“Then you too think, as I have feared, as I have prayed, as I would die, rather than be forced to think. My only brother! And I have been so kind to him for years and years. That he was strong and rough, I know—but such a thing, such a thing as this—”
“He began to indulge his propensities for slaughter rather early—I think I have heard people say.”
“Yes, yes, that boy at school. But this is a wholly different thing—what had my poor wife done to him?”
“Did you ever hear that Drake Bampfylde offered himself to the Princess, while you were away from home, and a little before you did?”
“I never heard anything of the kind. And I think that she would have told me.”
“I rather think not. It would be a very delicate point for a lady. However, it may not be true.”
“Chowne, it is true, from the way you say it. You know it to be true; and you never told me, because it prevents any further doubt. Now I see everything, everything now. Chowne, you are one of the best of men.”
“I know that I am,” said the Parson, calmly; “although it does not appear to be the public opinion. However, that will come right in the end. Now, my poor fellow, your wisest plan will be to leave yourself altogether to a thoroughly trustworthy man. Do you know where to find him?”
“Only in you, in you, my friend. My father will never come to see me, because—you know what I mean—because—I dared to think what is now proved true.”
“Now, Philip, my old friend, you know what I am. A man who detests every kind of pretence. Even a little inclined perhaps to go too far the other way.”
“Yes, yes; I have always known it. You differ from other men; and the great fault of your nature is bluntness.”
“Philip, you have hit the mark. I could not have put it so well myself. My fine fellow, never smother yourself while you have such abilities.”
“Alas! I have no abilities, Chowne. The whole of them went, when my good-luck went. And if any remained to me, how could I care to use them? After what you have told me too. My life is over, my life is dead.”
All the maids agreed at this point, and would scorn to contradict, that poor Squire Philip fell down in a lump, and they must have run in with their bottles and so on, only that the door was locked. Moreover, they felt, and had the courage to whisper to one another, that they were a little timid of the Parson’s witchcraft. There had been a girl in Sherwell parish who went into the Parson’s service, and because she dared to have a sweetheart on the premises, she had orders for half an hour, before and after the moon rose, to fly up and down the river Yeo, from Sherwell Mill to Pilton Bridge; and her own mother had seen her. Therefore these maids only listened.
“All this shows a noble vein of softness in you, my good friend”—this was the next thing they could hear—“it is truly good and grand. What a happy thing to have a darling wife and two sweet children, for the purpose of having them slain, and then in the grandeur of soul forgiving it! This is noble, this is true love! How it sets one thinking!” This was the last that the maids could hear; for after that all was whispering. Only it was spread in every street, and road, and lane around, in about twelve hours afterwards, that a warrant from Justices Chowne and Rambone, and, with consent of Philip Bampfylde, was placed in the hands of the officers of the peace for the apprehension of Captain Drake, upon a charge of murder.
When Sir Philip heard of this outrage on himself—and tenfold worse—upon their blameless lineage, he ordered his finest horse to be saddled, and put some of his army-clothes on; not his best, for fear of vaunting, but enough to know him by. Then he rode slowly up and down the narrow streets of Barnstaple, and sent for the mayor and the town-council, who tumbled out of their shops to meet him. To these he read a copy of the warrant, obtained from the head-constable, and asked, upon what information laid, such a thing had issued. Betwixt their respect for Sir Philip Bampfylde and their awe of Parson Chowne, these poor men knew not what to say, but to try to be civil to everyone. Sir Philip rode home to Narnton Court, and changed his dress, and his horse as well, and thus set off for Chowne’s house.
What happened there was known to none except the two parsons and the General; but everyone was amazed when Chowne, in company with Parson Jack, rode into Barnstaple at full gallop, and redemanded his warrant from the head-constable, who held it, and also caused all entries and copies thereof to be destroyed and erased, as might be; and for this he condescended to assign no reason. In that last point he was consistent with his usual character; but that he should undo his own act, was so unlike himself that no one could at first believe it. Of course people said that it was pity for Sir Philip’s age and character and position, that made him relent so: but others, who knew the man better, perceived that he had only acted as from the first was his intention. He knew that the Captain could not be taken, of course, for many a month to come, and he did not mean to have him taken or put upon his trial; for he knew right well that there was no
