist, as directed by the young Squire. This gentleman was leaning on
the counter, writing on the sheet of paper with which the obsequious Mr.
Snowdon had provided him; and when it was terminated, the Squire folded
it, sealed it, and addressed it to _Miss Marion Splint_. Mr. Snowdon
caught a glimpse of the superscription, although he pretended to be
looking quite another way. The letter was then handed to me by the
Squire, accompanied by a whispered injunction to be sure and give it
privately to Marion; while another crown-piece anointed my hand at the
same time. I promised compliance with the instructions given, and
hurried back home. George Dalton was there, and he stayed to dinner; but
he departed soon afterwards, taking an affectionate leave of Marion as
usual. My father also went out to his work; my mother repaired to the
dairy; and I was now alone with my sister. 'Marion, dear,' said I, 'I
have got a surprise for you.'—'A surprise for me, Tim!' she
exclaimed.—'Yes; a letter from Squire Bulkeley.'—'Tim!' she cried, 'you
surely——.'—'Pray read it, Marion dear,' I interrupted her. 'Its contents
are a most respectful apology for his conduct some weeks ago. In fact,
he spoke quite like a gentleman about it, and said how sorry he was.'
Marion no longer hesitated to open the letter; but I saw that her
countenance suddenly became crimson, and she hastened up to her own
chamber, without uttering another word.
"An hour passed away, and she came down again. Having assured herself
that our mother was still occupied in the dairy, she said to me, 'Tim
dear, you must do me a kindness this very evening.'—'That I will,
Marion,' I answered. 'What is it?'—'Here is a letter for Squire
Bulkeley,' she said; and it struck me that there was something singular,
and not altogether natural in her voice and manner. 'If you meet father
on the way, say that you are going to inquire after neighbour Jones's
little daughter; and never tell any one, Tim, that you did this for me.
You are not old enough yet to understand my motives; but when you are,
you shall know them.'—I was never accustomed to question my sister, nor
even to deliberate on any thing she did; and away I sped to Bulkeley
Hall. The Squire was not at home; and so I left the letter. On my return
to the farm-house, I told Marion what I had done: she said I was a good
boy, and repeated her injunctions of the strictest secrecy.
"About a week after this incident, George Dalton took me out for a
ramble with him. I never saw him so happy and in such excellent spirits.
He spoke of the prospects of a good harvest; and observed that every
thing seemed to hold out a promise of happiness for Marion and himself.
Then he told me how glad he would always be to see me at his farm when
my sister should have become his wife. In this way he was talking, and I
was listening very attentively, when, as we were crossing a field on
Squire Bulkeley's estate, that gentleman suddenly appeared on the other
side of the hedge. 'Holloa! you fellows,' he cried; 'don't you know
you're trespassing?'—'I wasn't aware of it, Sir,' replied George,
touching his hat: 'the field has always been used as a short cut by the
people of the village; and there have been a foot-path and a stile at
each end, ever since I can remember.'—'And if my guardians chose to
permit the village people to use this short cut, it is no reason why I
should,' exclaimed the Squire, purple with rage. 'And so I order you off
at once, both of you.'—'Well, sir,' said George, still respectfully but
firmly, 'we shall never trespass again, now that we know it is
trespassing.'—'Go back, then!' cried Mr. Bulkeley.—'As we are nearer the
other end of the field, we may as well continue our walk in that
direction, sir,' returned George. 'It can't possibly make any difference
to you.'—'Yes, but it does though,' shouted the Squire. 'I order you
off; and you shan't advance another step.' Thus speaking, he sprang
through the hedge, and came towards us in a menacing manner.—'Look you,
Squire Bulkeley,' said George Dalton, without retreating a single pace:
'you warn me off your grounds, and I am prepared to obey. But you shall
not bully me, for all that.'—'Bully you!' cried the great man, now
turning perfectly white: 'do you think a gentleman like me knows what it
is to bully?'—'I think it seems very much as if you did, sir,' answered
George coolly.—'Low-bred scoundrel, insolent clod-hopper!' exclaimed the
Squire: 'you are not fit to stand in the presence of a gentleman. Go
back to your Marion, and console yourself with my leavings in that
quarter!'—'Villain! what do you mean?' cried George, rushing forward to
grasp the Squire by the throat.—'Wait one moment!' exclaimed the latter,
raising his arm and stepping back a few paces. 'I tell you that Marion
knows how to prefer a gentleman to a swineherd; and that boy there can
prove it,' he added, pointing to me.
"George Dalton turned a hasty and angry glance upon me; and I saw him
become deadly pale and tremble violently—I suppose because he saw that
my manner was embarrassed and confused. 'Tim,' he said, in a hoarse and
thick voice, 'do you know what this person means?' and he pointed
disdainfully towards the Squire, who seemed to feel a diabolical delight
at the evident pain which he was inflicting upon my sister's lover.—'If
that boy tells the truth,' said Mr. Bulkeley, 'he will admit——.'—'The
children of Farmer Splint were never known to tell a falsehood,'
interrupted George Dalton; 'and though you, sir, have made most cowardly
and insulting allusions to Marion, you are well aware that there
breathes not a purer being than she is, nor a greater scoundrel and liar
than you are. And if I restrain my hands from touching you, it is only
because you are too contemptible for serious notice. Come, Tim: let us
move on.'—'One word, George Dalton!' cried the Squire, his lips
quivering with rage. 'Ask that boy whether he knows of any thing that
has ever taken place between me and Marion. Remember, I am your
landlord; and your father's lease expires next Christmas.'—'We don't
care for the threats of a man like you, who endeavours to cause a breach
between me and a young lass that never did you any harm.'—'Oh! not at
all; but a great deal of good, on the contrary,' said the Squire, with a
chuckle of triumph. 'Why, it is but a week ago since that boy was the
bearer of the last notes which passed between us.'—'Liar!' thundered
George Dalton; and he was again on the point of rushing on the Squire,
when he checked himself, and turning to me said, 'Now, Tim, you are no
story-teller; and, indeed, I ought scarcely to insult Marion so far as
to ask such a question. But can you not tell this man to his face that
he is what I just now called him; namely, a liar?'—'Not if he tells the
truth,' observed Mr. Bulkeley coolly.—I hung down my head, and wished at
the moment that the earth would open and swallow me up.—'Tim,' said
George Dalton, again speaking in a hoarse tone, as dark suspicions were
revived in his mind, 'does this person who calls himself a gentleman
utter facts? did you ever convey letters between him and your sister?
