Читать книгу Charles Peace, or The Adventures of a Notorious Burglar - Anonymous - Страница 96

We must turn back to earlier scenes in our narrative that we may gather up the tangled threads of this tale.

The reader will remember the burglary at Oakfield farmhouse, described in the opening chapters. He will call to mind the Bristol Badger being shot down by the girl, Jane Ryan, who afterwards gave her evidence at the trial of Gregson, which went far towards ensuring the conviction of the hardened criminal.

Gregson had ruthlessly murdered the girl’s sweetheart some years before the period of the Oakfield House burglary.

Jane Ryan had watched and waited, and she had not done so in vain. An inward monitor had whispered to her that sooner or later she would be instrumentel in hunting down the man who had robbed her of one whom she valued beyond all else in the world.

She felt that her mission was fulfilled after Gregson had expiated his crimes on the public scaffold.

But the death of this wretch did not remove the canker worm which had found its way into the heart of the young girl. It did not blot out from her recollection the terrible and appalling scene of her lover being stabbed to the heart on the lawn of her master’s house.

Jane Ryan became an altered woman; she was, as we have already intimated, deeply embued with superstition, and, moreover, under the impression that her days were numbered. Nothing could dispossess her of this idea.

The last time we took a glance at Jane was in the fourth number of this work, when Richard Ashbrook told her the story of his love, and asked her to become his wife. The interview between the two was of a touching and tender nature. Jane did not positively refuse, but she bade her master seek somebody who was more worthy of him than she was herself. She told him also that she was mourning for one who was dead and gone.

All this was not particularly complimentary to the substantial and honest yeoman, who began to suspect that there was some other rival in the field. He could not for a moment understand that she could be so true and constant to the dead carpenter.

He was as honest as the day, would not wrong man or woman, or indeed any living creature, but his powers of perception were but limited, and Jane was a puzzle to him.

Poor man, his was by no means a solitary case; hundreds and thousands of women, both before and since, have puzzled and perplexed men of far greater intellect than he could boast of.

Richard Ashbrook considered the matter over. He reasoned with himself, and endeavoured to quench the fire which burnt within his breast.

He was advised to try a change of scene, and left Oakfield for a while upon a visit to Mr. Jamblin, of Stoke Ferry Farm.

He flirted with little Miss Jamblin, who was at this time not out of her teens. He went out shooting with her father and brother, and passed many jovial and enjoyable evenings with his old friends.

But despite all this he could not forget Jane Ryan; her image was for ever presenting itself to his vision.

His friends were discreet and considerate enough not to mention her name; they knew perfectly well his feelings towards her, and hoped that “he would get over it.”

But Ashbrook did not find it so easy to get over it as he had imagined.

“When a man is over head and ears in love,” said Mr. Jamblin, senior, “it takes a strong rope to pull him out of the pit into which he has fallen.”

“She be a rare good un of her sort,” said the old farmer to his son one day; “but she be naught but a serving wench after all.”

“And Master Richard can do better. He ought to strike at higher game.”

“Pipple ought to do a number of things they don’t do,” answered Young Jamblin. “It ain’t easy for a man to right himself when he be capsized by a woman, no matter whether she be a serving wench or a duchess—​and for the matter of that in many cases one be as good as ’tother.”

“Eh, lad!” cried the farmer, opening his large eyes and staring at the speaker. “Them’s your sentiments?”

“Well, yes, and I aint ashamed to confess to them.”

“Don’t you tumble into the same pitfall as Richard Ashbrook,” said his father in a much more serious tone. “Mind ee don’t do that.”

Young Jamblin burst out into aloud fit of laughter.

“All right, father; you’ve no right to be afeard, as far as I’m concerned.

James Ashbrook now entered the room and cut short the conversation.

“Ah, Master Richard,” exclaimed the elder Mr. Jamblin, “Patty tells me you be home-sick and be goin’ to leave us. We can do a little longer wi’ ee.”

