Читать книгу The Hermit Convict - Rev. William Draper - Страница 6

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In the same vessel there was another convict, whose case this chapter will describe. David Argyle was the son of a 'well-to-do' farmer in Suffolk, who had inherited all his father's property, but lacked the necessary experience and perseverance which had contributed so much to make the elder Argyle a successful, and, consequently, a wealthy man. Like many young men who suddenly come into the possession of a considerable sum of ready money, he regarded his position as one in which he could enjoy life to his heart's content, and so he determined to have a spell of jollity to make up for the restraint which the plain habits of a very good father and mother had put upon him.

These are his own words; but weeks, and even months elapsed, after he had followed his father to the grave, and yet he was simply "Davie," as he was called, a plain country lad, the pride of his widowed mother, and an object of ridicule to some of the neighbors' sons; fast young men, who took care to express their opinions about him whenever an opportunity occurred.

Nearly two years thus passed away after the death of old Argyle, when the mother sickened, and, after a very brief illness, she was numbered with the dead. No one could be more affectionate and loving to her than the lad who was almost constantly by her bedside. The most experienced medical aid was procured, but the disease was incurable, and she knew it from the first day when it struck her down. David was most devotedly attached to his mother, and the thought of losing her was terrible to him, but as the end drew near, and the doctors plainly told him there was no hope, like young Jacob of old, he appeared to be superstitiously anxious to obtain the parental dying blessing, and who can say that there was any superstition in it after all. Had any one stood in the chamber of good old Mrs. Argyle, they must have been impressed with the solemn scene as they witnessed her feeble hand resting upon her son's head, and heard her, in faltering accents, pronounce the words, "God bless thee, my dear, good boy. Yes, the Lord lift up His countenance upon thee, laddie. The angel which hath redeemed me and thy father, my bairn, from all, yes, all evil, bless thee—even thee. And now, Davie, one counsel more, be ye sure ye meet father and mother in heaven. Love the Saviour, laddie; He has ever proved a good friend to your father and me." The last words were spoken at intervals, and with great difficulty. One last effort followed. Opening her eyes, the fond mother said, "Look—at—me." The young man raised his head, and with a look of unspeakable tenderness she said, "Jesus—precious—" and the tongue ceased its office.

The incidents associated with a mourning family are interesting, even instructive, but the experience of every one is too full of the reality of the thing, to make the bare repetition of such scenes a necessity. David Argyle saw his mother's corpse committed to the grave, and then he began seriously to consider what was necessary to be done to fill up the gap which death had made in the family circle. There was not a question but that home, or "the house," as he now termed it, was dull, "dreadfully dull." He was a very superficial reader, and the society of an old woman, who had been the house servant for many years, was not calculated to interest him very much. It was winter also, the evenings were long and tedious. He had no companions, nor was he clever in inventing sources of amusement or instruction. The great temptation was very strong now: "Run up to London, see real life there, have a taste of that which others enjoy so much, and after this nice change you will settle down to work all the better." His heart was quite ready to acquiesce in this proposal, which the tempter placed before him in this very plausible language; but sundry recollections of recent words which had sounded in his ears under circumstances which he then thought he could never forget, raised up a shield before the tempter, and for the time he was foiled. "No," said the young man, "I will remain at home."

But how true it is, that man actually unbolts the doors which keep temptation away from his view, merely to gain a momentary look at the pleasant prospect, and then he finds that he can never fasten them so securely as they were before. The tempter has only to use a little extra force and the barriers yield, and free ingress is given to the human house. David's desires ere long went far enough to take off all the fastenings by which the tempter had been baffled, and he was not in the least surprised or sorry to see that which was the personification of temptation, walk into his house and heart, in the person of a young man who, as it afterwards transpired, had laid a wager that he would bring out the young farmer to join a few jovial companions at a social 'free-and-easy' club, which had been established at the neighboring town of Leyton. David had been watching his visitor as he slowly rode across the common which adjoined his farm, but believing that he was on his way to town, he turned again to the well-spread table in the keeping-room, to discuss the usual lunch which always preceded a ride to market. Sitting with his back to the window, he did not perceive that anyone had entered the farmyard, until he was accosted with a cheerful: "Good morning, Argyle, excuse me, I came in without ceremony, you know."

