Birds of Prey by M.E. Braddon

M >> M.E. Braddon >> Birds of Prey

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There is much in these letters which relates to the secret history of
Matthew's life. They were written to the only creature amongst his
kindred in whom he fully confided. This fact transpires more than once,
as will be seen anon by the extracts I shall proceed to make; if my
influenza--which causes me to shed involuntary tears that give me the
appearance of a drivelling idiot, and which jerks me nearly out of my
chair every now and then with a convulsive sneeze--will permit me to do
anything rational or useful.

I have sorted and classified the letters, first upon one plan, then
upon another, until I have classified and sorted them into chaos.
Having done this, my only chance is to abandon all idea of
classification, and go quietly through them in consecutive order
according to their dates, jotting down whatever strikes me as
significant. George Sheldon's acumen must do the rest.

Thus I begin my notes, with an extract from the fourth letter in the
series. Mem. I preserve Matthew's own orthography, which is the most
eccentric it was ever my lot to contemplate.

"_December_ 14, '42. Indeed, my dear Ruth, I am ventursom wear you are
concurn'd, and w'd tell you that I w'd taik panes to kepe fromm
another. I saw ye same girl w'h it was my good fortun to saive from ye
molestashun of raketters and mohoks at Smithfelde in September last
past. She is ye derest prittiest creture you ever saw, and as elegant
and genteel in her speche and maner as a Corte lady, or as ye best
bredd person in Ullerton. I mett her in ye nayborood of ye Marchalsee
prison wear her father is at this pressent time a prisener, and had
som pleassant talke with her. She rememberr'd me at once, and seme'd
mitily gladd to see me. Mem. Her pritty blu eys wear fill'd with teares
wen she thank'd me for having studd up to be her champyun at ye Fare.
So you see, Mrs. Ruth, ye brotherr is more thort off in London than
with them which hav ye rite to regard him bestt. If you had scen ye
pore simpel childeish creetur and heeard her tell her arteless tale, I
think y'r kinde hart w'd have bin sore to considder so much unmiritted
misfortun: ye father is in pore helth, a captiv, ye mother has binn
dedd thre yeres, and ye pore orfann girl, Mollie, has to mentane ye
burden of ye sick father, and a yung helples sister. Think of this,
kinde Mrs. Ruth, in y'r welthy home. Mem. Pore Mrs. Mollie is prittier
than ye fineist ladies that wear to be sene at ye opening of ye grand
new roome at Ranellar this spring last past, wear I sor ye too Miss
Gunings and Lady Harvey, wich is alsoe accounted a grate buty."

I think this extract goes very far to prove that my friend Matthew was
considerably smitten by the pretty young woman whose champion he had
been in some row at Bartholomew Fair. This fits into one of the scraps
of information afforded by my ancient inhabitant in Ullerton
Almshouses, who remembers having heard his grandfather talk of Mat
Haygarth's part in some fight or disturbance at the great Smithfield
festival.

My next extract treats again of Mollie, after an interval of four
months. It seems as if Matthew had confided in his sister so far as to
betray his tenderness for the poor player-girl of the London booths;
but I can find no such letter amongst those in my hands. Such an
epistle may have been considered by Mrs. Ruth too dangerous to be kept
where the parental eye might in some evil hour discover it. Matthew's
sister was unmarried at this date, and lived within the range of that
stern paternal eye. Matthew's letter appears to me to have been written
in reply to some solemn warning from Ruth.