“I do not doubt that,” returned Ashbrook, “and the change has done me a world of good, but——”

“Oh, aye, but I know what ee’s goin’ to say—​you’ve got your own affairs to look after and all that sort of thing. Well, please yourself—​every man knows his own bis’ness best.”

“He’s not going as yet,” cried Patty, who now entered.

“And why not, lass?” enquired her father.

“Because I won’t let him,” returned the young girl, perking up her pretty features in a most comical way. She was the pet of the family and her father doated on her. She was always good-humoured, and had withal a keen sense of humour.

Farmers’ daughters, as a rule are not lusty, broad-shouldered wenches with big red arms and necks like bulls, as some of you probably suppose, nor are they the unsophisticated creatures, green as their own meadow grass, soft as their own butter, the stereotyped guileless victims of stereotyped wicked squires, as dramatists and writers of rural tales would have you believe.

They can display as much finesse in their best parlours as any peeress in her gilded drawing-room; and although they might be at a loss to understand the intricate compliments of a Belgravian roué, they play their plebeian gudgeons with as light a hand as ever tortured a titled trout in a West-end mansion.

In describing Patty Jamblin I present to you a fair specimen of the class.

She was long-haired, and blue-eyed with a clear white skin.

Her hands and forearms were a little red and rough from manual labour, but her neck and forehead were like polished ivory.

Her eyes were mild and candid, and could be roguish when they pleased.

Her hair was chestnut, and instead of being tortured into ringlets, as is the fashion among farmers’ daughters, it was worn plain.

She was very partial to both the Ashbrooks, and during the sojourn of Mr. Richard in her father’s home had striven to make him as comfortable and happy as possible, by unremitting attention.

Indeed, her cheery manner and pretty ways had done much to dispel the gloom, which he had found it so difficult to shake off.

When left alone with her father’s visitor she besought him to remain a little longer as an inmate of Stoke Ferry Farm, and he could not find it in his heart to give a denial to the request.

He did remain for another week or so; nevertheless, despite the pleasant society in which he found himself, he could not forget the thoughtful pensive girl of Oakfield House.

Upon his returning home Richard Ashbrook found his brother and sister anxiously awaiting his return home. The greetings were cordial and affectionate, for the Ashbrooks were a most united family, and it was seldom, indeed, that anything transpired that in any way disturbed the harmony of the establishment.

Jane Ryan, as usual, was busily engaged in her household duties, which she went through in a mechanical unobtrusive manner.

She had never at any time of her life been loquacious, being in fact reserved and thoughtful in her manner; of late she was so to a degree which, to persons of a lively temperament, was in a measure depressing.

Upon seeing James Ashbrook her face became irradiated with a smile, which, if wan and faint, was ineffably sweet in its expression.

It was wonderous to see the tender solicitude, the care and consideration displayed towards her by the honest horny-handed farmer.

Rough man as he was, when in her presence he was as soft and gentle as a woman.

He watched her moving about the house in an abstracted, half-caressing manner, which it is not easy to describe by words, but which has been, nevertheless, felt by all who came within her influence.

Certainly, if ever a man was devoted to one of the opposite sex, that man was Richard Ashbrook.

His attachment was not so much expressed by words as by manner.

Weeks and months passed over, and his fondness for Jane became deeper and more intensified.

He made her a study—​he strove to please her by numberless little acts of kindness and consideration, which were but little or nothing in themselves, but might be likened to straws borne upon the surface of the water, which showed which way the current ran.

Everybody knew perfectly well that matters could not go on thus for any great length of time.

Either the young farmer would have to press the question still closer, or else give up all thoughts of the girl.

As to sending her away, that was not to be thought of for a moment.

His brother and sister would not consent to such a course, to say nothing of Mr. Richard himself.

And so, after a long, and, it might be said, almost silent, wooing, and watching, Richard Ashbrook once more took heart of grace, and besought Jane Ryan to become his “for better or for worse.”

His brother and sister were at this time paying a visit to the Jamblins.

“Jane,” said Mr. Richard, one evening, when the day’s work was over, “I want to ha’ a word or two wi’ee, lass. So when ye’ve finished cleaning up, just step into the parlour for a while, will’ee?”

