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with a chuckle of triumph. 'Why, it is but a week ago since that boy
was the bearer of the last notes which passed between us.'—'Liar!'
thundered George Dalton; and he was again on the point of rushing
on the Squire, when he checked himself, and turning to me said,
'Now, Tim, you are no story-teller; and, indeed, I ought scarcely to
insult Marion so far as to ask such a question. But can you not tell
this man to his face that he is what I just now called him; namely, a
liar?'—'Not if he tells the truth,' observed Mr. Bulkeley coolly.—I hung
down my head, and wished at the moment that the earth would
open and swallow me up.—'Tim,' said George Dalton, again speaking
in a hoarse tone, as dark suspicions were revived in his mind, 'does
this person who calls himself a gentleman utter facts? did you ever
convey letters between him and your sister? Come, answer me, my
boy: I cannot be angry with you.'—I faltered out a faint 'Yes.'—'Then
God have mercy upon me!' exclaimed George Dalton, in a voice of
piercing anguish, as he clasped his hands convulsively together.
"The Squire stood gazing upon him with fiend-like malignity. I cannot
describe the dreadful picture of despair which George at that
moment seemed to be. At length he turned again towards me, and,
grasping my shoulder so tight that I nearly screamed out with pain,
he said, 'Tim, tell me all, or I shall do you a mischief. Does Marion
receive letters from Mr. Bulkeley?'—'She did one,' I stammered in
reply, 'because I took it to her. The Squire wrote it at Mr.
Snowdon's.'—'And did Marion answer it?' he demanded.—'She did,' I
answered: 'but——'.—'Have you ever seen the Squire and Marion
together?' he asked in a hurried and now dreadfully excited tone.
—'Yes, once,' I said: 'but——.' And again I was about to give certain
explanations relative to what the Squire himself had represented to
me to be the nature and object of his letter to my sister—namely, to
apologise to her for some insult which he had offered her: but
George Dalton had not patience to hear me. Rushing upon the
Squire, he struck him to the ground, exclaiming, 'Vile seducer! you
glory in the ruin you have accomplished!' and then he darted away,
clearing the hedge with a bound, and was almost immediately out of
sight.
"The Squire rose slowly and with pain from the ground, muttering
the most dreadful threats of vengeance; and I, afraid that he might
do me a mischief, hurried off as quick as possible. I was old enough
to comprehend that George Dalton believed my sister to have been
faithless to him; and the same impression rapidly forced itself on my
own mind. Still I was sorry that George had not waited to hear all
the additional circumstances which I was about to relate; and it
somehow or another struck me that he would call on Mr. Snowdon,
the chemist. I cannot now account for this idea which I entertained:
but I suppose it must have been because that person's name was
mentioned in the conversation, and because I must have thought it
probable that George would seek the fullest confirmation of his
cause of unhappiness. It is, however, very certain that I hastened off
to the village as quick as my legs would carry me. But just as I
entered Mr. Snowdon's shop, I caught sight of George Dalton,
standing at the counter talking to that individual. He had his back
towards me; and the chemist was so occupied with the subject of
conversation, that he also did not notice my entrance. I knew not
whether to advance or retreat; and while I stood hesitating, I
overheard Dalton say, 'And you are sure that the letter was
addressed to Marion?'—'I happened to catch a glimpse of the
direction,' answered the chemist, 'and I saw the Squire give the lad
Timothy some money.'—'Then am I indeed a wretched, miserable
being!' exclaimed George Dalton; and he rushed wildly from the
shop, not noticing me as he hurried by. I was so alarmed by his
haggard looks and excited manner, that I was nailed as it were to
the spot; and it was not until Mr. Snowdon had asked me two or
three times what I wanted, that I recollected where I was. Then,
without giving any reply, I quitted the shop, and repaired
homewards.
"I was afraid to enter the house; for I felt convinced that poor
Marion's happiness was menaced, and that even if she was not
already aware of the presence of the storm, not many hours would
elapse ere it would burst upon her head. And when I did reach the
farm, my worst fears were confirmed. The place was in confusion;
Marion was in a state bordering on distraction; and my father and
mother were vainly endeavouring to comfort her. An open letter lay
upon the table:—without reading its contents I could too well divine
their nature and whence the missive came. For some minutes my
entrance was unperceived; but when at last the intensity of Marion's
grief was somewhat subdued, and her eyes fell on me, she
exclaimed, 'Oh! Tim, what have you done? what have you been
telling George, that he has written to say he will abandon me
forever, and that you can explain the cause?'—'Reveal the whole
truth, boy,' said my father sternly, 'as some atonement for the
misery which you have been instrumental in producing.'—I then
related all that had occurred with the Squire and at the apothecary's
shop.—My father and mother showed, by their lowering
countenances and searching glances towards my sister, that they
were a prey to harrowing suspicions; but they did not interrupt the
current of my story. Then, when I had concluded, Marion, without
waiting to be asked for an explanation, gave it in the following
manner:—
"'You cannot, my dear parents, think for a moment that I have acted
unworthily. Imprudent I may have been—but guilty, Oh! no—no!
One day the Squire called here, as you are well aware; and he sent
Tim to search after you, father. This was most probably a mere vile
subterfuge on his part; for when Tim had departed, the bad man
began to speak to me in a disparaging way of George; and when I
begged him to desist, as he was wronging an excellent being, his
language took a bolder turn. He paid me some compliments, which I
affected not to hear; and at last his language grew so insulting, that
I was about to quit the room, when he caught me round the waist.
Oh! how can I tell you his insulting language?—but he proposed to
me—to me, your daughter, and beloved by George Dalton as I then
was,—the detestable man implored me to fly with him to his
mansion—to become his mistress!'—Here my father and mother
made a movement indicative of deep indignation; and Marion then
continued thus:—'I started away from him—I was rushing towards
that inner room, when Tim returned. I was now no longer alarmed,
though still boiling with anger: nevertheless I had presence of mind
sufficient to command my emotion so far as not to utter a word of
reproach or complaint in the presence of my brother. For, in a
moment, did I perceive how necessary it was to retain in my own
breast the secret of the gross insult which I had received. I reasoned
to myself that the Squire was the landlord of the Daltons—that their
lease would expire at the end of the year—that it would break the
old man's heart to be compelled to quit a farm which had been in his
family for so many years—and that George possessed a fiery spirit,
which would render him blind to the consequences of avenging on
the Squire the insults offered to me. Of all this I thought: those
ideas flashed rapidly through my brain;—and I therefore not only
resolved to remain silent in respect to the insolence of Mr. Bulkeley,
but also tutored Tim to be so reserved, that you, my dear father and
mother, should not notice any thing unusual having occurred. When
Tim brought me the Squire's note, a week ago, I scarcely hesitated
to read it, thinking that it might indeed contain an apology. But, oh!
you may conceive my feelings, when I discovered that it repeated
the insulting proposals made to me on the first occasion. I knew not
how to act; and prudence struggled with wounded pride. But I
reflected that Mr. Bulkeley was wealthy and powerful enough to
crush us all—for we have seen instances, my dear parents, of the
rich landowners ruining the small farmers, who to all appearance
were independent of them: and again I resolved to adopt a cautious
line of conduct. I accordingly answered the Squire's note. I implored
him, as he was a gentleman and a Christian, not to molest me more
with importunities from which my very heart revolted; I besought
him not to ruin for ever the happy prospects of two families by any
means of vengeance with which circumstances or accident might
supply him; and I conjured him to believe that, in keeping secret all
that had hitherto passed between us, I was actuated only by the
best of motives. That letter was the one which Tim conveyed to the
Squire; and now, my dear parents, you know all.'
