The Complete Prose Works of Martin Farquhar Tupper

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For a general idea, then, of our poaching friend:--he is a gigantic,
black-whiskered, humorous, ruddy mortal, full of strange oaths, which we
really must not print, and bearded like the pard, and he tumbles in
amongst our humble family party, with--

"Bless your honest heart, Roger! what makes you look so sodden? I'm a
lord, if your eyes a'n't as red as a hedge-hog's; and all the rest o'
you, too; why, you seem to be pretty well merry as mutes. Ha! I see what
it is," added Ben, pouring forth a benediction on their frugal supper;
"it's that precious belly-ache porridge that's a-giving you all the
'flensy. Tip it down the sink, dame, will you now? and trust to me for
better. Your Tom here, Roger, 's a lad o' mettle, that he is; ay, and
that old iron o' yours as true as a compass; and the pheasants would
come to it, all the same as if they'd been loadstoned. Here, dame, pluck
the fowl, will you: drop 'em, Tom."--And Thomas Acton flung upon the
table a couple of fine cock-pheasants.

Roger, Mary, and Grace, who were well accustomed to Ben Burke's eloquent
tirades, heard the end of this one with anxiety and silence; for Tom
had never done the like before. Grace was first to expostulate, but was
at once cut short by an oath from her brother, whose evident state of
high excitement could not brook the semblance of reproof. Mary Acton's
marketing glance was abstractedly fixed upon the actual _corpus
delicti_; each fine plump bird, full-plumaged, young-spurred; yes, they
were still warm, and would eat tender, so she mechanically began to
pluck them; while, as for poor downcast Roger, he remembered, with a
conscience-sting that almost made him start, his stolen bit of money in
the morning--so, how could he condemn? He only looked pityingly on
Thomas, and sighed from the bottom of his heart.

"Why, what's the matter now?" roared Ben; "one 'ud think we was bailiffs
come to raise the rent, 'stead of son Tom and friendly Ben; hang it,
mun, we aint here to cheat you out o' summut--no, not out o' peace o'
mind neither; so, if you don't like luck, burn the fowls, or bury 'em,
and let brave Tom risk limbo for nothing."

"Oh, Ben!" murmured Grace, "why will you lead him astray? Oh, brother!
brother! what have you done?" she said, sorrowfully.

"Miss Grace,"--her beauty always awed the poacher, and his rugged
Caliban spirit bowed in reverence before her Ariel soul--"I wish I was
as good as you, but can't be: don't condemn us, Grace; leastways, first
hear me, and then say where's the harm or sin on it. Twelve hundred head
o' game--I heard John Gorse, the keeper, tell it at the Jerry--twelve
hundred head were shot at t'other day's battew: Sir John--no blame to
him for it--killed a couple o' hundred to his own gun: and though they
sent away a coachful, and gave to all who asked, and feasted themselves
chuckfull, and fed the cats, and all, still a mound, like a haycock, o'
them fine fat fowl, rotted in a mass, and were flung upon the dungpit.
Now, Miss Grace, that ere salt pea-porridge a'n't nice, a'n't wholesome;
and, bless your pretty mouth, it ought to feed more sweetly. Look at
Acton, isn't he half-starved. Is Tom, brave boy, full o' the fat o' the
land? Who made fowl, I should like to know, and us to eat 'em? And
where's the harm or sin in bringing down a bird? No, Miss, them ere
beaks, dammem (beg humble pardon, Miss, indeed I won't again) them ere
justices, as they call themselves, makes hard laws to hedge about their
own pleasures; and if the poor man starves, he starves; but if he stays
his hunger with the free, wild birds of heaven, they prison him and
punish him, and call him poacher."

"Ben, those who make the laws, do so under God's permission; and they
who break man's law, break His law."

