It had only happened so. It was not by the devil's scheming. Perhaps Anne Blackburn's baby had been born before midnight of the twenty-fourth or in the early morning hours of the twenty-sixth and she had told a Little lie to win for him some special notice from the curate. Yet it came to me with a little cold shiver in my soul that the linking of the two events would prove of use to me before my course was run.
Holgar had had five brothers and sisters born about two years apart. I took note of their names and need never consult the record again. In the winter of 1793 there came the smallpox; these five and their parents had been wiped out in one fell swoop. Shakespeare comes to haunt the mind. That phrase brought up the rest of the quotation, as fitting to this case, all his pretty chickies and their dam had been taken from Bruce Blackburn before he turned over and died.
Below, in a different and more elegant handwriting than that of the other entry, perhaps no less than the rector's very own, I read:
"This family suffered more from the disease than any other in the parish. Since it is well known that God employs such maladies to punish the wicked, and since Bruce Blackburn was of a stubborn and rebellious nature, often failing in respect to his betters, and leading his fellow tenants in public demonstrations of discontent with the wages paid them by their masters, let this be a lesson to all who are tempted to the same iniquities. God's mercy was shown in His sparing of the oldest son, Holgar. Over his parent's objections, he had been sent to lodge with another tenant five miles distant, to help with wood-cutting. He will be given a home in the parish workhouse, there to be taught honesty, humility, and industry, whereby he may grow to worthy manhood."
When I returned the records to the clerk, I pointed out the entry.
"I was interested in this birth, because it's my own," I said.
The little gray man read it over, then looked at me with unbelieving eyes.
"You are Holgar Blackburn!"
"That's my name."
"The same that ran away from the workhouse twenty-three years ago?"
I showed him a burned X on the back of my hand.
"You've had a hard time—I can see that—yet you've come back in a costly carriage, wearing fine clothes!"
There was no righteous indignation in his face over this upset, not the least malice, only a wild hope.
"Why not?" And I glanced at a handsome gold watch that I had bought before leaving London and wore fixed to a gold chain by a horsehair band.
"You don't mean, do you, sir—please pardon my presumption in asking—you've come home rich?"
"I stink with money," I answered, grinning into his eyes.
"Oh, will you stay awhile here? Will you let some of the gentry see you, and his reverence, and his grace the Duke? Oh, if you'd not be averse to making a vulgar show—gold flung about like water—a coach and four—servants bowing and scraping—maybe a great festivity to celebrate your home-coming. Oh, you don't know how 'twould do my heart good!"
"Yes, yes," I cried to him, as though speaking to a heart-hungry child. "Wait and see. It will be the most vulgar display of wealth the shire has ever seen."
The Sepulcher of Wet Bones was a far more terrible institution than the workhouse from which my name-giver had run away, but the two had similarities. The inmates of both labored from dawn to dark on barely sufficient food; they were whipped for any real or imagined offense, herded like animals, and their humanity insulted at every turn; and, after long terms in either prison, their bodies, minds, and souls were permanently damaged. Sunlight flooded our roofless palisade most of the day, but it barely crept through the broken or dangling shutters of the three-story ramshackle tenement where, by average count, forty aged or ailing men and women or destitute children lived a dim half-life.
Mr, Peters, the parish clerk, was about to be retired from his office with a modest pension. More eager to please me, who might reward him, than to avoid angering some of the local bigwigs who had never exchanged a cordial word with him, he did not hesitate to tell me that the house was owned by a Mr. Hudson, the son of the wielder of the branding iron in 1795. Now counted a gentleman, he did not condescend to hold his father's office, but rented out the ruin to a board of guardians for a hundred pounds per annum, about three times its worth. Also, Mr. Peters was not loath to institute some further inquiries. Thus I learned that a good farm of three hundred and twenty acres close to Holgar's birthplace, with two rambling houses whose combined room was greater than the present tenement, was being offered for sale for three thousand pounds. After driving out to see it and liking its lay, I asked Mr. Peters to engage me an honest lawyer.
I did not stay for the completion of the business, but would be present at its upshot; on arriving in London I straightway sent Alan to see how it fared. During his absence I lived at the Albion Hotel, saw the town, and looked at various houses from which I might choose my London abode. The owners, solicitors, and agents whom I met in this connection invariably started at my appearance, but treated me with an intense land of respect.
Alan returned from Tavistock in a fortnight, pleased with his attainments. These he recited to me in his terse way.
"I gave the old clerk, Mr. Peters, a hundred pounds. The lawyer you hired, Shirley, paid thirty pounds earnest money on the Mar-wood farm as you directed him. Then he wrote the workhouse guardians, offering it to them for twenty years at one guinea rental a year. One or two were quite ill over cutting Mr. Hudson off from his hundred quid per annum for his ratty tenement—one raised the point that clean quarters and healthy farm labor instead of picking oakum would pamper the paupers to their ruin—but the worthies damned well knew what the rate-payers would say if they refused the offer, so they accepted it with all the grace they could muster. I paid the balance of the sum and got the deed in your name. The paupers are going to move in on July first. The fete is scheduled for July fourth, as you wished it."
"Do you think you can complete your other arrangements on time?"
"In half the time. Money makes tlie mare go, as the saying is. Mr. Blackburn, does it occur to you that July fourth is a rather odd day to hold a great fete in England?"
"I don't believe it will worry those who come to the party."
"I request that you give it on the third."
"Well, what the Americans celebrate on July fourth is an outgrowth of an English idea. The Great Charter antedates the Declaration of Independence and is of similar stuff. Your request is granted."
The party was upon us almost before we knew it; but Alan had done his work well. Everybody in the parish was invited by bill and proclamation; people from neighboring parishes would not be turned away. No one need bring food or drink, no hats would be passed or subscriptions solicited. By sunrise our tables were spread and pavilions erected, with fifty footmen brought from Plymouth and Bristol to serve ham, bacon, cheese and bread, cakes and cookies, and iced tea, lime-and-lemonade, coffee, and French chocolate without stint. Besides these good things, there had come by stagecoach, wains, and carts three bands, one of them decidedly Dutch, the best troupe of acrobats touring England, jugglers, clowns, mimics, ventriloquists, and magicians, an excellent dog-and-pony show, Toto the Diving Dog with ladder and tank complete, hand-organists with their monkeys, and several marionette shows including the immortal Punch and Judy. Six-horse teams had brought merry-go-rounds—and I remembered a carnival on Malta which Sophia and I had visited and fled. There were no dancing bears because I could not look at the pitiful brutes. No ale or stronger drinks were served because this party was for children and for those who might return to childhood for a little while.