CHAPTER XLIV. THE CRISIS APPROACHES.
North.——“Every minute now
Should be the father of a stratagem
Yea, this man’s brow, like to a title-leaf,
Foretells the nature of a tragick volume.”
2d Part of Hen. IV.
A letter I had received on my return to the head-quarters of the fourth division, after my séjour with the Empecinado, had apprized me that events in which my future fortunes were involved, hurried rapidly to a crisis. My communications with England had then ceased; and, on my unexpected return home, I found I had opportunely arrived when my presence was most desirable, and the dénouement of the drama was at hand.
Without wearying the reader with the details of my uncle’s proceedings, we will bring their results before him, up to the evening when at Bromley Hall I popped so unexpectedly through a window, and frightened two amiable ladies into fainting-fits.
It was the evening of a sultry day, the harvest had commenced, and, over a rich and picturesque expanse of country, far as the eye could range, the sickle was busily employed. On an elevation, in a domain of noble extent, a gentleman far advanced in years, was seated on a rustic bench, under the expansive shadow of an oak the growth of centuries. At times he looked at the busy and interesting scene which the landscape all around presented—and then resumed the perusal of a newspaper. The domain was Clifford Park—the old English gentleman was my grandfather.
At the side of a copse, not many yards distant from the bench where the owner of the park was seated, another and a very different personage might have been discovered. She was a gipsy-woman of middle age, and seemed busily employed in gathering sticks wherewith to cook her supper. The old gentleman looked at her with some attention. For the last three evenings he had remarked her at the same hour and on the same spot. The regularity of her appearance had therefore excited some curiosity—and, beckoning her to come forward, he took his purse from his pocket, and presented her with some silver.
On receiving this munificent present, the gipsy curtseyed reverently to the ground—the old gentleman resumed his newspaper, and waved his hand as a signal she should retire; but she made a step closer to the bench, directed a speaking look at Mr. Clifford for a moment, then threw a suspicious glance around, and, in a low voice said, with some hesitation, “We are alone, sir,—Dare I speak to you?”
The old gentleman for a moment regarded the speaker with marked astonishment. The manner, rather than the words, was startling; but he nodded a mute assent.
“For many a week I have sought this opportunity; but you are so closely watched, that, hitherto, I dared not venture near you—I have tidings—”
“None, woman, that can interest me,” said the old man, with a melancholy sigh. “There is nothing in this life to give me pleasure, and little connected with it that could cause me pain. No tie binds me to the world—”
“And yet you have a double one—the dearest to ordinary hearts, have you not a daughter and a grandchild?”
“Stop, woman,—who are you?”
“The humble instrument of Heaven, destined, I hope, to restore to the parent’s arms, a child alienated far too long—Ah! here comes yon meddling priest! Would you even yet have the remnant of your days made happy, be here to-morrow evening—and, for your own sake, be silent.”
“I will,” said the old man impressively. The gipsy assumed her former attitude of deep humility, curtseyed to the ground again, resumed the bundle of sticks she had collected; and, as if she had not perceived him coming, turned into the direct path by which the confessor hastily advanced.
They met; the gipsy made her humble obeisance, which the priest returned by a searching glance. In the handsome features of the wanderer there was nothing to excite suspicion, and he simply asked “what was her business with Mr. Clifford?”
With a face beaming with delight at having received a large and unexpected gratuity, the gipsy unclosed her hand.
“See, reverend sir, what his noble honour has bestowed upon the poor wanderer!” and she pointed to the silver Mr. Clifford had just given. “It is many a long day since I was mistress of so much. Reverend sir, you are not angry at my gleaning a few sticks? Believe me, poor Mary will do no injury to the trees. You look a kind-hearted gentleman. Heaven grant you long and happy days!”
What will not the mystic influence of beauty effect? The cold churchman looked at the supplicant for a moment—a soft black eye was eloquently turned on his, as, “with lips apart,” disclosing teeth of pearly whiteness, the gipsy timidly awaited his reply.
“How lovely she must have been in woman’s noon-day!” the confessor involuntarily muttered. “You have the permission, you ask. Take care it be not abused.” Again the gipsy curtseyed, and the churchman passed on—giving her, in return for an outbreak of ardent thanks, unbeliever as she was, his parting benedicite!
