Chapter IV: Part 4

“Why, _imprimis_,” replied the constable, pompously, “it is well known, Ponto never followed anybody but thee--nothing could make him do so; and he and Bob never were friends. Surgeon Castle saith, that the shot went horizontally into Phil Govier's forehead; and as he was not above five feet six, the gun that killed him must have been fired from the shoulder of a man as tall as you be:--if Bob had done it, seeing that he's shorter than Phil were, the shot would ha' gone almost upward; but, no, they didn't:--lastly, and most formidably, Saul, as the magistrate saith, the marks in the snow were printed there, by shoes made right-and-left fashion; and the right-foot shoe being marked o' the left-foot side, and the left o' t'other,--it don't seem likely they could ha' been worn by the feet they were made for.--So now you do know what you've a' got to answer, come along quietly.” In a few minutes The Chough and Stump kitchen was utterly deserted; even Gough himself followed his customers, who, without exception, accompanied the constable and his prisoner, to Stapleton Hall, the magistrate's residence. After a brief examination, Saul was ushered into an apartment, three stories above the ground floor, called “The Wainscot-room;”--which, on account of its peculiar situation and construction, although it had once been used for better purposes, was then appropriated to the reception of those who happened to be under the ban of the law, previously to their discharge, on finding “good and sufficient mampernors” for their appearance at the ensuing assizes or sessions, or their removal to the county gaol, according to the nature of the offence. For the honour of the village it is proper to remark, that “The Wainscot-room” was but seldom occupied. It was there Saul had, only an hour before, taken leave of Robert, who was now far on his road to an accused felon's cell. Braintree had just been told by the magistrate that, early on the ensuing morning, he must follow his son; but he suffered a strong rope to be fastened round his waist, by a slip-knot, and tied to an iron bar in the chimney, not only without murmuring or resisting, but actually joking with those who performed the operation. Although Mr. Stapleton considered that it was impossible for the prisoner to escape from his temporary prison, yet for better security, on account of the crime with which Saul was charged, he ordered the constable to keep watch, either in, or at the door of the room, during the night.

Before the earth-stopper quitted “The Wainscot-room” to go on his solitary task, Saul had made him promise to acquaint Martin Stapleton, the 'squire's only son, that he, Braintree, earnestly desired to see the young gentleman, before he went to bed. The old man so well performed his promise, and urged Braintree's request to young Stapleton with such warmth, that in less than an hour Martin entered the room.

“Abel,” said he to the constable, as he came in, “you may go down stairs; I'll remain with Braintree while you get something for supper.”

Abel, “nothing loath,” tripped down to the hall, and Martin, who was a fine young man, just verging on manhood, walked up, with a sorrowful countenance and a heart full of grief, toward the man, under whose humble roof he had passed some of his happiest hours. Martin's mother died in giving him birth, and Saul's wife had been his nurse. Although disgraced by 'Squire Stapleton, Saul Braintree had ever been a favourite companion of young Martin, not only on account of his intimate acquaintance with those sports in which Martin delighted, but because Saul had always testified a fondness for him from his boyhood upward; and, besides these attractions, the poacher's cottage contained a magnet, in the person of his pretty daughter, Peggy, which often drew Martin beneath its roof, when his father thought he was otherwise occupied.

“Well, Master Martin,” said Saul, as the young 'squire approached; “here you be at last! I were vool enow to think, I shouldn't ha' been here vive minutes avore you'd ha' come, if it were only to zay 'How are'ee, Zaul?'--But there, why should I grumble? Hit a deer in the shoulder, and then put the dogs on his scent, and what will the herd do?--Why, vly vrom un, to be zure, and no vools, neither;--but come, vine preaching doant cure corns:--virst and voremost--will'ee get me a drop o' brandy, Master Martin?--I be zo low az the grave, az you may guess; get me a thimble-vull, and then we'll talk a bit.”

“I have brought my shooting-flask, Saul,” replied Martin; “there is not much left in it.”

“Ah! this be kind!--this be good of 'ee, Master Martin. What, you thought how it would be with me? You knowed me long enow, to be zure that I should want summat to cheer me up, did 'ee? Never mind the cork, Master Martin,” continued Saul, as Martin, with a trembling hand, fruitlessly endeavoured to extract the cork; “put it betwixt my teeth, and pull; I'll warrant I do hould vast enow; or knock off the neck o' un against my handcuffs. What, it bean't your leather vlask, be it? Odd! cut un open wi' a knife.--I be a choaking for it, Master Martin;--I be, truly.”

By this time, Martin had pulled out part of the cork, and thrust the remainder of it through the neck. He handed the flask to Saul, who gulped down one half of its contents in a few seconds.

“There is not enough to divide,” observed Martin, “you may as well finish it.”

“No, thank'ee, Master Martin,” replied Braintree, returning the flask; “you'll want a drop for yourself, presently.”

“I, Saul!”

