Page 1 of Luke Barnicott, and Other Stories

  LUKE BARNICOTT.

  by

  WILLIAM HOWITT.

  And Other Stories.

  Twenty-Eighth Thousand.

  Cassell & Company, Limited:London, Paris, New York & Melbourne.

  CONTENTS.

  PAGE

  THE STORY OF LUKE BARNICOTT 5

  THE CASTLE EAST OF THE SUN 49

  THE HOLIDAYS AT BARENBURG CASTLE 67

  After Young Luke.]

  THE STORY OF LUKE BARNICOTT

  BY WILLIAM HOWITT.

  The village of Monnycrofts, in Derbyshire, may be said to be adistinguished village, for though it is not a city set on a hill, it isa village set on a hill. It may be seen far and wide with its cluster ofred brick houses, and its tall gray-stone church steeple, which hasweathered the winds of many a century. The distant traveller observesits green upward sloping fields, well embellished by hedgerow trees, andits clumps of trees springing up amongst its scenes, and half hidingthem, and says to himself as he trots along, "a pleasant look-out mustthat hamlet have." And he is right; it has a very pleasant look-out formiles and miles on three sides of it; the fourth is closed by theshoulder of the hill, and the woods and plantations of old SquireFlaggimore. On another hill some half-mile to the left of the village,as you ascend the road to it, stands a windmill, which with its activesails always seems to be beckoning everybody from the country round tocome up and see something wonderful. If you were to go up you would seenothing wonderful, but you would have a fine airy prospect over thecountry, and, ten to one, feel a fine breeze blowing that would do yourheart good. You would see the spacious valley of the Erwash windingalong for miles, with its fields all mapped out by its hedges andhedgerow trees, and its scattered hamlets, with their church towers,and here and there old woods in dark masses, and on one side the bluehills of the Peak beckoning still more enticingly than Ives's Mill, togo there and see something wonderful. On another side you would seeKillmarton Hall and its woods and plantations, and, here and thereamongst them, smoke arising from the engine-houses of coal mines whichabound there; for all the country round Monnycrofts and Shapely, and soaway to Elkstown, there are or have been coal and ironstone mines forages. Many an old coal mine still stands yawning in the midst ofplantations that have now grown up round them. Many a score of mineshave been again filled up, and the earth levelled, and a faircultivation is here beheld, where formerly colliers worked and caroused,and black stacks of coals, and heaps of grey shale, and coke fires wereseen at night glimmering through the dark.

  Near this mill, Ives's mill, there is another hamlet called Marlpool, asthough people could live in a pool, but it is called Marlpool, as akettle is said to boil when only the water boils in it, because itstands on the edge of a great pool almost amounting to a lake, wheremarl formerly was dug, and which has for years been filled with water.The colliers living there call it the eighth wonder of the world,because they think it wonderful that a pool should stand on the top of ahill, though that is no wonder at all, but is seen in all quarters ofthe world. But the colliers there are a simple race, that do not travelmuch out of their own district, and so have the pleasure of wondering atmany things that to us, being familiar, give no pleasure. So it is thatwe pay always something for our knowledge; and the widow Barnicott wholived on this hill near Ives's mill, at the latter end of the time weare going to talk of, used to congratulate herself when her memoryfailed with age, that it was rather an advantage, because, she said,everything that she heard was quite new again.

  But at the time when my story opens, Beckey Barnicott was not a widow.She was the wife of Luke Barnicott, the millers man, that is, Ives'sman. Luke Barnicott had been the miller's man at Ives's mill some time;he was a strapping, strong young fellow of eight-and-twenty. Old NathanAbbot had the mill before Ives had it, and Luke Barnicott was NathanAbbot's miller. There are many tales of the strength and activity ofLuke Barnicott still going round that part of the country. Of the racesthat he ran on Monnycrofts' common side, and on Taghill Delves, amongstthe gorse and broom and old gravel pits: of the feats he did atMonnycrofts and Eastwood wakes, and at Elkstown cross-dressing, wherethe old Catholic cross still stood, and was dressed in old Catholicfashion with gilded oak leaves and flowers at the wakes: of thewrestlings and knocking-down of the will-pegs, and carrying off all theprizes, and of jumping in sacks, and of a still greater jumping into andout of twelve sugar hogsheads all set in a row, and which feat Luke wasthe only one of the young fellows from all the country round that coulddo. Luke was, in fact, a jolly fellow when Beckey married him, and shewas very proud of him, for he was a sober fellow, with all his frolicsand feats, and Beckey said that the Marlpool might be the eighth wonderof the world, but her Luke was the ninth, because he could take hisglass and be social-like, but never came home drunk. And, in fact, nomillers get drunk. I can remember plenty of drunken fellows of alltrades, but I don't remember a drunken miller. There is something intheir trade that keeps them to it, and out of the ale-house. The windand the water will be attended to, and so there is not much opportunityto attend to the beer or the gin-shop. Besides, if a miller were apt toget drunk, he would be apt to get drowned very soon, in the mill stream,or knocked on the head by a sail.

  There's something pleasant and sober and serious in a mill. The wheelgoes coursing round, and the pleasant water sparkles and plunges underit, or the great sails go whirling and whirling round, and the clear airof the hill top gives you more cheeriness than any drink; and theclapper claps pleasantly; and the mill keeps up a pleasant swaying andtremor, and the flour comes sliding down the hoppers into the sacks, andall is white and dusty, and yet clean; the mill and the sacks and thehoppers and the flour, and the miller's clothes, and his whiskers, andhis hat; and his face is meally, and ruddy through the meal, and all iswholesome and peaceful, and has something in it that makes a man quietlyand pleasantly grave.

  Luke Barnicott was now the staid and grey-haired man of sixty: he had noactual need of the hair-powder of the mill to make him look venerable.On Sundays, when he was washed and dressed-up to appear at church, hishead seemed still to retain the flour, though it had gone from hisclothes, and his ruddy face had no mealy vail on it. Beckey, his wife,was grown the sober old woman, but still hale and active. She came tochurch in her black gipsy hat, all her white mob cap showing under it,in large patterned flouncing gown, in black stockings, high-heeledshoes, and large brass buckles that had been her grandmother's. On weekdays she might be seen in a more homely dress fetching water from thespring below, or digging up the potatoes in the garden for dinner. Atother times she sat knitting in the fine weather on a seat facing to theevening sun, but giving shade in the earlier part of the day, under arude porch of poles and sticks over the door, up which she trained everyyear a growth of scarlet runners, whilst around and under the windowsgrew the usual assortment of herbs, rue and camomile, rosemary andpennyroyal.

  The Barnicotts lived at the old Reckoning House, so called because, whenthe collieries were active, just in that quarter, the men were paidtheir wages there. It was a very ordinary-looking brick tenement, nowdivided into two dwellings, in one of which to the west lived Luke andBeckey, and on the east side lived Tom Smith, the stockinger orstocking-weaver, and Peggy his wife. Tom Smith's frame kept up a prettyconstant grating and droning sound, such as you hear in many a villageof Derbyshire, Nottinghamshire, and Leicestershire, and in some partsof Normandy, and it was almost the only sound that you heard about theReckoning House, for neither of the families had any children, exceptone boy, the young Luke Barnicott, the grandson of the old Barnicotts.The Barnicotts' only son Patrick had been a great trouble to his
parents, the shadow-spot in their lives. He had got amongst a wild setof young fellows of the neighbourhood, had been sharply scolded by oldLuke, and in a fit of passion had gone for a soldier. He had died in thewar in Spain, and his wife had died soon after of a fever, caught innursing somebody suffering under that contagious affection. They hadleft their only child to the old folks, who was now a lad of aboutfourteen, and as mercurial and mischievous an imp as the neighbourhoodcould furnish. From the moment that he could run about he was in somescrape or some danger. He strolled about the common, plaguing asses andsheep and cattle that were grazing there, hunting up birds' nests andwasps' nests, hanging over the sides of a deep pond just below theReckoning House, surrounded by thick trees, and more than once had goneheadlong in, and came home streaming with water like a spout on a rainyday. Old Luke said he would go after his father if he escaped drowningor tumbling into some pit; and poor old Beckey was just like a hen witha duckling with this one little vagabond. Sometimes he was seen climbingon the mill sails, sometimes on the very ridge of a house, and lookingdown the chimney for swallow nests, at other times he was up in trees sohigh, swinging out on a long bough after some nests, so dizzily, that itmade his poor old granny's head ache for a week after. They put him assoon as possible to the school in Monnycrofts to keep him out of danger,but sometimes, instead of reaching the school, he had been wiled away byhis love of rambling into some distant wood, or along some windingbrook, and looking after fish, when he should be conning his lesson. Atothers, instead of returning home at night after school, he was got intothe blacksmith's shop, watching old Blowbellows at the glowing forge,and often in danger of having his eyes burnt by the large flying sparks,or having a kick from a horse that was being shod. Sometimes poor oldBeckey had to go to the village of a dark stormy winter's evening tohunt up the truant with her lanthorn, and would find him after all atone of the pits sitting by the blazing fire, in a cabin made of blocksof coal, listening to the talk of the colliers over their ale.

