CHAPTER LXXI.

THE HISTORY OF TIM THE SNAMMER.

"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.

"This second misfortune, of the same kind, plunged the two families into the deepest affliction, and made Marion very ill. George said but little on the subject: he refused this time to employ any legal advice in getting up his defence, both on account of the expense, and because it was notorious that the unpaid magistrates always dealt more harshly with those persons who _dared_ to show fight with the weapons of the law. Again there was a great sensation in the neighbourhood; and every one waited anxiously for the day of trial. That day came; and George left his Marion on a bed of sickness, to repair to the market-town. The Squire, the parson-justice, and the magistrate who had convicted the defendant on the previous occasion, and who had by this time returned from London, were all on the bench. The two gamekeepers swore that George Dalton had coursed with the same hound which had led him into trouble before—that he had persisted in keeping the dog in spite of the remonstrances of his friends—that in the case then under the cognisance of the court, he had encouraged the dog to chase the hare—that he had followed into the Squire's land—and that he was in the act of concealing the hare about his person when he was stopped by the keepers. George told the entire truth in defence, and implored the magistrates not to allow him to be crushed and ruined by the malignity of Squire Bulkeley. He was then about to enter into explanations to show wherefore the Squire persecuted him; but the chairman stopped him abruptly, saying, that he had no right to impute improper motives to any member of the court. The Squire, moreover, indignantly—or, at least, with seeming indignation—denied any such selfish purposes as those sought to be imputed to him; and it was very evident, that even if the magistrates were not already prejudiced against Dalton, this attempt at explanation on his part fully succeeded in rendering them so. George was sentenced to three months' imprisonment in the County House of Correction; and he was forthwith removed thither without being allowed to go home first and embrace his sick wife.

"You may suppose that Marion was distracted when she received this intelligence, although my mother went and broke it to her as gently as possible. Old Dalton was so overwhelmed with grief that he became dreadfully ill, took to his bed, and died three weeks after his beloved son's condemnation. My mother went to stay altogether with Marion until George's return, which took place at the expiration of his sentence. But how he was altered!—altered in mind as well as in personal appearance. He was gaol-tainted: his honourable feelings were impaired—his generous sympathies were ruined. He was still kind and tender to Marion and his child; but his visits to the ale-house soon re-commenced, and he neglected his work more and more. One night, about six weeks after his release from prison, a tremendous conflagration was seen in the immediate neighbourhood of the Squire's mansion: all the out-houses and farms were on fire; and, despite of the assistance rendered by Mr. Bulkeley's people, those premises were reduced to ashes. That it was the work of an incendiary was clearly ascertained; and suspicion instantly pointed to George Dalton. He was taken before a magistrate and examined; but nothing could be proved against him. The magistrate, however, observed, that he felt convinced of George's guilt, and deeply regretted the necessity there was to discharge him. I well remember that my father and mother evinced by their manner their fears that George was indeed the incendiary.

"From that moment a dreadful change came over my sister Marion. She grew profoundly melancholy; but not a murmur nor a complaint escaped her lips. There can be no doubt that _she_ was aware who the incendiary was; and that knowledge was the death-blow to her happiness. The child, deprived of its proper nutriment—for Marion wasted to a mere shadow—drooped and died; and the poor mother declared hysterically that its loss was the greatest blessing which could have happened to her. This was the only allusion she was ever heard to make, direct or indirect, to the unhappy state of her mind and of her home. George continued kind to her; but kind rather in the shape of forbearance than in tokens of affection: that is to say, he never said a harsh word to her—nor beat her—nor slighted her; but he gave her little of his society, and was usually silent and thoughtful when in her presence.

"One day the parson-justice, whom I have before mentioned, called on the Daltons, and remonstrated with George on his conduct in absenting himself from church.—'I shall never go again, sir,' was the dogged answer.—'And why not?' demanded the clergyman.—'Because I got no good by it,' replied Dalton. 'The more I strove to be respectable, the more I was persecuted. The hound I liked, almost as if it was a human being, and which got me into two dreadful scrapes, was obliged to be given away; my father was killed by grief for my wrongs; and my wife's sorrow has led to the death of my child. My character is gone; and I know that sooner or later, I must be ruined, as I have no heart for work. Every thing that one prays for, and that I have so often prayed for, has been swept away: I mean an honest reputation; the bread of industry; a cheerful disposition, and the health and long life of those who are near and dear to us.'—'Then you refuse to go to church any more?' said the parson-justice.—'I do,' was the answer; 'and the law can't compel me.'—'We shall see,' observed the Rector; and away he went. A few days afterwards the Squire issued a summons for George Dalton to attend before him. George went, and found that the Rector had laid an information against him, under an obsolete Act of Parliament,[31] for having absented himself from divine service during a period of six months. George was astounded at the charge, but could not deny its truth. The Squire accordingly sentenced him to a month's imprisonment in the House of Correction; and George was taken back to his old quarters—to the farther contamination of a gaol!

