Did you ever examine an ant-hill, dear reader? What a wonderful little
cosmos it is--what an epitome of a great city--of the human race! See
how the little fellows run bustling along upon their several
businesses--see how some get out of each other's way, how others
jostle, and others walk over their fellows' heads! But especially mark
that black gentleman, pulling hard to drag along a fat beetle's leg
and thigh, three times as large as his own body. He cannot get it on,
do what he will; and yet he tugs away, thinking it a very fine haunch
indeed. He does not perceive, what is nevertheless the fact, that
there are two others of his own race pulling at the other end, and
thus frustrating all his efforts.
And thus it is with you, and me, and every one in the wide world. We
work blindly, unknowing the favoring or counteracting causes that are
constantly going on around us, to facilitate or impede our endeavors.
The wish to look into futurity is vain, irrational, almost impious;
but what a service would it be to any man if he could but get a sight
into Fate's great workshop, and see only that part in which the events
are on the anvil that affect our own proceedings. Still, even if we
did, we might not understand the machinery after all, and only burn or
pinch our fingers in trying to put pieces together which fate did not
intend to fit.
In the mean time--that is to say while the attorney and his companion
were talking together at the alehouse--Sir Philip Hastings rode
quietly up the hill to the cottage I have before described, and
therefore shall not describe again, merely noticing that it now
presented an appearance of neatness and repair which it had not before
possessed. He tied his horse to the palings, walked slowly up the
little path, gazing right and left at the cabbages and carrots on
either side, and then without ceremony went in.
The cottage had two tenants at this time, the invalid old woman, and
another, well-nigh as old but less decrepit, who had been engaged to
attend upon her in her sickness. How she got the money to pay her no
one knew, for her middle life and the first stage of old age had been
marked by poverty and distress; but somehow money seems to have a
natural affinity for old age. It grows upon old people, I think, like
corns; and certainly she never wanted money now.
There she was, lying in her bed, a miserable object indeed to see. She
was like a woman made of fungus--not of that smooth, putty-like,
fleshy fungus which grows in dank places, but of the rough, rugged,
brown, carunculated sort which rises upon old stumps of trees and
dry-rot gate-posts. Teeth had departed nearly a quarter of a century
before, and the aquiline features had become more hooked and beaky for
their loss; but the eyes had now lost their keen fire, and were dull
and filmy.
The attorney was quite right. Hate was the last thing to go out in the
ashes where the spark of life itself lingered, but faintly. At first
she could not see who it was entered the cottage; for the sight now
reached but a short distance from her own face. But the sound of his
voice, as he inquired of the other old woman how she was going on, at
once showed her who it was, and hate at least roused "the dull cold
ear of death."
For a moment or two she lay muttering sounds which seemed to have no
meaning; but at length she said, distinctly enough, "Is that Philip
Hastings?"
"Yes, my poor woman," said the baronet; "is there any thing I can do
for you?"
"Come nearer, come nearer," she replied, "I cannot see you plainly."
"I am close to you, nevertheless," he answered. "I am touching the bed
on which you lie."
"Let me feel you," continued she--"give me your hand."
He did as she asked him; and holding by his hand, she made a great
struggle to raise herself in bed; but she could not, and lay exhausted
for a minute before she spoke again.
At length, however, she raised her voice louder and shriller than
before--"May a curse rest upon this hand and upon that head!" she
exclaimed; "may the hand work its own evil, and the head its own
destruction! May the child of your love poison your peace, and make
you a scoff, and a by-word, and a shame! May the wife of your bosom
perish by----"
But Sir Philip Hastings withdrew his hand suddenly, and an unwonted
flush came upon his cheek.
"For shame!" he said, in a low stern tone, "for shame!"
The next moment, however, he recovered himself perfectly; and turning
to the nurse he added, "Poor wretch! my presence only seems to excite
evil feelings which should long have passed away, and are not fit
counsellors for the hour of death. If there be any thing which can
tend to her bodily comfort that the hall can supply, send up for it.
The servants have orders. Would that any thing could be done for her
spiritual comfort; for this state is terrible to witness."
"She often asks for a priest, your worship," said the nurse. "Perhaps
if she could see one she might think better before she died."
"Alas, I doubt it," replied the visitor; "but at all events we cannot
afford her that relief. No such person can be found here."
"I don't know, Sir Philip," said the old woman, with a good deal of
hesitation; "they do say that at Carrington, there is--there is what
they call a seminary."
"You do not mean a papist college!" exclaimed the baronet, with
unfeigned surprise and consternation.
