Chapter XXVI The New Squire
Jonahs—Step-brothers—Whose Gain?—The Female Line—The End of the Story—Treason—The Fleet—In Italy with Eugene—Home—Adèle Studies Geography—Lady Bountiful—Minshull Remembers—A Warning from Mr. Tape—Mr. Tape at Hungerford—Exit Harry Rochester—At the Gate—A Royal Feast—What’s in a Name?—A Rustic Moralist—Wedding Bells
Giles Appleyard, giving a flick to the off leader, scraped his well-rasped chin over the stiff collar of his coat and addressed the outside passenger who had just mounted his coach at Basingstoke.
“Why, Willum Nokes,” he said, “’tis many a long day since I set eyes on your noble frame. How’s the wicked world sarven ’ee, Willum?”
“Fairish, Giles coachman, on’y fairish. A’ve never bin the same man since that tarrible day when John Simmons gi’ me the go-by. Ay, I were constable then, a-sarven the Queen and Sir Godfrey, and wi’ the bodies of all the souls in Winton Simmary under me. Now I be on’y parish beadle at Basingstoke, sarvant to pa’son, and rulen over none but the misbehaven childer in church.”
He sighed and shook his head.
“Ay, and th’ on’y thing as keeps me above ground is a journey once a year to th’ old place, where I wanders round a-thinken deep things o’ the noble line o’ life as used to be.”
“Ay, poor soul, ’ee did truly make a gashly fool o’ yerself that day, Willum. Well, better a live fool than a dead ’oss, as you med say.”
“An’ yerself, Giles—you looks hale an’ hearty as ever I seed ’ee.”
“Ay, Willum, I goos up an’ down the world rain or shine, merry as a grig.”
“‘Ee must see a powerful deal o’ life, Giles; all sarts an’ perditions o’ men, as pa’son sings in church. Who med be your insides to-day, if I med axe so homely a quest’on?”
“Only two to-day, Willum. There be little travellen for a week or two arter Christmas. One on ’em be a Dutch skipper; I mind I carried un once afore; ay, ’twas the same day as young pa’son Rochester and Sherry Minshull rode a-top, all agwine to Lun’on. Young pa’son be now a sojer, so ’tis said, an’ hob-a-nob wi’ the mighty o’ the earth. The way o’ the world, Willum; some goos up, like young pa’son; some goos down, like Willum Nokes; some goos steady, like Giles Appleyard; eh, soul?”
“Ay, ’tis constables goos down, a’ b’lieve. But who be your other inside, coachman?”
“Why, no one an’t telled me, but I’d take my affidavy afore any justice o’ peace ’tis a limb o’ the law. I knows they sart. They ought to pay double; for why? ’cause bean’t safe to carry; last time I carried a lawyer fore off wheel broke as we trundled through Winterslow. When I seed this chap at Angel and Crown this marnen, says I to myself, ‘Zooks!’ says I, ‘what poor mortal soul be agwine to suffer now?’”
For the rest of the journey coachman and passenger exchanged gossip on their common acquaintances. William Nokes alighted at the Queen’s Head, at Winton St. Mary, and shook his head in sympathy with Mistress Joplady when he saw the two inside passengers descend from the coach and enter the inn.
“One a furrener, t’other a lawyer!” he muttered. “Ah! what tarrible things some poor souls ha’ got to putt up wi’!”
Mistress Joplady, however, welcomed both her guests with her wonted heartiness, and with her own hands plied the warming-pan for their beds.
At ten o’clock next morning the two strangers left the inn together. One of them carried a small portfolio. They went through the village, across the common, and, entering the park gates of Winton Hall, walked up the long drive to the porch and asked whether Mr. Berkeley was at home. After a few minutes’ delay they were invited to step in, and conducted to a little room in the turret, where they found the squire in cassock and skull-cap, warming his withered hands at the fire.
“Mr. Berkeley?” said the elder of the two.
“That is my name. What is your business?”
“My name, sir, Jan Grootz. My friend Mr. Swettenham Tape, of Lincoln’s Inn.”
“Well?”
“You will permit me to take a chair; dank you! And my friend Mr. Tape; dank you!”
At the mention of his name, Mr. Berkeley flashed a shrewd glance under his bushy white eyebrows at the Dutchman, then gripped the arms of his chair, and waited.
“Mr. Berkeley, my business will not hold you long. You will pardon if I begin at de beginning and tell you a little history?”
The squire kept his eyes fixed on his visitor, but said nothing. Taking his silence as permission to proceed, Grootz settled himself in his chair, with his plump right hand ready to punctuate his sentences.