"This was another dreadful blow for Marion; and it produced such an effect upon our father, that, like old Dalton, he fell ill, and soon died. When George was liberated once more, he was compelled to part with his farm at a great loss; for his misfortunes and his absence on two occasions had left it but indifferently cultivated; and, moreover, as my father was now gone, it was thought better that we should all live together. Dalton's farm was accordingly put up for sale; and the Squire became the possessor of the land once more. George was now almost constantly at the ale-house. Instead of expending the money realised by the sale of the farm, after paying the debts due, in increasing the stock and improving the tillage of our land, he squandered it away on worthless companions. His wife never remonstrated when he came home late; but would sit up for him patiently and resignedly: and if ever my mother said any thing, she would observe, 'Poor George feels his wrongs too acutely to be able to bear up against them: there are great allowances to be made for him.' Thus did about two years pass away; and, though I and the two labourers whom we kept worked hard on the farm, yet it wanted the master-hand to superintend; and we found that its produce now scarcely yielded a bare maintenance when every thing was paid. Marion gradually got worse; but her endurance was inexhaustible. It often gave me pain to look at that poor, pale, wasted young woman, and think of her blooming charms when she first loved George Dalton. Her heart was breaking slowly—slowly—slowly! Had she been passionate, or liable to the influence of strong emotions, she would have gone rapidly down to the tomb; but she was so meek—so amiable—so resigned—so patient—so enduring, that her very weakness was her strength.

"Upwards of two years had passed since George's second liberation from confinement, when it was found necessary to raise money to increase the stock of the farm, and buy seed for sowing. George applied to the same attorney who had got up his defence on the occasion of his appeal; and this man offered to induce one of his clients to lend a certain sum on George's and my mother's joint bill of exchange, which he said would save all the expense of a mortgage. My mother objected strongly; but George promised so faithfully to amend his conduct if she would consent, that she did agree. The money was raised; but a considerable portion found its way to the public-house before any purchases were made. Even then, George forgot his pledges, and became, if possible, more idle and dissipated than before. The bill became due, and there were no assets to meet it. The lawyer, however, undertook to manage the affair; and he induced George and my mother to sign some parchment deed, which he previously read over in a hasty mumbling way, and in which blanks were left for the names of another person who appeared to be interested in it; and also blanks for certain dates, fixing the particular conditions as to time. My mother inquired why the name of the other party was not filled in; and the lawyer replied, with a chuckle, 'Oh! that is for the name of my client; and as he has only lent the money to serve you, and not as a mere lender, motives of delicacy induce this suppression for the time being.'—My mother did not like it; but George urged her to sign, and she did so.

"Three months after that an execution was levied upon the farm, at the suite of Squire Bulkeley, the lawyer's accommodating client, who had hitherto kept his name secret! George Dalton was at first a prey to the most terrific rage; but he mastered his feelings at the intercession of Marion and our mother. We were compelled to quit the farm, which now became the property of the Squire, by virtue of the roguish deed which had been drawn up by the unprincipled attorney; and we retired to a humble lodging in the village. Need I say how we all felt this sad reverse—this dreadful degradation? My mother and Marion strove hard to subdue their anguish, in order not to irritate the already much excited George; but there were moments when his outbursts of rage were furious in the extreme. He invoked curses upon the head of the Squire, whom he denounced as the murderer of his father and of mine, and also of his child; and he vowed to wreak a deadly vengeance upon him. At the ale-house, it seems, these threats were repeated, accompanied with the bitterest imprecations. On the following day George was arrested, and conveyed before the parson-justice, on a charge of threatening the life of Squire Bulkeley. He was ordered to find good bail for keeping the peace; but security was impossible in respect to one so fallen, lost, and characterless as he. To prison, then, again he was sent; and for three months he languished there, doubtless brooding over the awful wrongs which the Squire had heaped upon him. And all this time the Squire held up his head high; and no one in his own sphere of life seemed to think that he had acted at all unjustly or tyrannically. On the contrary, the gentry and the influential farmers in the neighbourhood, looked on George Dalton as an irreclaimable scamp, who had only got what he well deserved. Even those persons of the poorer class, who were formerly our friends, looked coldly on us, and shook their heads when the name of George Dalton was mentioned. So sure is it that if you give a dog a bad name, you may hang him.

