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LOST SIR MASSINGB.
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A º
A ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE." ' " '
BY THE AUTHOR OF
“cARLyos's YEAR,” “one of THE FAMILY,” “Found DEAD,”
“A BEGGAR on HoRSEBAck; or, A county FAMILY,”
“MARRIED BENEATH HIM,” “cLYFFoRDs of CLyFFE.”
2
º --, fºr- 2 º'
“He is the most humorous of the writers of fiction at present, but his
fun is always controlled by good taste, and always sympathetic. Also,
his tone of feeling is as rational as it is pure. There is no novelist who
more thoroughly understands the sanctity and the happiness of the affec-
tions in their highest and most virtuous exercise; but there is no senti-
mentality in his writings—not a touch of that subtle kind of falsehood
which would give the heart precedence of the conscience, and exalt passion
at the expense of principle.”—Examiner and London Review.
PHILADEL PHIA :
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS;
306 c HE strict stºr ET.
re- * ,
** * -


OLLOPE'S WORKS.
ork is complete in one large duodecimo volume.
CASALONI. THE MARRIAGE SECRET.
‘The interest turns upon the marriage secret of a great Roman
amily, which is adroitly kept in mystery until the concluding pages.
This is a story of striking merit—produced in the maturity of its
gifted author's mind.”—R. Shelton Mackenzie.
GEMMA. A. TALE OF LOVE AND JEALOUSY.
“Mr. T. A. Trollope gives us in “Gemma,’ one of his novels of
Italian private life of the present day. The descriptions of the city
of Siena—of the country around—of Savona, the desolate town of
Maremma-are wonderfully graphic, and bear witness to their hav-
ing been done from the life by one who has lived in the places and
loved them. We recommend the reader to learn for himself the
unravelling of the plot. The story will well repay perusal, and the
interest increases as the story proceeds.”—London Athenaeum.
BEPPO, THE CONSCRIPT.
“In “Beppo the Conscript, the avarice, the pride, the love, the
industry, and the superstition of the Contadini of the Romagna; a
household of prosperous rustics, their ways and traits; and the
subtle and prevailing agency of priestcraft in its secret opposition
to the new and liberal Italian government—are all exhibited with
a quiet zest and a graphic fidelity which takes us into the heart
of the people. The domestic, peasant, and provincial scenes and
characters are drawn with fresh and natural colors and faithful out-
lines.”—Henry T. Tuckerman.
MARIETTA, OR, LIFE IN TUSCANY.
“Mr. T. A. Trollope, always a favorite of ours, has excelled him-
self in “Marietta.” It is a charming book—charming not for its
exquisitely graphic and accurate pictures of Italian life in country
and city, but more so for its admirable delineations of character.”
London Saturday Press.
DREAM NUMBERS.
“T. Adolphus Trollope ignores the intense school—he describes
what he sees, knows, and feels; and does so in a very direct, simple,
and candid way. If the reader knows or cares anything about the
region or race thus delineated, he will find a refreshing, calm, and
grateful flavor of truth and sympathy in the unpretending but sig-
nificant stories of T. Adolphus Trollope.”—Round Table.
Price of each above, $1.75 in Cloth; or $1.50 in Paper Cover
Above books are for sale by all Booksellers. Copies of any
or all of the above books will be sent to any one, to any place,
postage prepaid, on receipt of their price by the Publishers,
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
...'. 396. Cºrºnt: śaser, Philadelphia, Pa.


C O N T E N T S.
---
Chapter - Page
PREFATORY. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21
1.—GIANT DESPAIR............................ 25
II.-MY FIRST INTERVIEw...................... 34
III.--THE DREAM BY THE BROOK................ 44
Iv.—THE DUMB witness........................ 51
v.—THE STATE BEDRoom....................... 69
VI.-HEAD over HEELs......................... 75
VII.-AT THE DOVECOT........................... 83
VIII.-MEETING HIS MATCH....................... 94
Ix.—MR. HARVEY GERARD...................... 102
x—Love the LIFEGIVER, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 115
XL-woolNG BY PRoxy......................... 121
XII.-THE COUNCIL of WAR...................... 130
XIII.--THE GIPSY CAMP........................... 140
XIV.-WHY SIR MASSINGBERD DID NOT MARRY... 148
XV.--THE REASON CONTINUED. .................. 156
XVI.-I DO SIR MASSINGBERD A LITTLE FAvon... 168
XVII.-OUT OF MIND, OUT OF SIGHT. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 187
XVIII.-HARLEY STREET.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 197
XIX.-BEFORE THE BLOW......................... 205
XX-LOST. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ............... 214
XXI.--THE STONE GARDEN. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 226
XXII.--THE SEARCH. . . . . . . . . . . .................... 233
XXIII.-WHAT WAS IN THE COVERED CART... . . . . . . 240
(19)


C O N T E N T S .
-THE PROCESSION. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... 250
V.-AMONG FRIENDS.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 256
ºxvi.-A DETECTIVE of HALF A CENTURY AGo... 264
xxWII.--THE BANK-NOTES... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 271
xxvi II.-A BENEvoleNT STRANGER................. 279
xxix.-BETTER THAN A BLUNDER BUSS... . . . . . . . . ... 286
xxx.--THE FALSE SCENT. . . . . . . . ........... . . . . . . . 292
xxxi.-“LET IT BE PETER's GoDCHILD.”... . . . . . . . . .297
xxxii.-TAKING THE SEALs of F.............. . . . . . . 806
xxxiii.--THE FAIRY's wand...................... .. 816
xxxiv.–Found........................... . . . . . . . . . . 821
xxxv.–L'ENvor.................................. . . 831


PREFATORY, \
IN these days, when every man and woman becomes
an author upon the least provocation, it is not neces-
sary to make an apology for appearing in print. Per-
haps there was always something affected in those pre-
fatorial justifications; although they did disclaim any
literary merit, it is probable that the writers would
have been indignant enough had the critics taken
them at their word; and perhaps the publication was
not entirely owing to “the warmly-expressed wishes
of numerous friends.” But, at all events, we have
done with all such excuses now. Not to have written
anything for the press, is no small claim to being an
Original. Neither sex nor age seems to exempt
from the universal passion for authorship. My niece.
Jessie (aetat, sixteen), writes heartrending narratives
for the “Liliputian Magazine;” her brother, whom I
have always looked upon as a violent, healthy hobble-
dehoy, whose highest virtue was Endurance, and whose
darkest experience was Skittles, produces the most
thrilling romances for the “Home Companion.”
Even my housekeeper makes no secret of forwarding
(21)


Prer ATORY.
%ost admired recipes to the “Family Intelli-
cer;” while my stable-boy, it is well known, is a
prominent poetical contributor to the “Turf Times,”
having also the gift of prophecy with reference to the
winner of all the racing events of any importance.
And yet, I believe, my household is not more addicted
to publication than those of my neighbors.
What becomes of authors by profession in such a
state of things literary as this, I shudder to think;
I feel it almost a sin to add one more to the long list
of competitors with whom they have to struggle; but
still, if I do not now set down the story which I have
in my mind, I am certain that, sooner or later, my
nephew will do so for me, and very likely spoil it in
the telling. He writes in a snappy, jerky, pyrotechnic
way, which they tell me is now popular, but which is
not suited to my old-fashioned taste; and although
he dare not make, at present, what he calls “copy »
of the stories with which I am perhaps too much
accustomed to regale his ears, he keeps a note-book,
and a new terror is added to Death from that cir-
cumstance. When I am gone, he will publish my
best things, under some such title as “After-Dinner
Tales,” I feel certain; and they will appear at the
railway book-stalls in a yellow cover bordered with
red, or with even a frontispiece displaying a counter-
feit and libellous presentment of his departed relative
in the very act of narration. The gem of that collec-


PREFATORY. 23
tion would undoubtedly be the story which I am
now about to anticipate the young gentleman by re-
lating myself. If I am somewhat old-world in my
style, perhaps it may be forgiven me, in consideration
of the reality of the circumstances narrated, and the
very strong interest which I do not doubt they will
arouse.
It is not necessary to state the exact locality where
they occurred, nor the number of years which have
elapsed since their occurrence; it is enough to pre-
mise that what I tell is true, and that some of the
principal personages in the—well, the melodrama, if
you will—are yet alive, and will peruse these words
before they meet the public eye. If nothing therein
offends them, therefore it need not, upon the score of
indiscreet revelation at least, offend my readers.





LOST SIR MASSINGBERD,
CHAPTER I.
GIANT Id es PA Irt.
IN a midland county, not as yet scarred by factories,
there stands a village called Fairburn, which, at the
time I knew it first—many, many years ago—had
for its squire, its lord, its despot, one Sir Massing-
berd Heath. Its rector, at that date, was the Rev.
Matthew Long; and at the Rectory, when my story
commences, there was in pupilage to the said rector
a youth, one Peter Meredith, who has since grown
up to be the present writer. When we are small,
all things seem vast to our young minds; good men
are saints, and evil ones are demons. I loved Mr.
Long, therefore, although he was my tutor; and oh,
how I feared and hated Sir Massingberd! It was
not, however, my boyhood alone that caused me to
hold this man as a monster of iniquity; it was the
opinion which the whole county entertained of him,
more or less. The people of Fairburn trembled before
him, as a ship's company before some cruel captain
(25)


| 26 Lost SIR MASSINGBERD.
a
of fifteen years back—I mean, of fifteen years before
the period of which I write. Press-gangs had not
very long ceased to do their cruel mission; there
ere old men in our village who had served their
time in his Majesty's ships, very much against their
will; there were gaps in poor families still, which
might or might not be filled up; empty chairs that
had so stood for a score of years perhaps, waiting for
still expected occupiers; fathers of families, or the
props of families, in sons and brothers, had been
spirited away from Fairburn (even a little while ago),
and had not come back again yet. They had been
poachers, or radicals, or sectaries (as Dissenters were
then called), or something else distasteful to Sir
Massingberd's father, and they had been carried off
to sea"at his command. Let not my young readers
imagine that I am exaggerating matters; I write of
a state of things of which they have not the remotest
conception, but which I remember perfectly well.
They have reason to thank Heaven that they did not
live in those times, if they happen to belong to those
unprosperous classes which were then termed collec-
tively “the mob;” there were no such things as
“skilled workmen,” or “respectable artisans,” in
those days. The “people” were “the Great Un-
washed.” To build a Crystal Palace for such as they
were held to be, would have seemed to be the height
of folly; they would have taken no other pleasure in
it than to smash every pane with brickbats, for were
they not “the dangerous classes”? Such opinions
were beginning to die out, indeed; but they were
held still by many great people, and Sir Massingberd
Heath was one of them. Reared in a clergyman's


GIANT DESPAIR. 27
*
family, and a clergyman myself, I have been a Con-
servative in politics all my life, and in that belief I
shall die; but rank and power are no excuse with me
for evil deeds. In the chamber of my nephew John,
who “takes in everything,” as the phrase goes, I
once discovered a democratic magazine, edited by a
gentleman whose surname I forget, but whº had a
great multitude of initials. All the poor people de-
scribed in this work were pious and moral, and all
the rich people were infidel and profligate; but for
the noblemen—and there were a good many persons of
high rank in the various stories—were reserved all the
choicest invectives and most superlative abuse. No-
thing, of course, can be more unfair than this treat-
ment of a class of persons who, considering their
temptations, are really more than respectable. As a
general rule the portraits were extravagantly mali-
cious, but they had this attraction for me—they were
all exceedingly like Sir Massingberd Heath. He was
the very type of that bloated aristocracy that is held
up in scarecrow fashion by republican writers. There
were not many living specimens to be met with
even at the date of my tale; and the old baronet,
perhaps himself perceiving that he was one of the
last of them, determined that he should not be the
least in infamy. Like the Unjust Judge, he neither
feared God nor regarded man; and, worse than he,
he would not perform a good action on account of the
importunity of any person. She must have been
a brave woman who importuned Sir Massingberd
Heath, and could scarcely have been brought up in
Fairburn.
Whether George IV. was king or not, at the


/28 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
period of which I write, it matters not, for his con-
nection with our squire had terminated years before;
bat at one time they had been fast, very fast friends.
When a king and a baronet run a race of extrava-
… gance the king generally wins; and so it had been in
2. this case. His Majesty, or rather His Royal High-
2' ness the Regent, had distanced Sir Massingberd
and they were not now even upon speaking terms.
Friendships of this sort do not last when one of
the parties has spent all his money. What was
the use of a poor man at White's, who could only look
on while his old friends played whist for one hundred
pound points, and five hundred pounds upon the
rubber ? What business, let alone pleasure could
one have in London, when Howard and Gibbs would
not lend one fifty pounds even at fifty per cent.”
Sir Massingberd had left that gay, wicked world for
good, that is to say for ever, and was obliged to live
at his beautiful country-seat in spite of himself. He
was irretrievably ruined, so far as his court prospects
were concerned, for he had no ready money. He
owned all Fairburn, and many hundreds of rich acres
about it, beside the Park and the river; he had the
great tithes of the place, and manorial rights (which
he exercised, too), innumerable. Nobody quite knew
—he did not know himself—what privileges he had
iº or had not, what pathways he could close at pleas-
- ure, what heriots he could demand, or what precise
property he had in Fairburn gravel-pits, but in all
cases he gave himself the benefit of the doubt. It
was a very foolish thing to leave any disputed point
to the sense of justice, or the good feeling of our
squire, and yet this was generally done. Where it


GIANT DESPAIR. 29
-
was not done, where some honest fellow had ventured to
oppose his high prerogative, even though he gained his
end, he was always, as the village people said, “paid
out” for it. I don't mean to say Sir Massingberd
murdered him—although he would have done that, I
am confident, without the slightest scruple, if it could
have been effected with safety to himself—but he took
his revenge of him, sooner or later, in avery simple way.
He caught his children trespassing—having caused
them to be enticed upon his land—and committed
them to prison; or he broke down his fences, and
spoiled his corn in the night; for he had dependents
devoted to his wicked will, and upon whose false wit-
ness he could always rely.
And yet, with all this power, the baronet, as I
have said, was a poor man; he had borrowed all the
money he could, and was even said to have overreached
the London Jews in these transactions; and it was all
gone—absolutely all. It was seldom that this great
lord of acres had a ten-pound note in his pocket, for
his house and land were all entailed upon his nephew
Marmaduke, and he had only a life-interest in any-
thing. . Poverty perhaps made him bitterer and more .
savage than he would otherwise have been ; but, for
my part, I cannot imagine him to have been agreeable
under any circumstantes. I have heard, however, that
at Carleton House he was once the first favorite—
after Brummel—and that, of course, made him sought
after by many people. He had a wicked wit, which
was doubtless acceptable in some circles, and his
tongue, it may be, was not quite so coarse in those
days of prosperity. He took a delight in his old age
in retailing his infamous experiences, before women,


130 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
if possible, and if not, before clergymen or boys. I
remember to have heard of Mr. Long once venturing
to reprove his squire upon an occasion of this very
kind. The rector had been dining at the Hall—an
exceptional occurrence, and under exceptional circum-
stances—when, after dinner, the host began one of his
disgraceful reminiscences, whereupon my tutor rose
and said, “Sir Massingberd, you should be ashamed,
to talk of such matters to me; but before this boy, it
is infamous. I thank you for your hospitality; but I
shall go home.”
“Very well; go, and be hanged l’” replied the
baronet; “and Marmaduke and I will make a jolly
night of it.” **
Marmaduke Heath was Mr. Long's pupil as well
as myself, and he resided with his uncle at the Hall.
He would very much rather have retired with his tutor
on that occasion, and indeed have resided at the
Rectory, for he dreaded his relative beyond measure.
All the pretended frankness with which the old man
sometimes treated the boy was unable to hide the hate
with which Sir Massingberd really regarded him; but
for this heir-presumptive to the entail, this milk-and-
water lad of seventeen, the baronet might raise money
to any extent, nay, sell all Fairburn, if he chose, and
so might once more take his rightful station in the
world, rejoin the Four-in-hand Club, and demand his
“revenge” from my Lord Thanet at écarté. He could
still drink, for the cellars of Fairburn Hall were well-
nigh inexhaustible; but if that chit of a lad was but
carried-off, he might have the best in the land to drink
with him. It is true that a ruined man in Sir Massing-
berd's position can still afford a good table; game is


GIANT DESPAIR. 31
yº
plentiful with him, and fish, and he grows his own
mutton and venison, so that neither himself nor his
friends need starve; but servants must be maintained
to wait upon these, and a great country-house without
a carriage, is as a lobster without a claw. Consequently,
except in the shooting season, there were no guests
at Fairburn Hall. The folks that did come were men
of a certain stamp, current indeed in good society,
but only in that of males. A real lady had not set
foot in the Park, far less the house, for the last
twelve years, the manner in which Sir Massingberd
lived forbade such a thing. A few bachelors of the
County Hunt, and half a dozen roués from town,
were all the company that could be enticed to Fair-
burn in September and October. All the rest of the
year the grass grew in the avenue untouched by wheel
or hoof, and even sprang up among the stone steps
that led to the front door. Somehow or other I never
saw it thus without thinking of the parable of the
Sower and the Seed, with some distant and unchar-
itable reference to our squire I wonder whether
it was possible that in any far-back time any good
seed of any sort had found its way into the crannies
of his stony heart, and if so, what had become of it.
I used to try and picture that violent wicked man as
a child in his cot, or saying his prayers at his mother's
knee. I believe she had died soon after her mar-
riage; and that, short as her wedded life had been,
it was a very unhappy one.
Fairburn Hall had never been a house for tender,
honest women. The Heaths, who are celebrated, like
another noble race of the same sort, for their hard
hearts and excellent digestions, had never been good


|32 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
husbands. Fortunately, daughters were rare in the
family. How Sir Massingberd would have brought
up a daughter, I shudder to think. One son had
been the sole offspring vouchsafed to the baronets of
this line for many generations, except the last; and
in the present case, there was no such direct heir.
Some said Sir Massingberd had married secretly, but
was separated from his wife, and some said he had
not; but it seemed somehow certain that with him
the immediate successor from father to son would
cease. His brother Gilbert had married young in
Italy, and had died in that country within the same
year. His widow had brought his posthumous child
when a few months old to the Hall, at the invitation
of Sir Massingberd, and had remained there for some
time. The villagers still spoke of the dark foreign
lady as being the most beautiful creature they had
ever beheld; the Park keepers used to ‘come upon
her in solitary glades, singing sweetly, but ah! so
sorrowfully, to her child in a tongue that they did
not understand. The baronet himself was absent,
not yet cast out of the court whirlpool, and the
lonely vastness of the place was not displeasing to
the young widow, wishing, perhaps, to be left un-
disturbed with her grief; but after Sir Massingberd
came down, she remained but a very few days. It
was said that she fled with her babe in a winter's
night, and that her little footprints were traced in
the snow to the cross-roads where the mail went by,
by which she had arrived. She was not rich, and
had come down in a manner quite different from that
of her brother-in-law, who, broken and ruined though
he was, had posted with four horses. That was how


GIANT DESPA1R. 33
all gentlefolks of the county travelled in those days.
Even the very barristers on circuit indulged, and
were obliged to do so, in a chaise and a pair. The
mother of Marmaduke Heath, however, who was
heir-presumptive to the largest landed property in
Midshire, was very poor. Whether the late baro-
net had omitted to make a proper provision for his
younger son, or whether Gilbert had made away with
it after the usual manner of the Heaths, I do not
know; but his widow and child betook themselves
into Devonshire — selected, perhaps, from its climate
approaching nearer than any other part of England
to that of her native land—and there lived in a very
humble fashion. How Marmaduke ever got into his
uncle's hands, I never could clearly understand. His
mother had died suddenly, whereupon the family
lawyer, Mr. Clint of Russell Square, who had the
entire management of the Heath property, had in
the first instance taken possession of the lad; but Sir
Massingberd had claimed his right to be the guardian
of his nephew, and it could not be disallowed.
Such were mainly the circumstances, I believe.
But all sorts of stories were in circulation concerning
“Giant Despair,” as the savage old baronet was
called, and his nephew, the general opinion agreeing
only upon one point — that no sane person would
change places with Master Marmaduke Heath at
Doubting Castle, notwithstanding the greatness of
his expectations.
2


134 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD,
CHAPTER II.
MY FIRST INTERVIEW.
My own history has little or nothing to do with the
present narrative, and therefore I will not allude to it
except where it is absolutely necessary. Suffice it to
say that my parents were in India, and that for many
years Fairburn Rectory was my home. I had no
vacations, in the sense that the word is generally
understood to mean ; I had nowhere else to go to, nor
did I wish to go anywhere. No father could have
been kinder, or have done his duty better by me, than
did Mr. Long. How poor Marmaduke used to envy
me my wardship to that good man I well remember
the first day I came to Fairburn. It was early
summer, its great woods were in all their glory, and
to me, fresh from shipboard and the vast waste of
sea, the place seemed a bower of bliss. First, the
grey old church tower upon the hill; and then the
turrets of the Hall, half-hidden in oak; and last, the
low-roofed, blossom-entangled cottage where I found
so bright a welcome—that was the order in which
Fairburn was introduced to visitors in town. The
Church, and the Hall, and the Rectory, all lay to-
gether; the churchyard, dark with yews, encroached
upon the Rectory garden; and that bright spot, so
trimly kept that one was moved to pick up a fallen
leaf, if such were on its lawn, sloped down into the
heart of the Park. A light iron railing, with wires
to prevent the hares and rabbits from entering in and
nibbling the flowers, alone divided the great man's
*
*


MY FIRST INTERVIEW. 35
land from Mr. Long's trim demesne. The deer came
up, and pushed their velvet horns against it. In copse
and fern, twinkled the innumerable ear and tail. I
had never seen such animals before, and they de-
lighted me hugely. After dinner, on the very day
that I arrived, I fed them through the rails, and they
ate the bread from my open hand.
“They take you for Marmaduke,” said Mr. Long,
smilingly; “for otherwise, they would be shy of a
stranger.”
“And who is Marmaduke, sir?”
“He is your fellow pupil, and I make no doubt
will be your friend. I wish that he was resident with
me, like yourself; but his uncle, who lives at the Hall
yonder, will not part with him. He reads with me
morning and afternoon, however.” -
“Does he like reading, sir?” inquired I with
hesitation, for I for my part did not. My education,
such as it was, had been fitful, incomplete, and in a
word, Indian ; and I had come back much older than
most European boys have to come home, a sad dunce.
“Yes, Marmaduke is very fond of reading,” pur-
sued my tutor; “that is, reading of a certain sort.
He always does his work well with me, so I must not
be hard on him, but he is certainly too fond of novels.
And yonder he comes, see, with a book in his hand
even as he walks.” My tutor pointed to the Park;
and there, coming slowly down a long, broad “ride,”
with his eyes fixed upon a volume he held in his
hand, was a youth of seventeen years old or so, which
was about my own age. As he came nearer, I began
to see why the deer had mistaken me for him; not
indeed, because he was very handsome (which was


MY FIRST INTERVIEW. 37
the astonished voyager, and passes through his vessel
without shock or noise. He told the tale exactly as
if he had heard it straight from the lips of an eye-
witness, and believed it himself; he never laughed,
and if he smiled he seemed to be sorry that he had
done so directly afterwards. Somo melancholy
thought appeared to occupy his mind at all times;
and if a bright fancy crossed it, it was but for an in-
stant, like lightning through the cloud. I am not
describing an “interesting” youth, after the manner
of romance-writers; no “secret sorrow" obscured the
young existence of Marmaduke Heath, but simply,
as I subsequently discovered, vulgar, abject terror.
His whole being was oppressed by reason of one man.
The shadow of Sir Massingberd cast itself over him
alike when he went out from his hated presence and
when he was about to return to it. He was never
free from its nightmare influence—never. His passion
for reading was not so much a love of books, as a
desire to escape in them from the circumstances of
his actual life. If he ever forgot him in earnest talk—
and he was the most earnest talker, as a boy, I ever
knew—the mention of his uncle's name was a
Medusa's Head to turn him into stony silence on the
instant. If Marmaduke Heath could only have got
away from Fairburn Hall when I first knew him, his
mind might have regained its natural vigor and elas-
ticity; but as it was, it grew more sombre and morbid
every day. His hungry intellect was nourished
upon what associations happened to be at hand, and
they were very unhealthy food. The wickedness of
Sir Massingberd was, of course, sufficiently present to
him, like some hateful picture hung at a bed's foot,


188 LOST SIR RIASSINGBERD.
which the eyes of a sleepless man cannot avoid; while
every tongue about the Hall was ready to tell him of
the evil deeds of his forefathers. At first, I thought
my young friend's constant allusion to his family was
the result of aristocratic pride, although, indeed, there
was nothing to be proud of in what he told me, but
very much the reverse; but I soon found that this was
not the case. The history of the Heaths was what
interested him most of all histories, and he favored
me with extracts from it solely upon that account.
As for the fact of their noble blood running in his
own veins, he would, I am confident, have far rather
been the son of Mrs. Myrtle, the kind old housekeeper
at the Rectory.
“We are a doomed race, Peter,” he once said to
me, not long after we had made friendship with one
another. “Generation after generation of us have
sinned and sinned. The Corsicans have their family
feuds transmitted to them, but they are hostile only
to their fellow men; the Heaths have ever fought
against Heaven itself. Each successor to the title
seems to have said, like the descendants of Tubal Cain—
“We will not hear, we will not know,
The God that was our father's foe.”
There is the Church,” said he, pointing to that
glorious pile, which, at Fairburn, was almost a cathe-
dral in magnitude and beauty, “and there is the Hall.
They are antagonistic; they are devoted to opposite
purposes. I tell you, yes; our family residence is
consecrated to the devil.”
I am afraid I could not help laughing at this
singular notion.


MY FIRST INTERVIEW. 39
“Nay,” cried he, looking round him furtively, “but
you shall see that it is so.” We were in the Rectory
garden, which communicated with the churchyard by
a wicket. He led the way into it; and in a distant
corner, upon the north side of the chancel, he showed
me a sombre burying place, separated from the rest of
the God's acre, and imprisoned in dark purgatorial
rails. “Do you know why we are all put there,” asked
he, “instead of with the other—Christian—folks?”
“You are too proud to lie with the poor, perhaps,”
returned I, who had still that idea in my mind with
regard to Marmaduke himself.
“No,” said he ; “it is not that, it is because the
Heaths will not be buried in consecrated ground.”
“But you have a family vault underneath the
chancel, have you not ?”
“Yes; but it is not ‘snug lying.” None of us have
been put there since old Sir Hugh, in Queen Anne's
time. When they opened the vault for him, they
found his father's coffin with its plate to the ground.
It had turned over. The witty parson would have
it that it was only natural that it should have done
so, since its tenant during life had fought alternately
for Parliament and King, and was addicted to chang-
ing sides. But when Sir Hugh's successor demanded
lodging in the place in his turn, they found Sir Hugh's
coffin had turned over likewise. The circumstance
so terrified the dead man's heir-who had not been
on the best terms with him during life, and perhaps
thought he owed him some amends—that he swore
his father should not lie in such restless company;
and as the late baronet had been at feud with the
then rector, he determined to dispense with any assis-


;40 LOST SIR MASSINGBERT).
tance from the church at all, and buried him in an
adjoining field, which was subsequently made the last
resting-place of all our race, as you perceive. The
burial service is dispensed with, of course. It would
be mere mockery to address such words as Hope and
Faith to the corpse of a Heath of Fairburn.”
“My dear Marmaduke,” said I, “you make my
very blood run cold. But surely you exaggerate
these things. Some of your people have been Cath-
olics, and been buried in their own chapel at the
Hall, have they not ?”
“Only one of them,” replied the boy with bitter-
ness. “My great-grandfather, Sir Nicholas, abjured
his infidelity and became a Papist, in order to secure
his bride. He turned the chapel into a banqueting
hall, however, and used the sacramental plate in his
unholy revels; but after death the priests got hold
of him at last, and ‘Nick the Younger,’ as he was
called, now lies under the altar which he so often
profaned. The beginning of his funeral ceremonies
was not conducted so decently as the last rites. He
had got outlawed, I believe, or at all events was
driven abroad in his latter days, and died there. No-
body at Fairburn had heard of him for many months,
when one October night, as Oliver Bradford, who is
now the head-keeper, but was then a very young
man, was watching in the home-preserves, he heard
a terrible noise in the high-road, and making his way
out, came upon this spectacle. Two men in black,
and upon black horses, rode by him at full speed, and
close behind them came a hearse and four, likewise at
the gallop. The plumes upon it waved backwards,
he says, like corn, and all the black trappings of the


MY FIRST INTERVIEW. | 41
thing fluttered and flapped as it went by. Another
man on horseback, singing to himself a drunken song,
closed this horrid procession. It moved up towards
the village, and Oliver listened to it until the noise
seemed to cease about opposite to the Park gates. The
solitary witness, frightened enough before, was now
doubly terrified; for he made sure that what he had
seen was the news of Sir Nicholas's decease, brought
over in this ghastly and characteristic fashion. He
did not for a single moment imagine that it was a
palpable vision, and yet he had seen a veritable funeral
pass by. The old baronet had died in France, leav-
ing directions, and the money to carry them out,
that his corpse should be taken at night, and at full
gallop, through every town that lay between Dover
and Fairburn. Alive or dead,” added Marmaduke
grimly, “the Heaths are a charming family.”
“At all events, my dear fellow,” said I, laying my
hand on his arm, “you will have nothing to fear
º - -
from comparison with your forefathers, you may
make a good reputation, at a cheap price.* A very
little virtue will go a great way with the next tenant
of Fairburn Hall, if half the tales we hear be
true.”
“And what tales are those ?” inquired a deep, low
voice at my very elbow.
o I am told by an able friend, who is good enough to revise for me this
manuscript, that it is not likely that a mere boy, as I then was
would have made such an observation as the above. I do not doubt
that this remark is altogether just; but I am afraid it will apply to
so much else in this narrative, that it is scarcely worth while to make,
an alteration. I am not used to literary composition; I cannot weigh
whether this or that is characteristic of a speaker. I am merely a
garrulous person, who has, however, such a striking story to tell, that
I trust the matter will atone for the manner.


42 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
I believe I jumped a foot or two in the air myself,
so great was my alarm. But as for my companion,
if those grass-grown tombs which we were contem-
plating had given up their wicked skeletons before
his eyes, he could not have exhibited a greater excess
of terror.
Beside me stood a man of Herculean proportions,
who, by his dress, might have been taken for an under-
gamekeeper, but for a very massive gold chain which
hung from the top button-hole of his waistcoat down
to its deep-flapped pocket. What is now, I believe,
called an “Albert guard,” resembles it on a smaller
scale; but at the time I speak of, such an ornament
was altogether unique. His face, too, evidently
belonged to one who was used to command. On the
forehead was a curious indented curve like the letter
U, while his lips curled contemptuously upwards
also, in somewhat the same shape. The two together
gave him a weird, and, indeed, a demoniacal look,
which his white beard, although long and flowing, had
not enough of dignity to do away with. I had never
heard Sir Massingberd's personal appearance de-
scribed; but even if I had not had before me his
shrinking nephew, I should have recognized at once
the features of Giant Despair.
“And what tales are those which are told against
the present tenant of Fairburn Hall?” reiterated the
baronet, scanning me from head to foot with his cold,
glittering eyes. “And who is this young gentleman
who comes to listen to them from the lips of my lov-
ing ward 7”
“Sir” said I, “your nephew was saying nothing
whatever against you, I do assure you. I was merely


MY FIRST INTERVIEW. /43
*
referring to the gossip of the village, which, indeed,
does not make you out to be entirely a saint.” I
was angry at having been frightened by this man,
who, after all, could not hurt me. I had been accus-
tomed, too, to Indian life; which, without making
one bolder than other people, indisposes one to
submit to dictation, which is only the duty of the
natives.
Sir Massingberd reached forth one iron finger,
and rocked me with it to and fro, though I stood as
firm as I could. “Take care, young gentleman, take
care,” said he ; “that spirit of yours will not do
down at Fairburn. Mr. Long does not seem to have
taught you humility, I think. Marmaduke, go
home.” He spoke these last words exactly as a man
speaks to his dog who has injudiciously followed him
to church on Sunday, in the hope that he was bent
on partridge shooting.
The boy instantly obeyed. He shrank away,
passing as closely to the churchyard railing as he
could, as though he almost feared a blow from his
uncle. -
“There is humility, there is docility 1" sneered
the baronet, looking after him. “And if I had you
up at the Hall, my young bantam, for four and twenty
hours or so, I'd make you docile too.” He strode
away with a laugh like the creaking of an iron hinge
for he saw that I did not dare to answer him. He
strode away over the humble graves, setting his foot
deep into their daisied mounds as though in scorn;
and his laugh echoed again and again from the sepul-
chral walls, for it was joy to Sir Massingberd Heath
to know that he was feared.


44 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD,
CHAPTER III.
THE DREAM by The BROOK.
ALTHough my story must needs be sombre wher-
ever it has to do with that person whose name it bears,
yet I hope there will be found some sunny spots in
it. During the first few months after my arrival at
Fairburn, there was nothing to sadden life there that
I knew of "I passed my days under green leaves,
and not only in a metaphorical sense; for every fine
afternoon, immediately after study was over, I betook
myself to the Park. The whole place was watched
as zealously, even in summer, as the gardens of the
Hesperides, but Mr. Long had obtained permission
for me to roam at large therein. To me, vexed from
childhood by Indian suns, Fairburn Chase—as that
part of the demesne most remote from the Hall was
called—was far more delightful than it could have
been to any mere English boy. Its stately avenues
of oaks, tapering into infinite distance, with their
checker work of beam and shade, was the realization
of my dreams of forest beauty. Nor was its delicious
coolness marred by the broad strips of sunlight, at
long but equal distances, like the golden stairs of the
Angels' Ladder; for those, I knew, marked the inter-
lacing of “the Rides,” themselves as fair, and leading,
not as the avenue did, to the outer world, but into
secret bowers known only to the deer and me.
When Marmaduke was not with me, which often
enough happened, poor fellow, and particularly after
that unfortunate meeting with his uncle in the church-


THE DREAM by THE BROOK. - 45
yard—the whole Chase seemed abandoned to my-
self. I dare say it was not really so, and that if I had
not been a privileged person I should soon have found
out my mistake, but for days and days I never saw
any human being there. Now and then the figure of
a gamekeeper, dwarfed by distance, would make its
appearance for a moment, to be lost the next in some
leafy glade. But the sense of solitude was thereby
rather increased than otherwise, just as the poet tells
us in a case where the ear and not the eye was con-
cerned, “the busy woodpecker made stiller by his
sound the inviolable quietness.” Lying couched in
fern, in that lordly pleasure-place, I have myself
entertained some poetic thoughts, although they
never found expression. Even now, as I shut my
eyes, I make an inward picture of some such resting-
place; nothing to be seen but the long green feathery
stems which the summer air just stirs about my brow,
and the broad branches of the oak that stretch them-
selves motionless between me and the sun; nothing
to be heard but the coo of the ring-dove, and the
swift stealthy bite of the dappled deer. Nor did
Fairburn Chase lack water to complete its beauty.
In front of the Hall itself moved a broad slow stream,
which presently slid rather than fell down ledges of
mossy stone into a wilderness of trees and shrubs,
through which it wandered on like one who has lost
his way, but singing blithely nevertheless. Another
stream, which was my favorite, burst spring-like
from the very heart of the Chase, having been arti-
ficially conveyed beneath the avenue, and ran quite a
little river, and at a great rate, to form the island
where the herons lived; after which, as though.it


46 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
had done its work, it went its way tranquilly enough.
If it had nothing to boast of but the heronry it might
have been a proud little brook, for never did colony
of those solemn birds take their sad pleasure in a
more lovely spot; but besides it had a certain bend
in it—essential to the beauty of a brook as straight-
ness is to that of a tree—which I have never seen
rivalled elsewhere. Its right bank rose there, though
not abruptly, and left half its bed of brown sand and
loose tinkling shingle bare to the sunlight, save so
much of it as the shade of a cluster of lime trees
could cover. Here the bee and the bird brought their
songs, and the dragon-flies the glory of their turquoise
armor and glittering wings throughout the summer
noons. The cool fragrant smell of the limes, and the
drowsy music of the insects that haunted them, were
inexpressibly pleasant to me, who, I am afraid, had
not a little of the Asiatic indolence in my nature.
Sometimes a group of swans sailed by on the unruffled
stream, themselves a slumbrous pageant fit enough to
herald sleep; but at all events, swans or no swans,
I often did sleep there. One July afternoon, in
particular, when the heat was almost as. intense as
at Calcutta, and no punkahs to cool one, I went to
this place with malice prepense to lie there and do
nothing, which, from my youth up, has always been
synonymous with a siesta. I cannot do absolutely
nothing, and yet keep awake. I very much admire the
people whom I often meet in railway carriages, who en--
dure, without books or newspapers, hundreds of miles
of weary travel, and who do it with their eyes open.
I wonder they do not break out into a melody, or at
least a whistle. They cannot possibly be thinking


THE DREAM BY THE BROOK. 47
all that time, and indeed they have no appearance of
employing themselves in that way, but “stare right
on with calm eternal eyes,” with no more speculation
in them than those of the Sphinx herself. I envy,
but I cannot imitate those happy persons. There is
no such state of coma with me; I either wake or sleep.
I lay, then, beneath the limes by the brook in
Fairburn Chase, half-buried in the soft brown sand;
and even while I looked upon the glancing stream,
with the grand old willow opposite, that bent its
hoary honors half-way o'er, the scene dissolved and
changed; the brook became a river, and the willow a
palm-tree, and the Chase a sandy tract, and the fir-
clump on the distant hill the snow-capped Himalaya.
I saw, too—and alas! I was never more to see them,
except, as then, in dreams — my father and my
mother: but they passed by me with pitiful, loving
looks, and went their way. Then the ayah, the black
nurse who was watching over me—for I was once
more a child—stole down to the river-brink, and
drew a fluted dagger from her bosom, and dipped it
in the sacred flood, and I felt that I was to die. I
knew her well; we two had loved one another as
nurse and child do love, where the nurse perforce
takes half the mother's part; as the child grows up,
his affection, at the best, congeals to gratitude ; but
not so with the breast that suckled him—God forgive
us men; and the pain of my dream was sharpest
because it was my own dear ayah who was about to
slay me. I had offended Vishnu, or else she would
not have done it; her gods demanded my life of
her; but she was sorry; I felt her cold lips upon
my brow, and then a large round tear fell upon my


48 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
cheek like icy hail, and I awoke. There was a
tumult of sounds in the air; the birds, and the bees,
and the bubbling wave, silent while I had slept,
seemed to have burst out together in chorus at my
waking. I was bewildered, and knew not where I
was. My dream was more distinct at first than the
realities about me. If I had but closed my eyes
again, I knew that it would be continued at the spot
where it had left off, that the fluted dagger would
have drunk my life-blood; and therefore I made an
effort to rouse myself. Wondrous are dreams, and
wondrous the border-land 'twixt life and sleep | If
my existence had depended upon it, I could not, for
some seconds, have told for certain whether I was in
England or in India. Then reason began to re-
assume her sway, and the vague mysterious powers,
of whom we shall one day perhaps have a more
certain knowledge, withdrew reluctant from their
usurped dominion over me. I remembered, however,
most distinctly, every incident that they had brought
about, and I placed my hand mechanically upon my
left cheek—I had been lying upon my right—upon
which the tear had seemed to fall. Great Heaven, it
was still wet / I was really startled. The cloudless
sky forbade the idea of a drop of rain having fallen;
I had shed no tear myself while dreaming, for my
eyes were dry, and even if I had, it could scarcely
have dropped as it did, making a cool round spot in
the centre of the cheek—it would have slid down
and left a little frigid line: there were no stones for
the stream to splash against and thus besprinkle me.
It was very odd. Still, I did not imagine for a
moment that my poor black nurse had really come


THE DREAM BY THE BROOK. 49
across the seas to drop the tributary tear upon her
sleeping boy; moreover, she could scarcely have got
away so suddenly without leaving some trace of her
departure, some My heart all of a sudden
ceased to beat; a shiver ran through me, as runs
from stem to stern through a doomed ship that
comes end on at speed upon a sunken rock; my eyes
had fallen—while I thus reasoned with myself—upon
a sight to terrify an older man than I, after such a
dream, the print of a woman's bare feet in the sand.
Had there been any footprints—those of a keeper or
watcher, for instance—I should have been startled to
know that some one had passed by while I slumbered,
for most certainly the sand had been untrodden up to
the moment I had lost consciousness; but that a
woman with naked feet had been really present while
I dreamed that horrible dream, was something more
than startling. In Scotland such a circumstance
would have been less remarkable, but in Fairburn I
had not yet seen any person without shoes. There
were a considerable number of footprints, but only
of one individual: she had stood beside me for some
time, for they were deeper close to the place where
I had lain, and there was also one impression there
which looked as though the mysterious visitor had
knelt. They had come and returned the same way,
which was not the one that I had come myself, and
they began and ended at the streamside a few yards
beyond, and out of sight of the bend which was my
favorite haunt. The woman had doubtless crossed
and recrossed by means of some natural stepping-
stones that showed their heads above water; there
was no path on the other side, but only a tangled
3


50 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD. *
thicket, through which it would have been impossible
to track her, even had I been so disposed, which I
was not. To say truth, I was terribly discomposed.
For a minute or two I clung to the notion that the
footprints were my own, made, perhaps, under the
influence of somnambulism. I took off my shoes,
and measured the tracks with my own feet, but I
found, boy as I was, that mine effaced them. They
were certainly the marks of a woman; smaller than
those of a grown male, yet firmer set than those of a
child. Never since the days of Robinson Crusoe was
ever man so panic-struck by footprints in the sand as
I. Although it was broad daylight, and the air was
alive with sounds, I fairly trembled. The many evil
stories which, during my short stay at Fairburn, I
* .
*
had already heard of the old Hall, a corner of which º
I could discern from where I stood, crowded in upon
my brain the whole demesne seemed under a
malign influence—enchanted ground. I turned from
the spot, whose lonely beauty had once so won my
soul, with fear and loathing; and as I turned, there
rang out—it may have been from the thicket, across
the stream, but the echoes took it up so suddenly,
that it seemed to ring all around me — a laugh so
terrible, so demoniacally mocking, that I could
scarcely believe it came from mortal throat. Again.
and again it rose, and circled about, as though it
would have headed my fleeing steps, and driven me
back upon some dreadful Thing, while I fled through
the fern towards home at my topmost speed, and the
white-tailed rabbits scampered to left and right,
less frightened than I.