Days passed—the weather continued beautiful, and the lord of Clifford Hall might have been seen on his fwourite seat beneath the old oak tree every afternoon—generally, the confessor close at hand, and the gipsy gathering sticks in some of the copses at no great distance. Twice she contrived to convey a sealed packet to the old man unperceived; and, on the following evening, after he had perused their contents, she saw, with unspeakable delight, that what he had read was not displeasing. The letters were from his long lost son, cautiously worded to sound the old man’s secret feeling, lay the ground-work of a disclosure, and prepare him for coming events.
It was on the third evening before I had so very unexpectedly presented myself at Bromley Hall, that, just as the light was failing, a man, evidently in an excited mood, paced slowly back and forwards in front of the ancient oak in Clifford Park, which we have already described as being a fwourite spot with the owner of the domain. Besides the extended view over the surrounding country which this rising ground commanded from its crest, the front and back entrances to the park were visible—and towards both, the lonely visitor turned frequently an anxious look. At last, as if wearied with his solitary vigil, the confessor—for it was he—broke into a rambling soliloquy.
“It is strange, what has delayed him—two long hours beyond the time he told me he should return! I can scarce believe that I am waking. He who for years has been the creature of my will—who thought as I dictated—who acted as I pointed out—who in my hands was but a mere automaton, whom I wound and directed as I pleased—that he should thus miraculously assume an independence, and break through the thrall that bound him.—By mine order, ‘tis marvellous—‘tis scarcely credible! That cursed interview with his grandson laid the foundation of the whole—and yet I fancied that I had remedied the mischief, and extinguished the yearnings of natural affection which the youth’s sudden appearance rekindled in the old man’s breast. But the last fortnight has crowned the mystery. Three long years—the old man never penned a letter. Were private communications to be made, I was summoned to indite them. Was business to be transacted, the steward was always the amanuensis. But now, he sits for hours alone—and writes, and transmits letters daily, and by the hand of one who hates my creed, and with whom I dare not tamper. What can be done? Never was a game more critical—one false move, and all is lost. The tidings ot the evening too, are ominous. His lawyer to be here to-morrow his errand, strictly secret too. What augurs that but mischief? By every saint, I know not how to act. True, I have not let the harvest pass without gleaning plentifully—and, better still, I have secured the reward of many an anxious scheme. But to see the grand object of my ten years of toil and artifice slip from my grasp—even at the moment when the course of nature should have consummated the triumph of sound conceptions, ably and patiently carried out—Ha!—a horseman—‘Tis he—I’ll reach the hall before him.”
While the steward rode hastily to the stables, the priest had reached the mansion and retired to his private apartments. There, he impatiently waited the return of his confederate—and, in a lew minutes, the steward presented himself. If the confessor fancied that himself had startling tidings to communicate, one glance at the steward’s agitated countenance, assured him that heavier news had yet to be unfolded.
“How now!” he muttered. “You seem disturbed. Has ought occurred to cause us more disquietude?”
“We stand upon the brink of ruin,” was the reply.
“Go on—whence comes the threatened danger?” inquired the churchman.
“From the grave!” returned the steward.
“The grave?”
“Ay, holy father—well may you betray astonishment. One believed dead for five-and-twenty years not only lives, but actually resides within a few miles of where we stand.”
“Whom mean ye?” said the priest.
“Edward Clifford!”
“Impossible!” exclaimed the churchman. “He died in misery and exile.‘Tis some impostor.”
“It is the true man, by Heaven!”—“Think ye that one who hated him as I did—who was robbed of the object of his love who swore eternal vengeance, kept the vow faithfully, and wrought the secret ruin of him who wronged him—think you, holy sir, that he could ever forget one, at the same time, the offender and the victim. No—no—ordinary injuries pass from the memory in time but insulted love lewes a burning recollection in the heart, which death alone obliterates.”
“By the holy saints!” exclaimed the confessor, “your tidings are astonishing.”
“You have not heard the worst,” continued the steward. “Give me some wine—for faith, my nerves are sorely shaken by the occurrences of this afternoon. Fill your glass, father, and listen to a tale, singular and wonderful as any which, even in the confessional, may have reached your ears.”
“You know that the object of my ride to-day was to trace, if possible, the person with whom the old man holds his dangerous correspondence. Every inquiry failed—and I was returning a sadder, but not a wiser man than when I left you, considering what channel I should next try to seek the information we require, when simple accident discovered the perilous position in which we stand—one that, in danger, infinitely surpasses any thing which our gloomiest apprehensions could have fancied.
