n THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES k' h% iyr*r ^ THE TRAGEDY OF FExVTliEUSTONE. THE TRAGEDY UF FEATHER^TONE. liV B. r. V A R J E N, ALTHOR CIF MISEl! lARFHUOTHER,'' "a SIXRI-T 1 MlKRITANfK," '' i;i(l- A r l'f"K I I- l< v;l'AHE,*' KT C. THIRD EDITION. WARD & DOWNEY, 12 YORK STREET, COYENT GARDEN, LONDON. 1888 S. Cmvan d- Co., General Printers, Perth. CONTENTS. tHAP. I. II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. IX. X. XI. XII. XIII. VAlVr THE FIRST. MORNINCi IN COBIIAM WOOKS MK'HAKL FEATHEKSTONE's SINOVLAK I'KOC'EEHIXtiS .JAMES WHITELOCK's CONFESSION A POOR boy's philosophy HOME, SWEET HOME PRINCE PENNYFOLD A SCHOOL TREAT ... THE PLAIN AND BITTER TRUTH A GOOD WOMAN'.S LOVE A SCRPRI.SINO ADVENTURE ... TOMMY MAYPLE GETS INTO DISGRACE THE STOLEN TREASURE DREAMS ... PAOK 1 Jl 15 2'2 28 34 42 51 59 07 70 80 PART THE SECOND. I. MICHAEL KEATHERSTONE, THE PROSPEROUS SPECULATOR II. HARD TIMES III. THE TRAGEDY' OF FEATHER.STONE IV. A VI.SION OF THE FUTURE ... V. A SAD PARTING ... VI. ANOTHER VISIT FROM THE DETECTIVE 82 87 95 104 108 114 1062956 Contents. i-IIAP. VII. MAHV'S DESPAIU... ... ... ... ... 119 VIII. THE VISION IN THE NIGHT ... ... ... 121 IX. THE MAD TOY-SELLER ... ... ... ... 129 X. THE VISIT TO THE DOCTOR ... ... ... 134 XI. MARY RECEIVES A LETTER FROM THE PHYSICIAN ... 143 XII. PETER LAMB. — HOME .-VGAIN ... ... ... 148 XII. MR. PENNYFOLD, ALDERMAN AND MAC.LSTRATE ... 152 XIV. FROM PHILIP RAVEN TO SIR WILLIAftl WENTWORTH ... 160 XV. PETER LAMB MAKES THE ACQUAINTANCE OF THRIFTY MILLER ... ... ... ... ... 168 XVI. PETEK LAMB OBTAINS A REPUTATION FOR ECCEN- TRICITY ... ... ... ... ... 175 XVII. WINTER ... ... ... ... ... 187 XVIII. FROM PHILIP RAVEN TO SIR WILLIAM WENTWORTH ... 103 XIX. A DE.SERTION AND A MEETING ... ... ... 199 XX. PETER LAMB FINDS THE CONNECTING LINK IN A DREAM ... ... ... ... ... 204 XXI. FROM PHILTl' RAVEN TO SIR WTLLIA:M WENTWORTH ... 210 XXII. BLIND ... ... ... ... ... 220 XXIII. FROM PHILIP RAVEN TO SIR WILLIAM WENTWORTH ... 225 XXIV. PHILIP raven's diary ... ... ... ... 226 XXV. PHILIP raven's diary (co?2^//IH('(/) ... ... 237 XXVI. PHILIP raven's diary (coD^miied) ... ... 243 xxvii. PHILIP raven's DIARY (cmiiinnef?) ... ... 247 XXVIII. I'HILIP raven's DIARY {rontinued) ... ... 251 xxix. PHILIP raven's thahy (cont'hhued) ... ... 260 XXX. PHILIP raven's DiAKY {continued) ... ... 265 XXXI. PHILIP raven's diary (co^itiniied) ... ... 271 XXXII. dr. HOWARD GIVES HIS OPINION... ... ... 278 XXXIII. THOMAS MAYPLE HEARS .SOME UNPLEASANT THINGS ... 281 XXXIV. THOMAS MAYPLE's LEGACY ... ... ... 287 Contents. iiiAr I'AUB \.V\V. MASTKU ANK MAN ... ... ... ... 292 .VXXVI. THK USE THAI' THOMAS MAYI'LK MAhK OK Ills SHAUOWY LKiiACV ... ... ... ... ."jOO XXXVU. EDWIN BOUSFIELL) I'AYS 1-ilILII' KAVEN A VISIT ... .'»i."> XXXVIH.' FOLLOWIXCi THE TKAIL... ... ... ... o24 XXXIX. A DELICATE AND DIKKICULT TASK ... ... o2'J XL. FRO.M EDWIN HOLSKIELD TO i'HILU' KAVEN ... 33o XLI. AN EXTRACT KKOM MICHAEL FEATUEKSTONE's I'KI VATE BOOK ... ... ... ... ... 'S6S\ \LII. EiiWIN liOUSFlELD CONTINUES HIS LETTER TO I'UILIl' RAVKN ... ... ... ... ... .■)41 XLIII. "it is FOJl EVER SUMMKK '' ... ... ... :)4I' THE TRAGEDY OF FEATIIERSTONE. PART THE FIRST. ONE DAY AND ONE NIGHT. "Come like shadows, so depart." CHAPTER I. MORNING IN COBHAM WOODS. Twenty-five years ago there passed through Cobham "Woods, within the space of one day and one night, many of the persons whose characters will be portrayed in these pages. Some I hope you will grow to love, and as to others who may not win your hearts, 1 warn you not to be too hasty to con- demn. Unhappily there are souls which, from their first awakening, are overweighted with sins of human inheritance. The morning commenced with a grand song of thanksgiving, the initial signs of which were manifest just as the distant tree-tops and the breasts of distant heights were joyously (piivering beneath the faint, sweet kisses of light which heralded the rising of the sun. Not all songs are audible ; the most profound are those which are sung silently in the heart. Here, also, mute symbols of gratefulness mingled with the vocal notes which winged creatures were singing. Upland and lowland in Kent are fair as earth can show, and its gardens are beautiful and bountiful. The sensitive air which travelled over field and forest joined in the universal sons: of thankstriving. The flowers with their diamonded eyes, and the dew-gemmed blades of grass ; the fragrance of the hedges ; the ivory-sandalled water-lilies which A 2 TJie Tragedy of Featlierstone. rose to the bosom of the silver-ponds ; the beetles with their enamelled rainbow coats ; the wondrous beauty of the bits of moss which clung to the roots of trees, and of the spreading growths which lay like a velvet carpet on the glades ; the exquisite shades of green which stretched over hill and plain ; the shining rills and streams : these, and a myriad other marvellous evidences born of the visible and invisible world, were parts of the grand hymn which Nature — whose temple and workshop are one — on this gracious morning was singing in praise of the great Creator. The audible portion of this pa)an of gladness may be likened to the body, the mute portion to the soul ; and its sweetness and its glory formed a perfect and incomparable whole. Higher rose the sun, and the daily toil of humanity began. Doors and windows were opened, and the morning meal pre- pared and eaten ; laboui'crs wended their way to the fields ; tradesmen took down their shutters ; the clang of hammer and anvil was heard in the forge ; ladders and baskets were carried to the orchards ; farmers anxiously inspected their growing crops. Tramps Avho had slept in the open air sauntered through the narrow village street, hungering for breakfast. Here a gloomy-eyed man in rags, with shaggy hair and a fortnight's beard on his face, lingered at the door of an ale-house ; here, a woe-worn woman, with a baby in her arms and five little children tugging at her torn gown, trudged desperately onwards. Bits of social history these — familiar pictures to be seen to-day in all parts of tlie country. Following the tramps, by the time their forms in the dim distance had reached the vanishing-point, came one who was neither tramp nor village labourer. By his gait and clothes a sailor ; five feet seven in height, of stout build, a fringe of brown beard round his cheerful, sun-burnt face ; age thirty, or there- abouts ; bringing with him a taste of salt seas ; a wanderer just returned home. He carried in his hands a deal box about eighteen inches square, labelled, on the surface he held tippermost, " Glass ; this side up, with care." His eyes were wistful as he gazed on familiar landmarks which he had not seen for fifteen years. For such as he there is a spirit in stones. That no one knew him evidently troubled him, and it was some time before he found courage to speak. In silence he passed through the narrow street, recognising now Morning in Cob/uuii Woods. 