bygone cumberland and westmorland. [illustration: the lepers' squint, st. michael's church, brough-under-stainmore. _from a photo by mr. george arkwright, beatrice, nebraska, u.s.a._] bygone cumberland and westmorland by daniel scott london: william andrews & co., 5, farringdon avenue, e.c. 1899. to emma. preface. the information contained in the following pages has been derived from many sources during the last twenty years, and in a considerable number of cases i have examined old registers and other documents without being then aware that some of their contents had already been published. few districts in the united kingdom have been more thoroughly "worked" for antiquarian and archæological purposes than have cumberland and westmorland. the antiquarian society and the numerous literary and scientific societies have, during the last thirty years, been responsible for a great amount of research. i have endeavoured to acknowledge each source--not only as a token of my own obligation, but as a means of directing others wishing further information on the various points. i also desire to acknowledge the help received in various ways from numerous friends in the two counties. daniel scott. penrith, _june 1st, 1899_. contents. page an unparalleled sheriffwick 1 watch and ward 9 fighting bishops and fortified churches 22 some church curiosities 38 manorial laws and curiosities of tenures 64 old-time punishments 91 some legends and superstitions 130 four lucks 148 some old trading laws and customs 155 old-time home life 169 sports and festivities 188 on the road 209 old customs 223 old school customs 240 index 257 bygone cumberland and westmorland. an unparalleled sheriffwick. for a period of 645 years--from 1204 to 1849--westmorland, unlike other counties in england (excluding, of course, the counties palatine), had no sheriff other than the one who held the office by hereditary right. the first sheriff of the county is mentioned in 1160, and nine or ten other names occur at subsequent periods, until in 1202, the fourth year of the reign of king john, came robert de vetripont. very soon afterwards the office was made hereditary in his family "to have and to hold of the king and his heirs." the honour and privileges were possessed by no less than twenty-two of robert's descendants. their occupation of the office covers some very exciting periods of county history, the tasks committed to the sheriffs in former centuries being frequently of an arduous as well as dangerous character. the sheriff had very important duties of a military character to carry out. thus in the sixth year of henry the third we have the command from the king to the sheriff of westmorland that without any delay he should summon the earls, barons, knights, and freeholders of his bailiwick, and that he should hasten to cockermouth and besiege the castle there, afterwards destroying it to its very foundations. this order was a duplicate of one sent to the sheriff of yorkshire concerning skipton castle and other places. it is not known, however, whether the instructions respecting cockermouth were carried out or not. the powers of sheriff not being confined to the male members of the family, the histories of westmorland contain the unusual information that at least two women occupied, by right of office, seats on the bench alongside the judges. the first of these was isabella de clifford, widow of robert, and, wrote the historian machell, "she sate as is said in person at apelby as sheriff of the county, and died about 20 of edward i." the other case was that of the still more powerful, strenuous, and gifted woman, anne, countess of pembroke. of her it is recorded that she not only took her seat on the bench, but "rode on a white charger as sheriffess of westmorland, before the judges to open the assizes." it will not be forgotten that territorial lords and ladies in bygone times held courts of their own in connection with their manors and castles. the rev. john wharton, vicar of south stainmore, in a communication to the writer some time ago said: "from documents shown me by the late john hill, esq., castle bank, appleby, the great but somewhat masculine anne, countess of pembroke and montgomery, seemed partial to courts of her own. she sat upon many offenders as a judge, and it is handed down that she executed divers persons for treasonous designs and plotting against her estate." the memoranda rolls belonging to the lord treasurer's remembrancer, show the mode of presenting or nominating the sheriff for westmorland in the time of the cliffords, his admittance to the office by the barons of the exchequer, and his warrant for executing it. from the rolls of the 15th, 19th, and 23rd years of edward the first, when the sheriffwick passed into the family of the cliffords, it seems that the right of appointment was the subject of litigation between the two daughters and heiresses of the last of the vetriponts. this ended in an agreement that the elder sister should "present" to, and the younger should "approve" the appointment. in this way robert de moreville was admitted to the office of sheriff in the fifteenth year of edward's reign, gilbert de burneshead three years later, and ralph de manneby in 1295, each swearing faithfully to execute his office and answer to both daughters. on the death of the sisters the sheriffwick became vested in robert de clifford, son and heir of the eldest, and continued in the possession of his descendants until the attainder in 1461. the list of sheriffs is, of course, a very long one, and even allowing for the large number of individuals who have left nothing more than their names, there is much material for interesting study in the histories of the others. the actual work was rarely done by the holders of the office. "the functionaries who performed the duties were simply deputies for the sheriff, and although we find them attesting many ancient charters and grants relating to the county, recording themselves as vice-comites (or sheriffs), they simply executed the office as pro-vice-comites (or under-sheriffs). the attainder of the cliffords during the wars of the roses, until its reversal in the first year of henry the sixth, causes a void as regards their family, their places being filled from among the supporters of the house of york."[1] for a considerable period westmorland was treated as part of yorkshire, the sheriff of the latter county rendering an account of the two places jointly. from the time of john, however, the accounts rendered for westmorland by yorkshire sheriffs would have been as sub-vice-comites for the vetriponts. the high sheriffs and their connections lived in considerable state when the country was sufficiently peaceable to permit of it. this is proved by the arrangement and size of their castles, while sir lancelot threlkeld, half-brother of henry clifford, used to boast that he had three noble houses. one, at crosby ravensworth, where there was a park full of deer, was for pleasure; one for profit and warmth wherein to reside in winter, was the house at yanwath; and the estate at threlkeld was "well stocked with tenants ready to go with him to the wars." the various "progresses" of the countess anne also afford evidence of the state kept up, for she frequently speaks of her journeys from one castle to another "escorted by my gentlemen and yeomen." among the numerous pieces of patronage which became the prerogative of the high sheriffs of westmorland, was that of the abbey of shap, but there does not appear to be any record when this and other privileges passed from them, the property being granted by henry the eighth to the whartons. where so much power lay in the hands of one person, or of one family, differences with other authorities was perhaps inevitable. the interests of the burgesses of appleby would seem to have clashed at times with those of the sheriff, and for very many years the parties kept up a crusade against each other, especially during the reigns of the first three edwards. what the cost of those proceedings may have been to the sheriff cannot be told, but on the other side the result was the forfeiture of rights for a considerable time, because the fee farm rent had got into arrear. the hereditary high sheriff had the privilege of appointing the governor of the gaol at appleby, but he had to pay £15 per annum towards the salary, while the magistrates appointed the other officials and made up from the county rates the remainder of the cost of the institution. the long period during which the holders of the sheriffwick held the privilege is the more remarkable--as sir g. duckett, bart., reminded the northern archæologists in 1879--because of the way in which ancient grants and statutes have in almost all cases become a dead letter and obsolete. a singular incident in connection with the sheriffwick happened about seventy years ago, and is recorded in the life of baron alderson, father of the marchioness of salisbury. the baron went to appleby to hold the half-yearly assizes, but on arriving there found that he could not carry out his work because lord thanet was in france, and had omitted to send the documents for obtaining juries. the judge had therefore to spend his time as best he could for several days, until a messenger could see the high sheriff in paris and obtain the necessary papers. when the eleventh and last earl of thanet died in june, 1849, the male line of the family ceased, the estates passing by will to sir richard tufton, father of the present lord hothfield. the office of hereditary high sheriff was claimed by the rev. charles henry barham, of trecwn, nephew of the earl, but a question arising as to the validity of a devise of the office, mr. barham relinquished his claim in favour of the crown. an act was afterwards passed--in july, 1850--making the shrievalty in westmorland the same as in other counties. watch and ward. the geographical position of the two counties rendered an extensive system of watching essential for the safety of the residents. in the northern parts of cumberland, along the border, this was particularly the case; but there watch and ward was more of a military character than was necessary elsewhere, while as it was a part of the national defence it passed into the care of the government for the time being. from the necessity for "watching and warding" against the northern incursions, came the name of the divisions of the two counties. cumberland had for centuries five wards; more recently for purposes of local government these were increased to seven; and westmorland also has four wards. the regulations of the barony of gilsland, in a manuscript volume belonging to the earl of lonsdale, are very explicit as to what was required of the tenants in the way of border service. these stipulated for good horses, efficient armour and weapons for the bailiffs, and a rigid supervision of those of lower rank. the tenants' nags were ordered to be "able at anye tyme to beare a manne twentie or four-and-twentie houres without a baite, or at the leaste is able sufficientlye to beare a manne twentie miles within scotlande and backe againe withoute a baite." every tenant, moreover, had to provide himself with "a jacke, steale-cape, sworde, bowe, or speare, such weapons as shall be thought meatest for him to weare by the seyght of the baylife where he dwelleth or by the land-serjeante." the rules as to the watch required that every tenant should keep his night watch as he should be appointed by the bailiff, the tenant breaking his watch forfeiting two shillings, which in those days was a formidable amount. the tenants had to go to their watch before ten o'clock, and not to return to a house till after cock-crow; they were also required to call twice to all their neighbours within their watches, once about midnight, and "ones after the cockes have crowen." detailed instructions were drawn up for the guidance of the men during their watches. these were even less emphatic, however, than those which referred to the maintenance and keeping of the beacons, of which fourteen public ones (including penrith and skiddaw) are named in nicolson and burn's history. modernising the spelling, one of the paragraphs runs as follows:- "the watchers of a windy night shall watch well of beacons, because in a wind the fray cannot be heard, and therefore it is ordered that of a windy night (if a fray rise) beacons shall be burnt in every lordship by the watchers. one watcher shall keep the beacon burning and the other make speed to the next warner, to warn all the lordships, and so to set forwards. and if the watchers through their own default do not see the beacons burn, or do not burn their own beacons, as appointed, they shall each forfeit two shillings. if the warners have sufficient warning by the watchers, and do not warn all within their warning with great speed, if any fault be proved of the warner he shall forfeit 18d." the "orders of the watch" made by lord wharton in october, 1553, are of considerable local interest in connection with this subject, and the following extracts may for that reason be quoted:- "ainstable, armathwhaite, nunclose, and flodelcruke to keep nightly paytwath with four persons; william skelton's bailiffs and constables to appoint nightly to set and search the said watch. four fords upon raven, to be watched by kirkoswald, laisingby, glassenby, little salkeld, ullesby, melmorby, ranwyke, and harskew: at every ford nightly four persons; and the searchers to be appointed by the bailiffs and constables, upon the oversight of christopher threlkeld, the king's highness's servant. upon blenkarn beck are five fords, to be watched by blenkarn, culgaith, skyrwath, kirkland, newbiggin, sourby, millburn, dufton, marton, kirkbythore, knock, and milburn grange; bailiffs and constables to appoint searchers: overseers, christopher crackenthorp, and gilbert wharton, the king's highness's servants. upon the water of pettrel: from carlisle to pettrelwray; bailiffs and constables there, with the oversight of the late prior of carlisle for the time being, or the steward of the lands. and from thence to plompton; overseer of the search and watch nightly john skelton of appletreethwayt, and thomas herrington, ednal and dolphenby; sir richard musgrave, knight, overseer, his deputy or deputies. skelton and hutton in the forest; overseers thereof, william hutton and john suthake. newton and catterlen, john vaux, overseer, nightly. for the search of the watches of all the king's highness's lands, called the queen's hames, the steward there, his deputy or deputies, nightly. from the barony of graystock; the lord dacre, his steward, deputy or deputies, overseers. this watch to begin the first night of october, and to continue until the 16th day of march; and the sooner to begin, or longer to continue at the discretion of the lord warden general or his deputy for the time being. also the night watch to be set at the day-going, and to continue until the day be light; and the day watch, when the same is, to begin at the day light, and to continue until the day be gone." [illustration: penrith beacon. _from a photo by mr. john bolton, penrith._] penrith beacon had an important place in the system of watch and ward in the south-eastern parts of cumberland and north westmorland. as a former local poet wrote:- "yon grey beacon, like a watchman brave, warned of the dreaded night, and fire-fed, gave heed of the threatening scot." the hill before being planted as it now appears, was simply a bare fell, without enclosures of any kind. the late rev. beilby porteus, edenhall, in one of his books,[2] after mentioning the uses of penrith beacon, added:--"before these parts were enclosed, every parish church served as a means of communication with its neighbours; and, while the tower of edenhall church bears evident tokens of such utility, there yet exist at my other church at langwathby, a morion, back, and breast-plate, which the parish were obliged to provide for a man, termed the 'jack,' whose business it was at a certain hour in the evening to keep watch, and report below, if he perceived any signs of alarm, or indications of incursions from the border." south westmorland had as its most important look-out station, farleton knott, where "a beacon was sustained in the days of scottish invasion, the ruddy glow of which was responded to by the clang of arms and the war notes of the bugle." wardhole, now known as warthol, near aspatria, was once an important protection station, watch and ward being kept against the scots; from this place "the watchmen gave warning to them who attended at the beacon on moothay to fire the same." the ancient beacon of moota is about three miles from cockermouth. dealing with the natural position of bothel, nicolson wrote over a century ago:--"the town stands on the side of a hill, where in old time the watch was kept day and night for seawake, which service is performed by the country beneath derwent at this place, and above derwent, in copeland, at bothil, in millom. it is called _servicium de bodis_ in old evidences, whereupon this hill was named the _bode-hill_, and the village at the foot of it _bode-hill-ton_ (bolton), or _bodorum collis_. the common people used to call a lantern a _bowet_, which name and word was then in use for a light on the shore to direct sailors in the night, properly signifying a token, and not a light or lantern, as they call a message warranted by a token a _bodeword_, and the watchmen were called _bodesmen_, because they had a _bode_, or watchword given them, to prevent the enemy's fraud in the night season." there was a noted beacon near bootle, from which that town took its old name--"bothill"--the beacon being fired, upon the discovery of any ships upon the irish sea which might threaten an invasion, by the watchmen who lay in _booths_ by the beacon. for the support of this service the charge or payment of seawake was provided. this payment occurs in connection with various manors; thus on an inquisition of knights' fees in cumberland it was found that sir william pennington held the manor of muncaster "of the king as of his castle of egremont, by the service of the sixth part of one knight's fee rendering to the king yearly for seawake 12{d}, and the puture of two serjeants." at the same inquiry it was certified that william kirkby held the manor of bolton, in the parish of gosforth, of the king "by knight's service, paying yearly 10/cornage, and seawake, homage, suit of court, and witness-man." he also paid two shillings seawake for other lands in the district. many other instances of this tax for watch and ward in old days might be quoted, but diligent search and inquiry during the last few months have failed to show that it is now exacted in any form, or when the payments were allowed to lapse. of watch and ward as applied to town and village life as distinct from border service there may be found in cumberland and westmorland records many very interesting and suggestive reminders. by the famous statute of winchester it was provided that from ascension day to michaelmas in every city six men should keep watch at every gate, in every borough twelve men, and in every other town six or four, according to the number of the inhabitants, and that these should watch the town continually all night from the setting to the rising of the sun. this was but one of three kinds of watches, the others being kept by the town constable, and the other set by authority of the justices. every inhabitant was bound to keep watch in his turn, or to find another. it was specially provided that the watching and warding should be by men able of body and sufficiently weaponed, and therefore a woman required to watch might procure one to watch for her. while the person thus chosen had to bear sundry punishments in default of carrying out a duty which was neither pleasant nor safe, there was the wise provision that if a watchman were killed in the execution of his duty, as in endeavouring to apprehend a burglar, his executors were entitled to a reward of £40. in the standard work by orton's best known former vicar may be found two copies of westmorland warrants, one for the keeping of watch, and the other for the commitment of a person apprehended by the watch, while there is also a copy of an indictment for not watching. this was no mere matter of form; for hundreds of years after king edward instituted the system it was the chief safeguard against robbery, and in a great many places against incursions of the enemy. at kendal watch and ward was strictly maintained, not for the purpose of keeping out marauding scots or other undesirable characters, but for the maintenance of quiet and order in the streets. in 1575 the mayor and burgesses of kendal made the following order with reference to the watching of the borough:- "it is ordered and constituted by the alderman and head burgesses of this borough of kirkby kendal, that from henceforth nightly in the same borough at all times in the year, there shall be kept and continued one sufficient watch, the same to begin at nine of the clock of the night, and to continue until four of the clock in the morning, in which watch always there shall be six persons, viz., two for sowtergate, two for marketstead and stricklandgate, and two for stramagate, to be taken and going by course in every constablewick one after the other, and taking their charge and watchword nightly off the constables or their deputies, severally as in old times hath been accustomed; which six persons so appointed watchmen nightly shall be tall, manlike men, having and bearing with them in the same watch every one a halberd, ravenbill, axe, or other good and sufficient iron bound staff or weapon, sallett or scull upon every one his head, whereby the better made able to lay hands upon and apprehend the disordered night walkers, malefactors, and suspicious persons, and to prevent and stay other inconveniences, and shall continually use to go from place to place and through street and street within the borough during all the time appointed for their watch, upon pain to forfeit and lose to the chamber of this borough for every default these pains ensuing, that is to say, every householder chargeable with the watch for his default 3s. 4d., and every watchman for his default such fine and punishment as shall be thought meet by the alderman and head burgesses." shortly before the end of 1582 the foregoing order was repealed and another regulation substituted. the material part was in the following quaint terms, the original spelling being observed: "and shall contynnally goo and walk ffrome place to place in and throughe suche streete within the same boroughe as they shal be opoyntyd and assigned by the constabull or his deputy then settinge the watch that is to say ij of them in everie suche streete in companye together as they may be apoynted ffor their sayd watche vpon payne to forfeyte and losse to the chamber of this bourgh for everie fault dewly pved theis payns ensuinge that is to say everie householder and wedow and bachler chargeable wth the watche for his default xijd and every watchman ffor his default such ffyne and punnyshmt as shal be thought mete by the alderman or his deputye ffrome tyme to tyme beinge." at carlisle and several other places the rules for the watch were among the most interesting and important items in the whole of the rules concerning local government. on the coast at times very vigorous action was both required and taken. at whitehaven, in february, 1793, a meeting of the authorities was held "in consequence of the daring attempts made by the enemy in other places and the dangers to which the port was formerly exposed." orders were issued for mounting all the heavy guns, and for procuring ammunition and other stores. thirty-six weapons were mounted in six batteries; governors of these batteries were appointed, with other officers. a nightly watch was set, and every precaution taken to prevent a surprise, or to resist any attack which might be made on the port. fortunately the precautions were not put to the test. coming down to a much later period, but still connected with the protection of the two counties, a curious incident may be recalled, if for no other reason than that it is impossible for such a contretemps ever to occur again. in 1807, after a ballot for the cumberland militia, penrith being the headquarters, an order arrived for the recruits to be marched up to the regiment. they were, wrote an eye witness, accordingly mustered for that purpose in marching order, and, followed by many of the populace, arrived at eamont bridge, where the sister counties of cumberland and westmorland divide. here there was a sudden halt. they would not cross the bridge without their county guinea. after some altercation, and promises by colonel lacy and other gentlemen that they should be paid on joining the regiment, which promises were of no avail, they were counter-marched to penrith. for three successive days they were thus marched, and still halted at the division of the counties. the lower orders of the populace took part with the soldiers, and a riot ensued, in which colonel lacy, the commanding officer, was very roughly handled. the consequence was that a troop of enniskillen dragoons was sent for from newcastle-upon-tyne, and arrived in penrith on the morning of the third day. a hard black frost was set in at the time, and the horses being "slape shod," they were falling in every direction. they were marched along with the recruits, who again stopped at the bridge. the populace was still unruly; the dragoons loaded their firepieces; the riot act was read, and the word "march" was given; but it was of no avail. a general cry was then raised that they would be satisfied with the promise of colonel hasell of dalemain, but of no other man. mr. hasell came forward, and in a short, manly address, gave his promise that they should be paid on joining the regiment, and with cheers for the colonel, they at once marched off. fighting bishops and fortified churches. the ecclesiastical history of cumberland and westmorland is curiously interwoven with that of secular affairs. this to a large extent arises from the geographical position of the diocese of carlisle--and particularly of the diocese before its extension in 1856, up to which year it was the smallest in england. the bishop of carlisle in bygone centuries had always to take a leading part in fighting schemes, and as the churches would be the only substantial structures in some villages, they naturally came to be put to other uses than those of worship. the bishopric was indeed a unique district. carlisle was the great border fortress of the west marches; the bishop was invariably a lord marcher, and often captain of the castle. in copies which halucton (halton) caused to be extracted from the great roll of the exchequer, frequent references are made to expenses incurred during a siege. these are believed to refer to 1295-6, when the earl of buchan and wallace assailed the city, and when the bishop was apparently warden. the ecclesiasts during many hundreds of years must have been almost as familiar with the touch of armour as with that of their sacred robes. writing on this subject over a century ago a cumberland authority said:- "as an example of the prevailing humour of those martial times, what sort of priest must we suppose cressingham to have been, who never wore any coat that is accounted characteristic of a profession, but that in which he was killed, namely, an iron one. beck, the fighting bishop, was so turbulent a mortal that the english king, in order to keep him within bounds, was obliged to take from him a part of those possessions which he earned in battle, and in particular the livings of penrith and symond-burne. but not to mention thurstan, who fought the battle of the standard, there are sufficient reasons for believing that most of the priests in the northern parts of england had a double profession, and they are so often mentioned as principals in these continual wars that one cannot help concluding that the martial one was more attended to. when the pastors are such, what must the people be?" there was a very interesting quarrel--the facts being too numerous to be stated here--concerning the manor of penrith, and those in some other parts of east cumberland. they were in the possession of john de baliol, by virtue of an agreement come to between the kings of england and scotland, but afterwards edward the first quarrelled with baliol, seized his lands, and granted them to anthony beck, the military bishop of durham already mentioned. that prelate had assisted the king at the battle of falkirk, with a considerable number of soldiers, and was greatly instrumental in obtaining the victory. when the parliament met at carlisle, however, the grant was disapproved, and as the bishop did not attend to show by what title he had taken the lands, they were adjudged to belong to the crown. the manuscripts of the dean and chapter of carlisle contain many references to the knowledge of war required by the early bishops. when linstock was the episcopal residence, it lay exposed to the incursions of the scots, whose respect of persons, as mr. c. j. ferguson has reminded us, was small. in april, 1309, bishop halton excused himself from obeying a summons to parliament, pleading both fear of a scots invasion and bad health as reasons. later correspondence showed that the bishop had been employed by the king as his deputy in suppressing outrages in the west march, and desired to be freed from some of his duties. the king therefore absolved the prelate from the duties to which he objected, but begged him to assume the remainder of the offices in his commission, so as to restrain the lawlessness prevailing on both sides of the border. the difficulties of defence, or the constant annoyance, became so great that in 1318 edward the second obtained from the pope the appropriation to the bishopric of carlisle of the church of horncastle, lincolnshire, to be a place of refuge for the bishop and his successors during the ravages of the northern enemy. thomas de lucy, upon the invasion of the scots in 1346, "joined his strength with the bishop of carlisle [welton], and so alarmed the enemy in the night-time, by frequent entering into their quarters, that at length they fled into their own country. and a truce shortly after ensuing, he was again joined in commission with the same bishop and others to see the same duly observed." the bishop was soon afterwards constituted one of the commissioners for the arraying of men in the counties of cumberland and westmorland for the defence of the borders, the french then threatening an invasion. with the growth of these troubles from abroad, pressure was put upon those who could raise funds, of whom bishop appleby was not the least important. "_brevia de privato sigillo_ quickly succeed one another at this time," wrote the rev. j. brigstocke sheppard, in 1881,[3] when he had gone carefully through the muniments of the dean and chapter. "the king, in an agony of apprehension, occasioned by the threat of invasion, backed by a large fleet collected in the northern ports of france, begs the bishop again and again to raise a defensive militia, to cause prayers to be offered in all churches, and finally to advance him as much money as he can upon security of the clerical _disme_ which would soon be due." in a further letter, the king being determined to borrow from such of his subjects as could best afford to lend, ordered the bishop to send for six of the richest clergy and six of the most affluent laymen in each county, and upon these twenty-four to impose a loan of fifty marks on an average--more upon those who could afford it, and less upon those less able to bear the tax. in 1373 bishop appleby was enjoined by the king to reside continually in his diocese upon the marches, and to keep the inhabitants in a state of defence as a protection to the rest of the kingdom against the scots. and so through all the long list of border troubles the bishops had to take a conspicuous share in the proceedings, until the ludicrous incident on penrith fell, which was the last occasion on which a bishop took part in fighting on english soil. various local chroniclers have given different versions, but there seems to be no room for doubt that the one by chancellor ferguson is accurate. when in 1715 the jacobites marched from brampton to take penrith, the people from all the country side (though whether the number was 4,000 or 14,000, as variously stated, is not material), armed with guns, scythes, pitch-forks, and other handy if not always military weapons, went on to the fell to meet the rebels. the "_posse comitatus_ were under lord lonsdale and bishop nicolson, the latter seated in his coach, drawn by six horses. so soon as the highlanders appeared, the _posse comitatus_ went away; in plain words they skedaddled, leaving the two commanders and a few of their servants. lord lonsdale presently galloped off to appleby, and the bishop's coachman, whipping up his horses, carried off his master _willy nilly_ to rose castle. it is said the prelate lost his wig, while shouting from the carriage window to his coachman to stop." the result of this ignominious retreat was that the jacobites took possession of penrith for the time being, but behaved well, their most serious action being the proclamation of james the third, and the capture of a lot of provisions. from fighting prelates to fortified churches is not a long step. three or four of these structures have come in for more notice than the rest, although the latter cannot thereby be considered as lacking some of the most interesting features of the others. during the last thirty years the changes necessitated by restorations of churches have caused some of these relics of turbulent times to be somewhat altered; there are still, however, numerous village structures which tell their own story much more vividly, to the trained eye, than could be done by written record. when the late mr. john cory, county architect for cumberland, read his paper on the subject at carlisle a quarter of a century ago, he pointed out some of the characteristics of these ancient ecclesiastical strongholds: "the distance from each other tells of a scanty population; the deficiency of architectural decoration shows that the inhabitants of the district were otherwise engaged than in peaceful occupations; while traces of continual repairs in the fabric are evidently not to be attributed to the desire shown in the churches of many southern counties to make good buildings better, but have resulted from the necessity occasioned by the partial destruction of churches through hostile aggressions. in many instances it may be said that the church had been erected scarcely less for the safety of the body than for the benefit of the soul." that the abbey of holme cultram was once both a fortress and a church is shown to this day by the remains of earthworks which once served for its defence. curious entries in the parish books also indicate the bitter hatred of the cumbrians for those from over the border. the value of the abbey is shown by a petition of the inhabitants of the lordship to cromwell in 1538, when they asked "for the preservation and standynge of the church of holme cultrane before saide; whiche is not onlye unto us our parish churche, and little ynoughe to receyve all us, your poore orators, but also a great ayde, socor, and defence for us agenst our neghbours the scots, witheaut the whiche, few or none of your lordshipp's supplyants are able to pay the king his saide highness our bounden dutye and service, ande wee shall not onelye praye for his graciouse noble estate, but also your lordshipp's prosperitie with increase of honour long to endure." the tower of burgh-by-sands church, close to the solway, was built at the west end of the structure, with walls six feet to seven feet in thickness. a further indication of the desire for security is found in the bottoms of the windows of the church, which were placed eight feet from the ground. entrance to the fortified tower could only be obtained through a ponderous iron door six feet eight inches high, with two massive bolts, and constructed of thick bars crossing each other, and boarded over with oak planks. as only one person at a time could gain access to the vaulted chamber, there was every possibility of offering effective opposition to attacks, while the ringing of the bells would be the signal for bringing any available help. what was true of one side of the solway was equally true of the other, there being still traces of fortified churches on the scottish side of the firth. newton arlosh church is another noteworthy example of a building "half house of god, half castle 'gainst the scots," though here the bulk of the attention would seem to have been paid to bodily danger. the doorway was made only two feet six inches wide, and as at burgh the lowest parts of the windows were placed above the reach of a man's hand--in this case the sills were seven feet from the ground. light was of less consequence than security, and so the windows were only one foot wide, with a height of three feet four inches. though further away from the border than either of the other churches mentioned, that at great salkeld was peculiarly liable to attack by the scottish raiders, as it occupies a strong position near the river eden, whose banks seem to have been much used by the undesirable visitors. the tower is in a splendid state of preservation, although necessarily much altered, in detail, from its former condition. there were five floors, that on the ground level being a vaulted room, with a strong door of iron and oak leading into the church. three small apertures afforded light and opportunities for watching from the first floor, and that room also contained a fireplace. in a footnote in their "cumberland" volume of "magna britannia," the brothers lysons suggest that great salkeld church might have been fortified about the time that penrith castle was built. there is, however, no direct evidence on the point. dr. todd, the former vicar of penrith, who was noted for his encounters with his superiors, says in his account of great salkeld church, that in his time there was a place "called the corryhole, for the correction and imprisonment of the clergy, while the archdeacon had any power within the diocese." prior to the restoration of dearham church, the structure possessed numerous features of interest to the antiquary, some of which have necessarily been removed or altered. the lower storey of the tower consisted of a barrel-vaulted chamber, originally enclosed from the church, and entered only by a small and strongly-barred doorway, similar to that at burgh. when the antiquarian society visited dearham some twenty years ago, the late canon simpson drew special attention to this part of the church. he said it had unquestionably "been one of the old massive fortified towers peculiar to the border district: from it, whilst the parishioners were being besieged, a beacon fire at the top would alarm their friends in the surrounding country." some oak beams then seen in the tower showed signs of fire, one of them being charred half through. the lower part of the tower of brigham church, only a few miles from dearham, is strongly vaulted with stone, access being obtained to the chamber above by means of a narrow door and winding stairs. from these features it has been concluded by archæologists that this was one of the old border fortified churches. further away from the border, into mid westmorland, the searcher may still meet with evidences of old-time church builders having a much keener eye for the defensive qualities of their structures than for architectural beauty. solidity was the first consideration, and although some of them were, after all, but ill adapted for the purpose, they must have been, as the rev. j. f. hodgson[4] once pointed out, "much larger and stronger buildings than the wretched hovels of the common people. their enclosures would very generally offer the best position for defence. among the westmorland churches, those of crosby garrett (or gerard) and ormside, though small, and not structurally fortified, seem unmistakably posted as citadels. orton church, too, both in structure and position, is admirably situated for defence. at brough, the church, a massive and easily defensible building, is situated upon the precipitous bank of the hellebeck, and forms a sort of outwork of the castle." the church at kirkby stephen certainly occupies a position which would give its occupants a strong hold on the upper eden valley. the old church at cliburn, on the banks of the leath, was also probably placed there with some regard to defence. it is believed that the fine old church at barton was used for a like purpose, and the vicar some time ago pointed out to the writer existing evidences of a large moat having probably been formed in case of necessity, the river eamont being near enough to ensure an easy means of water supply. there are preserved in the church of langwathby two specimens of old cumberland armour--a helmet and a cuirass. the villagers have versions of their own as to the wearer of these articles, but obviously the stories rest on no better foundation than that of tradition; the real explanation is, doubtless, that given by the late rev. b. porteus, and already quoted in the chapter on "watch and ward." above the tomb of sir roger bellingham (died 1533), in kendal church, there is an ancient helmet suspended, but whether it was put there because the helmet belonged to the knight, or as a memorial of his having been created a knight banneret on the field of battle, there has nothing come to the knowledge of local historians to enable them to decide. the popular name for the helmet, however, is "the rebel's cap," and following the account of machell, who was living at the time, various writers have given different versions of a story which, though doubtless correct in its main points, is open to question on others. the version given by the late mr. cornelius nicholson[5] may be quoted, as it is the briefest:- "in the civil wars of the commonwealth, there resided in kendal one colonel briggs, a leading magistrate, and an active commander in the cromwellian army. at that time, also, robert philipson, surnamed from his bold and licentious character, _robin the devil_, inhabited the island on windermere, called belle isle. colonel briggs besieged belle isle for eight or ten days, until the siege of carlisle being raised, mr. huddleston philipson, of crook, hastened from carlisle, and relieved his brother robert. the next day, being sunday, robin, with a small troop of horse, rode to kendal to make reprisals. "he stationed his men properly in the avenues, and himself rode directly into the church in search of briggs, down one aisle and up another. in passing out at one of the upper doors, his head struck against the portal, when his helmet, unclasped by the blow, fell to the ground and was retained. by the confusion into which the congregation were thrown, he was suffered quietly to ride out. as he left the churchyard, however, he was assaulted; his girths were cut, and he himself was unhorsed. his party now returned upon the assailants; and the major, killing with his own hands the man who had seized him, clapped the saddle upon his horse, and, ungirthed as it was, vaulted into it, and rode full speed through the streets, calling to his men to follow him; and with his party made a safe retreat to his asylum on the lake. the helmet was afterwards hung aloft, as a commemorating badge of sacrilegious temerity." the episode was used by sir walter scott for some particularly spirited lines in "rokeby" (stanza 33, canto vi.), and in his notes sir walter explained that "this, and what follows, is taken from a real achievement of major robert philipson, called from his desperate and adventurous courage _robin the devil_." a reference to the poem will show that this, as dealing with fact, can only be applied to the first sixteen lines, which run:- "the outmost crowd have heard a sound like horse's hoofs on hardened ground; nearer it came, and yet more near,- the very death's-men paused to hear. 'tis in the churchyard now--the tread hath waked the dwelling of the dead! fresh sod and old sepulchral stone return the tramp in varied tone. all eyes upon the gateway hung, when through the gothic arch there sprung a horseman armed, at headlong speed- sable his cloak, his plume, his steed. fire from the flinty floor was spurned; the vaults unwonted clang returned!- one instant's glance around he threw, from saddle-bow his pistol drew." mr. stockdale, in his "annals of furness," says there was a tradition in his time that the parliamentarians in 1643 stabled three troops of horse in the nave of cartmell church; and there can be no doubt that to similar base uses other ecclesiastical structures in the diocese were occasionally put in turbulent times. carlisle cathedral was often used for purposes of war, and it was not free from other exciting scenes. during the commonwealth it was the centre of much rioting. george fox preached there, and files of musketeers had to be brought in to clear the place of the rioters. after the ill-fated rebellion of '45, the cathedral was still further degraded, being made into a prison for captured highlanders. some church curiosities. under a great variety of divisions many curious facts connected with the old-time churches of the northern counties might be noted that cannot here be touched upon. some of them--especially those associated with the personal aspect--had their origin solely in the circumstances of the time; others may be traced to personal idiosyncracies; while geographical reasons may be found for a third class. with a few exceptions it has not been deemed necessary in this chapter to go beyond the reformation. among the records concerning kendal church is a reference in the patent rolls of 1295, in which walter de maydenestane is described as "parson of a moiety of the church of kirkeby, in kendale." an inquiry in _notes and queries_[6] brought the suggestion that probably this was one of the places which used to have both a rector and a vicar, several instances of that arrangement having been in force being mentioned. no information was, however, forthcoming as to the kendal case. boy bishops are not unknown, and westmorland affords an instance of an infant rector, the following appearing in the list for long marton, as compiled by dr. burn:--"1299. john de medburn, an infant, was presented by idonea de leyburne, and the bishop committed the custody of the said infant to a priest named william de brampton, directing him to dispose of the profits of the rectory in such manner as to provide for the supply of the cure, and the education of the young rector in some public school of learning." if john de medburn ever took up the duties of his office, it could not have been for any extended period, as another rector was instituted in 1330. there was a curious dispute at holme cultram in 1636. the rev. charles robson, who five years previously had become vicar, being a bachelor of divinity, demanded that the parish should provide him with a hood proper to his degree. the parishioners objected on the ground that such a claim had never been made before, the previous vicars having provided their own hoods, and that mr. robson had on all proper occasions, as required by the canons, worn a hood of his own until within half a year of the dispute arising. a case was stated and a legal opinion taken; the result was entirely against the vicar, who made his position worse, inasmuch as it was laid down that while the churchwardens were not to provide the hood, they could be the means, through the ordinary, of compelling a priest who was a graduate to wear his hood, according to the 58th canon. another instance of a clergyman going to law with his parishioners was that of the rev. john benison, vicar of burton, who was dissatisfied with the payments of the vicarial revenues. the dispute found its way into chancery, and benison, in 1732, secured the following scale of payments:--"for burial in the church or churchyard shall be paid 1s., except for women who die in childbirth, for whom nothing is due. the modus for tithe lands shall be double for the two first years after the induction of a new vicar, and every person keeping a plough shall pay yearly 1d. in lieu and full satisfaction of agistment of barren cattle." bishop nicolson has left some curious pictures of the parsons in the diocese of carlisle at the time when he made his visitation in the early years of the eighteenth century. the clergy of that time were for the most part not remarkable for their learning, although there were some notable exceptions. these were the victims of circumstances; they lived in what was really a dark age, and no one can feel surprised that so many gave way to drinking and other unclerical habits. several, either openly or in the names of their wives, kept ale-houses; there was one rather glaring instance of this kind on the western side of cross fell. poverty was continually their share; an instance of the life some of them led is recorded by james clarke,[7] of penrith:- "langdale is as poor as any in these parts, except for the slate quarries, and the slaters (like the miners in patterdale) debauch the natives so far that even the poor curate is obliged to sell ale to support himself and family. and at his house i have played 'barnaby' with him on the sabbath day morning, when he left us with the good old song- 'i'll but preach, and be with you again.'" william litt (1785-1847), the author of "henry and mary," a story of west cumberland life, which was very popular a generation ago, says:--"it is a well authenticated fact that a rector of arlecdon left his pulpit for the purpose of bestowing manual correction on one of his parishioners, whom he conceived was then insulting him. the surplice, however, was such an impediment to his usual lightness of foot that his intended victim, after a severe chase, effected his escape, and for that time eluded the chastisement intended for him by his spiritual pastor." although nothing is known as to the identity of the cleric who thus endeavoured to deal with a supposed offender, possibly it was thomas baxter, who was incumbent for 62 years (1725 to 1787). he figures by name in "henry and mary," and is represented as on one occasion reprimanding squire skelton, of rowrah, very severely for swearing. in 1653 george fox, the founder of the society of friends, visited cumberland. one sunday afternoon he entered the church, and standing on a seat, he preached three hours to an overflowing congregation; he says in his journal, "many hundreds were convinced that day." a short time afterwards he again visited the church on a sunday morning, and entered into a long theological argument with mr. wilkinson, the vicar, who lost his dinner in consequence. the discussion continued almost to nightfall; the result seems to have been the conversion of the vicar and the majority of his congregation, as it is on record that mr. wilkinson afterwards became a distinguished minister of the society of friends. the old customs peculiar to cumberland and westmorland of "whittlegate" and "chapel wage" have long since passed out of the list of obligations imposed, although the rector of brougham might still, if he wished, claim whittlegate at hornby hall every sunday. the parsons of the indifferently educated class already alluded to had to be content with correspondingly small stipends, which were eked out by the granting of a certain number of meals in the course of twelve months at each farm or other house above the rank of cottage, with, in some parishes, a suit of clothes, a couple of pairs of shoes, and a pair of clogs. clarke gives the following explanation of the origin of the term:- "whittlegate meant two or three weeks' victuals at each house, according to the ability of the inhabitants, which was settled among themselves; so that the minister could go his course as regularly as the sun, and complete it annually. few houses having more knives than one or two, the pastor was often obliged to buy his own knife or 'whittle.' sometimes it was bought for him by the chapel wardens. he marched from house to house with his 'whittle,' seeking 'fresh fields and pastures new,' and as master of the herd, he had the elbow chair at the table head, which was often made of part of a hollow ash tree--a kind of seat then common. the reader at wythburn had for his salary three pounds yearly, a hempen sark or shirt, a whittlegate, and a goosegate, or right to depasture a flock of geese on helvellyn. a story is still (1789) told in wythburn of a minister who had but two sermons which he preached in turn. the walls of the chapel were at that time unplastered, and the sermons were usually placed in a hole in the wall behind the pulpit. one sunday, before the service began, some mischievous person pushed the sermons so far into the hole that they could not be got out with the hand. when the time came for the sermon, the priest tried in vain to get them out. he then turned to the congregation, and told them what had happened. he could touch them, he said, with his forefinger, but could not get his thumb in to grasp them; 'but, however,' said he, 'i can read you a chapter out of job that's worth both of them put together!'" there may be other instances of the formal appointment of females to undertake church work usually performed by the other sex, but the writer has only met with one local example, which occurs thus in the kendal churchwardens' accounts:--"1683, june 29. it is then agreed & consented too by the major part of the churchwardens that debora wilkinson shall be continued saxton till next easter, she keeping under her so sufficient a servant as shall please the vicar & whole p{r}ish & she to give sufficient security to the churchwardens for her fidelity. as alsoe it was then granted by the major parte of church wardens that the said debora wilkinson for her paines herein shall have & receive to her owne use for every coffin in the church 2s. 6d. (she or her deputy in takeing up of fflaggs in the church or lying them downe to place them leveally & in good order, breaking none of them), and the said debora or her servant shall make clean the church att all times according to the vicar's order, and to keepe the font w{th} faire water, changeing itt every fforthnigh or as often as the vicar pleaseth." the uses of some parts of ancient buildings have puzzled gentlemen thoroughly acquainted with church architecture, for the simple reason that certain of the arrangements might have been made for a variety of purposes. leper windows are perhaps sufficiently numerous to show the intention of the builders, but there are instances where that is not at all easy to define. the side windows in bolton church, near wigton, one of which has been described by the rev. hilderic friend as a leper window, was suggested by the late mr. cory as being "for such a purpose as giving out alms or receiving confession," as they always had hinges and bolts for shutters, but not glass. chancellor ferguson put forward the further theory that as lepers could not come into the church, they made confession at these windows. dr. simpson rejected these statements, and said that lamps were placed in the low side windows of some churches after funerals to scare away evil spirits--an interesting addition to north-country folk-lore. leprosy was apparently a serious trouble in the two counties five or six centuries ago. john de vetripont gave to shap abbey the hospital of st. nicholas, near appleby, on condition that the abbot and convent should maintain three lepers in the hospital for ever. in 1356 sir adam, rector of castlekayroke (castle carrock), was cited to show cause why, being seized with leprosy to such a degree that his parishioners dare not resort to divine service, he ought not to have a coadjutor assigned him. there are still to be found traces in some of the older churches of the rooms of anchorites. experts have stated that the vestry at greystoke seems to have been used as an anchor-hold or reclusorium. it is believed that two reclusi, or inclusi, sometimes dwelt together there, one living in the vestry and the other in the room above. the latter apartment may have been used for a chantry priest, a church watcher, or a sacristan. among the architectural curiosities of the two counties may be noted the church tower of kirkoswald. the parish church is built at the foot of a steep hill, facing the eden, while the old market town is on the sharply rising ground at the rear. the parishioners would thus have but a small chance of hearing the bells when sounded for service if they occupied the ordinary place. consequently for a very long time--certainly before the present church was built--the two bells have been placed in a detached tower on the top of the hill at the rear of the church, and over a hundred yards away from the building. many ecclesiastical buildings, from the cathedral down to the humblest village chapel-of-ease, would seem to have had curious inscriptions or pictures upon their walls. nearly all these have disappeared, and later comers are indebted for their knowledge of what has been to such industrious chroniclers as machell, burn, and others. the former put on paper in 1692 the following lines, which were on the walls of the south chapel of kirkby lonsdale church:- c. w. (_arms_) 16 68. "this porch by ye banes first builded was, of heighholme hall they weare; and after sould to christopher wood, by william bains thereof last heyre; and is repayred as you see, and set in order good by the true owner nowe thereof the fore saide christopher wood." as in our own day the restoration or alteration of a church frequently caused much ill-feeling in a parish, and there are records of several such "scenes" in cumberland and westmorland in bygone days. one such was at sebergham, where the church was rebuilt in 1825-6, and a tower built at the west end. on the first sunday that the edifice was opened the following protest in rhyme was found nailed to the church door:- "the priest and the miller built the church steeple without the consent or good will of the people. a tax to collect they tried to impose in defiance of right and subversion of laws. the matter remains in a state of suspension, and likely to be a sad bone of contention. if concession be made to agree with us all let the tax be applied to build the church wall. churchyard wall now in a ruinous state. sebergham high bound, july 12, 1826." while dealing with the architectural curiosities of north-country churches, allusion should be made to a story connected with that at ambleside. a piece of painted glass on the north side of the old church has a representation of what is locally known as the carrier's arms--a rope, a wantey-hook, and five packing pricks, or skewers, these being the implements used by the carriers and wool staplers for fastening their packing sheets together. the tradition is that when the church needed rebuilding, together with the chapels of st. mary holm, ambleside, troutbeck, and applethwaite, which were all destroyed or rendered unfit for divine worship, the parish was extremely poor; the parishioners at a general meeting agreed that one church would serve the whole. the next question was, where it should stand. the inhabitants of undermillbeck were for having it at bowness. the rest thought that as troutbeck bridge was about the centre of the parish, it should be built there. several meetings in consequence were held, and many disputes and quarrels arose. at last a carrier proposed that who ever would make the largest donation towards the building should choose the situation of the church. an offer so reasonable could hardly be refused, and many gifts were immediately named. the carrier, who had acquired a fortune by his business, heard them all, and at last declared that he would cover the church with lead. this offer, which all the rest were either unable or unwilling to outdo, at once decided the affair. the carrier chose the situation, and his arms (or more properly his implements) were painted on the north window of the church. tradition adds that this man obtained the name of bellman, from the bells worn by the fore-horse, which he first introduced there. several instances of fonts having found their way from churches to private grounds have been made known during recent years, one being at penrith, and others at musgrave and brough-under-stainmore. on the western side of the county, in the grounds of mr. t. dixon, rheda, is the ancient font, dated 1578, belonging to arlecdon church. in the third decade of this century, says the rev. h. sugden in his notes on the history of the parish, it was acting at a farm-house as a trough to catch rain-water from the roof. subsequently the font was found by mr. dixon in a stone wall at rowrah hall, and was removed to its present place of safety. it seems that the contractor who rebuilt the church in 1829, was allowed to use or dispose of any of the material or contents. the font and an ancient tombstone of the dixons, were sold by him, and while the font was made into a water-catcher, the tombstone found its way to a farm at kirkland, where it was utilised as a sconce in the dairy. occasionally churchwardens were guilty of what would seem to have been vandalism. at kirkby lonsdale (1686), they recorded the last of a norman font:--"received for the old font stone, 6d." among the regulations made by the head jurie of watermillock in 1627 was this:--"item, it is ordered by the jurie that every tennent of this parish shall sitt in church in their own seats that hath formerly been set forth to their ancestors. and if any have a desire to sitt in the lady porch, besides such as have their ancient rooms therein, they shall sitt there paying yearly for the same to the use of the church ijd. p{r} annum." the churchwardens were evidently kept close to their duties by the same authority, as may be seen by this entry in the book:--"it is ordered that the churchwardens of this parish shall not be discharged of their office in any year before the church stock be fully answered at the sight and judgment of the head jury for the time being." this action probably had its origin in the losses of public funds which had to be deplored in many parishes in consequence of the money being lent out at interest. "culyet" is not a word to be found in the standard dictionaries of our time, although it appears in the parochial records of millom. canon knowles took the word to mean the free-will offerings made from house to house, being used at christ church, oxford, as the equivalent of "collecta," a collection. in some of the parishes which lent out church funds, rather heavy rates of security were exacted--at millom the arrangement was seven and a half per cent. hence there can be no room for surprise that so many parishes have had reason to deplore "lost stock." crosthwaite differed from other places in the manner of selecting and swearing the churchwardens and sidesmen, the form being settled by the commissioners for ecclesiastical causes in queen elizabeth's time. they decreed "that yearly, upon ascension day, the vicar, the eighteen sworn men, the churchwardens, the owner of derwentwater estate, the sealer and receiver of the queen's portion at the mines, one of the chiefest of the company and fellowship of the partners and offices of the minerals, then resiant at keswick, the bailiffs of keswick, wythburn, borrowdale, thornthwaite, brundholme, and the forester of derwent fells, shall meet in the church of crosthwaite, and so many of them as shall be there assembled shall chuse the eighteen men and churchwardens for the year ensuing, who shall on the sunday following before the vicar take their oath of office." the seating of the men and women on different sides of the church was a proceeding once so common as to almost remove it from the list of curiosities. the churchwardens' books of crosthwaite contain very minute orders as to where every person in the parish should sit, and in other places a similar rule obtained. in these days of "free and open churches" it is interesting to read of the arrangements which the churchwardens and vicar made so as to allocate every seat in st. patrick's church, bampton, in 1726. the rule appears to have been based on the land tax, and the list begins with "the lord vis. lonsdale," who had one complete stall for the use of the tenants of bampton hall, another for low knipe, and other seats elsewhere. the whole of the inhabitants seem to have been provided for, the catalogue concluding with a statement of the accommodation set apart for the school-master of measand and the school-dame at roughill; the master at bampton grange, being an impropriator, found a place among the aristocracy on "the gospel side" of the chancel. some quaint entries concerning the provision and cost of wine for sacred purposes--and for other uses not always answering that description--are to be met with in several of the parochial records. in the vestry book of cockermouth is this entry for june, 1764:--"ordered that all the wine for the communicants be bought at one house where the churchwardens can get it the best and cheapest. ordered that no wine be given to any clergyman to carry home." at one of the meetings of the cumberland and westmorland antiquarian society, the late canon simpson produced a paper which showed that very heavy sums, comparatively, had been spent at kendal in providing communion wine. one item was for £6, another £9, and again £11, while opposite one of the entries was the remark: "that is exclusive of wine used at easter." it was customary for the vicar or rector to give the easter communion wine, receiving in return easter dues. on another occasion, when the bishop of chester was to visit the church, the wardens ordered a bottle of sack to be placed in the vestry. an interesting ceremony has long been gone through at dacre church in connection with the distribution of the troutbeck dole. the principal representative of the family now living is dr. john troutbeck, precentor of westminster. the rev. robert troutbeck, in 1706, by his will gave to the poor of dacre parish, the place of his nativity, a sum of money, the interest of which was ordered to be "distributed every year by the troutbecks of blencowe, if there should be any living, otherwise by the minister and churchwardens for the time being." a more curious proviso was contained in the will of john troutbeck, made in 1787. by that document £200 was left to the poor of the testator's native parish, and the interest was ordered to be "distributed every easter sunday, on the family tombstone in dacre churchyard, provided the day should be fine, by the hands and at the discretion of a troutbeck of blencowe, if there should be any living, those next in descent having prior right of distribution. if none should be living that would distribute the money, then by a troutbeck as long as one could be found that would take the trouble of it; otherwise by the minister and churchwardens of the parish for the time being; that not less than five shillings should be given to any individual, and that none should be entitled to it who received alms, or any support from the parish." the custom was carried out in due form on the "through-stone" last easter. kirkby stephen, up to about sixty years ago, had a very curious custom--the payment, on a fixed day every year, upon a tombstone still in the churchyard, of the parishioners' tithe. the late mr. cornelius nicholson, in a now scarce pamphlet on mallerstang forest, gave the following account of the observance:- "the tombstone is unhewn millstone grit, covered with a limestone slab, whereon a heraldic shield was once traceable, supposed to indicate the ownership of the whartons. tradition says, however, that it is older than the tombs in the wharton chapel. among the parishioners it went popularly by the name of the great 'truppstone,' a corruption perhaps of 'through-stone.' it is certain, however--and this is the gist of the story--that for generations, time out of mind, the money in lieu of tithes of hay was here regularly paid to the incumbent of the church on easter monday. the grey coats of this part of westmorland assembled punctually as easter monday came round, and there and then tendered to the vicar their respective quotas of silver. some agreement, oral or written, must have been made between the parties, which does not now appear. the practice became the law of custom. the payment was called a modus in lieu of hay tithe. i find that when lord wharton purchased the advowson at the dissolution of monasteries the tithes of corn and hay were excepted from the conveyance, which points to this customary modus on the 'truppstone.' if this reference be correct, the curious custom dates back to the time of henry the eighth, and perhaps farther back, and gives it a continuance of some 300 years. "we don't know its origin, but we do know its extinction. when the rev. thomas p. williamson became vicar, in the first decade of this century, a quarrel arose between him and the tithe-payers as to this modus. law proceedings were threatened, and some preliminaries were taken. the parishioners, notwithstanding, attended on easter monday as before, and tendered their doles. the vicar also attended, but determinedly refused the money, until his death in 1835, which put a stop to the custom. after his death, the vicar's widow set up a claim for the arrears, which had been offered and refused, so she took nothing by her motion. in 1836 all the tithes were commuted in england, under the provision of the tithes commutation act, carried into execution by a cumberland m.p., mr. aglionby, whom i knew very well, in lord john russell's ministry. these particulars of the 'truppstone' were furnished me by mr. matthew thompson, kirkby stephen, one of the county magistrates, who himself--and this clenches it as a fact--yearly attended in the churchyard, with his quota, and who was present on the very last occasion." an incident which in some respects has had at least one counterpart within recent years is recorded as happening at little salkeld towards the end of the fourteenth century. the little chapel there was "desecrated and polluted by the shedding of blood," and as the parish church of addingham was a considerable distance, the vicar was allowed to officiate in his own vicarage-house "till the interdict should be taken off from the chapel." there is a curious story attaching to some of the wood-work of greystoke church. the misereres under the choir stalls are very quaintly carved, and one of them, "the pelican in her piety," was for many years used as the sign of an inn near the church. from this circumstance the hostelry lost its old name, the "masons' arms," and acquired the modern one of the "pelican." although schools in churches were very common, the holding of courts in such buildings could not have been frequent. at ravenstonedale, where numerous customs peculiar to the parish or immediate district prevailed, the people had a strong belief in home rule, and insisted on having it. in the old church there were two rows of seats below the communion table, where the steward of the manor and jury sat in their court of judicature in the sixteenth century. the malefactors were imprisoned in a hollow arched vault, the ruins of which were to be seen not much more than a quarter of a century ago on the north side of the church. there was so much wrangling over cases, and the manifestation of such a bad spirit, which the parishioners felt was unbecoming and unsuited to such an edifice, that they petitioned lord wharton, the lord of the manor, to have the trying of cases removed to a house belonging to him which stood near the church. this was granted, and subsequently the court was held in the village inn and other places. "a gentleman who carries out archidiaconal functions," is the familiar, though vague, definition of an archdeacon in our own time, but a couple of centuries ago that church official had very definite duties and powers. as mr. g. e. moser, solicitor, kendal, once reminded the members of the two counties' archæological society, the visits of the archdeacon of richmond to kendal--where he sentenced offenders from his chair of state erected in the high quire--were looked forward to with awe and reverence. the churchwardens' books contain the following among other entries:--"paid for bent to strawe in the high quire against sir joseph [cradock] came." "paid to the churchwardens, which they laid out when they delivered their presentments to sir joseph cradock." "paid for washing and sweeping the church against sir joseph's coming to sitt his court of correction, which was the 7 july, 1664." "at the peremptory day, being the 18th day of october, 1664, the general meeting of the churchwardens, whose names are herunder written doth order that geo. wilkinson shall keep the clock and chimes in better order, and shall keep swine out of the churchyard, and whip the dogs out of the church in time of divine service and sermon, and remove the dunghill and the stable-door which opens into the churchyard before the next peremptory day, and reform all abuses belonging to his office, or else the churchwardens will make complaint so that it shall be referred to the ordinary." chancellor ferguson told the members that he had found in some documents, relating to an unnamed cumberland church, an order that no swine should be allowed in the churchyard unless they had rings in their noses! there are many reminders available of the days when rushes or other growths were put on church floors, by such entries as that in waberthwaite registers, dated 1755:--"bent bought, 12d." at millom there are charges for dressing the church. between 1720 and 1783 there are several entries in the hawkshead registers with reference to "strawing the church"--meaning the covering of the floor with rushes. there are also here, as at penrith and some other places, allusions to payments for collecting moss, with which the rain was often kept out of the churches. it was, even within the last half century, a common occurrence for dogs to accompany their owners to church, but the officials did not appreciate the custom. mr. john knotts, in 1734, left an estate at maulds meaburn for the use of the poor of the township, from which five shillings yearly had to be paid for keeping dogs out of crosby ravensworth church. the legality of the will was disputed on a technicality, and the heir-at-law paid a sum of money instead, which was invested, but how long the crown was paid for anti-dog purposes is not known. the rev. j. wilson wrote in his parochial magazine a few years ago:--"in the olden days in dalston there was an officer whose duty it was to whip dogs out of church during service time, and, strange as it may seem, the custom under another name and in somewhat altered guise existed till the old church was demolished in 1890. the parish dog-whipper had £1 a year for his salary during the latter portion of the 18th century, when the duties of the office were extended to other matters. in the parish accounts the following entry occurs: 'may 3, 1753 john gate for whipping the dogs out of church, opening and shutting ye sashes, sweeping ye church &c. for one year, £01 00 00.' the same entry occurs regularly every year till 1764, when his widow undertakes the job: 'may 6th 1764 wid: gate for whipping ye dogs out of ye church, opening and shutting ye sashes, sweeping ye church £01 00 00.' the office of dog-whipper continues to be mentioned every year till 1774, when it disappears, and the entry is changed to: 'may 1, 1774, wid: gate for cleaning ye church £01 00 00.'" the church records show that at penrith an annual payment of two shillings was made for many years to the dog-whipper. among the items bearing on church expenses contained in the torpenhow registers in 1759, was an annual allowance of 5s. to the sexton for whipping dogs out of the church, and that he might the more efficiently do his work he was granted an extra allowance of 3d. for a whip and 2d. for a thong. there is an item in the waberthwaite records which runs:--"according to the canons laitly sett down, four sydmen [synodsmen] are to be appointed every year, one of whose duties is to keepe the dogges out of the chirche, 1605." at hawkshead a dog-whipper was provided from 1723 to 1784. if the following paragraph, which appeared in the _cumberland pacquet_, in january, 1817, may be believed, there was at least one dog which would not incur the wrath of either parson or dog-whipper:--"mr. william wood of asby, parish of arlecdon, has a cur dog which for these four years past has regularly attended church, if within hearing of the bells; and what is more singular, the animal never misses going to his master's seat whether any of the family attend or not." manorial laws and curiosities of tenures. no doubt because of the proximity of the district to the border, the tenures by which certain properties were held in cumberland and westmorland must be regarded as quite local in their character. the observances are, of course, all the more interesting on that account, and even in cases for which parallels are to be found in other parts of the kingdom, little peculiarities may sometimes be seen in local instances which throw light on the former habits of the people. lords of manors were once individuals possessed of great powers. the lords of millom held their property for hundreds of years, and had _jura regalia_ within the seignory, in memory of which a modern stone erected at gallow, half a mile below millom castle, has the inscription, "here the lords of millom exercised jura regalia." the lord of the manor of troutbeck, windermere, is also believed to have formerly exercised a jurisdiction over capital offences. where such powers existed, it is by no means surprising that the homage exacted from tenants and servitors on various occasions was of a character that in modern days would be regarded as extremely degrading. thus when a free tenant went to his lord's residence to do homage according to custom and duty, he was ushered into the presence of his superior without sword or other arms, and with his head uncovered. the lord remained seated, and the tenant with profound reverence knelt before the great man. with his clasped or joined hands placed between those of the lord, the homager repeated the following vow, which seems to have been in practically the same terms in various manors:--"i become your man from this day forward, for life, for member, and for worldly honour, and unto you shall be true and faithful, and bear you faith for the lands that i hold of you, saving the faith that i owe to our sovereign lord the king." the lord, still sitting, then kissed the tenant, as a token of his approbation. in cumberland and westmorland there are several villages named carleton, this being one of the reminders of the days of serfdom. the carls were simply the basest sort of servants--practically slaves. the former servile condition of the poor in the neighbourhood of barons' houses is also preserved in such names as bongate, or as it was always written in old documents, bondgate, at appleby. in the great trial between the cliffords and the burghers, when the former claimed the services of the freemen, it was decided that neither robert de vetripont nor any of his heirs ever had seizin of the borough, where the burgesses lived, but that king john gave to him "_vetus apilbi ubi villani manent_"--"old appleby, where the bondmen dwell." the bondmen, or villeins, were probably of the same social standing as those known as drenges, the cliffords having very many drengage tenements in various parts of their sheriffwick. "the drenges were pure villeins--doubtless saxons kept in a state of the vilest slavery, being granted by the lords of the manor, with a piece of land, like so many oxen. in fact they were as much the property of the lord of the manor as the negroes in the west indian colonies were formerly the property of the sugar planters. it is probable that the drenges were employed to perform all the servile and laborious offices at brougham castle; for in 1359, engayne, lord of clifton, granted to roger de clifford, by indenture, the service of john richardson, and several others mentioned by name, with their bodies and all that belonged to them."[8] in the reign of richard the first there was given to the church of carlisle, "lands in lorton, with a mill there, and all its rights and appendages, and namely the miller, his wife, and children"--apparently clear evidence of the servitors being regarded as part of the property. several manorial lords claimed for their tenants the right to go toll-free throughout england. this was the case with armathwaite, while the privilege also pertained to the prioress and nuns at nunnery. the manor of acorn bank, near temple sowerby, used to have the right, or rather the privilege was claimed. in the time of the late mr. john boazman (the immediate predecessor of mr. henry boazman, the present owner), the following was written:--"the lords of this manor can still claim and exercise for themselves and tenants all the privileges granted to the knights templars, the most important of which is exemption from toll throughout england. the tenants when travelling carry a certificate, signed and sealed by the lord of the manor. this certificate, after reciting part of the old charter, concludes as follows:--'which charter [that of henry the second] was confirmed by king charles of england, scotland, and ireland, in the fourth year of his reign, in witness whereof i, the said john boazman, as lord of the manor, have executed and set my manorial seal.'" the burgesses of appleby also possessed under their early charters privileges of a like character, and these would doubtless be of very appreciable value. the ancient family of hoton, or hutton, were by edward the third, in consideration of the service rendered to him by thomas de hoton in the wars against scotland, restored to the bailiwick and office of keeping the king's land or forest in plumpton, which was first bestowed upon them prior to the time of edward the first. it is believed that this led to the family taking a horn as their badge. besides the monetary payment of something under £2 yearly, it was found in the reign of henry the seventh that the lands were also held by the service of holding the stirrup of the king's saddle while his majesty mounted his horse in the castle of carlisle. the adjoining manor of newton reigny was held in the early days of the lowthers by the service of finding for the king in his wars against scotland one horseman with a horse of the value of forty shillings, armed with a coat of mail, an iron helmet, a lance, and a sword, abiding in the war for forty days with the king's person. at a later date the terms were varied; there was then the paying of two shillings per annum for cornage, and the providing, for the king's army, "one horseman with habiliments, one lance, and one long sword." penrith and five other manors were once held by the kings of scotland by paying one soar-hawk yearly to the constable of the castle of carlisle, with some privileges concerning rights in inglewood forest. the manor of cargo, near carlisle, was held for many generations by the family of de ross, by the rendering of a hawk or a mark of silver yearly. when the same manor was the property of the lacys, it was held by cornage, and afterwards by the vescys for a mew'd hawk yearly in lieu of all services. in the manor of gaitsgill and raughton were twenty-two freehold tenants in 1777, who paid 28s. 8-3/4d. yearly free rent, did suit and service at the lord's court when called upon, and paid yearly to the duke of portland as chief lord of the forest of inglewood £2 13s. 2d., besides sending a man to appear for them at the forest court at hesket every st. barnabas's day, and that representative was to be on the inquest. this manor was at the conquest "all forest and waste ground," and was enclosed by one ughtred, who held of the king "for keeping the eyries of hawks which bred in the forest of inglewood." the posterity of ughtred took their surname from gatesgill, and adopted the sparhawk for their cognisance. the neighbouring manor of high head (higheved) was held of edward the third by william english by the service of one rose yearly. later, in the time of henry the eighth, it was held by william restwold as an approvement of the forest by fealty and the service of rendering at the king's exchequer of carlisle one red rose yearly at the feast of st. john the baptist. in the reign of philip and mary, alexander armstrong was granted a considerable amount of property, including a mill, in the parish of gilcrux, at a very low rental, on condition of finding and maintaining five horsemen "ready and well-furnished, whenever the king and queen and the successors of the queen shall summon them within the county." in documents belonging to the abbey of holme cultram, whereby flemingby (now known as flimby, between maryport and workington) was handed over to the monks, gospatric, the donor, inserted a clause that he would himself do for the monastery "noutegeld and the like due to the king; and also to the lord of allerdale of seawake, castleward, pleas, aids, and other services." the nutgeld tax--an impost apparently peculiar to the border counties--was even last century frequently enforced in cumberland and westmorland. the custom of providing for gilt spurs was of a practical kind, the articles being peculiarly useful to the grantor. "every knight (who served on horseback) was obliged to wear gilt spurs; hence they were called _equites aurati_." the reservation, by gospatrick, of homage to be performed by william de lancastre has provided some interesting questions for past generations of historians and antiquaries. william de lancastre the second gave thirty marks to the king that he might have the privilege of fighting a duel with gospatrick, and the theory propounded was that this contest was caused because "the tenant's proud spirit could not brook such a humiliation as that of doing homage." remembering the conditions of life, the supposition is not at all improbable, for what man of good birth would care to submit to perform the service described in the second paragraph of this chapter? in the same parish of kirkby lonsdale, william de pickering had the manor of killington granted to him for the yearly payment of a pair of gilt spurs, or sixpence, at the feast of pentecost, and the service of the twentieth part of one knight's service when occasion should require. alice lucy, a member of the once very powerful family of that name, reserved out of wythop a penny rent service, or a pair of gloves; and a long time afterwards it was found that sir john lowther, knight, held the same manor "by homage, fealty, and suit of court at cockermouth ... and the free rent of one penny or one red rose." the manor, now held by sir henry r. vane, bart., hutton-in-the-forest, was subsequently sold to the fletchers under the services just mentioned. in addition to a heavy fine, and a rental of £10 yearly, thomas de multon paid "one palfrey for the office of forester of cumberland," granted to the family by king john. one of multon's ancestors, richard de lucy, also gave money and a palfrey in order to obtain the grant and other privileges. at hesket, yearly, on st. barnabas's day, by the highway side under a thorn tree (according to the very ancient manner of holding assemblies in the open air), wrote nicolson in 1777, was kept the court for the whole forest of inglewood, to which court the manors within that vast circumference (above twenty in number), owed suit and service; and a jury was there impannelled and sworn for the whole forest. it is a shadow or relic of the ancient forest courts; and here they pay their compositions for improvements, purprestures, agistments, and puture of the foresters, and the jurors being obliged to attend from the several manors, seems to be part of that service which was called _witnesman_. "improvements" in this case means permission to take up open lands belonging to the manorial lord. horn tenures, locally known as cornage, were common. at brougham hall is preserved the old and quaintly fashioned horn which was sounded by the former owners of the estates in complying with the requirement to blow a horn in the van of the king and his army, when the monarch went into scotland, or at other times when the scots made incursions to the southern side of the border. an interesting relic of the same description is possessed at carlisle--the "horn of the altar." the charter horn has thus been described by archdeacon prescott:--"in the year 1290 a claim was made by the king, edward the first, and by others, to the tithes on certain lands lately brought under cultivation in the forest of inglewood. the prior of carlisle appeared on behalf of his convent, and urged their right to the property on the ground that the tithes had been granted to them by a former king, who had enfeoffed them by a certain ivory horn which he gave to the church of carlisle, and which they possessed at that time. the cathedral of carlisle has had in its possession for a great number of years, two fine walrus tusks, with a portion of the skull. they appear in ancient inventories of the goods of the cathedral as 'one horn of the altar in two parts,' or 'two horns of the altar' (1674), together with other articles of the altar furniture. but antiquaries came to the conclusion that these were identical with the 'ivory horn' referred to above.... such charter horns were not uncommon in ancient days." blackmail used to bear a significance not fully understood by the modern use of the word. in the north of england it signified, especially in cumberland, a certain rent of money, corn, or other things, anciently paid to persons inhabiting upon or near the border, being men of name and power, allied with certain robbers within those counties, to be freed and protected from the devastations of those depredators. by 43 elizabeth, cap. 13, it was provided that to take any such money or contribution, called blackmail, to secure goods from rapine, was made capital felony, as well as the offences such contribution was meant to guard against. tenants in those old times had nearly all the privileges of paying; their opportunities for getting anything without cash or labour were few. one such concession which they enjoyed was "plowbote," being the right of tenants to take wood to repair their ploughs, carts, and harrows; and for the making of such articles of husbandry as rakes and forks. fire-bote was the term applied to a right enjoyed by many tenants, being the fuel for firing, and obtainable out of the lands granted to them. timber-lode was a service by which tenants were to carry to the lord's house timber felled in his woods. the dean and chapter of carlisle were formerly obliged to provide the tenants of the manor of morland with wood for the reparation of their houses. this was released by an endowment of £16 per annum, being given by the dean and chapter to the school. boon services of all kinds were common in all the manors along what is known as the eastern fell side--the base of cross fell, and north and south thereof. before they were enfranchised by sir michael le fleming, the tenants of skirwith had to supply such boons as reaping, mowing, ploughing, harrowing, carrying coals, and spinning a stipulated number of hanks of yarn. up to the latter half of last century each tenant of the manor of threlkeld was obliged to find half a draught for one day's ploughing; give one day mowing, one day shearing, one day clipping, and one day salving sheep; one carriage load once in two years, but not to go above ten miles; and to dig and lead two loads of peats every year, the tenants to have sufficient meat and drink when they performed these services. the cottagers were to perform the same services, only instead of half a plough they were to find one horse with a harrow, and a footman instead of a carriage load. the tenants were also bound to the lord's mill, pay the fortieth corn, and to maintain the wall and thatch of the mill. the tenants had house-boot (wood for repairing their houses) as set out by the lord's bailiff; peats, turves, ling, whins, limestone, and marl, with stones and slate for building. about 1764, half the tenants bought off these services at a cost of five guineas each, the mill service only excepted. the tenements paid twopence each yearly as greenhue rent, an impost which was once a common payment by cumberland and westmorland manorial tenants; along with it in the eskdale and mitredale manors of the earls of egremont was a due called "door-toll." what may have been the origin of the latter seems to be now unknown. at parsonby, near aspatria, the tenants had to give to the parson each one boon day yearly at reaping. in the neighbouring parish of blennerhasset the tenants, besides being subjected to heriots, each provided one day at mowing, shearing, ploughing, and meadows dressing, and two days leading coals. higher up the fells the score of tenants at high ireby and ruthwaite, under mr. fletcher, had to give one day a year, or pay threepence; one would suppose the most economical alternative was to pay cash. at egremont the burgesses who had ploughs were obliged to till the lord's demesne one day in the year, but every burgess was required to find a reaper. in one of the manors of the parish of wetheral, the tenants, in addition to their monetary payments, had to render to the aglionby family, of nunnery, boon days shearing and leading corn, with a certain quantity of oats called foster oats, six pecks being equal to four of carlisle measure. various attempts have been made within recent years to ascertain definitely what was the origin and meaning of the term. nicolson says it was "perhaps heretofore for the use of the foresters, this part being within the forest of inglewood." that this was probable is also shown by a rule which existed in the barony of greystoke, which was held of the king _in capite_ by the service of one entire barony, rendering £4 yearly at the fairs of carlisle, suit at the county court monthly, and serving the king in person against scotland. the lord's tenants, of whom there were some hundreds early in this century, had to pay "a 20d. fine on the death of lord or tenant, and a 30d. fine upon alienation; also to pay foster rents, foster corn, mill rents, greenhue, peat silver, and boons for mowing and leading peats." there are many curious regulations bearing upon local tenures, but there is not lacking evidence that some of a still more noteworthy character have either been allowed to drop out of recognition, or the duties have been compounded for. silver-penny fines are still enforced occasionally. in mr. j. e. hasell's manor of dacre, when a mortgagee of real estate is admitted to the court roll, he has to pay a fine of a silver penny for each. heriots is a manorial impost about which some curious information has at various times been published. many lords of manors and landlords have during the last half century allowed many of their rights in this direction to drop, while others have put on small money payments in lieu both of heriots and services. all customary property in the barony of greystoke, except in the manor of watermillock, is subject to heriots. a curious custom obtains in mr. h. c. howard's manor of newbiggin (dacre), as shown by a case which arose about thirty years ago. a married woman, seized in fee of customary lands, died, leaving a husband and child. the query was raised whether the husband was entitled to the estate for his own life "as tenant by the curtesy." it was decided that by the custom of the manor, there being no will, the child or heir at law of a deceased married woman should take the property absolutely, to the exclusion of the husband. in the adjoining manor of barton there is another interesting rule. a pooley bridge man, who held certain property of the manor by payment of a rent of a shilling per annum, died intestate and a bachelor. his nearest relatives were two nieces, daughters of a deceased brother. the question was asked whether the two women would be co-heiresses, as in some other manors, but the eldest was found to take all, to the exclusion of her sister. the custom of the manor of inglewood is to the same effect, the eldest daughter, sister, or other female descendant inheriting. a question arose some forty-five years ago as to a peculiar custom existing in the barony of greystoke. mr. william bleaymire, the then steward, stated that by custom of that barony a customary tenant might convey such tenement without concurrence of his wife, as no widow was entitled to free bench in lands disposed of by her husband in his lifetime, he not dying seized thereof. three or four years later a very similar question arose in the manor of glassonby, the particular point being whether an owner could devise his customary land to his children so as to deprive his wife (to whom he was married prior to 1834) of her dower or free bench therein. the late mr. lawrence harrison, the steward of the manor, decided that "the man dies seized of the customary tenement; therefore, notwithstanding his will, she is entitled to free bench according to the custom. the dower act in nowise affects the custom." it is a well-known fact that the manorial customs in one village may be exactly contrary to those obtaining in an adjoining one. in some manors daughters are practically unnoticed, and in this connection an interesting point connected with the manor of watermillock once came up. mr. bleaymire decided that an eldest daughter would be entitled to certain property in that manor, subject to her mother's free bench, which was one half. a fruitful source of litigation, and of disputes of a less costly character, may be found in the demands made even in quite recent times, that purchasers should personally attend the manorial court in order to have admittance. in some local cases such attendance is rigidly enforced, but in others--the manor of edenhall for instance--the purchaser is admitted on production of deed of bargain and sale. the law books contain many cases in which this point has been stubbornly fought. in the manor of cumwhitton no admittances are granted, but the property passes by deed of bargain and sale with the licence of the steward endorsed on the deed, and a simple enrolment of the purchaser. in the manors of morland, plumpton, and croglin, the parties seeking to be admitted must attend in person or by attorney. in the manor of renwick, by an indenture mutually agreed upon in 1676, the tenants, in addition to a variety of financial payments, were obliged to scour and cleanse the water course to the lord's mill from the bottom up to the mill trough head, and maintain the mill with wall and thatch; bring millstones thereto, and grind their corn thereat, paying a twenty-fourth multure. they were entitled to such house-boot as the steward might be pleased to allot. some of the mills were of considerable value, a fact which will be readily understood when it is remembered how tenaciously lords of manors clung to the right almost down to our own time. the lord of drigg had a mill, to which, as was so frequently the case, the tenants were bound. in these days, fortunately, this and other requirements are not enforced. the same manor had flotsam, jetsam, and lagan, "and so it was adjudged upon a trial at bar between henry, earl of northumberland, and sir nicholas curwen in queen elizabeth's time, and afterwards a decree in chancery for conforming the said prescription and securing that right to the sea against the lord paramount." the rector of caldbeck is, or was, entitled to claim a god's penny upon the change of tenant by death, in his manor in the lower part of the parish. multure ("mooter") was formerly a common form of tax in cumberland; very many instances of its imposition by lords of manors might be quoted, but sometimes it extended to the markets. the following is a copy of a bill relating to a revolt on the part of the inhabitants of cockermouth, but the writer has not been able to discover to what extent, and whether immediately, the residents in the old borough succeeded in their protest:- cockermouth tolls. at a meeting of the inhabitants of cockermouth, holden at the court house, on saturday the 13th instant, to take into consideration the unjust and illegal manner in which the toll of grain, brought into cockermouth market, has for some years past been taken; and it having been admitted by the lord of the manor, that the toll of corn is one handful _out of each sack sold in the market, and no more_; it was unanimously resolved, that the undermentioned gentlemen be appointed to attend the corn market, for the purpose of observing the mode in which the toll is taken in future; also that the landowners, farmers, and others, be requested to give information to them, if more than the legal toll be hereafter required or taken by the lessees of the tolls, or if they take it from grain _not actually sold_, in order that such measures may be pursued by and for the parties aggrieved as the law allows. messrs. joseph steel, | messrs. joshua sim, william wood, | john fisher, john hodgson, | thomas wilson. that a meeting of the inhabitants of cockermouth, together with the landowners and farmers of its vicinity, be holden in the court house, on monday the 22d inst. at two o'clock in the afternoon, to form an association for the purpose of prosecuting any person or persons taking more toll than is allowed by the ancient prescription. _cockermouth, march 15th, 1830._ the lordship of millom was anciently exempted from the jurisdiction of the sheriff of cumberland; the lords had power to licence their own ale-houses, and wreck of the sea was enjoyed until a comparatively recent period--certainly up to near the end of last century--"whereof," says nicolson, "much benefit is frequently made, it being almost surrounded by the sea." a very unusual tenure has been noted as being in existence in the township of kirkland, a few miles from wigton. it was stated thus a century and a quarter ago:--"the tenants have a lease granted to them generally by mr. lancelot salkeld, father of sir francis, for 999 years, paying a certain yearly rent for every tenement, amounting in the whole to £6 15s. 1d. yearly, and every twenty-one years they are to pay a fine to the lord, viz., a twenty-penny fine, which they call a running gressom, and then take new leases, but pay no general fine upon the lord's death, nor upon change of tenant, but they pay a heriot upon the death of every tenant." tenures of cumin do not appear to have been common in the two counties. the best known of the kind was in the time of henry the eighth, when a yearly rent of 2-1/2d., and one pound of cumin and services was paid by the heirs of john reede to fountains abbey, for the fish garths in crosthwaite, keswick. by the custom of some places a parson might be obliged to keep a bull and a boar, for the use of the parishioners, in consideration of his having tithes of calves and pigs. such a condition held in certain parishes in cumberland, but as the stipulation said nothing as to the quality of the animals to be maintained, many farmers, with the progress of agriculture and education, began to keep their own, and the requirement gradually became a dead letter. a peculiar obligation concerning sparket mill was laid on the tenants in the hamlet of thackthwaite, in watermillock parish, as is explained in the following "verdict of the head jurie of weathermelock, may 9th, 1709":--"as for the controversie betwixt the tennents of thackthwaite and ye miller of sparkhead mill concerning the repairing of the mill dam and the race, we find upon oath and upon notice given by ye miller the tennents of thackthwaite are to make ye race sufficient to carry water from the dam to the trough head, upon condition that the miller give them every time they meet to work it a pott of ale and a pennyworth of tobacco as they have had formerly. and as for the dam we likewise find upon oath that the repairing of the same belongs to the lord of ye mannor." what would owners of dogs in these days think and say were such regulations in force as used to be enforced at the ancient cumberland town of egremont? the old ordinances of richard lucy for the government of the borough declared that "those who hold burgage tenure in egremont shall find armed men for the defence of the fortress forty days at their own charge; shall find twelve men for the lord's military array, and be bound to aids for his redemption from captivity, and hold watch and ward; and that they shall not enter the forest with bow and arrow, nor cut off their dogs' feet within the borough." the explanation of the last item is that the inhabitants of the forest, who kept dogs to defend their dwellings, were obliged to cut off one foot to prevent their chasing the game, but the precaution was not considered necessary in the town. among the local peppercorn rents the following is interesting. the gill estate, in the parish of bromfield, is said to have belonged to the reays "as long as any other estate in the kingdom has been in one family." the tradition is that the head of the family had the then extensive lands of gill granted to him and his heirs by william the lion, king of scotland in the twelfth century, not only in reward for his fidelity to his prince, but as a memorial of his extraordinary swiftness of foot in pursuing the deer; outstripping in fleetness most of the horsemen and dogs. the conditions of the grant were that he should pay a peppercorn yearly, and that the name of william should, if possible, be perpetuated in the family. there were several eminent men among the descendants, but the distinctive christian name is no longer strictly adhered to. an estate enjoying exemption from payments of tithes is that of scale houses, in the parish of renwick. this arose, declared a writer early in the present century, "owing to an ancient owner of the land having slain a noxious cockatrice, which the vulgar at this day call a crack-a-christ as they rehearse the simple fable." the document which gives this exemption is believed to be still in existence. among the dues to which the abbot and convent of shap could claim were services and money payments from bampton as "alms corn," and there was a similar tribute from mauld's meaburn and hoff. burn mentions in his chapter on bewcastle a tenant's duty not publicly noted in any other local manor, the people having to pay yearly customary rent, quit rents for improvements, and £2 1s. 4d. _carriage money_, whatever that may have been. there was a curious regulation in one of the divisions of windermere parish, which lasted up to about 1780:--"it was anciently customary in the township of applethwaite for every tenant's wife who lived below the highway to pay 5d. yearly rent to the lord of the manor, and every other woman above 16 years of age 2d., above the road every tenant's wife paid 3d., and every other woman above 16, a penny. how this custom originated, or why the ladies on the low side of the road were rated higher than their contemporaries in the opposite division, we are unable to say."[9] among the old manorial officers at cockermouth chosen at the michaelmas courts were a bailiff, assessors, assessors of bread and ale, mill-lookers, moor-lookers, hedge-lookers, leather searchers, swine-ringers, and appraisers. the jury of the leet formed the special jury for the government of the borough, and the bailiff was the returning officer for elections, as well as clerk of the market. at egremont the officers chosen annually were a borough serjeant, two bailiffs, four constables, two hedge and corn-viewers, and assessors of damages. most of the old manors, indeed, would furnish examples of quaint offices, whose purpose is now scarcely known. a good deal might be written concerning the old manorial and other courts of the two counties. occasionally these still afford interesting proceedings, but the real purpose for holding them has ceased to exist. the courts of pie poudre, at appleby and several other places; the court of conscience, or, as it was commonly called, the wapentake court, and the court of record at kendal; and the many court leets, are now merely matters of local history. old-time punishments. if one feature is more prominent than another in connection with former methods of repressing crime, or of punishing those who had been declared guilty of breaches of the law, it is that of brutality. refinement, even in retribution, is perhaps not to be expected, having regard to the habits of the people and the conditions under which they lived. in the neighbourhood of the border, "jeddart justice"--to hang a man first and try him afterwards--was doubtless often found a convenient arrangement for dealing with those who were supposed to be delinquents. there is at least one case on record, too, of the drowning of a supposed witch at carlisle, though the unfortunate woman was probably guilty of no more serious offence than being insane. one of the most remarkable executions on record was that of sir andrew de harcla, whose place in north-country history is too well known to need further reference. he offended edward the second--whether he was as guilty as some historians have endeavoured to show is certainly a matter of opinion--and that monarch sent commissioners to carlisle to seize de harcla for treason. "the law" in those days was merely another name for the caprice of the king, and de harcla had no trial. the cedula, or judgment, ran that sir andrew de harcla, earl of carlisle, should be stripped of his earl's robes and ensigns of knighthood, his sword broken over his head, his gilt spurs hacked from his heels, and that he should be drawn to the place of execution, and there hanged by the neck; his heart and bowels taken out of his body, burnt to ashes and winnowed, his body cut into four quarters, one to be set upon the principal tower of carlisle castle, another on the tower of newcastle-upon-tyne, a third upon the bridge at york, and the fourth at shrewsbury, and his head upon london bridge. there has been doubt thrown upon the extent to which this revolting sentence was obeyed. dr. burn says "it was performed accordingly," while the monks of lanercost record that de harcla "suffered in the ordinary place of execution with great fortitude, affirming to the end that in his transactions with the king of scotland he had meant no hurt to his own king or country." on the scaffold, they add, he said, "you have disposed of my body at your pleasure; my soul, which is above your disposal, i give to god." it was customary to allow a sledge or hurdle on which persons condemned for high treason were dragged to the gallows; there is nothing in local records to show in what way the earl was conveyed to the place of execution. a question which has occupied a good deal of the attention of local antiquaries at various times is whether the body was dismembered and the parts dispersed as ordered. de harcla's sister petitioned edward the third for the restitution of her brother's body for burial, and the order addressed to de lucy, who had been de harcla's executioner, is still in existence. it runs thus:--"the king to his faithful and beloved anthony de lucy, warden of carlisle castle, greeting. we command that you cause to be delivered without delay the quarter of the body of andrew de harcla, which hangs by the command of the lord edward, late king of england, our father, upon the walls of the said castle, to our beloved sarah, formerly the wife of robert de leyburn, sister to the aforesaid andrew, to whom we of our grace have granted that she may collect together the bones of the same andrew, and commit them to holy sepulture, whenever she wishes or her attorney. and this you shall in no wise omit. witness the king at york, the 10th of august (1337), by the king himself." a portion of the body is believed to have been buried in kirkby stephen church; the tradition was strengthened by the discovery of part of the bones of a man under peculiar conditions when the church was rebuilt half a century ago. although there are several gallows hills in cumberland and westmorland, there only seems to be one place which has retained any particular story, and it is thus told in mr. william andrews' third book relating to punishments[10]:--"it has been asserted by more than one local chronicler that john whitfield, of cotehill, a notorious north-country highwayman, about 1768 was gibbeted alive on barrock. he kept the countryside in a state of terror, and few would venture out after nightfall for fear of encountering him. he shot a man on horseback in open daylight; a boy saw him commit the crime, and was the means of his identification and conviction. it is the belief in the district that whitfield was gibbeted alive, that he hung for several days in agony, and that his cries were heartrending, until a mail coachman passing that way put him out of his misery by shooting him." there is a contemporary record of the execution to be found in the _st. james's chronicle_, for august 12th, 1768, as follows:--"wednesday, john whitfield, for murdering william cockburn on the highway, near armithwaite, was executed at carlisle, and afterwards hung in chains near the place where the fact was committed." it will be seen that the record makes no mention of the culprit having been put into his iron cage when alive, and one can only hope that there is nothing beyond tradition to support the assertion. next we come to the gibbeting of a threlkeld man, one of the earliest recorded instances of that punishment being imposed in the county palatine. the facts are contained in the rydal papers, published in 1890 by the historical manuscripts commission. writing from rydal on november 24th, 1671, to sir joseph williamson, sir daniel fleming said:- "being lately in lancashire i received there--as a justice of the peace of that county--an information against one thomas lancaster, late of threlkeld in cumberland, who, it is very probable, hath committed the most horrid act that hath been heard of in this countrey. he marryed the 30th of january last a wife in lancashire, who was agreed to be marryed that very day, or soon after, to another; and her father afterwards conveyed all his reall estate to this lancaster upon his giveing security to pay severall sums of money to himselfe and his other daughters. and through covetousness to pay these and other payments it is very probable that lancaster hath lately poysoned--with white arsenic--his wife, her father, her three sisters, her aunt, her cosin-german, and a servant boy, besides poyson given to severall of his neighbours who are and have been sick, that people--as it is presumed--might think the rest dead of a violent fevor. i have committed him prisoner unto lancaster castle and shall take what more evidence i can meet with against the next assizes, that he may there have a fair triall, and--if he be found guilty--such a punishment as the law shall inflict upon such like offenders." on april 3rd, of the following year, sir daniel, writing to sir george fletcher, at hutton, returned to the subject, after he had discussed private affairs and the action of the judges with regard to the papists. at the lent assizes at lancaster, he said, "thomas lancaster has been found guilty of poisoning eight persons, and is to be hanged in chains." three weeks later in a letter to sir william wilde, justice of the common pleas, the same gossip recorded that "thomas lancaster has confessed that he poisoned the old woman with arsenic, for a bribe of £24 from the heir to her estate, worth £16 per annum." it is, however, to the church registers of hawkshead that we must turn for an account of the final proceedings, the entry being under date april 8th, 1672:- "thomas lancaster, who for poysonninge his owne family was adjudgt att the assizes att lancaster to be carried back to his owne house att hye-wrey, where he liv'd, was there hanged before his owne doore till he was dead for that very facte, and then was brought with a horse and carr into the coulthouse meadows and forthwithe hunge upp in iron chaynes on a gibbett, which was set up for that very purpose on the south syde, of sawrey casey, neare unto the poole stang, and there continued until such tymes as he rotted every bone from the other." there are records of wholesale executions in cumberland for what may be called political offences. when the authorities were subduing aske's rebellion, for instance, little was thought of hanging a score of men, and many readers will no doubt remember the bravery of the victims' wives on some of those occasions, for at the risk of their own necks they removed their executed husbands from the gallows and buried the bodies by night. at appleby in former days doubtless many executed men were subjected to the further indignity of being drawn and quartered. in 1664 three of the men who supported captain atkinson, of mallerstang, were, at a special assize in the county town, convicted of high treason for their share in the kaber rigg rising, and all were hanged, drawn, and quartered. it was not until the autumn of 1675 that captain atkinson was sentenced to die the death of a traitor, and pursuant to sentence was hanged, drawn, and quartered on september 1st. it was once common to hand over the bodies of those who had suffered on the gallows to surgeons for dissection. probably the last gallows hill victim thus dealt with was george mackereth, of kendal, who was hanged in 1748 for the murder of his sweetheart. a more interesting study is to be found in the methods adopted by the clergy when dealing with refractory individuals. of excommunication, as imposed in the diocese of carlisle, much might be written from the records preserved in the registry, for not only were poor folks put under the ban. bishops and priors were declared "excommunicate," while rectors, vicars, and less important people by the score seem to have offended. one case of post-mortem punishment at penrith, by way of appeasing the wrath of a former bishop, may be quoted. the latter required the archdeacon of carlisle to seek out and summon certain malefactors who had insulted him while on a visit to the town. three years seem to have passed before anything was done, and by that time one of the culprits had died and been buried. the bishop ordered the body to be dug up, and to lie unburied until the form of absolution had been gone through. in connection, apparently, with the same affair, the bishop "signified" to the court of king's bench that john de agliunby, who had been excommunicated for assaulting and wounding a priest, "after the term of forty days still remains impenitent and unabsolved," and so the aid of the secular arm was invoked to coerce him. what the result may have been does not appear. there is a peculiar case, perhaps less known than any--that of the priest or friar who officiated at the brunskill conventicle, and made a good harvest from the "miraculous" cures wrought by the strong iron water at the holy well, brough. the vicar obtained the pope's authority, and the offender was duly excommunicated. in the ven. archdeacon prescott's recently edited transcript of the "register of wetherhall" may be read the full terms of a somewhat peculiar cumberland case of excommunication and penance. robert highmore, lord of bewaldeth, had taken a mare, the property of john overhouse of that place, as a heriot, before the church of torpenhow had got the mortuary, and he was promptly punished in the orthodox way. having quickly asked absolution, and restored the mare to sir robert ellargill (for the parsons were always styled "sir" in those days), vicar of torpenhow, and by way of penance given the six best oaks in his wood, the bishop absolved him. in some parts of the country the second best horse was due to the church, and, says an old historian, "was carried, by the name of mortuary, or corse present, before the corpse, and delivered to the priest at the place of sepulture." but in the diocese of carlisle the church was first served, and the lord only got the second best. bishop barrow, who ascended the episcopal throne at carlisle in 1423, anathematized all men who took the heriot before "the holy kirke" got the mortuary. the punishment of excommunicating was far from being reserved for the lower orders. quite a long story might be made of the part taken in this way, in the thirteenth century, by the bishop of carlisle, who excommunicated the bishop of dunkeld for refusing to pay the pope's tenth for the holy land. when it became a matter of cursing wrong-doers, there was generally no tendency towards mincing words. christian, bishop of glasgow, who became a professor of the cistercian order, gave to the abbey of holme cultram the grange of kirkwinny. in this grant, quoted in dugdale's "monasticon," the bishop charged all men to protect and defend the grange, as they valued the blessing of god and of himself; threatening, if they did otherwise, that they should incur the papal excommunication, the curses of almighty god and of himself, and the pains of eternal fire. in 1361 several persons being accused of shedding blood in the church and churchyard of bridekirk, were decreed to be excommunicated by the greater excommunication, and the incumbents of all the churches of the deanery of allerdale were ordered to publish the sentence against them on every sunday and holiday at high mass, when the largest number of people should be gathered together, the bells ringing, the candles lighted and put out, and the cross erected. the mother church of greystoke being much out of repair, the belfry fallen, and the wooden shingles on the roof mostly scattered, and the inhabitants of threlkeld and watermillock refusing to contribute their proportion of the charge, the bishop, at his visitation in 1382, issued his injunction "to all and every of them," under pain of the greater excommunication--a proceeding which in those superstitious times no doubt quickly had the desired effect. indeed no great provocation would seem to have been needed to bring the punishment of excommunication. complaint having been made of some unknown persons riotously breaking into the houses and grange at wet sleddale, and committing disorders, a former bishop issued his mandate to the dean of westmorland, and the local clergy, to denounce the greater excommunication at the time of high mass, the bells to ring, and the candles to be put out, against the rioters. one of the vicars of appleby st. lawrence, thomas de burnley, was cited to york for neglecting to serve the chantry in appleby castle--doubtless the action was taken at the instigation of the hereditary high sheriff. on burnley not appearing before the judge of the prerogative court of the abbot and convent, he was excommunicated. the sentence was ordered to be read in the parish churches of st. lawrence and st. michael, appleby, and in other churches and public places in the dioceses of carlisle and york, every sunday and holiday, so long as the abbot and convent required, or until he should comply and make satisfaction to the judge and parties. burnley was not the only holder of his office who objected to the castle service, as sir walter colwyn, who was appointed vicar of the parish forty years previously, was also sentenced (doubtless to be excommunicated) for "having endeavoured to throw the charges of serving the chantry in the castle upon the prior and convent of wetheral." about the middle of the fourteenth century, bishop welton sent out his mandate to the rector of brougham and another cleric to denounce the sentence of greater excommunication against certain unknown persons who had broken up a paved way and done some other outrages in the churchyard of penrith, reserving to himself the sole power of absolution. thereupon several of the inhabitants made a pilgrimage across country to rose, confessed themselves guilty, and prayed for a remission of the heavy sentence. that was granted on condition of each man offering, by way of penance, a wax candle of three pounds weight, before the image of st. mary in the parish church of penrith on the following sunday. in the same year the vicar of penrith had a licence granted to him, to continue from march 8th to the easter following, to hear the confessions of all his parishioners, and to give absolution upon the performance of penance injoined. some exceptionally bad cases were, however, specially reserved by the bishop. persons who suffered from the ecclesiastical ban were deprived of the right of burial in the churchyard. two cases of the kind are recorded in the penrith registers for 1623. "august 29th, lanc. wood, being excommunicate, buried on the fell. september 5th, richd. gibbon, being excommunicate, buried on the fell." the most noteworthy instance of a man of any eminence in the church being visited with excommunication during the last two centuries is probably that of dr. todd, who was vicar of penrith in the first quarter of the eighteenth century. he and bishop nicolson had a long and bitter quarrel as to the rights of the prelate in local church affairs. the diocesan at length suspended the vicar _ab officio et beneficio_, and then excommunicated him. the story throughout is not of a particularly edifying character; dr. todd took his punishment very lightly, and afterwards he and the bishop seem to have been very good friends again. still later there are to be found records in various parish registers of ecclesiastical pressure being brought to bear on parishioners. without any reason being shown in the register, jane curry was declared excommunicate, december 10th, 1732, by hugh brown, curate of hayton. at kirkandrews-on-esk the churchwardens' book shows a list of presentments for not bringing children to be baptised; for clandestine marriages, fornication, and contumacy. the parties were either excommunicated, or did penance, in the church on sunday. one man did his penance in 1711 after having for fornication been excommunicated for thirty years; another man was excommunicated for refusing to be churchwarden. in 1785 two couples were publicly rebuked in church for clandestine marriage, and sir james graham, on the application of the curate, mr. nichol, ordered all his tenants to pay their fees properly. clandestine marriages of course deprived the rector or the curate of the fees, hence the landlord's reproof and caution. the power of excommunication, which during the time of charles the first had been chiefly exercised against the romanists, was at the commencement of the reign of james the second turned against the protestant nonconformists, with, in some districts, results sometimes curious but almost always sad. the names of forty-four persons were set out in the greystoke register on march 29th, 1685, with this announcement following them: "were these persons whose names and sirnames are here under written denounced excommunicate for their offences, and other their contumacy in not appearing at consistorye court for the reformation of their lives and manners." some of the offenders seem to have had only indifferent moral characters, but the majority were quakers. quakerism had been spreading for many years in the two counties, and during the time dr. gilpin was rector of greystoke, the nonconformists, while holding him personally in the deepest respect, gave him some hard puzzles to solve. "such were their novel phrases and cross questions and answers that the doctor seemed sometimes at a loss what to say to them." among those who went over to the quakers was a noted yeoman in his day--henry winder, of green close, who was appointed by the "friends" to be the receiver of all their collections in cumberland. he, however, afterwards returned to the presbyterians, and wrote some noteworthy pamphlets on religious topics. his many quarrels did not help to wear out his frame, for we read: "feb. 9th, 1716/7 if was buried henry winder, sen., of hutton soyle; who dyed of a dropsy in the hundredth and first year of his age." the registers of bampton contain many curious entries, especially about people who did not go regularly to church. one, which may be taken as an example of other reports by the churchwardens, reads:--"we have no presentments to make but what has been formerly presented, viz., we have thomas braidley and margret his wife, richard simpson, john hottblacke, and syth gibson, quakers, and noe other we have in our parish, but doe duely resort to church, nor any other offence presentable to our knowledge." in other cases it was further noted that "the parties stand excommunicated." the churchwardens were evidently strict about enforcing order, and on one occasion reported "william stephenson for violent beating of john wilkinson of shap upon the sabbath and within the churchyard." in other ways the churchwardens exercised care; and a woman got into trouble with them for acting as a midwife "without licence to the prejudice of several persons." again, "lancelot hogarth is presented to us by information of richard brown for loading corn on the sabbath in time of divine service." sometimes the parish clerk had a share in the work; one of these presented. "james hayes of banton, for reading two sale notices, without leave on the sabbath day, one in the church, the other in ye churchyard." possibly even dissenters were not thought to be entirely bad, so long as they paid their tithes, and in presenting william simpson once more the bampton churchwardens vouched that albeit he was a quaker he was "a very moderate one; tho' he absent the church yett he payes his tythes." the church authorities seem to have carried out their unpleasant duties with a due amount of consideration; there is a tone of sympathy about some of the entries; in others indifference may be noted, as where richard simpson and margaret braidley (the latter "very old, not able to go abroad, scarcely help herself,") are presented along with william wilson, younger, a dissenter--what sort we know not, but he never comes to church. although the howards of naworth at one time owned the manor of thornthwaite, and lived at the hall, the only entry in which the name is found is the following: "we have none to present but who have been formerly presented and doe stand excommunicated, viz., mr. william howard and jane his wife, papists, richard simpson and margret braidley, widow, quakers, all that we have." although the sentence of excommunication was frequently used by the nonconformist bodies, in this case the proclamation had no such serious results as followed the sentence in earlier days. among the records of the penrith presbyterian church are many allusions to excommunication; one instance will suffice to illustrate the rest. in 1818, robert mccreery, a member of the church, had left the town in company with a woman who was not his wife, but returning three months afterwards, he petitioned to be re-admitted to the presbyterian society. before the formalities could be concluded mccreery seems to have changed his mind and withdrawn his application, and he was therefore declared from the pulpit to be excommunicate. at ravenstonedale, in the days of philip lord wharton, there was a ready method of dealing with slanderers and other transgressors. the "town" was governed by twenty-four of the principal inhabitants, called the grand jury, and the oath which they were required to take included a promise that- "every person or persons within this lordship which shall be convicted before the grand jury for the time being and by them be found to have offended against any person or persons within this lordship, either by slanderous words or other unlawful speech or report, that the same offender or offenders shall, upon such a sabbath day, before the celebration of the general communion then next following the conviction, and in such manner before the people assembled in the church ... appoint the said offender or offenders in penitent manner to confess their fault, and to ask the party aggrieved forgiveness for the same, upon pain of every such offender or offenders to forfeit to the lord of this manor, so often as they shall contemptuously or obstinately deny or defer to make their reconcilements, 3s. 4d.: and the men in charge of the church not to fail in execution hereof upon pain to forfeit to the lord 12d." though paying 3s. 4d. seems a small punishment, it was a large sum towards the end of the reign of queen bess, and would be equal to fully £3 now, while three years after the rule was instituted the fine was doubled. mr. nicholls, in a series of lectures which he delivered in the village some twenty-four years ago, remarked:- "such a law as this one would expect to be a very wholesome check against slander. there is a tradition that the culprit was compelled to stand up, wrapt in a white sheet, and confess his fault; but, whether this were so or no, the confession must have been a terrible ordeal, and i can understand that the fine was often paid. it would seem that notwithstanding the fine or penalty, the vice was a prevalent one, as its mention is followed by a homily against the sin of slander, in which many passages of scripture are cleverly and skilfully incorporated." the long-since dismantled abbey of lanercost had its origin in a tragedy. gils beuth laid claim to a part of gilsland, and robert de vallibus, lord of gilsland, slew him at a meeting for agreement appointed between them under trust and assurance of safety. in consequence of that action vallibus laid down arms and began to study law with such good effect that in time he became a judge. the murder still preyed on his mind until he made satisfaction to mother church by building lanercost abbey, and endowing it with the very lands which had brought about the murder. dr. burn in one instance shows that not only were people allowed "the option," in some cases, but that the money was put to good use. a silver communion chalice belonging to beetham parish church "was purchased by the late commissary stratford with money paid in commutation of penance for adultery and fornication;" its inscription being "ob poen. mulct. dedicat. huic. ecclesiæ, 1716." slanderers had occasionally to pay not only a monetary penalty for the free use of their tongues, but to satisfy the ecclesiastical authorities as well. chancellor paley had such a case before him in november, 1789, where a man had "uttered words of a shameful nature and unbecoming a christian, in prejudice to the complainant and his daughter." the chancellor "decreed the defendant to do public penance in the parish church, and to be condemned in all costs." the _pacquet_ which thus records the decision, is silent as to the method in which the punishment was carried out. penance in connection with illegitimacy was not uncommon; therefore the following entry which occurs in the kirby thore register, dated june 27th, 1779, after the baptism of an illegitimate child, must be taken only as an example: "william bowness, of bolton b[achelor]: frances spooner, widow, of this parish, the parents, underwent a public penance in this church." the millom records under date march 27th, 1595, say that jenet benson was "to be sorye for her sins by order of mr. commissorye at botle;" and in 1608 "barnard benson did his penance in the parishe chirche of millom the 19th of march and payed to the poor of the chirche x{s.} which was openly delivered in the pulpit, vi{s.} viii{d.} at millom and iii{s.} iv{d.} at ulfall." the bensons would seem to have been a troublesome lot, for another entry is that "myles benson p{d} xii{d.} for sleepinge and not goinge orderly to church." the wardens at that time could fine any parishioners a shilling for neglecting to attend church. insults to the clergy were visited with such punishments as could be imposed, and the doing of penance was perhaps the most suitable consequence of such an action. this paragraph appears in the greystoke register:--"1608/9 february 12th. this daye two sermons by mr. p'son one afforenone, and the other afternone, and edward dawson taylyor did openlye conffess before the congregation that he had abused the mynister sr. matthew gibson upon the sabboth daye at evenynge prayer." sacrilege has always been very properly looked upon as one of the worst crimes, but instances must be comparatively rare of an estate being forfeited through such an act. barwise hall, near appleby, descended from the family of berewyse to that of ross, and the last of these is said to have forfeited his domain for stealing a silver chalice out of the church. before the privilege was abolished by parliament in the reign of james the first, there were several places in the two counties at which sanctuary could be obtained. one was at ravenstonedale. the rev. w. nicholls, dr. simpson, mr. a. fothergill, the rev. r. w. metcalfe, and others have brought the history of that parish to an unusually complete stage, and the first-named gentleman has told the story.[11] the tower, according to tradition--the structure was demolished about a century and a half ago--stood apart from the church, on the road side, and rested on pillars, leaving openings at equal distances on each side, while from the centre hung the rope of the refuge bell. any person who had committed any offence worthy of death--once a very easy matter, there being many such crimes besides murder--after ringing the bell could not be seized by the sheriff or any other king's officer, but must be tried by the lord's court at ravenstonedale, which doubtless at first consisted of the monks. mr. fothergill recorded that in his time if a murderer fled to the church and tolled the holy bell, he was free, and that if a stranger came within the precincts of the manor he was safe from the pursuer. he added:--"of our own knowledge, and within our own memory, no felon, though a murderer, was to be carried out of the parish for trial, and one holme, a murderer, lived and died in ravenstonedale; his posterity continued there for two generations, when the family became extinct." some doubt has been thrown on the local tradition that the privilege of sanctuary was possessed by the nunnery, on the banks of the eden, in ainstable parish. there is still an upright pillar, having on one side of it a cross, round which is inscribed "sanctuarium, 1088." there is also near to greystoke church what is called a sanctuary stone. in the museum at kendal is preserved a good specimen of the scolds' bridle, which may have come down from the days, three centuries ago, when the corporation set about reforming the conduct of the inhabitants. the contents of the "boke of recorde" are very interesting in this connection. gambling in its varied forms was put down rigorously. it was ordered that any inhabitant allowing any play at cards, dice tables, bowls, or any other unlawful game should be fined for the first offence 6s. 8d., and for the second offence 13s. 4d., while the players escaped with half those penalties. these and other fines which were provided for were "over and beside such other punishment as shall be thought mete and requisite according to the quality of the offence." among the punishments provided for may be noted the following as a specimen, there being several of the kind. henry wilson, a burgess and justice of the peace for the borough, having been living incontinently with jennet eskrigge, a married woman, "as is notoriouslye knowen to the sclannder and offence of the magistrats off the sayd boroughe, and evil example of the residewe off the inhabitannts heare, wherbye he is thoughte nott mete to contynewe in the sayd roweme and offyce," it was ordered that he should be expelled from his offices. as to the woman, it was decreed that she should be carted through the town, "to the terror and fear of other persons of evil disposition for the committing of the like offence in time to come," and she was not to be permitted to remain within the borough unless she was reconciled to and dwelt with her husband. the punishment did not act as a warning to the woman, and further orders are to be found in the minute-book showing how she was made liable to heavy fines and forbidden to enter the town "otherwise than as a stranger coming to the church or market only," while the inhabitants who gave her shelter were liable to fines of ten shillings each. there is a very long and verbose order passed by the corporation in december, 1589:--"for punishinge of a mayd servant for speakinge slanderouse speeches of her master." they found that "mabel atkinson, late servant unto mr. henry dickson, and sybell dyckson, his wife, inhabitants of this borough, forgetting her duty to almighty god and the fear and awe she ought to have had to the threatening menaces and punishments pronounced out of his holy word and commandments against such persons as shall openly or privily unjustly slander, hurt, or impair their neighbours in body, goods, name or report, and also that servile regard and honest, and true favour and love she ought to have borne towards her said master and mistress in all manner of behaviours and reports by the instigation of our mortal enemy the devil, the author of all falsehood and lying, hath of late, even within this borough of kirkbiekendall, most maliciously, falsely, and untruly imposed, devised, framed, and brought a very horrible, unjust, and feigned slander and misreport of and against her master and mistress." the punishment is worth describing in full, but the following extract will suffice as a specimen of the whole order thereon:--"for condign punishment in this behalf and for a terror and fear to be wrought in all others for committing the like offence, it is ordained and constituted that mabel atkinson shall be attached and taken on monday, in the morning, next, by the two serjeants at mace and ministers of this borough, where and in what place she may be found, and shall forthwith be had, carried, and conveyed unto the common prison or ward of the same borough, and there shall remain and continue without any bail or delivery until thursday then next following, in the afternoon, having only for diet every day in the meanwhile one slender and spare repast of meat and drink, and only two coverlets nightly to lie in, at which time on the said thursday, in the afternoon, being openly called forth of prison to the bar in the mootehall of the same borough, if she will and do in very penitent, humble, and sorrowful manner, unfeignedly and truly upon her knees, in the open presence of the people then and there assembled, and before her said master and mistress, ask and pray at god his hands mercy and forgiveness for her said false and untrue report and slander, and pardon also of her said master and mistress for the said offence, then she to be delivered out of the said prison or ward, paying such fees and duties as may appertain, and if she shall the same refuse, in whole or part, or in doing the same not performing it with such true penitence as in such case is requisite, and as all the people assembled may and shall therewith be fully satisfied and resolved, that she be banished from being, tarrying, or remaining within this borough, or the liberties or precincts of the same, for and by the space of one whole year then next coming, and that no person or persons during the same year shall take her into service or suffer her to dwell in house under or with any such person or persons (except it be in lawful wedlock) upon pain to lose and forfeit to, and for the common use of all the inhabitants of the same for every month as much as ten shillings, to be levied as above." the poor drunkards met with none too considerate treatment from the justices of the time. here is a curious "order against common drunkards, how to be punished, and for common scolds":--"whereas sundry persons inhabiting this borough and others (of their insatiable minds without any regard to common honesty, modesty, or fear of god, or his severe punishment either in this life or the life to come) do give up their bodies (which almighty god hath ordained to honour) unto all manner of dishonour and dissolute kind of life in quaffing immoderate and superfluous devouring of strong ale at very many needless and unfit times, continuing the same most foul and detestable vice so long till at length they be so far overtaken and gone that they become beast-like and insensible, without reason or any good understanding (besides the great loss of time and waste of their goods, and miserable want of their families at home, and their own beggaring at length, and lamentable grief to all other good christians, their neighbours, detesting and loathing that vice) for redress whereof and preventing of sundry mischiefs which else might happen by this occasion (besides great danger to their souls) if the same enormity should not in time be speedily foreseen; it is therefore ordained and constituted by the aldermen and burgesses of this borough that at all times hereafter when and so often as any person or persons whatsoever shall be seen or known ... to have been or at any time to be so far overtaken, besotted or drunken with immeasurable devouring of strong drink that then it shall be lawful to or for any alderman, justice, or alderman's deputy all and every such misordered person and persons to cause to be imprisoned within the same borough, there to remain at such diet and during the pleasure of him that committed him, to the end thereby to reclaim and warn every one of them from lewdness and detestable offences of drinking; and also that every such magistrate aforesaid shall or may commit and command to be set on the cuckstool every common scold, railer, or of notorious misdemeanour, at the like pleasure of the commander or magistrate." the turning of thirlmere into a huge reservoir, and the necessary increase of its depth, hid for ever a number of land-marks. there are, however, numerous others of an interesting character left. a reminder of the days when the manorial lord was a king in a small way is supplied by the steading stone. this is supposed to mark the site where the manor court of wythburn was held, and its pains and penalties imposed. the rev. s. barber has supplied[12] an explanation of a term which has puzzled many a tourist as well as not a few dwellers in lakeland:--"the city, as has been suggested by one who is no mean scholar, is neither more nor less than a corruption of 'sitting,' that is, the place of session of the early judges, when they met to adjudicate in criminal cases. we can then picture the white bearded patriarchs seated in solemn conclave upon the semi-circle of boulders facing the central rock, and after the giving of sentence sternly watching the miserable captive led away to be decapitated on that very rock, before the assembled witnesses." life in the old gaols for any extended period must have been a very dreadful experience. the buildings were generally crowded; that they would be in a perpetually insanitary condition goes without saying, and gaol fevers were frequent. the prisoners were not treated any better in the local gaols than in other places. they were chiefly dependent on the charity of outsiders for subsistence, and the old carlisle and whitehaven newspapers contain hundreds of paragraphs recording the gratitude of the prisoners to the local gentry for gifts of from £1 to £20. in these days when it is unlawful to send any tobacco or liquors into a prison, the reader notes with particular interest the announcements of presents of barrels of ale, prayer-books, bread, coals, and other articles to the debtors, as well as to those who had been convicted of serious offences. those, too, were "the hanging days." note the items in this concise report of carlisle assizes in august, 1790:--"on friday afternoon the judges were met at the usual place, near carlisle, by wm. brown, high sheriff of the county, attended by a most respectable and numerous company of gentlemen, in carriages and on horseback. on their arrival in the city, their lordships proceeded to the hall, where his majesty's commission being opened in due form, the courts were adjourned to eight o'clock the next morning--when the business of assize proceeded. the hon. sir john wilson at the crown end; and the hon. sir alex. thomson, in the court of _nisi prius_. when our account left carlisle, wm. bleddy, for breaking open the shop of miss crossthwaite, at keswick; and john thompson, for horse stealing, were found guilty--death. bella ramsay, for stealing wearing apparel, to be transported. leonard falshea, for stealing six sheep, found guilty--death, but ordered for transportation. ann wilson and elizabeth white, for stealing a purse, etc., to be transported." there are no stocks standing now on the village greens of cumberland and westmorland, but in tullie house museum, carlisle, are local examples of both pillory and stocks. among the records of greystoke, some seventy years ago, it was stated that the village then possessed a neat cross, "the stones of which remain piled together, and also the foot-stocks for the punishment of evil doers." whipping in public was so general in most towns as to occasion no great amount of notice, and often the punishment must have seemed out of all proportion to the offence. thus at the assizes of 1790, just mentioned, walter smith, who was convicted of stealing a game-cock, was sentenced to be imprisoned six months and publicly whipped in whitehaven. [illustration: giant's thumb, penrith.] there is a tradition among some of the old folks of penrith that the holes at the top of the ancient cross, known as the giant's thumb, in the churchyard, were at one time used for a pillory. the only authority for the assertion seems to have been the late mr. william grisenthwaite, builder, who had quite a store of local traditions. it was on his statement that mr. george watson included the information in his "notabilia of old penrith." mr. grisenthwaite said the last time the cross was used for that corrective purpose was for the whipping of a young woman, who died of a broken heart in consequence of her shameful exposure. it is but fair to say that other old people of great intelligence declare that they never heard of such an event, and that they do not believe it. moreover, penrith possessed stocks, and doubtless a pillory also, not far from where the monument now stands; hence the statement as to the thumb being put to such a secular purpose as being used for a whipping-post is greatly in need of confirmation. the stocks at penrith had not ceased to be used in 1781, having been repaired by thomas langhorne in that year, at a cost of £1 14s. those at ravenstonedale stood outside the churchyard wall, and near the grammar school. the stocks at orton were near the church gate; those at st. michael's, appleby, at bongate cross. an iron, with the letters "r. v. t." ("rogue, vagabond, thief"), was attached to the dock in the crown court at appleby, until the shire hall was improved about 1848. it is recorded that whipping was formerly practised in appleby to a considerable extent. on october 26th, 1743, it was ordered by the mayor and aldermen that the stocks and pillory, then opposite to the house which had recently belonged to a person named knotts, should be immediately removed to the end of the open hall, facing the low cross, "that being deemed the proper place for the same, and that there be a whipping-post, and a convenient place for burning criminals in the hand, erected there also." the late mr. m. cussons, shortly before his death early this year, told the writer that he particularly remembered the stocks at appleby. they were placed at the north end of the old moot hall, and were removed before 1835, in which year the corporation fixed the present weighing machine on the site. the stocks were so placed that the culprit undergoing punishment had his back to the building, and faced the church. when they were last used has not been ascertained. there were stocks also at bongate cross, but these were removed about thirty years ago by the late mr. richardson, the bongate parish clerk, and given by him to the late mr. g. r. thompson, bongate hall. from the appleby corporation records, mr. w. hewitson, town clerk, finds that in 1767 the grand jury set out to william bewsher on a lease for 999 years a piece of ground on which to build a smith's shop, at the north corner of bridge end, near where the ducking-stool stood. the last person flogged through the appleby streets was a man named johnnie copeland, a notorious character in his time. this happened about 1819. the crime for which he suffered this punishment was a criminal assault. mrs. jane brunskill, appleby, now in her ninetieth year, who was an eye witness of the punishment, informed the writer a few months ago that she remembered the occurrence perfectly. the offender was fastened by two ropes, placed round his body, one being held by a man who walked in front, and the other by a man walking behind the culprit. the punishment was inflicted by a prisoner under confinement in appleby gaol. they started from the high cross and proceeded to the gaol, the man being flogged all the way. this took place on a market day, and the streets were crowded. the governor of the gaol at that time was named james bewsher, and he combined with that office the business of blacksmith, which he carried on in the premises already referred to as being near the place where the ducking-stool stood. dishonest workmen also got a taste of the lash occasionally, as witness this newspaper paragraph of january, 1789: "a fancy-weaver, belonging to messrs. foster and sons' manufactory in carlisle, was publicly whipped a few days ago, for stealing several of his masters' patterns, and sending them to a manufactory in glasgow." there is believed to have been no example of riding the stang in cumberland or westmorland during the last half century. previously, however, it would seem to have been an unpleasantly frequent punishment. in the _westmorland gazette_ for december 19th, 1835, a long description was given of "the old but now almost neglected custom." in this case an ambleside woman had left her husband and family, and gone with a married man to america. after an absence of eight months she returned, and, said the local journalistic chronicler of the period, "the young men of ambleside, with that manly and proper spirit which ought to actuate the breast of every noble mind who values propriety of conduct, and that which is decent and of good report, on monday procured, instead of a pole, a cart, in which were placed two of their companions, and accompanied by a party of both young and old, proceeded through the town repeating at certain places the following lines:- 'it is not for my part i _ride the stang_, but it is for the american----just come hame.' the fun was continued to the amusement of hundreds for about an hour, but not being satisfied with one night's frolic, the same party, on tuesday evening, procured an effigy of the frail lady, and after exhibiting it in every part of the town, publicly burnt it at the market cross, amidst the loud hurras of the assembled crowd who had met to witness the sight, and who took that opportunity of testifying their hatred and detestation of such base and abominable conduct as the parties had been guilty of." some legends and superstitions. the title of this chapter sufficiently indicates that the legends and superstitions intended to be dealt with are far from including all which might be mentioned; indeed not a tithe of those which are still well known in the two counties can here be touched upon. mr. whitfield, m.p., in an address in west cumberland over thirty years ago,[13] said that the superstitions in the border country concerning fairies and brownies were more developed, and the belief in spells and enchantments more common than in many other parts of the country. the various circumstances attending the growth of those beliefs led to the conclusion that in the middle ages religion as then taught did not exercise any great influence on the border. though monasteries were founded on each side of the border as some protection against the desolations of war, the english did not scruple to ravage the scottish monasteries during an invasion, and the scotch treated with corresponding violence the english foundations. at the time of the reformation the border was probably the most ignorant and barbarous district in england. there is a pretty legend pertaining to st. bees, which is supposed to have derived its name from st. bega, an irish nun, who came to cumberland about the middle of the seventh century, and, with her sisters, was wrecked near to the headland. "in her distress she went to the lady of egremont castle for relief, and obtained a place of residence at st. bees. afterwards she asked lady egremont to beg of her lord to build them a house, and they with others would lead a religious life together. with this the lady egremont was well pleased, and she asked the lord to grant them some land. the lord laughed at the lady, and said he would give them as much land as snow fell upon 'the next morning in midsummer day.' on the next morning he looked out from the castle towards the sea, and all the land for about three miles was covered with snow."[14] another tradition associated with west cumberland is that at kirksanton. there is a basin, or hollow, in the surface of the ground, assigned as a place where once stood a church that was swallowed up by the earth opening, and then closing over it bodily. it used to be believed by the country people that on sunday mornings the bells could be heard far down in the earth, by the simple expedient of placing the ear to the ground. a very similar legend was, in a magazine in 1883, recorded of fisherty brow, kirkby lonsdale:--"there is a curious kind of natural hollow scooped out, where, ages ago, a church, parson, and congregation were swallowed up by the earth. ever since this terrible affair it is asserted that the church bells have been regularly heard to ring every sunday morning." if an old tradition is to be believed, one of the most conspicuous land-marks in the north of england should be regarded as a memorial, so far as its name goes. the story is that the cross was planted, by pious hands, in the early days of christianity, on the summit or table land of the chain of mountains which bounds the eastern side of cumberland, separately known by different names along their range, but collectively called cross fell. at any rate, whether or not it takes its name from its transverse situation to the common run of the immense ridge, this tradition, as the rev. b. porteus has remarked, "is preferable to another which traces its derivative to a cross erected for the purpose of dislodging the aërial demons which were once thought to possess these desolate regions, and gave it the name of the fiend's fell." but the cyclone (the helm wind) and the sending for holy men to canterbury to exorcise "the demon" supports the derivation. alston church is dedicated to st. augustine. some say the bodies of christians who had died in the heathen eastern districts were brought "cross t' fell" to be buried in the consecrated land of the primitive christians of cumberland and westmorland. there is a tradition that an attempt was made time after time to build a church in what is known as jackson's park, arlecdon, but as often as begun in the day it was destroyed in the night by some unknown and invisible hand. eventually the attempt was abandoned, and the church built in its present position. then there is the familiar legend connected with the building of the devil's bridge at kirkby lonsdale. there are several versions of the erection of this structure, and as one is just as likely to be wrong as another, the story told by mr. speight[15] may be quoted: "the bridge was built by his satanic majesty, according to a compact made between himself and a poor woman who wished to recover her cow which had strayed at low water to the opposite side of the river, but could not do so without the convenient means of a bridge. and so the king of evil agreed to erect a bridge on condition that he should have the first living thing that crossed. he knew very well of her husband's coming home from market, and hoped to make good booty. but the cunning woman was equal to the occasion. seeing the approach of her husband on the opposite hill, she concealed a scraggy, half-starved dog under her apron, and letting it sniff a bone, suddenly tossed the latter over the fine, new made viaduct, and the dog at once bounding after it, she stepped back, and raising her fingers in a vindictive, and certainly most unbecoming manner, lustily exclaimed, 'now, crafty sir, the bargain was that you should have what first did pass across the bridge--so now, alas! the dog's your right. the cheater cheated, struck with shame, squinted and grinned, then in a flame he vanished quite.'" at least two legends have come down to us of the days of the wolves. a lady belonging to the lucy family--the great territorial lords of west cumberland--was one evening walking near to egremont castle when she was devoured by a wolf at a place afterwards marked by a stone cairn, and known as woful bank. the name of wotobank is given to a place in the parish of beckermet. the story here is that edgar, a lord of beckermet, and his lady, edwina, and servants, were at one time hunting the wolf. "during the chase the lord missed his lady, and after a long and painful search the party at last found her body lying on the hill, or bank, slain by a wolf, with the ravenous beast still in the act of tearing it to pieces. in the first transports of his grief, the words that the distressed husband first uttered were, 'woe to this bank'--a phrase since altered and applied to the place as 'wotobank.'" another wolf legend of a somewhat similar character is attached to a well called lady's dub, at ulpha. what can only be described as legends--for as to their authenticity it would perhaps not be wise to inquire too closely--belong to the fortunes of several estates in the two counties. one of the owners of warthell (or warthol) hall, in the parish of plumbland, was notorious for his passion for card-playing--a form of amusement, by the way, which probably for more than two hundred years has been a favourite among all classes in the two counties. the lord of warthell, mr. dykes, one evening lost a large sum, and was face to face with ruin. growing desperate, he determined to risk all on a single game of putt, and at the last deal cried, "up, now deuce, or else a tray, or warthell's gone for ever and aye." while it would perhaps be unjust even to suggest that the people of cumberland and westmorland are now more superstitious than those of other counties, it is nevertheless a fact that many curious beliefs prevailed in the country districts long after they had ceased in other places. the faith in the efficacy of charms has even yet not died away. toothache has long been a favourite medium for testing the skill of the charmer and the faith of the sufferer. the rev. h. j. bulkeley, then rector of lanercost, who spent much time in collecting records of the old and fleeting beliefs, told in 1885 how the toothache charm was worked. "a boy suffering from toothache was taken to an old blacksmith, who prodded the decayed tooth with a rusty nail; blindfolded the boy, led him into a wood, and, taking the bandage off his eyes, made him hammer the nail into a young oak; blindfolded him again, and led him out, making him promise not to try and find the tree or tell anyone of it. and that tooth never ached any more!" another method was to rub, with a stone, the part affected, the operation taking place soon after sunset. while performing the rubbing, the charmer muttered an incantation which does not seem to have been preserved in print, although it is doubtless well known in the country districts. fairies have given place to more material creations, but the faith in the "little folk" has not died out, and even yet occasionally the dairy-maid may be seen furtively to put a pinch of salt in the fire at churning time, "so that t' fairies mayn't stop t' butter frae comin'." the rowan-tree branch used to be placed above doorways to keep away evil influences throughout the north of england, and in the lake country the stick used for stirring the cream to counteract the bewitching of the churn is still frequently made of rowan or mountain ash wood. among the old superstitions is that of the death strokes:- "as with three strokes above the testered bed the parting spirit of its tenant fled." the opinion once very commonly prevailed that shortly before the coming of the last summons three distinct raps were heard on the wall immediately over the bed head. this, of course, was nothing more than the noise made by a small worm when trying to bore itself a passage through the decayed woodwork where it had been bred. "telling the bees" is a custom in several parts of the country, and is still believed in by some of the old people of these counties. when a death occurred in a household where bees were kept it was deemed desirable for some one to acquaint the occupants of the hives with the fact, and also to tell them on the day of the funeral that the corpse was about to be lifted. the late mr. w. dickinson, who by his "cumbriana," "reminiscences," and "glossary," did much to preserve a knowledge of old-time life in the county, said the last case of "telling the bees" which came to his knowledge was at asby, near arlecdon, in 1855. to miss taking the doleful news to the bees was held to be a certain way of bringing ill-luck to the house. supposed miracle workers have not been lacking. about the middle of the fourteenth century the abbot and canons of shap had licence from bishop kirkby to remove the body of isabella, wife of william langley, their parishioner, famed for having miracles done by it, to some proper place within the church or churchyard of shap, that the reliques might be reverenced by the people with freer and greater devotion. "boggles" have been common in all parts of the two counties; needless to say the dreadful apparitions when inquired about in a careful manner have invariably proved to be very commonplace and harmless creatures or articles. "boggle" is a norse word, sometimes equal to personification of diety or saint. natural phenomena, as _ignis fatuus_, account for some; the mist-mirage explains others. the mist is still called "the haut" (the haunt). witches, too, have abounded--according to report,--and some were drowned, or otherwise persecuted because of their evil repute. mary baynes, the witch of tebay, died in 1811, aged ninety. she has been described as a repulsive looking woman, with a big pocket tied upon her back, and she was blamed for witching people's churns, geese, and goslings, so that on account of her witchcraft she became a terror to her neighbours. many strange things which happened were laid to her charge, and thoroughly believed by the people. ned sisson, of the "cross keys inn," had a mastiff which worried old mary's favourite cat. the owner decided to have the grimalkin respectably buried in her garden, and a man named willan dug a grave for it. old mary handed willan an open book, and pointed to something he was to read. but willan, not thinking it worth while to read anything over a cat, took pussy by the leg, and said: "ashes to ashes, dust to dust. here's a hole, and in thou must." mary grew angry, and warned her companion that he would fare no better for his levity. soon afterwards willan was ploughing in his field when the implement suddenly bounded up, and the handle struck one of his eyes, causing blindness. immediately mary baynes was given the credit for having bewitched the plough. the old lady seems to have tried her hand also at prophesy. once when the scholars of tebay school were out playing, mary predicted to them that some day carriages would run over loupsfell without the aid of horses. the railway now goes over a portion of the land to which she referred, which was then a large stinted pasture. the best known other "witch" was "lizzie o' branton," otherwise lizzy batty, a remarkable woman, who, in the early years of this century, occupied a cottage on the roadside between brampton and talkin. she acted in a peculiar manner, dressed curiously, and generally "acted the part," with the consequence that she was credited with many supernatural powers. she died in 1817, at the age of eighty-eight. the date of her funeral in brampton was for long years remembered as the stormiest day the town had ever seen. although it was in march, yet darkness came on so suddenly that lanterns were lighted at the grave-side, only to be again and again extinguished by the fury of the tempest. a tradition still lingers that those who bore the coffin to the grave solemnly affirmed that it was empty and the body gone. the belief in the "barguest," now practically gone, was in comparatively recent times common enough to excite but little notice. the term was generally used to denote any kind of ghostly visitant, but referred more particularly to a fearsome creation which was supposed to haunt the fells and dales, and make a horrible noise. mr. b. kirkby, in his "lakeland words" (1899), gives the definition as known in north westmorland: "one who has the power of foretelling the demise of others; or one who makes a great din." mr. anthony whitehead says, "a barguest is a spirit known only through the sense of hearing, being a something which, during the dark hours of night, disturbed the last generations of westmorland with its awful howling." there is no lack of ghostly traditions in connection with families. perhaps the best known is that belonging to the ancient family of machell, of crackenthorpe hall, near appleby. lancelot machell--the same who in open court tore to pieces cromwell's new charter for appleby--married elizabeth, daughter of thomas sleddall, of penrith. her portrait was found on a panel in penrith some years ago. she was executrix of her husband's will, and for some alleged injury to her interest in the estate it used to be said that she paid the machells ghostly visitations whenever the head of the family was about to die. the country folk used to say that she is laid under the big stone called peg's stone, just below crackenthorpe hall, her term of incarceration being 999 years. they also say she has been seen driving along the appleby road at a great pace with "amber leets" in the carriage, and disappear suddenly in machell wood, near the spot called peg sneddle's trough. indeed, there is extant a most graphic and brilliant account of her passage of the tollbar at crackenthorpe, narrated by one "brockham dick" (richard atkinson, of the "elephant inn"), now many years deceased, who kept the gate in his youth, and who used to stick to it with much detail of thrilling circumstance, how one night in each year, when the "helm" wind was blowing, mrs. machell made her appearance and passed this gate in offended state. when storms come on upon the fell, peg is said to be angry, and _vice versâ_ in fine weather. an old tree in the neighbourhood of crackenthorpe called sleddall's oak, is also associated with mrs. machell's name, and here a female figure is supposed to be seen to sit and weep when any misfortune is about to befall any member of the machell family. when farmers find disease among their cattle, whether it be tuberculosis, pleuro-pneumonia, or other undesirable visitation, they no longer pin their faith to the old-time observances. the progress of science has shown better methods of dealing with the disease, and now the stock owners of the northern counties would be the first to ridicule the means taken by their grandfathers for stopping an outbreak. the "needfire," which has been witnessed by many people who are not yet old, was probably the last remnant of fire-worship in this country. "it was once," says mr. sullivan, "an annual observance, and is still occasionally employed in the dales and some other localities as a charm for the various diseases to which cattle are liable. all the fires in the village are carefully put out--a deputation going round to each house to see that not a spark remains. two pieces of wood are then ignited by friction, and within the influence of the fire thus kindled, the cattle are brought. the scene is one of dire bellowing and confusion: but the owner is especially anxious that his animals should get 'plenty of the reek.' the charm being ended in one village, may be transferred to the next, and thus propagated as far as it is required." miss martineau, in her "guide to the lakes," tells a story of a certain farmer who, "when all his cattle had been passed through the fire, subjected an ailing wife to the same potent charm." the last time the "needfire" was used in the keswick neighbourhood, mr. william wilson says, was in 1841. in some parts of cumberland and westmorland there was then an epidemic amongst the cattle. it was brought over the raise and transferred from farm to farm through the vales. but, at one farm a few miles out of keswick, the sacred fire was allowed to become extinct, the owner, a well-known statesman, not having sufficient faith in its virtue to take the trouble to transmit it, or even to keep it alight. he told mr. wilson that he was severely rated at the time for his lack of faith. that, however, served to kill the popular belief in needfire, and even when the terrible ravages of the rinderpest, foot and mouth disease, and pleuro-pneumonia, were emptying the pockets and breaking the hearts of the farmers, not one of them thought of reviving the old "cure." the last time, so far as the writer can find, the practice was reported in the newspapers was this paragraph in the _patriot_ of july 25th, 1834:--"a sort of murrain, or pestilential fever, is at present prevalent in the county of westmorland, the popular remedy for which is the fumigation of the infected animals with the smoke of needfire, accompanied by certain mystic signs." the rev. j. wharton, however, well remembers the fire being made at long marton about 1843-4, during a murrain. the term "needfire" seems to be a corruption of "neatfire," neat cattle being an old and common term. among the legends relating to north-country residences, an interesting one is concerning corby castle and its "radiant boy." this--which corresponds to the "corpse lichten" of other countries--has been described as a luminous apparition which made its appearance with dire results, the tradition being that the member of the family who saw the "radiant boy" would rise to great power, and afterwards die a violent death. the only example in proof of the tradition so far made known, however, was that of lord castlereagh. that statesman was given a wide margin of time after seeing the spectre, as that was supposed to have happened when he was a young man, and he did not commit suicide until 1822. the superstition as to the skulls at calgarth, windermere, has several parallels. those two skulls formerly occupied a niche in calgarth hall, from which they could not be kept for any long time, though they were reputed to attend the banquets at armboth hall, thirlmere, of their own accord! above all, "they were buried, burned, reduced to powder, dispersed by the wind, sunk in the well, and thrown into the lake several times, all to no purpose"--truly wonderful skulls! the superstition concerning "first-foot" has not yet died out; but the observance is not regarded with that seriousness which ruled half a century ago, and to the next generation, probably, this ancient new year's custom and belief will have become part of the history of the bygone. four lucks. closely associated with the legends of cumberland and westmorland, dealt with in the preceding chapter, are the stories of four "lucks." the best known is that of eden hall, which has been made the theme for poems and innumerable descriptive articles. the most popular version of the origin of the luck is that when a servant was going for water one night to the fairy well, in front of the hall he surprised a number of fairies at their revels, with the goblet in the centre of the ring around which they were dancing. the servant seized the luck, while the fairies gave the ominous warning that "if this cup should break or fall, farewell the luck of eden hall." numerous poets have woven pretty stories out of the tradition, without attempting to seek the real origin of the treasured possession. the luck is an ancient glass vessel widening by an easy curve, and terminating in a graceful lip. its colour is green, with enamel of red, yellow, and blue; one theory is that its origin was saracenic, and that it was brought from palestine by a member of the family during the crusades. dr. todd, when vicar of penrith, supposed it to have "been used as a chalice, at a time when it was unsafe to have those sacred vessels made of costlier metals, on account of the predatory habits which prevailed on the borders." if absolute care can preserve it, the luck is safe, for along with its leathern case, adorned with vine leaves, and having the sacred monogram "i.h.s." on the top, the luck is rarely taken from its place of security--said to be one of the strong rooms of the bank of england. whenever the luck is exhibited to privileged visitors at the hall, the utmost precautions are taken to prevent even the slightest accident. [illustration: 1.--ancient glass vessel called the luck of eden hall. 2.--its leather case. 3.--inscription on the top of the case.] "the luck of muncaster" is reputed to have been the gift of henry the sixth, who stayed for a brief space with the penningtons, either in 1461 or 1464. the king was in sore straits, for death had robbed him of the service of many of his most powerful adherents; howbeit he still held the affections of large numbers of people in cumberland and westmorland. the owner of muncaster was one of those able and willing to stand by henry in his necessity, and kept the king in safety. the room in which the monarch slept is still preserved with great care; he rested in a carved oak bedstead, which bears his initials and a crown. at parting henry gave to sir john pennington a glass cup or basin, about seven inches in diameter, ornamented with some gold and white enamelled mouldings, with--according to tradition--the assurance that "the family shall prosper so long as they preserve this cup unbroken." it is unnecessary to do more than mention that this luck has been celebrated in verse, by way of illustrating the evil designs of a kinsman who desired to destroy both the cup and the fortunes of the penningtons. that such a treasured relic should have more than normal risks of misfortune can be well understood. mr. roby has mentioned[16] one of its escapes. "the benediction attaching to its security being then uppermost in the recollection of the family, it was considered essential to the prosperity of the house, at the time of the usurpation, that the luck of muncaster should be deposited in a safe place. it was consequently buried till the cessation of hostilities had rendered all further care and concealment unnecessary." the box was allowed to fall when being brought again to the surface, which so scared the owners that they fancied that there would be a sudden end to their prosperity. the fright must have been of long duration, for the story is that forty years elapsed ere one daring member of the family, having seen no ill effects from the fall, had the box opened, and experienced the keen delight of finding the luck uninjured. in the castle are two paintings, one representing the king giving the cup to sir john pennington, and another allowing the king with the luck in his hand. on an old freestone slab in muncaster church is the inscription, "holie kynge harrye gave sir john a brauve workyd glass cuppe ... whyllys the famylie shold keep hit unbrecken thei shold gretelye thrif." "the luck of burrell green," near great salkeld, seems to have passed into the possession of various owners. it is an ancient brass dish of early embossed work, sixteen and a quarter inches in diameter, and one and a half inches deep. mr. j. lamb, formerly of burrell green, read a paper on the subject two or three years ago to the members of the archæological society, and also exhibited the dish. it is circular in form, and at one time appears to have borne two inscriptions, one in large old english letters in an inner circle around its central ornament, and the other in an outer circle, probably in the same style of lettering. neither inscription is now legible, although on close examination certain letters may still be discerned, this being due, no doubt, to the amount of cleaning and rubbing it has undergone during late years. thirty years ago, when greater care was taken of the luck than has since been the case, and the inscription on the inner circle was rather more distinct than it now is, mr. r. m. bailey, a london antiquary, tried to decipher it, and was of opinion that it was in latin, of which the following is a rendering: "hail, mary, mother of jesus, saviour of men." like the two other lucks in cumberland, the luck of burrell green has its legend and couplet. this is that it was given to the family residing there long ago by a "nob i' th' hurst," or by a witch, a soothsayer, to whom kindness had been shown, with the injunction that "if e'er this dish be sold or gi'en farewell the luck of burrell green." the luck has been in the possession of the respective families residing at burrell green for many generations, but its existence has not been brought very much before the public. in 1879 the late mr. jacob thompson, of hackthorpe, made a painting of the luck. mr. lamb added: "apart from the value of the luck as an example of ancient art, it may be said to be still more valuable from the mysterious tradition associated with it, and also as appears very probable from the rendering of the supposed inscription in the sacred use to which in all probability it has at some time been applied. from the style of the inscriptions it appears to be of as early a date as the commencement of the sixteenth century, or probably earlier. on the day burrell green last changed owners the luck fell down three times in succession from its usual position, a circumstance which at that time had not been known to have occurred before, it always having been kept in a secure place." "the luck of levens" is of a kind quite different from the three already mentioned. levens hall has attached to it one of the oldest deer parks in england, and within its borders are some peculiarly dark fallow deer. the local people have come to believe that whenever a white fawn is born in the herd the event portends some change of importance in the house of levens. four such cases have occurred within living memory--when lord templetown came to levens after the crimean war, after general upton's death in 1883, on the day after captain and mrs. bagot's wedding in 1885, and in february, 1896, when mrs. bagot bore to levens a male heir. mr. curwen, in his monograph on the house, mentions the following "to illustrate the superstition that had gathered round the white deer so early as lord templetown's residence at levens, between 1850 and 1860":- "a white buck which had appeared in the herd was ordered to be shot, but the keeper was so horrified with the deed, which he thought to be 'waur ner robbin' a church,' that he actually went so far as to remonstrate with the crimean veteran. persuasion being of no use, he at last refused point blank to do the deed himself, and another man had to do it for him. in a few months great troubles came over the house. in quick succession it changed hands twice; the stewards, servants, and gardeners all lost their places; and the keeper firmly held to the belief that all was due to the shooting of this white deer." some old trading laws and customs. while some of the quaint laws connected with markets and fairs in other parts of the country are unknown in cumberland and westmorland, others not less interesting may be found in these counties. the searcher after such old-time lore may find a good deal of it in the standard histories, but still more in those byways of local literature which are too much neglected. in this chapter no attempt can be made to do more than touch the fringe of the subject. there is in existence in the dean and chapter library at carlisle a monition probably dated towards the end of the fourteenth century addressed to the clergy of the diocese, requiring them to see the constitution of otho strictly carried out--all fairs being banished from churchyards and suspended on sundays and solemn feasts. churchyard fairs were for the emolument of the churches, and were styled by the name of the saint whose example is inculcated by the church's name. the late canon simpson, one of the most eminent antiquaries in the two counties, proved that, in england at least, no church was ever dedicated literally to a saint. fairs, especially "pot fairs," still prevail in church cloisters in germany. meat selling at church doors was common in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, and even so late as the time of charles the second. the only instance of such a thing occurring in cumberland of which there is record now was at wigton. in one of the old local histories appears the following note:--"the rev. thomas warcup, who erected his monument in the churchyard long before his death, was obliged to fly from wigton on account of his loyalty during the civil wars. after the restoration of king charles he returned to the vicarage, and tradition says that the butcher market was then held upon the sunday. the butchers hung up carcases at the church door, to attract the notice of customers as they went in and came out of church, and it was not unusual to see people who made their bargains before prayer began, hang their joints of meat over the backs of the seats, until the pious clergyman had finished the service. the zealous priest, after having long but ineffectually endeavoured to make his congregation sensible of the indecency of such practices, undertook a journey to london on foot, for the purpose of petitioning the king to have the market day established on the tuesday, and which he had interest enough to obtain." warcup became vicar of wigton in 1612, and possibly on the principle that he was the best qualified to write his own epitaph because he knew himself better than was possible for another to know him, he prepared the following, which he had put on a headstone many years before his death:- "thomas warcup prepar'd this stone, to mind him of his best home. little but sin & misery here, till we be carried on our bier. out of the grave & earth's dust, the lord will raise me up i trust; to live with christ eternallie, who, me to save, himself did die." there was a keen rivalry between crosthwaite and cockermouth at the beginning of the fourteenth century. the townsmen sent a petition to parliament in 1306, stating that owing to the sale of corn, flour, beans, flesh, fish, and other kinds of merchandise at crosthwaite church on sundays, their market was declining so fast that the persons who farmed the tolls from the king were unable to pay the rent. an order was soon afterwards issued stopping the sunday trading at crosthwaite. but the fairs and markets in churchyards on week-days were not prohibited by statute for two hundred and eighty years after the cockermothians sought protection. the orders thus issued were not long recognised, but collectors of scraps of local history in all parts of the county have added to the general knowledge on this point. the announcing of sales in churchyards was in the early part of this century a common custom. at crosby ravensworth the clerk hurried from his desk immediately the service was concluded, followed by the congregation, and mounting the steps he announced when a person's sale by auction would take place, and read out any notice given to him, for which service he received a fee of fourpence. the custom has long since become obsolete; old william richardson called the last notice in 1837. it has been asserted, with what amount of truth need not be too closely inquired into, that when this method of advertising public events was forbidden, the attendance of the parishioners at public worship showed a rapid falling-off. the custom of churchyard proclamations prevailed at orton in the early part of the century, and the inscriptions on certain horizontal tombstones have been obliterated by the hob-nails in the clerk's boots. while necessarily there must have been a great diversity in the articles announced in the churches or churchyards as likely to be submitted for public competition, it would be difficult to find a parallel for this paragraph, which appeared in the _pacquet_ for march 8th, 1791:--"a few months ago a person in very good circumstance at no great distance from ravenglass buried his wife. his son, a few days since, also became a widower, and on sunday, 27th ult., a sale of their wearing apparel was published at all the neighbouring parish churches! whether motives of economy suggested the measure, or a wish to remove whatever could remind the disconsolate survivors of their loss, can only be guessed at." among the relics treasured by lord hothfield at appleby castle, is an article reminding the visitor of the days when free trading was unknown. this is the principal corn measure which was used in the market at kirkby stephen more than two hundred years ago; its purpose and record are stated in the raised letters which run around the copper measure a little below the rim:- "the measure of thomas, earle of thanet island, lord tufton, lord clifford, westmorland, and vescy, for the use of his lopps [lordship's] market at kirkby stephen in westmorland, 1685." in the same building are two other corn measures, smaller than the kirkby stephen measure just mentioned. one bears only the word "thanet," and a coronet. the other measure, of different design, with the monogram, "a. p." in raised characters, indicates approximately its age, as it was obviously the property of the countess anne of pembroke. the measures, made of bell metal, formerly in use in sir richard musgrave's manor at kirkoswald, are still carefully preserved by mr. john longrigg, the last steward. how long the proclamation has been read at the st. luke's fair at kirkby stephen is unknown; certainly for a couple of centuries the practice has been observed, and possibly for a much longer period. although some of the terms have now no effect, nor the cautions any value, the proclamation is still made, the following being the terms of a recent one:- "o yes, o yes, o yes, the right honourable henry james baron hothfield, of hothfield, lord lieutenant of the county of westmorland, lord of the manor of skipton in craven, and lord and owner of this fair, doth strictly charge and command in her majesty's name that all persons keep her majesty's peace, and not to presume to ride or go armed during the time of this fair to the disturbance of her majesty's peace, in pain to be punished according to the statute in that case made and provided; and also that all persons bargain and sell lawful and sound goods and merchandise, and pay their due and accustomed tolls and stallages, use lawful weights and measures, upon pain to forfeit the value of their wares and merchandise; and also that buy, sell, or exchange any horse, mare, or gelding, that the sellers and buyers thereof repair to the clerk of the tolls, and there enter their names, surnames, and places of abode of all such persons as shall buy, sell, or exchange any such horse, mare, or gelding, together with the price, marks, and vouchers at their perils; and lastly if any person have any injury or wrong done by reason of any bargain or contract, during the time of this fair, let them give information thereof, and the same shall be tried by a court of pie poudre, according to law. "god save the queen, and the right honourable henry james baron hothfield." needless to say, the court of pie poudre has not sat for many years now. many curious and interesting customs were once connected with the holding of markets and fairs; a few of these survive, though not in the form once known. the practice a little over a century ago at ravenglass, where a fair was held on "the eve, day, and morrow of st. james," has been thus described: "on the first of these days in the morning, the lord's officer, at proclaiming the fair, is attended by the serjeants of the lord of egremont, with the insignia belonging thereto; and all the tenants of the forest of copeland owe a customary service to meet the lord's officer at ravenglass to proclaim the fair, and abide with him during the continuance thereof; and for sustentation of their horses they have two swaiths of grass in the common field of ravenglass in a place set out for that purpose. on the third day at noon, the earl's officer discharges the fair by proclamation; immediately whereupon the penningtons and their tenants take possession of the town, and have races and other divertisements during the remainder of that day." the laws of the old corporations at kendal, carlisle, and appleby, and the guilds and societies at other places, were very stringent, and far surpassed the most exacting rules of the trades unions in our own day. this statement may speedily be verified by a reference to the reprinted kendal "boke of recorde." the "shoddy cloth man" appears to have flourished almost as much three hundred years ago as he does to-day; at any rate he was sufficiently in evidence to cause the corporation to pass a very stringent order in regard to "clothe dightinge." the excuse for the imposition of the regulation was that "sundry great complaints have been made in open court of the insufficient and deceitful dressing and dighting of clothes uttered and sold within the town, as well by the inhabitants as foreigners coming to the same, therefore it is ordered by the alderman and head burgesses of the borough with the full assent of the most part of the fellowship of shearmen now dwelling within the borough, that if any person or persons either now resident in the town or shall hereafter be resident here or in the country adjoining, shall from henceforth have or bring any pieces of cloth to sell or utter within this borough to any person, not being well and sufficiently dight and dressed throughout in all points alike, as well one place as another, in cotton, nop, or frieze as it ought to be; the same being so found by the four sworn men of the same occupation from time to time appointed, shall forfeit and lose for every such piece 2s. 4d., the half thereof to the chamber of this borough, and the other half to the takers of the same." a further order provided that if any piece of cloth was not "well, truly, and sufficiently made in all places alike, and all parts thereof of like stuff as it ought to be, or which shall not be clean washed and clean without blemish left in it, upon the like pain of 2s. 4d., to be forwarded by the maker to those before limited for the first fault, and for every fault then after committed and duly proved, the fine and penalty to be doubled." factory and workshop inspectors, of a sort, were not unknown three hundred years ago. the corporation ordered the appointment of four members of the "company and fellowship of tayllers" to be known as searchers or overseers, having power to have the oversight of all faults, wrongs, and misusages happening or done in the trade. the order did not long remain in force before the corporation decided to repeal them, but two or three years later they were revived by common consent, and ordered to continue during pleasure. in still later times travelling tailors were a brotherhood, and within the last fifty years when on their journeys levied money on the resident fraternity. cordwainers, when the "boke of recorde" was compiled, were only allowed to do certain kinds of work, and were forbidden to "spetche," or patch boots. tailors, too, could not employ any man who might apply for work, there being a very strict law about the employment of freemen in preference to those not free; nor could the shearmen enjoy any greater liberty in their trading operations. one rule ran: "no countryman or person not free shall be permitted to bargain, buy, exchange, trade, sell, or utter within this borough or the precincts hereof, any clothes for outside as a shearman, save only such as be occupiers now of the same trade, or such as shall purchase their freedom, upon pain to lose ten shillings, whereof to the chamber 5s., and company 5s." there was a salutary rule about the selling of meat on sundays: "from henceforth no butcher, or other his servant, or factor shall sell or utter any flesh or other victuals or meat out of any shop or stall within the borough or liberties, or the precincts of the same, or keep any his or their shop or warehouses open or unshut up after the ending of the third peal or bells ringing to morning or evening prayer on any sunday or other festival day, upon pain to lose to the chamber of this borough 12d." the laws against forestalling, regrating, ingrossing, and otherwise interfering with the due course of trade, were very strict in the markets held under manors and also in those otherwise regulated. the practice was, however, not peculiar to cumberland and westmorland. one other rule from kendal may be mentioned as showing the steps taken for preventing skins being hoarded up, until prices became high: "it shall not be lawful for any butcher or other person dwelling out of this borough or the liberties of the same from henceforth to bring into the borough to be sold, either on the market day or in the week-day any sheepskin (except the same skin--having the ears upon it--be cleaving unto the head or carcase of such flesh where upon it did grow) being so brought to be sold, nor that they nor any of them shall sell, or offer, or put to sale, any such skin on any market day so brought to be sold unto the borough before ten o'clock before noon, upon pain to lose and forfeit as much as 2s." the penalty for buying victuals before they arrived at the market was forfeiture, while it was further ordered that "no man or woman shall suffer any corn to be sold or measured in their houses upon pain of 6s. 8d., but that all corn shall be bargained, bought, and measured in open market only." an old native of the borough not long ago assured the writer that when he was a boy, in the old coaching days, the suspicion of "poaching" extended even to the lawyers, for, said he, "at the assizes at appleby the bar had all to enter the borough together, or not before a certain hour, lest one individual might secure more than a fair share of the briefs." market-bells are still rung at various places in the two counties. that in st. andrew's church, penrith, is sounded every tuesday morning at ten o'clock, before which hour business is supposed to be forbidden. the same rule prevails at appleby, where the bell hangs in a campanile over the moot hall. this, of course, is a survival of the days when forestalling was a very serious offence--and properly so. the archives of the corporation of carlisle contain documents bearing on the connection of the bells with trading. mention of the market-bell appears in the bye-laws of 1561, thus: "itm that noe outman shall sell any corn to any fore nor to such tym as the market bell be rounge on payn of forfitor." happily it is not possible to apply to all the saying used with reference to one old market in west cumberland--that "it opens at twelve o'clock and closes at noon," the meaning, of course, being that there is little or no market left. it was recorded by mr. green, the noted artist, that at ambleside the market was crowded by small merchants, "who were called together by the tinkling of a small bell. then all was bustle and animation; joy beamed in every countenance, for all the traffic was for ready money, and every individual lived upon the produce of his labour." old-time home life there is a very great store of gossip and anecdote in existence which might be utilised to illustrate the picturesqueness of old-time life in cumberland and westmorland. whether the lack of sanitary comforts, intellectual facilities, and of opportunities of seeing the world or of knowing of its doings, were counterbalanced by the freedom from care and the quiet humdrum lives, which were led by the majority of the people in the two counties, is an open question. an anecdote told in a book published well-nigh a century since, well illustrates the simplicity of life among lakeland folk generations ago. a foreign physician, eminent in his profession, practiced in the neighbourhood of keswick. he was one day asked by another medical man how he liked his position. "my situation," he replied, "is a very eligible one as a gentleman; i can enjoy every species of country amusement in the greatest perfection; i can hunt, shoot, and fish among a profusion of game of every kind; the neighbouring gentlemen, too, seem to vie with each other in acts of politeness. but as a physician i cannot say that it is so alluring to me, for the natives have got the art of preserving their healths and prolonging their lives without boluses or electuaries, by a plaster taken inwardly, called thick poddish. this preserves them from the various diseases which shake the human fabric, and makes them slide into the grave without pain by the gradual decay of nature." as might be supposed, a people possessing so many primitive habits, and whose lives were so circumscribed, had numerous peculiar contrivances in their homes. some of these have been so long out of use that their purpose has almost passed from memory. before the days of mineral oils, the general means of illumination, both in mansion and cottage, was the rushlight. these candles were made of the pith of rushes, dipped in melted tallow. they were fixed for use in an arrangement known as a "tom candlestick," which in the early years of this century were common objects in every village home. mr. anthony whitehead, in the last edition of his westmorland poems (1896), mentions a curious belief in this connection--that the rushes were not considered fit for use unless pulled at the full moon. a love of finery has seldom been a failing with the residents in the country districts of cumberland and westmorland, and especially was this the case before travel became easy. in the days when at the most the ordinary folk only saw the shops of a town on "term day"--and in a vast number of instances that would only occur on a few occasions in a lifetime--dress was of the most homely and substantial sort. "hodden grey" for the men and correspondingly good wear for the females--most of it home made--were the ordinary fabrics. clogs were worn at one time by all classes, from parson down to the poorest labourer, and even on sundays the wearing of boots or shoes was often an indication of the owner being a person of some local consequence. the housewives had a curious method of preserving the stocking heels, which was probably more efficacious than cleanly. they took care to "smear the heels of the family's new stockings with melted pitch, and dipped them immediately in the ashes of turf. the glutinous mixture incorporated with the woollen, and altogether formed a compound both hard and flexible, which was well adapted to resist the united friction of wood and leather." the utility of clogs for certain purposes is undoubted, but this useful kind of footgear is apparently losing its popularity. there have been plenty of descriptions left--by old-time tourists and home historians--at various periods of the methods of life of the people, and they generally agree that the costumes, especially of the dales-folk, were picturesque. the homespun material was frequently undyed, black and white fleeces being mixed to save the expense of dyeing. this homely material, which is still made in some parts of scotland and ireland, has in recent years been pronounced by fashion to be superior, for country wear, to the most finished products of the steam loom; so that now the most elegant ladies do not disdain to wear dresses of the self-same homespun of which our ancestors made their "kelt coats." these coats were ornamented with brass buttons, as were the waistcoats, which were made open in front for best, in order to show a frilled shirt breast. knee breeches were the fashion for centuries. they were buttoned tight round the body above the haunches, so as to keep up without braces. those used for best had a knot of ribbon and four or five bright buttons at the knee, and those who could afford it, had them made of buckskin. their stockings, which were a conspicuous part of the dress, were also made from their own wool, the colour being generally blue or grey. on their feet they wore clogs on ordinary occasions, but when dressed in holiday costume, they had low shoes fastened with buckles which were sometimes of silver. that picture is a pleasant one; the life in the home was less picturesque. churches and farm houses (especially the bedrooms) had next to no ventilation. the sanitary--or rather insanitary--state of country places was deplorable, and fevers of a very fatal character were common. the records of the desolation wrought by some of them is melancholy. open drains and sewers in immediate proximity to farm houses were very usual. bedrooms very often communicated through the length of a house. this was economy! a passage or corridor was not required. a leading clergyman, not finding a casement which would open in a church where he was officiating, extemporized ventilation by smashing a pane of glass. in the country cottages and farm houses, as well as in many habitations in the towns, the chimneys had no flues, and were funnel-shaped, being very wide at the bottom and gradually contracting to the top, where they had an aperture of the size of an ordinary chimney, through which the smoke escaped. in these open chimneys, hams, legs of beef, flitches of bacon, and whole carcases of mutton were hung to dry for winter consumption. clarke, in his "survey," mentions having seen as many as seven carcases of mutton hanging in one chimney in borrowdale, and was told that some chimneys in the vale contained more. few of these old-fashioned chimneys are now to be found in the country. wheat has never been grown in large quantities in cumberland and westmorland; hence the necessity in former days for oat, rye, or barley bread being the staple foodstuffs. certainly the westmorland oatmeal, which required to pass through many processes, and to be stored with very great care, was the staff of the rural households. it was used in a variety of ways. there was the porridge for breakfast and supper, the thin oatcake serving the main purposes of white bread in these days, and the "crowdy"--an excellent and invigorating species of soup, made by pouring the liquor in which beef was boiling, over oatmeal in a basin. oatmeal also entered into the composition of pie-crusts and gingerbread, like the famous kendal "piggin bottoms"--snaps stamped out of rolled dough by the iron rim which formed the external base of the wooden "piggin" or "biggin," a diminutive wooden tub used as a receptacle for various household requisites. many good houses had either no oven or a very small one, and pies were baked in a huge iron pan covered all round and above the massive lid, too, with burning peats. hence the contents were equally cooked on all sides. the extent to which flesh meat, both fresh and cured, was used two or three centuries ago, must have been much less per individual than is now the case. leaving out of account the cost to the poor--and the mere fact that meat was sold for a very few pence per pound does not necessarily indicate that it was therefore low-priced--there was not a great quantity available. the art of winter fattening of sheep and cattle was unknown, and so artificially preserved meat had to be depended upon after martinmas, or at the best between christmas and spring. one old chronicler wrote:--"the supply of animal food proved inadequate to the demands of the community, for the fat stock, fed in autumn, being killed off by christmas, very little fresh meat appeared in the markets before the ensuing midsummer, except veal. the substantial yeomen, as well as the manufacturers, provided against this inconvenience by curing a quantity of beef at martinmas, the greatest part of which they pickled in brine, and the rest was dried in the smoke. every family boiled a sufficient piece of their salt provisions on sunday morning, and had it hot to dinner, frequently with the addition of an oatmeal pudding. the cold meat came day after day to the table so long as any of it remained, and was as often eaten with oat-bread alone. at the same time a wooden can, full of the briny liquor in which the beef had been cooked, was placed, warm and thickened with a little meal, before each person by way of broth. the stomach was encouraged in the better sort of houses to digest these stubborn materials by a supply of pickled red cabbage, which was prepared for the purpose in october or november. hogs were slaughtered between christmas and candlemas, and converted principally into bacon, which, with dried beef and dried mutton, afforded a change of salt meat in the spring. the fresh provisions of winter consisted of eggs, poultry, geese, and ill-fed veal." in this connection it would be very interesting to know whether the provisions of the will made by thomas williamson on december 14th, 1674, are in any way carried out, or what has become of the charity. he bequeathed the sum of £20 to be laid out in land to be bestowed upon poor people, born within st. john's chapelry, or castlerigg, cumberland, in mutton or veal, at martinmas yearly, when flesh might be thought cheapest, to be by them pickled or hung up and dried, that they might have something to keep them within doors during stormy days. if animal flesh was dear, despite its small cost, there was some compensation in another way. after the salmon season commenced, great quantities of this modern luxury were brought from carlisle and west cumberland, and sold in other markets in the two counties. the price was frequently as low as a penny, and not often higher than twopence per pound, the lack of carriages and roads of a decent character rendering conveyance for long distances anything but an easy task. then the poverty of the people further south offered the owners of the fish no inducements to carry the commodity into lancashire. the abundance and cheapness of salmon seem to have been proverbial. how far the story may be true the writer cannot say, but it is worth while noting that a condition concerning apprentices in some west of england towns, is also recorded as applying to the charity school at kendal. the boys apprenticed from that institution were not to be compelled to dine on salmon, or on fish in general, oftener than three days in the week. much worse was the condition of the labouring folk of the lower class, who are said to have "subsisted chiefly on porridge made of oatmeal or dressed barley, boiled in milk, with the addition of oat-bread, butter, onions, and a little salted meat occasionally." this meagre diet was probably the cause of the agues which were once very common, especially in the country districts. the disorder, to a large extent, disappeared when the culture of vegetables became more general, and salted provisions less essential. up to 1730 potatoes were very sparingly used, and were chiefly grown near kirkby lonsdale. many of the old stories of the curious methods of dealing with tea, before it became a common and indispensable article on the tables of all classes in this country, are obviously either untrue or exaggerated. hence the veracity of the following statements, which appeared in print in westmorland in the first decade of this century, is not vouched for:--"not long after the introduction of potatoes, tea became a favourite beverage with the women, in spite of a steady opposition from the men; perhaps it found its way into the north in form of presents. from the method of preparing this foreign luxury not being generally understood, these presents were sometimes turned to ridiculous uses. one old lady received a pound of tea from her son in london, which she smoked instead of tobacco, and did not hesitate to prefer the weed of virginia to the herb of china. another mother converted a present of the same sort and magnitude into a herb pudding; that is, she boiled the tea with dressed barley, and after straining off the water, buttered the compound, which she endeavoured to render palatable with salt, but in vain, for the bitter taste was not to be subdued." how unfavourably the introduction of tea was regarded, by some writers at any rate, may be gathered from the following paragraph, which appeared in the _pacquet_ of october 23rd, 1792:--"a correspondent says that in the neighbourhood of greystoke, during the late harvest, added to an increase of wages, the female reapers had regularly their tea every afternoon, and the men, toast and ale. how different is this from the beef-steak breakfasts of old! how degenerate is the present age, and how debilitated may the next be!" oat-cake and brown bread are less favoured in the two counties than was formerly the case, a fact which was often deplored by the late bishop of carlisle, dr. goodwin. it is not a little curious that two articles which formed the staple portions of the diet of the people from sixty to a hundred years ago, should now be regarded more in the nature of luxuries. as an example of the sparing way in which "white flour" was used, an old appleby native tells a story concerning what happened at a good hostelry in the borough, sixty years ago, at a time when wheaten flour was very scarce, but butcher meat very plentiful. among other good substantial things on the table was a huge meat pie, at the shilling ordinary. just, however, as the "head of the table" was about to cut the crust, the waiter whispered to him, "please, sir, missis says flour is so dear, ye must run t' knife round t' crust and lift it clean off on to my tray to do another time." from the remains of ancient structures it is still possible to draw good pictures of the way the old inhabitants passed their lives therein. the late dr. m. w. taylor by that means elaborated the story of the daily doings of the people, from lord to vassal, who inhabited yanwath hall. a similar picture has been presented by mr. j. f. curwen in his monograph on levens hall "in the bygone":-"just within would be the raised dais, with its flanking window bay, and the long table, at the higher side of which the lord with his family and any distinguished guests took their meals, whilst on the floor below those of an inferior rank were seated at tables ranging along each side of the room. at the opposite, or western, end, the oaken screens, nine and a half feet high, extended across the full width, dividing off the heck or passage, from which opened out the kitchen, buttery, and other offices, and from over which the musicians in the minstrels' gallery would on all occasions of more than ordinary importance enliven the feast with their melody. this hall was also used for the transaction of business between the lord and his vassals, for here he would hold his royalty court, receiving their suit and service, and administer justice according to the powers granted to him by the crown. at night time the retainers would huddle together on the thickly strewn rushes in the middle of the floor, around the fire and its convolving wreaths of smoke ascending to the open lantern in the roof. for it must be remembered that chimneys were not introduced into england, except to a few castles, until the fifteenth century, about the time when the redemans would be transferring levens to alan bellingham." with chimneys came new taxes, and some of them were not only keenly resented, but evaded as openly as was possible. the people seem to have had a special dislike to the tax of two shillings a year which was passed in the twelfth year of charles the second, for that was a heavy sum, having regard to the value of money then. among the manuscripts preserved at rydal hall, westmorland, by the le flemings, are a great many references to this tax. there were schemes for substituting other imposts, as appears by a sentence contained in a letter (may 10th, 1669) by daniel fleming, rydal, to joseph williamson, who had just purchased the estate of winderwath, near temple sowerby:--"there are rumours one while that the scots are up in armes, another while that bishops and dean and chapter lands will be sold, or annext to the crowne in the place of the excise and hearth money, and bishops to be maintained by sallaries out of the exchequer." another document is from the lords commissioners to the justices of the peace in the barony of kendal, concerning the collection of the hearth tax, and an item in a news-letter of april, 1671, says, "this day the lord treasurer received proposals for the farm of the hearth money; those who propose to keep it as it was, advancing only £100,000, are to make a new offer." during the following summer another came "from the court at whitehall" to the justices of the peace for westmorland, "cautioning them against allowing exemptions from hearth money too readily. they should consider firstly who are they whom the law intends to be exempted. then they should appoint petty sessions for the signing of certificates at such times and places that the royal officers may attend and be heard. it cannot be supposed that the law intends to oblige the justices to allow whatsoever shall be offered them without examining the truth thereof." a news-letter of april 23rd, 1674, gives an idea of the extent of the tax in the following sentence:--"this day the farm of the hearth money was made and let to mr. anslem, mr. perry, and mr. buckley, at £151,000 per annum, and £25,000 advance, commencing at michaelmas next." some of the entries are of special interest to cumberland and westmorland. thus in a letter to daniel fleming on january 8th, 1674-5, robert joplin, writing from kendal, "apologises for writing as he had not been able to wait upon him. has been seven weeks in the country, and surveyed and taken account of all the hearths in most of the market towns of this county, and in cumberland. had always behaved with all civility. if he will have the duplicates of the surveys made they will be handed in at the next sessions." a week later robert joplin and richard bell, the collectors of the hearth tax, report to the justices of kendal: "have surveyed most of the market towns in the two counties, levying the tax of 2s. on every fire hearth. would not proceed to distrain without the justices' permission. some refuse to pay because they were not charged before. all kitchens and beerhouses refuse on the same pretence. many hearths have been made up, most of them lately. we trust that the justices will be very careful in giving certificates." a few days afterwards nathaniel johnson, another collector of the tax, writes from newcastle to daniel fleming that he "does not think the determination of the justices to proceed in the matter of the hearth money under the old survey, until the new is perfected, is consistent with the law; nevertheless he will yield to their opinion." johnson proves to be a difficult official with whom to deal, and he writes to fleming in july, "remonstrating against the conduct of the kendal magistrates in the matter of the hearth money. it has been already decided that smiths' hearths are liable. the practice of walling up hearths in a temporary manner is plainly fraudulent. the magistrates ought not to countenance such things, nor refuse the evidence of officials engaged in this business, for of course none other can be made. may reluctantly be compelled to appeal against their proceedings." these and similar protests did not appear to have much effect, though frequently repeated, and ten years later came an order from the lord high treasurer to the clerk of the peace of the county of lancaster, to be communicated to the justices, in view of the difficulties raised by them in the collection of the hearth money: "the duty is to be levied on empty houses, smiths' forges, innkeepers' and bakers' ovens, on landlords for tenements let to persons exempt on account of poverty, on private persons where there is a hearth and oven in one chimney. the duty may be levied on the goods of landlords and tenants which are not on the premises whereon the duty arises." there is a rather amusing reference to the subject in a letter sent by william fleming to his brother roger fleming, at coniston hall: "tell the constable the same hearth man is coming again. tell him to be as kind as his conscience will permit to his neighbours, and play the fool no more. the priest and he doth not know how happy they are." the means available, in bygone days, for quenching fire were, everywhere in the two counties, of a most primitive character. in march, 1657, the corporation of kendal decreed, as there had "happened of late within this borough great loss and damage by fire," and the corporation had not fit instruments and materials for speedy subduing of the flames, that the mayor and alderman should each provide two leathern buckets, and each burgess one such bucket, before may 1st following, the penalty being a fine of 6s. 8d. in the case of the leading men, and half that amount for default on the part of others. sports and festivities. it is almost impossible to separate the sports of the cumberland and westmorland people from the festivals, inasmuch as some of the pastimes were prominent items in gatherings even of a semi-religious character. wrestling, that finest of north-country exercises, has been practically killed by the competition of other athletic games, but more than all by the "barneying" so often practised by the wrestlers. to this cause must be ascribed the fall of the "mother ring" at carlisle, and the disfavour into which the sport has dropped in all parts of the two counties, albeit the grasmere exhibitions are still kept up to a fair standard of honesty. for centuries it was the greatest amusement of fellsider, dalesman, and town dweller, and it was no uncommon thing for men to walk, in the pre-railway days, twenty miles to a wrestling meeting. pure love of sport must have been the motive, because the prize usually consisted only of a belt of the value of from ten shillings to a sovereign--often much less--and a small sum of money which would now be looked at with contempt even when offered by way of "expenses." the men whose prowess gained them more than local fame were often almost perfect specimens of what athletes should be at their respective weights, and their skill cannot be approached by any of the medium and light weights now in the ring. for several other reasons the sport is entitled--unfortunately so--to be classed among things belonging to the bygone, and to the next generation wrestling, as understood at the melmerby and langwathby rounds fifty years ago, will be unknown. clergymen have often been included among the best wrestlers of their time, especially in west cumberland, though some who as young men were noted for their prowess in this direction gave up this sport when they took holy orders. william litt, whose name will always have a place in local sporting annals through his book, "wrestliana," was intended for the church. his tastes were so obviously in other directions that the plan had to be abandoned, and he developed into one of the finest wrestlers of his time. the rev. g. wilkinson, vicar of arlecdon, and the rev. o. littleton, vicar of buttermere, were also ardent followers of the sport; while the rev. a. brown, egremont, and the inventor of the "chip" known as buttocking, was described as one of the best exponents of the old game to be found in the north of england. a sporting custom peculiar to the two counties--for the nobleman most concerned has immense possessions in each--is the race for the burgh barony cup. the meeting has been well described as "a singular old-world institution, one of a number of antiquated customs mixed up with the land laws." the races are held to celebrate the "reign" of a new lord lonsdale, consequently no earl ever sees more than one--at least when he is the head of the family. the last meeting on burgh marsh was in march, 1883, when the arrangements were on a royal scale, thousands of persons being present, an enormous number of them as the guests of his lordship. wrestling formed an important part of the proceedings during the two days, but the central item was the race for the cup. the competitors were confined to animals owned by free or customary tenants within the barony, and the winner of the hundred guineas trophy was greeted with frantic cheering. carlisle possesses a unique racing relic. the "horse courses" were formerly held on kingmoor, and the "carlisle bells" were doubtless prized as much in their day as the stakes for £10,000 are now. the articles frequently figure in the municipal records as the horse and nage bells, and were for a long time lost, being ultimately found in an old box in the town clerk's office. mr. llewellyn jewitt, f.s.a., some twenty years ago gave this description of the relics: "the racing bells are globular in form, with slits at the bottom, as is usual in bells of that class. the loose ball which would originally lie in the inside, so as to produce the sound, has disappeared. the largest, which is two and a quarter inches in diameter, is of silver gilt, and bears on a band round its centre the inscription [each word being separated by a cross]: + the + sweftes + horse + thes + bel + to + tak + for + mi + lade + daker + sake this lady was probably elizabeth, daughter of george talbot, fourth earl of shrewsbury, and wife of william, lord dacre of gilsland, who was governor of carlisle in the reign of queen elizabeth. the other bell, also of silver, is smaller in size, and bears the initials h.b.m.c. (henry baines, mayor of carlisle), 1559. on shrove tuesday kingmoor became a busy scene, and the contests created much excitement among the freemen and others. the bell was not an uncommon prize, either in horse-racing or cock-fighting, and was held by the victor, as challenge cups and shields are at the present day, from one year to another, or from one race to another. to win this race was of course a mark of honour, and gave rise to the popular expression of 'to bear away the bell.' at york the racing prize in 1607 was a small golden bell, and the corporation records of chester about 1600 show that in that city a silver bell was given to be raced for on the roodee; but i am not aware that any of them are now in existence. probably the carlisle examples are unique." [illustration: carlisle racing bells.] there are many other evidences that racing has for several centuries been a favourite pastime with the people of cumberland and westmorland. the race meetings seem to have been made occasions for county gatherings of other kinds, and especially for cock-fights--a sport which has not yet entirely died out. the following advertisement of penrith races in 1769, which appeared in the _st. james's chronicle_ for that year, may be quoted as an example of many others, relating not only to penrith but to other towns in the two counties:- _penrith races, 1769._ to be run for, on wednesday, the 24th of may, 1769, on the new race ground at penrith, cumberland. fifty pounds, by any four years old horse, mare, or gelding, carrying 8st. 7lb. two-mile heats. on thursday, the 25th, fifty pounds, by any horse, &c., five years old, carrying 9st. three-mile heats. on friday, the 26th, fifty pounds, by any five, six years old, and aged horse, &c. five-year olds to carry 8st. 3lb. six-year olds 9st., and aged 9st 8lb. four-mile heats. all horses, etc., that run for the above plates, to be entered at the market cross on saturday, the 20th day of may, between the hours of three and six o'clock in the afternoon. the owner of each horse, &c., to subscribe and pay three guineas at the time of enterance towards the races, and two shillings and six-pence for the clerk of the race. certificates of each horse, &c., to be produced at the time of enterance. three reputed running horses, &c., to enter and start for each of the above plates, or no race. if only one horse, &c., enters, to receive ten pounds, if two fifteen between them, and their subscription paid at the time of enterance returned. all the above plates to be run for in the royal manner, and any dispute that may arise to be determined by the stewards, or whom they shall appoint. the several plates will be paid without any deduction or perquisite. {charles howard, jun., esq. stewards.{ {andrew whelpdale, esq. [pointing hand] a cock main, ordinaries, and assemblies, as usual. not less interesting than the foregoing announcement is the report of the event. there was never much attempt at descriptions, either of races or cock-fights, though one would like to know the names of the gentlemen indicated in this closing paragraph of the report: "at this meeting a main of cocks was fought between the gentlemen of cumberland, david smith, feeder, and the gentlemen of westmoreland, thomas bownas, feeder, which consisted of 21 battles, 16 whereof were won by the former, and 5 by the latter; and of the 15 bye-battles smith won 6, and bownas 9." dalston was long the headquarters of cock-fighting in cumberland--"dalston black-reeds" are still spoken of as the best birds of the kind in the world. there is a tradition to the effect that cock-fighting was once carried on at rose castle, in the parish of dalston, but the rev. j. wilson[17] took particular pains to disprove the assertion. against that must be put the following sentence which appeared in _good words_ for december, 1894: "one curious adjunct to an episcopal residence, speaking loudly of the change of manners and the amelioration of tastes, is the cock-pit, where matches are said to have been at one time fought for the amusement of the bishop and his friends." the favourite day for cock-fights was shrove tuesday. cock-fighting was far from being the only barbarous sport enjoyed by the people of the northern counties. bull-baiting and badger-baiting were probably never more popular than at the time when they were prohibited by law in 1835. there is still the bull ring at appleby, and the spectators' gallery was removed within living memory. at kirkoswald and several other market-places in the two counties the rings are still firmly fixed to which the bulls were tethered during the baiting process. mr. w. wilson, in his brochure on "old social life in cumberland," says: "in keswick a large iron ring was formerly fixed in a stone block in the market-place; this was called the bull ring, and to this a bull, previous to being slaughtered, was fastened by the ring in its nose, and then baited and bitten by savage dogs amid dreadful bellowing till the poor beast was almost covered with foam, and quite exhausted. great excitement prevailed when a bull was being baited, and large numbers assembled to witness the sport. on such occasions the market-place at keswick was crowded, and many in order to obtain a good view, might be seen sitting on the roofs of the adjoining houses. beyond the excitement which the exhibition produced among the spectators, the system was thought to be of great value in improving the quality of the beef, an aged bull being especially tough unless well baited before slaughtering. when the flesh of a bull was exposed for sale, it was the rule in keswick and probably elsewhere, to burn candles during the day on the stall on which the meat was exposed for sale, in order that customers might be aware of the quality of the meat sold there." in some other places in the two counties the penalty for killing and selling an unbaited bull was 6s. 8d. for a very long period archery was practised in cumberland and westmorland not only as a means of defence and attack, but also as a recreation. the numerous places called "butts," or bearing synonymous names, indicate that few towns neglected to set apart a shooting ground. in his "survey of the lakes" clarke blamed the severity of the game laws for keeping up skill in archery amongst the poachers in the forests of the north-western counties. he added: "it was this that produced so many noted archers and outlaws in the forest of englewood as well as that of sherwood. for not to mention adam bell and his partners, tradition still preserves the names of watty of croglin, woodhead andrew, robin o'th'moor's gruff elleck (alexander), and of several others as of persons distinguished in that line even amongst the people who were almost to a man of the same stamp. besides, as their squabbles and the subsequent maraudings made the skill thus acquired at times absolutely necessary to the inhabitants on each side of the boundary, we may easily conclude that a necessity of this kind, continually kept alive, must produce no small degree of dexterity. "whoever will consider the circumstances of the battles which were then fought, will find that wherever the ground or circumstances favoured the archer for a number of regular discharges, they generally produced such a confusion, particularly amongst the enemy's horse, as gave the men-at-arms of their own party an opportunity of easily completing it. i need cite no further particulars of this than the battle of homildon, when the forces of the northern marches encountered the gallant archibald, earl of douglas; the men-at-arms stood still that day, and the bowmen had the whole business upon their hands. it is recorded that no armour could resist their arrows, though that of earl douglas and his associates had been three years in making. it would seem, indeed, that the scots excelled in the use of the spear, and (excepting the borderers) neglecting the bow; since one of their own kings is thought to have recommended its more general use by ridiculing their imperfect management of it." the kendal bowmen celebrated the prowess of their fore-elders of the same name by establishing a competition and festival for september 9th in each year. it was on that day in 1513 that the kendal bowmen were particularly distinguished in the battle of flodden field. the prizes shot for every year were a silver arrow and a medal, the members appearing in a uniform of green, with arrow buttons; the cape green velvet with silver arrow; the waistcoat and breeches buff, and the shooting jacket was of green and white striped cotton. whitehaven also had its society of archers, and in 1790 had a medal designed by smirke as a trophy for competition. on one side were the bugle-horn, quiver, and bow, above them being the words, "per has victoriam," and underneath the three place-names, "poictiers," "cressy," and "agincourt." on the reverse was the name of the shooting ground, parton green, and the date, while round the edge were the words, "captain's medal, cumberland archers." the kendal "boke of recorde" contains several references to the pastimes of westmerians from two to three centuries ago. on one occasion it was ordered by the corporation "that whosoever do play at the football in the street and break any windows, shall forfeit upon view thereof by the mayor or one of the aldermen in the ward where the fault is committed the sum of 12d. for every time every party, and 3s. 4d. for every window by the same broken, and to be committed till it be paid, the constable looke to it to present it presently at every court day." that knur and spell, the game so popular still in yorkshire, was once a favourite pastime in kendal is attested by the following entry, dated april, 1657: "it is ordered by the court that all such persons, inhabitants within this borough, above the age of twelve years, that hereafter shall play in the streets at a game commonly called kattstick and bullvett shall forfeit and incur the penalty of 12d. for every offence, to be levied of their goods, and where they have no goods to be imprisoned two hours." the somewhat questionable glories of workington easter football play have passed away, partly in consequence of the occupation of a portion of the playing ground by railways and works, and not less because of a change of feeling. how long these easter tuesday matches between "uppies" and "downeys" have gone on no man can tell. half a century ago it was reported in the _pacquet_ that the game in 1849 "was played with all the vigour of former days, from times beyond 'the memory of the oldest inhabitant.'" the goals are about a mile apart, one being a capstan at the harbour, and the other the park wall of workingham hall. there are no rules except those suggested by cunning and skill, while brute force is of the greatest importance. if the ball is "haled" over the park wall a sovereign is given by the owner of the estate to the winners, and of course it is spent in liquor. the players sometimes number hundreds, and thousands of people attend as spectators. in several places in the two counties "mock mayors" were annually elected, and the occasion at wreay was marked by somewhat uncommon festivities. the rev. a. r. hall, vicar of the parish, in a lecture delivered some time ago, gave an account of these shrovetide observances, which made the village famous in its way. up to 1790 the chief feature was a great cock-fight, managed by the boys at school. a hunt of harriers subsequently took the place of the cock-fight, this being followed by a public dinner, and the election of the mayor. sometimes this functionary belonged to wreay, and sometimes came from carlisle; in the latter case, those who wished to keep up the due dignity of the office chartered a coach-and-four for the accommodation of their friends. racing and jumping were features in the sports, the prizes for which were hats. the old silver bell used to ornament the mayor's wand of office. in 1872, unfortunately, the bell was stolen, and wreay lost this relic, which had been connected for 217 years with its shrovetide festivities. in 1880 the hunt and the election of mayor both came to an end. befitting its importance in the calendar, christmas seems to have always held the first place in popularity among the holidays and festivals of the year. in the summer season whitsuntide--which marks the end of one term of farm service--was the most popular. at christmas "the treat circulated from house to house, and every table was decorated in succession with a profusion of dishes, including all the pies and puddings then in use. ale possets also constituted a favourite part of the festive suppers, and were given to strangers for breakfast before the introduction of tea. they were served in bowls, called doublers, into which the company dipped their spoons promiscuously; for the simplicity of the times had not yet seen the necessity of accommodating each guest with a basin or soup plate. the posset cup shone as an article of finery in the better sort of houses; it consisted of pewter, and was furnished with two, three, or more lateral pipes, through which the liquid part of the compound might be sucked by those who did not choose the bread. this plentiful repast was moistened with a copious supply of malt liquor, which the guests drank out of horns and the wooden cans already mentioned. the aged sat down to cards and conversation for the better part of the night, while the young men amused the company with exhibitions of maskers, amongst whom the clown was the conspicuous character; or parties of rapier-dancers displayed their dexterity in the sportive use of the small-sword. in the meantime the youth of both sexes romped and gambolled promiscuously, or sat down not unfrequently to hunt the rolling-pin." the gowrie plot is brought to mind by a record in the greystoke books that is unusually quaint in its style: "1603, august, ffrydaye the v{th} day was comnded for to be keapt holy daye yearely from cessation of laybour w{th} gyvinge of thanks for the kyngs most excelent matye for his ma{tyes} p'servation and deliverance from the crewell conspiracie practized against his mat{ies} pson in scotland that v{th} daye of august, 1600." three years sufficed for this celebration; then gunpowder plot came in for notice, as is seen from an item dated november 5th, 1606: "the sayde daye was kenges holy day, and one sermon by m{r} pson the xi isaie 2 verse." the chronicler followed this registration of his text by a list of the names of the chief people in the parish who attended the service. the shearing days used to be high festivals on the fells and in the dales of both counties. now the gatherings have been deprived of some of their most characteristic features; and even the chairing is almost forgotten. richardson's chapter on "auld fashint clippins and sec like," in "stwories at ganny uset to tell," relates how the chairing used to be done. the song, once an indispensable item in the programme, may now and again be heard, lustily shouted by the dalesmen. after declaring that "the shepherd's health--it shall go round," the chorus continues: "heigh o! heigh o! heigh o! and he that doth this health deny, before his face i him defy. he's fit for no good company, so let this health go round." the coronation of a monarch was invariably made the occasion for merry-making by the consumption of much ale by the common folk, especially by bell-ringers and others who could have the score discharged by the churchwardens. there is such an entry in the crosthwaite books relating to the coronation of george the first. in 1821, november 5th, there was "spent in ale at nicholas graves 5s." this worthy who was parish clerk at crosthwaite for fifty-six years, was also the owner of a public-house in the town, and among his other qualifications was that of being will-maker for many of the inhabitants. at penrith, kendal, carlisle, and many other places the church bells were set ringing, bonfires lighted, and ale barrels tapped--usually at the expense of the churchwardens--on very small provocation. among other festivals now no longer observed, and probably forgotten, was that known as brough holly night. in a little pamphlet published between thirty and forty years ago the following note on the subject was printed, but the writer has been unable to ascertain when the custom was last seen in the old westmorland town: "on twelfth night, at brough, the very ancient custom of carrying the holly-tree through the town is observed. there are two or three inns in the town which provide for the ceremony alternately, though the townspeople lend a hand to prepare the tree, to every branch of which a torch composed of greased rushes is affixed. about eight o'clock in the evening the tree is taken to a convenient part of the town, where the torches are lighted, the town band accompanying and playing till all is completed, when it is carried up and down the town, preceded by the band and the crowd who have now formed in procession. many of the inhabitants carry lighted branches and flambeaus, and rockets, squibs, etc., are discharged on the occasion. after the tree has been thus paraded, and the torches are nearly burnt out, it is taken to the middle of the town, where, amidst the cheers and shouts of the multitude, it is thrown among them. then begins a scene of noise and confusion, for the crowd, watching the opportunity, rush in and cling to the branches, the contention being to bear it to the rival inns, 'sides' having been formed for that purpose; the reward being an ample allowance of ale, etc., to the successful competitors. the landlord derives his benefit from the numbers the victory attracts, and a fiddler being all ready, a merry night, as it is called here, is got up, the lads and lasses dancing away till morning." there were once many wells and springs in the two counties which were held in more than common regard by the inhabitants, and corresponded to the holy wells of other districts. between sixty and seventy years ago this was written of a custom once common at skirsgill, about a mile from penrith: "upon the sloping lawn is a remarkably fine spring; its water is pure and sparkling, and was formerly held in such veneration that the peasantry resorted to it, and held an annual fair round its margin. in descending a flight of stone steps, you perceive inside a drinking cup, and over the door-top, neatly cut in stone, the form of a water jug." cumberland is said to have had nearly thirty holy wells, and of one of these mr. hope tells us[18] that "the holy well near dalston, cumberland, was the scene of religious rites on stipulated occasions, usually sundays. the villagers assembled and sought out the good spirit of the well, who was 'supposed to teach its votaries the virtues of temperance, health, cleanliness, simplicity, and love.'" the various well festivals in the penrith district have all passed away, as has a once popular gathering of another kind, known as giant's cave sunday. the assemblies were at "the hoary caves of eamont," about three miles from penrith, and the late rev. b. porteus, then vicar of edenhall, wrote of them nearly forty years ago: "the picnics are of frequent occurrence at this picturesque and romantic spot; and have been occasionally patronised by special culinary demonstrations by the hospitable proprietor of the estate. giant's cave sunday is still observed, but the custom has dwindled into insignificance, the 'shaking bottles' carried by the children at that season being the only remains of what it has been. but it affords a pleasant walk to the people of penrith, as it has probably done since the time when the caves were the residence of a holy man." among the festivities now to be numbered among bygone things must be mentioned the levens radish feast, which had much more than a local fame. in the time of colonel grahme there was great rivalry between the houses of dallam tower and levens. the former once invited every person who attended milnthorpe fair to partake of the good cheer provided in the park, a piece of hospitality which irritated the colonel very much. as a consequence, the following year when the mayor and corporation of kendal went to proclaim the fair, he took them to levens, and provided such a royal entertainment that the civic fathers gladly accepted the invitation for succeeding years. the fair sex were rigidly excluded. long tables were placed on the bowling green, and spread with oat bread, butter, radishes, and "morocco," a kind of strong beer, for which the hall was famed. after the feast came the "colting" of new visitors, and various amusements that are better to read about than witness. [illustration: levens hall.--_front view._] on the road. few parts of england could have been so inaccessible as were cumberland and westmorland prior to the middle of the last century. roads were scarce, unless the dignity of the name be given to the rough tracks which served for the passage of pack-horses, and even these did not reach a great number, having regard to the area which they served. there was little to call the people away from home, to london and other great centres of industry. the journey from the north to the metropolis was such a great undertaking that men who had any possessions to leave behind them almost invariably made their wills before starting out. the richer sort, of course, rode their horses, and an interesting account of the journey was left by henry curwen, of workington hall, as to his trip to london in 1726. the most accessible route was very roundabout--by penrith, stainmore, barnard castle, york, and so through the eastern counties. this journey on horseback occupied thirteen days, including four which were utilised for visiting friends on the way. the roads he described as being very bad, and a ride of thirty-two miles he declared to be equal to fifty measured miles. people with fewer guineas to spare had of necessity to walk. "manufacturers made their wills, and settled their worldly affairs, before taking a long journey, and many of them travelled on foot to london and other places, to sell their goods, which were conveyed on the backs of pack-horses."[19] even more recently pedestrian excursions from mid cumberland to london have been undertaken; there was the well-known case of mally messenger, who died in august, 1856, at the age of ninety-three years. several times before she attained middle age mally walked to london and back to keswick, a distance of 286 miles in each direction. on one occasion she was passed by a keswick man on horseback, who by way of a parting message remarked, "good-day, mally; i'll tell them in keswick you're coming." the pedestrian, however, was the better traveller, for she often used to boast afterwards that she reached keswick first. when old-time bamptonians wanted to see the metropolis they could not go to shap or penrith and thence be carried by excursions for considerably under a sovereign. this is how the vicar went on foot in 1697, as recorded in the parish registers: "feb. the 7 did mr. knott set forward for london, got to barking to mr. blamyres, friday, march the fourth, to london march the seaventh, remained there 8 weekes and 2 dayes, came out may the 5, 1698, gott to bampton grainge, may the 20, at night." even apart from the perils which beset travellers during the times of the border forays, there were many things which must have restrained the average cumbrian and westmerian from wandering far abroad. to those who were obliged to walk or ride far, the old hospitals must have been very welcome institutions. one of these, of which all traces have long been lost, was the hospital on the desolate and remote fells of caldbeck. "out of westmorland and the east parts of cumberland there lying an highway through caldbeck into the west of cumberland, it was anciently very dangerous for passengers to travel through it, who were often robbed by thieves that haunted those woody parts and mountains. thereupon ranulph engain, the chief forester of englewood, granted licence to the prior of carlisle to build an hospital for the relief of distressed travellers who might happen to be troubled by those thieves, or prejudiced by the snows or storms in winter." the prior made the enclosure, and doubtless the hospice was a boon to many a wayfarer; the population increased, a church was established, and in the time of king john, the hospital being dissolved, the property of the secular institution was handed over to the church, and to this day the manor is known as kirkland. the need for former protection of the kind is still preserved in a landmark in the parish, "the hawk," or as the local pronunciation has it, "howk." this grotto was a noted meeting-place for thieves. even the king's judges were not exempted from the perils of the road. hutchinson's description of brampton says that "the judges, with the whole body of barristers, attorneys, clerks, and serving men, rode on horseback from newcastle to carlisle, armed and escorted by a strong guard under the command of the sheriffs. it was necessary to carry provisions, for the country was a wilderness which afforded no supplies. the spot where the cavalcade halted to dine, under an immense oak, is not yet forgotten. the irregular vigour with which criminal justice was administered shocked observers whose lives had been passed in more tranquil districts. juries, animated by hatred, and by a sense of common danger, convicted house-breakers and cattle-stealers with the promptitude of a court-martial in a mutiny; and convicts were hurried by scores to the gallows." even taxes did not, it is to be feared, prevent some of the cumbrians occasionally throwing in their lot with, or assisting, the vagabonds who were the cause of all the trouble. "it was often found impossible to track the robbers to their retreats among the hills and morasses, for the geography of that wild country was very imperfectly known. even after the accession of george the third, the path over the fells from borrowdale to ravenglass was still a secret carefully kept by the dalesman, some of whom had probably in their youth escaped from justice by the road." such is the record which may be gathered from gray's "journal of a tour in the lakes" in 1769. coach travelling was an expensive luxury, and those who undertook the journeys between london and the north did not do so solely for pleasure. from an advertisement, nearly a column in length, which appeared in the london _star_ at the end of 1795 the following is taken:- saracen's head inn. snow-hill, london. safe, easy, and expeditious travelling. with every accommodation that can lessen the fatigue, or add to the pleasure of the journey, to most parts of england and the principal towns in scotland, by the following new and elegant coaches: carlisle and penrith rapid post coach, goes with four horses, and a guard all the way, passes through brough, appleby, gretabridge, richmond, catterick, boroughbridge, wetherby, alberford, doncaster, and grantham (the nearest way by 18 miles) sets out every morning, and performs the journey with the greatest ease and convenience. passengers desirous to stop on the road, have the advantage of their seats being secured in the next coach (with only six coachmen). william mountain and co. respectfully acquaint their friends and the public that, still emulous to deserve as well as preserve their invaluable esteem, they have provided lamps and guards, that travel throughout with all the above coaches. n.b. the proprietors of the above coaches from the above inn, will not be accountable for any parcel, luggage, goods, &c., of more value than five pounds (if lost) unless entered as such and paid for accordingly. an earlier advertisement which appeared in the cumberland newspapers of 1775 shows that the journey to london was done in three days, at a cost of £3 10s. per passenger. the notice ran:- "carlisle post coach.--in three days for london.--sets out from the bush inn, carlisle, every sunday evening, at seven o'clock precisely, by way of burrowbridge, being well known to the public to be the nearest and best road to london (and is also calculated for more ease and satisfaction to the passengers than any other coach). it also sets out from the bell and crown, holborn, every wednesday evening, at eight o'clock. each inside passenger from carlisle to london to pay £3 10s. from the george inn, penrith, £3 7s. 6d., and threepence per mile for all passengers taken up on the road. each passenger to be allowed 14lb. luggage; all above to pay 4d. per pound; small parcels at 3s. each.... performed by j. garthwaite and co." locomotion was still more difficult and costly in the early part of the seventeenth century. in the household books of naworth, extending from 1612 to 1640, are found such significant entries as the following:--"march 22, 1626. hewing a way for the coach beyond gelt bridge, 2s. 3d." on one occasion, sir francis howard, being sick, hired a coach for his journey from london to bowes, which cost £18. lord william howard's journeys to london were always taken on horseback, and he was generally ten or twelve days on the road, the travelling expenses varying, according to the number of his retinue and the direction of the route taken. a journey by way of shiffnal and lydney occupied eleven days, and cost £30 7s. 1d.; whilst the expenses of another, from thornthwaite to london with twenty-four men and twelve horses in his train, came to £20 15s. 4d. in addition to the coaches, people often travelled by what were termed "expeditious wagons," which carried goods. one notice dated november 24th, 1790, concerning these vehicles may be quoted:- "in ten days from carlisle to london, and the same in return by way of york every week. messrs. handleys respectfully inform their friends and the public in general that they have erected stage waggons which leave carlisle early on tuesday morning and arrive at york on thursday night, and leeds on saturday morning (where goods for all parts in the south are regularly forwarded by the respective carriers), arrive at the white bear, bassinghall street, on friday night, and set out every monday morning, and arrive at and leave york on tuesday morning, bedal, richmond, barnard castle, burgh, appleby, penrith, and arrive at carlisle on friday evening, where goods are immediately forwarded to wigton, cockermouth, workington, whitehaven, and any other place in cumberland; also to annan, dumfries, glasgow, edinburgh, aberdeen, and all other principal towns in scotland. they hope by their attention to business to merit the favours of all those who please to employ them. n.b.--their waggon leaves sheffield on saturday, and leeds on monday. for further particulars apply to robert wilson, book-keeper, or j. birkett, innkeeper, carlisle." a writer in 1812, on the manners and customs of the people of westmorland during the preceding century, stated that wheel carriages were very little used for private intercourse or trade; for persons of both sexes made short journeys on horseback, the women being commonly seated on pillions behind the men. very few made long excursions from home, except the manufacturers of kendal, many of whom travelled on foot in quest of orders for their worsted stockings and linsey-woolsey. carriers did not employ wagons, but drove gangs of pack-horses, each gang being preceded by a bell-horse, and the owners reckoned a young woman equivalent to half a pack in loading their beasts of burden. the predilection for transporting all kinds of commodities on horseback was so general, that the fuel consumed in kendal came to the town in this manner. coals were brought in sacks upon galloways from ingleton, and the turf or peat was conveyed from the mosses in halts. these were a pair of strong wicker hampers, which were joined by a pack-saddle, and hung across a horse's back. they were put to various uses in husbandry, which offices are now performed by carts. halts gave way to carts in the progress of general improvement. these vehicles were ill-contrived, particularly the wheels, which consisted of two circular boards fixed without spokes immovably to the ends of a cylinderical axle. the injudicious nature of the construction required the axle itself to revolve beneath the cart, where it was kept in its place by two pairs of parallel wooden pins, that projected downward from the frame of the bottom. a question concerning these old "tummel wheel'd cars" was asked in the _carlisle journal_ a few months ago, and a correspondent supplied this answer:--"i have seen at least two of these old-time machines of locomotion. they had then been many years out of use. i speak now of a date say 58 years gone past. one of them was stored in an open shed in the farmyard of its venerable owner--the other had less respect shown to its remains, for it stood in a neglected and unsheltered corner. of course, i never saw either of them in use. the wheels were funny, not to say clumsy, looking affairs. without spokes or felloes, they consisted of three segment-shaped blocks of wood, fastened together rudely but strongly with 'dowels' of the same material, so as to form a circle. the wheels again were similarly fastened to the axle, and the whole revolved in one solid mass. the harness consisted mostly of ropes or girthing with loops at the ends, and having cleets like the modern 'coo-tee' to hold them in position. very little leather was used, and but few buckles. here is mr. dickinson's description, 'in old times the horse was yoked to the cart by a rope from the shoulders, and an iron ring sliding on the shaft held by a pin. this was hammerband yoking. the tummel wheelers referred to were seen by me in the lake district (ullswater) in the early forties.'" before turnpike roads were made, or wagons came into use, the merchandise of kendal was transported by the following pack-horses:- one gang of pack-horses to and from london every week, of about 20 one gang from wigan weekly, about 18 one gang from whitehaven, about 20 from cockermouth 15 two gangs from barnard castle 26 two gangs from penrith twice a week, about 15 each 60 one gang from settle twice a week, about 15 each 30 from york weekly, about 10 from ulverston 5 from hawkeshead twice a week, about 6 12 from appleby twice a week, about 6 12 from cartmel 6 carriages three or four times a week to and from milnthorpe, computed at 40 horse load 40 from sedbergh, kirkby lonsdale, orton, dent, and other neighbouring villages, about 20 --- total 294 besides 24 every six weeks for glasgow. less than sixty years ago the pillion was in constant use in the two counties, and only the well-to-do yeomen thought of taking their wives and daughters frequently to market in the "shandry cart." it is only a quarter of a century since the old pack-horses ceased to traverse some parts of westmorland and its borders. mr. h. speight, in one of his books,[20] deals with a state of things which existed, not only in the hawes district, but considerably northward of that place. handloom weaving was an old local industry, and when a sufficient number of pieces were ready, they were gathered up and conveyed by teams of pack-horses over the mountains to the various west riding towns. discharging their loads they would return laden with warp, weft, size, and other articles. when the traffic ceased, hundreds of these sonorous pack-horse bells were sold for old metal, and the brokers' shops for a time were full of them. each bell weighed from 1lb. to 2lbs. an old resident in north westmorland not long ago recalled very vividly the scenes to be witnessed, and confirmed the accuracy of the following description from mr. speight's volume: "in the old pack-horse days it was a sight worth remembering to witness the procession of men and horses with miscellaneous goods, making their way out of the yorkshire dales, to kirkby stephen and the north. the drivers from garsdale and grisedale came over the moor to shaw paddock, and thence on to aisgill, and to the old thrang bridge in mallerstang, where they were met by strings of pack-horses and men coming from the east country by hell gill. it was a busy and picturesque scene, and the thrang bridge was well named. sometimes on special occasions, as during brough hill fair, the thrifty wives and daughters of the dales used to go up to hell gill bridge, and spread out stalls and baskets, stored with cakes, nuts, apples, and bottles of home-made herb beer, and other non-intoxicants, to sell to passing travellers. and a good business they did too, for there was a continuous stream of wayfarers, who were glad, particularly if the day were hot, to linger awhile and hear the gossip of the country-side, cracking many a joke along with many a nut bought from the buxom stall women. occasionally herds of highland cattle passed this way, and when the far-travelled animals showed signs of fatigue, it was no uncommon thing to see one of the men who carried a bagpipe play some lively air as he marched in front of the drove. the animals seemed to enjoy the music, and evidently appreciated this relief to the tediousness of the journey, by walking, as they often would, with a brisker step, while some of them that had lain down in the road would quickly rise at the novel far-sounding strains, which brought many a cottager also to his feet from his home in the echoing glen." old customs. possibly the custom associated with westmorland which can claim to be at once among the oldest, as well as having been the most carefully followed, is that connected with the familiar countess's pillar in the parish of brougham. the famous countess anne of pembroke erected this structure in 1656, as the still perfect legible inscription on the southern side tells us, for a laudable purpose: "this pillar was erected in 1656 by anne, countess dowager of pembroke, etc., for a memorial of her last parting in this place with her good and pious mother, margaret, countess dowager of cumberland, the 2nd day of april, 1616, in memory whereof she has left an annuity of £4, to be distributed to the poor of the parish of brougham every second day of april for ever, upon the stone placed hard by. _laus deo._" the custom is scrupulously observed, the money being distributed on april 2nd as directed, except when that day falls, as this year, on a sunday, and then the little ceremony is conducted on the following day. when asked as to the regularity of the observance shortly before this year's distribution, the rev. w. s. salman, the venerable rector of brougham, said the details were carefully attended to; and, he added, "we should soon hear about it if they were not." how far the custom of rush-bearing goes back there is nothing in local records to show, but there are some very old entries in the registers concerning the practice. in spite of the puritans the villagers were keeping up the festival at kirkby lonsdale; there is this item among the churchwardens' accounts for 1680: "paid at the rush-bearing in drink, 3s." although the ceremony had in each place the same general features, different parishes varied the proceedings. flowers as well as rushes were carried by the children, many of the blooms being made into garlands. after the sermon, the roses and rushes brought the preceding year were taken out, and the fresh ones put in their places. an old writer made the following suggestion as to the origin of the custom: "that our forefathers appointed a day on which they rendered public thanks to the almighty for his kindness in causing the earth to bring forth fruit for the sustenance of man and beast, and that on these occasions they brought rushes, or other productions of the soil, to the sanctuary, which they spread out as a memorial before the lord." the theory is doubtless correct, as is proved by the fact that at warcop and other places where "rush-bearings"--minus the rushes--are still kept up every summer, the service and other proceedings are in the nature of a public thanksgiving. [illustration: countess's pillar, brougham. _from a photo by mr. john bolton, penrith._] nut monday has passed into the region of forgotten things, even at such places as the schools, where it was once a popular observance. it was, however, kept so recently as 1861, when september 12th was held in kendal as a general holiday, almost every shop being closed. possibly the failure of the nut crop in several successive years was a factor in changing the holiday to another time, and thus the day losing its distinctive character. this, it will be noted, had nothing in common with another custom observed in some other parts of the country--crack nut sunday. the latter was simply a desecrating practice, without a single good feature. "sunday observance" had more than a nominal meaning in bygone days, though there is nothing to indicate that the people of the two counties had any particular liking for the restrictions imposed. it was the practice in nearly every town and village for the churchwardens to leave the church during service time and walk through the town in search of people who ought to have been at church, and special attention was paid to licensed premises. possibly, by the time the hostelries were reached, the churchwardens felt the need of liquid refreshment; at any rate, they frequently obtained it. carlisle, in 1788, was divided into districts, through each of which two constables and two of the principal inhabitants, who took it in rotation, patrolled the streets from ten in the morning till one, and from three to five in the afternoon, during which hours the doors of all the public-houses were kept shut, the patrol having first visited them to see that no person was tippling in them. "so much respect is paid to this regulation," wrote a chronicler of the period, "that during these hours no person is seen in the streets but those who are going to or returning from some place of worship." fines were occasionally imposed for non-attendance at church; that does not seem to have been the rule, moral suasion apparently sufficing to meet most requirements. the corporation of kendal took powers to inflict what were then--three hundred years ago--heavy fines for selling ale during service hours. among the customs and beliefs noted as prevalent at whitbeck, in west cumberland, in 1794, were these: "newly-married persons beg corn to sow their first crop with, and are called corn-laiters. people always keep wake with the dead. the labouring ox is said to kneel at twelve o'clock at night, preceding the day of the nativity; the bees are heard to sing at the same hour. on the morn of christmas day breakfast early on hack-pudding, a mess made of sheep's heart mixed with suet and sweet fruits. to whichever quarter a bull faces in lying on all hallows' eve, from thence the wind will blow the greater part of the winter." it has been surmised that the hack-pudding resembles sweet-pie, which is not unlike a mince-pie on a large scale, mutton being used instead of beef, and the ingredients not finely chopped. here, as in other parts of the country, beating the bounds, both of parishes and manors, was a popular, though oft-times toilsome, observance. in a few registers, records have been preserved of the old-time landmarks, a precaution of special value in days before the ordnance survey was thought of. dalston registers not only supply this information, but a description of the ceremony of perambulation. curiosities of divisions are not lacking. an old man, once a parishioner of dalston, told the rev. j. wilson[21] that he had a vivid recollection of taking part in the ritual of beating the bounds many years ago, and throwing a rope over a house, part of which stands in castle sowerby, in order to mark the division of the contiguous parishes. the walls of the house exist still, though unroofed, where the inhabitants were wont to say, half a century ago, that they always slept in dalston and breakfasted in castle sowerby. "furth" was a word used by the inhabitants of orton long ago. in those days, before the era of coal burning, most of the houses had what were called hearth fire-places, with big open chimneys but no fire-grates. householders had the privilege of getting turf on the moors, and during the winter nights neighbours used to assemble in one another's houses in succession. orton and ravenstonedale were famous places for knitting, and the folks all sat round the blazing turf fire knitting away at top speed. both men and women were thus occupied, and made a peculiar rattling noise with so many needles working at once. the conversations at these furth neets were very amusing, the talk ranging from the state of the crops, such as they were in those days of what would be called low farming, to the prices of produce and the latest doings of mary baynes, the local witch. formerly some of the inhabitants of orton had what were called penthouses in front of their dwellings. it was a custom on candlemas day for those who had money to lend to appear under the sheds or penthouses, with neckcloths tied round their heads, and if the weather was cold, while the money-lenders were shivering beneath the scanty shelter, the borrowers frequented the public-houses, where there was much carousing. this curious custom has long been discouraged, and only one penthouse is now standing. reminders of border service remained in the two counties long after the act of union had been passed. thus the secluded hamlet of kentmere was divided into sixty tenements for the maintenance of as many soldiers, and so recently as the middle of this century it was written: "the vestiges of this ancient regulation still remain, for the township is divided into four parts, and each of these parts into fifteen tenements. for each tenement a man serves the office of constable, and pays 2s. per annum to the curate." public affairs in the village of torpenhow used to be managed by "the sixteen men," elected by the householders in the four quarters into which the parish was divided, the vicar and churchwardens being apparently _ex officio_ members of this early parish council. the last nomination of the sixteen took place about 1807; they had a great variety of duties, carrying out functions that are now discharged by school boards, parish, district, and county councils. so far as is known, the most detailed information concerning the duties of the "sworn men" is given in the orton (westmorland) registers, where, following the fourteen names of "the sworne men of orto' anno d'ni 1596," is this statement, so far as it can be deciphered:- "_imprimis_ that thes be diligent and careful to see and provide that the people be ... and behave the'selves honestlie ... feare of god according to the holie word of god and the good and wholesome laws of this land. _secondlie_ to see that the churchwardens be careful and diligent in executinge their office, ioyne with thes in suppressing of sinne and such as behave the'selves inordinatlie to reprove and rebuke those who be found offenders, and if they will not amend to p{e}sent the' to be punished. _thirdlie_ to se that the church and churchy{d} be decentlie repaired and mainteyned. also we as agreed y{t} everie p'sonnis beinge found faultie by the churchwardens and p'sented to the sworn me' shall paie xij{d.