Chapter LXXI: The History of Tim the Snammer (1)

"My father was a small farmer in Hampshire. He had about thirty-six acres of his own, all well cultivated and well stocked, and free of all mortgage and encumbrance of that kind. The farm was small enough, God knows; but it yielded a decent living,—for my father was as industrious as a bee,—always out by sunrise,—and my mother was as saving, thrifty, and prudent a housewife as any in the county. They were not, however, mean: no—very far from that. The beggar was never turned away unassisted from their door; and if a neighbour got a little behind-hand with his rent, and deserved aid, it was ten to one if the china tea-pot in my mother's cupboard did not contain a few pounds, which were speedily placed at his disposal. Farmer Splint, as my father was called, was always regular in his attendance at the village church on Sunday; and the only person who looked upon him as a mean-spirited fellow, was the landlord of the ale-house—because my father so seldom entered the _George and Dragon_ even to take a glass of beer at the bar,—and never stopped there to pass an evening.

"My mother was a very handsome woman, and had been the village-belle before her marriage with Farmer Splint. This marriage was one of affection on both sides; for though my mother's parents were very poor and unable to give their daughter any thing, yet Farmer Splint preferred her to the wealthier young women of the neighbourhood. On her side, though my father was nearly ten years older than herself, she refused the offer of a rich young farmer, and became the spouse of a man whom she could respect and esteem as well as love. The fruits of this marriage were two children,—a daughter, named Marion, and myself. Our mother found time, even amongst the numerous duties and cares of the household, to teach us to read and write. The village schoolmaster then taught us a little arithmetic, history, and geography; and we were as well instructed as the children of poor parents were likely to be, and much better than those of even many richer people living in our neighbourhood.

"Now, from all I have just told you, you will see plain enough that our mother and father were good, honest, moral, and well-intentioned people. Their only care was to toil with all possible diligence, to make both ends meet,—put by a little savings, when the harvest was very plentiful,—and bring up their children in a respectable and decent manner. My father was particularly anxious to prevent his boy from resembling the young black-guards of the village: he would never let me play about in the high road at marbles,—nor yet go bird's-nesting, which he said encouraged cruelty, and was also the first step to poaching. But he did all he could to render me hardy, and promoted innocent sports of an athletic nature. Altogether, farmer Splint's family was considered to be the best-behaved and the happiest in all the county.

"It was in the year 1807, that my history now dates from. I was then thirteen years old: my sister, Marion, was eighteen, and a sweet beautiful girl she was, with fine blue eyes, flaxen hair, and a figure that couldn't have been made more graceful if clothed in silk or satin. She was at that time engaged to be married to the only son of a farmer in the neighbourhood, and who was well to do in the world. A finer fellow than young George Dalton you would never wish to see; and when he and Marion walked to church arm-in-arm, on a Sunday, every one noticed them, as much as to express a conviction of the fitness of the intended union of such a handsome, manly youth, and such a modest pretty girl. Well, it was the summer of 1807, and the marriage was to take place in October, when all the harvest was got in, and the good ale was brewed for the ensuing year. Every thing appeared gay and smiling for the young people; for George's father had promised to give up his farm to his son, but to continue to live in the house, as soon as Marion should have become his daughter-in-law.

"About three miles from our farm stood the beautiful seat of Squire Bulkeley. This gentleman had been left an orphan when young; and his estates were managed by his guardians, until he came of age, he living with one of them in London. But when he attained his majority, he soon showed himself to be tired of a London life; and he came down to take possession of Bulkeley Hall, and settle there. This was in the beginning of 1807; but for two or three months the Squire kept himself pretty quiet. All of a sudden, however, he became as gay as he was before tranquil and retired; and this change, we learnt, arose in consequence of his guardians leaving him, they having accompanied him to the Hall and remained there until all the papers and deeds connected with his accession to his property were signed. The moment they were gone, a number of fashionable gentlemen from London arrived as guests at the old mansion; and the long silent rooms echoed to the sounds of their late revellings. Then there were steeple-chases, and horse-racing, and cock-fighting, and badger-baiting, and all kinds of sports of that nature; and sometimes the young squire was more than half tipsy when he lounged into church in the middle of the Sunday evening service. His residence at the Hall did no good to the village tradespeople, because he had every thing sent down from London;—and thus no one was rejoiced at his settling in that neighbourhood. My parents, particularly, had no good opinion of Squire Bulkeley; but, as the farm was their own, they had no positive fear of him, although our land joined his estates. This was not so, however, with the Daltons, who were only tenant-farmers, and rented their fifty or sixty acres of the Squire. The farm had been in old Dalton's family for many, many years, and was one of the best tilled and best stocked in the county; and as Mr. Dalton was always regular with his rent, it did not seem probable that the lease, which was shortly to expire, would be refused renewal.

