Part 8

Martin withdrew his hand from the door and returned. “Saul,” said he, as he approached, “I never felt till now, the truth of what you have often told me, namely,--that if I encouraged an affection for your daughter, I should rue it. I _do_ now, most bitterly. Poor--poor Peggy!”

“Ah! poor girl!--Come nearer, Master Martin--poor Peggy!”

“Now, Saul, I'll hear you for one minute only; and this must--this shall be our last interview--unless--”

“Vor one minute, didst say?” exclaimed Saul triumphantly, as he clutched the wrist of Martin in his powerful grasp; “thou shalt hear me vor an hour;--thou sha' not quit me, till thou and I do leave this place, hand-in-hand, together. Ah! thou mayst struggle; but thou knowest the old zaying, 'A Braintree's grip is as zafe as a zmith's vice--if thee wast a horse I'd hold thee.”

“Scoundrel! villain!” exclaimed Martin, endeavouring, with all his might, to release himself; “let go your hold, or I'll--”

“Ah! do--hit me now, do--now I ha' got the handcuffs on; any child might gi'e Zaul Braintree a zlap o' the face now. Hit me--why doan't 'ee,--wi' your t'other hand? There's no danger o' my drashing'ee vor't Hit me--doan't'ee unclench your vist--here's my head--hit me, Master Martin.”

“For heaven's sake, Saul!” exclaimed young Stapleton, “if you ever esteemed me, let me go!--If you do not, I must alarm the house.”

“Oh! if you did, Martin!” replied Saul, “you'd ruin us both. I wouldn't have'ee do so, vor the hope I've a' got of living a week over the next zpring assize. If you did 'larm the house, Martin, you'd drop from a young 'zquire into a poacher's zon, and hang your own vather to boot.”

“Hang my father!”

“Ah! doan't'ee look round the room that vashion:--you be zure there be no one listening?”

“Positive!”

“Then turn your eyes here, lad:--Meg Braintree was more than your nurse.--She's your own mother!--Now I'll let go thy wrist; for I've got a grip at thy heart. There, thee bee'st vree! Why doesn't go?--I doan't hold thee: go, if thee canst.”

“Saul, you surely are not in your senses!”

“May be I bean't, for trouble turns a man's brain;--but you be, bean't'ee? You can't ha' vorgot how often I ha' pushed Bob off my knee to put you upon it. Why did I do so?--'cause thee wert my zon, and he were'Zquire Ztapleton's.--Haven't I hugged thee up to my breast, until thee'st a' squalled wi' the squeeze, when nobody was by?--I'd a grudge against the'zquire;--why, thee know'st well enough;--zo I made Meg, who nursed'ee both, change buoy for buoy. I thought to ha' made a vine vellow o' my zon at the'zquire's expence, little thinking I should ever want un to zave my life. I thought, when you was a man, to ha' comed up to'ee and zaid, 'Zquire, I be your vather,--zo and zo were the case,--make me comvortable, or I'll be a tell-tale.' That were my project; to zay nothing of having a bit of revenge upon the'zquire!--Lord, Lord! how I ha' chuckled to myzelf thinking on't Can any man zay I ever used Bob like my own zon? Answer me that. D--n un! I always hated un, vor his vather's zake: though the lad's a good lad, and, if he were mine, I should love un;--and I do, zometimes, I dunno' why:--but I ha; drashed un,--and while I were drashing un, I've a'most thought, I were drashing the vather o' un. But I ha' done un a good turn when he didn't know it. I ha' kissed un when he were asleep,--a'most upon the zly, like, even to myzelf. And when he broke his leg, I tended upon un, as you do know; and he's a' loved me zo, ever zince, that I ha' scores and scores o' times been zorry for it; for I do hate un because he's the zon of his vather:--but what be the matter wi' 'ee? What's amiss? Why d'ye stare and glower zo?”