“Dis history dat I tell you, sir, I hope you will find it interesting. It is ver much about yourself; you are old man, but of dose old men, pardon me, who regard demselves as de most interesting subjeck in de world; zo! De history begin long ago; zixty-vive year indeed, when your shadow first zink over dis place.” Grootz’s hand made a comprehensive sweep. “You were den Nicolas Heller, an eleven-year boy; your moder, a widow, she had married Mr. John Berkeley, a widower, wid two children, one”—here the forefinger wagged—“Eustace Berkeley, a nine-year boy; de oder, Mary, a child four year. On your moder Mr. Berkeley settle de farms of—of——”
“Winton Chase and Odbury,” said Mr. Swettenham Tape, speaking for the first time.
“Zo; de farms of Winton Chase and Odbury; you took de name Berkeley, and after your moder dese farms should become yours. Dree years go, your moder die; Mr. John Berkeley is again a widower, and never marry no more. War had broke out, he take part wid de king and fight in de vield, your step-broder alzo whenever he is of age to bear arms. But Nicolas, poor boy! is not strong, he is always at home to care for de estates; besides, he do not love de king; no, Nicolas never love nobody—nobody but himself.”
Grootz paused and bent a little forward in his chair; the squire had not moved a muscle.
“De king is killed, Oliver Cromwell is ruler in de land, and after de battle of Worcester, Mr. John Berkeley, his son and daughter, go for safety to France. But Nicolas—he find dat he is a Puritan, a saint in heart; he give money—it was not his to give—to de Parliament side, and he speak of his stepfader—of de man, mark you, to whom he owe everyding—as a traitor, a malignant. At same time he write letters to de traitor in France telling how he work to keep his estate for him, if chance come he zall return and enjoy his own. How kind is Nicolas! zo!
“Time flows; de chance come; King Charles wears his fader’s crown, but Mr. John Berkeley is not alive to return alzo. In 1658 he die. But his son, Nicolas’ stepbroder Eustace, what of him? In June 1660 he come back to claim his inheritance, but he never see his home. No, on de road he is set upon and murdered.”
Still the old man sat rigid in grim silence.
“De murder of Eustace Berkeley, whom do it profit? De men who killed him?—not zo; dey stay not to empty his pockets. It profit nobody but Nicolas Berkeley. Dink you not dat is singular? To me it is very singular. Zo!”
The Dutchman spoke always with the same careful deliberation. His tone now became stern.
“I come now, Mr. Berkeley, to someding dat interest you more. Mr. John Berkeley had, not only a son, but alzo a daughter.” The keen-eyed Dutchman noticed a slight twitching of the squire’s brow. “Ah, I thought dat would interest you! De daughter, Mary, marry in Paris de Comte de Vaudrey, a nobleman, a Huguenot; dat is not long before King Charles come back. Her broder Eustace risk his life to come to England on service for his sovereign; he write letters to his sister; interesting letters; I take leave to read you someding he said.”
He took the portfolio from the lawyer’s hands, selected a paper from it, and read the following passage:—
“‘I feare he has play’d throughout a Double Game. He stands exceeding well with the Godly Partie, & having been at Paines to enquire thro’ a sure friend I can heare of nothing done in our behalfe, but rather of endeavors to feather his owne nest. But enough of that; if our hopes are crown’d, as praye God they may be speedilie, Nicolas will have no choice but to quitte the Hall, and make what Profitte he may of his owne farmes.’
“Zo! dis letter, and oders, was received by Madame la Comtesse de Vaudrey—dat is, Mary Berkeley—when her husband was absent from Paris. He return; de poor lady is dying; she leave a little boy. He write to Eustace from Paris; he get no reply; he write again, dree times in all; still no reply, and he dink his wife’s friends English and care not any more. As for him, he has pride and keep silence, and believe Eustace Berkeley is now lord of Winton Hall.
“Zo time pass. Den come trouble to de Huguenots in France, and de Comte de Vaudrey take refuge wid his son in Holland. He read no English; but he keep dings dat belong to his wife, among dem de letters of Eustace. His son Louis marry in Holland a Huguenot lady. Fader, son, both are dead, but”—he wagged his forefinger impressively—“but Louis Comte de Vaudrey leave a daughter, Adèle, and it is on behalf of Mademoiselle Adèle de Vaudrey I wait upon you to-day. I know well dese dings are not new to you; I know dat. It is now some years when Captain Aglionby—an adventurer, a cut-droat—discover how Mademoiselle Adèle is related to de house of Berkeley. Already he know someding of you; he have an uncle Minshull dat live on your estate. He see a chance to feader his very bare nest, and he take it. You are de squire, he dink; a rich man; you will pay well to keep de secret. He come to you; you do pay well; you become his generous patron, and he do your dirty work. But sometimes you lose temper, and give him hard words and close your purse. Perhaps, dink he, he may find yet anoder rich man who will buy de secret. Such a man is Monsieur de Polignac. Your Aglionby take money from you, and bargain wid Polignac to get more money when he become by marriage owner of dis estate and turn you out. But de plan is found out; we have settle with Polignac; he is dead; we search for Aglionby; he hide himself; and now, Mr. Berkeley, it is your turn. I come to you to demand, on behalf of Mademoiselle Adèle de Vaudrey, possession of her property in seven days from dis present day. My friend Mr. Tape of Lincoln’s Inn have copies of all de papers; he will show dem, at proper time, to your lawyer. De history is now at end, Mr. Berkeley. I dank you for your zo-patient hearing. It is now to you; zo!”