"_April_ 12, 1743. Sure, my dear sister cannot think me so baise a
retch as to injoore a pore simpel girl hoo confides in me as ye best
and trooest of mortals, wich for her dere saik I will strive to be. If
so be my sister cou'd think so ill of me it wou'd amost temt me to
think amiss of her, wich cou'd imagen so vile a thort. You tel me that
Mrs. Rebecka Caulfeld is mor than ever estemed by my father; but, Ruth,
I am bounde to say, my father's esteme is nott to be ye rule of my
ackshuns thro' life, for it semes to me their is no worser tyrrannie
than ye wich fathers do striv to impose on there children, and I do
acount that a kind of barbarity wich wou'd compel ye hart of youth to
sute ye proodense of age. I do not dout but Mrs. Rebecka is a mitey
proper and well-natur'd person, tho' taken upp with this new sekt of
methodys, or, as sum do call them in derission, swaddlers and jumpers,
set afoot by ye madbrain'd young man, Wesley, and one that is still
madder, Witfelde. Thear ar I dare sware many men in Ullerton wich wou'd
be gladd to obtane Mrs. Rebecka's hand and fortun; but if ye fortun
wear ten times more, I wou'd not preetend to oferr my harte to herr
w'h can never be its misteress. Now, my deare sister, having gone
as farr towards satisfieing all y'r queerys as my paper wou'd welle
permitt, I will say no more but to begg you to send me all ye knews,
and to believe that none can be more affectionately y'r humble servant
than your brother." "MATHEW HAYGARTH."

In this extract we have strong ground for supposing that our Matthew
truly loved the player-girl, and meant honestly by his sweetheart.
There is a noble indignation in his repudiation of his sister's doubts,
and a manly determination not to marry Mrs. Rebecca's comfortable
fortune. I begin to think that Sheldon's theory of an early and secret
marriage will turn up a trump card; but Heaven only knows how slow or
how difficult may be the labour of proving such a marriage. And then,
even if we can find documentary evidence of such an event, we shall
have but advanced one step in our obscure path, and should have yet to
discover the issue of that union, and to trace the footsteps of
Matthew's unknown descendants during the period of a century.

I wonder how Sisyphus felt when the stone kept rolling back upon him.
Did he ever look up to the top of the mountain and calculate the
distance he must needs traverse before his task should be done?

The next letter in which I find a passage worth transcribing is of much
later date, and abounds in initials. The postmark is illegible; but I
can just make out the letters PO and L, the two first close together,
the third after an interval; and there is internal evidence to show
that the letter was written from some dull country place. Might not
that place have been Spotswold? the PO and the L of the postmark would
fit very well into the name of that village. Again I leave this
question to the astute Sheldon. The date is March, 1749.

"M. is but porely. Sumtimes I am pain'd to believe this quiett life is
not well suted to herr disposishun, having bin acustumed to so much
livlinesse and nois. I hav reproched her with this, but she tolde me,
with teres in her eys, to be neare mee and M. and C. was to be happie,
and ye it is il helth onlie wich is ye cawse of ye sadnesse. I pray
heaven M.'s helth may be on ye mending hand soone. Little M. grows more
butiful everry day; and indede, my dear sisterr, if you cou'd stele
another visitt this waye, and oblidge yr affectionat brother, you wou'd
considerr him ye moste butifull creetur ever scene. So much enteligence
with sich ingaging temper endeares him to all hartes. Mrs. J. says she
adors him, and is amost afraide to be thort a Paygann for bestoeing so
much affection on a erthly creetur, and this to oure good parson who
cou'd find no reproche for her plesant folly.

"We hav had heavy ranes all ye week last past. Sech wether can but
serve to hinderr M.'s recovery. The fysichion at G., wear I tooke her,
saies she shou'd hav much fresh aire everry day--if not afoot, to be
carrid in a chaire or cotche; but in this wether, and in a plaice wear
neeither chaire nor cotche can be had, she must needs stop in doors. I
hav begg'd her to lett me carry her to G., but she will not, and says
in ye summerr she will be as strong as everr. I pray God she may be so.
Butt theire are times whenn my harte is sore and heavy; and the rane
beeting agenst the winder semes lik dropps of cold worter falling uponn
my pore aking harte. If you cou'd stele a visitt you wou'd see wether
she semes worse than whenn you sor her last ortumm; she is trieing ye
tansy tea; and beggs her service to you, and greatfull thanks for y'r
rememberence of her. I dare to say you here splended acounts of my
doins in London--at cok fites and theaters, dansing at Vorxhall, and
beeting ye wotch in Covin Garden. Does my F. stil use to speke harsh
agenst me, or has he ni forgott their is sech a creetur living? If he
has so, I hope you wil kepe him in sech forgetfullnesse,--and obliage,

"Yr loving brother and obediant servent."