“A short time since, a stranger, named Hartley, took Bromley Hall for a few months; and there he immediately removed his establishment. It was on a small scale, ‘twas said, but in every respect that befitting a gentleman; and as Mr. Hartley was retired in his habits, and visited with no one in the neighbourhood, his arrival made no sensation in the country; he was scarcely known beyond his own domain, nor did any one inquire who he was, or whence he came.
“On my return this evening, after an unsuccessful mission, close to ‘the George’—a road-side house contiguous to Bromley Hall—my horse cast a shoe, and I stopped to have it replaced. While the smith was doing it, I strolled from the forge and sauntered down a shaded lane; within an open gate a fallen tree was lying, and as the evening was close, I turned in and sate down to rest myself upon its stem. Presently, at the other side of the paling, I heard footsteps move cautiously along. An opening in the fence enabled me to ascertain who the person was—and you may easily fancy my astonishment, when I recognised the gipsy woman, who, for the last three weeks, has been every day in Clifford Park under the pretence of gathering fire-wood. Although surprised for a moment at her appearance, I remembered that the wandering habits of her people throw them across one’s path in every direction where business calls; I rose to return to the forge and resume my ride, when suddenly the gipsy stopped, looked suspiciously around to see that no one had observed her, then drawing a key from her bosom she applied it to a wicket in the paling, and the next moment entered the grounds of Bromley Hall, and disappeared.
“Strange and mysterious fancies crossed my mind—I determined to watch her movements, but how was I to follow? I continued my researches along the park palings, and at last discovered an opening occasioned by the removal of several slabs, for what purpose I cannot pretend to guess.
“I found myself in a thick plantation, left all to chance, and blindly wandered on. Imagine my surprise when, not forty yards off, I suddenly perceived the gipsy in deep conversation with a stranger. They spoke in whispers, hence I could not overhear a word that passed; but I saw distinctly a letter pass from her hand to his, and the action of both during their brief conversation was marked and energetic. At last the interview was over, and both returned towards the wicket in the paling through which the gipsy had entered Bromley Park.
“The path wound through the plantation, and at not a yard’s distance from the spot where I had concealed myself, but fortunately a thick holly hid me effectually, and yet permitted me to observe the faces of the persons who approached. Almost within arm’s length the man paused suddenly—
“‘And is he so far prepared for the extraordinary revelations which are about to be made?’ he inquired in a low voice that thrilled through my very soul.
“‘He is’—returned this infernal agent. ‘He knows that his grandson is recalled—that Hector’s father is already in England—that his daughter is ready to fly to the bosom from which she has been so long estranged. Nay, more—I have darkly insinuated that many a wild youth, after years of wandering, has returned; and plainly hinted that a son lost to him so long might live—nay, did live!’
“Could I believe the evidences of my senses, holy father? Was it a dream? Oh! no, no—all was fatal reality.
“‘Mary,’ returned a voice, whose tones were unchanged as when I last heard them in this very room—‘Mary, your services have made me for life your debtor, and to his humble but faithful ally, I trust, in a few days, Edward Clifford will prove his gratitude.’”
“Clifford—the exiled, the discarded, the dead! What! he returned—received—restored to life! Impossible!” exclaimed the confessor springing from his seat, and shivering to pieces on the table the wine glass which he had held untasted in his hand, while Morley recounted his strange adventure.
“True, by every thing sacred!” returned the steward.—“On they passed—I caught a glimpse of his well-remembered features,—years and climate had laid their hewy imprint on them, but in outline, they were those of my former play-fellow. The light and springy figure of the boy were gone—and a stout and compact form now stood before me, and just such as I remember Mr. Clifford’s was some thirty years ago. Holy father, Edward Clifford is alive, and not seven miles from where we sit.”
“I do not put faith in witchcraft,” muttered the priest—“but this strange tale of yours would almost make me a believer. Well—we both, it would appear, are on the eve of ruin. I, in expectations which I conceived to be sure as certainty itself—and your acquisitions, my good friend, methinks are sadly jeopardized.”
“Mine jeopardized!” exclaimed the steward—“More than that, reverend sir—I shall be ruined, beggared, and undone. It is not the blow itself, heavy as it is, but the suddenness of the stroke that annihilates me. Could I but have had the warning of a month—in that brief interval, I might have so arranged, that when I bent to the storm—as bend I must—I might have sought another country, possessor of ten thousand pounds; ay, and carried with me too the rents payable a fortnight hence. If ever calamity fell heavily on man, it has fallen upon me—and by such agency—the only beings upon earth whom I, at the same time, hated and injured most.”