“If you desire me to do so,” returned the girl, with a faint flash.

“Yes, I do, if thee beest willing.”

She nodded, and said—

“I will be with you presently.”

“Aye, do, gell, the sooner the better,” cried the farmer, as he left the kitchen, and proceeded into the best room of the establishment.

In a few minutes Jane, having washed and touched herself up, entered.

Her master handed her a seat.

He was in a great fluster, and it was easy to see that he was but ill at ease.

Jane sat down.

“I dunno whether you guess why I ha’ desired to speak to ’ee,” he said, in hurried manner; “an it does not much matter whether ’ee do or not, for what’s to be sed can’t remain any longer unsed, and that’s the truth on’t. You see, Jane, it bean’t o’ no yoose for a man to fight agen anything he ain’t got any power to grapple wi’. It’s against common sense—​we none of us can do it—​a man aint no yoose agenst a ghost or speerit.”

“I don’t understand your meaning, Mr. James,” murmured Jane.

Neither did she, and to say the truth the farmer did not quite understand it himself. He had endeavoured to take a high flight—​to make a simile—​which now that he had uttered it seemed to be quite inapplicable to the subject in hand.

“I mean,” he said, endeavouring to come nearer to the mark, “you see, I mean, gal, we ain’t any of us got any control over ourselves as far as affairs of the heart are concerned. If a man loves a woman as I do you (this was a home thrust), it’s no yoose telling him to find somebody more worthy of him, and all that sort of thing, cause he don’t think anybody is more worthy of him—​he believes the woman he loves is more worthy and better than any other in the world.”

Jane nodded, but made no other reply.

The farmer went on—​he was certainly floundering a little, but had made one or two palpable hits nevertheless.

“And so, Jane, my dear gell, I ha’ thought over and over agen of what you sed when I asked you to become my wife, and I ha’ endeavoured to think no more of you, but find it ain’t of no yoose. Love is summat like the wire worm; when it once effects an entrance it aint so easy to extract it.”

The simile was not perhaps an elegant one, but it was pretty well for a farmer.

“Have you thought of what I sed to ye, now many months ago?”

“I have thought of it, master,” said Jane, with a mournful cadence in her voice, “and I’ve thought how proud and happy I ought to be, seeing how devoted, how kind you are in every way, but it is not so much on account of myself as it is for you that I have hesitated.”

“Hesitated?”

“Oh, Mr. Richard, you want a bright, cheerful companion, not a poor broken-hearted creature like myself. If I could forget the past—​if I could be the same as I was a few years ago, the matter would be different. As it is, I know not what to do. Do you persist in pressing the suit?”

“Do I persist? Of course I do,” cried the farmer. “Shall always persist while both of us are alive.”

“Oh! while we are alive?” repeated Jane Ryan.

The farmer looked surprised—​not to say a little alarmed.

“Well we are not going to die, as yet let us hope.”

“No; let us hope not.”

“And if you marry me,” he exclaimed, suddenly assuming a tone of confidence and cheerfulness. “You’re so good a girl that you’ll live for my sake.”

His companion smiled, and wound his arms round her neck.

“Now I’ve got ’ee,” he ejaculated, “and you consent to be mine for better or for worse?”

“I consent!” cried Jane. “It is to be, and I consent. How is it possible for me to do otherwise?” she ejaculated, looking up towards the ceiling. “Yes, Master Richard, I consent.”

Richard Ashbrook felt as if a load had been lifted off his heart. He clung to her, and covered her face with passionate kisses.

Thus ended his wooing. When his brother and sister returned from Stokeferry Farm he made them acquainted with all that had occurred, which did not at all surprise them.

Then the village gossips, as well as their more immediate neighbours, had prognosticated how it would end.

James Ashbrook purchased a farm adjoining Oakfield. He and his brother were partners, but Richard furnished the residence attached to the adjoining farm. To this he took his young wife after their union, which took place in less than six months after the proposal and acceptanoe of the same by Jane Ryan.