"I remember perfectly well that my father and mother were greatly
affected by the narrative which my pure-minded sister thus related
to them, and which was frequently interrupted by bursts of bitter
anguish on her part. She moreover added that she possessed the
Squire's letter to her and a copy of the one which she had written to
him.—'Give me those papers, my dear child,' said my father: 'and I
will at once proceed to neighbour Dalton's house. If I find George at
home, I will undertake to bring him back with me to pass the
remainder of the day, and to implore your forgiveness for his unjust
suspicions; and if he is not there, I am sure to see my old friend, to
whom I will give all the necessary explanations.'—Marion was
somewhat soothed by the hopes thus held out; and our father
departed to the Daltons' farm, which was about a mile off. Two
hours elapsed before he came back; and when at last we perceived
him returning through the fields, he was alone. Marion burst into
tears: a presentiment of evil struck a chill to her heart; and as our
father approached, the serious expression of his countenance filled
us all with alarm. He entered and seated himself without uttering a
word. Marion threw herself into his arms, saying in a broken voice,
'Father, tell me the worst: I can bear every thing save
suspense.'—'My dearest child,' answered the old man, tears trickling
down his cheeks, 'it has pleased heaven to afflict thee, and all of us
likewise through thee. George has quitted his home, and——.'—And
what?' demanded Marion hastily.—'And his father knows not whither
he has gone,' continued he: 'but when the first fever of excitement is
over, there can be no doubt that he will return. Old Mr. Dalton is
perfectly satisfied——.'
"But Marion heard not the words last addressed to her: she had
fainted in her father's arms;—and, when she was restored to
consciousness, she was so unwell that she was immediately
removed to her own chamber. For three weeks her life was
despaired of; and she was constantly raving of George Dalton. But at
last, youth, a good constitution, and the care taken of her,
triumphed over the rage of fever; and she was pronounced out of
danger. Alas! what replies could be given to her anxious, earnest
questions concerning George? Old Dalton had not heard of him since
the fatal day when he disappeared. Was he no more? had he in a
moment of frenzy laid violent hands upon himself? There was too
much reason to suppose that such was the case: otherwise, would
he not have written, or returned? As gently as possible was the fatal
truth, that no tidings had been received of him, broken to Marion;
and a partial relapse was the consequence. But in another week she
rallied again; and then the first time she spoke of him, she said in as
excited a tone at her feebleness would allow, 'Had he ceased to love
me—had he loved another, I could have borne it! But that he should
think me lost—faithless—degraded,—oh! that is worse than even the
bitterness of death!'
"Slowly—slowly did Marion recover sufficiently to rise from her bed:
but how altered was she! The gay, cheerful, ruddy girl, blooming
with health and rustic beauty, was changed into a pale, moping,
mournful creature, whose very presence seemed to render joy a
crime and smiles a sacrilege. The autumn came—the corn was cut—
the harvest, as plentiful as had been expected, was gathered in. Had
George been there then, that was the period settled for the
wedding. And, strange as it may seem, it was precisely on the day
originally resolved upon as the one to render the young couple
happy,—that old Dalton did receive tidings of his son. George was
alive, and had enlisted in a regiment then stationed at Chatham, but
shortly to embark for India. The young man wrote a letter
communicating these facts, and referring to a former letter which he
had written to his father a few days after he had quitted home, but
the miscarriage of which had produced so much uncertainty and
painful suspense. The colour came back to Marion's cheeks when
she heard that her lover was alive; and she said, 'Even though I may
never see him more, I can yet be happy; for he will now learn that I
am still as I have ever been, his faithful and devoted Marion!'
Meantime, old Dalton and my father were deliberating together what
course to pursue; and it was determined that the discharge of
George should be immediately purchased. The proper steps were
taken, under the advice of an attorney in the nearest market-town;
and in the mean time his father wrote to him a full account of the
Squire's treachery and Marion's complete innocence. The return of
post brought the tenderest and most pathetic letter to Marion,
imploring her forgiveness, and assuring her that his extreme love
had driven him to such a state of desperation as to render his native
district hateful to him, and had induced him to enlist. I need scarcely
say, that Marion now enjoyed hopes of happiness again: her cheeks
recovered their lost bloom—her step grew light as formerly, and her
musical voice once more awoke the echoes of the homestead. In six
weeks time we heard that George was free, and on his way home.
He came:—it is impossible to describe the unbounded joy of the
meeting!
"And now there was no longer any obstacle to the union of the
lovers, nor any wish in any quarter to delay it. The marriage was
accordingly celebrated and a happier pair never issued from the
village-church; nor did ever the bells appear to ring so merrily
before. There were grand doings at our farm-house, for my mother
was determined to give a treat to all her neighbours;—and the feast
was such a one as I never can forget. Long after George had borne
away his bride to his father's house, which, as already long before
arranged, was to be the young couple's home, the dancing was kept
up on the green in front of our dwelling, though the cold weather
had already begun to show itself. But all hearts were gay and happy,
and warm with good feelings; and the old ale and the punch flowed
bountifully; for it was one of those days in people's lives which are a
reward for whole ages of care. Ah! when I look back at those times,
and think of what I was—and now reflect for a moment on what I
am——But, no; I must not reflect at all. Let me continue this history
without pausing for meditation!
"The happiness of both families was now complete; for even old
Dalton declared that he had so much reason for joy in the turn
which circumstances had lately taken, that he could even make up
his mind to receive a refusal when he should apply for the renewal
of his lease. But just at this time fortune seemed determined to be
propitious; for Squire Bulkeley, who was in London when the return
of George and the marriage took place, sent down a legal gentleman
to make arrangements with his steward for the sale of a part of his
estate in Hampshire, as he wanted to make up the money to
purchase a small property in Kent. He was a wild and reckless fellow,
and full of whims and fancies; and he cared not which portion of his
land was sold, so long as his preserves and park were left. Well, it
happened that old Dalton, hearing of this, went straight to the
lawyer, and proposed to purchase the farm which had been rented
by his family for so many years. The offer was accepted: by the aid
of my father the money was made up and paid. Dalton was now a
landowner; but he did not remain so long—for he made over all his
newly acquired property to his son George, who laboured hard to
improve it.
