The Complete Prose Works of Martin Farquhar Tupper

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Fourthly, Susan prudently set to work, and rigged out the whole family
in tidy clothes, with a touch of mourning upon each for poor Aunt
Bridget, and unhappy brother Simon; while the fifthly, sixthly, and to
conclude, were concerned in a world of notable and useful schemes, with
a strong resolution to save as much as possible for schooling and
getting out the children.

It was wonderful to see how much good was in that gold, how large a fund
of blessing was hidden in that crock: Reuben Scott gained health, the
family were fed, clad, taught; Susan grew in happiness at least as truly
as in girth; and Hagglesfield beheld the goodness of that store, whose
curse had startled all Hurstley-cum-Piggesworth.

But also at Hurstley now are found its consequential blessings.

We must take another peep at Roger and sweet Grace; they, and Ben too,
and Jonathan, and Jonathan's master, may all have cause to thank an
overruling Providence, for blessing on the score of Bridget's crock.
Only before I come to that, I wish to be dull a little hereabouts, and
moralize: the reader may skip it, if he will--but I do not recommend him
so to do.

For, evermore in the government of God, good groweth out of evil: and,
whether man note the fact or not, Providence, with secret care, doth
vindicate itself. There is justice done continually, even on this stage
of trial, though many pine and murmur: substantial retribution, even in
this poor dislocated world of wrong, not seldom overtakes the sinner,
not seldom encourages the saint. Encourages? yea, and punishes: blessing
him with kind severity; teaching him to know himself a mere bad root, if
he be not grafted on his God; proving that the laws which govern life
are just, and wise, and kind; showing him that a man's own heart's
desire, if fulfilled, would probably tend to nothing short of sin,
sorrow, and calamity; that many seeming goods are withheld, because they
are evils in disguise; and many seeming ills allowed, because they are
masqueraded blessings; and demonstrating, as in this strange tale, that
the unrighteous Mammon is a cruel master, a foul tempter, a pestilent
destroyer of all peace, and a teeming source of both world's misery.

Listen to the sayings of the Wisest King of men:

"As the whirlwind passeth, so is the wicked no more: but the righteous
is an everlasting foundation."

"The righteous is delivered out of trouble, and the wicked cometh in his
stead."

"He that trusteth in his riches shall fall: but the righteous shall
flourish as a branch."

"Better is a little with righteousness, than great revenues without
right."

"The wicked shall be a ransom for the righteous, and the transgressor
for the upright."

"A good man leaveth an inheritance to his children's children: and the
wealth of the sinner is laid up for the just."

CHAPTER LI.

POPULARITY.

The storm is lulled: the billows of temptation have ebbed away
from shore, and the clouds of adversity have flown to other skies.

"The winter is past; the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear upon
the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of
the turtle is heard in our land: the fig-tree putteth forth his green
figs, and the blossoms of the vine smell sweetly. Arise, and come away."

Yesterday's trial, and its unlooked-for issue, have raised Roger Acton
to the rank of hero. The town's excitement is intense: and the little
inn, where he and Grace had spent the night in gratitude and prayerful
praise, is besieged by carriages full of lords and gentlemen, eager to
see and speak with Roger.

Humbly and reverently, yet preserving an air of quiet self-possession,
the labourer received their courteous kindnesses; and acquitted himself
of what may well be called the honours of that levee, with a dignity
native to the true-born Briton, from the time of Caractacus at Rome to
our own.

But if Roger was a demi-god, Grace was at the least a goddess; she
charmed all hearts with her modest beauty. Back with the shades of
night, and the prison-funeral of Jennings, fled envy, hatred, malice,
and all uncharitableness; the elderly sisterhood of Hurstley, not to be
out of a fashion set by titled dames, hastened to acknowledge her
perfections; Calumny was shamed, and hid his face; the uncles, aunts,
and cousins of the hill-top yonder, were glad to hold their tongues, and
bite their nails in peace: Farmer Floyd and his Mrs. positively came
with peace-offerings--some sausage-meat, elder-wine, jam, and other
dainties, which were to them the choicest sweets of life: and as for
Jonathan, he never felt so proud of Grace in all his life before; the
handsome fellow stood at least a couple of inches taller.