  When, however, young Luke Barnicott had nearly reached the age offourteen, and had been set to scare birds in the fields, and to driveplough for the farmers, and gather stones from the land, and had gleanedin the autumn, and slid on the Marlpool in the winter, he took a fancyto become a collier. He was arrayed in a suit of coarse flannel,consisting of wide trousers and a sort of short slop, with an old hatwith the brim cut off, and was sent down sitting on a chain at the endof a rope into the yawning pit sixty yards deep. There he was sent todrive a little railway train of coal waggons drawn by a pony in thesesubterranean regions, from the benk or face of the coal stratum, wherethe colliers were at work, to the pit's mouth; but Luke soon grew tiredof that. He did not fancy living in the dark, and away from the sun andpleasant fields, so one day, as the master of the pits was standing onthe pit-bank, up was turned Luke Barnicott, as invalided. He was liftedout of the chain by the colliers, and as he writhed about and seemed ingreat pain, the coal-master asked where he was hurt. He replied, in hisleg. "Show me the place," said the master. Luke, with a good deal oflabour and a look of much distress, drew off a stocking and showed a legblack enough with coal dust, but without any apparent wound. "Where isthe hurt?" asked the master. "Here," said Luke, putting his handtenderly on the calf. The master pressed it. Luke pretended to flinch,but the master did not feel satisfied. "Bring some water and wash theleg," he said, and water was soon brought in an old tin. The leg waswashed, but no bruise, no blueness were visible. "Pshaw!" said themaster, "that is nothing to make a squeak about." "Oh, it is the otherleg, I think," said Luke. "The other leg!" exclaimed the master. "What!the fox has a wound and he does not know where! Pull off the otherstocking." The stocking was pulled off by the colliers, but no injurywas to be found! "Come, Barnicott," said the master, "so you are playingthe old soldier over us! Why, what is the meaning of it?" "To say thetruth, master," said Luke, with a sheepish look, "the fact was--I wasdaunted!"

  At this confession the colliers set up a shout of laughter; and themaster, with a suppressed smile, bade him begone about his business.After this Luke was some time at a loose end; he had nothing to do, andnobody would employ him. The story of his being "daunted" flew all roundthe neighbourhood, and he was looked on as a lazy, shifty lad, that wasnot to be trusted to. He strolled about the common, the asses and thesheep, and the geese, and the young cattle grazing there had a worsetime of it than ever. The old people were in great distress about him;the grandfather's prediction that he would go after his father seemedevery day more certain of fulfilment. Luke was active enough in settingtraps for birds, and digging out rabbits, and even in setting a snarefor a hare, which came by night to browse in the pretty large garden ofcabbage and potatoes that surrounded the Reckoning House. And he waspretty successful in noosing hares and unearthing rabbits, but neitherhis grand-parents nor Tom Smith would let them come into their houses,lest they should get into trouble, and because that would have whollyconfirmed the lad in his wild habits. Luke got through his days somehow,and in the evenings he used to go up and play with the lads at theMarlpool, and here he found plenty of people ready to take in slyly thefruits of his poaching, and give him a share of the feast at night. OldLuke meantime went in his mealy garb and with his care-marked andpowdered face, to his mill and back, and many an hour of sad cogitationhe had, as his clappers knocked and his sacks filled, on what was tobecome of this wild lad. Many a tear poor old Beckey shed over herknitting, and many a shake of his head gave Tom Smith, as he heardBeckey and Peggy talk of him.

  One day Luke had found his way to the common, beyond the Marlpool, wherethe shaft of a new coal-pit was sinking. Nobody was to be seen on theground about the pit as he approached, but when he came up and lookeddown, he saw a man at work in the bottom. The pit was sunk some thirtyyards or so, and he recognised a man of the Marlpool, named DickWelland, busy with his pick and shovel. It was evident that his butty ormate had gone away somewhere temporarily, probably for beer. There stoodthe windlass, with the rope depending, and the box at the bottom filled,ready to be drawn up at the man's return. Till then Dick Welland was aprisoner below.

  Luke lay down on his stomach, and looked down the shaft. He called tothe collier, and drew his attention to a brick which he held in hishand. "Dick," said he, "I've a good mind to drop a brick on thee!" Theman in great terror cried out to him not to do it; for he had no meansof escaping from the blow, which must kill him on the spot. There wasyet no horizontal working under which he might run and take shelter.Luke was delighted with the opportunity of frightening the man, andlaughing, still held the brick over the pit mouth, saying, "Now, now!it's coming. Look out!" The pitman was in agonies of terror; heentreated, he shouted, he moved from side to side of the pit, but stillLuke, with the true spirit of a tyrant and an inquisitor, held aloft thebrick, and cried, "I'll drop it, Dick. Now, it is coming!" This scenehad continued for a quarter of an hour, during which time the man hadendured ages of agony and terror, when Dick perceived the other mancoming over the common with a little keg of beer: he quietly arose, anddisappeared amongst the furze and broom.

  It was time for Luke Barnicott to be going. No sooner did the man belowperceive his butty above, than turning the earth out of the "cauf" orbox, he sprang into it, and called to him to draw him up with all hismight. Once on the bank, he cast a rapid glance round, and telling hismate in a few hurried words what had happened, they both dashed inamongst the furze bushes in quest of the culprit. They ran fiercelyhither and thither; they doubled and crossed and beat over the wholecommon, as a sportsman beats for his game. But their game was nowhere tobe found. Luke, aware of the vengeance that he had provoked, hadsecurely hidden himself somewhere. His pursuers could discover himnowhere. They returned to the Marlpool, and related the atrocious deed.The whole place arose in a fury. All men and women vowed to pay theyoung tormentor off. Dick Welland's wife, a tall, stout amazon of awoman, the head taller than any woman of the whole country round;strong, good-looking, and accustomed to walk with the stout strides andthe air of a virago
, vowed merciless retribution on the culprit if evershe laid hands on him. Tarring and feathering are a trifle to what waspromised him; he was to be dipped head foremost into the Marlpool, andheld to within an inch of his life. He was to be flogged and cuffed, andpinched and nettled, and, in short, the whole blood of the Marlpoolboiled and seethed in vengeful anticipation of horrors to be inflictedupon him.

  But "no catch me, no have me!" A week went by and no Luke Barnicottre-appeared. Old Luke Barnicott went to his mill and back as usual, butwith a much sadder and darker air; poor old Beckey's eyes were red withweeping, and her frame seemed all at once withered and grown shaky. Theincensed colliers and the redoubtable virago, Doll Welland, his wife,had been seen watching the Reckoning House, night after night,suspecting that the culprit must steal there in the dark to getsomething to live on, for he could not live on the air. But Tom Smithsolemnly assured inquirers that no Luke had been seen near home sincethe day when he flourished the brick over the pit-mouth; and that theold folks were miserable about him. How Luke lived or where, no onecould guess; but those who knew him best imagined that he managed tokeep soul and body together by nuts, and beech-nuts, and pig-nuts, whichlast he was very expert in digging out of pastures. Besides, farmerPalethorpe of the Youlgreaves, not far off, complained that his cowswere heard running about one or two nights, and he believed somebody hadbeen trying to milk them. "That's Barnicott!" said Welland, and he andhis gigantic Doll carefully hunted over the woods and copses nearYoulgreaves farm, but to no purpose. About a week after Luke'sdisappearance, and when his grandfather and grandmother began to thinkthat he had gone quite off to seek his fortune, some boys who had beennutting in the Badger Dingles, near Youlgreaves, came racing home out ofbreath, saying they had either seen a ghost or Luke Barnicott, for heseemed to start out of the ground amongst the bushes, gave an unearthlyshriek, and darted away through bush and "breer," and was gone. Poor oldBeckey Barnicott swooned away, for she said she was sure the poor ladhad been "clammed" to death in the woods, because he dared not comehome; but Welland took another view of the matter, and starting off tothe Badger Dingles, he and his strapping wife hunted the thickets againwell over. They were near giving up their search when it occurred tothem to examine an old hovel in a field up above the Dingles, and therethey found a heap of fern in which somebody had evidently lain for sometime, and in the very last night.

  Sure that Luke was lurking somewhere not far off, they renewed theirsearch with fresh eagerness. They hunted the dingles all over again, andjust when they came to the end they saw something swing itself over agate and disappear. The Marlpool boys would have run off, thinking itthe ghost again, but Welland rushed forward, leapt the gate, and sawLuke Barnicott sure enough racing at full speed to gain the denseHillmarton spruce plantations. Welland and wife gave chase. According totheir account Luke plunged into the plantation before they could come upwith him, but being hot on his trail they beat up the plantations, andagain started him. In the afternoon the people of the Marlpool saw anextraordinary sight. It was Luke, ragged and haggard, without his hat,and his light brown hair flying in the wind, running for his life overthe common, and Welland and his wife panting after him as if half tireddown, for they were people approaching their fiftieth year, though haleand active, and stimulated by their vengeance to run to the last. Lukewas evidently aiming for the Reckoning House. All Marlpool was out towatch the race. There was loud shoutings, and cries of "Stop him!" andby others, "Nay, fair play! let the lad run." Old Luke Barnicott cameout on his mill-stairs, and cried with a voice which was never forgottenby those who heard it to the day of their death, "Murderers! let thechild alone."

