CHAPTER XXIV.
"Well, well, sit down and cheer yourself, Goody Lamb," said StephenGimlet, after an interval of thirty hours--for I must pass over forthe present those other events affecting more important characters inthis tale, which filled up the intervening time in the neighbourhoodof Tarningham--"let bygones be bygones, as they say in the countrywhere you have lived so much. Here you are, in as comfortable acottage as any in the country. I have plenty, and to spare; and,forgetting all that's past and done, I will try to be a son to you anda brother to poor Bill."
"Thank you, Stephen, thank you," said the old woman, to whom hespoke--a quiet, resigned-looking person, with fine features, and largedark eyes, undimmed by time, though the hair was as white as snow, theskin exceedingly wrinkled, and the frame, apparently, enfeebled andbowed down with sickness, cares, or years; "I am sure you will do whatyou can, my poor lad; but still I cannot help feeling a little odd athaving to move again at my time of life. I thought, when I and my poorhusband, Davie Lamb, came up here to Tarningham, out of Scotland, itwas the last time I should have to change. But we can never tell whatmay happen to us. I fancied, when I went to Scotland with stiff oldMiss Moreton, that I was to be settled there for life. There I marriedLamb, and thought it less likely than ever that I should change, when,suddenly, he takes it into his head to come up here to the place whereI was born and brought up, and never told me why or wherefore."
"Ay, he was a close, hard man," said Stephen Gimlet; "he was notlikely to give reasons to any one; he never did to me, but just saidtwo or three words, and flung away."
"He was a kind husband and a kind father," said the widow, "though hesaid less than most men, I will acknowledge."
"He was not kind to his poor, dear girl," muttered Stephen Gimlet, ina tone which rendered his words scarcely audible; but yet the widowcaught, or divined their sense clearly enough; and she answered:
"Well, Stephen, don't let us talk about it. There are some things thatyou and I cannot well agree upon; and it is better not to speak ofthem. Poor Davie's temper was soured by a great many things. Peopledid not behave to him as well as they ought; and, although I have anotion they persuaded him to come here, they did not do for him allthey promised."
"That's likely," answered the _ci-devant_ poacher; "though I have nooccasion to say so, either; for people have done much more for me thanthey ever promised, and more than I ever expected. See what good SirJohn Slingsby has done, after I have been taking his game for thismany a year; and Mr. Beauchamp, too--why, it was a twenty-pound notehe gave me, just because he heard that my cottage had been burnt down,and all the things in it destroyed--but it was all owing to CaptainHayward, who began it by saving the dear boy's life, that liessleeping there in t'other room, and spoke well of me--which nobodyever took the trouble to do before--and said I was not so bad as Iseemed; and, please God, I'll not give his promises the lie, anyhow."
"God bless him for a good man," said Widow Lamb: "he is one of thefew, Stephen, whose heart and soul are in doing good."
"Ay, that he is," answered the gamekeeper; "but I did not know youknew him, goody."
"No, I do not know much of him," answered the old lady, "but I know hehas been very kind to my boy Bill; and before he went off for Londont'other day, had a long talk to him, which is better, to my thinkingthan the money he gave him--but who is is this Mr. Beauchamp, you sayis such a kind man, too? I've heard Bill talk of him, and he tells methe same; but I can't well make out about him."
"Why, he is a friend of Captain Hayward's," rejoined the gamekeeper;"he has been staying a long while at the White Hart, and just the samesort of man as the other, though a sadder-looking man, and not sofrank and free."
"But what looking man is he?" asked the old woman. "You can tell onewhat a dog's like, or what a ferret's like, Stephen, well enough; andI should like to hear about him; for I have a curiosity, somehow."
"Why, he is a tall man and a strong man," answered Stephen Gimlet,"with a good deal of darkish hair, not what one would say curling, butyet not straight, either; and large eyes, in which you can see littleor no white; very bright and sparkling, too. Then he's somewhat paleand sunburnt; and very plain in his dress, always in dark clothes; butyet, when one looks at him, one would not like to say a saucy thing tohim; for there is something, I don't know what, in his way and hislook, that, though he is as kind as possible when he speaks, seems totell every body, 'I am not an ordinary sort of person.' He never wearsany gloves, that I saw; but, for all that, his hands are as clean asif they had been washed the minute before, and the wristbands of hisshirt are as white as snow."
Goody Lamb paused, thoughtfully, and rubbed her forehead once ortwice, under the gray hair:
"I have seen him, then," she said at length, in a very peculiar tone;"he has passed my little window more than once--and his name isBeauchamp is it?"
"So they say," answered Stephen Gimlet, in some surprise; "why shouldit not?"
"Oh! I don't know," answered the widow; and there she ceased.
"Well, you are very droll to-night, goody," said Stephen Gimlet; "butI should like a cup of tea before I go out upon my rounds; so I'lljust get some sticks to make the fire burn; for that kettle doesnothing but simmer."
Thus saying, he went into the little passage, and out into a smallyard, whence he brought a faggot or two. He then laid them on the hotembers, blew up a flame, made the kettle boil; and, all this time, nota word passed between him and Goody Lamb; for both seemed very busywith thoughts of their own. At length, when a teapot and some cups hadbeen produced, and a small packet of tea wrapped up in a brown paper,the old lady sat down to prepare the beverage for her son-in-law, asthe first act of kindly service she rendered him since she hadundertaken to keep his house. To say the truth, it was more forherself than for him that the tea was made; for Stephen Gimlet did notlike the infusion, and was not accustomed to it; but he knew the gooddame's tastes, and was anxious to make her as comfortable as he could.
