The situation was extremely unpleasant. I was half-drowned, deafened, nearly blinded — wholly confused. I looked around for shelter — none was at hand — for I did not dare to place myself under a tree, knowing well the risk incurred in doing so from the electric fluid.
To turn back was as bad as to go on. So I pursued my course with as much expedition as circumstances would permit. Rapid progress, however, was now out of the question; and indeed it was with difficulty that I got on at all, for the paths were flooded and slippery, and the lightning so dazzling and incessant, that I could scarcely face it.
At length, after crossing a couple more fields, I came to a halt, beginning to fear that I must have got upon a wrong track. In another moment my doubts were converted into certainties. A flash of lightning of extraordinary brilliancy showed me that I was within thirty yards of the high road leading to Owlarton Grange. Instead of proceeding in the direction of the mill, I had, therefore, been walking away from it for the last quarter of an hour.
Rushing forward to a stile near the high road, I waited for the next flash, hoping it might reveal some dwelling where I might obtain shelter; but though disappointed in this expectation, I caught sight of something, which, under the circumstances, was nearly as welcome — namely, a haystack, situated at the further end of the opposite field.
Congratulating myself on the discovery, I at once started towards this place of refuge, and quickly reached it. The haystack proved to be as large as a good-sized farmhouse, with widely overhanging eaves, and sides sloping down to a somewhat narrow base, promising comfortable shelter at the end not exposed to the weather. I was hastening thither, when the sound of voices arrested me. Something seemed to whisper caution, and well it was that I attended to the monitor. In the intervals between the loud peals of thunder I could distinguish the voices of the speakers more clearly, and they seemed familiar to me; but, in order to make sure, I peered cautiously round the corner, and, a flash of lightning occurring at the moment, I beheld Simon Pownall conversing with Phaleg and Obed.
Simon seemed ill at ease, and, either from fright, or owing to the blue glare of the lightning, looked perfectly livid. But his companions appeared wholly indifferent to the terrors of the storm which agitated him so violently. Reclining against the side of the stack with his brawny arms crossed upon his chest, and one muscular leg twined round the other, gipsy fashion, Phaleg looked the picture of reckless unconcern; while his son leaned in an equally careless attitude against a donkey, which, with a pair of panniers and a bundle of stakes upon its back, formed a conspicuous feature in the group.
All this I noted at a glance; and I noted, moreover, with some uneasiness, that both gipsies carried their heavy bludgeons with them. It might be the effect of the lightning, as in Pownall’s case, but I thought Phaleg’s countenance wore an unusually sinister expression. The stack had been cut at this end in steps, and a good deal of loose hay lay scattered about, in the midst of which sat Pownall, with his back partly towards me. A ladder reared against the side of the rick showed that the honest husbandman had been recently at work there, not calculating upon such visitants as these.
“Mercy on us!” Simon ejaculated, his teeth chattering with fright—” what an awful peal of thunder! I never recollect such a storm in all my born days. D’ye think we’re safe here, my worthy Phaleg!”
“Safe! — ay, to be sure,” the elder gipsy rejoined in a scoffing voice; “just as safe as you’d be in a church — safer, mayhap — for I once seed the tower o’ Lymme church struck by a thunder-bowt, and some great heavy stones rolled down and broke through the roof, and would ha’ killed a score o’ godly folk, if they had chanced to be mumbling their prayers at the time.”
And the miscreant chuckled at his own pleasantry.
“Don’t laugh in that way, I beg of you, my irreverend Phaleg,” Pownall rejoined. “It makes the flesh creep on my bones. Powers above! what a flash! — enough to put one’s eyes out.”
“What, you’re afeard o’ thunder an’ lightnin’, are ye?” the caitiff rejoined, scowling at the heavens. “Well, I ain’t. I rayther enjoys a storm like this. I account it a pratty sight — a’most as good as fireworks. Some canting folks would fancy that the Dule and all his imps was abroad.”
“Have done, Phaleg,” Pownall cried, sharply. “This is not a proper season for jesting.”
“Well, chant a psalm, if you’re so inclined,” the ruffian answered, contemptuously. “How long is it since you turned Methoddy parson, eh, Pownall? I thought you were still in the conjuring line.”