"Shortly after this transaction, it was rumoured in the neighbourhood
that the Squire had flown into a tremendous passion when he
received the news that the Daltons had purchased the farm. He had
no doubt intended to turn them out at Christmas; but he had
omitted to except their farm from the part of the estate to be sold.
The Daltons cared nothing for his anger; and George even said that
he now considered himself sufficiently avenged upon the perfidious
gentleman. Shortly after Christmas the Squire came down to
Bulkeley Hall with a party of friends; and the mansion once again
rang with the din of revellers. And now I come to a very important
incident in my narrative.
"One day George Dalton had occasion to visit the neighbouring
market-town to buy a horse; and he stayed to dine in company with
the other farmers at the principal inn. The landlord of the inn dined
at the same table with his guests; and, during the meal, he informed
the company that a poor discharged gamekeeper had died at the
house on the preceding evening, leaving behind him his only
possession—the only thing that he had been able to retain from the
wreck of his former prosperity,—namely, a beautiful greyhound. The
farmers were interested in the tale, and instantly made a
subscription to defray the expenses of the poor man's funeral, and
remunerate the good landlord for the care and attention which he
had bestowed on the deceased during his last illness. The hound
was brought in, and every one admired it greatly. The landlord
observed that his wife had such an aversion to dogs, he did not dare
keep it on the premises; and he proposed that the farmers should
raffle amongst them to decide to whom the hound should belong.
This was assented to; and the lot fell on George Dalton. He
accordingly took the dog home with him, and related all that had
occurred to his father and his wife, both of whom were much
pleased by the acquisition of such a fine animal, and under such
interesting circumstances. The poor gamekeeper's dog accordingly
became an immediate favourite.
"About a week or ten days afterwards, and in the month of February,
George went out early, accompanied by the hound. The morning
was fine and frosty, but excessively cold; and George whistled
cheerily as he went along, Ponto trotting close at his heels. Suddenly
a hare started from her form; and away dashed the greyhound after
her. George knew that he had no right to pursue game even on his
own land; and he ran after the dog as hard as he could, calling him
back. But he might as well have whistled against the thunder: Ponto
was too eager in the chase to mind the invocations of his master.
Well, after a short but exciting run, the hound caught and killed the
hare in the very last field belonging to George's farm, the adjoining
land being the Squire's. And, sure enough, at that very instant Mr.
Bulkeley appeared, accompanied by two gamekeepers, on the other
side of the boundary palings. 'George Dalton, by God!' cried the
Squire, with a malignant sneer on his countenance.—But George
took no notice of his enemy; for he had promised Marion in the most
solemn manner to avoid all possibility of quarrelling with so
dangerous an individual.—'I did not know that you took out a
certificate, Mr. Dalton,' observed the Squire, after a pause.—'Neither
do I, sir,' replied George in a cold but respectful manner; 'and I have
done nothing that I am ashamed of; for, if you have been here many
minutes, you must have heard me trying to call the dog off.'—'We
know what we heard, Mr. Dalton,' said the Squire, with a significant
grin at his gamekeepers;—and away the gentleman and keepers
went, chuckling audibly. The very next day an information was laid
by the Squire against George Dalton, who accordingly attended
before the magistrates. Squire Bulkeley was himself a justice of the
peace; and he sate on the bench along with his brother magistrates,
acting as both judge and prosecutor. The two gamekeepers swore
that they saw George encourage the dog to pursue the hare; and it
was in vain that the defendant represented the whole circumstances
of the case. He was condemned in the full penalty and costs, and
abused shamefully into the bargain. Smarting under the iron scourge
of oppression, and acting by the advice of an attorney whom he had
employed in the case, George Dalton gave notice of appeal to the
Quarter Sessions. His wife, my father, and old Mr. Dalton implored
him to settle the matter at once and have done with it: but he
declared that he should be unworthy of the name of an Englishman
if he suffered himself to be thus trampled under the feet of the
despotic magistracy. The attorney, who was hungry after a job,
nagged him on, too; and thus every preparation was made to carry
the affair before the Sessions.
"The event made a great stir in that part of the country, and the
liberal papers took George's part. They said how utterly worthless,
as an engine of justice, was the entire system of the unpaid
magistracy; and they denounced that system as a monstrous
oppression, instituted against the people.[30] Well, the case came on
before the assembled magistrates; but on the bench sate not only
the justice who had condemned George Dalton, but likewise Squire
Bulkeley, the prosecutor himself! Judgment was given against my
brother-in-law; and he suddenly found himself called upon to pay
about sixty pounds—the amount of all the aggregate expenses
which the original case and the appeal occasioned. The money was
made up with great difficulty, and not without my father's aid; and
though George Dalton was thus relieved from any fears of the
consequences, yet he became an altered man. He went to work with
a heavy heart, because he could not prevent himself from brooding
over his wrongs. He also found frequent excuses for visiting the
village; and on those occasions he never failed to step into the ale-
house for a few minutes. There he found sympathizers; and his
generous nature prompted him to treat those who took his part. One
pot led to another; and every time he entered the ale-house, his
stay was prolonged. Care now entered both the farm-houses. In
one, old Dalton and Marion deplored the change which had taken
place in George; and in the other, my parents could not close their
ears to the rumours which reached them, nor shut their eyes against
the altered manner of their son-in-law. The great proof of dogged
obstinacy which George gave, was in his conduct respecting the
hound. Those who wished him well, implored him to dispose of it;
but he declared that he considered himself bound, by reason of the
manner in which he had acquired the dog, to maintain and treat the
animal kindly. He, however, kept Ponto chained up in the farmyard.