"MATHEW HAYGARTH."

To me this letter is almost conclusive evidence of a marriage. Who can
this little M. be, of whom he writes so tenderly, except a child? Who
can this woman be, whose ill health causes him such anxiety, unless a
wife? Of no one _but_ a wife could he write so freely to his sister.
The place to which he asks her to "steal a visit" must needs be a home
to which a man could invite his sister. I fancy it is thus made very
clear that at this period Matthew Haygarth was secretly married and
living at Spotswold, where his wife and son were afterwards buried, and
whence the body of the son was ultimately removed to Dewsdale to be
laid in that grave which the father felt would soon be his own
resting-place. That allusion to the Ullerton talk of London roisterings
indicates that Matthew's father believed him to be squandering the
paternal substance in the metropolis at the very time when the young
man was leading a simple domestic life within fifty miles of the
paternal abode. No man could do such a thing in these days of rapid
locomotion, when every creature is more or less peripatetic; but in
that benighted century the distance from Ullerton to Spotswold
constituted a day's journey. That Matthew was living in one place while
he was supposed to be in another is made sufficiently clear by several
passages in his letters, all more or less in the strain of the
following:--

"I was yesterday--markett-day--at G., wear I ran suddennly agenst Peter
Browne's eldest ladd. The boy openn'd his eyes wide, stearing like an
owle; butt I gaive him bakk his looke with interrest, and tolde him if
he was curiouse to know my name, I was Simon Lubchick, farmer, at his
servise. The pore simpel ladd arsk'd my pardonn humbly for having
mistook me for a gentelman of Ullerton--a frend of his father; on wich
I gaive him a shillin, and we parted, vastly plesed with eche other;
and this is nott the fust time the site of Ullerton fokes has putt me
into a swett."

Amongst later letters are very sad ones. The little M. is dead. The
father's poor aching heart proclaims its anguish in very simple words:

"_Nov_. 1751. I thank my dear sister kindly for her friendlinesse and
compashin; butt, ah, he is gone, and their semes to be no plesure or
comforte on this erth without him! onlie a littel childe of 6 yeres,
and yett so dere a creetur to this harte that the worlde is emty and
lonely without him. M. droopes sadly, and is more ailing everry day.
Indede, my dere Ruth, I see nothing butt sorrow before me, and I wou'd
be right gladd to lay down at peece in my littel M.'s grave."