  Old Luke came down the mill-stairs like a frantic man and ran to meetand protect his grandson, who was now speeding along the banks of theMarlpool in a narrow larch copse that bordered the path's side, and wasnot two hundred yards from his grandfather, when Welland met and turnedhim. Young Luke wheeled like a hare, and dashing through the pool, forhe could swim like a fish, reached the other side before Welland and hisneighbours could recover from their surprise. Old Luke was in the midstof them; he aimed a blow at Welland which felled him to the ground, andthen he dealt his blows round him with such effect, that five or sixgreat fellows lay sprawling on the earth. Old Luke was too furious tospeak at first, but he at length burst out with, "Shame on you, cowards!murderers!" Luke had such a reputation for strength and skill in thearts of wrestling and boxing that, though an old man, not one of thefellows whom he had felled dare touch him. But, meantime, Welland wasup again, and scouring through the copse along the pool-side like amaniac. His tall wife was running along the other side of the pool afterthe lad. Old Luke threw off his mealy jacket and ran too. It was many aday since he had run before, but every one was amazed at the speed withwhich he went. Down the hill towards Askersick well, in the direction ofthe Hillmarton plantations, went Welland and his wife; down followed oldLuke, stout and elderly as he was, but with a vigour that seemedwonderful. The young fugitive was seen to leap the fence into theplantations; Welland and his wife were seen to crush through the fenceafter him, and soon after old Luke followed headlong through the gap,and all disappeared.

  The people of the Marlpool stood on their hill watching this chase, andwhen the flyers rushed into the plantation some ran down in thatdirection. But the chasers were lost for nearly half an hour, when youngLuke was seen flying along the side of the Hillmarton dams--largereservoirs of water that stretched in a chain along the valley amongstwoods and copses--and Welland was fagging after him like a doggedblood-hound after a tired stag, or rather fawn. But pursuer and pursuedappeared dead beat with fatigue when they disappeared behind a mass oftrees. No old Luke, no Doll Welland were seen anywhere, for that wilywoman, as old Luke pursued through the plantation, had seized a polethat lay on the ground, and, standing amongst some bushes, suddenlypoked it between the old man's legs as he ran, and caused him to tumbleforward and fall with a heavy dash on the ground, where, exhausted byhis unwonted exertion, and stunned by the shock, he lay breathless andalmost senseless. The huge woman then, as he lay on his face on theearth, coolly seated herself upon him, and kept him there whilst herhusband pursued the boy.

  Meantime the young men from the Marlpool, running in the direction inwhich they had seen Luke and his pursuer, at length found Wellandseated on the bank of the lake, intently watching a part of the waterwhere a mass of reeds grew, and where the boughs of the wood overhungthe water.

  "Where's Luke?" cried the young men. "He's there!" said Welland, red andpanting, and scarcely able to bolt the words from his chest. "He's inthe reeds!" Some of the young men ran round into the wood, and lookeddown into the reed bed by climbing along the boughs of the trees, butnothing was to be seen there. "He's not there, Welland!" they shouted,but Welland stoutly maintained that he was there; he saw him go in, andthat he could not go out again without his seeing him. To make all sure,one young fellow stripped and swam to the reeds, and beat all amongstthem, and declared that there was no Luke there. "Oh! the cunning beggaris lurking somewhere up to the nose in the water!" shouted Welland; butthe young man paddled all about, declared the place very deep of mud,but to the certainty nothing human was there. At this Welland rose up ingreat wrath but after going round into the wood, said, moodily, "Theyoung scamp has done me again, but I'll settle him yet." And with thathe turned homewards, and the young men with him.

  Old Luke had before this recovered his breath somewhat, and, rolling hisincubus from him with wonderful ease, had risen up and gone towards thedams, followed by the virago, who furiously abused him all the way, andflung stones and masses of turf at him. When old Luke reached a keeper'slodge near the dams, old John Rix, who lived there, told him Welland anda lot of men had gone up the field towards the Marlpool. Luke thenhastened back, with the vengeful grenadier of a woman still followingand saying all the evil things she could think of. She upbraided the oldman for his bringing up of both this young Luke and of his father. "Badcrow, bad egg!" she said. "Old rogue! you were
no great shakes, Ireckon, in your young days, and the son was no better; no good came tohim; and as for this wicked boy, he'll come to the gallows, I'llwarrant, if a tree be left in the country to make one on."

  Old Luke went on, as King David did in his time when Shimei was hailingstones and curses on him in his trouble, and took no notice. But he wasmightily troubled in his mind as he went on in silence. All his formertroubles with his son were brought back upon him, and he wondered how itwas that he was so much the more afflicted than other people with hischildren. He began to think that he must have been a much more wickedman than he had thought himself, and so he said, "Let her talk;may-happen I've desarved it." But when he got home, and heard that youngLuke had been chased into the lake by Welland, and that he could not befound, he sat down in his chair, and never stirred or spoke for an hour.Poor old Beckey, who had enough to bear of her own, was terriblyfrightened, and laid hold on him, and shook him, saying, "Luke, man!Luke, speak! what ails thee? Hast a gotten a stroke?" But Luke neitherspoke nor stirred, but continued looking hard on the ground. The poorwoman was in the greatest distress, and began to call, "Peggy! Peggy!come here! Peggy Smith."

  But at that old Luke suddenly rose. "Hold thy tongue! dunna bringanybody here. They've killed the lad, an' they've killed me!" and,giving a deep groan, he began to stagger upstairs, and soon undressedhimself and went to bed. There was an end of old Luke. The violentagitation of his mind; the violent exertion that he had made; the fallthat he had got; and, no doubt, the abuse and upbraidings that the greatvirago had heaped upon him, all had done their part. He never spokeafter he was in bed: a stroke of apoplexy had indeed fallen on him, and,though the doctor came and bled him, he only opened his eyes for amoment, and then died.

  When the death of old Luke was made known, there was a great sensation,and the more so that nothing further was seen or heard of young Luke. Agreat revulsion in the public mind took place immediately. Thesetransactions were the sole topic of conversation, not only in Marlpooland Monnycrofts, and Shapely, but in every hall and hamlet and solitaryfarm-house, the whole country round. They were the theme of discussionin every ale-house, and at every barber's and blacksmith's shop, and inevery street-parliament far and near. They got into the localnewspapers, and assumed a variety of shapes the farther the rumoursspread. The Marlpoolians and Monnycroftians who had called young Lukeall manner of names as the most incorrigible of scapegraces, now pitiedhim as a very ill-used and persecuted lad. "Why, all lads are full ofmischief," said Mrs. Widdiwicket of the Dog and Partridge public-house."I would not give a potato for a lad without a bit of mischief in him.Poor lad! it was only his spirit, and what sort of a man is to grow outof a boy without a spirit?" "True," said old Pluckwell, the gardener, ashe took his evening pot, "what's weeds in one place is flowers inanother. Why, they tell me flowers here are weeds in other countries;and, as to this Luke, he must ha' grown into a prime spaciment withcultivation."

  "Just so," said Nasal Longdrawn, the parish-clerk; "it seems to me thatthese Wellands had real downright mischief an' malice in 'em, to chase,and worry, and threaten a poor fatherless and motherless orphant so.Poor lad! he was often very aggravating when he got upo' th' churchafter th' starlings, and loosened the tiles, but I canna help feelingfor th' poor chap, now he's gone."

  "Gone!" said Mrs. Widdiwicket; "and where's he gone, thinken ye?"

  All shook their heads, and Roddibottom, the schoolmaster, got up andstrode about the house, and then suddenly turning round, facing thecompany, with his hands thrust into his waistcoat pocket,--"Where's hegone? why, ma'am, why, neighbours, if they put me into the jury box. Ishould give my verdict that Welland knows!"

  "Oh, goodness me!" exclaimed Mrs. Widdiwicket; and all the rest againshook their heads, and said, "Likely enough; that Welland is a savageun. What but a hard un could chase a poor lad so?"

  "And what was he doing sitting there by the bank, and pointing to thewater, and saying, 'He's there!' and that he could not have got outwithout him seeing him? How do we know what happened after they were outof sight? A knock on the poor lad's head with a stick or a stone, and aplunge into the dam! Eh? eh? I think that pond should be dragged." Andwith that Roddibottom drank off his glass of ale, and walked out with anair of inconceivable sagacity, and leaving all the company in wonder andhorror.

  "By leddy! what the mester says is right," said Pluckwell. "Who knowswhat happened? and the boy has never been seen since."

  "Ay, the dam should be dragged," said Longdrawn; "there's a mysterythere." And looking full of mystery himself, he followed theschoolmaster out.

  The feeling at the "Dog and Partridge" was the feeling everywhere. Thepoor boy was invariably pitied, old Luke was pitied, poor old Beckey waspitied, and the Wellands were looked upon as most savage andbloodthirsty wretches. The excitement became great as time went on. Thedam was dragged where Welland had been seen sitting, but nothing wasfound; search and inquiry were made after young Luke all round thecountry, but not a trace of him could be found. The feeling that Wellandhad killed the poor lad, and secreted his body somewhere in the bushes,and only pretended for a blind that he had gone into the water, becamevery strong. The Wellands were both taken up and tried for the murder,his wife as accessary before the fact; and he was also charged withcontributing to old Luke's death, for though he had never opened hismouth after his return but in one instance, it was--"They've killed him,and they've killed me."

