Birds of Prey by M.E. Braddon

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After tea we played whist again, aunt Dorothy and I obtaining a
succession of easy victories over Charlotte and uncle Joe. I felt
myself hourly more and more completely at home in that simple domestic
circle, and enjoyed the proud position of an accepted lover. My
Arcadian friends troubled themselves in nowise as to the approval or
disapproval of Mr. and Mrs. Sheldon, or with regard either to my
prospects or my antecedents. They saw me devoted to my dear girl, they
saw my dearest pleased by my devotion, and they loved her so well that
they were ready to open their hearts without reserve to the man who
adored her and was loved by her, let him be rich or poor, noble or
base-born. As they would have given her the wax-doll of her desire ten
or twelve years ago without question as to price or fitness of things,
so they now gave her their kindly smiles and approval for the lover of
her choice. "I know Phil Sheldon is a man who looks to the main
chance," said uncle Joe, in the course of a discussion about his
niece's future which dyed her cheeks with blushes in the present; "and
I'll lay you'll find him rather a difficult customer to deal with,
especially as poor Tom's will left all the money in Georgy's hands,
which of course is tantamount to saying that Sheldon has got the
disposal of it."

I assured uncle Joe that money was the very last thing which I desired.

"Then in that case I don't see why he shouldn't let you have
Charlotte," replied Mr. Mercer; "and if she's cheated out of her poor
dad's money, she shan't be cheated out of what her old aunt and uncle
may have to leave her by-and-by."

Here were these worthy people promising me an heiress with no more
compunction than if they had been offering me a cup of tea.

I walked homeward once more beneath the quiet stars. O, how happy I
was! Can happiness so perfect, joy so sinless, endure? I, the
friendless wanderer and penniless Bohemian, asked myself this question;
and again I paused upon the lonely moorland road to lift my hat as I
thanked God for having given me such bright hopes.

But George Sheldon's three thousand pounds must be mine before I can
secure the humblest shelter for my sweet one; and although it would be
bliss to me to tramp through the world barefoot with Charlotte by my
side, the barefooted state of things is scarcely the sort of prospect a
man would care to offer to the woman he loves. So once more to the
chase. One more day in this delicious island of the lotus-eaters,
Newhall farm; and then away!--hark forward!--tantivy!--and hey for the
marriage-lines of Charlotte Meynell, great-granddaughter of Matthew
Haygarth, and, if still in the flesh, rightful heiress to the one
hundred thousand pounds at present likely to be absorbed by the
ravening jaws of the Crown! One more day, one more delightful idle day,
in the land where it is always afternoon, and then away to Hidling in
the hybrid vehicle, and thence to Hull, from Hull to York, from York to
Leeds, then Bradford, Huddersfield--_toute la boutique!_

The rain beats against the diamond panes of my casement as I write. The
day has been hopelessly wet, so I have stayed in my snug little chamber
and occupied myself in writing this record. Foul wind or weather would
have little power to keep me from my darling; but even if it had been a
fine day, I could not with any grace have presented myself at Newhall
farm for a third afternoon. To-morrow my immediate departure will
afford me an excuse for presenting myself once more before my kind
uncle and aunt. It will be my farewell visit. I wonder whether
Charlotte will miss me this afternoon. I wonder whether she will be
sorry when I tell her that I am going to leave this part of the
country. Ah, shall we ever meet again under such happy auspices? Shall
I ever again find such kind friends or such a hospitable dwelling as
those I shall leave amidst these northern hills?

CHAPTER VI.

FOUND IN THE BIBLE.

_November_ 3d_. The most wonderful event has befallen--surely the
most wonderful that ever came to pass outside the realms of fiction.
Let me set down the circumstances of yesterday coolly and quietly if I
can. I invoke the placid spirit of my Sheldon. I invoke all the
divinities of Gray's Inn and "The Fields." Let me be legal and
specific, perspicacious and logical--if this beating heart, this
fevered brain, will allow me a few hours' respite.

The autumn sunshine blessed the land again yesterday. Moorland and
meadow, fallow and clover-field, were all the brighter for the steady
downfall of the previous day. I walked to Newhall directly after
breakfast, and found my dearest standing at the white five-barred gate,
dressed in her pretty blue jacket, and with ribbons in her bonny brown
hair.

She was pleased to see me, though at first just a little inclined to
play the _boudeuse_ on account of my absence on the previous day. Of
course I assured her that it had been anguish for me to remain away
from her, and quoted that divine sonnet of our William's to the like
effect:

"How like a winter hath my absence been!"

and again:

"O, never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seemed my flame to qualify."

