CHAPTER XXXVII.
Once more back to London, dear reader, and to the house of Lord Woodhall, near the court. There were two rooms occupied in that house, and a little episode going on in each, about an hour after Ralph Woodhall's departure. Into each of these I should like to give my reader an insight, but know not well which to proceed with first. Perhaps the one the most completely detached from the story, and having the least influence upon the result, had better be chosen. We will walk up stairs, then, and into Margaret's room, where she sits with her door bolted to guard against interruption, and two letters before her. She has read one, in the hand of Ralph Woodhall, and it has clouded many hopes, and cast a deep shadow back upon her mind It has told her that he whom she loves is a prisoner, and that all chance of escape is at an end; that he must abide a prejudiced trial, and encounter all that the wrath of her own relations can do to destroy him. But as there are drops of bitter in every cup, so are there drops of sweetness in the bitterest chalice; and Ralph's letter has given her the most solemn assurances that he had no share whatever in her brother's death, and that he has loved her ever, and will love her ever to the last hour of life. He has spoken, too, of Hortensia--freely--frankly--easily, telling all that she has done for him, and showing the painful situation in which she has been placed by the result of her generous kindness to the son of her mother's friend.
That was a great satisfaction to her; for Margaret was a woman; but yet, perhaps, for the same reason, she was not quite satisfied. She would certainly have been better pleased had it been a man who thus befriended her lover. Nevertheless, she felt very grateful, and tried to persuade herself that there was not a vestige of such a thing as jealousy in her mind.
The other letter was written in a small, woman's hand, more beautiful than was common in those days, and though it was open. Margaret had kept it unread till she had perused every word in Ralph's handwriting twice. She had only seen the first words, and those were so familiar and affectionate that she thought they must come from some well-known friend, though she could not remember the writing. She now turned to it with some interest, and read:
"Dearest Margaret,
"If to have learned to love you like a sister can give me a claim to call you so, I have a right to use these words. I write to you in great sadness, but yet I will not be deterred from writing; for there are many causes which induce me to seek personal communication with yourself, and among the chief of these is the hope of serving you in times of difficulty, and supporting you in hours of trial. One very dear to you, and deservedly so both as a man and a relation, has read me a part of your letter to him, warning him that his residence at my house had been discovered, and that danger menaced him there. Do not think that this was a breach of confidence on his part, for it was absolutely necessary in the circumstances in which he was placed. That letter only served to heighten my affection for you both, and increase my anxiety to serve you. You spoke of gratitude toward me for what I did to shelter and save him. I deserve no such gratitude, for I acted entirely from personal feelings. He is the son of one whom my mother loved as few have ever loved a sister; and, therefore, I felt that he had as much claim upon me as a near relation. I served him, also, because I have a deep regard for him, and because I look upon him as injured and persecuted. After I had heard your letter, believe me, I only redoubled my exertions, periled myself, my fortune, and perhaps my fair fame to save him; but my own heart is satisfied that I did right, and I do not think that you will judge otherwise. We set out to seek for some port where he could embark, traveling in my carriage, and well attended; but we were met and turned by various parties of contending troops, till, in the end, my carriage broke down, and I was obliged to fly with him on horseback, traveling with a single servant only. At length, most unfortunately, we were suddenly stopped by a party of Lord Churchill's horse, and he was immediately made a prisoner.
"I give you all these details, because I know there are some about you who may seek to give a false impression of my conduct and his. The inconveniences I suffered I care not for at all; the opinion of the world I care for little; but your good opinion, dear Margaret, I care for much, as it must greatly depend upon that how much you trust me, and how far we can act together to frustrate the designs of those who wish no good to you, and all evil to him who loves you. Believe not a word that they say, Margaret; believe only that I have acted toward him as a sister to a brother, and that I have done that, ever thinking of you, and of his love for you, and seeking as one object to promote your happiness. I will own that when I saw him arrested, I wept for him as bitter tears as I ever shed, and probably exposed myself to imputations which I did not deserve; but be assured that there is no act of my life that I could have wished you not to see; no word that I have ever uttered to him that I could not desire you to hear.