  Doll Welland had boasted how she had thrown the old man down by puttingthe pole between his legs, and having sat upon him after his fall, andwhat more she might have done nobody could tell. Besides, both herhusband and herself had vowed most bitterly, or, as the countryneighbours said, "most saverly," that they would finish the lad if theycaught him. And the persevering animosity with which they had contrivedto hunt him up, and to hunt him down at the last, betrayed a mostmurderous mind and intent. Luke never turned up, and, at the Marchassizes at Derby, the Wellands were tried; and numbers of the Marlpoolpeople who had quite sided with them till after the boy was missing nowgave fully their evidence against them, repeating the vengefulexpressions which they had used against poor Luke, and that they hadsaid twenty times, "They'd finish him, if they ever laid hands on him."All these things, and the general feeling of the country telling againstthem, both husband and wife were condemned for the murder of the lad,though there was no direct evidence of the fact. Nobody would believeanything else after the fierce chase and the savage threats, and thedisappearance of Luke just where Welland was found sitting. As theevidence, however, was but circumstantial, though very aggravated, thehusband and wife were condemned to transportation for life, and wereshipped off to Sydney, with the hearty expression of satisfaction of allMarlpool, Monnycrofts, Hillmarton Hall and hamlet, of the farmers, andall the world besides. As the Wellands had five or six children, therewas a subscription in that part of the country to send them out withtheir convict parents, and thus to rid this happy land of the whole"seed, breed, and generation" of the bloodthirsty Wellands, according tothe phraseology of the Marlpool.

  Years went on: no Luke Barnicott ever re-appeared or ever was heard of;and though the body was never found--never rose to the surface ofHillmarton dam, nor was discovered in the wood--it became a settledfeeling that Welland knew if he pleased to tell, where the remainscould be found. But Welland and his family were broiling in the sandyfields of Paramatta, cultivating the hot ground, and planting orange andlemon orchards, which now embellish that neighbourhood, and show theirdark masses covered with golden fruit in mile-long woods to the peoplesailing up the river past Kissing Point, and many another pleasantpromontory, with their mangrove trees standing in the water, and theircharming houses overlooking their rocky shores and well-kept lawns, darkand lustrous with the Indian and Moreton Bay figs, the India-rubbertrees, and many a quaint Banksia and blooming shrub from sandy BotanyBay.

  Years rolled on: the story of these events was forgotten everywhereexcept in the immediate neighbourhood, where it was getting less a
ndless frequently adverted to. It was stereotyped in every one's mind ofthose of more than infantine years at that period; but it was only whensome strange murder or some mysterious occurrence took place in thecountry at large that it was revived and talked of far around. Fifteenyears had passed: poor old Beckey Barnicott was now between seventy andeighty. She was still living at the Reckoning House, but she wasblind--stone blind. She lost her eyes soon after the shocking death ofher husband and the loss of her grandson. It was supposed that she weptherself blind; and no doubt her grief of mind helped to produce thiscatastrophe. It was found that old Luke Barnicott had saved a small sum,which brought Beckey in ten pounds a year; and she had been advised bythe clergyman of Monnycrofts to sink the sum in an annuity, as she hadno one to succeed her, and so she had an income then of five-and-twentypounds a year. She was well off in that respect; and she had amiddle-aged woman, a widow out of the village, Amy Beckumshire, to livewith her and take care of her. Tom and Peggy Smith were both dead, andthe new miller, John Groats, used that part of the house to store cornin.

  Poor old Beckey Barnicott used to get out into the garden by help of along wand, with which she felt her way, and she had learned to knowevery part of the garden, and could feel the rosemary and lavenderplants, and used to sit in the sun in the rude porch and bask herself;and when it was too hot, she took her place under a great elder tree,which hung from a high bank on the far side of the garden, where a seatwas placed. There she used to knit diligently, for she could knitwithout her sight wonderfully; and there for many a long hour she usedto think about old times, when her husband was full of health andstrength, and used to keep the mill up above spinning round like a greatgiant, beckoning all the country round to come up and see somethingwonderful. And when Tom Smith and he used to read the "NottinghamReview," and all about Bonaparte, and Wellington, and Lord Nelson, andtalked over the affairs of the country. And then her thoughts would turnon poor little Luke, as she called him, and her heart clung to hismemory with a wonderful tenderness; for he seemed to have beenmisunderstood, and so cruelly used. She remembered many things that hehad done for her, and how he used to bring her heaps of nuts andblackberries and mushrooms, and catch sparrows in winter to make nicedumplings, and she thought to herself, "Ay, poor thing, he wasna so badafter all! It was, Mrs. Widdiwicket always said, only his spirit; hewanted more room for his life than he got here, and should have been asoldier or a traveller, or something or another where he would always bemoving." She had often dreamt of her husband, who appeared to her andsaid he was waiting for her in a very pleasant place; but he nevermentioned little Luke, and she never dreamed of him except as racingbefore Welland and his giant wife, or plunging into Hillmarton dam, allamongst the dark weeds and deep, slimy mud.

  It was a fine breezy summer's day, Mrs. Barnicott was sitting under thegreat hanging elder, and her knitting-needles were going very fast forso old a woman. She was stooping and wrinkled and lean, but there was aquick motion in her darkened eyes and their twinkling lids, and therewas a motion about her withered mouth, and she gave every now and thendeep sighs as she shifted her needles, and seemed to look down at herknitting, which she could not see, and then paused awhile, let her workfall on her knee upon her check-apron, and raised her sightless eyestowards the sky and seemed to think. Just then she heard an active stepas if a young man came along the brick pavement along the garden to thehouse-door. There was a knock, and she heard a young man's voice--shewas sure it was a young man--ask if Mrs. Barnicott was at home. AmyBeckumshire said, "Ay, there she sits, sir, knitting under the elder."The young man advanced, and old Beckey rose up in wonder who it couldbe.

  "Good day to you, Mrs. Barnicott," said the young man. "You don't knowme, but I have heard of you some years ago, and being in this part ofthe country, I thought I should like to see you."

  "You're very good, sir, to come to see an old blind woman like me!" Sheguessed that it was all about the sad business of her husband andgrandson that the gentleman had heard. "Pray you, sit down, sir," sheadded, "there's room on the bench."

  "Thank you," said the young man. There was a little silence, and thenthe young man said, "I've often heard of this neighbourhood, and Ialways thought it must be very pleasant, and really I find it so. Why, Iseem to know all about it, as if I had seen it. The old windmill, andthe pool below here, and the Marlpool above, and the old church tower ofMonnycrofts."

  Beckey was silent and pondering. "And pray," she said, after a time,"where might you hear all this about this country place?"

  "Well, it was very far from here. You must know Mrs. Barnicott, that Ihave been a sailor, and have sailed nearly all over the world; and wesailors make acquaintance in different ships with men from all parts. Iwas on board the Swallow, bound for Pernambuco, in South America, for acargo of cotton and coffee, and I had a mate there that I took a greatfancy to; he came from some part of this country, Cosser or Hawsworth,or some such place."

  "Ay, ay," said Beckey, "these are places not far off; you may see 'emfrom th' mill up yonder. But it's many a year sin I seed 'em."

  "Ay, more's the pity!" said the young man; "but you can hear, and Ithink I can tell you some good news."

  "What good news?" said old Beckey, suddenly giving a start, and turningher blind eyes fixedly on him. "What good news can come to a poor oldcreature like me?"

  "I should not like to agitate you," said the youth, "by going intothings long past, and very dark things too; but this mate of mine toldme several times of what happened here years ago; and I wonder," he usedto say, "whether any of the Barnicotts be living, and if they ever heardof the lad that was lost?"

  "What do you mean?" said old Beckey; "do you know anything of littleLuke? is he alive? can he be alive? Speak, man! speak!"

  "Well, this young man thought he was alive."

  "What!" said old Beckey, "what! oh laws! you've made my heart jump intomy mouth. What did he know? Did he know Luke, and had he seen him?"

  "Well," he said, "he was alive and was a sailor."

  "A sailor! alive!" Poor old Beckey trembled like an aspen leaf, anddropped her knitting from her knee. "Oh me! if this should be true!" shesaid; "but my strength fails me; it is more nor I can bear."

  The young man took hold of her to support her, and bade her not agitateherself; he believed her grandson was alive, and that they should beable in time to learn more about him.

  "And you dunna know where he is? Are you sure he is alive? are yousure?"

  "Well, I feel pretty sure. I know my mate said he was alive and well,and a fine active sailor, five years ago; for he sailed to Ceylon, inthe Indies, with him."

  "Luke alive! oh laws! this is too much. Amy! Amy!" Amy Beckumshire, whowas standing at the door all curiosity and astonishment, came the momentthat old Beckey called, and the poor old woman, shaking and trembling aswith the ague, said to her, "Dost hear? Luke's alive, and is a sailor,and has been i' th' Indies, and this gentleman has seen a sailor as knewhim!"

  "Is that so?" said Amy, in a voice of wondering inquiry, and looking indistant respect at the handsome young gentleman.

  "I quite believe it is true, missis," said the young man; "I never knewSam Birchin tell me a lie."

  "He comes from Cosser or Hawsworth, that sailor does," said old Beckey,all eagerness, "and knows all about this country, and all the old doingshere."

  "Gracious me!" said Amy, "how wonderful!"

  "O Lord," said old Beckey, lifting her sightless brow towards heaven,"only let me once see Luke, and then take me--take me--that I may tellmy husband. But, laws-a-me! maybe he knows all about it."

