Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source: Web Archive:
https://archive.org/details/06793116.2602.emory.edu
2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
3. The source book had two chapters titled "Chapter XXIV".
The second one was changed to "Chapter XXV".
THE ROBBER,
A TALE.
BY
G. P. R. JAMES,
AUTHOR OF "RICHELIEU," "GIPSY," ETC.
"More should I question thee, and more I must----
Enough more to know would not be more to trust----
From whence thou cam'st, how tended on. But rest
Unquestioned, welcome; and undoubted, blest."
_A NEW EDITION_.
LONDON:
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS,
THE BROADWAY, LUDGATE.
NEW YORK: 416, BROOME STREET.
THE ROBBER.
CHAPTER I.
It was in the olden time of _merry England_--not at that far removes
period when our native land first received its jocund name from the
bowmen of Sherwood, and when the yeoman or the franklin, who had
wandered after some knightly banner to the plains of the Holy Land,
looked back upon the little island of his birth with forgetfulness of
all but its cheerful hearths and happy days. Oh, no! it was in a far
later age, when, notwithstanding wars and civil contentions not long
past by, our country still deserved the name of merry England, and
received it constantly amongst a class peculiarly its own. That class
was the "good old country gentleman," an antediluvian animal swallowed
up and exterminated by the deluge of modern improvements, and whose
very bones are now being ground to dust by railroads and
steam-carriages. Nevertheless, in that being there was much to wonder
at as well as much to admire; and the inimitable song which
commemorates its existence does not more than justice to the extinct
race. It was in the days of Walton and Cotton, then or somewhere
thereabouts (for it is unnecessary in a tale purely domestic, to fix
the date to a year), that the events which we are about to narrate,
took place, and the scene is entirely in _merry England_.
The court and the country were at that period--with the present we have
nothing to do--two completely distinct and separate climates; and while
the wits and the libertines, the fops and the soldiers, the poets and
the philosophers, of the reigns of Charles, James, William, and Anne,
formed a world in which debauchery, vice, strife, evil passion, rage,
jealousy, and hatred, seemed the only occupations of genius, and the
true sphere for talent; while Oxford and Cambridge had their
contentions, and vied with the capital in nourishing feuds and follies
of their own; there was a calm and quiet world apart, amidst the shady
brooks and sunny fields and dancing streams of merry England; a world
which knew but little of the existence of the other, except when the
vices, or follies, or crimes of the world of the court called upon the
world of the country to resist the encroachments of its neighbour, and
defend its own quiet prosperity.
From the peasant who tilled the glebe, and whistled to outsing the lark
over his happy toil, up to the lord of the manor, the knight whose many
ancestors had all been knights before him, the countrymen of England
mingled hardly, if at all, with the world of the metropolis and of the
court; except, indeed, when some aspiring spirit, filled with good
viands and a fair conceit, raised his wishes to be knight of the shire,
and sit in parliament amongst the more courtly of the land; or else
when some borough sent its representative to the senate to bring down
strange tales of London life and fresh fashions for the wives and
daughters.
There was, indeed, a connecting link between the two states of being we
have described, afforded by the old hereditary nobility of the land,
many members of which still lingered by the ancestral hall, as yet
unallured from the calm delights of rural life, and the dignified
satisfaction of _dwelling amongst their own people_, even by all the
amusements or luxuries of the capital. An annual visit to London, an
appearance in the court of the sovereign and the house of peers, at
certain times, varied the existence of this class of men; and neither
liking, comprehending, nor esteeming the wits and foplings of the
metropolis, they returned well pleased to hold their ancient state in
the country, bearing renewed importance amongst the country gentlemen
around, from this fresh visit to the fountain of all honours and
distinctions.
Great, indeed, was their importance amongst their neighbours at
times--far greater than we in the present day can well picture to
ourselves; for independent of the consequence acquired by spending
large incomes within a limited sphere, the feeling of feudal influence
was not extinct, though the fact had become a nonentity; and the
tenantry on a great man's estate looked up to him in those days with
the greater veneration and devotion, because they were not compelled to
do so. Above the tenantry, again, the squire and the magistrate, who
not only owed a great part of their comfort in the county, their
consideration with their neighbours, and their estimation in their own
eyes, to the degree of favour in which they stood with the earl, the
marquis, or the duke, but who might at any time be rendered
uncomfortable and persecuted, if not oppressed, in case they forfeited
his good graces, failed not to show their reverence for him on every
legitimate occasion--and sometimes, perhaps, went a little further.
Thus, of the little hierarchy of the county, there was generally some
nobleman as the chief, and from him it descended through baronets,
lords of the manor, knights, justices, squires, and many an _et
cetera_, down to the lowest class of all, who still looked up to that
chief, and would tell the passer-by, with much solemn truth, that "the
earl was quite a king in his own part of the world."