Come, answer me, my boy: I cannot be angry with _you_.'—I faltered out a
faint 'Yes.'—'Then God have mercy upon me!' exclaimed George Dalton, in
a voice of piercing anguish, as he clasped his hands convulsively
together.
"The Squire stood gazing upon him with fiend-like malignity. I cannot
describe the dreadful picture of despair which George at that moment
seemed to be. At length he turned again towards me, and, grasping my
shoulder so tight that I nearly screamed out with pain, he said, 'Tim,
tell me all, or I shall do you a mischief. Does Marion receive letters
from Mr. Bulkeley?'—'She did one,' I stammered in reply, 'because I took
it to her. The Squire wrote it at Mr. Snowdon's.'—'And did Marion answer
it?' he demanded.—'She did,' I answered: 'but——'.—'Have you ever seen
the Squire and Marion together?' he asked in a hurried and now
dreadfully excited tone.—'Yes, once,' I said: 'but——.' And again I was
about to give certain explanations relative to what the Squire himself
had represented to me to be the nature and object of his letter to my
sister—namely, to apologise to her for some insult which he had offered
her: but George Dalton had not patience to hear me. Rushing upon the
Squire, he struck him to the ground, exclaiming, 'Vile seducer! you
glory in the ruin you have accomplished!' and then he darted away,
clearing the hedge with a bound, and was almost immediately out of
sight.
"The Squire rose slowly and with pain from the ground, muttering the
most dreadful threats of vengeance; and I, afraid that he might do me a
mischief, hurried off as quick as possible. I was old enough to
comprehend that George Dalton believed my sister to have been faithless
to him; and the same impression rapidly forced itself on my own mind.
Still I was sorry that George had not waited to hear all the additional
circumstances which I was about to relate; and it somehow or another
struck me that he would call on Mr. Snowdon, the chemist. I cannot now
account for this idea which I entertained: but I suppose it must have
been because that person's name was mentioned in the conversation, and
because I must have thought it probable that George would seek the
fullest confirmation of his cause of unhappiness. It is, however, very
certain that I hastened off to the village as quick as my legs would
carry me. But just as I entered Mr. Snowdon's shop, I caught sight of
George Dalton, standing at the counter talking to that individual. He
had his back towards me; and the chemist was so occupied with the
subject of conversation, that he also did not notice my entrance. I knew
not whether to advance or retreat; and while I stood hesitating, I
overheard Dalton say, 'And you are sure that the letter was addressed to
Marion?'—'I happened to catch a glimpse of the direction,' answered the
chemist, 'and I saw the Squire give the lad Timothy some money.'—'Then
am I indeed a wretched, miserable being!' exclaimed George Dalton; and
he rushed wildly from the shop, not noticing me as he hurried by. I was
so alarmed by his haggard looks and excited manner, that I was nailed as
it were to the spot; and it was not until Mr. Snowdon had asked me two
or three times what I wanted, that I recollected where I was. Then,
without giving any reply, I quitted the shop, and repaired homewards.
"I was afraid to enter the house; for I felt convinced that poor
Marion's happiness was menaced, and that even if she was not already
aware of the presence of the storm, not many hours would elapse ere it
would burst upon her head. And when I did reach the farm, my worst fears
were confirmed. The place was in confusion; Marion was in a state
bordering on distraction; and my father and mother were vainly
endeavouring to comfort her. An open letter lay upon the table:—without
reading its contents I could too well divine their nature and whence the
missive came. For some minutes my entrance was unperceived; but when at
last the intensity of Marion's grief was somewhat subdued, and her eyes
fell on me, she exclaimed, 'Oh! Tim, what have you done? what have you
been telling George, that he has written to say he will abandon me
forever, and that _you_ can explain the cause?'—'Reveal the whole truth,
boy,' said my father sternly, 'as some atonement for the misery which
you have been instrumental in producing.'—I then related all that had
occurred with the Squire and at the apothecary's shop.—My father and
mother showed, by their lowering countenances and searching glances
towards my sister, that they were a prey to harrowing suspicions; but
they did not interrupt the current of my story. Then, when I had
concluded, Marion, without waiting to be asked for an explanation, gave
it in the following manner:—
"'You cannot, my dear parents, think for a moment that I have acted
unworthily. Imprudent I may have been—but guilty, Oh! no—no! One day the
Squire called here, as you are well aware; and he sent Tim to search
after you, father. This was most probably a mere vile subterfuge on his
part; for when Tim had departed, the bad man began to speak to me in a
disparaging way of George; and when I begged him to desist, as he was
wronging an excellent being, his language took a bolder turn. He paid me
some compliments, which I affected not to hear; and at last his language
grew so insulting, that I was about to quit the room, when he caught me
round the waist. Oh! how can I tell you his insulting language?—but he
proposed to me—to me, your daughter, and beloved by George Dalton as I
then was,—the detestable man implored me to fly with him to his
mansion—to become his mistress!'—Here my father and mother made a
movement indicative of deep indignation; and Marion then continued
thus:—'I started away from him—I was rushing towards that inner room,
when Tim returned. I was now no longer alarmed, though still boiling
with anger: nevertheless I had presence of mind sufficient to command my
emotion so far as not to utter a word of reproach or complaint in the
presence of my brother. For, in a moment, did I perceive how necessary
it was to retain in my own breast the secret of the gross insult which I
had received. I reasoned to myself that the Squire was the landlord of
the Daltons—that their lease would expire at the end of the year—that it
would break the old man's heart to be compelled to quit a farm which had
been in his family for so many years—and that George possessed a fiery
spirit, which would render him blind to the consequences of avenging on
the Squire the insults offered to me. Of all this I thought: those ideas
flashed rapidly through my brain;—and I therefore not only resolved to