If Richard Ashbrook had been a devoted lover he was an equally devoted husband. He treated his young wife with uniform kindness, and indulged her in every thing.

In a twelvemonth she presented her husband with a daughter, which he declared was the image of herself.

After this the shadow which had fallen upon her, and which marriage had failed to dispel, became deeper and deeper still.

For her husband’s sake she endeavoured to assume an air of cheerfulness, and strove as best she could to make him believe she was happy. He did his best to make her so, but despite all this there were many in the neighbourhood who shook their heads, and said that Mrs. Richard Ashbrook was fading away. She believed so herself—​had always been under that impression. What she told the farmer before her marriage was true in substance and in fact.

She was a broken-hearted creature, and not all the wealth in the world—​not all the attentions of her devoted husband could remove the cankerworm which had crept into her heart.

Some persons are affected by sorrow for the departed in the smallest degree possible—​they are enabled to forget the past and look hopefully to the future; while others are struck down with such force that they are never able to rally—​people are so differently organised.

It is true Jane Ryan had lived on for some years, but it was a sort of living death. Even her marriage was but a gilt and painted funeral.

She had given her hand, and, indeed, her heart—​or what remained of it—​to the honest devoted man who led her to the altar, and since the union she had been a loving and exemplary wife, but she could not divest herself of the miserable fact that her days were numbered. The end came.

* * * * *

In a large darkened room of Richard Ashbrook’s house the wan figure of a woman is stretched.

The bedstead on which she lies, with its heavy hangings, presents something of a funereal aspect.

Its occupant is Jane Ashbrook.

She is calm, placid, and resigned. Her features wear a chastened and almost angelic expression. The ruddy hue of health has long since left them; this is succeeded by a delicacy of the skin which is something akin to wax-work.

She does not moan or murmur, but remains more like an immovable statue than aught else.

The dusky shadows of figures are creeping about the room. These are James and Richard Ashbrook, and their sister, Maude.

The sick woman has been dozing for an hour or more. Presently she opens her eyes, and murmurs the name of her husband.

He is by her bedside in a moment, and bends fondly over her.

“You are better, Jane—​say you are better,” he says, in an anxious tone.

“Better, because nearer home,” was the response.

An expression of anguish passed over the features of the farmer.

He sits himself down in a chair by the bedside of the sufferer, and remains silent and thoughtful.

Maude creeps up to the sick couch, kisses her sister-in-law fondly, and in a minute or so after this leaves, in company with her brother James.

Richard is left alone with his side wife.

He is a strong, powerful man, full of robust health, but feels now so borne down as to be almost prostrate.

For weeks his wife had been thus—​a mere shadow of her former self. Her malady appeared to be incurable.

Dr. Bourne, her medical attendant, had been unremitting in his attention; but he confessed himself quite unable to define the nature of the complaint—​it appeared to him to be more mental than physical, and for that reason it was beyond the reach of medicaments.

He did his best, however, but failed to arrest the decay which was so silently and secretly taking place.

The door of the room was gently opened, and Doctor Bourne entered in company with the nurse.

He looked at his patient, felt her pulse, watched the expression of her countenance for some little time, and then shook his head.

“Worse!” whispered the parson.

“Weaker, decidedly weaker; you must give her as much nourishment as possible.”

He went to a side table and wrote a precription, then he left.

The nurse went down-stairs to show the doctor out. Mr. Ashbrook left the sick chamber and met her upon her return.

“What does he say about his patient?” he enquired anxiously; “anything else?”

“She is weaker, and requires careful watching and the utmost care,” returned the nurse.

“What is your opinion, Mrs. Deacon? Tell me candidly—​for you have an opinion—​and are a good judge in matters of this sort.”

“Well, sir, ‘while there’s life there’s hope,’” said the woman.

She did not compromise herself by giving expression to this hackneyed quotation.

“Yes, that we all know,” muttered the farmer, “That’s but a poor consolation.

“You had better get a little rest now, I will sit up for the next two or three hours with your mistress.”

The nurse retired, and Richard Ashbrook returned to the sick chamber.