"Time wore on; the summer arrived and passed; and the autumn
yielded so good a harvest that the produce was a complete set off
against the heavy expenses entailed on the two families by the
unlucky appeal. This circumstance somewhat cheered George's
spirits; and the birth of a fine boy restored him almost completely to
his former gaiety. In the evening, instead of finding some pretence
to repair to the village, he sate with his beloved Marion; and
happiness once more entered the homestead. But misfortune was
again impending over the head of George Dalton. It was one
morning in the month of November, that he was repairing to his
work, with a spade and a hoe over his shoulder, whistling as he was
wont to do ere oppression had wronged him; and wondering, also,
how he could ever have been so foolish as to pay such frequent
visits to the public-house in the village. His mind was occupied, too,
with the image of his Marion, whom he had left nourishing her babe;
and perhaps his heart was never lighter than at that moment. But
suddenly, he heard a slight noise behind him; and, turning round, he
beheld Ponto, who, having succeeded in slipping his collar, had
scampered after his master. George's first impulse was to secure the
dog; but, as the devil would have it, at that very instant a hare
jumped from her form close by. Ponto escaped from George's grasp,
and the chase ensued. My brother-in-law was bewildered—he knew
not how to act; but at last he pursued the hound, taking care,
however, not to call him. Away went Ponto—the hare doubled and
turned—George managing to keep them in sight. At length, to his
horror, the hare swept towards a hedge, which in that point
separated the Daltons' property from the Squire's preserves:—the
hedge was passed by the pursued and the pursuing animals, and the
chase was now maintained on Mr. Bulkeley's estate. But the run
soon terminated by the death of the hare; and George, after casting
a rapid glance around to assure himself that the coast was clear,
sprang through the hedge to secure Ponto. He was, however,
doomed to misfortune on this, as on the former occasion. The
gamekeepers were up before he could retrace his steps into his own
property; and he was immediately seized as a poacher and a
trespasser. In dogged silence he accompanied the keepers to the
house of the same magistrate who had before convicted him; but
that 'worthy gentleman' was absent in London, and the prisoner was
accordingly taken before the rector of the parish, who was also in
the commission of the peace. The Squire was sent for, and the case
was entered into under all the unfavourable circumstances of a
previous conviction—a fruitless appeal—the exaggerated or
positively false representations of the gamekeepers—the malignity of
the Squire, and the readiness of his Reverence to believe every thing
that was set forth to the prejudice of the prisoner. The parson-justice
determined to send the case to the Sessions; and George was
ordered to find bail. This was easily done, and he was accordingly
liberated.
"This second misfortune, of the same kind, plunged the two families
into the deepest affliction, and made Marion very ill. George said but
little on the subject: he refused this time to employ any legal advice
in getting up his defence, both on account of the expense, and
because it was notorious that the unpaid magistrates always dealt
more harshly with those persons who dared to show fight with the
weapons of the law. Again there was a great sensation in the
neighbourhood; and every one waited anxiously for the day of trial.
That day came; and George left his Marion on a bed of sickness, to
repair to the market-town. The Squire, the parson-justice, and the
magistrate who had convicted the defendant on the previous
occasion, and who had by this time returned from London, were all
on the bench. The two gamekeepers swore that George Dalton had
coursed with the same hound which had led him into trouble before
—that he had persisted in keeping the dog in spite of the
remonstrances of his friends—that in the case then under the
cognisance of the court, he had encouraged the dog to chase the
hare—that he had followed into the Squire's land—and that he was
in the act of concealing the hare about his person when he was
stopped by the keepers. George told the entire truth in defence, and
implored the magistrates not to allow him to be crushed and ruined
by the malignity of Squire Bulkeley. He was then about to enter into
explanations to show wherefore the Squire persecuted him; but the
chairman stopped him abruptly, saying, that he had no right to
impute improper motives to any member of the court. The Squire,
moreover, indignantly—or, at least, with seeming indignation—denied
any such selfish purposes as those sought to be imputed to him; and
it was very evident, that even if the magistrates were not already
prejudiced against Dalton, this attempt at explanation on his part
fully succeeded in rendering them so. George was sentenced to
three months' imprisonment in the County House of Correction; and
he was forthwith removed thither without being allowed to go home
first and embrace his sick wife.
"You may suppose that Marion was distracted when she received this
intelligence, although my mother went and broke it to her as gently
as possible. Old Dalton was so overwhelmed with grief that he
became dreadfully ill, took to his bed, and died three weeks after his
beloved son's condemnation. My mother went to stay altogether
with Marion until George's return, which took place at the expiration
of his sentence. But how he was altered!—altered in mind as well as
in personal appearance. He was gaol-tainted: his honourable feelings
were impaired—his generous sympathies were ruined. He was still
kind and tender to Marion and his child; but his visits to the ale-
house soon re-commenced, and he neglected his work more and
more. One night, about six weeks after his release from prison, a
tremendous conflagration was seen in the immediate neighbourhood
of the Squire's mansion: all the out-houses and farms were on fire;
and, despite of the assistance rendered by Mr. Bulkeley's people,
those premises were reduced to ashes. That it was the work of an
incendiary was clearly ascertained; and suspicion instantly pointed to
George Dalton. He was taken before a magistrate and examined; but
nothing could be proved against him. The magistrate, however,
observed, that he felt convinced of George's guilt, and deeply
regretted the necessity there was to discharge him. I well remember
that my father and mother evinced by their manner their fears that
George was indeed the incendiary.
"From that moment a dreadful change came over my sister Marion.
She grew profoundly melancholy; but not a murmur nor a complaint
escaped her lips. There can be no doubt that she was aware who
the incendiary was; and that knowledge was the death-blow to her
happiness. The child, deprived of its proper nutriment—for Marion
wasted to a mere shadow—drooped and died; and the poor mother
declared hysterically that its loss was the greatest blessing which
could have happened to her. This was the only allusion she was ever
heard to make, direct or indirect, to the unhappy state of her mind
and of her home. George continued kind to her; but kind rather in
the shape of forbearance than in tokens of affection: that is to say,
he never said a harsh word to her—nor beat her—nor slighted her;
but he gave her little of his society, and was usually silent and
thoughtful when in her presence.
"One day the parson-justice, whom I have before mentioned, called
on the Daltons, and remonstrated with George on his conduct in
absenting himself from church.—'I shall never go again, sir,' was the
dogged answer.—'And why not?' demanded the clergyman.
—'Because I got no good by it,' replied Dalton. 'The more I strove to
be respectable, the more I was persecuted. The hound I liked,
almost as if it was a human being, and which got me into two
dreadful scrapes, was obliged to be given away; my father was killed
by grief for my wrongs; and my wife's sorrow has led to the death of
my child. My character is gone; and I know that sooner or later, I
must be ruined, as I have no heart for work. Every thing that one
prays for, and that I have so often prayed for, has been swept away:
I mean an honest reputation; the bread of industry; a cheerful
disposition, and the health and long life of those who are near and
dear to us.'—'Then you refuse to go to church any more?' said the
parson-justice.—'I do,' was the answer; 'and the law can't compel
me.'—'We shall see,' observed the Rector; and away he went. A few
days afterwards the Squire issued a summons for George Dalton to
attend before him. George went, and found that the Rector had laid
an information against him, under an obsolete Act of Parliament,[31]
for having absented himself from divine service during a period of
six months. George was astounded at the charge, but could not
deny its truth. The Squire accordingly sentenced him to a month's
imprisonment in the House of Correction; and George was taken
back to his old quarters—to the farther contamination of a gaol!
