ROBERT DALRYMPLE.
Sundry shouts startling the night-air, combined with the dashing up of
horsemen, caused no little stir amidst the crowd. The booming of the
alarm-bell somewhat earlier in the evening had been less ominous than
this.
They were the police-officers from Netherleigh, sent for by Oscar
Dalrymple, and they had come mounted, for the sake of speed. The
moon had gone under a cloud, the old structure, Moat Grange,
appeared shadowy and indistinct, and to the imagination of these poor
excited labourers, assembled to discuss their position, the three
officers--for there were but three--looked magnified into a formidable
number. Sir Francis Netherleigh had appeased their anger, but he could
not subdue the sense of wrong that burnt in the men's minds; and when
he left them, they, instead of dispersing quietly in accordance with
his recommendation, lingered where they were, and whispered together
of Pinnett and of treason.
On the other side of the house was a group, more peaceful, but not a
whit less excited. Of all the surprises met with by Francis
Netherleigh in his own life, he had never had so complete a one as
this, or one so satisfactory. Searching about after malcontents that
might have scattered themselves, he came round by the outhouses and
the kitchen-garden; and there he saw a stranger talking with his
sister Mary, Farmer Lee and Reuben standing at a little distance. The
moon was bright then; the stranger stood bareheaded, and there was
that in his form and in the outlines of his face that thrilled chords
in the memory of Sir Francis.
"Don't be frightened, sir," spoke Farmer Leo to him, in whispered
tones, as befitted the wonderful subject; "it is himself, and not his
ghost. It is, indeed."
"But _who_ is it?" cried Sir Francis, his eyes strained earnestly on
the stranger.
"Himself, I say, sir--Robert Dalrymple."
"Robert Dalrymple!"
"Ay. Come back from the dead, as one may say. He made himself known to
me and Reuben; and then I went and broke the news to Miss Mary. And
there they both are, talking together."
But Mary had discerned her brother, and they were coming forward. "Is
it possible to believe it?" asked Sir Francis, as they met, his hand
clasping Robert's with a warm grasp.
"I think you may; I think you cannot fail to recognize me, changed and
aged though I know I am," answered Robert, with an emotion that
bordered upon tears.
"You have been alive all this time--and not dead, as we have deplored
you?"
"Yes, all this time; and I never knew until a little while ago that I
was looked upon as dead."
"But what became of you, Robert? It was thought, that dreadful night,
that you----"
"Threw myself into the Thames," put in Robert, in the slight pause
made by Sir Francis. They were all standing together now, Mary a
little apart, her hand upon the gate, and the moonlight flickered on
them through the branches of the thinning autumn trees. "I was very
near doing it," he continued; "nearer than any one, save God, can
know. It was a dreadful night to me, one of shame and despair. Knowing
myself to be irretrievably ruined, a rogue upon earth----"
"Hold there, sir," cried Reuben, "a rogue you never were."
"I was, Reuben. And you shall all hear how. Mary,"--turning to
her--"_you_ shall hear also. A beggar myself, I staked that night at
the gaming-table the money I held of yours, Lee, the five hundred
pounds you had entrusted to me, staked it, and lost it. I cannot
understand how you--but I'll leave that just now. The money gone, I
wandered about the streets, a desperate man, and found myself on
Westminster Bridge. It was in my heart to leap into the river, to take
the blind leap into futurity my uncle had taken before me. I was
almost in the very act of doing it, when a passer-by, seeing my
perilous position, pulled me back, and asked what I meant by hanging
over there. It is to him I owe my life."
"Under God," breathed Mary, remembering her dream.
"Ay," assented Robert, "under God. It proved to be one Joseph Horn, a
young man employed at my tailor's, and he recognized me. I made an
excuse about the heat of the night, that I was leaning over for a
breath of air from the water: and finally Horn left me. But the
incident had served to arrest my purpose; to show me my folly and my
sin. I am not ashamed to confess that I knelt down, there and then, to
ask God to help me, and to save me from myself; and--He did it. I
quitted the dangerous spot----"
"Your hat was found in the Thames, and brought back the next day, Mr.
Robert," interrupted poor, bewildered, happy Reuben.
"It blew off, into the river; it was one of the windiest nights I was
ever out in, except at sea," answered Robert. "I walked about the
streets till morning, taking myself sharply to task, and considering
how I could give myself a chance for a better life. I had still my
watch and ring, both of value--they would have gone long before, just
as everything else had gone, but that they had been my father's, and
were given over by him to me on his death-bed. I parted with them now,
disguised myself in rough clothes, went to Liverpool, and thence to
America."
"But why did you not come to me instead?" asked Sir Francis.
"I was ashamed to do so. Look at the debts I owed; at what I had done
with Lee's money! No, there was nothing for it but to hide my head
from you all, and from the world. Had I made a fortune, I should have
come back in triumph, but I never did make it. I found employment as a
clerk at New Orleans, and kept myself; that was all."
"If you had only just let us know you were alive, Robert!" cried Mary.
