"Arrived in the village, I performed the commission entrusted to me by my mother, and then repaired to the shop of Mr. Snowdon, chemist and druggist, as directed by the young Squire. This gentleman was leaning on the counter, writing on the sheet of paper with which the obsequious Mr. Snowdon had provided him; and when it was terminated, the Squire folded it, sealed it, and addressed it to Miss Marion Splint. Mr. Snowdon caught a glimpse of the superscription, although he pretended to be looking quite another way. The letter was then handed to me by the Squire, accompanied by a whispered injunction to be sure and give it privately to Marion; while another crown-piece anointed my hand at the same time. I promised compliance with the instructions given, and hurried back home. George Dalton was there, and he stayed to dinner; but he departed soon afterwards, taking an affectionate leave of Marion as usual. My father also went out to his work; my mother repaired to the dairy; and I was now alone with my sister. 'Marion, dear,' said I, 'I have got a surprise for you.'—'A surprise for me, Tim!' she exclaimed.—'Yes; a letter from Squire Bulkeley.'—'Tim!' she cried, 'you surely——.'—'Pray read it, Marion dear,' I interrupted her. 'Its contents are a most respectful apology for his conduct some weeks ago. In fact, he spoke quite like a gentleman about it, and said how sorry he was.' Marion no longer hesitated to open the letter; but I saw that her countenance suddenly became crimson, and she hastened up to her own chamber, without uttering another word.
"An hour passed away, and she came down again. Having assured herself that our mother was still occupied in the dairy, she said to me, 'Tim dear, you must do me a kindness this very evening.'—'That I will, Marion,' I answered. 'What is it?'—'Here is a letter for Squire Bulkeley,' she said; and it struck me that there was something singular, and not altogether natural in her voice and manner. 'If you meet father on the way, say that you are going to inquire after neighbour Jones's little daughter; and never tell any one, Tim, that you did this for me. You are not old enough yet to understand my motives; but when you are, you shall know them.'—I was never accustomed to question my sister, nor even to deliberate on any thing she did; and away I sped to Bulkeley Hall. The Squire was not at home; and so I left the letter. On my return to the farm-house, I told Marion what I had done: she said I was a good boy, and repeated her injunctions of the strictest secrecy.
"About a week after this incident, George Dalton took me out for a ramble with him. I never saw him so happy and in such excellent spirits. He spoke of the prospects of a good harvest; and observed that every thing seemed to hold out a promise of happiness for Marion and himself. Then he told me how glad he would always be to see me at his farm when my sister should have become his wife. In this way he was talking, and I was listening very attentively, when, as we were crossing a field on Squire Bulkeley's estate, that gentleman suddenly appeared on the other side of the hedge. 'Holloa! you fellows,' he cried; 'don't you know you're trespassing?'—'I wasn't aware of it, Sir,' replied George, touching his hat: 'the field has always been used as a short cut by the people of the village; and there have been a foot-path and a stile at each end, ever since I can remember.'—'And if my guardians chose to permit the village people to use this short cut, it is no reason why I should,' exclaimed the Squire, purple with rage. 'And so I order you off at once, both of you.'—'Well, sir,' said George, still respectfully but firmly, 'we shall never trespass again, now that we know it is trespassing.'—'Go back, then!' cried Mr. Bulkeley.—'As we are nearer the other end of the field, we may as well continue our walk in that direction, sir,' returned George. 'It can't possibly make any difference to you.'—'Yes, but it does though,' shouted the Squire. 'I order you off; and you shan't advance another step.' Thus speaking, he sprang through the hedge, and came towards us in a menacing manner.—'Look you, Squire Bulkeley,' said George Dalton, without retreating a single pace: 'you warn me off your grounds, and I am prepared to obey. But you shall not bully me, for all that.'—'Bully you!' cried the great man, now turning perfectly white: 'do you think a gentleman like me knows what it is to bully?'—'I think it seems very much as if you did, sir,' answered George coolly.—'Low-bred scoundrel, insolent clod-hopper!' exclaimed the Squire: 'you are not fit to stand in the presence of a gentleman. Go back to your Marion, and console yourself with my leavings in that quarter!'—'Villain! what do you mean?' cried George, rushing forward to grasp the Squire by the throat.—'Wait one moment!' exclaimed the latter, raising his arm and stepping back a few paces. 'I tell you that Marion knows how to prefer a gentleman to a swineherd; and that boy there can prove it,' he added, pointing to me.