“Don’t be angry, my worthy Phaleg,” the other rejoined:
“I meant no offence. Let us proceed to business.”
“Wi’ a’ my heart,” the other replied. “Go on. I’ll listen to you, provided the thunder’ll let me.”
“I wish I had as much courage as you, my brave Phaleg,” Simon replied; “but this storm has robbed me of all mine.”
“Robbed you, has it?” the gipsy cried, derisively. “I didn’t fancy you had much courage to lose. But if you want to rouse your sperrits, why don’t you take a drop o’ brandy?”
“An excellent suggestion,” Simon said. “Luckily I have my pocket-flask with me. You know whose cellar the liquor comes from, Phaleg,” he added, producing a small leather-covered flask, and unscrewing a silver cup from the top, which he proceeded to fill.
“Ay, ay, I know where you got it, and I know also that it be the right sort o’ stuff,” the gipsy replied. “I wish I were as well varsed i’ the black art as you, Pownall. You plays hocus pocus tricks to some purpose.”
“That’s some of Old Hazy’s best Nantz,” Simon cried, tossing off the contents of the cup. “Taste it, Phaleg,” he said, replenishing the little vessel, and handing it to him.
“I won’t say ‘No,’” the gipsy rejoined. “Here’s success to us all three!” emptying the cup. “A rare cordial, by my soul!” he cried, smacking his lips. “Obed won’t object to a drop of it.”
“That I won’t father,” the younger gipsy replied, with a grin.—’
“Here you are, then, little Obed,” Pownall said, giving him the cup, which he had once more filled to the brim. “Plague on’t! how my hand shakes.”
“Steady it wi’ another cupful,” Phaleg rejoined, with a gruff kind of facetiousness. And as Simon acted upon the hint, the gipsy added, “Now we can talk over matters comfortably.”
“Ha! ha! so we can,” Pownall laughed. “I don’t care for the thunder now. It may roar till it is hoarse — ha! ha! And the lightning may burn itself out. But to business,” he added, checking his hilarity on the sudden. “You and I are in the same boat, Phaleg, and must pull together, if we want to get along smoothly.”
“Well, I’m willing,” the elder gipsy said. “You’ve only to say which way we are to pull.”
“Let me first explain how I’m situated,” Pownall went on. “The game at Owlarton Grange is up. I could have made a good harvest there, and stayed as long as I liked, if it hadn’t been for that meddlesome fool, young Clitheroe.”
“Curse him!” Phaleg ejaculated. “He’d better not come across me again. I’d split his skull for two pins.”
“’Twas an unlucky day for me that brought him to the Grange,” Simon continued, “for he has marred all my schemes. I tried to scare him off the premises by playing the ghost, but he was too wide awake to be so taken in, and I had enough to do to get away from him. T’other night, just as I had enticed Old Hazy into the garden, and was about to play off some conjuring tricks, for which the old fellow would have come down handsomely, my gentleman pops upon us unawares, and not only deprives me of my fee, but forces me to swim across the moat in order to escape.”
Simon’s description of his misadventures seemed highly diverting to both gipsies, for they broke into a loud fit of laughter.
“I found it no joke, my lively friends, I can promise you,” Simon continued, rather testily; “and I don’t think that either of you would have l
iked it. This was my last appearance at the Grange. Old Hazy still sticks to me, and would have me back again if he dared; but owing to this confounded young Clitheroe’s interference, Miss Hazilrigge and all the household are against me, and I daren’t show my face. Before I bolted, I tried hard to get a good thumping sum out of the old squire, but it was no go. And this brings me to the point, my worthy Phaleg. Since money is not to be had there, it must be got elsewhere — d’ye understand?”
“I shall do so, I dare say, afore you’ve done,” the elder gipsy rejoined.
“Briefly, then,” Simon said, “if a certain friend of ours is to come quietly into two thousand pounds a year in a few months’ time, he must pay us for permission to obtain it.”
“I am quite of your opinion, Mester Pownall,” the elder gipsy replied. “If he axes my permission, he shan’t have it, unless he do pay. But I thought you had got summut already from the young chap.”