Mr. Berkeley had spoken never a word. For a few moments he remained motionless in his chair; then, lengthening his arm, he pulled a bell-rope at his side. A servant entered.
“Thomas,” said the squire in his thin hard voice, “show these gentlemen to the door.”
Grootz and the lawyer glanced at each other. The latter gave a slight shrug and began to tie up his portfolio. Grootz rose.
“I have de honour, Mr. Berkeley, to wish you good-day.”
And with his companion he left the room.
An hour later the village was startled by the news that the squire had had a stroke. A man had ridden to Salisbury for the physician, and the gossips at the Queen’s Head were already discussing the expected succession of “young squire” to the estates. But in the afternoon the report was contradicted. The squire had merely been seized with a fainting fit; he had recovered and was to all appearance his usual self.
A week passed; Mr. Berkeley had received from Mr. Swettenham Tape of Lincoln’s Inn a formal demand for the surrender of the property, to which he made no reply. At the end of the week Mr. Tape filed a suit in chancery. But the mills of the law grind slowly. Grootz had returned to Holland, a new campaign had opened, and Harry Rochester was with Prince Eugene in northern Italy before Mr. Swettenham Tape had all his affidavits sworn.
A few weeks before the case was to be opened before Lord Chancellor Cowper, a bailiff armed with a warrant, and accompanied by two strong tipstaves, appeared at the house of a Mistress Consterdine near the Cockpit, Whitehall. The bailiff gained admittance, and when after some time he returned to the street he was accompanied by a tall bulky man in semi-military garb, with whom he and the tipstaves entered a hackney coach and were driven to Newgate. The prisoner was at once brought before the magistrate and charged under the name of Ralph Aglionby with entering into a treasonable conspiracy on behalf of the exiled Stuarts. In addition to the letters taken in his lodging, other papers that had been brought from Germany were put in by the Crown, proving Aglionby to have been in the service of Her Majesty’s enemies; and a man Simmons, a joiner in London, who had received a free pardon, gave evidence that Aglionby had fought with the Bavarians at Blenheim and elsewhere, holding a commission in the Elector of Bavaria’s forces. His papers were found to include letters from Mr. Nicolas Berkeley of Winton Hall, forwarding sums of money to Aglionby in Holland. The sequel to this discovery was the arrest of Mr. Berkeley at his inn in Soho, and his inclusion in the indictment for conspiracy.
The trial came on in due course. Captain Aglionby’s connection with the Jacobites was fully established, and he was sentenced to be transported to the Plantations for twenty years. Mr. Berkeley’s complicity was not so clearly shown, though he could bring no evidence to prove his statement that the sums remitted to his fellow-prisoner were payment for private services totally unconnected with the Jacobite cause. The circumstances were suspicious, and the judge considered that he showed great lenience in condemning Mr. Berkeley to pay a fine of £500. Although he had for years enjoyed a large income, he had but little ready money at command. He had spent large sums in purchasing lands adjoining the Winton property, and the extravagance of his son had been a constant drain upon his purse. With the civil action de Vaudrey v. Berkeley pending in the court of chancery, he found some difficulty in borrowing sufficient money to pay his fine.
The chancery suit came on for hearing. The claimants had engaged the highest counsel of the day, and brought a great array of evidence, documentary and oral, from Holland. Mr. Berkeley’s case was ably argued, but the evidence was irresistible; the decision was given against him; he was ordered to produce the title deeds of the property, and to render an account of all that he had derived from the estates since his illegal usurpation of them forty-five years before. He wished to appeal; but, discredited by the result of the trial for conspiracy, he was unable to raise the necessary funds. He was moving heaven and earth to overcome his difficulties when payment was demanded of the sum he had borrowed to meet the fine, and as the money was not forthcoming he was arrested and thrown into the debtors’ prison in the Fleet.
It was December before the case was finally decided. As soon as Mynheer Grootz was released from his business cares by the armies going into winter quarters, he accompanied Madame de Vaudrey with Adèle and part of their household to England, and saw them installed in Winton Hall. At Adèle’s wish, Mr. Berkeley was not pressed for the costs of the suit he had lost; but his other creditors were relentless, and determined to keep him in the Fleet prison until the income from the farms he inherited from his mother should have enabled him to pay his debts.