Honest Ben Burke, too, that most important witness--whose coming was as
Blucher's at Waterloo, and secured the well-earned conquest of the
day--though it must be confessed that his appearance was something of
the satyr, still had he been Phoebus Apollo in person, he would
scarcely have excited sincerer admiration. More than one fair creature
sketched his unkempt head, and loudly wished that its owner was a
bandit; more than one bright eye discovered beauty in his open
countenance--though a little soap and water might have made it more
distinguishable. Well--well--honest Ben--they looked, and wisely looked,
at the frank and friendly mind hidden under that rough carcase, and
little wonder that they loved it.

Now, to all this stream of hearty English sympathy, the kind and proper
feeling of young Sir John resolved to give a right direction. His
fashionable friends were gone, except Silliphant and Poynter, both good
fellows in the main, and all the better for the absence (among others)
of that padded old debauchee, Sir Richard Hunt, knight of the order of
St. Sapphira--that frivolous inanity, Lord George Pypp--and that
professed gentleman of gallantry, Mr. Harry Mynton. The follies and the
vices had decamped--had scummed off, so to speak--leaving the more
rectified spirits behind them, to recover at leisure, as best they
might, from all that ferment of dissipation. So, then, there was now
neither ridicule, nor interest, to stand in the way of a young and
wealthy heir's well-timed schemes of generosity.

Well-timed they were, and Sir John knew it, though calculation seldom
had a footing in his warm and heedless heart; but he could not shut his
eyes to the fact, that the state of feeling among his hereditary
labourers was any thing but pleasant. In truth, owing to the desperate
malpractices of Quarles and Jennings, perhaps no property in the kingdom
had got so ill a name as Hurstley: discontent reigned paramount;
incendiary fires had more than once occurred; threatening notices, very
ill-spelt, and signed by one _soi-disant_ Captain Blood, had been
dropped, in dead of winter, at the door-sills of the principal farmers;
and all the other fruits of long-continued penury, extortion, and
mis-government, were hanging ripe upon the bough--a foul and fatal
harvest.

Therefore, did the kind young landlord, who had come to live among his
own peasantry, resolve, not more nobly than wisely, to seize an
opportunity so good as this, for restoring, by a stroke of generous
policy, peace and content on his domain. No doubt, the baronet rejoiced,
as well he might, at the honourable acquittal of innocence, and the
mysteries of murder now cleared up; he made small secret of his
satisfaction at the doom of Jennings; and, as for Bridget Quarles, by
all he could learn of her from tenants' wives, and other female
dependants, he had no mind to wish her back again, or to think her fate
ill-timed: nevertheless, he was even more glad of an occasion to
vindicate his own good feelings; and prove to the world that bailiff
Simon Jennings was a very opposite character to landlord Sir John
Devereux Vincent.

To carry out his plan, he determined to redress all wrongs within one
day, and to commence by bringing "honest Roger" in triumph home again to
Hurstley; following the suggestion of Baron Parker, to make some social
compensation for his wrongs. With this view, Sir John took counsel of
the county-town authorities, and it was agreed unanimously, excepting
only one dissenting vote--a rich and radical Quaker, one Isaac Sneak,
grocer, and of the body corporate, who refused to lose one day's service
of his shopmen, and thereby (I rejoice to add) succeeded in getting rid
of fifteen good annual customers--it was agreed, then, and arranged that
the morrow should be a public holiday. All Sir John's own tenantry, as
well as Squire Ryle's, and some of other neighbouring magnates, were to
have a day's wages without work, on the easy conditions of attending the
procession in their smartest trim, and of banqueting at Hurstley
afterwards. So, then, the town-band was ordered to be in attendance next
morning by eleven at the Swan, a lot of old election colours were shaken
from their dust and cobwebs, the bell-ringers engaged, vasty
preparations of ale and beef made at Hurstley Hall--an ox to be roasted
whole upon the terrace, and a plum-pudding already in the cauldron of
two good yards in circumference--and all that every body hoped for that
night, was a fine May-day to-morrow.

CHAPTER LII.

ROGER AT THE SWAN.

Meanwhile, eventide came on: the crowd of kindly gentle-folks
had gone their several ways; and Roger Acton found himself (through Sir
John's largess) at free quarters in the parlour of the Swan, with Grace
by his side, and many of his mates in toil and station round him.

"Grace," said her father on a sudden, "Grace--my dear child--come
hither." She stood in all her loveliness before him. Then he took her
hand, looked up at her affectionately, and leaned back in the old oak
chair.