"Nonsense, child,"--suddenly said Roger; "hold your silly tongue. Do
you mean to tell us, God's law and man's law are the same thing! No,
Grace, I can't stomach that; God makes right, and man makes
might--riches go one way, and poor men's wrong's another. Money, money's
the great law-maker, and a full purse frees him that has it, while it
turns the jailor's key on the wretch that has it not: one of those
wretches is the hopeless Roger Acton. Well, well," he added, after a
despondent sigh, "say no more about it all; that's right,
good-wife--why, they do look plump. And if I can't stomach Grace's
text-talk there, I'm sure I can the birds; for I know what keeps crying
cupboard lustily."

It was a faint effort to be gay, and it only showed his gloom the
denser. Truly, he has quite enough to make him sad; but this is an
unhealthy sadness: the mists of mammon-worship, rising up, meet in the
mid aether of his mind, these lowering clouds of discontent: and the
seeming calamity, that should be but a trial to his faith, looks too
likely to wreck it.

So, then, the embers were raked up, the trivet stuck a-top, the savoury
broil made ready; and (all but Grace, who would not taste a morsel, but
went up straight to bed) never had the Actons yet sate down before so
rich a supper.

CHAPTER X.

BEN BURKE'S STRANGE ADVENTURE.

"Take a pull, Roger, and pass the flask," was the cordial
prescription of Ben Burke, intended to cure a dead silence, generated
equally of eager appetites and self-accusing consciences; so saying, he
produced a quart wicker-bottle, which enshrined, according to his
testimony, "summut short, the right stuff, stinging strong, that had
never seen the face of a wishy-washy 'ciseman." But Roger touched it
sparingly, for the vaunted nectar positively burnt his swallow: till
Ben, pulling at it heartily himself, by way of giving moral precept the
full benefit of a good example, taught Roger not to be afraid of it, and
so the flask was drained.

Under such communicative influence, Acton's tale of sorrows and
oppressions, we may readily believe, was soon made known; and as
readily, that it moved Ben's indignant and gigantic sympathies to an
extent of imprecation on the eyes, timbers, and psychological existence
of Mr. Jennings, very little edifying. One thing, however, made amends
for the license of his tongue; the evident sincerity and warmth with
which his coarse but kindly nature proffered instant aid, both offensive
and defensive.

"It's a black and burning shame, Honest Roger, and right shall have his
own, somehow, while Big Ben has a heart in the old place, and a hand to
help his friend." And the poacher having dealt his own broad breast a
blow that would have knocked a tailor down, stretched out to Acton the
huge hand that had inflicted it.

"More than that, Roger--hark to this, man!" and, as he slapped his
breeches pocket, there was the chink as of a mine of money shaken to its
foundations: "hark to this, man! and more than hark, have! Here, good
wife, hold your apron!" And he flung into her lap a handful of silver.

Roger gave a sudden shout of wonder, joy, and avarice: and then as
instantaneously turning very pale, he slowly muttered, "Hush, Ben! is it
bloody money?" and almost shrieked as he added, "and my poor boy Tom,
too, with you! God-a-mercy, mun! how came ye by it?"

"Honestly, neighbour, leastways, middling honest: don't damp a good
fellow's heart, when he means to serve you."

"Tell me only that my boy is innocent!--and the money--yes, yes, I'll
keep the money;" for his wife seemed to be pushing it from her at the
thought.

"I innocent, father! I never know'd till this minute that Ben had any
blunt at all--did I, Ben?--and I only brought him and Rover here to sup,
because I thought it neighbourly and kind-like."

Poor Tom had till now been very silent: some how the pheasants lay heavy
on his stomach.

"Is it true, Ben, is it true? the lad isn't a thief, the lad isn't a
murderer? Oh, God! Burke, tell me the truth!