While she was making the tea after her own peculiar fashion--andalmost every one has a mode of his own--Gimlet stood on the other sideof the little deal table and watched her proceedings. At length hesaid, somewhat suddenly, "Yes, Mr. Beauchamp was up here, yesterday,just when Doctor Miles was talking to me, and he asked me a great manyquestions about--" and here he paused, thinking he might be violatingsome confidence if he mentioned the subject of his visitor'sinquiries. The next instant he concluded his sentence in a differentway from that which he first intended, saying--"about a good manythings; and then he went into the church with me and looked at all thetombs of the Moretons, and especially that of the last gentleman."
"Ay, well he might," answered Goody Lamb.
"Indeed!" exclaimed Stephen Gimlet, with a slight laugh; "then youseem to know more of him than I do."
Goody Lamb nodded her head; and her son-in-law proceeded with somewarmth: "Then I am sure you know no harm of him."
"No, Stephen, no," she said, "I do not! I saw him as a young lad, andI have not seen him since; but I have not forgotten him; for he camedown to my house--what is called the Grieves-house in Scotland--on themorning of a day that turned out the heaviest day of his life; and hewas a gay young lad then; and he saw my poor boy, who was then alittle fellow of four years old, that all the folks there used to gibeat on account of his misfortunes; but this gentleman took him on hisknee and patted his head and was kind to him, and said he was a cleverboy, and gave him a couple of shillings to buy himself a little flute,because the poor fellow was fond of music even then, and used towhistle so sweetly, it was enough to break one's heart to hear suchsounds come from such a poor body. The gentleman has never thought ofme or mine since then, I'll warrant, but I have thought of him oftenenough; and I'll ask him a question or two someday, please God."
"The heaviest day in his life," repeated Stephen Gimlet, who hadmarked every word she uttered with strong attention; "how was that,Goody?"
"Ay," answered Widow Lamb, shaking her head, "as they say in thatcoun
try, it is no good talking of all that; so ask me no morequestions, Stephen; but sit down and take your tea, my man, and thengo about your work."
Stephen Gimlet sat down and, with not the greatest pleasure in theworld, took a cup of the beverage she had prepared; but still he wasvery thoughtful; for there was something in Mr. Beauchamp, even in thegrave sadness of his ordinary manner, which created a kind of interestin a man of a peculiarly imaginative character; and he would havegiven a good deal to know all that Widow Lamb could tell, but wouldnot. He did not choose to question her, however; and, after havingfinished a large slice of brown bread, he rose and unfastened the onlydog he had remaining, in order to go out upon his night's round.
Just at that moment, however, some one tried the latch of the cottage,and then knocked for admission; and the dog, springing forward,growled, barked, and snarled furiously.
The gamekeeper chid him back, and then opened the door, when, to hissurprise, he saw the figure of young Harry Wittingham before him. Thedog sprang forward again, as if he would have torn the visitor topieces; and, to say the truth, Stephen Gimlet felt a great inclinationto let the beast have his way; but, after a moment's thought, he droveit back again, saying, with a bitter laugh,
"The beast knows the danger of letting you in. What do you want withme, Sir?"
"I want you to do me a great service, Ste," said Harry Wittingham,with a familiar and friendly air; "and I am sure you will, if--"
"No, I won't," answered Stephen Gimlet, "if it were to save you fromhanging, I would not put my foot over that doorstep. It is no usetalking, Mr. Wittingham; I will have nothing more to do with any ofyour tricks. I don't wish ever to see you again; I am in a new way oflife, and it won't do, I can tell you."
"Oh, I have heard all about that," answered the young man, in a lighttone; "and, moreover, that you have taken a silly fancy into yourhead, that I set fire to your cottage. It is all nonsense, upon myword. Your boy must have done it, playing with the fire that was onthe hearth."
Stephen Gimlet's face turned somewhat pale with the effort to keepdown the anger that was in his heart; but he replied shortly andquickly, for fear it should burst forth:
"The boy had no fire to play with--you knew well he was locked up inthe bedroom, and there he was found, when you burned the place down."
"Well, if I had any hand in it," said young Wittingham, "it must havebeen a mere accident."
"Ay, when you knew there was a poor helpless child in the house," saidStephen Gimlet, bitterly, "it was a sort of accident which well-nighdeserved hanging."
"Nonsense, nonsense, my good fellow," said the young man, "you areangry about nothing; and though you have got a good place, I dare sayyou are not a man to refuse a couple of guineas when they are offeredto you."
"If you offer them," cried Stephen Gimlet, furiously, "I'll throw themin your face--an accident, indeed! to burn my cottage, and nearly mypoor child! I suppose it was by accident that you stopped the carriagein the lane? And by accident that you set a man to fire at your ownfather through the window?"
"Hush, hush, Stephen," cried Widow Lamb, catching hold of his coat andattempting to keep him back, as he took a step towards HarryWittingham, who turned very pale.
The young man recovered his audacity the next moment, however, andexclaimed:
"Pooh! let him alone, good woman; if he thinks to bully me, he ismistaken."
"Get out of this house," cried Stephen Gimlet, advancing close to him."Get out of this house, without another word, or I'll break yourneck!"
"You are a fool," answered young Wittingham; "and, if you don't mind,I'll send you to Botany Bay."
The words were scarcely out of his mouth, when Stephen Gimlet aimed astraight blow at him with his right hand, which was immediatelyparried; for the young vagabond was not unskilful in the science ofdefence; but, the next instant, the gamekeeper's left told withstunning effect in the midst of his face, and he fell prostrate, withhis head out of the doorway and his feet within. Stephen Gimlet lookedat him for a moment, then, stooping down, lifted him in his strongarms, pitched him headlong out, and shut the door.
"There!" said Gimlet;--"now I'll sit down for a minute and get cool."
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