remain silent in respect to the insolence of Mr. Bulkeley, but also
tutored Tim to be so reserved, that you, my dear father and mother,
should not notice any thing unusual having occurred. When Tim brought me
the Squire's note, a week ago, I scarcely hesitated to read it, thinking
that it might indeed contain an apology. But, oh! you may conceive my
feelings, when I discovered that it repeated the insulting proposals
made to me on the first occasion. I knew not how to act; and prudence
struggled with wounded pride. But I reflected that Mr. Bulkeley was
wealthy and powerful enough to crush us all—for we _have_ seen
instances, my dear parents, of the rich landowners ruining the small
farmers, who to all appearance were independent of them: and again I
resolved to adopt a cautious line of conduct. I accordingly answered the
Squire's note. I implored him, as he was a gentleman and a Christian,
not to molest me more with importunities from which my very heart
revolted; I besought him not to ruin for ever the happy prospects of two
families by any means of vengeance with which circumstances or accident
might supply him; and I conjured him to believe that, in keeping secret
all that had hitherto passed between us, I was actuated only by the best
of motives. That letter was the one which Tim conveyed to the Squire;
and now, my dear parents, you know all.'
"I remember perfectly well that my father and mother were greatly
affected by the narrative which my pure-minded sister thus related to
them, and which was frequently interrupted by bursts of bitter anguish
on her part. She moreover added that she possessed the Squire's letter
to her and a copy of the one which she had written to him.—'Give me
those papers, my dear child,' said my father: 'and I will at once
proceed to neighbour Dalton's house. If I find George at home, I will
undertake to bring him back with me to pass the remainder of the day,
and to implore your forgiveness for his unjust suspicions; and if he is
not there, I am sure to see my old friend, to whom I will give all the
necessary explanations.'—Marion was somewhat soothed by the hopes thus
held out; and our father departed to the Daltons' farm, which was about
a mile off. Two hours elapsed before he came back; and when at last we
perceived him returning through the fields, he was alone. Marion burst
into tears: a presentiment of evil struck a chill to her heart; and as
our father approached, the serious expression of his countenance filled
us all with alarm. He entered and seated himself without uttering a
word. Marion threw herself into his arms, saying in a broken voice,
'Father, tell me the worst: I can bear every thing save suspense.'—'My
dearest child,' answered the old man, tears trickling down his cheeks,
'it has pleased heaven to afflict thee, and all of us likewise through
thee. George has quitted his home, and——.'—And what?' demanded Marion
hastily.—'And his father knows not whither he has gone,' continued he:
'but when the first fever of excitement is over, there can be no doubt
that he will return. Old Mr. Dalton is perfectly satisfied——.'
"But Marion heard not the words last addressed to her: she had fainted
in her father's arms;—and, when she was restored to consciousness, she
was so unwell that she was immediately removed to her own chamber. For
three weeks her life was despaired of; and she was constantly raving of
George Dalton. But at last, youth, a good constitution, and the care
taken of her, triumphed over the rage of fever; and she was pronounced
out of danger. Alas! what replies could be given to her anxious, earnest
questions concerning George? Old Dalton had not heard of him since the
fatal day when he disappeared. Was he no more? had he in a moment of
frenzy laid violent hands upon himself? There was too much reason to
suppose that such was the case: otherwise, would he not have written, or
returned? As gently as possible was the fatal truth, that no tidings had
been received of him, broken to Marion; and a partial relapse was the
consequence. But in another week she rallied again; and then the first
time she spoke of him, she said in as excited a tone at her feebleness
would allow, 'Had he ceased to love me—had he loved another, I could
have borne it! But that he should think me lost—faithless—degraded,—oh!
that is worse than even the bitterness of death!'
"Slowly—slowly did Marion recover sufficiently to rise from her bed: but
how altered was she! The gay, cheerful, ruddy girl, blooming with health
and rustic beauty, was changed into a pale, moping, mournful creature,
whose very presence seemed to render joy a crime and smiles a sacrilege.
The autumn came—the corn was cut—the harvest, as plentiful as had been
expected, was gathered in. Had George been there then, that was the
period settled for the wedding. And, strange as it may seem, it was
precisely on the day originally resolved upon as the one to render the
young couple happy,—that old Dalton _did_ receive tidings of his son.
George was alive, and had enlisted in a regiment then stationed at
Chatham, but shortly to embark for India. The young man wrote a letter
communicating these facts, and referring to a former letter which he had
written to his father a few days after he had quitted home, but the
miscarriage of which had produced so much uncertainty and painful
suspense. The colour came back to Marion's cheeks when she heard that
her lover was alive; and she said, 'Even though I may never see him
more, I can yet be happy; for he will now learn that I am still as I
have ever been, his faithful and devoted Marion!' Meantime, old Dalton
and my father were deliberating together what course to pursue; and it
was determined that the discharge of George should be immediately
purchased. The proper steps were taken, under the advice of an attorney
in the nearest market-town; and in the mean time his father wrote to him
a full account of the Squire's treachery and Marion's complete
innocence. The return of post brought the tenderest and most pathetic
letter to Marion, imploring her forgiveness, and assuring her that his
extreme love had driven him to such a state of desperation as to render
his native district hateful to him, and had induced him to enlist. I
need scarcely say, that Marion now enjoyed hopes of happiness again: her
cheeks recovered their lost bloom—her step grew light as formerly, and
her musical voice once more awoke the echoes of the homestead. In six
weeks time we heard that George was free, and on his way home. He
came:—it is impossible to describe the unbounded joy of the meeting!