3 and again a man or a woman whom he had left as such, and searching in vain for a form lie yearned to meet. The children were strange to him, having been born in his absence, and some yonngish grown-up persons were strango to him, tlie change in thom was so great. He sauntered to and fro in front of one of the poorest of the cottages, at the door of which he did not dare to knock, and at length he lialted before it, and watched for the appearance of a dear face at the latticed window. Pots of geraniums were in tlie windows, as of old, and there was a pregnant beauty in the flowers which he had never recognised in the days of his boyhood. They were the .same geraniums he was familiar with fifteen years ago— he was sure of that— and the door of the cottage, and its walls and windows, were the same ; it was only the people who were changed. He was watching for his mother's face. How was it that since his birth he had never loved her as he did during these moments of dread expectation ] Hatl long absence taught him the value of a mother's love, or was it because she for whom he watched and waited was the only human link which bound him to his species ? Without her he was alone in the world, kinless and kithless. What greater desolation than that? Like day without sunshine, like night without stars. A little maid upon whom eight happy summers had shone stopped and raised her eyes to his weather-beaten face. He, in his turn, looked down at her, and a smile of wonder and delight made his pleasant mouth pleasanter. He laid his large hand upon her shoulder, and she did not shrink from him. Children have an instinctive recognition of kindly natures. "Why, my lass," he said, stooping to her height, "if your name's not Bessie, mine ain't Peter Lamb." She nodded and smiled, and gave a little shy movement of her shoulders, which, in its recalling of old reminiscences, deepened his delight. «' It IS Bessie," he said, — " eh, my lass ] " "Yes, sir. if you please," replied the child. " Bessie Patmore— my little wife that was to be ? " In this remark two propositions were involved, and she first answered the one most agreeable to her. " Yes, sir, if you please, when I'm big enough." "Ay, ay, my lass," said Peter Lamb, contemplating her with 4 The Tragedy of Fcatherstone. great interest, " when you're big' enough. I had an idea you would be by this time." Then the child answered proposition number one in his previous remark. " But, if you please, sir, I'm Bessie Wrench." " It ain't possible. Wrench ! " he exclaimed, a light breaking upon him. " Now I look at you, I see you've got his nose on your fiice- — a pug ! " The child put up her hand fearsomely and felt her nose. " What ! " continued Peter Lamb ; " Wrench, the butcher's boy % " " Jfi/ father's a man," said the child proudly, " and mother keeps a shop." " Where is it 1 " "There." She pointed a few yards off, on the other side of the road. It was a dingy, shame-faced window, the only one on the ground-floor of a very small house, in which were displayed half- a-dozen sticks of peppermint, a bottle of acid-drops, a bottle of sugar-balls of an exceptionally sticky nature, a dish of fly-blown ginger-cakes, three tops, a saucerful of marbles — "commoners" • — a kite which would not hold the wind, a broken toy-windmill, and a penny picture-book of "Jack the Giant Killer," in the open pages of which the double-headed Giant and Jack were depicted as beings suffering from a violent attack of inflammation in their faces, eyes, and iiair. Peter Lamb had barely time to master the details of this imposing disj)lay of merchandise before a woman appeared at the door, and beckoned to Bessie, with maternal authority expressed in the crook of her forefinger. " Bessie ! " cried the woman, " come and have your face washed. You ought to be at school." " Stop a minute," said Peter Lamb, as the child was about to spring away. " Is that your mother 1 " " Yes, sir." And the child ran off. " Wrench ! " muttered Peter Lamb ; " it is a wrench ! " He did not smile at the small witticism ; there was in it top deep a touch of pathos. He walked sti'aight up to the woman, who still stood at the door of the cottage, and addi'essed her. " I was talking to your little lass, and I guessed her name the moment I saw her. I Avonder " — he paused, as though the words stuck in his throat — " I w^onder if you could guess mine." She looked at him closely. Morning in CohJiam Woods. 5 " No," she said, " I am sure I cuuldu't." Then she passed into the house with her child, and closed the door upon him. "Ah," he said, when he found himself alone, "left out in the cold." A I'cmark which, taken in its literal sense, was inaccur- ate, for a hot sun was blazing upon him. Durino; the course of this episode he had not entirely with- drawn his observation fi'om the cottage whose latticed window he was watching when Bessie introduced herself to him. He resumed his watch, but saw no sign of life within. An old man, with arched back, slowly approached him. "Why, as certain as 1 live," said Peter Lamb, "it's old Ben!" " The old man jiaused, hearing his name. "Yes, yes, it's me. Everybody knows old Ben. I'm an institootion in these parts, the vicar says, and 'tis so agreed. It makes no difference to old Ben what they call him — only it ought to be j)aid for. What may you be looking for, stranger ] The road to Strood ? " " No," said Peter Lamb ; " I should be able to find vay way to Strood without finger-posts, iniless the roads, like everything else, have grown out of knowledge." " Nothing's growed out of knowledge in my reckoning," retorted old Ben resentfully. " Mayhaj) you know more about these parts than I do, or mayha]) " — this with a tine sarcasm — "you'd like to tell me something about 'em that I've forgotten. Try, now, try. It'd be a good joke." " I ain't going to tr}', Ben. It would be a liberty for a stranger to take." "Ah, it woiild," said old Ben, his hand closing secretly upon a shilling which Peter Lamb 'had furtively pressed into it. " Well, well, we'll say no mor^ about it. A liberal heart stands for much. If you don't want the road to Strood, mayhap you want something else. Think of something ; dou't be afraid. Tr}", now, tr}'. Asking's an open box. The worst part of me's the outside." " Look at me," said Peter Lamb. "Ah, I can," said old Ben, with a side-twist of his head, a motion necessary for the raising of it, his back being curved beyond earthly recovery, " and I can see you too, old as I be. I can see a mile. Yes, yes ; my sight's good, and my hearing's 6 TJie Tragedy of Featherstone. good, but my taste's a bit weakish. It's gone off, but it'll come again, mayhap, next year or so. It wants tempting, like the first woman, and I'll tempt it, I promise you ! " closing his hori>y fist tightly on the shilling. " Have you ever