} to the poor ma's box. and that whosoever doth not come p'sent the'selves lawfull warning being given either of the xij or churchwardens to the place appointed shall lose xij to the poore ma's box without a sufficient cause to the contrarie whereof thes are to certifie the rest assembled at ... appointed to their meetinge. lastly that the churchwardes ... and take the sam forfat ... p'sent the offenders." another kind of parish council existed at helton, near lowther, about a century ago. a chronicler of seventy years since gives this account of it:--"at helton, at the end of the tythe barn, was formerly a stone seat, where the inhabitants met for the purpose of transacting their parochial affairs. he who came first waited till he was joined by the rest; and it was considered a mark of great rudeness for anyone to absent himself from the meeting. after conferring on such matters as related to the parish they separated, and each returned home." there was a very noteworthy council at watermillock, called the head jurie, and mr. w. hodgson, a former schoolmaster in the parish, did good service some years ago by transcribing the records of that body, from 1610 to more than a century later. they performed all the duties--and more--now delegated to parish councils; indeed they seem to have had control of everything pertaining to the government of the parish. among the contents of the book on "paines and penalties laid by the head jurie" is this entry concerning a court held in 1629:- "we find for a good amongst ourselves that all the inhabitants within the hamlet of weathermelock shall amend all the church ways and all other ways yearly, and every year, upon the first work day in christmas, if the day be seasonable, at ye sight of ye constables and churchwardens for the time being upon paine of sixpence of everyone that maketh default. and alsoe all as aforesaid shall meet and mend the peat way always upon whitsun wednesday, and everyone to meet where his way lyeth, and everyone to send a sufficient man to the sight of the constable for the time being upon paine of sixpence of everyone that maketh default. and that the constable be there upon paine of sixpence to see who make default." in the old manorial halls fools or jesters were frequently to be found among the members of the households. the late dr. taylor suggested that when yanwath hall was a very important link in the chain of border defences, such a servant was kept; and mr. r. s. ferguson once reminded the members of the archæological society that, in 1601, both the mayor of carlisle and sir wilfred lawson kept fools, as probably did also the bishop of carlisle. the mayor's fool got a coat for christmas, while sir wilfred's appears in the accounts of the corporation as being "tipped" for bringing messages to carlisle. a fool was also kept at muncaster castle. there was a custom very common in connection with the apprenticeship system at the beginning of the century. in a pamphlet written by john s. lough, a former penrith printer, appeared this paragraph:--"burying the old wife is a custom still prevalent among the operatives in the north at the expiration of the term of apprenticeship. the late apprentice is taken into a room adjoining that where the party is met to celebrate the loosening, and after an old woman's cap is put on his head, the body is enveloped in a white sheet. he is then taken upon the shoulders of his comrades into the banqueting room, round which he is carried a few times, in not very solemn procession, and finally placed upon the boards whereon the figure of a grave is chalked. a kind of funeral service is gone through, and the old wife is buried." "the simple annals of the poor" in the two counties contain many pathetic accounts of their condition and treatment ere the public conscience was awakened to the necessity of a more humane method. here, as in many other parts of the country, the poor were often let out to contractors. among the churchwardens' accounts at hayton for 1773 there is a copy of a contract between the churchwardens and thomas wharton, of the faugh, "for letting the poor for a year" to the latter. the rev. r. w. dixon, vicar of the parish, about twenty years ago went into the history of this transaction. a vestry meeting was called for the purpose, and conditions were entered into between the churchwardens and the overseers on the one part, and thomas wharton on the other. the parish overseers were to find bedding and apparel for the paupers, but wharton was to mend their clothes and stockings, and be allowed 5s. for the purpose. a child not a year old was to be counted as one person with the mother, and be fed and clothed by the parish; and if a pauper died in the house he was to be buried at the expense of the parish. wharton was to find sufficient meat, drink, washing, lodging, and firing for the paupers, to the satisfaction of the parish officers, who had authority to visit the house as often as they pleased. he was to receive a yearly salary of £12 10s., and a weekly allowance of 1s. 2d. for each pauper, but if a pauper stayed under a week a deduction was to be made accordingly. on these terms wharton was declared master of the workhouse. the children who used to attend the ancient robinson's school at penrith were sent out each day to beg, and that there might be no mistake as to their identity, each was obliged to wear what was locally called "the badge of poverty." it is decidedly an unfortunate thing, from the point of view of the antiquary, that so many of the old plague stones which used to be found in different places should have disappeared. penrith had two; and one of them remains, but from observations occasionally heard it is to be feared that only a small proportion of the townspeople have an idea of the use of the old font-like erection. it is interesting to quote the account given by a penrith land surveyor and innkeeper, who wrote more than a century ago[22] on this subject:--"nearly half-way between eamont bridge and penrith stands an house, called from its situation half-way house, but formerly _mill_ or _meal cross_, from the following circumstance. during the dreadful plague which visited this country in the year 1598, and almost depopulated penrith (no less than 2,260 in the town falling victims to this merciless disease), the millers and villagers refused to bring their commodities into the town to market for fear of infection. the inhabitants, therefore, were under the necessity of meeting them here, and performing a kind of quarantine before they were allowed to buy anything. this was said to be almost at the option of the country people. this much is certain: no man was allowed to touch the money made use of on these occasions, it being put into a vessel of water, whence they had a method of taking it without touching it with their fingers. for this purpose they erected a cross which remains to this day. for greater conveniences they erected a cross at the town's-head, and erected shambles, etc.; the place still retains the name of the cross-green: they built a third cross near the carlisle road a little above the second, where black cattle, sheep, hoggs, and goats were sold; and it retains yet the name of the nolt-fair [nolt: oxen, cows, etc.], and continues to be the market for cattle." [illustration: plague stone, penrith.] the road was widened and improved in 1834, when the water trough was found, and afterwards placed where it now stands. there was a somewhat similar structure in the park at eden hall, and is said to mark the site of the former village. the base is still retained, but some decades ago there was put a memorial cross upon it. going over the border of westmorland a short distance are other reminders of these old-time epidemics. in the parish registers of hawkshead it is stated that in 1721 the sum of 1s. 6d. was paid to the apparitor for a book concerning the plague. here is material for several queries. was there an outbreak of some disease which obtained that name so late as 1720, or was the volume meant for a record of what had gone before? again, if the book was ever written, what became of it? the records of the le flemings, the earls of lonsdale, the earls of westmorland, and others published by the historical manuscripts commission abound in references to the plague. a stone in the remote hamlet of armboth, above what is now the great reservoir of the manchester corporation, marks the place where the local commerce was carried on when personal intercourse was dangerous on account of the plague. the custom existed after the epidemic had passed away, the people from the fells and dales continuing to take their webs and yarn to what is still known as "the webstone." the registers of dalston are particularly valuable for purposes of local history, partly owing to the fact that rose castle, the residence of the bishops of carlisle, is in that parish. there are also many other ways in which they are interesting. one of the earliest houses mentioned in the books is bell gate or bellyeat. miss kupar, who closely studied the records of this and some other parishes, wrote a few years ago with regard to this house: "the people will have it that a bell hung here to announce the arrival of the pack-horses _en route_ for keswick, and some maintain that it served to warn the neighbourhood of the approach of the moss-troopers." although the old custom of ringing the curfew is gradually dying out, in several places in cumberland and westmorland the practice is kept up still. in the hall at appleby castle there is an interesting reminder of the custom. this is the curfew-bell which was found in the tower at the castle, and it finds an honoured place now among the family possessions. when swung to and fro the bell is found to have a very sweet tone, but while it was vigorously rung in the evenings long ago the burgesses would not have any difficulty in hearing its loud and peculiar warning note. the inscription is not very easy to decipher, but it appears to run thus:- "soli deo gloria. pax homibus, s.s. fecit, 1661. w.s." nothing is known at the castle as to the maker, though it is possible that experts in bell-lore might be able to trace its record from the inscription. old school customs. the chequered histories of the old schools at appleby, kirkby stephen, kendal, crosthwaite, carlisle, penrith, and several other towns in the two counties, would suffice to make a large book of an interesting character. some of the rules which governed the institutions in bygone days were decidedly quaint. the nineteen long paragraphs which make up the "constitutions, ordinances, and statutes for the free grammar school at kirkby stephen," as drawn up in 1568 by lord wharton, included this curious stipulation:- "i will that the said schoolmaster shall have and receive yearly £12 as his hire and wages, at two terms of the year, if he teach in manner and form following, viz., at the feast of pentecost and st. martin, by equal portions, by the hands of my son, heir, and heirs, and the governours. and the said schoolmaster shall, within ten dayes after he hath taken upon him and be installed in the said office, before the said governours, or two of them, and before my son and heir, or heirs of my house of wharton, for the time being, and in presence of the churchwardens and twelve men of kirkby-stephen parish, or six of them, in the parish church there, make this oath following: 'i do swear by the holy contents of this book that i will freely, without exacting any money, diligently teach and instruct the children of this parish, and all others that resort to me, in grammar and other humane doctrine, according to the statutes thereof made; and shall read to them no corrupt or reprobate book, or works set forth at any time contrary to the determination of the universal catholic church, whereby they might be infected in their youth with any kind of heresy or corrupt doctrine, or else be induced to an insolent manner of liveing; and further shall observe all the statutes and ordinances of this school, now made or that hereafter shall be made, which concern me; and shall do nothing in prejudice thereof, but help to maintain the same, from time to time, dureing my abode herein, to the best of my power. so help me god, and the contents of this book.'" at six o'clock in the morning, and at the same hour in the evening, master and scholars had to march from school to church, for prayers, afterwards going to the tomb which lord wharton had erected in the quire and sing one of fifteen psalms. this was the order for working hours:--"and the same scholemr., every work-day at the least, shall begin to teach from six a clock in ye morning in summer, and from seven a clock in winter; and so shall continue in teaching until eleven a clock. the self same thing shall he diligently do after dinner, from one of the clock till six in summer and five in winter." the history of appleby school extends over nearly four and a quarter centuries. in 1478 thomas whinfell, one of the chantry priests, was bound "to keep yearly a sufficient grammar school, taking of the scholars of the said school _scolagia et custumaria secundum antiquam consuetudinem scoloe prædictæ_." old school-boys living within the present decade remember that the _scolagia et custumaria_ included a cockpenny, which had to be paid by each boy on easter tuesday, for the purpose of enabling the master to provide the pupils with a cock-fight. one of the regulations for kendal school was that it should be "free to all boys resident in the parish of kendal, for classics alone, excepting a voluntary payment of a cockpenny as aforetime at shrovetide." the "literary rambler," who contributed a series of papers to the _kendal chronicle_ in 1812 (when the custom was commonly observed), remarked:--"a stranger to the customs of the country will suspect something whimsical in this name, but it has its foundation in reason; for the boys of every school were divided into parties every shrovetide, headed by their respective captains, whom the master chose from amongst his pupils. this was probably done in imitation of the romans, who appointed the _principes pivenum_ on certain occasions. these juvenile competitors contended in a match at football, and fought a cock-battle, called the captains' battle, in both which contests the youthful rivals were not more interested than their parents." though the barbarous sport had disappeared, the payment of a cockpenny survived certainly until the middle of this century. this is shown by mr. w. sayer, who, in his history (1847), says that the endowments of bowness (westmorland) school, "together with a cockpenny given by each scholar on shrove tuesday," amounted to about £60 per annum. george smith, a relative of dr. smith who became bishop of london, built and endowed the school at asby, and left £10, the interest of which (about 12s.) was to be disposed of on st. george's day yearly for ever in the following manner: 6s. to the poor of the parish; 5s. to be spent in ale by the feofees of the school; and the remaining shilling to purchase a football for the scholars. a custom which seems to have been peculiar to appleby was for each pupil leaving to pay half-a-guinea towards the library, and mr. r. e. leach, the headmaster, some years ago compiled a most interesting list of these donations. it was also an occasional occurrence that "old boys" gave money when they were married. it was by the ancient parochial council of sixteen that the first attempt to supply elementary education in torpenhow was made, it being recorded that on may 12th, 1686, a resolution was passed in favour of founding a free school for the bothel district. the "sixteen" from time to time drew up various rules for the conduct of the school, one of which would greatly astonish the present generation of certificated masters, because, in 1689, the master of the institution at bothel (locally pronounced "bohl") was ordered to "keep school from 6 in the morning till 11, and from 1 till 6 from lady day till michaelmas," practically the same rule as was enforced by lord wharton at kirkby stephen. an instance of the uncertain position occupied by the village schoolmaster in former days may be found among the records of holme cultram. in 1607 there being some controversy concerning the payment of the parish clerk or sexton, which previously had been paid in no regular manner, and the clerk claiming to be paid in meal, though no certain measure of it had been ascertained, it was agreed and ordered by the sixteen men, with the consent of the other parishioners, that for the future there should be one person who should be both parish clerk and schoolmaster, and that he should have for his wages for every copyhold tenement and lease within the parish paying above 18d. rent, fourpence, and for every cottager and under-tenant twopence, to be collected yearly at easter by the clerk, who was to be chosen by the sixteen men and approved by the ordinary. in addition, the schoolmaster was to have a quarterly sum for each scholar as the sixteen men from time to time directed. that scheme was recorded in 1777 as being still in operation. in another place it has been shown how the sworn men had often a great share in the selection of the churchwardens and other officials. their duties also extended to the procuring of money for educational purposes. it was ordered by commissioners in the thirteenth year of elizabeth, concerning the endowed school at keswick, "that whereas two pence for every fire-house hath been paid to the parish clerk yearly, and also certain ordinary fees for night-watch, burials, weddings, and, moreover, certain benevolences of lamb wool, eggs, and such like, which seem to grow up to a greater sum than is competent for a parish clerk; the eight men shall herafter take up the said two pence a house for the use of a schoolmaster, paying thereout to the parish clerk yearly 46s. 8d." in the time of king james it was found on inquiry by a commission of pious uses, "that the eighteen sworn men had from time immemorial laid a tax for the maintenance of the schoolmaster, and other occasions of the parish, and appointed the schoolmaster, and made orders for the government of the school, and that the inhabitants had by a voluntary contribution raised a school stock of £148 2s. 3-1/2d., nevertheless that dr. henry robinson, bishop of carlisle, henry woodward, his chancellor, and giles robinson, brother of the said bishop, and vicar of crosthwaite, had intermeddled, and that the said bishop, sometimes by authority of the high commission for ecclesiastical causes, sometimes as a justice of the peace for the county, and sometimes by his power as ordinary, had interrupted the orders of the eighteen men, and had committed thirteen of them to prison. therefore the commissioners restore the eighteen men to their authority concerning the appointing of a schoolmaster, and the government of the school." among the curious bequests known to have been made at various times by residents in the two counties, not the least noteworthy was that of the vicar of raughton head, mr. sevithwaite, who, at his death in 1762, left £20 to the school; and another £20, the interest whereof, after the death of his widow, was to be laid out yearly in purchasing bishop beveridge's "thoughts upon religion," and the bishop of man's "essay for the instruction of the indians," to be given to the poor housekeepers of the parish. among the curiosities of tenure in addition to those already mentioned in a previous chapter, was that of surrendering by the rod. in the summer of 1750 "john sowerby surrendered to the lord of the manor (of castle sowerby) by the hands of his steward _by the rod_ a messuage at sowerby row ... to the use and behoof of joseph robinson and his assigns according to the custom of the manor; conditioned to pay yearly to three trustees £5 for the use of a schoolmaster within the liberty of row bound to be chosen by the trustees." as in most other places, the schoolmaster had to teach certain children for a very small sum per quarter, and the parents in better circumstances had to pay 2s. 6d. per quarter for each child. how faithfully some of the clerical schoolmasters performed their duties during long periods may be proved from numerous sources. one entry, a burial, will suffice--from the mardale register of 1799:- "richard hebson, in ye 75th year of his age. he was 53 years master of the free school at measand, and 51 years the pastor of this chapelry. singularly remarkable for his faithful, assiduous, and conscientious discharge of the duties of both these stations." at the beginning of the eighteenth century there were in the diocese of carlisle few schools other than those held in the all too frequently dilapidated parish churches. in most cases the curates were the only schoolmasters, and it was as an encouragement to those clerics that the parishioners took it in turn to provide the curate with a "whittlegate." much interesting information about the old-time schools and schoolmasters may be found in bishop nicolson's visitation miscellany. one man, who afterwards became examining chaplain to bishop law, used to keep school at sebergham in a mud hut. of another cleric, the rev. t. baxter, who was incumbent of arlecdon in the first half of last century, it is recorded, in mr. w. dickinson's "reminiscences of west cumberland," that he "taught the parish school in the chancel of the parish church, on an earthern floor, without fire either in summer or winter." bishop nicolson's descriptions speak eloquently of the poverty of some parishes:--"the quire at warwick, as in many other places, is shamefully abused by the children that are taught in it. their present master is thomas allanson, a poor cripple, remov'd hither from rockliff, who has no settled salary, only 12d. per quarter and his diet, and would be thankful for ye commendum of ye clerk's place; which, he saies, would bring him an addition of about six shillings p. an." of irthington he wrote:--"the quire is here (as before) miserably spoil'd, on the floor, by the school boyes; and so vilely out of repair in the roof that 'tis hazardous comeing in it." crosby-on-eden was a little better than the former place:--"mr. pearson, the school master, has no certain and fixed salary. he teaches the children in the quire; where the boys and girls sit on good wainscot benches, and write on the communion table, too good (were it not appointed to a higher use) for such a service." here is a picture with regard to cumwhitton, not calculated to make people really wish for the old days about which some grow enthusiastic:--"the south window is unglazed and starves the whole congregation as well as the poor children; who are here taught (for the present) by the parish clerk, a man of very moderate qualification. mr. robley, their new curate, is not yet resident among them; but will shortly come, and take the office of teaching out of this illiterate man's hand." in a parish not far from the cumberland border--allendale--the curates of west allen high and st. peter's chapels were certainly as recently as 1835, and probably still later, obliged to teach the miners' children for 1s. 6d. per quarter each, in consideration of certain annual payments. these were five shillings from each miner of one description, and half-a-crown from those of another, which they, in common with the incumbent of allenheads chapel, received as ministers of the respective chapels. it was certified in 1717 that while at that time there was no divine service performed in the parish of clifton, some three miles from workington, "formerly every family in the two hamlets [of great and little clifton], being about forty in number, paid 6d. each to one that read prayers, and taught the children to read, and the rector gave £2 a year, and officiated there every sixth sunday, but that these payments had then ceased for above 40 years last past." reference was made in a previous paragraph to the custom of whittlegate as applying to schoolmasters. from the former chapter on church curiosities it will have been noted that the clergy occasionally had recourse to that method of supplementing their scanty incomes. as it often happened that the schoolmaster and parson were one and the same individual, difficulties were thereby removed. at any rate the following extract from clarke's "survey" of over a century ago has an interesting bearing on the subject. writing of ambleside, of which the rev. isaac knipe, m.a., was curate and schoolmaster, he remarks:- "the chapel is a low, mean building, and stands in the parish of grassmere. the inhabitants (who are land owners), as well as those in the parish of winandermere, as those in the parish of grassmere, have the right of nominating and presenting the curate. the rector of grassmere usually nominated the curate, but the inhabitants of this and many other perpetual curacies in the north have, by custom, gotten it from the rectors of vicars; the reason is this: before the death of queen anne, many of the chapelries were not worth above three pounds a year, and the donees could not get persons properly qualified to serve them, so they left them to the inhabitants, who raised voluntary contributions for them in addition to their salary, with clothes yearly and whittlegate. whittlegate is to have two or three weeks' victuals at each house, according to the ability of the inhabitants, which was settled amongst them so as that he should go his course as regular as the sun, and compleat it as annually." the custom prevailed so late as 1858 in some country parishes; it is not a little curious that it has not been found to exist in any counties except cumberland and westmorland, though the rev. j. wharton, stainmore, has informed the writer that it is recognised still in some parts of the united states. the custom of barring out is probably unknown to the present generation of cumbrian and westmerian school-boys--at any rate in the sense in which it used to be observed. there exist numerous stories of the thoroughness with which the boys formerly maintained their supposed rights in this direction. the rev. e. h. sugden's sketch of the history of arlecdon and frizington shows how the observance was followed there every christmas:--"the old men of the parish tell with delight their experiences and adventures in carrying out this old custom. one says he remembers the master entering the school by creeping down the chimney. another tells of a boy hiding himself in the chimney when the master had forced the door open. it appears that during this period of expulsion the doors of the school were strongly barricaded within, and the boys who defended it like a besieged city were armed in general with elder pop-guns. in the meantime the master would make several efforts, both by force and stratagem, to regain his lost authority. if he succeeded, heavy tasks were imposed, and the business of the school went on as usual; but it more commonly happened that he was repulsed and defeated. the siege was continued three days, after which the terms of capitulation were proposed by the master, who usually pushed them under the door, and as a rule the boys accepted. these terms stipulated what hours and times should for the ensuing year be allotted to study, and what to relaxation and play. securities were given by each side for the due performance of these stipulations, and the paper was then solemnly signed by both master and pupils. "mr. sibson, of whitehaven, formerly of this parish, relates the two following incidents in connection with this custom. on one occasion, mr. c. mossop endeavoured to enter the school. as soon as he put his hand on the window sill, intending to enter that way, a boy hit his hand with a red-hot poker, so that for many days he went about with it in a sling. on another occasion, mr. hughes, the master, took some slates off the roof, and succeeded in getting his legs and part of his body past the rafters, but he could get no further, and the boys with red-hot pokers burnt him severely before he could be rescued by his friends. in those days many young men attended the school during the winter time." at appleby, the "barring out" sometimes lasted for days, and the scholars slept in the schoolrooms. in most places the mutiny was apt to break out early on the morning of the day fixed for breaking up for the holidays. they defied the master by means of sundry cries, that at kendal being:- "liberty, liberty, under a pin, six weeks' holiday or _nivver_ come in." apparently the custom was killed in the old grey town at the beginning of this century by the then master, mr. towers meeting with a distressing mishap. he was contending with them, apparently for admittance, when his eye was accidentally destroyed, and the disaster served to bring about the abolition of the old custom. fine warm days of that indian summer so often experienced in the two counties in september and october were devoted to "going a nutting," and the headmaster of appleby grammar school never refused a holiday at that season, provided that each scholar brought him a quart of "leamers"--nuts sufficiently ripe to leave the husks without compulsory treatment. as christmas approached, the schoolmaster was "barred out" in orthodox fashion, until he agreed (and he only pretended to be loth to make the contract) to extend the coming holidays as long as his pupils demanded. the end index. acorn bank, privileges of tenants of, 67 ale possets, 202 allendale, old school-days at, 250 alms corn, payments of, 88 altar, horn of the, at carlisle, 74 ambleside--curious church tradition, 49 appleby, privileges of burgesses of, 69; barring out custom at, 254-255; curious assize incident at, 7; bull-baiting at, 195; excommunication at, 102; grammar school, 242; public whipping at, 126-128; stocks at, 125 appleby castle, old corn measures at, 159-160; curfew bell at, 238 applethwaite (windermere), curious regulations at, 89 apprentices and salmon, 178 apprenticeship custom, an, 233 archdeacon's court, 59-60 archery, 196-199 arlecdon, rector of, chasing a parishioner, 42; church font used as water-trough, 50; church, dogs in, 63; tradition concerning buried church, 133; an old school at, 249; barring out custom at, 252 armathwaite, gibbeting of whitfield at, 94 armboth hall, skulls at, 147 " web-stone at, 237 armour in churches, 13, 34 assessors of bread and ale, 89 assize incident, a curious, 7 atkinson, execution of captain, 97 bampton, arrangement of families in church, 53; punishment of quakers, 107-109 barguest, the, 141 barring out custom at school, 252-255 barton, probable fortified church at, 34; curious manorial custom at, 80 beacons, 10-13 beating the bounds, 227 bees, telling the, 138 beetham church, penance at, 111 bell-gate at dalston, 238 bell-horses, 217, 238 bell legends, 132 bell, mayor of wreay's old silver, 201 bells, carlisle racing, 191 bishop of carlisle and cock-fighting, 195 bishops excommunicated, 100 bishops, fighting, 22-28 blackmail rent, 75 bode, bodesmen, bodeword, bode-hill, 14 boggles, 139 bongate--a reminder of serfdom, 66 boon services, 76-79 bootle, beacon at, 15 border service, 9-16, 68-70, 229 bridekirk, excommunication at, 101 brigham, fortified church at, 33 brough, probable fortified church at, 34; church font in private grounds, 50; holly night at, 205 brougham, curious horn at, 73; countess's pillar at, 223 bull and boar, obligation to keep, 87 bull-baiting, 195 burgh barony cup, races for, 190 burgh-by-sands, fortified church at, 30 burrell green, luck of, 151 burton, curious dispute at, 40 "burying the old wife" custom, 233 calgarth skulls, 146 caldbeck, manorial customs at, 83 carleton--a reminder of serfdom, 65 carlisle, watch and ward at, 19; cathedral, rioting in, 37; cathedral used as a prison, 37; charter horn at, 74; pillory and stocks at, 124; racing bells, 191 cartmell church, troops quartered in, 37 carriage money service, 89 castleward, service of, 71 charms, 136 charter horn at carlisle, 74 chimney and hearth tax, 182-186 church curiosities, 38-63; stock, 51, 52; holding manorial courts in, 58; dog-whippers in, 60-63; legends, 131-133, 139; fined for not going to, 226 churchwardens' duties, 51, 52, 107, 108, 226; selection of, 245 churchyards, keeping swine out of, 60; announcing sales in, 158 churches, fortified, 28-37; armour in, 13, 34; division of sexes in, 53; seating arrangements in, 51; swallowed by the earth, 131-132 churning, superstitions about, 137 christmas festivals, 202 clergy, old-time, 40-46 clergymen as publicans, 41; as schoolmasters, 248-252 cliburn, a probable fortified church at, 34 clifton, old school-days at, 251 clogs, 171 cloth searchers, 164 "clothe dightinge," 163 coaching days, the old, 213-216 coals carried on horse-back, 217 cockermouth tolls dispute, 83; old manorial officers at, 90 cock-fighting, 192-195, 201, 242 cockpenny, 242, 243 corby castle, radiant boy of, 146 cordwainers, rules for, 164 cornage, service of, 15, 69, 70, 73 coronation festivities, 205 corryhole at great salkeld church, 32 councils, old parish, 230-232 countess's pillar at brougham, 223 county guinea incident near penrith, 20 courts in church, holding, 58 courts, old, 58, 90, 181 crack nut sunday, 225 croglin, manorial customs at, 82 crosby garrett, a probable fortified church at, 33 crosby-on-eden, old school-days at, 249 crosby ravensworth church, keeping dogs out of, 61 cross fell, legend of, 132 crosthwaite, rivalry between cockermouth and, 157 "culyet," 52 cumin tenure, 85 cumwhitton, manorial customs at, 82 curfew bell, ringing the, 238 customs, old, 223-239; old school, 240-255 dacre church, curious custom at, 55 dalston church, whipping dogs from, 61-62; holy well at, 207 "dalston black-reeds," 194 dearham church tower used as a beacon, 32 death stroke superstition, 137 dissenters, punishment of, 107-109 dog-laws at egremont, old, 87 dog-whippers in church, 60-63 downies and uppies at workington, 200 drengage tenements, 66 drenges, 66 dress, old-time, 171-173 drigg, manorial customs at, 82 drunkards, punishment of, 119-121 edenhall, church tower used as a beacon, 13; manorial customs at, 81; a possible plague stone at, 237 eden hall, luck of, 148 egremont, manorial customs at, 77, 87, 90 epidemics, old-time, 235-238 excommunication and penance, 98-119 executions, wholesale, for political offences, 97 expeditious wagons, 216 fairies, 137 fairs, old laws concerning, 155; churchyard, 155-158 farleton knott beacon, 13 festivities and sports, old, 188-208 fighting bishops and fortified churches, 22-37 firebote, 75 fire, old methods for quenching, 186 "first-foot" superstition, 147 flimby, old tenure at, 71 fonts in private grounds, 50-51 food-stuffs, old-time, 174-178 fools, old-time, 232 football, 199-200, 243 forest court at hesket, 69, 73 forestalling and regrating, laws against, 165-167, 169 fortified churches, 28-37 foster-oats, an old manorial rent, 78 free-bench, 81 furth-neets at orton and ravenstonedale, 228-229 gallows hills, 94, 98 gambling, punishment for, 115 gaol-life, old-time, 122 ghosts, 142-143 giant's cave sunday, 207 giant's thumb at penrith, 124 gibbeting of criminals, 94-97 gilcrux, old tenure at, 70 glassonby, manorial customs at, 80 glove service, 72 god's penny custom, 83 "gospel side" of a church, 54 gowrie plot celebration, 203 great salkeld, fortified church at, 31 greenhue rent, 77 greystoke, anchorites at, 46; sanctuary stone at, 115; "pelican in her piety" at, 58; church miserere used as church sign at, 58; manorial customs at, 78, 80; penance at, 113; excommunication at, 101; foot stocks at, 124; gowrie plot celebration at, 203; gunpowder plot celebration at, 203 guilds and old trade societies, 162-4 gunpowder plot celebration, 203 hack-pudding, 227 halts, 218 "hanging days," the, 123 hanging, drawing, and quartering, 91, 97, 98 harcla, the execution of sir andrew de, 91 hawk service, the, 69, 70 hawkshead, dog-whippers at, 63 hayton paupers hired to contractors, 234 hedge-lookers, 89 helton, old council at, 231 heriots, 79, 85, 100 hesket thorn court, 70, 73 holme cultram, abbey of, also a fortress, 29; petition of inhabitants to cromwell, 29; curious dispute at, 39; old-time school life at, 244 holy bell at ravenstonedale, 114 holy wells, 206-208 holly night at brough, 205 homage, service of, 15, 65 horn tenures, 73 hospitals, old-time, 211, 212 house-boot, 76, 82 house in two parishes, 228 inglewood forest, 70, 73, 74, 197, 212 ireby, manorial customs at, 77 irthington, old school-days at, 249 jesters, old-time, 232 journeys, some noteworthy old-time, 209-221 judges, perils of the king's, 212 kaber rigg rising, the, 98 kattstick and bullvett, 199 kendal, scolds' bridle at, 115; punishments at, 115-121; watch and ward at, 17-19; parson of moiety of church of, 38; church incident at, 35-37; bowmen, 198; barring out custom at, 254 kentmere, reminders of border service at, 229 keswick, bull-baiting at, 195; endowed school, 245 kirkby lonsdale, church inscription at, 47; bridge legend, 133; sale of church font, 51 kirkby stephen, curious tithe custom at, 56; a probable fortified church at, 34; burial of sir andrew de harcla at, 94; fair, proclamation at, 160; school ordinances, 240 kirkby thore, penance at, 112 kirkland, unusual tenure at, 85 kirkoswald, curious church tower at, 47; bull-baiting at, 195; old manorial measures at, 160 knitters, famous, 228 knur and spell, 199 lancaster, execution and gibbeting of thomas, 95 lanercost abbey, tragic origin of, 111 langdale, curate of, as alehouse keeper, 41 langwathby church, armour in, 13, 34 lawyers, restrictions upon, 167 leather searchers, 89 legend of st. bega, 131; kirksanton, 131; fisherty brow, 132; arlecdon, 133; kirkby lonsdale bridge, 133; concerning wolves, 135; warthol hall, 135; calgarth skulls, 146; armboth hall, 147; machell family, 142; radiant boy of corby, 146 legends and superstitions, some, 131-147 leper windows, 45-46; hospitals, 46 lepers in cumberland and westmorland, 45-46 levens, luck of, 153 levens radish feast, 208 life in the old gaols, 122 little salkeld, desecration of church at, 58 long marton, an infant rector of, 39 lucks, 148-154 manorial laws, 64-90 market bells, 167 markets and fairs customs, 155-168 maskers, 202 meat selling at church doors, 156; on sundays, 165; bequest, a, 177 milling laws, old, 76, 82, 83 mill lookers, 89 millom, manorial jurisdiction at, 64; penance at, 112 minstrel galleries, old, 181 miracle workers, supposed, 138 mock mayors, 200 moor lookers, 89 moota, beacon at, 14 morland, manorial custom at, 75, 82 mortuary rights of the church, 100 multuring, 83, 84 muncaster, luck of, 149 musgrave church font in private grounds, 50 needfire superstition, 143-146 newbiggin (dacre), curious custom at, 79 newton arlosh, fortified church at, 30 night watch, 245 nunnery, privileges of prioress and nuns of, 67 nutgeld service, 71 nut monday, 225 nutting days, school, 255 old-time home life, 169-187 old-time school life, 240-255 "orders of the watch," 11 ormside, a probable fortified church at, 33 orton, probable fortified church at, 33; sworn men at, 230; stocks, 125 pack-horses, 209, 210, 217, 219, 220, 221, 238 parsonby, manorial customs at, 77 paupers hired to contractors, 234 peat silver, 78 peculiar contrivances, 171 penance, excommunication and, 98-119 penrith beacon, 12, 13 penrith church font in private grounds, 50; plague-stones at, 235-237; excommunication at, 103; stocks and pillory at, 124; races, 192-194; badge of poverty at, 235 penrith fell, ludicrous incident on, 27; burial of excommunicates on, 104 penthouses at orton, 229 peppercorn rents, 87 pie poudre court at kirkby stephen, 161 pillar, countess's, 223 pillions, riding on, 217, 220 pillory and stocks, 124, 125 plague-stones, old, 235-238 plumpton, manorial custom at, 82 plowbote, 75 poor people let out to contractors, 234 porridge, a tribute to the value of, 169 posset cups, 202 pot fairs, 156 poverty, the badge of, 235 proclamations at fairs, 160-162 punishments, old-time, 91-129 quakers, punishment of, 107-109 racing, curiosities in horse, 190-193 radiant boy of corby castle, 146 radish feast at levens, 208 rapier dancers, 202 ravenglass, proclamation of fair at, 161 ravenstonedale, holding a court in church at, 58; sanctuary bell at, 114; penance at, 110; stocks at, 125 rebel's cap at kendal, 35 rector, an infant, 39 refuge bell at ravenstonedale, 114 renwick tithe exemption, curious, 88 riding the stang at ambleside, 128 road, on the, 209-222 "robin the devil's" escapade, 35-37 rod, surrendering by the, 247 rose tenure, 70, 72 rowan tree superstition, 137 running gressom, 85 rush-bearing custom, 224 rushes and bents for churches, 59-61 rushes, curious belief about, 170 rushlights, old-time, 170 sacrilege, punishment at appleby for, 113 sales in churchyards, announcing, 158 salmon, abundance and cheapness of, 177; as apprentices' food, 178 sanctuary at ravenstonedale, 114; nunnery, 115; greystoke, 115 scale houses, peculiar tithe exemption at, 88 scholars' badge of poverty at penrith, 235 school customs, old, 240-255 schools in churches, 248-251 schoolmasters, old-time, 240-255 scolds' bridles, 115 seawake, service of, 15, 71 sebergham, a protest in rhyme at, 48; school in a mud hut at, 248 sexton, a female, 45 shearing days, 203 sheriffesses of westmorland, 2-4 sheriffs' law suits with appleby burgesses, 6 sheriffwick, an unparalleled, 1-8 shrovetide festival at wreay, 201 silver-penny fines, 79 skirsgill well custom, an old, 206 skirwith, manorial customs at, 76 snow on midsummer's day, legend of, 131 soar-hawk tenure, 69 sparket mill, peculiar obligation at, 86 sports and festivities, old, 188-208 spur service, 71, 72 stang, riding the, at ambleside, 128 st. bega, legend of, 131 steading stone at thirlmere, 121 stirrup tenure, 68 stocks, 124, 125 stockings, curious method of treating, 171 sunday markets, 156-158 sunday observance, 225-226 superstitions and legends, 131-147 surrendering by the rod, 247 swine in churchyards, 60; ringers, 89 tailors, rules for, 164 tea, curious methods of dealing with, 178 telling the bees, 138 tenures, curiosities of, 64-90, 247 thirlmere, steading stone at, 121 threlkeld, manorial customs at, 76 timber-lode, 75 tithe exemption, curious, 88 toll-free, rights of tenants and burgesses to go, 67 tolls, an old dispute about, 83 "tom candlestick," 170 toothache, charm for, 136 torpenhow, old council at, 230-244 town and village watch and ward, 16-21 trading laws and customs, old 155-168 traditions, 131-147 troutbeck dole custom at dacre, 55 troutbeck (windermere), manorial jurisdiction at, 64 tummel wheel'd carts, 218 uppies and downies at workington, 200 village schoolmasters, old-time, 244-253 waberthwaite church, dog-whippers at, 63 warthol, watching station at, 14 " hall, legend concerning, 135 warwick, old school-days at, 249 watch and ward, 9-21 watch, orders of the, 11 watermillock, manorial custom at, 81; head jurie, 51, 231 webstone at armboth, the, 238 well festivals, 206-208 wetheral, manorial customs at, 78 whipping of criminals, public, 124-128 whitbeck, old customs at, 227 whitehaven, society of archers, 198; watch and ward at, 19; public whipping at, 125 whittlegate, the old custom of, 43, 44, 251 wigton, curious epitaph at, 157; selling meat at parish church, 156 wine, curiosities concerning church, 54-55 witch, drowning of a supposed, 91; mary baynes, the orton, 139; lizzy batty, the brampton, 141 witness man, service of, 15 woful bank, legend concerning, 135 women as judges, 2 workington easter football play, 200 wotobank, legend concerning, 135 wreay, mock mayoral festivities at, 201 wreck of the sea privilege at millom, 84 wrestling, 188-190 william andrews & co., printers, hull. footnotes: [1] paper communicated by sir g. duckett, july, 1879. [2] "sir ewain; or, the giant's cave." penrith, 1860. [3] historical manuscripts commissioners' ninth report. [4] at kirkby stephen, september, 1871. [5] "annals of kendal," 1832. [6] 8th series, vol. 9, 1896. [7] "survey of the lakes," 1789. [8] sayer. [9] sayer. [10] "bygone punishments," 1898. [11] "history and traditions of ravenstononedale," 1877. [12] "beneath helvellyn's shade," 1892. [13] at cockermouth, october 10th, 1867. [14] the rev. e. h. sugden's "history of arlecdon and frizington," 1897. [15] "craven and north-west yorkshire highlands." [16] "traditions of lancashire." [17] _carlisle journal_, may, 1895. [18] "church treasury of history, custom, and folk lore," 1897. [19] "the manners and customs of westmorland, etc., in the former part of the eighteenth century." [20] "romantic richmondshire," 1897. [21] "the parish registers of dalston," 1893. [22] "survey of the lakes," by james clarke. penrith, 1789. list of publications of william andrews & co., 5, farringdon avenue, london. "valuable and interesting."--_times._ "readable as well as instructive."--_the globe._ "a valuable addition to any library."--_derbyshire times._ "there is a charm about the chapters seldom found in works dealing with antiquarian lore, for they are never dry and always entertaining. the illustrations are a splendid feature. these county histories call for appreciation and deserve every success."--_birmingham daily gazette._ the bygone series. in this series the following volumes are included, and issued at 7s. 6d. each. demy 8vo, cloth gilt. these books have been favourably reviewed in the leading critical journals of england and america. carefully written articles by recognised authorities are included on history, castles, abbeys, biography, romantic episodes, legendary lore, traditional stories, curious customs, folk-lore, etc., etc. the works are illustrated by eminent artists, and by the reproduction of quaint pictures of the olden time. bygone berkshire, edited by rev. p. h. ditchfield, m.a., f.s.a. bygone cheshire, edited by william andrews. bygone cumberland and westmorland, by daniel scott. bygone durham, edited by william andrews. bygone gloucestershire, edited by william andrews. bygone hampshire, edited by william andrews. bygone hertfordshire, edited by william andrews. bygone lincolnshire (2 vols), edited by william andrews. bygone middlesex, edited by william andrews. bygone norfolk, edited by william andrews. bygone northumberland, edited by william andrews. bygone nottinghamshire, by william stevenson. bygone scotland, by david maxwell, c.e. bygone somersetshire, edited by cuming walters. bygone southwark, by mrs. e. boger. bygone staffordshire, edited by william andrews. bygone suffolk, edited by cuming walters. bygone surrey, edited by george clinch and s. w. kershaw, f.s.a. bygone sussex, by w. e. a. axon. bygone yorkshire, edited by william andrews. england in the days of old. by william andrews. _demy, cloth extra, 7s. 6d. numerous illustrations._ contents:--when wigs were worn--powdering the hair--men wearing muffs-concerning corporation customs--bribes for the palate--rebel heads on city gates--burials at cross roads--detaining the dead for debt--a nobleman's household in tudor times--bread and baking in bygone days--arise, mistress, arise!--the turnspit--a gossip about the goose--bells as time-tellers--the age of snuffing--state lotteries--bear-baiting--morris dancers-the folk-lore of midsummer eve--harvest home--curious charities--an old-time chronicler--index. "a most delightful work."--_leeds mercury._ "mr. andrews has the true art of narration, and contrives to give us the results of his learning with considerable freshness of style, whilst his subjects are always interesting and picturesque."--_manchester courier._ "the old customs, domestic habits, and dress of our forefathers described in these chapters are too much neglected by historians, and a study of them will while away a leisure hour very pleasantly."--_the times._ bygone punishments. by william andrews. _demy, cloth gilt, 7s. 6d. numerous illustrations._ contents:--hanging--hanging in chains--hanging, drawing, and quartering--pressing to death--drowning--burning to death--boiling to death--beheading--the halifax gibbet--the scottish maiden--mutilation--branding--the pillory--punishing authors and burning books--finger pillory--the jougs--the stocks--the drunkard's cloak--whipping and whipping-posts--public penance--the repentance stool--the ducking stool--the brank, or scold's bridle--riding the stang--index. "a book of great interest."--_manchester courier._ "full of curious lore, sought out and arranged with much industry."--_the scotsman._ "mr. andrews has produced a most entertaining book, without departing from authenticated facts, there is no moralising, and the writer never obtrudes himself. the result is a work well worth a place on a bookshelf, and readable to a degree."--_eastern morning news._ literary byways. by william andrews. _demy, cloth gilt, 7s. 6d._ contents:--authors at work--the earnings of authors--"declined with thanks"--epigrams on authors--poetical graces--poetry on panes--english folk rhymes--the poetry of toast lists and menu cards--toasts and toasting--curious american old-time gleanings--the earliest american poetess: anne bradstreet--a playful poet: miss catharine fanshawe--a popular song writer: mrs. john hunter--a poet of the poor: mary pyper--the poet of the fisher-folk: mrs. susan k. phillips--a poet and novelist of the people: thomas miller--the cottage countess--the compiler of "old moore's almanack": henry andrews--james nayler, the mad quaker, who claimed to be the messiah--a biographical romance: swan's strange story--short letters--index. "readable and entertaining."--_notes and queries._ "turn where you will, there is information and entertainment in this book."--_birmingham daily gazette._ curious epitaphs. collected and edited with notes by william andrews. _demy, cloth extra, 7s. 6d. numerous illustrations._ contents:--epitaphs on tradesmen--typographical epitaphs--epitaphs on good and faithful servants--epitaphs on soldiers and sailors--epitaphs on musicians and actors--epitaphs on sportsmen--bacchanalian epitaphs--epitaphs on parish clerks and sextons--punning epitaphs--manxland epitaphs--epitaphs on notable persons--miscellaneous epitaphs--index. "a most entertaining collection."--_newcastle daily chronicle._ "a book that is sure to be widely read and appreciated."--_people's journal._ "it is an entertaining and instructive work, it may fairly be regarded as the best on its subject, and it will take a permanent place in our literature."--_hull critic._ curious church customs. edited by william andrews. _demy, cloth extra, 7s. 6d._ contents:--sports in churches--holy day customs--church bells: when and why they were rung--inscriptions on bells--laws of the belfry--ringers' jugs--customs and superstitions of baptism--marriage customs--burial customs--concerning the churchyard--altars in churches--the rood loft and its uses--armour in churches--beating the bounds--the story of the crosier--bishops in battle--the cloister and its story--shorthand in church--reminiscences of our village church--index. "a thoroughly excellent volume."--_publishers' circular._ "a handsomely got up and interesting volume."--_the fireside._ "we are indebted to mr. andrews for an invaluable addition to our library of folk-lore, and we do not think that many who take it up will slip a single page."--_dundee advertiser._ ecclesiastical curiosities. edited by william andrews. _demy, cloth gilt, 7s. 6d. numerous illustrations._ contents:--the church door--sacrificial foundations--the building of the english cathedrals--ye chapell of oure ladye--some famous spires--the five of spades and the church of ashton-under-lyne--bells and their messages--stories about bells--concerning font-lore--watching chambers in churches--church chests--an antiquarian problem: the leper window--mazes--churchyard superstitions--curious announcements in the church--big bones preserved in churches--samuel pepys at church--index. "an interesting and engrossing volume."--_church bells._ "it consists of studies by various writers in the history, customs, and folk-lore of the church of england. whilst it will appeal most strongly to those who are given to antiquarian and ecclesiological inquiry, it contains much that should prove of interest to any intelligent reader. the various contributions give evidence of diligent and discriminating research, and embody much old-world lore that is curious and instructive."--_aberdeen free press._ the church treasury of history, custom, folk-lore, etc. edited by william andrews. _demy, 7s. 6d. numerous illustrations._ contents:--stave-kirks--curious churches of cornwall--holy wells--hermit and hermit cells--church wakes--fortified church towers--the knight templars: their churches and their privileges--english mediæval pilgrimages--pilgrims' signs--human skin on church doors--animals of the church in wood, stone, and bronze--queries in stones--pictures in churches--flowers and rites of the church--ghost layers and ghost laying--church walks--westminster waxworks--index. "the book will be welcome to every lover of archæological lore."--_liverpool daily post._ "it is a work that will prove interesting to the clergy and churchmen generally, and to all others who have an antiquarian turn of mind, or like to be regaled occasionally by reading old-world customs and anecdotes."--_church family newspaper._ bygone church life in scotland. edited by william andrews. _demy, cloth gilt, 7s. 6d._ contents:--the cross in scotland--bell lore--saints and holy wells--life in the pre-reformation cathedrals--public worship in olden times--church music--discipline in the kirk--curiosities of church finance--witchcraft and the kirk--birth and baptisms, customs and superstitions--marriage laws and customs--gretna green gossip--death and burial customs and superstitions--the story of a stool--the martyrs' monument, edinburgh--index. "the volume is certain to receive a welcome from scotsmen at home and abroad."--_daily chronicle._ "every sentence in the book is either instructive or amusing, and it should consequently find many appreciative readers. it contains a vast amount of traditional and historical lore referring almost to every district of scotland. there are some artistic illustrations, especially those of glasgow cathedral and views of ancient portions of that city from the pencil of david small."--_dundee advertiser._ lore and legend of the english church. by the rev. geo. s. tyack, b.a. _crown, cloth extra, 7s. 6d. numerous illustrations._ contents:--introduction--the building of the church--the church steeple--the churchyard--graves and funerals--the nave--the pulpit and the lectern--the font--folk-lore and customs of marriage--the chancel and the choir--alms and offerings--conclusion--index. "a work that will be read with much interest."--_somerset herald._ "a handsome and substantial volume."--_birmingham daily gazette._ "the volume could scarcely be too warmly commended."--_staffordshire advertiser._ "a valuable addition to the splendid series of books on church curiosities published by messrs. william andrews & co."--_church family newspaper._ a book about bells. by the rev. geo. s. tyack, b.a. _crown, cloth extra, 3s. 6d._ contents:--invention of bells--bell founding and bell founders--dates and names of bells--the decoration of bells--some noteworthy bells--the loss of old bells--towers and campaniles--bell-ringing and bell-ringers--the church-going bell--bells at christian festivals and fasts--the epochs of man's life marked by the bells--the blessings and the cursings of the bells--bells as time-markers--secular uses of church and other bells--small bells, secular and sacred--carillons--belfry rhymes and legends--index of subjects, index of places. "covers the whole field of bell-lore."--_scotsman._ "'a book about bells' can be heartily commended."--_pall mall gazette._ "a most useful and interesting book.... all who are interested in bells will, we feel confident, read it with pleasure and profit."--_church family newspaper._ the grotesque in church art. by t. tindall wildridge. only 400 copies printed, and each copy numbered. _quarto cloth extra, 16s. 6d. many illustrations._ contents:--introduction--definitions of the grotesque--the carvers--the artistic quality of church grotesques--gothic ornament not didactic--ingrained paganism--mythic origin of church carvings--hell's mouth--satanic representations--the devil and the vices--ale and the alewife--satires without satan--scriptural illustrations--masks and faces--the domestic and popular--animal musicians--compound forms--nondescripts--rebuses--trinities--the fox in church art--situations of grotesque ornament in church art--index. "the book is one which will appeal strongly to book-lovers; for the edition is a handsome one, exquisitely printed and profusely illustrated, and the edition is strictly limited to four hundred copies."--_sheffield daily telegraph._ the miracle play in england. an account of the early religious drama. by sidney w. clarke, barrister-at-law. _crown, 2s. 0d. illustrated._ contents:--the origin of drama--the beginnings of english drama--the york plays--the wakefield plays--the chester plays--the coventry plays--other english miracle plays--the production of a miracle play--the scenery, properties, and dresses--appendix--the order of the york plays--extract from city register of york, 1426--the order of the wakefield plays--the order of the chester plays--the order of the grey friars' plays at coventry--a miracle play in a puppet show--index. "an admirable work."--_eastern morning news._ "mr. clarke has chosen a most interesting subject, one that is attractive alike to the student, the historian, and the general reader.... a most interesting volume, and a number of quaint illustrations add to its value."--_birmingham daily gazette._ legal lore: curiosities of law and lawyers. edited by william andrews. _demy, cloth extra, 7s. 6d._ contents:--bible law--sanctuaries--trials in superstitious ages--on symbols--law under the feudal system--the manor and manor law--ancient tenures--laws of the forest--trial by jury in old times--barbarous punishments--trials of animals--devices of the sixteenth century debtors--laws relating to the gipsies--commonwealth law and lawyers--cock-fighting in scotland--cockieleerie law--fatal links--post-mortem trials--island laws--the little inns of court--obiter--index. "there are some very amusing and curious facts concerning law and lawyers. we have read with much interest the articles on sanctuaries, trials in superstitious ages, ancient tenures, trials by jury in old times, barbarous punishments, and trials of animals, and can heartily recommend the volume to those who wish for a few hours' profitable diversion in the study of what may be called the light literature of the law."--_daily mail._ divine song in its human echo. or, song and service. a series of short, plain sermons on old-fashioned hymns. by the rev. j. george gibson. _crown, cloth gilt, 7s. 6d._ "this volume contains thirty-seven sermons on old-fashioned hymns, and when we say that each discourse averages about ten octavo pages, printed in good-sized type, it will be seen that they are entitled to be called short. the rector of ebchester is an adept at the production of short sermons, and the line he has adopted in this instance is an extremely happy one. it is a conception that appeals to a great multitude, and the hymns which give the cue to the reflections form a large variety of well-known spiritual songs, the favourites, indeed, in communities of every name. some of the sermons, indeed, most of them, have been prepared for anniversaries and special occasions, and all are such as might be expected from a man who is an undoubted lover of hymns. their brevity excludes prolixity, and terse summaries of facts, sharp statements of doctrine, succinctness of argument, and directness of appeal characterise the whole."--_newcastle daily leader._ transcriber's notes: passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. superscripted characters are indicated by {superscript}. sir harry hotspur of humblethwaite. by anthony trollope, author of "framley parsonage," etc. london: hurst and blackett, publishers, 13, great marlborough street. 1871 the right of translation is reserved. london: r. clay, sons, and taylor, printers, bread street hill. contents chapter i. sir harry hotspur. chapter ii. our heroine. chapter iii. lord alfred's courtship. chapter iv. vacillation. chapter v. george hotspur. chapter vi. the ball in bruton street. chapter vii. lady altringham. chapter viii. airey force. chapter ix. "i know what you are." chapter x. mr. hart and captain stubber. chapter xi. mrs. morton. chapter xii. the hunt becomes hot. chapter xiii. "i will not desert him." chapter xiv. pertinacity. chapter xv. cousin george is hard pressed. chapter xvi. sir harry's return. chapter xvii. "let us try." chapter xviii. good advice. chapter xix. the new smithy. chapter xx. cousin george's success. chapter xxi. emily hotspur's sermon. chapter xxii. george hotspur yields. chapter xxiii. "i shall never be married." chapter xxiv. the end. sir harry hotspur of humblethwaite. chapter i. sir harry hotspur. sir harry hotspur of humblethwaite was a mighty person in cumberland, and one who well understood of what nature were the duties, and of what sort the magnificence, which his position as a great english commoner required of him. he had twenty thousand a year derived from land. his forefathers had owned the same property in cumberland for nearly four centuries, and an estate nearly as large in durham for more than a century and a half. he had married an earl's daughter, and had always lived among men and women not only of high rank, but also of high character. he had kept race-horses when he was young, as noblemen and gentlemen then did keep them, with no view to profit, calculating fairly their cost as a part of his annual outlay, and thinking that it was the proper thing to do for the improvement of horses and for the amusement of the people. he had been in parliament, but had made no figure there, and had given it up. he still kept his house in bruton street, and always spent a month or two in london. but the life that he led was led at humblethwaite, and there he was a great man, with a great domain around him,--with many tenants, with a world of dependants among whom he spent his wealth freely, saving little, but lavishing nothing that was not his own to lavish,--understanding that his enjoyment was to come from the comfort and respect of others, for whose welfare, as he understood it, the good things of this world had been bestowed upon him. he was a proud man, with but few intimacies,--with a few dear friendships which were the solace of his life,--altogether gracious in his speech, if it were not for an apparent bashfulness among strangers; never assuming aught, deferring much to others outwardly, and showing his pride chiefly by a certain impalpable _noli me tangere_, which just sufficed to make itself felt and obeyed at the first approach of any personal freedom. he was a handsome man,--if an old man near to seventy may be handsome,--with grey hair, and bright, keen eyes, and arched eyebrows, with a well-cut eagle nose, and a small mouth, and a short dimpled chin. he was under the middle height, but nevertheless commanded attention by his appearance. he wore no beard save a slight grey whisker, which was cut away before it reached his chin. he was strongly made, but not stout, and was hale and active for his age. such was sir harry hotspur of humblethwaite. the account of lady elizabeth, his wife, may be much shorter. she was known,--where she was known,--simply as sir harry's wife. he indeed was one of those men of whom it may be said that everything appertaining to them takes its importance from the fact of its being theirs. lady elizabeth was a good woman, a good wife, and a good mother, and was twenty years younger than her husband. he had been forty-five years old when he had married her, and she, even yet, had not forgotten the deference which was due to his age. two years before the time at which our story will begin, a great sorrow, an absolutely crushing grief, had fallen upon the house of humblethwaite. an only son had died just as he had reached his majority. when the day came on which all humblethwaite and the surrounding villages were to have been told to rejoice and make merry because another man of the hotspurs was ready to take the reins of the house as soon as his father should have been gathered to his fathers, the poor lad lay a-dying, while his mother ministered by his bedside, and the baronet was told by the physician--who had been brought from london--that there was no longer for him any hope that he should leave a male heir at humblethwaite to inherit his name and his honours. for months it was thought that lady elizabeth would follow her boy. sir harry bore the blow bravely, though none who do not understand the system well can conceive how the natural grief of the father was increased by the disappointment which had fallen upon the head of the house. but the old man bore it well, making but few audible moans, shedding no tears, altering in very little the habits of life; still spending money, because it was good for others that it should be spent, and only speaking of his son when it was necessary for him to allude to those altered arrangements as to the family property which it was necessary that he should make. but still he was a changed man, as those perceived who watched him closest. cloudesdale the butler knew well in what he was changed, as did old hesketh the groom, and gilsby the gamekeeper. he had never been given to much talk, but was now more silent than of yore. of horses, dogs, and game there was no longer any mention whatever made by the baronet. he was still constant with mr. lanesby, the steward, because it was his duty to know everything that was done on the property; but even mr. lanesby would acknowledge that, as to actual improvements,--the commencement of new work in the hope of future returns, the baronet was not at all the man he had been. how was it possible that he should be the man he had been when his life was so nearly gone, and that other life had gone also, which was to have been the renewal and continuation of his own? when the blow fell, it became sir harry's imperative duty to make up his mind what he would do with his property. as regarded the two estates, they were now absolutely, every acre of them, at his own disposal. he had one child left him, a daughter,--in whom, it is hoped, the reader may be induced to take some interest, and with her to feel some sympathy, for she will be the person with whom the details of this little story must most be concerned; and he had a male heir, who must needs inherit the title of the family, one george hotspur,--not a nephew, for sir harry had never had a brother, but the son of a first cousin who had not himself been much esteemed at humblethwaite. now sir harry was a man who, in such a condition as this in which he was now placed, would mainly be guided by his ideas of duty. for a month or two he said not a word to any one, not even to his own lawyer, though he himself had made a will, a temporary will, duly witnessed by mr. lanesby and another, so that the ownership of the property should not be adjusted simply by the chance direction of law in the event of his own sudden demise; but his mind was doubtless much burdened with the subject. how should he discharge this fresh responsibility which now rested on him? while his boy had lived, the responsibility of his property had had nothing for him but charms. all was to go to the young harry,--all, as a matter of course; and it was only necessary for him to take care that every acre should descend to his heir not only unimpaired by him in value, but also somewhat increased. provision for his widow and for his girl had already been made before he had ventured on matrimony,--provision sufficient for many girls had fortune so far favoured him. but that an eldest son should have all the family land,--one, though as many sons should have been given to him as to priam,--and that that one should have it unencumbered, as he had had it from his father,--this was to him the very law of his being. and he would have taught that son, had already begun to teach him when the great blow came, that all this was to be given to him, not that he might put it into his own belly, or wear it on his own back, or even spend it as he might list himself, but that he might so live as to do his part in maintaining that order of gentlehood in england, by which england had become--so thought sir harry--the proudest and the greatest and the justest of nations. but now he had no son, and yet the duty remained to him of maintaining his order. it would perhaps have been better for him, it would certainly have been easier, had some settlement or family entail fixed all things for him. those who knew him well personally, but did not know the affairs of his family, declared among themselves that sir harry would take care that the property went with the title. a marriage might be arranged. there could be nothing to object to a marriage between second cousins. at any rate sir harry hotspur was certainly not the man to separate the property from the title. but they who knew the family, and especially that branch of the family from which george hotspur came, declared that sir harry would never give his daughter to such a one as was this cousin. and if not his daughter, then neither would he give to such a scapegrace either humblethwaite in cumberland or scarrowby in durham. there did exist a party who said that sir harry would divide the property, but they who held such an opinion certainly knew very little of sir harry's social or political tenets. any such division was the one thing which he surely would not effect. when twelve months had passed after the death of sir harry's son, george hotspur had been at humblethwaite and had gone, and sir harry's will had been made. he had left everything to his daughter, and had only stipulated that her husband, should she marry, should take the name of hotspur. he had decided, that should his daughter, as was probable, marry within his lifetime, he could then make what settlements he pleased, even to the changing of the tenor of his will, should he think fit to change it. should he die and leave her still a spinster, he would trust to her in everything. not being a man of mystery, he told his wife and his daughter what he had done,--and what he still thought that he possibly might do; and being also a man to whom any suspicion of injustice was odious, he desired his attorney to make known to george hotspur what had been settled. and in order that this blow to cousin george might be lightened,--cousin george having in conversation acknowledged to a few debts,--an immediate present was made to him of four thousand pounds, and double that amount was assured to him at the baronet's death. the reader may be sure that the baronet had heard many things respecting cousin george which he did not like. to him personally it would have been infinitely preferable that the title and the estates should have gone together, than that his own daughter should be a great heiress. that her outlook into the world was fair and full of promise of prosperity either way, was clear enough. twenty thousand a year would not be necessary to make her a happy woman. and then it was to him a manifest and a sacred religion that to no man or to no woman were appointed the high pinnacles of fortune simply that that man or that woman might enjoy them. they were to be held as thrones are held, for the benefit of the many. and in the disposition of this throne, the necessity of making which had fallen upon him from the loss of his own darling, he had brought himself to think--not of his daughter's happiness, or to the balance of which, in her possessing or not possessing the property, he could venture on no prophecy,--but of the welfare of all those who might measure their weal or woe from the manner in which the duties of this high place were administered. he would fain that there should still have been a sir harry or a sir george hotspur of humblethwaite; but he found that his duty required him to make the other arrangement. and yet he had liked the cousin, who indeed had many gifts to win liking both from men and women. previously to the visit very little had been known personally of young george hotspur at humblethwaite. his father, also a george, had in early life quarrelled with the elder branch of the family, and had gone off with what money belonged to him, and had lived and died in paris. the younger george had been educated abroad, and then had purchased a commission in a regiment of english cavalry. at the time when young harry died it was only known of him at humblethwaite that he had achieved a certain reputation in london, and that he had sold out of the army. he was talked of as a man who shot birds with precision. pigeons he could shoot with wonderful dexterity,--which art was at humblethwaite supposed to be much against him. but then he was equally successful with partridges and pheasants; and partly on account of such success, and partly probably because his manner was pleasant, he was known to be a welcome guest at houses in which men congregate to slaughter game. in this way he had a reputation, and one that was not altogether cause for reproach; but it had not previously recommended him to the notice of his cousin. just ten months after poor harry's death he was asked, and went, to humblethwaite. probably at that moment the baronet's mind was still somewhat in doubt. the wish of lady elizabeth had been clearly expressed to her husband to the effect that encouragement should be given to the young people to fall in love with each other. to this sir harry never assented; though there was a time,--and that time had not yet passed when george hotspur reached humblethwaite,--in which the baronet was not altogether averse to the idea of the marriage. but when george left humblethwaite the baronet had made up his mind. tidings had reached him, and he was afraid of the cousin. and other tidings had reached him also; or rather perhaps it would be truer to him to say that another idea had come to him. of all the young men now rising in england there was no young man who more approved himself to sir harry's choice than did lord alfred gresley, the second son of his old friend and political leader the marquis of milnthorp. lord alfred had but scanty fortune of his own, but was in parliament and in office, and was doing well. all men said all good things of him. then there was a word or two spoken between the marquis and the baronet, and just a word also with lord alfred himself. lord alfred had no objection to the name of hotspur. this was in october, while george hotspur was still declaring that gilbsy knew nothing of getting up a head of game; and then lord alfred promised to come to humblethwaite at christmas. it was after this that george owned to a few debts. his confession on that score did him no harm. sir harry had made up his mind that day. sir harry had at that time learned a good deal of his cousin george's mode of life in london, and had already decided that this young man was not one whom it would be well to set upon the pinnacle. and yet he had liked the young man, as did everybody. lady elizabeth had liked him much, and for a fortnight had gone on hoping that all difficulties might have solved themselves by the young man's marriage with her daughter. it need hardly be said that not a word one way or the other was spoken to emily hotspur; but it seemed to the mother that the young people, though there was no love-making, yet liked each other. sir harry at this time was up in london for a month or two, hearing tidings, seeing lord alfred, who was at his office; and on his return, that solution by family marriage was ordered to be for ever banished from the maternal bosom. sir harry said that it would not do. nevertheless, he was good to the young cousin, and when the time was drawing nigh for the young man's departure he spoke of a further visit. the coverts at humblethwaite, such as they were, would always be at his service. this was a week before the cousin went; but by the coming of the day on which the cousin took his departure sir harry regretted that he had made that offer of future hospitality. chapter ii. our heroine. "he has said nothing to her?" asked sir harry, anxiously, of his wife. "i think not," replied lady elizabeth. "had he said anything that meant anything, she would have told you?" "certainly she would," said lady elizabeth. sir harry knew his child, and was satisfied that no harm had been done; nevertheless, he wished that that further invitation had not been given. if this christmas visitor that was to come to humblethwaite could be successful, all would be right; but it had seemed to sir harry, during that last week of cousin george's sojourn beneath his roof, there had been more of cousinly friendship between the cousins than had been salutary, seeing, as he had seen, that any closer connection was inexpedient. but he thought that he was sure that no great harm had been done. had any word been spoken to his girl which she herself had taken as a declaration of love, she would certainly have told her mother. sir harry would no more doubt his daughter than he would his own honour. there were certain points and lines of duty clearly laid down for a girl so placed as was his daughter; and sir harry, though he could not have told whence the knowledge of these points and lines had come to his child, never for a moment doubted but that she knew them, and would obey them. to know and to obey such points of duty were a part of the inheritance of such an one as emily hotspur. nevertheless, it might be possible that her fancy should be touched, and that she herself should know nothing of it,--nothing that she could confide even to a mother. sir harry understanding this, and having seen in these last days something as he thought of too close a cousinly friendship, was anxious that lord alfred should come and settle everything. if lord alfred should be successful, all danger would be at an end, and the cousin might come again and do what he liked with the coverts. alas, alas! the cousin should never have been allowed to show his handsome, wicked face at humblethwaite! emily hotspur was a girl whom any father would have trusted; and let the reader understand this of her, that she was one in whom intentional deceit was impossible. neither to her father nor to any one could she lie either in word or action. and all these lines and points of duty were well known to her, though she knew not, and had never asked herself, whence the lesson had come. will it be too much to say, that they had formed a part of her breeding, and had been given to her with her blood? she understood well that from her, as heiress of the house of humblethwaite, a double obedience was due to her father,--the obedience of a child added to that which was now required from her as the future transmitter of honours of the house. and yet no word had been said to her of the honours of the house; nor, indeed, had many words ever been said as to that other obedience. these lessons, when they have been well learned, have ever come without direct teaching. but she knew more than this, and the knowledge had reached her in the same manner. though she owed a great duty to her father, there was a limit to that duty, of which, unconsciously, she was well aware. when her mother told her that lord alfred was coming, having been instructed to do so by sir harry; and hinted, with a caress and a kiss, and a soft whisper, that lord alfred was one of whom sir harry approved greatly, and that if further approval could be bestowed sir harry would not be displeased, emily as she returned her mother's embrace, felt that she had a possession of her own with which neither father nor mother might be allowed to interfere. it was for them, or rather for him, to say that a hand so weighted as was hers should not be given here or there; but it was not for them, not even for him, to say that her heart was to be given here, or to be given there. let them put upon her what weight they might of family honours, and of family responsibility, that was her own property;--if not, perhaps, to be bestowed at her own pleasure, because of the pressure of that weight, still her own, and absolutely beyond the bestowal of any other. nevertheless, she declared to herself, and whispered to her mother, that she would be glad to welcome lord alfred. she had known him well when she was a child of twelve years old and he was already a young man in parliament. since those days she had met him more than once in london. she was now turned twenty, and he was something more than ten years her senior; but there was nothing against him, at any rate, on the score of age. lord alfred was admitted on every side to be still a young man; and though he had already been a lord of one board or of another for the last four years, and had earned a reputation for working, he did not look like a man who would be more addicted to sitting at boards than spending his time with young women. he was handsome, pleasant, good-humoured, and full of talk; had nothing about him of the official fogy; and was regarded by all his friends as a man who was just now fit to marry. "they say that he is such a good son, and such a good brother," said lady elizabeth, anxiously. "quite a phoenix!" said emily, laughing. then lady elizabeth began to fear that she had said too much, and did not mention lord alfred's name for two days. but miss hotspur had by that time resolved that lord alfred should have a fair chance. if she could teach herself to think that of all men walking the earth lord alfred was the best and the most divine, the nearest of all men to a god, how excellent a thing would it be! her great responsibility as to the family burden would in that case already be acquitted with credit. the wishes of her father, which on such a subject were all but paramount, would be gratified; and she herself would then be placed almost beyond the hand of misfortune to hurt her. at any rate, the great and almost crushing difficulty of her life would so be solved. but the man must have enough in her eyes of that godlike glory to satisfy her that she had found in him one who would be almost a divinity, at any rate to her. could he speak as that other man spoke? could he look as that other one looked? would there be in his eye such a depth of colour, in his voice such a sound of music, in his gait so divine a grace? for that other one, though she had looked into the brightness of the colour, though she had heard the sweetness of the music, though she had watched the elastic spring of the step, she cared nothing as regarded her heart--her heart, which was the one treasure of her own. no; she was sure of that. of her one own great treasure, she was much too chary to give it away unasked, and too independent, as she told herself, to give it away unauthorized. the field was open to lord alfred; and, as her father wished it, lord alfred should be received with every favour. if she could find divinity, then she would bow before it readily. alas for lord alfred! we may all know that when she thought of it thus, there was but poor chance of success for lord alfred. let him have what of the godlike he might, she would find but little of it there when she made her calculations and resolutions after such fashion as this. the man who becomes divine in a woman's eyes, has generally achieved his claim to celestial honours by sudden assault. and, alas! the qualities which carry him through it and give the halo to his head may after all be very ungodlike. some such achievement had already fallen in the way of cousin george; though had cousin george and lord alfred been weighed in just scales, the divinity of the latter, such as it was, would have been found greatly to prevail. indeed, it might perhaps have been difficult to lay hold of and bring forward as presentable for such office as that of a lover for such a girl any young man who should be less godlike than cousin george. but he had gifts of simulation, which are valuable; and poor emily hotspur had not yet learned the housewife's trick of passing the web through her fingers, and of finding by the touch whether the fabric were of fine wool, or of shoddy made up with craft to look like wool of the finest. we say that there was but small chance for lord alfred; nevertheless the lady was dutifully minded to give him all the chance that it was in her power to bestow. she did not tell herself that her father's hopes were vain. of her preference for that other man she never told herself anything. she was not aware that it existed. she knew that he was handsome; she thought that he was clever. she knew that he had talked to her as no man had ever talked before. she was aware that he was her nearest relative beyond her father and mother, and that therefore she might be allowed to love him as a cousin. she told herself that he was a hotspur, and that he must be the head of the hotspurs when her father should be taken from them. she thought that he looked as a man should look who would have to carry such a dignity. but there was nothing more. no word had been said to her on the subject; but she was aware, because no word had been said, that it was not thought fitting that she should be her cousin's bride. she could not but know how great would be the advantage could the estates and the title be kept together. even though he should inherit no acre of the land,--and she had been told by her father that such was his decision,--this cousin george must become the head of the house of hotspur; and to be head of the house of hotspur was to her a much greater thing than to be the owner of humblethwaite and scarrowby. gifts like the latter might be given to a mere girl, like herself,--were to be so given. but let any man living do what he might, george hotspur must become the head and chief of the old house of hotspur. nevertheless, it was not for her to join the two things together, unless her father should see that it would be good for her to do so. emily hotspur was very like her father, having that peculiar cast of countenance which had always characterized the family. she had the same arch in her eyebrows, indicating an aptitude for authority; the same well-formed nose, though with her the beak of the eagle was less prominent; the same short lip, and small mouth, and delicate dimpled chin. with both of them the lower part of the face was peculiarly short, and finely cut. with both of them the brow was high and broad, and the temples prominent. but the girl's eyes were blue, while those of the old man were brightly green. it was told of him that when a boy his eyes also had been blue. her hair, which was very plentiful, was light in colour, but by no means flaxen. her complexion was as clear as the finest porcelain; but there were ever roses in her cheeks, for she was strong by nature, and her health was perfect. she was somewhat short of stature, as were all the hotspurs, and her feet and hands and ears were small and delicate. but though short, she seemed to lack nothing in symmetry, and certainly lacked nothing in strength. she could ride or walk the whole day, and had no feeling that such vigour of body was a possession of which a young lady should be ashamed. such as she was, she was the acknowledged beauty of the county; and at carlisle, where she showed herself at least once a year at the county ball, there was neither man nor woman, young nor old, who was not ready to say that emily hotspur was, among maidens, the glory of cumberland. her life hitherto had been very quiet. there was the ball at carlisle, which she had attended thrice; on the last occasion, because of her brother's death, she had been absent, and the family of the hotspurs had been represented there only by the venison and game which had been sent from humblethwaite. twice also she had spent the months of may and june in london; but it had not hitherto suited the tone of her father's character to send his daughter out into all the racket of a london season. she had gone to balls, and to the opera, and had ridden in the park, and been seen at flower-shows; but she had not been so common in those places as to be known to the crowd. and, hitherto, neither in town or country, had her name been connected with that of any suitor for her hand. she was now twenty, and the reader will remember that in the twelve months last past, the house of humblethwaite had been clouded with deep mourning. the cousin was come and gone, and the baronet hoped in his heart that there might be an end of him as far as humblethwaite was concerned;--at any rate till his child should have given herself to a better lover. tidings had been sent to sir harry during the last week of the young man's sojourn beneath his roof, which of all that had reached his ears were the worst. he had before heard of recklessness, of debt, of dissipation, of bad comrades. now he heard of worse than these. if that which he now heard was true, there had been dishonour. but sir harry was a man who wanted ample evidence before he allowed his judgment to actuate his conduct, and in this case the evidence was far from ample. he did not stint his hospitality to the future baronet, but he failed to repeat that promise of a future welcome which had already been given, and which had been thankfully accepted. but a man knows that such an offer of renewed hospitality should be repeated at the moment of departure, and george hotspur, as he was taken away to the nearest station in his cousin's carriage, was quite aware that sir harry did not then desire that the visit should be repeated. lord alfred was to be at humblethwaite on christmas-eve. the emergencies of the board at which he sat would not allow of an earlier absence from london. he was a man who shirked no official duty, and was afraid of no amount of work; and though he knew how great was the prize before him, he refused to leave his board before the day had come at which his board must necessarily dispense with his services. between him and his father there had been no reticence, and it was clearly understood by him that he was to go down and win twenty thousand a year and the prettiest girl in cumberland, if his own capacity that way, joined to all the favour of the girl's father and mother, would enable him to attain success. to emily not a word more had been said on the subject than those which have been already narrated as having been spoken by the mother to the daughter. with all his authority, with all his love for his only remaining child, with all his consciousness of the terrible importance of the matter at issue, sir harry could not bring himself to suggest to his daughter that it would be well for her to fall in love with the guest who was coming to them. but to lady elizabeth he said very much. he had quite made up his mind that the thing would be good, and, having done so, he was very anxious that the arrangement should be made. it was natural that this girl of his should learn to love some youth; and how terrible was the danger of her loving amiss, when so much depended on her loving wisely! the whole fate of the house of hotspur was in her hands,--to do with it as she thought fit! sir harry trembled as he reflected what would be the result were she to come to him some day and ask his favour for a suitor wholly unfitted to bear the name of hotspur, and to sit on the throne of humblethwaite and scarrowby. "is she pleased that he is coming?" he said to his wife, the evening before the arrival of their guest. "certainly she is pleased. she knows that we both like him." "i remember when she used to talk about him--often," said sir harry. "that was when she was a child." "but a year or two ago," said sir harry. "three or four years, perhaps; and with her that is a long time. it is not likely that she should talk much of him now. of course she knows what it is that we wish." "does she think about her cousin at all?" he said some hours afterwards. "yes, she thinks of him. that is only natural, you know." "it would be unnatural that she should think of him much." "i do not see that," said the mother, keen to defend her daughter from what might seem to be an implied reproach. "george hotspur is a man who will make himself thought of wherever he goes. he is clever, and very amusing;--there is no denying that. and then he has the hotspur look all over." "i wish he had never set his foot within the house," said the father. "my dear, there is no such danger as you think," said lady elizabeth. "emily is not a girl prone to fall in love at a moment's notice because a man is good-looking and amusing;--and certainly not with the conviction which she must have that her doing so would greatly grieve you." sir harry believed in his daughter, and said no more; but he thoroughly wished that lord alfred's wedding-day was fixed. "mamma," said emily, on the following day, "won't lord alfred be very dull?" "i hope not, my dear." "what is he to do, with nobody else here to amuse him?" "the crutchleys are coming on the 27th." now mr. and mrs. crutchley were, as emily thought, very ordinary people, and quite unlikely to afford amusement to lord alfred. mr. crutchley was an old gentleman of county standing, and with property in the county, living in a large dull red house in penrith, of whom sir harry thought a good deal, because he was a gentleman who happened to have had great-grandfathers and great-grandmothers. but he was quite as old as sir harry, and mrs. crutchley was a great deal older than lady elizabeth. "what will lord alfred have to say to mrs. crutchley, mamma?" "what do people in society always have to say to each other? and the lathebys are coming here to dine to-morrow, and will come again, i don't doubt, on the 27th." mr. latheby was the young vicar of humblethwaite, and mrs. latheby was a very pretty young bride whom he had just married. "and then lord alfred shoots," continued lady elizabeth. "cousin george said that the shooting wasn't worth going after," said emily, smiling. "mamma, i fear it will be a failure." this made lady elizabeth unhappy, as she thought that more was meant than was really said. but she did not confide her fears to her husband. chapter iii. lord alfred's courtship. the hall, as the great house at humblethwaite was called, consisted in truth of various edifices added one to another at various periods; but the result was this, that no more picturesque mansion could be found in any part of england than the hall at humblethwaite. the oldest portion of it was said to be of the time of henry vii.; but it may perhaps be doubted whether the set of rooms with lattice windows looking out on to the bowling-green, each window from beneath its own gable, was so old as the date assigned to it. it is strange how little authority can usually be found in family records to verify such statements. it was known that humblethwaite and the surrounding manors had been given to, or in some fashion purchased by, a certain harry hotspur, who also in his day had been a knight, when church lands were changing hands under henry viii. and there was authority to prove that that sir harry had done something towards making a home for himself on the spot; but whether those very gables were a portion of the building which the monks of st. humble had raised for themselves in the preceding reign, may probably be doubted. that there were fragments of masonry, and parts of old timber, remaining from the monastery was probably true enough. the great body of the old house, as it now stood, had been built in the time of charles ii., and there was the date in the brickwork still conspicuous on the wall looking into the court. the hall and front door as it now stood, very prominent but quite at the end of the house, had been erected in the reign of queen anne, and the modern drawing-rooms with the best bedrooms over them, projecting far out into the modern gardens, had been added by the present baronet's father. the house was entirely of brick, and the old windows,--not the very oldest, the reader will understand, but those of the caroline age,--were built with strong stone mullions, and were longer than they were deep, beauty of architecture having in those days been more regarded than light. who does not know such windows, and has not declared to himself often how sad a thing it is that sanitary or scientific calculations should have banished the like of them from our houses? two large oriel windows coming almost to the ground, and going up almost to the ceilings, adorned the dining-room and the library. from the drawing-rooms modern windows, opening on to a terrace, led into the garden. you entered the mansion by a court that was enclosed on two sides altogether, and on the two others partially. facing you, as you drove in, was the body of the building, with the huge porch projecting on the right so as to give the appearance of a portion of the house standing out on that side. on the left was that old mythic tudor remnant of the monastery, of which the back wall seen from the court was pierced only with a small window here and there, and was covered with ivy. those lattice windows, from which emily hotspur loved to think that the monks of old had looked into their trim gardens, now looked on to a bowling-green which was kept very trim in honour of the holy personages who were supposed to have played there four centuries ago. then, at the end of this old building, there had been erected kitchens, servants' offices, and various rooms, which turned the corner of the court in front, so that only one corner had, as it were, been left for ingress and egress. but the court itself was large, and in the middle of it there stood an old stone ornamental structure, usually called the fountain, but quite ignorant of water, loaded with griffins and satyrs and mermaids with ample busts, all overgrown with a green damp growth, which was scraped off by the joint efforts of the gardener and mason once perhaps in every five years. it often seems that the beauty of architecture is accidental. a great man goes to work with great means on a great pile, and makes a great failure. the world perceives that grace and beauty have escaped him, and that even magnificence has been hardly achieved. then there grows up beneath various unknown hands a complication of stones and brick to the arrangement of which no great thought seems to have been given; and, lo, there is a thing so perfect in its glory that he who looks at it declares that nothing could be taken away and nothing added without injury and sacrilege and disgrace. so it had been, or rather so it was now, with the hall at humblethwaite. no rule ever made for the guidance of an artist had been kept. the parts were out of proportion. no two parts seemed to fit each other. put it all on paper, and it was an absurdity. the huge hall and porch added on by the builder of queen anne's time, at the very extremity of the house, were almost a monstrosity. the passages and staircases, and internal arrangements, were simply ridiculous. but there was not a portion of the whole interior that did not charm; nor was there a corner of the exterior, nor a yard of an outside wall, that was not in itself eminently beautiful. lord alfred gresley, as he was driven into the court in the early dusk of a winter evening, having passed through a mile and a half of such park scenery as only cumberland and westmoreland can show, was fully alive to the glories of the place. humblethwaite did not lie among the lakes,--was, indeed, full ten miles to the north of keswick; but it was so placed that it enjoyed the beauty and the luxury of mountains and rivers, without the roughness of unmanageable rocks, or the sterility and dampness of moorland. of rocky fragments, indeed, peeping out through the close turf, and here and there coming forth boldly so as to break the park into little depths, with now and again a real ravine, there were plenty. and there ran right across the park, passing so near the hall as to require a stone bridge in the very flower-garden, the caldbeck, as bright and swift a stream as ever took away the water from neighbouring mountains. and to the south of humblethwaite there stood the huge skiddaw, and saddleback with its long gaunt ridge; while to the west, brockleband fell seemed to encircle the domain. lord alfred, as he was driven up through the old trees, and saw the deer peering at him from the knolls and broken fragments of stone, felt that he need not envy his elder brother if only his lines might fall to him in this very pleasant place. he had known humblethwaite before; and, irrespective of all its beauties, and of the wealth of the hotspurs, was quite willing to fall in love with emily hotspur. that a man with such dainties offered to him should not become greedy, that there should be no touch of avarice when such wealth was shown to him, is almost more than we may dare to assert. but lord alfred was a man not specially given to covetousness. he had recognized it as his duty as a man not to seek for these things unless he could in truth love the woman who held them in her hands to give. but as he looked round him through the gloaming of the evening, he thought that he remembered that emily hotspur was all that was loveable. but, reader, we must not linger long over lord alfred's love. a few words as to the father, a few as to the daughter, and a few also as to the old house where they dwelt together, it has been necessary to say; but this little love story of lord alfred's,--if it ever was a love story,--must be told very shortly. he remained five weeks at humblethwaite, and showed himself willing to receive amusement from old mrs. crutchley and from young mrs. latheby. the shooting was quite good enough for him, and he won golden opinions from every one about the place. he made himself acquainted with the whole history of the house, and was prepared to prove to demonstration that henry vii.'s monks had looked out of those very windows, and had played at bowls on that very green. emily became fond of him after a fashion, but he failed to assume any aspect of divinity in her eyes. of the thing to be done, neither father nor mother said a word to the girl; and she, though she knew so well that the doing of it was intended, said not a word to her mother. had lady elizabeth known how to speak, had she dared to be free with her own child, emily would soon have told her that there was no chance for lord alfred. and lady elizabeth would have believed her. nay, lady elizabeth, though she could not speak, had the woman's instinct, which almost assured her that the match would never be made. sir harry, on the other side, thought that things went prosperously; and his wife did not dare to undeceive him. he saw the young people together, and thought that he saw that emily was kind. he did not know that this frank kindness was incompatible with love in such a maiden's ways. as for emily herself, she knew that it must come. she knew that she could not prevent it. a slight hint or two she did give, or thought she gave, but they were too fine, too impalpable to be of avail. lord alfred spoke nothing of love till he made his offer in form. at last he was not hopeful himself. he had found it impossible to speak to this girl of love. she had been gracious with him, and almost intimate, and yet it had been impossible. he thought of himself that he was dull, stupid, lethargic, and miserably undemonstrative. but the truth was that there was nothing for him to demonstrate. he had come there to do a stroke of business, and he could not throw into this business a spark of that fire which would have been kindled by such sympathy had it existed. there are men who can raise such sparks, the pretence of fire, where there is no heat at all;--false, fraudulent men; but he was not such an one. nevertheless he went on with his business. "miss hotspur," he said to her one morning between breakfast and lunch, when, as usual, opportunity had been given him to be alone with her, "i have something to say to you, which i hope at any rate it will not make you angry to hear." "i am sure you will say nothing to make me angry," she replied. "i have already spoken to your father, and i have his permission. i may say more. he assures me that he hopes i may succeed." he paused a moment, but she remained quite tranquil. he watched her, and could see that the delicate pink on her cheek was a little heightened, and that a streak of colour showed itself on her fair brow; but there was nothing in her manner to give him either promise of success or assurance of failure. "you will know what i mean?" "yes, i know," she said, almost in a whisper. "and may i hope? to say that i love you dearly seems to be saying what must be a matter of course." "i do not see that at all," she replied with spirit. "i do love you very dearly. if i may be allowed to think that you will be my wife, i shall be the happiest man in england. i know how great is the honour which i seek, how immense in every way is the gift which i ask you to give me. can you love me?" "no," she said, again dropping her voice to a whisper. "is that all the answer, miss hotspur?" "what should i say? how ought i to answer you? if i could say it without seeming to be unkind, indeed, indeed, i would do so." "perhaps i have been abrupt." "it is not that. when you ask me--to--to--love you, of course i know what you mean. should i not speak the truth at once?" "must this be for always?" "for always," she replied. and then it was over. he did not himself press his suit further, though he remained at humblethwaite for three days after this interview. before lunch on that day the story had been told by emily to her mother, and by lord alfred to sir harry. lady elizabeth knew well enough that the story would never have to be told in another way. sir harry by no means so easily gave up his enterprise. he proposed to lord alfred that emily should be asked to reconsider her verdict. with his wife he was very round, saying that an answer given so curtly should go for nothing, and that the girl must be taught her duty. with emily herself he was less urgent, less authoritative, and indeed at last somewhat suppliant. he explained to her how excellent would be the marriage; how it would settle this terrible responsibility which now lay on his shoulders with so heavy a weight; how glorious would be her position; and how the hotspurs would still live as a great family could she bring herself to be obedient. and he said very much in praise of lord alfred, pointing out how good a man he was, how moral, how diligent, how safe, how clever,--how sure, with the assistance of the means which she would give him, to be one of the notable men of the country. but she never yielded an inch. she said very little,--answered him hardly a word, standing close to him, holding by his arm and his hand. there was the fact, that she would not have the man, would not have the man now or ever, certainly would not have him; and sir harry, let him struggle as he might, and talk his best, could not keep himself from giving absolute credit to her assurance. the visit was prolonged for three days, and then lord alfred left humblethwaite hall, with less appreciation of all its beauties than he had felt as he was first being driven up to the hall doors. when he went, sir harry could only bid god bless him, and assure him that, should he ever choose to try his fortune again, he should have all the aid which a father could give him. "it would be useless," said lord alfred; "she knows her own mind too well." and so he went his way. chapter iv. vacillation. when the spring-time came, sir harry hotspur with his wife and daughter, went up to london. during the last season the house in bruton street had been empty. he and his wife were then mourning their lost son, and there was no place for the gaiety of london in their lives. sir harry was still thinking of his great loss. he was always thinking of the boy who was gone, who had been the apple of his eye, his one great treasure, the only human being in the world whose superior importance to his own he had been ready, in his heart of hearts, to admit; but it was needful that the outer signs of sorrow should be laid aside, and emily hotspur was taken up to london, in order that she might be suited with a husband. that, in truth, was the reason of their going. neither sir harry nor lady elizabeth would have cared to leave cumberland had there been no such cause. they would have been altogether content to remain at home had emily been obedient enough in the winter to accept the hand of the suitor proposed for her. the house was opened in bruton street, and lord alfred came to see them. so also did cousin george. there was no reason why cousin george should not come. indeed, had he not done so, he must have been the most ungracious of cousins. he came, and found lady elizabeth and emily at home. emily told him that they were always there to receive visitors on sundays after morning church, and then he came again. she had made no such communication to lord alfred, but then perhaps it would have been hardly natural that she should have done so. lady elizabeth, in a note which she had occasion to write to lord alfred, did tell him of her custom on a sunday afternoon; but lord alfred took no such immediate advantage of the offer as did cousin george. as regarded the outward appearance of their life, the hotspurs were gayer this may than they had been heretofore when living in london. there were dinner-parties, whereas in previous times there had only been dinners at which a few friends might join them;--and there was to be a ball. there was a box at the opera, and there were horses for the park, and there was an understanding that the dealings with madame milvodi, the milliner, were to be as unlimited as the occasion demanded. it was perceived by every one that miss hotspur was to be settled in life. not a few knew the story of lord alfred. every one knew the facts of the property and emily's position as heiress, though every one probably did not know that it was still in sir harry's power to leave every acre of the property to whom he pleased. emily understood it all herself. there lay upon her that terrible responsibility of doing her best with the hotspur interests. to her the death of her brother had at the time been the blackest of misfortunes, and it was not the less so now as she thought of her own position. she had been steady enough as to the refusal of lord alfred, knowing well enough that she cared nothing for him. but there had since come upon her moments almost of regret that she should have been unable to accept him. it would have been so easy a way of escape from all her troubles without the assistance of madame milvodi, and the opera-box, and the park horses! at the time she had her own ideas about another man, but her ideas were not such as to make her think that any further work with madame milvodi and the opera-box would be unnecessary. then came the question of asking cousin george to the house. he had already been told to come on sundays, and on the very next sunday had been there. he had given no cause of offence at humblethwaite, and lady elizabeth was of opinion that he should be asked to dinner. if he were not asked, the very omission would show that they were afraid of him. lady elizabeth did not exactly explain this to her husband,--did not accurately know that such was her fear; but sir harry understood her feelings, and yielded. let cousin george be asked to dinner. sir harry at this time was vacillating with more of weakness than would have been expected from a man who had generally been so firm in the affairs of his life. he had been quite clear about george hotspur, when those inquiries of his were first made, and when his mind had first accepted the notion of lord alfred as his chosen son-in-law. but now he was again at sea. he was so conscious of the importance of his daughter's case, that he could not bring himself to be at ease, and to allow himself to expect that the girl would, in the ordinary course of nature, dispose of her young heart not to her own injury, as might reasonably be hoped from her temperament, her character, and her education. he could not protect himself from daily and hourly thought about it. her marriage was not as the marriage of other girls. the house of hotspur, which had lived and prospered for so many centuries, was to live and prosper through her; or rather mainly through the man whom she should choose as her husband. the girl was all-important now, but when she should have once disposed of herself her importance would be almost at an end. sir harry had in the recess of his mind almost a conviction that, although the thing was of such utmost moment, it would be better for him, better for them all, better for the hotspurs, that the matter should be allowed to arrange itself than that there should be any special judgment used in selection. he almost believed that his girl should be left to herself, as are other girls. but the thing was of such moment that he could not save himself from having it always before his eyes. and yet he knew not what to do; nor was there any aid forthcoming from lady elizabeth. he had tried his hand at the choice of a proper husband, and his daughter would have none of the man so chosen. so he had brought her up to london, and thrown her as it were upon the market. let madame milvodi and the opera-box and the park horses do what they could for her. of course a watch should be kept on her;--not from doubt of her excellence, but because the thing to be disposed of was so all-important, and the girl's mode of disposing of it might, without disgrace or fault on her part, be so vitally prejudicial to the family! for, let it be remembered, no curled darling of an eldest son would suit the exigencies of the case, unless such eldest son were willing altogether to merge the claims of his own family, and to make himself by name and purpose a hotspur. were his child to present to him as his son-in-law some heir to a noble house, some future earl, say even a duke in embryo, all that would be as nothing to sir harry. it was not his ambition to see his daughter a duchess. he wanted no name, or place, or dominion for any hotspur greater or higher or more noble than those which the hotspurs claimed and could maintain for themselves. to have humblethwaite and scarrowby lost amidst the vast appanages and domains of some titled family, whose gorgeous glories were new and paltry in comparison with the mellow honours of his own house, would to him have been a ruin to all his hopes. there might, indeed, be some arrangement as to the second son proceeding from such a marriage,--as to a future chance hotspur; but the claims of the hotspurs were, he thought, too high and too holy for such future chance; and in such case, for one generation at least, the hotspurs would be in abeyance. no: it was not that which he desired. that would not suffice for him. the son-in-law that he desired should be well born, a perfect gentleman, with belongings of whom he and his child might be proud; but he should be one who should be content to rest his claims to material prosperity and personal position on the name and wealth that he would obtain with his wife. lord alfred had been the very man; but then his girl would have none of lord alfred! eldest sons there might be in plenty ready to take such a bride; and were some eldest son to come to him and ask for his daughter's hand, some eldest son who would do so almost with a right to claim it if the girl's consent were gained, how could he refuse? and yet to leave a hotspur behind him living at humblethwaite, and hotspurs who should follow that hotspur, was all in all to him. might he venture to think once again of cousin george? cousin george was there, coming to the house, and his wife was telling him that it was incumbent on them to ask the young man to dinner. it was incumbent on them, unless they meant to let him know that he was to be regarded absolutely as a stranger,--as one whom they had taken up for a while, and now chose to drop again. a very ugly story had reached sir harry's ears about cousin george. it was said that he had twice borrowed money from the money-lenders on his commission, passing some document for security of its value which was no security, and that he had barely escaped detection, the two jews knowing that the commission would be forfeited altogether if the fraud were brought to light. the commission had been sold, and the proceeds divided between the jews, with certain remaining claims to them on cousin george's personal estate. such had been the story which in a vague way had reached sir harry's ears. it is not easily that such a man as sir harry can learn the details of a disreputable cousin's life. among all his old friends he had none more dear to him than lord milnthorp; and among his younger friends none more intimate than lord burton, the eldest son of lord milnthorp, lord alfred's brother. lord burton had told him the story, telling him at the same time that he could not vouch for its truth. "upon my word, i don't know," said lord burton, when interrogated again. "i think if i were you i would regard it as though i had never heard it. of course, he was in debt." "that is altogether another thing," said sir harry. "altogether! i think that probably he did pawn his commission. that is bad, but it isn't so very bad. as for the other charge against him, i doubt it." so said lord burton, and sir harry determined that the accusation should go for nothing. but his own child, his only child, the transmitter of all the great things that fortune had given to him; she, in whose hands were to lie the glories of humblethwaite and scarrowby; she, who had the giving away of the honour of their ancient family,--could she be trusted to one of whom it must be admitted that all his early life had been disreputable, even if the world's lenient judgment in such matters should fail to stigmatize it as dishonourable? in other respects, however, he was so manifestly the man to whom his daughter ought to be given in marriage! by such arrangement would the title and the property be kept together,--and by no other which sir harry could now make, for his word had been given to his daughter that she was to be his heiress. let him make what arrangements he might, this cousin george, at his death, would be the head of the family. every "peerage" that was printed would tell the old story to all the world. by certain courtesies of the law of descent his future heirs would be hotspurs were his daughter married to lord alfred or the like; but the children of such a marriage would not be hotspurs in very truth, nor by any courtesy of law, or even by any kindness of the minister or sovereign, could the child of such a union become the baronet, the sir harry of the day, the head of the family. the position was one which no sovereign and no minister could achieve, or touch, or bestow. it was his, beyond the power of any earthly potentate to deprive him of it, and would have been transmitted by him to a son with as absolute security. but--alas! alas! sir harry gave no indication that he thought it expedient to change his mind on the subject. when lady elizabeth proposed that cousin george should be asked to dinner, he frowned and looked black as he acceded; but, in truth, he vacillated. the allurements on that side were so great that he could not altogether force upon himself the duty of throwing them from him. he knew that cousin george was no fitting husband for his girl, that he was a man to whom he would not have thought of giving her, had her happiness been his only object. and he did not think of so bestowing her now. he became uneasy when he remembered the danger. he was unhappy as he remembered how amusing, how handsome, how attractive was cousin george. he feared that emily might like him!--by no means hoped it. and yet he vacillated, and allowed cousin george to come to the house, only because cousin george must become, on his death, the head of the hotspurs. cousin george came on one sunday, came on another sunday, dined at the house, and was of course asked to the ball. but lady elizabeth had so arranged her little affairs that when cousin george left bruton street on the evening of the dinner party he and emily had never been for two minutes alone together since the family had come up to london. lady elizabeth herself liked cousin george, and, had an edict to that effect been pronounced by her husband, would have left them alone together with great maternal satisfaction. but she had been told that it was not to be so, and therefore the young people had never been allowed to have opportunities. lady elizabeth in her very quiet way knew how to do the work of the world that was allotted to her. there had been other balls, and there had been ridings in the park, and all the chances of life which young men, and sometimes young women also, know so well how to use; but hitherto cousin george had kept, or had been constrained to keep, his distance. "i want to know, mamma," said emily hotspur, the day before the ball, "whether cousin george is a black sheep or a white sheep?" "what do you mean, my dear, by asking such a question as that?" "i don't like black sheep. i don't see why young men are to be allowed to be black sheep; but yet you know they are." "how can it be helped?" "people should not notice them, mamma." "my dear, it is a most difficult question,--quite beyond me, and i am sure beyond you. a sheep needn't be black always because he has not always been quite white; and then you know the black lambs are just as dear to their mother as the white." "dearer, i think." "i quite agree with you, emily, that in general society black sheep should be avoided." "then they shouldn't be allowed to come in," said emily. lady elizabeth knew from this that there was danger, but the danger was not of a kind which enabled her specially to consult sir harry. chapter v. george hotspur. a little must now be told to the reader of cousin george and the ways of his life. as lady elizabeth had said to her daughter, that question of admitting black sheep into society, or of refusing them admittance, is very difficult. in the first place, whose eyes are good enough to know whether in truth a sheep be black or not? and then is it not the fact that some little amount of shade in the fleece of male sheep is considered, if not absolutely desirable, at any rate quite pardonable? a male sheep with a fleece as white as that of a ewe-lamb,--is he not considered to be, among muttons, somewhat insipid? it was of this taste which pope was conscious when he declared that every woman was at heart a rake. and so it comes to pass that very black sheep indeed are admitted into society, till at last anxious fathers and more anxious mothers begin to be aware that their young ones are turned out to graze among ravenous wolves. this, however, must be admitted, that lambs when so treated acquire a courage which tends to enable them to hold their own, even amidst wolfish dangers. cousin george, if not a ravenous wolf, was at any rate a very black sheep indeed. in our anxiety to know the truth of him it must not be said that he was absolutely a wolf,--not as yet,--because in his career he had not as yet made premeditated attempts to devour prey. but in the process of delivering himself up to be devoured by others, he had done things which if known of any sheep should prevent that sheep from being received into a decent flock. there had been that little trouble about his commission, in which, although he had not intended to cheat either jew, he had done that which the world would have called cheating had the world known it. as for getting goods from tradesmen without any hope or thought of paying for them, that with him was so much a thing of custom,--as indeed it was also with them,--that he was almost to be excused for considering it the normal condition of life for a man in his position. to gamble and lose money had come to him quite naturally at a very early age. there had now come upon him an idea that he might turn the tables, that in all gambling transactions some one must win, and that as he had lost much, so possibly might he now win more. he had not quite yet reached that point in his education at which the gambler learns that the ready way to win much is to win unfairly;--not quite yet, but he was near it. the wolfhood was coming on him, unless some good fortune might save him. there might, however, be such good fortune in store for him. as lady elizabeth had said, a sheep that was very dark in colour might become white again. if it be not so, what is all this doctrine of repentance in which we believe? blackness in a male sheep in regard to the other sin is venial blackness. whether the teller of such a tale as this should say so outright, may be matter of dispute; but, unless he say so, the teller of this tale does not know how to tell his tale truly. blackness such as that will be all condoned, and the sheep received into almost any flock, on condition, not of repentance or humiliation or confession, but simply of change of practice. the change of practice in certain circumstances and at a certain period becomes expedient; and if it be made, as regards tints in the wool of that nature, the sheep becomes as white as he is needed to be. in this respect our sheep had been as black as any sheep, and at this present period of his life had need of much change before he would be fit for any decent social herding. and then there are the shades of black which come from conviviality,--which we may call table blackness,--as to which there is an opinion constantly disseminated by the moral newspapers of the day, that there has come to be altogether an end of any such blackness among sheep who are gentlemen. to make up for this, indeed, there has been expressed by the piquant newspapers of the day an opinion that ladies are taking up the game which gentlemen no longer care to play. it may be doubted whether either expression has in it much of truth. we do not see ladies drunk, certainly, and we do not see gentlemen tumbling about as they used to do, because their fashion of drinking is not that of their grandfathers. but the love of wine has not gone out from among men; and men now are as prone as ever to indulge their loves. our black sheep was very fond of wine,--and also of brandy, though he was wolf enough to hide his taste when occasion required it. very early in life he had come from france to live in england, and had been placed in a cavalry regiment, which had, unfortunately for him, been quartered either in london or its vicinity. and, perhaps equally unfortunate for him, he had in his own possession a small fortune of some â£500 a year. this had not come to him from his father; and when his father had died in paris, about two years before the date of our story, he had received no accession of regular income. some couple of thousand of pounds had reached his hands from his father's effects, which had helped him through some of the immediately pressing difficulties of the day,--for his own income at that time had been altogether dissipated. and now he had received a much larger sum from his cousin, with an assurance, however, that the family property would not become his when he succeeded to the family title. he was so penniless at the time, so prone to live from hand to mouth, so little given to consideration of the future, that it may be doubted whether the sum given to him was not compensation in full for all that was to be withheld from him. still there was his chance with the heiress! in regarding this chance, he had very soon determined that he would marry his cousin if it might be within his power to do so. he knew, and fully appreciated, his own advantages. he was a handsome man,--tall for a hotspur, but with the hotspur fair hair and blue eyes, and well-cut features. there lacked, however, to him, that peculiar aspect of firmness about the temples which so strongly marked the countenance of sir harry and his daughter; and there had come upon him a _blasã©_ look, and certain outer signs of a bad life, which, however, did not mar his beauty, nor were they always apparent. the eye was not always bloodshot, nor was the hand constantly seen to shake. it may be said of him, both as to his moral and physical position, that he was on the edge of the precipice of degradation, but that there was yet a possibility of salvation. he was living in a bachelor's set of rooms, at this time, in st. james's street, for which, it must be presumed, that ready money was required. during the last winter he had horses in northamptonshire, for the hire of which, it must be feared, that his prospects as heir to humblethwaite had in some degree been pawned. at the present time he had a horse for park riding, and he looked upon a good dinner, with good wine, as being due to him every day, as thoroughly as though he earned it. that he had never attempted to earn a shilling since the day on which he had ceased to be a soldier, now four years since, the reader will hardly require to be informed. in spite of all his faults, this man enjoyed a certain social popularity for which many a rich man would have given a third of his income. dukes and duchesses were fond of him; and certain persons, standing very high in the world, did not think certain parties were perfect without him. he knew how to talk enough, and yet not to talk too much. no one could say of him that he was witty, well-read, or given to much thinking; but he knew just what was wanted at this point of time or at that, and could give it. he could put himself forward, and could keep himself in the background. he could shoot well without wanting to shoot best. he could fetch and carry, but still do it always with an air of manly independence. he could subserve without an air of cringing. and then he looked like a gentleman. of all his well-to-do friends, perhaps he who really liked him best was the earl of altringham. george hotspur was at this time something under thirty years of age, and the earl was four years his senior. the earl was a married man, with a family, a wife who also liked poor george, an enormous income, and a place in scotland at which george always spent the three first weeks of grouse-shooting. the earl was a kindly, good-humoured, liberal, but yet hard man of the world. he knew george hotspur well, and would on no account lend him a shilling. he would not have given his friend money to extricate him from any difficulty. but he forgave the sinner all his sins, opened castle corry to him every year, provided him with the best of everything, and let him come and dine at altringham house, in carlton gardens, as often almost as he chose during the london season. the earl was very good to george, though he knew more about him than perhaps did any other man; but he would not bet with george, nor would he in any way allow george to make money out of him. "do you suppose that i want to win money of you?" he once said to our friend, in answer to a little proposition that was made to him at newmarket. "i don't suppose you do," george had answered. "then you may be sure that i don't want to lose any," the earl had replied. and so the matter was ended, and george made no more propositions of the kind. the two men were together at tattersall's, looking at some horses which the earl had sent up to be sold the day after the dinner in bruton street. "sir harry seems to be taking to you very kindly," said the earl. "well,--yes; in a half-and-half sort of way." "it isn't everybody that would give you â£5,000, you know." "i am not everybody's heir," said george. "no; and you ain't his,--worse luck." "i am,--in regard to the title." "what good will that do you?" "when he's gone, i shall be the head of the family. as far as i can understand these matters, he hasn't a right to leave the estates away from me." "power is right, my boy. legal power is undoubtedly right." "he should at any rate divide them. there are two distinct properties, and either of them would make me a rich man. i don't feel so very much obliged to him for his money,--though of course it was convenient." "very convenient, i should say, george. how do you get on with your cousin?" "they watch me like a cat watches a mouse." "say a rat, rather, george. don't you know they are right? would not i do the same if she were my girl, knowing you as i do?" "she might do worse, my lord." "i'll tell you what it is. he thinks that he might do worse. i don't doubt about that. all this matter of the family and the title, and the name, would make him ready to fling her to you,--if only you were a shade less dark a horse than you are." "i don't know that i'm darker than others." "look here, old fellow; i don't often trouble you with advice, but i will now. if you'll set yourself steadily to work to live decently, if you'll tell sir harry the whole truth about your money matters, and really get into harness, i believe you may have her. such a one as you never had such a chance before. but there's one thing you must do." "what is the one thing?" "wash your hands altogether of mrs. morton. you'll have a difficulty, i know, and perhaps it will want more pluck than you've got. you haven't got pluck of that kind." "you mean that i don't like to break a woman's heart?" "fiddlestick! do you see that mare, there?" "i was just looking at her. why should you part with her?" "she was the best animal in my stables, but she's given to eating the stable-boys; old badger told me flat, that he wouldn't have her in the stables any longer. i pity the fellow who will buy her,--or rather his fellow. she killed a lad once in brookborough's stables." "why don't you shoot her?" "i can't afford to shoot horses, captain hotspur. i had my chance in buying her, and somebody else must have his chance now. that's the lot of them; one or two good ones, and the rest what i call rags. do you think of what i've said; and be sure of this: mrs. morton and your cousin can't go on together. ta, ta!--i'm going across to my mother's." george hotspur, when he was left alone, did think a great deal about it. he was not a man prone to assure himself of a lady's favour without cause; and yet he did think that his cousin liked him. as to that terrible difficulty to which lord altringham had alluded, he knew that something must be done; but there were cruel embarrassments on that side of which even altringham knew nothing. and then why should he do that which his friend had indicated to him, before he knew whether it would be necessary? as to taking sir harry altogether into his confidence about his money matters, that was clearly impossible. heaven and earth! how could the one man speak such truths, or the other man listen to them? when money difficulties come of such nature as those which weighted the shoulders of poor george hotspur, it is quite impossible that there should be any such confidence with any one. the sufferer cannot even make a confidant of himself, cannot even bring himself to look at his own troubles massed together. it was not the amount of his debts, but the nature of them, and the characters of the men with whom he had dealings, that were so terrible. fifteen thousand pounds--less than one year's income from sir harry's property--would clear him of everything, as far as he could judge; but there could be no such clearing, otherwise than by money disbursed by himself, without a disclosure of dirt which he certainly would not dare to make to sir harry before his marriage. but yet the prize to be won was so great, and there were so many reasons for thinking that it might possibly be within his grasp! if, after all, he might live to be sir george hotspur of humblethwaite and scarrowby! after thinking of it as well as he could, he determined that he would make the attempt; but as to those preliminaries to which lord altringham had referred, he would for the present leave them to chance. lord altringham had been quite right when he told george hotspur that he was deficient in a certain kind of pluck. chapter vi. the ball in bruton street. sir harry vacillated, lady elizabeth doubted, and cousin george was allowed to come to the ball. at this time, in the common understanding of such phrase, emily hotspur was heart-whole in regard to her cousin. had she been made to know that he had gone away for ever,--been banished to some antipodes from which he never could return,--there would have been no lasting sorrow on her part, though there might have been some feeling which would have given her an ache for the moment. she had thought about him, as girls will think of men as to whom they own to themselves that it is possible that they may be in love with them some day;--and she liked him much. she also liked lord alfred, but the liking had been altogether of a different kind. in regard to lord alfred she had been quite sure, from the first days of her intercourse with him, that she could never be in love with him. he was to her no more than old mr. crutchley or young mr. latheby,--a man, and a good sort of man, but no more than a man. to worship lord alfred must be impossible to her. she had already conceived that it would be quite possible for her to worship her cousin george in the teeth of all the hard things that she had heard of him. the reader may be sure that such a thought had passed through her mind when she asked her mother whether cousin george was to be accepted as a black sheep or a white one? the ball was a very grand affair, and emily hotspur was a very great lady. it had come to be understood that the successful suitor for her hand would be the future lord of humblethwaite, and the power with which she was thus vested gave her a prestige and standing which can hardly be attained by mere wit and beauty, even when most perfectly combined. it was not that all who worshipped, either at a distance or with passing homage, knew the fact of the heiress-ship, or had ever heard of the â£20,000 a year; but, given the status, and the worshippers will come. the word had gone forth in some mysterious way, and it was acknowledged that emily hotspur was a great young lady. other young ladies, who were not great, allowed themselves to be postponed to her almost without jealousy, and young gentlemen without pretensions regarded her as one to whom they did not dare to ask to be introduced. emily saw it all, and partly liked it, and partly despised it. but, even when despising it, she took advantage of it. the young gentlemen without pretensions were no more to her than the chairs and tables; and the young ladies who submitted to her and adored her,--were allowed to be submissive, and to adore. but of this she was quite sure,--that her cousin george must some day be the head of her own family. he was a man whom she was bound to treat with attentive regard, if they who had the custody of her chose to place her in his company at all. at this ball there were some very distinguished people indeed,--persons whom it would hardly be improper to call illustrious. there were two royal duchesses, one of whom was english, and no less than three princes. the russian and french ambassadors were both there. there was the editor of the most influential newspaper of the day,--for a few minutes only; and the prime minister passed through the room in the course of the evening. dukes and duchesses below the royal degree were common; and as for earls and countesses, and their daughters, they formed the ruck of the crowd. the poet-laureate didn't come indeed, but was expected; and three chinese mandarins of the first quality entered the room at eleven, and did not leave till one. poor lady elizabeth suffered a great deal with those mandarins. from all this it will be seen that the ball was quite a success. george hotspur dined that day with lord and lady altringham, and went with them to the ball in the evening. lord altringham, though his manner was airy and almost indifferent, was in truth most anxious that his friend should be put upon his feet by the marriage; and the countess was so keen about it, that there was nothing in the way of innocent intrigue which she would not have done to accomplish it. she knew that george hotspur was a rake, was a gambler, was in debt, was hampered by other difficulties, and all the rest of it; but she liked the man, and was therefore willing to believe that a rich marriage would put it all right. emily hotspur was nothing to her, nor was sir harry; but george had often made her own house pleasant to her, and therefore, to her thinking, deserved a wife with â£20,000 a year. and then, if there might have been scruples under other circumstances, that fact of the baronetcy overcame them. it could not be wrong in one placed as was lady altringham to assist in preventing any separation of the title and the property. of course george might probably squander all that he could squander; but that might be made right by settlements and entails. lady altringham was much more energetic than her husband, and had made out quite a plan of the manner in which george should proceed. she discussed the matter with him at great length. the one difficulty she was, indeed, obliged to slur over; but even that was not altogether omitted in her scheme. "whatever incumbrances there may be, free yourself from them at once," she had advised. "that is so very easy to say, lady altringham, but so difficult to do." "as to debts, of course they can't be paid without money. sir harry will find it worth his while to settle any debts. but if there is anything else, stop it at once." of course there was something else, and of course lady altringham knew what that something else was. she demanded, in accordance with her scheme, that george should lose no time. this was in may. it was known that sir harry intended to leave town early in june. "of course you will take him at his word, and go to humblethwaite when you leave us," she had said. "no time has been named." "then you can name your own without difficulty. you will write from castle corry and say you are coming. that is, if it's not all settled by that time. of course, it cannot be done in a minute, because sir harry must consent; but i should begin at once,--only, captain hotspur, leave nothing for them to find out afterwards. what is past they will forgive." such had been lady altringham's advice, and no doubt she understood the matter which she had been discussing. when george hotspur entered the room, his cousin was dancing with a prince. he could see her as he stood speaking a few words to lady elizabeth. and in talking to lady elizabeth he did not talk as a stranger would, or a common guest. he had quite understood all that he might gain by assuming the intimacy of cousinhood, and he had assumed it. lady elizabeth was less weary than before when he stood by her, and accepted from his hand some little trifle of help, which was agreeable to her. and he showed himself in no hurry, and told her some little story that pleased her. what a pity it was that cousin george should be a scamp, she thought, as he went on to greet sir harry. and with sir harry he remained a minute or two. on such an occasion as this sir harry was all smiles, and quite willing to hear a little town gossip. "come with the altringhams, have you? i'm told altringham has just sold all his horses. what's the meaning of that?" "the old story, sir harry. he has weeded his stable, and got the buyers to think that they were getting the cream. there isn't a man in england knows better what he's about than altringham." sir harry smiled his sweetest, and answered with some good-humoured remark, but he said in his heart that "birds of a feather flock together," and that his cousin was--not a man of honour. there are some things that no rogue can do. he can understand what it is to condemn roguery, to avoid it, to dislike it, to disbelieve in it;--but he cannot understand what it is to hate it. cousin george had probably exaggerated the transaction of which he had spoken, but he had little thought that in doing so he had helped to imbue sir harry with a true idea of his own character. george passed on, and saw his cousin, who was now standing up with a foreign ambassador. he just spoke to her as he passed her, calling her by her christian name as he did so. she gave him her hand ever so graciously; and he, when he had gone on, returned and asked her to name a dance. "but i don't think i've one left that i mean to dance," she said. "then give me one that you don't mean to dance," he answered. and of course she gave it to him. it was an hour afterwards that he came to claim her promise, and she put her arm through his and stood up with him. there was no talk then of her not dancing, and she went whirling round the room with him in great bliss. cousin george waltzed well. all such men do. it is a part of their stock-in-trade. on this evening emily hotspur thought that he waltzed better than any one else, and told him so. "another turn? of course i will with you, because you know what you're about." "i'd blush if i'd time," said he. "a great many gentlemen ought to blush, i know. that prince, whose name i always forget, and you, are the only men in the room who dance well, according to my ideas." then off they went again, and emily was very happy. he could at least dance well, and there could be no reason why she should not enjoy his dancing well since he had been considered to be white enough to be asked to the ball. but with george there was present at every turn and twist of the dance an idea that he was there for other work than that. he was tracking a head of game after which there would be many hunters. he had his advantages, and so would they have theirs. one of his was this,--that he had her there with him now, and he must use it. she would not fall into his mouth merely by being whirled round the room pleasantly. at last she was still, and consented to take a walk with him out of the room, somewhere out amidst the crowd, on the staircase if possible, so as to get a breath of fresh air. of course he soon had her jammed into a corner out of which there was no immediate mode of escape. "we shall never get away again," she said, laughing. had she wanted to get away her tone and manner would have been very different. "i wonder whether you feel yourself to be the same sort of person here that you are at humblethwaite," he said. "exactly the same." "to me you seem to be so different." "in what way?" "i don't think you are half so nice." "how very unkind!" of course she was flattered. of all flattery praise is the coarsest and least efficacious. when you would flatter a man, talk to him about himself, and criticise him, pulling him to pieces by comparison of some small present fault with his past conduct;--and the rule holds the same with a woman. to tell her that she looks well is feeble work; but complain to her wofully that there is something wanting at the present moment, something lacking from the usual high standard, some temporary loss of beauty, and your solicitude will prevail with her. "and in what am i not nice? i am sure i'm trying to be as nice as i know how." "down at humblethwaite you are simply yourself,--emily hotspur." "and what am i here?" "that formidable thing,--a success. don't you feel yourself that you are lifted a little off your legs?" "not a bit;--not an inch. why should i?" "i fail to make you understand quite what i mean. don't you feel that with all these princes and potentates you are forced to be something else than your natural self? don't you know that you have to put on a special manner, and to talk in a special way? does not the champagne fly to your head, more or less?" "of course, the princes and potentates are not the same as old mrs. crutchley, if you mean that." "i am not blaming you, you know, only i cannot help being very anxious; and i found you so perfect at humblethwaite that i cannot say that i like any change. you know i am to come to humblethwaite again?" "of course you are." "you go down next month, i believe?" "papa talks of going to scarrowby for a few weeks. he always does every year, and it is so dull. did you ever see scarrowby?" "never." "you ought to come there some day. you know one branch of the hotspurs did live there for ever so long." "is it a good house?" "very bad indeed; but there are enormous woods, and the country is very wild, and everything is at sixes and sevens. however, of course you would not come, because it is in the middle of your london season. there would be ever so many things to keep you. you are a man who, i suppose, never was out of london in june in your life, unless some race meeting was going on." "do you really take me for such as that, emily?" "yes, i do. that is what they tell me you are. is it not true? don't you go to races?" "i should be quite willing to undertake never to put my foot on a racecourse again this minute. i will do so now if you will only ask it of me." she paused a moment, half thinking that she would ask it, but at last she determined against it. "no," she said; "if you think it proper to stay away, you can do so without my asking it. i have no right to make such a request. if you think races are bad, why don't you stay away of your own accord?" "they are bad," he said. "then why do you go to them?" "they are bad, and i do go to them. they are very bad, and i go to them very often. but i will stay away and never put my foot on another racecourse if you, my cousin, will ask me." "that is nonsense." "try me. it shall not be nonsense. if you care enough about me to wish to save me from what is evil, you can do it. i care enough about you to give up the pursuit at your bidding." as he said this he looked down into her eyes, and she knew that the full weight of his gaze was upon her. she knew that his words and his looks together were intended to impress her with some feeling of his love for her. she knew at the moment, too, that they gratified her. and she remembered also in the same moment that her cousin george was a black sheep. "if you cannot refrain from what is bad without my asking you," she said, "your refraining will do no good." he was making her some answer, when she insisted on being taken away. "i must get into the dancing-room; i must indeed, george. i have already thrown over some poor wretch. no, not yet, i see, however. i was not engaged for the quadrille; but i must go back and look after the people." he led her back through the crowd; and as he did so he perceived that sir harry's eyes were fixed upon him. he did not much care for that. if he could carry his cousin emily, he thought that he might carry the baronet also. he could not get any special word with her again that night. he asked her for another dance, but she would not grant it to him. "you forget the princes and potentates to whom i have to attend," she said to him, quoting his own words. he did not blame her, even to himself, judging by the importance which he attached to every word of private conversation which he could have with her, that she found it to be equally important. it was something gained that she should know that he was thinking of her. he could not be to her now like any cousin, or any other man, with whom she might dance three or four times without meaning anything. as he was aware of it, so must she be; and he was glad that she should feel that it was so. "emily tells me that you are going to scarrowby next month," he said afterwards to sir harry. sir harry frowned, and answered him very shortly, "yes, we shall go there in june." "is it a large place?" "large? how do you mean? it is a good property." "but the house?" "the house is quite large enough for us," said sir harry; "but we do not have company there." this was said in a very cold tone, and there was nothing more to be added. george, to do him justice, had not been fishing for an invitation to scarrowby. he had simply been making conversation with the baronet. it would not have suited him to go to scarrowby, because by doing so he would have lost the power of renewing his visit to humblethwaite. but sir harry in this interview had been so very ungracious,--and as george knew very well, because of the scene in the corner,--that there might be a doubt whether he would ever get to humblethwaite at all. if he failed, however, it should not be for the want of audacity on his own part. but, in truth, sir harry's blackness was still the result of vacillation. though he would fain redeem this prodigal, if it were possible, and give him everything that was to be given; yet, when he saw the prodigal attempting to help himself to the good things, his wrath was aroused. george hotspur, as he betook himself from bruton street to such other amusements as were at his command, meditated much over his position. he thought he could give up the racecourses; but he was sure that he could at any rate say that he would give them up. chapter vii. lady altringham. there was one more meeting between cousin george and emily hotspur, before sir harry left london with his wife and daughter. on the sunday afternoon following the ball he called in bruton street, and found lord alfred there. he knew that lord alfred had been refused, and felt it to be a matter of course that the suit would be pressed again. nevertheless, he was quite free from animosity to lord alfred. he could see at a glance that there was no danger for him on that side. lord alfred was talking to lady elizabeth when he entered, and emily was engaged with a bald-headed old gentleman with a little ribbon and a star. the bald-headed old gentleman soon departed, and then cousin george, in some skilfully indirect way, took an opportunity of letting emily know that he should not go to goodwood this july. "not go to goodwood?" said she, pretending to laugh. "it will be most unnatural, will it not? they'll hardly start the horses without you, i should think." "they'll have to start them without me, at any rate." of course she understood what he meant, and understood also why he had told her. but if his promise were true, so much good had been done,--and she sincerely believed that it was true. in what way could he make love to her better than by refraining from his evil ways for the sake of pleasing her? other bald-headed old gentlemen and bewigged old ladies came in, and he had not time for another word. he bade her adieu, saying nothing now of his hope of meeting her in the autumn, and was very affectionate in his farewell to lady elizabeth. "i don't suppose i shall see sir harry before he starts. say 'good-bye' for me." "i will, george." "i am so sorry you are going. it has been so jolly, coming in here of a sunday, lady elizabeth, and you have been so good to me. i wish scarrowby was at the bottom of the sea." "sir harry wouldn't like that at all." "i dare say not. and as such places must be, i suppose they ought to be looked after. only why in june? good-bye! we shall meet again some day." but not a word was said about humblethwaite in september. he did not choose to mention the prospect of his autumn visit, and she did not dare to do so. sir harry had not renewed the offer, and she would not venture to do so in sir harry's absence. june passed away,--as junes do pass in london,--very gaily in appearance, very quickly in reality, with a huge outlay of money and an enormous amount of disappointment. young ladies would not accept, and young men would not propose. papas became cross and stingy, and mammas insinuated that daughters were misbehaving. the daughters fought their own battles, and became tired in the fighting of them, and many a one had declared to herself before july had come to an end that it was all vanity and vexation of spirit. the altringhams always went to goodwood,--husband and wife. goodwood and ascot for lady altringham were festivals quite as sacred as were epsom and newmarket for the earl. she looked forward to them all the year, learned all she could about the horses which were to run, was very anxious and energetic about her party, and, if all that was said was true, had her little book. it was an institution also that george hotspur should be one of the party; and of all the arrangements usually made, it was not the one which her ladyship could dispense with the easiest. george knew exactly what she liked to have done, and how. the earl himself would take no trouble, and desired simply to be taken there and back and to find everything that was wanted the very moment it was needed. and in all such matters the countess chose that the earl should be indulged. but it was necessary to have some one who would look after something--who would direct the servants, and give the orders, and be responsible. george hotspur did it all admirably, and on such occasions earned the hospitality which was given to him throughout the year. at goodwood he was almost indispensable to lady altringham; but for this meeting she was willing to dispense with him. "i tell you, captain hotspur, that you're not to go," she said to him. "nonsense, lady altringham." "what a child you are! don't you know what depends on it?" "it does not depend on that." "it may. every little helps. didn't you promise her that you wouldn't?" "she didn't take it in earnest." "i tell you, you know nothing about a woman. she will take it very much in earnest if you break your word." "she'll never know." "she will. she'll learn it. a girl like that learns everything. don't go; and let her know that you have not gone." george hotspur thought that he might go, and yet let her know that he had not gone. an accomplished and successful lie was to him a thing beautiful in itself,--an event that had come off usefully, a piece of strategy that was evidence of skill, so much gained on the world at the least possible outlay, an investment from which had come profit without capital. lady altringham was very hard on him, threatening him at one time with the earl's displeasure, and absolute refusal of his company. but he pleaded hard that his book would be ruinous to him if he did not go; that this was a pursuit of such a kind that a man could not give it up all of a moment; that he would take care that his name was omitted from the printed list of lord altringham's party; and that he ought to be allowed this last recreation. the countess at last gave way, and george hotspur did go to goodwood. with the success or failure of his book on that occasion our story is not concerned. he was still more flush of cash than usual, having something left of his cousin's generous present. at any rate, he came to no signal ruin at the races, and left london for castle corry on the 10th of august without any known diminution to his prospects. at that time the hotspurs were at humblethwaite with a party; but it had been already decided that george should not prepare to make his visit till september. he was to write from castle corry. all that had been arranged between him and the countess, and from castle corry he did write:- dear lady elizabeth,--sir harry was kind enough to say last winter that i might come to humblethwaite again this autumn. will you be able to take me in on the 2nd september? we have about finished with altringham's house, and lady a. has had enough of me. they remain here till the end of this month. with kind regards to sir harry and emily, believe me, yours always, george hotspur. nothing could be simpler than this note, and yet every word of it had been weighed and dictated by lady altringham. "that won't do at all. you mustn't seem to be so eager," she had said, when he showed her the letter as prepared by himself. "just write as you would do if you were coming here." then she sat down, and made the copy for him. there was very great doubt and there was much deliberation over that note at humblethwaite. the invitation had doubtless been given, and sir harry did not wish to turn against his own flesh and blood,--to deny admittance to his house to the man who was the heir to his title. were he to do so, he must give some reason; he must declare some quarrel; he must say boldly that all intercourse between them was to be at an end; and he must inform cousin george that this strong step was taken because cousin george was a--blackguard! there was no other way of escape left. and then cousin george had done nothing since the days of the london intimacies to warrant such treatment; he had at least done nothing to warrant such treatment at the hands of sir harry. and yet sir harry thoroughly wished that his cousin was at jerusalem. he still vacillated, but his vacillation did not bring him nearer to his cousin's side of the case. every little thing that he saw and heard made him know that his cousin was a man to whom he could not give his daughter even for the sake of the family, without abandoning his duty to his child. at this moment, while he was considering george's letter, it was quite clear to him that george should not be his son-in-law; and yet the fact that the property and the title might be brought together was not absent from his mind when he gave his final assent. "i don't suppose she cares for him," he said to his wife. "she's not in love with him, if you mean that." "what else should i mean?" he said, crossly. "she may learn to be in love with him." "she had better not. she must be told. he may come for a week. i won't have him here for longer. write to him and say that we shall be happy to have him from the second to the ninth. emily must be told that i disapprove of him, but that i can't avoid opening my house to him." these were the most severe words he had ever spoken about cousin george, but then the occasion had become very critical. lady elizabeth's reply was as follows:- my dear cousin george,--sir harry and i will be very happy to have you on the second, as you propose, and hope you will stay till the eleventh. yours sincerely, elizabeth hotspur. he was to come on a saturday, but she did not like to tell him to go on a saturday, because of the following day. where could the poor fellow be on the sunday? she therefore stretched her invitation for two days beyond the period sanctioned by sir harry. "it's not very gracious," said george, as he showed the note to lady altringham. "i don't like it the less on that account. it shows that they're afraid about her, and they wouldn't be afraid without cause." "there is not much of that, i fancy." "they oughtn't to have a chance against you,--not if you play your game well. even in ordinary cases the fathers and mothers are beaten by the lovers nine times out of ten. it is only when the men are oafs and louts that they are driven off. but with you, with your cousinship, and half-heirship, and all your practice, and the family likeness, and the rest of it, if you only take a little trouble--" "i'll take any amount of trouble." "no, you won't. you'll deny yourself nothing, and go through no ordeal that is disagreeable to you. i don't suppose your things are a bit better arranged in london than they were in the spring." she looked at him as though waiting for an answer, but he was silent. "it's too late for anything of that kind now, but still you may do very much. make up your mind to this, that you'll ask miss hotspur to be your wife before you leave--what's the name of the place?" "i have quite made up my mind to that, lady altringham." "as to the manner of doing it, i don't suppose that i can teach you anything." "i don't know about that." "at any rate i shan't try. only remember this. get her to promise to be firm, and then go at once to sir harry. don't let there be an appearance of doubt in speaking to him. and if he tells you of the property,--angrily i mean,--then do you tell him of the title. make him understand that you give as much as you get. i don't suppose he will yield at first. why should he? you are not the very best young man about town, you know. but if you get her, he must follow. she looks like one that would stick to it, if she once had said it." thus prompted george hotspur went from castle corry to humblethwaite. i wonder whether he was aware of the extent of the friendship of his friend, and whether he ever considered why it was that such a woman should be so anxious to assist him in making his fortune, let it be at what cost it might to others! lady altringham was not the least in love with captain hotspur, was bound to him by no tie whatsoever, would suffer no loss in the world should cousin george come to utter and incurable ruin; but she was a woman of energy, and, as she liked the man, she was zealous in his friendship. chapter viii. airey force. lady elizabeth had been instructed by sir harry to warn her daughter not to fall in love with cousin george during his visit to humblethwaite; and lady elizabeth was, as a wife, accustomed to obey her husband in all things. but obedience in this matter was very difficult. such a caution as that received is not easily given even between a mother and a child, and is especially difficult when the mother is unconsciously aware of her child's superiority to herself. emily was in all respects the bigger woman of the two, and was sure to get the best of it in any such cautioning. it is so hard to have to bid a girl, and a good girl too, not to fall in love with a particular man! there is left among us at any rate so much of reserve and assumed delicacy as to require us to consider, or pretend to consider on the girl's behalf, that of course she won't fall in love. we know that she will, sooner or later; and probably as much sooner as opportunity may offer. that is our experience of the genus girl in the general; and we quite approve of her for her readiness to do so. it is, indeed, her nature; and the propensity has been planted in her for wise purposes. but as to this or that special sample of the genus girl, in reference to this or that special sample of the genus young man, we always feel ourselves bound to take it as a matter of course that there can be nothing of the kind, till the thing is done. any caution on the matter is therefore difficult and disagreeable, as conveying almost an insult. mothers in well-regulated families do not caution their daughters in reference to special young men. but lady elizabeth had been desired by her husband to give the caution, and must in some sort obey the instruction. two days before george's arrival she endeavoured to do as she was told; not with the most signal success. "your cousin george is coming on saturday." "so i heard papa say." "your papa gave him a sort of invitation when he was here last time, and so he has proposed himself." "why should not he? it seems very natural. he is the nearest relation we have got, and we all like him." "i don't think your papa does like him." "i do." "what i mean is your papa doesn't approve of him. he goes to races, and bets, and all that kind of thing. and then your papa thinks that he's over head and ears in debt." "i don't know anything about his debts. as for his going to races, i believe he has given them up. i am sure he would if he were asked." then there was a pause, for lady elizabeth hardly knew how to pronounce her caution. "why shouldn't papa pay his debts?" "my dear!" "well, mamma, why shouldn't he? and why shouldn't papa let him have the property; i mean, leave it to him instead of to me?" "if your brother had lived--" "he didn't live, mamma. that has been our great misfortune. but so it is; and why shouldn't george be allowed to take his place? i'm sure it would be for the best. papa thinks so much about the name, and the family, and all that." "my dear, you must leave him to do as he thinks fit in all such matters. you may be sure that he will do what he believes to be his duty. what i was going to say was this--" and, instead of saying it, lady elizabeth still hesitated. "i know what you want to say, mamma, just as well as though the words were out of your mouth. you want to make me to understand that george is a black sheep." "i'm afraid he is." "but black sheep are not like blackamoors; they may be washed white. you said so yourself the other day." "did i, my dear?" "certainly you did; and certainly they may. why, mamma, what is all religion but the washing of black sheep white; making the black a little less black, scraping a spot white here and there?" "i am afraid your cousin george is beyond washing." "then mamma, all i can say is, he oughtn't to come here. mind, i think you wrong him. i daresay he has been giddy and fond of pleasure; but if he is so bad as you say, papa should tell him at once not to come. as far as i am concerned, i don't believe he is so bad; and i shall be glad to see him." there was no cautioning a young woman who could reason in this way, and who could look at her mother as emily looked. it was not, at least, within the power of lady elizabeth to do so. and yet she could not tell sir harry of her failure. she thought that she had expressed the caution; and she thought also that her daughter would be wise enough to be guided,--not by her mother's wisdom, but by the words of her father. poor dear woman! she was thinking of it every hour of the day; but she said nothing more on the subject, either to her daughter or to sir harry. the black sheep came, and made one of a number of numerous visitors. it had been felt that the danger would be less among a multitude; and there was present a very excellent young man, as to whom there were hopes. steps had not been taken about this excellent young man as had been done in reference to lord alfred; but still there were hopes. he was the eldest son of a lincolnshire squire, a man of fair property and undoubted family; but who, it was thought, would not object to merge the name of thoresby in that of hotspur. nothing came of the young man, who was bashful, and to whom miss hotspur certainly gave no entertainment of a nature to remove his bashfulness. but when the day for george's coming had been fixed, sir harry thought it expedient to write to young thoresby and accelerate a visit which had been previously proposed. sir harry as he did so almost hated himself for his anxiety to dispose of his daughter. he was a gentleman, every inch of him; and he thoroughly desired to do his duty. he knew, however, that there was much in his feelings of which he could not but be ashamed. and yet, if something were not done to assist his girl in a right disposal of all that she had to bestow with her hand, how was it probable that it could be disposed aright? the black sheep came, and found young thoresby and some dozen other strangers in the house. he smiled upon them all, and before the first evening was over had made himself the popular man of the house. sir harry, like a fool as he was, had given his cousin only two fingers, and had looked black at their first meeting. nothing could be gained by conduct such as that with such a guest. before the gentlemen left the dinner-table on the first day even he had smiled and joked and had asked questions about "altringham's mountains." "the worst of you fellows who go to scotland is that you care nothing for real sport when you come down south afterwards." all this conversation about lord altringham's grouse and the scotch mountains helped george hotspur, so that when he went into the drawing-room he was in the ascendant. many men have learned the value of such ascendancy, and most men have known the want of it. poor lady elizabeth had not a chance with cousin george. she succumbed to him at once, not knowing why, but feeling that she herself became bright, amusing, and happy when talking to him. she was a woman not given to familiarities; but she did become familiar with him, allowing him little liberties of expression which no other man would take with her, and putting them all down to the score of cousinhood. he might be a black sheep. she feared there could be but little doubt that he was one. but, from her worsted-work up to the demerits of her dearest friend, he did know how to talk better than any other young man she knew. to emily, on that first evening, he said very little. when he first met her he had pressed her hand, and looked into her eyes, and smiled on her with a smile so sweet that it was as though a god had smiled on her. she had made up her mind that he should be nothing to her,--nothing beyond a dear cousin; nevertheless, her eye had watched him during the whole hour of dinner, and, not knowing that it was so, she had waited for his coming to them in the evening. heavens and earth! what an oaf was that young thoresby as the two stood together near the door! she did not want her cousin to come and talk to her, but she listened and laughed within herself as she saw how pleased was her mother by the attentions of the black sheep. one word cousin george did say to emily hotspur that night, just as the ladies were leaving the room. it was said in a whisper, with a little laugh, with that air of half joke half earnest which may be so efficacious in conversation: "i did not go to goodwood, after all." she raised her eyes to his for a quarter of a second, thanking him for his goodness in refraining. "i don't believe that he is really a black sheep at all," she said to herself that night, as she laid her head upon her pillow. after all, the devil fights under great disadvantages, and has to carry weights in all his races which are almost unfair. he lies as a matter of course, believing thoroughly in lies, thinking that it is by lies chiefly that he must make his running good; and yet every lie he tells, after it has been told and used, remains as an additional weight to be carried. when you have used your lie gracefully and successfully, it is hard to bury it and get it well out of sight. it crops up here and there against you, requiring more lies; and at last, too often, has to be admitted as a lie, most usually so admitted in silence, but still admitted,--to be forgiven or not, according to the circumstances of the case. the most perfect forgiveness is that which is extended to him who is known to lie in everything. the man has to be taken, lies and all, as a man is taken with a squint, or a harelip, or a bad temper. he has an uphill game to fight, but when once well known, he does not fall into the difficulty of being believed. george hotspur's lie was believed. to our readers it may appear to have been most gratuitous, unnecessary, and inexpedient. the girl would not have quarrelled with him for going to the races,--would never have asked anything about it. but george knew that he must make his running. it would not suffice that she should not quarrel with him. he had to win her, and it came so natural to him to lie! and the lie was efficacious; she was glad to know that he stayed away from the races--for her sake. had it not been for her sake? she would not bid him stay away, but she was so glad that he had stayed! the lie was very useful;--if it only could have been buried and put out of sight when used! there was partridge-shooting for four days; not good shooting, but work which carried the men far from home, and enabled sir harry to look after his cousin. george, so looked after, did not dare to say that on any day he would shirk the shooting. but sir harry, as he watched his cousin, gradually lost his keenness for watching him. might it not be best that he should let matters arrange themselves? this young squire from lincolnshire was evidently an oaf. sir harry could not even cherish a hope on that side. his girl was very good, and she had been told, and the work of watching went so much against the grain with him! and then, added to it all, was the remembrance that if the worst came to the worst, the title and property would be kept together. george hotspur might have fought his fight, we think, without the aid of his lie. on the friday the party was to some extent broken up. the oaf and sundry other persons went away. sir harry had thought that the cousin would go on the saturday, and had been angry with his wife because his orders on that head had not been implicitly obeyed. but when the friday came, and george offered to go in with him to penrith, to hear some case of fish-poaching which was to be brought before the magistrates, he had forgiven the offence. george had a great deal to say about fish, and then went on to say a good deal about himself. if he could only get some employment, a farm, say, where he might have hunting, how good it would be! for he did not pretend to any virtuous abnegation of the pleasures of the world, but was willing,--so he said,--to add to them some little attempt to earn his own bread. on this day sir harry liked his cousin better than he had ever done before, though he did not even then place the least confidence in his cousin's sincerity as to the farm and the earning of bread. on their return to the hall on friday they found that a party had been made to go to ulleswater on the saturday. a certain mrs. fitzpatrick was staying in the house, who had never seen the lake, and the carriage was to take them to airey force. airey force, as everybody knows, is a waterfall near to the shores of the lake, and is the great lion of the lake scenery on that side of the mountains. the waterfall was full fifteen miles from humblethwaite, but the distance had been done before, and could be done again. emily, mrs. fitzpatrick, and two other young ladies were to go. mr. fitzpatrick would sit on the box. there was a youth there also who had left school and not yet gone to college. he was to be allowed to drive a dog-cart. of course george hotspur was ready to go in the dog-cart with him. george had determined from the commencement of his visit, when he began to foresee that this saturday would be more at his command than any other day, that on this saturday he would make or mar his fortune for life. he had perceived that his cousin was cautious with him, that he would be allowed but little scope for love-making, that she was in some sort afraid of him; but he perceived also that in a quiet undemonstrative way she was very gracious to him. she never ignored him, as young ladies will sometimes ignore young men, but thought of him even in his absence, and was solicitous for his comfort. he was clever enough to read little signs, and was sure at any rate that she liked him. "why did you not postpone the party till george was gone?" sir harry said to his wife. "the fitzpatricks also go on monday," she answered, "and we could not refuse them." then again it occurred to sir harry that life would not be worth having if he was to be afraid to allow his daughter to go to a picnic in company with her cousin. there is a bridge across the water at the top of airey force, which is perhaps one of the prettiest spots in the whole of our lake country. the entire party on their arrival of course went up to the bridge, and then the entire party of course descended. how it happened that in the course of the afternoon george and emily were there again, and were there unattended, who can tell? if she had meant to be cautious, she must very much have changed her plans in allowing herself to be led thither. and as he stood there, with no eye resting on them, his arm was round her waist and she was pressed to his side. "dearest, dearest," he said, "may i believe that you love me?" "i have said so. you may believe it if you will." she did not attempt to make the distance greater between them. she leant against him willingly. "dear george, i do love you. my choice has been made. i have to trust to you for everything." "you shall never trust in vain," he said. "you must reform, you know," she said, turning round and looking up into his face with a smile. "they say that you have been wild. you must not be wild any more, sir." "i will reform. i have reformed. i say it boldly; i have become an altered man since i knew you. i have lived with one hope, and even the hope alone has changed me. now i have got all that i have hoped for. oh, emily, i wish you knew how much i love you!" they were there on the bridge, or roaming together alone among the woods, for nearly an hour after that, till mrs. fitzpatrick, who knew the value of the prize and the nature of the man, began to fear that she had been remiss in her duty as chaperon. as emily came down and joined the party at last, she was perfectly regardless either of their frowns or smiles. there had been one last compact made between the lovers. "george," she had said, "whatever it may cost us, let there be no secrets." "of course not," he replied. "i will tell mamma to-night; and you must tell papa. you will promise me?" "certainly. it is what i should insist on doing myself. i could not stay in his house under other circumstances. but you too must promise me one thing, emily." "what is it?" "you will be true to me, even though he should refuse his consent?" she paused before she answered him. "i will be true to you. i cannot be otherwise than true to you. my love was a thing to give, but when given i cannot take it back. i will be true to you, but of course we cannot be married unless papa consents." he urged her no further. he was too wise to think it possible that he could do so without injuring his cause. then they found the others, and emily made her apologies to mrs. fitzpatrick for the delay with a quiet dignity that struck her cousin george almost with awe. how had it been that such a one as he had won so great a creature? george, as he was driven home by his young companion, was full of joyous chatter and light small talk. he had done a good stroke of business, and was happy. if only the baronet could be brought round, all the troubles which had enveloped him since a beard had first begun to grow on his chin would disappear as a mist beneath the full rays of the sun; or even if there still might be a trouble or two,--and as he thought of his prospects he remembered that they could not all be made to disappear in the mist fashion,--there would be that which would gild the clouds. at any rate he had done a good stroke of business. and he loved the girl too. he thought that of all the girls he had seen about town, or about the country either, she was the bonniest and the brightest and the most clever. it might well have been that a poor devil like he in search of an heiress might have been forced to put up with personal disadvantages,--with age, with plain looks, with vulgar manners, with low birth; but here, so excellent was his fortune, there was everything which fortune could give! love her? of course he loved her. he would do anything on earth for her. and how jolly they would be together when they got hold of their share of that â£20,000 a year! and how jolly it would be to owe nothing to anybody! as he thought of this, however, there came upon him the reminiscence of a certain captain stubber, and the further reminiscence of a certain mr. abraham hart, with both of whom he had dealings; and he told himself that it would behove him to call up all his pluck when discussing those gentlemen and their dealings, with the baronet. he was sure that the baronet would not like captain stubber nor mr. hart, and that a good deal of pluck would be needed. but on the whole he had done a great stroke of business; and, as a consequence of his success, talked and chatted all the way home, till the youth who was driving him thought that george was about the nicest fellow that he had ever met. emily hotspur, as she took her place in the carriage, was very silent. she also had much of which to think, much on which--as she dreamed--to congratulate herself. but she could not think of it and talk at the same time. she had made her little apology with graceful ease. she had just smiled,--but the smile was almost a rebuke,--when one of her companions had ventured on the beginning of some little joke as to her company, and then she had led the way to the carriage. mrs. fitzpatrick and the two girls were nothing to her now, let them suspect what they choose or say what they might. she had given herself away, and she triumphed in the surrender. the spot on which he had told her of his love should be sacred to her for ever. it was a joy to her that it was near to her own home, the home that she would give to him, so that she might go there with him again and again. she had very much to consider and to remember. a black sheep! no! of all the flock he should be the least black. it might be that in the energy of his pleasures he had exceeded other men, as he did exceed all other men in everything that he did and said. who was so clever? who so bright? who so handsome, so full of poetry and of manly grace? how sweet was his voice, how fine his gait, how gracious his smile! and then in his brow there was that look of command which she had ever recognized in her father's face as belonging to his race as a hotspur,--only added to it was a godlike beauty which her father never could have possessed. she did not conceal from herself that there might be trouble with her father. and yet she was not sure but that upon the whole he would be pleased after a while. humblethwaite and the family honours would still go together, if he would sanction this marriage; and she knew how he longed in his heart that it might be so. for a time probably he might be averse to her prayers. should it be so, she would simply give him her word that she would never during his lifetime marry without his permission,--and then she would be true to her troth. as to her truth in that respect there could be no doubt. she had given her word; and that, for a hotspur, must be enough. she could not talk as she thought of all this, and therefore had hardly spoken when george appeared at the carriage door to give the ladies a hand as they came into the house. to her he was able to give one gentle pressure as she passed on; but she did not speak to him, nor was it necessary that she should do so. had not everything been said already? chapter ix. "i know what you are." the scene which took place that night between the mother and daughter may be easily conceived. emily told her tale, and told it in a manner which left no doubt of her persistency. she certainly meant it. lady elizabeth had almost expected it. there are evils which may come or may not; but as to which, though we tell ourselves that they may still be avoided, we are inwardly almost sure that they will come. such an evil in the mind of lady elizabeth had been cousin george. not but what she herself would have liked him for a son-in-law had it not been so certain that he was a black sheep. "your father will never consent to it, my dear." "of course, mamma, i shall do nothing unless he does." "you will have to give him up." "no, mamma, not that; that is beyond what papa can demand of me. i shall not give him up, but i certainly shall not marry him without papa's consent, or yours." "nor see him?" "well; if he does not come i cannot see him." "nor correspond with him?" "certainly not, if papa forbids it." after that, lady elizabeth did give way to a considerable extent. she did not tell her daughter that she considered it at all probable that sir harry would yield; but she made it to be understood that she herself would do so if sir harry would be persuaded. and she acknowledged that the amount of obedience promised by emily was all that could be expected. "but, mamma," said emily, before she left her mother, "do you not know that you love him yourself?" "love is such a strong word, my dear." "it is not half strong enough," said emily, pressing her two hands together. "but you do, mamma?" "i think he is very agreeable, certainly." "and handsome?--only that goes for nothing." "yes, he is a fine-looking man." "and clever? i don't know how it is; let there be who there may in the room, he is always the best talker." "he knows how to talk, certainly." "and, mamma, don't you think that there is a something,--i don't know what,--something not at all like other men about him that compels one to love him? oh, mamma, do say something nice to me! to me he is everything that a man should be." "i wish he were, my dear." "as for the sort of life he has been leading, spending more money than he ought, and all that kind of thing, he has promised to reform it altogether; and he is doing it now. at any rate, you must admit, mamma, that he is not false." "i hope not, my dear." "why do you speak in that way, mamma? does he talk like a man that is false? have you ever known him to be false? don't be prejudiced, mamma, at any rate." the reader will understand that when the daughter had brought her mother as far as this, the elder lady was compelled to say "something nice" at last. at any rate there was a loving embrace between them, and an understanding that the mother would not exaggerate the difficulties of the position either by speech or word. "of course you will have to see your papa to-morrow morning," lady elizabeth said. "george will tell him everything to-night," said emily. she as she went to her bed did not doubt but what the difficulties would melt. luckily for her,--so luckily!--it happened that her lover possessed by his very birth a right which, beyond all other possessions, would recommend him to her father. and then had not the man himself all natural good gifts to recommend him? of course he had not money or property, but she had, or would have, property; and of all men alive her father was the least disposed to be greedy. as she half thought of it and half dreamt of it in her last waking moments of that important day, she was almost altogether happy. it was so sweet to know that she possessed the love of him whom she loved better than all the world beside. cousin george did not have quite so good a time of it that night. the first thing he did on his return from ulleswater to humblethwaite was to write a line to his friend lady altringham. this had been promised, and he did so before he had seen sir harry. dear lady a.--i have been successful with my younger cousin. she is the bonniest, and the best, and the brightest girl that ever lived, and i am the happiest fellow. but i have not as yet seen the baronet. i am to do so to-night, and will report progress to-morrow. i doubt i shan't find him so bonny and so good and so bright. but, as you say, the young birds ought to be too strong for the old ones.--yours most sincerely, g. h. this was written while he was dressing, and was put into the letter-box by himself as he came downstairs. it was presumed that the party had dined at the falls; but there was "a tea" prepared for them on an extensive scale. sir harry, suspecting nothing, was happy and almost jovial with mr. fitzpatrick and the two young ladies. emily said hardly a word. lady elizabeth, who had not as yet been told, but already suspected something, was very anxious. george was voluble, witty, and perhaps a little too loud. but as the lad who was going to oxford, and who had drank a good deal of champagne and was now drinking sherry, was loud also, george's manner was not specially observed. it was past ten before they got up from the table, and nearly eleven before george was able to whisper a word to the baronet. he almost shirked it for that night, and would have done so had he not remembered how necessary it was that emily should know that his pluck was good. of course she would be asked to abandon him. of course she would be told that it was her duty to give him up. of course she would give him up unless he could get such a hold upon her heart as to make her doing so impossible to her. she would have to learn that he was an unprincipled spendthrift,--nay worse than that, as he hardly scrupled to tell himself. but he need not weight his own character with the further burden of cowardice. the baronet could not eat him, and he would not be afraid of the baronet. "sir harry," he whispered, "could you give me a minute or two before we go to bed?" sir harry started as though he had been stung, and looked his cousin sharply in the face without answering him. george kept his countenance, and smiled. "i won't keep you long," he said. "you had better come to my room," said sir harry, gruffly, and led the way into his own sanctum. when there, he sat down in his accustomed arm-chair without offering george a seat, but george soon found a seat for himself. "and now what is it?" said sir harry, with his blackest frown. "i have asked my cousin to be my wife." "what! emily?" "yes, emily; and she has consented. i now ask for your approval." we must give cousin george his due, and acknowledge that he made his little request exactly as he would have done had he been master of ten thousand a year of his own, quite unencumbered. "what right had you, sir, to speak to her without coming to me first?" "one always does, i think, go to the girl first," said george. "you have disgraced yourself, sir, and outraged my hospitality. you are no gentleman!" "sir harry, that is strong language." "strong! of course it is strong. i mean it to be strong. i shall make it stronger yet if you attempt to say another word to her." "look here, sir harry, i am bound to bear a good deal from you, but i have a right to explain." "you have a right, sir, to go away from this, and go away you shall." "sir harry, you have told me that i am not a gentleman." "you have abused my kindness to you. what right have you, who have not a shilling in the world, to speak to my daughter? i won't have it, and let that be an end of it. i won't have it. and i must desire that you will leave humblethwaite to-morrow. i won't have it." "it is quite true that i have not a shilling." "then what business have you to speak to my daughter?" "because i have that which is worth many shillings, and which you value above all your property. i am the heir to your name and title. when you are gone, i must be the head of this family. i do not in the least quarrel with you for choosing to leave your property to your own child, but i have done the best i could to keep the property and the title together. i love my cousin." "i don't believe in your love, sir." "if that is all, i do not doubt but that i can satisfy you." "it is not all; and it is not half all. and it isn't because you are a pauper. you know it all as well as i do, without my telling you, but you drive me to tell you." "know what, sir?" "though you hadn't a shilling, you should have had her if you could win her,--had your life been even fairly decent. the title must go to you,--worse luck for the family. you can talk well enough, and what you say is true. i would wish that they should go together." "of course it will be better." "but, sir,--" then sir henry paused. "well, sir harry?" "you oblige me to speak out. you are such a one, that i do not dare to let you have my child. your life is so bad, that i should not be justified in doing so for any family purpose. you would break her heart." "you wrong me there, altogether." "you are a gambler." "i have been, sir harry." "and a spendthrift?" "well--yes; as long as i had little or nothing to spend." "i believe you are over head and ears in debt now, in spite of the assistance you have had from me within twelve months." cousin george remembered the advice which had been given him, that he should conceal nothing from his cousin. "i do owe some money certainly," he said. "and how do you mean to pay it?" "well--if i marry emily, i suppose that--you will pay it." "that's cool, at any rate." "what can i say, sir harry?" "i would pay it all, though it were to half the property--" "less than a year's income would clear off every shilling i owe, sir harry." "listen to me, sir. though it were ten years' income, i would pay it all, if i thought that the rest would be kept with the title, and that my girl would be happy." "i will make her happy." "but, sir, it is not only that you are a gambler and spendthrift, and an unprincipled debtor without even a thought of paying. you are worse than this. there;--i am not going to call you names. i know what you are, and you shall not have my daughter." george hotspur found himself compelled to think for a few moments before he could answer a charge so vague, and yet, as he knew, so well founded. nevertheless he felt that he was progressing. his debts would not stand in his way, if only he could make this rich father believe that in other matters his daughter would not be endangered by the marriage. "i don't quite know what you mean, sir harry. i am not going to defend myself. i have done much of which i am ashamed. i was turned very young upon the world, and got to live with rich people when i was myself poor. i ought to have withstood the temptation, but i didn't, and i got into bad hands. i don't deny it. there is a horrid jew has bills of mine now." "what have you done with that five thousand pounds?" "he had half of it; and i had to settle for the last leger, which went against me." "it is all gone?" "pretty nearly. i don't pretend but what i have been very reckless as to money; i am ready to tell you the truth about everything. i don't say that i deserve her; but i do say this,--that i should not have thought of winning her, in my position, had it not been for the title. having that in my favour i do not think that i was misbehaving to you in proposing to her. if you will trust me now, i will be as grateful and obedient a son as any man ever had." he had pleaded his cause well, and he knew it. sir harry also felt that his cousin had made a better case than he would have believed to be possible. he was quite sure that the man was a scamp, utterly untrustworthy, and yet the man's pleading for himself had been efficacious. he sat silent for full five minutes before he spoke again, and then he gave judgment as follows: "you will go away without seeing her to-morrow." "if you wish it." "and you will not write to her." "only a line." "not a word," said sir harry, imperiously. "only a line, which i will give open to you. you can do with it as you please." "and as you have forced upon me the necessity, i shall make inquiries in london as to your past life. i have heard things which perhaps may be untrue." "what things, sir harry?" "i shall not demean myself or injure you by repeating them, unless i find cause to believe they are true. i do believe that the result will be such as to make me feel that in justice to my girl i cannot allow you to become her husband. i tell you so fairly. should the debts you owe be simple debts, not dishonourably contracted, i will pay them." "and then she shall be mine?" "i will make no such promise. you had better go now. you can have the carriage to penrith as early as you please in the morning; or to carlisle if you choose to go north. i will make your excuses to lady elizabeth. good night." cousin george stood for a second in doubt, and then shook hands with the baronet. he reached penrith the next morning soon after ten, and breakfasted alone at the hotel. there were but very few words spoken on the occasion between the father and daughter, but emily did succeed in learning pretty nearly the truth of what had taken place. on the monday her mother gave her the following note:- dearest,--at your father's bidding, i have gone suddenly. you will understand why i have done so. i shall try to do just as he would have me; but you will, i know, be quite sure that i should never give you up.--yours for ever and ever, g. h. the father had thought much of it, and at last had determined that emily should have the letter. in the course of the week there came other guests to humblethwaite, and it so chanced that there was a lady who knew the altringhams, who had unfortunately met the altringhams at goodwood, and who, most unfortunately, stated in emily's hearing that she had seen george hotspur at goodwood. "he was not there," said emily, quite boldly. "oh, yes; with the altringhams, as usual. he is always with them at goodwood." "he was not at the last meeting," said emily, smiling. the lady said nothing till her lord was present, and then appealed to him. "frank, didn't you see george hotspur with the altringhams at goodwood, last july?" "to be sure i did, and lost a pony to him on eros." the lady looked at emily, who said nothing further; but she was still quite convinced that george hotspur had not been at those goodwood races. it is so hard, when you have used a lie commodiously, to bury it, and get well rid of it. chapter x. mr. hart and captain stubber. when george hotspur left humblethwaite, turned out of the house by the angry baronet early in the morning,--as the reader will remember,--he was at his own desire driven to penrith, choosing to go south rather than north. he had doubted for a while as to his immediate destination. the altringhams were still at castle corry, and he might have received great comfort from her ladyship's advice and encouragement. but, intimate as he was with the altringhams, he did not dare to take a liberty with the earl. a certain allowance of splendid hospitality at castle corry was at his disposal every year, and lord altringham always welcomed him with thorough kindness. but george hotspur had in some fashion been made to understand that he was not to overstay his time; and he was quite aware that the earl could be very disagreeable upon occasions. there was a something in the earl of which george was afraid; and, to tell the truth, he did not dare to go back to castle corry. and then, might it not be well for him to make immediate preparation in london for those inquiries respecting his debts and his character which sir harry had decided to make? it would be very difficult for him to make any preparation that could lead to a good result; but if no preparation were made, the result would be very bad indeed. it might perhaps be possible to do something with mr. hart and captain stubber. he had no other immediate engagements. in october he was due to shoot pheasants with a distinguished party in norfolk, but this business which he had now in hand was of so much importance that even the pheasant-shooting and the distinguished party were not of much moment to him. he went to penrith, and thence direct to london. it was the habit of his life to give up his london lodgings when he left town at the end of the season, and spare himself the expense of any home as long as he could find friends to entertain him. there are certain items of the cost of living for which the greatest proficient in the art of tick must pay, or he will come to a speedy end;--and a man's lodging is one of them. if indeed the spendthrift adapts himself to the splendour of housekeeping, he may, provided his knowledge of his business be complete, and his courage adequate, house himself gloriously for a year or two with very small payment in ready money. he may even buy a mansion with an incredibly small outlay, and, when once in it, will not easily allow himself to be extruded. george hotspur, however, not from any want of knowledge or of audacity, but from the nature of the life he chose to lead, had abstained from such investment of his credit, and had paid for his lodgings in st. james' street. he was consequently houseless at the moment, and on his arrival in london took himself to an hotel close behind the military club to which he belonged. at this moment he was comparatively a rich man. he had between three and four hundred pounds at a bank at which he kept an account when possessed of funds. but demands upon him were very pressing, and there was a certain captain stubber who was bitter against him, almost to blood, because one mr. abraham hart had received two thousand pounds from the proceeds of sir harry's generosity. captain stubber had not received a shilling, and had already threatened cousin george with absolute exposure if something were not done to satisfy him. george, when he had ordered his dinner at his club, wrote the following letter to lady altringham. he had intended to write from penrith in the morning, but when there had been out of sorts and unhappy, and had disliked to confess, after his note of triumph sounded on the previous evening, that he had been turned out of humblethwaite. he had got over that feeling during the day, with the help of sundry glasses of sherry and a little mixed curaã§oa and brandy which he took immediately on his arrival in london,--and, so supported, made a clean breast of it, as the reader shall see. dear lady a., [he said]--here i am, back in town, banished from heaven. my darling, gentle, future papa-in-law gave me to understand, when i told him the extent of my hopes last night, that the outside of the park-gates at humblethwaite was the place for me; nevertheless he sent me to penrith with the family horses, and, taking it as a whole, i think that my interview with him, although very disagreeable, was not unsatisfactory. i told him everything that i could tell him. he was kind enough to call me a blackguard (!!!) because i had gone to emily without speaking to him first. on such occasions, however, a man takes anything. i ventured to suggest that what i had done was not unprecedented among young people, and hinted that while he could make me the future master of humblethwaite, i could make my cousin the future lady hotspur; and that in no other way could humblethwaite and the hotspurs be kept together. it was wonderful how he cooled down after a while, saying that he would pay all my debts if he found them--satisfactory. i can only say that i never found them so. it ended in this--that he is to make inquiry about me, and that i am to have my cousin unless i am found out to be very bad indeed. how or when the inquiries will be made i do not know; but i am here to prepare for them. yours always most faithfully, g. h. i do not like to ask altringham to do anything for me. no man ever had a kinder friend than i have had in him, and i know he objects to meddle in the money matters of other people. but if he could lend me his name for a thousand pounds till i can get these things settled, i believe i could get over every other difficulty. i should as a matter of course include the amount in the list of debts which i should give to sir harry; but the sum at once, which i could raise on his name without trouble to him, would enable me to satisfy the only creditor who will be likely to do me real harm with sir harry. i think you will understand all this, and will perceive how very material the kindness to me may be; but if you think that altringham will be unwilling to do it, you had better not show him this letter. it was the mixed curaã§oa and brandy which gave george hotspur the courage to make the request contained in his postscript. he had not intended to make it when he sat down to write, but as he wrote the idea had struck him that if ever a man ought to use a friend this was an occasion for doing so. if he could get a thousand pounds from lord altringham, he might be able to stop captain stubber's mouth. he did not believe that he should be successful, and he thought it probable that lord altringham might express vehement displeasure. but the game was worth the candle, and then he knew that he could trust the countess. london was very empty, and he passed a wretched evening at his club. there were not men enough to make up a pool, and he was obliged to content himself with a game of billiards with an old half-pay naval captain, who never left london, and who would bet nothing beyond a shilling on the game. the half-pay navy captain won four games, thereby paying for his dinner, and then cousin george went sulkily to bed. he had come up to town expressly to see captain stubber and mr. hart, and perhaps also to see another friend from whom some advice might be had; but on the following morning he found himself very averse to seeking any of these advisers. he had applied to lady altringham for assistance, and he told himself that it would be wise to wait for her answer. and yet he knew that it would not be wise to wait, as sir harry would certainly be quick in making his promised inquiries. for four days he hung about between his hotel and his club, and then he got lady altringham's answer. we need only quote the passage which had reference to george's special request:- gustavus says that he will have nothing to do with money. you know his feelings about it. and he says that it would do no good. whatever the debts are, tell them plainly to sir harry. if this be some affair of play, as gustavus supposes, tell that to sir harry. gustavus thinks that the baronet would without doubt pay any such debt which could be settled or partly settled by a thousand pounds. "d----d heartless, selfish fellow! quite incapable of anything like true friendship," said cousin george to himself, when he read lady altringham's letter. now he must do something. hitherto neither stubber, nor hart, nor the other friend knew of his presence in london. hart, though a jew, was much less distasteful to him than captain stubber, and to mr. abraham hart he went first. mr. abraham hart was an attorney,--so called by himself and friends,--living in a genteel street abutting on gray's inn road, with whose residence and place of business, all beneath the same roof, george hotspur was very well acquainted. mr. hart was a man in the prime of life, with black hair and a black beard, and a new shining hat, and a coat with a velvet collar and silk lining. he was always dressed in the same way, and had never yet been seen by cousin george without his hat on his head. he was a pleasant-spoken, very ignorant, smiling, jocose man, with a slightly jewish accent, who knew his business well, pursued it diligently, and considered himself to have a clear conscience. he had certain limits of forbearance with his customers--limits which were not narrow; but, when those were passed, he would sell the bed from under a dying woman with her babe, or bread from the mouth of a starving child. to do so was the necessity of his trade,--for his own guidance in which he had made laws. the breaking of those laws by himself would bring his trade to an end, and therefore he declined to break them. mr. hart was a man who attended to his business, and he was found at home even in september. "yes, mr. 'oshspur, it's about time something was done now; ain't it?" said mr. hart, smiling pleasantly. cousin george, also smiling, reminded his friend of the two thousand pounds paid to him only a few months since. "not a shilling was mine of that, captain 'oshspur, not a brass fardin'. that was quite neshesshary just then, as you know, captain 'oshspur, or the fat must have been in the fire. and what's up now?" not without considerable difficulty cousin george explained to the jew gentleman what was "up." he probably assumed more inclination on the part of sir harry for the match than he was justified in doing; but was very urgent in explaining to mr. hart that when inquiry was made on the part of sir harry as to the nature of the debt, the naked truth should not be exactly told. "it was very bad, vasn't it, captain 'oshspur, having to divide with that fellow stubber the money from the 'orse guards? you vas too clever for both of us there, mr. 'oshspur; veren't you now, captain 'oshspur? and i've two cheques still on my 'ands which is marked 'no account!' 'no account' is very bad. isn't 'no account' very bad on a cheque, captain 'oshspur? and then i've that cheque on drummond, signed;--god knows how that is signed! there ain't no such person at all. baldebeque! that's more like it than nothing else. when you brought me that, i thought there vas a lord baldebeque; and i know you live among lords, captain 'oshspur." "on my honour i brought it you,--just as i took it at tattersall's." "there was an expert as i showed it to says it is your handwriting, captain 'oshspur." "he lies!" said cousin george, fiercely. "but when stubber would have half the sale money, for the commission--and wanted it all too! lord, how he did curse and swear! that was bad, captain 'oshspur." then cousin george swallowed his fierceness for a time, and proceeded to explain to mr. hart that sir harry would certainly pay all his debts if only those little details could be kept back to which mr. hart had so pathetically alluded. above all it would be necessary to preserve in obscurity that little mistake which had been made as to the pawning of the commission. cousin george told a great many lies, but he told also much that was true. the jew did not believe one of the lies; but then, neither did he believe much of the truth. when george had finished his story, then mr. hart had a story of his own to tell. "to let you know all about it, captain 'oshspur, the old gent has begun about it already." "what, sir harry?" "yes, sir 'arry. mr. boltby--" "he's the family lawyer." "i suppose so, captain 'oshspur. vell, he vas here yesterday, and vas very polite. if i'd just tell him all about everything, he thought as 'ow the baronet would settle the affair off 'and. he vas very generous in his offer, vas mr. boltby; but he didn't say nothin' of any marriage, captain 'oshspur." "of course he didn't. you are not such a fool as to suppose he would." "no; i ain't such a fool as i looks, captain oshspur, am i? i didn't think it likely, seeing vat vas the nature of his interrogatories. mr. boltby seemed to know a good deal. it is astonishing how much them fellows do know." "you didn't tell him anything?" "not much, captain 'oshspur--not at fust starting. i'm a going to have my money, you know, captain 'oshspur. and if i see my vay to my money one vay, and if i don't see no vay the other vay, vy, vhat's a man to do? you can't blame me, captain 'oshspur. i've been very indulgent with you; i have, captain 'oshspur." cousin george promised, threatened, explained, swore by all his gods, and ended by assuring mr. abraham hart that his life and death were in that gentleman's keeping. if mr. hart would only not betray him, the money would be safe and the marriage would be safe, and everything would easily come right. over and above other things, cousin george would owe to mr. abraham hart a debt of gratitude which never would be wholly paid. mr. hart could only say that he meant to have his money, but that he did not mean to be "ungenteel." much in his opinion must depend on what stubber would do. as for stubber, he couldn't speak to stubber himself, as he and stubber "were two." as for himself, if he could get his money he certainly would not be "ungenteel." and he meant what he said--meant more than he said. he would still run some risk rather than split on an old customer such as "captain 'oshspur." but now that a sudden way to his money was opened to him, he could not undertake to lose sight of it. with a very heavy heart cousin george went from mr. hart's house to the house of call of captain stubber. mr. boltby had been before him with hart, and he augured the worst from sir harry's activity in the matter. if mr. boltby had already seen the captain, all his labour would probably be too late. where captain stubber lived, even so old a friend of his as cousin george did not know. and in what way captain stubber had become a captain, george, though he had been a military man himself, had never learned. but captain stubber had a house of call in a very narrow, dirty little street near red lion square. it was close to a public-house, but did not belong to the public-house. george hotspur, who had been very often to the place of call, had never seen there any appurtenances of the captain's business. there were no account-books, no writing-table, no ink even, except that contained in a little box with a screw, which captain stubber would take out of his own pocket. mr. hart was so far established and civilized as to keep a boy whom he called a clerk; but captain stubber seemed to keep nothing. a dirty little girl at the house of call would run and fetch captain stubber, if he were within reach; but most usually an appointment had to be made with the captain. cousin george well remembered the day when his brother captain first made his acquaintance. about two years after the commencement of his life in london, captain stubber had had an interview with him in the little waiting-room just within the club doors. captain stubber then had in his possession a trumpery note of hand with george's signature, which, as he stated, he had "done" for a small tradesman with whom george had been fool enough to deal for cigars. from that day to the present he and captain stubber had been upon most intimate and confidential terms. if there was any one in the world whom cousin george really hated, it was captain stubber. on this occasion captain stubber was forthcoming after a delay of about a quarter of an hour. during that time cousin george had stood in the filthy little parlour of the house of call in a frame of mind which was certainly not to be envied. had mr. boltby also been with captain stubber? he knew his two creditors well enough to understand that the jew, getting his money, would be better pleased to serve him than to injure him. but the captain would from choice do him an ill turn. nothing but self-interest would tie up captain stubber's tongue. captain stubber was a tall thin gentleman, probably over sixty years of age, with very seedy clothes, and a red nose. he always had berlin gloves, very much torn about the fingers, carried a cotton umbrella, wore--as his sole mark of respectability--a very stiff, clean, white collar round his neck, and invariably smelt of gin. no one knew where he lived, or how he carried on his business; but, such as he was, he had dealings with large sums of money, or at least with bills professing to stand for large sums, and could never have been found without a case in his pocket crammed with these documents. the quarter of an hour seemed to george to be an age; but at last captain stubber knocked at the front door and was shown into the room. "how d'ye do, captain stubber?" said george. "i'd do a deal better, captain hotspur, if i found it easier sometimes to come by my own." "well, yes; but no doubt you have your profit in the delay, captain stubber." "it's nothing to you, captain hotspur, whether i have profit or loss. all you 'as got to look to is to pay me what you owe me. and i intend that you shall, or by g---you shall suffer for it! i'm not going to stand it any longer. i know where to have you, and have you i will." cousin george was not quite sure whether the captain did know where to have him. if mr. boltby had been with him, it might be so; but then captain stubber was not a man so easily found as mr. hart, and the connection between himself and the captain might possibly have escaped mr. boltby's inquiries. it was very difficult to tell the story of his love to such a man as captain stubber, but he did tell it. he explained all the difficulties of sir harry's position in regard to the title and the property, and he was diffuse upon his own advantages as head of the family, and of the need there was that he should marry the heiress. "but there is not an acre of it will come to you unless he gives it you?" inquired captain stubber. "certainly not," said cousin george, anxious that the captain should understand the real facts of the case to a certain extent. "and he needn't give you the girl?" "the girl will give herself, my friend." "and he needn't give the girl the property?" "but he will. she is his only child." "i don't believe a word about it. i don't believe such a one as sir harry hotspur would lift his hand to help such as you." "he has offered to pay my debts already." "very well. let him make the offer to me. look here, captain hotspur, i am not a bit afraid of you, you know." "who asks you to be afraid?" "of all the liars i ever met with, you are the worst." george hotspur smiled, looking up at the red nose of the malignant old man as though it were a joke; but that which he had to hear at this moment was a heavy burden. captain stubber probably understood this, for he repeated his words. "i never knew any liar nigh so bad as you. and then there is such a deal worse than lies. i believe i could send you to penal servitude, captain hotspur." "you could do no such thing," said cousin george, still trying to look as though it were a joke, "and you don't think you could." "i'll do my best at any rate, if i don't have my money soon. you could pay mr. hart two thousand pounds, but you think i'm nobody." "i am making arrangements now for having every shilling paid to you." "yes, i see. i've known a good deal about your arrangements. look here, captain hotspur, unless i have five hundred pounds on or before saturday, i'll write to sir harry hotspur, and i'll give him a statement of all our dealings. you can trust me, though i can't trust you. good morning, captain hotspur." captain stubber did believe in his heart that he was a man much injured by cousin george, and that cousin george was one whom he was entitled to despise. and yet a poor wretch more despicable, more dishonest, more false, more wicked, or more cruel than captain stubber could not have been found in all london. his business was carried on with a small capital borrowed from a firm of low attorneys, who were the real holders of the bills he carried, and the profits which they allowed him to make were very trifling. but from cousin george during the last twelve months he had made no profit at all. and cousin george in former days had trodden upon him as on a worm. cousin george did not fail to perceive that mr. boltby had not as yet applied to captain stubber. chapter xi. mrs. morton. five hundred pounds before saturday, and this was tuesday! as cousin george was taken westward from red lion square in a cab, three or four different lines of conduct suggested themselves to him. in the first place, it would be a very good thing to murder captain stubber. in the present effeminate state of civilization and with the existing scruples as to the value of human life, he did not see his way clearly in this direction, but entertained the project rather as a beautiful castle in the air. the two next suggestions were to pay him the money demanded, or to pay him half of it. the second suggestion was the simpler, as the state of cousin george's funds made it feasible; but then that brute would probably refuse to take the half in lieu of the whole when he found that his demand had absolutely produced a tender of ready cash. as for paying the whole, it might perhaps be done. it was still possible that, with such prospects before him as those he now possessed, he could raise a hundred or hundred and fifty pounds; but then he would be left penniless. the last course of action which he contemplated was, to take no further notice of captain stubber, and let him tell his story to sir harry if he chose to tell it. the man was such a blackguard that his entire story would probably not be believed; and then was it not almost necessary that sir harry should hear it? of course there would be anger, and reproaches, and threats, and difficulty. but if emily would be true to him, they might all by degrees be levelled down. this latter line of conduct would be practicable, and had this beautiful attraction,--that it would save for his own present use that charming balance of ready money which he still possessed. had altringham possessed any true backbone of friendship, he might now, he thought, have been triumphant over all his difficulties. when he sat down to his solitary dinner at his club, he was very tired with his day's work. attending to the affairs of such gentlemen as mr. hart and captain stubber,--who well know how to be masterful when their time for being masterful has come,--is fatiguing enough. but he had another task to perform before he went to bed, which he would fain have kept unperformed were it possible to do so. he had written to a third friend to make an appointment for the evening, and this appointment he was bound to keep. he would very much rather have stayed at his club and played billiards with the navy captain, even though he might again have lost his shillings. the third friend was that mrs. morton to whom lord altringham had once alluded. "i supposed that it was coming," said mrs. morton, when she had listened, without letting a word fall from her own lips, to the long rambling story which cousin george told her,--a rambling story in which there were many lies, but in which there was the essential truth, that cousin george intended, if other things could be made to fit, to marry his cousin emily hotspur. mrs. morton was a woman who had been handsome,--dark, thin, with great brown eyes and thin lips and a long well-formed nose; she was in truth three years younger than george hotspur, but she looked to be older. she was a clever woman and well read too, and in every respect superior to the man whom she had condescended to love. she earned her bread by her profession as an actress, and had done so since her earliest years. what story there may be of a mr. morton who had years ago married, and ill-used, and deserted her, need not here be told. her strongest passion at this moment was love for the cold-blooded reprobate who had now come to tell her of his intended marriage. she had indeed loved george hotspur, and george had been sufficiently attached to her to condescend to take aid from her earnings. "i supposed that it was coming," she said in a low voice when he brought to an end the rambling story which she had allowed him to tell without a word of interruption. "what is a fellow to do?" said george. "is she handsome?" george thought that he might mitigate the pain by making little of his cousin. "well, no, not particularly. she looks like a lady." "and i suppose i don't." for a moment there was a virulence in this which made poor george almost gasp. this woman was patient to a marvel, long-bearing, affectionate, imbued with that conviction so common to woman and the cause of so much delight to men,--that ill-usage and suffering are intended for woman; but george knew that she could turn upon him if goaded far enough, and rend him. he could depend upon her for very much, because she loved him; but he was afraid of her. "you didn't mean that, i know," she added, smiling. "of course i didn't." "no; your cruelties don't lie in that line; do they, george?" "i'm sure i never mean to be cruel to you, lucy." "i don't think you do. i hardly believe that you ever mean anything,--except just to get along and live." "a fellow must live, you know," said george. in ordinary society george hotspur could be bright, and he was proud of being bright. with this woman he was always subdued, always made to play second fiddle, always talked like a boy; and he knew it. he had loved her once, if he was capable of loving anything; but her mastery over him wearied him, even though he was, after a fashion, proud of her cleverness, and he wished that she were,--well, dead, if the reader choose that mode of expressing what probably were george's wishes. but he had never told himself that he desired her death. he could build pleasant castles in the air as to the murder of captain stubber, but his thoughts did not travel that way in reference to mrs. morton. "she is not pretty, then,--this rich bride of yours?" "not particularly; she's well enough, you know." "and well enough is good enough for you;--is it? do you love her, george?" the woman's voice was very low and plaintive as she asked the question. though from moment to moment she could use her little skill in pricking him with her satire, still she loved him; and she would vary her tone, and as at one minute she would make him uneasy by her raillery, so at the next she would quell him by her tenderness. she looked into his face for a reply, when he hesitated. "tell me that you do not love her," she said, passionately. "not particularly," replied george. "and yet you would marry her?" "what's a fellow to do? you see how i am fixed about the title. these are kinds of things to which a man situated as i am is obliged to submit." "royal obligations, as one might call them." "by george, yes," said george, altogether missing the satire. from any other lips he would have been sharp enough to catch it. "one can't see the whole thing go to the dogs after it has kept its head up so long! and then you know, a man can't live altogether without an income." "you have done so, pretty well." "i know that i owe you a lot of money, lucy; and i know also that i mean to pay you." "don't talk about that. i don't know how at such a time as this you can bring yourself to mention it." then she rose from her seat and flashed into wrath, carried on by the spirit of her own words. "look here, george; if you send me any of that woman's money, by the living god i will send it back to herself. to buy me with her money! but it is so like a man." "i didn't mean that. sir harry is to pay all my debts." "and will not that be the same? will it not be her money? why is he to pay your debts? because he loves you?" "it is all a family arrangement. you don't quite understand." "of course i don't understand. such a one as i cannot lift myself so high above the earth. great families form a sort of heaven of their own, which poor broken, ill-conditioned, wretched, common creatures such as i am cannot hope to comprehend. but, by heaven, what a lot of the vilest clay goes to the making of that garden of eden! look here, george;--you have nothing of your own?" "not much, indeed." "nothing. is not that so? you can answer me at any rate." "you know all about it," he said,--truly enough, for she did know. "and you cannot earn a penny." "i don't know that i can. i never was very good at earning anything." "it isn't gentlemanlike, is it? but i can earn money." "by george! yes. i've often envied you. i have indeed." "how flattering! as far as it went you should have had it all,--nearly all,--if you could have been true to me." "but, lucy,--about the family?" "and about your debts? of course i couldn't pay debts which were always increasing. and of course your promises for the future were false. we both knew that they were false when they were made. did we not?" she paused for an answer, but he made none. "they meant nothing; did they? he is dead now." "morton is dead?" "yes; he died in san francisco, months ago." "i couldn't have known that, lucy; could i?" "don't be a fool! what difference would it have made? don't pretend anything so false. it would be disgusting on the very face of it. it mattered nothing to you whether he lived or died. when is it to be?" "when is what to be?" "your marriage with this ill-looking young woman, who has got money, but whom you do not even pretend to love." it struck even george that this was a way in which emily hotspur should not be described. she had been acknowledged to be the beauty of the last season, one of the finest girls that had ever been seen about london; and, as for loving her,--he did love her. a man might be fond of two dogs, or have two pet horses, and why shouldn't he love two women! of course he loved his cousin. but his circumstances at the moment were difficult, and he didn't quite know how to explain all this. "when is it to be?" she said, urging her question imperiously. in answer to this he gave her to understand that there was still a good deal of difficulty. he told her something of his position with captain stubber, and defined,--not with absolute correctness,--the amount of consent which sir harry had given to the marriage. "and what am i to do?" she asked. he looked blankly into her face. she then rose again, and unlocking a desk with a key that hung at her girdle, she took from it a bundle of papers. "there," she said; "there is the letter in which i have your promise to marry me when i am free;--as i am now. it could not be less injurious to you than when locked up there; but the remembrance of it might frighten you." she threw the letter to him across the table, but he did not touch it. "and here are others which might be taken to mean the same thing. there! i am not so injured as i might seem to be,--for i never believed them. how could i believe anything that you would say to me,--anything that you would write?" "don't be down on me too hard, lucy." "no, i will not be down upon you at all. if these things pained you, i would not say them. shall i destroy the letters?" then she took them, one after another, and tore them into small fragments. "you will be easier now, i know." "easy! i am not very easy, i can tell you." "captain stubber will not let you off so gently as i do. is that it?" then there was made between them a certain pecuniary arrangement, which if mrs. morton trusted at all the undertaking made to her, showed a most wonderful faith on her part. she would lend him â£250 towards the present satisfaction of captain stubber; and this sum, to be lent for such a purpose, she would consent to receive back again out of sir harry's money. she must see a certain manager, she said; but she did not doubt but that her loan would be forthcoming on the saturday morning. captain george hotspur accepted the offer, and was profuse in his thanks. after that, when he was going, her weakness was almost equal to his vileness. "you will come and see me," she said, as she held his hand. again he paused a moment. "george, you will come and see me?" "oh, of course i will." "a great deal i can bear; a great deal i have borne; but do not be a coward. i knew you before she did, and have loved you better, and have treated you better than ever she will do. of course you will come?" he promised her that he would, and then went from her. on the saturday morning captain stubber was made temporarily happy by the most unexpected receipt of five hundred pounds. chapter xii. the hunt becomes hot. september passed away with captain hotspur very unpleasantly. he had various interviews with captain stubber, with mr. hart, and with other creditors, and found very little amusement. lady altringham had written to him again, advising him strongly to make out a complete list of his debts, and to send them boldly to sir harry. he endeavoured to make out the list, but had hardly the audacity to do it even for his own information. when the end of september had come, and he was preparing himself to join the party of distinguished pheasant-shooters in norfolk, he had as yet sent no list to sir harry, nor had he heard a word from humblethwaite. certain indications had reached him,--continued to reach him from day to day,--that mr. boltby was at work, but no communication had been made actually to himself even by mr. boltby. when and how and in what form he was expected to send the schedule of his debts to sir harry he did not know; and thus it came to pass that when the time came for his departure from town, he had sent no such schedule at all. his sojourn, however, with the distinguished party was to last only for a week, and then he would really go to work. he would certainly himself write to sir harry before the end of october. in the meantime there came other troubles,--various other troubles. one other trouble vexed him sore. there came to him a note from a gentleman with whom his acquaintance was familiar though slight,--as follows:- dear hotspur,--did i not meet you at the last goodwood meeting? if you don't mind, pray answer me the question. you will remember, i do not doubt, that i did; that i lost my money too, and paid it.--yours ever, f. stackpoole. he understood it all immediately. the stackpooles had been at humblethwaite. but what business had the man to write letters to him with the object of getting him into trouble? he did not answer the note, but, nevertheless, it annoyed him much. and then there was another great vexation. he was now running low in funds for present use. he had made what he feared was a most useless outlay in satisfying stubber's immediate greed for money, and the effect was, that at the beginning of the last week in september he found himself with hardly more than fifty sovereigns in his possession, which would be considerably reduced before he could leave town. he had been worse off before,--very much worse; but it was especially incumbent on him now to keep up that look of high feather which cannot be maintained in its proper brightness without ready cash. he must take a man-servant with him among the distinguished guests; he must fee gamekeepers, pay railway fares, and have loose cash about him for a hundred purposes. he wished it to be known that he was going to marry his cousin. he might find some friend with softer heart than altringham, who would lend him a few hundreds on being made to believe in this brilliant destiny; but a roll of bank-notes in his pocket would greatly aid him in making the destiny credible. fifty pounds, as he well knew, would melt away from him like snow. the last fifty pounds of a thousand always goes quicker than any of the nineteen other fifties. circumstances had made it impossible for him to attend the leger this year, but he had put a little money on it. the result had done nothing for or against him,--except this, that whereas he received between one and two hundred pounds, he conceived the idea of paying only a portion of what he had lost. with reference to the remainder, he wrote to ask his friend if it would be quite the same if the money were paid at christmas. if not, of course it should be sent at once. the friend was one of the altringham set, who had been at castle corry, and who had heard of george's hopes in reference to his cousin. george added a postscript to his letter: "this kind of thing will be over for me very soon. i am to be a benedict, and the house of humblethwaite and the title are to be kept together. i know you will congratulate me. my cousin is a charming girl, and worth all that i shall lose ten times over." it was impossible, he thought, that the man should refuse him credit for eighty pounds till christmas, when the man should know that he was engaged to be married to â£20,000 a year! but the man did refuse. the man wrote back to say that he did not understand this kind of thing at all, and that he wanted his money at once. george hotspur sent the man his money, not without many curses on the illiberality of such a curmudgeon. was it not cruel that a fellow would not give him so trifling an assistance when he wanted it so badly? all the world seemed to conspire to hurt him just at this most critical moment of his life! in many of his hardest emergencies for ready money he had gone to mrs. morton. but even he felt that just at present he could not ask her for more. nevertheless, a certain amount of cash was made to be forthcoming before he took his departure for norfolk. in the course of the preceding spring he had met a young gentleman in mr. hart's small front parlour, who was there upon ordinary business. he was a young gentleman with good prospects, and with some command of ready money; but he liked to live, and would sometimes want mr. hart's assistance. his name was walker, and though he was not exactly one of that class in which it delighted captain hotspur to move, nevertheless he was not altogether disdained by that well-born and well-bred gentleman. on the third of october, the day before he left london to join his distinguished friends in norfolk, george hotspur changed a cheque for nearly three hundred pounds at mr. walker's banker's. poor mr. walker! but cousin george went down to norfolk altogether in high feather. if there were play, he would play. he would bet about pulling straws if he could find an adversary to bet with him. he could chink sovereigns about at his ease, at any rate, during the week. cousin george liked to chink sovereigns about at his ease. and this point of greatness must be conceded to him,--that, however black might loom the clouds of the coming sky, he could enjoy the sunshine of the hour. in the meantime mr. boltby was at work, and before cousin george had shot his last pheasant in such very good company, sir harry was up in town assisting mr. boltby. how things had gone at humblethwaite between sir harry and his daughter must not be told on this page; but the reader may understand that nothing had as yet occurred to lessen sir harry's objection to the match. there had been some correspondence between sir harry and mr. boltby, and sir harry had come up to town. when the reader learns that on the very day on which cousin george and his servant were returning to london by the express train from norfolk, smoking many cigars and drinking many glasses,--george of sherry, and the servant probably of beer and spirits alternately,--each making himself happy with a novel; george's novel being french, and that of the servant english sensational,--the reader, when he learns that on this very day sir harry had interviews with captain stubber and also with mrs. morton, will be disposed to think that things were not going very well for cousin george. but then the reader does not as yet know the nature of the persistency of emily hotspur. what sir harry did with captain stubber need not be minutely described. there can be no doubt that cousin george was not spared by the captain, and that when he understood what might be the result of telling the truth, he told all that he knew. in that matter of the â£500 cousin george had really been ill-treated. the payment had done him no sort of service whatever. of captain stubber's interview with sir harry nothing further need now be said. but it must be explained that sir harry, led astray by defective information, made a mistake in regard to mrs. morton, and found out his mistake. he did not much like mrs. morton, but he did not leave her without an ample apology. from mrs. morton he learned nothing whatever in regard to cousin george,--nothing but this, that mrs. morton did not deny that she was acquainted with captain hotspur. mr. boltby had learned, however, that cousin george had drawn the money for a cheque payable to her order, and he had made himself nearly certain of the very nature of the transaction. early on the morning after george's return he was run to ground by mr. boltby's confidential clerk, at the hotel behind the club. it was so early, to george at least, that he was still in bed. but the clerk, who had breakfasted at eight, been at his office by nine, and had worked hard for two hours and a half since, did not think it at all early. george, who knew that his pheasant-shooting pleasure was past, and that immediate trouble was in store for him, had consoled himself over-night with a good deal of curaã§oa and seltzer and brandy, and had taken these comforting potations after a bottle of champagne. he was, consequently, rather out of sorts when he was run to ground in his very bedroom by boltby's clerk. he was cantankerous at first, and told the clerk to go and be d----d. the clerk pleaded sir harry. sir harry was in town, and wanted to see his cousin. a meeting must, of course, be arranged. sir harry wished that it might be in mr. boltby's private room. when cousin george objected that he did not choose to have any interview with sir harry in presence of the lawyer, the clerk very humbly explained that the private room would be exclusively for the service of the two gentlemen. sick as he was, cousin george knew that nothing was to be gained by quarrelling with sir harry. though sir harry should ask for an interview in presence of the lord mayor, he must go to it. he made the hour as late as he could, and at last three o'clock was settled. at one, cousin george was at work upon his broiled bones and tea laced with brandy, having begun his meal with soda and brandy. he was altogether dissatisfied with himself. had he known on the preceding evening what was coming, he would have dined on a mutton chop and a pint of sherry, and have gone to bed at ten o'clock. he looked at himself in the glass, and saw that he was bloated and red,--and a thing foul to behold. it was a matter of boast to him,--the most pernicious boast that ever a man made,--that in twenty-four hours he could rid himself of all outward and inward sign of any special dissipation; but the twenty-four hours were needed, and now not twelve were allowed him. nevertheless, he kept his appointment. he tried to invent some lie which he might send by a commissioner, and which might not ruin him. but he thought upon the whole that it would be safer for him to go. when he entered the room he saw at a glance that there was to be war,--war to the knife,--between him and sir harry. he perceived at once that if it were worth his while to go on with the thing at all, he must do so in sole dependence on the spirit and love of emily hotspur. sir harry at their first greeting declined to shake hands with him, and called him captain hotspur. "captain hotspur," he said, "in a word, understand that there must be no further question of a marriage between you and my daughter." "why not, sir harry?" "because, sir--" and then he paused--"i would sooner see my girl dead at my feet than entrust her to such a one as you. it was true what you said to me at humblethwaite. there would have been something very alluring to me in the idea of joining the property and the title together. a man will pay much for such a whim. i would not unwillingly have paid very much in money; but i am not so infamously wicked as to sacrifice my daughter utterly by giving her to one so utterly unworthy of her as you are." "i told you that i was in debt, sir harry." "i wanted no telling as to that; but i did want telling as to your mode of life, and i have had it now. you had better not press me. you had better see mr. boltby. he will tell you what i am willing to do for you upon receiving your written assurance that you will never renew your offer of marriage to miss hotspur." "i cannot do that," said cousin george, hoarsely. "then i shall leave you with your creditors to deal with as they please. i have nothing further to suggest myself, and i would recommend that you should see mr. boltby before you leave the chambers." "what does my cousin say?" he asked. "were you at goodwood last meeting?" asked sir harry. "but of course you were." "i was," he answered. he was obliged to acknowledge so much, not quite knowing what stackpoole might have said or done. "but i can explain that." "there is no need whatever of any explanation. do you generally borrow money from such ladies as mrs. morton?" cousin george blushed when this question was asked, but made no answer to it. it was one that he could not answer. "but it makes no difference, captain hotspur. i mention these things only to let you feel that i know you. i must decline any further speech with you. i strongly advise you to see mr. boltby at once. good afternoon." so saying, the baronet withdrew quickly, and cousin george heard him shut the door of the chambers. after considering the matter for a quarter of an hour, cousin george made up his mind that he would see the lawyer. no harm could come to him from seeing the lawyer. he was closeted with mr. boltby for nearly an hour, and before he left the chamber had been forced to confess to things of which he had not thought it possible that mr. boltby should ever have heard. mr. boltby knew the whole story of the money raised on the commission, of the liabilities to both hart and stubber, and had acquainted himself with the history of lord baldebeque's cheque. mr. boltby was not indignant, as had been sir harry, but intimated it as a thing beyond dispute that a man who had done such things as could be proved against cousin george,--and as would undoubtedly be proved against him if he would not give up his pursuit of the heiress,--must be disposed of with severity, unless he retreated at once of his own accord. mr. boltby did indeed hint something about a criminal prosecution, and utter ruin, and--incarceration. but if george hotspur would renounce his cousin utterly,--putting his renunciation on paper,--sir harry would pay all his debts to the extent of twenty thousand pounds, would allow him four hundred a year on condition that he would live out of england, and would leave him a further sum of twenty thousand pounds by his will, on condition that no renewed cause of offence were given. "you had better, perhaps, go home and think about it, mr. hotspur," said the lawyer. cousin george did go away and think about it. chapter xiii. "i will not desert him." sir harry, before he had left humblethwaite for london in october, had heard enough of his cousin's sins to make him sure that the match must be opposed with all his authority. indeed he had so felt from the first moment in which george had begun to tell him of what had occurred at airey force. he had never thought that george hotspur would make a fitting husband for his daughter. but, without so thinking, he had allowed his mind to dwell upon the outside advantages of the connection, dreaming of a fitness which he knew did not exist, till he had vacillated, and the evil thing had come upon him. when the danger was so close upon him to make him see what it was, to force him to feel what would be the misery threatened to his daughter, to teach him to realize his own duty, he condemned himself bitterly for his own weakness. could any duty which he owed to the world be so high or so holy as that which was due from him to his child? he almost hated his name and title and position as he thought of the evil that he had already done. had his cousin george been in no close succession to the title, would he have admitted a man of whom he knew so much ill, and of whom he had never heard any good, within his park palings? and then he could not but acknowledge to himself that by asking such a one to his house,--a man such as this young cousin who was known to be the heir to the title,--he had given his daughter special reason to suppose that she might regard him as a fitting suitor for her hand. she of course had known,--had felt as keenly as he had felt, for was she not a hotspur?--that she would be true to her family by combining her property and the title, and that by yielding to such a marriage she would be doing a family duty, unless there were reasons against it stronger than those connected with his name. but as to those other reasons, must not her father and her mother know better than she could know? when she found that the man was made welcome both in town and country, was it not natural that she should suppose that there were no stronger reasons? all this sir harry felt, and blamed himself and determined that though he must oppose his daughter and make her understand that the hope of such a marriage must be absolutely abandoned, it would be his duty to be very tender with her. he had sinned against her already, in that he had vacillated and had allowed that handsome but vile and worthless cousin to come near her. in his conduct to his daughter, sir harry endeavoured to be just, and tender, and affectionate; but in his conduct to his wife on the occasion he allowed himself some scope for the ill-humour not unnaturally incident to his misfortune. "why on earth you should have had him in bruton street when you knew very well what he was, i cannot conceive," said sir harry. "but i didn't know," said lady elizabeth, fearing to remind her husband that he also had sanctioned the coming of the cousin. "i had told you. it was there that the evil was done. and then to let them go to that picnic together!" "what could i do when mrs. fitzpatrick asked to be taken? you wouldn't have had me tell emily that she should not be one of the party." "i would have put it off till he was out of the house." "but the fitzpatricks were going too," pleaded the poor woman. "it wouldn't have happened at all if you had not asked him to stay till the monday," said sir harry; and to this charge lady elizabeth knew that there was no answer. there she had clearly disobeyed her husband; and though she doubtless suffered much from some dim idea of injustice, she was aware that as she had so offended she must submit to be told that all this evil had come from her wrong-doing. "i hope she will not be obstinate," said sir harry to his wife. lady elizabeth, though she was not an acute judge of character, did know her own daughter, and was afraid to say that emily would not be obstinate. she had the strongest possible respect as well as affection for her own child; she thoroughly believed in emily--much more thoroughly than she did in herself. but she could not say that in such a matter emily would not be obstinate. lady elizabeth was very intimately connected with two obstinate persons, one of whom was young and the other old; and she thought that perhaps the younger was the more obstinate of the two. "it is quite out of the question that she should marry him," said sir harry, sadly. still lady elizabeth made no reply. "i do not think that she will disobey me," continued sir harry. still lady elizabeth said nothing. "if she gives me a promise, she will keep it," said sir harry. then the mother could answer, "i am sure she will." "if the worst come to the worst, we must go away." "to scarrowby?" suggested lady elizabeth, who hated scarrowby. "that would do no good. scarrowby would be the same as humblethwaite to her, or perhaps worse. i mean abroad. we must shut up the place for a couple of years, and take her to naples and vienna, or perhaps to egypt. everything must be changed to her!--that is, if the evil has gone deep enough." "is he so very bad?" asked lady elizabeth. "he is a liar and a blackguard, and i believe him to be a swindler," said sir harry. then lady elizabeth was mute, and her husband left her. at this time he had heard the whole story of the pawning of the commission, had been told something of money raised by worthless cheques, and had run to ground that lie about the goodwood races. but he had not yet heard anything special of mrs. morton. the only attack on george's character which had as yet been made in the hearing of emily had been with reference to the goodwood races. mrs. stackpoole was a lady of some determination, and one who in society liked to show that she was right in her assertions, and well informed on matters in dispute; and she hated cousin george. there had therefore come to be a good deal said about the goodwood meeting, so that the affair reached sir harry's ears. he perceived that cousin george had lied, and determined that emily should be made to know that her cousin had lied. but it was very difficult to persuade her of this. that everybody else should tell stories about george and the goodwood meeting seemed to her to be natural enough; she contented herself with thinking all manner of evil of mr. and mrs. stackpoole, and reiterating her conviction that george hotspur had not been at the meeting in question. "i don't know that it much signifies," mrs. stackpoole had said in anger. "not in the least," emily had replied, "only that i happen to know that my cousin was not there. he goes to so many race meetings that there has been some little mistake." then mr. stackpoole had written to cousin george, and cousin george had thought it wise to make no reply. sir harry, however, from other sources had convinced himself of the truth, and had told his daughter that there was evidence enough to prove the fact in any court of law. emily when so informed had simply held her tongue, and had resolved to hate mrs. stackpoole worse than ever. she had been told from the first that her engagement with her cousin would not receive her father's sanction; and for some days after that there had been silence on the subject at humblethwaite, while the correspondence with mr. boltby was being continued. then there came the moment in which sir harry felt that he must call upon his daughter to promise obedience, and the conversation which has been described between him and lady elizabeth was preparatory to his doing so. "my dear," he said to his daughter, "sit down; i want to speak to you." he had sent for her into his own morning room, in which she did not remember to have been asked to sit down before. she would often visit him there, coming in and out on all manner of small occasions, suggesting that he should ride with her, asking for the loan of a gardener for a week for some project of her own, telling him of a big gooseberry, interrupting him ruthlessly on any trifle in the world. but on such occasions she would stand close to him, leaning on him. and he would scold her,--playfully, or kiss her, or bid her begone from the room,--but would always grant what she asked of him. to him, though he hardly knew that it was so, such visits from his darling had been the bright moments of his life. but up to this morning he had never bade her be seated in that room. "emily," he said, "i hope you understand that all this about your cousin george must be given up." she made no reply, though he waited perhaps for a minute. "it is altogether out of the question. i am very, very sorry that you have been subjected to such a sorrow. i will own that i have been to blame for letting him come to my house." "no, papa, no." "yes, my dear, i have been to blame, and i feel it keenly. i did not then know as much of him as i do now, but i had heard that which should have made me careful to keep him out of your company." "hearing about people, papa! is that fair? are we not always hearing tales about everybody?" "my dear child, you must take my word for something." "i will take it for everything in all the world, papa." "he has been a thoroughly bad young man." "but, papa--" "you must take my word for it when i tell you that i have positive proof of what i am telling you." "but, papa--" "is not that enough?" "no, papa. i am heartily sorry that he should have been what you call a bad young man. i wish young men weren't so bad;--that there were no racecourses, and betting, and all that. but if he had been my brother instead of my cousin--" "don't talk about your brother, emily." "should we hate him because he has been unsteady? should we not do all that we could in the world to bring him back? i do not know that we are to hate people because they do what they ought not to do." "we hate liars." "he is not a liar. i will not believe it." "why did he tell you that he was not at those races, when he was there as surely as you are here? but, my dear, i will not argue about all this with you. it is not right that i should do so. it is my duty to inquire into these things, and yours to believe me and to obey me." then he paused, but his daughter made no reply to him. he looked into her face, and saw there that mark about her eyes which he knew he so often showed himself; which he so well remembered with his father. "i suppose you do believe me, emily, when i tell you that he is worthless." "he need not be worthless always." "his conduct has been such that he is unfit to be trusted with anything." "he must be the head of our family some day, papa." "that is our misfortune, my dear. no one can feel it as i do. but i need not add to it the much greater misfortune of sacrificing to him my only child." "if he was so bad, why did he come here?" "that is true. i did not expect to be rebuked by you, emily, but i am open to that rebuke." "dear, dear papa, indeed i did not mean to rebuke you. but i cannot give him up." "you must give him up." "no, papa. if i did, i should be false. i will not be false. you say that he is false. i do not know that, but i will not be false. let me speak to you for one minute." "it is of no use." "but you will hear me, papa. you always hear me when i speak to you." she had left her chair now, and was standing close to him, not leaning upon him as was her wont in their pleasantest moments of fellowship, but ready to do so whenever she should find that his mood would permit it. "i will never marry him without your leave." "thanks, emily; i know how sacred is a promise from you." "but mine to him is equally sacred. i shall still be engaged to him. i told him how it would be. i said that, as long as you or mamma lived, i would never marry without your leave. nor would i see him, or write to him without your knowledge. i told him so. but i told him also that i would always be true to him. i mean to keep my word." "if you find him to be utterly worthless, you cannot be bound by such a promise." "i hope it may not be so. i do not believe that it is so. i know him too well to think that he can be utterly worthless. but if he was, who should try to save him from worthlessness if not his nearest relatives? we try to reclaim the worst criminals, and sometimes we succeed. and he must be the head of the family. remember that. ought we not to try to reclaim him? he cannot be worse than the prodigal son." "he is ten times worse. i cannot tell you what has been his life." "papa, i have often thought that in our rank of life society is responsible for the kind of things which young men do. if he was at goodwood, which i do not believe, so was mr. stackpoole. if he was betting, so was mr. stackpoole." "but mr. stackpoole did not lie." "i don't know that," she said, with a little toss of her head. "emily, you have no business either to say or to think it." "i care nothing for mr. stackpoole whether he tells truth or not. he and his wife have made themselves very disagreeable,--that is all. but as for george, he is what he is, because other young men are allowed to be the same." "you do not know the half of it." "i know as much as i want to know, papa. let one keep as clear of it as one can, it is impossible not to hear how young men live. and yet they are allowed to go everywhere, and are flattered and encouraged. i do not pretend that george is better than others. i wish he were. oh, how i wish it! but such as he is he belongs in a way to us, and we ought not to desert him. he belongs, i know, to me, and i will not desert him." sir harry felt that there was no arguing with such a girl as this. some time since he had told her that it was unfit that he should be brought into an argument with his own child, and there was nothing now for him but to fall back upon the security which that assertion gave him. he could not charge her with direct disobedience, because she had promised him that she would not do any of those things which, as a father, he had a right to forbid. he relied fully on her promise, and so far might feel himself to be safe. nevertheless he was very unhappy. of what service would his child be to him or he to her, if he were doomed to see her pining from day to day with an unpermitted love? it was the dearest wish of his heart to make her happy, as it was his fondest ambition to see her so placed in the world that she might be the happy transmitter of all the honours of the house of humblethwaite,--if she could not transmit all the honours of the name. time might help him. and then if she could be made really to see how base was the clay of which had been made this image which she believed to be of gold, might it not be that at last she would hate a thing that was so vile? in order that she might do so, he would persist in finding out what had been the circumstances of this young man's life. if, as he believed, the things which george hotspur had done were such as in another rank of life would send the perpetrator to the treadmill, surely then she would not cling to her lover. it would not be in her nature to prefer that which was foul and abominable and despised of all men. it was after this, when he had seen mr. boltby, that the idea occurred to him of buying up cousin george, so that cousin george should himself abandon his engagement. "you had better go now, my dear," he said, after his last speech. "i fully rely upon the promise you have made me. i know that i can rely upon it. and you also may rely upon me. i give you my word as your father that this man is unfit to be your husband, and that i should commit a sin greater than i can describe to you were i to give my sanction to such a marriage." emily made no answer to this, but left the room without having once leaned upon her father's shoulder. that look of hers troubled him sadly when he was alone. what was to be the meaning of it, and what the result? she had given him almost unasked the only promise which duty required her to give, but at the same time she had assured him by her countenance, as well as by her words, that she would be as faithful to her lover as she was prepared to be obedient to her father. and then if there should come a long contest of that nature, and if he should see her devoted year after year to a love which she would not even try to cast off from her, how would he be able to bear it? he, too, was firm, but he knew himself to be as tender-hearted as he was obstinate. it would be more than he could bear. all the world would be nothing for him then. and if there were ever to be a question of yielding, it would be easier to do something towards lessening the vileness of the man now than hereafter. he, too, had some of that knowledge of the world which had taught lady altringham to say that the young people in such contests could always beat the old people. thinking of this, and of that look upon his child's brows, he almost vacillated again. any amount of dissipation he could now have forgiven; but to be a liar, too, and a swindler! before he went to bed that night he had made up his mind to go to london and to see mr. boltby. chapter xiv. pertinacity. on the day but one after the scene narrated in the last chapter sir harry went to london, and lady elizabeth and emily were left alone together in the great house at humblethwaite. emily loved her mother dearly. the proper relations of life were reversed between them, and the younger domineered over the elder. but the love which the daughter felt was probably the stronger on this account. lady elizabeth never scolded, never snubbed, never made herself disagreeable, was never cross; and emily, with her strong perceptions and keen intelligence, knew all her mother's excellence, and loved it the better because of her mother's weakness. she preferred her father's company, but no one could say she neglected her mother for the sake of her father. hitherto she had said very little to lady elizabeth as to her lover. she had, in the first place, told her mother, and then had received from her mother, second-hand, her father's disapproval. at that time she had only said that it was "too late." poor lady elizabeth had been able to make no useful answer to this. it certainly was too late. the evil should have been avoided by refusing admittance to cousin george both in london and at humblethwaite. it certainly was too late;--too late, that is, to avoid the evil altogether. the girl had been asked for her heart, and had given it. it was very much too late. but evils such as that do admit of remedy. it is not every girl that can marry the man whom she first confesses that she loves. lady elizabeth had some idea that her child, being nobler born and of more importance than other people's children, ought to have been allowed by fate to do so,--as there certainly is a something withdrawn from the delicate aroma of a first-class young woman by any transfer of affections;--but if it might not be so, even an emily hotspur must submit to a lot not uncommon among young women in general, and wait and wish till she could acknowledge to herself that her heart was susceptible of another wound. that was the mother's hope at present,--her hope, when she was positively told by sir harry that george hotspur was quite out of the question as a husband for the heiress of humblethwaite. but this would probably come the sooner if little or nothing were said of george hotspur. the reader need hardly be told that emily herself regarded the matter in a very different light. she also had her ideas about the delicacy and the aroma of a maiden's love. she had confessed her love very boldly to the man who had asked for it; had made her rich present with a free hand, and had grudged nothing in the making of it. but having given it, she understood it to be fixed as the heavens that she could never give the same gift again. it was herself that she had given, and there was no retracting the offering. she had thought, and had then hoped, and had afterwards hoped more faintly, that the present had been well bestowed;--that in giving it she had disposed of herself well. now they told her that it was not so, and that she could hardly have disposed of herself worse. she would not believe that; but, let it be as it might, the thing was done. she was his. he had a right in her which she could not withdraw from him. was not this sort of giving acknowledged by all churches in which the words for "better or for worse" were uttered as part of the marriage vow? here there had been as yet no church vow, and therefore her duty was still due to her father. but the sort of sacrifice,--so often a sacrifice of the good to the bad,--which the church not only allowed but required and sanctified, could be as well conveyed by one promise as by another. what is a vow but a promise? and by what process are such vows and promises made fitting between a man and a woman? is it not by that compelled rendering up of the heart which men call love? she had found that he was dearer to her than everything in the world besides; that to be near him was a luxury to her; that his voice was music to her; that the flame of his eyes was sunlight; that his touch was to her, as had never been the touch of any other human being. she could submit to him, she who never would submit to any one. she could delight to do his bidding, even though it were to bring him his slippers. she had confessed nothing of this, even to herself, till he had spoken to her on the bridge; but then, in a moment, she had known that it was so, and had not coyed the truth with him by a single nay. and now they told her that he was bad. bad as he was, he had been good enough to win her. 