Lost Sir Massingberd: A Romance of Real Life. v. 2/2

by James Payn

  CHAPTER VII.

  WHAT WAS IN THE COVERED CART.

  If this true narrative of mine should chance to find its channel ofpublication in a hebdomadal periodical, and the end of the last chaptercoincide with the end of the week, I am afraid I shall have undulyaroused the expectation of my readers, and kept them upon tenter-hooksduring that period upon false pretences, or rather what may seem to beso. They will doubtless have promised themselves some ghastly spectacle(and I give them my honour that if they will only have patience theyshall have it) to be presented in the very next page or two. It maydisappoint them temporarily, to hear that though we searched thecoppice, tree by tree, and left not one heap of leaves unstirred by ourfeet, that we found nothing, nothing. And yet I will venture to say,that if we had come upon that sight which all were so prepared for, thestiffened limbs of murdered Sir Massingberd, with his cruel face set forever in death, and his hard eyes scowling up at the sky, it wouldscarcely have filled us with greater awe. It would have been a terriblesight, doubtless, but with every minute the terror would have faded,until at last it might have even melted into pity. He could at leasthave hurt no man more, being dead. But now that he was only Lost--stillLost--we looked at one another with dumb surprise, and over our ownshoulders with misgivings. He was not above ground in all FairburnChase, that was certain; nor under water, for the dragging-parties haddiscovered no more than we. Any idea of suicide was quite out of thequestion; Sir Massingberd Heath was the last man to leave life before hewas summoned, even if he really felt, as he averred, that there was nosort of risk in doing so. Wicked men have a tolerably high opinion ofthis world, notwithstanding their low views of the people that inhabitit; and the French philosopher who put an end to his not invaluableexistence upon the ground that he had had enough of everything, was anexceptional case.

  At the same time, the probabilities were immensely against the baronet'shaving voluntarily undertaken any expedition, considering thecircumstances under which he must have set out--on foot, fatigued, andat so late an hour. If secrecy had been his object, it would have beenfar more easily secured by his departure at a less extraordinary time.In the meanwhile, day after day passed by without any tidings, and themystery of his disappearance deepened and spread. Mr. Long was ratherreserved upon the matter at first, professing to entertain little doubtthat the wilful Squire would presently return, malicious and grim asever; but as time went on, he began to grow uneasy, and seemed to findrelief in conversing upon the subject, and suggesting more or lessimpossible contingencies.

  "Do you remember, Peter," said he one morning at breakfast-time,"reading out to me, some months ago, an account of the murder of acertain lieutenant of the coast-guard by smugglers on the east coast;how he oppressed them and treated them with unnecessary cruelty formany, many months, until at last they took him away out of his bed byforce, and carried him no man knew whither, and put him to death withtortures?"

  "Yes," returned I, "perfectly well. They buried the poor wretch up tohis neck in the sea-sand, and bowled stones at his head."

  "Well, Peter, that frightful scene is constantly representing itselfwhenever I shut my eyes; only the head is that of Sir Massingberd. Youcannot imagine how distressing it is to me now to go to bed, with theexpectation of this re-enacting itself before I can get to sleep."

  "Dear me, how dreadful!" returned I. "But does not the fact of your onlyrecognizing the victim, convince you of the unreality of the thing? Ifyou knew the faces of the smugglers, then indeed----"

  "I do know them, Peter," interrupted my tutor gravely; "that is theworst of it; although it should, as you say, rather convince me of theimaginary character of the scene, since the actors in it have long beendead and gone, I believe. They are not smugglers, but gipsies. There ison Carew in particular, one unhappy man, into whose history I need notenter, but who once incurred the baronet's vengeance, and I am afraid itis but too likely perished in consequence. It is a sad story ofdeception on both sides; but it is certain that Sir Massingberd richlyearned the hatred of the wandering people. I have no right, of course,to make any such charge, but Peter, I cannot help thinking that it isthey who have made away with the Squire. I casually inquired in thevillage yesterday about the tribe that generally inhabit the fir-groveon the Crittenden Road, and it seems they left the place by night, on orabout the very date of Sir Massingberd's disappearance."

  My heart grew cold and heavy as a stone at these words, delivered thoughthey were with vagueness, and without any threat of action to followthem, for the suspicion which my tutor now suggested had long ago takenfirm root in my own mind. I would not, however, have given expression toit upon any account, and my present wish was to do away with this notionof the rector's as much as possible. I would not, perhaps, have assistedin the escape of the Cingari from punishment, if punishment theydeserved, but neither would I have put out my hand to deliver them up.The law had taken its wicked will of them often enough already, and inconnection with this very man.