seen me before % " " Never — never — ^never," said the old man, with a longer dwelling upon each repetition of the word. " Old Ben never forgets a face of man or child." " Tell me, then," said Peter Lamb, and his lips trembled, " who lives in that cottage % " " In that 'un % Who else but Mrs. Parfitt % " Peter Lamb staof^ered. " What name did you say ? " "Mrs. Parfitt. Acquainted with her, mayhap — a relation'?" " No," said Peter Lamb. His lips had grown white now, and something of the ruddy colour had gone out of his face. " Oh — thought you might be. Seeing as you're no con- nection, I don't mind telling of you that Mrs. Pai'fitt's a closish woman. Turns a ha'penny over three-and-thirty times afore she parts with it, and then, believe old Ben, it's like parting with a drop of blood." " How long has she lived in that cottage 1 " " Let me see. There was such a blight among the hops the year she went in as was never known in the memory of morchel man. It was the death of old Phillips the hop-grower. He was eighty-seven, and the worry of the year and the insecks fairly made an end of him. He faded away like a flower, and owed me five silver sixpences for weeding. I've reason to re- member old Phillips. Again and again, when my taste was growing weak and wanted treating badly, have I prayed that he'd drop them five sixpences frOm the heavenly spheres. Then come two good years, to make up for the bad 'un. Then two more bad 'uns, so that growers shouldn't grow proud. Then one middlingish. Then a good 'un. Then a bad 'un again. And this year in, that's going to grieve many a grower, makes nine. That's the sum-total. Nine years ago 'twas that Mrs. Parfitt took possession of that cottage." The old man counted the years upon his fingers, and now, as Peter Lamb did not immediately speak, he went over the tips again, and gleefully muttered : " Always good at sums — always good at sums ! " Morning in CobJiavi Woods. 7 With the same kind of click in his throat as he experienced when he asked Uttle Bessie's mother whether she could guess his name, Peter Lamb said : " Didn't a Mrs. Lamb live there once ?" "Ah, that she did," replied old Hen; "lived there many a long year." " What has become of her I AVhy did she leave % " " Oil," said old Ben, putting his hand in his pocket to make sure that his rheumatic bean was safe, "she's moved." Peter Lamb turned with a cry of happiness : " Moved ! ^Vhere to ? " " PU show you if you come along o' me. Walk slow, walk slow — 'tis best for healtli. I mind the time I used to gallop and sipiander my substance. We old 'uns can learn you young 'uns something. Waste no breath — that's one thing. Waste no words — that's another. Come straight to the point, as we're comini' now — that's another." "You knew the Lambs I — but that's a foolish (piestion to ask." " It is that. Me that knows every man, woman, and child born in these parts for the last seventy year! Knew 'em? Oh yes, I knew 'em. There was only two of 'em. "Tis in my mind that Fortress Lamb — a Hoo man was Fortress — died twelve months arter him and his woman was wed. So there was two left, the widder and the babe." "That was Peter." " True 'tis. That was Peter ; a wild lad ; no holding of 'un ; up to all sorts of tricks from morn till eve. Not bad at bottom, mayhap, but the top of him was wayward froth ; wanted skimming. 'Well, well, time 'd do that for him." Old Ben paused here to indulge in a noiseless laugh. " His mother fairly worshipped the boy. 'Tis the way of women, if you've had experience, 'specially of mothers, and he give her many a lieartachc. 'Tis to be pitied she was. A hard life she had of it, not being blessed with worldly possessions ; but she's better off now." ''That's a good hearing," said Peter Lamb heartily. "Yes, yes, better off she is, a deal better off/' said old Ben. " This wild lad of hers," said Peter Lamb, " ran away and went to sea." " He did, and was drownded four years after." 8 The Tragedy of Featherstone. " Who said so % " cried Peter Lamb in a startled tone. "Everybody. The news was brouglit to the village here, and was ondispntable. Drowned in the Indian Ocean. 'Twas a judgment on him, mayhap. The widder she took on terrible, went about, dazed like, for weeks and weeks, looking for her wayward boy. Slowly, slowly now ! Give me yonr arm." In fear and trembling, with dim eyes and a sinking heart Peter Lamb gave old Ben his arm, and assisted him up the broken and irregular flight of steps that led to the village churchyard. "Is this the road?" asked Peter Lamb in a hushed voice. "Yes, this is the road. These steps get hillier and hillier. If they go on in this way for another ten year there'll be no mounting of 'em. I'll not do it, that's flat ; I'll go round the back way." Not a word spoke Peter Lamb as old Ben, clinging to him to recover his breath, tottered round and about the paths that divided the graves ; not a word did he utter when the old man, attempting in vain to straighten his back, pointed with his stick to a little mound of earth, and said : " That's where she's moved to." Peter Lamb knelt by the sacred mound, and covered his face with his hands, while old Ben slowly Avalked off" to tempt his taste at the ale-house with a twelfth part of the shilling the sailor had given him. Mourn for the dead, son returned too late, and for the care- less hours of the past. It is fit you should. The dear, labour- worn face whose eyes used to glisten with a holy joy as you slept in the humble bed at home, shall never again press itself to yours on earth. The loving heart that beat for you alone, the hands that toiled for you, and deemed no work too mean that brought you bread, arc changing to the dust from which they sprung. Learn now the true worth of love— too commonly slighted in the present, to be mourned in the future. How often on distant seas, becalmed in the tropics or battling with the storm, have you thought of the poor mother with tender regret, and promised yourself that you would one day suddenly present yourself to her, and give her a glad surprise which would fill her heart with joy ! It was not to be. The meeting of soul with soul will take place in God's own good time. Your Morimig in CobJiam Woods. 