Martin Farquhar Tupper - The Crock of Gold

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"More than that, Roger--hark to this, man!" and, as he slapped his
breeches pocket, there was the chink as of a mine of money shaken to its
foundations: "hark to this, man! and more than hark, have! Here, good
wife, hold your apron!" And he flung into her lap a handful of silver.

Roger gave a sudden shout of wonder, joy, and avarice: and then as
instantaneously turning very pale, he slowly muttered, "Hush, Ben! is it
bloody money?" and almost shrieked as he added, "and my poor boy Tom,
too, with you! God-a-mercy, mun! how came ye by it?"

"Honestly, neighbour, leastways, middling honest: don't damp a good
fellow's heart, when he means to serve you."

"Tell me only that my boy is innocent!--and the money--yes, yes, I'll
keep the money;" for his wife seemed to be pushing it from her at the
thought.

"I innocent, father! I never know'd till this minute that Ben had any
blunt at all--did I, Ben?--and I only brought him and Rover here to sup,
because I thought it neighbourly and kind-like."

Poor Tom had till now been very silent: some how the pheasants lay heavy
on his stomach.

"Is it true, Ben, is it true? the lad isn't a thief, the lad isn't a
murderer? Oh, God! Burke, tell me the truth!

"Blockhead!" was the courteous reply, "what, not believe your own son?
Why, neighbour Acton, look at the boy: would that frank-faced,
open-hearted fellow do worse, think you, than Black Burke? And would I,
bad as I be, turn the bloody villain to take a man's life? No,
neighbour; Ben kills game, not keepers: he sets his wire for a hare, but
wouldn't go to pick a dead man's pocket. All that's wrong in me, mun,
the game-laws put there; but I'm neither burglar, murderer,
highwayman--no, nor a mean, sneaking thief; however the quality may
think so, and even wish to drive me to it. Neither, being as I be no
rogue, could I bear to live a fool; but I should be one, neighbour, and
dub myself one too, if I didn't stoop to pick up money that a madman
flings away."

"Madman? pick up money? tell us how it was, Ben," interposed female
curiosity.

"Well, neighbours, listen: I was a-setting my night-lines round Pike
Island yonder, more nor a fortnight back; it was a dark night and a
mizzling, or morning rather, 'twixt three and four; by the same token,
I'd caught a power of eels. All at once, while I was fixing a trimmer, a
punt came quietly up: as for me, Roger, you know I always wades it
through the muddy shallow: well, I listens, and a chap creeps ashore--a
mad chap, with never a tile to his head, nor a sole to his feet--and
when I sings out to ax him his business, the lunatic sprung at me like a
tiger: I didn't wish to hurt a little weak wretch like him, specially
being past all sense, poor nat'ral! so I shook him off at once, and held
him straight out in this here wice." [Ben's grasp could have cracked any
cocoa-nut.] "He trembled like a wicked thing; and when I peered close
into his face, blow me but I thought I'd hooked a white devil--no one
ever see such a face: it was horrible too look at. 'What are you arter,
mun?' says I; 'burying a dead babby?' says I. 'Give us hold here--I'm
bless'd if I don't see though what you've got buckled up there.' With
that, the little white fool--it's sartin he was mad--all on a sudden
flings at my head a precious hard bundle, gives a horrid howl, jumps
into the punt, and off again, afore I could wink twice. My head a'n't a
soft un, I suppose; but when a lunatic chap hurls at it with all his
might a barrow-load of crockery at once, it's little wonder that my
right eye flinched a minute, and that my right hand rubbed my right eye;
and so he freed himself, and got clear off. Rum start this, thinks I:
but any how he's flung away a summut, and means to give it me: what can
it be? thinks I. Well, neighbours, if I didn't know the chap was mad
afore, I was sartain of it now; what do you think of a grown man--little
enough, truly, but out of long coats too--sneaking by night to Pike
Island, to count out a little lot of silver, and to guzzle twelve
gallipots o' honey? There it was, all hashed up in an old shawl, a slimy
mesh like birdlime: no wonder my eye was a leetle blackish, when
half-a-dozen earthern crocks were broken against it. I was angered
enough, I tell you, to think any man could be such a fool as to bring
honey there to eat or to hide--when at once I spied summut red among
the mess; and what should it be but a pretty little China house,
red-brick-like, with a split in the roof for droppings, and ticketed
'Savings-bank:' the chink o' that bank you hears now: and the bank
itself is in the pond, now I've cleaned the till out."