  Poor old Beckey then asked the stranger a hundred questions: if he knewwhat sort of a looking lad Luke was? how tall he was, and how he looked?if he had heard that he had blue eyes and a very fair skin, and hairvery light coloured? To all these questions the young man said he couldgive no answer; but he would write to Sam Birchin, who would be in portsoon, and ask him all about it. He then rose up and said he had orderedhis dinner at the Dog and
Partridge, and must go there, but that hemeant to stay a few weeks in the country, and go and find out Birchin'srelations at Cosser. He did not mean to go to sea again; he had been toAustralia, and got enough gold to live on, and he meant to settle downsomewhere in the country. He should often come and see her while hestayed.

  Old Beckey prayed God to bless him for the good news he had brought; anangel from heaven could not have brought more blessed tidings; and as hewent across the garden she tottered after him, leaning on her frailwand, and stood at the gate to listen to his steps going down the field.Then she had to tell the wonderful news all over to Amy, and to ask ahundred questions. What sort of looking young man was he, light or dark?and how he was dressed, and how tall he was? Though he'd been a sailor,she was sure he was a gentleman by his talk. Amy said he was a handsomeyoung man, and quite a gentleman in his dress. He was as finely dressedas young Squire Flaggimore himself. His eyes were dark blue.

  "Blue, says ta?" broke in old Beckey. "Luke's were blue."

  "They are dark blue or black," said Amy.

  "And his hair very light?" asked Beckey.

  "No. Light! ravenly black."

  "Oh, then, he's not like Luke. Luke's hair," said Beckey, "was verylight, and a little sandy."

  "What! thou artna dreaming that this is Luke himself, Beckey"

  "Oh laws, no!" said Beckey. "It's not Luke, Amy; I was only wonderingwhether it was like him. But thinkster I should not know Luke's voice?Ay, that voice I shall never forget; it's down in my heart as clear as abell, though it's fifteen years come Michaelmas since I heard it, poorfellow! And to think as he's alive, and 's a been a sailing all over theworld ever since! And now, thou sees, Amy, that's the reason that henever came, like his grandfayther, in my dreams. How could he come, andwas alive all the time? But thou mun run, Amy, and tell the parson, andMrs. Widdiwicket, and the schoolmaster, as Luke has been seen i' th'Indies."

  Amy was in a hurry to throw on her shawl and bonnet, and away to thevillage; for we all like to tell a bit of news; it is a pleasure that weenjoy immensely, and yet don't reckon it amongst our pleasures. But weall feel like electric clouds charged with pleasant fire, and in hasteto let it off. No sooner is the word dropped in one ear than it is outupon the tongue, and turns away to some other ear, and encircles roundthe world like sunshine. Amy had the pleasure of stopping two or threepeople before she got across the fields to the village, and telling themthat Mrs. Barnicott had heard of Luke, and that he was a fine youngsailor, and had been in the Indies and all over the world, and the younggentleman at the Dog and Partridge had brought the news, and had seenyoung Birchin of Cosser, who had sailed with him. Before Amy reached theclergyman's the news had slipped down the village, and was all over it,and flowing out at each end by people who were going to the neighbouringvillages. Mrs. Widdiwicket had heard the news from the young gentlemanin the parlour herself, and she said the young gentleman had hired herhorse, and was gone to Cosser to see Sam Birchin's relations. As Amyissued into the street again, everybody was on the look-out for her, andshe had to stop, to her great satisfaction, and tell the story again,and to correct some errors that had already got with it, for it wasalready said that the young gentleman, who had been at Mrs.Widdiwicket's all night, and had borrowed Mrs. Widdiwicket's horse, hadbeen with Luke, and had sailed with him to the Indies and all over theworld.

  At the top of the village street stood Roddibottom, the schoolmaster,and Longdrawn, the clerk, and Sandy Spark, the blacksmith, discussingthe whole affair, and they had already raised a great wonder how ithappened that Luke had never sent word to his old grandmother that hewas alive.

  They were, moreover, now greatly disposed to lament the fate of Wellandand his wife, who had been transported for life for having killed Lukewhen he was not killed, and were very near being hanged for it. Thewhole of Monnycrofts was in a state of ferment on this great discovery,and all the neighbouring villages soon partook of the excitement; and itvery soon communicated itself to the county papers, and very wisereflections were attached to it on the dangers of condemning people oncircumstantial evidence. It was thought that no time should be lost inrecommending to Government to send out an order to recal Welland and hiswife home. Meantime old Beckey herself had managed to hobble up to themill, and thence to the Marlpool, where the story made the most amazingstir. All the people were soon out of doors discussing the affair, andthose who had seen the chase on that memorable day pointed out all theincidents of it. They showed where little Luke was running when old Lukerushed down from the mill, and where he knocked down Welland and abouttwenty more, according to their account, and so they went through thewhole story.

  Beckey, and so indeed all the neighbourhood, was impatient for thereturn of the young man, but he had sent back Mrs. Widdiwicket's horse,and was staying a week with Sam Birchin's relations. When he re-appearedhe was beset on all sides with questions regarding Luke, but he assuredthem he could not give them much further information, than that Luke wasalive three years ago. He soon went to visit old Beckey again, who wasdelighted to see him, and had hoarded up a whole budget of questions toput to him. He informed her that his name was John Webster, that he camefrom Liverpool, and that he had sailed to many wonderful countries. Hehad been in the Indies, in North and South America, in China andAustralia. As old Beckey sat and plied her knitting-needles, he askedher all the particulars about Luke, and about his death, as it wassupposed to have been, and he assured her that he had written toBirchin to let him know all that he knew; everything about LukeBarnicott.

  He continued to lodge at the Dog and Partridge, and had manyconversations with Roddibottom, the schoolmaster, Nasal Longdrawn, theclerk, and all the rest of the village politicians who frequented thathouse; and he heard many different versions of the story of Luke fromthem, who all declared that, though he was very mischievous, he reallyhad no ill in him, though they could not account for it why he had neverlet his poor grandmother know of his being alive. John Webster hiredwidow Widdiwicket's horse and rode about, and commended very much thecountry. The clergyman and Squire Flaggimore invited him to dine withthem, and were greatly entertained with his account of foreigncountries. But Webster used to go up to the Reckoning House as much asever, and talk to the old widow Barnicott, who was never tired ofhearing about the sea and foreign parts, because then she could imaginewhat Luke had seen. Webster told her all about the enormous whales atsea; how they used to see them come up near the ship, huge and black,and rear themselves up almost as high as a house, and then souse downagain, and spout water up from their nostrils ever so high. And allabout sharks, and flying-fish, and dolphins, and the beautifulnautiluses, and Portuguese men-of-war, that resemble the nautilus, butare only like little ships of gristle, but are beautifully painted as arainbow, and they float about when the sea is calm as glass in the hotclimates, and look like beautiful flowers on a plain of crystal. And ofthe sea-fire that rushes and flickers all round the ship at night, andsails past like great lamps in the dark blue water; and of storms; andwonderful birds; and of the mountains and great islands of ice thatfloat about as white as snow in the solitary ocean, thousands of milesfrom land. And Beckey would drink it all in with hungry ears, and say,"And all that Luke has seen! How wonderful! But I wonder whether he hasquite forgotten his poor old grandmother?"

  Webster did not believe that he had. Sailors did not forget theirrelations; but most likely he thought his grandfather and grandmotherwere dead, and so he thought he had no connexions left. Then Webstertold her about all the wonders of India, of grand towns, and palaces,and temples; and of its great nations of black people, and their pearlsand jewels; of elephants, and tigers, and serpents; of palm-trees; andof the wonderful flowers and birds. He told her of the rich fruits,bananas, and pine-apples growing in the fields, and wonderfulorange-groves and fig-trees. And then he told her of China and Japan,and the strange swarming yellow people, and all about thetea-plantations, where the tea she drank came from; and of the peoplewho always live in boats; and of birds' nests t
hat they make soup of. Hetold her at another time of the beautiful countries of South America andthe West Indies, and all their palm and cocoa-nut, and bread-fruittrees; of their custard apples and sweet mangoes, and yams instead ofpotatoes, and a hundred of luscious fruits, and such beautiful flowersin the hedges--finer by far than in our gardens, or those SquireFlaggimore had in his conservatory.

  "All these," said the wondering Beckey, "thou has seen, and my Luke hasseen!"

  "To be sure he has," said Webster; "and then the monkeys and apes as bigas men, and great snakes that wrap themselves round bullocks, andsqueeze them to death; and all the black men that are brought to thosecountries from Africa to cultivate the cotton, and sugar, and coffee,and spices, because it is too hot for white men."

  Old Beckey was in a dream of wonder and of delight to hear what a worldthis was--how big, and strange, and beautiful, and how little the peopleof Monnycrofts and Marlpool knew about it; and yet Luke had seen it all."And I would not be surprised if Luke had got a good deal of gold, forBirchin said he talked of going to Australia when he left the ship theyhad sailed in together to India." Beckey did not know exactly, nor AmyBeckumshire, who was always an eager listener to these stories,whereabouts Australia was, and Webster told them that it was down on theother side of the world, just under their feet.