'twas thus she argued with herself. who was she that she should claim for herself the right of having a man that was not bad? that other man that had come to her, that lord alfred, was, she was told, good at all points; and he had not moved her in the least. his voice had possessed no music for her; and as for fetching his slippers for him,--he was to her one of those men who seem to be created just that they might be civil when wanted and then get out of the way! she had not been able for a moment to bring herself to think of regarding him as her husband. but this man, this bad man! from the moment that he had spoken to her on the bridge, she knew that she was his for ever. it might be that she liked a bad man best. so she argued with herself again. if it were so she must put up with what misfortune her own taste might bring upon her. at any rate the thing was done, and why should any man be thrown over simply because the world called him bad? was there to be no forgiveness for wrongs done between man and man, when the whole theory of our religion was made to depend on forgiveness from god to man? it is the duty of some one to reclaim an evident prodigal; and why should it not be her duty to reclaim this prodigal? clearly, the very fact that she loved the prodigal would give her a potentiality that way which she would have with no other prodigal. it was at any rate her duty to try. it would at least be her duty if they would allow her to be near enough to him to make the attempt. then she filled her mind with ideas of a long period of probation, in which every best energy of her existence should be given to this work of reclaiming the prodigal, so that at last she might put her own hand into one that should be clean enough to receive it. with such a task before her she could wait. she could watch him and give all her heart to his welfare, and never be impatient except that he might be made happy. as she thought of this, she told herself plainly that the work would not be easy, that there would be disappointment, almost heart-break, delays and sorrows; but she loved him, and it would be her duty; and then, if she could be successful, how great, how full of joy would be the triumph! even if she were to fail and perish in failing, it would be her duty. as for giving him up because he had the misfortune to be bad, she would as soon give him up on the score of any other misfortune;--because he might lose a leg, or become deformed, or be stricken deaf by god's hand! one does not desert those one loves, because of their misfortunes! 'twas thus she argued with herself, thinking that she could see,--whereas, poor child, she was so very blind! "mamma," she said, "has papa gone up to town about cousin george?" "i do not know, my dear. he did not say why he was going." "i think he has. i wish i could make him understand." "understand what, my dear?" "all that i feel about it. i am sure it would save him much trouble. nothing can ever separate me from my cousin." "pray don't say so, emily." "nothing can. is it not better that you and he should know the truth? papa goes about trying to find out all the naughty things that george has ever done. there has been some mistake about a race meeting, and all manner of people are asked to give what papa calls evidence that cousin george was there. i do not doubt but george has been what people call dissipated." "we do hear such dreadful stories!" "you would not have thought anything about them if it had not been for me. he is not worse now than when he came down here last year. and he was always asked to bruton street." "what do you mean by this, dear?" "i do not mean to say that young men ought to do all these things, whatever they are,--getting into debt, and betting, and living fast. of course it is very wrong. but when a young man has been brought up in that way, i do think he ought not to be thrown over by his nearest and dearest friends"--that last epithet was uttered with all the emphasis which emily could give to it--"because he falls into temptation." "i am afraid george has been worse than others, emily." "so much the more reason for trying to save him. if a man be in the water, you do not refuse to throw him a rope because the water is deep." "but, dearest, your papa is thinking of you." lady elizabeth was not quick enough of thought to explain to her daughter that if the rope be of more value than the man, and if the chance of losing the rope be much greater than that of saving the man, then the rope is not thrown. "and i am thinking of george," said emily. "but if it should appear that he had done things,--the wickedest things in the world?" "i might break my heart in thinking of it, but i should never give him up." "if he were a murderer?" suggested lady elizabeth, with horror. the girl paused, feeling herself to be hardly pressed, and then came that look upon her brow which lady elizabeth understood as well as did sir harry. "then i would be a murderer's wife," she said. "oh, emily!" "i must make you understand me, mamma, and i want papa to understand it too. no consideration on earth shall make me say that i will give him up. they may prove if they like that he was on all the racecourses in the world, and get that mrs. stackpoole to swear to it;--and it is ten times worse for a woman to go than it is for a man, at any rate;--but it will make no difference. if you and papa tell me not to see him or write to him,--much less to marry him,--of course i shall obey you. but i shall not give him up a bit the more, and he must not be told that i will give him up. i am sure papa will not wish that anything untrue should be told. george will always be to me the dearest thing in the whole world,--dearer than my own soul. i shall pray for him every night, and think of him all day long. and as to the property, papa may be quite sure that he can never arrange it by any marriage that i shall make. no man shall ever speak to me in that way, if i can help it. i won't go where any man can speak to me. i will obey,--but it will be at the cost of my life. of course i will obey papa and you; but i cannot alter my heart. why was he allowed to come here,--the head of our own family,--if he be so bad as this? bad or good, he will always be all the world to me." to such a daughter as this lady elizabeth had very little to say that might be of avail. she could quote sir harry, and entertain some dim distant wish that cousin george might even yet be found to be not quite so black as he had been painted. chapter xv. cousin george is hard pressed. the very sensible and, as one would have thought, very manifest idea of buying up cousin george originated with mr. boltby. "he will have his price, sir harry," said the lawyer. then sir harry's eyes were opened, and so excellent did this mode of escape seem to him that he was ready to pay almost any price for the article. he saw it at a glance. emily had high-flown notions, and would not yield; he feared that she would not yield, let cousin george's delinquencies be shown to be as black as styx. but if cousin george could be made to give her up,--then emily must yield; and, yielding in such manner, having received so rude a proof of her lover's unworthiness, it could not be but that her heart would be changed. sir harry's first idea of a price was very noble; all debts to be paid, a thousand a year for the present, and scarrowby to be attached to the title. what price would be too high to pay for the extrication of his daughter from so grievous a misfortune? but mr. boltby was more calm. as to the payment of the debts,--yes, within a certain liberal limit. for the present, an income of five hundred pounds he thought would be almost as efficacious a bait as double the amount; and it would be well to tack to it the necessity of a residence abroad. it might, perhaps, serve to get the young man out of the country for a time. if the young man bargained on either of these headings, the matter could be reconsidered by mr. boltby; as to settling scarrowby on the title, mr. boltby was clearly against it. "he would raise every shilling he could on post-obits within twelve months." at last the offer was made in the terms with which the reader is already acquainted. george was sent off from the lawyer's chambers with directions to consider the terms, and mr. boltby gave his clerk some little instructions for perpetuating the irritation on the young man which hart and stubber together were able to produce. the young man should be made to understand that hungry creditors, who had been promised their money on certain conditions, could become very hungry indeed. george hotspur, blackguard and worthless as he was, did not at first realize the fact that sir harry and mr. boltby were endeavouring to buy him. he was asked to give up his cousin, and he was told that if he did so a certain very generous amount of pecuniary assistance should be given to him; but yet he did not at the first glance perceive that one was to be the price of the other,--that if he took the one he would meanly have sold the other. it certainly would have been very pleasant to have all his debts paid for him, and the offer of five hundred pounds a year was very comfortable. of the additional sum to be given when sir harry should die, he did not think so much. it might probably be a long time coming, and then sir harry would of course be bound to do something for the title. as for living abroad,--he might promise that, but they could not make him keep his promise. he would not dislike to travel for six months, on condition that he should be well provided with ready money. there was much that was alluring in the offer, and he began to think whether he could not get it all without actually abandoning his cousin. but then he was to give a written pledge to that effect, which, if given, no doubt would be shown to her. no; that would not do. emily was his prize; and though he did not value her at her worth, not understanding such worth, still he had an idea that she would be true to him. then at last came upon him an understanding of the fact, and he perceived that a bribe had been offered to him. for half a day he was so disgusted at the idea that his virtue was rampant within him. sell his emily for money? never! his emily,--and all her rich prospects, and that for a sum so inadequate! they little knew their man when they made a proposition so vile! that evening, at his club, he wrote a letter to sir harry, and the letter as soon as written was put into the club letter-box, addressed to the house in bruton street; in which, with much indignant eloquence, he declared that the baronet little understood the warmth of his love, or the extent of his ambition in regard to the family. "i shall be quite ready to submit to any settlements," he said, "so long as the property is entailed upon the baronet who shall come after myself; i need not say that i hope the happy fellow may be my own son." but, on the next morning, on his first waking, his ideas were more vague, and a circumstance happened which tended to divert them from the current in which they had run on the preceding evening. when he was going through the sad work of dressing, he bethought himself that he could not at once force this marriage on sir harry--could not do so, perhaps, within a twelvemonth or more, let emily be ever so true to him,--and that his mode of living had become so precarious as to be almost incompatible with that outward decency which would be necessary for him as emily's suitor. he was still very indignant at the offer made to him, which was indeed bribery of which sir harry ought to be ashamed; but he almost regretted that his letter to sir harry had been sent. it had not been considered enough, and certainly should not have been written simply on after-dinner consideration. something might have been inserted with the view of producing ready money, something which might have had a flavour of yielding, but which could not have been shown to emily as an offer on his part to abandon her; and then he had a general feeling that his letter had been too grandiloquent,--all arising, no doubt, from a fall in courage incidental to a sick stomach. but before he could get out of his hotel a visitor was upon him. mr. hart desired to see him. at this moment he would almost have preferred to see captain stubber. he remembered at the moment that mr. hart was acquainted with mr. walker, and that mr. walker would probably have sought the society of mr. hart after a late occurrence in which he, cousin george, had taken part. he was going across to breakfast at his club, when he found himself almost forced to accompany mr. hart into a little private room at the left hand of the hall of the hotel. he wanted his breakfast badly, and was altogether out of humour. he had usually found mr. hart to be an enduring man, not irascible, though very pertinacious, and sometimes almost good-natured. for a moment he thought he would bully mr. hart, but when he looked into mr. hart's face, his heart misgave him. "this is a most inconvenient time--," he had begun. but he hesitated, and mr. hart began his attack at once. "captain 'oshspur--sir, let me tell you this von't do no longer." "what won't do, mr. hart?" "vat von't do? you know vat von't do. let me tell you this. you'll be at the old bailey very soon, if you don't do just vat you is told to do." "me at the old bailey!" "yes, captain 'oshspur,--you at the old bailey. in vat vay did you get those moneys from poor mr. valker? i know vat i says. more than three hundred pounds! it was card-sharping." "who says it was card-sharping?" "i says so, captain 'oshspur, and so does mr. bullbean. mr. bullbean vill prove it." mr. bullbean was a gentleman known well to mr. hart, who had made one of the little party at mr. walker's establishment, by means of which cousin george had gone, flush of money, down among his distinguished friends in norfolk. "vat did you do with poor valker's moneys? it vas very hard upon poor mr. valker,--very hard." "it was fair play, mr. hart." "gammon, captain 'oshspur! vere is the moneys?" "what business is that of yours?" "oh, very well. bullbean is quite ready to go before a magistrate,--ready at once. i don't know how that vill help us with our pretty cousin with all the fortune." "how will it help you then?" "look here, captain 'oshspur; i vill tell you vat vill help me, and vill help captain stubber, and vill help everybody. the young lady isn't for you at all. i know all about it, captain 'oshspur. mr. boltby is a very nice gentleman, and understands business." "what is mr. boltby to me?" "he is a great deal to me, because he vill pay me my moneys, and he vill pay captain stubber, and vill pay everybody. he vill pay you too, captain 'oshspur,--only you must pay poor valker his moneys. i have promised valker he shall have back his moneys, or sir harry shall know that too. you must just give up the young woman;--eh, captain 'oshspur!" "i'm not going to be dictated to, mr. hart." "when gentlemans is in debt they must be dictated to, or else be quodded. we mean to have our money from mr. boltby, and that at once. here is the offer to pay it,--every shilling,--and to pay you! you must give the lady up. you must go to mr. boltby, and write just what he tells you. if you don't--!" "well, if i don't!" "by the living god, before two weeks are over you shall be in prison. bullbean saw it all. now you know, captain 'oshspur. you don't like dictating to, don't you? if you don't do as you're dictated to, and that mighty sharp, as sure as my name is abraham hart, everything shall come out. every d----d thing, captain 'oshspur! and now good morning, captain 'oshspur. you had better see mr. boltby to-day, captain 'oshspur." how was a man so weighted to run for such stakes as those he was striving to carry off? when mr. hart left him he was not only sick in the stomach, but sick at heart also,--sick all over. he had gone from bad to worse; he had lost the knowledge of the flavour of vice and virtue; and yet now, when there was present to him the vanishing possibility of redeeming everything by this great marriage, it seemed to him that a life of honourable ease--such a life as sir harry would wish him to live if permitted to marry the girl and dwell among his friends at humblethwaite--would be much sweeter, much more to his real taste, than the life which he had led for the last ten years. what had been his positive delights? in what moments had he actually enjoyed them? from first to last had there not been trouble and danger and vexation of spirit, and a savour of dirt about it all, which even to his palate had been nauseous? would he not willingly reform? and yet, when the prospect of reform was brought within reach of his eyes, of a reform so pleasant in all its accompaniments, of reform amidst all the wealth of humblethwaite, with emily hotspur by his side, there came these harpies down upon him rendering it all impossible. thrice, in speaking of them to himself, he called them harpies; but it never occurred to him to think by what name mr. walker would have designated him. but things around him were becoming so serious that he must do something. it might be that he would fall to the ground, losing everything. he could not understand about bullbean. bullbean had had his share of the plunder in regard to all that he had seen. the best part of the evening's entertainment had taken place after mr. bullbean had retired. no doubt, however, mr. bullbean might do him a damage. he had written to sir harry, refusing altogether the offer made to him. could he, after writing such a letter, at once go to the lawyer and accept the offer? and must he admit to himself, finally, that it was altogether beyond his power to win his cousin's hand? was there no hope of that life at humblethwaite which, when contemplated at a distance, had seemed to him to be so green and pleasant? and what would emily think of him? in the midst of all his other miseries that also was a misery. he was able, though steeped in worthlessness, so to make for himself a double identity as to imagine and to personify a being who should really possess fine and manly aspirations with regard to a woman, and to look upon himself,--his second self,--as that being; and to perceive with how withering a contempt such a being would contemplate such another man as was in truth the real george hotspur, whose actual sorrows and troubles had now become so unendurable. who would help him in his distress? the altringhams were still in scotland, and he knew well that, though lady altringham was fond of him, and though lord altringham liked him, there was no assistance to be had there of the kind that he needed. his dearly intimate distinguished friends in norfolk, with whom he had been always "george," would not care if they heard that he had been crucified. it seemed to him that the world was very hard and very cruel. who did care for him? there were two women who cared for him, who really loved him, who would make almost any sacrifice for him, who would even forget his sins, or at least forgive them. he was sure of that. emily hotspur loved him, but there were no means by which he could reach emily hotspur. she loved him, but she would not so far disobey her father and mother, or depart from her own word, as to receive even a letter from him. but the other friend who loved him,--he still could see her. he knew well the time at which he would find her at home, and some three or four hours after his interview with mr. hart he knocked at mrs. morton's door. "well, george," she said, "how does your wooing thrive?" he had no preconceived plan in coming to her. he was possessed by that desire, which we all of us so often feel, to be comforted by sympathy; but he hardly knew even how to describe the want of it. "it does not thrive at all," he said, throwing himself gloomily into an easy chair. "that is bad news. has the lady turned against you?" "oh no," said he, moodily,--"nothing of that sort." "that would be impossible, would it not? fathers are stern, but to such a one as you daughters are always kind. that is what you mean; eh, george?" "i wish you would not chaff me, lucy. i am not well, and i did not come to be chaffed." "the chaffing is all to be on one side, is it, george? well; i will say nothing to add to your discomforts. what is it ails you? you will drink liqueurs after dinner. that is what makes you so wretched. and i believe you drink them before dinner too." "hardly ever. i don't do such a thing three times in a month. it is not that; but things do trouble me so." "i suppose sir harry is not well pleased." "he is doing what he ought not to do, i must say that;--quite what i call ungentlemanlike. a lawyer should never be allowed to interfere between gentlemen. i wonder who would stand it, if an attorney were set to work to make all manner of inquiries about everything that he had ever done?" "i could not, certainly. i should cave in at once, as the boys say." "other men have been as bad as i have, i suppose. he is sending about everywhere." "not only sending, george, but going himself. do you know that sir harry did me the honour of visiting me?" "no!" "but he did. he sat there in that very chair, and talked to me in a manner that nobody ever did before, certainly. what a fine old man he is, and how handsome!" "yes; he is a good-looking old fellow." "so like you, george." "is he?" "only you know, less,--less,--less, what shall i say?--less good-natured, perhaps." "i know what you mean. he is not such a fool as i am." "you're not a fool at all, george; but sometimes you are weak. he looks to be strong. is she like him?" "very like him." "then she must be handsome." "handsome; i should think she is too!" said george, quite forgetting the description of his cousin which he had given some days previously to mrs. morton. she smiled, but took no notice aloud of his blunder. she knew him so well that she understood it all. "yes," she went on; "he came here and said some bitter things. he said more, perhaps, than he ought to have done." "about me, lucy?" "i think that he spoke chiefly about myself. there was a little explanation, and then he behaved very well. i have no quarrel with him myself. he is a fine old gentleman; and having one only daughter, and a large fortune, i do not wonder that he should want to make inquiries before he gives her to you." "he could do that without an attorney." "would you tell him the truth? the fact is, george, that you are not the sort of son-in-law that fathers like. i suppose it will be off; eh, george?" george made no immediate reply. "it is not likely that she should have the constancy to stick to it for years, and i am sure you will not. has he offered you money?" then george told her almost with accuracy the nature of the proposition made to him. "it is very generous," she said. "i don't see much of that." "it certainly is very generous." "what ought a fellow to do?" "only fancy, that you should come to me to ask me such a question!" "i know you will tell me true." "do you love her?" "yes." "with all your heart?" "what is the meaning of that? i do love her." "better than her father's money?" "much better." "then stick to her through thick and thin. but you don't. i must not advise you in accordance with what you say, but with what i think. you will be beaten, certainly. she will never be your wife; and were you so married, you would not be happy with such people. but she will never be your wife. take sir harry's offer, and write to her a letter, explaining how it is best for all that you should do so." he paused a moment, and then he asked her one other question: "would you write the letter for me, lucy?" she smiled again as she answered him: "yes; if you make up your mind to do as sir harry asks you, i will write a draft of what i think you should say to her." chapter xvi. sir harry's return. sir harry received the grandly worded and indignant letter which had been written at the club, and cousin george hesitated as to that other letter which his friend was to dictate for him. consequently it became necessary that sir harry should leave london before the matter was settled. in truth the old baronet liked the grandly worded and indignant letter. it was almost such a letter as a hotspur should write on such an occasion. there was an admission of pecuniary weakness which did not quite become a hotspur, but otherwise the letter was a good letter. before he left london he took the letter with him to mr. boltby, and on his way thither could not refrain from counting up all the good things which would befall him and his if only this young man might be reclaimed and recast in a mould such as should fit the heir of the hotspurs. he had been very bad,--so bad that when sir harry counted up his sins they seemed to be as black as night. and then, as he thought of them, the father would declare to himself that he would not imperil his daughter by trusting her to one who had shown himself to be so evil. but again another mode of looking at it all would come upon him. the kind of vice of which george had been undoubtedly guilty was very distasteful to sir harry; it had been ignoble and ungentlemanlike vice. he had been a liar, and not only a gambler, but a professional gambler. he had not simply got into debt, but he had got into debt in a fashion that was fraudulent;--so at least sir harry thought. and yet, need it be said that this reprobate was beyond the reach of all forgiveness? had not men before him done as bad, and yet were brought back within the pale of decent life? in this still vacillating mood of mind sir harry reached his lawyer's. mr. boltby did not vacillate at all. when he was shown the letter he merely smiled. "i don't think it is a bad letter," said sir harry. "words mean so little, sir harry," said mr. boltby, "and come so cheap." sir harry turned the letter over in his hand and frowned; he did not quite like to be told even by his confidential lawyer that he was mistaken. unconsciously he was telling himself that after all george hotspur had been born a gentleman, and that therefore, underlying all the young man's vileness and villany there must be a substratum of noble soil of which the lawyer perhaps knew nothing. mr. boltby saw that his client was doubting, and having given much trouble to the matter, and not being afraid of sir harry, he determined to speak his mind freely. "sir harry," he said, "in this matter i must tell you what i really think." "certainly." "i am sorry to have to speak ill of one bearing your name; and were not the matter urgent as it is, i should probably repress something of my opinion. as it is, i do not dare to do so. you could not in all london find a man less fit to be the husband of miss hotspur than her cousin." "he is a gentleman--by birth," said sir harry. "he is an unprincipled blackguard by education, and the more blackguard because of his birth; there is nothing too bad for him to do, and very little so bad but what he has done it. he is a gambler, a swindler, and, as i believe, a forger and a card-sharper. he has lived upon the wages of the woman he has professed to love. he has shown himself to be utterly spiritless, abominable, and vile. if my clerk in the next room were to slap his face, i do not believe that he would resent it." sir harry frowned, and moved his feet rapidly on the floor. "in my thorough respect and regard for you, sir harry," continued mr. boltby, "i have undertaken a work which i would not have done for above two or three other men in the world beside yourself. i am bound to tell you the result, which is this,--that i would sooner give my own girl to the sweeper at the crossing than to george hotspur." sir harry's brow was very black. perhaps he had not quite known his lawyer. perhaps it was that he had less power of endurance than he had himself thought in regard to the mention of his own family affairs. "of course," he said, "i am greatly indebted to you, mr. boltby, for the trouble you have taken." "i only hope it may be of service to you." "it has been of service. what may be the result in regard to this unfortunate young man i cannot yet say. he has refused our offer,--i must say as i think--honourably." "it means nothing." "how nothing, mr. boltby?" "no man accepts such a bargain at first. he is playing his hand against yours, sir harry, and he knows that he has got a very good card in his own. it was not to be supposed that he would give in at once. in besieging a town the surest way is to starve the garrison. wait a while and he will give in. when a town has within its walls such vultures as will now settle upon him, it cannot stand out very long. i shall hear more of him before many days are over." "you think, then, that i may return to humblethwaite." "certainly, sir harry; but i hope, sir harry, that you will return with the settled conviction on your mind that this young man must not on any consideration be allowed to enter your family." the lawyer meant well, but he overdid his work. sir harry got up and shook hands with him and thanked him, but left the room with some sense of offence. he had come to mr. boltby for information, and he had received it. but he was not quite sure that he had intended that mr. boltby should advise him touching his management of his own daughter. mr. boltby, he thought, had gone a little beyond his tether. sir harry acknowledged to himself that he had learned a great deal about his cousin, and it was for him to judge after that whether he would receive his cousin at humblethwaite. mr. boltby should not have spoken about the crossing-sweeper. and then sir harry was not quite sure that he liked that idea of setting vultures upon a man; and sir harry remembered something of his old lore as a hunting man. it is astonishing what blood will do in bringing a horse through mud at the end of a long day. mr. boltby probably did not understand how much, at the very last, might be expected from breeding. when sir harry left mr. boltby's chambers he was almost better-minded towards cousin george than he had been when he entered them; and in this frame of mind, both for and against the young man, he returned to humblethwaite. it must not be supposed, however, that as the result of the whole he was prepared to yield. he knew, beyond all doubt, that his cousin was thoroughly a bad subject,--a worthless and, as he believed, an irredeemable scamp; but yet he thought of what might happen if he were to yield! things were very sombre when he reached humblethwaite. of course his wife could not refrain from questions. "it is very bad," he said,--"as bad as can be." "he has gambled?" "gambled! if that were all! you had better not ask about it; he is a disgrace to the family." "then there can be no hope for emily?" "no hope! why should there not be hope? all her life need not depend on her fancy for a man of whom after all she has not seen so very much. she must get over it. other girls have had to do the same." "she is not like other girls, harry." "how not like them?" "i think she is more persistent; she has set her heart upon loving this young man, and she will love him." "then she must." "she will break her heart," said lady elizabeth. "she will break mine, i know," said sir harry. when he met his daughter he had embraced her, and she had kissed him and asked after his welfare; but he felt at once that she was different from what she used to be,--different, not only as regarded herself, but different also in her manner. there came upon him a sad, ponderous conviction that the sunlight had gone out from their joint lives, that all pleasant things were over for both of them, and that, as for him, it would be well for him that he should die. he could not be happy if there were discord between him and his child,--and there must be discord. the man had been invited with a price to take himself off, and had not been sufficiently ignoble to accept the offer. how could he avoid the discord, and bring back the warmth of the sun into his house? then he remembered those terribly forcible epithets which mr. boltby had spoken. "he is an unprincipled blackguard; and the worse blackguard because of his birth." the words had made sir harry angry, but he believed them to be true. if there were to be any yielding, he would not yield as yet; but that living in his house without sunshine was very grievous to him. "she will kill me," he said to himself, "if she goes on like this." and yet it was hard to say of what it was that he complained. days went by and his daughter said nothing and did nothing of which he could complain. it was simply this,--that the sunshine was no longer bright within his halls. days went by, and george hotspur's name had never been spoken by emily in the hearing of her father or mother. such duties as there were for her to do were done. the active duties of a girl in her position are very few. it was her custom of a morning to spread butter on a bit of toast for her father to eat. this she still did, and brought it to him as was her wont; but she did not bring it with her old manner. it was a thing still done,--simply because not to do it would be an omission to be remarked. "never mind it," said her father the fourth or fifth morning after his return, "i'd sooner do it for myself." she did not say a word, but on the next morning the little ceremony, which had once been so full of pleasant affection, was discontinued. she had certain hours of reading, and these were prolonged rather than abandoned. but both her father and mother perceived that her books were changed; her italian was given up, and she took to works of religion,--sermons, treatises, and long commentaries. "it will kill me," said sir harry to his wife. "i am afraid it will kill her," said lady elizabeth. "do you see how her colour has gone, and she eats so little!" "she walks every day." "yes; and comes in so tired. and she goes to church every wednesday and friday at hesket. i'm sure she is not fit for it such weather as this." "she has the carriage?" "no, she walks." then sir harry gave orders that his daughter should always have the carriage on wednesdays and fridays. but emily, when her mother told her this, insisted that she would sooner walk. but what did the carriage or no carriage on wednesday signify? the trouble was deeper than that. it was so deep that both father and mother felt that something must be done, or the trouble would become too heavy for their backs. ten days passed and nothing was heard either from mr. boltby or from cousin george. sir harry hardly knew what it was then he expected to hear; but it seemed that he did expect something. he was nervous at the hour of post, and was aware himself that he was existing on from day to day with the idea of soon doing some special thing,--he knew not what,--but something that might put an end to the frightful condition of estrangement between him and his child in which he was now living. it told even upon his duty among his tenants. it told upon his farm. it told upon almost every workman in the parish. he had no heart for doing anything. it did not seem certain to him that he could continue to live in his own house. he could not bring himself to order that this wood should be cut, or that those projected cottages should be built. everything was at a standstill; and it was clear to him that emily knew that all this had come from her rash love for her cousin george. she never now came and stood at his elbow in his own room, or leaned upon his shoulder; she never now asked him questions, or brought him out from his papers to decide questions in the garden,--or rather to allow himself to be ruled by her decisions. there were greetings between them morning and evening, and questions were asked and answered formally; but there was no conversation. "what have i done that i should be punished in this way?" said sir harry to himself. if he was prompt to think himself hardly used, so also was his daughter. in considering the matter in her own mind she had found it to be her duty to obey her father in her outward conduct, founding her convictions in this matter upon precedent and upon the general convictions of the world. in the matter of bestowing herself upon a suitor, a girl is held to be subject to her parents. so much she knew, or believed that she knew; and therefore she would obey. she had read and heard of girls who would correspond with their lovers clandestinely, would run away with their lovers, would marry their lovers as it were behind their fathers' backs. no act of this kind would she do. she had something within her which would make it dreadful to her ever to have to admit that she had been personally wrong,--some mixture of pride and principle, which was strong enough to keep her stedfast in her promised obedience. she would do nothing that could be thrown in her teeth; nothing that could be called unfeminine, indelicate, or undutiful. but she had high ideas of what was due to herself, and conceived that she would be wronged by her father, should her father take advantage of her sense of duty to crush her heart. she had her own rights and her own privileges, with which grievous and cruel interference would be made, should her father, because he was her father, rob her of the only thing which was sweet to her taste or desirable in her esteem. because she was his heiress he had no right to make her his slave. but even should he do so, she had in her own hands a certain security. the bondage of a slave no doubt he might allot to her, but not the task-work. because she would cling to her duty and keep the promise which she had made to him, it would be in his power to prevent the marriage upon which she had set her heart; but it was not within his power, or within his privilege as a father, to force upon her any other marriage. she would never help him with her hand in that adjustment of his property of which he thought so much unless he would help her in her love. and in the meantime sunshine should be banished from the house, such sunshine as had shone round her head. she did not so esteem herself as to suppose that, because she was sad, therefore her father and mother would be wretched; but she did feel herself bound to contribute to the house in general all the wretchedness which might come from her own want of sunlight. she suffered under a terrible feeling of ill-usage. why was she, because she was a girl and an heiress, to be debarred from her own happiness? if she were willing to risk herself, why should others interfere? and if the life and conduct of her cousin were in truth so bad as they were represented,--which she did not in the least believe,--why had he been allowed to come within her reach? it was not only that he was young, clever, handsome, and in every way attractive, but that, in addition to all this, he was a hotspur, and would some day be the head of the hotspurs. her father had known well enough that her family pride was equal to his own. was it not natural that, when a man so endowed had come in her way, she should learn to love him? and when she had loved him, was it not right that she should cling to her love? her father would fain treat her like a beast of burden kept in the stables for a purpose; or like a dog whose obedience and affections might be transferred from one master to another for a price. she would obey her father; but her father should be made to understand that hers was not the nature of a beast of burden or of a dog. she was a hotspur as thoroughly as was he. and then they brought men there to her, selected suitors, whom she despised. what did they think of her when imagining that she would take a husband not of her own choosing? what must be their idea of love, and of marriage duty, and of that close intercourse of man and wife? to her feeling a woman should not marry at all unless she could so love a man as to acknowledge to herself that she was imperatively required to sacrifice all that belonged to her for his welfare and good. such was her love for george hotspur,--let him be what he might. they told her that he was bad and that he would drag her into the mud. she was willing to be dragged into the mud; or, at any rate, to make her own struggle during the dragging, as to whether he should drag her in, or she should drag him out. and then they brought men to her--walking-sticks,--lord alfred and young mr. thoresby, and insulted her by supposing of her that she would marry a man simply because he was brought there as a fitting husband. she would be dutiful and obedient as a daughter, according to her idea of duty and of principle; but she would let them know that she had an identity of her own, and that she was not to be moulded like a piece of clay. no doubt she was hard upon her father. no doubt she was in very truth disobedient and disrespectful. it was not that she should have married any lord alfred that was brought to her, but that she should have struggled to accommodate her spirit to her father's spirit. but she was a hotspur; and though she could be generous, she could not yield. and then the hold of a child upon the father is so much stronger than that of the father on the child! our eyes are set in our face, and are always turned forward. the glances that we cast back are but occasional. and so the sunshine was banished from the house of humblethwaite, and the days were as black as the night. chapter xvii. "let us try." things went on thus at humblethwaite for three weeks, and sir harry began to feel that he could endure it no longer. he had expected to have heard again from mr. boltby, but no letter had come. mr. boltby had suggested to him something of starving out the town, and he had expected to be informed before this whether the town were starved out or not. he had received an indignant and grandiloquent letter from his cousin, of which as yet he had taken no notice. he had taken no notice of the letter, although it had been written to decline a proposal of very great moment made by himself. he felt that in these circumstances mr. boltby ought to have written to him. he ought to have been told what was being done. and yet he had left mr. boltby with a feeling which made it distasteful to him to ask further questions from the lawyer on the subject. altogether his position was one as disagreeable and painful as it well could be. but at last, in regard to his own private life with his daughter, he could bear it no longer. the tenderness of his heart was too much for his pride, and he broke down in his resolution to be stern and silent with her till all this should have passed by them. she was so much more to him than he was to her! she was his all in all;--whereas cousin george was hers. he was the happier at any rate in this, that he would never be forced to despise where he loved. "emily," he said to her at last, "why is it that you are so changed to me?" "papa!" "are you not changed? do you not know that everything about the house is changed?" "yes, papa." "and why is it so? i do not keep away from you. you used to come to me every day. you never come near me now." she hesitated for a moment with her eyes turned to the ground, and then as she answered him she looked him full in the face. "it is because i am always thinking of my cousin george." "but why should that keep us apart, emily? i wish that it were not so; but why should that keep us apart?" "because you are thinking of him too, and think so differently! you hate him; but i love him." "i do not hate him. it is not that i hate him. i hate his vices." "so do i." "i know that he is not a fit man for you to marry. i have not been able to tell you the things that i know of him." "i do not wish to be told." "but you might believe me when i assure you that they are of a nature to make you change your feelings towards him. at this very moment he is attached to--to--another person." emily hotspur blushed up to her brows, and her cheeks and forehead were suffused with blood; but her mouth was set as firm as a rock, and then came that curl over her eye which her father had so dearly loved when she was a child, but which was now held by him to be so dangerous. she was not going to be talked out of her love in that way. of course there had been things,--were things of which she knew nothing and desired to know nothing. though she herself was as pure as the driven snow, she did not require to be told that there were impurities in the world. if it was meant to be insinuated that he was untrue to her, she simply disbelieved it. but what if he were? his untruth would not justify hers. and untruth was impossible to her. she loved him, and had told him so. let him be ever so false, it was for her to bring him back to truth or to spend herself in the endeavour. her father did not understand her at all when he talked to her after this fashion. but she said nothing. her father was alluding to a matter on which she could say nothing. "if i could explain to you the way in which he has raised money for his daily needs, you would feel that he had degraded himself beneath your notice." "he cannot degrade himself beneath my notice;--not now. it is too late." "but, emily,--do you mean to say then that, let you set your affections where you might,--however wrongly, on however base a subject,--your mamma and i ought to yield to them, merely because they are so set?" "he is your heir, papa." "no; you are my heir. but i will not argue upon that. grant that he were my heir; even though every acre that is mine must go to feed his wickedness the very moment that i die, would that be a reason for giving my child to him also? do you think that you are no more to me than the acres, or the house, or the empty title? they are all nothing to my love for you." "papa!" "i do not think that you have known it. nay, darling, i have hardly known it myself. all other anxieties have ceased with me now that i have come to know what it really is to be anxious for you. do you think that i would not abandon any consideration as to wealth or family for your happiness? it has come to that with me, emily, that they are nothing to me now;--nothing. you are everything." "dear papa!" and now once again she leant upon his shoulder. "when i tell you of the young man's life, you will not listen to me. you regard it simply as groundless opposition." "no, papa; not groundless,--only useless." "but am i not bound to see that my girl be not united to a man who would disgrace her, misuse her, drag her into the dirt,"--that idea of dragging george out was strong in emily's mind as she listened to this,--"make her wretched and contemptible, and degrade her? surely this is a father's duty; and my child should not turn from me, and almost refuse to speak to me, because i do it as best i can!" "i do not turn from you, papa." "has my darling been to me as she used to be?" "look here, papa; you know what it is i have promised you." "i do, dearest." "i will keep my promise. i will never marry him till you consent. even though i were to see him every day for ten years, i would not do so when i had given my word." "i am sure of it, emily." "but let us try, you and i and mamma together. if you will do that; oh, i will be so good to you! let us see if we cannot make him good. i will never ask to marry him till you yourself are satisfied that he has reformed." she looked into his face imploringly, and she saw that he was vacillating. and yet he was a strong man, not given in ordinary things to much doubt. "papa, let us understand each other and be friends. if we do not trust each other, who can trust any one?" "i do trust you." "i shall never care for any one else." "do not say that, my child. you are too young to know your own heart. these are wounds which time will cure. others have suffered as you are suffering, and yet have become happy wives and mothers." "papa, i shall never change. i think i love him more because he is--so weak. like a poor child that is a cripple, he wants more love than those who are strong. i shall never change. and look here, papa; i know it is my duty to obey you by not marrying without your consent. but it can never be my duty to marry any one because you or mamma ask me. you will agree to that, papa?" "i should never think of pressing any one on you." "that is what i mean. and so we do understand each other. nothing can teach me not to think of him, and to love him, and to pray for him. as long as i live i shall do so. nothing you can find out about him will alter me in that. pray, pray do not go on finding out bad things. find out something good, and then you will begin to love him." "but if there is nothing good?" sir harry, as he said this, remembered the indignant refusal of his offer which was at that moment in his pocket, and confessed to himself that he had no right to say that nothing good could be found in cousin george. "do not say that, papa. how can you say that of any one? remember, he has our name, and he must some day be at the head of our family." "it will not be long, first," said sir harry, mournfully. "many, many, many years, i hope. for his sake as well as ours, i pray that it may be so. but still it is natural to suppose that the day will come." "of course it will come." "must it not be right, then, to make him fit for it when it comes? it can't be your great duty to think of him, as it is mine; but still it must be a duty to you too. i will not excuse his life, papa; but have there not been temptations,--such great temptations? and then, other men are excused for doing what he has done. let us try together, papa. say that you will try." it was clear to sir harry through it all that she knew nothing as yet of the nature of the man's offences. when she spoke of temptation not resisted, she was still thinking of commonplace extravagance, of the ordinary pleasures of fast young men, of racecourses, and betting, perhaps, and of tailors' bills. that lie which he had told about goodwood she had, as it were, thrown behind her, so that she should not be forced to look at it. but sir harry knew him to be steeped in dirty lies up to the hip, one who cheated tradesmen on system, a gambler who looked out for victims, a creature so mean that he could take a woman's money! mr. boltby had called him a swindler, a card-sharper, and a cur; and sir harry, though he was inclined at the present moment to be angry with mr. boltby, had never known the lawyer to be wrong. and this was the man for whom his daughter was pleading with all the young enthusiasm of her nature,--was pleading, not as for a cousin, but in order that he might at last be welcomed to that house as her lover, her husband, the one human being chosen out from all the world to be the recipient of the good things of which she had the bestowal! the man was so foul in the estimation of sir harry that it was a stain to be in his presence; and this was the man whom he as a father was implored to help to save, in order that at some future time his daughter might become the reprobate's wife! "papa, say that you will help me," repeated emily, clinging to him, and looking up into his face. he could not say that he would help her, and yet he longed to say some word that might comfort her. "you have been greatly shaken by all this, dearest." "shaken! yes, in one sense i have been shaken. i don't know quite what you mean. i shall never be shaken in the other way." "you have been distressed." "yes; distressed." "and, indeed, so have we all," he continued. "i think it will be best to leave this for a while." "for how long, papa?" "we need not quite fix that. i was thinking of going to naples for the winter." he was silent, waiting for her approbation, but she expressed none. "it is not long since you said how much you would like to spend a winter in naples." she still paused, but it was but for a moment. "at that time, papa, i was not engaged." did she mean to tell him, that because of this fatal promise which she had made, she never meant to stir from her home till she should be allowed to go with that wretch as her husband; that because of this promise, which could never be fulfilled, everything should come to an end with her? "papa," she said, "that would not be the way to try to save him, to go away and leave him among those who prey upon him;--unless, indeed, he might go too!" "what! with us?" "with you and mamma. why not? you know what i have promised. you can trust me." "it is a thing absolutely not to be thought of," he said; and then he left her. what was he to do? he could take her abroad, no doubt, but were he to do so in her present humour, she would, of course, relapse into that cold, silent, unloving, undutiful obedience which had been so distressing to him. she had made a great request to him, and he had not absolutely refused it. but the more he thought of it the more distasteful did it become to him. you cannot touch pitch and not be defiled. and the stain of this pitch was so very black! he could pay money, if that would soothe her. he could pay money, even if the man should not accept the offer made to him, should she demand it of him. and if the man would reform himself, and come out through the fire really purified, might it not be possible that at some long future time emily should become his wife? or, if some sort of half promise such as this were made to emily, would not that soften her for the time, and induce her to go abroad with a spirit capable of satisfaction, if not of pleasure? if this could be brought about, then time might do the rest. it would have been a delight to him to see his daughter married early, even though his own home might have been made desolate; but now he would be content if he thought he could look forward to some future settlement in life that might become her rank and fortune. emily, when her father left her, was aware that she had received no reply to her request, which she was entitled to regard as encouraging; but she thought that she had broken the ice, and that her father would by degrees become accustomed to her plan. if she could only get him to say that he would watch over the unhappy one, she herself would not be unhappy. it was not to be expected that she should be allowed to give her own aid at first to the work, but she had her scheme. his debts must be paid, and an income provided for him. and duties, too, must be given to him. why should he not live at scarrowby, and manage the property there? and then, at length, he would be welcomed to humblethwaite, when her own work might begin. neither for him nor for her must there be any living again in london until this task should have been completed. that any trouble could be too great, any outlay of money too vast for so divine a purpose, did not occur to her. was not this man the heir to her father's title; and was he not the owner of her own heart? then she knelt down and prayed that the almighty father would accomplish this good work for her;--and yet, not for her, but for him; not that she might be happy in her love, but that he might be as a brand saved from the burning, not only hereafter, but here also, in the sight of men. alas, dearest, no; not so could it be done! not at thy instance, though thy prayers be as pure as the songs of angels;--but certainly at his, if only he could be taught to know that the treasure so desirable in thy sight, so inestimable to thee, were a boon worthy of his acceptance. chapter xviii. good advice. two or three days after the little request made by cousin george to mrs. morton, the altringhams came suddenly to town. george received a note from lady altringham addressed to him at his club. we are going through to the draytons in hampshire. it is a new freak. four or five horses are to be sold, and gustavus thinks of buying the lot. if you are in town, come to us. you must not think that we are slack about you because gustavus would have nothing to do with the money. he will be at home to-morrow till eleven. i shall not go out till two. we leave on thursday.--yours, a. a. this letter he received on the wednesday. up to that hour he had done nothing since his interview with mr. hart; nor during those few days did he hear from that gentleman, or from captain stubber, or from mr. boltby. he had written to sir harry refusing sir harry's generous offer, and subsequently to that had made up his mind to accept it,--and had asked, as the reader knows, for mrs. morton's assistance. but the making up of george hotspur's mind was nothing. it was unmade again that day after dinner, as he thought of all the glories of humblethwaite and scarrowby combined. any one knowing him would have been sure that he would do nothing till he should be further driven. now there had come upon the scene in london one who could drive him. he went to the earl's house just at eleven, not wishing to seem to avoid the earl, but still desirous of seeing as little of his friend on that occasion as possible. he found lord altringham standing in his wife's morning-room. "how are you, old fellow? how do things go with the heiress?" he was in excellent humour, and said nothing about the refused request. "i must be off. you do what my lady advises; you may be sure that she knows a deal more about it than you or i." then he went, wishing george success in his usual friendly, genial way, which, as george knew, meant very little. with lady altringham the case was different. she was in earnest about it. it was to her a matter of real moment that this great heiress should marry one of her own set, and a man who wanted money so badly as did poor george. and she liked work of that kind. george's matrimonial prospects were more interesting to her than her husband's stables. she was very soon in the thick of it all, asking questions, and finding out how the land lay. she knew that george would lie; but that was to be expected from a man in his position. she knew also that she could with fair accuracy extract the truth from his lies. "pay all your debts, and give you five hundred pounds a year for his life." "the lawyer has offered that," said george, sadly. "then you may be sure," continued lady altringham, "that the young lady is in earnest. you have not accepted it?" "oh dear, no. i wrote to sir harry quite angrily. i told him i wanted my cousin's hand." "and what next?" "i have heard nothing further from anybody." lady altringham sat and thought. "are these people in london bothering you?" george explained that he had been bothered a good deal, but not for the last four or five days. "can they put you in prison, or anything of that kind?" george was not quite sure whether they might or might not have some such power. he had a dreadful weight on his mind of which he could say nothing to lady altringham. even she would be repelled from him were she to know of that evening's work between him and messrs. walker and bullbean. he said at last that he did not think they could arrest him, but that he was not quite sure. "you must do something to let her know that you are as much in earnest as she is." "exactly." "it is no use writing, because she wouldn't get your letters." "she wouldn't have a chance." "and if i understand her she would not do anything secretly." "i am afraid not," said george. "you will live, perhaps, to be glad that it is so. when girls come out to meet their lovers clandestinely before marriage, they get so fond of the excitement that they sometimes go on doing it afterwards." "she is as,--as--as sure to go the right side of the post as any girl in the world." "no doubt. so much the better for you. when those girls do catch the disease, they always have it very badly. they mean only to have one affair, and naturally want to make the most of it. well, now what i would do is this. run down to humblethwaite." "to humblethwaite!" "yes. i don't suppose you are going to be afraid of anybody. knock at the door, and send your card to sir harry. drive into the stable-yard, so that everybody about the place may know that you are there, and then ask to see the baronet." "he wouldn't see me." "then ask to see lady elizabeth." "she wouldn't be allowed to see me." "then leave a letter, and say that you'll wait for an answer. write to miss hotspur whatever you like to say in the way of a love-letter, and put it under cover to sir harry--open." "she'll never get it." "i don't suppose she will. not but what she may--only that isn't the first object. but this will come of it. she'll know that you've been there. that can't be kept from her. you may be sure that she was very firm in sticking to you when he offered to pay all that money to get rid of you. she'll remain firm if she's made to know that you are the same. don't let her love die out for want of notice." "i won't." "if they take her abroad, go after them. stick to it, and you'll wear them out if she helps you. and if she knows that you are sticking to it, she'll do the same for honour. when she begins to be a little pale, and to walk out at nights, and to cough in the morning, they'll be tired out and send for dr. george hotspur. that's the way it will go if you play your game well." cousin george was lost in admiration at the wisdom and generalship of this great counsellor, and promised implicit obedience. the countess went on to explain that it might be expedient to postpone this movement for a week or two. "you should leave just a little interval, because you cannot always be doing something. for some days after his return her father won't cease to abuse you, which will keep you well in her mind. when those men begin to attack you again, so as to make london too hot, then run down to humblethwaite. don't hide your light under a bushel. let the people down there know all about it." george hotspur swore eternal gratitude and implicit obedience, and went back to his club. mr. hart and captain stubber did not give him much rest. from mr. boltby he received no further communication. for the present mr. boltby thought it well to leave him in the hands of mr. hart and captain stubber. mr. boltby, indeed, did not as yet know of mr. bullbean's story, although certain hints had reached him which had, as he thought, justified him in adding the title of card-sharper to those other titles with which he had decorated his client's cousin's name. had he known the entire walker story, he would probably have thought that cousin george might have been bought at a considerably cheaper price than that fixed in the baronet's offer, which was still in force. but then mr. hart had his little doubts also and his difficulties. he, too, could perceive that were he to make this last little work of captain hotspur's common property in the market, it might so far sink captain hotspur's condition and value in the world that nobody would think it worth his while to pay captain hotspur's debts. at present there was a proposition from an old gentleman, possessed of enormous wealth, to "pay all captain hotspur's debts." three months ago, mr. hart would willingly have sold every scrap of the captain's paper in his possession for the half of the sum inscribed on it. the whole sum was now promised, and would undoubtedly be paid if the captain could be worked upon to do as mr. boltby desired. but if the gentlemen employed on this delicate business were to blow upon the captain too severely, mr. boltby would have no such absolute necessity to purchase the captain. the captain would sink to zero, and not need purchasing. mr. walker must have back his money,--or so much of it as mr. hart might permit him to take. that probably might be managed; and the captain must be thoroughly frightened, and must be made to write the letter which mr. boltby desired. mr. hart understood his work very well;--so, it is hoped, does the reader. captain stubber was in these days a thorn in our hero's side; but mr. hart was a scourge of scorpions. mr. hart never ceased to talk of mr. walker, and of the determination of walker and bullbean to go before a magistrate if restitution were not made. cousin george of course denied the foul play, but admitted that he would repay the money if he had it. there should be no difficulty about the money, mr. hart assured him, if he would only write that letter to mr. boltby. in fact, if he would write that letter to mr. boltby, he should be made "shquare all round." so mr. hart was pleased to express himself. but if this were not done, and done at once, mr. hart swore by his god that captain "'oshspur" should be sold up, root and branch, without another day's mercy. the choice was between five hundred pounds a year in any of the capitals of europe, and that without a debt,--or penal servitude. that was the pleasant form in which mr. hart put the matter to his young friend. cousin george drank a good deal of curaã§oa, and doubted between lady altringham and mr. hart. he knew that he had not told everything to the countess. excellent as was her scheme, perfect as was her wisdom, her advice was so far more dangerous than the jew's, that it was given somewhat in the dark. the jew knew pretty well everything. the jew was interested, of course, and therefore his advice must also be regarded with suspicion. at last, when mr. hart and captain stubber between them had made london too hot to hold him, he started for humblethwaite,--not without leaving a note for "dear mr. hart," in which he explained to that gentleman that he was going to westmoreland suddenly, with a purpose that would, he trusted, very speedily enable him to pay every shilling that he owed. "yesh," said mr. hart, "and if he ain't quick he shall come back with a 'andcuff on." captain hotspur could not very well escape mr. hart. he started by the night-train for penrith, and before doing so prepared a short letter for miss hotspur, which, as instructed, he put open under an envelope addressed to the baronet. there should be nothing clandestine, nothing dishonourable. oh dear, no! he quite taught himself to believe that he would have hated anything dishonourable or clandestine. his letter was as follows:- dearest emily,--after what has passed between us, i cannot bear not to attempt to see you or to write to you. so i shall go down and take this letter with me. of course i shall not take any steps of which sir harry might disapprove. i wrote to him two or three weeks ago, telling him what i proposed, and i thought that he would have answered me. as i have not heard from him i shall take this with me to humblethwaite, and shall hope, though i do not know whether i may dare to expect, to see the girl i love better than all the world.--always your own, george hotspur. even this was not composed by himself, for cousin george, though he could often talk well,--or at least sufficiently well for the purposes which he had on hand,--was not good with his pen on such an occasion as this. lady altringham had sent him by post a rough copy of what he had better say, and he had copied her ladyship's words verbatim. there is no matter of doubt at all but that on all such subjects an average woman can write a better letter than an average man; and cousin george was therefore right to obtain assistance from his female friends. he slept at penrith till nearly noon, then breakfasted and started with post-horses for humblethwaite. he felt that everybody knew what he was about, and was almost ashamed of being seen. nevertheless he obeyed his instructions. he had himself driven up through the lodges and across the park into the large stable-yard of the hall. lady altringham had quite understood that more people must see and hear him in this way than if he merely rang at the front door and were from thence dismissed. the grooms and the coachman saw him, as did also three or four of the maids who were in the habit of watching to see that the grooms and coachman did their work. he had brought with him a travelling-bag,--not expecting to be asked to stay and dine, but thinking it well to be prepared. this, however, he left in the fly as he walked round to the hall-door. the footman was already there when he appeared, as word had gone through the house that mr. george had arrived. was sir harry at home? yes, sir harry was at home;--and then george found himself in a small parlour, or book-room, or subsidiary library, which he had very rarely known to be used. but there was a fire in the room, and he stood before it, twiddling his hat. in a quarter of an hour the door was opened, and the servant came in with a tray and wine and sandwiches. george felt it to be an inappropriate welcome; but still, after a fashion, it was a welcome. "is sir harry in the house?" he asked. "yes, mr. hotspur." "does he know that i am here?" "yes, mr. hotspur, i think he does." then it occurred to cousin george that perhaps he might bribe the servant; and he put his hand into his pocket. but before he had communicated the two half-crowns, it struck him that there was no possible request which he could make to the man in reference to which a bribe would be serviceable. "just ask them to look to the horses," he said; "i don't know whether they were taken out." "the horses is feeding, mr. hotspur," said the man. every word the man spoke was gravely spoken, and george understood perfectly that he was held to have done a very wicked thing in coming to humblethwaite. nevertheless, there was a decanter full of sherry, which, as far as it went, was an emblem of kindness. nobody should say that he was unwilling to accept kindness at his cousin's hands, and he helped himself liberally. before he was interrupted again he had filled his glass four times. but in truth it needed something to support him. for a whole hour after the servant's disappearance he was left alone. there were books in the room,--hundreds of them; but in such circumstances who could read? certainly not cousin george, to whom books at no time gave much comfort. twice and thrice he stepped towards the bell, intending to ring it, and ask again for sir harry; but twice and thrice he paused. in his position he was bound not to give offence to sir harry. at last the door was opened, and with silent step, and grave demeanour, and solemn countenance, lady elizabeth walked into the room. "we are very sorry that you should have been kept so long waiting, captain hotspur," she said. chapter xix. the new smithy. sir harry was sitting alone in the library when the tidings were brought to him that george hotspur had reached humblethwaite with a pair of post-horses from penrith. the old butler, cloudesdale, brought him the news, and cloudesdale whispered it into his ears with solemn sorrow. cloudesdale was well aware that cousin george was no credit to the house of humblethwaite. and much about the same time the information was brought to lady elizabeth by her housekeeper, and to emily by her own maid. it was by cloudesdale's orders that george was shown into the small room near the hall; and he told sir harry what he had done in a funereal whisper. lady altringham had been quite right in her method of ensuring the general delivery of the information about the house. emily flew at once to her mother. "george is here," she said. mrs. quick, the housekeeper, was at that moment leaving the room. "so quick tells me. what can have brought him, my dear?" "why should he not come, mamma?" "because your papa will not make him welcome to the house. oh, dear,--he knows that. what are we to do?" in a few minutes mrs. quick came back again. sir harry would be much obliged if her ladyship would go to him. then it was that the sandwiches and sherry were ordered. it was a compromise on the part of lady elizabeth between emily's prayer that some welcome might be shown, and sir harry's presumed determination that the banished man should continue to be regarded as banished. "take him some kind of refreshment, quick;--a glass of wine or something, you know." then mrs. quick had cut the sandwiches with her own hand, and cloudesdale had given the sherry. "he ain't eaten much, but he's made it up with the wine," said cloudesdale, when the tray was brought back again. lady elizabeth went down to her husband, and there was a consultation. sir harry was quite clear that he would not now, on this day, admit cousin george as a guest into his house; nor would he see him. to that conclusion he came after his wife had been with him some time. he would not see him, there, at humblethwaite. if george had anything to say that could not be said in a letter, a meeting might be arranged elsewhere. sir harry confessed, however, that he could not see that good results could come from any meeting whatsoever. "the truth is, that i don't want to have anything more to do with him," said sir harry. that was all very well, but as emily's wants in this respect were at variance with her father's, there was a difficulty. lady elizabeth pleaded that some kind of civility, at least some mitigation of opposition, should be shown, for emily's sake. at last she was commissioned to go to cousin george, to send him away from the house, and, if necessary, to make an appointment between him and sir harry at the crown, at penrith, for the morrow. nothing on earth should induce sir harry to see his cousin anywhere on his own premises. as for any meeting between cousin george and emily, that was, of course, out of the question,--and he must go from humblethwaite. such were the instructions with which lady elizabeth descended to the little room. cousin george came forward with the pleasantest smile to take lady elizabeth by the hand. he was considerably relieved when he saw lady elizabeth, because of her he was not afraid. "i do not at all mind waiting," he said. "how is sir harry?" "quite well." "and yourself?" "pretty well, thank you." "and emily?" lady elizabeth knew that in answering him she ought to call her own daughter miss hotspur, but she lacked the courage. "emily is well too. sir harry has thought it best that i should come to you and explain that just at present he cannot ask you to humblethwaite." "i did not expect it." "and he had rather not see you himself,--at least not here." lady elizabeth had not been instructed to propose a meeting. she had been told rather to avoid it if possible. but, like some other undiplomatic ambassadors, in her desire to be civil, she ran at once to the extremity of the permitted concessions. "if you have anything to say to sir harry--" "i have, lady elizabeth; a great deal." "and if you could write it--" "i am so bad at writing." "then sir harry will go over and see you to-morrow at penrith." "that will be so very troublesome to him!" "you need not regard that. at what hour shall he come?" cousin george was profuse in declaring that he would be at his cousin's disposal at any hour sir harry might select, from six in the morning throughout the day and night. but might he not say a word to emily? at this proposition lady elizabeth shook her head vigorously. it was quite out of the question. circumstanced as they all were at present, sir harry would not think of such a thing. and then it would do no good. lady elizabeth did not believe that emily herself would wish it. at any rate there need be no further talk about it, as any such interview was at present quite impossible. by all which arguments and refusals, and the tone in which they were pronounced, cousin george was taught to perceive that, at any rate in the mind of lady elizabeth, the process of parental yielding had already commenced. on all such occasions interviews are bad. the teller of this story ventures to take the opportunity of recommending parents in such cases always to refuse interviews, not only between the young lady and the lover who is to be excluded, but also between themselves and the lover. the vacillating tone,--even when the resolve to suppress vacillation has been most determined,--is perceived and understood, and at once utilized, by the least argumentative of lovers, even by lovers who are obtuse. the word "never" may be so pronounced as to make the young lady's twenty thousand pounds full present value for ten in the lover's pocket. there should be no arguments, no letters, no interviews; and the young lady's love should be starved by the absence of all other mention of the name, and by the imperturbable good humour on all other matters of those with whom she comes in contact in her own domestic circle. if it be worth anything, it won't be starved; but if starving to death be possible, that is the way to starve it. lady elizabeth was a bad ambassador; and cousin george, when he took his leave, promising to be ready to meet sir harry at twelve on the morrow, could almost comfort himself with a prospect of success. he might be successful, if only he could stave off the walker and bullbean portion of mr. hart's persecution! for he understood that the success of his views at humblethwaite must postpone the payment by sir harry of those moneys for which mr. hart and captain stubber were so unreasonably greedy. he would have dared to defy the greed, but for the walker and bullbean portion of the affair. sir harry already knew that he was in debt to these men; already knew with fair accuracy the amount of those debts. hart and stubber could not make him worse in sir harry's eyes than he was already, unless the walker and bullbean story should be told with the purpose of destroying him. how he did hate walker and bullbean and the memory of that evening;--and yet the money which now enabled him to drink champagne at the penrith crown was poor mr. walker's money! as he was driven back to penrith he thought of all this, for some moments sadly, and at others almost with triumph. might not a letter to mr. hart, with perhaps a word of truth in it, do some good? that evening, after his champagne, he wrote a letter:- dear mr. hart,--things are going uncommon well here, only i hope you will do nothing to disturb just at present. it _must_ come off, if a little time is given, and then _every shilling_ will be paid. a few pounds more or less won't make any difference. do arrange this, and you'll find i'll never forget how kind you have been. i've been at humblethwaite to-day, and things are going quite smooth. yours most sincerely, george hotspur. don't mention walker's name, and everything shall be settled just as you shall fix. the crown, penrith, thursday. the moment the letter was written he rang the bell and gave it to the waiter. such was the valour of drink operating on him now, as it had done when he wrote that other letter to sir harry! the drink made him brave to write, and to make attempts, and to dare consequences; but even whilst brave with drink, he knew that the morning's prudence would refuse its assent to such courage; and therefore, to save himself from the effects of the morning's cowardice, he put the letter at once out of his own power of control. after this fashion were arranged most of cousin george's affairs. before dinner on that day the evening of which he had passed with mr. walker, he had resolved that certain hints given to him by mr. bullbean should be of no avail to him;--not to that had he yet descended, nor would he so descend;--but with his brandy after dinner divine courage had come, and success had attended the brave. as soon as he was awake on that morning after writing to mr. hart, he rang his bell to inquire whether that letter which he had given to the waiter at twelve o'clock last night were still in the house. it was too late. the letter in which so imprudent a mention had been made of mr. walker's name was already in the post. "never mind," said cousin george to himself; "none but the brave deserve the fair." then he turned round for another nap. it was not much past nine, and sir harry would not be there before twelve. in the mean time there had been hope also and doubt also at humblethwaite. sir harry was not surprised and hardly disappointed when he was told that he was to go to penrith to see his cousin. the offer had been made by himself, and he was sure that he would not escape with less; and when emily was told by her mother of the arrangement, she saw in it a way to the fulfilment of the prayer which she had made to her father. she would say nothing to him that evening, leaving to him the opportunity of speaking to her, should he choose to do so. but on the following morning she would repeat her prayer. on that evening not a word was said about george while sir harry and lady elizabeth were together with their daughter. emily had made her plan, and she clung to it. her father was very gentle with her, sitting close to her as she played some pieces of music to him in the evening, caressing her and looking lovingly into her eyes, as he bade god bless her when she left him for the night; but he had determined to say nothing to encourage her. he was still minded that there could be no such encouragement; but he doubted;--in his heart of hearts he doubted. he would still have bought off cousin george by the sacrifice of half his property, and yet he doubted. after all, there would be some consolation in that binding together of the name and the property. "what will you say to him?" lady elizabeth asked her husband that night. "tell him to go away." "nothing more than that?" "what more is there to say? if he be willing to be bought, i will buy him. i will pay his debts and give him an income." "you think, then, there can be no hope?" "hope!--for whom?" "for emily." "i hope to preserve her--from a--scoundrel." and yet he had thought of the consolation! emily was very persistent in carrying out her plan. prayers at humblethwaite were always read with admirable punctuality at a quarter-past nine, so that breakfast might be commenced at half-past. sir harry every week-day was in his own room for three-quarters of an hour before prayers. all this was like clock-work at humblethwaite. there would always be some man or men with sir harry during these three-quarters of an hour,--a tenant, a gamekeeper, a groom, a gardener, or a bailiff. but emily calculated that if she made her appearance and held her ground, the tenant or the bailiff would give way, and that thus she would ensure a private interview with her father. were she to wait till after breakfast, this would be difficult. a very few minutes after the half-hour she knocked at the door and was admitted. the village blacksmith was then suggesting a new smithy. "papa," said emily, "if you would allow me half a minute--" the village blacksmith and the bailiff, who was also present, withdrew, bowing to emily, who gave to each of them a smile and a nod. they were her old familiar friends, and they looked kindly at her. she was to be their future lady; but was it not all important that their future lord should be a hotspur? sir harry had thought it not improbable that his daughter would come to him, but would have preferred to avoid the interview if possible. here it was, however, and could not be avoided. "papa," she said, kissing him, "you are going to penrith to-day." "yes, my dear." "to see cousin george?" "yes, emily." "will you remember what we were saying the other day;--what i said?" "i will endeavour to do my duty as best i may," said sir harry, after a pause. "i am sure you will, papa;--and so do i. i do endeavour to do my duty. will you not try to help him?" "certainly, i will try to help him; for your sake rather than for his own. if i can help him with money, by paying his debts and giving him means to live, i will do so." "papa, that is not what i mean." "what else can i do?" "save him from the evil of his ways." "i will try. i would,--if i knew how,--even if only for the name's sake." "for my sake also, papa. papa, let us do it together; you and i and mamma. let him come here." "it is impossible." "let him come here," she said, as though disregarding his refusal. "you need not be afraid of me. i know how much there is to do that will be very hard in doing before any,--any other arrangement can be talked about." "i am not afraid of you, my child." "let him come, then." "no;--it would do no good. do you think he would live here quietly?" "try him." "what would people say?" "never mind what people would say: he is our cousin; he is your heir. he is the person whom i love best in all the world. have you not a right to have him here if you wish it? i know what you are thinking of; but, papa, there can never be anybody else;--never." "emily, you will kill me, i think." "dear papa, let us see if we cannot try. and, oh, papa, pray, pray let me see him." when she went away the bailiff and the blacksmith returned; but sir harry's power of resistance was gone, so that he succumbed to the new smithy without a word. chapter xx. cousin george's success. thoughts crowded quick into the mind of sir harry hotspur as he had himself driven over to penrith. it was a dull, dreary day in november, and he took the close carriage. the distance was about ten miles, and he had therefore something above an hour for thinking. when men think much, they can rarely decide. the affairs as to which a man has once acknowledged to himself that he may be either wise or foolish, prudent or imprudent, are seldom matters on which he can by any amount of thought bring himself to a purpose which to his own eyes shall be clearly correct. when he can decide without thinking, then he can decide without a doubt, and with perfect satisfaction. but in this matter sir harry thought much. there had been various times at which he was quite sure that it was his duty to repudiate this cousin utterly. there had never been a time at which he had been willing to accept him. nevertheless, at this moment, with all his struggles of thought he could not resolve. was his higher duty due to his daughter, or to his family,--and through his family to his country, which, as he believed, owed its security and glory to the maintenance of its aristocracy? would he be justified,--justified in any degree,--in subjecting his child to danger in the hope that his name and family pride might be maintained? might he take his own desires in that direction as any make-weight towards a compliance with his girl's strong wishes, grounded as they were on quite other reasons? mr. boltby had been very eager in telling him that he ought to have nothing to say to this cousin, had loaded the cousin's name with every imaginable evil epithet; and of mr. boltby's truth and honesty there could be no doubt. but then mr. boltby had certainly exceeded his duty, and was of course disposed, by his professional view of the matter, to think any step the wisest which would tend to save the property from dangerous hands. sir harry felt that there were things to be saved of more value than the property;--the family, the title, perhaps that reprobate cousin himself; and then, above all, his child. he did believe that his child would not smile for him again, unless he would consent to make some effort in favour of her lover. doubtless the man was very bad. sir harry was sick at heart as he thought of the evil nature of the young man's vices. of a man debauched in his life, extravagant with his money, even of a gambler, a drunkard, one fond of low men and of low women;--of one even such as this there might be hope, and the vicious man, if he will give up his vices, may still be loved and at last respected. but of a liar, a swindler, one mean as well as vicious, what hope could there be? it was essential to sir harry that the husband of his daughter should at any rate be a gentleman. the man's blood, indeed, was good; and blood will show at last, let the mud be ever so deep. so said sir harry to himself. and emily would consent that the man should be tried by what severest fire might be kindled for the trying of him. if there were any gold there, it might be possible to send the dross adrift, and to get the gold without alloy. could lady altringham have read sir harry's mind as his carriage was pulled up, just at twelve o'clock, at the door of the penrith crown, she would have been stronger than ever in her belief that young lovers, if they be firm, can always conquer opposing parents. but alas, alas, there was no gold with this dross, and in that matter of blood, as to which sir harry's ideas were so strong, and indeed so noble, he entertained but a muddled theory. noblesse oblige. high position will demand, and will often exact, high work. but that rule holds as good with a buonaparte as with a bourbon, with a cromwell as with a stewart; and succeeds as often and fails as often with the low born as with the high. and good blood too will have its effect,--physical for the most part,--and will produce bottom, lasting courage, that capacity of carrying on through the mud to which sir harry was wont to allude; but good blood will bring no man back to honesty. the two things together, no doubt, assist in producing the highest order of self-denying man. when sir harry got out of his carriage, he had not yet made up his mind. the waiter had been told that he was expected, and showed him up at once into the large sitting-room looking out into the street, which cousin george had bespoke for the occasion. he had had a smaller room himself, but had been smoking there, and at this moment in that room there was a decanter and a wine-glass on the chiffonier in one corner. he had heard the bustle of the arrival, and had at once gone into the saloon prepared for the reception of the great man. "i am so sorry to give you this trouble," said cousin george, coming forward to greet his cousin. sir harry could not refuse his cousin's hand, though he would willingly have done so, had it been possible. "i should not mind the trouble," he said, "if it were of any use. i fear it can be of none." "i hope you will not be prejudiced against me, sir harry." "i trust that i am not prejudiced against any one. what is it that you wish me to do?" "i want permission to go to humblethwaite, as a suitor for your daughter's hand." so far cousin george had prepared his speech beforehand. "and what have you to recommend you to a father for such permission? do you not know, sir, that when a gentleman proposes to a lady it is his duty to show that he is in a condition fit for the position which he seeks; that in character, in means, in rank, in conduct, he is at least her equal." "as for our rank, sir harry, it is the same." "and for your means? you know that my daughter is my heiress?" "i do; but it is not that that has brought me to her. of course, i have nothing. but then, you know, though she will inherit the estates, i must inherit--" "if you please, sir, we will not go into all that again," said sir harry, interrupting him. "i explained to you before, sir, that i would have admitted your future rank as a counterpoise to her fortune, if i could have trusted your character. i cannot trust it. i do not know why you should thrust upon me the necessity of saying all this again. as i believe that you are in pecuniary distress, i made you an offer which i thought to be liberal." "it was liberal, but it did not suit me to accept it." george had an inkling of what would pass within sir harry's bosom as to the acceptance or rejection of that offer. "i wrote to you, declining it, and as i have received no answer, i thought that i would just run down. what was i to do?" "do? how can i tell? pay your debts. the money was offered you." "i cannot give up my cousin. has she been allowed to receive the letter which i left for her yesterday?" now sir harry had doubted much in his own mind as to the letter. during that morning's interview it had still been in his own possession. as he was preparing to leave the house he had made up his mind that she should have it; and lady elizabeth had been commissioned to give it her, not without instruction and explanation. her father would not keep it from her, because he trusted her implicitly; but she was to understand that it could mean nothing to her, and that the letter must not of course be answered. "it does not matter whether she did or did not," said sir harry. "i ask you again, whether you will accept the offer made you by mr. boltby, and give me your written promise not to renew this suit." "i cannot do that, sir harry." sir harry did not know how to proceed with the interview. as he had come there, some proposition must be made by himself. had he intended to be altogether obstinate he should have remained at humblethwaite, and kept his cousin altogether out of the house. and now his daughter's prayers were ringing in his ears: "dear papa, let us see if we cannot try." and then again that assurance which she had made him so solemnly: "papa, there never can be anybody else!" if the black sheep could be washed white, the good of such washing would on every side be so great! he would have to blush,--let the washing be ever so perfect,--he must always blush in having such a son-in-law; but he had been forced to acknowledge to himself of late, that there was infinitely more of trouble and shame in this world than of joy or honour. was it not in itself a disgrace that a hotspur should do such things as this cousin had done; and a disgrace also that his daughter should have loved a man so unfit to be her lover? and then from day to day, and from hour to hour, he remembered that these ills were added to the death of that son, who, had he lived, would have been such a glory to him. more of trouble and disgrace! was it not all trouble and disgrace? he would have wished that the day might come for him to go away and leave it all, were it not that for one placed as he was placed his own life would not see the end of these troubles. he must endeavour to provide that everything should not go to utter ruin as soon as he should have taken his departure. he walked about the room, again trying to think. or, perhaps, all thinking was over with him now, and he was resolving in his own mind how best he might begin to yield. he must obey his daughter. he could not break the heart of the only child that was left to him. he had no delight in the world other than what came to him reflected back from her. he felt now as though he was simply a steward endeavouring on her behalf to manage things to the best advantage; but still only a steward, and as such only a servant who could not at last decide on the mode of management to be adopted. he could endeavour to persuade, but she must decide. now his daughter had decided, and he must begin this task, so utterly distasteful to him, of endeavouring to wash the blackamoor white. "what are you willing to do?" he asked. "how to do, sir harry?" "you have led a bad life." "i suppose i have, sir harry." "how will you show yourself willing to reform it?" "only pay my debts and set me up with ready money, and i'll go along as slick as grease!" thus would cousin george have answered the question had he spoken his mind freely. but he knew that he might not be so explicit. he must promise much; but, of course, in making his promise he must arrange about his debts. "i'll do almost anything you like. only try me. of course it would be so much easier if those debts were paid off. i'll give up races altogether, if you mean that, sir harry. indeed, i'm ready to give up anything." "will you give up london?" "london!" in simple truth, george did not quite understand the proposition. "yes; will you leave london? will you go and live at scarrowby, and learn to look after the farm and the place?" george's face fell,--his face being less used to lying than his tongue; but his tongue lied at once: "oh yes, certainly, if you wish it. i should rather like a life of that sort. for how long would it be?" "for two years," said sir harry, grimly. cousin george, in truth, did not understand. he thought that he was to take his bride with him when he went to scarrowby. "perhaps emily would not like it," he said. "it is what she desires. you do not suppose that she knows so little of your past life as to be willing to trust herself into your hands at once. she is attached to you." "and so am i to her; on my honour i am. i'm sure you don't doubt that." sir harry doubted every word that fell from his cousin's mouth, but still he persevered. he could perceive though he could not analyse, and there was hardly a tone which poor cousin george used which did not discourage the baronet. still he persevered. he must persevere now, even if it were only to prove to emily how much of basest clay and how little of gold there was in this image. "she is attached to you," he continued, "and you bear our name, and will be the head of our family. if you will submit yourself to a reformed life, and will prove that you are fit for her, it may be possible that after years she should be your wife." "after years, sir harry?" "yes, sir,--after years. do you suppose that the happiness of such an one as she can be trusted to such keeping as yours without a trial of you? you will find that she has no such hope herself." "oh, of course; what she likes--" "i will pay your debts; on condition that mr. boltby is satisfied that he has the entire list of them." george, as he heard this, at once determined that he must persuade mr. hart to include mr. walker's little account in that due to himself. it was only a matter of a few hundreds, and might surely be arranged when so much real money would be passing from hand to hand. "i will pay everything; you shall then go down to scarrowby, and the house shall be prepared for you." it wasn't supposed, george thought, that he was absolutely to live in solitary confinement at scarrowby. he might have a friend or two, and then the station was very near. "you are fond of shooting, and you will have plenty of it there. we will get you made a magistrate for the county, and there is much to do in looking after the property." sir harry became almost good-humoured in his tone as he described the kind of life which he intended that the blackamoor should live. "we will come to you for a month each year, and then you can come to us for a while." "when shall it begin?" asked cousin george, as soon as the baronet paused. this was a question difficult to be answered. in fact, the arrangement must be commenced at once. sir harry knew very well that, having so far yielded, he must take his cousin back with him to humblethwaite. he must keep his cousin now in his possession till all those debts should be paid, and till the house at scarrowby should be prepared; and he must trust to his daughter's prudence and high sense of right not to treat her lover with too tender an acknowledgment of her love till he should have been made to pass through the fire of reform. "you had better get ready and come back to humblethwaite with me now," said sir harry. within five minutes after that there was bustling about the passages and hall of the crown hotel. everybody in the house, from the august landlord down to the humble stableboy, knew that there had been a reconciliation between sir harry and his cousin, and that the cousin was to be made welcome to all the good the gods could give. while cousin george was packing his things, sir harry called for the bill and paid it,--without looking at it, because he would not examine how the blackamoor had lived while he was still a blackamoor. "i wonder whether he observed the brandy," thought cousin george to himself. chapter xxi. emily hotspur's sermon. the greater portion of the journey back to humblethwaite was passed in silence. sir harry had undertaken an experiment in which he had no faith himself, and was sad at heart. cousin george was cowed, half afraid, and yet half triumphant. could it be possible that he should "pull through" after all? some things had gone so well with him. his lady friends had been so true to him! lady altringham, and then mrs. morton,--how good they had been! dear lucy! he would never forget her. and emily was such a brick! he was going to see his emily, and that would be "so jolly." nevertheless, he did acknowledge to himself that an emily prepared to assist her father in sending her lover through the fire of reform, would not be altogether "so jolly" as the emily who had leaned against him on the bridge at airey force, while his arm had been tightly clasped round her waist. he was alive to the fact that romance must give place to business. when they had entered the park-gates, sir harry spoke. "you must understand, george"--he had not called him george before since the engagement had been made known to him--"that you cannot yet be admitted here as my daughter's accepted suitor, as might have been the case had your past life been different." "i see all that," said cousin george. "it is right that i should tell you so; but i trust implicitly to emily's high sense of duty and propriety. and now that you are here, george, i trust that it may be for your advantage and for ours." then he pressed his cousin's hand, if not with affection, at least with sincerity. "i'm sure it is to be all right now," said george, calculating whether he would be able to escape to london for a few days, so that he might be able to arrange that little matter with mr. hart. they couldn't suppose that he would be able to leave london for two years without a day's notice! sir harry got out of the carriage at the front door, and desired cousin george to follow him into the house. he turned at once into the small room where george had drunk the sherry, and desired that lady elizabeth might be sent to him. "my dear," said he, "i have brought george back with me. we will do the best that we can. mrs. quick will have a room for him. you had better tell emily, and let her come to me for a moment before she sees her cousin." this was all said in george's hearing. and then sir harry went, leaving his cousin in the hands of lady elizabeth. "i am glad to see you back again, george," she said, with a melancholy voice. cousin george smiled, and said, that "it would be all right." "i am sure i hope so, for my girl's sake. but there must be a great change, george." "no end of a change," said cousin george, who was not in the least afraid of lady elizabeth. many things of moment had to be done in the house that day before dinner. in the first place there was a long interview between the father and daughter. for a few minutes, perhaps, he was really happy when she was kneeling with her arms upon his knees, thanking him for what he had done, while tears of joy were streaming down her cheeks. he would not bring himself to say a word of caution to her. would it not be to paint the snow white to caution her as to her conduct? "i have done as you bade me in everything," he said. "i have proposed to him that he should go to scarrowby. it may be that it will be your home for a while, dear." she thanked him and kissed him again and again. she would be so good. she would do all she could to deserve his kindness. and as for george,--"pray, papa, don't think that i suppose that it can be all done quite at once." nevertheless it was in that direction that her thoughts erred. it did seem to her that the hard part of the work was already done, and that now the pleasant paths of virtue were to be trod with happy and persistent feet. "you had better see him in your mother's presence, dearest, before dinner; and then the awkwardness will be less afterwards." she kissed him again, and ran from his room up to her mother's apartment, taking some back stairs well known to herself, lest she should by chance meet her lover after some undue and unprepared fashion. and there she could sit down and think of it all! she would be very discreet. he should be made to understand at once that the purgation must be thorough, the reform complete. she would acknowledge her love to him,--her great and abiding love; but of lover's tenderness there could be but little,--almost none,--till the fire had done its work, and the gold should have been separated from the dross. she had had her way so far, and they should find that she had deserved it. before dinner sir harry wrote a letter to his lawyer. the mail-cart passed through the village on its way to penrith late in the evening, and there was time for him to save the post. he thought it incumbent on him to let mr. boltby know that he had changed his mind; and, though the writing of the letter was not an agreeable task, he did it at once. he said nothing to mr. boltby directly about his daughter, but he made it known to that gentleman that cousin george was at present a guest at humblethwaite, and that he intended to pay all the debts without entering into any other specific engagements. would mr. boltby have the goodness to make out a schedule of the debts? captain hotspur should be instructed to give mr. boltby at once all the necessary information by letter. then sir harry went on to say that perhaps the opinions formed in reference to captain hotspur had been too severe. he was ashamed of himself as he wrote these words, but still they were written. if the blackamoor was to be washed white, the washing must be carried out at all times, at all seasons, and in every possible manner, till the world should begin to see that the blackness was going out of the skin. cousin george was summoned to meet the girl who loved him in her mother's morning-room, before they dressed for dinner. he did not know at all in what way to conduct himself. he had not given a moment's thought to it till the difficulty flashed upon him as she entered the apartment. but she had considered it all. she came up to him quickly, and gave him her lips to kiss, standing there in her mother's presence. "george," she said, "dear george! i am so glad that you are here." it was the first; and it should be the last,--till the fire had done its work; till the fire should at least have done so much of its work as to make the remainder easy and fairly sure. he had little to say for himself, but muttered something about his being the happiest fellow in the world. it was a position in which a man could hardly behave well, and neither the mother nor the daughter expected much from him. a man cannot bear himself gracefully under the weight of a pardon as a woman may do. a man chooses generally that it shall be assumed by those with whom he is closely connected that he has done and is doing no wrong; and, when wronged, he professes to forgive and to forget in silence. to a woman the act of forgiveness, either accepted or bestowed, is itself a pleasure. a few words were then spoken, mostly by lady elizabeth, and the three separated to prepare for dinner. the next day passed over them at humblethwaite hall very quietly, but with some mild satisfaction. sir harry told his cousin of the letter to his lawyer, and desired george to make out and send by that day's post such a schedule as might be possible on the spur of the moment. "hadn't i better run up and see mr. boltby?" said cousin george. but to this sir harry was opposed. let any calls for money reach them there. whatever the calls might be, he at any rate could pay them. cousin george repeated his suggestion; but acquiesced when sir harry frowned and showed his displeasure. he did make out a schedule, and did write a letter to mr. boltby. "i think my debt to mr. hart was put down as â£3,250," he wrote, "but i believe i should have added another â£350 for a transaction as to which i fancy he does not hold my note of hand. but the money is due." he was fool enough to think that mr. walker's claim might be liquidated after this fashion. in the afternoon they rode together,--the father, the daughter, and the blackamoor, and much was told to cousin george as to the nature of the property. the names of the tenants were mentioned, and the boundaries of the farms were pointed out to him. he was thinking all the time whether mr. hart would spare him. but emily hotspur, though she had been thus reticent and quiet in her joy, though she was resolved to be discreet, and knew that there were circumstances in her engagement which would for a while deter her from being with her accepted lover as other girls are with theirs, did not mean to estrange herself from her cousin george. if she were to do so, how was she to assist, and take, as she hoped to do, the first part in that task of refining the gold on which they were all now intent? she was to correspond with him when he was at scarrowby. such was her present programme, and sir harry had made no objection when she declared her purpose. of course they must understand each other, and have communion together. on the third day, therefore, it was arranged they two should walk, without other company, about the place. she must show him her own gardens, which were at some distance from the house. if the truth be told, it must be owned that george somewhat dreaded the afternoon's amusement; but had she demanded of him to sit down to listen to her while she read to him a sermon, he would not have refused. to be didactic and at the same time demonstrative of affection is difficult, even with mothers towards their children, though with them the assumption of authority creates no sense of injury. emily specially desired to point out to the erring one the paths of virtue, and yet to do so without being oppressive. "it is so nice to have you here, george," she said. "yes, indeed; isn't it?" he was walking beside her, and as yet they were within view of the house. "papa has been so good; isn't he good?" "indeed he is. the best man i know out," said george, thinking that his gratitude would have been stronger had the baronet given him the money and allowed him to go up to london to settle his own debts. "and mamma has been so kind! mamma is very fond of you. i am sure she would do anything for you." "and you?" said george, looking into her face. "i!--as for me, george, it is a matter of course now. you do not want to be told again what is and ever must be my first interest in the world." "i do not care how often you tell me." "but you know it; don't you?" "i know what you said at the waterfall, emily." "what i said then i said for always. you may be sure of that. i told mamma so, and papa. if they had not wanted me to love you, they should not have asked you to come here. i do love you, and i hope that some day i may be your wife." she was not leaning on his arm, but as she spoke she stopped, and looked stedfastly into his face. he put out his hand as though to take hers; but she shook her head, refusing it. "no, george; come on. i want to talk to you a great deal. i want to say ever so much,--now, to-day. i hope that some day i may be your wife. if i am not, i shall never be any man's wife." "what does some day mean, emily?" "ever so long;--years, perhaps." "but why? a fellow has to be consulted, you know, as well as yourself. what is the use of waiting? i know sir harry thinks i have been very fond of pleasure. how can i better show him how willing i am to give it up than by marrying and settling down at once? i don't see what's to be got by waiting?" of course she must tell him the truth. she had no idea of keeping back the truth. she loved him with all her heart, and was resolved to marry him; but the dross must first be purged from the gold. "of course you know, george, that papa has made objections." "i know he did, but that is over now. i am to go and live at scarrowby at once, and have the shooting. he can't want me to remain there all by myself." "but he does; and so do i." "why?" in order that he might be made clean by the fire of solitude and the hammer of hard work. she could not quite say this to him. "you know, george, your life has been one of pleasure." "i was in the army,--for some years." "but you left it, and you took to going to races, and they say that you gambled and are in debt, and you have been reckless. is not that true, george?" "it is true." "and should you wonder that papa should be afraid to trust his only child and all his property to one who,--who knows that he has been reckless? but if you can show, for a year or two, that you can give up all that--" "wouldn't it be all given up if we were married?" "indeed, i hope so. i should break my heart otherwise. but can you wonder that papa should wish for some delay and some proof?" "two years!" "is that much? if i find you doing what he wishes, these two years will be so happy to me! we shall come and see you, and you will come here. i have never liked scarrowby, because it is not pretty, as this place is; but, oh, how i shall like to go there now! and when you are here, papa will get to be so fond of you. you will be like a real son to him. only you must be steady." "steady! by jove, yes. a fellow will have to be steady at scarrowby." the perfume of the cleanliness of the life proposed to him was not sweet to his nostrils. she did not like this, but she knew that she could not have everything at once. "you must know," she said, "that there is a bargain between me and papa. i told him that i should tell you everything." "yes; i ought to be told everything." "it is he that shall fix the day. he is to do so much, that he has a right to that. i shall never press him, and you must not." "oh, but i shall." "it will be of no use; and, george, i won't let you. i shall scold you if you do. when he thinks that you have learned how to manage the property, and that your mind is set upon that kind of work, and that there are no more races,--mind, and no betting, then,--then he will consent. and i will tell you something more if you would like to hear it." "something pleasant, is it?" "when he does, and tells me that he is not afraid to give me to you, i shall be the happiest girl in all england. is that pleasant?--no, george, no; i will not have it." "not give me one kiss?" "i gave you one when you came, to show you that in truth i loved you. i will give you another when papa says that everything is right." "not till then?" "no, george, not till then. but i shall love you just the same. i cannot love you better than i do." he had nothing for it but to submit, and was obliged to be content during the remainder of their long walk with talking of his future life at scarrowby. it was clearly her idea that he should be head-farmer, head-steward, head-accountant, and general workman for the whole place. when he talked about the game, she brought him back to the plough;--so at least he declared to himself. and he could elicit no sympathy from her when he reminded her that the nearest meet of hounds was twenty miles and more from scarrowby. "you can think of other things for a while," she said. he was obliged to say that he would, but it did seem to him that scarrowby was a sort of penal servitude to which he was about to be sent with his own concurrence. the scent of the cleanliness was odious to him. "i don't know what i shall do there of an evening," he said. "read," she answered; "there are lots of books, and you can always have the magazines. i will send them to you." it was a very dreary prospect of life for him, but he could not tell her that it would be absolutely unendurable. when their walk was over,--a walk which she never could forget, however long might be her life, so earnest had been her purpose,--he was left alone, and took another stroll by himself. how would it suit him? was it possible? could the event "come off"? might it not have been better for him had he allowed his other loving friend to prepare for him the letter to the baronet, in which sir harry's munificent offer would have been accepted? let us do him the justice to remember that he was quite incapable of understanding the misery, the utter ruin which that letter would have entailed upon her who loved him so well. he knew nothing of such sufferings as would have been hers--as must be hers, for had she not already fallen haplessly into the pit when she had once allowed herself to fix her heart upon a thing so base as this? it might have been better, he thought, if that letter had been written. a dim dull idea came upon him that he was not fit to be this girl's husband. he could not find his joys where she would find hers. no doubt it would be a grand thing to own humblethwaite and scarrowby at some future time; but sir harry might live for these twenty years, and while sir harry lived he must be a slave. and then he thought that upon the whole he liked lucy morton better than emily hotspur. he could say what he chose to lucy, and smoke in her presence, own that he was fond of drink, and obtain some sympathy for his "book" on the derby. he began to feel already that he did not like sermons from the girl of his heart. but he had chosen this side now, and he must go on with the game. it seemed certain to him that his debts would at any rate be paid. he was not at all certain how matters might go in reference to mr. walker, but if matters came to the worst the baronet would probably be willing to buy him off again with the promised income. nevertheless, he was not comfortable, and certainly did not shine at sir harry's table. "why she has loved him, what she has seen in him, i cannot tell," said sir harry to his wife that night. we must presume sir harry did not know how it is that the birds pair. chapter xxii. george hotspur yields. on the morning of cousin george's fourth day at humblethwaite, there came a letter for sir harry. the post reached the hall about an hour before the time at which the family met for prayers, and the letters were taken into sir harry's room. the special letter of which mention is here made shall be given to the reader entire:- ----, lincoln's inn fields, 24th nov. 186--. my dear sir harry hotspur,--i have received your letter in reference to captain hotspur's debts, and have also received a letter from him, and a list of what he says he owes. of course there can be no difficulty in paying all debts which he acknowledges, if you think proper to do so. as far as i am able to judge at present, the amount would be between twenty-five and thirty thousand pounds. i should say nearer the former than the latter sum, did i not know that the amount in such matters always goes on increasing. you must also understand that i cannot guarantee the correctness of this statement. but i feel myself bound in my duty to go further than this, even though it may be at the risk of your displeasure. i presume from what you tell me that you are contemplating a marriage between george hotspur and your daughter; and i now repeat to you, in the most solemn words that i can use, my assurance that the marriage is one which you should not countenance. captain hotspur is not fit to marry your daughter. when sir harry had read so far he had become very angry, but his anger was now directed against his lawyer. had he not told mr. boltby that he had changed his mind; and what business had the lawyer to interfere with him further? but he read the letter on to its bitter end:- since you were in london the following facts have become known to me. on the second of last month mr. george hotspur met two men, named walker and bullbean, in the lodgings of the former, at about nine in the evening, and remained there during the greater part of the night, playing cards. bullbean is a man well known to the police as a card-sharper. he once moved in the world as a gentleman. his trade is now to tout and find prey for gamblers. walker is a young man in a low rank of life, who had some money. george hotspur on that night won between three and four hundred pounds of walker's money; and bullbean, over and above this, got for himself some considerable amount of plunder. walker is now prepared, and very urgent, to bring the circumstances of this case before a magistrate, having found out, or been informed, that some practice of cheating was used against him; and bullbean is ready to give evidence as to george hotspur's foul play. they have hitherto been restrained by hart, the jew whom you met. hart fears that were the whole thing made public, his bills would not be taken up by you. i think that i know all this to be true. if you conceive that i am acting in a manner inimical to your family, you had better come up to london and put yourself into the hands of some other lawyer. if you can still trust me, i will do the best i can for you. i should recommend you to bring captain hotspur with you,--if he will come. i grieve to write as i have done, but it seems to me that no sacrifice is too great to make with the object of averting the fate to which, as i fear, miss hotspur is bringing herself.--my dear sir harry hotspur, i am, very faithfully yours, john boltby. it was a terrible letter! gradually, as he read it and re-read it, there came upon sir harry the feeling that he might owe, that he did owe, that he certainly would owe to mr. boltby a very heavy debt of gratitude. gradually the thin glazing of hope with which he had managed to daub over and partly to hide his own settled convictions as to his cousin's character fell away, and he saw the man as he had seen him during his interview with captain stubber and mr. hart. it must be so. let the consequences be what they might, his daughter must be told. were she to be killed by the telling, it would be better than that she should be handed over to such a man as this. the misfortune which had come upon them might be the death of him and of her;--but better that than the other. he sat in his chair till the gong sounded through the house for prayers; then he rang his bell and sent in word to lady elizabeth that she should read them in his absence. when they were over, word was brought that he would breakfast alone, in his own room. on receiving that message, both his wife and daughter went to him; but as yet he could tell them nothing. tidings had come which would make it necessary that he should go at once to london. as soon as breakfast should be over he would see george hotspur. they both knew from the tone in which the name was pronounced that the "tidings" were of their nature bad, and that they had reference to the sins of their guest. "you had better read that letter," he said as soon as george was in the room. as he spoke his face was towards the fire, and in that position he remained. the letter had been in his hand, and he only half turned round to give it. george read the letter slowly, and when he had got through it, only half understanding the words, but still knowing well the charge which it contained, stood silent, utterly conquered. "i suppose it is true?" said sir harry, in a low voice, facing his enemy. "i did win some money," said cousin george. "and you cheated?" "oh dear no;--nothing of the sort." but his confession was written in his face, and was heard in his voice, and peeped out through every motion of his limbs. he was a cur, and denied the accusation in a currish manner, hardly intended to create belief. "he must be paid back his money," said sir harry. "i had promised that," said cousin george. "has it been your practice, sir, when gambling, to pay back money that you have won? you are a scoundrel,--a heartless scoundrel,--to try and make your way into my house when i had made such liberal offers to buy your absence." to this cousin george made no sort of answer. the game was up. and had he not already told himself that it was a game that he should never have attempted to play? "we will leave this house if you please, both of us, at eleven. we will go to town together. the carriage will be ready at eleven. you had better see to the packing of your things, with the servant." "shall i not say a word of adieu to lady elizabeth?" "no, sir! you shall never speak to a female in my house again." the two were driven over to penrith together, and went up to london in the same carriage, sir harry paying for all expenses without a word. sir harry before he left his house saw his wife for a moment, but he did not see his daughter. "tell her," said he, "that it must be,--must be all over." the decision was told to emily, but she simply refused to accept it. "it shall not be so," said she, flashing out. lady elizabeth endeavoured to show her that her father had done all he could to further her views--had been ready to sacrifice to her all his own wishes and convictions. "why is he so changed? he has heard of some new debt. of course there are debts. we did not suppose that it could be done all at once, and so easily." she refused to be comforted, and refused to believe. she sat alone weeping in her own room, and swore, when her mother came to her, that no consideration, no tidings as to george's past misconduct, should induce her to break her faith to the man to whom her word had been given;--"my word, and papa's, and yours," said emily, pleading her cause with majesty through her tears. on the day but one following there came a letter from sir harry to lady elizabeth, very short, but telling her the whole truth. "he has cheated like a common low swindler as he is, with studied tricks at cards, robbing a poor man, altogether beneath him in station, of hundreds of pounds. there is no doubt about it. it is uncertain even yet whether he will not be tried before a jury. he hardly even denies it. a creature viler, more cowardly, worse, the mind of man cannot conceive. my broken-hearted, dearest, best darling must be told all this. tell her that i know what she will suffer. tell her that i shall be as crushed by it as she. but anything is better than degradation such as this. tell her specially that i have not decided without absolute knowledge." emily was told. the letter was read to her and by her till she knew it almost by heart. there came upon her a wan look of abject agony, that seemed to rob her at once of her youth and beauty; but even now she would not yield. she did not longer affect to disbelieve the tidings, but said that no man, let him do what he might, could be too far gone for repentance and forgiveness. she would wait. she had talked of waiting two years. she would be content to wait ten. what though he had cheated at cards! had she not once told her mother that should it turn out that he had been a murderer, then she would become a murderer's wife? she did not know that cheating at cards was worse than betting at horse-races. it was all bad,--very bad. it was the kind of life into which men were led by the fault of those who should have taught them better. no; she would not marry him without her father's leave: but she would never own that her engagement was broken, let them affix what most opprobrious name to him they might choose. to her card-sharpers seemed to be no worse than gamblers. she was quite sure that christ had come to save men who cheat at cards as well as others. as sir harry and his cousin entered the london station late at night,--it was past midnight,--sir harry bade his companion meet him the next morning at mr. boltby's chambers at eleven. cousin george had had ample time for meditation, and had considered that it might be best for him to "cut up a little rough." "mr. boltby is my enemy," he said, "and i don't know what i am to get by going there." "if you don't, sir, i'll not pay one shilling for you." "i have your promise, sir harry." "if you are not there at the time i fix, i will pay nothing, and the name may go to the dogs." then they both went to the station hotel,--not together, but the younger following the elder's feet,--and slept for the last time in their lives under one roof. cousin george did not show himself at mr. boltby's, being still in his bed at the station hotel at the time named; but at three o'clock he was with mrs. morton. for the present we will go back to sir harry. he was at the lawyer's chambers at the time named, and mr. boltby smiled when told of the summons which had been given to cousin george. by this time sir harry had acknowledged his gratitude to mr. boltby over and over again, and mr. boltby perhaps, having no daughter, thought that the evil had been cured. he was almost inclined to be jocular, and did laugh at sir harry in a mild way when told of the threat. "we must pay his debts, sir harry, i think." "i don't see it at all. i would rather face everything. and i told him that i would pay nothing." "ah, but you had told him that you would. and then those cormorants have been told so also. we had better build a bridge of gold for a falling enemy. stick to your former proposition, without any reference to a legacy, and make him write the letter. my clerk shall find him to-morrow." sir harry at last gave way; the lucky walker received back his full money, bullbean's wages of iniquity and all; and sir harry returned to humblethwaite. cousin george was sitting in mrs. morton's room with a very bad headache five days after his arrival in london, and she was reading over a manuscript which she had just written. "that will do, i think," she said. "just the thing," said he, without raising his head. "will you copy it now, george?" "not just now, i am so seedy. i'll take it and do it at the club." "no; i will not have that. the draft would certainly be left out on the club table; and you would go to billiards, and the letter never would be written." "i'll come back and do it after dinner." "i shall be at the theatre then, and i won't have you here in my absence. rouse yourself and do it now. don't be such a poor thing." "that's all very well, lucy; but if you had a sick headache, you wouldn't like to have to write a d----d letter like that." then she rose up to scold him, being determined that the letter should be written then and there. "why, what a coward you are; what a feckless, useless creature! do you think that i have never to go for hours on the stage, with the gas in a blaze around me, and my head ready to split? and what is this? a paper to write that will take you ten minutes. the truth is, you don't like to give up the girl!" could she believe it of him after knowing him so well; could she think that there was so much of good in him? "you say that to annoy me. you know that i never cared for her." "you would marry her now if they would let you." "no, by george. i've had enough of that. you're wide awake enough to understand, lucy, that a fellow situated as i am, over head and ears in debt, and heir to an old title, should struggle to keep the things together. families and names don't matter much, i suppose; but, after all, one does care for them. but i've had enough of that. as for cousin emily, you know, lucy, i never loved any woman but you in my life." he was a brute, unredeemed by any one manly gift; idle, self-indulgent, false, and without a principle. she was a woman greatly gifted, with many virtues, capable of self-sacrifice, industrious, affectionate, and loving truth if not always true herself. and yet such a word as that from this brute sufficed to please her for the moment. she got up and kissed his forehead and dropped for him some strong spirit in a glass, which she mixed with water, and cooled his brow with eau-de-cologne. "try to write it, dearest. it should be written at once if it is to be written." then he turned himself wearily to her writing-desk, and copied the words which she had prepared for him. the letter was addressed to mr. boltby, and purported to be a renunciation of all claim to miss hotspur's hand, on the understanding that his debts were paid for him to the extent of â£25,000, and that an allowance were made to him of â£500 a year, settled on him as an annuity for life, as long as he should live out of england. mr. boltby had given him to understand that this clause would not be exacted, unless circumstances should arise which should make sir harry think it imperative upon him to demand its execution. the discretion must be left absolute with sir harry; but, as mr. boltby said, captain hotspur could trust sir harry's word and his honour. "if i'm to be made to go abroad, what the devil are you to do?" he had said to mrs. morton. "there need be no circumstances," said mrs. morton, "to make it necessary." of course captain hotspur accepted the terms on her advice. he had obeyed lady altringham, and had tried to obey emily, and would now obey mrs. morton, because mrs. morton was the nearest to him. the letter which he copied was a well-written letter, put together with much taste, so that the ignoble compact to which it gave assent should seem to be as little ignoble as might be possible. "i entered into the arrangement," the letter said in its last paragraph, "because i thought it right to endeavour to keep the property and the title together; but i am aware now that my position in regard to my debts was of a nature that should have deterred me from the attempt. as i have failed, i sincerely hope that my cousin may be made happy by some such splendid alliance as she is fully entitled to expect." he did not understand all that the words conveyed; but yet he questioned them. he did not perceive that they were intended to imply that the writer had never for a moment loved the girl whom he had proposed to marry. nevertheless they did convey to him dimly some idea that they might give,--not pain, for as to that he would have been indifferent,--but offence. "will there be any good in all that?" he asked. "certainly," said she. "you don't mean to whine and talk of your broken heart." "oh dear, no; nothing of that sort." "this is the manly way to put it, regarding the matter simply as an affair of business." "i believe it is," said he; and then, having picked himself up somewhat by the aid of a glass of sherry, he continued to copy the letter, and to direct it. "i will keep the rough draft," said mrs. morton. "and i must go now, i suppose," he said. "you can stay here and see me eat my dinner if you like. i shall not ask you to share it, because it consists of two small mutton chops, and one wouldn't keep me up through lady teazle." "i've a good mind to come and see you," said he. "then you'd better go and eat your own dinner at once." "i don't care about my dinner. i should have a bit of supper afterwards." then she preached to him a sermon; not quite such a one as emily hotspur had preached, but much more practical, and with less reticence. if he went on living as he was living now, he would "come to grief." he was drinking every day, and would some day find that he could not do so with impunity. did he know what delirium tremens was? did he want to go to the devil altogether? had he any hope as to his future life? "yes," said he, "i hope to make you my wife." she tossed her head, and told him that with all the will in the world to sacrifice herself, such sacrifice could do him no good if he persisted in making himself a drunkard. "but i have been so tried these last two months. if you only knew what mr. boltby and captain stubber and sir harry and mr. hart were altogether. oh, my g----!" but he did not say a word about messrs. walker and bullbean. the poor woman who was helping him knew nothing of walker and bullbean. let us hope that she may remain in that ignorance. cousin george, before he left her, swore that he would amend his mode of life, but he did not go to see lady teazle that night. there were plenty of men now back in town ready to play pool at the club. chapter xxiii. "i shall never be married." sir harry hotspur returned to humblethwaite before cousin george's letter was written, though when he did return all the terms had been arranged, and a portion of the money paid. perhaps it would have been better that he should have waited and taken the letter with him in his pocket; but in truth he was so wretched that he could not wait. the thing was fixed and done, and he could but hurry home to hide his face among his own people. he felt that the glory of his house was gone from him. he would sit by the hour together thinking of the boy who had died. he had almost, on occasions, allowed himself to forget his boy, while hoping that his name and wide domains might be kept together by the girl that was left to him. he was beginning to understand now that she was already but little better than a wreck. indeed, was not everything shipwreck around him? was he not going to pieces on the rocks? did not the lesson of every hour seem to tell him that, throughout his long life, he had thought too much of his house and his name? it would have been better that he should have waited till the letter was in his pocket before he returned home, because, when he reached humblethwaite, the last argument was wanting to him to prove to emily that her hope was vain. even after his arrival, when the full story was told to her, she held out in her resolve. she accepted the truth of that scene at walker's rooms. she acknowledged that her lover had cheated the wretched man at cards. after that all other iniquities were of course as nothing. there was a completeness in that of which she did not fail to accept, and to use the benefit. when she had once taken it as true that her lover had robbed his inferior by foul play at cards, there could be no good in alluding to this or that lie, in counting up this or that disreputable debt, in alluding to habits of brandy-drinking, or even in soiling her pure mind with any word as to mrs. morton. it was granted that he was as vile as sin could make him. had not her saviour come exactly for such as this one, because of his great love for those who were vile; and should not her human love for one enable her to do that which his great heavenly love did always for all men? every reader will know how easily answerable was the argument. most readers will also know how hard it is to win by attacking the reason when the heart is the fortress that is in question. she had accepted his guilt, and why tell her of it any further? did she not pine over his guilt, and weep for it day and night, and pray that he might yet be made white as snow? but guilty as he was, a poor piece of broken vilest clay, without the properties even which are useful to the potter, he was as dear to her as when she had leaned against him believing him to be a pillar of gold set about with onyx stones, jaspers, and rubies. there was but one sin on his part which could divide them. if, indeed, he should cease to love her, then there would be an end to it! it would have been better that sir harry should have remained in london till he could have returned with george's autograph letter in his pocket. "you must have the letter in his own handwriting," mr. boltby had said, cunningly, "only you must return it to me." sir harry had understood, and had promised, that the letter should be returned when it had been used for the cruel purpose for which it was to be sent to humblethwaite. for all sir harry's own purposes mr. boltby's statements would have quite sufficed. she was told that her lover would renounce her, but she would not believe what she was told. of course he would accept the payment of his debts. of course he would take an income when offered to him. what else was he to do? how was he to live decently without an income? all these evils had happened to him because he had been expected to live as a gentleman without proper means. in fact, he was the person who had been most injured. her father, in his complete, in his almost abject tenderness towards her, could not say rough words in answer to all these arguments. he could only repeat his assertion over and over again that the man was utterly unworthy of her, and must be discarded. it was all as nothing. the man must discard himself. "he is false as hell," said sir harry. "and am i to be as false as hell also? will you love me better when i have consented to be untrue? and even that would be a lie. i do love him. i must love him. i may be more wicked than he is, because i do so. but i do." poor lady elizabeth in these days was worse than useless. her daughter was so strong that her weakness was as the weakness of water. she was driven hither and thither in a way that she herself felt to be disgraceful. when her husband told her that the cousin, as matter of course, could never be seen again, she assented. when emily implored her to act as mediator with her father on behalf of the wicked cousin, she again assented. and then, when she was alone with sir harry, she did not dare to do as she had promised. "i do think it will kill her," she said to sir harry. "we must all die, but we need not die disgraced," he said. it was a most solemn answer, and told the thoughts which had been dwelling in his mind. his son had gone from him; and now it might be that his daughter must go too, because she could not survive the disappointment of her young love. he had learned to think that it might be so as he looked at her great grave eyes, and her pale cheeks, and her sorrow-laden mouth. it might be so; but better that for them all than that she should be contaminated by the touch of a thing so vile as this cousin. she was pure as snow, clear as a star, lovely as the opening rosebud. as she was, let her go to her grave,--if it need be so. for himself, he could die too,--or even live if it were required of him! other fathers, since jephtha and agamemnon, have recognised it as true that heaven has demanded from them their daughters. the letter came, and was read and re-read by sir harry before he showed it to his child. he took it also to his wife, and explained it to her in all its points. "it has more craft," said he, "than i gave him credit for." "i don't suppose he ever cared for her," said lady elizabeth. "nor for any human being that ever lived,--save himself. i wonder whether he got boltby to write it for him." "surely mr. boltby wouldn't have done that." "i don't know. i think he would do anything to rid us from what he believed to have been our danger. i don't think it was in george hotspur to write such a letter out of his own head." "but does it signify?" "not in the least. it is his own handwriting and his signature. whoever formed the words, it is the same thing. it was needed only to prove to her that he had not even the merit of being true to her." for a while sir harry thought that he would entrust to his wife the duty of showing the letter to emily. he would so willingly have escaped the task himself! but as he considered the matter he feared that lady elizabeth might lack the firmness to explain the matter fully to the poor girl. the daughter would be so much stronger than the mother, and thus the thing that must be done would not be effected! at last, on the evening of the day on which the letter had reached him, he sent for her, and read it to her. she heard it without a word. then he put it into her hands, and she read the sentences herself, slowly, one after another, endeavouring as she did so to find arguments by which she might stave off the conclusion to which she knew that her father would attempt to bring her. "it must be all over now," said he at last. she did not answer him, but gazed into his face with such a look of woe that his heart was melted. she had found no argument. there had not been in the whole letter one word of love for her. "my darling, will it not be better that we should meet the blow?" "i have met it, all along. some day, perhaps, he might be different." "in what way, dearest? he does not even profess to hope so himself." "that gentleman in london, papa, would have paid nothing for him unless he wrote like this. he had to do it. papa, you had better just leave me to myself. i will not trouble you by mentioning his name." "but emily--" "well, papa?" "mamma and i cannot bear that you should suffer alone." "i must suffer, and silence is the easiest. i will go now and think about it. dear papa, i know that you have always done everything for the best." he did not see her again that evening. her mother was with her in her own room, and of course they were talking about cousin george for hours together. it could not be avoided, in spite of what emily had herself said of the expediency of silence. but she did not once allude to the possibility of a future marriage. as the man was so dear to her, and as he bore their name, and as he must inherit her father's title, could not some almost superhuman exertion be made for his salvation? surely so much as that might be done, if they all made it the work of their lives. "it must be the work of my life, mamma," she said. lady elizabeth forbore from telling her that there was no side on which she could approach him. the poor girl herself, however, must have felt that it was so. as she thought of it all she reminded herself that, though they were separated miles asunder, still she could pray for him. we need not doubt this at least,--that to him who utters them prayers of intercession are of avail. on the following morning she was at breakfast, and both her father and mother remarked that something had been changed in her dress. the father only knew that it was so, but the mother could have told of every ribbon that had been dropped, and every ornament that had been laid aside. emily hotspur had lived a while, if not among the gayest of the gay, at least among the brightest of the bright in outside garniture, and having been asked to consult no questions of expense, had taught herself to dress as do the gay and bright and rich. even when george had come on his last wretched visit to humblethwaite, when she had known that he had been brought there as a blackamoor perhaps just capable of being washed white, she had not thought it necessary to lessen the gauds of her attire. though she was saddened in her joy by the knowledge of the man's faults, she was still the rich daughter of a very wealthy man, and engaged to marry the future inheritor of all that wealth and riches. there was then no reason why she should lower her flag one inch before the world. but now all was changed with her! during the night she had thought of her apparel, and of what use it might be during her future life. she would never more go bright again, unless some miracle might prevail, and he still might be to her that which she had painted him. neither father nor mother, as she kissed them both, said a word as to her appearance. they must take her away from humblethwaite, change the scene, try to interest her in new pursuits; that was what they had determined to attempt. for the present, they would let her put on what clothes she pleased, and make no remark. early in the day she went out by herself. it was now december, but the weather was fine and dry, and she was for two hours alone, rambling through the park. she had made her attempt in life, and had failed. she owned her failure to herself absolutely. the image had no gold in it;--none as yet. but it was not as other images, which, as they are made, so must they remain to the end. the divine spirit, which might from the first have breathed into this clay some particle of its own worth, was still efficacious to bestow the gift. prayer should not be wanting; but the thing as it now was she saw in all its impurity. he had never loved her. had he loved her he would not have written words such as those she had read. he had pretended to love her in order that he might have money, that his debts might be paid, that he might not be ruined. "he hoped," he said in his letter, "he hoped that his cousin might be made happy by a splendid alliance!" she remembered well the abominable, heartless words. and this was the man who had pledged her to truth and firmness, and whose own truth and firmness she had never doubted for a moment, even when acknowledging to herself the necessity of her pledge to him. he had never loved her; and, though she did not say so, did not think so, she felt that of all his sins that sin was the one which could not be forgiven. what should she now do with herself,--how bear herself at this present moment of her life? she did not tell herself now that she would die, though as she looked forward into life all was so dreary to her, that she would fain have known that death would give an escape. but there were duties for her still to do. during that winter ramble, she owned to herself for the first time that her father had been right in his judgment respecting their cousin, and that she, by her pertinacity, had driven her father on till on her account he had been forced into conduct which was distasteful to him. she must own to her father that he had been right; that the man, though she dearly loved him still, was of such nature that it would be quite unfit that she should marry him. there might still be the miracle; her prayers were still her own to give; of them she would say nothing to her father. she would simply confess to him that he had been right, and then beg of him to pardon her the trouble she had caused him. "papa," she said to him the following morning, "may i come to you?" she came in, and on this occasion sat down at his right hand. "of course, you have been right, papa," she said. "we have both been right, dearest, i hope." "no, papa; i have been wrong! i thought i knew him, and i did not. i thought when you told me that he was so bad, that you were believing false people; and, papa, i know now that i should not have loved him as i did;--so quickly, like that." "nobody has blamed you for a moment. nobody has thought of blaming you." "i blame myself enough; i can tell you that. i feel as though i had in a way destroyed myself." "do not say that, my darling." "you will let me speak now; will you not, papa? i wish to tell you everything, that you may understand all that i feel. i shall never get over it." "you will, dearest; you will, indeed." "never! perhaps i shall live on; but i feel that it has killed me for this world. i don't know how a girl is to get over it when she has said that she has loved any one. if they are married, then she does not want to get over it; but if they are not,--if he deserts her, or is unworthy, or both,--what can she do then, but just go on thinking of it till--she dies?" sir harry used with her all the old accustomed arguments to drive such thoughts out of her head. he told her how good was god to his creatures, and, specially, how good in curing by the soft hand of time such wounds as those from which she was suffering. she should "retrick her beams," and once more "flame in the forehead of the morning sky," if only she would help the work of time by her own endeavours. "fight against the feeling, emily, and try to conquer it, and it will be conquered." "but, papa, i do not wish to conquer it. i should not tell you of all this, only for one thing." "what thing, dearest?" "i am not like other girls, who can just leave themselves alone and be of no trouble. you told me that if i outlived you--" "the property will be yours; certainly. of course, it was my hope,--and is,--that all that shall be settled by your marriage before my death. the trouble and labour is more than a woman should be called on to support alone." "just so. and it is because you are thinking of all this, that i feel it right to tell you. papa, i shall never be married." "we will leave that for the present, emily." "very well; only if it would make a change in your will, you should make it. you will have to be here, papa, after i am gone,--probably." "no, no, no." "but, if it were not so, i should not know what to do. that is all, papa; only this,--that i beg your pardon for all the trouble i have caused you." then she knelt before him, and he kissed her head, and blessed her, and wept over her. there was nothing more heard from cousin george at humblethwaite, and nothing more heard of him for a long time. mr. boltby did pay his debts, having some terribly hard struggles with mr. hart and captain stubber before the liquidations were satisfactorily effected. it was very hard to make mr. hart and captain stubber understand that the baronet was paying these debts simply because he had said that he would pay them once before, under other circumstances, and that no other cause for their actual payment now existed. but the debts were paid, down to the last farthing of which mr. boltby could have credible tidings. "pay everything," sir harry had said; "i have promised it." whereby he was alluding to the promise which he had made to his daughter. everything was paid, and cousin george was able to walk in and out of his club, a free man,--and at times almost happy,--with an annuity of five hundred pounds a year! nothing more was said to him as to the necessity of expatriation. chapter xxiv. the end. among playgoing folk, in the following april there was a great deal of talk about the marriage of that very favourite actress, mrs. morton. she appeared in the playbills as mrs. george hotspur, late mrs. morton. very many spoke of her familiarly, who knew her only on the stage,--as is the custom of men in speaking of actresses,--and perhaps some few of these who spoke of her did know her personally. "poor lucy!" said one middle-aged gentleman over fifty, who spent four nights of every week at one theatre or another. "when she was little more than a child they married her to that reprobate morton. since that she has managed to keep her head above water by hard work; and now she has gone and married another worse than the first!" "she is older now, and will be able to manage george," said another. "manage him! if anybody can manage to keep him out of debt, or from drink either, i'll eat him." "but he must be sir george when old sir harry dies," said he who was defending the prudence of the marriage. "yes, and won't have a penny. will it help her to be able to put lady hotspur on the bills? not in the least. and the women can't forgive her and visit her. she has not been good enough for that. a grand old family has been disgraced, and a good actress destroyed. that's my idea of this marriage." "i thought georgy was going to marry his cousin--that awfully proud minx," said one young fellow. "when it came to the scratch, she would not have him," said another. "but there had been promises, and so, to make it all square, sir harry paid his debts." "i don't believe a bit about his debts being paid," said the middle-aged gentleman who was fond of going to the theatre. yes, george hotspur was married: and, as far as any love went with him, had married the woman he liked best. though the actress was worlds too good for him, there was not about her that air of cleanliness and almost severe purity which had so distressed him while he had been forced to move in the atmosphere of his cousin. after the copying of the letter and the settlement of the bills, mrs. morton had found no difficulty in arranging matters as she pleased. she had known the man perhaps better than any one else had known him; and yet she thought it best to marry him. we must not inquire into her motives, though we may pity her fate. she did not intend, however, to yield herself as an easy prey to his selfishness. she had also her ideas of reforming him, and ideas which, as they were much less grand, might possibly be more serviceable than those which for a while had filled the mind and heart of emily hotspur. "george," she said, one day to him, "what do you mean to do?" this was before the marriage was fixed;--when nothing more was fixed than that idea of marriage which had long existed between them. "of course we shall be spliced now," said he. "and if so, what then? i shall keep to the stage, of course." "we couldn't do with the â£500 a year, i suppose, any how?" "not very well, i'm afraid, seeing that as a habit you eat and drink more than that yourself. but, with all that i can do, there must be a change. i tell you for your own sake as well as for mine, unless you can drop drinking, we had better give it up even yet." after that, for a month or two under her auspices, he did "drop it,"--or at least so far dropped it as to induce her to run the risk. in april they were married, and she must be added to the list of women who have sacrificed themselves on behalf of men whom they have known to be worthless. we need not pursue his career further; but we may be sure, that though she watched him very closely, and used a power over him of which he was afraid, still he went gradually from bad to worse, and was found at last to be utterly past redemption. he was one who in early life had never known what it was to take delight in postponing himself to another; and now there was no spark in him of love or gratitude by which fire could be kindled or warmth created. it had come to that with him,--that to eat and to drink was all that was left to him; and it was coming to that too, that the latter of these two pleasant recreations would soon be all that he had within his power of enjoyment. there are such men; and of all human beings they are the most to be pitied. they have intellects; they do think; the hours with them are terribly long;--and they have no hope! the hotspurs of humblethwaite remained at home till christmas was passed, and then at once started for rome. sir harry and lady elizabeth both felt that it must be infinitely better for their girl to be away; and then there came the doctor's slow advice. there was nothing radically amiss with miss hotspur, the doctor said; but it would be better for her to be taken elsewhere. she, knowing how her father loved his home and the people around him, begged that she might be allowed to stay. nothing ailed her, she said, save only that ache at the heart which no journey to rome could cure. "what's the use of it, papa?" she said. "you are unhappy because i'm altered. would you wish me not to be altered after what has passed? of course i am altered. let us take it as it is, and not think about it." she had adopted certain practices in life, however, which sir harry was determined to check, at any rate for the time. she spent her days among the poor, and when not with them she was at church. and there was always some dreary book in her hands when they were together in the drawing-room after dinner. of church-going and visiting the poor, and of good books, sir harry approved thoroughly; but even of good things such as these there may be too much. so sir harry and lady elizabeth got a courier who spoke all languages, and a footman who spoke german, and two maids, of whom one pretended to speak french, and had trunks packed without number, and started for rome. all that wealth could do was done; but let the horseman be ever so rich, or the horseman's daughter, and the stud be ever so good, it is seldom they can ride fast enough to shake off their cares. in rome they remained till april, and while they were there the name of cousin george was never once mentioned in the hearing of sir harry. between the mother and daughter no doubt there was speech concerning him. but to emily's mind he was always present. he was to her as a thing abominable, and yet necessarily tied to her by bonds which she could never burst asunder. she felt like some poor princess in a tale, married to an ogre from whom there was no escape. she had given herself up to one utterly worthless, and she knew it. but yet she had given herself, and could not revoke the gift. there was, indeed, still left to her that possibility of a miracle, but of that she whispered nothing even to her mother. if there were to be a miracle, it must be of god; and at god's throne she made her whispers. in these days she was taken about from sight to sight with apparent willingness. she saw churches, pictures, statues, and ruins, and seemed to take an interest in them. she was introduced to the pope, and allowed herself to be apparelled in her very best for that august occasion. but, nevertheless, the tenor of her way and the fashions of her life, as was her daily dress, were grey and sad and solemn. she lived as one who knew that the backbone of her life was broken. early in april they left rome and went north, to the italian lakes, and settled themselves for a while at lugano. and here the news reached them of the marriage of george hotspur. lady elizabeth read the marriage among the advertisements in the _times_, and at once took it to sir harry, withdrawing the paper from the room in a manner which made emily sure that there was something in it which she was not intended to see. but sir harry thought that the news should be told to her, and he himself told it. "already married!" she said. "and who is the lady?" "you had better not ask, my dear." "why not ask? i may, at any rate, know her name." "mrs. morton. she was a widow,--and an actress." "oh yes, i know," said emily, blushing; for in those days in which it had been sought to wean her from george hotspur, a word or two about this lady had been said to her by lady elizabeth under the instructions of sir harry. and there was no more said on that occasion. on that day, and on the following, her father observed no change in her; and the mother spoke nothing of her fears. but on the next morning lady elizabeth said that she was not as she had been. "she is thinking of him still--always," she whispered to her husband. he made no reply, but sat alone, out in the garden, with his newspaper before him, reading nothing, but cursing that cousin of his in his heart. there could be no miracle now for her! even the thought of that was gone. the man who had made her believe that he loved her, only in the last autumn,--though indeed it seemed to her that years had rolled over since, and made her old, worn-out, and weary;--who had asked for and obtained the one gift she had to give, the bestowal of her very self; who had made her in her baby folly believe that he was almost divine, whereas he was hardly human in his lowness,--this man, whom she still loved in a way which she could not herself understand, loving and despising him utterly at the same time,--was now the husband of another woman. even he, she had felt, would have thought something of her. but she had been nothing to him but the means of escape from disreputable difficulties. she could not sustain her contempt for herself as she remembered this, and yet she showed but little of it in her outward manner. "i'll go when you like, papa," she said when the days of may had come, "but i'd sooner stay here a little longer if you wouldn't mind." there was no talk of going home. it was only a question whether they should go further north, to lucerne, before the warm weather came. "of course we will remain; why not?" said sir harry. "mamma and i like lugano amazingly." poor sir harry. as though he could have liked any place except humblethwaite! our story is over now. they did remain till the scorching july sun had passed over their heads, and august was upon them; and then--they had buried her in the small protestant cemetery at lugano, and sir harry hotspur was without a child and without an heir. he returned home in the early autumn, a grey, worn-out, tottering old man, with large eyes full of sorrow, and a thin mouth that was seldom opened to utter a word. in these days, i think, he recurred to his early sorrow, and thought almost more of his son than of his daughter. but he had instant, pressing energy left to him for one deed. were he to die now without a further will, humblethwaite and scarrowby would go to the wretch who had destroyed him. what was the title to him now, or even the name? his wife's nephew was an earl with an enormous rent-roll, something so large that humblethwaite and scarrowby to him would be little more than additional labour. but to this young man humblethwaite and scarrowby were left, and the glories of the house of hotspur were at an end. and so the story of the house of humblethwaite has been told. london: r. clay, sons, and taylor printers bread street hill. * * * * * transcriber's note: obvious typographical errors have been corrected. specific changes in wording of the text are listed below. chapter v, paragraph 1. the word "of" was deleted from the sentence which in the original read: it was of this taste of which pope was conscious when he declared that every woman was at heart a rake. chapter vii, paragraph 17. the word "like" was added to the sentence: a girl like that learns everything. chapter viii, paragraph 33. the spelling of the word "commencment" was changed in the sentence beginning: george had determined from the commencement of his visit . . . chapter xx, paragraph 4. the word "uncle" was changed to "cousin" in the sentence: "i am so sorry to give you this trouble," said cousin george, coming forward to greet his cousin. lady anna. by anthony trollope. in two volumes. vol. i. london: chapman and hall, 193, piccadilly. 1874. [all rights reserved.] london: printed by virtue and co., city road. contents of vol. i. i. the early history of lady lovel. ii. the earl's will. iii. lady anna. iv. the tailor of keswick. v. the solicitor-general makes a proposition. vi. yoxham rectory. vii. the solicitor-general perseveres. viii. impossible! ix. it isn't law. x. the first interview. xi. it is too late. xii. have they surrendered? xiii. new friends. xiv. the earl arrives. xv. wharfedale. xvi. for ever. xvii. the journey home. xviii. too heavy for secrets. xix. lady anna returns to london. xx. lady anna's reception. xxi. daniel and the lawyer. xxii. there is a gulf fixed. xxiii. bedford square. xxiv. the dog in the manger. lady anna. chapter i. the early history of lady lovel. women have often been hardly used by men, but perhaps no harder usage, no fiercer cruelty was ever experienced by a woman than that which fell to the lot of josephine murray from the hands of earl lovel, to whom she was married in the parish church of applethwaite,--a parish without a village, lying among the mountains of cumberland,--on the 1st of june, 181--. that her marriage was valid according to all the forms of the church, if lord lovel were then capable of marrying, no one ever doubted; nor did the earl ever allege that it was not so. lovel grange is a small house, surrounded by a small domain,--small as being the residence of a rich nobleman, lying among the mountains which separate cumberland from westmoreland, about ten miles from keswick, very lovely, from the brightness of its own green sward and the luxuriance of its wild woodland, from the contiguity of overhanging mountains, and from the beauty of lovel tarn, a small lake belonging to the property, studded with little islands, each of which is covered with its own thicket of hollies, birch, and dwarfed oaks. the house itself is poor, ill built, with straggling passages and low rooms, and is a sombre, ill-omened looking place. when josephine murray was brought there as a bride she thought it to be very sombre and ill-omened; but she loved the lakes and mountains, and dreamed of some vague mysterious joy of life which was to come to her from the wildness of her domicile. i fear that she had no other ground, firmer than this, on which to found her hopes of happiness. she could not have thought lord lovel to be a good man when she married him, and it can hardly be said that she loved him. she was then twenty-four years old, and he had counted double as many years. she was very beautiful, dark, with large, bold, blue eyes, with hair almost black, tall, well made, almost robust, a well-born, brave, ambitious woman, of whom it must be acknowledged that she thought it very much to be the wife of a lord. though our story will be concerned much with her sufferings, the record of her bridal days may be very short. it is with struggles that came to her in after years that we shall be most concerned, and the reader, therefore, need be troubled with no long description of josephine murray as she was when she became the countess lovel. it is hoped that her wrongs may be thought worthy of sympathy,--and may be felt in some sort to atone for the ignoble motives of her marriage. the earl, when he found his bride, had been living almost in solitude for a twelvemonth. among the neighbouring gentry in the lake country he kept no friendly relations. his property there was small, and his character was evil. he was an english earl, and as such known in some unfamiliar fashion to those who know all earls; but he was a man never seen in parliament, who had spent the greater part of his manhood abroad, who had sold estates in other counties, converting unentailed acres into increased wealth, but wealth of a kind much less acceptable to the general english aristocrat than that which comes direct from land. lovel grange was his only remaining english property, and when in london he had rooms at an hotel. he never entertained, and he never accepted hospitality. it was known of him that he was very rich, and men said that he was mad. such was the man whom josephine murray had chosen to marry because he was an earl. he had found her near keswick, living with her father in a pretty cottage looking down upon derwentwater,--a thorough gentleman, for captain murray had come of the right murrays;--and thence he had carried her to lovel grange. she had brought with her no penny of fortune, and no settlement had been made on her. her father, who was then an old man, had mildly expostulated; but the ambition of the daughter had prevailed, and the marriage was accomplished. the beautiful young woman was carried off as a bride. it will be unnecessary to relate what efforts had been made to take her away from her father's house without bridal honours; but it must be told that the earl was a man who had never yet spared a woman in his lust. it had been the rule, almost the creed of his life, that woman was made to gratify the appetite of man, and that the man is but a poor creature who does not lay hold of the sweetness that is offered to him. he had so lived as to teach himself that those men who devote themselves to their wives, as a wife devotes herself to her husband, are the poor lubberly clods of creation, who had lacked the power to reach the only purpose of living which could make life worth having. women had been to him a prey, as the fox is a prey to the huntsman and the salmon to the angler. but he had acquired great skill in his sport, and could pursue his game with all the craft which experience will give. he could look at a woman as though he saw all heaven in her eyes, and could listen to her as though the music of the spheres was to be heard in her voice. then he could whisper words which, to many women, were as the music of the spheres, and he could persevere, abandoning all other pleasures, devoting himself to the one wickedness with a perseverance which almost made success certain. but with josephine murray he could be successful on no other terms than those which enabled her to walk out of the church with him as countess lovel. she had not lived with him six months before he told her that the marriage was no marriage, and that she was--his mistress. there was an audacity about the man which threw aside all fear of the law, and which was impervious to threats and interference. he assured her that he loved her, and that she was welcome to live with him; but that she was not his wife, and that the child which she bore could not be the heir to his title, and could claim no heirship to his property. he did love her,--having found her to be a woman of whose company he had not tired in six months. he was going back to italy, and he offered to take her with him,--but he could not, he said, permit the farce of her remaining at lovel grange and calling herself the countess lovel. if she chose to go with him to palermo, where he had a castle, and to remain with him in his yacht, she might for the present travel under the name of his wife. but she must know that she was not his wife. she was only his mistress. of course she told her father. of course she invoked every murray in and out of scotland. of course there were many threats. a duel was fought up near london, in which lord lovel consented to be shot at twice,--declaring that after that he did not think that the circumstances of the case required that he should be shot at any more. in the midst of this a daughter was born to her and her father died,--during which time she was still allowed to live at lovel grange. but what was it expedient that she should do? he declared that he had a former wife when he married her, and that therefore she was not and could not be his wife. should she institute a prosecution against him for bigamy, thereby acknowledging that she was herself no wife and that her child was illegitimate? from such evidence as she could get, she believed that the italian woman whom the earl in former years had married had died before her own marriage. the earl declared that the countess, the real countess, had not paid her debt to nature, till some months after the little ceremony which had taken place in applethwaite church. in a moment of weakness josephine fell at his feet and asked him to renew the ceremony. he stooped over her, kissed her, and smiled. "my pretty child," he said, "why should i do that?" he never kissed her again. what should she do? before she had decided, he was in his yacht sailing to palermo;--sailing no doubt not alone. what should she do? he had left her an income,--sufficient for the cast-off mistress of an earl,--some few hundreds a year, on condition that she would quietly leave lovel grange, cease to call herself a countess, and take herself and her bairn,--whither she would. every abode of sin in london was open to her for what he cared. but what should she do? it seemed to her to be incredible that so great a wrong should befall her, and that the man should escape from her and be free from punishment,--unless she chose to own the baseness of her own position by prosecuting him for bigamy. the murrays were not very generous in their succour, as the old man had been much blamed for giving his daughter to one of whom all the world knew nothing but evil. one murray had fired two shots on her behalf, in answer to each one of which the earl had fired into the air; but beyond this the murrays could do nothing. josephine herself was haughty and proud, conscious that her rank was greater than that of any of the murrays with whom she came in contact. but what should she do? the earl had been gone five years, sailing about the world she knew not where, when at last she determined to institute a prosecution for bigamy. during these years she was still living at the grange, with her child, and the courts of law had allotted her some sum by way of alimony till her cause should be decided; but upon this alimony she found it very difficult to lay her hands,--quite impossible to lay her hands upon the entirety of it. and then it came to pass that she was eaten up by lawyers and tradesmen, and fell into bad repute as asserting that claims made against her, should legally be made against the very man whom she was about to prosecute because she was not his wife. and this went on till further life at lovel grange became impossible to her. in those days there was living in keswick a certain mr. thomas thwaite, a tailor, who by degrees had taken a strong part in denouncing the wrongs to which lady lovel had been subjected. he was a powerful, sturdy man, with good means for his position, a well-known radical in a county in which radicals have never been popular, and in which fifty years ago they were much rarer than they are now. at this time keswick and its vicinities were beginning to be known as the abodes of poets, and thomas thwaite was acquainted with southey and wordsworth. he was an intelligent, up-standing, impulsive man, who thought well of his own position in the world, and who could speak his mind. he was tall, massive, and square; tender-hearted and very generous; and he hated the earl of lovel with all his heart. once the two men had met since the story of the countess's wrongs had become known, and the tailor had struck the earl to the ground. this had occurred as the earl was leaving lovel grange, and when he was starting on his long journey. the scene took place after he had parted from his countess,--whom he never was to see again. he rose to his feet and rushed at the tailor; but the two were separated, and the earl thought it best to go on upon his journey. nothing further was done as to the blow, and many years rolled by before the earl came back to cumberland. it became impossible for the countess and her daughter, the young lady anna as she was usually called, to remain at lovel grange, and they were taken to the house of mr. thwaite, in keswick, as a temporary residence. at this time the countess was in debt, and already there were lawsuits as to the practicability of obtaining payment of those debts from the husband's estate. and as soon as it was determined that the prosecution for bigamy should be instituted, the confusion in this respect was increased. the countess ceased to call herself a countess, as she certainly would not be a countess should she succeed in proving the earl to have been guilty. and had he been guilty of bigamy, the decree under which alimony was assigned to her would become void. should she succeed, she would be a penniless unmarried female with a daughter, her child would be unfathered and base, and he,--as far as she could see,--would be beyond the reach of punishment. but, in truth, she and her friend the tailor were not in quest of success. she and all her friends believed that the earl had committed no such crime. but if he were acquitted, then would her claim to be called lady lovel, and to enjoy the appanages of her rank, be substantiated. or, at least, something would have been done towards substantiating those claims. but during this time she called herself mrs. murray, and the little lady anna was called anna murray. it added much to the hardship of the woman's case that public sympathy in distant parts of the country,--up in london, and in southern counties, and even among a portion of the gentry in cumberland and westmoreland,--did not go with her. she had married without due care. some men said,--and many women repeated the story,--that she had known of the existence of the former wife, when she had married the earl. she had run into debt, and then repudiated her debts. she was now residing in the house of a low radical tailor, who had assaulted the man she called her husband; and she was living under her maiden name. tales were told of her which were utterly false,--as when it was said that she drank. others were reported which had in them some grains of truth,--as that she was violent, stiff-necked, and vindictive. had they said of her that it had become her one religion to assert her daughter's right,--per fas aut nefas,--to assert it by right or wrong; to do justice to her child let what injustice might be done to herself or others,--then the truth would have been spoken. the case dragged itself on slowly, and little anna murray was a child of nine years old when at last the earl was acquitted of the criminal charge which had been brought against him. during all this time he had been absent. even had there been a wish to bring him personally into court, the law would have been powerless to reach him. but there was no such wish. it had been found impossible to prove the former marriage, which had taken place in sicily;--or if not impossible, at least no adequate proof was forthcoming. there was no real desire that there should be such proof. the earl's lawyers abstained, as far as they could abstain, from taking any steps in the matter. they spent what money was necessary, and the attorney-general of the day defended him. in doing so, the attorney-general declared that he had nothing to do with the earl's treatment of the lady who now called herself mrs. murray. he knew nothing of the circumstances of that connection, and would not travel beyond his brief. he was there to defend earl lovel on a charge of bigamy. this he did successfully, and the earl was acquitted. then, in court, the counsel for the wife declared that his client would again call herself lady lovel. but it was not so easy to induce other people to call her lady lovel. and now not only was she much hampered by money difficulties, but so also was the tailor. but thomas thwaite never for a moment slackened in his labours to make good the position of the woman whom he had determined to succour; and for another and a longer period of eight years the battle went on. it went on very slowly, as is the wont with such battles; and very little way was made. the world, as a rule, did not believe that she who now again called herself the countess lovel was entitled to that name. the murrays, her own people,--as far as they were her own people,--had been taught to doubt her claim. if she were a countess why had she thrown herself into the arms of an old tailor? why did she let her daughter play with the tailor's child,--if, in truth, that daughter was the lady anna? why, above all things, was the name of the lady anna allowed to be mentioned, as it was mentioned, in connection with that of daniel thwaite, the tailor's son? during these eight weary years lady lovel,--for so she shall be called,--lived in a small cottage about a mile from keswick, on the road to grassmere and ambleside, which she rented from quarter to quarter. she still obtained a certain amount of alimony, which, however, was dribbled out to her through various sieves, and which reached her with protestations as to the impossibility of obtaining anything like the moderate sum which had been awarded to her. and it came at last to be the case that she hardly knew what she was struggling to obtain. it was, of course, her object that all the world should acknowledge her to be the countess lovel, and her daughter to be the lady anna. but all the world could not be made to do this by course of law. nor could the law make her lord come home and live with her, even such a cat and dog life as must in such case have been hers. her money rights were all that she could demand;--and she found it to be impossible to get anybody to tell her what were her money rights. to be kept out of the poorhouse seemed to be all that she could claim. but the old tailor was true to her,--swearing that she should even yet become countess lovel in very truth. then, of a sudden, she heard one day,--that earl lovel was again at the grange, living there with a strange woman. chapter ii. the earl's will. not a word had been heard in keswick of the proposed return of the old lord,--for the earl was now an old man,--past his sixtieth year, and in truth with as many signs of age as some men bear at eighty. the life which he had led no doubt had had its allurements, but it is one which hardly admits of a hale and happy evening. men who make women a prey, prey also on themselves. but there he was, back at lovel grange, and no one knew why he had come, nor whence, nor how. to lovel grange in those days, now some forty years ago, there was no road for wheels but that which ran through keswick. through keswick he had passed in the middle of the night, taking on the post-horses which he had brought with him from grassmere, so that no one in the town should see him and his companion. but it was soon known that he was there, and known also that he had a companion. for months he resided thus, and no one saw him but the domestics who waited upon him. but rumours got abroad as to his conduct, and people through the county declared that earl lovel was a maniac. still his property was in his own control, and he did what it listed him to do. as soon as men knew that he was in the land, claim after claim was made upon him for money due on behalf of his wife, and loudest among the claimants was thomas thwaite, the tailor. he was loudest and fiercest among the claimants, but was loud and fierce not in enmity to his old friend the countess, but with a firm resolve to make the lord pay the only price of his wickedness which could be exacted from him. and if the earl could be made to pay the claims against him which were made by his wife's creditors, then would the law, so far, have decided that the woman was his wife. no answer was made to any letter addressed to the earl, and no one calling at the grange could obtain speech or even sight of the noble owner. the lord's steward at the grange referred all comers to the lord's attorneys in london, and the lord's attorneys simply repeated the allegation that the lady was not the lord's wife. at last there came tidings that an inquiry was to be made as to the state of the lord's health and the state of the lord's mind, on behalf of frederic lovel, the distant heir to the title. let that question of the lord's marriage with josephine murray go as it might, frederic lovel, who had never seen his far-away cousin, must be the future earl. of that there was no doubt;--and new inquiries were to be made. but it might well be that the interest of the young heir would be more deeply involved in the marriage question than in other matters concerning the family. lovel grange and the few mountain farms attached to the cumberland estate must become his, let the frantic earl do what damage he might to those who bore his name; but the bulk of the property, the wealth of the lovels, the great riches which had enabled this mighty lord to live as a beast of prey among his kind, were at his own disposal. he had one child certainly, the lady anna, who would inherit it all were the father to die intestate, and were the marriage proved. the young heir and those near to him altogether disbelieved the marriage,--as was natural. they had never seen her who now called herself the countess, but who for some years after her child was born had called herself mrs. murray,--who had been discarded by her own relations, and had taken herself to live with a country tailor. as years had rolled by the memory of what had really occurred in applethwaite church had become indistinct; and, though the reader knows that that marriage was capable of easy proof,--that there would have been but little difficulty had the only difficulty consisted in proving that,--the young heir and the distant lovels were not assured of it. their interest was adverse, and they were determined to disbelieve. but the earl might, and probably would, leave all his wealth to a stranger. he had never in any way noticed his heir. he cared for none that bore his name. those ties in the world which we call love, and deem respectable, and regard as happy, because they have to do with marriage and blood relationship as established by all laws since the days of moses, were odious to him and ridiculous in his sight, because all obligations were distasteful to him,--and all laws, except those which preserved to him the use of his own money. but now there came up the great question whether he was mad or sane. it was at once rumoured that he was about to leave the country, and fly back to sicily. then it was announced that he was dead. and he was dead. he had died at the age of sixty-seven, in the arms of the woman he had brought there. his evil career was over, and his soul had gone to that future life for which he had made it fit by the life he had led here. his body was buried in applethwaite churchyard, in the further corner of which long, straggling valley parish lovel grange is situated. at his grave there stood no single mourner;--but the young lord was there, of his right, disdaining even to wear a crape band round his hat. but the woman remained shut up in her own chamber,--a difficulty to the young lord and his lawyer, who could hardly tell the foreigner to pack and begone before the body of her late--lover had been laid in the grave. it had been simply intimated to her that on such a date,--within a week from the funeral,--her presence in the house could not longer be endured. she had flashed round upon the lawyer, who had attempted to make this award known to her in broken french, but had answered simply by some words of scorn, spoken in italian to her waiting-maid. then the will was read in the presence of the young earl;--for there was a will. everything that the late lord had possessed was left, in one line, to his best-beloved friend, the signorina camilla spondi; and it was stated, and very fully explained, that camilla spondi was the italian lady living at the grange at the date on which the will was made. of the old lord's heir, the now existing earl lovel, no mention was made whatever. there were, however, two other clauses or parts in the will. there was a schedule giving in detail the particulars of the property left to camilla spondi; and there was a rambling statement that the maker of the will acknowledged anna murray to be his illegitimate daughter,--that anna murray's mother had never been the testator's legitimate wife, as his real wife, the true countess lovel, for whom he had separately made adequate provision, was still alive in sicily at the date of that will,--and that by a former will now destroyed he had made provision for anna murray, which provision he had revoked in consequence of the treatment which he had received from josephine murray and her friends. they who believed the statements made in this will afterwards asserted that anna had been deprived of her inheritance by the blow with which the tailor had felled the earl to the earth. to camilla spondi intimation was given of the contents of the earl's will as far as they concerned her; but she was told at the same time that no portion of the dead man's wealth would be placed in her hands till the courts should have decided whether or no the old lord had been sane or insane when he signed the document. a sum of money was, however, given her, on condition that she should take her immediate departure;--and she departed. with her personally we need have no further concern. of her cause and of her claim some mention must be made; but in a few pages she will drop altogether from our story. a copy of the will was also sent to the lawyers who had hitherto taken charge of the interests of the repudiated countess, and it was intimated that the allowance hitherto made to her must now of necessity cease. if she thought fit to prosecute any further claim, she must do so by proving her marriage;--and it was explained to her, probably without much of legal or precise truth in the explanation, that such proof must include the disproving of the assertion made in the earl's will. as it was the intention of the heir to set aside that will, such assurance was, to say the least of it, disingenuous. but the whole thing had now become so confused that it could hardly be expected that lawyers should be ingenuous in discussing it. the young earl clearly inherited the title and the small estate at lovel grange. the italian woman was prim㢠facie heiress to everything else,--except to such portion of the large personal property as the widow could claim as widow, in the event of her being able to prove that she had been a wife. but in the event of the will being no will, the italian woman would have nothing. in such case the male heir would have all if the marriage were no marriage;--but would have nothing if the marriage could be made good. if the marriage could be made good, the lady anna would have the entire property, except such portion as would be claimed of right by her mother, the widow. thus the italian woman and the young lord were combined in interest against the mother and daughter as regarded the marriage; and the young lord and the mother and daughter were combined against the italian woman as regarded the will;--but the young lord had to act alone against the italian woman, and against the mother and daughter whom he and his friends regarded as swindlers and impostors. it was for him to set aside the will in reference to the italian woman, and then to stand the brunt of the assault made upon him by the soi-disant wife. in a very short time after the old earl's death a double compromise was offered on behalf of the young earl. the money at stake was immense. would the italian woman take â£10,000, and go her way back to italy, renouncing all further claim; and would the soi-disant countess abandon her title, acknowledge her child to be illegitimate, and go her way with another â£10,000;--or with â£20,000, as was soon hinted by the gentlemen acting on the earl's behalf? the proposition was one somewhat difficult in the making, as the compromise, if made with both, would be excellent, but could not be made to any good effect with one only. the young earl certainly could not afford to buy off the italian woman for â£10,000, if the effect of such buying off would only be to place the whole of the late lord's wealth in the hands of his daughter and of his daughter's mother. the italian woman consented. she declared with italian energy that her late loving friend had never been a day insane; but she knew nothing of english laws, and but little of english money. she would take the â£10,000,--having had a calculation made for her of the number of lire into which it would run. the number was enormous, and she would take the offer. but when the proposal was mentioned to the countess, and explained to her by her old friend, thomas thwaite, who had now become a poor man in her cause, she repudiated it with bitter scorn,--with a scorn in which she almost included the old man who had made it to her. "is it for that, that i have been fighting?" she said. "for that in part," said the old man. "no, mr. thwaite, not for that at all; but that my girl may have her birth allowed and her name acknowledged." "her name shall be allowed and her birth shall be acknowledged," said the tailor, in whose heart there was nothing base. "she shall be the lady anna, and her mother shall be the countess lovel." the estate of the countess, if she had an estate, then owed the tailor some five or six thousand pounds, and the compromise offered would have paid the tailor every shilling and have left a comfortable income for the two women. "for myself i care but little," said the mother, taking the tailor's hand in hers and kissing it. "my child is the lady anna, and i do not dare to barter away her rights." this took place down at the cottage in cumberland, and the tailor at once went up to london to make known the decision of the countess,--as he invariably called her. then the lawyers went to work. as the double compromise could not be effected, the single compromise could not stand. the italian woman raved and stamped, and swore that she must have her half million of lire. but of course no right to such a claim had been made good to her, and the lawyers on behalf of the young earl went on with their work. public sympathy as a matter of course went with the young earl. as against the italian woman he had with him every english man and woman. it was horrible to the minds of english men and english women that an old english earldom should be starved in order that an italian harlot might revel in untold riches. it was felt by most men and protested by all women that any sign of madness, be it what it might,--however insignificant,--should be held to be sufficient against such a claimant. was not the fact that the man had made such a will in itself sufficient proof of his madness? there were not a few who protested that no further proof could be necessary. but with us the law is the same for an italian harlot and an english widow; and it may well be that in its niceties it shall be found kinder to the former than to the latter. but the earl had been mad, and the law said that he was mad when he had made his will,--and the italian woman went away, raging, into obscurity. the italian woman was conquered, and now the battle was open and free between the young earl and the claimant countess. applications were made on behalf of the countess for funds from the estate wherewith to prove the claim, and to a certain limited amount they were granted. such had been the life of the late earl that it was held that the cost of all litigation resulting from his misdeeds should be paid from his estate;--but ready money was wanted, immediate ready money, to be at the disposal of the countess to any amount needed by her agent, and this was hardly to be obtained. by this time public sympathy ran almost entirely with the earl. though it was acknowledged that the late lord was mad, and though it had become a cause of rejoicing that the italian woman had been sent away penniless, howling into obscurity, because of the old man's madness, still it was believed that he had written the truth when he declared that the marriage had been a mock marriage. it would be better for the english world that the young earl should be a rich man, fit to do honour to his position, fit to marry the daughter of a duke, fit to carry on the glory of the english peerage, than that a woman, ill reputed in the world, should be established as a countess, with a daughter dowered with tens of thousands, as to whom it was already said that she was in love with a tailor's son. nothing could be more touching, more likely to awaken sympathy, than the manner in which josephine murray had been carried away in marriage, and then roughly told by the man who should have protected her from every harshly blowing wind of heaven, that he had deceived her and that she was not his wife. no usage to which woman had ever been subjected, as has been said before, was more adapted to elicit compassion and energetic aid. but nineteen years had now passed by since the deed was done, and the facts were forgotten. one energetic friend there still was,--or we may say two, the tailor and his son daniel. but public belief ran against the countess, and nobody who was anybody in the world would give her her title. bets were laid, two and three to one against her; and it was believed that she was an impostor. the earl had all the glory of success over his first opponent, and the loud boasting of self-confident barristers buoyed up his cause. but loud-boasting barristers may nevertheless be wise lawyers, and the question of a compromise was again mooted. if the lady would take thirty thousand pounds and vanish, she should have the money clear of deduction, and all expenses should be paid. the amount offered was thought to be very liberal, but it did not amount to the annual income that was at stake. it was rejected with scorn. had it been quadrupled, it would have been rejected with equal scorn. the loud-boasting barristers were still confident; but--. though it was never admitted in words still it was felt that there might be a doubt. what if the contending parties were to join forces, if the countess-ship of the countess were to be admitted, and the heiress-ship of the lady anna, and if the earl and the lady anna were to be united in holy wedlock? might there not be a safe solution from further difficulty in that way? chapter iii. lady anna. the idea of this further compromise, of this something more than compromise, of this half acknowledgment of their own weakness, came from mr. flick, of the firm of norton and flick, the solicitors who were employed in substantiating the earl's position. when mr. flick mentioned it to sir william patterson, the great barrister, who was at that time solicitor-general and leading counsel on behalf of lord lovel, sir william patterson stood aghast and was dismayed. sir william intended to make mince-meat of the countess. it was said of him that he intended to cross-examine the countess off her legs, right out of her claim, and almost into her grave. he certainly did believe her to be an impostor, who had not thought herself to be entitled to her name when she first assumed it. "i should be sorry, mr. flick, to be driven to think that anything of that kind could be expedient." "it would make sure of the fortune to the family," said mr. flick. "and what about our friend, the countess?" "let her call herself countess lovel, sir william. that will break no bones. as to the formality of her own marriage, there can be no doubt about that." "we can prove by grogram that she was told that another wife was living," said sir william. grogram was an old butler who had been in the old earl's service for thirty years. "i believe we can, sir william; but--. it is quite clear that we shall never get the other wife to come over and face an english jury. it is of no use blinking it. the gentleman whom we have sent over doubts her altogether. that there was a marriage is certain, but he fears that this woman is not the old countess. there were two sisters, and it may be that this was the other sister." sir william was a good deal dismayed, but he recovered himself. the stakes were so high that it was quite possible that the gentleman who had been sent over might have been induced to open his eyes to the possibility of such personation by overtures from the other side. sir william was of opinion that mr. flick himself should go to sicily. he was not sure that he, sir william, her majesty's solicitor-general, would not make the journey in person. he was by no means disposed to give way. "they tell me that the girl is no better than she should be," he said to mr. flick. "i don't think so bad as that of her," said mr. flick. "is she a lady,--or anything like a lady?" "i am told she is very beautiful." "i dare say;--and so was her mother before her. i never saw a handsomer woman of her age than our friend the countess. but i could not recommend the young lord to marry an underbred, bad girl, and a bastard who claims to be his cousin,--and support my proposition merely on the ground of her looks." "thirty-five thousand a year, sir william!" pleaded the attorney. "i hope we can get the thirty-five thousand a year for our client without paying so dear for them." it had been presumed that the real countess, the original countess, the italian lady whom the earl had married in early life, would be brought over, with properly attested documentary evidence in her pocket, to prove that she was the existing countess, and that any other countess must be either an impostor or a deluded dupe. no doubt the old earl had declared, when first informing josephine murray that she was not his wife, that his real wife had died during the few months which had intervened since his mock marriage; but it was acknowledged on all sides, that the old earl had been a villain and a liar. it was no part of the duty of the young earl, or of those who acted for him, to defend the character of the old earl. to wash that blackamoor white, or even to make him whity-brown, was not necessary to anybody. no one was now concerned to account for his crooked courses. but if it could be shown that he had married the lady in italy,--as to which there was no doubt,--and that the lady was still alive, or that she had been alive when the second marriage took place, then the lady anna could not inherit the property which had been freed from the grasp of the italian mistress. but it seemed that the lady, if she lived, could not be made to come. mr. flick did go to sicily, and came back renewing his advice to sir william that lord lovel should be advised to marry the lady anna. at this time the countess, with her daughter, had moved their residence from keswick up to london, and was living in very humble lodgings in a small street turning out of the new road, near the yorkshire stingo. old thomas thwaite had accompanied them from cumberland, but the rooms had been taken for them by his son, daniel thwaite, who was at this time foreman to a somewhat celebrated tailor who carried on his business in wigmore street; and he, daniel thwaite, had a bedroom in the house in which the countess lodged. the arrangement was not a wise one, as reports had already been spread abroad as to the partiality of the lady anna for the young tailor. but how should she not have been partial both to the father and to the son, feeling as she did that they were the only two men who befriended her cause and her mother's? as to the countess herself, she, perhaps, alone of all those who interested themselves in her daughter's cause, had heard no word of these insinuations against her child. to her both thomas and daniel thwaite were dear friends, to repay whom for their exertions with lavish generosity,--should the means to do so ever come within her reach,--was one of the dreams of her existence. but she was an ambitious woman, thinking much of her rank, thinking much even of the blood of her own ancestors, constantly urgent with her daughter in teaching her the duties and privileges of wealth and rank. for the countess never doubted that she would at last attain success. that the lady anna should throw herself away upon daniel thwaite did not occur to her as a possibility. she had not even dreamed that daniel thwaite would aspire to her daughter's hand. and yet every shop-boy and every shop-girl in keswick had been so saying for the last twelvemonth, and rumours which had hitherto been confined to keswick and its neighbourhood, were now common in london. for the case was becoming one of the celebrated causes of the age, and all the world was talking of the countess and her daughter. no momentary suspicion had crossed the mind of the countess till after their arrival in london; and then when the suspicion did touch her it was not love that she suspected,--but rather an unbecoming familiarity which she attributed to her child's ignorance of the great life which awaited her. "my dear," she said one day when daniel thwaite had left them, "you should be less free in your manner with that young man." "what do you mean, mamma?" said the daughter, blushing. "you had better call him mr. thwaite." "but i have called him daniel ever since i was born." "he always calls you lady anna." "sometimes he does, mamma." "i never heard him call you anything else," said the countess, almost with indignation. "it is all very well for the old man, because he is an old man and has done so much for us." "so has daniel;--quite as much, mamma. they have both done everything." "true; they have both been warm friends; and if ever i forget them may god forget me. i trust that we may both live to show them that they are not forgotten. but it is not fitting that there should exist between you and him the intimacy of equal positions. you are not and cannot be his equal. he has been born to be a tailor, and you are the daughter and heiress of an earl." these last words were spoken in a tone that was almost awful to the lady anna. she had heard so much of her father's rank and her father's wealth,--rank and wealth which were always to be hers, but which had never as yet reached her, which had been a perpetual trouble to her, and a crushing weight upon her young life, that she had almost learned to hate the title and the claim. of course it was a part of the religion of her life that her mother had been duly married to her father. it was beyond a doubt to her that such was the case. but the constant battling for denied rights, the assumption of a position which could not be attained, the use of titles which were simply ridiculous in themselves as connected with the kind of life which she was obliged to lead,--these things had all become odious to her. she lacked the ambition which gave her mother strength, and would gladly have become anna murray or anna lovel, with a girl's ordinary privilege of loving her lover, had such an easy life been possible to her. in person she was very lovely, less tall and robust than her mother had been, but with a sweeter, softer face. her hair was less dark, and her eyes were neither blue nor bold. but they were bright and soft and very eloquent, and when laden with tears would have softened the heart,--almost of her father. she was as yet less powerful than her mother, both in body and mind, but probably better calculated to make a happy home for a husband and children. she was affectionate, self-denying, and feminine. had that offer of compromise for thirty, twenty, or for ten thousand pounds been made to her, she would have accepted it willingly,--caring little for her name, little even for fame, so that she might have been happy and quiet, and at liberty to think of a lover as are other girls. in her present condition, how could she have any happy love? she was the lady anna lovel, heir to a ducal fortune,--but she lived in small close lodgings in wyndham street, new road. she did not believe in the good time coming as did her mother. their enemy was an undoubted earl, undoubtedly owner of lovel grange of which she had heard all her life. would it not be better to take what the young lord chose to give them and to be at rest? but she did not dare to express such thoughts to her mother. her mother would have crushed her with a look. "i have told mr. thwaite," the mother said to her daughter, "what we were saying this morning." "about his son?" "yes,--about his son." "oh, mamma!" "i was bound to do so." "and what did he say, mamma?" "he did not like it, and told me that he did not like it;--but he admitted that it was true. he admitted that his son was no fitting intimate for lady anna lovel." "what should we have done without him?" "badly indeed; but that cannot change his duty, or ours. he is helping us to struggle for that which is our own; but he would mar his generosity if he put a taint on that which he is endeavouring to restore to us." "put a taint, mamma!" "yes;--a taint would rest upon your rank if you as lady anna lovel were familiar with daniel thwaite as with an equal. his father understands it, and will speak to him." "mamma, daniel will be very angry." "then will he be very unreasonable;--but, anna, i will not have you call him daniel any more." chapter iv. the tailor of keswick. old thomas thwaite was at this time up in london about the business of the countess, but had no intention of residing there. he still kept his shop in keswick, and still made coats and trousers for cumberland statesmen. he was by no means in a condition to retire from business, having spent the savings of his life in the cause of the countess and her daughter. men had told him that, had he not struck the earl in the yard of the crown at keswick, as horses were being brought out for the lord's travelling carriage, ample provision would have been made by the rich old sinner for his daughter. that might have been so, or might not, but the saying instigated the tailor to further zeal and increased generosity. to oppose an earl, even though it might be on behalf of a countess, was a joy to him; to set wrong right, and to put down cruelty and to relieve distressed women was the pride of his heart,--especially when his efforts were made in antagonism to one of high rank. and he was a man who would certainly be thorough in his work, though his thoroughness should be ruinous to himself. he had despised the murrays, who ought to have stuck to their distant cousin, and had exulted in his heart at thinking that the world would say how much better and truer had been the keswick tailor than the well-born and comparatively wealthy scotch relations. and the poets of the lakes, who had not as yet become altogether tories, had taken him by the hand and praised him. the rights of the countess and the wrongs of the countess had become his life. but he still kept on a diminished business in the north, and it was now needful that he should return to cumberland. he had heard that renewed offers of compromise were to be made,--though no idea of the proposed marriage between the distant cousins had been suggested to him. he had been discussing the question of some compromise with the countess when she spoke to him respecting his son; and had recommended that certain terms should, if possible, be effected. let the money be divided, on condition that the marriage were allowed. there could be no difficulty in this if the young lord would accede to such an arrangement, as the marriage must be acknowledged unless an adverse party should bring home proof from italy to the contrary. the sufficiency of the ceremony in applethwaite church was incontestable. let the money be divided, and the countess be countess lovel, and lady anna be the lady anna to all the world. old thomas thwaite himself had seemed to think that there would be enough of triumph in such a settlement. "but the woman might afterwards be bribed to come over and renew her claim," said the countess. "unless it be absolutely settled now, they will say when i am dead and gone that my daughter has no right to her name." then the tailor said that he would make further inquiry how that might be. he was inclined to think that there might be a decision which should be absolute, even though that decision should be reached by compromise between the now contending parties. then the countess had said her word about daniel thwaite the son, and thomas thwaite the father had heard it with ill-concealed anger. to fight against an earl on behalf of the earl's injured wife had been very sweet to him, but to be checked in his fight because he and his were unfit to associate with the child of that injured wife, was very bitter. and yet he had sense to know that what the countess said to him was true. as far as words went, he admitted the truth; but his face was more eloquent than his words, and his face showed plainly his displeasure. "it is not of you that i am speaking," said the countess, laying her hand upon the old man's sleeve. "daniel is, at any rate, fitter than i," said the tailor. "he has been educated, and i never was." "he is as good as gold. it is not of that i speak. you know what i mean." "i know very well what you mean, lady lovel." "i have no friend like you, mr. thwaite;--none whom i love as i do you. and next to you is your son. for myself, there is nothing that i would not do for him or you;--no service, however menial, that i would not render you with my own hands. there is no limit to the gratitude which i owe you. but my girl is young, and if this burden of rank and wealth is to be hers,--it is proper that she do honour to it." "and it is not honourable that she should be seen speaking--to a tailor?" "ah,--if you choose to take it so!" "how should i take it? what i say is true. and what you say is true also. i will speak to daniel." but she knew well, as he left her, that his heart was bitter against her. the old man did speak to his son, sitting with him up in the bed-room over that which the countess occupied. old thomas thwaite was a strong man, but his son was in some respects stronger. as his father had said of him, he had been educated,--or rather instructed; and instruction leads to the power of thinking. he looked deeper into things than did his father, and was governed by wider and greater motives. his father had been a radical all his life, guided thereto probably by some early training, and made steadfast in his creed by feelings which induced him to hate the pretensions of an assumed superiority. old thwaite could not endure to think that one man should be considered to be worthier than another because he was richer. he would admit the riches, and even the justice of the riches,--having been himself, during much of his life, a rich man in his own sphere; but would deny the worthiness; and would adduce, in proof of his creed, the unworthiness of certain exalted sinners. the career of the earl lovel had been to him a sure proof of the baseness of english aristocracy generally. he had dreams of a republic in which a tailor might be president or senator, or something almost noble. but no rational scheme of governance among mankind had ever entered his mind, and of pure politics he knew no more than the journeyman who sat stitching upon his board. but daniel thwaite was a thoughtful man who had read many books. more's utopia and harrington's oceana, with many a tale written in the same spirit, had taught him to believe that a perfect form of government, or rather of policy, under which all men might be happy and satisfied, was practicable upon earth, and was to be achieved,--not merely by the slow amelioration of mankind under god's fostering ordinances,--but by the continued efforts of good and wise men who, by their goodness and wisdom, should be able to make the multitude believe in them. to diminish the distances, not only between the rich and the poor, but between the high and the low, was the grand political theory upon which his mind was always running. his father was ever thinking of himself and of earl lovel; while daniel thwaite was considering the injustice of the difference between ten thousand aristocrats and thirty million of people, who were for the most part ignorant and hungry. but it was not that he also had not thoughts of himself. gradually he had come to learn that he need not have been a tailor's foreman in wigmore street had not his father spent on behalf of the countess lovel the means by which he, the son, might already have become a master tradesman. and yet he had never begrudged it. he had been as keen as his father in the cause. it had been the romance of his life, since his life had been capable of romance;--but with him it had been no respect for the rank to which his father was so anxious to restore the countess, no value which he attached to the names claimed by the mother and the daughter. he hated the countess-ship of the countess, and the ladyship of the lady anna. he would fain that they should have abandoned them. they were to him odious signs of iniquitous pretensions. but he was keen enough to punish and to remedy the wickedness of the wicked earl. he reverenced his father because he assaulted the wicked earl and struck him to the ground. he was heart and soul in the cause of the injured wife. and then the one thing on earth that was really dear to him was the lady anna. it had been the romance of his life. they had grown up together as playmates in cumberland. he had fought scores of battles on her behalf with those who had denied that she was the lady anna,--even though he had then hated the title. boys had jeered him because of his noble little sweetheart, and he had exulted at hearing her so called. his only sister and his mother had died when he was young, and there had been none in the house but his father and himself. as a boy he had ever been at the cottage of the countess, and he had sworn to lady anna a thousand times that he would do and die in her service. now he was a strong man, and was more devoted to her than ever. it was the great romance of his life. how could it be brought to pass that the acknowledged daughter of an earl, dowered with enormous wealth, should become the wife of a tailor? and yet such was his ambition and such his purpose. it was not that he cared for her dower. it was not, at any rate, the hope of her dower that had induced him to love her. his passion had grown and his purpose had been formed before the old earl had returned for the last time to lovel grange,--when nothing was known of the manner in which his wealth might be distributed. that her prospect of riches now joined itself to his aspirations it would be an affectation to deny. the man who is insensible to the power which money brings with it must be a dolt; and daniel thwaite was not a dolt, and was fond of power. but he was proud of heart, and he said to himself over and over again that should it ever come to pass that the possession of the girl was to depend on the abandonment of the wealth, the wealth should be abandoned without a further thought. it may be imagined that with such a man the words which his father would speak to him about the lady anna, suggesting the respectful distance with which she should be approached by a tailor's foreman, would be very bitter. they were bitter to the speaker and very bitter to him who heard them. "daniel," said the father, "this is a queer life you are leading with the countess and lady anna just beneath you, in the same house." "it was a quiet house for them to come to;--and cheap." "quiet enough, and as cheap as any, i dare say;--but i don't know whether it is well that you should be thrown so much with them. they are different from us." the son looked at his father, but made no immediate reply. "our lot has been cast with theirs because of their difficulties," continued the old man, "but the time is coming when we had better stand aloof." "what do you mean, father?" "i mean that we are tailors, and these people are born nobles." "they have taken our help, father." "well; yes, they have. but it is not for us to say anything of that. it has been given with a heart." "certainly with a heart." "and shall be given to the end. but the end of it will come soon now. one will be a countess and the other will be the lady anna. are they fit associates for such as you and me?" "if you ask me, father, i think they are." "they don't think so. you may be sure of that." "have they said so, father?" "the countess has said so. she has complained that you call her daughter simply anna. in future you must give her a handle to her name." daniel thwaite was a dark brown man, with no tinge of ruddiness about him, a thin spare man, almost swarthy, whose hands were as brown as a nut, and whose cheeks and forehead were brown. but now he blushed up to his eyes. the hue of the blood as it rushed to his face forced itself through the darkness of his visage, and he blushed, as such men do blush,--with a look of indignation on his face. "just call her lady anna," said the father. "the countess has been complaining of me then?" "she has hinted that her daughter will be injured by your familiarity, and she is right. i suppose that the lady anna lovel ought to be treated with deference by a tailor,--even though the tailor may have spent his last farthing in her service." "do not let us talk about the money, father." "well; no. i'd as lief not think about the money either. the world is not ripe yet, daniel." "no;--the world is not ripe." "there must be earls and countesses." "i see no must in it. there are earls and countesses as there used to be mastodons and other senseless, over-grown brutes roaming miserable and hungry through the undrained woods,--cold, comfortless, unwieldy things, which have perished in the general progress. the big things have all to give way to the intellect of those which are more finely made." "i hope men and women will not give way to bugs and fleas," said the tailor, who was wont to ridicule his son's philosophy. the son was about to explain his theory of the perfected mean size of intellectual created beings, when his heart was at the present moment full of anna lovel. "father," he said, "i think that the countess might have spared her observations." "i thought so too;--but as she said it, it was best that i should tell you. you'll have to marry some day, and it wouldn't do that you should look there for your sweetheart." when the matter was thus brought home to him, daniel thwaite would argue it no further. "it will all come to an end soon," continued the old man, "and it may be that they had better not move till it is settled. they'll divide the money, and there will be enough for both in all conscience. the countess will be the countess, and the lady anna will be the lady anna; and then there will be no more need of the old tailor from keswick. they will go into another world, and we shall hear from them perhaps about christmas time with a hamper of game, and may be a little wine, as a gift." "you do not think that of them, father." "what else can they do? the lawyers will pay the money, and they will be carried away. they cannot come to our house, nor can we go to theirs. i shall leave to-morrow, my boy, at six o'clock; and my advice to you is to trouble them with your presence as little as possible. you may be sure that they do not want it." daniel thwaite was certainly not disposed to take his father's advice, but then he knew much more than did his father. the above scene took place in the evening, when the son's work was done. as he crept down on the following morning by the door of the room in which the two ladies slept, he could not but think of his father's words, "it wouldn't do that you should look there for your sweetheart." why should it not do? but any such advice as that was now too late. he had looked there for his sweetheart. he had spoken, and the girl had answered him. he had held her close to his heart, and had pressed her lips to his own, and had called her his anna, his well-beloved, his pearl, his treasure; and she,--she had only sighed in his arms, and yielded to his embrace. she had wept alone when she thought of it, with a conscious feeling that as she was the lady anna there could be no happy love between herself and the only youth whom she had known. but when he had spoken, and had clasped her to his heart, she had never dreamed of rebuking him. she had known nothing better than he, and desired nothing better than to live with him and to be loved by him. she did not think that it could be possible to know any one better. this weary, weary title filled her with dismay. daniel, as he walked along thinking of her embrace, thinking of those kisses, and thinking also of his father's caution, swore to himself that the difficulties in his way should never stop him in his course. chapter v. the solicitor-general makes a proposition. when mr. flick returned from sicily he was very strongly in favour of some compromise. he had seen the so-called italian countess,--who certainly was now called contessa by everybody around her,--and he did not believe that she had ever been married to the old earl. that an italian lady had been married to the old lord now twenty-five years ago, he did believe,--probably the younger sister of this woman,--and he also believed that this wife had been dead before the marriage at applethwaite. that was his private opinion. mr. flick was, in his way, an honest man,--one who certainly would have taken no conscious part in getting up an unjust claim; but he was now acting as legal agent for the young earl, and it was not his business to get up evidence for the earl's opponents. he did think that were he to use all his ingenuity and the funds at his disposal he would be able to reach the real truth in such a manner that it should be made clear and indubitable to an english jury; but if the real truth were adverse to his side, why search for it? he understood that the english countess would stand her ground on the legality of the applethwaite marriage, and on the acquittal of the old earl as to the charge of bigamy. the english countess being firm, so far as that ground would make her firm, it would in reality be for the other side--for the young earl--to prove a former marriage. the burden of the proof would be with him, and not with the english countess to disprove it. disingenuous lawyers--mr. flick, who though fairly honest could be disingenuous, among the number--had declared the contrary. but such was the case; and, as money was scarce with the countess and her friends, no attempt had been made on their part to bring home evidence from sicily. all this mr. flick knew, and doubted how far it might be wise for him further to disturb that sicilian romance. the italian countess, who was a hideous, worn-out old woman, professing to be forty-four, probably fifty-five, and looking as though she were seventy-seven, would not stir a step towards england. she would swear and had sworn any number of oaths. documentary evidence from herself, from various priests, from servants, and from neighbours there was in plenty. mr. flick learned through his interpreter that a certain old priest ridiculed the idea of there being a doubt. and there were letters,--letters alleged to have been written by the earl to the living wife in the old days, which were shown to mr. flick. mr. flick was an educated man, and knew many things. he knew something of the manufacture of paper, and would not look at the letters after the first touch. it was not for him to get up evidence for the other side. the hideous old woman was clamorous for money. the priests were clamorous for money. the neighbours were clamorous for money. had not they all sworn anything that was wanted, and were they not to be paid? some moderate payment was made to the hideous, screeching, greedy old woman; some trivial payment--as to which mr. flick was heartily ashamed of himself--was made to the old priest; and then mr. flick hurried home, fully convinced that a compromise should be made as to the money, and that the legality of the titles claimed by the two english ladies should be allowed. it might be that that hideous hag had once been the countess lovel. it certainly was the case that the old earl in latter years had so called her, though he had never once seen her during his last residence in sicily. it might be that the clumsy fiction of the letters had been perpetrated with the view of bolstering up a true case with false evidence. but mr. flick thought that there should be a compromise, and expressed his opinion very plainly to sir william patterson. "you mean a marriage," said the solicitor-general. at this time mr. hardy, q.c., the second counsel acting on behalf of the earl, was also present. "not necessarily by a marriage, sir william. they could divide the money." "the girl is not of age," said mr. hardy. "she is barely twenty as yet," said sir william. "i think it might be managed on her behalf," said the attorney. "who could be empowered to sacrifice her rights?" said mr. hardy, who was a gruff man. "we might perhaps contrive to tide it over till she is of age," said the solicitor-general, who was a sweet-mannered, mild man among his friends, though he could cross-examine a witness off his legs,--or hers, if the necessity of the case required him to do so. "of course we could do that, sir william. what is a year in such a case as this?" "not much among lawyers, is it, mr. flick? you think that we shouldn't bring our case into court." "it is a good case, sir william, no doubt. there's the woman,--countess, we will call her,--ready to swear, and has sworn, that she was the old earl's wife. all the people round call her the countess. the earl undoubtedly used to speak of her as the countess, and send her little dribbles of money, as being his countess, during the ten years and more after he left lovel grange. there is the old priest who married them." "the devil's in it if that is not a good case," said mr. hardy. "go on, mr. flick," said the solicitor-general. "i've got all the documentary evidence of course, sir william." "go on, mr. flick." mr. flick scratched his head. "it's a very heavy interest, sir william." "no doubt it is. go on." "i don't know that i've anything further to say, except that i'd arrange it if i could. our client, sir william, would be in a very pretty position if he got half the income which is at stake." "or the whole with the wife," said the solicitor-general. "or the whole with the wife, sir william. if he were to lose it all, he'd be,--so to say, nowhere." "nowhere at all," said the solicitor-general. "the entailed property isn't worth above a thousand a year." "i'd make some arrangement," said mr. flick, whose mind may perhaps have had a not unnatural bend towards his own very large venture in this concern. that his bill, including the honorarium of the barristers, would sooner or later be paid out of the estate, he did not doubt;--but a compromise would make the settlement easy and pleasant. mr. hardy was in favour of continued fighting. a keener, honester, more enlightened lawyer than mr. hardy did not wear silk at that moment, but he had not the gift of seeing through darkness which belonged to the solicitor-general. when mr. flick told them of the strength of their case, as based on various heads of evidence in their favour, mr. hardy believed mr. flick's words and rejected mr. flick's opinion. he believed in his heart that the english countess was an impostor, not herself believing in her own claim; and it would be gall and wormwood to him to give to such a one a moiety of the wealth which should go to support the ancient dignity and aristocratic grace of the house of lovel. he hated compromise and desired justice,--and was a great rather than a successful lawyer. sir william had at once perceived that there was something in the background on which it was his duty to calculate, which he was bound to consider,--but with which at the same time it was inexpedient that he should form a closer or more accurate acquaintance. he must do the best he could for his client. earl lovel with a thousand a year, and that probably already embarrassed, would be a poor, wretched creature, a mock lord, an earl without the very essence of an earldom. but earl lovel with fifteen or twenty thousand a year would be as good as most other earls. it would be but the difference between two powdered footmen and four, between four hunters and eight, between belgrave square and eaton place. sir william, had he felt confident, would of course have preferred the four footmen for his client, and the eight hunters, and belgrave square; even though the poor english countess should have starved, or been fed by the tailor's bounty. but he was not confident. he began to think that that wicked old earl had been too wicked for them all. "they say she's a very nice girl," said sir william. "very handsome indeed, i'm told," said mr. flick. "and in love with the son of the old tailor from keswick," said mr. hardy. "she'll prefer the lord to the tailor for a guinea," said sir william. and thus it was decided, after some indecisive fashion, that their client should be sounded as to the expedience of a compromise. it was certain to them that the poor woman would be glad to accept, for herself and her daughter, half of the wealth at stake, which half would be to her almost unlimited riches, on the condition that their rank was secured to them,--their rank and all the privileges of honest legitimacy. but as to such an arrangement the necessary delay offered no doubt a serious impediment, and it was considered that the wisest course would be to propose the marriage. but who should propose it, and how should it be proposed? sir william was quite willing to make the suggestion to the young lord or the young lord's family, whose consent must of course be first obtained; but who should then break the ice to the countess? "i suppose we must ask our friend, the serjeant," said mr. flick. serjeant bluestone was the leading counsel for our countess, and was vehemently energetic in this case. he swore everywhere that the solicitor-general hadn't a leg to stand upon, and that the solicitor-general knew that he hadn't a leg. let them bring that italian countess over if they dared. he'd countess her, and discountess her too! since he had first known the english courts of law there had been no case hard as this was hard. had not the old earl been acquitted of the charge of bigamy, when the unfortunate woman had done her best to free herself from her position? serjeant bluestone, who was a very violent man, taking up all his cases as though the very holding of a brief opposite to him was an insult to himself, had never before been so violent. "the serjeant will take it as a surrender," said mr. flick. "we must get round the serjeant," said sir william. "there are ladies in the lovel family; we must manage it through them." and so it was arranged by the young lord's lawyers that an attempt should be made to marry him to the heiress. the two cousins had never seen each other. lady anna had hardly heard of frederic lovel before her father's death; but, since that, had been brought up to regard the young lord as her natural enemy. the young lord had been taught from his youth upwards to look upon the soi-disant countess and her daughter as impostors who would some day strive to rob him of his birthright;--and, in these latter days, as impostors who were hard at work upon their project. and he had been told of the intimacy between the countess and the old tailor,--and also of that between the so-called lady anna and the young tailor. to these distant lovels,--to frederic lovel who had been brought up with the knowledge that he must be the earl, and to his uncle and aunt by whom he had been brought up,--the women down at keswick had been represented as vulgar, odious, and disreputable. we all know how firm can be the faith of a family in such matters. the lovels were not without fear as to the result of the attempt that was being made. they understood quite as well as did mr. flick the glory of the position which would attend upon success, and the wretchedness attendant upon a pauper earldom. they were nervous enough, and in some moods frightened. but their trust in the justice of their cause was unbounded. the old earl, whose memory was horrible to them, had purposely left two enemies in their way. there had been the italian mistress backed up by the will; and there had been this illegitimate child. the one was vanquished; but the other--! ah,--it would be bad with them indeed if that enemy could not be vanquished too! they had offered â£30,000 to the enemy; but the enemy would not accept the bribe. the idea of ending all their troubles by a marriage had never occurred to them. had mrs. lovel been asked about it, she would have said that anna murray,--as she always studiously called the lady anna, was not fit to be married. the young lord, who a few months after his cousin's death had been old enough to take his seat in the house of peers, was a gayhearted, kindly young man, who had been brought home from sea at the age of twenty on the death of an elder brother. some of the family had wished that he should go on with his profession in spite of the earldom; but it had been thought unfit that he should be an earl and a midshipman at the same time, and his cousin's death while he was still on shore settled the question. he was a fair-haired, well-made young lad, looking like a sailor, and every inch a gentleman. had he believed that the lady anna was the lady anna, no earthly consideration would have induced him to meddle with the money. since the old lord's death, he had lived chiefly with his uncle charles lovel, having passed some two or three months at lovel grange with his uncle and aunt. charles lovel was a clergyman, with a good living at yoxham, in yorkshire, who had married a rich wife, a woman with some two thousand a year of her own, and was therefore well to do in the world. his two sons were at harrow, and he had one other child, a daughter. with them also lived a miss lovel, aunt julia,--who was supposed of all the lovels to be the wisest and most strong-minded. the parson, though a popular man, was not strong-minded. he was passionate, loud, generous, affectionate and indiscreet. he was very proud of his nephew's position as head of the family,--and very full of his nephew's wrongs arising from the fraud of those murray women. he was a violent tory, and had heard much of the keswick radical. he never doubted for a moment that both old thwaite and young thwaite were busy in concocting an enormous scheme of plunder by which to enrich themselves. to hear that they had both been convicted and transported was the hope of his life. that a radical should not be worthy of transportation was to him impossible. that a radical should be honest was to him incredible. but he was a thoroughly humane and charitable man, whose good qualities were as little intelligible to old thomas thwaite, as were those of thomas thwaite to him. to whom should the solicitor-general first break the matter? he had already had some intercourse with the lovels, and had not been impressed with a sense of the parson's wisdom. he was a whig solicitor-general, for there were still whigs in those days, and mr. lovel had not much liked him. mr. flick had seen much of the family,--having had many interviews with the young lord, with the parson, and with aunt julia. it was at last settled by sir william's advice that a letter should be written to aunt julia by mr. flick, suggesting that she should come up to town. "mr. lovel will be very angry," said mr. flick. "we must do the best we can for our client," said sir william. the letter was written, and miss lovel was informed in mr. flick's most discreet style, that as sir william patterson was anxious to discuss a matter concerning lord lovel's case in which a woman's voice would probably be of more service than that of a man, perhaps miss lovel would not object to the trouble of a journey to london. miss lovel did come up, and her brother came with her. the interview took place in sir william's chambers, and no one was present but sir william, miss lovel, and mr. flick. mr. flick had been instructed to sit still and say nothing, unless he were asked a question; and he obeyed his instructions. after some apologies, which were perhaps too soft and sweet,--and which were by no means needed, as miss lovel herself, though very wise, was neither soft nor sweet,--the great man thus opened his case. "this is a very serious matter, miss lovel." "very serious indeed." "you can hardly perhaps conceive how great a load of responsibility lies upon a lawyer's shoulders, when he has to give advice in such a case as this, when perhaps the prosperity of a whole family may turn upon his words." "he can only do his best." "ah yes, miss lovel. that is easy to say; but how shall he know what is the best?" "i suppose the truth will prevail at last. it is impossible to think that a young man such as my nephew should be swindled out of a noble fortune by the intrigues of two such women as these. i can't believe it, and i won't believe it. of course i am only a woman, but i always thought it wrong to offer them even a shilling." sir william smiled and rubbed his head, fixing his eyes on those of the lady. though he smiled she could see that there was real sadness in his face. "you don't mean to say you doubt?" she said. "indeed i do." "you think that a wicked scheme like this can succeed before an english judge?" "but if the scheme be not wicked? let me tell you one or two things, miss lovel;--or rather my own private opinion on one or two points. i do not believe that these two ladies are swindlers." "they are not ladies, and i feel sure that they are swindlers," said miss lovel very firmly, turning her face as she spoke to the attorney. "i am telling you, of course, merely my own opinion, and i will beg you to believe of me that in forming it i have used all the experience and all the caution which a long course of practice in these matters has taught me. your nephew is entitled to my best services, and at the present moment i can perhaps do my duty to him most thoroughly by asking you to listen to me." the lady closed her lips together, and sat silent. "whether mrs. murray, as we have hitherto called her, was or was not the legal wife of the late earl, i will not just now express an opinion; but i am sure that she thinks that she was. the marriage was formal and accurate. the earl was tried for bigamy, and acquitted. the people with whom we have to do across the water, in sicily, are not respectable. they cannot be induced to come here to give evidence. an english jury will be naturally averse to them. the question is one simply of facts for a jury, and we cannot go beyond a jury. had the daughter been a son, it would have been in the house of lords to decide which young man should be the peer;--but, as it is, it is simply a question of property, and of facts as to the ownership of the property. should we lose the case, your nephew would be--a very poor man." "a very poor man, indeed, sir william." "his position would be distressing. i am bound to say that we should go into court to try the case with very great distrust. mr. flick quite agrees with me." "quite so, sir william," said mr. flick. miss lovel again looked at the attorney, closed her lips tighter than ever, but did not say a word. "in such cases as this prejudices will arise, miss lovel. it is natural that you and your family should be prejudiced against these ladies. for myself, i am not aware that anything true can be alleged against them." "the girl has disgraced herself with a tailor's son," almost screamed miss lovel. "you have been told so, but i do not believe it to be true. they were, no doubt, brought up as children together; and mr. thwaite has been most kind to both the ladies." it at once occurred to miss lovel that sir william was a whig, and that there was in truth but little difference between a whig and a radical. to be at heart a gentleman, or at heart a lady, it was, to her thinking, necessary to be a tory. "it would be a thousand pities that so noble a property should pass out of a family which, by its very splendour and ancient nobility, is placed in need of ample means." on hearing this sentiment, which might have become even a tory, miss lovel relaxed somewhat the muscles of her face. "were the earl to marry his cousin--" "she is not his cousin." "were the earl to marry the young lady who, it may be, will be proved to be his cousin, the whole difficulty would be cleared away." "marry her!" "i am told that she is very lovely, and that pains have been taken with her education. her mother was well born and well bred. if you would get at the truth, miss lovel, you must teach yourself to believe that they are not swindlers. they are no more swindlers than i am a swindler. i will go further,--though perhaps you, and the young earl, and mr. flick, may think me unfit to be intrusted any longer with this case, after such a declaration,--i believe, though it is with a doubting belief, that the elder lady is the countess lovel, and that her daughter is the legitimate child and the heir of the late earl." mr. flick sat with his mouth open as he heard this,--beating his breast almost with despair. his opinion tallied exactly with sir william's. indeed, it was by his opinion, hardly expressed, but perfectly understood, that sir william had been led. but he had not thought that sir william would be so bold and candid. "you believe that anna murray is the real heir?" gasped miss lovel. "i do,--with a doubting belief. i am inclined that way,--having to form my opinion on very conflicting evidence." mr. flick was by this time quite sure that sir william was right, in his opinion,--though perhaps wrong in declaring it,--having been corroborated in his own belief by the reflex of it on a mind more powerful than his own. "thinking as i do," continued sir william,--"with a natural bias towards my own client,--what will a jury think, who will have no such bias? if they are cousins,--distant cousins,--why should they not marry and be happy, one bringing the title, and the other the wealth? there could be no more rational union, miss lovel." then there was a long pause before any one spoke a word. mr. flick had been forbidden to speak, and sir william, having made his proposition, was determined to await the lady's reply. the lady was aghast, and for awhile could neither think nor utter a word. at last she opened her mouth. "i must speak to my brother about this." "quite right, miss lovel." "now i may go, sir william?" "good morning, miss lovel." and miss lovel went. "you have gone farther than i thought you would, sir william," said mr. flick. "i hardly went far enough, mr. flick. we must go farther yet if we mean to save any part of the property for the young man. what should we gain, even if we succeeded in proving that the earl was married in early life to the old sicilian hag that still lives? she would inherit the property then;--not the earl." chapter vi. yoxham rectory. miss lovel, wise and strong-minded as she was, did not dare to come to any decision on the proposition made to her without consulting some one. strong as she was, she found herself at once to be too weak to speak to her nephew on the subject of her late interview with the great lawyer without asking her brother's opinion. the parson had accompanied her up to london, in a state of wrath against sir william, in that he had not been sent for instead of his sister, and to him she told all that had been said. her brother was away at his club when she got back to her hotel, and she had some hours in which to think of what had taken place. she could not at once bring herself to believe that all her former beliefs were vain and ill founded. but if the opinion of the solicitor-general had not prevailed with her, it prevailed still less when it reached her brother second-hand. she had been shaken, but mr. lovel at first was not shaken at all. sir william was a whig and a traitor. he had never known a whig who was not a traitor. sir william was throwing them over. the murray people, who were all whigs, had got hold of him. he, mr. lovel, would go at once to mr. hardy, and tell mr. hardy what he thought. the case should be immediately taken out of the hands of messrs. norton and flick. did not all the world know that these impostors were impostors? sir william should be exposed and degraded,--though, in regard to this threatened degradation, mr. lovel was almost of opinion that his party would like their solicitor-general better for having shown himself to be a traitor, and therefore proved himself to be a good whig. he stormed and flew about the room, using language which hardly became his cloth. if his nephew married the girl, he would never own his nephew again. if that swindle was to prevail, let his nephew be poor and honest. he would give half of all he had towards supporting the peerage, and was sure that his boys would thank him for what he had done. but they should never call that woman cousin; and as for himself, might his tongue be blistered if ever he spoke of either of those women as countess lovel. he was inclined to think that the whole case should immediately be taken out of the hands of norton and flick, without further notice, and another solicitor employed. but at last he consented to call on mr. norton on the following morning. mr. norton was a heavy, honest old man, who attended to simple conveyancing, and sat amidst the tin boxes of his broad-acred clients. he had no alternative but to send for mr. flick, and mr. flick came. when mr. lovel showed his anger, mr. flick became somewhat indignant. mr. flick knew how to assert himself, and mr. lovel was not quite the same man in the lawyer's chambers that he had been in his own parlour at the hotel. mr. flick was of opinion that no better counsel was to be had in england than the solicitor-general, and no opinion more worthy of trust than his. if the earl chose to put his case into other hands, of course he could do so, but it would behove his lordship to be very careful lest he should prejudice most important interests by showing his own weakness to his opponents. mr. flick spoke in the interests of his client,--so he said,--and not in his own. mr. flick was clearly of opinion that a compromise should be arranged; and having given that opinion, could say nothing more on the present occasion. on the next day the young earl saw mr. flick, and also saw sir william, and was then told by his aunt of the proposition which had been made. the parson retired to yoxham, and miss lovel remained in london with her nephew. by the end of the week miss lovel was brought round to think that some compromise was expedient. all this took place in may. the cause had been fixed for trial in the following november, the long interval having been allowed because of the difficulty expected in producing the evidence necessary for rebutting the claims of the late earl's daughter. by the middle of june all the lovels were again in london,--the parson, his sister, the parson's wife, and the earl. "i never saw the young woman in my life," said the earl to his aunt. "as for that," said his aunt, "no doubt you could see her if you thought it wise to do so." "i suppose she might be asked to the rectory?" said mrs. lovel. "that would be giving up altogether," said the rector. "sir william said that it would not be against us at all," said aunt julia. "you would have to call her lady anna," said mrs. lovel. "i couldn't do it," said the rector. "it would be much better to give her half." "but why should she take the half if the whole belongs to her?" said the young lord. "and why should i ask even for the half if nothing belongs to me?" at this time the young lord had become almost despondent as to his alleged rights, and now and again had made everybody belonging to him miserable by talking of withdrawing from his claim. he had come to understand that sir william believed that the daughter was the real heir, and he thought that sir william must know better than others. he was down-hearted and low in spirits, but not the less determined to be just in all that he did. "i have made inquiry," said aunt julia, "and i do believe that the stories which we heard against the girl were untrue." "the tailor and his son have been their most intimate friends," said mr. lovel. "because they had none others," said mrs. lovel. it had been settled that by the 24th of june the lord was to say whether he would or would not take sir william's advice. if he would do so, sir william was to suggest what step should next be taken as to making the necessary overtures to the two ladies. if he would not, then sir william was to advise how best the case might be carried on. they were all again at yoxham that day, and the necessary communication was to be made to mr. flick by post. the young man had been alone the whole morning thinking of his condition, and undoubtedly the desire for the money had grown on him strongly. why should it not have done so? is there a nobleman in great britain who can say that he could lose the fortune which he possesses or the fortune which he expects without an agony that would almost break his heart? young lord lovel sighed for the wealth without which his title would only be to him a terrible burden, and yet he was resolved that he would take no part in anything that was unjust. this girl, he heard, was beautiful and soft and pleasant, and now they told him that the evil things which had been reported against her had been slanders. he was assured that she was neither coarse, nor vulgar, nor unmaidenly. two or three old men, of equal rank with his own,--men who had been his father's friends and were allied to the lovels, and had been taken into confidence by sir william,--told him that the proper way out of the difficulty had been suggested to him. there could be nothing, they said, more fitting than that two cousins so situated should marry. with such an acknowledgment of her rank and birth everybody would visit his wife. there was not a countess or a duchess in london who would not be willing to take her by the hand. his two aunts had gradually given way, and it was clear to him that his uncle would give way,--even his uncle,--if he would but yield himself. it was explained to him that if the girl came to yoxham, with the privilege of being called lady anna by the inhabitants of the rectory, she would of course do so on the understanding that she should accept her cousin's hand. "but she might not like me," said the young earl to his aunt. "not like you!" said mrs. lovel, putting her hand up to his brow and pushing away his hair. was it possible that any girl should not like such a man as that, and he an earl? "and if i did not like her, aunt lovel?" "then i would not ask her to be my wife." he thought that there was an injustice in this, and yet before the day was over he had assented. "i do not think that i can call her lady anna," said the rector. "i don't think i can bring my tongue to do it." chapter vii. the solicitor-general perseveres. there was considerable difficulty in making the overture to the two ladies,--or rather in making it to the elder lady; for the suggestion, if made to the daughter, must of course come to her from her mother. it had been decided at last that the lady anna could not be invited to the rectory till it had been positively settled that she should be the lady anna without further opposition; and that all opposition to the claim should be withdrawn, at any rate till it was found that the young people were not inclined to be engaged to each other. "how can i call her lady anna before i have made up my mind to think that she is lady anna?" said the parson, almost in tears. as to the rest of the family, it may be said that they had come silently to think that the countess was the countess and that the lady anna was the lady anna;--silently in reference to each other, for not one of them except the young lord had positively owned to such a conviction. sir william patterson had been too strong for them. it was true that he was a whig. it was possible that he was a traitor. but he was a man of might, and his opinion had domineered over theirs. to make things as straight as they could be made it would be well that the young people should be married. what would be the earldom of lovel without the wealth which the old mad earl had amassed? sir william and mr. flick were strongly in favour of the marriage, and mr. hardy at last assented. the worst of it was that something of all this doubt on the part of the earl and his friends was sure to reach the opposite party. "they are shaking in their shoes," serjeant bluestone said to his junior counsel, mr. mainsail. "i do believe they are not going to fight at all," he said to mr. goffe, the attorney for the countess. mr. mainsail rubbed his hands. mr. goffe shook his head. mr. goffe was sure that they would fight. mr. mainsail, who had worked like a horse in getting up and arranging all the evidence on behalf of the countess, and in sifting, as best he might, the italian documents, was delighted. all this sir william feared, and he felt that it was quite possible that the earl's overture might be rejected because the earl would not be thought to be worth having. "we must count upon his coronet," said sir william to mr. flick. "she could not do better even if the property were undoubtedly her own." but how was the first suggestion to be made? mr. hardy was anxious that everything should be straightforward,--and sir william assented, with a certain inward peevishness at mr. hardy's stiff-necked propriety. sir william was anxious to settle the thing comfortably for all parties. mr. hardy was determined not only that right should be done, but also that it should be done in a righteous manner. the great question now was whether they could approach the widow and her daughter otherwise than through serjeant bluestone. "the serjeant is such a blunderbuss," said the solicitor-general. but the serjeant was counsel for these ladies, and it was at last settled that there should be a general conference at sir william's chambers. a very short note was written by mr. flick to mr. goffe, stating that the solicitor-general thought that a meeting might be for the advantage of all parties;--and the meeting was arranged. there were present the two barristers and the one attorney for each side, and many an anxious thought was given to the manner in which the meeting should be conducted. serjeant bluestone was fully resolved that he would hold his own against the solicitor-general, and would speak his mind freely. mr. mainsail got up little telling questions. mr. goffe and mr. flick both felt that it would behove them to hold their peace, unless questioned, but were equally determined to hang fast by their clients. mr. hardy in his heart of hearts thought that his learned friend was about to fling away his case. sir william had quite made up his mind as to his line of action. he seated them all most courteously, giving them place according to their rank,--a great arm-chair for serjeant bluestone, from which the serjeant would hardly be able to use his arms with his accustomed energy,--and then he began at once. "gentlemen," said he, "it would be a great pity that this property should be wasted." "no fear of that, mr. solicitor," said the serjeant. "it would be a great pity that this property should be wasted," repeated sir william, bowing to the serjeant, "and i am disposed to think that the best thing the two young people can do is to marry each other." then he paused, and the three gentlemen opposite sat erect, the barristers as speechless as the attorneys. but the solicitor-general had nothing to add. he had made his proposition, and was desirous of seeing what effect it might have before he spoke another word. "then you acknowledge the countess's marriage, of course," said the serjeant. "pardon me, serjeant, we acknowledge nothing. as a matter of course she is the countess till it be proved that another wife was living when she was married." "quite as a matter of course," said the serjeant. "quite as a matter of course, if that will make the case stronger," continued sir william. "her marriage was formal and regular. that she believed her marriage to be a righteous marriage before god, i have never doubted. god forbid that i should have a harsh thought against a poor lady who has suffered so much cruel treatment." "why have things been said then?" asked the serjeant, beginning to throw about his left arm. "if i am not mistaken," said mr. mainsail, "evidence has been prepared to show that the countess is a party to a contemplated fraud." "then you are mistaken, mr. mainsail," said sir william. "i admit at once and clearly that the lady is not suspected of any fraud. whether she be actually the countess lovel or not it may,--i fear it must,--take years to prove, if the law be allowed to take its course." "we think that we can dispose of any counter-claim in much less time than that," said the serjeant. "it may be so. i myself think that it would not be so. our evidence in favour of the lady, who is now living some two leagues out of palermo, is very strong. she is a poor creature, old, ignorant,--fairly well off through the bounty of the late earl, but always craving for some trifle more,--unwilling to come to this country,--childless, and altogether indifferent to the second marriage, except in so far as might interfere with her hopes of getting some further subsidy from the lovel family. one is not very anxious on her behalf. one is only anxious,--can only be anxious,--that the vast property at stake should not get into improper hands." "and that justice should be done," said mr. hardy. "and that justice should be done of course, as my friend observes. here is a young man who is undoubtedly earl of lovel, and who claims a property as heir to the late earl. and here is a young lady, i am told very beautiful and highly educated, who is the daughter of the late earl, and who claims that property believing herself to be his legitimate heiress. the question between them is most intricate." "the onus probandi lies with you, mr. solicitor," said the serjeant. "we acknowledge that it does, but the case on that account is none the less intricate. with the view of avoiding litigation and expense, and in the certainty that by such an arrangement the enjoyment of the property will fall to the right owner, we propose that steps shall be taken to bring these two young people together. the lady, whom for the occasion i am quite willing to call the countess, the mother of the lady whom i hope the young earl will make his own countess, has not been sounded on this subject." "i should hope not," said the serjeant. "my excellent friend takes me up a little short," said sir william, laughing. "you gentlemen will probably consult together on the subject, and whatever may be the advice which you shall consider it to be your duty to give to the mother,--and i am sure that you will feel bound to let her know the proposition that has been made; i do not hesitate to say that we have a right to expect that it shall be made known to her,--i need hardly remark that were the young lady to accept the young lord's hand we should all be in a boat together in reference to the mother's rank, and to the widow's claim upon the personal property left behind him by her late husband." and so the solicitor-general had made his proposition, and the conference was broken up with a promise that mr. flick should hear from mr. goffe upon the subject. but the serjeant had at once made up his mind against the compromise now proposed. he desired the danger and the dust and the glory of the battle. he was true to his clients' interests, no doubt,--intended to be intensely true; but the personal, doggish love of fighting prevailed in the man, and he was clear as to the necessity of going on. "they know they are beat," he said to mr. goffe. "mr. solicitor knows as well as i do that he has not an inch of ground under his feet." therefore mr. goffe wrote the following letter to messrs. norton and flick:- raymond's buildings, gray's inn, 1st july, 183--. dear sirs, in reference to the interview which took place at the chambers of the solicitor-general on the 27th ult., we are to inform you that we are not disposed, as acting for our clients, the countess of lovel and her daughter the lady anna lovel, to listen to the proposition then made. apart from the very strong feeling we entertain as to the certainty of our client's success,--which certainly was not weakened by what we heard on that occasion,--we are of opinion that we could not interfere with propriety in suggesting the marriage of two young persons who have not as yet had any opportunity of becoming acquainted with each other. should the earl of lovel seek the hand of his cousin, the lady anna lovel, and marry her with the consent of the countess, we should be delighted at such a family arrangement; but we do not think that we, as lawyers,--or, if we may be allowed to say so, that you as lawyers,--have anything to do with such a matter. we are, dear sirs, yours very faithfully, goffe and goffe. messrs. norton and flick. "balderdash!" said sir william, when he had read the letter. "we are not going to be done in that way. it was all very well going to that serjeant as he has the case in hand, though a worse messenger in an affair of love--" "not love, as yet, mr. solicitor," said mr. flick. "i mean it to be love, and i'm not going to be put off by serjeant bluestone. we must get to the lady by some other means. do you write to that tailor down at keswick, and say that you want to see him." "will that be regular, sir william?" "i'll stand the racket, mr. flick." mr. flick did write to thomas thwaite, and thomas thwaite came up to london and called at mr. flick's chambers. when thomas thwaite received his commission he was much rejoiced. injustice would be done him unless so much were owned on his behalf. but, nevertheless, some feeling of disappointment which he could not analyze crept across his heart. if once the girl were married to earl lovel there would be an end of his services and of his son's. he had never really entertained an idea that his son would marry the girl. as the reader will perhaps remember, he had warned his son that he must seek a sweetheart elsewhere. he had told himself over and over again that when the countess came to her own there must be an end of this intimacy,--that there could be nothing in common between him, the radical tailor of keswick, and a really established countess. the countess, while not yet really established, had already begged that his son might be instructed not to call her daughter simply by her christian name. old thwaite on receiving this intimation of the difference of their positions, though he had acknowledged its truth, had felt himself bitterly aggrieved, and now the moment had come. of course the countess would grasp at such an offer. of course it would give her all that she had desired, and much more than she expected. in adjusting his feelings on the occasion the tailor thought but little of the girl herself. why should she not be satisfied? of the young earl he had only heard that he was a handsome, modest, gallant lad, who only wanted a fortune to make him one of the most popular of the golden youth of england. why should not the girl rejoice at the prospect of winning such a husband? to have a husband must necessarily be in her heart, whether she were the lady anna lovel, or plain anna murray. and what espousals could be so auspicious as these? feeling all this, without much of calculation, the tailor said that he would do as he was bidden. "we have sent for you because we know that you have been so old a friend," said mr. flick, who did not quite approve of the emissary whom he had been instructed by sir william to employ. "i will do my best, sir," said mr. thwaite, making his bow. thomas thwaite, as he went along the streets alone, determined that he would perform this new duty imposed upon him without any reference to his son. chapter viii. impossible! "they sent for me, lady lovel, to bid me come to your ladyship and ask your ladyship whether you would consent to a marriage between the two young people." it was thus that the tailor repeated for the second time the message which had been confided to him, showing the gall and also the pride which were at work about his heart by the repeated titles which he gave to his old friend. "they desire that anna should marry the young lord!" "yes, my lady. that's the meaning of it." "and what am i to be?" "just the countess lovel,--with a third of the property as your own. i suppose it would be a third; but you might trust the lawyers to settle that properly. when once they take your daughter among them they won't scrimp you in your honours. they'll all swear that the marriage was good enough then. they know that already, and have made this offer because they know it. your ladyship needn't fear now but what all the world will own you as the countess lovel. i don't suppose i'll be troubled to come up to london any more." "oh, my friend!" the ejaculation she made feeling the necessity of saying something to soothe the tailor's pride; but her heart was fixed upon the fruition of that for which she had spent so many years in struggling. was it to come to her at last? could it be that now, now at once, people throughout the world would call her the countess lovel, and would own her daughter to be the lady anna,--till she also should become a countess? of the young man she had heard nothing but good, and it was impossible that she should have fear in that direction, even had she been timorous by nature. but she was bold and eager, hopeful in spite of all that she had suffered, full of ambition, and not prone to feminine scruples. she had been fighting all her life in order that she and her daughter might be acknowledged to be among the aristocrats of her country. she was so far a loving, devoted mother that in all her battles she thought more of her child than of herself. she would have consented to carry on the battle in poverty to the last gasp of her own breath, could she thereby have insured success for her surviving daughter. but she was not a woman likely to be dismayed at the idea of giving her girl in marriage to an absolute stranger, when that stranger was such a one as the young earl lovel. she herself had been a countess, but a wretched, unacknowledged, poverty-stricken countess, for the last half of her eventful life. this marriage would make her daughter a countess, prosperous, accepted by all, and very wealthy. what better end could there be to her long struggles? of course she would assent. "i don't know why they should have troubled themselves to send for me," said the tailor. "because you are the best friend that i have in the world. whom else could i have trusted as i do you? has the earl agreed to it?" "they didn't tell me that, my lady." "they would hardly have sent, unless he had agreed. don't you think so, mr. thwaite?" "i don't know much about such things, my lady." "you have told--daniel?" "no, my lady." "oh, mr. thwaite, do not talk to me in that way. it sounds as though you were deserting me." "there'll be no reason for not deserting now. you'll have friends by the score more fit to see you through this than old thomas thwaite. and, to own the truth, now that the matter is coming to an end, i am getting weary of it. i'm not so young as i was, and i'd be better left at home to my business." "i hope that you may disregard your business now without imprudence, mr. thwaite." "no, my lady;--a man should always stick to his business. i hope that daniel will do so better than his father before him,--so that his son may never have to go out to be servant to another man." "you are speaking daggers to me." "i have not meant it then. i am rough by nature, i know, and perhaps a little low just at present. there is something sad in the parting of old friends." "old friends needn't be parted, mr. thwaite." "when your ladyship was good enough to point out to me my boy's improper manner of speech to lady anna, i knew how it must be. you were quite right, my lady. there can be no becoming friendship between the future lady lovel and a journeyman tailor. i was wrong from the beginning." "oh, mr. thwaite! without such wrong where should we have been?" "there can be no holding ground of friendship between such as you and such as we. lords and ladies, earls and countesses, are our enemies, and we are theirs. we may make their robes and take their money, and deal with them as the jew dealt with the christians in the play; but we cannot eat with them or drink with them." "how often have i eaten and drank at your table, when no other table was spread for me?" "you were a jew almost as ourselves then. we cannot now well stand shoulder to shoulder and arm to arm as friends should do." "how often has my child lain in your arms when she was a baby, and been quieter there than she would be even in her mother's?" "that has all gone by. other arms will be open to receive her." as the tailor said this he remembered how his boy used to take the little child out to the mountain side, and how the two would ramble away together through the long summer evenings; and he reflected that the memory of those days was no doubt still strong in the heart of his son. some shadow of the grief which would surely fall upon the young man now fell upon the father, and caused him almost to repent of the work of his life. "tailors should consort with tailors," he said, "and lords and ladies should consort together." something of the same feeling struck the countess also. if it were not for the son, the father, after all that he had done for them, might be almost as near and as dear to them as ever. he might have called the lady anna by her christian name, at any rate till she had been carried away as a bride by the earl. but, though all this was so exquisitely painful, it had been absolutely necessary to check the son. "ah, well," she said; "it is hardly to be hoped that so many crooked things should be made straight without much pain. if you knew, mr. thwaite, how little it is that i expect for myself!" "it is because i have known it that i am here." "it will be well for her,--will it not,--to be the wife of her cousin?" "if he be a good man. a woman will not always make herself happy by marrying an earl." "how many daggers you can use, mr. thwaite! but this young man is good. you yourself have said that you have heard so." "i have heard nothing to the contrary, my lady." "and what shall i do?" "just explain it all to lady anna. i think it will be clear then." "you believe that she will be so easily pleased?" "why should she not be pleased? she'll have some maiden scruples, doubtless. what maid would not? but she'll exult at such an end to all her troubles;--and what maid would not? let them meet as soon as may be and have it over. when he shall have placed the ring on her finger, your battle will have been won." then the tailor felt that his commission was done and he might take his leave. it had been arranged that in the event of the countess consenting to the proposed marriage, he should call upon mr. flick to explain that it was so. had she dissented, a short note would have been sufficient. had such been the case, the solicitor-general would have instigated the young lord to go and try what he himself could do with the countess and her daughter. the tailor had suggested to the mother that she should at once make the proposition known to lady anna, but the countess felt that one other word was necessary as her old friend left her. "will you go back at once to keswick, mr. thwaite?" "to-morrow morning, my lady." "perhaps you will not tell your son of this,--yet?" "no, my lady. i will not tell my son of this,--yet. my son is high-minded and stiff-necked, and of great heart. if he saw aught to object to in this marriage, it might be that he would express himself loudly." then the tailor took his leave without even shaking hands with the countess. the woman sat alone for the next two hours, thinking of what had passed. there had sprung up in these days a sort of friendship between mrs. bluestone and the two miss bluestones and the lady anna, arising rather from the forlorn condition of the young lady than from any positive choice of affection. mrs. bluestone was kind and motherly. the girls were girlish and good. the father was the jupiter tonans of the household,--as was of course proper,--and was worshipped in everything. to the world at large serjeant bluestone was a thundering, blundering, sanguine, energetic lawyer, whom nobody disliked very much though he was so big and noisy. but at home serjeant bluestone was all the judges of the land rolled into one. but he was a kind-hearted man, and he had sent his wife and girls to call upon the disconsolate countess. the disconsolate lady anna having no other friends, had found the companionship of the bluestone girls to be pleasant to her, and she was now with them at the serjeant's house in bedford square. mrs. bluestone talked of the wrongs and coming rights of the countess lovel wherever she went, and the bluestone girls had all the case at their fingers' ends. to doubt that the serjeant would succeed, or to doubt that the success of the countess and her daughter would have had any other source than the serjeant's eloquence and the serjeant's zeal, would have been heresy in bedford square. the grand idea that young jack bluestone, who was up at brasenose, should marry the lady anna, had occurred only to the mother. lady anna was away with her friends as the countess sat brooding over the new hopes that had been opened to her. at first, she could not tear her mind away from the position which she herself would occupy as soon as her daughter should have been married and taken away from her. the young earl would not want his mother-in-law,--a mother-in-law who had spent the best years of her life in the society of a tailor. and the daughter, who would still be young enough to begin a new life in a new sphere, would no longer want her mother to help her. as regarded herself, the countess was aware that the life she had led so long, and the condition of agonizing struggling to which she had been brought, had unfitted her for smiling, happy, prosperous, aristocratic luxury. there was but one joy left for her, and that was to be the joy of success. when that cup should have been drained, there would be nothing left to her. she would have her rank, of course,--and money enough to support it. she no longer feared that any one would do her material injury. her daughter's husband no doubt would see that she had a fitting home, with all the appanages and paraphernalia suited to a dowager countess. but who would share her home with her, and where should she find her friends? even now the two miss bluestones were more to her daughter than she was. when she should be established in her new luxurious home, with servants calling her my lady, with none to contradict her right, she would no longer be enabled to sit late into the night discussing matters with her friend the tailor. as regarded herself, it would have been better for her, perhaps, if the fight had been carried on. but the fight had been, not for herself, but for her child; and the victory for her girl would have been won by her own perseverance. her whole life had been devoted to establishing the rights of her daughter, and it should be so devoted to the end. it had been her great resolve that the world should acknowledge the rank of her girl, and now it would be acknowledged. not only would she become the countess lovel by marriage, but the name which had been assumed for her amidst the ridicule of many, and in opposition to the belief of nearly all, would be proved to have been her just and proper title. and then, at last, it would be known by all men that she herself, the ill-used, suffering mother, had gone to the house of that wicked man, not as his mistress, but as his true wife! hardly a thought troubled her, then, as to the acquiescence of her daughter. she had no faintest idea that the girl's heart had been touched by the young tailor. she had so lived that she knew but little of lovers and their love, and in her fear regarding daniel thwaite she had not conceived danger such as that. it had to her simply been unfitting that there should be close familiarity between the two. she expected that her daughter would be ambitious, as she was ambitious, and would rejoice greatly at such perfect success. she herself had been preaching ambition and practising ambition all her life. it had been the necessity of her career that she should think more of her right to a noble name than of any other good thing under the sun. it was only natural that she should believe that her daughter shared the feeling. and then lady anna came in. "they wanted me to stay and dine, mamma, but i did not like to think that you should be left alone." "i must get used to that, my dear." "why, mamma? wherever we have been, we have always been together. mrs. bluestone was quite unhappy because you would not come. they are so good-natured! i wish you would go there." "i am better here, my dear." then there was a pause for a few moments. "but i am glad that you have come home this evening." "of course, i should come home." "i have something special to say to you." "to me, mamma! what is it, mamma?" "i think we will wait till after dinner. the things are here now. go up-stairs and take off your hat, and i will tell you after dinner." "mamma," lady anna said, as soon as the maid had left the room, "has old mr. thwaite been here?" "yes, my dear, he was here." "i thought so, because you have something to tell me. it is something from him?" "not from himself, anna;--though he was the messenger. come and sit here, my dear,--close to me. have you ever thought, anna, that it would be good for you to be married?" "no, mamma; why should i?" but that surely was a lie! how often had she thought that it would be good to be married to daniel thwaite and to have done with this weary searching after rank! and now what could her mother mean? thomas thwaite had been there, but it was impossible that her mother should think that daniel thwaite would be a fit husband for her daughter. "no, mamma;--why should i?" "it must be thought of, my dearest." "why now?" she could understand perfectly that there was some special cause for her mother's manner of speech. "after all that we have gone through, we are about to succeed at last. they are willing to own everything, to give us all our rights,--on one condition." "what condition, mamma?" "come nearer to me, dearest. it would not make you unhappy to think that you were going to be the wife of a man you could love?" "no;--not if i really loved him." "you have heard of your cousin,--the young earl?" "yes, mamma;--i have heard of him." "they say that he is everything that is good. what should you think of having him for your husband?" "that would be impossible, mamma." "impossible!