“Saul Braintree,” said Martin, “whether your words are true or not--and what you mention, I have observed--you have made me the most wretched being on earth; for whatever comes to pass, I must still suspect--Margaret, my heart tells me, may be--Oh! that horrid _may_, which is worse than certainty--may be--nay, I cannot pronounce it! Oh! Saul! if I could but believe you--if I could but make up my mind, even to the worst, it would be a comfort.”

“Martin Braintree,--for that be your name,” said Saul, “didn't I warn'ee about Peggy? Didn't I--when I saw you were getting vond of her--didn't I try to offend'ee, zo az to keep'ee from coming to our cottage? Didn't I insult'ee?--but you wouldn't take it.”

“You did, Saul, grossly insult me; but my love,--perhaps, my accursed love,--made me overlook it What a gulph of horror is opened before me! Peggy my sister! and you--you my father!--It cannot--it is not so, Saul. Unsay what you have said, and I will save you.”

“I won't unsay it; it's out now, and I can't help it. If thou still doubt'st, Martin, go down and ask my wife--ask Meg; if thou still doubt'st, lad,--ask thy own heart--young as thee bee'st--if a vather could let a zon be hung for a crime of which thic zon bean't guilty!”

“And is Robert innocent, then?”

“Ay, lad, as thou art”

“But you--surely, you--”

“Take a drop of brandy, and I'll tell thee all, buoy: thee'rt my own vlesh and blood, and I'll talk to thee as I would to my own heart. Now, do 'ee take the flask; halve it, and gi'e me the rest;--or take it all, if thee dost veel qualmish.--I be zad enough, but don't stint thyself, Martin.”

The youth swallowed a mouthful of the liquor, and returned it to Saul, who, after draining the contents, resumed the conversation. “Martin,” said he, “Robert, poor lad, is az innocent az a lamb; and I know it.”

“And will you--can you, then, permit him to--”

“Hold thy tongue, buoy, and let me speak. Rob is innocent, but he's James Ztapleton's zon; and if I were to take his head out of the halter, and put my own into it, it wouldn't be many miles off self-murder. Rob is innocent; for he never harmed a worm, except I made un do't; and he can go up to his God without a blush:--I can't--may be, he couldn't, if he came to my years; for there's no one do know what may happen to the best ov us. I be zure I little thought, a score of years ago, when I were tip-top man here, and had az good a character az any body in the country, and there wer'n't a bad wish against mortal in my heart, that I should ever be tied up here, where I be, accused of any crime whatzoever--much less murder: but you zee I be; and there's no knowing, as I zaid avore, what any ov us may come to. Bob's zure of peace hereafter; and it be well vor un. I'd be hung willingly, to-morrow, if I were in the like case; but I bean't. Oh! Martin, my buoy! I ha' much to answer vor. I be brave, people zays, and zo I be; but there bean't a man within a days' ride, zo aveard of death as I be; and I'll tell'ee why:--it's because I ha' been zuch a viend--zuch a wretch, ov late years.--I wouldn't die vor all the world. I do want time vor repentance! and I must ha' it at any price!--Therefore, Bob must die vor me;--and, may be, I does un a good turn; at least, I do think zo,--by zending un to his grave avore he hath had temptation to be zinful.”

“Your doctrine is most atrocious!” exclaimed Martin. “Oh! why--why was I reserved for this? From what you say, Saul, I fear--”

“That I killed Phil Govier?”

“I hope not!”

“Hoping's no good:--he hit I over the head with the butt-end of his gun;--zee, here's the mark;--and when I came to myzelf, he was gwain to do't again; zo I ztepped back three paces, lifted my piece, and blew out his brains--bang!--Ay, Martin, it were your vather did it; and 'Zquire Ztapleton's zon must zuffer vor it I thought I had managed capitally; but things ha' come out I didn't dream of. Iv I be tried, I may be vound guilty, and that won't do. Bob's zure to zuffer, poor lad!--But I must not be tried.”

“But how do you make it appear that Robert is guiltless, when the proofs are so strong against him?”