"This was another dreadful blow for Marion; and it produced such an
effect upon our father, that, like old Dalton, he fell ill, and soon died.
When George was liberated once more, he was compelled to part
with his farm at a great loss; for his misfortunes and his absence on
two occasions had left it but indifferently cultivated; and, moreover,
as my father was now gone, it was thought better that we should all
live together. Dalton's farm was accordingly put up for sale; and the
Squire became the possessor of the land once more. George was
now almost constantly at the ale-house. Instead of expending the
money realised by the sale of the farm, after paying the debts due,
in increasing the stock and improving the tillage of our land, he
squandered it away on worthless companions. His wife never
remonstrated when he came home late; but would sit up for him
patiently and resignedly: and if ever my mother said any thing, she
would observe, 'Poor George feels his wrongs too acutely to be able
to bear up against them: there are great allowances to be made for
him.' Thus did about two years pass away; and, though I and the
two labourers whom we kept worked hard on the farm, yet it wanted
the master-hand to superintend; and we found that its produce now
scarcely yielded a bare maintenance when every thing was paid.
Marion gradually got worse; but her endurance was inexhaustible. It
often gave me pain to look at that poor, pale, wasted young woman,
and think of her blooming charms when she first loved George
Dalton. Her heart was breaking slowly—slowly—slowly! Had she
been passionate, or liable to the influence of strong emotions, she
would have gone rapidly down to the tomb; but she was so meek—
so amiable—so resigned—so patient—so enduring, that her very
weakness was her strength.
"Upwards of two years had passed since George's second liberation
from confinement, when it was found necessary to raise money to
increase the stock of the farm, and buy seed for sowing. George
applied to the same attorney who had got up his defence on the
occasion of his appeal; and this man offered to induce one of his
clients to lend a certain sum on George's and my mother's joint bill
of exchange, which he said would save all the expense of a
mortgage. My mother objected strongly; but George promised so
faithfully to amend his conduct if she would consent, that she did
agree. The money was raised; but a considerable portion found its
way to the public-house before any purchases were made. Even
then, George forgot his pledges, and became, if possible, more idle
and dissipated than before. The bill became due, and there were no
assets to meet it. The lawyer, however, undertook to manage the
affair; and he induced George and my mother to sign some
parchment deed, which he previously read over in a hasty mumbling
way, and in which blanks were left for the names of another person
who appeared to be interested in it; and also blanks for certain
dates, fixing the particular conditions as to time. My mother inquired
why the name of the other party was not filled in; and the lawyer
replied, with a chuckle, 'Oh! that is for the name of my client; and as
he has only lent the money to serve you, and not as a mere lender,
motives of delicacy induce this suppression for the time being.'—My
mother did not like it; but George urged her to sign, and she did so.
"Three months after that an execution was levied upon the farm, at
the suite of Squire Bulkeley, the lawyer's accommodating client, who
had hitherto kept his name secret! George Dalton was at first a prey
to the most terrific rage; but he mastered his feelings at the
intercession of Marion and our mother. We were compelled to quit
the farm, which now became the property of the Squire, by virtue of
the roguish deed which had been drawn up by the unprincipled
attorney; and we retired to a humble lodging in the village. Need I
say how we all felt this sad reverse—this dreadful degradation? My
mother and Marion strove hard to subdue their anguish, in order not
to irritate the already much excited George; but there were
moments when his outbursts of rage were furious in the extreme.
He invoked curses upon the head of the Squire, whom he
denounced as the murderer of his father and of mine, and also of his
child; and he vowed to wreak a deadly vengeance upon him. At the
ale-house, it seems, these threats were repeated, accompanied with
the bitterest imprecations. On the following day George was
arrested, and conveyed before the parson-justice, on a charge of
threatening the life of Squire Bulkeley. He was ordered to find good
bail for keeping the peace; but security was impossible in respect to
one so fallen, lost, and characterless as he. To prison, then, again he
was sent; and for three months he languished there, doubtless
brooding over the awful wrongs which the Squire had heaped upon
him. And all this time the Squire held up his head high; and no one
in his own sphere of life seemed to think that he had acted at all
unjustly or tyrannically. On the contrary, the gentry and the
influential farmers in the neighbourhood, looked on George Dalton
as an irreclaimable scamp, who had only got what he well deserved.
Even those persons of the poorer class, who were formerly our
friends, looked coldly on us, and shook their heads when the name
of George Dalton was mentioned. So sure is it that if you give a dog
a bad name, you may hang him.
"We lived as sparingly as possible on the wreck of our little property,
during the three months that George's third imprisonment lasted;
but I found it very difficult to get work, as the farmers said 'that I
was as bad as my brother-in-law.' And yet there was not a steadier
lad in the whole county than myself; and, though invited, I never set
foot in the ale-house. I was moreover regular in attendance at
church, along with my mother and sister. But I got a bad name
without deserving it; and even when I could procure a little
employment, I was subjected to a thousand annoyances. Unpleasant
hints would be dropped about the burning down of the Squire's out-
houses, and the name of George Dalton was darkly alluded to in
connexion with that business; or, if I refused, on a Saturday night, to
accompany my fellow-labourers to the ale-house, I was taunted with
knowing something that I was afraid of confessing in my cups. At
that time I often thought of running away, and seeking my fortune
elsewhere; but when I looked at my poor mother, now deprived of
almost necessaries, and my sister pining away, I had not the heart to
do it. Besides, I was greatly attached to George Dalton, and was
anxious to see in what state of mind he would come out of prison.
Three times during his incarceration was Marion allowed to visit him;
and on each occasion she returned home to our humble lodging
weeping bitterly. Neither my mother nor myself ever questioned her
much; for we knew her extreme devotion to George, and that she
would not only always endeavour to conceal his failings as much as
possible, but that she likewise strove to hold out hopes of his
complete reformation. But when he was emancipated once more, he
had become sullen, dogged, and morose—forbearing only in respect
to Marion, to whom he could no longer be said to be positively kind.
He did not mention the name of the Squire, nor in any way allude to
him; neither did he visit the ale-house—and thus my mother and I
began to hope that Marion's fond hopes were likely to be fulfilled.
"Having recruited his strength by a few days' rest, after his half-
famished sojourn in the gaol, George one morning said to me, 'Now,
Tim, you and me will go out and look for work.' We accordingly set
off, but applied fruitlessly at all the farm-houses in the
neighbourhood. Some did not want hands: others positively refused
to have any thing to do with George Dalton or any one connected
with him. We were returning homeward, mournful enough, when we
passed a large lime-kiln, the owner of which had been very intimate
with George's father and mine. He happened to be coming up from
the pit at the moment when we were passing; and stopping us, he
entered into conversation. Finding that we were in search of work,
he offered to employ us in the chalk-pit; and we readily accepted the
proposal. Next day we went to work; and when the Saturday night
came round, we were paid liberally. Thus several weeks elapsed; and
we earned enough to keep the home comfortably. Our master was
good and kind to us; and the spirits of my brother-in-law appeared
to revive. But he never mentioned the Squire, nor alluded to the
past oftener than he could help.