I can find no actual announcements of death, only sad allusions here
and there. I fancy the majority of Matthew's letters must have been
lost, for the dates of those confided to my hands are very far apart,
and there is evidence in all of them of other correspondence. After the
letter alluding to little M.'s death, there is a hiatus of eight years.
Then comes a letter with the post-mark London very clear, from which I
transcribe an extract. "_October 4th_, 1759. The toun is very sadd;
everry body, high and low, rich and pore, in morning for Gennerel Wolf:
wot a nobel deth to die, and how much happier than to live, when one
considers the cairs and miseries of this life; and sech has bin the
oppinion of wiser fokes than y'r humble servent. Being in companie on
Thersday sennite with that distingwish'd riter, Dr. Johnson,--whose
admir'd story of _Raselass_ I sent you new from ye press, but who I am
bound to confesse is less admirable as a fine gentlemann than as an
orther, his linning siled and his kravatt twisted ary, and his manners
wot in a more obskure personn wou'd be thort ungenteel,--he made a
remark wich impress'd me much. Some one present, being almost all
gentelmenn of parts and learning, except y'r pore untuter'd brother,
observed that it was a saying with the ainchents that ye happiest of
men was him wich was never born; ye next happy him wich died the
soonest. On wich Dr. Johnson cried out verry loud and angry, 'That was
a Paggann sentyment, sir, and I am asham'd that a Xtian gentelmann
shou'd repete it as a subject for admerashun. Betwene these heathen men
and ye followers of Christ their is all ye differenc betwene a slave
and a servent of a kind Master. Eche bears the same burden; butt ye
servent knows he will recieve just wages for his work, wile ye slave
hopes for nothing, and so conkludes that to escape work is to be
happy!' I could but aknowlege the wisdomm and pyety of this speche;
yett whenn I see ye peopel going bye in their black rayment, I envy the
young Gennerel his gloreous deth, and I wish I was laying amongst the
plane on the hites of Quebeck. I went to look at ye old house in J.
St., but I wou'd not go in to see Mr. F. or ye old roomes; for I think
I shou'd see the aparishions of those that once liv'd in them. C.
thrivs at Higate, wear the aire is fresh and pewer. I go to see her
offen. She is nerely as high as you. Give my servis to Mrs. Rebecka,
sinse you say it will plese my father to do so, and he is now dispos'd
to think more kindly of me. Butt if he thinks I shal everr arske her to
be my wife he is mityly mistaken. You know wear my harte lies--in ye
grave with all that made life dere. Thank my father for the Bill, and
tell him I pass my time in good companie, and neether drink nor play;
and will come to Ullerton to pay him my respeckts when he pleses to bid
me. Butt I hav no desire to leeve London, as I am gladd to be neare C."

Who was C., whom Matthew visited at Highgate, and who was nearly as
tall as Ruth Judson? Was she not most likely the same C. mentioned in
conjunction with the little M. in the earlier letters? and if so, can
there be any doubt that she was the daughter of Matthew Haygarth? Of
whom but of a daughter would he write as in this letter? She was at
Highgate, at school most likely, and he goes to see her. She is nearly
as tall as Mrs. Judson. This height must have been a new thing, or he
would scarcely impart it as a piece of news to his sister. And then he
has no desire to leave London, as he is glad to be near C.

My life upon it, C. is a daughter.

Acting upon this conviction, I have transcribed all passages relating
to C., at whatever distance of time they occur.

* * * * *

Thus, in 1763, I find--"C. has grone very hansome, and Mrs. N. tells me
is much admir'd by a brother of her frend Tabitha. She never stirs
abrorde but with Tabitha, and if a dutchess, cou'd be scarce wated on
more cairfully. Mrs. N. loves her verry tenderly, and considers her the
sweetest and most wel bredd of young women. I hav given her the new
edishun of Sir Charls Grandisson, wich they read alowde in ye evenings,
turn and turn about, to Mrs. N. at her spinning. C. has given me a wool
comforter of her owne worke, and sum stockings wich are two thick to
ware, but I hav not told her so."

Again, in 1764: "Tabitha Meynell's brother goes more than ever to
Higate. He is a clark in his father's wearhouse; very sober and
estimabel, and if it be for ye hapiness of C. to mary him, I wou'd be
ye laste of men to sett my orthoritty agenst her enclinashun. She is
yett but ayteen yeres of age, wich is young to make a change; so I tell
Mrs. N. we will waite. Meanwhile ye young peapel see eche other offen."

Again, in 1765: "Young Meynell is still constant, expressing much love
and admirashun for C. in his discorse with Mrs. N., butt sattisfide to
wait my plesure before spekeing oppenly to C. He semes a most exempelry
young man; his father a cittizen of some repewt in Aldersgait-street,
ware I have din'd since last riting to you, and at hoose tabel I was
paid much considerashun. He, Tomas Meynell ye father, will give his son
five hundred pound, and I prommis a thousand pound with C. and to
furnish a house at Chelsee, a verry plesent and countriefide vilage; so
I make no doubt there will soon be a wedding.