"One morning,—it was in the month of June, I remember, Marion and myself happened to be alone together in the house, when the Squire, attended by his groom, rode up to the door. Marion sent me out to learn the cause of his visit. 'This is Farmer Splint's, my boy, I believe?' said the Squire, who, I should observe, was a handsome young man in spite of his dissipated appearance. I replied in the affirmative, adding, that my father was not at home. 'Who is at home, then?' asked the Squire; 'for I caught a glimpse of a face so pretty just now at the window, that I should not mind beholding it again.'—'That was my sister, Marion, sir,' I answered, not seeing any thing insolent in his remark; but, perhaps, rather pleased by it, as it flattered a sister of whom I was very fond.—'Well, my boy,' said the Squire, leaping from his horse, 'here is a crown for you; and now be off and try and find your father, as I want to speak to him. In the mean time I will walk in and rest myself.' Catching the coin which he threw me, I hurried away, delighted with the handsome present, and naturally thinking that the visit of so liberal a gentleman must be with a motive beneficial to my father. But after hunting every where for him about the farm, I remembered that he and my mother had gone to the village to make some purchases. The village was a mile and a half distant from our house; and as I knew that they would be back to dinner at one, I returned straight home, expecting to find them already arrived. The groom was walking the horses up and down at a little distance; and, therefore, I was convinced that the Squire was still waiting within. My hand was just upon the latch of the door, when a scream burst upon my ears; and immediately afterwards I heard Marion's voice reproaching the Squire bitterly for some insult which he had offered her. I hastened into the house, and my presence appeared to disconcert Mr. Bulkeley completely. He was standing in the middle of the room, as if uncertain what course to adopt in a case of embarrassment; and he turned as red as scarlet when he saw me. Marion was at the further end of the apartment, near a door opening into the kitchen; and she was arranging her hair, which had been disordered; while her cheeks were also crimsoned, but, as I thought, with the glow of indignation; whereas the face of the Squire was flushed with shame.

"I advanced towards Marion, asking, 'What is the matter? why did you scream out? and what has he been doing to you?'—'Nothing, Tim,' she replied, but with a profound sob. 'Have you met father?'—'No; I forgot that he'd gone to the village; but he will be home in a minute or two, as it's close on one.'—'I shall call another day, then, Miss,' said the Squire; and he hurried abruptly away. For some minutes neither Marion or myself spoke a word. I suppose she was endeavouring to compose herself, and also deliberating what course she should pursue; while, on my side, I did not like to question her. At length she approached me, and said, 'Tim, you are a good boy, and always do what sister tells you. Now, mind and don't mention a word about that gentleman having been rude to me. I have reasons of my own for it. And don't say either, that you were so long away when he was here.' I promised to follow Marion's injunctions; for I was very fond of her, as I have before said. Accordingly, when my father and mother had come back, and we were all seated at dinner, Marion remarked in an indifferent manner that the Squire had called to see our father, and that he had given me a five-shilling piece. 'I wonder what he can want with me?' said my father: 'it was certainly very kind of him to make Tim such a handsome present; but after all I have heard of him, I would rather that he should honour us with his visits as rarely as possible. However, he can do us no harm—nor any good, that I know of; for he has no land to let at present, and I am not disposed to hire any even if he had.' There the subject was dismissed, at least so far as remarks thereon were concerned; but I saw that Marion was thoughtful and even melancholy during the remainder of the day.