"We had been employed in this manner for about three months,
when one evening George and I stayed later than the other
labourers in the chalk-pit, to finish a job which we knew the owner
wanted to be completed as soon as possible. It was ten o'clock
before we made an end of our toil; and we were just on the point of
retiring, when we saw two persons walking slowly along the brink of
the chalk-pit. The moon was bright—the night was beautifully clear;
and we obtained a full view of the two figures: but as we were at
the bottom of the precipice, they could not have seen us, even if
they had looked attentively downward. 'Tim,' said George, in a low,
hoarse whisper, 'one of those men is the Squire. I recognised his
infernal countenance just now when the moonlight fell full upon it.'—
We remained perfectly quiet at the foot of the chalky side of the pit;
although I do not believe that George had any bad intention in view,
and I only stayed because he did.
"The Squire and his companion began to talk together; and by the
name in which Mr. Bulkeley addressed the other, George and I
immediately knew that he was one of the very gamekeepers who
had twice perjured themselves in mis-stating the circumstances
connected with the exploits of Ponto.—'And so you say that the
scoundrel Dalton works in this pit now, eh?' observed the Squire.
—'Yes, sir,' replied the other: 'he's come down to that at last.'—'By
God! I never shall be contented till I send him to Botany Bay, or to
the scaffold!' exclaimed the Squire. 'But sooner or later, you see, I
obtain vengeance on those who offend me. Old Splint refused to sell
me his field, and spoke insolently to me: he died of grief through all
that has happened, and the entire farm is now mine. Old Dalton
contrived to buy his land, through my cursed neglect in forgetting to
tell my agent to except his property from any part that might be
sold; but he also died of grief, and the land has come back to me.
Ah! ah! I bought that in again too, no doubt to the vexation of
young Dalton. Then, next we have the insolent jade Marion: she
refused my overtures, and persisted in marrying Dalton; and what
has she gained? Nothing but misery. As for George Dalton himself,
he insulted and struck me, besides carrying off Marion as it were
before my very eyes and making her his wife, when she was much
more fitted to become my mistress;—and what has he got for his
pains? I have crushed and ruined him, and I will never stop till I
have shown him what it is to dare to offend an English landowner.
But you say that this is the pit where he works?'—'Yes, sir,' answered
the gamekeeper.—'Well, I shall see his master to-morrow,' continued
the Squire; 'and I'll be bound to say George Dalton will not do
another week's work in this place. You may now go and join your
men in the preserves; and I shall return to the Hall, by the short cut
through the fields. The night is uncommonly fine, however, and is
really tempting enough to make one stay out an hour or two.'—'It is
very fine, sir,' answered the gamekeeper. 'Good night, sir;'—and the
man walked rapidly away, the Squire remaining on the edge of the
pit, about thirty feet above the spot where George and I were
crouched up.
"'Tim,' said George at last,—and his voice was deep and hollow,
although he spoke in a low whisper,—'do you remain here quite
quiet: I must have a word or two with that man.'—'For God's sake,
George,' I said, 'do not seek a quarrel.'—'No, I won't seek a quarrel
exactly,' returned my brother-in-law; 'but I cannot resist the
opportunity to tell my mind to this miscreant who is now seeking to
deprive us of our bread.'—And before I had time to utter another
word, George was gliding rapidly but almost noiselessly up the
craggy side of the chalk-pit, holding by the furze that grew in thick
strong bunches. I confess that a strong presentiment of evil struck
terror to my soul; and I remained breathless and trembling, where
he had left me, but gazing upwards with intense anxiety. 'Holloa!'
suddenly exclaimed the Squire, who had remained for nearly three
minutes on the top of the precipice after his gamekeeper had quitted
him—most likely brooding over the new scheme of vengeance which
his hateful mind had planned: 'holloa!' he said; 'who is there?'—'I,
George Dalton!' cried my brother-in-law, suddenly leaping to within a
few paces of where the Squire was standing, and confronting the
bad man like a ghost rising from a grave in the presence of the
murderer.—'And what the devil do you want here, scoundrel?'
exclaimed the Squire.—'Rather what do you want, plotting against
me still?' demanded George. 'I overheard every word that passed
between you and your vile agent; and if there was any doubt before
as to your detestable malignity, there is none now.'—'Listeners never
hear any good of themselves,' retorted the Squire; 'and if I called
you a rascal, as perhaps I might have done, I meant what I said,
and you heard yourself mentioned by your proper name.'—'Villain!
miscreant!' cried George, now quite furious; 'you shall no longer
triumph over me!'—And in another moment they were locked in a
firm embrace, but not of love; and in the next moment after that,
they rolled over the edge of the precipice, down to within a few
paces where I was standing.
"A scream of terror escaped me; for I thought that they must be
killed. The Squire lay senseless; but George leapt upon his feet—and
almost at the same instant a low moan denoted that his enemy was
not dead.—'Thank God, murder has not been done!' I exclaimed.
—'But murder will be done, Tim, this night,' said George, in a voice
not loud, but so terrible in its tone that it made my blood run cold in
my veins. 'Yes,' he continued, 'my mortal enemy is now in my power.
For a long time have I brooded over the vengeance that I had
resolved to take upon him when no one should be near to tell the
tale; for you will not betray me, Tim—you will not give me up to the
hangman on account of what I may do?'—'George, I implore you not
to talk thus,' I said, falling on my knees at his feet.—'As there is a
living God, Tim, above us,' said George, solemnly, 'if you attempt to
thwart me, I will make away with you also!' And having thus spoken,
he raised the Squire in his arms, while I still remained on my knees,
horrified and speechless. Never, never shall I forget the feelings
which then possessed me! The Squire recovered his senses, and
exclaimed, 'Where am I? Who are you?'—'George Dalton, your
mortal enemy,' was the terrific reply.—'Oh! I recollect now,' cried the
Squire, wildly. 'But do not murder me!'—'Your last hour is come! and
your death shall be as terrible as human revenge can render it!' said
George, in a voice which I should not have recognised without a
foreknowledge that it was actually he who was speaking.—'Mercy!'
cried the Squire, as George dragged him away towards the middle of
the pit.