“Ay! you, Martin!--Look thee, lad,--there be times when the best ov us would be glad ov it Brandy be a God-send; but we don't use it--that is, zuch as I be, doan't--as we should. There be times, I tell'ee, when it be needed.”

“That's true enough,” said Martin, endeavouring to force a smile; “I have often been glad of it, after a three hours' tramp through the stubble and turnips, on a cold day, under a heavy double-barrelled gun, with a belt brimful of shot, and no birds in my pocket.”

“That were for thy body, lad; but thoult want it, anan, for thy soul. I be gwain to vright--to terrify thee!--Thou'st a tightish heart, and thou'st need ov it now. Mind me, Martin, I bean't romancing. It ha' been smooth roads and no turnpikes wi' thee all thy life; there's a bit o' rough coming, thee doesn't dream of.”

“Good God! Braintree! your manner alarms me!--What do you mean?”

“Martin!--I zuppoze thee thinks, I ought to be obliged to thee, vor coming to me;--vor bringing a man accused as I be, brandy,--but I bean't. If thee hadst not a' come, I'd ha' brought thee, though a waggon and zix horses were pulling thee t'other way. There's my hand; I ha' put it to thee through a hole in the window at whoam, a'ter thou'st a' wished me good night, and the door were vast;--I do put it out to thee now through a velon's wristband--wou'st take it?”

“Excuse me, Braintree!--I would do all I could;--I have even gone beyond the line that a sense of propriety dictates: but you must not take such advantage of the familiarity which commenced when I was a child, and has since, through peculiar circumstances, continued;--you must not, I say, presume upon that, to ask me, to shake hands with a man--”

“Accused ov murder! that's what thee means, yean't it?” asked Saul; and his brows were knit, and his lips slightly quivered, as he spoke. Martin stood silent.

“Then I'll tell thee what, lad,” pursued Saul, vehemently; “that stomach o' thine shall come down:--I'll _make_ thee!”

“Braintree,” said the young man seriously, but in considerable agitation; “what do you mean by this?--Are you mad?”

“Noa, noa;--not yet, not yet;--but handy to it--Not mad!” exclaimed Saul, striking the iron, which bound his wrists, against his head; “but don't trouble about I, lad; look to thy own wits, young chap.”

“Really, Saul, I cannot put up with a continuance of this:--you are not drunk; I know it by your manner. I have never seen you thus before. I pity you; and pray to God, that you may obtain a deliverance, by the verdict of a jury.”

“I'll never be tried!” exclaimed Saul in a loud whisper.--“I'll never be tried! Zaul Braintree ha'n't kept his wits brooding all these years, to be caught like a quail, and ha' his neck twisted! No, no; they ha' brought me to the wrong gaol for that; it's like putting a rat in a fishing-net.”

“I don't think, Saul, there is any probability of your escaping,” said young Stapleton; “and I advise you not to make the attempt.”

“Don't talk to I.--Ha'n't I, when you was a buoy, no bigger round than my thigh,--ha'n't I heard you read, when you zat a-top o' my knee, about the mouse gnawing the lion out o' the znare:--han't I?--Ah! you do recollect, do'ee?”

“I do, I do, too well, Saul,” replied Martin, as a tear trickled down his cheek; “and I am sorry--I am grieved--I feel more than you can imagine to see you here. But what has the fable to do with you?”

“Every thing--I shall get out--strength can't do it for me, but--”

“Saul Braintree, I now see what you are driving at,” said Martin; “but do not flatter yourself with so vain a hope. You are accused of a crime, of which, I hope--nay, I think--you will prove yourself guiltless: but though I am but young, I feel that I ought not, dare not, cannot interfere between you and the laws of your country. My father--”

“Now, doan't'ee preach; doan't'ee make a zimpleton o' your-zelf, I tell'ee:--but, can any body hear us?--be the constable nigh?” eagerly inquired Saul, dropping his voice to a low tone.

“No,” said Martin, “you may be sure of that; or I would not have remained, thus long, exposed to the madness or insolence of your remarks;--I know not which to call it.”

“Why, thou jackanapes!” said Saul, sneeringly, though his eye, at the same time, glared with an expression of the utmost fury on young Stapleton; “thou young jackanapes! dost thee tell I about insolence?--Thee shalt down on thy knees for this.”

“Braintree, good night,” said Martin, moving toward the door: “I did not expect this conduct.”

“What, thee'rt gwain to leave me, then? Zurely, thee bean't in earnest?” Martin had, by this time, reached the door, and was evidently determined on quitting the room. The prisoner, perceiving his intention, immediately assumed a tone of supplication. “Now, doan't thee go, Master Stapleton,” said he; “doan't thee!--do come back--do hear me, if it be but vor a minute. I were wrong, I were, indeed. Doan't thee leave me yet--doan't thee--doan't thee--doan't thee! Come back, Master Martin;--on my knees I do but of thee:--do come back--for Peggy's zake.”

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.

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.