CHAPTER VI.
Reader, can you go back for twenty years? You do it every day. Yousay, "Twenty years ago I was a boy--twenty years ago I was ayouth--twenty years ago I played at peg-top and at marbles--twentyyears ago I wooed--was loved--I sinned--I suffered!"
What is there in twenty years that should keep us from going backover them? You go on so fast, so smoothly, so easily on the forwardcourse--why not in retrogression? But let me tell you: it makes a verygreat difference whether Hope or Memory drives the coach.
But let us see what we can do. Twenty years before the period at whichthe last chapter broke off, Philip Hastings, now a father of a girl offifteen, was a lad standing by the side of his brother's grave. Twentyyears ago Sir John Hastings was the living lord of these fine landsand broad estates. Twenty years ago he passed, from the mouth of thevault in which he had laid the clay of the first-born, into the opensplendor of the day, and felt sorrow's desolation in the sunshine.Twenty years age, he had been confronted on the church-yard path by atall old woman, and challenged with words high and stern, to do herright in regard to a paltry rood or two of land. Twenty years ago hehad given her a harsh, cold answer, and treated her menaces withimpatient scorn.
Do you remember her, reader? Well, if you do, that brings us to thepoint I sought to reach in the dull flat expanse of the far past; andwe can stand and look around us for awhile.
That old woman was not one easily to forget or lightly to yield herresentments. There was something perdurable in them as well as in hergaunt, sinewy frame. As she stood there menacing him, she wanted butthree years of seventy. She had battled too with many a storm--windand weather, suffering and persecution, sorrow and privation, had beatupon her hard--very hard. They had but served to stiffen and witherand harden, however.
Her corporeal frame, shattered as it seemed, was destined to outlivemany of the young and fair spirit-tabernacles around it--to pass over,by long years, the ordinary allotted space of human life; and itseemed as if even misfortune had with her but a preserving power. Itis not wonderful, however, that, while it worked thus upon her body,it should likewise have stiffened and withered and hardened her heart.
I am not sure that conscience itself went untouched in this searingprocess. It is not clear at all that even her claim upon Sir JohnHastings was not an unjust one; but just or unjust his repulse sunkdeep and festered.
Let us trace her from the church-yard after she met him. She took herpath away from the perk and the hamlet, between two cottages, theragged boys at the doors of which called her "Old Witch," and spokeabout a broomstick.
She heeded them little: there were deeper offences rankling at herheart.
She walked on, across a corn-field and a meadow, and then she cameupon some woodlands, through which a little sandy path wound its way,round stumps of old trees long cut down, amidst young bushes andsaplings just springing up, and catching the sunshine here and therethrough the bright-tinted foliage overhead. Up the hill it went, overthe slope on which the copse was scattered, and then burst forth againon the opposite side of wood and rise, where the ground fell gentlythe other way, looking down upon the richly-dressed grounds of ColonelMarshall, at the distance of some three miles.
Not more than a hundred yards distant was a poor man's cottage, withan old gray thatch which wanted some repairing, and was plentifullycovered with herbs, sending the threads of their roots into the straw.A. little badly-cultivated garden, fenced off from the hill-side by aloose stone wall, surrounded the horse, and a gate without hinges gaveentrance to this inclosed space.
The old woman went in and approached the cottage door. When near itshe stopped and listened, lifting one of the flapping ears of hercotton cap to aid the dull sense of hearing. There were no voiceswithin; but there was a low sobbing sound issued forth as if some onewere in bitter distress.
"I should not wonder if she were alone," said the old woman; "theruffian father is always out; the drudging mother goes about this timeto the town. They will neither stay at home, I wot, to grieve for himthey let too often into that door, nor to comfort her he has leftdesolate. But it matters little whether they be in or out. It werebetter to talk to her first. I will give her better thancomfort--revenge, if I judge right. They must play their partafterwards."
Thus communing with herself, she laid her hand upon the latch andopened the door. In an attitude of unspeakable grief sat immediatelybefore her a young and exceedingly beautiful girl, of hardly seventeenyears of age.
The wheel stood still by her side; the spindle had fallen from herhands; her head was bowed down as with sorrow she could not bear upagainst; and her eyes were dropping tears like rain.
The moment she heard the door open she started, and looked up withfear upon her face, and strove to dash the tears from her eyes; butthe old women bespoke her softly, saying, "Good even, my dear; is yourmother in the place?"
"No," replied the girl; "she has gone to sell the lint, and father isout too. It is very lonely, and I get sad here."
"I do not wonder at it, poor child," said the old woman; "you have hada heavy loss, my dear, and may well cry. You can't help what is past,you know; but we can do a good deal for what is to come, if we buttake care and make up our minds in time."