--why impossible? what could be more fitting? your rank is equal to his;--higher even in this, that your father was himself the earl. in fortune you will be much more than his equal. in age you are exactly suited. why should it be impossible?" "oh, mamma, it is impossible!" "what makes you say so, anna?" "we have never seen each other." "tush! my child. why should you not see each other?" "and then we are his enemies." "we are no longer enemies, dearest. they have sent to say that if we,--you and i,--will consent to this marriage, then will they consent to it also. it is their wish, and it comes from them. there can be no more proper ending to all this weary lawsuit. it is quite right that the title and the name should be supported. it is quite right that the fortune which your father left should, in this way, go to support your father's family. you will be the countess lovel; and all will have been conceded to us. there cannot possibly be any fitter way out of our difficulties." lady anna sat looking at her mother in dismay, but could say nothing. "you need have no fear about the young man. every one tells me that he is just the man that a mother would welcome as a husband for her daughter. will you not be glad to see him?" but the lady anna would only say that it was impossible. "why impossible, my dear;--what do you mean by impossible?" "oh, mamma, it is impossible!" the countess found that she was obliged to give the subject up for that night, and could only comfort herself by endeavouring to believe that the suddenness of the tidings had confused her child. chapter ix. it isn't law. on the next morning lady anna was ill, and would not leave her bed. when her mother spoke to her, she declared that her head ached wretchedly, and she could not be persuaded to dress herself. "is it what i said to you last night?" asked the countess. "oh, mamma, that is impossible," she said. it seemed to the mother that the mention of the young lord's name had produced a horror in the daughter's mind which nothing could for the present subdue. before the day was over, however, the girl had acknowledged that she was bound in duty, at any rate, to meet her cousin; and the countess, forced to satisfy herself with so much of concession, and acting upon that, fixed herself in her purpose to go on with the project. the lawyers on both sides would assist her. it was for the advantage of them all that there should be such a marriage. she determined, therefore, that she would at once see mr. goffe, her own attorney, and give him to understand in general terms that the case might be proceeded with on this new matrimonial basis. but there was a grievous doubt on her mind,--a fear, a spark of suspicion, of which she had unintentionally given notice to thomas thwaite when she asked him whether he had as yet spoken of the proposed marriage to his son. he had understood what was passing in her mind when she exacted from him a promise that nothing should as yet be said to daniel thwaite upon the matter. and yet she assured herself over and over again that her girl could not be so weak, so vain, so foolish, so wicked as that! it could not be that, after all the struggles of her life,--when at last success, perfect success, was within their grasp, when all had been done and all well done, when the great reward was then coming up to their very lips with a full tide,--it could not be that in the very moment of victory all should be lost through the base weakness of a young girl! was it possible that her daughter,--the daughter of one who had spent the very marrow of her life in fighting for the position that was due to her,--should spoil all by preferring a journeyman tailor to a young nobleman of high rank, of ancient lineage, and one, too, who by his marriage with herself would endow her with wealth sufficient to make that rank splendid as well as illustrious? but if it were not so, what had the girl meant by saying that it was impossible? that the word should have been used once or twice in maidenly scruple, the countess could understand; but it had been repeated with a vehemence beyond that which such natural timidity might have produced. and now the girl professed herself to be ill in bed, and when the subject was broached would only weep, and repeat the one word with which she had expressed her repugnance to the match. hitherto she had not been like this. she had, in her own quiet way, shared her mother's aspirations, and had always sympathised with her mother's sufferings; and she had been dutiful through it all, carrying herself as one who was bound to special obedience by the peculiarity of her parent's position. she had been keenly alive to the wrongs that her mother endured, and had in every respect been a loving child. but now she protested that she would not do the one thing necessary to complete their triumph, and would give no reason for not doing so. as the countess thought of all this, she swore to herself that she would prefer to divest her bosom of all soft motherly feeling than be vanquished in this matter by her own child. her daughter should find that she could be stern and rough enough if she were really thwarted. what would her life be worth to her if her child, lady anna lovel, the heiress and only legitimate offspring of the late earl lovel, were to marry a--tailor? and then, again, she told herself that there was no sufficient excuse for such alarm. her daughter's demeanour had ever been modest. she had never been given to easy friendship, or to that propensity to men's acquaintance which the world calls flirting. it might be that the very absence of such propensity,--the very fact that hitherto she had never been thrust into society among her equals,--had produced that feeling almost of horror which she had expressed. but she had been driven, at any rate, to say that she would meet the young man; and the countess, acting upon that, called on mr. goffe in his chambers, and explained to that gentleman that she proposed to settle the whole question in dispute by giving her daughter to the young earl in marriage. mr. goffe, who had been present at the conference among the lawyers, understood it all in a moment. the overture had been made from the other side to his client. "indeed, my lady!" said mr. goffe. "do you not think it will be an excellent arrangement?" in his heart of hearts mr. goffe thought that it would be an excellent arrangement; but he could not commit himself to such an opinion. serjeant bluestone thought that the matter should be fought out, and mr. goffe was not prepared to separate himself from his legal adviser. as serjeant bluestone had said after the conference, with much argumentative vehemence,--"if we were to agree to this, how would it be if the marriage should not come off? the court can't agree to a marriage. the court must direct to whom the property belongs. they profess that they can prove that our marriage was no marriage. they must do so, or else they must withdraw the allegation. suppose the italian woman were to come forward afterwards with her claim as the widow, where then would be my client's position, and her title as dowager countess, and her claim upon her husband's personal estate? i never heard anything more irregular in my life. it is just like patterson, who always thinks he can make laws according to the light of his own reason." so serjeant bluestone had said to the lawyers who were acting with him; and mr. goffe, though he did himself think that this marriage would be the best thing in the world, could not differ from the serjeant. no doubt there might even yet be very great difficulties, even though the young earl and lady anna lovel should agree to be married. mr. goffe on that occasion said very little to the countess, and she left him with a feeling that a certain quantity of cold water had been thrown upon the scheme. but she would not allow herself to be disturbed by that. the marriage could go on without any consent on the part of the lawyers, and the countess was quite satisfied that, should the marriage be once completed, the money and the titles would all go as she desired. she had already begun to have more faith in the solicitor-general than in mr. goffe or in serjeant bluestone. but serjeant bluestone was not a man to bear such treatment and be quiet under it. he heard that very day from mr. goffe what had been done, and was loud in the expression of his displeasure. it was the most irregular thing that he had ever known. no other man except patterson in the whole profession would have done it! the counsel on the other side--probably patterson himself--had been to his client, and given advice to his client, and had done so after her own counsel had decided that no such advice should be given! he would see the attorney-general, and ask the attorney-general what he thought about it. now, it was supposed in legal circles, just at this period, that the attorney-general and the solicitor-general were not the best friends in the world; and the latter was wont to call the former an old fogey, and the former to say of the latter that he might be a very clever philosopher, but certainly no lawyer. and so by degrees the thing got much talked about in the profession; and there was perhaps a balance of opinion that the solicitor-general had done wrong. but this was certain,--that no one could be put into possession of the property till the court had decided to whom it belonged. if the earl withdrew from his claim, the widow would simply be called on to prove her own marriage,--which had in truth been proved more than once already,--and the right of her legitimate child would follow as a matter of course. it was by no means probable that the woman over in italy would make any claim on her own behalf,--and even, should she do so, she could not find the means of supporting it. "they must be asses," said the solicitor-general, "not to see that i am fighting their battle for them, and that i am doing so because i can best secure my own client's interests by securing theirs also." but even he became nervous after a day or two, and was anxious to learn that the marriage scheme was progressing. he told his client, lord lovel, that it would be well that the marriage should take place before the court sat in november. "in that case settlements will, of course, have been made, and we shall simply withdraw. we shall state the fact of this new marriage, and assert ourselves to be convinced that the old marriage was good and valid. but you should lose no time in the wooing, my lord." at this time the earl had not seen his cousin, and it had not yet been decided when they should meet. "it is my duty to explain to you, lady lovel, as my client," said serjeant bluestone to the countess, "that this arrangement cannot afford a satisfactory mode to you of establishing your own position." "it would be so happy for the whole family!" "as to that i can know nothing, lady lovel. if your daughter and the earl are attached to each other, there can be no reason on earth why they should not be married. but it should be a separate thing. your position should not be made to depend upon hers." "but they will withdraw, serjeant bluestone." "how do you know that they will withdraw? supposing at the last moment lady anna were to decline the alliance, would they withdraw then? not a bit of it. the matter would be further delayed, and referred over to next year. you and your daughter would be kept out of your money, and there would still be danger." "i should not care for that;--if they were married." "and they have set up this italian countess,--who never was a countess,--any more than i am. now they have put her up, they are bound to dispose of her. if she came forward afterwards, on her own behalf, where would you all be then?" "my daughter would, at any rate, be safe." the serjeant did not like it at all. he felt that he was being thrown over, not only by his client the countess,--as to which he might have been indifferent, knowing that the world at large, the laity as distinguished from the lawyers, the children of the world as all who were not lawyers seemed to him to be, will do and must be expected to do, foolish things continually. they cannot be persuaded to subject themselves to lawyers in all their doings, and, of course, go wrong when they do not do so. the infinite simplicity and silliness of mankind and womankind at large were too well known to the serjeant to cause him dismay, let them be shown in ever so egregious a fashion. but in this case the fault came from another lawyer, who had tampered with his clients, and who seemed to be himself as ignorant as though he belonged to the outside world. and this man had been made solicitor-general,--over the heads of half the profession,--simply because he could make a speech in parliament! but the solicitor-general was himself becoming uneasy when at the end of a fortnight he learned that the young people,--as he had come to call them on all occasions,--had not as yet seen each other. he would not like to have it said of him that he had thrown over his client. and there were some who still believed that the italian marriage had been a real marriage, and the italian wife alive at the time of the cumberland marriage,--though the italian woman now living had never been the countess. mr. hardy so believed, and, in his private opinion, thought that the solicitor-general had been very indiscreet. "i don't think that we could ever dare to face a jury," said sir william to mr. hardy when they discussed the matter, about a fortnight after the proposition had been made. "why did the earl always say that the italian woman was his wife?" "because the earl was a very devil." "mr. flick does not think so." "yes, he does; but mr. flick, like all attorneys with a bad case, does not choose to say quite what he thinks, even to his own counsel. mr. flick does not like to throw his client over, nor do i, nor do you. but with such a case we have no right to create increased expenses, and all the agony of prolonged fallacious hope. the girl is her father's heir. do you suppose i would not stick to my brief if i did not feel sure that it is so?" "then let the earl be told, and let the girl have her rights." "ah! there you have me. it may be that such would be the juster course; but then, hardy, cannot you understand that though i am sure, i am not quite sure; that though the case is a bad one, it may not be quite bad enough to be thrown up? it is just the case in which a compromise is expedient. if but a quarter, or but an eighth of a probability be with you, take your proportion of the thing at stake. but here is a compromise that gives all to each. who would wish to rob the girl of her noble name and great inheritance if she be the heiress? not i, though the earl be my client. and yet how sad would it be to have to tell that young man that there was nothing for him but to submit to lose all the wealth belonging to the family of which he has been born the head! if we can bring them together there will be nothing to make sore the hearts of any of us." mr. hardy acknowledged to himself that the solicitor-general pleaded his own case very well; but yet he felt that it wasn't law. chapter x. the first interview. for some days after the intimation of her mother's purpose, lady anna kept her bed. she begged that she might not see a doctor. she had a headache,--nothing but a headache. but it was quite impossible that she should ever marry earl lovel. this she said whenever her mother would revert to that subject,--"i have not seen him, mamma; i do not know him. i am sure it would be impossible." then, when at last she was induced to dress herself, she was still unwilling to be forced to undergo the interview to which she had acknowledged that she must be subjected. at last she consented to spend a day in bedford square; to dine there, and to be brought home in the evening. the countess was at this time not very full of trust in the serjeant, having learned that he was opposed to the marriage scheme, but she was glad that her daughter should be induced to go out, even to the serjeant's house, as after that visit the girl could have no ground on which to oppose the meeting which was to be arranged. she could hardly plead that she was too ill to see her cousin when she had dined with mrs. bluestone. during this time many plans had been proposed for the meeting. the solicitor-general, discussing the matter with the young lord, had thought it best that lady anna should at once be asked down to yoxham,--as the lady anna; and the young lord would have been quite satisfied with such an arrangement. he could have gone about his obligatory wooing among his own friends, in the house to which he had been accustomed, with much more ease than in a london lodging. but his uncle, who had corresponded on the subject with mr. hardy, still objected. "we should be giving up everything," he said, "if we were once to call her lady anna. where should we be then if they didn't hit it off together? i don't believe, and i never shall believe, that she is really lady anna lovel." the solicitor-general, when he heard of this objection, shook his head, finding himself almost provoked to anger. what asses were these people not to understand that he could see further into the matter than they could do, and that their best way out of their difficulty would be frankly to open their arms to the heiress! should they continue to be pig-headed and prejudiced, everything would soon be gone. then he had a scheme for inviting the girl to his own house, and to that scheme he obtained his wife's consent. but here his courage failed him; or, it might be fairer to say, that his prudence prevailed. he was very anxious, intensely eager, so to arrange this great family dispute that all should be benefited,--believing, nay feeling positively certain that all concerned in the matter were honest; but he must not go so far as to do himself an absolute and grievous damage, should it at last turn out that he was wrong in any of his surmises. so that plan was abandoned. there was nothing left for it but that the young earl should himself face the difficulty, and be introduced to the girl at the lodging in wyndham street. but, as a prelude to this, a meeting was arranged at mr. flick's chambers between the countess and her proposed son-in-law. that the earl should go to his own attorney's chambers was all in rule. while he was there the countess came,--which was not in rule, and almost induced the serjeant to declare, when he heard it, that he would have nothing more to do with the case. "my lord," said the countess, "i am glad to meet you, and i hope that we may be friends." the young man was less collected, and stammered out a few words that were intended to be civil. "it is a pity that you should have conflicting interests," said the attorney. "i hope it need not continue to be so," said the countess. "my heart, lord lovel, is all in the welfare of our joint family. we will begrudge you nothing if you will not begrudge us the names which are our own, and without which we cannot live honourably before the world." then some other few words were muttered, and the earl promised to come to wyndham street at a certain hour. not a word was then said about the marriage. even the countess, with all her resolution and all her courage, did not find herself able in set terms to ask the young man to marry her daughter. "she is a very handsome woman," said the lord to the attorney, when the countess had left them. "yes, indeed." "and like a lady." "quite like a lady. she herself was of a good family." "i suppose she certainly was the late earl's wife, mr. flick?" "who can say, my lord? that is just the question. the solicitor-general thinks that she would prove her right, and i do not know that i have ever found him to be wrong when he has had a steadfast opinion." "why should we not give it up to her at once?" "i couldn't recommend that, my lord. why should we give it up? the interests at stake are very great. i couldn't for a moment think of suggesting to you to give it up." "i want nothing, mr. flick, that does not belong to me." "just so. but then perhaps it does belong to you. we can never be sure. no doubt the safest way will be for you to contract an alliance with this lady. of course we should give it up then, but the settlements would make the property all right." the young earl did not quite like it. he would rather have commenced his wooing after the girl had been established in her own right, and when she would have had no obligation on her to accept him. but he had consented, and it was too late for him now to recede. it had been already arranged that he should call in wyndham street at noon on the following day, in order that he might be introduced to his cousin. on that evening the countess sat late with her daughter, purposing that on the morrow nothing should be said before the interview calculated to disturb the girl's mind. but as they sat together through the twilight and into the darkness of night, close by the open window, through which the heavily laden air of the metropolis came to them, hot with all the heat of a london july day, very many words were spoken by the countess. "it will be for you, to-morrow, to make or to mar all that i have been doing since the day on which you were born." "oh! mamma, that is so terrible a thing to say!" "but terrible things must be said if they are true. it is so. it is for you to decide whether we shall triumph, or be utterly and for ever crushed." "i cannot understand it. why should we be crushed? he would not wish to marry me if this fortune were not mine. he is not coming, mamma, because he loves me." "you say that because you do not understand. do you suppose that my name will be allowed to me if you should refuse your cousin's suit? if so, you are very much mistaken. the fight will go on, and as we have not money, we shall certainly go to the wall at last. why should you not love him? there is no one else that you care for." "no, mamma," she said slowly. "then, what more can you want?" "i do not know him, mamma." "but you will know him. according to that, no girl would ever get married. is it not a great thing that you should be asked to assume and to enjoy the rank which has belonged to your mother, but which she has never been able to enjoy?" "i do not think, mamma, that i care much about rank." "anna!" the mother's mind as she heard this flew off to the young tailor. had misery so great as this overtaken her after all? "i mean that i don't care so much about it. it has never done us any good." "but if it is a thing that is your own, that you are born to, you must bear it, whether it be in sorrow or in joy; whether it be a blessing or a curse. if it be yours, you cannot fling it away from you. you may disgrace it, but you must still have it. though you were to throw yourself away upon a chimney-sweeper, you must still be lady anna, the daughter of earl lovel." "i needn't call myself so." "others must call you so. it is your name, and you cannot be rid of it. it is yours of right, as my name has been mine of right; and not to assert it, not to live up to it, not to be proud of it, would argue incredible baseness. 'noblesse oblige.' you have heard that motto, and know what it means. and then would you throw away from you in some childish phantasy all that i have been struggling to win for you during my whole life? have you ever thought of what my life has been, anna?" "yes, mamma." "would you have the heart to disappoint me, now that the victory is won;--now that it may be made our own by your help? and what is it that i am asking you to do? if this man were bad,--if he were such a one as your father, if he were drunken, cruel, ill-conditioned, or even heavy, foolish, or deformed; had you been told stories to set you against him, as that he had been false with other women, i could understand it. in that case we would at any rate find out the truth before we went on. but of this man we hear that he is good, and pleasant; an excellent young man, who has endeared himself to all who know him. such a one that all the girls of his own standing in the world would give their eyes to win him." "let some girl win him then who cares for him." "but he wishes to win you, dearest." "not because he loves me. how can he love me when he never saw me? how can i love him when i never saw him?" "he wishes to win you because he has heard what you are, and because he knows that by doing so he can set things right which for many years have been wrong." "it is because he would get all this money." "you would both get it. he desires nothing unfair. whatever he takes from you, so much he will give. and it is not only for this generation. is it nothing to you that the chiefs of your own family who shall come after you shall be able to hold their heads up among other british peers? would you not wish that your own son should come to be earl lovel, with wealth sufficient to support the dignity?" "i don't think it would make him happy, mamma." "there is something more in this, anna, than i can understand. you used not to be so. when we talked of these things in past years you used not to be indifferent." "i was not asked then to--to--marry a man i did not care for." "there is something else, anna." "no, mamma." "if there be nothing else you will learn to care for him. you will see him to-morrow, and will be left alone with him. i will sit with you for a time, and then i will leave you. all that i ask of you is to receive him to-morrow without any prejudice against him. you must remember how much depends on you, and that you are not as other girls are." after that lady anna was allowed to go to her bed, and to weep in solitude over the wretchedness of her condition. it was not only that she loved daniel thwaite with all her heart,--loved him with a love that had grown with every year of her growth;--but that she feared him also. the man had become her master; and even could she have brought herself to be false, she would have lacked the courage to declare her falsehood to the man to whom she had vowed her love. on the following morning lady anna did not come down to breakfast, and the countess began to fear that she would be unable to induce her girl to rise in time to receive their visitor. but the poor child had resolved to receive the man's visit, and contemplated no such escape as that. at eleven o'clock she slowly dressed herself, and before twelve crept down into the one sitting-room which they occupied. the countess glanced round at her, anxious to see that she was looking her best. certain instructions had been given as to her dress, and the garniture of her hair, and the disposal of her ribbons. all these had been fairly well obeyed; but there was a fixed, determined hardness in her face which made her mother fear that the earl might be dismayed. the mother knew that her child had never looked like that before. punctually at twelve the earl was announced. the countess received him very pleasantly, and with great composure. she shook hands with him as though they had known each other all their lives, and then introduced him to her daughter with a sweet smile. "i hope you will acknowledge her as your far-away cousin, my lord. blood, they say, is thicker than water; and, if so, you two ought to be friends." "i am sure i hope we may be," said the earl. "i hope so too,--my lord," said the girl, as she left her hand quite motionless in his. "we heard of you down in cumberland," said the countess. "it is long since i have seen the old place, but i shall never forget it. there is not a bush among the mountains there that i shall not remember,--ay, into the next world, if aught of our memories are left to us." "i love the mountains; but the house is very gloomy." "gloomy indeed. if you found it sad, what must it have been to me? i hope that i may tell you some day of all that i suffered there. there are things to tell of which i have never yet spoken to human being. she, poor child, has been too young and too tender to be troubled by such a tale. i sometimes think that no tragedy ever written, no story of horrors ever told, can have exceeded in description the things which i endured in that one year of my married life." then she went on at length, not telling the details of that terrible year, but speaking generally of the hardships of her life. "i have never wondered, lord lovel, that you and your nearest relations should have questioned my position. a bad man had surrounded me with such art in his wickedness, that it has been almost beyond my strength to rid myself of his toils." all this she had planned beforehand, having resolved that she would rush into the midst of things at once, and if possible enlist his sympathies on her side. "i hope it may be over now," he said. "yes," she replied, rising slowly from her seat, "i hope it may be over now." the moment had come in which she had to play the most difficult stroke of her whole game, and much might depend on the way in which she played it. she could not leave them together, walking abruptly out of the room, without giving some excuse for so unusual a proceeding. "indeed, i hope it may be over now, both for us and for you, lord lovel. that wicked man, in leaving behind such cause of quarrel, has injured you almost as deeply as us. i pray god that you and that dear girl there may so look into each other's hearts and trust each other's purposes, that you may be able to set right the ill which your predecessor did. if so, the family of lovel for centuries to come may be able to bless your names." then with slow steps she left the room. lady anna had spoken one word, and that was all. it certainly was not for her now to speak. she sat leaning on the table, with her eyes fixed upon the ground, not daring to look at the man who had been brought to her as her future husband. a single glance she had taken as he entered the room, and she had seen at once that he was fair and handsome, that he still had that sweet winsome boyishness of face which makes a girl feel that she need not fear a man,--that the man has something of her own weakness, and need not be treated as one who is wise, grand, or heroic. and she saw too in one glance how different he was from daniel thwaite, the man to whom she had absolutely given herself;--and she understood at the moment something of the charm of luxurious softness and aristocratic luxury. daniel thwaite was swarthy, hard-handed, blackbearded,--with a noble fire in his eyes, but with an innate coarseness about his mouth which betokened roughness as well as strength. had it been otherwise with her than it was, she might, she thought, have found it easy enough to love this young earl. as it was, there was nothing for her to do but to wait and answer him as best she might. "lady anna," he said. "my lord!" "will it not be well that we should be friends?" "oh,--friends;--yes, my lord." "i will tell you all and everything;--that is, about myself. i was brought up to believe that you and your mother were just--impostors." "my lord, we are not impostors." "no;--i believe it. i am sure you are not. mistakes have been made, but it has not been of my doing. as a boy, what could i believe but what i was told? i know now that you are and always have been as you have called yourself. if nothing else comes of it, i will at any rate say so much. the estate which your father left is no doubt yours. if i could hinder it, there should be no more law." "thank you, my lord." "your mother says that she has suffered much. i am sure she has suffered. i trust that all that is over now. i have come here to-day more to say that on my own behalf than anything else." a shadow of a shade of disappointment, the slightest semblance of a cloud, passed across her heart as she heard this. but it was well. she could not have married him, even if he had wished it, and now, as it seemed, that difficulty was over. her mother and those lawyers had been mistaken, and it was well that he should tell her so at once. "it is very good of you, my lord." "i would not have you think of me that i could come to you hoping that you would promise me your love before i had shown you whether i had loved you or not." "no, my lord." she hardly understood him now,--whether he intended to propose himself as a suitor for her hand or not. "you, lady anna, are your father's heir. i am your cousin, earl lovel, as poor a peer as there is in england. they tell me that we should marry because you are rich and i am an earl." "so they tell me;--but that will not make it right." "i would not have it so, even if i dared to think that you would agree to it." "oh, no, my lord; nor would i." "but if you could learn to love me--" "no, my lord;--no." "do not answer me yet, my cousin. if i swore that i loved you,--loved you so soon after seeing you,--and loved you, too, knowing you to be so wealthy an heiress--" "ah, do not talk of that." "well;--not of that. but if i said that i loved you, you would not believe me." "it would not be true, my lord." "but i know that i shall love you. you will let me try? you are very lovely, and they tell me you are sweet-humoured. i can believe well that you are sweet and pleasant. you will let me try to love you, anna?" "no, my lord." "must it be so, so soon?" "yes, my lord." "why that? is it because we are strangers to each other? that may be cured;--if not quickly, as i would have it cured, slowly and by degrees; slowly as you can wish, if only i may come where you shall be. you have said that we may be friends." "oh yes,--friends, i hope." "friends at least. we are born cousins." "yes, my lord." "cannot you call me by my name? cousins, you know, do so. and remember this, you will have and can have no nearer cousin than i am. i am bound at least to be a brother to you." "oh, be my brother!" "that,--or more than that. i would fain be more than that. but i will be that, at least. as i came to you, before i saw you, i felt that whenever we knew each other i could not be less to you than that. if i am your friend, i must be your best friend,--as being, though poor, the head of your family. the lovels should at least love each other; and cousins may love, even though they should not love enough to be man and wife." "i will love you so always." "enough to be my wife?" "enough to be your dear cousin,--your loving sister." "so it shall be,--unless it can be more. i would not ask you for more now. i would not wish you to give more now. but think of me, and ask yourself whether you can dare to give yourself to me altogether." "i cannot dare, my lord." "you would not call your brother, lord. my name is frederic. but anna, dear anna,"--and then he took her unresisting hand,--"you shall not be asked for more now. but cousins, new-found cousins, who love each other, and will stand by each other for help and aid against the world, may surely kiss,--as would a brother and a sister. you will not grudge me a kiss." then she put up her cheek innocently, and he kissed it gently,--hardly with a lover's kiss. "i will leave you now," he said, still holding her hand. "but tell your mother thus:--that she shall no longer be troubled by lawyers at the suit of her cousin frederic. she is to me the countess lovel, and she shall be treated by me with the honour suited to her rank." and so he left the house without seeing the countess again. chapter xi. it is too late. the countess had resolved that she would let their visitor depart without saying a word to him. whatever might be the result of the interview, she was aware that she could not improve it by asking any question from the young lord, or by hearing any account of it from him. the ice had been broken, and it would now be her object to have her daughter invited down to yoxham as soon as possible. if once the earl's friends could be brought to be eager for the match on his account, as was she on her daughter's behalf, then probably the thing might be done. for herself, she expected no invitation, no immediate comfort, no tender treatment, no intimate familiar cousinship. she had endured hitherto, and would be contented to endure, so that triumph might come at last. nor did she question her daughter very closely, anxious as she was to learn the truth. could she have heard every word that had been spoken she would have been sure of success. could daniel thwaite have heard every word he would have been sure that the girl was about to be false to him. but the girl herself believed herself to have been true. the man had been so soft with her, so tender, so pleasant,--so loving with his sweet cousinly offers of affection, that she could not turn herself against him. he had been to her eyes beautiful, noble,--almost divine. she knew of herself that she could not be his wife,--that she was not fit to be his wife,--because she had given her troth to the tailor's son. when her cousin touched her check with his lips she remembered that she had submitted to be kissed by one with whom her noble relative could hold no fellowship whatever. a feeling of degradation came upon her, as though by contact with this young man she was suddenly awakened to a sense of what her own rank demanded from her. when her mother had spoken to her of what she owed to her family, she had thought only of all the friendship that she and her mother had received from her lover and his father. but when lord lovel told her what she was,--how she should ever be regarded by him as a dear cousin,--how her mother should be accounted a countess, and receive from him the respect due to her rank,--then she could understand how unfitting were a union between the lady anna lovel and daniel thwaite, the journeyman tailor. hitherto daniel's face had been noble in her eyes,--the face of a man who was manly, generous, and strong. but after looking into the eyes of the young earl, seeing how soft was the down upon his lips, how ruddy the colour of his cheek, how beautiful was his mouth with its pearl-white teeth, how noble the curve of his nostrils, after feeling the softness of his hand, and catching the sweetness of his breath, she came to know what it might have been to be wooed by such a one as he. but not on that account did she meditate falseness. it was settled firm as fate. the dominion of the tailor over her spirit had lasted in truth for years. the sweet, perfumed graces of the young nobleman had touched her senses but for a moment. had she been false-minded she had not courage to be false. but in truth she was not false-minded. it was to her, as that sunny moment passed across her, as to some hard-toiling youth who, while roaming listlessly among the houses of the wealthy, hears, as he lingers on the pavement of a summer night, the melodies which float upon the air from the open balconies above him. a vague sense of unknown sweetness comes upon him, mingled with an irritating feeling of envy that some favoured son of fortune should be able to stand over the shoulders of that singing syren, while he can only listen with intrusive ears from the street below. and so he lingers and is envious, and for a moment curses his fate,--not knowing how weary may be the youth who stands, how false the girl who sings. but he does not dream that his life is to be altered for him, because he has chanced to hear the daughter of a duchess warble through a window. and so it was with this girl. the youth was very sweet to her, intensely sweet when he told her that he would be a brother, perilously sweet when he bade her not to grudge him one kiss. but she knew that she was not as he was. that she had lost the right, could she ever have had the right, to live his life, to drink of his cup, and to lie on his breast. so she passed on, as the young man does in the street, and consoled herself with the consciousness that strength after all may be preferable to sweetness. and she was an honest girl from her heart, and prone to truth, with a strong glimmer of common sense in her character, of which her mother hitherto had been altogether unaware. what right had her mother to think that she could be fit to be this young lord's wife, having brought her up in the companionship of small traders in cumberland? she never blamed her mother. she knew well that her mother had done all that was possible on her behalf. but for that small trader they would not even have had a roof to shelter them. but still there was the fact, and she understood it. she was as her bringing up had made her, and it was too late now to effect a change. ah yes;--it was indeed too late. it was all very well that lawyers should look upon her as an instrument, as a piece of goods that might now, from the accident of her ascertained birth, be made of great service to the lovel family. let her be the lord's wife, and everything would be right for everybody. it had been very easy to say that! but she had a heart of her own,--a heart to be touched, and won, and given away,--and lost. the man who had been so good to them had sought for his reward, and had got it, and could not now be defrauded. had she been dishonest she would not have dared to defraud him; had she dared, she would not have been so dishonest. "did you like him?" asked the mother, not immediately after the interview, but when the evening came. "oh yes,--how should one not like him?" "how indeed! he is the finest, noblest youth that ever my eyes rested on, and so like the lovels." "was my father like that?" "yes indeed, in the shape of his face, and the tone of his voice, and the movement of his eyes; though the sweetness of the countenance was all gone in the devil's training to which he had submitted himself. and you too are like him, though darker, and with something of the murrays' greater breadth of face. but i can remember portraits at lovel grange,--every one of them,--and all of them were alike. there never was a lovel but had that natural grace of appearance. you will gaze at those portraits, dear, oftener even than i have done; and you will be happy where i was,--oh--so miserable!" "i shall never see them, mamma." "why not?" "i do not want to see them." "you say you like him?" "yes; i like him." "and why should you not love him well enough to make him your husband?" "i am not fit to be his wife." "you are fit;--none could be fitter; none others so fit. you are as well born as he, and you have the wealth which he wants. you must have it, if, as you tell me, he says that he will cease to claim it as his own. there can be no question of fitness." "money will not make a girl fit, mamma." "you have been brought up as a lady,--and are a lady. i swear i do not know what you mean. if he thinks you fit, and you can like him,--as you say you do,--what more can be wanted? does he not wish it?" "i do not know. he said he did not, and then,--i think he said he did." "is that it?" "no, mamma. it is not that; not that only. it is too late!" "too late! how too late? anna, you must tell me what you mean. i insist upon it that you tell me what you mean. why is it too late?" but lady anna was not prepared to tell her meaning. she had certainly not intended to say anything to her mother of her solemn promise to daniel thwaite. it had been arranged between him and her that nothing was to be said of it till this law business should be all over. he had sworn to her that to him it made no difference, whether she should be proclaimed to be the lady anna, the undoubted owner of thousands a year, or anna murray, the illegitimate daughter of the late earl's mistress, a girl without a penny, and a nobody in the world's esteem. no doubt they must shape their life very differently in this event or in that. how he might demean himself should this fortune be adjudged to the earl, as he thought would be the case when he first made the girl promise to be his wife, he knew well enough. he would do as his father had done before him, and, he did not doubt,--with better result. what might be his fate should the wealth of the lovels become the wealth of his intended wife, he did not yet quite foreshadow to himself. how he should face and fight the world when he came to be accused of having plotted to get all this wealth for himself he did not know. he had dreams of distributing the greater part among the lovels and the countess, and taking himself and his wife with one-third of it to some new country in which they would not in derision call his wife the lady anna, and in which he would be as good a man as any earl. but let all that be as it might, the girl was to keep her secret till the thing should be settled. now, in these latter days, it had come to be believed by him, as by nearly everybody else, that the thing was well-nigh settled. the solicitor-general had thrown up the sponge. so said the bystanders. and now there was beginning to be a rumour that everything was to be set right by a family marriage. the solicitor-general would not have thrown up the sponge,--so said they who knew him best,--without seeing a reason for doing so. serjeant bluestone was still indignant, and mr. hardy was silent and moody. but the world at large were beginning to observe that in this, as in all difficult cases, the solicitor-general tempered the innocence of the dove with the wisdom of the serpent. in the meantime lady anna by no means intended to allow the secret to pass her lips. whether she ever could tell her mother, she doubted; but she certainly would not do so an hour too soon. "why is it too late?" demanded the countess, repeating her question with stern severity of voice. "i mean that i have not lived all my life as his wife should live." "trash! it is trash. what has there been in your life to disgrace you. we have been poor and we have lived as poor people do live. we have not been disgraced." "no, mamma." "i will not hear such nonsense. it is a reproach to me." "oh, mamma, do not say that. i know how good you have been,--how you have thought of me in every thing. pray do not say that i reproach you!" and she came and knelt at her mother's lap. "i will not, darling; but do not vex me by saying that you are unfit. there is nothing else, dearest?" "no, mamma," she said in a low tone, pausing before she told the falsehood. "i think it will be arranged that you shall go down to yoxham. the people there even are beginning to know that we are right, and are willing to acknowledge us. the earl, whom i cannot but love already for his gracious goodness, has himself declared that he will not carry on the suit. mr. goffe has told me that they are anxious to see you there. of course you must go,--and will go as lady anna lovel. mr. goffe says that some money can now be allowed from the estate, and you shall go as becomes the daughter of earl lovel when visiting among her cousins. you will see this young man there. if he means to love you and to be true to you, he will be much there. i do not doubt but that you will continue to like him. and remember this, anna;--that even though your name be acknowledged,--even though all the wealth be adjudged to be your own,--even though some judge on the bench shall say that i am the widowed countess lovel, it may be all undone some day,--unless you become this young man's wife. that woman in italy may be bolstered up at last, if you refuse him. but when you are once the wife of young lord lovel, no one then can harm us. there can be no going back after that." this the countess said rather to promote the marriage, than from any fear of the consequences which she described. daniel thwaite was the enemy that now she dreaded, and not the italian woman, or the lovel family. lady anna could only say that she would go to yoxham, if she were invited there by mrs. lovel. chapter xii. have they surrendered? as all the world heard of what was going on, so did daniel thwaite hear it among others. he was a hard-working, conscientious, moody man, given much to silence among his fellow workmen;--one to whom life was serious enough; not a happy man, though he had before him a prospect of prosperity which would make most men happy. but he was essentially a tender-hearted, affectionate man, who could make a sacrifice of himself if he thought it needed for the happiness of one he loved. when he heard of this proposed marriage, he asked himself many questions as to his duty and as to the welfare of the girl. he did love her with all his heart, and he believed thoroughly in her affection for himself. he had, as yet, no sufficient reason to doubt that she would be true to him;--but he knew well that an earl's coronet must be tempting to a girl so circumstanced as was lady anna. there were moments in which he thought that it was almost his duty to give her up, and bid her go and live among those of her own rank. but then he did not believe in rank. he utterly disbelieved in it; and in his heart of hearts he felt that he would make a better and a fitter husband to this girl than would an earl, with all an earl's temptation to vice. he was ever thinking of some better world to which he might take her, which had not been contaminated by empty names and an impudent assumption of hereditary, and therefore false, dignity. as regarded the money, it would be hers whether she married him or the earl. and if she loved him, as she had sworn that she did, why should he be false to her? or why, as yet, should he think that she would prefer an empty, gilded lordling to the friend who had been her friend as far back as her memory could carry her? if she asked to be released, then indeed he would release her,--but not without explaining to her, with such eloquence as he might be able to use,--what it was she proposed to abandon, and what to take in place of that which she lost. he was a man, silent and under self-control, but self-confident also; and he did believe himself to be a better man than young earl lovel. in making this resolution,--that he would give her back her troth if she asked for it, but not without expressing to her his thoughts as he did so,--he ignored the masterfulness of his own character. there are men who exercise dominion, from the nature of their disposition, and who do so from their youth upwards, without knowing, till advanced life comes upon them, that any power of dominion belongs to them. men are persuasive, and imperious withal, who are unconscious that they use burning words to others, whose words to them are never even warm. so it was with this man when he spoke to himself in his solitude of his purpose of resigning the titled heiress. to the arguments, the entreaties, or the threats of others he would pay no heed. the countess might bluster about her rank, and he would heed her not at all. he cared nothing for the whole tribe of lovels. if lady anna asked for release, she should be released. but not till she had heard his words. how scalding these words might be, how powerful to prevent the girl from really choosing her own fate, he did not know himself. though he lived in the same house with her he seldom saw her,--unless when he would knock at the door of an evening, and say a few words to her mother rather than to her. since thomas thwaite had left london for the last time the countess had become almost cold to the young man. she would not have been so if she could have helped it; but she had begun to fear him, and she could not bring herself to be cordial to him either in word or manner. he perceived it at once, and became, himself, cold and constrained. once, and once only, he met lady anna alone, after his father's departure, and before her interview with lord lovel. then he met her on the stairs of the house while her mother was absent at the lawyer's chambers. "are you here, daniel, at this hour?" she asked, going back to the sitting-room, whither he followed her. "i wanted to see you, and i knew that your mother would be out. it is not often that i do a thing in secret, even though it be to see the girl that i love." "no, indeed. i do not see you often now." "does that matter much to you, lady anna?" "lady anna!" "i have been instructed, you know, that i am to call you so." "not by me, daniel." "no;--not by you; not as yet. your mother's manners are much altered to me. is it not so?" "how can i tell? mine are not." "it is no question of manners, sweetheart, between you and me. it has not come to that, i hope. do you wish for any change,--as regards me?" "oh, no." "as to my love, there can be no change in that. if it suits your mother to be disdainful to me, i can bear it. i always thought that it would come to be so some day." there was but little more said then. he asked her no further question;--none at least that it was difficult for her to answer,--and he soon took his leave. he was a passionate rather than a tender lover, and having once held her in his arms, and kissed her lips, and demanded from her a return of his caress, he was patient now to wait till he could claim them as his own. but, two days after the interview between lord lovel and his love, he a second time contrived to find her alone. "i have come again," he said, "because i knew your mother is out. i would not trouble you with secret meetings but that just now i have much to say to you. and then, you may be gone from hence before i had even heard that you were going." "i am always glad to see you, daniel." "are you, my sweetheart? is that true?" "indeed, indeed it is." "i should be a traitor to doubt you,--and i do not doubt. i will never doubt you if you tell me that you love me." "you know i love you." "tell me, anna--; or shall i say lady anna?" "lady anna,--if you wish to scorn me." "then never will i call you so, till it shall come to pass that i do wish to scorn you. but tell me. is it true that earl lovel was with you the other day?" "he was here the day before yesterday." "and why did he come." "why?" "why did he come? you know that as far as i have yet heard he is still your mother's enemy and yours, and is persecuting you to rob you of your name and of your property. did he come as a friend?" "oh, yes! certainly as a friend." "but he still makes his claim." "no;--he says that he will make it no longer, that he acknowledges mamma as my father's widow, and me as my father's heir." "that is generous,--if that is all." "very generous." "and he does this without condition? there is nothing to be given to him to pay him for this surrender." "there is nothing to give," she said, in that low, sweet, melancholy voice which was common to her always when she spoke of herself. "you do not mean to deceive me, dear, i know; but there is a something to be given; and i am told that he has asked for it, or certainly will ask. and, indeed, i do not think that an earl, noble, but poverty-stricken, would surrender everything without making some counter claim which would lead him by another path to all that he has been seeking. anna, you know what i mean." "yes; i know." "has he made no such claim." "i cannot tell." "you cannot tell whether or no he has asked you to be his wife?" "no; i cannot tell. do not look at me like that, daniel. he came here, and mamma left us together, and he was kind to me. oh! so kind. he said that he would be a cousin to me, and a brother." "a brother!" "that was what he said." "and he meant nothing more than that,--simply to be your brother?" "i think he did mean more. i think he meant that he would try to love me so that he might be my husband." "and what said you to that?" "i told him that it could not be so." "and then?" "why then again he said that we were cousins; that i had no nearer cousin anywhere, and that he would be good to me and help me, and that the lawsuit should not go on. oh, daniel, he was so good!" "was that all?" "he kissed me, saying that cousins might kiss?" "no, anna;--cousins such as you and he may not kiss. do you hear me?" "yes, i hear you." "if you mean to be true to me, there must be no more of that. do you not know that all this means that he is to win you to be his wife? did he not come to you with that object?" "i think he did, daniel." "i think so too, my dear. surrender! i'll tell you what that surrender means. they perceive at last that they have not a shadow of justice, or even a shadow of a chance of unjust success in their claim. that with all their command of money, which is to be spent, however, out of your property, they can do nothing; that their false witnesses will not come to aid them; that they have not another inch of ground on which to stand. their great lawyer, sir william patterson, dares not show himself in court with a case so false and fraudulent. at last your mother's rights and yours are to be owned. then they turn themselves about, and think in what other way the prize may be won. it is not likely that such a prize should be surrendered by a noble lord. the young man is made to understand that he cannot have it all without a burden, and that he must combine his wealth with you. that is it, and at once he comes to you, asking you to be his wife, so that in that way he may lay his hands on the wealth of which he has striven to rob you." "daniel, i do not think that he is like that!" "i tell you he is not only like it,--but that itself. is it not clear as noon-day? he comes here to talk of love who had never seen you before. is it thus that men love?" "but, daniel, he did not talk so." "i wonder that he was so crafty, believing him as i do to be a fool. he talked of cousinship and brotherhood, and yet gave you to know that he meant you to be his wife. was it not so?" "i think it was so, in very truth." "of course it was so. do brothers marry their sisters? were it not for the money, which must be yours, and which he is kind enough to surrender, would he come to you then with his brotherhood, and his cousinship, and his mock love? tell me that, my lady! can it be real love,--to which there has been no forerunning acquaintance?" "i think not, indeed." "and must it not be lust of wealth? that may come by hearsay well enough. it is a love which requires no great foreknowledge to burn with real strength. he is a gay looking lad, no doubt." "i do not know as to gay, but he is beautiful." "like enough, my girl; with soft hands, and curled hair, and a sweet smell, and a bright colour, and a false heart. i have never seen the lad; but for the false heart i can answer." "i do not think that he is false." "not false! and yet he comes to you asking you to be his wife, just at that nick of time in which he finds that you,--the right owner,--are to have the fortune of which he has vainly endeavoured to defraud you! is it not so?" "he cannot be wrong to wish to keep up the glory of the family." "the glory of the family;--yes, the fame of the late lord, who lived as though he were a fiend let loose from hell to devastate mankind. the glory of the family! and how will he maintain it? at racecourses, in betting-clubs, among loose women, with luscious wines, never doing one stroke of work for man or god, consuming and never producing, either idle altogether or working the work of the devil. that will be the glory of the family. anna lovel, you shall give him his choice." then he took her hand in his. "ask him whether he will have that empty, or take all the wealth of the lovels. you have my leave." "and if he took the empty hand what should i do?" she asked. "my brave girl, no; though the chance be but one in a thousand against me, i would not run the risk. but i am putting it to yourself, to your reason, to judge of his motives. can it be that his mind in this matter is not sordid and dishonest? as to you, the choice is open to you." "no, daniel; it is open no longer." "the choice is open to you. if you will tell me that your heart is so set upon being the bride of a lord, that truth and honesty and love, and all decent feeling from woman to man can be thrown to the wind, to make way for such an ambition,--i will say not a word against it. you are free." "have i asked for freedom?" "no, indeed! had you done so, i should have made all this much shorter." "then why do you harass me by saying it?" "because it is my duty. can i know that he comes here seeking you for his wife; can i hear it said on all sides that this family feud is to be settled by a happy family marriage; can i find that you yourself are willing to love him as a cousin or a brother,--without finding myself compelled to speak? there are two men seeking you as their wife. one can make you a countess; the other simply an honest man's wife, and, so far as that can be low, lower than that title of your own which they will not allow you to put before your name. if i am still your choice, give me your hand." of course she gave it him. "so be it; and now i shall fear nothing." then she told him that it was intended that she should go to yoxham as a visitor; but still he declared that he would fear nothing. early on the next morning he called on mr. goffe, the attorney, with the object of making some inquiry as to the condition of the lawsuit. mr. goffe did not much love the elder tailor, but he specially disliked the younger. he was not able to be altogether uncivil to them, because he knew all that they had done to succour his client; but he avoided them when it was possible, and was chary of giving them information. on this occasion daniel asked whether it was true that the other side had abandoned their claim. "really mr. thwaite, i cannot say that they have," said mr. goffe. "can you say that they have not?" "no; nor that either." "had anything of that kind been decided, i suppose you would have known it, mr. goffe?" "really, sir, i cannot say. there are questions, mr. thwaite, which a professional gentleman cannot answer, even to such friends as you and your father have been. when any real settlement is to be made, the countess lovel will, as a matter of course, be informed." "she should be informed at once," said daniel thwaite sternly: "and so should they who have been concerned with her in this matter." "you, i know, have heavy claims on the countess." "my father has claims, which will never vex her, whether paid or not paid; but it is right that he should know the truth. i do not believe that the countess herself knows, though she has been led to think that the claim has been surrendered." mr. goffe was very sorry, but really he had nothing further to tell. chapter xiii. new friends. the introduction to yoxham followed quickly upon the earl's visit to wyndham street. there was a great consultation at the rectory before a decision could be made as to the manner in which the invitation should be given. the earl thought that it should be sent to the mother. the rector combated this view very strongly, still hoping that though he might be driven to call the girl lady anna, he might postpone the necessity of acknowledging the countess-ship of the mother till the marriage should have been definitely acknowledged. mrs. lovel thought that if the girl were lady anna, then the mother must be the countess lovel, and that it would be as well to be hung for a sheep as a lamb. but the wisdom of aunt julia sided with her brother, though she did not share her brother's feelings of animosity to the two women. "it is understood that the girl is to be invited, and not the mother," said miss lovel; "and as it is quite possible that the thing should fail,--in which case the lawsuit might possibly go on,--the less we acknowledge the better." the earl declared that the lawsuit couldn't go on,--that he would not carry it on. "my dear frederic, you are not the only person concerned. the lady in italy, who still calls herself countess lovel, may renew the suit on her own behalf as soon as you have abandoned it. should she succeed, you would have to make what best compromise you could with her respecting the property. that is the way i understand it." this exposition of the case by miss lovel was so clear that it carried the day, and accordingly a letter was written by mrs. lovel, addressed to lady anna lovel, asking her to come and spend a few days at yoxham. she could bring her maid with her or not as she liked; but she could have the service of mrs. lovel's lady's maid if she chose to come unattended. the letter sounded cold when it was read, but the writer signed herself, "yours affectionately, jane lovel." it was addressed to "the lady anna lovel, to the care of messrs. goffe and goffe, solicitors, raymond's buildings, gray's inn." lady anna was allowed to read it first; but she read it in the presence of her mother, to whom she handed it at once, as a matter of course. a black frown came across the countess's brow, and a look of displeasure, almost of anger, rested on her countenance. "is it wrong, mamma?" asked the girl. "it is a part of the whole;--but, my dear, it shall not signify. conquerors cannot be conquerors all at once, nor can the vanquished be expected to submit themselves with a grace. but it will come. and though they should ignore me utterly, that will be as nothing. i have not clung to this for years past to win their loves." "i will not go, mamma, if they are unkind to you." "you must go, my dear. it is only that they are weak enough to think that they can acknowledge you, and yet continue to deny to me my rights. but it matters nothing. of course you shall go,--and you shall go as the daughter of the countess lovel." that mention of the lady's-maid had been unfortunate. mrs. lovel had simply desired to make it easy for the young lady to come without a servant to wait upon her, and had treated her husband's far-away cousin as elder ladies often do treat those who are younger when the question of the maid may become a difficulty. but the countess, who would hardly herself have thought of it, now declared that her girl should go attended as her rank demanded. lady anna, therefore, under her mother's dictation, wrote the following reply:- wyndham street, 3rd august, 183--. dear mrs. lovel, i shall be happy to accept your kind invitation to yoxham, but can hardly do so before the 10th. on that day i will leave london for york inside the mail-coach. perhaps you can be kind enough to have me met where the coach stops. as you are so good as to say you can take her in, i will bring my own maid. yours affectionately, anna lovel. "but, mamma, i don't want a maid," said the girl, who had never been waited on in her life, and who had more often than not made her mother's bed and her own till they had come up to london. "nevertheless you shall take one. you will have to make other changes besides that; and the sooner that you begin to make them the easier they will be to you." then at once the countess made a pilgrimage to mr. goffe in search of funds wherewith to equip her girl properly for her new associations. she was to go, as lady anna lovel, to stay with mrs. lovel and miss lovel and the little lovels. and she was to go as one who was to be the chosen bride of earl lovel. of course she must be duly caparisoned. mr. goffe made difficulties,--as lawyers always do,--but the needful money was at last forthcoming. representations had been made in high legal quarters,--to the custodians for the moment of the property which was to go to the established heir of the late earl. they had been made conjointly by goffe and goffe, and norton and flick, and the money was forthcoming. mr. goffe suggested that a great deal could not be wanted all at once for the young lady's dress. the countess smiled as she answered, "you hardly know, mr. goffe, the straits to which we have been reduced. if i tell you that this dress which i have on is the only one in which i can fitly appear even in your chambers, perhaps you will think that i demean myself." mr. goffe was touched, and signed a sufficient cheque. they were going to succeed, and then everything would be easy. even if they did not succeed, he could get it passed in the accounts. and if not that--well, he had run greater risks than this for clients whose causes were of much less interest than this of the countess and her daughter. the countess had mentioned her own gown, and had spoken strict truth in what she had said of it;--but not a shilling of mr. goffe's money went to the establishment of a wardrobe for herself. that her daughter should go down to yoxham rectory in a manner befitting the daughter of earl lovel was at this moment her chief object. things were purchased by which the poor girl, unaccustomed to such finery, was astounded and almost stupefied. two needlewomen were taken in at the lodgings in wyndham street; parcels from swan and edgar's,--marshall and snellgrove were not then, or at least had not loomed to the grandeur of an entire block of houses,--addressed to lady anna lovel, were frequent at the door, somewhat to the disgust of the shopmen, who did not like to send goods to lady anna lovel in wyndham street. but ready money was paid, and the parcels came home. lady anna, poor girl, was dismayed much by the parcels, but she was at her wits' end when the lady's-maid came,--a young lady, herself so sweetly attired that lady anna would have envied her in the old cumberland days. "i shall not know what to say to her, mamma," said lady anna. "it will all come in two days, if you will only be equal to the occasion," said the countess, who in providing her child with this expensive adjunct, had made some calculation that the more her daughter was made to feel the luxuries of aristocratic life, the less prone would she be to adapt herself to the roughnesses of daniel thwaite the tailor. the countess put her daughter into the mail-coach, and gave her much parting advice. "hold up your head when you are with them. that is all that you have to do. among them all your blood will be the best." this theory of blood was one of which lady anna had never been able even to realise the meaning. "and remember this too;--that you are in truth the most wealthy. it is they that should honour you. of course you will be courteous and gentle with them,--it is your nature; but do not for a moment allow yourself to be conscious that you are their inferior." lady anna,--who could think but little of her birth,--to whom it had been throughout her life a thing plaguesome rather than profitable,--could remember only what she had been in cumberland, and her binding obligation to the tailor's son. she could remember but that and the unutterable sweetness of the young man who had once appeared before her,--to whom she knew that she must be inferior. "hold up your head among them, and claim your own always," said the countess. the rectory carriage was waiting for her at the inn yard in york, and in it was miss lovel. when the hour had come it was thought better that the wise woman of the family should go than any other. for the ladies of yoxham were quite as anxious as to the lady anna as was she in respect of them. what sort of a girl was this that they were to welcome among them as the lady anna,--who had lived all her life with tailors, and with a mother of whom up to quite a late date they had thought all manner of evil? the young lord had reported well of her, saying that she was not only beautiful, but feminine, of soft modest manners, and in all respects like a lady. the earl, however, was but a young man, likely to be taken by mere beauty; and it might be that the girl had been clever enough to hoodwink him. so much evil had been believed that a report stating that all was good could not be accepted at once as true. miss lovel would be sure to find out, even in the space of an hour's drive, and miss lovel went to meet her. she did not leave the carriage, but sent the footman to help lady anna lovel from the coach. "my dear," said miss lovel, "i am very glad to see you. oh, you have brought a maid! we didn't think you would. there is a seat behind which she can occupy." "mamma thought it best. i hope it is not wrong, mrs. lovel." "i ought to have introduced myself. i am miss lovel, and the rector of yoxham is my brother. it does not signify about the maid in the least. we can do very well with her. i suppose she has been with you a long time." "no, indeed;--she only came the day before yesterday." and so miss lovel learned the whole story of the lady's-maid. lady anna said very little, but miss lovel explained a good many things during the journey. the young lord was not at yoxham. he was with a friend in scotland, but would be home about the 20th. the two boys were at home for the holidays, but would go back to school in a fortnight. minnie lovel, the daughter, had a governess. the rectory, for a parsonage, was a tolerably large house, and convenient. it had been lord lovel's early home, but at present he was not much there. "he thinks it right to go to lovel grange during a part of the autumn. i suppose you have seen lovel grange." "never." "oh, indeed. but you lived near it;--did you not?" "no, not near;--about fifteen miles, i think. i was born there, but have never been there since i was a baby." "oh!--you were born there. of course you know that it is lord lovel's seat now. i do not know that he likes it, though the scenery is magnificent. but a landlord has to live, at least for some period of the year, upon his property. you saw my nephew." "yes; he came to us once." "i hope you liked him. we think him very nice. but then he is almost the same as a son here. do you care about visiting the poor?" "i have never tried," said lady anna. "oh dear!" "we have been so poor ourselves;--we were just one of them." then miss lovel perceived that she had made a mistake. but she was generous enough to recognize the unaffected simplicity of the girl, and almost began to think well of her. "i hope you will come round the parish with us. we shall be very glad. yoxham is a large parish, with scattered hamlets, and there is plenty to do. the manufactories are creeping up to us, and we have already a large mill at yoxham lock. my brother has to keep two curates now. here we are, my dear, and i hope we shall be able to make you happy." mrs. lovel did not like the maid, and mr. lovel did not like it at all. "and yet we heard when we were up in town that they literally had not anything to live on," said the parson. "i hope that, after all, we may not be making fools of ourselves." but there was no help for it, and the maid was of course taken in. the children had been instructed to call their cousin lady anna,--unless they heard their mother drop the title, and then they were to drop it also. they were not so young but what they had all heard the indiscreet vigour with which their father had ridiculed the claim to the title, and had been something at a loss to know whence the change had come. "perhaps they are as they call themselves," the rector had said, "and, if so, heaven forbid that we should not give them their due." after this the three young ones, discussing the matter among themselves, had made up their minds that lady anna was no cousin of theirs,--but "a humbug." when, however, they saw her their hearts relented, and the girl became soft, and the boys became civil. "papa," said minnie lovel, on the second day, "i hope she is our cousin." "i hope so too, my dear." "i think she is. she looks as if she ought to be because she is so pretty." "being pretty, my dear, is not enough. you should love people because they are good." "but i would not like all the good people to be my cousins;--would you, papa? old widow grimes is a very good old woman; but i don't want to have her for a cousin." "my dear, you are talking about what you don't understand." but minnie did in truth understand the matter better than her father. before three or four days had passed she knew that their guest was lovable,--whether cousin or no cousin; and she knew also that the newcomer was of such nature and breeding as made her fit to be a cousin. all the family had as yet called her lady anna, but minnie thought that the time had come in which she might break through the law. "i think i should like to call you just anna, if you will let me," she said. they two were in the guest's bedroom, and minnie was leaning against her new friend's shoulder. "oh, i do so wish you would. i do so hate to be called lady." "but you are lady anna,--arn't you?" "and you are miss mary lovel, but you wouldn't like everybody in the house to call you so. and then there has been so much said about it all my life, that it makes me quite unhappy. i do so wish your mamma wouldn't call me lady anna." whereupon minnie very demurely explained that she could not answer for her mamma, but that she would always call her friend anna,--when papa wasn't by. but minnie was better than her promise. "mamma," she said the next day, "do you know that she hates to be called lady anna." "what makes you think so?" "i am sure of it. she told me so. everybody has always been talking about it ever since she was born, and she says she is so sick of it." "but, my dear, people must be called by their names. if it is her proper name she ought not to hate it. i can understand that people should hate an assumed name." "i am miss mary lovel, but i should not at all like it if everybody called me miss mary. the servants call me miss mary, but if papa and aunt julia did so, i should think they were scolding me." "but lady anna is not papa's daughter." "she is his cousin. isn't she his cousin, mamma? i don't think people ought to call their cousins lady anna. i have promised that i won't. cousin frederic said that she was his cousin. what will he call her?" "i cannot tell, my dear. we shall all know her better by that time." mrs. lovel, however, followed her daughter's lead, and from that time the poor girl was anna to all of them,--except to the rector. he listened, and thought that he would try it; but his heart failed him. he would have preferred that she should be an impostor, were that still possible. he would so much have preferred that she should not exist at all! he did not care for her beauty. he did not feel the charm of her simplicity. it was one of the hardships of the world that he should be forced to have her there in his rectory. the lovel wealth was indispensable to the true heir of the lovels, and on behalf of his nephew and his family he had been induced to consent; but he could not love the interloper. he still dreamed of coming surprises that would set the matter right in a manner that would be much preferable to a marriage. the girl might be innocent,--as his wife and sister told him; but he was sure that the mother was an intriguing woman. it would be such a pity that they should have entertained the girl, if,--after all,--the woman should at last be but a pseudo-countess! as others had ceased to call her lady anna, he could not continue to do so; but he managed to live on with her without calling her by any name. in the meantime cousin anna went about among the poor with minnie and aunt julia, and won golden opinions. she was soft, feminine, almost humble,--but still with a dash of humour in her, when she was sufficiently at her ease with them to be happy. there was very much in the life which she thoroughly enjoyed. the green fields, and the air which was so pleasant to her after the close heat of the narrow london streets, and the bright parsonage garden, and the pleasant services of the country church,--and doubtless also the luxuries of a rich, well-ordered household. those calculations of her mother had not been made without a true basis. the softness, the niceness, the ease, the grace of the people around her, won upon her day by day, and hour by hour. the pleasant idleness of the drawing-room, with its books and music, and unstrained chatter of family voices, grew upon her as so many new charms. to come down with bright ribbons and clean unruffled muslin to breakfast, with nothing to do which need ruffle them unbecomingly, and then to dress for dinner with silk and gauds, before ten days were over, had made life beautiful to her. she seemed to live among roses and perfumes. there was no stern hardness in the life, as there had of necessity been in that which she had ever lived with her mother. the caresses of minnie lovel soothed and warmed her heart;--and every now and again, when the eyes of aunt julia were not upon her, she was tempted to romp with the boys. oh! that they had really been her brothers! but in the midst of all there was ever present to her the prospect of some coming wretchedness. the life which she was leading could not be her life. that earl was coming,--that young apollo,--and he would again ask her to be his wife. she knew that she could not be his wife. she was there, as she understood well, that she might give all this wealth that was to be hers to the lovel family; and when she refused to give herself,--as the only way in which that wealth could be conveyed,--they would turn her out from their pleasant home. then she must go back to the other life, and be the wife of daniel thwaite; and soft things must be at an end with her. chapter xiv. the earl arrives. at the end of a fortnight the boys had gone back to school, and lord lovel was to reach the rectory in time for dinner that evening. there was a little stir throughout the rectory, as an earl is an earl though he be in his uncle's house, and rank will sway even aunts and cousins. the parson at present was a much richer man than the peer;--but the peer was at the head of all the lovels, and then it was expected that his poverty would quickly be made to disappear. all that lovel money which had been invested in bank shares, indian railways, russian funds, devon consols, and coal mines, was to become his,--if not in one way, then in another. the earl was to be a topping man, and the rectory cook was ordered to do her best. the big bedroom had been made ready, and the parson looked at his '99 port and his '16 margaux. in those days men drank port, and champagne at country houses was not yet a necessity. to give the rector of yoxham his due it must be said of him that he would have done his very best for the head of his family had there been no large fortune within the young lord's grasp. the lovels had ever been true to the lovels, with the exception of that late wretched earl,--the lady anna's father. but if the rector and his wife were alive to the importance of the expected arrival, what must have been the state of lady anna! they had met but once before, and during that meeting they had been alone together. there had grown up, she knew not how, during those few minutes, a heavenly sweetness between them. he had talked to her with a voice that had been to her ears as the voice of a god,--it had been so sweet and full of music! he had caressed her,--but with a caress so gentle and pure that it had been to her void of all taint of evil. it had perplexed her for a moment,--but had left no sense of wrong behind it. he had told her that he loved her,--that he would love her dearly; but had not scared her in so telling her, though she knew she could never give him back such love as that of which he spoke to her. there had been a charm in it, of which she delighted to dream,--fancying that she could remember it for ever, as a green island in her life; but could so best remember it if she were assured that she should never see him more. but now she was to see him again, and the charm must be renewed,--or else the dream dispelled for ever. alas! it must be the latter. she knew that the charm must be dispelled. but there was a doubt on her own mind whether it would not be dispelled without any effort on her part. it would vanish at once if he were to greet her as the lovels had greeted her on her first coming. she could partly understand that the manner of their meeting in london had thrust upon him a necessity for flattering tenderness with which he might well dispense when he met her among his family. had he really loved her,--had he meant to love her,--he would hardly have been absent so long after her coming. she had been glad that he had been absent,--so she assured herself,--because there could never be any love between them. daniel thwaite had told her that the brotherly love which had been offered was false love,--must be false,--was no love at all. do brothers marry sisters; and had not this man already told her that he wished to make her his wife? and then there must never be another kiss. daniel thwaite had told her that; and he was, not only her lover, but her master also. this was the rule by which she would certainly hold. she would be true to daniel thwaite. and yet she looked for the lord's coming, as one looks for the rising of the sun of an early morning,--watching for that which shall make all the day beautiful. and he came. the rector and his wife, and aunt julia and minnie, all went out into the hall to meet him, and anna was left alone in the library, where they were wont to congregate before dinner. it was already past seven, and every one was dressed. a quarter of an hour was to be allowed to the lord, and he was to be hurried up at once to his bedroom. she would not see him till he came down ready, and all hurried, to lead his aunt to the dining-room. she heard the scuffle in the hall. there were kisses;--and a big kiss from minnie to her much-prized cousin fred; and a loud welcome from the full-mouthed rector. "and where is anna?"--the lord asked. they were the first words he spoke, and she heard them, ah! so plainly. it was the same voice,--sweet, genial, and manly; sweet to her beyond all sweetness that she could conceive. "you shall see her when you come down from dressing," said mrs. lovel,--in a low voice, but still audible to the solitary girl. "i will see her before i go up to dress," said the lord, walking through them, and in through the open door to the library. "so, here you are. i am so glad to see you! i had sworn to go into scotland before the time was fixed for your coming,--before i had met you,--and i could not escape. have you thought ill of me because i have not been here to welcome you sooner?" "no,--my lord." "there are horrible penalties for anybody who calls me lord in this house;--are there not, aunt jane? but i see my uncle wants his dinner." "i'll take you up-stairs, fred," said minnie, who was still holding her cousin's hand. "i am coming. i will only say that i would sooner see you here than in any house in england." then he went, and during the few minutes that he spent in dressing little or nothing was spoke in the library. the parson in his heart was not pleased by the enthusiasm with which the young man greeted this new cousin; and yet, why should he not be enthusiastic if it was intended that they should be man and wife? "now, lady anna," said the rector, as he offered her his arm to lead her out to dinner. it was but a mild corrective to the warmth of his nephew. the lord lingered a moment with his aunt in the library. "have you not got beyond that with her yet?" he asked. "your uncle is more old fashioned than you are, fred. things did not go so quick when he was young." in the evening he came and lounged on a double-seated ottoman behind her, and she soon found herself answering a string of questions. had she been happy at yoxham? did she like the place? what had she been doing? "then you know mrs. grimes already?" she laughed as she said that she did know mrs. grimes. "the lion of yoxham is mrs. grimes. she is supposed to have all the misfortunes and all the virtues to which humanity is subject. and how do you and minnie get on? minnie is my prime minister. the boys, i suppose, teased you out of your life?" "i did like them so much! i never knew a boy till i saw them, lord lovel." "they take care to make themselves known, at any rate. but they are nice, good-humoured lads,--taking after their mother. don't tell their father i said so. do you think it pretty about here?" "beautifully pretty." "just about yoxham,--because there is so much wood. but this is not the beautiful part of yorkshire, you know. i wonder whether we could make an expedition to wharfedale and bolton abbey. you would say that the wharfe was pretty. we'll try and plan it. we should have to sleep out one night; but that would make it all the jollier. there isn't a better inn in england than the devonshire arms;--and i don't think a pleasanter spot. aunt jane,--couldn't we go for one night to bolton abbey?" "it is very far, frederic." "thirty miles or so;--that ought to be nothing in yorkshire. we'll manage it. we could get post-horses from york, and the carriage would take us all. my uncle, you must know, is very chary about the carriage horses, thinking that the corn of idleness,--which is destructive to young men and women,--is very good for cattle. but we'll manage it, and you shall jump over the stryd." then he told her the story how the youth was drowned--and how the monks moaned; and he got away to other legends, to the white doe of rylston, and landseer's picture of the abbey in olden times. she had heard nothing before of these things,--or indeed of such things, and the hearing them was very sweet to her. the parson, who was still displeased, went to sleep. minnie had been sent to bed, and aunt julia and aunt jane every now and again put in a word. it was resolved before the evening was over that the visit should be made to bolton abbey. of course, their nephew ought to have opportunities of making love to the girl he was doomed to marry. "good night, dearest," he said when she went to bed. she was sure that the last word had been so spoken, and that no ear but her own had heard it. she could not tell him that such word should not be spoken; and yet she felt that the word would be almost as offensive as the kiss to daniel thwaite. she must contrive some means of telling him that she could not, would not, must not be his dearest. she had now received two letters from her mother since she had been at yoxham, and in each of them there were laid down for her plain instructions as to her conduct. it was now the middle of august, and it was incumbent upon her to allow matters so to arrange themselves, that the marriage might be declared to be a settled thing when the case should come on in november. mr. goffe and mr. flick had met each other, and everything was now understood by the two parties of lawyers. if the earl and lady anna were then engaged with the mutual consent of all interested,--and so engaged that a day could be fixed for the wedding,--then, when the case was opened in court, would the solicitor-general declare that it was the intention of lord lovel to make no further opposition to the claims of the countess and her daughter, and it would only remain for serjeant bluestone to put in the necessary proofs of the cumberland marriage and of the baptism of lady anna. the solicitor-general would at the same time state to the court that an alliance had been arranged between these distant cousins, and that in that way everything would be settled. but,--and in this clause of her instructions the countess was most urgent,--this could not be done unless the marriage were positively settled. mr. flick had been very urgent in pointing out to mr. goffe that in truth their evidence was very strong to prove that when the earl married the now so-called countess, his first wife was still living, though they gave no credit to the woman who now called herself the countess. but, in either case,--whether the italian countess were now alive or now dead,--the daughter would be illegitimate, and the second marriage void, if their surmise on this head should prove to be well founded. but the italian party could of itself do nothing, and the proposed marriage would set everything right. but the evidence must be brought into court and further sifted, unless the marriage were a settled thing by november. all this the countess explained at great length in her letters, calling upon her daughter to save herself, her mother, and the family. lady anna answered the first epistle,--or rather, wrote another in return to it;--but she said nothing of her noble lover, except that lord lovel had not as yet come to yoxham. she confined herself to simple details of her daily life, and a prayer that her dear mother might be happy. the second letter from the countess was severe in its tone,--asking why no promise had been made, no assurance given,--no allusion made to the only subject that could now be of interest. she implored her child to tell her that she was disposed to listen to the earl's suit. this letter was in her pocket when the earl arrived, and she took it out and read it again after the earl had whispered in her ear that word so painfully sweet. she proposed to answer it before breakfast on the following morning. at yoxham rectory they breakfasted at ten, and she was always up at least before eight. she determined as she laid herself down that she would think of it all night. it might be best, she believed, to tell her mother the whole truth,--that she had already promised everything to daniel thwaite, and that she could not go back from her word. then she began to build castles in the air,--castles which she declared to herself must ever be in the air,--of which lord lovel, and not daniel thwaite, was the hero, owner, and master. she assured herself that she was not picturing to herself any prospect of a really possible life, but was simply dreaming of an impossible elysium. how many people would she make happy, were she able to let that young phoebus know in one half-uttered word,--or with a single silent glance,--that she would in truth be his dearest. it could not be so. she was well aware of that. but surely she might dream of it. all the cares of that careful, careworn mother would then be at an end. how delightful would it be to her to welcome that sorrowful one to her own bright home, and to give joy where joy had never yet been known! how all the lawyers would praise her, and tell her that she had saved a noble family from ruin. she already began to have feelings about the family to which she had been a stranger before she had come among the lovels. and if it really would make him happy, this phoebus, how glorious would that be! how fit he was to be made happy! daniel had said that he was sordid, false, fraudulent, and a fool;--but daniel did not, could not, understand the nature of the lovels. and then she herself;--how would it be with her? she had given her heart to daniel thwaite, and she had but one heart to give. had it not been for that, it would have been very sweet to love that young curled darling. there were two sorts of life, and now she had had an insight into each. daniel had told her that this soft, luxurious life was thoroughly bad. he could not have known when saying so, how much was done for their poor neighbours by such as even these lovels. it could not be wrong to be soft, and peaceful, and pretty, to enjoy sweet smells, to sit softly, and eat off delicately painted china plates,--as long as no one was defrauded, and many were comforted. daniel thwaite, she believed, never went to church. here at yoxham there were always morning prayers, and they went to church twice every sunday. she had found it very pleasant to go to church, and to be led along in the easy path of self-indulgent piety on which they all walked at yoxham. the church seats at yoxham were broad, with soft cushions, and the hassocks were well stuffed. surely, daniel thwaite did not know everything. as she thus built her castles in the air,--castles so impossible to be inhabited,--she fell asleep before she had resolved what letter she should write. but in the morning she did write her letter. it must be written,--and when the family were about the house, she would be too disturbed for so great an effort. it ran as follows:- yoxham, friday. dearest mamma, i am much obliged for your letter, which i got the day before yesterday. lord lovel came here yesterday, or perhaps i might have answered it then. everybody here seems to worship him almost, and he is so good to everybody! we are all to go on a visit to bolton abbey, and sleep at an inn somewhere, and i am sure i shall like it very much, for they say it is most beautiful. if you look at the map, it is nearly in a straight line between here and kendal, but only much nearer to york. the day is not fixed yet, but i believe it will be very soon. i shall be so glad if the lawsuit can be got over, for your sake, dearest mamma. i wish they could let you have your title and your share of the money, and let lord lovel have the rest, because he is head of the family. that would be fairest, and i can't see why it should not be so. your share would be quite enough for you and me. i can't say anything about what you speak of. he has said nothing, and i'm sure i hope he won't. i don't think i could do it; and i don't think the lawyers ought to want me to. i think it is very wrong of them to say so. we are strangers, and i feel almost sure that i could never be what he would want. i don't think people ought to marry for money. dearest mamma, pray do not be angry with me. if you are, you will kill me. i am very happy here, and nobody has said anything about my going away. couldn't you ask serjeant bluestone whether something couldn't be done to divide the money, so that there might be no more law? i am sure he could if he liked, with mr. goffe and the other men. dearest mamma, i am, your most affectionate daughter, anna lovel. when the moment came, and the pen was in her hand, she had not the courage to mention the name of daniel thwaite. she knew that the fearful story must be told, but at this moment she comforted herself,--or tried to comfort herself,--by remembering that daniel himself had enjoined that their engagement must yet for a while be kept secret. chapter xv. wharfedale. the visit to wharfedale was fixed for monday and tuesday, and on the monday morning they started, after an early breakfast. the party consisted of aunt jane, aunt julia, lady anna, minnie, and mr. cross, one of the rector's curates. the rector would not accompany them, excusing himself to the others generally on the ground that he could not be absent from his parish on those two days. to his wife and sister he explained that he was not able, as yet, to take pleasure in such a party as this with lady anna. there was no knowing, he said, what might happen. it was evident that he did not mean to open his heart to lady anna, at any rate till the marriage should be settled. an open carriage, which would take them all, was ordered,--with four post horses, and two antiquated postboys, with white hats and blue jackets, and yellow breeches. minnie and the curate sat on the box, and there was a servant in the rumble. rooms at the inn had been ordered, and everything was done in proper lordly manner. the sun shone brightly above their heads, and anna, having as yet received no further letter from her mother, was determined to be happy. four horses took them to bolton bridge, and then, having eaten lunch and ordered dinner, they started for their ramble in the woods. the first thing to be seen at bolton abbey is, of course, the abbey. the abbey itself, as a ruin,--a ruin not so ruinous but that a part of it is used for a modern church,--is very well; but the glory of bolton abbey is in the river which runs round it and in the wooded banks which overhang it. no more luxuriant pasture, no richer foliage, no brighter water, no more picturesque arrangement of the freaks of nature, aided by the art and taste of man, is to be found, perhaps, in england. lady anna, who had been used to wilder scenery in her native county, was delighted. nothing had ever been so beautiful as the abbey;--nothing so lovely as the running wharfe! might they not climb up among those woods on the opposite bank? lord lovel declared that, of course they would climb up among the woods,--it was for that purpose they had come. that was the way to the stryd,--over which he was determined that lady anna should be made to jump. but the river below the abbey is to be traversed by stepping-stones, which, to the female uninitiated foot, appear to be full of danger. the wharfe here is no insignificant brook, to be overcome by a long stride and a jump. there is a causeway, of perhaps forty stones, across it, each some eighteen inches distant from the other, which, flat and excellent though they be, are perilous from their number. mrs. lovel, who knew the place of old, had begun by declaring that no consideration should induce her to cross the water. aunt julia had proposed that they should go along the other bank, on the abbey side of the river, and thence cross by the bridge half a mile up. but the earl was resolved that he would take his cousin over the stepping-stones; and minnie and the curate were equally determined. minnie, indeed, had crossed the river, and was back again, while the matter was still being discussed. aunt julia, who was strong-limbed, as well as strong-minded, at last assented, the curate having promised all necessary aid. mrs. lovel seated herself at a distance to see the exploit; and then lord lovel started, with lady anna, turning at every stone to give a hand to his cousin. "oh, they are very dreadful!" said lady anna, when about a dozen had been passed. the black water was flowing fast, fast beneath her feet; the stones became smaller and smaller to her imagination, and the apertures between them broader and broader. "don't look at the water, dear," said the lord, "but come on quick." "i can't come on quick. i shall never get over. oh, frederic!" that morning she had promised that she would call him frederic. even daniel could not think it wrong that she should call her cousin by his christian name. "it's no good, i can't do that one,--it's crooked. mayn't i go back again?" "you can't go back, dear. it is only up to your knees, if you do go in. but take my hand. there,--all the others are straight,--you must come on, or aunt julia will catch us. after two or three times, you'll hop over like a milkmaid. there are only half-a-dozen more. here we are. isn't that pretty?" "i thought i never should have got over. i wouldn't go back for anything. but it is lovely; and i am so much obliged to you for bringing me here. we can go back another way?" "oh, yes;--but now we'll get up the bank. give me your hand." then he took her along the narrow, twisting, steep paths, to the top of the wooded bank, and they were soon beyond the reach of aunt julia, minnie, and the curate. it was very pleasant, very lovely, and very joyous; but there was still present to her mind some great fear. the man was there with her as an acknowledged lover,--a lover, acknowledged to be so by all but herself; but she could not lawfully have any lover but him who was now slaving at his trade in london. she must tell this gallant lord that he must not be her lover; and, as they went along, she was always meditating how she might best tell him, when the moment for telling him should come. but on that morning, during the entire walk, he said no word to her which seemed quite to justify the telling. he called her by sweet, petting names,--anna, my girl, pretty coz, and such like. he would hold her hand twice longer than he would have held that of either aunt in helping her over this or that little difficulty,--and would help her when no help was needed. he talked to her, of small things, as though he and she must needs have kindred interests. he spoke to her of his uncle as though, near as his uncle was, the connection were not nigh so close as that between him and her. she understood it with a half understanding,--feeling that in all this he was in truth making love to her, and yet telling herself that he said no more than cousinship might warrant. but the autumn colours were bright, and the river rippled, and the light breeze came down from the mountains, and the last of the wild flowers were still sweet in the woods. after a while she was able to forget her difficulties, to cease to think of daniel, and to find in her cousin, not a lover, but simply the pleasantest friend that fortune had ever sent her. and so they came, all alone,--for aunt julia, though both limbs and mind were strong, had not been able to keep up with them,--all alone to the stryd. the stryd is a narrow gully or passage, which the waters have cut for themselves in the rocks, perhaps five or six feet broad, where the river passes, but narrowed at the top by an overhanging mass which in old days withstood the wearing of the stream, till the softer stone below was cut away, and then was left bridging over a part of the chasm below. there goes a story that a mountain chieftain's son, hunting the stag across the valley when the floods were out, in leaping the stream, from rock to rock, failed to make good his footing, was carried down by the rushing waters, and dashed to pieces among the rocks. lord lovel told her the tale, as they sat looking at the now innocent brook, and then bade her follow him as he leaped from edge to edge. "i couldn't do it;--indeed, i couldn't," said the shivering girl. "it is barely a step," said the earl, jumping over, and back again. "going from this side, you couldn't miss to do it, if you tried." "i'm sure i should tumble in. it makes me sick to look at you while you are leaping." "you'd jump over twice the distance on dry ground." "then let me jump on dry ground." "i've set my heart upon it. do you think i'd ask you if i wasn't sure?" "you want to make another legend of me." "i want to leave aunt julia behind, which we shall certainly do." "oh, but i can't afford to drown myself just that you may run away from aunt julia. you can run by yourself, and i will wait for aunt julia." "that is not exactly my plan. be a brave girl, now, and stand up, and do as i bid you." then she stood up on the edge of the rock, holding tight by his arm. how pleasant it was to be thus frightened, with such a protector near her to insure her safety! and yet the chasm yawned, and the water ran rapid and was very black. but if he asked her to make the spring, of course she must make it. what would she not have done at his bidding? "i can almost touch you, you see," he said, as he stood opposite, with his arm out ready to catch her hand. "oh, frederic, i don't think i can." "you can very well, if you will only jump." "it is ever so many yards." "it is three feet. i'll back aunt julia to do it for a promise of ten shillings to the infirmary." "i'll give the ten shillings, if you'll only let me off." "i won't let you off,--so you might as well come at once." then she stood and shuddered for a moment, looking with beseeching eyes up into his face. of course she meant to jump. of course she would have been disappointed had aunt julia come and interrupted her jumping. yes,--she would jump into his arms. she knew that he would catch her. at that moment her memory of daniel thwaite had become faint as the last shaded glimmer of twilight. she shut her eyes for half a moment, then opened them, looked into his face, and made her spring. as she did so, she struck her foot against a rising ledge of the rock, and, though she covered more than the distance in her leap, she stumbled as she came to the ground, and fell into his arms. she had sprained her ankle, in her effort to recover herself. "are you hurt?" he asked, holding her close to his side. "no;--i think not;--only a little, that is. i was so awkward." "i shall never forgive myself if you are hurt." "there is nothing to forgive. i'll sit down for a moment. it was my own fault because i was so stupid,--and it does not in the least signify. i know what it is now; i've sprained my ankle." "there is nothing so painful as that." "it hurts a little, but it will go off. it wasn't the jump, but i twisted my foot somehow. if you look so unhappy, i'll get up and jump back again." "i am unhappy, dearest." "oh, but you mustn't." the prohibition might be taken as applying to the epithet of endearment, and thereby her conscience be satisfied. then he bent over her, looking anxiously into her face as she winced with the pain, and he took her hand and kissed it. "oh, no," she said, gently struggling to withdraw the hand which he held. "here is aunt julia. you had better just move." not that she would have cared a straw for the eyes of aunt julia, had it not been that the image of daniel thwaite again rose strong before her mind. then aunt julia, and the curate, and minnie were standing on the rock within a few paces of them, but on the other side of the stream. "is there anything the matter?" asked miss lovel. "she has sprained her ankle in jumping over the stryd, and she cannot walk. perhaps mr. cross would not mind going back to the inn and getting a carriage. the road is only a quarter of a mile above us, and we could carry her up." "how could you be so foolish, frederic, as to let her jump it?" said the aunt. "don't mind about my folly now. the thing is to get a carriage for anna." the curate immediately hurried back, jumping over the stryd as the nearest way to the inn; and minnie also sprung across the stream so that she might sit down beside her cousin and offer consolation. aunt julia was left alone, and after a while was forced to walk back by herself to the bridge. "is she much hurt?" asked minnie. "i am afraid she is hurt," said the lord. "dear, dear minnie, it does not signify a bit," said anna, lavishing on her younger cousin the caresses which fate forbade her to give to the elder. "i know i could walk home in a few minutes. i am better now. it is one of those things which go away almost immediately. i'll try and stand, frederic, if you'll let me." then she raised herself, leaning upon him, and declared that she was nearly well,--and then was reseated, still leaning on him. "shall we attempt to get her up to the road, minnie, or wait till mr. cross comes to help us?" lady anna declared that she did not want any help,--certainly not mr. cross's help, and that she could do very well, just with minnie's arm. they waited there sitting on the rocks for half an hour, saying but little to each other, throwing into the stream the dry bits of stick which the last flood had left upon the stones, and each thinking how pleasant it was to sit there and dream, listening to the running waters. then lady anna hobbled up to the carriage road, helped by a stronger arm than that of her cousin minnie. of course there was some concern and dismay at the inn. embrocations were used, and doctors were talked of, and heads were shaken, and a couch in the sitting-room was prepared, so that the poor injured one might eat her dinner without being driven to the solitude of her own bedroom. chapter xvi. for ever. on the next morning the poor injured one was quite well,--but she was still held to be subject to piteous concern. the two aunts shook their heads when she said that she would walk down to the stepping-stones that morning, before starting for yoxham; but she was quite sure that the sprain was gone, and the distance was not above half a mile. they were not to start till two o'clock. would minnie come down with her, and ramble about among the ruins? "minnie, come out on the lawn," said the lord. "don't you come with me and anna;--you can go where you like about the place by yourself." "why mayn't i come?" "never mind, but do as you're bid." "i know. you are going to make love to cousin anna." "you are an impertinent little imp." "i am so glad, frederic, because i do like her. i was sure she was a real cousin. don't you think she is very,--very nice?" "pretty well." "is that all?" "you go away and don't tease,--or else i'll never bring you to the stryd again." so it happened that lord lovel and lady anna went across the meadow together, down to the river, and sauntered along the margin till they came to the stepping-stones. he passed over, and she followed him, almost without a word. her heart was so full, that she did not think now of the water running at her feet. it had hardly seemed to her to make any difficulty as to the passage. she must follow him whither he would lead her, but her mind misgave her,--that they would not return sweet loving friends as they went out. "we won't climb," said he, "because it might try your ankle too much. but we will go in here by the meadow. i always think this is one of the prettiest views there is," he said, throwing himself upon the grass. "it is all prettiest. it is like fairy land. does the duke let people come here always?" "yes, i fancy so." "he must be very good-natured. do you know the duke?" "i never saw him in my life." "a duke sounds so awful to me." "you'll get used to them some day. won't you sit down?" then she glided down to the ground at a little distance from him, and he at once shifted his place so as to be almost close to her. "your foot is quite well?" "quite well." "i thought for a few minutes that there was going to be some dreadful accident, and i was so mad with myself for having made you jump it. if you had broken your leg, how would you have borne it?" "like other people, i suppose." "would you have been angry with me?" "i hope not. i am sure not. you were doing the best you could to give me pleasure. i don't think i should have been angry at all. i don't think we are ever angry with the people we really like." "do you really like me?" "yes;--i like you." "is that all?" "is not that enough?" she answered the question as she might have answered it had it been allowed to her, as to any girl that was free, to toy with his love, knowing that she meant to accept it. it was easier so, than in any other way. but her heart within her was sad, and could she have stopped his further speech by any word rough and somewhat rude, she would have done so. in truth, she did not know how to answer him roughly. he deserved from her that all her words should be soft, and sweet and pleasant. she believed him to be good and generous and kind and loving. the hard things which daniel thwaite had said of him had all vanished from her mind. to her thinking, it was no sin in him that he should want her wealth,--he, the earl, to whom by right the wealth of the lovels should belong. the sin was rather hers,--in that she kept it from him. and then, if she could receive all that he was willing to give, his heart, his name, his house and home, and sweet belongings of natural gifts and personal advantages, how much more would she take than what she gave! she could not speak to him roughly, though,--alas!--the time had come in which she must speak to him truly. it was not fitting that a girl should have two lovers. "no, dear,--not enough," he said. it can hardly be accounted a fault in him that at this time he felt sure of her love. she had been so soft in her ways with him, so gracious, yielding, and pretty in her manners, so manifestly pleased by his company, so prone to lean upon him, that it could hardly be that he should think otherwise. she had told him, when he spoke to her more plainly up in london than he had yet done since they had been together in the country, that she could never, never be his wife. but what else could a girl say at a first meeting with a proposed lover? would he have wished that she should at once have given herself up without one maidenly scruple, one word of feminine recusancy? if love's course be made to run too smooth it loses all its poetry, and half its sweetness. but now they knew each other;--at least, he thought they did. the scruple might now be put away. the feminine recusancy had done its work. for himself,--he felt that he loved her in very truth. she was not harsh or loud,--vulgar, or given to coarse manners, as might have been expected, and as he had been warned by his friends that he would find her. that she was very beautiful, all her enemies had acknowledged,--and he was quite assured that her enemies had been right. she was the lady anna lovel, and he felt that he could make her his own without one shade of regret to mar his triumph. of the tailor's son,--though he had been warned of him too,--he made no account whatever. that had been a slander, which only endeared the girl to him the more;--a slander against lady anna lovel which had been an insult to his family. among all the ladies he knew, daughters of peers and high-bred commoners, there were none,--there was not one less likely so to disgrace herself than lady anna lovel, his sweet cousin. "do not think me too hurried, dear, if i speak to you again so soon, of that of which i spoke once before." he had turned himself round upon his arm, so as to be very close to her,--so that he would look full into her face, and, if chance favoured him, could take her hand. he paused, as though for an answer; but she did not speak to him a word. "it is not long yet since we first met." "oh, no;--not long." "and i know not what your feelings are. but, in very truth, i can say that i love you dearly. had nothing else come in the way to bring us together, i am sure that i should have loved you." she, poor child, believed him as though he were speaking to her the sweetest gospel. and he, too, believed himself. he was easy of heart perhaps, but not deceitful; anxious enough for his position in the world, but not meanly covetous. had she been distasteful to him as a woman, he would have refused to make himself rich by the means that had been suggested to him. as it was, he desired her as much as her money, and had she given herself to him then would never have remembered,--would never have known that the match had been sordid. "do you believe me?" he asked. "oh, yes." "and shall it be so?" her face had been turned away, but now she slowly moved her neck so that she could look at him. should she be false to all her vows, and try whether happiness might not be gained in that way? the manner of doing it passed through her mind in that moment. she would write to daniel, and remind him of his promise to set her free if she so willed it. she would never see him again. she would tell him that she had striven to see things as he would have taught her, and had failed. she would abuse herself, and ask for his pardon;--but having thus judged for herself, she would never go back from such judgment. it might be done,--if only she could persuade herself that it were good to do it! but, as she thought of it, there came upon her a prick of conscience so sharp, that she could not welcome the devil by leaving it unheeded. how could she be foresworn to one who had been so absolutely good,--whose all had been spent for her and for her mother,--whose whole life had been one long struggle of friendship on her behalf,--who had been the only playfellow of her youth, the only man she had ever ventured to kiss,--the man whom she truly loved? he had warned her against these gauds which were captivating her spirit, and now, in the moment of her peril, she would remember his warnings. "shall it be so?" lord lovel asked again, just stretching out his hand, so that he could touch the fold of her garment. "it cannot be so," she said. "cannot be!" "it cannot be so, lord lovel." "it cannot now;--or do you mean the word to be for ever?" "for ever!" she replied. "i know that i have been hurried and sudden," he said,--purposely passing by her last assurance; "and i do feel that you have a right to resent the seeming assurance of such haste. but in our case, dearest, the interests of so many are concerned, the doubts and fears, the well-being, and even the future conduct of all our friends are so bound up by the result, that i had hoped you would have pardoned that which would otherwise have been unpardonable." oh heavens;--had it not been for daniel thwaite, how full of grace, how becoming, how laden with flattering courtesy would have been every word that he had uttered to her! "but," he continued, "if it really be that you cannot love me--" "oh, lord lovel, pray ask of me no further question." "i am bound to ask and to know,--for all our sakes." then she rose quickly to her feet, and with altered gait and changed countenance stood over him. "i am engaged," she said, "to be married--to mr. daniel thwaite." she had told it all, and felt that she had told her own disgrace. he rose also, but stood mute before her. this was the very thing of which they had all warned him, but as to which he had been so sure that it was not so! she saw it all in his eyes, reading much more there than he could read in hers. she was degraded in his estimation, and felt that evil worse almost than the loss of his love. for the last three weeks she had been a real lovel among the lovels. that was all over now. let this lawsuit go as it might, let them give to her all the money, and make the title which she hated ever so sure, she never again could be the equal friend of her gentle relative, earl lovel. minnie would never again spring into her arms, swearing that she would do as she pleased with her own cousin. she might be lady anna, but never anna again to the two ladies at the rectory. the perfume of his rank had been just scented, to be dashed away from her for ever. "it is a secret at present," she said, "or i should have told you sooner. if it is right that you should repeat it, of course you must." "oh, anna!" "it is true." "oh, anna, for your sake as well as mine this makes me wretched indeed!" "as for the money, lord lovel, if it be mine to give, you shall have it." "you think then it is that which i have wanted?" "it is that which the family wants, and i can understand that it should be wanted. as for myself,--for mamma and me,--you can hardly understand how it has been with us when we were young. you despise mr. thwaite,--because he is a tailor." "i am sure he is not fit to be the husband of lady anna lovel." "when lady anna lovel had no other friend in the world, he sheltered her and gave her a house to live in, and spent his earnings in her defence, and would not yield when all those who might have been her friends strove to wrong her. where would mamma have been,--and i,--had there been no mr. thwaite to comfort us? he was our only friend,--he and his father. they were all we had. in my childhood i had never a kind word from another child,--but only from him. would it have been right that he should have asked for anything, and that i should have refused it?" "he should not have asked for this," said lord lovel hoarsely. "why not he, as well as you? he is as much a man. if i could believe in your love after two days, lord lovel, could i not trust his after twenty years of friendship?" "you knew that he was beneath you." "he was not beneath me. he was above me. we were poor,--while he and his father had money, which we took. he could give, while we received. he was strong while we were weak,--and was strong to comfort us. and then, lord lovel, what knew i of rank, living under his father's wing? they told me i was the lady anna, and the children scouted me. my mother was a countess. so she swore, and i at least believed her. but if ever rank and title were a profitless burden, they were to her. do you think that i had learned then to love my rank?" "you have learned better now." "i have learned,--but whether better i may doubt. there are lessons which are quickly learned; and there are they who say that such are the devil's lessons. i have not been strong enough not to learn. but i must forget again, lord lovel. and you must forget also." he hardly knew how to speak to her now;--whether it would be fit for him even to wish to persuade her to be his, after she had told him that she had given her troth to a tailor. his uneasy thoughts prompted him with ideas which dismayed him. could he take to his heart one who had been pressed close in so vile a grasp? could he accept a heart that had once been promised to a tailor's workman? would not all the world know and say that he had done it solely for the money,--even should he succeed in doing it? and yet to fail in this enterprise,--to abandon all,--to give up so enticing a road to wealth! then he remembered what he had said,--how he had pledged himself to abandon the lawsuit,--how convinced he had been that this girl was heiress to the lovel wealth, who now told him that she had engaged herself to marry a tailor. there was nothing more that either of them could say to the other at the moment, and they went back in silence to the inn. chapter xvii. the journey home. in absolute silence lord lovel and lady anna walked back to the inn. he had been dumbfoundered,--nearly so by her first abrupt statement, and then altogether by the arguments with which she had defended herself. she had nothing further to say. she had, indeed, said all, and had marvelled at her own eloquence while she was speaking. nor was there absent from her a certain pride in that she had done the thing that was right, and had dared to defend herself. she was full of regrets,--almost of remorse; but, nevertheless, she was proud. he knew it all now, and one of her great difficulties had been overcome. and she was fully resolved that as she had dared to tell him, and to face his anger, his reproaches, his scorn, she would not falter before the scorn and the reproaches, or the anger, of the other lovels,--of any of the lovels of yoxham. her mother's reproaches would be dreadful to her; her mother's anger would well-nigh kill her; her mother's scorn would scorch her very soul. but sufficient for the day was the evil thereof. at the present moment she could be strong with the strength she had assumed. so she walked in at the sitting-room window with a bold front, and the earl followed her. the two aunts were there, and it was plain to them both that something was astray between the lovers. they had said among themselves that lady anna would accept the offer the moment that it was in form made to her. to their eyes the manner of their guest had been the manner of a girl eager to be wooed; but they had both imagined that their delicately nurtured and fastidious nephew might too probably be offended by some solecism in conduct, some falling away from feminine grace, such as might too readily be shown by one whose early life had been subjected to rough associates. even now it occurred to each of them that it had been so. the earl seated himself in a chair, and took up a book, which they had brought with them. lady anna stood at the open window, looking across at the broad field and the river bank beyond; but neither of them spoke a word. there had certainly been some quarrel. then aunt julia, in the cause of wisdom, asked a question;-"where is minnie? did not minnie go with you?" "no," said the earl. "she went in some other direction at my bidding. mr. cross is with her, i suppose." it was evident from the tone of his voice that the displeasure of the head of all the lovels was very great. "we start soon, i suppose?" said lady anna. "after lunch, my dear; it is hardly one yet." "i will go up all the same, and see about my things." "shall i help you, my dear?" asked mrs. lovel. "oh, no! i would sooner do it alone." then she hurried into her room and burst into a flood of tears, as soon as the door was closed behind her. "frederic, what ails her?" asked aunt julia. "if anything ails her she must tell you herself," said the lord. "something is amiss. you cannot wonder that we should be anxious, knowing that we know how great is the importance of all this." "i cannot help your anxiety just at present, aunt julia; but you should always remember that there will be slips between the cup and the lip." "then there has been a slip? i knew it would be so. i always said so, and so did my brother." "i wish you would all remember that about such an affair as this, the less said the better." so saying, the lord walked out through the window and sauntered down to the river side. "it's all over," said aunt julia. "i don't see why we should suppose that at present," said aunt jane. "it's all over. i knew it as soon as i saw her face when she came in. she has said something, or done something, and it's all off. it will be a matter of over twenty thousand pounds a year!" "he'll be sure to marry somebody with money," said aunt jane. "what with his title and his being so handsome, he is certain to do well, you know." "nothing like that will come in his way. i heard mr. flick say that it was equal to half a million of money. and then it would have been at once. if he goes up to london, and about, just as he is, he'll be head over ears in debt before anybody knows what he is doing. i wonder what it is. he likes pretty girls, and there's no denying that she's handsome." "perhaps she wouldn't have him." "that's impossible, jane. she came down here on purpose to have him. she went out with him this morning to be made love to. they were together three times longer yesterday, and he came home as sweet as sugar to her. i wonder whether she can have wanted to make some condition about the money." "what condition?" "that she and her mother should have it in their own keeping." "she doesn't seem to be that sort of a young woman," said aunt jane. "there's no knowing what that mr. goffe, serjeant bluestone, and her mother may have put her up to. frederic wouldn't stand that kind of thing for a minute, and he would be quite right. better anything than that a man shouldn't be his own master. i think you'd better go up to her, jane. she'll be more comfortable with you than with me." then aunt jane, obedient as usual, went up to her young cousin's bedroom. in the meantime the young lord was standing on the river's brink, thinking what he would do. he had, in truth, very much of which to think, and points of most vital importance as to which he must resolve what should be his action. must this announcement which he had heard from his cousin dissolve for ever the prospect of his marriage with her; or was it open to him still, as a nobleman, a gentleman, and a man of honour, to make use of all those influences which he might command with the view of getting rid of that impediment of a previous engagement? being very ignorant of the world at large, and altogether ignorant of this man in particular, he did not doubt that the tailor might be bought off. then he was sure that all who would have access to lady anna would help him in such a cause, and that her own mother would be the most forward to do so. the girl would hardly hold to such a purpose if all the world,--all her own world, were against her. she certainly would be beaten from it if a bribe sufficient were offered to the tailor. that this must be done for the sake of the lovel family, so that lady anna lovel might not be known to have married a tailor, was beyond a doubt; but it was not so clear to him that he could take to himself as his countess her who with her own lips had told him that she intended to be the bride of a working artisan. as he thought of this, as his imagination went to work on all the abominable circumstances of such a betrothal, he threw from his hand into the stream with all the vehemence of passion a little twig which he held. it was too, too frightful, too disgusting; and then so absolutely unexpected, so unlike her personal demeanour, so contrary to the look of her eyes, to the tone of her voice, to every motion of her body! she had been sweet, and gentle, and gracious, till he had almost come to think that her natural feminine gifts of ladyship were more even than her wealth, of better savour than her rank, were equal even to her beauty, which he had sworn to himself during the past night to be unsurpassed. and this sweet one had told him,--this one so soft and gracious,--not that she was doomed by some hard fate to undergo the degrading thraldom, but that she herself had willingly given herself to a working tailor from love, and gratitude, and free selection! it was a marvel to him that a thing so delicate should have so little sense of her own delicacy! he did not think that he could condescend to take the tailor's place. but if not,--if he would not take it, or if, as might still be possible, the tailor's place could not be made vacant for him,--what then? he had pledged his belief in the justice of his cousin's claim; and had told her that, believing his own claim to be unjust, in no case would he prosecute it. was he now bound by that assurance,--bound to it even to the making of the tailor's fortune; or might he absent himself from any further action in the matter, leaving it entirely in the hands of the lawyers? might it not be best for her happiness that he should do so? he had been told that even though he should not succeed, there might arise almost interminable delay. the tailor would want his money before he married, and thus she might be rescued from her degradation till she should be old enough to understand it. and yet how could he claim that of which he had said, now a score of times, that he knew that it was not his own? could he cease to call this girl by the name which all his people had acknowledged as her own, because she had refused to be his wife; and declare his conviction that she was base-born only because she had preferred to his own the addresses of a low-born man, reeking with the sweat of a tailor's board? no, he could not do that. let her marry but the sweeper of a crossing, and he must still call her lady anna,--if he called her anything. something must be done, however. he had been told by the lawyers how the matter might be made to right itself, if he and the young lady could at once agree to be man and wife; but he had not been told what would follow, should she decline to accept his offer. mr. flick and the solicitor-general must know how to shape their course before november came round,--and would no doubt want all the time to shape it that he could give them. what was he to say to mr. flick and to the solicitor-general? was he at liberty to tell to them the secret which the girl had told to him? that he was at liberty to say that she had rejected his offer must be a matter of course; but might he go beyond that, and tell them the whole story? it would be most expedient for many reasons that they should know it. on her behalf even it might be most salutary,--with that view of liberating her from the grasp of her humiliating lover. but she had told it him, against her own interests, at her own peril, to her own infinite sorrow,--in order that she might thus allay hopes in which he would otherwise have persevered. he knew enough of the little schemes and by-ways of love, of the generosity and self-sacrifice of lovers, to feel that he was bound to confidence. she had told him that if needs were he might repeat her tale;--but she had told him at the same time that her tale was a secret. he could not go with her secret to a lawyer's chambers, and there divulge in the course of business that which had been extracted from her by the necessity to which she had submitted of setting him free. he could write to mr. flick,--if that at last was his resolve,--that a marriage was altogether out of the question, but he could not tell him why it was so. he wandered slowly on along the river, having decided only on this,--only on this as a certainty,--that he must tell her secret neither to the lawyers, nor to his own people. then, as he walked, a little hand touched his behind, and when he turned minnie lovel took him by the arm. "why are you all alone, fred?" "i am meditating how wicked the world is,--and girls in particular." "where is cousin anna?" "up at the house, i suppose." "is she wicked?" "don't you know that everybody is wicked, because eve ate the apple?" "adam ate it too." "who bade him?" "the devil," said the child whispering. "but he spoke by a woman's mouth. why don't you go in and get ready to go?" "so i will. tell me one thing, fred. may i be a bridesmaid when you are married?" "i don't think you can." "i have set my heart upon it. why not?" "because you'll be married first." "that's nonsense, fred; and you know it's nonsense. isn't cousin anna to be your wife?" "look here, my darling. i'm awfully fond of you, and think you the prettiest little girl in the world. but if you ask impertinent questions i'll never speak to you again. do you understand?" she looked up into his face, and did understand that he was in earnest, and, leaving him, walked slowly across the meadow back to the house alone. "tell them not to wait lunch for me," he hollowed after her;--and she told her aunt julia that cousin frederic was very sulky down by the river, and that they were not to wait for him. when mrs. lovel went up-stairs into lady anna's room not a word was said about the occurrence of the morning. the elder lady was afraid to ask a question, and the younger was fully determined to tell nothing even had a question been asked her. lord lovel might say what he pleased. her secret was with him, and he could tell it if he chose. she had given him permission to do so, of which no doubt he would avail himself. but, on her own account, she would say nothing; and when questioned she would merely admit the fact. she would neither defend her engagement, nor would she submit to have it censured. if they pleased she would return to her mother in london at any shortest possible notice. the party lunched almost in silence, and when the horses were ready lord lovel came in to help them into the carriage. when he had placed the three ladies he desired minnie to take the fourth seat, saying that he would sit with mr. cross on the box. minnie looked at his face, but there was still the frown there, and she obeyed him without any remonstrance. during the whole of the long journey home there was hardly a word spoken. lady anna knew that she was in disgrace, and was ignorant how much of her story had been told to the two elder ladies. she sat almost motionless looking out upon the fields, and accepting her position as one that was no longer thought worthy of notice. of course she must go back to london. she could not continue to live at yoxham, neither spoken to nor speaking. minnie went to sleep, and minnie's mother and aunt now and then addressed a few words to each other. anna felt sure that to the latest day of her existence she would remember that journey. on their arrival at the rectory door mr. cross helped the ladies out of the carriage, while the lord affected to make himself busy with the shawls and luggage. then he vanished, and was seen no more till he appeared at dinner. "what sort of a trip have you had?" asked the rector, addressing himself to the three ladies indifferently. for a moment nobody answered him, and then aunt julia spoke. "it was very pretty, as it always is at bolton in summer. we were told that the duke has not been there this year at all. the inn was comfortable, and i think that the young people enjoyed themselves yesterday very much." the subject was too important, too solemn, too great, to allow of even a word to be said about it without proper consideration. "did frederic like it?" "i think he did yesterday," said mrs. lovel. "i think we were all a little tired coming home to-day." "anna sprained her ankle, jumping over the stryd," said minnie. "not seriously, i hope." "oh dear no;--nothing at all to signify." it was the only word which anna spoke till it was suggested that she should go up to her room. the girl obeyed, as a child might have done, and went up-stairs, followed by mrs. lovel. "my dear," she said, "we cannot go on like this. what is the matter?" "you must ask lord lovel." "have you quarrelled with him?" "i have not quarrelled, mrs. lovel. if he has quarrelled with me, i cannot help it." "you know what we have all wished." "it can never be so." "have you said so to frederic?" "i have." "have you given him any reason, anna?" "i have," she said after a pause. "what reason, dear?" she thought for a moment before she replied. "i was obliged to tell him the reason, mrs. lovel; but i don't think that i need tell anybody else. of course i must tell mamma." "does your mamma know it?" "not yet." "and is it a reason that must last for ever?" "yes;--for ever. but i do not know why everybody is to be angry with me. other girls may do as they please. if you are angry with me i had better go back to london at once." "i do not know that anybody has been angry with you. we may be disappointed without being angry." that was all that was said, and then lady anna was left to dress for dinner. at dinner lord lovel had so far composed himself as to be able to speak to his cousin, and an effort at courtesy was made by them all,--except by the rector. but the evening passed away in a manner very different from any that had gone before it. chapter xviii. too heavy for secrets. during that night the young lord was still thinking of his future conduct,--of what duty and honour demanded of him, and of the manner in which he might best make duty and honour consort with his interests. in all the emergencies of his short life he had hitherto had some one to advise him,--some elder friend whose counsel he might take even though he would seem to make little use of it when it was offered to him. he had always somewhat disdained aunt julia, but nevertheless aunt julia had been very useful to him. in latter days, since the late earl's death, when there came upon him, as the first of his troubles, the necessity of setting aside that madman's will, mr. flick had been his chief counsellor; and yet in all his communications with mr. flick he had assumed to be his own guide and master. now it seemed that he must in truth guide himself, but he knew not how to do it. of one thing he felt certain. he must get away from yoxham and hurry up to london. it behoved him to keep his cousin's secret; but would he not be keeping it with a sanctity sufficiently strict if he imparted it to one sworn friend,--a friend who should be bound not to divulge it further without his consent? if so, the solicitor-general should be his friend. an intimacy had grown up between the great lawyer and his noble client, not social in its nature, but still sufficiently close, as lord lovel thought, to admit of such confidence. he had begun to be aware that without assistance of this nature he would not know how to guide himself. undoubtedly the wealth of the presumed heiress had become dearer to him,--had become at least more important to him,--since he had learned that it must probably be lost. sir william patterson was a gentleman as well as a lawyer;--one who had not simply risen to legal rank by diligence and intellect, but a gentleman born and bred, who had been at a public school, and had lived all his days with people of the right sort. sir william was his legal adviser, and he would commit lady anna's secret to the keeping of sir william. there was a coach which started in those days from york at noon, reaching london early on the following day. he would go up by this coach, and would thus avoid the necessity of much further association with his family before he had decided what should be his conduct. but he must see his cousin before he went. he therefore sent a note to her before she had left her room on the following morning;- dear anna, i purpose starting for london in an hour or so, and wish to say one word to you before i go. will you meet me at nine in the drawing-room? do not mention my going to my uncle or aunts, as it will be better that i should tell them myself. yours, l. at ten minutes before nine lady anna was in the drawing-room waiting for him, and at ten minutes past nine he joined her. "i beg your pardon for keeping you waiting." she gave him her hand, and said that it did not signify in the least. she was always early. "i find that i must go up to london at once," he said. to this she made no answer, though he seemed to expect some reply. "in the first place, i could not remain here in comfort after what you told me yesterday." "i shall be sorry to drive you away. it is your home; and as i must go soon, had i not better go at once?" "no;--that is, i think not. i shall go at any rate. i have told none of them what you told me yesterday." "i am glad of that, lord lovel." "it is for you to tell it,--if it must be told." "i did tell your aunt jane,--that you and i never can be as--you said you wished." "i did wish it most heartily. you did not tell it--all." "no;--not all." "you astounded me so, that i could hardly speak to you as i should have spoken. i did not mean to be uncourteous." "i did not think you uncourteous, lord lovel. i am sure you would not be uncourteous to me." "but you astounded me. it is not that i think much of myself, or of my rank as belonging to me. i know that i have but little to be proud of. i am very poor,--and not clever like some young men who have not large fortunes, but who can become statesmen and all that. but i do think much of my order; i think much of being a gentleman,--and much of ladies being ladies. do you understand me?" "oh, yes;--i understand you." "if you are lady anna lovel--" "i am lady anna lovel." "i believe you are with all my heart. you speak like it, and look like it. you are fit for any position. everything is in your favour. i do believe it. but if so--" "well, lord lovel;--if so?" "surely you would not choose to--to--to degrade your rank. that is the truth. if i be your cousin, and the head of your family, i have a right to speak as such. what you told me would be degradation." she thought a moment, and then she replied to him,--"it would be no disgrace." he too found himself compelled to think before he could speak again. "do you think that you could like your associates if you were to be married to mr. thwaite?" "i do not know who they would be. he would be my companion, and i like him. i love him dearly. there! you need not tell me, lord lovel. i know it all. he is not like you;--and i, when i had become his wife, should not be like your aunt jane. i should never see people of that sort any more, i suppose. we should not live here in england at all,--so that i should escape the scorn of all my cousins. i know what i am doing, and why i am doing it;--and i do not think you ought to tempt me." she knew at least that she was open to temptation. he could perceive that, and was thankful for it. "i do not wish to tempt you, but i would save you from unhappiness if i could. such a marriage would be unnatural. i have not seen mr. thwaite." "then, my lord, you have not seen a most excellent man, who, next to my mother, is my best friend." "but he cannot be a gentleman." "i do not know;--but i do know that i can be his wife. is that all, lord lovel?" "not quite all. i fear that this weary lawsuit will come back upon us in some shape. i cannot say whether i have the power to stop it if i would. i must in part be guided by others." "i cannot do anything. if i could, i would not even ask for the money for myself." "no, lady anna. you and i cannot decide it. i must again see my lawyer. i do not mean the attorney,--but sir william patterson, the solicitor-general. may i tell him what you told me yesterday?" "i cannot hinder you." "but you can give me your permission. if he will promise me that it shall go no farther,--then may i tell him? i shall hardly know what to do unless he knows all that i know." "everybody will know soon." "nobody shall know from me,--but only he. will you say that i may tell him?" "oh, yes." "i am much indebted to you even for that. i cannot tell you now how much i hoped when i got up yesterday morning at bolton bridge that i should have to be indebted to you for making me the happiest man in england. you must forgive me if i say that i still hope at heart that this infatuation may be made to cease. and now, good-bye, lady anna." "good-bye, lord lovel." she at once went to her room, and sent down her maid to say that she would not appear at prayers or at breakfast. she would not see him again before he went. how probable it was that her eyes had rested on his form for the last time! how beautiful he was, how full of grace, how like a god! how pleasant she had found it to be near him; how full of ineffable sweetness had been everything that he had touched, all things of which he had spoken to her! he had almost overcome her, as though she had eaten of the lotus. and she knew not whether the charm was of god or devil. but she did know that she had struggled against it,--because of her word, and because she owed a debt which falsehood and ingratitude would ill repay. lord lovel had called her lady anna now. ah, yes; how good he was! when it became significant to her that he should recognise her rank, he did so at once. he had only dropped the title when, having been recognised, it had become a stumbling-block to her. now he was gone from her, and, if it was possible, she would cease even to dream of him. "i suppose, frederic, that the marriage is not to be?" the rector said to him as he got into the dog-cart at the rectory door. "i cannot tell. i do not know. i think not. but, uncle, would you oblige me by not speaking of it just at present? you will know all very soon." the rector stood on the gravel, watching the dog-cart as it disappeared, with his hands in the pockets of his clerical trousers, and with heavy signs of displeasure on his face. it was very well to be uncle to an earl, and out of his wealth to do what he could to assist, and, if possible, to dispel his noble nephew's poverty. but surely something was due to him! it was not for his pleasure that this girl,--whom he was forced to call lady anna, though he could never believe her to be so, whom his wife and sister called cousin anna, though he still thought that she was not, and could not be, cousin to anybody,--it was not for anything that he could get, that he was entertaining her as an honoured guest at his rectory. and now his nephew was gone, and the girl was left behind. and he was not to be told whether there was to be a marriage or not! "i cannot tell. i do not know. i think not." and then he was curtly requested to ask no more questions. what was he to do with the girl? while the young earl and the lawyers were still pondering the question of her legitimacy, the girl, whether a lady anna and a cousin,--or a mere nobody, who was trying to rob the family,--was to be left on his hands! why,--oh, why had he allowed himself to be talked out of his own opinion? why had he ever permitted her to be invited to his rectory? ah, how the title stuck in his throat as he asked her to take the customary glass of wine with him at dinner-time that evening! on reaching london, towards the end of august, lord lovel found that the solicitor-general was out of town. sir william had gone down to somersetshire with the intention of saying some comforting words to his constituents. mr. flick knew nothing of his movements; but his clerk was found, and his clerk did not expect him back in london till october. but, in answer to lord lovel's letter, sir william undertook to come up for one day. sir william was a man who quite recognised the importance of the case he had in hand. "engaged to the tailor,--is she?" he said; not, however, with any look of surprise. "but, sir william,--you will not repeat this, even to mr. flick, or to mr. hardy. i have promised lady anna that it shall not go beyond you." "if she sticks to her bargain, it cannot be kept secret very long;--nor would she wish it. it's just what we might have expected, you know." "you wouldn't say so if you knew her." "h--m. i'm older than you, lord lovel. you see, she had nobody else near her. a girl must cotton to somebody, and who was there? we ought not to be angry with her." "but it shocks me so." "well, yes. as far as i can learn his father and he have stood by them very closely;--and did so, too, when there seemed to be but little hope. but they might be paid for all they did at a less rate than that. if she sticks to him nobody can beat him out of it. what i mean is, that it was all fair game. he ran his chance, and did it in a manly fashion." the earl did not quite understand sir william, who seemed to take almost a favourable view of these monstrous betrothals. "what i mean is, that nobody can touch him, or find fault with him. he has not carried her away, and got up a marriage before she was of age. he hasn't kept her from going out among her friends. he hasn't--wronged her, i suppose?" "i think he has wronged her frightfully." "ah,--well. we mean different things. i am obliged to look at it as the world will look at it." "think of the disgrace of such a marriage;--to a tailor." "whose father had advanced her mother some five or six thousand pounds to help her to win back her position. that's about the truth of it. we must look at it all round, you know." "you think, then, that nothing should be done?" "i think that everything should be done that can be done. we have the mother on our side. very probably we may have old thwaite on our side. from what you say, it is quite possible that at this very moment the girl herself may be on our side. let her remain at yoxham as long as you can get her to stay, and let everything be done to flatter and amuse her. go down again yourself, and play the lover as well as i do not doubt you know how to do it." it was clear then that the great legal pundit did not think that an earl should be ashamed to carry on his suit to a lady who had confessed her attachment to a journeyman tailor. "it will be a trouble to us all, of course, because we must change our plan when the case comes on in november." "but you still think that she is the heiress?" "so strongly, that i feel all but sure of it. we shouldn't, in truth, have had a leg to stand on, and we couldn't fight it. i may as well tell you at once, my lord, that we couldn't do it with any chance of success. and what should we have gained had we done so? nothing! unless we could prove that the real wife were dead, we should have been fighting for that italian woman, whom i most thoroughly believe to be an impostor." "then there is nothing to be done?" "very little in that way. but if the young lady be determined to marry the tailor, i think we should simply give notice that we withdraw our opposition to the english ladies, and state that we had so informed the woman who asserts her own claim and calls herself a countess in sicily; and we should let the italian woman know that we had done so. in such case, for aught anybody can say here, she might come forward with her own case. she would find men here who would take it up on speculation readily enough. there would be a variety of complications, and no doubt very great delay. in such an event we should question very closely the nature of the property; as, for aught i have seen as yet, a portion of it might revert to you as real estate. it is very various,--and it is not always easy to declare at once what is real and what personal. hitherto you have appeared as contesting the right of the english widow to her rank, and not necessarily as a claimant of the estate. the italian widow, if a widow, would be the heir, and not your lordship. for that, among other reasons, the marriage would be most expedient. if the italian countess were to succeed in proving that the earl had a wife living when he married miss murray,--which i feel sure he had not,--then we should come forward again with our endeavours to show that that first wife had died since,--as the earl himself undoubtedly declared more than once. it would be a long time before the tailor got his money with his wife. the feeling of the court would be against him." "could we buy the tailor, sir william?" the solicitor-general nursed his leg before he answered. "mr. flick could answer that question better than i can do. in fact, mr. flick should know it all. the matter is too heavy for secrets, lord lovel." chapter xix. lady anna returns to london. after the earl was gone lady anna had but a bad time of it at yoxham. she herself could not so far regain her composure as to live on as though no disruption had taken place. she knew that she was in disgrace, and the feeling was dreadful to her. the two ladies were civil, and tried to make the house pleasant, but they were not cordial as they had been hitherto. for one happy halcyon week,--for a day or two before the earl had come, and for those bright days during which he had been with them,--she had found herself to be really admitted into the inner circle as one of the family. mrs. lovel had been altogether gracious with her. minnie had been her darling little friend. aunt julia had been so far won as to be quite alive to the necessity of winning. the rector himself had never quite given way,--had never been so sure of his footing as to feel himself safe in abandoning all power of receding; but the effect of this had been to put the rector himself, rather than his guest, into the back ground. the servants had believed in her, and even mrs. grimes had spoken in her praise,--expressing an opinion that she was almost good enough for the young earl. all yoxham had known that the two young people were to be married, and all yoxham had been satisfied. but now everything was wrong. the earl had fled, and all yoxham knew that everything was wrong. it was impossible that her position should be as it had been. there were consultations behind her back as to what should be done, of which,--though she heard no word of them,--she was aware. she went out daily in the carriage with mrs. lovel, but aunt julia did not go with them. aunt julia on these occasions remained at home discussing the momentous affair with her brother. what should be done? there was a great dinner-party, specially convened to do honour to the earl's return, and not among them a single guest who had not heard that there was to be a marriage. the guests came to see, not only the earl, but the earl's bride. when they arrived the earl had flown. mrs. lovel expressed her deep sorrow that business of great importance had made it necessary that the earl should go to london. lady anna was, of course, introduced to the strangers; but it was evident to the merest tyro in such matters, that she was not introduced as would have been a bride expectant. they had heard how charming she was, how all the lovels had accepted her, how deeply was the earl in love; and, lo, she sat in the house silent and almost unregarded. of course, the story of the lawsuit, with such variations as rumour might give it, was known to them all. a twelvemonth ago,--nay, at a period less remote than that,--the two female claimants in cumberland had always been spoken of in those parts as wretched, wicked, vulgar impostors. then came the reaction. lady anna was the heiress, and lady anna was to be the countess. it had flown about the country during the last ten days that there was no one like the lady anna. now they came to see her, and another reaction had set in. she was the lady anna they must suppose. all the lovels, even the rector, so called her. mrs. lovel introduced her as lady anna lovel, and the rector,--hating himself as he did so,--led her out to dinner though there was a baronet's wife in the room,--the wife of a baronet who dated back from james i. she was the lady anna, and therefore the heiress;--but it was clear to them all that there was to be no marriage. "then poor lord lovel will absolutely not have enough to starve upon," said the baronet's wife to the baronet, as soon as the carriage door had been shut upon them. what were they to do with her? the dinner party had taken place on a wednesday,--the day after the earl's departure; and on the thursday aunt julia wrote to her nephew thus:- yoxham rectory, 3rd september. my dear frederic, my brother wishes me to write to you and say that we are all here very uneasy about lady anna. we have only heard from her that the match which was contemplated is not to take place. whether that be so from unwillingness on her part or yours we have never yet been told;--but both to your aunt jane and myself she speaks of it as though the decision were irrevocable. what had we better do? of course, it is our most anxious desire,--as it is our pleasure and our duty,--to arrange everything according to your wishes and welfare. nothing can be of so much importance to any of us in this world as your position in it. if it is your wish that lady anna should remain here, of course she shall remain. but if, in truth, there is no longer any prospect of a marriage, will not her longer sojourn beneath your uncle's roof be a trouble to all of us,--and especially to her? your aunt jane thinks that it may be only a lover's quarrel. for myself, i feel sure that you would not have left us as you did, had it not been more than that. i think that you owe it to your uncle to write to me,--or to him, if you like it better,--and to give us some clue to the state of things. i must not conceal from you the fact that my brother has never felt convinced, as you do, that lady anna's mother was, in truth, the countess lovel. at your request, and in compliance with the advice of the solicitor-general, he has been willing to receive her here; and, as she has been here, he has given her the rank which she claims. he took her out to dinner yesterday before lady fitzwarren,--which will never be forgiven should it turn out ultimately that the first wife was alive when the earl married anna's mother. of course, while here she must be treated as lady anna lovel; but my brother does not wish to be forced so to do, if it be intended that any further doubt should be raised. in such case he desires to be free to hold his former opinion. therefore pray write to us, and tell us what you wish to have done. i can assure you that we are at present very uncomfortable. believe me to be, my dear frederic, your most affectionate aunt, julia lovel. the earl received this before his interview with sir william, but left it unanswered till after he had seen that gentleman. then he wrote as follows:- carlton club, 5th september, 183--. my dear aunt julia, will you tell my uncle that i think you had better get lady anna to stay at the rectory as long as possible. i'll let you know all about it very soon. best love to aunt jane. i am, your affectionate nephew, lovel. this very short epistle was most unsatisfactory to the rector, but it was felt by them all that nothing could be done. with such an injunction before them, they could not give the girl a hint that they wished her to go. what uncle or what aunt, with such a nephew as lord lovel, so noble and so poor, could turn out an heiress with twenty thousand a year, as long as there was the slightest chance of a marriage? not a doubt would have rankled in their minds had they been quite sure that she was the heiress. but, as it was, the earl ought to have said more than he did say. "i cannot keep myself from feeling sometimes that frederic does take liberties with me," the rector said to his sister. but he submitted. it was a part of the religion of the family,--and no little part,--that they should cling to their head and chief. what would the world have been to them if they could not talk with comfortable ease and grace of their nephew frederic? during this time anna spoke more than once to mrs. lovel as to her going. "i have been a long time here," she said, "and i'm sure that i am in mr. lovel's way." "not in the least, my dear. if you are happy, pray stay with us." this was before the arrival of the brief epistle,--when they were waiting to know whether they were to dismiss their guest from yoxham, or to retain her. "as for being happy, nobody can be happy, i think, till all this is settled. i will write to mamma, and tell her that i had better return to her. mamma is all alone." "i don't know that i can advise, my dear; but as far as we are concerned, we shall be very glad if you can stay." the brief epistle had not then arrived, and they were, in truth, anxious that she should go;--but one cannot tell one's visitor to depart from one's house without a downright rupture. not even the rector himself dared to make such rupture, without express sanction from the earl. then lady anna, feeling that she must ask advice, wrote to her mother. the countess had answered her last letter with great severity,--that letter in which the daughter had declared that people ought not to be asked to marry for money. the countess, whose whole life had made her stern and unbending, said very hard things to her child; had told her that she was ungrateful and disobedient, unmindful of her family, neglectful of her duty, and willing to sacrifice the prosperity and happiness of all belonging to her, for some girlish feeling of mere romance. the countess was sure that her daughter would never forgive herself in after years, if she now allowed to pass by this golden opportunity of remedying all the evil that her father had done. "you are simply asked to do that which every well-bred girl in england would be delighted to do," wrote the countess. "ah! she does not know," said lady anna. but there had come upon her now a fear heavier and more awful than that which she entertained for her mother. earl lovel knew her secret, and earl lovel was to tell it to the solicitor-general. she hardly doubted that it might as well be told to all the judges on the bench at once. would it not be better that she should be married to daniel thwaite out of hand, and so be freed from the burden of any secret? the young lord had been thoroughly ashamed of her when she told it. those aunts at yoxham would hardly speak to her if they knew it. that lady before whom she had been made to walk out to dinner, would disdain to sit in the same room with her if she knew it. it must be known,--must be known to them all. but she need not remain there, beneath their eyes, while they learned it. her mother must know it, and it would be better that she should tell her mother. she would tell her mother,--and request that she might have permission to return at once to the lodgings in wyndham street. so she wrote the following letter,--in which, as the reader will perceive, she could not even yet bring herself to tell her secret:- yoxham rectory, monday. my dear mamma, i want you to let me come home, because i think i have been here long enough. lord lovel has gone away, and though you are so very angry, it is better i should tell you that we are not any longer friends. dear, dear, dearest mamma; i am so very unhappy that you should not be pleased with me. i would die to-morrow if i could make you happy. but it is all over now, and he would not do it even if i could say that it should be so. he has gone away, and is in london, and would tell you so himself if you would ask him. he despises me, as i always knew he would,--and so he has gone away. i don't think anything of myself, because i knew it must be so; but i am so very unhappy because you will be unhappy. i don't think they want to have me here any longer, and of course there is no reason why they should. they were very nice to me before all this happened, and they never say anything illnatured to me now. but it is very different, and there cannot be any good in remaining. you are all alone, and i think you would be glad to see your poor anna, even though you are so angry with her. pray let me come home. i could start very well on friday, and i think i will do so, unless i hear from you to the contrary. i can take my place by the coach, and go away at twelve o'clock from york, and be at that place in london on saturday at eleven. i must take my place on thursday. i have plenty of money, as i have not spent any since i have been here. of course sarah will come with me. she is not nearly so nice since she knew that lord lovel was to go away. dear mamma, i do love you so much. your most affectionate daughter, anna. it was not wilfully that the poor girl gave her mother no opportunity of answering her before she had taken her place by the coach. on thursday morning the place had to be taken, and on thursday evening she got her mother's letter. by the same post came the earl's letter to his aunt, desiring that lady anna might, if possible, be kept at yoxham. the places were taken, and it was impossible. "i don't see why you should go," said aunt julia, who clearly perceived that her nephew had been instigated to pursue the marriage scheme since he had been in town. lady anna urged that the money had been paid for two places by the coach. "my brother could arrange that, i do not doubt," said aunt julia. but the countess now expected her daughter, and lady anna stuck to her resolve. her mother's letter had not been propitious to the movement. if the places were taken, of course she must come. so said the countess. it was not simply that the money should not be lost, but that the people at yoxham must not be allowed to think that her daughter was over anxious to stay. "does your mamma want to have you back?" asked aunt julia. lady anna would not say that her mother wanted her back, but simply pleaded again that the places had been taken. when the morning came for her departure, the carriage was ordered to take her into york, and the question arose as to who should go with her. it was incumbent on the rector, who held an honorary stall in the cathedral, to be with the dean and his brother prebendaries on that day, and the use of his own carriage would be convenient to him. "i think i'll have the gig," said the rector. "my dear charles," pleaded his sister, "surely that will be foolish. she can't hurt you." "i don't know that," said the rector. "i think she has hurt me very much already. i shouldn't know how to talk to her." "you may be sure that frederic means to go on with it," said mrs. lovel. "it would have been better for frederic if he had never seen her," said the rector; "and i'm sure it would have been better for me." but he consented at last, and he himself handed lady anna into the carriage. mrs. lovel accompanied them, but aunt julia made her farewells in the rectory drawing-room. she managed to get the girl to herself for a moment or two, and thus she spoke to her. "i need not tell you that, for yourself, my dear, i like you very much." "oh, thank you, miss lovel." "i have heartily wished that you might be our frederic's wife." "it can never be," said lady anna. "i won't give up all hope. i don't pretend to understand what there is amiss between you and frederic, but i won't give it up. if it is to be so, i hope that you and i may be loving friends till i die. give me a kiss, my dear." lady anna, whose eyes were suffused with tears, threw herself into the arms of the elder lady and embraced her. mrs. lovel also kissed her, and bade god bless her as she parted from her at the coach door; but the rector was less demonstrative. "i hope you will have a pleasant journey," he said, taking off his clerical hat. "let it go as it may," said mrs. lovel, as she walked into the close with her husband, "you may take my word, she's a good girl." "i'm afraid she's sly," said the rector. "she's no more sly than i am," said mrs. lovel, who herself was by no means sly. chapter xx. lady anna's reception. the countess went into the city to meet her daughter at the saracen's head, whither the york coach used to run, and received her almost in silence. "oh, mamma, dear mamma," said lady anna, "i am so glad to be back with you again." sarah, the lady's-maid, was there, useless, officious, and long-eared. the countess said almost nothing; she submitted to be kissed, and she asked after the luggage. at that time she had heard the whole story about daniel thwaite. the solicitor-general had disregarded altogether his client's injunctions as to secrecy. he had felt that in a matter of so great importance it behoved him to look to his client's interests, rather than his client's instructions. this promise of a marriage with the tailor's son must be annihilated. on behalf of the whole lovel family it was his duty, as he thought, to see that this should be effected, if possible,--and as quickly as possible. this was his duty, not only as a lawyer employed in a particular case, but as a man who would be bound to prevent any great evil which he saw looming in the future. in his view of the case the marriage of lady anna lovel, with a colossal fortune, to daniel thwaite the tailor, would be a grievous injury to the social world of his country,--and it was one of those evils which may probably be intercepted by due and discreet precautions. no doubt the tailor wanted money. the man was entitled to some considerable reward for all that he had done and all that he had suffered in the cause. but sir william could not himself propose the reward. he could not chaffer for terms with the tailor. he could not be seen in that matter. but having heard the secret from the earl, he thought that he could get the work done. so he sent for mr. flick, the attorney, and told mr. flick all that he knew. "gone and engaged herself to the tailor!" said mr. flick, holding up both his hands. then sir william took lady anna's part. after all, such an engagement was not,--as he thought,--unnatural. it had been made while she was very young, when she knew no other man of her own age in life, when she was greatly indebted to this man, when she had had no opportunity of measuring a young tailor against a young lord. she had done it probably in gratitude;--so said sir william;--and now clung to it from good faith rather than affection. neither was he severe upon the tailor. he was a man especially given to make excuses for poor weak, erring, unlearned mortals, ignorant of the law,--unless when a witness attempted to be impervious;--and now he made excuses for daniel thwaite. the man might have done so much worse than he was doing. there seemed already to be a noble reliance on himself in his conduct. lord lovel thought that there had been no correspondence while the young lady had been at yoxham. there might have been, but had not been, a clandestine marriage. other reasons he gave why daniel thwaite should not be regarded as altogether villanous. but, nevertheless, the tailor must not be allowed to carry off the prize. the prize was too great for him. what must be done? sir william condescended to ask mr. flick what he thought ought to be done. "no doubt we should be very much guided by you, mr. solicitor," said mr. flick. "one thing is, i think, plain, mr. flick. you must see the countess and tell her, or get mr. goffe to do so. it is clear that she has been kept in the dark between them. at present they are all living together in the same house. she had better leave the place and go elsewhere. they should be kept apart, and the girl, if necessary, should be carried abroad." "i take it there is a difficulty about money, mr. solicitor." "there ought to be none,--and i will take it upon myself to say that there need be none. it is a case in which the court will willingly allow money out of the income of the property. the thing is so large that there should be no grudging of money for needful purposes. seeing what prim㢠facie claims these ladies have, they are bound to allow them to live decently, in accordance with their alleged rank, till the case is settled. no doubt she is the heiress." "you feel quite sure, sir william?" "i do;--though, as i have said before, it is a case of feeling sure, and not being sure. had that italian woman been really the widow, somebody would have brought her case forward more loudly." "but if the other italian woman who died was the wife?" "you would have found it out when you were there. somebody from the country would have come to us with evidence, knowing how much we could afford to pay for it. mind you, the matter has been tried before, in another shape. the old earl was indicted for bigamy and acquitted. we are bound to regard that young woman as lady anna lovel, and we are bound to regard her and her mother conjointly as co-heiresses, in different degrees, to all the personal property which the old earl left behind him. we can't with safety take any other view. there will still be difficulties in their way;--and very serious difficulties, were she to marry this tailor; but, between you and me, he would eventually get the money. perhaps, mr. flick, you had better see him. you would know how to get at his views without compromising anybody. but, in the first place, let the countess know everything. after what has been done, you won't have any difficulty in meeting mr. goffe." mr. flick had no difficulty in seeing mr. goffe,--though he felt that there would be very much difficulty in seeing mr. daniel thwaite. he did tell mr. goffe the story of the wicked tailor,--by no means making those excuses which the solicitor-general had made for the man's presumptuous covetousness. "i knew the trouble we should have with that man," said mr. goffe, who had always disliked the thwaites. then mr. flick went on to say that mr. goffe had better tell the countess,--and mr. goffe on this point agreed with his adversary. two or three days after that, but subsequently to the date of the last letter which the mother had written to her daughter, lady lovel was told that lady anna was engaged to marry mr. daniel thwaite. she had suspected how it might be; her heart had for the last month been heavy with the dread of this great calamity; she had made her plans with the view of keeping the two apart; she had asked her daughter questions founded on this very fear;--and yet she could not for a while be brought to believe it. how did mr. goffe know? mr. goffe had heard it from mr. flick, who had heard it from sir william patterson; to whom the tale had been told by lord lovel. "and who told lord lovel?" said the countess flashing up in anger. "no doubt lady anna did so," said the attorney. but in spite of her indignation she could retain her doubts. the attorney, however, was certain. "there could be no hope but that it was so." she still pretended not to believe it, though fully intending to take all due precautions in the matter. since mr. goffe thought that it would be prudent, she would remove to other lodgings. she would think of that plan of going abroad. she would be on her guard, she said. but she would not admit it to be possible that lady anna lovel, the daughter of earl lovel, her daughter, should have so far disgraced herself. but she did believe it. her heart had in truth told her that it was true at the first word the lawyer had spoken to her. how blind she must have been not to have known it! how grossly stupid not to have understood those asseverations from the girl, that the marriage with her cousin was impossible! her child had not only deceived her, but had possessed cunning enough to maintain her deception. it must have been going on for at least the last twelvemonth, and she, the while, had been kept in the dark by the manoeuvres of a simple girl! and then she thought of the depth of the degradation which was prepared for her. had she passed twenty years of unintermittent combat for this,--that when all had been done, when at last success was won, when the rank and wealth of her child had been made positively secure before the world, when she was about to see the unquestioned coronet of a countess placed upon her child's brow,--all should be destroyed through a passion so mean as this! would it not have been better to have died in poverty and obscurity,--while there were yet doubts,--before any assured disgrace had rested on her? but, oh! to have proved that she was a countess, and her child the heiress of an earl, in order that the lady anna lovel might become the wife of daniel thwaite, the tailor! she made many resolutions; but the first was this, that she would never smile upon the girl again till this baseness should have been abandoned. she loved her girl as only mothers do love. more devoted than the pelican, she would have given her heart's blood,--had given all her life,--not only to nurture, but to aggrandize her child. the establishment of her own position, her own honour, her own name, was to her but the incidental result of her daughter's emblazonment in the world. the child which she had borne to earl lovel, and which the father had stigmatised as a bastard, should by her means be known as the lady anna, the heiress of that father's wealth,--the wealthiest, the fairest, the most noble of england's daughters. then there had come the sweet idea that this high-born heiress of the lovels, should herself become countess lovel, and the mother had risen higher in her delighted pride. it had all been for her child! had she not loved as a mother, and with all a mother's tenderness? and for what? she would love still, but she would never again be tender till her daughter should have repudiated her base,--her monstrous engagement. she bound up all her faculties to harshness, and a stern resolution. her daughter had been deceitful, and she would now be ruthless. there might be suffering, but had not she suffered? there might be sorrow, but had not she sorrowed? there might be a contest, but had not she ever been contesting? sooner than that the tailor should reap the fruit of her labours,--labours which had been commenced when she first gave herself in marriage to that dark, dreadful man,--sooner than that her child should make ignoble the blood which it had cost her so much to ennoble, she would do deeds which should make even the wickedness of her husband child's play in the world's esteem. it was in this mood of mind that she went to meet her daughter at the saracen's head. she had taken fresh lodgings very suddenly,--in keppel street, near russell square, a long way from wyndham street. she had asked mr. goffe to recommend her a place, and he had sent her to an old lady with whom he himself had lodged in his bachelor's days. keppel street cannot be called fashionable, and russell square is not much affected by the nobility. nevertheless the house was superior in all qualifications to that which she was now leaving, and the rent was considerably higher. but the affairs of the countess in regard to money were in the ascendant; and mr. goffe did not scruple to take for her a "genteel" suite of drawing-rooms,--two rooms with folding-doors, that is,--with the bedrooms above, first-class lodging-house attendance, and a garret for the lady's-maid. "and then it will be quite close to mrs. bluestone," said mr. goffe, who knew of that intimacy. the drive in a glass coach home from the coach-yard to keppel street was horrible to lady anna. not a word was spoken, as sarah, the lady's-maid, sat with them in the carriage. once or twice the poor girl tried to get hold of her mother's hand, in order that she might entice something of a caress. but the countess would admit of no such softness, and at last withdrew her hand roughly. "oh mamma!" said lady anna, unable to suppress her dismay. but the countess said never a word. sarah, the lady's-maid, began to think that there must be a second lover. "is this wyndham street?" said lady anna when the coach stopped. "no, my dear;--this is not wyndham street. i have taken another abode. this is where we are to live. if you will get out i will follow you, and sarah will look to the luggage." then the daughter entered the house, and met the old woman curtseying to her. she at once felt that she had been removed from contact with daniel thwaite, and was sure that her mother knew her story. "that is your room," said her mother. "you had better get your things off. are you tired?" "oh! so tired!" and lady anna burst into tears. "what will you have?" "oh, nothing! i think i will go to bed, mamma. why are you unkind to me? do tell me. anything is better than that you should be unkind." "anna,--have not you been unkind to me?" "never, mamma;--never. i have never meant to be unkind. i love you better than all the world. i have never been unkind. but, you;--oh, mamma, if you look at me like that, i shall die." "is it true that you have promised that you would be the wife of mr. daniel thwaite?" "mamma!" "is it true? i will be open with you. mr. goffe tells me that you have refused lord lovel, telling him that you must do so because you were engaged to mr. daniel thwaite. is that true?" "yes, mamma;--it is true." "and you have given your word to that man?" "i have, mamma." "and yet you told me that there was no one else when i spoke to you of lord lovel? you lied to me?" the girl sat confounded, astounded, without power of utterance. she had travelled from york to london, inside one of those awful vehicles of which we used to be so proud when we talked of our stage coaches. she was thoroughly weary and worn out. she had not breakfasted that morning, and was sick and ill at ease, not only in heart, but in body also. of course it was so. her mother knew that it was so. but this was no time for fond compassion. it would be better, far better that she should die than that she should not be compelled to abandon this grovelling abasement. "then you lied to me?" repeated the countess still standing over her. "oh, mamma, you mean to kill me." "i would sooner die here, at your feet, this moment, and know that you must follow me within an hour, than see you married to such a one as that. you shall never marry him. though i went into court myself and swore that i was that lord's mistress,--that i knew it when i went to him,--that you were born a brat beyond the law, that i had lived a life of perjury, i would prevent such greater disgrace as this. it shall never be. i will take you away where he shall never hear of you. as to the money, it shall go to the winds, so that he shall never touch it. do you think that it is you that he cares for? he has heard of all this wealth,--and you are but the bait upon his hook to catch it." "you do not know him, mamma." "will you tell me of him, that i do not know him; impudent slut! did i not know him before you were born? have i not known him all through? will you give me your word of honour that you will never see him again?" lady anna tried to think, but her mind would not act for her. everything was turning round, and she became giddy and threw herself on the bed. "answer me, anna. will you give me your word of honour that you will never see him again?" she might still have said yes. she felt that enough of speech was left to her for so small an effort,--and she knew that if she did so the agony of the moment would pass away from her. with that one word spoken her mother would be kind to her, and would wait upon her; would bring her tea, and would sit by her bedside, and caress her. but she too was a lovel, and she was, moreover, the daughter of her who once had been josephine murray. "i cannot say that, mamma," she said, "because i have promised." her mother dashed from the room, and she was left alone upon the bed. chapter xxi. daniel and the lawyer. it has been said that the countess, when she sent her daughter down to yoxham, laid her plans with the conviction that the associations to which the girl would be subjected among the lovels would fill her heart and mind with a new-born craving for the kind of life which she would find in the rector's family;--and she had been right. daniel thwaite also had known that it would be so. he had been quite alive to the fact that he and his conversation would be abased, and that his power, both of pleasing and of governing, would be lessened, by this new contact. but, had he been able to hinder her going, he would not have done so. none of those who were now interested in his conduct knew aught of the character of this man. sir william patterson had given him credit for some honesty, but even he had not perceived,--had had no opportunity of perceiving,--the staunch uprightness which was as it were a backbone to the man in all his doings. he was ambitious, discontented, sullen, and tyrannical. he hated the domination of others, but was prone to domineer himself. he suspected evil of all above him in rank, and the millennium to which he looked forward was to be produced by the gradual extirpation of all social distinctions. gentlemen, so called, were to him as savages, which had to be cleared away in order that that perfection might come at last which the course of nature was to produce in obedience to the ordinances of the creator. but he was a man who reverenced all laws,--and a law, if recognised as a law, was a law to him whether enforced by a penalty, or simply exigent of obedience from his conscience. this girl had been thrown in his way, and he had first pitied and then loved her from his childhood. she had been injured by the fiendish malice of her own father,--and that father had been an earl. he had been strong in fighting for the rights of the mother,--not because it had been the mother's right to be a countess,--but in opposition to the earl. at first,--indeed throughout all these years of conflict, except the last year,--there had been a question, not of money, but of right. the wife was entitled to due support,--to what measure of support daniel had never known or inquired; but the daughter had been entitled to nothing. the earl, had he made his will before he was mad,--or, more probably, had he not destroyed, when mad, the will which he had before made,--might and would have left the girl without a shilling. in those days, when daniel's love was slowly growing, when he wandered about with the child among the rocks, when the growing girl had first learned to swear to him that he should always be her friend of friends, when the love of the boy had first become the passion of the man, there had been no thought of money in it. money! had he not been well aware from his earliest understanding of the need of money for all noble purposes, that the earnings of his father, which should have made the world to him a world of promise, were being lavished in the service of these forlorn women? he had never complained. they were welcome to it all. that young girl was all the world to him; and it was right that all should be spent; as though she had been a sister, as though she had already been his wife. there had been no plot then by which he was to become rich on the earl's wealth. then had come the will, and the young earl's claims, and the general belief of men in all quarters that the young earl was to win everything. what was left of the tailor's savings was still being spent on behalf of the countess. the first fee that ever found its way into the pocket of serjeant bluestone had come from the diminished hoard of old thomas thwaite. then the will had been set aside; and gradually the cause of the countess had grown to be in the ascendant. was he to drop his love, to confess himself unworthy, and to slink away out of her sight, because the girl would become an heiress? was he even to conceive so badly of her as to think that she would drop her love because she was an heiress? there was no such humility about him,--nor such absence of self-esteem. but, as regarded her, he told himself at once that she should have the chance of being base and noble,--all base, and all noble as far as title and social standing could make her so,--if such were her desire. he had come to her and offered her her freedom;--had done so, indeed, with such hot language of indignant protest against the gilded gingerbread of her interested suitor, as would have frightened her from the acceptance of his offer had she been minded to accept it;--but his words had been hot, not from a premeditated purpose to thwart his own seeming liberality, but because his nature was hot and his temper imperious. this lordling was ready to wed his bride,--the girl he had known and succoured throughout their joint lives,--simply because she was rich and the lordling was a pauper. from the bottom of his heart he despised the lordling. he had said to himself a score of times that he could be well content to see the lord take the money, waste it among thieves and prostitutes, and again become a pauper, while he had the girl to sit with him at his board, and share with him the earnings of his honest labour. of course he had spoken out. but the girl should be at liberty to do as she pleased. he wrote no line to her before she went, or while she was at yoxham, nor did he speak a word concerning her during her absence. but as he sat at his work, or walked to and fro between his home and the shop, or lay sleepless in bed, all his thoughts were of her. twice or thrice a week he would knock at the door of the countess's room, and say a word or two, as was rendered natural by their long previous intercourse. but there had been no real intercourse between them. the countess told him nothing of her plans; nor did he ever speak to her of his. each suspected the other; and each was grimly civil. once or twice the countess expressed a hope that the money advanced by thomas thwaite might soon be repaid to him with much interest. daniel would always treat the subject with a noble indifference. his father, he said, had never felt an hour's regret at having parted with his money. should it, perchance, come back to him, he would take it, no doubt, with thanks. then he heard one evening, as he returned from his work, that the countess was about to remove herself on the morrow to another home. the woman of the house, who told him, did not know where the countess had fixed her future abode. he passed on up to his bedroom, washed his hands, and immediately went down to his fellow-lodger. after the first ordinary greeting, which was cold and almost unkind, he at once asked his question. "they tell me that you go from this to-morrow lady lovel." she paused a moment, and then bowed her head. "where is it that you are going to live?" she paused again, and paused long, for she had to think what answer she would make him. "do you object to let me know?" he asked. "mr. thwaite, i must object." then at that moment there came upon him the memory of all that he and his father had done, and not the thought of that which he intended to do. this was the gratitude of a countess! "in that case of course i shall not ask again. i had hoped that we were friends." "of course we are friends. your father has been the best friend i ever had. i shall write to your father and let him know. i am bound to let your father know all that i do. but at present my case is in the hands of my lawyers, and they have advised that i should tell no one in london where i live." "then good evening, lady lovel. i beg your pardon for having intruded." he left the room without another word, throwing off the dust from his feet as he went with violent indignation. he and she must now be enemies. she had told him that she would separate herself from him,--and they must be separated. could he have expected better things from a declared countess? but how would it be with lady anna? she also had a title. she also would have wealth she might become a countess if she wished it. let him only know by one sign from her that she did wish it, and he would take himself off at once to the farther side of the globe, and live in a world contaminated by no noble lords and titled ladies. as it happened the countess might as well have given him the address, as the woman at the lodgings informed him on the next morning that the countess had removed herself to no. ---keppel street. he did not doubt that lady anna was about to return to london. that quick removal would not otherwise have been made. but what mattered it to him whether she were at yoxham or in keppel street? he could do nothing. there would come a time,--but it had not come as yet,--when he must go to the girl boldly, let her be guarded as she might, and demand her hand. but the demand must be made to herself and herself only. when that time came there should be no question of money. whether she were the undisturbed owner of hundreds of thousands, or a rejected claimant to her father's name, the demand should be made in the same tone and with the same assurance. he knew well the whole history of her life. she had been twenty years old last may, and it was now september. when the next spring should come round she would be her own mistress, free to take herself from her mother's hands, and free to give herself to whom she would. he did not say that nothing should be done during those eight months; but, according to his lights, he could not make his demand with full force till she was a woman, as free from all legal control, as was he as a man. the chances were much against him. he knew what were the allurements of luxury. there were moments in which he told himself that of course she would fall into the nets that were spread for her. but then again there would grow within his bosom a belief in truth and honesty which would buoy him up. how grand would be his victory, how great the triumph of a human soul's nobility, if, after all these dangers, if after all the enticements of wealth and rank, the girl should come to him, and lying on his bosom, should tell him that she had never wavered from him through it all! of this, at any rate, he assured himself,--that he would not go prying, with clandestine manoeuvres, about that house in keppel street. the countess might have told him where she intended to live without increasing her danger. while things were in this state with him he received a letter from messrs. norton and flick, the attorneys, asking him to call on mr. flick at their chambers in lincoln's inn. the solicitor-general had suggested to the attorney that he should see the man, and mr. flick had found himself bound to obey; but in truth he hardly knew what to say to daniel thwaite. it must be his object of course to buy off the tailor; but such arrangements are difficult, and require great caution. and then mr. flick was employed by earl lovel, and this man was the friend of the earl's opponents in the case. mr. flick did feel that the solicitor-general was moving into great irregularities in this cause. the cause itself was no doubt peculiar,--unlike any other cause with which mr. flick had become acquainted in his experience; there was no saying at the present moment who had opposed interests, and who combined interests in the case; but still etiquette is etiquette, and mr. flick was aware that such a house as that of messrs. norton and flick should not be irregular. nevertheless he sent for daniel thwaite. after having explained who he was, which daniel knew very well, without being told, mr. flick began his work. "you are aware, mr. thwaite, that the friends on both sides are endeavouring to arrange this question amicably without any further litigation." "i am aware that the friends of lord lovel, finding that they have no ground to stand on at law, are endeavouring to gain their object by other means." "no, mr. thwaite. i cannot admit that for a moment. that would be altogether an erroneous view of the proceeding." "is lady anna lovel the legitimate daughter of the late earl?" "that is what we do not know. that is what nobody knows. you are not a lawyer, mr. thwaite, or you would be aware that there is nothing more difficult to decide than questions of legitimacy. it has sometimes taken all the courts a century to decide whether a marriage is a marriage or not. you have heard of the great macfarlane case. to find out who was the macfarlane they had to go back a hundred and twenty years, and at last decide on the memory of a man whose grandmother had told him that she had seen a woman wearing a wedding-ring. the case cost over forty thousand pounds, and took nineteen years. as far as i can see this is more complicated even than that. we should in all probability have to depend on the proceedings of the courts in sicily, and you and i would never live to see the end of it." "you would live on it, mr. flick, which is more than i could do." "mr. thwaite, that i think is a very improper observation; but, however--. my object is to explain to you that all these difficulties may be got over by a very proper and natural alliance between earl lovel and the lady who is at present called by courtesy lady anna lovel." "by the crown's courtesy, mr. flick," said the tailor, who understood the nature of the titles which he hated. "we allow the name, i grant you, at present; and are anxious to promote the marriage. we are all most anxious to bring to a close this ruinous litigation. now, i am told that the young lady feels herself hampered by some childish promise that has been made--to you." daniel thwaite had expected no such announcement as this. he did not conceive that the girl would tell the story of her engagement, and was unprepared at the moment for any reply. but he was not a man to remain unready long. "do you call it childish?" he said. "i do certainly." "then what would her engagement be if now made with the earl? the engagement with me, as an engagement, is not yet twelve months old, and has been repeated within the last month. she is an infant, mr. flick, according to your language, and therefore, perhaps, a child in the eye of the law. if lord lovel wishes to marry her, why doesn't he do so? he is not hindered, i suppose, by her being a child." "any marriage with you, you know, would in fact be impossible." "a marriage with me, mr. flick, would be quite as possible as one with the lord lovel. when the lady is of age, no clergyman in england dare refuse to marry us, if the rules prescribed by law have been obeyed." "well, well, mr. thwaite; i do not want to argue with you about the law and about possibilities. the marriage would not be fitting, and you know that it would not be fitting." "it would be most unfitting,--unless the lady wished it as well as i. just as much may be said of her marriage with earl lovel. to which of us has she given her promise? which of us has she known and loved? which of us has won her by long friendship and steady regard? and which of us, mr. flick, is attracted to the marriage by the lately assured wealth of the young woman? i never understood that lord lovel was my rival when lady anna was regarded as the base-born child of the deceased madman." "i suppose, mr. thwaite, you are not indifferent to her money?" "then you suppose wrongly,--as lawyers mostly do when they take upon themselves to attribute motives." "you are not civil, mr. thwaite." "you did not send for me here, sir, in order that there should be civilities between us. but i will at least be true. in regard to lady anna's money, should it become mine by reason of her marriage with me, i will guard it for her sake, and for that of the children she may bear, with all my power. i will assert her right to it as a man should do. but my purpose in seeking her hand will neither be strengthened nor weakened by her money. i believe that it is hers. nay,--i know that the law will give it to her. on her behalf, as being betrothed to her, i defy lord lovel and all other claimants. but her money and her hand are two things apart, and i will never be governed as to the one by any regard as to the other. perhaps, mr. flick, i have said enough,--and so, good morning." then he went away. the lawyer had never dared to suggest the compromise which had been his object in sending for the man. he had not dared to ask the tailor how much ready money he would take down to abandon the lady, and thus to relieve them all from that difficulty. no doubt he exercised a wise discretion, as had he done so, daniel thwaite might have become even more uncivil than before. chapter xxii. there is a gulf fixed. "do you think that you could be happier as the wife of such a one as daniel thwaite, a creature infinitely beneath you, separated as you would be from all your kith and kin, from all whose blood you share, from me and from your family, than you would be as the bearer of a proud name, the daughter and the wife of an earl lovel,--the mother of the earl to come? i will not speak now of duty, or of fitness, or of the happiness of others which must depend upon you. it is natural that a girl should look to her own joys in marriage. do you think that your joy can consist in calling that man your husband?" it was thus that the countess spoke to her daughter, who was then lying worn out and ill on her bed in keppel street. for three days she had been subject to such addresses as this, and during those three days no word of tenderness had been spoken to her. the countess had been obdurate in her hardness,--still believing that she might thus break her daughter's spirit, and force her to abandon her engagement. but as yet she had not succeeded. the girl had been meek and, in all other things, submissive. she had not defended her conduct. she had not attempted to say that she had done well in promising to be the tailor's bride. she had shown herself willing by her silence to have her engagement regarded as a great calamity, as a dreadful evil that had come upon the whole lovel family. she had not boldness to speak to her mother as she had spoken on the subject to the earl. she threw herself entirely upon her promise, and spoke of her coming destiny as though it had been made irrevocable by her own word. "i have promised him, mamma, and have sworn that it should be so." that was the answer which she now made from her bed;--the answer which she had made a dozen times during the last three days. "is everybody belonging to you to be ruined because you once spoke a foolish word?" "mamma, it was often spoken,--very often, and he does not wish that anybody should be ruined. he told me that lord lovel might have the money." "foolish, ungrateful girl! it is not for lord lovel that i am pleading to you. it is for the name, and for your own honour. do you not constantly pray to god to keep you in that state of life to which it has pleased him to call you;--and are you not departing from it wilfully and sinfully by such an act as this?" but still lady anna continued to say that she was bound by the obligation which was upon her. on the following day the countess was frightened, believing that the girl was really ill. in truth she was ill,--so that the doctor who visited her declared that she must be treated with great care. she was harassed in spirit,--so the doctor said,--and must be taken away, so that she might be amused. the countess was frightened, but still was resolute. she not only loved her daughter,--but loved no other human being on the face of the earth. her daughter was all that she had to bind her to the world around her. but she declared to herself again and again that it would be better that her daughter should die than live and be married to the tailor. it was a case in which persecution even to the very gate of the grave would be wise and warrantable,--if by such persecution this odious, monstrous marriage might be avoided. and she did believe that persecution would avail at last. if she were only steady in her resolve, the girl would never dare to demand the right to leave her mother's house and walk off to the church to be married to daniel thwaite, without the countenance of a single friend. the girl's strength was not of that nature. but were she, the countess, to yield an inch, then this evil might come upon them. she had heard that young people can always beat their parents if they be sufficiently obdurate. parents are soft-hearted to their children, and are prone to yield. and so would she have been soft-hearted, if the interests concerned had been less important, if the deviation from duty had been less startling, or the union proposed less monstrous and disgraceful. but in this case it behoved her to be obdurate,--even though it should be to the very gates of the grave. "i swear to you," she said, "that the day of your marriage to daniel thwaite shall be the day of my death." in her straits she went to serjeant bluestone for advice. now, the serjeant had hitherto been opposed to all compromise, feeling certain that everything might be gained without the sacrifice of a single right. he had not a word to say against a marriage between the two cousins, but let the cousin who was the heiress be first placed in possession of her rights. let her be empowered, when she consented to become lady lovel, to demand such a settlement of the property as would be made on her behalf if she were the undisputed owner of the property. let her marry the lord if she would, but not do so in order that she might obtain the partial enjoyment of that which was all her own. and then, so the serjeant had argued, the widowed countess would never be held to have established absolutely her own right to her name, should any compromise be known to have been effected. people might call her countess lovel; but, behind her back, they would say that she was no countess. the serjeant had been very hot about it, especially disliking the interference of sir william. but now, when he heard this new story, his heat gave way. anything must be done that could be done;--everything must be done to prevent such a termination to the career of the two ladies as would come from a marriage with the tailor. but he was somewhat dismayed when he came to understand the condition of affairs in keppel street. "how can i not be severe?" said the countess, when he remonstrated with her. "if i were tender with her she would think that i was yielding. is not everything at stake,--everything for which my life has been devoted?" the serjeant called his wife into council, and then suggested that lady anna should spend a week or two in bedford square. he assured the countess that she might be quite sure that daniel thwaite should find no entrance within his doors. "but if lord lovel would do us the honour to visit us, we should be most happy to see him," said the serjeant. lady anna was removed to bedford square, and there became subject to treatment that was milder, but not less persistent. mrs. bluestone lectured her daily, treating her with the utmost respect, paying to her rank a deference, which was not indeed natural to the good lady, but which was assumed, so that lady anna might the better comprehend the difference between her own position and that of the tailor. the girls were told nothing of the tailor,--lest the disgrace of so unnatural a partiality might shock their young minds; but they were instructed that there was danger, and that they were always, in speaking to their guest, to take it for granted that she was to become countess lovel. her maid, sarah, went with her to the serjeant's, and was taken into a half-confidence. lady anna was never to be left a moment alone. she was to be a prisoner with gilded chains,--for whom a splendid, a glorious future was in prospect, if only she would accept it. "i really think that she likes the lord the best," said mrs. bluestone to her husband. "then why the mischief won't she have him?" this was in october, and that november term was fast approaching in which the cause was set down for trial. "i almost think she would if he'd come and ask her again. of course, i have never mentioned the other man; but when i speak to her of earl lovel, she always answers me as though she were almost in love with him. i was inquiring yesterday what sort of a man he was, and she said he was quite perfect. 'it is a thousand pities,' she said, 'that he should not have this money. he ought to have it, as he is the earl.'" "why doesn't she give it to him?" "i asked her that; but she shook, her head and said, that it could never be. i think that man has made her swear some sort of awful oath, and has frightened her." "no doubt he has made her swear an oath, but we all know how the gods regard the perjuries of lovers," said the serjeant. "we must get the young lord here when he comes back to town." "is he handsome?" asked alice bluestone, the younger daughter, who had become lady anna's special friend in the family. of course they were talking of lord lovel. "everybody says he is." "but what do you say?" "i don't think it matters much about a man being handsome,--but he is beautiful. not dark, like all the other lovels; nor yet what you call fair. i don't think that fair men ever look manly." "oh no," said alice, who was contemplating an engagement with a black-haired young barrister. "lord lovel is brown,--with blue eyes; but it is the shape of his face that is so perfect,--an oval, you know, that is not too long. but it isn't that makes him look as he does. he looks as though everybody in the world ought to do exactly what he tells them." "and why don't you, dear, do exactly what he tells you?" "ah,--that is another question. i should do many things if he told me. he is the head of our family. i think he ought to have all this money, and be a rich great man, as the earl lovel should be." "and yet you won't be his wife?" "would you,--if you had promised another man?" "have you promised another man?" "yes;--i have." "who is he, lady anna?" "they have not told you, then?" "no;--nobody has told me. i know they all want you to marry lord lovel,--and i know he wants it. i know he is quite in love with you." "ah;--i do not think that. but if he were, it could make no difference. if you had once given your word to another man, would you go back because a lord asked you?" "i don't think i would ever give my word without asking mamma." "if he had been good to you, and you had loved him always, and he had been your best friend,--what would you do then?" "who is he, lady anna?" "do not call me lady anna, or i shall not like you. i will tell you, but you must not say that i told you. only i thought everybody knew. i told lord lovel, and he, i think, has told all the world. it is mr. daniel thwaite." "mr. daniel thwaite!" said alice, who had heard enough of the case to know who the thwaites were. "he is a tailor!" "yes," said lady anna proudly; "he is a tailor." "surely that cannot be good," said alice, who, having long since felt what it was to be the daughter of a serjeant, had made up her mind that she would marry nothing lower than a barrister. "it is what you call bad, i dare say." "i don't think a tailor can be a gentleman." "i don't know. perhaps i wasn't a lady when i promised him. but i did promise. you can never know what he and his father did for us. i think we should have died only for them. you don't know how we lived;--in a little cottage, with hardly any money, with nobody to come near us but they. everybody else thought that we were vile and wicked. it is true. but they always were good to us. would not you have loved him?" "i should have loved him in a kind of way." "when one takes so much, one must give in return what one has to give," said lady anna. "do you love him still?" "of course i love him." "and you wish to be his wife?" "sometimes i think i don't. it is not that i am ashamed for myself. what would it have signified if i had gone away with him straight from cumberland, before i had ever seen my cousins? supposing that mamma hadn't been the countess--" "but she is." "so they say now;--but if they had said that she was not, nobody would have thought it wrong then for me to marry mr. thwaite." "don't you think it wrong yourself?" "it would be best for me to say that i would never marry any one at all. he would be very angry with me." "lord lovel?" "oh no;--not lord lovel. daniel would be very angry, because he really loves me. but it would not be so bad to him as though i became lord lovel's wife. i will tell you the truth, dear. i am ashamed to marry mr. thwaite,--not for myself, but because i am lord lovel's cousin and mamma's daughter. and i should be ashamed to marry lord lovel." "why, dear?" "because i should be false and ungrateful! i should be afraid to stand before him if he looked at me. you do not know how he can look. he, too, can command. he, too, is noble. they believe it is the money he wants, and when they call him a tailor, they think that he must be mean. he is not mean. he is clever, and can talk about things better than my cousin. he can work hard and give away all that he earns. and so could his father. they gave all they had to us, and have never asked it again. i kissed him once,--and then he said i had paid all my mother's debt." alice bluestone shrank within herself when she was told by this daughter of a countess of such a deed. it was horrid to her mind that a tailor should be kissed by a lady anna lovel. but she herself had perhaps been as generous to the black-browed young barrister, and had thought no harm. "they think i do not understand,--but i do. they all want this money, and then they accuse him, and say he does it that he may become rich. he would give up all the money,--just for me. how would you feel if it were like that with you?" "i think that a girl who is a lady, should never marry a man who is not a gentleman. you know the story of the rich man who could not get to abraham's bosom because there was a gulf fixed. that is how it should be;--just as there is with royal people as to marrying royalty. otherwise everything would get mingled, and there would soon be no difference. if there are to be differences, there should be differences. that is the meaning of being a gentleman,--or a lady." so spoke the young female conservative with wisdom beyond her years;--nor did she speak quite in vain. "i believe what i had better do would be to die," said lady anna. "everything would come right then." some day or two after this serjeant bluestone sent a message up to lady anna, on his return home from the courts, with a request that she would have the great kindness to come down to him in his study. the serjeant had treated her with more than all the deference due to her rank since she had been in his house, striving to teach her what it was to be the daughter of an earl and probable owner of twenty thousand a year. the serjeant, to give him his due, cared as little as most men for the peerage. he vailed his bonnet to no one but a judge,--and not always that with much ceremonious observance. but now his conduct was a part of his duty to a client whom he was determined to see established in her rights. he would have handed her her cup of tea on his knees every morning, if by doing so he could have made clear to her eyes how deep would be her degradation were she to marry the tailor. the message was now brought to her by mrs. bluestone, who almost apologized for asking her to trouble herself to walk down-stairs to the back parlour. "my dear lady anna," said the serjeant, "may i ask you to sit down for a moment or two while i speak to you? i have just left your mother." "how is dear mamma?" the serjeant assured her that the countess was well in health. at this time lady anna had not visited her mother since she had left keppel street, and had been told that lady lovel had refused to see her till she had pledged herself never to marry daniel thwaite. "i do so wish i might go to mamma!" "with all my heart i wish you could, lady anna. nothing makes such heart-burning sorrow as a family quarrel. but what can i say? you know what your mother thinks?" "couldn't you manage that she should let me go there just once?" "i hope that we can manage it;--but i want you to listen to me first. lord lovel is back in london." she pressed her lips together and fastened one hand firmly on the other. if the assurance that was required from her was ever to be exacted, it should not be exacted by serjeant bluestone. "i have seen his lordship to-day," continued the serjeant, "and he has done me the honour to promise that he will dine here to-morrow." "lord lovel?" "yes;--your cousin, earl lovel. there is no reason, i suppose, why you should not meet him? he has not offended you?" "oh no.--but i have offended him." "i think not, lady anna. he does not speak of you as though there were offence." "when we parted he would hardly look at me, because i told him--. you know what i told him." "a gentleman is not necessarily offended because a lady does not accept his first offer. many gentlemen would be offended if that were so;--and very many happy marriages would never have a chance of being made. at any rate he is coming, and i thought that perhaps you would excuse me if i endeavoured to explain how very much may depend on the manner in which you may receive him. you must feel that things are not going on quite happily now." "i am so unhappy, serjeant bluestone!" "yes, indeed. it must be so. you are likely to be placed,--i think i may say you certainly will be placed,--in such a position that the whole prosperity of a noble and ancient family must depend on what you may do. with one word you can make once more bright a fair name that has long been beneath a cloud. here in england the welfare of the state depends on the conduct of our aristocracy!" oh, serjeant bluestone, serjeant bluestone! how could you so far belie your opinion as to give expression to a sentiment utterly opposed to your own convictions! but what is there that a counsel will not do for a client? "if they whom fate and fortune have exalted, forget what the country has a right to demand from them, farewell, alas, to the glory of old england!" he had found this kind of thing very effective with twelve men, and surely it might prevail with one poor girl. "it is not for me, lady anna, to dictate to you the choice of a husband. but it has become my duty to point out to you the importance of your own choice, and to explain to you, if it may be possible, that you are not like other young ladies. you have in your hands the marring or the making of the whole family of lovel. as for that suggestion of a marriage to which you were induced to give ear by feelings of gratitude, it would, if carried out, spread desolation in the bosom of every relative to whom you are bound by the close ties of noble blood." he finished his speech, and lady anna retired without a word. chapter xxiii. bedford square. the earl, without asking any question on the subject, had found that the solicitor-general thought nothing of that objection which had weighed so heavily on his own mind, as to carrying on his suit with a girl who had been wooed successfully by a tailor. his own spirit rebelled for a while against such condescension. when lady anna had first told him that she had pledged her word to a lover low in the scale of men, the thing had seemed to him to be over. what struggle might be made to prevent the accomplishment of so base a marriage must be effected for the sake of the family, and not on his own special behoof. not even for twenty thousand a year, not even for lady anna lovel, not for all the lovels, would he take to his bosom as his bride, the girl who had leaned with loving fondness on the shoulders of daniel thwaite. but when he found that others did not feel it as he felt it, he turned the matter over again in his mind,--and by degrees relented. there had doubtless been much in the whole affair which had placed it outside the pale of things which are subject to the ordinary judgment of men. lady anna's position in the world had been very singular. a debt of gratitude was due by her to the tailor, which had seemed to exact from her some great payment. as she had said herself, she had given the only thing which she had to give. now there would be much to give. the man doubtless deserved his reward and should have it, but that reward must not be the hand of the heiress of the lovels. he, the earl, would once again claim that as his own. he had hurried out of town after seeing sir william, but had not returned to yoxham. he went again to scotland, and wrote no further letter to the rectory after those three lines which the reader has seen. then he heard from mr. flick that lady anna was staying with the serjeant in bedford square, and he returned to london at the lawyer's instance. it was so expedient that if possible something should be settled before november! the only guests asked to meet the earl at serjeant bluestone's, were sir william and lady patterson, and the black-browed young barrister. the whole proceeding was very irregular,--as mr. flick, who knew what was going on, said more than once to his old partner, mr. norton. that the solicitor-general should dine with the serjeant might be all very well,--though, as school boys say, they had never known each other at home before. but that they should meet in this way the then two opposing clients,--the two claimants to the vast property as to which a cause was to come on for trial in a few weeks,--did bewilder mr. flick. "i suppose the solicitor-general sees his way, but he may be in a mess yet," said mr. flick. mr. norton only scratched his head. it was no work of his. sir william, who arrived before the earl, was introduced for the first time to the young lady. "lady anna," he said, "for some months past i have heard much of you. and now i have great pleasure in meeting you." she smiled, and strove to look pleased, but she had not a word to say to him. "you know i ought to be your enemy," he continued laughing, "but i hope that is well nigh over. i should not like to have to fight so fair a foe." then the young lord arrived, and the lawyers of course gave way to the lover. lady anna, from the moment in which she was told that he was to come, had thought of nothing but the manner of their greeting. it was not that she was uneasy as to her own fashion of receiving him. she could smile and be silent, and give him her hand or leave it ungiven, as he might demand. but in what manner would he accost her? she had felt sure that he had despised her from the moment in which she had told him of her engagement. of course he had despised her. those fine sentiments about ladies and gentlemen, and the gulf which had been fixed, had occurred to her before she heard them from the mouth of miss alice bluestone. she understood, as well as did her young friend, what was the difference between her cousin the earl, and her lover the tailor. of course it would be sweet to be able to love such a one as her cousin. they all talked to her as though she was simply obstinate and a fool, not perceiving, as she did herself, that the untowardness of her fortune had prescribed this destiny for her. good as daniel thwaite might be,--as she knew that he was,--she felt herself to be degraded in having promised to be his wife. the lessons they had taught her had not been in vain. and she had been specially degraded in the eyes of him, who was to her imagination the brightest of human beings. they told her that she might still be his wife if only she would consent to hold out her hand when he should ask for it. she did not believe it. were it true, it could make no difference,--but she did not believe it. he had scorned her when she told him the tale at bolton abbey. he had scorned her when he hurried away from yoxham. now he was coming to the serjeant's house, with the express intention of meeting her again. why should he come? alas, alas! she was sure that he would never speak to her again in that bright sunny manner, with those dulcet honey words, which he had used when first they saw each other in wyndham street. nor was he less uneasy as to this meeting. he had not intended to scorn her when he parted from her, but he had intended that she should understand that there was an end of his suit. he had loved her dearly, but there are obstacles to which love must yield. had she already married this tailor, how would it have been with him then? that which had appeared to him to be most fit for him to do, had suddenly become altogether unfit,--and he had told himself at the moment that he must take back his love to himself as best he might. he could not sue for that which had once been given to a tailor. but now all that was changed, and he did intend to sue again. she was very beautiful,--to his thinking the very pink of feminine grace, and replete with charms;--soft in voice, soft in manner, with just enough of spirit to give her character. what a happy chance it had been, what marvellous fortune, that he should have been able to love this girl whom it was so necessary that he should marry;--what a happy chance, had it not been for this wretched tailor! but now, in spite of the tailor, he would try his fate with her once again. he had not intended to scorn her when he left her, but he knew that his manner to her must have told her that his suit was over. how should he renew it again in the presence of serjeant and mrs. bluestone and of sir william and lady patterson? he was first introduced to the wives of the two lawyers while lady anna was sitting silent on the corner of a sofa. mrs. bluestone, foreseeing how it would be, had endeavoured with much prudence to establish her young friend at some distance from the other guests, in order that the earl might have the power of saying some word; but the young barrister had taken this opportunity of making himself agreeable, and stood opposite to her talking nothings about the emptiness of london, and the glories of the season when it should come. lady anna did not hear a word that the young barrister said. lady anna's ear was straining itself to hear what lord lovel might say, and her eye, though not quite turned towards him, was watching his every motion. of course he must speak to her. "lady anna is on the sofa," said mrs. bluestone. of course he knew that she was there. he had seen her dear face the moment that he entered the room. he walked up to her and gave her his hand, and smiled upon her. she had made up her little speech. "i hope they are quite well at yoxham," she said, in that low, soft, silver voice which he had told himself would so well befit the future countess lovel. "oh yes;--i believe so. i am a truant there, for i do not answer aunt julia's letters as punctually as i ought to do. i shall be down there for the hunting i suppose next month." then dinner was announced; and as it was necessary that the earl should take down mrs. bluestone and the serjeant lady anna,--so that the young barrister absolutely went down to dinner with the wife of the solicitor-general,--the conversation was brought to an end. nor was it possible that they should be made to sit next each other at dinner. and then, when at last the late evening came and they were all together in the drawing-room, other things intervened and the half hour so passed that hardly a word was spoken between them. but there was just one word as he went away. "i shall call and see you," he said. "i don't think he means it," the serjeant said to his wife that evening, almost in anger. "why not, my dear?" "he did not speak to her." "people can't speak at dinner-parties when there is anything particular to say. if he didn't mean it, he wouldn't have come. and if you'll all have a little patience she'll mean it too. i can't forgive her mother for being so hard to her. she's one of the sweetest creatures i ever came across." a little patience, and here was november coming! the earl who had now been dining in his house, meeting his own client there, must again become the serjeant's enemy in november, unless this matter were settled. the serjeant at present could see no other way of proceeding. the earl might no doubt retire from the suit, but a jury must then decide whether the italian woman had any just claim. and against the claim of the italian woman the earl would again come forward. the serjeant as he thought of it, was almost sorry that he had asked the earl and the solicitor-general to his house. on the very next morning,--early in the day,--the earl was announced in bedford square. the serjeant was of course away at his chambers. lady anna was in her room and mrs. bluestone was sitting with her daughter. "i have come to see my cousin," said the earl boldly. "i am so glad that you have come, lord lovel." "thank you,--well; yes. i know you will not mind my saying so outright. though the papers say that we are enemies, we have many things in common between us." "i will send her to you. my dear, we will go into the dining-room. you will find lunch ready when you come down, lord lovel." then she left him, and he stood looking for a while at the books that were laid about the table. it seemed to him to be an age, but at last the door was opened and his cousin crept into the room. when he had parted from her at yoxham he had called her lady anna; but he was determined that she should at any rate be again his cousin. "i could hardly speak to you yesterday," he said, while he held her hand. "no;--lord lovel." "people never can, i think, at small parties like that. dear anna, you surprised me so much by what you told me on the banks of the wharfe!" she did not know how to answer him even a word. "i know that i was unkind to you." "i did not think so, my lord." "i will tell you just the plain truth. even though it may be bitter, the truth will be best between us, dearest. when first i heard what you said, i believed that all must be over between you and me." "oh, yes," she said. "but i have thought about it since, and i will not have it so. i have not come to reproach you." "you may if you will." "i have no right to do so, and would not if i had. i can understand your feelings of deep gratitude and can respect them." "but i love him, my lord," said lady anna, holding her head on high and speaking with much dignity. she could hardly herself understand the feeling which induced her so to address him. when she was alone thinking of him and of her other lover, her heart was inclined to regret in that she had not known her cousin in her early days,--as she had known daniel thwaite. she could tell herself, though she could not tell any other human being, that when she had thought that she was giving her heart to the young tailor, she had not quite known what it was to have a heart to give. the young lord was as a god to her; whereas daniel was but a man,--to whom she owed so deep a debt of gratitude that she must sacrifice herself, if needs, be, on his behalf. and yet when the earl spoke to her of her gratitude to this man,--praising it, and professing that he also understood those very feelings which had governed her conduct,--she blazed up almost in wrath, and swore that she loved the tailor. the earl's task was certainly difficult. it was his first impulse to rush away again, as he had rushed away before. to rush away and leave the country, and let the lawyers settle it all as they would. could it be possible that such a girl as this should love a journeyman tailor, and should be proud of her love! he turned from her and walked to the door and back again, during which time she had almost repented of her audacity. "it is right that you should love him--as a friend," he said. "but i have sworn to be his wife." "and must you keep your oath?" as she did not answer him he pressed on with his suit. "if he loves you i am sure he cannot wish to hurt you, and you know that such a marriage as that would be very hurtful. can it be right that you should descend from your position to pay a debt of gratitude, and that you should do it at the expense of all those who belong to you? would you break your mother's heart, and mine, and bring disgrace upon your family merely because he was good to you?" "he was good to my mother as well as me." "will it not break her heart? has she not told you so? but perhaps you do not believe it, my love." "i do not know," she said. "ah, dearest, you may believe. to my eyes you are the sweetest of all god's creatures. perhaps you think i say so only for the money's sake." "no, my lord, i do not think that." "of course much is due to him." "he wants nothing but that i should be his wife. he has said so, and he is never false. i can trust him at any rate, even though i should betray him. but i will not betray him. i will go away with him and they shall not hear of me, and nobody will remember that i was my father's daughter." "you are doubting even now, dear." "but i ought not to doubt. if i doubt it is because i am weak." "then still be weak. surely such weakness will be good when it will please all those who must be dearest to you." "it will not please him, lord lovel." "will you do this, dearest;--will you take one week to consider and then write to me? you cannot refuse me that, knowing that the happiness and the honour and the welfare of every lovel depends upon your answer." she felt that she could not refuse, and she gave him the promise. on that day week she would write to him, and tell him then to what resolve she should have brought herself. he came up close to her, meaning to kiss her if she would let him; but she stood aloof, and merely touched his hand. she would obey her betrothed,--at any rate till she should have made up her mind that she would be untrue to him. lord lovel could not press his wish, and left the house unmindful of mrs. bluestone's luncheon. chapter xxiv. the dog in the manger. during all this time daniel thwaite had been living alone, working day after day and hour after hour among the men in wigmore street, trusted by his employer, disliked by those over whom he was set in some sort of authority, and befriended by none. he had too heavy a weight on his spirits to be light of heart, even had his nature been given to lightness. how could he even hope that the girl would resist all the temptation that would be thrown in her way, all the arguments that would be used to her, the natural entreaties that would be showered upon her from all her friends? nor did he so think of himself, as to believe that his own personal gifts would bind her to him when opposed by those other personal gifts which he knew belonged to the lord. measuring himself by his own standard, regarding that man to be most manly who could be most useful in the world, he did think himself to be infinitely superior to the earl. he was the working bee, whereas the earl was the drone. and he was one who used to the best of his abilities the mental faculties which had been given to him; whereas the earl,--so he believed,--was himself hardly conscious of having had mental faculties bestowed upon him. the earl was, to his thinking, as were all earls, an excrescence upon society, which had been produced by the evil habits and tendencies of mankind; a thing to be got rid of before any near approach could be made to that social perfection in the future coming of which he fully believed. but, though useless, the earl was beautiful to the eye. though purposeless, as regarded any true purpose of speech, his voice was of silver and sweet to the ears. his hands, which could never help him to a morsel of bread, were soft to the touch. he was sweet with perfumes and idleness, and never reeked of the sweat of labour. was it possible that such a girl as anna lovel should resist the popinjay, backed as he would be by her own instincts and by the prayers of every one of her race? and then from time to time another thought would strike him. using his judgment as best he might on her behalf, ought he to wish that she should do so? the idleness of an earl might be bad, and equally bad the idleness of a countess. to be the busy wife of a busy man, to be the mother of many children who should be all taught to be busy on behalf of mankind, was, to his thinking, the highest lot of woman. but there was a question with him whether the accidents of her birth and fortune had not removed her from the possibility of such joy as that. how would it be with her, and him too, if, in after life, she should rebuke him because he had not allowed her to be the wife of a nobleman? and how would it be with him if hereafter men said of him that he held her to an oath extracted from her in her childhood because of her wealth? he had been able to answer mr. flick on that head, but he had more difficulty in answering himself. he had written to his father after the countess had left the house in which he lodged, and his father had answered him. the old man was not much given to the writing of letters. "about lady lovel and her daughter," said he, "i won't take no more trouble, nor shouldn't you. she and you is different, and must be." and that was all he said. yes;--he and lady anna were different, and must remain so. of a morning, when he went fresh to his work, he would resolve that he would send her word that she was entirely free from him, and would bid her do according to the nature of the lovels. but in the evening, as he would wander back, slowly, all alone, tired of his work, tired of the black solitude of the life he was leading, longing for some softness to break the harsh monotony of his labour, he would remember all her prettinesses, and would, above all, remember the pretty oaths with which she had sworn that she, anna lovel, loved him, daniel thwaite, with all the woman's love which a woman could give. he would remember the warm kiss which had seemed to make fresh for hours his dry lips, and would try to believe that the bliss of which he had thought so much might still be his own. had she abandoned him, had she assented to a marriage with the earl, he would assuredly have heard of it. he also knew well the day fixed for the trial, and understood the importance which would be attached to an early marriage, should that be possible,--or at least to a public declaration of an engagement. at any rate she had not as yet been false to him. one day he received at his place of work the following note;- dear mr. thwaite, i wish to speak to you on most important business. could you call on me to-morrow at eight o'clock in the evening,--here? yours very faithfully and always grateful, j. lovel. and then the countess had added her address in keppel street;--the very address which, about a month back, she had refused to give him. of course he went to the countess,--fully believing that lady anna would also be at the house, though believing also that he would not be allowed to see her. but at this time lady anna was still staying with mrs. bluestone in bedford square. it was no doubt natural that every advantage should be taken of the strong position which lord lovel held. when he had extracted a promise from lady anna that she would write to him at the end of a week, he told sir william, sir william told his wife, lady patterson told mrs. bluestone, and mrs. bluestone told the countess. they were all now in league against the tailor. if they could only get a promise from the girl before the cause came on,--anything that they could even call a promise,--then the thing might be easy. united together they would not be afraid of what the italian woman might do. and this undertaking to write to lord lovel was almost as good as a promise. when a girl once hesitates with a lover, she has as good as surrendered. to say even that she will think of it, is to accept the man. then mrs. bluestone and the countess, putting their heads together, determined that an appeal should be made to the tailor. had sir william or the serjeant been consulted, either would have been probably strong against the measure. but the ladies acted on their own judgment, and daniel thwaite presented himself in keppel street. "it is very kind of you to come," said the countess. "there is no great kindness in that," said daniel, thinking perhaps of those twenty years of service which had been given by him and by his father. "i know you think that i have been ungrateful for all that you have done for me." he did think so, and was silent. "but you would hardly wish me to repay you for helping me in my struggle by giving up all for which i have struggled." "i have asked for nothing, lady lovel." "have you not?" "i have asked you for nothing." "but my daughter is all that i have in the world. have you asked nothing of her?" "yes, lady lovel. i have asked much from her, and she has given me all that i have asked. but i have asked nothing, and now claim nothing, as payment for service done. if lady anna thinks she is in my debt after such fashion as that, i will soon make her free." "she does think so, mr. thwaite." "let her tell me so with her own lips." "you will not think that i am lying to you." "and yet men do lie, and women too, without remorse, when the stakes are high. i will believe no one but herself in this. let her come down and stand before me and look me in the face and tell me that it is so,--and i promise you that there shall be no further difficulty. i will not even ask to be alone with her. i will speak but a dozen words to her, and you shall hear them." "she is not here, mr. thwaite. she is not living in this house." "where is she then?" "she is staying with friends." "with the lovels,--in yorkshire?" "i do not think that good can be done by my telling you where she is." "do you mean me to understand that she is engaged to the earl?" "i tell you this,--that she acknowledges herself to be bound to you, but bound to you simply by gratitude. it seems that there was a promise." "oh yes,--there was a promise, lady lovel; a promise as firmly spoken as when you told the late lord that you would be his wife." "i know that there was a promise,--though i, her mother, living with her at the time, had no dream of such wickedness. there was a promise, and by that she feels herself to be in some measure bound." "she should do so,--if words can ever mean anything." "i say she does,--but it is only by a feeling of gratitude. what;--is it probable that she should wish to mate so much below her degree, if she were now left to her own choice? does it seem natural to you? she loves the young earl,--as why should she not? she has been thrown into his company on purpose that she might learn to love him,--when no one knew of this horrid promise which had been exacted from her before she had seen any in the world from whom to choose." "she has seen two now, him and me, and she can choose as she pleases. let us both agree to take her at her word, and let us both be present when that word is spoken. if she goes to him and offers him her hand in my presence, i would not take it then though she were a princess, in lieu of being lady anna lovel. will he treat me as fairly? will he be as bold to abide by her choice?" "you can never marry her, mr. thwaite." "why can i never marry her? would not my ring be as binding on her finger as his? would not the parson's word make me and her one flesh and one bone as irretrievably as though i were ten times an earl? i am a man and she a woman. what law of god, or of man,--what law of nature can prevent us from being man and wife? i say that i can marry her,--and with her consent, i will." "never! you shall never live to call yourself the husband of my daughter. i have striven and suffered,--as never woman strove and suffered before, to give to my child the name and the rank which belong to her. i did not do so that she might throw them away on such a one as you. if you will deal honestly by us--" "i have dealt by you more than honestly." "if you will at once free her from this thraldom in which you hold her, and allow her to act in accordance with the dictates of her own heart--" "that she shall do." "if you will not hinder us in building up again the honour of the family, which was nigh ruined by the iniquities of my husband, we will bless you." "i want but one blessing, lady lovel." "and in regard to her money--" "i do not expect you to believe me, countess; but her money counts as nothing with me. if it becomes hers and she becomes my wife, as her husband i will protect it for her. but there shall be no dealing between you and me in regard to money." "there is money due to your father, mr. thwaite." "if so, that can be paid when you come by your own. it was not lent for the sake of a reward." "and you will not liberate that poor girl from her thraldom." "she can liberate herself if she will. i have told you what i will do. let her tell me to my face what she wishes." "that she shall never do, mr. thwaite;--no, by heavens. it is not necessary that she should have your consent to make such an alliance as her friends think proper for her. you have entangled her by a promise, foolish on her part, and very wicked on yours, and you may work us much trouble. you may delay the settlement of all this question,--perhaps for years; and half ruin the estate by prolonged lawsuits; you may make it impossible for me to pay your father what i owe him till he, and i also, shall be no more; but you cannot, and shall not, have access to my daughter." daniel thwaite, as he returned home, tried to think it all over dispassionately. was it as the countess had represented? was he acting the part of the dog in the manger, robbing others of happiness without the power of achieving his own? he loved the girl, and was he making her miserable by his love? he was almost inclined to think that the countess had spoken truth in this respect. end of vol. i. printed by virtue and co., city road, london. * * * * * * lady anna. by anthony trollope. in two volumes. vol. ii. london: chapman and hall, 193, piccadilly. 