"About a week had elapsed, and my father and I were one afternoon proceeding along the borders of our land, just where it was separated by a quick-set hedge from the Squire's estate, when Mr. Bulkeley himself, alone and on foot, suddenly appeared at a stile. My father and I touched our hats with the usual respect shown by country people to great folks; and the Squire, who had for a moment shrunk back on seeing us, exclaimed, 'Farmer Splint, you are the very man I wanted to fall in with; and that very field in which you are standing is the object of my business with you.'—'How so, sir?' asked my father.—'Why,' returned the Squire, 'you see it cuts awkwardly into my estate, and breaks in on the very best preserves I have in this quarter.—'Begging pardon, sir,' said my father, 'I could wish it broke a little more on your preserves: for your hares and pheasants do a world of harm to my fields when the corn is just springing up. I lost more than an acre by them last year, sir.'—'So much the greater folly on your part, Farmer Splint,' exclaimed the Squire, 'to persist in remaining a landowner. You never can get a good living out of so small a farm as your's.'—'I get enough for all our wants sir, and am able to assist a friend now and then,' said my father.—'Well, but if you sell your land and become a tenant-farmer, you will be much better off,' observed the Squire. 'Suppose, for instance, I bought the land? why, you would have received compensation for the injury done to your crop by the game in my preserves.'—'But I should lose my independence, sir,' said my father, in a firm though perfectly respectful manner.—'Your independence!' ejaculated Mr. Bulkeley, with a sneer. 'Then, I am to imagine that you consider yourself a regular landowner, one of the lords of the soil. May be you will dub yourself _Squire_ next! Squire Splint, eh?'—'I am plain Farmer Splint, sir, and so I hope to remain,' was the answer.—'Then you will not sell me that field?'—'I had rather not, sir.'—'But you may have an equivalent portion of my seven-acre field over by the mill yonder; and your property will be much more compact.'—'But the land is not equally serviceable, sir,' answered my father, 'and therefore I must decline the bargain. Besides, it may be fancy on my part; but it is true notwithstanding, that I am rather superstitious in making boundary changes in a farm that has been so long in my family; unless it was to extend it by a purchase of land, and _that_ I can't afford. So good day, sir;' and my father, touching his hat, walked on. I saw the Squire's lips quivering with rage as he stood looking after us; and, young as I was, yet I thought my father had made an enemy of him—for the conversation which I have just detailed, produced a deep impression upon me.

"Six or seven weeks had passed away since this little incident, when I one day met the Squire as I was going on an errand for my mother to the village. He was on horseback, and his groom was in attendance. I was thinking whether I ought to touch my hat to him or not, after his insolence to my father, when he pulled up, exclaiming, 'Holloa! youngster—your name is Splint, I believe?'—'Yes, sir.'—'Ah! I remember. You are a very good lad, and I should wish to become a friend to you. I think I gave you a crown once: well, here's another. And now answer me a question or two. Did your sister ever say a word to her father or mother about that visit of mine some weeks past, you know?'—I was so bewildered by the apparent liberality of the Squire, and, boy-like, was so rejoiced at the possession of the coin which I was rolling over and over in my hand, that I suffered myself to be sifted by him at will; and I acquainted him with the injunctions that my sister Marion had given me on the occasion to which he had alluded. He seemed much pleased, but not particularly astonished. In fact, it is of course easy to understand what was passing in his mind, although I could not _then_ fathom his thoughts. The respect which my father had shown him when they met in the fields, evidently induced him to believe that Marion had _not_ acquainted her parents with his rudeness to her; and now he was pleased to receive from my lips a confirmation of his conjecture on that point. It was also natural for him to imagine that Marion was not in reality so much offended with him as she had appeared to be; and it was doubtless with this impression upon his mind that he proceeded to address me in the following manner:—'To tell you the truth, my boy, I behaved rather rudely to your charming sister; and I have repented of it ever since. I do not like to call and offer an apology, because your father or mother, or both, might be present. But if you will deliver a note to her privately, I will write one; for I shall not feel happy till I have convinced her that I am sorry for the past.'—'I am sure, sir,' I replied, 'I shall be most happy to deliver such a letter to my sister, and she will be most pleased to receive it; because she has often told me that we always ought to forgive those who show repentance for their errors.'—'An excellent maxim, my boy!' cried the Squire. He then desired me to wait for him in a particular shop, which he named, in the village; and, turning back, he rode thitherward, followed by his groom. I walked on, thinking that the Squire was a much better man than he had at first seemed,—wondering, too, how he could have been so harsh and unjust in his observations towards my father, and yet so ready to acknowledge the impropriety of his conduct towards my sister.