“Ah! that be my deepness! I hope I zhall be pardoned vor't. Ill tell'ee just how 'twere. Bob were getting to bed, and he knowed I were gwain through the village, up the hill, toward the copse t'other zide o' the Nine Acres:--I'd a' promised a brace o' pheasants to Long Tom, the mail coachman, the day bevore,--he'd got an order vor'em,--and in the copse I were zure o' vinding'em, but nowhere else: zo Bob zays to I, 'Vather,' zays he, 'I wish you'd take my t'other pair o' zhoes and leave'em at Dick Blake's, as you do go along, and get he to heel-tap'em for me.' Zo, I zaid I would; and zure enough, I took'em; but Dick were a-bed when I come by, and I went on, with the zhoes in my pocket, to the copse. When I got there, I looked about, and Ponto,--you know Ponto--he'll point up--ay, if'twere a-top of a elm, as well as under his nose in a stubble,--Ponto stood; and just above my head, on the lowest branch of a beech, there were perched a cock pheasant wi' two hens,--one o' each zide o' un--all dree within reach. I hit the cock and one o' the hens down wi' the barrel o' my gun, and just as I were pouching'em, up come the keeper. Phil and I, as every one knows, hadn't been good vriends vor twenty long years. Zummat occurred betwixt us, and Phil was zoon on the ground under me. I wasn't as cool as I should be over a rasher of bacon--you may guess; but up he got again, and laid the butt-end of his piece over my head. I were stunned for a second, but when I came to, he'd a' got his gun by the muzzle, wi' the butt up over his head, and aiming at me again. If he'd a hit me, I shouldn't ha' been talking to you here now; zo I ztepped back, and to zave my own life, did as I told'ee. When I zeed un draw up his legs, and then quiver all over just avore a' died, all the blood in my body were turned into cold water. I thought I should ha' shivered to death; and there I stood, staring at Phil, where a' laid, as if I were 'mazed!--Just avore this, it begun to znow, and while I were looking at Phil, it thickened zo, that I were a'most zole-deep in it; zo then I begun to cast about how I should act, to zave myzelf vrom zuspicion. While I were thinking, the znow stopped vailing; and, thinks I, they'll vind out who 'twere by the vootmarks; and if there were no vootmarks to zuspect any one else, they'd guess 'twere I, vor vifty reasons: zo I took Bob's zhoes out o' my pocket, put mine in their place, squeezed my veet into the lad's zhoes as well as I could, walked straight whoam, and went to bed without a zoul hearing me. I were wicked enough to put Bob's zhoes close under his bed avore I went to my own; but I hope even that will be vorgiven me:--zo Bob were taken up, and most likely will be vound guilty, upon the evidence o' the zhoes. But vor vear of accidents, Martin, you must contrive to let me out; vor I won't be tried, d'ye mind? therefore, you must manage zo as I may 'scape, lad; and once out, I'll war'nt they doan't catch I again.”

Martin Stapleton stood, with his eyes earnestly fixed on Saul, for nearly a minute after the latter had finished his story of the death of Philip Govier; his faculties were benumbed by what he had heard; and he probably would have remained much longer motionless and speechless, had not Saul seized him with both hands, and given him two or three violent shakes. “Come, come,” said he, “doan't go to sleep like a horse, standing up!--This bean't a time for dozing!--Odd! if I'd a' got poor Bob here, I should ha' been vree half an hour ago. He'd ha' zet vire to the house, and come and ha' pulled me out o' the vlames, by this time, if he couldn't gi'e me my liberty any other way.”

“And yet, _you_, Saul,” said Martin reproachfully, “you scruple not to sacrifice him to save yourself.”

“What be that to thee?--He'd do as I tell'ee, because I be his vather--that is, he thinks zo. I ha' done what I did do, because he yean't my zon;--but _thee_ bee'st, Martin--_thee_ bee'st--and thee knows it;--thy heart tells thee I ha'n't been lying to thee:--thee'rt my zon,--and I do expect that thou'lt do thy duty; thou canst do't, and no harm come to thee. Bob would risk all vor me, though I ha'n't been the best o' vathers to un.”