"Quite right, neighbor Rouse," replied Argyle, "I am glad to see you. Why don't you give us a look in now and then, I am wretchedly dull."

"Oh! so I thought," said Richard Rouse, "and as I rode over, seeing your horse ready saddled, I supposed that you were off to market; and says I, 'here's the chance to break the ice.' No sooner said than done, that is my motto; so off I jumped, and here I am, old fellow!"

"And right welcome you are, Rouse," replied the young farmer; "come, take a snap, and we will ride in together."

"Many thanks, Argyle," said his visitor, "but I have only just breakfasted; we were late last night. What do you think of our little carousal? Let me see, there was Tom Jones and his two sisters, splendid girls, by-the-bye, and the three young Thurlows and no sisters, but to make up for their absence, we had the four Miss Gillinghams and then mother."

"Who weighed down all the three Thurlows, I suppose?"

"Exactly so," replied Rouse, "but they were not all. Old Squire Herbert dropped in on his way home, and a jolly old customer he is, Argyle. By the way, he was asking after you."

"After me!" said Argyle. "I never spoke to him in my live."

"Just so, my dear fellow, and the jolly old squire said he did not know why there should be such an estrangement between you; and now that you are indeed your own master, and the fortunate possessor of Argyle Farm, and ten thousand pounds in ready cash—"

"Who told you that?" said Argyle, interrupting his visitor rather sharply, at the same time looking him very keenly in the face.

Rouse saw that he was on delicate ground, and that the young farmer was as suspicious about any intermeddling with his private affairs as he was generally reported to be. But he was too good a tactician to be defeated upon such simple ground.

"That your father was wealthy, David," he replied, "everybody knew. That he had nearly that sum out upon the mortgage of the Woodbridge property—you know which I mean—was a public report, and more than a report, a certain fact. So people judge, my door fellow, and Squire Herbert spoke about it, saying he was as glad of your good luck as if you were his own son."

"Ah! well," replied Argyle, "you were talking about your company, what was it, a ball, or a family birthday, or—"

"A little social evening party, Argyle. You have been so shut up at home that you have heard little or nothing about our movements. Nor shall it be our fault, my dear fellow, if you do not become better acquainted with us."

"Well, we can talk about this as we go along," said Argyle, "but tell me, Rouse, what sort of a club is that which you wrote to me about some months ago. I really think—"

"That you will join us; now do, there's a good fellow," said Rouse, "the very thing I was going to ask you. We have good dinners, famous wine, capital company."

"Ah! there's the rub!" said Argyle, "the company at these places, my good father used to say, was likely to lead a fellow into bad habits."

"Not necessarily so," replied his companion. "I won't take offence, Argyle, at your remark, for you do not, I am sure, mean to charge me with such a fault."

"Oh, no, no, excuse me, I was speaking in general terms," said Argyle.

"And I, my dear fellow," replied Rouse, "am such a generality, that I mix in all kinds of society, but I do not know that I am a profligate for all that. Life is made up of variety, Argyle, and I am sure you must feel the need of it. Even the ladies say—jokingly of course—they wonder how you can live such a secluded life as you have lately."

"Indeed, indeed," said Argyle, with an ironical laugh; "I feel highly flattered; I did not think a creature besides old Betty had any interest in me. But I never was cut out for a ladies' man."

"You don't know; 'pon my honor, it is a fact," replied Rouse, "you need not laugh now, I can tell you that a pair of pretty eyes looking at you as if they intended to take no quarter is rather a formidable piece of business to face. Many an iron heart has been made red-hot by such a fire, before its possessor even knew what was the matter. Ah, never fear, Argyle," continued the speaker, "you are destined to fall down and worship the same idol some day."

"Let it come, Rouse, let it come, if it is to come, at present, I say, nothing shall tempt me to invest in such a lottery. But come, let us be jogging, or all chance of doing business will be over. Are you a seller or buyer, to-day, Richard?"