"And now, dear Margaret--believing this, as I know you will believe it--listen to a few words of counsel from one more world-learned than yourself. Remember that you are surrounded by his enemies--by those who, either from malice or mistake, seek to destroy him, and if they can not succeed in that, to deprive him of you. Trust them not, Margaret. Receive every thing they tell you with doubt. Be firm, constant, and true to the last; for be sure it is the only road to--the only chance of happiness. Let them not persuade you to any thing that can ever put a bar against your union with him. Let them never induce you to give up faith in despair. Far be it from me to urge any child to disobey a parent; but there is a limit to obedience beyond which no parent has a right to exact it, and the less when any command is founded on passion, prejudice, or error. I see before you many a difficulty and many a trial; but still, be firm under them all, and if any service can be rendered to you, or any support afforded, fear not to apply to me.
"Hortensia Danvers."
Why, I will not stop to inquire, but Margaret wept when she read those lines.
It is now time that we should descend to the room below, in which Lord Woodhall still sat after his young relation Robert had left him. He had read over twice the news from Sedgemoor, and was reading it again, when first there was a tap at the door, and then a portly and jovial figure entered, in very neat and bright attire. The black silk stockings fitted the sturdy calves of the legs and the neat ankle to the utmost nicety. Nothing could be brighter than the shoe. The cassock glistened like a raven's wing; and the round, smooth, well-shaven face, beaming with good nature and a kindly heart, was almost as lustrous as the gown.
"Well, my dear lord, well," cried Doctor M'Feely, "I have won my bet, I think. Monmouth has been beaten before the seventh of July, and I have won the living that your lordship promised."
"You shall have it--you shall have it, parson," said the old lord, whose spirits Robert's news had somewhat cheered, "though you have had as narrow a squeak of it as ever ninth pig had, just escaped the tithe. You should have had it, indeed," he added, in a good-humored tone, "even if you hadn't won the bet. You have waited a long time, but you have got a good one now. The presentation was made out the day before yesterday, and you have nothing to do but go down and ring yourself in. The dedimus, too, is made out, and sent down to Giles somebody or other, who will receive your oaths; for, as I told you, you must act as justice too in those wild parts. We know better than to put many parsons in the commission in Lincolnshire."
"Ay, that's the worst part of the bargain," said good Doctor M'Feely. "I wish I could get over that. I never could bear to send a poor creature to prison, I'm sure."
"Pooh! pooh!" said the old peer; "go and take the oaths directly, the first thing you do, and my word for it you will be as hard as a flint-stone before a twelvemonth is over, committing any lad who steals a cabbage or nooses a hare as readily as you will give a text on a Sunday. If you look in that drawer, you will find all the papers."
Doctor M'Feely got them out, with great reverence for the papers, and great joy at his new situation. He was a man destitute by no means of imagination, and it is inconceivable what apple-trees he planted in the orchard, and how he plowed the glebe. When he had got the precious documents in his pocket, however, which made him, with the consent of the bishop--no very difficult thing in those days--rector of the united parish of Bridlington cum Saddletree, and justice of the peace in the county of Dorset, he did not forget another errand he had in hand, though it was rather a delicate one.
"I thought I saw Master Robert Woodhall pass by me in the street," he said, after having thanked Lord Woodhall again and again; "has he been here? I thought he was in Somerset."
"Ay, he has been here, and brought me good news, doctor. He has tracked out that villain Ralph; and, before the month is out, I hope he will be hanging as high as Haman."
"Ay, now," said Doctor M'Feely, with some hesitation, "that's just what I wanted to talk about. I can't help thinking, my lord, that your lordship is mistaken about Master Ralph; I don't think any thing on earth would have made that young man draw a sword upon your son. Besides, I have letters from his father, and from the good Doctor ----, the vicar of the parish. They both say that they are sure he did not do it--nay, more, that it was impossible; and, moreover--"
"Is the man mad?" exclaimed Lord Woodhall, starting up from his seat with a look of indescribable fury in his countenance, "or would he drive me mad? Was not the challenge sent, man? Did he not say that he would come? Was not the hour appointed? Was not my son killed? Will you persuade me that my poor boy is still alive, when I saw him cold, and stiff, and white, in his bloody coffin? Of what would you persuade me? Henry was killed--at night I--without witnesses--Ralph Woodhall killed him; and I will have vengeance."
The last words were uttered with a shout, and the old man's face was contorted with passion; but Doctor M'Feely, though not very clerical in all his habits, was roused, and felt himself at that moment the minister of the Gospel; and he replied, in a solemn and warning tone, "Vengeance is mine: I will repay, saith the Lord."
The next moment he stood in the hall; and then, taking up his hat and cane, he quitted the house.