Equally of course my pet pretended not to believe me. After this little
misunderstanding we forgave each other, and adored each other again
with just a little more than usual devotion; and then we went for a
long ramble among the fields, and looked at the dear placid sheep, who
stared at us wonderingly in return, as if exclaiming to themselves,
"And these are a specimen couple of the creatures called lovers!"

We met uncle Joe in the course of our wanderings, and returned with him
in time for the vulgar superstition of dinner, which we might have
forgotten had we been left by ourselves. After dinner uncle Joe made
off to his piggeries; while aunt Dorothy fell asleep in a capacious old
arm-chair by the fire, after making an apologetic remark to the effect
that she was tired, and had been a good deal "tewed" that morning in
the dairy. "Tewed," I understand, is Yorkshire for "worried."

Aunt Dorothy having departed into the shadowy realm of dreams,
Charlotte and I were left to our own devices.

There was a backgammon board on a side-table, surmounted by an old
Indian bowl of dried rose-leaves; and, _pour nous distraire_, I
proposed that I should teach my dearest that diverting game. She
assented, and we set to work in a very business-like manner, Miss
Halliday all attention, I serious as a professional schoolmaster.

Unfortunately for my pupil's progress, the game of backgammon proved
less entertaining than our own conversation, so, after a very feeble
attempt on the one side to learn and on the other to teach, we closed
the board and began to talk;--first of the past, then of the future,
the happy future, which we were to share.

There is no need that I should set down this lovers' talk. Is it not
written on my heart? The future seemed so fair and unclouded to me, as
my love and I sat talking together yesterday afternoon. Now all is
changed. The strangest, the most surprising complications have arisen;
and I doubt, I fear.

After we had talked for a long time, Miss Halliday suddenly proposed
that I should read to her.

"Diana once told me that you read very beautifully," said this
flatterer; "and I should so like to hear you read--poetry of course.
You will find plenty of poems in that old bookcase--Cowper, and
Bloomfield, and Pope. Now I am sure that Pope is just the kind of poet
whose verses you would read magnificently. Shall we explore the
bookcase together?"

Now if there is any manner of beguiling an idle afternoon, which seems
to me most delightful, it is by the exploration of old bookcases; and
when that delight can be shared by the woman one fondly loves, the
pleasure thereof must be of course multiplied to an indefinite amount.

So Charlotte and I set to work immediately to ransack the lower shelves
of the old-fashioned mahogany bookcase, which contained the entire
library of the Mercer household.

I am bound to admit that we did not light upon many volumes of
thrilling interest. The verses of Cowper, like those of Southey, have
always appeared to me to have only one fault--there are too many of
them. One shrinks appalled from that thick closely-printed volume of
morality cut into lengths of ten feet; and beyond the few well-worn
quotations in daily use, I am fain to confess that I am almost a
stranger to the bard of Olney.

Half a dozen odd volumes of the _Gentleman's Magazine_, three or four
of the _Annual Register_, a neatly-bound edition of _Clarissa Harlowe_
and _Sir Charles Grandison_ in twelve volumes, Law's _Holy Call to a
Serious Life_, _Paradise Lost_, _Joseph Andrews_, _Hervey's
Meditations_, and _Gulliver's Travels_, formed the varied contents of
the principal shelves. Above, there were shabbily-bound volumes and
unbound pamphlets. Below, there were folios, the tops whereof were
thickly covered with the dust of ages, having escaped the care of the
handmaidens even in that neatly-appointed household.

I knelt down to examine these.

"You'll be covered with dust if you touch them," cried Charlotte. "I
was once curious enough to examine them, but the result was very
disappointing."

"And yet they look so delightfully mysterious," I said. "This one, for
instance?"

"That is an old history of London, with curious plates and maps; rather
interesting if one has nothing more amusing to read. But the perennial
supply of novels from Mudie's spoils one for that kind of book."

"If ever I come to Newhall again, I shall dip into the old history. One
is never tired of dead and gone London. But after Mr. Knight's
delightful book any old history must seem very poor. What is my burly
friend here?"

"O, a dreadful veterinary-surgeon's encyclopaedia--_The Farmer's Friend_
I think it is called; all about the ailments of animals."

"And the next?"

"The next is an odd volume of the _Penny Magazine_. Dear aunt Dorothy
is rich in odd volumes."

"And the next,--my bulky friend number two,--with a cracked leather
back and a general tendency to decay?"

"O, that is the Meynell Bible."