"Blockhead!" was the courteous reply, "what, not believe your own son?
Why, neighbour Acton, look at the boy: would that frank-faced,
open-hearted fellow do worse, think you, than Black Burke? And would I,
bad as I be, turn the bloody villain to take a man's life? No,
neighbour; Ben kills game, not keepers: he sets his wire for a hare, but
wouldn't go to pick a dead man's pocket. All that's wrong in me, mun,
the game-laws put there; but I'm neither burglar, murderer,
highwayman--no, nor a mean, sneaking thief; however the quality may
think so, and even wish to drive me to it. Neither, being as I be no
rogue, could I bear to live a fool; but I should be one, neighbour, and
dub myself one too, if I didn't stoop to pick up money that a madman
flings away."

"Madman? pick up money? tell us how it was, Ben," interposed female
curiosity.

"Well, neighbours, listen: I was a-setting my night-lines round Pike
Island yonder, more nor a fortnight back; it was a dark night and a
mizzling, or morning rather, 'twixt three and four; by the same token,
I'd caught a power of eels. All at once, while I was fixing a trimmer, a
punt came quietly up: as for me, Roger, you know I always wades it
through the muddy shallow: well, I listens, and a chap creeps ashore--a
mad chap, with never a tile to his head, nor a sole to his feet--and
when I sings out to ax him his business, the lunatic sprung at me like a
tiger: I didn't wish to hurt a little weak wretch like him, specially
being past all sense, poor nat'ral! so I shook him off at once, and held
him straight out in this here wice." [Ben's grasp could have cracked any
cocoa-nut.] "He trembled like a wicked thing; and when I peered close
into his face, blow me but I thought I'd hooked a white devil--no one
ever see such a face: it was horrible too look at. 'What are you arter,
mun?' says I; 'burying a dead babby?' says I. 'Give us hold here--I'm
bless'd if I don't see though what you've got buckled up there.' With
that, the little white fool--it's sartin he was mad--all on a sudden
flings at my head a precious hard bundle, gives a horrid howl, jumps
into the punt, and off again, afore I could wink twice. My head a'n't a
soft un, I suppose; but when a lunatic chap hurls at it with all his
might a barrow-load of crockery at once, it's little wonder that my
right eye flinched a minute, and that my right hand rubbed my right eye;
and so he freed himself, and got clear off. Rum start this, thinks I:
but any how he's flung away a summut, and means to give it me: what can
it be? thinks I. Well, neighbours, if I didn't know the chap was mad
afore, I was sartain of it now; what do you think of a grown man--little
enough, truly, but out of long coats too--sneaking by night to Pike
Island, to count out a little lot of silver, and to guzzle twelve
gallipots o' honey? There it was, all hashed up in an old shawl, a slimy
mesh like birdlime: no wonder my eye was a leetle blackish, when
half-a-dozen earthern crocks were broken against it. I was angered
enough, I tell you, to think any man could be such a fool as to bring
honey there to eat or to hide--when at once I spied summut red among
the mess; and what should it be but a pretty little China house,
red-brick-like, with a split in the roof for droppings, and ticketed
'Savings-bank:' the chink o' that bank you hears now: and the bank
itself is in the pond, now I've cleaned the till out."

"Wonderful sure! But what did you do with the honey, Ben?--some of the
pots wasn't broke," urged notable Mrs. Acton.

"Oh, burn the slimy stuff, I warn't going to put my mouth out o' taste
o' bacca, for a whole jawful of tooth-aches: I'll tell you, dame, what I
did with them ere crocks, wholes, and parts. There's never a stone on
Pike Island, it's too swampy, and I'd forgot to bring my pocketful, as
usual. The heaviest fish, look you, always lie among the sedge,
hereabouts and thereabouts, and needs stirring, as your Tom knows well;
so I chucked the gallipots fur from me, right and left, into the
shallows, and thereby druv the pike upon my hooks. A good night's work I
made of it too, say nothing of the Savings-bank; forty pound o' pike and
twelve of eel warn't bad pickings."

"Dear, it was a pity though to fling away the honey; but what became of
the shawl, Ben?" Perhaps Mrs. Acton thought of looking for it.