"We lived as sparingly as possible on the wreck of our little property, during the three months that George's third imprisonment lasted; but I found it very difficult to get work, as the farmers said '_that I was as bad as my brother-in-law_.' And yet there was not a steadier lad in the whole county than myself; and, though invited, I never set foot in the ale-house. I was moreover regular in attendance at church, along with my mother and sister. But I got a bad name without deserving it; and even when I could procure a little employment, I was subjected to a thousand annoyances. Unpleasant hints would be dropped about the burning down of the Squire's out-houses, and the name of George Dalton was darkly alluded to in connexion with that business; or, if I refused, on a Saturday night, to accompany my fellow-labourers to the ale-house, I was taunted with knowing something that I was afraid of confessing in my cups. At that time I often thought of running away, and seeking my fortune elsewhere; but when I looked at my poor mother, now deprived of almost necessaries, and my sister pining away, I had not the heart to do it. Besides, I was greatly attached to George Dalton, and was anxious to see in what state of mind he would come out of prison. Three times during his incarceration was Marion allowed to visit him; and on each occasion she returned home to our humble lodging weeping bitterly. Neither my mother nor myself ever questioned her much; for we knew her extreme devotion to George, and that she would not only always endeavour to conceal his failings as much as possible, but that she likewise strove to hold out hopes of his complete reformation. But when he was emancipated once more, he had become sullen, dogged, and morose—_forbearing_ only in respect to Marion, to whom he could no longer be said to be positively _kind_. He did not mention the name of the Squire, nor in any way allude to him; neither did he visit the ale-house—and thus my mother and I began to hope that Marion's fond hopes were likely to be fulfilled.

"Having recruited his strength by a few days' rest, after his half-famished sojourn in the gaol, George one morning said to me, 'Now, Tim, you and me will go out and look for work.' We accordingly set off, but applied fruitlessly at all the farm-houses in the neighbourhood. Some did not want hands: others positively refused to have any thing to do with George Dalton or any one connected with him. We were returning homeward, mournful enough, when we passed a large lime-kiln, the owner of which had been very intimate with George's father and mine. He happened to be coming up from the pit at the moment when we were passing; and stopping us, he entered into conversation. Finding that we were in search of work, he offered to employ us in the chalk-pit; and we readily accepted the proposal. Next day we went to work; and when the Saturday night came round, we were paid liberally. Thus several weeks elapsed; and we earned enough to keep the home comfortably. Our master was good and kind to us; and the spirits of my brother-in-law appeared to revive. But he never mentioned the Squire, nor alluded to the past oftener than he could help.

"We had been employed in this manner for about three months, when one evening George and I stayed later than the other labourers in the chalk-pit, to finish a job which we knew the owner wanted to be completed as soon as possible. It was ten o'clock before we made an end of our toil; and we were just on the point of retiring, when we saw two persons walking slowly along the brink of the chalk-pit. The moon was bright—the night was beautifully clear; and we obtained a full view of the two figures: but as we were at the bottom of the precipice, they could not have seen us, even if they had looked attentively downward. 'Tim,' said George, in a low, hoarse whisper, 'one of those men is the Squire. I recognised his infernal countenance just now when the moonlight fell full upon it.'—We remained perfectly quiet at the foot of the chalky side of the pit; although I do not believe that George had any bad intention in view, and I only stayed because he did.