9 work is not accomplished ; you have yet many years to live. Till then, she waits for you at the gates. Long before tlii.s, happy children had trooped to the village school. Tlic youngsters were inwardly jubilant, and could scarcely restrain outward demonstration of their feelings, for it was the half-holiday of the week. Lessons were carelessly done by the pupils, and grave faults condoned by the schoolmaster. True, it was drowsy weather, for it was eleven o'clock, and the hot sun was growing hotter and hotter ; but I am afraid it was the custom of the age for schoolmasters and schoolmistresses to be somewhat lax in the performance of their duties. In those days it was much the fashion for learning to be picked up in a vagrant kind of way. It is very different now. Thera has come into existence a certain exacting overlooker — shall I hazily describe it as the Public Eye? — which will allow of no back- .sliding. But, tr\ith to tell, there was a fair excuse for the master of the village school. He was very young, being barely twenty- two, and utterly unfitted for the position he occupied. One of those squares pegs in round holes we meet with every day of our lives. In this respect, also, he was not at all to blame. Coming to the village three months ago, he learnt that the schoolmaster was so seriously ill tliat he had been compelled suddenly to relinquish his duties. Having nothing to do, and being desirous to remain in the locality awhile, Warren Earnshaw -consented to fill the absent schoolmaster's place till he was w^ell enough to resume his labours. Not only was he perplexed and worried b\' the strangeness of his new position, but his soul was wrung with love and worldlv trouble. The buzzing of the bees distracted him — to say nothing of a pair of beautiful blue eyes, and a mouth most bewitching and a form most lovely, the complete vision of which (being in his brain and in his heart) appeared in the air whichever way he turned, and obscured the actual presentment of the bodies of his pupils. With this young man, and with Peter Lamb, whom we left in the churchyard, .sorrowing over his mother's gi'ave, we shall have to do. Aud much shall we hear and know of the possessor of the blue eyes and the bewitching month. Sweet Mary Graham ! I might be pardoned for falling in love with you myself, and so might any man whose passions are purified by innocent thought. It is your spring, maiden, and 10 Tlie Tragedy of Feat/ierstone. your joyous spirit and chaste heart are an added beauty to the woods. A}', lean idly against this ancient tree, and let your white hand rest upon the brown knotted bark as you gaze at the floating clouds. Dream and be happy while the sun shines — for nigiit is coming. It is no falsely-manufactured romance I am about to relate. Stories of human lives, and of the trials and temptations of human souls, are valueless unless they have in them the elements of truth and reality ; and where, in greater abundance, shall these trials and temptations be found than in London, the City of Startling Contrasts, where luxury mocks starvation and diamonds shine in the eyes of misery ] No need to seek for startling episodes when the book of the soul is open to our gaze. In strangeness and luilikeness of the future to the present, the wildest efforts of the imagination could not transcend the story of the lives of Mary Graham and her lover, Warren Earnshaw, tragically linked as it is Avith that of a man who, as Mary leant against the ancient tree, passed her without observ- ing her — his mind, also, being occupied by dreams. CHAPTER II. MICnAEL FEATnEnSTONE's SINCiUI.AIl mOCEEDINGS. TiiLS man's name was Micliael Featherstone. He arrived in Rochester early yesterday m()rnin<.', having travelled thither from London, and after a frugal lireakfast at a cheap eating- honse, inquired of one man the road to Cohhani, and of anotiier the road to Chatham, He walked about two-thirds of the way to Cobham, through hop-gardens which, if old Hen was right, were going to grieve many a grower, and tlien, after otlier inquiries relating to the road, abruptly retraced his steps, and walked resolutely to Chatham, with the air of a man who had important business to transact in that bustling town. It was a ])retence ; he did no business in Chatham ; he simjdy made a show of walking briskly about the streets. In the evening he re- turned to Rochester, and sle]it there during the night, and this morning walked through Cobham woods and park to the village. Hei'ein I seem to see the finger of Providence ; for had not ^Michael Featherstone abruptly retraced his stejis yesterday, and had he then straightforwardly carried out what- ever purpose was in his mind, strange issues would have been averted in connection with Peter Lamb and the young school- master, Warren Karnshaw. LTpon such slight threads do our destinies hang that the most trivial action of an utter stranger may transform a comedy into a tragedy, and change the whole current of our lives. In a certain part of the woods, a couple of hundred yards on the Kochester side of an tmusually high foot-bridge or stile, easy access to -which was provided by a substantial ladder on each side, the movements of Michael Featherstone became singular, not to say mysterious. When he arrived at the foot of the lofty foot-bridge, he did not cross it, btit setting his face to Kochester counted two hundred steps thitherwards, and paused, with a feeling of satisfaction that he had not been observed. On this spot, to the right of him, among the grand old trees of oak and elm and chestnut, which thereabouts were 12 The Tragedy of FeatJierstone. thickly clustered, stood one with peculiarities so marked that it could not be mistaken by any person who, for sufficient reason, had occasion to take note of it. The branches spread out for a great distance around, and the ends of many were buried in the earth, so as to form a kind of arch, beneath which a man could lie with ease, and be partly sheltered. Last year's fallen leaves lay inches thick upon this natural bed. This huge tree immediately arrested Michael Featherstone's attention ; l)ut before devoting himself to a more serious contem- plation of it he looked around with an apparently careless eye. No person was in sight ; he was alone. Then the character of his gaze became truthful, in so far as it was earnest and search- ing, although its real purport was not disclosed. Indeed, that could scarcely have been rendered intelligible to an vminformed mind without words or further action. He stepped close to the tree, and counted the curved branches, of which there were eleven, and stood quite still for several minutes, and might have so stood for several more, had he not been disturbed by the sound of approaching footsteps. Why so simple a tiling should have alarmed him was not evident ; but alarmed he certainly was. With a swift motion he slipped within the arch of boughs, and, throwing himself upon the ground, shaded his face with his arm, and pretended to sleep. H6 did not venture to open his eves till he felt assured that he was alone asrain, and even then he raised the lids warily, to make sure that a watch had not been set upon him. He did not rise immediately ; he lay " a-thynkynge." Put into intelligible shape, his thoughts ran thus : " it is the spot, from the description. Two hundred yards from the foot-bridge, he said, and wrote on the paper I have in my pocket, partly from his own words, partly at my dictation. It protects me, in case of a mischance, and criminates him. But there shall be no mischance \ all that is needed on my part is caution, and it shall be exercised. Two hundred yards from the foot-bridge, and each of my footsteps measures exactly one yard, to the thousandth part of an inch. The foot-bridge cannot be mistaken • I am lying under it now. The exact number of branches bending over — eleven. I have never seen another tree like it, here or elsewhere. The description is perfect. If the letters are in the bark, which he said hecut there, nothing more can be done till night. I must not be seen Michael Featlicrstoncs Singular Proceedings. 