"And now there was no longer any obstacle to the union of the lovers,
nor any wish in any quarter to delay it. The marriage was accordingly
celebrated and a happier pair never issued from the village-church; nor
did ever the bells appear to ring so merrily before. There were grand
doings at our farm-house, for my mother was determined to give a treat
to all her neighbours;—and the feast was such a one as I never can
forget. Long after George had borne away his bride to his father's
house, which, as already long before arranged, was to be the young
couple's home, the dancing was kept up on the green in front of our
dwelling, though the cold weather had already begun to show itself. But
all hearts were gay and happy, and warm with good feelings; and the old
ale and the punch flowed bountifully; for it was one of those days in
people's lives which are a reward for whole ages of care. Ah! when I
look back at those times, and think of what I was—and now reflect for a
moment on what I am——But, no; I must not reflect at all. Let me continue
this history without pausing for meditation!
"The happiness of both families was now complete; for even old Dalton
declared that he had so much reason for joy in the turn which
circumstances had lately taken, that he could even make up his mind to
receive a refusal when he should apply for the renewal of his lease. But
just at this time fortune seemed determined to be propitious; for Squire
Bulkeley, who was in London when the return of George and the marriage
took place, sent down a legal gentleman to make arrangements with his
steward for the sale of a part of his estate in Hampshire, as he wanted
to make up the money to purchase a small property in Kent. He was a wild
and reckless fellow, and full of whims and fancies; and he cared not
which portion of his land was sold, so long as his preserves and park
were left. Well, it happened that old Dalton, hearing of this, went
straight to the lawyer, and proposed to purchase the farm which had been
rented by his family for so many years. The offer was accepted: by the
aid of my father the money was made up and paid. Dalton was now a
landowner; but he did not remain so long—for he made over all his newly
acquired property to his son George, who laboured hard to improve it.
"Shortly after this transaction, it was rumoured in the neighbourhood
that the Squire had flown into a tremendous passion when he received the
news that the Daltons had purchased the farm. He had no doubt intended
to turn them out at Christmas; but he had omitted to except their farm
from the part of the estate to be sold. The Daltons cared nothing for
his anger; and George even said that he now considered himself
sufficiently avenged upon the perfidious gentleman. Shortly after
Christmas the Squire came down to Bulkeley Hall with a party of friends;
and the mansion once again rang with the din of revellers. And now I
come to a very important incident in my narrative.
"One day George Dalton had occasion to visit the neighbouring
market-town to buy a horse; and he stayed to dine in company with the
other farmers at the principal inn. The landlord of the inn dined at the
same table with his guests; and, during the meal, he informed the
company that a poor discharged gamekeeper had died at the house on the
preceding evening, leaving behind him his only possession—the only thing
that he had been able to retain from the wreck of his former
prosperity,—namely, a beautiful greyhound. The farmers were interested
in the tale, and instantly made a subscription to defray the expenses of
the poor man's funeral, and remunerate the good landlord for the care
and attention which he had bestowed on the deceased during his last
illness. The hound was brought in, and every one admired it greatly. The
landlord observed that his wife had such an aversion to dogs, he did not
dare keep it on the premises; and he proposed that the farmers should
raffle amongst them to decide to whom the hound should belong. This was
assented to; and the lot fell on George Dalton. He accordingly took the
dog home with him, and related all that had occurred to his father and
his wife, both of whom were much pleased by the acquisition of such a
fine animal, and under such interesting circumstances. The poor
gamekeeper's dog accordingly became an immediate favourite.
"About a week or ten days afterwards, and in the month of February,
George went out early, accompanied by the hound. The morning was fine
and frosty, but excessively cold; and George whistled cheerily as he
went along, Ponto trotting close at his heels. Suddenly a hare started
from her form; and away dashed the greyhound after her. George knew that
he had no right to pursue game even on his own land; and he ran after
the dog as hard as he could, calling him back. But he might as well have
whistled against the thunder: Ponto was too eager in the chase to mind
the invocations of his master. Well, after a short but exciting run, the
hound caught and killed the hare in the very last field belonging to
George's farm, the adjoining land being the Squire's. And, sure enough,
at that very instant Mr. Bulkeley appeared, accompanied by two
gamekeepers, on the other side of the boundary palings. 'George Dalton,
by God!' cried the Squire, with a malignant sneer on his
countenance.—But George took no notice of his enemy; for he had promised
Marion in the most solemn manner to avoid all possibility of quarrelling
with so dangerous an individual.—'I did not know that you took out a
certificate, Mr. Dalton,' observed the Squire, after a pause.—'Neither
do I, sir,' replied George in a cold but respectful manner; 'and I have
done nothing that I am ashamed of; for, if you have been here many
minutes, you must have heard me trying to call the dog off.'—'We know
what we heard, Mr. Dalton,' said the Squire, with a significant grin at
his gamekeepers;—and away the gentleman and keepers went, chuckling
audibly. The very next day an information was laid by the Squire against
George Dalton, who accordingly attended before the magistrates. Squire
Bulkeley was himself a justice of the peace; and he sate on the bench
along with his brother magistrates, acting as both judge and prosecutor.