  "Lauks!" the women exclaimed, "why, the folks must stand on their headsthere, or at least with their heads downwards;" and it was in vain thathe endeavoured to explain to them, by showing them an apple, that if youstick little pegs in it they would all have their heads outwards atleast. Beckey could not see this, but she felt very particularly at theapple and the pegs, and she insisted that the Australians _must_ havetheir heads downwards, because ours always _were_ upwards. It wasuseless endeavouring to make them understand that anybody's head wasalways upwards, except when they were in bed; and so Webster told themall about the strange things in Australia. The kangaroos, with tails asbig as bedposts, and that could leap across Beckey Barnicott's garden attwo leaps. He told them all about the trees that never shed theirleaves, but shed their bark instead; about the black swans, and thecherries with stones outside, and possums and flying-squirrels andflying-mice, and a kind of cuckoo that sings at nights instead of days,and of all the gold that lies in the ground, and in the rivers there;and Beckey and Amy wondered that everybody was not as rich as the Queenof England, if they could dig up gold out of the ground, and fish it upout of the brooks. Beckey was proud to think that Luke had seen all thistoo; and she felt sure that he would manage to bring home a ship-load ofgold, for he was, as a lad, as sharp as a needle with two points.

  One day old Beckey had a nice jug of curds sent her up from farmerFlamstead's, of Langlee, and she said, "Ah! that is that good SallyFlamstead's doing. She is always very good to me." And she made Amy getsome sugar, and they had a delicious dish of cherry-curds, all three ofthem, under the old elder. "Flamstead!" said Webster, that reminds methat Birchin used to say, "Why, she must be as handsome as SallyFlamstead," when any handsome woman was spoken of. And when I asked himwho Sally Flamstead was, he said, "Oh, that he had learned of LukeBarnicott." For, whenever he saw a pretty woman, he was sure to say,"Why, she is almost as handsome as Sally Flamstead." And now, I rememberBirchin told me that Barnicott had stated to him often when they were onthe night-watch together, quite a romantic story of his falling in lovewith this Sally Flamstead when he was quite a little boy. He used to goto Flamstead's farm at--at--where did he say? Lang--Lang--Lang--what wasit?

  "Langlee?" asked old Beckey.

  "Langlee! Langlee! ah, that was the name," exclaimed Webster. "He usedto go to Langlee, wherever that is."

  "Oh," said Beckey, "you may see it as you sit here. There, down theslope, all amongst a mass of apple-trees. You may see the chimneys andthe thatch-roof. I can't see them; only in my mind's eye I see themthere well enough."

  Webster stood up and said, "Yes, he saw the place." Well, Barnicott toldBirchin that he used to go there to scare birds off the corn, and togather stones in spring off the pastures, and to watch young turkeys asthey fed in the field, and to fetch and carry in harvest time, and allsort of things of that kind. And there was little Sally Flamstead, justabout his own age, something younger; and she Luke thought a regularcherubim. All the ideas of angelic beauty that ever he had he got, hesaid, by looking at Sally Flamstead. And she was such a good, kind,little thing. You know, Luke used to say, that she was far above a poorlad like me; she was the farmer's only child, and the old man was richfor a farmer; he had flocks of sheep and cattle, and great fat teams,and such corn and hay-stacks, and geese, and turkeys, and fowls, andpigeons. Oh, he seemed to Luke quite a king. Yet little Sally Flamsteadtook quite a fancy for Luke, and used to give him good advice; for, shesaid, everybody said he was wild. Luke used to collect nuts andmushrooms for her, and she used to give him ripe cherries and plums, andoften she would save her plum-cake and give him. She could always findhim, without seeming to seek him, when he was about the yard; for sheused to go skipping about to feed the pigeons, and ducks, and to chaseround and round with her little dog Tiny. Sometimes when he was goingout to scare birds on a very cold day in the wheat fields, she would putsome matches in his hat, that he might light a fire; or she would bestanding inside of the orchard hedge as he went by, and say, "Luke, lookunder the bramble-bush by the paddock-gate," and there he would find agood piece of pork-pie, or a little bottle of beer, or something of thatsort. Luke would have run his legs off to have obliged little SallyFlamstead, and a regular courtship grew between these children. He usedto be sent to Monnycrofts to fetch Sally on an evening when she went totake tea with her Aunt Heritage and her cousins, and Sally, as theywalked along, used to tell him wonderful stories about the Babes in theWood, and Robinson Crusoe, and Luke said that he declared he should likenothing so well as to be on a desolate island, and have Sally there forhis man Friday. At length he got so enamoured that he vowed if ever heshould become a king, which did not seem at all improbable after thewonderful things that happened in the world, according to what SallyFlamstead told him, he would marry Sally, and that she should be hisqueen. And Sally said she should like nothing so well. "But, Lord blessyou!" Luke used to say, "only to think of my foolishness. Why, SallyFlamstead was far enough above me, and if she's grown up half ashandsome as she was then, she's married some great gentleman since then,and rides a coach."

  When Webster had finished telling this, old Beckey suddenly started up,laid hold of him, and put her hand on his face and felt down it, andthen, as suddenly, she gave a great cry, "It's my Luke! it's Luke! it'sLuke!" and she hugged him with a force that he did not think had been inher old arms. The next moment she released her grasp, gave a deep sighand a sort of groan, and fell in a swoon. Luke--for it was Luke sureenough--caught her up and set her on the bench, and while he held her,he shouted with all his might for Amy. Amy came running, and was greatlyfrightened; but Luke told her not to be alarmed: she had only fainted,and would come round by and by. He bade her fetch a cup of water, and bythe time it came poor old Beckey was recovering. She never stayed todrink the water, but she laid hold on Luke again, and began to laugh andcry; and Amy said, "So! so! Mrs. Barnicott, restrain yourself, or you'llgo into high-sterics. And, mi! don't pull the young gentleman so; he'llthink you are going 'utick,'" meaning lunatic.

  Beckey took no notice, but catching Luke round the neck, to Amy's greathorror, for she thought now she was gone "utick" in reality, she begankissing him, and then she laughed and said, "Amy, woman, it is Luke--myown lad Luke. Oh! where were my eyes?"--Beckey always talked of seeing,though she could not see--"where were my ears? But I reckon it's becausemy own Luke has now gotten his man's voice and his man's look, and hehad only his lad's voice and his lad's look when he went. Black is hishair, says thou, Amy? and it was as light and shiney as tow when he wasa lad. But so was his father's. When he began to tell me about SallyFlamstead, all at once I heard his father speaking and himself speaking,and my heart went with a great jump, and I
knew it all. Ay, I'm blindand deaf too, or I should ha' fun' that out before this. Luke, lad!Luke, it is thee; thou wunna deny it?"

  "No, dear granny," said Luke, using the old familiar term, "I won'tdeny it; I am your own Luke, and I am come to live near you while youare left to us."

  "And yet, Luke," said the trembling old grandmother, "thou went away andleft us to think thou was dead, drowned, murdered; and all these years,thou has neither written nor asked after me."

  "Oh, granny," said Luke, "that's been a bitter thing to me. I was forcedto run away, for I saw that those Wellands would never cease till theyhad made an end of me. I went right off, and begged till I found myselfat Hull. There a ship captain met me in the street, and eyeing meawhile, he said, 'For shame, young scamp, to go about begging, aclever-looking, active lad like you. Come, I'll take you with me to sea.Eh? what say you?' I thanked him heartily, for of all things I wasdelighted to go to sea, where I expected to find some Robinson Crusoe'sisland, or the like fine country, such as Sally Flamstead had told meof. He took me on board a great ship, and there I was stripped andtumbled into a great tub of water, and well washed, and my old rags wereflung overboard, and I was togged out in a sailor's suit, and set towork to sweep out the cabin and swab the deck, and do all that kind ofthing, with two or three lads of my own age. In a short time we set sailfor the Cape of Good Hope; but before I went I told the captain that Iwanted my grandad and grandmam to know where I was, and I begged himearnestly to write for me, and he said he would; but one day he calledme into the cabin, and said, 'I have seen a gentleman here from Derby,who has come to buy whale oil to light his factory with, and he says,'That young fellow's history is known all over our part of the country.Look to it, captain, for he is the very imp of mischief, and had to runaway for trying to kill a collier down a pit with a brick, and when hewas missing the collier was charged with having murdered him, and he'stransported for it, and his wife too. I heard him tried at DerbyAssizes, and the young rogue's grandfather and grandmother are bothdead of grief.'

  "When the captain told me this I was ready to sink on the floor. Nobodycan tell how I felt. To think I had killed both my grandfather andgrandmother by my foolishness! As for Welland and his giant wife, I wasglad that they were transported, for they seemed to me to be somalicious, and to have caused your deaths. At first I was stunned, andthen I burst out crying, and I thought my heart would break. I hadkilled my only friends in the world; I was a wretch without a relativeor soul on earth that cared for me.

  "'Don't stand blubbering there,' said the captain, 'but go and showyourself handy, and turn out a farrently fellow. You may if you will;and if not, there's a rope-end and the yard-arm for you. Quick! makeyourself scarce!' That was a bitter voyage for me. I suffered dreadfullyfrom sickness and from cold in the southern latitudes; and I got plentyof kicks and cuffs from the mates and the sailors, and plenty of dousingand sousing with salt water that came sweeping over the ship's sides,and with hail and rain as we had to turn out of our hammocks at nightwhen storms were raging, and we had to go up into the shrouds, and outalong the slippering, reeling yards, hanging over the dark, boiling,roaring seas below. Oh! I often thought of these pleasant fields andfarms, and all my old favourite nooks in the woods and dells, at thosetimes, and I was often tempted just to drop off the yard-end, and buryall my troubles in the raging ocean. But I got better of that; thecaptain began to notice me for an active, and, as he said, cleverfellow, and I began to like the sea. I've told you, granny, of some ofmy wanderings in India, and America, and Australia, and we can talkthese over at our leisure now."