He shook his head. "I did not suppose any one would care to know it. I
expected that the extent of my villainy had come out, and that you
would all be thankful if I disappeared for ever. So there I remained,
in the Crescent City, passing as 'Mr. Charles,' my second name, and
making the best of my blighted life. I"--his tone suddenly changed to
laughter--"nearly married and settled there."
"Oh!"--Mary gave quite a start.
"I had an excellent offer; yes, I assure you I had. It was leap-year.
A flourishing widow, some few years older than myself, took a fancy to
me. She had a fine house and grounds on the banks of the Mississippi,
and an income not to be despised; and she proposed that I should throw
up my wearisome daily work and become the master of all this--and of
her. I took it into consideration, I can tell you."
"And what prevented your accepting it?" laughed Sir Francis.
"Well, the one bare thought--it did not amount to hope--that a turn of
good fortune _might_ some time bring me back here, to find"--with a
glance at Mary--"what I have found."
"And the good fortune came, sir--and has brought you back!" exclaimed
the farmer.
"Yes; it came," replied Robert, "it came: a turn that was very like
romance, and once more exemplified the saying that truth is stranger
than fiction. You are aware, I think, that my father had a relative
living in Liverpool, Benjamin Dalrymple?" added Robert, chiefly
addressing Sir Francis--who nodded in reply.
"Benjamin Dalrymple never corresponded with us, would not notice us; a
serious difference had arisen between him and my father in early days.
But, a year after my father's death, when I chanced to be in
Liverpool, I called upon him. He was cordial enough with me, seemed
rather to take a fancy to me, and I stayed with him three weeks. He
was a cotton-broker, and would take me down to his office in a
morning, and show me his routine of business, verily hoping, I
believe, that I should take to it and join him. When, later, I became
hard up, and had not a shilling to turn to in the world, I wrote to
Benjamin Dalrymple from London, asking him to help me. Not by the
smallest fraction, he replied; a young man who could run into debt,
with my patrimony, would run into debt to the end of the chapter,
though his income might number tens of thousands. Well, all that
passed away; and----"
Robert paused.
"The house I served in America exported cotton home in large
quantities," he continued rapidly. "Benjamin Dalrymple was amongst
their larger correspondents. Some few months ago, his confidential
clerk, a taciturn gentleman named Patten, came over on business to New
Orleans, to this very house I was in. He saw me and recognized me; we
had dined together more than once at old Benjamin's table in
Liverpool. Patten had believed me dead; drowned; and it no doubt gave
him a turn when he saw me alive. I told him my history, asking him
not to let it transpire in the old world or the new. But it seems he
considered it his duty to repeat it to old Benjamin on his return
home: and he did so. The result was, that Benjamin set up a
correspondence with me, and finally commanded me to give up my place
as clerk and go back to him. I did so; and I----"
Again Robert stopped; this time in evident emotion.
"Go on, Robert," said Sir Francis. "What is it?"
"My story has a sad ending," answered Robert, his tone depressed. "I
landed at Liverpool to find Benjamin Dalrymple ill with a mortal
illness. He had been ailing for some time, but the fatal truth had
then declared itself. He was so changed, too!--I suppose people do
change when they are about to die. From being a cold, hard man, he had
become gentle and loving in manner. I must remain with him until the
end, he said, and be to him as a son."
"Was he not married, sir?" asked Farmer Lee.
"He had never married. I did remain with him, doing what I could for
him, and making no end of promises, which he exacted, with regard to
my future life and conduct. In twenty-one days, exactly, from the day
I landed, the end came."
"He died?"
"He died. I waited for his funeral. And," concluded Robert, modestly,
"he has made me his heir."
"Thank Heaven for that!" murmured old Reuben.
"How much it is, I cannot tell you," said Robert, "but an enormous
sum. Patten puts it down at half a million: and, that, after clerks
and other dependents have been well provided for. So, every one who
has ever suffered by me in the shape of debt will be recompensed; and
Moat Grange will hold its own again."
But his return had to be made known to others who were interested in
it: his mother, his sisters, Oscar Dalrymple. Of the latter Robert
spoke some hard words.
"I had thought to give him a fair portion of this wealth in right of
Selina," avowed he. "But I don't know now. A man who can so oppress an
estate does not merit much favour."
"Oscar has been worse thought of than he deserves," explained Sir
Francis Netherleigh. "Rely upon that, Robert. He has been sorely
tried, sorely put to for money for some few years now, through no
fault of his own----"
"No; through Selina's," interrupted Robert. "Old Benjamin knew all
about it."
"He has been striving to make both ends meet, to pay his obligations
justly and honourably, and he could only do it by dint of pinching and
screwing," went on Sir Francis. "The great mistake of his later life
was leasing the estate to Pinnett. It is thought that he could have
arrested Pinnett's harsh acts; my opinion is that he could not."
"I am glad to hear you say so," cried Robert, cordially. "Oscar was
always near, but he was just."
They were moving slowly through the garden to the house, when a
disturbance struck upon their ears. It came from the front of the
Grange; and all, except Mary, hastened round to the scene. It was, in
fact, the moment of the arrival of the mounted police. The officers
shouted, the crowd rebelled; and Oscar Dalrymple ran out. The police,
hasty as usual, were for taking up the malcontents wholesale; the
latter resisted, protesting they had done nothing to be taken up for.