“Yes,” observed the churchman, half in soliloquy and half addressing himself to his companion—“the mystery is cleared—and the old man’s altered bearing is now sufficiently accounted for. Worse yet—the mischief is beyond all remedy. One duped so long and so completely, when once the mind is disabused, becomes ten-fold more suspicious than they who have never been deceived. Mr. Clifford is exactly that sort of character. His thoughts and acts are now as clearly revealed to me, as if I had listened to every communication made by that artful woman, and read the secret letters he has written and received. For how long, did this returned prodigal mention to his female confederate, that these intended disclosures were to be delayed?”
“The phrase was vague,” replied the steward. “In a few days’—ay, that was the term he used.”
“A limited time, indeed, for action—but brief as it is, I will avail myself of the lull, and not await the bursting of the storm,” observed the confessor.
“And will you leave me alone to face the coming tempest?” inquired the steward, with evident alarm and surprise. “Holy father—have I not ever been to you a faithful friend? have I not acted as you directed? have not my own interests been frequently sacrificed to yours? Has not your word with me been law—your advice implicitly followed—your plans zealously carried out? I was ever your ready and your willing agent—and now, in the hour of need and danger, will you desert me?”
A pause of a minute ensued.
“Morley,” returned the confessor slowly—“I cannot see how my remaining here could serve you. You wish to delay events—to avert them would now be idle as to war against the elements. But how can breathing-time be gained? Mine own interests would make a short interval before discovery shall take place, as desirable as is respite to the criminal; but, by mine order—I cannot devise any plan that could promise even probable success. We stand upon a loaded mine—and who can say the moment when the engineer will fire the train?”
“Still, reverend sir,” continued the steward, “have we not days to count upon—and what might not hours, were they but well-employed, accomplish?”
“Yes,” returned the priest—“days certainly may be reckoned on—and, under ordinary circumstances, much might be effected in the mean-while. But in this case—one so hopeless and so desperate—when the very grave would seem to have given up its dead—and when—”
“The grave must receive the living in return. Ay, father, there is but one chance left,—Clifford dies—no alternative remains but death for him—or disgrace, and poverty, and banishment for me.”
“No more of that,” exclaimed the cautious churchman. “Pause ere you act—and weigh well the consequences. England, for such experiments, is a dangerous country. Remember your former attempt on young O’Halloran. What a disastrous failure! Four lives were sacrificed—while he, the destined victim, passed through the trial unharmed! ‘Twere better, possibly, my friend, to yield to circumstances, and—”
“See myself impoverished and insulted. I am no favourite with the country,—they view me as an upstart—and often has that cutting truth been told me to my face. The tenants on these estates secretly dislike me. As matters stand, their bad feelings are not exhibited—but let the change come that we anticipate—then, like a cry of hounds, every voice will be united against me, and I must either skulk cowardly away, or be hunted to the death, while the man I hate, have hated, and will while life remains detest, he will be received with acclamation, and trample on a fallen enemy whose neck is already in the very dust. No—no—though life be lost in the attempt, near as he fancies himself to this, his long estreated inheritance—he never shall be nearer. Father, I start instantly for London. We must act—ay, and act immediately.”
“Of these things I remain in ignorance,” returned the confessor. “But if you risk this perilous attempt—safety and success in every mortal venture, depend upon two simple qualities—prudence and promptness. These two, in human actions, are worth every cardinal virtue beside. Farewell—I too have cares which, for hours to come, will keep me watching.”
The confederates separated—each to carry out his own particular object. The confessor had only the future to regret—the past he had secured—and consequently, he had neither a necessity or a wish to join in Morley’s dangerous experiments. With the steward, matters were altogether different. In rash confidence, all that he had cared for hitherto, was to accumulate—and hence, his ill-acquired wealth had been so clumsily invested, that time was absolutely necessary to enable him to regain possession of his property. That time could only be obtained by a fearful and perilous attempt. But no course besides remained—and Morley started that night for London.
The evening was wild and blustering—doors creaked—windows were unusually noisy for that season of the year—and those who had a fire-side, were too happy to find themselves at home. “The George” was entirely deserted; for the stragglers who had dropped in after sunset, alarmed at the threatening appearance of the weather, took a hurried refreshment, and pushed forward to gain their abiding places before the fury of the night should break. Three trwellers, however, still remained. They had required and obtained an apartment for their especial use—and a fire hwing been lighted in the parlour of the hostlerie, the wayfarers there bestowed themselves.