"Wonderful sure! But what did you do with the honey, Ben?--some of the
pots wasn't broke," urged notable Mrs. Acton.

"Oh, burn the slimy stuff, I warn't going to put my mouth out o' taste
o' bacca, for a whole jawful of tooth-aches: I'll tell you, dame, what I
did with them ere crocks, wholes, and parts. There's never a stone on
Pike Island, it's too swampy, and I'd forgot to bring my pocketful, as
usual. The heaviest fish, look you, always lie among the sedge,
hereabouts and thereabouts, and needs stirring, as your Tom knows well;
so I chucked the gallipots fur from me, right and left, into the
shallows, and thereby druv the pike upon my hooks. A good night's work I
made of it too, say nothing of the Savings-bank; forty pound o' pike and
twelve of eel warn't bad pickings."

"Dear, it was a pity though to fling away the honey; but what became of
the shawl, Ben?" Perhaps Mrs. Acton thought of looking for it.

"Oh, as for that, I was minded to have sunk it, with its mess of
sweet-meats and potsherds; but a thought took me, dame, to be
'conomical for once: and I was half sorry too that I'd flung away the
jars, for I began to fancy your little uns might ha' liked the stuff; so
I dipped the clout like any washerwoman, rinshed, and squeezed, and
washed the mess away, and have worn it round my waist ever since; here,
dame, I haven't been this way for a while afore to-night; but I meant to
ask you if you'd like to have it; may be 'tan't the fashion though."

"Good gracious, Ben! why that's Mrs. Quarles's shawl, I'd swear to it
among a hundred; Sarah Stack, at the Hall, once took and wore it, when
Mrs. Quarles was ill a-bed, and she and our Thomas walked to church
together. Yes--green, edged with red, and--I thought so--a yellow circle
in the middle; here's B.Q., for Bridget Quarles, in black cotton at the
corner. Lackapity! if they'd heard of all this at the Inquest! I tell
you what, Big Ben, it's kindly meant of you, and so thank you heartily,
but that shawl would bring us into trouble; so please take it yourself
to the Hall, and tell 'em fairly how you came by it."

"I don't know about that Poll Acton; perhaps they might ask me for the
Saving-bank, too--eh, Roger!"

"No, no, wife; no, it'll never do to lose the money! let a bygone be a
bygone, and don't disturb the old woman in her grave. As to the shawl,
if it's like to be a tell-tale, in my mind, this hearth's the safest
place for it."

So he flung it on the fire; there was a shrivelling, smouldering, guilty
sort of blaze, and the shawl was burnt.

Roger Acton, you are falling quickly as a shooting star; already is your
conscience warped to connive, for lucre's sake, at some one's secret
crimes. You had better, for the moral of the matter, have burnt your
right hand, as Scaevola did, than that shawl. Beware! your sin will bring
its punishment.

CHAPTER XI.

SLEEP.

GRACE, in her humble truckle-bed, lay praying for her father;
not about his trouble, though that was much, but for the spots of sin
she could discern upon his soul.