"Oh, as for that, I was minded to have sunk it, with its mess of
sweet-meats and potsherds; but a thought took me, dame, to be
'conomical for once: and I was half sorry too that I'd flung away the
jars, for I began to fancy your little uns might ha' liked the stuff; so
I dipped the clout like any washerwoman, rinshed, and squeezed, and
washed the mess away, and have worn it round my waist ever since; here,
dame, I haven't been this way for a while afore to-night; but I meant to
ask you if you'd like to have it; may be 'tan't the fashion though."

"Good gracious, Ben! why that's Mrs. Quarles's shawl, I'd swear to it
among a hundred; Sarah Stack, at the Hall, once took and wore it, when
Mrs. Quarles was ill a-bed, and she and our Thomas walked to church
together. Yes--green, edged with red, and--I thought so--a yellow circle
in the middle; here's B.Q., for Bridget Quarles, in black cotton at the
corner. Lackapity! if they'd heard of all this at the Inquest! I tell
you what, Big Ben, it's kindly meant of you, and so thank you heartily,
but that shawl would bring us into trouble; so please take it yourself
to the Hall, and tell 'em fairly how you came by it."

"I don't know about that Poll Acton; perhaps they might ask me for the
Saving-bank, too--eh, Roger!"

"No, no, wife; no, it'll never do to lose the money! let a bygone be a
bygone, and don't disturb the old woman in her grave. As to the shawl,
if it's like to be a tell-tale, in my mind, this hearth's the safest
place for it."

So he flung it on the fire; there was a shrivelling, smouldering, guilty
sort of blaze, and the shawl was burnt.

Roger Acton, you are falling quickly as a shooting star; already is your
conscience warped to connive, for lucre's sake, at some one's secret
crimes. You had better, for the moral of the matter, have burnt your
right hand, as Scaevola did, than that shawl. Beware! your sin will bring
its punishment.

CHAPTER XI.

SLEEP.

Grace, in her humble truckle-bed, lay praying for her father;
not about his trouble, though that was much, but for the spots of sin
she could discern upon his soul.

Alas! an altered man was Roger Acton; almost since morning light, the
leprosy had changed his very nature. The simple-minded Christian,
toiling in contentment for his daily bread, cheerful for the passing
day, and trustful for the coming morrow, this fair state was well-nigh
faded away; while a bitterness of feeling against (in one word)
GOD--against unequal partialities in providence, against things as they
exist; and this world's inexplicable government--was gnawing at his very
heart-strings, and cankering their roots by unbelief. It is a speedy
process--throw away faith with its trust for the past, love for the
present, hope for the future--and you throw away all that makes sorrow
bearable, or joy lovely; the best of us, if God withheld his help, would
apostatize like Peter, ere the cock crew thrice; and, at times, that
help has wisely been withheld, to check presumptuous thoughts, and teach
how true it is that the creature depends on the Creator. Just so we
suffer a wilful little child, who is tottering about in leading-strings,
to go alone for a minute, and have a gentle fall. And just so Roger
here, deserted for a time of those angelic ministrations whose
efficiency is proved by godliness and meekness, by patience and content,
is harassed in his spirit as by harpies, by selfishness and pride, and
fretful doublings; by a grudging hate of labour, and a fiery lust of
gold. Temptation comes to teach a weak man that he was fitted for his
station, and his station made for him; that fulfilment of his ignorant
desires will only make his case the worse, and that

Providence alike is wise
In what he gives and what denies.

Meanwhile, gentle Grace, on her humble truckle-bed, is full of prayers
and tears, uneasily listening to the indistinct and noisy talk, and
hearing, now and then, some louder oath of Ben's that made her shudder.
Yes, she heard, too, the smashing sound, when the poacher flung the
money down, and she feared it was a mug or a plate--no slight domestic
loss; and she heard her father's strange cry, when he gave that
wondering shout of joyous avarice, and she did not know what to fear.
Was he ill? or crazed! or worse--fallen into bad excesses? How she
prayed for him!