“What would you have me do?” asked Martin, rather petulantly. “How shall I act?--What do you wish of me?”

“Just to let I get t'other zide o' these walls,” replied Saul; “I doan't care how;--I leave that to you;--choose your own way; it doan't much matter to I,--doan't'ee zee?--zo as I gets out Why, you'd a' married Peggy, if zo be as I'd ha' let'ee--wouldn't 'ee, now?--in spite ov old Ztapleton, and the whole vlock of your ztiff-backed aunts--wouldn't'ee, now? answer me that!”

“I should--I should:--but mention it no more; you make my blood curdle.”

“Well, then,” pursued Saul, heedless of the passionate request of Martin; “you zee, I'd no vear ov your seducing the girl; and you can't think I should ha' put up a gate against my daughter's being a young'zquire's wife--if that young'zquire weren't what he were.”

“Talk to me no more on this subject:--I will--I do believe all you have said; only, I beseech you, don't--don't dwell on this,” exclaimed Martin, wiping large drops of “the dew of mental anguish” from his brow.

“Well, well, Martin! cheer up, lad,” said Saul, fondling the youth; “cheer up, and I won't:--but, I zay, how shall we act?”

“Oh! I know not--In assisting you to escape I become an accessary to Robert's death;--and if I refuse--”

“You do hang your vather,” interrupted Braintree; “an awkward place vor a body to stand in, Martin;--but blood's thicker than water;--I be your vather, and he yean't even one o' your kin. I won't dreaten'ee wi' blabbing and telling who you be, on my trial.”

“I care not, Saul, if you did.”

“I know,--I know;--but I doan't dreaten 'ee wi't, doan't'ee mind?--Keep znug, and be a'zquire.”

“Indeed, I shall not. I will tell the whole story to-morrow; and if I can save poor Robert--”

“If't'an't at my expense, do zave un, and I'll thank 'ee; but I think it yean't possible. As to your up and telling old Ztapleton who you be, that will be zilly ov'ee;--but it be your business;--I've put'ee into a good nest, and if you do throw yourzelf out on't, 't'ean't my fault; my intention were good. Howsomever, Martin, gi'e me dree hours' law; and doan't give tongue, and zo get a hue and cry a'ter me, avore I can get clear.”

At this moment a loud tapping was heard at the door; Martin started, and exclaimed,--“If that should be my father!”

“Vather, indeed!” said Saul; “you do vorget yourself; you must ha' lost your wits, to be vrighted zo-vashion; you ha'n't a' fastened the door, have'ee? and your vather, as you do call un, would hardly be polite enough to knock. There yean't much ceremony used wi' a prisoner. Why doan't 'ee zay, 'come in?'” Before Martin could utter the words, the door was opened, and a fair, curly-headed youth, who was Martin's immediate attendant and frequent companion, peeped in, and said, in a loud whisper,--“Master Martin! the 'squire is inquiring for you: where will you please to be?--in the fen, setting night-lines for eels, or up at Gorbury, seeing the earths well stopped? The fox-hounds throw off at Budford Copse, to-morrow, you know;--or shall I say you're here, or where?”

“You need not tell any lies about the matter, Sam, thank you,” said Martin; “I shall be in the parlour almost directly.”

“Very well, sir,” replied Sam. “I wish you'd been down in the hall just now, though. Constable Abel has been making a speech about drink being the beginning of every thing bad; and, if he says true, Abel must be ripe for mischief, for he got three parts gone before he had done; and he's coming up stairs with the brass top of his long staff downward.--Eh! Why, this can't be he, surely, coming at this rate?”

