Part 9

Braintree lost no time after he left the room which had been his temporary prison: he descended cautiously to the ground-floor, and versed as he had been in his boyhood, and for several years after time had written man upon his brow, in the topography of the old Hall, he easily found an outlet, and escaped without creating any alarm.

In a paddock adjoining the pleasure-grounds of the Hall, he caught a horse, which had been turned out on account of a sand-crack; twisted a hazel, from the hedge, into a halter and mouthpiece; leaped the fence; and, in less than half an hour, by dint of hard galloping across the country,--clearing every thing as though he was riding a steeple-chase,--Saul reached his own cottage. Meg and her daughter were still up, the wife weeping, and the child praying for Saul's safe deliverance. He beat at the door, and Meg clasped the girl to her breast and exclaimed, “Oh! what now?--what now? They're surely coming for thee, Peggy. They'll leave me to murder myself--childless!”

“Open the door, Meg--my own Meg!” said Saul, without; “'tis I, Meg;--thy poor Zaul.”

Braintree was soon by his own hearth, with his wife and daughter weeping and hanging round his neck.

“Well, and how is it, Saul?” inquired Meg, as soon as she could find utterance.

“Art discharged, father?” said Peggy.

“No, child,” replied Saul; “I be 'scaped! I shouldn't ha' zeen thee, wench, nor thy mother neither, but whoam laid in my road. I be zafe yet till day-light, if Ponto's as true as I've a' zeen un avore now. But I shouldn't zay _if_ vor I be zure ov un.”

In reply to the inquiries of his wife, Said briefly related the result of his conversation with Martin, the manner of his escape from old Abel, and his intention to fly the country for ever, if he could. “Not,” added he, “that I think they could bring aught whoam to me, upon trial; though I didn't think zo, when I were tied up by a rope to a chimney-bar, in the Hall; but now it ztrikes I, there wouldn't be much danger ov my getting acquitted--and vor why?--It's clear the man were killed by _one_--not _two_. Now, if Bob's vound guilty, I must be turned out innocent; and guilty a' will be vound, or else I've blundered blessedly.”

“Heavens above us, Saul! what d'ye mean?” cried Meg. Braintree now frankly told his wife the circumstances relative to Robert's shoes; and concluded, with a forced smile, sighing deeply as he spoke,--“And zo, the young un be nicked for no-man's-land, wi'out a bit of a doubt;--that be certain, I reckon.”

“Oh! Saul!” cried Meg, “Saul Braintree, what hast thee done?--thou hast murdered thy son!”

“Murdered my viddlestick! He's the'zquire's--Jemmy Ztapleton's buoy;--Martin be mine.”

“Martin Stapleton, father!” almost shrieked Peggy.

“Ay, wench; and he cut the cord vor me, like a Briton.”

“Said! Saul!” replied Meg, “doan't thee smile; my poor heart be bursting. I never thought I should see this night!”

“Woe's me, mother; I was almost killed wi' trouble before, and now such news as this!” sobbed Peggy, pressing her hands to her eyes.

“What be the matter, missus?--All's right;--doan't be dashed.”

“If thou didst kill Govier, Saul,” said Meg, “thou bee'st a vather, vor all that; and I do pity thee:--thou hast laid a trap vor thy own son. When thou went'st away a smuggling that time, just after the 'squire had discharged thee, and when we knowed he was looking out for another nurse--”

“Well, what then?” interrupted Saul.

“Why, Saul, thou didst tempt me to change the children. I promised thee I would:--I tried, and I couldn't!--Thee thought'st to deceive 'Squire Stapleton, but I deceived thee, Saul. I couldn't send away my own boy--my virst-born--my darling. If thee wert a mother, thee wouldst vorgive me. Oh! that I had done as thee told me! Saul, Saul, thee hast murdered thy child! Bob's thy own vlesh and blood,--and Martin Stapleton be no kin to thee.”

“Oh! mother!” said Peggy, dropping on her knees; “I am almost ashamed to say how I thank you for those words; they have a'most saved my life;--but then, my brother--my poor, poor brother!”

“Bob my own vlesh and blood!” said Saul, turning pale as a dying man while he spoke; “Bob my zon, a'ter all!--Tell'ee he an't! I won't believe thee:--dost hear?”

“As I hope to be vorgiven vor all I've done here below, he is;” replied his wife.