"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!'

"Slowly—slowly did Marion recover sufficiently to rise from her bed: but how altered was she! The gay, cheerful, ruddy girl, blooming with health and rustic beauty, was changed into a pale, moping, mournful creature, whose very presence seemed to render joy a crime and smiles a sacrilege. The autumn came—the corn was cut—the harvest, as plentiful as had been expected, was gathered in. Had George been there then, that was the period settled for the wedding. And, strange as it may seem, it was precisely on the day originally resolved upon as the one to render the young couple happy,—that old Dalton _did_ receive tidings of his son. George was alive, and had enlisted in a regiment then stationed at Chatham, but shortly to embark for India. The young man wrote a letter communicating these facts, and referring to a former letter which he had written to his father a few days after he had quitted home, but the miscarriage of which had produced so much uncertainty and painful suspense. The colour came back to Marion's cheeks when she heard that her lover was alive; and she said, 'Even though I may never see him more, I can yet be happy; for he will now learn that I am still as I have ever been, his faithful and devoted Marion!' Meantime, old Dalton and my father were deliberating together what course to pursue; and it was determined that the discharge of George should be immediately purchased. The proper steps were taken, under the advice of an attorney in the nearest market-town; and in the mean time his father wrote to him a full account of the Squire's treachery and Marion's complete innocence. The return of post brought the tenderest and most pathetic letter to Marion, imploring her forgiveness, and assuring her that his extreme love had driven him to such a state of desperation as to render his native district hateful to him, and had induced him to enlist. I need scarcely say, that Marion now enjoyed hopes of happiness again: her cheeks recovered their lost bloom—her step grew light as formerly, and her musical voice once more awoke the echoes of the homestead. In six weeks time we heard that George was free, and on his way home. He came:—it is impossible to describe the unbounded joy of the meeting!

"And now there was no longer any obstacle to the union of the lovers, nor any wish in any quarter to delay it. The marriage was accordingly celebrated and a happier pair never issued from the village-church; nor did ever the bells appear to ring so merrily before. There were grand doings at our farm-house, for my mother was determined to give a treat to all her neighbours;—and the feast was such a one as I never can forget. Long after George had borne away his bride to his father's house, which, as already long before arranged, was to be the young couple's home, the dancing was kept up on the green in front of our dwelling, though the cold weather had already begun to show itself. But all hearts were gay and happy, and warm with good feelings; and the old ale and the punch flowed bountifully; for it was one of those days in people's lives which are a reward for whole ages of care. Ah! when I look back at those times, and think of what I was—and now reflect for a moment on what I am——But, no; I must not reflect at all. Let me continue this history without pausing for meditation!

"The happiness of both families was now complete; for even old Dalton declared that he had so much reason for joy in the turn which circumstances had lately taken, that he could even make up his mind to receive a refusal when he should apply for the renewal of his lease. But just at this time fortune seemed determined to be propitious; for Squire Bulkeley, who was in London when the return of George and the marriage took place, sent down a legal gentleman to make arrangements with his steward for the sale of a part of his estate in Hampshire, as he wanted to make up the money to purchase a small property in Kent. He was a wild and reckless fellow, and full of whims and fancies; and he cared not which portion of his land was sold, so long as his preserves and park were left. Well, it happened that old Dalton, hearing of this, went straight to the lawyer, and proposed to purchase the farm which had been rented by his family for so many years. The offer was accepted: by the aid of my father the money was made up and paid. Dalton was now a landowner; but he did not remain so long—for he made over all his newly acquired property to his son George, who laboured hard to improve it.