"George Dalton turned a hasty and angry glance upon me; and I saw him become deadly pale and tremble violently—I suppose because he saw that my manner was embarrassed and confused. 'Tim,' he said, in a hoarse and thick voice, 'do you know what this person means?' and he pointed disdainfully towards the Squire, who seemed to feel a diabolical delight at the evident pain which he was inflicting upon my sister's lover.—'If that boy tells the truth,' said Mr. Bulkeley, 'he will admit——.'—'The children of Farmer Splint were never known to tell a falsehood,' interrupted George Dalton; 'and though you, sir, have made most cowardly and insulting allusions to Marion, you are well aware that there breathes not a purer being than she is, nor a greater scoundrel and liar than you are. And if I restrain my hands from touching you, it is only because you are too contemptible for serious notice. Come, Tim: let us move on.'—'One word, George Dalton!' cried the Squire, his lips quivering with rage. 'Ask that boy whether he knows of any thing that has ever taken place between me and Marion. Remember, I am your landlord; and your father's lease expires next Christmas.'—'We don't care for the threats of a man like you, who endeavours to cause a breach between me and a young lass that never did you any harm.'—'Oh! not at all; but a great deal of good, on the contrary,' said the Squire, with a chuckle of triumph. 'Why, it is but a week ago since that boy was the bearer of the last notes which passed between us.'—'Liar!' thundered George Dalton; and he was again on the point of rushing on the Squire, when he checked himself, and turning to me said, 'Now, Tim, you are no story-teller; and, indeed, I ought scarcely to insult Marion so far as to ask such a question. But can you not tell this man to his face that he is what I just now called him; namely, a liar?'—'Not if he tells the truth,' observed Mr. Bulkeley coolly.—I hung down my head, and wished at the moment that the earth would open and swallow me up.—'Tim,' said George Dalton, again speaking in a hoarse tone, as dark suspicions were revived in his mind, 'does this person who calls himself a gentleman utter facts? did you ever convey letters between him and your sister? Come, answer me, my boy: I cannot be angry with you.'—I faltered out a faint 'Yes.'—'Then God have mercy upon me!' exclaimed George Dalton, in a voice of piercing anguish, as he clasped his hands convulsively together.
"The Squire stood gazing upon him with fiend-like malignity. I cannot describe the dreadful picture of despair which George at that moment seemed to be. At length he turned again towards me, and, grasping my shoulder so tight that I nearly screamed out with pain, he said, 'Tim, tell me all, or I shall do you a mischief. Does Marion receive letters from Mr. Bulkeley?'—'She did one,' I stammered in reply, 'because I took it to her. The Squire wrote it at Mr. Snowdon's.'—'And did Marion answer it?' he demanded.—'She did,' I answered: 'but——'.—'Have you ever seen the Squire and Marion together?' he asked in a hurried and now dreadfully excited tone.—'Yes, once,' I said: 'but——.' And again I was about to give certain explanations relative to what the Squire himself had represented to me to be the nature and object of his letter to my sister—namely, to apologise to her for some insult which he had offered her: but George Dalton had not patience to hear me. Rushing upon the Squire, he struck him to the ground, exclaiming, 'Vile seducer! you glory in the ruin you have accomplished!' and then he darted away, clearing the hedge with a bound, and was almost immediately out of sight.
"The Squire rose slowly and with pain from the ground, muttering the most dreadful threats of vengeance; and I, afraid that he might do me a mischief, hurried off as quick as possible. I was old enough to comprehend that George Dalton believed my sister to have been faithless to him; and the same impression rapidly forced itself on my own mind. Still I was sorry that George had not waited to hear all the additional circumstances which I was about to relate; and it somehow or another struck me that he would call on Mr. Snowdon, the chemist. I cannot now account for this idea which I entertained: but I suppose it must have been because that person's name was mentioned in the conversation, and because I must have thought it probable that George would seek the fullest confirmation of his cause of unhappiness. It is, however, very certain that I hastened off to the village as quick as my legs would carry me. But just as I entered Mr. Snowdon's shop, I caught sight of George Dalton, standing at the counter talking to that individual. He had his back towards me; and the chemist was so occupied with the subject of conversation, that he also did not notice my entrance. I knew not whether to advance or retreat; and while I stood hesitating, I overheard Dalton say, 'And you are sure that the letter was addressed to Marion?'—'I happened to catch a glimpse of the direction,' answered the chemist, 'and I saw the Squire give the lad Timothy some money.'—'Then am I indeed a wretched, miserable being!' exclaimed George Dalton; and he rushed wildly from the shop, not noticing me as he hurried by. I was so alarmed by his haggard looks and excited manner, that I was nailed as it were to the spot; and it was not until Mr. Snowdon had asked me two or three times what I wanted, that I recollected where I was. Then, without giving any reply, I quitted the shop, and repaired homewards.