"The Squire and his companion began to talk together; and by the name in which Mr. Bulkeley addressed the other, George and I immediately knew that he was one of the very gamekeepers who had twice perjured themselves in mis-stating the circumstances connected with the exploits of Ponto.—'And so you say that the scoundrel Dalton works in this pit now, eh?' observed the Squire.—'Yes, sir,' replied the other: 'he's come down to that at last.'—'By God! I never shall be contented till I send him to Botany Bay, or to the scaffold!' exclaimed the Squire. 'But sooner or later, you see, I obtain vengeance on those who offend me. Old Splint refused to sell me his field, and spoke insolently to me: he died of grief through all that has happened, and the entire farm is now mine. Old Dalton contrived to buy his land, through my cursed neglect in forgetting to tell my agent to except his property from any part that might be sold; but he also died of grief, and the land has come back to me. Ah! ah! I bought that in again too, no doubt to the vexation of young Dalton. Then, next we have the insolent jade Marion: she refused my overtures, and persisted in marrying Dalton; and what has she gained? Nothing but misery. As for George Dalton himself, he insulted and struck me, besides carrying off Marion as it were before my very eyes and making her his wife, when she was much more fitted to become my mistress;—and what has _he_ got for his pains? I have crushed and ruined him, and I will never stop till I have shown him what it is to dare to offend an English landowner. But you say that this is the pit where he works?'—'Yes, sir,' answered the gamekeeper.—'Well, I shall see his master to-morrow,' continued the Squire; 'and I'll be bound to say George Dalton will not do another week's work in this place. You may now go and join your men in the preserves; and I shall return to the Hall, by the short cut through the fields. The night is uncommonly fine, however, and is really tempting enough to make one stay out an hour or two.'—'It is very fine, sir,' answered the gamekeeper. 'Good night, sir;'—and the man walked rapidly away, the Squire remaining on the edge of the pit, about thirty feet above the spot where George and I were crouched up.

"'Tim,' said George at last,—and his voice was deep and hollow, although he spoke in a low whisper,—'do you remain here quite quiet: I must have a word or two with that man.'—'For God's sake, George,' I said, 'do not seek a quarrel.'—'No, I won't seek a quarrel exactly,' returned my brother-in-law; 'but I cannot resist the opportunity to tell my mind to this miscreant who is now seeking to deprive us of our bread.'—And before I had time to utter another word, George was gliding rapidly but almost noiselessly up the craggy side of the chalk-pit, holding by the furze that grew in thick strong bunches. I confess that a strong presentiment of evil struck terror to my soul; and I remained breathless and trembling, where he had left me, but gazing upwards with intense anxiety. 'Holloa!' suddenly exclaimed the Squire, who had remained for nearly three minutes on the top of the precipice after his gamekeeper had quitted him—most likely brooding over the new scheme of vengeance which his hateful mind had planned: 'holloa!' he said; 'who is there?'—'I, George Dalton!' cried my brother-in-law, suddenly leaping to within a few paces of where the Squire was standing, and confronting the bad man like a ghost rising from a grave in the presence of the murderer.—'And what the devil do you want here, scoundrel?' exclaimed the Squire.—'Rather what do _you_ want, plotting against me still?' demanded George. 'I overheard every word that passed between you and your vile agent; and if there was any doubt before as to your detestable malignity, there is none now.'—'Listeners never hear any good of themselves,' retorted the Squire; 'and if I called you a rascal, as perhaps I might have done, I meant what I said, and you heard yourself mentioned by your proper name.'—'Villain! miscreant!' cried George, now quite furious; 'you shall no longer triumph over me!'—And in another moment they were locked in a firm embrace, but not of love; and in the next moment after that, they rolled over the edge of the precipice, down to within a few paces where I was standing.

"A scream of terror escaped me; for I thought that they must be killed. The Squire lay senseless; but George leapt upon his feet—and almost at the same instant a low moan denoted that his enemy was not dead.—'Thank God, murder has not been done!' I exclaimed.—'But murder _will_ be done, Tim, this night,' said George, in a voice not loud, but so terrible in its tone that it made my blood run cold in my veins. 'Yes,' he continued, 'my mortal enemy is now in my power. For a long time have I brooded over the vengeance that I had resolved to take upon him when no one should be near to tell the tale; for _you_ will not betray me, Tim—you will not give me up to the hangman on account of what I may do?'—'George, I implore you not to talk thus,' I said, falling on my knees at his feet.—'As there is a living God, Tim, above us,' said George, solemnly, 'if you attempt to thwart me, I will make away with you also!' And having thus spoken, he raised the Squire in his arms, while I still remained on my knees, horrified and speechless. Never, never shall I forget the feelings which then possessed me! The Squire recovered his senses, and exclaimed, 'Where am I? Who are you?'—'George Dalton, your mortal enemy,' was the terrific reply.—'Oh! I recollect now,' cried the Squire, wildly. 'But do not murder me!'—'Your last hour is come! and your death shall be as terrible as human revenge can render it!' said George, in a voice which I should not have recognised without a foreknowledge that it was actually he who was speaking.—'Mercy!' cried the Squire, as George dragged him away towards the middle of the pit.