A little more than a week after the period of which I have just been speaking, Doctor M'Feely stood in his small rectory-house, a few miles from the town of Dorchester, and looked about him with evident complacence. There was a boy in deep mourning, about fifteen years of age, standing by his side; and the house was completely furnished, plainly, but very neatly. The doctor was in high good humor; every thing was somewhat better than he expected; the glebe good, and largely measured; the house solid, and wanting no repair; the small tithes as well as the large were his, and some of them had come in, so that he was not likely to want butter and eggs in a hurry. There was a prospect, in short, of pleasant abundance before him, and, what is still better, blessed independence. At that moment he did not care a rush for the whole world.
"Well, my dear," he said to the boy, "and what does your mother ask for the whole of this?"
"She says she thinks, sir, two hundred pounds," replied the boy, modestly.
"Pooh! pooh!" cried Doctor M'Feely, with some little acquired feelings of parsimony hanging about him, "a hundred and fifty is quite enough."
"The furniture, the cart, and the garden things cost my poor father four hundred not eighteen months ago," replied the boy, with a sigh.
"Ay, but they have been used a good deal since," replied Doctor M'Feely, without looking at the lad.
"Well, sir, you must have them for what you will give," said the late rector's son; "my mother is very poor, and there are eight of us; but she says she could not bear to have the things sold by auction--it would break her heart."
"Eight of you? God bless the poor woman!" exclaimed the good doctor, turning and looking him full in the face, down which was rolling a large tear; "she shall have the two hundred. I didn't think there were eight of you!"
"Not if you think it above the value, sir," said the boy.
"I dare say not--I dare say not," said the doctor, hurriedly, with a gush of warm blood coming into his smooth face; "besides, I can spare it very well, my man. I have been a great economist, do you see, and when I made two pennies I always put by one. That's the way to thrive, young man, and to keep yourself from getting out at elbows. I have never wanted a whole cassock or a clean shirt since I came across the herring pond--I won't say much for what was between the two, but that was neither seen nor felt--I can spare it quite well, I tell you, so not a word more about it; the bargain's struck; and tell your mother, my dear, that I will come down and see her to-night, and if I can help you on with your Latin and Greek, I'll do it, and perhaps communicate a touch of the genuine dialect into the bargain."
The boy went away well satisfied with his father's successor; and Doctor M'Feely sat down and took some dinner, prepared by a clean country servant, regretting that he had got no wine in the house to drink his own health on the first day of his residence. He then leaned back in his chair to indulge in an afternoon's nap, a habit which he had lately cultivated a good deal. His eyes were just closed, and two or three deep inspirations showed that his efforts had not been unsuccessful, when the door of the room shook by the opening of the outer door, and the next moment a stranger stood before him.
Doctor M'Feely started, rubbed his eyes, and gazed at the stranger, who was a young man of powerful frame, but somewhat gaunt and haggard in appearance, with a wild, somewhat wandering eye, and a broad but knitted brow.
"What do you want?" asked the doctor, without rising.
"Are you a magistrate?" asked the stranger.
"Yes; by God's blessing, I am justice of the peace," replied the good doctor. "What do you want with me in that capacity? I thought you wanted to be married, or buried, or christened; for you look in a perilous state of mind, young man, and I don't know which would be most appropriate to your case."
"The second," answered the stranger, sternly. "Christened I have been, by better hands than yours. Married I shall never be. Buried I shall soon be. But where have I seen your face before?"
"'Pon my soul and conscience I can't tell," replied the doctor, with a sly twinkle of the eye, "in no place, I hope, where I should not have been. It's Ireland perhaps you're thinking of."
"Not I," cried the stranger. "Lincolnshire, if any where; but that must be a mistake."
"Devil a bit of that," answered Doctor M'Feely, "for if you ever saw me any where in the whole world--barring Ireland--it's just as likely it was in Lincolnshire as any where else, for I never lived there a bit longer than I could help, and that was three quarters of my whole time, seeing that the old lord was so mighty fond of the hall, and the fox-hounds, and all that, to say nothing of the good wine, which was a sore temptation to his carnal nature, and to me too, it must be acknowledged. The Lord have mercy on us both, and send us more of it."
"I have it now," replied the stranger, "you are the fat chaplain who came over with him, and passed a week at Coldenham."
"I never tasted worse stuff in my life," said Doctor M'Feely, with a bitter remembrance of Lady Coldenham's wine; "and as to fat, there's a leg, boy! Where will you match that?" and he stuck it out from under his cassock, adding, in the same breath, "I can tell you what, that visit to Coldenham--what between the sour wine and the sour woman--took two as good pounds of beef off that same identical leg as ever were cut out of an ox's rump. I thought he'd never plump out again."