"Hear me, mates and neighbours; to my own girl, Grace, under God, I owe
my poor soul's welfare. I have nothing, would I had, to give her in
return:" and the old man (he looked ten years older for his six weeks,
luck, and care, and trouble)--the old man could not get on at all with
what he had to say--something stuck in his throat--but he recovered, and
added cheerily, with an abrupt and rustic archness, "I don't know,
mates, whether after all I can't give the good girl something: I can
give her--away! Come hither, Jonathan Floyd; you are a noble fellow,
that stood by us in adversity, and are almost worthy of my angel Grace."
And he joined their hands.

"Give us thy blessing too, dear father!"

They kneeled at his feet on the sanded floor, in the midst of their
kinsfolk and acquaintance, and he, stretching forth his hands like a
patriarch, looked piously up to heaven, and blessed them there.

"Grace," he added, "and Jonathan my son, I need not part with you--I
could not. I have heard great tidings. To-morrow you shall know how kind
and good Sir John is: God bless him! and send poor England's children of
the soil many masters like him.

"And now, mates, one last word from Roger Acton; a short word, and a
simple, that you may not forget it. My sin was love of money: my
punishment, its possession. Mates, remember Him who sent you to be
labourers, and love the lot He gives you. Be thankful if His blessing on
your industry keeps you in regular work and fair wages: ask no more from
God of this world's good. Believe things kindly of the gentle-folks, for
many sins are heaped upon their heads, whereof their hearts are
innocent. Never listen to the counsels of a servant, who takes away his
master's character: for of such are the poor man's worst oppressors. Be
satisfied with all your lowliness on earth, and keep your just ambitions
for another world. Flee strong liquors and ill company. Nurse no heated
hopes, no will-o'-the-wisp bright wishes: rather let your warmest hopes
be temperately these--health, work, wages: and as for wishing, mates,
wish any thing you will--sooner than to find a crock of gold."

CHAPTER LIII.

ROGER'S TRIUMPH.

The steeples rang out merrily, full chime; High street was gay with
streamers; the town-band busily assembling; a host of happy urchins from
emancipated schools, were shouting in all manner of keys all manner of
gleeful noises: every body seemed a-stir.

A proud man that day was Roger Acton; not of his deserts--they were
worse than none, he knew it; not of the procession--no silly child was
he, to be caught with toy and tinsel; God wot, he was meek enough in
self--and as for other pride, he knew from old electioneerings, what a
humbling thing is triumph.

But when he saw from the windows of the Swan, those crowds of new-made
friends trooping up in holiday suits with flags, and wands, and
corporation badges--when the band for a commencement struck up the
heart-stirring hymn 'God save the Queen,'--when the horsemen, and
carriages, and gigs, and carts assembled--when the baronet's own
barouche and four, dashing up to the door, had come from Hurstley Hall
for _him_--when Sir John, the happiest of the happy, alighting with his
two friends, had displaced them for Roger and Grace, while the kind
gentlemen took horse, and headed the procession--when Ben Burke (as
clean as soap could get him, and bedecked in new attire) was ordered to
sit beside Jonathan in the rumble-tumble--when the cheering, and the
merry-going bells, and the quick-march 'British Grenadiers,' rapidly
succeeding the national anthem--when all these tokens of a generous
sympathy smote upon his ears, his eyes, his heart, Roger Acton wept
aloud--he wept for very pride and joy: proud and glad was he that day of
his country, of his countrymen, of his generous landlord, of his gentle
Grace, of his vindicated innocence, and of God, "who had done so great
things for him."

So, the happy cavalcade moved on, horse and foot, and carts and
carriages, through the noisy town, along the thronged high road, down
the quiet lanes that lead to Hurstley; welcomed at every cottage-door
with boisterous huzzas, and adding to its ranks at every corner. And so
they reached the village, where the band struck up,

"See the conquering hero comes,
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums!"

Is not this returning like a nabob, Roger? Hath not God blest thee
through the crock of gold at last, in spite of sin?

There, at the entrance by the mile-stone, stood Mary and the babes, with
a knot of friends around her, bright with happiness; on the top of it
was perched son Tom, waving the blue and silver flag of Hurstley, and
acting as fugleman to a crowd of uproarious cheerers; and beside it, on
the bank, sat Sarah Stack, overcome with joy, and sobbing like a
gladsome Niobe.