  "But," said Beckey, "what made thee think of coming here if thou thoughtus dead?'

  "I thought I'd come and see your graves, dear granny. That was all Icould do; and I thought I'd put a handsome stone at your heads, such asI used to see, when I was a lad, in Monnycrofts churchyard, with a niceverse at the bottom, and a golden angel at the top, with a long goldentrumpet blowing for the resurrection. But when I got to Mrs.Widdiwicket's, and began to ask about the old people that used to behere in my time, just in a roundabout way, that I might not be known byasking about you too soon, I really thought all the people in the placewere dead. Old Squire Flaggimore and Madame Flaggimore, and old ParsonSimion and Mrs. Simion, and old Johnson, and Broadbent, and Cullycampthe mole-catcher, and Shears the tailor, and Kettlebender the cobbler,and such a tribe,--all gone! And the Barnicotts of the Reckoning House,I said, are, of course, gone too. But what a start went through me whenthe landlady said, 'Nay, poor old Luke died directly after the affairabout his grandson, which is a long story, but the old grandmother isliving still.'

  "Living still!" said I, starting up so that the landlady gave a jump,and then she looked at me with such a look.

  "'You seem acquainted, sir,' she said, 'with these parts;' and shecontinued looking at me, as much as to say, Who in the world are you?

  "I said, 'Oh, yes! I once was through here, and I was but a lad then,and I heard an extraordinary story of a boy being killed by a collier,or drowned in a dam or something.'

  "'Ay, drowned, sure enough!' said Mrs. Widdiwicket, or smothered andburied alive somewhere--he never was found--no, never.'

  "I said I should take a walk and have some talk with you, for I wascurious about such things, and I inquired the way here. Now, I wonderthat Derby man never thought of telling somebody here about his havingheard of me being alive and on shipboard; but such men, with their greatmills and businesses, have so much to think of, they don't trouble theirmemories with such things."

  "We never heard a rumour of such a thing," said poor old Beckey, whokept fast hold of Luke's hand, as if she could not be sure enough thatshe had him.

  "And what made thee pretend to be another, Luke, when thou came here?"asked Beckey.

  "Oh, granny! that was only to break it easy to you. I did not want tofrighten you all at once with the news, when you thought me dead solong. That was all."

  "Ah! that was good of thee, my Luke. 'And now, Lord, let me depart inpeace, since my eyes have seen thy salvation;'" and the happy old womanagain kissed her grandson, and shed some quiet tears.

  "Luke! Luke!" she then said, "as soon as thou began to talk of SallyFlamstead, that's my Luke's voice, I said--it's him, it's him, andnobody else, for how should anybody else know all about those things?And dost ta know, Luke, Sally has not forgotten thee? She has aullisbeen kind to me, and often comes up with a bit or a sup, a nice pot ofpreserves, or a jug of cream, or a nice plate of pickelets; and she willbring her sewing, and sit and talk for hours, and she is sure to turnthe subject to the time when you were children. She's never married,though she's as handsome a wench as any lady in all the country-side,and rich she is, and manages her farm like a man, for the old Flamsteadsare dead; and as for followers and sweethearts, heaven love me! she hashad them all, I think, dangling after her in their turns. Nay, therecame a very fine gentleman from London here, and he offered to keep hera coach and settle a fine estate on her; but no, thank you, she wouldnot have him. No, she'll never marry, Luke, unless thou marries her. Shehas often said, 'Luke would be a fine young fellow if he was alive, anda good fellow too. They say he was wild and mischievous, but he neverwas with me. No, he was always as good as pie, and would have jumpedinto a coal-pit to do me any kindness.'"

  Luke said, "God bless her! I knew she was one in ten thousand, and if Iwere----," but here Amy, who was as full of the news of Luke's beingalive and being come as an egg is of yolk, and had been out at thegarden gate to catch the first person going down the field-path and letoff her steam, came running out of breath, "Wist! wist! here is MissFlamstead coming up the field with a little basket in her hand, and anice white cloth on it. She's bringing you something nice, MissisBarnicott; don't let us say who the young gentleman is, and see what shewill say. I warrant you she'll soon have an inkling of it."

  Sally Flamstead was already in the garden. She came on lightly in hernice light muslin dress, and her pretty white bonnet with a red rose init, and her littl
e blue parasol dangling loosely in her left hand. Butas soon as she saw the stranger she blushed, and coming forward timidly,she said, "Oh! Mrs. Barnicott, I did not know you had company." Hersweet face was all blushes and roses, but it was smiling and charming.Luke rose, took off his hat, and made her a polite bow. Sally returned arespectful curtsey, and going up to Mrs. Barnicott, kissed her, and satdown beside her. Poor old Beckey had hard work to contain herself. Shetrembled, and tears rushed from her blind eyes, and she kissed MissFlamstead again and again. Luke and Amy stood; Luke gazing with arespectful but fascinated gaze on the smart young farmeress, and Amylooking nobody could tell how--half smiling a suppressed smile, and halfcurious, and fit to burst out with, "It's Luke, Miss Flamstead, it'sLuke!"

  "I hope you have no bad news, my dear Mrs. Barnicott," said MissFlamstead, wondering at her agitation.

  "No! no!" said old Beckey. "Good news! good news!" and she shook herhead as with an agony of emotion, and then burst out, "Luke's alive!I've heard of him--this--this--oh! he's seen him! he's seen him in th'Indies!"

  Miss Flamstead sprang to her feet, gave a look at Luke, and thenuttering a sort of shriek, she clasped her hands, and crying, "Oh! it ishe!" she sank on the seat. Luke sprang forward, seized her claspedhands, kissed them passionately; and then Miss Flamstead standing upand looking at him in wonder and as in a dream, they thus stood for sometime holding each others hands, while poor old Beckey and Amy criedsilently and plentifully for joy.

  We may leave them awhile under the old hanging elder tree, and let somedays and weeks roll on, as they did roll joyously at the ReckoningHouse, and at Langlee farm. All the old courtship of childhood wasrenewed. Luke and Sally Flamstead have strolled about the old farm-yardand the old fields. They have laughed as they stepped by the oldbramble-bush, by the paddock-gate, and remembered the hidden pork-pie,and the hidden little bottle of beer, and of cold days there. The bellshave rung out merrily from the tall stone tower of Monnycrofts church,and a gay wedding party has descended the long churchyard steps, andtaken its way through the swarming villagers, along the village street,and down the lane to Langlee farm. There Luke and Sally live as happilyas if they were in a Robinson Crusoe's island, or more so; and more sothan if he had been a king and had made Sally a queen. Luke has boughtthe old mill on the hill, Ives's old mill, and it still swings its greatarms as if beckoning everybody up to see something wonderful. Old Beckeystill lives in the Reckoning House, and Luke always looks in as he goesup the hill to the mill, and often the old woman is fetched down toLanglee farm to pass whole days and weeks with him. There she has a nicetall-backed cushioned chair set for her in a sunny corner, and shedelights to ramble about the garden and smell the flowers, and about thefarm-yard, and listen to the fowls and ducks and geese and pigeons, andfancy that she sees them.

  "There's only one thing that troubles me," said old Beckey soon afterLuke had been recognised, "and that is, that Welland and his wife weretransported for nothing. Thou'st plenty of money, Luke, and if I werethee, I'd send for them back."

  "Granny," said Luke, "they would not thank me to do that. If I sent,they would not come."

  "No!" said Beckey, "do they like slavery better than Old England?"

  "Slavery!" said Luke. "Why, granny, they live in a finer house thanSquire Flaggimore, keep a fine carriage, and their children are finergentlemen and ladies than the Flaggimores by half."

  "Ah, say'st thou so!" exclaimed old Beckey in wonder. "How in the worldhave they managed that?"

  "I will tell you, granny," said Luke. "When I was in Australia, and hadgot a good lump of gold, the first thing I did was to set sail forSydney in order to find out the Wellands and set them free, and sendthem home. When I got there I found a very fine city, fine as London,though not so big. There were fine shops, and carriages driving about,and fine ladies and gentlemen riding and walking about, and finestreets; and all round the city were the most beautiful gardens andplantations, and houses like palaces, with beautiful lawns running downto the sea-side. 'This a fine city,' I said to a decent man who stood ata shop-door, 'but where are the convicts lodged?' The man smiled andsaid, 'It just makes all the difference as to what convicts you mean. Ifyou mean those who are lately come, you may find some in the convictbarracks in the old town there, and some everywhere working on thequays, and in warehouses, and many are up the country farming andshepherding. But if you mean the convicts that came out ten or twentyyears ago, look round. They inhabit the greater part of the palaces yousee. 'There!' said he, pointing to a very fine carriage with a handsomepair of greys, and a coachman and two footmen before and behind in richliveries, 'that is the equipage of a convict of past days. There! andthere! and there! all those are carriages of quondam convicts.'