1 3 loitering about the spot; it might excite suspicion. A dark night; no moon. It is hardly possible anyone will bo in the wuods. I shall he safe, (]uite sate, and if he has not deceived nie I sliali 1)L' made for lifu." These three words had a kind of fascination for the thinker, apd remained in his mind. "Made for life — made for life — made for life ! I shall be rich — rich — rich ! I always knew I should be one day ; 1 was always certain that a bit of goud luck would fall to my share. And it has, though I should never have guessed the way of it. Ha, ha, Michael Feathei- stone, made for life — made (or life — made for life ! " Exult- antly as these thoughts ran through his mind, it would have created no agreeable impression to have heard them expressed in equivalent tones. After awhile he rose from his recumbent posture, and in silence and solitude examined the bark of the tree, at a height of about four feet from the ground. Eyes and fingtrs were busily engaged in the mysterious search, which at first seemed likely to go unrewarded ; but suddenly his eyes flashed with triumph ; he had found what he was seeking — the letters W E cut deep in tiie bark. It was enough. With throbbing brain he stepped out of the arch of boughs, and set his face towards Cobham. He reached the lofty bridge which divided wood from park, and crossed it. Then he breathed more freely. " (^)uite safe," he miu-mured, " quite safe. Made for life — made for life — made for life ! " But jMichael Featherstone, if you are about to be made for life at the expense of another man's honour, of another man's good name, of another man's happiness, your worldly prosperity may be the undoing of you. No such fear disturbed him. In his excitement and exulta tion he picked up a stone and threw it at a fawn which had lagged behind the herd of deer to which it belonged. The act was cruel, the aim was good ; the stone struck the fawn, which, wounded, cast timid, mournful glances around, and then limped after its fellows. Michael Featherstone smiled, and in that smile his true nature was portrayed. He was a tall, thin man, respectably dressed, and the ex- pression of his features was habitually composed and grave. At such times he would not have impressed you unfavourably ; 14 The Tragedy of Featherstone. but when he was excited or pleased you would have thovight twice as to his character. Malicious sparkles gleamed in his eyes, his nostrils twitched, a mocking smile hovered about his lips. Then it was that he was compelled, as it were, to hold out a danger-flag, warning you to be on your guard. As a rule I do not believe in faces. I have seen very benevolent-visaged criminals and very evil-looking good men ; but here assuredly was a face which at times reflected what lay hid behind the mask. Michael Featherstone sauntered through the park, and pass- ing through the lodge gates, entered the village, having, as we know, already passed sweet Mary (Ji-aham without observing her. As he approaclied the tree against which she was leaning, his shadow stretched out to her feet, and as he came nearer, partly rested on her form. So shall it rest upon her in the years to come. But heaven's light is also upon her and around her. God shield her, and steer her safely through the I'ocks ! It was the first time in Michael Featherstone's life that he had visited Cobham, and he experienced a feeling of satisfaction in the personal obscurity which surrounded him. "No one knows me," he thought; " I shall see no one I am acquainted with ; I am quite safe, but I can't go walking up and down the village all day. I must kill time somehow." He commenced the killing of it by halting at the Ship, and calling for a glass of ale and a sandwich. Three or four customers were loitering at tiie tiny bar, and he asked if he could sit down. " You can go upstairs, if you like," said the landlord. Upstairs he went, and sat in an old-fashioned room by the open window, facing the village road. He sipped his ale and ate his sandwich ; then fell into meditation. The sleepy village was sleepier than ever ; all was still and quiet within and without, with the exception of a breeze which had just started into life, and which amused itself by sporting with the stray leaves. In the course of his meditations Michael Featherstone un- buttoned his respectable black coat, and took therefrom a pocket-book. From amongst a number of papers and letters he selected one which he opened and read, after replacing his pocket-book and rebuttoning his coat. Woi"d for word, the following was the substance of the document. CHAlTKl; III. JAMES WIHTEr-OCK's CONFESSION". " I, James Whitelock, being laid up by reason of an accident in the docks, give tiie following information to Michael Feather- stone, to act upon as he thinks best. 1 found the man we spoke of at ten o'clock of a night I can't remember, my head being confused by the accident — but it must be many a month ago — lying by the side of a tree on a short track between Chatham and Rochester, midway perhaps. The track is otf the main road and saves a mile and a half. I ought to know that part of the country well ; I tramjied it years enough. " I was in a bad case ; not a penny to pay for a bed, and three apples and cold water for my dinner that day. Near the man was a horse, with saddle and bridle on, nibbling away at the grass. ^ly first idea was to steal the saddle, though it would have been a hard matter for a suspected man to have turned it into bread and meat. The horse settled that idea for me ; I could not get near it, tr^- my hardest. It took two steps backward for my one step forward. My second idea was to look at- the man. " I stooped over him, and couldn't make out whether he was drimk or dead. He made no movement. My third idea was to search if there was anything about him that would be use- ful to a poor fellow who had never had a five-pound note to bless himself with. He had a ring on his finger ; I tried to get it oft', but it wouldn't come. He had a gold watch and chain, and I was just about to take them when I thought that money wpuld be safer. So I felt in his pockets. " In his trousers-pocket were two sovereigns, and some loose silver in a purse. I took the mouey, and put the empty purse back. That was a good night's work, but I thought what a fool I should be if he had more about him and I left it behind me. A chance like that wasn't likely to