Poor Ben, too, honest-hearted Ben; she thought of him in charity, and
pleaded for his good before the Throne of Mercy. Who knows but Heaven
heard that saintly virgin prayer? There is love in Heaven yet for poor
Ben Burke.

And if she prayed for Ben, with what an agony of deep-felt intercession
did she plead for Thomas Acton, that own only brother of hers, just a
year the younger to endear him all the more, her playmate, care, and
charge, her friend and boisterous protector. The many sorrowing hours
she had spent for his sake, and the thousand generous actions he had
done for hers! Could she forget how the stripling fought for her that
day, when rude Joseph Green would help her over the style? Could she but
remember how slily he had put aside, for more than half a year, a little
heap of copper earnings--weeding-money, and errand-money, and
harvest-money--and then bounteously spent it all at once in giving her a
Bible on her birth-day? And when, coming across the fields with him
after leasing, years ago now, that fierce black bull of Squire Ryle's
was rushing down upon us both, how bravely did the noble boy attack him
with a stake, as he came up bellowing, and make the dreadful monster
turn away! Ah! I looked death in the face then, but for thee, my
brother! Remember him, my God, for good!

"Poor father! poor father! Well, I am resolved upon one thing: I'll go,
with Heaven's blessing, to the Hall myself, and see Sir John, to-morrow;
he shall hear the truth, for"--And so Grace fell asleep.

Roger, when he went to bed, came to similar conclusions. He would speak
up boldly, that he would, without fear or favour. Ben's most seasonable
bounty, however to be questioned on the point of right, made him feel
entirely independent, both of bailiffs and squires, and he had now no
anxieties, but rather hopes, about to-morrow. He was as good as they,
with money in his pocket; so he'd down to the Hall, and face the baronet
himself, and blow his bailiff out o' water: that should be his business
by noon. Another odd idea, too, possessed him, and he could not sleep at
night for thinking of it: it was a foolish fancy, but the dream might
have put it in his head: what if one or other of those honey-jars, so
flung here and there among the rushes, were in fact another sort of
"Savings-bank"--a crock of gold? It was a thrilling thought--his very
dream, too; and the lot of shillings, and the shawl--ay, and the
inquest, and the rumours how that Mrs. Quarles had come to her end
unfairly, and no hoards found--and--and the honey-pots missing. Ha! at
any rate he'd have a search to-morrow. No bugbear now should hinder him;
money's money; he'd ask no questions how it got there. His own bit of
garden lay the nearest to Pike Island, and who knows but Ben might have
slung a crock this way? It wouldn't do to ask him, though--for Burke
might look himself, and get the crock--was Roger's last and selfish
thought, before he fell asleep.

As to Mrs. Acton, she, poor woman, had her own thoughts, fearful ones,
about that shawl, and Ben's mysterious adventure. No cloudy love of
mammon had overspread her mind, to hide from it the hideousness of
murder; in her eyes, blood was terrible, and not the less so that it
covered gold. She remembered at the inquest--be sure she was there among
the gossips--the facts, so little taken notice of till now, the keys in
the cupboard, where the honey-pots were not, and how Jonathan Floyd had
seen something on the lake, and the marks of a man's hand on the throat;
and, God forgive her for saying so, but Mr. Jennings was a little,
white-faced man. How wrong was it of Roger to have burnt that shawl! how
dull of Ben not to have suspected something! but then the good fellow
suspects nobody, and, I dare say, now doesn't know my thoughts. But
Roger does, more shame for him; or why burn the shawl? Ah! thought she,
with all the gossip rampart in her breast, if I could only have taken it
to the Hall myself, what a stir I should have caused! Yes, she would
have reaped a mighty field of glory by originating such a whirlwind of
inquiries and surmises. Even now, so attractive was the mare's nest, she
would go to the Hall by morning, and tell Sir John himself all about
the burnt shawl, and Pike Island, and the galli--And so she fell fast
asleep.