  "Those who know these people best," said I, "such as Bradford and thekeepers, do not think it at all probable that they would have had thecourage to face Sir Massingberd. Even if they possessed it, what couldthey have done but have slain him? and if slain, where have they put himto?"

  "God alone knows," said my tutor solemnly; "but the man at the pike atCrittenden says, I believe, that they had a covered cart with them,which they have never been known to have before."

  I murmured something to the effect that the winter was coming on, andthat it was likely enough that they should have procured for themselvessome peripatetic shelter of that kind; but a nameless horror took holdupon me, in spite of myself, when Mr. Long rejoined, that he shouldthink it his duty to have the gipsies followed, and a thoroughexamination of their effects to be made. I had not another word to say.I seemed already to see poor old Rachel Liversedge standing in thefelon's dock, avowing and glorying in her guilt, and defiant of thesentence which would consign her and hers to the same fate that hadovertaken, with no such justice, Stanley Carew. Any hope of escape forthem, I knew, was out of the question. They had not the means for speedytravel, while, in those days of superstition and intolerance, theCingari were an object of animadversion and alarm, whithersoever theymoved. That very day--acting upon information received concerning theirpresent whereabouts--Mr. Long set out on horseback, accompanied by theparish constable, and Came up with the party whom he sought upon acertain common within twenty miles of Fairburn. The tribe, of whom I hadonly seen three grown-up members, were tolerably numerous, and theconstable evinced his fitness for being a peace-officer by counsellingthe rector to do nothing rash, at least until reinforcements shouldpermit of his doing so with safety. The sight, however, of the coveredcart, placed, as it seemed, jealously in the very centre of theencampment, was too much for Mr. Long, who, to do him justice, was asbold as a lion, except where conventional "position," as in the case ofSir Massingberd, made him indisposed for action. He turned his horsestraight for the desired object, in spite of the threatening looks ofseveral men, who were tinkering about an immense fire, and was onlystopped by the youngest of them starting up, and laying his handimperatively upon his bridle-rein.

  "Have you a warrant, Mr. Long," inquired the gipsy sternly, "that youride through our camp, when all the rest of the common is open to you,and wish to pry into that poor place yonder, which is all we have ofhouse and home?"

  The rector had no sort of right for what he did, and was thereforeproportionally indignant.

  "Unhand my bridle, sirrah!" cried he. "What is your name, who seem toknow mine so well, and yet who knows me so little, that you can imagineI am here in any other cause than that of Right and Justice?"

  "My name is Walter Carew," replied the gipsy, still retaining his hold.

  "Then that is warrant sufficient for what I do," cried my tutorexcitedly, and raising his riding-whip as he spoke.

  The swarthy face of the gipsy gleamed with passion, and his unoccupiedright hand sought his side, as if for a we
apon. Mischief wouldundoubtedly have ensued, but that at that moment the curtains of thecovered cart were parted by a skinny hand, and the voice of RachelLiversedge was heard bidding the young man let the bridle go, and notspill parson's blood, which was as bad as wasting milk and water. Thenshe added, with mock courtesy: "Pray, come hither, Mr. Long; our doorsare always open, and there can be no intrusion where there are onlyfemales and sickness."

  "If that be all," returned my tutor in a softened tone, for thoughsomewhat arbitrary, as it would now be thought, towards his inferiors,he was ever gentle to the sex; "if that indeed be all, I shall notinflict my presence upon you long."[1]

  With those words, he threw himself from his horse, and climbed up intothe cart; it was rather a roomy one, but all that was in it was clearlyto be seen at the first glance. It was carpeted with rushes a footthick, from which Rachel Liversedge was busily engaged in weavingchair-bottoms. Opposite to her sat another female, engaged with the samearticles, but constructing out of them crowns and necklaces, which,though they did not very much resemble the ornaments for which they wereintended, appeared to afford her exquisite satisfaction.

  "Why don't you introduce me, Rachel?" exclaimed she testily, as Mr. Longlooked in. "Don't you see the gentleman is bowing? Sinnamenta--LadyHeath." The secret of the gipsies' sudden removal, as well as of theiruse of the vehicle which had excited his suspicions, was at onceapparent to the rector.

  "Is she better, happier in your custody?" inquired my tutor, in awhisper, of the chair-maker. "God knows I would not disturb her, if shebe."

  "My little sister is not beaten now," observed Rachel bitterly;"although, of course, we have not those luxuries with which her husbandhas always surrounded her."

  "Only four times, Sister Rachel!" observed the afflicted one, in a toneof remonstrance, "one, two, three, four," checking them off on her poorfingers, covered with worthless gewgaws. "I don't consider Gilmore'sbeatings anything, only Sir Massingberd's."