A series of sounds had struck Sam's ear which resembled those of three or four persons running up stairs in a hurry, and then galloping along the passage toward the place where he stood. A moment had scarcely elapsed, from the time he had done speaking, when the door was burst wide open, and Ponto, the prisoner's dog, dashed into the room. He had been howling round the house for a considerable time; and probably watched for an opportunity of stealing in to join his master. He flew toward Saul; gambolled round him; leaped up to his face, and exhibited, by his looks, his low barks, and his actions, the joy he felt at being again in the presence of his master.

As soon as Sam, by the order of Martin, had retired from the door, Saul pointed to the dog, and, without uttering a word, gazed reproachfully at young Stapleton.

“I understand you,” said Martin; “but you don't know what I may do yet; therefore, pray, spare me those looks.”

“Wou'lt do't, then--wou'lt do't?” eagerly asked Saul: “Ah! I knew thee wouldst. Ponto yean't my zon, and yet--but, odd! there bean't a minute to lose. Abel will be here directly. Ponto, my dog, thou'lt zave us a mort o' trouble. Tell'ee what, Martin,--only cut the rope, and go to bed. Never mind the cuffs;--cut the rope vor me, and I be zafe out wi' your pocket-knife,--make haste,” continued Saul, in a hurried tone, as Martin searched his pockets with a tremulous hand;--“here, lad, let I veel vor un--here a' is--now cut--cut through: gi'e me dree hours' law, as I told'ee, and then do as you like.--Why, lad! thee'lt be a month; I'd ha' cut down an oak by this time.”

“What have I done?” exclaimed Martin, as he, at length, separated the rope.

“Done! why, done your duty,” was Saul's reply; “kneel down there, Martin, and take a vather's blessing vor't;--a vather's blessing, lad, let un be ever zo bad a man, won't do thee hurt.” Martin, almost unconsciously, knelt, and the murderer, placing his hand on the young man's head, solemnly and most affectionately blessed him.

When Abel entered, Martin had nearly reached the door; he pushed the constable aside, and rushed out of the room, in a manner that perfectly amazed the old man. “Well!” said he, as he endeavoured to strut, but in fact, staggered in rather a ludicrous manner, toward the prisoner;--“if that's behaviour to a parochial functionary--if any jury will say it is--I'll resign my staff of office. What do you think, Saul?”

“Bad manners, Yeabel;--bad manners, in my mind,” replied Braintree; “but he be vexed like;--and I'll tell'ee why:--I ha' been trying to coax un over to help me out o' the house.”

“You ha'n't, surely, Saul!”

“I tell'ee I have, then--why not? Wouldn't you? answer me that!--but the young dog revuzed; zo then I abuzed un, and a' left me in a pet. But, I zay, Yeabel, you be drunk, or handy to't, bean't'ee?--You shouldn't do that! It's wrong ov'ee, Yeabel: every man, in my mind, should do his duty; and you bean't doing yours to get voggy wi' stout October, when you've a-got a prisoner in hand.”

“None of your sneering, Saul; I am _compos_ and capable,” said Abel.

“You bean't, Yeabel! upon my life, you bean't!” replied Saul; “you shouldn't do so--no, truly. Why, now, suppose I were to 'scape.”

“Escape!” exclaimed Abel, cocking his hat; “elude my vigilance!--come, that's capital!”

“Why, you'll vall asleep avore half the night be over.”

“What! sleep upon my post!--never, Saul,--never.”

“You'll prance up and down there all night, I'll war'nt, then, and 20 keep me from getting a bit of rest:--you be aveard to lie down, ay, or zit.”

“I am afraid of nothing and nobody,” replied Abel, indignantly; “and you know it, neighbour Braintree: but no sneering of yours, will tempt me; I'm up to thee, Saul; so be quiet;--or say your prayers. I'm never so fit to serve my King and country, or the parochial authorities, as when my wits are sharpened by an extra cup or two.”

“Or dree, I z'pose?” added Saul.--“Poor zoul! thee wants a little spirit put into thee.”