It was many months before Harry learnt of the success of Grootz’s efforts on behalf of Adèle. In March, 1705, he left Austria with Prince Eugene for Italy, where the prince’s cousin, Victor Amadeus the Second of Savoy, was maintaining a difficult struggle against Marshal Vendôme. He was with the prince at the indecisive battle of Cassano in August, and spent the winter in Turin. There letters reached him from England telling how Adèle had taken up her residence at Winton as lady of the manor, and when he wrote his warm letter of congratulation he said to himself that his fate was now sealed. At Turin also he received a letter from Fanshawe reporting his father’s death and his own determination to sell out and live on his estate. This news gave Harry a fresh pang, for, though he knew that Fanshawe’s suit had been again rejected, he felt that as next-door neighbours Adèle and he would see much of each other, and their constant companionship might at length end in a match which on many grounds must be considered excellent.
Next year he served Prince Eugene as aide-de-camp at the battle of Calcinate in April, and again five months later at the brilliant victory of Turin, when the prince, by his total defeat of the Duke of Orleans and Marshal Marsin, finally saved Savoy from the clutches of King Louis. His own services did not go unrewarded. The prince gave him the colonelcy of an imperial dragoon regiment, and held out hopes that if he remained in the emperor’s service he might before long gain an estate and a title of nobility. But a few days after the battle, he received from England a letter which altered the whole course of his life. It was a short note from Madame de Vaudrey, written at Winton nearly three months before. Certain circumstances had come to light, wrote the lady, that rendered his presence at Winton desirable as soon as he could obtain leave. It was nearly four years since the black day on which he had left his home so sadly; he was hungry for a sight of the old scenes and the old faces, and felt something more than curiosity to see Adèle de Vaudrey as lady bountiful of the parish. He went at once to Prince Eugene with the letter; the prince drew from him the whole story of his connection with the family of Lindendaal, and with a twinkling eye consented to his immediate departure for England.
“The French will give us no more trouble here,” he said. “My next battle will be fought on other soil. I said before, you remember, that you were in love. You thought not. We shall see. Go home; but the war is not over. I shall hope to see you at the head of your regiment in the next campaign.”
Sherebiah was as much delighted as his master at the thought of seeing home again.
“To tell ’ee the truth, sir,” he said, when Harry ordered him to make preparations for departure, “I be a-thinken o’ Katrinka. I don’t feel happy in my mind at the notion o’ her at Winton Simmary wi’out me. Why, old feyther o’ mine, ancient soul as he be, if he knows what a hand her’ve got for griddle-cakes—zooks! sir, he’ll be a-marryen her hisself, never thinken as I be more’n a boy.”
One October day Harry and Sherebiah embarked at Leghorn for the voyage home. Their vessel made quick sailing as far as Gibraltar, where Sir George Rooke had planted the flag of England two years before; but was beset by contrary winds in the Atlantic, beat about for days in the Bay of Biscay, and reached Southampton sadly buffeted six weeks after leaving Leghorn. The travellers lost no time in taking horse, and rode up to Winton Hall late one November evening. Harry was received with a warmth of greeting that made him glow with pleasure. Even Adèle welcomed him with more frankness than she had ever before shown him, though he detected a different constraint, a something new in her manner, that puzzled him. The evening was spent in talking over old times and the strange events that had happened since their last meeting. Mynheer Grootz, Harry learnt, had visited Winton more than once since he had installed Adèle in her property nearly a year before, and was coming over to spend Christmas with them. Godfrey Fanshawe, now Sir Godfrey, was a frequent visitor and had been the means of introducing them to many of the best people in the county, who had welcomed Adèle with open arms. Madame afterwards told Harry privately that Sir Godfrey had once more proposed to Adèle, and been finally refused. Adèle herself looked older and more womanly. She had acquired considerable fluency in English, and was fond of going about among the villagers, taking the keenest interest in ways of life and thought so novel to her.
“But the dear girl is not happy,” said Madame with a sigh. “No, she is not happy. I fear she is home-sick. We have sold Lindendaal and repaid Mynheer Grootz’s friend who so generously bought up that odious man’s mortgages. But Adèle was happier at Lindendaal than she is here. She has been restless ever since we came to England, and you would be surprised to know, Harry, how she throws herself lately into the details of this horrible war. The Courant comes to us every day by the coach from London, and the house is littered, perfectly littered, mon ami, with maps of Italy. Decidedly she is a changed creature.”