1874. [all rights reserved.] london: printed by virtue and co., city road. contents of vol. ii. xxv. daniel thwaite's letter. xxvi. the keswick poet. xxvii. lady anna's letter. xxviiii. lovel v. murray and another. xxix. daniel thwaite alone. xxx. justice is to be done. xxxi. the verdict. xxxii. will you promise? xxxiii. daniel thwaite receives his money. xxxiv. i will take your word for nothing. xxxv. the serjeant and mrs. bluestone at home. xxxvi. it is still true. xxxvii. let her die. xxxviii. lady anna's bedside. xxxix. lady anna's offer. xl. no disgrace at all. xli. nearer and nearer. xlii. daniel thwaite comes to keppel street. xliii. daniel thwaite comes again. xliv. the attempt and not the deed confounds us. xlv. the lawyers agree. xlvi. hard lines. xlvii. things arrange themselves. xlviii. the marriage. lady anna. chapter xxv. daniel thwaite's letter. on the day following that on which daniel thwaite had visited lady lovel in keppel street, the countess received from him a packet containing a short note to herself, and the following letter addressed to lady anna. the enclosure was open, and in the letter addressed to the countess the tailor simply asked her to read and to send on to her daughter that which he had written, adding that if she would do so he would promise to abide by any answer which might come to him in lady anna's own handwriting. daniel thwaite when he made this offer felt that he was giving up everything. even though the words might be written by the girl, they would be dictated by the girl's mother, or by those lawyers who were now leagued together to force her into a marriage with the earl. but it was right, he thought,--and upon the whole best for all parties,--that he should give up everything. he could not bring himself to say so to the countess or to any of those lawyers, when he was sent for and told that because of the lowliness of his position a marriage between him and the highly born heiress was impossible. on such occasions he revolted from the authority of those who endeavoured to extinguish him. but, when alone, he could see at any rate as clearly as they did, the difficulties which lay in his way. he also knew that there was a great gulf fixed, as miss alice bluestone had said,--though he differed from the young lady as to the side of the gulf on which lay heaven, and on which heaven's opposite. the letter to lady anna was as follows;- my dearest, this letter if it reaches you at all will be given to you by your mother, who will have read it. it is sent to her open that she may see what i say to you. she sent for me and i went to her this evening, and she told me that it was impossible that i should ever be your husband. i was so bold as to tell her ladyship that there could be no impossibility. when you are of age you can walk out from your mother's house and marry me, as can i you; and no one can hinder us. there is nothing in the law, either of god or man, that can prevent you from becoming my wife,--if it be your wish to be so. but your mother also said that it was not your wish, and she went on to say that were you not bound to me by ties of gratitude you would willingly marry your cousin, lord lovel. then i offered to meet you in the presence of your mother,--and in the presence too of lord lovel,--and to ask you then before all of us to which of us two your heart was given. and i promised that if in my presence you would stretch out your right hand to the earl neither you nor your mother should be troubled further by daniel thwaite. but her ladyship swore to me, with an oath, that i should never be allowed to see you again. i therefore write to you, and bid you think much of what i say to you before you answer me. you know well that i love you. you do not suspect that i am trying to win you because you are rich. you will remember that i loved you when no one thought that you would be rich. i do love you in my heart of hearts. i think of you in my dreams and fancy then that all the world has become bright to me, because we are walking together, hand-in-hand, where none can come between to separate us. but i would not wish you to be my wife, just because you have promised. if you do not love me,--above all, if you love this other man,--say so, and i will have done with it. your mother says that you are bound to me by gratitude. i do not wish you to be my wife unless you are bound to me by love. tell me then how it is;--but, as you value my happiness and your own, tell me the truth. i will not say that i shall think well of you, if you have been carried away by this young man's nobility. i would have you give me a fair chance. ask yourself what has brought him as a lover to your feet. how it came to pass that i was your lover you cannot but remember. but, for you, it is your first duty not to marry a man unless you love him. if you go to him because he can make you a countess you will be vile indeed. if you go to him because you find that he is in truth dearer to you than i am, because you prefer his arm to mine, because he has wound himself into your heart of hearts,--i shall think your heart indeed hardly worth the having; but according to your lights you will be doing right. in that case you shall have no further word from me to trouble you. but i desire that i may have an answer to this in your own handwriting. your own sincere lover, daniel thwaite. in composing and copying and recopying this letter the tailor sat up half the night, and then very early in the morning he himself carried it to keppel street, thus adding nearly three miles to his usual walk to wigmore street. the servant at the lodging-house was not up, and could hardly be made to rise by the modest appeals which daniel made to the bell; but at last the delivery was effected, and the forlorn lover hurried back to his work. the countess as she sat at breakfast read the letter over and over again, and could not bring herself to decide whether it was right that it should be given to her daughter. she had not yet seen lady anna since she had sent the poor offender away from the house in anger, and had more than once repeated her assurance through mrs. bluestone that she would not do so till a promise had been given that the tailor should be repudiated. should she make this letter an excuse for going to the house in bedford square, and of seeing her child, towards whom her very bowels were yearning? at this time, though she was a countess, with the prospect of great wealth, her condition was not enviable. from morning to night she was alone, unless when she would sit for an hour in mr. goffe's office, or on the rarer occasions of a visit to the chambers of serjeant bluestone. she had no acquaintances in london whatever. she knew that she was unfitted for london society even if it should be open to her. she had spent her life in struggling with poverty and powerful enemies,--almost alone,--taking comfort in her happiest moments in the strength and goodness of her old friend thomas thwaite. she now found that those old days had been happier than these later days. her girl had been with her and had been,--or had at any rate seemed to be,--true to her. she had something then to hope, something to expect, some happiness of glory to which she could look forward. but now she was beginning to learn,--nay had already learned, that there was nothing for her to expect. her rank was allowed to her. she no longer suffered from want of money. her cause was about to triumph,--as the lawyers on both sides had seemed to say. but in what respect would the triumph be sweet to her? even should her girl become the countess lovel, she would not be the less isolated. none of the lovels wanted her society. she had banished her daughter to bedford square, and the only effect of the banishment was that her daughter was less miserable in bedford square than she would have been with her mother in keppel street. she did not dare to act without advice, and therefore she took the letter to mr. goffe. had it not been for a few words towards the end of the letter she would have sent it to her daughter at once. but the man had said that her girl would be vile indeed if she married the earl for the sake of becoming a countess, and the widow of the late earl did not like to put such doctrine into the hands of lady anna. if she delivered the letter of course she would endeavour to dictate the answer;--but her girl could be stubborn as her mother; and how would it be with them if quite another letter should be written than that which the countess would have dictated? mr. goffe read the letter and said that he would like to consider it for a day. the letter was left with mr. goffe, and mr. goffe consulted the serjeant. the serjeant took the letter home to mrs. bluestone, and then another consultation was held. it found its way to the very house in which the girl was living for whom it was intended, but was not at last allowed to reach her hand. "it's a fine manly letter," said the serjeant. "then the less proper to give it to her," said mrs. bluestone, whose heart was all softness towards lady anna, but as hard as a millstone towards the tailor. "if she does like this young lord the best, why shouldn't she tell the man the truth?" said the serjeant. "of course she likes the young lord the best,--as is natural." "then in god's name let her say so, and put an end to all this trouble." "you see, my dear, it isn't always easy to understand a girl's mind in such matters. i haven't a doubt which she likes best. she is not at all the girl to have a vitiated taste about young men. but you see this other man came first, and had the advantage of being her only friend at the time. she has felt very grateful to him, and as yet she is only beginning to learn the difference between gratitude and love. i don't at all agree with her mother as to being severe with her. i can't bear severity to young people, who ought to be made happy. but i am quite sure that this tailor should be kept away from her altogether. she must not see him or his handwriting. what would she say to herself if she got that letter? 'if he is generous, i can be generous too;' and if she ever wrote him a letter, pledging herself to him, all would be over. as it is, she has promised to write to lord lovel. we will hold her to that; and then, when she has given a sort of a promise to the earl, we will take care that the tailor shall know it. it will be best for all parties. what we have got to do is to save her from this man, who has been both her best friend and her worst enemy." mrs. bluestone was an excellent woman, and in this emergency was endeavouring to do her duty at considerable trouble to herself and with no hope of any reward. the future countess when she should become a countess would be nothing to her. she was a good woman;--but she did not care what evil she inflicted on the tailor, in her endeavours to befriend the daughter of the countess. the tailor's letter, unseen and undreamt of by lady anna, was sent back through the serjeant and mr. goffe to lady lovel, with strong advice from mr. goffe that lady anna should not be allowed to see it. "i don't hesitate to tell you, lady lovel, that i have consulted the serjeant, and that we are both of opinion that no intercourse whatever should be permitted between lady anna lovel and mr. daniel thwaite." the unfortunate letter was therefore sent back to the writer with the following note;--"the countess lovel presents her compliments to mr. daniel thwaite, and thinks it best to return the enclosed. the countess is of opinion that no intercourse whatever should take place between her daughter and mr. daniel thwaite." then daniel swore an oath to himself that the intercourse between them should not thus be made to cease. he had acted as he thought not only fairly but very honourably. nay;--he was by no means sure that that which had been intended for fairness and honour might not have been sheer simplicity. he had purposely abstained from any clandestine communication with the girl he loved,--even though she was one to whom he had had access all his life, with whom he had been allowed to grow up together;--who had eaten of his bread and drank of his cup. now her new friends,--and his own old friend the countess,--would keep no measures with him. there was to be no intercourse whatever! but, by the god of heaven, there should be intercourse! chapter xxvi. the keswick poet. infinite difficulties were now complicating themselves on the head of poor daniel thwaite. the packet which the countess addressed to him did not reach him in london, but was forwarded after him down to cumberland, whither he had hurried on receipt of news from keswick that his father was like to die. the old man had fallen in a fit, and when the message was sent it was not thought likely that he would ever see his son again. daniel went down to the north as quickly as his means would allow him, going by steamer to whitehaven, and thence by coach to keswick. his entire wages were but thirty-five shillings a week, and on that he could not afford to travel by the mail to keswick. but he did reach home in time to see his father alive, and to stand by the bedside when the old man died. though there was not time for many words between them, and though the apathy of coming death had already clouded the mind of thomas thwaite, so that he, for the most part, disregarded,--as dying men do disregard,--those things which had been fullest of interest to him; still something was said about the countess and lady anna. "just don't mind them any further, dan," said the father. "indeed that will be best," said daniel. "yes, in truth. what can they be to the likes o' you? give me a drop of brandy, dan." the drop of brandy was more to him now than the countess; but though he thought but little of this last word, his son thought much of it. what could such as the countess and her titled daughter be to him, daniel thwaite, the broken tailor? for, in truth, his father was dying, a broken man. there was as much owed by him in keswick as all the remaining property would pay; and as for the business, it had come to that, that the business was not worth preserving. the old tailor died and was buried, and all keswick knew that he had left nothing behind him, except the debt that was due to him by the countess, as to which, opinion in the world of keswick varied very much. there were those who said that the two thwaites, father and son, had known very well on which side their bread was buttered, and that daniel thwaite would now, at his father's death, become the owner of bonds to a vast amount on the lovel property. it was generally understood in keswick that the earl's claim was to be abandoned, that the rights of the countess and her daughter were to be acknowledged, and that the earl and his cousin were to become man and wife. if so the bonds would be paid, and daniel thwaite would become a rich man. such was the creed of those who believed in the debt. but there were others who did not believe in the existence of any such bonds, and who ridiculed the idea of advances of money having been made. the old tailor had, no doubt, relieved the immediate wants of the countess by giving her shelter and food, and had wasted his substance in making journeys, and neglecting his business; but that was supposed to be all. for such services on behalf of the father, it was not probable that much money would be paid to the son; and the less so, as it was known in keswick that daniel thwaite had quarrelled with the countess. as this latter opinion preponderated daniel did not find that he was treated with any marked respect in his native town. the old man did leave a will;--a very simple document, by which everything that he had was left to his son. and there was this paragraph in it; "i expect that the countess lovel will repay to my son daniel all moneys that i have advanced on her behalf." as for bonds,--or any single bond,--daniel could find none. there was an account of certain small items due by the countess, of long date, and there was her ladyship's receipt for a sum of â£500, which had apparently been lent at the time of the trial for bigamy. beyond this he could find no record of any details whatever, and it seemed to him that his claim was reduced to something less than â£600. nevertheless, he had understood from his father that the whole of the old man's savings had been spent on behalf of the two ladies, and he believed that some time since he had heard a sum named exceeding â£6,000. in his difficulty he asked a local attorney, and the attorney advised him to throw himself on the generosity of the countess. he paid the attorney some small fee, and made up his mind at once that he would not take the lawyer's advice. he would not throw himself on the generosity of the countess. there was then still living in that neighbourhood a great man, a poet, who had nearly carried to its close a life of great honour and of many afflictions. he was one who, in these, his latter days, eschewed all society, and cared to see no faces but those of the surviving few whom he had loved in early life. and as those few survivors lived far away, and as he was but little given to move from home, his life was that of a recluse. of the inhabitants of the place around him, who for the most part had congregated there since he had come among them, he saw but little, and his neighbours said that he was sullen and melancholic. but, according to their degrees, he had been a friend to thomas thwaite, and now, in his emergency, the son called upon the poet. indifferent visitors, who might be and often were intruders, were but seldom admitted at that modest gate; but daniel thwaite was at once shown into the presence of the man of letters. they had not seen each other since daniel was a youth, and neither would have known the other. the poet was hardly yet an old man, but he had all the characteristics of age. his shoulders were bent, and his eyes were deep set in his head, and his lips were thin and fast closed. but the beautiful oval of his face was still there, in spite of the ravages of years, of labours, and of sorrow; and the special brightness of his eye had not yet been dimmed. "i have been sorry, mr. thwaite, to hear of your father's death," said the poet. "i knew him well, but it was some years since, and i valued him as a man of singular probity and spirit." then daniel craved permission to tell his story;--and he told it all from the beginning to the end,--how his father and he had worked for the countess and her girl, how their time and then their money had been spent for her; how he had learned to love the girl, and how, as he believed, the girl had loved him. and he told with absolute truth the whole story, as far as he knew it, of what had been done in london during the last nine months. he exaggerated nothing, and did not scruple to speak openly of his own hopes. he showed his letter to the countess, and her note to him, and while doing so hid none of his own feelings. did the poet think that there was any reason why, in such circumstances, a tailor should not marry the daughter of a countess? and then he gave, as far as he knew it, the history of the money that had been advanced, and produced a copy of his father's will. "and now, sir, what would you have me do?" "when you first spoke to the girl of love, should you not have spoken to the mother also, mr. thwaite?" "would you, sir, have done so?" "i will not say that;--but i think that i ought. her girl was all that she had." "it may be that i was wrong. but if the girl loves me now--" "i would not hurt your feelings for the world, mr. thwaite." "do not spare them, sir. i did not come to you that soft things might be said to me." "i do not think it of your father's son. seeing what is your own degree in life and what is theirs, that they are noble and of an old nobility, among the few hot-house plants of the nation, and that you are one of the people,--a blade of corn out of the open field, if i may say so,--born to eat your bread in the sweat of your brow, can you think that such a marriage would be other than distressing to them?" "is the hot-house plant stronger or better, or of higher use, than the ear of corn?" "have i said that it was, my friend? i will not say that either is higher in god's sight than the other, or better, or of a nobler use. but they are different; and though the differences may verge together without evil when the limits are near, i do not believe in graftings so violent as this." "you mean, sir, that one so low as a tailor should not seek to marry so infinitely above himself as with the daughter of an earl." "yes, mr. thwaite, that is what i mean; though i hope that in coming to me you knew me well enough to be sure that i would not willingly offend you." "there is no offence;--there can be no offence. i am a tailor, and am in no sort ashamed of my trade. but i did not think, sir, that you believed in lords so absolutely as that." "i believe but in one lord," said the poet. "in him who, in his wisdom and for his own purposes, made men of different degrees." "has it been his doing, sir,--or the devil's?" "nay, i will not discuss with you a question such as that. i will not at any rate discuss it now." "i have read, sir, in your earlier books--" "do not quote my books to me, either early or late. you ask me for advice, and i give it according to my ability. the time may come too, mr. thwaite,"--and this he said laughing,--"when you also will be less hot in your abhorrence of a nobility than you are now." "never!" "ah;--'tis so that young men always make assurances to themselves of their own present wisdom." "you think then that i should give her up entirely?" "i would leave her to herself, and to her mother,--and to this young lord, if he be her lover." "but if she loves me! oh, sir, she did love me once. if she loves me, should i leave her to think, as time goes on, that i have forgotten her? what chance can she have if i do not interfere to let her know that i am true to her?" "she will have the chance of becoming lady lovel, and of loving her husband." "then, sir, you do not believe in vows of love?" "how am i to answer that?" said the poet. "surely i do believe in vows of love. i have written much of love, and have ever meant to write the truth, as i knew it, or thought that i knew it. but the love of which we poets sing is not the love of the outer world. it is more ecstatic, but far less serviceable. it is the picture of that which exists, but grand with imaginary attributes, as are the portraits of ladies painted by artists who have thought rather of their art than of their models. we tell of a constancy in love which is hardly compatible with the usages of this as yet imperfect world. look abroad, and see whether girls do not love twice, and young men thrice. they come together, and rub their feathers like birds, and fancy that each has found in the other an eternity of weal or woe. then come the causes of their parting. their fathers perhaps are capulets and montagues, but their children, god be thanked, are not romeos and juliets. or money does not serve, or distance intervenes, or simply a new face has the poor merit of novelty. the constancy of which the poets sing is the unreal,--i may almost say the unnecessary,--constancy of a juliet. the constancy on which our nature should pride itself is that of an imogen. you read shakespeare, i hope, mr. thwaite." "i know the plays you quote, sir. imogen was a king's daughter, and married a simple gentleman." "i would not say that early vows should mean nothing," continued the poet, unwilling to take notice of the point made against him. "i like to hear that a girl has been true to her first kiss. but this girl will have the warrant of all the world to justify a second choice. and can you think that because your company was pleasant to her here among your native mountains, when she knew none but you, that she will be indifferent to the charms of such a one as you tell me this lord lovel is? she will have regrets,--remorse even; she will sorrow, because she knows that you have been good to her. but she will yield, and her life will be happier with him,--unless he be a bad man, which i do not know,--than it would be with you. would there be no regrets, think you, no remorse, when she found that as your wife she had separated herself from all that she had been taught to regard as delightful in this world? would she be happy in quarrelling with her mother and her new-found relatives? you think little of noble blood, and perhaps i think as little of it in matters relating to myself. but she is noble, and she will think of it. as for your money, mr. thwaite, i should make it a matter of mere business with the countess, as though there was no question relating to her daughter. she probably has an account of the money, and doubtless will pay you when she has means at her disposal." daniel left his mentor without another word on his own behalf, expressing thanks for the counsel that had been given to him, and assuring the poet that he would endeavour to profit by it. then he walked away, over the very paths on which he had been accustomed to stray with anna lovel, and endeavoured to digest the words that he had heard. he could not bring himself to see their truth. that he should not force the girl to marry him, if she loved another better than she loved him, simply by the strength of her own obligation to him, he could understand. but that it was natural that she should transfer to another the affection that she had once bestowed upon him, because that other was a lord, he would not allow. not only his heart but all his intellect rebelled against such a decision. a transfer so violent would, he thought, show that she was incapable of loving. and yet this doctrine had come to him from one who, as he himself had said, had written much of love. but, though he argued after this fashion with himself, the words of the old poet had had their efficacy. whether the fault might be with the girl, or with himself, or with the untoward circumstances of the case, he determined to teach himself that he had lost her. he would never love another woman. though the earl's daughter could not be true to him, he, the suitor, would be true to the earl's daughter. there might no longer be romeos among the noble capulets and the noble montagues,--whom indeed he believed to be dead to faith; but the salt of truth had not therefore perished from the world. he would get what he could from this wretched wreck of his father's property,--obtain payment if it might be possible of that poor â£500 for which he held the receipt,--and then go to some distant land in which the wisest of counsellors would not counsel him that he was unfit because of his trade to mate himself with noble blood. when he had proved his father's will he sent a copy of it up to the countess with the following letter;- keswick, november 4, 183--. my lady, i do not know whether your ladyship will yet have heard of my father's death. he died here on the 24th of last month. he was taken with apoplexy on the 15th, and never recovered from the fit. i think you will be sorry for him. i find myself bound to send your ladyship a copy of his will. your ladyship perhaps may have some account of what money has passed between you and him. i have none except a receipt for â£500 given to you by him many years ago. there is also a bill against your ladyship for â£71 18_s._ 9_d._ it may be that no more is due than this, but you will know. i shall be happy to hear from your ladyship on the subject, and am, yours respectfully, daniel thwaite. but he still was resolved that before he departed for the far western land he would obtain from anna lovel herself an expression of her determination to renounce him. chapter xxvii. lady anna's letter. in the mean time the week had gone round, and lady anna's letter to the earl had not yet been written. an army was arrayed against the girl to induce her to write such a letter as might make it almost impossible for her afterwards to deny that she was engaged to the lord, but the army had not as yet succeeded. the countess had not seen her daughter,--had been persistent in her refusal to let her daughter come to her till she had at any rate repudiated her other suitor; but she had written a strongly worded but short letter, urging it as a great duty that lady anna lovel was bound to support her family and to defend her rank. mrs. bluestone, from day to day, with soft loving words taught the same lesson. alice bluestone in their daily conversations spoke of the tailor, or rather of this promise to the tailor, with a horror which at any rate was not affected. the serjeant, almost with tears in his eyes, implored her to put an end to the lawsuit. even the solicitor-general sent her tender messages,--expressing his great hope that she might enable them to have this matter adjusted early in november. all the details of the case as it now stood had been explained to her over and over again. if, when the day fixed for the trial should come round, it could be said that she and the young earl were engaged to each other, the earl would altogether abandon his claim,--and no further statement would be made. the fact of the marriage in cumberland would then be proved,--the circumstances of the trial for bigamy would be given in evidence,--and all the persons concerned would be together anxious that the demands of the two ladies should be admitted in full. it was the opinion of the united lawyers that were this done, the rank of the countess would be allowed, and that the property left behind him by the old lord would be at once given up to those who would inherit it under the order of things as thus established. the countess would receive that to which she would be entitled as widow, the daughter would be the heir-at-law to the bulk of the personal property, and the earl would merely claim any real estate, if,--as was very doubtful,--any real estate had been left in question. in this case the disposition of the property would be just what they would all desire, and the question of rank would be settled for ever. but if the young lady should not have then agreed to this very pleasant compromise, the earl indeed would make no further endeavours to invalidate the cumberland marriage, and would retire from the suit. but it would then be stated that there was a claimant in sicily,--or at least evidence in italy, which if sifted might possibly bar the claim of the countess. the solicitor-general did not hesitate to say that he believed the living woman to be a weak impostor, who had been first used by the earl and had then put forward a falsehood to get an income out of the property; but he was by no means convinced that the other foreign woman, whom the earl had undoubtedly made his first wife, might not have been alive when the second marriage was contracted. if it were so, the countess would be no countess, anna lovel would simply be anna murray, penniless, baseborn, and a fit wife for the tailor, should the tailor think fit to take her. "if it be so," said lady anna through her tears, "let it be so; and he will take me." it may have been that the army was too strong for its own purpose,--too much of an army to gain a victory on that field,--that a weaker combination of forces would have prevailed when all this array failed. no one had a word to say for the tailor; no one admitted that he had been a generous friend; no feeling was expressed for him. it seemed to be taken for granted that he, from the beginning, had laid his plans for obtaining possession of an enormous income in the event of the countess being proved to be a countess. there was no admission that he had done aught for love. now, in all these matters, lady anna was sure of but one thing alone, and that was of the tailor's truth. had they acknowledged that he was good and noble, they might perhaps have persuaded her,--as the poet had almost persuaded her lover,--that the fitness of things demanded that they should be separated. but she had promised that she would write the letter by the end of the week, and when the end of a fortnight had come she knew that it must be written. she had declared over and over again to mrs. bluestone that she must go away from bedford square. she could not live there always, she said. she knew that she was in the way of everybody. why should she not go back to her own mother? "does mamma mean to say that i am never to live with her any more?" mrs. bluestone promised that if she would write her letter and tell her cousin that she would try to love him, she should go back to her mother at once. "but i cannot live here always," persisted lady anna. mrs. bluestone would not admit that there was any reason why her visitor should not continue to live in bedford square as long as the arrangement suited lady lovel. various letters were written for her. the countess wrote one which was an unqualified acceptance of the earl's offer, and which was very short. alice bluestone wrote one which was full of poetry. mrs. bluestone wrote a third, in which a great many ambiguous words were used,--in which there was no definite promise, and no poetry. but had this letter been sent it would have been almost impossible for the girl afterwards to extricate herself from its obligations. the serjeant, perhaps, had lent a word or two, for the letter was undoubtedly very clever. in this letter lady anna was made to say that she would always have the greatest pleasure in receiving her cousin's visits, and that she trusted that she might be able to co-operate with her cousins in bringing the lawsuit to a close;--that she certainly would not marry any one without her mother's consent, but that she did not find herself able at the present to say more than that. "it won't stop the solicitor-general, you know," the serjeant had remarked, as he read it. "bother the solicitor-general!" mrs. bluestone had answered, and had then gone on to show that it would lead to that which would stop the learned gentleman. the serjeant had added a word or two, and great persuasion was used to induce lady anna to use this epistle. but she would have none of it. "oh, i couldn't, mrs. bluestone;--he would know that i hadn't written all that." "you have promised to write, and you are bound to keep your promise," said mrs. bluestone. "i believe i am bound to keep all my promises," said lady anna, thinking of those which she had made to daniel thwaite. but at last she sat down and did write a letter for herself, specially premising that no one should see it. when she had made her promise, she certainly had not intended to write that which should be shown to all the world. mrs. bluestone had begged that at any rate the countess might see it. "if mamma will let me go to her, of course i will show it her," said lady anna. at last it was thought best to allow her to write her own letter and to send it unseen. after many struggles and with many tears she wrote her letter as follows;- bedford square, tuesday. my dear cousin, i am sorry that i have been so long in doing what i said i would do. i don't think i ought to have promised, for i find it very difficult to say anything, and i think that it is wrong that i should write at all. it is not my fault that there should be a lawsuit. i do not want to take anything away from anybody, or to get anything for myself. i think papa was very wicked when he said that mamma was not his wife, and of course i wish it may all go as she wishes. but i don't think anybody ought to ask me to do what i feel to be wrong. mr. daniel thwaite is not at all such a person as they say. he and his father have been mamma's best friends, and i shall never forget that. old mr. thwaite is dead, and i am very sorry to hear it. if you had known them as we did you would understand what i feel. of course he is not your friend; but he is my friend, and i dare say that makes me unfit to be friends with you. you are a nobleman and he is a tradesman; but when we knew him first he was quite as good as we, and i believe we owe him a great deal of money, which mamma can't pay him. i have heard mamma say before she was angry with him, that she would have been in the workhouse, but for them, and that mr. daniel thwaite might now be very well off, and not a working tailor at all as mrs. bluestone calls him, if they hadn't given all they had to help us. i cannot bear after that to hear them speak of him as they do. of course i should like to do what mamma wants; but how would you feel if you had promised somebody else? i do so wish that all this might be stopped altogether. my dear mamma will not allow me to see her; and though everybody is very kind, i feel that i ought not to be here with mrs. bluestone. mamma talked of going abroad somewhere. i wish she would, and take me away. i should see nobody then, and there would be no trouble. but i suppose she hasn't got enough money. this is a very poor letter, but i do not know what else i can say. believe me to be, my dear cousin, yours affectionately, anna lovel. then came, in a postscript, the one thing that she had to say,--"i think that i ought to be allowed to see mr. daniel thwaite." lord lovel after receiving this letter called in bedford square and saw mrs. bluestone,--but he did not show the letter. his cousin was out with the girls and he did not wait to see her. he merely said that he had received a letter which had not given him much comfort. "but i shall answer it," he said,--and the reader who has seen the one letter shall see also the other. brown's hotel, albemarle street, 4th november, 183--. dearest anna, i have received your letter and am obliged to you for it, though there is so little in it to flatter or to satisfy me. i will begin by assuring you that, as far as i am concerned, i do not wish to keep you from seeing mr. daniel thwaite. i believe in my heart of hearts that if you were now to see him often you would feel aware that a union between you and him could not make either of you happy. you do not even say that you think it would do so. you defend him, as though i had accused him. i grant all that you say in his favour. i do not doubt that his father behaved to you and to your mother with true friendship. but that will not make him fit to be the husband of anna lovel. you do not even say that you think that he would be fit. i fancy i understand it all, and i love you better for the pride with which you cling to so firm a friend. but, dearest, it is different when we talk of marriage. i imagine that you hardly dare now to think of becoming his wife. i doubt whether you say even to yourself that you love him with that kind of love. do not suppose me vain enough to believe that therefore you must love me. it is not that. but if you would once tell yourself that he is unfit to be your husband, then you might come to love me, and would not be the less willing to do so, because all your friends wish it. it must be something to you that you should be able to put an end to all this trouble. yours, dearest anna, most affectionately, l. i called in bedford square this morning, but you were not at home! "but i do dare," she said to herself, when she had read the letter. "why should i not dare? and i do say to myself that i love him. why should i not love him now, when i was not ashamed to love him before?" she was being persecuted; and as the step of the wayfarer brings out the sweet scent of the herb which he crushes with his heel, so did persecution with her extract from her heart that strength of character which had hitherto been latent. had they left her at yoxham, and said never a word to her about the tailor; had the rector and the two aunts showered soft courtesies on her head,--they might have vanquished her. but now the spirit of opposition was stronger within her than ever. chapter xxviii. lovel v. murray and another. monday, the 9th of november, was the day set down for the trial of the case which had assumed the name of "lovel versus murray and another." this denomination had been adopted many months ago, when it had been held to be practicable by the lovel party to prove that the lady who was now always called the countess, was not entitled to bear the name of lovel, but was simply josephine murray, and her daughter simply anna murray. had there been another wife alive when the mother was married that name and that name only could have been hers, whether she had been the victim of the old earl's fraud,--or had herself been a party to it. the reader will have understood that as the case went on the opinions of those who acted for the young earl, and more especially the opinion of the young earl himself, had been changed. prompted to do so by various motives, they, who had undertaken to prove that the countess was no countess, had freely accorded to her her title, and had themselves entertained her daughter with all due acknowledgment of rank and birth. nevertheless the name of the case remained and had become common in people's mouths. the very persons who would always speak of the countess lovel spoke also very familiarly of the coming trial in "lovel v. murray," and now the 9th of november had come round and the case of "lovel v. murray and another" was to be tried. the nature of the case was this. the two ladies, mother and daughter, had claimed the personal property of the late lord as his widow and daughter. against that claim earl lovel made his claim, as heir-at-law, alleging that there was no widow, and no legitimate child. the case had become infinitely complicated by the alleged existence of the first wife,--in which case she as widow would have inherited. but still the case went on as lovel v. murray,--the lovel so named being the earl, and not the alleged italian widow. such being the question presumably at issue, it became the duty of the solicitor-general to open the pleadings. in the ordinary course of proceeding it would have been his task to begin by explaining the state of the family, and by assuming that he could prove the former marriage and the existence of the former wife at the time of the latter marriage. his evidence would have been subject to cross-examination, and then another counter-statement would have been made on behalf of the countess, and her witnesses would have been brought forward. when all this had been done the judge would have charged the jury, and with the jury would have rested the decision. this would have taken many days, and all the joys and sorrows, all the mingled hopes and anxieties of a long trial had been expected. bets had been freely made, odds being given at first on behalf of lord lovel, and afterwards odds on behalf of the countess. interest had been made to get places in the court, and the clubs had resounded now with this fact and now with that which had just been brought home from sicily as certain. then had come suddenly upon the world the tidings that there would absolutely be no trial, that the great case of "lovel v. murray and another" was to be set at rest for ever by the marriage of "lovel" with "another," and by the acceptance by "lovel" of "murray" as his mother-in-law. but the quidnuncs would not accept this solution. no doubt lord lovel might marry the second party in the defence, and it was admitted on all hands that he probably would do so;--but that would not stop the case. if there were an italian widow living, that widow was the heir to the property. another lovel would take the place of lord lovel,--and the cause of lovel v. murray must still be continued. the first marriage could not be annulled, simply by the fact that it would suit the young earl that it should be annulled. then, while this dispute was in progress, it was told at all the clubs that there was to be no marriage,--that the girl had got herself engaged to a tailor, and that the tailor's mastery over her was so strong that she did not dare to shake him off. dreadful things were told about the tailor and poor lady anna. there had been a secret marriage; there was going to be a child;--the latter fact was known as a certain fact to a great many men at the clubs;--the tailor had made everything safe in twenty different ways. he was powerful over the girl equally by love, by fear, and by written bond. the countess had repelled her daughter from her house by turning her out into the street by night, and had threatened both murder and suicide. half the fortune had been offered to the tailor, in vain. the romance of the story had increased greatly during the last few days preceding the trial,--but it was admitted by all that the trial as a trial would be nothing. there would probably be simply an adjournment. it would be hard to say how the story of the tailor leaked out, and became at last public and notorious. it had been agreed among all the lawyers that it should be kept secret,--but it may perhaps have been from some one attached to them that it was first told abroad. no doubt all norton and flick knew it, and all goffe and goffe. mr. mainsail and his clerk, mr. hardy and his clerk, serjeant bluestone and his clerk, all knew it; but they had all promised secrecy. the clerk of the solicitor-general was of course beyond suspicion. the two miss bluestones had known the story, but they had solemnly undertaken to be silent as the grave. mrs. bluestone was a lady with most intimately confidential friends,--but she was sworn to secrecy. it might have come from sarah, the lady's-maid, whom the countess had unfortunately attached to her daughter when the first gleam of prosperity had come upon them. among the last who heard the story of the tailor,--the last of any who professed the slightest interest in the events of the lovel family,--were the lovels of yoxham. the earl had told them nothing. in answer to his aunt's letters, and then in answer to a very urgent appeal from his uncle, the young nobleman had sent only the most curt and most ambiguous replies. when there was really something to tell he would tell everything, but at present he could only say that he hoped that everything would be well. that had been the extent of the information given by the earl to his relations, and the rector had waxed wrathful. nor was his wrath lessened, or the sorrow of the two aunts mitigated, when the truth reached them by the mouth of that very lady fitzwarren who had been made to walk out of the room after--anna murray, as lady fitzwarren persisted in calling the "young person" after she had heard the story of the tailor. she told the story at yoxham parsonage to the two aunts, and brought with her a printed paragraph from a newspaper to prove the truth of it. as it is necessary that we should now hurry into the court to hear what the solicitor-general had to say about the case, we cannot stop to sympathize with the grief of the lovels at yoxham. we may, however, pause for a moment to tell the burden of the poor rector's song for that evening. "i knew how it would be from the beginning. i told you so. i was sure of it. but nobody would believe me." the court of queen's bench at westminster was crowded on the 9th of november. the case was to be heard before the lord chief justice, and it was known that at any rate sir william patterson would have something to tell. if nothing else came of it, the telling of that story would be worth the hearing. all the preliminaries of the trial went on, as though every one believed that it was to be carried through to the bitter end,--as though evidence were to be adduced and rebutted, and further contradicted by other evidence, which would again be rebutted with that pleasing animosity between rival lawyers, which is so gratifying to the outside world, and apparently to themselves also. the jurors were sworn in,--a special jury,--and long was the time taken, and many the threats made by the chief justice, before twelve gentlemen would consent to go into the box. crowds were round the doors of the court, of which every individual man would have paid largely for standing-room to hear the trial; but when they were wanted for use, men would not come forward to accept a seat, with all that honour which belongs to a special juryman. and yet it was supposed that at last there would be no question to submit to a jury. about noon the solicitor began his statement. he was full of smiles and nods and pleasant talk, gestures indicative of a man who had a piece of work before him in which he could take delight. it is always satisfactory to see the assurance of a cock crowing in his own farm-yard, and to admire his easy familiarity with things that are awful to a stranger bird. if you, o reader, or i were bound to stand up in that court, dressed in wig and gown, and to tell a story that would take six hours in the telling, the one or the other of us knowing it to be his special duty so to tell it that judge, and counsellors, and jury, should all catch clearly every point that was to be made,--how ill would that story be told, how would those points escape the memory of the teller, and never come near the intellect of the hearers! and how would the knowledge that it would be so, confuse your tongue or mine,--and make exquisitely miserable that moment of rising before the audience! but our solicitor-general rose to his legs a happy man, with all that grace of motion, that easy slowness, that unassumed confidence which belongs to the ordinary doings of our familiar life. surely he must have known that he looked well in his wig and gown, as with low voice and bent neck, with only half-suppressed laughter, he whispered into the ears of the gentleman who sat next to him some pleasant joke that had just occurred to him. he could do that, though the eyes of all the court were upon him; so great was the man! and then he began with a sweet low voice, almost modest in its tones. for a few moments it might have been thought that some young woman was addressing the court, so gentle, so dulcet were the tones. "my lord, it is my intention on this occasion to do that which an advocate can seldom do,--to make a clean breast of it, to tell the court and the jury all that i know of this case, all that i think of it, and all that i believe,--and in short to state a case as much in the interest of my opponents as of my clients. the story with which i must occupy the time of the court, i fear, for the whole remainder of the day, with reference to the lovel family, is replete with marvels and romance. i shall tell you of great crimes and of singular virtues, of sorrows that have been endured and conquered, and of hopes that have been nearly realised; but the noble client on whose behalf i am here called upon to address you, is not in any manner the hero of this story. his heroism will be shown to consist in this,--unless i mar the story in telling it,--that he is only anxious to establish the truth, whether that truth be for him or against him. we have now to deal with an ancient and noble family, of which my client, the present earl lovel, is at this time the head and chief. on the question now before us depends the possession of immense wealth. should this trial be carried to its natural conclusion it will be for you to decide whether this wealth belongs to him as the heir-at-law of the late earl, or whether there was left some nearer heir when that earl died, whose rightful claim would bar that of my client. but there is more to be tried than this,--and on that more depends the right of two ladies to bear the name of lovel. such right, or the absence of such right, would in this country of itself be sufficient to justify, nay, to render absolutely necessary, some trial before a jury in any case of well-founded doubt. our titles of honour bear so high a value among us, are so justly regarded as the outward emblem of splendour and noble conduct, are recognised so universally as passports to all society, that we are naturally prone to watch their assumption with a caution most exact and scrupulous. when the demand for such honour is made on behalf of a man it generally includes the claim to some parliamentary privilege, the right to which has to be decided not by a jury, but by the body to which that privilege belongs. the claim to a peerage must be tried before the house of lords,--if made by a woman as by a man, because the son of the heiress would be a peer of parliament. in the case with which we are now concerned no such right is in question. the lady who claims to be the countess lovel, and her daughter who claims to be lady anna lovel, make no demand which renders necessary other decision than that of a jury. it is as though any female commoner in the land claimed to have been the wife of an alleged husband. but not the less is the claim made to a great and a noble name; and as a grave doubt has been thrown upon the justice of the demand made by these ladies, it has become the duty of my client as the head of the lovels, as being himself, without any doubt, the earl lovel of the day, to investigate the claim made, and to see that no false pretenders are allowed to wear the highly prized honours of his family. independently of the great property which is at stake, the nature of which it will be my duty to explain to you, the question at issue whether the elder lady be or be not countess lovel, and whether the younger lady be or be not lady anna lovel, has demanded the investigation which could not adequately have been made without this judicial array. i will now state frankly to you our belief that these two ladies are fully entitled to the names which they claim to bear; and i will add to that statement a stronger assurance of my own personal conviction and that of my client that they themselves are fully assured of the truth and justice of their demand. i think it right also to let you know that since these inquiries were first commenced, since the day for this trial was fixed, the younger of these ladies has been residing with the uncle of my client, under the same roof with my client, as an honoured and most welcome guest, and there, in the face of the whole country, has received that appellation of nobility from all the assembled members of my client's family, to dispute which i apparently now stand before you on that client's behalf." the rector of yoxham, who was in court, shook his head vehemently when the statement was made that lady anna had been his welcome guest; but nobody was then regarding the rector of yoxham, and he shook his head in vain. "you will at once ask why, if this be so, should the trial be continued. 'as all is thus conceded,' you will say, 'that these two ladies claim, whom in your indictment you have misnamed murray, why not, in god's name, give them their privileges, and the wealth which should appertain to them, and release them from the persecution of judicial proceedings?' in the first place i must answer that neither my belief, nor that of my friends who are acting with me, nor even that of my noble client himself, is sufficient to justify us in abstaining from seeking a decision which shall be final as against further claimants. if the young earl should die, then would there be another earl, and that other earl might also say, with grounds as just as those on which we have acted, that the lady, whom i shall henceforward call the countess lovel, is no countess. we think that she is,--but it will be for you to decide whether she is or is not, after hearing the evidence which will, no doubt, be adduced of her marriage,--and any evidence to the contrary which other parties may bring before you. we shall adduce no evidence to the contrary, nor do i think it probable that we shall ask a single question to shake that with which my learned friend opposite is no doubt prepared. in fact, there is no reason why my learned friend and i should not sit together, having our briefs and our evidence in common. and then, as the singular facts of this story become clear to you,--as i trust that i may be able to make them clear,--you will learn that there are other interests at stake beyond those of my client and of the two ladies who appear here as his opponents. two statements have been made tending to invalidate the rights of countess lovel,--both having originated with one who appears to have been the basest and blackest human being with whose iniquities my experience as a lawyer has made me conversant. i speak of the late earl. it was asserted by him, almost from the date of his marriage with the lady who is now his widow,--falsely stated, as i myself do not doubt,--that when he married her he had a former wife living. but it is, i understand, capable of absolute proof that he also stated that this former wife died soon after that second marriage,--which in such event would have been but a mock marriage. were such the truth,--should you come to the belief that the late earl spoke truth in so saying,--the whole property at issue would become the undisputed possession of my client. the late earl died intestate, the will which he did leave having been already set aside by my client as having been made when the earl was mad. the real wife, according to this story, would be dead. the second wife, according to this story, would be no wife,--and no widow. the daughter, according to this story, would be no daughter in the eye of the law,--would, at any rate, be no heiress. the earl would be the undisputed heir to the personal property, as he is to the real property and to the title. but we disbelieve this story utterly,--we intend to offer no evidence to show that the first wife,--for there was such a wife,--was living when the second marriage was contracted. we have no such evidence, and believe that none such can be found. then that recreant nobleman, in whose breast there was no touch of nobility, in whose heart was no spark of mercy, made a second statement,--to this effect--that his first wife had not died at all. his reason for this it is hardly for us to seek. he may have done so, as affording a reason why he should not go through a second marriage ceremony with the lady whom he had so ill used. but that he did make this statement is certain,--and it is also certain that he allowed an income to a certain woman as though to a wife, that he allowed her to be called the countess, though he was then living with another italian woman; and it is also certain that this woman is still living,--or at least that she was living some week or two ago. we believe her to have been an elder sister of her who was the first wife, and whose death occurred before the second marriage. should it be proved that this living woman was the legitimate wife of the late earl, not only would the right be barred of those two english ladies to whom all our sympathies are now given, but no portion of the property in dispute would go either to them or to my client. i am told that before his lordship, the chief justice, shall have left the case in your hands, an application will be made to the court on behalf of that living lady. i do not know how that may be, but i am so informed. if such application be made,--if there be any attempt to prove that she should inherit as widow,--then will my client again contest the case. we believe that the countess lovel, the english countess, is the widow, and that lady anna lovel is lady anna lovel, and is the heiress. against them we will not struggle. as was our bounden duty, we have sent not once only, but twice and thrice, to italy and to sicily in search of evidence which, if true, would prove that the english countess was no countess. we have failed, and have no evidence which we think it right to ask a jury to believe. we think that a mass of falsehood has been heaped together among various persons in a remote part of a foreign country, with the view of obtaining money, all of which was grounded on the previous falsehoods of the late earl. we will not use these falsehoods with the object of disputing a right in the justice of which we have ourselves the strongest confidence. we withdraw from any such attempt. "but as yet i have only given you the preliminaries of my story." he had, in truth, told his story. he had, at least, told all of it that it will import that the reader should hear. he, indeed,--unfortunate one,--will have heard the most of that story twice or thrice before. but the audience in the court of queen's bench still listened with breathless attention, while, under this new head of his story he told every detail again with much greater length than he had done in the prelude which has been here given. he stated the facts of the cumberland marriage, apologizing to his learned friend the serjeant for taking, as he said, the very words out of his learned friend's mouth. he expatiated with an eloquence that was as vehement as it was touching on the demoniacal schemes of that wicked earl, to whom, during the whole of his fiendish life, women had been a prey. he repudiated, with a scorn that was almost terrible in its wrath, the idea that josephine murray had gone to the earl's house with the name of wife, knowing that she was, in fact, but a mistress. she herself was in court, thickly veiled, under the care of one of the goffes, having been summoned there as a necessary witness, and could not control her emotion as she listened to the words of warm eulogy with which the adverse counsel told the history of her life. it seemed to her then that justice was at last being done to her. then the solicitor-general reverted again to the two italian women,--the sicilian sisters, as he called them,--and at much length gave his reasons for discrediting the evidence which he himself had sought, that he might use it with the object of establishing the claim of his client. and lastly, he described the nature of the possessions which had been amassed by the late earl, who, black with covetousness as he was with every other sin, had so manipulated his property that almost the whole of it had become personal, and was thus inheritable by a female heiress. he knew, he said, that he was somewhat irregular in alluding to facts,--or to fiction, if any one should call it fiction,--which he did not intend to prove, or to attempt to prove; but there was something, he said, beyond the common in the aspect which this case had taken, something in itself so irregular, that he thought he might perhaps be held to be excused in what he had done. "for the sake of the whole lovel family, for the sake of these two most interesting ladies, who have been subjected, during a long period of years, to most undeserved calamities, we are anxious to establish the truth. i have told you what we believe to be the truth, and as that in no single detail militates against the case as it will be put forward by my learned friends opposite, we have no evidence to offer. we are content to accept the marriage of the widowed countess as a marriage in every respect legal and binding." so saying the solicitor-general sat down. it was then past five o'clock, and the court, as a matter of course, was adjourned, but it was adjourned by consent to the wednesday, instead of to the following day, in order that there might be due consideration given to the nature of the proceedings that must follow. as the thing stood at present it seemed that there need be no further plea of "lovel v. murray and another." it had been granted that murray was not murray, but lovel; yet it was thought that something further would be done. it had all been very pretty; but yet there had been a feeling of disappointment throughout the audience. not a word had been said as to that part of the whole case which was supposed to be the most romantic. not a word had been said about the tailor. chapter xxix. daniel thwaite alone. there were two persons in the court who heard the statement of the solicitor-general with equal interest,--and perhaps with equal disapprobation,--whose motives and ideas on the subject were exactly opposite. these two were the rev. mr. lovel, the uncle of the plaintiff, and daniel thwaite, the tailor, whose whole life had been passed in furthering the cause of the defendants. the parson, from the moment in which he had heard that the young lady whom he had entertained in his house had engaged herself to marry the tailor, had reverted to his old suspicions,--suspicions which, indeed, he had never altogether laid aside. it had been very grievous to him to prefer a doubtful lady anna to a most indubitable lady fitzwarren. he liked the old-established things,--things which had always been unsuspected, which were not only respectable but firm-rooted. for twenty years he had been certain that the countess was a false countess; and he, too, had lamented with deep inward lamentation over the loss of the wealth which ought to have gone to support the family earldom. it was monstrous to him that the property of one earl lovel should not appertain to the next earl. he would on the moment have had the laws with reference to the succession of personal property altered, with retrospective action, so that so great an iniquity should be impossible. when the case against the so-called countess was, as it were, abandoned by the solicitor-general, and the great interests at stake thrown up, he would have put the conduct of the matter into other hands. then had come upon him the bitterness of having to entertain in his own house the now almost undisputed,--though by him still suspected,--heiress, on behalf of his nephew, of a nephew who did not treat him well. and now the heiress had shown what she really was by declaring her intention of marrying a tailor! when that became known, he did hope that the solicitor-general would change his purpose and fight the cause. the ladies of the family, the two aunts, had affected to disbelieve the paragraph which lady fitzwarren had shown them with so much triumph. the rector had declared that it was just the kind of thing that he had expected. aunt julia, speaking freely, had said that it was just the kind of thing which she, knowing the girl, could not believe. then the rector had come up to town to hear the trial, and on the day preceding it had asked his nephew as to the truth of the rumour which had reached him. "it is true," said the young lord, knitting his brow, "but it had better not be talked about." "why not talked about? all the world knows it. it has been in the newspapers." "any one wishing to oblige me will not mention it," said the earl. this was too bad. it could not be possible,--for the honour of all the lovels it could not surely be possible,--that lord lovel was still seeking the hand of a young woman who had confessed that she was engaged to marry a journeyman tailor! and yet to him, the uncle,--to him who had not long since been in loco parentis to the lord,--the lord would vouchsafe no further reply than that above given! the rector almost made himself believe that, great as might be the sorrow caused by such disruption, it would become his duty to quarrel with the head of his family! he listened with most attentive ears to every word spoken by the solicitor-general, and quarrelled with almost every word. would not any one have imagined that this advocate had been paid to plead the cause, not of the earl, but of the countess? as regarded the interests of the earl, everything was surrendered. appeal was made for the sympathies of all the court,--and, through the newspapers, for the sympathies of all england,--not on behalf of the earl who was being defrauded of his rights, but on behalf of the young woman who had disgraced the name which she pretended to call her own,--and whose only refuge from that disgrace must be in the fact that to that name she had no righteous claim! even when this apostate barrister came to a recapitulation of the property at stake, and explained the cause of its being vested, not in land as is now the case with the bulk of the possessions of noble lords,--but in shares and funds and ventures of commercial speculation here and there, after the fashion of tradesmen,--he said not a word to stir up in the minds of the jury a feeling of the injury which had been done to the present earl. "only that i am told that he has a wife of his own i should think that he meant to marry one of the women himself," said the indignant rector in the letter which he wrote to his sister julia. and the tailor was as indignant as the rector. he was summoned as a witness and was therefore bound to attend,--at the loss of his day's work. when he reached the court, which he did long before the judge had taken his seat, he found it to be almost impossible to effect an entrance. he gave his name to some officer about the place, but learned that his name was altogether unknown. he showed his subpoena and was told that he must wait till he was called. "where must i wait?" asked the angry radical. "anywhere," said the man in authority; "but you can't force your way in here." then he remembered that no one had as yet paid so dearly for this struggle, no one had suffered so much, no one had been so instrumental in bringing the truth to light, as he, and this was the way in which he was treated! had there been any justice in those concerned a seat would have been provided for him in the court, even though his attendance had not been required. there were hundreds there, brought thither by simple curiosity, to whom priority of entrance into the court had been accorded by favour, because they were wealthy, or because they were men of rank, or because they had friends high in office. all his wealth had been expended in this case; it was he who had been the most constant friend of this countess; but for him and his father there might probably have been no question of a trial at this day. and yet he was allowed to beg for admittance, and to be shoved out of court because he had no friends. "the court is a public court, and is open to the public," he said, as he thrust his shoulders forward with a resolution that he would effect an entrance. then he was taken in hand by two constables and pushed back through the doorway,--to the great detriment of the apple-woman who sat there in those days. but by pluck and resolution he succeeded in making good some inch of standing room within the court before the solicitor-general began his statement, and he was able to hear every word that was said. that statement was not more pleasing to him than to the rector of yoxham. his first quarrel was with the assertion that titles of nobility are in england the outward emblem of noble conduct. no words that might have been uttered could have been more directly antagonistic to his feelings and political creed. it had been the accident of his life that he should have been concerned with ladies who were noble by marriage and birth, and that it had become a duty to him to help to claim on their behalf empty names which were in themselves odious to him. it had been the woman's right to be acknowledged as the wife of the man who had disowned her, and the girl's right to be known as his legitimate daughter. therefore had he been concerned. but he had declared to himself, from his first crude conception of an opinion on the subject, that it would be hard to touch pitch and not be defiled. the lords of whom he heard were, or were believed by him to be, bloated with luxury, were both rich and idle, were gamblers, debauchers of other men's wives, deniers of all rights of citizenship, drones who were positively authorised to eat the honey collected by the working bees. with his half-knowledge, his ill-gotten and ill-digested information, with his reading which had all been on one side, he had been unable as yet to catch a glimpse of the fact that from the ranks of the nobility are taken the greater proportion of the hardworking servants of the state. his eyes saw merely the power, the privileges, the titles, the ribbons, and the money;--and he hated a lord. when therefore the solicitor-general spoke of the recognised virtue of titles in england, the tailor uttered words of scorn to his stranger neighbour. "and yet this man calls himself a liberal, and voted for the reform bill," he said. "in course he did," replied the stranger; "that was the way of his party." "there isn't an honest man among them all," said the tailor to himself. this was at the beginning of the speech, and he listened on through five long hours, not losing a word of the argument, not missing a single point made in favour of the countess and her daughter. it became clear to him at any rate that the daughter would inherit the money. when the solicitor-general came to speak of the nature of the evidence collected in italy, daniel thwaite was unconsciously carried away into a firm conviction that all those concerned in the matter in italy were swindlers. the girl was no doubt the heiress. the feeling of all the court was with her,--as he could well perceive. but in all that speech not one single word was said of the friend who had been true to the girl and to her mother through all their struggles and adversity. the name of thomas thwaite was not once mentioned. it might have been expedient for them to ignore him, daniel, the son; but surely had there been any honour among them, any feeling of common honesty towards folk so low in the scale of humanity as tailors, some word would have been spoken to tell of the friendship of the old man who had gone to his grave almost a pauper because of his truth and constancy. but no;--there was not a word! and he listened, with anxious ears, to learn whether anything would be said as to that proposed "alliance,"--he had always heard it called an alliance with a grim smile,--between the two noble cousins. heaven and earth had been moved to promote "the alliance." but the solicitor-general said not a word on the subject,--any more than he did of that other disreputable social arrangement, which would have been no more than a marriage. all the audience might suppose from anything that was said there that the young lady was fancy free and had never yet dreamed of a husband. nevertheless there was hardly one there who had not heard something of the story of the earl's suit,--and something also of the tailor's success. when the court broke up daniel thwaite had reached standing-room, which brought him near to the seat that was occupied by serjeant bluestone. he lingered as long as he could, and saw all the barristers concerned standing with their heads together laughing, chatting, and well pleased, as though the day had been for them a day of pleasure. "i fancy the speculation is too bad for any one to take it up," he heard the serjeant say, among whose various gifts was not that of being able to moderate his voice. "i dare say not," said daniel to himself as he left the court; "and yet we took it up when the risk was greater, and when there was nothing to be gained." he had as yet received no explicit answer to the note which he had written to the countess when he sent her the copy of his father's will. he had, indeed, received a notice from mr. goffe that the matter would receive immediate attention, and that the countess hoped to be able to settle the claim in a very short time. but that he thought was not such a letter as should have been sent to him on an occasion so full of interest to him! but they were all hard and unjust and bad. the countess was bad because she was a countess,--the lawyers because they were lawyers,--the whole lovel family because they were lovels. at this moment poor daniel thwaite was very bitter against all mankind. he would, he thought, go at once to the western world of which he was always dreaming, if he could only get that sum of â£500 which was manifestly due to him. but as he wandered away after the court was up, getting some wretched solitary meal at a cheap eating-house on his road, he endeavoured to fix his thoughts on the question of the girl's affection to himself. taking all that had been said in that courtly lawyer's speech this morning as the groundwork of his present judgment, what should he judge to be her condition at the moment? he had heard on all sides that it was intended that she should marry the young earl, and it had been said in his hearing that such would be declared before the judge. no such declaration had been made. not a word had been uttered to signify that such an "alliance" was contemplated. efforts had been made with him to induce him to withdraw his claim to the girl's hand. the countess had urged him, and the lawyers had urged him. most assuredly they would not have done so,--would have in no wise troubled themselves with him at all,--had they been able to prevail with lady anna. and why had they not so prevailed? the girl, doubtless, had been subjected to every temptation. she was kept secure from his interference. hitherto he had not even made an effort to see her since she had left the house in which he himself lived. she had nothing to fear from him. she had been sojourning among those lovels, who would doubtless have made the way to deceit and luxury easy for her. he could not doubt but that she had been solicited to enter into this alliance. could he be justified in flattering himself that she had hitherto resisted temptation because in her heart of hearts she was true to her first love? he was true. he was conscious of his own constancy. he was sure of himself that he was bound to her by his love, and not by the hope of any worldly advantage. and why should he think that she was weaker, vainer, less noble than himself? had he not evidence to show him that she was strong enough to resist a temptation to which he had never been subjected? he had read of women who were above the gilt and glitter of the world. when he was disposed to think that she would be false, no terms of reproach seemed to him too severe to heap upon her name; and yet, when he found that he had no ground on which to accuse her, even in his own thoughts, of treachery to himself, he could hardly bring himself to think it possible that she should not be treacherous. she had sworn to him, as he had sworn to her, and was he not bound to believe her oath? then he remembered what the poet had said to him. the poet had advised him to desist altogether, and had told him that it would certainly be best for the girl that he should do so. the poet had not based his advice on the ground that the girl would prove false, but that it would be good for the girl to be allowed to be false,--good for the girl that she should be encouraged to be false, in order that she might become an earl's wife! but he thought that it would be bad for any woman to be an earl's wife; and so thinking, how could he abandon his love in order that he might hand her over to a fashion of life which he himself despised? the poet must be wrong. he would cling to his love till he should know that his love was false to him. should he ever learn that, then his love should be troubled with him no further. but something must be done. even, on her behalf, if she were true to him, something must be done. was it not pusillanimous in him to make no attempt to see his love and to tell her that he at any rate was true to her? these people, who were now his enemies, the lawyers and the lovels, with the countess at the head of them, had used him like a dog, had repudiated him without remorse, had not a word even to say of the services which his father had rendered. was he bound by honour or duty to stand on any terms with them? could there be anything due to them from him? did it not behove him as a man to find his way into the girl's presence and to assist her with his courage? he did not fear them. what cause had he to fear them? in all that had been between them his actions to them had been kind and good, whereas they were treating him with the basest ingratitude. but how should he see lady anna? as he thought of all this he wandered up from westminster, where he had eaten his dinner, to russell square and into keppel street, hesitating whether he would at once knock at the door and ask to see lady anna lovel. lady anna was still staying with mrs. bluestone; but daniel thwaite had not believed the countess when she told him that her daughter was not living with her. he doubted, however, and did not knock at the door. chapter xxx. justice is to be done. it must not be thought that the countess was unmoved when she received daniel thwaite's letter from keswick enclosing the copy of his father's will. she was all alone, and she sat long in her solitude, thinking of the friend who was gone and who had been always true to her. she herself would have done for old thomas thwaite any service which a woman could render to a man, so strongly did she feel all that the man had done for her. as she had once said, no menial office performed by her on behalf of the old tailor would have been degrading to her. she had eaten his bread, and she never for a moment forgot the obligation. the slow tears stood in her eyes as she thought of the long long hours which she had passed in his company, while, almost desponding herself, she had received courage from his persistency. and her feeling for the son would have been the same, had not the future position of her daughter and the standing of the house of lovel been at stake. it was not in her nature to be ungrateful; but neither was it in her nature to postpone the whole object of her existence to her gratitude. even though she should appear to the world as a monster of ingratitude, she must treat the surviving thwaite as her bitterest enemy as long as he maintained his pretensions to her daughter's hand. she could have no friendly communication with him. she herself would hold no communication with him at all, if she might possibly avoid it, lest she should be drawn into some renewed relation of friendship with him. he was her enemy,--her enemy in such fierce degree that she was always plotting the means of ridding herself altogether of his presence and influence. to her thinking the man had turned upon her most treacherously, and was using, for his own purposes and his own aggrandizement, that familiarity with her affairs which he had acquired by reason of his father's generosity. she believed but little in his love; but whether he loved the girl or merely sought her money, was all one to her. her whole life had been passed in an effort to prove her daughter to be a lady of rank, and she would rather sacrifice her life in the basest manner than live to see all her efforts annulled by a low marriage. love, indeed, and romance! what was the love of one individual, what was the romance of a childish girl, to the honour and well-being of an ancient and noble family? it was her ambition to see her girl become the countess lovel, and no feeling of gratitude should stand in her way. she would rather slay that lowborn artisan with her own hand than know that he had the right to claim her as his mother-in-law. nevertheless, the slow tears crept down her cheeks as she thought of former days, and of the little parlour behind the tailor's shop at keswick, in which the two children had been wont to play. but the money must be paid; or, at least, the debt must be acknowledged. as soon as she had somewhat recovered herself she opened the old desk which had for years been the receptacle of all her papers, and taking out sundry scribbled documents, went to work at a sum in addition. it cannot be said of her that she was a good accountant, but she had been so far careful as to have kept entries of all the monies she had received from thomas thwaite. she had once carried in her head a correct idea of the entire sum she owed him; but now she set down the items with dates, and made the account fair on a sheet of note paper. so much money she certainly did owe to daniel thwaite, and so much she would certainly pay if ever the means of paying it should be hers. then she went off with her account to mr. goffe. mr. goffe did not think that the matter pressed. the payment of large sums which have been long due never is pressing in the eyes of lawyers. men are always supposed to have a hundred pounds in their waistcoat pockets; but arrangements have to be made for the settling of thousands. "you had better let me write him a line and tell him that it shall be looked to as soon as the question as to the property is decided," said mr. goffe. but this did not suit the views of the countess. she spoke out very openly as to all she owed to the father, and as to her eternal enmity to the son. it behoved her to pay the debt, if only that she might be able to treat the man altogether as an enemy. she had understood that, even pending the trial, a portion of the income would be allowed by the courts for her use and for the expenses of the trial. it was assented that this money should be paid. could steps be taken by which it might be settled at once? mr. goffe, taking the memorandum, said that he would see what could be done, and then wrote his short note to daniel thwaite. when he had computed the interest which must undoubtedly be paid on the borrowed money he found that a sum of about â£9,000 was due to the tailor. "nine thousand pounds!" said one mr. goffe to another. "that will be better to him than marrying the daughter of an earl." could daniel have heard the words he would have taken the lawyer by the throat and have endeavoured to teach him what love is. then the trial came on. before the day fixed had come round, but only just before it, mr. goffe showed the account to serjeant bluestone. "god bless my soul!" said the serjeant. "there should be some vouchers for such an amount as that." mr. goffe declared that there were no vouchers, except for a very trifling part of it; but still thought that the amount should be allowed. the countess was quite willing to make oath, if need be, that the money had been supplied to her. then the further consideration of the question was for the moment postponed, and the trial came on. on the tuesday, which had been left a vacant day as regarded the trial, there was a meeting,--like all other proceedings in this cause, very irregular in its nature,--at the chambers of the solicitor-general, at which serjeant bluestone attended with messrs. hardy, mainsail, flick, and goffe; and at this meeting, among other matters of business, mention was made of the debt due by the countess to daniel thwaite. of this debt the solicitor-general had not as yet heard,--though he had heard of the devoted friendship of the old tailor. that support had been afforded to some extent,--that for a period the shelter of old thwaite's roof had been lent to the countess,--that the man had been generous and trusting, he did know. he had learned, of course, that thence had sprung that early familiarity which had enabled the younger thwaite to make his engagement with lady anna. that something should be paid when the ladies came by their own he was aware. but the ladies were not his clients, and into the circumstances he had not inquired. now he was astounded and almost scandalized by the amount of the debt. "do you mean to say that he advanced â£9,000 in hard cash?" said the solicitor-general. "that includes interest at five per cent., sir william, and also a small sum for bills paid by thomas thwaite on her behalf. she has had in actual cash about â£7,000." "and where has it gone?" "a good deal of it through my hands," said mr. goffe boldly. "during two or three years she had no income at all, and during the last twenty years she has been at law for her rights. he advanced all the money when that trial for bigamy took place." "god bless my soul!" said mr. serjeant bluestone. "did he leave a will?" asked the solicitor-general. "oh, yes; a will which has been proved, and of which i have a copy. there was nothing else to leave but this debt, and that is left to the son." "it should certainly be paid without delay," said mr. hardy. mr. mainsail questioned whether they could get the money. mr. goffe doubted whether it could be had before the whole affair was settled. mr. flick was sure that on due representation the amount would be advanced at once. the income of the property was already accumulating in the hands of the court, and there was an anxiety that all just demands,--demands which might be considered to be justly made on the family property,--should be paid without delay. "i think there would hardly be a question," said mr. hardy. "seven thousand pounds advanced by these two small tradesmen to the countess lovel," said the solicitor-general, "and that done at a time when no relation of her own or of her husband would lend her a penny! i wish i had known that when i went into court yesterday." "it would hardly have done any good," said the serjeant. "it would have enabled one at any rate to give credit where credit is due. and this son is the man who claims to be affianced to the lady anna?" "the same man, sir william," said mr. goffe. "one is almost inclined to think that he deserves her." "i can't agree with you there at all," said the serjeant angrily. "one at any rate is not astonished that the young lady should think so," continued the solicitor-general. "upon my word, i don't know how we are to expect that she should throw her early lover overboard after such evidence of devotion." "the marriage would be too incongruous," said mr. hardy. "quite horrible," said the serjeant. "it distresses one to think of it," said mr. goffe. "it would be much better that she should not be lady anna at all, if she is to do that," said mr. mainsail. "very much better," said mr. flick, shaking his head, and remembering that he was employed by lord lovel and not by the countess,--a fact of which it seemed to him that the solicitor-general altogether forgot the importance. "gentlemen, you have no romance among you," said sir william. "have not generosity and valour always prevailed over wealth and rank with ladies in story?" "i do not remember any valorous tailors who have succeeded with ladies of high degree," said mr. hardy. "did not the lady of the strachy marry the yeoman of the wardrobe?" asked the solicitor-general. "i don't know that we care much about romance here," said the serjeant. "the marriage would be so abominable, that it is not to be thought of." "the tailor should at any rate get his money," said the solicitor-general, "and i will undertake to say that if the case be as represented by mr. goffe--" "it certainly is," said the attorney. "then there will be no difficulty in raising the funds for paying it. if he is not to have his wife, at any rate let him have his money. i think, mr. flick, that intimation should be made to him that earl lovel will join the countess in immediate application to the court for means to settle his claim. circumstanced as we are at present, there can be no doubt that such application will have the desired result. it should, of course, be intimated that serjeant bluestone and myself are both of opinion that the money should be allowed for the purpose." as the immediate result of this conversation, daniel thwaite received on the following morning letters both from mr. goffe and mr. flick. the former intimated to him that a sum of nine thousand odd pounds was held to be due to him by the countess, and that immediate steps would be taken for its payment. that from mr. flick, which was much shorter than the letter from his brother attorney, merely stated that as a very large sum of money appeared to be due by the countess lovel to the estate of the late thomas thwaite, for sums advanced to the countess during the last twenty years, the present earl lovel had been advised to join the countess in application to the courts, that the amount due might be paid out of the income of the property left by the late earl; and that that application would be made "_immediately_." mr. goffe in his letter, went on to make certain suggestions, and to give much advice. as this very large debt, of which no proof was extant, was freely admitted by the countess, and as steps were being at once taken to ensure payment of the whole sum named to daniel thwaite, as his father's heir, it was hoped that daniel thwaite would at once abandon his preposterous claim to the hand of lady anna lovel. then mr. goffe put forward in glowing colours the iniquity of which daniel thwaite would be guilty should he continue his fruitless endeavours to postpone the re-establishment of a noble family which was thus showing its united benevolence by paying to him the money which it owed him. chapter xxxi. the verdict. on the wednesday the court reassembled in all its judicial glory. there was the same crowd, the same lord chief justice, the same jury, and the same array of friendly lawyers. there had been a rumour that a third retinue of lawyers would appear on behalf of what was now generally called the italian interest, and certain words which had fallen from the solicitor-general on monday had assured the world at large that the italian interest would be represented. it was known that the italian case had been confided to a firm of enterprising solicitors, named mowbray and mopus, perhaps more feared than respected, which was supposed to do a great amount of speculative business. but no one from the house of messrs. mowbray and mopus was in court on the wednesday morning; and no energetic barrister was ever enriched by a fee from them on behalf of the italian widow. the speculation had been found to be too deep, the expenditure which would be required in advance too great, and the prospect of remuneration too remote even for mowbray and mopus. it appeared afterwards that application had been made by those gentlemen for an assurance that expenses incurred on behalf of the italian countess should be paid out of the estate; but this had been refused. no guarantee to this effect could be given, at any rate till it should be seen whether the italian lady had any show of justice on her side. it was now the general belief that if there was any truth at all in the italian claim, it rested on the survivorship, at the time of the cumberland marriage, of a wife who had long since died. as the proof of this would have given no penny to any one in italy,--would simply have shown that the earl was the heir,--messrs. mowbray and mopus retired, and there was an end, for ever and a day, of the italian interest. though there was the same throng in the court as on the monday, there did not seem to be the same hubbub on the opening of the day's proceedings. the barristers were less busy with their papers, the attorneys sat quite at their ease, and the chief justice, with an assistant judge, who was his bench-fellow, appeared for some minutes to be quite passive. then the solicitor-general arose and said that, with permission, he would occupy the court for only a few minutes. he had stated on monday his belief that an application would be made to the court on behalf of other interests than those which had been represented when the court first met. it appeared that he had been wrong in that surmise. of course he had no knowledge on the subject, but it did not appear that any learned gentleman was prepared to address the court for any third party. as he, on behalf of his client, had receded from the case, his lordship would probably say what, in his lordship's opinion, should now be the proceeding of the court. the earl lovel abandoned his plea, and perhaps the court would, in those circumstances, decide that its jurisdiction in the matter was over. then the lord chief justice, with his assistant judge, retired for a while, and all the assembled crowd appeared to be at liberty to discuss the matter just as everybody pleased. it was undoubtedly the opinion of the bar at large, and at that moment of the world in general, that the solicitor-general had done badly for his client. the sum of money which was at stake was, they said, too large to be played with. as the advocate of the earl, sir william ought to have kept himself aloof from the countess and her daughter. in lieu of regarding his client, he had taken upon himself to set things right in general, according to his idea of right. no doubt he was a clever man, and knew how to address a jury, but he was always thinking of himself, and bolstering up something of his own, instead of thinking of his case and bolstering up his client. and this conception of his character in general, and of his practice in this particular, became the stronger, as it was gradually believed that the living italian countess was certainly an impostor. there would have been little good in fighting against the english countess on her behalf;--but if they could only have proved that the other italian woman, who was now dead, had been the real countess when the cumberland marriage was made, then what a grand thing it would have been for the lovel family! of those who held this opinion, the rector of yoxham was the strongest, and the most envenomed against the solicitor-general. during the whole of that tuesday he went about declaring that the interests of the lovel family had been sacrificed by their own counsel, and late in the afternoon he managed to get hold of mr. hardy. could nothing be done? mr. hardy was of opinion that nothing could be done now; but in the course of the evening he did, at the rector's instance, manage to see sir william, and to ask the question, "could nothing be done?" "nothing more than we propose to do." "then the case is over," said mr. hardy. "i am assured that no one will stir on behalf of that italian lady." "if any one did stir it would only be loss of time and money. my dear hardy, i understand as well as any one what people are saying, and i know what must be the feeling of many of the lovels. but i can only do my duty by my client to the best of my judgment. in the first place, you must remember that he has himself acknowledged the countess." "by our advice," said mr. hardy. "you mean by mine. exactly so;--but with such conviction on his own part that he positively refuses to be a party to any suit which shall be based on the assumption that she is not countess lovel. let an advocate be ever so obdurate, he can hardly carry on a case in opposition to his client's instructions. we are acting for lord lovel, and not for the lovel family. and i feel assured of this, that were we to attempt to set up the plea that that other woman was alive when the marriage took place in cumberland, you, yourself, would be ashamed of the evidence which it would become your duty to endeavour to foist upon the jury. we should certainly be beaten, and, in the ultimate settlement of the property, we should have to do with enemies instead of friends. the man was tried for bigamy and acquitted. would any jury get over that unless you had evidence to offer to them that was plain as a pikestaff, and absolutely incontrovertible?" "do you still think the girl will marry the earl?" "no; i do not. she seems to have a will of her own, and that will is bent the other way. but i do think that a settlement may be made of the property which shall be very much in the earl's favour." when on the following morning the solicitor-general made his second speech, which did not occupy above a quarter of an hour, it became manifest that he did not intend to alter his course of proceeding, and while the judges were absent it was said by everybody in the court that the countess and lady anna had gained their suit. "i consider it to be a most disgraceful course of proceeding on the part of sir william patterson," said the rector to a middle-aged legal functionary, who was managing clerk to norton and flick. "we all think, sir, that there was more fight in it," said the legal functionary. "there was plenty of fight in it. i don't believe that any jury in england would willingly have taken such an amount of property from the head of the lovel family. for the last twenty years,--ever since i first heard of the pretended english marriage,--everybody has known that she was no more a countess than i am. i can't understand it; upon my word i can't. i have not had much to do with law, but i've always been brought up to think that an english barrister would be true to his client. i believe a case can be tried again if it can be shown that the lawyers have mismanaged it." the unfortunate rector, when he made this suggestion, no doubt forgot that the client in this case was in full agreement with the wicked advocate. the judges were absent for about half an hour, and on their return the chief justice declared that his learned brother,--the serjeant namely,--had better proceed with the case on behalf of his clients. he went on to explain that as the right to the property in dispute, and indeed the immediate possession of that property, would be ruled by the decision of the jury, it was imperative that they should hear what the learned counsel for the so-called countess and her daughter had to say, and what evidence they had to offer, as to the validity of her marriage. it was not to be supposed that he intended to throw any doubt on that marriage, but such would be the safer course. no doubt, in the ordinary course of succession, a widow and a daughter would inherit and divide among them in certain fixed proportions the personal property of a deceased but intestate husband and father, without the intervention of any jury to declare their rights. but in this case suspicion had been thrown and adverse statements had been made; and as his learned brother was, as a matter of course, provided with evidence to prove that which the plaintiff had come into the court with the professed intention of disproving, the case had better go on. then he wrapped his robes around him and threw himself back in the attitude of a listener. serjeant bluestone, already on his legs, declared himself prepared and willing to proceed. no doubt the course as now directed was the proper course to be pursued. the solicitor-general, rising gracefully and bowing to the court, gave his consent with complaisant patronage. "your lordship, no doubt, is right." his words were whispered, and very probably not heard; but the smile, as coming from a solicitor-general,--from such a solicitor-general as sir william patterson,--was sufficient to put any judge at his ease. then serjeant bluestone made his statement, and the case was proceeded with after the fashion of such trials. it will not concern us to follow the further proceedings of the court with any close attention. the solicitor-general went away, to some other business, and much of the interest seemed to drop. the marriage in cumberland was proved; the trial for bigamy, with the acquittal of the earl, was proved; the two opposed statements of the earl, as to the death of the first wife, and afterwards as to the fact that she was living, were proved. serjeant bluestone and mr. mainsail were very busy for two days, having everything before them. mr. hardy, on behalf of the young lord, kept his seat, but he said not a word--not even asking a question of one of serjeant bluestone's witnesses. twice the foreman of the jury interposed, expressing an opinion, on behalf of himself and his brethren, that the case need not be proceeded with further; but the judge ruled that it was for the interest of the countess,--he ceased to style her the so-called countess,--that her advocates should be allowed to complete their case. in the afternoon of the second day they did complete it, with great triumph and a fine flourish of forensic oratory as to the cruel persecution which their client had endured. the solicitor-general came back into court in time to hear the judge's charge, which was very short. the jury were told that they had no alternative but to find a verdict for the defendants. it was explained to them that this was a plea to show that a certain marriage which had taken place in cumberland in 181--, was no real or valid marriage. not only was that plea withdrawn, but evidence had been adduced proving that that marriage was valid. such a marriage was, as a matter of course, prim㢠facie valid, let what statements might be made to the contrary by those concerned or not concerned. in such case the burden of proof would rest entirely with the makers of such statement. no such proof had been here attempted, and the marriage must be declared a valid marriage. the jury had nothing to do with the disposition of the property, and it would be sufficient for them simply to find a verdict for the defendants. the jury did as they were bid; but, going somewhat beyond this, declared that they found the two defendants to be properly named the countess lovel, and lady anna lovel. so ended the case of "lovel v. murray and another." the countess, who had been in the court all day, was taken home to keppel street by the serjeant in a glass coach that had been hired to be in waiting for her. "and now, lady lovel," said serjeant bluestone, as he took his seat opposite to her, "i can congratulate your ladyship on the full restitution of your rights." she only shook her head. "the battle has been fought and won at last, and i will make free to say that i have never seen more admirable persistency than you have shown since first that bad man astounded your ears by his iniquity." "it has been all to no purpose," she said. "to no purpose, lady lovel! i may as well tell you now that it is expected that his majesty will send to congratulate you on the restitution of your rights." again she shook her head. "ah, serjeant bluestone;--that will be but of little service." "no further objection can now be made to the surrender of the whole property. there are some mining shares as to which there may be a question whether they are real or personal, but they amount to but little. a third of the remainder, which will, i imagine, exceed--" "if it were ten times as much, serjeant bluestone, there would be no comfort in it. if it were ten times that, it would not at all help to heal my sorrow. i have sometimes thought that when one is marked for trouble, no ease can come." "i don't think more of money than another man," began the serjeant. "you do not understand." "nor yet of titles,--though i feel for them, when they are worthily worn, the highest respect," as he so spoke the serjeant lifted his hat from his brow. "but, upon my word, to have won such a case as this justifies triumph." "i have won nothing,--nothing,--nothing!" "you mean about lady anna?" "serjeant bluestone, when first i was told that i was not that man's wife, i swore to myself that i would die sooner than accept any lower name; but when i found that i was a mother, then i swore that i would live till my child should bear the name that of right belonged to her." "she does bear it now." "what name does she propose to bear? i would sooner be poor, in beggary,--still fighting, even without means to fight, for an empty title,--still suffering, still conscious that all around me regarded me as an impostor, than conquer only to know that she, for whom all this has been done, has degraded her name and my own. if she does this thing, or, if she has a mind so low, a spirit so mean, as to think of doing it, would it not be better for all the world that she should be the bastard child of a rich man's kept mistress, than the acknowledged daughter of an earl, with a countess for her mother, and a princely fortune to support her rank? if she marries this man, i shall heartily wish that lord lovel had won the case. i care nothing for myself now. i have lost all that. the king's message will comfort me not at all. if she do this thing i shall only feel the evil we have done in taking the money from the earl. i would sooner see her dead at my feet than know that she was that man's wife;--ay, though i had stabbed her with my own hand!" the serjeant for the nonce could say nothing more to her. she had worked herself into such a passion that she would listen to no words but her own, and think of nothing but the wrong that was still being done to her. he put her down at the hall door in keppel street, saying, as he lifted his hat again, that mrs. bluestone should come and call upon her. chapter xxxii. will you promise? the news of the verdict was communicated the same evening to lady anna,--as to whose name there could now no longer be any dispute. "i congratulate you, lady anna," said the serjeant, holding her hand, "that everything as far as this trial is concerned has gone just as we could wish." "we owe it all to you," said the girl. "not at all. my work has been very easy. in fact i have some feeling of regret that i have not been placed in a position that would enable me to earn my wages. the case was too good,--so that a poor aspiring lawyer has not been able to add to his reputation. but as far as you are concerned, my dear, everything has gone as you should wish. you are now a very wealthy heiress, and the great duty devolves upon you of disposing of your wealth in a fitting manner." lady anna understood well what was meant, and was silent. even when she was alone, her success did not make her triumphant. she could anticipate that the efforts of all her friends to make her false to her word would be redoubled. unless she could see daniel thwaite, it would be impossible that she should not be conquered. the serjeant told his wife the promise which he had made on her behalf, and she, of course, undertook to go to keppel street on the following morning. "you had better bring her here," said the serjeant. mrs. bluestone remarked that that might be sooner said than done. "she'll be glad of an excuse to come," answered the serjeant. "on such an occasion as this, of course they must see each other. something must be arranged about the property. in a month or two, when she is of age, she will have the undisputed right to do what she pleases with about three hundred thousand pounds. it is a most remarkable position for a young girl who has never yet had the command of a penny, and who professes that she is engaged to marry a working tailor. of course her mother must see her." mrs. bluestone did call in keppel street, and sat with the countess a long time, undergoing a perfect hailstorm of passion. for a long time lady lovel declared that she would never see her daughter again till the girl had given a solemn promise that she would not marry daniel thwaite. "love her! of course i love her. she is all that i have in the world. but of what good is my love to me, if she disgraces me? she has disgraced me already. when she could bring herself to tell her cousin that she was engaged to this man, we were already disgraced. when she once allowed the man to speak to her in that strain, without withering him with her scorn, she disgraced us both. for what have i done it all, if this is to be the end of it?" but at last she assented and promised that she would come. no;--it would not be necessary to send a carriage for her. the habits of her own life need not be at all altered because she was now a countess beyond dispute, and also wealthy. she would be content to live as she had ever lived. it had gone on too long for her to desire personal comfort,--luxury for herself, or even social rank. the only pleasure that she had anticipated, the only triumph that she desired, was to be found in the splendour of her child. she would walk to bedford square, and then walk back to her lodgings in keppel street. she wanted no carriage. early on the following day there was heard the knock at the door which lady anna had been taught to expect. the coming visit had been discussed in all its bearings, and it had been settled that mrs. bluestone should be with the daughter when the mother arrived. it was thought that in this way the first severity of the countess would be mitigated, and that the chance of some agreement between them might be increased. both the serjeant and mrs. bluestone now conceived that the young lady had a stronger will of her own than might have been expected from her looks, her language, and her manners. she had not as yet yielded an inch, though she would not argue the matter at all when she was told that it was her positive duty to abandon the tailor. she would sit quite silent; and if silence does give consent, she consented to this doctrine. mrs. bluestone, with a diligence which was equalled only by her good humour, insisted on the misery which must come upon her young friend should she quarrel with the countess, and with all the lovels,--on the unfitness of the tailor, and the impossibility that such a marriage should make a lady happy,--on the sacred duty which lady anna's rank imposed upon her to support her order, and on the general blessedness of a well-preserved and exclusive aristocracy. "i don't mean to say that nobly born people are a bit better than commoners," said mrs. bluestone. "neither i nor my children have a drop of noble blood in our veins. it is not that. but god almighty has chosen that there should be different ranks to carry out his purposes, and we have his word to tell us that we should all do our duties in that state of life to which it has pleased him to call us." the excellent lady was somewhat among the clouds in her theology, and apt to mingle the different sources of religious instruction from which she was wont to draw lessons for her own and her children's guidance; but she meant to say that the proper state of life for an earl's daughter could not include an attachment to a tailor; and lady anna took it as it was meant. the nobly born young lady did not in heart deny the truth of the lesson;--but she had learned another lesson, and she did not know how to make the two compatible. that other lesson taught her to believe that she ought to be true to her word;--that she specially ought to be true to one who had ever been specially true to her. and latterly there had grown upon her a feeling less favourable to the earl than that which he had inspired when she first saw him, and which he had increased when they were together at yoxham. it is hard to say why the earl had ceased to charm her, or by what acts or words he had lowered himself in her eyes. he was as handsome as ever, as much like a young apollo, as gracious in his manner, and as gentle in his gait. and he had been constant to her. perhaps it was that she had expected that one so godlike should have ceased to adore a woman who had degraded herself to the level of a tailor, and that, so conceiving, she had begun to think that his motives might be merely human, and perhaps sordid. he ought to have abstained and seen her no more after she had owned her own degradation. but she said nothing of all this to mrs. bluestone. she made no answer to the sermons preached to her. she certainly said no word tending to make that lady think that the sermons had been of any avail. "she looks as soft as butter," mrs. bluestone said that morning to her husband; "but she is obstinate as a pig all the time." "i suppose her father was the same way before her," said the serjeant, "and god knows her mother is obstinate enough." when the countess was shown into the room lady anna was trembling with fear and emotion. lady lovel, during the last few weeks, since her daughter had seen her, had changed the nature of her dress. hitherto, for years past, she had worn a brown stuff gown, hardly ever varying even the shade of the sombre colour,--so that her daughter had perhaps never seen her otherwise clad. no woman that ever breathed was less subject to personal vanity than had been the so-called countess who lived in the little cottage outside keswick. her own dress had been as nothing to her, and in the days of her close familiarity with old thomas thwaite she had rebuked her friend when he had besought her to attire herself in silk. "we'll go into keswick and get anna a new ribbon," she would say, "and that will be grandeur enough for her and me too." in this brown dress she had come up to london, and so she had been clothed when her daughter last saw her. but now she wore a new, full, black silk dress, which, plain as it was, befitted her rank and gave an increased authority to her commanding figure. lady anna trembled all the more, and her heart sank still lower within her, because her mother no longer wore the old brown gown. when the countess entered the room she took no immediate notice of mrs. bluestone, but went up to her child and kissed her. "i am comforted, anna, in seeing you once again," she said. "dear, dearest mamma!" "you have heard, i suppose, that the trial has been decided in your favour?" "in yours, mamma." "we have explained it all to her, lady lovel, as well as we could. the serjeant yesterday evening gave us a little history of what occurred. it seems to have been quite a triumph." "it may become a triumph," said the countess;--"a triumph so complete and glorious that i shall desire nothing further in this world. it has been my work to win the prize; it is for her to wear it,--if she will do so." "i hope you will both live to enjoy it many years," said mrs. bluestone. "you will have much to say to each other, and i will leave you now. we shall have lunch, lady lovel, at half-past one, and i hope that you will join us." then they were alone together. lady anna had not moved from her chair since she had embraced her mother, but the countess had stood during the whole time that mrs. bluestone had been in the room. when the room door was closed they both remained silent for a few moments, and then the girl rushed across the room and threw herself on her knees at her mother's feet. "oh, mamma, mamma, tell me that you love me. oh, mamma, why have you not let me come to you? oh, mamma, we never were parted before." "my child never before was wilfully disobedient to me." "oh, mamma;--tell me that you love me." "love you! yes, i love you. you do not doubt that, anna. how could it be possible that you should doubt it after twenty years of a mother's care? you know i love you." "i know that i love you, mamma, and that it kills me to be sent away from you. you will take me home with you now;--will you not?" "home! you shall make your own home, and i will take you whither you will. i will be a servant to minister to every whim; all the world shall be a paradise to you; you shall have every joy that wealth, and love, and sweet friends can procure for you,--if you will obey me in one thing." lady anna, still crouching upon the ground, hid her face in her mother's dress, but she was silent. "it is not much that i ask after a life spent in winning for you all that has now been won. i only demand of you that you shall not disgrace yourself." "oh, mamma, i am not disgraced." "say that you will marry lord lovel, and all that shall be forgotten. it shall at any rate be forgiven, or remembered only as the folly of a child. will you say that you will become lord lovel's wife?" "oh, mamma!" "answer me, anna;--will you say that you will receive lord lovel as your accepted lover? get up, girl, and look me in the face. of what use is it to grovel there, while your spirit is in rebellion? will you do this? will you save us all from destruction, misery, and disgrace? will you remember who you are;--what blood you have in your veins;--what name it is that you bear? stand up, and look me in the face, if you dare." lady anna did stand up, and did look her mother in the face. "mamma," she said, "we should understand each other better if we were living together as we ought to do." "i will never live with you till you have promised obedience. will you, at any rate, pledge to me your word that you will never become the wife of daniel thwaite?" then she paused, and stood looking at the girl, perhaps for a minute. lady anna stood before her, with her eyes turned upon the ground. "answer me the question that i have asked you. will you promise me that you will never become the wife of daniel thwaite?" "i have promised him that i would." "what is that to me? is your duty to him higher than your duty to me? can you be bound by any promise to so great a crime as that would be? i will ask you the question once more, and i will be governed by your answer. if you will promise to discard this man, you shall return home with me, and shall then choose everything for yourself. we will go abroad and travel if you wish it, and all things shall be prepared to give you pleasure. you shall have at once the full enjoyment of all that has been won for you; and as for your cousin,--you shall not for a while be troubled even by his name. it is the dear wish of my heart that you should be the wife of earl lovel;--but i have one wish dearer even than that,--one to which that shall be altogether postponed. if you will save yourself, and me, and all your family from the terrible disgrace with which you have threatened us,--i will not again mention your cousin's name to you till it shall please you to hear it. anna, you knelt to me, just now. shall i kneel to you?" "no, mamma, no;--i should die." "then, my love, give me the promise that i have asked." "mamma, he has been so good to us!" "and we will be good to him,--good to him in his degree. of what avail to me will have been his goodness, if he is to rob me of the very treasure which his goodness helped to save? is he to have all, because he gave some aid? is he to take from me my heart's blood, because he bound up my arm when it was bruised? because he helped me some steps on earth, is he to imprison me afterwards in hell? good! no, he is not good in wishing so to destroy us. he is bad, greedy, covetous, self-seeking, a very dog, and by the living god he shall die like a dog unless you will free me from his fangs. you have not answered me. will you tell me that you will discard him as a suitor for your hand? if you will say so, he shall receive tenfold reward for his--goodness. answer me, anna;--i claim an answer from you." "mamma!" "speak, if you have anything to say. and remember the commandment, honour thy--" but she broke down, when she too remembered it, and bore in mind that the precept would have called upon her daughter to honour the memory of the deceased earl. "but if you cannot do it for love, you will never do it for duty." "mamma, i am sure of one thing." "of what are you sure?" "that i ought to be allowed to see him before i give him up." "you shall never be allowed to see him." "listen to me, mamma, for a moment. when he asked me to--love him, we were equals." "i deny it. you were never equals." "we lived as such,--except in this, that they had money for our wants, and we had none to repay them." "money can have nothing to do with it." "only that we took it. and then he was everything to us. it seemed as though it would be impossible to refuse anything that he asked. it was impossible to me. as to being noble, i am sure that he was noble. you always used to say that nobody else ever was so good as those two. did you not say so, mamma?" "if i praise my horse or my dog, do i say that they are of the same nature as myself?" "but he is a man; quite as much a man as,--as any man could be." "you mean that you will not do as i bid you." "let me see him, mamma. let me see him but once. if i might see him, perhaps i might do as you wish--about him. i cannot say anything more unless i may see him." the countess still stormed and still threatened, but she could not move her daughter. she also found that the child had inherited particles of the nature of her parents. but it was necessary that some arrangement should be made as to the future life, both of lady anna and of herself. she might bury herself where she would, in the most desolate corner of the earth, but she could not leave lady anna in bedford square. in a few months lady anna might choose any residence she pleased for herself, and there could be no doubt whose house she would share, if she were not still kept in subjection. the two parted then in deep grief,--the mother almost cursing her child in her anger, and lady anna overwhelmed with tears. "will you not kiss me, mamma, before you go?" "no, i will never kiss you again till you have shown me that you are my child." but before she left the house, the countess was closeted for a while with mrs. bluestone, and, in spite of all that she had said, it was agreed between them that it would be better to permit an interview between the girl and daniel thwaite. "let him say what he will," argued mrs. bluestone, "she will not be more headstrong than she is now. you will still be able to take her away with you to some foreign country." "but he will treat her as though he were her lover," said the countess, unable to conceal the infinite disgust with which the idea overwhelmed her. "what does it matter, lady lovel? we have got to get a promise from her, somehow. since she was much with him, she has seen people of another sort, and she will feel the difference. it may be that she wants to ask him to release her. at any rate she speaks as though she might be released by what he would say to her. unless she thought it might be so herself, she would not make a conditional promise. i would let them meet." "but where?" "in keppel street." "in my presence?" "no, not that; but you will, of course, be in the house,--so that she cannot leave it with him. let her come to you. it will be an excuse for her doing so, and then she can remain. if she does not give the promise, take her abroad, and teach her to forget it by degrees." so it was arranged, and on that evening mrs. bluestone told lady anna that she was to be allowed to meet daniel thwaite. chapter xxxiii. daniel thwaite receives his money. there was of course much commotion among all circles of society in london as soon as it was known to have been decided that the countess lovel was the countess lovel, and that lady anna was the heiress of the late earl. bets were paid,--and bets no doubt were left unpaid,--to a great amount. men at the clubs talked more about the lovels than they had done even during the month preceding the trial. the countess became on a sudden very popular. exaggerated stories were told of the romance of her past life,--though it would have been well nigh impossible to exaggerate her sufferings. her patience, her long endurance and persistency were extolled by all. the wealth that would accrue to her and to her daughter was of course doubled. had anybody seen her? did anybody know her? even the murrays began to be proud of her, and old lady jemima magtaggart, who had been a murray before she married general mag, as he was called, went at once and called upon the countess in keppel street. being the first that did so, before the countess had suspected any invasion, she was admitted,--and came away declaring that sorrow must have driven the countess mad. the countess, no doubt, did not receive her distant relative with any gentle courtesy. she had sworn to herself often, that come what come might, she would never cross the threshold of a murray. old lord swanage, who had married some very distant lovel, wrote to her a letter full of very proper feeling. it had been, he said, quite impossible for him to know the truth before the truth had come to light, and therefore he made no apology for not having before this made overtures of friendship to his connection. he now begged to express his great delight that she who had so well deserved success had been successful, and to offer her his hand in friendship, should she be inclined to accept it. the countess answered him in a strain which certainly showed that she was not mad. it was not her policy to quarrel with any lovel, and her letter was very courteous. she was greatly obliged to him for his kindness, and had felt as strongly as he could do that she could have no claim on her husband's relations till she should succeed in establishing her rights. she accepted his hand in the spirit in which it had been offered, and hoped that his lordship might yet become a friend of her daughter. for herself,--she feared that all that she had suffered had made her unfit for much social intercourse. her strength, she said, had been sufficient to carry her thus far, but was now failing her. then, too, there came to her that great glory of which the lawyer had given her a hint. she received a letter from the private secretary of his majesty the king, telling her that his majesty had heard her story with great interest, and now congratulated her heartily on the re-establishment of her rank and position. she wrote a very curt note, begging that her thanks might be given to his majesty,--and then she burned the private secretary's letter. no congratulations were anything to her till she should see her daughter freed from the debasement of her engagement to the tailor. speculation was rife as to the kind of life which the countess would lead. that she would have wealth sufficient to blaze forth in london with all the glories of countess-ship, there was no doubt. her own share of the estate was put down as worth at least ten thousand a year for her life, and this she would enjoy without deductions, and with no other expenditure than that needed for herself. her age was ascertained to a day, and it was known that she was as yet only forty-five. was it not probable that some happy man might share her wealth with her? what an excellent thing it would be for old lundy,--the marquis of lundy,--who had run through every shilling of his own property! before a week was over, the suggestion had been made to old lundy. "they say she is mad, but she can't be mad enough for that," said the marquis. the rector hurried home full of indignation, but he had a word or two with his nephew before he started. "what do you mean to do now, frederic?" asked the rector with a very grave demeanour. "do? i don't know that i shall do anything." "you give up the girl, then?" "my dear uncle; that is a sort of question that i don't think a man ever likes to be asked." "but i suppose i may ask how you intend to live?" "i trust, uncle charles, that i shall not, at any rate, be a burden to my relatives." "oh; very well; very well. of course i have nothing more to say. i think it right, all the same, to express my opinion that you have been grossly misused by sir william patterson. of course what i say will have no weight with you; but that is my opinion." "i do not agree with you, uncle charles." "very well; i have nothing more to say. it is right that i should let you know that i do not believe that this woman was ever lord lovel's wife. i never did believe it, and i never will believe it. all that about marrying the girl has been a take in from beginning to end;--all planned to induce you to do just what you have done. no word in courtesy should ever have been spoken to either of them." "i am as sure that she is the countess as i am that i am the earl." "very well. it costs me nothing, but it costs you thirty thousand a year. do you mean to come down to yoxham this winter?" "no." "are the horses to be kept there?" now hitherto the rich rector had kept the poor lord's hunters without charging his nephew ought for their expense. he was a man so constituted that it would have been a misery to him that the head of his family should not have horses to ride. but now he could not but remember all that he had done, all that he was doing, and the return that was made to him. nevertheless he could have bit the tongue out of his mouth for asking the question as soon as the words were spoken. "i will have them sold immediately," said the earl. "they shall come up to tattersal's before the week is over." "i didn't mean that." "i am glad that you thought of it, uncle charles. they shall be taken away at once." "they are quite welcome to remain at yoxham." "they shall be removed,--and sold," said the earl. "remember me to my aunts. good bye." then the rector went down to yoxham an angry and a miserable man. there were very many who still agreed with the rector in thinking that the earl's case had been mismanaged. there was surely enough of ground for a prolonged fight to have enabled the lovel party to have driven their opponents to a compromise. there was a feeling that the solicitor-general had been carried away by some romantic idea of abstract right, and had acted in direct opposition to all the usages of forensic advocacy as established in england. what was it to him whether the countess were or were not a real countess? it had been his duty to get what he could for the earl, his client. there had been much to get, and with patience no doubt something might have been got. but he had gotten nothing. many thought that he had altogether cut his own throat, and that he would have to take the first "puny" judgeship vacant. "he is a great man,--a very great man indeed," said the attorney-general, in answer to some one who was abusing sir william. "there is not one of us can hold a candle to him. but, then, as i have always said, he ought to have been a poet!" in discussing the solicitor-general's conduct men thought more of lady anna than her mother. the truth about lady anna and her engagement was generally known in a misty, hazy, half-truthful manner. that she was engaged to marry daniel thwaite, who was now becoming famous and the cause of a greatly increased business in wigmore street, was certain. it was certain also that the earl had desired to marry her. but as to the condition in which the matter stood at present there was a very divided opinion. not a few were positive that a written engagement had been given to the earl that he should have the heiress before the solicitor-general had made his speech,--but, according to these, the tailor's hold over the young lady was so strong, that she now refused to abide by her own compact. she was in the tailor's hands and the tailor could do what he liked with her. it was known that lady anna was in bedford square, and not a few walked before the serjeant's house in the hopes of seeing her. the romance at any rate was not over, and possibly there might even yet be a compromise. if the earl could get even five thousand a year out of the property, it was thought that the solicitor-general might hold his own and in due time become at any rate a chief baron. in the mean time daniel thwaite remained in moody silence among the workmen in wigmore street, unseen of any of those who rushed there for new liveries in order that they might catch a glimpse of the successful hero,--till one morning, about five days after the trial was over, when he received a letter from messrs. goffe and goffe. messrs. goffe and goffe had the pleasure of informing him that an accurate account of all money transactions between countess lovel and his father had been kept by the countess;--that the countess on behalf of herself and lady anna lovel acknowledged a debt due to the estate of the late mr. thomas thwaite, amounting to â£9,109 3_s._ 4_d._, and that a cheque to that amount should be at once handed to him,--daniel thwaite the son,--if he would call at the chambers of messrs. goffe and goffe, with a certified copy of the probate of the will of thomas thwaite the father. nine thousand pounds,--and that to be paid to him immediately,--on that very day if he chose to call for it! the copy of the probate of the will he had in his pocket at that moment. but he worked out his day's work without going near goffe and goffe. and yet he thought much of his money; and once, when one of his employers spoke to him somewhat roughly, he remembered that he was probably a better man than his master. what should he now do with himself and his money,--how bestow himself,--how use it so that he might be of service to the world? he would go no doubt to some country in which there were no earls and no countesses;--but he could go nowhere till he should know what might be his fate with the earl's daughter, who at present was his destiny. his mind was absolutely divided. in one hour he would say to himself that the poet was certainly right;--and in the next he was sure that the poet must have been wrong. as regarded money, nine thousand pounds was as good to him as any sum that could be named. he could do with that all that he required that money should do for him. could he at this time have had his own way absolutely, he would have left all the remainder of the wealth behind him, to be shared as they pleased to share it between the earl and the countess, and he would have gone at once, taking with him the girl whom he loved. he would have revelled in the pride of thinking that all of them should say that he had wanted and had won the girl only,--and not the wealth of the lovels; that he had taken only what was his own, and that his wife would be dependent on him, not he on her. but this was not possible. it was now months since he had heard the girl's voice, or had received any assurance from her that she was still true to him. but, in lieu of this, he had the assurance that she was in possession of enormous wealth, and that she was the recognised cousin of lords and ladies by the dozen. when the evening came he saw one of his employers and told the man that he wished that his place might be filled. why was he going? did he expect to better himself? when was he going? was he in earnest? daniel told the truth at once as far as the payment of the money was concerned. he was to receive on the following day a sum of money which had been due to his father, and, when that should have been paid him, it would not suit him to work longer for weekly wages. the tailor grumbled, but there was nothing else to be said. thwaite might leave them to-morrow if he wished. thwaite took him at his word and never returned to the shop in wigmore street after that night. on reaching his lodgings he found another letter,--from serjeant bluestone. the countess had so far given way as to accede to the proposition that there should be a meeting between her daughter and the tailor, and then there had arisen the question as to the manner in which this meeting should be arranged. the countess would not write herself, nor would she allow her daughter to do so. it was desirable, she thought, that as few people should know of the meeting as possible, and at last, most unwillingly, the serjeant undertook the task of arranging it. he wrote therefore as follows;- mr. serjeant bluestone presents his compliments to mr. daniel thwaite. mr. thwaite has no doubt heard of the result of the trial by which the countess lovel and her daughter have succeeded in obtaining the recognition of their rank. it is in contemplation with the countess and lady anna lovel to go abroad, but lady anna is desirous before she goes of seeing the son of the man who was her mother's staunch friend during many years of suffering. lady anna will be at home, at no. ---keppel street, at eleven o'clock on monday, 23rd instant, if mr. thwaite can make it convenient to call then and there. bedford square, 17th november, 18--. if mr. thwaite could call on the serjeant before that date, either early in the morning at his house, or on saturday at his chambers, -------, inner temple, it might perhaps be serviceable. the postscript had not been added without much consideration. what would the tailor think of this invitation? would he not be disposed to take it as encouragement in his pernicious suit? would he not go to keppel street with a determination to insist upon the girl's promise? the serjeant had thought that it would be best to let the thing take its chance. but the serjeant's wife, and the serjeant's daughters, and the countess, too, had all agreed that something if possible should be said to disabuse him of this idea. he was to have nine thousand pounds paid to him. surely that might be sufficient. but, if he was greedy and wanted more money, more money should be given to him. only he must be made to understand that the marriage was out of the question. so the serjeant again gave way, and proposed the interview. daniel sent back his compliments to the serjeant and begged to say he would do as he was bid. he would call at the serjeant's chambers on the saturday, and in keppel street on the following monday, at the hours named. on the next morning,--the first morning of his freedom from the servitude of wigmore street,--he went to messrs. goffe and goffe. he got up late and breakfasted late, in order that he might feel what it was to be an idle man. "i might now be as idle as the young earl," he said to himself; "but were i to attempt it, what should i do with myself? how should i make the hours pass by?" he felt that he was lauding himself as the idea passed through his mind, and struggled to quench his own pride. "and yet," said he in his thoughts, "is it not fit that i should know myself to be better than he is? if i have no self-confidence, how can i be bold to persevere? the man that works is to him that is idle, as light is to darkness." he was admitted at once to mr. goffe's private room, and was received with a smiling welcome, and an outstretched hand. "i am delighted, mr. thwaite, to be able to settle your claim on lady lovel with so little delay. i hope you are satisfied with her ladyship's statement of the account." "much more than satisfied with the amount. it appeared to me that i had no legal claim for more than a few hundred pounds." "we knew better than that, mr. thwaite. we should have seen that no great injury was done. but luckily the countess has been careful, and has put down each sum advanced, item by item. full interest has been allowed at five per cent., as is quite proper. the countess is an excellent woman of business." "no doubt, mr. goffe. i could have wished that she would have condescended to honour me with a line;--but that is a matter of feeling." "oh, mr. thwaite; there are reasons;--you must know that there are reasons." "there may be good reasons or bad reasons." "and there may be good judgment in such matters and bad judgment. but, however,--. you will like to have this money by a cheque, no doubt. there it is, â£9,109 3_s._ 4_d._ it is not often that we write one cheque for a bigger sum than that, mr. thwaite. shall i cross it on your bankers? no bankers! with such a sum as that let me recommend you to open an account at once." and mr. goffe absolutely walked down to fleet street with daniel thwaite the tailor, and introduced him at his own bank. the business was soon transacted, and daniel thwaite went away westward, a capitalist, with a cheque book in his pocket. what was he to do with himself? he walked east again before the day was over, and made inquiries at various offices as to vessels sailing for boston, new york, baltimore, and quebec. or how would it be with him if he should be minded to go east instead of west? so he supplied himself also with information as to vessels for sydney. and what should he do when he got to the new country? he did not mean to be a tailor. he was astonished to find how little he had as yet realised in his mind the details of the exodus which he had proposed to himself. chapter xxxiv. i will take your word for nothing. on the saturday, daniel was at the serjeant's chambers early in the morning,--long before the hour at which the serjeant himself was wont to attend. no time had in fact been named, and the tailor had chosen to suppose that as he had been desired to be early in bedford square, so had it also been intended that he should be early in the temple. for two hours he walked about the passages and the courts, thinking ill of the lawyer for being so late at his business, and endeavouring to determine what he would do with himself. he had not a friend in the world, unless lady anna were a friend;--hardly an acquaintance. and yet, remembering what his father had done, what he himself had helped to do, he thought that he ought to have had many friends. those very persons who were now his bitterest enemies, the countess and all they who had supported her, should have been bound to him by close ties. yet he knew that it was impossible that they should not hate him. he could understand their feelings with reference to their own rank, though to him that rank was contemptible. of course he was alone. of course he would fail. he was almost prepared to acknowledge as much to the serjeant. he had heard of a certain vessel that would start in three days for the rising colony called new south wales, and he almost wished that he had taken his passage in her. at ten o'clock he had been desired to call at eleven, and as the clock struck eleven he knocked at the serjeant's door. "serjeant bluestone is not here yet," said the clerk, who was disposed to be annoyed by the man's pertinacity. "he told me to come early in the morning, and this is not early." "he is not here yet, sir." "you told me to come at eleven, and it is past eleven." "it is one minute past, and you can sit down and wait for him if you please." daniel refused to wait, and was again about to depart in his wrath, when the serjeant appeared upon the stairs. he introduced himself, and expressed regret that he should have found his visitor there before him. daniel, muttering something, followed the lawyer into his room, and then the door was closed. he stood till he was invited to sit, and was determined to make himself disagreeable. this man was one of his enemies,--was one who no doubt thought little of him because he was a tailor, who suspected his motives, and was anxious to rob him of his bride. the serjeant retired for a moment to an inner room, while the tailor girded up his loins and prepared himself for battle. "mr. thwaite," said the serjeant, as he re-entered the room, "you probably know that i have been counsel for lady lovel and her daughter in the late trial." daniel assented by a nod of his head. "my connection with the countess would naturally have been then closed. we have gained our cause, and there would be an end of it. but as things have turned out it has been otherwise. lady anna lovel has been staying with mrs. bluestone." "in bedford square?" "yes, at my house." "i did not know. the countess told me she was not in keppel street, but refused to inform me where she was staying. i should not have interfered with her ladyship's plans, had she been less secret with me." "surely it was unnecessary that she should tell you." "quite unnecessary;--but hardly unnatural after all that has occurred. as the countess is with you only a friend of late date, you are probably unaware of the former friendship which existed between us. there was a time in which i certainly did not think that lady lovel would ever decline to speak to me about her daughter. but all this is nothing to you, serjeant bluestone." "it is something to me, mr. thwaite, as her friend. is there no reason why she should have treated you thus? ask your own conscience." "my conscience is clear in the matter." "i have sent for you here, mr. thwaite, to ask you whether you cannot yourself understand that this which you have proposed to do must make you an enemy to the countess, and annul and set aside all that kindness which you have shown her? i put it to your own reason. do you think it possible that the countess should be otherwise than outraged at the proposition you have made to her?" "i have made no proposition to her ladyship." "have you made none to her daughter?" "certainly i have. i have asked her to be my wife." "come, mr. thwaite, do not palter with me." "palter with you! who dares to say that i palter? i have never paltered. paltering is--lying, as i take it. let the countess be my enemy. i have not said that she should not be so. she might have answered my letter, i think, when the old man died. in our rank of life we should have done so. it may be different with lords and titled ladies. let it pass, however. i did not mean to make any complaint. i came here because you sent for me." "yes;--i did send for you," said the serjeant, wishing with all his heart that he had never been persuaded to take a step which imposed upon him so great a difficulty. "i did send for you. lady anna lovel has expressed a wish to see you, before she leaves london." "i will wait upon lady anna lovel." "i need hardly tell you that her wish has been opposed by her friends." "no doubt it was." "but she has said with so much earnestness that she cannot consider herself to be absolved from the promise which she made to you when she was a child--" "she was no child when she made it." "it does not signify. she cannot be absolved from the promise which i suppose she did make--" "she certainly made it, serjeant bluestone." "will you allow me to continue my statement? it will not occupy you long. she assures her mother that she cannot consider herself to be absolved from that promise without your sanction. she has been living in my house for some weeks, and i do not myself doubt in the least that were she thus freed an alliance would soon be arranged between her and her cousin." "i have heard of that--alliance." "it would be in every respect a most satisfactory and happy marriage. the young earl has behaved with great consideration and forbearance in abstaining from pushing his claims." "in abstaining from asking for that which he did not believe to be his own." "you had better hear me to the end, mr. thwaite. all the friends of the two young people desire it. the earl himself is warmly attached to his cousin." "so am i,--and have been for many years." "we all believe that she loves him." "let her say so to me, serjeant bluestone, and there shall be an end of it all. it seems to me that lord lovel and i have different ideas about a woman. i would not take the hand of a girl who told me that she loved another man, even though she was as dear to me, as,--as lady anna is dear to me now. and as for what she might have in her hand, it would go for naught with me, though i might have to face beggary without her. it seems to me that lord lovel is less particular in this matter." "i do not see that you and i have anything to do with that," replied the serjeant, hardly knowing what to say. "i have nothing to do with lord lovel, certainly,--nor has he with me. as to his cousin,--it is for her to choose." "we think,--i am only telling you what we think;--but we think, mr. thwaite, that the young lady's affections are fixed on her cousin. it is natural that they should be so; and watching her as closely as we can, we believe such to be the case. i will be quite on the square with you, mr. thwaite." "with me and with everybody else, i hope, serjeant bluestone." "i hope so," said the serjeant, laughing; "but at any rate i will be so with you now. we have been unable to get from lady anna any certain reply,--any assurance of her own wishes. she has told her mother that she cannot accept lord lovel's addresses till she has seen you." the serjeant in this was not quite on the square, as lady anna had never said so. "we believe that she considers it necessary, to her conscience, to be made free by your permission, before she can follow her own inclinations and accede to those of all her friends." "she shall have my permission in a moment,--if she will ask for it." "could you not be more generous even than that?" "how more generous, serjeant bluestone?" "offer it to her unasked. you have already said that you would not accept her hand if you did not believe that you had her heart also,--and the sentiment did you honour. think of her condition, and be generous to her." "generous to her! you mean generous to lady lovel,--generous to lord lovel,--generous to all the lovels except her. it seems to me that all the generosity is to be on one side." "by no means. we can be generous too." "if that be generosity, i will be generous. i will offer her that permission. i will not wait till she asks for it. i will beg her to tell me if it be true that she loves this cousin, and if she can say that it is true, she shall want no permission from me to be free. she shall be free." "it is not a question, you see, between yourself and lord lovel. it is quite out of the question that she should in any event become your wife. even had she power to do it--" "she has the power." "practically she has no such power, mr. thwaite. a young person such as lady anna lovel is and must be under the control of her natural guardian. she is so altogether. her mother could not,--and would not,--constrain her to any marriage; but has quite sufficient power over her to prevent any marriage. lady anna has never for a moment supposed that she could become your wife since she learned what were the feelings of her mother and her family." the serjeant certainly did not keep his promise of being "on the square." "but your generosity is necessary to enable lady lovel to bring to a happy termination all those sufferings with which her life has been afflicted." "i do not owe much to the countess; but if it be generous to do as i have said i would do,--i will be generous. i will tell her daughter, without any question asked from her, that she is free to marry her cousin if she wishes." so far the serjeant, though he had not been altogether as truthful as he had promised, had been discreet. he had said nothing to set the tailor vehemently against the lovel interest, and had succeeded in obtaining a useful pledge. but, in his next attempt, he was less wise. "i think, you know, mr. thwaite, that the countess also has been generous." "as how?" "you have received â£9,000 already, i believe." "i have received what i presume to be my own. if i have had more it shall be refunded." "no;--no; by no means. taking a liberal view of the matter, as the countess was bound to do in honour, she was, i think, right in paying you what she has paid." "i want nothing from her in what you call honour. i want nothing liberal. if the money be not mine in common honesty she shall have it back again. i want nothing but my own." "i think you are a little high flown, mr. thwaite." "i dare say i may be,--to the thinking of a lawyer." "the countess, who is in truth your friend,--and will always be your friend if you will only be amenable to reason,--has been delighted to think that you are now in possession of a sum of money which will place you above want." "the countess is very kind." "and i can say more than that. she and all her friends are aware how much is due to your father's son. if you will only aid us in our present project, if you will enable lady anna to become the wife of her cousin the earl, much more shall be done than the mere payment of the debt which was due to you. it has been proposed to settle on you for life an annuity of four hundred pounds a year. to this the countess, earl lovel, and lady anna will all agree." "has the consent of lady anna been asked?" demanded the tailor, in a voice which was low, but which the serjeant felt at the moment to be dangerous. "you may take my word that it shall be forthcoming," said the serjeant. "i will take your word for nothing, serjeant bluestone. i do not think that among you all, you would dare to make such a proposition to lady anna lovel, and i wonder that you should dare to make it to me. what have you seen in me to lead you to suppose that i would sell myself for a bribe? and how can you have been so unwise as to offer it after i have told you that she shall be free,--if she chooses to be free? but it is all one. you deal in subterfuges till you think it impossible that a man should be honest. you mine underground, till your eyes see nothing in the open daylight. you walk crookedly, till a straight path is an abomination to you. four hundred a year is nothing to me for such a purpose as this,--would have been nothing to me even though no penny had been paid to me of the money which is my own. i can easily understand what it is that makes the earl so devoted a lover. his devotion began when he had been told that the money was hers and not his,--and that in no other way could he get it. mine began when no one believed that she would ever have a shilling for her fortune,--when all who bore her name and her mother's ridiculed their claim. mine was growing when my father first asked me whether i grudged that he should spend all that he had in their behalf. mine came from giving. his springs from the desire to get. make the four hundred, four thousand;--make it eight thousand, serjeant bluestone, and offer it to him. i also will agree. with him you may succeed. good morning, serjeant bluestone. on monday next i will not be worse than my word,--even though you have offered me a bribe." the serjeant let the tailor go without a word further,--not, indeed, having a word to say. he had been insulted in his own chambers,--told that his word was worthless, and his honesty questionable. but he had been so told, that at the moment he had been unable to stop the speaker. he had sat, and smiled, and stroked his chin, and looked at the tailor as though he had been endeavouring to comfort himself with the idea that the man addressing him was merely an ignorant, half-mad, enthusiastic tailor, from whom decent conduct could not be expected. he was still smiling when daniel thwaite closed the door, and he almost laughed as he asked his clerk whether that energetic gentleman had taken himself down-stairs. "oh, yes, sir; he glared at me when i opened the door, and rushed down four steps at a time." but, on the whole, the serjeant was contented with the interview. it would, no doubt, have been better had he said nothing of the four hundred a year. but in the offering of bribes there is always that danger. one can never be sure who will swallow his douceur at an easy gulp, so as hardly to betray an effort, and who will refuse even to open his lips. and then the latter man has the briber so much at advantage. when the luscious morsel has been refused, it is so easy to be indignant, so pleasant to be enthusiastically virtuous! the bribe had been refused, and so far the serjeant had failed;--but the desired promise had been made, and the serjeant felt certain that it would be kept. he did not doubt but that daniel thwaite would himself offer the girl her freedom. but there was something in the man, though he was a tailor. he had an eye and a voice, and it might be that freedom offered, as he could offer it, would not be accepted. daniel, as he went out into the court from the lawyer's presence, was less satisfied than the lawyer. he had told the lawyer that his word was worth nothing, and yet he had believed much that the lawyer had said to him. the lawyer had told him that the girl loved her cousin, and only wanted his permission to be free that she might give her hand and her heart together to the young lord. was it not natural that she should wish to do so? within each hour, almost within each minute, he regarded the matter in lights that were perfectly antagonistic to each other. it was natural that she should wish to be a countess, and that she should love a young lord who was gentle and beautiful;--and she should have his permission accorded freely. but then, again, it was most unnatural, bestial, and almost monstrous, that a girl should change her love for a man, going from one man to another, simply because the latter man was gilt with gold, and decked with jewels, and sweet with perfume from a hairdresser's. the poet must have been wrong there. if love be anything but a dream, surely it must adhere to the person, and not be liable to change at every offered vantage of name or birth, of rank or wealth. but she should have the offer. she should certainly have the offer. chapter xxxv. the serjeant and mrs. bluestone at home. lady anna was not told till the saturday that she was to meet her lover, the tailor, on the following monday. she was living at this time, as it were, in chains, though the chains were gilded. it was possible that she might be off at any moment with daniel thwaite,--and now the more possible because he had money at his command. if this should occur, then would the game which the countess and her friends were playing, be altogether lost. then would the checkmate have been absolute. the reader will have known that such a step had never been contemplated by the man, and will also have perceived that it would have been altogether opposed to the girl's character; but it is hoped that the reader has looked more closely into the man's motives and the girl's character than even her mother was able to do. the countess had thought that she had known her daughter. she had been mistaken, and now there was hardly anything of which she could not suspect her girl to be capable. lady anna was watched, therefore, during every minute of the four and twenty hours. a policeman was told off to protect the house at night from rope ladders or any other less cumbrous ingenuity. the servants were set on guard. sarah, the lady's-maid, followed her mistress almost like a ghost when the poor young lady went to her bedroom. mrs. bluestone, or one of the girls, was always with her, either indoors or out of doors. out of doors, indeed, she never went without more guards than one. a carriage had been hired,--a luxury with which mrs. bluestone had hitherto dispensed,--and the carriage was always there when lady anna suggested that she should like to leave the house. she was warmly invited to go shopping, and made to understand that in the way of ordinary shopping she could buy what she pleased. but her life was inexpressibly miserable. "what does mamma mean to do?" she said to mrs. bluestone on the saturday morning. "in what way, my dear?" "where does she mean to go? she won't live always in keppel street?" "no,--i do not think that she will live always in keppel street. it depends a good deal upon you, i think." "i will go wherever she pleases to take me. the lawsuit is over now, and i don't know why we should stay here. i am sure you can't like it." to tell the truth, mrs. bluestone did not like it at all. circumstances had made her a gaoler, but by nature she was very ill constituted for that office. the harshness of it was detestable to her, and then there was no reason whatever why she should sacrifice her domestic comfort for the lovels. the thing had grown upon them, till the lovels had become an incubus to her. personally, she liked lady anna, but she was unable to treat lady anna as she would treat any other girl that she liked. she had told the serjeant more than once that she could not endure it much longer. and the serjeant did not like it better than did his wife. it was all a labour of love, and a most unpleasant labour. "the countess must take her away," the serjeant had said. and now the serjeant had been told by the tailor, in his own chambers, that his word was worth nothing! "to tell you the truth, lady anna, we none of us like it,--not because we do not like you, but because the whole thing is disagreeable. you are creating very great misery, my dear, because you are obstinate." "because i won't marry my cousin?" "no, my dear; not because you won't marry your cousin. i have never advised you to marry your cousin, unless you could love him. i don't think girls should ever be told to marry this man or that. but it is very proper that they should be told not to marry this man or that. you are making everybody about you miserable, because you will not give up a most improper engagement, made with a man who is in every respect beneath you." "i wish i were dead," said lady anna. "it is very easy to say that, my dear; but what you ought to wish is, to do your duty." "i do wish to do my duty, mrs. bluestone." "it can't be dutiful to stand out against your mother in this way. you are breaking your mother's heart. and if you were to do this thing, you would soon find that you had broken your own. it is downright obstinacy. i don't like to be harsh, but as you are here, in my charge, i am bound to tell you the truth." "i wish mamma would let me go away," said lady anna, bursting into tears. "she will let you go at once, if you will only make the promise that she asks of you." in saying this, mrs. bluestone was hardly more upon the square than her husband had been, for she knew very well, at that moment, that lady anna was to go to keppel street early on the monday morning, and she had quite made up her mind that her guest should not come back to bedford square. she had now been moved to the special severity which she had shown by certain annoyances of her own to which she had been subjected by the presence of lady anna in her house. she could neither entertain her friends nor go out to be entertained by them, and had told the serjeant more than once that a great mistake had been made in having the girl there at all. but judgment had operated with her as well as feeling. it was necessary that lady anna should be made to understand before she saw the tailor that she could not be happy, could not be comfortable, could not be other than very wretched,--till she had altogether dismissed her low-born lover. "i did not think you would be so unkind to me," sobbed lady anna through her tears. "i do not mean to be unkind, but you must be told the truth. every minute that you spend in thinking of that man is a disgrace to you." "then i shall be disgraced all my life," said lady anna, bursting out of the room. on that day the serjeant dined at his club, but came home about nine o'clock. it had all been planned so that the information might be given in the most solemn manner possible. the two girls were sitting up in the drawing-room with the guest who, since the conversation in the morning, had only seen mrs. bluestone during dinner. first there was the knock at the door, and then, after a quarter of an hour, which was spent up-stairs in perfect silence, there came a message. would lady anna have the kindness to go to the serjeant in the dining-room. in silence she left the room, and in silence descended the broad staircase. the serjeant and mrs. bluestone were sitting on one side of the fireplace, the serjeant in his own peculiar arm-chair, and the lady close to the fender, while a seat opposite to them had been placed for lady anna. the room was gloomy with dark red curtains and dark flock paper. on the table there burned two candles, and no more. the serjeant got up and motioned lady anna to a chair. as soon as she had seated herself, he began his speech. "my dear young lady, you must be no doubt aware that you are at present causing a great deal of trouble to your best friends." "i don't want to cause anybody trouble," said lady anna, thinking that the serjeant in speaking of her best friends alluded to himself and his wife. "i only want to go away." "i am coming to that directly, my dear. i cannot suppose that you do not understand the extent of the sorrow that you have inflicted on your parent by,--by the declaration which you made to lord lovel in regard to mr. daniel thwaite." there is nothing, perhaps, in the way of exhortation and scolding which the ordinary daughter,--or son,--dislikes so much as to be told of her, or his, "parent." "my dear fellow, your father will be annoyed," is taken in good part. "what will mamma say?" is seldom received amiss. but when young people have their "parents" thrown at them, they feel themselves to be aggrieved, and become at once antagonistic. lady anna became strongly antagonistic. if her mother, who had always been to her her "own, own mamma," was going to be her parent, there must be an end of all hope of happiness. she said nothing, but compressed her lips together. she would not allow herself to be led an inch any way by a man who talked to her of her parent. "the very idea of such a marriage as this man had suggested to you under the guise of friendship was dreadful to her. it could be no more than an idea;--but that you should have entertained it was dreadful. she has since asked you again and again to repudiate the idea, and hitherto you have refused to obey." "i can never know what mamma really wants till i go and live with her again." "i am coming to that, lady anna. the countess has informed mrs. bluestone that you had refused to give the desired promise unless you should be allowed to see mr. daniel thwaite, intimating, i presume, that his permission would be necessary to free you from your imaginary bond to him." "it would be necessary." "very well. the countess naturally felt an abhorrence at allowing you again to be in the presence of one so much beneath you,--who had ventured to address you as he has done. it was a most natural feeling. but it has occurred to mrs. bluestone and myself, that as you entertain this idea of an obligation, you should be allowed to extricate yourself from it after your own fashion. you are to meet mr. thwaite,--on monday,--at eleven o'clock,--in keppel street." "and i am not to come back again?" when one executes the office of gaoler without fee or reward, giving up to one's prisoner one's best bedroom, and having a company dinner, more or less, cooked for one's prisoner every day, one does not like to be told too plainly of the anticipated joys of enfranchisement. mrs. bluestone, who had done her best both for the mother and the girl, and had done it all from pure motherly sympathy, was a little hurt. "i am sure, lady anna, we shall not wish you to return," she said. "oh, mrs. bluestone, you don't understand me. i don't think you know how unhappy i am because of mamma." mrs. bluestone relented at once. "if you will only do as your mamma wishes, everything will be made happy for you." "mr. thwaite will be in keppel street at eleven o'clock on monday," continued the serjeant, "and an opportunity will then be given you of obtaining from him a release from that unfortunate promise which i believe you once made him. i may tell you that he has expressed himself willing to give you that release. the debt due to him, or rather to his late father, has now been paid by the estate, and i think you will find that he will make no difficulty. after that anything that he may require shall be done to forward his views." "am i to take my things?" she asked. "sarah shall pack them up, and they shall be sent after you if it be decided that you are to stay with lady lovel." they then went to bed. in all this neither the serjeant nor his wife had been "on the square." neither of them had spoken truly to the girl. mrs. bluestone had let the countess know that with all her desire to assist her ladyship, and her ladyship's daughter, she could not receive lady anna back in bedford square. as for that sending of her things upon certain conditions,--it was a simple falsehood. the things would certainly be sent. and the serjeant, without uttering an actual lie, had endeavoured to make the girl think that the tailor was in pursuit of money,--and of money only, though he must have known that it was not so. the serjeant no doubt hated a lie,--as most of us do hate lies; and had a strong conviction that the devil is the father of them. but then the lies which he hated, and as to the parentage of which he was quite certain, were lies told to him. who yet ever met a man who did not in his heart of hearts despise an attempt made by others to deceive--himself? they whom we have found to be gentler in their judgment towards attempts made in another direction have been more than one or two. the object which the serjeant had in view was so good that it seemed to him to warrant some slight deviation from parallelogrammatic squareness;--though he held it as one of his first rules of life that the end cannot justify the means. chapter xxxvi. it is still true. on sunday they all went to church, and not a word was said about the tailor. alice bluestone was tender and valedictory; mrs. bluestone was courteous and careful; the serjeant was solemn and civil. before the day was over lady anna was quite sure that it was not intended that she should come back to bedford square. words were said by the two girls, and by sarah the waiting-maid, which made it certain that the packing up was to be a real packing up. no hindrance was offered to her when she busied herself about her own dresses and folded up her stock of gloves and ribbons. on monday morning after breakfast, mrs. bluestone nearly broke down. "i am sure, my dear," she said, "we have liked you very much, and if there has been anything uncomfortable it has been from unfortunate circumstances." the serjeant bade god bless her when he walked off half an hour before the carriage came to take her, and she knew that she was to sit no longer as a guest at the serjeant's table. she kissed the girls, was kissed by mrs. bluestone, got into the carriage with the maid, and in her heart said good-bye to bedford square for ever. it was but three minutes' drive from the serjeant's house to that in which her mother lived, and in that moment of time she was hardly able to realise the fact that within half an hour she would be once more in the presence of daniel thwaite. she did not at present at all understand why this thing was to be done. when last she had seen her mother, the countess had solemnly declared, had almost sworn, that they two should never see each other again. and now the meeting was so close at hand that the man must already be near her. she put up her face to the carriage window as though she almost expected to see him on the pavement. and how would the meeting be arranged? would her mother be present? she took it for granted that her mother would be present. she certainly anticipated no pleasure from the meeting,--though she would be glad, very glad, to see daniel thwaite once again. before she had time to answer herself a question the carriage had stopped, and she could see her mother at the drawing-room window. she trembled as she went up-stairs, and hardly could speak when she found herself in her mother's presence. if her mother had worn the old brown gown it would have been better, but there she was, arrayed in black silk,--in silk that was new and stiff and broad and solemn,--a parent rather than a mother, and every inch a countess. "i am so glad to be with you again, mamma." "i shall not be less glad to have you with me, anna,--if you will behave yourself with propriety." "give me a kiss, mamma." then the countess bent her head and allowed her daughter's lips to touch her cheeks. in old days,--days that were not so very old,--she would kiss her child as though such embraces were the only food that nourished her. "come up-stairs, and i will show you your room." then the daughter followed the mother in solemn silence. "you have heard that mr. daniel thwaite is coming here, to see you, at your own request. it will not be many minutes before he is here. take off your bonnet." again lady anna silently did as she was bid. "it would have been better,--very much better,--that you should have done as you were desired without subjecting me to this indignity. but as you have taken into your head an idea that you cannot be absolved from an impossible engagement without his permission, i have submitted. do not let it be long, and let me hear then that all this nonsense is over. he has got what he desires, as a very large sum of money has been paid to him." then there came a knock at the door from sarah, who just showed her face to say that mr. thwaite was in the room below. "now go down. in ten minutes i shall expect to see you here again;--or, after that, i shall come down to you." lady anna took her mother by the hand, looking up with beseeching eyes into her mother's face. "go, my dear, and let this be done as quickly as possible. i believe that you have too great a sense of propriety to let him do more than speak to you. remember,--you are the daughter of an earl; and remember also all that i have done to establish your right for you." "mamma, i do not know what to do. i am afraid." "shall i go with you, anna?" "no, mamma;--it will be better without you. you do not know how good he is." "if he will abandon this madness he shall be my friend of friends." "oh, mamma, i am afraid. but i had better go." then, trembling she left the room and slowly descended the stairs. she had certainly spoken the truth in saying that she was afraid. up to this moment she had not positively made up her mind whether she would or would not yield to the entreaties of her friends. she had decided upon nothing,--leaving in fact the arbitrament of her faith in the hands of the man who had now come to see her. throughout all that had been said and done her sympathies had been with him, and had become the stronger the more her friends had reviled him. she knew that they had spoken evil of him, not because he was evil,--but with the unholy view of making her believe what was false. she had seen through all this, and had been aroused by it to a degree of firmness of which her mother had not imagined her to be capable. had they confined themselves to the argument of present fitness, admitting the truth and honesty of the man,--and admitting also that his love for her and hers for him had been the natural growth of the familiar friendship of their childhood and youth, their chance of moulding her to their purposes would have been better. as it was they had never argued with her on the subject without putting forward some statement which she found herself bound to combat. she was told continually that she had degraded herself; and she could understand that another lady anna might degrade herself most thoroughly by listening to the suit of a tailor. but she had not disgraced herself. of that she was sure, though she could not well explain to them her reasons when they accused her. circumstances, and her mother's mode of living, had thrown her into intimacy with this man. for all practical purposes of life he had been her equal,--and being so had become her dearest friend. to take his hand, to lean on his arm, to ask his assistance, to go to him in her troubles, to listen to his words and to believe them, to think of him as one who might always be trusted, had become a second nature to her. of course she loved him. and now the martyrdom through which she had passed in bedford square had changed,--unconsciously as regarded her own thoughts,--but still had changed her feelings in regard to her cousin. he was not to her now the bright and shining thing, the godlike phoebus, which he had been in wyndham street and at yoxham. in all their lectures to her about her title and grandeur they had succeeded in inculcating an idea of the solemnity of rank, but had robbed it in her eyes of all its grace. she had only been the more tormented because the fact of her being lady anna lovel had been fully established. the feeling in her bosom which was most hostile to the tailor's claim upon her was her pity for her mother. she entered the room very gently, and found him standing by the table, with his hands clasped together. "sweetheart!" he said, as soon as he saw her, calling her by a name which he used to use when they were out in the fields together in cumberland. "daniel!" then he came to her and took her hand. "if you have anything to say, daniel, you must be very quick, because mamma will come in ten minutes." "have you anything to say, sweetheart?" she had much to say if she only knew how to say it; but she was silent. "do you love me, anna?" still she was silent. "if you have ceased to love me, pray tell me so,--in all honesty." but yet she was silent. "if you are true to me,--as i am to you, with all my heart,--will you not tell me so?" "yes," she murmured. he heard her, though no other could have done so. "a lover's ears will hear the lowest sound when the suspicious head of theft is stopped." "if so," said he, again taking her hand, "this story they have told me is untrue." "what story, daniel?" but she withdrew her hand quickly as she asked him. "nay;--it is mine; it shall be mine if you love me, dear. i will tell you what story. they have said that you love your cousin, earl lovel." "no;" said she scornfully, "i have never said so. it is not true." "you cannot love us both." his eye was fixed upon hers, that eye to which in past years she had been accustomed to look for guidance, sometimes in joy and sometimes in fear, and which she had always obeyed. "is not that true?" "oh yes;--that is true of course." "you have never told him that you loved him." "oh, never." "but you have told me so,--more than once; eh, sweetheart?" "yes." "and it was true?" she paused a moment, and then gave him the same answer, "yes." "and it is still true?" she repeated the word a third time. "yes." but she again so spoke that none but a lover's ear could have heard it. "if it be so, nothing but the hand of god shall separate us. you know that they sent for me to come here." she nodded her head. "do you know why? in order that i might abandon my claim to your hand. i will never give it up. but i made them a promise, and i will keep it. i told them that if you preferred lord lovel to me, i would at once make you free of your promise,--that i would offer to you such freedom, if it would be freedom. i do offer it to you;--or rather, anna, i would have offered it, had you not already answered the question. how can i offer it now?" then he paused, and stood regarding her with fixed eyes. "but there,--there; take back your word if you will. if you think that it is better to be the wife of a lord, because he is a lord, though you do not love him, than to lie upon the breast of the man you do love,--you are free from me." now was the moment in which she must obey her mother, and satisfy her friends, and support her rank, and decide that she would be one of the noble ladies of england, if such decision were to be made at all. she looked up into his face, and thought that after all it was handsomer than that of the young earl. he stood thus with dilated nostrils, and fire in his eyes, and his lips just parted, and his head erect,--a very man. had she been so minded she would not have dared to take his offer. they surely had not known the man when they allowed him to have this interview. he repeated his words. "you are free if you will say so;--but you must answer me." "i did answer you, daniel." "my noble girl! and now, my heart's only treasure, i may speak out and tell you what i think. it cannot be good that a woman should purchase rank and wealth by giving herself to a man she does not love. it must be bad,--monstrously bad. i never believed it when they told it me of you. and yet when i did not hear of you or see you for months--" "it was not my fault." "no, sweetheart;--and i tried to find comfort by so saying to myself. 'if she really loves me, she will be true,' i said. and yet who was i that i should think that you would suffer so much for me? but i will repay you,--if the truth and service of a life may repay such a debt as that. at any rate hear this from me;--i will never doubt again." and as he spoke he was moving towards her, thinking to take her in his arms, when the door was opened and countess lovel was within the room. the tailor was the first to speak. "lady lovel, i have asked your daughter, and i find that it is her wish to adhere to the engagement which she made with me in cumberland. i need hardly say that it is my wish also." "anna! is this true?" "mamma; mamma! oh, mamma!" "if it be so i will never speak word to you more." "you will; you will! do not look at me like that. you will speak to me!" "you shall never again be child of mine." but in saying this she had forgotten herself, and now she remembered her proper cue. "i do not believe a word of it. the man has come here and has insulted and frightened you. he knows,--he must know,--that such a marriage is impossible. it can never take place. it shall never take place. mr. thwaite, as you are a living man, you shall never live to marry my daughter." "my lady, in this matter of marriage your daughter must no doubt decide for herself. even now, by all the laws of god,--and i believe of man too,--she is beyond your control either to give her in marriage or to withhold her. in a few months she will be as much her own mistress as you now are yours." "sir, i am not asking you about my child. you are insolent." "i came here, lady lovel, because i was sent for." "and now you had better leave us. you made a promise which you have broken." "by heavens, no. i made a promise and i have kept it. i said that i would offer her freedom, and i have done so. i told her, and i tell her again now, that if she will say that she prefers her cousin to me, i will retire." the countess looked at him and also recognised the strength of his face, almost feeling that the man had grown in personal dignity since he had received the money that was due to him. "she does not prefer the earl. she has given her heart to me; and i hold it,--and will hold it. look up, dear, and tell your mother whether what i say be true." "it is true," said lady anna. "then may the blight of hell rest upon you both!" said the countess, rushing to the door. but she returned. "mr. thwaite," she said, "i will trouble you at once to leave the house, and never more to return to it." "i will leave it certainly. good bye, my own love." he attempted again to take the girl by the hand, but the countess, with violence, rushed at them and separated them. "if you but touch him, i will strike you," she said to her daughter. "as for you, it is her money that you want. if it be necessary, you shall have, not hers, but mine. now go." "that is a slander, lady lovel. i want no one's money. i want the girl i love,--whose heart i have won; and i will have her. good morning, lady lovel. dear, dear anna, for this time good bye. do not let any one make you think that i can ever be untrue to you." the girl only looked at him. then he left the room; and the mother and the daughter were alone together. the countess stood erect, looking at her child, while lady anna, standing also, kept her eyes fixed upon the ground. "am i to believe it all,--as that man says?" asked the countess. "yes, mamma." "do you mean to say that you have renewed your engagement to that low-born wretch?" "mamma,--he is not a wretch." "do you contradict me? after all, is it come to this?" "mamma,--you, you--cursed me." "and you will be cursed. do you think that you will do such wickedness as this, that you can destroy all that i have done for you, that you make yourself the cause of ruin to a whole family, and that you will not be punished for it? you say that you love me." "you know that i love you, mamma." "and yet you do not scruple to drive me mad." "mamma, it was you who brought us together." "ungrateful child! where else could i take you then?" "but i was there,--and of course i loved him. i could not cease to love him because,--because they say that i am a grand lady." "listen to me, anna. you shall never marry him; never. with my own hands i will kill him first;--or you." the girl stood looking into her mother's face, and trembling. "do you understand that?" "you do not mean it, mamma." "by the god above me, i do! do you think that i will stop at anything now;--after having done so much? do you think that i will live to see my daughter the wife of a foul, sweltering tailor? no, by heavens! he tells you that when you are twenty-one, you will not be subject to my control. i warn you to look to it. i will not lose my control, unless when i see you married to some husband fitting your condition in life. for the present you will live in your own room, as i will live in mine. i will hold no intercourse whatever with you, till i have constrained you to obey me." chapter xxxvii. let her die. after the scene which was described in the last chapter there was a very sad time indeed in keppel street. the countess had been advised by the serjeant and mrs. bluestone to take her daughter immediately abroad, in the event of the interview with daniel thwaite being unsatisfactory. it was believed by all concerned, by the bluestones, and the goffes, by sir william patterson who had been told of the coming interview, and by the countess herself, that this would not be the case. they had all thought that lady anna would come out from that meeting disengaged and free to marry whom she would,--and they thought also that within a very few weeks of her emancipation she would accept her cousin's hand. the solicitor-general had communicated with the earl, who was still in town, and the earl again believed that he might win the heiress. but should the girl prove obstinate;--"take her away at once,--very far away;--to rome, or some such place as that." such had been mrs. bluestone's advice, and in those days rome was much more distant than it is now. "and don't let anybody know where you are going," added the serjeant,--"except mr. goffe." the countess had assented;--but when the moment came, there were reasons against her sudden departure. mr. goffe told her that she must wait at any rate for another fortnight. the presence of herself and her daughter were necessary in london for the signing of deeds and for the completion of the now merely formal proofs of identity. and money was again scarce. a great deal of money had been spent lately, and unless money was borrowed without security, and at a great cost,--to which mr. goffe was averse,--the sum needed could hardly be provided at once. mr. goffe recommended that no day earlier than the 20th december should be fixed for their departure. it was now the end of november; and it became a question how the intermediate time should be passed. the countess was resolved that she would hold no pleasant intercourse at all with her daughter. she would not even tell the girl of her purpose of going abroad. from hour to hour she assured herself with still increasing obduracy that nothing but severity could avail anything. the girl must be cowed and frightened into absolute submission,--even though at the expense of her health. even though it was to be effected by the absolute crushing of her spirits,--this must be done. though at the cost of her life, it must be done. this woman had lived for the last twenty years with but one object before her eyes,--an object sometimes seeming to be near, more often distant, and not unfrequently altogether beyond her reach, but which had so grown upon her imagination as to become the heaven to which her very soul aspired. to be and to be known to be among the highly born, the so-called noble, the titled from old dates,--to be of those who were purely aristocratic, had been all the world to her. as a child,--the child of well-born but poor parents, she had received the idea. in following it out she had thrown all thoughts of love to the wind and had married a reprobate earl. then had come her punishment,--or, as she had conceived it, her most unmerited misfortunes. for many years of her life her high courage and persistent demeanour had almost atoned for the vice of her youth. the love of rank was strong in her bosom as ever, but it was fostered for her child rather than for herself. through long, tedious, friendless, poverty-stricken years she had endured all, still assuring herself that the day would come when the world should call the sweet plant that grew by her side by its proper name. the little children hooted after her daughter, calling her girl in derision the lady anna,--when lady anna had been more poorly clad and blessed with less of the comforts of home than any of them. years would roll by, and they should live to know that the lady anna,--the sport of their infantine cruelty,--was lady anna indeed. and as the girl became a woman the dream was becoming a reality. the rank, the title, the general acknowledgment and the wealth would all be there. then came the first great decisive triumph. overtures of love and friendship were made from the other side. would lady anna consent to become the countess lovel, all animosities might be buried, and everything be made pleasant, prosperous, noble, and triumphant! it is easy to fill with air a half-inflated bladder. it is already so buoyant with its own lightness, that it yields itself with ease to receive the generous air. the imagination of the woman flew higher than ever it had flown when the proposition came home to her in all its bearings. of course it had been in her mind that her daughter should marry well;--but there had been natural fears. her child had not been educated, had not lived, had not been surrounded in her young days, as are those girls from whom the curled darlings are wont to choose their wives. she would too probably be rough in manner, ungentle in speech, ungifted in accomplishments, as compared with those who from their very cradles are encompassed by the blessings of wealth and high social standing. but when she looked at her child's beauty, she would hope. and then her child was soft, sweet-humoured, winning in all her little ways, pretty even in the poor duds which were supplied to her mainly by the generosity of the tailor. and so she would hope, and sometimes despair;--and then hope again. but she had never hoped for anything so good as this. such a marriage would not only put her daughter as high as a lovel ought to be, but would make it known in a remarkable manner to all coming ages that she, she herself, she the despised and slandered one,--who had been treated almost as woman had never been treated before,--was in very truth the countess lovel by whose income the family had been restored to its old splendour. and so the longing grew upon her. then, almost for the first time, did she begin to feel that it was necessary for the purposes of her life that the girl whom she loved so thoroughly, should be a creature in her hands, to be dealt with as she pleased. she would have had her daughter accede to the proposed marriage even before she had seen lord lovel, and was petulant when her daughter would not be as clay in the sculptor's hand. but still the girl's refusal had been but as the refusal of a girl. she should not have been as are other girls. she should have known better. she should have understood what the peculiarity of her position demanded. but it had not been so with her. she had not soared as she should have done, above the love-laden dreams of common maidens. and so the visit to yoxham was permitted. then came the great blow,--struck as it were by a third hand, and that the hand of an attorney. the countess lovel learned through mr. goffe,--who had heard the tale from other lawyers,--that her daughter lady anna lovel had, with her own mouth, told her noble lover that she was betrothed to a tailor! she felt at the moment that she could have died,--cursing her child for this black ingratitude. but there might still be hope. the trial was going on,--or the work which was progressing towards the trial, and she was surrounded by those who could advise her. doubtless what had happened was a great misfortune. but there was room for hope;--room for most assured hope. the earl was not disposed to abandon the match, though he had, of course, been greatly annoyed,--nay, disgusted and degraded by the girl's communication. but he had consented to see the matter in the proper light. the young tailor had got an influence over the girl when she was a child, was doubtless in pursuit of money, and must be paid. the folly of a child might be forgiven, and the earl would persevere. no one would know what had occurred, and the thing would be forgotten as a freak of childhood. the countess had succumbed to the policy of all this;--but she was not deceived by the benevolent falsehood. lady anna had been over twenty when she had been receiving lover's vows from this man, reeking from his tailor's board. and her girl, her daughter, had deceived her. that the girl had deceived her, saying there was no other lover, was much; but it was much more and worse and more damnable that there had been thorough deception as to the girl's own appreciation of her rank. the sympathy tendered through so many years must have been always pretended sympathy. with these feelings hot within her bosom, she could not bring herself to speak one kindly word to lady anna after the return from yoxham. the girl was asked to abandon her odious lover with stern severity. it was demanded of her that she should do so with cruel threats. she would never quite yield, though she had then no strength of purpose sufficient to enable her to declare that she would not yield. we know how she was banished to bedford square, and transferred from the ruthless persistency of her mother, to the less stern but not less fixed manoeuvres of mrs. bluestone. at that moment of her existence she was herself in doubt. in wyndham street and at yoxham she had almost more than doubted. the softness of the new elysium had well nigh unnerved her. when that young man had caught her from stone to stone as she passed over the ford at bolton, she was almost ready to give herself to him. but then had come upon her the sense of sickness, that faint, overdone flavour of sugared sweetness, which arises when sweet things become too luscious to the eater. she had struggled to be honest and strong, and had just not fallen into the pot of treacle. but, notwithstanding all this, they who saw her and knew the story, were still sure that the lord must at last win the day. there was not one who believed that such a girl could be true to such a troth as she had made. even the solicitor-general, when he told the tale which the amorous steward had remembered to his own encouragement, did not think but what the girl and the girl's fortune would fall into the hands of his client. human nature demanded that it should be so. that it should be as he wished it was so absolutely consonant with all nature as he had known it, that he had preferred trusting to this result, in his client's behalf, to leaving the case in a jury's hands. at this moment he was sure he was right in his judgment. and indeed he was right;--for no jury could have done anything for his client. it went on till at last the wise men decided that the girl only wanted to be relieved by her old lover, that she might take a new lover with his permission. the girl was no doubt peculiar; but, as far as the wise ones could learn from her manner,--for with words she would say nothing,--that was her state of mind. so the interview was planned,--to the infinite disgust of the countess, who, however, believed that it might avail; and we know what was the result. lady anna, who long had doubted,--who had at last almost begun to doubt whether daniel thwaite was true to her,--had renewed her pledges, strengthened her former promises, and was now more firmly betrothed than ever to him whom the countess hated as a very fiend upon earth. but there certainly should be no marriage! though she pistolled the man at the altar, there should be no marriage. and then there came upon her the infinite disgust arising from the necessity of having to tell her sorrows to others,--who could not sympathize with her, though their wishes were as hers. it was hard upon her that no step could be taken by her in reference to her daughter without the knowledge of mr. goffe and serjeant bluestone,--and the consequent knowledge of mr. flick and the solicitor-general. it was necessary, too, that lord lovel should know all. his conduct in many things must depend on the reception which might probably be accorded to a renewal of his suit. of course he must be told. he had already been told that the tailor was to be admitted to see his love, in order that she might be absolved by the tailor from her first vow. it had not been pleasant,--but he had acceded. mr. flick had taken upon himself to say that he was sure that everything would be made pleasant. the earl had frowned, and had been very short with mr. flick. these confidences with lawyers about his lovesuit, and his love's tone with her low-born lover, had not been pleasant to lord lovel. but he had endured it,--and now he must be told of the result. oh, heavens;--what a hell of misery was this girl making for her high-born relatives! but the story of the tailor's visit to keppel street did not reach the unhappy ones at yoxham till months had passed away. mr. goffe was very injudicious in postponing the departure of the two ladies--as the solicitor-general told mr. flick afterwards very plainly, when he heard of what had been done. "money; she might have had any money. i would have advanced it. you would have advanced it!" "oh certainly," said mr. flick, not, however, at all relishing the idea of advancing money to his client's adversary. "i never heard of such folly," continued sir william. "that comes of trusting people who should not be trusted." but it was too late then. lady anna was lying ill in bed, in fever; and three doctors doubted whether she would ever get up again. "would it not be better that she should die?" said her mother to herself, standing over her and looking at her. it would,--so thought the mother then,--be better that she should die than get up to become the wife of daniel thwaite. but how much better that she should live and become the countess lovel! she still loved her child, as only a mother can love her only child,--as only a mother can love who has no hope of joy in the world, but what is founded on her child. but the other passion had become so strong in her bosom that it almost conquered her mother's yearnings. was she to fight for long years that she might be beaten at last when the prize was so near her,--when the cup was almost at her lips? were the girl now to be taken to her grave, there would be an end at any rate of the fear which now most heavily oppressed her. but the three doctors were called in, one after another; and lady anna was tended as though her life was as precious as that of any other daughter. these new tidings caused new perturbation among the lawyers. "they say that clerke and holland have given her over," said mr. flick to sir william. "i am sorry to hear it," said mr. solicitor; "but girls do live sometimes in spite of the doctors." "yes; very true, sir william; very true. but if it should go in that way it might not perhaps be amiss for our client." "god forbid that he should prosper by his cousin's death, mr. flick. but the countess would be the heir." "the countess is devoted to the earl. we ought to do something, sir william. i don't think that we could claim above eight or ten thousand pounds at most as real property. he put his money everywhere, did that old man. there are shares in iron mines in the alleghanies, worth ever so much." "they are no good to us," said the solicitor-general, alluding to his client's interests. "not worth a halfpenny to us, though they are paying twenty per cent. on the paid-up capital. he seems to have determined that the real heir should get nothing, even if there were no will. a wicked old man!" "very wicked, mr. flick." "a horrible old man! but we really ought to do something, mr. solicitor. if the girl won't marry him there should be some compromise, after all that we have done." "how can the girl marry any one, mr. flick,--if she's going to die?" a few days after this, sir william called in keppel street and saw the countess, not with any idea of promoting a compromise,--for the doing which this would not have been the time, nor would he have been the fitting medium,--but in order that he might ask after lady anna's health. the whole matter was in truth now going very much against the earl. money had been allowed to the countess and her daughter; and in truth all the money was now their own, to do with it as they listed, though there might be some delay before each was put into absolute possession of her own proportion; but no money had been allowed, or could be allowed, to the earl. and, that the fact was so, was now becoming known to all men. hitherto credit had at any rate been easy with the young lord. when the old earl died, and when the will was set aside, it was thought that he would be the heir. when the lawsuit first came up, it was believed everywhere that some generous compromise would be the worst that could befall him. after that the marriage had been almost a certainty, and then it was known that he had something of his own, so that tradesmen need not fear that their bills would be paid. it can hardly be said that he had been extravagant; but a lord must live, and an earl can hardly live and maintain a house in the country on a thousand a year, even though he has an uncle to keep his hunters for him. some prudent men in london were already beginning to ask for their money, and the young earl was in trouble. as mr. flick had said, it was quite time that something should be done. sir william still depended on the panacea of a marriage, if only the girl would live. the marriage might be delayed; but, if the cards were played prudently, might still make everything comfortable. such girls do not marry tailors, and will always prefer lords to tradesmen! "i hope that you do not think that my calling is intrusive," he said. the countess, dressed all in black, with that funereal frown upon her brow which she always now wore, with deep-sunk eyes, and care legible in every feature of her handsome face, received him with a courtesy that was as full of woe as it was graceful. she was very glad to make his acquaintance. there was no intrusion. he would forgive her, she thought, if he perceived that circumstances had almost overwhelmed her with sorrow. "i have come to ask after your daughter," said he. "she has been very ill, sir william." "is she better now?" "i hardly know; i cannot say. they seemed to think this morning that the fever was less violent." "then she will recover, lady lovel." "they do not say so. but indeed i did not ask them. it is all in god's hands. i sometimes think that it would be better that she should die, and there be an end of it." this was the first time that these two had been in each other's company, and the lawyer could not altogether repress the feeling of horror with which he heard the mother speak in such a way of her only child. "oh, lady lovel, do not say that!" "but i do say it. why should i not say it to you, who know all? of what good will her life be to herself, or to any one else, if she pollute herself and her family by this marriage? it would be better that she should be dead,--much better that she should be dead. she is all that i have, sir william. it is for her sake that i have been struggling from the first moment in which i knew that i was to be a mother. the whole care of my life has been to prove her to be her father's daughter in the eye of the law. i doubt whether you can know what it is to pursue one object, and only one, through your whole life, with never-ending solicitude,--and to do it all on behalf of another. if you did, you would understand my feeling now. it would be better for her that she should die than become the wife of such a one as daniel thwaite." "lady lovel, not only as a mother, but as a christian, you should get the better of that feeling." "of course i should. no doubt every clergyman in england would tell me the same thing. it is easy to say all that, sir. wait till you are tried. wait till all your ambition is to be betrayed, every hope rolled in the dust, till all the honours you have won are to be soiled and degraded, till you are made a mark for general scorn and public pity,--and then tell me how you love the child by whom such evils are brought upon you!" "i trust that i may never be so tried, lady lovel." "i hope not; but think of all that before you preach to me. but i do love her; and it is because i love her that i would fain see her removed from the reproaches which her own madness will bring upon her. let her die;--if it be god's will. i can follow her without one wish for a prolonged life. then will a noble family be again established, and her sorrowful tale will be told among the lovels with a tear and without a curse." chapter xxxviii. lady anna's bedside. all december went by, and the neighbours in the houses round spent each his merry christmas; and the snow and frost of january passed over them, and february had come and nearly gone, before the doctors dared to say that lady anna lovel's life was not still in danger. during this long period the world had known all about her illness,--as it did know, or pretended to know, the whole history of her life. the world had been informed that she was dying, and had, upon the whole, been really very sorry for her. she had interested the world, and the world had heard much of her youth and beauty,--of the romance too of her story, of her fidelity to the tailor, and of her persecutions. during these months of her illness the world was disposed to think that the tailor was a fine fellow, and that he ought to be taken by the hand. he had money now, and it was thought that it would be a good thing to bring him into some club. there was a very strong feeling at the beaufort that if he were properly proposed and seconded he would be elected,--not because he was going to marry an heiress, but because he was losing the heiress whom he was to have married. if the girl died, then lord lovel himself might bring him forward at the beaufort. of all this daniel himself knew nothing; but he heard, as all the world heard, that lady anna was on her deathbed. when the news first reached him,--after a fashion that seemed to him to be hardly worthy of credit,--he called at the house in keppel street and asked the question. yes; lady anna was very ill; but, as it happened, sarah the lady's-maid opened the door, and sarah remembered the tailor. she had seen him when he was admitted to her young mistress, and knew enough of the story to be aware that he should be snubbed. her first answer was given before she had bethought herself; then she snubbed him, and told no one but the countess of his visit. after that daniel went to one of the doctors, and waited at his door with patience till he could be seen. the unhappy man told his story plainly. he was daniel thwaite, late a tailor, the man from keswick, to whom lady anna lovel was engaged. in charity and loving kindness, would the doctor tell him of the state of his beloved one? the doctor took him by the hand and asked him in, and did tell him. his beloved one was then on the very point of death. whereupon daniel wrote to the countess in humble strains, himself taking the letter, and waiting without in the street for any answer that might be vouchsafed. if it was, as he was told, that his beloved was dying, might he be allowed to stand once at her bedside and kiss her hand? in about an hour an answer was brought to him at the area gate. it consisted of his own letter, opened, and returned to him without a word. he went away too sad to curse, but he declared to himself that such cruelty in a woman's bosom could exist only in the bosom of a countess. but as others heard early in february that lady anna was like to recover, so did daniel thwaite. indeed, his authority was better than that which reached the clubs, for the doctor still stood his friend. could the doctor take a message from him to lady anna;--but one word? no;--the doctor could take no message. that he would not do. but he did not object to give to the lover a bulletin of the health of his sweetheart. in this way daniel knew sooner than most others when the change took place in the condition of his beloved one. lady anna would be of age in may, and the plan of her betrothed was as follows. he would do nothing till that time, and then he would call upon her to allow their banns to be published in bloomsbury church after the manner of the church of england. he himself had taken lodgings in great russell street, thinking that his object might be aided by living in the same parish. if, as was probable, he would not be allowed to approach lady anna either in person, or by letter, then he would have recourse to the law, and would allege that the young lady was unduly kept a prisoner in custody. he was told that such complaint would be as idle wind, coming from him,--that no allegation of that kind could obtain any redress unless it came from the young lady herself; but he flattered himself that he could so make it that the young lady would at any rate obtain thereby the privilege of speaking for herself. let some one ask her what were her wishes and he would be prepared to abide by her expression of them. in the meantime lord lovel also had been anxious;--but his anxiety had been met in a very different fashion. for many days the countess saw him daily, so that there grew up between them a close intimacy. when it was believed that the girl would die,--believed with that sad assurance which made those who were concerned speak of her death almost as a certainty, the countess, sitting alone with the young earl, had told him that all would be his if the girl left them. he had muttered something as to there being no reason for that. "who else should have it?" said the countess. "where should it go? your people, lovel, have not understood me. it is for the family that i have been fighting, fighting, fighting,--and never ceasing. though you have been my adversary,--it has been all for the lovels. if she goes,--it shall be yours at once. there is no one knows how little i care for wealth myself." then the girl had become better, and the countess again began her plots, and her plans, and her strategy. she would take the girl abroad in may, in april if it might be possible. they would go,--not to rome then, but to the south of france, and, as the weather became too warm for them, on to switzerland and the tyrol. would he, lord lovel, follow them? would he follow them and be constant in his suit, even though the frantic girl should still talk of her tailor lover? if he would do so, as far as money was concerned, all should be in common with them. for what was the money wanted but that the lovels might be great and noble and splendid? he said that he would do so. he also loved the girl,--thought at least during the tenderness created by her illness that he loved her with all his heart. he sat hour after hour with the countess in keppel street,--sometimes seeing the girl as she lay unconscious, or feigning that she was so; till at last he was daily at her bedside. "you had better not talk to him, anna," her mother would say, "but of course he is anxious to see you." then the earl would kiss her hand, and in her mother's presence she had not the courage,--perhaps she had not the strength,--to withdraw it. in these days the countess was not cruelly stern as she had been. bedside nursing hardly admits of such cruelty of manner. but she never spoke to her child with little tender endearing words, never embraced her,--but was to her a careful nurse rather than a loving mother. then by degrees the girl got better, and was able to talk. "mamma," she said one day, "won't you sit by me?" "no, my dear; you should not be encouraged to talk." "sit by me, and let me hold your hand." for a moment the countess gave way, and sat by her daughter, allowing her hand to remain pressed beneath the bedclothes;--but she rose abruptly, remembering her grievance, remembering that it would be better that her child should die, should die broken-hearted by unrelenting cruelty, than be encouraged to think it possible that she should do as she desired. so she rose abruptly and left the bedside without a word. "mamma," said lady anna; "will lord lovel be here to-day?" "i suppose he will be here." "will you let me speak to him for a minute?" "surely you may speak to him." "i am strong now, mamma, and i think that i shall be well again some day. i have so often wished that i might die." "you had better not talk about it, my dear." "but i should like to speak to him, mamma, without you." "what to say,--anna?" "i hardly know;--but i should like to speak to him. i have something to say about money." "cannot i say it?" "no, mamma. i must say it myself,--if you will let me." the countess looked at her girl with suspicion, but she gave the permission demanded. of course it would be right that this lover should see his love. the countess was almost minded to require from lady anna an assurance that no allusion should be made to daniel thwaite; but the man's name had not been mentioned between them since the beginning of the illness, and she was loth to mention it now. nor would it have been possible to prevent for long such an interview as that now proposed. "he shall come in if he pleases," said the countess; "but i hope you will remember who you are and to whom you are speaking." "i will remember both, mamma," said lady anna. the countess looked down on her daughter's face, and could not help thinking that her child was different from what she had been. there had been almost defiance in the words spoken, though they had been spoken with the voice of an invalid. at three o'clock that afternoon, according to his custom, lord lovel came, and was at once told that he was to be spoken to by his cousin. "she says it is about money," said the countess. "about money?" "yes;--and if she confines herself to that, do as she bids you. if she is ever to be your wife it will be all right; and if not,--then it will be better in your hands than in hers. in three months time she can do as she pleases with it all." he was then taken into lady anna's room. "here is your cousin," said the countess. "you must not talk long or i shall interrupt you. if you wish to speak to him about the property,--as the head of your family,--that will be very right; but confine yourself to that for the present." then the countess left them and closed the door. "it is not only about money, lord lovel." "you might call me frederic now," said he tenderly. "no;--not now. if i am ever well again and we are then friends i will do so. they tell me that there is ever so much money,--hundreds of thousands of pounds. i forget how much." "do not trouble yourself about that." "but i do trouble myself very much about it,--and i know that it ought to be yours. there is one thing i want to tell you, which you must believe. if i am ever any man's wife, i shall be the wife of daniel thwaite." that dark frown came upon his face which she had seen once before. "pray believe that it is so," she continued. "mamma does not believe it,--will not believe it; but it is so. i love him with all my heart. i think of him every minute. it is very very cruel that i may not hear from him or send one word to tell him how i am. there! my hand is on the bible, and i swear to you that if i am ever the wife of any man, i will be his wife." he looked down at her and saw that she was wan and thin and weak, and he did not dare to preach to her the old family sermon as to his rank and station. "but, anna, why do you tell me this now?" he said. "that you may believe it and not trouble yourself with me any more. you must believe it when i tell you so in this manner. i may perhaps never live to rise from my bed. if i get well, i shall send to him, or go. i will not be hindered. he is true to me, and i will be true to him. you may tell mamma if you think proper. she would not believe me, but perhaps she may believe you. but, lord lovel, it is not fit that he should have all this money. he does not want it, and he would not take it. till i am married i may do what i please with it;--and it shall be yours." "that cannot be." "yes, it can. i know that i can make it yours if i please. they tell me that--that you are not rich, as lord lovel should be, because all this has been taken from you. that was the reason why you came to me." "by heaven, anna, i love you most truly." "it could not have been so when you had not seen me. will you take a message from me to daniel thwaite?" he thought awhile before he answered it. "no, i cannot do that." "then i must find another messenger. mr. goffe will do it perhaps. he shall tell me how much he wants to keep, and the rest shall be yours. that is all. if you tell mamma, ask her not to be hard to me." he stood over her and took her hand, but knew not how to speak a word to her. he attempted to kiss her hand; but she raised herself on her elbow, and shook her head and drew it from him. "it belongs to daniel thwaite," she said. then he left her and did not speak another word. "what has she said?" asked the countess, with an attempt at smiling. "i do not know that i should tell you." "surely, lovel, you are bound to tell me." "she has offered me all her property,--or most of it." "she is right," said the countess. "but she has sworn to me, on the bible, that she will never be my wife." "tush!--it means nothing." "ah yes;--it means much. it means all. she never loved me,--not for an instant. that other man has been before me, and she is too firm to be moved." "did she say so?" he was silent for a moment and then replied, "yes; she did say so." "then let her die!" said the countess. "lady lovel!" "let her die. it will be better. oh, god! that i should be brought to this. and what will you do, my lord? do you mean to say that you will abandon her?" "i cannot ask her to be my wife again." "what;--because she has said this in her sickness,--when she is half delirious,--while she is dreaming of the words that man spoke to her? have you no more strength than that? are you so poor a creature?" "i think i have been a poor creature to ask her a second time at all." "no; not so. your duty and mine are the same,--as should be hers. we must forget ourselves while we save the family. do not i bear all? have not i borne everything--contumely, solitude, ill words, poverty, and now this girl's unkindness? but even yet i will not give it up. take the property,--as it is offered." "i could not touch it." "if not for you, then for your children. take it all, so that we may be the stronger. but do not abandon us now, if you are a man." he would not stay to hear her further exhortations, but hurried away from the house full of doubt and unhappiness. chapter xxxix. lady anna's offer. early in march lady anna was convalescent, but had not yet left the house in keppel street,--and the confusion and dismay of the countess were greater than ever. lady anna had declared that she would not leave england for the present. she was reminded that at any rate till the 10th of may she was subject to her mother's control. but by this time her mother's harshness to her had produced some corresponding hardness in her. "yes, mamma;--but i will not go abroad. things must be settled, and i am not well enough to go yet." the countess asserted that everything could be arranged abroad, that papers could be sent after them, that mr. goffe could come out to them, and with much show of authority persisted. she would do anything by which she might be able to remove lady anna from the influence of daniel thwaite at the time at which the girl would cease to be subject to her. but in truth the girl had ceased to be subject to her. "no, mamma, i will not go. if you will ask serjeant bluestone, or sir william patterson, i am sure they will say that i ought not to be made to go." there were some terrible scenes in which the mother was driven almost to desperation. lady anna repeated to the countess all that she had said to lord lovel,--and swore to her mother with the bible in hand that if ever she became the wife of any man she would be the wife of daniel thwaite. then the countess with great violence knocked the book out of her daughter's grasp, and it was thrown to the other side of the room. "if this is to go on," said the countess, "one of us must die." "mamma, i have done nothing to make you so unkind to me. you have not spoken one word of kindness to me since i came from yoxham." "if this goes on i shall never speak a word of kindness to you again," said the mother. but in the midst of all this there was one point on which they were agreed,--on which they came sufficiently near together for action, though there was still a wide difference between them. some large proportion of the property at stake was to be made over to lord lovel on the day that gave the girl the legal power of transferring her own possessions. the countess began by presuming that the whole of lady anna's wealth was to be so transferred,--not from any lack of reverence for the great amount which was in question, but feeling that for all good purposes it would be safer in the hands of the earl than in those of her own child. if it could be arranged that the tailor could get nothing with his bride, then it might still be possible that the tailor might refuse the match. at any rate a quarrel might be fostered and the evil might be staved off. but to this lady anna would not assent. if she might act in this business in concert with mr. thwaite she would be able, she thought, to do better by her cousin than she proposed. but as she was not allowed to learn what were mr. thwaite's wishes, she would halve her property with her cousin. as much as this she was willing to do,--and was determined to do, acting on her own judgment. more she would not do,--unless she could see mr. thwaite. as it stood, her proposition was one which would, if carried out, bestow something like â£10,000 a year upon the earl. then mr. goffe was sent for, and lady anna was allowed to communicate her suggestion to the lawyer. "that should require a great deal of thought," said mr. goffe with solemnity. lady anna declared that she had been thinking of it all the time she had been ill. "but it should not be done in a hurry," said mr. goffe. then lady anna remarked that in the meantime, her cousin, the earl, the head of her family, would have nothing to support his title. mr. goffe took his leave, promising to consult his partner, and to see mr. flick. mr. goffe did consult his partner and did see mr. flick, and then serjeant bluestone was asked his advice,--and the solicitor-general. the serjeant had become somewhat tired of the lovels, and did not care to give any strong advice either in one direction or in the other. the young lady, he said, might of course do what she liked with her own when it was her own; but he thought that she should not be hurried. he pointed it out as a fact that the earl had not the slightest claim upon any portion of the estate,--not more than he would have had if this money had come to lady anna from her mother's instead of from her father's relatives. he was still of opinion that the two cousins might ultimately become man and wife if matters were left tranquil and the girl were taken abroad for a year or two. lady anna, however, would be of age in a few weeks, and must of course do as she liked with her own. but they all felt that everything would at last be ruled by what the solicitor-general might say. the solicitor-general was going out of town for a week or ten days,--having the management of a great case at the spring assizes. he would think over lady anna's proposition, and say what he had to say when he returned. lord lovel, however, had been his client, and he had said from first to last that more was to be done for his client by amicable arrangement than by hostile opposition. if the earl could get â£10,000 a year by amicable arrangement, the solicitor-general would be shown to have been right in the eyes of all men, and it was probable,--as both mr. goffe and mr. flick felt,--that he would not repudiate a settlement of the family affairs by which he would be proved to have been a discreet counsellor. in the meantime it behoved lord lovel himself to have an opinion. mr. flick of course had told him of the offer,--which had in truth been made directly to himself by his cousin. at this time his affairs were not in a happy condition. a young earl, handsome and well esteemed, may generally marry an heiress,--if not one heiress then another. though he be himself a poor man, his rank and position will stand in lieu of wealth. and so would it have been with this young earl,--who was very handsome and excellently well esteemed,--had it not been that all the world knew that it was his especial business to marry one especial heiress. he could hardly go about looking for other honey, having, as he had, one particular hive devoted by public opinion to himself. after a year or two he might have looked elsewhere,--but what was he to do in the meantime? he was well nigh penniless, and in debt. so he wrote a letter to his uncle, the parson. it may be remembered that when the uncle and nephew last parted in london there was not much love between them. from that day to this they had not seen each other, nor had there been any communication between them. the horses had been taken away and sold. the rector had spoken to the ladies of his household more than once with great bitterness of the young man's ingratitude; and they more than once had spoken to the rector, with a woman's piteous tenderness, of the young lord's poverty. but it was all sorrow and distress. for in truth the rector could not be happy while he was on bad terms with the head of his family. then the young lord wrote as though there had been nothing amiss between them. it had in truth all passed away from his mind. this very liberal offer had been made to him. it amounted to wealth in lieu of poverty,--to what would be comfortable wealth even for an earl. ten thousand a year was offered to him by his cousin. might he accept it? the rector took the letter in good part, and begged his nephew to come at once to yoxham. whereupon the nephew went to yoxham. "what does sir william say?" asked the rector, who, in spite of his disapproval of all that sir william had done, felt that the solicitor-general was the man whose influence in the matter would really prevail. "he has said nothing as yet. he is out of town." "ten thousand a year! who was it made the offer?" "she made it herself." "lady anna?" "yes;--lady anna. it is a noble offer." "yes, indeed. but then if she has no right to any of it, what does it amount to?" "but she has a right to all of it;--she and her mother between them." "i shall never believe it, frederic--never; and not the less so because they now want to bind you to them by such a compromise as this." "i think you look at it in a wrong light, uncle charles." "well;--well. i will say nothing more about it. i don't see why you shouldn't take it,--i don't indeed. it ought all to have been yours. everybody says that. you'll have to buy land, and it won't give you nearly so much then. i hope you'll buy land all the same, and i do hope it will be properly settled when you marry. as to marrying, you will be able to do much better than what you used to think of." "we won't talk about that, uncle charles," said the earl. as far as the rector's opinion went, it was clear that the offer might be accepted; but yet it was felt that very much must depend on what the solicitor-general might say. then miss lovel gave her opinion on the matter, which did not altogether agree with that of her brother. she believed in lady anna, whereas the rector professed that he did not. the rector and lady fitzwarren were perhaps the only two persons who, after all that had been said and done, still maintained that the countess was an impostor, and that lady anna would only be anna murray, if everybody had his due. miss lovel was quite as anxious on behalf of the earl as was her brother, but she clung to the hope of a marriage. "i still think it might all come right, if you would only wait," said aunt julia. "it's all very well talking of waiting, but how am i to live?" "you could live here, frederic. there is nothing my brother would like so much. i thought he would break his heart when the horses were taken away. it would only be for a year." "what would come of it?" "at the end of the year she would be your wife." "never!" said the earl. "young men are so impatient." "never, under any circumstances, would i ask her again. you may make your mind up to that. as sure as you stand there, she will marry daniel thwaite, if she lives another twelvemonth." "you really think so, frederic?" "i am sure of it. after what she said to me, it would be impossible i should doubt it." "and she will be lady anna thwaite! oh dear, how horrible. i wish she had died when she was ill;--i do indeed. a journeyman tailor! but something will prevent it. i really think that providence will interfere to prevent it!" but in reference to the money she gave in her adhesion. if the great lawyer said that it might be taken,--then it should be taken. at the end of a week the earl hurried back to london to see the great lawyer. chapter xl. no disgrace at all. before the solicitor-general returned to town things had come to a worse pass than ever. lady lovel had ordered her daughter to be ready to start to paris by a certain hour, on a certain day,--giving her three days for preparation,--and lady anna had refused to go. whereupon the countess had caused her own things to be packed up, and those of her daughter. sarah was now altogether in the confidence of the countess, so that lady anna had not even dominion over her own clothes. the things were stowed away, and all the arrangements were made for the journey; but lady anna refused to go, and when the hour came could not be induced to get into the carriage. the lodgings had been paid for to the day, and given up; so that the poor old woman in keppel street was beside herself. then the countess, of necessity, postponed her journey for twenty-four hours, telling her daughter that on the next day she would procure the assistance of magistrates and force the rebel to obedience. hardly a word had been spoken between the mother and daughter during those three days. there had been messages sent backwards and forwards, and once or twice the countess had violently entered lady anna's bedroom, demanding submission. lady anna was always on the bed when her mother entered, and, there lying, would shake her head, and then with sobs accuse the countess of unkindness. lady lovel had become furious in her wrath, hardly knowing what she herself did or said, always asserting her own authority, declaring her own power, and exclaiming against the wicked ingratitude of her child. this she did till the young waiting-woman was so frightened that she was almost determined to leave the house abruptly, though keenly alive to the profit and glory of serving a violent and rich countess. and the old lady who let the lodgings was intensely anxious to be rid of her lodgers, though her money was scrupulously paid, and no questions asked as to extra charges. lady anna was silent and sullen. when left to herself she spent her time at her writing-desk, of which she had managed to keep the key. what meals she took were brought up to her bedroom, so that a household more uncomfortable could hardly be gathered under a roof. on the day fixed for that departure which did not take place, the countess wrote to mr. goffe for assistance,--and lady anna, by the aid of the mistress of the house, wrote to serjeant bluestone. the letter to mr. goffe was the first step taken towards obtaining that assistance from civil authorities to which the countess thought herself to be entitled in order that her legal dominion over her daughter might be enforced. lady anna wrote to the serjeant, simply begging that he would come to see her, putting her letter open into the hands of the landlady. she implored him to come at once,--and, as it happened, he called in keppel street that night, whereas mr. goffe's visit was not made till the next morning. he asked for the countess, and was shown into the drawing-room. the whole truth was soon made clear to him, for the countess attempted to conceal nothing. her child was rebelling against authority, and she was sure that the serjeant would assist her in putting down and conquering such pernicious obstinacy. but she found at once that the serjeant would not help her. "but lady anna will be herself of age in a day or two," he said. "not for nearly two months," said the countess indignantly. "my dear lady lovel, under such circumstances you can hardly put constraint upon her." "why not? she is of age, or she is not. till she be of age she is bound to obey me." "true;--she is bound to obey you after a fashion, and so indeed she would be had she been of age a month since. but such obligations here in england go for very little, unless they are supported by reason." "the law is the law." "yes;--but the law would be all in her favour before you could get it to assist you,--even if you could get its assistance. in her peculiar position, it is rational that she should choose to wait till she be able to act for herself. very great interests will be at her disposal, and she will of course wish to be near those who can advise her." "i am her only guardian. i can advise her." the serjeant shook his head. "you will not help me then?" "i fear i cannot help you, lady lovel." "not though you know the reasons which induce me to take her away from england before she slips entirely out of my hands and ruins all our hopes?" but still the serjeant shook his head. "every one is leagued against me," said the countess, throwing up her hands in despair. then the serjeant asked permission to visit lady anna, but was told that he could not be allowed to do so. she was in bed, and there was nothing to make it necessary that she should receive a visit from a gentleman in her bedroom. "i am an old man," said the serjeant, "and have endeavoured to be a true and honest friend to the young lady. i think, lady lovel, that you will do wrong to refuse my request. i tell you fairly that i shall be bound to interfere on her behalf. she has applied to me as her friend, and i feel myself constrained to attend to her application." "she has applied to you?" "yes, lady lovel. there is her letter." "she has deceived me again," said the countess, tearing the letter into atoms. but the serjeant so far frightened her that she was induced to promise that mrs. bluestone should see lady anna on the following morning,--stipulating, however, that mrs. bluestone should see herself before she went up-stairs. on the following morning mr. goffe came early. but mr. goffe could give his client very little comfort. he was, however, less uncomfortable than the serjeant had been. he was of opinion that lady anna certainly ought to go abroad, in obedience to her mother's instructions, and was willing to go to her and tell her so, with what solemnity of legal authority he might be able to assume; but he could not say that anything could be done absolutely to enforce obedience. mr. goffe suggested that perhaps a few gentle words might be successful. "gentle words!" said the countess, who had become quite unable to restrain herself. "the harshest words are only too gentle for her. if i had known what she was, mr. goffe, i would never have stirred in this business. they might have called me what they would, and it would have been better." when mr. goffe came downstairs he had not a word to say more as to the efficacy of gentleness. he simply remarked that he did not think the young lady could be induced to go, and suggested that everybody had better wait till the solicitor-general returned to town. then mrs. bluestone came, almost on the heels of the attorney;--poor mrs. bluestone, who now felt that it was a dreadful grievance both to her and to her husband that they had had anything to do with the lovel family! she was very formal in her manner,--and, to tell the truth for her, rather frightened. the serjeant had asked her to call and see lady anna lovel. might she be permitted to do so? then the countess burst forth with a long story of all her wrongs,--with the history of her whole life. not beginning with her marriage,--but working back to it from the intense misery, and equally intense ambition of the present hour. she told it all; how everybody had been against her,--how she had been all alone at the dreary grange in westmoreland,--how she had been betrayed by her husband, and turned out to poverty and scorn;--how she had borne it all for the sake of the one child who was, by god's laws and man's, the heiress to her father's name; how she had persevered,--intermingling it all with a certain worship of high honours and hereditary position with which mrs. bluestone was able in some degree to sympathise. she was clever, and words came to her freely. it was almost impossible that any hearer should refuse to sympathise with her,--any hearer who knew that her words were true. and all that she told was true. the things which she narrated had been done;--the wrongs had been endured;--and the end of it all which she feared, was imminent. and the hearer thought as did the speaker as to the baseness of this marriage with the tailor,--thought as did the speaker of the excellence of the marriage with the lord. but still there was something in the woman's eye,--something in the tone of her voice, something in the very motion of her hands as she told her story, which made mrs. bluestone feel that lady anna should not be left under her mother's control. it would be very well that the lovel family should be supported, and that lady anna should be kept within the pale of her own rank. but there might be things worse than lady anna's defection,--and worse even than the very downfall of the lovels. after sitting for nearly two hours with the countess, mrs. bluestone was taken up-stairs. "mrs. bluestone has come to see you," said the countess, not entering the room, and retreating again immediately as she closed the door. "this is very kind of you, mrs. bluestone," said lady anna, who was sitting crouching in her dressing-gown over the fire. "but i thought that perhaps the serjeant would come." the lady, taken off her guard, immediately said that the serjeant had been there on the preceding evening. "and mamma would not let me see him! but you will help me!" in this interview, as in that below, a long history was told to the visitor, and was told with an eloquent energy which she certainly had not expected. "they talk to me of ladies," said lady anna. "i was not a lady. i knew nothing of ladies and their doings. i was a poor girl, friendless but for my mother, sometimes almost without shoes to my feet, often ragged, solitary, knowing nothing of ladies. then there came one lad, who played with me;--and it was mamma who brought us together. he was good to me, when all others were bad. he played with me, and gave me things, and taught me,--and loved me. then when he asked me to love him again, and to love him always, was i to think that i could not,--because i was a lady! you despise him because he is a tailor. a tailor was good to me, when no one else was good. how could i despise him because he was a tailor? i did not despise him, but i loved him with all my heart." "but when you came to know who you were, lady anna--" "yes;--yes. i came to know who i was, and they brought my cousin to me, and told me to love him, and bade me be a lady indeed. i felt it too, for a time. i thought it would be pleasant to be a countess, and to go among great people; and he was pleasant, and i thought that i could love him too, and do as they bade me. but when i thought of it much,--when i thought of it alone,--i hated myself. in my heart of hearts i loved him who had always been my friend. and when lord lovel came to me at bolton, and said that i must give my answer then,--i told him all the truth. i am glad i told him the truth. he should not have come again after that. if daniel is so poor a creature because he is a tailor,--must not i be poor who love him? and what must he be when he comes to me again after that?" when mrs. bluestone descended from the room she was quite sure that the girl would become lady anna thwaite, and told the countess that such was her opinion. "by the god above me," said the countess rising from her chair;--"by the god above me, she never shall." but after that the countess gave up her project of forcing her daughter to go abroad. the old lady of the house was told that the rooms would still be required for some weeks to come,--perhaps for months; and having had a conference on the subject with mrs. bluestone, did not refuse her consent. at last sir william returned to town, and was besieged on all sides, as though in his hands lay the power of deciding what should become of all the lovel family. mr. goffe was as confidential with him as mr. flick, and even serjeant bluestone condescended to appeal to him. the young earl was closeted with him on the day of his return, and he had found on his desk the following note from the countess;-"the countess lovel presents her compliments to the solicitor-general. the countess is very anxious to leave england with her daughter, but has hitherto been prevented by her child's obstinacy. sir william patterson is so well aware of all the circumstances that he no doubt can give the countess advice as to the manner in which she should proceed to enforce the obedience of her daughter. the countess lovel would feel herself unwarranted in thus trespassing on the solicitor-general, were it not that it is her chief anxiety to do everything for the good of earl lovel and the family." "look at that, my lord," said the solicitor-general, showing the earl the letter. "i can do nothing for her." "what does she want to have done?" "she wants to carry her daughter away beyond the reach of mr. thwaite. i am not a bit surprised; but she can't do it. the days are gone by when a mother could lock her daughter up, or carry her away,--at any rate in this country." "it is very sad." "it might have been much worse. why should she not marry mr. thwaite? let them make the settlement as they propose, and then let the young lady have her way. she will have her way,--whether her mother lets her or no." "it will be a disgrace to the family, sir william." "no disgrace at all! how many peers' daughters marry commoners in england. it is not with us as it is with some german countries in which noble blood is separated as by a barrier from blood that is not noble. the man i am told is clever and honest. he will have great means at his command, and i do not see why he should not make as good a gentleman as the best of us. at any rate she must not be persecuted." sir william answered the countess's letter as a matter of course, but there was no comfort in his answer. "the solicitor-general presents his compliments to the countess lovel. with all the will in the world to be of service, he fears that he can do no good by interfering between the countess and lady anna lovel. if, however, he may venture to give advice, he would suggest to the countess that as lady anna will be of age in a short time, no attempt should now be made to exercise a control which must cease when that time shall arrive." "they are all joined against me," said the countess, when she read the letter;--"every one of them! but still it shall never be. i will not live to see it." then there was a meeting between mr. flick and sir william. mr. flick must inform the ladies that nothing could be done till lady anna was of age;--that not even could any instructions be taken from her before that time as to what should subsequently be done. if, when that time came, she should still be of a mind to share with her cousin the property, she could then instruct mr. goffe to make out the necessary deeds. all this was communicated by letter to the countess, but mr. goffe especially requested that the letter might be shown to lady anna, and that he might receive a reply intimating that lady anna understood its purport. if necessary he would call upon lady anna in keppel street. after some delay and much consideration, the countess sent the attorney's letter to her daughter, and lady anna herself wrote a reply. she perfectly understood the purport of mr. goffe's letter, and would thank mr. goffe to call upon her on the 10th of may, when the matter might, she hoped, be settled. chapter xli. nearer and nearer. so they went on living in utter misery till the month of may had come round, and lady anna was at last pronounced to be convalescent. late one night, long after midnight, the countess crept into her daughter's room and sat down by the bedside. lady anna was asleep, and the countess sat there and watched. at this time the girl had passed her birthday, and was of age. mr. goffe had been closeted with her and with her mother for two mornings running, sir william patterson had also been with them, and instructions had been given as to the property, upon which action was to be at once taken. of that proportion of the estate which fell to lady anna, one entire moiety was to be made over to the earl. while this was being arranged no word was said as to daniel thwaite, or as to the marriage with the lord. the settlement was made as though it were a thing of itself; and they all had been much surprised,--the mother, the solicitor-general, and the attorney,--at the determination of purpose and full comprehension of the whole affair which lady anna displayed. when it came to the absolute doing of the matter,--the abandonment of all this money,--the countess became uneasy and discontented. she also had wished that lord lovel should have the property,--but her wish had been founded on a certain object to be attained, which object was now farther from her than ever. but the property in question was not hers, but her daughter's, and she made no loud objection to the proceeding. the instructions were given, and the deeds were to be forthcoming some time before the end of the month. it was on the night of the 11th of may that the countess sat at her child's bedside. she had brought up a taper with her, and there she sat watching the sleeping girl. thoughts wondrously at variance with each other, and feelings thoroughly antagonistic, ran through her brain and heart. this was her only child,--the one thing that there was for her to love,--the only tie to the world that she possessed. but for her girl, it would be good that she should be dead. and if her girl should do this thing, which would make her life a burden to her,--how good it would be for her to die! she did not fear to die, and she feared nothing after death;--but with a coward's dread she did fear the torment of her failure if this girl should become the wife of daniel thwaite. in such case most certainly would she never see the girl again,--and life then would be all a blank to her. but she understood that though she should separate herself from the world altogether, men would know of her failure, and would know that she was devouring her own heart in the depth of her misery. if the girl would but have done as her mother had proposed, would have followed after her kind, and taken herself to those pleasant paths which had been opened for her, with what a fond caressing worship, with what infinite kisses and blessings, would she, the mother, have tended the young countess and assisted in making the world bright for the high-born bride. but a tailor! foh! what a degraded creature was her child to cling to so base a love! she did, however, acknowledge to herself that the girl's clinging was of a kind she had no power to lessen. the ivy to its standard tree is not more loyal than was her daughter to this wretched man. but the girl might die,--or the tailor might die,--or she, the miserable mother, might die; and so this misery might be at an end. nothing but death could end it. thoughts and dreams of other violence had crossed her brain,--of carrying the girl away, of secluding her, of frightening her from day to day into some childish, half-idiotic submission. but for that the tame obedience of the girl would have been necessary,--or that external assistance which she had sought, in vain, to obtain among the lawyers. such hopes were now gone, and nothing remained but death. why had not the girl gone when she was so like to go? why had she not died when it had seemed to be god's pleasure to take her? a little indifference, some slight absence of careful tending, any chance accident would have made that natural which was now,--which was now so desirable and yet beyond reach! yes;--so desirable! for whose sake could it be wished that a life so degraded should be prolonged? but there could be no such escape. with her eyes fixed on vacancy, revolving it in her mind, she thought that she could kill herself;--but she knew that she could not kill her child. but, should she destroy herself, there would be no vengeance in that. could she be alone, far out at sea, in some small skiff with that low-born tailor, and then pull out the plug, and let him know what he had done to her as they both went down together beneath the water, that would be such a cure of the evil as would now best suit her wishes. but there was no such sea, and no such boat. death, however, might still be within her grasp. then she laid her hand on the girl's shoulder, and lady anna awoke. "oh, mamma;--is that you?" "it is i, my child." "mamma, mamma; is anything the matter? oh, mamma, kiss me." then the countess stooped down and kissed the girl passionately. "dear mamma,--dearest mamma!" "anna, will you do one thing for me? if i never speak to you of lord lovel again, will you forget daniel thwaite?" she paused, but lady anna had no answer ready. "will you not say as much as that for me? say that you will forget him till i am gone." "gone, mamma? you are not going!" "till i am dead. i shall not live long, anna. say at least that you will not see him or mention his name for twelve months. surely, anna, you will do as much as that for a mother who has done so much for you." but lady anna would make no promise. she turned her face to the pillow and was dumb. "answer me, my child. i may at least demand an answer." "i will answer you to-morrow, mamma." then the countess fell on her knees at the bedside and uttered a long, incoherent prayer, addressed partly to the god of heaven, and partly to the poor girl who was lying there in bed, supplicating with mad, passionate eagerness that this evil thing might be turned away from her. then she seized the girl in her embrace and nearly smothered her with kisses. "my own, my darling, my beauty, my all; save your mother from worse than death, if you can;--if you can!" had such tenderness come sooner it might have had deeper effect. as it was, though the daughter was affected and harassed,--though she was left panting with sobs and drowned in tears,--she could not but remember the treatment she had suffered from her mother during the last six months. had the request for a year's delay come sooner, it would have been granted; but now it was made after all measures of cruelty had failed. ten times during the night did she say that she would yield,--and ten times again did she tell herself that were she to yield now, she would be a slave all her life. she had resolved,--whether right or wrong,--still, with a strong mind and a great purpose, that she would not be turned from her way, and when she arose in the morning she was resolved again. she went into her mother's room and at once declared her purpose. "mamma, it cannot be. i am his, and i must not forget him or be ashamed of his name;--no, not for a day." "then go from me, thou ungrateful one, hard of heart, unnatural child, base, cruel, and polluted. go from me, if it be possible, for ever!" then did they live for some days separated for a second time, each taking her meals in her own room; and mrs. richards, the owner of the lodgings, went again to mrs. bluestone, declaring that she was afraid of what might happen, and that she must pray to be relieved from the presence of the ladies. mrs. bluestone had to explain that the lodgings had been taken for the quarter, and that a mother and daughter could not be put out into the street merely because they lived on bad terms with each other. the old woman, as was natural, increased her bills;--but that had no effect. on the 15th of may lady anna wrote a note to daniel thwaite, and sent a copy of it to her mother before she had posted it. it was in two lines;- dear daniel, pray come and see me here. if you get this soon enough, pray come on tuesday about one. yours affectionately, anna. "tell mamma," said she to sarah, "that i intend to go out and put that in the post to-day." the letter was addressed to wyndham street. now the countess knew that daniel thwaite had left wyndham street. "tell her," said the countess, "tell her--; but, of what use to tell her anything? let the door be closed upon her. she shall never return to me any more." the message was given to lady anna as she went forth:--but she posted the letter, and then called in bedford square. mrs. bluestone returned with her to keppel street; but as the door was opened by mrs. richards, and as no difficulty was made as to lady anna's entrance, mrs. bluestone returned home without asking to see the countess. this happened on a saturday, but when tuesday came daniel thwaite did not come to keppel street. the note was delivered in course of post at his old abode, and was redirected from wyndham street late on monday evening,--having no doubt given cause there for much curiosity and inspection. late on the tuesday it did reach daniel thwaite's residence in great russell street, but he was then out, wandering about the streets as was his wont, telling himself of all the horrors of an idle life, and thinking what steps he should take next as to the gaining of his bride. he had known to a day when she was of age, and had determined that he would allow her one month from thence before he would call upon her to say what should be their mutual fate. she had reached that age but a few days, and now she had written to him herself. on returning home he received the girl's letter, and when the early morning had come,--the wednesday morning, the day after that fixed by lady anna,--he made up his mind as to his course of action. he breakfasted at eight, knowing how useless it would be to stir early, and then called in keppel street, leaving word with mrs. richards herself that he would be there again at one o'clock to see lady anna. "you can tell lady anna that i only got her note last night very late." then he went off to the hotel in albemarle street at which he knew that lord lovel was living. it was something after nine when he reached the house, and the earl was not yet out of his bedroom. daniel, however, sent up his name, and the earl begged that he would go into the sitting-room and wait. "tell mr. thwaite that i will not keep him above a quarter of an hour." then the tailor was shown into the room where the breakfast things were laid, and there he waited. within the last few weeks very much had been said to the earl about daniel thwaite by many people, and especially by the solicitor-general. "you may be sure that she will become his wife," sir william had said, "and i would advise you to accept him as her husband. she is not a girl such as we at first conceived her to be. she is firm of purpose, and very honest. obstinate, if you will, and,--if you will,--obstinate to a bad end. but she is generous, and let her marry whom she will, you cannot cast her out. you will owe everything to her high sense of honour;--and i am much mistaken if you will not owe much to him. accept them both, and make the best of them. in five years he'll be in parliament as likely as not. in ten years he'll be sir daniel thwaite,--if he cares for it. and in fifteen years lady anna will be supposed by everybody to have made a very happy marriage." lord lovel was at this time inclined to be submissive in everything to his great adviser, and was now ready to take mr. daniel thwaite by the hand. he did take him by the hand as he entered the sitting-room, radiant from his bath, clad in a short bright-coloured dressing-gown such as young men then wore o' mornings, with embroidered slippers on his feet, and a smile on his face. "i have heard much of you, mr. thwaite," he said, "and am glad to meet you at last. pray sit down. i hope you have not breakfasted." poor daniel was hardly equal to the occasion. the young lord had been to him always an enemy,--an enemy because the lord had been the adversary of the countess and her daughter, an enemy because the lord was an earl and idle, an enemy because the lord was his rival. though he now was nearly sure that this last ground of enmity was at an end, and though he had come to the earl for certain purposes of his own, he could not bring himself to feel that there should be good fellowship between them. he took the hand that was offered to him, but took it awkwardly, and sat down as he was bidden. "thank your lordship, but i breakfasted long since. if it will suit you, i will walk about and call again." "not at all. i can eat, and you can talk to me. take a cup of tea at any rate." the earl rang for another teacup, and began to butter his toast. "i believe your lordship knows that i have long been engaged to marry your lordship's cousin,--lady anna lovel." "indeed i have been told so." "by herself." "well;--yes; by herself." "i have been allowed to see her but once during the last eight or nine months." "that has not been my fault, mr. thwaite." "i want you to understand, my lord, that it is not for her money that i have sought her." "i have not accused you, surely." "but i have been accused. i am going to see her now,--if i can get admittance to her. i shall press her to fix a day for our marriage, and if she will do so, i shall leave no stone unturned to accomplish it. she has a right to do with herself as she pleases, and no consideration shall stop me but her wishes." "i shall not interfere." "i am glad of that, my lord." "but i will not answer for her mother. you cannot be surprised, mr. thwaite, that lady lovel should be averse to such a marriage." "she was not averse to my father's company nor to mine a few years since;--no nor twelve months since. but i say nothing about that. let her be averse. we cannot help it. i have come to you to say that i hope something may be done about the money before she becomes my wife. people say that you should have it." "who says so?" "i cannot say who;--perhaps everybody. should every shilling of it be yours i should marry her as willingly to-morrow. they have given me what is my own, and that is enough for me. for what is now hers and, perhaps, should be yours, i will not interfere with it. when she is my wife, i will guard for her and for those who may come after her what belongs to her then; but as to what may be done before that, i care nothing." on hearing this the earl told him the whole story of the arrangement which was then in progress;--how the property would in fact be divided into three parts, of which the countess would have one, he one, and lady anna one. "there will be enough for us all," said the earl. "and much more than enough for me," said daniel as he got up to take his leave. "and now i am going to keppel street." "you have all my good wishes," said the earl. the two men again shook hands;--again the lord was radiant and good humoured;--and again the tailor was ashamed and almost sullen. he knew that the young nobleman had behaved well to him, and it was a disappointment to him that any nobleman should behave well. nevertheless as he walked away slowly towards keppel street,--for the time still hung on his hands,--he began to feel that the great prize of prizes was coming nearer within his grasp. chapter xlii. daniel thwaite comes to keppel street. even the bluestones were now convinced that lady anna lovel must be allowed to marry the keswick tailor, and that it would be expedient that no further impediment should be thrown in her way. mrs. bluestone had been told, while walking to keppel street with the young lady, of the purport of the letter and of the invitation given to daniel thwaite. the serjeant at once declared that the girl must have her own way,--and the solicitor-general, who also heard of it, expressed himself very strongly. it was absurd to oppose her. she was her own mistress. she had shown herself competent to manage her own affairs. the countess must be made to understand that she had better yield at once with what best grace she could. then it was that he made that prophecy to the earl as to the future success of the fortunate tailor, and then too he wrote at great length to the countess, urging many reasons why her daughter should be allowed to receive mr. daniel thwaite. "your ladyship has succeeded in very much," wrote the solicitor-general, "and even in respect of this marriage you will have the satisfaction of feeling that the man is in every way respectable and well-behaved. i hear that he is an educated man, with culture much higher than is generally found in the state of life which he has till lately filled, and that he is a man of high feeling and noble purpose. the manner in which he has been persistent in his attachment to your daughter is in itself evidence of this. and i think that your ladyship is bound to remember that the sphere of life in which he has hitherto been a labourer, would not have been so humble in its nature had not the means which should have started him in the world been applied to support and succour your own cause. i am well aware of your feelings of warm gratitude to the father; but i think you should bear in mind, on the son's behalf, that he has been what he has been because his father was so staunch a friend to your ladyship." there was very much more of it, all expressing the opinion of sir william that the countess should at once open her doors to daniel thwaite. the reader need hardly be told that this was wormwood to the countess. it did not in the least touch her heart and had but little effect on her purpose. gratitude;--yes! but if the whole result of the exertion for which the receiver is bound to be grateful, is to be neutralised by the greed of the conferrer of the favour,--if all is to be taken that has been given, and much more also,--what ground will there be left for gratitude? if i save a man's purse from a thief, and then demand for my work twice what that purse contained, the man had better have been left with the robbers. but she was told, not only that she ought to accept the tailor as a son-in-law, but also that she could not help herself. they should see whether she could not help herself. they should be made to acknowledge that she at any rate was in earnest in her endeavours to preserve pure and unspotted the honour of the family. but what should she do? that she should put on a gala dress and a smiling face and be carried off to church with a troop of lawyers and their wives to see her daughter become the bride of a low journeyman, was of course out of the question. by no act, by no word, by no sign would she give aught of a mother's authority to nuptials so disgraceful. should her daughter become lady anna thwaite, they two, mother and daughter, would never see each other again. of so much at any rate she was sure. but could she be sure of nothing beyond that? she could at any rate make an effort. then there came upon her a mad idea,--an idea which was itself evidence of insanity,--of the glory which would be hers if by any means she could prevent the marriage. there would be a halo round her name were she to perish in such a cause, let the destruction come upon her in what form it might. she sat for hours meditating,--and at every pause in her thoughts she assured herself that she could still make an effort. she received sir william's letter late on the tuesday,--and during that night she did not lie down or once fall asleep. the man, as she knew, had been told to come at one on that day, and she had been prepared; but he did not come, and she then thought that the letter, which had been addressed to his late residence, had failed to reach him. during the night she wrote a very long answer to sir william pleading her own cause, expatiating on her own feelings, and palliating any desperate deed which she might be tempted to perform. but, when the letter had been copied and folded, and duly sealed with the lovel arms, she locked it in her desk, and did not send it on its way even on the following morning. when the morning came, shortly after eight o'clock, mrs. richards brought up the message which daniel had left at the door. "be we to let him in, my lady?" said mrs. richards with supplicating hands upraised. her sympathies were all with lady anna, but she feared the countess, and did not dare in such a matter to act without the mother's sanction. the countess begged the woman to come to her in an hour for further instructions, and at the time named mrs. richards, full of the importance of her work, divided between terror and pleasurable excitement, again toddled up-stairs. "be we to let him in, my lady? god, he knows it's hard upon the likes of me, who for the last three months doesn't know whether i'm on my head or heels." the countess very quietly requested that when mr. thwaite should call he might be shown into the parlour. "i will see mr. thwaite myself, mrs. richards; but it will be better that my daughter should not be disturbed by any intimation of his coming." then there was a consultation below stairs as to what should be done. there had been many such consultations, but they had all ended in favour of the countess. mrs. richards from fear, and the lady's-maid from favour, were disposed to assist the elder lady. poor lady anna throughout had been forced to fight her battles with no friend near her. now she had many friends,--many who were anxious to support her, even the bluestones, who had been so hard upon her while she was along with them;--but they who were now her friends were never near her to assist her with a word. so it came to pass that when daniel thwaite called at the house exactly at one o'clock lady anna was not expecting him. on the previous day at that hour she had sat waiting with anxious ears for the knock at the door which might announce his coming. but she had waited in vain. from one to two,--even till seven in the evening, she had waited. but he had not come, and she had feared that some scheme had been used against her. the people at the post office had been bribed,--or the women in wyndham street had been false. but she would not be hindered. she would go out alone and find him,--if he were to be found in london. when he did come, she was not thinking of his coming. he was shown into the dining-room, and within a minute afterwards the countess entered with stately step. she was well dressed, even to the adjustment of her hair; and she was a woman so changed that he would hardly have known her as that dear and valued friend whose slightest word used to be a law to his father,--but who in those days never seemed to waste a thought upon her attire. she had been out that morning walking through the streets, and the blood had mounted to her cheeks he acknowledged to himself that she looked like a noble and high-born dame. there was a fire in her eye, and a look of scorn about her mouth and nostrils, which had even for him a certain fascination,--odious to him as were the pretensions of the so-called great. she was the first to speak. "you have called to see my daughter," she said. "yes, lady lovel,--i have." "you cannot see her." "i came at her request." "i know you did, but you cannot see her. you can be hardly so ignorant of the ways of the world, mr. thwaite, as to suppose that a young lady can receive what visitors she pleases without the sanction of her guardians." "lady anna lovel has no guardian, my lady. she is of age, and is at present her own guardian." "i am her mother, and shall exercise the authority of a mother over her. you cannot see her. you had better go." "i shall not be stopped in this way, lady lovel." "do you mean that you will force your way up to her? to do so you will have to trample over me;--and there are constables in the street. you cannot see her. you had better go." "is she a prisoner?" "that is between her and me, and is no affair of yours. you are intruding here, mr. thwaite, and cannot possibly gain anything by your intrusion." then she strode out in the passage, and motioned him to the front door. "mr. thwaite, i will beg you to leave this house, which for the present is mine. if you have any proper feeling you will not stay after i have told you that you are not welcome." but lady anna, though she had not expected the coming of her lover, had heard the sound of voices, and then became aware that the man was below. as her mother was speaking she rushed down-stairs and threw herself into her lover's arms. "it shall never be so in my presence," said the countess, trying to drag the girl from his embrace by the shoulders. "anna;--my own anna," said daniel in an ecstacy of bliss. it was not only that his sweetheart was his own, but that her spirit was so high. "daniel!" she said, still struggling in his arms. by this time they were all in the parlour, whither the countess had been satisfied to retreat to escape the eyes of the women who clustered at the top of the kitchen stairs. "daniel thwaite," said the countess, "if you do not leave this, the blood which will be shed shall rest on your head," and so saying, she drew nigh to the window and pulled down the blind. she then crossed over and did the same to the other blind, and having done so, took her place close to a heavy upright desk, which stood between the fireplace and the window. when the two ladies first came to the house they had occupied only the first and second floors;--but, since the success of their cause, the whole had been taken, including the parlour in which this scene was being acted; and the countess spent many hours daily sitting at the heavy desk in this dark gloomy chamber. "whose blood shall be shed?" said lady anna, turning to her mother. "it is the raving of madness," said daniel. "whether it be madness or not, you shall find, sir, that it is true. take your hands from her. would you disgrace the child in the presence of her mother?" "there is no disgrace, mamma. he is my own, and i am his. why should you try to part us?" but now they were parted. he was not a man to linger much over the sweetness of a caress when sterner work was in his hands to be done. "lady lovel," he said, "you must see that this opposition is fruitless. ask your cousin, lord lovel, and he will tell you that it is so." "i care nothing for my cousin. if he be false, i am true. though all the world be false, still will i be true. i do not ask her to marry her cousin. i simply demand that she shall relinquish one who is infinitely beneath her,--who is unfit to tie her very shoe-string." "he is my equal in all things," said lady anna, "and he shall be my lord and husband." "i know of no inequalities such as those you speak of, lady lovel," said the tailor. "the excellence of your daughter's merits i admit, and am almost disposed to claim some goodness for myself, finding that one so good can love me. but, lady lovel, i do not wish to remain here now. you are disturbed." "i am disturbed, and you had better go." "i will go at once if you will let me name some early day on which i may be allowed to meet lady anna,--alone. and i tell her here that if she be not permitted so to see me, it will be her duty to leave her mother's house, and come to me. there is my address, dear." then he handed to her a paper on which he had written the name of the street and number at which he was now living. "you are free to come and go as you list, and if you will send to me there, i will find you here or elsewhere as you may command me. it is but a short five minutes' walk beyond the house at which you were staying in bedford square." the countess stood silent for a moment or two, looking at them, during which neither the girl spoke nor her lover. "you will not even allow her six months to think of it?" said the countess. "i will allow her six years if she says that she requires time to think of it." "i do not want an hour,--not a minute," said lady anna. the mother flashed round upon her daughter. "poor vain, degraded wretch," she said. "she is a true woman, honest to the heart's core," said the lover. "you shall come to-morrow," said the countess. "do you hear me, anna?