"I am sorrie to here my father is aleing; give him my love and servise,
and will come to Ullerton immediate on receiving his commands. I am
plesed to think Mrs. Rebecka Caulfeld is so dutifull and kind to him,
and has comfortedd him with prairs and discorses. I thank her for this
more than for any frendshipp for my undeserving self. Pray tell her
that I am much at her servise.

"Our new king is lov'd and admir'd by all. His ministers not so; and
wise peopel do entertain themselfs with what I think foollish jokes
a-bout a _Skotch boote_. Perhapps I am not cleverr enuff to see the funn
in this joke."

In this letter I detect a certain softening of feeling towards Mrs.
Rebecca Caulfield. In the next year--'66--according to my notes,
Matthew's father died, and I have no letters bearing the date of that
year, which our Matthew no doubt spent at home. Nor have I any letters
from this time until the year of Matthew's marriage with Rebecca
Caulfield. In the one year of his union with Mrs. Rebecca, and the last
year of his life, there are many letters, a few from London and the
rest from the manor-house at Dewsdale. But in these epistles,
affectionate and confidential as they are, there is little positive
information.

These are the letters of the regenerate and Wesleyanised Matthew; and,
like the more elaborate epistles of his wife Rebecca, deal chiefly with
matters spiritual. In these letters I can perceive the workings of a
weak mind, which in its decline has become a prey to religious terrors;
and though I fully recognise the reforming influence which John Wesley
exercised upon the people of England, I fancy poor Matthew would have
been better in the hands of a woman whose piety was of a less severe
type than that of Wesleyan Rebecca. There is an all-pervading tone of
fear in these letters--a depression which is almost despair. In the
same breath he laments and regrets the lost happiness of his youth, and
regrets and laments his own iniquity in having been so ignorantly and
unthinkingly happy.

Thus in one letter he says,--

"When I think of that inconsideratt foolish time with M., and how to be
nere her semed the highest blisse erth cou'd bistowe or Heven prommis,
I trimbel to think of my pore unawaken'd sole, and of her dome on wich
the tru light never shown. If I cou'd believe she was happy my owne
sorow wou'd be lesse; but I canot, sence all ye worthyest memberrs of
our seck agree that to die thinking onely of erthly frends, and
clingeng with a passhunate regrett to them we luv on erth is to be
lesse than a tru Xtian, and for sech their is but one dome."

And again, in a still later epistle, he writes,--

"On Toosday sennite an awakning discorse fromm a verry young man, until
lately a carppenter, but now imploid piusly in going from toun to toun
and vilage to vilage, preching. He says, that a life of cairlesse
happyness, finding plesure in ye things of this worlde, is--not being
repentied of--irretrevable damnation. This is a maloncally thort! I
fell to mewsing on M., with hoom I injoy'd such compleat happyness, tel
Deth came like a spekter to bannish all comforte. And now I knowe that
our lives wear vainity. I ashure you, dear sister, I am prodidjusly
sadd when I reffleckt upon this truth--ashuredly it is a harde saying."

Anon comes that strange foreknowledge of death--that instinctive sense
of the shadowy hand so soon to lay him at rest; and with that mystic
prescience comes a yearning for the little child M. to be laid where
his father may lay down beside him. There are many passages in the
latter letters which afford a clue to that mysterious midnight burial
at Dewsdale.

"Last nite I drem't of the cherchyarde at S. I satte under the olde
yewe tree, as it semed in my dreme, and hurd a childes voice crying in
a very piteous mannerr. The thort of this dreme has oppress'd my
speritts all day, and Rebecka has enquier'd more than wunce wot ales
me. If little M. but lay nere at hande, in ye graive to wich I fele I
must soone be carrid, I beleive I shou'd be happyer. Reproove me for
this folley if you plese. I am getting olde, and Sattan temts me with
seche fooleish thorts. Wot dose it matter to my sole wear my vile bodie
is laid? and yet I have a fonde fooleish desier to be berrid with
littel M."