“So I have, but it’s all spent. However, our secret ought to be a mine of wealth to us, Phaleg — a mine of wealth; and I’m content to share it with you, because—”
“You can’t help yourself, that’s why,” the gipsy interrupted, with a coarse laugh. “You’re afeard o’ me, and must stop my mouth, just as Capt’n Sale must stop yours. That’s the long and short on’t, Pownall. Well, I’m willing to act wi’ you, so long as you play upon the square. But deal falsely wi’ me, and look to yourself, man., “Trust to my honour, my worthy Phaleg. When we’ve settled this little affair to our mutual satisfaction with Captain Sale — to our mutual satisfaction, I repeat — I shall make myself scarce — emigrate. I’ve had enough of a vagabond life, and mean to turn my talents to a proper account. America’s the land for a sharp fellow like me — or Australia.”
“Not a bad plan,” Phaleg remarked. “I think I shall go to Horsteraylia myself. What say’st thou, Obed? Wilt go wi’ thy father?”
“No,” the younger gipsy replied, bluntly. “I shall stick to the owd country. Leave me little Robin,” he added, patting the donkey’s neck, “and I shall be quite content.”
“Well, do as thou wilt, lad,” Phaleg said. “Thou shalt have Robin and welcome — though, mayhap, I shall change my mind afore the time comes for starting. Thy mother and Rue mayn’t like to go.”
“It’ll be your own fault, my worthy Phaleg,” Simon remarked, “if you don’t get enough to enable you to live comfortably either here or in Australia.”
“That’s exactly what I should like, Mester Pownall,” the gipsy rejoined, dryly; “so I’m quite ready to act wi’ you. Where is the capt’n?”
“At Windsor with his regiment, but I mean to write and appoint a meeting with him without delay. I shall take the liberty of informing him that his future fortune as well as the maintenance of his position in society depend upon his keeping that appointment. If he fails, he must take the consequences.”
“He’ll come, then, you think?”
“I’m sure of it. He daren’t refuse. And now for the plan—” Here Simon lowered his voice so much that I could not catch what he said.
“How if he should turn rusty?” Phaleg remarked, after a pause.
“In that case, I’ll make him feel my power to its full extent,” Pownall rejoined. “But, bless you! it’ll never come to that. He may stamp, and swear, and call me ugly names, as he has often done before — but I know the way to tame him. I shall use an argument not to be resisted. Only let me threaten to produce the rightful will, and he’ll agree to my terms pretty quickly — be they what they may. It won’t suit him to lose two thousand pounds a year. It won’t suit him to be publicly disgraced, which he will be if it comes to be known that he has been acting under a wrong will, with full understanding that it is wrongful. He has to choose between compliance with my demands and ruin, Phaleg — absolute ruin.”
“Poor young gen’l’man!” Phaleg cried, with affected commiseration. “Don’t be too hard upon him.”
“I don’t want to be extortionate, my tender-hearted Phaleg,” Pownall rejoined. “But I must take care of myself, you know. Besides, I’ve got to share the spoil with you. We must have a good round sum. It’s our last chance. He’ll want to have the will delivered up this time.”
“He must be a precious fool if he doesn’t,” Phaleg said. “It’s a wonder to me he didn’t bargain for it at first — but he didn’t know you so well then as he has done since. You haven’t got the will about you now? — eh?” he added, with a suddenness that made Simon start, and led me to suspect that he had an evil motive for putting the question.
“No, no,” Pownall replied, evidently in some trepidation. “Do you think I would carry such a valuable document as that about me? It is lodged in a place of safety — where no one but myself can find it. One can’t be too cautious, you know, worthy Phaleg. One never knows into what sort of company one may get.”
“Very true,” the other replied. “And I wouldn’t advise you to take that precious dokiment i’ your pocket when you pays Capt’n Sale a visit, or you may chance to return without it. And I think you’d be all the safer at the interview wi’ a friend like me at your elbow. But I wish you’d just explain this to me, Pownall. I never could rightly understand how there comed to be two wills; nor how you managed to get the true will into your possession? I suppose you stole it when you broke into the room where the dead man was lying?”