“I want spirit! when did I lack it?” exclaimed Abel.--“Not a man in the parish ever attempts to raise a hand against me.”

“No, truly, Yeabel; I'll zay this vor thee, thou'rt such a weak, harmless, old body, that a man would as zoon think of wopping his grandmother as wopping thee.”

Abel's wrath was now roused, and he began to speechify and swagger. Saul said no more, but stretched himself upon the mattress which the 'squire had humanely ordered to be placed on the floor, within reach of his tether, holding the rope under him, so that, without turning him over, it was impossible to discover that it had been severed. Just previously to the constable's entrance, Panto, in obedience to the command of Saul, had retreated beneath a large oak table, the flap of which altogether concealed him from observation; and there lay the well-trained animal, with his head resting on his fore-paws, and his eyes fixed on Saul, perfectly motionless, and watching for further commands.

About an hour after midnight, when all seemed quiet below-stairs, Saul turned on his mattress, and beheld Abel still tottering to and fro, like an invalid grenadier upon guard. He waited for an opportunity, when the constable's back was toward him, to start up, seize Abel by the throat, and lay him flat upon the floor. “Yeabel,” said he, in a low tone, “I hope I ha'n't hurt thee much. I be zorry to harm thee at all, old buoy; but needs must. I be gwain off, Yeabel;--I doan't mean to put the county to the expense o' prosecuting me,--zo I be gwain.--Doan't be aveard,--I won't choke thee:--there,” added he, relaxing his powerful gripe; “I'll let thee breathe; but if thee speaks--remember, Yeabel,--I be a desperate man,--and I must zilence thee:--one knock o' the head'ud do't; zo keep thy peace, and do as I tells thee quietly;--I won't have a word, mind me. Take thic thingumbob out o' thy waistcoat pocket, and unvasten these bracelets thou'st put about my wrists. Iv thy conscience to thy King and country won't let thee do't wi'out being put in bodily vear, I'll trouble thee wi' another grip o' the droat But, I doant wish any thing o' the zort myzelf, unless needs must--Ponto, dog!”

Ponto started up and was by his master's side in a moment.

“That infernal dog here too!” ejaculated Abel.

“Ay, zure!--but zilence! It yean't wize vor I to let thee open thy lips: zo go to work like a dummy. Make haste, and dost hear, Yeabel? put down the handcuffs quietly. Now doan't tempt me to hurt thee, by making a vool o' thyzelf. Be ruled, that's a good vellow. I can get off,--doan't'ee zee?--spite o' the cuffs; but it will be more convenient and agreeable to leave'em behind.” By this time, Abel had set Braintree's arms completely at liberty.

“Now, Yeabel,” continued Saul, still kneeling over the constable,--“now, old blade, I'll leave thee wi' Ponto; but doan't thee move or call out, if thee values thy old droat. He'll worry thee like a wolf'ud a wether, if thee moves or makes as much noise as a mouse: but be quiet--be still, and he'll ztand over thee and not harm thee vor hours. Thee knowest the dog; and thee know'st me well enough to be zertain I wouldn't leave thee, vit to make alarm, if I wer'n't zure o' the dog. I doan't want to hurt thee, zo I leaves thee wi' un: but, mind--he'll hold thy droat a little tighter than I did, if thee wags a hair.--Ponto!” added Saul, turning to the fine animal, who seemed to be listening to what he had said; “mind un, Ponto!--Steady, good dog!--Soho! and steady! but mind un!”

To use a sporting phrase, Ponto immediately “stood;” he threw himself into an attitude that even Saul, as he departed, pronounced to be beautiful. His eye was keenly fixed upon Abel; the roots of his ears were elevated and brought forward; one of his fore-legs was held up, and curved so that the claws nearly touched his body; his tail no longer curled, but stood out straight on a level with his back; every muscle in his frame seemed, as it were, to be upon the alert; he appeared on the point of making a spring forward; but no statue ever stood more motionless on its pedestal, than Ponto did over the prostrate and terrified constable.