The MEYNELL BIBLE! A hot perspiration broke out upon my face as I knelt
at Charlotte Halliday's feet, with my hand resting lightly on the top
of the book.

"The Meynell Bible!" I repeated; and my voice was faintly tremulous, in
spite of the effort I made to control myself. "What do you mean by the
Meynell Bible?"

"I mean the old family Bible that belonged to my grand-mamma. It was
her father's Bible, you know; and of course he was my great-grandfather
--Christian Meynell. Why, how you stare at me, Valentine! Is
there anything so wonderful in my having had a great-grandfather?"

"No, darling; but the fact is that I--"

In another moment I should have told her the entire truth; but I
remembered just in time that I had pledged myself to profound secrecy
with regard to the nature and progress of my investigation, and I had
yet to learn whether that pledge did or did not involve the observance
of secrecy even with those most interested in my researches. Pending
further communication with Sheldon, I was certainly bound to be silent.

"I have a kind of interest in the name of Meynell," I said, "for I was
once engaged in a business matter with people of that name."

And having thus hoodwinked my beloved with a bouncer, I proceeded to
extract the Bible from its shelf. The book was so tightly wedged into
its place, that to remove it was like drawing a tooth. It was a
noble-looking old volume, blue with the mould of ages, and redolent of
a chill dampness like the atmosphere of a tomb.

"I should so like to examine the old book when the candles come in," I
said.

Fortunately for the maintenance of my secret, the darkness was closing
in upon us when I discovered the volume, and the room was only fitfully
illuminated by the flame that brightened and faded every minute.

I carried the book to a side-table, and Charlotte and I resumed our
talk until the candles came, and close behind them uncle Joe. I fear I
must have seemed a very inattentive lover during that brief interval,
for I could not concentrate my thoughts upon the subject of our
discourse. My mind would wander to the strange discovery that I had
just made, and I could not refrain from asking myself whether by any
extraordinary chance my own dear love should be the rightful claimant
to John Haygarth's hoarded wealth.

I hoped that it might not be so. I hoped that my darling might be
penniless rather than the heir to wealth, which, in all likelihood,
would create an obstacle strong enough to sever us eternally. I longed
to question her about her family, but could not as yet trust myself to
broach the subject. And while I doubted and hesitated, honest
blustering uncle Joe burst into the room, and aunt Dorothy awoke, and
was unutterably surprised to find she had slept so long.

After this came tea; and as I sat opposite my dearest girl I could not
choose but remember that gray-eyed Molly, whose miniature had been
found in the tulip-wood bureau, and in whose bright face I had seen the
likeness of Philip Sheldon's beautiful stepdaughter. And Mr. Sheldon's
lovely stepdaughter was the lineal descendant of this very Molly.
Strange mystery of transmitted resemblances! Here was the sweet face
that had bewitched honest, simple-minded Matthew Haygarth reproduced
after the lapse of a century.

My Charlotte was descended from a poor little player girl who had
smiled on the roisterous populace of Bartholomew Fair. Some few drops
of Bohemian blood mingled with the pure life-stream in her veins. It
pleased me to think of this; but I derived no pleasure from the idea
that Charlotte might possibly be the claimant of a great fortune.

"She may have cousins who would stand before her," I said to myself;
and there was some comfort in the thought.

After tea I asked permission to inspect the old family Bible, much to
the astonishment of uncle Joe, who had no sympathy with antiquarian
tastes, and marvelled that I should take any interest in so mouldy a
volume. I told him, with perfect truth, that such things had always
more or less interest for me; and then I withdrew to my little table,
where I was provided with a special pair of candles.

"You'll find the births and deaths of all poor Molly's ancestors on the
first leaf," said uncle Joe. "Old Christian Meynell was a rare one for
jotting down such things; but the ink has gone so pale that it's about
as much as you'll do to make sense of it, I'll lay."

Charlotte looked over my shoulder as I examined the fly-leaf of the
family Bible. Even with this incentive to distraction I contrived to be
tolerably business-like; and this is the record which I found on the
faded page:

"Samuel Matthew Meynell, son of Christian and Sarah Meynell, b. March
9, 1796, baptised at St. Giles's, Cripplegate, in this city.

"Susan Meynell, daughter of Christian and Sarah Meynell, b. June 29,
1798, also baptised in the same church.

"Charlotte Meynell, second daughter of the above Christian and Sarah,
b. October 3, 1800, baptised at the above-mentioned church of St.
Giles, London."

Below these entries, in blacker ink and in a different hand-writing--a
bold, business-like, masculine caligraphy--came the following:

"Charlotte Meynell married to James Halliday, in the parish church of
Barngrave, Yorks. April 15, 1819.