--he shall come to-morrow. there shall be an end of this in some way, and i am broken-hearted. my life is over for me, and i may as well lay me down and die. i hope god in his mercy may never send upon another woman,--upon another wife, or another mother,--trouble such as that with which i have been afflicted. but i tell you this, anna; that what evil a husband can do,--even let him be evil-minded as was your father,--is nothing,--nothing,--nothing to the cruelty of a cruel child. go now, mr. thwaite; if you please. if you will return at the same hour to-morrow she shall speak with you--alone. and then she must do as she pleases." "anna, i will come again to-morrow," said the tailor. but lady anna did not answer him. she did not speak, but stayed looking at him till he was gone. "to-morrow shall end it all. i can stand this no longer. i have prayed to you,--a mother to her daughter; i have prayed to you for mercy, and you will show me none. i have knelt to you." "mamma!" "i will kneel again if it may avail." and the countess did kneel. "will you not spare me?" "get up, mamma; get up. what am i doing,--what have i done that you should speak to me like this?" "i ask you from my very soul,--lest i commit some terrible crime. i have sworn that i would not see this marriage,--and i will not see it." "if he will consent i will delay it," said the girl trembling. "must i beg to him then? must i kneel to him? must i ask him to save me from the wrath to come? no, my child, i will not do that. if it must come, let it come. when you were a little thing at my knees, the gentlest babe that ever mother kissed, i did not think that you would live to be so hard to me. you have your mother's brow, my child, but you have your father's heart." "i will ask him to delay it," said anna. "no;--if it be to come to that i will have no dealings with you. what; that he,--he who has come between me and all my peace, he who with his pretended friendship has robbed me of my all, that he is to be asked to grant me a few weeks' delay before this pollution comes upon me,--during which the whole world will know that lady anna lovel is to be the tailor's wife! leave me. when he comes to-morrow, you shall be sent for;--but i will see him first. leave me, now. i would be alone." lady anna made an attempt to take her mother's hand, but the countess repulsed her rudely. "oh, mamma!" "we must be bitter enemies or loving friends, my child. as it is we are bitter enemies; yes, the bitterest. leave me now. there is no room for further words between us." then lady anna slunk up to her own room. chapter xliii. daniel thwaite comes again. the countess lovel had prepared herself on that morning for the doing of a deed, but her heart had failed her. how she might have carried herself through it had not her daughter came down to them,--how far she might have been able to persevere, cannot be said now. but it was certain that she had so far relented that even while the hated man was there in her presence, she determined that she would once again submit herself to make entreaties to her child, once again to speak of all that she had endured, and to pray at least for delay if nothing else could be accorded to her. if her girl would but promise to remain with her for six months, then they might go abroad,--and the chances afforded them by time and distance would be before her. in that case she would lavish such love upon the girl, so many indulgences, such sweets of wealth and ease, such store of caresses and soft luxury, that surely the young heart might thus be turned to the things which were fit for rank, and high blood, and splendid possessions. it could not be but that her own child,--the child who a few months since had been as gentle with her and as obedient as an infant,--should give way to her as far as that. she tried it, and her daughter had referred her prayer,--or had said that she would refer it,--to the decision of her hated lover; and the mother had at once lost all command of her temper. she had become fierce,--nay, ferocious; and had lacked the guile and the self-command necessary to carry out her purpose. had she persevered lady anna must have granted her the small boon that she then asked. but she had given way to her wrath, and had declared that her daughter was her bitterest enemy. as she seated herself at the old desk where lady anna left her, she swore within her own bosom that the deed must be done. even at the moment when she was resolving that she would kneel once more at her daughter's knees, she prepared herself for the work that she must do, should the daughter still be as hard as stone to her. "come again at one to-morrow," she said to the tailor; and the tailor said that he would come. when she was alone she seated herself on her accustomed chair and opened the old desk with a key that had now become familiar to her hand. it was a huge piece of furniture,--such as is never made in these days, but is found among every congregation of old household goods,--with numberless drawers clustering below, with a vast body, full of receptacles for bills, wills, deeds, and waste-paper, and a tower of shelves above, ascending almost to the ceiling. in the centre of the centre body was a square compartment, but this had been left unlocked, so that its contents might be ready to her hand. now she opened it and took from it a pistol; and, looking warily over her shoulder to see that the door was closed, and cautiously up at the windows, lest some eye might be spying her action even through the thick blinds, she took the weapon in her hand and held it up so that she might feel, if possible, how it would be with her when she should attempt the deed. she looked very narrowly at the lock, of which the trigger was already back at its place, so that no exertion of arrangement might be necessary for her at the fatal moment. never as yet had she fired a pistol;--never before had she held such a weapon in her hand;--but she thought that she could do it when her passion ran high. then for the twentieth time she asked herself whether it would not be easier to turn it against her own bosom,--against her own brain; so that all might be over at once. ah, yes;--so much easier! but how then would it be with this man who had driven her, by his subtle courage and persistent audacity, to utter destruction? could he and she be made to go down together in that boat which her fancy had built for them, then indeed it might be well that she should seek her own death. but were she now to destroy herself,--herself and only herself,--then would her enemy be left to enjoy his rich prize, a prize only the richer because she would have disappeared from the world! and of her, if such had been her last deed, men would only say that the mad countess had gone on in her madness. with looks of sad solemnity, but heartfelt satisfaction, all the lovels, and that wretched tailor, and her own daughter, would bestow some mock grief on her funeral, and there would be an end for ever of josephine countess lovel,--and no one would remember her, or her deeds, or her sufferings. when she wandered out from the house on that morning, after hearing that daniel thwaite would be there at one, and had walked nearly into the mid city so that she might not be watched, and had bought her pistol and powder and bullets, and had then with patience gone to work and taught herself how to prepare the weapon for use, she certainly had not intended simply to make the triumph of her enemy more easy. and yet she knew well what was the penalty of murder, and she knew also that there could be no chance of escape. very often had she turned it in her mind, whether she could not destroy the man so that the hand of the destroyer might be hidden. but it could not be so. she could not dog him in the streets. she could not get at him in his meals to poison him. she could not creep to his bedside and strangle him in the silent watches of the night. and this woman's heart, even while from day to day she was meditating murder,--while she was telling herself that it would be a worthy deed to cut off from life one whose life was a bar to her own success,--even then revolted from the shrinking stealthy step, from the low cowardice of the hidden murderer. to look him in the face and then to slay him,--when no escape for herself would be possible, that would have in it something that was almost noble; something at any rate bold,--something that would not shame her. they would hang her for such a deed! let them do so. it was not hanging that she feared, but the tongues of those who should speak of her when she was gone. they should not speak of her as one who had utterly failed. they should tell of a woman who, cruelly misused throughout her life, maligned, scorned, and tortured, robbed of her own, neglected by her kindred, deserted and damned by her husband, had still struggled through it all till she had proved herself to be that which it was her right to call herself;--of a woman who, though thwarted in her ambition by her own child, and cheated of her triumph at the very moment of her success, had dared rather to face an ignominious death than see all her efforts frustrated by the maudlin fancy of a girl. yes! she would face it all. let them do what they would with her. she hardly knew what might be the mode of death adjudged to a countess who had murdered. let them kill her as they would, they would kill a countess;--and the whole world would know her story. that day and night were very dreadful to her. she never asked a question about her daughter. they had brought her food to her in that lonely parlour, and she hardly heeded them as they laid the things before her, and then removed them. again and again did she unlock the old desk, and see that the weapon was ready to her hand. then she opened that letter to sir william patterson, and added a postscript to it. "what i have since done will explain everything." that was all she added, and on the following morning, about noon, she put the letter on the mantelshelf. late at night she took herself to bed, and was surprised to find that she slept. the key of the old desk was under her pillow, and she placed her hand on it the moment that she awoke. on leaving her own room she stood for a moment at her daughter's door. it might be, if she killed the man, that she would never see her child again. at that moment she was tempted to rush into her daughter's room, to throw herself upon her daughter's bed, and once again to beg for mercy and grace. she listened, and she knew that her daughter slept. then she went silently down to the dark room and the old desk. of what use would it be to abase herself? her daughter was the only thing that she could love; but her daughter's heart was filled with the image of that low-born artisan. "is lady anna up?" she asked the maid about ten o'clock. "yes, my lady; she is breakfasting now." "tell her that when--when mr. thwaite comes, i will send for her as soon as i wish to see her." "i think lady anna understands that already, my lady." "tell her what i say." "yes, my lady. i will, my lady." then the countess spoke no further word till, punctually at one o'clock, daniel thwaite was shown into the room. "you keep your time, mr. thwaite," she said. "working men should always do that, lady lovel," he replied, as though anxious to irritate her by reminding her how humble was the man who could aspire to be the son-in-law of a countess. "all men should do so, i presume. i also am punctual. well sir;--have you anything else to say?" "much to say,--to your daughter, lady lovel." "i do not know that you will ever see my daughter again." "do you mean to say that she has been taken away from this?" the countess was silent, but moved away from the spot on which she stood to receive him towards the old desk, which stood open,--with the door of the centre space just ajar. "if it be so, you have deceived me most grossly, lady lovel. but it can avail you nothing, for i know that she will be true to me. do you tell me that she has been removed?" "i have told you no such thing." "bid her come then,--as you promised me." "i have a word to say to you first. what if she should refuse to come?" "i do not believe that she will refuse. you yourself heard what she said yesterday. all earth and all heaven should not make me doubt her, and certainly not your word, lady lovel. you know how it is, and you know how it must be." "yes,--i do; i do; i do." she was facing him with her back to the window, and she put forth her left hand upon the open desk, and thrust it forward as though to open the square door which stood ajar;--but he did not notice her hand; he had his eye fixed upon her, and suspected only deceit,--not violence. "yes, i know how it must be," she said, while her fingers approached nearer to the little door. "then let her come to me." "will nothing turn you from it?" "nothing will turn me from it." then suddenly she withdrew her hand and confronted him more closely. "mine has been a hard life, mr. thwaite;--no life could have been harder. but i have always had something before me for which to long, and for which to hope;--something which i might reach if justice should at length prevail." "you have got money and rank." "they are nothing--nothing. in all those many years, the thing that i have looked for has been the splendour and glory of another, and the satisfaction i might feel in having bestowed upon her all that she owned. do you think that i will stand by, after such a struggle, and see you rob me of it all,--you,--you, who were one of the tools which came to my hand to work with? from what you know of me, do you think that my spirit could stoop so low? answer me, if you have ever thought of that. let the eagles alone, and do not force yourself into our nest. you will find, if you do, that you will be rent to pieces." "this is nothing, lady lovel. i came here,--at your bidding, to see your daughter. let me see her." "you will not go?" "certainly i will not go." she looked at him as she slowly receded to her former standing-ground, but he never for a moment suspected the nature of her purpose. he began to think that some actual insanity had befallen her, and was doubtful how he should act. but no fear of personal violence affected him. he was merely questioning with himself whether it would not be well for him to walk up-stairs into the upper room, and seek lady anna there, as he stood watching the motion of her eyes. "you had better go," said she, as she again put her left hand on the flat board of the open desk. "you trifle with me, lady lovel," he answered. "as you will not allow lady anna to come to me here, i will go to her elsewhere. i do not doubt but that i shall find her in the house." then he turned to the door, intending to leave the room. he had been very near to her while they were talking, so that he had some paces to traverse before he could put his hand upon the lock,--but in doing so his back was turned on her. in one respect it was better for her purpose that it should be so. she could open the door of the compartment and put her hand upon the pistol without having his eye upon her. but, as it seemed to her at the moment, the chance of bringing her purpose to its intended conclusion was less than it would have been had she been able to fire at his face. she had let the moment go by,--the first moment,--when he was close to her, and now there would be half the room between them. but she was very quick. she seized the pistol, and, transferring it to her right hand, she rushed after him, and when the door was already half open she pulled the trigger. in the agony of that moment she heard no sound, though she saw the flash. she saw him shrink and pass the door, which he left unclosed, and then she heard a scuffle in the passage, as though he had fallen against the wall. she had provided herself especially with a second barrel,--but that was now absolutely useless to her. there was no power left to her wherewith to follow him and complete the work which she had begun. she did not think that she had killed him, though she was sure that he was struck. she did not believe that she had accomplished anything of her wishes,--but had she held in her hand a six-barrelled revolver, as of the present day, she could have done no more with it. she was overwhelmed with so great a tremor at her own violence that she was almost incapable of moving. she stood glaring at the door, listening for what should come, and the moments seemed to be hours. but she heard no sound whatever. a minute passed away perhaps, and the man did not move. she looked around as if seeking some way of escape,--as though, were it possible, she would get to the street through the window. there was no mode of escape, unless she would pass out through the door to the man who, as she knew, must still be there. then she heard him move. she heard him rise,--from what posture she knew not, and step towards the stairs. she was still standing with the pistol in her hand, but was almost unconscious that she held it. at last her eye glanced upon it, and she was aware that she was still armed. should she rush after him, and try what she could do with that other bullet? the thought crossed her mind, but she knew that she could do nothing. had all the lovels depended upon it, she could not have drawn that other trigger. she took the pistol, put it back into its former hiding-place, mechanically locked the little door, and then seated herself in her chair. chapter xliv. the attempt and not the deed confounds us. the tailor's hand was on the lock of the door when he first saw the flash of the fire, and then felt that he was wounded. though his back was turned to the woman he distinctly saw the flash, but he never could remember that he had heard the report. he knew nothing of the nature of the injury he had received, and was hardly aware of the place in which he had been struck, when he half closed the door behind him and then staggered against the opposite wall. for a moment he was sick, almost to fainting, but yet he did not believe that he had been grievously hurt. he was, however, disabled, weak, and almost incapable of any action. he seated himself on the lowest stair, and began to think. the woman had intended to murder him! she had lured him there with the premeditated intention of destroying him! and this was the mother of his bride,--the woman whom he intended to call his mother-in-law! he was not dead, nor did he believe that he was like to die; but had she killed him,--what must have been the fate of the murderess! as it was, would it not be necessary that she should be handed over to the law, and dealt with for the offence? he did not know that they might not even hang her for the attempt. he said afterwards that he thought that he sat there for a quarter of an hour. three minutes, however, had not passed before mrs. richards, ascending from the kitchen, found him upon the stairs. "what is it, mr. thwaite?" said she. "is anything the matter?" he asked with a faint smile. "the place is full of smoke," she said, "and there is a smell of gunpowder." "there is no harm done at any rate," he answered. "i thought i heard a something go off," said sarah, who was behind mrs. richards. "did you?" said he. "i heard nothing; but there certainly is a smoke," and he still smiled. "what are you sitting there for, mr. thwaite?" asked mrs. richards. "you ain't no business to sit there, mr. thwaite," said sarah. "you've been and done something to the countess," said mrs. richards. "the countess is all right. i'm going up-stairs to see lady anna;--that's all. but i've hurt myself a little. i'm bad in my left shoulder, and i sat down just to get a rest." as he spoke he was still smiling. then the woman looked at him and saw that he was very pale. at that instant he was in great pain, though he felt that as the sense of intense sickness was leaving him he would be able to go up-stairs and say a word or two to his sweetheart, should he find her. "you ain't just as you ought to be, mr. thwaite," said mrs. richards. he was very haggard, and perspiration was on his brow, and she thought that he had been drinking. "i am well enough," said he rising,--"only that i am much troubled by a hurt in my arm. at any rate i will go up-stairs." then he mounted slowly, leaving the two women standing in the passage. mrs. richards gently opened the parlour door, and entered the room, which was still reeking with smoke and the smell of the powder, and there she found the countess seated at the old desk, but with her body and face turned round towards the door. "is anything the matter, my lady?" asked the woman. "where has he gone?" "mr. thwaite has just stepped up-stairs,--this moment. he was very queer like, my lady." "is he hurt?" "we think he's been drinking, my lady," said sarah. "he says that his shoulder is ever so bad," said mrs. richards. then for the first time it occurred to the countess that perhaps the deed which she had done,--the attempt in which she had failed,--might never be known. instinctively she had hidden the pistol and had locked the little door, and concealed the key within her bosom as soon as she was alone. then she thought that she would open the window; but she had been afraid to move, and she had sat there waiting while she heard the sound of voices in the passage. "oh,--his shoulder!" said she. "no,--he has not been drinking. he never drinks. he has been very violent, but he never drinks. well,--why do you wait?" "there is such a smell of something," said mrs. richards. "yes;--you had better open the windows. there was an accident. thank you;--that will do." "and is he to be alone,--with lady anna, up-stairs?" asked the maid. "he is to be alone with her. how can i help it? if she chooses to be a scullion she must follow her bent. i have done all i could. why do you wait? i tell you that he is to be with her. go away, and leave me." then they went and left her, wondering much, but guessing nothing of the truth. she watched them till they had closed the door, and then instantly opened the other window wide. it was now may, but the weather was still cold. there had been rain the night before, and it had been showery all the morning. she had come in from her walk damp and chilled, and there was a fire in the grate. but she cared nothing for the weather. looking round the room she saw a morsel of wadding near the floor, and she instantly burned it. she longed to look at the pistol, but she did not dare to take it from its hiding-place lest she should be discovered in the act. every energy of her mind was now strained to the effort of avoiding detection. should he choose to tell what had been done, then, indeed, all would be over. but had he not resolved to be silent he would hardly have borne the agony of the wound and gone up-stairs without speaking of it. she almost forgot now the misery of the last year in the intensity of her desire to escape the disgrace of punishment. a sudden nervousness, a desire to do something by which she might help to preserve herself, seized upon her. but there was nothing which she could do. she could not follow him lest he should accuse her to her face. it would be vain for her to leave the house till he should have gone. should she do so, she knew that she would not dare return to it. so she sat, thinking, dreaming, plotting, crushed by an agony of fear, looking anxiously at the door, listening for every footfall within the house; and she watched too for the well-known click of the area gate, dreading lest any one should go out to seek the intervention of the constables. in the meantime daniel thwaite had gone up-stairs, and had knocked at the drawing-room door. it was instantly opened by lady anna herself. "i heard you come;--what a time you have been here!--i thought that i should never see you." as she spoke she stood close to him that he might embrace her. but the pain of his wound affected his whole body, and he felt that he could hardly raise even his right arm. he was aware now that the bullet had entered his back, somewhere on his left shoulder. "oh, daniel;--are you ill?" she said, looking at him. "yes, dear;--i am ill;--not very ill. did you hear nothing?" "no!" "nor yet see anything?" "no!" "i will tell you all another time;--only do not ask me now." she had seated herself beside him and wound her arm round his back as though to support him. "you must not touch me, dearest." "you have been hurt." "yes;--i have been hurt. i am in pain, though i do not think that it signifies. i had better go to a surgeon, and then you shall hear from me." "tell me, daniel;--what is it, daniel?" "i will tell you,--but not now. you shall know all, but i should do harm were i to say it now. say not a word to any one, sweetheart,--unless your mother ask you." "what shall i tell her?" "that i am hurt,--but not seriously hurt;--and that the less said the sooner mended. tell her also that i shall expect no further interruption to my letters when i write to you,--or to my visits when i can come. god bless you, dearest;--one kiss, and now i will go." "you will send for me if you are ill, daniel?" "if i am really ill, i will send for you." so saying, he left her, went down-stairs, with great difficulty opened for himself the front door, and departed. lady anna, though she had been told nothing of what had happened, except that her lover was hurt, at once surmised something of what had been done. daniel thwaite had suffered some hurt from her mother's wrath. she sat for a while thinking what it might have been. she had seen no sign of blood. could it be that her mother had struck him in her anger with some chance weapon that had come to hand? that there had been violence she was sure,--and sure also that her mother had been in fault. when daniel had been some few minutes gone she went down, that she might deliver his message. at the foot of the stairs, and near the door of the parlour, she met mrs. richards. "i suppose the young man has gone, my lady?" asked the woman. "mr. thwaite has gone." "and i make so bold, my lady, as to say that he ought not to come here. there has been a doing of some kind, but i don't know what. he says as how he's been hurt, and i'm sure i don't know how he should be hurt here,--unless he brought it with him. i never had nothing of the kind here before, long as i've been here. of course your title and that is all right, my lady; but the young man isn't fit;--that's the truth of it. my belief is he'd been a drinking; and i won't have it in my house." lady anna passed by her without a word and went into her mother's room. the countess was still seated in her chair, and neither rose nor spoke when her daughter entered. "mamma, mr. thwaite is hurt." "well;--what of it? is it much that ails him?" "he is in pain. what has been done, mamma?" the countess looked at her, striving to learn from the girl's face and manner what had been told and what concealed. "did you--strike him?" "has he said that i struck him?" "no, mamma;--but something has been done that should not have been done. i know it. he has sent you a message, mamma." "what was it?" asked the countess, in a hoarse voice. "that he was hurt, but not seriously." "oh;--he said that." "i fear he is hurt seriously." "but he said that he was not?" "yes;--and that the less said the sooner mended." "did he say that too?" "that was his message." the countess gave a long sigh, then sobbed, and at last broke out into hysteric tears. it was evident to her now that the man was sparing her,--was endeavouring to spare her. he had told no one as yet. "the least said the soonest mended." oh yes;--if he would say never a word to any one of what had occurred between them that day, that would be best for her. but how could he not tell? when some doctor should ask him how he had come by that wound, surely he would tell then! it could not be possible that such a deed should have been done there, in that little room, and that no one should know it! and why should he not tell,--he who was her enemy? had she caught him at advantage, would she not have smote him, hip and thigh? and then she reflected what it would be to owe perhaps her life to the mercy of daniel thwaite,--to the mercy of her enemy, of him who knew,--if no one else should know,--that she had attempted to murder him. it would be better for her, should she be spared to do so, to go away to some distant land, where she might hide her head for ever. "may i go to him, mamma, to see him?" lady anna asked. the countess, full of her own thoughts, sat silent, answering not a word. "i know where he lives, mamma, and i fear that he is much hurt." "he will not--die," muttered the countess. "god forbid that he should die;--but i will go to him." then she returned up-stairs without a word of opposition from her mother, put on her bonnet, and sallied forth. no one stopped her or said a word to her now, and she seemed to herself to be as free as air. she walked up to the corner of gower street, and turned down into bedford square, passing the house of the serjeant. then she asked her way into great russell street, which she found to be hardly more than a stone's throw from the serjeant's door, and soon found the number at which her lover lived. no;--mr. thwaite was not at home. yes;--she might wait for him;--but he had no room but his bedroom. then she became very bold. "i am engaged to be his wife," she said. "are you the lady anna?" asked the woman, who had heard the story. then she was received with great distinction, and invited to sit down in a parlour on the ground-floor. there she sat for three hours, motionless, alone,--waiting,--waiting,--waiting. when it was quite dark, at about six o'clock, daniel thwaite entered the room with his left arm bound up. "my girl!" he said, with so much joy in his tone that she could not but rejoice to hear him. "so you have found me out, and have come to me!" "yes, i have come. tell me what it is. i know that you are hurt." "i have been hurt certainly. the doctor wanted me to go into a hospital, but i trust that i may escape that. but i must take care of myself. i had to come back here in a coach, because the man told me not to walk." "how was it, daniel? oh, daniel, you will tell me everything?" then she sat beside him as he lay upon the couch, and listened to him while he told her the whole story. he hid nothing from her, but as he went on he made her understand that it was his intention to conceal the whole deed, to say nothing of it, so that the perpetrator should escape punishment, if it might be possible. she listened in awe-struck silence as she heard the tale of her mother's guilt. and he, with wonderful skill, with hearty love for the girl, and in true mercy to her feelings, palliated the crime of the would-be murderess. "she was beside herself with grief and emotion," he said, "and has hardly surprised me by what she has done. had i thought of it, i should almost have expected it." "she may do it again, daniel." "i think not. she will be cowed now, and quieter. she did not interfere when you told her that you were coming to me? it will be a lesson to her, and so it may be good for us." then he bade her to tell her mother that he, as far as he was concerned, would hold his peace. if she would forget all past injuries, so would he. if she would hold out her hand to him, he would take it. if she could not bring herself to this,--could not bring herself as yet,--then let her go apart. no notice should be taken of what she had done. "but she must not again stand between us," he said. "nothing shall stand between us," said lady anna. then he told her, laughing as he did so, how hard it had been for him to keep the story of his wound secret from the doctor, who had already extracted the ball, and who was to visit him on the morrow. the practitioner to whom he had gone, knowing nothing of gunshot wounds, had taken him to a first-class surgeon, and the surgeon had of course asked as to the cause of the wound. daniel had said that it was an accident as to which he could not explain the cause. "you mean you will not tell," said the surgeon. "exactly so. i will not tell. it is my secret. that i did not do it myself you may judge from the spot in which i was shot." to this the surgeon assented; and, though he pressed the question, and said something as to the necessity for an investigation, he could get no satisfaction. however, he had learned daniel's name and address. he was to call on the morrow, and would then perhaps succeed in learning something of the mystery. "in the meantime, my darling, i must go to bed, for it seems as though every bone in my body was sore. i have brought an old woman with me who is to look after me." then she left him, promising that she would come on the morrow and would nurse him. "unless they lock me up, i will be here," she said. daniel thwaite thought that in the present circumstances no further attempt would be made to constrain her actions. chapter xlv. the lawyers agree. when a month had passed by a great many people knew how mr. daniel thwaite had come by the wound in his back, but nobody knew it "officially." there is a wide difference in the qualities of knowledge regarding such matters. in affairs of public interest we often know, or fancy that we know, down to every exact detail, how a thing has been done,--who have given the bribes and who have taken them,--who has told the lie and who has pretended to believe it,--who has peculated and how the public purse has suffered,--who was in love with such a one's wife and how the matter was detected, then smothered up, and condoned; but there is no official knowledge, and nothing can be done. the tailor and the earl, the countess and her daughter, had become public property since the great trial had been commenced, and many eyes were on them. before a week had gone by it was known in every club and in every great drawing-room that the tailor had been shot in the shoulder,--and it was almost known that the pistol had been fired by the hands of the countess. the very eminent surgeon into whose hands daniel had luckily fallen did not press his questions very far when his patient told him that it would be for the welfare of many people that nothing further should be asked on the matter. "an accident has occurred," said daniel, "as to which i do not intend to say anything further. i can assure you that no injury has been done beyond that which i suffer." the eminent surgeon no doubt spoke of the matter among his friends, but he always declared that he had no certain knowledge as to the hand which fired the pistol. the women in keppel street of course talked. there had certainly been a smoke and a smell of gunpowder. mrs. richards had heard nothing. sarah thought that she had heard a noise. they both were sure that daniel thwaite had been much the worse for drink,--a statement which led to considerable confusion. no pistol was ever seen,--though the weapon remained in the old desk for some days, and was at last conveyed out of the house when the countess left it with all her belongings. she had been afraid to hide it more stealthily or even throw it away, lest her doing so should be discovered. had the law interfered,--had any search-warrant been granted,--the pistol would, of course, have been found. as it was, no one asked the countess a question on the subject. the lawyers who had been her friends, and had endeavoured to guide her through her difficulties, became afraid of her, and kept aloof from her. they had all gone over to the opinion that lady anna should be allowed to marry the tailor, and had on that account become her enemies. she was completely isolated, and was now spoken of mysteriously,--as a woman who had suffered much, and was nearly mad with grief, as a violent, determined, dangerous being, who was interesting as a subject for conversation, but one not at all desirable as an acquaintance. during the whole of this month the countess remained in keppel street, and was hardly ever seen by any but the inmates of that house. lady anna had returned home all alone, on the evening of the day on which the deed had been done, after leaving her lover in the hands of the old nurse with whose services he had been furnished. the rain was still falling as she came through russell square. the distance was indeed short, but she was wet and cold and draggled when she returned; and the criminality of the deed which her mother had committed had come fully home to her mind during the short journey. the door was opened to her by mrs. richards, and she at once asked for the countess. "lady anna, where have you been?" asked mrs. richards, who was learning to take upon herself, during these troubles, something of the privilege of finding fault. but lady anna put her aside without a word, and went into the parlour. there sat the countess just as she had been left,--except that a pair of candles stood upon the table, and that the tea-things had been laid there. "you are all wet," she said. "where have you been?" "he has told me all," the girl replied, without answering the question. "oh, mamma;--how could you do it?" "who has driven me to it? it has been you,--you, you. well;--what else?" "mamma, he has forgiven you." "forgiven me! i will not have his forgiveness." "oh, mamma;--if i forgive you, will you not be friends with us?" she stooped over her mother, and kissed her, and then went on and told what she had to tell. she stood and told it all in a low voice, so that no ear but that of her mother should hear her,--how the ball had hit him, how it had been extracted, how nothing had been and nothing should be told, how daniel would forgive it all and be her friend, if she would let him. "but, mamma, i hope you will be sorry." the countess sat silent, moody, grim, with her eyes fixed on the table. she would say nothing. "and, mamma,--i must go to him every day,--to do things for him and to help to nurse him. of course he will be my husband now." still the countess said not a word, either of approval or of dissent. lady anna sat down for a moment or two, hoping that her mother would allow her to eat and drink in the room, and that thus they might again begin to live together. but not a word was spoken nor a motion made, and the silence became awful, so that the girl did not dare to keep her seat. "shall i go, mamma?" she said. "yes;--you had better go." after that they did not see each other again on that evening, and during the week or ten days following they lived apart. on the following morning, after an early breakfast, lady anna went to great russell street, and there she remained the greater part of the day. the people of the house understood that the couple were to be married as soon as their lodger should be well, and had heard much of the magnificence of the marriage. they were kind and good, and the tailor declared very often that this was the happiest period of his existence. of all the good turns ever done to him, he said, the wound in his back had been the best. as his sweetheart sat by his bedside they planned their future life. they would still go to the distant land on which his heart was set, though it might be only for awhile; and she, with playfulness, declared that she would go there as mrs. thwaite. "i suppose they can't prevent me calling myself mrs. thwaite, if i please." "i am not so sure of that," said the tailor. "evil burs stick fast." it would be vain now to tell of all the sweet lovers' words that were spoken between them during those long hours;--but the man believed that no girl had ever been so true to her lover through so many difficulties as lady anna had been to him, and she was sure that she had never varied in her wish to become the wife of the man who had first asked her for her love. she thought much and she thought often of the young lord; but she took the impress of her lover's mind, and learned to regard her cousin, the earl, as an idle, pretty popinjay, born to eat, to drink, and to carry sweet perfumes. "just a butterfly," said the tailor. "one of the brightest butterflies," said the girl. "a woman should not be a butterfly,--not altogether a butterfly," he answered. "but for a man it is surely a contemptible part. do you remember the young man who comes to hotspur on the battlefield, or him whom the king sent to hamlet about the wager? when i saw lord lovel at his breakfast table, i thought of them. i said to myself that spermaceti was the 'sovereignest thing on earth for an inward wound,' and i told myself that he was of 'very soft society, and great showing.'" she smiled, though she did not know the words he quoted, and assured him that her poor cousin lord lovel would not trouble him much in the days that were to come. "he will not trouble me at all, but as he is your cousin i would fain that he could be a man. he had a sort of gown on which would have made a grand frock for you, sweetheart;--only too smart i fear for my wife." she laughed and was pleased,--and remembered without a shade either of regret or remorse the manner in which the popinjay had helped her over the stepping-stones at bolton abbey. but the tailor, though he thus scorned the lord, was quite willing that a share of the property should be given up to him. "unless you did, how on earth could he wear such grand gowns as that? i can understand that he wants it more than i do, and if there are to be earls, i suppose they should be rich. we do not want it, my girl." "you will have half, daniel," she said. "as far as that goes, i do not want a doit of it,--not a penny-piece. when they paid me what became my own by my father's will, i was rich enough,--rich enough for you and me too, my girl, if that was all. but it is better that it should be divided. if he had it all he would buy too many gowns; and it may be that with us some good will come of it. as far as i can see, no good comes of money spent on race-courses, and in gorgeous gowns." this went on from day to day throughout a month, and every day lady anna took her place with her lover. after a while her mother came up into the drawing-room in keppel street, and then the two ladies again lived together. little or nothing, however, was said between them as to their future lives. the countess was quiet, sullen,--and to a bystander would have appeared to be indifferent. she had been utterly vanquished by the awe inspired by her own deed, and by the fear which had lasted for some days that she might be dragged to trial for the offence. as that dread subsided she was unable to recover her former spirits. she spoke no more of what she had done and what she had suffered, but seemed to submit to the inevitable. she said nothing of any future life that might be in store for her, and, as far as her daughter could perceive, had no plans formed for the coming time. at last lady anna found it necessary to speak of her own plans. "mamma," she said, "mr. thwaite wishes that banns should be read in church for our marriage." "banns!" exclaimed the countess. "yes, mamma; he thinks it best." the countess made no further observation. if the thing was to be, it mattered little to her whether they were to be married by banns or by licence,--whether her girl should walk down to church like a maid-servant, or be married with all the pomp and magnificence to which her rank and wealth might entitle her. how could there be splendour, how even decency, in such a marriage as this? she at any rate would not be present, let them be married in what way they would. on the fourth sunday after the shot had been fired the banns were read for the first time in bloomsbury church, and the future bride was described as anna lovel,--commonly called lady anna lovel,--spinster. neither on that occasion, or on either of the two further callings, did any one get up in church to declare that impediment existed why daniel thwaite the tailor and lady anna lovel should not be joined together in holy matrimony. in the mean time the lawyers had been at work dividing the property, and in the process of doing so it had been necessary that mr. goffe should have various interviews with the countess. she also, as the undisputed widow of the late intestate earl, was now a very rich woman, with an immense income at her control. but no one wanted assistance from her. there was her revenue, and she was doomed to live apart with it in her solitude,--with no fellow-creature to rejoice with her in her triumph, with no dependant whom she could make happy with her wealth. she was a woman with many faults,--but covetousness was not one of them. if she could have given it all to the young earl,--and her daughter with it, she would have been a happy woman. had she been permitted to dream that it was all so settled that her grandchild would become of all earl lovels the most wealthy and most splendid, she would have triumphed indeed. but, as it was, there was no spot in her future career brighter to her than those long years of suffering which she had passed in the hope that some day her child might be successful. triumph indeed! there was nothing before her but solitude and shame. nevertheless she listened to mr. goffe, and signed the papers that were put before her. when, however, he spoke to her of what was necessary for the marriage,--as to the settlement, which must, mr. goffe said, be made as to the remaining moiety of her daughter's property,--she answered curtly that she knew nothing of that. her daughter's affairs were no concern of hers. she had, indeed, worked hard to establish her daughter's rights, but her daughter was now of age, and could do as she pleased with her own. she would not even remain in the room while the matter was being discussed. "lady anna and i have separate interests," she said haughtily. lady anna herself simply declared that half of her estate should be made over to her cousin, and that the other half should go to her husband. but the attorney was not satisfied to take instructions on a matter of such moment from one so young. as to all that was to appertain to the earl, the matter was settled. the solicitor-general and serjeant bluestone had acceded to the arrangement, and the countess herself had given her assent before she had utterly separated her own interests from those of her daughter. in regard to so much, mr. goffe could go to work in conjunction with mr. flick without a scruple; but as to that other matter there must be consultations, conferences, and solemn debate. the young lady, no doubt, might do as she pleased; but lawyers can be very powerful. sir william was asked for his opinion, and suggested that daniel thwaite himself should be invited to attend at mr. goffe's chambers, as soon as his wound would allow him to do so. daniel, who did not care for his wound so much as he should have done, was with mr. goffe on the following morning, and heard a lengthy explanation from the attorney. the solicitor-general had been consulted;--this mr. goffe said, feeling that a tailor would not have a word to say against so high an authority;--the solicitor-general had been consulted, and was of opinion that lady anna's interests should be guarded with great care. a very large property, he might say a splendid estate, was concerned. mr. thwaite of course understood that the family had been averse to this marriage,--naturally very averse. now, however, they were prepared to yield. the tailor interrupted the attorney at this period of his speech. "we don't want anybody to yield, mr. goffe. we are going to do what we please, and don't know anything about yielding." mr. goffe remarked that all that might be very well, but that, as so large a property was at stake, the friends of the lady, according to all usage, were bound to interfere. a settlement had already been made in regard to the earl. "you mean, mr. goffe, that lady anna has given her cousin half her money?" the attorney went on to say that mr. thwaite might put it in that way if he pleased. the deeds had already been executed. with regard to the other moiety mr. thwaite would no doubt not object to a trust-deed, by which it should be arranged that the money should be invested in land, the interest to be appropriated to the use of lady anna, and the property be settled on the eldest son. mr. thwaite would, of course, have the advantage of the income during his wife's life. the attorney, in explaining all this, made an exceedingly good legal exposition, and then waited for the tailor's assent. "are those lady anna's instructions?" mr. goffe replied that the proposal was made in accordance with the advice of the solicitor-general. "i'll have nothing to do with such a settlement," said the tailor. "lady anna has given away half her money, and may give away the whole if she pleases. she will be the same to me whether she comes full-handed or empty. but when she is my wife her property shall be my property,--and when i die there shall be no such abomination as an eldest son." mr. goffe was persuasive, eloquent, indignant, and very wise. all experience, all usage, all justice, all tradition, required that there should be some such settlement as he had suggested. but it was in vain. "i don't want my wife to have anything of her own before marriage," said he; "but she certainly shall have nothing after marriage,--independent of me." for a man with sound views of domestic power and marital rights always choose a radical! in this case there was no staying him. the girl was all on his side, and mr. goffe, with infinite grief, was obliged to content himself with binding up a certain portion of the property to make an income for the widow, should the tailor die before his wife. and thus the tailor's marriage received the sanction of all the lawyers. a day or two after this daniel thwaite called upon the countess. it was now arranged that they should be married early in july, and questions had arisen as to the manner of the ceremony. who should give away the bride? of what nature should the marriage be? should there be any festival? should there be bridesmaids? where should they go when they were married? what dresses should be bought? after what fashion should they be prepared to live? those, and questions of a like nature, required to be answered, and lady anna felt that these matters should not be fixed without some reference to her mother. it had been her most heartfelt desire to reconcile the countess to the marriage,--to obtain, at any rate, so much recognition as would enable her mother to be present in the church. but the countess had altogether refused to speak on the subject, and had remained silent, gloomy, and impenetrable. then daniel had himself proposed that he would see her, and on a certain morning he called. he sent up his name, with his compliments, and the countess allowed him to be shown into her room. lady anna had begged that it might be so, and she had yielded,--yielded without positive assent, as she had now done in all matters relating to this disastrous marriage. on that morning, however, she had spoken a word. "if mr. thwaite chooses to see me, i must be alone." and she was alone when the tailor was shown into the room. up to that day he had worn his arm in a sling,--and should then have continued to do so; but, on this visit of peace to her who had attempted to be his murderer, he put aside this outward sign of the injury she had inflicted on him. he smiled as he entered the room, and she rose to receive him. she was no longer a young woman;--and no woman of her age or of any other had gone through rougher usage;--but she could not keep the blood out of her cheeks as her eyes met his, nor could she summon to her support that hard persistency of outward demeanour with which she had intended to arm herself for the occasion. "so you have come to see me, mr. thwaite?" she said. "i have come, lady lovel, to shake hands with you, if it may be so, before my marriage with your daughter. it is her wish that we should be friends,--and mine also." so saying, he put out his hand, and the countess slowly gave him hers. "i hope the time may come, lady lovel, when all animosity may be forgotten between you and me, and nothing be borne in mind but the old friendship of former years." "i do not know that that can be," she said. "i hope it may be so. time cures all things,--and i hope it may be so." "there are sorrows, mr. thwaite, which no time can cure. you have triumphed, and can look forward to the pleasures of success. i have been foiled, and beaten, and broken to pieces. with me the last is worse even than the first. i do not know that i can ever have another friend. your father was my friend." "and i would be so also." "you have been my enemy. all that he did to help me,--all that others have done since to forward me on my way, has been brought to nothing--by you! my joys have been turned to grief, my rank has been made a disgrace, my wealth has become like ashes between my teeth;--and it has been your doing. they tell me that you will be my daughter's husband. i know that it must be so. but i do not see that you can be my friend." "i had hoped to find you softer, lady lovel." "it is not my nature to be soft. all this has not tended to make me soft. if my daughter will let me know from time to time that she is alive, that is all that i shall require of her. as to her future career, i cannot interest myself in it as i had hoped to do. good-bye, mr. thwaite. you need fear no further interference from me." so the interview was over, and not a word had been said about the attempt at murder. chapter xlvi. hard lines. at the time that the murder was attempted lord lovel was in london,--and had seen daniel thwaite on that morning; but before any confirmed rumour had reached his ears he had left london again on his road to yoxham. he knew now that he would be endowed with something like ten thousand a year out of the wealth of the late earl, but that he would not have the hand of his fair cousin, the late earl's daughter. perhaps it was as well as it was. the girl had never loved him, and he could now choose for himself;--and need not choose till it should be his pleasure to settle himself as a married man. after all, his marriage with lady anna would have been a constrained marriage,--a marriage which he would have accepted as the means of making his fortune. the girl certainly had pleased him;--but it might be that a girl who preferred a tailor would not have continued to please him. at any rate he could not be unhappy with his newly-acquired fortune, and he went down to yoxham to receive the congratulation of his friends, thinking that it would become him now to make some exertion towards reconciling his uncle and aunt to the coming marriage. "have you heard anything about mr. thwaite?" mr. flick said to him the day before he started. the earl had heard nothing. "they say that he has been wounded by a pistol-ball." lord lovel stayed some days at a friend's house on his road into yorkshire, and when he reached the rectory, the rector had received news from london. mr. thwaite the tailor had been murdered, and it was surmised that the deed had been done by the countess. "i trust the papers were signed before you left london," said the anxious rector. the documents making over the property were all right, but the earl would believe nothing of the murder. mr. thwaite might have been wounded. he had heard so much before,--but he was quite sure that it had not been done by the countess. on the following day further tidings came. mr. thwaite was doing well, but everybody said that the attempt had been made by lady lovel. thus by degrees some idea of the facts as they had occurred was received at the rectory. "you don't mean that you want us to have mr. thwaite here?" said the rector, holding up his hands, upon hearing a proposition made to him by his nephew a day or two later. "why not, uncle charles?" "i couldn't do it. i really don't think your aunt could bring herself to sit down to table with him." "aunt jane?" "yes, your aunt jane,--or your aunt julia either." now a quieter lady than aunt jane, or one less likely to turn up her nose at any guest whom her husband should choose to entertain, did not exist. "may i ask my aunts?" "what good can it do, frederic?" "he's going to marry our cousin. he's not at all such a man as you seem to think." "he has been a journeyman tailor all his life." "you'll find he'll make a very good sort of gentleman. sir william patterson says that he'll be in parliament before long." "sir william! sir william is always meddling. i have never thought much about sir william." "come, uncle charles,--you should be fair. if we had gone on quarrelling and going to law, where should i have been now? i should never have got a shilling out of the property. everybody says so. no doubt sir william acted very wisely." "i am no lawyer. i can't say how it might have been. but i may have my doubts if i like. i have always understood that lady lovel, as you choose to call her, was never lord lovel's wife. for twenty years i have been sure of it, and i can't change so quickly as some other people." "she is lady lovel now. the king and queen would receive her as such if she went to court. her daughter is lady anna lovel." "it may be so. it is possible." "if it be not so," said the young lord thumping the table, "where have i got the money from?" this was an argument that the rector could not answer;--so he merely shook his head. "i am bound to acknowledge them after taking her money." "but not him. you haven't had any of his money. you needn't acknowledge him." "we had better make the best of it, uncle charles. he is going to marry our cousin, and we should stand by her. sir william very strongly advises me to be present at the marriage, and to offer to give her away." "the girl you were going to marry yourself!" "or else that you should do it. that of course would be better." the rector of yoxham groaned when the proposition was made to him. what infinite vexation of spirit and degradation had come to him from these spurious lovels during the last twelve months! he had been made to have the girl in his house and to give her precedence as lady anna, though he did not believe in her; he had been constrained to treat her as the desired bride of his august nephew the earl,--till she had refused the earl's hand; after he had again repudiated her and her mother because of her base attachment to a low-born artisan, he had been made to re-accept her in spirit, because she had been generous to his nephew;--and now he was asked to stand at the altar and give her away to the tailor! and there could come to him neither pleasure nor profit from the concern. all that he had endured he had borne simply for the sake of his family and his nephew. "she is degrading us all,--as far as she belongs to us," said the rector. "i can't see why i should be asked to give her my countenance in doing it." "everybody says that it is very good of her to be true to the man she loved when she was poor and in obscurity. sir william says--" "---sir william!" muttered the rector between his teeth, as he turned away in disgust. what had been the first word of that minatory speech lord lovel did not clearly hear. he had been brought up as a boy by his uncle, and had never known his uncle to offend by swearing. no one in yoxham would have believed it possible that the parson of the parish should have done so. mrs. grimes would have given evidence in any court in yorkshire that it was absolutely impossible. the archbishop would not have believed it though his archdeacon had himself heard the word. all the man's known antecedents since he had been at yoxham were against the probability. the entire close at york would have been indignant had such an accusation been made. but his nephew in his heart of hearts believed that the rector of yoxham had damned the solicitor-general. there was, however, more cause for malediction, and further provocations to wrath, in store for the rector. the earl had not as yet opened all his budget, or let his uncle know the extent of the sacrifice that was to be demanded from him. sir william had been very urgent with the young nobleman to accord everything that could be accorded to his cousin. "it is not of course for me to dictate," he had said, "but as i have been allowed so far to give advice somewhat beyond the scope of my profession, perhaps you will let me say that in mere honesty you owe her all that you can give. she has shared everything with you, and need have given nothing. and he, my lord, had he been so minded, might no doubt have hindered her from doing what she has done. you owe it to your honour to accept her and her husband with an open hand. unless you can treat her with cousinly regard you should not have taken what has been given to you as a cousin. she has recognised you to your great advantage as the head of her family, and you should certainly recognise her as belonging to it. let the marriage be held down at yoxham. get your uncle and aunt to ask her down. do you give her away, and let your uncle marry them. if you can put me up for a night in some neighbouring farm-house, i will come and be a spectator. it will be for your honour to treat her after that fashion." the programme was a large one, and the earl felt that there might be some difficulty. but in the teeth of that dubious malediction he persevered, and his next attack was upon aunt julia. "you liked her;--did you not?" "yes;--i liked her." the tone implied great doubt. "i liked her, till i found that she had forgotten herself." "but she didn't forget herself. she just did what any girl would have done, living as she was living. she has behaved nobly to me." "she has behaved no doubt conscientiously." "come, aunt julia! did you ever know any other woman to give away ten thousand a-year to a fellow simply because he was her cousin? we should do something for her. why should you not ask her down here again?" "i don't think my brother would like it." "he will if you tell him. and we must make a gentleman of him." "my dear frederic, you can never wash a blackamoor white." "let us try. don't you oppose it. it behoves me, for my honour, to show her some regard after what she has done for me." aunt julia shook her head, and muttered to herself some further remark about negroes. the inhabitants of the yoxham rectory,--who were well born, ladies and gentlemen without a stain, who were hitherto free from all base intermarriages, and had nothing among their male cousins below soldiers and sailors, parsons and lawyers, who had successfully opposed an intended marriage between a cousin in the third degree and an attorney because the alliance was below the level of the lovels, were peculiarly averse to any intermingling of ranks. they were descended from ancient earls, and their chief was an earl of the present day. there was but one titled young lady now among them,--and she had only just won her right to be so considered. there was but one lady anna,--and she was going to marry a tailor! "duty is duty," said aunt julia as she hurried away. she meant her nephew to understand that duty commanded her to shut her heart against any cousin who could marry a tailor. the lord next attacked aunt jane. "you wouldn't mind having her here?" "not if your uncle thought well of it," said mrs. lovel. "i'll tell you what my scheme is." then he told it all. lady anna was to be invited to the rectory. the tailor was to be entertained somewhere near on the night preceding his wedding. the marriage was to be celebrated by his uncle in yoxham church. sir william was to be asked to join them. and the whole thing was to be done exactly as though they were all proud of the connection. "does your uncle know?" asked mrs. lovel, who had been nearly stunned by the proposition. "not quite. i want you to suggest it. only think, aunt jane, what she has done for us all!" aunt jane couldn't think that very much had been done for her. they were not to be enriched by the cousin's money. they had never been interested in the matter on their own account. they wanted nothing. and yet they were to be called upon to have a tailor at their board,--because lord lovel was the head of their family. but the earl was the earl; and poor mrs. lovel knew how much she owed to his position. "if you wish it of course i'll tell him, frederic." "i do wish it;--and i'll be so much obliged to you." the next morning the parson had been told all that was required of him, and he came down to prayers as black as a thunder-cloud. it had been before suggested to him that he should give the bride away, and though he had grievously complained of the request, he knew that he must do it should the earl still demand it. he had no power to oppose the head of the family. but he had never thought then that he would be asked to pollute his own rectory by the presence of that odious tailor. while he was shaving that morning very religious ideas had filled his mind. what a horrible thing was wickedness! all this evil had come upon him and his because the late earl had been so very wicked a man! he had sworn to his wife that he would not bear it. he had done and was ready to do more almost than any other uncle in england. but this he could not endure. yet when he was shaving, and thinking with religious horror of the iniquities of that iniquitous old lord, he knew that he would have to yield. "i dare say they wouldn't come," said aunt julia. "he won't like to be with us any more than we shall like to have him." there was some comfort in that hope; and trusting to it the rector had yielded everything before the third day was over. "and i may ask sir william?" said the earl. "of course we shall be glad to see sir william patterson if you choose to invite him," said the rector, still oppressed by gloom. "sir william patterson is a gentleman no doubt, and a man of high standing. of course i and your aunt will be pleased to receive him. as a lawyer i don't think much of him;--but that has nothing to do with it." it may be remarked here that though mr. lovel lived for a great many years after the transactions which are here recorded, he never gave way in reference to the case that had been tried. if the lawyers had persevered as they ought to have done, it would have been found out that the countess was no countess, that the lady anna was no lady anna, and that all the money had belonged by right to the earl. with that belief,--with that profession of belief,--he went to his grave an old man of eighty. in the meantime he consented that the invitation should be given. the countess and her daughter were to be asked to yoxham;--the use of the parish church was to be offered for the ceremony; he was to propose to marry them; the earl was to give the bride away; and daniel thwaite the tailor was to be asked to dine at yoxham rectory on the day before the marriage! the letters were to be written from the rectory by aunt julia, and the earl was to add what he pleased for himself. "i suppose this sort of trial is sent to us for our good," said the rector to his wife that night in the sanctity of their bedroom. chapter xlvii. things arrange themselves. but the countess never gave way an inch. the following was the answer which she returned to the note written to her by aunt julia;-"the countess lovel presents her compliments to miss lovel. the countess disapproves altogether of the marriage which is about to take place between lady anna lovel and mr. daniel thwaite, and will take no part in the ceremony." "by heavens,--she is the best lovel of us all," said the rector when he read the letter. this reply was received at yoxham three days before any answer came either from lady anna or from the tailor. daniel had received his communication from the young lord, who had called him "dear mr. thwaite," who had written quite familiarly about the coming nuptials with "his cousin anna,"--had bade him come down and join the family "like a good fellow,"--and had signed himself, "yours always most sincerely, lovel." "it almost takes my breath away," said the tailor to his sweetheart, laughing. "they are cousins, you know," said lady anna. "and there was a little girl there i loved so much." "they can't but despise me, you know," said the tailor. "why should any one despise you?" "no one should,--unless i be mean and despicable. but they do,--you may be sure. it is only human nature that they should. we are made of different fabric,--though the stuff was originally the same. i don't think i should be at my ease with them. i should be half afraid of their gilt and their gingerbread, and should be ashamed of myself because i was so. i should not know how to drink wine with them, and should do a hundred things which would make them think me a beast." "i don't see why you shouldn't hold up your head with any man in england," said lady anna. "and so i ought;--but i shouldn't. i should be awed by those whom i feel to be my inferiors. i had rather not. we had better keep to ourselves, dear!" but the girl begged for some delay. it was a matter that required to be considered. if it were necessary for her to quarrel with all her cousins for the sake of her husband,--with the bright fainã©ant young earl, with aunts jane and julia, with her darling minnie, she would do so. the husband should be to her in all respects the first and foremost. for his sake, now that she had resolved that she would be his, she would if necessary separate herself from all the world. she had withstood the prayers of her mother, and she was sure that nothing else could move her. but if the cousins were willing to accept her husband, why should he not be willing to be accepted? pride in him might be as weak as pride in them. if they would put out their hands to him, why should he refuse to put out his own? "give me a day, daniel, to think about it." he gave her the day, and then that great decider of all things, sir william, came to him, congratulating him, bidding him be of good cheer, and saying fine things of the lovel family generally. our tailor received him courteously, having learned to like the man, understanding that he had behaved with honesty and wisdom in regard to his client, and respecting him as one of the workers of the day; but he declared that for the lovel family, as a family,--"he did not care for them particularly." "they are poles asunder from me," he said. "not so," replied sir william. "they were poles asunder, if you will. but by your good fortune and merit, if you will allow me to say so, you have travelled from the one pole very far towards the other." "i like my own pole a deal the best, sir william." "i am an older man than you, mr. thwaite, and allow me to assure you that you are wrong." "wrong in preferring those who work for their bread to those who eat it in idleness?" "not that;--but wrong in thinking that there is not hard work done at the one pole as well as the other; and wrong also in not having perceived that the best men who come up from age to age are always migrating from that pole which you say you prefer, to the antipodean pole to which you are tending yourself. i can understand your feeling of contempt for an idle lordling, but you should remember that lords have been made lords in nine cases out of ten for good work done by them for the benefit of their country." "why should the children of lords be such to the tenth and twentieth generation?" "come into parliament, mr. thwaite, and if you have views on that subject opposed to hereditary peerages, express them there. it is a fair subject for argument. at present, i think that the sense of the country is in favour of an aristocracy of birth. but be that as it may, do not allow yourself to despise that condition of society which it is the ambition of all men to enter." "it is not my ambition." "pardon me. when you were a workman among workmen, did you not wish to be their leader? when you were foremost among them, did you not wish to be their master? if you were a master tradesman, would you not wish to lead and guide your brother tradesmen? would you not desire wealth in order that you might be assisted by it in your views of ambition? if you were an alderman in your borough, would you not wish to be the mayor? if mayor, would you not wish to be its representative in parliament? if in parliament, would you not wish to be heard there? would you not then clothe yourself as those among whom you lived, eat as they ate, drink as they drank, keep their hours, fall into their habits, and be one of them? the theory of equality is very grand." "the grandest thing in the world, sir william." "it is one to which all legislative and all human efforts should and must tend. all that is said and all that is done among people that have emancipated themselves from the thraldom of individual aggrandizement, serve to diminish in some degree the distance between the high and the low. but could you establish absolute equality in england to-morrow, as it was to have been established in france some half century ago, the inequality of men's minds and character would re-establish an aristocracy within twenty years. the energetic, the talented, the honest, and the unselfish will always be moving towards an aristocratic side of society, because their virtues will beget esteem, and esteem will beget wealth,--and wealth gives power for good offices." "as when one man throws away forty thousand a year on race-courses." "when you make much water boil, mr. thwaite, some of it will probably boil over. when two men run a race, some strength must be wasted in fruitless steps beyond the goal. it is the fault of many patriotic men that, in their desire to put down the evils which exist they will see only the power that is wasted, and have no eyes for the good work done. the subject is so large that i should like to discuss it with you when we have more time. for the present let me beg of you, for your own sake as well as for her who is to be your wife, that you will not repudiate civility offered to you by her family. it will show a higher manliness in you to go among them, and accept among them the position which your wife's wealth and your own acquirements will give you, than to stand aloof moodily because they are aristocrats." "you can make yourself understood when you speak, sir william." "i am glad to hear you say so," said the lawyer, smiling. "i cannot, and so you have the best of me. but you can't make me like a lord, or think that a young man ought to wear a silk gown." "i quite agree with you that the silk gowns should be kept for their elders," and so the conversation was ended. daniel thwaite had not been made to like a lord, but the eloquence of the urbane lawyer was not wasted on him. thinking of it all as he wandered alone through the streets, he began to believe that it would be more manly to do as he was advised than to abstain because the doing of the thing would in itself be disagreeable to him. on the following day, lady anna was with him as usual; for the pretext of his wound still afforded to her the means of paying to him those daily visits which in happier circumstances he would naturally have paid to her. "would you like to go to yoxham?" he said. she looked wistfully up into his face. with her there was a real wish that the poles might be joined together by her future husband. she had found, as she had thought of it, that she could not make herself either happy or contented except by marrying him, but it had not been without regret that she had consented to destroy altogether the link which bound her to the noble blood of the lovels. she had been made to appreciate the sweet flavour of aristocratic influences, and now that the lovels were willing to receive her in spite of her marriage, she was more than willing to accept their offered friendship. "if you really wish it, you shall go," he said. "but you must go also." "yes;--for one day. and i must have a pair of gloves and a black coat." "and a blue one,--to be married in." "alas me! must i have a pink silk gown to walk about in, early in the morning?" "you shall if you like, and i'll make it for you." "i'd sooner see you darning my worsted stockings, sweetheart." "i can do that too." "and i shall have to go to church in a coach, and come back in another, and all the people will smell sweet, and make eyes at me behind my back, and wonder among themselves how the tailor will behave himself." "the tailor must behave himself properly," said lady anna. "that's just what he won't do,--and can't do. i know you'll be ashamed of me, and then we shall both be unhappy." "i won't be ashamed of you. i will never be ashamed of you. i will be ashamed of them if they are not good to you. but, daniel, you shall not go if you do not like it. what does it all signify, if you are not happy?" "i will go," said he. "and now i'll sit down and write a letter to my lord." two letters were written accepting the invitation. as that from the tailor to the lord was short and characteristic it shall be given. my dear lord, i am much obliged to you for your lordship's invitation to yoxham, and if accepting it will make me a good fellow, i will accept it. i fear, however, that i can never be a proper fellow to your lordship. not the less do i feel your courtesy, and i am, with all sincerity, your lordship's very obedient servant, daniel thwaite. lady anna's reply to aunt julia was longer and less sententious, but it signified her intention of going down to yoxham a week before the day settled for the marriage, which was now the 10th of july. she was much obliged, she said, to the rector for his goodness in promising to marry them; and as she had no friends of her own she hoped that minnie lovel would be her bridesmaid. there were, however, sundry other letters before the ceremony was performed, and among them was one in which she was asked to bring miss alice bluestone down with her,--so that she might have one bridesmaid over and beyond those provided by the yoxham aristocracy. to this arrangement miss alice bluestone acceded joyfully,--in spite of that gulf, of which she had spoken;--and, so accompanied, but without her lady's-maid, lady anna returned to yoxham that she might be there bound in holy matrimony to daniel thwaite the tailor, by the hands of her cousin, the rev. charles lovel. chapter xlviii. the marriage. the marriage was nearly all that a marriage should be when a lady anna is led to the hymeneal altar. as the ceremony was transferred from bloomsbury, london, to yoxham, in yorkshire, a licence had been procured, and the banns of which daniel thwaite thought so much, had been called in vain. of course there are differences in aristocratic marriages. all earls' daughters are not married at st. george's, hanover square, nor is it absolutely necessary that a bishop should tie the knot, or that the dresses should be described in a newspaper. this was essentially a quiet marriage,--but it was quiet with a splendid quietude, and the obscurity of it was graceful and decorous. as soon as the thing was settled,--when it was a matter past doubt that all the lovels were to sanction the marriage,--the two aunts went to work heartily. another lovel girl, hardly more than seen before by any of the family, was gathered to the lovel home as a third bridesmaid, and for the fourth,--who should officiate, but the eldest daughter of lady fitzwarren? the fitzwarrens were not rich, did not go to town annually, and the occasions for social brilliancy in the country are few and far between! lady fitzwarren did not like to refuse her old friend, mrs. lovel; and then lady anna was lady anna,--or at any rate would be so, as far as the newspapers of the day were concerned. miss fitzwarren allowed herself to be attired in white and blue, and to officiate in the procession,--having, however, assured her most intimate friend, miss de moleyns, that no consideration on earth should induce her to allow herself to be kissed by the tailor. in the week previous to the arrival of daniel thwaite, lady anna again ingratiated herself with the ladies at the rectory. during the days of her persecution she had been silent and apparently hard;--but now she was again gentle, yielding, and soft. "i do like her manner, all the same," said minnie. "yes, my dear. it's a pity that it should be as it is to be, because she is very nice." minnie loved her friend, but thought it to be a thing of horror that her friend should marry a tailor. it was almost as bad as the story of the princess who had to marry a bear;--worse indeed, for minnie did not at all believe that the tailor would ever turn out to be a gentleman, whereas she had been sure from the first that the bear would turn into a prince. daniel came to yoxham, and saw very little of anybody at the rectory. he was taken in at the house of a neighbouring squire, where he dined as a matter of course. he did call at the rectory, and saw his bride,--but on that occasion he did not even see the rector. the squire took him to the church in the morning, dressed in a blue frock coat, brown trousers, and a grey cravat. he was very much ashamed of his own clothes, but there was nothing about him to attract attention had not everybody known he was a tailor. the rector shook hands with him politely but coldly. the ladies were more affectionate; and minnie looked up into his face long and anxiously. "he wasn't very nice," she said afterwards, "but i thought he'd be worse than that!" when the marriage was over he kissed his wife, but made no attempt upon the bridesmaids. then there was a breakfast at the rectory,--which was a very handsome bridal banquet. on such occasions the part of the bride is always easily played. it is her duty to look pretty if she can, and should she fail in that,--as brides usually do,--her failure is attributed to the natural emotions of the occasion. the part of the bridegroom is more difficult. he should be manly, pleasant, composed, never flippant, able to say a few words when called upon, and quietly triumphant. this is almost more than mortal can achieve, and bridegrooms generally manifest some shortcomings at the awful moment. daniel thwaite was not successful. he was silent and almost morose. when lady fitzwarren congratulated him with high-flown words and a smile,--a smile that was intended to combine something of ridicule with something of civility,--he almost broke down in his attempt to answer her. "it is very good of you, my lady," said he. then she turned her back and whispered a word to the parson, and daniel was sure that she was laughing at him. the hero of the day was the solicitor-general. he made a speech, proposing health and prosperity to the newly-married couple. he referred, but just referred, to the trial, expressing the pleasure which all concerned had felt in recognising the rights and rank of the fair and noble bride as soon as the facts of the case had come to their knowledge. then he spoke of the truth and long-continued friendship and devoted constancy of the bridegroom and his father, saying that in the long experience of his life he had known nothing more touching or more graceful than the love which in early days had sprung up between the beautiful young girl and her earliest friend. he considered it to be among the happinesses of his life that he had been able to make the acquaintance of mr. daniel thwaite, and he expressed a hope that he might long be allowed to regard that gentleman as his friend. there was much applause, in giving which the young earl was certainly the loudest. the rector could not bring himself to say a word. he was striving to do his duty by the head of his family, but he could not bring himself to say that the marriage between lady anna lovel and the tailor was a happy event. poor daniel was compelled to make some speech in reply to his friend, sir william. "i am bad at speaking," said he, "and i hope i shall be excused. i can only say that i am under deep obligation to sir william patterson for what he has done for my wife." the couple went away with a carriage and four horses to york, and the marriage was over. "i hope i have done right," said the rector in whispered confidence to lady fitzwarren. "i think you have, mr. lovel. i'm sure you have. the circumstances were very difficult, but i am sure you have done right. she must always be considered as the legitimate child of her father." "they say so," murmured the rector sadly. "just that. and as she will always be considered to be the lady anna, you were bound to treat her as you have done. it was a pity that it was not done earlier, so that she might have formed a worthier connection. the earl, however, has not been altogether overlooked, and there is some comfort in that. i dare say mr. thwaite may be a good sort of man, though he is--not just what the family could have wished." these words were undoubtedly spoken by her ladyship with much pleasure. the fitzwarrens were poor, and the lovels were all rich. even the young earl was now fairly well to do in the world,--thanks to the generosity of the newly-found cousin. it was, therefore, pleasant to lady fitzwarren to allude to the family misfortune which must in some degree alloy the prosperity of her friends. mr. lovel understood it all, and sighed; but he felt no anger. he was grateful to lady fitzwarren for coming to his house at all on so mournful an occasion. and so we may bid farewell to yoxham. the rector was an honest, sincere man, unselfish, true to his instincts, genuinely english, charitable, hospitable, a doer of good to those around him. in judging of such a character we find the difficulty of drawing the line between political sagacity and political prejudice. had he been other than he was, he would probably have been less serviceable in his position. the bride and bridegroom went for their honeymoon into devonshire, and on their road they passed through london. lady anna thwaite,--for she had not at least as yet been able to drop her title,--wrote to her mother telling her of her arrival, and requesting permission to see her. on the following day she went alone to keppel street and was admitted. "dear, dear mamma," she said, throwing herself into the arms of her mother. "so it is done?" said the countess. "yes;--mamma,--we are married. i wrote to you from york." "i got your letter, but i could not answer it. what could i say? i wish it had not been so;--but it is done. you have chosen for yourself, and i will not reproach you." "do not reproach me now, mamma." "it would be useless. i will bear my sorrows in silence, such as they are. do not talk to me of him, but tell me what is the life that is proposed for you." they were to stay in the south of devonshire for a month and then to sail for the new colony founded at the antipodes. as to any permanent mode of life no definite plan had yet been formed. they were bound for sydney, and when there, "my husband,"--as lady anna called him, thinking that the word might be less painful to the ears of her mother than the name of the man who had become so odious to her,--would do as should seem good to him. they would at any rate learn something of the new world that was springing up, and he would then be able to judge whether he would best serve the purpose that he had at heart by remaining there or by returning to england. "and now, mamma, what will you do?" "nothing," said the countess. "but where will you live?" "if i could only find out, my child, where i might die, i would tell you that." "mamma, do not talk to me of dying." "how should i talk of my future life, my dear? for what should i live? i had but you, and you have left me." "come with me, mamma." "no, my dear. i could not live with him nor he with me. it will be better that he and i should never see each other again." "but you will not stay here?" "no;--i shall not stay here. i must use myself to solitude, but the solitude of london is unendurable. i shall go back to cumberland if i can find a home there. the mountains will remind me of the days which, sad as they were, were less sad than the present. i little dreamed then when i had gained everything my loss would be so great as it has been. was the earl there?" "at our marriage? oh yes, he was there." "i shall ask him to do me a kindness. perhaps he will let me live at lovel grange?" when the meeting was over lady anna returned to her husband overwhelmed with tears. she was almost broken-hearted when she asked herself whether she had in truth been cruel to her mother. but she knew not how she could have done other than she had done. her mother had endeavoured to conquer her by hard usage,--and had failed. but not the less her heart was very sore. "my dear," said the tailor to her, "hearts will be sore. as the world goes yet awhile there must be injustice; and sorrow will follow." when they had been gone from london about a month the countess wrote to her cousin the earl and told him her wishes. "if you desire to live there of course there must be an end of it. but if not, you might let the old place to me. it will not be as if it were gone out of the family. i will do what i can for the people around me, so that they may learn not to hate the name of lovel." the young lord told her that she should have the use of the house as long as she pleased,--for her lifetime if it suited her to live there so long. as for rent,--of course he could take none after all that had been done for him. but the place should be leased to her so that she need not fear to be disturbed. when the spring time came, after the sailing of the vessel which took the tailor and his wife off to the antipodes, lady lovel travelled down with her maid to cumberland, leaving london without a friend to whom she could say adieu. and at lovel grange she took up her abode, amidst the old furniture and the old pictures, with everything to remind her of the black tragedy of her youth, when her husband had come to her and had told her, with a smile upon his lips and scorn in his eye, that she was not his wife, and that the child which she bore would be a bastard. over his wicked word she had at any rate triumphed. now she was living there in his house the unquestioned and undoubted countess lovel, the mistress of much of his wealth, while still were living around her those who had known her when she was banished from her home. there, too often with ill-directed generosity, she gave away her money, and became loved of the poor around her. but in the way of society she saw no human being, and rarely went beyond the valley in which stood the lonely house to which she had been brought as a bride. of the further doings of mr. daniel thwaite and his wife lady anna,--of how they travelled and saw many things; and how he became perhaps a wiser man,--the present writer may, he hopes, live to tell. printed by virtue and co., city road, london. * * * * * * transcriber's note: obvious typographical errors have been corrected. specific changes in wording of the text are listed below. volume i, chapter xix, paragraph 43. the word "lady" was changed to "aunt" in the sentence: mrs. lovel accompanied them, but aunt julia made her farewells in the rectory drawing-room. volume ii, chapter xxxvii, paragraph 1. the word "was" was changed to "were" in the sentence: the countess had assented;--but when the moment came, there were reasons against her sudden departure. volume ii, chapter xxxix, paragraph 5. the word "or" was deleted from the sentence: he pointed it out as a fact that the earl had not the slightest claim upon any portion of the estate,--not more than he would have had if this money had come to lady anna from her mother's instead of [or] from her father's relatives. volume ii, chapter xxxix, paragraph 6. the word "not" was deleted from the sentence: if the earl could get â£10,000 a year by amicable arrangement, the solicitor-general would be shown to have been right in the eyes of all men, and it was [not] probable,--as both mr. goffe and mr. flick felt,--that he would not repudiate a settlement of the family affairs by which he would be proved to have been a discreet counsellor. volume ii, chapter xlv, paragraph 20. "david" was changed to "daniel" in the sentence: neither on that occasion, or on either of the two further callings, did any one get up in church to declare that impediment existed why daniel thwaite the tailor and lady anna lovel should not be joined together in holy matrimony. a son of hagar. a romance of our time by hall caine, author of "the bondsman," "the deemster," etc. "god hath heard the voice of the lad where he is." new york hurst & company publishers. to r.d. blackmore. it must be an exceeding great reward, beyond all the rewards of material success, to know that you have written a book that is deep, tranquil, strong and pure. again and again you have nobly earned that knowledge. across the more than thirty years that divide us, the elder from the younger brother, the veteran from the raw comrade, let me offer my hand to you as to a master of our craft. to the author, then, of a romance that has no equal save in scott, i humbly dedicate this romance of mine. h.c. * * * * * cumbrian words. barn=child; dusta=dost thou; hasta=hast thou. laal=little; leet=alight; girt=great. sista=seëst thou. varra=very. wadsta=wouldst thou. wilta=wilt thou. shaf!=_an expression of contempt_. preface. in my first novel, "the shadow of a crime," i tried to penetrate into the soul of a brave, unselfish, long-suffering man, and to lay bare the processes by which he raised himself to a great height of self-sacrifice. in this novel the aim has been to penetrate into the soul of a bad man, and to lay bare the processes by which he is tempted to his fall. to find a character that shall be above all common tendencies to guilt and yet tainted with the plague-spot of evil hidden somewhere; then to watch the first sharp struggle of what is good in the man with what is bad, until he is in the coil of his temptation; and finally, to show in what tragic ruin a man of strong passions, great will and power of mind may resist the force that precipitates him and save his soul alive--this is, i trust, a motive no less worthy, no less profitable to study, in the utmost result no less heroic and inspiring, than that of tracing the upward path of noble types of mind. for me there has been a pathetic, and i think purifying, interest in looking into the soul of this man and seeing it corrode beneath the touch of a powerful temptation until at the last, when it seems to lie spent, it rises again in strength and shows that the human heart has no depths in which it is lost. if this character had been equal to my intention, it might have been a real contribution to fiction, and far as i know it to fall short of the first deep blow of feeling in which it was conceived, it is, i think, new to the novel, though it holds a notable place in the drama--it would be presumptuous to say where--unnecessary, also, as i have made no disguise of my purpose. one of the usual disadvantages of choosing a leading character that is off the lines of heroic portraiture is that the author may seem to be in sympathy with a base part in life and with base opinions. in this novel i run a different risk. i shall not be surprised if i provoke some hostility in making the bad man justify his course by the gaunt and grim morality that masquerades as the morality of our own time, while the good man is made to justify his one dubious act by the full and sincere and just morality that too often wears now the garb of vice--the morality of the books of moses. this novel relies, i trust, on the sheer humanities alone, but among its less aggressive purposes is that of a plea for the natural rights of the bastard. those rights have been recognized in every country and by every race, except one, since the day when the outcast woman in the wilderness hearkened to the cry from heaven which said, "god hath heard the voice of the lad where he is." in england alone have the rights of blood been as nothing compared with the rights of property, and it is part of the business of this novel to exhibit these interests at a climax of strife. i have no fear that any true-hearted person will accuse me of a desire to cast reproach upon marriage as an ordinance. recognizing the beauty and the sanctity of marriage, i have tried to show that true marriage is a higher thing than a ceremony, and that people who use the gibbet and stake for offenders against its forms are too often those who see no offense in the violation of its spirit. my principal scenes are again among the mountains of cumberland; but in this second attempt i have tried to realize more completely their solitude and sweetness, their breezy healthfulness, and their scent as of new-cut turf, by putting them side by side with scenes full of the garrulous clangor and the malodor of the dark side of london. when i began, i thought to enlarge the popular knowledge of our robust north-country by the addition of some whimsical character and quaint folk-lore. if much of this quiet local atmosphere has had to make way before one strong current of tragic feeling, i trust some of it remains that is fresh and bracing in the incidents of the booth, the smithy, the dalesman's wedding, the rush-bearing, the cock-fighting, and the sheep-shearing. those readers of the earlier book who found human nature and an element of humor in the patois, will regret with me the necessity so to modify the dialect in this book as to remove from it nearly all the race quality that comes of intonation. i ought to add that one of my characters, parson christian, is a portrait of a dear, simple, honest soul long gone to his account, and that the words here put into his mouth are oftener his own than mine. i trust this book may help to correct a prevailing misconception as to the morals and mind of the typical english peasantry. it is certain that the conventional peasant of literature, the broad-mouthed rustic in a smock-frock, dull-eyed, mulish, beetle-headed, doddering, too vacant to be vicious, too doltish to do amiss, does not exist as a type in england. what does exist in every corner of the country is a peasantry speaking a patois that is often of varying inflections, but is always full of racy poetry, illiterate and yet possessed of a vast oral literature, sharing brains with other classes more equally than education, humorous, nimble-witted; clear-sighted, astute, cynical, not too virtuous, and having a lofty, contempt for the wiseacres of the town. the manners and customs, the folk lore and folk-talk of cumberland are far from exhausted in my two cumberland novels; but it is not probable that i shall work in this vein again. in parting from it, may i venture to hope that here and there a reader grown tired of the life of the great cities has sometimes found it a relief to escape with me into these mountain solitudes and look upon a life as real and more true; a life that is humble and yet not low; a life in which men may be men, and the rude people of the soil need study the face of no master save nature alone? a son of hagar. _book i._ retro me, sathana! prologue. in the year 1845. it was a chill december morning. the atmosphere was dense with fog in the dusky chamber of a london police court; the lights were bleared and the voices drowsed. a woman carrying a child in her arms had been half dragged, half pushed into the dock. she was young; beneath her disheveled hair her face showed almost girlish. her features were pinched with pain; her eyes had at one moment a serene look, and at the next moment a look of defiance. her dress had been rich; it was now torn and damp, and clung in dank folds to her limbs. the child she carried appeared to be four months old. she held it convulsively at her breast, and when it gave forth a feeble cry she rocked it mechanically. "your worship, i picked this person out of the river at ha'past one o'clock this morning," said a constable. "she had throwed herself off the steps of blackfriars bridge." "had she the child with her?" asked the bench. "yes, your worship; and when i brought her to land i couldn't get the little one out of her arms nohow--she clung that tight to it. the mother, she was insensible; but the child opened its eyes and cried." "have you not learned her name?" "no, sir; she won't give us no answer when we ask her that." "i am informed," said the clerk, "that against all inquiries touching her name and circumstances she keeps a rigid silence. the doctor is of opinion, your worship, that the woman is not entirely responsible." "her appearance in court might certainly justify that conclusion," said the magistrate. the young woman had gazed vacantly about her with an air of indifference. she seemed scarcely to realize that through the yellow vagueness the eyes of a hundred persons were centered on her haggard face. "anybody here who knows her?" asked the bench. "yes, your worship; i found out the old woman alonger she lodged." "let us hear the old person." a woman in middle life--a little, confused, aimless, uncomfortable body--stepped into the box. she answered to the name of drayton. her husband was a hotel porter. she had a house in pimlico. a month ago one of her rooms on the first floor back had been to let. she put a card in her window, and the prisoner applied. accepted the young lady as tenant, and had been duly paid her rent. knew nothing of who she was or where she came from. couldn't even get her name. had heard her call the baby paul. that was all she knew. "her occupation, my good woman, what was it? "nothing; she hadn't no occupation, your worship." "never went out? not at night?" "no, sir; leastways not at night, sir. i hopes your worship takes me for an honest woman, sir." "did nothing for a living, and yet she paid you. did you board her?" "yes, your worship; she could cook her wittles, but the poor young thing seemed never to have heart for nothing, sir." "never talked to you?" "no, sir; nothing but cried. she cried, and cried, and cried, 'cept when she laughed, and then it were awful, your worship. my man always did say as how there was no knowing what she'd be doing of yet." "is she married, do you know?" "yes, your worship; she wears her wedding-ring quite regular--only, once she plucked it off and flung it in the fire--i saw it with my own eyes, sir, or i mightn't ha' believed it; and i never did see the like--but the poor creature's not responsible at whiles--that's what my husband says." "what was her behavior to the child? did she seem fond of it?" "oh, yes, your worship; she used to hug, and hug, and hug it, and call it her darling, and paul, and paul, and paul, and all she had left in the world." "when did you see her last before to-day?" "yesterday, sir; she put on her bonnet and cape and drew a shawl around the baby, and went out in the afternoon. 'it will do you a mort of good,' says i to her; 'yes, mrs. drayton,' says she, 'it will do us both a world of good.' that was on the front doorsteps, your worship and it was a nice afternoon, but i had never no idea what she meant to be doing of; but she's not responsible, poor young thing, that's what my--" "and when night came and she hadn't got home, did you go in search of her?" "yes, your worship; for i says to my husband, says i, 'poor young thing, i can't rest in my bed, and knowing nothing of what's come to her.' and my man, he says to me, 'maggie,' he says, 'you go to the station and give the officers her description,' he says--'a tall young woman as might ha' been a lady, a-carrying a baby--that'll be good enough,' he says, and i went. and this morning the officer came, and i knew by his face as something had happened, and--" "let us hear the doctor. is he in court?" "yes, your worship," said the constable. mrs. drayton was being bustled out of the box. she stopped on the first step down-"and i do hope as no harm will come to her--she's not responsible--that's what my hus--" "all right, we know all that; down with you; this way; don't bother his worship!" at the bottom of the steps the woman stopped again with a handkerchief to her eyes. "and it do make me cry to see her, poor thing, and the baby, too, and innocent as a kitten--and i hopes if anything is done to her as--" mrs. drayton's further hopes and fears were lost in the bustle of the court. the young woman in the dock still gazed about her vacantly. there was strength in her firmly molded lip, sensibility in her large dark eyes, power in her broad, smooth brow, and a certain stateliness in the outlines of her tall, slim figure. the doctor who had examined her gave his report in a few words; the woman should be under control, though she was dangerous to no one but herself. her attempt at suicide was one of the common results of disaster in affairs of love. perhaps she was a married woman, abandoned by her husband; more likely she was an unfortunate lady in whom the shame of pregnancy had produced insanity. she was obviously a person of education and delicacy of feeling. "she must have connections of some kind," said the magistrate; and, turning to the dock, he said quietly, "give us your name, my good lady." the woman seemed not to hear, but she pressed her child yet closer to her breast, and it cried feebly. the magistrate tried again. "your baby's name is paul, isn't it? paul--what?" she looked around, glanced at the magistrate and back at the people in the court, but said nothing. just then the door opposite the bench creaked slightly, and a gentleman entered. the woman's wondering eyes passed over him. in an instant her torpor was shaken off. she riveted her gaze on the new-comer. her features contracted with lines of pain. she drew the child aside, as if to hide it from sight. then her face twitched, and she staggered back into the arms of the constable behind her. she was now insensible. through the dense folds of the fog the vague faces of the spectators showed an intent expression. it was observed that the gentleman who had entered the court a moment before immediately left it. the magistrate saw him pass out of the door merely as a distorted figure in the dusky shadows. "let her be removed to the dartford asylum," said the magistrate; "i will give an order at once." a voice came from the body of the court. it was mrs. drayton's voice, thick with sobs. "and if you please, your worship, may me and my husband take care of the child until the poor young thing is well enough to come for it? we've no children of our own, sir, and my husband and me, we'd like to have it, and no one would do no better by it, your worship." "i think you are a good woman, mrs. drayton," said the magistrate. then, turning to the clerk, he added: "let inquiries be made about her, and, if all prove satisfactory, let the child be given into her care." "oh, thank your worship; it do make me cry--" "yes, all right--never mind now--we know all about it--come along." the prisoner recovered consciousness in being removed from the dock; the constable was taking the child out of her arms. she clung to it with feverish hands. "take me away," she said in a deep whisper, and her eyes wandered to the door. "stop that man!" said the magistrate, pointing to the vague recesses into which the spectator had disappeared. an officer of the court went out hastily. presently returning: "he is gone," said the officer. "take me away, take me away!" cried the prisoner in a tense voice. "paul, paul, my own little paul!" the woman's breath came and went in gusts, and her child cried from the convulsive pressure to her breast. "remove them," said the bench. there was a faint commotion. among the people in the court, huddled like sheep, there was a harsh scraping of feet, and some suppressed whispering. the stolid faces on the bench turned and smiled slightly in the yellow gleam of the gas that burned in front of them. then the momentary bustle ended, the woman and child were gone, and the calm monotony of the court was resumed. six months later a handsome woman, still little more than a girl, yet with eyes of suffering, stepped up to the door of a house in pimlico and knocked timidly. "i wish to see mrs. drayton," she said, when the door was opened by an elderly person. "bless you, they're gone, mrs. drayton and her husband." "gone!" said the young woman, "gone! what do you mean?" "why, gone--removed--shifted." "removed--shifted?" the idea seemed to struggle its slow way into her brain. "in course--what else, when the big hotel fails and he loses his job? rents can't be paid on nothing a week, and something to put in the mouth besides." "gone? are you mad? woman, think what you're saying. gone where?" "how do i know where? mad, indeed! i'll not say but other folk look a mort madder nor ever i looked." the young woman took her by the shoulder. "don't say that--don't say you don't know where they're gone. they've got my child, i tell you; my poor little paul. "oh, so you're the young party as drowned herself, are you? well, they're gone anyways, and the little chit with them, and there's no saying where. you may believe me. ask the neighbors else." the young woman leaned against the door-jamb with a white face and great eyes. "well, well, how hard she takes it. deary me, deary me, she's not a bad sort, after all. well, well, who'd ha' thought it! there, there, come in and sit awhile. it is cruel to lose one's babby--and me to tell her, too. misbegotten or not, it's one's own flesh and blood, and that's what i always says." the young woman had been drawn into the house and seated on a chair. she got up again with the face of an old woman. "oh, i'm choking!" she said. "rest awhile, do now, my dear--there--there." "no, no, my good woman, let me go." "heaven help you, child; how you look!" "heaven has never helped me," said the young woman. "i was a sister of charity only two years ago. a man found me and wooed me; married me and abandoned me; i tried to die and they rescued me; they separated me from my child and put me in an asylum; i escaped, and have now come for my darling, and he is gone." "deary me, deary me!" and the old woman stroked her consolingly. "let me go," she cried, starting up afresh. "if heaven has done nothing for me, perhaps the world itself will have mercy." the ghastly face answered ill to the grating laugh that followed as she jerked her head aside and hurried away. chapter i. in the year 1875. it was young folks' day in the vale of newlands. the summer was at its height; the sun shone brightly; the lake to the north lay flat as a floor of glass, and reflected a continent of blue cloud; the fells were clear to their summits, and purple with waves of heather. it was noontide, and the shadows were short. in the slumberous atmosphere the bees droned, and the hot air quivered some feet above the long, lush grass. the fragrance of new-mown hay floated languidly through a sub-current of wild rose and honeysuckle. in a meadow at the foot of the causey pike tents were pitched, flags were flying, and crowds of men, women, and children watched the mountain sports. in the center of a group of spectators two men, stripped to the waist, were wrestling. they were huge fellows, with muscles that stood out on their arms like giant bulbs, and feet that held the ground like the hoofs of oxen. the wrestlers were calm to all outward appearance, and embraced each other with the quiet fondling of lambs and the sinuous power of less affectionate creatures. but the people about them were wildly excited. they stopped to watch every wary movement of the foot, and craned their necks to catch the subtlest twist of the wrist. "sista, reuben, sista! he'll have enough to do to tummel john proudfoot. john's up to the scat to-day, anyways." "look tha! john's on for giving him the cross-buttock." john was the blacksmith, a big buirdly fellow with a larger blunt head. "and he has given it too, has john." "nay, nay, john's doon--ey, ey, he's doon, is john." one of the wrestlers had thrown the other, and was standing quietly over him. he was a stalwart young man of eight-and-twenty, brown-haired, clear-eyed, of a ruddy complexion, with a short, thick, curly beard, and the grace and bearing that comes of health and strength and a complete absence of self-consciousness. he smiled cheerfully, and nodded his head in response to loud shouts of applause. "weel done! verra weel done! that's the way to ding 'em ower! what sayst tha, reuben?" "what a bash it was, to be sure!" "what dusta think you of yon wrestling, ey, man?" "nay, nay, it's verra middling." "ever seen owt like it since the good auld days you crack on sa often, auld man?" "nay, he doont him verra neat, did paul--i will allow it." "there's never a man in cumberland need take a hand with young paul ritson after this." "ey, ey; he's his father's son." the wrestler, surrounded by a little multitude of boys, who clung to his sparse garments on every side, made his way to a tent. at the same moment a ludicrous figure forced a passage through the crowd, and came to a stand in the middle of the green. it was a diminutive creature, mounted on a pony that carried its owner on a saddle immediately below its neck, and a pair of paniers just above its tail. the rider was an elderly man with shaggy eyebrows and beard of mingled black and gray. his swarthy, keen wizened face was twisted into grotesque lines beneath a pair of little blinking eyes, which seemed to say that anybody who refused to see that they belonged to a perfectly, wideawake son of old adam made a portentous mistake. he was the mountain peddler, and to-day, at least, his visit was opportune. "lasses, here's for you! look you, here's gubblum oglethorpe, pony and all." "why, didsta ever see the like--gubblum's getten hissel into a saddle!" gubblum, from his seat on the pony, twisted one half of his wrinkled face awry, and said: "in course i have! but it's a vast easier getting into this saddle nor getting out of it, i can tell you!" "why, how's that, gubblum?" cried a voice from the crowd. "what, man, did you never hear of the day i bought it?" sundry shakes of many heads were the response. "no?" said gubblum, with an accent of sheer incredulity, and added, "well, there is no accounting for the ignorance of some folks." "what happened to you, gubblum?" gubblum's expression of surprise gave place to a look of condescension. he lifted his bronzed and hairy hand to the rim of his straw hat to shade his eyes from the sun. "well, when i got on to auld bessy, here, i couldn't get off again--that's what happened." "no? why?" "you see, i'd got my clogs on when i went to buy the saddle in kezzick, and they're middling wide in the soles, my clogs are. so when i put my feet into the stirrups, there they stuck." "stuck!" "ey, fast as nails! and when i got home to branth'et edge i couldn't get them out. so our sally, she said to my auld woman, 'mother,' she said, 'we'll have to put father into the stable with the pony and fetch him a cup of tea.' and that's what they did, and when i had summat into me i had another fratch at getting out of the saddle; but i couldn't manish it; so i had--what you think i had to do?" "nay, man, what?" "i had to sleep all night in the stable on bessy's back!" "bless thee, gubblum, and whatever didsta do?" "i'm coming to that, on'y some folks are so impatient. next morning that lass of mine, she said to her mother, 'mother,' she said, 'wouldn't it be best to take the saddle off the pony, and then father he'll sure come off with it?'" "and they did do it?" "ey, they did. they took bessy and me round to the soft bed as they keeps maistly at the back of a stable, and they loosened the straps and gave a push, and cried 'away.'" "weel, man, weel?" "weel! nowt of the sort! it wasn't weel at all! when i rolled over i was off the pony, for sure; but i was stuck fast to the saddle just the same." "what ever did they do with thee then?" "i'm coming to that, too, on'y some folks are so mortal fond of hearing theirselves talk. they picked me up, saddle and all, and set me on the edge of the kitchen dresser. and there i sat for the best part of a week, sleeping and waking, and carding and spinning, and getting fearful thin. but i got off at last, i did!" there was a look of proud content in gubblum's face as he added, "what a thing it is to be eddicated! we don't vally eddication half enough!" a young fellow--it was lang geordie moore--pushed a smirking face between the shoulders of two girls, and said: "did you take to reading and writing, then, gubblum, when you were on the kitchen dresser?" there was a gurgling titter, but, disdaining to notice the interruption, gubblum lifted his tawny face into the glare of the sun, and said: "it was my son as did it--him that is learning for a parson. he came home from st. bees, and 'mother,' he said, before he'd been in the house a minute, 'let's take fathers clogs off, and then his feet will come out of the stirrups." a loud laugh bubbled over the company. gubblum sat erect in the saddle and added with a grave face: "that's what comes of eddication and reading the bible and all o' that! if i had fifty sons i'd make 'em all parsons." the people laughed again, and crowed and exchanged nods and knowing winks. they enjoyed the peddler's talk, and felt an indulgent tenderness for his slow and feeble intellect. he on his part enjoyed no less to assume a simple and shallow nature. a twinkle lurked under his bushy brows while he "smoked the gonies." they laughed and he smiled slyly, and both were satisfied. gubblum oglethorpe, peddler, of branth'et edge, got off his pony and stroked its tousled mane. he was leading it to a temporary stable, when he met face to face the young wrestler, paul ritson, who was coming from the tent in his walking costume. drawing up sharply, he surveyed paul rapidly from head to foot, and then asked him with a look of bewilderment what he could be doing there. "why, when did you come back to these parts?" paul smiled. "come back! i've not been away." the old man looked slyly up into paul's face and winked. perceiving no response to that insinuating communication, his wrinkled face became more grave, and he said: "you were nigh to london three days ago." "nigh to london three days ago!" paul laughed, then nodded across at a burly dalesman standing near, and said: "geordie, just pinch the old man, and see if he's dreaming." there was a general titter, followed by glances of amused inquiry. the peddler took off his hat, held his head aside, scratched it leisurely, glanced up again at the face of young ritson, as if to satisfy himself finally as to his identity, and eventually muttered half aloud: "well, i'm fair maizelt--that's what i am!" "maizelt--why?" "i could ha' sworn i saw you at a spot near london three days ago." "not been there these three years," said paul. "didn't you wave your hand to me as we went by--me and bessy?" "did i? where?" "why, at the hawk and heron, in hendon." "never saw the place in my life." "sure of that?" "sure." the grave old head dropped once more, and the pony's head was held down to the withered hand that scratched and caressed it. then the first idea of a possible reason on paul's part for keeping his movements secret suggested itself afresh to gubblum. he glanced soberly around, caught the eye of the young dalesman furtively, and winked again. paul laughed outright, nodded his head good-humoredly, and rather ostentatiously winked in response. the company that had gathered about them caught the humor of the situation, and tittered audibly enough to provoke the peddler's wrath. "but i say you have seen it," shouted gubblum in emphatic tones. at that moment a slim young man walked slowly past the group. he was well dressed, and carried himself with ease and some dignity, albeit with an air of listlessness--a weary and dragging gait, due in part to a slight infirmity of one foot. when some of the dalesmen bowed to him his smile lacked warmth. he was hugh ritson, the younger brother of paul. gubblum's manner gathered emphasis. "you were standing on the step of the hawk and heron," said he, "and i waved my hand and shouted 'a canny morning to you, master paul'--ey, that i did!" "you don't say so!" said paul, with mock solemnity. his brother had caught the peddler's words, and stopped. "but i do say so," said gubblum, with many shakes of his big head. let any facetious young gentleman who supposed that it was possible to make sport of him, understand once for all that it might be as well to throw a stone into his own garden. "why, gubblum," said paul, smothering a laugh, "what was i doing at hendon?" "doing! well, a chap 'at was on the road along of me said that master paul had started innkeeper." "innkeeper!" there was a prolonged burst of laughter, amid which one amused patriarch on a stick shouted: "feel if tha's abed, gubblum, ma man!" "and if i is abed, it's better nor being in bed-lam, isn't it?" shouted the peddler. then gubblum scratched his head again, and said more quietly: "it caps all. if it wasn't you, it must ha' been the old gentleman hissel'." "are we so much alike? come, let's see your pack." "his name was paul, anyways." hugh ritson had elbowed his way through the group, and was now at gubblum's elbow listening intently. when the others had laughed, he alone preserved an equal countenance. "paul--what?" he asked. "nay, don't ax me--i know nowt no mair--i must be an auld maizelin, i must, for sure!" hugh ritson turned on his heel and walked off. chapter ii. the vale of newlands runs north and south. on its east banks rise the cat bell fells and the eel crags; on the west rise hindscarth and robinson, backed by whiteless pike and grasmoor. a river flows down the bed of the valley, springing in the south among the heights of dale head, and emptying into bassenthwaite on the north. a village known as little town stands about midway in the vale, and a road runs along each bank. the tents were pitched for the sports near the bed of the valley, on the east side of the newlands beck. on the west side, above the road, there was a thick copse of hazel, oak, and birch. from a clearing in this wood a thin column of pale blue smoke was rising through the still air. a hut in the shape of a cone stood a few yards from the road. it was thatched from the ground upward with heather and bracken, leaving only a low aperture as door. near the hut a small fire of hazel sticks crackled under the pot that swung from a forked triangle of oak limbs. fagots were stacked at one end of the clearing; a pile of loose bark lay near. it was a charcoal pit, and behind a line of hurdles that were propped with poles and intertwined with dead grass and gorse, an old man was building a charcoal fire. he was tall and slight, and he stooped. his eyes were large and heavy; his long beard was whitening. he wore a low-crowned hat with broad brim, and a loose flannel jacket without a waistcoat. most of us convey the idea that to our own view we are centers of our circles, and that the universe revolves about us. this old man suggested a different feeling. to himself he might have been a thing gone somehow out of its orbit. there was a listless melancholy, a lonely weariness in his look and movements. an old misery seemed to sit on him. his name was matthew fisher; but the folk of the country-side called him laird fisher. the dubious dignity came of the circumstance that he was the holder of an absolute royalty on a few acres of land under hindscarth. the royalty had been many generations in his family. his grandfather had set store by it. when the lord of the manor had worked the copper pits at the foot of the eel crags, he had tried to possess himself of the royalties of the fishers. but the peasant family resisted the aristocrat. luke fisher believed there was a fortune under his feet, and he meant to try his own luck on his holding some day. that day never came. his son, mark fisher, carried on the tradition, but made no effort to unearth the fortune. they were a cool, silent, slow, and stubborn race. matthew fisher followed his father and his grandfather, and inherited the family faith. all these years the tenders of the lord of the manor were ignored, and the fishers enjoyed their title of courtesy or badinage. when matthew was a boy there was a rhyme current in the vale which ran: "there's t' auld laird, and t' young laird, and t' laird among t' barns. if iver there comes another laird, we'll hang-him up by t' arms." there is a tough bit of toryism in the grain of these northern dalesfolk. their threat was idle; no other laird ever came. matthew married, and had one daughter only. he farmed his few acres with poor results. the ground was good enough, but matthew was living under the shadow of the family tradition. one day--it was sunday morning, and the sun shone brightly--he was rambling by the po beck that rose on hindscarth and passed through his land, when his eye glanced over a glittering stone that lay among the pebbles, at the bottom of the stream. it was ore, good full ore, and on the very surface. then the laird fisher sunk a shaft and all his earnings with it in an attempt to procure iron or copper. the dalespeople derided him, but he held silently on his way. "how dusta find the cobbles to-day--any softer?" they would ask. "as soft as the hearts of most folk," he would answer, and then add in a murmur, "and maybe a vast harder nor their heads." the undeceiving came at length, and then the laird fisher was old and poor. his wife died broken-hearted. after that the laird never rallied. the breezy irony of the dalesfolk did not spare the old man's bent head. "he's brankan" (holding up his head) "like a steg swan," they would say as he went past. the shaft was left unworked, and the holding lay fallow. laird fisher took wage from the lord of the manor to burn charcoal in the copse. the old man had raised his vertical shaft, and was laying the oak limbs against it, when a girl of about eighteen came along the road from the south, and clambered over the stile that led to the charcoal pit. she was followed by a sheep-dog, small and wiry as a hill-fox. "is that thee, mercy?" said the charcoal-burner from the fire, without turning. the girl was a pretty little thing; yet there was something wrong with her prettiness. one saw at once that her cheeks should have been pink and white like the daisy, and that her hair, which was yellow as the primrose, should have tumbled in wavelets about them. there ought to have been sunshine in the blue eyes, and laughter on the red lips, and merry lilt in the soft voice. but the pink had faded from the girl's cheek; the shadow had chased the sunshine from her eyes; her lips had taken a downward turn, and a note of sadness had stolen the merriment from her voice. "it's only your tea, father," she said, setting down a basket. then taking up a spoon that lay on the ground, she stirred the mess that was simmering over the fire. the dog lay and blinked in the sun. a rabbit rustled through the coppice, and a jay screeched in the distant glade. but above all came the peals of merry laughter from below. the girl's eyes wandered yearningly to the tents over which the flags were flying. "do you hear the sports, father?" she said. "ey, lass, there's gay carryin's-on. they're chirming and chirping like as many sparrows." the old man twisted about. "i should have thowt as thou'd have been in the thick of the thrang thysel', mercy, carryin' on the war." "i didn't care to go," said mercy in an undertone. the old man looked at her silently for a moment. "ways me, but thoos not the same heartsome lass," he said, and went on piling the fagots around the shaft. "but i count nowt of sec wark," he added, after a pause. little mercy's eyes strayed back from the bubbling pot to the tents below. there was a shout of applause. "that's geordie moore's voice," thought mercy. she could see a circle with linked hands. "they're playing the cushion game," she said under her breath, and then drew a long sigh. though she did not care to go to the sports to-day, she felt, oh! so sick at heart. like a wounded hare that creeps into quiet ambush, and lies down on the dry clover to die, she had stolen away from all this noisy happiness; but her heart's joy was draining away. in her wistful eyes there was something almost cruel in this bustling merriment, in this flaunting gayety, in this sweet summer day itself. the old charcoal-burner had stepped up to where the girl knelt with far-away eyes. "mercy," he said, "i've wanted a word with you this many a day." "with me, father?" the girl rose to her feet. there was a look of uneasiness in her face. "you've lost your spirits--what's come of them?" "me, father?" the assumed surprise was in danger of breaking down. "not well, mercy--is that it?" he took her head between his hard old hands, and stroked her hair as tenderly as a mother might have done. "oh, yes, father; quite well, quite." then there was a little forced laugh. the lucent eyes were full of a dewy wistfulness. "any trouble, mercy?" "what trouble, father?" "nay, any trouble--trouble's common, isn't it?" the old man's voice shook slightly, and his hand trembled on the girl's head. "what have i to trouble me!" said mercy, in a low voice nigh to breaking. "well, you know best," said the charcoal-burner. then he put his hand under the girl's chin and lifted her face until her unwilling eyes looked into his. the scrutiny appeared to console him, and a smile played over his battered features. "maybe i was wrong," he thought. "folk are allus clattering." mercy made another forced little laugh, and instantly the laird fisher's face saddened. "they do say 'at you're not the same heartsome little lass," he said. "do they? oh, but i am quite happy! you always say people are busybodies, don't you, father?" the break-down was imminent. "why, mercy, you're crying." "me--crying!" the girl tossed her head with, a pathetic gesture of gay protestation. "oh, no; i was laughing--that was it." "there are tears in your eyes, anyways." "tears? nonsense, father! tears? didn't i tell you that your sight was failing you--ey, didn't i, now?" it was of no use to struggle longer. the fair head fell on the heaving breast, and mercy sobbed. the old man looked at her through a blinding mist in his hazy eyes. "tell me, my little lassie, tell me," he said. "oh, it's nothing," said mercy. she had brushed away the tears and was smiling. the laird fisher shook his head. "it's nothing, father--only--" "only--what?" "only--oh, it's nothing!" "mercy, my lass," said the laird fisher, and the tears stood now in his own dim eyes, "mercy, remember if owt goes wrong with a girl, and her mother is under the grass, her father is the first she should come to and tell all." the old man had seated himself on a stout block cut from a trunk, and was opening the basket, when there was a light, springy step on the road. "so you fire to-night, matthew?" an elderly man leaned over the stile and smiled. "nay, mr. bonnithorne, there's ower much nastment in the weather yet." the gentleman took off his silk hat and mopped his forehead. his hair was thin and of a pale yellow, and was smoothed flat on his brow. "you surprise me! i thought the weather perfect. see how blue the sky is." "that doesn't argy. it might be better with never a blenk of blue. it was rayder airy yesterday, and last night the moon got up as blake and yellow as may butter." the smile was perpetual on the gentleman's face. it showed his teeth constantly. "you dalesmen are so weather-wise." the voice was soft and womanish. there was a little laugh at the end of each remark. "we go by the moon in firing, sir," the charcoal-burner answered, "last night it rose sou'-west, and that doesn't mean betterment, though it's quiet enough now. there'll be clashy weather before nightfall." the girl strayed away into the thicket, and startled a woodcock out of a heap of dead oak leaves. the gentleman followed her with his eyes. they were very small and piercing eyes, and they blinked frequently. "your daughter does not look very well, matthew." "she's gayly, sir; she's gayly," said the charcoal-burner shortly, his mouth in his can of tea. the gentleman smiled from the teeth out. after a pause, he said: "i suppose it isn't pleasant when one of your hurdles is blown down, and the charcoal burning," indicating the wooden hurdles which had been propped about the half-built charcoal stack. "ey, it's gay bad wark, to be sure--being dragged into the fire." the dog had risen with a startled movement. following the upward direction of the animal's nose, the gentleman said, "whose sheep are those on the ghyll yonder?" "auld mr. ritson's, them herdwicks." the sheep were on a ridge of shelving rock. "dangerous spot, eh?" "ey, it's a bent place. they're verra clammersome, the black-faced sorts." "i'll bid you good-day, matthew." the yellow-haired elderly gentleman was moving off. he walked with a jerk and a spring on his toes. "and mind you take your daughter to the new doctor at keswick," he said at parting. "it's not doctoring that'll mend mercy," the charcoal-burner muttered, when the other had gone. chapter iii. josiah bonnithorne was quite without kinspeople or connections. his mother had been one of two sisters who lived by keeping a small confectioner's shop in whitehaven, and were devoted methodists. the sisters had formed views as to matrimony, and they enjoyed a curious similarity of choice. they were to be the wives of preachers. but the opportunity was long in coming, and they grew elderly. at length the younger sister died, and so solved the problem of her future. the elder sister was left for two years more alone with her confectionery. then she married a stranger who had come to one of the pits as gangsman. it was a sad falling off. but at all events the gangsman was a local preacher, and so the poor soul who took him for husband had effected a compromise with her cherished ideal. it turned put that he was a scoundrel as well, and had a wife living elsewhere. this disclosure abridged his usefulness among the brethren, and he fled. naturally, he left his second wife behind, having previously secured a bill of sale on her household effects. a few months elapsed, the woman was turned adrift by her husband's creditors, and then a child was born. it was a poor little thing--a boy. the good souls of the "connection" provided for it until it was two years old, and afterward placed it in a charity school. while the little fellow was there, his mother was struck down by a mortal complaint. then for the first time the poor ruined woman asked to see her child. they brought the little one to her bedside, and it smiled down into her dying face. "oh, that it may please the lord to make him a preacher!" she said with a great effort. at a sign from the doctor the child was taken away. the face pinched by cruel suffering quivered slightly, the timid eyes worn by wasted hope softened and closed, and the mother bid farewell to everything. the boy lived. they christened him josiah, and he took for surname the maiden name of his mother, bonnithorne. he was a weakling, and had no love of boyish sports; but he excelled in scholarship. in spite of these tendencies, he was apprenticed to a butcher when the time came to remove him from school. an accident transferred him to the office of a solicitor, and he was articled. ten years later he succeeded to his master's practice, and then he sailed with all sail set. he disappointed the "connection" by developing into a churchman, but otherwise aroused no hostile feeling. it was obviously his cue to conciliate everybody. he was liked without being popular, trusted without being a favorite. churchwarden, trustee for public funds, executor for private friends, he had a reputation for disinterested industry. and people said how well it was that one so unselfish as josiah bonnithorne should nevertheless prosper even as this world goes. but there was a man in cumberland who knew mr. bonnithorne from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot. that man was mr. hugh ritson. never for an instant did either of these palter with the other. when mr. bonnithorne left the charcoal pit, he followed the road that crossed the newlands beck, and returned on the breast of the eel crags. this led him close to the booth where the sports were proceeding. he heard, as he passed, the gurgling laugh with which the dalesfolk received the peddler's story of how he saw paul ritson at hendon. a minute afterward he encountered hugh ritson on the road. there was only the most meagre pretense at greeting when these men came face to face. "your father sent for me," said mr. bonnithorne. "on what business?" hugh ritson asked. "i have yet to learn." they walked some steps without speaking. then the lawyer turned with his constant smile, and said in his soft voice: "i have just seen your little friend. she looks pale, poor thing! something must be done, and shortly." hugh ritson's face flushed perceptibly. his eyes were on the ground. "let us go no further in this matter," he said, in a low tone. "i saw her yesterday. then there is her father, poor, broken creature! let it drop." "i did not believe it of you!" mr. bonnithorne spoke calmly and went on smiling. "besides, i am ashamed. the thing is too mean," said hugh ritson. "in what turgid melodrama does not just such an episode occur?" "so, so! or is it the story of the cat in the adage? you would and you wouldn't?" "my blood is not thick enough. i can't do it." "then why did you propose it? was it your suggestion or mine? i thought to spare the girl her shame. here her trouble must fall on her in battalions, poor little being. send her away, and you decimate them." "it is unnecessary. you know i am superior to prejudice." hugh ritson dropped his voice and said, as if speaking into his breast: "if the worst comes to the worst, i can marry her." mr. bonnithorne laughed lightly. "ho! ho! and in what turgid melodrama does not just such an episode occur?" hugh ritson drew up sharply. "why not? is she poor? then what am i? uneducated? what is education likely to do for me? a simple creature, all heart and no head? god be praised for that!" at this moment a girl's laugh came rippling through the air. it was one of those joyous peals that make the heart's own music. hugh ritson's pale face flushed a little, and he drew his breath hard. mr. bonnithorne nodded his head in the direction of the voice, and said softly: "so our friend greta is here to-day?" "yes," said hugh ritson very quietly. then the friends walked some distance in silence. "it is scarcely worthy of you to talk in this brain-sick fashion," said mr. bonnithorne. there was a dull irritation in the tone. "you place yourself in the wrong point of view. you do not love the little being." hugh ritson's forehead contracted, and he said: "if i have wrecked my life by one folly, one act of astounding unwisdom, what matter? there was but little to wreck. i am a disappointed man." "pardon me, you are a very young one," said mr. bonnithorne. "what am i in my father's house? he gives no hint of helping me to an independence in life." "there are the lands. your father must be a rich man." "and i am a second son." "indeed?" hugh ritson glanced up quickly. "what do you mean?" "you say you are a second son." "and what then?" "would it be so fearful a thing if you were not a second son?" "in the name of truth, be plain. my brother paul is living." mr. bonnithorne nodded his head twice or thrice, and said calmly: "you know that your brother hopes to marry greta?" "i have heard it." again the flush came to hugh ritson's cheeks. his low voice had a tremor. "did i ever tell you of her father's strange legacy?" "never." "my poor friend robert lowther left a legacy to a son of his own, who was greta's half-brother." "an illegitimate son?" "not strictly. lowther married the son's mother," said mr. bonnithorne. "married her? then his son was his heir?" "no." hugh ritson looked perplexed. "the girl was a catholic, lowther a protestant. a catholic priest married them in ireland. that was not a valid marriage by english law." hugh smiled grimly. "and lowther had the marriage annulled?" "he had fallen in love," began mr. bonnithorne. "this time with an heiress?" there was a caustic laugh. mr. bonnithorne nodded. "greta's mother. so he--" "abandoned the first wife," hugh ritson interrupted again. mr. bonnithorne shook his head with an innocent expression. "wife? well, he left her." "you talk of a son. had they one?" "they had," said mr. bonnithorne, "and when the woman and child ... disappeared--" "exactly," said hugh ritson, and he smiled. "what did lowther then?" "married again, and had a daughter--greta." "then why the legacy?" "conscience-money," said mr. bonnithorne, pursing up his mouth. hugh ritson laughed slightly. "the sort of fools' pence the chancellor of the exchequer receives labeled 'income tax.'" "precisely--only lowther had no address to send it to." "he had behaved like a scoundrel," said hugh ritson. "true, and he felt remorse. after the second marriage he set people to find the poor woman and child. they were never found. his last days were overshadowed by his early fault. i believe he died broken-hearted. in his will--i drew it for him--he left, as i say, a sum to be paid to this son of his first wife--when found." hugh ritson laughed half mockingly. "i thought he was a fool. a scoundrel is generally a fool as well." "generally; i've often observed it," said mr. bonnithorne. "what possible interest of anybody's could it be to go hunting for the son of the fool's deserted wife?" "the fool," answered mr. bonnithorne, "was shrewd enough to make an interest by ordering that if the son were not found before greta came of age, a legacy of double the sum should be paid to an orphanage for boys." hugh ritson's respect for the dead man's intelligence experienced a sensible elevation. "so it is worth a legacy to the family to discover greta's half-brother," he said, summing up the situation in an instant. "if alive--if not, then proof that he is dead." the two men had walked some distance, and reached the turning of a lane which led to a house that could be seen among the trees at the foot of a ghyll. the younger man drew up on his infirm foot. "but i fail to catch the relevance of all this. when i mentioned that i was a second son you--" "i have had hardly any data to help me in my search," mr. bonnithorne continued. he was walking on. "only a medallion-portrait of the first wife." mr. bonnithorne dived into a breast-pocket. "my brother paul is living. what possible--" "here it is," said mr. bonnithorne, and he held out a small picture. hugh ritson took it with little interest. "this is the portrait of the nun," he said, as his eyes first fell on it, and recognized the coif and cape. "a novice--that's what she was when lowther met her," said mr. bonnithorne. then hugh ritson stopped. he regarded the portrait attentively; looked up at the lawyer and back at the medallion. for an instant the strong calm which he had hitherto shown seemed to desert him. the picture trembled in his hand. mr. bonnithorne did not appear to see his agitation. "is it a fancy? surely it must be fancy!" he muttered. then he asked aloud what the nun's name had been. "ormerod." there was a start of recovered consciousness. "ormerod--that's strange!" the exclamation seemed to escape inadvertently. "why strange?" hugh ritson did not answer immediately. "her christian name?" "grace." "grace ormerod? why, you must know that grace ormerod happened to be my own mother's maiden name!" "you seem to recognize the portrait." hugh ritson had regained his self-possession. he assumed an air of indifference. "well, yes--no, of course not--no," he said, emphatically, at last. in his heart there was another answer. he thought for the moment when he set eyes on the picture that it looked like--a little like--his own mother's face. they walked on. mr. bonnithorne's constant smile parted his lips. lifting his voice rather unnecessarily, he said: "by the way, another odd coincidence! would you like to know the name of grace ormerod's child by robert lowther?" hugh ritson's heart leaped within him, but he preserved an outward show of indifference, and drawled: "well, what was it?" "paul." the name went through him like an arrow, then he said, rather languidly: "so the half-brother of greta lowther, wherever he is, is named--" "paul lowther," said mr. bonnithorne. "but," he added, with a quick glance, "he may--i say he may--be passing by another name--paul something else, for example." "assuredly--certainly--yes--yes," hugh ritson mumbled. his all but impenetrable calm was gone. they reached the front of the house, and stood in a paved court-yard. it was the home of the ritsons, known as the ghyll, a long cumbrian homestead of gray stone and green slate. a lazy curl of smoke was winding up from one chimney through the clear air. a gossamer net of the tangled boughs of a slim brier-rose hung over the face of a broad porch, and at that moment a butterfly flitted through it. the chattering of geese came from behind. "robert lowther was the father of grace ormerod's child?" said hugh ritson, vacantly. "the father of her son paul." "and greta is his daughter? is that how it goes?" "that is so--and half-sister to paul." hugh ritson raised his eyes to mr. bonnithorne's face. "and of what age would paul lowther be now?" "well, older than you, certainly. perhaps as old as--yes, perhaps as old--fully as old as your brother." hugh ritson's infirm foot trailed heavily on the stones. his lips quivered. for a moment he seemed to be rapt. then he swung about and muttered: "tut! it isn't within belief. thrusted home, it might betray a man, heaven only knows how deeply." mr. bonnithorne looked up inquiringly. "pardon me; i fail, as you say, to catch the relevance." "mr. bonnithorne," said hugh ritson, holding out his hand, "you and i have been good friends, have we not?" "oh, the best of friends." "at your leisure, when i have had time to think of this, let us discuss it further." mr. bonnithorne smiled assent. "and meantime," he said, softly, "let the unhappy little being we spoke of be sent away." hugh ritson's eyes fell, and his voice deepened. "poor little soul--i'm sorry--very." "as for greta and her lover--well--" mr. bonnithorne nodded his head significantly, and left his words unfinished. "my father is crossing the stack-yard," said hugh ritson. "you shall see him in good time. come this way." the shadows were lengthening in the valley. a purple belt was stretching across the distant hills, and a dark-blue tint was nestling under the eaves. a solitary crow flew across the sky, and cawed out its guttural note. its shadow fell, as it passed, on two elderly people who were coming into the court-yard. chapter iv. "it's time for that laal mr. bonnithorne to be here," said allan ritson. "why did you send for him?" asked mrs. ritson, in the low tone that was natural to her. "to get that matter about the will off my mind. it'll be one thing less to think about, and it has boddert me sair and lang." allan spoke with the shuffling reserve of a man to whose secret communings a painful idea had been too long familiar. in the effort to cast off the unwelcome and secret associate, there was a show of emancipation which, as an acute observer might see, was more assumed than real. mrs. ritson made no terms with the affectation of indifference. her grave face became yet more grave, and her soft voice grew softer as she said: "and if when it is settled and done the cloud would break that has hung over our lives, then all would be well. but that can never be." allan tossed his head aside, and made pretense to smile; but no gleam of sunshine on his cornfields was ever chased so closely by the line of dark shadow as his smile by the frown that followed. "come, worrit thysel' na' mair about it! when i've made my will, and put paul on the same footing with t'other lad, who knows owt mair nor we choose to tell?" mrs. ritson glanced into his face with a look of sad reproach. "heaven knows, allan," she said; "and the dark cloud still gathers for us there." the old man took a step or two on the gravel path, and dropped his gray head. his voice deepened: "tha says reet, mother," he said, "tha says reet. ey, it saddens my auld days--and thine forby!" he took a step or two more, and added: "and na lawyer can shak' it off now. nay, nay, never now. weel, mother, our sky has been lang owerkessen; but, mind ye," lifting his face and voice together, "we've had gude crops if we tholed some thistles." "yes, we've had happy days, too," said mrs. ritson. at that moment there came from across the vale the shouts of the merrymakers and the music of a fiddle. allan ritson lifted his head, nodded it aside jauntily, and smiled feebly through the mist that was gathering about his eyes. "there they are--wrestling and jumping. i mind me when there was scarce a man in cummerlan' could give me the cross-buttock. that's many a lang year agone, though. and now our paul can manish most on 'em--that he can." the fiddle was playing a country dance. the old man listened; his face broadened, he lifted a leg jauntily, and gave a sweep of one arm. just then there came through the air a peal of happy laughter. it was the same heart's music that hugh ritson and mr. bonnithorne had heard in the road. allan's face brightened, and his voice had only the faintest crack in it as he said: "that's greta's laugh! it is for sure! what a heartsome lass yon is! i like a heartsome lassie--a merrie touch, and gone!" "yes," said mrs. ritson, soberly; "greta is a winsome girl." it was hardly spoken when a young girl bounded down upon them, almost breathless, yet laughing in gusts, turning her head over her shoulder and shouting: "hurrah! beaten, sir! hurrah!" it was greta lowther; twenty years of age, with fair hair, quick brown eyes, a sunny face lighted up with youthful animation, a swift smile on her parted lips--an english wild white rose. "i've beaten him," she said. "he challenged me to cross windybrowe while he ran round the bowder stone, but i got to the lonnin before he had crossed the bridge." then, running to the corner of the lane, she plucked off her straw hat, waved it about her head, and shouted again in an accent of triumph: "hurrah! hurrah! beaten, sir, beaten!" paul ritson came running down the fell in strides of two yards apiece. "oh, you young rogue--you cheated!" he cried, coming to a stand and catching his breath. "cheated?" said greta, in a tone of dire amazement. "you bargained to touch the beacon on the top of windybrowe, and you didn't go within a hundred yards of it." "the beacon? on windybrowe?" said the girl, and wondrous perplexity shone in her lovely eyes. paul wiped his brow, and shook his head and his finger with mock gravity at the beautiful cheat. "now, greta, now--now--gently--" greta looked around with the bewildered gaze of a lost lambkin. "mother," said paul, "she stole a march on me." "he was the thief, mrs. ritson; you believe me, don't you?" "me! why i never stole anything in my life--save one thing." "and what was that, pray?" said greta, with another mighty innocent look. paul crept up to her side and whispered something over her shoulder, whereupon she eyed him largely, and said with a quick smile: "you don't say so! but please don't be too certain of it. i'm sure i never heard of that theft." "then here's a theft you shall hear of," said paul, throwing one arm about her neck and tipping up her chin. there was a sudden gleam of rosy, roguish lips. old allan, with mischief dancing in his eyes, pretended to recover them from a more distant sight. "er--why, what's that?" he said; "the sneck of a gate, eh?" greta drew herself up. "how can you--and all the people looking--they might really think that we were--we were--" paul came behind, put his head over one shoulder, and said: "and we're not, are we?" "they're weel matched, mother, eh?" said allan, turning to his wife. "they're marra-to-bran, as folks say. greta, he's a girt booby, isn't he?" greta stepped up to the old man, and with a familiar gesture laid a hand on his arm. at the same moment paul came to his side. allan tapped his son on the back. "thou girt lang booby," he said, and laughed heartily. all the shadows that had hung over him were gone. "and how's parson christian?" he asked in another tone. "well, quite well, and as dear an old soul as ever," said greta. "he's father and mother to thee baith, my lass. i never knew thy awn father. he was dead and gone before we coom't to these parts. and thy mother, too, god bless her! she's dead and gone now. but if this lad of mine, this paul, this girt lang--ah, and here's mr. bonnithorne, and hughie, too." the return of the lawyer and hugh ritson abridged the threat of punishment that seemed to hang on the old man's lips. hugh ritson's lifted eyes had comprehended everything. the girl leaning over his father's arm; the pure, smooth cheeks close to the swarthy, weather-beaten, comfortable old face; the soft gaze upward full of feeling; the half-open lips and the teeth like pearls; then the glance round, half of mockery, half of protest, altogether of unconquerable love, to where paul ritson stood, his eyes just breaking into a smile; the head, the neck, the arms, the bosom still heaving gently after the race; the light loose costume--hugh ritson saw it all, and his heart beat fast. his pale face whitened at that moment, and his infirm foot trailed heavily on the gravel. allan shook hands with mr. bonnithorne, and then turned to his sons. "come, you two lads have not been gude friends latterly, and that's a sair grief baith to your mother and me. you're not made in the same mold seemingly. but you must mak' up your fratch, my lads, for your auld folks' sake, if nowt else." at this he stretched out both arms, as if with the intention of joining their hands. hugh made a gesture of protestation. "i have no quarrel to make up," he said, and turned aside. paul held out his hand. "shake hands, hugh," he said. hugh took the proffered hand with unresponsive coldness. paul glanced into his brother's face a moment, and said: "what's the use of breeding malice? it's a sort of live stock that's not worth its fodder, and it eats up everything." there was a scarcely perceptible curl on hugh ritson's lip, but he turned silently away. with head on his breast, he walked toward the porch. "stop!" it was old allan's voice. the deep tone betrayed the anger that was choking him. his face was flushed, his eyes were stern, his lips trembled. "come back and shak' hands wi' thy brother reet." hugh ritson faced about, leaning heavily on his infirm foot. "why to-day more than yesterday or to-morrow?" he said, calmly. "come back, i tell thee!" shouted the old man more hotly. hugh maintained his hold of himself, and said in a quiet and even voice, "i am no longer a child." "then bear thysel' like a man--not like a whipped hound." the young man shuddered secretly from head to foot. his eyes flashed for an instant. then, recovering his self-control, he said: "even a dog would resent such language, sir." greta had dropped aside from the painful scene, and for a moment hugh ritson's eyes followed her. "i'll have no sec worriment in my house," shouted the old man in a broken voice. "those that live here must live at peace. those that want war must go." hugh ritson could bear up no longer. "and what is your house to me, sir? what has it done for me? the world is wide." old allan was confounded. silent, dumb, with great staring eyes, he looked round into the faces of those about him. then in thick, choking tones he shouted: "shak' thy brother's hand, or thou'rt no brother of his." "perhaps not," said hugh very quietly. "shak' hands, i tell thee." the old man's fists were clinched. his body quivered in every limb. his son's lips were firmly set; he made no answer. the old man snatched from mr. bonnithorne the stick he carried. at this hugh lifted his eyes sharply until they met the eyes of his father. allan was transfixed. the stick fell from his hand. then hugh ritson halted into the house. "come back, come back ... my boy ... hughie ... come back!" the old man sobbed out. but there was no reply. "allan, be patient, forgive him; he will ask your pardon," said mrs. ritson. paul and greta had stolen away. the old man was now speechless, and his eyes, bent on the ground, swam with tears. "all will be well, please god," said mrs. ritson. "remember, he is sorely tried, poor boy. he expected you to do something for him.'" "and i meant to, i meant to--that i did," the father answered in a broken cry. "but you've put it off, and off, allan--like everything else." allan lifted his hazy eyes from the ground, and looked into his wife's face. "if it had been t'other lad i could have borne it maybe," he said, feelingly. mr. bonnithorne, standing aside, had been plowing the gravel with one foot. he now raised his eyes, and said: "and yet, mr. ritson, folk say that you have always shown most favor to your eldest son." the old man's gaze rested on the lawyer for a moment, but he did not speak at once, and there was an awkward silence. "i've summat to say to mr. bonnithorne, mother," said the statesman. he was quieter now. mrs. ritson stepped into the house. allan ritson and the lawyer followed her, going into a little parlor to the right of the porch. it was a quaint room, full of the odor of a by-gone time. the floor was of polished black oak covered with skins; the ceiling was paneled oak and had a paneled beam. bright oak cupboards, their fronts carved with rude figures, were set into the walls, which were whitened, and bore one illuminated text and three prints in black and white. the furniture was heavy and old. there was a spinning-wheel under the wide window-board. a bluebottle buzzed about the ceiling; a slant of sunlight crossed the floor. the men sat down. "i sent for thee to mak' my will, mr. bonnithorne," said the old man. the lawyer smiled. "it is an old maxim that delay in affairs of law is a candle that burns in the daytime; when the night comes it is burned to the socket." old allan took little heed of the sentiment. "ey," he said, "but there's mair nor common 'casion for it in my case." mr. bonnithorne was instantly on the alert. "and what is your especial reason?" he asked. allan's mind seemed to wander. he stood silent for a moment, and then said slowly, as if laboring with thought and phrase: "weel, tha must know ... i scarce know how to tell thee ... weel, my eldest son, paul, as they call him--" the old man stopped, and his manner grew sullen. mr. bonnithorne came to his help. "yes, i am all attention--your eldest son--" "he is--he is--" the door opened and mrs. ritson entered the room, followed close by the laird fisher. "mr. ritson, your sheep, them black-faced herdwicks on hindscarth, have broke the fences, and the red drift of 'em is down in the barrowmouth of the pass," said the charcoal-burner. the statesman got on his feet. "i must gang away at once," he said. "mr. bonnithorne, i must put thee off, or maybe i'll lose fifty head of sheep down in the ghyll." "i made so bold as to tell ye, for i reckon we'll have all maks of weather yet." "that's reet, mattha; and reet neighborly forby. i'll slip away after thee in a thumb's snitting." the laird fisher went out. "can ye bide here for me until eight o'clock to-neet, mr. bonnithorne?" there was some vexation written on the lawyer's face, but he answered with meekness: "i am always at your service, mr. ritson. i can return at eight." "verra good" then, turning to mrs. ritson, "give friend bonnithorne a bite o' summat," said allan, and he followed the charcoal-burner. out in the court-yard he called the dogs. "hey howe! hey howe! bright! laddie! come boys; come, boys, te-lick, te-smack!" he put his head in at the door of an out-house and shouted, "reuben, wheriver ista? come thy ways quick, and bring the lad!" in another moment a young shepherd and a cowherd, surrounded by three or four sheep-dogs, joined allan ritson in the court-yard. "dusta gang back to the fell, mattha?" said the statesman. "nay; i's done for the day. i'm away home." "good-neet, and thank." then the troop disappeared down the lonnin--the men calling, the dogs barking. in walking through the hall mr. bonnithorne encountered hugh ritson, who was passing out of the house, his face very hard, his head much bent. "would you," said the lawyer, "like to know the business on which i have been called here?" hugh ritson did not immediately raise his eyes. "to make his will," added mr. bonnithorne, not waiting for an answer. then hugh ritson's eyes were lifted; there was one flash of intelligence; after that the young man went out without a word. chapter v. hugh ritson was seven-and-twenty. his clean-shaven face was long, pale, and intellectual; his nose was wide at the bridge and full at the nostrils; he had firm-set lips, large vehement eyes, and a broad forehead, with hair of dark auburn parted down the middle and falling in thin waves on the temples. the expression of the physiognomy in repose was one of pain, and, in action, of power; the effect of the whole was not unlike that which is produced by the face of a high-bred horse, with its deep eyes and dilated nostrils. he was barely above medium height, and his figure was almost delicate. when he spoke his voice startled you--it was so low and deep to come from that slight frame. his lameness, which was slight, was due to a long-standing infirmity of the hip. as second son of a cumbrian statesman, whose estate consisted chiefly of land, he expected but little from his father, and had been trained in the profession of a mining engineer. after spending a few months at the iron mines of cleator, he had removed to london at twenty-two, and enrolled himself as a student of the mining college in jermyn street. there he had spent four years, sharing the chambers of a young barrister in the temple gardens. his london career was uneventful. taciturn in manner, he made few friends. his mind had a tendency toward contemplative inactivity. of physical energy he had very little, and this may have been partly due to his infirmity. late at night he would walk alone in the strand: the teeming life of the city, and the mystery of its silence after midnight, had a strong fascination for him. in these rambles he came to know some of the strangest and oddest of the rags and rinsings of humanity: among them a persian nobleman of the late shah's household, who kept a small tobacco-shop at the corner of a by-street, and an old french exile, once of the court of louis phillippe, who sold the halfpenny papers. at other times he went out hardly at all, and was rarely invited. only the housemate, who saw him at all times and in many moods, seemed to suspect that beneath that cold exterior there lay an ardent nature. but he himself knew how strong was the tide of his passion. he could never look a beautiful woman in the face but his pulse beat high, and he felt almost faint. yet strong as his passion was, his will was no less strong. he put a check on himself, and during his four years in london contrived successfully to dam up the flood that was secretly threatening him. at six-and-twenty he returned to cumberland, having some grounds for believing that his father intended to find him the means of mining for himself. a year had now passed, and nothing had been done. he was growing sick with hope deferred. his elder brother, paul, had spent his life on the land, and it was always understood that in due course he would inherit it. that at least was the prospect which hugh ritson had in view, though no prospective arrangement had been made. week followed week, and month followed month, and his heart grew bitter. he had almost decided to end this waiting. the day would come when he could bear it not longer, and then he would cut adrift. an accidental circumstance was the cause of his irresolution. he used to walk frequently on the moss where the laird fisher sunk his shaft. in the beck that ran close to the disused headgear he would wade for an hour early in the summer morning. one day he saw the old laird's daughter washing linen at the beck-side. he remembered her as a pretty, prattling thing of ten or eleven. she was now a girl of eighteen, with a pure face, a timid manner, and an air that was neither that of a woman nor of a child. her mother was lately dead, her father spent most of his days on the fell (some of his nights also when the charcoal was burning), and she was much alone. hugh ritson liked her gentle replies and her few simple questions. so it came about that he would look for her in the mornings, and be disappointed if he did not catch sight of her good young face. himself a silent man, he liked to listen to the girl's modest, unconnected talk. his stern eyes would soften at such times to a sort of caressing expression. this went on for months, and in that solitude no idle tongue was set to wag. at length hugh ritson perceived that the girl's heart was touched. if he came late he found her leaning over the gate, her eyes bent down among the mountain grasses at her feet, and her cheeks colored by a red glow. it is unnecessary to go further. the girl gave herself up to him with her whole heart and soul, and he--well, he found the bulwarks with which he had surrounded himself were ruined and down. then the awakening came, and hugh learned too late that he had not loved the simple child, by realizing that with all the ardor of his restrained but passionate nature he loved another woman. so much for the first complication in the tragedy of this man's life. the second complication was new to his consciousness, and it was at this moment conspiring with the first to lure him to consequences that are now to be related. the story which mr. bonnithorne had told of the legacy left by greta's father to a son by one grace ormerod had come to him at a time when, owing to disappointment and chagrin, he was peculiarly liable to the temptation of any "honest trifle" that pointed the way he wished to go. if the grace ormerod who married lowther had indeed been his own mother, then--a thousand to one--paul was lowther's son. if paul was lowther's son he was also half brother of greta. if paul was not the son of allan ritson, then he himself, hugh ritson, was his father's heir. in the present whirlwind of feeling he did not inquire too closely into the pros and cons of probability. enough that evidence seemed to be with him, and that it transformed the world in his view. perhaps the first result of this transformation was that he unconsciously assumed a different attitude toward the unhappy passage in his life wherein mercy fisher was chiefly concerned. what his feeling was before mr. bonnithorne's revelation, we have already seen. now the sentiment that made much of such an "accident" was fit only for a "turgid melodrama," and the idea of "atonement" by "marriage" was the mock heroic of those "great lovers of noble histories," the spectators who applaud it from the pit. when he passed mr. bonnithorne in the hall at the ghyll he was on his way to the cottage of the laird fisher. he saw in the road ahead of him the group which included his father and the charcoal-burner, and to avoid them he cut across the breast of the eel crags. after a sharp walk of a mile he came to a little white-washed house that stood near the head of newlands, almost under the bridge that crosses the fall. it was a sweet place in a great solitude, where the silence was broken only by the tumbling waters, the cooing of pigeons on the roof, and the twittering of ringouzels by the side of the torrent. the air was fresh with the smell of new peat. there was a wedge-shaped garden in front, and it was encompassed by chestnut-trees. as hugh ritson drew near he noticed that a squirrel crept from the fork of one of these trees. the little creature rocked itself on the thin end of a swaying branch, plucking sometimes at the drooping fan of the chestnut, and sometimes at the prickly shell of its pendulous nut. when he opened the little gate hugh ritson observed that a cat sat sedately behind the trunk of that tree, glancing up at intervals at the sporting squirrel in her moving seat. as he entered the garden mercy was crossing it with a pail of water just raised from the well. she had seen him, and now tried to pass into the house. he stepped before her and she set down the pail. her head was held very low, and her cheeks were deeply flushed. "mercy," he said, "it is all arranged. mr. bonnithorne will see you into the train this evening, and when you get to your journey's end the person i spoke of will meet you." the girl lifted her eyes beseechingly to his face. "not to-day, hugh," she said in a broken whisper; "let me stay until to-morrow." he regarded her for a moment with a steadfast look, and when he spoke again his voice fell on her ear like the clank of a chain. "the journey has to be made. every week's delay increases the danger." the girl's eyes fell again, and the tears began to drop from them on to the brown arms that she had clasped in front. "come," he said in a softer tone, "the train starts in an hour. your father is not yet home from the pit, and most of the dalespeople are at the sports. so much the better. put on your cloak and hat and take the fell path to the coledaie road-ends. there mr. bonnithorne will meet you." the girl's tears were flowing fast, though she bit her lip and struggled to check them. "come, now, come; you know this was of your own choice." there was a pause. "i never thought it would be so hard to go," she said at length. he smiled feebly, and tried a more rallying tone. "you are not going for life. you will come back safe and happy." the words thrilled her through and through. her clasped hands trembled visibly, and her fingers clutched them with a convulsive movement. after awhile she was calmer, and said quietly: "no, i'll never come back--i know that quite well." and her head dropped on her breast and she felt sick at heart. "i'll have to say good-bye to everything. there were betsy jackson's children--i kissed them all this morning, and never said why--little willy, he seemed to know, dear little fellow, and cried so bitterly." the memories of these incidents touched to overflowing the springs of love in the girl's simple soul, and the bubbling child-voice was drowned in sobs. the man stood with a smile of pain on his face. he came close, and brushed away her tears, and touched her drooping head with a gesture of protestation. mercy regained her voice. "and then there's your mother," she said, "and i can't say good-bye to her, and my poor father, and i daren't tell him--" hugh stamped on the path impatiently. "come, come, mercy, don't be foolish." the girl lifted to his the good young face that had once been bonny as the day and was now pale with weeping and drawn down with grief. she took him by the coat, and then, by an impulse which she seemed unable to resist, threw one arm about his neck, and raised her face to his until their lips all but touched, and their eyes met in a steadfast gaze. "hugh," she said, passionately, "are you sure that you love me well enough to think of me when i am gone?--are you quite, quite sure?" "yes, yes; be sure of that," he said, gently. he disengaged her arm. "and will you come and fetch me after--after--" she could not say the word. he smiled and answered, "why, yes, yes." her fingers trembled and clung together; her head fell; her cheeks were aglow. "why, of course." he smiled again, as if in deprecation of so much child-like earnestness; then put his arm about the girl's shoulder, dropped his voice to a tone of mingled compassion and affection, and said, as he lifted the brightening face to his, "there, there--now go off and make ready." the girl brushed her tears away vigorously, and looked half ashamed and half enchanted. "i'm going." "that's a good little girl." how the sunshine came back at the sound of his words! "good-bye for the present, mercy--only for the present, you know." but how the shadow pursued the sunshine after all! hugh saw the tears gathering again in the lucent eyes, and came back a step. "there--a smile--just one little smile!" she smiled through her tears. "there--there--that's a dear little mercy. good-day; good-bye." hugh turned on his heel and walked sharply away. as he passed out through the gate he could not help observing that the cat from the foot of the chestnut-tree was walking stealthily off, with something like a dawning smile on its whiskered face, and the brush of the squirrel between its teeth. hugh ritson had gained his end, and yet he felt more crushed than at the darkest moment of defeat. he had conquered his own manhood; and now he crept away from the scene of his triumph with a sense of utter abasement. when he had talked with mr. bonnithorne it was with a feeling of the meanness of the folly in which he was involved; and if any sentiment touching the girl's situation was strong upon him it was closely bound up with a personal view of the degradation that might come of a man's humiliating unwisdom. the very conventionality of his folly had irked him. but its cowardice was now uppermost. that a man should enter into warfare with a woman on unequal terms, and win by cajolery and deceit, was more than cruel; it was brutal. he could have borne even this hard saying so far as it concerned the woman's suffering, but for the reflection that it made the man something worse than a coxcomb in his own eyes. the day was now far spent; the brilliant sun had dipped behind grisedale, and left a ridge of dark fells in the west. on the east the green sides of cat bells and the eel crags were yellow at the summit, where the hills held their last commerce with the hidden sun. not a breath of wind; not the rustle of a leaf; the valley lay still, save for the echoing voices of the merrymakers in the booth below. the sky overhead was blue, but a dark cloud, like the hulk of a ship, had anchored lately to the north. hugh ritson took the valley road back to ghyll. he was visibly perturbed; he walked with head much bent, stopped suddenly at times, then snatched impetuously at the trailing bushes, and passed on. when he was under hindscarth, the sharp yap of dogs, followed by the bleat of unseen sheep, caused him to look up, and he saw a group of men, like emmets creeping on a dark bowlder, moving over a ridge of shelving rock. there was a slight spasm of his features at that moment, and his foot trailed more heavily as he went on. at a twist of the road he passed the laird fisher. the old man looked less melancholy than usual. it was as if the familiar sorrow sat a little more lightly to-night on the half-ruined creature. "good-neet to you, sir, and how fend ye?" he said almost cheerily. hugh ritson responded briefly. "so you're not sleeping on the fell to-night, matthew?" and as he spoke his eyes wandered toward the fell road. "nay; i's not firing to-neet, for sure; my daughter is expecting me." hugh's eyes were now fixed intently on the road that crossed the foot of the fell to the west. the charcoal-burner was moving off, and, following at the same moment the upward direction of hugh ritson's gaze, he said: "it's a baddish place yon, where your father is with reuben and the lad, and it's baddish weather that is coming, too--look at yon black cloud over walna scar." then for an instant there was embarrassment in hugh ritson's eyes, and he answered in a faltering commonplace. "ways me; but i must slip away home, sir; my laal lass will be weary waiting. good-neet to you, sir; good-neet." "good-night, matthew, and god help you," said hugh in a tone of startling earnestness, his eyes turned away. he had walked half a mile further, and reached the lonnin that led to the ghyll, when he was almost overrun by greta lowther, who came tripping out of the gate of a meadow, her bonnet swinging over her arm, her soft, wavy hair floating over her white forehead, her cheeks colored with a warm glow, a roguish light in her eyes, and laughter on the point of bubbling out of her lips. greta had just given paul ritson the slip. there was a thicket in the field she had crossed, and it was covered with wild roses, white and red. through the heart of it there rippled a tiny streak of water that was amber-tinted from the round shingle in its bed. the trunk of an old beech lay across it for ford or bridge. underfoot were the sedge and moss; overhead the thick boughs and the roses; in the air, the odor of hay and the songs of birds. and paul, the cunning rascal, would have tempted greta into this solitude; but she was too shrewd, the wise little woman, to-be so easily trapped. pretending to follow him in ignorance of his manifest design, she tripped back on tiptoe, and fled away like a lapwing over the noiseless grass. when greta met hugh ritson she was saying to herself, of paul in particular, and of his sex in general: "what dear, simple, unsuspecting, trustful creatures they are!" then she drew up sharply, "ah, hugh!" "how happy you look, greta!" he said, fixing his eyes upon her. a new light brightened her sunny face. "not happier than i feel," she answered. she swung the arm over which the bonnet hung; the heaving of her breast showed the mold of her early womanhood. hugh ritson's mind had for the last half hour brooded over many a good purpose, but not one of them was now left. "you witnessed a painful scene to-day," he said, with some hesitation. "be sure it was no less painful to me because you were there to see it." "oh, i was so sorry," said greta, impetuously. "you mean with your father?" hugh bent his head slightly. "it was inevitable--i know that full well--but for my share in it i ask your pardon." "that is nothing," she said; "but you took your father too seriously." "i took him at his word--that was all." "but the dear old man meant nothing, and you meant very much. he only wanted to abuse you a little, and perhaps frighten you, and shake his stick at you, and then love you all the better for it." "you may be right, greta. among the whims of nature there is that of making such human contradictions; but, as you say, i take things seriously--everything--life itself." he paused, and there was a slight trembling of the lip. "besides," he went on in another tone, "it has been always so. since our childhood--my brother's and mine--there has not been much paternal tenderness wasted on me. i can hardly expect it now." "surely that must be a morbid fancy," greta said in a distressed tone. the light was dying out of her eyes. she made one quick glance downward to where hugh ritson's infirm foot trailed on the road, and then, in an instant of recovered consciousness, she glanced up, now confused and embarrassed, into his face. she was too late; he had read her thought. a faint smile parted her lips; and the light of his own eyes was cold. "no; not that," he said; "i ask no pity in that regard--and need none. nature has given my brother a physique that would shame a greek statue, but he and i are quits--perhaps more than quits." he made a hard smile, and she flushed deep with shame of having her thought read. "i am sorry if i conveyed that," she said, slowly. "it must have been quite unwittingly. i was thinking of your mother. she is so good and tender to everybody. why, she is the angel of the country-side. do you know what name they've given her?" hugh shook his head. "saint grace! parson christian told me--it seems it was my own dear mother who christened her." "nevertheless, there has not been much to sweeten my life, greta," he said. his voice arrested her; it was charged with unusual feeling. she made no answer, and they began to walk toward the house. after a few steps greta remembered the trick that she had played on paul, and craned her beautiful neck to see over the stone cobble-hedge into the field where she had left him. hugh observed her intently. "i hear that you have decided. is it so, greta?" he said. "decided what?" she asked, coloring again. he also colored slightly, and answered with a strained quietness. "to marry my brother." "if he wishes it--i suppose he does--he says so, you know." hugh looked earnestly into the girl's glowing face, and said with deliberation: "greta, perhaps there are reasons why you should not marry paul." "what reasons?" he did not reply at once, and she repeated her question. then he said in a strange tone: "just and lawful impediments, as they say." greta's eyes opened wide in undisguised amazement. "impossible--you cannot mean it," she said with her customary impetuosity. she glanced into hugh's face, and misread what she saw there. then she began to laugh; at first lightly, afterward rather boisterously, and said with head averted, and almost as if talking to herself, "no, no; he is nothing to me but the man i love." "do you then love him?" greta started. "do you ask?" she said. the amazement in the wide eyes had deepened to a look of rapture. "love him?" she said; "better than all the world beside." the girl was lifted out of herself. "you are to be my brother, hugh, and i need not fear to speak so." she swung her bonnet on her arm, just to preserve composure by some distracting exercise. hugh ritson stopped, and his face softened. it was a perplexing smile that sat on his features. while he had talked with greta there had run through his mind, as a painful undertone, the thought of mercy fisher. he had now dismissed the last of his qualms respecting her. to be tied down for life to a mindless piece of physical prettiness--what man of brains could bear it? he had yielded to a natural impulse--true! that moment of temptation threatened painful consequences--still true! what then? nothing! was the dead fruit to hang about his neck forever? tut!--all natural law was against it. had he not said that he was above prejudice? so was he above the maudlin sentiment of the "great lovers of noble histories." the sophistry grew apace with greta's beautiful countenance before him. catching at her last word, he said: "your brother--yes. but did you never guess that i could have wished another name?" the look of amazement returned to her eyes; he saw it and went on: "is it possible that you have not read my secret?" "what secret?" she said in a half-smothered voice. "greta, if your love had been great love, you must have read my secret just as i have read yours." in a low tone he continued: "long ago i knew that you loved, or thought you loved, my brother. i saw it before he had seen it--before you had realized it." the red glow colored her cheeks more deeply than before. she had stopped, and he was tramping nervously backward and forward. "greta," he said again, and he fixed his eyes entreatingly upon her, "what is the love that scarcely knows itself?--that is the love with which you love my brother. and what is the tame, timid passion of a man of no mind?--that is the love which he offers you. what is your love for him, or his for you?--what is it, can it be? love is not love unless it is the love of true minds. that was said long ago, greta, and how true it is!" he went on quickly, in a tone of dull irritation: "all other love is no better than lust. greta, i understand you. it is not for a rude man like my brother to do so." then in an eager voice he said: "dearest, i bring you a love undreamed of among these country boors." "country boors!" she repeated in a half-stifled whisper. he did not hear her. his vehement eyes swam, and he was dizzy. "greta, dearest, i said there has been little in my life to sweeten it. yet i am a man made to love and to be loved. my love for you has been mute for months; but it can be mute no longer. perhaps i have had my own impediment, apart from our love for paul. but that is all over now." his cheeks quivered, his lips trembled, his voice swelled, his nervous fingers were riveted to his palm. he approached her and took her hand. she seemed to be benumbed by strong feeling. she had stood as one transfixed, a slow paralysis of surprise laying hold of her faculties. but at his touch her senses regained their mastery. she flung away his hand. her breast heaved. in a voice charged with indignation, she said: "so this is what you mean! i understand you at last!" huge ritson fell back a pace. "greta, hear me--hear me again!" but she had found her voice indeed. "sir, you have outraged your brother's heart as surely as if at this moment i had been your brother's wife!" "greta, think before you speak--think, i implore you!" "i have thought! i have thought of you as your sister might think, and spoken to you as my brother. now i know how mean of soul you are!" hugh broke in passionately: "for god's sake, stop! i am an unforgiving man." his nostrils quivered, every nerve vibrated. "love? you never loved. if you knew what the word means you would die of shame where you stand this instant." hugh lost all control. "i bid you beware!" he said in wrath and dismay. "and i bid you be silent!" said greta, with an eloquent uplifting of the hand. "you offer your love to a pledged woman. it is only base love that is basely offered. it is bad coin, sir, and goes back dishonored." hugh ritson regained some self-command. the contractions were deep about his forehead, but he answered in an imperturbable voice: "you shall never marry my brother!" "i will--god willing!" "then you shall marry him to your lifelong horror and disgrace." "that shall be as heaven may order." "a boor--a hulking brute--a bas--" "enough! i would rather marry a plowboy than such a gentleman as you!" face to face, eye to eye, with panting breath and scornful looks, there they stood for one moment. then greta swung about and walked down the lonnin. hugh ritson's natural manner returned instantly. he looked after her without the change of a feature, and then turned quietly into the house. chapter vi. there was a drowsy calm in the room where mr. bonnithorne sat at lunch. it was the little oak-bound parlor to the right, in which he had begun the conversation with old allan ritson that had been interrupted by the announcement of the laird fisher. half of the window was thrown up, and the landscape framed by the sash lay still as a picture. the sun that had passed over grisedale sent a deep glow from behind, and the woods beneath took a restful tone. only the mountain-head was white where it towered into the sky and the silence. mrs. ritson entered and sat down. her manner was meek almost to abjectness. she was elderly, but her face bore traces of the beauty she had enjoyed in youth. the lines had grown deep in it since then, and now the sadness of its expression was permanent. she wore an old-fashioned lavender gown, and there was a white silk scarf about her neck. her voice was low and tremulous, yet eager, as if it were always questioning. with downcast head, and eyes bent on her lap, where her fingers twitched nervously as she knitted without cessation, she sat silent, or put meek questions to her guest. mr. bonnithorne answered in smiles and speeches of six words apiece. between each sparse reply he addressed himself afresh to his lunch with an appetite that was the reverse of sparse. all the while a subdued hum of many voices came up from the booth in the fields below. at length mrs. ritson's anxiety overcame the restraint of her manner. "mr. bonnithorne," she said, "do let the will be made to-night. urge mr. ritson, when he returns, to admit of no further delay. he has many noble qualities, but procrastination is his fault. it has been ever so." mr. bonnithorne paused with a glass half raised to his lips, and lifted his eyes instead. "pardon me, madame," he said, with the customary smile which failed to disarm his words; "this is for certain reasons a subject i can hardly discuss with--with--with a woman." and just then a peacock strutted through the court-yard, startling the still air with its empty scream. mrs. ritson colored deeply. even modesty like hers had been put to a severe strain. but she dropped her eyes again, finished a row of stitches, rested the steel needle on her lip, and answered quietly: "surely a woman may talk of what concerns her husband and her children." the great man had resumed his knife and fork. "not necessarily," he said. "it is a strange and curious fact that there is one condition in which the law does not recognize the right of a woman to call her son her own." during this prolonged speech, hugh ritson, fresh from his interview with greta lowther, entered the room, and stretched himself on the couch. mrs. ritson, without shifting the determination of her gaze from the nervous fingers in her lap, said: "what condition?" mr. bonnithorne twisted slightly, and glanced significantly at hugh as he answered: "the condition of illegitimacy." something supercilious in the tone jarred on mrs. ritson's ear. she looked up from her knitting, and said: "what do you mean?" bonnithorne placed his knife and fork with precision over his empty plate, used his napkin with deliberation, coughed slightly, and said: "i mean that the law denies the name of son to offspring that has been bastardized." mrs. ritson's face grew crimson, and she rose to her feet. "if so, the law is cruel and wicked," she said in a voice more tremulous with emotion. mr. bonnithorne leaned languidly back in his chair, ejected a long "hem" from his overburdened chest, inserted his fingers in the armpits of his waistcoat, looked up, and said: "odd, isn't it?" unluckily for the full effect of mr. bonnithorne's subtle witticism, paul ritson, with greta at his side, appeared in the door-way at the moment of its delivery. the manner more than the words had awakened his anger, and the significance of both he interpreted by his mother's agitated face. in two strides he stepped up to where the great man sat, even now all smiles and white teeth, and laid a powerful hand on his arm. "my friend," said paul, lustily, "it might not be safe for you to speak to my mother again like that!" mr. bonnithorne rose stiffly, and his shifty eyes looked into paul's wrathful face. "safe?" he echoed with emphasis. paul, his lips compressed, bent his head, and at the same instant brought the other hand down on the table. without speaking, mr. bonnithorne shuffled back into his seat. mrs. ritson, letting fall her knitting into her lap, sat and dropped her face into her hands. paul took her by the arm, raised her up, and led her out of the room. as he did so, he passed the couch on which hugh ritson lay, and looked down with mingled anger and contempt into his brother's indifferent eyes. when the door closed behind them, hugh ritson and mr. bonnithorne rose together. there was a momentary gleam of mutual consciousness. then instantly, suddenly, by one impulse, the two men joined hands across the table. chapter vii. the cloud that had hung over walna scar broke above the valley, and a heavy rain-storm, with low mutterings of distant thunder, drove the pleasure-people from the meadow to the booth. it was a long canvas tent with a drinking-bar at one end, and stalls in the corners for the sale of gingerbreads and gimcracks. the grass under it was trodden flat, and in patches the earth was bare and wet beneath the trapesing feet of the people. they were a mixed and curious company. in a ring that was cleared by an athletic plowman the fiddler-postman of newlands, tom o' dint, was seated on a tub turned bottom up. he was a little man with bowed legs and feet a foot long. "now, lasses, step forret! dunnot be blate. come along with ye, any as have springiness in them!" the rough invitation was accepted without too much timidity by several damsels dressed in gorgeous gowns and bonnets. then up and down, one, two, three, cut and shuffle, cross, under, and up and down again. "i'll be mounting my best nag and comin' ower to scara crag and tappin' at your window some neet soon," whispered a young fellow to the girl he had just danced with. she laughed a little mockingly. "your best nag, willy?" "weel--the maister's." she laughed again, and a sneer curled her lip. "you colebank chaps are famous sweethearts, i hear. fare-te-weel, willy." and she twisted on her heel. he followed her up. "dunnet gowl, aggy. mappen i'll be maister man mysel' soon." aggy pushed her way through the crowd and disappeared. "she's packed him off wi' a flea in his ear," said an elderly man standing near. "just like all the lave of them," said another, "snurling up her neb at a man for lack of gear. why didna he brag of some rich uncle in austrilly?" "ey, and stuff her with all sorts of flaitchment and lies. then all the lasses wad be glyming at him." the dance spun on. "why, it's a regular upshot, as good as carel fair," said one of the girls. "bessie, you're reet clipt and heeled for sure," responded her companion. bessie's eyes sparkled with delight at the lusty compliment paid to her dancing, and she opened her cloak to cool herself, and also to show the glittering locket that hung about her neck. "it's famish, this fashion," muttered the elderly cynic. "it must tak' a brave canny fortune." "shaf, man, the country's puzzen'd round with pride," answered his gossip. "lasses worked in the old days. now they never do a hand's turn but washin' and bleachin' and starchin' and curlin' their polls." "ey, ey, there's been na luck in the country since the women-folk began to think shame of their wark." the fiddler made a squeak on two notes that sounded like kiss-her, and from a corner of the booth there came a clamorous smack of lips. "i saw you sweetheartin' laal bessie," said one of the fellows to another. "and i saw you last night cutteran sa soft in the meadow. nay, dunnot look sa strange. i never say nowt, not i. only yon mother of aggy's, she's a famous fratcher, and dunnot you let her get wind. she brays the lasses, and mappen she'll bray somebody forby." while the dancing proceeded there was a noisy clatter of glasses and a mutter of voices in the neighborhood of the bar. "the varra crony one's fidgin to see! gie us a shak' of thy daddle!" shouted a fellow with a face like a russet apple. "come, dick, let's bottom a quart together. deil tak' the expense." "why, man, and wherever hasta been since whissen monday?" "weel, you see, i went to the fair and stood with a straw in my mouth, and the wives all came round, and one of them said, 'what wage do you ask, canny lad?' 'five pounds ten,' i says. 'and what can you do?' she says. 'do?' i says, 'anything from plowing to threshing and nicking a nag's tail,' i says. 'come, be my man,' she says. but she was like to clem me, so i packed up my bits of duds and got my wage in my reet-hand breek pocket, and here i am." the dancing had finished, and a little group was gathered around the fiddler's tub. "come thy ways; here's tom o' dint conjuring, and telling folk what they are thinking." "that's mair nor he could do for the numskulls as never think." "he bangs all the player-folk, does tom." "who's yon tatterdemalion flinging by the newspaper and bawling, 'the country's going to the dogs?'" "that's grey graham, setting folk by the lug with his blusteration." "mess, lads, but he'd be a reet good parli'ment man to threep about the nation." "weel, i's na pollytishun, but if it's tearin' and snappin' same as a terrier that mak's a reet good parli'ment man, i reckon not all england could bang him." "and that's not saying nowt, sim. i've heard grey graham on the ballot till it's wet him through to the waistcoat." "is that mister paul ritson and mistress lowther just run in for shelter?" "surely; and a reet bonny lass she is." "and he's got larnin' and manners too." "ey, he's of the bettermer sort, is paul." "does she live at the parson's--parson christian's?" "why, yes, man; it's only naturable--he's her guardian." "and what a man he is, to be sure." "ey, we'll never see his like again when he's gone." "nay, not till the water runs up bank and trees grow down bank." "and what a scholar, and no pride neither, and what's mair in a parson, no greed. why, the leal fellow values the world and the world's gear not a flea." "contentment's a kingdom, as folk say, and religion is no worse for a bit o' charity." there was a momentary pressure of the company toward the mouth of the booth, where gubblum oglethorpe reappeared with his pack swung from his neck in front of him. the girls gathered eagerly around. "what have you to-day, gubblum?" "nay, nowt for you, my dear. you're one of them that allus looks best with nothing on." "oh, gubblum!" the compliment was certainly a dubious one. "only your bits of shabby duds--that's all that pretty faces like yours wants." "oh, gubblum!" the peddler was evidently a dear, simple soul. "lord bless you, yes; what's in here," slapping his pack contemptuously, "it's only for them wizzent old creatures up in london--them 'at have faces like the map of england when it shows all the lines of the railways--just to make them a bit presentable, you know. and there is no knowing what some of these things won't do to mak' a body smart--what with brooches and handkerchers and collars, and i don't know what." gubblum's air of indifference had the extraordinary effect of bringing a dozen pairs of gloating eyes on the strapped pack. the face of the peddler wore an expression of bland innocence as he continued: "but bless you, i'm such a straightforward chap, or i'd make my fortune with the like of what's here." "open your pack, gubblum," said one of the fellows, geordie moore, prompted by sundry prods from the elbow of a little damsel by his side. the "straightforward chap" made a deprecatory gesture, and then yielded obligingly. while loosening the straps he resumed his discourse on his own general ignorance of business tactics, his ruinous honesty, and demoralizing sense of honor. "i'm not cute enough, that's my fault. i know the way to my mouth with a spoonful of poddish, and that's all. if i go further in the dark, i'm lost." gubblum opened his pack and drew forth a red and green shawl of a hideous pattern. "now, just to give you a sample. here's a nice neat shawl that i never had no more nor two of. well, i actually sold the fellow of that shawl for seven-and-sixpence." the look of amazement at his own shortcomings which sat on the child-like face of the peddler was answered by the expression of mock surprise in the face of paul ritson, who came up at the moment, took the shawl from gubblum's outstretched arms, and said in a hushed whisper: "no, did you now?" geordie moore thereupon dived into his pocket, and brought out three half-crowns. "here's for you, gubblum; let's have it." "'od bless me!" cried the elderly cynic, "but that gubblum will never mak' his plack a bawbee." and grey graham, having disposed of the affairs of the nation and witnessed geordie snap at the peddler's bait, cried out in a bitter laugh: "'there's little wit within his powe that lights a candle at the lowe.'" just then a tumult arose in the vicinity of the bar. the two cronies were at open war. "deuce take it! i had fifteen white shillin' in my reet-hand breek pocket, and where are they now?" "'od dang thee! what should i know about your brass? you're kicking up a stour to waken a corp!" "i had fifteen white shillin' in my reet-hand breek pocket, i tell thee!" "what's that to me, thou poor shaffles? you're as drunk as muck. do you think i've taken your brass? you've got a wrong pig by the lug if you reckon to come ower me!" "they were in my reet-hand breek pocket, i'll swear on it!" "what a fratchin'--try your left-hand breek pocket." the russet-faced plowman thrust his hand where directed and instantly a comical smile of mingled joy and shame overspread his countenance. there was a gurgling laugh, through which the voice of the peddler could be heard saying: "we'll mak' thee king ower the cockers, my canny lad." the canny lad was slinking away amid a derisive titter, when a great silence fell on the booth. those in front fell back, and those behind craned their necks to see over the heads of the people before them. at the mouth of the booth stood the old laird fisher, his face ghastly pale, his eyes big and restless, the rain dripping from his long hair and beard. "they've telt me," he began in a strange voice, "they've telt me that my mercy has gone off in the london train. i reckon they're mistook as to the lass, but i've come to see for mysel'. is she here?" none answered. only the heavy rain-drops that pattered on the canvas overhead broke the silence. paul ritson pushed his way through the crowd. "mercy?--london? wait, matthew; i'll see if she's here." the laird fisher looked from face to face of the people about him. "any on you know owt about her?" he asked in a low voice. "why don't you speak, some on you? you shake your heads--what does that mean?" the old man was struggling to control the emotion that was surging in his throat. "no, matthew, she's not here," said paul ritson. "then maybe it's true," said matthew, with a strange quiet. there was a pause. paul was the first to shake off his surprise. "she might be at little town--in keswick--twenty places." "she might be, master paul, but she's nowt o' the sort. she's on her way to london, mercy is." it was natt, the stableman at the ghyll, who spoke. at that the old man's trance seemed to break. "gone! mercy gone! gone without a word! why? where?" "she'd her little red bundle aside her; and she cried a gay bit to hersel' in the corner. i saw her mysel'." paul's face became rigid with anger. "there's villainy in this--be sure of that!" he said, hotly. the laird rocked his head backward and forward, and his eyes swam with tears; but he stood in the middle as quiet as a child. "my laal mercy," he said, faintly, "gone from her old father." paul stepped to the old man's side, and put a great hand on his shoulder as softly as a woman might have soothed her babe. then turning about, and glancing wrathfully in the faces around them, he said: "some waistrel has been at work here. who is he? speak out. anybody know?" no one spoke. only the laird moaned feebly, and reeled like a drunken man. then, with the first shock over, the old man began to laugh. what a laugh it was! "no matter," he said; "no matter. now i've nowt left, i've nowt to lose. there's comfort in that, anyways. ha! ha! ha! but my heart is like to choke for all. you say reet, mr. ritson, there's villainy in it." the old man's eyes wandered vacantly. "her own father," he mumbled; "her lone old father--broken-hearted--him 'at loved her--no matter, i've nowt left to--ha! ha! ha!" he tried to walk away jauntily, and with a ghastly smile on his battered face, but he stumbled and fell insensible into paul's outstretched arms. they loosened his neckerchief and bathed his forehead. just then hugh ritson strode into the tent, stepped up to the group, and looked down over the bent heads at the stricken father lying in his brother's arms. paul's lips trembled and his powerful frame quivered. "who knows but the scoundrel is here now?" he said; and his eyes traversed the men about him. "if he is, let him look at his pitiless work; and may the sight follow him to his death!" at that moment hugh ritson's face underwent an awful change. then the old man opened his eyes in consciousness, and hugh knelt before him and put a glass of water to his lips. chapter viii. in the homestead of the ritsons the wide old ingle was aglow with a cheerful fire, and mrs. ritson stood before it baking oaten cake on a "griddle." the table was laid for supper with beef and beer and milk and barley-bread. in the seat of a recessed window, paul ritson and greta lowther sat together. at intervals that grew shorter, and with a grave face that became more anxious, mrs. ritson walked to the door and looked out into the thickening sky. the young people had been too much absorbed to notice her increasing perturbation, until she opened a clothes-chest and took out dry flannels and spread them on the hearth to air. "don't worrit yourself, mother," said paul. "he'll be here soon. he had to cross the coledale pass, and that's a long stroke of the ground, you know." "it's an hour past supper-time," said mrs. ritson, glancing aside at the old clock that ticked audibly from behind the great arm-chair. "the rain is coming again--listen!" there was a light patter of rain-drops against the window-panes. "if he's on the fells now he'll be wet to the skin." "i wish i'd gone in place of him," said paul, turning to greta. "a bad wetting troubles him nowadays. not same as of old, when he'd follow the fells all day long knee-deep in water and soaked to the skin with rain or snow." the thunder-clap shook the house. the windows rattled, and the lamp that had been newly lighted and put on the table flickered slightly and burned red. "mercy, me, what a night! was that a flash of lightning?" said mrs. ritson, and she walked to the door once more and opened it. "don't worrit, mother," repeated paul. "do come in. father will be here soon, and if he gets a wetting there's no help for it now." paul had turned aside from an animated conversation with greta to interpolate this remonstrance against his mother's anxiety. resuming the narrative of his wrestling match, he described its incidents as much by gesture as by words. "john proudfoot took me--so--and tried to give me the cross-buttock, but i caught his eye and twisted him on my hip--so--and down he went in a bash!" a hurried knock came to the outer door. in an instant it was opened, and a white face looked in. "what's now, reuben?" said paul, rising to his feet. "come along with me--leave the women-folk behind--master's down--the lightning has struck him--i'm afeart he's dead!" "my father!" said paul, and stood for a moment with a bewildered look. "go on, reuben, i'll follow." paul picked up his hat and was gone in an instant. mrs. ritson had been stooping over the griddle when reuben entered. she heard what he said, and rose up with a face of death-like pallor. but she said nothing, and sunk helplessly into a chair. then greta stepped up to her and kissed her. "mother--dear mother!" she said, and mrs. ritson dropped her head on the girl's breast. hugh had been sitting over some papers in his own room off the first landing. he overheard the announcement, and came into the hall. "your father has been struck by the lightning," said greta. "they will fetch him home," said hugh. at the next moment there was the sound from without of burdened footsteps. they were bearing the injured man. through the back of the house they carried him to his room. "that is for my sake," said mrs. ritson, raising her tear-stained face to listen. paul entered. his ruddy cheeks had grown ashy white. his eyes, that had blinked with pleasure a minute ago, now stared wide with fear. "is he alive?" "yes." "thank god! oh, thank god forever and ever! let me go in to him." "he is unconscious--he breathes--but no more." mrs. ritson, with paul and greta, went into the room in which they had placed the stricken man. he lay across the bed in his clothes, just as he had fallen. they bathed his forehead and applied leeches to his temples. he breathed heavily, but gave no sign of consciousness. paul sat at his father's side with his face buried in his hands. he was recalling his boyish days, when his father would lift him in his arms and throw him on the bare back of the pony that he gave him on his thirteenth birthday. could it be possible that the end was at hand! he got up and led greta out of the room. "this house of mourning is no place for you," he said; "the storm is over: you must leave us; natt can put the mare into the trap and drive you home." "i will not go," said greta; "this shall be my home to-night. don't send me away from you, paul. you are in trouble, and my place is here." "you could do no good, and might take some harm." mrs. ritson came out. "where is mr. bonnithorne?" she asked. "he was to be here at eight. your father might recover consciousness." "the lawyer could do nothing to help him." "if he is to leave us, may it please god to give him one little hour of consciousness." "yes, knowing us again--giving us a farewell word." "there is another reason--a more terrible reason!" "you are thinking of the will. let that go by. come, mother--and greta, too--come, let us go back." half an hour later the house was as still as the chamber of death. with hushed voices and noiseless steps the women-servants moved to and from the room where lay the dying man. the farming men sat together in an outer kitchen, and talked in whispers. the storm had passed away; the stars struggled one by one through a rack of flying cloud, and a silver fringe of moonlight sometimes fretted the black patches of the sky. hugh ritson sat alone in the old hall, that was now desolate enough. his face rested on his hand, and his elbow on his knee. there was a strange light in his eyes. it was not sorrow, and it was not pain; it was anxiety, uncertainty, perturbation. again and again he started up from a deep reverie, and then a half-smothered cry escaped him. he walked a few paces to and fro, and sat down once more. a servant crossed the hall on tiptoe. hugh raised his head. "how is your patient now?" he said, quietly. "just breathing, sir; still quite unconscious." hugh got up uneasily. a mirror hung on the wall in front of him, and he stood and looked vacantly into it. his thoughts wandered, and when a gleam of consciousness returned the first object that he saw was the reflection of his own face. it was full of light and expression. perhaps it wore a ghostly smile. he turned away from the sight impatiently. sitting down again he tried to compose himself. point by point he revolved the situation. he thought of what the lawyer had said of his deserted wife and lost son of lowther. then, taking out of an inner pocket the medallion that mr. bonnithorne had lent him, he looked at it long and earnestly. the inspection seemed to afford a grim satisfaction. there could be no doubt now of the ghostly smile that played upon his face. there was a tall antique clock in the corner of the hall. it struck eight. the slow beats of the bell echoed chillily in the hushed apartment. the hour awakened the consciousness of the brooding man. at eight o'clock mr. bonnithorne was appointed to be there to make the will. hugh ritson touched gently a hand-bell that stood on the table. a servant entered. "send natt to me," said hugh. a moment later the stableman shambled into the hall. he was a thick-set young fellow with a short neck and a full face, and eyelids that hung deep over a pair of cunning eyes. at first sight one would have said that the rascal was only half awake; at the second glance, that he was never asleep. hugh received him with a show of cordiality. "ah, natt, come here--closer." the man walked across. hugh dropped his voice. "go down to little town and find mr. bonnithorne. you may meet him on the way. if not, he will be at the flying horse. tell him i sent you to say that adam fallow lies dying at bigrigg, and must see him at once. you understand?" the man lifted his slumberous eyelids. a suspicious twinkle lurked beneath them. he glanced around, then down at his big, grimy boots, measured with one uplifted hand the altitude of the bump on the top of his bullet head, and muttered, "i understand." hugh's face darkened. "silence!" he said, sternly; and then he met natt's upward glance with a faint smile. "when you come back, get yourself out of the way--do you hear?" the heavy eyelids went up once more. "i hear." "then be off!" the fellow was shuffling away. "natt," said hugh, following him a step, "you fancied that new whip of mine; take it. you'll find it in the porch." a smile crossed natt's face from ear to ear. he stumbled out. hugh ritson returned to the hearth. that haunting mirror caught the light of his eyes again and showed that he too was smiling. at the same instant there came from the inner room the dull, dead sound of a deep sob. it banished the smile and made him pause. he looked at the reflection of his face--could it be the face of a scoundrel? was he playing a base part? no, he was merely asserting his rights; his plain legal rights--nothing more. he opened a cupboard in the wall and took down a bunch of keys. selecting one key, he stepped up to a cabinet and opened it. in a compartment were many loose papers. now to see if by chance there existed a will already. he glanced at the papers one by one and threw them aside. when he had finished his inspection he took a hasty turn about the room. no trace--he had been sure of it! again the deep sob came from within. hugh ritson walked noiselessly to the inner door, opened it slightly, bent his head, and listened. he turned away with an expression of pain, picked up his hat, and went out. the night was very dark. he strode a few paces down the lonnin and then back to the porch. uncovering his head, he let the night wind cool his hot temples. his breath came audibly and hard. he was turning again into the house when his eye was arrested by a light near the turning of the high-road. the light was approaching; he walked toward it, and met josiah bonnithorne. the lawyer was jouncing along toward the house with a lantern in his hand. "didn't you meet the stableman?" said hugh in an eager whisper. "no." "the blockhead must have taken the old pack-horse road on the fell-side. one would be safe in that fool's stupidity. you have heard what has happened?" "i have." "there is no will already." "and your father is insensible?" "yes." "then none shall be made." there was a pause, in which the darkness itself seemed full of speech. the lantern cast its light only on an open cart-shed in the lane. "if your mother is the grace ormerod who married robert lowther and had a son by him, then paul was that son--the heir to lowther's conscience-money." "bonnithorne," said hugh ritson--his voice trembled and broke--"if it is so, then it is so, and we need do nothing. remember, he is my father. it is not within belief that he wants to disinherit his own son for the son of another man." mr. bonnithorne broke into a half-smothered laugh, and stepped close into the cobble-hedge, keeping the lantern down. "your father--yes. but you have seen to-day what that may come to. he has always held you under his hand. paul has been the old man's favorite." "no doubt of that." hugh crept close to the lawyer. he was wrestling in the coil of a tragic temptation. "if he recovers consciousness, he may be tempted to recognize as his own his wife's illegitimate son. that"--the low tone was one of withering irony--"will keep her from dishonor, and you from the estates." "at least he is my brother--my mother's son. if my father wishes to provide for him, god forbid that we should prevent." once more the half-smothered laugh came through the darkness. "you have missed your vocation, mr. ritson. believe me, the gospel has lost a fervent advocate. perhaps you would like to pray for this good brother; perhaps you would consider it safe to drop on your knee and say, 'my good brother that should be, who has ever loved me, whom i have ever loved, take here my fortune, and leave me until death a penniless dependent on the lands that are mine by right of birth.'" hugh ritson's breath came in gusts through his quivering, unseen lips. "bonnithorne, it cannot be--it is mere coincidence, seductive, damning coincidence. my mother knows all. if it were true that paul was the son of lowther, she would know that paul and greta must be half-brother and half-sister. she would stop their unnatural union." "and do you think i have waited until now to sound that shoal water with a cautious plummet? your mother is as ignorant of the propinquity as greta herself. lowther was dead before your family settled in newlands. the families never once came together while the widow lived. and now not a relative survives who can tell the story." "parson christian?" said hugh ritson. "a great child just out of swaddling-clothes!" "then the secret rests with you and me, bonnithorne?" "who else? the marriage must not come off. greta is paul's half-sister, but she is no relative of yours--" "you are right, bonnithorne," hugh ritson broke in; "the marriage is against nature." "and the first step toward stopping it is to stop the will." "then why are you here?" "to make sure that there is no will already. you have satisfied me, and now i go." there was a pause. "who shall say that i am acting a base part?" said hugh, in an eager tone. "who indeed?" "nature itself is on my side." the man was conquered. he was in the grip of his temptation. "i am off, mr. ritson. get back into the house. it is not safe for you to be out of sight and sound." mr. bonnithorne was moving off in the darkness, the lamp before his breast; its light fell that instant on hugh ritson's haggard face. "wait; put out your lamp." "it's done." all was now dark. "good-night." "good-night." with slow whispers the two men parted. the springy step of josiah bonnithorne was soon lost in the road below. hugh ritson stood for awhile where the lawyer left him, and then turned back into the house. he found the cabinet open. in the turmoil of emotion he had forgotten to close it. he returned to it, and shuffled with the papers to put them back in their place. at that moment the door opened, and a heavy footstep fell on the floor. hugh glanced up startled. it was paul. his face was plowed deep with lines of pain. but the cloud of sorrow that it wore was not so black as the cloud of anger when he saw what his brother was doing and guessed his purpose. "what are you about?" paul asked, mastering his wrath. there was no response. "shut up that cabinet!" hugh turned about with a flushed face. "i shall do as i please!" paul took two strides toward him. "shut it up!" the cabinet was closed. at the same moment mrs. ritson came from the inner room. paul turned on his heel. "he is thinking of the will," said the elder brother. "perhaps it is natural that he should distrust me; but when the time comes he is welcome to the half of everything, and ten thousand wills would hardly give him more." mrs. ritson was strongly agitated. her eyes, red with weeping, were aflame with expression. "paul, he is conscious," she cried in a voice that her anxiety could not subdue. "he is trying to speak. where is the lawyer?" hugh had been moving toward the outer door. "conscious!" he repeated, and returned to the hearth. "send for mr. bonnithorne at once!" said mrs. ritson, addressing hugh. her manner was feverish. hugh touched the bell. when the servant appeared, he said: "tell natt to run to the village for mr. bonnithorne." paul had walked to the door of the inner room. his hand was on the handle, when the door opened and greta came out. she stepped up to mrs. ritson and tried to quiet her agitation. the servant returned. "i can't find natt," she said. "he is not in the house." "you'll find him in the stable," said hugh, composedly. the servant went out hurriedly. paul returned to the middle of the room. "i'll go myself," he said, and plucked his hat from the settle, but mrs. ritson rose to prevent him. "no, no, paul," she said in a tremulous voice, "you must never leave his side." paul glanced at his brother with a perplexed look. the calmness of hugh's manner disturbed him. the servant reappeared. "natt is not in the stable, sir." paul's face was growing crimson. mrs. ritson turned to hugh. "hugh, my dear son, do you go for the lawyer." a faint smile that lurked at the corners of hugh's mouth gave way to a look of injury. "mother, my place, also, is here. how can you ask me to leave my father's side at a moment like this?" greta had been looking fixedly at hugh. "i'll go," she said, resolutely. "impossible," said paul. "it is now dark--the roads are wet and lonely." "i'll go, nevertheless," said greta, firmly. "god bless you, my darling, and love you and keep you forever!" said paul. wrapping a cloak about her shoulders, he whispered: "my brave girl--that's the stuff of which an english woman may be made." he opened the door and walked out with her across the court-yard. the night was now clear and calm; the stars burned; the trees whispered; the distant ghylls, swollen by the rain, roared loud through the thin air; a bird on the bough of a fir-tree whistled and chirped. the storm was gone; only its wreckage lay in the still room within. "a safe journey to you, dear girl, and a speedy return," whispered paul, and in another moment greta had vanished in the dark. when he returned to the hall, his brother was passing into the room where the sick man lay. paul was about to follow when his mother, who was walking aimlessly to and fro in yet more violent agitation than before, called on him to remain. he turned about and stepped up to her, observing as he did so that hugh had paused on the threshold, and was regarding them with a steadfast look. mrs. ritson took paul's hand with a nervous grasp. her eyes, that bore the marks of recent tears, had the light of wild excitement. "god be praised that he is conscious at last!" she said. paul shook his head as if in censure of his mother's feelings. "let him die in peace," he said; "let his soul pass quietly to its rest. don't vex it now with thoughts of the cares it leaves behind." mrs. ritson let go his hand, and dropped into a chair. a slight shudder passed over her. paul looked down with a puzzled expression. then there was a low sobbing. he leaned over his mother and smoothed her hair tenderly. "come, let us go in," he said in a broken voice. mrs. ritson rose from her seat and went down on her knees. her eyes, still wet, but no longer weeping, were raised to heaven. "almighty father, give me strength!" she said beneath her breath, and then more quietly she rose to her feet. paul regarded her with increasing perturbation. something even more serious than he yet knew of was amiss. hardly knowing why, his heart sunk still deeper. "what are we doing?" he said, scarcely realizing his own words. mrs. ritson threw herself on his neck. "did i not say there was a terrible reason why your father should make a will?" paul's voice seemed to die within him. "what is it, mother?" he asked feebly, not yet gathering the meaning of his fears. "god knows, i never dreamed it would be my lips that must tell you," said mrs. ritson. "paul, my son, my darling son, you think me a good mother and a pure woman. i am neither. i must confess all--now--and to you. oh, how your love will turn from me!" paul's face turned pale. his eyes gazed into his mother's eyes with a fixed look. the clock ticked audibly. not another sound broke the silence. at last paul spoke. "speak, mother," he said; "is it something about my father?" mrs. ritson's face fell on to her son's breast. a strong shudder ran over her shoulders, and she sobbed aloud. "you are not your father's heir," she said; "you were born before we married.... but you will try not to hate me, ... your own mother.... you will try, will you not?" paul's great frame shook visibly. he tried to speak. his tongue cleaved to his mouth. "do you mean that i am--a bastard?" he said in a hoarse whisper. the word seemed to sting his mother like a poisoned arrow. she clung yet closer about his neck. "pity me and love me still, though i have wronged you before god and man. i whom the world thought so pure--i am but a whited sepulcher--a dishonored woman dishonoring her dearest son!" the door opened gently, and hugh ritson stood in the door-way. neither his brother nor his mother realized his presence. he remained a moment, and then withdrew, leaving the door ajar. beneath the two whom he left behind, the world at that moment reeled. paul stood with great, wide eyes, that had never tear to soften them, gazing vacantly into the weeping eyes before him. his lips quivered, but he did not speak. "paul, speak to me--speak to me--only speak--only let me hear your voice! see, i am at your feet--your mother kneels to you--forgive her as god has forgiven her!" and loosing her grasp, she flung herself on the ground before him, and covered her face with her hands. paul seemed not at first to know what was happening. then he stooped and raised his mother to her feet. "mother, rise up," he said in a strange, hollow tone. "who am i that i should presume to pardon you? i am your son--you are my mother!" his vacant eyes gathered a startled expression. he glanced quickly around the room, and said in a deep whisper: "how many know of this?" "none besides ourselves." the frightened look disappeared. in its place came a look of overwhelming agony. "but i know of it; oh, my god!" he cried; and into the chair from which his mother had risen he fell like a wounded man. mrs. ritson dried her eyes. a strange quiet was coming upon her now. her voice gathered strength. she laid a hand on the head of her son, who sat before her with buried face. "paul," she said, "it is not until now that the day of reckoning has waited for me. when you were a babe, and knew nothing of your mother's grief, i sorrowed over the shame that might yet be yours; and when you grew to be a prattling child, i thought if god would look into your innocent eyes they would purchase grace for both of us." paul lifted his head. at that moment of distress god had sent him the gracious gift of tears. his eyes were wet, and looked tenderly at his mother. "paul," she continued, quite calmly now, "promise me one thing." "what is it?" he asked, softly. "that if your father should not live to make the will that must recognize you as his son, you will never reveal this secret." paul rose to his feet. "that is impossible. i cannot promise it," he said. "why?" "honor and justice require that my brother hugh, and not i, should be my father's heir--he, at least, must know." "what honor, and what justice?" "the honor of a true man--the justice of the law of england." mrs. ritson dropped her head. "so much for your honor," she said. "but what of mine?" "mother, what do you mean?" "that if you allow your younger brother to inherit, the world by that act will be told all--your father's sin, your mother's shame." mrs. ritson raised her hands to her face, and turned aside. paul stepped up to her and kissed her forehead reverently. "you are right," he said. "forgive me--i thought only of myself. the world that loves to tarnish a pure name would like to gloat over your sorrow. that it shall never! man's law may have been outraged, but god's law is still inviolate. whatever my birth, i am as much your son in the light of heaven as jacob was the son of isaac, or david of jesse. come, let us go to him--he may yet live to acknowledge me." it had been a terrible moment, but it was past. to live to manhood in ignorance of the dishonor of his birth, and then to learn the truth under the shadow of death--this had been a tragic experience. the love he had borne his father--the reverence he had learned at his mother's knee--to what bitter test had they been put! had all the past been but as the marble image of a happy life! was all the future shattered before him! pshaw! he was the unconscious slave of a superstition--a phantasm, a gingerbread superstition! and a mightier touch awoke his sensibilities--the touch of nature. before god at that moment he was his father's son. if the world, or the world's law, said otherwise, then they were of the devil, and deserving to be damned. what rite, what jabbering ceremony, what priestly ordinance, what legal mummery, stood between him and his claim to his father's name? paul took in love the hand of his mother. "let us go in to him," he repeated, and together they walked across the room. the outer door was flung open, and greta entered, flushed and with wide-open eyes. at the same instant the inner door swung noiselessly back, and hugh ritson stood on the threshold. greta was about to speak, but hugh motioned her to silence. his face was pale, his hand trembled. "too late," he said, huskily; "he is dead!" greta sunk on to the settle in the window recess. hugh walked to the hearth and paused with rigid features before the haunting mirror. paul stood for a moment hand in hand with his mother, motionless, speechless, cold at his heart. then he hurried into the inner room. mrs. ritson followed him, closing the door behind him. the little oak-bound room was dusky; the lamp that burned low was shaded. across the bed lay allan ritson, in his habit as he lived. but his lips were white and cold. paul stood and looked down. there lay his father--his father still! his father by right of nature--of love--of honor--let the world say what it would. and he knew the truth at last: too late to look into those glassy eyes and read the secret of their long years of suffering love. "father," paul whispered, and fell to his knees by the deaf ear. mrs. ritson, strangely quiet, strangely calm, stepped to the opposite side of the bed, and placed one hand on the dead man's breast. "paul," she said, "come here." he rose to his feet and walked to her side. "lay your hand with mine, and pledge to me your solemn word never to speak of what you have heard to-night until that great day when we three shall stand together before the great white throne." paul placed his hand side by side with hers, and lifted his eyes to heaven. "on my father's body, by my mother's honor--never to reveal to any human soul, by word or deed, his act or her shame--always to bear myself as their lawful son before man, even as i am their rightful son before god--i swear it! i swear it!" his voice was cold and clear, but the words were scarcely uttered when he fell to his knees again, with a subdued cry of overwrought feeling. mrs. ritson staggered back, caught the curtains of the bed, and covered her face. all was still. then a shuffling footfall was heard on the floor. hugh ritson was in the darkened room. he lifted the shaded lamp from the table, approached the bedside, and held the lamp with one hand above his head. the light fell on the outstretched body of his father and the bowed head of his brother. _book ii._ the coil of the temptation. chapter i. it was late in november, and the day was dark and drear. hoar-frost lay on the ground. the atmosphere was pallid with haze and dense with mystery. gaunt specters of white mist swept across the valley and gathered at the sides of every open door. the mountains were gone. only a fibrous vagueness was visible. in an old pasture field by the bridge a man was plowing. he was an elderly man, sturdy and stolid of figure, and clad in blue homespun. there was nothing clerical in his garb or manner, yet he was the vicar and school-master of the parish. his low-crowned hat was drawn deep over his slumberous gray eyes. the mobile mouth beneath completed the expression of gentleness and easy good-nature. it was a fine old face, with the beauty of simplicity and the sweetness of content. a boy in front led the horses, and whistled. the parson hummed a tune as he turned his furrows. sometimes he sung in a drawling tone- "bonny lass, canny lass, wilta be mine? thou's nowder wesh dishes nor sarra the swine." at the turn-rows he paused, and rested on his plow handles. he rested longest at the turn-rows on the roadside of the field. like the shivering mists that grouped about the open doors, he was held there by light and warmth. the smithy stood at the opposite side of the road, cut into the rock of the fell on three sides, and having a roof of thatch. the glare of the fire, now rising, now falling, streamed through the open door. it sent a long vista of light through the blank and pulsating haze. the vibrations of the anvil were all but the only sounds on the air; the alternate thin clink of the smith's hand-hammer and the thick thud of the striker's sledge echoed in unseen recesses of the hills beyond. this smithy of newlands filled the function which under a higher propitiousness of circumstance is answered by a club. girded with his leather apron, his sleeves rolled tightly over his knotty arms, the smith, john proudfoot, stood waiting for his heat. his striker, geordie moore, had fallen to at the bellows. on the tool chest sat gubblum oglethorpe, leisurely smoking. his pony was tied to the hasp of the gate. the miller, dick of the syke, sat on a pile of iron rods. tom o' dint, the little bow-legged fiddler and postman, was sharpening at the grindstone a penknife already worn obliquely to a point by many similar applications. "nay, i can make nowt of him. he's a changed man for sure," said the blacksmith. gubblum removed his pipe and muttered sententiously: "it's die-spensy, i tell thee." "dandering and wandering about at all hours of the day and night," continued the blacksmith. "it's all die-spensy," repeated the peddler. "and as widderful and wizzent as a polecat nailed up on a barn door," said tom o' dint, lifting his grating knife from the grindstone and speaking with a voice as hoarse. "eh, and as weak as watter with it," added the blacksmith. "his as was as strong as rum punch," rejoined the fiddler. "it's die-spensy, john--nowt else," said gubblum. the miller broke in testily. "what's die-spensy?" "what ails paul ritson?" answered gubblum. "shaf on your balderdash," said dick of the syke; "die-spensying and die-spensying. you've no' but your die-spensy for everything. tommy's rusty throat, and john's big toe, and lang geordie's broken nose, as giles raisley gave him a' saturday neet at the pack horse--it's all die-spensy." the miller was a blusterous fellow, who could swear in lusty anger and laugh in boisterous sport in a single breath. gubblum puffed placidly. "it is die-spensy. i know it by exper'ence," he observed, persistently. the blacksmith's little eyes twinkled mischievously. "to be sure you do, gubblum. you had it bad the day you crossed in the packet from whitehebben. that was die-spensy--a cute bout too." "i've heard as it were amazing rough on the watter that day," said tom, in a pause of the wheel, glancing up knowingly at the blacksmith. "heard, had you? must have been tolerable deaf else. rough? why, them do say as the packet were wrecked, and only two planks saved. gubblum was washed ashore cross-legged on one of them, and his pack on the other." the long, labored breathings of the bellows ended, the iron was thrown white hot out of the glowing coals on to the anvil, and the clank of the hand-hammer and thud of the sledge were all that could be heard. then the iron cooled, and was lifted back into the palpitating blaze. the blacksmith stepped to the door, wiped his streaming forehead with one hand and waved the other to the parson plowing in the opposite field. "a canny morning, mr. christian," he shouted. "bad luck for the parson's young lady, anyhow--her sweetheart is none to keen for the wedding," he said, turning again to the fire. "she's a fine like lass, yon," said tom o' dint. an old man, iron gray, with a pair of mason's mallets swung front and back across his shoulders, stepped into the smithy. "how fend ye, john?" he said. "middling weel, job," answered the blacksmith; "and what's your errand now?" "a chisel or two for tempering." "cutting in the church-yard to-day, job? cold wark, eh?" "ey, auld ritson's stone as they've putten over him." the blacksmith tapped the peddler on the arm. "gubblum, shall i tell you what's a-matter with paul?" "never you bother, john, it's die-spensy." "it's fretting--that's it--fretting for his father." "fretting for his fiddlesticks!" shouted dick, the miller; "allan's dead this half a year." "john's reet," said job, the stone-cutter; "it is fretting." dick of the syke got up off the iron rods. "because a young fellow has given you a job of wark to cut his father's headstone and tell a lie or two in letters half an inch deep and two shillings a dozen--does that show 'at he's fretting?" "he didn't do nowt of the sort," said job, hotly. "dusta mean as it were the other one--hugh?" inquired the miller. "maybe that's reet," said job. dick of the syke was not to be beaten for lack of the logic of circumlocution. "then what for do you say as paul is weeping his insides out about his father, when he leaves it to other folks to put a bit of stone over him and a few scrats on it?" "because i do say so," said job, conclusively. "and maybe you've got your reasons, job," said the blacksmith with insinuating suavity. "maybe i have," said the mason. then softening, he added, "i don't mind telling you, neither. yesterday morning when i went to wark i found paul ritson lying full length across his father's grave. his clothes were soaking with dew, and his face was as white as a feb'uary mist, and stiff and set like, and his hair was frosted over same as a pane in the church window." "never!" "he was like to take no note of me, but i gave him a shake, and called out, 'what, mr. paul! why, what, man! what's this?'" "and what ever did he say?" "say! nowt. he get hissel' up--and gay stiff in the limbs he looked, to be sure--and walked off without a word." gubblum on the tool chest had removed his pipe from between his lips during the mason's narrative, and listened with a face of blank amazement. "weel, that is a stiffener," he said, drawing a long breath. "what's a stiffener?" said job, sharply. "that 'at you're telling for gospel truth." then, turning to the blacksmith, the peddler pointed the shank of his pipe at the mason, and said: "what morning was it as he found paul ritson taking a bath to hissel' in the kirk-yard?" "why, yesterday morning," said the smith. "well, he bangs them all at lying!" said gubblum. "what dusta say?" shouted job, with sudden fury. "as you've telt us a lie," answered gubblum. "sista, gubblum, if you don't take that word back i'll--i'll throw you into the water-butt!" "and what would i do while you were thrang at that laal job?" asked the peddler. the blacksmith interposed. "sec a rumpus!" he said; "you're too sudden in your temper, job." "some folks are ower much like their namesakes in the bible," said gubblum, resuming his pipe. "then what for did he say it worn't true as i found young ritson yesterday morning wet to the skin in the church-yard?" said job, ignoring the peddler. "because he warn't there," said gubblum. job lost all patience. "look here," he said, "if you're not hankering for a cold bath on a frosty morning, laal man, i don't know as you've got any call to say that again!" "he warn't there," the "laal man" muttered doggedly. the blacksmith had plunged his last heat into the water trough to cool, and a cloud of vapor filled the smithy. "lord a'mighty!" he said, laughing, "that's the way some folks go off--all of a hiss and a smoke." "he warn't there," mumbled the peddler again, impervious to the homely similitude. "how are you so certain sure?" said dick of the syke. "you warn't there yourself, i reckon." "no; but i was somewhere else, and so was paul ritson. i slept at the pack house in kezzick night afore last, and he did the same." "did you see him there?" said the blacksmith. "no; but giles raisley saw him, and he warn't astir when giles went on his morning shift at eight o'clock." the blacksmith broke into a loud guffaw. "tell us how he was at the hawk and heron in london at midsummer." "and so he was," said gubblum, unabashed. "willy-nilly, ey?" said the blacksmith, pausing over the anvil with uplifted hammer, the lurid reflection of the hot iron on his face. "maybe he had his reasons for denying hisself," said gubblum. the blacksmith laughed again, tapped the iron with the hand-hammer, down came the sledge, and the flakes flew. two miners entered the smithy. "good-morning, john; are ye gayly?" said one of them. "gayly, gayly! why, it's giles hissel'!" "giles," said the peddler, "where was paul ritson night afore last?" "abed, i reckon," chuckled one of the new-comers. "where abed?" "nay, don't ax me. wait--night afore last? that was the night he slept at janet's, wasn't it?" gubblum's eyes twinkled with triumph. "what, did i tell you?" "what call had he to sleep at keswick?" said the blacksmith; "it's no'but four miles from his own bed at the ghyll." "nay, now, when ye ax the like o' that--" tom, the postman, stopped his grindstone and snuckered huskily: "maybe he's had a fratch with yon brother--yon hugh." "i'm on the morning shift this week, and mother janet she said: 'giles,' she said, 'the brother of your young master came late last night for a bed.'" "job, what do you say to that?" shouted the blacksmith above the pulsating of the bellows, and with the sharp white lights of the leaping flames on his laughing face. "say! that they're a pack of liars!" said the mason, catching up his untempered chisels and flinging out of the smithy. when he had gone, gubblum removed his pipe and said calmly: "he's ower much like his bible namesake in temper--that's the on'y fault of job." the parson, in the field outside, had stood in the turn-rows, resting on his plow-handles. he had been drawling "bonny lass, canny lass;" but, catching the sound of angry words, he had paused and listened. when job, the mason, flung away, he returned to his plowing, and disappeared down the furrow, the boy whistling at his horse's head. "why, mattha, it is thee?" said the blacksmith, observing for the first time the second of the new-comers; "and how fend ye?" "middling weel, john, middling weel," said matthew, in a low voice, resting on the edge of the trough. it was laird fisher, more bent than of old, with deeper lines in his grave face and with yet more listless eyes. he had brought two picks for sharpening. "got your smelting-house at wark down at the pit, mattha?" asked the blacksmith. "ey, john, it's at wark--it's at wark." the miller had turned to go, but he faced about with ready anger. "lord, yes, and a pretty pickle you and your gaffer's like to make of me. wad ye credit it, john? they've built their smelting-house within half a rod of my mill. half a rod; not a yard mair. when your red-hot rubbish is shot down your bank, where's it going to go, ey? that's what i want to know--where's it going to go?" "why, into your mill, of course," said gubblum, with a wink, from the tool-chest. "that'll maybe help you to go by fire when you can't raise the wind." "verra good for thee, gubblum," laughed the blacksmith. "i'll have the law on them safe enough," said the miller. "and where's your damages to come from?" "from the same spot as all the rest of the brass--that's good enough for me." matthew's voice followed the insinuating guffaw. "i spoke to master hugh yesterday. i telt him all you said about a wall." "well?" "he won't build it." "of course not. why didsta not speak to paul?" "no use in that," said matthew, faintly. "nay, young hugh is a gaffer," exclaimed the blacksmith. "and paul has no say in it except finding the brass, ey?" "i mak' no doubt as you're reet, dick," said matthew, meekly. "it's been just so since the day auld allan died," said the blacksmith. "he hadn't been a week in his grave before hugh bought up mattha's royalty in the hammer hole, and began to sink for iron. he's never found much ore, as i've heard tell on, but he goes ahead laying down his pumping engines, and putting up his cranes, and boring his mill-races, just as if he was proper-ietor of a royal mine." "hugh is the chain-horse, and paul's no'but the mare in the shafts," said gubblum. "and the money comes somehow," said tom o' dint, who had finished the knife and was testing its edge in whittling a stick. matthew got up from his seat. "i'll come again for the picks, john," he said quietly; and the old man stepped out of the bright glow into the chill haze. "mattha has never been the same since laal mercy left him," said the blacksmith. "any news of her?" asked the peddler. "ax tom o' dint; he's the postman, and like to know if anybody in newlands gets the scribe of a line from the wench," said the miller. tom shakes his head. "you could tell summat, an' you would, ey, tom?" said the blacksmith, showing his teeth. "don't you misliken me," said the rural messenger in his husky tones; "i'm none of your peeping toms." and the postman drew up his head with as much pride of office as could be assumed by a gentleman of bowed legs and curtailed stature. "it baffles me as mattha hisself could make nowt of his royalty in the hammer hole, if there was owt to make out of it," said the miller from the gate, buttoning his coat up to his ears. "i've heard as he had a mind to try his luck again," said giles raisley. "nay, nay, nowt of the sort," said the blacksmith. "when the laal lass cut away and left the auld chap he lost heart and couldn't bear the sight of the spot where she used to bide. so he started back to his bit place on coledale moss. but hugh ritson followed him and bought up his royalty--for nowt, as they say--and set him to wark for wage in his own sinking--the same that ruined the auld man lang ago." "and he's like to see a fortun' come out of it yet," said giles. "it won't be mattha's fortun', then." "nay, never fear," said the miner. gubblum shook the ashes out of his pipe, and said meditatively, "mattha's like me and the cuckoo." "why, man, how's that?" said the blacksmith, girding his leather apron in a band about his waist. a fresh heat was in the fire; the bellows were belching; the palpitating flames were licking the smoky hood. a twinkle lurked in the blacksmith's eye. "how's that?" he repeated. "he's allus stopping short too soon," said gubblum. "my missis, she said to me last back end, 'gubblum,' she said, 'dusta mind as it's allus summer when the cuckoo is in the garden?' 'that's what is is,' i said. 'well,' she said, 'dusta not think it wad allus be summer if the cuckoo could allus be kept here?' 'maybe so,' i says; 'but easier said nor done.' 'shaf on you for a clothead!' says she; 'nowt so simple. when you get the cuckoo into the garden, build a wall round and keep it in.' and that's what i did; and i built it middling high, too, but it warn't high enough, for, wad ye think it, one day i saw the cuckoo setting off, and it just skimmed the top of that wall by a bare inch. now, if i'd no'but put another stone--" a loud peal of laughter was gubblum's swift abridgment. the peddler tapped the mouth of his pipe on his thumb-nail, and smiled under his shaggy brows. chapter ii. when parson christian finished his plowing, the day was far spent. he gave the boy a shilling as day's wage for leading the horses, drove the team back to their owner, robert atkinson, paid five shillings for the day's hire of them, and set out for home. on the way thither he called at henry walmsley's, the grocery store in the village, and bought half a pound of tea, a can of coffee, and a stone of sugar; then at randal alston's, the shoemaker's, and paid for the repairing of a pair of boots, and put them under his arm; finally, he looked in at the flying horse and called for a pot of ale, and drank it, and smoked a pipe and had a crack with tommy lowthwaite, the publican. the mist had risen as the day wore on, and now that the twilight was creeping down the valley, the lane to the vicarage could be plainly seen in its yellow carpeting of fallen leaves. an outer door of the house stood open, and a rosy glow streamed from the fire into the porch. not less bright was the face within that was waiting to welcome the old vicar home. "back again, greta, back again!" shouted the parson, rolling into the cozy room with his ballast under either arm. "there--wait--fair play, girl--ah, you rogue!--now that's what i call a mean advantage!" there was a smack of lips, a little laugh in a silvery voice with a merry lilt in it, and then a deep-toned mutter of affected protestation breaking down into silence and a broad smile. at arms-length greta glanced at the parson's burdens, and summoned an austere look. "now, didn't i tell you never to do it again?" she said, with an uplifted finger and an air of stern reproof. "did you now?" said the parson, with an expression of bland innocence--adding, in an accent of wonderment: "what a memory i have, to be sure!" "leave such domestic duties to your domestic superiors," said the girl, keeping a countenance of amazing severity. "do you hear me, you dear old darling?" "i hear, i hear," said the old man, throwing his purchases on the floor one by one. "why, bless me, and here's mr. bonnithorne," he added, lifting his eyes to the chimney-corner, where the lawyer sat toasting his toes. "welcome, welcome." "peter, peter!" cried greta, opening an inner door. a gaunt old fellow, with only one arm, shambled into the room. "peter, take away these things to the kitchen," said greta. the old man glanced down at the parson's purchases with a look of undisguised contempt. "he's been at it again, mistress," he said. the parson had thrown off his coat, and was pushing away his long boots with the boot-jack. "and how's mr. bonnithorne this rusty weather? wait, peter, give me the slippers out of the big parcel. i got randal alston to cut down my old boots into clock sides, and make me slippers out of the feet. only sixpence, and see what a cozy pair. thank you, peter. so you're well, mr. bonnithorne. odd, you say? well, it is, considering the world of folk who are badly these murky days." peter lifted the boots and fixed them dexterously under the stump of his abridged member. the tea and coffee he deposited in his trousers' pockets, and the sugar he carried in his hand. "there'll be never no living with him," he muttered in greta's ear as he passed out. "don't know as i mind his going to plow--that's a job for a man with two hands--but the like o' this isn't no master's wark." "dear me!" exclaimed the parson, who was examining his easy-chair preparatory to sitting in it, "a new cushion--and a bag on the wall for my specs--and a shelf for my pipes--and a--a--what do you call this?" "an antimacassar, mr. christian," the lawyer said. "i wondered was he ever going to see any difference," said greta, with dancing eyes. "dear me, and red curtains on the windows, and a clean print counterpane on the settle--" "a chintz--a chintz," interposed greta, with a mock whimper. "and the old rosewood clock in the corner as bright as a looking-glass, and the big oak cabinet all shiny with oil--" "varnish, sir, varnish." "and all the carvings on it as fresh as a new pin--st. peter with his great key, and the rich man with his money-bag trying to defy the fiery furnace." "didn't i say you would scarcely know your own house when you came home again?" said greta. she was busying herself at spreading the cloth on the round table and laying the parson's supper. parson christian was revolving on his slippered toes, his eyes full of child-like amazement, and a maturer twinkle of knowingness lurking in that corner of his aged orbs that was not directly under the fire of the girl's sharp, delighted gaze. "deary me, have you a young lady at home, mr. bonnithorne?" "you know i am a bachelor, mr. christian," said the lawyer, demurely. "so am i--so am i. i never knew any better--not until our old friend mrs. lowther died and left me to take charge of her daughter." "mother should have asked me to take charge of mr. christian, shouldn't she, mr. bonnithorne?" said greta, with roguish eyes. "well, there's something in that," said the parson, with a laugh. "peter was getting old and a bit rusty in the hinges, you know, and we were likely to turn out a pair of old crows fit for nothing but to scare good christians from the district. but greta came to the musty old house, with its dust and its cobwebs, and its two old human spiders, like a slant of sunlight on a muggy day. here's supper--draw up your chair, mr. bonnithorne, and welcome. it's my favorite dish--she knows it--barley broth and a sheep's head, with boiled potatoes and mashed turnips. draw up your chair--but where's the pot of ale, greta?" "peter! peter!" the other spider presently appeared, carrying a quart jug with a little mountain of froth--a crater bubbling over and down the sides. "been delving for potatoes to-day, peter?" said the parson. peter answered with a grumpy nod of his big head. "how many bushels?" "maybe a matter of twelve," muttered peter, shambling out. then the parson and his guest fell to. "you're a happy man, mr. christian," said mr. bonnithorne, as greta left the room on some domestic errand. parson christian shook his head. "no call for grace," he said, "with all the luxuries of life thrown into one's lap--that's the worst of living such a happy life. no trials, no cross--nothing to say but 'soul, take thine ease'--and that's bad when you think of it.... have some sheep's head, mr. bonnithorne; you've not got any tongue--here's a nice sweet bit." "thank you, mr. christian. i came round to pay the ten shillings for joseph parkinson's funeral sermon last sunday sennight, and the one pound two half-yearly allowance from the james bolton charity for poor clergy-men." "well, well! they may well say it never rains but it pours," said the parson. "i called at henry walmsley's and robert atkinson's on my way home from the crossroads, and they both paid me their martinmas quarterage--henry five shillings, and robert seven shillings--and when i dropped in on randal alston to pay for the welting and soling of my shoes he said they would come to one and sixpence, but that he owed me one and seven-pence for veal that peter sold him, so he paid me a penny, and we are clear from the beginning of the world to this day." "i also wanted to speak about our young friend greta," said mr. bonnithorne, softly. "i suppose you are reconciled to losing her?" "losing her?--greta!" said the parson, laying down his knife. then smiling, "oh, you mean when paul takes her--of course, of course--only the marriage will not be yet awhile--he said so himself." "marriage with paul--no," said mr. bonnithorne, clearing his throat and looking grave. parson christian glanced into the lawyer's face uneasily and lapsed into silence. "mr. christian, you were left guardian of greta lowther by our dear friend, her mother. it becomes your duty to see that she does the best for her future welfare and happiness." "surely, surely!" said the parson. "you are an old man, mr. christian, and she is a young girl. when you and i are gone, greta lowther will still have the battle of life before her." "please god--please god!" said the parson, faintly. "isn't it well that you should see that she shall have a husband that can fight it with her side by side?" "so she shall, so she shall--paul is a manly fellow, and as fond of her as of his own soul--nay, as i tell him, it's idolatry and a sin before god, his love of the girl." "you're wrong, mr. christian. paul ritson is no fit husband for greta. he is a ruined man. since his father's death he has allowed the ghyll to go to wreck. it is mortgaged to the last blade of grass. i know it." parson christian shifted his chair from the table and gazed into the fire with bewildered eyes. "i knew he was in trouble," he said, "but i didn't guess that things wore so grave a look." "don't you see that he is shattered in mind as well as purse?" said the lawyer. "no, no; i can't say that i do see that. he's a little absent sometimes, but that's all. when i talk of matthew henry and discuss his commentaries, or recite the story of dear adam clarke, he is a little--just a little forgetful--that's all--yes, that is all." "compared with his brother--what a difference!" said mr. bonnithorne. "well, there is a difference," said the parson. "such spirit, such intelligence--he'll be the richest man in cumberland one of these days. he has bought up a royalty that is sweating ore, and now he is laying down pumping engines and putting up smelting-houses, and he is getting standing orders to fix a line of railway for the ore he is fetching up." "and where did the money come from?" asked the parson; "the money to begin?" mr. bonnithorne glanced up sharply. "it was his share of his father's personalty." "a big tree from such a little acorn," said the parson, meditatively, "and quick growth, too." "there's no saying what intelligence and enterprise will not do in this world, mr. christian," said the lawyer, who seemed less certain of the next. "hugh ritson is a man of spirit and brains. now, that's the husband for greta--that is, if you can get him--and i don't know that you can--but if it were only possible--" parson christian faced about. "mr. bonnithorne," he said, gravely, "the girl is not up for sale, and the richest man in cumberland can't buy her. the thirty pieces of silver for which judas sold his master may have been smelted and coined afresh, but not a piece of that money shall touch fingers of mine!" "you mistake me, mr. christian, believe me, you do," protested the lawyer, with an aggrieved expression. "i was speaking in our young friend's interests. whatever occurs, i beg of you, as a friend and well-wisher of the daughter of robert lowther, now in his grave, never to allow her to marry paul ritson." "that shall be as god wills it," said the parson quietly. the lawyer had risen and drawn on his great-coat. "she can stay here with me," continued the parson. "no, she should marry now," said mr. bonnithorne, stepping to the door. "she's all but of age. it is hardly fair to keep her." "why, what do you mean?" asked the parson, a puzzled look on his face. "she is rich and she is young. her wealth can buy comforts, and her youth win pleasures." the good old christian opened wide his great gray eyes with a blank expression. he glanced vacantly about the simple room, rose to his feet, and sat down again. "i never thought of that before," he said, faintly, and staring long into the fire. there was a heavy foot on the path outside. the latch was lifted, and paul ritson stepped into the room. at the sound of his step greta tripped through the inner door, all joy and eagerness, to welcome him. the parson got up and held out both hands, the clouds gone from his beaming face. "well, good-night," said the lawyer, opening the door. "i've four long miles before me. and how dark! how very dark!" paul ritson was in truth a changed man. his face was pale and haggard, and his eyes were bleared and heavy. he dropped with a listless weariness into the chair that greta drew up to the fire. when he smiled the lips lagged back to a gloomy repose, and when he laughed the note of merriment rang hollow and fell short. "just in time for a game with me, my lad!" said the parson. "greta, fetch the chessboard and box." the board was brought, the pieces fixed; the parson settled himself at his ease, with slippers on the hearth-rug and a handkerchief across his knee. "do you know, paul, i heard a great parl about you to-day?" "about me! where?" asked paul, without much curiosity in his tone. "at mr. proudfoot's smithy, while i was turning the fallows in the meadow down at the crossroads. little mr. oglethorpe was saying that you slept at the pack horse, in keswick, the night before last; but mr. job sheepshanks, the letter-cutter, said nay, and they had high words indeed, wherein job called mr. oglethorpe all but his proper name, and flung away in high dudgeon." paul moved his pawn and said, "i never slept at the pack horse in my life, mr. christian." greta sat knitting at one side of the ingle. the kitten, with a bell attached to a ribbon about its neck, sported with the bows of her dainty slippers. only the click of the needles, and the tinkle of the bell, and the hollow tick of the great clock in the corner broke the silence. at last parson christian drew himself up in his chair. "well, paul, man, paul--deary me, what a sad move! you're going back, back, back; once you could beat me five games to four. now i can run away with you." the game soon finished, amid a chuckle from the parson, a bantering word from greta, and a loud, forced laugh from paul. parson christian lifted from a shelf a ponderous tome bound in leather and incased in green cloth. "i must make my day's entry," he said, "and get off to bed. i was astir before day-break this morning." greta crept up behind the old man, and looked over his shoulder as he wrote: "nov. 21.--retired to my lodging-room last night, and commended my all to god, and lay down, and fell asleep; but peter minded the heifer that was near to calving; so he came and wakened me, and we went down and sealed her, and foddered her, and milked her. spent all day plowing the low meadow, peter delving potatoes. called at the flying horse, and sat while i drank one pot of ale and no more, and paid for it. received ten shillings from lawyer bonnithorne for funeral sermon, and one pound two from bolton charity; also five shillings quarterage from henry walmsley, and seven from robert atkinson, and a penny to square accounts from randal alston, and so retired to my closet at peace with all the world. blessed be god." the parson returned to its shelf the ponderous diary "made to view his life and actions in," and called through the inner door for his bedroom candle. a morose voice answered "coming," and presently came. "thank you, peter; and how's the meeting-house, and who preaches there next sunday, peter?" peter grumbled out: "i don't know as it's not yourself. i passed them my word as you'd exhort 'em a' sunday afternoon." "but nobody has ever asked me. you should have mentioned the matter to me first, peter, before promising. but never mind, i'm willing, though it's a poor discourse they can get from me." turning to paul, who sat silent before the fire: "peter has left us and turned methodist," said the parson; "he is now brother peter ward, and wants me to preach at the meeting-house. well, i won't say nay. many a good ordained clergyman has been dissenting minister as well. good-night to you.... peter, i wish you to get some whipcord and tie up the reel of my fishing-rod--there it is, on the rafters of the ceiling; and a bit more cord to go round the handle of my whip--it leans against the leads of the neuk window; and, peter, i'm going to go to the mill with the oats to-morrow, and robin atkinson has loaned me his shandry and mare. robin always puts a bushel of grain into the box, but it's light and only small feeding. i wish you to get a bushel of better to mix with it, and make it more worth the mare's labor to eat it. good-night all; good night." peter grumbled something beneath his breath and shambled out. "god bless him!" said greta presently; and paul, without lifting his eyes from the fire, said quietly: "'christe's lore, and his apostles twelve he taught; but first he followed it himselve.'" then there was silence in the little vicarage. paul sat without animation until greta set herself to bewitch him out of his moodiness. her bright eyes, dancing in the rosy fire-light that flickered in the room; her high spirits bubbling over with delicious teasing and joyous sprightliness; her tenderness, her rippling laughter, her wit, her badinage--all were brought to the defeat and banishment of paul's heaviness of soul. it was to no purpose. the gloom of the grave face would not be conquered. paul smiled slightly into the gleaming eyes, and laughed faintly at the pouting lips, and stroked tenderly the soft hair that was glorified into gold in the glint of the fire-light; but the old sad look came back once and again. greta gave it up at last. she rose from the hassock at his feet. "sweetheart," she said, "i will go to bed. you are not well to-night, or you are angry, or out of humor." she waited a moment, but he did not speak. then she made a feeble feint of leaving the room. at last paul said: "greta, i have something to say." she was back at her hassock in an instant. the laughter had gone from her eyes, and left a dewy wistfulness. "you are unhappy. you have been unhappy a long, long time, and have never told me the cause. tell me now." the heavy face relaxed. "what ever put that in your head, little one?" he asked, in a playful tone, patting the golden hair. "tell me now," she said more eagerly. "think of me as a woman fit to share your sorrows, not as a child to be pampered and played with, and never to be burdened with a man's sterner cares. if i am not fit to know your troubles, i am not fit to be your wife. tell me, paul, what it is that has taken the sunshine out of your life." "the sunshine has not been taken out of my life yet, little woman--here it is," said paul, lightly, and he drew his fingers through the glistening hair. the girl's lucent eyes fell. "you are playing with me," she said gravely; "you are always playing with me. am i so much a child? are you angry with me?" "angry with you, little one? hardly that, i think," said paul, and his voice sunk. "then tell me, sweetheart. you have something to say--what is it?" "i have come to ask--" "yes?" he hesitated. his heart was too full to speak. he began again. "do you think it would be too great a sacrifice to give up--" "what?" she gasped. "do you remember all you told me about my brother hugh--that he said he loved you?" "well?" said greta, with a puzzled glance. "i think he spoke truly," said paul, and his voice trembled. she drew back with agony in every line of her face. "would it be ... do you think ... supposing i went away, far away, and we were not to meet for a time, a long time--never to meet again--could you bring yourself to love him and marry him?" greta rose to her feet in agitation. "him--love him!