And the village bells went merrily; every cottage was gay with spring
garlands, and each familiar face lit up with looks of kindness; Hark!
hark!--"Welcome, honest Roger, welcome home again!" they shout: and the
patereroes on the lawn thunder a salute; "welcome, honest
neighbour;"--and up went, at bright noon, Tom Stableboy's dozen of
rockets wrapped around with streamers of glazed calico--"welcome,
welcome!"

Good Mr. Evans stood at the door of fine old Hurstley, in wig, and band,
and cassock, to receive back his wandering sheep that had been lost: and
the school-children, ranged upon the steps, thrillingly sang out the
beautiful chant, "I will arise, and go to my Father, and will say unto
Him, 'Father, I have sinned against Heaven and before Thee, and am no
more worthy to be called thy son!'"

Every head was uncovered, and every cheek ran down with tears.

CHAPTER LIV.

SIR JOHN'S PARTING SPEECH.

Then Sir John, standing up in the barouche at his own
hall-door, addressed the assembled multitude:

"Friends, we are gathered here to-day, in the cause of common justice
and brotherly kindness. There are many of you whom I see around me, my
tenants, neighbours, or dependants, who have met with wrongs and
extortions heretofore, but you all shall be righted in your turn; trust
me, men, the old hard times are gone, your landlord lives among you, and
his first care shall be to redress your many grievances, paying back the
gains of your oppressor."

"God bless you, sir, God bless you!" was the echo from many a gladdened
heart.

"But before I hear your several claims in turn, which shall be done
to-morrow, our chief duty this day is to recompense an honest man for
all that he has innocently suffered. It is five-and-thirty years, as I
find by my books, on this very first of May, since Roger Acton first
began to work at Hurstley; till within this now past evil month, he has
always been the honest steady fellow that you knew him from his youth:
what say you, men, to having as a bailiff one of yourselves; a kind and
humble man, a good man, the best hand in the parish in all the works of
your vocation--a steady mind, an honest heart--what say ye all to Roger
Acton?"

There was a whirlwind of tumultuous applause.

"Moreover, men, though you all, each according to his measure and my
means, shall meet with liberal justice for your lesser ills, yet we must
all remember that Bailiff Acton here had nearly died a felon's death,
through that bad man Jennings and the unlucky crock of gold; in
addition, extortion has gone greater lengths with him, than with any
other on the property; I find that for the last twenty years, Roger
Acton has regularly paid to that monster of oppression who is now dead,
a double rent--four guineas instead of forty shillings. I desire, as a
good master, to make amends for the crimes of my wicked servant;
therefore in this bag, Bailiff Acton, is returned to you all the rent
you ever paid;" [Roger could not speak for tears;]--"and your cottage
repaired and fitted, with an acre round it, is yours and your
children's, rent-free for ever."

"Huzzah, huzzah!" roared Ben from the dickey, in a gush of disinterested
joy; and then, like an experienced toast-master, he marshalled in due
hip, hip, hip order, the shouts of acclamation that rent the air. In an
interval of silence, Sir John added,

"As for you, good-hearted fellow, if you will only mend your speech,
I'll make you one of my keepers; you shall call yourself licensed
poacher, if you choose."

"Blessings on your honour! you've made an honest man o' me."

"And now, Jonathan Floyd, I have one word to say to you, sir. I hear you
are to marry our Roger's pretty Grace." Jonathan appeared like a sheep
in livery.

"You must quit my service." Jonathan was quite alarmed. "Do you suppose,
Master Jonathan, that I can house at Hurstley, before a Lady Vincent
comes amongst us to keep the gossips quiet, such a charming little wife
as that, and all her ruddy children?"

It was Grace's turn to feel confused, so she "looked like a rose in
June," and blushed all over, as Charles Lamb's Astraea did, down to the
ankle.

"Yes, Jonathan, you and I must part, but we part good friends: you have
been a noble lover: may you make the girl a good and happy husband!
Jennings has been robbing me and those about me for years: it is
impossible to separate specially my rights from his extortions: but all,
as I have said, shall be satisfied: meanwhile, his hoards are mine. I
appropriate one half of them for other claimants; the remaining half I
give to Grace Floyd as dower. Don't be a fool, Jonathan, and blubber;
look to your Grace there, she's fainting--you can set up landlord for
yourself, do you hear?--for I make yours honestly, as much as Roger
found in his now lucky Crock of Gold."