"I was afraid to enter the house; for I felt convinced that poor Marion's happiness was menaced, and that even if she was not already aware of the presence of the storm, not many hours would elapse ere it would burst upon her head. And when I did reach the farm, my worst fears were confirmed. The place was in confusion; Marion was in a state bordering on distraction; and my father and mother were vainly endeavouring to comfort her. An open letter lay upon the table:—without reading its contents I could too well divine their nature and whence the missive came. For some minutes my entrance was unperceived; but when at last the intensity of Marion's grief was somewhat subdued, and her eyes fell on me, she exclaimed, 'Oh! Tim, what have you done? what have you been telling George, that he has written to say he will abandon me forever, and that you can explain the cause?'—'Reveal the whole truth, boy,' said my father sternly, 'as some atonement for the misery which you have been instrumental in producing.'—I then related all that had occurred with the Squire and at the apothecary's shop.—My father and mother showed, by their lowering countenances and searching glances towards my sister, that they were a prey to harrowing suspicions; but they did not interrupt the current of my story. Then, when I had concluded, Marion, without waiting to be asked for an explanation, gave it in the following manner:—
"'You cannot, my dear parents, think for a moment that I have acted unworthily. Imprudent I may have been—but guilty, Oh! no—no! One day the Squire called here, as you are well aware; and he sent Tim to search after you, father. This was most probably a mere vile subterfuge on his part; for when Tim had departed, the bad man began to speak to me in a disparaging way of George; and when I begged him to desist, as he was wronging an excellent being, his language took a bolder turn. He paid me some compliments, which I affected not to hear; and at last his language grew so insulting, that I was about to quit the room, when he caught me round the waist. Oh! how can I tell you his insulting language?—but he proposed to me—to me, your daughter, and beloved by George Dalton as I then was,—the detestable man implored me to fly with him to his mansion—to become his mistress!'—Here my father and mother made a movement indicative of deep indignation; and Marion then continued thus:—'I started away from him—I was rushing towards that inner room, when Tim returned. I was now no longer alarmed, though still boiling with anger: nevertheless I had presence of mind sufficient to command my emotion so far as not to utter a word of reproach or complaint in the presence of my brother. For, in a moment, did I perceive how necessary it was to retain in my own breast the secret of the gross insult which I had received. I reasoned to myself that the Squire was the landlord of the Daltons—that their lease would expire at the end of the year—that it would break the old man's heart to be compelled to quit a farm which had been in his family for so many years—and that George possessed a fiery spirit, which would render him blind to the consequences of avenging on the Squire the insults offered to me. Of all this I thought: those ideas flashed rapidly through my brain;—and I therefore not only resolved to remain silent in respect to the insolence of Mr. Bulkeley, but also tutored Tim to be so reserved, that you, my dear father and mother, should not notice any thing unusual having occurred. When Tim brought me the Squire's note, a week ago, I scarcely hesitated to read it, thinking that it might indeed contain an apology. But, oh! you may conceive my feelings, when I discovered that it repeated the insulting proposals made to me on the first occasion. I knew not how to act; and prudence struggled with wounded pride. But I reflected that Mr. Bulkeley was wealthy and powerful enough to crush us all—for we have seen instances, my dear parents, of the rich landowners ruining the small farmers, who to all appearance were independent of them: and again I resolved to adopt a cautious line of conduct. I accordingly answered the Squire's note. I implored him, as he was a gentleman and a Christian, not to molest me more with importunities from which my very heart revolted; I besought him not to ruin for ever the happy prospects of two families by any means of vengeance with which circumstances or accident might supply him; and I conjured him to believe that, in keeping secret all that had hitherto passed between us, I was actuated only by the best of motives. That letter was the one which Tim conveyed to the Squire; and now, my dear parents, you know all.'
"I remember perfectly well that my father and mother were greatly affected by the narrative which my pure-minded sister thus related to them, and which was frequently interrupted by bursts of bitter anguish on her part. She moreover added that she possessed the Squire's letter to her and a copy of the one which she had written to him.—'Give me those papers, my dear child,' said my father: 'and I will at once proceed to neighbour Dalton's house. If I find George at home, I will undertake to bring him back with me to pass the remainder of the day, and to implore your forgiveness for his unjust suspicions; and if he is not there, I am sure to see my old friend, to whom I will give all the necessary explanations.'—Marion was somewhat soothed by the hopes thus held out; and our father departed to the Daltons' farm, which was about a mile off. Two hours elapsed before he came back; and when at last we perceived him returning through the fields, he was alone. Marion burst into tears: a presentiment of evil struck a chill to her heart; and as our father approached, the serious expression of his countenance filled us all with alarm. He entered and seated himself without uttering a word. Marion threw herself into his arms, saying in a broken voice, 'Father, tell me the worst: I can bear every thing save suspense.'—'My dearest child,' answered the old man, tears trickling down his cheeks, 'it has pleased heaven to afflict thee, and all of us likewise through thee. George has quitted his home, and——.'—And what?' demanded Marion hastily.—'And his father knows not whither he has gone,' continued he: 'but when the first fever of excitement is over, there can be no doubt that he will return. Old Mr. Dalton is perfectly satisfied——.'
"But Marion heard not the words last addressed to her: she had fainted in her father's arms;—and, when she was restored to consciousness, she was so unwell that she was immediately removed to her own chamber. For three weeks her life was despaired of; and she was constantly raving of George Dalton. But at last, youth, a good constitution, and the care taken of her, triumphed over the rage of fever; and she was pronounced out of danger. Alas! what replies could be given to her anxious, earnest questions concerning George? Old Dalton had not heard of him since the fatal day when he disappeared. Was he no more? had he in a moment of frenzy laid violent hands upon himself? There was too much reason to suppose that such was the case: otherwise, would he not have written, or returned? As gently as possible was the fatal truth, that no tidings had been received of him, broken to Marion; and a partial relapse was the consequence. But in another week she rallied again; and then the first time she spoke of him, she said in as excited a tone at her feebleness would allow, 'Had he ceased to love me—had he loved another, I could have borne it! But that he should think me lost—faithless—degraded,—oh! that is worse than even the bitterness of death!'