"Thomas Halliday, son of the above James and Charlotte Halliday, b.
Jan. 3d, 1821, baptised in the parish church of Barngrave, Feb. 20 in
the same year.

"Mary Halliday, daughter of the above-named James and Charlotte
Halliday, b. May 27th, 1823, baptised at Barngrave, July 1st in the
same year."

Below this there was an entry in a woman's penmanship:

"Susan, the beloved sister of C. H., died in London, July 11, 1835.

"Judge not, that ye be not judged.

"I came to call sinners, and not the righteous, to repentance."

This record seemed to hint vaguely at some sad story: "Susan, the
beloved sister;" no precise data of the death--no surname! And then
those two deprecating sentences, which seemed to plead for the dead.

I had been led to understand that Christian Meynell's daughters had
both died in Yorkshire--one married, the other unmarried.

The last record in the book was the decease of James Halliday, my dear
girl's grandfather.

After pondering long over the strangely-worded entry of Susan Meynell's
death, I reflected that, with the aid of those mysterious powers Hook
and Crook, I must contrive to possess myself of an exact copy of this
leaf from a family history, if not of the original document. Again my
duty to my Sheldon impelled me to be false to all my new-born
instincts, and boldly give utterance to another bouncer.

"I am very much interested in a county history now preparing for the
press," I said to my honoured uncle, who was engaged in a hand at
cribbage with his wife; "and I really think this old leaf from a family
Bible would make a very interesting page in that work."

I blushed for myself as I felt how shamefully I was imposing upon my
newly-found kinsman's credulity. With scarcely any one but uncle Joe
could I have dared to employ so shallow an artifice.

"Would it really, now?" said that confiding innocent.

"Well, I suppose old papers, and letters, and such like, are uncommonly
interesting to some folks. I can't say I care much about 'em myself."

"Would you have any objection to my taking a copy of these entries?" I
asked.

"My word, no, lad; not I. Take half a dozen copies, and welcome, if
they can be of any use to you or other people. That's not much to ask
for."

I thanked my simple host, and determined to write to a stationer at
Hull for some tracing-paper by the first post next morning. There was
some happiness, at least, in having found this unlooked-for end to my
researches. I had a good excuse for remaining longer near Charlotte
Halliday.

"It's only for my poor Mary's sake I set any value on that old volume,"
the farmer said, presently, in a meditative tone. "You see the names
there are the names of her relations, not mine; and this place and all
in it was hers. Dorothy and I are only interlopers, as you may say, at
the best, though I brought my fortune to the old farm, and Dorothy
brought her fortune, and between us we've made Newhall a much better
place than it was in old James Halliday's time. But there's something
sad in the thought that none of those that were born on the land have
left chick or child to inherit it." Uncle Joseph fell for a while into
a pensive reverie, and I thought of that other inheritance, well-nigh
fifty times the value of Newhall farm, which is now waiting for a
claimant. And again I asked myself, Could it be possible that this
sweet girl, whose changeful face had saddened with those old memories,
whose innocent heart knew not one sordid desire--could it be indeed she
whose fair hand was to wrest the Haygarthian gold from the grip of
Crown lawyers?

The sight of that old Bible seemed to have revived Mr, Mercer's memory
of his first wife with unwonted freshness.

"She was a sweet young creature," he said; "the living picture of our
Lottie, and sometimes I fancy it must have been that which made me take
to Lottie when she was a little one. I used to see my first wife's eyes
looking up at me out of Lottie's eyes. I told Tom it was a comfort to
me to have the little lass with me, and that's how they let her come
over so often from Hyley. Poor old Tom used to bring her over in his
Whitechapel cart, and leave her behind him for a week or so at a
stretch. And then, when my Dorothy, yonder, took pity upon a poor
lonely widower, she made as much of the little girl as if she'd been
her own, and more, perhaps; for, not having any children of her own,
she thought them such out-of-the-way creatures, that you couldn't
coddle them and pet them too much. There's a little baby lies buried in
Barngrave churchyard with Tom Halliday's sister that would have been a
noble young man, sitting where you're sitting, Mr. Hawkehurst, and
looking at me as bright as you're looking, perhaps, if the Lord's will
hadn't been otherwise. We've all our troubles, you see, and that was
mine; and if it hadn't been for Dorothy, life would not have been worth
much for me after that time--but my Dorothy is all manner of blessings
rolled up in one."