The two gamekeepers swore that they saw George encourage the dog to
pursue the hare; and it was in vain that the defendant represented the
whole circumstances of the case. He was condemned in the full penalty
and costs, and abused shamefully into the bargain. Smarting under the
iron scourge of oppression, and acting by the advice of an attorney whom
he had employed in the case, George Dalton gave notice of appeal to the
Quarter Sessions. His wife, my father, and old Mr. Dalton implored him
to settle the matter at once and have done with it: but he declared that
he should be unworthy of the name of an Englishman if he suffered
himself to be thus trampled under the feet of the despotic magistracy.
The attorney, who was hungry after a job, nagged him on, too; and thus
every preparation was made to carry the affair before the Sessions.
"The event made a great stir in that part of the country, and the
liberal papers took George's part. They said how utterly worthless, as
an engine of justice, was the entire system of the unpaid magistracy;
and they denounced that system as a monstrous oppression, instituted
against the people.[30] Well, the case came on before the assembled
magistrates; but on the bench sate not only the justice who had
condemned George Dalton, but likewise Squire Bulkeley, the prosecutor
himself! Judgment was given against my brother-in-law; and he suddenly
found himself called upon to pay about sixty pounds—the amount of all
the aggregate expenses which the original case and the appeal
occasioned. The money was made up with great difficulty, and not without
my father's aid; and though George Dalton was thus relieved from any
fears of the consequences, yet he became an altered man. He went to work
with a heavy heart, because he could not prevent himself from brooding
over his wrongs. He also found frequent excuses for visiting the
village; and on those occasions he never failed to step into the
ale-house for a few minutes. There he found sympathizers; and his
generous nature prompted him to treat those who took his part. One pot
led to another; and every time he entered the ale-house, his stay was
prolonged. Care now entered both the farm-houses. In one, old Dalton and
Marion deplored the change which had taken place in George; and in the
other, my parents could not close their ears to the rumours which
reached them, nor shut their eyes against the altered manner of their
son-in-law. The great proof of dogged obstinacy which George gave, was
in his conduct respecting the hound. Those who wished him well, implored
him to dispose of it; but he declared that he considered himself bound,
by reason of the manner in which he had acquired the dog, to maintain
and treat the animal kindly. He, however, kept Ponto chained up in the
farmyard.
[Illustration]
"Time wore on; the summer arrived and passed; and the autumn yielded so
good a harvest that the produce was a complete set off against the heavy
expenses entailed on the two families by the unlucky appeal. This
circumstance somewhat cheered George's spirits; and the birth of a fine
boy restored him almost completely to his former gaiety. In the evening,
instead of finding some pretence to repair to the village, he sate with
his beloved Marion; and happiness once more entered the homestead. But
misfortune was again impending over the head of George Dalton. It was
one morning in the month of November, that he was repairing to his work,
with a spade and a hoe over his shoulder, whistling as he was wont to do
ere oppression had wronged him; and wondering, also, how he could ever
have been so foolish as to pay such frequent visits to the public-house
in the village. His mind was occupied, too, with the image of his
Marion, whom he had left nourishing her babe; and perhaps his heart was
never lighter than at that moment. But suddenly, he heard a slight noise
behind him; and, turning round, he beheld Ponto, who, having succeeded
in slipping his collar, had scampered after his master. George's first
impulse was to secure the dog; but, as the devil would have it, at that
very instant a hare jumped from her form close by. Ponto escaped from
George's grasp, and the chase ensued. My brother-in-law was
bewildered—he knew not how to act; but at last he pursued the hound,
taking care, however, not to call him. Away went Ponto—the hare doubled
and turned—George managing to keep them in sight. At length, to his
horror, the hare swept towards a hedge, which in that point separated
the Daltons' property from the Squire's preserves:—the hedge was passed
by the pursued and the pursuing animals, and the chase was now
maintained on Mr. Bulkeley's estate. But the run soon terminated by the
death of the hare; and George, after casting a rapid glance around to
assure himself that the coast was clear, sprang through the hedge to
secure Ponto. He was, however, doomed to misfortune on this, as on the
former occasion. The gamekeepers were up before he could retrace his
steps into his own property; and he was immediately seized as a poacher
and a trespasser. In dogged silence he accompanied the keepers to the
house of the same magistrate who had before convicted him; but that
'worthy gentleman' was absent in London, and the prisoner was
accordingly taken before the rector of the parish, who was also in the
commission of the peace. The Squire was sent for, and the case was
entered into under all the unfavourable circumstances of a previous
conviction—a fruitless appeal—the exaggerated or positively false
representations of the gamekeepers—the malignity of the Squire, and the
readiness of his Reverence to believe every thing that was set forth to
the prejudice of the prisoner. The parson-justice determined to send the
case to the Sessions; and George was ordered to find bail. This was
easily done, and he was accordingly liberated.
"This second misfortune, of the same kind, plunged the two families into
the deepest affliction, and made Marion very ill. George said but little
on the subject: he refused this time to employ any legal advice in
getting up his defence, both on account of the expense, and because it
was notorious that the unpaid magistrates always dealt more harshly with
those persons who _dared_ to show fight with the weapons of the law.
Again there was a great sensation in the neighbourhood; and every one
waited anxiously for the day of trial. That day came; and George left
his Marion on a bed of sickness, to repair to the market-town. The
Squire, the parson-justice, and the magistrate who had convicted the
defendant on the previous occasion, and who had by this time returned
from London, were all on the bench. The two gamekeepers swore that
George Dalton had coursed with the same hound which had led him into
trouble before—that he had persisted in keeping the dog in spite of the
remonstrances of his friends—that in the case then under the cognisance
of the court, he had encouraged the dog to chase the hare—that he had
followed into the Squire's land—and that he was in the act of concealing
the hare about his person when he was stopped by the keepers. George
told the entire truth in defence, and implored the magistrates not to
allow him to be crushed and ruined by the malignity of Squire Bulkeley.