Alas! an altered man was Roger Acton; almost since morning light, the
leprosy had changed his very nature. The simple-minded Christian,
toiling in contentment for his daily bread, cheerful for the passing
day, and trustful for the coming morrow, this fair state was well-nigh
faded away; while a bitterness of feeling against (in one word)
GOD--against unequal partialities in providence, against things as they
exist; and this world's inexplicable government--was gnawing at his very
heart-strings, and cankering their roots by unbelief. It is a speedy
process--throw away faith with its trust for the past, love for the
present, hope for the future--and you throw away all that makes sorrow
bearable, or joy lovely; the best of us, if God withheld his help, would
apostatize like Peter, ere the cock crew thrice; and, at times, that
help has wisely been withheld, to check presumptuous thoughts, and teach
how true it is that the creature depends on the Creator. Just so we
suffer a wilful little child, who is tottering about in leading-strings,
to go alone for a minute, and have a gentle fall. And just so Roger
here, deserted for a time of those angelic ministrations whose
efficiency is proved by godliness and meekness, by patience and content,
is harassed in his spirit as by harpies, by selfishness and pride, and
fretful doublings; by a grudging hate of labour, and a fiery lust of
gold. Temptation comes to teach a weak man that he was fitted for his
station, and his station made for him; that fulfilment of his ignorant
desires will only make his case the worse, and that

Providence alike is wise
In what he gives and what denies.

Meanwhile, gentle Grace, on her humble truckle-bed, is full of prayers
and tears, uneasily listening to the indistinct and noisy talk, and
hearing, now and then, some louder oath of Ben's that made her shudder.
Yes, she heard, too, the smashing sound, when the poacher flung the
money down, and she feared it was a mug or a plate--no slight domestic
loss; and she heard her father's strange cry, when he gave that
wondering shout of joyous avarice, and she did not know what to fear.
Was he ill? or crazed! or worse--fallen into bad excesses? How she
prayed for him!

Poor Ben, too, honest-hearted Ben; she thought of him in charity, and
pleaded for his good before the Throne of Mercy. Who knows but Heaven
heard that saintly virgin prayer? There is love in Heaven yet for poor
Ben Burke.

And if she prayed for Ben, with what an agony of deep-felt intercession
did she plead for Thomas Acton, that own only brother of hers, just a
year the younger to endear him all the more, her playmate, care, and
charge, her friend and boisterous protector. The many sorrowing hours
she had spent for his sake, and the thousand generous actions he had
done for hers! Could she forget how the stripling fought for her that
day, when rude Joseph Green would help her over the style? Could she but
remember how slily he had put aside, for more than half a year, a little
heap of copper earnings--weeding-money, and errand-money, and
harvest-money--and then bounteously spent it all at once in giving her a
Bible on her birth-day? And when, coming across the fields with him
after leasing, years ago now, that fierce black bull of Squire Ryle's
was rushing down upon us both, how bravely did the noble boy attack him
with a stake, as he came up bellowing, and make the dreadful monster
turn away! Ah! I looked death in the face then, but for thee, my
brother! Remember him, my God, for good!

"Poor father! poor father! Well, I am resolved upon one thing: I'll go,
with Heaven's blessing, to the Hall myself, and see Sir John, to-morrow;
he shall hear the truth, for"--And so Grace fell asleep.

Roger, when he went to bed, came to similar conclusions. He would speak
up boldly, that he would, without fear or favour. Ben's most seasonable
bounty, however to be questioned on the point of right, made him feel
entirely independent, both of bailiffs and squires, and he had now no
anxieties, but rather hopes, about to-morrow. He was as good as they,
with money in his pocket; so he'd down to the Hall, and face the baronet
himself, and blow his bailiff out o' water: that should be his business
by noon. Another odd idea, too, possessed him, and he could not sleep at
night for thinking of it: it was a foolish fancy, but the dream might
have put it in his head: what if one or other of those honey-jars, so
flung here and there among the rushes, were in fact another sort of
"Savings-bank"--a crock of gold? It was a thrilling thought--his very
dream, too; and the lot of shillings, and the shawl--ay, and the
inquest, and the rumours how that Mrs. Quarles had come to her end
unfairly, and no hoards found--and--and the honey-pots missing. Ha! at
any rate he'd have a search to-morrow. No bugbear now should hinder him;
money's money; he'd ask no questions how it got there. His own bit of
garden lay the nearest to Pike Island, and who knows but Ben might have
slung a crock this way? It wouldn't do to ask him, though--for Burke
might look himself, and get the crock--was Roger's last and selfish
thought, before he fell asleep.