52 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
of late rather than go into the Chase I had been ac-
companying my tutor in his favorite diversion of fish-
ing, which I cared nothing about, or else in his paro-
chial expeditions.
“Don’t be afraid to speak out, my boy,” said Mr.
Long, with a kind smile, “you will not hurt my feel-
ings. You and I are very good friends, but you want
somebody of your own age to be your companion.
Isn't that it? And very natural too. No young
gentleman, except in story-books, enjoys the society
of his tutors. Even Sandford and Merton got a little
tired of good Mr. Barlow, I fancy, he was so desper-
ately full of information. You want a fellow who can
shy stones and climb trees.”
“No, sir, indeed I don’t,” said I, a little indignant-
ly; for I was getting too old, I flattered myself, for
any boyish escapades of that sort. “But I do wish
that Marmaduke was allowed to come out with me a
little more. Would not Sir Massingberd let him have
a horse also 2 ”
Mr. Long shook his head, and was silent for a little;
then, as if in continuation of his thought, he added,
“And yet, I don’t know, we'll go over to the Hall and
see about it this very morning.”
“I, sir?” inquired I, in astonishment; for I had
never set foot in Doubting Castle, or seen it from
any nearer spot than the Heronry.
“Did I say “we ?’” said Mr. Long, reflectively.
“I didn't mean to do so, but I really see no reason
why you shouldn't come. You would wait a con-
siderable time, if you waited for an invitation from
Sir Massingberd, but Tush, if poor Marmaduke
lives there, and yet remains a good boy, half an


THE DUMB WITNESS. 58
hour's visit will not be the ruin of the lad.” The
latter part of this remark was uttered aloud, although
intended to be strictly private, which was not an
uncommon occurrence with my worthy tutor, and I
have noticed the same peculiarity in other persons of
studious habits. He led the way into the road at
once, pursuing which, under the park wall, we pres-
ently came upon a little door, which my tutor opened
with a private key. This admitted us into the wall-
garden, or, as it was sometimes called, from the
quantities of that fruit which it contained, the peach-
garden. An enormous area was here entirely given
up to the cultivation of fruits; in the centre were
strawberry-beds, gooseberries, melon-beds, the glasses
of which dazzled you to behold; and raspberries upon
trellis-work, on so extensive a scale that it looked
like a maze. The northern end was occupied by an
enormous green-house, which, in those days was
rather a rare adjunct, even to a rich man's garden.
But the most surprising sight was that of the
walls covered with spread-eagled fruit-trees, or, as
school-boys then called them, “Lawk-a-daisies,”
laden with the most exquisite dainties — peaches,
nectarines, apricots, and bloomy plums. A number
of men were busily employed about this teeming
scene. -
“Why do they say Sir Massingberd is poor’’’
inquired I. “Is not all this his?”
“Yes; it is all his.”
“Well, but what valuable fruit, and what enor-
mous quantities of it! Why, he would make a large
income, even if he was to sell it.”
“He does sell it,” replied my tutor, smiling.


THE DUMB WITNESS. 55
they looked very unattractive, damp, worm-eaten,
cracked, and here and there with a slug upon them,
making slimy paths. Yet from one of these alcoves.
there started up, while we were still a long way off,
a female figure, and stood for a moment looking at us
in great surprise. Above her happened to be one of
those broken portions of the leafy roof, and through
it the sunlight poured right down in a golden flood,
as a glory sometimes does in ancient pictures. A tall,
dark woman, who must have been exquisitely beau-
tiful in her youth, and even now retained considerable
attractions; her eyes were large and lustrous, and
her hair—never even in India had I seen hair more
dark, or so luxuriant. It was not rolled tight at the
back in a great pillow, as was then the fashion, or,
indeed, confined in any way, but streamed down over
her shoulders, and far below that, place where it was
the pleasure of our ancestresses to consider that their
waists occurred. She cast upon us at first a glance
haughty and almost defiant, but upon recognizing my
companion, quenched her fiery looks.
“Stop here, my lad,” whispered Mr. Long, lay-
ing his hand firmly upon my shoulder; “wait till
she has gone away.” -
The woman saw the gesture, although she could
not have heard the words. “I shall not bite the boy,
Mr. Long,” cried she, with a shrill laugh; “however,
I will make myself scarce.” She took a few rapid
steps to an opening on the right of the arcade, which
led to the lawn and flower-garden, and was lost to us
in a moment.
“I did not know there were any ladies at the
Hall,” said I.


56 Lost sir MASSING Bern.
My tutor did not answer, but walked on mutter-
ing to himself as if annoyed. I did not repeat the
remark, for I was wondering within myself whether
it could be this woman who had watched my sleep
and knelt by me, dagger in hand, according to my
dream. She looked just the sort of female to drive
such an instrument home, if she entertained that fancy
— a Judith, equal to the slaying of any Holofernes,
and far more of a slight-built, overgrown Indian
lad like me. There was certainly something un-
canny about her, and I thought it very strange
that Marmaduke had never spoken to me of her
existence.
The arcade brought us out into a sunk garden,
which was a rosary, on to which opened the tall win-
dows of a noble-looking room. The walls, I could
see, were lined with books, and on the numerous
tables lay portfolios and volumes that gave promise
of great store of plates. This was the library where
Marmaduke had told me he passed his only happy
hours at Fairburn. His uncle rarely so much as
entered it, although he was not without some reputa-
tion for learning. In particular, it was said that he
was well acquainted with divinity, and could quote
chapter and verse of the Bible against the parson. I
have since had reason to believe, that his talents in
this way were greatly exaggerated. What he had
ever read he doubtless recollected, if his memory
served him as well in literary matters as when he
had a grudge to pay; but I cannot think that he
ever studied divinity. If he had any knowledge of
the Bible at all it doubtless astonished all who knew
him, and they made the most of it.


Trie DUMB WITNESS. 57
|
A few steps further brought us to the north face
of the mansion, in which was the principal entrance.
Notwithstanding the broad sweep in front of the
steps, and the avenue branching right and left, there
did not seem space enough as contrasted with the
vast mass of trees. The scene was like a clearing in
a forest, where the openings are artificial, and the
wood comes by nature rather than the converse, and
even in that September day the air struck chill. The
griffins that guarded the great stone steps had
lost, the one an ear, and the other a wing, and the
steps themselves were chipped and cracked. The
grass which grew there unchecked at other seasons
had, however, been scraped out, because Sir Mas-
singberd's guests were expected immediately for the
shooting. None of them, however, had as yet ar-
rived. The great bell which answered our summons
clanged through the place, as though there had been
neither furniture nor people within it. The vast door
was opened long before its echoes ceased, and indeed
with marvellous quickness. When the man saw who
we were, he looked vexed at having put himself in a
flurry without necessity. He thought, doubtless, it
was his master, who demanded admittance, and had
come post haste from the pantry, it being very dan-
gerous to keep the baronet waiting. We were ushered
into the great hall, and left there while the man went
to seek Sir Massingberd. This huge apartment was
evidently used as a sitting-room. There were couches
and comfortable chairs in profusion, and a fine aroma
of tobacco pervaded everything. The walls were
ornamented with antlers and the heads of foxes; a
number of fishing-rods stood in one corner; in an-


58 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
other, lay some of those clubs that are used for
exercising the muscles. On the table was an open
pocket-book, stuck full of gorgeous artificial flies.
Presently, the man reappeared. Sir Massingberd
would see us in his private sitting-room. We walked
over polished oak, on which I could with difficulty
keep my footing, down a long passage hung with
grim portraits of the Heath family “all dead and
judged,” as Marmaduke subsequently informed me,
until we came to a short flight of steps on the left
hand. These we descended, and following the foot-
steps of our conductor in almost perfect darkness
came upon double doors, the inner of which, a baize
one, admitted us into the presence of the proprietor.
The baronet was in his shirt-sleeves, cleaning a double-
barrelled gun.
“This is my pupil, Peter Meredith,” said Mr.
Long.
“I know the young gentleman,” replied Sir
Massingberd, curtly, and the horse-shoe upon his
brow contracted as he spoke. “What makes you
bring him here?”
“Well, Sir Massingberd,” observed my tutor,
forcing a laugh, “that is scarcely a hospitable obser-
vation. I bring this friend of your nephew's because
what I have to propose concerns them both. It is
good for these boys to be together, not to live solitary
lives; and to keep them mewed up at home, as they
are now, is a positive cruelty. Marmaduke is getting
thinner and paler every day; and Meredith »
“Do you really think so, parson?” asked the
baronet, eagerly, omitting for a moment to use the
dirty-looking piece of oiled flannel which had pre-
viously monopolized his attention.


THE DUMB WITNESS. 59
“I do, indeed, Sir Massingberd. I believe that
if a doctor was to give his opinion about that
boy 2x
“The Heaths never send for doctors, or for clergy-
men,” interrupted the baronet, with a sneer.
“And yet they have often needed advice, both
spiritual and temporal,” quoth my tutor, stoutly.
“I say you should get a horse for your nephew's rid-
ing; it need be no trouble to you whatever. I am
going over to Crittenden Fair next week myself to
purchase one for my pupil; now, let me get one for
your nephew also.”
At first Sir Massingberd's countenance expressed
nothing but angry impatience, but presently he began
to rub the gun-barrel less and less violently. “And
who is to find the money?” inquired he.
“I think that can be managed, Sir Massingberd.
Mr. Clint will doubtless listen to such an application
on behalf of Marmaduke; he will risk advancing a
few pounds **
“For thirty-five guineas one can get a very good
pony,” observed the baronet, reflectively.
“Or even for less,” returned Mr. Long, drily;
and then, to my excessive terror, he added in quite
as loud a key, “He wants to keep the difference;
that's his plan.”
“And he means to do it, too,” observed Sir
Massingberd, grimly. “No, you needn't apologize,
parson, for your thinking aloud; you don't suppose I
am going to do anything without being paid for it, do
you? Then there's the keep of the animal. Now,
what will Mr. Clint allow me for that, do you suppose?
Oats and beans are very expensive, and you wouldn't
have me feed my dear nephew's pony upon hay !”


60 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
Sir Massingberd was a formidable object at all
times, but I really think he inspired more fear when
he was pleased—when some wicked notion tickled
him—than even when he was in wrath.
“I think, Sir Massingberd, the question of expense
can be managed to your satisfaction,” said my tutor,
not a little overwhelmed by having thus involuntarily
expressed his suspicion of the baronet; “and, as I have
said, I will save you all trouble by selecting the horse
myself.”
“Certainly not, sir,” exclaimed Sir Massingberd,
savagely; “I suffer no man to choose my horses for
me.”
“Wery good,” replied Mr. Long, biting his lip. “I
have only to stipulate, then, that if your nephew gets
the horse, he is to ride it. I shall have to make my-
self answerable for that much to Mr. Clint.”
“Oh, he shall ride it,” quoth the baronet, with a
horrid imprecation; “you may take your oath of that.
And, by the by, since you are here, parson, I want to
have some talk with you about that same fellow Clint,
who has been behaving devilish ill to me, I think.
You may go away young gentleman, you may. You'll
find your future riding companion — he has about as
much notion of riding as old Grimjaw yonder — sulk-
ing in his own room, I dare say. Grimjaw, show the
young gentleman up to Marmaduke's room.”
At these words a dog of horrible aspect came out
from under the very sofa on which I sat, and trotted
off towards the door. He was the oldest and ugliest
dog I ever beheld. He had only one eye, which was
green; he had no teeth, and was therefore not to be
feared as a combatant; but his aspect was loathsome


THE DUMB WITNESS. 63
* *
-
up, and placed it in 4, pocket. “But here is a
pretty face | Why, Master Marmaduke, you have your
secrets, I see; you have never mentioned to me this
young lady. What beautiful hair! The eyes, too,
how glorious, and yet how tender! It is surely not
the lady whom we just met in the ar »
“Silence, sir!” cried Marmaduke, in a voice of
thunder. His face was lurid with rage, and for the
first time I remarked upon his forehead a faint re-
flection of the horse-shoe that made so terrible the
brow of his uncle. “Do not speak of that wretched
woman in the same breath with, with ” He did
not complete the sentence, but added in his usual
soft musical tones: “Pardon me, my friend; I am
sorry to have been so hasty; but that picture is the
portrait of my mother.”
“It was stupid in me not to have known that at
once,” said I. “The likeness is most remarkable.”
“But not the expression,” returned he, sadly, “I
know that just now I looked like one of my own
race. She was always an angel, even when she was
upon earth.” And the boy looked up with his
hands clasped, as though he beheld her, through his
tears, in heaven.
“Did you paint that from a picture, Marma-
duke 2 *
“No, from memory. Sleeping or waking, I often
see her sweet face.”
I had evidently raised by my thoughtlessness a
long train of melancholy thoughts in my companion.
The situation was embarrassing, and I did not know
how to escape from it. As often happens with well-
intentioned but blundering persons, I made the most
f
Y


64 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
inopportune remark that could be framed. Forget-
ting what I had heard of the infamous treatment
which Mrs. Heath had received while under her
brother-in-law's roof, I observed : “Your mother was
once at Fairburn, was she not ? That should at least
make the Hall more endurable to you.”
Again Marmaduke's handsome face was dis-
figured with concentrated passion. “Yes, she was
here,” returned he, speaking through his teeth.
“For what she suffered alone, the place would be
cursed. Coward, scoundrel ! Why does God suffer
such men to live 2" It was terrible to see how like
this young lad grew to the man he was execrating.
He went on using such language as I could not have
conceived him capable of employing.
“Marmaduke,” said I, soothingly, “for Heaven's
sake, be calm. Providence will one day reward this
man; it is not for you to curse him. Come, now
that I pay you a visit for the first time, you should
play the host, and show me over the mansion. Why,
that queer old dog seems to understand what one
says; he rises as though he were the châtelain, and
kept the keys of Doubting Castle. He brought me
here as true as a blind man's cur. I cannot say,
however, that he is beautiful; he is hideous,
Weird.”
“It would be strange, indeed, if he were like
other dogs,” returned Marmaduke, gravely. “He is
the sole living repository of a most frightful secret.
If he could but speak, he could perhaps send a man
to the gallows.”
“What man?” exclaimed I. “Pray explain to
me this mystery.”


THE DUMB WITNESS. 65
“I do not know what man,” returned my com-
panion, solemnly; “I only conjecture. I will relate
to you what is known of the matter, and you shall
judge for yourself.”
Marmaduke opened the door to see that no one was
in the passage without, and then seating himself
close beside me, commenced as follows:—“My grand-
father and the present baronet, lived on bad terms
with one another. For the last ten years of his life
Sir Wentworth and his eldest son never met but
once, if they met at all. He had been very profligate
and extravagant in his young days, but in his old age
he grew miserly. When my father saw him last it
was in a small house in Bedford Place, in London,
where he lived in a couple of ill-furnished rooms, and
without a servant. Grimjaw and he slept there alone,
but a charwoman came in every morning for a few
hours. Sir Wentworth then gave it as his reason for
this kind of life that he was retrenching, in order to
leave some suitable provision for his second son.
‘Look here, Gilbert,” said he upon one occasion to my
father, “I have begun to lay by for you already;”
and he showed him a quantity of bank-notes, amount-
ing to several thousand pounds. He had never been
an affectionate parent, or exhibited any self-denial for
the benefit of his sons, and my father did not believe
him. He thanked him, of course; but he came away
without any idea that he would be really better off at
Sir Wentworth's death. This was fortunate for him,
for he never received a farthing; but I am not so
certain, as he was, that the baronet did not intend to
do what he promised. While the old man was living
in this sordid fashion, his son Massingberd was pass-
4


66 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
ing his time very gaily at court. He played high,
and there were few who could beat him with the
cards, but there were some. It is no use being a
good player, you see, unless, you are the best; you
only win from those whom you can beat, to lose it in
your turn to the man who can beat you. Thus it
was with my uncle, who played, as I say, high with
everybody; but highest, as is often the case, with his
superiors in skill. However, he paid his debts of
honor with money raised at an enormous sacrifice.
He lived well, but it was upon his future prospects.
At last, being harder pressed than usual, he wrote to
his father—the first letter he had penned to him for
years—and demanded pecuniary help.
“Sir Wentworth wrote back a cynical, harsh
reply, a copy of which I have seen—for all these de-
tails came out in the course of the inquest. He bade
his son come to call upon him, and judge from his
style of living whether he was in a condition to
comply with his request. He appointed a day and
an hour—about five o'clock. It was in December,
and quite dark, of course, by that time. At six
o'clock on the appointed day Sir Massingberd—for
he had got his title by that time, whether he knew it
or not—called at the police station near Bedford
Place, and gave information that the house which his
father occupied was shut up, and that he could not
obtain admittance, although he had arrived there by
appointment. The house was always shut up, they
a told him, although not untenanted. They could not
explain why his summons had not been answered.
A couple of policemen accompanied him to break
open the door. While they were thus engaged, a


THE DUMB WITNESS. 67
dog howled at them from inside. My uncle had made
no mention of having heard this before. There was
only one lock to force, the door being neither bolted
nor chained, and they soon got in. The only two
furnished rooms in the house opened upon the hall.
In the sleeping-room they found my grandfather
dressed, but lying on the bed quite dead—suffocated,
as the surgeons subsequently averred. In the sitting-
room with which it communicated, they found this
dog here, crouching on the top of the mantel-piece,
which was very lofty. How he got there, nobody
could tell; if he leaped thither, even from a chair,
it must have been in an agony of terror. He was
whining pitifully when they entered; but upon see-
ing my uncle he ceased to whimper, and absolutely
seemed to shrink into himself with fear. Poor Grim-
jaw could give no witness at the inquest, however,
so the jury returned an open verdict. It was prob-
able that Sir Wentworth had had a fit of apoplexy,
which carried him off.”
“Well,” remarked I, “and is not that probable
enough?’”
“Yes; but it could not have carried off the bank-
notes — which were all gone — likewise. Could it,
Grimjaw 7"
Thus appealed to, the ancient dog set up a quaver-
ing howl, which might easily have been mistaken for
the cry of an accusing spirit.
“Good Heavens ! this is too horrible,” cried I.
“Be careful, Marmaduke, that you do not mention
this to others. It is a frightful slander.”
“Slanderſ" returned my companion, calmly. “It
is you who slander, if you suspect anybody. I have


68 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
only told you what everybody knew at the time the
Inur well, then, when Sir Wentworth had his fit.
The thing strikes you as it does me, that is all.”
“But is it not inconceivable,” urged I, “if the
crime was committed by the person we are thinking
of, that he should retain this dumb witness of his
atrocity, that he should let it live, far less should
keep it in his private sitting-room »
“No 1" interrupted Marmaduke, firmly. “On the
contrary, it strengthens my suspicions. You do not
know the man as I do. It gives him gratification to
subdue even a dog. This creature has no love for
my uncle; but its excessive terror of him, which en-
dured for months, nay, years, has gradually worn off.
He obeys him now; whereas, as I have been told, it
was long before it could do anything but shiver at
the sound of his voice. After dinner, when I have
been sitting with Sir Massingberd alone, he will
sometimes give the dog a biscuit, saying with an
awful smile : “Here, Grimjaw; you and I know
something that nobody else knows; don't we?”
“Great Heavens !” cried I, in horror; “ and what
does he do that for ?”
“Because,” replied Marmaduke, bitterly “he
loves to see me tremble.”


THE STATE BEDROOM. 69
CHAPTER W.
THE STATE BEDROOM.
MARMADUKE had scarcely concluded his narration,
when steps were heard in the passage. I daresay I
turned pale at the thought of seeing the man of
whom I had just heard such frightful things, for my
companion observed, as if to reassure me, “It is
only Mr. Long.”
“Are you quite sure?” said I. .
Marmaduke smiled sadly.
“Do you think that I do not know my uncle's
step? I should recognize it amongst a score of
others. If he overtook me in a crowded street, I
should feel that he was coming, and shudder as he
passed beside me Pray, come in, sir.”
“Well,” cried my tutor, entering, radiant with
lais good news, “no more moping at home, my lads;
you are to be henceforth cavaliers—you are to scour
the country. Boot and saddle ! boot and saddle !
Your uncle will not trust me to get you a steed,
Marmaduke; there are none good enough for you, it
seems, at Crittenden; he is going to send to London
for an animal worthy of you. But never mind,
Peter; you shall have the best mount that can be
got in Midshire, and we will pit the country nag
against the town.”
My tutor's voice revived me like a cordial : after
the morbid horrors I had been listening to, his cheery
talk was inexpressibly grateful, as the dawn and
ordinary sounds of waking life are welcome to one
who has suffered from a nightmare.


70 LoST SIR MASSINGBERD.
“I was just about to show Meredith the Hall,” said
Marmaduke.
“Well, it is time that we should be at our work,
like good boys,” observed Mr. Long, consulting his
watch; “but still, for one morning, it does not
matter, if you would like to stay, Peter.”
“I would rather go home, sir,” cried I, with in-
voluntary eagerness. I was sorry the next moment,
even before I saw the pained expression of my
young companion.
“He has had enough of Fairburn Hall already,”
said he, bitterly. Then his face softened sadly, as
though he would have said: “Am I not, therefore,
to be pitied, who pass every day and night under
this accursed roof?”
“Come,” exclaimed Mr. Long, gaily, “I do not
believe, Master Meredith, in this new-born devotion
to your books. Let us go over the house first. I
will accompany you as cicerone, for I once knew
every hole and corner of it—a great deal better, I
will venture to affirm, than the heir himself here.”
With these words he led the way into the
passage.
“Every chamber on this floor is the fac-simile of
its neighbor,” said Marmaduke : “since you have
seen mine, you have seen all—an immense bed, a
piece of carpet islanded amid a black sea of oak, a
cupboard or two large enough to live in, and shep-
herdesses, with swains in ruffles, occupying the walls.”
There was, indeed, no appreciable difference in any
of the rooms, except with regard to their aspect.
“When I first came to Fairburn, I slept here,”
continued Marmaduke, as we entered an apartment


THE STATE BEDROOM. 71
looking to the north, “and had that long illness,
which you doubtless remember, sir. Heavens, what
dreams I have had in this room I have seen people
standing by my bedside at night as clearly as I see
you now. They called me delirious, but I believe I
was stark mad.”
“I remember it well,” said Mr. Long, “although
I did not recollect that you occupied this room. How
was it that you came to change your quarters?”
“Oh, the doctor recommended the removal very
strongly. Sir Massingberd said it was all nonsense
about the look-out from my window, and that the
east was as bad as the north for a boy in a fever;
but he was obliged to give way. And I certainly
benefited by the change. The park is a much more
cheerful sight than that forest of firs, and one is glad
to see the sun, even when one cannot get out of
doors. At all events, I had no such evil dreams.”
“Yet this is what always used to be held the
state-chamber,” replied my tutor. “Charles I. occu-
pied that bed while he was yet king; and before
your ancestor, Sir Hugh, turned Puritan—a part he
was very unfitted to play—it is said he used to swear
through his nose. Peter the Great, too, is said to
have passed a night here. Your dreams, therefore,
should have been historical and noteworthy. I forget
which of these smiling Phyllises is so complaisant
as to make way when you would leave the room
without using the door.”
Two full-length female portraits were painted in
panel, one on either side of the huge chimney-piece;
a circlet of roses carved in oak surrounded each by
way of frame. Mr. Long advanced towards the one


72 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
on the right, and touched the bottom rose; it did
not move. He went to the other, and did likewise;
the rose revolved in his fingers, and presently, with
a creak and a groan, the whole picture slid sideways
over the wall, disclosing a narrow flight of wooden
stairs.
“That is charming,” cried I. “That is the
“Mysteries of Udolpho'realized. Where does it lead
to, Marmaduke?” There was no answer. Mr. Long
and I looked round simultaneously. The lad was
ghastly pale. He stared into the dusty, gaping
aperture, as though it had been a grave's mouth.
“I do not know,” he gasped, with difficulty.
“Not know?” cried my tutor. “Do you mean
to say that you have never been told of Jacob's
Ladder? The foot of it is in the third bookcase on
the left of the library door; the spring is somewhere
in the index to “Josephus.’ It is evident you never
attempted to take down that interesting work, which
in this case is solid wood. The idea of your not
knowing that And yet Sir Massingberd is so reti-
cent that, with the exception of Gilmore, the butler,
I dare say nobody does know it now. It is twenty
years ago since I made Phyllis move aside, to the
astonishment of Mr. Clint, who came down here on
business with poor Sir Wentworth. I dare say
nobody has moved her since.”
“Yes, yes,” cried Marmaduke passionately; “my
uncle has moved her. Those visions were not
dreams. I see it all now. He wanted to frighten
me to death, or to make me mad. When I knew the
door was fast locked, he would come and stand by my
bedside, and stare at me. Cruel, cruel coward l’”


THE STATE BEDROOM. 73
“Hush, hush, Marmaduke; this is monstrous —
this is impossible !” cried Mr. Long, endeavoring to
pacify the boy, (who was rocking himself to and fro
in an agony of distress and rage.) “See how you
terrify Peter | Be calm, for Heaven's sake! Your
uncle will hear you presently, and you know how he
hates to be disturbed.”
At the mention of his uncle, Marmaduke subdued
his cries by a great effort, but he still sobbed and
panted, as if for breath.
“Oh,” moaned he, “consider how I came hither
from my dead mother's arms to this man's house —
my only living relative, my father's brother — and
was taken ill here, a mere child; then this wretch,
this demon, my host, my Oh, Mr. Long, could
you conceive it even of a Heath? He came up to
my lonely room by that secret way, and stood with-
out speaking by my pillow, while I lay speechless,
powerless, imagining myself to be out of my mind.”
“I do remember now,” said my tutor, gravely,
“how you harped upon that theme of your evil
dreams, and how the doctor thought you were in
reality losing your reason. Let us be thankful, how-
ever, that you were preserved from so sad a fate;
you are no longer a child now; Sir Massingberd can
frighten you no more, even if he had the wish. It
was a wicked, hateful act, whatever was the motive.
But let us forget it. In a few years you will be
of age; then you will leave the Hall; and in the
meantime your uncle will annoy you no more. It
will be his interest to make a friend of you. Even
now, you see, he provides you with the means of
enjoyment. You will ride out with your friend


74 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
whenever you please; and I will take measures so
that you shall be more with us at the Rectory, and
less at this melancholy place, which is totally unfit
for you. Mr. Clint shall be spoken with, if neces-
sary. Yes, yes,” added Mr. Long, reversing the
rose, and thereby replacing the shepherdess, but
quite unaware that he was still speaking aloud,
“there must be a limit to the power of such a
guardian; the Chancellor shall interfere, and Sir
Massingberd be taught—”
“Nay, sir,” cried Marmaduke in turn; “for
Heaven's sake, let no complaint be made against
my uncle upon my account; perhaps, as you say, I
may now meet with better treatment. I will be
patient. Say nothing of this, I pray you, Meredith,
Mr. Long, you know xy
“Yes, I know all,” interrupted my tutor, with
excitement. “You have a friend in me, Marma-
duke, remember, who will stick by you. I have
shut my eyes and my ears long enough, and perhaps
too long. If things get worse with you, my lad, do
not forget that you have a home at the Rectory.
Once there, you will not return to this house again.
I will give evidence myself;-I will 22
“Thank you, thank you,” replied Marmaduke,
hurriedly. “All will now be well, doubtless; but
my uncle will wonder at your long delay — he will
suspect something. I think it will be better if you
left.”
He led the way down the great staircase, throw-
ing an involuntary glance over his shoulder, as we
crossed the mouth of the dark passage leading to the
baronet's room. “This is a wretched welcome,


HEAD OVER Heels. T5
Meredith ; some day, perhaps, I may take your hand
at this Hall door under different circumstances.
Good-bye, good-bye.”
And so we parted, between the two grim griffins.
“Peter,” said my tutor gravely, as we went our
way, “whatever you may think of what has passed
to-day, say nothing. I am not so ignorant of the
wrongs of that poor boy as I appear to be; but
there is nothing for it but patience.”
CHAPTER WI.
HEAD OVER HEELs.
I obey Ed my tutor and my friend in keeping all I
knew regarding Sir Massingberd to myself; but the
knowledge weighed heavily upon my spirits for
several days. Soon, however, my mind recovered its
youthful elasticity. I began to think that Marma-
duke's morbid disposition had perhaps exaggerated
matters; that the baronet was not so black as was
painted; that my friend would soon be his own
master; and, in short, I laid all that flattering unc-
tion to my soul which is so abundant in the case of
the misfortunes of others, and so difficult to be pro-
cured when the calamity is our own. Moreover, in
a few days I was in possession of an excellent horse,
and there is nothing more antagonistic to melancholy
—especially when it is vicarious—than a good gallop.
Nay, more, after a little, Marmaduke had a horse
also. He came to call for me, that we should go out


HEAD OVER HEELs. 77
Massingberd, who, with his huge arms resting on a
gate by the roadside, watched us pass with a grim
smile. “Well, parson,” exclaimed he – and at the
sound of his voice I perceived my tutor start
in his saddle—“what think you of the little Lon-
doner?”
“I cannot say at present, Sir Massingberd,” re-
turned my tutor with deliberation. “He is a beauty
to look at ; and if he has no vice, is a bargain at
five-and-thirty pounds.”
“Vice! Why should he have vice, man? ...A child
might ride him for that matter. I got him with the
best of characters. But you'll never teach those lads
to ride if you are always at their stirrup-leather, like
this. Let them ride alone, and race together. Don't
treat them like a brace of mollycoddles. Why, at.
their age, I could have backed any horse in Christen-
dom without a saddle. I wonder you don't give Miss
Marmaduke a leading-rein.”
The color, which had faded from the lad's cheeks,
returned to them again at this sneer; but Mr. Long
only remarked: “If you had had a leading-rein
yourself, Sir Massingberd, at seventeen, it would have
been a great deal better for you,” and rode on with-
out the least consciousness, as I believe, of having
made any such observation.
When we had advanced about a mile, and had
left the village quite behind us, my tutor expressed a
wish to change horses with Marmaduke.
“I want to try his paces,” said he; and certainly,
if he had been a horsebreaker by profession, he could
not have taken more pains with the animal. He
trotted, he cantered, he galloped; he took him into
N.
~
N


/78 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
a field, and over some fences; he forced him by a
windmill in full work; and, in short, he left no means
untried to test his temper. In the end, he expressed
himself highly satisfied. Really,” said he, “Sir
Massingberd has got you a first-rate steed, with plenty
of courage, yet without vice; he makes me quite
dissatisfied with my poor old mare.”
The next day, and the next, we rode again with-
out my tutor; and on the fourth day it was agreed
that we should take an expedition as far as Crit-
tenden, some ten miles away, where Mr. Long wished
us to do some commissions for him. By this time,
Marmaduke was quite accustomed to his recent ac-
quisition; enjoyed the exercise greatly; and since
Sir Massingberd was much engaged with his guests,
passed altogether more agreeable days. On the after-
noon in question, the Hall party were out shooting,
and had taken with them all the stable domestics, ex-
cept a raw lad who scarcely knew how to saddle a
horse.
“I cannot think what is the matter this afternoon
with ‘Panther” (we so called his skittish animal),
exclaimed Marmaduke, as he rode up to the Rectory
door. “I could scarcely get him to start from the
yard, and he came here mostly on his hind-legs.
Is there anything wrong with his girths, think you?
Ned did not know where to lay his hands on any-
thing, and my uncle has taken William with him to
* mark.’”
“Nay,” said I, “I see nothing the matter. We
will soon take off his superfluous energy over Crit-
tenden Common.”
Long, however, before we reached that spot, we


HEAD OVER HEELs. 79
had had galloping enough and to spare. Twice had
Panther fairly taken the bit between his teeth (as
the romance writers term it, and Heaven forbid that
a mere sportsman should correct them), and sped
along the hard high-road at racing pace; and twice
had Marmaduke, by patience and hard pulling, reco-
vered the mastery, albeit with split gloves and blis-
tered hands. It was not enjoyment to ride in this
fashion, of course; and had it not been for the com-
missions which had been entrusted to us, it is pro-
bable that we should have returned home. It puzzled
us beyond measure, to account for the change of
conduct in the bay. The difference was as decided
as that between a high-spirited child who requires,
as we say, “careful treatment,” and a vicious dwarf.
Heretofore he had been frisky, now he was positively
fiendish. He shied and started, not only at every
object on the roadside, but before he arrived at them.
At the end of the high-table land, which is called
Crittenden Common, and descends into the quiet
little market-town of the same name, there really was
something to shy at. A gipsy encampment, with fire,
and caldron, and tethered donkey, which had been
concealed in a hollow, came suddenly into views as
we cantered by ; an old crone, with a yellow hand-
kerchief in lieu of a bonnet, and shading her beady
eyes with her hand, watched with malicious enjoy-
ment the struggle between man and horse, which her
own appearance had gone far to excite. In a very
few moments Marmaduke's already overtaxed muscles
gave way, and the bay, maddened with resistance,
and released from all control, rushed at headlong
speed down the steep chalk-road that led by many a


80 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
turn and zigzag into Crittenden. It was frightful to
watch from the summit of this tamed precipice—
this cliff compelled into a road—the descent of that
doomed pair. No mule could be surer footed than
was Panther, but the laws of gravitation had never-
theless to be obeyed. At the second turning the bay,
after one vain effort to follow the winding of the road,
pitched head first down the grassy wall which every-
where separated the zigzags from one another; over
and over rolled horse and rider to the hard road
below, and there lay, their horrible and abnormal
movements exchanged for a stony quiet. I jumped
off my horse and ran down the two steep slopes,
which at another time I should have descended hand
over hand. Yet on my way I had time to think with
what sorrow this news would be received at Fairburn
Rectory, with what joy at the Hall! Marmaduke's
hand still held the rein, which I disentangled from it
with feverish haste, lest that four-footed fiend, which
snorted yet through its fiery nostrils, and glared de-
fiance from its glazing eyes, should arise and drag
the dear lad's corpse among the cruel stones. After
what I had seen of his fall, I had scarcely a hope
that he was alive. There was blood at his mouth,
blood at his ears, blood everywhere upon the white
and dazzling road. “Marmaduke, Marmaduke,”
cried I, “speak, speak, if it be but a single word!
Great Heaven, he is dead!”
“Deadl no, not he,” answered a hoarse, cracked
voice at my ear. “He'll live to do a power of mis-
chief yet to woman and man. The devil would never
suffer a Heath of Fairburn to die at his age.”
“Woman,” cried I, for it was the old gipsy crone,


HEAD OVER HEELs. 81
who had somehow transported herself to the spot
with incredible speed, “for God's sake go for help !
There is a house yonder among those trees.”
“And why should I stir a foot,” replied she,
fiercely, “for the child of a race that has ever treated
me and mine as though we were dogs.”
“Because,” said I, at a venture, “you have chil-
dren yourself.”
“You are right,” exclaimed she, clapping her
skinny hands together, and seating herself calmly on
the turf. “It is well that you have mentioned my
kith and kin. One lad is across the seas, and will
never see the green lanes and breezy commons of
England more; another lies caged in yonder jail,
and both for taking the wild creatures of the earth
and air to which such men as Massingberd Heath lay
claim; while my little sister—ah, my Sinnamenta,
my fair pearl!—may the lightning strike him in his
wickedest hour! nay, let him perish, inch by inch,
within reach of the aid that shall never come, ere the
God of the Poor takes him into his hand Boy, you
may talk to that flintstone, and it will rise up and
get you help for that lad there—bonny as he is, and
the bonnier the worse for them he sets his wilful
eyes on—before you get this hand to wag a finger
for him.” --~~
“Woman,” said I, despairingly, “if you hate
Massingberd Heath, and want to do him the worst
service that lies in your power, flee, flee to that
house, and bid them save this boy's life, which alone
stands between his beggared uncle and untold
riches.”
“Is it so?” cried the old woman, rising up with
5


82 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
an agility for which no one would have given her
credit, and looking at me with furious eyes. “Is it
indeed so, boy?”
“Yes, woman, upon my soul!”
Revenge accomplished what pity had failed to
work. In an instant, she was with me down by
Marmaduke's side; from her pocket she produced a
spirit-flask in a leathern case, and applied it to his
lips: after a painful attempt to swallow, he suc-
ceeded; his eyelids began tremulously to move, and
the color to return to his pallid lips.
“Keep his head up,” cried she, “and give him
another drop of this, if assistance does not arrive
within five minutes.”
Before she had finished speaking, she had lifted
the latch of the gate that opened from the road into
the grounds of the house in question, and in another
instant I was alone—alone with what I believed to be
a dying man, and surrounded with the blood that
had flowed in a mingled stream from him and the
dead horse, for Panther had ceased to move—alone
with recollections and anticipations scarcely less
horrible than the visible scene; and yet, so strangely
constituted is the human mind, that I could not for-
bear to glance with some sort of curiosity at the
flask the gipsy had left with me, and to wonder ex-
ceedingly that its worn and tarnished top of silver
bore upon it a fac-simile of one of those identical
griffins which guarded each side of the broad stone
steps that led to Fairburn Hall.