--you ask me that--you!" the girl's voice broke down into sobs that seemed to shake her to the heart's core. "greta, darling, forgive me; i was blind--i am ashamed." "oh, i could cry my eyes out!" she said, wiping away her tears. "say you were only playing with me, then; say you were only playing; do say so, do!" "i will say anything--anything but the same words again--and they nearly killed me to say them." "and was this what you came to say?" greta inquired. "no, no," he said, lifted out of his gloom by the excitement; "but another thing, and it is easier now--ten times easier now--to say it. greta, do you think if i were to leave cumberland and settle in another country--australia or canada, or somewhere far enough away--that you could give up home, and kindred, and friends, and old associations, and all the dear past, and face a new life in a new world with me? could you do it?" her eyes sparkled. he opened his arms, and she flew to his embrace. "is this your answer, little one?" he said, with choking delight. and a pair of streaming eyes looked up for a brief instant into his face. "then we'll say no more now. i'm to go to london to-morrow night, and shall be away four days. when i return we'll talk again, and tell the good soul who lies in yonder. peace be with him, and sweet sleep, the dear old friend!" paul lifted up his hat and opened the door. his gloom was gone; his eyes were alive with animation. the worn cheeks were aflame. he stood erect, and walked with the step of a strong man. greta followed him into the porch. the rosy fire-light followed her. it flickered over her golden hair, and bathed her beauty in a ruddy glow. "oh, how free the air will breathe over there," he said, "when all this slavery is left behind forever! you don't understand, little woman, but some day you shall. what matter if it is a land of rain, and snow, and tempest? it will be a land of freedom--freedom, and life, and love. and now, master hugh, we shall soon be quits--very soon!" his excitement carried him away, and greta was too greedy of his joy to check it with questions. they stood together at the door. the night was still and dark; the trees were noiseless, their prattling leaves were gone. silent and empty as a vacant street was the unseen road. paul held forth his hand to feel if it rained. a withered leaf floated down from the eaves into his palm. then a footstep echoed on the path. it went on toward the village. presently the postman came trudging along from the other direction. "good-night, tom o' dint!" cried paul, cheerily. tom stopped and hesitated. "who was it i hailed on the road?" he asked. "when?" "just now." "nay, who was it?" "i thought it was yourself." the little man trundled on in the dark. "my brother, no doubt," said paul, and he pulled the door after him. chapter iii. the next morning a bright sun shone on the frosty landscape. the sky was blue and the air was clear. hugh ritson sat in his room at the back of the ghyll, with its window looking out on the fell-side and on the river under the leafless trees beneath. the apartment had hardly the appearance of a room in a cumbrian homestead. it was all but luxurious in its appointments. the character of its contents gave it something of the odor of a by-gone age. besides books on many shelves, prints, pictures in water and oil, and mirrors of various shapes, there was tapestry on the inside of the door, a bust of dante above a cabinet of black oak, a piece of bas-relief in soapstone, a gargoyle in wood, a brass censer, a mediaeval lamp with open mouth, and a small ivory crucifix nailed to the wall above the fire. hugh himself sat at an organ, his fingers wandering aimlessly over the keys, his eyes gazing vacantly out at the window. there was a knock at the door. "come in," said the player. mr. bonnithorne entered and walked to a table in the middle of the floor. hugh ritson finished the movement he was playing, and then arose from the organ and drew an easy-chair to the fire. "brought the deed?" he asked, quietly, mr. bonnithorne still standing. "i have, my dear friend, and something yet more important." hugh glanced up: through his constant smile mr. bonnithorne was obviously agitated. dropping his voice, the lawyer added, "copies of the three certificates." hugh smiled faintly. "good; we will discuss the certificates first," he said, and drew his dressing-gown leisurely about him. mr. bonnithorne began to unfold some documents. he paused; his eye was keen and bright; he seemed to survey his dear friend with some perplexity; his glance was shadowed by a certain look of distrust; but his words were cordial and submissive, and his voice was, as usual, low and meek. "what a wonderful man you are. and how changed! it is only a few months since i had to whip up your lagging spirits at a great crisis. and now you leave me far behind. not the least anxious! how different i am, to be sure. it was this very morning my correspondent sent me the copies, and yet i am here, five miles from home. and when the post arrived i declare to you that such was my eagerness to know if our surmises were right that--" hugh interrupted in a quick, cold voice: "that you were too nervous to open his letter, and fumbled it back and front for an hour--precisely." saying this, hugh lifted his eyes quickly enough to encounter mr. bonnithorne's glance, and when they fell again a curious expression was playing about his mouth. "give me the papers," said hugh, and he stretched forward his hand without shifting in his seat. "well, really, you are--really--" hugh raised his eyes again. mr. bonnithorne paused, handed the documents, and shuffled uneasily into a seat. one by one hugh glanced hastily over three slips of paper. "this is well," he said, quietly. "well? i should say so, indeed. what could be better? i confess to you that until to-day i had some doubts. now i have none." "doubts? so you had doubts?" said hugh, dryly "they disturbed your sleep, perhaps?" the lurking distrust in mr. bonnithorne's eyes openly displayed itself, and he gazed full into the face of hugh ritson with a searching look that made little parley with his smile. "then one may take a man's inheritance without qualm or conviction?" hugh pretended not to hear, and began to read aloud the certificates in his hand. "let me see, this is first--registration of birth." mr. bonnithorne interrupted. "luckily, very luckily, the registration of birth is first." hugh read: "name, paul. date of birth, august 14, 1845. place of birth, russell square, london. father's name, robert lowther. mother's name, grace lowther; maiden name, ormerod." "then this comes second--registration of marriage." mr. bonnithorne rose in his eagerness and rubbed his hands together at the fire. "yes, second," he said, with evident relish. hugh read calmly: "allan ritson--grace ormerod--register's office, bow street, strand, london--june 12, 1847." "what do you say to that?" asked mr. bonnithorne, in an eager whisper. hugh continued without comment. "and this comes last--registration of birth." "name, hugh--march 25, 1848--holme, ravenglass, cumberland--allan ritson--grace ritson (ormerod)." "there you have the case in a nutshell," said mr. bonnithorne, dropping his voice. "paul is your half-brother, and the son of lowther. you are allan ritson's heir, born within a year of your father's marriage. can anything be clearer?" hugh remained silently intent on the documents. "were these copies made at somerset house?" he asked. mr. bonnithorne nodded. "and your correspondent can be relied upon?" "assuredly. a solicitor in excellent practice." "was he told what items he had to find, or did he make a general search?" "he was told to find the marriage or marriages of grace ormerod and to trace her offspring." "and these were the only entries?" mr. bonnithorne nodded again. hugh twirled the papers in his fingers, and then placed two of them side by side. his face wore a look of perplexity. "i am puzzled," he said. "what puzzles you?" said mr. bonnithorne. "can anything be plainer?" "yes. by these certificates i am two and a half years younger than paul. i was always taught that there was only a year between us." mr. bonnithorne smiled, and said in a superior tone: "an obvious ruse." "you think a child is easily deceived--true!" mr. bonnithorne preserved a smiling face. "now, i will proceed to the payment of the legacy, and you, no doubt, to the institution of your claim." "no," said hugh ritson, with emphasis, rising to his feet. "you know that if a bastard dies seized of an estate, the law justifies his title. he is then the bastard eigne. you must eject this man." "no," said hugh ritson again. the lawyer glanced up inquiringly, and hugh added: "that shall come later. meantime the marriage must be brought about." "your own marriage with greta?" "paul's." "paul's?" said mr. bonnithorne, the very suppression of his tone giving it additional emphasis. "paul's," repeated hugh with grim composure. "he shall marry her." the lawyer had risen once more, and was now face to face with hugh ritson, glancing into his eyes with eager scrutiny. "you cannot mean it?" he said at length. "and why not?" said hugh, placidly. "because paul is her brother--at least, her half-brother." "they don't know that." mr. bonnithorne's breath seemed to be arrested. "but we know it, and we can't stand by and witness their marriage!" he said at length. hugh ritson leaned with his back to the fire. "we can, and shall," he said, and not a muscle of his face moved. mr. bonnithorne surveyed his friend from head to foot, and then his own countenance relaxed. "you are trifling; but it will be no trifle to them when they learn that their billing and cooing must end. and from such a cause, too. it will be a terrible shock. the only question is, whether it would not be more humane to say nothing of the impediment until we have brought about another match. last night, at parson christian's, i did what i could for you." hugh smiled in return; a close observer might have seen that his was a cold mockery of the lawyer's own smile. "yes, you were always humane, bonnithorne, and now your sensibilities are shocked. but when i spoke of marriage i meant the ceremony. nothing more." mr. bonnithorne's eyes twinkled. "i think i understand. you intend to separate them at the church door--perhaps at the altar rail. it is a shocking revenge. my very skin creeps!" hugh laughed lightly, and walked to the window. a slant of sunshine fell on his upturned face. when he turned his head and broke silence he spoke in a deep, harsh voice. "i was humane, too. when she spoke of marriage with paul, i hinted at an impediment. she ridiculed the idea; scoffed at it." another light laugh, and then a stern solemnity. "she insulted me--palpably, grossly, brutally. what did she say? didn't i tell you before? why, she said--ha! ha! would you believe it?--she said she'd rather marry a plowboy than such a gentleman as me. that was her very word." hugh ritson's face was now dark with passion, while laughter was on his lips. "she shall marry her plowboy, to her lifelong horror and disgrace. i promised her as much, and i will keep my word!" "a terrible revenge!" muttered the lawyer, twitching uneasily at his finger-nails. "tut! you don't know to what lengths love may go. even the feeble infant hearts of men whose minds are a blank can carry them any length in the devotion or the revenge of love!" he paused, and then added in a low tone, "she has outraged my love!" "surely not past forgiveness?" interrupted mr. bonnithorne, nervously. "it would be a lifelong injury. and she is a woman, too." hugh faced about. "but he is a man; and i have my reckoning with him also." hugh ritson strode across the room, and then stopped suddenly. "look you, bonnithorne, you said that with all your confidence on the night of my father's death, you had your doubts until to-day. but i had never a moment's doubt. why? because i had assurance from my mother's own lips. to me? no, but worse; to him. he knows well he is not my father's heir. he has known it since the hour of my father's death. he knows that i know it. yet he has kept the lands to this day." another uneasy perambulation. "do you think of that when you talk of revenge? manliness? he has none. he is a pitiful, truculent, groveling coward, ready to buy profit at any price. he has robbed me of my inheritance. he stands in my place. he is a living lie. revenge? it will be retribution!" hugh ritson's composure was gone. mr. bonnithorne, not easily cowed, dropped his eyes before him. "terrible, terrible!" he muttered again, and added with more assurance: "but you know i have always urged you to assert your right to the inheritance." hugh was striding about the room, his infirm foot trailing heavily after him. "bonnithorne," he said, pausing, "when a woman has outraged the poor weak heart of one of the waifs whom fate flings into the gutter, he sometimes throws a cup of vitriol into her face, saying, 'if she is not for me, she is not for another;' or 'where she has sinned, there let her suffer.' that is revenge; it is the feeble device of a man who thinks in his simple soul that when beauty is gone loathing is at hand." another light trill of laughter. "but the cup of retribution is not to be measured by the cup of vitriol." mr. bonnithorne fumbled his papers nervously, and repeated beneath his breath, "terrible, terrible!" "she has wronged me, bonnithorne, and he has wronged me. they shall marry and they shall separate; and henceforward they shall walk together and yet apart, a gulf dividing them from each other, yet a wider gulf dividing both from the world; and so on until the end, and he and i and she and i are quits." "terrible, terrible!" mr. bonnithorne mumbled again. "all nature rises against it." "is it so? then be it so," said hugh, the flame subsiding from his cheek, and a cold smile creeping afresh about his lips. "your sense of justice would have been answered, perhaps, if i had turned this bastard adrift penniless and a beggar, stopped the marriage, and taken by strategy the woman i could not win by love." the smile faded away. "that would have been better than the cup of vitriol, but not much better. you are a man of the world." "it is a terrible revenge," the lawyer muttered again--this time with a different intonation. "i repeat, they shall marry. no more than that," said hugh. "i would outrage nature as little as i would shock the world." the sun had crept round to where the organ stood in one corner of the room. hugh's passion had gradually subsided. he sidled on to the stool and began to play softly. a knock came to the door, and old laird fisher entered. "the gentleman frae crewe is down at the pit about t' engine in the smelting-mill," said the old man. "say i shall be with him in half an hour," said hugh, and laird fisher left the room. then hugh put the papers in his pocket. "we have wasted too much time over the certificates--they can wait--where's the deed of mortgage?--i must have the money to pay for the new engine." "it is here," said the lawyer, and he spread a parchment on the table. hugh glanced hastily over it, and touched a hand-bell. when the maid appeared he told her to go to mr. paul, who was thatching in the stack-yard, and say he wished to see him at once. then he returned to the organ and played a tender air. his touch was both light and strenuous. "any news of his daughter?" said mr. bonnithorne, sinking his voice to a whisper. "whose daughter?" said hugh, pausing and looking over his shoulder. "the old man's--laird fisher's." "strangely enough--yes. a letter came this morning." hugh ritson stopped playing and thrust his hand into an inner pocket. but mr. bonnithorne hastened to show that he had no desire to pry into another man's secrets. "pray don't trouble. perhaps you'd rather not--just tell me in a word how things are shaping." hugh laughed a little, unfolded a sheet of scented writing-paper, with ornamented border, and began to read: "'i am writing to thank you very much--' here," tossing the letter to the lawyer, "read it for yourself." then he resumed his playing. mr. bonnithorne fixed his nose-glasses, and read: "i am writing to thank you very much for your kind remembrance of me, it was almost like having your company, i live in hopes of seeing you soon, when are you coming to me? sometimes i think you will never, never come, and then i can't help crying though i try not to, and i don't cry much. i don't go out very often london is far away, six miles, there are nice people here and nice children. only think when my trouble is over and you come and take me home. how is poor father, does he look much older does he fret for me now? i wonder will he know me. i am quite well, only there is something the matter in my eyes. sometimes when i wake up i can't see plain. don't be long writing. my eyes are very sore and red to-day, and it is oh so lonely in this strange place. mrs. drayton is kind to me. good-bye. she has a son, but he is always at meets, that is races, and i have never seen him. write soon to your loving mercy. the time is near." hugh played on while mr. bonnithorne read. the lawyer, when he came to the end, handed the letter back with the simple comment: "came this morning, you say? it was written last tuesday--nearly a week ago." hugh nodded his head over his shoulder, and continued to play. he swayed to and fro with an easy grace to the long sweeps of the music until the door opened sharply, and paul entered with a firm step. then he rose, picked a pen from the inkstand, and dipped it in the ink. paul wore a suit of rough, light cloth, with leggins, and a fur cap, which he did not remove. his face was pale; decision sat on every line of it. "excuse me, mr. bonnithorne, if i don't shake hands," he said in his deep voice; "i'm at work, and none too clean." "this," said hugh ritson, twiddling the pen in his fingers, "this is the deed i spoke of yesterday. you sign there," pointing to a blank space in front of a little wafer. then he placed one hand firmly on the upper part of the parchment, as if to steady it, and held out the pen. paul made no approach to accepting it. he stretched forward, took hold of the document, and lifted it, casting hugh's hand aside. hugh watched him closely. "the usual formality," he said, lightly; "nothing more." paul passed his eye rapidly over the deed. then he turned to the lawyer. "is this the fourth or fifth mortgage that has been drawn?" he inquired, still holding the parchment before him. "really, i can't say--i presume it is the--really, i hardly remember--" mr. bonnithorne's suavity of tone and customary smile broke down into silence and a look of lowering anxiety. paul glanced steadfastly into his face. "but i remember," he said, with composure more embarrassing than violence. "it is the fifth. the holme farm was first, and then came goldscope. hindscarth was mortgaged to the last ear of corn, and then it was the turn for coledale. now, it's the ghyll itself, i see, house and buildings." hugh ritson's face underwent a change, but his tone was unruffled as he said: "if you please, we will come to business." then with a sinister smile, "you resemble the french counsel--you begin every speech at the creation. 'let us go on to the deluge,' said the judge." "to the deluge!" said paul; and he turned his head slowly to where hugh stood, holding the pen in one hand and rapping the table with the knuckles of the other. "rather unnecessary. we're already under water." the passion in hugh ritson's face dropped to a look of sullen anger. but he mastered his voice, and said quietly: "the engineer from crewe is waiting for me at the pit. i have wasted the whole morning over these formalities. come, come, let us have done. mr. bonnithorne will witness the signature." paul had not shifted his steadfast gaze from his brother's face. hugh dodged his glance at first, and then met it with an expression of audacity. still holding the parchment before him, paul said quietly: "to-night i leave home for london, and shall be absent four days. can this business wait until my return?" "no, it can't," said hugh with emphasis. paul dropped his voice. "don't take that tone with me, i warn you. can this business wait?" "i mean what i say--it can not." "on my return i may have something to tell you that will affect this and the other deeds. once more, can it wait?" "will you sign--yes or no?" said hugh. paul looked steady and straight into his brother's eyes. "you are draining away my inheritance--you are--" at this word hugh's smoldering temper was afire. "your inheritance?" he broke out in his bitterest tones. "it is late in the day to talk of that. your inheritance--" but he stopped. the expression of audacity gave place to a look of blank bewilderment. paul had torn the parchment from top to bottom, and flung it on the table, and in an instant was walking out of the room. chapter iv. paul ritson returned to the stack-yard, and worked vigorously three hours longer. a stack had been stripped by a recent storm, and he thatched it afresh with the help of a laborer and a boy. then he stepped indoors, changed his clothes, and filled a traveling-bag. when this was done he went in search of the stableman. natt was in his stable, whistling as he polished his harness. "bring the trap round to the front at seven," he said, "and put my bag in at the back; you'll find it in the hall." by this time the night had closed in, and the young moon showed faintly over the head of hindscarth. the wind was rising. paul returned to the house, ate, drank, and smoked. then he rose and walked upstairs and knocked at the door of his mother's room. mrs. ritson was alone. a lamp burned on the table and cast a sharp white light on her face. the face was worn and very pale. lines were plowed deep on it. she was kneeling, but she rose as paul entered. he bent his head and kissed her forehead. there was a book before her; a rosary was in her hand. the room was without fire. it was chill and cheerless, and only sparsely furnished--sheep-skin rugs on the floor, texts on the walls, a carved oak clothes-chest in one corner, two square high-backed chairs and a small table, a bed, and no more. "i'm going off, mother," said paul; "the train leaves in an hour." "when do you return?" said mrs. ritson. "let me see--this is saturday; i shall be back on wednesday evening." "god be with you!" she said in a fervent voice. "mother, i spoke to greta last night, and she promised. we shall soon be free of this tyranny. already the first link of the chain is broken. he called me into his room this morning to sign a mortgage on the ghyll, and i refused." "and yet you are about to go away and leave everything in his hands!" mrs. ritson sat down and paul put his hand tenderly on her head. "better that than to have it wrested from me inch by inch--to hold the shadow of an inheritance while he grasps the substance. he knows all. his dark hints are not needed to tell me that." "yet he is silent," said mrs. ritson, and her eyes fell on to her book. "and surely it is for my sake that he is so--if in truth he knows all. is he not my son? and is not my honor his honor?" paul shook his head. "if the honor of twenty mothers, as true and dear as you, were the stepping-stones to his interest, over those stones he would go. no, no; it is not honor, whether yours or his, that keeps him silent." mrs. ritson glanced up. "are you not too hard on him? he is guiltless in the eye of the world, and that at least should plead for him. forgive him. do not leave your brother in anger!" "i have nothing to forgive," said paul. "even if he knew nothing, i should still go away and leave everything. i could not live any longer under the shadow of this secret, bound by an oath. i would go, as i go now, with sealed lips, but a free heart. he should have his own before man--and i mine, before god." mrs. ritson sat in silence; her lips trembled perceptibly, and her eyelids quivered. "i shall soon leave you, my dear son," she said in a tremulous voice. "nay, nay, you shall not," he answered in an altered tone, half of raillery, half of tenderness; "you are coming with us--with greta and me--and over there the roses will bloom again in your white cheeks." mrs. ritson shook her head. "i shall soon leave you, dearest," she repeated, and told her beads. he tried to dispel her sadness; he laughed, and she smiled feebly; he patted her head playfully. but she came back to the same words: "i shall soon leave you." the moon was shining at the full when he lifted his hat to go. it was sailing through a sky of fibrous cloud. the wind was high, and rattled the empty boughs of the tree against the window. keen frost was in the air. "i shall see my father's old friend in london on monday, and be back on wednesday. good-bye. keep a good heart. good-bye." she wept on his breast and clung to him. "good-bye, good-bye!" he repeated, and triad to disengage himself from her embrace. but she clung closer. it was as if she was to see him no more. "good-bye!" she sobbed, and with the tears in his own eyes he laughed at her idle fears. "ha! ha! ha! one would think i was going for life--ha! ha--" there was a scream on the frosty air without. his laugh died on his lips. "what was that?" he said, and drew a sharp breath. she lifted her face, whiter now than ever, and with tearless eyes. "it was the cry of the bird that foretells death," she said in a whisper. he laughed a little--boisterously. "nay, nay; you will be well and happy yet." then he broke away. * * * * * natt was sitting in the trap, and it was drawn up in the court-yard to the door. he was looking through the darkness at some object in the distance, and when paul came up he was not at first conscious of his master's presence. "what were you looking at, natt?" said paul, pulling on his gloves. "i war wond'rin' whether lang dick o' the syke had kindled a fire to-night, or whether yon lowe on the side of the causey were frae the new smelting-house." paul glanced over the horse's head. a deep glow stood out against the fell. all around was darkness. "the smelting-house, i should say," said paul, and jumped to his seat beside natt. by one of the lamps that the trap carried, he looked at his watch. "a quarter past seven. it will be smart driving, but you can give the mare her own time coming back." then he took the reins, and in another moment they were gone. chapter v. at eight o'clock that night the sky was brilliantly lighted up, and the sound of many voices was borne on the night wind. the red flare came from the syke; the mill was afire. showers of sparks and sheets of flame were leaping and streaming into the sky. men and women were hurrying to and fro, and the women's shrill cries mingled with the men's shouts. at intervals the brightness of the glare faded, and then a column of choking smoke poured out and was borne away on the wind. dick, the miller, was there, with the scorching heat reddening his wrathful face. john proudfoot had raised a ladder against the mill, and, hatchet in hand, was going to cut away the cross-trees; but the heat drove him back. the sharp snap of the flames told of timbers being ripped away. "no use--it's gone," said the blacksmith, dragging the ladder behind him. "i telt them afore what their damned smelting-house would do for me!" said the miller, striding about in his impotent rage. parson christian was standing by the gate on the windward side of the mill-yard, with laird fisher beside him, looking on in silence at the leaping flames. "the wind is from the south," he said, "and a spark of the hot refuse shot down the bank has been blown into the mill." the mill was a wooden structure, and the fire held it like a serpent in its grip. people were coming and going from the darkness into the red glare, and out of the glare into the darkness. among them was one stalwart figure that none noticed in the general confusion. "have you a tarpaulin?" said this man, addressing those about him. "there's a big one on the stack at coledale," answered another. "run for it!" "it's of no use." "damme, run for it!" the tone of authority was not to be ignored. in three minutes a huge tarpaulin was being dragged behind a dozen men. "lay hold of the ropes and let us dip it into the river," shouted the same voice above the prevailing clangor. it was done. dripping wet, the tarpaulin was pulled into the mill-yard. "where's your ladder? quick!" the ladder was raised against the scorching wooden walls. "be ready to throw me the ropes," shouted the deep voice. a firm step was set on the lowest rung. there was a crackle of glass, and then a cloud of smoke streamed out of a broken window. for an instant the bright glare was obscured. but it burst forth afresh, and leaped with great white tongues into the sky. "the sheets are caught!" shouted the miller. they were flying around with the wind. a line of flame seemed to be pursuing them. "who's the man on the ladder--dusta know?" cried john proudfoot. "i dunnot," answered the miller. at that instant hugh ritson came up. the smoke was gone, and now a dark figure could be dimly seen high up on the mill-side. he seized the cross-trees with both hands and swung himself on to the raking roof. "now for the ropes!" he shouted. the flames burst out again and illumined the whole sky; the dark mass of the fells could be seen far overhead, and the waters of the river in the bed of the valley glowed like amber. the stalwart figure stood out in the white light against the red glare, holding on to the cross-trees on the top of the mill, and with a wheel of crackling fire careering beside him. there could be no doubt of his identity, with the light on his strong face and tawny hair. "it's paul ritson!" shouted many a voice. "damme, the ropes--quick!" the ropes were thrown and caught, and thrown again to the other side. then the dripping tarpaulin was drawn over the mill until it covered the top and half the sides. the wheel burned out, and the iron axle came to the ground with a plunge. the fire was conquered; the night sky grew black; the night wind became voiceless. then the busy throng had time for talk. "where's paul?" asked parson christian. "ay, where is he?" said the miller. "he's a stunner, for sure--where is he?" said the blacksmith. none knew. when the flames began to fade he was missed. he had gone--none knew where. "nine o'clock," said parson christian, turning his face toward home. "sharp work, while it lasted, my lads!" then there was the sound of wheels, and natt drove his trap to the gate of the mill-yard. "you've just missed it, natt," said john proudfoot; "where have you been?" "driving the master to the train." hugh ritson was standing by. every one glanced from him to natt. "the train?--master? what do you mean? who?" "who? why, master paul," said natt, with a curl of the lip. "i reckon it could scarce be master hugh." "when? what train?" said parson christian. "the eight o'clock to london." "eight o'clock? london?" "don't i speak plain?" "and has he gone?" "i's warrant he's gone." consternation sat on every face but natt's. chapter vi. next day was sunday, and after morning service a group of men gathered about the church porch to discuss the events of the night before. in the evening the parlor of the flying horse was full of dalespeople, and many a sapient theory was then and there put forth to account for the extraordinary coincidence of the presence of paul ritson at the fire and his alleged departure by the london train. hugh ritson was not seen abroad that day. but early on monday morning he hastened to the stable, called on natt to saddle a horse, sprung on its back and galloped away toward the town. the morning was bitterly cold, and the rider was buttoned up to the throat. the air was damp; a dense veil of vapor lay on the valley and hid half the fells; the wintery dawn, with its sunless sky, had not the strength to rend it asunder; the wind had veered to the north, and was now dank and icy. a snow-storm was coming. the face of hugh ritson was wan and jaded. he leaned heavily forward in the saddle; the biting wind was in his eyes; he had a fixed look, and seemed not to see the people whom he passed on the road. dick o' the syke was grubbing among the fallen wreck of the charred and dismantled mill. when hugh rode past him he lifted his eyes and muttered an oath beneath his breath. old laird fisher was trundling a wheelbarrow on the bank of the smelting-house. the headgear of the pit-shaft was working. as hugh passed the smithy, john proudfoot was standing, hammer in hand, by the side of a wheelless wagon upheld by poles. john was saying, "wonder what sec a place mister paul slept a' saturday neet--i reckon that wad settle all;" and a voice from inside the smithy answered: "nowt of the sort, john; it's a fate, i tell, tha." the peddler's pony was standing by the hasp of the gate. never once lifting his eyes, with head bent and compressed lips, hugh ritson rode on in the teeth of the coming storm. there was another storm within that was uprooting every emotion of his soul. when he came to the vicarage he drew up sharply and rapped heavily on the gate. brother peter came shambling out at the speed of six steps a minute. "mr. christian at home?" asked hugh. "don't know as he is," said peter. "where is he?" "don't know as i've heard." "tell him i'll call as i come back, in two hours." "don't know as i'll see him." "then go and look for him!" shouted hugh, impatiently bringing down the whip on the flank of the horse. brother peter ward turned about sulkily. "don't know as i will," he grumbled, and trudged back into the house. then hugh ritson rode on. a thin sleet began to fall, and it drove hard into his face. the roads were crisp, and the horse sometimes stumbled; but the rider pressed on. in less than half an hour he was riding into the town. the people who were standing in groups in the market-place parted and made space for him. they hailed him with respectful salutations. he responded curtly or not at all. notwithstanding his long ride, his face was still pale, and his lips were bloodless. he stopped at the court-yard leading to the front of the pack horse. old willie calvert, the innkeeper, stood there, and touched his cap when hugh approached him. "my brother paul slept here a few nights ago, i hear?" said hugh. "so he did," said the innkeeper. "what night was it?" "what night? let me see--it were a week come wednesday." "did you see him yourself?" "nay; i were lang abed." "who did--mistress calvert?" "ey--she did for sure--janet" (calling up the court). "she'll tell ye all the ins and oots." a comfortable-looking elderly body in a white cap and print apron came to the door. "you saw my brother--paul, you know--when he slept at your house last wednesday night?" "yes, surely," said janet. "what did he say?" "nay, nowt. it was verra late--maybe twelve o'clock--and i was bolting up and had the cannel in my hand to get me to bed, and a rap came, and when i opened the door who should it be but mister paul. he said he wanted a bed, but he seem't to be in the doldrums and noways keen for a crack, so i ax't na questions, but just took him to the little green room over the snug and bid him good-night." "and next morning--did you see him then?" said hugh. "no, but a morning when he paid for his bed for he had nowther bite nor sup in the house." "did he look changed?--anything different about him?" "nay, nowt but in low feckle someways, and maybe summat different dressed." "how different? what did he wear that night?" pale as hugh ritson's face had been before, it was now white as a face in moonlight. "maybe a pepper and salt tweed coat, but i can't rightly call to mind at the minute." hugh's great eyes stared out of his head. his tongue cleaved to his mouth, and for the moment denied him speech. "thank you, mistress calvert. here, willie, my man, drink my health with the missis." so saying, he tossed a silver coin to the innkeeper, wheeled about, and rode off. "i can not mak' nowther head nor tail o' this," said the old man. "of what--the brass?" said janet. "nay, but that's soond enough, for sure, auld lass." "then just thoo leave other folks's business to theirselves, and come thy ways in with thee. thoo wert allus thrang a-meddlin'." the innkeeper had gone indoors and drawn himself a draught of ale. "i allus like to see the ins and oots o' things," he observed, with a twinkle in his eye, and the pot to his mouth. "mind as you're not ower keen at seein' the ins and oots o' that pewter." "i'll be keerful, auld lass." hugh ritson's horse went clattering over the stones of the streets until it came to the house of mr. bonnithorne. then hugh drew up sharply, jumped from the saddle, tied the reins to the loop in the gate-pier, and rang the bell. in another minute he was standing in the breakfast-room, which was made comfortable by a glowing fire. mr. bonnithorne, in dressing-gown and slippers, rose from his easy-chair with a look of surprise. "did you hear of the fire at the mill on saturday night?" asked hugh in a faltering voice. mr. bonnithorne nodded his head. "very unlucky, very," said the lawyer. "the man will want recompense, and the law will support him." "tut!--a bagatelle!" said hugh, with a gesture of impatience. "of course, if you say so--" "you've heard nothing about paul?" mr. bonnithorne answered with a shake of his yellow head, and a look of inquiry. then hugh told him of the man at the fire, and of natt's story when he drove up in the trap. he spoke with visible embarrassment, and in a voice that could scarcely support itself. but the deep fear that had come over him had not yet taken hold of the lawyer. mr. bonnithorne listened with a bland smile of amused incredulity. hugh stopped with a shudder. "what are you thinking?" he asked, nervously. "that natt lied." "as well say that the people at the fire lied." "no; you yourself saw paul there." "bonnithorne, like all keen-eyed men, you are short-sighted. i have something more to tell you. the people at the pack horse say that paul slept at their house last wednesday night. now i know that he slept at home." mr. bonnithorne smiled again. "a mistake as to the night," he said; "what can be plainer?" "don't wriggle; look the facts in the face." "facts?--a coincidence in evidence--a common error." "would to god it were!" hugh strode about the room in obvious perturbation, his eyes bent on the ground. "bonnithorne, what is the place where the girl mercy lives?" "an inn at hendon." "do they call it the hawk and heron?" "they do. the old woman drayton keeps it." hugh ritson's step faltered. he listened with a look of stupid consternation. "did i never tell you that the peddler, oglethorpe, said he saw paul at the hawk and heron in hendon?" mr. bonnithorne dropped back into his seat without a word. conviction was taking hold of him. "what do the folks say?" he asked at length. "say? that it was a ghost, a wraith, twenty things--the idiots!" "what do you say, mr. ritson?" "that it was another man." the lawyer remained sitting, his eyes fixed and vacant. "what then? what if it is another man? resemblances are common. we are all brothers. for example, there are numbers of persons like myself in the world. odd, isn't it?" "very," said hugh, with a hard laugh. "and what if there exists a man resembling your half-brother, paul, so closely that on three several occasions he has been mistaken for him by competent witnesses--what does it come to?" hugh paused. "come to. god knows! i want to find out. who is this man? what is he? where does he come from? what is his business here? why, of all places on this wide earth, does he, of all men alive, haunt my house like a shadow?" hugh ritson was still visibly perturbed. "there's more in this matter than either of us knows," he said. mr. bonnithorne watched him for a moment in silence. "i think you draw a painful inference--what is it?" he asked. "what?" repeated hugh, and added, absently, "who can tell?" up and down the room he walked restlessly, his eyes bent on the floor, his face drawn down into lines. at length he stood and picked up the hat he had thrown on the couch. "bonnithorne," he said, "you and i thought we saw into the heart of a mystery. heaven pity us for blind moles! i fear we saw nothing." "why--what--how so--when--" mr. bonnithorne stammered, and then stopped short. hugh had walked out of the room and out of the house. he leaped into the saddle and rode away. the wind had risen yet higher; it blew an icy blast from behind him as he cantered home. through the hazy atmosphere a cloud of dun, vaporish red could be seen trailing over the dim fells. it poised above the ball crown of the eel crags like a huge supernatural bird with outstretched wings. hugh held the reins with half-frozen hands. he barely felt the biting cold. his soul was in a tumult, and he was driven on by fears that were all but insupportable. for months a thick veil had overspread his conscience, and now, in an instant, and by an accident, it was being rent asunder. he had lulled his soul to sleep. but no opiate of sophistry could keep the soul from waking. his soul was waking now. he began to suspect that he had been acting like a scoundrel. at the vicarage he stopped, dismounted, and entered. standing in the hall, he overheard voices in the kitchen. they were those of brother peter and little jacob berry, the tailor, who had been hired to sew by the day, and was seated on the dresser. "i've heard of such sights afore," the little tailor was saying. "when auld mother langdale's son was killed at wrustlin' down borrowdale way, and mother langdale was abed with rheumatis, she saw him come to the bed-head a-dripping wet with blood, as plain as plain could be, and in less nor an hour after they brought him home to the auld body on a shutter--they did, for sure." "shaf on sec stories! i don't know as some folks aren't as daft as mother langdale herself!" peter muttered in reply. hugh ritson beat the door heavily with his riding-whip. "parson christian at home now?" he asked, when peter opened it. "been and gone," said peter. "did you tell him i meant to come back?" "don't know as i did." hugh's whip came down impatiently on his leggins. "do you know anything?" he asked. "do you know that you are now talking to a gentleman?" "don't know as i do," mumbled peter, backing in again. "if miss greta is at home tell her i should be glad to speak with her--do you hear?" peter disappeared. hugh was left alone in the hall. he waited some minutes, thinking that peter was carrying his message. presently he overheard that worthy reopening the discussion on mother langdale's sanity with little jacob in the kitchen. the deep damnation he desired just then for brother peter was about to be indicated by another lusty rap on the kitchen door, when the door of the parlor opened, and greta herself stood on the threshold with a smile and an outstretched hand. "i thought it was your voice," she said, and led the way in. "your cordial welcome heaps coals of fire on my head, greta. i cannot forget in what spirit we last talked and parted." "let us think no more about it," said greta, and she drew a chair for him to the fire. he remained standing, and as if benumbed by strong feeling. "i have come to speak of it--to ask pardon for it--i was in the wrong," he said, falteringly. she did not respond, but sat down with drooping eyes. he paused, and there was an ominous silence. "you don't know what i suffered, or what i suffer still. you are very happy. i am a miserable man. greta, do you know what it is to love without being loved? how can you know? it is torture beyond the gift of words--misery beyond the relief of tears. it is not jealousy; that is no more than a vulgar kind of envy. it is a nameless, measureless torment." he paused again. she did not speak. his voice grew tremulous. "i'm not one of the fools who think that the souls that are created for each other must needs come together--that destiny draws them from the uttermost parts of the earth--that, trifle as they will with their best hopes, fate is stronger than they are, and true to the pole-star of ultimate happiness. i know the world too well to believe nonsense like that. i know that every day, every hour, men and women are casting themselves away--men on the wrong women, women on the wrong men--and that all this is a tangle that will never, never be undone." he stepped up to where she sat and dropped his voice to a whisper. "greta--permit me to say it--i loved you dearly. would to heaven i had not! my love was not of yesterday. it was you and i, i and you. that was the only true marriage possible to either of us from world's end to world's end. but paul came between us; and when i saw you give yourself to the wrong man--" greta had risen to her feet. "you say you come to ask pardon for what you said, but you really come to repeat it." so saying, she made a show of leaving the room. hugh stood awhile in silence. then he threw off his faltering tone and drew himself up. "i have come," he said, "to warn you before it is too late. i have come to say, while it is yet time, never marry my brother, for as sure as god is above us, you will repent it with unquenchable tears if you do." greta's eyes flashed with an expression of disdain. "no," she said; "you have come to threaten me--a sure sign that you yourself have some secret cause for fear." it was a home-thrust, and hugh was hit. "greta, i repeat it, you are marrying the wrong man." "what right have you to say so?" "the right of one who could part you forever with a word." greta was sore perplexed. like a true woman, she would have given half her fortune at that moment to probe this mystery. but her indignation got the better of her curiosity. "it is false!" she said. "it is true!" he answered. "i could speak the word that would part you wider than the poles asunder." "then i challenge you to speak it," she exclaimed. they faced each other, pale, and with quivering lips. "it is not my purpose. i have warned you," he said. "you do not believe your own warning," she answered. he winced, but said not a word. "you have come to me with an idle threat, and fear is written on your own face." he drew his breath sharply, and did not reply. "whatever it is, you do not believe it." he was making for the door. he came back a step. "shall i speak the word?" he said. "can you bear it?" "leave me," she said, "and carry your falsehood with you!" he was gone in an instant. then her anger cooled directly, and her woman's curiosity came back with a hundred-fold rebound. "gracious heaven! what did he mean?" she thought, and the hot flush mounted to her eyes. she had half a mind to call him back. "could it be true?" the tears were now rolling down her cheeks. "he has a secret power over paul--what is it?" she ran to the door. "hugh! hugh!" he was gone. the galloping feet of his horse were heard faint in the distance. she went back into the house and sat down, and wept galling tears of pride and vexation. chapter vii. at midday parson christian came home from the fields to dinner. "i've been away leading turf," he said, "from cole moss, for robin atkinson, to pay him for loaning me his gray mare on saturday when i fetched my grain to the mill. happen most of it is burned up, though--but that's no fault of robin's. so now we neither owe t'other anything, and we're straight from the beginning of the world." greta was bustling about with the very efficient hindrance of brother peter's assistance, to get the dinner on the table. she smiled, and sometimes tossed her fair head mighty jauntily, and laughed out loud with a touch of rattling gayety. but there were rims of red around her bleared eyes, and her voice, beneath all its noisy merriment, had a tearful lilt. the parson observed this, but said nothing about it. "coming round by harras end i met john lowthwaite," he said, "and john would have me go into his house and return thanks for his wife's recovery from childbed. so i went in, and warmed me, and drank a pot of ale with them, and assisted the wife and family to return praise to god." dinner was laid, little jacob berry came in from the kitchen, and all sat down together--parson christian and greta, brother peter, and the tailor hired to sew. "dear me! i'm jack-of-all-trades, greta, my lass," said the parson, after grace. "old jonathan truesdale came running after me at the bridge, to say that mistress truesdale wanted me to go and taste the medicine that the doctor sent her from keswick, and see if it hadn't opium in it, because it made her sleep. i sent word that i had business to take me the other way, but would send miss greta if she would go. jonathan said his missus would be very thankful, for she was lonesome at whiles." "i'll go, and welcome," said greta. the rims about her eyes were growing deeper; the parson chattered on, to banish the tempest of tears that he saw was coming. "well, peter, and how did the brethren at the meeting house like the discourse yesterday afternoon?" "don't know as they thought you were varra soond on the point of 'lection," muttered peter from the inside of his bowl of soup. "well, you're right homely folk down there, and i'd have no fault to find if you were not a little too disputatious. what's the use of wrangling over doctrine? right or wrong, it will matter very little to any of us in a hundred years. we're on our way to heaven, and, please god, there'll be no doctrine there." greta could not eat. she had no appetite for food. another appetite--the appetite of curiosity--was eating at her heart. she laid down her knife. the parson could hide his concern no longer. "dear me, my lass, you and that braw lad of yours are like david and jonathan, and" (with a stern wag of his white head) "i'm not so sure that i won't turn myself into saul and fling my javelin at him for envy." the parson certainly did not look too revengeful at that moment, with the mist gathering in his eyes. "talking of saul," said little jacob, "there's that story of the witch of endor, and saul seein' sam'el when he was dead. i reckon as that's no'but another version of what happened at the fire a' saturday neet." parson christian glanced furtively at greta's drooping head, and then meeting the tailor's eye, he put his finger to his lips. when dinner was over the parson lifted from the shelf the huge tome, "made to view his life and actions in." he drew his chair to the fire and began to turn over the earliest leaves. greta had thrown on her cloak and was fixing her hat. "i'm going to see poor mrs. truesdale," she said. then, coming behind the old man, and glancing over his shoulder at the book on his knees, "what are you looking for?" she asked, and smiled; "a prescription for envy?" the parson shook his old head gravely. "you must know i met young mr. ritson this morning?" "hugh?" "yes; he was riding home from his iron pits, but stopped and asked me if i could tell him when his father, who is dead and gone, poor fellow, came first to these parts, and how old his brother paul might be at that time." "why did he ask?" said greta, eagerly. "nay, i scarce can say. i told him i could not tell without looking at my book. let me see; it must be a matter of seven-and-twenty years ago. how old is your sweetheart, greta?" "paul is twenty-eight." "and this is the year seventy-five. twenty-eight from seventy-five--that's forty-seven. paul was a wee toddle, i remember. i'll look for forty-seven. eighteen forty-four, forty-five, forty-six--here it is--forty-seven. and, bless me, the very page! look, here we have it." then the parson read this entry in his diary: "'nov. 18th.--being promised to preach at john skerton's church, at ravenglass, i got ready to go thither. i took my mare and set forward and went direct to thomas storsacre's, where i was to lodge. it rained sore all the day, and i was wet, and took off my coat and let it run an hour. then we supped and sat discoursing by the fire till near ten o'clock of one thing and another, and, among the rest, of one allan ritson, who had newly settled at ravenglass. thomas said allan was fresh from scotland, being scottish born, and that his wife was irish, and that they had a child, called paul, only a few months old, and not yet walking.' "the very thing! wait, here's something more: "'nov. 19th (lord's day).--went to church, and many people came to worship. parson skerton read the prayers and thomas storsacre the lessons. i prayed, and preached from matt. vii. 23, 24; then ceased, and dismissed the people. after service, thomas brought his new neighbor, allan ritson, who asked me to visit him that day and dine. so i went with him, and saw his wife and child--an infant in arms. mrs. ritson is a woman of some education and much piety. her husband is a rough, blunt dalesman, of the good old type.' "the very thing," the parson repeated, and he put a pipe spill in the page. "i wonder why he wants it?" said greta. she left parson christian still looking at his book, and went out on her errand. she was more than an hour gone, and when she returned, the winter's day had all but closed in. only a little yellow light still lingered in the sky. "greta, they have sent for you from the ghyll," said the parson, as she entered. "mrs. ritson wants to see you to-night. natt, the stableman, came with the trap. but he has gone again." "i will follow him at once," said greta. "nay, my lass; the day is not young enough," said the parson. "i was never afraid of the dark," said greta. she took down a lantern and lighted it, drew her cloak more closely about her, and prepared to go. "then take this paper to young mr. hugh. it's a copy of what is written in my book." greta hesitated. but she could not tell parson christian what had passed between hugh and herself. she took the paper and hastened away. the parson sat for a while before the fire. then he rose, walked to the door and opened it. "heaven bless the girl, it's snowing! what a night for the child to be abroad!" he returned in disturbed humor to the fireside. chapter viii. when greta set out, the atmosphere was yellow and vaporish. the sky grew rapidly darker. as she reached the village, thin flakes of snow began to fall. she could feel them driven by the wind against her face, and when she came by the inn she could see them in the dull, yellow light. the laborers were leaving the fields, and, with their breakfast cans swung on their fork handles, they were drifting in twos and threes into the flying horse. it looked warm and snug within. she passed the little cluster of old houses, and scarcely saw them in the deepening night. as she went by the mill she could just descry its ruined roof standing out like a dark pyramid against the dun sky. the snow fell faster. it was now lying thick on her cloak in front, and on the windward face of the lantern in her hand. the road was heavier than before, and she had still fully a quarter of a mile to go. she hastened on. passing the little church--parson christian's church--she met job sheepshanks, the letter-cutter, coming out of the shed in the church-yard. "bad night for a young lady to be from home, begging your pardon, miss," said job, and went on toward the village, his bunch of chisels clanking over his shoulder. the wind soughed in the leafless trees that grew around the old roofless barn at the corner of the road that led to the fells. the gurgle of a half-frozen waterfall came from the distant ghyll. save for these sounds and the dull thud of greta's step on the snow-covered road, all around was still. how fast the snow fell now. yet greta heeded it not at all. her mind was busy with many thoughts. she was thinking of paul as parson christian's great book had pictured him--paul as a child, a little, darling babe, not yet able to walk. could it be possible that paul, her paul, had once been that? of course, to think like this was foolishness. every one must have been young at some time. only it seemed so strange. it was a sort of mystery. then she thought of paul the man--paul as he had been, gay and heartsome; paul as he was, harassed by many cares. she thought of her love for him--of his love for her--of how they were soon, very soon, to join hands and face the unknown future in an unknown land. she had promised. yes, and she would go. she thought of paul in london, and how soon he would be back in newlands. this was monday, and paul had promised to come home on wednesday. only two days more! yet how long it would be, after all! greta had reached the lonnin that went up to the ghyll. she would soon be there. how thick the trees were in the lane! they shut out the last glimmer of light from the sky. the lantern burned yellow amidst the snow that lay on it like a crust. then greta thought of mrs. ritson. it was strange that paul's mother had sent for her. they were friends, but there had never been much intimacy between them. mrs. ritson was a grave and earnest woman, a saintly soul, and greta's lightsome spirit had always felt rebuked in her presence. paul loved his mother, and she herself must needs love as well as reverence the mother of paul. it was paul first and paul last. paul was the center of her world. she was a woman, and love was her whole existence. here in the lonnin she was in pitch darkness. she stumbled once into the dike; then laughed and went on again. at one moment she thought she heard a noise not far away. she stood and listened. no, it was nothing. only a hundred yards more! bravely! then, by a swift rebound--she knew not why--her mind went back to the events of the morning. she thought of hugh ritson and his mysterious threat. what did he mean? what harm could he do them? oh! that she had been calmer, and asked. her heart fluttered. it flashed upon her that perhaps it was he and not his mother who had sent for her to-night. her pulse quickened. at that instant the curlew shot over her head with its deep, mournful cry. at the same moment she heard a step approaching her. it came on quickly. she stopped. "who is it?" she asked. there was no answer. the sound of the footstep ceased. "who are you?" she called again. then with heavy thuds in the darkness and on the snow, some one approached. she trembled from head to foot, but advanced a step and stopped again. the footstep was passing her. she brought the light of the lantern full on the retreating figure. it was the figure of a man. going by hastily, he turned his head over his shoulder and she saw his face. it was the face of paul, colorless, agitated, with flashing eyes. every drop of greta's blood stood still. "paul!" she cried, thrilled and immovable. there was an instant of unconsciousness. the earth reeled beneath her. when she came to herself she was standing alone in the lane, the lantern half buried in the snow at her feet. had it been all a dream? she was but twenty yards from the house. the door of the porch stood open. chilled with fear to the heart's core, she rushed in. no one was in the hall. not a sound, but the faint mutter of voices in the kitchen. she ran through the passage and threw open the kitchen door. the farm laborers were at supper, chatting, laughing, eating, smoking. "didn't you hear somebody in the house?" she cried. the men got up and turned about. there was dead silence in a moment. "when?" "now." "no. what body?" she flew off without waiting to explain. the kitchen was too far away. hugh ritson's room opened from the first landing of the stairs. the stairs went up almost from the porch. darting up, she threw open the door of hugh's room. hugh was sitting at the table, examining papers by a lamp. "have you seen paul?" she cried, in an agonized whisper, and with a panic-stricken look. hugh dropped the papers and rose stiffly to his feet. "great god! where?" "here--this moment!" their eyes met. he did not answer. he was very pale. had she dreamed? she looked down at the snow-crusted lantern in her hand. it must have been all a dream. she stepped back on to the landing, and stood in silence. the serving people had come out of the kitchen, and, huddled together, they looked at her in amazement. then a low moan reached her ear. she ran to mrs. ritson's room. the door to it stood wide open; a fire burned in the grate, a candle on the table. outstretched on the floor lay the mother of paul, cold, still, and insensible. when mrs. ritson regained consciousness she looked about with the empty gaze of one who is bending bewildered eyes on vacancy. greta was kneeling beside her, and she helped to lift her into the bed. mrs. ritson did not speak, but she grasped greta's hand with a nervous twitch, when the girl whispered something in her ear. from time to time she trembled visibly, and glanced with a startled look toward the door. but not a word did she utter. thus hour after hour wore on, and the night was growing apace. a painful silence brooded over the house. only in the kitchen was any voice raised above a whisper. there the servants quaked and clucked--every tongue among them let loose in conjecture and the accents of surprise. hugh ritson passed again and again from his own room to his mother's. he looked down from time to time at the weary, pale, and quiet face. but he said little. he put no questions. greta sat beside the bed, only less weary, only less pale and quiet, only less disturbed by horrible imaginings than the sufferer who lay upon it. toward midnight hugh came to say that peter had been sent for her from the vicarage. greta rose, put on her cloak and hat, kissed the silent lips, and followed hugh out of the room. as they passed down the stairs greta stopped at the door of hugh ritson's room, and beckoned him to enter it with her. they went in together, and she closed the door. "now tell me," she said, "what this means." hugh's face was very pale. his eyes had a wandering look, and when he spoke his voice was muffled. but by an effort of his unquenchable energy he shook off this show of concern. "it means," he said, "that you have been the victim of a delusion." greta's pale face flushed. "and your mother--has she also been the victim of a delusion?" hugh shrugged his shoulders, showed his teeth slightly, but made no reply. "answer me--tell me the truth--be frank for once--tell me, can you explain this mystery?" "if i could explain it, how would it be a mystery?" greta felt the blood tingle to her finger-tips. "do you believe i have told you the truth?" she asked. "i am sure you have." "do you believe i saw paul in the lane?" "i am sure you think you saw him." "do you know for certain that he went away?" hugh nodded his head. "are you sure he has not got back?" "quite sure." "in short, you think what i saw was merely the result of woman's hysteria?" hugh smiled through his white lips, and his staring eyes assumed a momentary look of amused composure. he stepped to the table and fumbled some papers. this reminded greta of the paper the parson had asked her to deliver. "i ought to have given you this before," she said. "mr. christian sent it." he took it without much apparent interest, put it on the table unread, and went to the door with greta. the trap was standing in the court-yard, with natt in the driver's seat, and brother peter in the seat behind. the snow had ceased to fall, but it lay several inches deep on the ground. there was the snow's dumb silence on the earth and in the air. hugh helped greta to her place, and then lifted the lamp from the trap, and looked on the ground a few yards ahead of the horse. "there are no footprints in the snow," he said, with a poor pretence at a smile--"none, at least, that go from the house." greta herself had begun to doubt. she lacked presence of mind to ask if there were any footprints at all except peter's. the thing was done and gone. it all happened three hours ago, and it was easy to suspect the evidence of the senses. hugh returned the lamp to its loop. "did you scream," he asked, "when you saw--when you saw--it?" greta was beginning to feel ashamed. "i might have done. i can not positively say--" "ah, that explains everything. no doubt mother heard you and was frightened. i see it all now. natt, drive on--cold journey--good-night." greta felt her face burn in the darkness. before she had time or impulse to reply, they were rolling away toward home. at intervals her ear caught the sound of suppressed titters from the driver's seat. natt was chuckling to himself with great apparent satisfaction. since the fire at the mill he had been putting two and two together, and he was now perfectly confident as to the accuracy of his computation. when folks said that paul had been at the fire he laughed derisively, because he knew that an hour before he had left him at the station. but an idea works in a brain like natt's pretty much as the hop ferments. when it goes to the bottom it leaves froth and bubbles at the top. natt knew that there was some grave quarrel between the brothers. he also knew that there were two ways to the station and two ways back to newlands--one through the town, the other under latrigg. mr. paul might have his own reasons for pretending to go to london, and also his own reasons for not going. natt had left him stepping into the station at the town entrance. but what was to prevent him from going out again at the entrance from latrigg? of course that was what he had done. and he had never been out of the county. deary me, how blind folks were, to be sure! thus natt's wise head chuckled and clucked. at one moment natt twisted his sapient and facetious noddle over his shoulder to where brother peter sat huddled into a hump and in gloomy silence. "mercy me, peter!" he cried, in an affrighted whisper, and with a mighty tragical start, "and is that thee? dusta know i thowt it were thy ghost?" "don't know as it's not--dragging a body frae bed a cold neet like this," mumbled peter, numbed up to his tongue, but still warm enough there. chapter ix. hugh ritson was content that greta should think she had been the victim of a delusion. he was not unwilling that she should be tortured by suggestions of the supernatural. if she concluded that paul had deceived her as to his departure from newlands, he would not be unlikely to foster the delusion. the one thing of all others which hugh ritson was anxious to prevent was that greta should be led to draw the purely matter-of-fact inference that when she thought she saw paul she had really seen another man. but that was his own conviction. he was now sure beyond the hope of doubt that there was a man alive who resembled paul ritson so closely that he had thrice before, and now once again, been mistaken for him by unsuspecting persons. that other man was to be the living power in his own life, in his brother's life, in his mother's life, in greta's life. who was he? left alone in the court-yard when the trap drove away, hugh ritson shuddered and looked round. he had laughed with the easy grace of a man no longer puzzled as he bid greta good-night, but suspense was gnawing at his heart. he returned hastily to his room, sat down at the table, picked up the paper which parson christian had sent him, and read it with eager eyes. he read it and reread it; he seemed to devour it line by line, word by word. when he would have set it down his fingers so trembled that he let it fall, and he rose from his chair with rigid limbs. what he had dreaded he now knew for certainty. he had stumbled into an empty grave. he opened a drawer and took out three copies of certificates that mr. bonnithorne had brought him. selecting the earliest of these in order of date, he set it side by side with the copy of the extract from parson christian's diary. by the one--paul, the son of grace ormerod, by her husband robert lowther, was born august 14, 1845. by the other--paul, the reputed son of grace ormerod by her husband, allan ritson, was an infant still in arms on november 19, 1847. paul ritson could not be paul lowther. paul ritson could not be the half-brother of greta lowther. hugh ritson fell back as one who had been dealt a blow. for months he had been idly hatching an addled villainy. the revenge that he had promised himself for spurned and outraged love--the revenge that he had named retribution--was but an impotent mockery. for an hour he strode up and down the room with flushed face and limbs that shook beneath him. natt came home from the vicarage, put in his horse, and turned into the kitchen--now long deserted for the night. he heard the restless footstep backward and forward, and began to wonder if anything further had gone wrong. at last he ventured upstairs, opened noiselessly the door, and found his master with a face aflame and a look of frenzy. but the curious young rascal with the sleepy eyes had not time to proffer his disinterested services before he was hunted out with an oath. he returned to the kitchen with a settled conviction that somewhere in that mysterious chamber his master kept a capacious cupboard for strong drink. like master, like man: natt brewed himself an ample pint of hot ale, pulled off his great boots, and drew up to warm himself before the remains of a huge fire. hugh ritson's bedroom opened off his sitting-room. he went to bed; he tried to sleep, but no sleep came near him; he tossed about for an hour, rose, walked the room again, then went to bed once more. he was feeling the first pangs of honest remorse. a worse man would have accommodated himself more speedily to the altered conditions when he found that he had pursued a phantasm. to do this erring man justice, he writhed under it. a better man would have fled from it. if, at the outset, if when the first step in the descent had been taken, he had seen clearly that villainy lay that way, he would not have gone further. but now he had gone too far. to go on were as easy as to go back; and go on he must. while he honestly believed that greta was half-sister to the man known to the world as paul ritson and his brother, he could have stood aside and witnessed without flinching the ceremony that was to hold them forever together and apart. then without remorse he could have come down and separated them, and seen that woman die of heart's hunger who had starved to death the great love he bore her. there would have been a stern retribution in that, and the voice of nature would have whispered him that he did well. but when it was no longer possible to believe that greta and paul were anything to each other, the power of sophistry collapsed, and retribution sunk to revenge. he might go on, but there could be no self-deception. the blind earthworms of malice might delude themselves if they liked, but he could see, and he must face the truth. if ever he did what he had proposed to do, then he was a scoundrel, and a conscious scoundrel! hugh ritson leaped out of his bed. the perspiration rolled in big beads from his forehead. his tongue grew thick and stiff in his mouth. the great veins in his neck swelled. without knowing whither he went, he walked out of his own into his mother's room. a candle still burned on the table. the fire had smoldered out. a servant-maid sat by the bedside with head aslant, sleeping the innocent sleep. he approached the bed. his mother was breathing softly. she had fallen into a doze; the pale face was very quiet; the weary look of the worn cheeks was smoothed out; the absent eyes were lightly closed. closed, too, on the rough world was the poor soul that was vexed by it. hugh ritson was touched. somewhere deep down in that frozen nature the angel of love troubled the still waters. bending his head, he would have touched the cold forehead with his feverish lips. but he drew back. no, no, no! tenderness was not for him. the good god gave it to some as manna from heaven. but here and there a man, stretched on the rack of life, had not the drop of water that would cool his tongue. with stealthy steps, as of one who had violated the chamber of chastity, hugh ritson crept back to his own room. he took brandy from a cupboard and drank a glass of it. then he lay down and composed himself afresh to sleep. thoughts of greta came back to him. even his love for her was without tenderness. it was a fiery passion. it made him weep, nevertheless. galling tears, hot, bitter, smarting tears, rolled from his eyes. and down in that deep and hidden well of feeling, where he, too, was a man like other men, hugh ritson's strong heart bled. he would have thought that love like his must have subdued the whole world to its will; that when a woman could reject it the very stones must cry out. pshaw! would sleep never come? he leaped up, and laughed mockingly, drank another glass of brandy, and laughed again. his door was open, and the hollow voice echoed through the house. he put on a dressing-gown, took his lamp in his hand, and walked down-stairs and into the hall. the wind had risen. it moaned around the house, then licked it with hissing tongues. hugh ritson walked to the ingle, where no fire burned. there he stood, scarcely knowing why. the lamp in his hand cast its reflection into the mirror on the wall. behind it was a flushed face, haggard, with hollow eyes and parted lips. the sight recalled another scene. he stepped into the little room at the back. it was in that room his father died. now it was empty; a bare mattress, a chair, a table--no more. hugh ritson lifted the lamp above his head and looked down. he was enacting the whole terrible tragedy afresh. he crept noiselessly to the door, opened it slightly, and looked cautiously out. then, leaving it ajar, he stood behind it with bent head and inclining ear. his face wore a ghastly smile. the wind soughed and wept without. hugh ritson threw the door open and stepped back into the hall. there he stood some minutes with eyes riveted on one spot. then he hurried away to his room. as he went up the stairs he laughed again. back at his bedside he poured himself another glass of brandy, and once more lay down to sleep. he certainly slept this time, and his sleep was deep. natt's dreamy ear heard a voice in the hall. he had drunk his hot ale, and from the same potent cause as his master, he also had slept, but with somewhat less struggle. awakened in his chair by the unaccustomed sound, he stole on tiptoe to the kitchen door. he was in time to see from behind the figure of a man ascending the stairs carrying a lamp before him. natt's eyes were a shade hazy at the moment, but he was cock-sure of what he saw. of course it was mister paul, sneaking off to bed after more "straitforrad" folk had got into their nightcaps and their second sleep. that was where natt soon put himself. when all was still in that troubled house, the moon's white face peered through a rack of flying cloud and looked in at the dark windows. chapter x. next morning, tuesday morning, hugh ritson found this letter on his table: "dearest,--i do not know what is happening to me, but my eyes get worse and worse. to-day and yesterday i have not opened them. oh, dear, i think i am losing my sight; and i have had such a fearful fright. the day after i wrote to you, mrs. drayton's son came home, and i saw him. oh, i thought it was your brother paul, and his name is paul, too, but i think now it must be my eyes--they were very bad, and perhaps i did not see plain. he asked me questions, and went away next morning. do not be long writing, i am, oh, so very lonely. when are you coming to me? write soon. your loving, mercy." hugh ritson had risen in a calmer mood. he was prepared for a disclosure like this. last night he had been overwhelmed by the discovery that paul ritson was not the son of robert lowther. with the coming of daylight a sterner spirit of inquiry came upon him. the question that now agitated him was the identity of the man who had been mistaken for paul. after mercy's letter the mystery was in a measure dispelled. there could hardly be the shadow of a doubt that the man who had slept at the pack horse--the man who had been seen by many persons at the fire--the man who greta had encountered in the lane--was one and the same with the man whom mercy knew for paul drayton, the innkeeper at hendon. but so much light on one small spot only made the surrounding gloom more dark. far more important than any question of who this man was by repute was the other question of why he was there. wherefore had he come? why did he not come openly? what hidden reason had he for moving like a shadow where he knew no one and was known of none? hugh thought again of the circumstance of his mother's strange seizure. last night he had formulated his theory respecting it. and it was simple enough. the second man, whoever he was, had, for whatever reason, come to the house, and, failing to attract attention in the hall, had wandered aimlessly upstairs to the first room in which he heard a noise. that room happened to be his mother's, and when the stranger, with the fatal resemblance to her absent son, presented himself before her in that strange way, at that strange hour, in that strange place, the fear had leaped to her heart that it was his wraith warning her of his death, and she had fainted and fallen. the theory had its serious loop-holes for incredulity, but hugh ritson minded them not at all. another and a graver issue tortured him. but this morning, by the light of mercy's letter, his view was clearer. if the man who resembled paul had come secretly to newlands, he must have had his reasons for not declaring himself. if he had wandered when none was near into mrs. ritson's room, it must have been because he had a purpose there. and his mother's seizure might not have been due to purely superstitious fears, or her silence to shattered nerves. there was one thing to do, and that was to get at the heart of this mystery. whoever he was, this second man was to be the living influence in all their lives. thus far, one thing only was plain--that paul ritson was not the half-brother of greta. hugh determined to travel south forthwith. if the other man was still beating about newlands, so much the better. hugh would be able to see the old woman, his mother, and talk with her undisturbed by the suspicions of a cunning man. hugh spent most of that day in his office at the pit-head, settling up such business as could not await his return. on wednesday morning early he dispatched natt on foot with a letter to mr. bonnithorne, explaining succinctly, but with shrewd reservations, the recent turn of events. then he stepped for a moment into his mother's room. mrs. ritson had risen, and was sitting by the fire writing. hugh observed, as she rose, that there were tears in her eyes, and that the paper beneath her pen was stained with great drops that had fallen as she wrote. a woman was busy on her knees on the floor sorting linen into a trunk. this garrulous body, old dinah wilson, was talking as hugh entered. "it caps all--you niver heard sec feckless wark," she was saying. "and reuben threept me down, too. there he was in the peat loft when i went for the peats, and he had it all as fine as clerk after passon. 'it was master paul at the fire, certain sure,' he says, ower and ower again. 'what, man, get away wi' thy botheration--mister paul was off to london!' i says. 'go and see if tha can leet on a straight waistcoat any spot,' i says. but he threept and he threept. 'it was master paul or his own birth brother,' he says." "hush, dinah!" said mrs. ritson. hugh told his mother, in a quiet voice, that business was taking him away. then he turned about and said "good-day" without emotion. she held out her hand to him and looked him tenderly in the eyes. "is this our parting?" she said, and then leaned forward and touched his cheek with her lips. he seemed surprised, and turned pale; but he went out calmly and without speaking. in half an hour he was walking rapidly over the snow-crusted road to the station. chapter xi. when paul parted from natt at the station on saturday night, he had told the stableman to meet him with the trap at the same spot and at the same hour on wednesday. since receiving these instructions, however, natt had, as we have seen, arrived at conclusions of his own respecting certain events. the futility of doing as he had been bidden began to present itself to his mind with peculiar force. what was the good of going to the station for a man who was not coming by the train? what was the use of pretending to bring home a person who had never been away? these and other equivocal problems defied solution when natt essayed them. he revolved the situation fully on his way home from mr. bonnithorne's, and decided that to go to the station that night at eight o'clock would be only a fine way of making a fool of a body. but when he reached the stable, and sat down to smoke, and saw the hour approaching, his instinct began to act automatically, and in sheer defiance of the thing he called his reason. in short, natt pulled off his coat and proceeded to harness the mare. then it was that, relieved of the weight of abstract questions, he made two grave discoveries. the first was that the horse bore marks of having been driven in his absence; the next, that the harness was not hanging precisely on those hooks where he had last placed it. and when he drew out the trap he saw that the tires of the wheels were still crusted with unmelted snow. these concrete issues finally banished the discussion of general principles. natt had not entirely accounted for the strange circumstances when he jumped into his seat and drove away. but the old idea of paul's dubious conduct was still fermenting; the froth and bubbles were still rising. natt had not gone half-way to the station when he almost leaped out of the trap at the sudden advent of an original thought: the trap had been driven out before! he had not covered a mile more before that thought had annexed another: and along this road, too! after this the sequence of ideas was swift. in less than half a league, natt had realized that paul ritson himself had driven the mare to the station in order that he might be there to come home at eight o'clock, and thus complete the deception which he had practiced on gullible and slow-witted persons. but in his satisfaction at this explanation natt overlooked the trifling difficulty of how the trap had been got home again. driving up into the station, he was greeted by a flyman waiting for hire. "bad on the laal mare, ma man--two sec journeys in ya half day. i reckon tha knows it's been here afore?" natt's face broadened into a superior smile, which seemed to desire his gratuitous informant to tell him something he didn't know. this unspoken request was about to be gratified. "dusta ken who came down last?" natt waved his hand in silent censure of so much unnecessary zeal, and passed on. promptly as the clock struck eight, the london train drew up at the station, and a minute afterward paul ritson came out. "here he be, of course," thought natt. paul was in great spirits. his face wore the brightest smile, and his voice had the cheeriest ring. his clothes, seen by the lamp, looked a little draggled and dirty. he swung himself into the trap, took the driver's seat and the reins and rattled along with cheerful talk. it was months since natt had witnessed such an access of geniality on paul's part. "too good to be true," thought natt, who, in his own wise way, was silently making a study in histrionics. "anything fresh while i've been away?" asked paul. "humph!" said natt. "nothing new? nobody's cow calved? the mare not lost her hindmost shoe--nothing?" asked paul, and laughed. "i know no more nor you," said natt, in a grumpy tone. paul looked at him and laughed again. not to-night were good spirits like his to be quenched by a servant's ill humor. they drove some distance without speaking, the silence being broken only by paul's coaxing appeals to the old mare to quicken the pace that was carrying him to somebody who was waiting at the vicarage. natt recovered from his natural dudgeon at an attempt to play upon him, and began to feel the humor of the situation. it was good sport, after all--this little trick of master paul. and the best of it was that nobody saw through it but natt himself. natt began to titter and look up significantly out of his sleepy eyes into paul's face. paul glanced back with a look of bewilderment; but of course that was only a part of the game. "keep it up," thought natt; "how we are doing 'em!" the landscape lying south was a valley, with a double gable of mountains at the top; the mill stood on a knoll two miles further up, and on any night but the darkest its black outlines could be dimly seen against the sky that crept down between these fells. there was no moon visible, but the moon's light was behind the clouds. "what has happened to the mill?" said paul, catching sight of the dismantled mass in the distance. "nowt since saturday neet, as i've heard on," said natt. "and what happened then?" "oh, nowt, nowt--i's warrant not," said natt, with a gurgling titter. paul looked perplexed. natt had been drinking, nothing surer. "why, lad, the wheel is gone--look!" "i'll not say but it is. we know all about that, we do!" paul glanced down again. liquor got into the brains of some folk, but it had gone into natt's face. with what an idiotic grin he was looking into one's eyes! but paul's heart was full of happiness. his bosom's lord sat lightly on its throne. natt's face was excruciatingly ridiculous, and paul laughed at the sight of it. then natt laughed, and they both laughed together, each at, neither with, the other. "i don't know nothing, i don't. oh, no!" chuckled natt, inwardly. once he made the remark aloud. when they came to the vicarage paul drew up, threw the reins to natt, and got down. "don't wait for me," he said; "drive home." natt drove as far homeward as the flying horse, and then turned in there for a crack, leaving the trap in the road. before he left the inn, a discovery yet more astounding, if somewhat less amusing, was made by his swift and subtle intellect. chapter xii. an itinerant mendicant preacher had walked through the valley that day, and when night fell in he had gravitated to the parson's door. "seeing the sun low," he said, "and knowing it a long way to keswick, and i not being able to abide the night air, but sure to catch a cold, i came straight to your house." like other guests of high degree, the shoeless being made a virtue of accepting hospitality. "come in, brother, and welcome," said parson christian; and that night the wayfarer lodged at the vicarage. he was a poor, straggle-headed creature, with a broken brain as well as a broken purse, but he had the warm seat at the ingle. greta heard paul's step on the path and ran to meet him. "paul, paul! thank god you are here at last!" her manner was warm and impulsive to seriousness, but paul was in no humor to make nice distinctions. parson christian rose from his seat before the fire and shook hands with feeling and gravity. "right glad to see you, good lad," he said. "this is brother jolly," he added, "a fellow-soldier of the cross, who has suffered sore for neglecting solomon's injunction against suretyship." paul took the flaccid hand of the fellow-soldier, and then drew greta aside into the recess of the square window. "it's all settled," he said, eagerly; "i saw my father's old friend, and agreed to go out to his sheep runs as steward, with the prospect of farming for myself in two years' time. i have been busy, i can tell you. only listen. on monday i saw the good old gentleman--he's living in london now, and he won't go back to victoria, he tells me--wants to lay his bones where they were got, he says--funny old dog, rather--says he remembers my father when he wasn't as solemn as a parish clerk on ash wednesday. well, on monday i saw the old fellow, and settled terms and things--liberal old chap, too, if he has got a hawk beak--regular shylock, you know. well--where was i? oh, of course--then on tuesday i took out our berths--yours, mother's, and mine--the ship is called the 'ballarat'--queer name--a fine sea-boat, though--she leaves the london docks next wednesday--" "next wednesday?" said greta, absently, and with little interest in her tone. "yes, a week to-day--sails at three prompt--pilot comes on at a quarter to--everybody aboard at twelve. but it didn't take quite four-and-twenty hours to book the berths, and the rest of the day i spent at a lawyer's office. can't stomach that breed, somehow; they seem to get all the clover--maybe it's because they're a drift of sheep with tin cans about their necks, and can never take a nibble without all the world knowing. ha! ha! i wish i'd thought of that when i saw old shylock." paul was rattling on with a glib tongue, and eyes that danced to the blithe step of an emancipated heart. in the slumberous fire-light the parson and the itinerant preacher talked together of the dust and noise in the great world outside these sleepy mountains. greta drew back into the half-light of the window recess, too greedy of paul's good spirits to check them. "yes, i went to the lawyer's office," he continued, "and drew out a power of attorney in hugh's name, and now he can do what he likes with the ghyll, just as if it were his own. much luck to him, say i, and some bowels, too, please god! but that's not all--not half. this morning--ah, now, you wise little woman, who always pretend to know so much more than other folks, tell me what i did in london before leaving it this morning?" greta had hardly listened. her eyes had dropped to his breast, her arms had crept about his neck, and her tears were falling fast. but he was not yet conscious of the deluge. "what do you think? why, i went to doctors' commons and bought the license--dirt cheap, too, at the price--and now it can be done any day--any day--think of that! so ho! so ho! covering your face, eh?--up, now, up with it--gently. do you know, they asked me your complexion, the color of your eyes, or something--that old shylock or somebody--and i couldn't tell for the life of me--there, a peep, just one wee peep! why, what's this--what the d---what villain--what in the name of mischief is the ma--why, greta, you're cry--yes, you are--you are crying!" paul had forced up greta's face with gentle violence, and now he held her at arm's length, surveying her with bewildered looks. parson christian twisted about in his chair. he had not been so much immersed in wars and rumors of wars as to be quite ignorant of what was going on around him. "greta is but in badly case," he said, pretending to laugh. "she has fettled things in the house over and over again, and she has if't and haffled over everything. she's been longing, surely." the deep voice had a touch of tremor in it this time, and the twinkling old eyes looked hazy. "ah, of course!" shouted paul, in stentorian tones, and he laughed about as heartily as the parson. greta's tears were gone in an instant. "you must go home at once, paul," she said; "your mother must not wait a moment longer." he laughed and bantered and talked of his dismissal. she stopped him with a grave face and a solemn word. at last his jubilant spirit was conquered; he realized that something was amiss. then she told him what happened at the ghyll on monday night. he turned white, and at first stood tongue-tied. next he tried to laugh it off, but the laughter fell short. "must have been my brother," he said; "it's true, we're not much alike, but then it was night, dark night, and you had no light but the dim lamp--and at least there's a family resemblance." "your brother hugh was sitting in his room." paul's heart sickened with an indescribable sensation. "you found the door of my mother's room standing open?" "wide open." "and hugh was in his own room?" said paul, his eyes flashing and his teeth set. "i saw him there a moment later." "my features, my complexion, my height, and my build, you say?" "the same in everything." paul lifted his face, and in that luminous twilight it were an expression of peculiar horror: "in fact, myself--in a glass?" greta shuddered and answered, "just that, paul; neither more nor less." "very strange," he muttered. he was shaken to the depths. greta crept closer to his breast. "and when my mother recovered she said nothing?" "nothing." "you did not question her?" "how could i? but i was hungering for a word." paul patted her head with his tenderest touch. "have you seen her since?" "not since. i have been ill--i mean, rather unwell." parson christian twisted again in his chair. "what do you think, my lad? greta in a dream last night rose out of bed, went to the stair-head, and there fell to the ground." "my poor darling," said paul, the absent look flying from his eyes. "but, blessed be god, she has no harm," said the parson, and turned once more to his guest. "paul, you must hurry away now. good-bye for the present, dearest. kiss me good-bye." but paul stood there still. "greta, do you ever feel that what is happening now has happened before--somehow--somewhere--and where?--when?--the questions keep ringing in your brain and racking your heart--but there is no answer--you are shouting into a voiceless cavern." his face was as pale as ashes, his eyes were fixed, and his gaze was far away. greta grew afraid of the horror she had awakened. "don't think too seriously about it," she said. "besides, i may have been mistaken. in fact, hugh said--" "well, what did he say?" "he made me ashamed. he said i had imagined i saw you and screamed, and so frightened your mother." "there are men in the world who would see the lord of hosts come from the heavens in glory and say it was only a water-spout." "but, as you said yourself, it was in the night, and very dark. i had nothing but the feeble oil-lamp to see by. don't look like that, paul." the girl lifted a nervous hand and covered his eyes, and laughed a little, hollow laugh. paul shook himself free of his stupor. "good-night, greta," he said, tenderly, and walked to the door. then the vacant look returned. "the answer is somewhere--somewhere," he said, faintly. he shook himself again, and shouted, in his lusty tones: "good-night, all--good-night, good-night!" the next instant he was gone. out in the road, he began to run; but it was not from exertion alone that his breath came and went in gusts. before he reached the village his nameless sentiment of dread of the unknown had given way to anxiety for his mother. what was this strange illness that had come upon her in his absence? her angel-face had been his beacon in darkness. she had lifted his soul from the dust. tortured by the world and the world's law, yet heaven's peace had settled on her. let the world say what it would, into her heart the world had not entered. he hurried on. what a crazy fool he had been to let natt go off with the trap! why had not that coxcomb told him what had occurred? he would break every bone in the blockhead's skin. how long the road was, to be sure! a hundred fears suggested themselves on the way. would his mother be worse? would she be still conscious? why, in god's name, had he ever gone away? he came by the flying horse, and there, tied to the blue post, stood the horse and trap. natt was inside. there he was, the villain, in front of the fire, laughing boisterously, a glass of hot liquor in his hand. paul jumped into the trap and drove away. it was hardly in human nature that natt should resist the temptation to show his cronies by ocular demonstration what a knowing young dog he could be if he liked. natt never tried to resist it. "is it all die-spensy?" he asked, with a wink, when, with masterly circumlocution, he had broached his topic. "it's a fate, i tell tha'," said tom o' dint, taking a churchwarden from between his lips; and another thin voice, from a back bench--it was little jacob berry's--corroborated that view of the mystery. a fine scorn sat on the features of natt as he exploded beneath their feet this mine of supernaturalism. "shaf on your bogies and bodderment, say i," he cried; "there are folks as won't believe their own senses. if you'll no' but show me how yon horse of mine can be in two places at once, i'll maybe believe as master paul ritson can be here and in london at the same time. nowt short o' that'll do for me, i can tell you." and at this conclusive reasoning natt laughed, and crowed, and stirred his steaming liquor. it was at that moment that paul whipped up into the trap and drove away. "show me as my horse as i've tied to the post out there is in his stable all the time, and i's not be for saying as maybe i won't give in." gubblum oglethorpe came straggling into the room at that instant, and caught the words of natt's clinching argument. "what see a post?" he asked. "why, the post afore the house, for sure!" "well, i wudna be for saying but i's getten a bit short-sighted, but if theer's a horse tied to a post afore this house, i's not be for saying as i won't be domd!" natt ran to the door, followed by a dozen pairs of quizzing eyes. the horse was gone. natt sat down on the post and looked around in blank astonishment. "well, i will be domd!" he said. at last the bogies had him in their grip. chapter xiii. by the time that paul had got to the ghyll his anxiety had reached the point of anguish. perhaps it had been no more than a fancy, but he thought as he approached the house that a mist hung about it. when he walked into the hall his footsteps sounded hollow to his ear, and the whole place seemed empty as a vault. the spirit-deadening influence of the surroundings was upon him, when old dinah wilson came from the kitchen and looked at him with surprise. clearly he had not been expected. he wanted to ask twenty questions, but his tongue cleaved to his mouth. the strong man trembled and his courage oozed away. why did not the woman speak? how scared she looked, too! he was brushing past her, and up the stairs, when she told him, in faltering tones, that her mistress was gone. the word coursed through his veins like poison. "gone! how gone?" he said. could it be possible that his mother was dead? "gone away," said dinah. "away! where?" "gone by train, sir, this afternoon." "gone by train," paul repeated, mechanically, with absent manner. "there's a letter left, sir; it's on the table in her room." recovering his self-possession, paul darted upstairs at three steps a stride. his mother's room was empty; no fire in the grate; the pictures down from the walls; the table coverless; the few books gone from the shelf; all chill, voiceless, and blind. what did it mean? paul stood an instant on the threshold, seeing all in one swift glance, yet seeing nothing. then, with the first return of present consciousness, his eye fell on the letter that lay on the table. he took it up with trembling fingers. it was addressed in his mother's hand to him. he broke the seal. this is what he read: "i go to-day to the shelter of the catholic church. i had long thought to return to this refuge, though i had hoped to wait until the day your happiness with greta was complete. that, in heaven's purposes, was not to be, and i must leave you without a last farewell. good-bye, dear son, and god bless and guide you. if you love me, do not grieve for me. it is from love of you i leave you. think of me as one who is at peace, and i will bless you even in heaven. if ever the world should mock you with your mother's name, remember that she is your mother still, and that she loved you to the last. good-bye, dear paul; you may never know the day when this erring and sorrowing heart will be allowed, in his infinite pity, to join the choirs above. then, dearest, from the hour when you read this letter, think of me as dead, for i shall be dead to the world." paul held the letter before him, and looked at it long with vacant eyes. feeling itself seemed gone. not a tear came from him, not a sigh, not one moan of an overwrought heart escaped him. all was blind, pulseless torpor. he stood there crushed and overwhelmed, a shaken, shattered man. a thousand horrors congealed within him to one deep, dead stupor. he turned away in silence, and walked out of the house. the empty chambers seemed, as he went, to echo his heavy footsteps. he took the road back toward the vicarage, turning neither to the right nor the left, looking straight before him, and never once shifting his gaze. the road might be long, but now it fretted him no more. the night might be cold, but colder far was the heart within him. the moon might fly behind the cloud floes, and her light burst forth afresh; but for him all was blank night. in the vicarage the slumberous fire was smoldering down. the straggle-brained guest had been lighted to his bed, and the good parson himself was carrying to his own tranquil closet a head full of the great world's dust and noise. greta was still sitting before the dying fire, her heart heavy with an indefinable sensation of dread. when paul opened the door his face was very pale and his eyes had a strange look; but he was calm, and spoke quietly. he told what had occurred, and read aloud his mother's letter. the voice was strong in which he read it, and never a tremor told of the agony his soul was suffering. then he sat some time without speaking, and time itself had no reckoning. greta scarcely spoke, and the old parson said little. what power had words to express a sorrow like this? death had its solace; but there was no comfort for death in life. at last paul told parson christian that he wished the marriage to take place at once--to-morrow, or, at latest, the day after that. he told of their intention to leave england, of his father's friend, and, in answer to questions, of the power of attorney drawn up in the name of his brother. the old man was deeply moved, but his was the most unselfish of souls. he understood very little of all that was meant by what had been done, and was still to do. but he said, "god bless you and go with you!" though his own wounded heart was bleeding. greta knelt at his chair, and kissed the tawny old face lined and wrinkled and damp now with a furtive tear. it was agreed that the marriage should take place on friday. this was wednesday night. paul rose and stepped to the door, and greta followed him to the porch. "it is good of you to leave all to your brother," she said. "we'll not speak of it," he answered. "is there not something between you?" she asked. "another time, darling." greta recalled hugh ritson's strange threat. should she mention it to paul? she had almost done so, when she lifted her eyes to his face. the weary, worn expression checked her. not now; it would be a cruelty. "i knew the answer to that omen was somewhere," he said, "and it has come." he stepped over the threshold and stood one pace outside. the snow still lay under foot, crusted with frost. the wind blew strongly, and soughed in the stiff and leafless boughs. overhead the flying moon at that moment broke through a rack of cloud. at the same instant the red glow of the fire-light found its way through the open door, and was reflected on paul's pallid face. greta gasped; a thrill passed through her. there, before her, eye to eye with her once again, was the face she saw at the ghyll! chapter xiv. paul went back home, carrying with him a crushed and broken spirit he threw himself into a chair in a torpor of dejection. when the servants spoke to him, he lifted to their faces two clouded eyes, heavy with suffering, and answered their questions in few words. the maid laid the supper, and told him it was ready. when she returned to clear the cloth, the supper was untouched. paul stepped up to his mother's room, and sat down before the cold grate. the candle he carried with him burned out. in the kitchen the servants of the farm and house gossipped long and bickered vigorously. "whatever ails master paul?" "crossed in love, maybe." "shaf on sec woman's wit!" "wherever has mistress gone?" "to buy a new gown, mayhap." "sista now how a lass's first thowt runs on finery!" "didsta hear nowt when you drove mistress to the rail, reuben?" "nay, nowt." "dusta say it war thee as drove to the station this afternoon." "i wouldn't be for saying as it warn't." "wilta be meeting master hugh in the forenoon, natt?" "nay, ax natt na questions. he's fair tongue-tied to-neet, natt is. he's clattering all of it to hisself--swearing a bit, and sec as that." when the servants had gone to bed, and the house was quiet, paul still sat in his mother's abandoned room. no one but he knew what he suffered that night. he tried to comprehend the disaster that had befallen him. why had his mother shut herself in a convent? how should her love for him require that she should leave him? to demand answers to these questions was like knocking at the door of a tomb; the voice was silent that could reply; there came no answer save the dull, heavy, hollow echo of his own uncertain knock. all was blind, dumb, insensate torpor. no outlook; no word; no stimulating pang. his stupor was broken by a vision that for long hours of that dead night burned in his brain like molten lead. the face which greta had seen, and which his mother must also have seen, seemed to rise up before him as he sat in that deserted chamber. he saw his own face as he might have seen it in a glass. not even the blackness of night could conceal it. clear as a face seen in the day it shone and burned in that dark room. he closed his eyes to shut it out, but it was still before him. it was within him. it was imprinted in features of fire on his brain. he trembled with fear, never until that hour knowing what fear was. it acted upon him like his own ghost. he knew it was but a phantasy, but no phantasy was ever more horrible. he got up to banish it, and it stood before him face to face. he sunk down again, and it sat beside him eye to eye. then it changed. for a moment it faded away into a palpitating mist, and the tension of his gaze relaxed. how blessed was that moment's respite! his thought returned to his mother. "if ever the world should mock you with your mother's name, remember that she is your mother still, and that she loved you to the last." dear, sacred soul. little fear that he should forget it! little fear that the wise world should tarnish the fair shrine of that holy love! tears of tenderness rose to his eyes, and in the midst of them he thought his mother sat before him. her head was bent; an all-eating shame was crimsoning her pale cheek. then he knew that other eyes were upon her, looking into her heart, prying deep down into her dead past, keeping open the heavy eyelids that could never sleep. he looked up; his own shadow was silently gazing down upon both of them. paul leaped to his feet and ran out of the room. surely the spirit of his mother still inhabited the deserted chamber. surely this was the shadow that had driven her away. big drops of sweat rolled in beads from his forehead. he went out of the house. heavy black clouds were adrift in a stormy sky; behind them, the bright moon was scudding. he walked among the naked trees of the gaunt wood at the foot of coledale, and listened to the short breathings of the wind among the frost-covered boughs. at every second step he gave a quick glance backward. but at last he saw the thing he looked for--it was walking with him side by side, pace for pace. he passed slowly out of the wood, not daring now to run. the white fell rose sheer up to the grim, gray crags that hung in shaggy, snowy masses over the black seams of the ravines; and the moon's light rested on them for an instant. without thought or aim he began to climb. the ascent was perilous at any hour to any foot save that of a mountaineer. the exertion and the watchfulness banished the vision, and his liberated mind turned to greta. what was life itself now without greta's love? nothing but a succession of days. she was the savior of his outcast state; she was his life's spring, whence the waters of content might flow. and a flood of emotion came over him, and in his heart he blessed her. it was then that on that gaunt headland he seemed to see her at his side. but between them, and dividing them, stalked the spectre of himself. all to the east was dense gloom, save where the pulsating red of the smelting house burned in the distance. with no rest for his foot, paul walked in the direction of the light, and the shadow of his face walked with him. as the wind went by him it whistled in his ear, and it sounded in that solitude like the low cry of the thing at his side. old laird fisher was at his work of wheeling the refuse of the ore from the mouth of the furnace, and shooting it down the bank. the glow of the hot stone in the iron barrow that he trundled was reflected in sharp white lights on his wrinkled face. "ista theer, mister paul?" he said, catching his breath and coughing amid the smoke, and shouting between the gusts of wind. the slow beat of the engine and the clank of the chain of the cage in the shaft deadened the wind's shrill whistle. the smoke from the bank shot up and swirled away like a long flight of swallows. standing there, the vision troubled him no longer. it had been merely a waking phantasy, bred of what greta said she saw in the snow, and heightened by the shock to his nerves caused by his mother's departure. the sight of matthew helped to beat it off. his submissive face was the sign of his broken spirit. a tempest had torn up his only hold on the earth. he was but a poor naked trunk flung on the ground, without power of growth or grip of the soil. he was old and he had no hope. yet he lived on and worked submissively. paul's own case was different. destiny had dashed him in unknown seas against unseen rocks. but he was young, he had the power of life, and the stimulus of love. yet here he was, the prey to an idle fancy, tortured by an agony of fear. "good-night to you, matthew!" he shouted cheerily above the wind, and went away into the night. he would go home and sleep the fever out of his blood; he took the road; and as he went, the monotonous engine-throb died off behind him. he passed through the village; the street was empty, and it echoed loud to the sound of his footfall. large shadows fell about him when for an instant the moon shot clear of a cloud. a light burned in a cottage window. poor mrs. truesdale's sick life was within that sleepless chamber lingering out its last days. the wind fell to silence at one moment, and then a child's little cry came out to him in the night. he walked on, and plunged again into the darkness of the road beyond. the dogs were howling at the distant ghyll. a sable cloud floated in the sky, and at its back the moon sailed. it was like black hair silvered with gray. but on one spot on the road before him the moon shone clear and white. the place fascinated him like a star. he quickened his pace until he came into the moon's open light. then it turned to an ashy tint; it lay over the church-yard. his father's grave was only a few paces from the road. what unseen power had drawn him there? was it meant that he should understand that all the stings that fate had in store for him were to be in some unsearchable way the refuse of his father's deed? his mind went back to the night of his father's death. he thought of his mother's confession--a confession more terrible to make more fearful to listen to, than a mother ever made before or a son ever heard. and now again, was the disaster of this very night a link in the chain of destiny? let no man compare the withering effects of a father's curse with the blasting influence of a father's sin. if the wrath of providence should fail in its stern and awful retribution, the world in its mercy would not forget that the sins of the fathers must be visited upon the children. paul entered the lych-gate and entered the church-yard. the night dew on his cheeks was not colder than his tears as he knelt by his father's grave. at one instant he cursed the world and the world's cruel law. then there stole into his heart a poison that corroded its dearest memory: he thought of his father with bitterness. at that moment a strange awe crept over him. he knew, though still only by the eyes of his mind, that the vision had returned. he knew it was standing against the night-sky as a ghastly headstone to the grave. but when he raised his eyes what he saw was more terrible. the face was before him, but it was a dead face now. he saw his own corpse stretched out on his father's grave. his head fell on the cold sod. he lay like the dead on the grave of the dead. then he knew that it was ordered above that the cloud of his father's sin should darken his days; that through all the range and change of life he was to be the lonely slave of a sin not his own. his fate was sin-inherited, and the wages of sin is death. was it strange that at that moment, when all the earth seemed gloomed by the shadow of a curse that lay blackest over him--when reverence for a father's memory and love learned at a mother's knee were deadened by a sense of irremediable wrong--was it strange that there and then peace fell on him like a dove from heaven? orphaned in one hour--now, and not till now--foredoomed to writhe like a worm amid the dust of the world--the man in him arose and shook off its fear. it was because he came to know--rude man as he was, unlettered, but strong of soul--that there is a power superior to fate, that the stormiest sea has its master, that the waif that is cast by the roughest wave on the loneliest shore is yet seen and known. and the voice of an angel seemed to whisper in his heart the story of hagar and her son; how the boy was the first-born of his father; how the second-born became the heir; how the woman and son were turned away; how they were nigh to death in the desert; and how, at last, the cry came from heaven, "god hath heard the voice of the lad where he is." the horror of the vision had gone. it would come back no more. paul walked home, went up to his own room, and slept peacefully. when he awoke the pink and yellow rose of a wintery sunrise bloomed over the head of the eel crags. the tinkle of the anvil came from across the vale. sheep were bleating high up on the frost-nipped side of the fell. the echo of the ax could be heard from the wood, and the muffled lowing of the kine from the shippon in the yard behind. the harsh scrape of natt's clogs was on the gravel. a robin with full throat perched on the window-ledge and warbled cheerily. last night was gone from him for all eternity. before him was the day, the world, and life. chapter xv. that day--the day before the wedding--all the gossiping tongues in newlands were cackling from morning till night. natt had been sent round the dale with invitations addressed to statesmen, their wives, sons and daughters. parson christian himself made the round of the homes of the poor. "'the poor ye have always with you,' but not everywhere, and not often in cana of galilee," he said to greta on setting out. and the people of the highways and hedges were nothing loath to come in to the feast. "god luck to the weddiners!" they said, "and may they never lick a lean poddish-stick." there was not much work done in the valley that day. the richest heiress on the country-side was about to be married to the richest statesman in the dale. on the eve of such an event it was labor enough to drop in at the flying horse and discuss mathematics. the general problem was one in simple addition, namely, how much paul ritson would be worth when he married greta lowther. and more than once that day twice two made a prodigious five. the frost continued and the roads were crisp. heavy rains had preceded the frost, and the river that ran down the middle of the valley had overflowed the meadows to the width of a wide carriage-way. this was now a road of ice five miles long, smooth as glass, and all but as straight as an arrow. abraham strong, the carpenter, had been ordered to take the wheels off a disused landau and fix instead two keels of wood beneath the axles. this improvised sledge, after it had been shod in steel by the blacksmith, was to play a part in to-morrow's ceremony. early in the day brother peter was dispatched to the town to fetch mr. bonnithorne. the four miles' journey afoot seemed to him a bigger candle than the entire game was worth. "don't know as i see what the lass wants mair nor she's got," he told himself, grumpily, as he plodded along the road. "what call has she for a man? hasn't she two of 'em as she is? i made her comfortable enough myself. but lasses are varra ficklesome." mr. bonnithorne gathered enough from brother peter's "don't know as there's not a wedding in t' wind," to infer what was afoot. hugh ritson was away from home, and his brother paul was availing himself of his absence to have the marriage ceremony performed. this was the inference with which mr. bonnithorne had walked from the town; but before reaching the vicarage he encountered paul himself, who was even then on the way to his office. few words passed between them. indeed, the young dalesman was civil, and no more. he gave scant courtesy, but then he also gave something that was more substantial, and the severity of the lawyer's cynicism relaxed. paul handed mr. bonnithorne, without comment, the deed drawn up in london. mr. bonnithorne glanced at it, pocketed it, and smiled. his sense of paul's importance as a dangerous man sunk to nothing at that moment. they parted without more words. parson christian got home toward evening, dead beaten with fatigue. he found the lawyer waiting for him. the marriage had been big in his eyes all day, and other affairs very little. "so you shall give her away, mr. bonnithorne," he said, without superfluous preface of any kind. "i--i?" said mr. bonnithorne, with elevated brows. "who has more right?" said the parson. "well, you know, you--you--" "me! nay, i must marry them. it is you for the other duty." "you see, mr. christian, if you think of it, i am--i am--" "you are her father's old friend. there, let us look on it as settled." mr. bonnithorne looked on it as awkward. "well, to say the truth, mr. christian, i'd--i'd rather not." the old parson lifted two astonished eyes, and gazed at mr. bonnithorne over the rims of his spectacles. the lawyer's uneasiness increased. then parson christian remembered that only a little while ago mr. bonnithorne had offered reasons why paul should not marry greta. they were rather too secular, those same reasons, but no doubt they had appealed honestly to his mind as a friend of greta's family. "paul and greta are going away," said the parson. "so i judged." "they go to victoria to farm there," continued the parson. "on greta's money," added the lawyer. parson christian looked again over the rims of his spectacles. then for once his frank and mellow face annexed a reflection of the curl on the lawyer's lip. "do you know," he said, "it never once came into my simple old pate to ask which would find the dross and which the honest labor?" mr. bonnithorne winced. the simple old pate could, on occasion, be more than a match for his own wise head. "seeing that i shall marry her, i think it will be expected that you should give her to her husband; but if you have an objection--" "an objection?" mr. bonnithorne interrupted. "i don't know that my feeling is so serious as that." "then let us leave it there, and you'll decide in the morning," said parson christian. so they left it there, and mr. bonnithorne, the dear friend of the family, made haste to the telegraph office and sent this telegram to hugh ritson in london: "they are to be married to-morrow. if you have anything imperative to say, write to-night, or come." paul and greta saw each other only for five minutes that day amid the general hubbub; but their few words were pregnant with serious issues. beneath the chorus of their hearts' joy there was an undersong of discord; and neither knew of the other's perplexity. greta was thinking of hugh ritson's mysterious threat. whether or not hugh had the power of preventing their marriage was a question of less consequence to greta at this moment than the other question of whether or not she could tell paul what hugh had said. as the day wore on, her uncertainty became feverish. if she spoke, she must reveal--what hitherto she had partly hidden--the importunity and unbrotherly disloyalty of hugh's love. she must also awaken fresh distress in paul's mind, already overburdened with grief for the loss of his mother. probably paul would be powerless to interpret his brother's strange language. and if he should be puzzled, the more he must be pained. perhaps hugh ritson's threat was nothing but the outburst of a distempered spirit--the noise of a bladder that is emptying itself. still, greta's nervousness increased; no reason, no sophistry could allay it. she felt like a blind man who knows by the current of air on his face that he has reached two street crossings, and can not decide which turn to take. paul, on his part, had a grave question to revolve. he was thinking whether it was the act of an honorable man to let greta marry him in ignorance of the fact that he was not his father's legitimate son. yet he could never tell her. the oath he had taken over his father's body must seal his lips forever. his mother's honor was wrapped up in that oath. break the one, and the other was no longer inviolate. true, it would be to greta, and greta alone, and she and he were one. true, too, his mother was now dead to the world. but the oath was rigid: "never to reveal to any human soul, by word or deed, his act, or her shame." he had sworn it, and he must keep it. the conflict of emotion was terrible. love was dragging him one way, and love the other. honor said yes, and honor said no. his heart's first thought was to tell greta everything, to keep nothing back from her whose heart's last thought was his. but the secret of his birth must lie as a dead and speechless thing within him. if it was not the act of an honorable man to let greta marry him in ignorance of his birth, there was only one escape from the dishonor--not to let her marry him at all. if they married, the oath must be kept. if the oath were kept, the marriage might be dishonored--it could not be the unreserved and complete union of soul with soul, heart with heart, mind with mind, which true marriage meant. it would be laying the treasure at the altar and keeping back part of the price. paul was not a man of subtle intellect, or perhaps such reflections would have troubled him too deeply. love was above everything, and to give up greta was impossible. if circumstance was the evil genius of a man's life, should it be made the god of it also? at all hazards paul meant to marry greta. and after all, what did this question of honor amount to? it was a mere phantasm. what did it matter to greta whether he were high or basely born? should he love her less or more? would he be less or more worthy of her love? and how was his birth base? not in god's eyes, for god had heard the voice of hagar's son. only in the eyes of the world. and what did that mean? it meant that whether birth was high or base depended one part on virtue and nine hundred and ninety-nine parts on money. where had half the world's titled great ones sprung from? not--like him--from their father and their father's fathers, but from a monarch's favorite. thus paul reasoned with himself at this juncture. whether he was wholly right or wholly wrong, or partly right and partly wrong, concerns us not at all. it was natural that such a man, in such a place, at such an hour, should decide once for all to say not a word to greta. it was just as natural that his reticence should produce the long series of incidents still to be recorded. thus it was not a word was said between them of what lay nearest to the hearts of both. chapter xvi. the morning was brilliant--a vigorous, lusty young day, such as can awake from the sleep of the night only in winter and in the north. the sun shone on the white frost; the air was hazy enough to make the perspective of the fells more sharp, and leave a halo of mystery to hang over every distant peak and play about every tree. the ghyll was early astir, and in every nook and corner full of the buzz of gossip. "well, things is at a pass, for sure!" "and never no axings nowther." "and all cock-a-hoop, and no waiting for the mistress to come back." "shaf, what matter about the mistress--she's no' but a kill-joy. there'd be no merry neet an' she were at home." "well, i is fair maizelt 'at he won't wait for master hugh--his awn brother, thoo knows." "what, lass, dusta think as he wad do owt at the durdum to-neet? maybe tha's reckoning on takin' a step wi' him, eh?" "and if i is, it's nowt sa strange." "weel, i wadna be for saying tha's aiming too high, for i mind me of a laal lass once as they called mercy fisher, and folks did say as somebody were partial to her." "hod thy tongue about the bit thing; don't thoo misliken me to sec a stromp!" resplendent in a blue cloth coat, light check trousers, a flowered yellow silk waistcoat, and a white felt hat, natt was flying up and down the stairs to and from paul's room. paul himself had not yet been seen. rumor in the kitchen whispered that he had hardly taken the trouble to dress, and had not even been at the pains to wash. natt had more than once protested his belief that his master meant to be married in his shirt-sleeves. nothing but "papers and pens and sealing-wax and things" had he asked for. outside the vicarage a motley group had gathered. there was john proudfoot, the blacksmith, uncommonly awkward in a frock coat and a pair of kid gloves that sat on his great hands like a clout on a pitchfork. dick, the miller, was there, too, with giles raisley, the miner; and job sheepshanks (by the way of treaty of peace) stood stroking the tangled mane of gubblum oglethorpe's pony. children hung on the fence, women gathered about the gate, dogs capered on the path. gubblum himself had been in the house, and now came out accompanied by brother peter ward and a huge black jug. the jug was passed round with distinct satisfaction. "is the laal man ever coming?" said gubblum, smacking his lips and taking a swift survey of the road. "why, here he is at sec a skufter as'll brak' his shins!" at the top of his speed, and breathless, clad in a long coat whose tails almost swept the ground, grasping a fiddle in one hand and a paper in the other, tom o' dint came hurrying up. "tha's here at last, tom, ma man. teem a glass into him, peter, and let's mak' a start." "ye see, i's two men, i is," said the small man, apologetically. "i had my rounds with my letters to do first, and business afore pleasure, you knows." "pleasure afore business, say i," cried gubblum. "never let yer wark get the upper hand o' yer wages--them's my maxims." two coaches came up at the moment, having driven four miles for the purpose of driving four furlongs. john proudfoot, without needless courtesy, took the fiddler-postman by the neck of his coat and the garment beneath its tails, and slung him, fiddle and all, on to the saddle of the pony, and held him there a moment, steadying him like a sack with an open mouth. "sit thee there as steady as a broody hen; and now let's mak' shift," said the blacksmith. "but i must go inside first," said the fiddler; "i've a letter for lawyer bonnithorne." "shaf on thee and thy letter! away with thee! deliver it at the church door." the men dropped into a single file, with tom o' dint riding at their head, and gubblum walking by the pony's side and holding the reins. "strike up!" shouted job sheepshanks. "ista ever gaen to begin?" then the fiddler shouldered his fiddle, and fell to, and the first long sweeps of his wedding-march awoke the echoes of the vale. the women and children followed the procession a few hundred yards, and then returned to see the wedding-party enter the coaches. inside the vicarage all was noise and bustle. greta was quiet enough, and ready to set out at any time, but a bevy of gay young daleswomen were grouped about her, trying to persuade her to change her brown broche dress for a pale-blue silk, to have some hothouse plants in her hair, and at least to wear a veil. "and mind you keep up heart, darling, and speak out your responses; and, dearest, don't cry until the parson gets to 'god bless you!'" greta received all this counsel with equal thanks. she listened to it, affected to approve of it, and ignored it. her face betrayed anxiety. she hardly understood her own fears, but whenever the door opened, and a fresh guest entered, she knew that her heart leaped to her mouth. parson christian stood near her in silk gaiters and a coat that had been old-fashioned even in his youth. but his jovian gray head and fine old face, beautiful in its mellowness and child-like simplicity, made small demand of dress. he patted greta's hair sometimes with the affectionate gesture that might be grateful to a fondled child. mr. bonnithorne arrived early, in a white waistcoat and coat adorned by a flower. his brave apparel was scarcely in keeping with the anxiety written on his face. he could not sit down for more than a moment in the same seat. he was up and down, walking to and fro, looking out of the window, and diving for papers into his pocket. the procession, headed by tom o' dint, had not long been gone, when word was given, and the party took to the coaches and set off at a trot. then the group of women at the gate separated with many a sapient comment. "weel, he's getten a bonny lass, for sure." "and many a sadder thing med happen to her, too." the village lay midway between the vicarage and the church, and the fiddler and his company marched through it to a brisk tune, bringing fifty pairs of curious eyes to the windows and the doors. tom o' dint sat erect in the saddle, playing vigorously, and when a burst of cheering hailed the procession as it passed a group of topers gathered outside the flying horse, tom accepted it as a tribute to his playing, and bowed his head with becoming dignity, and without undue familiarity, always remembering that courtesy comes after art, as a true artist is in loyalty bound to do. once or twice the pony slipped its foot on the frosty road, and then tom was fain to abridge a movement in music and make a movement in gymnastics toward grasping the front of the saddle. but all went well until the company came within fifty paces of the church door, and there a river crossed the road. being shallow and very swift, the river head escaped the grip of the frost, and slipped through its fingers. there was a foot-bridge on one side, and the men behind the fiddler fell out of line to cross by it. gubblum dropped the reins and followed them; but, as bridges are not made for the traffic of ponies, tom o' dint was bound to go through the water. never interrupting the sweep and swirl of the march he was playing, he gave the pony a prod with his foot, and it plunged in. but scarcely had it taken two steps and reached the depth of its knees, when, from the intenser cold, or from coming sharply against a submerged stone, or from indignation at the fiddler's prod, or from the occult cause known as pure devilment, it shied up its back legs, and tossed down its tousled head, and pitched the musician head-foremost into the stream. amid a burst of derisive cheers, tom o' dint was drawn, wet as a sack, to the opposite bank, and his fiddle was rescued from a rapid voyage down the river. now, the untoward adventure had the good effect of reducing the fiddler's sense of the importance of his artistic function, and bringing him back to consciousness of his prosaic duties as postman. he put his hand into his pocket, feeling as if he had dipped it into a bag of eels, and drew out the lawyer's letter. it was wet, and the ink of the superscription was beginning to run. tom o' dint also began to run. fearing trouble, he left his unsympathetic cronies, hurried on to the church, went into the vestry, where he knew there would be a fire, and proceeded to dry the letter. the water had softened the gum, and the envelope had opened. "so much the mair easier dried," thought tom, and, nothing loath, he drew out the letter, unfolded it, and held it to the fire. the paper was smoking with the heat, and so was tom, when he heard carriage-wheels without, and then a mighty hubbub, and loud voices mentioning his own name without reverence: "where's that clothead of a fiddler?" and sundry other dubious allusions. tom knew that he ought to be at the gate striking up a merry tune to welcome the bride. but then the letter was not dry. there was not a moment to lose. tom spread the paper and envelope on the fender, intending to return for them, and dashed off with his fiddle to the discharge of his artistic duty. as tom o' dint left the vestry, parson christian entered it. the parson saw the papers on his fender, picked them up, and in all innocence read them. the letter ran as follows: "morley's hotel, trafalgar square, nov. 28. "dear bonnithorne,--the man who was in newlands is paul lowther, greta's half-brother. paul ritson is my own brother, my father's son. keep this to yourself as you value your salvation, your pride, or your purse, or whatever else you hold most dear. send me by wire to-day the name of their hotel in london, the time of their train south, and who, if any, are with them. yours, "hugh ritson." "p.s.--the girl mercy will be troublesome." the parson had scarcely time to understand the words he read, when he, too, was compelled to leave the vestry. the bride and bridegroom had met at the church door. it was usual to receive them at the altar with music. the fiddler's function was at an end for the present. parson christian could not allow the fiddle to be heard in church. there a less secular instrument was required. the church was too poor for an organ; it had not yet reached the dignity of a harmonium; but it had an accordion, and among the parson's offices was the office of accordionist. so, throwing his gown over his head, he walked into the church, stepped into the pulpit, whipped up his instrument from the shelf where he kept it, and began to play. now it chanced that mr. bonnithorne in his legal capacity held certain documents for signature, and having accompanied the bride to the altar rail, he hurried to deposit them in the vestry. the gloom had still hung heavy on his brow as he entered the church. he was brooding over a letter that he had expected and had not received. perhaps it was his present hunger for a letter that made his eye light first on the one which the fiddler-postman had left to dry. the parson had dropped it on the mantel-shelf. at a glance mr. bonnithorne saw it was his own. tom o' dint had been compelled to come up the aisle at the tail of the wedding-party. he saw mr. bonnithorne, who was at the head of it, go into the vestry. dripping wet as he was, and with chattering teeth, the sweat stood on his forehead. "deary me, what sec a character will i have!" he muttered. he elbowed and edged his way through the crowd, and got into the vestry at last. but he was too late. with an eye that struck lightning into the meek face of the fiddler, mr. bonnithorne demanded an explanation. the request was complied with. "and who has been in the room since you left it?" "nay, nobody, sir." "sure of that?" "for sure," said tom. mr. bonnithorne's countenance brightened. he had read the letter, and, believing that no one else had read it, he was satisfied. he put it in his pocket. "maybe i may finish drying it, sir?" said tom o' dint. the lawyer gave a contemptuous snort, and turned on his heel. when paul walked with a firm step up the aisle, he looked fresh and composed. his dress was simple; his eyes were clear and bright, and his wavy brown hair fell back from a smooth and peaceful brow. greta, at paul's side, looked less at ease. the clouds still hung over her face. her eyes turned at intervals to the door, as if expecting some new arrival. the service was soon done, and then the parson delivered a homily. it was short and simple, telling how the good bishop had said marriage was the mother of the world, filling cities and churches, and heaven itself, whose nursery it was. then it touched on the marriage rite. "i do not love ceremonies," said the parson, "for they are too often 'devised to set a gloss on faint deeds,' and there are such of them as throw the thing they celebrate further away than the wrong end of a telescope." then he explained that though the marriage ceremony was unknown to the early christians, and never referred to in the old bible, where abraham "took" sarah to wife, and jacob "took" rachel, yet that the marriage of the church was a most holy and beautiful thing, symbolizing the union of christ with his people. last of all, he spoke of the stainless and pious parentage of both bride and bridegroom, and warned them to keep their name and fame unsullied, for "what is birth to man or woman," said the teacher, "if it shall be a stain to his dead ancestors to have left such offspring?" greta bowed her head meekly, and paul stood, while the parson spoke, with absent eyes fixed on the tablets on the wall before him, spelling out mechanically the words of the commandments. in a few moments the signatures were taken, the bell in the little turret was ringing, and the company were trooping out of the church. it was a rude old structure, with great bulges in the walls, little square lead lights, and open timbers untrimmed and straight from the tree. the crowd outside had gathered about the wheelless landau which the carpenter and blacksmith had converted into a sledge. on the box seat sat tom o' dint, his fiddle in his hand, and icicles hanging in the folds of his capacious coat. the bride and bridegroom were to return in this conveyance, which was to be drawn down the frozen river by a score of young dalesmen shod in steel. they took their seats, and had almost set off, when greta called for the parson. "parson christian, parson christian!" echoed twenty voices. the good parson was ringing the bell, being bell-ringer also. presently the brazen tongue ceased wagging, and parson christian reappeared. "here's your seat, parson," said paul, making space. "in half a crack," replied parson christian, pulling a great key out of his pocket and locking the church door. he was sexton as well. then he got up into the sledge, word was called, the fiddle broke out, and away they went for the river-bank. a minute more and they were flying over the smooth ice with the morning sunlight chasing them, and the music of fifty lusty voices in their ears. they had the longer journey, but they reached the vicarage as early as the coaches that had returned by the road. then came the breakfast--a solid repast, fit for appetites sharpened by the mountain air. parson christian presided in the parlor, and brother peter in the kitchen, the door between being thrown open. the former radiated smiles like april sunshine; the latter looked as sour as a plum beslimed by the earthworms, and "didn't know as he'd ever seen sec a pack of hungry hounds." after the breakfast the toasts, and up leaped mr. bonnithorne. that gentleman had quite cast off the weight of his anxiety. he laughed and chaffed, made quips and cranks. "our lawyer is foreclosing," whispered a pert young damsel in greta's ear. "he's getting drunk." mr. bonnithorne would propose "mr. and mrs. ritson." he began with a few hoary and reverend quotations--"men are april when they woo, december when they wed." this was capped by "maids are may when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives." mr. bonnithorne protested that both had been true, only with exceptions. paul thanked the company in a dozen manly and well-chosen phrases, and then stepped to the kitchen door and invited the guests over whom brother peter presided to spend the evening at the ghyll. the ladies had risen and carried off greta to prepare for her journey, when gubblum oglethorpe got on his feet and insisted on proposing "the lasses." what gubblum had to say on the subject it is not given to us to record. by some strange twist of logic, he launched out on a very different topic. perhaps he sat in the vicinity of nancy tantarum, for he began with the story of a funeral. "it minds me," he said, "of the carriers at adam strang's funeral, at gosforth, last back-end gone twelvemonth. there were two sets on 'em, and they'd a big bottle atween 'em--same as that one as auld peter, the honey, keeps to hissel at yon end of the table. well, they carried adam shoulder high from the house to the grave-yard, first one set and then t'other, mile on mile apiece, and when one set got to the end of their mile they set down the coffin and went on for t'other set to pick it up. it were nine mile from branthet edge to gosforth, so they had nine shifts atween 'em, and at every shift they swigged away at the big bottle--this way with it, peter. well, the mourners they crossed the fields for shortness, but the bearers, they had to keep the corpse road. all went reet for eight mile, and then one set with adam were far ahead of the other with the bottle. they set the coffin on a wall at the roadside and went on. well, when the second set came up they didn't see it--they couldn't see owt, that's the fact--same as i expect i'll be afore the day's gone, but not with peter's good-will, seemingly. well, they went on, too. and when all of 'em coom't up to the church togither, there was the parson in his white smock and his bare poll and big book open to start. but, you see, there warn't no corpse. where was it? why, it was no' but resting quiet all by itsel' on the wall a mile away." gubblum was proceeding to associate the grewsome story with the incidents of paul's appearance at the fire while he was supposed to be in london; but greta had returned to the parlor, muffled in furs, paul had thrown on a long frieze ulster, and every one had risen for the last leave-taking. in the midst of the company stood the good old christian, his wrinkled face wet with silent tears. greta threw herself into his arms and wept aloud. then the parson began to cast seeming merry glances around him, and to be mighty jubilant all at once. the improvised sledge was at the door, laden with many boxes. "good-bye, good-bye, good-bye!" a little cheer, a little attempt at laughter, a suppressed sigh, then a downright honest cry, and away they were gone. the last thing seen by greta's hazy eyes was a drooping white head amid many bright girl faces. how they flew along. the glow of sunset was now in their faces. it crimsoned the west, and sparkled like gold on the eastern crags. between them and the light were the skaters drawing the sledge, sailing along like a flight of great rooks, their voices echoing in unseen caverns of the fells. mr. bonnithorne sat with paul and greta. "where did you say you would stay in london?" he asked. "at morley's hotel," said paul. with this answer the lawyer looked unreasonably happy. the station was reached in twenty minutes. the train steamed in. paul and greta got into the last carriage, all before it being full. a moment more, and they were gone. then mr. bonnithorne walked direct to the telegraph office. but the liquor he had taken played him false. he had got it into his stupefied head that he must have blundered about morley's hotel. that was not paul's, but hugh's address. so he sent this telegram: "left by train at one. address, hawk and heron." then he went home happy. that night there was high revel at the ghyll. first, a feast in the hall: beef, veal, mutton, ham, haggis, and hot bacon pie. then an adjournment to a barn, where tallow candles were stuck into cloven sticks, and hollowed potatoes served for lamps. strong ale and trays of tobacco went round, and while the glasses jingled and the smoke wreathed upward, a song was sung: "a man may spend and god will send, if his wife be good to owt; but a man may spare and still be bare, if his wife be good to nowt." then blindman's buff. "antony blindman kens ta me, sen i bought butter and cheese o' thee? i ga' tha my pot, i ga' tha my pan, i ga' all i had but a rap ho' penny i gave a poor auld man." last of all, the creels were ranged round the hay-mows, and the floor was cleared of everything except a beer-barrel. this was run into the corner, and tom o' dint and fiddle were seated on top of it. dancing was interrupted only by drinking, until tom's music began to be irregular, whereupon gubblum remonstrated; and then tom, with the indignation of an artist, broke the bridge of his fiddle on gubblum's head, and gubblum broke the bridge of tom's nose with his fist, and both rolled on to the floor and lay there, until gubblum extricated himself with difficulty, shook his lachrymose noddle, and said: "the laal man is as drunk as a fiddler." the vicarage was quiet that night. all the guests save one were gone. parson christian sat before the smoldering fire. old laird fisher sat with him. neither spoke. they passed a long hour in silence. _book iii._ the declivity of crime. chapter i. a way-side hostelry, six miles from london, bearing its swinging sign of the silver hawk and golden heron. it was a little, low-roofed place, with a drinking-bar in front as you entered, and rooms opening from it on either hand. the door of the room to the left was shut. one could hear the voices of children within, and sometimes a peal of their merry laughter. the room to the right stood open to the bar. it was a smoky place, with a few chairs, a long deal table, a bench with a back, a form against the wall, pipes that hung on nails, and a rough beam across the low ceiling. a big fire burned in an open grate on a hearth without a fender. in front of it, coiled up in a huge chair like a canoe, that had a look of having been hewn straight from the tree, sat the only occupant of the room. the man wore a tweed suit of the indefinite pattern known as pepper and salt. his hat was drawn heavily over his face to protect his eyes from the glare of the fire-light. he gave satisfactory evidence that he slept. under any light but that of the fire, the place must have looked cheerless to desolation, but the comfortless room was alive with the fire's palpitating heart. the rosy flames danced over the sleeper's tawny hair, over the sanded floor, over the walls adorned with gaudy prints. they threw shadows and then caught them back again; flashed a ruddy face out of the little cracked window, and then lay still while the blue night looked in. an old woman, with a yellow face deeply wrinkled, served behind the bar. two or three carriers and hawkers sat on a bench before it. one of these worthies screwed up the right side of his face with an expression of cutting irony. "burn my body, though, but what an inwalable thing to have a son wot never need do no work!" the old woman lifted her eyes. "there, enough of that," she said, and then jerked her head toward the room from whence came measured snores. "he'll be working at throwing you out, some of you, same as he did young bobby on sunday sennight." "like enough. he don't know which side his bread is buttered, he don't." "his bread?" said another, an old road-mender, with a scornful dig of emphasis. "his old mother's, you mean. don't you notice as folks as eat other folks' bread, and earn none for theirselves, never knows no more nor babbies which side the butter is on?" "hold your tongue, luke sturgis!" said the old woman. "mayhap you think it's you're pint of half-and-half as keeps us all out of the union." "now you're a-goin' to get wexed, mrs. drayton. so wot's to prevent me having another pint, just to get that fine son of yourn an extra cigar or so. hold hard with the pewter, though. i'll drain off what's left, if convenient." a drowsy-eyed countryman, with a dog snoring at his feet, said: "been to lunnon again," and pointed the shank of his pipe in the direction of the sleeping man. "got the lunnon smell on his clothes. i allus knows it forty perches off." "you're wrong, then, mr. wiseman," said the old woman, "and he ain't got no smell of no lunnon on his clothes this day, anyways. for he's been where there ain't no smell no more nor in hendon, leastways unless the mount'ins smells and the cataracks and the sheeps." "the mount'ins? and has master paul been along of the mount'ins?" "yes; cummerland, that's the mountains, and fur off, too, i've heerd." "cummerland? ain't that the part as the young missy comes from?" "mayhap it is; i wouldn't be for saying no to that." "so that's the time o' day, is it?" the speaker gave a prolonged whistle and turned a suggestive glance into the faces of his companions. "well, i allus says to my old woman, 'bide quiet,' i says, 'and it'll leak out,' and sure enough, so it has." the landlady fired up. "and i allus says to your missus, 'mistress sturgis,' i says, 'it do make me that wexed to see a man a-prying into other people's business and a-talking and a-scandalizing, which it is bad in a woman, where you expects no better, as the saying is, but it ain't no ways bearsome in a man--and i wish you'd keep him,' i says, 'from poking his nose, as you might say, into other people's pewters.' there--that's what i allus says to your missis." "and very perwerse of you, too," said the worthy addressed, speaking with the easy good-nature of one who could afford to be rated. "and wot's to prevent me having a screw of twist on the strength of it," putting a penny on the counter. the landlady threw down the paper of tobacco, picked up the penny, and cast it into the till. "on'y, as i say, there's no use denying now as mister paul drayton has a finger in the young missy's pie." "there, that's enough o' that. i told you afore she never set eyes on him till a fortnight come sunday." two women came into the bar with jugs. "and how is the young missy?" asked the elder of the two, catching up the conversation as the landlady served her. "she's there," said the landlady, rather indefinitely, indicating with a sidelong nod the room to the left with the closed door. at that moment the laughter of the children could be heard from within. "she's merry over it, at any rate, though i did hear a whisper," said the woman, "as she feeds two when she eats her wittals, as the saying is." the men laughed. "that's being overcur'ous, mistress," said one, as the woman passed out sniggering. "such baggage oughtn't to be taken in to live with respectable people," said the other woman, the younger one, who wore a showy bonnet and a little gay ribbon at her neck. "and that's being overcharitable," said another voice. "it's the women for charity, especially to one of themselves." "it's cur'osity as is the mischief i' this world," said the drowsy-eyed countryman. "people talk o' the root o' all evil, and some says drink, and some says money, and some says rheumatis, but i says cur'osity. show me the man as ain't cur'ous, and he don't go a-poking his nose into every stink-pot, as you might say." "of course not," said the gentleman addressed as luke sturgis. "and show me the man as ain't cur'ous" he said, with a wink, "and i'll show you the man as is good at a plough and inwalable at a ditch, and wery near worth his weight in gold at gapping a hedge, and mucking up a horse-midden, and catching them nasty moles wot ruin the county worse nor wars and publicans and parsons." chapter ii. it was mercy fisher who sat in the room to the left of the bar, and played with the children, and laughed when they laughed, and tried to forget that she was not as young as they were, and as happy and as free from thought, living as they lived, from hour to hour, with no past, and without a future, and all in the living present. but she was changed, and was now no longer quite a child, though she had a child's heart that would never grow old, but be a child's heart still, all the same that the weight of a woman's years lay upon it, and the burden of a woman's sorrow saddened it. a little older, a little wiser, perhaps, a little graver of face, and with eyes a little more wistful. a neighbor who had gone to visit a relative five miles away had brought round her children, begging the "young missy" to take care of them in her absence. a curly-headed boy of four sat wriggling in mercy's lap, while a girl of six stood by her side, watching the needles as she knitted. and many a keen thrust the innocent, prattling tongues sent straight as an arrow to mercy's heart. the little fellow was revolving a huge lozenge behind his teeth. "and if oo had a little boy would oo give him sweets ery often--all days--sweets and cakes--would oo?" "yes, every day, darling; i'd give him sweets and cakes every day." "i 'ikes oo. and would oo let him go out to play with the big boys, and get birds' nests and things, would oo?" "yes, bird's nests, and berries, and everything." "i 'ikes oo, i do. and let him go to meet daddy coming home at night, and ride on daddy's back?" a shadow shot across the girl's simple face, and there was a pause. "would oo? and lift him on daddy's shoulder, would oo?" "perhaps, dear." "oh!" the little chap's delight required no fuller expression. "ot's oo doing?" "knitting, darling--there, rest quiet on my knee." "ot is it--knitting--stockings for oo little boy?" "i have no little boy, sweetheart. they are mittens for a gentleman." "how pooty! ot's a gentleman?" "a man, dear. mr. drayton is a gentleman, you know." "oh!" then after a moment's sage reflection, "me knows--a raskill." "willy!" "'at's what daddy says he is." all this time the little maiden at mercy's side had been pondering her own peculiar problem. "what would you do if you had a little girl?" "well, let me see; i'd teach her to knit and to sew, and i'd comb her hair so nice, and make her a silk frock with flounces, and, oh! such a sweet little hat." "how nice! and would you take her to market and to church, and to see the dolls in mrs. bicker's window?" "yes, dearest, yes." "and never whip her?" "my little girl would be very, very good, and oh! so pretty." "and let her go to grandma's whenever she liked, and not tell grandpa he's not to give her ha'pennies, would you?" "yes ... dear ... yes ... perhaps." "are your eyes very sore to-day, mercy, they are so red?" but the little one of all was not interested in this turn of the conversation: "well, why don't oo have a little boy?" a dead silence. "wont oo, eh?" willy was put to the ground. "let us sing something. do you like singing, sweetheart?" the little fellow climbed back to her lap in excitement. "me sing, me sing. mammy told i a song--me sing it oo." and without further ceremony the little chap struck up the notes of a lullaby. mercy had learned that same song, as her mother crooned it long ago by the side of her cot. a great wave of memory and love and sorrow and remorse, in one, swept over her. it cost her a struggle not to break into a flood of tears. and the little innocent face looked up at the ceiling as the sweet child-voice sung the familiar words. there was a new-comer in the bar outside. it was hugh ritson, clad in a long ulster, with the hood drawn over his hat. he stepped up to the landlady, who courtesied low from behind the counter. "so he has returned?" he said, without greeting of any kind. "yes, sir, he is back, sir; he got home in the afternoon, sir." "you told him nothing of any one calling?" "no, sir--that is to say, sir--not to say told him, sir--but i did mention--just mention, sir, that--" hugh ritson smiled coldly. "of course--precisely. were you more prudent with the girl?" "oh, yes, sir, being as you told me not to name it to the missy--" "he is asleep, i see." "yes, sir; he'd no sooner taken bite and sup than he dropped off in his chair, same as you see, sir; and never a word since. he must have traveled all night." "he did not explain?" "oh, no, sir; he on'y called for his cold meat and his ale, sir, and--" "you see, his old mother ain't noways in his confidence, master," said one of the countrymen on the bench. "nor you in mine, my friend," said hugh ritson, facing about. then turning again to the landlady, he said: "tell him some one wants to speak with him. or, wait, i'll tell him myself." he stepped into the room with the sleeping man, and closed the door after him. "luke sturgis," said the landlady, with sudden austerity, "i'll have you know as it's none of your business saying words what's onpleasant--and me his mother, too. what's it you say? cloven hoof? he's a personable gentleman, if he has got summat a matter with a foot, and a clever face how-an'-ever!" chapter iii. alone with the sleeping man, hugh ritson stood and looked down at him intently. the fire had burned to a steady glow of red coal without flame. there was no other light in the room. the sleeper began to stir with the uneasy movement of one who is struggling against the effect of a fixed gaze bent upon him. then, with a shake of the head and a shrug of the shoulders, he sat up in his chair. he tossed his hat back from his forehead, and a tuft of wavy brown hair tumbled over it. his head was held down, and his eyes were on the fire. hugh ritson took a step toward him and put one hand on his arm. "paul drayton," he said, and the man shrunk under his touch and slowly turned his face full upon him. when their eyes met hugh ritson saw what he had expected to see--the face of paul ritson. in that low, red light, every feature was the same. by the swift impulse of sense it seemed as if it could be the same man and no other; as if paul drayton and paul ritson were one man. drayton got on to his feet with an uncertain shuffle, and then in a moment the hallucination was dispelled. he kicked, with a heavy boot, at the slumbering coals, and the fire broke into a sharp crackle and bright blaze. the white light fell on his face. it was a fine face brutalized by excess. the features were strong, manly, and impressive. what god had done was very good; but the eyes were bleared, and the lips discolored, and the expression, which might have been frank, was sullen. "i don't wonder that you were tired after your journey; it was a long one," said hugh ritson. he affected an easy manner, but there was a tremor in his voice. "you caught the early scotch mail from penrith," he added, and drew a bench nearer to the fire and sat down. drayton made a half-dazed scrutiny of his visitor, and said: "damme, if you're not the fence as was here afore, criss-crossing at our old woman! tell us your name." the voice was husky, but it had, nevertheless, a note or two of the voice of paul ritson. "that will be unnecessary," said hugh ritson, with complete self-possession. "we've met before," he added, smiling. "the deuce we have--where?" "you slept at the pack horse at keswick rather more than a week ago," said hugh. drayton betrayed no surprise. "last saturday night you were active at the fire that almost destroyed the old mill at newlands." drayton's sullen face was immovable. "by the way," said hugh, elevating his voice and affecting a sudden flow of spirits, "i owe you my personal thanks for your exertions. what do you drink--brandy?" going to the door, he called for a bottle of brandy and glasses. "then, again, on monday night," he added, turning into the room, "you did me the honor to visit my own house." drayton was still standing. "i know you," he said. "shall i tell you your name?" hugh smiled with undisturbed humor. "that also will be unnecessary," he said; and leisurely drew off his gloves. "what d'ye want? i ain't got no time to waste--that's flat." "well, let me see, it's just ten o'clock," said hugh ritson, taking out his watch. "i want you to earn twenty pounds before twelve." mr. drayton gave vent to a grim laugh. "i'll pound it as i'm fly to what that means! you're looking to earn two hundred before midnight." mr. drayton gave hugh a sidelong glance of great astuteness. hugh lifted his eyebrows and shook his head. "money is not my object." "oh, it ain't, eh? well, i'm not afraid for you to know as it's mine--very much so." and mr. drayton gave vent to another grim laugh. mrs. drayton entered the room at this moment, and set down the brandy, two glasses, and a water-bottle on the deal table. "let me offer you a little refreshment," and hugh took up the brandy and poured out half a tumbler. "thankee, thankee!" "water? say when." but mr. drayton stopped the dilution by snatching up his tumbler. his manner had undergone a change. the watchfulness of a ferocious creature dogged and all but trapped gave way to reckless abandonment, bravado and audacity. "what's the lay?" he said, with a chuckle. "to accompany a lady to kentish town junction, and see her safe into the midnight train--that's all." drayton laughed outright. "of course it is," he said. "the lady will be here shortly before midnight." "of course she will." hugh ritson's face lost its smiles. "don't laugh like that--i won't have it!" mr. drayton made another application to the spirit bottle, and then leaned toward hugh ritson over the arm of his chair. "look here," he said, "it's just a matter o' thirty years gone august since my mother put me into swaddling clothes, and deng my buttons if i'm wearing 'em yet!" "what do you mean, my friend?" said hugh. drayton chuckled contemptuously. "speak out plain," he said. "give the work its right name. i ain't afraid for you to say it. a man don't give twenty pounds for the like o' that. not if he works for it honest, same as me. i'm a licensed victualer, and a gentleman--that's what i am, if you want to know." hugh ritson repudiated all unnecessary curiosity, whereupon mr. drayton again had recourse to the spirit bottle, mentioned afresh his profession and pretensions, and wound up by a relative inquiry, "and what do you call yourself?" hugh did not immediately gratify mr. drayton's curiosity. "quite right, mr. drayton," he said; "i know all about you. shall i tell you why you went to cumberland?" remarking that it was easy to repeat an old woman's gossip, mr. drayton took out of his pocket a goat-skin tobacco-pouch, and proceeded to charge a discolored meerschaum pipe. "thirty years ago," said hugh ritson, "a young lady tried to drown herself and her child. she was rescued and committed to an asylum. her child, a son, was given into the care of the good woman with whom she had lodged." mr. drayton interrupted. "thankee; but, as the wice-chairman says, 'we'll take it as read,' so we will." hugh ritson nodded his head, and continued, while mr. drayton smoked vigorously: "you have never heard of your mother from that hour to this; but one day you were told by the young girl whom circumstances had cast on your foster-mother's care, that among the mountains of cumberland there lived another man who bore you the most extraordinary resemblance. that excited your curiosity. you had reasons for thinking that if your mother were alive she might be rich. now, you yourself had the misfortune to be poor." "and i'm not afraid for anybody to know it," interrupted mr. drayton. "come to the point honest. look here, we are like two hyenas i saw one day at the zoo. one got a bone in his tooth at feeding time, and blest if the other didn't fight for that bone i don't know how long and all." "well," continued hugh ritson, with a dubious smile that the cloud of smoke might have hidden from a closer observer, "being a man of spirit, and not without knowledge of the world, having inherited brains, in short, from the parents who bequeathed you nothing else--" mr. drayton puffed volumes, then poured himself half a tumbler of the raw spirit and tossed it off. --"you determined on seeing if, after all, this were only a fortuitous resemblance." mr. drayton raised his hand. "i am a licensed victualer, that's what i am, and i ain't flowery," he said, in an apologetic tone; "i hain't had the chance of it, being as i'd no schooling--but, deng me, you've just hit it!" and the gentleman who could not be flowery shook hands effusively with the gentleman who could. "precisely, mr. drayton, precisely," said hugh ritson. he paused and watched drayton closely. that worthy had removed his pipe, and was staring, with stupid eyes and open mouth, into the fire. "but you found nothing." "how d'ye know?" "your face at this moment says so." "pooh! don't you go along trusting this here time-piece for the time o' day. it ain't been brought up in habits o' truthfulness same as yours." hugh ritson laughed. "you and i are meant to be friends, mr. drayton," he said. "but let us first understand each other. your idea that you could find your parents in cumberland was a pure fallacy." "eh! why?" "because your mother is dead." drayton shook off the stupor of liquor, and betrayed a keen if momentary interest. "the book of the asylum in which she was confined, after the attempted suicide, contains the record--" "but she escaped," interrupted drayton. "contains the record of her escape and subsequent recovery--dead. the body was picked out of the river, recognized by the authorities as that of the unknown woman, and buried in the name she gave." "what name?" said drayton. hugh ritson's face underwent a momentary change. "that is indifferent," he said; "i forget." "sure you forget?" said drayton. "couldn't be ritson, eh?" hugh struck the table. "assuredly not--the name was not ritson." the tone irritated mr. drayton. he glanced down with a look that seemed to say that hugh ritson had his maker to thank for giving him the benefit of an infirm foot. hugh ritson mollified him by explaining that if he had any curiosity as to the name, he could discover it for himself. "besides," said hugh, "what matter about the name if your mother is dead?" "that's true," said drayton, who, being now appeased, began to see that his anger had been puerile. "depend upon it, your father, wherever he is, is a cipher," said hugh ritson. drayton got on to his feet and trudged the floor uneasily. an idea had occurred to him. "the person picked out of the river may have been another woman. i've heard of such." "possibly; but the chance of error is worth little to you." hugh looked uncomfortable as he said this, but drayton saw nothing. "bah! what matter?" said drayton, and, determined to cudgel his brains no longer, he reached for the brandy and drank another half glass. there was then an interchange of deep amity. "tell me," said hugh, "what passed at the ghyll on monday night?" "the ghyll? monday? that was the night of the snow. what passed? nothing." "why did you go?" "wanted to see your mother. saw your brother one night late at the door of the parson's house. saw you at the fire. at the fire?--certainly. stood a matter of a dozen yards away when that young buck of a stableman drove up with the trap. what excuse for going? blest if i remember--summat or other; knocked, and no one came. i don't know how long and all i stood cooling my heels at the door. then i saw a light coming from a room on the first floor, and up i went and knocked. 'come in,' says somebody. i went in. withered old party got up. black crape and beads, you know. but, afore i could speak, she reeled like a top and fell all of a heap. blest if the old girl didn't take me for a ghost!" mr. drayton elevated his eyebrows, and added with emphasis, "i got out." "and on the way back you frightened a young lady in the lane, who, like my mother, mistook you for the ghost of my brother paul. well, that young lady was married to my brother this morning. they are now on their way to london. they intend to leave england on wednesday next, and they mean to pass to-night in your house." mr. drayton's eyebrows went up again. "it is certainly hard to understand--but look," and hugh ritson handed to drayton the telegram he had received from bonnithorne. that worthy examined it minutely, back and front, with bleared and bewildered eyes, and then looked to his visitor for explanation. "the lady must not leave england," said hugh. drayton steadied himself, and tried hard to look appalled. "upon my soul, you make my flesh creep!" he said. "what do you want for your twenty pounds? speak out plain. i'm not flowery, i'm not. i'm a licensed victualer and a gentleman--" "what do i want? only that you should send the lady home again by the first train." drayton began to laugh. "you see, there was no cause for alarm," said hugh, with an innocent smile. drayton's laughter became boisterous. "i am to decoy the young thing away by making her believe as i'm her husband, eh?" "mr. drayton, you are a shrewd fellow." "and what about the husband--ain't he another shrewd fellow?" "leave him to me. when the time comes, make no delay. don't expose yourself unnecessarily. wear that ulster you have on at present. say as little as possible--nothing if practicable. get the lady into the fly that shall be waiting at the door; drive to the station; book her to keswick; put her into the carriage at the last moment; then clear away with all expedition. the midnight train never stops this side of bedford." drayton was shuffling across the room, chuckling audibly. "he, he, he! haw! haw!--so i'm to leave her at the station, eh? poor young thing; i hain't got the heart--i hain't got it in me to be so cruel. no, no, i couldn't be such a vagabond of a husband--he, he! haw, haw!--and on the poor thing's wedding day, too." hugh ritson rose to his feet. "if you go an inch further than the station, you'll repent it to your dying day!" he said, once more bringing down his fist heavily on the table. at this drayton chuckled and crowed yet louder, and declared that it would be necessary to have another half glass in order to take the taste of the observation out of his mouth. then his laughter ceased. "look here: you want me to do a job as can only be done by one man alive. and what do you offer me--twenty pounds? keep it," he said; "it won't pass, sir!" the fire had burned very low, the cheerless room was dense with smoke and noisome with the smell of dead tobacco. drayton buttoned up to the throat the long coat he wore. "i've summat on," he said; "good-night." the sound of children's voices came from the bar. the little ones were going home. "good-night, missy, and thank you." it was a woman's voice. "good-night, mercy," cried the children. drayton was opening the door. "think again," said hugh ritson. "you run no risk. eleven forty-five prompt will do." chapter iv. when drayton went out, hugh ritson walked into the bar. the gossips had gone. only the landlady was there. the door to the room opposite now stood open. "mrs. drayton," said hugh, "have you ever seen this face before?" he took a medallion from his pocket and held it out to her. "lor's a mercy me!" cried the landlady; "why, it's her herself as plain as plain--except for the nun's bonnet." "is that the lady who lodged with you at pimlico--the mother of paul?" "as sure as sure! lor's, yes; and to think the poor young dear is dead and gone! it's thirty years since, but it do make me cry, and my husband--he's gone, too--my husband he said to me, 'martha,' he said, 'martha--'" the landlady's garrulity was interrupted by a light scream: "hugh, hugh!" mercy fisher stood in the door-way, with wonder-stricken eyes and heaving breast. in an instant the poor little soul had rushed into hugh ritson's arms with the flutter of a frightened bird. "oh, i knew you would come--i was sure you would come!" she said, and dried her eyes, and then cried again, and then dried them afresh, and lifted her pouting lips to be kissed. hugh ritson made no display. a shade of impatience crossed his face at first, but it was soon gone. he tried to look pleased, and bent his head and touched the pale lips slightly. "you look wan, you poor little thing," he said, quietly. "what ails you?" "nothing--nothing, now that you have come. only you were so long in coming, so very long." he called up a brave word to answer her. "but you see i keep my word, little woman," he said, and smiled down at her and nodded his head cheerfully. "and you have come to see me at last! all this way to see poor little me!" the mute weariness that had marked her face fled at that moment before a radiant smile. "one must do something for those who risk so much for one," he said, and laughed a little. "ah!" the first surprise over, the joy of that moment was beyond the gift of speech. her arms encircled his neck, and she looked up at his face in silence and with brightening eyes. "and so you found the time long and tedious?" he said. "i had no one to talk to," she said, with a blank expression. "why, you ungrateful little thing! you had good mrs. drayton here, and her son, and all the smart young fellows of hendon who came to drink at the bar and say pretty things to the little bar-maid, and--" "it's not that--i had no one who knew you," she said, and dropped her voice to a whisper. "but you go out sometimes--into the village--to london?" he said. "no, i never go out--never now." "then your eyes are really worse?" "it's not my eyes. but, never mind. oh, i knew you would not forget me. only sometimes of an evening, when the dusk fell in, and i sat by the fire all alone, something would say, 'he doesn't want me,' 'he won't come for me.' but that was not true, was it?" "why, no; of course not." "and then when the children came--the neighbor's children,--and i put the little darlings to bed, and they said their prayers to me, and i tried to pray, too--sometimes i was afraid to pray--and then, and then," (she glanced round watchfully and dropped her voice) "something would say, 'why didn't he leave me alone? i was so happy!'" "you morbid little woman! you shall be happy again--you are happy now, are you not?" he said. her eyes, bleared and red, but bright with the shafts of love, looked up at him in the dumb joy that is perfect happiness. "ah!" she said, and dropped her comely head on his breast. "but you should have taken walks--long, healthy, happy walks," he said. "i did--while the roses bloomed and the dahlias and things, and i saved so many of them against you would come, moss roses and wild white roses; but you were so long coming and they withered. and then i couldn't throw them away, because, you know, they were yours; so i pressed them in the book you gave me. see, let me show you." she stepped aside eagerly to pick up a little gilt-edged book from the table in the inner room. he followed her mechanically, hardly heeding her happy prattle. "and was there no young fellow in all hendon to make those lonely walks of yours more cheerful?" she was opening her book with nervous fingers, and stopped to look up with blank eyes. "eh? no handsome young fellow who whispered that you were a pretty little thing, and had no right to go moping about by yourself? none? eh?" her old look of weariness was creeping back. "come, mercy, tell the truth, you sly little thing--eh?" she was fumbling his withered roses with nervous fingers. her throat felt parched. he looked down at her saddening face, and then muttered, as if speaking to himself: "i told that bonnithorne this hole and corner was no place for the girl. he should have taken her to london." the girl's heart grew sick. the book was closed and dropped back on to the table. "and now, mercy," said hugh ritson, "i want you to be a good little woman, and do as i bid you, and not speak a word. will you?" the child-face brightened, and mercy nodded her head, a little tear rolling out of one gleaming eye. at the same moment she put her hand in the pocket of her muslin apron, and took out a pair of knitted mittens, and tried to draw them on to hugh's wrists. he looked at the gift, and smiled, and said: "i won't need these--not to-day, i mean. see, i wear long gloves, with fur wristbands--there, i'll store your mittens away in my pocket. what a sad little soul--crying again?" mercy's pretty dreams were dying one by one. she lifted now a timid hand until it rested lightly on his breast. "listen. i'm going out, but i'll soon be back. i must talk with mrs. drayton, and i've something to pay her, you know." the timid hand fell to the girl's side. "when i return there may be some friends with me--a lady and a gentleman--but i want to see them alone, quite alone, and i don't want them to see you--do you understand?" a great dumb sadness was closing in on mercy's heart. "but they will soon be gone, and then to-morrow you and i must talk again, and try to arrange matters so that you won't be quite so lonely, but will stir about, and see the doctor for your eyes, and get well again, and try to forget--" "forget!" said the girl, faintly. her parched throat took away her voice. "i mean--that is to say--i was hoping--of course, i mean forget all the trouble in cumberland. and now get away to bed like a good little girl. i must be off. ah, how late!--see, a quarter to eleven, and my watch is slow." he walked into the bar, buttoning up his coat to his ears. the girl followed him listlessly. mrs. drayton was washing glasses behind the counter. "mind you send this little friend of mine to bed very soon," said hugh to the landlady. "look how red her eyes are! and keep a good fire in this cozy parlor on the left--you are to have visitors--you need not trouble about a bedroom--they won't stay long. let me see, what do they say is the time of your last up-train?" "to london? the last one starts away at half past twelve," said the landlady. "very good. i'll see you again, mrs. drayton. good-night, mercy, and do keep a brighter face. there--kiss me. now, good-night--what a silly, affectionate little goose--and mind you are in bed and asleep before i return, or i shall be that angry--yes, i shall. you never saw me angry. well, never mind. good-night." the door opened and closed. mercy went back into the room. it was cheerless and empty, and the children's happy voices lived in it no more. the girl's heart ached with a dull pain that had never a pang at all, but was dumb and dead and cold; and mercy was all alone. "perhaps he was only in fun when he said that about walking out with somebody and trying to forget, and not being seen," she thought. "yes; he must have been only in fun," she thought, "because he knew how i waited and waited." then she took up again the book that he had hardly glanced at. it fell open at a yellow, dried-up rose that had left the stain of its heart's juice on the white leaf. "yes, he was only in fun," she said, and then laughed a little; and then a big drop fell on to the open page and on to the dead flower. then she tried to be very brave. "i must not cry; it makes my eyes, oh! so sore. i must get them well and strong--oh, yes! i must be well and strong against--against--then." she lifted her head slowly where she stood alone, and a smile, like a summer breeze on still water, rippled over her mouth. "he kissed me," she thought, "and he came to see me--all this long, long way." a lovely dream shone in her face now. "and if he does not come again until--until then--he will be glad--oh, he will be very glad!" the thought of a future hour when the poor little soul should be rich with something of her own that would be dearest of all because not all her own, shone like a sleeping child's vision in her face. she went out into the bar and lighted a candle. "so that's your sweetheart--not the lawyer man, eh?" said mrs. drayton, bustling about. "i've no call to hide my face now--not now that he has come--have i?" said mercy. "well, he is free of his money, and i'se just been hoping you get some of it, for, as i says, you want things bad, and them as has the looking to it should find 'em, as is only reasonable." mercy did as she had been bidden: she went off to her bedroom. but her head was too full of thoughts for sleep. she examined her face in the glass, and smiled and blushed at it because he called it pretty. it was prettier than ever to her own eyes now. after half an hour she remembered that she had left the book on the table in the parlor, and crept down-stairs to recover it. when she was on the landing at the bottom, she heard a hurried knock at the outer door. thereafter all her dreams died in an instant. chapter v. when hugh ritson stepped out into the road, the night was dark. fresh from the yellow light of the inn, his eyes could barely descry the footpath or see the dim black line of the hedge. the atmosphere was damp. the moisture in the air gathered in great beads on his eyebrows and beard, stiffening them with frost. it was bitterly cold. the mist that rose from the river spread itself over the cold, open wastes of marshy ground that lay to the right and to the left. the gloomy road was thick with half-frozen mud. hugh ritson buttoned his coat yet closer and started at a brisk pace. "no time to lose," he thought, "if i've to be at the station when the north train goes through. would have dearly liked to keep an eye on my gentleman. should have done it, but for the girl. 'summat on,' eh? what is it, i wonder? it might be useful to know." with a cutting wind at his back he walked faster as his eyes grew familiar with the darkness. he was thinking that bonnithorne's telegram might be an error. perhaps it had even been tampered with. it was barely conceivable that paul and greta had ever so much as heard of the hawk and heron. and what possible inducement could they have to sleep in hendon when they would be so near to london? his mind went back to mercy fisher. at that moment she was dreaming beautiful dreams of how happy she was very soon to make him. he was thinking, with vexation, that the girl was a connecting link with the people in cumberland. yes--and the only link, too. could it be that mercy--no; the idea of mercy's disloyalty to him was really too ridiculous. if he could get to the station before the train from the north was due to stop there, he would see for himself whether paul and greta alighted. if they did not, as they must be in that train, he would get into it also, and go on with them to london. bonnithorne might have blundered. the journey was long, and the roads were heavy for walking. it seemed a far greater distance than he had thought. at the angle of a gate and a thick brier hedge he struck a match and read the time by his watch. eleven o'clock. too late, if the watch were not more than a minute slow. at that moment he heard the whistle of a train, and between the whirs of the wind he heard the tinkle of the signal bell. too late, indeed. he was still a quarter of a mile from the station. still he held on his way, without hope for his purpose, yet quickening his pace to a sharp run. he had come within three hundred yards of the station when he heard an unearthly scream, followed in an instant by a great clamor and tumult of human voices. shrieks, shouts, groans, sobs, wails--all were mingled together in one agonized cry that rent the thick night air asunder. hugh ritson ran faster. then he saw haggard men and women appearing and disappearing before him in the light of a fire that panted on the ground like an overthrown horse. the north train had been wrecked. within a dozen yards from the station the engine and three of the front carriages had broken from their couplings and plunged on to the bank. the last four carriages, free of the fatal chain, had kept the rails and were standing unharmed above. women who had been dragged through the tops of the overturned carriages fled away with white faces into the darkness of the fields. men, too, with panic-stricken eyes, sat down on the grass, helpless and useless. some resolute souls, roused to activity, were pulling at the carriages to set them right. men from the station came with lanterns, and rescued the injured, and put them to lie out of harm's way. the scene was harrowing, and only two of its incidents are material to this history. over all the rest, the clamor, the tumult, the agony, the abject fear, and the noble courage, let a veil be drawn. fate had brought together, in that hour of disaster, three men whose lives, hitherto apart, were henceforth to be bound up as one life for good or ill. hugh ritson rushed here and there like a man distraught. he peered into every face. he caught up a lantern that some one had set down, and ran to and fro in the darkness, stooping to let the light fall on those on the ground, holding up the red glare to the windows of the uninjured carriages. at that moment all his frozen soul seemed to melt. face to face with the pitiless work of destiny, his own heartless schemes disappeared. at last he saw the face he looked for. then he dropped the lantern to his side, and turned the glass of it from him. "stay here, greta," said a voice he knew. "i shall be back with you presently. let me lend them a hand over yonder." the man went by him in the darkness. hark! hugh ritson heard a cry from the field beyond the bank. it was there that they had placed the injured. "help! help! i am robbed--help!" came out of the darkness. "where are you?" asked another voice. "here! help! help!" hugh ritson ran toward the place whence the first voice came, and saw the figure of a man stooping over something that lay on the ground. at the same moment another man rushed up and laid strong hold of the stooping figure. there was a short, sharp struggle. the two men were of one stature, one strength. there was a sound as of cloth ripped asunder. at the next moment one of the men went by like the wind and was lost in the blackness of the fields. but hugh ritson had held up the lantern as the man passed, and caught one swift glimpse of his face. he knew him. a group had gathered about the injured person on the ground and about the other man who had struggled to defend him. "could you not hold the scoundrel?" said one. "i held him till his coat came to pieces in my hand. see here," said the other. hugh ritson knew the voice. "a piece of irish frieze, i should say" (feeling it). "you must have gripped him by the lappel of his ulster. let me keep this. i am a police sergeant. what is your name, sir?" "paul ritson." "and your address?" "i was on my way to morley's hotel, trafalgar square. what place is this?" "hendon." "could one get accommodation here for the night? a lady is with me." "best go up by the twelve-thirty, sir." "the lady is too much worn and excited. any hotel, inn, lodging-house?" a porter came up. "the hawk and heron's handiest. a mile, sir. drayton--it's him as keeps it--he's here somewhere. drayton!" (calling). "can you get me a fly, my good fellow?" "yes, sir." the police sergeant moved off. "then i may look for you at the hawk and heron?" he said. hugh ritson heard all. he kept the lantern down. in the darkness not a face of that group was seen of any man. a quarter of an hour later, hugh ritson, panting for breath, was knocking at the door of the inn. the landlady within fumbled with the iron bar behind it. "come, quick!" said hugh. the door opened, and he stepped in sharply, bathed in perspiration. "is your son back?" he said, catching his breath. "back, sir? no, sir; it's a mercy if he gets home afore morning, sir; he's noways--" "stop your clatter. the girl is in her room. go and turn the key on her!" it was at that moment that mercy, having stood an instant at the bottom of the stairs, had ventured nervously into the bar. turning about, hugh ritson came face to face with her. at the sight of her his crimsoning cheeks became white with wrath. "didn't i tell you to be in bed?" he muttered, in a low, hoarse whisper. "i've only come for ... i came down for ... hugh, don't be angry with me." "come, get back, then; don't stand there. quick--and mind you lock your door." "yes, i'm going. you wouldn't be angry with me, would you?" "well, no, perhaps not; only get off--and quick! do you hear? why don't you go?" "i only came down for ... i only came...." "god! what foolery is this? the girl's fainting. never mind. here, landlady, bring a light! lead the way. she's not too heavy to carry. upstairs with you. what a snail you are, old woman! which room?" another knock at the outer door. another and another in rapid succession. "i'm a-coming, i'm a-coming!" cried the landlady from the floor above. she bustled down the stairs as fast as her stiff joints would let her, but the knock came again. "mercy me, mercy me! and whoever is it?" "damme, move your bones, and let me in!" the door flew open with pressure from without. ghastly white, yet dripping with perspiration, his breath coming in short, thick gusts, his neck bare, his shirt-collar torn aside, the lappel of the frieze ulster gone, and the rent of the red flannel lining exposed, paul drayton entered. he was sober now. "where is he?" with an oath. "i'm here," said hugh ritson, walking through the bar and into the bar-room to the right, and candle in hand. drayton followed him, trying to laugh. "am i in time?" "of course you are," with a hard smile. "fearing i might be late." "of course you were." "ran all the way." "of course you did." "what are you sniggering and mocking at?" with another oath. hugh ritson dropped his banter, and pointed without a word to the torn ulster and the disordered shirt-collar. drayton glanced down at his dress in the light of the candle. "crossed the fields for shortness, and caught in a bramble-bush," he said, muttering. "drop it," said hugh. "there's no time for it. look here, drayton, i'm a downright man. don't try it on with me. as you say, it won't pass. shall i tell you where the collar of that coat is now? it's at the police-station." drayton made an uneasy movement and glanced up furtively. there was no mistaking what he saw in hugh ritson's face. "i've my own suspicions as to what caused that accident," said hugh. drayton shuddered and shrunk back. "no, damme! that shows what you are, though. show me the man as allus suspects others of lying, and i'll show you a liar. show me the man as allus suspects others of stealing, and i'll show you a thief. you suspect me of that, d'ye? i know you now!" "no matter," said hugh, impatiently; "your sense of the distinction between crimes is a shade too nice. one crime i do not suspect you of--i saw you commit it. is that enough?" drayton was silent. "you'll go to the station with the lady. the gentleman will go to london with me. they are to come here, after all, though my first advice was a blunder." "i'll take the twenty," drayton mumbled. "will you now? we'll discuss that matter afterward." drayton seemed stupefied for a moment. then he lifted his haggard face and grinned. hugh ritson understood him in an instant. "no tricks, i tell you. if you don't put the lady in the train--the right train--and be back here at half past one to-morrow, you shall improve your acquaintance with the old bailey." drayton carried his eyes slowly up to hugh ritson's face, then dropped them suddenly. "if i'm lagged, it will be a lifer!" he muttered. he fumbled his torn ulster. "i must change my coat," he said. "no." "she'll see the rent." "so much the better." "but the people at the junction will see it." "what matter?--you will be there as paul ritson, not paul drayton." drayton began to laugh, to chuckle, to crow. "hush!" the sound of carriage-wheels came from the road. "they're here," said hugh ritson. "keep you out of sight, as you value your liberty. do you hear? take care that he doesn't see you, and that she doesn't see you until he is gone." drayton was tramping about the floor in the intensity of his energy. "here's the bar-slide. i'll just lift it an inch." "not half an inch," said hugh, and he blew out the candle. then he took the key out of the inside of the lock, and put it on the outside. "what! am i to be a prisoner in my own house?" said drayton. "i'll put the key on the bar-slide," whispered hugh. "when you hear the door close after us, let yourself out--not a moment sooner." the carriage-wheels stopped outside. there was a sound as of the driver jumping from the box. then there came a knock. hugh ritson stepped back to drayton and whispered: "this is the very man who tried to hold you--keep you close." chapter vi. "this way, sir; this way, my lady; we knew you was a-coming, so we kep' a nice warm fire in the parlor. this way, my lady, and mind the step up. yes, it air dark, but it's clean, sir; yes, it is, sir; but there's a light in here, sir." paul and greta followed the landlady through the dark bar. "we'll find our way, my good woman. ah, and how cozy you are here! as warm as toast on a cold night. thank you, thank you--and--why, surely we've--we've surprised you. did you say you were expecting somebody? ah, i see!" mrs. drayton was backing out of the room with a pallid face, and twitching at the string of her apron. when she got to the bar she was trembling from head to foot. "i don't believe in ghosts," she muttered to herself, "but if so be as i did believe in ghosts, and afeart of 'em, i don't know as ... lor's a mercy me! who was a-saying as our paul was like some one? and now here's some one as is like our paul. and as much a match as two pewters, on'y one more smarter, mayhap, and studdier." "whatever ails the old lady?" said greta, faintly. paul stood a moment and laughed. "strange, but we can't trouble now. what a mercy we're safe and unharmed." "a fearful sight--i'll never, never forget it," said greta, and she covered her face. paul stepped to the door. the flyman was bringing in the luggage. "leave the boxes in the bar, driver--there, that will do. many of them, eh? rather. here's for yourself. why, bless my soul, who's this? what, hugh!" hugh ritson walked into the room calm and smiling, and held out his hand to greta and then to his brother. "i came up to meet your train," he said, in answer to the look of inquiry. "well, that was good of you. of course, you know of the accident. how did you find us here?" "i heard at the station that a lady and gentleman had gone to the hawk and heron." "and you followed? well, hugh, i must say that was brotherly of you, after all. wasn't it, greta?" "yes, dear," said greta, faintly, her voice trembling. paul observed her agitation. "my poor girl, you are upset. i don't wonder at it. you must get off for the night. hugh, you must excuse her. it was a terrible scene, you know. our new life begins with a great shock to you, greta. never mind; that only means that the bright days are before us." paul stepped to the door again, and called to mrs. drayton. "here, my good landlady, take my wife to her room." the landlady hobbled up. "room, sir, room? the gentleman didn't say nothing--" "take the lady to your best room upstairs," said hugh, with a significant look. greta was going. her step was slow and uncertain. "won't you say good-night, greta?" said hugh. "good-night," she said, so faintly as hardly to be heard. the brothers looked after her. "god bless her!" said paul, fervently. "the days before her shall be brighter, if i can make them so." hugh ritson closed the door. "paul," he said, "you and your wife must never meet again." paul ritson turned red, and then ashy pale. a scarcely perceptible tremble of the eyelids, then a jaunty laugh, and then an appalling solemnity. "what d'ye mean, man?" he said, with a vacant stare. "sit down and listen," said hugh, seating himself, and lifting the poker to draw the fire together. "quick, tell me what it, is!" said paul again. "paul, don't chafe. we are hot-tempered men, both, at bottom," said hugh, and his eye perused his brother with searching power. "don't look at me like that," said paul. "don't try to frighten me. speak out, and quickly." "be calm," said hugh. "bah! you take me blindfold to the edge of a precipice, and tell be to 'be calm.'" "you are wrong. i find you there, and remove the bandage," said hugh. "quick! what is it? in another moment i shall cry out!" hugh ritson rose stiffly to his feet. "paul, did you tell greta she was marrying a bastard?" with one look of anguish paul fell back mute and trembling. "did you tell her?" said hugh, with awful emphasis. paul's eyes were on the ground, his head bent forward. he was silent. "i thought you did not mean to tell her," said hugh, coldly. his eyes looked steadfastly at paul's drooping head. "i think so still." paul said nothing, but drew his breath hard. hugh watched him closely. "to marry a woman under a false pretense--is it the act of an honorable man? is it a cheat? give it what name you will." paul drew himself up; his lips were compressed, and he smiled. "is this all?" he asked. "why did you not tell her?" said hugh. "because i had sworn to tell no one. you will read that secret, as you have read the other." hugh smiled. "say, rather, because you dare not do so; because, had you told her, she had never become your wife." paul laughed vacantly. "we shall see. my own lips are sealed, but yours are free. you shall tarnish the memory of our father and blacken the honor of our mother. you shall humble me, and rob me of my wife's love--if you will and can." saying this, paul stepped hastily to the door, flung it open, and cried: "greta! greta!" hugh followed him and caught him arm. "what are you doing?" he said, in a hoarse whisper; "be quiet, i tell you--be quiet." paul turned about. "you say i am afraid to tell her. you charge me with trapping her into marrying me. you shall tell her yourself, now, here, and before my very face!" "come in and shut the door," said hugh. "it would do no good, and perhaps some harm. no matter, you shall tell her. i challenge you to tell her." "come in, and listen to me," said hugh, sullenly; and putting himself between paul and the door, he closed it. "there is more to think of than what greta may feel," he added. "have you nothing to say to me?" paul's impetuous passion cooled suddenly. "i have made you atonement," he said, faintly, and dropped into a seat. "atonement!" hugh ritson smiled bitterly. "when you return you will see," said paid, his eyes once more on the ground. "you are thinking of the deed of attorney--i have heard of it already," said hugh. a cold smile played on his compressed lips. "it was all that was left to do," said paul, his voice hardly stronger than a whisper. his proud spirit was humbled, and his challenge dead. "paul, you have robbed me of my inheritance, consciously, deliberately. you have stood in my place. you stand there still. and you leave me your pitiful deed by way of amends!" a black frown crossed hugh ritson's face. "atonement! are you not ashamed of such mockery? what atonement is there for a wrong like that?" "i did it for the best; god knows i did!" said paul, his head fell on the table. hugh ritson stood over him, pale with suppressed wrath. "was it best to hold my place until my place was no longer worth holding, and then to leave it with an empty show of generosity? power of attorney! what right have you to expect that i will take that from you? take my own from the man who robbed me of it, and to receive it back on my knees! to accept it as a gift, whereof the generosity of giving is yours, and the humility of receiving is mine!" a strong shudder passed over paul's shoulders. "i was helpless--i was helpless!" he said. "understand your true position--your legal position. you were your mother's illegitimate son--" "i did it to protect her honor!" "you mean--to hide her shame!" "as you will. i was helpless, and i did it for the best." hugh ritson's face grew dark. "was it best to be a perjured liar?" he said. paul gasped, but did not reply. "was it best to be a thief?" paul leaped to his feet. "god, give me patience!" he muttered. "was it best to be an impostor?" "stop, for god's sake, stop!" "was it best to be a living lie--and all for the sake of honor? honor, forsooth! is it in perjury and robbery that honor lies?" paul strode about the room in silence, ashy pale, his face convulsed and ugly. then his countenance softened, and his voice was broken as he said: "hugh, i have done you too much wrong already. don't drive me into more; don't, don't, i beseech you!" hugh laughed lightly--a little trill that echoed in the silent room. at that heartless sound all the soul in paul ritson seemed to freeze. no longer abashed, he lifted his head and put his foot down firmly. "so be it," he said, and the cloud of anguish fell from his face. "i say it was to save our mother's good name that i consented to do what i did." "consented?" said hugh, elevating his eyelids. "you don't believe me? very well; let it pass. you say my atonement is a mockery. very well, let us say it is so. you say i have kept your place until it is no longer worth keeping. you mean that i have impoverished your estate. that is not true. and you know it is not true. if the land is mortgaged, you yourself have had the money!" "and who had a better right to it?" said hugh, and he laughed again. paul waved his hand, and gulped down the wrath that was rising. "you have led me the life of the damned. you know well what bitter cup you have made me drink. if i have stood to the world as my father's heir, you have eaten up the inheritance if my father's house was mine, i was no more than a cipher in it. i have had the shadow, and you the substance. you have undermined me inch by inch!" "and, meantime, i have been as secret as the grave," said hugh, and once more he laughed lightly. "god knows your purpose--you do nothing without one," said paul. "but it is not i alone that have suffered. do you think that all this has been going on under our mother's eyes without her seeing it?" hugh ritson dropped the bantering tone. paul's face grew to an awful solemnity. "when our father died, it was to be her honor or mine to die with him. that was the legacy of his sin, heaven forgive him. i did not hesitate. but since that hour she has wasted away." "is this my fault?" hugh asked. "heaven knows, and heaven will judge between you," said paul. "she could bear it no longer." paul's voice trembled as he added, "she's gone!" there was a moment's silence. it was as if an angel went by weeping. "i know it," said hugh, coldly. "she has taken the veil. i have since seen her." paul glanced up. "she is in the catholic convent at westminster," said hugh. paul's face quivered. "miserable man! but for you, how happy she might have been!" "you are wrong," said hugh. "it came of her own misdeed--and yours." paul strode toward his brother with uplifted hand. "not another word of that," he said, and his voice was low and deep. "how could she examine her conscience and be happy? she had put an impostor in the place of my father's heir," said hugh. "she had put there your father's first-born son," said paul. "it is false! she had put there her bastard by another man!" silent and awful, paul stood a moment, with an expression of agony so horrible that for an instant even hugh ritson quailed before it. "go on," he said, huskily, and crouched down into his seat. "your mother was married before," said hugh, "and her marriage was annulled. it was invalid. a child was born of that union." paul lifted his head. "i won't believe it!" "it is true, and you shall believe it!" paul's heart sickened with dread. "your father married again, and had a daughter. your mother married again, and had a son. your father's daughter is now living. shall i tell you who she is? she is your wife--the woman you have married to-day!" paul sprung to his feet. "it is a lie!" he cried. "see for yourself," said hugh ritson; and taking three papers from his pocket, he threw them on to the table. they were the copies of certificates which bonnithorne had given him. paul glanced at them with vacant and wandering eyes, fell back in his chair, dropped his head on to the table, and groaned. "oh, god! can this thing be?" "when your mother told you that you were an illegitimate son, she omitted to say by what father. that was natural in her, but cruel to you. i knew the truth from the first." "then you are a scoundrel confessed!" cried paul. hugh rolled his head slightly, and made a poor pretense to smile. "i knew how she had passed from one man to another; i knew what her honor counted for. and yet i was silent--silent, though by silence i lost my birthright. say, now, if you will, which of us--you or i--has been the true guardian of our mother's name?" paul got up again, abject, crushed, trembling in every limb. "man, man, don't gnaw my heart away! unsay your words! have pity on me, and confess that it is a lie--a black, foul lie! think of the horror of it--only think of it, and have pity!" "it is true!" then paul fell on his knees and caught his brother by the arm. "hugh, hugh! my brother, confess it is false! don't let my flesh consume away with horror! don't let me envy the very dead who lie at peace in their graves! pity her, if you have no pity left for me!" "i would save you from a terrible sin." paul rose to his feet. "now i know it is a lie!" he said, and all the abject submission of his bearing fell away in one instant. hugh ritson's face flushed. "there is that here," said paul, throwing up his head and striking his breast, "that tells me it is false!" hugh smiled coldly, and regained his self-possession. "my mother knew all. if greta had been my half-sister, would she have stood by and witnessed our love?" hugh waved his hand deprecatingly. "your mother was as ignorant of the propinquity as you were. robert lowther was dead before she settled at newlands. the survivors knew nothing of each other. the secret of that early and ill-fated marriage was buried with him." "destiny itself would have prevented it, for destiny shapes its own ends, and shapes them for the best," said paul. "yes, destiny is shaping them now," said hugh, "here, and in me. this is the point to which the pathways of your lives have tended. they meet here--and part." paul's ashy face smiled. "then nature would have prevented it," he said. "if this thing had been true, do you think we should not have known it--she and i--in the natural recoil of our own hearts? when true hearts meet, there is that within which sanctions their love, and says it is good. that is heaven's own license. no sanction of the world or the world's law, no earthly marriage is like to that, for it is the marriage first made by nature itself. our hearts have met, hers and mine, and the same nature has sanctioned our love and sanctified it. and against that last, that first, that highest arbiter, do you ask me to take the evidence of these poor, pitiful papers? away with them!" paul's eyes were bright, his face had lost its shadows. "that is very beautiful, no doubt," said hugh, and he smiled deeply. "but i warn you to beware." "i have no fear," said paul. "see to it, i tell you. these lofty emotions leave a void that only a few homely facts can fill. verify them." "i will, please god!" "accept my statements and these papers, or--disprove both." "i will disprove them." "meantime, take care. leave your wife in this house until morning, but do you go elsewhere." "what!" paul's anger was boiling up. "if you have wronged greta--" "i have done her no wrong," said paul, growing fiercer. "i say, if you have wronged her, and would have it in your power to repair the injury, you must pass this night apart." "hugh!" cried paul, in white rage, rising afresh to his feet, "you have tortured me and broken the heart of my mother; you have driven me from my home and from the world; you have thrust yourself between me and the woman who loves me, and now, when i am stripped of all else but that woman's love, and am going out to a strange land, a stranger and with empty hands, you would take her from me also and leave me naked!" "i would save you from a terrible sin," said hugh ritson, once again. "out of my way!" cried paul, in a thick voice, and he lifted his clinched fist. "take care, i tell you," said hugh. paul looked dangerous; his forehead contracted into painful lines; his quick breathing beat on hugh's face. "for the love of heaven, get out of my way!" but with awful strength and fury his fist fell at that moment, and hugh ritson was dashed to the ground. in an instant paul had lifted his foot to trample him, but he staggered back in horror at the impulse, his face ghastly white, his eyes red like the sun above snow. then there was silence, and then paul gasped in a flood of emotion: "get up! get up! hugh, hugh! get up!" he darted to the door and threw it open. "come in, come in! will nobody come?" he cried. the landlady was in the room at a stride. she had been standing, listening and quivering, behind the door. in another moment greta hurried down-stairs, and hastened to paul's side. paul was leaning against the wall, his face buried in his hands. "take him away," he groaned, "before i rue the day that i saw him!" hugh ritson rose to his feet. "paul, what has happened?" cried greta. "take him away." and still paul covered his eyes from the sight of what he had done and had been tempted to do. "hugh, what is it?" hugh ritson stepped to the door. "ask your husband," he said, with emphasis, and an appalling calmness. "and remember this night. you shall never forget it!" then he halted out of the room. chapter vii. hugh ritson walked to the bare room opposite. the handle of the door did not turn in his hand. drayton held it at the other side, and with head bent low he crouched there and listened. "who is it?" he whispered, when hugh ritson unlocked the door and pushed at it. "let me in," said hugh, sullenly. "does he suspect?" whispered drayton, when the door closed again. "did he follow me? what are you going to do for a fellow? damme, but i'll be enough for him!" and drayton groped in the dark room among the dead cinders on the hearth, and picked up the poker. "you fool!" said hugh, in a low voice. "put that thing down." "isn't he after me? d'ye think i'm going to be taken? let him come here and see!" drayton tramped the room, and the floor creaked beneath his heavy tread. "speak lower, you poltroon!" hugh whispered, huskily. "he knows nothing about you. he has never heard of you. be quiet. do you hear?" there was a light, nervous knock at the door. "who's there?" said hugh. "it's only me, sir," said mrs. drayton, from without, breathing audibly, and speaking faintly amid gusts of breath. hugh ritson opened the door, and the landlady entered. "lor's a mercy me! whatever ails the gentleman? oh, is it yourself in the dark, paul? i'm that fearsome, i declare i shiver and quake at nothing. and the gentleman so like you, too! i never did see nothing like it, i'm sure!" "hush! stop your clatter. what does he say?" said hugh. "the gentleman? he says and says and says as nothing and nothing and nothing will make him leave the lady this night." "he'll think better of that." "and wherever can i put them? and me on'y one room, forby paul's. and no cleaning and airing, and nothing. that's what worrits me." "hold your tongue! put the lady in your son's room. your son won't need it to-night." "that's where i did put her." "very well; leave her there." "and the gentleman, too, belike?" "the gentleman will go back with me. come, get away!" "quite right; on'y there's no airing and cleaning; and i declare i'm that fearsome--" hugh ritson had taken the landlady by the shoulders and was pushing her out of the room. "one moment," he whispered, and drew her back. "anything doing upstairs?" "upstairs?--the bed--airing--" "the girl? has she made any noise yet? is she conscious?" "not as i know of. i went up and listened, and never a sound. deary me, deary me! i'm that fearsome--" "go up again, and put your ear to the door." "i'm afeart she'll never come round, and her in that way, and weak, too, and--" at that instant there came from the dark road the sound of carriage-wheels approaching. hugh ritson thrust the landlady out of the room, slammed the door to, and locked it. "what's that?" said drayton, in a husky whisper. "who do they want? you've not rounded on a fellow, eh?" "it's the carriage that is to take you and the lady to kentish town," said hugh. "hush! listen!" the driver rapped at the door with the end of his whip, and shouted from his seat: "heigho, heigho--ready for kentish town? eleven o'clock struck this half hour!" then he could be heard beating his crossed arms under his armpits to warm his hands. "the fool!" muttered hugh, "can't he keep his tongue in his mouth?" "quite right," shouted mrs. drayton, in a shrill voice, putting her face to the window-pane. "belike it's for the gentleman," she explained to herself, and then, with candle in hand, she began to mount the stairs. the door of the room to the left opened, and paul ritson came out. his great strength seemed to be gone--he reeled like a drunken man. "landlady," he said, "when does your last train go up to london?" "at half past twelve," said mrs. drayton, from two steps up the stairs. "can i get a fly, my good woman, at this hour of the night?" "the fly's at the door, sir--just come, sir." paul went back into the room where he had left his wife. the two men in the dark room opposite listened intently. "be quiet," whispered hugh ritson. "i knew he must think better of it. he is going. keep still. five minutes more, and you start away with the lady for kentish town. he shall walk to the station with me. the instant we leave the house, you go to the lady and say, 'i have changed my mind, greta. we must go together. come.' not a word more; hurry her into the fly, and away." "easier said nor done, say i." chapter viii. alone with greta, paul kissed her fervently, and his head fell on her shoulder. the strong man was as feeble as a child now. he was prostrate. "the black lie is like poison in my veins!" he said. "what is it?" said greta, and she tried to soothe him. "a lie more foul than man ever uttered before--more cruel, more monstrous." "what is it, dearest?" said greta again, with her piteous, imploring face close to his. "i know it's a lie. my heart tells me it is a lie. the very stones cry out that it is a lie!" "tell me what it is," said greta, and she embraced him tenderly. but even while he was struggling with the poison of one horrible word, it was mastering him. he put his wife from him with a strong shudder, as if her proximity stung him. her bosom heaved. she looked appealingly into his face. "if it is false," she said, "whatever it is, why need it trouble you?" "that is true, my darling," he said, gulping down his fear and taking greta in his arms, and trying to laugh lightly. "why, indeed? why need it trouble me?" "can you not tell me?" she said, with an upward look of entreaty. she was thinking of what hugh ritson had said of an impediment to their marriage. "why should i tell you what is false?" "then let us dismiss the thought of it," she said, soothingly. "why, yes, of course, let us dismiss the thought of it, darling," and he laughed a loud, hollow laugh. his forehead was damp. she wiped away the cold sweat. his temples burned. she put her cool hand on them. he was the very wreck of his former self--the ruin of a man. "would that i could!" he muttered to himself. "then tell me," she said. "it is my right to know it. i am your wife now--" he drew himself away. she clung yet closer. "paul, there can be no secrets between you and me--nothing can be kept back." "heavenly father!" he cried, uplifting a face distorted with agony. "if you can not dismiss it, let it not stand between us," said greta. could it be true that there had been an impediment? "my darling, it would do no good to tell you. when i took you to be my wife, i vowed to protect and cherish you. shall i keep my vow if i burden you with a black lie that will drive the sunshine out of your life? look at me--look at me!" greta's breast heaved heavily, but she smiled with a piteous sweetness as she laid her head on his breast, and said, "no, while i have you, no lie can do that!" paul made no answer. an awful burden of speech was on his tongue. in the silence they heard the sound of weeping. it was as if some poor woman were sobbing her heart out in the room above. "dearest, when two hearts are made one in marriage they are made one indeed," said greta, in a soft voice. "henceforth the thought of the one is the thought of both; the happiness of one is the happiness of both, the sorrow of one is the sorrow of both. nothing comes between. joy is twofold when both share it, and only grief is less for being borne by two. death itself, cruel, relentless death itself, even death knits that union closer. and in sunshine and storm, in this world and in the next, the bond is ever the same. the tie of the purest friendship is weak compared with this tie, and even the bond of blood is less strong!" "oh, god of heaven, this is too much!" said paul. "paul, if this union of thought and deed, of joy and grief, begins with marriage and does not end even with death, shall we now, here, at the threshold of our marriage, do it wrong?" a great sob choked paul's utterance. "i can not tell you," he cried; "i have sworn an oath." "an oath! then, surely, this present trouble was not that which hugh ritson has threatened?" "greta, if our union means anything, it means trust. trust me, my darling. i am helpless. my tongue is sealed. i dare not speak. no, not even to you. scarcely to god himself!" there was silence for a moment. "that is enough," she said, very tenderly, and now the tears coursed down her own cheeks. "i will not ask again. i do not wish to know. you shall forget that i asked you. come, dearest, kiss me. think no more of this. come, now." and she drew his head down to hers. paul threw himself into a chair. his prostration was abject. "come, dearest," said greta, soothingly, "be a man." "there is worse to come," he said. "what matter," said greta, and smiled. "i shall not fear if i have you beside me." "i can bear it no more," said paul. "the thing is past cure." "no, dearest, it is not. only death is that." "greta, you said death would bind us closer together, but this thing draws us apart." "no, dearest, it does not. that it can not do." "could nothing part us?" said paul, lifting his face. "nothing. though the world divided us, yet we should be together." again the loud sobs came from overhead. paul rose to his feet, a shattered man no more. his abject mien fell from him like a garment. "did i not say it was a lie?" he muttered, fiercely. "greta, i am ashamed," he said; "your courage disgraces me. see what a pitiful coward you have taken for your husband. you have witnessed a strange weakness. but it has been for the last time. thank god, i am now the man of yesterday!" her tears were rolling down her cheeks, but her eyes were very bright. "what do you wish me to do?" she whispered. "is it not something for me to do?" "it is, darling. you said rightly that the thought of one is the thought of both." "what is it?" "a terrible thing!" "no matter. i am here to do it. what?" "it is to part from me to-night--only for to-night--only until to-morrow." greta's face broke into a perfect sunshine of beauty. "is that all?" she asked. "my darling!" said paul, and embraced her fervently and kissed the quivering lips, "i am leading you through dark vaults, where you can see no single step before you." "but i am holding your hand, my husband," greta whispered. speech was too weak for that great moment. again the heart-breaking sobs fell on the silence. then paul drew a cloak over greta's shoulders and buttoned up his ulster. "it is a little after midnight," he said with composure. "there is a fly at the door. we may catch the last train up to london. i have a nest for you there, my darling." then he went out into the bar. "landlady," he said, "i will come back to-morrow for our luggage. meantime, let it lie here, if it won't be in your way. we've kept you up late, old lady. here, take this--and thank you." "thankee! and the boxes are quite safe, sir--thankee!" he threw open the door to the road, and hailed the driver of the fly, cheerily. "cold, sleety night, my good fellow. you'll have a sharp drive." "yes, sir; it air cold waiting, very, specially inside, sir, just for want of summat short." "well, come in quick and get it, my lad." "right, sir." when paul returned to the room to call greta, he found her examining papers. she had picked them up off the table. they were the copies of certificates which hugh ritson had left there. paul had forgotten them during the painful interview. he tried to recover them unread, but he was too late. "this," she said, holding out one of them, "is not the certificate of your birth. this person, paul lowther, is no doubt my father's lost son." "no doubt," said paul, dropping his head. "but he is thirty years of age--see! you are no more than twenty-eight." "if i could but prove that, it would be enough," he said. "i can prove it, and i will!" she said. "you! how?" "wait until to-morrow, and see," she said. he had put one arm about her waist, and was taking her to the door. she stopped. "i can guess what the black lie has been," she whispered. "now, driver, up and away." "right, sir. kentish town junction?" "the station, to catch the 12:30." the carriage door was opened and closed. then the bitter weeping from the upper room came out to them in the night. "poor girl! whatever ails her? i seem to remember her voice," said greta. "we can't wait," paul answered. chapter ix. the clocks of london were striking one when paul and greta descended the steps in front of st. pancras station. the night was dark and bitterly cold. dense fog hung in the air, and an unaccustomed silence brooded over the city. a solitary four-wheeled cab stood in the open square. the driver was inside, huddled up in his great-coat, and asleep. a porter awakened him, and he made way for greta and paul. he took his apron from the back of his horse, wrapped it about his waist, and snuffed the wicks of his lamps--they burned low and red, and crackled in the damp atmosphere. "what hotel, sir?" "the convent, westminster." "convent, sir? did you say the convent, sir? st. margaret's, westminster, sir?" "the catholic convent." greta's hand pressed paul's arm. the cabman got on to his box, muttering something that was inaudible. as he passed the gate lodge he drew up while the porter on duty came out with a lamp, and took the number of the cab. the fog grew more dense at every step, and the pace at which they traveled was slow. to avoid the maze of streets that would have helped them to a shorter cut on a clearer night, the driver struck along euston road to tottenham court road, and thence south toward oxford street. this straighter and plainer course had the disadvantage of being more frequented. many a collision became imminent in the uncertain light. the cabman bought a torch from a passer-by, and stuck it in his whip-barrel. as they reached the busier thoroughfares he got down from his box, took the torch in one hand and the reins in the other, and walked at his horse's head. the pace was now slower than before. it was like a toilsome passage through the workings of an iron mine. volumes of noisome vapor rolled slowly past them. the air hung close over their heads like an unseen, vaulted roof. red lights gleamed like vanishing stars down the elastic vista. one light would turn out to be a coffee-stall, round which a group of people gathered--cabmen muffled to the throat, women draggled and dirty, boys with faces that were old. another would be a potato-engine, with its own volumes of white vapor, and the clank of its oven door like the metallic echo of the miner's pick. the line of regular lamps was like the line of candles stuck to the rock, the cross streets were like the cross-workings, the damp air settling down into streaks of moisture on the glass of the cab window was like the ceasless drip, drip of the oozing water from overhead. and to the two laden souls sitting within in silence and with clasped hands, the great city, nay, the world itself, was like a colossal mine, which human earthworms had burrowed underground, while the light and the free air were both above. at one point, where a patch of dry pavement indicated a bake-house under the street, three or four squalid creatures crouched together and slept. the streets were all but noiseless. it would be two hours yet before the giant of traffic would awake. the few cabmen hailed each other as they passed unrecognized, and their voices sounded hoarse. when the many clocks struck two, the many tones came muffled through the dense air. the journey was long and wearisome, but paul and greta scarcely felt it. they were soon to part; they knew not when they were to meet again. perhaps soon, perhaps late; perhaps not until a darkness deeper than this should cover the land. turning into oxford street, the cabman struck away to the west, in order to come upon westminster by the main artery of regent street. the great thoroughfare was quiet enough now. fashion was at rest, but even here, and in its own mocking guise, misery had its haunt. a light laugh broke the silence of the street, and a girl, so young as to be little more than a child, dressed in soiled finery, and reeling with unsteady step on the pavement, came up to the cab window and peered in. at the open door of a hotel, from whence a shaft of light came out into the fog, the cabman drew up. "comfortable hotel, sir; think you'd like to put up, sir?" paul dropped the window. "we want the catholic convent at westminster, my man." the cabman had put up his torch and was flapping his arms under his armpits. "cold job, sir. think i've had enough of it. ha'past two, and a mile from st. margaret's yet, sir. got a long step home, sir, and the missis looking out for me this hour and more." the night porter of the hotel had opened the cab door, but not for an instant did paul's purpose waver. "i'm sorry, my good fellow, but we must reach the convent, as i tell you." "won't to-morrow do, sir? comfortable quarters, sir. can recommend 'em," with a tip of his hand over his shoulder. "we must get to the convent to-night, my man." the cabman returned to his horse's head with a grunt of dissatisfaction. "porter, can you keep a bed for me here? i shall be back in an hour," said paul. the porter signified assent, and once again the cab moved off on its slow journey. as it passed out of trafalgar square by way of charing cross, the air suddenly lightened. it was as if waves of white mist rolled over the yellow vapor. the cabman threw away his torch, mounted his box, and set off at a trot. when he reached parliament square the fog was gone. the great clock of westminster was striking three; the sky was a dun gray behind the clocktower, and the dark mass of the abbey could be dimly seen. the cab drew up on the south-west of abbey gardens and before a portico railed in by an iron gate. the lamp burning on the sidewalk in front cast a hazy light on what seemed to be a large brick house plain in every feature. "this is saint margaret's, sir. eight shillings, sir, if you please." paul dismissed the cabman and rang the bell; the hollow tongue sent out a startling reverberation into the night. the sky to the east was breaking; thin streaks of a lighter gray foretold the dawn. the door opened and the iron gate swung back. a sister carrying an open oil lamp motioned them to enter. "can i see the superior?" said paul. "she is newly risen," said the sister, and she fixed the lamp to a bracket in the wall and went away. they were left in a bare, chill, echoing hall. the next moment a line of nuns in their coifs passed close by them with quick and silent steps. at that gray hour they had risen for matins. some of them were pale and emaciated, and one that was palest and most worn went by with drooping head and hands that inlaced her rosary. paul stepped back a pace. the nun moved steadily onward with the rest. never a sign of recognition, never an upward glance, only the quivering of a lip--but it was his mother! he, too, dropped his head, and his own lips trembled. the mother superior was standing with them before he was aware. for an instant his voice was suspended, but he told her at length that a great calamity had befallen them, and begged her to take his wife for a time into her care. "charity is our office," said the mother, when she had heard his story. "come, my sister, the church is peace. your poor laden soul may put off its load while you are here." paul begged to be allowed a moment to say farewell, and the good mother left them together. then from an inner chamber came the solemn tones of an organ and the full voices of a choir. the softened harmonies seemed to float into their torn hearts, and they wept. the gray dawn was creeping in. it blurred the red light of the lamp. "good-bye, darling, good-bye!" paul whispered; but even while he spoke he clung the closer. "good-bye for the present, dear husband," said greta, and smiled. "who would have thought that this calamity could wait for you at the very steps of god's altar?" "a day will turn all this evil into good." "at the threshold of our life together to be torn apart!" "think of it no more, dearest. our lives will yet be the brighter for this calamity. do you remember what parson christian used to say? the happiest life is not that which is always in the sunlight, but rather that over which a dark cloud has once lowered and passed away." paul shook his head. "my lips are sealed. you do not know all. it is a cruel lie that separates us. but what if it can not be disproved?" greta's eyes were full of a radiant hopefulness. "it can, and shall!" paul bent his head and touched her forehead with his lips. "the past is a silence that gives back no answer," he said. "my mother alone could disprove it, and she is dead to the world." "not alone, dearest. i can disprove it. wait and see!" paul smiled coldly, and once more shook his head. "you don't know all," he said again, and kissed her reverently. "what if to-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow brings no light to unravel this mystery?" "never fear it. the finger of heaven is in this," said greta. "say, rather, the hand of destiny. and how little we are in the presence of that pitiless power!" "god sees all," said greta. "he has led me in here, and he will guide me out again." "what if i brought you for a day, and you remain for a year, for life?" "then think that god himself has taken your wife at your hands." paul's face, that had worn a look of deep dejection, became distorted with pain. "oh, it is horrible! and this cloister is to be your marriage-bed!" "hush! all is peace here. good-bye, dearest paul. be brave, my husband." "brave? before death a man may be brave; but in the face of a calamity like this, what man could be brave?" "god will turn it away." "god grant it. but i tremble to ask for the truth. the future is not more awful to me now than the past." "keep up heart, dear paul. you know how pleasant it is to fall asleep amid storms that shake the trees, and to awake in the stillness and the sunshine, and amid the songs of the birds. to-morrow the falsehood will be outfaced, and you will return to fetch me." "yes," said paul, "or else drag out my days as an outcast in the world." "no, no, no. good-bye, dearest." then the voice of the comforter failed her, and she dropped her head on his breast. the choir within chanted the matin service. paul removed the iron bar that crossed the door, and opened it. the opposite side of the street was a blank wall, with gaunt boughs of leafless trees behind it and above it, and beyond all was the dim sanctuary. traffic's deep buzz flowed in the distance. the dawn had reddened the eastern sky, and the towers of the abbey were black against the glory of the coming day. "it may be that there is never a sunrise on this old city but it awakens some one to some new calamity," said paul; "yet surely this is the heaviest stroke of all good-bye, my darling!" "good-bye, my husband!" "yonder gray old fabric has looked on the scarred ruins of many a life, but never a funeral that has passed down its aisles was so sad as this parting. good-bye, dearest wife, good-bye!" "good-bye, paul!" he struck his breast and drew his breath audibly, "i must go. the thing is not to be thought of and endured!" "good-bye, paul!" her face was buried in his breast, to hide it from his eyes. "they say that the day a dear friend is lost to us is purer and calmer in remembrance than the day before. may it be so with us!" "hush! you will soon be back to take me away." and greta nestled closer to his breast. "if not--if not"--his hot breathing beat fast on her drooping head--"if not, then--as the world is dead to both without the other's love--remain here--in this house--forever. good-bye! good-bye!" he disengaged her clinging arms. he pressed her cold brow with his quivering lips. her fears conquered her brave heart at last. a mist was fast hiding her from him. "good-bye! good-bye!" a moment's silence, a breaking sigh, a rising sob, a last lingering touch of the inlaced fingers, and then the door closed behind him. she was alone in the empty hall; her lips were cold; her eyes were shut. the rosy hues of morning were floating in the air, now rich and sweet and balmy and restful, with the full, pure, holy harmonies of the choir. chapter x. it was merely a momentary vexation which hugh ritson felt when the course that paul had taken falsified his prescience. "no matter," he said, "it is only a question of a day, more or less. the thing must be done." drayton made no attempt to conceal his relief when the door closed and the fly drove off. "i ain't sorry the fence is gone, and that's flat!" "only, being gone, you will have a bigger risk to run now, my friend," said hugh ritson, with undisguised contempt. drayton looked up with a glance half of fear, half of suspicion. "you ain't gone and rounded on a fellow, after all? you ain't told him as i'm here?" "don't be a fool! get off to bed. wait, you must put me up for the night. you'll take care of yourself if you're wise. the police will be here in the morning; take my word for that." "here? in the morning? no!" "when they asked for his address, he gave them the name of this house. they'll not forget it. men of that sort don't forget." "i'll pound if they don't." "they have memories for other things besides addresses. consider if they have any other reason to remember the landlord of your house." "no criss-crossing! you don't do me the same as the old woman." "no matter. you know best. take care of yourself, mr. drayton." drayton buttoned his coat as near to the throat as the torn lapel would allow. "that's what i mean to do. i ain't going to be lagged. it's a lifer this time, and that would take the stiff'ning out of a man." "where are you going?" "no criss-crossing, i say." "leave this house, and they'll have you in twenty-four hours." "stay here, and they'll lag me in twelve. being as that's twelve to the good, i'm off." drayton's hand was on the door-handle. hugh ritson snatched it away. "an idiot like you deserves to be taken. such men ought to be put away." drayton lifted his fist. "damme, but i'll put you away if--if--" hugh ritson did not flinch. "what if i show you how to escape the consequences of to-night's work altogether?" drayton's uplifted hand fell. "i ain't objecting to that," he growled. "how?" "by putting another man in your place." drayton's eyes opened in a stare of blank amazement. "and what about me?" he asked. "you," said hugh ritson, and a scarcely perceptible sneer curled his lip--"you shall stand in his shoes." a repulsive smile crossed drayton's face. he fumbled the torn lapel with restless fingers. his eyes wandered to the door. there was a moment's silence. "him?" he said, with an elevation of the eyebrows. hugh ritson bent his head slightly. drayton stood with mouth agape. old mrs. drayton was pottering around the bar preparatory to going to bed. "i'll be a-bidding you good-night, sir. paul, you'll lock up after the gentleman." "good-night, mrs. drayton." the landlady hobbled away. but from midway up the stairs her querulous voice came again. "the poor young thing--i declare she's a-crying her eyes out." "why d'ye mean to do?" asked drayton. "to get him here." "how'll ye track him? he's gone to london, ain't he? that's a big haystack to find a needle in, ain't it?" "london is not a haystack, mr. drayton. it's a honey-comb, and every cell is labeled. on getting out of the train at st. pancras station they will either hire a cab or they will not. if they hire one, then the number will be taken at the lodge. by that number the cabman can be found. he will know where he drove his fare. if my brother left his wife at one place, and settled himself at another, the cabman will know that also. if they do not hire a cab, then, as the hour is late, and one of them is a lady, they must be somewhere in the vicinity of the station. thus, in that vast honey-comb, their particular cells are already marked out for us. that's enough for the present. who sleep in this house beside yourselves--and the girl?" "nobody but a lad--a pot-boy." "where is he now--in bed?" "four hours agone." "where does he sleep?" "up in the attic." "don't let that lad see you. on which side of the house does the attic lie?" "in the gable, this end." "is there an attic in the other gable?" "yes, a bad one." "no matter. get a mattress and sleep there yourself, and lie close all day to-morrow. take food, but no liquor, mind that. i'll come for you when all is clear. and now show me to your room." after some preparation the two men went upstairs, carrying the only remaining light. "give me the candle. you had best go up to your attic in the dark. here, put this key in the girl's door and unlock it. she's quiet enough now. hush--! no; it was only the wind. good-night--and mind what i say, don't let that boy see you--and, listen, no liquor!" chapter xi. the day had not yet dawned, and all lay still in that house when mercy fisher opened noiselessly the door of her room and crept stealthily down the stairs. it was very dark in the bar below, and she had no light. the sickening odor of dead tobacco was in the air. she carried a little bundle in one hand, and with the other she felt her way around the walls until she came to the outer door. a heavy chain fastened it, and with nervous fingers she drew it out of the slide. when free of its groove, it slipped from her hand, and fell against the door-jamb with a clang. the girl's heart leaped to her throat. at first she crouched in fear, then lifted the latch, opened the door, and fled away into the gloom without, leaving the door wide open. never to the last day of her life did she know what purpose guided her in that hour. she had no object, no aim. only to fly away from a broken heart. only to lie down on the earth and know no more, with all the heartache over. but she was drifting in her blind misery to that reservoir of life, london. she hurried down the road, never once looking back. the leafless trees were surging in the night-wind; their gaunt branches were waving grimly over her head. the hedges took fantastic shapes before her, and beside her. her limbs trembled and her teeth chattered, yet she hastened on. her head ached. she felt suffocated. the world was so cruel to her. if only she could fly from it and forget--only forget! the day was dawning; the deep blue of the sky to the left of her was streaked with thin bars. all before her was a blank void of dun gray. a veil of vapor beat against her cheeks. the wide marshy lands lay in mist around her. not a sound but her own footstep on the road. not a bird in the empty air, not a cloud in the blank sky. it was a dreary scene; neither day nor night. and through this grim realm that is aloof from all that is human, one poor, broken-hearted girl hurried on, her little bundle in her hand, a shawl wrapped about her shoulders, her red, tearless eyes fixed in front of her. like the spirit of unrest, the wind moaned and soughed. now and then a withered leaf of last year went by her with a light rustle and stealthy motion. desolate as the heart within her was the waste ground. bit by bit the gray sky lightened; the east was fretted over with pink, and a freshness was breathed into the air. then she began to run. behind her were all her pretty dreams, and they were dead. behind her was the love she had cherished, and that was dead, too. from a joyful vision she had awakened to find the idol cold at her breast. running hard along the gloomy road, under the empty sky, through the surging wind, the outcast girl cried in her tearless grief as a little child cries for the mother who is in her grave--never knowing its loss until it has grown tired, and weary, and sick, and the night is very near. she came to a brick-kiln that stood back from the road. its wreathing smoke coiled slowly upward in the smoke-like atmosphere. the red haze drew her to it, as it drew the shivering waifs of the air. cold and tired, she crept up and stood some minutes in the glow; but a step fell on her ear from behind the kiln, and she stole away like a guilty thing. away, away, she knew not where. on, on, she knew not why. the day had dawned now. in the brightness of morning her heart sunk lower. draggled and soiled, her hair still damp with the dew, and the odor of night in her dress, she walked on in the golden radiance of the risen sun. oh, to bury herself forever, and yet not to die--no, no, not to die! at a cross-road there was a finger-post, and it read, "to kilburn." beyond it there was a wood, and the sunlight played on the pine-trees and reddened the dead leaves that still clung to an oak. she was warm now, but, oh! so tired. behind the ambush of a holly-bush, close to the road, mercy crouched down on a drift of withered leaves at the foot of a stout beech. she dozed a little and started. all was quiet. then weary nature conquered fear, and overcame sorrow, and she slept. and sleep--that makes kings and queens of us all--gracious sleep, made a queen of the outcast girl, a queen of love; and she dreamed of her home among the mountains. mercy was still sleeping when a covered wagon, such as carriers use, came trundling along the road. the driver, a bright-eyed man, with the freshness of the fields in his face, sat on the front rail and whistled. his horse shied at something, and this made him get up. he was at that moment in front of the holly-bush, and he saw mercy lying behind it. her face was worn and pale, her bonnet fallen back from her forehead, her head leaning against the trunk of the tree, one hand on her breast, the other straying aside on the drift of yellow leaves, where a little bundle covered by a red handkerchief had fallen from her graspless fingers, and the radiant morning sunlight over all. the driver of the wagon jumped to the ground. at the same moment mercy awoke with a frightened look. she rose to her feet, and would have hurried away. "young to be wagranting about, ain't ye, miss?" said the driver. his tone was kindlier than his words. "let me go, please," said mercy, and she tried to pass. "coorse, coorse; if yer wants to." mercy thanked him, her eyes on the ground. she was already on the road. "being as you're going my way, i ain't objecting to giving you a lift." "no, thank you. i have no--i've no money. i must run." "you'll wait till i ax for it, won't ye, missy? come, get up." "and will you let me go down whenever i like?" "coorse i will; why not? up with ye! there, easy, kneel on the shaft, that's the size of it. now, go set yourself down on them sacks. them's apples, them is. right? very well. we're off, then." the wagon was about half full of sacks, and mercy crept down in the furthest corner. "i ain't in the apple line reg'lar. i'm a fern-gatherer, that's wot i am. on'y nature don't keep ferning all the year round, so i'se forced to go fruiting winter times--buying apples same as them from off'n the farmers down the country, and bringing 'em up to covent garden. that's where i'm going now, that is. and got to be there afore the sales starts." mercy listened, but said nothing. "you know covent garden--not fur from leicester square and the haymarket?" mercy shook her head. "what! never been there--and that near?" mercy shook her head again and dropped her eyes. the driver twisted about to look at her. "let a be, she's feeling it bad," he thought, and was silent for a moment. then he twisted about for another look. "i say, missy, got bad eyes?" "they're sore, and a little dim," said mercy. "blest if you don't look the spitting image of a friend of mine--'boutn the eyes, i mean--red and swelled up and such. it was tom crow, a partner of mine, in fact. tom caught cold sleeping out one night as we was ferning down roger tichborne's estates--him as was the claimant for 'em, you know, on'y he didn't get 'em. the cold flew to tom's eyes straight, and blest if he ain't gone blind as a mole." mercy's lips quivered. the driver stopped his chatter, conscious that he had gone too far, and then, with somewhat illogical perversity, he proceeded to express his vexation at himself by punishing his horse. "get along, you stupid old perwerse old knacker's crutch!" the horse set off at a trot. they passed through a village, and mercy read the name "child's hill" printed on the corner of a house. "is it london you are going to?" said mercy, timidly; "covent garden--is that london?" "eh?" the driver opened his eyes very wide in a blank stare. mercy trembled and held down her head. they jogged on awhile in silence, and then the driver, who had cast furtive glances at the girl, drew rein, and said: "i'm wexed as i said tom crow was as blind as a mole. how-and-ever, a mole ain't blind, and it's on'y them coster chaps as think so, but i've caught a many of 'em out ferning. besides, tom was a-worrited with his missus, tom was, and happen that was worse nor his cold. ("git along, you old perwerse old file!) "you see, tom's missus cut away and left him. as young as you, and maybe as good to look at, but a bad 'un; and she broke tom's heart, as the saying is. so tom left the ferning. he hadn't no heart for it. ferning's a thing as wants heart, it do. he started costering first, and now tom's got a 'tater-ingine, on'y being as he's blind he has a boy to wheel it. and that woman, she done it all. 'jim groundsell,' he says to me--that's my name--'jim,' he says, 'don't fix your heart on nothing,' he says, 'and keep to your sight and the ferning.' ("well, you perwerse old crutch! get along with you!) "but i went and done it myself. and now my missus, she's a invalide, as they say, and she ain't out o' bed this twelvemonth come christmas, and she gets lonesome lying all by herself, and frets a bit maybe, and-("git along, will you, you wexing old fence!") there was a long silence this time. they were leaving the green fields behind them, and driving through longer streets than mercy had ever seen before. though the sun was shining feebly, the lamps on the pavement were still burning. they passed a church, and mercy saw by the clock that it was hard on eight. they drove briskly through camden town into st. giles's, and so on to long acre. the streets were thronged by this time. troops of people were passing to and fro. cabs and omnibuses were rattling hither and thither. at every turn the crowd became denser and the noise louder. mercy sat in her corner, bewildered. the strange city frightened her. for the time it drove away the memory of her sorrow. when they reached covent garden, jim, the driver, drew up with a jerk, and nodded to some of the drivers of similar wagons, and hailed others with a lusty shout. all was a babel to the girl's dazed sense: laughter, curses, yelling, whooping, quarreling. mercy's head ached. she got down, hardly knowing what to do next. where was she to go? in that wilderness of london, more desolate than the trackless desert, what was she? she stood a moment on the pavement, her little bundle in her hand, and all the bewildering scene went round and round. the tears rose to her eyes, and the glare and noise and the tumult were blotted out. the next instant she felt herself being lifted back into the wagon, and then she remembered nothing more. chapter xii. two days later hugh ritson entered the convent church of st. margaret. it was evening service, and the nave was thronged from chancel to porch. the aisles, which were bare of seats, were filled only half-way down, the rest of the pavement being empty save for a man here and there who leaned lightly against the great columns of the heavy colonnade. the sermon had already begun. hugh ritson walked up the aisle noiselessly until he came close behind the throng of people standing together. then he stood at the side of a column and looked around on those in the nave. he was within range of the preacher's voice, but he hardly listened. his eyes traversed the church until at last they rested on one spot in the south transept, where a company of nuns sat with downcast eyes half closed. the face of one of them was hidden beneath her drooping coif; the rosary held to her breast was gripped with nervous fingers. near at hand there was another face that riveted hugh ritson's gaze. it was the face of greta, radiant in its own beauty, and tender with the devotional earnestness of parted lips and of lashes wet with the dew of a bruised spirit. from these two his eyes never wandered for longer than a minute! languidly he listened to the words that floated over the people, and held them mute. the preacher was a slight young man, emaciated, pale, with lustrous eyes, and a voice that had a thin, meek pipe. but the discourse was in a strain of feverish excitement, a spirit of hard intolerance, a tone of unrelenting judgment, that would have befitted the gigantic figure and thunderous accents of the monk jerome. "there is a way that seemeth right unto a man, but the end thereof is death." this was the text, twenty times repeated. men talked of the rights of conscience, as if conscience were god's law. they babbled of toleration, as if any heresy were to be endured, if only it were believed. conscience! it was the slave of circumstance. toleration! it was the watchword at the gate of hell. hugh ritson listened with a vague consciousness, his eyes fixed alternately on the nun with the drooping coif and on the fair, upturned face beside her. at last a word struck him, and made his whole soul to vibrate. men, women, the great mute throng, pillars, arches, windows of figured saints, altar aflame with candles, the surpliced choir, and the pale, thin face with the burning eyes in the pulpit above--all vanished in an instant. what was true, said the preacher, in the realm of thought, could not be false in the world of life. men did evil deeds, and justified them to their own enslaved minds. no way so dark but it had appeared to be the path of light; none so far wrong but it had seemed to be right. let man beware of the lie that he told to his own heart. the end thereof is death. staring from a bloodless face, hugh ritson reeled a step backward, and then clung with a trembling hand to the pillar against which he had leaned. the harsh scrape of his foot was heard over the hushed church, and here and there a neck was craned in his direction. his emotion was gone in an instant. a light curl of the hard lip told that the angel within him had once again been conquered. the sermon ended with a rapturous declaration of the immutability of god's law, and the eternal destinies of man. the world was full of change, but man, who seemed to change most, changed least. the stars that hung above had seen the beginning and the end of ages. before man was, they were. the old river that flowed past the old city that night had flowed there centuries ago, and generations of men had lived and died in joy and sorrow, and still the same waters washed the same shore. but the stars that measure time itself, and the sea that recorded it, would vanish away, and man should be when time would be no more. "they shall perish, but thou shalt endure. they shall wax old as doth a garment.... but thou art the same, and thy years shall have no end." the preacher finished, and the buzz and rustle of the people shifting in their seats told of the tension that had been broken. faces that had been distorted with the tremors of fear, or contracted with the quiverings of remorse, or glorified with the lights of ecstasy, resumed their normal expression. the vesper hymn was sung by the whole congregation, standing. it floated up to the blue roof, where the lights that burned low over the people's heads left in the gloom the texts written on the open timbers and the imaged christ hung in the clerestory. there was one voice that did not sing the vesper hymn; and the close-locked lips of hugh ritson were but the symbol of the close-locked heart. he was asking himself, was it true that when the fire of the stars should be burned to ashes, still man would endure? pshaw! what was man? these throngs of men, whose great voice swelled like the sea, what were they? in this old church where they sung, other men had sung before them, and where were they now? who should say they had not perished? living, believing, dying, they were gone: gone with their sins and sorrows; gone with their virtues and rewards; gone from all sight and all memory; and no voice came from them, pealing out of the abyss of death to join this song of hope. hope! it was a dream. a dream that great yearning crowds like these, filling churches and chapels, dreamed age after age. but it was a dream from which there would be no awakening to know that it was not true. the priest and choir left the church. then the congregation broke up and separated. hugh ritson stood awhile, still leaning against the column of the colonnade. the nuns in the south transept rose last, and went out by a little aperture opening from the south aisle. hugh watched them pass at the distance of the width of the nave. greta walked a few paces behind them. when the people had gone, and she rose from her seat, her eyes fell on hugh. then she dropped her head, and walked down the aisle with a hurried step. hugh saw her out; the church was now empty, and the voluntary was done. he followed her through the door, and entered into the sacristy. before him was another door; it led into the convent. the last of the line of nuns was passing through it. greta stood in the sacristy, faint, with a scared face, one hand at her breast, the other on the base of a crucifix that stood by the wall. when she saw that he had followed her, her first impulse was to shrink away; her second was to sink to her knees at his feet. she did neither. conquering her faintness, but still quivering from head to foot, she turned upon him with a defiant look. "why do you come here? i do not wish to speak with you. let me pass," she said. hugh ritson made no effort to detain her. he stood before her with downcast eyes, his infirm foot bent under him. "i come to bid you farewell," he said, calmly; "i come to say that we meet no more." "would that we had parted forever before we met the last time!" said greta, fervently. "would that we had never met!" said hugh, in a low voice. "that was a lie with which you parted me from my husband," she said. "it was--god forgive me." "and you knew it was a lie?" said greta. "i knew it was a lie." "then where is your shame, that you can look me in the face? have you no shame?" she said. "have you no pity?" said hugh. "what pity had you for me? have you not done me wrong enough already?" "god knows it is true. and he knows i am a miserable man. have pity and forgive me, and say farewell!" something of contrition in the tone touched her. she was silent. "the preacher was wrong," he said. "there is no spirit of evil. we are betrayed by our own passions, and the chief of those passions is love. it is the nemesis that stalks through the world, haunting all men, and goading some to great wrong." "it was of your doing that i came here," said greta. "would to god it may be of my doing that you remain here," said hugh. "that is a prayer he will not hear. i am leaving this house to-night. there is some one coming who can unmask your wicked falsehood." "parson christian?" said hugh. greta made no answer, and hugh continued, "his journey is needless. a word from my mother would have done all. she is in this house." "yes, heaven forgive you, she is here!" said greta. "you are wrong; you do not know all. where is your husband?" greta shook her head. "i have neither seen him nor heard from him since we parted at these doors," she said. "and when you leave them to-night, do you leave him behind you?" said hugh. "heaven forbid!" said greta, passionately. hugh ritson's bloodless face was awful to look upon. "greta," he said, in a tone of anguish, "give up the thought. look on that false union as broken forever, and all this misery will end. it was i and you--you and i. but that is over now. i do not come between you. it is useless to think of that. i do not offer you my love; you refused it long ago. but i can not see you my brother's wife. that would be too much for me to endure. i will not endure it. have pity upon me. if i have no claim to your love, have i no right to your pity? what have i suffered for your love? a life's misery. what have i sacrificed to it? my name--my place--my inheritance." greta lifted her eyes with a look of inquiry. "what? has he not even yet told you all?" said hugh. "no matter. what has he done to earn your love that i have not done? what has he suffered? what has he sacrificed?" "if this is love, it is selfish love," said greta, in a broken voice. "selfish?--be it so. all love is selfish." "leave me--leave me!" hugh ritson paused; the warmth of his manner increased. "i will leave you," he said, "and never seek you again; i will go from you forever, and crush down the sorrow that must be with me to the end, if you will promise me one thing." "what is it?" said greta, her eyes on the ground. "it is much," said hugh, "but it is not all. if the price is great, think of the misery that it buys--and buries. you would sacrifice something for me, would you not?" his voice swelled as he spoke, and his pale face softened, and the light of hopeless love was in his great eyes. "say that you would--for me--me!" he held out his arms toward her as if soul and body together yearned for one word, one look of love. greta stood there, silent and immovable. "what is it?" she repeated. "let me think that you would do something for my sake--mine," he pleaded. "let me carry away that solace. think what i have suffered for you, and all in vain. think that perhaps it was no fault of mine that you could not love me; that another woman might have found me worthy to be loved who had not been unworthy of love from me." "what is it?" repeated greta, coldly, but her drooping lashes were wet with tears. "think that i am of a vain, proud, stubborn spirit; that in all this world there is neither man nor woman, friend nor enemy, to whom i have sued for grace or favor; that since i was a child i have never even knelt in prayer in god's house that man might see or god might hear. then think that i am at your feet, a miserable man." "what is it?" said greta, again. hugh ritson paused, and then added, more calmly: "that you should take the vows and the veil, and stay here until death." greta lifted her eyes. hugh's eyes were bent upon her. "no, i can not. i should be false to my marriage vows," she said, quietly. "to be true to them is to be false to yourself, to your husband, and to me," said hugh. "i love my husband," said greta, with an eloquent glance. "to be true to them is to be true to him." there was a pause. hugh ritson's manner underwent a change. it was the white heat of high passion that broke the silence when he spoke again. "greta," he said, and his deep voice had a strong tremor, "if there is any truth in what that priest told us to-night--if it is not a dream and a solemn mockery made to enchant or appal the simple--if there is a god and judgment--my soul is already too heavily burdened with sins against you and yours. i would have eased it of one other sin more black than these; but it was not to be." "what do you mean?" said greta. her face was panic-stricken. hugh ritson came a step nearer. "that your husband is in my hands--that one word from me would commit him to a doom more dreadful than death--that if he is to be saved as a free man, alive, you must renounce him forever." "speak plain. what do you mean?" said greta. "choose--quick! which shall it be? you for this convent, or your husband for lifelong imprisonment?" greta's mind was in a whirl. she was making for the door in front of them. he stepped before her. "i parted you with a lie," he said, "but to me it was not always a lie. i believed it once. do you think i should have denied my self my inheritance, and let a bastard stand in my place, if i had not believed it?" "what further lie is this?" said greta. "no matter. heaven knows. and all i did was for love of you. is it so guilty a thing that i have loved you--to all lengths and ends of love? i meant to put a hemisphere between you--to send him to australia, and you back home to cumberland. what if the lie had then been outfaced? i should have parted you, and that would have been enough." "and now, when your revenge falls idle at your feet, you come to me on your knees," said greta. "revenge? that was but a feeble revenge," said hugh. "he would have learned the truth and come back to claim you. there would have been no peace for me while he was alive and free. do i come to you on my knees? yes; but it is to pray of you to save your husband. is it so much that i ask of you? think what is earned by it. if you have no pity for me, have you none for him?" she was struggling to pass him. "greta," he said, "choose, and at once. it is now or never. to-night--to-morrow will be too late. you for a holy life of self-renouncement, or your husband to drag out his miserable days in penal servitude." "this is only another lie. let me pass," she said. "it is the truth, as sure as god hears us," said hugh. "i shall never believe it." "i will swear it." he laid a strong hand on her wrist. "i will swear it at the very foot of god's altar." he tried to draw her back into the church. she resisted. "let me go; i will cry for help." he dropped her wrist, and fell back from her. she drew herself up in silence, and walked slowly away. he stood a moment alone in the sacristy. then he went out through the church. it was empty and all but dark. the sacristan, with a long rod, was putting out the lights one by one. he turned, with arm uplifted, to look after the halting figure that passed down the aisle and out at the west porch. chapter xiii. abbey gardens, the street in front, was dark and all but deserted. only a drunken woman went reeling along. but the dull buzz in the distance, and the white sheet in the sky, told that, somewhere near, the wild heart of the night beat high. hugh ritson looked up at the heavy mass of the convent building as he crossed the street. the lights were already out, and all was dark within. he went on, but presently stopped by a sudden impulse, and looked again. it was then he was aware that something moved in the deep portico. the lamp on the pavement sent a shaft of light on to the door, and there, under the gas-light, with the face turned from him, was the figure of a woman. she seemed to cast cautious and stealthy glances around, and to lift a trembling hand to the bell that hung above her. the hand fell to her side, but no ring followed. once again the hand was lifted, and once again it fell back. then the woman crept totteringly down the steps and turned to go. hugh ritson recrossed the street. amid all the turmoil of his soul, the incident had arrested him. the woman was coming toward him. he put himself in her path. the light fell full upon her, and he saw her face. it was mercy fisher. with a low cry, the girl sunk back against the railings of the convent, and covered her face with her hands. "is it you, mercy?" said hugh. she made no answer. then she tried to steal away, but he held her with gentle force. "why did you leave hendon?" he asked. "you did not want me," said the girl, in a tone of unutterable pain. and still her face was buried in her hands. he did not reply. he let her grief spend itself. just then a drunken woman reeled back along the pavement and passed them close, peering into their midst, and going by with a jarring laugh. "what's he a-doing to ye, my dear, eh?" she said, jeeringly. "sarve ye right!" she added, and laughed again. she was a draggled, battered outcast--a human ruin, such as night, the pander, flings away. mercy lifted her head. a dull, weary look was in her eyes. "you know how i waited and waited," she said, "and you were so long in coming, so very long." she turned her eyes aside. "you did not want me; in your heart you did not want me," she said. the wave of bitter memory drowned her voice. not unmoved, he stood and looked at her, and saw the child-face wet with tears, and the night breeze of the city drift in her yellow hair. "where have you been since?" he said. "a man going to market brought me up in his wagon. i fainted, and then he took me to his home. he lives close by, in the horse and groom yard. his wife is bedridden, and such a good creature, and so kind to me. but they are poor, and i had no money, and i was afraid to be a burden to them; and besides--besides--" "well?" "she saw that i was--she saw what was going to--being a woman, she knew i was soon--" "yes, yes," said hugh, stopping another flood of tears with a light touch of the hand. "how red your eyes look. are they worse?" "the man was very good; he took me to the doctors at a hospital, and they said--oh, they said i might lose my sight!" "poor little mercy!" said hugh. he was now ashamed of his own sufferings. how loud they had clamored awhile ago; yet, what were they side by side with this poor girl's tangible sorrows! mere things of the air, with no reality. "but no matter!" she burst out. "that's no matter." "you must keep up heart, mercy. i spoke angrily to you the other night, but it's over now, is it not?" "oh, why didn't you leave me alone?" said the girl. "hush, mercy; it will be well with you yet." his own eyes were growing dim, but even then his heart was bitter. had he not said in his wrath that passion was the demon of the world? he might say it in his sorrow, too. the simple heart of this girl loved him, even as his own lustier soul loved greta. he had wronged her. but that was only a tithe of the trouble. if she could but return him hate for wrong, how soon everything would be right with her! "what brought you here, mercy?" "one of the sisters--they visit the sick--one of them visited the house where they gave me lodgings, and i heard that they sometimes took homeless girls into the convent. and i thought i was homeless, now, and--and--" "poor little woman!" "i came the night before last, but saw your brother paul walking here in front. so i went away." "paul?" "then i came last night, and he was here again. so i went away once more, and to-night i came earlier, and he wasn't here, but just as i was going to ring the bell, and say that i had no home, and that my eyes were growing worse, something seemed to say they would ask if i had a father, and why i had left him; and then i couldn't ring--and then i thought if only i could die--yes, if only i could die and forget, and never wake up again in the morning--" "hush, mercy. you shall go back home to your father." "no, no, no!" "yes; and i shall go with you." there was silence. the bleared eyes looked stealthily up into his face. a light smile played there. "ah!" a bright vision came to her of a fair day when, hand in hand with him she loved, she should return to her forsaken home in the mountains, and hold up her head, and wipe away her father's tears. she was in the dark street of the city, then; she and her home were very far apart. he laughed inwardly at a different vision. in a grim spirit of humor he saw all his unquenchable passion conquered, and he saw himself the plain, homely, respectable husband of this simple wife. "was paul alone when you saw him?" said hugh. "yes. and would you tell them all?" the girl's sidelong glance was far away. "mercy, i want you to do something for me." "yes, yes." again the sidelong glance. hugh lifted the girl's head with his hand to recall her wandering thoughts. "paul will come again to-night. i want you to wait for him and speak to him." "yes, yes; but won't he ask me questions?" "what if he does? answer them all. only don't say that i have told you to speak to him. tell him--will you remember it?