It is time to give our reader some further insight into the
circumstances which had brought these two sleepers to their present
condition, for they will occupy a prominent and peculiar part in the
narrative.
Although Gray is the last adventurer on the scene, I will give him the
precedence, since all that is necessary to relate concerning his
previous history may be comprised in the following sketch.
He was the foremost boy of the village school of M--, industrious,
high-spirited, and well-looking; he made slow but steady progress in his
education, and his pastor entertained fair hopes touching his future
prospects; but these hopes were suddenly overclouded by Gray's enlisting
into a company of artillery quartered at a neighbouring town.
Thus it fell out. Let us go back to his earliest days, when he had been
accustomed to stop at his uncle's garden-gate to call for his cousin
Katy on his way to school. She would come with her school-bag hanging
on her arm and singing down the walk as merry as a bird, and hand in
hand they would wend their way along the lane to the school-house, where
they parted at the porch with a tender but most innocent farewell, she
for the girls' class, he for the boys'. On Sundays they stood side by
side round the pulpit to recite their catechism--often, however,
threatened with a separation, because Martin Gray _would_ prompt Katy.
On Sunday evenings in the summer prime they sat beneath the apple-trees
in the garden belonging to Martin's bereaved father, and on winter
nights it was cheering to see the light glowing on the walls and shining
through the cottage casements; for there were the three assembled round
the fire, Martin reading to earnest auditors.
A sorrowful evening hour it was for Katy, when her cousin parted with
her at her own door. Love, and joy, and peace, all departed with him,
and she exchanged happiness for the misery of finding her father and
mother quarrelling after their return from the alehouse. Morning would
chase away the sad thoughts the darkness had brought. Morning brought
healing on its wings, for then Katy and Martin were again hand in hand,
singing through the lanes, and gathering primroses or crocuses on their
way to the school-house.
Then Katy "got a place;" her mother thought it a very fine thing indeed,
to have her daughter admitted as under-housemaid at the Hall. Katy and
her cousin met at church on alternate Sundays, Katy growing smarter and
prettier in Martin's eyes every time he saw her; but he began to find
out that the dashing valets, who accompanied their showy masters to the
Hall, were freely permitted to join him and Katy in their summer evening
strolls. He remonstrated. Katy was clever and self-opinionated. She
replied that she was not a school-girl; he quizzed the valets; she
observed they were _gentlemen_ to him, adding that Mrs White, the
housekeeper, thought she demeaned herself by keeping company with such
as he; he grew angry, Katy laughed at him, and one of her admirers,
passing by, hearing the laugh, paused, stepped up to her, learned the
cause of the merry peal, and walked off with her in triumph.
She looked in vain for Martin at church on the following Sunday; she
dawdled through the churchyard, and her friend, "My Lord Wellor's
valet," overtook her: he thought she was lingering for him. She did not
drive him away, as she had discarded poor Martin Gray, with a laugh, but
she was evidently thinking of some one else. With all his vanity, he
guessed as much, and quitted her to join some gay ladies'-maids, who
were flaunting along the meadow path. Katy never noticed them, though
they watched her all across the meadow, out at the gate, up the lane to
the turnstile, where she stood for a while, but turned back, and so met
the giddy party again.
It was now her turn to feel the bitterness of laughter, when directed
against herself; for the prettiest of the party, a rival of hers in the
affections of Lewis the valet, cried out, "Well, Mistress Kate, were you
looking for your sweetheart, Martin Gray? It is all of no use, my dear;
he is gone for a soldier."
"Gone for a soldier!" Katy passed the giddy waiting-women and their
obsequious attendant, and hastened to the nursery garden of Martin's
father. He was sitting alone beneath the apple boughs. The pathway was
unswept, the clove pinks streeling over the neat box borders. He looked
very sad, indeed. "Uncle," said Katy, with white lips, "where is
Martin?"
"Gone for a soldier, Katy," replied the old gardener, striking his
gnarled oaken stick angrily on the gravel path.
"Oh, uncle!" Katy burst into a passionate fit of weeping.
"It is no use crying now, Katy," said Gray, "it is too late;" and
rising, but not without difficulty, for he was an infirm man, "well
stricken in years," he walked towards the cottage, Katy following him
like a culprit.
The elder Gray did not close his door upon his pretty niece; in truth,
he could only suspect her as being the cause of his boy's departure, for
Martin had formed some military acquaintances latterly; but one of; his
son's last acts had been to collect some gifts, which this father knew
to be "keepsakes from Katy," and these were lying on the window-sill,
packed up and addressed to "Miss Katharine, at the Hall."
Martin had left; the cottage two days before with a sergeant of
artillery, who had long had designs of enlisting so fine a young man,
and from the adjoining town had addressed, a few lines to his father.