AT THE DOVECOT. 83
CHAPTER WII,
AT THE DO W E COT.
AFTER an interval, which doubtless appeared much
longer than it really was, there issued from the gate
a groom and butler, bearing between them a small
sofa, and accompanied by a young and lovely girl.
The scene that presented itself was enough to shock
persons even of strong nerves, and I hastily ex-
claimed, “The young lady had better not see this.”
But she came on nevertheless. -
“I am not afraid of blood,” said she, “and per-
haps I may be of use.” Then she directed her
servants how to handle the wounded man; and when
he was gently lifted on to the couch, she applied a hand-
kerchief dipped in Eau-de-Colonge to his forehead,
and walked by his side regulating the pace of his
bearers, like some Miss Nightingale of a generation
and a half ago. “Let him be placed in your master's
room, James: and then take my pony, Thomas, and
ride as fast as you can for Dr. Sitwell; and as you
come back—but think of nothing but bringing the
doctor first—call at the nursery-garden for your
master; he said he should go there about those
roses.” And some other directions she gave, as the
men moved on with their ghastly burden, like one
who knew the value of time. Notwithstanding this
presence of mind, her anxious eyes betrayed that she
was not wanting in sensibility, and with every groan
which the motion of the litter extracted from the suf-
ferer, her own lip quivered. I dare say that I saw


84 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
nothing of her exceeding beauty at that dreadful
time; but while I write of Lucy Gerard now, a vision
of surpassing loveliness perforce presents itself before
me. A tall, lithe, graceful form; a face, nay, rather
a soft, sad smile overspreading and pervading every
feature — a smile that I never saw surpassed save on
her own fair countenance after Love had taken her
sweet soul captive—a smile the reflex of all good
and kindly thoughts that dwelt within. There are
some so great and noble that they smile, where other
good folks can only weep and wail; the true sympa-
thizer with human griefs wears no lugubrious aspect;
the angels smile when they weep over human wretch-
edness — they know that it is only for a little while,
for that the gates of heaven are standing open very,
very near; and some such knowledge, or happy faith,
seems to influence the best of mortals, or how should
they go smiling through this world?
So Marmaduke was carried along the gravel-drive,
and across a little flower-studded lawn, to the room
in Mr. Gerard's house which was called the master's
room, it being half a sleeping-chamber, and half a
library, which Lucy’s father used both night and day.
This was so evident from the appearance of the place,
that when I had, with James' help, put Marmaduke
to bed there, where he lay breathing heavily, but
quite unconscious, I went to the young lady of the
house, and expressed my apprehension that my poor
friend, being in that apartment, would cause ad-
ditional inconvenience in the household.
“I understand,” said I, “that it is Mr. Gerard's
room.”
“Ah, sir,” said she, with a glance of pride more be-


AT THE DOVECOT. 85
coming, if that were possible, than even her ordinary
modest look, “you do not know my father. When I
say that it will give him the greatest pleasure to find
that his favorite room has been of service to your
friend, I use a conventional phrase which literally
expresses what he will feel. Please to forget that
there is anybody in this house but yourselves; it is
only right that sickness should be considered before
health; though, alas ! every room to those who are
ill is but an hospital. This little drawing-room,
which your glance tells me you think pretty, with its
conservatory and fountain, and the rest, my poor
young sister was very, very weary of, before she died,
on yonder sofa, after fourteen months of the gay
prison.”
Her voice trembled as she spoke, and I thought I
detected in it that shade of bitterness with which
some affectionate persons speak of the sufferings of
those they love, as though they would almost arraign
that Providence for unnecessary harshness, which
might inflict any misery upon themselves without
evoking one impatient thought.
“Then you are left all alone here, Miss Gerard.
With such a sad reminiscence, this spot must »
“Alone !” interrupted she, with astonishment.
“What! when I have my father? See, he is coming
through the shrubbery now, and Dr. Sitwell with him.
Let us meet them. How glad I am that he has lost
no time.”
It was easy to distinguish the doctor, with his
cane, his ruffles, and stiff professional appearance, a
little impaired, however, by hot haste; moreover, his
companion indicated him with his finger as we


86_ LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
*
rapidly approached one another, exclaiming, “This is
your man, young gentleman; don’t waste one word
on me at present.”
So, rapidly detailing what had happened as we
went, I took the man of physic to Marmaduke's bed-
side. As we entered the room, and first caught sight
of his pale features distorted with pain, my companion
stood for an instant aghast. “Great Heaven l’ mur-
mured he, “I thought the horse had trodden upon
the poor lad's forehead; but now, I see it is an old
scar.”
“No,” returned I; “it is not a scar; it is only a
mark which in moments of pain or anger comes out
more distinctly than at other times. All the Heath
family have it. This is Mr. Marmaduke Heath, the
nephew of Sir Massingberd.”
“Indeed—indeed, sir!” exclaimed the doctor with
an accession of sympathy. “Dear me, how sad
What a fine property to risk losing at his time of life.
But the eye, you see, gives us hope; the brain has
suffered but slightly. He has not been sick, you say
—not been sick; he has not been sick, sir?”
It was the worthy doctor's habit to reiterate his
last sentence in an arrogant manner, as though he
had been contradicted on a matter of fact, while in
reality his mind was entirely occupied by quite other
thoughts. Thus, at the present speaking, he was
engaged in manipulating Marmaduke's head, and
examining his ribs and limbs with the greatest atten-
tion. I waited for his verdict in anxious silence, and
presently it was delivered. “It is my opinion, sir,
that the young man will live to be a baronet.”
Life and Death, the immortalities of Heaven and


Z 88 LOST SIR MASSINGBERI).
/ though he had quite made up his mind to make him
his guest for a lengthened period. A noble-looking
gentleman he was, as like his daughter as an old man
can be to a young girl. Harvey Gerard's face was
wrinkled neither by years nor care, though marked
here and there with those deep lines which indicate
the Thinker—one whom the gods have placed above
the drudgery of life, with a disposition to philosophize
—a man among men rather than of them, who stands
apart from the high-road somewhere half-way up the
hill of Fortune, and watches the toilers above and
below with a quiet but not cynical smile. “The
news you bring me of our patient, Mr. Meredith,”
said he, “is most welcome; but I think we should
still lose no time in communicating with his friends.”
“That is also the opinion of Dr. Sitwell, sir; he
too, recommends that my poor friend's nearest rela-
tive should be sent for; but in circumstances of this
kind, it would be wrong not to say at once that that
relative and the invalid here are on the worst of
terms, and that his coming would most certainly
aggravate any bad symptoms, and retard his cure.”
“I am sorry to hear,” returned Mr. Gerard,
gravely, “that the young gentleman is not on good
terms with his own flesh and blood; that is a bad
sign.”
“However that may be, sir, generally,” replied I,
with warmth, “it is not so in this instance. Mr.
Long, the rector of Fairburn, and tutor to my friend,
will certify to his being a most well-conducted and
excellent youth. His uncle, however, Sir Massing-
berd Heath xx
“I will not have that person under my roof,” in-


AT THE DOVECOT. 89
terrupted Mr. Gerard, “under any circumstances
whatsoever.” This he said without the least trace
of irritation, but with a firmness and decision which
left me nothing to apprehend upon Marmaduke's
account. Then turning to his daughter, as if in ex-
planation, he added, “The man I speak of my love,
is a wicked ruffian—worse than any poor fellow who
has ever dangled yonder outside of Crittenden jail.”
Miss Gerard did not answer except by a look of
gentle remonstrance, which seemed to me to murmur,
“But, dear papa, for all we know, this gentleman
may be a friend of his.”
I hastened, therefore, to observe with energy, that
Mr. Gerard’s view of the baronet's character was a
perfectly just one, as far as I knew, or, if anything,
rather lenient. I recommended that Mr. Long should
be apprised of what had happened, and that he
should give Sir Massingberd to understand that while
his nephew was receiving every attention at the
Dovecot—for so I had learned the house was called
—its doors were immutably closed against himself.
It was not a pleasant task to impose upon the good
rector, but it was a necessary one; for independently
of Mr. Gerard's determination, I felt it was absolutely
essential to Marmaduke's life that his uncle should
be kept away from his bedside. If in health his pres-
ence terrified him, how much worse would it be
for him in his prostrate and perilous condition . It
was arranged, too, that I should remain to look after
my sick friend and the messenger was instructed
to bring back with him all that we required from
the Rectory and the Hall. Mr. Long arrived at
the Dovecot late that same afternoon, in a state of


90 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
great anxiety. He had come away almost on the
instant after receiving the news of Marmaduke's
mischance, and without seeing Sir Massingberd, who
had not yet returned from shooting; but he had
left a letter for him, explaining the circumstances as
well as he could. “My only fear,” said he, after
visiting his pupil, who still lay in a lethargic slumber,
“is that he will come here immediately, and insist on
seeing his nephew—a desire that would appear to be
natural enough to persons who are unacquainted with
the circumstances.”
“Nay,” said I; “but surely he cannot do this in
the face of Mr. Gerard's prohibition?”
“Ah, my boy, you do not know Sir Massingberd
yet,” observed my tutor, gravely; “he will come
where and when he will.”
“Nay,” returned I; “but neither do you know Mr.
Harvey Gerard. From what I have seen of that gen-
tleman, he understands how to say ‘No,' and to suit
to the word the action. When the strong man armed
keepeth his house, his goods, including his sick guest,
are in peace.”
“But where a stronger than he cometh,” added the
rector, shaking his head, “what then 7°
“We shall see,” said I, “what will happen. It
is plain, at all events, that our host is well aware of
the sort of man with whom he has to deal. Mr.
Gerard is a most pleasant person, and his daughter is
charming beyond measure: they are far the most
interesting people I have yet seen about Fairburn.
How is it I have never heard any mention of
them 2 *
“The Gerards have always lived a very retired


AT THE Dov ECOT. 91
life,” returned my tutor. “The old gentleman enter-
tains, it is said, some strange opinions. In fact, I have
never met them myself but once, and that on some
public occasion; so you must introduce me, Peter.”
I had been watching for Mr. Long at the entrance-
gate, and taken him straight into Marmaduke's room
upon his arrival, so that he had seen neither our host
nor hostess; and I thought it strange that my tutor
did not speak of them with more enthusiasm, after
their great kindness to Marmaduke; something evi-
dently a little chilled his feelings towards them. When
he and Mr. Gerard met, I thought there was more
cordiality upon the part of the latter than of the for-
mer; the expression of Mr. Long's gratitude was ear-
nest, but not genial. His admiration of Miss Lucy,
although not to be concealed, was mitigated, as it
seemed, by some sort of compassion; he regarded her
with a shade of sadness. Boy as I was, it was evi-
dent to me that some antagonism existed between my
host—for whom I naturally entertained most kindly
feelings—and my respected tutor; and this troubled
me more than I should have liked to say.
Miss Lucy presently left the drawing-room, and
then I was continually appealed to by one or the
other, on various trifling matters, as though they
found a third party a relief to their conversation.
At last Mr. Long requested me to narrate particularly
the circumstances of Marmaduke's accident, and I did
so, down to the period when I found him bleeding on
the road.
“Well,” observed my tutor, “I am totally at a
loss to account for poor Panther's behavior. I con-
fess, upon the first day I saw him, I did not like the


At THE DOVECOT. 93
powerful, I should have almost called it cruel; but Sir
Massingberd is a very good judge of all things belong-
ing to a horse, and seems to have known that, at all
events, no less was required. It was a town-made ar-
ticle, and came down from London with the ani-
mal.”
“Ah, indeed,” remarked Mr. Gerard. “But you
have never told us, Mr. Meredith, how you managed
to give the alarm here, without leaving your poor
friend.”
I am ashamed to say I had never given the old
gipsy crone a thought from the moment that help
arrived, although it was of her sending.
“The very woman whose appearance frightened
the horse, repaired, as far as she could accomplish it,
that mischief. She left in my hands, too, this fine
old case-bottle, of which I should be sorry to rob her;
and very curious is it that it has the Heath griffin, or
some crest very like that, upon its stopper.”
“It is the very crest,” said the rector. “I am
quite sure of that, although it is long since it last saw.
plate-powder. It is but too likely that the dark lady
came wrongfully by it.”
“Let us not be hasty to impute crime,” observed
Mr. Gerard, gravely. “This is a shooting-flask
carried about the person; and gipsies are rarely
pickpockets. When the owner is at home, it lies in
some place of safety; and gipsies are not burglars.”
“Ably reasoned,” observed Mr. Long. “It may,
however, have been a case of ‘findings, keepings,’ as
the school-boys say. I should think the Cingari
claimed for themselves all flotsam and jetsam.”
“It is too heavy, and has too much bulk, not to


94 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
have been missed by him who carried it as soon as it
fell,” continued Mr. Gerard, taking up the flask.
“It has but very little spirit left in it—see—and yet
how— ”
Here the butler entered somewhat hurriedly, and
was about to speak, when a figure brushed by him,
and sat him aside. The daylight was beginning to
wane; but it was impossible to mistake that Her-
culean form, and its irresistible motion, even if I
had not heard the hard decisive voice of Sir Mas-
singberd saying, “By your leave, sirrah; but in this
good company I will announce myself/*
CHAPTER VIII.
MEETING HIS MATCH.
SIR MAssINGBERD’s unlooked-for entrance into the
drawing-room at the Dovecot had a result that must
seem almost farcical to those who read it, but which
to me, who dwelt among his trembling vassals, and
had learned, day by day, to fear and hate him more
and more, had nothing in it extraordinary. I, Peter
Meredith, bolted straightway into the conservatory,
and there ensconced myself within the shadow of an
orange-tree, while the Rev. Matthew Long left the
room with equal celerity by the door. As for me, I
confess that I was actuated by panic on my own
account; my tutor's apprehensions were aroused on
behalf of another. The instant after he disappeared,
I heard the lock of the library door shot into its


MEETING HIS MATCH. 95
staple, and knew that Marmaduke was in a friend's
keeping, and safe from any incursion of his uncle.
I could see that Mr. Gerard knew this too, for a
gleam of pleasure passed over his face, and then left
it determined, defiant, and almost mocking, as when
he had first set eyes upon the intruder. There was
a fire in the otherwise darkening room, and from my
place of concealment, I could watch the lineaments
of both its inmates—and two more resolved and
haughty countenances I had never beheld.
“Is it the custom of your respectable family, Sir
Massingberd Heath,” observed my host, “to force
themselves into houses whose owners do not desire
the honor of their presence 2"
“It is their custom to hold their own, sir,”
answered the baronet curtly; “and I am come after
my nephew.”
It is impossible to convey the effect which this
audacious speech had upon me, its unseen hearer;
unblushing, scornfully open as it was, an awful threat
seemed to lie within it, and above all, a conscious-
ness of the power to carry it into effect. Even
Mr. Gerard, who could have had no knowledge of
the things that I knew, and had never heard the
history of Grimjaw, seemed to feel a tremor as he lis-
tened.
“Your nephew, sir, is not in a condition to receive
you,” returned my host. “The consequences of
seeing you might, I do not hesitate to say, be fatal to
him.”
“The opinion of his medical man is different,”
observed Sir Massingberd with a sneer. “Dr. Sit-
well — a most estimable person, I should say, and


MEETING HIS MATCH. 97
I should very much misrepresent the baronet's char-
acter, and probably even exaggerate his capabilities,
if I said he blushed, but certainly his countenance
changed. Then he broke out fiercely, “I live as I
choose, sir, and am answerable to no man, least of all
to you. The parsons had their say, and have got
their reply long ago, but am I also to be arraigned
by—”
“You cannot justify yourself by any quarrel with
me,” interrupted Mr. Gerard. “I have, as you say,
although not for the foolish reason you would mention,
no right to be either your judge or accuser. But,
Sir Massingberd, there is a God whom we have both
good cause to fear.”
“So you make your own sermons, I perceive,”
exclaimed the other, bitterly. “That is the reason,
is it, why the good folks never see you at church 2
Cant amuses me always; but religion out of your
mouth is humorous, indeed. Pray go on, sir, if my
dear nephew can wait a little, for I should be sorry
to miss him altogether. You were affirming, I think,
the existence of a God.”
“I was about to urge,” continued Mr. Gerard,
with grave severity, “since howsoever persons differ
on religious matters, they generally acknowledge a
common Father, that if there is one crime more
hateful to Him than another, it is the deliberate
debauchery of the mind of youth. I had no inten-
tion of making any particular accusation, such as the
sight of this flask seems to have suggested to you.
I know nothing—but what I guess—of its history.
It has only been in my hands a very few minutes.
The person by whose means it came into this house
6


98 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
was, I believe, an old gipsy woman, and you are,
doubtless, well aware how it got into her possession.”
Mr. Gerard paused. Sir Massingberd, who,
though smiling scornfully, had been beating the
ground with his foot, here observed, with a forced
calmness, “She is a liar; she is a thief, and the
mother of thieves.”
“Did she steal this flask?” inquired Mr. Gerard,
regarding the other attentively. “It has your crest
upon it. She did not. Good. It was then, I sup-
pose, only a gage d’amour of yours.”
A lurid light came over Sir Massingberd's evil
face; for a moment I trembled for the man who
dared to speak such words to him, but almost
instantly he recovered his usual cruel calm.
“Your sagacity, Mr. Gerard,” returned he, “is
truly admirable. Is it the result of experience or
intuition ? or has this old ginger-faced harridan
made you her favored confidant? With your fond-
ness for all such vagabonds I am well acquainted.”
“The reprobation of a man like you, Sir Mas-
singberd, should be dearer than the praise of
ordinary mortals; but this matter does not concern
myself in any way.”
The baronet muttered something between his set
teeth.
“Pshaw! man,” continued Mr. Gerard, with
unutterable scorn 1 “think not to frighten me. I am
stronger than you, because I am richer; you are as
poor as those very vagabonds whom you despise;
your very existence depends upon the arms of a
stranger. That you are unscrupulous in your
revenges, I do not doubt: but you would have to


MEETING HIS MATCH. 99
deal in Harvey Gerard with one who only uses
honorable weapons with an honorable foe. If you
did me or mine a mischief, I swear to you that I
would shoot you like a dog.”
The frame of the speaker shook with contemp-
tuous passion. Defiant as was his language, it fell
far short of the disdain expressed in his tone and
manner. It was not in Sir Massingberd's nature
to be overawed, but his truculent features no longer
maintained their grimness—their cruel humor. He
could not put aside a man like Gerard with a brutal
jest. I do not say that he was conscious of his own
inferiority, but he knew that his opponent not only
did not fear, but actually despised him. This was
wormwood.
“I am ashamed,” continued Mr. Gerard, after a
pause, “to have lost my temper with you, Sir Mas-
singberd, upon my own account. I wish to have
nothing in common with you—not even a quarrel.
We were speaking of this gipsy woman, and you
called her thief and what not. Whatever may be her
faults, however, it does not become you to dwell on
them; but for her and her prompt assistance, your
nephew would not at this moment be alive. Out of
this very flask she administered to him ” So
frightful an execration here broke from the baronet's
lips that I anticipated it to be the prelude to a per-
sonal assault upon my host. Mr. Gerard, however,
stood quietly stirring the fire, with his eyes fixed
firmly but calmly on those of Sir Massingberd,
just as a mad doctor might regard a dangerous
patient.
“That is a very singular exclamation of gratitude,”
• * f \ . Tº ſº. C / A 4


100 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
observed Mr. Gerard, sardonically, “to one who has
just performed you—or at least yours—so great a ser-
vice. It really seems as though you almost regretted
that it was performed.”
A look of deadly hatred had now taken the place
of all other expressions on the baronet's face. It
forgot even to wear its sneer.
“I have been insulted enough, I think,” said he,
with a calmness more terrible than wrath. “Even as
it is, I shall scarcely be able to requite you, though,
be sure, I will do my best. But, with respect to my
errand, I am come here to see my nephew, and that I
will do.”
“That you shall not do, Sir Massingberd, so surely
as this house is mine.”
“And who shall prevent me?” exclaimed the bar-
onet, contemptuously measuring his foe from head to
foot.
“Not I, sir, indeed,” returned Mr. Gerard; “but
I will see that my servants put you out of doors by
force,” and as he spoke he laid his hand upon the
bell.
“Before night, then, I shall send for Marmaduke,
and he shall be carried back to Fairburn, which, after
all, is his proper home, and be there nursed.”
“Nursed l’” repeated my host, hoarsely. “Nursed
by the grave-digger, you mean.”
Sir Massingberd turned livid and sat down; then,
as one who acts in his sleep, he passed his handker-
chief once or twice across his forehead. “How dare
you speak such things to me?” said he, looking round
about him. “To hear you talk, one would think that
I had tried to murder the boy.”


MEETING HIS MATCH. 101
“I know you did,” cried Mr. Gerard, solemnly,
laying his finger upon the baronet's arm. “If your
nephew Marmaduke dies, his blood is on your
head.”
“On mine! how on mine? How, in the name of
all the devils, could I have hindered the lad's horse
from running away with him?”
“I will tell you how. You might have suffered Mr.
Long to purchase a horse for the boy, as he offered to
do, and not have sent to London for a confirmed run-
away.”
“He rode it half a dozen times without any harm,”
replied Sir Massingberd sullenly.
“Yes, with a curb that would have tamed a wild
horse fresh from the lasso. But when you took that
curb for the keeper's pony, riding with gun in hand
for the first time in your life—and sent your nephew
forth upon that devil with a snaffle-bridle—nay, I
have it yonder, sir—don't lie; you calculated that if
what you wished should happen all would be laid to
chance. A change of bridles is an accident like enough
to happen; lads are thrown from horseback every
day. See, I track your thoughts like slime. Base
ruffian | rise; begone from beneath this roof, false
coward **
Sir Massingberd started up like one stung by an
adder. , *
“Yes, I say coward! Heavens ! that this creature
should still feel the touch of shame! Be off, be off;
molest not any one within this house, at peril of your
life—murderer—murderer!”
Without a word, without a glance of reply, Sir
Massingberd seized his hat, and hurried from the room.


102 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
I felt some alarm lest he should make some violent
effort to visit Marmaduke; but Mr. Gerard's coun-
tenance gave me comfort. He stood quite still, listen-
ing with grim satisfaction to the baronet's retreating
footsteps.
They were heard for an instant striding along the
floor of the hall, and then were exchanged for the
sound of his horse's hoofs urged to speed along the
carriage-drive. Sir Massingberd Heath had met for
once with his match—and more. -
CHAPTER IX.
MR. HARVEY GErArld.
So entirely engrossed had I been with the action and
dialogue of the speakers in the preceding scene, that
it scarcely struck me while it was going on that I
had not paid for my place in the pit in the usual
fashion, but was a mere eavesdropper under an
orange-tree.
So soon as Sir Massingberd was really gone, how-
ever, I became conscious of the impropriety of my
situation, and not wishing to own what I had done,
I stole noiselessly out into the garden, and then re-
entered the conservatory, and thereby the drawing-
room, as though I had been out of sight and hearing
all the time. It was not quite a chivalrous act; but
I do not think that the boys of my time, myself in-
cluded, were quite so honorable and frank as Mr.
Tom Brown describes those of the present day to be.


MR. HARVEY GERARD. 103
There was something, moreover, about Mr. Harvey
Gerard which told me he would have loathed a
listener, nor would have been very ready to have
accepted fear as any excuse for my conduct. He
was a man of noble bearing, nearly six feet in height,
and extremely well formed. He was dressed in a
blue lapelled coat, light waistcoat and kerseys, and
Hessian boots. These last I had not seen before upon
any person, and I remember them well. I think
they were the most graceful covering for the leg that
has yet been devised, although, I own, they may not
have been so convenient as the modern knicker-
bockers. He wore his own grey hair — which was
not very usual with persons of his rank of life—and
rather long. His features were large, but handsome;
and there was a kind of youthful blandness about
them which gave his face a most agreeable expression
in ordinary. When excited by passion, however, as
I had lately seen him, his appearance greatly changed.
His thin lips parted contemptously, and showed his
threatening teeth, while his blue eyes, gentle almost
to dreaminess, became blood-streaked, and almost
started from their sockets. As I now beheld him
calmly kindling a lamp on the drawing-room table,
no one could have been a greater contrast than him-
self to the man who had just driven Sir Massingberd
Heath from the room with such a hail-storm of
invective.
“Well, young gentleman,” exclaimed he, cheer-
fully, “the enemy is repulsed, you see, although, I
confess, your friend the baronet is rather a formidable
fellow. He's uncommonly like Front de Boeuf. I
daresay you have read the new romance of ‘Ivanhoe,'
have you not ?”


Mr. HARVEY GERARD. 105
eyes off him for a moment. When he was calm in
his white malice, then I irritated him by waving my
red flag—this silver-headed brandy-flask put him in a
horrible rage. When he made his rushes, I stood
aside, and let him go where he would. When he had
exhausted himself, I stepped in, and gave him the
steel. I wonder,” soliloquized Mr. Gerard, aloud,
as he slowly paced up and down the room — “I
wonder if it would be safe to give him the coup de
grace /*
“But,” said I, “were you not afraid
“My dear young friend,” said my host, with
seriousness, but placing his hand kindly upon my
shoulder, “an honest man should never be afraid of a
fellow-creature. “Fear God,' it is written; but even
the king is only to be honored.”
It is impossible to express the grave and noble air
with which Mr. Gerard spoke those words: I felt
such an affectionate awe of him from that moment, as
no other person has ever inspired within me.
“But,” continued I, “supposing he had made
a personal assault upon you : he is perfectly reck-
less, and a much more powerful man, I should
think.”
“Very true, my young friend; and indeed at one
time I thought he would certainly have done it; that
was why I placed the poker in the fire. It would
not have been a romantic action; but so sure as he
laid finger upon me, I would have played Bailie Nicol
Jarvie, and “burned a hole in him one might put a
kail-pat through.” It would have given me genuine
pleasure.”
“Burned a hole in Sir Massingberd!” cried I
aghast.
»


106 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
• *
“Ay, that would I. As it was, I threatened him
with my servants; and had he ventured to force his
way into yonder room, they should have flogged him,
though he were ten times Sir Massingberd. Better
men than he are often flogged for less offences. Did
you hear of Admiral Flinthert's funeral at Crittenden
a month ago or so? You did; and I daresay you
were told that he was a good man and a brave
sailor.”
“So it was said, indeed, sir,” replied I. “Mr.
Long attended the funeral out of respect, and I be-
lieve a great number of gentlemen of the county.”
“Yet, for all that, he was a bad man, and a
coward,” returned Mr. Gerard, his voice rising, and
his blue eyes flashing with indignation. “One part
of the naval creed—‘to hate the French '—it is true,
he did believe, and acted in that faith; but he omit-
ted the other, and the more important, ‘to hate the
devil.” He loved and served the devil of his own
arrogant passions; he made the men miserable over
whom he ruled; his ship was called the Floating
Hell. When the carriage of the lord-lieutenant had
driven away from the church, with all its load of
sympathy—for there was nothing else inside it—and
the county gentry were rolling homewards, congratu-
lating themselves that they had paid due reverence
to a gallant officer and a friend of order and good
government, I will tell you what happened. The
very evening those honored remains were laid in
their resting-place, a sailor called at the house of old
Marks, the sexton, and begged to be shown the
admiral's coffin. “I have sailed with him for years,”
said he, ‘and I have made right away from Ports.


MR. HARVEY GERARD. 107
mouth on purpose to do this; and though I cannot
see his face, I should like at least to look upon that
which contains it.’
“Now, old Marks did not fancy unlocking the
church, and descending into a damp vault; beside
which, he had really no right to enter the last home
of the Flintherts without due occasion. So said he,
‘I cannot admit you to where the admiral lies, and
certainly not at this hour; it is as much as my place
is worth.”
“Then the sailor, who was as fine and hearty-
looking a man, said Marks, as need be, held up half a
sovereign between his finger and thumb. “I have
been just paid off,' said he, “and will gladly give you
this for your trouble; while as for your scruples,
why, don't you think the admiral's family here, and
all his great friends who came to do him honor to-
day, would be glad enough that a poor tar should
pay a humble tribute to his memory?’
“‘Well,” said Marks, regarding, I daresay, the
half-sovereign rather wistfully, “what you have just
said seems certainly to alter the matter. I will take
you to the church, and you shall see the coffin, for the
vault is not yet sealed.”
“So they started with a lantern, and Marks was
for going first to show the way, but the sailor went
ahead, saying that he knew the road blindfold, for
that he had been brought up in that neighborhood,
and knew it well.
“‘Well,” said old Marks, “I thought I recognized
something about you, although you are much changed
in the last twenty years. You are Will Moody, who
got into trouble with Sir Wentworth Heath about
poaching; only he couldn't prove it agin you.’


MR. HARVEY GERA.R.D. 109
who gave me my orders; but after a bit I got more
used to the work, and some of the officers I learned
to like very well, especially our captain. I was a
strong, active fellow, without home-ties to think upon
and sadden me; for mother had other sons to main-
tain her, and in that respect I was luckier than most.
There were pressed men on board of the same ship,
men, whose wives and helpless children were starv-
ing because their bread-winner was taken from them,
and who knew not whether he was dead or alive.
However, as I say, I soon got used to my new position,
and became so good a sailor, that I was made what is
called captain of the maintop. When our ship was paid
off, which was not, however, for a long time, I liked
the salt water so well, that after I had been home for
a little, I volunteered to serve again.
“‘My next captain was this man, who lies here.
He was as cruel a tyrant as ever trod a quarter-
deck, and a terror to good and bad alike. You could
never please him, do what you would. If an officer
is worth his salt at all, he knows and respects those
men who do their duty well under him. Captain
Flinthert knew, but did not respect them; on the
contrary, he behaved towards them as though he
resented some imaginary claims on their part to his
consideration. I held in his ship the same position
that I held in the last, for it did not contain a more
active sailor. Yet he found occasion—I should rather
say he made it—to get me punished. I swear to you,
that I had not committed even that slight fault which
he laid to my charge; if I had done so, it was one
for which the stopping of one day's grog would have
been chastisement enough. This ruffian’—here he


110 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
smote the coffin with his clenched hand—‘ordered
me three dozen lashes. Now, I had never been
flogged yet, and when I went to the captain with al-
most tears in my eyes, and told him so, and that I
had never even been reported for misconduct, he
replied with a sneer that I was too good by half, and
that it was high time I should become acquainted
with the cat-o'-nine-tails. “To prevent mistakes,
you shall have it at once,” said he; “call up the
boatswain's mate.” Now, I thought to myself, in the
pride of my manliness and independence, that such a
disgrace should never happen to William Moody, but
that I would die first; so I walked straight from that
part of the deck where I had been speaking with
Captain Flinthert, and leaped from the bulwarks into
the sea. I believe I tried at first to drown myself,
but I was a strong swimmer, and nature compelled
me presently to strike out. The cry of “A man
overboard l’” had caused the boat to be lowered at
once; and though we had been sailing very fast I
was picked up, not much exhausted, and almost in
spite of myself. As soon as I had got on board and
put on dry things the captain sent for me on deck,
where I found the boatswain's mate at the grating,
and all hands piped for punishment. “William
Moody,” said that ruffian in a mocking voice, “I
had ordered you three dozen lashes for a certain
offence, but you have now committed a much graver
one in endangering, by your late act, the life of one
of his majesty's sailors; you will, therefore, now re-
ceive six dozen instead. Boatswain, do your duty.”
“‘I was, therefore, tied up and punished. I
don't think I suffered much at the time, although I


Mr. HARVEY GERARD. 111
was laid up in the sick ward for long afterwards. I
was entirely occupied with thoughts of revenge.
When I was able to get about again Captain Flint-
hert had got another ship, and was away out of my
reach. I never met him again, or he would not have
lived to the age that is inscribed on yonder plate;
but as soon as I heard that he was dead, I swore to
come and spit upon the tyrant's coffin.’
“Then the sailor suited the action to the word,
and turned from the dishonored corpse with a
lighter step than that which he had approached it;
and old Marks followed him from the vault, as he
confessed to me himself, ‘half frightened out of his
wits.’”
“I do not wonder,” said I to Mr. Gerard, “it
was a terrible revenge.”
“Ay, but how much worse was the provocation ;
from the very man, too, placed in authority over him,
whose duty was to foster, not to oppress him. Verily,
they that are in honor, and understand not, are as
the beasts that perish.”
“True,” returned I, “but then the wretch was
dead.”
“Just so, young sir,” replied Mr. Gerard, im-
petuously, “was dead, and never felt the insult. The
sailor felt both the insult and the lashes. How is it
that, at your age, you have already learned to be the
apologist of the rich in high places?”
“Nay, sir, I 2 ”
“Yes, you,” continued my host with vehemence;
“your pity is for the admiral, and does not descend
to the captain of the maintop. Still,” added he, in a
milder tone, “I should not judge you harshly, even


Mr. h. A rv EY GERARD. 113
High truth embalmed in noble verse, yet no one
heeds. The author of those lines, my friend, is the
greatest poet in Great Britain, and has never pos-
sessed an income of a hundred pounds a year. They
say that my Lord Castlereagh has thirty thou-
sand Stay, do you not hear wheels? That
must be Sitwell's gig. I have not the patience to
see him now. His sycophantic officiousness in fetching
Sir Massingberd was too contemptible. How can a
man who has two legs given him to stand upright
upon, persist in grovelling through life upon all-
fours?
* Heaven grant the man some noble nook;
For, rest his soul! he'd rather be
Genteely damned beside a duke
Than saved in vulgar company.’
Do you receive him, Mr. Meredith ; and tell him from
me that it is no thanks to him that his patient is yet
alive. Now that the siege is raised, I will just step
in and see how the lad is getting on.”
My host had left the room only a few seconds
when Dr. Sitwell entered it.
“My dear young friend l’ exclaimed he, in an
excited manner, “what on earth has happened to Sir
Massingberd Heath ? He very nearly rode me down
ten minutes ago on Crittenden Common; and when
I inquired after his nephew, he replied — Well, I
cannot repeat the exact words, because they are so
excessively shocking. Why, he must be out of his
mind with grief! I trust he did nothing impetuous,
nothing that is to be regretted, here ?”
“No, sir,” replied I; “he did not, thanks to our
good host, who withstood all his attempts to see his
7


114 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
nephew. It was, however, most indiscreet of you to
send him hither. Mr. Harvey Gerard was exceed-
ingly annoyed by your doing so.”
“My dear young friend,” observed Dr. Sitwell,
sinking his voice to a confidential whisper, “Mr.
Harvey Gerard is annoyed at many things which
would give most sensible persons a great deal of
pleasure. He would as soon admit a rattle-snake
within his doors as a man of title, unless, indeed, it
be his friend, Sir Charles Wolseley. By the by, it is
to Sir Charles that my dear patient, Mr. Broadacres,
is indirectly indebted for his wound. If Sir Charles
had not convened that revolutionary meeting at
Brangton, Mr. Broadacres would not have had to read
the Riot Act, and eventually got shot by mistake by
his own men. It is denied by the government, I
perceive, that ball was fired by the troops at the first
discharge; but between ourselves such was certainly
the case; for I extracted the bullet from poor Mr. B.
myself, and he has had to lie upon his face ever
since. Good heavens, sir, what a position for a man
whose family came in with the Conqueror l’”
“Is this Sir Charles Wolseley, then, of whom
one reads so much in the papers, a friend of Mr.
Gerard's?” said I. “I have heard Mr. Long remark
that he was a very dangerous man.”
“So he is, sir. He'll be hung some day, as sure
as he lives. And the gentleman in whose house we
stand is tarred with the same brush. It's terrible
to think of Why, do you know, Mr. Meredith, that
Mr. Harvey Gerard goes the length " — here the
doctor looked about him to be sure that we were
alone, and placing his lips close to my ear, whispered
solemnly, “ of wearing a white hat!”


LOVE THE LIFEGIVER, 115
“Gracious goodness,” returned I, “why shouldn't
he 2 My father always wears a white hat in India.”
“Yes; but let me tell you this, India is not Eng-
land,” observed the doctor, sagaciously. “A white
hat here is the badge of Radicalism, Republicanism,
Atheism—I don't say that Mr. Gerard is a down-
right atheist, but he's a sectary, and that's nearly as
bad. And hark ye, I know this for certain: the only
reason why Henry Hunt himself is not hand and
glove with our friend is this, that when Hunt was
tried for his life for sedition, he came into the dock
like a prudent man, with a black hat, and that is the
one act of caution and good sense for which Mr.
Gerard has never forgiven him.”
CHAPTER X.
LOVE THE LIFEGIVER,
It was about four o'clock in the morning, or nearly
twelve hours after his frightful fall, that Marmaduke
Heath first woke to consciousness. Mr. Long and
myself were passing the night in his apartment, which
was a very roomy one, my tutor upon a sofa, and I in
a comfortable arm-chair. I had begged that for that
once at least it should be so, for I knew the dear lad
would like to set his eyes upon me when he first
opened them. Dr. Sitwell and his assistant both
agreed that if he woke at all from his heavy ster-
torious slumber, it would be in his sane mind; and it
was so. Mr. Long was asleep, but I had so much to


LOVE THE Lifegiwer. 117
-
withstanding shutter and curtain, the indescribably
welcome song of the early robin, the busy chirping
of the house-sparrow, followed by the whole tuneful
choir of birds; then the lowing of cattle in the dis-
tance, and the distant barking of the watch-dog, so
strangely different from that sad and solitary howl
with which the same animal breaks the awful still-
ness of the night. About four, I say, as I looked for
the thousandth time towards Marmaduke's bed, I
saw him sitting up, supporting himself on his elbow,
and pushing his other hand across his brow, as if try-
ing to call to mind where he was. In an instant I
was at his bedside. “Marmaduke, I am here,” said
I; “Peter Meredith.”
“I am not at Fairburn Hall, am I?” asked he,
in a hoarse whisper.
“No, Marmaduke, you are amongst friends.”
“Then he is not here,” gasped he – “nowhere
near.”
“He is miles away, my friend, and he will never
come under this roof.”
“Thank Heaven — thank Heaven l’ cried the
poor boy, sinking back upon the pillow; “it was only
a dreadful dream, then. I shall die happy.”
“You need not talk of dying, Marmaduke. On
the contrary, let us hope you are about to begin a
life unshadowed, natural, without fear.”
“No, Peter, I must die. I feel that; but what is
death to what I have been dreaming 7 Do you
remember that poem which came down in the box of
books, from Mr. Clint, last week, about a wretched
man that was bound upon a wild horse and sent


118 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
* * - - a -y ºf - -
adrift in the Ukraine ** And then he repeated with
some difficulty—
“‘How fast we fled away, away,
And I could neither sigh, nor pray,
And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain
Upon the courser's bristling mane,
But snorting still with rage and fear,
\ He flew upon his far career;
At times I almost thought indeed,
He must have slackened in his speed;
But no; my bound and slender frame
Was nothing to his angry might,
And merely like a spur became.’
Well, Peter, that was I. But instead of the wolves
which followed upon his track, it was my uncle
Massingberd who followed me. He had chosen to
kill me as Count Palatine would have killed Mazeppa,
but he wanted also to see it done.
“All through the night I heard his feet,
Their stealing, rustling step repeat.”
Great Heaven, I hear them now !”
“Nay, Marmaduke, it is only I, your old tutor,”
said Mr. Long, tenderly, who had not been able to
leave his sofa entirely without noise. “You must
not give way to these fancies; you had a fall from
Panther, that is all.”
“Ay,” returned the poor boy, “it was Panther,
only I thought he was a wild horse, and not my pony
at all.
“But though my cords were wet with gore,
Which oozing through my limbs ran o'er;
And in my tongue the thirst became
A something fiercer far than flame;’


Love THE LIFEGIVER, 119
that was nothing; nothing to the knowledge that
that man was close behind. Now that I am awake,
. I feel bruised from head to heel, my bones ache, my
head seems as though it were about to burst, but
that is nothing to ” the poor lad could not finish
the sentence, but exclaimed with piteous vehemence,
“do, Mr. Long, do promise me that I shall never see
him more.”
“You shall never see him more, if I can help it,”
returned my tutor, with unusual energy. “Yes, I
think I can promise that you never shall.” I well
knew that so cautious a man as Mr. Long would
not have said so much without full warrant; it was
evident to me at once that he had heard from Mr.
Gerard all that had passed between that gentleman
and the baronet in the drawing-room, and was now
determined to act with vigor in Marmaduke's
behalf. Perhaps the coincidence of the lad's dream
with what had in fact occurred, may have helped my
tutor's decision, but now that he had once passed his
word, I felt sure that he would stand by Marmaduke
to the last.
The sick boy seemed to feel this too, for he
uttered many expressions of gratitude and content-
ment, while he kept fast hold of his new protector's
hand.
“But mind, Marmaduke, you must now make
haste and get well, and not give way to despon-
dency about yourself. I am going for the doctor,
who is sleeping in the house, and whom I promised
to call as soon as you awoke; and, Peter, don't you
let him talk too much. For a boy like that to talk
of death,” added Mr. Long, aloud, as he drew on his
slippers, “is to go half-way to meet it.” *-


120 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
Marmaduke smiled feebly at this remark of his
unconscious tutor's, and when he had left the room,
observed, “There is no need of any doctors; this is .
my death-bed, Meredith, I know.”
“Marmaduke,” replied I, gravely, “I will not lis-
ten to such dreadful things; it is wrong, it is wicked,
it will do you harm.”
“No, Peter, there is nothing dreadful in the
thing I mean, and it seems to soothe me when I speak
of it. Since I have been ill, I have had a sign that
tells me I must go. We shall not grow up together
to be friends through life, as we had planned. I
shall watch you perhaps — I hope I shall — and be
happy in your happiness, but you will soon forget
one. There will be a thousand things for you to
think of; there have been such even now for you while
I— it seems hard, does it not, Peter, that I should
have grown up under the shadow of that man, and
never felt the Sunshine? They say that boyhood is
the blithest time of life, but I have never been a boy.
I think I could almost tell him, if he stood here now,
how he has poisoned my young life, and sent me to
the grave without one pleasant memory to moisten
my dying eyes. Yes, my friend, dying. I have seen
a vision in the night far too sweet and fair not to
have been sent from heaven itself. If there indeed
be angel, such was she. They say the Heaths have
always ghastly warnings when their hour is come,
but this was surely a gentle messenger. I close my
eyes and see that smile once more.” *~
“Has she hair of golden brown?” inquired I,
gravely, “and hazel eyes, large and pitiful, and does
she smile sad and sweet as though one's pain would
soon be over ?”