“Meg, Meg!” said Saul, dropping on a bench, and throwing himself back against the wall; “you ha' turned me zick as a dog.” Margaret and her daughter now threw themselves about Braintree's neck again, and began to weep and wail in the most violent and passionate manner: Saul remained motionless only for a few moments. “Gi'e me air,” said he, suddenly pushing them aside and leaping up; “I be choking! I'd gi'e the world now, if I had it, that instead o' zhooting Phil, Phil had zhot I!--Deceived! bevooled! in thic vashion!--Meg, doan't thee bide near me, or I shall lay hands on thee presently; I do know I shall.”

“I don't vear thee, Saul,” said Meg; “thee never didst lay a vinger in wrath on me yet. If thee'rt a' minded to kill me, do't!--I wont vly vrom the blow.--My Bobby in gaol, accused of murder, and my husband guilty of doing it!”

“You lie, you vool!” vociferated Saul; “'twere no murder! We vought, hand to hand, vor life or vor death, and I got the best o't. If I hadn't a' killed he, he'd ha' killed I; zo how can'ee make it murder?”

“The lord judge will make it out so, I fear,” said Peggy; “won't he, think you, mother?”

“No doubt on't; and Saul knows it,” replied Meg. “Oh! Bob, my child--my dear--dear boy!”

“Good night, Meg!” interrupted Saul. “I be off;--you do know I can't abide to hear a woman howl.”

“But where art gwain, Saul?”

“No matter;--thou'lt hear time enough o' me:--good night!”

“Nay, but what'll thee do?--Peggy, down on thy knees wi' me, girl, and beg him to tell us, what we be to do!--Oh! Saul--bide a bit; I woan't let thee see a tear--look, they be all scorched up.--I won't vex thee, any way, if thou'lt but bide and Comfort us.”

“Doan't cling to me zo,” said Saul, struggling to rid himself of the embraces of his wife and daughter, who clung about his knees;--“it be no use; let go, or I'll hurt'ee!--There now,” continued he, as he freed himself, “once vor all, good night. It won't do vor I to bide here another minute.”

Braintree now rushed out of the cottage, leaving his wife and daughter on their knees: each of them clasped the other to her breast, and listened, without a sob, until the receding footsteps of Saul were no longer audible. They then attempted alternately to solace each other; but the comforter of the moment was so violent in her own sorrow as to increase that of her whose grief she tried to allay; and thus the hours passed on with them till dawn. They felt the misery of seeing the sun rise and chase away the morning mists as usual; the autumnal song-bird,--the robin,--much loved of men, chirrupped merrily on their cottage-roof as he did a week before, when they were comparatively happy; and the sleek old cat, brushed his glossy sides against their garments, as if nothing was the matter. There are few persons in existence, whose lot it has been to pass a night of such extreme mental agony, as that was with Margaret Braintree and her daughter; and yet, strange to say, at six o'clock in the morning, Meg was raking together the embers of the turf fire, and piling fresh fuel on the hearth;--the kettle was, soon after, singing merrily above the blaze; and, before the church bells had chimed seven, Meg and her pretty daughter, miserable as they were, with swollen eyes and aching hearts, sat down to that womanly comfort,--a cup,--or as it is still called in the west--a _dish_ of tea.

We must now return to the Hall, which, before day-break, became a scene of uproar and alarm. Every body seemed to be in a bustle, but no pursuit was made, or plan of action determined on. The 'squire had sent for a neighbouring justice of the peace, who was so far stricken in years, that it was necessary for one of his own men, assisted by Stapleton's messenger, to lift him on horse-back, and hold him on the saddle, the whole distance between his own house and the Hall. The old man, although of a remarkably irritable disposition, was scarcely wide awake when he arrived. The 'squire, however, without waiting to inquire whether or no his auditor was in a proper state to receive his communications, began to give a minute history of the capture, brief imprisonment, and escape of Braintree. He had gone as far as Saul's seizing the constable, when old Justice Borfield, for the first time, interrupted him, by inquiring, with warmth, what they all meant by using him as they had done? “Here have I been,” added he--“Ay, now, I recollect--Yes--the scoundrels broke into my bed-room;--so I suppose, at least;--dragged me out of bed; and when I awoke,--for, odd! sir, and as I'm a gentleman, all this was hurry-skurry, and passed on like a dream,--but when I awoke, I found myself in my best wig, on the back of a high-trotting horse; and lo, and behold! I saw--for my miscreant of a man had fastened on my spectacles, though, as you see, he forgot my left shoe--I saw one of them on each side, holding me down to the saddle, by my waistband. I struggled and exclaimed; but the villains heeded me not!--Now, sir, what the devil does all this mean? What am I accused of? I insist upon being answered.”

