Erema; Or, My Father's Sin

by R. D. Blackmore

  CHAPTER XLI

  A STRONG TEMPTATION

  Now it will be said, and I also knew, that there was nothing as yet,except most frail and feeble evidence, to connect that nameless strangerwith the crime charged upon my father. Indeed, it might be argued wellthat there was no evidence at all, only inference and suspicion. That,however, was no fault of mine; and I felt as sure about it as if I hadseen him in the very act. And this conclusion was not mine alone; forMrs. Busk, a most clever woman, and the one who kept the post-office,entirely agreed with me that there could be no doubt on earth about it.

  But when she went on to ask me what it was my intention to do next, forthe moment I could do nothing more than inquire what her opinion was.And she told me that she must have a good night's rest before advisingany thing. For the thought of having such a heinous character in her owndelivery district was enough to unhinge her from her postal duties, someof which might be useful to me.

  With a significant glance she left me to my own thoughts, which were sadenough, and too sad to be worth recording. For Mrs. Busk had not theart of rousing people and cheering them, such as Betsy Strouss, myold nurse, had, perhaps from her knowledge of the nursery. My presentlandlady might be the more sagacious and sensible woman of the two, andtherefore the better adviser; but for keeping one up to the mark she wasnot in any way equal to Betsy.

  There is no ingratitude in saying this, because she herself admitted it.A clever woman, with a well-balanced mind, knows what she can do, andwherein she fails, better than a man of her own proportion does. AndMrs. Busk often lamented, without much real mortification, that she hadnot been "born sympathetic."

  All the more perhaps for that, she was born sagacious, which is a lesspleasing, but, in a bitter pinch, a more really useful, quality. Andbefore I had time to think much of her defects, in the crowd of moreimportant thought, in she came again, with a letter in her hand, and asparkle of triumph in her small black eyes. After looking back along thepassage, and closing my door, she saw that my little bay-window had itsold-fashioned shutters fastened, and then, in a very low whisper, shesaid, "What you want to know is here, miss."

  "Indeed!" I answered, in my usual voice. "How can you know that? Theletter is sealed."

  "Hush! Would you have me ruined for your sake? This was at the bottom ofthe Nepheton bag. It fell on the floor. That was God's will, to place itin your power."

  "It is not in my power," I answered, whispering in my turn, and staringat it, in the strong temptation. "I have no right even to look at it. Itis meant for some one else, and sealed."

  "The seal is nothing. I can manage that. Another drop of wax--and Istrike our stamp by accident over the breakage. I refuse to know anything about it. I am too busy with the other letters. Five minutes--lockthe door--and I will come again."

  This was a desperate conflict for me, worse even than bodily danger. Myfirst impulse was to have nothing to do with it--even to let the letterlie untouched, and, if possible, unglanced at. But already it was toolate for the eyes to turn away. The address had flashed upon me before Ithought of any thing, and while Mrs. Busk held it up to me. And nowthat address was staring at me, like a contemptuous challenge, while theseal, the symbol of private rights and deterrent honor, lay undermost.The letter was directed to "H. W. C., Post-office, Newport, Sussex." Thewriting was in round hand, and clear, so as not to demand any scrutiny,and to seem like that of a lawyer's clerk, and the envelope was of thinrepellent blue.

  My second impulse was to break the letter open and read it withoutshrinking. Public duty must conquer private scruples. Nothing but thehand of Providence itself could have placed this deadly secret in mypower so amazingly. Away with all squeamishness, and perhaps preventmore murder.

  But that "perhaps" gave me sudden pause. I had caught up the letter, andstood near the candle to soften the wax and lift the cover with a smallsharp paper-knife, when it flashed on my mind that my cousin wouldcondemn and scorn what I was doing. Unconsciously I must have made himnow my standard of human judgment, or what made me think of him at thatmoment? I threw down the letter, and then I knew. The image of LordCastlewood had crossed my mind, because the initials were his own--thoseof Herbert William Castlewood. This strange coincidence--if it were,indeed, an accident--once more set me thinking. Might not this letter befrom his agent, of whom he had spoken as my protector here, but to whomas all unseen I scarcely ever gave a thought? Might not young Stixon,who so often was at Bruntsea, be employed to call at Newport for suchletters, and return with them to his master? It was not very likely, formy cousin had the strongest contempt of anonymous doings. Still it waspossible, and the bare possibility doubled my reluctance to break theseal.