He spoke of his wish for other countries, of the Artillery service being
one of a superior character, as he considered, to the Line, and
anticipated great satisfaction at speedily embarking for Gibraltar; not
a word was said or Katy, not a single regret was expressed at the idea
of leaving his native village, and from the style of the letter, it was
very evident that it was written as a matter of duty to the old man--all
sorrow at quitting him was superseded by the anticipation of visiting
far lands. The father laid the letter on the table, and observing, for
the first time, the parcel on the window-sill, he wiped the mist from
his spectacles, read the direction, and formed his opinion of Martin's
reasons for leaving home.
"Don't open it here, if you please," said old Gray, as he put the parcel
into his niece's hands.
He sat down in his accustomed corner; Katy placed herself in the tall,
old-fashioned arm-chair in front of the window, and Martin's dog, a
long-haired shaggy terrier, lay with its nose to the ground in an
attitude of expectation, which had doubtless been increased by the
entrance of Katy; as she had come, he thought his master must soon
follow.
There were various trifles belonging to the lad scattered about the room
and its walls. The whip he used when he drove his father's cart into
town--Katy had often heard it _whish_ close to her ear as the tip of the
lash touched the smart blue ribbons of her bonnet, causing her to turn
round sooner than she had intended, though she had recognised the steady
"trot, trot," of the rough-coated aged pony long before. A starling
hopped up and down its perch in a cage manufactured by young Gray, and
made its alternate appeals to "Katy" and "Martin." Festoons of birds'
eggs hung over the neatly-carved wooden mantel-shelf, also the handiwork
of Martin Gray; and a few of his pencil sketches, of much promise, were
wafered against the clean white-washed walls. His books were all in
their usual places on the shelves he had made for them; and the cat--
ungrateful creature--purred with unaltered complacency, as she sat on
the door-mat woven by the ready fingers of her young master, to whom
Katy had given her three years before.
Heartless Tibby!--she nodded and dozed, and blinked her green eyes at
the sunset, and washed her face with her white fore paws, just as she
had done two Sundays before, when Martin was calling to her in vain from
his seat beside his father under the apple-trees; but poor Grip was ill
at ease, whining from time to time as he looked at Katy, then at the old
man, at the open door, at puss--the selfish, the luxurious, the
apathetic, the antipodes of Grip himself.
Katy found, after sitting there some minutes, that her uncle could not
speak. The very clock was silent, for it had not been wound up on
Saturday night; it had always been Martin's task to see to that. She
went up to the old man, kissed him, and wished him good-bye. He
suffered all this, and at last faltered out a few words intended to be
kind. She looked back as she went out, but he said no more.
She never saw him again.
Next day the cottage door was closed. Evening came, the old man was not
under the apple boughs as usual; the door was still closed. Some
neighbours opened it, and entered the chamber; old Gray lay on his bed,
as if in a calm sleep--he was dead.
Deep in the night a step came up the gravel-walk of the garden; Grip
gave a low whine, the latch of the door was lifted, and Martin Gray
entered. The unusual sight of a light at that still hour of village
repose had prepared him for sickness, and he trembled exceedingly as he
crossed the threshold. Friends were sitting there; he gazed at them
with a bewildered stare, walked up to the bed, whither he was followed
by the watchers. One of them, a kind old woman, laid her hand upon the
sheet that covered the body, but Martin whispered, in an unnatural tone,
"Lift it."
She uncovered the face of the dead, and Martin Gray fell fainting on his
father's breast. They drew him into the garden, the soft summer air
revived him, and he sat down upon the door-step of his home overwhelmed
with grief. In vain poor Grip licked the tears that fell through his
trembling fingers; in vain the faithful beast whined, and thrust his
nose into his young master's bosom; his sympathy was unheeded.
The youth got up, walked again into the house, looked once more at his
father, felt his brow, on which a few bright silver hairs were smoothly
and decently parted, kissed it, and, saying to the old woman, Margaret
Wilson, "You will take care of all," he gave a glance round the room,
his eye resting for a moment on his father's vacant seat and Katy's
high-backed chair, and then, shaking hands with two other kind-hearted
watchers, he passed out again; Grip watching him, and waiting vainly for
the whistle with which it had always been his master's wont to summon
him.
The door closed, the latch fell, the step upon the gravel-walk receded
quickly, and Martin Gray was never seen again in M--save by one person.
He paid it one more visit though, after his return from Gibraltar. His
journey to his native place was made sometimes on foot, sometimes by a
lift from a waggoner, or good-natured stage-coachman, who felt for the
weary traveller, with his knapsack on his back, and sometimes in those
barges which slip so lazily and pleasantly along the deep-winding
streams of England.