And in these latest letters there is ample evidence of that yearning on
Matthew's part to reveal a secret which Rebecca's own correspondence
betrays.

"We tawked of manny things, and she was more than ordinnary kind and
gentel. I had a mind to tell her about M, and aske her frendship for
C; but she seemed not to cair to here my sekrets, and I think wou'd be
offended if she new the trooth. So I cou'd not finde courrage to tell
her. Before I die I shal speek planely for the saik of C. and M. and ye
little one. I shal cum to U. erly nex weak to make my Wille, and this
time shal chainge my umour no more. I have burnt ye laste, not likeing
it."

This passage occurs in the last letter, amongst the packet confided to
me. The letter is dated September 5, 1774. On the fourteenth of the
following month Matthew died, and in all probability the will here
alluded to was never executed. Certain it is that Matthew, whose end
was awfully sudden at the last, died intestate, whereby his son John
inherited the bulk, and ultimately the whole, of his fortune. There are
many allusions to this infant son in the last few letters; but I do not
think the little creature obtained any great hold on the father's
heart. No doubt he was bound and swaddled out of even such small
semblance to humanity as one may reasonably expect in a child of six or
seven weeks old, and by no means an agreeable being. And poor
weak-minded Matthew's heart was with that player-girl wife whom he
never acknowledged, and the little M. And thus ends the story of
Matthew Haygarth, so far as I have been able to trace it in the
unfathomable gloom of the past.

It seems to me that what I have next to do will be to hunt up
information respecting that young man Meynell, whose father lived in
Aldersgate Street, and was a respectable and solid citizen, of that
ilk; able to give a substantial dinner to the father of his son's
sweetheart, and altogether a person considerable enough, I should
imagine, to have left footprints of some kind or other on the sands of
Time. The inscrutable Sheldon will be able to decide in what manner the
hunt of the Meynells must begin. I doubt if there is anything more to
be done in Ullerton.

I have sent Sheldon a fair copy of my extracts from Matthew's
correspondence, and have returned the letters to Miss Judson, carefully
packed in accordance with her request. I now await my Sheldon's next
communication and the abatement of my influenza before making my next
move in the great game of chess called Life.

What is the meaning of Horatio Paget's lengthened abode in this town?
He is still here. He went past this house to-day while I was standing
at my window in that abject state of mind known only to influenza and
despair. I think I was suffering from a touch of both diseases, by the
bye. What is that man doing here? The idea of his presence fills me
with all manner of vague apprehensions. I cannot rid myself of the
absurd notion that the lavender glove I saw lying in Goodge's parlour
had been left there by the Captain. I know the idea _is_ an absurd one,
and I tell myself again and again that Paget _cannot_ have any inkling
of my business here, and therefore _cannot_ attempt to forestall me or
steal my hard-won information. But often as I reiterate this--in that
silent argument which a man is always elaborating in his own mind--I am
still tormented by a nervous apprehension of treachery from that man. I
suppose the boundary line between influenza and idiocy is a very narrow
one. And then Horatio Paget is such a thorough-paced scoundrel. He is
_lie_ with Philip Sheldon too--another thorough-paced scoundrel in a
quiet gentlemanly way, unless my instinct deceives me.

_October 12th_. There is treachery somewhere. Again the Haygarthian
epistles have been tampered with. Early this morning comes an indignant
note from Miss Judson, reminding me that I promised the packet of
letters should be restored to her yesterday at noon, and informing me
that they were not returned until last night at eleven o'clock, when
they were left at her back garden-gate by a dirty boy who rang the bell
as loudly as if he had been giving the alarm of fire, and who thrust
the packet rudely into the hand of the servant and vanished
immediately. So much for the messenger. The packet itself, Miss Judson
informed me, was of a dirty and disgraceful appearance, unworthy the
hands of a gentlewoman, and one of the letters was missing.

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