"Neither," replied Rouse, "I am merely going to town to attend our sub-committee. You will join us? Now, say yes, and if you regret it, why, call me anything you like."

Consent was given, and to Leyton the two young farmers rode at a smart pace—Argyle to sell some corn, Rouse to idle away an hour or two until market was over. The principal inn in the place was the White Lion, an old-fashioned house with a good posting, commercial, coach, and market connection. As a family hotel of a particularly homely but comfortable character, the White Lion was not to be despised.

A large and noble archway led into the hotel yard, so frequently seen in old fashioned posting-houses, and so much alike are these entrances to old hotels, that many of them appear as if they were designed by the same hand. Around this yard the hotel was built, enclosing it on three sides, the fourth part of the square being the fence of a very large garden, near to which were the stables, communication being provided by another archway, which led from the hotel to the stable-yard.

The bar, that immortal theme of all novelists, the constant source of righteous annoyance to neglected wives of tippling husbands, the exchange of scandalmongers, the paradise of news propagators, the sanctum sanctorum of tough old politicians, the commercial gentleman's retreat from L. s. d., and the parish clerk's levee room, how shall this great studio of human character be described? It is not every one who remembers such scenes as these cosy places presented, when a stage coach was changing horses preparatory to a start on the next stage. The coachman's "wee drop," or the passengers' steaming hot coffee, with a dash of brandy, or it may be the simple glass of ale, drawn by the magnificent hand of the great mistress of the house, or by the roguish, ever cheerful, and sometimes exceedingly satirical, mistress of the bar; the net bristling with golden lemons, the wonderfully painted bottles of mysterious import, with their necklace labels, heaps of pipes saying, "come and smoke me," boxes which came from nowhere, if the far-famed Havannah disowned their parentage, plates of tempting sandwiches, a crystal vase, the home of the most tender and charming celery under the sun, rows of decanters and cut wines, tumblers of all ages and capacities, from the poplar shape, renowned for ale, the solid foot-grog cistern, the gigantic soda-water fellow, and the landlord, the passengers, and the coachman all talking together, why these were at every stage, like new chapters in a book.

Often have we looked in and refreshed our inner man, then set out again; and thus from stage to stage onward we traveled till the journey being ended, we looked back upon our resting places, and were always of the opinion that even though they are mere places of commercial necessity, yet nothing can supply the place of a well conducted inn.

Nor must this eulogy be taken as a defence of the intemperate use of these things. An inn was, in the earliest ages, an institution and a necessity. Wine has been made ever since, and probably before the flood. The intemperate use of it none can defend, but the right to enjoy it as one of God's gifts, none with any reason can withhold. Intemperance in anything is hateful; gluttony, tobacco chewing, and sensuality, are evils equally as terrible as drunkenness, and yet there is a greater evil if possible than all these, the belief that reformation merely is sufficient to save the soul. There are many abstainers who are infidels as rank as the world has ever seen. The temperance movement every good man must approve, but to be temperate in drink, an abstainer from wine, and yet a filthy debauchee in practice, or even a scorner of Divine revelation, is to be as strange an anomaly as the human mind can conceive.

Having written so much of praise and condemnation, let me add that I would not keep an inn for all the gold in the world. Shades of the departed, ruined by strong drink, goaded by the devil to make use of liquor to work out your ruin, how must you haunt those vaults of delusive pleasure. In the world of ruin the publican's register of lost souls will be on awful library. But let us be just even where we blame. What shall be stored up there against usury, with its robbery, its rending of widows' hearts, its wholesale destruction of orphans' homes? Or how shall robbery, trickery, deceit, ingratitude, false witnessing, adultery, and self-worship, stand in the Day of Account? Place these in a row with intemperance, and it would be difficult to say which is the most hideous. Reform! yes, reform the world if you can, gentlemen, but heap not upon one word, all the vices of which human nature is so fatally capable.

But this is a digression; the subject, however, will become one of the greatest questions of the day, let this be the apology.

