As his contempt was not measured by any scale of prudence, but coolly evinced on every occasion of their intercourse, they, one and all, detested him beyond bounds--most, asserting that he was a thoroughpaced knave, whose folly was a garb assumed to secure a life of idleness--and all, regarding him in the light of a spy, ever ready to betray them to their master.
When, therefore, one after another, the servants persisted in either openly accusing or insinuating suggestions against Terry, Sir Marmaduke became sorely puzzled. It was true, he himself had witnessed his conduct the night before; but if their version was correct, all his daring, energy, and boldness were so many proofs against him. He was, indeed, reluctant to think so badly of the poor fellow--but how discredit the evidence of his entire household? His butler had been in his service for years--and oh! what a claim for all the exercise of evil influence--for all the petty tyranny of the low-minded and the base-born--tracking its way through eaves-dropping, and insinuating its venom in moments of unguarded freedom. His footman too--but why go on? His daughter alone rejected the notion with indignation; but in her eager vindication of the poor fellow's honour, her excitement militated against success--for age thus ever pronounces upon youth, and too readily confounds a high-spirited denunciation of wrong, with a mistaken, ill-directed enthusiasm. He listened, it is true, to all she said of Terry's devotedness and courage--of his artless, simple nature--of his single-minded, gentle character; but by a fatal tendency, too frequent as we advance in years, the scales of doubt ever lean against, and not to the side favourable to human nature, and as he shook his head mournfully, he said--
“Send for him at least,” said his daughter, as with an effort she restrained the emotion that agitated her; “speak to him yourself.”
“To what end, my child, if he really is innocent?”
“Oh! yes, indeed--indeed he is,” she exclaimed, as the tears at length fell fast upon heir cheek.
“Well then, be it so,” said Sir Marmaduke, as he rung the bell, and ordered Terry to be sent for.
While Miss Travers sat with her head buried in her hands, her father paced slowly up and down the room; and so absorbed was he in his thoughts, that he had not noticed Terry, who had meanwhile entered the room, and now stood respectfully beside, the door. When the old man's eyes did fall on him, he started back, with horror and astonishment. The poor fellow's clothes were actually reduced to a mass of burned rags--one sleeve was completely gone, and, there, could be seen his bare arm scorched and blackened by the fire--a bandage of coarse linen wrapping the hand and fingers--a deep cut marked his brow--and his hair was still matted and clotted with the blood--awhile his face was of the colour of death itself.