“My dear neighbour, my very worthy friend Borfield,” said Stapleton, “I need your assistance--your presence--your advice in this matter.”

“You're very complimentary, indeed!--What! now you've made a blunder, you drag me into your counsels to bear half the blame!--Neighbour Stapleton, I'm a very ill-used man, and I won't put up with it. Talk of the liberty of the subject, and the power of a justice of the peace!--Why, I've been treated like a tetotum! At this rate, a magistrate's an old woman; or worse--worse by this band! Brute force beats the King's commission! I'm dragged out of my bed at midnight, by lawless ruffians--lifted into a saddle, when I haven't set foot in stirrup these twenty years--and brought here, on the back of a rough-trotting galloway, close prisoner, to sign some documents, I suppose, which wouldn't be legal without the formality of a second magistrate's name. I'll tell you what, James Stapleton, I don't like it--If I'm an old man, I'm not a machine. Your satellites have brought the horse to the brook, but you can't make him drink. I'll sign nothing; I'll die first:--for I'm hurt and insulted.”

The old man now grew exhausted, and Stapleton once more attempted to pacify him. By dint of excuses, and a few flattering compliments on the freshness and vigour of his intellectual powers, and the value of the advice of a man who had so much experience, Stapleton, at length, prevailed upon him to hear the end of his statement relative to Saul's escape.

“Well, well! then order coffee and dry toast,” said Borfield; “for if you need advice, I lack refreshment. Order coffee, and let the toast he cut thin, and baked by a steady hand--by-the-by, let my own miscreant do it,--and then we'll see what can be done.”

It appeared that Braintree's escape had been discovered sooner than he expected. The old earth-stopper, on his return from Gorbury, where he had been following his vocation, saw somebody cross a field, at full speed, on a horse which he well knew to be Martin Stapleton's pie-bald hunter. He fancied, too, that the rider bore some resemblance to Braintree. But whether the man were Braintree or another, it was clear that all was not right. The earth-stopper, therefore, thought proper to put spurs to his poney, and, instead of turning down the next lane toward his own cottage, to push for the main road, and trot up to Stapleton Hall. As he passed the paddock he looked round it; but saw no horse. When he reached the gate-way leading to the house, he raised such a clatter, by ringing the bell and beating against the door, that several of the servants, and Stapleton himself were soon roused from their beds. Before the earth-stopper was admitted, Stapleton inquired from the window, what had occurred. “I beg your honour's pardon,” replied the old man; “I reckon I ha' zeed Zaul Braintree,--or iv 'tean't he, 'tis a man like un,--riding athirt tailor Mudford's 'tatee-patch, in Misletoe-lane, zaving your worship's presence, upon a zpringy zwitch-tailed pie-bald, a bloodlike weed ov a thing, zo var as I could zee; but I'll zwear he were a zwitch-tailed pie-bald; and the young'zquire's yean't in the paddock.”

Stapleton threw on his dressing-coat, and hurried up stairs to the room where Saul had been confined. The lamp was still burning; and, by its light, he discovered, at a glance, that the prisoner had effected his escape. Abel's staff lay upon the mattress, and, at a little distance from it, Stapleton beheld the constable on the floor, apparently lifeless. “The villain has murdered him!” thought he; but his fears were instantly dispelled, and his indignation roused, by a sonorous snore, which evidently proceeded from the nostrils of Abel.

Stapleton took up the staff of office, and turned the constable over with it two or three times, before he could wake him. In reply to the questions put to him by the 'squire, Abel gave a tolerably clear account of what had taken place: the last thing he recollected was seeing the eyes of Ponto glaring at him, as he lay on the floor. Search was immediately made for the dog, but without success: he had either effectually concealed himself in some part of the house, or made his escape. Abel begged for a warrant from his worship to apprehend and hang the animal. “He aided and abetted the prisoner,” said he, “in getting his liberty; and I am ready to swear, and what is more, with your worship's leave, I do insist upon swearing, that I lay in bodily fear o' the beast. But Ponto,” continued he, “was not the sole and only one that lent the delinquent a helping hand; he hath a friend in court: the rope was cut for him, that's dear; for he never could have done it himself. Your worship, this looks awkward against somebody.”