They had only come up to speak to Mr. Dalrymple, and "there was no law
against that," said they.
"You break the law when you use threats to a man in his own house,"
cried Featherston, the chief constable.
"We haven't used no threats," retorted Dyke. "We want an answer from
Mr. Dalrymple; whether he's going to force us to lodge under the wind
and the rain, or whether he'll find us roofs in place of them he has
destroyed. They've bid us go to the workhouse; but he knows that if we
go there we lose all chance of getting our living, and shall never
have a home for our families again."
"There's no longer room for you on the estate; no dwellings for you
left upon it," spoke up a voice; and the men turned sharply, for they
knew it was Pinnett's. Countenanced by the presence of the constables,
the agent came out from some shelter or other, and showed himself
openly.
"We won't say nothing about mercy," savagely cried Dyke; "but we'd
like justice. Justice, sir!" turning to Oscar Dalrymple, as he stood
by the side of Mr. Cleveland, who had just come up. "Hands off, Mr.
Constable! I'm doing nothing yet, save asking a plain question. Is
there any justice?"
"Yes, there is justice," interrupted another voice, which thrilled
through the very marrow of Oscar Dalrymple, as Robert advanced and
took his place near Mr. Cleveland, who started back in positive
fright. "Oscar, you know me, I see; gentlemen, some of you know me: I
am Robert Dalrymple, and I have returned to claim my own."
Was it a spectre? Many of them looked as if they feared so. Was it
some deception of the moonlight? Featherston, brave policeman though
he was, backed away in terror.
"I find you have all thought me dead," proceeded Robert; "but I am not
dead, and never was dead; I have simply been abroad. I fell into debt
and difficulty; but, now that the difficulties are over, I have come
amongst you again."
"It's the Squire!" burst forth the men, as they gradually awoke to the
truth; "we've never called the other one so. Our own young Squire's
come home again, and our troubles are over. Good luck to the ship that
brought him!"
Robert laughed. "Yes, your troubles shall be over. I hear that there
has been dissatisfaction; and, perhaps, oppression. I can only say
that I will set everything right. The tenants who have been served
with a notice to quit"--glancing round at Lee and Bumford--"may burn
it; and you, my poor fellows, who have been ejected from your
cottages, shall be reinstalled in them."
"But, my dear young master," cried Dyke, despondingly, "some of the
roofs be off, and the walls be pretty nigh levelled with the ground."
"I will build them up for you, Dyke, stronger than ever," said
Robert, heartily. "Here's my hand upon it."
Not only Dyke, but many more pressed forward to clasp Robert's hands;
and so hard and earnest were the pressures, that Robert was almost
tempted to cry for quarter. In the midst of this, Pinnett thought it
time to speak.
"You talk rather fast, sir: even if you are Mr. Robert Dalrymple. The
estate is mine for some six years to come. It has been leased to me by
its owner."
"That it certainly has not been," returned Robert, his tone one of
conscious power. "I am its owner. The estate has been mine throughout;
as I did not die, it could not have lapsed from me. My brother-in-law,
acting under a mistake, entered into possession, but he has never been
the legal owner. Consequently, whatever acts be may have ordered,
performed, or sanctioned, are NULL and VOID. Constables, I think your
services will not be required here."
Pinnett ground his teeth. "It's to know whether you _are_ Robert
Dalrymple--and not an impostor."
"I can certify that it is really Robert Dalrymple; I baptized him,"
laughed Mr. Cleveland. "There is no mistaking him and his handsome
face."
"And I and Mr. Lee can swear to it, if you like," put in Reuben,
looking at Pinnett. "So could the rest of us. I wish we were all as
sure of heaven!"
Robert put his hand into Oscar's under cover of the darkness. "You
know me, Oscar, well enough. Let us be friends. I have not come home
to sow discord; rather peace and goodwill. The Grange must be mine
again, you know; I can't help that; but, when you and Selina quit it
for your own place, you shall not go out empty-handed.
"I don't understand you," returned Oscar.
"I have come back a rich man; and you shall share in the good. Next to
endowing my mother, I shall take care of my sisters. Ah, Oscar, these
past few years have been full of gloom and trouble for many of us. Now
that the clouds have broken, let us hope that the future will bring
with it a good deal of sunshine."
The assemblage began to disperse. Mr. Cleveland undertook to break the
glad news to Mrs. Dalrymple and Selina.
Reuben crept up to his master with an anxious, troubled face. "Mr.
Robert," he breathed, "have you quite left off the--the PLAY? You will
not be tempted to take to it again?"
"Never, Reuben," was the grave, hushed answer. "That night, which you
all thought fatal to me, and which was so near being so, as I stood on
the bridge, looking into the dark water, I took a solemn oath that I
would never again touch a card, or any other incentive to gambling. I
never shall."
"Heaven be praised!" murmured Reuben. And the old man felt that he was
ready to say with Simeon of old: "Lord, now lettest thou thy servant
depart in peace."