"You were reckoned a good man, I think," said the stranger, in the same wild, grave tone.
"Good! to be sure I was. Did you ever see any body who was not good bloom and blossom like a rose? I always loved every thing that was good all my life--a good bottle above all. I wish I had one now," he added, in an under tone; "though I don't object to punch, when nothing else is to be had; but the devil a drop of rum is there in the house."
"Well, then," said the other, taking a paper from his pocket, "I want you to swear me to this deposition."
"Let me see--let me see," cried Doctor M'Feely, stretching out his hand.
"Not one word," replied the stranger, sternly. "It is all written in my own hand, properly drawn up, for I was bred to be that beastly thing, an attorney, and all I wish you to do is to swear me to the truth of what is contained in this paper, and to attest my signature of it."
"Lord bless you, I'll swear you fast enough," cried Doctor M'Feely. "I've seen a good deal of that done in my day on both sides of the water. Heaven help us! where's the Bible? Sally, Sally!--There's a pretty forget! Sally, is there such a thing as a Bible in the house? The old parson must have had a Bible--if not, there must be one in the village."
"Oh, I've got one, your reverence, up in my box," replied the servant.
"Reverence!" muttered the doctor. "Bring it me, there's a good girl. Here's a gentleman wants to swear a little."
"Bring a light also," said the stranger.
"A light at noon day!" exclaimed the worthy divine; "what does the man want with a light?"
"To seal this up when I have done," answered the other, with an imperturbable countenance.
"Then you may just as well blow the candle out," said the worthy doctor, "for there isn't a bit of sealing-wax in the whole house so big as a boy's marble."
The servant had in the mean time disappeared, but soon returned with a light and the Bible. Her reverend master then sent her for pen and ink, and, when all the preparations were completed, and she had quitted the room again, he once more held out his hand, saying, "Come, don't be nonsensical; give me the paper. I don't want to read a word of it--to tell the truth, I wouldn't for any thing less than half a bottle; but I must write at the top, 'Personally appeared before me, Peter M'Feely, Justice of Peace, et cetera.'"
"I have done all that for you except the name," replied the other; "put it in there;" and he held the paper before the parson while he wrote his name.
"Now, then, get over the swearing," said Doctor M'Feely. "Take the book in your right hand, and the paper in your left--mind your thumb, boy, when you kiss the book--the cover's not over clean, but it's as good as your own, I fancy. Now we'll be serious--if possible. It's an awful job, swearing. You know the nature of an oath, I suppose?"
"Better than you do," answered the stranger fiercely, "for you have taken many an oath that you have broken to God, if not to man;" and then, in a clear and audible voice, and without any prompting, he proceeded to swear to the truth of every word that paper contained, and then signed his name to it in a bold, free hand.
Doctor M'Feely then attested the signature, exclaiming, as he did so, "Gaunt Stilling! Now I recollect. Stilling was the old clerk and sexton at Coldenham; many a chat we've had together. Gaunt was his son, who had been in the Tangier regiment--you are gaunt enough now--why, what in the name of Misfortune has changed you so, lad? Why, I do recollect you, only you look ten years older. Come, take a cup of ale; there's that in the house, at all events."
Gaunt Stilling waved his hand. "You shall have this within three days," he said. "It will not be wanted before then."
"Three days? I shall be at the assizes in three days," said the parson.
"You must wait till you receive this," replied Gaunt Stilling, "and then act with it as I shall direct you. The assizes will not be at Dorchester for four days at least. The commission was only opened at Winchester on Monday; and now good-by. You are not a bad man at heart, I believe. I recollect the sermon you preached in Coldenham Church, and you spoke bold words upon the vices of the great, which did you honor. Do not forget your master's service in seeing justice done to the innocent. Be bold, and true to the right, and that may cover a multitude of little sins like yours."
"Whew!" whistled Doctor M'Feely, "as if a man were a bit the worse for liking a good bottle and a slice out of the haunch, to say nothing of the fat! I can prove that it's a crying sin to neglect such mercies. All the fathers held it so, and when I write their lives I'll make it appear, whatever their doctrines might be;" but Gaunt Stilling had waited for no such proofs; and, after rubbing his good broad forehead for a moment, Doctor M'Feely sank back in his chair again and took a nap.