Let us take a peep at the remaining portion of this well ordered country hotel. It is customary to enter into the most minute detail in descriptions of houses, offices, furniture, and men and women in general, but as this is the very thing which will be omitted, too particular and exact proportion, situation, and general appearance of each room, passage waiter, servant, picture, dog, cat, horse, and anything else you please, will have to be for the most part imagined, if indeed anyone should feel an impulsive curiosity about them. The most splendid oratory cannot make a house anything but a dwelling, a room anything but an apartment; a cat is in like manner still a cat, tabby, tortoise, black or white, it does not signify. So the White Lion may be very soon as intimate an acquaintance as it is necessary to make it, if it is described as an old-fashioned, comfortable house, with lots of rooms; old furniture, very stately and massive; old, compact, well ordered stables; old steady-going horses, and genuine old post-boys, carrying over leaf the whole summary as you carry forward an account, by saying, "and old all sorts." There you have it in a small compass, and if you had spent a day or two in its simple, hospitable rooms, you would remember the old place as pleasantly as I do.

Old post-boys! How funny it must have been to be called a boy at sixty years of age. Jolly old fellows, some of those country town post-boys were. They were just as remarkable an institution as the inevitable old salts, which one meets at watering places, sea port towns, &c. Full of yarns as long as you please; a sixpenny yarn, or a shilling adventure, or a two and sixpenny hair-breadth escape, ending with "your honor," or even spiced now and then with a "my lord," or something like it. But Othello's occupation is gone. John the powdered post-boy, Jack the spruce leather-gaitered ostler, and Bob the slim dapper groom, with the pea green coat, large brass buttons, tight cords, and top boots; these are things of the past, compared with the ever rushing present.

Yes, "you would remember the old inn as well us I do," it is written, and truth claims a voice in approval. If you have seen such an old inn you will know all about its general particulars, but if your knowledge of such subjects does not include such an experience, it is extremely improbable that even a photograph would unveil any satisfactory information about it. It is certain that no modern hotel could boast of such comfortable and comforting eccentricities as were to be found here. If you rang the bell and ordered a ghost story, it is extremely likely that you would have had it served up with the highest sensational horror, which a literary kitchen could invent. As we never did order such a dish, we can only speak problematically. But in reference to honeymoons, why, bless your heart, the good landlady would ring the changes for an hour, in describing the high honors which had been heaped upon her from Hymen's altar. The visitor's book decidedly blushed with visions of extraordinary blessedness, which this old White Lion had witnessed. Scarcely had the recollection of one happy pair dissolved into history, than another cosy couple claimed the happy privilege of a brief sojourn in this marital paradise. To be sure the facilities for boating, fishing, riding and walking, were very great, but as honeymoons are not very frequently spent in such common-place pursuits, there certainly must have been other attractions and private reasons why Mrs. Lincoln should be able to say, and she said it with a nod and a wink as a conclusive accompaniment to the words, "Ah! they are not fools who come to my house, I can tell ye." Try to draw out her meaning beyond this, and you would have been disappointed. But they who professed to know a thing or two, would have it that everybody connected with this house had been well educated to mind then own business. If the most lovely duchess in the world had taken up her quarters at the White Lion, not a whisper would have gone forth from anyone in the establishment about her, or anything she chose to do. In a word, no one was stared at.