The morning dawned through the eastern window of the library, as Stapleton finished his statement, and old Borfield his second cup of coffee. The latter now suggested that all the persons in the house should be rigidly examined, and the depositions of Abel and the earth-stopper formally prepared. The whole of the household, as well as the two last-mentioned worthies, were then called in; and after a few questions had been put to the domestics in a body, it came out, that somebody had heard Sam say, before he went to bed, that the poacher's dog had burst into the Wainscot-room when he (Sam) went up to call the young 'squire down to supper. Sam, upon being questioned, prevaricated and became confused. Perceiving this, Stapleton inquired for Martin. “He ha'n't left his room yet, sir,” said Sam; “I'll step and call him.”

“No, no!” exclaimed Borfield; “by no means: stay you there, and let the constable go for him.”

“I forgot to say,” said Abel, “that Master Martin did certainly condescend to be beadle over the prisoner while I took needful refreshment.”

“Then you ought to be whipped for suffering him to do so,” quoth Borfield. “Mr. Stapleton, this begins to be serious,” continued he;--Stapleton turned pale as he proceeded, and now wished he had not sent for his brother magistrate;--“the youth's your son; but it is our duty, in such an investigation as this, to pay no respect to persons.--And so, when you returned,” he added, turning to the constable again, “the bird was flown, was he?”

“I will be judged by any man here, if I said so!” replied Abel. “Saul and I had some chat after my return; he was there, and, seemingly, safe enough; but the cord must have been cut by somebody while I was away.”

“And who did you find in the room besides Saul?” was the next question put by old Borfield.

“Sam ran against me, as I went up over the stairs, and the young 'squire did the like, more disagreeably, just after I had crossed the threshold.”

Borfield shook his head, and said to Sam,--“Young man, consider yourself in custody; and, constable, fetch down Master Martin Stapleton;--it is strange, amidst all this uproar, he has not made his appearance!”

“Has no one seen him?” inquired Stapleton, in a tone of unusual solemnity: he looked anxiously round the circle, but no reply was made. “Open that window,” continued he, pointing to one near him, in the recess of which stood the earth-stopper, who obeyed him, as fast as his stiff joints would permit A perfect silence reigned through the room for nearly a minute, after Abel had quitted it, in obedience to Borfield's commands, when the old earth-stopper said that he heard a tired horse galloping up the high-road, about a mile distant, and he thought it was the young 'squire's pie-bald. Upon being asked what induced him to think so, he replied, “Why, your honour, Master Martin's horse were lame vrom a zand-crack in the near vore-voot, and the horse I do hear, don't ztrike the ground even; I be zure he's lame;--and az I do think--”

The earth-stopper would have proceeded, but Abel and Martin now entered the room. The young man's dress was in disorder; his hair was matted; his eyes were swollen; and his whole appearance indicated that he had not passed the night asleep in his bed. “I understand,” said he, addressing himself to Stapleton and Borfield,--“I understand that--”

“You have but one question to answer, Martin,” interrupted Stapleton.

“And answer it or not as you think fit,” said Borfield; “recollect, young gentleman, that you are not compelled to implicate yourself:--be careful!”

“The caution, sir,” said Stapleton, “is kind and well-meant, but, I am sure, needless. Martin--did you, or did you not, aid Saul Braintree in his escape?”

Martin was silent.

“Don't press him,” said Borfield, forgetting to whom he was speaking; “we have quite sufficient, without his own acknowledgment, to warrant us in concluding that he did.--The constable's evidence--”

“Borfield! Borfield!” cried Stapleton, casting on the old man a look of reproach that silenced him; “let him answer for himself. What say you, Martin? Acquit yourself, I insist--I entreat!--Did you cut the rope for Braintree?”

“All that I have to say, sir,” replied Martin, firmly,--but his voice faltered, and he burst into tears, and hid his face in his hands as he concluded,--“All that I have to say, sir, is, that the man proved to me he was my own father!”

“Martin, you're mad!” exclaimed Stapleton, starting from his seat.

“Braintree your father!” said Borfield, removing his spectacles, but speaking in a calm and unconcerned tone; “How's this?--Then where's Mr. Stapleton's son?”

“In the county gaol, abiding his trial for murder!” replied the young man.

“Martin, your wits are wandering!” almost shrieked old Stapleton; “What do you mean?”

“It is but too true, sir, I fear.--Meg Braintree changed us when children at her breast.”

“No, zhe didn't, Master Martin,” said some one at the lower end of the room; “No, zhe didn't; worse luck!”

To the amazement of all present, Saul Braintree, who had just entered, now walked up toward the justices, and stood within three paces of the table, behind which their chairs were placed. Old Stapleton was still on his legs; and, with a vacant and almost idiotic stare, turned from Martin, on whom he had been gazing, to the weather-beaten face of Saul.