"Oh, dear, no sir," replied the nurse, "only a gentleman--a
seminary--a seminary priest, I think they call it; a papist certainly;
but they say he is a very good gentleman, all but that."
Sir Philip mused for a minute or two, and then turned to the door,
saying, "Methinks it is hard that a dying woman cannot have the
consolations of the rites of her own faith--mummery though they be. As
a magistrate, my good woman, I can give no authority in this business.
You must do as you think fit. I myself know of no priest in this
neighborhood, or I should be bound to cause his apprehension. I shall
take no notice of your word, however, and as to the rest, you must, as
I have said, act as you think fit. I did not make the laws, and I may
think them cruel. Did I make them, I would not attempt to shackle the
conscience of any one. Farewell," and passing through the door, he
remounted his horse and rode away.
It was in the early autumn time of the year, and the scene was
peculiarly lovely. I have given a slight description of it before, but
I must pause and dwell upon it once more, even as Sir Philip Hastings
paused and dwelt upon its loveliness at that moment, although he had
seen and watched it a thousand times before. He was not very
impressible by fine scenery. Like the sages of Laputa, his eyes were
more frequently turned inwards than outwards; but there was something
in that landscape which struck a chord in his heart, that is sure to
vibrate easily in the heart of every one of his countrymen.
It was peculiarly English--I might say singularly English; for I have
never seen any thing of exactly the same character anywhere else but
in Old England--except indeed in New England, where I know not whether
it be from the country having assimilated itself to the people, or
from the people having chosen the country from the resemblance to
their own paternal dwelling place, many a scene strikes the eye which
brings back to the wandering Englishman all the old, dear feelings of
his native land, and for a moment he may well forget that the broad
Atlantic rolls between him and and the home of his youth.
But let me return to my picture. Sir Philip Hastings sat upon his
horse's back, very nearly at the summit of the long range of hills
which bisected the county in which he dwelt. I have described, in
mentioning his park, the sandy character of the soil on the opposite
slope of the rise; but here higher up, and little trodden by
pulverizing feet, the sandstone rock itself occasionally broke out in
rugged maps, diversifying the softer characteristics of the scene.
Wide, and far away, on either hand, the eye could wander along the
range, catching first upon some bold mass of hill, or craggy piece of
ground, assuming almost the character of a cliff, seen in hard and
sharp distinctness, with its plume of trees and coronet of yellow
gorse, and then, proceeding onward to wave after wave, the sight
rested upon the various projecting points, each softer and softer as
they receded, like the memories of early days, till the last lines of
the wide sweep left the mind doubtful whether they were forms of earth
or clouds, or merely fancy.
Such was the scene on either hand, but straightforward it was very
different, but still quite English. Were you ever, reader, borne to
the top of a very high wave in a small boat, and did you ever, looking
down the watery mountain, mark how the steep descent, into the depth
below, was checkered by smaller waves, and these waves again by
ripples? Such was the character of the view beneath the feet of the
spectator. There was a gradual, easy descent from the highest point of
the whole county down to a river-nurtured valley, not unbroken, but
with lesser and lesser waves of earth, varying the aspect of the
scene. These waves again were marked out, first by scattered and
somewhat stunted trees, then by large oaks and chestnuts, not
undiversified by the white and gleaming bark of the graceful birch. A
massive group of birches here and there was seen; a scattered cottage,
too, with its pale bluish wreath of smoke curling up over the
tree-tops. Then, on the lower slope of all, came hedgerows of elms,
with bright green rolls of verdant turf between; the spires of
churches; the roofs and white walls of many sorts of man's
dwelling-places, and gleams of a bright river, with two or three
arches of a bridge. Beyond that again appeared a rich wide valley--I
might almost have called it a plain, all in gay confusion, with
fields, and houses, and villages, and trees, and streams, and towns,
mixed altogether in exquisite disorder, and tinted with all the
variety of colors and shades that belong to autumn and to sunset.
Down the descent, the eye of Sir Philip Hastings could trace several
roads and paths, every step of which he knew, like daily habits. There
was one, a bridle-way from a town about sixteen miles distant, which,
climbing the hills almost at its outset, swept along the whole range,
about midway between the summit and the valley. Another, by which he
had come, and along which he intended to proceed, traversed the crest
of the hills ere it reached the cottage, and then descended with a
wavy line into the valley, crossing the bridle-path I have mentioned.