occur again. In his waistcoat-pocket a gold pencil case. I left it, though my fingers itched. A pearl and silver knife and a gold keeper in tissue- 1 6 TJie Tragedy of FeatJierstone. paper, I left them all. Then I searched the inner breast- pocket of his coat, which was tightly buttoned, and there 1 found a pocket-book. It was heavy and bulky. I moved some distance off, to find out what it contained. It was filled with notes and gold. Four thousand pounds in bank-notes and iiftv sovereigns. What a haul ! For a minute or two I thought I must be dreaming, but there was the treasure sure enough, and I was wide awake. It was as much as I could do to keen myself from screaming out at the top of my voice, but I kept my excitement down, and set to work like a sensible chap. I took all the money out, and stowed it away about me, and I was about to throw the pocket-book away when I thought of another plan. I went back to the man. He was lying motion- less ; he hadn't moved. I fiistened the empty pocket-book, and slid it back into the pocket I took it from. Then I buttoned vip his coat, and went away. Before twelve o'clock the next day I was thirty miles off. " I lived well enough for a week or two afterwards ; not too well, because what I had to do was not to draw suspicion upon me. I had plenty to eat and drink, but I never drank more than was good for me ; I had to take care of my property. " There was plenty of gold for me to live on for a long while. I did not dare to try to change a note ; the whole thing might have been discovered, and tliere would have been an end of me. I would have left the country if I could, but there Avould have been too much danger in the attemjJt, because, for eighteen months to come, I had to report myself to the police once a month for something I had done. It seemed to me that my best plan was to go on quietly till I was free of the police, and then to cut off to America with my property. But I was frightened that I fchould lose it, or be robbed of it, or that it might be found upon me, before I was a free man to go whei'e I liked without being questioned or taken up ; so I made up my mind to bury it in a safe place, and I thought the safest place w^ould be in the woods, where people wouldn't dream of looking for treasure. I fixed upon the spot, put the bank-notes in a cigar-box which I pitched and tarred well outside, filled it with shavings, and nailed it up. I sewed up the box in can- vas, and pitched and tarred that well, and then, one dark night, I stowed it away in Cobham Woods, digging a hole four feet deep, and bedding the box amid a heap of stones. I stamped fames WJiitcloclcs Confess ion. \^ tlie Ciirth abovo it in a tliorou;,'li workmanlike manner, and pressed tiie leaves into the earth, and threw them loosely above that, 80 that no man would suspect that the ground had been disturbed. There tlie money lies, safe till some one digs it up. And no one can dig it up who does not know the exact spot, and how it was all done. '' Walk from Rochester to Cobham, through the hop-gardens and woods, till you come to the foot-bridge tliat takes you into the park. You can't miss the path ; there is only one. When you come to the foot-bridge, which is about twelve feet high, with a flight of stents on the Cobham side and a flight of steps on the Rochester side, don't go any farther. Set your face to- wards Rochester, and measure two lunidred yard.s, no more and no less, and on the right of the path 3'ou will sec an old chest- nut tree, with eleven branches arching over and bedded in the ground, forming a semicircle. Take a piece of cord or wood and make a straight line from the centre branch, which will be the sixth counting either way, to the trunk of the tree. In the centre of this straight line, four feet down, you will find the box sewn in canvas, with the money in it. To make sure of the tree, look well over the bark, Cobham-wards, about four feet from the ground, and you will find the letters " W E " cut pretty deep in. How I came to choose those lettere was be- cause I remembered they were affixed in silver on the outside of the pocket-book in which I found the money. That is all I have to say. (Signed) " James Whitelock." " This document is my safeguard," mused Michael Feather- stone, " in case I am interrupted in my night's work. The ex- planation cannot be otherwise than satisfactory. Having by chance come into possession of the information I resolved to test its accuracy, so that I might return the money to its right- ful owner, and clear him from the suspicion which hangs over him. Having been in Mr. Earnshaw's service for a number of years, and havhig unfortunately joined in his condemnation, and in a measure assisted in his disgrace, I am most anxious to be the first to clear his name from reproach — supposing James Whitelock's strange stoiy be true. Yes, always supposing that. And I thought it best to work alone, so that, in case the story is an invention, further humiliation should be spared a gentle- E l8 TJic Tragedy of FeatJierstone. man whom I served so long. A noble line of conduct to pur- sue." The false smile which hovered about his lips as he mentally rehearsed this explanation in the event of discovery now disappeared. " But I am mistaken in you, Michael Featherstone, if you do not perform your task so well as not to run the risk of interruption. You have never yet bungled any job you took in hand, and you are not likely to bungle one now." With this self-praise he was about to fold th^ document and replace it in his pocket-book when a singular but perfectly natural circumstance occurred. He was sitting close to the window, anticipating no interruption, and holding James White- lock's Confession loosely in his hand ; the door of the room was suddenly opened, and a draught was 'caused ; and at that very moment a puff of wind whisked the document out of Michael Featherstone's fingers, and flew away with it. He was so startled and confused that the landlord of the Ship, who was innocently responsible for the affair, regarded him with some suspicion. "What's the matter?" inquired the landlord. "The paper ! the paper ! " gasped Michael Featherstone, " What paper % " demanded the landlord, looking around to convince himself that nothing had been abstracted. Michael Featherstone also looked around • so sudden and unexpected was his loss that he was in doubt whether the docu- ment was in or out of the room. " I was reading a papei'," he stammered, "as you entered, and it suddenly flew away." " Magic," suggested the landlord, with a sidelong glance at his guest, who was hunting about the room. The look, and the tone in which the word was uttered, re- called Michael Featherstone to himself. " It must have been the wind," he said. " That's more sensible," remarked the landlord, and both the men looked out of window at once. Nothing could be seen of the paper. " Was it a newspaper % " "No ; a letter. I'd best go and look for it." " Please yourself," said the landlord indifferently. But Michael Featherstone lingered yet a few moments, searching nooks and corners with his eyes ; he dared not run the risk of leaving a document so compromising behind him. James Whitelock's Confession. 