“'Tis you ha' done all this mischief, 'zquire,” pursued Braintree; “Oh! you used I--but, it doan't matter--Meg, too, to play zuch a trick, and not tell me o't!--Master Martin, zhe didn't do as I tould her; but never, avore this night, did I know I'd been made zuch a vool ov!--Your horse vailed lame as a cat wi' me, coming back; but you'll vorgi'e me, I do know, vor bringing'ee zuch news. I bean't your vather;--there--there, it do zeem, he stands: 'zquire, this be, truly, your zon; mine be in irons; but I'll vree un! I'll vree un!” repeated he, raising his voice suddenly to a high pitch; “he sha'n't bide there long! I be bad enough, vor zure and zartin; but I can't let un die vor I!--Oh! I be beat out and out!--Tell ee I can't ztand it; zo, justice, take my convession.”

Borfield touched the elbow of Stapleton, who was now totally inattentive to the scene before him, and affectionately embracing Martin. “Take the pen, sir,” said Borfield; “and, prisoner, reflect a moment on what you are about to do: you are in a state of great excitation; we are willing to hear you; but, I repeat,--be cautious!”

“Cautious!--cautious, d'ye zay?--No, I won't! Caution's been the ruin o' me. Caution doan't zeem to I to be any use in theze parts. I ha' zeed men wi' no more forecast than chilver hogs, do well all their lives, and keep out o' harm's way, vlourish-ing like trees:--now I ha' been as cautious as a cat, and you do zee what I be come to.”

“I cannot write, indeed, Mr. Borfield;--I cannot write a word:--you must excuse me,” said Stapleton, throwing down the pen.

“Well, well, then, as we've no clerk, and I have written nothing but my name these seven years,” said Borfield, offering the pen to young Stapleton, “suppose, Master Martin, you take down the prisoner's confession.”

“Pardon me, sir,” said Martin; “_that_ I never will do.”

“Then we must adjourn the examination for an hour,” said Borfield; “let the prisoner be searched, and conveyed to a place of security. I will specially swear in the earth-stopper and my man to assist you, Abel; my man shall remain in the room with you, and the earth-stopper may watch outside the door: be attentive, earth-stopper.”

“And above all things,” added Abel, “take care that his dog don't get in.”

“Doan't'ee be aveard o' he, Yeabel,” said Saul, “I ha' killed un, poor blade!--It were the last zhot I shall zhoot. He ha' done much mischief vor I, poor dumb beast, and he might ha' done more vor a worser man;--vor I reckon I bean't zo bad az zome be, and that's a comvort.--I knocked up varmer Zalter, and borrowed his double-barrelled gun, to gi'e the dog his dose. Ponto knowed what a gun were, well enough; but he zeemed to vancy I were in vun like, when I pointed the muzzle o't to un; vor ay wagged his tail and looked as pleasant up in my vace, that be dashed iv I weren't vorced to zhut my eyes avore I could pull the trigger. But, oh! Master Martin, iv you had but heard his one zhort deep howl, you'd ha' gone 'mazed--that is--iv you were I. Truly, I do think, I zhould ha' zhot myzelf iv 'tweren't vor two things:--Virst, I couldn't ha' vreed poor dear Bob, bless un! iv I had; and next, I'd a' given my word and hand to varmer Zalter, I wouldn't harm myzelf avore he'd lend me his gun.”

Martin now asked his father's permission to offer Saul a little refreshment; the 'squire immediately acceded to his request, and the kind-hearted young gentleman whispered Sam, in Saul's hearing, to get a little brandy from the housekeeper. Braintree, however, much to Martin's surprise, requested that no liquor might be brought for his use. “Master Martin,” said he, “it yean't wi' me, as'twere last night I be past the help o' brandy, now:--I be done vor. Ponto's gone, and I zhall zoon vollow un; he did'nt deserve it,--nor I neither, may be;--but I zhall ba't though, vor all that But Bob zhall be vreed--no offence, justices; but, d'ye hear?--Bob zhall be vree! My buoy zhan't never zuffer vor I. No, no, that wouldn't be like Zaul Braintree;--eh Master Martin?--would it, neighbours?--My wife zhan't say to I again, as zhe did, poor zoul, last night, 'Zaul, thee hast murdered my zon--'tean't pleasant--Your servant, Justice Borfield: you ha' been my ruin, 'zquire Ztapleton; but I doan't bear malice; I do vorgive'ee wi' all my heart--Will'ee be zo good as to make vriends, zir, and think o' Meg, if aught zhould happen to me?--will'ee, zir--will'ee--will'ee!”