A wider path--indeed it might be called a road, though it was not a
turnpike--came over the hills from the left, and with all those easy
graceful turns which Englishmen so much love in their highways, and
Frenchmen so greatly abhor, descended likewise into the valley, to the
small market-town, glimpses of which might be caught over the tops of
the trees. As the baronet sat there on horseback, and looked around,
more than one living object met his eye. To say nothing of some sheep
wandering along the uninclosed part of the hill, now stopping to
nibble the short grass, now trotting forward for a sweeter bite,--not
to notice the oxen in the pastures below, there was a large cart
slowly winding its way along an open part of the road, about half a
mile distant, and upon the bridle-path which I have mentioned, the
figure of a single horseman was seen, riding quietly and easily along,
with a sauntering sort of air, which gave the beholder at once the
notion that he was what Sterne would have called a "picturesque
traveller," and was enjoying the prospect as he went.
On the road that came over the hill from the left, was another rider
of very different demeanor, going along at a rattling pace, and
apparently somewhat careless of his horse's knees.
The glance which Sir Philip Hastings gave to either of them was but
slight and hasty. His eyes were fixed upon the scene before him,
feeling, rather than understanding, its beauties, while he commented
In his mind, after his own peculiar fashion. I need not trace the
procession of thought through his brain. It ended, however, with the
half uttered words,
"Strange, that such a land should have produced so many scoundrels,
tyrants, and knaves!"
He then slowly urged his horse forward, down the side of the hill,
soon reached some tall trees, where the inclosures and hedgerows
commenced, and was approaching the point at which the road he was
travelling, crossed the bridle-path, when he heard some loud, and as
it seemed to him, angry words, passing between two persons he could
not see.
"I will soon teach you that;" cried a loud, coarse tongue, adding an
exceedingly blasphemous oath, which I will spare the reader.
"My good friend," replied another milder voice, "I neither desire to
be taught any thing, just now, nor would you be the teacher I should
chose, if I did, though perchance, in case of need, I might give you a
lesson, which would be of some service to you."
Sir Philip rode on, and the next words he heard were spoken by the
first voice, to the following effect; "Curse me, if I would not try
that, only my man might get off in the mean time; and I have other
business in hand than yours. Otherwise I would give you such a licking
in two minutes, you would be puzzled to find a white spot on your skin
for the neat month."
"Two minutes would not detain you long," replied the calmer voice,
"and, as I have never had such a beating, I should like to see, first,
whether you could give it, and secondly, what it would be like."
"Upon my soul, you are cool!" exclaimed the first speaker with another
oath.
"Perfectly," replied the second; and, at the same moment, Sir Philip
Hastings emerged from among the trees, at the point where the two
roads crossed, and where the two speakers were face to face before his
eyes.
The one, who was in truth the sauntering traveller whom he has seen
wending along the bridle-path, was a tall, good-looking young man, of
three or four and twenty years of age. In the other, the Baronet had
no difficulty in recognizing at once, Tom Cutter, the notorious
poacher and bruiser, whom he had more than once had the satisfaction
of committing to jail. To see him mounted on a very fine powerful
horse, was a matter of no slight surprise to Sir Philip; but,
naturally concluding that he had stolen it, and was making off with
his prize for sale to the neighboring town, he rode forward and put
himself right in the way, determined to stop him.
"Ay, ay! Here is my man!" cried Tom Cutter, as soon as he saw him. "I
will settle with him first, and then for you, my friend."
"No, no, to an old proverb, first come must be first served," replied
the traveller, pushing his horse forward a few steps.
"Keep the peace, in the King's name!" exclaimed Sir Philip Hastings.
"I, as a magistrate, charge you, sir, to assist me in apprehending
this man!--Thomas Cutter, get off that horse!"
The only reply was a coarse and violent expletive, and a blow with a
thick heavy stick, aimed right at Sir Philip's head. The magistrate
put up his arm, which received the blow, and was nearly fractured by
it; but at the same moment, the younger traveller spurred forward his
horse upon the ruffian, and with one sweep of his arm struck him to
the ground.
Tom Cutter was upon, his feet again in a moment. He was accustomed to
hard blows, and like the immortal hero of Butler, could almost tell
the quality of the stick he was beat withal. He was not long in
discovering, therefore, that the fist which struck him was of no
ordinary weight, and was directed with skill as well as with vigor;
but he was accustomed to make it his boast, that he had never taken a
licking "from any man," which vanity caused him at once to risk such
another blow, in the hope of having his revenge.