As to Mrs. Acton, she, poor woman, had her own thoughts, fearful ones,
about that shawl, and Ben's mysterious adventure. No cloudy love of
mammon had overspread her mind, to hide from it the hideousness of
murder; in her eyes, blood was terrible, and not the less so that it
covered gold. She remembered at the inquest--be sure she was there among
the gossips--the facts, so little taken notice of till now, the keys in
the cupboard, where the honey-pots were not, and how Jonathan Floyd had
seen something on the lake, and the marks of a man's hand on the throat;
and, God forgive her for saying so, but Mr. Jennings was a little,
white-faced man. How wrong was it of Roger to have burnt that shawl! how
dull of Ben not to have suspected something! but then the good fellow
suspects nobody, and, I dare say, now doesn't know my thoughts. But
Roger does, more shame for him; or why burn the shawl? Ah! thought she,
with all the gossip rampart in her breast, if I could only have taken it
to the Hall myself, what a stir I should have caused! Yes, she would
have reaped a mighty field of glory by originating such a whirlwind of
inquiries and surmises. Even now, so attractive was the mare's nest, she
would go to the Hall by morning, and tell Sir John himself all about
the burnt shawl, and Pike Island, and the galli--And so she fell fast
asleep.

With respect to Ben, Tom, and Rover, a well-matched triad, as any Isis,
Horus, and Nepthys, they all flung themselves promiscuously on the hard
floor beside the hearth, "basked at the fire their hairy strength," and
soon were snoring away beautifully in concert, base, tenor, and treble,
like a leash of glee-singers. No thoughts troubled them, either of
mammon or murder: so long before the meditative trio up-stairs, they had
set a good example, and fallen asleep.

CHAPTER XII.

LOVE.

WITH the earliest peep of day arose sweet Grace, full of
cheerful hope, and prayer, and happy resignation. She had a great deal
to do that morning; for, innocent girl, she had no notion that it was
quite possible to be too early at the Hall; her only fear was being too
late. Then there were all the household cares to see to, and the dear
babes to dress, and the place to tidy up, and breakfast to get ready,
and, any how, she could not be abroad till half-past eight: so, to her
dismay, it must be past nine before ever she can see Sir John. Let us
follow her a little: for on this important day we shall have to take the
adventures of our labourer's family one at a time.

By twenty minutes to nine, Grace had contrived to bustle on her things,
give the rest the slip, and be tripping to the Hall. It is nearly two
miles off, as we already know; and Grace is such a pretty creature that
we can clearly do no better than employ our time thitherward by taking a
peep at her.

Sweet Grace Acton, we will not vex thy blushing maiden modesty by
elaborate details of form, and face, and feature. Perfect womanhood at
fair eighteen: let that fill all the picture up with soft and swelling
charms; no wadding, or padding, or jigot, or jupe--but all those
graceful undulations are herself: no pearl-powder, no carmine, no
borrowed locks, no musk, or ambergris--but all those feeble helps of
meretricious art excelled and superseded by their just originals in
nature. It will not do to talk, as a romancer may, of velvet cheeks and
silken tresses; or invoke, to the aid of our inadequate description,
roses, and swans, and peaches, and lilies. Take the simple village
beauty as she is. Did you ever look on prettier lips or sweeter
eyes--more glossy natural curls upon a whiter neck? And how that little
red-riding-hood cloak, and the simple cottage hat tied down upon her
cheeks, and the homely russet gown, all too short for modern fashions,
and the white, well-turned ankle, and the tidy little leather shoe, and
the bunch of snow drops in her tucker, and the neat mittens contrasting
darkly with her fair, bare arms--pretty Grace, how well all these become
thee! There, trip along, with health upon thy cheek, and hope within thy
heart; who can resist so eloquent a pleader? Haste on, haste on: save
thy father in his trouble, as thou hast blest him in his sin--this
rustic lane is to thee the path of duty--Heaven speed thee on it!