  For one minute longer I stood in doubt, and then honor and candor andtruth prevailed. If any other life had been in peril but my own, duty toanother might have overridden all. But duty to one's self, if overpushedin such a case, would hold some taint of cowardice. So I threw theletter, with a sense of loathing, on a chair. Whatever it might contain,it should pass, at least for me, inviolate.

  Now when Mrs. Busk came to see what I had done, or rather left undone,she flew into a towering passion, until she had no time to go on withit. The rattle of the rickety old mail-cart, on its way to Winchesterthat night, was heard, and the horn of the driver as he passed thechurch.

  "Give it me. 'A mercy! A young natural, that you are!" the good womancried, as she flung out of the room to dash her office stamp upon thathateful missive, and to seal the leathern bag. "Seal, indeed! Inviolate!How many seals have I got to make every day of my life?"

  I heard a great thump from the corner of the shop where the business ofthe mails was conducted; and she told me afterward that she was so putout, that broken that seal should be--one way or another. Accordinglyshe smashed it with the office stamp, which was rather like awoman's act, methought; and then, having broken it, she never lookedinside--which, perhaps, was even more so.

  When she recovered her leisure and serenity, and came in, to forgiveme and be forgiven, we resolved to dismiss the moral aspect of thequestion, as we never should agree about it, although Mrs. Busk was notso certain as she had been, when she found that the initials were theinitials of a lord. And then I asked her how she came to fix upon thatletter among so many others, and to feel so sure that it came from mytreacherous enemy.

  "In the first place, I know every letter from Nepheton," she answered,very sensibly. "There are only fourteen people that write letters in theplace, and twelve of those fourteen buy their paper in my shop--there isno shop at all at Nepheton. In the next place, none of them could writea hand like that, except the parson and the doctor, who are far abovedisguise. And two other things made me certain as could be. That letterwas written at the 'Green Man' ale-house; not on their paper, nor yetwith their ink; but being in great hurry, it was dusted with theirsand--a sand that turns red upon ink, miss. And the time of dispatchthere is just what he would catch, by walking fast after his dig whereyou saw him, going in that direction too, and then having his materialsready to save time. And if all that is not enough to convince you,miss--you remember that you told me our old sexton's tale?"

  "To be sure I do. The first evening I was left alone here. And you havebeen so kind, there is nothing I would hide from you."

  "Well, miss, the time of old Jacob's tale is fixed by the death of poorold Sally Mock; and the stranger came again after you were here, justbefore the death of the miller's eldest daughter, and you might almosthave seen him. Poor thing! we all called her the 'flower of the Moon,'meaning our little river. What a fine young woman she was, to be sure!Whenever we heard of any strangers about, we thought they were prowlingafter her. I was invited to her funeral, and I went, and nothing couldbe done nicer. But they never will be punctual with burials here; theylike to dwell on them, and keep the bell going, for the sake of thebody, and the souls that must come after it. And so, when it was done, Iwas twenty minutes late for the up mail and the cross-country post,and had to move my hands pretty s
harp, I can assure you. That doesn'tmatter; I got through it, with the driver of the cart obliging, by meansof some beer and cold bacon. But what I feared most was the Nephetonbag, having seen the old man at the funeral, and knowing what they doafterward. I could not return him 'too late' again, or he would lose hisplace for certain, and a shilling a day made all the difference tohim, between wife and no wife. The old pair without it must go to theworkhouse, and never see one another. However, when I was despairingquite of him, up he comes with his bag quite correct, but only oneletter to sort in it, and that letter was, miss, the very identical ofthe one you held in your hands just now. And a letter as like it as twopeas had come when we buried old Sally. It puzzled me then, but I hadno clew to it; only now, you see, putting this and that together, thethings we behold must have some meaning for us; and to let them gowithout it is against the will of God; especially when at the bottom ofthe bag."