It was in one of the last conveyances that he found himself sailing
slowly up the river in which he had so often fished when a boy; it
looked narrower to him than it had done in his youth, but the
over-arching trees were taller and thicker than of old. He recognised a
pool where he and Katy had drawn their pumpkin boats together; the alder
bushes shaded it now, and it looked cold and gloomy, for the sunlight
could not penetrate it. As the barge neared the bank, he offered
payment to the bargemen, but they refused it--he sprung ashore, and
plunged into the thick coppice that formed part of the grounds of the
Hall where Katy used to be. He came to an open space, near which stood
the ruins of an old keep, part of the ancient castle residence of the
first owners of the soil. In early days, it appeared to him as
something grand and stupendous; now he was surprised to find the windows
and doorways so near him as he stood beneath the mound.
Having no mind to be recognised at once, he withdrew from the open
ground to the shrubberies, and choosing a sequestered spot where the
rooks were congregating in the old beeches, he sat down upon the leaves
which the winds of autumn had gathered together in a bank.
It was a lonely place, but from the hawthorn hedge which bounded it
there was a view of the meadows and farm-buildings belonging to the
landlord of the Hall; and he lay contemplating, with something of
pleasurable feelings, the variegated landscape of cornfields and green
uplands--the sweet scent of beans reminded him of those autumn meetings,
when the corn was carrying. There was a cart, loaded with golden
sheaves, standing under the elms of the great meadow, and another coming
down an opposite hill, with laughing children on the top--their voices
rang distinctly across the fields; the sun was glittering on the bright
weather-cock of the church spire, and Martin Gray took up his knapsack,
which he had unstrapped from his tired shoulders, and resolved on
yielding to the impulse which tempted him, to join the reapers...
Voices in the lane close by! There was a laugh, prolonged, and rather
loud, but musical and merry, if not cheerful, and two people advanced
arm-in-arm. The forage-cap with its gold band, the blue surtout and
glittering scales upon the shoulders, bespoke the officer of artillery,
as Martin lightly concluded from the company quartered in the town; but
the other, the lady--
The _lady_!--a bonnet with bright-coloured ribbons--ah, Gray thought of
Katy's garish taste!--placed far back on the head, revealed a face
encircled with hair of that rich wavy brown only seen in England. The
curls fell heavily upon the swelling bosom--the large dark and shining
eyes, the red lips, the brilliant cheek, were all of a character too
full and decided for Katy; and yet--Martin stole along the hedge,
keeping pace with these two people; the gentleman, young and showy, with
his cap set jauntily on his shapely head, and she, the woman--for
girlhood was passed, face and form were in their prime--was arrayed in
attire that ill agreed with Katy's condition.
But it was she--her large shawl slipped from her shoulders, and she
turned to gather up its gaudy folds; she spoke, laughed again, the white
teeth parted the scarlet lips, and Martin knew her.
He stopped, breathed shorter, and she passed on, after the shawl had
been adjusted, and the lover, or husband, had put aside the sunny hair
and kissed the smooth forehead of that laughing, beaming face.
Whether wife or mistress, Gray felt she was lost to him, and he sat down
again upon the bank of leaves, till the shadows of the old elms
stretched themselves out like giants on the meadow-grass, and the song
of the reapers mingled with the hum of voices in the village; then he
rose, buckled on his knapsack, and made his way through many
well-remembered paths, past the old school-house, to the garden-gate
opening upon his father's little property.
Again he trod the well-remembered path, again he lifted up the latch,
and, as he had hoped and expected, found old Margaret by the fire; age
made her feel the cold, though the glow of autumn was in the sky.
She recognised him at once, in spite of growing infirmities; perhaps it
was because, as she said, she had been expecting him, for she had saved
what rent she could afford to pay out of earnings from the garden, and
had it ready for him; but he set aside all questions of finance and
property, and sat down beside the old woman's spinning-wheel.
Something whined and moaned at the back-door. Margaret rose, opened it,
and Grip crawled in. He had waited, as it were, till his master came
before he _could_ die. He dragged himself as well as he could along the
sanded floor, lay down at Martin's feet, licked his shoes, tried to
reach his hands, fell back, uttered a long, low whine of joy, and _died
upon the cottage hearth_. Dame Margaret gave the history of Katy in a
few words. She had been encouraged in her insatiable love of dress by
the housekeeper at the Hall, who had her own ends to gain by the setting
off of Katy's beauty; father and mother, brought to the lowest ebb of
vice by drink, quarrelled between themselves about unholy profits, and
their daughter finally exchanged her place at the Hall for a dwelling in
the town, close to the barracks. She had no shame now, Dame Margaret
said, and Martin listened in bitter silence to the tale, and that night
departed.
He turned and looked at his old home from the garden-gate. The light
shone through the casement and streamed in a glittering line along the
gravel path; the gentle breeze of autumn lifted the boughs of the trees
and murmured through the neighbouring woods; the hum of voices in the
village had died away, the "watch-dog's honest bark" breaking the
silence now and then, and there was but small stir in the long irregular
street as Martin passed through it.