Rushing upon the young stranger then, stick in hand, he prepared to
knock him from his horse; for the other appeared to have no defensive
arms, but a slight hazel twig, pulled from a hedge.
"He will jump off the other side of his horse," thought Tom Cutter;
"and then, if he do, I'll contrive to knock the nag over upon him. I
know that trick, well enough."
But the stranger disappointed him. Instead of opposing the horse
between him and his assailant, he sprung with one bound out of the
saddle, on the side next to the ruffian himself, caught the uplifted
stick with one hand, and seized the collar of the bruiser's coat with
the other.
Tom Cutter began to suspect he had made a mistake; but, knowing that
at such close quarters the stick would avail him little, and that
strength of thews and sinews would avail him much, he dropped the
cudgel, and grappled with the stranger in return.
It was all the work of a moment. Sir Philip Hastings had no time to
interfere. There was a momentary struggle, developing the fine
proportions and great strength and skill of the wrestlers; and then,
Tom Cutter lay on his back upon the ground. The next instant, the
victor put his foot upon his chest, and kept the ruffian forcibly
down, notwithstanding all his exclamations of "Curse me, that isn't
fair! When you give a man a fall, let him get up again!"
"If he is a fair fighter, I do," replied the other; "but when he plays
pirate, I don't--" Then turning to Sir Philip Hastings, who had by
this time dismounted, he said, "What is to be done with this fellow,
sir? It seems he came here for the express purpose of assaulting you,
for he began his impertinence, with asking if you had passed, giving a
very accurate description of your person, and swearing you should find
every dog would have his day."
"His offence towards myself," replied the Baronet, "I will pass over,
for it seems to me, he has been punished enough in his own way; but I
suspect he has stolen this horse. He is a man of notoriously bad
character, who can never have obtained such an animal by honest
means."
"No, I didn't steal him, I vow and swear," cried the ruffian, in a
piteous tone; for bullies are almost always cravens; "he was lent to
me by Johny Groves--some call him another name; but that don't
signify.--He lent him to me, to come up here, to stop your gab with
the old woman, Mother Danty; and mayhap to give you a good basting
into the bargain. But I didn't steal the horse no how; and there he
is, running away over the hill-side, and I shall never catch him; for
this cursed fellow has well nigh broken my back."
"Served you quite right, my friend," replied the stranger, still
keeping him tightly down with his foot. "How came you to use a cudgel
to a man who had none? Take my advice, another time, and know your man
before you meddle with him."
In the mean time Sir Philip Hastings had fallen into a profound
reverie, only repeating to himself the words "John Groves." Now the
train of thought which was awakened in his mind, though not quite new,
was unpleasant to him; for the time when he first became familiar with
that name was immediately subsequent to the opening of his father's
will, in which had been found a clause ordering the payment of a
considerable sum of money to some very respectable trustees, for the
purpose of purchasing an annuity in favor of one John Groves, then a
minor.
There had been something about the clause altogether which the son and
heir of Sir John Hastings could not understand, and did not like.
However, the will enjoined him generally to make no inquiry whatsoever
into the motives of any of the bequests, and with his usual stern
rigidity in what he conceived right, he had not only asked no
questions, but had stopped bluntly one of the trustees, who was about
to enter into some explanations. The money was paid according to
directions received, and he had never heard the name of John Groves
from that moment till it issued from the lips of the ruffian upon the
present occasion.
"What the man says may be true," said Sir Philip Hastings, at length;
"there is a person of the name he mentions. I know not how I can have
offended him. It may be as well to let him rise and catch his horse if
he can; but remember, Master Cutter, my eye is upon you; two competent
witnesses have seen you in possession of that horse, and if you
attempt to sell him, you will hang for it."
"I know better than to do that," said the bruiser, rising stiffly from
the ground as the stranger withdrew his foot; "but I can tell you, Sir
Philip, others have their eyes upon you, so you had better look to
yourself. You hold your head mightily top high, just now: but it may
chance to come down."
Sir Philip Hastings did not condescend to reply, even by a look; but
turning to the stranger, as if the man's words had never reached his
ear, he said, "I think we had better ride on, sir. You seem to be
going my way. Night is falling fast, and in this part of the country
two is sometimes a safer number to travel with than one."
The other bowed his head gravely, and remounting their horses they
proceeded on the way before them, while Tom Cutter, after giving up
some five minutes to the condemnation of the eyes, limbs, blood, and
soul of himself and several other persons, proceeded to catch the
horse which he had been riding as fast as he could. But the task
proved a difficult one.