One, who seemed to play the host, was a man of respectable appearance, and beyond the middle age. He might be a farmer, a lawyer, a trader—but it was clear he was not, in common parlance, a gentleman. The others were of a caste immeasurably inferior. One was tall, burly, and dark-visaged—the other, short, slightly-framed, and sandy-haired. The countenances of both were particularly repulsive—and a stranger would have found it hard to determine whether they were knaves, or ruffians, or both.
He who appeared “lord of the revel” seemed ill at ease. He rose from his chair—looked for a moment from the window—muttered something about “foul weather out of doors—” returned, sounded a hand-bell which had been placed beside him—ordered supper to be hastened, and brandy and water to be brought in, to fill the tedious interval.
The order was obeyed—“the maid of the inn” departed—the door was closed—and each of the company, by an involuntary impulse, looked over his shoulder to ascertain that no eaves-dropper was near. He who played the host seemed in no mood for revelry, and merely sipped the glass before him—the lesser of the strangers also drank sparingly—but the tall ruffian turned down the tumbler considerably below its centre, pushed its diminished contents further on the board, and then leaning a pair of overgrown hands upon his knees, and bending forward until his head, by slow progression, had made a Turkish obeisance to the superior of the company, in slow and pointed terms he begged respectfully to inquire, “what business had brought himself and—” he merely pointed to his companion—“on such short notice to the country?”
“Business—and that, too, of consequence,” was the brief reply.
“All right,” returned the stouter ruffian. “Business is very well in its way—but I’d like to understand the nature of the job before I undertook it. Light work is well enough, but when it comes, Mr. Thingembob—for I don’t know y’er name—to what we calls heavy, wot means, ye know, hemp or transportation—why then men must look about them, and ax a question or two before they takes on.”
[Original]
To this judicious remark the smaller of the two assented by a gracious inclination of the head—while the question, so homely put, appeared to have disconcerted their respectable patron, for he did not answer for a minute, and then the reply was evasive. After passing a flattering encomium on the character of the late Mr. Sloman—whose irreparable loss was deeply to be regretted—he hinted that, in his line of business, there was now a blank. His unhappy death, and the equally unhappy consequences which followed, had left a dreary void. It was impossible to find a professional gentleman equally talented and trustworthy. Undoubtedly, men of high honour and strong nerve could be found—and therefore, rather than run risks, he, Mr. Jones, as he was pleased to call himself, would prefer doing business with principals, and having no humbug among friends.
What a strange epitome of life the scenes enacted at an inn would furnish! How dissimilar in rank, in object, in vocation, are those whom every apartment of this human halting-place receives in turn! The care-worn and the careless—the miser and the spendthrift. Opulence, with unassuming carriage—penury, vainly attempting to brazen out its wretchedness. A noble, in title old as the conquest, rests in this chamber to-day—to-morrow it will be tenanted by a bagman, who never heard that such a being as his grandfather had existence. This evening a bridal party occupy the inn. They dream of naught but happiness—theirs is a fancy world—their road of life is carpeted with roses—they leave next morning. Who, next in succession, fill the same apartment on the morrow?—a coroner’s inquest, to ascertain what caused the suicide of a village beauty, “who loved not wisely, but too well.”
While Mr. Jones and his friends were thus engaged in the large, parlour upstairs, in a small back room behind the bar of “the George,” two other personages were comfortably located. One was the jolly hostess, whom nothing but “rum and true religion” could have upholden, seeing that, in the brief space of ten years, she had been thrice a mourner. Finding, however, that in marital luck there is no faith “in odd numbers,” she had judiciously concluded on risking the fortune of an even one; and, at the moment when Mr. Morley was bargaining with his amiable companions above stairs, the widow of “the George” was endeavouring to ascertain whether a matrimonial arrangement was likely to “come off” below.
“A mighty cold place these cross roads must be in the winter; and I don’t wonder, Mrs. Tomkins, that you’re uncommon lonely—and especially in the long nights. How short the days are gettin’!”
“Ah, Mister Magavarel—”
“Macgreal, if you please, Mrs. Tomkins.”
“I beg your pardon,” said the lady; “but, as I was saying, I’ll never get over Christmas as I am. Though I look stout and hearty, I am but a timidious sort of woman after all;—a fight in the kitchen knocks me of a heap, and noises after night put me totally from sleeping afterwards.”