WoolNG BY PROxY. 121
.
“That is she, that is she,” exclaimed Marmaduke,
eagerly, while from his heavy eyelids the light
flashed forth as from a thunder-cloud; “oh, tell me
who and what she is l’”
“Her name is Lucy Gerard,” replied I, quietly,
“and we are, this moment, in her father's house.”
Marmaduke's mention of her smile had revealed
to me the secret alike of dream and vision. He must
have been dimly conscious of the catastrophe that had
occurred to him throughout, although he had con-
fused himself, poor fellow, with Mazeppa, and the
daughter of our host with a vision from the skies.
His eyes were now closed, and with features as pale
as the pillow on which he lay, he was repeating to
himself her name as though it were a prayer.
“Marmaduke,” said I, “we will talk no more,
since it exhausts you thus; I hear Mr. Long return-
ing with the doctor, be of good heart, and keep your
thoughts from dwelling—”
“Yes,” interrupted he, as though he would pre-
vent the very mention of that grisly king of whom
he had been now conversing so familiarly, “I will,
I will. It would indeed be bitter to die now.
CHAPTER XI.
WoolNG BY PROXY.
THE medical report of Marmaduke Heath was more
than cheering; it was confident. “One of the very
best features of that young man's case is this,” said


122 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
-
Dr. Sitwell, “he does not give way. Foolish youths
of his age will sometimes, as it were, fall in love with
Death, until it is absolutely close beside them, poor
fellows, when they shrink from him like the best
of us.”
“You should rather say the worst of us, Dr.
Sitwell,” observed my tutor.
“Well, sir, as far as my experience goes,” re-
turned the doctor, cheerfully, “and I have “assisted,’
as Mr. Gerard here will have it, at the demise of
many persons of the very first respectability, few of
us are apt to welcome death; the majority, contrary
to what is vulgarly believed, pay him no sort of
attention whatsoever.”
“And yet,” remarked Mr. Harvey Gerard, slily,
“he came over before the Conqueror, and possesses
a considerable amount of land all over the country.”
“True, sir, true,” replied the doctor, gravely;
“ and those are attributes which should always com-
mand respect. With regard, however, to our young
patient, he seems determined, notwithstanding his
sufferings, to be cheerful, and bear up. I have told
him how essential it is to do so, and the young gentle-
man is most reasonable, I am sure. “I do not want to
die, I wish to live,’ were his very words—a most satis-
factory and sensible state of mind. Fairburn Hall—
he did not say this, but I knew what was passing
through his brain quite well–Fairburn Hall, and one
of the oldest baronetcies in the kingdom, are some-
thing to live for—that is a great point in cases of
this kind.
I am sure I felt thankful and glad to hear this ac-
count of my dear friend; yet I could not help wishing


WOOING BY PROXY. 123
that Dr. Sitwell had been as correct in the cause of
Marmaduke's clinging to life, as in the fact itself. For
I too was stricken with love for Lucy Gerard, and
would have laid down my life to kiss her finger-tip.
It is the fashion now to jeer at that which is called
First Love, as though affection were not worth having
until it has first exhausted itself upon a score of
objects; nay, perhaps, the thing itself is as extinct as
the Dodo. In my day, however, the Great Three-
Hundred-a-Year Marriage- Question was not yet
broached, and gentlemen did not complainingly pub-
lish their rejections at the hands of the fair sex in the
“Times” newspaper. Nearly half a century has
passed over my head since the time of which I write,
and has not spared its snows, and yet, I swear to you,
my old heart glows again, and on my withered cheek
there comes a blush as I call to mind the time when
first I met that pure and fair young girl. º
The worship of a lad is never lasting, it is said,
although I know not upon what authority—society so
seldom permitting the experiment to be made, that
the dictum can hardly be established; but while it
does last, at least, how clear and steady is the incense!
how honest is the devotion how complete the sacri-
fice Since I have been an old fogey, it has been
confided to me by more than one ancient flirt that
they still experience a rapture when they chance to
catch the affection of a boy. They are kinder to him
than they are to older men; they let him down easy;
they respect the infatuation which they themselves
have long lost the power of entertaining. How de-
licious, then, must such a conquest be to a maiden of
seventeen 1 I claim for myself the possession of no


124 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
tenderer nor truer feelings than other lads, but I
know that a queen might have accepted the heart-
homage which I paid to Lucy Gerard. And never
was fealty more disinterested. I have written down
not a little to my discredit; let me then say this much
in my own favor. From the moment that Marma-
duke Heath spoke to me as he did, upon his bed of
sickness, of our host's daughter, I determined within
myself not only to stand aside, and let him win her
if he could, but to help him by all means within my
power. If he lived for her alone, should I endeavor
to slay him 2 If a promise, however distant, of a
bright and happy future seemed at length to be held
out for him whose life had been so saddened and so
bitter, should I strive to make it void 2 I could not
afford to lose her; no. I would have given all that I
had in the world to hear her whisper, “I love you; ”
I would have beggared myself, I say, for those mere
words; but could he, poor lad, afford the loss of her so
well ?
Doubtless, in modern eyes, we both appear mere
foolish victims of calf-love; green hobbardy-hoys,
dazzled with the first flutter of a petticoat. As for
me, let it be so received, and welcome, although, my
young male readers, this is to be said, You never
saw Lucy Gerard. Otherwise you would wonder
little at my — well, at my poor folly. But with re-
spect to Marmaduke, it must be admitted that his was
not an ordinary case. Although a boy in years, he
had long been sitting on the shores of old romance,
and had probably more of the divine faculty for love
within him than all the ardent souls of five-and-thirty
put together, who are at this moment turning their


Wooing by PROxy. 125
eyes about them for a suitable young person with
whose income to unite their own. Since his mother
died, he had scarcely beheld a virtuous woman, with
the exception of dear Mrs. Myrtle, the housekeeper at
the Rectory, whose appearance was calculated to ex-
cite respect rather than the sentimental emotions;
and now he had suddenly been brought face to face
with one whose equal for form and feature, for gentle-
ness and graciousness, for modesty and courage, these
eyes have never yet beheld. I have done. There
shall be no more ecstasies, reader; an old man thanks
you that you have borne with his doting garrulity
even thus long.
Since the days of Earl Athelwold, and probably
long before them, the wooing by proxy has been held
to be a perilous undertaking; we cannot take the
fingers of a fair lady within our own, and say, “This
is not my hand at all,” as though we were Bishop
Berkelly; or still more, “This is somebody else's
hand,” which it manifestly is not. If credit is to be
given to such protestations at all, there is no knowing
where to stop; and yet we must be doing something
tender, or we are not performing our duty as deputy.
But how tenföld are the dangers of this enterprise,
when the delegate of another has at one time contem-
plated performing the mission in question upon his
own account. Of this peril—although fully deter-
mined to speak a good word for Marmaduke—I was
well aware; I even considered within myself whether
it would not be safer, upon the whole, to return at
once to Fairburn Rectory, lest I should do my friend
an involuntary wrong. Yes, I was walking in the
garden at the Dovecot after breakfast, considering


126 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
this, when I came upon Lucy Gerard herself, and
flight became impossible to me, being mortal. I was
pacing a winding path that ran beside the lawn, but
was hidden from it by a glittering wall of laurel, and
lo! there she stood, unconscious of my advent, beside
—what? a statue? a sun-dial? No, a rose-tree,
striving upwards by help of a little cross of white
marble. Her face was westward, so that the morn-
ing sun shone like a glory on the wealth of hair that
rippled down her shoulders. Beside her indoor gar-
ments she wore only a little braided apron, full of
pockets that held scissors, pruning-knife, the thing
which is called “bass,” I believe, and other horticul-
tural weapons; and on her head the tiniest straw-
hat, with a brim obviously intended to shelter more
than one—a perfect garden saint, and at her prayers'
for while I looked she knelt upon the grass-border
(to shake some insect from a rose I at first thought,
or remove a faded leaf), and so, with bowed head,
remained for several minutes. When she arose and
saw me hesitating whether to advance or retreat, she
blushed a little; but in her usual quiet tone, begged
me not to be disturbed. “You could not know that
this is forbidden ground here. It was my fault, who
ought to have told you; our own folks all know it,
and so few guests ever come to the Dovecot that it
never struck me, Mr. Meredith, to give you a Tres-
pass notice.”
“But since I am here, Miss Gerard, and the intru-
sion has been made—most innocently, I assure you—
may I not be suffered to satisfy what, believe me, is
not a mere vulgar curiosity?”
“I do not think,” returned the young lady, with


WOOING BY PROXY. 127
some hesitation, “that my father would object to
your knowing our little secret. You are going to
remain with us some time, he hopes, and—yes, I am
sure you will respect what with us is held so secret.
This cross and rose-tree are set above my little sister's
grave. See, that is what we used to call her—LITTLE
ELLA. She, of whom I spoke to you in the drawing-
room yesterday.”
I daresay my stupid face exhibited more of aston-
ishment than sympathy. No wonder, thought I, that
the doctor called Mr. Gerard a sectary, and that Mr.
Long was so cold and distant in his manner.
“You seem surprised, Mr. Meredith, that my
father should have acted thus—should have placed
the tomb of his dear child where he can always come
to weep and pray at it, and not amid the long dank
grasses in Crittenden churchyard. Is it so very rare
a thing to bury those we love elsewhere, than in a
churchyard ”
“I only know one other instance,” said I, “and
that is in the Heath family.”
“Indeed,” replied Miss Gerard, gravely, moving
away as though not wishing to converse of ordinary
things in that sacred neighborhood. “I trust we
have but little in common with them.”
“Truly, I can scarcely imagine that you and they
are of the same species,” replied I, with irrepressible
admiration; “you who do not even know what
wickedness is.”
“What I? Oh, but I am sometimes very, very
wicked, I assure you,” replied Miss Gerard. She
looked so serious, nay, so sad, that I could have
taken up her little hand and kissed it, there and


128 Lost sir MASSING Bern.
then, to comfort her. But would such a course of
conduct assist poor Marmaduke” thought I, and for-
tunately in time.
“There is one of the Heath family,” said I, “at
all events, whose good qualities will go far to atone
for the shortcomings of his adversaries, if he only
lives to exercise them.”
That “if he only lives,” I considered to be very
diplomatic; it was enlisting a tender sympathy for
his perilous condition to start with.
“Dr. Sitwell says that there is little danger,”
replied Miss Gerard, quietly.
“I know better,” observed I, confidentially; “his
life or death hangs upon a thread, a chance.”
“Good heavens ! Mr. Meredith, what can you
mean? The brain, we are assured, is quite un-
injured.”
“My dear Miss Gerard,” returned I, “it is not
his brain that is affected, it is his heart. His re-
covery, I am positively certain, depends upon you.”
“Upon me, Mr. Meredith ?” replied she, while a
blush sprung from neck to forehead on the instant,
as though a white rose should become a red one—
“upon me?”
“Yes, dear young lady; that is, upon you and
your good father. This lad will find here, for the
first time in his young life, peace and tenderness—a
new existence, if you only choose, will expand around
him, such as he has never even dreamt of. I do not
ask you to be kind to him, for you cannot be other-
wise than kind; but consider his sad condition—
fatherless, motherless, and having for his only rela-
tive a wretch whose atrocity is unspeakable, what
*


130 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
nor such icy despair as the thought of thee, my friend,
caused to succeed it.
I write not in self-praise. I was not so mad as
to suppose that Lucy Gerard would have ever stooped
to love Peter Meredith when once she had known
Marmaduke Heath. If he had so endeared himself
to me, a selfish boy, who knew not half his gifts,
or, at least, knew not how to value them—that I thus
rudely broke my own brief love-dream for his sake,
would he not draw her towards him, laden with all
her wealth of heart and brain, as the moon draws
the wave It was so afterwards; but I knew it
then, as though it had already been. Yet, Marma-
duke, yet I gave you something, for it was all I
had, when I laid at your feet, to form a stepping-
stone for you, my own heart. You trod upon it, my
dear and faithful friend But, thank heaven l
you never knew that you did so.
I wonder whether Lucy ever knew
-
º
CHAPTER XII.
THE COUNCIL OF WAR.
ON the second morning after our arrival at the Dove-
cot, Mr. Long called me into the dining-room, where
I found Mr. Gerard and a third gentleman, who had
come down by the night-mail, as I understood, from
London. Altogether, I should think, not less than
seventy years of age, he was dressed in the height of
the then prevailing mode. He wore a snuff-colored


132 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
and holding up his laden fingers in a prohibitory
manner; “we must not have any leading questions if
you please. Mr. Meredith, it is most important that
you state to us the truth, without mitigation or ex-
aggeration. You heard your tutor's first inquiry,
which was a most correct one. How does Mr. Mar-
maduke Heath stand with respect to his uncle?”
“Well, sir,” said I, quietly, “he stands, as it
were, upon the brink of a deep river, with his back
towards a person who is bent upon pushing him in.”
A total silence ensued upon this remark. Mr.
Long and Mr. Gerard interchanged very meaning
glances. -
“Very good,” returned the lawyer, coolly, ad-
ministering half the snuff to his nose, and dropping
the other half among his shirt-ruffles. “That is a
form of speech, I suppose, by which you would imply
that Marmaduke is afraid of his uncle 7"
“Very much,” said I; “afraid of his life.”
“And you have had no previous conversation
upon this subject with either of these gentlemen, that
is—you must forgive me if I press this somewhat
hardly—they have never asked your opinion on the
matter before ?”
“Certainly not, sir.”
“You are speaking, too, I conclude from your own
observation of course, from your own knowledge of
Mr. Marmaduke's sentiments and position, and not
from any hearsay rumor?”
“I am perfectly convinced, Mr. Clint,” returned
I, gravely, “that Sir Massingberd Heath wishes to get
rid of his nephew, and that Marmaduke knows it.”
“Then Sir Massingberd shall be gratified,” ob-


THE COUNCIL OF WAR. 133
served Mr. Gerard, with energy; “he shall get rid
of him from this day.”
“Stop, stop, my dear sir,” interposed the lawyer.
“Even supposing that all this is true, both the facts
that I have received from you and Mr. Long, and
the surmises entertained by this young gentleman,
we are still only at the threshold of the matter.
From the manner in which Sir Massingberd ex-
pressed himself when he wrote to me to demand the
custody of the boy, and from his whole conduct
since, I am certain that he will not give up his
position as guardian without a severe struggle. We
must steadily look our difficulties in the face. Sup- *
posing that, having been assured of Marmaduke's
convalescence, he should send a post-chaise over here
next week, or the week after, with a note, insisting
upon his immediate return to Fairburn Park, what
is to be done then?”
“I should send the post-chaise back again,” re-
turned Mr. Gerard, calmly, “with the verbal reply,
that Mr. Marmaduke was not coming.”
“But suppose he wrote to Marmaduke himself?”
“The reply would come from me all the same, Mr.
Clint.”
“But if Sir Massingberd appeals to the law 7"
“He dare not l” exclaimed my host; “his auda-
city, great as it is, stops short of that. If he did, as
sure as the sun is shining, I would meet him with
the charge of attempted murder.”
Mr. Clint took out of his other coat-tail a second
snuff-box, which he never made use of except in
cases of great emergency. “You are prepared to go
that length, are you?”


134 Lost SIR MASSINGBERD.
“I am, sir,” returned Mr. Gerard, firmly.
“You have not a shadow of foundation for such
an assertion,” pursued Mr. Clint, reflectively. “The
slander will be pronounced malicious; you will be
cast in swingeing damages.”
“That is possible,” remarked my host; “but
there, nevertheless, will be such revelations of Sir
Massingberd's mode of life, as may well cause the
Chancellor to reflect whether Fairburn Hall is a
fitting educational establishment for a minor.”
“John Lord Eldon is not an ascetic »
“I know it, sir,” broke forth Mr. Gerard; “I am
well aware that he is a heartless scoundrel, as dissi-
pated, as dishonest, and »
“Sir,” interrupted Mr. Clint, with irritation. “I
will not listen to such mad words. You may utter
them, of course, in your own house, but not to me. This
is the talk of those who would subvert all authority.”
“They are not afraid to speak evil of dignities,”
murmured my tutor.
“I do not speak evil of dignities, my dear sir,
but only of the rogues who 'fill them,” exclaimed
Mr. Gerard, laughing. “However, I beg your
pardon, gentlemen; the remark escaped me quite
involuntarily. You are aware, Mr. Clint, that my
Lord Eldon is not absolutely an ascetic.”
“I was about to say, sir,” observed the old
lawyer, stiffly, “that his lordship is not so tenderly
alive to the necessity of moral training as some of
his friends would wish, and he has a strong respect
for natural authority. He would lean, therefore,
towards Sir Massingberd's view of the question —
with whom, indeed, he is personally not unacquainted
—and be induced to palliate his way of life.”


THE COUNCIL OF WAR. 135
*
“Sadder than orphans, yet not fatherless, are
those in Eldon's charge,” murmured Mr. Gerard.
“Still,” continued he, in a louder tone, “the charge
of attempted murder, Mr. Clint, would have this
effect, that even if Marmaduke were re-consigned to
his uncle's care—which Heaven forbid—the eyes of
the world would be upon Sir Massingberd, and he
would not venture to work him a mischief. In the
meantime, it rests with us to take good care that he
has not the chance of doing so.”
“And now,” resumed Mr. Clint, after a pause,
“supposing that all is arranged thus far to repel Sir
Massingberd's claims, there is another matter to be
considered. It would take long to explain the details
of the case, but you must understand that the Heath
property is very peculiarly situated. Sir Massingberd,
who is in the enjoyment of it for life, cannot raise a
shilling upon it; while Marmaduke does not possess
a shilling, although the prospective heir of such
vast wealth. They would be, in short, at present a
couple of beggars; but by a special arrangement with
a certain person, whom I need not name, a small
annual sum has been allotted for the benefit of the
boy, but, practically, quite as much so for that of his
uncle. A certain annuity, I say, is paid to Sir Massing-
berd for the maintenance of his nephew, and another,
solely on the latter's behalf, for that of the estate. It
is a most beautifully intricate affair from first to last,”
pursued the lawyer with unction; “here are two rela-
tives, who mutually support one another, and have
yet every reason, looking at the matter in a rather
worldly way of course, to wish each other dead. Sir
Massingberd could borrow plenty of money, if the


136 LOST SIR MASSINGBERT).
usurers were only confident that he could, as well as
would, make away with his nephew. There would be
even less difficulty under ordinary circumstances in
procuring a loan for Marmaduke; but a delicate boy,
whose uncle and guardian is bent upon putting a vio-
lent end to him—you see that renders the security so
very slight. Altogether, it is certainly one of the
nicest cases. It is not only a question of responsi-
bility; there are always plenty of people ready to take
any amount of that at a sufficient premium ; but who
will undertake the pecuniary charge of the lad if he is
withdrawn from his uncle's roof? Sir Massingberd, of
course, will never give up one tittle of the allowance
entrusted to him to expend, except upon such com-
pulsion as we should scarcely venture to employ.
There are three years wanting to the boy's majority;
and even when he has arrived at that, and should be
willing to promise ample repayment, he may die
before his uncle still, who has a constitution of ada-
mant, when those who have maintained him may
whistle for the money they have expended. The ex-
pression may be coarse,” added Mr. Clint, apologeti-
cally, “but I think it conveys my meaning.”
“I thank you, Mr. Clint,” observed my tutor,
after a little pause, “for putting this matter before us
so bluntly and decidedly. For my part, I am far from
being a rich man; but on the other hand, there are no
persons who have a better claim upon my resources
than my dear young friend and pupil, Marmaduke
Heath. That he will repay me if he survives his
uncle, I am more than assured; and, if he die early,
I shall not regret that the remainder of his young life
has been rendered happy through my means, although
it may have cost me a few comforts.”


THE COUNCIL OF WAR. 137
I stooped down and said a few words in my tutor's
ear. “No, Peter, no,” continued he: “you are a good
lad, and your father is, doubtless, generous enough to
comply with your wishes; but we must not resort to
such a distant source in this emergency, indeed. Mr.
Clint, do you think that a hundred and forty to a
hundred and sixty pounds a year might be made
sufficient to keep Marmaduke with respectability?”
“Half your annual stipend, eh, Mr. Long, eh?”
ejaculated the lawyer. “Bless my soul, how this
snuff gets in one's eyes | Such a sum should be quite
sufficient. I think that would be found more than
enough. He cannot live at your Rectory, of course;
that would be almost as bad as at the Hall; but there
are plenty of spare rooms in my house in town. He
has stayed there before, so that that can be done, we
know. Marmaduke and I are old friends—No, no
it will not hurt me. Such a course cannot bring me
into greater antagonism with Sir Massingberd than I
am in already. I am always at daggers-drawn with
him. He is forever cutting down trees that don't
belong to him, or selling heirlooms that are no more
his than mine, or embroiling himself with me, the
appointed guardian of the property, in some way or
other. Yes, I'll take the lad, Mr. Long, come what
will of it.”
“You will do nothing of the kind,” exclaimed my
host, energetically; “you honest lawyer, and very
worthy man; and you, you good priest—contradic-
tions in terms, both of you—you shall not give away
half your annual stipend, or my name is not Harvey
Gerard. I have done each of you a very grievous
wrong in thought, if not in word; and I hereby beg


138 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
your pardon. It is possible, I perceive, to be a Tory,
and yet preserve, if not a conscience, at least a
heart.”
My tutor smiled; Mr. Clint bowed his acknow-
ledgments.
“With regard to Mr. Marmaduke Heath, however,”
pursued our host, “that young gentleman must be
my especial charge. From this day until the period
when he comes into his property, or lies in need of
decent interment, as the case may be, he is my guest;
or, if my house is distasteful to him, I will advance
him whatever sums he may reasonably require for his
maintenance elsewhere. Please to consider that that
is settled, gentlemen.”
“Whatever we may think of the political opinions
of Mr. Harvey Gerard,” observed Mr. Clint, with
feeling, “his name has always been associated with
acts of matchless generosity.”
“Always, always,” echoed Mr. Long; then added,
reflectively, “he has paid the fines of half the rogues
in the country, and bailed the other half who have
been committed to prison.”
A simultaneous burst of merriment from his three
hearers greeted this naive remark of my unconscious
tutor.
“I have done so upon one occasion, I confess,”
replied Mr. Gerard, good-naturedly. “I became
surety, in 1791, for the good behavior of a poor
Birmingham rioter, as I thought, who turned out to
be a Government spy. However, I assure you, gener-
osity has nothing to do with my present intentions
with respect to young Heath. My income is suffi-
ciently large to admit of my accommodating the poor


THE COUNCIL OF WAR. 139
lad with ease, even if the repayment, sooner or later,
were not almost certain, as it really is. But, besides
all this, I must confess that the undertaking affords
me exceeding satisfaction. Mr. Long, you are, I
have heard, an enthusiastic fisherman; that is no
common pleasure which you feel when your rod is
bowed by some enormous trout, cunning and strong,
who may break the whole of your tackle, and get
away, after ll, but who also may be landed helpless
on the bank, a victim to your skill and patience.
That is exactly the sport which I promise myself with
Sir Massingberd Heath. If he were one whit less
greedy, less formidable, less pitiless, I should feel less
hostilty towards him; he has, fortunately, no re-
deeming point. I have hated tyranny all my life
and I hate this man, who seems to be the very em-
bodiment of it. He makes his boast that no one has
ever stood between himself and his wicked will. Let
us see what he will make of Harvey Gerard.”
The speaker drew himself up proudly, but certainly
not with unbecoming pride. His form dilated as he
spoke; his voice grew deep without losing its dis-
tinctness; and into his mild eyes a sternness crept as
when the frost congeals the lake. But for a spice of
haughtiness, which to some might have appeared
even arrogance, he could have stood for St. Michael
in his contest with the foul Fiend,-have personified
the Spirit of Good defying the Spirit of Evil.


140 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
CHAPTER XIII.
T H E G IP SY C A M P.
AFTER not a little opposition upon the part of Mr.
Long, who would have willingly borne his share in
Marmaduke's expenses, it was settled that Mr. Gerard
should be the young man's host, if he could only con-
trive to retain him in defiance of the power of Sir
Massingberd; his home, however, was not to be the
Dovecot, which was judged to be too much exposed,
by its proximity to Fairburn, to the machinations of
the enemy. The Gerards were to remove to their
town residence in Harley street, as soon as their
guest was fit to accompany them. At first, his pro-
gress was tedious, but he grew rapidly convalescent
as soon as he was able to exchange his bed for a sofa.
Never was sick man more hospitably treated, or so
graciously tended. Mr. Gerard possessed that
almost feminine gentleness of manner which is
generally found in persons of his peculiar organiza-
tion. His sympathy, at least as easily aroused as his
antagonism, was now deeply enlisted in favor of
Marmaduke for his own sake; he recognized his
talents, and the beauty and tenderness of his mind,
and won him, by pleasant, studious talk, from the
melancholy that overhung it; and the young man's
heart, thrilling response to every touch of kindness,
turned towards him, and expanded like a flower in
the sun. As for Lucy, what rudest health would I
not have exchanged for Marmaduke's languor, as he
lay and listened to her clear sweet voice, now singing


142 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
long wretchedness of recent widowhood; but it is a
grievous blow. I wished Marmaduke and Mr. Gerard
“good-bye" without quite knowing that I did so.
“Good-bye, Mr. Meredith,” said Lucy, and though
her voice was even lower and sweeter than usual, it
wounded me like a knife.
“Why don't you call him Peter, “ºucy?” ex-
claimed her father, laughing. “I think it would be
more civil, now that we are going to lose him.”
“Thank you, sir,” said I, gratefully; and she
did say “God bless you, Peter,” very, very kindly.
Ever since that morning she called me so; but I
was Peter to all of them, you see, as well as to her.
Then I called her Lucy, and though for the first and
last time, I shall never forget it.
“I couldna say mair, but just “Fare ye weel, Lucy,’
Yet that I will mind till the day that I dee.”
Then I mounted my horse, my luggage having
already preceded me, and slowly took my way
towards Fairburn. My life-blood seemed to ebb
with every step. The clang of the gate that shut
me out from the last foot of ground belonging to
the Dovecot, sent a shudder through me like a
knell. I was on the very spot where Marmaduke
had met with the accident that had been so nearly
fatal. Supposing it had killed him Supposing
— I thanked God that I was able to thank Him
from an honest heart that it had not done so.
Then I felt a little better. Having ascended the
hill, I put my horse into a sharp canter upon the
common, and the cool air through which I swiftly
passed refreshed me. The hollow in which the en-


THE GIPSY CAMP. 143
campment had been was now deserted, and only the
round bare spot amid the green, which is the gipsy
autograph, announced that it had ever been there.
Some miles further on, however, a little brown-legged
boy, evidently of that wandering fraternity, suddenly
emerged from a fir plantation, and stood before me
in the road as if to beg. I was already feeling in
my pocket for a penny, when, showing his white
teeth in gratitude, he shook his head, and coming
close to my stirrup, exclaimed, “You are the gentle-
man from Mr. Gerard's, sir, are you not? Would
you please to come and see Granny Rachel ?”
In an instant, I remembered the pocket-flask,
which I had entirely forgotten since the day in which
it came into my possession; for all I knew, it was
then lying yet in the drawing-room at the Dovecot.
“Yes, my boy, that I will,” returned I; “but I
fear I have not brought her what she wants.”
He looked up in the bright interrogative manner
peculiar to his tribe, so different to the stolid
wonder of the agriculturist.
“She wants you, sir, as I understood. This is the
sixth day that she has set me to watch for you by
this roadside. Will you please to follow me?”
The boy started off at a pace which compelled me
to move too fast for further questioning; and skirt-
ing the plantation for a hundred yards, stopped at
the entrance of a roadway leading through the wood.
The coming winter had not yet turned the broad
green track to sand, and it ran so straight and far,
that the pine trees seemed to stand on either side—
a solid wall—with nothing but the blue heaven for
their limit. The landscape of right lines would


144 LOST SIR MASSINGBERT).
have delighted a painter of the Pre-Raphaelite school,
it looked so stiff and unnatural; but pursuing the
track for a little distance, and then plunging over a
ditch and bank into the plantation itself, we suddenly
came upon a scene which would have suited Morland.
A low tent, with half-naked but merry children crawl-
ing in and out; a she-ass and her foal; a handsome
male Epicurean, lying on his back, smoking a short,
well-colored pipe, the hue of which precisely re-
sembled that of his own skin; a young girl in scarlet
mantle, and with earrings of great splendor, gather-
ing fir-cones to feed the flames which licked around
an iron pot suspended on four sticks, piled musket-
fashion; and an old crone, sitting by the same, and
picking the feathers from a bird, which, had the
time of year been beyond the end of September, I
should have certainly taken for a hen-pheasant. But
to suppose this, would have been to suppose an in-
fraction of the game laws! The walnut-stained
children stopped their play as I approached, and
stood in various attitudes of wonder, like beauteous
bronzes; the man turned over on his side, and opened
his slumbrous eyes a hairbreadth; the girl flashed one
quick, comprehensive glance upon me, then resumed
her occupation. The old woman nodded familiarly
without rising, and observed quietly, “So you have
come at last, Peter Meredith. I trust you have
brought good news of Marmaduke Heath.”
“He is better,” said I, “much better; and he
knows who brought him help, and is very grateful.
You have been expected daily at the Dovecot, where
something more substantial than mere thanks is
waiting for you.”


THE GIPSY CAMP. 145
“Rachel Liversedge desires neither silver nor
gold,” returned the old woman; “she has had her
reward already, if what you say be true. It was not
for love of the boy that I acted as I did; he has too
much evil blood in him to earn my liking. But I
am glad as though he were my own son that he will
live.”
“Carew,” cried she, triumphantly, “no wonder
bura Sir Massingberd looked kalo as ourselves.”
“Oh, the great man looks black does he?” said I.
The old woman dropped the bird, the girl her fir-
cones, and both stared wildly at me, as though my
voice had come from the clouds; the man sprung to
his feet, and uttered a cry of wonder.
“What do you speak our tongue?” cried he.
“Nay; you speak mine,” returned I, calmly.
“Bura is great; and kala, which you call kalo, is
black, of course; everybody knows that who knows
Hindustanee.”
Then the three burst out together in a language,
one word out of four of which seemed to be more or
less familiar to me; as for understanding what they
said, of course it was simply impossible; but no
matter, I had established my reputation. From that
moment I felt myself to be the honored guest of the
family. Would I smoke? Would I eat? Would I
drink? I was thirsty, and I said that I would gladly
take some water—which, at a venture, I called paince.
“Paunce /* cried they, extravagantly delighted.
“He talks like a true Cingari; and only look 1 is he
not dark-skinned l’”
The few words that my old ayah had taught me in
9


146 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
India had thus procured me a hearty welcome in a
Midshire fir-plantation.
“Sit down by me, Peter Meredith, my son,” ex-
claimed the old woman; “and do you fetch him water,
Mina.”
I dismounted, and did as I was bid; while the
young girl took a pitcher, and presently brought it
filled from a running stream near by, and offered it
to me, like another Rebecca. But her grandmother
—for such she was—cried, “Stop let me put some-
thing in it; and produced from her pocket the self-
same flask which she herself had given me a few weeks
ago, and which I had thought was left behind at the
Dovecot.
“Why, I was blaming myself for not having brought
you that thing back to-day,” said I; “I never heard
of your coming to claim it.”
“Nor did I, young gentleman,” returned the old
woman, proudly. “Harvey Gerard is too kind a
man to visit when one is not in need. That was
why I left his house that day, directly I had told
what had befallen Marmaduke Heath : I did not wish
him to think I waited for my reward. He returned
me this with his own hands. He is not one of your
proud ones. When we had the fever here—Mina,
darling, you remember who came to see you, and
saved your life?”
“Ah, yes!” cried the girl, clasping her dark hands,
... which gleamed with tawdry rings; “and his daugh-
ter, too, how I love her l’’
There was a little pause; I felt my ears tingle, my
cheeks burn. I did not dare look up from the ground.
“Lucy Gerard is very fair,” whispered the old


THE GIPSY CAMP. 147
---
&
woman; “she will make a good and loving wife;”
then she added, roguishly, and in that gipsy tone
which smacks so much of the race-course: “Shall I
tell your fortune, my pretty gentleman?”
“No, Ithank you,” said I, hastily; “I have no great
confidence in your information as to the future. With
respect to the past, on the other hand, you can doubt-
less satisfy me, if you will. I have a great curiosity
to know how you became possessed of yonder flask
with the Heath griffin.”
“Peter Meredith,” returned the old woman, very
gravely, “you have asked me to tell you a sad story,
and one to relate which will cost me much. It is not
our custom, however, to refuse the first request of a
new friend. But before I begin, let me ask you a
question in my turn. Has it never struck you why
Sir Massingberd Heath has not long ago taken
to himself a young wife, and begotten an heir
for the bonny lands of Fairburn, in despite of his
nephew 7"
Until that moment, the idea had never crossed my
brain; but no sooner was it thus mooted than I won-
dered greatly at the shortsightedness of those among
whom Marmaduke's affairs had been so lately dis-
cussed, and in particular at that of Mr. Clint, who, as
a lawyer, should surely have at once foreseen such a
contingency. “Well,” said I, “I confess that, for my
part, I have never thought of it; but there cannot be
much danger of Sir Massingberd's becoming a wooer
now ; why, what young woman would be won to such
as he 7”
“What young woman would not be won ?” replied
Rachael Liversedge, grimly. “Think you that his


why sIR MAssINGBERD DID NoT MARRY. 149
I was a young girl—that is, fifty years ago. Every
man's hand, every woman's tongue, was against us:
magistrates committed us without testimony; rogues
made a trade of accusing us solely to get blood-
money. Our name was more than a by-word, it was
a brand; to call a man a gipsy, was to say vagabond
and thief in one. Under these circumstances, Mas-
singberd Heath left his father's house yonder, and
came to live with us, as congenial company. We
were in this very wood the day he did so. The sun
shone as brightly as now, the streamlet ran just as
blithe, the air was filled, as now, with the sweet-
smelling pine. The people only are changed—ah
me, how changed l—who made up that scene.
There was my father; he died 1 ten years younger
than I am now ; is not that strange, boy? his brother
Morris, dead; poor Stanley Carew, you shall hear of
him presently, a handsomer lad by far than his
nephew there; my beautiful Sinnamenta, compared
to little Mina yonder, though she is pretty enough,
like a blush-rose to a mere peony, the flower of
womankind. If there are ladies and women born
into the world, then she was a lady. There are no
such beauties now ; no, friend, not even at the Dove-
cot. Let me see; I have counted four; then I was
there also, comely enough, 'twas said, but not to be
spoken of for looks with my younger sister.
“We were occupied pretty much as you see us
now, for life in the Greenwood possesses but little
variety, when Massingberd Heath strode in among
us, with his gun upon his shoulder. We knew him
well, but were not inclined to dislike him. He was
a dissipated, wild, young fellow, but, as yet, his heart


150 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
was thought, as the saying is, to be in the right
place; his popularity, however, was principally
owing to his antagonism to his father. Sir Went-
worth had long passed through the spendthrift stage,
and was very close with respect to money-matters; a
harsh and griping landlord, and it is probable
enough a niggard parent. His son's extravagances
were at that time insignificant compared to what
they afterwards became, yet the old man was for
ever complaining. He persecuted all who were
poor and in his power, but the gipsies especially.
He feared for his deer, for his game, for his fences,
and, besides, I verily believe he detested us for our im-
providence. I remember he sent two of my young
brothers to prison for tossing for halfpence upon a
Sunday—he who made not even a pretence of
religion himself, and had been used invariably to
pass his day of rest in town at Tattersall's, bet-
ting his thousands on some approaching race. It
is said that this wretched old man used to horsewhip
young Massingberd almost daily, until a certain occa-
sion when the latter found himself stronger than he
imagined, and reversed the process. After that, Sir
Wentworth confined himself to cursing his offspring
whenever they quarelled. It was after some
dreadful outbreak of passion on the part of the old
man that Massingberd Heath left house and home,
and elected to join our wandering fortunes. We
were very unwilling that this should be. It was by
no means so unusual a proceeding then as now, for
persons of good birth, but broken fortunes, to become
gipsies, but such had usually their private reasons
for remaining so for life. They were very rarely


why sIR MAssiNgberd DID Not MARRY. 151
criminals, but generally social outlaws, for whom
there could be no reconciliation at home, or younger
sons of respectable families, with quite a mountain
of debt upon their shoulders. These were regularly
nationalized among us; and if they conducted them-
selves for sufficient time in accordance with our
regulations, they were permitted to intermarry with
us.
“Now it was certain that Massingberd Heath
sought only a temporary home; as soon as his father
died, or even offered terms to him, he would leave
us, and resume his proper station. Moreover, how
was the maintenance of discipline and obedience to
the chief of our tribe, absolutely essential as it is, to
be kept up in case of this new-comer ? Even at
that time, he was a headstrong, wilful man, to whom
all authority, however lawful or natural, was hateful.
Was it to be expected that he who defied his own
father, himself a man of iron will, would obey Morris
Liversedge? On the other hand, Uncle Morris
rather liked the young fellow. He had connived at
many a raid on his father's own preserves—to such
a pitch had the quarrel grown between them—and
kept our pot boiling with bird and beast. Many and
many a time had he led the Fairburn keepers to one
extremity of the preserves, while the slaughter was
going on in the other. Moreover it would be of
great importance, could we make a friend of the man
who would one day own all these pleasant haunts of
ours, and who could say a good word, and a strong
one, for the poor persecuted gipsies, when it was
needed. Poor Morris did not know that the rebel
but too often turns out a tyrant, when he gets his


152 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
chance. He could not foresee Sir Massingberd
Heath sending folks to prison, or getting them kid-
napped, and sent across the seas, for snaring the
hares that he held so cheaply when they did not
happen to belong to himself. If you want to find a
gentleman who in his youth, and landless, has been
a poacher whenever the opportunity offered, look
you among the game-preservers on the bench of
justices. This, however, is among the least of the
basenesses of him of whom I speak. It is not for
his bitter guardianship of bird and beast, or his
hateful oppression of his fellow-creatures, that my
heart cries out for judgment against this man, that I
look with eager longing for that hour when God
shall take him into his own hand.”
The old woman paused a moment with closed eyes,
and muttered something that was inaudible to me,
rocking herself at the same time to and fro.
“Massingberd Heath became one of us, Peter
Meredith, as far as it is possible for such a wretch to
be so; he ate with us, and drank with us, which
they say is a sacred bond among even savages. It
was not so with him. He cast his evil eyes upon
Sinnamenta, to love her after the fashion of his
accursed race. Perhaps you may think, Peter Mere-
dith, that such an occurrence should have been fore-
seen by her father or her Uncle Morris, and, for my
part, I always thought that it was the presence of
my lovely sister which mainly caused this man to
join our company; but, at all events, neither they
nor I dreaded any ill consequences. A gipsy girl is
no light-of-love maiden, like those of fairer skins.
Heaven who gives her beauty, gives her virtue also;


why sIR MAssiNgberd DID NoT MARRY. 153
this is not denied even by our enemies. When you
call your sweetheart “Gipsy, it is in love, not in re-
proach. Massingberd Heath knew this well, and
therefore it was that he took such pains in the matter.
It is true that we do not marry in church, but when
we wed among ourselves, the marriage is not less
sacred. It was a wedding of this sort, indissoluble
by one party, but not by the other, which this man
wished to compass. He did not gain his end.”
The old woman's eyes sparkled with triumph for
a moment as she said these words, but her voice sank
low as she continued:—
“Peter Meredith, if you have a sister, think of
her while I speak of mine; she cannot be more pure
than little Sinnamenta, nor less designing. Her
weakness was one common to all women, but espe-
cially to those of our unhappy race; she was fond of
finery—fine clothing, jewels, shawls; they became
her; she looked like any princess when attired in
them. Stanley Carew, who loved her in all honesty,
could give her no such costly gifts as Massingberd
Heath showered upon her, and, to help his end, even
upon me. The gipsy's ragged coat looked mean and
poor beside that of our guest. This man, too, whom
you know but as a scowling tyrant, with a face
scarred with passion and excesses, was then a hand-
some youth. You smile, Peter, at the wonder of it;
it is, however, not less true than that the wrinkled
hag to whom you are now listening was then a
bonny girl. Imagine that, Peter, and you can imagine
anything. Ah, Time, Time, surely at the end of
you, there will be something to recompense us for all
that you have taken away !”