He sat himself down in an easy chair. In a short time after this his wife sank into a sound slumber, and the farmer himself dozed.

He was awoke by the sick woman softly calling him by name.

“What is the day of the month, Richard?” enquired his wife.

“The day of the month; it’s the twenty-first.”

“The twenty-first of October, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“Ah, nothing particular. You see, my dear good husband, I was not born under a fortunate star. I had my nativity cast a long time ago, and the horoscope proved that I was born under an unfortunate star. It showed also—” she paused suddenly, and closed her eyes.

“What, dear—​what did it show?” inquired the farmer.

“That between the twenty-first and twenty-fourth of October, 1874, a change would take place. Now I know what it means.”

The farmer felt like one who had received a heavy blow.

He comprehended her meaning, and big beads of perspiration fell from his temples.

“She believes that she is about to die,” he murmured; “but this is very terrible.”

“Ye mustn’t gi’ way, Jane—​mustn’t gi’ way to superstition,” he cried; “there beant a mossel o’ truth in these horeoscops—​not a mossel o’ truth in anything o’ the sort. Don’t ’ee believe a word o’ such nonsense. May be after all it’s that what’s making ’ee so ill.”

His wife smiled.

“My own dear Richard,” she murmured, “don’t give way—​be of good cheer.”

He wound his arms around her, and embraced her fondly.

Presently the nurse entered the room, and bade him seek rest.

He retired to a sleeping chamber adjacent to that occupied by his wife; the few broken sentences she had uttered troubled him much, but hope as yet had not deserted him.

The next day Mrs. Ashbrook appeared to be a little better—​was more cheerful; but as it waned, and evening crept on, she seemed to be quite listless and heedless of all around.

Those about her thought she needed repose, and did not trouble her with unnecessary questions.

“Where is Maude—​let me see her?” she said all of a sudden to her nurse.

Maude was her daughter, who had been so named after her aunt and godmother, Richard Ashbrook’s sister.

The child was brought in and placed in her mother’s arms.

She hugged the little thing, who gently sank to sleep on her mother’s bosom.

An hour passed—​mother and child were still locked in a close embrace.

Doctor Browne came. He glanced at the two figures on the bed, and then looked eagerly at the nurse.

“I think they are both asleep sir,” said the latter.

“How long have they been so?”

“For nearly an hour.”

“Please remove the child? Mrs. Deacon.”

The nurse drew the little thing from off her mother.

“One is asleep,” said the doctor in a solemn voice, which seemed to go through the heart of Richard Ashbrook, who had followed the doctor into the room.

“But it is the sleep of death.”

Farmer Ashbrook uttered a terrible cry. He fell into a chair, and burst into an agony of grief, which was dreadful to behold.

His wife, Jane Ashbrook, was dead!

She had passed peacefully and silently away. There was no expression of pain on her countenance, albeit she had died of a broken heart.

The wretch Gregson had suffered death for the murder of young Hopgood, but the fatal blow received by that ill-fated young man was the cause of another death. Jane Ryan had perished therefrom.

It is true she lived for ten years after the loss of her sweetheart, but she never recovered from the effects of the terrible scene she had witnessed, and hers is not a solitary instance of cases of this sort—​albeit, the world knows but little of them.

Life is like a fountain fed by a thousand streams that perish if one is dried. It is a silver chord twisted with a thousand strings that part asunder if one is broken.

Thoughtless mortals are surrounded by innumerable dangers that render it much more strange that they escape so long than that they almost all perish so suddenly at last.

We are encompassed with accidents every day to crush the decaying tenements we inhabit.

The seeds of disease are planted in our constitution by nature.

The earth and atmosphere, whence we draw the breath of life, are impregnated with death; health is made to operate its own destruction.

The food that nourishes contains the elements of decay; the soul that animates it by vivifying first, tends to wear it out by its own action; death lurks in ambush along the paths.

Notwithstanding this truth is so palpably confirmed by the daily example before our eyes, how little do we take it to heart!

We see our friends and neighbours die, but how seldom does it occur to our thoughts that our knell may give the next warning to the world.