  "May God's curse have found him!" exclaimed Rachel Liversedge fervently;"may He have avenged her wrongs upon him at last! Don't look at me, sir,as though I were a witch wishing a good man ill. I wish I _were_ awitch. How he should pine, and rave, and writhe, and suffer ten thousanddeaths in one!"

  She spoke with such hate and fury, that Mr. Long involuntarily cast oncemore a suspicious glance around him, as though in reality she possessedthe means of vengeance which she so ardently desired. "Did you expect tofind him here?" continued she. "That was it, was it? I wish you had. Iwould that I had his fleshless bones to show you. It is not _my_ faultthat I have them not, be sure. If there were any manliness left among mypeople--but there is not; they are curs all--if any memory of thepersecuted and the murdered had dwelt within them, as with me, let alonethis work of his," she pointed to her unconscious sister, "for which,had he done nought else, I would have torn his heart out;--he would nothave lived thus long by forty years. For aught we know, however, helives yet; only hearing he was gone, we went and took my little sisterfrom her wretchedness, and thus will keep her if you give us leave, youChristian gentlemen. Where he may be, we know not; we only hope that insome hateful spot--in hell, if such a place there be--he may besuffering unimagined pains."

  The fervour and energy of her words, however reprehensible in a moralpoint of view, were such as left no doubt in the mind of Mr. Long thatthe gipsy woman spoke truth. Assuring her, therefore, that, so far as hewas concerned, she should not be molested in the custody of herunfortunate sister, my tutor rode back to Fairburn, relieved from thedread burden of his late suspicion, but more at his wit's end for anelucidation of the disappearance of Sir Massingberd than ever. Rightglad was I to hear that his errand among my dusky friends had beenbootless; but by the next morning's post I had received bitter newsfrom Harley Street. A copy of that menacing epistle which I had sounwittingly enclosed to Marmaduke from his uncle, reached me from Mr.Gerard. His words were kind, and intended to be comforting. He knew, ofcourse, that I had been deceived; he well knew, and they all knew, hesaid, that my hand was the last to do Marmaduke hurt, to do aught butprotect and uphold him. But I could see that some grievous harm hadoccurred, nevertheless, through me, as Sir Massingberd's catspaw. It wasmore apparent to me because there was not one accompanying word from mydear friend himself, whom I knew too well to imagine capable of blamingme. It was most apparent of all because of the postscript written inLucy's own hand--so fair, so clear, so brave, so like her own sweetself, saying that I must not reproach myself because I had beenoverreached by a base man. "Marmaduke will write soon," she said; "hedoes not love you less because he is silent upon this matter, and mustbe kept so for a little while." He was ill, then, thanks to my dullwits; and out of pity she had written "Marmaduke." Ah me, would _I_ nothave been ill! Would _I_ not have welcomed kinship with a score ofwicked uncles for such pity! "He does not love you less because he issilent;" was that a quotation culled from her own heart's whisperings?

  "A most unfortunate business," said Mr. Long reflectively, when he hadpossessed himself of this intelligence. "That letter of SirMassingberd's will undo all the good of the last twelve months. Withwhat a devilish ingenuity for torment has he framed every phrase. '_'Myarm will reach you wheresoever you are; at the time you least expectit, and from the quarter to which you have least looked. However Well itmay seem to be with you, it will not be Well.'_ How thoroughly he knewhis nephew! This will make Marmaduke Heath a wretched man for life."

  "Not if Sir Massingberd be dead," said I, "and can be proved to be so."

  "That is true," responded my tutor, drily; then added, without, I think,intending me to hear it, "But what will be worse than anything, is thisdoubt as to whether he be dead or not."

  I felt convinced of this too, and bowed my head in sorrow and silence.There was a long pause. Then my tutor suddenly started up, andexclaimed, with animation, "Peter, will you go with me to London? Icertainly shall be doing more good there, just now, than here; and Ithink that your presence will be welcome, nay, needful, in HarleyStreet."

  "I shall be ready to start this very evening," returned I, thinking ofthe mail which passed at night.

  "We will be off within an hour," replied my tutor; "I will order postersfrom the inn at once. Too much time has been lost already; we shouldhave started when Sir Massingberd himself did."

  "Do you think he is gone to town, then, with any evil purpose?" inquiredI, aghast.

  "If he has gone at all, it is certain it is for no good," rejoined therector, gravely. "It is more than likely that this disappearance may benothing but a ruse to throw us off our guard. The cat that despaired ofattaining her end by other means, pretended to be dead."

  [1] In those days, it was not thought incumbent upon ministers of theGospel to look after gipsy-folk, whose souls, in case they had any, werenot opined to be much worth saying.