More slowly now, and with more anxious thoughts, more heart-weakness,
more misgiving--Grace approacheth the stately mansion: and when she
timidly touched the "Servants'" bell, for she felt too lowly for the
"Visiters',"--and when she heard how terribly loud it was, how
long it rung, and what might be the issue of her--wasn't it
ill-considered?--errand--the poor girl almost fainted at the sound.

As she leaned unconsciously for strength against the door, it opened on
a sudden, and Jonathan Floyd, in mute amazement, caught her in his arms.

"Why, Grace Acton! what's the matter with you?" Jonathan knew Grace
well; they had been at dame's-school together, and in after years
attended the same Sunday class at church. There had been some talk among
the gossips about Jonathan and Grace, and ere now folks had been kind
enough to say they would make a pretty couple. And folks were right,
too, as well as kind: for a fine young fellow was Jonathan Floyd, as any
duchess's footman; tall, well built, and twenty-five; Antinous in a
livery. Well to do, withal, though his wages don't come straight to him;
for, independently of his place--and the baronet likes him for his good
looks and proper manners--he is Farmer Floyd's only son, on the hill
yonder, as thriving a small tenant as any round abouts; and he is proud
of his master, of his blue and silver uniform, of old Hurstley, and of
all things in general, except himself.

"But what on earth's the matter, Grace?" he was obliged to repeat, for
the dear girl's agitation was extreme.

"Jonathan, can I see the baronet?"

"What, at nine in the morning, Grace Acton! Call again at two, and you
may find him getting up. He hasn't been three hours a-bed yet, and
there's nobody about but Sarah Stack and me. I wish those Lunnun sparks
would but leave the place: they do his honour no good, I'm thinking."

"Not till two!" was the slow and mournful ejaculation. What a damper to
her buoyant hopes: and Providence had seen fit to give her ill-success.
Is it so? Prosperity may come in other shapes.

"Why, Grace," suddenly said Floyd, in a very nervous way, "what makes
you call upon my master in this tidy trim?"

"To save my father," answered Innocence.

"How? why? Oh don't, Grace, don't! I'll save him--I will indeed--what is
it? Oh, don't, don't!"

For the poor affectionate fellow conjured on the spot the black vision
of a father saved by a daughter's degradation.

"Don't, Jonathan?--it's my duty, and God will bless me in it. That cruel
Mr. Jennings has resolved upon our ruin, and I wished to tell Sir John
the truth of it."

At this hearing, Jonathan brightened up, and glibly said, "Ah, indeed,
Jennings is a trouble to us all: a sad life I've led of it this year
past; and I've paid him pretty handsomely too, to let me keep the place:
while, as for John Page and the grooms, and Mr. Coachman and the
helpers, they don't touch much o' their wages on quarter-day, I know."

"Oh, but we--we are ruined! ruined! Father is forbidden now to labour
for our bread." And then with many tears she told her tale.

"Stop, Miss Grace," suddenly said Jonathan, for her beauty and eloquence
transformed the cottager into a lady in his eyes, and no wonder; "pray,
stop a minute, Miss--please to take a seat; I sha'n't be gone an
instant."

And the good-hearted fellow, whose eyes had long been very red, broke
away at a gallop; but he was back again almost as soon as gone, panting
like a post-horse. "Oh, Grace! don't be angry! do forgive me what I am
going to do."

"Do, Jonathan?" and the beauty involuntarily started--"I hope it's
nothing wrong," she added, solemnly.