“Mamma,” interrupted Adèle, “don’t give Monsieur Harry a wrong idea. I am happy enough, but——”
“Hé! voila!” exclaimed Madame with a little gesture. “She is happy, but——”
“And what is this business that required my presence?” said Harry, to relieve the girl of her manifest embarrassment.
“Oh! Adèle must explain that. It has been her affair always.”
“Really, Mamma, I think you should explain. You wrote to Monsieur Harry.”
“Eh bien! but it was you who told me what to say. No, I leave it to you: I have no head for affairs, especially for affairs so complicated. But it is growing late, and Harry must be tired. We will let him have a good night’s rest: then to-morrow, ma chérie, you can have a whole morning together.”
The morning turned out bright, and after breakfast Adèle proposed a walk round the grounds. Harry was nothing loth, and when Madame did not offer to accompany them, he concluded that, living in England, she had decided to conform to English ways. In the course of that ramble Harry heard a story that amazed him.
During the past year Adèle had made many friends among the villagers, and one friend in particular, old Gaffer Minshull. She had been specially gracious to him for the sake of Katrinka, who, however quick she might be in learning how to cook Wiltshire bacon and to sing Wiltshire songs, was certainly slow in learning Wiltshire English. The Lady Squire, as he called her, had become a great favourite with the old man, and, as she grew accustomed to his dialect, he talked to her freely about the village, the late parson, and the late squire, of whom he was no longer “afeard”. Adèle, like everyone else, had always been puzzled about Mr. Berkeley’s hatred of Harry, and she asked the old man whether he knew of any reason for it beyond his being the son of the squire’s sturdy opponent, Parson Rochester. Minshull confessed that he was as much perplexed as she. The old squire’s man Jock had told him of the incident witnessed at the park gate on the day of Harry’s departure for London, when, seeing him walk by, Mr. Berkeley had looked as if he had had a shock; and he remembered that Squire had left the Hall in a post-chaise the next day, though whither they went Jock never would tell.
This set Adèle thinking. She made further enquiries of the old man. Had not the squire a brother? At the question Minshull looked hard at her, and replied with some hesitation that such was the case; he had a brother, or rather a step-brother. Adèle enquired what had become of him; she knew, for Grootz had made no secret of his discovery; but she asked in order to get more information. He died, said the old man, on the Dover road; a fine young man, though he did hold to that false Charles One and his light son Charles Two. Then insensibly the old man was led on to talk at large; he seemed anxious to ease his mind of a burden; and with the garrulity of old age, and being no longer “afeard” of the squire, he at length poured out the whole pitiful story.
Forty-seven years before, in ’59, when he was a Republican trooper and his regiment was stationed at Blackheath, he was passing one morning through London on his way back to camp after—he was ashamed to confess it—a riotous night. Suddenly he was called into a church to witness a marriage. No one was present save the clergy, bride and bridegroom, and the other witness, apparently a lady’s-maid. In his half-fuddled state he had no clear recollection of anything beyond the facts that he signed his name and came away with a guinea.
About a year later, after the Restoration, when his regiment was gloomily expecting the order for disbandment, he was strolling one evening in the direction of Shooter’s Hill, and attracted by a crowd about an inn door. A young gentleman had been discovered a few miles down the road, lying unconscious, and severely wounded. He had been brought to the inn, and soon afterwards his servant appeared, a Frenchman, who had fled when his master was attacked by footpads. From him it was learnt that the name of the wounded man was Berkeley, and that he was on his way to Winton St. Mary to take possession of the family estates. Minshull, out of sheer curiosity, asked with many other bystanders to be shown the unfortunate gentleman, and to his amazement he recognized him as the bridegroom whose wedding he had witnessed nearly a year before. A message was sent to Winton St. Mary, and two days later Mr. Nicolas Berkeley appeared on the scene. Minshull meanwhile had hung about, partly out of curiosity, partly out of interest in the man whose murder had followed so quickly upon his marriage.
The wounded man never recovered consciousness. He died soon after his brother’s arrival. Minshull found an opportunity of speaking to the squire, and condoled with him on the loss of so handsome a brother, and on the sad plight of the young widow left to mourn his loss. Mr. Berkeley had appeared surprised at the mention of a widow, and asked the trooper to tell him all he knew. This was very little; he could not remember the church where the marriage had been performed, nor the name of the bride; all he was sure of was the identity of the bridegroom; he did not even remember the name Berkeley. The squire had shaken his head and frowned: a secret marriage!—there was something suspicious in that; his brother had some reason to be ashamed of his alliance: he would look into it; but for the present it was best to drop the curtain on the episode. He had then offered the trooper a situation at the Hall, which Minshull, with no settled livelihood after nearly twenty years’ military service, eagerly accepted. He received good wages, and by and by a cottage on the estate. He was well aware that the squire treated him thus generously to keep his mouth shut, and though many times he had felt the prick of conscience, he was so comfortable, and, as time went on, so much afraid of the squire, that he had never broken the tacit pact between them.