Probably this somewhat rambling description of a fine old inn would be out of place, and altogether uninteresting, if it had not been the scene of an event which made it for the time the centre of interest in the county. With this event, David Argyle will ever be associated. That afternoon's introduction to the farmers' club was full of fatality to him. It is true he met with jollity, good company, excellent wine, and the opportunity of being introduced to the most pleasant society. All these were very new to him, and he at once opened his heart to enjoy them. Of course he had no intention of falling into excess, "not he, indeed." So he stoutly resolved. But he had yet to learn that it is necessary for the most stout-hearted to take heed lest he fall. To his great surprise, he found that a relative, the only son of his mother's sister, was the paid secretary of the club, and on inquiry he also found that he was a clerk in a merchant's office in the town. There had been no correspondence between the two families for many years, and Argyle, presuming that as his cousin had only seen him as a boy, he would not recognise him now, abstained from speaking to him. But the wine set the talking faculties in motion, and the two relations were soon known as such. At first David Argyle treated the other with haughtiness and scorn, which the secretary repaid with quiet sarcasm. But the mercury rose with the heat of the room, and so did the young farmer's voice. "Money was nothing to him. Wine, waiter, more wine, champagne, bring in champagne for all, all, waiter, do you hear, for all; never mind what old penwiper says." He had passed the rubicon now; henceforth, "For he's a jolly good follow," and "We won't go home till morning," was shouted, bawled, hammered down with the customery "bravo," and assented to by Argyle, as long as he had the inability to unite in such senseless orgies. David was hopelessly intoxicated long before any of the others; only the cautious secretary escaped the universal contagion. At a late hour, Rouse and Argyle were assisted down the stairs which led to the inn yard, the latter having slept for an hour, and Rouse declared that he was "perfectly right." Argyle made several attempts to mount his horse, and at last succeeded in getting into the saddle with his face towards the tail of the animal, nor could any persuasion convince him that he was wrong. But as the horse moved on, he discovered that "the riding was very curious," and dismounting to ascertain if it was "all right," he was induced to remount this time with his face towards home. Home, alas! he never saw it again. Poor young fellow, little did he know whither he was riding. In about an hour after they left, a man, under the influence of great excitement, rushed into the bar of the White Lion, with the startling intelligence that a murder had been committed just outside the boundary of the town.

On being questioned by Lawyer Scarem, who was solacing himself after the fatigue of the day with his customary pipe and glass of grog, amidst many remarks of an irrevalent character, he informed the company present, that, "as he was walking home from Woodlands, to which place he had taken a parcel which had arrived by the last coach, he fell over a man who was lying across the pathway. In his fall he did not at first observe that another man was lying about two yards farther on towards the main road, but in getting up he stretched out his arm, which thus touched this man, who, he could plainly see by the strong moonlight, was covered with blood, and to the best of his belief was dead."

Here was an event for the inmates of the White Lion bar. They were a motley group, consisting of a recruiting sergeant, the vestry clerk, the head constable, Mr. Ropeyarn the grocer, Mr. Sugar the tailor, and Lawyer Scarem, in addition to the host and hostess of the hotel. The soldier and the constable, Mrs. Lincoln observed, were a host in themselves, and as to Lawyer Scarem, it was fortunate that he was on the spot, to which opinion Messrs. Ropeyarn and Sugar immediately assented. There was little difficulty in getting up an amateur bodyguard, and with the sergeant and the constable at the front, they soon arrived at the fatal spot. Here a shocking sight presented itself. The young man, Rouse, lay on the ground, with a terrible blow on the back of his head which had beaten in the skull, while Argyle, grasping his heavy whip in his hand, lay near him, either stunned or fast asleep. Rouse was quite dead. The metal knob of Argyle's whip was covered with blood, and his clothes were sprinkled with the same horrid hue. On a further search, Rouse's horse was found feeding by the roadside, Argyle's was never found.

It was with considerable difficulty that the constable could arouse Argyle, but after a while he sat up, and rubbing his eyes, the blood which was upon his hands, was transferred to his face, and then for the first time he began to realise the horrors of his position. To behold him as he gazed on the dead body of his young friend, frantically asking the crowd "what was the matter? and who had done it?" was something fearful. To be in his awful position was positively maddening. The wine was still in his head. It had struck deeply into his brain, and thus with a stupefied, but startled expression, he gazed on those who surrounded him with a vacant, perplexed countenance, for no one had answered his questions. Of course he was taken into custody, and with the lifeless body of his late companion, the procession returned to the town, meeting on the way numbers of the inhabitants, so that by the time the White Lion was reached a large crowd was collected. Stunned and distracted with the horror of the suspicion which was so strong against him, Argyle was unable to utter a word. In the morning he was taken before the magistrates, but the proceedings were of a very formal character, and he was remanded until an inquest had been held.