"Whether right or wrong, Grace, take it kindly; you have often bade me
read my Bible, and I do so many times both for the sake of it and you;
ay, and meet with many pretty sayings in it: forgive me if I act on
one--'It is more blessed to give than to receive.'" With that, he
thrust into her hand a brass-topped, red-leather purse, stuffed with
money. Generous fellow! all the little savings, that had heretofore
escaped the prying eye and filching grasp of Simon Jennings. There was
some little gold in it, more silver, and a lot of bulky copper.

"Dear Jonathan!" exclaimed Grace, quite thrown off her guard of maidenly
reserve, "this is too kind, too good, too much; indeed, indeed it is: I
cannot take the purse." And her bright eyes overflowed again.

"Well, girl," said Jonathan, gulping down an apple in his throat, "I--I
won't have the money, that's all. Oh, Grace, Grace!" he burst out
earnestly, "let me be the blessed means of helping you in trouble--I
would die to do it, Grace; indeed I would!"

The dear girl fell upon his neck, and they wept together like two loving
little sisters.

"Jonathan"--her duteous spirit was the first to speak--"forgive this
weakness of a foolish woman's heart: I will not put away the help which
God provides us at your friendly hands: only this, kind brother--let me
call you brother--keep the purse; if my father pines for want of work,
and the babes at home lack food, pardon my boldness if I take the help
you offer. Meanwhile, God in heaven bless you, Jonathan, as He will!"

And she turned to go away.

"Won't you take a keepsake, Grace--one little token? I wish I had any
thing here but money to give you for my sake."

"It would even be ungenerous in me to refuse you, brother; one little
piece will do."

Jonathan fumbled up something in a crumpled piece of paper, and said
sobbingly--"Let it be this new half-crown, Grace: I won't say, keep it
always; only when you want to use that and more, I humbly ask you'll
please come to me."

Now a more delicate, a more unselfish act, was never done by man: along
with the half-crown he had packed up two sovereigns! and thereby not
only escaped thanks, concealed his own beneficence, and robbed his purse
of half its little store; but actually he was, by doing so, depriving
himself for a month, or maybe more, of a visit from Grace Acton. Had it
been only half-a-crown, and want had pinched the family (neither Grace
nor Jonathan could guess of Ben Burke's bounty, and for all they knew
Roger had not enough for the morrow's meals)--had poverty come in like
an armed man, and stood upon their threshold a grim sentinel--doubtless
she must have run to him within a day or two. How sweet would it have
been to have kept her coming day by day, and to a commoner affection how
excusable! but still how selfish, how unlike the liberal and honourable
feeling that filled the manly heart of Jonathan Floyd! It was a noble
act, and worthy of a long parenthesis.

If Grace Acton had looked back as she hurried down the avenue, she would
have seen poor Jonathan still watching her with all his eyes till she
was out of sight. Perhaps, though, she might have guessed it--there is a
sympathy in these things, the true animal magnetism--and I dare say that
was the very reason why she did not once turn her head.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE DISCOVERY.

ROGER ACTON had not slept well; had not slept at all till
nearly break of day, except in the feverish fashion of half dream half
revery. There were thick-coming fancies all night long about what Ben
had said and done: and more than once Roger had thought of the
expediency of getting up, to seek without delay the realization of that
one idea which now possessed him--a crock of gold. When he put together
one thing and another, he considered it almost certain that Ben had
flung away among the lot no mere honey-pot, but perhaps indeed a
money-pot: Burke hadn't half the cunning of a child; more fool he, and
maybe so much the better for me, thought money-bitten, selfish Roger.
Thus, in the night's hot imaginations, he resolved to find the spoil; to
will, was then to do: to do, was then to conquer. However, Nature's
sweet restorer came at last, and, when he woke, the idea had sobered
down--last night's fancies were preposterous. So, it was with a heavy
heart he got up later than his wont--no work before him, nothing to do
till the afternoon, when he might see Sir John, except it be to dig a
bit in his little marshy garden. When Grace ran to the Hall, Roger was
going forth to dig.

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