"Oh! then I divined the dread intent of my brother-in-law; but I could not move a hand to help, nor raise my voice to shout for assistance in behalf of the victim. There I remained on my knees—speechless, stupified, deprived of motion,—able only to exercise the faculty of sight; and that showed me a horrible spectacle! For, having half stunned the Squire with a fearful blow, inflicted with a lump of chalk, George dragged him towards the kiln in which the lime was still burning, diffusing a pale red glow immediately above. 'Mercy!' once more cried the Squire, recovering his senses a second time.—'Mercy! miscreant,' exclaimed George; 'what mercy have you ever shown to me?' and, as he uttered these words, he hurled his victim, or rather his oppressor, into the burning pit! There was a shriek of agony—but it was almost immediately stifled; and the lurid glow became brighter, and the form of my brother-in-law seemed to expand and grow vast to my affrighted view; so that he appeared some dreadful fiend bending over the fiery receptacle for damned souls!

"Still was I a motionless, speechless, stupified spectator of that horrible tragedy, at a distance of about twenty yards. But no words can describe the dreadful feelings that seized upon me, when I suddenly beheld an object reach the top of the burning kiln, and cling there for an instant, until George Dalton with his foot thrust him back—for that object was indeed the Squire—into the fiery tomb! Then a film came rapidly over my eyes—my head seemed to swim round—and I fell back senseless. I was aroused by a sensation of violent shaking; and, on opening my eyes, I saw George Dalton bending over me. I shuddered fearfully—for all the particulars of the dreadful deed so recently performed, rushed to my mind with overwhelming force; and I remember that I clasped my hands together in an agonising manner, exclaiming, 'My God! George, how could you do it?'—'Tim,' he replied, 'I do not repent what I have done. Human endurance could not stand more. If I had to live the last hour over again, I would act in the same manner. _Your_ father—_my_ father—and my child, were all as good as murdered by that man: and he has deserved death. Death he has met at last; and the sweetest moments I ever tasted were when I saw him crawling painfully up from the smouldering bottom of the pit, with his flesh all scorched, his clothes singed to tinder, and his face awfully disfigured,—clinging, too, with his burnt hands to the burning lime, and too wretched—yes, too full of horror, even to utter a moan. Then I kicked him back, and I watched his writhings till all was over. He died with difficulty, Tim; and my only regret is that he was not ten hours in the tortures of that death, instead of as many minutes. But, come, get off your knees, and let us be going. I do not ask you whether you mean to tell of me, because that would not prevent you if you have the intention.'—'George, do you think it possible!' I exclaimed, scarcely able to recover from the horrified sensations which were excited by the cold, implacable manner in which he had described the dying efforts and agonies of his enemy.—'Well, Tim,' he said, 'I don't ask you for any promises: you can do as you like. One thing is very certain, I could never harm you; and so, if you do take it into your head to turn round upon me, you would be treating me as I never should treat you. Let us say no more about it; and if you _can_ keep a composed countenance before the women, do.'

"We left the pit; and when we reached the top, George said, 'You go one way, and I will go another. If you are met out late by any one, you would not be suspected; but I should—and I would not involve you in any danger by your being seen with me; for, remember Tim,' he added, as we were about to separate, 'if I should happen to be caught out, I shall never say that you were present. And now get home as soon as you can; and say that you left work an hour ago, but that you took a walk, or something of that kind, before you went home. You can also seem surprised that I have not yet come back: that is, if I don't get home before you.' We parted, and I took the nearest road to the village, which I reached a little after eleven. Marion and my mother were rather uneasy at our absence; and I was quite unable to master my feelings so far as to appear composed and comfortable. Indeed, they were already overwhelming me with questions, when George made his appearance. I was astonished to see how happy he appeared: there was, positively, a glow of animation in his countenance, as if he had done some admirable deed. Somehow or another, his good spirits were catching; and I began to think that an admirable deed had really been accomplished, in ridding the earth of a monster whose delight was to crush and oppress the poor. George said that he had been to deliver some message to the owner of the kiln, after he had separated from me; and that made him so late. I had already stated that I had taken a good long walk, and our tales were believed. But, when the two women retired to rest, and George and I were left alone for a few minutes, his manner suddenly changed, as he said in a hoarse, low whisper, 'Tim, there is danger menacing _me_. A few minutes after you and I parted, I met the Squire's gamekeepers near the pit, as they were going their rounds on account of the poachers; and they recognised me. My only chance of safety is in the probability that the lime will consume the body entirely. At all events I shall be the first at the pit in the morning.' I was horror-struck at what he told me, and conjured him to seek safety by flight; but he declared his resolution to await the issue of events, and trust to fortune. He said that he felt perfectly happy in having wreaked his vengeance upon the Squire, and should not experience other feelings, were he on the scaffold. He then rose and went to join Marion, while I prepared to spread my bed as usual on the floor of our little parlour.