"Shortly after this transaction, it was rumoured in the neighbourhood that the Squire had flown into a tremendous passion when he received the news that the Daltons had purchased the farm. He had no doubt intended to turn them out at Christmas; but he had omitted to except their farm from the part of the estate to be sold. The Daltons cared nothing for his anger; and George even said that he now considered himself sufficiently avenged upon the perfidious gentleman. Shortly after Christmas the Squire came down to Bulkeley Hall with a party of friends; and the mansion once again rang with the din of revellers. And now I come to a very important incident in my narrative.

"One day George Dalton had occasion to visit the neighbouring market-town to buy a horse; and he stayed to dine in company with the other farmers at the principal inn. The landlord of the inn dined at the same table with his guests; and, during the meal, he informed the company that a poor discharged gamekeeper had died at the house on the preceding evening, leaving behind him his only possession—the only thing that he had been able to retain from the wreck of his former prosperity,—namely, a beautiful greyhound. The farmers were interested in the tale, and instantly made a subscription to defray the expenses of the poor man's funeral, and remunerate the good landlord for the care and attention which he had bestowed on the deceased during his last illness. The hound was brought in, and every one admired it greatly. The landlord observed that his wife had such an aversion to dogs, he did not dare keep it on the premises; and he proposed that the farmers should raffle amongst them to decide to whom the hound should belong. This was assented to; and the lot fell on George Dalton. He accordingly took the dog home with him, and related all that had occurred to his father and his wife, both of whom were much pleased by the acquisition of such a fine animal, and under such interesting circumstances. The poor gamekeeper's dog accordingly became an immediate favourite.

"About a week or ten days afterwards, and in the month of February, George went out early, accompanied by the hound. The morning was fine and frosty, but excessively cold; and George whistled cheerily as he went along, Ponto trotting close at his heels. Suddenly a hare started from her form; and away dashed the greyhound after her. George knew that he had no right to pursue game even on his own land; and he ran after the dog as hard as he could, calling him back. But he might as well have whistled against the thunder: Ponto was too eager in the chase to mind the invocations of his master. Well, after a short but exciting run, the hound caught and killed the hare in the very last field belonging to George's farm, the adjoining land being the Squire's. And, sure enough, at that very instant Mr. Bulkeley appeared, accompanied by two gamekeepers, on the other side of the boundary palings. 'George Dalton, by God!' cried the Squire, with a malignant sneer on his countenance.—But George took no notice of his enemy; for he had promised Marion in the most solemn manner to avoid all possibility of quarrelling with so dangerous an individual.—'I did not know that you took out a certificate, Mr. Dalton,' observed the Squire, after a pause.—'Neither do I, sir,' replied George in a cold but respectful manner; 'and I have done nothing that I am ashamed of; for, if you have been here many minutes, you must have heard me trying to call the dog off.'—'We know what we heard, Mr. Dalton,' said the Squire, with a significant grin at his gamekeepers;—and away the gentleman and keepers went, chuckling audibly. The very next day an information was laid by the Squire against George Dalton, who accordingly attended before the magistrates. Squire Bulkeley was himself a justice of the peace; and he sate on the bench along with his brother magistrates, acting as both judge and prosecutor. The two gamekeepers swore that they saw George encourage the dog to pursue the hare; and it was in vain that the defendant represented the whole circumstances of the case. He was condemned in the full penalty and costs, and abused shamefully into the bargain. Smarting under the iron scourge of oppression, and acting by the advice of an attorney whom he had employed in the case, George Dalton gave notice of appeal to the Quarter Sessions. His wife, my father, and old Mr. Dalton implored him to settle the matter at once and have done with it: but he declared that he should be unworthy of the name of an Englishman if he suffered himself to be thus trampled under the feet of the despotic magistracy. The attorney, who was hungry after a job, nagged him on, too; and thus every preparation was made to carry the affair before the Sessions.