“All! then I pity ye, Mrs. Tomkins,” returned the suitor; “after sodding three dacent husbands, no wonder that a fourth would be in ye’r way, now that the could weather’s comin’ on. It was only yesterday I was sayin’ to Mister Dominik, the black gentleman at the park, “Dominik,” says I. “What?” says he. “If ever,” says I, “I’d venture to go before the priest in company wid a woman, it’s Mistress Tomkins, of the George, would be my choice.”
“And isn’t it strange, Mister Macgreal, that you never took a wife?”
“‘I was over bashful when a boy, and feaks! my modesty never quitted me afterwards,” returned Shemas Rhua, looking as innocently in the smiling face of the landlady of the George, as if he had never crooked a knee before Father Peter Fogarty at the altar of hymen.
Shame on ye for a deceiver! If the honest woman who owns you in Connemara were but at your elbow, and overheard your insidious attempts upon the too-tender hearted Widow Tomkins, I would not be in your coat, Shemas Rhua, for all the rats and rabbits you’ll kill this side of Christmas!
To what lengths Captain Macgreal might have urged his treacherous suit, it would be difficult to fancy, but the sudden entrance of Mrs. Tomkins’s attendant, fortunately for her lady’s peace of mind, interrupted the further oratory of the false ratcatcher. She delivered some trifling message.
“If ever,” continued the maid of the inn, “murder was written in a mortal countenance, you may see it in the faces of two of the fellows above stairs. Lord! if they stop here to-night, I shall never close an eye!”
“Who are they?” inquired the ratcatcher.
“Heaven only knows,” was the reply. “They came into the house about an hour ago, and from the appearance of their shoes, I should say they had walked some distance. They inquired for a Mr. Jones; and on being told there was no person here of the name, they called for some ale, and said they would sit down and wait for their friend’s arrival. Presently the man they asked for arrived on horseback, dismounted, spoke to the others for some minutes, requested to have the use of a private room, and they retired together.”
“You may depend upon it, the errand that brought them here is not an honest one. Could you but see the suspicious looks they throw round them when I enter or lewe the room!”
“We’ll soon know more of both themselves and the business that brought them here,” returned the buxom widow. “You must know, Mister Macgreal, that a dark closet I keep for my private use, is divided from the large sitting room up stairs by a boarded partition, and there are cracks in the paper through which you can see what passes in the other room, and hear every word that’s said. Many a stolen kiss I’ve witnessed there—and many a tale of love I’ve listened to. Follow me softly. But, Lord! what was I going to do? Venture myself in the dark, and with an Irish gentleman! Oh! I won’t move a step, unless Susan comes along with us.”
“Honour bright!” exclaimed the ratcatcher.
“And you know there must be somebody left to mind the bar,” added the spider-brusher.
These observations were conclusive, and after an assurance of great discretion on the Captain’s part, the lady agreed to venture herself alone, and even in the dark, with the bashful Irishman.
Without occasioning the slightest alarm to the guests, who occupied the “great chamber” of the George, the ratcatcher and his fair companion ensconced themselves in the closet, and as it would appear, too, at a moment when the negotiation had assumed a business-looking character, and matters were drawing to a close.
“We understand one another perfectly,” said Mr. Jones.
“I must allow it,” replied the larger of the ruffians, “that you have come straight-for’ed to the scratch, Mr. Jones; and I hopes you vo’nt take it amiss, that we axed that part of the coal should be posted before we undertakes the job. Ye see, it’s what we calls heavy work,—nothing like greasing a man’s fist before he commences, it makes him go at the bisniss slap, because he knows that the rowdy will be stumped up when all’s right afterwards. It’s now late enough, so if you’ll show us the way into the park, and point the right-un out, we’ll make matters sure to-morrow night, and no mistake.”
“I am satisfied you will acquit yourselves like men of spirit,” was the reply. “Proceed down the lane that turns to the right, and when I discharge the reckoning, I’ll mount my horse and follow. At the second gate—you will find it open—wait for me.”
“The ruffians twain” rose and left the room, their employer called a bill, ordered his horse to the door, and quitted the hostlerie. The Captain prepared to follow him, and having kissed the landlady, a liberty for which he received a severe reproof, accompanied, however, by a general invitation to drop in as often as he could, “the George” in a few minutes was totally deserted, and Mrs. Tomkins issued orders that her premises should be closed for the night, with a passing remark to her attendant, of “what a nice man Mr. Hartley’s keeper was.”