154 LOST sir MASSINGBERT).
Once more Rachel Liversedge paused as if in
pain; then with eyes whose sight seemed to receive
but little of what was present, but were fixed on the
unreturning Past, continued as follows:—
“Yes, Massingberd Heath was handsome enough,
unless when enraged; his wrath always brought the
horse-shoe out upon his forehead.* Ay, and he was
agreeable enough, too. He could smile as though he
had a heart, and vow as though he owned a God.
By his devilish art he managed to ingratiate him-
self with Sinnamenta; he caused her to treat poor
Stanley ill, and then, pretending to take his part, got
credit for generosity. There are many who call us
gipsies a base people, yet this excess of meanness was
quite new to us; my little sister—that was what I
always called her, because I loved her so—she be-
lieved him. She would have trusted to his word,
and married him according to our rites, and been his
wife and drudge for all her life; but since this could
not be without the consent both of her father and
Morris, he had to ask it of them. He might as well
have asked it of Sir Wentworth. They had got to
know him well by close companionship, for men
fathom men better than women do — even gipsy
women, who foretell men's fortunes for them—and
they answered, ‘No.' They did not believe that he
had the least intention of being with us longer than
of am reminded by a friendly critic of the “suspicious coincidence"
of a horse-shoe on the forehead, in the case of “Red-gaunt-
let.” I never think of Sir Massingberd without thinking of that
worthy; and it has been a matter of doubt with me, whether
Sir Walter Scott might not himself have seen the Squire of Fairburn
and drawn him from the life, both as to mind and feature, in his famous
novel.


why sIR MASSINGBERD DID Not MARRY. 155
it suited him, and they peremptorily refused his re-
quest. After one burst of passionate threats, the
young man pretended to yield assent to their deci-
sion. Morris was inclined to think this acquiescence
genuine; but my father, more warmly interested in
the matter, and therefore perhaps less credulous, kept
on his guard. Finding out that Massingberd Heath
had secretly made overtures of reconciliation to his
father, and, missing him one night from the camp,
he caused Morris to strike tent at once; and before
morning, we had put twenty miles between us
and Fairburn. Nor was this effected too soon,
for, as we heard long afterwards, the constables
were searching this very wood for us at day-
break.
“Our company was bound on a long travel to
Kirk-Yetholm, Roxburghshire, one of the few places
in Scotland, although but one mile from the frontier
of Northumberland, where the gipsies reside in any
number. There we should meet with friends, and be
safe from all molestation. It was late in the year to
travel so far and into such a climate, but there was
no help for it; and moreover, some of the Carews
had a house there, to which Stanley said we should
be welcome, and so it turned out. I believe Sinna-
menta would rather that we had camped out of
doors, even in that northern clime, so disinclined was
she to be beholden to him or his friends, after what
had happened, although she did not dare to say so.
Poor Stanley imagined that now we had removed
from the neighborhood of his rival, he might renew
his suit with success, but the proud girl would not
listen to him. She did not exactly pine after the man


156 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
-
whose wiles she had so narrowly escaped, but her life
seemed henceforth saddened. The domestic duties
which had hitherto sat so lightly upon her became
burdensome, and she set about them languidly. The
whole of the time we remained at Kirk-Yetholm,
and it was many, many months, she never mentioned
Massingberd Heath, but never ceased to think of
him. It was fated, that she was to be undeceived
about that man too late.”
CHAPTER XV.
THE REASON CONTINUED.
“About a year after our departure from Fairburn,
Sinnamenta and I had been to sell some baskets, the
making of which was a great trade with us at that
time, at Wooler, in Northumberland; and on our re-
turn from the fair that was being held there, we met
a number of gentlemen driving home from shooting
in the Cheviots. They went by very rapidly, yet not
so fast but that I recognized one of their number; I
had only to look at my little sister's cheeks, to see
that she had recognized him also. The very next
day came Massingberd Heath to our camp, profess-
ing himself injured by our abrupt withdrawal from
his society, volunteering his companionship as before,
and reiterating his vows and promises to Sinnamenta.
She expressed herself in such a manner, as to lead us
almost to fear she might be induced to elope with
him; while he, upon his side, seemed prepared to


The ReASON CONTINUEd. 157
sacrifice everything to obtain her. His very selfish-
ness caused him, as it were, to forget himself; and I
do believe, if it had been insisted upon, he would
have had the banns published in Wooler Church, in
the hearing of the fine friends with whom he was
staying, and been married by the parson. However,
he again proposed to go through the Cingari cere-
mony, and this time Morris and my father agreed to it.
Having acknowledged himself to be an adopted
gipsy, Massingberd Heath was joined in wedlock to
Sinnamenta Liversedge. The ordinary ceremonies
were dispensed with by command of Morris, the
bride and bridegroom only pledging themselves to
one another solemnly in the presence of the assem-
bled tribe. It was then, since he could not purchase
suitable presents in such an out-of-the-way district,
that I received from that man's hand this shooting-
flask, as a remembrance of that day. My uncle
commanded me to accept it (although I vehemently
disapproved of what had been done), and I therefore
keep it now, when every other gift of that accursed
man has long been committed to the flames. For
my part, I could not understand this novel pliancy
on the part of Morris and my father; while Sinna-
menta, as I think, implicitly believed in her lover's
protestation, that for her sake he would all his life
be a wanderer like ourselves. That very day how-
ever, he took her away southward, on his road to
London.
“For beauty, as I have said, and for gentleness,
there never breathed the equal of my little sister, and
yet in six short months this Heath grew weary of her;
like a spoiled child tired with a fragile toy, he cared


158 LOST Sir MASSING Bern.
not what became of her, so long as it vexed his eyes
no more. It was not necessary to tell what brutal
insult he put upon her; enough to say that she fled
from him in terror, as he had intended her to do, and
returned to us, heart-stricken, woe-begone, about to
become a mother, with nothing but wretchedness in
the Future, and even her happy Past a dream dis-
pelled. It was dreadful to look upon my little sister,
and compare her to what she had been so short a time
before. She felt the cold after her luxurious life in
town; but she was far more ill at ease in mind than
body. Above all, she sorrowed because her lover's
desertion had left her disgraced — that she had
brought shame upon all who belonged to her. Incited
by the poor girl's misery, Morris and my father put
into effect an audacious design which they had
privately had long in hand. We were back again at
Fairburn—all but Stanley Carew, who was away
about a new horse for our covered cart—not camping
in the plantation, as of old, for fear of Sir Wentworth,
but upon the common hard by. On a certain morn-
ing, neither my father nor my uncle went forth as usual,
but sat at home smoking and watching at the open-
ing of the tent. Not long after breakfast, there
appeared a wayfarer in the distance, whose form
showed gigantic in the summer haze.
“‘That must be a big fellow, little sister,’ said I,
drawing her attention to it. She was sitting huddled
up as usual, in front of the fire; but no sooner
had she caught sight of the object in question,
than she ran with a cry to her father's knee, and be-
sought him to save her from Massingberd Heath.
Ah, even then, at that last moment, if father or uncle
|


THE REASON continueD. 159
had but consulted me, or let me into their plans, I
should not have my little sister's shuddering face
before me as now, the large eyes wild, the full lips
pale with terror. He had beaten her, poor darling,
even before the scene that was coming; but she had
even more reason than she knew for fear. This man
came striding on to the entrance of the tent, and
stood there looking at its inmates with a withering
scowl. “Why don't you speak,’ said he, “you vaga-
bonds! For what is it that you have dared to send
for me?’ -
“My father pointed towards Sinnamenta—‘Is not
that cause enough, Massingberd Heath 2'
“‘No,' retorted the ruffian, coolly. “What is she
to me? The drab has come to her thieving friends
again, it seems—the more fool she ; for there was
more than one who had a fancy for her in town, and
would have taken her off my hands.’
“My father's fingers mechanically sought the
knife that lay beside his half-finished basket; but
my uncle Morris stood up between him and the
speaker, and thus replied:—
“‘Massingberd Heath, I sent for you to tell you
something which concerns both us and you. Many
months ago, you came to us, uninvited and unwel-
come, and elected to be a gipsy like ourselves. This
makes you smile very scornfully; yet, if you did not
mean the thing you said, you lied. However, we
believed you. You were admitted into what, how-
ever wretched and debased it may seem to you, was
our home, and all we had to offer you was at your
service. You fell in love with that poor girl yonder, and
she did not tremble at your voice, as now, but trusted


160 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
to your honor. It is true, your position in the
world was high, and hers was what you saw it to be.
Still you wooed her, and not she you; that is so, and
you know it. Do not slander her, sir, lest presently
you should be sorry for it. Again and again, then,
you demanded her hand in marriage—such marriage,
that is, as prevails among our people—not so cere-
monious, indeed, as with the rest of the world, but
not less binding. This we would not grant, because
we disbelieved your protestations on your honor
and before your God; and disbelieved them, as it
has turned out, with reason. Then we fled from
you and your false solicitations to the north, hundreds
of miles away; even thither you followed us, or else
accidently fell in with us; I know not which. You
renewed your. offers and your oaths. We found, all
worthless as you are, that the poor girl loved you
still, and, yielding to your repeated importunity, we
suffered her to become your wife.”
“‘Wife l’ repeated the renegade, contemptuously.
“Do you suppose, then, that I valued your gipsy
mummeries at a pin's head? You might as well
attempt to tie these wrists of mine with the gossamer
from yonder furze.”
“‘We knew that, Massingberd Heath, although
the girl did not know it; she trusted you, although
your every word was false.”
“‘She is fool enough for anything,’ returned the
other, brutally. “But I know all this. Have you
dared to bring me here merely to repeat so stale a
story?’
“A story with an ending that you have yet to
learn, pursued my uncle, sternly, ‘You were wedded


THE REASON CONTINUED. 161
by no gipsy mummeries, as you call them; you took
Sinnamenta Liversedge, in the presence of many
persons, solemnly to wife.’
“‘Ay, and I might take her sister there, and
marry her to-day after the same fashion, and no law
could say me “nay.””
“‘Yes, here, Massingberd Heath; but not at
Kirk-Yetholm.”
“‘And why not?' inquired the ruffian, with a
mocking laugh, that had, however, something shrill
and wavering in it.
“‘Because Kirk-Yetholm' is over the Border, and,
by the laws of Scotland, my niece Sinnamenta is your
wife, proud man, and nothing but death can dissever
the bond l’
“An awful silence succeeded my uncle's words.
Massingberd Heath turned livid, and twice in vain
essayed to speak; he was well nigh strangled by
passion. -
“‘I thank heaven, Rachel,’ murmured my little
sister, “that I am not that shame to thee and to my
race which I thought myself to be.”
“‘You shall have but little to thank heaven for,
girl, if this be true,' cried her husband, hoarse with
concentrated rage; ‘somebody shall pay for this.”
“‘It is true,' quoth my father, “and you feel it to
be so. Nothing remains, then, but to make the best
of it. We do not seek anything at your hands,
nor >
“‘Only the right of camping undisturbed about
Fairburn,' interposed my uncle Morris, who was of a
grasping disposition, and had planned the whole
matter, I fear, not without an eye to the advantage
10


162 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
of his tribe. “You wouldn't treat your wife's family
as trespassers.” -
“‘Certainly not,’ returned Massingberd Heath,
with bitterness; “they shall be most welcome. I
should be extremely sorry if they were to leave my
neighborhood just yet. In the meantime, however,
I want my wife—my Wife. Come along with me, my
pretty one.”
“He looked like a wild beast, within springing dis-
tance of his prey.
“‘Oh, father, uncle, defend me!’ cried the misera-
ble girl. “What have you done to bring this man's
vengeance upon me?
“‘Ay, you are right there !” answered her husband,
in a voice that froze my veins. “That is still left for
me—vengeance. Come along, I say; I hunger until
it shall begin.”
“‘Massingberd Heath,’ cried I, throwing myself at
his feet, “for God's sake have mercy upon her; it is
not her fault. She knew no more than you of all
these things. Look how ill and pale she is — you
above all men should have pity on her wretched con-
dition. Oh leave her with us, leave my little sister
here, and neither she nor we will ever trouble you,
ever come near you. It shall be just the same as
though you had never set eyes upon us: it shall
indeed! Oh, you would not, could not surely be cruel
to such a one as she.”
“I pointed to her as she stood clinging to her
father's arm as much for support as in appeal, so beau-
tiful, so pitiful, so weak; a spectacle to move a heart
of stone.
“‘Could I not be cruel,” returned he, with a grat-


THE REASON CONTINUED. 163
ing laugh, “ay, to even such a one as she? Ask her
—ask her.’
“There was no occasion to put the question; you
saw the answer in her shrinking form, her trembling
limbs; his every word fell upon her like a blow.
“‘She has not yet known, however, what I can be
to my Wife,” continued he. “Come, my pretty one,
come.’
“‘She shall not,’ cried my father, vehemently; “it
shall never be in his power to hurt her.’
“‘What! and I her husband?’ exclaimed the
other, mockingly. “Both one until death us do partſ
Not come 2'
“‘He will kill her,’ murmured my father; “her
blood will be on my head.’
“‘Are you coming, wife?' cried Massingberd
Heath, in a terrible voice; he stepped forward, and
grasped her slender wrist with fingers of steel. Mor-
ris and my father rushed forward, but the man had
swung her behind him, placing himself between her
and them, and at the same instant he had taken from
his pocket a life-preserver—he carries it to this day—
armed with which he was a match for five such men.
“And now, cried he, “what man shall stop me from
doing what I will with my own’’
“‘Il’ exclaimed a sudden voice, and with the
word some dark mass launched itself so violently
against the throat of Massingberd Heath that the
giant toppled and fell; upon his huge breast, knife in
hand, knelt Stanley Carew, his eyes gleaming with
hate, his lithe body working like a panther's. He
was not hesitating, not he, he was only drinking in a
delicious draught of revenge, before he struck.


164 LOST Sir MASSING bend.
“‘Strike!' cried I, ‘strike hard and quick,
Carew l’ But while the blade was in air, Morris and
my father plucked him backwards, and suffered his
intended victim to rise, although despoiled of his
weapon.
“‘No, Carew; that will never do, quoth Morris.
“We should have the whole country upon us in an
hour, and they would hang us altogether.’
“‘Carew is that man's name, is it?’ exclaimed
Massingberd Heath. “I will not forget it, be sure.
You shall all pay for this, trust me; but he, and this
one, more than all. Come away, wife, come away.”
“‘Yes, she must go, Carew,’ interposed my uncle,
checking a furious movement of the young man's.
‘He knows all now, and has a right to what he
demands.’ -
“‘Ay, but if he lays one finger upon her,’ cried
the passionate gipsy, “if he dares to harm her even
by a word, and I hear of it, as sure as I see the sun
this day, I will know what is the color of his life-
blood. You may take her away across the seas, but
I will follow you; you may surround yourself with
precautions, but I will come at you; you may go day
and night in mail, but this knife shall find your heart
out.”
“Massingberd Heath nodded contemptuously,
without speaking; and striding from the tent,
signed to Sinnamenta to follow him, which she
did, moaning and weeping, and casting backward,
ever and anon, pitiful glances upon the home and
friends she had exchanged for such an evil lot. I
never saw my little sister more.”
As if the remembrance of this sad scene had


THE REASON CONTINUED. . 165
utterly overcome her, Rachel Liversedge hid her
face in her hands, and wept until the tears welled
through her tanned and shrivelled fingers.
“I am indeed distressed,” said I, “to have caused
you so much pain. I will not make you sad by telling
me more.”
“Nay, my boy, since I have begun it, let me
finish with it; I shall think of it all the same, and
it is better to speak than think. That very night
Stanley Carew was arrested upon the charge of
stealing the horse which he had bought in open
market, and ridden home just in time to play the
part I have described. In the days I speak of,
forty pound was given as a reward to those who
gave such evidence as produced a capital convic-
tion, and many a gipsy perished innocently in con-
sequence of that wicked ordinance. It is possible
that this accusation was made by one of those who
made a practice of earning blood-money; but I am
positively certain the false witness was set on by Mas-
singberd Heath, even if that man did not originate
the charge. It was pressed against poor Carew
very harshly ; and although the farmer of whom he
bought the animal came honestly forward, and
swore to its being the same which he had sold the
prisoner, his evidence was rejected on account of
some slight mistake in the description. You must
have heard tell of that awful execution long ago at
Crittenden jail, when the wretched victim to perjury
and revenge uttered these terrible words: ‘O God,
if thou dost not deliver me, I will not believe there is
a God.' That unhappy man was Stanley Carew.
My father and uncle were pitilessly persecuted and


166 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
imprisoned, and died before their time. These wrists
have worn fetters, this back has suffered stripes;
nor did the vengeance of our enemy cease even with
one generation. One of my boys is beyond seas, and
another within stone walls; yet I know that the hate
of Sir Massingberd Heath is not yet slaked.”
“But what became of your little sister, poor Sin-
namenta?”
“I know not what she suffered immediately after
she was taken from us; Heaven only knows; her
husband carried her a great way off out of our ken.
But this I have heard, that when he told her of the
death of Stanley Carew she fell down like one dead,
and presently being delivered of a son, the infant
died after a few hours; the mother lived—a maniac.
Yes, Massingberd Heath, you did kill my little sister,
after all; yonder she lives, but recks not whether you
are kind or cruel; she drinks no more the bitter cup
of love's betrayal.”
“She is not surely at Fairburn,” said I, “is
she 2 *
“What else should keep us here, boy, to be harried
by keepers, to be vexed by constables and jus-
tices 2 What else should keep me here in a place
that tortures me with memories of my youth,
and of loving faces that have crumbled into dust?
What else but the hope of one day seeing my little
sister yet, and the vengeance of Heaven upon him
who has worked her ruin l’” The old woman rose
up as she spoke, and looked menacingly towards
Fairburn Hall. “I could almost exclaim with poor
Carew,” cried she, “that if Massingberd Heath
escape some awful end, there is no avenger on high.


The REASON CONTINUED. 167
9.
I am old, but I shall see it, yes, I shall see it before I
die.”
If there had been more to tell, which fortunately
there was not, I do not think Rachel Liversedge
could have spoken further; her emotion, far more
than her. exertions, had reduced her strength so far,
that though she uttered the last words energetically
enough, I had had for some time a difficulty in hearing
what she said.
“I thank you for listening to the tediousness of
an ancient dame so long,” murmured she “if you
were not a good boy, and a half gipsy, you would
never have been so patient. I have told you all this
to put you on your guard: it is no secret, but
still you may not have heard it. Distrust, despise,
detest Massingberd Heath; and warn his nephew, if
you be his friend, not to venture again within his
uncle's reach.”
“I will, I will,” cried I; “and I thank you in his
name.” I held out my hand, and she turned it over
in her own.
“An honest palm,” quoth she, “without a stain.
There is one unlucky cross about it, Peter, that is all.
You must not fret for that.”
I mounted my horse amid cordial “good-byes.”
from the gipsies, who had been pursuing their usual
avocations during the above recital, as though nothing
was more common than that the head of the family
should have a secret of two hours long to communi-
cate to a strange young gentleman; and throwing a
shilling to the boy who had shown me the way, I
took my leave.
It was not till I left the plantation far behind me,


168 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
and had ridden at speed for some distance on the
open road, that I was able to shake off the sombre
feelings that oppressed me, and to meet Mrs. Myr-
tle's welcome to the Rectory with an answering
smile.
CHAPTER XVI.
I Do SIR MASSINGBERD A LITTLE FAVOR,
Upon my return to Fairburn, I became the object of
immense curiosity and attraction. I was stared at
in the rector's pew at church, and, in my solitary
rides, whithersoever I went, as the repository of the
great secret of the disruption between Sir Massing-
berd and his nephew. It was even whispered that I
was the prime mover of the young man's rebellion,
and had planned the very manner of his escape upon
Panther, including the accident. At all events, I
knew all that had happened, which nobody else
knew, except my tutor himself. Now Mr. Long was
as close as wax. Many an invitation had Mrs.
Myrtle obtained of late to take a dish of tea upon
grounds which her hosts had since stigmatized as
false pretences. As the housekeeper and confidential
servant of the rector, she had been asked by Mrs.
Arabel of the Grange Farm to take evening refresh-
ment with her in a friendly way; also by Mrs.
Remnants, who kept that extensive emporium in the
village which supplied snuff to the aged of both
sexes (though not gratuitously), becoming cambrics


170 Lost sIR MASSINGBERD.
three drars and a spet,” said he (meaning by that
form of expression a few whiffs of a pipe), “and
take a glass of ale;” and when I declined the first
offer upon the ground of not being a smoker, and
the second on the plea that it was only eleven o'clock
A.M., and consequently rather early for ale, he con-
fessed that his missus was a-waiting for me with
a bottle of cowslip wine, and a seed-cake of her own
making. It was rather difficult to escape from hos-
pitable snares of this kind, but I revealed as little as
possible without giving absolute offence. On the
other hand, I received some information, the details
of which had not been confided to me by Mr. Long.
“Well, sir,” remarked Mrs. Arabel, after I had
told her all I meant to tell, which was not much,
“and it's no wonder as Mr. Marmaduke should have
run away, I'm sure.”
“My good lady,” observed I, “pray be particular;
I never said he ran away; I said his horse ran
away.”
“Yes, of course, sir,” responded the mistress of
the Grange, winking in a manner that made me
quite uncomfortable; “you are very right to say
that, Mr. Meredith, very right. But Sir Massing-
berd's opinion is, that it was all planned from first
to last, only he says you nearly overdid it.”
“Ah, indeed,” said I, “how was that ?”
“Well, it seems Sir Massingberd was quite de-
ceived about that horse he bought for his nephew;
instead of being quiet, and fit for the lad, it was
a perfect demon; and it was sheer madness of you
young gentlemen to go racing in order to make it
run away; then to arrange with Mr. Gerard all


I Do SIR MASSINGBERD A LITTLE FAvor. 171
y
beforehand; well, I must say, I shouldn't have
thought that either of you would have had the
depth.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Arabel,” said I, laughing;
“I am sorry you entertain so low an idea of our
intelligence.”
“Well, sir,” returned the farmer's wife, with
an air of excessive candor, “my husband, you see,
he often has said to me, says he, “That young squire
Marmaduke, I’m darned if he ain’t little better than
a fool; he don’t know what shot to use for rabbits,
that he don’t; I never saw his equal for ignorance.
And as for that lad from the Ingies—that was you,
you know, sir—well, of all the young fellows turned
of seventeen as I ever saw, he's the ' »
Here Mrs. Arabel crimsoned, and stopped short,
as if she had been very nearly betrayed into saying
something which was not entirely complimentary.
“Pray, go on, my dear madam,” said I; “‘of all
the young fellows turned of seventeen whom he had
ever seen, I was the ' »
“Well, sir; he'd just the same opinion of you
as he had of Master Marmaduke; but, for my part,
I always said, that although you might neither on
you know so much as you ought to, and though you
might seem, as it were ->
“Ay, you always stood our friend, and said we
were not such fools as we looked; did you?”
“Just so,” replied Mrs. Arabel, simply; “and
so you see it has turned out. If Mr. Marmaduke can
only live elsewhere till something happens to Sir
Massingberd—although, indeed, he looks as if nothing
ever could hurt him—his life will doubtless be much


172 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
pleasanter than at the Hall; it is no place for a
young gentleman like him, surely, although, indeed,
things are better there than they were. The dark-
eyed foreigneering-looking young person, although
indeed, she was old enough to know better; well,
she's gone.”
“So I have heard,” said I, drily.
“Yes, she went away in a whirlwind, she did,”
continued Mrs. Arabel, reflectively.
“Dear me,” replied I, “I never heard that.”
“Ah, indeed, I daresay not ; why, you see, Mr.
Long was a little mixed up in it. Perhaps he
thought it better not to tell you. Take another
glass of cowslip wine, sir; it has been, more than
ten years in bottle; and the cake is as good a cake
as you will put teeth into in all Midshire, though I
say it as shouldn't say it. Well, the thing hap-
pened in this way, you see. The foreigneering female,
she used to throw things at folks; dishes, plates
whatever came first to hand, whenever she was
in her tantrums. Mr. Gilmore he had his head
opened with a slop-basin, so that you could lay your
finger in it; and Oliver Bradford, I believe she fired
a gun at him, charged with swan shot. However,
at times, she was quite otherwise, crying and sub-
missive as a child. They said it was Religion up at
the Hall; but they knows nothing about that; how
should they? It was hysterics, I daresay, and serve
her right too. Well, who should come here, the
very Sunday after Mr. Marmaduke had run away,
and when Sir Massingberd was like a wild man
with rage, and couldn't speak without blaspheming,
but one of them Methodee preachers as sometimes


I do sIR MAssiNGBERD A LITTLE FAvoR. 173
hold forth upon our common. Now the foreigneering
female was a-walking in the park shrubbery, with
one of her hysterical fits upon her, I suppose, and
what does she hear through the palings but words
as I suppose the poor creature never listened to
before; and presently out she comes upon the com-
mon, and stands up among all the people, with her
great eyes swollen with weeping, and her painted
cheeks—and I always said they were painted—daubed
and smeared with tears. Carter John, who is very
much given to that sort of worship, he was there;
and he told me she looked for all the world like the
woman in the great picture over the communion-
table in Crittenden Church, who is wiping the feet
of our Lord with her hair.
/ “Then the preacher, he bade her repent while
/ there was yet time, and fear nothing but only God.
But Sir Massingberd, he came out, and dragged her
in from the very preacher's hand, and presently back
again he comes with a horse-whip, and swears there
shall be no Methodees in his parish, and if he caught
the hypocritical ranter—as he called him—within
hearing again he’d split his ears. Now, I don't go
with him there,” pursued Mrs. Arabel, gravely. “It
isn't for us, Mr. Meredith, to say as nobody can't
pick up good, unless it's in church; and least of all
should such things be said by Sir Massingberd, who
lets that beautiful family pew get damp and mouldy,
with the fireplace always empty all the winter long,
and never puts his nose into it from year's end to
year's end. However, what does the foreigneering
female do, but declare she would starve herself to
death, before she would eat the bread of unrighteous-


174 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD,
ness any longer; and not one morsel of food would
she take, though they locked her up, and tried to
tempt her with her most favorite dishes. So Sir
Massingberd, being at his wits' end, came over to the
parson, and begged him to come and persuade the
woman to be reasonable, and take some refreshment;
and Mr. Long —he at first declined to interfere in
such a matter at all, but presently thinking the poor
creature might be really penitent, although it came
about through a Methodee, and hoping to do her
some good, although not in the way Sir Massingberd
intended, he accompanied him to the Hall; and what
do you think? Why, they found the poor woman
was in such earnest, that she had cut off the whole
of her beautiful black hair, and there it lay on the
carpet, like so much rubbish. So the Squire he
swore that he didn’t care now whether she starved
or not, and turned her out of the house, as I said at
first, in a whirlwind. She was very faint and weak;
and Mr. Long, who would never exchange a syllable
with her before, made Mrs. Myrtle give her a good
meal, and gave her some good words himself, and
sent her away to her friends—for it seems she had
some friends, poor wretch; and this has made Sir
Massingberd wilder than ever against the rector,
whom he had already accused of aiding and abetting
young Mr. Marmaduke in his running away; so that
altogether the Squire is ready to make an end of
everybody.” º
This last statement, although a little highly
colored, as Mrs. Arabel's descriptions usually were,
was really not far from the truth. It did almost
seem as if the baronet was so transported with pas-
:


I Do SIR MAssiNGBERD A LITTLE FAvor. 175
sion as to be capable of any enormity. What the
law permitted him to do in the way of oppression,
that, of course, he practised to the uttermost; his
morality, never very diffuse, had concentrated itself
upon one position—the defence of the game and tres-
pass laws. His keepers were exhorted to increased
vigilance; the worst characters in the parish were
constituted his spies. Every night, it was now the
custom of their lord and master to go the rounds in
his own preserves, and visit the outposts, to see that
the sentinels did their duty. He employed no Warn-
ings or Trespass Boards in Fairburn Park; his object
was not to deter, but to catch the contemners of the
sacred rights of property in the very act. The pur-
suit of his life had become man-hunting. I write
that word without any reference to Marmaduke
Heath, for, indeed at that time I thought that Sir
Massingberd had given up all hope of recovering
possession of his nephew. A considerable period had
now elapsed since the young man's convalescence,
and yet the baronet had taken no steps to compel his
return. He had written, indeed, to Marmaduke a
letter of anything but a conciliatory character, and
calculated to re-arouse the lad's most morbid fears;
but Mr. Harvey Gerard had intercepted the despatch,
and returned it with an answer of his own compo-
sition. He had stated briefly the results of the late
conference at the Dovecot respecting his young
guest; he had reiterated his intention of bringing, in
a court of justice, the gravest charges against the
baronet, in case of any legal molestation from him; and
he had finished with a personal recommendation to that
gentleman to rest satisfied with the enjoyment of the


I Do siR MAssiNGBERD A LITTLE FAvor. 177
rancor of political parties half a century ago, or the
despotism and flagrant injustice that were sanctioned
under the convenient name of Order.
For the haughty baronet to be thus cut off from
all intercourse with his victim, was to be foiled in-
deed. At first he stung himself well-nigh to frenzy,
like a scorpion within its circle of flame; but after a
time the white heat of his wrath began apparently to
abate. He seemed to have made up his mind to sit
down quietly under his defeat, and to content him-
self with tyrannizing over those who were yet in his
power. This comparatively peaceful state of things
was looked upon by Mr. Long and myself at first
with suspicion, but at last with real satisfaction.
When Sir Massingberd sent over five pine-apples and
some splendid grapes to the Rectory with his compli-
ments (for the first time within twenty years), we
shook our heads and my tutor addressed the messen-
ger of his bounty in these words: “Tell your master
I am exceedingly obliged to him for his kindness.
‘Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes.’”
“Would you be so good as to write that down,
sir?” said the man.
“You may give him the message without the
tail,” replied the rector, a little discomfited at his
own indiscretion, but congratulating himself very
much that he had expressed his thoughts so clas-
sically.
But when pine-apples and grapes became common
presents from the Hall, we began really to think that
the stubborn old baronet had come to the conclusion
that it was as pleasant to be on good terms with his
neighbor as not, and that he was genuinely bent on
11


178 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
reconciliation. A soft answer is said to be efficacious
to this end, but it is nothing compared to hothouse
dainties out of season; and notwithstanding all I
knew, and all I suspected, I began to regard Sir
Massingberd Heath, not indeed with less contempt
and dislike, but with less positive loathing, and cer-
tainly with less fear. I had not set foot upon his
property since Marmaduke's departure, and the baro-
net took occasion to stop me as I rode by his gate one
day, and remonstrate upon the incivility of such a
course of conduct.
“It can do me no damage, young gentleman, that
you should take your pleasure in my park, more espe-
cially as you are not a sportsman, who would covet my
hares and pheasants; and I cannot but think that
your omission to do so is a proof of ill-feeling towards
me, which Tºam not conscious of having deserved at
your hands.”
He spoke stiffly, and without condescension, as a
man might speak to an equal, between himself and
whom a misunderstanding existed unexplained, but
capable of explanation, and, foolish boy as I was, I
felt flattered by his behavior.
If the least notion of making myself out to be a
hero had existed in my brain when I began to write
these Recollections, it has been dissipated long ago.
I have been quite as much surprised during this re-
cital as any of my readers have been, at the contem-
plation of my own meannesses; if I had known how
many and how serious they were to be, perhaps I
should have hesitated to recall them; but I com-
menced with as strong a determination, nothing to
extenuate with respect to myself, as to set nothing


180 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
“Well, then, I won't go, Mrs. Myrtle. The fact is,
I feel one of my colds coming on; they generally
begin with a lump in my throat; so I shall write to
excuse myself.”
I really had a lump in my throat; my heart had
jumped up and stopped there at the mere notion of a
tête-à-tête with Sir Massingberd, diversified—no, in-
tensified—by the presence of Grimjaw. I wouldn't
have gone through it for a thousand pounds: so I
wrote to decline the honor upon the ground of in-
disposition. I was compelled to keep the house, I
said, for the entire day. Half an hour afterwards,
another letter arrived from the Hall. Since Sir
Massingberd might not enjoy the pleasure of my
company at dinner, would I permit him to come
over to the Rectory that morning, and have a few
words of conversation with me upon a matter deeply
interesting to both of us? There was no getting
out of this. If I had gone to bed on plea of illness,
I felt that even that course would have been no pro-
tection to me. Sir Massingberd would have forced a
dying man to play with him at pitch-and-toss, if so
inopportune a game had happened to take his fancy.
On the other hand, Mrs. Myrtle's suggestion that I
should mount my horse, and ride away after Mr.
Long, was really too pusillanimous a proceeding; I
therefore wrote back to the baronet a polite false-
hood, to the effect that I should be very happy to
see him; and in a very few minutes afterwards,
I was face to face with Marmaduke's foe.
He came in unushered—Mrs. Myrtle not being
equal to such an occasion—filling the doorway with
his gigantic form, and well-nigh touching the ceiling
of the low-roofed room with his head.


I Do siR MAssiNGBERD A LITTLE FAvoR. 181
“I am sorry to intrude upon an invalid,” said he,
“but what I had to say was of a private nature, and I
was not sure of finding you alone at any other time.”
I bowed, and begged my visitor to be seated.
“It is something,” thought I, “that this man is
civil at least.” For there is this great advantage in
being habitually insolent and overbearing, that when
one does condescend to behave decently, people ap-
preciate one's good manners very much.
“I have called upon you,” continued the baronet,
“with respect to my nephew and your friend, Marma-
duke Heath. It is idle to deny that he and I have
not been to one another what our mutual relation-
ship should have led us to be. I am naturally a hard
man; losses and poverty have doubtless rendered
me more morose. Marmaduke, on the other hand,
is of an over-sensitive and morbid nature. We did
not get on together at all well. There were faults on
both sides; it was six of one, and xx *
I shook my head.
“Very well, then,” resumed Sir Massingberd,
with candor, “let us say that it was I who was in
the wrong. I have not the patience and gentleness
requisite for dealing with a character like him; my
temper is arbitrary; I have behaved with but little
courtesy even to yourself. You are polite enough to
contradict me, but nevertheless it is true. For that
however, reparation can be made. I wish that I could
as easily make atonement in the other quarter. This,
however, I feel is utterly impossible. Things have
gone too far. I make no complaint of my nephew's
having been encouraged in his rebellious course by
one whose duty it was, on the contrary, to reconcile


182 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD,
us. I wish to say nothing that could only lead to
fruitless discussion, and perhaps a disagreement be-
tween you and me; that would be most impolitic on
my part, since I come here to solicit your good
offices.”
“Mine, Sir Massingberd? mine?”
“Yes, I desire your kindly assistance in bringing
about a better understanding between Marmaduke
and myself.”
“Sir,” said I, “what you ask is a sheer impossi-
bility. Marmaduke Heath may be wrong in his
estimate of your character, but it will remain un-
changed to his dying day. I am as certain of this
as that yonder yellowing tree will presently lose its
leaves.”
“You speak frankly, Mr. Meredith,” returned
the baronet, calmly, “and I do not respect you less
upon that account. It is not, however, as a mediator
that I need your assistance; I ask a much less favor
than that; I simply wish you to inclose a letter from
me to my nephew.”
“Sir Massingberd Heath,” said I, with some
indignation, “you have done me the favor of calling
upon me in my tutor's absence, in the expectation of
finding me so weak as to be unable to refuse what-
ever you chose to ask, or so treacherous as to be
willing to deceive those who are generously protecting
my best friend from one whom he has every cause to
fear. I am extremely obliged to you for the compli-
ment; ” and with that I laid my hand upon the bell.
“One moment,” observed the baronet, quietly,
nay, with suavity, though the letter U upon his fore-
head deepened visibly, and the veins of his great


I Do SIR MASSINGBERD A LITTLE FAvor. 183
hand, as it rested on the table, grew big with passion;
“one moment before you ring. I am sorry you
should have taken such a view of my conduct as you
have described ; you young men are somewhat hasty
in the imputation of motive. I am a straightforward,
rough fellow, and may have displeased you; but I
am not aware that I have done anything to justify
you in accusing me of meanness and duplicity. Those
persons who have charge of my nephew are, in my
judgment, deeply culpable; but I do not wish you to
act deceitfully towards them on that account. Mat-
ters have come to that pass, however, that I cannot
even communicate with my nephew, even though I
have that to say which would give him genuine pleas-
ure. This Mr. Harvey Gerard”—his deep voice
shook with hatred as he mentioned that name—“has
taken upon himself to return my letters to Marma-
duke unopened. I know not how to convey to him
even such a one as this.”
Sir Massingberd threw across to me a folded
sheet, directed to his nephew, and motioned that I
should open it. It ran as follows:—
“NEPHEw MARMADUKE,--It seems that you are
fully determined never again to seek the shelter
of my roof. I am given to understand that the time
for reconciliation has gone by, and that any attempt
to effect it would only cause you annoyance, and
make the breach wider between us. If so, so be it.
I am an old man now, and I wish my last years to be
passed in peace. I wish to make no allusion to the
character of the person with whom you have chosen
to reside, further than to express a hope that when


184 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
I am gone, and it will be your part to exercise the
rights of a great landowner, that you will not employ
your influence to subvert the laws and the govern-
ment. It is as mad in those who possess authority
to countenance revolution, as for a man seated on a
lofty branch to lop it off with his own hands. I do
not say this as your uncle, but merely as one of an
ancient race with whom we are both connected, and
in whose welfare we should take an equal interest.
Mr. Meredith is kind enough to enclose this parting
word of advice—the last communication that will
probably ever pass between us—from
- “MAssINGBERD HEATH.
“P.S.—Burn this when you have read it, lest your
friend should get into trouble upon my account.”
I read and re-read this strange epistle with great
care, before I made any comment upon it. There
was nothing, to my mind, objectionable in any of the
contents. I had been twice to Harley Street during
the summer, and found Marmaduke as morbidly ap-
prehensive as ever of some course of conduct to be
adopted by his uncle with reference to regaining the
custody of his person; he was haunted still by the
shadow of this terrible man. The words I held
before me were certainly calculated to reassure him.
No news could be more gratifying than this positive
resignation of the baronet's claim to be his guardian,
this final “good-bye.” under Sir Massingberd's own
hand. As for the political advice, I thought that
very healthy. I was then, as now, a staunch con-
servative, and although I did not sympathize in the


I Do SIR MASSINGBERd A LITTLE FAvor. 185
least with the harsh acts of the government in re-
spect to poor, misguided men, not without their
wrongs, yet I did think Mr. Gerard's views both
visionary and dangerous.
“I trust,” observed Sir Massingberd, gravely,
“that the sentiments which you are now perusing
are in accordance with your own. I am speaking, I
believe, to a gentleman, and consequently to a natural
friend of order.”
I bowed in assent. “There certainly seems no-
thing in this epistle which Marmaduke might not
read,” muttered I, musing.
“Seems 2 ” cried the baronet. “Why not say is .
at once 2''
A sudden idea, gleaned from some romance which
I had been lately reading, flashed across my brain.
Why did the postcript say, “Burn this when you
have read it?” I let my hand, with the letter in it,
drop below my knee, so that the missive was held
close to the fire.
“There is no writing in lemon-juice, I do assure
you,” observed Sir Massingberd, quietly; “you will
only scorch the paper.”
I colored at the exposure of my suspicions, and
in my confusion it did not strike me that the speaker
must himself have at least entertained such a pro-
ject, or he never could have unmasked me so readily,
I was a little ashamed of myself, and rather sorry
for my incredulity. Sir Massingberd saw this, and
pressed his point.
“Since there is nothing concealed, and no harm
in what is visible, I do hope you will grant the
favor I requested, and inclose that note to my
nephew.”


186 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
-
“Well, sir,” said I, after a little hesitation, “I
will inclose it. I give you warning, however, that I
shall send a line by the same post to let Mr. Gerard
know that I have done so.”
“By all means,” responded Sir Massingberd. “I
am only anxious that my nephew's own eyes should
read what I have written. Have you a taper and
wax 7” asked he, folding up the sheet. “I might as
well stamp it with my seal.”
I rose and brought what he required from a writing
table. Sir Massingberd sealed the letter, and gave it
into my hand.
“Mr. Meredith,” said he, rising, “you have done
me a great service. I think I have said, that the
oftener you make use of my grounds the better I
shall be pleased. Did I add that the bowling-green
is entirely at your service 7 I am too stiff in the
back to have a game with you myself, but I will give
directions to Gilmore to be your antagonist, when-
ever you may feel inclined.”
The baronet took his leave in a stately, but not
unfriendly manner. He certainly was stiff in the
loack ; but that was his nature. As he smiled, his
lip turned upwards, instead of the usual way; but so
it always did. Yet I did not feel quite comfortable,
as I stood by myself over the fire, balancing Sir
Massingberd’s “good-bye” to his nephew in my
hand, and questioning within myself whether it
wouldn't be better to inclose it to Mr. Harvey
Gerard, after all. However, in the end I kept my
promise.


oUT of MIND, out of SIGHT. 187
* CHAPTER XVII.
OUT OF MIND, out OF SIGHT.
NotwitHstANDING the baronet's polite invitation,
and although Mr. Long did not return as expected upol,
the ensuing morning, I felt no inclination to exchange
my solitude for the society of Mr. Gilmore at bowls.
I was, indeed, rather curious to see the bowling-
green, which I had heard from my tutor was one of
the very finest in England, fenced in by wondrous
walls of yew ; but to arrive there it was necessary to
pass close to the Hall, and consequently to run great
risk of meeting Sir Massingberd, my repugnance to
whom had returned with tenfold strength since the
preceding day. My reason, it is true, could suggest
no possible harm from my having enclosed his letter
to Marmaduke, but still an indefinable dread of what
I had done oppressed me. I could not imagine in
what manner I could have been outwitted; but a cer-
tain malignant exultation in Sir Massingberd's face
when he was taking his leave haunted my memory,
and rendered hateful the idea of meeting it again.
Moreover, the companionship of Gilmore, the butler,
was not attractive. He bore a very bad character
with the villagers, among whom he was said to emu-
late in a humble manner the vices of his lord and
master. He had been his companion and confi-
dential servant for a great number of years; and
it was not to be wondered at, even supposing
that he commenced his servitude as an honest
man, that his principles should have been sapped by
the communication.