The farmer looked fondly at his second wife as he said this, and she
blushed and smiled upon him with responsive tenderness. I fancy a
woman's blushes and smiles wear longer in these calm solitudes than
amid the tumult and clamour of a great city.

Finding my host inclined to dwell upon the past, I ventured to hazard
an indirect endeavour to obtain some information respecting that entry
in the Bible which had excited my curiosity.

"Miss Susan Meynell died unmarried, I believe?" I said. "I see her
death recorded here, but she is described by her Christian name only."

"Ah, very like," replied Mr. Mercer, with an air of indifference, which
I perceived to be assumed. "Yes, my poor Molly's aunt Susan died
unmarried."

"And in London? I had been given to understand that she died in
Yorkshire."

I blushed for my own impertinence as I pressed this inquiry. What right
had I to be given to understand anything about these honest Meynells? I
saw poor uncle Joe's disconcerted face, and I felt that the hunter of
an heir-at-law is apt to become a very obnoxious creature.

"Susan Meynell died in London--the poor lass died in London," replied
Joseph Mercer, gravely; "and now we'll drop that subject, if you
please, my lad. It isn't a pleasant one."

After this I could no longer doubt that there was some painful story
involved in those two deprecating sentences of the gospel.

It was some time before uncle Joe was quite his own jovial and rather
noisy self again, and on this evening we had no whist. I bade my
friends good night a little earlier than usual, and departed, after
having obtained permission to take a tracing of the fly-leaf as soon as
possible.

On this night the starlit sky and lonesome moor seemed to have lost
their soothing power. There was a new fever in my mind. The simple plan
of the future which I had mapped out for myself was suddenly shattered.
The Charlotte of to-night--heiress-at-law to an enormous fortune--ward
in Chancery--claimant against the Crown--was a very different person
from the simple maid "whom there were none"--or only a doating
simpleton in the person of the present writer--"to praise, and very few
to love."

The night before last I had hoped so much; to-night hope had forsaken
me. It seemed as if a Titan's hand had dug a great pit between me and
the woman I loved--a pit as deep as the grave.

Philip Sheldon might have consented to give me his stepdaughter
unpossessed of a sixpence; but would he give me his stepdaughter with a
hundred thousand pounds for her fortune? Alas! no; I know the
Sheldonian intellect too well to be fooled by any hope so wild and
baseless. The one bright dream of my misused life faded from me in the
hour in which I discovered my dearest girl's claim to the Haygarthian
inheritance. But I am not going to throw up the sponge before the fight
is over. Time enough to die when I am lying face downward in the
ensanguined mire, and feel the hosts of the foemen trampling above my
shattered carcass. I will live in the light of my Charlotte's smiles
while I can, and for the rest--"_Il ne faut pas dire, fontaine, je ne
boirai pas de ton eau_." There is no cup so bitter that a man dare say,
I will not drain it to the very dregs. "What must be, shall be--that's
a certain text;" and in the mean time _carpe diem_. I am all a Bohemian
again.

_Nov. 5th_. After a day's delay I have obtained my tracing-paper, and
made two tracings of the entries in the Meynell Bible, How intercourse
with the Sheldonian race inclines one to the duplication of documents!
I consider the copying-press of modern civilization the supreme
incarnation of man's distrust of his fellow-men.

I spent this afternoon and evening with my dear love--my last evening
in Yorkshire. To-morrow I shall see my Sheldon, and inform him of the
very strange termination which has come to my researches. Will he
communicate at once with his brother? Will he release me from my oath
of secrecy? There is nothing of the masonic secretiveness in my
organisation, and I am very weary of the seal that has been set upon my
unwary lips. Will Charlotte be told that she is the reverend
intestate's next of kin? These are questions which I ask myself as I
sit in the stillness of my room at the Magpie, scribbling this wretched
diary of mine, while the church clock booms three solemn strokes in the
distance.

O, why did not the reverend intestate marry his housekeeper, and make a
will, like other honest citizens, and leave my Charlotte to walk the
obscure byways of honest poverty with me? I do believe that I could
have been honest; I do believe that I could have been brave and true
and steadfast for her dear sake. But it is the office of man to
propose, while the Unseen disposes. Perhaps such a youth as mine admits
of no redemption. I have written circulars for Horatio Paget. I have
been the willing remorseless tool of a man who never eats his dinner
without inflicting a wrong upon his fellow-creatures. Can a few moments
of maudlin sentimentality, a vague yearning for something brighter and
better, a brief impulse towards honesty, inspired by a woman's innocent
eyes--can so little virtue in the present atone for so much guilt in
the past? Alas! I fear not.

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