He was then about to enter into explanations to show wherefore the
Squire persecuted him; but the chairman stopped him abruptly, saying,
that he had no right to impute improper motives to any member of the
court. The Squire, moreover, indignantly—or, at least, with seeming
indignation—denied any such selfish purposes as those sought to be
imputed to him; and it was very evident, that even if the magistrates
were not already prejudiced against Dalton, this attempt at explanation
on his part fully succeeded in rendering them so. George was sentenced
to three months' imprisonment in the County House of Correction; and he
was forthwith removed thither without being allowed to go home first and
embrace his sick wife.
"You may suppose that Marion was distracted when she received this
intelligence, although my mother went and broke it to her as gently as
possible. Old Dalton was so overwhelmed with grief that he became
dreadfully ill, took to his bed, and died three weeks after his beloved
son's condemnation. My mother went to stay altogether with Marion until
George's return, which took place at the expiration of his sentence. But
how he was altered!—altered in mind as well as in personal appearance.
He was gaol-tainted: his honourable feelings were impaired—his generous
sympathies were ruined. He was still kind and tender to Marion and his
child; but his visits to the ale-house soon re-commenced, and he
neglected his work more and more. One night, about six weeks after his
release from prison, a tremendous conflagration was seen in the
immediate neighbourhood of the Squire's mansion: all the out-houses and
farms were on fire; and, despite of the assistance rendered by Mr.
Bulkeley's people, those premises were reduced to ashes. That it was the
work of an incendiary was clearly ascertained; and suspicion instantly
pointed to George Dalton. He was taken before a magistrate and examined;
but nothing could be proved against him. The magistrate, however,
observed, that he felt convinced of George's guilt, and deeply regretted
the necessity there was to discharge him. I well remember that my father
and mother evinced by their manner their fears that George was indeed
the incendiary.
"From that moment a dreadful change came over my sister Marion. She grew
profoundly melancholy; but not a murmur nor a complaint escaped her
lips. There can be no doubt that _she_ was aware who the incendiary was;
and that knowledge was the death-blow to her happiness. The child,
deprived of its proper nutriment—for Marion wasted to a mere
shadow—drooped and died; and the poor mother declared hysterically that
its loss was the greatest blessing which could have happened to her.
This was the only allusion she was ever heard to make, direct or
indirect, to the unhappy state of her mind and of her home. George
continued kind to her; but kind rather in the shape of forbearance than
in tokens of affection: that is to say, he never said a harsh word to
her—nor beat her—nor slighted her; but he gave her little of his
society, and was usually silent and thoughtful when in her presence.
"One day the parson-justice, whom I have before mentioned, called on the
Daltons, and remonstrated with George on his conduct in absenting
himself from church.—'I shall never go again, sir,' was the dogged
answer.—'And why not?' demanded the clergyman.—'Because I got no good by
it,' replied Dalton. 'The more I strove to be respectable, the more I
was persecuted. The hound I liked, almost as if it was a human being,
and which got me into two dreadful scrapes, was obliged to be given
away; my father was killed by grief for my wrongs; and my wife's sorrow
has led to the death of my child. My character is gone; and I know that
sooner or later, I must be ruined, as I have no heart for work. Every
thing that one prays for, and that I have so often prayed for, has been
swept away: I mean an honest reputation; the bread of industry; a
cheerful disposition, and the health and long life of those who are near
and dear to us.'—'Then you refuse to go to church any more?' said the
parson-justice.—'I do,' was the answer; 'and the law can't compel
me.'—'We shall see,' observed the Rector; and away he went. A few days
afterwards the Squire issued a summons for George Dalton to attend
before him. George went, and found that the Rector had laid an
information against him, under an obsolete Act of Parliament,[31] for
having absented himself from divine service during a period of six
months. George was astounded at the charge, but could not deny its
truth. The Squire accordingly sentenced him to a month's imprisonment in
the House of Correction; and George was taken back to his old
quarters—to the farther contamination of a gaol!
"This was another dreadful blow for Marion; and it produced such an
effect upon our father, that, like old Dalton, he fell ill, and soon
died. When George was liberated once more, he was compelled to part with
his farm at a great loss; for his misfortunes and his absence on two
occasions had left it but indifferently cultivated; and, moreover, as my
father was now gone, it was thought better that we should all live
together. Dalton's farm was accordingly put up for sale; and the Squire
became the possessor of the land once more. George was now almost
constantly at the ale-house. Instead of expending the money realised by
the sale of the farm, after paying the debts due, in increasing the
stock and improving the tillage of our land, he squandered it away on
worthless companions. His wife never remonstrated when he came home
late; but would sit up for him patiently and resignedly: and if ever my
mother said any thing, she would observe, 'Poor George feels his wrongs
too acutely to be able to bear up against them: there are great
allowances to be made for him.' Thus did about two years pass away; and,
though I and the two labourers whom we kept worked hard on the farm, yet
it wanted the master-hand to superintend; and we found that its produce
now scarcely yielded a bare maintenance when every thing was paid.
Marion gradually got worse; but her endurance was inexhaustible. It
often gave me pain to look at that poor, pale, wasted young woman, and
think of her blooming charms when she first loved George Dalton. Her
heart was breaking slowly—slowly—slowly! Had she been passionate, or
liable to the influence of strong emotions, she would have gone rapidly
down to the tomb; but she was so meek—so amiable—so resigned—so
patient—so enduring, that her very weakness was her strength.