188 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
Those who had known Richard Gilmore best and
longest, however, averred that his nature had not
been the least impaired by this companionship, inas-
much as it had been always as bad as could be.
I never saw his pale, secretive face, with the thin
lips tightly closed as if to prevent the escape of one
truant word, without reflecting what a repository of
dark and wicked deeds that keeper of Sir Massing-
berd's conscience needs must be. Such men usually
hold such masters in their own hands, for they know
too much about them; and it is that species of know-
ledge which, above all others, is power. But it was
not so in this case. The antecedents of Gilmore's
master were probably as evil as those of any person
who has ever kept a valet; but there was this pecu-
liarity about the baronet, that he cared little or
nothing whether people knew them or not. When
a thoroughly unprincipled man has arrived at the
stage of being entirely indifferent to what his fellow-
creatures think of him, he has touched his zenith—
he is as much a hero to his valet-de-chambre as to
any body else. It was Gilmore's nature to be reti-
cent; but for all Sir Massingberd cared he might have
ascended the steps of the stone cross at Crittenden
upon market-day, and held forth upon the subject of his
master's peccadillos. Sir Massingberd stood no more
in fear of him than of any other man, otherwise he
would scarcely have used such frightful language to
him as he did whenever the spirit-case had not been
properly replenished, or he happened to mislay the
key of his own cigar-chest. It was no delicate tend-
ing that the lord of Fairburn Hall required — no
accurate arrangement of evening garments ere he


out of MIND, out of SIGHT. 189
returned from shooting—no slippers placed in front
of the fire. As he was attired in the morning, so he
remained throughout the day; and if it were the
poaching season, throughout the night also. He
never was ill, and only very rarely was he so over-
come with liquor as to require any assistance in
retiring. The putting Sir Massingberd to bed must
have been a bad quarter of an hour for Mr. Gilmore.
I have mentioned that when I paid my only visit to
the Hall, the front-door bell was answered by the
butler with very commendable swiftness, under the
impression that it was his master; and, indeed, it was
rumored that, on more than one occasion, the baronet
had felled his faithful domestic like an ox, for dila-
toriness. Wonder was sometimes expressed that Mr.
Gilmore, who was supposed, as the phrase goes, to
have feathered his nest very agreeably during his
master's prosperous days, should cleave to him in his
present poverty—the mere sentiment of attachment
being deemed scarcely strong enough to retain his
gratuitous services. But the reply commonly made
to this was, I have no doubt, correct—namely, that
however matters might seem, Mr. Richard Gilmore,
we might be well assured, knew his own business
best, and on which side his bread was.buttered.
Sagacious, however, as this gentleman doubtless
was, I did not fancy him as a companion to play
bowls with ; and, instead of going in the direction
of the bowling-green, I took my way to Fairburn
Chase. I had not set foot within it for more than
a year, and the season was much further advanced
than when I had last been there. The stillness which
pervaded it in the summer time was now broken by


out of MIND, out of sight. 191
where such of the keepers and gardeners as lived upon
the estate resided, and it puzzled me to imagine to
what purpose this cottage was assigned.
While I hesitated as to whether I should cross
the turbid and swollen current, whose waters almost
entirely covered the stepping-stones, a laugh pro-
longed and shrill burst forth from the very direction
in which I was looking. It was the same mocking
cry, never to be forgotten, which I had heard at that
very spot some fifteen months before. Anywhere
else, I should have recognized it; but in that place
it was impossible to doubt its identity. Knife-like,
it clove the humid and unwilling air; and before the
sound had ceased, a short, sharp shriek succeeded it
—the cry of a smitten human creature. In a mo-
ment I had crossed the stream, and was forcing my
way through the wood. As I drew nearer, I per-
ceived the edifice before me was of stone, and with
a slated roof, instead of being built with clay, and
thatched, as were the rest of Sir Massingberd's
cottages. There was no attempt at ornamentation,
but the place was unusually substantial for its size,
the door being studded with nails, while the window
upon either side of it was protected by iron bars.
I was just emerging from the fringe of the wood,
when another sound smote on my ear, which caused
me to pause at once, and remain where the trunk
of an elm tree intervened between me and the cot-
tage; it was merely the bark of a dog, but it checked
my philanthropic enthusiasm upon the instant. There
was no mistaking that wheezy note, telling of canine
infirmity, and days prolonged far beyond the ordinary
span of dogs. Besides, there was but one dog per-


192 LOST SIR MASSINGBERI).
mitted to be at large in Fairburn Chase. It was the
execrable Grimjaw. I could see him from my place
of concealment turning his almost sightless eyes
in my direction as he sat at the cottage door. Im-
mediately afterwards, it opened, and out came
Richard Gilmore; he looked about him suspiciously,
but having convinced himself that there was nobody
in the neighborhood, he administered a kick to
Grimjaw's ribs, reproached him in strong language
for having made a causeless disturbance, and turning
the key, and pocketing it, walked away by a foot-
path that doubtless led, although by no means di-
rectly, to the Hall. He had a dog whip in his hand
when I first saw him, which I thought was an odd
thing for a butler to carry, and he seemed to think
so, too, for he put it in a side pocket before he
started, and buttoned it up. Grimjaw, gathering
his stiffened limbs together, slowly followed him,
not without turning his grey head ever and anon
towards my covert, but without venturing again
to express his suspicions. I waited until the charm-
ing pair were out of sight, ere I advanced to the
cottage.
The door, of course, was fast; so, approaching
the right-hand window, I cautiously looked in through
its iron bars; there was no casement whatever,
therefore all the objects which the room contained
were as clear to me as... though I were in it. I beheld
a sitting-room, the furniture of which was costly, and
had been evidently intended for a much larger apart-
ment, but which in variety was scanty enough. At a
mahogany table, which retained little more of polish
than if it had just been sawn from its trunk in Hon-


out of MIND, out of SIGHT. 193
duras, sat an ancient female, with her back towards
me, supporting her chin on both hands; a cold
chicken in a metal dish was before her, but neither a
plate nor knife and fork; she was muttering some-
thing in a low tone to herself, which, if it was a
grace, must have been a very long one. Her hair
was scanty, and white as snow, but hung down
almost to the ground ; she was miserably thin ; and
her clothes, although they had once been of rich
material, were ragged and old.
I had made no noise, as I thought, in my ap-
proach; and the day was so dull and dark that she
could scarcely have perceived my presence by any
shadow of my eavesdropping self; but no sooner had
I set my eyes on her than she began to speak, with-
out looking round, imagining, doubtless, that I was
Gilmore. “So you are there again, peeping and
prying, are you, wicked thief,” cried she. “Don’t
you know that a real lady should take her meals in
peace without being interrupted, especially after she
has been beaten ? Think of that, you cur. Why,
where's your whip?” She uttered these last words
with a yell of scorn; and turning suddenly, with one
arm raised as if to ward a blow, she met my unex-
pected face, and I saw hers. So remarkable was her
appearance, that although it was she, not I, who was
taken by surprise, I think I was the more astounded
of the two. Her countenance was that of an old
woman, so wrinkled, or rather shrivelled up, that the
furrows might have represented the passage of a cen-
tury of time; yet the teeth were as white and regular
as in a young beauty, and the black beaded eyes had
a force and fire in them unquenched by age. In her
12


194 I.OST SIR MASSINGBERD.
thin puckered ears hung a pair of monstrous gilded
ornaments, and round her skinny neck was a necklace
such as a stage queen would wear; yet she had naked
feet.
“Oh, it is you, is it?” observed she, with a grave
distinctness, in strong contrast to her late excited and
mocking tones. “If I had known that you were com-
ing, young gentleman, I would have put on my brace-
lets. The family jewels are not all gone to the pawn-
broker's, as is generally believed. Besides, you should
never insult people because they are poor, or mad;
one would not be either one or the other, you know, if
one could help it.”
“Heaven forbid, madam, that I should offer you
any insult,” said I, touched by the evident misfortune
of this poor creature. “I merely ran hither because
I heard the cry, as I thought, of some one in
distress.”
“Ah, that was the dog, sir,” replied the old woman
cheerfully; “the butler was correcting his dog, and
it howled a little. Of course it could not have been
me—certainly not; Sir Massingberd is so excessively
anxious that I should have everything that is 'good
for me; he said that with his own lips. And what a
handsome mouth he has, except when he looks at
Ayou.”
“Why at me?” cried I. “He has no cause to
dislike me, has he?”
“No cause !” cried the old woman, coming closer
to the bars, and lowering her voice to a confidential
whisper. “Oh no—not if you were dead. I never
wished you worse than myself; no, not when my poor
baby died, and I could not weep. I feel that now; if


oUT of MIND, out of SIGHT. 195
I could only weep, as in the good old times with my
husband ' There was plenty of good weeping then—
plenty.”
“But why should you wish me dead, madam, who
have never done you any harm 7”
“No harm 2 What, not to have taken the title
from my boy? No harm, when but for you, he would
have been the heir to house and land! Why, look
you, if it had not been for something, I would have
driven Gilmore's knife into you that day when you
were sleeping under the limes. That was the very
place where I used to meet my love—let me see, how
many years ago?”
The eager eyes for one instant ceased to glitter;
some fragment of a memory of the past claimed the
restless brain; then once more she rambledon. “One,
two, three, four—he never struck me more than four
times; that's true, I swear.”
“And what was the something that prevented you
from killing me when I was asleep by the heron's
island?” inquired I.
“What was it?” replied the old woman sadly.
“Did you not cry, “Mother, mother,’ in your sleep,
to make me think of my boy? I wept at that; just
one tear. He might have been such another as your-
self—with the same Why, what's the matter
with your forehead? What have you done with your
horseshoe? Every Heath wears one of them; then
why not you, young Marmaduke”
“My name is not Heath,” said I; “you are
taking me for somebody else.”
“Dear me—dear me, what a mistake 1 The fact
is, that living in a house affects one's sight. Now,


196 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
let me guess. If you are not Marmaduke Heath,
you must be What a dark skin you have, and
what kind eyes!” She looked suspiciously round
the room, and laying her finger on her lip, observed
beneath her breath; “You are not Stanley Carew,
are you? They told me he was hung, but I know
better than that. I have seen him since a hundred
times. To be hung for nothing must be a terrible
thing; but how much worse to be hung for love ' "
“I am not Stanley Carew,” said I; “I am Peter
Meredith, who lives with Mr. Long at the Rectory.”
“I never happen to have heard your name before,
sir,” replied the old woman, mincingly; “perhaps
you have never heard mine. Permit me to introduce
myself. Don't suppose that our people don't know
good manners, I am Sinnamenta—Lady Heath.”
“Madam,” said I, deeply moved, “I apprehended
as much. If I can do you any service, be sure that
the will shall not be wanting. Pray tell me what
shall I do?”
“Well,” returned the poor creature, quickly,
“Marmaduke Heath should be killed at once, that is
all important. We have been thinking of nothing
else, my husband and I. But perhaps you have done
it already. (How I shrank from that random shaft.)
“If so, I have no further desire except to get out. If
I could only be once more in the greenwood, my hair
would reassume its natural color. That is why Mr.
Gilmore is so careful to keep me thus locked up. If
my husband only saw me with my black hair again—
it reached to the ground, sir—matters would be very
different. I think I have already observed that it is
not customary to watch a lady while she is partaking
of refreshment.”


HARLEY STREET. 197
With that she once more seated herself at the
table, with her back to me; and judging thereby that
my presence was distasteful to her, and having no
notion of how I could possibly give her any aid, I
withdrew from the sad scene. I had not, however,
gone many steps, when she called me back again
through the iron bars.
“Mr. Meredith,” said she, “you arrived somewhat
unexpectedly. It is to that circumstance alone, I beg
to repeat, that you must attribute the absence of
bracelets. My very best regards to all your family.
Sinnamenta, you know—Lady Heath.”
CHAPTER XVIII.
HARLEY STREET.
WHILE I was thus passing my time at Fairburn, at
work with my tutor, in rides rendered doubly lone-
some in contrast with those made so enjoyable by
the company of my friend, or in rambles about the
solitary Chase, the course of true love was running
more smoothly in Harley Street than it is fabled to
do. During each of my visits there, I had perceived
its silent increase even more clearly than those
between whom it was growing up into the perfect
flower, leaf by leaf, and bud by bud; they had tended
it together—Marmaduke and Lucy—until it was well
nigh in blossom, and yet they had not said to one
another, and perhaps not even to themselves, “Why,
this is surely Love.” Mr. Gerard had watched it,


198 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
not displeased, for he had ſound the young man all
that my heart had foretold that he would; Mr. Clint
had seen it, and won by the strong sense, as much
as by the beauty of the gentle girl, forgot the revo-
lutionary stock of which she came. This, thought
he, is the wife for Marmaduke Heath; tender, but
yet determined; dutiful, but indisposed to submit to
unauthorized dictation; as fearless as kind. In her,
once wedded to this young man, so morbid, so sensi-
tive, so yielding, Sir Massingberd would find, if it
should be necessary, not only a foe, resolute herself,
but as firm as steel for him whom she had dowered
with her love. What Marmaduke's nature wanted,
hers would supply. The keen lawyer foresaw for
that unhappy family, whose interests he and his had
had in keeping so many scores of years, a future
such as had never been promised before. It was an
admission painful to me enough at that time, but
which I could not conceal from myself, that the real
obstacle which prevented the open recognition of
attachment between these two young people was
Marmaduke himself. No girl more modest or less
forward than Lucy Gerard ever breathed, but I
knew—ah, how well I knew l—that a word from him
would have brought the love-light to her eyes, which
now lay waiting but for it in the careful keeping of
her maiden heart. But that word had not been
spoken. Perfect love Marmaduke did not yet feel,
for he had not quite cast out fear. How can a man
offer hand and heart to a woman whom he does not
feel certain that he can protect? It is for this reason
that marriage among slaves must forever be a
mockery. There was, of course, no danger to Lucy


200 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
mercy of every worthless ruffian who chose to run an
equal risk with him from powder and bullet. The de-
cision, wonderful to relate, was given by the mayor
against his compatriot, and the crowd were corres-
pondingly enraged. My friend, whose nationality was
apparent, was hustled and ill-treated, and one person,
well-dressed, and evidently of good position, knocked
his hat off, observing at the same time: “You will
complain of me to the mayor for that.”
“Certainly not,” returned the young Englishman
quietly, picking his hat up, all broken and muddy
from the trampled ground; “I shall treat you very
differently.”
“You will fight, will you? Come—I challenge
you. Let us fight to-morrow morning,” exclaimed the
bully, who was, as it turned out, a notorious pro-
vincial duellist.
“Not to-morrow, but now,” rejoined my friend ;
“I have no time to wait here, for I must be in Paris
on Tuesday.”
“Then it will be in Père la Chase,” responded the
other brutally.
There was no difficulty in procuring seconds, which
were even more plentiful in those parts than principals,
and the whole party immediately left the town for a
wood outside its suburbs. The choice of weapons, of
course, lay with the Englishman.
“Which do you prefer,” asked the Frenchman who
acted as his friend upon this occasion—“the pistol or
the sword **
“I have never fired a pistol in my life,” replied the
Englishman, “nor handled a sword.”
“Heavens !” cried his second, “what a barbarous


HARLEY STREET. 201
education, what a stupendous ignorance 1 You are as
good as dead, I fear. I know not which to recommend
you. It is, however, at least sooner over with the
pistol.”
“The pistol be it then,” said the Englishman,
coolly. “I elect that only one shall be loaded; and
that we fire within four paces of one another. We
shall then have an equal chance.”
The duellest turned pale at the death that
threatened him, but he did not venture to make any
objection. It was manifest no other proposal would
have been fair. The seconds went apart, and placed
powder and ball in one weapon, powder only in the
other. The combatants drew lots for choice. The
Frenchman won. The pistols were lying on a log of
wood; he advanced towards them, took one up in his
hand, and retired with it, then once more came back,
and exchanged it for the other. He fancied that the
weapon was lighter than it should have been if it had
a ball within it. My friend's second objected
strongly to this course; he called it even unfair and
shameful; he protested that the pistol taken first
ought to be retained. But the young Englishman,
who was leaning carelessly against a tree, exclaimed
“Let the gentleman have which he likes. Whether
he is right or not will be decided in a few seconds.”
So the combatants were placed opposite to one
another, and advanced to within four paces. They
raised their weapons; the word was given to fire,
and the Frenchman fell, pierced through the heart.
“His blood is upon his own head,” exclaimed the
other solemnly. “He was brave enough to have
been a better man.” Then perceiving that his help


202 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
could be of no avail to his late antagonist, he lifted
his battered hat to the Frenchman that remained
alive, and returning to his carriage, immediately re-
sumed his journey.
It is not possible, without putting some very
strained and unusual meaning on the word, to call
the hero of such an adventure a coward; yet the
man who acted thus was Marmaduke Heath.
The above relation is but a clumsy method of
proving him courageous, I am well aware; but I
really know not otherwise how to make him appear
so, slave, as it is seen he was, to terrors which must
seem almost imaginary. It is said that no man, how-
ever fearless, quite gets over his awe of his school-
master. An exaggeration of this sentiment probably
possessed this unfortunate young man; added to
which was the fact that Sir Massingberd was his
uncle, a family tie which was doubtless not without
its influence, notwithstanding Marmaduke's evil
opinion of his own race. I suspect, too, he enter-
tained a morbid notion that his own life and that of
his relative were somehow bound up together in one;
and on the few occasions when I ever saw him moved
to wrath a similarity—mental as well as physical—
between him and his uncle became apparent, which
actually inspired him with a sort of awe and hatred of
himself. A noble mind more injured and misshapen
by ill-training it was impossible to imagine. For the
last few months, however, as I have said, it had been
growing aright, and gaining strength and vigor.
No home—even Mr. Clint and my tutor felt that—
could possibly be better adapted for him than his
present one; the society of Mr. Gerard, a man inde-


HARLEY STREET. 203
pendent almost to audacity, and despising the haughty
and the strong with a supreme contempt, was the
very tonic he needed. Rarely, however, was his
uncle's name mentioned in his presence: at first,
Mr. Gerard had purposely spoken of Sir Massingberd
lightly and jestingly, but it was found that the subject
had better be altogether avoided. It is ill to jest
upon earthquakes with one who, having but just
recovered from certain shocks of a volcanic nature,
is not without apprehension of more to come. This
anticipation turned out to be but too well grounded.
A day or two after my discovery of the baronet's
poor gipsy-wife at Fairburn, whose existence was
well known, I found, to both the rector and Mr.
Clint, and of course to Marmaduke himself, the
postman carried misfortune from me to Harley
Street, although I was myself as unconscious of the
fact as he. Marmaduke did not come in to luncheon
from his study, as usual, and Mr. Gerard was sent
with a gay message to him by Lucy, to bid him do so.
He was not wanted, he was to be assured, upon his
own account at all, but she was dying to hear news
of Peter, whose handwriting she had perceived upon
the letter that had been sent in to him that morning.
Mr. Gerard found the poor lad with his eyes riveted
upon an autograph that was not mine, and upon
words that I would rather have cut off my hand than
knowingly have sent him :
“NEPHEw MARMADUKE-I am told, whether falsely
or not, it does not matter now, that you have not
seen the letter which I previously sent to you. I
think you can scarcely have done so, or you would


BEFORE THE BLOW.. 205
above letter for that which he had persuaded me to
enclose to his unhappy nephew.
CHAPTER XIX.
BEFORE THE BLOW.
As yet in ignorance of the mischief which I had
unwittingly done to my dearest friend, I could not but
wonder why I received no news from Harley Street.
I had confessed to Mr. Long what Sir Massingberd
had persuaded me to do, and although he had thought
me wrong to have acted without consulting him in
the matter, he anticipated no evil consequences. He
rather sought to laugh me out of my own forebodings
and presentiments. Still there was this somewhat
suspicious corroboration of them, that the newborn
courtesies of our formidable neighbor had suddenly
ceased, as though the end for which they had been
used was already attained. The baronet's manner
towards us was as surly as ever, and even a trifle more
so, as if to recompense himself for his previous con-
strained politeness. To myself, his manner was pre-
cisely that of a man who does not attempt to conceal
his contempt for one whom he has duped. Since
Marmaduke's departure, there had gone forth various
decrees, injunctions, and what not, from the Court of
Chancery, obtained doubtless through Mr. Clint, on
behalf of the heir presumptive, against certain prac-
tices of Sir Massingberd connected with the estate.
Formerly he had done what he chose, not only with


206 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
“his own,” but with what was not his own in the eye
of the law. But Marmaduke's reversionary rights
were now strictly protected. Not a tree in the park
could fall beneath the axe, but the noise thereof
reached the Chancellor's ears, and brought down
reproof, and even threats, upon the incensed baronet.
His hesitation to institute proceedings for the recovery
of his ward had given confidence to his opponents;
and Mr. Gerard was not one to suffer the least wrong
to be committed with impunity; it was out of his
pocket that the expenses came for the edicts neces-
sary to enforce compliance, and I have heard him say
that he never remembered to have spent any money
with greater personal satisfaction.
This “thinning the timber” (as Sir Massingberd
euphoniously termed cutting down the most orna-
mental trees, in his excusatory despatches), having
been put a stop to, the squire took to selling the
family plate. A quantity of ancient silver, with the
astonished Griffins upon it, was transferred from the
custody of Gilmore to that of certain transmuters of
metal in town, and came back again to Fairburn
Hall in the shape of gold pieces. But even the
melting-pot was compelled to disclose its secrets;
and the squire received such, a severe reprimand
upon the text of heir-looms, as made him writhe
with passion, and which put an end to any friendly
connections that might have before existed between
himself and John, Lord Eldon, at once and for ever.
I think it must have been immediately after the
receipt of that very communication, that Sir Mas-
singberd came over to the rectory upon the following
errand. Mr. Long and myself were at our “Tacitus”


BEFORE THE BLOW. 207
in the study, one evening, when the baronet was
announced, and I rose to leave the room. “Stay
where you are, young gentleman,” said he, roughly ;
“What I have to say will, it is like enough, soon be
no secret to anybody. Mr. Long, I must tell you at
once that money I must have. The way in which
my property is meddled with by the lawyer in
London, set on to do it by friends of yours, too, is
beyond all bearing. I declare to you, that I — Sir
Massingberd Heath, the nominal owner of twenty
thousand acres, and of a rent-roll of half as many
thousand pounds — have not five guineas in my
pocket at this moment, nor do I know how to raise
them. Now, am I a man, think you, to sit down
with my hands before me, and submit to such a state
of things as this?”
“Really, Sir Massingberd, I cannot say,” re-
turned my tutor; “I cannot see how I can help you
in any way.”
“Yes, you can help me, sir. You have influence
with those persons—curse them l—who have taken
it in hand to do me these injuries, who have inter-
fered between uncle and nephew, between guardian
and ward. Now, I have made up my mind what I
will do, and I am come here to let you know it.
You pretend to entertain some regard towards your
late pupil, Marmaduke.”
“The regard is genuine, Sir Massingberd. I
wish others entertained the like, who are more
nearly connected with him than by the bond of
pupil and tutor.”
“Pray put me out of the question,” returned the
baronet, coolly. “What I have to say concerns


208 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
others, not myself. You like this lad, and wish him
well; you hope for him an unclouded future; you
trust that the character of the family will be re-
deemed in his virtuous hands, and that the remem-
brance of what it has been will not cleave to him, but
will gradually die out.”
“That is my earnest desire,” replied Mr. Long,
gravely.
“I am glad to hear it,” continued the other;
“and I suppose Mr. Clint cherishes some similar
notion; and this man Gerard—this rebel, this hypo-
crite »
“Sir Massingberd Heath,” said I, interrupting
him, “you have bidden me stay here; but I shall not
remain to listen to slanders against Mr. Harvey
Gerard; he is no hypocrite, but a very honest and
kind-hearted man.”
“He has hoodwinked this young wiseacre al-
ready, you see,” pursued the baronet. “His object
is evidently to secure the heir of Fairburn for his
daughter; I have not the least doubt the jade is
making play with the poor molly-coddle as fast
as—"
Mr. Long and myself both rose before the speaker
could finish the sentence. My tutor checked with
his finger the wrathful words that were at my lips,
and observed, with energy: “Sir Massingberd, be
silent 1 Under my roof, you shall not traduce that
virtuous and excellent young girl.” *
I never saw Mr. Long so excited; I never ad-
mired him so much. The baronet paused, as though
hesitating whether it was worth while to indulge
himself in uttering insults; I am thankful to say he


BEFORE THE BLOW. 209
decided that it was not. It would have been pol-
lution to Lucy Gerard's name to have heard it
spoken by such lips.
“Well, well,” returned he, “I have nothing to
say against the young woman. It is probable, how-
ever, you will allow, that some attachment may arise
between herself and my nephew. You grant that,
do you? Ah, I thought so. In that case, Mr.
Gerard would prefer the husband of his daughter to
be free from all stain. Good! There are three
persons then, at least, all interested in my nephew's
good name. Now, listen : you know something,
parson, of the mode of life pursued by the Heaths
from generation to generation; you know something
of the deeds that have been committed at Fairburn
Hall. What is known, however, is honorable and
harmless compared to what is not known; the vices
which you have shuddered at are mere follies—the
offspring of idleness and high spirits—compared to
those of which you have yet to hear.”
It is impossible to imagine a more repulsive
spectacle than this man presented, exulting not only
in his own wickedness, but in that of his forefathers.
He took from his pocket a huge manuscript, and
thus proceeded:– “The records of the House of
Heath are red with blood, and black with crime. I
hoki them in my hand here, and they are very pretty
reading. Now, look you, I will leave them here for
your perusal, parson—they have at least this attrac-
tion about them, they are true—and when you have
made yourself master of the contents, perhaps you
can recommend to me a publisher.”
“Is it possible,” cried my tutor, “that you can
13


---
Before THE BLow. - 211
hateful letter to Marmaduke, and again upon the
occasion I am about to describe. The errand he
then came upon was of small consequence, but the
circumstance I shall never forget. After-events have
made it one of the most memorable in my life, for it
was the last time, save one, that I ever beheld
Massingberd Heath. Little did I think what a
mystery was then impending—so frightful, so unex-
ampled, that it now seems almost strange that it did
not visibly overshadow that giant form, that ruthless
face. If we could thus read the future of others,
how fearful would be many a meeting which is now
so conventional and commonplace It is true that
we should always part, both from friends and from
enemies, in some sort as though we were parting
with them for the last time; but how different a
leave-taking would it be, if we were indeed assured
that they and we should meet no more upon this side
the gravel How I should have devoured that man with
mine eyes, had I known that they would not again
behold him—save that awful Once—before we should
both stand together in the presence of God! What
terrors, what anxieties, what enigmas were about to
be brought to us and to others by the morrow's sun
Yet, at the time, with what little things we occupied
ourselves! It was in the morning that Sir Massing-
berd paid his visit—a morning of early November,
when the first sharp frost had just set in. He came
about money matters, as usual. We were surprised
to see him, because, as I have said, he had relapsed
into his accustomed stern, unsociable habits, and had
seemed to have given up all attempts to gain any
furtherance of his plans from Mr. Long. He had


212 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
{
called, he said, about a matter that affected the
parson himself, or he would not have troubled him.
Certain Methodists had offered him twenty pounds a
year as the ground-rent of a chapel to be built upon
the outskirts of the Park, and within view of the
Rectory windows. For his own part, he hated the
Methodists; and had no sort of wish to offend Mr.
Long by granting their prayer. Still, being griev-
ously in want of money, he had come to say that if
Mr. Clint could not be induced to give him some
pecuniary help, the chapel must be built.
My tutor, who had a very orthodox abhorrence
of all dissent, and especially when it threatened his
own parish, was exceedingly disturbed by this intelli-
... gence.
“What!” cried he: “you preach to your nephew
doctrines of Conservatism, Sir Massingberd, and yet
are induced for a wretched bribe to let a nest of
sectaries be built in the very avenue of your Park 1"
“It is terrible indeed,” quoth the baronet drily;
“but they might set it up opposite my front door for
an extra five-pound note. I announce their offer
solely on your account. They call on me to-morrow
for my final decision, and I cannot afford to say
‘No.' Now, you can do what you please with Mr.
&lint, and may surely represent to him that this is a
case where twenty pounds may be well expended.
The matter will thus be staved off for a year at
least; and next year, you know, I may be in better
circumstances—or dead, which many persons would
greatly prefer.”
“Certainly,” returned my tutor gravely, “I will
do my best with Mr. Clint; but in the meantime,


BEFORE THE BLOW. 213
:
rather than let this chapel be built, I will advance
the money you mention at my own risk. I happen
to have a considerable sum in the house at present,
which I intended to lodge with the bank at Critten-
den to-morrow. So you shall have the notes at once.”
“This is very fortunate,” said the baronet, coolly;
and Mr. Long counted them out into his hand—
twenty flimsey, but not yet ragged, one-pound notes,
for the imitation of the like of which half-a-dozen
men were at that time often strung up in front of
the Old Bailey together. From 82961 to 82980 the
numbers ran, which—albeit I am no great hand at
recollecting such things—I shall remember, from
what followed, as long as I live. I can see the grim
Squire now, as he rolls them tightly up, and places
them in that huge, lapelled waistcoat-pocket; as he
slaps it with his mighty hand, as though he would
defy the world to take them from him, however un-
lawfully acquired; as he leaves the room with an
insolent nod, and clangs across the iron road with his
nailed shoes.
I watch him through the Rectory window, as, ere
he puts the key in his garden-door, he casts a chance
look-up at the sky. He looks to see what will
happen on the morrow. Does he read nothing save
Continuance of Fine and Frosty Weather ? Nothing.
All is blue and clear as steel; not a cloud to be seen
the size of a man's hand from north to south, from
east to west. There is no warning to be read in the
cold and smiling heaven; no. “Mene, mene,” for this
worse than Belshazzar on its broad cerulean wall !


216 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
The front-door was not fastened on the inside; Sir
Massingberd never came in.”
Here I heard Mr. Long calling upon the stairs in
a voice very different from his customary cheerful
tones for Mrs. Myrtle.
“Mercy me, I wonder whether there's anything
new l’ cried she, rising with great alacrity. “As
soon as I knows it, you shall know it, Master Peter;”
with which generous promise she hurried from the
room.
After this intelligence, shaving became an impos-
sibility, and I hurried down as soon as I could into
the breakfast-room. My tutor was standing at the
window very thoughtful, and though he greeted me
with his usual hilarity, it struck me that it was a
little forced.
“Why, you are early this morning, Peter; and
how profusely you have illustrated yourself with cuts;
it is sad to see one so young with such a shaky hand.
One would think you were one of the five-bottle-men,
like Sir—like Lord Stowell.”
He had been about to say “Sir Massingberd,” I
knew, and would on ordinary occasions not have hesi-
tated to do so.
“De perditis nil nisi bonum ?” quoth I inquiringly.
“Oh, so you have heard of this nine hours'
wonder, have you?” returned my tutor. “Because
our neighbor has chosen to leave home for a little,
on some private business best known to himself, every-
body will have it that he is Lost.”
“But it does seem very extraordinary too,” said
I, “does it not? He has never done so before, has
he 7"


LOST. 219
*
“Yes, sir; but when a thing ain't got a bright
side,” remarked the housekeeper, shaking her head.
“Why, it's dreadful now he's Lost; and it would be
dreadful even if, after all, he was al 37
“Hush, hush, Mrs. Myrtle; you don't know
but you may be speaking of a poor soul that is gone
to his account. Sir Massingberd is doubtless a bad
man; but let us not call it dreadful if he should be
permitted to return among us and have some time
yet, it may be, to repent in.”
“Then you think he's dead and gone, do you,
sir? Well, that's what I think; and that's what
Patty thinks too, and she's a very reasonable girl.
“Them ravens,’ says she to me, “didn't come to that
church tower for nothing;' and though, of course, I
told her to hold her tongue, and not talk folly like
that, there was a good deal in what she said. Why,
we have not had ravens here since Sir Went-
worth came to his awful end in London. There
was a mystery about that, too, wasn't there, sir?
Lawk-a-mercy! Mr. Meredith you gave me quite
a turn.”
I had only said “Look there!” and pointed to
the window, through which Gilmore and the head-
keeper were seen approaching the Rectory, and en-
gaged in close conversation.
“I’ll go with Patty and let them in,” quoth Mrs.
Myrtle, unconsciously betraying that she was unequal
to opening the door alone in such an emergency. It
is probable that, when it was opened, the incomers
and she had a great deal to talk about: for they
were not ushered into the breakfast-room for many
minutes, and after the very moderate meal which


220 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
º
sufficed us both upon the occasion had long been
finished. The butler and Oliver Bradford were by
no means good friends, and it must have been some-
thing portentous indeed which brought them to the
Rectory together. It was, in fact, their very rivalry
which had produced the double visit. Each con-
ceived himself to be the superior minister of the
absent potentate, and called upon by that position to
act in his master's behalf; and give notice to neigh-
boring powers, such as the parson, of the event that
had paralyzed affairs at the Hall. It seemed only
natural (as he himself subsequently expressed it) to
Oliver Bradford, who had been servant, man and
boy to the Heath family for nearly sixty years, that
he should be the spokesman on an occasion such
as this; and sleeking his scanty white hairs over
his forehead with the palm of his hand, and pass-
ing the back of it across his mouth, he commenced
as follows:—
“Muster Long, I make bold to come over here,
having been upon the property going on for three-
score years and ten »
“As out-door servant,” interrupted Mr. Gilmore,
severely; “but not as confidential in any way. Mr.
Long, this old man here insisted upon accompany-
ing me in the performance of my duty, and I have
humored him.”
“You’ve what?” cried the ancient keeper;
“you've humored me, you oily knave, have you ?
No, no, you never did that to Oliver Bradford. It
wasn’t worth your while. I came here about my mas-
ter's business, as a matter of right. Are a few years
of truckling and helping the devil's hand, and feath-


LOST. 221
ering your own nest pretty comfortably, to be weighed
against a lifetime of honest service 2 Let Mr. Long
here decide.”
“Look here, men,” quoth my tutor, “it is no use
quarrelling about precedence. You are both in the
same service, and owe the same duty to your master.
I know what has happened in a general way, and
require no long story from either of you. But you
have doubtless each of you some information concern-
ing this matter peculiar to your own positions, and I
will ask you to communicate it in time. Twelve hours
have not elapsed since your master's disappearance, a
very short time surely to set it down so decidedly to
some fatal accident.”
“He was as regular in his rounds as clockwork,”
interposed the old keeper, shaking his head. “He
would never have left the Home Spinney unvisited
last night, if life had been in him.”
“And if he had meant to leave Fairburn of his own
head,” added the butler, “he would have come back
for his brandy before he started; for all his hearty
look Sir Massingberd could not get on long without
that, and he would not have taken Grimjaw out with
him neither.”
“Oh, the dog was with him, was it?” said my
tutor, musing.
“It was not in the house, sir,” replied Gilmore,
“after Sir Massingberd had left. I went to make the
fire in his sitting-room, and I noticed that the creature
was neither on the hearthrug, nor under the sofa, as
is usually the case. I don't know when I have known
the dog go out with him o' nights before. When I
went to open the front door as usual this morning,
there was Grimjaw, nigh frozen to death.”


222 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
“Your master had made no sort of preparation, so
far as you know, for his own departure anywhere?”
“None whatever. I set out his cigars for him, and
I noticed that he had only put two in his case, a sure
sign that he meant to return soon. He had no great-
coat, although it was bitter cold.”
“Was he armed in any way?”
“No, sir; that is to say, he had his life preserver,
of course, but no gun or pistol.”
“Had he any sum of money, or valuables of any
kind about him, Gilmore?”
“I don't think that is at all likely,” replied the
butler, grinning. “We haven't seen money at the
Hall this many a day. As for valuables, Sir Massing-
berd had his big gold chain on, with a silver watch at
the end of it, borrowed from me years ago, and my
property.”
It was remarkable how this ordinarily cautious and
discreet person was changed in manner, as though he
was well assured that he would never more have a
master over him. Both Mr. Long and myself ob-
served this.
“What time was your master usually accustomed
to return home from his rounds in the preserves?”
“I did not sit up for him in general,” returned
Gilmore; “but when I had chanced to be awake,
and to hear him come in, it was never later than
three o'clock. His ordinary time was about half-
past twelve, but it depended on what time he started.
He left the Hall last night at about ten, and should,
therefore, have returned a little after midnight. I
never set eyes on him since nine o'clock, when he
was in his own sitting-room reading.”


LOST. 223
“And when did you see him last, Bradford’”
“When did I see Sir Massingberd Heath?’”
replied the old keeper, who had been chafing with
impatience through his rival's evidence—“well, I
see’d him last nine hours ago, at nearly twelve
o'clock at night. I was on watch in the Old Planta-
tion, and he came upon me sudden, as usual, with his
long quick stride.”
“Was there anything at all irregular about his
manner or appearance; anything in the least degree
different from what you always saw upon these oc-
casions ?”
“Nothing, whatever, sir. Look you, I knew my
master well.” [He had already begun to talk of him
in the past tensel J “I could tell at a glance when
he was put out more than usual, or when he had
anything out of ordinary in hand; he never swore,
saving your reverence's presence, what you may call
jºreely then. He might have knocked one down,
likely enough, if you gave him the least cross, but he
was not flush of his oaths. Now I never heard him
in a better fettle in that respect than he was last
night. He cussed the lad Jem Meyrick, who had
come up to me away from Davit's Copse for a light
to his pipe; and he cussed me too, for giving it him,
up hill and down dale, and in particular he cussed
Grimjaw for being so old and slow that he couldn't
keep up with him. Sir Massingberd never waited for
him, of course; but after he'd been with us a few
minutes, the old dog came up puffin' and wheezin';
and when the Squire left us, it followed him as well
as it could, but with the distance getting greater be-
tween them at every step. I watched them, for the


224 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
moon made it almost as light as day, going straight
for the Wolsey Oak, which was the direct way for
the Home Spinney; and that was where Sir Massing-
berd meant to go last night, although he never got
there, or leastways the watcher never saw him.”
“Have you any reason to believe, keeper, that
there were poachers in any part of the preserves last
night?”
“No, sir,” replied Oliver, positively. “On the
contrary, I knows there wasn't, although Sir Mas-
singberd was as suspicious of them as usual, or more
so. Why, with Jack Larrup and Dick Swivel both
in jail, and all the Larchers sent out of the parish,
and Squat and Burchall at sea, where was they to
come from ?”
“Sir Massingberd must have had many enemies?”
mused my tutor.
“Ay, indeed, sir,” replied old Oliver, pursing his
lips; “he held his own with the strong hand; so
strong, however, as no man would contend against
him. If Sir Massingberd has been killed, Mr. Long,
it was not in fair fight; he was too much feared for
that.”
“There has been a gang of gipsies about the place
this long time, has there not ?” quoth my tutor.
“There has, sir; but don't you think of gipsies
and this here matter of Sir Massingberd as having
anything to do with one another. They're feeble,
feckless bodies at the best. They ain't even good
poachers, although my master always bid us beware
of them. They would no more have ventured to .
meddle with the squire, than a flock of linnets would
attack a hawk, that's certain.”


