“The story must be an exceptionally terrible one.”
“No. It is only exceptionally sad. I will tell it to you briefly. A young woman was charged with the murder of her infant. The young woman was unmarried. So far the story is unfortunately an ordinary one. She refused to make any defence or divulge anything with regard to the parentage of the child. A plea of not guilty was entered, and I assigned counsel to defend her. But the facts were too strong. The legal guilt of the unfortunate, and, I may say, very beautiful victim was clearly established by the witnesses for the Crown. But one witness appeared for the defence, and he volunteered his evidence. He was a tall, gaunt man, with a highly intelligent face. He was dressed in broadcloth. He entered the box, and said, in slow tones—the tones of a man suffering an unutterable agony—‘My lord, I wish to speak to the character of my daughter.’ He had no sooner spoken the words than the prisoner uttered a shriek, which, to my dying day, I shall remember. She shrieked the word ‘Father,’ and fell to the floor of the dock. There was great confusion in court for some minutes. A medical man was sent for. When he arrived he pronounced the prisoner dead. The prosecuting counsel rose and announced the fact to the court. The father still stood in the witness-box. His face was ghastly pale, his hands clenched before him, his eyes were cast towards the roof of the building and looked bright, as though he could see through that obstacle to something above. Amid a dead silence, in deep and infinitely pathetic tones he repeated the words, ‘The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord.’ I’m not ashamed to tell you that tears fell on my note-book from these old eyes of mine.”
“And the man’s name?” asked Tom, casually.
“William Bracebridge, of —.”
For one moment a deadly paleness spread over the face of the son. But in an instant he regained his self-possession, and with his characteristic, frank, engaging manner, said,—
“Dear old dad, no wonder the scene upset you. It is, indeed, a sad story. Try a Laranaga, and let us talk of something else.”
V.
THE GRIGSBY LIVING.
Grigsby is in Kent, and although, in respect of its hops and cherry-orchards, it is called upon to pay extraordinary tithes, its inhabitants seem comfortable and contented. An occasional agitator happening upon Grigsby endeavours to arouse the farmers as to the iniquity of the landowners. But these political missionaries receive but scant welcome, and packing up their carpet-bags depart by early trains.
Much of the neglect bestowed upon the disciples of those who consider that land should be let at prairie rates may be traced to the fact that for ten generations the Bodkins have been established in the vicinity. And the present baronet, Sir Lionel de Stacy Bodkin, is as popular with his tenants and with the country-side generally, as anyone of his predecessors. The Bodkins were good landlords and stuck by the farmers. And the farmers, with a fine bucolic sentiment of reciprocity, stuck by the Bodkins.
One of the Bodkins always went into the Church, and was presented with the Grigsby living. Here he ministered to the living Bodkins and delivered his sage platitudes to the unheeding ears of the Bodkin effigies that lay in the chancel