University of Virginia Library

You recollect our keeper, one-armed Dick,
Who took you up for poaching when you came
With young Sir Harry first; and swore he knew
You were no friend of master's, for you wore
A yellow neckerchief,—poor old Sir Harry
Being just defeated for the county:—Well,
He told us all one morning, 'twas the day
Two years exact after the old man's death,
Just about Martlemas, how he had seen
Strange foot-prints in the snow. They came, he said,
Straight from the lower stew-pond to the hall:
A neat, slim boot enough, but somewhat queer
About the ball o' the foot, as if the sole
Were cleft along the middle; but what made
The thing seem stranger, though he looked and looked
A good half-hour or more, he never found
One print to match it t' other side the pond:
Not one to match it—nothing but blank snow,
With here and there a deer-trail, ploughed and deep,
As if the beasts were startled. Well, that day,
A stranger came among us sure enough,
Though none saw how he came. An evil day
Was that if e'er one dawned upon God's earth.
Not that I'm superstitious, but I think
Sometimes God gives Beelzebub a day,
And that was one, if e'er God does give days.

My lady knew the foreigner, it seemed,
In her own country, a Hungarian Duke
I think they called him, and he stayed and stayed,
And walked and rode, shot, played at billiards, fished,
With poor Sir Harry—sang, too, of a night,
He and my lady, strange outlandish airs,
Such as old Schwartz the courier used to play
On his guitar, with strange outlandish words.
And so he lived among us, lived and seemed
One of the family almost, to those
Who knew no better. We all hated him,
All but my lady's foreign waiting-woman,
And she—Your blood, sir, would have boiled like mine
To see that brazen madam smirk and leer
And mince their jargon on her tigress' lips
Whene'er she met him. Well, all's over now!
And as I said, sir, we all hated him.
Not that he was not civil, for he was,
And free enough with money; but, you know,
Old servants' eyes are watchful! That man's look
Would make you shiver in a July sun.
Wolf that he was! We knew he was a wolf,
And knew no good could come of him. But, sir,
If you'll believe me, that same son of Cain
Was loved by half the county. Lord, they flocked
Like crows to carrion! If that man had bid
Lord Charles and young Sir Sampson lick his boots,
They'd have drawn rapiers which should lick them first!

Well, sir, one afternoon I went upstairs
To see about the linen, and I stood,
So God ordained, one moment at the window
That looks across the courtyard, and I saw
In the north green room, where my lady sate,
Her and that miscreant; talking loud they were,
And angrily, when something that she said
Stung him, as I suppose, and quick as thought,
He unclasped his great knife, and struck her here,
Here in the breast! As I'm a living soul,
I saw him stab her in the breast three times,
I saw him do it! Stab, stab, stab, three times!
“Murder,” I shouted, “murder!” And ran round
With Miles, and cook, and Johnson to the room!
There she lay on the floor, a heap of blood,
As dead as marble! He, that fiend, was gone.
Now, mark you, poor Sir Harry at the time
Was walking through the courtyard with his whip,
And that young waiting-woman, with a grin,
Hissed out, “There goes the murderer!” He, poor man,
Came in and found us there quite quietly.
“What's this?” says he. My God, to see him turn
And look down at his wife as she lay there!
“Murderer!” snarled the maid. He stood straight up
“If I have done this deed,” he said, “great God!
“Smite me, and stamp me murderer!” Down he fell!
Fell flat down on the carpet, fell down dead!
Dead as his wife beside him. Both stark dead!
Some vessel in the heart, the doctor told
The jurymen, had broken. “Just in time,”
Quoth one, “to baulk the gallows of their due!”
Would you believe it? That young child of hell,
The waiting-woman, and a stranger lad,
Who said he came there begging, swore they saw
Sir Harry kill his wife—Sir Harry himself!
Swore it upon the Book, with when and how!
And I? I might as good have held my peace
As stand there witness of his innocence.
The coroner told me 'twas a shameful thing
At my age to forswear me; bade me pray,
And Heaven knows what more nonsense; and Lord Charles
Backed him in all he said.“This female dotes,”
Says he, “God's judgment brands the guilty brow!
“His vengeance reaches where man's arm falls short!”
And then the parson: “This man prayed to God
“To smite if he were guilty, and God smote!”
So they went on, God help us! and the world
Thinks to this day Sir Harry did the deed,
And quotes his death as one of God's great feats!

Judgment, forsooth! Who taught the world this creed?
Not Christ, I wot! Why, mark you, those eighteen
On whom the tower in Siloam fell,
Were they, too, murderers? Nay, was Christ Himself,
Because God smote Him? For myself, I own,
I think God heard my poor young master's prayer
In quite another fashion; took him hence,
Because He would not smite him! Had he lived,
He had indeed been smitten! Many a time
When folks—but I'm no parson, and young men
Don't heed old women's prate. Well, sir, this Duke,
Devil or Duke,—we searched the country round,
Offered rewards, set bloodhounds on his track,
Hired detectives at two pounds a day—
All to no purpose! Still no tidings came
Of him or any like him. All the hounds
Made for the stew-pond, and we had it dragged,
And dragged again, with nothing for our pains
Except a great swine's carcase, which our Dick
Swore to his dying day was none but he!