  "I was astounded. I then asked him if he knew a convict of the name ofWelland.

  "'Do I know him?' said the man. 'Do I know the governor, or thechief-justice? Do you want to see him?'

  "I replied I did.

  "'Come along then,' said he, 'I want a little walk; and he led the wayacross a very fine street, called George Street, and up a hill, and pastthe governor's castle, and so along the parks and garden beyond, andthen he stopped at a grand gate with a grand lodge, and said, 'Herelives your man.'

  "I stood in astonishment. 'Can it be true?' I said.

  "'How long has he been out?' asked the man.

  "Something like fourteen years," I replied.

  "'Just so,' said he; 'and has he a very little wife?'

  "A very great one," I said.

  "'That's your man then,' he rejoined, and he bowed and bade me good day.

  "I stood some time in doubt what I should do. I questioned how I mightbe received by my old enemy, who had manifested to me so much malice,and whom I had been the occasion of banishing into slavery. But Ithought, well, the transportation has been a lucky thing for him, and soI will venture. I went in at the lodge gate, a woman told me the familywere at home. I advanced up a very fine gravel coach road, through themost beautiful woods, and came at length into an open lawn and fineflower-garden, where stood a grand white stone palace. 'Can this be themansion of Welland of the Marlpool?' I said to myself. 'Can the collierhave developed into a grandee like this, and through the chain-gangtoo?'

  "But I ascended a fine flight of steps, and rang the bell. A servant inrich embroidered livery, and profusely powdered, came to the door. Iinquired for Mr. Welland, and was shown into a noble library, where anold white-haired gentleman sat reading the papers. A magnificentHighland greyhound, here called the kangaroo hound, crouched on thesuperb Turkey carpet near his feet, and the spaces of the walls whichwere not covered with books were filled with fine paintings. The oldgentleman politely rose, and bowing, begged me to take a seat on theopposite side of the magnificent marble mantelpiece.

  "I was puzzled how to begin my reason for calling. I looked in the oldgentleman's face, now calm and grave, and I was at a loss to determinewhether I was not mistaken after all. I thought I could trace a likenessto the collier of the Marlpool, even amid that handsome suit of clothes,that delicately fine linen, and under that snowy hair, but--could it be?The old gentleman interrupted my speculations by mildly requesting thatI would oblige him by stating why I honoured him with a call. I pausedagain for a moment. I grew still more confused, but I broke through myrestraint by an effort, and said, 'Was I right in opining that Mr.Welland was a countryman of mine--from Derbyshire?'

  "A cloud fell on his brow, and he replied, but coldly, 'I am from thatcounty.'

  "'Then,' said I, reassured, 'you will not have forgotten the name ofBarnicott?'

  "A flush passed over his features--a fierce one, it seemed to me. Hiseyes flashed, and he demanded, in a short, stern tone, what was thepurport of my inquiry.

  "'Because,' I said, 'I am that Luke Barnicott who was supposed to bedrowned in Hillmarton dam.'

  "As I said these words, the old gentleman gave me a startled look,turned unusually pale, and then springing towards me, seized my handsconvulsively, and exclaim
ed, 'Thank God! what a weight you fling from mysoul! Is it, can it be true, that you are that boy?'

  "'I am he,' I said, 'and I have come six hundred miles to seek to makeamends for the unintentional misfortune of causing you'--I hesitated tobring out the words of ignominy.

  "'Of causing my transportation!' he said promptly. 'Thank God for that,now I know that I am not guilty of your death; but all these years Ihave borne in my soul the feeling that you were rotting in the bottom ofthat dam.'

  "The old man shook me vehemently by the hand. 'Thank God!' he ejaculatedagain. 'Now all is right; now I shall live and die in peace. Now I cansay, Luke Barnicott, you did me the grandest day's work imaginable whenyou caused my transportation, or rather when I caused it myself by madanger against you.' I asked his pardon a thousand times for my folly intantalizing him with the brick at the pit.

  "'Don't mention it,' he said; 'we have both of us something to forgetand to forgive. God, I trust, has forgiven us both. He has prospered mebeyond all conception. I am one of the richest men in this colony. Ihave lands that would make estates for half-a-dozen noblemen, and I haveships on half-a-dozen seas. My story is no secret; everybody knows whoare emancipists here, and who are not But we have wealth, and friends,and rising families who will one day rank with the first people of thecolony in education and worth. As for me, I feel I am no longer the poorcollier of the Marlpool. By trade, by study, by associating with men ofintelligence and mind, my own mind and views have expanded. I have grownout of a black, crawling, ignorant caterpillar into a something morenoble--into a man and a Christian. I rank with a marked class here, itis true, but I have wealth and friends, and a fine virtuous family; andI have laboured hard to subdue that fierceness and rancour which oncedisgraced me. You are the cause of this, and I bid you ten timeswelcome. But come, I must introduce you to Mrs. Welland.'

  "He led the way through a spacious hall into an equally spacious andrichly-furnished drawing-room, where I saw sitting a venerable lady,reading with spectacles, and, like her husband, with hair white as snow.She rose at our entrance, and I instantly recognised that remarkablestature. But it was no longer the lofty, strapping figure, with a bold,handsome face, and with an old slouched man's hat on, and arrayed indirty and negligent dress, as I recollected Doll Welland. The old andvenerable lady had the air of an ancient dowager empress. I could havefancied her the Czarina of all the Russias.

  "'My dear,' said Mr. Welland, 'I introduce to you a friend, who comes,as it were, from the dead. You must go back to past times, to theMarlpool, to the windmill, to--Luke Barnicott.'

  "The venerable and stately lady stood in silent wonder. She gazed on herhusband, and then on me. 'What words, my dear, are these?' she said 'Youtear open old and very deep wounds.'

  "'Let them all be closed and healed for ever, for this is the boyBarnicott, who "was dead and is alive, who was lost and is found."'

  "I will not," said Luke, "attempt to describe the venerable lady'sagitation, and, as that subsided, her joy. Like her husband, she seizedand held my hands, and wet them with streaming tears, and kissed them inher emotion. All bitter feeling had long passed out of her bosom. Theyhad made a sharp expiation for their crime in persecuting me, duringtheir early years in the colony, and in the deep-lying sense of mydestruction in their souls up to this moment. This had softened andameliorated their hearts; they had become strongly religious; prosperityhad not spoiled them; and my arrival, and my errand to make a fullamends for my folly, now needless, cast a stream of heavenly sunshine onthe evening of their days.

  "I was constrained to take up my quarters with them during my stay. Theyexplained to their sons and daughters, now all grown up, and some ofthem married, and with mansions and equipages of great splendour, who Iwas,--for my story was familiar to them all. I found myself at onceamongst a set of fine young men and women, highly educated, and in everyrespect most estimable and charming. I visited them at their houses,and accompanied them to those of their friends situated on the woodyshores and promontories that surround the delightful Bay of Sydney. Irode with them across the sandy tract, carpeted with flowers andthicketed with blooming shrubs of rare beauty, to Botany Bay. There wesometimes took boats, and enjoyed the dangerous and exciting sport ofkilling sharks. In that water, clear as crystal, we could see theterrible monsters come with rapid sweeps up to the sides of our boats,which they would seek to overturn, in which case we should probably allhave been snapped asunder and devoured. But throwing them a piece ofmeat on a hook, they caught at that, and we drew them up to the boat,and stunned them by striking them on the nose with the boat-hooks, anddragged them in triumph to land.

  "Sometimes we made a party at snake-hunting in the woods and thicketsaround the houses of Mr. Welland, or of his sons or daughters, leadingdown to the bay. Armed with whips, the ladies as well as the gentlemen,and our legs defended with tall boots, we rushed into the wilderness ofshrubs, and starting the lurking serpents, most of them of deadly venom,we gave chase, and soon cut them to pieces with our whips. Sometimes wemade long rides into the forests and encamped there in huts, and spentwhole days in shooting and in hunting the kangaroo. We visited the palmyhills of Illawara, and saw the giant nettle trees, large as oaks, andcapable of killing a horse very quickly by their stings; or we rovedamongst the orange and lemon groves of Paramatta, and wondered how allthis enchanted life had sprung out of the collieries and the events ofthe Marlpool, in Derbyshire. I can only say," Luke added when he closedhis narrative, "that I quitted my old cronies, the Wellands and theirchildren, with profound regret, and I feel that the regret was mutual.The old collier of the Marlpool, now the millionnaire of Sydney, has notforgotten his old friends and native place. I have brought with me L500to build and partly endow a school on the spot where his humble cottageonce stood; and I shall feel it my duty and my pleasure to state thefacts that this is the gift of the Wellands, fifteen years agotransported on the charge of having murdered me in consequence of mydisappearance. That, innocent of the charge, God has wonderfullyprospered them in their distant exile; that they have grown rich andesteemed, and have sent by me, whom they were supposed to havedestroyed, this handsome token of their remembrance to their nativeplace. That is due to their justification, and to the wonderful means ofcompensation existing in the immensely-extended British empire, whereeven the man unjustly condemned at home, can find, in his unjustpunishment, the way to far superior fortune; and where those justlycondemned may expiate their offences against society by returning tovirtue, and by attaining to a position and a power which enables them todiffuse the most salutary hopes and the most substantial benefits aroundthem."

  This is the story of Welland the collier and Luke Barnicott, whom mayHeaven long preserve!