"Upwards of two years had passed since George's second liberation from
confinement, when it was found necessary to raise money to increase the
stock of the farm, and buy seed for sowing. George applied to the same
attorney who had got up his defence on the occasion of his appeal; and
this man offered to induce one of his clients to lend a certain sum on
George's and my mother's joint bill of exchange, which he said would
save all the expense of a mortgage. My mother objected strongly; but
George promised so faithfully to amend his conduct if she would consent,
that she did agree. The money was raised; but a considerable portion
found its way to the public-house before any purchases were made. Even
then, George forgot his pledges, and became, if possible, more idle and
dissipated than before. The bill became due, and there were no assets to
meet it. The lawyer, however, undertook to manage the affair; and he
induced George and my mother to sign some parchment deed, which he
previously read over in a hasty mumbling way, and in which blanks were
left for the names of another person who appeared to be interested in
it; and also blanks for certain dates, fixing the particular conditions
as to time. My mother inquired why the name of the other party was not
filled in; and the lawyer replied, with a chuckle, 'Oh! that is for the
name of my client; and as he has only lent the money to serve you, and
not as a mere lender, motives of delicacy induce this suppression for
the time being.'—My mother did not like it; but George urged her to
sign, and she did so.
"Three months after that an execution was levied upon the farm, at the
suite of Squire Bulkeley, the lawyer's accommodating client, who had
hitherto kept his name secret! George Dalton was at first a prey to the
most terrific rage; but he mastered his feelings at the intercession of
Marion and our mother. We were compelled to quit the farm, which now
became the property of the Squire, by virtue of the roguish deed which
had been drawn up by the unprincipled attorney; and we retired to a
humble lodging in the village. Need I say how we all felt this sad
reverse—this dreadful degradation? My mother and Marion strove hard to
subdue their anguish, in order not to irritate the already much excited
George; but there were moments when his outbursts of rage were furious
in the extreme. He invoked curses upon the head of the Squire, whom he
denounced as the murderer of his father and of mine, and also of his
child; and he vowed to wreak a deadly vengeance upon him. At the
ale-house, it seems, these threats were repeated, accompanied with the
bitterest imprecations. On the following day George was arrested, and
conveyed before the parson-justice, on a charge of threatening the life
of Squire Bulkeley. He was ordered to find good bail for keeping the
peace; but security was impossible in respect to one so fallen, lost,
and characterless as he. To prison, then, again he was sent; and for
three months he languished there, doubtless brooding over the awful
wrongs which the Squire had heaped upon him. And all this time the
Squire held up his head high; and no one in his own sphere of life
seemed to think that he had acted at all unjustly or tyrannically. On
the contrary, the gentry and the influential farmers in the
neighbourhood, looked on George Dalton as an irreclaimable scamp, who
had only got what he well deserved. Even those persons of the poorer
class, who were formerly our friends, looked coldly on us, and shook
their heads when the name of George Dalton was mentioned. So sure is it
that if you give a dog a bad name, you may hang him.
"We lived as sparingly as possible on the wreck of our little property,
during the three months that George's third imprisonment lasted; but I
found it very difficult to get work, as the farmers said '_that I was as
bad as my brother-in-law_.' And yet there was not a steadier lad in the
whole county than myself; and, though invited, I never set foot in the
ale-house. I was moreover regular in attendance at church, along with my
mother and sister. But I got a bad name without deserving it; and even
when I could procure a little employment, I was subjected to a thousand
annoyances. Unpleasant hints would be dropped about the burning down of
the Squire's out-houses, and the name of George Dalton was darkly
alluded to in connexion with that business; or, if I refused, on a
Saturday night, to accompany my fellow-labourers to the ale-house, I was
taunted with knowing something that I was afraid of confessing in my
cups. At that time I often thought of running away, and seeking my
fortune elsewhere; but when I looked at my poor mother, now deprived of
almost necessaries, and my sister pining away, I had not the heart to do
it. Besides, I was greatly attached to George Dalton, and was anxious to
see in what state of mind he would come out of prison. Three times
during his incarceration was Marion allowed to visit him; and on each
occasion she returned home to our humble lodging weeping bitterly.
Neither my mother nor myself ever questioned her much; for we knew her
extreme devotion to George, and that she would not only always endeavour
to conceal his failings as much as possible, but that she likewise
strove to hold out hopes of his complete reformation. But when he was
emancipated once more, he had become sullen, dogged, and
morose—_forbearing_ only in respect to Marion, to whom he could no
longer be said to be positively _kind_. He did not mention the name of
the Squire, nor in any way allude to him; neither did he visit the
ale-house—and thus my mother and I began to hope that Marion's fond
hopes were likely to be fulfilled.
"Having recruited his strength by a few days' rest, after his
half-famished sojourn in the gaol, George one morning said to me, 'Now,
Tim, you and me will go out and look for work.' We accordingly set off,
but applied fruitlessly at all the farm-houses in the neighbourhood.
Some did not want hands: others positively refused to have any thing to
do with George Dalton or any one connected with him. We were returning
homeward, mournful enough, when we passed a large lime-kiln, the owner
of which had been very intimate with George's father and mine. He
happened to be coming up from the pit at the moment when we were
passing; and stopping us, he entered into conversation. Finding that we
were in search of work, he offered to employ us in the chalk-pit; and we
readily accepted the proposal. Next day we went to work; and when the
Saturday night came round, we were paid liberally. Thus several weeks
elapsed; and we earned enough to keep the home comfortably. Our master
was good and kind to us; and the spirits of my brother-in-law appeared
to revive. But he never mentioned the Squire, nor alluded to the past
oftener than he could help.
"We had been employed in this manner for about three months, when one
evening George and I stayed later than the other labourers in the
chalk-pit, to finish a job which we knew the owner wanted to be
completed as soon as possible. It was ten o'clock before we made an end
of our toil; and we were just on the point of retiring, when we saw two
persons walking slowly along the brink of the chalk-pit. The moon was
bright—the night was beautifully clear; and we obtained a full view of
the two figures: but as we were at the bottom of the precipice, they
could not have seen us, even if they had looked attentively downward.