"The event made a great stir in that part of the country, and the liberal papers took George's part. They said how utterly worthless, as an engine of justice, was the entire system of the unpaid magistracy; and they denounced that system as a monstrous oppression, instituted against the people.[30] Well, the case came on before the assembled magistrates; but on the bench sate not only the justice who had condemned George Dalton, but likewise Squire Bulkeley, the prosecutor himself! Judgment was given against my brother-in-law; and he suddenly found himself called upon to pay about sixty pounds—the amount of all the aggregate expenses which the original case and the appeal occasioned. The money was made up with great difficulty, and not without my father's aid; and though George Dalton was thus relieved from any fears of the consequences, yet he became an altered man. He went to work with a heavy heart, because he could not prevent himself from brooding over his wrongs. He also found frequent excuses for visiting the village; and on those occasions he never failed to step into the ale-house for a few minutes. There he found sympathizers; and his generous nature prompted him to treat those who took his part. One pot led to another; and every time he entered the ale-house, his stay was prolonged. Care now entered both the farm-houses. In one, old Dalton and Marion deplored the change which had taken place in George; and in the other, my parents could not close their ears to the rumours which reached them, nor shut their eyes against the altered manner of their son-in-law. The great proof of dogged obstinacy which George gave, was in his conduct respecting the hound. Those who wished him well, implored him to dispose of it; but he declared that he considered himself bound, by reason of the manner in which he had acquired the dog, to maintain and treat the animal kindly. He, however, kept Ponto chained up in the farmyard.

"Time wore on; the summer arrived and passed; and the autumn yielded so good a harvest that the produce was a complete set off against the heavy expenses entailed on the two families by the unlucky appeal. This circumstance somewhat cheered George's spirits; and the birth of a fine boy restored him almost completely to his former gaiety. In the evening, instead of finding some pretence to repair to the village, he sate with his beloved Marion; and happiness once more entered the homestead. But misfortune was again impending over the head of George Dalton. It was one morning in the month of November, that he was repairing to his work, with a spade and a hoe over his shoulder, whistling as he was wont to do ere oppression had wronged him; and wondering, also, how he could ever have been so foolish as to pay such frequent visits to the public-house in the village. His mind was occupied, too, with the image of his Marion, whom he had left nourishing her babe; and perhaps his heart was never lighter than at that moment. But suddenly, he heard a slight noise behind him; and, turning round, he beheld Ponto, who, having succeeded in slipping his collar, had scampered after his master. George's first impulse was to secure the dog; but, as the devil would have it, at that very instant a hare jumped from her form close by. Ponto escaped from George's grasp, and the chase ensued. My brother-in-law was bewildered—he knew not how to act; but at last he pursued the hound, taking care, however, not to call him. Away went Ponto—the hare doubled and turned—George managing to keep them in sight. At length, to his horror, the hare swept towards a hedge, which in that point separated the Daltons' property from the Squire's preserves:—the hedge was passed by the pursued and the pursuing animals, and the chase was now maintained on Mr. Bulkeley's estate. But the run soon terminated by the death of the hare; and George, after casting a rapid glance around to assure himself that the coast was clear, sprang through the hedge to secure Ponto. He was, however, doomed to misfortune on this, as on the former occasion. The gamekeepers were up before he could retrace his steps into his own property; and he was immediately seized as a poacher and a trespasser. In dogged silence he accompanied the keepers to the house of the same magistrate who had before convicted him; but that 'worthy gentleman' was absent in London, and the prisoner was accordingly taken before the rector of the parish, who was also in the commission of the peace. The Squire was sent for, and the case was entered into under all the unfavourable circumstances of a previous conviction—a fruitless appeal—the exaggerated or positively false representations of the gamekeepers—the malignity of the Squire, and the readiness of his Reverence to believe every thing that was set forth to the prejudice of the prisoner. The parson-justice determined to send the case to the Sessions; and George was ordered to find bail. This was easily done, and he was accordingly liberated.