Old Minshull’s story worked so powerfully upon Adèle’s imagination that she became at length ill at ease. What had become of the bride whose marriage he had witnessed? Adèle remembered how Eustace Berkeley had spoken of her in his letters to Mary de Vaudrey; she remembered, too, that he had married under a feigned name. Her uneasiness grew so intolerable that she persuaded her mother, not without difficulty, to put the facts before the same lawyer whom Mynheer Grootz had employed—Mr. Swettenham Tape of Lincoln’s Inn. He warned her that enquiry might result in the loss of her property, but she insisted on an investigation, and as it promised to be an interesting enquiry, the attorney took it up with enthusiasm.
One of his first steps was to interrogate Mr. Berkeley’s man Jock, who had driven with his master to Hungerford on that November day three years before. As the result of the interview, the lawyer himself made a journey to Hungerford, where he called at the parsonage and had a conversation with the vicar, enquiring particularly about his predecessors in the living. He learnt that the former rector had died in 1680 at the age of sixty-eight, leaving a grandson, his only daughter’s child, a young man of twenty-one who had just taken deacon’s orders. The grandson’s name was Rochester. Did the vicar know anything of the young man’s father? Nothing but the vaguest rumours; it was generally understood that Lucy Rochester’s husband had deserted her a few months after their marriage, and that was naturally a subject on which the family would say nothing. Was the lady still living? She had died ten years before her father. If Mr. Tape desired further details, there was one person who might gratify him if she wished: the wife of the landlord of the Bear Inn, who had been lady’s-maid to Mistress Rochester.
The attorney hastened to the inn, engaged a room for the night, and took the first opportunity of having a gossip with Mrs. Pemberton, the hostess, a comely, pleasant old dame of near seventy years. She had the keenest recollection of the one romantic incident of her life. Mistress Lucy!—of course she remembered the sweet pretty creature. She had been with her in London the year before the King came back, when she was visiting her aunt. And Mr. Rochester, too—ah! such a handsome young gentleman; but a wicked deceiver, she feared. He had protected Mistress Lucy from footpads one evening: that was the beginning of it, and the end was a marriage, and a sad end it was, for Mr. Rochester went away to France three months afterwards, on some urgent business which he did not explain, and he never returned. Mrs. Rochester remained for nearly a year in London, then returned to her father at Hungerford with her infant son, a bonny boy who grew up a blessing to her, and became a parson, and died only three years back at Winton St. Mary, she had heard.
Mr. Tape asked whether she remembered the church in which the wedding had taken place. To be sure she did; it was St. Andrew’s Undershaft; she remembered how dark it looked, and how awed the other witness had appeared to be, a rough soldier who was fetched in from the street, and was a little overtaken with liquor. And, strange to say, this was the second time she had been asked about this incident of long ago, a miserable-looking old gentleman having called upon her three years before; after talking with her, he had left the house without so much as asking for a tankard of her home-brewed.
On returning to London, the attorney examined the register of St. Andrew’s Undershaft, and made a copy of the entry of a marriage on June 19, 1659, between Eustace Rochester, bachelor, of St. Andrew’s parish, and Lucy Fleming, spinster, of Hungerford. The information given by Gaffer Minshull and Mrs. Pemberton was then embodied in affidavits, and the whole case being complete, Mr. Tape laid the result of his investigations before Madame de Vaudrey and her daughter, and asked for their instructions.
Harry had listened to Adèle’s story, as they rambled round and round the park, with a strange mixture of emotions. Astonishment was perhaps the dominant one, but there was also the happiness of knowing something about his family, and dismay at the knowledge that he, and not Adèle, was the rightful owner of the Berkeley estates.
“Why, then you are my cousin, Adèle!” he said.
“Yes, Harry,—and you are head of the family.”
“How plain it makes everything! And do you know, I pity the wretched old man who has lived for nearly fifty years with these crimes on his conscience. He must have led a miserable life.”
“That is why I am glad all is discovered. I should lead a miserable life too if I found I was enjoying what did not belong to me.”
“But that is nonsense, Adèle. You don’t imagine I shall take the estates? Not I. The good folks here adore you already; I won’t take from them their lady squire.”
“You must.”
“No, no! Only weak or foolish sovereigns abdicate, Adèle: you are not weak or foolish. Besides, I have my career. I am on the high road to preferment. Prince Eugene has given me a regiment, and—I didn’t mean to tell you this—promises me an estate and a title in Austria.”