"It was not yet day-light when I was awakened by hearing a noise in the room; and on inquiry, I found that it was George, about to sally forth, as he had intimated to me on the preceding night. I offered to get up and accompany him; but he said, 'Not for the world, Tim. Should any thing happen to _me_, _you_ must be at least safe, for those poor creatures of women cannot be left without a friend and protector.' He then left the room, and in a few moments I heard the street-door closing gently. I lay down again and tried to sleep, but could not. An indescribable feeling of uneasiness was upon me, and I found myself, even against my will, balancing and calculating the chances for or against the detection of the murder. At length my mind was worked up to such a pitch of excitement that I could remain in bed no longer; and I rose and dressed myself. Having opened the shutters, I found that the day was just breaking. I cleared away the bedding, and laid the breakfast-table, as was my custom. Presently my mother and Marion made their appearance; and we sate down to the morning meal. But I could eat nothing; and my uneasiness was soon perceived. 'Tim,' said Marion, 'there is something upon your mind: I know there is. You cannot conceal it; and if you deny it, you will not be speaking the truth. In the name of heaven, tell me what grieves you! And why has George gone out so unusually early and without his breakfast this morning?'—I assured both my sister and mother that there was nothing the matter with me, and that George had merely gone out early to do a good day's work, as he hoped to get an increase of wages. Marion was not satisfied; but she saw that it was useless to question me, at least before our mother: accordingly, when the latter left the room after breakfast, my sister again urged me to make her acquainted with the cause of the secret anxiety which she knew was preying upon me. I renewed my protestations that she was mistaken. 'Well, Tim,' she said in her quiet, plaintive manner, while her blue eyes filled with tears, 'if any thing should happen, the blow will be certain to kill me, because I shall be unprepared for it.'—For a few moments I hesitated whether I would confide to her the terrific secret of the murder; but I had not the courage, and hurried away to join my brother-in-law at the kiln.

"As I passed through the village, with my pickaxe on my back, I met a person whom I knew. 'Splint,' said he, 'have you heard any thing?'—I know that I turned deadly pale, as I stammered out, 'No, nothing particular.'—He did not notice my change of countenance, but added, 'The Squire is missing, and foul play is suspected. That is all I have heard. But where is George?'—'Why should you instantly ask that question, after mentioning the report about Squire Bulkeley?' I asked; and it was with the utmost difficulty that I could restrain my feelings so as to speak in a manner at all composed.—'Oh! only because if any thing should be wrong, you know, I am afraid that George Dalton would be suspected first; as every one is aware that he is no friend to the Squire;'—and the man passed on his way, not having intended to say any thing cruel or cutting, for he was a good kind of a fellow. My alarms increased; and I felt so terribly uneasy, that I knew not whether to throw down my pickaxe and run away altogether, or whether I should proceed to the chalk-pit. But while I was still weighing in my mind all the chances for and against detection, I came within sight of the fatal spot where the dreadful murder had been perpetrated. There was the height from which my brother-in-law and the Squire had rolled down, so firmly locked in each other's hostile embrace: there was the chimney of the kiln, in the burning-pit of which the wretched man had endured such fearful agonies before death released him!

"I know not how it was—but, though I really wished to fly from the fatal spot, some strange influence urged me on, or rather attracted me thither. When I reached a point from which I could command a view of the depths of the chalk-pit, an icy chill struck to my heart. George was in the grasp of the Squire's two principal gamekeepers; and the labourers of the pit were gathered round the mouth of the kiln, in a manner which convinced me that they had made some discovery. At that instant the words which George had addressed to me that morning, flashed back to mind:—'_Should any thing happen to me, you must be at least safe; for these poor creatures of women cannot be left without a friend and protector._'—My soul recovered all its power, and I felt that the truth of those words was strong indeed. Yes—what would become of my poor mother and the unhappy Marion, if both of their protectors were snatched away from them? Never was presence of mind more necessary. With a firm step I descended the sloping path leading into the pit, and affected extreme surprise when I beheld George in the custody of the gamekeepers. A rapid but significant glance on his part encouraged me to maintain the