Poor Roger, quite unmanned, could only wave his hat, and--the curtain
falls amid thunders of applause.

END OF THE CROCK OF GOLD.

* * * * *

THE TWINS;

A DOMESTIC NOVEL.

BY

MARTIN FARQUHAR TUPPER, A.M., F.R.S.

AUTHOR OF

PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY.

* * * * *

CONTENTS

CHAP. PAGE.

1. Place; Time; Circumstance 157

2. The Heroes 161

3. The Arrival 166

4. The General and his Ward 168

5. Jealousy 172

6. The Confidante 174

7. The Course of True Love 177

8. The Mystery 180

9. How to clear it up 182

10. Aunt Green's Legacy 184

11. Preparations, and Departure 188

12. The Escape 192

13. News of Charles 196

14. The Tete-a-Tete 199

15. Satisfaction 202

16. How Charles Fared 204

17. The General's Return 207

18. Intercalary 211

19. Julian's Departure 213

20. Enlightenment 215

21. Charles at Madras 216

22. Revelations 219

23. Convalescence 222

24. Charles Delayed 224

25. Trials 229

26. Julian 231

27. Charles's Return, &c. 233

28. Julian turns up, &c. 237

29. The old Scotch Nurse goes home 238

30. Final 241

CHAPTER I.

PLACE: TIME: CIRCUMSTANCE.

Burleigh-Singleton is a pleasant little watering-place on the southern
coast of England, entirely suitable for those who have small incomes and
good consciences. The latter, to residents especially, are at least as
indispensable as the former: seeing that, however just the reputation of
their growing little town for superior cheapness in matters of meat and
drink, its character in things regarding men and manners is quite as
undeniable for preeminent dullness.

Not but that it has its varieties of scene, and more or less of
circumstances too: there are, on one flank, the breezy Heights, with
flag-staff and panorama; on the other, broad and level water-meadows,
skirted by the dark-flowing Mullet, running to the sea between its
tortuous banks: for neighbourhood, Pacton Park is one great
attraction--the pretty market-town of Eyemouth another--the everlasting,
never-tiring sea a third; and, at high-summer, when the Devonshire lanes
are not knee-deep in mire, the nevertheless immeasurably filthy, though
picturesque, mud-built village of Oxton.

Then again (and really as I enumerate these multitudinous advantages, I
begin to relent for having called it dull), you may pick up curious
agate pebbles on the beach, as well as corallines and scarce sea-weeds,
good for gumming on front-parlour windows; you may fish _for_ whitings
in the bay, and occasionally catch them; you may wade in huge caoutchouc
boots among the muddy shallows of the Mullet, and shoot _at_ cormorants
and curlews; you may walk to satiety between high-banked and rather
dirty cross-roads; and, if you will scramble up the hedge-row, may get
now and then peeps of undulated country landscape.

Moreover, you have free liberty to drop in any where to
"tiffin"--Burleigh being very Indianized, and a guest always welcome;
indeed, so Indianized is it, so populous in jaundiced cheek and ailing
livers, that you may openly assert, without fear of being misunderstood
(if you wish to vary your common phrase of loyalty), that Victoria sits
upon the "musnud" of Great Britain; you may order curry in the smallest
pot-house, and still be sure to get the rice well-cooked; you may call
your house-maid "ayah," without risk of warning for impertinence; you
may vent your wrath against indolent waiters in eloquence of "jaa,
soostee;" and, finally, you may go to the library, and besides the
advantage of the day-before-yesterday's Times, you may behold in bilious
presence an affable, but authoritative, old gentleman, who introduces
himself, "Sir, you see in me the hero of Puttymuddyfudgepoor."

You may even now see such an one, I say, and hear him too, if you will
but go to Burleigh; seeing he has by this time over-lived the year or so
whereof our tale discourses. He has, by dint of service, attained to the
dignity of General H.E.I.C.S., and--which he was still longer coming
to--the wisdom of being a communicative creature; though possibly, by a
natural reaction, at present he carries anti-secresy a little too far,
and verges on the gossiping extreme. But, at the time to which we must
look back to commence this right-instructive story, General Tracy was
still drinking "Hodgson's Pale" in India, was so taciturn as to be
considered almost dumb, and had not yet lifted up his yellow visage upon
Albion's white cliffs, nor taken up head-quarters in his final rest of
Burleigh-Singleton.