“And you know perfectly well that you would rather be plain Mr. Berkeley, an English squire, than count or prince or royal highness in Austria. No; I will not listen to you: if you insist on being an Austrian—well, I shall give up the estates to the crown: Queen Anne shall be lady of the manor.”
“You cannot: you are not of age, and Madame would never hear of it.”
“Mr. Henry Berkeley, I have only two years to wait.”
They had come round to the gate leading from the park to the graveyard.
“Come and see the monument the people put up in the church to your father, Harry,” said Adèle, with a change of tone. He opened the gate for her; she passed through, then turned, and said: “It is you or Queen Anne, Mr. Berkeley.”
Harry was on the other side of the gate. They looked into each other’s eyes. He knew her strength of character: he had no doubt that she would do anything to which she had made up her mind. He was troubled, and, resting his arms on the upper bar of the gate, stood thus pondering.
“Adèle,” he said presently, “but for me you would stay at the Hall?”
“If I were the rightful owner, certainly; but now it is clearly impossible.”
“Not quite impossible, Adèle, even so.”
He waited for an answer, but she was unexpectedly silent, her eyes cast down.
“Not quite impossible, Adèle. If you will not stay for any other reason—tell me, Adèle, will you not stay for my sake?”
Still she made no answer, only looked up with a shy startled glance. But in that look Harry found courage to repeat his question.
“Never did I ply my fark at such a roaren dinner—never in my born days; I tells ’ee true, souls.”
“Ay, I seed ’ee myself, Lumpy, a-scoopen chidlens an’ plum-pudden an’ furmenty into your thropple till I thowt ’ee’d bust. ’Twere noble eatin’, to be sure.”
“Ay, Soapy, an’ cost a pretty penny, I warrant. Squire Harry be a different sart o’ feller to old Squire as was. Never did he gi’ us a warmen-up, nor never would, if there’d ha’ bin farty weddens.”
“Why bean’t every day a marryen day? ‘T’ould keep all our innards warm an’ cosy ’ithout us doen a hand’s turn.”
“‘T’ould be the ruin of a poor stunpoll like ’ee, Jemmy. I’m afeard ’ee’ll never be a man, an’ if ’ee got your vittles so easy ’ee’d be more like a fatted calf ’n ever.”
“Ah! I knows my dumb brain be weak by natur’. I mind how dazed I were the black day young pa’son went to Lun’on, and John painter made Mis’ess Joplady’s pictur’ the colour o’ sut.”
“An’ it’ll be the colour o’ sut to-morrer, souls, I gi’ my word for that. They tells me ’tis treason, but John painter do blot out Queen’s yead to-morrer, and inn turns to Berkeley Arms again.”
“Like a ’ooman, changes her name at a wedden.—Ah! here be neighbour Minshull; a scantling o’ cheese and a mug o’ old stingo for gaffer, Mistress Joplady; he’ll want a summat to comfort un, poor aged soul, this night o’ fearsome joy.”
“True, Tom cobbler, I be gone eighty-vive. I ha’ seed un home-along, souls; my boy Sherebiah be a man at last, an’ I be proud as a grandfeyther a’ready. Never did I think my boy an’ young pa’son ‘d say the awful words in church the same day. ‘I take thee, Addle,’ says Master Harry in a feelin’ key, and ‘I take thee, Katrinka,’ says my boy when the gentry was done; and they little small words do have a world o’ better or wuss in ’em.”
“Ay, gaffer; ’ee can sing ‘Now lettest thou thy sarvant depart’, wi’ a honest mind, hey!”
“Hoy! Not me! I bean’t got no vurther ’n ‘My soul doth magnify’ yet. I’ll bide a bit longer afore I goos to churchyard, trust me. My boy as was do say there’ll be another wedden afore long; the Dutchman and Mis’ess Addle’s mother be a-comen to’t. He’ve been sweet on her, a’ b’lieve, for many a forlorn day. My boy ha’ carried many a noble gift from the man to th’ ’ooman.”
“Two furreners makes a better match nor one o’ one sart, t’other o’ t’other. Mistress Addle be a goodly maid, nesh as a ripe apple; but her be French; that you cannet deny; and French and English be like oil and vinegar.”
“And what do mix better in a sallet-dressen?—tell me that, souls.”
“Ay, Mistress Joplady, we cannet gainsay ’ee on a matter o’ that homeliness; but what med ’ee say o’ the name? Addle! it bean’t a very coaxen name for a squire’s lady, be jowned if it be.”
“Dear lamb! to take her name in vain! You, Soapy Dick you, we all knows ’ee for a addle-pate; else your hair wouldn’ grow so fiery red. What do a bide-at-home like ’ee know o’ high names an’ titles? Addle be the true French for a bloomy cheek—Sherry Minshull telled me so hisself. Bean’t that the true meanen on’t, gaffer?”