Amongst such classes, in such scenes, and at such a period, took place
the events about to be described.
At the door of a small, neat country inn stood gazing forth a
traveller, one clear bright morning in the end of the month of May. The
hour was early: the matutinal servants of the house were scarcely up;
and Molly, with mop and pail, was busily washing out the passage which
was soon to be thickly strewn with clean yellow sand. The scene before
the traveller's eyes was one on which it is pleasant to dwell; the
centre street of a small country town, many miles from a great city.
There were a few light clouds in the sky, but they did not interrupt
the rays of the great orb of light, who was yet low down in the heaven;
and the shadows of the manifold white houses, with their peaked gables
turned across the street, forming a fanciful pattern on the ground; the
yellow sunshine and the blue shade lying clear and distinct, except
where a little fountain burst forth half way down the town, and mingled
the two together.
It was, as I have said, a cool and pleasant scene for the eye to rest
upon; and even the casements of the houses opposite, shaded by the
close-drawn white curtain, gave an idea of calm and happy repose. The
world within were all yet asleep: the toil, the anxiety, the care, the
strife of active life, had not yet began.
The eye of the traveller rested upon the picture apparently well
pleaded. It gazed contemplatively up the street to where the road had
been made to take a turn, in order to avoid the brow of the gentle hill
on which the town was built, and which, crowned with houses of pleasant
irregularity, interrupted the further view in that direction; and then
that eye turned downward to the place where the highway opened out into
the country beyond, after passing over a small bright stream by a brick
bridge of ancient date. Over the bridge was slowly wending at the same
moment a long line of cattle, lowing as they went, forth to pasture,
with a herd following in tuneful mood, and neither hurrying himself nor
them. The stranger's eye rested on them for a single moment, but then
roved on to the landscape which was spread out beyond the bridge, and
on it he gazed as curiously as if he had been a painter.
On it, too, we must pause, for it has matter for our consideration. The
centre of the picture presented a far view over a bright and smiling
country, with large masses of woodland, sloping up in blue lines to
some tall brown hills at the distance of ten or twelve miles. A
gleaming peep of the river was caught in the foreground, with a sandy
bank crowned with old trees; and above the trees again appeared the
high slated roofs of a mansion, whose strong walls, formed of large
flints cemented together, might also here and there be seen looking
forth, grey and heavy, through the green, light foliage. Three or four
casements, too, were apparent, but not enough of the house was visible
to afford any sure indication of its extent, though the massiveness of
the walls, the width of the spaces between the windows, the size of the
roofs, and the multitude of the chimneys, instantly made one mentally
call it the _Manor House_.
This mansion seemed to be at the distance of about a mile from the
town; but upon a rising ground on the opposite side of the picture,
seen above bridge and trees, and the first slopes of the offscape,
appeared, at the distance of seven or eight miles, or more, a large
irregular mass of building, apparently constructed of grey stone, and
in some places covered with ivy--at least, if one might so interpret
the dark stains apparent even at that distance upon various parts of
its face. There was a deep wood behind it, from which it stood out
conspicuously, as the morning sun poured clear upon it; and in front
appeared what might either be a deer park filled with stunted hawthorn
and low chestnut trees, or a wide common.
Such was the scene on which the traveller gazed, as, standing in front
of the deep double-seated porch of the little inn, he looked down the
road to the country beyond. There was no moving object before his eyes
but the herd passing over the bridge; there was no sound but the lowing
of the cattle, the whistling of their driver, and a bright lark singing
far up in the blue sky.
It is time, however, to turn to the traveller himself, who may not be
unworthy of some slight attention. Certain it is, that the good girl
who was now sprinkling the passage and porch behind him with fine sand,
thought that, he was worthy of such; for though she had seen him
before, and knew his person well, yet ever and anon she raised her eyes
to gaze over his figure, and vowed, in her heart, that he was as
good-looking a youth as ever she had set eyes on.
His age might be five or six and twenty, and his height, perhaps, five
feet eleven inches. He was both broad and deep-chested, that
combination which insures the greatest portion of strength, with length
and ease of breadth; and though his arms were not such as would have
called attention from their robustness, yet they were evidently
muscular and finely proportioned. Thin in the flanks, and with the
characteristic English hollow of the back, his lower limbs were
remarkably powerful, ending, however, in a small well-shaped foot and
ankle, set off to good advantage in a neat close-fitting shoe.
His countenance was as handsome as his figure, and remarkably
prepossessing; the features, slightly aquiline; the colouring, a rich
brown, though the eyes were found to be decidedly blue, when fully seen
through the black lashes. His hair waving round his face, and curling
upon his neck, was of a deep glossy brown, and the fine shaped lips,
which, in their natural position were slightly open, showed beneath a
row of even teeth as white as snow. The brow was broad, straight, and
high, with the eye-brow, that most expressive of all the features,
forming a wavy line of beauty, strongly marked upon the clear skin, and
growing somewhat thicker and deeper above the inner canthus of the eye.