LOST. 225
My tutor had been setting down on paper brief
notes of his conversation with these two men; but
he now put the writing away from him, and inquired
what steps, in their judgment, ought to be taken
in the matter, and when.
“You know your master better than I. If he
chanced to come back this afternoon, or to-morrow,
or next day, from any expedition he may have chosen
to undertake, would he not be much annoyed at any
hue and cry having been made after him 7”
“That he just would,” observed the keeper with
emphasis.
“I would not have been the man to make the
fuss,” remarked the butler, sardonically, “for more
money than he has paid me these ten years.”
“In a word,” observed my tutor, “you are both
come here to shift the responsibility of a public
search from your own shoulders to mine. Very
good. I accept it. Let sufficient hands be procured
at once, Bradford, to search the Chase and grounds,
and drag the waters. And you, Gilmore, must ac-
company me, while I set seals on such rooms as may
seem necessary at the Hall.”
The butler was for moving away on the instant
with a “Very well, sir,” but Mr. Long added,
“Please to wait in Mrs. Myrtle's parlor for me. We
must go together.”
“I don't like the look of that man Gilmore at
all, sir,” observed I, when the two had left the
room.
“No, nor I, Peter,” returned my tutor, senten-
tiously, as he set about collecting tapes and sealing-
wax; “I am afraid he is a rogue in grain.” -
14


226 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
Now, that was not by any means, or rather was
very far short of what I meant to imply ; what I
had had almost upon my burning lips was, “Don’t
you think he has murdered Sir Massingberd?” But
the moment had gone by for putting the question, even
if Mr. Long had not begun to whistle—a sure sign
with him that he did not wish to speak upon the mat-
ter any further, just at present.
CHAPTER XXI.
The ston E GARDEN.
WHEN Mr. Long took his departure with Gilmore,
he did not ask me to accompany him, and assist in
an undertaking which was likely to be somewhat
laborious. Perhaps he wished if the baronet did
chance to return in a fury, that he alone should bear
the brunt of it. Perhaps he thought there might be
things at the Hall I had better not see, or perhaps
he wished to observe the butler's behavior at leisure.
I think, however, he could scarcely have expected me
to stay at home with my books, while such doings
as he had directed were on the point of taking place.
Euripides was doubtless in his day a sensation dra-
matist, but the atrocities of Medea could not enchain
me, with so much dreadful mystery afoot in my im-
mediate neighborhood. Her departure through the
air in a chariot drawn by winged dragons, was indeed
a striking circumstance; but how much more wonder-
ful was the disappearance of Sir Massingberd, who
had departed no man knew how. s
$


228 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
half was wont to be saved.” “Ay, or two mile,”
quoth another; “and Lawyer Moth always said as
though the path was ours by right, until Sir Massing-
berd got his son made a king's clerk in London,
which shut his mouth up, and the path at the same
time.”
“Ay,” said a third, mysteriouly, “and it ain't
too late to try the matter again, in case the property
has got into other hands.”
This remark brought back at once the immediate
cause of their assembling together, and I began to
be made the victim of cross-examination. To avoid
being compelled to give my own opinion (which I
had already begun to think a slander) upon the
matter in hand, I took my leave as quietly as could
be, and escaped, whither they dared not follow me,
through the griffin-guarded gates. All within was,
as usual, silent and deserted. A few leaves were
still left to flutter down in eddies from the trees, or
hop and rustle on the frosty ground, but their scarcity
looked more mournful than utter bareness would
have done. It was now the saddest time of all the
year; the bleak east wind went wailing overhead;
and underneath, the soil was black with frost. In-
stead of pursuing the avenue to the front door of the
Hall, where, as it seemed, I was not wanted, I took
a foot-track to the left, which I knew led to that
bowling-green whither I had been previously invited
by Sir Massingberd, although I had not taken ad-
vantage of his rare courtesy. If he did now appear,
no matter in what state of mental irritation, he could
scarcely quarrel with me for doing the very thing
he had asked me to do. Had I known, however, the


The stone GAR den. 229
character of the place in which I found myself, I
should have reserved my visit for a less eerie and
mysterious occasion.
The time of year, it is true, had no unfavorable
influence upon the scene that presented itself, for
all was clothed in garments of thickest green. Vast
walls of yew shut in on every side a lawn of perfect
smoothness; everything proclaimed itself to belong
to that portion of the Hall property which was
“kept up” by subsidy from without. The quaint
oak-seats, though old, were in good repair; the yew
hedges clipped to a marvel. Still nothing could
exceed the sombre and funeral aspect of the spot.
It seemed impossible that such a sober game as
bowls could ever have been played there, or jest and
laughter broken that awful stillness. The southern
yew-screen was in a crescent form, at the ends of
which were openings unseen from within the enclosed
space. Passing through one of these, I came upon
what was called the Stone Garden. It took its
name from four stone terraces, from the highest of
which I knew that there must be a very extensive
view. This space was likewise covered with yew
trees, clipped and cut in every conceivable form,
after the vile taste of the seventeenth century. There
was something weird in the aspect of those towering
Kings and Queens—easily recognizable, however, for
what they were intended — and of those maids of
honor, with their gigantic ruffs and farthingales.
One was almost tempted to imagine that they had
been human once, and had been turned into yew trees
for their sins. The old area was black with them ;
and a sense of positive oppression, notwithstanding the


230 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
eager air which caught me sharply whenever I lost
the shelter of one of these ungainly forms, led me on
to the top terrace, where one could breathe freely, and
have something else than yews to look upon.
Truly, from thence the scene was wide and fair.
I stood at the extremity of the pleasure-grounds
most remote from the Hall, and with my back to it.
Before me lay a solitary tract of wooded park,
thickly interspersed with planted knolls and coppices.
Immediately beneath me was the thicket called the
Home Spinney, the favorite haunt of hare and
pheasant, and the spot in all the Chase most cherish-
ed by Sir Massingberd. He would have resented a
burglary, I do believe, with less of fury than any
trespass upon that sacred ground. Beyond the
Spinney, and standing by itself, far removed from
any other tree, was the famous Wolsey Oak. Why
called so, I have not the least idea, for it had the
reputation of being a vast deal older than the days
of the famous Cardinal. Many a summer had it
st-en-
“When the monk was fat,
And issuing shorn and sleek,
Would twist his girdle tight, and pat
The girls upon the cheek;
Ere yet, in scorn of Peter's Pence,
And numbered bead and shrift,
Bluff Harry broke into the spence,
And turned the cowls adrift.”
Yet still was it said to be as whole and sound as a
bell. It was calculated to measure over fourteen
yards in circumference, and that for many feet from
its base; while its height, although it had lost some


THE STONE GARDEN. 231
t
---
of its upper branches, still far exceeded that of any
other of its compeers. Beyond this tree, but at an-
other great interval, was the wood known as the Old
Plantation, where Oliver Bradford had last seen his
master alive. I was looking down, then, upon the
very route which Sir Massingberd had been seen to
commence, but which he had never ended. It was
to the Home Spinney he had been apparently bound,
when something—none knew what—had changed his
purpose. He would probably have passed through
it, and come up by that winding path yonder to the
spot where I now stood; it was the nearest way
home for him. Perhaps he had done so, although it
was unlikely, since the watcher had not seen him.
Perhaps those very yews behind me had concealed
his murderers. Shut in by those unechoing walls of
living green, no cry for aid would have been heard,
even if Sir Massingberd had been the man to call for
it; he would most certainly have never asked for
mercy. But hark! what was that sound that froze
the current of my blood, and set my heart beating
and fluttering like the wings of a prisoned bird
against its cage? Was it a strangled cry for “Help!”
repeated once, twice, thrice, or was it the wintry
wind clanging and grinding the naked branches of
the Spinney 2 A voice had terrified me in Fairburn
Chase once before, which had turned out to be no
mere fancy; but there was this horror about the
present sound, that I seemed to dimly recognize it.
It was the voice of Sir Massingberd Heath, with an
awful change in it, as if a powerful hand were
tightening upon his throat. It seemed, as I have
said, to come from the direction of the copse beneath,


232 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
and yet I determined to descend into it, rather than
thread again the mazes of those melancholy yews.
The idea of my assistance being really required never
entered into my thoughts; what I wanted was to
escape from this solitude, peopled only with un-
earthly cries, and regain the companionship of my
fellow-creatures. How I regretted having left the
society of those honest folk outside the gates | To
remain where I was, was impossible; I should have
gone mad. Fortunately, the Spinney was well-nigh
leafless, and a bright but wintry sun penetrated it
completely. I fled over its withered and frosty leaves,
looking neither to left nor right; till I leaped the deep
ditch that formed its southern boundary, and found
myself in the open; then I stopped indeed quite
short, for, before me, not ten paces from the Spinney,
nom which he must have just emerged, lay the body
of Grimjaw. It was still warm, but lifeless. There
were no marks of violence about him ; the struggle to
extricate himself from the ditch, it is probable, had
cost the wretched creature his little remaining vitality,
weakened as he must have doubtless been by his pre-
vious night's lodging on the cold stone steps. But
how had he come thither, who never moved anywhere
out of doors, except with Sir Massingberd or Gilmore?
and whither, led perhaps by some mysterious instinct,
was he going when death had overtaken him—an
easy task—and glazed that solitary eye, which had
witnessed so much which was still a mystery to man 7
Was it possible that he had perished in endeavor-
ing to obey his master's cry for aid 2 that terrible
“Help! help !” which rang in my ears a while ago,
as I stood in the Stone Garden, and which rings,
through half a century, in them now 7
-**-


-THE SEARCH. 233
CHAPTER XXII.
The search,
SHRINKING away from the body of the unhappy
Grimjaw, and fleeing from the solitary spot in which
it lay, I ran down towards the Heronry, where, in the
distance, I could now perceive a number of persons
assembled upon the lake-side. Below and above it,
the stream flowed on as usual; but the larger area of
water, which contained the island, was frozen over
with a thin coating of ice. This was being broken by
men armed with long and heavy poles, after which
the work of dragging the water was commenced.
The scene was as desolate as the occupation was
ghastly and depressing. Perched upon stony slabs of
their now leafless home, the huge birds watched the
proceedings with grave and serious air: at first, they
imagined, I think, that the thing was done for their
own behoof, and to the end that they might supply
themselves with fish as usual; but the appearance of
the grappling-irons disabused them of this idea. Now
one, and now another, unable to restrain their curios-
ity, would rise slowly and warily into the air, and
making a circuit over our heads, return to their old po-
sition to reflect, with head aside, upon what they had
seen. The presence as spectators of these gigantic crea-
tures, increased the weird and awful character of the
employment in which we were engaged, and struck
quite a terror into the village folk, who were unaccus-
tomed to see them in such close proximity. Still the
work was not gone about by any means in reverent and


The SEArch. 235
“Well, sir, we must not make mischief; he was a
young chap new at the business, a sort of grand-nevvy
of mine by the wife's side. He'll do better next
time, will young Dick Westlock. He was over-eager,
that's all. And when you hear a cry in these woods,
unless you are thoroughly accustomed to them, it
may lead you a pretty dance; it takes a practised ear
to tell rightly where it comes from.”
“You should know me better, Bradford,” returned
I, “than to suppose I would bring a lad to harm by
mentioning such a matter; but I should like to ask
him a question or two, if you will point him
out.”
“There he is then, sir,” answered Oliver, pointing
to a good-looking, honest lad enough, but one who
perhaps would scarcely have been considered suffi-
ciently old for so trustworthy a part as sentinel of
the home preserves, had he not been grand-nephew
to the head keeper.
“Why, Dick,” said I, “your uncle tells me that
you took an owl for a poacher last night, and followed
his voice all over the Chase.”
“It wasn't no owl, sir,” quoth Dick, stoutly; “it
were the voice of a man, whosoever it was.”
“Don’t thee be a fool,” exclaimed his uncle,
roughly. “I tell thee it was a bird, and called like
this;” and the keeper gave a very excellent imitation
of the cry of an owl.
This was not greatly unlike the sound which had
so recently affrighted my own ears; but then owls
rarely cry in the day-time.
“Dick,” cried I, “never mind your uncle; listen
to me. If you thought it was a human voice, what
do you think it said?”


236 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
“Well, I can't rightly say as it said anything; it
seemed to me to be a sort of wobbling in the throat;
and I thought it might be a sound among some
poaching fellows, made with a bird-call, or the like of
that.”
“Supposing it said any word at all, Dick, what
word was it most like?”
Mr. Richard Westlock looked as nonplussed and
embarrassed as though I had propounded to him
some extremely complicated riddle.
“Was it anything like ‘Hel—p, hel—p?’” said
I, imitating as well as I could those terrible tones.
“Bless my body,” quoth Mr. Richard, slapping
his legs with his hands, in admiration of my sagacity,
“if them ain’t the very words as it did say!”
“What think you of that, Oliver Bradford?”
inquired I, gravely.
“As the bell tinks, so the fool thinks,” responded
the head keeper, sententiously. “If you had asked
Dick whether the word wasn’t ‘Jerusalem,” he would
have said, ‘Ay, that was the very word.’”
“Still,” urged I, “since there may be something
more than fancy in the thing, and the voice, if it was
one, could not have come from under water, let
the Park woods be thoroughly searched at once.
There are men enough outside the gates to do that
without suspending the work that is going on here;
and why should we lose time ’’’
The head keeper sulkily muttered something about
not wanting a caddel of people poking their noses
into every part of Fairburn Chase; then with earnest
distinctness, as though the thought had only just
struck him, “Besides, Mr. Meredith, let me tell you


THE SEARCH. 237
that they may get to know more than is good for
them.” —
At these words, I cast an involuntary glance at
the plantation within a few hundred feet of us, in the
recesses of which dwelt Sinnamenta, Lady Heath.
“You may know, sir,” continued the keeper,
translating my thought, “but everybody don't know,
and it's much better that they shouldn't.”
Certainly the objection was a grave one, and I
was glad enough to perceive Mr. Long coming down
from the Hall towards us—an authority by whom
the question could be decided.
“You had better ask him yourself, Oliver,” said
I; for as my tutor had never spoken to me of the
existence of the unfortunate maniac, I did not like to
address him upon the subject. Bradford therefore
went forward to meet him; and after they had had
some talk together, Mr. Long beckoned me to him.
“I think with you, Peter,” said he, “that in any
case, we should lose no time in searching the Chase.
If we do not discover what we seek, we can scarcely
fail to find some trace of a struggle, if struggle there
has been, between such a man as Sir Massingberd
and whoever may have assailed him. If he has
been murdered, it is, of course, just possible that the
assassins threw the body into the water, although not
here, since the ice would scarcely have formed over it
like this; otherwise, they could not have removed it
without leaving some visible trace. Do you, Bradford,
and a couple of your own men, examine that planta-
tion yonder thoroughly, so that it need not be searched
again; and in the meantime I will go and fetch more
help.”


THE SEARCH. 239
the large open space in which stood the Wolsey
Oak, extending its gnarled and naked arms aloft, as
if in horror; but when they searched the coppice
itself, and found the body of Grimjaw, stiffened into
stone since I last saw it, many of them were not so
eager to push on. I had omitted to tell them of the
wretched animal's death, and the effect of the sight
upon them was really considerable.
That “the hand of little employment hath the
daintier sense,” is in nothing more true than in the
emotion produced by the sufferings or decease of
animals upon gentle folks and upon laboring per-
sons. Greater familiarity with such spectacles, and,
perhaps, too, a larger experience of hardship and
sorrow among his own fellow-creatures—which natu-
rally tends to weaken his sense of pity for mere
animals—prevents the peasant from being moved at
all by some sights at which his superiors would be
really shocked: a dead horse lying in the road is, to
the stonebreaker, a dead horse, and nothing more;
whereas, to him who goes by on wheels, unless he is
a veterinary surgeon, the sight is positively distress-
ing. I am sure that the spectacle of half-a-dozen
ordinary dead dogs would not have affected Oliver
Bradford, for instance, in the least, while if they had
been “lurchers,” and given to poaching practices,
such a funeral scene would have afforded him un-
mixed satisfaction. But when he saw Grimjaw lying
dead, and frozen, he shook his head very gravely, and
bade us mark his words, “That that ere dog didn't die
for nothing, but for a sign; that he would never have
died, not he, if his master and constant companion
had still had breath in him; and more than that, we


whAT was IN THE coverED CART. 241
w
f
\/
his cruel face set forever in death, and his hard eyes
scowling up at the sky, it would scarcely have filled
us with greater awe. It would have been a terrible
sight, doubtless, but with every minute the terror
would have faded, until at last it might have even
melted into pity. He could at least have hurt no
man more, being dead. But now that he was only
Lost—still Lost—we looked at one another with
dumb surprise, and over our own shoulders with
misgivings. He was not above ground in all Fair-
burn Chase, that was certain; nor under water, for
the dragging-parties had discovered no more than
we. Any idea of suicide was quite out of the ques-
tion; Sir Massingberd Heath was the last man to
leave life before he was summoned, even if he really
felt, as he averred, that there was no sort of risk in
doing so. Wicked men have a tolerably high opinion
of this world, notwithstanding their low views of the
people that inhabit it; and the French philosopher
who put an end to his not invaluable existence upon
'the ground that he had had enough of everything,
/ was an exceptional case.
At the same time, the probabilities were im-
mensely against the baronet's having voluntarily
undertaken any expedition, considering the circum-
stances under which he must have set out—on foot,
fatigued, and at so late an hour. If secrecy had been
his object, it would have been far more easily secured
by his departure at a less extraordinary time. In
the meanwhile, day after day passed by without any
tidings, and the mystery of his disappearance deep-
ened and spread. Mr. Long was rather reserved
upon the matter at first, professing to entertain little,
15


244 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
the man at the pike at Crittenden says, I believe, that
they had a covered cart with them, which they have
never been known to have before.” -
I murmured something to the effect that the winter
was coming on, and that it was likely enough that they
should have procured for themselves some peripatetic
shelter of that kind; but a nameless horror took hold
upon me, in spite of myself, when Mr. Long rejoined,
that he should think it his duty to have the gipsies
followed, and a thorough examination of their effects
to be made. I had not another word to say. I
seemed already to see poor old Rachel Liversedge
standing in the felon's dock, avowing and glorying in
her guilt, and defiant of the sentence which would
consign her and hers to the same fate that had over-
taken, with no such justice, Stanley Carew. Any
hope of escape for them, I knew, was out of the ques-
tion. They had not the means for speedy travel,
while, in those days of superstition and intolerance,
the Cingari were an object of animadversion and
alarm, whithersoever they moved. That very day—
acting upon information received concerning their
present whereabouts—Mr. Long set out on horseback,
accompanied by the parish constable, and came up
with the party whom he sought upon a certain com-
mon within twenty miles of Fairburn. The tribe, of
whom I had only seen three grown-up members, were
tolerably numerous, and the constable evinced his fit-
ness for being a peace-officer by counselling the rector
to do nothing rash, at least until reinforcements should
permit of his doing so with safety. The sight, however,
of the covered cart, placed, as it seemed, jealously in
the very centre of the encampment, was too much for


246 LOST Sir MASSINGBERD.
Then she added with mock courtesy: “Pray, come
hither, Mr. Long; our doors are always open, and
there can be no intrusion where there are only
females and sickness.”
“If that be all,” returned my tutor, in a softened
tone, for though somewhat arbitrary, as it would now
be thought, towards his inferiors, he was ever gentle
to the sex; “if that indeed be all, I shall not inflict
my presence upon you long.”"
With those words he threw himself from his
horse, and climbed up into the cart; it was rather a
roomy one, but all that was in it was clearly to be
seen at the first glance. It was carpeted with rushes
a foot thick, from which Rachel Liversedge was
busily engaged in weaving chair-bottoms. Opposite
to her sat another female, engaged with the same
articles, but constructing out of them crowns and
necklaces, which, though they did not very much
resemble the ornaments for which they were in-
tended, appeared to afford her exquisite satisfaction.
“Why don't you introduce me, Rachel ?” ex-
claimed she, testily, as Mr. Long looked in. “Don’t
you see the gentleman is bowing 7 Sinnamenta—
Lady Heath.” The secret of the gipsies' sudden
removal, as well as of their use of the vehicle which
had excited his suspicions, was at once apparent to
the rector.
“Is she better, happier in your custody?” in-
quired my tutor, in a whisper, of the chair-maker.
“God knows I would not disturb her, if she be.”
• In those days, it was not thought incumbent upon ministers of the
Gospel to look after gipsy-folk, whose souls, in case they had any, were
not opined to be much worth saving.


whAT was IN THE coverED CART. 247
My little sister is not beaten now,” observed
Rachel, bitterly; “although, of course, we have not
those luxuries with which her husband has always
surrounded her.”
“Only four times, Sister Rachel !” observed the
afflicted one, in a tone of remonstrance ; “one, two,
three, four,” checking them off on her poor fingers,
covered with worthless gewgaws. “I don't consider
Gilmore's beatings anything, only Sir Massing-
berd's.”
“May God's curse have found him 1" exclaimed
Rachel Liversedge, fervently; “may He have avenged
her wrongs upon him at last ! Don't look at me,
sir, as though I were a witch wishing a good man ill.
I wish I were a witch. How he should pine, and
rave, and writhe, and suffer ten thousand deaths in
one !”
She spoke with such hate and fury, that Mr. Long
involuntarily cast once more a suspicious glance
around him, as though in reality she possessed the
means of 'engeance which she so ardently desired.
“Did you expect to find him here ?” continued she.
“That was it, was it? I wish you had. I would
that I had his fleshless bones to show you. It is not
my fault that I have them not, be sure. If there
were any manliness left among my people—but there
is not; they are curs all—if any memory of the per-
secuted and the murdered had dwelt within them, as
with me, let alone this work of his,” she pointed to
her unconscious sister, “for which, had he done
nought else, I would have torn his heart out;-he
would not have lived thus long by forty years. For
aught we know, however, he lives yet; only hearing


248 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
he was gone, we went and took my little sister from
her wretchedness, and thus will keep her if you
give us leave, you Christian gentlemen. Where he
may be, we know not; we only hope that in some
hateful spot—in hell, if such a place there be—he
may be suffering unimagined pains.”
The fervor and energy of her words, however
reprehensible in a moral point of view, were such as
left no doubt in the mind of Mr. Long that the gipsy
woman spoke truth. Assuring her, therefore, that
so far as he was concerned, she should not be mo-
lested in the custody of her unfortunate sister, my
tutor rode back to Fairburn, relieved from the dread
burden of his late suspicion, but more at his wits' end
for an elucidation of the disappearance of Sir Mas-
singberd than ºver. Right glad was I to hear that
his errand among my dusky friends had been bootless;
but by the next morning's post I had received bitter
news from Harley Street. A copy of that menacing
epistle which I had so unwittingly enclosed to Mar-
maduke from his uncle, reached me from Mr. Gerard.
His words were kind, and intended to be comforting.
He knew, of course, that I had been deceived; he
well knew, and they all knew, he said, that my hand
was the last to do Marmaduke hurt, to do aught but
protect and uphold him. But I could see that some
grievous harm had occurred, nevertheless, through
me, as Sir Massingberd's catspaw. It was more ap-
parent to me because there was not one accompanying
word from my dear friend himself, whom I knew too
well to imagine capable of blaming me. It was
most apparent of all, because of the postscript written
in Lucy’s own hand—so fair, so clear, so brave, so


THE PROCESSION. 251
now call a tramway only, for engine it had none.
Locomotives were the subject of debate in scientific
circles, and of scorn among the rest of the community.
A journey such as that my tutor and myself were
about to undertake, is scarcely to be understood by
readers of the present generation. Not only did it
consume an amount of time which would now suffice
for six times the distance, but it was surrounded by
difficulties and dangers that have now no existence
whatever—“extinct Satans,” as a writer calls them,
who is now scarcely held to be “modern,” but who
at that time had never written a line. The coach for
which Mr. Long had thought it advisable not to
wait, had met in its time with a thousand-and-one
strange casualties, and the guard was a very Sche-
herazade at relating them. The “Highflyer” had
come to dreadful grief in racing with an empty
stomach, but many “outsides,” against its rival, the
“Rapid,” which traversed a portion of the same road.
It had often to open both its doors, to let the water
through, in crossing Crittenden Ford, by neglect of
which precaution upon one occasion, four “insides”
had the misfortune to be suffocated. It had been
dug out of snow-drifts a hundred times, and now and
then it had not been dug out, and the passengers had
been frost-bitten. In winter it was usual enough for
them to spend a day or two perforce at some country
inn, because the roads were “not open.” The “High-
flyer” had once been attacked by a tiger (out of a
travelling caravan), which killed the off-leader; but
this was an exceptional adventure. It was attacked
by highwaymen at least once a year, but in this
respect was considered rather a fortunate coach.


254 Lost sir MASSINGBERD.
before them with large staves; then a body of the
mounted patrol—a corps then but newly formed, and
which, although now well-nigh extinct, was destined
in its time to do good service; then more constables,
then a vast quantity of horsemen, armed and un-
armed, and lastly this:—Extended on an inclined
platform, built to a considerable height upon an open
cart, was the body of a dead man. It was attired in
blue trousers, and with a white and blue striped
waistcoat, but without a coat. On the left side of
him was a huge mallet, and on the right a ripping
chisel.
“Great Heaven! what is this?” inquired Mr.
Long of one of the mounted constables.
“Oh, it's him, sir, sure enough; we’ve got him
at last,” returned the officer.
“Him? Who?” cried I, half stupefied with
fatigue and horror. “Have they found Sir Mas-
singberd?”
No, it was not Sir Massingberd. The face
which was now being slowly carried past us was
wicked and stern enough, but it was not his face.
The skin was black, the eyes were projecting; it was
plain that the poor wretch had been strangled. The
excitement of those who caught sight of it was
hideous to witness. They cursed and hissed in hate
and fury, and battled to get near the cart, that they
might spit upon the corpse which it contained. The
force of the advancing crowd was so tremendous, that
we were compelled to move for some distance side
by side with this appalling sight, and presently im-
mediately behind it; there we seemed to fall in as a
part of the procession, and were no doubt considered


THE PROCESSION. 255
by the majority of persons to officially belong to it.
We were borne southward quite out of our proper
direction, and were unable to prevent it; for it was
as much as the postillions could do to sit their horses,
and avoid being shouldered out of their saddles.
Our progress was of course at a foot's-pace only, and
twice the procession halted, once opposite a draper's,
and once opposite a public house, when the yells and
hooting of the crowd were terrible to hear. Not only
were these two houses closely shuttered up (as
they well might be), but the shop fronts everywhere
were closed, and the windows and the tops of the
houses crowded with spectators. By this time, we
had got to know in what dreadful proceedings we
were thus taking an involuntary part. The body in
the cart was that of the murderer Williams, who had
committed suicide two days before, to escape, it was
thought, not so much the scaffold, as the execrations
of his fellow-creatures. All London was filled with
hate of him, as before his capture it had been filled
with fear; and the government had caused this public
exhibition of his corpse, to convince the minds of
the public that the wholesale assassin was really no
longer alive. The houses at which we had halted
were those which had once been inhabited by his
unhappy victims, the Marrs and the Williamsons.
Subsequently the corpse was conveyed to St. George's
turnpike, and there interred with a stake thrust
through the middle of it; but before that frightful
ceremony took place the postillions had managed to
extricate us, and we had driven westward to our
destination. Still, I for my part had seen enough,
and more than enough, to made that entry of ours


256 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
into London a thing impossible to forget; and I think
it rendered, by association, the mystery concerning
which we had come up to Harley Street, more menac-
ing and sombre than before.
CHAPTER XXV.
AMONG FRIENDS.
WE found Marmaduke Heath in a less morbid state
of mind than we had expected. The die having been
cast—the time given him by Sir Massingberd for his
return and so-called reconciliation with that worthy
having already elapsed without any action on the part
of his uncle, the effect of that “Captain Swing ”-like
epistle was slowly wearing off. No one ever revived the
matter in his presence, nor, as we have seen, was he
permitted even to write upon the subject. Still, he
knew that I had been lately communicated with con-
cerning it—for at first the blow had fallen on its object
with such force and fulness that those about him had
really not liked to let me know the extent of the mis-
chief I might have committed—and he imagined that
I had now come up in mere friendly sorrow to cheer
and comfort him. As he came out into the dark street
on that December evening to give me loving welcome,
fresh from that awful procession scene, I positively
looked with terror to left and right, lest some cloaked
figure, whom yet we both shall recognize, might reach
forth an iron arm and tear him away. It was I who
was morbid and unstrung, and not my friend; he


AMONG FRIENDS. 257
strove, I knew, to appear to the best advantage, in
good humor and high spirits, in order that I might
have less to reproach myself with. -
“My dear old Peter,” cried he, laughing, “how
glad I am to see your honest face. Have you brought
me any verbal message from my charming uncle, or
are you only his deputy-postman 2 How is he—how
is he 7”
I could see, in spite of his light way, that he was
curious to have this interrogation answered; but what
was I to say? “I don't know whether he's well or
ill,” returned I, carelessly, as I stepped into the hall.
“But how is Mr. Gerard and Miss »
“Here is “Miss,’” returned a sweet voice, blithe
as a bird's; “she is excellently well, Peter, thank
you. But what a white face you have got! If that
is the gift of country air, there is certainly no such
cause for regretting our absence from the Dovecot,
about which Marmaduke is always so solicitous.”
“‘Marmaduke” to his face, now!” thought I. I
could not prevent my heart from sinking a little, in
spite of the life-buoy of friendship. But I answered
gallantly, “There is no air that can wither your roses,
Miss Lucy, for the summer is never over where you
are.” -
“Bravo, Peter,” quoth Mr. Gerard, set in the
warm glow of the dining-room, which gleamed forth
from the open door behind him. “If he is so com-
plimentary in a thorough draught, what a mirror of
courtesy will he be when he gets thawed l Come in,
my dear Mr. Long; come in to the warm. No east
wind ever brought people more good, than this which
brings you two to us. Lucy Ah, that's right;
16


258 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
she has gone to order the dinner to be rechaufféd.
Now, do you travellers answer no man one word, but
go make yourselves comfortable—you have your old
rooms, of course—and then come down at once to
food and fire. Marmaduke, my dear boy, you keep
me company here, please; otherwise, you will delay
Peter with your gossip, I know.”
That was a sentence with a purpose in it. If, as
Mr. Gerard at once guessed, we had come up to town
on business connected with Sir Massingberd, it might
be advisable that I should not be interrogated by
Marmaduke privately. For my part I was greatly
relieved by it, since I had no desire to be the person
to communicate bad tidings—for such I knew he
would consider them—to my friend a second time.
My spirits had risen somewhat with the warmth of
our reception; it is not a little to have honest friends,
and welcome unmistakable in hand and voice and
eye. There is many a man who goes smoothly
through the world by help of these alone, and
only at times sighs for the love that but one could
have given him, and which has been bestowed by her
elsewhere. When I got down into the dining-room,
a minute or two before my tutor, I was received by
quite a chorus of kind voices—a very tumult of hos-
pitable greeting.
“Warm your toes, Peter—warm your toes; you
shall have a glass of sherry worth drinking directly,”
cried Mr. Gerard, all in a breath.
“Yes, Peter, you and I will have a glass together,”
exclaimed Marmaduke, eagerly.
“Stop for ‘the particular”—stop for the green seal:
it will be here in a minute,” entreated the host.


262 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
|
sparkling eyes and heightened color of the speaker,
and listened to his tones, so rich with hope and love.
“There is certainly no one so civil as a would-be
son-in-law,” replied Mr. Gerard, good-naturedly.
“I wonder that old gentlemen in my position ever
permit them to marry at all.”
And thus it had been settled — as I saw that it
had been—only a very little while before our arrival
in Harley Street.
“And what brings you good people up to town 7"
asked Mr. Gerard, gaily, “without sending a line in
advance, which, even in mercy to the housekeeper,
you would surely have done, had not the business
been urgent 7 As to your travelling with four horses,”
added our host, slily, “I know so well the pride and
ostentation of the clergy, that I am not the least
astonished at your doing that, Mr. Rector.”
“Truly, sir, now that I find all safe and well,”
replied my tutor, “I begin to think we might have
travelled in a less magnificent way; but the fact is,
that I felt foolishly apprehensive, and curious to tell
you our tidings. Sir Massingberd Heath has been
Lost since Thursday fortnight, November sixteenth.”
“Lost l” exclaimed Mr. Gerard, in amazement.
“Lost l” echoed Lucy, compassionately.
“Lost l” murmured Marmaduke, turning deadly,
pale. “That is terrible, indeed.”
“Yes, poor wretched man,” said Lucy, quickly;
“terrible to think that some judgment may have
overtaken him in the midst of his wickedness—unre-
pentant, revengeful, cruel.”
“That is truly what should move us most, Miss
Gerard,” observed my tutor; “it is but too probable


264 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
alive or not, we shall soon discover, for the great
Bow Street runner will be certain to find either his
body or his bones.”
CHAPTER XXVI.
A DETECTIVE OF HALF A CENTURY AGO.
MR. GERARD had hardly finished speaking, when the
butler announced Mr. Clint and “another gentleman,”
for even among friends the famous Bow Street officer
exercised his usual caution; and yet there was scarcely
a more public character than Townshend, or better
known both to the classes whom he protected, and to
that against which he waged such constant war. His
personal appearance was itself sufficiently remarkable.
A short squab man, in a light wig, kerseymere breeches
and a blue Quaker-cut coat, he was not, to look at, a
very formidable object. But he possessed the courage
of a lion, and the cunning of a fox. The ruffians who
kept society in terror, themselves quailed before him.
They knew that he was hard to kill, and valued not
his own life one rush, when duty called upon him to
hazard it; that he was faithful as a watch-dog to the
government which employed him, and hated by nature
a transgressor of the law, as a watch-dog hates a wolf.
When Townshend fairly settled himself down upon
the track of an offender, the poor wretch felt like the
hare whose fleeing footsteps the stoat relentlessly pur-
sues; he might escape for the day, or even the morrow,
but sooner or later his untiring foe was certain to be


A DETECTIVE of HALF A century AGo. 265
up with him. In those early days, when the telegraph
could not overtake the murderer speeding for his life,
and set Justice upon her guard five hundred miles
away, to intercept him, and when the sun was not the
slave of the Law, to photograph the features of the
doomed criminal, so that he can be recognized as easily
as Cain, thief-catching was a much more protracted
business than it is now; nevertheless, it was at least
as certain.
If the facilities for capture were not so great,
neither were the opportunities of escape for the
offender so many and various. London was not the
labyrinth that it has since become, and if any criminal
of note forsook it for the provinces, his fate was almost
certain. Travellers did not then rush hither and
thither, in throngs of a hundred strong, impossible to
beindividually indentified by the railway porter to whom
they surrender their tickets; but each man was entered
in a way-bill, or scanned with curiosity by innkeeper
and post-boy, wherever his chaise changed horses.
When any considerable sum was sent by mail-coach,
whether by the government or by London bankers, to
their provincial agents, it was not unusual to employ
Mr. Townshend as an escort. Nor was it altogether
unexampled for him to be sent for, as in the present
instance, to unravel some domestic mystery; although
he was perhaps the first police-officer who had
been so employed, the father of all the Fields and
Pollakies of the present day. He was on intimate
terms, therefore, with many great people, and an
especial favorite with the court, his professional
services being engaged at all drawing-rooms and state
occasions. This, combined with the natural assurance


** LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
*
ºr
*and sense of power in the man, caused Mr. Townshend
to hold his head pretty high, and to treat with persons
vasthy superior in social station to himself upon at least
an equal footing. His easy nod, with which the great
Bow Street runner favored us in Harley Street, that
evening, upon his first introduction, was not very much
unlike the salutation which Mr. Brummel, at the same
period, was wont to bestow upon British marquises and
dukes. Having taken his seat at the dessert-table, at
the host's desire, he at once began to compliment Mr.
Gerard upon the contents of the bottle with the yellow
seal, and, in short, behaved himself in all respects as
any other guest would have done who was an intimate
friend of the family, and had dropped in after dinner
upon his invitation. No sooner, however, did Mr.
Clint introduce the subject which had called us up to
town, and Mr. Long begin to recapitulate the story of
Sir Massingberd's disappearance, than this singular
person dropped at once all social pretension, and
showed himself the really great man he was. One glass
of wine was sufficient for him during the whole narra-
tion, and that he seemed to sip mechanically, and rather
as an assistance to thought, than because he really
enjoyed it, which, however, there is no doubt he did.
He only interrupted my tutor twice or thrice, in order
to make some pertinent interrogation, and when all
had been described (including a slight sketch of Mar-
maduke's position), he sat for a little silent and noise-
less, tapping his wine-glass with his forefinger, and
staring into the fire.
“Well, Mr. Townshend, and what is your
opinion?” inquired Mr. Gerard a little impatiently.
“Do you think that this Lost Sir Massingberd is
alive or dead?”


270 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
ly;” “I should like, however, to see the figures in
black and white.” When these had been found
among certain memorandums of my tutor, Mr. Town-
shend copied them, and thus continued: “Now, the
first thing as has to be done, gentlemen all—by which
no offence is meant to the young lady—is this: we
must go to the Bank of England, and find out if any
of these here notes have been paid in since November
16th. If they have been, one of two things is certain
—Sir Massingberd is spending them, or somebody
else is spending them for him. If the latter, it is
probable that it is not with his consent; that is, that
he can't help its that is, that he's dead as a tenpenny
nail; ” and with that the speaker brought down his
fist upon the mahogany, as though he were hammer-
ing one in.
“We shall leave the case, Mr. Townshend, entirely
in your hands,” observed Mr. Gerard; “and please to
look to me for any.expenses you may require.”
“Very good, sir,” replied the runner, rising as if to
take his leave; “but since two or three heads are
always better than one, in cases of this sort, and the
present company has their wits about them—which is
by no means the case with many as I have to do with
—I should be glad of a little assistance from your-
selves.”
“Don’t you think we ought to advertise the baro-
net as missing, and offer a reward ” suggested Mr.
Clint.
“There will be no harm in that, of course,” replied
* Every lad in my position, not yet turned twenty-one, was a “young
gentleman" in these times; we were not so tenacious of our dignity as
the young men of to-day.


THE BANK-NOTES. 271
*Mr. Townshend, carelessly; “although I can’t say
as I have much confidence in advertisements; my
own experience is, that parties who put them in derive
some satisfaction from reading them over to them-
selves, but the advantage don't go much beyond that
—except that it sometimes puts people upon their
guard as one wants to be off it. I have got a little
pressing business on hand to-morrow—in the forging
line—and must now be off; but if one or two of you
will be at the Bank to-morrow afternoon, at, let us
say three o'clock, I shall be sure to be there to meet
you.”
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE BANK-NOTES.
It was arranged, to my infinite joy, before retiring
to rest that night, that I was to make one of the Bank
party. Marmaduke insisted on accompanying us,
being above measure curious about the matter, and
eager to know the worst (or the best) regarding it.
Mr. Long had to return to Fairburn for his Sunday's
duty, and Mr. Clint could not spare the time from his
parchments; so Mr. Harvey Gerard and we two
young men went forth upon the trail together. As
the paper-chase is the most glorious pursuit under-
taken by boys, as fox-hunting is the sport of sports
for men, so man hunting is the avocation fitted for
heroes. I know nothing like it for interest and
excitement—nothing. If I could only imbue my
readers with one-tenth of the absorbing concern with


272 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
which we, the surbordinate actors in this drama of
mystery, now began to be devoured, they would be
sorry indeed when this narrative comes to a conclu-
sion. We three were at the appointed spot some
minutes before the hour which had been agreed upon
for meeting the Bow Street runner; but before the
chimes of the Old Exchange clock had ceased their
“Life let us cherish"—the tune which they always
played on Fridays—the Bow Street runner appeared.
Passing through a great room within the Bank,
in which, to my unaccustomed eye, were displayed
the riches of Croesus, and where the golden showers
seemed unceasingly to rain, we were conducted into
a private apartment, where sat some grey-headed
official, uncommunicative, calm, like one who has
had his glut even of wealth, and to whom money,
whether in bullion or paper, was no longer any
object.
“Well, Mr. Townshend, what can I do for you?”
inquired he, sedately. “I trust you are not come
about any fresh wrongs against the Old Lady of
Threadneedle Street. I never see your face but I
think of an imitation bank-note, and diminution of
the stock in our cellar.”
“Thank you, sir,” responded the runner, cheer-
fully; “I am afraid that I shall have to see you in a
day or two respecting a matter of that very kind, but
to-day I am come on a different business. A gentle-
man of high rank has been missing for three weeks,
or more; and his absence has given the greatest
anxiety to these, his friends. He was known to have
in his possession certain one-pound Bank of England
notes, twenty in all, of which the numbers are known.


274 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
changed at once.” Our guide led the way to a cer-
tain department of the chamber, with the same
accuracy which a student would evince with respect
to a shelf in his own library, and took up in his hand
a bundle of one-pound notes; they were for the most
part very dirty and greasy, but he separated one from
the other with surprising ease and celerity, reading
out the numbers as he did so. “82900, 1, 2, 3–
now we are getting near it,” observed the official.
“Let us see, 951, is it not?”
“82961,” gasped I, “and the next nineteen.” I
could scarcely frame the words, so great was my ex-
citement. Marmaduke's eyes gleamed with anxiety
and impatience; and even Mr. Gerard held his breath,
while thé clerk continued, in a dry, mechanical tone:
“51, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 wanting—7, 8, 9 all wanting.
82960—here you have it; 61 wanting; 2, 3, 4, 5, 6,
7, 8, 9. There are none of them here. Stop a bit.
82977—that's one, isn't it?”
“Yes,” cried I, that's one. Pray, let me look
at it.”
“Certainly not, sir,” responded the official, se-
verely. “With regard to Mr. Townshend, I have my
orders, but as respects him only.”
“Perfectly right,” remarked the Bow Street
runner, approvingly. “Then please to give it to me,
my man. Are there any more ?”
“Yes, there are—78, 79, 80.”
“Good. That is four in all, then.” The detec-
tive took them up, and showed them to me: of
course, I could not identify them; but still I felt
some awe to think what hands—hands imbued with
biood, perchance — those notes might have passed


THE BANK-NOTES. 275
through since I had seen Sir Massingberd thrust them
into his pocket.
“I cannot carry these away with me, my good
friend, I suppose?” inquired Mr. Townshend, per-
suasively.
“By no manner of means, Mr. Runner,” replied
the guardian of these unctuous treasures, with dignity.
“His Majesty himself would never be so mad as to
ask such a thing. . A written order from the governor
himself would not permit you to do it.”
“Very good, sir; then we won't trouble the
governor to write one,” returned the detective, drily.
“What I must know, however—permission or no
permission—is this: by whose hand were these sweet-
smelling and precious articles paid into the Bank of
England?”
It would have been amusing, under less anxious
circumstances, to have watched the demeanor of
these two personages, each jealous of the dignity of
those by whom he was employed, and neither in the
least disposed to surrender one tittle of his delegated
authority.
“That information will, no doubt, be supplied to
you,” replied the official, stiffly, “if it is thought
right—and not otherwise. Follow me, gentlemen, if
you please, and I will direct you to the office where
such an application may be made.”
This we did; and, I am bound to say, met with
very great civility from the superintendent of the de-
partment in question. In spite of the admirable and
systematic manner in which the huge establishment
was carried on, it was not easy, and in many cases
would have been impossible, to discover what indi-


276 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
vidual had paid in any particular note; but every
pains and trouble were taken in our behalf to effect
this. Out of the four notes, only one, No. 82979,
could be identified as having been received from any
particular person—one Mr. Worrall, a silk-merchant
in the City. Having expressed our warmest thanks
to the authorities, we immediately called a coach,
and started off to this gentleman's warehouse. We
were so fortunate as to find him in, although he was
just upon the point of setting forth to his private
residence. Upon an examination of his books, we
discovered no record of the bank-note about which
we were concerned; still, he frankly owned to us
that such memoranda were not kept with excessive
accuracy. “It is possible yet that the people at the
Bank may have been correct,” observed he. “You
had better return there ; and since the matter is one
of life and death, I do not mind confiding to you,
that if that note has passed through our hands at all,
it will have the letter W, in red, upon the back of it;
it is very small, but still can be deciphered without a
magnifying-glass.”
“There was no mark,” observed I, “upon any of
the notes I saw.”
“There was a mark,” remarked the Bow Street
runner, reflectively; “and I am pretty sure it was
upon this very note. It is no wonder that you did
not see it, young gentleman, since your livelihood
does not depend, as mine does, upon keeping my eyes
about me. The mark in question was also almost
obliterated by the red “Cancelled ” which the Bank
had placed upon the note; but as far as I could make
it out, it was the letter O.”