"Oh! then I divined the dread intent of my brother-in-law; but I
could not move a hand to help, nor raise my voice to shout for
assistance in behalf of the victim. There I remained on my knees—
speechless, stupified, deprived of motion,—able only to exercise the
faculty of sight; and that showed me a horrible spectacle! For,
having half stunned the Squire with a fearful blow, inflicted with a
lump of chalk, George dragged him towards the kiln in which the
lime was still burning, diffusing a pale red glow immediately above.
'Mercy!' once more cried the Squire, recovering his senses a second
time.—'Mercy! miscreant,' exclaimed George; 'what mercy have you
ever shown to me?' and, as he uttered these words, he hurled his
victim, or rather his oppressor, into the burning pit! There was a
shriek of agony—but it was almost immediately stifled; and the lurid
glow became brighter, and the form of my brother-in-law seemed to
expand and grow vast to my affrighted view; so that he appeared
some dreadful fiend bending over the fiery receptacle for damned
souls!
"Still was I a motionless, speechless, stupified spectator of that
horrible tragedy, at a distance of about twenty yards. But no words
can describe the dreadful feelings that seized upon me, when I
suddenly beheld an object reach the top of the burning kiln, and
cling there for an instant, until George Dalton with his foot thrust
him back—for that object was indeed the Squire—into the fiery
tomb! Then a film came rapidly over my eyes—my head seemed to
swim round—and I fell back senseless. I was aroused by a sensation
of violent shaking; and, on opening my eyes, I saw George Dalton
bending over me. I shuddered fearfully—for all the particulars of the
dreadful deed so recently performed, rushed to my mind with
overwhelming force; and I remember that I clasped my hands
together in an agonising manner, exclaiming, 'My God! George, how
could you do it?'—'Tim,' he replied, 'I do not repent what I have
done. Human endurance could not stand more. If I had to live the
last hour over again, I would act in the same manner. Your father—
my father—and my child, were all as good as murdered by that man:
and he has deserved death. Death he has met at last; and the
sweetest moments I ever tasted were when I saw him crawling
painfully up from the smouldering bottom of the pit, with his flesh all
scorched, his clothes singed to tinder, and his face awfully disfigured,
—clinging, too, with his burnt hands to the burning lime, and too
wretched—yes, too full of horror, even to utter a moan. Then I
kicked him back, and I watched his writhings till all was over. He
died with difficulty, Tim; and my only regret is that he was not ten
hours in the tortures of that death, instead of as many minutes. But,
come, get off your knees, and let us be going. I do not ask you
whether you mean to tell of me, because that would not prevent you
if you have the intention.'—'George, do you think it possible!' I
exclaimed, scarcely able to recover from the horrified sensations
which were excited by the cold, implacable manner in which he had
described the dying efforts and agonies of his enemy.—'Well, Tim,'
he said, 'I don't ask you for any promises: you can do as you like.
One thing is very certain, I could never harm you; and so, if you do
take it into your head to turn round upon me, you would be treating
me as I never should treat you. Let us say no more about it; and if
you can keep a composed countenance before the women, do.'
"We left the pit; and when we reached the top, George said, 'You go
one way, and I will go another. If you are met out late by any one,
you would not be suspected; but I should—and I would not involve
you in any danger by your being seen with me; for, remember Tim,'
he added, as we were about to separate, 'if I should happen to be
caught out, I shall never say that you were present. And now get
home as soon as you can; and say that you left work an hour ago,
but that you took a walk, or something of that kind, before you went
home. You can also seem surprised that I have not yet come back:
that is, if I don't get home before you.' We parted, and I took the
nearest road to the village, which I reached a little after eleven.
Marion and my mother were rather uneasy at our absence; and I
was quite unable to master my feelings so far as to appear
composed and comfortable. Indeed, they were already
overwhelming me with questions, when George made his
appearance. I was astonished to see how happy he appeared: there
was, positively, a glow of animation in his countenance, as if he had
done some admirable deed. Somehow or another, his good spirits
were catching; and I began to think that an admirable deed had
really been accomplished, in ridding the earth of a monster whose
delight was to crush and oppress the poor. George said that he had
been to deliver some message to the owner of the kiln, after he had
separated from me; and that made him so late. I had already stated
that I had taken a good long walk, and our tales were believed. But,
when the two women retired to rest, and George and I were left
alone for a few minutes, his manner suddenly changed, as he said in
a hoarse, low whisper, 'Tim, there is danger menacing me. A few
minutes after you and I parted, I met the Squire's gamekeepers near
the pit, as they were going their rounds on account of the poachers;
and they recognised me. My only chance of safety is in the
probability that the lime will consume the body entirely. At all events
I shall be the first at the pit in the morning.' I was horror-struck at
what he told me, and conjured him to seek safety by flight; but he
declared his resolution to await the issue of events, and trust to
fortune. He said that he felt perfectly happy in having wreaked his
vengeance upon the Squire, and should not experience other
feelings, were he on the scaffold. He then rose and went to join
Marion, while I prepared to spread my bed as usual on the floor of
our little parlour.
"It was not yet day-light when I was awakened by hearing a noise in
the room; and on inquiry, I found that it was George, about to sally
forth, as he had intimated to me on the preceding night. I offered to
get up and accompany him; but he said, 'Not for the world, Tim.
Should any thing happen to me, you must be at least safe, for those
poor creatures of women cannot be left without a friend and
protector.' He then left the room, and in a few moments I heard the
street-door closing gently. I lay down again and tried to sleep, but
could not. An indescribable feeling of uneasiness was upon me, and
I found myself, even against my will, balancing and calculating the
chances for or against the detection of the murder. At length my
mind was worked up to such a pitch of excitement that I could
remain in bed no longer; and I rose and dressed myself. Having
opened the shutters, I found that the day was just breaking. I
cleared away the bedding, and laid the breakfast-table, as was my
custom. Presently my mother and Marion made their appearance;
and we sate down to the morning meal. But I could eat nothing; and
my uneasiness was soon perceived. 'Tim,' said Marion, 'there is
something upon your mind: I know there is. You cannot conceal it;
and if you deny it, you will not be speaking the truth. In the name of
heaven, tell me what grieves you! And why has George gone out so
unusually early and without his breakfast this morning?'—I assured
both my sister and mother that there was nothing the matter with
me, and that George had merely gone out early to do a good day's
work, as he hoped to get an increase of wages. Marion was not
satisfied; but she saw that it was useless to question me, at least
before our mother: accordingly, when the latter left the room after
breakfast, my sister again urged me to make her acquainted with
the cause of the secret anxiety which she knew was preying upon
me. I renewed my protestations that she was mistaken. 'Well, Tim,'
she said in her quiet, plaintive manner, while her blue eyes filled with
tears, 'if any thing should happen, the blow will be certain to kill me,
because I shall be unprepared for it.'—For a few moments I
hesitated whether I would confide to her the terrific secret of the
murder; but I had not the courage, and hurried away to join my
brother-in-law at the kiln.