“Sherry’s yead be full o’ rare knowledge, Mis’ess. But daze me, name or no name, ’tis all one: French her were, English her be; and if any twanken feller do say her bean’t good, and comely, and a comforten wife for young Squire—why, old as I be I’ll try the thickness of his poll, I will so.”
“I’ll help ’ee, gaffer. My weak head cannet make no goodness out o’ Addle, but her gi’ me a zilver zixpence for choppen wood, her did, and if I cracks a poll wi’ ’ee, mebbe her’ll gi’ me another.”
“Ay, hers be a good heart, ’tis true. Why, her went along to Grange and begged and prayed young Sir Godfrey to putt poor Willum Nokes back into ’s ancient place o’ constable. And Sir Godfrey he can’t refuse her nothen, for all her have refused he, as ’tis said; and so wi’ noo year poor Willum’ll be back in his little small cottage, a-rulen over parish in the Queen’s name once more.”
“Such changes as the world do see! Look ’ee, souls, I be eighty-vive, and I’ve seed a mort o’ things in my time. I ha’ growed like a oak from boy well-nigh to grandfeyther, an’ seed six high and mighty sovrans goo to yearth: two Jameses, two Charleses, Noll Crum’ell, and Dutch Willum to end the tale. Ay, the world be full o’ ups and downs. To think, now, that old Squire—him as once I were so tarrible afeard on—be now eatin’ the bread and water of affliction in a Lun’on prison-house! And they do say as how his son Piers be joined in matrimony to a Dutch ’ooman o’ great tonnage, full o’ years an’ goold pieces. An he were a right youth a’d pay his old feyther’s debts an’ set the captive free; but not he, I warrant: he’ll lay out all the goold th’ old wife gies un on wigs and furbelows. And there be Squire Harry—young pa’son as was: who’d a thowt, when his poor feyther went under ground, ’twas a rightful squire Bill sexton had dug for, and the boy a-droppen warm tears into his holler grave ought to ha’ been squire that minute in his place? Ay, I mind the sermon as pa’son spoke out in church fust Sunday arter news come o’ Master Harry bein’ true squire. I seed un climb pulpit steps, and I know’d by the spread o’ his petticoats summat awful for poor sinners was a-comen, an’ I felt all leery down the small o’ my back. ‘God is the judge,’ says pa’son in his slow, tarrifyen way: ‘he putteth down one, and setteth up another.’ That were the holy text, out of Thy sarvant David’s psa’ms, and daze me if pa’son didn’t scarify old Squire as if ’twas pa’son hisself was choused out o’ his rightful proputty. ’Twas a powerful bit o’ preachen; every ’ooman there was took wi’ a longen to let the water-drops tummle, but none on ’em durst begin till Mis’ess Addle’s mother set the key. Then ’twas a little Noah’s flood; you mind, souls?—such a fall o’ tears bean’t seed in Winton Simmary since pa’son told us Princess Henrietta were dead in France.”
“And be Squire Harry a-gwine to gi’ up the trade o’ killen, and bide at home wi’ poor peaceful folks like we as never slays nowt but pigs and other beasts o’ the field?”
“Ay, ’tis so. My boy do zay he med ha’ been a knight or lard at a word wi’ Prince Eugene; but bless ’ee, he’ve got his lands to look arter, and we poor folks besides, and like his feyther afore un he have a true heart for home an’ friends. Why, he wouldn’ gi’ up the charge o’ we poor souls, not to be the Lord’s anointed.”
“Hark ’ee, Gaffer Minshull; bean’t they the bells at last?”
“Ay, ’tis so. Pa’son commanded a peal at zeven o’clock by way o’ holy consolation to bride an’ bridegroom. Old Everlasten ha’ took his coat off; ’tis he do call the changes; and i’ feck, the bells ’ll romp through a rare randy afore he’ve done wi’ ’em. Now, sonnies, what d’ye say to wenden out-along an’ callen choir and orchestry together? Then we’ll march up t’ Hall, and sing ’em a lively ditty as ’ll cheer ’em up arter the Christian doens o’ the day. Sackbut, psalteery, an’ all sarts o’ music, says the Book; we cannet muster they holy instruments, to be sure, but wi’ fiddle and bass-viol and serpent, and a little bit o’ tribble an’ bass, we’ll make a shift to raise a goodish randy toon. What d’ye say, sonnies?”
“Be jowned if it bean’t a fine notion for such a old aged martal. Ay, let’s out-along and make all the nise we can.”
“A thimbleful afore ’ee goos, souls. Mugs all, an’ lift up your hearts in a noble cheer for Squire an’ Lady Squire, wishen ’em long life an’ a happy end. All together now; spet it out o’ your wynd-pipes; hurray! hurray! hurray!”