1 9 " The chances are," said the landlord, " that it's outside and not in, and as it seems to be ot importance, I'd advise you to look where it's most likely to be found." Michael Feathcrstone took the sensible advice, and hurriedly bidding the landlord good-day, left the room and the inn. The very breezes seemed to ct)ns|)ire against him ; they were light but erratic, and blew now this way, now that. Michael Fcath(.rstoue obtained from them no inde.\ to the course of the lost document ; he walked a few yards up the street, and theu a few yards down, anrobabilities are that he will go to-night and that he will go alone. I shall be there, and shall be able to see for myself. In that case my actions must be guided by circumstances. To one course I am pledged. No man shall possess the money but I, Michael Feathcrstone. A likely thing, indeed, that I shall submit to be robbed of a fortune when it is -within my grasp ! 20 TJlc Tragedy of FeatJierstone. "Say that I am not disturbed to-night. I go ; I find the money. It is mine. What then to do, so that I may have no fears in the future ? Why, to watch near the spot, night after night, for a weeli or so ; for a fortnight even, to settle the matter once and for all. If no person visits the tree, or lingers near it with a settled design (which it will not be difficult for me to find out), I may rest satisfied that the paper is destroyed Avithout any man being the wiser, and that it can never be brought against me. I have allowed myself to be frightened by shadows. The loss, after all, may be no great one." Having thus unravelled the web of consequences, in a manner to quiet his fears, Michael Featherstone turned down a by-lane in a more comfoi'table frame of mind. Nevertheless he did not relax his watchful glances on all sides of him in his search for the Confession of which he had been so sti-angely deprived. Meanwhile let us see what had become of it. The breeze w^hirled it along, now allowing it to trail on the ground, now whisking it up and twirling it round and round, now dashing it against a hedge where the brambles tore and partly defaced it, and eventually lodged in the branches of a green tree which overlooked a churchyard. There it remained awhile, and pres- ently, once more the sport of fate, it was released again, and fluttered to the ground, within a short distance of Peter Lamb, who was still sorrowing over his mother's grave. Some humble friend of the dead woman had placed a rough cross of wood upon the mound, and Peter Lamb bedewed the cross with his tears and kissed it, and prayed as he knelt by the sacred earth. Then, with chastened heart, he prepared to go forth into the world, a lonely man, and it came into his mind to take with him a little of the mould from his mother's grave, and a few of the wild flowers that grew about it. He felt in his pockets for paper ; he had none ; and he was on the point of carrying away the loose earth in his pocket when his eyes lighted on the Con- fession, which had just fluttered from the tree. He picked it up, and doubling it over with the writing inside, placed in it some of the earth and a few wild flowere, kissing each one as he gathered it. Then he carefully folded the paper, and tied it round with a piece of string. A sailor may not carry paper in his pockets, but he is seldom without string. He had scarcely noticed that there was writing on the paper. His soul was filled with sorrow, and had no room for curiosity. Be- James Whitelock's Confession. 21 sides, his eyes were blinded with tears. lianjijing round his neck, liiddeu beiieatii hissiiirt, was a small oilskin ba;^, in which were some trifling mementoes and a bank-note for ten pounds with which he had intended to gladsli;iilo paler, " gcntleiuau as you call yourself, to throw my mislortuiic in my teeth.'' " I \tsed the same word awhile ago in connection with mv own position, and used it truthfully. How did you receive it '( Not that I have any intention of reproaching you for your father's career — though it may possibly help to throw light upon your own." " At all events," said Michael Fcatherstone, with a curioua mixture of humility and arrogance, "if my father was not a re- spectable man, I have not followed in his footsteps ; if he cast shame upon the name I bear, I have lived it down." " The end is not yet," said Warren Earnshaw solemnly; " it is when a man's life is done that the accoiuit is balanced. My father, coming upon you by chance in the Londou streets, a forlorn and wretched lad, drifting into lower depths than those into which you had already fallen, heard from your lips the particulars of a sad story — I will not stop to inquire how much of it was true — took compassion upon you, and resolved to give you a chance to lift yourself from the mire. He brought you home to his house ; he clothed you, fed you, educated you, and finding you quick and intelligent, and apparently faithful, he placed confidence in you, and when you arrived at man's estate, you were in a position of trust in his household. I never liked you, and did not hide my dislike. My father re- monstrated with me, reproved me, and exhorted me to be more charitable in my opinions ; begged me ever to incline to the kindlier view of men and things, and never to be harsh in my judgment ; and expressed his thankfulness that he had been the happy means of guiding you from the forlorn condition in which he found you to a career which he was convinced would prove — as indeed he said it was already proving — to be honoured and useful. He did not convince me, and the result has proved whose estimate of you was the correct one. \N'hen I look back upon his wonderful kindness and unselfishness, not only in connection with you, but in every action of his life in which you were not concerned, when I think of his unvarying sweetness and goodness to all with whom he came in contact, of his untiring charity and nobility of character, I bow my head in reverence, and thank God for giving me a father whose soul, whatever may be the verdict of the world, is pui'e and unsullied. 