THE BANK-NOTES. 277
“That is the private mark of the Metropolitan
Oil Company,” exclaimed Mr. Worrall, without hesi-
tation. “Although, indeed, because I have told my
own secrets, I am not sure that I am justified in
revealing those of other people. Their offices are in
the very next street to this.”
Off we started like hounds, who, after a check,
have once more struck the scent. Business in the
City had by this time greatly diminished, and many
of the shops were closed; but the Oil Company's
emporium, as behoved it, was lighted up from cellar
to garret, to give assurance to the world that what
they sold could turn night, and even London fog, into
day. Notwithstanding the extreme luminosity of the
premises, we found the accounts of the establishment,
however, rather opaque and complicated; and although
nothing could exceed the pains which the clerks put
themselves to upon our account, it was several hours
before No. 82979 could be identified, both as respected
its incoming and outgoing. Finally, however, we
gleaned-the certain information that the note in ques-
tion had been received only a day or two previously by
the Oil Company from a Mr. Wanderseld, the skipper
of a foreign vessel, then lying in the port of London,
but which, he had informed them, was to sail immedi-
ately. He had brought a small quantity of oil for his
cabin lamps, and taken it with him, but had ordered
a large supply to be sent to his address in Hamburg,
and with this address we were made acquainted.
“Well, Mr. Townshend,” quoth Mr. Harvey Ge-
rard, as we rolled homewards in a hackney-coach,
after seven hours of this man-hunting, “what think
you that this news portends? Is the game still afoot,
or is it only dead game—quarry?”


A BENEvoleNT STRANGER. 279
CHAPTER XXVIII.
A ben EVOLENT STRANGER.
HAviNg written to Mr. Wanderseld of Hamburg,
there was nothing, pending the reception of his reply,
for even Mr. Towshend to do beyond his favorite
occupation of keeping his eyes open. We advertised,
however, in the “ Morning Chronicle” (a print that
at that time was far from looking forward to death
from want of circulation, and the having its eyes
closed by a penny piece), in the “Times,” and in the
“Sun,” and offered a reward of one hundred guineas
for tidings of the missing baronet; nor, in spite of
the Bow Street runner's depreciating remarks upon
this point, were our efforts in that direction wholly
thrown away. A full description of Sir Massingberd
had appeared in the above newspapers for ten succes-
sive days, and on the eleventh the following infor-
mation came of it. We were all breakfasting in
Harley Street, Mr. Long having come up from Fair-
burn the previous day, when the butler informed us
that there was a man waiting in the hall, who wished
to see “H. G.,” who had put a certain advertisement
into the “Sun” newspaper. “Show him in here at
once, George,” quoth Mr. Gerard, rubbing his hands.
“How pleased I shall be if we learn what we wish to
know, after all, without any help from Bow Street.
I beg you will take a chair, sir.” These last words
were addressed to a very respectable-looking person,
whom the servant had ushered in, and who bowed to
us in a very decorous and unassuming fashion. He


280 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
was attired in half-mourning, and carried a little
black leather bag and an umbrella—the latter a less
common companion in these days than a cane is now
—as though he had just come off a journey.
“I have called, gentlemen,” said he, “simply in
consequence of seeing a notice respecting the disap-
pearance of a certain individual of whose where-
abouts I am in a position to inform you.” º
“Is Sir Massingberd Heath alive, sir?” gasped
Marmaduke.
“Heaven be praised, he is, sir,” responded the
stranger, fervently.
“Umph,” ejaculated Mr. Gerard, with less piety.
Mr. Long coughed behind his fingers, but other-
wise kept a discreet silence.
“You know him, do you, sir?” inquired our host.
“I know him well enough by sight, if, at least,
your advertised description of his personal appear-
ance is accurate,” resumed our visitor. “His height,
his beard, the curious indentation upon his forehead
are all characteristic of the man whom I saw last
night, and whom I have seen every day for weeks.
He is living under the name of Daneton, at Nutgall,
a village in Cambridgeshire, near which I reside. I
have not the slightest doubt whatever of his identity.
As for knowing him, except by sight, however, I
cannot say that I do. Without meaning offence, or
wishing to hurt the feelings of relations, I may ob-
serve that his mode of life is scarcely one to make
acquaintance with him advantageous. If I may
speak without reserve upon the matter, I should
state that he drank considerably, to the extent,
indeed, the landlord of the inn has informed me, of,


A BENEVOLENT STRANGER. 283
afford to lose these two or three hours which have
been expended in your service. A couple of guineas
would quite repay me for this, and even leave the
obligation upon my side.”
There was a silence for a little, during which
Mr. Long gazed inquiringly at Mr. Gerard, and he
in his turn, looked towards Mr. Townshend; then, as
though the back of that gentleman's head had been
cognizant that counsel was demanded of it, the Bow
Street runner spoke as follows:—
“It would be nothing less than a fraud, in my
opinion, if this good gentleman's generosity is taken
advantage of in the way he suggests. If the manage-
ment of this business is to be in my hands, I should
say let us behave with rectitude at least, if not with
liberality. The hundred guineas are fairly his, if he
is correct in what he has told us; whereas, if he is
not correct—since no mistake can have occurred in
the matter, by his own showing—why, this is merely
an attempt to extort money under false pretences.”
“Really, Mr. Townshend,” cried my tutor, starting
to his feet, “I think your profession of thief-catching
makes you very unscrupulous in your imputations.”
For my own part, I felt excessively indignant
too; and so, I think, would Marmaduke have done,
had he not been pre-occupied with his own thoughts.
Lucy blushed, and cast down her eyes. Her father
quietly observed, “Mr Townshend may have been
somewhat plain-spoken, but what he has said is
common sense. If you will be good enough to leave
your address at Nutgall with us, sir, we shall com-
municate with you as soon as we have convinced
ourselves of the truth of your suspicions; and then.


284 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
*
we shall not only have compensation but apologies
to offer you.” -
“Very good, sir,” rejoined the visitor, coolly.
“My address is upon that card. If I had known
the sort of reception that awaited me here, I should
not perhaps have been so anxious to do my duty.
Gentlemen, I wish you good-day. I am sorry to
have interrupted your repast.”
“Don’t mention it, my good sir,” observed the
Bow Street runner, as he disposed of his third slice of
ham. “I have treated you as no stranger, I assure
you.”
To this sarcasm the visitor made no reply, but
bowing to the rest of the company, was about to
withdraw with polite severity, when Mr. Long
stepped forward and took him by the hand. “I
believe you are a kindly-hearted man,” cried he,
“who has been grievously wronged by those whom
you have attempted to benefit; but in any case, it
cannot do you any harm to have shaken hands with
an honest man, and one who is a humble minister of
the gospel.”
I could have jumped up and shaken hands with
the stranger also, but a false shame prevented me. I
thought that Townshend was only waiting for the
poor fellow to go, to become contemptuously cynical
upon those who had shown any belief in him. The
Bow Street runner, however, said never a word, but
proceeded with his interminable breakfast.
Mr. Long was speechless with indignation. I
saw Lucy Gerard cast an approving glance at my
excellent tutor, and then an imploring one towards
her father, who was biting his lips, as if to restrain
his laughter.


286 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
dissipation, or even where we ourselves could get
bread and cheese.
I verily believe, at the time of his disenchantment,
my reverend tutor would rather that the baronet had
been really at Nutgall, and in the humor and condi-
tion to wage implacable war against poor Marmaduke,
than have given such an opportunity of triumph to
the man of Bow Street.
CHAPTER XXIX.
BETTER THAN A BLUNDERBUSS.
IT was the runner's custom to call at Mr. Gerard's
every evening, no matter how often he might have
been there during the day, in order to report progress,
or that there was none; and when his knock at the
front-door was heard, I perceived the rector wince
upon his chair, like one who has been roasted a little
already and expects to be before the fire again imme-
diately. Mr. Townshend, however, did not even so
much as allude to our Will-o'-the-Wisp pursuit,
cautioned, perhaps, not to do so by our host, or
besought by his danghter, as I fancy. I do not
think that the gravity of the intelligence he brought
with him would, of itself, have blunted Mr. Town-
shend's appetite for acrimonious jesting, which was
insatiable; and, indeed, the issues of Death or Life,
and of Lost or Found, formed so much of the ordi-
nary business of his life, that any discovery, no
matter of what nature, disturbed him as little as


288 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
This intelligence astonished us all immensely, and
my tutor and myself, who knew the farmer, more
than the rest. Such news would have been itself
sufficient to have taken the rector home at once;
besides, he was not only anxious, as usual, to get
back to his own parish, but somewhat grudged our
long-continued absence and intellectual holiday.
There did not seem, too, to be any sort of necessity
for my remaining longer with Marmaduke, who had
found, it was impossible to doubt, a companion far
more capable of upholding and encouraging him than
I. The Bow Street runner's offer was therefore ac-
cepted by both of us; and in a few hours we took our
seats in the same vehicle for Midshire. The chaise
was as roomy a one as could be procured, but still, as
there was but one seat, I had to assume the position
of “bodkin” between my two companions. Their
conversation was at first entirely confined to the sub-
ject of our expedition, namely, Farmer Arabel, con-
cerning whom the detective expressed his suspicions
the more darkly, the more extravagantly he was
eulogized by Mr. Long. So vehement was their dis-
pute, that I did not like to interrupt it for a consider-
able period, during which I endured great inconven-
ience from sitting upon a substance at once both sharp
and hard, contained in one of Mr. Townshend's pock-
ets. If he had been a lady of the present day, I
should have known what it was, and perhaps have
modestly suffered on without remonstrance; but since
he was not of the softer sex, and certainly did not
wear crinoline, I ventured to ask what it was which
inflicted such torture.
“I beg your pardon, young gentleman,” observed


BETTER THAN A BLUNDERBUSS. 289
the Bow Street runner, removing the article objected
to, “you was only sitting upon a pair of bracelets
with which I may have perhaps to present Mr. Rich-
ard Arabel.”
“You don’t mean to say that you carry handcuffs
in your pocket !” observed my tutor, with a shudder
of disgust.
“I mean to say I do, and should as soon think of
moving about without 'em, as without my hat and
breeches,” returned the runner, with a coolness that
froze us both into a protracted silence.
The rain fell heavily, as the night drew on, and
dashed against the streaming panes with fitful vio-
lence. The wind and wet poured in together when-
ever the window was put down to pay the post-boys.
I pitied the poor fellows, exposed to such weather, and
was glad to see that Mr. Townshend paid them liber-
ally. “There are no persons who are more open-
handed travellers than your Bow Street runners,” ob-
served Mr. Long, when I remarked to him upon this
circumstance in the absence of our friend, who had
stepped out while we were changing horses some-
where, for brandy and water; “and the reason of
their generosity is this, that other people have to pay
for it.” I had never heard my tutor utter so severe a
speech, and I gathered from it that his indignation
against our fellow-wayfarer was as poignant as ever;
and yet within half an hour it was fated that all his
resentment should be neutralized by gratitude, leav-
ing a large margin of the latter sentiment over and
above.
The next stage was over a desolate, treeless heath,
where the elements had their own way against us
18


BETTER THAN A BLUNDERBUSS. 291
his broad face out of the window into the light
thrown by a lantern carried by one of the robbers;
for there were several dim forms on horseback, as I
could now perceive. If a blunderbuss had been
exhibited instead, it could not have caused one-half
of the panic which the sight of his features occa-
sioned; each robber turned his back at once, as
though to prevent the recognition being mutual, and
spurred away into the darkness, leaving nothing but
the dismounted postboy to evidence that they were
not mere phantoms of the night.
“Get to your saddle, and make you up for lost
time,” said the runner, sternly; and when this man-
date had been obeyed, and we were once more on our
way, he added, “That postboy sold us; I saw him
whispering to a man on horseback in the inn-yard
while I was taking some drink in the back-parlor;
he was never asked any question when the chaise
was stopped. That was Jerry Atherton, too, who
put his shooting-iron in at that window; I should
know his voice though a mob were shouting with
him. A man who wishes to do something of which
the consequences are so very serious, should not only
wear crape, but keep his mouth shut.”
“We have to thank you very much, I am sure,”
said Mr. Long. “It was a great providence for us
that you were with us.”
“Very likely, sir,” returned Mr. Townshend,
grimly; “but not for Jerry, nor yet for the postboy.”


292 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
CHAPTER XXX.
T H E F A L S E S C E N T .
I AM now drawing near the end of this strange,
eventful narrative, and my readers will learn in a
chapter or two what has in reality become of Lost Sir
Massingberd: whether he lies dead in Fairburn Chase,
notwithstanding that strict search of ours, or some-
where else, conveyed by foemen's hands; or if, alive,
he keeps in hiding nigh, for some evil end, or has
even left British soil for a time, to return, according
to his threat, on a day when he is least expected. If
his real whereabouts and true position have been
guessed, then is he who hit upon it a wiser man, not
only than I was at that time (which might easily be),
but wiser than that genius of Bow Street, whose eye
was reported to see further into very millstones than
any man alive of his time. He arrived at Fairburn with
his handcuffs and his suspicions, and would, I verily
believe, have made me his stalking-horse whereby to
come down upon the guileless Farmer Arabel, and ex-
tract what might be tantamount to a confession.
“You know him, Mr. Meredith,” he had observed
to me in his frankest tone, as we walked out together
after breakfast, on the morning after our arrival;
“and I look to you to make the matter easy. We
will step over to the farm at once, if you please, and
have a glass of home-brewed with the good man,
when, I dare say, he will tell us what we want to
know, and exculpate himself at the same time.”
“Mr. Townshend,” I replied, gravely, “I have


THE FALSE SCENT. 293
been made a catspaw of already, within a few weeks,
and until the remembrance of that event has worn
off very considerably, I shall not act that part again.”
“Very good, sir,” responded the Runner, cheer-
fully. “I only thought that, being a well-wisher to
the person in question, you might have made the
thing less unpleasant for him. If you went with me,
introducing me as a gentleman from London, anxious
to see good farming, for instance—that 'ud tickle him
—I could bring the subject of the note into conversa-
tion; then, if he explained to my satisfaction, as he
will doubtless be able to do, how he got possession of
it, it will not be necessary to inquire further. He
need never know as a police-officer had been down
here with darbies in his pocket, upon the chance of
having to fit them on his wrists upon the charge of
Wilful Murder.”
“There is certainly something in that,” said I,
musingly.
“There is everything in it,” returned Mr. Town-
shend, stepping carelessly over the stile, on the other
side of which ran the pathway to Mr. Arabel's resi-
dence. “The idea of this man's guilt being, as you
say, quite preposterous, it would only be a kindness
on your part to spare his feelings. That's a fine
stout old fellow looking at those men at work in
yonder field, a sort of man that carries his years
better than one sees people do in London: I should
say, now, that might be the farmer himself.”
“Really,” said I, stopping short, “I think you
had better do this business of yours alone, Mr.
Townshend. I have eaten and drank in Mr. Arabel's
house, and to be concerned in any such errand as this
seems but a poor return for his hospitality.”


294 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
“Ah! it is him, is it? Wery good, sir. Well,
you may just please yourself as to accompanying me,
now. When I have once set eyes on my man, it is
not my habit to lose sight of him. Still, you might
have made it easier—for him, that is. It is no matter
to me whether the thing is done soft or hard.” And
the Bow Street runner stepped along as he spoke,
like a diligent man, who sees his work cut out before
him.
After a moment's indecision, I followed upon Mr.
Townshend's heels.
“That's right, young gentleman,” observed he,
approvingly, but without even turning his head.
“Those is turnips, I suppose, and very good they are
with capers and a leg of mutton; as to wheat, I am
not acquainted with it, at least, so as to know it from
oats and barley, unless when it's in ear. Agriculture
is one of them things to which I have not yet given
my attention; but I means to do so, and I have come
here for wrinkles concerning it. Remember that, if
you please.”
“Very well,” said I, sheepishly, for I was obliged
to confess to myself that Mr. Townshend had got the
better of me; and in a few more strides we had got
within earshot of the farmer. This was not indeed
very near, but Mr. Arabel had excellent lungs, and
bade me welcome as soon as he had recognized me.
“Glad to see you, as likewise any friend of yours,
Master Meredith. So the rector is back, I hear; and
the wise folks of London can tell no more what has
become of Sir Massingberd than we poor folks.”
“No, Mr. Arabel, they cannot; on the contrary,”
said I, determined that there should be no hypocrisy


THE FALSE SCENT. 295
upon my part at least, “here is one of them, who is
come down to Fairburn for information, and relies
upon you to give it to him too.”
“I should like to know when you saw Sir Mas-
singberd last,” observed the Bow Street runner
quietly, “and under what circumstances?”
“That is soon told,” returned the farmer, simply;
“but perhaps you would rather step in out of the
cold, and take a drop of something while you hear
it.”
“No, I thank you,” said I, firmly, determined
that the laws of hospitality should not be thus in-
fringed with my consent, “I must return to the Rec-
tory at once.”
“Then I will walk with you,” observed the farmer,
civilly, “and tell you all I know, in a few words.
The fact is, the squire and I had not been on good
terms for a length of time before his disappearance.
He was a bad landlord, and did not know how to
behave to a tenant as would have done his duty by
him. He wanted his own rent paid to the day, and
never had to ask it from me, for that matter; but
when he owed a little money himself it was dreadful
hard to get it out of him. There happened to be
something due from him to me—it was a small
matter, made up of little things—corn for that horse
he bought for Master Marmaduke, among others, but
the thing had been owing for a year or more. I had
not deducted it from the rent, and therefore he ought
to have been the readier to pay it; but he was not,
aid at last I cut up rough about it, and went to the
Hall myself on the 15th of last month, and then we
rather fell out together, the Squire and me.”


296 LOST SIR MASSINGBERT).
“You quarrelled, did you?” remarked Mr. Town-
shend, carelessly.
“Well, yes, we did quarrel; leastways, I did.
Sir Massingberd always quarrelled with whoever
asked him for payment, so that was nothing. I said
that I would not leave the house without the money;
but at last I did leave upon his solemn promise to
pay me the next day, that was the very day of his
disappearance, and he did pay me, with as many oaths
as one-pound notes into the bargain.”
“He paid you these on the 15th of November,
then,” observed the detective.
“On the 16th,” replied the farmer. “I’ve got a
memorandum of it in my pocket-book; here it is, and
the number of the notes, 82977 to 80; there was four
in all.”
“And those notes you sent to your London agent
along with more, and you got some foreign stuff back
from Hamburg in exchange for them.”
“And how the deuce come you to know that?”
exclaimed the farmer in extreme astonishment.
“Well, it is my business to know a good many
things,” returned the Bow Street runner, getting over
the stile rather sulkily; for he was well aware by
this time that there would be no employment for his
favorite bracelets.
“Well, that may be your friend's business,” quoth
Mr. Arabel, looking after his retreating form; “but
I’m gormed if he looks like it. I should have said he
was an individual in the same line as myself, only
fatter; and though I say it as shouldn’t say it, a sight
more foolish.”
“Nay,” said I, “he is not a foolish man, Mr.


“LET IT BE PETER's GoDCHILD.” 299
other, wickeder than ever. His return was as con-
fidently looked for by many of his vassals, as that of
Barbarossa was wont to be.
This was not, of course, the case with reasonable
persons like Mr. Long, and, I may add, myself.
When a twelvemonth had elapsed since his disappear-
ance, we both entreated Marmaduke to come down to
Fairburn, and take possession of what might fairly be
considered his own. Mr. Gerard and Mr. Clint were
equally anxious that he should do this, but all per-
suasion was unavailing. The most that could be
extracted from him was the promise that when he
came of age, a year and a half hence, he would do as
we pleased. It seemed to us, indeed the height of
improbability that his uncle should still be in the land
of the living. It seemed so to the money-lenders,
who showed themselves anxious to accommodate the
young man with enormous loans at a very trifling
rate of interest; but to the heir himself, it by no
means appeared so certain. There was something
characteristic, he thought, of his terrible uncle in his
mysterious withdrawal from human ken, with the
fiendish object of throwing everything out of gear for
years, and thus striking terror by his sudden reap-
pearance. If he did reappear and found another—
and that one his hated nephew—in the enjoyment of
his property, how diabolical would be his wrath !
There was often quite a sublimity of passion evinced
by the old baronet upon very slight occasions; but
all such displays, compared to what would happen in
the case supposed, would have been but as a cavalry
inspection at the Curragh to the Balaklava charge.
Such were the thoughts, I am convinced, which ac-


800 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
tuated Marmaduke, although he did not express
them. He confined himself to stating that he did
not consider he had a right to take possession of Fair-
burn until the time he mentioned had elapsed (nor,
indeed, was he legally entitled to do so for seven
years); and I doubt if he would have given even that
promise, had he not felt sure that some revelation
would be made in the meantime.
But no such revelation was made, and the day of
Marmaduke Heath's majority came round at last.
Whether he would even then have put his purpose of
coming down to Fairburn into effect, had it depended
solely upon himself, I cannot say, but he had by that
time other interests to consult beside his own. Mar-
maduke Heath and Lucy Gerard were man and wife;
nor, if you had sought all England through, would
you have chanced upon a nobler-looking couple. At
that period, although it was not so afterwards, the
dependence, the reliance, the looking up for comfort
and for counsel, so natural and so endearing in
wedded life, were upon the wrong side—upon Mar-
maduke's, not Lucy's. All that was done in respect
to his affairs was done by her; he only thought about
doing them, and resisted their being done until the
very last, when, all other means having failed, her
sweet voice was called in by the councillors for his
good, and always succeeded. In one matter only
had Marmaduke refused even to listen to her—he
had insisted upon raising a very large sum upon his
now excellent expectations, and settling it upon her
before his marriage. In vain he had been assured
that such a settlement was unnecessary, and the
interest he would have to pay for the money bor-


304 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
~
Mr. Long and myself were both in Harley Street
upon the day when Marmaduke came of age; and
after dinner, Mr. Clint made a little speech, not
without connivance, I think, beforehand with others
of the party. He observed, that gratifying as was
the occasion in question in all respects, it was most
satisfactory to himself, as concluding the period
which Marmaduke had assigned as the limit of his
abstaining from taking his rightful position in the
world. He ventured to say this much upon his own
part, as having been connected with the Heath
family for a lengthened period; but he would also
say for others—what he knew they would be back-
ward to say for themselves—that his young friend
owed it to them also not to delay the matter any
longer. -
Marmaduke's face expressed more painful agita-
tion than I had seen it wear for months. “I suppose
you are right, Mr. Clint,” he returned ; “and, at all
events, I will be as good as my word, which I passed
to Mrs. Heath,” and he looked at his wife, as though
he would have appealed to her to release him from
that promise.
“Of course, I am right, sir,” returned the lawyer
quickly; “but you are wrong and very uncivil not
to give your wife her proper title. Lady Heath, I
beg to drink your very good health; Sir Marmaduke,
here's to your better manners; ” and the lawyer
emptied his glass, and filled it up again, in case any
other excuse should arise for the drinking of good
liquor.
“Lady Heath's health; her husband's better man-
ners” echoed laughingly round the table.


306 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
another soon whose interests must be looked to as
well as our own. You will be godfather, dear Peter,
will you not ? Lucy and I both wish it. ‘Let it be
Peter's god-child, Marmaduke,” she said to me only
yesterday, although I should not divulge these secrets
to an old bachelor like you.”
Of course, I promised readily enough ; but long
after he had bidden me good-night, I sat over the
paling embers, thinking, thinking; and when every
coal was charred, and the black bars cold that held
them, I sat thinking still. My hopes, for a few fleet-
ing hours, long ago, had been as bright and warm as
they, and were now as dark—and dead.
CHAPTER XXXII.
TAKING THE SEALS OFF.
MARMADUKE HEATH came down to Fairburn accord-
ing to his promise, but it cost him a great effort. With
every stage his spirits seemed to fall and fail; and
when Mrs. Myrtle at last clasped him in her arms—
for Master Marmaduke was ever a great favorite of
hers, and the fact of his having grown up and got
married weighed with her not a feather—his wan face
was paler than when she had seen it last, notwith-
standing its three years of happiness and freedom.
It was Christmas-time ; the Rectory was a bower of
ivy and holly-berries; and just within the threshold,
the locality which the good housekeeper had chosen
for her embrace, hung a huge bough of mistletoe,


310 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
the Oak Parlor had not sufficient accommodation
for the guests of the missing Squire, they had been
wont to adjourn to the present apartment, to smoke
and lounge through half the night; but it bore no
trace of having been so used. Every chair and sofa
were in their appointed place, as though they had
grown up like trees through the dusty carpet. Upon
the tables and mantelpieces, the dust had settled
inches thick. The grate was laid ready for lighting;
but over the coals and sticks hung a sort of mildew,
that looked as if it would have defied a pine-torch to
set light to it. These things we remarked gradually,
one by one, for the butler had only opened the
shutters of one window, and the extent of the apart-
ment was prodigious. The shelves were filled almost
entirely with quartos—books were not hand-books in
those days—rich with plates, and “meadows of
margin:” you could not have sent a child on an
errand to bring one of them; if he had managed to
extricate a tome at all by painfully loosening it at
head and foot, it might have fallen out and brained
him. A fourth of the entire stock was composed of
books of Catholic theology. “Those,” observed
Mr. Long, “are the most valuable things in the
library. Sir Nicholas is supposed to have won his
bride by paying that costly tribute to her faith. The
illuminations are most rare and splendid. Why,
what is this, Gilmore? I can't get this volume
down. It seems stuck to the others.”
The butler grinned maliciously. “I think you
will find them all like that, sir. There's nothing but
the wood-backs left. The Squire disposed of these
books soon after Mr. Marmaduke left, and got this
imitation stuff put up instead.”


TAKING THE SEALS OFF. 311
Mr. Long broke out into wrathful indignation,
but the young heir kept silence, only smiling
bitterly.
“Perhaps he was afraid that their heterdoxy
might do his nephew harm,” remarked I, rather
tickled, I confess, by this characteristic fraud.
“No, sir,” replied Gilmore, drily; “he merely
observed, that, being theological works, there was as
much in them now as before.”
“Impious wretch!” exclaimed the Rector. “See,
- , he has bartered the Fathers of the Church for a set
of empty backgammon boards, and lettered them
with their venerable names.”
“Here, however, is the Family Bible,” said I;
“he has not sold that.”
The spider had spun his web across the sacred
volume, but it opened readily enough at the only
place, perhaps, into which its late owner had ever
looked—the huge yellow fly-leaf, upon which were
inscribed the names of the later generations of the
Heaths; Sir Massingberd's birth in his father's own
handwriting, and Sir Wentworth's death in that of
his son's, and only too probably his murderer's. The
autograph was bold and flaring, quite different from
the crabbed hand of the parent, in which the names
of Gilbert Heath and Marmaduke's mother were also
written, as likewise that of Marmaduke himself.
There was a little space beneath the last; and the
young heir, looking over my shoulder, pointed. to it,
significantly; doubtless, it had been hoped by the
last possessor of the volume that this might one day
have been filled up by the date of his nephew's
demise.


312 LoST SIR MASSINGBERD.
We were about to leave the room, when Mr. Long
suddenly exclaimed, “Nay, let us try the secret way.
You told me, I remember, that you did not know
of Jacob's ladder, Marmaduke. The spring lies in
the index of Josephus, a wooden volume, which per-
haps put this notion of wholesale “dumbies’ into Sir
Massingberd's head.” This practical satire upon the
unpopularity of the Jewish historian was presently
discovered, hidden away upon one of those ground-
floor shelves, which, if the enthusiastic student in-
vestigates at all, it must be upon his knees. After a
little manipulation, the spring obeyed, and with a
surly creak, as if in protest, the whole compartment
of shelves above moved slowly outward on some
hidden hinge, and disclosed the narrow stairs that
ended in the shepherdess of the state chamber. The
steps were worm-eaten, and the wall on both sides
hung with moth-devoured and ragged tapestry.
Marmaduke shrank back, and gazed upon the aper-
ture with abhorrence and dismay. To what vile
purposes might it not have been used, besides that
of attempting to overthrow a poor child's reason;
nay, was it not possible that what we had sought,
yet feared to find for so long, might be in this very
place, where no eye could have looked or thought of
looking ! Might it not have hidden there, and been
imprisoned alive in righteous retribution, by the very
spring which had ministered to hate and cruelty?
“I went up here,” said Mr. Long, divining the
young man's thoughts, “when I searched the house
with Gilmore, and put on the seals. “I think we
should climb Jacob's ladder, Marmaduke; as you
will make the Hall your home, it is well to leave no


TAKING THE SEALS OFF. 313
spot in it associated with any unpleasantness, un-
familiar.” So saying, the rector led the way, and
we all followed: there was some delay while he
opened the door above, and certainly it was not a
cheerful position for us in the meantime, cooped up
in the darkness, with the arras touching us with its
ghostly folds on either side the narrow way; but I
think that my tutor's advice was good, and that his
old pupil experienced a feeling of satisfaction when
the thing was done. Once more we stood together
in that state bedroom where Marmaduke had suffered
such ghastly terrors when a boy.
“Shall I ever forget those nights 1” muttered he
with a shudder. “Can this room ever be otherwise
than hateful to me ! It was here, as I sat weak and
ill in that arm-chair, that my uncle struck me for
losing Stay, now I remember it all. Remove
this skirting-board, Gilmore; take the poker; do
not spare the rotting wood. Ay, there it is.” A
yellow something lay amid the dust and rubbish,
which on inspection turned out to be a gold pencil-
case. “That was lent me by my uncle, a dozen
years ago,” said Marmaduke musing, “and he
chastised me for losing it. It had rolled under
yonder skirting-board, but I was too terrified at the
time to recollect the fact. I wish I could forget
things now. Undo the other shutters, Richard.
Light, more light.”
And thus we let the blessed sunlight into all the
shuttered rooms. It glanced in galleries on knights
in all their panoply, and smote the steel upon their
visors, as though the flame of battle once more
darted from their eyes; it made their tattered pennons
*


314 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
blush again, and tipped their rusted spears with
sudden fire. It flashed upon the stern ancestral
faces on the wall, and through their dust evoked
a look of life. That winter sun had not the power
to warm, however; all things struck cold. The
dark oak-panels chilled us from their waveless
depths; the cumbrous organ, carved with fruit and
flowers, kept frozen silence; while in the chapel, Sir
Nicholas in stone and mildew struck to our marrow.
His lady opposite, upon her knees in her “devout
oratory,” gave us cold looks, as though we had inter-
rupted her devotions. In vain the painted windows,
high and triple arched, cast down “warm gules”
upon her marble breast, and filled the sacred place
with glorious hues. In vain the gilded scroll,
“Praie for hys Soule,” appealed to us through dust
and damp, and his memorial pane blushed scarlet in
its endeavor to perpetuate his infamy. All things
seemed cursed in that accursed house ; the hallowed
places desecrated, and those where hospitality and
good fellowship were meant to reign, solitary and
barren. There was one apartment still which had
been left by common consent to be visited last of all
—Sir Massingberd's oak parlor. There he might
have been said to have lived, for it was the only
sitting-room he used from early morning—and he
was no great sleeper — until very late at night.
There, as we have seen, he had held his audiences,
and dined, and sometimes slept after any deep
debauch. By all the household, except Gilmore, it
was held as a Bluebeard's chamber, and would not
have been entered upon any account, even had it not
had the rector's seal upon it. It was here that the


TAKING THE SEALS OFF. 315
lost baronet had passed his last hours within the
house, and thither he had intended to return—if he
had meant to return at all—before he retired for the
night. The butler entered it first, and let the light
in ; then Mr. Long, then I, then Marmaduke. Al-
though I had been there once before, I scarcely re-
cognized the place, for upon that occasion the Squire
himself had occupied it, and I had had no eyes
except for him. It was doubtless a comfortable
room enough when the fire was shining on its
polished walls, and the red curtains snugly drawn
over the windows; but with that thin December
light—for it was afternoon by this time—creeping
coldly in upon the three-year-old ashes of the burnt-
out fire, and on the panels, smeared with spots and
stains, it was very cheerless:
“There was no sign of life, save one:
The subtle spider, that from overhead
Hung like a spy on human guilt and error,
Suddenly turned, and up its slender thread,
Ran with a nimble terror.”
This insect had woven its webs in every nook and
cranny, in readiness for the prey that rarely came,
and the slanting pillars of motes and light that
streamed into the gloom seemed almost as palpable
as they. A door led up by three or four steps into
Sir Massingberd's bedroom — a bare unfurnished
place, where skins of wild animals, instead of carpet,
were spread for a banquet to the moth. His shoot-
ing-boots stood up still stiff and strong beside the
empty grate, although they were white with mildew,
and his night-gear lay folded upon the rotting pillow,


316 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
in preparation for his rest. The sitting-room, however,
bore the more striking vestiges of its late proprietor.
The huge arm-chair stood a little aside from the
fender, where he had pushed it back as he rose to
leave the room; and the book which he had been
reading lay open with its face to the table, ready for
him to resume its perusal upon his return. A spirit-
case with the stoppers in, the couple of cigars which
it had been Sir Massingberd's invariable custom to
smoke before going to bed, and a few fly-blown
lumps of sugar, were set out in hideous travesty of
creature-comfort. The rector took up the volume,
and with one involuntary glance towards the fire-
place, tore the wrinkled and blue-spotted leaves to
fragments. A scurrilous French novel had engaged
the last hours of the wretched old man, ere he went
forth—to his doom.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE FAIRY's wand.
THERE are but few of us, I fear, who can say:
“Though I should die suddenly, and at the most
unlooked-for time, there will be nothing left behind
me which I would have destroyed, even though I
had had the opportunity.” Of course there are none
who can boast that they are at peace with all man-
kind; that they leave nothing unrepented of or
unatoned for; that their human affairs and social
relations are exactly where they would have wished


THE FAIRY's wand. 317
them to be. But independent of these matters, neg-
lected by the very best of us, how eagerly must many
a man desire, between the warning and swift stroke
of death, that he had had but a little time—a little
strength to set, not, indeed, his house in order, but
his desk and his note-book. What a cruel shock
have many a family received, after they have lost the
Head whom they have worshiped so many years, by
discovering, where they looked for no such thing,
after his death, that he had all along (as will be
thought) been even such a one—not as themselves,
but worse—as they whom they had been taught by his
own self to look upon with contempt, or at least with
pity; as they who, by contrast with himself, were
persons base and vile. Is there no letter, reader,
ragged and time-worn, perhaps, but still legible, lying
among that heap of correspondence you intend to
winnow some day—which it will be better to burn
now? Is there no half forgotten gift, meant for your
own eyes alone, when they were brighter than at
present, which it would be well to make an end of
this very day ? Can you say: “I’ven though I do
not return home to-night, or ever again, but am
smashed by a railway locomotive, or driven over by
a 'bus, or poisoned in a cab, yet there will be nothing
of mine, nothing when my friends take stock of my
personal effects, of which I need be ashamed.” If so,
thou art a good man indeed—or one of exceeding
prudence. Above all things, my friends, be good,
for that is best; but if not, at least be prudent. Let
your memories be sullied with no stain, at all events,
in the thoughts of those you leave at home. The
actions of the unjust blossom in their dust into flowers


818 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
compared with which the deadly nightshade is as the
violet or the rose. The satirist tells us that in a
week, a month, a year at most, the memory of a dead
man dies even from the hearts of those he held most
dear. This is not true; but the satirist would have
been severest yet, and have spoken truth as well, had
he said that the memory of a dead man, so far as his
vice and wickedness are concerned, dies not at all
among his kin. It is spoken of in whispers by the
purest, and renders them less pure; it is made light
of by the vicious, but only to excuse their wrongful
acts by a worse example. “Wild as I may be, I am
not so wild as the governor was in his day,” is a
terrible legacy of comfort to leave behind one to one's
son.
It is possible that even Sir Massingberd Heath
may at some far-back time have deemed it necessary
to lay to his soul some flattering unction of this kind.
There were Sir Wentworth and Sir Nicholas, and
many a Heath to extenuate his acts, if bad example
might do it. But the time came to him, and very
early in life, when he had no longer this slender
justification, since he had outdone his worst pro-
genitor in vice and folly. Mr. Clint had known, Mr.
Long had guessed—we all of us had suspected more
or less that the lost baronet's life had been evil beyond
that of an ordinary man; but the dumb revelations
which were made concerning it in the necessary ex-
amination of his papers, were simply shocking. After
destroying these, the next approach to cleansing
Fairburn Hall was to discharge all the indoor domes-
tics. Mr. Richard Gilmore resented this conduct
towards a faithful servant of the family, as he styled


826 . LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
“Ay, if he is in his grave,” responded Mr. Flint-
hert, darkly. “But who knows whether he may not
turn up some day after all; tell me that.”
“I can't tell you that,” responded Mr. Broadacres;
“but I’ll bet you ten guineas to one that he never
does.”
“Ay, but if he did!” replied the other, gloomily.
“If he was to appear this very day, for instance,
what a scene it would be—what a revolution for some
people !”
“Well, if he did, he'd find the property greatly
improved—except that that right of way has been
reopened through the Park; all his thieving servants
dismissed; all his debts settled; and his mad gipsy
wife amply provided for, and well content, I am told,
among her vagabond friends.”
Conversations somewhat similar to the above
were being held all over the lawn, for its denizens
were not, like the lower classes, so bent upon mere
physical enjoyment as to be dead to the delights of
scandal. But when the great bell rang for their
afternoon repast, which was to be partaken of in one
enormous tent, and at one gigantic table, the upper
part of which was reserved for the gentlefolks, such
talk was hushed, of course, and congratulations of
host and hostess and the infant heir was the only
wear for every countenance. Not a word about the
uncertainty of Sir Marmaduke's tenure of Fairburn
was whispered over the good cheer, or a suggestion
hazarded regarding the last proprietor's possible reap-
pearance. Far less, we may be certain, was any hint
at such matters let fall when the health of the future
Sir Peter—two generations from Somebody, and not


FOUND. 829
the Wolsey Oak was Home. So while it was the
other side's turn to hide, and we was waiting for
them to cry “Whoop,' we began to knife the tree a
bit, to pass the time; and digging away at the
bottom of the trunk, we made a hole, and presently
came upon the head of this thing here, and dragged
it out. Then we made a bigger hole, and please, sir,
there was great big bones, and we couldn't pull them
through. Then we was frightened, and called to Jem
Meyrick, the keeper, as was in the booth close by ;
and he climbed up to the fork of the tree, and cried
out that the Wolsey Oak was hollow, and there was
a skeleton in it, standing up; and they do say as it's
Sir Massingberd.”
While the boy was yet speaking a knot of men
came slowly up from the direction of the Oak, bearing
something among them, and followed at a little dis-
tance by a vast crowd, all keeping an awful silence.
When they got near the opening of the tent, they set
their ghastly burden down upon the lawn; and we
all went forth to look at it, including Marmaduke
himself, with a face as pale as ashes, and clutching
Lucy by the hand, as though he feared some power
was about to tear her from him. I heard her whis-
per to him, “This may not be Lost Sir Massing-
berd after all.”
Dr. Sitwell heard her also, and at once officiously
replied, “Oh, but it is, my lady; there has no man
died in Fairburn for these thirty years, except the
late baronet, who could have owned those bones. I
will pledge my professional reputation that yonder
man, when clothed in flesh and blood, was six feet
four. What a large skull, and what gigantic thigh
bones l’”


332 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
began to do so, he grew up to be quite another man
in body and mind.
It was only by this change, when we saw him so
strong and cheerful, that we got to estimate how
powerful had been that sombre influence which had
so long overshadowed him, and what great exertion
it must have cost him to let it appear to us so little.
The uncertainty of his tenure in Fairburn Hall had
secretly affected him very deeply, in spite of the
wand of the good fairy. He went to France for
a little trip with his father-in-law for a thorough
change, and there it was he had that duel thrust
upon him of which we have incidentally made men-
tion. Let us not judge him harshly in that matter,
for men of his day were as wanting in moral courage,
as they were ignorant of physical fear. Yet what a
risk—ay, and what a selfish risk—he ran therein, let
alone the unchristian wickedness of that wicked ad-
Venture.
He never dared to reveal to Lucy what he had
done, but he confessed it to Harvey Gerard, who re-
buked him roundly for the crime; observing, how-
ever, to myself, not without some pride, that he had
always averred Marmaduke was a fine fellow, and
entertained a proper contempt for all bullies and
scoundrels. The young baronet acted weakly, doubt-
less, but the duellist's blood was surely upon his own
head. At all events that was the view Marmaduke
himself took of the matter, and there was now not a
happier man in all Midshire than he ; discharging
the duties of his rank and position in a manner that
won the applause of all his neighbors, sooner or
later, although Mr. Flinthert's applause came very
late indeed.


834 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
express my regret that the mission of the author has
in my case been reversed, and facts have fallen into
such clumsy hands as to seem fiction.
Let me add one extract from the works of an
author popular in my young days, but now much
oftener quoted than perused. He is describing a
picture sale attended by the dilettanti. A carking
connoisseur is abusing some effort of an unhappy
artist to portray nature. “This fellow,” cries he,
“has even had the audacity to attempt to paint a fly;
That a fly, forsooth !” and he flips at it with contemp-
tuous fingers.
The fly flew away. It was a real one /
THE END.
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