No one observed him, though some were lingering about the old coach-inn,
expecting the one-pair-horse vehicle that travelled through it "up to
London." He went on his way, avoiding all the pleasant lanes and paths,
through which he had walked in youth and sunshine, and reached a spot
where four cross-roads met. He remembered the time when he and Katy
would tremble if benighted here, for the place was said to be haunted:
there was some old tradition of a suicide being buried beneath the tall
white hand-post, with a stake through his body, and not a villager would
pass this way alone after sunset.
But now Martin Gray sat down at the foot of the hand-post, in the
twilight, and hailed the coachman when he came up, much to the old
driver's surprise, as he drove along the road, whistling in solitude,
for not a creature was on the top of the vehicle.
Gray climbed up beside the coachman, and, looking back upon the village
from the summit of a hill, distinguished only a few twinkling lights;
but beyond it the windows of the great house shone resplendent:
doubtless it was filled with company, and poor Martin turned from such a
view with a heavy sigh.
The coachman tried, without success, to engage him in conversation, and
then lit his cigar, leaving his passenger to his own melancholy
thoughts.
I must give one or two more scenes in the life of Martin Gray ere I
again bring him forward in companionship with his fellow-convict.
One fair summer's day, a body of troops was embarking for foreign
service. Among the rest was the company of Royal Artillery to which
Gray belonged, and the officer who had just assumed the command was no
other than the same Captain Trafford, whom he had seen walking with his
old love, Katy. Three years had elapsed since that memorable evening
when Martin quitted his native village; but had he not then learned the
name of this officer, he would have recognised him at once.
The steamer which was to convey the detachments to the transport lay
alongside the quay of a great mercantile town in England. There were
crowds standing alongside to wish their friends farewell. A gay
regimental band had accompanied the troops, and they passed through the
throng, cheering as they marched. There was not much delay in getting
the steamer underweigh; all the poor property the men possessed was
strapped upon their backs, and they were not long on board ere they
turned their faces to the shore to give a parting hurra! There was a
struggle between the policemen and some of the crowd at the gangway, but
it was soon over, the people giving way. The cheers rose from the deck,
there was an answering hearty shout, and the steamer dropped slowly down
along the quay side.
A woman had pressed onwards to take a last look; her cloak was dropping
from her shoulders, her bonnet hung at the back of her head; the rich
hair was cast back from her wan, thin face; her dress was torn,
disorderly, and soiled, but Martin Gray recognised her instantly. It
was his lost love--his once bright-faced cousin Katy.
But she did not see him; and as he gazed with aching eyes and beating
heart upon her, he heard a comrade say, "That is the girl that followed
Captain Trafford all the way from London. I heard him last night, when
I took the orderly-book to the inn, swearing at her, and telling her not
to follow him. I was sorry for the poor thing, for she was so tired she
could hardly stand, and leaned against the wall, staring at him and
crying terribly; but he sent for a waiter and had her turned out. She
gave me such a wild look as she passed me by, I shall never forget it;
but I could not help her, you know."
The crowd dispersed, but Gray saw a single figure standing alone at the
end of the quay, watching the steamer to the last. She stretched out
her arms, leaned forward, and plunged into the water.
His involuntary scream brought others to his side, and the news soon
spread along the deck that a woman had drowned herself. Some women had
approached nearer the after-part of the packet than was consistent with
the regulations, and openly coupled her name with Captain Trafford's.
He came forward, and, in a furious tone, sent them forward, and placed a
sentry on the spot they had invaded.
Some humane ladies of the party requested the captain of the steamer to
let them know the fate of the unfortunate young woman, and late at
night, as the ship's bows began to ruffle the waters, and her sails to
fill, a fisher wherry hailed her, and a note was sent on board.
It was speedily whispered about that Captain Trafford had been the cause
of the poor young creature's death, but there were no outward signs of
regret on his part; he was as brusque as ever among the women and
children when on duty between decks, and as intolerant and overbearing
as usual towards the men of his company.
They hated him cordially--they had always done so; but after the sad
incident I have recorded, their dislike increased.
Martin Gray buried his sorrow in his own breast. None ever knew that
the unhappy girl who had cast herself despairingly into the waters was
his cousin.
Some trifling dereliction from duly on Gray's part brought a violent
reprimand from Captain Trafford. The young soldier responded in a
strain equally excited, and the result was the imprisonment of Gray in a
solitary cell.
Some days after, Captain Trafford, being the offices on duty, visited
the prisoner. The sentry at the adjoining guard awaited the officer's
return, and the sergeant, at length growing uneasy at the delay,
proceeded to the cell.
Trafford lay on the ground at Gray's feet. He had evidently been
stunned by a blow, for he was insensible.