  "If you hear so soon of any stranger in the valley," I asked, to escapethe re-opening of the opening question, "how can that man come and go--aman of remarkable stature and appearance--without any body asking who heis?"

  "You scarcely could have put it better, miss, for me to give the answer.They do ask who he is, and they want to know it, and would like anybody to tell them. But being of a different breed, as they are, from alloutside the long valley, speaking also with a different voice, they fearto talk so freely out of their own ways and places. Any thing they canlearn in and out among themselves, they will learn; but any thing out ofthat they let go, in the sense of outlandish matter. Bless you, miss,if your poor grandfather had been shot any where else in England, howdifferent it would have been for him!"

  "For us, you mean, Mrs. Busk. Do you think the man who did it had thatin his mind?"

  "Not unless he knew the place, as few know it. No, that was an accidentof his luck, as many other things have been. But the best luck stops atlast, Miss Erema; and unless I am very much mistaken, you will be thestop of his. I shall find out, in a few days, where he came from, wherehe staid, and when he went away. I suppose you mean to let him go away?"

  "What else am I to do?" I asked. "I have no evidence at all against him;only my own ideas. The police would scarcely take it up, even if--"

  "Oh, don't talk of them. They spoil every thing. And none of our peoplewould say a word, or care to help us, if it came to that. The police areall strangers, and our people hate them. And, indeed, I believe thatthe worst thing ever done was the meddling of that old Jobbins. The oldstupe is still alive at Petersfield, and as pompous-headed as ever. Myfather would have been the man for your sad affair, miss, if thepolice had only been invented in his time. Ah, yes, he was sharp! Not aMoonstock man--you may take your oath of that, miss--but a good honestnative from Essex. But he married my mother, a Moonstock woman; or theywould not put up with me here at all. You quality people have your ideasto hold by, and despise all others, and reasonable in your opinions; butyou know nothing--nothing--nothing--of the stiffness of the people underyou."

  "How should I know any thing of that?" I answered; "all these things arenew to me. I have not been brought up in this country, as you know. Icome from a larger land, where your stiffness may have burst out intoroughness, from having so much room suddenly. But tell me what you thinknow your father would have done in such a case as mine is."

  "Miss Erema, he was that long-headed that nobody could play leap-frogwith him. None of them ever cleared over his barrel. He walked into thisvillage fifty-five years back, this very month, with his spade upon hisshoulder and the knowledge of every body in his eye. They all put upagainst him, but they never put him down; and in less than three monthshe went to church, I do assure you, with the only daughter of the onlybaker. After that he went into the baking line himself; he turned hisspade into a shovel, as he said, and he introduced new practices."

  "Oh, Mrs. Busk, not adulteration?"

  "No, miss, no! The very last thing he would think of. Only the good useof potatoes in the bread, when flour was frightful bad and painful dear.What is the best meal of the day? he used to reason. Dinner. And why?Why, because of the potatoes. If I can make people take potato for theirbreakfast, and potato for their supper too, I am giving them three mealsa day instead of one. And the health of the village corresponded to it."

  "Oh, but, Mrs. Busk, he might have made them do it by persuasion, or atleast with their own knowledge--"

  "No, miss, no! The whole nature of our people, Moonstock or out of it,is never to take victuals by any sort of persuasion. If St. Paul was tocome and preach, 'Eat this or that,' all I had of it in the shop wouldgo rotten. They hate any meddling with their likings, and they suspectdoctor's rubbish in all of it."

  "I am quite of their opinion," I replied; "and I am glad to hear oftheir independence. I always used to hear that in England none of thepoor people dared have a will of their own."

  Mrs. Busk lifted up her hands to express amazement at my ignorance,and said that she "must run away and put the shutters up, or else thepoliceman would come rapping, and look for a glass of beer, which he hadno right to till it came to the bottom of the firkin; and this one wasonly tapped last Sunday week. Don't you ever think of the police, miss."

  Probably this was good advice, and it quite agreed with the opinionsof others, and my own impressions as to the arrogant lethargy of "theforce," as they called themselves, in my father's case. Mrs. Busk hadmore activity and intelligence in her little head than all the fatsergeants and inspectors of the county, helmet, belt, and staff, andall.