With respect to Ben, Tom, and Rover, a well-matched triad, as any Isis,
Horus, and Nepthys, they all flung themselves promiscuously on the hard
floor beside the hearth, "basked at the fire their hairy strength," and
soon were snoring away beautifully in concert, base, tenor, and treble,
like a leash of glee-singers. No thoughts troubled them, either of
mammon or murder: so long before the meditative trio up-stairs, they had
set a good example, and fallen asleep.

CHAPTER XII.

LOVE.

With the earliest peep of day arose sweet Grace, full of
cheerful hope, and prayer, and happy resignation. She had a great deal
to do that morning; for, innocent girl, she had no notion that it was
quite possible to be too early at the Hall; her only fear was being too
late. Then there were all the household cares to see to, and the dear
babes to dress, and the place to tidy up, and breakfast to get ready,
and, any how, she could not be abroad till half-past eight: so, to her
dismay, it must be past nine before ever she can see Sir John. Let us
follow her a little: for on this important day we shall have to take the
adventures of our labourer's family one at a time.

By twenty minutes to nine, Grace had contrived to bustle on her things,
give the rest the slip, and be tripping to the Hall. It is nearly two
miles off, as we already know; and Grace is such a pretty creature that
we can clearly do no better than employ our time thitherward by taking a
peep at her.

Sweet Grace Acton, we will not vex thy blushing maiden modesty by
elaborate details of form, and face, and feature. Perfect womanhood at
fair eighteen: let that fill all the picture up with soft and swelling
charms; no wadding, or padding, or jigot, or jupe--but all those
graceful undulations are herself: no pearl-powder, no carmine, no
borrowed locks, no musk, or ambergris--but all those feeble helps of
meretricious art excelled and superseded by their just originals in
nature. It will not do to talk, as a romancer may, of velvet cheeks and
silken tresses; or invoke, to the aid of our inadequate description,
roses, and swans, and peaches, and lilies. Take the simple village
beauty as she is. Did you ever look on prettier lips or sweeter
eyes--more glossy natural curls upon a whiter neck? And how that little
red-riding-hood cloak, and the simple cottage hat tied down upon her
cheeks, and the homely russet gown, all too short for modern fashions,
and the white, well-turned ankle, and the tidy little leather shoe, and
the bunch of snow drops in her tucker, and the neat mittens contrasting
darkly with her fair, bare arms--pretty Grace, how well all these become
thee! There, trip along, with health upon thy cheek, and hope within thy
heart; who can resist so eloquent a pleader? Haste on, haste on: save
thy father in his trouble, as thou hast blest him in his sin--this
rustic lane is to thee the path of duty--Heaven speed thee on it!

More slowly now, and with more anxious thoughts, more heart-weakness,
more misgiving--Grace approacheth the stately mansion: and when she
timidly touched the "Servants'" bell, for she felt too lowly for the
"Visiters',"--and when she heard how terribly loud it was, how
long it rung, and what might be the issue of her--wasn't it
ill-considered?--errand--the poor girl almost fainted at the sound.

As she leaned unconsciously for strength against the door, it opened on
a sudden, and Jonathan Floyd, in mute amazement, caught her in his arms.

"Why, Grace Acton! what's the matter with you?" Jonathan knew Grace
well; they had been at dame's-school together, and in after years
attended the same Sunday class at church. There had been some talk among
the gossips about Jonathan and Grace, and ere now folks had been kind
enough to say they would make a pretty couple. And folks were right,
too, as well as kind: for a fine young fellow was Jonathan Floyd, as any
duchess's footman; tall, well built, and twenty-five; Antinous in a
livery. Well to do, withal, though his wages don't come straight to him;
for, independently of his place--and the baronet likes him for his good
looks and proper manners--he is Farmer Floyd's only son, on the hill
yonder, as thriving a small tenant as any round abouts; and he is proud
of his master, of his blue and silver uniform, of old Hurstley, and of
all things in general, except himself.