'Tim,' said George, in a low, hoarse whisper, 'one of those men is the
Squire. I recognised his infernal countenance just now when the
moonlight fell full upon it.'—We remained perfectly quiet at the foot of
the chalky side of the pit; although I do not believe that George had
any bad intention in view, and I only stayed because he did.
"The Squire and his companion began to talk together; and by the name in
which Mr. Bulkeley addressed the other, George and I immediately knew
that he was one of the very gamekeepers who had twice perjured
themselves in mis-stating the circumstances connected with the exploits
of Ponto.—'And so you say that the scoundrel Dalton works in this pit
now, eh?' observed the Squire.—'Yes, sir,' replied the other: 'he's come
down to that at last.'—'By God! I never shall be contented till I send
him to Botany Bay, or to the scaffold!' exclaimed the Squire. 'But
sooner or later, you see, I obtain vengeance on those who offend me. Old
Splint refused to sell me his field, and spoke insolently to me: he died
of grief through all that has happened, and the entire farm is now mine.
Old Dalton contrived to buy his land, through my cursed neglect in
forgetting to tell my agent to except his property from any part that
might be sold; but he also died of grief, and the land has come back to
me. Ah! ah! I bought that in again too, no doubt to the vexation of
young Dalton. Then, next we have the insolent jade Marion: she refused
my overtures, and persisted in marrying Dalton; and what has she gained?
Nothing but misery. As for George Dalton himself, he insulted and struck
me, besides carrying off Marion as it were before my very eyes and
making her his wife, when she was much more fitted to become my
mistress;—and what has _he_ got for his pains? I have crushed and ruined
him, and I will never stop till I have shown him what it is to dare to
offend an English landowner. But you say that this is the pit where he
works?'—'Yes, sir,' answered the gamekeeper.—'Well, I shall see his
master to-morrow,' continued the Squire; 'and I'll be bound to say
George Dalton will not do another week's work in this place. You may now
go and join your men in the preserves; and I shall return to the Hall,
by the short cut through the fields. The night is uncommonly fine,
however, and is really tempting enough to make one stay out an hour or
two.'—'It is very fine, sir,' answered the gamekeeper. 'Good night,
sir;'—and the man walked rapidly away, the Squire remaining on the edge
of the pit, about thirty feet above the spot where George and I were
crouched up.
"'Tim,' said George at last,—and his voice was deep and hollow, although
he spoke in a low whisper,—'do you remain here quite quiet: I must have
a word or two with that man.'—'For God's sake, George,' I said, 'do not
seek a quarrel.'—'No, I won't seek a quarrel exactly,' returned my
brother-in-law; 'but I cannot resist the opportunity to tell my mind to
this miscreant who is now seeking to deprive us of our bread.'—And
before I had time to utter another word, George was gliding rapidly but
almost noiselessly up the craggy side of the chalk-pit, holding by the
furze that grew in thick strong bunches. I confess that a strong
presentiment of evil struck terror to my soul; and I remained breathless
and trembling, where he had left me, but gazing upwards with intense
anxiety. 'Holloa!' suddenly exclaimed the Squire, who had remained for
nearly three minutes on the top of the precipice after his gamekeeper
had quitted him—most likely brooding over the new scheme of vengeance
which his hateful mind had planned: 'holloa!' he said; 'who is
there?'—'I, George Dalton!' cried my brother-in-law, suddenly leaping to
within a few paces of where the Squire was standing, and confronting the
bad man like a ghost rising from a grave in the presence of the
murderer.—'And what the devil do you want here, scoundrel?' exclaimed
the Squire.—'Rather what do _you_ want, plotting against me still?'
demanded George. 'I overheard every word that passed between you and
your vile agent; and if there was any doubt before as to your detestable
malignity, there is none now.'—'Listeners never hear any good of
themselves,' retorted the Squire; 'and if I called you a rascal, as
perhaps I might have done, I meant what I said, and you heard yourself
mentioned by your proper name.'—'Villain! miscreant!' cried George, now
quite furious; 'you shall no longer triumph over me!'—And in another
moment they were locked in a firm embrace, but not of love; and in the
next moment after that, they rolled over the edge of the precipice, down
to within a few paces where I was standing.
"A scream of terror escaped me; for I thought that they must be killed.
The Squire lay senseless; but George leapt upon his feet—and almost at
the same instant a low moan denoted that his enemy was not dead.—'Thank
God, murder has not been done!' I exclaimed.—'But murder _will_ be done,
Tim, this night,' said George, in a voice not loud, but so terrible in
its tone that it made my blood run cold in my veins. 'Yes,' he
continued, 'my mortal enemy is now in my power. For a long time have I
brooded over the vengeance that I had resolved to take upon him when no
one should be near to tell the tale; for _you_ will not betray me,
Tim—you will not give me up to the hangman on account of what I may
do?'—'George, I implore you not to talk thus,' I said, falling on my
knees at his feet.—'As there is a living God, Tim, above us,' said
George, solemnly, 'if you attempt to thwart me, I will make away with
you also!' And having thus spoken, he raised the Squire in his arms,
while I still remained on my knees, horrified and speechless. Never,
never shall I forget the feelings which then possessed me! The Squire
recovered his senses, and exclaimed, 'Where am I? Who are you?'—'George
Dalton, your mortal enemy,' was the terrific reply.—'Oh! I recollect
now,' cried the Squire, wildly. 'But do not murder me!'—'Your last hour
is come! and your death shall be as terrible as human revenge can render
it!' said George, in a voice which I should not have recognised without
a foreknowledge that it was actually he who was speaking.—'Mercy!' cried
the Squire, as George dragged him away towards the middle of the pit.