4-6 TJie Tragedy of Fcatlierstone. ^^'ill it gratify you to learn that he has lost his reason, which the doctors declare he can never recover, and that it were better he were dead than to linger on in the condition to which his misfortunes have brought him % " " Poor man, poor man ! " murmured Michael Featherstone. " Is it so bad as that 1 " " I will finish the story which j-our presence has forced from me. Who should know better than you how loved and honoured my father was by all 1 He himself was in a position of trust, and an unhappy day arrived when it fell to his lot to perform a delicate and difficult task which no person in the bank in which he held an important place co\iid perform so well. It was to recover a sum of money which a customer had embezzled, and my father's duty carried him to Chatham, where he met the man who had possession of the sum. Certain cir- cumstances attending the affair — one of which was that the thief was a near relative of one of the directors, and that this gentleman wished to avoid a public exposure which would bring discredit to his name — rendered it necessary that the mission upon which my father was engaged should be private. He was strictly enjoined not to speak of the matter to any person under any circumstances. My father so worked upon the fears of the thief that he recovered the greater portion of the money, and he wrote to the manager of the bank announcing his success, and stating that he would be in London in a couple of days. He rode back, and wishing to spend a night in Rochester, started from Chatham late in the evening. To shorten the journey he took a short track, and striking in- cautiously between some trees, did not notice a suspended branch which had been broken by the wind, The branch caught him on his neck, and bore him from his horse to the ground, where he lay insensible for many hours. It was not until sunrise the following morning that he came to his senses ; bewildered, he gazed around, and for several minutes could not realize what had occurred. His first thought after his mem- ory returned was of the money he had recovered for the bank. He had secured it in his pocket-book, which he had placed in an iimer breast-pocket of his coat. This coat was tightly buttoned \\p when he started from Chatham on the pre- vious evening, and it was tightly buttoned now ; his astonish- ment, therefore, was the greater when, upon unbuttoning TJic Plain and Bitter Tritt/i. 47 it ami takiiij;- out his j)Ocket-book, lie fuuiul it empty. Four thousand pounds in notes and fifty sovereigns in gold had been abstracted from it during his state of insensibility. A little loose money of his own had also l)ecn stolen from a purse which had been rcfilaced empty in his pocket. What was ho to do ? If he went to a police-station and gave information of the robbery, he would be compelled to break the obligation of secrecy which had been laid upon him. He decided that his only course was to get back to London as soon as he could, and report the unfortunate cir- cumstance to the bank. He an-ived in London shortly before midnight, and came home at once, it being too late to go to the bank. Now, mark. During his absence I had discovered that for several months ])ast you had been robbing him systematically of small sums of mono}' ; 1 said nothing to you about it, but resolved to expose you to my father immed- iately he returned. I was up when he arrived, and was alarmed at his appearance. His system had received a severe shock from the accident in tlie woods, and his mind was racked by the loss of the money, which he woidd have to repay. Upon my telling him that I wished to speak to him upon an important matter, he begged me to reserve it till the morning, and retired to his study to look over letters which were awaiting him, and to write an intelligible account of the misfortune which had befallen him. If I was alarmed at his appearance in the night, I was shocked at it in the morning. His face was haggard, and he seemed to have grown ten years older in as many hoin-s. Before I unburdened myself to him he asked me to listen to him. He related what had occurred since he left home, and tiien told me of another cruel loss. Among his correspondence was a letter demanding the immediate paj-ment of a larger sum of money than that of which he had been robbed. He had become security for a friend for this amount, and the friend had speculated and lost every shiUing he had in the world. The letter my father had received Mas from a legal firm, and annoimced that proceedings would be immediately taken against him if the money for which he was securit}- was not paid before eleven o'clock on this morning. ' 1 have notes to the amount,' said my father, ' in my safe, which I intended ' to offer to the bank ; but this is the more pressing misfortune of the two. 1 owe the money, and it must be paid ; you will 48 TJie Tragedy of Featherstone. take it to the lawyers, and settle the just claim they have against me. if the directors decide that the loss of the money I recovered must fall upon me, all I can do is to offer to repay them gradually out of my salar}'. It will pinch us hard for a few 3'ears, and the prospects 1 had in view for you must be relinquished.' I bade him not to grieve for me, and said that I would work and help him in the coining struggle ; and then I briefly told him of the wrong you had done him. It was an additional grief, because of the trust he had reposed in you, and he said he would consider what was best to be done; meanwhile, no mention of my discovery was to be made to a third party. He handed me the money to pay the lawyers, and I left him. We met again at noon, and I was rejoiced to find him in a calmer and more hopeful fi-ame of mind. He had explained the circinnstances of the robbery to the manager, and had handed him the written statement he had prejjared. Nothing could be decided till the directors held a consultation in the afternoon. On my part, I had paid the lawyers the money due on my father's security, and had received a clear quittance of their claim against him. ' We shall be poor,' said my father, ' but no stain will rest upon us.' On that evening he received a note from the bank, summoning him to attend a meeting of the directors on the following day. He returned from that meeting ruined and broken-hearted. The directors refused to believe his statement, and said they had received information that the robbery was a fiction invented by him, and that he had used the money to save him from disgrace which threatened him in another quarter. When he indignantly denied the charge, they said there was an easy Avay to disprove it, and asked him to furnish them with the luimbers of the bank-notes he had received from the man wlio iiad embezzled the money of the bank. This my father could not do, upon which the directors said no other course was open to them than to discharge him. The circumstances of the case, they said, precluded them from prosecuting him ; he had been engaged upon a secret and con- fidential mission, which on no account was to be made public, and he had taken a shameful advantage of the fact. They informed him that there could be neither legal nor moral doubt of his guilt, and that he was discharged from their service a disgraced and degraded man. It was you, Michael Featherstone, you whom my father rescued from the gutters, who had fabri- The Plain aiul Bitter TnitJi. 49 cated this infamous st