"As I passed through the village, with my pickaxe on my back, I met
a person whom I knew. 'Splint,' said he, 'have you heard any
thing?'—I know that I turned deadly pale, as I stammered out, 'No,
nothing particular.'—He did not notice my change of countenance,
but added, 'The Squire is missing, and foul play is suspected. That is
all I have heard. But where is George?'—'Why should you instantly
ask that question, after mentioning the report about Squire
Bulkeley?' I asked; and it was with the utmost difficulty that I could
restrain my feelings so as to speak in a manner at all composed.
—'Oh! only because if any thing should be wrong, you know, I am
afraid that George Dalton would be suspected first; as every one is
aware that he is no friend to the Squire;'—and the man passed on
his way, not having intended to say any thing cruel or cutting, for he
was a good kind of a fellow. My alarms increased; and I felt so
terribly uneasy, that I knew not whether to throw down my pickaxe
and run away altogether, or whether I should proceed to the chalk-
pit. But while I was still weighing in my mind all the chances for and
against detection, I came within sight of the fatal spot where the
dreadful murder had been perpetrated. There was the height from
which my brother-in-law and the Squire had rolled down, so firmly
locked in each other's hostile embrace: there was the chimney of the
kiln, in the burning-pit of which the wretched man had endured such
fearful agonies before death released him!
"I know not how it was—but, though I really wished to fly from the
fatal spot, some strange influence urged me on, or rather attracted
me thither. When I reached a point from which I could command a
view of the depths of the chalk-pit, an icy chill struck to my heart.
George was in the grasp of the Squire's two principal gamekeepers;
and the labourers of the pit were gathered round the mouth of the
kiln, in a manner which convinced me that they had made some
discovery. At that instant the words which George had addressed to
me that morning, flashed back to mind:—'Should any thing happen
to me, you must be at least safe; for these poor creatures of women
cannot be left without a friend and protector.'—My soul recovered all
its power, and I felt that the truth of those words was strong indeed.
Yes—what would become of my poor mother and the unhappy
Marion, if both of their protectors were snatched away from them?
Never was presence of mind more necessary. With a firm step I
descended the sloping path leading into the pit, and affected
extreme surprise when I beheld George in the custody of the
gamekeepers. A rapid but significant glance on his part encouraged
me to maintain the part I was playing; and fortunately no one
suspected that a mere lad of fifteen or sixteen like me had any hand
in the dreadful deed of which there was now evidence to prove the
perpetration. It was however with no affected horror that I gathered
from the hurried words of the labourers the particulars of the
discovery. It appeared that the absence of the Squire from home all
night had created an alarm; and this was augmented when it was
ascertained that the Squire had been with one of his gamekeepers
at the chalk-pit, and that half an hour afterwards this same keeper
and another had encountered George Dalton in the same vicinity.
The gamekeepers, finding that the Squire had not returned home all
night, repaired direct to the chalk-works, where they found George
Dalton had just arrived; and the dawn of day showed them enough
at the bottom of the lime-pit to convince them that murder had been
perpetrated. To the questions put to him by those who arrested him,
George replied that he had parted from me at about a quarter to ten
o'clock on the previous evening—that I had returned home—and
that he had remained behind to finish his work;—but he denied
having seen the Squire at all.
"I may as well state now, although I was not aware of the fact till
some hours later on that terrible day, that the Squire's bailiff had
been sent for the moment George was arrested and the murder was
discovered; and that, having heard George's answers to the
questions put to him, he set off for the village by a short cut over
the Bulkeley estate; whereas I took the main road to the pit, and
therefore had not met him. It appears that on his arrival at the
village, the bailiff went straight to our lodgings, and began to
question Marion and her mother as to whether George had been
home at all during the night; and if so, at what hour he had
returned. Marion named the hour at which he had returned; adding,
that he was so late because he had been, on leaving off work, to
deliver a message to the owner of the chalk-pit. The bailiff then
brutally revealed the whole terrible truth to the two females; and
though I was not there to witness the same, yet it is easy to believe
that it was terrible and heart-rending indeed. But, heedless of the
misery which his abrupt discourse had produced, the bailiff hastened
off to the owner of the chalk-pit, and learnt from him that George
had not been near him on the preceding evening. Back to the pit
went the bailiff, now accompanied by its owner; and the next step
was to convey the prisoner before the nearest magistrate, who
happened to be the rector of the parish. I was desired to go with the
party; but no suspicion was attached to me. It was proved that the
calcined remains of a human body were found in the hole where the
lime was burnt; and that the metal buttons picked up were those
which belonged to the coat the Squire had on the previous evening.
I need not detail the nature of the evidence which appeared to tell
against George Dalton; because you can well understand it from all
the circumstances I have already related. He conducted himself with
wonderful calmness and presence of mind throughout the long
examination, which lasted for several hours; and when the
magistrate asked him if he had any thing to say in his defence, or to
show why he should not be committed for trial, he answered in a
firm tone, 'I am innocent, and have nothing more to say.' He was
accordingly committed for trial—handcuffs were put upon him; and
he was removed to an out-house, guarded by constables, until a cart
could be got in readiness to convey him to the County Gaol.
"But in the yard of the rector's abode a heart-rending scene took
place. Marion was there, waiting to see her husband, of whose guilt
she, poor thing! could entertain no doubt. She had left our mother,
who had fallen down in a fit when the disclosure was so rudely made
by the bailiff, to the care of the landlady of the house in which we
lived; and, crushed with deep affliction—weak—sickly—almost heart-
broken as she was, she had dragged herself to the place where she
heard the examination was going on. 'Oh! George, George!' she
exclaimed, as she rushed forward to embrace her husband, whose
manacles rattled, as, forgetting that he wore them, he endeavoured
to extend his arms to receive her. How poor Marion wept!—what
convulsive sobs escaped her bosom! George wept also; but he said
every thing fond and endearing to console her. The parson-justice
appeared at the door of his house; and, perceiving the sad
spectacle, said, 'Take that woman away: I will not have such scenes
under my windows. She is no doubt as bad as he.'—Never shall I
forget the look of imploring anguish which Marion turned towards
that minister of the Gospel, who spoke so sternly and so unjustly;
then, in the next moment, she fell senseless upon the ground. The
constables rushed upon George to drag him off to the out-house:
but he hurled them away, manacled as he was, crying in a voice that
struck terror to my soul, 'I will not move an inch till I see this poor
innocent creature properly cared for. Keep off—or I shall do another
murder!'—'Another murder!' exclaimed the rector: 'then he confesses
that of the Squire!'—But George heard not the observation; nor did
he seem to notice the tremendous oversight which he had
committed in the bewildering anguish of the moment. Bending over
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