Many and strange were the changes of expression which came upon thepoor girl's face as she heard these few simple words. At first hercheek glowed hot, as with the burning blush of shame; then she turnedpale and trembled, gazing inquiringly in her visitor's face, as if shewould have asked, "Am I detected?" and then she cast down her eyesagain, still pale as ashes, and the tears rolled forth once more andfell upon her lap.
The old woman sat down beside her, and talked to her tenderly; but,alas! very cunningly too. She assumed far greater knowledge than shepossessed. She persuaded the poor girl that there was nothing toconceal from her; and what neither father nor mother knew, was toldthat day to one comparatively a stranger. Still the old woman spoketenderly--ay, very tenderly; excused her fault--made light of herfears--gave her hope--gave her strength. But all the time sheconcealed her full purpose. That was to be revealed by degrees.Whatever had been the girl's errors, she was too innocent to be made aparty to a scheme of fraud and wrong and vengeance at once. All thatthe woman communicated was blessed comfort to a bruised and bleedingheart; and the poor girl leaned her head upon her old companion'sshoulder, and, amidst bitter tears and sobs and sighs, poured outevery secret of her heart.
But what is that she says, which makes the old woman start with a lookof triumph?
"Letters!" she exclaimed; "two letters: let me see them, child--let mesee them! Perhaps they may be more valuable than you think."
The girl took them from her bosom, where she kept them as all that shepossessed of one gone that day into the tomb.
The old woman read them with slow eyes, but eager attention; and thengave them back, saying, "That one you had better destroy as soon aspossible--it tells too much. But this first one keep, as you valueyour own welfare--as you value your child's fortune, station, andhappiness. You can do much with this. Why, here are words that maymake your father a proud man. Hark! I hear footsteps coming. Put themup--we must go to work cautiously, and break the matter to yourparents by degrees."
It was the mother of the girl who entered; and she seemed faint andtired. Well had the old woman called her a drudge, for such she was--apoor patient household drudge, laboring for a hard, heartless, idle,and cunning husband, and but too tenderly fond of the poor girl whosebeauty had been a snare to her.
She seemed somewhat surprised to see the old woman there; for theywere of different creeds, and those creeds made wide separation in thedays I speak of. Perhaps she was surprised and grieved to see thetraces of tears and agitation on her daughter's face; but of that shetook no notice; for there were doubts and fears at her heart which shedreaded to confirm. The girl was more cheerful, however, than she hadbeen for the last week--not gay, not even calm; but yet there was alook of some relief.
Often even a
fter her mother's entrance, the tears would gather thickin her eyes when she thought of the dead; but it was evident that hopehad risen up: that the future was not all darkness and terror. Thiswas a comfort to her; and she spoke and looked cheerfully. She hadsold all the thread of her and her daughter's spinning, and she hadsold it well. Part she hid in a corner to keep a pittance for breadfrom her husband's eyes; part she reserved to give up to him for thepurchase of drink: but while she made all these little arrangements,she looked somewhat anxiously at the old woman, from time to time, asif she fain would have asked, "What brought you here?"
The crone was cautious, however, and knew well with whom she had todeal. She talked in solemn and oracular tones, as if she had possessedall the secrets of fate, but she told nothing, and when she went awayshe said in a low voice but authoritative manner, "Be kind to yourgirl--be very kind; for she will bring good luck and fortune to youall." The next day she laid wait for the husband, found and forced himto stop and hear her. At first he was impatient, rude, and brutal;swore, cursed, and called her many and evil names. But soon helistened eagerly enough: looks of intelligence and eager design passedbetween the two, and ere they parted they perfectly understood eachother.
The man was then, on more than one day, seen going down to the hall.At first he was refused admission to Sir John Hastings; for hischaracter was known. The next day, however, he brought a letter,written under his dictation by his daughter, who had been taught at acharitable school of old foundation hard by; and this time he wasadmitted. His conversation with the Lord of the Manor was long; but noone knew its import. He came again and again, and was still admitted.
A change came over the cottage and its denizens. The fences were putin order, the walls were repaired, the thatch renewed, another room ortwo was added; plenty reigned within; mother and daughter appeared insomewhat finer apparel; and money was not wanting.
At the end of some months there was the cry of a young child in thehouse. The neighbors were scandalized, and gossips spoke censoriouslyeven in the father's ears; but he stopped them fiercely, with proudand mysterious words; boasted aloud of what they had thought hisdaughter's shame; and claimed a higher place for her than waswillingly yielded to her companions. Strange rumors got afloat, butere a twelvemonth had passed, the father had drank himself to death.His widow and her daughter and her grandson moved to a better house,and lived at ease on money none knew the source of, while the cottage,now neat and in good repair, became the dwelling of the old woman, whohad been driven with scorn from Sir John's presence. Was shesatisfied--had she sated herself? Not yet.
The Man in Black: An Historical Novel of the Days of Queen Anne Page 6