Between the eyebrows, however, appeared the only thing that the most
fastidious critic of beauty could have objected to. It was a deep scar,
evidently the mark of a severe cut; whether received by accident in the
jocund days of boyhood, or in the manly sports of the country, or in
the field of battle, might be doubtful; but there it rested for ever, a
clear, long scar, beginning halfway up the forehead, and growing deeper
as it descended, till it formed a sort of indentation between the
eyebrows, similar to that produced in some countenances by a heavy
frown. Thus to look at the brow, one would have said the face was
stern; to look at the eyes, one might have pronounced it thoughtful;
but the bland, good-humoured, cheerful smile upon the lips contradicted
both, and spoke of a heart which fain would have been at ease, whose
own qualities were all bright, and warm, and gay, if the cares and
strifes of the world would but let them have way.
We shall not pause long upon the stranger's dress. It was principally
composed of what was then called brown kersey, a coarse sort of stuff
used by the common people; but the buttons were of polished jet, the
linen remarkably fine, the hat, with its single straight feather, set
on with an air of smartness; while the fishing-basket under the arm,
and the rod in the hand, and all the rest of an angler's paraphernalia
conspicuous upon the person, reconciled the homely dress with the
distinguished appearance. He was evidently bound for the banks of the
clear stream; and yet, though it was the hour of all others which a
fisherman should have cultivated, he lingered for some minutes at the
door of the little inn; gazing, as we have depicted him, alternately up
and down the street, with a slow, meditative look, as if enjoying the
beauty of the morning, and the fair scene around him. It is true, that
his eyes turned most frequently, and rested longest, upon the bridge
and stream and old Manor House, with the wide country beyond; but still
he occasionally looked to the other bend of the road, and once seemed
to listen for some sound.
He had at length taken one step forward, as if to pursue his way, when
the voice of the host of the Talbot, good Gregory Myrtle, was heard
coming down the stairs, talking all the way for the benefit of any one
who might hear, with a fat, jovial, ale-burdened sound, which at other
times and seasons rejoiced the hearts of many a "gay companion of the
bowl." The first indication of his coming was a peal of laughter, a
loud "Haw, haw, haw!" at some conjugal joke uttered by his dame as he
left his chamber.
"Well said, wife! well said!" he exclaimed; "it is good to be fat; for
when I can no longer walk, I shall easily be rolled--Haw, haw, haw!
Gads my life! I must have these stairs propped, or else choose me a
chamber on the ground-floor. Sand the floor well, Molly--sand the floor
well! Think were I to slip, what a squelch would be there. Ha, Master
Harry! ha!" he continued, seeing the stranger turn towards him, "how
was it I saw you not last night, when you arrived? You flinched the
flagon, I fear me, Master Harry! Nay, good faith, that was not right to
old Gregory Myrtle!"
"I was tired, good Gregory!" replied the stranger: "I had ridden more
than fifty miles to be here to-day, and I wished to rise early, for the
sake of my speckled friends in the stream."
"Ale keeps no man from rising," cried the host. "See how it has made me
rise, like a pat of dough in a baker's oven! haw, haw, haw!" and he
patted his own fat round paunch. "But whence come ye, Master Harry?
from the court, or the city, or the wars?"
"From neither, Myrtle," replied the stranger; "I come from a far
distance, to take my tithe of the stream as usual. But how goes on the
country since I left it?"
"Well! mighty well!" answered the landlord, "all just as it was, I
think. No! poor old Milson, the sexton, is dead: he had buried four
generations of us, and the fifth has buried him. He caught cold at the
justice room, giving evidence about that robbery, you remember, out
upon the moor; and took to his bed and died."
"Which robbery do you mean?" demanded the other; "there were many going
on about that time upon the moor and over the hill. Have there been any
lately?"
"Not one since you left the country, Master Harry," replied the
landlord.
"I hope you do not mean to hint that I had any hand in them," rejoined
his companion, with a smile.
"God forbid!" exclaimed good Gregory Myrtle--"Haw, haw, haw! That was a
funny slip of mine! No, no, Master Harry, we know you too well; you are
more likely to give away all your own than take a bit of other
people's, God bless you!"
"I think, indeed, I am," answered the young man, with a sigh; "but if I
talk with you much longer, I shall be too late to rob the stream of its
trout. Don't forget, Myrtle, to send up to the Manor for leave for me,
as usual. I suppose his worship is awake by this time, or will be, by
the time my tackle is all ready;" and so saying, he sauntered on down
the street, took the pathway by the bridge, and turning along by the
bank of the river, was soon lost to the sight.