“Hush! Phaleg,” Simon cried; “I don’t like to speak of the old chap on a night like this. I’ll just take another drop of brandy, and then I’ll give you the information you desire. Old Mobb, you must know, had two great-nephews — the present Captain Sale and Mervyn Clitheroe. Clitheroe was his favourite, and he meant to leave him his money, but the lad displeased him by shooting a tabby-cat belonging to the old missis, and Mob changed his mind, making a will in favour of Malpas Sale. That was the first will. Pay attention, Phaleg. By-and-by, however, Clitheroe, gets into his uncle’s good graces again, the tabby-cat is forgotten, the old missis dies, and a second will is made, by which Mervyn becomes heir. That second will is the true will. Pay particular attention now, Phaleg, and you shall hear how the precious document came into my possession. ’Twas a cleverly managed affair, as you will admit. On the day of his death old Mobb was burning papers in his bedroom, which was on the ground-floor, with a little window looking in the garden, and he meant to have destroyed the first will — the first will, mind, Phaleg — placing in on his bed for that purpose. Now the bed being close to the window, and the window being open, and I chancing to be in the garden at the time — watching the old man’s proceedings — I seized the opportunity when Mobb’s back was turned, thrust in my hand, and grabbed the will.”
“But what were the use of grabbin’ it, if it warn’t the right will?” Phaleg inquired.
“You shall hear, if you’ll let me tell the story in my own way, most respectable Phaleg,” Simon replied. “The old man didn’t perceive what I had done, but thought he had burnt the will, and soon afterwards took to his bed and died. The right will I knew was locked up in a bureau in the bedroom, but I hoped to get the key, in order to enable me to secure that precious document, and put the wrong will in its place. In this I was disappointed — so I was compelled to break into the room at night to accomplish the job.”
“At which time I caught sight of you,” Phaleg remarked.
“Unluckily for me, but luckily for yourself, you did so, my crafty Phaleg,” Simon went on. “My object in making this change of the will must now be apparent to you, methinks. The second will was found where I had placed it; was read; and Malpas declared heir — heir to two thousand pounds a year. But the true will being in my possession, I could upset him in a moment by its production. And this I took care to let the fortunate youth know. You would have grinned to see how chop-fallen he looked when I gave him the information. However, he saw there was nothing for it but to make terms with me, and he did so without hesitation.”
“What did you get out of him, may I ask?” the gipsy said.
“That’s scarcely a fair question, worthy Phaleg,” Simon replied, “and you must excuse my answering it. I dare say you’ll learn, though, at our meeting with the captain, for he’ll be sure to rake up old scores. Thus you see, Phaleg — and I’D give it you as the moral of my story — a man should never make a second will till he has burnt the first.”
At this moment, I bent forward rather incautiously, and, in doing so, made a slight noise, which caught the quick ears of Obed.
I drew back instantly, but it was evident, from the exclamation of the younger gipsy, that he had seen me.
“There’s a man round the corner!” he cried. “I saw him draw his head.”
“A listener!” Pownall exclaimed. “If it should be young Clitheroe, we’re done for!”
“If it should be young Clitheroe I’ll do for him,” Phaleg roared, with a fearful oath, that left me little doubt he would try to put his threat into execution. “Come along, Obed.”
And, as he spoke, he dashed round the corner, brandishing his bludgeon.
They were within an ace of discovering me, and if it had lightened at the time I must infallibly have been detected. But I managed to elude them. Instead of attempting flight, which I knew would be useless, I threw myself on the ground, and crept round the corner of the haystack so expeditiously, that I was actually amongst them before they had moved from the spot. Simon Pownall did not quit his post, and I was therefore compelled to bury myself in the hay, which screened me effectually.
The shouts and oaths of the gipsies as they beat about the haystack reached me where I lay, and told me what I had to expect if my hiding-place should be discovered. Presently they came back, greatly enraged at their failure. Phaleg swore lustily at his son, and told him he must have been dreaming; but Obed stoutly maintained the contrary, declaring that he had seen a man’s head as plainly as he now beheld his own father’s. Where was he, then? What had become of him? Phaleg demanded. Obed couldn’t tell; so, after some wrangling, they both held their peace.
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