--are you listening?--look me in the face, little woman." "yes, yes." "tell him that mr. christian--parson christian, you know--has come to london and wishes to see him at once. say he has looked for him at the hotel in regent street and not found him there, and is now at the inn in hendon. will you remember?" "yes." "where were you going, mercy--back to your poor friends?" "no. but will he be sure to come to-night?" "no doubt. at what time was he here last night?" "ten o'clock." "it is now hard on nine. tell him to go to hendon at once, and when he goes, you go with him. do you understand?" "yes." "don't forget--to-night; to-morrow night will not do. if he does not come, you must follow me to hendon and tell me so. i shall be there. don't tell him that--do you hear?" the girl gave a meek assent. "and now good-bye for an hour or two, little one." he turned away, and she was left alone before the dark convent. but, she was not all alone. a new-born dream was with her, and her soul was radiant with light. chapter xiv. hugh ritson walked rapidly through dean's yard in the direction of the sanctuary. as he turned into parliament street the half moon rose above the roof of westminster hall. but the night was still dark. he passed through trafalgar square and into the haymarket. the streets were thronged. crowds on crowds went languidly by. dim ghosts of men and women, most of them, who loitered at this hour in these streets. old men, with the souls long years dead within them, and the corruption reeking up with every breath to poison every word, or lurking like charnel lights in the eyes to blink contagion in every glance. young girls hopping like birds beside them, the spectres of roses in their cheeks, but the real thorns at their hearts. there had been no way for them but this--this and one other way: either to drift into the thames and be swallowed up in the waters of death, or to be carried along for a brief minute on the froth of the waves of life. laughing because they might not weep; laughing because their souls were dead; laughing in their conscious travesty of the tragedy of pleasure--they tripped and lounged and sauntered along. and the lamps shone round them, and above them was the glimmering moon. as hugh ritson went up the steep haymarket, his infirmity became more marked, and he walked with a sliding gait. seeing this, a woman who stood there halted and limped a few paces by his side, and pretending not to see him, shouted with a mocking laugh, "what is it--a man or a bat?" how the wild, mad heart of the night leaped up! a man passed through the throng with eyes that seemed to see nothing of its frantic frenzy and joyless joy--a stalwart man, who strode along like a giant among midgets, his vacant eyes fixed before him, his strong white face expressionless. hugh ritson saw him. they passed within two paces, but without recognition. the one was wandering aimlessly in his blind misery toward the convent of st. margaret, the other was making for the old inn at hendon. * * * * * an hour later hugh ritson was standing in the bar of the hawk and heron. his mind was made up; his resolve was fixed; his plan was complete. "anybody with him?" he said to the landlady, motioning toward the stairs. "not as i knows on, sir, but he do seem that restless and off his wittals, and i don't know as i quite understands why--" hugh ritson stopped her garrulous tongue. "i have found the girl. she will come back to you to-night, mrs. drayton. if she brings with her the gentleman who left these boxes in your care, take him to your son's bedroom and tell him the person he wishes to see has arrived, and will be with him directly." with this he went up the stairs. then, calling down, he added: "the moment he is in the room come up and tell me." a minute later he called again: "where's the key to this door? let me have it." the landlady hobbled up with the key to drayton's bedroom; the room was empty and the door stood open. hugh ritson tried the key in the lock and saw that the wards moved freely. "that will do," he said, in a satisfied tone. the old woman was hobbling back. hugh was standing in thought, with head bent, and the nail of his forefinger on his cheek. "by the way, mrs. drayton," he said, "you should get the girl to help you a little sometimes." "lor's, sir, i never troubles her, being as she's like a visitor." "nonsense, mrs. drayton. she's young and hearty, and your own years are just a little past their best, you know. how's your breathing to-day--any easier?" "well, i can't say as it's a mort better, neither, thanking you the same, sir," and a protracted fit of coughing bore timely witness to the landlady's words. "ah! that's' a bad bout, my good woman." "well, it is, sir; and i get no sympathy, neither--leastways not from him as a mother might look to--in a manner of speaking." "bethink you. is there nothing the girl can do for you when she comes? nothing wanted? no errand?" "well, sir, taking it kindly, sir, there's them finings in the cellar a-wants doing bad, and the boy as ought to do 'em, he's that grumpysome, as i declare--" "quite right, mrs. drayton. send the girl down to them the moment she comes in, and keep her down until bed-time." "thank you, sir! i'm sure i takes it very kind and thoughtful of a gentleman to say as much, and no call, neither." the landlady shuffled down-stairs, wagging gratefully her dense old noddle; the thoughtful gentleman left the key of drayton's room in the lock on the outside of the door, and ascended a ladder that went up from the end of the passage. he knocked at a door at the top. at first there was no answer. a dull shuffling of feet could be heard from within. "come, open the door," said hugh, impatiently. the door was opened cautiously. drayton stood behind it. hugh ritson entered. there was no light in the room; the red, smoking wick of a tallow candle, newly extinguished, was filling the air with its stench. "you take care of yourself," said hugh. "let us have a light." drayton went down on his knees in the dark, fumbled on the floor for a box of lucifers, and relighted the candle. he was in his shirt-sleeves. "cold without your coat, eh?" said hugh. a sneer played about his lips. without answering, drayton turned to a mattress that lay in the gloom of one corner, lifted it, took up a coat that lay under it, and put it on. it was the ulster with the torn lapel. hugh ritson followed drayton's movements, and laughed slightly. "men like you are always cautious in the wrong place," he said. "let them lay hands on you, and they won't be long finding your--coat." the last word had a contemptuous dig of emphasis. "damme if i won't burn it, for good and all," muttered drayton. his manner was dogged and subdued. "no, you won't do that," said hugh, and he eyed him largely. the garret was empty save for the mattress and the blanket that lay on it, and two or three plates, with the refuse of food, on the floor. it was a low room, with a skylight in the rake of the roof, which sloped down to a sharp angle. there was no window. the walls were half timbered, and had once been plastered, but the laths were now bare in many places. "heard anything?" said drayton, doggedly. "yes; i called and told the police sergeant that i thought i was on the scent." "what? no!" the two men looked at each other--drayton suspicious, hugh ritson with amused contempt. "tell you what, you don't catch me hobnobbing with them gentry," said drayton, recovering his composure. hugh ritson made no other answer than a faint smile. as he looked into the face of drayton, he was telling himself that no man had ever before been at the top of such a situation as that of which he himself was then the master. here was a man who was the half-brother of greta, and the living image of her husband. here was a man who, despite vague suspicions, did not know his own identity. here was a man over whom hung an inevitable punishment. hugh ritson smiled at the daring idea he had conceived of making this man personate himself. "drayton," he said, "i mean to stand your friend in this trouble." "tell you again, the best friend to me is the man as helps me to make my lucky." "you shall do it, drayton, this very night. listen to me. that man, my brother, as they call him--paul ritson, as his name goes--is not my father's son. he is the son of my mother by another man, and his true name is paul lowther." "i don't care what his true name is, nor his untrue, neither. it ain't nothing to me, say i, and no more is it." "would it be anything to you to inherit five thousand pounds?" "what?" "paul lowther is the heir to as much. what would you say if i could put you in paul lowther's place, and get you paul lowther's inheritance?" "eh? a fortune out of hand--how?" "the way i described before." there was a slight scraping sound, such as a rat might have made in burrowing behind the partition. "what's that?" said drayton, his face whitening, and his watchful eyes glancing toward the door. "a key in the lock?" he whispered. "tut! isn't your own key on the inside?" said hugh ritson. drayton hung his head in shame at his idle fears. "i know--i haven't forgot," he muttered, covering his discomfiture. "it's a pity to stay here and be taken, when you might as easily be safe," said hugh. "so it is," drayton mumbled. "and go through penal servitude for life, when another man might do it for you," added hugh, with a ghostly smile. "i ain't axing you to say it over. what's that?" drayton cowered down. the bankrupt garret had dropped a cake of its rotten plaster. hugh ritson moved not a muscle; only the sidelong glance told of his contempt for the hulking creature's cowardice. "the lawyer who has charge of this legacy is my friend and comrade," he said, after a moment's silence. "we should have no difficulty in that quarter. my mother is--well, she's gone. there would be no one left to question you. if you were only half shrewd the path would be clear." "what about her?" "greta? she would be your wife." "my wife?" "in name. you would go back, as i told you, and say: 'i, whom you have known as paul ritson, am really paul lowther, and therefore the half-brother of the woman with whom i went through the ceremony of marriage. this fact i learned immediately on reaching london. i bring the lady back as i found her, and shall ask that the marriage--which is no marriage--be annulled. i deliver up to the rightful heir, hugh ritson, the estates of allan ritson, and make claim to the legacy left me by my father, robert lowther.' this is what you have to say and do, and every one will praise you for an honest and upright man." "very conscientious, no doubt; but what about him?" "he will then be paul drayton, and a felon." drayton chuckled. "and what about her?" "if he is in safe keeping, she will count for nothing." "so i'm to be paul lowther." "you are to pretend to be paul lowther." "i told you afore, as it won't go into my nob, and no more it will," said drayton, scratching his head. "you shall have time to learn your lesson; you shall have it pat," said hugh ritson. "meantime--" at that instant drayton's eyes were riveted on the skylight with an affrighted stare. "look yonder!" he whispered. "what?" "the face on the roof!" hugh ritson plucked up the candle and thrust it over his head and against the glass. "what face?" he said, contemptuously. again drayton's head fell in shame at his abject fear. there was a shuffling footstep on the ladder outside. drayton held his head aside, and listened. "the old woman," he mumbled. "what now? supper, i suppose." chapter xv. at that moment there was a visitor in the bar down-stairs. he was an elderly man, with shaggy eyebrows and a wizened face; a diminutive creature with a tousled head of black and gray. it was gubblum oglethorpe. the mountain peddler had traveled south to buy chamois leather, and had packed a great quantity of it into a bundle, like a panier, which he carried over one arm. since the wedding at newlands, three days ago, gubblum's lively intelligence had run a good deal on his recollection of the man resembling paul ritson, whom he had once seen in hendon. he had always meant to settle for himself that knotty question. so here, on his first visit to london, he intended to put up at the very inn about which the mystery gathered. "how's ta rubbun on?" he said, by way of salute on entering. when mrs. drayton had gone upstairs she had left the pot-boy in charge of the bar. he was a loutish lad of sixteen, and his name was jabez. jabez slowly lifted his eyes from the pewters he was washing, and a broad smile crossed his face. evidently the new-comer was a countryman. "cold neet, eh? sharp as a step-mother's breath," said gubblum, throwing down the panier and drawing up to the fire. the smile on the face of jabez broadened perceptibly, and he began to chuckle. "what's ta snertan at, eh?" said gubblum. "i say it's hot weather varra. hasta owt agenn it?" jabez laughed outright. clearly the countryman must be crazy. "what's yon daft thingamy aboot?" thought gubblum. then aloud, "ay, my lad, gie us a laal sup o' summat." jabez found his risible faculties sorely disturbed by this manner of speech. but he proceeded to fill a pewter. the pot-boy's movements resembled those of a tortoise in celerity. "he's a stirran lad, yon," thought gubblum. "he's swaddering like a duck in a puddle." "can i sleep here to-neet?" he asked, when jabez had brought him his beer. then the sapient smile on the pot-boy's face ripened into speech. "i ain't answering for the sleeping," said jabez, "but happen you may have a bed--he, he, he! i'll ask the missis--he, he, haw!" "the missis? hasta never a master, then?" said gubblum. now, jabez had been warned, with many portentous threats, that in the event of any one asking for the master he was to be as mute as the grave. so in answer to the peddler's question he merely shook his wise head and looked grave and astonishingly innocent. "no? and how lang hasta been here?" "three years come easter," said jabez. "and how lang dusta say 'at missis has been here?" "missis? i heard father say as mistress drayton has kep' the hawk and heron this five-and-twenty year." "five-and-twenty! then i reckon that master would be no'but a laal wee barn when she coomt first," said gubblum. "happen he were," said jabez. then, recovering the caution so unexpectedly disturbed, jabez protested afresh that he had no master. "it's slow wark suppen buttermilk wi' a pitchfork," thought gubblum, and he proceeded to employ a spoon. "sista, my lad, wadsta like me to lend thee a shilling?" jabez grinned, and closed his fat fist on the coin thrust into his palm. "i once knew a man as were the varra spitten picter of your master," said gubblum. "in fact, his varra sel', upsett'n and doon thross'n. i thowt it were hissel', that's the fact. but when i tackled him he threept me down, and i was that vexed i could have bitten the side out of a butter-bowl." "but i ain't got no master," protested jabez. "i were riding by on my laal pony that day, but now i'm going shankum naggum," continued gubblum, unmindful of the pot-boy's mighty innocent look. "'a canny morning to you, master paul,' i shouted, and on i went." "then you know his name?" said jabez, opening wide his drowsy eyes. "'master paul's half his time frae home,' says the chap on t'road. 'coorse he is,' i says: 'it's me for knowing that,' ah, i mind it same as it were yesterday. i looked back, and there he was standing at the door, and he just snitit his nose wi' his finger and thoom. ey, he did, for sure." jabez found his conscience abnormally active at that moment. "but i ain't got none," he protested afresh. "none what?" "no master." "that's a lie, my lad, for i see he's been putten a swine ring on yer snout to keep ye frae rooting up the ground." after this gubblum sat a good half-hour in silence. mrs. drayton came down-stairs and arranged that gubblum should sleep that night in the house. his bedroom was to be a little room at the back, entered from the vicinity of the ladder that led to the attics. gubblum got up, said he was tired, and asked to be shown to his room. jabez lighted a candle, and they went off together. "whereiver does that lead to?" said gubblum, pointing to the ladder near his bedroom door. "i dunno," said jabez, moodily. he had been ruminating on gubblum's observation about the swine ring. "he's as sour as vargis," thought gubblum. there was the creak of a footstep overhead. "who sleeps in the pigeon loft?" gubblum asked, tipping his finger upward. "i dunno," repeated jabez. "his dander's up," thought gubblum. just then the landlady in the bar heard the sound of wheels on the road, and the next moment a carriage drew up at the open door. "i say there, lend a hand here, quick!" shouted the driver. mrs. drayton hobbled up. the flyman was leaning through the door of the fly, helping some one to alight. "take a' arm, missy; there, that's the size of it. now, sir, down, gently." the person assisted was a man. the light from the bar fell on his face, and the landlady saw him clearly. it was paul ritson. he was flushed, and his eyes were bloodshot. behind him was mercy fisher, with recent tears on her cheeks. "oh, he's ill, mrs. drayton," said mercy. paul freed one of his arms from the grasp of the girl, waved with a gesture of deprecation, smiled a jaunty smile, and said: "no, no, no; let me walk; i'm well--i'm well." with this he made for the house, but before he had taken a second step he staggered and fell against the door-jamb. "deary me, deary me, the poor gentleman's taken badly," said mrs. drayton, fussing about. paul ritson laughed a little, lifted his red eyes, and said: "well, well! but it's nothing. just dizzy, that's all. and thirsty--very--give me a drink, good woman." "bring that there bench up, missy, and we'll put him astride it," said the driver. "right; that's the time o' day. now, sir, down." "deary me, deary me, drink this, my good gentleman. it'll do you a mort o' good. it's brandy." "water--bring me water," said paul ritson, feebly; "i'm parched." "how hot his forehead is," said mercy. "and no light 'un to lift, neither," said the driver. "does he live here, missis?" mrs. drayton brought a glass of water. paul drained it to the last drop. "no, sir; i mean yes, driver," said the landlady, confusedly. "he warn't so bad getting in," the driver observed. "oh, dear, oh, dear! where is mr. christian--parson christian?" said mercy, whose distracted eyes wandered around. "the gentleman's come, sir; he's upstairs, sir," said the landlady, and, muttering to herself, mrs. drayton hobbled away. paul ritson's head had fallen on his breast. his hat was off, and his hair tumbled over his face. the strong man sat coiled up on the bench. then he shook himself and threw up his head, as if trying to cast off the weight of stupor that sat on him. "well, well! who'd have thought of this? water--more water!" he mumbled in a thick voice. mercy stood before him with a glass in her hand. "is it good for him, i wonder?" she said. "oh, where is mr. christian?" paul ritson saw the glass, clutched at it with both hands, then smiled a poor, weak smile, as if to atone for his violence, and drank every drop. "well, well!--so hot--and dizzy--and cold!" he muttered, incoherently. then he relapsed into silence. after a moment, the driver, who was supporting him at the back, looked over at his face. the eyes were closed, and the lips were hanging. "he's gone off unconscious," said the flyman. "ain't ye got a bed handy?" at that moment mrs. drayton came hastily down-stairs, in a fever of agitation. "you've got to get him up to his room," she said, between gusts of breath. "that's a job for two men, ain't it, missis?" said the driver. mercy had loosened paul's collar, and with a nervous hand she was bathing his burning forehead. "oh, tell mr. christian," she said; "say he has fainted." mrs. drayton hobbled back. in another instant there was a man's step descending the stairs. hugh ritson entered the bar. he looked down at the unconscious man and felt his pulse. "when did this happen?" he asked, turning to mercy. "he said he was feeling ill when i met him; then he was worse in the train, and when we reached hendon he was too dizzy to stand," said mercy. "his young woman, ain't it?" said the flyman, aside, to hugh. hugh nodded his head slightly. then, turning toward mrs. drayton, with a significant glance, "your poor son is going to be ill," he said. the landlady glanced back with a puzzled expression, and began in a blundering whimper, "the poor gentleman--" "the old lady's son?" said the flyman, tipping his finger in the direction of the landlady. "paul drayton," said hugh. mercy saw and heard all. the tears suddenly dried in her eyes, which opened wide in amazement. she said nothing. hugh caught the altered look in her face. "mrs. drayton," he said, "didn't you say you had something urgent for mercy to do? let her set about it at once. now, driver, lend a hand--upstairs; it's only a step." they lifted paul ritson between them, and were carrying him out of the bar. "where's the boy?" asked hugh. "don't let him get in the way. boys are more hindrance than help," he added, in an explanatory tone. they had reached the foot of the stair. "now, my man, easy--heavy, eh? rather." they went up. mercy stood in the middle of the floor with a tearless and whitening face. half a minute later hugh ritson and the flyman had returned to the bar. the phantom of a smile lurked about the flyman's mouth. hugh ritson's face was ashen, and his lips quivered. the boxes and portmanteaus which paul and greta had left in the bar three nights ago still lay in one corner. hugh pointed them out to the driver. "put them on top of the cab," he said. the flyman proceeded to do so. when the man was outside the door, hugh ritson turned to mrs. drayton. the landlady was fussing about, twitching her apron between nervous fingers. "mrs. drayton," said hugh, "you will go in this fly to the convent of st. margaret, westminster. there you will ask for mrs. ritson, the lady who was here on friday night. you will tell her that you have her luggage with you, and that she is to go with you to st. pancras station to meet her husband, and return to cumberland by the midnight train. you understand?" "i can't say as i do, sir, asking pardon, sir. if so be as the lady axes why her husband didn't come for her hisself--what then?" "then say what is true--nothing more, mrs. drayton." "and happen what may that be, sir?" "that her husband is ill--but mind--not seriously." "oh, well, i can speak to that, sir, being as i saw the poor gentleman." mrs. drayton was putting on her bonnet and shawl. the flyman had fixed the luggage on top of the cab, and was standing in the bar, whip in hand. "a glass for the driver," said hugh. mrs. drayton moved toward the counter. "no, you get into the cab, mrs. drayton; mercy will serve." mercy went behind the counter and served the liquor in an absent manner. "it's now ten-thirty," said hugh, looking at his watch. "you will drive first to the convent, westminster, and from there to st. pancras, to catch the train at twelve." saying this, he walked to the door and put his head through the window of the cab. the landlady was settling herself in her seat. "mrs. drayton," he whispered, "you must not utter a syllable about your son when you see the lady. mind that. you understand?" "well, sir, i can't say--being as i saw the gentleman--wherever's paul?" "hush!" the driver came out. he leaped to his seat. in another moment the cab rattled away. hugh ritson walked back into the house. the boy jabez had come down-stairs. "when do you close the house?" hugh asked. "eleven o'clock, sir," said jabez. "no one here--you might almost as well close now. no matter--go behind the bar, my lad. mercy, your eyes are more inflamed than ever; get away to bed immediately." mercy's eyes were not more red than their expression was one of bewilderment. she moved off mechanically. when she reached the foot of the stairs she turned and tried to speak. the words would not come. at length she said, in a strange voice: "you did not tell me the truth." "mercy!" "where's parson christian?" said mercy, and her voice grew stern. "you must not use that tone to me. come, get away to bed, little one." her eyes dropped before his. she turned away. he watched her up the stairs. so sure of hand was he that not even at that moment did he doubt his hold of her. but mercy did not go to bed. she turned in at the open door of drayton's room. the room was dark; only a fitful ray of bleared moonlight fell crosswise on the floor; but she could see that the unconscious figure of paul ritson lay stretched upon the bed. "and i have led you here with a lie!" she thought. then her head swam and fell on to the counterpane. some minutes passed in silence. she was aroused by footsteps in the passage outside. they were coming toward this room. the door, which stood ajar, was pushed open. there was no time for mercy to escape, so she crept back into the darkness of a narrow space between the foot of the bed and the wall. two men entered. mercy realized their presence in the dark room rather by the sense of touch than by the sense of hearing or sight. they walked lightly, the darkness hid them, but the air seemed heavy with their hot breath. one of them approached the bedside; mercy felt the bed quiver. the man leaned over it, and there was a pause. only the scarcely perceptible breathing of the insensible man fell on the silence. "he's safe enough still," said a voice that thrilled her through and through. "now for it--there's no time to lose!" the girl crouched down and held her breath. "damme if i ain't wishing myself well out of it!" muttered another voice. mercy knew both men. they were hugh ritson and paul drayton. hugh closed the door. "what simpleton says fortune favors the brave?" he said, in a low, derisive tone. "here is fortune at the feet of a man like you!" drayton growled, and mercy heard the oath that came from beneath his breath. "i'm wanting to be out of this, and i ain't ashamed for you to know it." hugh ritson's light laugh came from the bedside. he was still standing by paul ritson's head. "if the lord mayor came for you in his carriage, with a guard of flunkies, you would leave this house in less safety," he said. then he added, impatiently: "come, waste no words; strip off that tell-tale coat." with this he leaned over the bed, and there was a creak of the spring mattress. "what's that?" said drayton, in an affrighted tone. "for god's sake, be a man!" said hugh, bitterly. "d'ye call this a man's work?" muttered drayton. the light laugh once more. "perhaps not so manly as robbing the dead and dying," said hugh ritson, and his voice was deep and cold. mercy heard another muttered oath. dear god! what was about to be done? could she escape? the door was closed. still, if she could but reach it, she might open it and fly away. at that instant, hugh ritson, as if apprehending her thought, said, "wait," and then stepped back to the door and drew the snap bolt. mercy leaned against the wall, and heard the beating of her heart. in the darkness she knew that paul drayton had thrown off his coat. "a good riddance!" he muttered, and the heavy garment fell with a thud. hugh ritson had returned to the bed-head. "give me a hand," he said; "raise him gently--there, i'll hold him up--now draw off his coat--quietly, one arm at a time. is it free? then, lift--away." another heavy garment fell with a thud. "what's the fence got in his other pockets, eh?" "come, lend your hand again--draw off the boots--they're cumberland make, and yours are cockney style--quick!" drayton stepped to the bottom of the bed and fumbled at the feet of the insensible man. he was then within a yard of the spot where the girl stood. she could feel his proximity, and the alcoholic fumes of his breath rose to her nostrils. she was dizzy, and thought she must have fallen. she stretched out one hand to save herself, and it fell on to the bed-rail. it was within a foot of drayton's arm. "take off his stockings--they're homespun--while i remove the cravat. the pin was a present; it has his name engraved on the plate behind." the slant of the moonlight had died off the floor, and all was dark. drayton's craven fears seemed to leave him. he laughed and crowed. "how quiet the fence is--very obliging, i'm sure--just fainted in the nick of time. will it last?" "quick! strip off your own clothes and put them where these have come from. the coat with the torn lapel--where is it? make no mistake about that." "i'll pound it, no!" drayton laughed a short, hoarse laugh. there was some shuffling in the darkness. then a pause. "hush!" mercy knew that hugh ritson had grasped the arm of drayton, and that both held their breath. at that moment the moonlight returned, and the bleared shaft that had once crossed the floor now crossed the bed. the light fell on the face of the prostrate man. his eyes were open. "water--water!" said paul ritson, very feebly. hugh ritson stepped out of the moonlight and went behind his brother. then mercy saw a hand before paul's face, putting a spirit flask to his mouth. when the hand was raised the face twitched slightly, the eyes closed with a convulsive tremor, and the half-lifted head fell back on to the pillow. "he'll be quieter than ever now," said hugh ritson, softly. mercy thought she must have screamed, but the instinct of self-preservation kept her still. she stirred not a limb. her head rested against the wall, her eyes peered into the darkness, her parched tongue and parted lips burned like fire. "quick! put his clothes on to your own back, and let us be gone." drayton drew on the garments and laughed hoarsely. "and a good fit, too--same make of a man to a t--ex--act--ly!" the window and the door stood face to face; the bed was on the left of the door, with the head at the door-end. the narrow alcove in which the girl stood was to the left of the window, and in front of the window there was a dressing-table. drayton stepped up to this table to fix the cravat by the glass. the faint moonlight that fell on his grinning face was reflected dimly into the mirror. at that moment mercy's sickening eyes turned toward the bed. there, in repose that was like death itself, lay the upturned face of paul ritson. two faces cast by nature in the same mold--one white and serene and peaceful, the other bloated, red, smirking, distorted by passion, with cruel eyes and smoking lips. "the very thing--the very thing--damme if his own mother wouldn't take me for her son!" hugh ritson stepped to drayton's side. when he spoke his voice was like a cold blast of wind. "now listen: from this moment at which you change your coat for his you cease to be paul drayton, and become paul ritson." "didn't you say i was to be paul lowther?" "that will come later." "as i say, it won't go into my nob." "no matter; say nothing to yourself but this, 'i am to pretend to be paul ritson.'" "well, now for it!" "ready?" asked hugh. he returned to the bed-head. "ready." "then give a hand here. we must put him up into your garret. when the police come for him he must seem to be in hiding and in drink. you understand?" a low, hoarse laugh was the only answer. then they lifted the unconscious man from the bed, opened the door, and carried him into the passage. mercy recovered her stunned senses. when the men were gone she crept out on tiptoe and tripped down the passage to her own room. at the door she reeled and fell heavily. then, in a vague state of consciousness, she heard these words passed over her--"carry her back into her room and lock her in." at the same instant she felt herself being lifted in a strong man's arms. chapter xvi. before gubblum oglethorpe parted with jabez, he tried to undo the mischief he had done. "give us a shak' o' thy daddle," he said, holding out his hand. but jabez had not forgotten the similitude of the swine ring. he made no response. "dang him for a fool!" thought gubblum. "he's as daft as a besom." then gubblum remembered with what lavish generosity he had bribed the pot-boy to no purpose. "he cover't a shilling dammish," he thought; "i'll dang his silly head off!" jabez put down the candle and backed out of the room, his eyes fixed on the peddler with a ghostly stare. "you needn't boggle at me. i'll none hurt ye," said gubblum. jabez pulled the door after him. "his head's no'but a lump of puddin' and a daub o' pancake," thought gubblum. then the peddler sat on the bed and began to wonder what possible reason there might be for the lad's sudden change of temper. he sat long, and many crude notions trotted through his brain. at last he recalled the fact that he had said something about jabez's snout carrying a swine ring. that was the rub, sure enough. "i mak' no doobt he thowt it was a by-wipe," thought gubblum. just as the peddler had arrived at this sapient conclusion, he heard heavy footsteps ascending and descending the ladder that stood in the passage outside. gubblum understood the sounds to mean that the inn was so full of visitors that some of them had to be lodged even in the loft. "ey, i shouldn't wonder but this is a bonny paying consarn," he thought. he undressed, got into bed, and blew out his light. he lay awhile waiting for sleep, and thinking of the failure of his plummets to sound the depths of jabez. then he remembered with vexation that the lad had even laughed at him in spite of the "shilling dammish." "shaf, it was no'but his guts crowkin'," thought gubblum; and he rolled over, face to the wall, and began to pay nasal tribute to sleep. from the slowly tightening grip of unconsciousness gubblum was roused to sudden wakefulness. there was a noise as of heavy shuffling feet outside his door. the peddler raised himself and listened. "too dark in this corner," said a voice. "get a light." gubblum crept out of bed, held his head to the door, and listened. there were retreating steps. then the man who had spoken before spoke again. "quick, there! we must catch the train at eleven fifteen." the voice pealed in gubblum's memory. he knew it. it was the voice of the last man he should have looked for in this house--hugh ritson. presently the footsteps approached, and thin fingers of light shot over gubblum's head into his dark room. he looked up at the door. three small round holes had been pierced into the styles for ventilation. "put the candle on the floor and take the feet--i'll go up first," said the same voice. gubblum raised himself on tiptoe and tried to peer through the perforations. he was too small a man to see through. there was a chair by the side of his bed, and his extinguished candle stood on it. he removed the candlestick, lifted the chair cautiously, placed its back to the door, and mounted it. then he saw all. there were two men, and he knew both--the brothers ritson. ah! had he not said that paul ritson kept this inn? "i'll shut up the whole boilin' of 'em next time," thought the peddler, "wait! what are they lugging into the pigeon loft?" "easy!--damme, but the fence is a weight!" it was the hoarse voice of the other man. the candle was behind him and on the floor. it cast its light on his back. "if i could no'but get a blink frae the cannel, i'd see what's atween them," thought gubblum. the men with their burden were now at the top of the ladder. "twist about, and go in sideways," muttered the voice first heard. the man below twisted. this movement brought the full light of the candle on to the faces of all three. "lord a'mighty, whativer's this?" gubblum thought. the burden was a man's body. but it was the face that startled the peddler--the face of paul ritson. gubblum's eyes passed over the group in one quick glance. he saw two paul ritsons there, and one of them lay as still as the dead. a minute more of awful tension, and the door of the loft above was slammed and shut, the heavy feet of the two men descended the ladder quickly, and went down the stairs into the bar. gubblum listened as if with every sense. he knew that the outer door to the road had opened and closed. he heard footsteps dying away in the distance without. all was silent within the house. * * * * * two men hastening in the night to the hendon railway station paused at that turn of the road which leads to the police offices and jail. "you go on and take care of yourself--i'll follow in five minutes," said one. "you ain't going to give a man away?" said the other. there was only a contemptuous snort for answer. the first speaker had turned on his heel. when he reached the police offices, he rang the bell. the door was answered by a sergeant in plain clothes. "i've found your man for you," said hugh ritson. "where, sir?" "at the hawk and heron." "who is he?" "paul drayton. you'll find him lying in the garret at the west end of the gable--drunk. lose not an hour. go at once." "is the gentleman who struggled with him still staying there--mr. paul ritson?" "no; he goes back home to-night." "what's his address in the country?" "the ghyll, newlands, cumberland." "and yours, sir?" "i am his brother, hugh ritson, and my address is the same." "we'll go this instant." "well, take your piece of frieze with you and see if it fits. it was by the torn ulster that i recognized your man. good-night." chapter xvii. as soon as the noise of the retiring steps had died away on gubblum's ear, he dressed himself partially, opened the door of his bedroom cautiously, and stepped into the passage. he was still in the dark, and groping with one hand, he felt for the ladder by which the two men had carried their burden to the loft above. he had grasped the lowest rungs of it, and was already some steps up, when he heard a singular noise. it was something between the cry of a child and the deep moan of a sick man. did it come from the loft? gubblum held his head in that direction and listened. no; the sound was from the other end of the passage. now it was gone, and all was quiet. what a strange house was this! "can't see a styme," thought gubblum. "i'll away for the cannel." back in his bedroom he struck a match, and then stepped afresh into the passage, guarding the newly lighted candle with the palm of his hand. then there came a shrill cry. it seemed to be before him, above him, behind him, everywhere about him. gubblum's knees gave way, but the stubborn bit of heart in him was not to be shaken. "a rayder queerly sort of a house," he thought; and at that instant there were heavy lunges at a door at the further end of the passage, and a cry of "help! help!" gubblum darted in the direction of the voice. "let me out!" cried the voice from within. gubblum tried the door. it was locked. "help! help!" came again. "in a sniffer; rest ye a bit!" shouted gubblum, and putting the light on the floor, he planted his shoulder against the door, and one foot against the opposite wall. "help! help! let me out! quick, quick!" came once more from within. "sec a skrummidge!" shouted gubblum, panting for breath. then the lock gave way and the door flew open. in the midst of the bad light gubblum saw nothing at first. then a woman with wild eyes and a face of anguish came out on him from the dark room. it was mercy fisher. when they recognized each other there was a moment of silence. but it was only a moment, and that moment was too precious to be lost. in a flood of tears the girl told him what had happened. gubblum understood no more than that villainy had been at work. mercy saw nothing but that she had been deceived and had been herself the instrument of deception. this was enough. "the raggabrash! i'd like to rozzle their backs with an ash stick," said gubblum. "oh, where have they taken him--where, where?" cried mercy, wringing her hands. "don't put on wi' thee--i know," said gubblum. "i questit them up the stairs. come along wi' me, lass, and don't slobber and yowl like a barn." gubblum whipped up his candle, and hurried along the passage and up the ladder like a monkey, mercy following at his heels. "belike they've locked this door forby," he said. but no, the key was in the lock. gubblum turned it and pushed it open. then he peered into the garret, holding the candle above his head. when the light penetrated the darkness, they saw a man's figure outstretched on a mattress that lay on the bare floor of the empty room. they ran up to it, and raised the head. "it's his fadder's son, i'll uphod thee," said gubblum. "and yon riff-raff, his spitten picter, is no'but some wastrel merry-begot." mercy was down on her knees beside the insensible man, chafing his hands. there was a tremulous movement of the eyelids. "sista, he's coming tul't. slip away for watter, lass," said gubblum. mercy was gone and back in an instant. "let a be, let a be--he'll come round in a crack. rub his forehead--stir thy hand, lass--pour the watter--there, that's enough--plenty o' butter wad sto a dog. sista, he's coming tul't fast." paul ritson had opened his eyes. "slip away for mair watter, lass--there, that's summat like--rest ye, my lad--a drink?--ey, a sup o' watter." paul looked around him. his filmy eyes were full of questions. but at first his tongue would not speak. he looked up at the bare skylight and around at the bleached walls, and then back into the face of the peddler. he noticed mercy, and smiled. "where are we, my girl?" he said, faintly. "this is the hawk and heron," she answered. "how do i come to be here?" he asked. mercy covered her face, and sobbed. "i brought you," she said, at length. paul looked at her a moment with bewildered eyes. then the tide of memory flowed back upon his mind. "i remember," he said, quietly; "i was feeling dizzy--hadn't slept two nights--not even been in bed--walked the streets the long hours through." everything had rushed over him in a moment, and he closed his eyes with a deep groan. at his feet mercy buried her face and sobbed aloud. paul drew himself feebly up on his elbow. "where is parson christian?" he asked, and gazed around, with a faint smile. the girl's anguish overflowed. "that was a lie i told you," she sobbed. the smile fled away. "a lie! why a lie?" he was struggling with a dazed sense. "i told you that parson christian was here and wanted you. he is not here." and mercy's weeping seemed to choke her. "my good girl, and why?" "they brought you to this room and left you, and now they are gone." "they! who?" "your brother hugh and mr. drayton." paul looked deadly sick at heart. "who is this drayton?" "the spitten picter of yourself, my lad," said gubblum; "the man i telt ye of lang ago--him as keeps this house." paul's eyes wandered vacantly. his nervous fingers twitched at the ulster that he wore. "what's this?" he said, and glanced down at his altered dress. "when you were insensible they stripped you of your clothes and put others on you," said mercy. "whose clothes are these?" "mr. drayton's." paul ritson rose to his feet. "where are the men?" he said, in a husky voice. "gone." "where?" "to the station--that was all i heard." paul gazed about with hazy eyes. mercy flung herself at his feet and wept bitterly. "forgive me! oh, forgive me!" he looked down at her with a confused expression. his brain was benumbed. he drew one arm across his face as though struggling to recover some lost link of memory. "why, my good lass, what's this?" he said, and then smiled faintly and made an attempt to raise her up. "who is at the convent at westminster?" she asked. then all his manner changed. "why?--what of that?" he said. "mrs. drayton was sent there in a cab to tell mrs. ritson to be at st. pancras station at midnight to meet her husband and return to cumberland." the face that had been pale became suddenly old and ghastly. there was an awful silence. "is this the truth?" he asked. "yes, yes," cried the girl. "i think i see it all now--i think i understand," he faltered. "forgive me!" cried the girl. he seemed hardly to see her. "i have been left in this room insensible, and the impostor who resembles me--where is he now?" he struggled with the sickness that was mastering him. his brain reeled. the palms of his hands became damp. he staggered and leaned against the wall. "rest ye a bit, my lad," said gubblum. "you'll be gitten stanch agen soon." he recovered his feet. his face was charged with new anger. "and the wicked woman who trapped me to this house is still here," he said, in a voice thick with wrath. "forgive me! forgive me!" wept the girl at his feet. he took her firmly by the shoulders, raised her to her knees, and turned her face upward till her eyes met his. "let me look at her," he said, hoarsely. "who would have believed it?" "forgive me! forgive me!" cried the girl. "woman, woman! what had i done to you--what, what?" the girl's sobs alone made answer. in his rage he took her by the throat. a fearful purpose was written in his face. "and this is the woman who bowed down the head of her old father nigh to the grave," he said, bitterly, and flung her from him. then he staggered back. his little strength had left him. there was silence. only the girl's weeping could be heard. the next instant, strangely calm, without a tear in his sad eyes, he stepped to her side and raised her to her feet. "i was wrong," he said; "surely i was wrong. you could not lie to me like that, and know it. no, no, no!" "they told me what i told you," said the girl. "and i blamed you for it all, poor girl." "then you forgive me?" she said, lifting her eyes timidly. "forgive you?--ask god to forgive you, girl. i am only a man, and you have wrecked my life." there was a foot on the ladder, and jabez, the boy, stepped up, a candle in his hand. he had been waiting for the landlady, when he heard voices overhead. "the varra man!" shouted gubblum. "didsta see owt of thy master down-stairs?" jabez grinned, and glanced up at paul ritson. "hark ye, laal man, didsta see two men leaving the house a matter of fifteen minutes ago?" "belike i did," said jabez. "and to be sure it were the gentleman that come here afore--and another one." "another one--your master, you mean?" jabez grinned from ear to ear. "didsta hear owt?" "i heard the gentleman say they had to be at st. pancras at midnight." paul fumbled at his breast for his watch. it was gone. "what's o'clock?" he asked. "fifteen after eleven, master," said jabez. "i've just bolted up." paul's face was full of resolution. "i'll follow," he said; "i've lost time enough already." "what, man! you'll never manish it--and you as weak as watter forby. you'll be falling swat in the road like a wet sack." paul had pulled the door open. excitement lent him strength. the next moment he was gone. "where's the master off to? st. pancras?" asked jabez. "fadge-te-fadge, gang out of my gate! away, and lig down your daft head in bed!" said gubblum. jabez did not act on the peddler's advice. he returned to the bar to await the return of mrs. drayton, whose unaccustomed absence gave rise to many sapient conjectures in the boy's lachrymose noddle. he found the door to the road open, and from this circumstance his swift intelligence drew the conclusion that his master had already gone. his hand was on the door to close and bolt it, when he heard rapid footsteps approaching. in an instant two men pushed past him and into the house. "where's mr. drayton," said one, panting from his run. "he's this minute gone," said jabez. "is that true, my lad?" the man asked, laying a hand on the boy's shoulder. "he's gone to st. pancras, sir. he's got to be there at midnight," said jabez. the boy had recognized the visitors, and was trembling. the men glanced into each other's faces. "that was drayton--the man that ran past us down the road," said one. "make sure of it," said the other. "search the place; i'll wait for you here." in two minutes more the men had left the house together. * * * * * a quarter of an hour later the night porter at the hendon railway station saw a man run across the platform and leap into the up train just as the carriages were moving away. he remarked that the man was bareheaded, and wore his clothes awry, and that a rent near the collar of his long frieze ulster exposed a strip of red flannel lining. he thought he knew him. the train had barely cleared the platform when two men ran up and came suddenly to a stand in front of the porter. "gone!" said one of them, with vexation. "that would be the 11:35," said the other, "to king's cross. did any one get into it here, porter?" "yes, sergeant--drayton, of the hawk and heron," said the porter. "your next up is 11:45 to st. pancras?" "yes, sir, due at twelve." "is it prompt?" "to the second." the two men faced about. "time enough yet," said one. chapter xviii. the cab that drove mrs. drayton into london carried with it a world of memories. thought in her old head was like the dip of a sea-bird in the sea--now here, now there, now a straight flight, and now a backward swirl. as she rattled over the dark roads of child hill and the new end, she puzzled her confused brain to understand the business on which she had been sent. why had the gentleman been brought out to hendon? why, being ill, was he so soon to be removed? why, being removed, was he not put back into this cab, and driven to the station for cumberland? what purpose could be served by sending her to the convent for the gentleman's wife, when the gentleman himself might have been driven there? why was the lady in a convent? the landlady pursed up her lips and contracted her wrinkled brows in a vain endeavor to get light out of the gloom of these mysteries. the thought of the gentleman lying ill at her house suggested many thoughts concerning her son. paul was not her son, and his name was not drayton. whose son he was she never knew, and what his name was she had never heard. but she had fixed and done for him since he was a baby, and no mother could have loved a son more than she had loved her paul. what a poor, puling little one he was, and how the neighbors used to shake their heads and say: "you'll never rear it; there's a fate on it, poor, misbegotten mite!" that was thirty long years ago, and now paul was the lustiest young man in hendon. ah! it was not hendon then, but london, and her husband, the good man, was alive and hearty. "it'll thrive yet, martha," he would say, and the little one would seem to know him, and would smile and crow when he cracked his fingers over its cot. then the landlady thought of the dark days that followed, when bread was scarce and the gossips would say: "serve you right. what for do you have an extra mouth to feed?--take the brat to the foundling." but her husband, god bless him, had always said: "what's bite and sup for a child? keep him, martha; he'll be a comfort to ye yet, old woman." mrs. drayton wiped her eyes as she drove in the dark. then the bad times changed, and they left the town and took the inn at hendon, and then the worst times of all came on them, for as soon as they were snug and comfortable the good man himself died. he lay dying a week, and when the end came he cried for the child. "give me the boy," he said, and she lifted the child into his arms in bed. then he raised his thin white hand to stroke the wavy hair, but the poor hand fell into the little one's face. mrs. drayton shifted in her seat, and tried to drive away the memories that trod on the heels of these recollections; but the roads were still dark, and nothing but an empty sky was to be seen, and the memories would not be driven away. she recalled the days when young paul grew to be a lusty lad--daring, reckless, the first in mischief, the deepest in trouble. and there was no man's hand to check him, and people shook their heads and whispered, "he'll come to a bad end; he has the wickedness in his blood." poor lad, it was not his fault if he had turned out a little wild and wayward and rough, and cruel to his own mother, as you might say, jostling her when he had a drop to drink, and maybe striking her when he didn't know what he was doing, and never turning his hand to honest work, but always dreaming of fortunes coming some day, and betting and racing, and going here and there, and never resting happy and content at home. it was not his fault: he had been led astray by bad companions. and then she didn't mind a blow--not she. every woman had to bear the like of that. you want a world of patience if you have men creatures about you--that's all. thinking of bad companions suggested to the landlady's mind, by some strange twist of which she was never fully conscious, the idea of hugh ritson. the gentleman who had come so strangely among them appeared to have a curious influence over paul. he seemed to know something of paul's mother. paul himself rummaged matters up long ago, and found that the lady had escaped from the asylum, and been lost. and now the strange gentleman came with her portrait and said she was dead. poor soul, how well mrs. drayton remembered her! and that was thirty years ago! she had never afterward set eyes on the lady, and never heard of her but once, and even that once must be five-and-twenty years since. one day she went for coal to the wharf at pimlico, and there she met an old neighbor, who said: "mrs. drayton, your lodger, she that drowned herself, came back for the babby, but your man and you were shifted away." and to think that the poor young thing was dead and gone now, and she herself, who had thought she was old even in those days, was alive and hearty still! by this time the cab was rattling through the busy streets of london, and the train of the landlady's thoughts was broken. only in a vague way did she know where she was going. the cab was taking her there, and it would take her back again. when they reached the convent she had to ask for mrs. ritson, and say she was sent to take her to st. pancras station to meet her husband there, and return to cumberland by the train at midnight. that was all. the clock of the abbey was marking the half-hour after eleven as the cab passed into parliament square. in another minute they drew up before the convent in abbey gardens. the cabman jumped from the box, rang the bell, and helped mrs. drayton to alight. the iron gate and the door in the portico swung open together, and a nun stood on the threshold, holding a lamp in her hand. mrs. drayton hobbled up the steps and entered the hall. a deep gloom pervaded the wide apartment, in which there were but two wicker chairs and a table. the nun wore a gray serge gown, with a wimple cut square on her chest, a girdle about her waist, and a rosary hanging by her side. "can i see a lady boarder--mrs. ritson?" said the landlady. the nun started a little, and then answered in a low, melancholy voice, in which the words she spoke were lost. mrs. drayton's eyes were now accustomed to the gloom, and she looked into the nun's face. it was a troubled and clouded face, and when it was lifted for an instant to her own, mrs. drayton felt chilled, as if a death's-hand had touched her. it was the face of the mother of paul! older, sadder, calmer, but the same face still. the nun dropped her eyes, and made the sign of the cross. then she walked with a quick and noiseless step to the other end of the hall, and sounded a deep gong. in a moment this summoned a sister--a novice, dressed like the first, except all in white. mrs. drayton was now trembling from head to foot, but she repeated her question, and was led into a bare, chill room, and left alone. chapter xix. when greta parted from hugh ritson three hours before, she was in an agony of suspense. another strange threat had terrified her. she had been asked to make choice of one of two evils; refusing to believe in hugh ritson's power, she had rejected both. but the uncertainty was terrible. to what lengths might not passion, unrequited passion, defeated passion, outraged passion, lead a man like hugh ritson? without pity, without remorse, with a will that was relentless and a heart that never knew truth, he was a man to flinch at no extremity. what had he meant? greta's first impulse had been to go in search of her husband, but this was an idle and a foolish thought. where should she look? besides this, she had promised to remain in the convent until her husband should come for her, and she must keep her word. she did not go to supper when the gong sounded, but crept up to her room. the bell rang for vespers, and greta did not go to the chapel. she lay down in anguish and wept scalding tears. the vesper hymn floated up to her where she lay, and she was still weeping. there was no light in this dark place; there was no way out of this maze but to wait and suffer. and slowly the certainty stole upon her that hugh ritson had made no idle threat. he was a resolute man; he had given her a choice of two courses, and had she not taken a selfish part? if paul, her husband, were indeed in danger, no matter from what machination of villainy--was it much to ask that she, his wife, should rescue him by a sacrifice that fell heaviest upon herself? hugh ritson had been right--her part had been a selfish one. oh, where was mr. christian? she had telegraphed for him, and he had answered that he would come; yet hour had followed hour, and still he had not arrived. three hours she tossed in agony. she heard the sisters pass up the echoing stone staircase to their dormitories, and then the silent house became as dumb as a vault. not a ripple flowed into this still tarn from the great stream of the world that rushed and surged and swelled with the clangor of a million voices around its incrusted sides. her window overlooked the abbey gardens. all was quiet beneath. not a step sounded on the pavement. before her the blank wall was black, and the dark, leafless trees stood out from the vague green of the grass beyond. against the sky were the dim outlines of the two towers of the old abbey--by day a great rock for the pigeons that wheeled above the tumbling sea of the city, by night a skull of stone from which the voice of the bell told of the flight of time. out of the calm of a moment's stupefaction greta was awakened by a knock at her door. the novice entered and told her that a woman waited below to speak with her. greta betrayed no surprise, and she was beyond the reach of fresh agitation. without word or question she followed the novice to the room where mrs. drayton sat. she recognized the landlady and heard her story. greta's heart leaped up at the thought of rejoining her husband. here was the answer to the prayer that had gone up she knew not how often from her troubled heart. soon she would be sure that hugh ritson's threat was vain. soon she would be at paul's side and hold his hand, and no earthly power should separate them again. ah, thank god, the merciful father, who healed the wounded hearts of his children, she should very soon be happy once more, and all the sorrows of these past few days would fade away into a dim memory. "twelve o'clock at st. pancras, and you have the luggage in a cab at the door, you say?" "yes; and there's no time to lose, for, to be sure, the night is going fast," said mrs. drayton. "and he will be there to meet me?" asked greta. her eyes, still wet with recent tears, danced with a new-found joy. "yes, at st. pancras," said the landlady. greta's happiness overflowed. she took the old woman in her arms and kissed her wizened cheeks. "wait a minute--only a minute," she said, and tripped off with the swift glide of a lapwing. but when she was half-way up the stairs her ardor was arrested, and she returned with drooping face and steps of lead. "but why did he not come for me himself?" she asked. "the gentleman is not well--he is ill," said mrs. drayton. "ill? you say he is ill? then he could not come. and i blamed him for not coming!" "the gentleman is weak, but noways worse; belike he will go straight off and meet you at the station." greta turned away once again, and went upstairs slowly. at a door on the first landing she tapped lightly, and when a voice answered from within she entered the room. the superior was on her knees at a table. she lifted a calm and spiritual face as greta approached. "reverend mother," said greta, "i am leaving you this moment." "so soon, my daughter?" "my husband has sent for me; he will meet me at the railway station at twelve." "why did he not come himself?" "he is ill; he has gone direct." "the hour is late and the message is sudden. are you satisfied?" "i am anxious, reverend mother--" "what is it, my daughter?" "an old gentleman, a clergyman, mr. christian, is coming from cumberland. i have expected him hourly, but he is not yet arrived. i cannot wait; i must rejoin my husband. will you order that a message be left for the clergyman?" "what is the message, my child?" "simply that i have returned with my husband by the train leaving st. pancras at midnight." "the lay sister in the hall shall deliver it." "who is the sister?" "sister grace." there was a silence. "reverend mother, has sister grace ever spoken of the past?" the superior told a few beads. "the past is as nothing to us here, my daughter. within these walls the world does not enter. in the presence of the cross the past and the future are one." greta drew a long breath. then she stooped and kissed the hand of the superior, and turned softly away. greta and the landlady passed out through the deep portico, and the same nun who had opened the door closed it behind them. mrs. drayton clung to greta's arm as they went through, and her hand trembled perceptibly. "who is she?" whispered the landlady, when they were seated in a cab. "sister grace," said greta, and turned her head aside. "i could ha' sworn as she were the mother of my paul," murmured mrs. drayton. greta faced about, but the landlady saw nothing of the look of inquiry; her eyes, like her thoughts, were far away. chapter xx. though the hour was late, the streets were thronged. the people were trooping home from the theaters; and the strand, as greta and the landlady crossed it, was choked with cabs and omnibuses. the cab drove through the seven dials, and there the public-houses were disgorging at every corner their poor ruins of men and women. shouts, curses, quarreling, and laughter struck upon the ear above the whir of the wheels. unshaven men and unwashed women, squalid children running here and there among the oyster and orange stalls, thieves, idlers, vagabonds of all conditions, not a few honest people withal, and among them the dark figures of policemen. greta's heart beat high that night. her spirit was full of a new alacrity. every inch of the way, as they flew over the busy streets, seemed to awake in her soul some fresh sensibility. she wondered where the multitudes of people came from, and whither they were going--vast oceans on oceans of humanity, flowing and ebbing without tide. she wanted to alight a hundred times, and empty her pockets of all her money. a blind man, playing a tin whistle, and leading a small dog held by a long string, awoke her special pity; the plaintive look in the eye of the cur was an object of peculiar sympathy. a filthy woman, reeling drunk and bareheaded across the street, almost under the feet of the horses, her discolored breast hanging bare, and a puny infant crying feebly in her arms, was another occasion for solicitude. a tiny mite that might have been a dirty boy, coiled up in a ball on a doorstep like a starved cat, was an object of all but irresistible attraction. but she dare not stop for an instant; and, at last, with this certainty, she lay back and shut her eyes very resolutely, and wondered whether, after all, it were not very selfish to be very happy. the cab stopped with a jolt; they were at st. pancras station. "has he come?" asked greta, eagerly, and looked about her with eyes that comprehended everything at a glance. she could not see paul, and when a porter opened the cab and helped her to alight, it was on her tongue to ask the man if he had seen her husband. but no, she would not do that. she must look for him herself, so that she might be the first to see him. oh, yes, she must be the very first to see him, and she was now obstinately determined to ask no one. the porter brought round the truck, and wheeled the luggage onto the platform, and greta and mrs. drayton followed it. then the wide eyes that half smiled and looked half afraid beneath their trembling lids glanced anxiously around. no, paul was not there. "what is the time?" she asked, her eyes still wandering over the bustling throng about her. "ten to twelve, miss," announced the porter. "oh," she said, with a sigh of relief, "then he will soon be here." "will you sit in the waiting-room, miss?" asked the porter; and almost unconsciously she followed him when he led the way. mrs. drayton hobbled behind her. "what did he say about being ill?" she asked, when they were left together. "that he was only a bit dizzy. mayhap he's noways 'customed to illness," said the landlady. "that is true. and what did you say then?" "i coaxed him to rest him a bit, and take a drop o' summat, and he smiled and said, 'thank you, my good woman.' "you were in the right, you dear old soul," said greta. and she put her arms about the landlady and hugged her. "i'm sure you've been very good to my husband, and watched him tenderly, while i, who should have nursed him, have been away. thank you, thank you!" mrs. drayton was feeling uneasy. "well, d'ye know, i can't bear to see a fellow creatur' suffer. it goes agen me someways." greta had risen to her feet. "stay here, mrs. drayton--drayton, isn't it?--stay here while i go on to the platform. he might come and not see me. ah, yes, he may be looking everywhere for me now." she went out and elbowed her way among the people who were hurrying to and fro; she dodged between the trucks that were sliding luggage on to the weighing machine and off to the van. the engines were puffing volumes of smoke and steam up to the great glass roof, where the whistle of the engine-man echoed sharp and shrill. presently she returned to the waiting-room. "oh, mrs. drayton," she said, "i dreamed a fearful dream last night. what do you think? will he be well enough to come?" "coorse, coorse, my dear. 'tell her to meet her husband at twelve.' them's the gentleman's own words." "how happy i shall be when we are safe at home! and if he is ill, it will be for me to nurse him then." the light in the dove-like eyes at that moment told plainly that to the poor soul even illness might bring its compensating happiness. "and as to dreams, to be sure, they are on'y dreams; and what's dreams, say i?" "you are right, mrs. drayton," said greta, and once more she shot away toward the platform. her mind had turned to parson christian. could it be possible that he had arrived? the porter who had brought in her luggage was still standing beside it, and with him there was another porter. their backs were toward greta as she came out of the waiting-room, and, tripping lightly behind them, she overheard a part of their conversation before they were aware that she was near. "see the old file in the gaiters by the eleven up?" said one. "rather. a reg'lar grandmother's great-grandfather just out of the year one. talk about swallows, eh?--and the buckles--and the stockings!" "good sort, how-an'-ever." "good for a tip, eh? wouldn't ha' thought it." "no, but a real good-hearted 'un an' if he is a pape." "never?" "to be sure. got me to put him in a fly for the catholic convent up westminster way." greta could restrain herself no longer, but burst in upon them with twenty questions. when had the parson arrived? when had he left? was it in a fly? would it go quickly? could there be time for it to get back? "what's your train, miss--twelve to the north?" "yes; will he catch it?" "scarce get back at twelve," said the porter. but, in spite of this discouraging prophecy, greta was so elated at the fresh intelligence that she drew out her purse and gave the man five shillings. she had no other change than two half crowns and two pennies, and in her present elevation of soul there could be no choice, between the silver and the copper, as to which the bearer of such news deserved. the man stared, and then smiled, but he quickly reconciled himself to the unexpected. with extraordinary alacrity he labeled the luggage, and bowled off to the north train, which was already at the platform. it was now within three minutes of midnight, and mrs. drayton had joined greta in the bustling throng on the platform. "oh, i feel as if a thousand hearts were all swelling and beating in my breast at once," said greta. "mrs. drayton, is it certain that he will come? porter, have you put the luggage in the van? which is the train--the left?" "no, miss, the left's going out to make room for the local train up from kentish town and hendon. the right's your train, miss. got your ticket, miss?" "not yet. must i get it, think you? is the time short? yes, i will get two tickets myself," she added, turning to the landlady. "then when he comes he will have nothing to do but step into the carriage." "you'll have to be quick, miss--train's nigh due out--only a minute," said the porter. greta's luminous eyes were peering over the heads of the people that were about her. then they brightened, with a flash more swift than lightning, and all her face wore in an instant a heavenly smile. "ah, he is there--there at the back--at the booking-office--run to him, run my good, dear creature; run and tell him i am here! i'll find a compartment and have the door open." greta tripped along the platform with the foot of a deer. in another moment she had a carriage door open, and she stood there with the handle in her hand. she saw him coming who was more than all the world to her. but she did not look twice. no, she would not look twice. she would wait until they were within, alone, together. side by side with him walked hugh ritson. could it be possible? and was it he who had brought her husband? ah! he had repented, and it was only she who had been bitter to the end. how generous of him! how cruel of her! her eyes fell, and a warm flush overspread her cheeks as he who came first stepped into the carriage. she did not look again at him, nor did he look again at her. she knew he did not, though her eyes were down. "oh, when we are alone!" she thought, and then she turned to hugh ritson. the heavenly smile was still on her beautiful face, and the deep light in her eyes spoke of mingled joy and grief. "hugh, i fear, i fear," she faltered, "i have been hard and cruel. let us be friends; let me be your dearest sister." he looked at her in silence. his infirm foot trailed a pace. he saw what was in her heart, and he knew well what was in his own heart, too; he thought of the blow that he was about to strike her. she held out her hand, and took in hers his own unresisting fingers. ay, he knew that there and then he was about to break that forgiving heart forever. he knew who had stepped into that carriage. she leaned forward and kissed his cheek. the man in him could bear up no longer. he broke down; he could not speak; he was choked with emotion. she turned to the landlady, who stood near, twitching at the ribbons of her bonnet and peering into the carriage. "good-bye, mrs. drayton, and god bless you for what you have done for my husband!" the landlady muttered something that was inaudible; she was confused; she stammered, and then was silent. greta stepped into the carriage. the guard was standing at the door. the bell had been rung. the train had been signaled. the whistle had sounded. the clocks were striking midnight. "wait! wait!" it was a voice from the end of the platform. the guard turned with a smile to see who called on a train to wait. an old gentleman in silk stockings and gaiters, with long white hair flowing under the broad brim of a low-crowned hat, came panting to the only door that was still open. "quick, sir, it's moving; in with you!" "mr. christian!" cried greta, and throwing her arms about him, she drew him into the carriage. then the train began to move away. at that instant another train--the local train from kentish town and hendon--steamed up to the opposite side of the platform. before it had stopped two men leaped out. they were the two police-sergeants. instantly--simultaneously--a man burst through the barrier and ran on to the platform from the street. he was bareheaded, and his face was ghastly white. in one moment the police-sergeants had laid hands upon him. the train to the north had not yet cleared the platform. he saw it passing out. he took hold of the hands by which he was held and threw them off, as if their grasp had been the grasp of a child. then he bounded away toward the retreating train. it was now moving rapidly. it was gone; it was swallowed up in the dark mouth beyond, and the man stood behind, bareheaded, dripping with perspiration, yet white as ashes, his clothes awry, the collar of his frieze ulster torn away, and a strip of red flannel lining exposed. it was paul ritson. the police-sergeants hurried up with the re-enforcement of two porters to recover their man. but he was quiet enough now. he did not stir a muscle when they handcuffed him. he looked around with vague, vacant eyes, hardly seeming to realize where he was or what was being done with him. his frenzy was gone. they led him down the platform. hugh ritson was standing on the spot where greta had left him one minute before. when the company neared that spot the prisoner stopped. he looked across at hugh ritson in silence, and for an instant the dazed look died off his face. then he turned his head aside, and allowed himself to be led quietly away. chapter xxi. a morning paper, of november--, contained the following paragraph: "it will be remembered that in the reports of the disastrous railway collision, which occurred at hendon on friday last, it was mentioned as a ghastly accessory to the story of horror that an injured passenger, who had been lifted from the debris of broken carriages, and put to lie out of harm's way in a field close at hand, was brutally assaulted and (apparently) robbed by some unknown scoundrel, who, though detected in the act itself, tore himself from the grasp of police-sergeant cox, of the hendon division of the metropolitan police force, and escaped in the darkness. the authorities were determined that their vigilance should not be eluded, and a person named paul drayton is now in custody, and will be brought up at bow street this morning. it turns out that drayton is an innkeeper at hendon, where he has long borne a dubious character. he was arrested at midnight in st. pancras station, in a daring and mad attempt to escape by the north-bound train, and it is understood that the incident of his capture is such as reflects the highest credit on the resolution, energy, and intrepidity of the force." the same paper, of the day after, contained this further paragraph: "the man drayton, who was yesterday formally committed to take his trial at the central criminal court, will be brought up at the old bailey to-morrow; and as the evidence is said to be of a simple and unconflicting character, it is not expected that the hearing will extend over a single day. it is stated that the accused, who observed a rigid silence during yesterday's proceedings, will, on his trial, set up the extraordinary defense of mistaken identity." an evening paper of friday, november--, contained the following remarks in the course of a leading note: "it is a familiar legal maxim that a plea of alibi that breaks down is the worst of all accusations. the scoundrel that attempted to rob a dying man, who lay helpless and at his mercy amid the confusion of friday night's accident at hendon, was audacious enough to put forth the defense that he was not the man he was taken for. cases of mistaken identity are, of course, common enough in the annals of jurisprudence, but we imagine the instances are rare indeed of evidence of identity so exceptional and conclusive as that which convicted the hendon innkeeper being susceptible of error. the very clothes he wore in the dock bore their own witness to his guilt, and the court saw the police-sergeant produce a scrap of cloth torn from the guilty man's back, which exactly fitted a rent in the prisoner's ulster. the whole case would be a case of criminality too gross and palpable to merit a syllable of comment but for the astounding assurance with which the accused adhered to his plea in the face of evidence that was so complete as to make denial little more than a farce. he denied that he was paul drayton, and said his name was paul ritson. he was identified as drayton by several witnesses who have known him from infancy; among others by his old mother, martha drayton, whose evidence (given with reluctance, and with more tears than a son so unnatural deserved) was at once as damning and as painful as anything of the kind ever heard in a court of justice. the claim to be paul ritson was answered by the evidence of mr. hugh ritson, mine-owner in cumberland, and brother of the gentleman whom the prisoner wished to personate. mr. h. ritson admitted a resemblance, but had no hesitation in saying that the accused was not his brother. the prisoner thereupon applied to the court that the wife of paul ritson should be examined, but, as it was explained that both husband and wife were at present ill in cumberland, the court wisely ruled against the application. as a final freak of defense, the prisoner asked for the examination of one mercy fisher, who, he said, would be able to say by what circumstances he came to wear the clothes of the guilty man. the court adjourned for an hour in order that this person might be produced, but on reassembling it was explained that the girl, who turned out to be a mistress whom drayton had kept at his mother's house, had disappeared. thus, with a well-merited sentence of three years' penal servitude, ended a trial of which the vulgarity of detail was only equalled by the audacity of defense." a week passed, and the public had almost forgotten the incidents of the trial, when the following paragraph appeared in a weekly journal: "i have heard that the man who was sentenced to three years' penal servitude for robbery at the scene of the hendon accident was seized with an attack of brain fever immediately upon his arrival at millbank. the facts that transpire within that place of retirement are whispered with as much reserve as guards the secrets of another kind of confessional, but i do hear that since the admission of the man who was known on his trial as paul drayton, and who is now indicated by a numerical cognomen, certain facts have come to light which favor the defense he set up of mistaken identity." chapter xxii. the chapter room of st. margaret's convent was a chill, bare chamber containing an oak table and four or five plain oak chairs. on the painted walls, which were of dun gray, there was an etching by a florentine master of the flight into egypt, and a symbolic print of the sacred heart. besides these pictures there was but a single text to relieve the blindness of the empty walls, and it ran: "where the tree falls, there it must lie." four days after greta's departure from the house wherein she had been received as a temporary boarder, the superior sat in the chapter room, and a sister knelt at her feet. the sister's habit was gray and her linen cape was plain. she wore no scapular, and no hood above the close cap that hid her hair and crossed her forehead. she was, therefore, a lay sister; she was sister grace. "mother, hear my sin," she said in a trembling whisper. "speak on, daughter." "we were both at athlone in the year of the great famine. he was an officer in a regiment quartered there. i was a novice of the choir in the order of charity. we met in scenes sanctified by religion. oh, mother, the famine was sore, and he was kind to the famished people! 'the hunger is on us,' they would cry, as if it had been a plague of locusts. it was thus, with their shrill voices and wan faces, that the ragged multitudes followed us. yes, mother, he was very, very kind to the people." "well?" the penitent bowed her head yet lower. "my mother, i renounced the vows, and--we were married." the lips of the superior moved in silent prayer. "what was his name, my daughter?" "robert lowther. we came from ireland to london. a child was born, and we called him paul. then my husband's love grew chill and died. i grieved over him. perhaps i was but a moody companion. at last he told me--" the voice faltered; the whole body quivered. "well, my child?" "oh, mother, he told me i was not his wife; that i was a catholic, but that he was a protestant; that a catholic priest had married us in ireland without question or inquiry. that was not a valid marriage by english law." "shame on the english law! but what do we know of the law at the foot of the cross? well?" "he left me. mother, i flung god's good gift away. i tried to drown myself, and my little child with me; but they prevented me. i was placed in an asylum for the insane, and my baby--my paul--was given into the care of a woman with whom i had lodged. have i not sinned deeply?" "your sins are great, my daughter, but your sufferings have also been great. what happened then?" "i escaped from the asylum and returned for my child. it was gone. the woman had removed to some other part of london, none knew where, and my paul, my darling, was lost to me forever. my mother, it was then that i sinned deepest of all." her head was bowed to her trembling knees, and her voice was all but suspended in an agony of shame. "mother, i flung away god's better gift than life! oh, how shall i tell you? your foot trembles, reverend mother. you are a holy woman, and know nothing of the world's temptations." "hush, my daughter; i am as great a sinner as yourself." "i cannot tell you. mother, mother, you see i cannot." "it is for your soul's weal, my daughter." "i had tried to serve god, and he had seen my shame. what was left to me but the world, the world, the world! perhaps the world itself would have more mercy. my kind mother, have i not told you yet?" the superior made the sign of the cross. "ah, my daughter! the enemy of your soul was with you then. you should not have ceased to lift your hands to heaven in supplication and prayer. you should have prostrated yourself three days and nights in the tribune before the holy sacrament." the penitent raised her pale face. "in less time i was a lost and abandoned woman." the superior told a few beads with trembling fingers. then she lifted the cross that hung from her girdle, and held it out to the sister. "i thought of my child, and prayed that he might be dead. i thought of him who was not my husband, and my heart grew cold and hard. mother, my redemption came. yes, but with it came the meaning of the fearful words, too late. amid the reeling madness of the life that is mocked with the name of gay, i met a good man. yes, holy mother, a good man. mother, he now sleeps there!" her pale face, serene and solemn, was lifted again, and the hand that held the crucifix was raised above her head. "i loathed my life. he took me away from it--to the mountains--to scotland, and a child was born. mother, it was only then that i awoke as from a trance. it seemed as if a ring of sin begirt me. tears--ah, me! what tears were shed. but rest and content came at last, and then we were married." "my daughter, my daughter, little did i think when i received your vows that the enemy of your soul had so mastered you." "listen a little longer, holy mother. the child grew to be the image of my darling, my paul--every feature, every glance the same. and partly to remind me of my lost one, and partly to make me forget him forever, i called the second child paul. mother, the years went by in peace. the past was gone from me. only its memory lay like a waste in my silent heart. i had another son, and called him hugh. after many years my husband died." the penitent paused. "mother, another thing comes back to me; but i have confessed it already. shall i repeat it?" "no, my daughter, not if it touches the oath that lay heavy on your heart." "i thought my first child was dead. for thirty years i had not seen him. but the pathways of our lives crossed at last, and the woman who nursed him came to this house four days ago." "here?" "mother, my son, the child of that first false union, my darling, for whom i wept scalding tears long, long years ago; my paul, whose loss was all but the loss of his mother's soul, my son is a thief and an outcast." the lips of the superior moved again in prayer. "he is the man known to the world as paul drayton--to me as paul lowther." "my dear daughter, humble yourself in the midst of so awful a judgment. do you say drayton?--drayton, who, as i hear, was to-day tried and sentenced?" "no--yes--how shall i tell you?--the same and not the same. mother, the crime was committed by my son paul lowther, the sentence was pronounced on my son paul ritson." "my dear daughter--" "i was in the court and heard all; and i alone knew all--i alone, alone! bear with me that i transgressed the law of this holy order. think, oh! my kind mother, think that the nun was yet the woman, and, above all, the mother. yes, i heard all. i heard the charge that convicted my son paul lowther. he was guilty before god and man. but the prisoner in the dock was my son paul ritson. i knew him, and believed him when he denied the name they gave him. ah, me, my heart bled!" "what did you do, my daughter?" "mother, i was weak, very weak. i could not see my duty clearly. an awful conflict was rife within me. i could not justify the one man without condemning the other. and both were the children of my bosom." "fearful, fearful! but, my daughter, the one was guilty and the other innocent." "yes, yes; a thousand times yes; but then there was myself. how could i punish the guilty without revealing the secret sin that had been thirty years hidden in my heart? and my poor, weak spirit shrunk within me, and i sat silent amid all." "my daughter, we must crucify our spiritual pride." "yes, yes; but there was the love of my son, paul ritson--he thought me a good woman even yet. how could i confess to that sinful past and not loose the love of the only human soul that held me pure and true? mother, it is very sweet to be loved." "oh, my daughter, my daughter, a terrible situation, terrible, terrible!" "mother, i have told you everything. tell me now what hope is left. give me your direction." "my daughter, let us humble ourselves before god, and pray that he may reveal the path of duty. come." the superior rose, took her crozier in her hand, and walked out of the room. the sister followed her. they passed through the sacristy into the empty church. it was evening. the glow of a wintery sunset came through the windows to the west, and fell in warm gules on the altar. there was the hush of the world's awe here as day swooned into night. without these walls were turmoil and strife. within was the balm of rest--the rest that lies in the heart of the cyclone. and the good mother and the sister went down on their knees together, and prayed for light and guidance. the mother rose, but the sister knelt on; darkness fell, and she was still kneeling, and when the east was dabbled with the dawn, the gray light fell on her bowed head and uplifted hands. _book iv._ the waters of marah are bitter. chapter i. in the year 1877. the dale lay green in the morning sunlight; the river that ran through its lowest bed sparkled with purple and amber; the leaves prattled low in the light breeze that souched through the rushes and the long grass; the hills rose sheer and white to the smooth blue lake of the sky, where only one fleecy cloud floated languidly across from peak to peak. out of unseen places came the bleating of sheep and the rumble of distant cataracts, and above the dull thud of tumbling waters far away was the thin caroling of birds overhead. but the air was alive with yet sweeter sounds. on the breast of the fell that lies over against cat bells a procession of children walked, and sung, and chattered, and laughed. it was st. peter's day, and they were rush-bearing: little ones of all ages, from the comely girl of fourteen, just ripening into maidenhood, who walked last, to the sweet boy of four in the pinafore braided with epaulets, who strode along gallantly in front. most of the little hands carried rushes, but some were filled with ferns, and mosses, and flowers. they had assembled at the school-house, and now, on their way to the church, they were making the circuit of the dale. they passed over the road that crosses the river at the head of newlands, and turned down into the path that follows the bed of the valley. at that angle there stands a little group of cottages deliciously cool in their white-wash, nestling together under the heavy purple crag from which the waters of a ghyll fall into a deep basin that reaches to their walls. the last of the group is a cottage with its end to the road, and its open porch facing a garden shaped like a wedge. as the children passed this house an old man, gray and thin and much bent, stood by the gate, leaning on a staff. a colly, with the sheep-dog's wooden bar suspended from its shaggy neck, lay at his feet. the hum of voices brought a young woman into the porch. she was bareheaded and wore a light print gown. her face was pale and marked with lines. she walked cautiously, stretching one hand before her with an uncertain motion, and grasping a trailing tendril of honeysuckle that swept downward from the roof. her eyes, which were partly inclined upward and partly turned toward the procession, had a vague light in their bleached pupils. she was blind. at her side, and tugging at her other hand, was a child of a year and a half--a chubby, sunny little fellow with ruddy cheeks, blue eyes, and fair curly hair. prattling, laughing, singing snatches, and waving their rushes and ferns above their happy, thoughtless heads, the children rattled past. when they were gone the air was empty, as it is when the lark stops in its song. the church of newlands stands in the heart of the valley, half hidden by a clump of trees. by the lych-gate parson christian stood that morning, aged a little, the snow a thought thicker on his bushy hair, the face mellower, the liquid eyes full of the sunlight behind which lies the shower. greta stood beside him; quieter of manner than in the old days, a deeper thoughtfulness in her face, her blue eyes more grave and less restless, her fair hair no longer falling in waves behind her, but gathered up into a demure knot under her hat. "here they come, bless their innocent hearts!" said parson christian, and at that moment the children turned an angle of the road. the pink and white of their frocks and pinafores were all but hidden by the little forest of green that they carried before and above them. "'till birnam wood do come to dunsinane," muttered greta, smiling. when the rush-bearers came up to the front of the church, the lych-gate was thrown open and they filed through. "how tired he looks, the brave little boy!" said greta, picking up the foremost of the company, the tiny man in the epaulets, now covered with the dust of the roads. "the little ones first, and you great girls afterward," said the parson. "those with flowers go up to the communion and lay them on the form, and those with mosses put them on the font, and those with rushes and ferns begin under the pulpit and come down the aisle to the porch." the stalwart little tramp in greta's arms wriggled his way to the ground. he had mosses in his hands and must go first. then the children trooped into the church, and in an instant the rude old place was alive with the buzz of prattling tongues. the floor covered many a tomb. graven on the plain slabs that formed the pathway down the middle of the church were the names of the men and women who had lived and died in the dale generations gone by. in their own day they were children themselves; and now other children--their own children's children's children--with never a thought about what lay beneath, with only love in their eyes, and laughter on their lips, and life in their limbs--were strewing rushes down the path above them. in ten minutes there was not an inch of the flagged aisle visible. all was green from the communion to the porch. here and there an adventurous lad, turning to account the skill at climbing acquired at birds'-nesting, had clambered over the pews to the rude cross-trees, and hung great bunches of rushes from the roof. "now, children, let us sing," said the parson, and taking up the accordion, he started a hymn. the leaded windows of the old church stood open, and the sweet young voices floated away, and far away, over the uplands and the dale. and the birds still sung in the blue sky, and the ghylls still rumbled in the distance, and the light wind still souched through the long grass, and the morning sunlight shone over all. there was a cloud of dust on the road, and presently there came trooping down from the village a company of men, surrounded by a whole circuit of dogs. snarls, and yaps, and yelps, and squawks, and guffaws, and sometimes the cachinnation and crow of cocks, broke upon the clear air. the roystering set would be as many as a dozen, and all were more or less drunk. first came john proudfoot, the blacksmith, in his shirt-sleeves, with his leathern apron wrapped in a knot about his waist, and a silver and black game-cock imprisoned under his arm. lang geordie moore, his young helper, carried another fowl. dick o' the syke, the miller, in a brown coat whitened with flour, walked abreast of geordie and tickled the gills of the fowl with a straw. job sheepshanks, the letter-cutter, carried a pot of pitch and a brush, and little tom o' dint hobbled along with a handful of iron files. behind these came the landlord of the flying horse, with a basket over one arm, from which peeped the corks of many bottles, and natt, the stableman at the ghyll, carried a wicker cage, in which sat a red bantam-cock with spurs that glittered in the light. there was one other man who walked with the company, and he was the soul of the noisy crew; his voice was the loudest, his laugh the longest, and half of all that was said was addressed to him. he was a lusty man with a florid face; he wore a suit of tweeds plaided in wide stripes of buff and black. it was paul drayton. "burn my body, and what's on now?" he said, as the gang reached the church. "rush-bearing, i reckon," answered tom o' dint. "and what's rush-bearing?" "you know, mister paul," said the postman, "rush-bearing--the barns rush-bearing--st. peter's day, you know." "oh, ay, i know--rush-bearing. let me see, ain't it once a year?" "what, man, but you mind the days when you were a bit boy and went a-rushing yersel'?" said the blacksmith. "coorse, coorse, oh, ay, i ain't forgotten them days. let me see, it's a kind of a harvest-home, ain't it?" "nowt o' the sort," said dick, the miller, testily. "your memory's failing fast, mister ritson." "and that's true, old fence. i'll never be the same man again after that brain fever i had up in london--not in the head-piece, you know." the group of men and dogs had drawn up in front of the church just as brother peter crossed the church-yard to the porch, carrying a red paper in his hand. "who's that--the methodee man?" "it's the methodee, for sure," said the blacksmith. "ey, it's the parson's peter," added the postman, "and yon paper is a telegraph--it's like he's takin' it to somebody." "hold hard, my boys," said drayton; and, leaving his cronies he strode through the lych-gate and down the path, the dogs yapping around him. brother peter had drawn up at the door of the porch; the children were still singing. "if that telegram is for my wife, you may hand it over to me," said drayton, and reached out his hand to take it. brother peter drew back. "it'll be all right, old fellow--i'll see she gets it." "ey, thoo'll manish that, i's warn," said peter, in a caustic voice. "come, don't you know that what belongs to the wife belongs to the husband?" "don't know as i do. i'se never been larn't sec daftness," said peter. "hand it over. come, be quick!" "get ower me 'at can," said peter, with a decisive twinkle. "gi'e him a slab ower the lug," shouted the miller from the road. "you hear what they say? come, out with it." "eh, you've rowth o' friends, you're a teeran crew, but i cares laal for any on you." drayton turned away with a contemptuous snort. "damme, what a clatter!" he shouted, and leaped on to the raised mound of a grave to look in at an open window. as he did so he kicked a glass for flowers that lay upon it, and the broken frame tumbled in many pieces. "i've done for somebody's money," he said with a loud guffaw. "what, man, but it were thy awn brass as bought it," said the blacksmith. "ey, it's thy fadder's grave," said job sheepshanks. drayton glanced down at the headstone. "why, so it is!" he said; "d'ye see, i hain't been here since the day i buried him." "nay, that's all stuff and nonsense," said job. "i mind the morning i found ye lying wet and frostit on the top of that grave." "d'ye say so? well, i ain't for denying it; and now i think of it, i was--yes, i was here that morning." "nay, you warn't nowt o' the sort," said the blacksmith. "that were the varra morning as giles raisley saw you at the pack horse sleeping. i mind the fratch job had with laal gubblum about it long ago." "it's all stuff and nonsense," replied job. "he were here." "the pack horse? well, now, i remember, i was there, too." the singing had ceased, and greta came out into the porch on tiptoe, carrying in her arms a tiny mite, who was crying. peter handed her the telegram, and turned up the path. drayton had rejoined his companions, and was in the act of knocking the neck off a bottle by striking it against the wall, when peter walked through the lych-gate. "tee a pint o' yal down the methodee's back," shouted dick, the miller, and in another moment brother peter was covered with the contents of the broken bottle. a loud, roystering laugh filled the air, and echoed from the hills. "what a breck!" tittered the postman. "what a breck!" shouted the blacksmith. "what a breck!" roared the miller. "get ower me 'at can!" mimicked natt. "he's got a lad's heart, has mister paul," said the landlord of the flying horse. "ey, he's a fair fatch," echoed little tom o' dint. leaving peter to shake himself dry of the liquor that dripped from him in froth, the noisy gang reeled down the road, the yelping dogs careering about them, and the cocks squawking with the hugs they received from the twitching arms of the men convulsed with laughter. at the head of the vale of newlands there is a clearing that was made by the lead miners of two centuries ago. it lies at the feet of an ampitheater of hills that rise peak above peak, and die off depth beyond depth. of the old mines nothing remains but the level cuttings in the sides of the fells, and here and there the washing-pits cut out of the rock at your feet. fragments of stone lie about, glistening with veins of lead, but no sound of pick or hammer breaks the stillness, and no cart or truck trundles over the rough path. it is a solitude in which one might forget that the world is full of noise. to this spot drayton and his cronies made their way. at one of the old washing troughs they drew up, and sat in a circle on its rocky sides. they had come for a cock fight. it was to be the bantam (carried by natt and owned by his master) against all comers. drayton and the blacksmith were the setters-on. the first bout was between the bantam and lang geordie's ponderous black spanish. geordie's bird soon squawked dolorously, and made off over the heads of the derisive spectators, whereupon geordie captured it by one of its outstretched wings, and forthwith screwed its neck. then came john proudfoot's silver and black, and straightway steel gaffs were affixed to the spurs. when the cocks felt their feet they crowed, and then pecked the ground from side to side. an exciting struggle ensued. up and down, over and under, now beating the breast, now trailing the comb, now pecking at the gills. and the two men at opposite sides of the pit--the one in his shirt-sleeves rolled up to the elbows, the other in his sporting plaid--stooped with every lunge and craned their necks at every fall, and bobbed their heads with every peck, their eyes flashing, their teeth set. at one moment they drew off their birds, called for the files, and sharpened up the spurs. later on they seized the cocks by the necks, shouted for the pitch-pot and patched up the bleeding combs. the birds were equally matched, and fought long. at last their strength ebbed away. they followed each other feebly, stretching their long, lagging throats languidly, opening their beaks and hanging out their dry, white tongues, turning tail, then twisting about and fighting again, until both lay stretched out on the pit bottom. as the energy of the cocks subsided, the ardor of the men waxed sensibly. they yelled excitedly, protested, reviled, swore, laughed, jeered, and crowed. at length, when the bantam fell and gave no signs of speedy resurrection, the anger of drayton could not be supported. he leaped across the pit, his face red as his cock's comb, and shouting, "damme, what for did ye pick up my bird?" he planted a blow full on the blacksmith's chest. a fight of yet fiercer kind followed. amid shouts, and in the thick of a general scuffle, the blacksmith closed with his powerful adversary, gripped him about the waist, twisted him on his loins, and brought him to the ground with a crash. then he stood over him with fierce eyes. "i mak' no doubt you're not hankerin' for another of that sort!" he puffed. "john's given him the cross-buttock," said the miller. "the master's lost all his wrustling," said natt, blinking out of his sleepy eyes. "i mind the day when he could have put john down same as a bit boy," said the little postman. natt helped drayton to his feet. he was quiet enough, now, but as black in the face as a thunder-cloud. "this comes of a gentleman mixing with them as is beneath him," he muttered, and he mopped his perspiring forehead with a bandanna handkerchief. the miller snorted, the mason grunted, the little postman laughed in his thin pipe. drayton's eyes flashed. "i'm a gentleman, i am, if you want to know," he said, defiantly. the blacksmith stood by, leisurely rolling down his shirt-sleeves. "ey, for fault of wise folk we call you so," he said, and laughed. "but when i leet of a man, i's rather have him nor a hundred sec gentlemen as you!" "thoo's reet for once, john!" shouted dick o' the syke, and there was some general laughter. "gentleman! ax the women-folk what they mak' of sec a gentleman," continued the blacksmith with contemptuous emphasis. "him as larn't folks to fill the public and empty the cupboard." there was a murmur among the men as they twisted about. "ax them what they mak' of him 'at spent four days in lunnon and came back another man--ax the women-folk; they're maistly reet, i reckon." another uneasy movement among the men. "burn my body! and what's the women to me?" said drayton. "nay, nowt," answered the blacksmith. "your awn wife seems nowdays powerful keen for your company." drayton's eyes were red, but the fire died out of them in an instant. he stepped up to the blacksmith and held out his hand. "you've licked me," he said, in another tone, "but i ain't the man to keep spite, i ain't; so come along, old fence, and let's wet it." "that's weel said," put in tommy lowthwaite, the landlord. "it's no'but fair," said dick, the miller. "he's a reet sort, after all," said job, the mason. "he's his awn fadder's son, is paul ritson," said tom o' dint. in two minutes more the soiled company were trampling knee-deep through rank beds of rushes on their way to the other side of the dale. they stopped a few yards from a pit shaft with its headgear and wheel. "let's take my brother's ken for it," said drayton, and they turned into a one-story house that stood near. it was a single capacious chamber, furnished more like a library than an office; carpets, rugs, a cabinet, easychairs, and a solid table in the middle of the floor. the cock-fighters filed in and sat down on every available chair, on the table, and at last on the floor. "squat and whiff," said drayton, "and, tommy, you out with the corks, quick." "it must be a bonny money-making consarn to keep up the likes of this," said the miller, settling himself uneasily in an easy-chair. dick was telling himself what a fool he had been not to ask more than the fifty pounds he received for the damage once done by fire to his mill. "have you never heard as it ain't all gold as glitters?" said drayton; and he struck a lucifer match on the top of the mahogany table. "what, man, dusta mean as the pit's not paying?" said the blacksmith. drayton gave his head a sidelong shake of combined astuteness and reserve. "i mak' no doubt now as you have to lend master hugh many a gay penny," said tom o' dint in an insinuating tone. "least said, soonest mended," said drayton, sententiously, and smiled a mighty knowing smile. then the men laughed, and the landlord handed the bottles round, and all drank out of the necks, and puffed dense volumes of smoke from their pipes, and spat on the carpet. and still the birds sung in the clear air without, and still the ghylls rumbled, and still the light wind souched through the grass, and still the morning sunlight shone over all. the door opened, and hugh ritson entered, followed by the lawyer, mr. bonnithorne. there was a steely glimmer in his eyes as he stood just inside the threshold and looked round. "come, get out of this!" he said. the men shuffled to their feet and were elbowing their way out. drayton, who sat on the table, removed his pipe from between his teeth and called on them to remain. hugh ritson stepped up to drayton and touched him on the shoulder. "i want to speak with you," he said. "what is it?" demanded drayton. "i want to speak with you," repeated hugh. "what is it? out with it. you've got the gift of the gab, hain't ye? don't mind my friends." hugh ritson's face whitened, and a cold smile passed over it. "your time is near," he muttered, and he turned on his heel. as he stepped out of the noisesome chamber, a loud, hoarse laugh followed him. he drew a long breath. "thank god it will soon be over!" he said. bonnithorne was at his side. "is it to be to-morrow?" asked the lawyer. "to-morrow," said hugh ritson. "have you told him?" "tell him yourself, bonnithorne. i can bear with the man no longer. i shall be doing something that i may repent." "have you apprised parson christian?" hugh ritson bent his head. "and greta?" "she won't come," said hugh. "the girl could never breathe the same air as that scoundrel for five minutes together." "and yet he's her half-brother," said the lawyer, softly; and then he added, with the conventional smile: "odd, isn't it?" chapter ii. when the procession of children had passed the little cottage at the angle of the roads, the old man who leaned on his staff at the gate turned about and stepped to the porch. "did the boy see them?--did he see the children?" said the young woman who held the child by the hand. "i mak' na doot," said the old man. he stooped to the little one and held out one long, withered finger. the soft baby hand closed on it instantly. "did he laugh? i thought he laughed," said the young woman. a bright smile played on her lips. "maybe so, lass." "ralphie has never seen the children before, father. didn't he look frightened--just a little frightened--at first, you know? i thought he crept behind my gown." "maybe, maybe." the little one had dropped the hand of his young mother, and, still holding the bony finger of his grandfather, he toddled beside him into the house. very cool and sweet was the kitchen, with white-washed walls and hard earthen floor. a table and a settle stood by the window, and a dresser that was an armory of bright pewter dishes, trenchers, and piggins crossed the opposite wall. "nay, but sista here, laal man," said the old charcoal-burner, and he dived into a great pocket at his side. "have you brought it? is it the kitten? oh, dear, let the boy see it!" a kitten came out of the old man's pocket, and was set down on the rug at the hearth. the timid creature sat dazed, then raised itself on its hind legs and mewed. "where's ralphie? is he watching it, father? what is he doing?" the little one had dropped on hands and knees before the kitten, and was gazing up into its face. the mother leaned over him with a face that would have beamed with sunshine if the sun of sight had not been missing. "is he looking? doesn't he want to coddle it?" the little chap had pushed his nose close to the nose of the kitten, and was prattling to it in various inarticulate noises. "boo--loo--lal-la--mamma." "isn't he a darling, father?" "it's a winsome wee thing," said the old man, still standing with drooping head over the group on the hearth. the mother's face saddened, and she turned away. then from the opposite side of the kitchen, where she was making pretense to take plates from a plate-rack, there came the sound of suppressed sobs. the old man's eyes followed her. "nay, lass; let's have a sup of broth," he said in a tone that carried another message. the young woman put plates and a bowl of broth on the table. "to think that i can never see my own child, and everybody else can see him!" she said, and then there was another bout of tears. the charcoal-burner supped at his broth in silence. a glistening bead rolled slowly down his wizened cheek, and the interview on the hearth went on without interruption: "mew--mew--mew." "boo--loo--lal-la--mamma." there was a foot on the gravel in front. "how fend ye, mattha?" said a voice from without. "come thy ways, gubblum," answered the old man. gubblum oglethorpe entered, dressed differently than of old. he wore a suit of canvas stained deeply with iron ore. "i's thinking maybe mercy will let me warm up my poddish," said gubblum. "and welcome," said mercy, and took down from the dresser a saucepan and porridge thivel. "i'll make it for you while father sups his broth." "nay, lass, you're as thrang as an auld peat wife, i's warn. i'll mak' it myself. i's rather partic'lar about my poddish, forby. dusta know how many faults poddish may have? they may be sour, sooty, sodden, and savorless, soat, welsh, brocken, and lumpy--and that's mair nor enough, thoo knows." gubblum had gone down on the hearth-rug. "why, and here's the son and heir," he said. "nay, laddie, mind my claes--they'll dirty thy brand-new brat for thee." "is he growing, gubblum?" "growing?--amain." "and his eyes--are they changing color?--going brown?" "maybe--i'll not be for saying nay." "is he--is he very like me?" "nay--weel--nay--i's fancying i see summat of the stranger in the laal chap at whiles." the young mother turned her head. gubblum twisted to where matthew sat. "that man and all his raggabrash are raking about this morning. it caps all, it does, for sure." the old charcoal-burner did not answer. he paused with the spoon half raised, glanced at mercy, and then went on with his broth. "hasta heard of the lang yammer in the papers about yon matter?" said gubblum. "nay," said matthew, "i hears nowt of the papers." "he's like to hang a lang crag when he hears about it." "i mak' na doubt," said matthew, showing no curiosity. "it's my belief 'at the auld woman at hendon is turning tail. you mind she was down last back end, and he wadn't have nowt to say to her." "ey, i mind her," said matthew. "every dog has his day, and i reckon yon dog's day is nigh amaist done. and it wad have been a vast shorter on'y mercy hadn't her eyes." "ey, ey," said matthew, quietly. "if the lass had no'but been able to say, 'yon man is drayton, and yon as you've got in prison is ritson, and i saw the bad wark done,' that would have settled it." "na doot," said matthew, his head in the bowl. "they warn't for hearing me. when the parson took me up to lunnon mair nor a twelvemonth agone, they sent us baith home with our tails atween our legs. 'bring us the young woman,' they said; 'your evidence will stand aside hers, but not alone. bring the young woman to 'dentify,' they says. 'she's gone blind,' we says. 'we can't help that,' they says. and that's what they call justice up in lunnon." "ey, ey," said matthew. "but then thoo has to mak' 'lowances for them gentry folk--they've never been larn't no better, thoo sees." gubblum's porridge was bubbling, and the thivel worked vigorously. matthew had picked up the child from the hearth. the little fellow was tugging at his white beard. "it were bad luck that me and mercy didn't stay a day or so langer in hendon yon time. she had her eyes then. but the lass was badly, and" (dropping his voice) "that way, thoo knows, and i warn't to prophesy what was to happen to poor paul ritson. so i brought her straight away home." "so thoo did, gubblum," said matthew, stroking the child's head. "it's that hugh as is at the bottom of it all, i reckon. i'm not afraid to say it, if he is my master. i allus liked paul ritson--the reet one, thoo knows, not this taistrel that calls hisself paul ritson--but i cared so laal for hugh that i could have taken him and wrowk't the fire with him." the porridge was ready, and mercy set a wooden bowl on the table. "i's fullen thy bicker, my lass," said gubblum. "i's only a laal man, but i's got a girt appetite, thoo sees." then turning to matthew he continued: "but he's like to pay for it. he brought his raggabash here, and now the rascal has the upper hand--that's plain to see." "so it be," said matthew. "deemoralizin' all the country-side, what with his drinkin' and cock-fightin' and terriers, an' i don't know what. theer's dick o' the syke, he's a ruined man this day, and john, the blacksmith, he's never had a heat on the anvil for a week, and as for job, the mason, he's shaping to be mair nor ever like his bible namesake, for he won't have nowt but his dunghill to sit on soon." "dusta think they dunnot ken he's the wrong man?" asked matthew. "nay, mattha, but a laal bit of money's a wonderful thing, mind ye." "it is for sure." "one day he went to clogger kit to be measur't for new shoes. 'what, master ritson,' says kit, 'your foot's langer by three lines nor when i put the tape on it afore.'" "ah!" "next day kit had an order for two pairs, forby a pair of leggins and clogs for natt. that's the way it's manish'd." mercy had taken her child from her father's knee, and was sitting on the sconce bench with it, holding a broken piece of a mirror before its face, and listening for its laugh when it saw itself in the glass. "but he's none cummerland--hearken to his tongue," said matthew. gubblum put down his spoon on his plate, now empty. "that minds me," he said, laughing, "that i met him out one day all dressed in his brave claes--them as might do for a nigger that plays the banjo. 'off for a spogue?' i says. 'what's a spogue?' he says, looking thunder. 'nay,' i says, 'you're no'but a dalesman--ax folks up hendon way,' i says. i was peddling then, but master hugh 'counters me another day, and he says, 'gubblum,' he says, 'i's wanting a smart laal man, same as you, to weigh the ore on the bank-top--pund a week,' he says." "ey, i mak' no doot they thowt to buy thee ower," said matthew. "they've made a gay canny blunder if they think they've put a swine ring on gubblum's snout. buy or beat--that's the word. they've bought most of the folk and made them as lazy as libbed bitches. but they warn't able to buy the ritson's bitch itself." "what dusta mean, gubblum?" "what, man! thoo's heard how the taistrel killed poor auld fan? no? weel, thoo knows she was paul ritson's dog, fan was; and when she saw this man coming up the lonnin, she frisk't and wag't her tail. but when she got close to him she found her mistake, and went slenken off. he made shift to coax her, but fan wad none be coaxed; and folks were takin' stock. so what dusta think the taistrel does, but ups with a stone and brains her." "that's like him, for sure," said matthew. "but don't the folk see that his wife as it might be, miss greta as was, won't have nowt to say to him?" "nay, they say that's no'but a rue-bargain, and she found out her mind after she wedded--that's all the clot-heads think about it." "hark!" said mercy, half rising from the sconce. "it's mrs. ritson's foot." the men listened. "nay, lass, there's no foot," said gubblum. "yes, she's on the road," said mercy. her face showed that pathetic tension of the other senses which is peculiar to the blind. a moment later greta stepped into the cottage. the telegram which brother peter gave her at the church was still in her hand. "good-morning, matthew; good-morning, gubblum; i have news for you, mercy. the doctors are coming to-day." mercy's face fell perceptibly. the old man's head drooped lower. "there, don't be afraid," said greta, touching her hand caressingly. "it will soon be over. the doctors didn't hurt you before, did they?" "no; but this time it will be the operation," said mercy. there was a tremor in her voice. greta had lifted the child from the sconce. the little fellow cooed close to her ear, and babbled his inarticulate nothings. "only think, when it's all over you will be able to see your darling ralphie for the first time!" mercy's sightless face brightened. "oh, yes," she said, "and watch him play, and see him spin his tops and chase the butterflies. oh, that will be very good!" "dusta say to-day, mistress ritson?" asked matthew, the big drops standing in his eyes. "yes, matthew; i will stay to see it over, and mind baby, and help a little." mercy took the little one from greta's arms and cried over it, and laughed over it, and then cried and laughed again. "mamma and ralphie shall play together in the garden, darling, and ralphie shall see the horses--and the flowers--and the birdies--and mamma--yes, mamma shall see ralphie. oh, mrs. ritson, how selfish i am!--how can i ever repay you?" the tears were trickling down greta's cheeks. "it is i who am selfish, mercy," she said, and kissed the sightless orbs. "your dear eyes shall give me back my poor husband." chapter iii. two hours later the doctors arrived. they had called at the vicarage in driving up the valley, and parson christian was with them. they looked at mercy's eyes, and were satisfied that the time was ripe for the operation. at the sound of their voices, mercy trembled and turned livid. by a maternal instinct she picked up the child, who was toddling about the floor, and clasped it to her bosom. the little one opened wide his blue eyes at sight of the strangers, and the prattling tongue became quiet. "take her to her room, and let her lie on the bed," said one of the doctors to greta. a sudden terror seized the young mother. "no, no, no!" she said, in an indescribable accent, and the child cried a little from the pressure to her breast. "come, mercy, dear, be brave for your darling's sake," said greta. "listen to me," said the doctor, quietly but firmly. "you are now quite blind, and you have been in total darkness for a year and a half. we may be able to restore your sight by giving you a few minutes' pain. will you not bear it?" mercy sobbed, and kissed the child passionately. "just think, it is quite certain that without an operation you will never regain your sight," continued the doctor. "you have nothing to lose and everything to gain. are you satisfied? come, go away to your room quietly." "oh, oh, oh!" sobbed mercy. "just imagine, only a few minutes' pain, and even of that you will scarcely be conscious. before you know what is doing, it will be done." mercy clung closer to her child, and kissed it again and yet more fervently. the doctors turned to each other. "strange vanity!" muttered the one who had not spoken before. "her eyes are useless, and yet she is afraid she may lose them." mercy's quick ears caught the whispered words. "it is not that," she said passionately. "no, gentlemen," said greta, "you have mistaken her thought. tell her she runs no danger of her life." the doctors smiled and laughed a little. "oh, that's it, eh? well, we can tell her that with certainty." then there was another interchange of half-amused glances. "ah, we that be men, sirs, don't know the depth and tenderness of a mother's heart," said parson christian. and mercy turned toward him a face that was full of gratitude. greta took the child out of her arms and hushed it to sleep in another room. then she brought it back and put it in its cradle that stood in the ingle. "come, mercy," she said, "for the sake of your boy." and mercy permitted herself to be led from the kitchen. "so there will be no danger," she said. "i shall not leave my boy. who said that? the doctor? oh, good gracious, it's nothing. only think, i shall live to see him grow to be a great lad!" her whole face was now radiant. "it will be nothing. oh, no, it will be nothing. how silly it was to think that he would live on, and grow up, and be a man, and i lie cold in the church-yard, and me his mother! that was very childish, wasn't it? but, then, i have been so childish since ralphie came." "there, lie and be quiet, and it will soon be over," said greta. "let me kiss him first. do let me kiss him! only once. you know it's a great risk, after all. and if he grew up--and i wasn't here, if--if--" "there, dear mercy, you must not cry again. it inflames your eyes, and that can't be good for the doctors." "no, no, i won't cry. you are very good; everybody is very good. only let me kiss my little ralphie--just for the last." greta led her back to the side of the cot, and she spread herself over it with outstretched arms, as the mother-bird poises with outstretched wings over her brood. then she rose, and her face was peaceful and resigned. the laird fisher sat down before the kitchen fire, with one arm on the cradle-head. parson christian stood beside him. the old charcoal-burner wept in silence, and the good parson's voice was too thick for the words of comfort that rose to his lips. the doctors followed into the bedroom. mercy was lying tranquilly on her bed. her countenance was without expression. she was busy with her own thoughts. greta stood by the bedside; anxiety was written in every line of her beautiful, brave face. "we must give her the gas," said one of the doctors, addressing the other. mercy's features twitched. "who said that?" she asked, nervously. "my child, you must be quiet," said the doctor in a tone of authority. "yes, i will be quiet, very quiet; only don't make me unconscious," she said. "never mind me; i will not cry. no; if you hurt me i will not cry out. i will not stir. i will do everything you ask. and you shall say how quiet i have been. only don't let me be insensible." the doctors consulted aside, and in whispers. "who spoke about the gas? it wasn't you, mrs. ritson, was it?" "you must do as the doctors wish, dear," said greta in a caressing voice. "oh, i will be very good. i will do every little thing. yes, and i will be so brave. i am a little childish sometimes, but i can be brave, can't i?" the doctors returned to the bedside. "very well, we will not use the gas," said one. "you are a brave little woman, after all. there, be still--very still." one of the doctors was tearing linen into strips for bandages, while the other fixed mercy's head to suit the light. there was a faint sound from the kitchen. "wait," said mercy. "that is father--he's crying. tell him not to cry. say it's nothing." she laughed a weak little laugh. "there, he will hear that; go and say it was i who laughed." greta left the room on tiptoe. old matthew was still sitting over a dying fire, gently rocking the sleeping child. parson christian's eyes were raised in prayer. when greta returned to the bedroom, mercy called her, and said very softly--"let me hold your hand, greta--may i say greta?--there," and her fingers closed on greta's with a convulsive grasp. the operation began. mercy held her breath. she had the stubborn north-country blood in her. once only a sigh escaped. there was a dead silence. in two or three minutes the doctor said: "just another minute, and all will be over." at the next instant greta felt her hand held with a grasp of iron. "doctor, doctor, i can see you!" cried mercy, and her words came in gusts. "be quiet," said the doctor in a stern voice. in half a minute more the linen bandages were being wrapped tightly over mercy's eyes. "doctor, dear doctor, let me see my boy," cried mercy. "be quiet, i say," said the doctor again. "dear doctor, my dear doctor, only one peep--one little peep--i saw your face--let me see my ralphie's!" "not yet, it is not safe." "but only for a moment. don't put the bandage on for one moment. just think, doctor, i have never seen my boy; i've seen other people's children, but never once my own, own darling. oh, dear doctor--" "you are exciting yourself. listen to me; if you don't behave yourself now you may never see your child." "yes, yes, i will behave myself; i will be very good. only don't shut me up in darkness again until i see my boy. greta, bring him to me. listen: i hear his breathing. go for my darling. the kind doctor won't be angry with you. tell him that if i see my child it will cure me. i know it will." greta's eyes were swimming in tears. "rest quiet, mercy. everything may be lost if you disturb yourself now, my dear." the doctors were wrapping bandage over bandage, and fixing them firmly at the back of their patient's head. "now listen again," said one of them. "this bandage must be kept over your eyes for a week." "a week--a whole week? oh, doctor, you might as well say forever!" "i say a week. and if you should ever remove it--" "not for an instant? not raise it a little?" "if you ever remove it for an instant, or raise it ever so little, you will assuredly lose your sight forever. remember that." "oh, doctor, it is terrible! why did you not tell me so before? oh, this is worse than blindness! think of the temptation, and i have never seen my boy!" the doctor had fixed the bandage, and his voice was less stern, but no less resolute. "you must obey me," he said; "i will come again this day week, and then you shall see your child, and your father, and this young lady, and everybody. but, mind, if you don't obey me you will never see anything. you will have one glance of your little boy, and then be blind forever, or perhaps--yes, perhaps die." mercy lay quiet for a moment. then she said in a low voice: "dear doctor, you must forgive me. i am very willful, and i promised to be so good. i will not touch the bandage. no, for the sake of my little boy, i will never, never touch it. you shall come yourself and take it off, and then i shall see him." the doctors went away. greta remained all night in the cottage. "you are happy now, mercy?" said greta. "oh, yes," said mercy. "just think, only a week! and he must be so beautiful by this time." when greta took the child to her at sunset, there was an ineffable joy in her pale face, and next morning, when greta awoke, mercy was singing softly to herself in the sunrise. chapter iv. there was a gathering of miners near the pit-head that morning. it was pay day. the rule was that the miners on the morning shift should pass through the pay-office before going down the shaft at eight o'clock; and that those on the night shift should pass through on their way home a few minutes afterward. when the morning men passed through the office they had found the pay-door shut, and a notice posted over it, saying, "all wages due at eight o'clock to-day will be paid at the same hour to-morrow." presently the men on the night shift came up in the cages, and after a brief explanation both gangs, with the banksmen and all top-ground hands, except the engine-man, trooped away to a place suitable for a conference. there was a worked-out open cutting a hundred yards away. it was a vast cleft dug into the side of the mountain, square on its base, vertical in its three gray walls, and sweeping up to a dizzy height, over which the brant sides of the green fell rose sheer into the sky. it was to this natural theatre that the two hundred miners made their way in groups of threes and fours, their lamps and cans in their hands, their red-stained clothes glistening in the morning sun. it was decided to send a deputation to the master, asking that the order might be revoked and payment made as usual. the body of the men remained in the clearing, conversing in knots, while two miners, buirdly fellows, rather gruffer of tongue than the rest, went to the office to act as spokesmen. the deputation were approaching the pit-head when the engine-man shouted that he had just heard the master's knock from below, and in another moment hugh ritson, in flannels and fustian, stepped out of the cage. he heard the request, and at once offered to go to the men and give his answer. the miners made way for him respectfully, and then closed about him when he spoke. "men," he said, with a touch of his old resolution, "let me tell you frankly, as between man and man, that i can not pay you this morning, because i haven't got the money. i tried to get it, and failed. this afternoon i shall receive much more than is due to you, and to-morrow you shall be promptly paid." the miners twisted about and compared notes in subdued voices. "that's no'but fair," said one. "he cannut say na fairer," said another. but there were some who were not so easily appeased; and one of these crushed his way through the crowd, and said: "mr. ritson, we're not same as the bettermer folk, as can get credit for owt 'at they want. we ax six days' pay because we have to do six days' payin' wi' it. and if we're back a day in our pay we're a day back in our payin'; and that means clemmin' a laal bit--and the wife and barns forby." there were murmurs of approval from the crowd, and then another malcontent added: "times has changed to a gay tune sin' we could put by for a rainy day. it's hand to mouth now, on'y the mouth's allus ready and the hand's not." "it's na much as we ha' gotten to put away these times," said the first speaker. "not same as the days when a pitman's wife, 'at i ken on, flung a five-pound note in his face and axed him what he thowt she were to mak' o' that." "nay, nay," responded the others in a chorus. "men, i'm not charging you with past extravagance," said hugh ritson; "and it's not my fault if the pit hasn't done as well for all of us as i had hoped." he was moving away, when the crowd closed about him again. "mates," shouted one of the miners, "there's another word as some on us wad like to say to the master, and that's about the timber." "what is it?" asked hugh ritson, facing about. "there be some on us 'at think the pit's none ower safe down the bottom working, where the seam of sand runs cross-ways. we're auld miners, maistly, and we thowt maybe ye wadna tak' it wrang if we telt ye 'at it wants a vast mair forks and upreets." "thank you, my lads, i'll see what i can do," said hugh ritson; and then added in a lower tone: "but i've put a forest of timber underground already, and where this burying of money is to end god alone knows." he turned away this time and moved off, halting more noticeably than usual on his infirm foot. he returned to his office near the pit-bank, and found mr. bonnithorne awaiting him. "the day is young, but i'm no sluggard, you know," said the lawyer. "i thought we might want a word or two before the meeting at the ghyll." hugh ritson did not notice the explanation. he looked anxious and disturbed. while stripping off his pit flannels, and putting on his ordinary clothes, he told mr. bonnithorne what had just occurred, and then added: "if anything had been necessary to prove that this morning's bad business is inevitable, i should have found it in this encounter with the men." "it comes as a fillip to your already blunted purpose," said the lawyer with a curious smile. "odd, isn't it?" "blunted!" said hugh ritson, and there was a perceptible elevation of the eyebrows. presently he drew a long breath, and said with an air of relief: "ah, well, if she suffers who has suffered enough already, he, at least, will be out of the way forever." bonnithorne shifted slightly on his seat. "you think so?" he asked. something cynical in the tone caught hugh ritson's ear. "it was a bad change, wasn't it?" added the lawyer; "this one is likely to be a deal more troublesome." hugh ritson went on with his dressing in silence. "you see, by the interchange your positions were reversed," continued the lawyer. "what do you mean?" "well, not to put too fine a point on it, the other was in your hands, while you are in the hands of this one." hugh ritson's foot fell heavily at that instant, but he merely said, with suppressed quietness: "there was this one's crime." "was--precisely," said mr. bonnithorne. hugh ritson looked up with a look of inquiry. "when you gave the crime to the other, this one became a free man," the lawyer explained. there was a silence. "what does it all come to?" said hugh ritson, sullenly. "that your hold of paul drayton is gone forever." "how so?" "because you can never incriminate him without first incriminating yourself," said the lawyer. "who talks of incrimination?" said hugh ritson, testily. "to-day, this man is to take upon himself the name of paul lowther--his true name, though he doesn't know it, blockhead as he is. therefore, i ask again: what does it all come to?" mr. bonnithorne shifted uneasily. "nothing," he said, meekly, but the curious smile still played about his downcast face. then there was silence again. "do you know that mercy fisher is likely to regain her sight?" said hugh. "you don't say so? dear me, dear me!" said the lawyer, sincere at last. "in all the annals of jurisprudence there is no such extraordinary case of identity being conclusively provable by one witness only, and of that witness becoming blind. odd, isn't it?" hugh ritson smiled coldly. "odd? say providential," he answered. "i believe that's what you church folk call it when the almighty averts a disaster that is made imminent by your own short-sightedness." "a disaster, indeed, if her sight ceases to be so providentially short," said the lawyer. "get the man out of the way, and the woman is all right," said hugh. he picked a letter out of a drawer, and handed it to mr. bonnithorne. "you will remember that the other was to have shipped to australia." mr. bonnithorne bowed his head. "this letter is from the man for whom he intended to go out--an old friend of my father. answer it, bonnithorne." "in what terms?" asked the lawyer. "say that a long illness prevented, but that paul ritson is now prepared to fulfill his engagement." "and what then?" "what then?" hugh ritson echoed. "why, what do you think?" "send him?" with a motion of the thumb over the shoulder. "of course," said hugh. again the cynical tone caught hugh ritson's ear, and he glanced up quickly, but made no remark. he was now dressed. "i am ready," and on reaching the door and taking a last look round the room, he added: "i'll have the best of this furniture removed to the ghyll to-morrow. the house has been unbearable of late, and i've been forced to spend most of my time down here." "then you don't intend to give him much grace?" asked bonnithorne. "not an hour." the lawyer bent his forehead very low at that moment. chapter v. the sun was high over the head of hindscarth, but a fresh breeze was blowing from the north, and the walk to the ghyll was bracing. mr. bonnithorne talked little on the way, but hugh ritson's spirits rose sensibly, and he chatted cheerfully on indifferent subjects. it was still some minutes short of nine o'clock when they reached the house. the servants were bustling about in clean aprons and caps. "have the gentlemen arrived?" asked hugh. "not yet, sir," answered one of the servants--it was old dinah wilson. the two men stepped up to hugh ritson's room. there the table was spread for breakfast. the lawyer glanced at the chairs, and said: "then you have invited other friends?" hugh nodded his head, and sat down at the organ. "three or four neighbors of substance," he said, opening the case. "in a matter like this it is well to have witnesses." bonnithorne replied with phlegm: "but what about the feelings of the man who is so soon to be turned out of the house?" hugh ritson's fingers were on the keys. he paused and faced about. "i had no conception that you had such a delicate sense of humor, bonnithorne," he said, with only the shadow of a smile. "feelings! his feelings!" there was a swift glide up the notes, and other sounds were lost. the window was half open; the lawyer walked to it and looked out. at that moment the two men were back to back. hugh ritson's head was bent over the keyboard. mr. bonnithorne's eyes were on the tranquil landscape lying in the sun outside. the faces of both wore curious smiles. hugh ritson leaped from his seat. "ah, i feel like another man already," he said, and took a step or two up and down the room, his infirm foot betraying no infirmity. there was the noise of fresh arrivals in the hall. a minute later a servant entered, followed by three gentlemen, who shook hands effusively with hugh ritson. "delighted to be of service, i'm sure," said one. "glad the unhappy connection is to be concluded--it was a scandal," said the other. "you could not go on living on such terms--life wasn't worth it, you know," said the first. the third gentleman was more restrained, but hugh paid him marked deference. they had a short, muttered conference apart. "get the other mortgages wiped off the deeds and i have no objection to lend you the money on the security of the house and land," said the gentleman. at that remark hugh ritson bowed his head and appeared satisfied. he rang for breakfast. "ask mr. paul if he is ready," he said, when dinah brought the tray. "master paul is abed, sir," said dinah; and then she added for herself: "it caps all--sec feckless wark. it dudn't use to be so, for sure. i'll not say but a man may be that changed in a twelvemonth--" "ah, i'll go to him myself," said hugh; and begging to be excused, he left the room. mr. bonnithorne followed him to the other side of the door. "have you counted the cost?" he asked. "it will be a public scandal." hugh smiled, and answered with composure: "whose will be the loss?" "god knows!" said the lawyer, with sudden energy. hugh glanced up quickly. there was the murmur of voices from within the room they had just left. "is it that you are too jealous of your good name to allow it to be bruited abroad in a scandal, as you say?" mr. bonnithorne's face wore a curious expression at that moment. "it's not my good name that is in question," he said, quietly, and turned back to the door. "whose then? his?" but the lawyer already held the door ajar, and was passing into the room. hugh ritson made his way to the bedroom occupied by paul drayton. he opened the door without knocking. it was dark within. thin streaks of dusty sunlight shot from between a pair of heavy curtains. the air was noisome with dead tobacco smoke and the fumes of stale beer. hugh's gorge rose, but he conquered his disgust. "who's there?" said a husky voice from behind the dark hangings of a four-post bed that was all but hidden in the gloom. "the friends are here," said hugh ritson, cheerily. "how long will you be?" there was a suppressed chuckle. "all right." "we will begin breakfast," said hugh. he was turning to go. "is that lawyer man back from scotland?" asked drayton. "bonnithorne? he's here--he didn't say that he'd been away," said hugh. "all right." hugh ritson returned to the bed-head. "have you heard," he said in a subdued voice, "that the doctors have operated on the girl mercy, and that she is likely to regain her sight?" "eh? what?" drayton had started up in bed. then rolling down his sleeves and buttoning them leisurely, he added: "but that ain't nothing to me." hugh ritson left the room. he was in spirits indeed, for he had borne even this encounter with equanimity. as he passed through the house, brother peter entered at the porch with a letter in his hand. "is parson christian coming?" said hugh. "don't know 'at i've heard," said peter. "he's boddered me to fetch ye a scribe of a line. here 'tis." hugh ritson opened the envelope. the note ran: "i cannot reconcile it to my conscience to break bread with one who has broken the peace of my household; nor is it agreeable to my duty as a minister of christ to give the countenance of my presence to proceedings which must be a sham, inasmuch as the person concerned is an imposter--with the which name i yet hope to brand him when the proper time and circumstances arrive." hugh smiled as he read the letter; then he thrust a shilling into peter's unyielding hand, and shot away. "the parson will not come," said hugh, drawing bonnithorne aside; "but that can not matter. if he is greta's guardian, you are her father's executor." then, raising his voice, "gentlemen," he said, "my brother wishes us to begin breakfast; he will join us presently." the company was soon seated; the talk was brisk and cheerful. "glorious prospect," said a gentleman sitting opposite the open window. "often wonder you don't throw out a bay, mr. ritson." "i've thought of it," said hugh, "but it's not worth while to spend such money until one is master of one's own house." "ah, true, true!" said several voices in chorus. drayton entered, his eyes red, his face sallow. "morning, gents," he said in his thick guttural. two of the gentlemen rose, and bowed with frigid politeness. "good morning, mr. ritson," said the third. the servant had followed drayton into the room with a beefsteak underdone. "post not come?" he asked, shifting his plates. "it can't be long now," said bonnithorne, consulting his watch. "sooner the better," drayton muttered. he took some papers from a breast-pocket and counted them; then fixed them in his waistcoat, where his watch would have been if he had worn one. when breakfast was done, hugh ritson took certain documents from a cabinet. "be seated, gentlemen," he said. all sat except drayton, who lighted a pipe, and rang to ask if the postman had come. he had not. "then go and sharpen up his heels." "my duty would be less pleasant," said hugh ritson, "if some of the facts were not already known." "then we'll take 'em as read, so we will," put in drayton, perambulating behind a cloud of smoke. "paul, i will ask you to be seated," said hugh, in an altered tone. drayton sat down with a snort. "i have to tell you," continued hugh ritson, "that my brother known to you as paul ritson, is now satisfied that he was not the heir of my father, who died intestate." there were sundry nods of the grave noddles assembled about the table. "fearful shock to any man," said one. "no wonder he has lost heart and grown reckless," said another. "on becoming aware of this fact, he was anxious to relinquish the estate to the true heir." there were further nods, and some muttered comments on the requirements of honor. "i show you here a copy of the register of my father's marriage, and a copy of the register of my own birth, occurring less than a year afterward. from these, in the absence of extraordinary testimony, it must be the presumption that i am myself my father's rightful heir." the papers were handed about and returned with evident satisfaction. "so far, all is plain," continued hugh ritson. "but my brother has learned that he is not even my father's son." three astonished faces were lifted from the table. bonnithorne sat with head bent. drayton leaned an elbow on one knee and smoked sullenly. "it turns out that he is the son of my mother by another man," said hugh ritson. the guests twisted about. "ah, that explains all," they whispered. "you will be surprised to learn that my mother's husband by a former invalid marriage was no other than robert lowther, and that he who sits with us now as paul ritson is really paul lowther." at this, hugh placed two further documents on the table. drayton cleared his throat noisily. "dear me, dear me! yet it's plain enough!" said one of the visitors. "then what about mrs. ritson--miss greta, i mean?" asked another. "she is paul lowther's half-sister, and therefore his marriage with her must be annulled." the three gentlemen turned in their seats and looked amazed, drayton still smoked in silence. bonnithorne did not raise his head. "he will relinquish to me my father's estates, but he is not left penniless," continued hugh ritson. "by his own father's will he inherits five thousand pounds." drayton snorted contemptuously, then spat on the floor. "friends," said hugh ritson again, "there is only one further point, and i am loath to touch on it. my brother--i speak of paul lowther--on taking possession of the estates, exercised what he believed to be his legal right to mortgage them. i am sorry to say he mortgaged them deeply." there was an interchange of astute glances. "if i were a rich man, i should be content to be the loser, but i am a poor man, and am compelled to ask that those mortgages stand forfeit." "is it the law?" "it is--and, as you will say, only a fair one," hugh answered. "who are the mortgagees?" "that is where the pity arises--the chief of them is no other than the daughter of robert lowther--greta." sundry further twists and turns. "pity for her." "well, she should have seen to his title. who was her lawyer?" "her father's executor, our friend mr. bonnithorne." "how much does she lose?" "i'm afraid a great deal--perhaps half her fortune," said hugh. "no matter; it's but fair, mr. ritson is not to inherit an estate impoverished by the excesses of the wrong man." drayton's head was still bent, but he scraped his feet restlessly. "i have only another word to say," said hugh. "in affairs of this solemn nature, it is best to have witnesses, or perhaps i should have preferred to confer with paul and mr. bonnithorne in private." he dropped his voice and added: "you see, there is my poor mother; and though, in a sense, she is no longer of this world, her good name must ever be sacred with me." the astute glances again, and two pairs of upraised hands. the lawyer had twisted toward the window. "but our friend bonnithorne will tell you that the law in effect compelled me to evict my brother. you may not know that there is a condition of english law in which a bastard becomes a permanent heir; that is when he is called, in the language of the law, the bastard eigne." there was a tremor in his voice as he added softly: "believe me, i had no choice." drayton stamped his heavy foot, threw down his pipe, and jumped to his feet. "it's a lie, the lot of it!" he blurted. then he fumbled at his watch-pocket, and pulled out a paper. "that's my register, straight and plain." he stammered it aloud: "ritson, paul; father, allan ritson; mother, grace ritson. date of birth, april 6, 1847; place, crieff, scotland." hugh ritson, a little pale, smiled. the others turned to him in their amazement. in an instant he had regained an appearance of indifference. "where does it come from?" he asked. "the registrar's at edinburgh. d'ye say it ain't right?" "no; but i say, what is it worth? gentlemen," said hugh, turning to the visitors, "compare it with the register of my father's marriage. observe, the one date is april 6, 1847; the other is june 12, 1847. even if genuine, does it prove legitimacy?" drayton laid his hand on the lawyer's arm. "here you, speak up, will ye?" he said. mr. bonnithorne rose, and then hugh ritson's pale face became ghastly. "this birth occurred in scotland," he said. "now, if the father happened to hold a scotch domicile, and the mother lived with him as his wife, the child would be legitimate." "without a marriage?" "without a ceremony." natt pushed into the room, his cap in one hand, a letter in the other. he had knocked twice, and none had heard. "the post, sir; one letter for master paul." "good lad!" drayton clutched it with a cry of delight. "but my father had no scotch domicile," said hugh, with apparent composure. "oh, but he had," said drayton, tearing open his envelope. "he was a scotsman born," said bonnithorne, taking another document from drayton's hand. "see, this is his register. odd, isn't it?" hugh ritson's eyes flashed. he looked steadily into the face of the lawyer, then he took the paper. the next moment he crushed it in his palm and flung it out of the window. "i shall want proof both of your facts and your law," he said. "eh, and welcome," said drayton, shouting in his agitation. "listen to this," and he proceeded to read. "wait! from whom?" asked hugh ritson. "some pettifogger?" "the solicitor-general," said bonnithorne. "is that good enough?" asked drayton, tauntingly. "go on," said hugh, rapping the table with his finger-tips. drayton handed the letter to the lawyer. "do you read it," he said; "i ain't flowery. i'm a gentleman, and--" he stopped suddenly and tramped the floor, while bonnithorne read: "if there is no reason to suppose the father lost his scotch domicile, the son is legitimate. if the husband recognized his wife in registering his son's birth, the law of scotland would presume that there was a marriage, but whether of ceremony or consent would be quite indifferent." there was a pause, drayton took the letter from the lawyer's hands, folded it carefully, and put it in his fob-pocket. then he peered into hugh ritson's face with a leer of triumph. bonnithorne had slunk aside. the guests were silent. "d'ye hear?" said drayton, "the son is legitimate." he gloated over the words, and tapped his pocket as he repeated them. "what d'ye say to it, eh?" at first hugh ritson struggled visibly for composure, and in an instant his face was like marble. drayton came close to him. "you were going to give me the go-by, eh? turn me out-o'-doors, eh? damme, it's my turn now, so it is!" so saying, drayton stepped to the door and flung it open. "this house is mine," he said; "go, and be damned to you!" at this unexpected blow, hugh ritson beat the ground with his foot. he looked round at the strangers, and felt like a wretch who was gagged and might say nothing. then he halted to where drayton stood with outstretched arm. "let me have a word with you in private," he said in a voice that was scarcely audible. drayton lifted his hand, and his fist was clinched. "not a syllable!" he said. his accent was brutal and frenzied. hugh ritson's nostrils quivered, and his eyes flashed. drayton quailed an instant, and burst into a laugh. there was a great silence. bonnithorne was still before the window, his face down, his hands clasped behind him, his foot pawing the ground. hugh ritson walked to his side. he contemplated him a moment, and then touched him on the shoulder. when he spoke, his face was dilated with passion, and his voice was low and deep. "there is a book," he said, "that a churchman may know, which tells of an unjust steward. the master thought to dismiss him from his stewardship. then the steward said within himself, 'what shall i do?'" there was a pause. "what did he do?" continued hugh ritson, and every word fell on the silence like the stroke of a bell. "he called his master's debtors together, and said to the first, 'how much do you owe?' 'one hundred measures.' then he said, 'write a bill for fifty.'" there was another pause. "what did that steward mean? he meant that when the master should dismiss him from his stewardship, the debtor should take him into his house." hugh ritson's manner was the white heat of calm. he turned half round to where drayton stood, and raised his voice. "that debtor was henceforth bound hand and foot. let him but parley with the steward, and the steward cried, 'thief,' 'forger,' 'perjurer.'" bonnithorne shuffled uneasily. he opened his mouth as if to speak, but the words would not come. at last he gulped down something that had seemed to choke him, smiled between his teeth a weak, bankrupt smile, and said: "how are we to read your parable? are you the debtor bound hand and foot, and is your brother the astute steward?" hugh ritson's foot fell heavily. "is it so?" he said, catching at the word. "then be it so;" and his voice rose to a shrill cry. "that steward shall come to the ground, and his master with him!" at that he stepped back to where drayton stood with eyes as full of bewilderment as frenzy. "paul lowther--" he said. "call me paul ritson," interrupted drayton. "paul lowther--" "ritson!" drayton shouted, and then, dropping his voice, he said, rapidly: "you gave it me, and by god i'll keep it!" hugh ritson leaned across the table and tapped a paper that lay on it. "that is your name," he said, "and i'll prove it." drayton burst into another laugh. "you daren't try," he chuckled. hugh turned upon him with eyes of fire. "so you measure my spirit by your own. man, man!" he said, "do you know what you are doing?" there was another brutal laugh from drayton, but it died suddenly on his lips. then hugh ritson stepped to the door. he took a last look round. it was as if he knew that he had reached the beginning of the end--as if he realized that he was never again to stand in the familiar room. the future, that seemed so near an hour ago, was gone from him forever; the cup that he had lifted to his lips lay in fragments at his feet. he saw it all in that swift instant. on his face there were the lines of agony, but over them there played the smile of resolve. he put one hand to his forehead, and then said in a voice so low as to be no more than a whisper: "wait and see." when the guests, who stood huddled together like sheep in a storm, had recovered their stunned senses, hugh ritson was gone from the room. drayton had sunk into a chair near where bonnithorne stood, and was whining like a whipped hound. "go after him! what will he do? you know i was always against it!" but presently he stood up and laughed, and bantered and crowed, and observed that it was a pity if a gentleman could not be master in his own house, and that what couldn't be cured must be endured. "precisely," interposed one of the guests, "and you have my entire sympathy, mr. ritson. a more cruel deception was never more manfully exposed." "i fully agree with you, neighbor," said another, "and such moral tyranny is fearful to contemplate. paul lowther, indeed! now, that is a joke." "well, it is rather, ain't it?" said drayton. and then he laughed, and they all laughed and shook hands, and were excellent good friends. chapter vi. greta stayed with mercy until noon that day, begging, entreating, and finally commanding her to lie quiet in bed, while she herself dressed and fed the child, and cooked and cleaned, in spite of the laird fisher's protestations. when all was done, and the old charcoal-burner had gone out on the hills, greta picked up the little fellow in her arms and went to mercy's room. mercy was alert to every sound, and in an instant was sitting up in bed. her face beamed, her parted lips smiled, her delicate fingers plucked nervously at the counterpane. "how brightsome it is to-day, greta," she said. "i'm sure the sun must be shining." the window was open, and a soft breeze floated through the sun's rays into the room. mercy inclined her head aside, and added, "ah, you young rogue you; you are there, are you? give him to me, the rascal!" the rogue was set down in his mother's arms, and she proceeded to punish his rascality with a shower of kisses. "how bonny his cheeks must be; they will be just like two ripe apples," and forthwith there fell another shower of kisses. then she babbled over the little one, and lisped, and stammered, and nodded her head in his face, and blew little puffs of breath into his hair, and tickled him until he laughed and crowed and rolled and threw up his legs; and then she kissed his limbs and extremities in a way that mothers have, and finally imprisoned one of his feet by putting it ankle deep into her mouth. "would you ever think a foot could be so tiny, greta?" she said. and the little one plunged about and clambered laboriously up its mother's breast, and more than once plucked at the white bandage about her head. "no, no; ralphie must not touch," said mercy with sudden gravity. "only think, ralphie pet, one week--only one--ay, less--only six days now, and then--oh, then--" a long hug, and the little fellow's boisterous protest against the convulsive pressure abridged the mother's prophecy. all at once mercy's manner changed. she turned toward greta, and said: "i will not touch the bandage, no, never; but if ralphie tugged at it, and it fell--would that be breaking my promise?" greta saw what was in her heart. "i'm afraid it would, dear," she said; but there was a tremor in her voice. mercy sighed audibly. "just think, it would be only ralphie. the kind doctors could not be angry with my little child. i would say, 'it was the boy,' and they would smile and say, 'ah, that is different.'" "give me the little one," said greta with emotion. mercy drew the child closer, and there was a pause. "i was very wrong, greta," she said in a low tone. "oh! you would not think what a fearful thing came into my mind a minute ago. take my ralphie. just imagine, my own innocent baby tempted me." as greta reached across the bed to lift the child out of his mother's lap, the little fellow was struggling to communicate, by help of a limited vocabulary, some wondrous intelligence of recent events that somewhat overshadowed his little existence. "puss--dat," many times repeated, was further explained by one chubby forefinger with its diminutive finger-nail pointed to the fat back of the other hand. "he means that the little cat has scratched him," said greta, "but bless the mite, he is pointing to the wrong hand." "puss--dat," continued the child, and peered up into his mother's sightless face. mercy was all tears in an instant. she had borne yesterday's operation without a groan, but now the scratch on her child's hand went to her heart like a stab. "lie quiet, mercy," said greta; "it will be gone to-morrow." "go-on," echoed the little chap, and pointed out at the window. "the darling, how he picks up every word!" said greta. "he means the horse," explained mercy. "go-on--man--go-on," prattled the little one, with a child's indifference to all conversation except his own. "bless the love, he must remember the doctor and his horse," said greta. mercy was putting her lips to the scratch on the little hand. "oh, greta, i am very childish; but a mother's heart melts like butter." "batter," echoed the child, and wriggled out of greta's arms to the ground, where he forthwith clambered on to the stool, and possessed himself of a slice of bread which lay on the table at the bedside. then the fair curly head disappeared like a glint of sunlight through the door to the kitchen. "what shall i care if other mothers see my child? i shall see him, too," said mercy, and she sighed. "yes," she added softly, "his hands and his eyes and his feet and his soft hair." "try to sleep an hour or two, dear," said greta, "and then perhaps you may get up this afternoon--only perhaps, you know, but we'll see." "yes, greta, yes. how kind you are." "you will be far kinder to me some day," said greta, very tenderly. "no--ah, yes, i remember. how very selfish i am--i had quite forgotten. but then it is so hard not to be selfish when you are a mother. only fancy, i never think of myself as mercy now. no, never. i'm just ralphie's mamma. when ralphie came, mercy must have died in some way. that's very silly, isn't it? only it does seem true." "man--go-on--batter," was heard from the kitchen, mingled with the patter of tiny feet. "listen to him. how tricksome he is! and you should hear him cry, 'oh!' you would say, 'that child has had an eye knocked out.' and then, in a minute, behold! he's laughing once more. there, i'm selfish again; but i will make up for it some day, if god is good." "yes, mercy, he is good," said greta. her arms rested on the door-jamb, and her head dropped on to it; her eyes swam. did it seem at that moment as if god had been very good to these two women? "greta," said mercy, and her voice fell to a whisper, "do you think ralphie is like--anybody?" "yes, dear, he is like you." there was a pause. then mercy's hand strayed from under the bedclothes and plucked at greta's gown. "do you think," she asked, in a voice all but inaudible, "that father knows who it is?" "i can not say--we have never told him." "nor i--he never asked, never once--only, you know, he gave up his work at the mine, and went back to the charcoal-pit when ralphie came. but he never said a word." greta did not answer. there was another pause. then mercy said, in a stronger voice, "will it be soon--the trial?" "as soon as your eyes are better," said greta, earnestly; "everything depends on your recovery." at that moment the bedroom door was pushed open with a little lordly bang, and the great wee man entered with his piece of bread stuck rather insecurely on one prong of a fork. "toas," he explained complacently, "toas," and walked up to the empty grate and stretched his arm over the fender at the cold bars. "why, there's no fire for toast, you darling goose," said greta, catching him in her arms, much to his masculine vexation. mercy had risen on an elbow, and her face was full of the yearning of the blind. then she lay back. "never mind," she said to herself in a faltering voice, "let me lie quiet and think of all his pretty ways." chapter vii. greta returned to the vicarage toward noon, and overtook parson christian and peter in the lonnin, the one carrying a scythe over his shoulder, the other a bundle of rushes under his one arm. the parson was walking in silence under the noontide sun, his straw hat tipped back from his forehead and his eyes on the ground. he was busy with his own reflections. it was not until greta had tripped up to his side and slipped his scythe-stone from its strap in the pole that the parson was awakened from his reverie. "great news, greta--great news, my lass!" he said in answer to her liberal tender in exchange for his thoughts. "how well it's said, that he that diggeth a pit for another should look that he fall not into it himself." "what news, mr. christian?" said greta, and her color heightened. "well, we've been mowing the grass in the church-yard, peter and i, and the scythe is old like ourselves, and it wanted tempering. so away we went to the smithy to have it ground, and who should come up but robbie atkinson, leading hassocks from longridge. and robbie would fain have us go with him and be cheerful at the flying horse. well, we'd each had a pot of ale and milk, when in came natt, the stableman at ritson's, all lather like one of his horses after his master has been astride her. and natt was full of a great quarrel at the ghyll, wherein young mr. hugh had tried to turn yonder man out of the house in the way i told you of before, but the man denied that he was what hugh called him, and clung to it that he was paul ritson, and brought documents to show that paul was his father's rightful heir, after all." "well, well?" asked greta, breathlessly. peter had shambled on to the house. "well, natt is no very trustworthy chronicler, i fear, but one thing is plain, and that is, that mr. hugh, who thought to turn yon man out of the house, has been turned out of it himself." greta stood in the road, trembling from head to foot. "my poor husband!" she said in a whisper. then came a torrent of questions. "when did this happen? what think you will come of it? where will hugh go? what will he do? ah, mr. christian, you always said the cruel instrument would turn in his hand!" there was a step behind them. in their anxiety they had not noticed it until it was close at their heels. they turned, and were face to face with mr. bonnithorne. the lawyer bowed, but before they had exchanged the courtesies of welcome, a horse's tramp came from the road, and in a moment drayton rode up the lonnin. his face was flushed, and his manner noisy as he leaped from the saddle into their midst. greta lifted one hand to her breast, and with the other hand she clasped that of the parson. the old man's face grew rigid in an instant, and all the mellowness natural to it died away. drayton made up to greta and the parson with an air of braggadocio. "i've come to tell you once for all that my wife must live under my roof." no one answered. drayton took a step near, and slapped his boot with his riding-whip. "the law backs me up in it, and i mean to have it out." still there was no answer, and drayton's braggadocio gathered assurance from the silence. "not as i want her. none of your shrinking away, madame." a hoarse laugh. "burn my body! if i wouldn't as soon have my mother for a wife." "what then?" said the parson in a low tone. "appearances. i ain't to be a laughing-stock of the neighborhood any longer. my wife's my wife. a husband's a husband, and wants obedience." "and what if you do not get it?" asked the parson, his old face whitening. "what? imprisonment--that's what." drayton twisted about and touched the lawyer with the handle of his whip. "here, you, tell 'em what's what." thus appealed to, mr. bonnithorne explained that a husband was entitled to the restitution of connubial rights, and, in default, to the "attachment" of his spouse. "the law," said mr. bonnithorne, "can compel a wife to live with her husband, or punish her with imprisonment for not doing so." "d'ye hear?" said drayton, slapping furiously at the sole of his boot. "punish her with imprisonment." there was a pause, and then the parson said, quietly but firmly: "i gather that it means that you want to share this lady's property." "well, what of it? hain't i a right to share it, eh?" "you have thus far enjoyed the benefit of her mortgages, on the pretense that you are her husband; but now you are going too far." "we'll see. here, you," prodding the lawyer, "take proceedings at once. if she won't come, imprison her. d'ye hear--imprison her!" he swung about and caught the reins from the horse's mane, laughing a hollow laugh. greta disengaged her hand from the hand of the parson, and stepped up to drayton until she stood before him face to face, her eyes flashing, her lips quivering, her cheeks pale, her whole figure erect and firm. "and what of that?" she said. "do you think to frighten me with the cruelties of the law?--me?--me?" she echoed, with scorn in every syllable. "have i suffered so little from it already that you dare to say, 'imprison her,' as if that would drive me to your house?" drayton tried to laugh, but the feeble effort died on his hot lips. he spat on the ground, and then tried to lift his eyes back to the eyes of greta, but they fell to the whip that he held in his hand. "imprison me, paul drayton! i shall not be the first you've imprisoned. imprison me, and i shall be rid of you and your imposture!" she said, raising her voice. drayton leaped to the saddle. "i'll do it!" he muttered; and now, pale, crushed, his braggadocio gone, he tugged his horse's head aside and brought down the whip on its flank. parson christian turned to mr. bonnithorne. "follow him," he said, resolutely, and lifted his hand. the lawyer made a show of explanation, then assumed an air of authority, but finally encountered the parson's white face, and turned away. in another moment greta was hanging on parson christian's neck, sobbing and moaning, while the good old christian, with all the mellowness back in his wrinkled face, smoothed her hair as tenderly as a woman. "my poor paul, my dear husband!" cried greta. "ah! thanks be to god, things are at their worst now, and they can't move but they must mend," said the parson. he took her indoors and bathed her hot forehead, and dried with his hard old hand the tears that fell from eyes that a moment before had flashed like a basilisk's. toward five o'clock that evening a knock came to the door of the vicarage, and old laird fisher entered. his manner was more than usually solemn and constrained. "i's coom't to say as ma lass's wee thing is taken badly," he said, "and rayder sudden't." greta rose from her seat and put on her hat and cloak. she was hastening down the road while the charcoal-burner was still standing in the middle of the floor. chapter viii. when greta reached the old charcoal-burner's cottage, the little one was lying in a drowsy state in mercy's arms. its breathing seemed difficult; sometimes it started in terror; it was feverish and suffered thirst. the mother's wistful face was bent down on it with an indescribable expression. there were only the trembling lips to tell of the sharp struggle that was going on within. but the yearning for a sight of the little flushed countenance, the tearless appeal for but one glimpse of the drowsy little eyes, the half-articulate cry of a mother's heart against the fate that made the child she had suckled at her breast a stranger, whose very features she might not know--all this was written in that blind face. "is he pale?" said mercy. "is he sleeping? he does not talk now, but only starts and cries, and sometimes coughs." "when did this begin?" asked greta. "toward four o'clock. he had been playing, and i noticed that he breathed heavily, and then he came to me to be nursed. is he awake now? listen." the little one in its restless drowsiness was muttering faintly, "man--go-on--batter--toas." "the darling is talking in his sleep, isn't he?" said mercy. then there was a ringing, brassy cough. "it is croup," thought greta. she closed the window, lighted a fire, placed the kettle so that the steam might enter the room, then wrung flannels out of hot water, and wrapped them about the child's neck. she stayed all that night at the cottage, and sat up with the little one and nursed it. mercy could not be persuaded to go to bed, but she was very quiet. it had not yet taken hold of her that the child was seriously ill. he was drowsy and a little feverish, his pulse beat fast and he coughed hard sometimes, but he would be better in the morning. oh, yes, he would soon be well again, and tearing up the flowers in the garden. toward midnight the pulse fell rapidly, the breathing become quieter, and the whole nature seemed to sink. mercy listened with her ear bent down at the child's mouth, and a smile of ineffable joy spread itself over her face. "bless him, he is sleeping so calmly," she said. greta did not answer. "the 'puss' and the 'man' don't darken his little life so much now," continued mercy, cheerily. "no, dear," said greta, in as strong a voice as she could summon. "all will be well with my darling boy soon, will it not?" "yes, dear," said greta, with a struggle. happily mercy could not read the other answer in her face. mercy had put her sensitive fingers on the child's nose, and was touching him lightly about the mouth. "greta," she said in a startled whisper, "does he look pinched?" "a little," said greta, quietly. "and his skin--is it cold and clammy?" "we must give him another hot flannel," said greta. mercy sat at the bedside, and said nothing for an hour. then all at once, and in a strange, harsh voice, she said: "i wish god had not made ralphie so winsome." greta started at the words, but made no answer. the daylight came early. as the first gleams of gray light came in at the window, greta turned to where mercy sat in silence. it was a sad face that she saw in the mingled yellow light of the dying lamp and the gray of the dawn. mercy spoke again. "greta, do you remember what mistress branthet said when her baby died last back-end gone twelvemonth?" greta looked up quickly at the bandaged eyes. "what?" she asked. "well, parson christian tried to comfort her, and said, 'your baby is now an angel in paradise,' and she turned on him with 'shaf on your angels--i want none on 'em--i want my little girl.'" mercy's voice broke into a sob. toward ten o'clock the doctor came. he had been detained. very sorry to disoblige mrs. ritson, but fact was old mr. de broadthwaite had an attack of lumbago, complicated by a bout of toothache, and everybody knew he was most exacting. young person's baby ill? feverish, restless, starts in its sleep, and cough?--ah, croupy cough--yes, croup, true croup, not spasmodic. let him see; how old? a year and a half? ah, bad, very. most frequent in second year of infancy. dangerous, highly so. forms a membrane that occludes air passages. often ends in convulsions, and child suffocates. sad, very. let him see again. how long since the attack began? yesterday at four. ah, far gone, far. the great man soon vanished, leaving behind him a harmless preparation of aconite and ipecacuanha. mercy had heard all, and her pent-up grief broke out in sobs. "oh, to think i shall hear my ralphie no more, and to know his white cold face is looking up from a coffin, while other children are playing in the sunshine and chasing the butterflies! no, no, it can not be; god will not let it come to pass; i will pray to him and he will save my child. why, he can do anything, and he has all the world. what is my little baby boy to him? he will not let it be taken from me!" greta's heart was too full for speech. but she might weep in silence, and none there would know. mercy stretched across the bed and, tenderly folding the child in her arms, she lifted him up, and then went down on her knees. "merciful father," she said in a childish voice of sweet confidence, "this is my baby, my ralphie, and i love him so dearly. you would never think how much i love him. but he is ill, and doctor says he may die. oh, dear father, only think what it would be to say, 'his little face is gone.' and then i have never seen him. you will not take him away until his mother sees him. so soon, too. only five days more. why, it is quite close. not to-morrow, nor the next day, nor the next, but the day after that!" she put in many another child-like plea, and then rose with a smile on her pale lips and replaced the little one on his pillow. "how patient he is," she said. "he can't say 'thank you,' but i'm sure his eyes are speaking. let me feel." she put her finger lightly on the child's lids. "no, they are shut; he must be sleeping. oh, dear, he sleeps very much. is he gaining color? how quiet he is! if he would only say, 'mamma!' how i wish i could see him!" she was very quiet for awhile, and then plucked at greta's gown suddenly. "greta," she said eagerly, "something tells me that if i could only see ralphie i should save him." greta started up in terror. "no, no, no; you must not think of it," she said. "but some one whispered it. it must have been god himself. you know we ought to obey god always." "mercy, it was not god who said that. it was your own heart. you must not heed it." "i'm sure it was god," said mercy. "and i heard it quite plain." "mercy, my darling, think what you are saying. think what it is you wish to do. if you do it you will be blind forever." "but i shall have saved my ralphie." "no, no; you will not." "will he not be saved, greta?" "only our heavenly father knows." "well, he whispered it in my heart. and, as you say, he knows best." greta was almost distraught with fear. the noble soul in her would not allow her to appeal to mercy's gratitude against the plea of maternal love. but she felt that all her happiness hung on that chance. if mercy regained her sight, all would be well with her and hers; but if she lost it the future must be a blank. the day wore slowly on, and the child sunk and sunk. at evening the old charcoal-burner returned, and went into the bedroom. he stood a moment, and looked down at the pinched little face, and when the child's eyes opened drowsily for a moment he put his withered forefinger into its palm; but there was no longer a responsive clasp of the chubby hand. the old man's lips quivered behind his white beard. "it were a winsome wee thing," he said, faintly, and then turned away. he left his supper untouched and went into the porch. there he sat on a bench and whittled a blackthorn stick. the sun was sinking over the head of the eel crag; the valley lay deep in a purple haze; the bald top of cat bells stood out bright in the glory of the passing day. a gentle breeze came up from the south, and the young corn chattered with its multitudinous tongues in the field below. the dog lay at the charcoal-burner's feet, blinking in the sun and snapping lazily at a buzzing fly. the little life within was ebbing away. no longer racked by the ringing cough, the loud breathing became less frequent and more harsh. mercy lifted the child from the bed and sat with it before the fire. greta saw its eyes open, and at the same moment she saw the lips move slightly, but she heard nothing. "he is calling his mamma," said mercy, with her ear bent toward the child's mouth. there was a silence for a long time. mercy pressed the child to her breast; its close presence seemed to soothe her. greta stood and looked down; she saw the little lips move once more, but again she heard no sound. "he is calling his mamma," repeated mercy, wistfully, "and, oh, he seems such a long way off!" once again the little lips moved. "he is calling me," said mercy, listening intently; and she grew restless and excited. "he is going away. i can hear him. he is far off. ralphie, ralphie!" she had lifted the child up to her face. "ralphie, ralphie!" she cried. "give me the baby, mercy," said greta. but the mother clung to it with a convulsive grasp. "ralphie, ralphie, ralphie!..." there was a sudden flash of some white thing. in an instant the bandage had fallen from mercy's head, and she was peering down into the child's face with wild eyes. "ralphie, ralphie!... hugh!" she cried. the mother had seen her babe at last, and in that instant she had recognized the features of its father. at the next moment the angel of god passed through that troubled house, and the child lay dead at the mother's breast. mercy saw it all, and her impassioned mood left her. she rose to her feet quietly, and laid the little one in the bed. there was never a sigh more, never a tear. only her face was ashy pale, and her whitening lips quivered. "greta," she said, very slowly, "will you go for him?" greta kissed the girl's forehead tenderly. her own calm, steadfast, enduring spirit sunk. all the world was dead to her now. "yes, dear," she whispered. the next minute she was gone from the room. chapter ix. the evening was closing in; now and then the shrill cries of the birds pealed and echoed in the still air; a long, fibrous streak of silver in the sky ebbed away over the head of hindscarth. greta hastened toward the pit-brow. the clank of the iron chain in the gear told that the cage in the shaft was working. it was a year and a half since her life had first been overshadowed by a disaster more black and terrible than death itself, and never for an instant had the clouds been lifted until three days ago. then, in a moment, the light had pierced through the empty sky, and a way had been wrought for her out of the labyrinth of misery. but even that passage for life and hope and love seemed now to be closed by the grim countenance of doom. mercy would be blind forever! all was over and done. greta's strong, calm spirit sunk and sunk. she saw the impostor holding to the end the name and place of the good man; and she saw the good man dragging his toilsome way through life--an outcast, a by-word, loaded with ignominy, branded with crime. and that unhappy man was her husband, and he had no stay but in her love--no hope but in her faith. greta stopped at the door of hugh ritson's office and knocked. a moment later he and she were face to face. he was dressed in his pit flannels, and was standing by a table on which a lamp burned. when he recognized her, he passed one hand across his brow, the other he rested on the mantel-piece. there was a momentary twitching of her lips, and he involuntarily remarked that in the time that had passed since they last met she had grown thinner. "come with me," she said in a trembling whisper. "mercy's child is dead, and the poor girl is asking for you in her great trouble." he did not speak at once, but shaded his eyes from the lamp. then he said, in a voice unlike his own: "i will follow you." she had held the door in her hand, and now she turned to go. he took one step toward her. "greta, have you nothing more to say to me?" he asked. "what do you wish me to say?" he did not answer; his eyes fell before her. there was a slight wave of her hand as she added: "the same room ought never to contain both you and me--it never should have done so--but this is not my errand." "i have deserved it," he said, humbly. "the cruel work is done--yes, done past undoing. you have not heard the last of it. then, since you ask me what i have to say to you, it is this: that man, that instrument of your malice who is now your master, has been to say that he can compel me to live with him, or imprison me if i refuse. can he do it?" hugh ritson lifted his eyes with a blind, vacant stare. "to live with him? him? you to live with him?" he said, absently. "to live under his roof--those were his words. can he do it? i mean if the law recognizes him as my husband?" hugh ritson's eyes wandered. "do it? your husband?" he echoed, incoherently. "i know well what he wants," said greta, breathing heavily; "it is not myself he is anxious for--but he can not have the one without the other." "the one without the other?" echoed hugh ritson in a low tone. then he strode across the room in visible agitation. "greta, that man is--. do you know who he is?" "paul drayton, the innkeeper of hendon," she answered, calmly. "no, no; he is your--" he paused, his brows knit, his fingers interlaced. her bosom swelled. "would you tell me that he is my husband?" she said indignantly. hugh ritson again passed his hand across his brow. "greta, i have deserved your distrust," he said, in an altered tone. "what is done can never be undone," she answered. his voice had regained its calmness, but his manner was still agitated. "i may serve you even yet," he said; "i have done you too much wrong; i know that." "what is your remorse worth now?" she asked. "it comes too late." then he looked her steadily in the face, and replied: "greta, it is well said that the most miserable man in all the world is he who feels remorse before he does the wrong. i was--i am--that man. i did what i did knowing well that i should repent it--ay, to the last hour of my life. but i was driven to it--i had no power to resist it--it mastered me then--it would master me now." the finger-tips of greta's right hand were pressed close against her cheek. hugh ritson took a step nearer. "greta," he said, and his voice fell to a broken whisper, "there are some men to whom love is a passing breath, a gentle gale that beats on the face and sports in the hair, and then is gone. to me it is a wound, a deep, corrosive, inward wound that yearns and burns." greta shuddered; it was as if his words stung her. then with an impatient gesture she turned again toward the door, saying: "this is the death-hour of your child, and, heaven pardon you, it seems to be the death-hour of your brother's hopes too!" she faced about. "do you think of him?" she added, lifting her voice. "when you see this man in his place, wasting his substance and mine, do you ever think of him where he is?" her voice trembled and broke. there was a moment's silence. she had turned her head aside, and he heard the low sound of sobs. "yes, i think of him," he answered, slowly. "at night, in the sleepless hours, i do think of him where he is; and i think of him as a happy man. yes, a happy man! what if he wears a convict's dress?--his soul is yoked to no deadening burden. as for me--well, look at me!" he smiled grimly. "i have heard everything," said greta; "you have sown the wind, and you are reaping the whirlwind." something like a laugh broke from him. it came from the waters of bitterness that lay deep in his heart. "not that," he said. "all that will pass away." she was on the threshold; a force of which she knew nothing held her there. "greta, i am not so bad a man as perhaps i seem; i am a riddle that you may not read. the time is near when i shall trouble the world no more, and it will be but a poor wounded name i shall leave behind me, will it not? greta, would it be a mockery to ask you to forgive me?" "there are others who have more to forgive," said greta. "one of them is waiting for you at this moment; and, poor girl! her heart is broken." hugh ritson bent his head slightly, and greta pulled the door after her. chapter x. the evening had closed in; the watery veil that goes between day and night was hanging in the air; the wind had risen, and the trees were troubled. when hugh ritson reached the cottage, all was dark about the house save for the red glow from the peat fire which came out into the open porch. the old laird fisher was sitting there, a blackthorn stick at his feet, his elbows on his knees, his cheeks rested on his hands. the drowsy glow fell on his drooping white head. as hugh ritson passed into the kitchen, the old man lifted to his a countenance on which grief and reproach were stamped together. hugh ritson's proud spirit was rebuked by the speechless sorrow of that look. it was such a look as a wounded hound lifts to the eyes of a brutal master. a sheep-dog was stretched at full length before the slumbering fire. the kitchen was empty, and silent too, except for the tick of the clock and the colly's labored breathing. but at the sound of hugh's uncertain step on the hard earthen floor, the door of the bedroom opened, and greta motioned him to enter. a candle burned near the bed. before a fire, mercy fisher sat with parson christian. her head lay on a table that stood between, her face buried in her encircled arms. one hand lay open beside the long loose tresses of yellow hair, and the parson's hand rested upon it caressingly. parson christian rose as hugh ritson entered, and bowing coldly, he left the room; greta had already gone out, and he rejoined her in the kitchen. mercy lifted her head and looked up at hugh. there was not a tear in her weary, red, swollen eyes, and not a sigh came from her heaving breast. she rose quietly, and taking hugh's hand in her own, she drew him to the bedside. "see where he is," she said in a voice of piercing earnestness, and with her other hand she lifted a handkerchief from the little white face. hugh ritson shuddered. he saw his own features as if memory had brought them in an instant from the long past. mercy disengaged her hand, and silently hid her face. but she did not weep. "my little ralphie," she said, plaintively, "how quiet he is now! oh, but you should have seen him when he was like a glistening ray of morning light. why did you not come before?" hugh ritson stood there looking down at the child's dead face, and made no answer. "it is better as it is," his heart whispered at that moment. the next instant his whole frame quivered. what was the thought that had risen unbidden within him? better that his child should lie there cold and lifeless than that it should fill this desolate house with joy and love? was he, then, so black a villain? god forbid! yet it was better so. "all is over now," said mercy, and her hands fell from her face. she turned her weary eyes full upon him, and added: "we have been punished already." "punished?" said hugh. "we?" there was silence for a moment; and then, dropping his voice until it was scarcely audible, he said: "your burden is heavy to bear, my poor girl." her slight figure swayed a little. "i could bear it no longer," she answered. "many a one has thought that before you," he said; "but god alone knows what we can not bear until we are tried." "well, all is over now," she repeated listlessly. she spoke of herself as if her days were already ended and past; as if her orb of life had been rounded by the brief span of the little existence that lay finished upon the bed. hugh ritson looked at her, and the muscles of his face twitched. her weary eyes were still dry; their dim light seemed to come from far away. "how i prayed that i might see my ralphie," she said. "i thought surely god had willed it that i should never see my child. perhaps that was to be my punishment for--all that had taken place. but i prayed still. oh, you would not think how much i pray! but it must have been a wicked prayer." she hid her face once more in her hands, and added, with unexpected animation: "god heard my prayer, and answered it--but see!" she pointed to the child. "i saw him--yes, i saw him--die!" hugh ritson was moved, but his heart was bitter. at that moment he cursed the faith that held in bondage the soul of the woman at his side. would that he could trample it underfoot, and break forever the chains by which it held the simple. "hugh," she said, and her voice softened, "we are about to part forever. our little ralphie--yours and mine--he calls me. i could not live without him. god would not make me do that. he has punished me already, and he is merciful. only think, our ralphie is in heaven!" she paused and bit her lip, and drew her breath audibly inward. her face took then a death-like hue, and all at once her voice overflowed with anguish. "do you know, something whispered at that instant that god had not punished us enough, that ralphie was not in heaven, and that the sins of the fathers--oh, my darling, my darling!" with a shrill cry she stopped, turned to the bed, threw her outspread arms about the child, and kissed it fervently. the tears came at length, and rained down on that little silent face. hugh ritson could support the strain no longer. "mercy," he said, and his voice had a deep tremor--"mercy, if there is any sin, it is mine, and if there is to be any punishment hereafter, that will be mine too. as for your little boy, be sure he is in heaven." he had stepped to the door, and his thumb was on the wooden latch. "you say rightly, we shall never meet again," he said in a muffled voice. "good-bye." mercy lifted her tearful face. "give me your hand at parting," she said in an imploring tone. he was on the opposite side of the bed from where she stood, and she reached her hand across it. he took a step nearer, and his hand closed in hers. between them and beneath their clasped hands lay the child. "hugh, we could not love in this world--something went astray with us; but we shall meet again, shall we not?" he turned his eyes away. "perhaps," he answered. "promise me," she said--"promise me." he drew his breath hard. "if there is a god and a judgment, be sure we shall meet," he said. his voice broke. he turned abruptly aside and hurried out of the house. chapter xi. the night was now dark; there was no moon, and there were no stars; the wind soughed mournfully through the trees. in the occasional lull the rumble of the cataracts drifted heavily through the air. hugh ritson walked in the darkness with drooping head. he was not making for the pit-brow; he had taken the opposite direction. when he reached the village, he stopped at the flying horse. loud peals of laughter came from the parlor, hidden by red blinds from the road. he stood at the door that opened into the bar. the landlady, her face turned from him, was talking with obvious animation to a daleswoman who stood with a jug in her hand at the other side of the counter. "what, woman, thoo's surely heard what happen't at the ghyll this morning?" "nay, bessie, i's been thrang as throp wife, cleaning and tittivating." "well, lass, they've telt me as it were shocking. two brothers, and such a fratch! it coom't to blows at last, and they do say 'at master hugh is nigh amaist dead with a bash the girt fellow gave him." hugh ritson rapped sharply at the door. "tell your husband i wish to see him," he said. the landlady looked up, fumbled with a napkin, and answered nervously, "yes, sir." then she hobbled to the door of the parlor and opened it. a wave of mingled noise, vapor, and foul odors came through the aperture. "tommy!" she screamed above the babel. the landlord appeared. "can you send me a dog-cart at half past four in the morning?" said hugh. "maybe--it's a gay canny hour, i reckon," said the landlord. he pulled at a long pipe as he spoke, and his face, which was flushed, wore an impudent smile. "i have to catch the five-o'clock train," hugh answered. "to london?" one cheek was twisted into numerous wrinkles. "i said the five train," said hugh, sternly. "can you do it?" "i's niver said nay--it'll be three half-crowns." hugh put half a sovereign on the counter. "let it be sent at half past four promptly. "to the ghyll?" the twist of the cheek was a shade less perceptible. "to the pit-brow." the parlor door opened again, and natt stood on the threshold. the stableman's sleepy eyes awakened to a knowing twinkle. then his flat face disappeared, and a thin titter mingled audibly with the clamor within. in another moment the door was thrown wide open, and drayton came slouching out. his hair fell back over his forehead, from which his hat was tipped back. a cigar was perched between his teeth; the tips of his fingers were thrust into his waistcoat pockets. "come in; i've summat to show you," he said. hugh did not stir, but he lifted his head and looked into the room. half a score of the riff-raff of the dale were seated amid clouds of smoke. on the wooden mantel-shelf above the wide ingle a large book stood open, and the leaves fluttered with the wind that came through the door. "i hain't forgotten what you said long ago about the parson's book," said drayton, "so here it is, and a mighty valuable thing i call it. you thought to frighten me with it, but bless yer soul, i like it, i do. listen." drayton stepped back into the room, turned the leaves, and began to read in a lusty tone: "1847.--november 18.--thomas said allan was fresh from scotland, being scottish born, and that his wife was irish, and that they had a child called paul, only a few months old, and not yet walking." it was the parson's diary. "that's good enough, ain't it, master hugh ritson?" said drayton, with an ungainly bow, and a vast show of civility, followed instantly by a sidelong leer at his cronies about him. hugh ritson held himself stiffly, and merely said: "where did you get it?" at this question there were sundry snorts and titters and muttered responses from the men at the tables. hugh's eyes passed over them with a steely glance. "stolen it, i suppose," he said quietly. "ay," said drayton, "and a neat job too. natt 'ticed away the methodee man while i borrowed it." drayton seemed to be proud of his share in the transaction, and his friends laughed loudly at the adroit turn he had given to the matter. natt's drowsy eyes were preternaturally bright at that great moment. hugh ritson's forehead darkened with ire. "this is your gratitude to the clergyman," he said. sundry further snorts and sniggers went round the tables. "there's not a man of you who is not beholden to parson christian," said hugh, sternly. he twisted sharply round upon one graybeard whose laugh still rumbled between his teeth. "reuben rae, who nursed your sick wife? john proudfoot," to the blacksmith, "what about your child down with the fever?" his quick eye traversed the parlor, and more than one lusty crony was fain to bury his face in his breast. "yet you laugh, brave fellows as you are, when the good man's house is broken into by a thief." drayton took a swift stride toward him. "drop it, and quick!" he shouted. hugh ritson governed himself with an effort. "i'm not here to brawl," he said quietly. "pigeon-livered blatherskite!--that's what i call ye--d'ye hear?" said drayton. hugh's face flinched, but he turned on his heel, and was on the road at the next instant. drayton followed him out, laughing boisterously. hugh made one quick step backward and shut the door; then he turned about on drayton, whose cruel face could be dimly seen in the hazy red light that came through the blinds. "you have tried to torture me," he said, "just as you would hang a dog by its tail, or draw the teeth of a rat. you have threatened with worse torture a good and loyal woman. you are a scoundrel, and you know it! but even you would hesitate if you knew for certain who or what you are. let me tell you again, now, when we are alone, and while i have no personal interest to serve: you are the man whose name i gave you--paul lowther, son of robert lowther--and that lady, my brother's wife, whom for reason of profit you would compel to live under the same roof with you, is your own sister!" drayton's loud guffaw rang out above the wind's moan in the trees. his cronies within heard it and listened. "it's a rare old story, that is. let me see; you've told it before, i fancy." "then it was a lie; now it's god's truth!" said hugh. drayton laughed again. "and then it was believed, but now it's not. no, no, master hugh, it won't pass." "we will see." hugh ritson had swung about and was gone. drayton went back to his friends. "hasn't the pluck of a pigeon when it comes to the push," he muttered. "ey, he wears a bonny white feather in his cap, for sure," said old reuben rae. "no fight in'im--no'but tongue lather," said john, the blacksmith. * * * * * hugh ritson walked through the darkness to the pit-brow. the glow of the furnace lighted up the air to the south, and showed vaguely the brant sides of the fell; the dull thud of the engine, the clank of the chain, and the sharp crack of the refuse tumbling down the bank from the banksman's barrow were the only sounds that rose above the wind's loud whistle. gubblum was at the mouth of the shaft. "oglethorpe," said hugh, "how many of the gangs are below to-night?" "all but two--auld reuben's and jim south'et's." "then they have chosen to work on?" "ey, another fortnight--trusting to get their wage afore that, please god." "they shall not be disappointed." hugh ritson turned away. gubblum trundled his last wheelbarrow to the edge of the bank, and then rested and said to himself, "he takes it cool enough onyway." but the outside tranquillity disappeared when hugh ritson reached his own room on the pit-brow. he bathed his hot forehead again and again. his fingers twitched nervously, and he plunged his perspiring hands into cold water above the wrists, holding them there for several minutes. not for long did he sit in one seat. he tramped the room uneasily, his infirm foot trailing heavily. then he threw himself on the couch, tossed from side to side, rose, and resumed his melancholy walk. thus an hour passed drearily. his mind recalled one by one the events of the day. and one by one there came crowding back upon him the events of the two years that had passed since his father's death. a hurricane was upheaving every memory of his mind. and every memory had its own particular sting, and came up as a blight to fret his soul. he tried to guard himself from himself. what he had first thought to do was but in defense of his strict legal rights, and if he had gone further--if he had done more, without daring to think of it until it was done--then it was love that had led him astray. was it so cruel a thing to be just? so foul a thing to love? but above the shufflings of remorse, above the stiflings of regret, above the plea of a maddening love, was the voice of revenge speaking loudly in his soul. that man, his instrument, now his master, paul lowther, must be brought down, and his time-serving sponsor with him. but how? there was but one way--by denouncing himself. yes, that was the sole outlet for his outraged and baffled spirit. he must go to the proper quarter and say, "i have perjured myself, and sworn away my brother's liberty. the man who was condemned as paul drayton is paul ritson. i did it all." that would bring this vulgar scoundrel to the dust, but at what a price! the convict's dress now worn by his brother would soon be worn by him. and what solace would it be then that the same suit would be worn by the impostor also? yet why prate of solace in a matter like this? what alternative was left to him? in what quarter of the sky was the light dawning for him? he was traveling toward the deepening night, and the day of his life was done. what if he allowed everything to take its course? well, he was a disgraced and ruined man, turned adrift from his father's house, and doomed to see a stranger living there. did he lack gall to make such a climax bitter? bitter, eh! and a thousand times the more bitter because he himself had, for ends of his own, first placed the scoundrel where he sat. no, no, no; paul lowther must be brought down, and with him must fall the poor ruins of a better man. yes a better man, let the world say what it would. could it occur that he would not be believed? that when he said "take me, i am a perjurer," they would answer, "no, your self-denunciation is only a freak of revenge, a mad attempt to injure the relative who has turned you out of his house?" hugh ritson laughed as the grim irony of such a possible situation flashed upon him: a man self-condemned and saved from punishment by the defense of his enemy! there was a knock at his door. in his stupor he was not at first conscious of what the knock meant. at length he recalled himself and cried: "come in." gubblum oglethorpe entered. "the men on the twelve o'clock shift are just about ganging down, and they want to tak' a few mair forks with them. they've telt me 'at the timber is splitting like matchwood under the sandy vein." hugh ritson made an effort to gather the purport of gubblum's message. "tell them to take the forks," he said in a low tone. gubblum was backing out, and stopped. "i reckon thoo's not heard the last frae auld mattha's," he said in another voice. "what is it, oglethorpe?" said hugh, his head bent over the table. "robbie south'et's wife has been up to t' brow, and says that mercy's laal thing is gone." hugh did not lift his eyes. "is that the last?" he said. "nay, but warse. the lass herself tore the bandage frae her eyes, and she's gone stone blind, and that's foriver." hugh's head bent closer over the table. "good-night, oglethorpe," he said. gubblum backed out, muttering to himself as he returned to the shaft, "a cool hand, how-an'-iver." the moment the door closed, hugh ritson tramped the floor in restless perambulations. what had he thought of doing? delivering himself to justice as a perjurer? had he, then, no duty left in life that he must needs gratify his revenge in a kind of death? what of the woman who had suffered for him? what of the broken heart and the wretched home? were these as nothing against the humiliation of a proud spirit? never for an instant, never in his bitterest agony, did hugh ritson lie to his own soul and say that the resolution he had formed was prompted by remorse for what he had done to paul ritson; not revenge for what he had suffered from paul drayton. to be a saint when sick; to find the conscience active when defeat overwhelmed it--that was for the weak dregs of humanity. but such paltering was not for him. on the one hand revenge, on the other duty--which was he to follow? the wretched man could come to no decision; and when the fingers of his watch pointed to one o'clock he lay down on the couch to rest. it was not sleep that he wanted; sleep had of late become too full of terrors; but sleep overcame him, nevertheless. his face, when he slept, was the face of a man in pain; and dreams came that were the distorted reflections of his waking thoughts. he dreamed that he had died in infancy. calm, serene, very sweet, and peaceful, his little innocent face of childhood looked up from the white pillow. he thought his mother bent over him, and shed many tears; but he himself belonged to another world of beings, and looked down on both. "it is better so," he thought, "and the tears she weeps are blest." at this he awoke, and rose to his feet. what soft nothings men had said of sleep! "oh, sleep, it is a gentle thing, beloved from pole to pole!" gentle! more tyrannous than death. the melancholy perambulation ended, and he lay down once more. he slept and dreamed again. this time he had killed his own brother. a moment before they had stood face to face--vigorous, wrathful, with eyes that flashed, and hands uplifted. now his brother lay quiet and awful at his feet, and the great silence was broken by a voice from heaven crying, "a fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be on the earth!" he started to his feet in terror. "mercy, mercy!" he cried. then he drew his breath hard and looked about him. "a dream--only another dream," he said to himself, and laughed between his close-set teeth. the lamp still burned on the table. he rose, drew a key from his pocket, opened a cupboard, and took out a small bottle. it contained an opiate. "since i must sleep, let my sleep at least be dreamless," he said, and he measured a dose. he was lifting the glass to his lips, when he caught sight of his face in the glass. "pitiful! pitiful! a mere dream unnerves me. pitiful enough, forsooth! and so i must needs hide myself from myself behind a bulwark like this!" he held the drug to the light, and while his hand trembled he laughed. then he drank it off, put out the light, and sat on the couch. the dawn had fretted the sky, and the first streaks of day crept in at the window, when the lamp's yellow light was gone. hugh ritson sat in the gray gloom, his knees drawn close under his chin, his arms folded over his breast, his head bent heavily forward. he was crooning an old song. presently the voice grew thick, the eye became clouded, and then the head fell back. he was asleep, and in his sleep he dreamed again. or was it a vision, and not a dream, that came to him now? he thought he stood in a room which he had seen before. on the bed some white thing lay. it was a child, and the little soul had fled. beside it a woman cowered, and moaned "guilty, guilty!" her eyes were fixed on the child, yet she saw nothing; the sightless orbs were bleached. but with her heart she saw the child; and she saw himself also as he entered. then it seemed that she turned her blind face toward him, and called on him by name. the next instant she was gone. her seat was vacant, the bed was empty; only a gray-bearded man sat by a cold grate. with an overpowering weight pressing him down, it seemed to hugh that he threw up his head, and again he heard his name. he leaped to his feet. big beads of cold sweat stood on his forehead. "mercy is dead," he whispered with awe. "she has gone to put in her plea of guilty. she is in god's great hand!" the next moment a voice shouted, "mr. ritson!" he listened, and in the gray light his stony countenance smiled grimly. "mr. ritson!" once more, followed by the rap of a whip-handle against the door. "tommy the landlord," said hugh, and he broke into a harsh laugh. "so you were my angel, tommy, eh?" another harsh laugh. the landlord, sitting in the dog-cart outside, heard it, and thought to himself, "some one with him." hugh ritson plunged his head into the wash-basin, and rubbed himself vigorously with a rough towel. "my last sleep is over," he said, glancing aside with fearful eyes at the couch. "i'll do this thing that i am bent upon; but no more sleep, and no more dreams!" he opened the door, threw a rug up to the landlord, put on an ulster, and leaped into the dog-cart. they started away at a quick trot. a chill morning breeze swept down the vale. the sun was rising above cat bells, but hugh ritson still felt as if he were traveling toward the deepening night. he sat with folded arms, and head bent on his breast. "hasta heard what happened at auld laird fisher's this morning?" said the landlord. hugh answered in a low voice: "i've heard nothing." "the lass has followed her barn rather sudden't. ey, she's gone, for sure. died a matter of half an hour ago. i heard it frae the parson as i coom't by." hugh ritson bent yet lower his drooping head. chapter xii. at 2 o'clock that day hugh ritson arrived at euston. he got into a cab and drove to whitehall. at the home office he asked for the secretary of state. a hundred obstacles arose to prevent him from penetrating to the head of the department. one official handed him over to another, the second to a third, the third to a fourth. hugh ritson was hardly the man to be balked by such impediments. his business was with the secretary of state, and none other. parliament was in session, and the home secretary was at the afternoon sitting of the house. hugh ritson sought and found him there. he explained his purpose in few words, and was listened to with a faint smile of incredulity. the secretary was a stolid yorkshireman, who affected whatever measure of bluffness had not been natural to him from birth. he first looked at his visitor with obvious doubts of his sanity; and when this suspicion had been set at rest by hugh's incisive explanation, with an equally obvious desire to feel his bumps. but the face of the yorkshireman soon became complicated by other shades of expression than such as come of distrust of a man's reason or contempt of his sentimentality. "hadn't you better sleep on it, and come to see me at whitehall in the morning?" he said, with more respect than he had yet shown. "then if you are still of the same mind, i will send for the public prosecutor." hugh ritson bowed his acquiescence. "and can i have the order for portland?" he said. "probably. it will be against the new regulation that none may visit a convict prison except prison officials and persons interested in prison discipline. but we'll see what can be done." that night, hugh ritson called at the convent of st. margaret. it was late when he entered, and when he came out again, half an hour afterward, the lamps were lighted in the abbey gardens. the light fell on the face of the lay sister who opened the door to him. she wore a gray gown, but no veil or scapular, and beneath the linen band that covered her hair her eyes were red and swollen. hugh ritson hailed a hansom in the broad sanctuary, and drove to hendon. the bar of the hawk and heron was full of carriers, carters, road-menders, and farm-laborers, all drinking, and all noisy. but, despite this evidence of a thriving trade, the whole place had a bankrupt appearance as of things going to wreck. jabez served behind the counter. he had developed a good deal of personal consequence, and held up his head, and repeatedly felt the altitude of a top-knot that curled there, and bore himself generally with the cockety air of the young rooster after the neck of the old one has been screwed. mrs. drayton sat knitting in the room where mercy and the neighbor's children once played together. when hugh ritson went in to her, the old body started. "lor's a mercy, me, sir, to think it's you! i'm that fearsome, that i declare i shiver and quake at nothing. and good for nowt i' the world neither, not since my own flesh and blood, as you might say, disowned me." "do you mean at the trial?" asked hugh ritson. "the trial, sir!" said the landlady, lifting bewildered eyes, while the click of the needles ceased. "my paul weren't there. cummerland, sir--and you heard him yourself what he said of me." a corner of her house-wife's apron went up to her face. "me as had brought him up that tender! well," recovering composure, "i've lost heart, and serve him right. i just lets the house and things go, i do. i trusts to providence; and that jabez, he's no better nor a babby in the public line." when hugh ritson left the inn, the old body's agitation increased. she had set down the knitting, and was fidgeting, first with her cap and then her apron. "listen to me," said hugh. "to-day is friday. on monday you must go to the convent where you saw the mother of paul. ask for sister grace. will you remember--sister grace? she will tell you all." it was hard on eleven o'clock when hugh ritson returned to town. the streets were thronged, and he walked for a long hour amid the crowds that passed through the strand. in all that multitudinous sea of faces, there was not a countenance on which the mark of suffering was more indelibly fixed than on his own. his sensibilities were wrought up to an unwonted pitch. he was like a waif adrift in unknown waters, a cloud without anchor in a tempestuous sky; yet he felt that night as he had never felt before, that he had suddenly become possessed of another and most painful sense. not a face in that sea of faces but he seemed to know its secret fear, its joy and sorrow, the watchful dread that seared the hidden heart, the fluttering hope that buoyed it up. it was an awful thing to be turned adrift in a world of sin and suffering with this agonizing sense. he could look, whether he would or not, beneath the smiling and rubicund countenance of the hail-fellow-well-met to that corrosive spot within where the trust of the widow and fatherless had been betrayed; or see beyond the stolid and heavy appearance proper to the ox the quivering features of the man who had stood long years ago above the dead body of the woman who had thrown her death at his door as sole reward for the life he had wrecked. nay, not only did the past write its manual there, but the future wrote its sign. he knew that the young girl in pink ribbons who was hurrying along with a smile on her lips, from the shop in the west to that unknown home in the east where the child of her shame had laughed and crowed and climbed up her bosom to her chin, was doomed to find that the source of all her joy and half her sorrow lay cold and stiff in its crib. he grew fearful of himself; he shuddered as the unsuspected murderer brushed his elbow; he shuddered yet more as a mirror flashed back the reflection of his own hard face, and the idea came to him that perhaps other eyes could see what his eyes saw. he turned down arundel street and on to the embankment. no! no! no! the merciful god had not willed it that any man should look so deeply into the heart of his fellow-man. that was indeed to know good and evil; and the thought stole over him that perhaps it was in degree as a man had eaten of the forbidden fruit of the tree of life that he was cursed with this bitter knowledge. here, on the quiet pavement that echoed to his footsteps, the air was free. he uncovered his head, and the light west wind played in his hair and cooled his temples. not a star shone overhead, and the river that flowed in the bed below was dark. more dark to him was the sea of humanity that flowed above. he had heard that the death-roll of the thames was one of every day for the year, and he leaned over the granite wall and wondered if the old river had claimed its toll for the day that was now almost done. his hair seemed to rise from its roots as he thought that perhaps at that very instant, in the black waters beneath him, the day's sacrifice was washing past. he walked on, and the dull buzz of the strand fell on his ear. what, after all, was the old god of the river to the juggernaut of the city? and it was now, when the fret of the day had worn down, that hugh ritson thought of all that he had left behind him in the distant north. there in the darkness and the silence, amid the mountains, by the waving trees and the rumbling ghylls, lay half the ruins of his ruined life. the glow of old london's many lights could not reach so far, but the shadow of that dark spot was here. chapter xiii. the clocks struck midnight, and he returned to the hotel at which he had engaged a bed. he did not lie down to sleep, but walked to and fro the night through. next morning at ten he was at the home office again. he saw the secretary and some of the law officers of the crown. when he came out he carried in his pocket an order to visit a convict in portland, and was attended by a police-sergeant in plain clothes. they took train from waterloo at two in the afternoon, and reached weymouth at six. when they crossed the strip of sea, the best of the day was gone, and a fresh breeze blew across the breakwater. the saxon walls of the castle at the foot of the vern hill reflected the chill blue of the water; but far above, where the rocky coast dipped to the beach, the yellow stone, with the bluish clay in its crevices, shone in the glow of the sinking sun. hugh ritson and his companion put up for the night at the portland arms inn. a ruddy, round-faced man in middle life, clean shaven and dressed youthfully, was smoking in the parlor. he exchanged a salutation with the cordiality of one who was nothing loath for a chat; then he picked up the old reeve staff, and explained the ancient method of computing tithes. but hugh ritson was in no humor for conversation, and after dinner he set out for a solitary walk. he took the road that turns from the beach through the villages of chiswell and fortune's well. when he reached the top of the hill the sea lay around him; and beneath him, to the right and left of the summit, were the quarries where the convicts labored, with two branches of an inclined railway leading down to the breakwater. on the summit itself, known as the grove, was a long, high granite wall, with a broad gate-way, and the lancet lights of a lodge at one side of it. this was the convict prison, and the three or four houses in front of it were the residences of governor, chaplain, and chief warder. a cordon of cottages at a little distance were the homes of the assistant warders. there were a few shops amid this little group of cottages, and one public house, the spotted dog. hugh ritson strolled into the tavern and sat down in a little "snuggery," which was separated from a similar apartment by a wooden partition that stood no higher than a tall man's height, and left a space between the top stile and the ceiling. a company of men gossiped at the other side of the partition. "talk of b 2001," said a guttural voice (hugh ritson started at the sound), "i took the stiff'ning out of him first go off. when he'd done he separates and come on from the moor; i saw he wasn't an old lag, so says i to 'im, 'green 'un,' i says, 'if you're leary, you'll fetch a easy lagging, and if you're not, it'll be bellows to mend with you.' 'what d'ye mean?' he says. 'it's bloomin' 'ard work here,' i says, 'and maybe you don't get shin-of-beef soup to do it on. bread and water, for a word,' i says. 'you're in my gang, quarrying, and i won't work you 'ard except i'm druv to it, but i want wide men in my gang,' i says, 'and no putting the stick on agen the screw.' 'don't understand,' he says. 'then follow a straight tip,' i says; 'stand by your warder and he'll stand by you.' blest if that lag as i'd give that good advice to didn't get me fined the very next day." "never!" said sundry incredulous voices. "it was a hot afternoon, and i'd just whipped a quid in my mouth and leaned atop of my musket for forty winks after dinner. the second-timers was codding afront of me, and 2001 and the young chap as was dying of the consumption was wheeling and filling ahead. well, up comes the governor right in front of 2001, and shouts, 'warder,' he shouts, 'you're fined for inattention.' then off he goes. all right, mr. 2001, i says, i'll not misremember." "what did you do?" "do?" (a loud, hollow laugh). "that was when the barracks was building, and one day a bit of a newspaper blowed over from the officers' quarters, and 2001 came on it, and the botcher picked it up. he'd chucked hisself quick. 'right about face--march.' he got seven stretch, a month's marks, and lost his bedding." a hearty laugh followed this account of a "screw's" revenge on a "green" convict. hugh ritson listened and shuddered. "i ain't surprised at anything from that luny," said another voice. "he was in my gang at the moor, and i know'd 'im. they put 'im in the soap-suds gang first, but he got hisself shifted. then they sent 'im botching with the tailors, but he put out his broom for the governor, and said a big lusty man same as 'im wasn't for sitting on a board all day. the flat didn't want to fetch a easy lagging, that's the fact." there was a loud guffaw. "so they put 'im in my turf gang out on the moor, and one day a old clergyman come in gaiters and a broad-brimmer, and a face as if the master of the house were a-shaking at his hand, and the missis flopping down-stairs to give him a smack of the lips. well, 2001 saw him in principal warder rennell's office, and not afore the bars. so next day i says, 'got anybody outside as would like to send you summat by the underground?' 'the what?' he says, reg'lar black in the face. 'the underground railway,' i says, tipping him a wink. 'get away from me, you bloodsucker!' he says. but i pinched 'im. the old lags were laughing at one of the grave-digger's oyster-openers, when up comes rennell. 'who's laughing?' he says. 'it's 2001,' i says; 'he's always idling and malingering.'" "ha, ha, ha! what did he get?" "three days' bread and water, a week's marks, and loss of class privileges. he didn't mind the grub and the time, but jack-in-the-box, who was warder on his landing, said he took it proper bad as he couldn't write home to the missis." "what's his dose?" "three. one of the old lags would do it on his head, and fetch it easy, too. he's a scholar, and could get to be a wardsman in the infirmary, or medicine factotum for the croaker, or maybe book-keeper for the governor. but he's earned no remissions, and he'll fill his time afore he slings his hook again." hugh ritson could support the gossip no longer. he got up to leave the house, but before doing so he pushed open the door that led to the adjoining room, and stood a moment on the threshold, comprehending everything and everybody in one quick glance. the air breathed fresh outside. he walked in the gathering gloom of evening to the ruins of the church by the cliff, and, passing through the lych-gate, he came on the beaten track to the rocks. the rocks lay a hundred feet beneath, torn from the mainland in craggy masses that seemed ready to slide from their base to the deep chasm between. could it be possible that men who were the slaves of hinds like those in yonder tavern could cling to their little lives while a deliverance like this beetling cliff stood near? a cold smile played on hugh ritson's face as he thought that, come what would, such slavery was not for him. the sycamore by the ruined chancel pattered in the breeze, and the wheatear's last notes came from its top-most bough. far below the waves were rocking lazily. there were other waves at hugh ritson's feet--the graves of dead men. some who were buried there long ago were buried in their chains. under the earth the fettered men--on the ruins of the church the singing bird. across the sea the light was every moment fading. in another hour the day would be done, and then the moon would look down peacefully on the fettered and the free. hugh ritson returned to the portland arms inn. he found the police-sergeant in conversation with the ruddy-faced gentleman who had wished to explain to him the mysteries of the reeve staff. "he is the doctor at the prison," whispered the sergeant aside. presently hugh turned to the doctor and said: "do you happen to know the convict b 2001?" "yes--drayton," said the doctor; "calls himself ritson. are you a friend?" hugh ritson's face quivered slightly. "no," he answered, "i am not his friend." then, after a pause, "but i have an order to see him. besides, i have just heard him discussed by a company of wardens in a pot-house on the hill." "who were they? what were they like?" "a tall man, one of them, fifty-five years of age, gray hair, grizzly beard, dark, vindictive eyes, a gash on one cheek, and a voice like a crow's." "humph! jim-the-ladder--a discharged soldier." "another, a cadaverous fellow, with a plausible tongue." "horrocks--an old second-classer; served his time at dartmoor and got promotion--doubtful official discipline." "they both deserve one more and much higher promotion," said hugh ritson, with emphasis. "you mean this." the doctor laughed, and put the forefinger of one hand, held horizontally, to the tip of the other, held upright. "can it be possible that the law is unable to maintain a fair stand-up fight with crime, and must needs call a gang of poltroons and blackmailers to its assistance?" "you heard a bad account of b 2001, i judge?" "i heard of nothing that he had done which the pope of rome might have feared to acknowledge." "you are right--he's as good a man as there's on portland bill," said the doctor, "and if he's not quite as immaculate as his holiness, he's in the right of it this time." hugh ritson glanced up. "you've heard he's in the punishment cells," said the doctor. "by the way, you'll not see him until monday; he can't join his gang before, and he hasn't a class privilege left, poor devil." hugh inquired the cause. "since he came here he's been yoked to a young fellow dying of consumption. the lad didn't relish the infirmary--he lost his marks toward remission there. he knew the days he had to serve, and used to nick them off every night on his wooden spoon. it was a weary way from a thousand back, back, back to one. and that jim-the-ladder took delight in keeping up the count by reports. the poor boy wanted to die in his mother's arms. he had got his time down to a week, when the 'screw' clapped as many marks on to him as added a month to his imprisonment. then he lost heart, and dropped down like a flounder, and when they picked him up he was dead." "was b 2001 with him as usual?" "he was; and he broke the strap, sprung on the warder, and tore his rifle out of his hands. jim-the-ladder has been a prize-fighter in his day, and there was a tussle. he leaped back on b 2001 with a howl, and the blows fell like rain-drops. there was a fearful clamor, the convicts screaming like madmen." "b 2001 is a powerful man," said hugh ritson. the doctor nodded. "he closed with the warder, gripped him by the waist, twisted him on his loins, turned him heels overhead, and brought him down in a sweep that would have battered the life out of any other man. up came the civil guard, and the convict was brought into the lodge covered with dust, sweat and blood, his eyes flashing like balls of fire. they had the lad's body on a stretcher beside him, the lips white, and the cheeks a mask of blue. it was a tremendous spectacle, i can tell you." hugh ritson's breast heaved, and somewhere deep down in his soul he surprised a feeling of pride. that man was a hero and his own brother! "and so the convict was punished?" "fourteen days' penal class diet, and marks enough for six months. he'll be out on monday, and then he'll wear the blue cap that denotes a dangerous man." hugh ritson shuddered. "is it impossible to see him to-morrow?" he asked. "come up before church in the morning and ask for me, and we'll speak to the governor." chapter xiv. early next morning hugh ritson showed his order at the prison gates, and was admitted to the doctor's quarters. hugh and the doctor went in search of the governor, but learned that he was away from home for the day. the deputy-governor was abed with a raging tooth, and there was nothing to do but to wait until morning in order to speak with the convict. "you can stay here until to-morrow," said the doctor; "i can give you a shake-down. and now let us go off to church. but come this way first." they walked in the direction of that portion of the parade-ground which was marked, in great white letters, "34 gang," with the broad arrow beneath. near to this stood a building composed chiefly of wood and iron, and marked in similar letters "e hall." they entered a corridor that led to an open landing in the shape of a many-sided polygon, each side being a door. in the middle of the landing there was an iron circular staircase that led to landings above and below. a warder paraded the open space, which was lighted by gas-jets. "hush! look," said the doctor, standing by the peep-hole in one of the doors, and at the same time putting out the gas-jet that burned on the door-jamb. hugh ritson approached, and at first he could see nothing in the darkness. but he heard a curious clanking noise from within. then the glimmer of a feeble candle came through the bars, and he saw a box-like apartment, some seven feet long by four feet broad and eight feet high. it was a punishment cell. there was a shelf at the opposite end, and a tin wash-basin stood on it. on the side of the door there must have been a similar shelf, on which the candle burned. a broom, a can, and a bowl were on the brick floor. there was no other furniture except a hammock swung from end to end, and the convict was lying in it at this moment. it could be seen that a heavy chain was fastened with riveted rings around each ankle, and linked about the waist by a strap. at every movement this chain clanked; night and day it was there; if the prisoner shifted in his sleep, its grating sound broke on the silence of the cell, and banished the only sunshine of his life, the sunshine of his dreams. his head was back to the door so that the light of the candle burning on the shelf might fall on a slate which rested on his breast. though he occupied a punishment cell he was writing, and hugh ritson's quick eyes could decipher the words: "oh, that it would please god to destroy me; that he would but loose his hand and cut me off! oh, wretched man that i am, who shall deliver me from the body of this death?" he paused in his writing and pecked like a bird at a hard piece of bread beside him. hugh ritson fell back, and as his infirm foot grated along the floor, the convict started and turned his face. it was a blank, pale face, full of splendid resolution and the nobility of suffering, but without one ray of hope. "do you know him?" asked the doctor. but hugh ritson's eyes were on the ground, and he made no answer. they went to church. the civil guard was drawn up under the gallery with loaded rifles. eight hundred convicts attended service; some of them were penitent; most of them were trying to make a high profession of contrition as a bid for the good graces of the chaplain. the obtrusive reverence of one sinister gray-head near at hand attracted hugh ritson's especial attention. he knelt with his face to the gallery in which the choir sat. beside him was a youth fresh from millbank. the hoary sinner was evidently initiating the green hand into the mysteries of his new home. he was loud in his responses, but his voice had a trick of dropping suddenly to a whispered conference. "who's the fat 'un in the choir? a chap as is doing his ten. his missis chared to keep the kids, and one morning early he popped the old girl's shoes." the voice of the chaplain interrupted further explanation; but after another loud response the old rascal's mouth was twisted awry with the words: "he's a wide 'un, he is--seat in the choir got comfortable cushions. besides, he gets off saturday morning's work for practicing--got no more voice nor a corn-crake." evidently it was no disadvantage here to be the greatest of vagabonds. when a cadaverous old jew came hobbling up the aisle with his gang, the gray-head whispered, with awe: "it's old mo; he's in the stocking gang; but i did business with him when he could ha' sent old rothschild home for a pauper." at one moment the attention of the green hand was arrested by a tall man in the black and gray that indicated a convict who had attempted to escape. "says he's in for twenty thousand, but it's a lie," whispered the old man; "he only knocked a living out of the religious fake." the last of the conference that hugh ritson overheard was a piece of touching advice. "them as 'as any pluck in 'em turns savage, same as b 2001; them as 'asn't, knocks under, same as me; and i says to you, knock under." after service the sacrament was celebrated. there must have been many hundreds of communicants, all humble in their piety. it could be noticed that the chaplain had sometimes to keep a tight grip of the goblet containing the wine. that night hugh ritson lodged at the doctor's quarters. he did not lie, but, as on the night before, he walked the long hours through, steadfastly resisting every temptation to sleep. at five in the morning he heard the great bell at the gate ring for two minutes, and, shortly afterward, the tramp, tramp, tramp of many feet under his window. the convicts, to the number of fifteen hundred, were drawn up on the parade-ground. they looked chill in the cold light of early morning; their gray jackets lay loose on their spare shoulders; their hands hung inertly at their sides, and they walked with the oscillating motion of men whose feet were sore in their heavy boots. the civil guard was drawn up, the chief warder whistled, and then the men fell out into gangs of twenty-five each, attended by an assistant warder. "rear rank, take two paces to the right--march." then the tramp, tramp again. as the outside gangs passed through the gate, each officer in charge received his rifle, bayonet, belt, and cartridge-box from the armorer at the lodge. the stone-dressing gang passed close under the window, and hugh ritson reeled back as one of the men--a stalwart fellow in a blue cap, who was walking abreast of a misshapen creature with a face full of ferocity--lifted his eyes upward from the file. at eight o'clock the governor appeared at his receiving-office. he was a slight man with the face and figure of a greyhound. his military frock-coat was embossed with crimean medals, and he was redolent of the odor of whitehall. he received hugh ritson's papers with a curious mixture of easy courtesy and cold dignity--a sort of combination of the different manners in which he was wont to bow to a secretary of state and condemn a convict to the chain and bread and water. "the men are back to breakfast at nine," he said. "watkins," to the chief warder, "have b 2001 brought round to the office immediately 34 gang returns." hugh ritson had left the receiving-office and was crossing the parade-ground when a loud hubbub arose near the lodge. "the boat!" shouted twenty voices, and a covey of convicts ran in the direction of a shed where an eight-oar boat was kept on the chocks. "a man has mizzled--run a wagon into the sea and is drifting down the race." how the demons laughed, how they cursed in jest, how they worked, how luminous were their eyes and haggard faces at the prospect of recapturing one of their fellow-prisoners who had tried to make his escape! every convict who helped to catch a fugitive was entitled to a remission of six days. the doctor took hugh ritson up on to the lead flat that covered his quarters. from that altitude they could see over the prison wall to the rocky coast beyond. near the ruins of the old church a gang of convicts were running to and fro, waving their hands, and shouting in wild excitement. "it's gang 34," said the doctor, "jim-the-ladder's gang." the sun had risen, the sea was glistening in its million facets, and into many a rolling wave a sea-bird dipped its corded throat. in the silvery water-way there was something floating that looked as if it might have been a tub. it was the wagon that the convict had driven into the water for a boat. "it will sink--it's shod with thick hoops of iron," said the doctor. the convict could be seen standing in it. he had thrown off his coat and cap, and his sleeveless arms were bare to the armpits. the civil guard ran to the cliff and fired. one shot hit. the man could be seen to tear the coarse linen shirt from his breast and bind it above the wrist. "why does he not crouch down?" said hugh ritson: he did not know who this convict was, but in his heart there was a feverish desire that the prisoner should escape. "he's a doomed man--he's in the race--it's flowing hard, and he'll drift back to the island," said the doctor. half an hour later a posse of the civil guard, with two assistant warders, brought the recaptured fugitive into the governor's receiving-office. the stalwart fellow strode between the warders with a firm step and head erect. he wore no jacket or cap, and on one bare arm a strip of linen was roughly tied. his breast was naked, his eyes were aflame, and save for a black streak of blood across the cheek, his face was ashy pale. but that man was not crushed by his misfortunes; he seemed to crush them. "take that man's number," said the governor. "ay, take it, and see you take it rightly," said the convict. "it's b 2001," said the chief warder. the governor consulted a paper that lay on his table. "send for the gentleman," he said to an attendant. "it's well for you that you are wanted by the law officers of the crown," he added, turning to the prisoner. the convict made no answer; he was neither humble nor sullen; his manner was frank but fierce, and made almost brutal by a sense of wrong. the next moment hugh ritson stepped into the office. his eyes dropped, and his infirm foot trailed heavily along the floor. he twitched at his coat with nervous fingers; his nostrils quivered; his whole body trembled perceptibly. "this is the man," said the chief warder, with a deferential bow. hugh ritson tried to raise his eyes, but they fell suddenly. he opened his lips to speak, but the words would not come. and meantime the wet, soiled, naked, close-cropped, blood-stained convict, flanked by armed warders, stood before him with head erect and eyes that searched his soul. the convict rested one hand on his hip and pointed with the other at hugh ritson's abject figure. "what does this man want with me?" he said, and his voice was deep. at that hugh ritson broke in impetuously: "paul, i will not outrage your sufferings by offering you my pity." the officers looked into each other's faces. "i want none of your pity!" said the convict, bitterly. "no; it is i who need yours," said hugh ritson, in a low tone. the convict laughed a hard laugh, and turned to the warders. "here, take me away--i've had enough of this." "listen. i have something to say to you--something to do for you, too." the convict broke afresh into a laugh. "take me away, will you?" "what if i say i am sorry for the past?" said hugh. "then you are a hypocrite!" the convict answered. hugh ritson drew himself up, and took his breath audibly. in one swift instant his face became discolored and his features pinched and rigid. there was silence, and then in a low, broken tone, he said: "paul, you know well what sort of a man i am; don't drive me too hard. i have come here to do you a service. remember your sufferings--" once again the convict broke into a cold laugh. "remember that others--one other--may be suffering with you." the convict's haughty look fled like a flash of light. "here, take me out of this," he muttered in a low, hoarse voice. he took a step back, but the guard closed around him. "i won't stand to listen to this man. do you hear? i won't listen," he said hotly; "he has come to torture me--that's all!" "i have come to undo what i have done," said hugh. "paul, let me undo it. don't rouse the bad part of me at this crisis of your life and mine." the convict paused, and said more quietly: "then it's your policy to undo it." hugh ritson flinched. the words had gone to his heart like a spear. if he had dared to mask his motive, that thrust would have left it naked. "i will not wrong the truth by saying i am a changed man," he answered meekly. "my motive is my own; but my act shall be all in all to you." the convict's face lightened. "you have used me for your vengeance," he said; "you shall not use me for your contrition also. guards, let me out--let me out, i tell you!" the governor interposed: "when you leave this room you go direct to the cells." "ay, take me to your cells, and let me lie there and die and rot," said the convict. "take him away," said the governor. "paul, i beseech you to hear me!" cried hugh, amid the clanking of the arms of the guard. "take him away!" the governor shouted again. an hour after, b 2001 was recalled to the receiving-office. he was quiet enough now. "we have an order respecting you from the secretary of state," said the governor. "you are required to give evidence at a trial. at two o'clock you leave portland for cumberland, and your guard goes with you." the convict bent his head and went out in silence. chapter xv. paul ritson--let him be known by his official number no more--was not taken to the punishment cells. he was set to work with the stone-dressing gang stationed near the gate of the prison. the news of his attempt to escape had not spread more rapidly than rumors of his approaching departure. "i say," shouted a hoary convict, "take a crooked message out?" "what's your message?" "on'y a word to the old girl telling her where she'll find a bunch of keys as she wants partic'lar." "write her yourself, my man." "what, and the governor read it, and me get a bashing, and the crushers pinch the old moll? well, i am surprised at ye; but i forgot, you're a straight man, you are." a mocking laugh followed this explanatory speech. a young fellow with a pale, meek face and the startled eyes of a hare crept close up to where paul ritson worked, and took a letter out of one of his boots. "this is the last i had from home," he said, quietly, and put the letter into paul's hands. it was a soiled and crumpled paper, so greasy from frequent handlings and so much worn by many foldings that the writing could scarcely be deciphered. home? it was dated from the union of liverpool, and had come from his invalid wife and his children, all living there. the poor fellow could not read, but he had somehow learned the letter by heart, and was able to point out each bit of family history in the exact place where it was recorded. he had lost his class privileges, and was not allowed to reply; and now he wanted to know if paul ritson could get down to liverpool and see his wife and little ones, and tell them how well he was, and how lusty he looked, and what fine times he had of it--"just to keep up their spirits, you know." "i say, you sir," bawled a sinister gray-head--the same whose conversation was overheard in church--"i hear as you're a employer of labor when yer not lagged. any chance? i wants to leave my sitivation. long hours, and grub reg'lar onsatisfactory. besides, my present employer insists on me wearing a collar with a number--same as a wild beast or a bobby. it's gettin' ridic'lus. so i've give notice, and i flit in september. maybe ye see as i'm growing my wings to fly." the hoary sinner pointed upward to his grizzly hair, which was longer than the hair of his comrades. "on'y it's coming out another tint o' awrburn nor what it was ten years ago, and the old woman won't have the same pride in my pussonal appearance." at two o'clock the assistant warder known as jim-the-ladder marched paul ritson to the chief warder's office. there the convict was handcuffed and the warder armed. then they set out. on the steamboat that plied between the portland ferry and weymouth the convict dress attracted much attention. the day was some sort of chapel festival, and great numbers of chapel people in holiday costume crowded the decks and climbed the paddle-boxes; the weather was brilliant; the sun danced on the waters like countless fairies on a floor of glass; a brass band played on the bridge. again at the weymouth railway station the people gathered in little groups, and looked askance at the convict. during the few minutes which elapsed before the train left the platform, a knot of spectators stood before the carriage and peered in at the window. paul ritson paid little heed to these attentions, but they were often unwelcome enough. "keep clear of him--see the blue cap?" "what an ill-looking fellow--to be sure, his looks are enough to hang him." paul laughed bitterly. his heart felt cold within him at that moment. if he had worn broadcloth and a smile, how different the popular verdict might have been. who then would have said that he was a villain? certainly not yonder sleek minister of christ who was humming a psalm tune a moment ago, and paused to whisper, "be sure your sin will find you out." the black-coated pharisee was handing a lady into a first-class carriage. the train started. paul threw himself back in his seat, and thought of all that had occurred since he made this journey before. he was traveling in the other direction then, and what an agony was that first experience of convict life! he had never thought of it from that day to this. other and more poignant memories had day after day obliterated the recollection of that experience. but it came back now as freshly as if it had all occurred yesterday. he was one of a gang of twenty who were traveling from millbank to dartmoor. the journey to waterloo in the prison van had been a terrible ordeal. he had thought in the cells that it would be nothing to him if people in the streets recognized him. the shameful punishment of an innocent man was not his, but the law's disgrace. yet, when he was marched out into the prison grounds abreast of a cadaverous wretch with shrunken brows and the eyes of a hawk, an old thief in front of him, and a murderer convicted of manslaughter treading on his heels, the cold sweat burst in great beads from his forehead. he had meant to hold up his head, and if people looked into his face to look frankly back into their faces. but when his turn came he leaped into the van, and his chin buried itself in his breast. then the crowds drawn up on the pavement outside as the gates rolled back and the van passed through; the crush in a busy thoroughfare when the van stopped to let a line of crowded omnibuses go by; the horrible scene at the station when the convicts were marched down the platform, and every ear was arrested by the tramp, tramp of twenty fettered men! above all, the jests and the laughter of the older hands who had served their time before, and were superior to all small considerations of public shame! "i say, you with the gig-lamps, toss a poor devil a bit o' 'bacco." "seen us afore? in coorse you have. you in the white choker, look hard while yer at it, and you'll know us again." "oh, mother shipton, and is that yourself? and how pleased we is to see ye, and just tip us yer welwet purse, and we'll give it yer back when we're this way again." and not all the rigor of the attendant warders was enough to suppress such jesting. paul ritson could not forbear to laugh aloud when he remembered with what an agony of sweat he had that day crept back into his seat. times had changed since then. he had spent a year and a half in a government school, and had been educated out of all torturing delicacy. the warder attempted to draw him into conversation. jim-the-ladder repeatedly protested that he bore no malice. "i'm a good fellow at bottom," he said more than once, and paul ritson showed no malice. but he laughed bitterly at a grim and an obvious thought that the warder's dubious words suggested. failing in his efforts at conciliation, the warder charged his pipe and relapsed into a long silence. they had a compartment to themselves. at a station where the train stopped a man opened the door and had already put one foot into the carriage when he recognized the caste of his traveling companions. he disappeared in a twinkling. paul ritson did his best to restrain the anger that well-nigh choked him. he merely sent a ringing laugh after the retreating figure. at another station a police inspector, dressed in a little brief authority, caught sight of the blue cap and gray jacket, and bustled up to examine the warder's papers. then, with a lofty look, he strode through the group of spectators whom his presence had attracted. arrived at waterloo, the warder hailed a cab, and they drove to scotland yard to report themselves. there they supped on cocoa and brown bread, with the addition of a rasher of bacon and a pipe for the warder. thence they were driven to euston to catch the nine-o'clock train to penrith. the journey north was uneventful. at rugby, stafford, and elsewhere, the train stopped, and little groups of people looked in at the convict, and made apposite comments on his appearance, crime, and condition. paul ritson often shut his eyes and said nothing. sometimes a sneer curled his lip, sometimes he burst into a bitter laugh. he was thinking that this was a fitting close to the degradation of his prison life. if one feeling of delicacy, one tender sentiment, one impulse of humanity remained to him when the gates of portland closed behind him; it only required this cruel torture to crush it forever. in spite of the risk of dismissal and the more immediate danger at the hands of paul ritson, the warder coiled himself up and fell asleep. it was after midnight when they reached crewe, and from that point of the journey the worst of the torment ceased. their merciful fellow-men were mostly in bed, dreaming of heroic deeds that they were doing. but the silence of night had its own torture. as the train rumbled on through the darkness, now rattling in a long tunnel, now sliding into open air like a boat into still water, paul ritson's mind went back to the day which seemed now to be so far away that it might have belonged to another existence, when he traveled this road with the dear soul who had trusted her young and cloudless life to his keeping. where was she now? peace be with her, wheresoever she was! he recalled her tenderest glance, he seemed to hear her softest tone; the light pressure of her delicate fingers was now on his hands--the hard hands that wore the irons. and even at that moment, when all his soul went out to the pure young wife who had shared his sufferings, and he felt as if time and space were nothing, as if he had drawn her to him by the power of his yearning love, it seemed to him that all at once there rang in his ears the shrill, sharp voices of the convicts rapping out their foul and frightful oaths. he leaped to his feet, with a muttered oath on his own lips, and when the imagined agony with which he surprised himself had given way to a new sense of his actual sufferings, his heart grew yet more cold and bitter. he thought of what he had been and of what he was. there could be no disguising the truth--he was a worse man. yes; whatsoever had once been pure in him, whatsoever had once been generous, whatsoever had once been of noble aspiration, was now impure, and ungenerous, and ignoble. above all else, he had lost that tenderness which is the top and crown of a strong man. he felt as if the world had lifted its hand against him, and as if he were ready and eager to strike back. they reached penrith toward four in the morning, and then the carriage in which they traveled was shunted on to the branch line to await the first train toward cockermouth. the day was breaking. from the window paul ritson could see vaguely the few ruins of the castle. that familiar object touched him strangely. he hardly knew why, but he felt that a hard lump at his heart melted away. by and by the brakeman shouted to the signalman in the gray silence of the morning. the words were indifferent--only some casual message--but they were spoken in the broad cumbrian that for a year and a half had never once fallen on paul ritson's ear. then the lump that had melted as his heart seemed to rise to his throat. the gray light become intermingled with red, and soon the sky to the east was aflame. paul let down the carriage window, and long waves of sweet mountain air, laden with the smell of peat, flowed in upon him. his lips parted and his breast expanded. at five o'clock the engine was attached. a few carriages were added at the platform, and these contained a number of pitmen, in their red-stained fustian, going down for the morning shift. when the train moved westward, the sun had risen, and all the air was musical with the songs of the birds. very soon the train ran in among the mountains, and then at last the bitterness of paul ritson's heart seemed to fall away from him like a garment. that quick thrill of soul which comes when the mountains are first seen after a long absence is a rapture known to the mountaineer alone. paul saw his native hills towering up to the sky, the white mists flying off their bald crown, the torrents leaping down their brant sides, and the tears filled his eyes and blotted it all out. the sedge-warbler was singing with the wheatear, and, though he could not see them now, he knew where they were: the sedge-warbler was flitting among the rushes of the low-land mere; the wheatear was perched on the crevice of gray rock in which it had laid its pale-blue eggs; the sheep were bleating on the fells, and he knew their haunts by the lea of the bowlders and along the rocky ledges where grew the freshest grasses. down the corries of blencathra, long drifts of sheep were coming before the dogs, and he knew that the shepherds had been out on the fells during the short summer night, numbering the sheep for the washing in the beck below. everything came back upon him like a memory of yesterday. he stood up and thrust out his head, and did not think of his gray jacket and blue cap until a carter who watered his horses at a pool near the railway lines started and stared as if he had seen a "boggle" at noonday. then paul ritson remembered that he was still a convict, that his hands wore irons, that the man who lay sleeping on the seat of the carriage was his warder, and that the steely thing that peeped from the belt of the sleeping man was a revolver, to be promptly used if he attempted to escape. but not even these reflections sufficed to dissipate the emotion that had taken hold of him. he began at length to think of hugh ritson, and to wonder why he had been brought back home. home!--home? it was a melancholy home-coming, but it was coming home, nevertheless. chapter xvi. two days later the gray old town-hall that stands in the market-place of keswick was surrounded by a busy throng. the civil court of the county assize was sitting in this little place for the nonce to try a curious case of local interest. it was an action for ejectment brought by greta, mrs. paul ritson, against a defendant whose name was entered on the sheet as paul drayton, alias paul ritson, now of the ghyll, in the parish of newlands. the court-room was crowded. it was a large, bare room, with a long table and two rows of chairs crossing the end, the one row occupied by the judge and a special jury, the other by the lawyers for the prosecution and defense. the rest of the chamber was not provided with seats, and there the dalespeople huddled together. a seat had been found for greta at one end of the table. her cheek rested on her hand. she dropped her eyes as the spectators craned their necks to catch a glimpse of her. behind her, and with one hand on her chair-back, stood the old parson, his jovian white head more white than of old, the tenderer lines in his mellow face drawn down to a look of pain. immediately facing greta, at the opposite end of the table, hugh ritson sat. one leg was thrown over the other knee, and the long, nervous fingers of the right hand played with the shoelace. his head was inclined forward, and the thin, pallid, clean-cut face with the great calm eyes and the full, dilated nostrils was more than ever the face of a high-bred horse. none would have guessed the purpose with which hugh ritson sat there. one would have said that indifference was in those eyes and on that brow--indifference or despair. near where the rustle was loudest and most frequent among the spectators, drayton sat by the side of mr. bonnithorne. he was dressed in his favorite suit of broad plaid, and had a gigantic orange-lily stuck jauntily in his buttonhole. his face was flushed and his eyes sparkled. now and again he leaned back to whisper something to the blacksmith, the miller, and the landlord of the flying horse, who were grouped behind him. his remarks must have been wondrously facetious, for they were promptly followed by a low gurgle, which was as promptly suppressed. the counsel for the plaintiff opened his case. the plaintiff sued as the owner in succession to her husband, who was at present dead to the law. she contended that the man who now stood seized of the ghyll was not her husband, paul ritson, but paul drayton, an innkeeper of hendon, who bore him a strange personal resemblance, and personated him. the evidence of identity which should presently be adduced was full and complete in the essential particular of proving that the defendant was not paul ritson, by whose title alone the defense would maintain the right of present possession. unhappily, the complementary evidence as to the actual identity of the defendant with paul drayton, the publican, had been seriously curtailed by the blindness, followed by the death, of an important witness. still, if he, the counsel for the plaintiff, could prove to the satisfaction of the jury that the defendant was not the man he represented himself to be, they would have no course but to grant the ejectment for which the plaintiff asked. to this end he would call two witnesses whose evidence must outweigh that of all others--the wife of paul ritson, and the clergyman who solemnized the marriage. greta's name was called, and she rose at the end of the table. her bosom heaved under the small lace shawl that covered her shoulders, and was knotted like a sailor's scarf, on her breast. she stood erect, her eyes raised slightly and her drooping hands clasped in front. after the customary formalities, she was examined. "you are the only child of the late robert lowther?" "i am the daughter of robert lowther." drayton threw back his head, and laughed a little. "you were married to paul ritson in 1875 at the parish church of newlands, the minister being the reverend mr. christian?" "i was." "on the day of your marriage you accompanied your husband to london, and the same night he left you at the convent of st. margaret, westminster?" "that is quite true." there was a buzz of conversation in the court, accompanied by a whispered conference on the bench. counsel paused to say that it was not a part of his purpose to trouble the court with an explanation of facts which were so extraordinary that they could only be credited on the oath of a person who, though present, would not be called. at this reference hugh ritson raised his languid eyes, and the examination proceeded. "three days afterward you received a message from your husband, requesting you to meet him at st. pancras station, and return with him to cumberland by the midnight train?" "i did." "who took you the message?" "mrs. drayton, the old person at the inn at hendon." "you went to the station?" "oh, yes." "tell the court what occurred there." "just on the stroke of twelve, when the train was about to leave, a man whom at first sight i mistook for my husband came hurrying up the platform, and i stepped into the carriage with him." "do you see that man in court?" "yes; he sits two seats to your right." drayton rose, smiled broadly, bowed to the witness, and resumed his seat. "were you alone in the compartment?" "at first we were; but just as the train was moving away who should join us but parson christian." there was another buzz of conversation, and counsel paused again to say that he should not trouble the court with an explanation of the extraordinary circumstances by which parson christian came to be in london at that critical moment. these facts formed in themselves a chain of evidence which must yet come before a criminal court, involving as it did the story of a conspiracy more painful and unnatural perhaps than could be found in the annals of jurisprudence. "tell the court what passed in the train." "i perceived at once that the man was not my husband, though strangely like him in face and figure, and when he addressed me as his wife i repulsed him." "did parson christian also realize the mistake?" "oh, yes, but not quite so quickly." "what did you do?" "we left the train at the first station at which it stopped." "did the defendant offer any resistance?" "no; he looked abashed, and merely observed that perhaps a recent illness had altered him." counsel for the defense, at whose left mr. bonnithorne sat as attorney for the defendant, cross-examined the witness. "you say that on the night following the morning of your marriage your husband left you at a convent?" "i do." mr. bonnithorne dropped his twinkling eyes, and muttered something that was inaudible to the witness. there was a titter among the people who stood behind him. "and you say that mrs. drayton took you the message of which you have spoken. did she tell you that your husband had been ill?" "she did." "we are to infer that you visited the house of the draytons at hendon?" "a railway accident drove us there." "did any one accompany the defendant to st. pancras that night?" "my husband's brother, mr. hugh ritson, was with him." "tell the jury where your husband now is, if he is not at this moment in court." no answer. amid a profound silence the plaintiff's lawyer was understood to object to the question. "well, we can afford to waive it," said counsel, with a superior smile. "one further question, mrs. ritson. had you any misunderstanding with your husband?" "none whatever." "will you swear that your voices were not raised in angry dispute while you were at the inn at hendon?" greta lifted her head and her eyes flashed. "yes, i will swear it," she said in a soft voice but with impressive emphasis. mr. bonnithorne reached up to the ear of counsel and was understood to say that perhaps the point was too delicate to be pressed. parson christian was next examined. the defendant in the present action was not the man whom he married to the plaintiff. he had since seen paul ritson. where? in the convict prison of dartmoor. in cross-examination he was asked by what name the convict was known to the directors of dartmoor. paul drayton. "then tell the court how you came to identify the defendant as drayton." "there were many facts pointing that way." "give us one." "on the morning of the marriage i found a letter lying open before the fire in my vestry. it was from mr. hugh ritson to mr. bonnithorne, and it mentioned the name of drayton in a connection which, by the light of later revelations, provoked many inferences." mr. bonnithorne was unprepared for this answer. counsel looked at him inquiringly, but the attorney glanced down and colored deeply. "can you show us the letter?" "no; i left it where i found it." "then it can hardly be received as evidence." the attorney smiled, and the tension of drayton's face relaxed. there was a slight shuffle among the people; the witness had stepped back. counsel for the defense opened his case. they were asked to believe that the defendant in the present action was paul drayton, in the teeth of the fact that paul drayton was at that moment a convict in a convict prison. the incredible statement was made that a newly married husband had placed his young wife in a convent on the night of their marriage, and that when they should have rejoined each other an interchange had been made, the husband going to prison in another man's name, the other man coming to cumberland to claim the place of the woman's husband. moreover, they were asked to believe that the husband's brother, mr. hugh ritson, had either been fooled by the impostor or made a party to the imposture. happily it was easy to establish identity by two unquestionable chains of evidence--resemblance and memory. it would be shown that the defendant could be none other than paul ritson, first, because he resembled him exactly in person; second, because he knew all that paul ritson ought to know; third, because he knew nothing that paul ritson might not know. no two men's lives had ever been the same from the beginning of the world, and as it would be seen that the defendant's life had been the same as paul ritson's, it followed that paul ritson and the defendant were one and the same man. dick o' the syke was the first witness examined for the defense. he swore that paul ritson was active in extinguishing a fire that broke out in the mill two years ago; that he had climbed to the cross-trees with a hatchet; and that within the past month the defendant had described to him the precise locality and shape of the gap made in the roof by the fire. no one could have known so much except himself and the man who stood on the cross-trees. that man was paul ritson, and he was there and then recognized by many spectators, among whom was parson christian. the next witness was mistress calvert, of the pack horse. paul ritson had slept at their house one night two years ago, and a few days since the present defendant had pointed out the bedroom he occupied, and recalled the few words of conversation which passed between them. natt, the stableman, was called. his sleepy eyes blinked knowingly as he explained that one winter's night, when the snow fell heavily, mrs. ritson, then miss greta, was startled by what she mistook for the ghost of paul ritson. the witness had not been so easily deceived, and the defendant had since described to him the exact scene and circumstances of what the lady had thought to be the ghostly appearance. then followed john proudfoot, the blacksmith; tom o' dint, the postman; giles raisley, the pitman; job sheepshanks, the mason; and tommy lowthwaite, the landlord of the flying horse--all swearing to points of identity. one recalled the fact that paul ritson had a scar on his head that was caused by the kick of a horse when he was a boy. the defendant had just such a scar. another remembered that paul ritson had a mark on the sole of his right foot which had been made by treading on a sharp piece of rock on hindscarth. the defendant had exactly such a mark. a third had wrestled with paul ritson, and knew that he had a mole beneath the left shoulder-blade on the back. the defendant had a mole in that unusual place. counsel for the defense smiled blandly at the special jury, the special jury smiled blandly at counsel for the defense. was it really necessary that the defendant should be called? surely it was a pity to occupy the time of the court. the whole case was in a nutshell--the lady had quarreled with her husband. state of affairs would be promptly gauged when it was explained that this action had been raised to anticipate a forthcoming suit in the divorce court for restitution of connubial rights. the counsel for the plaintiff smiled also, and his was a weak smile of conscious defeat. he stammered a desire to withdraw--said he had been promised more conclusive evidence when he undertook the case, and sat down with an apologetic air. there was a shuffle of feet in the court. drayton had risen to receive the congratulations of his friends behind him and the cordial nods of some of the superior people who had been favored with seats at the right hand and left of the judge. he was answering in a loud tone, when there was a sudden lull of the buzz of gossip, and all eyes were directed toward one end of the table. hugh ritson had risen from his seat, and with a face that was very pale, but as firm as a rock, he was engaged in a whispered conference with the plaintiff's counsel. that gentleman's eager face betrayed the keenest possible interest in what he heard. presently he lifted his arm with an impatient gesture, and said: "my lord, i have unexpectedly come into possession of new and most important evidence." "of what nature?" asked the judge. "if it is conceivable," said counsel, "that in any question of personal identity the court will accept the evidence of all the tinkers and tailors, the riff-raff, the raggabash of the country-side, and reject that of the wife of the man whose estate is in question, perhaps it will be allowed that there are three persons who are essential to this examination--the brother of paul ritson, the defendant who claims to be paul ritson, and the convict who is suffering penal servitude in the name of paul drayton. i might name one other whose evidence might be yet more conclusive than that of any of these alone--the mother of paul ritson; but she is unhappily dead to the world." drayton was still on his feet, riveted to the spot where he stood. obtuse as he was, he saw at a glance what had occurred. in all his calculations this chance had never suggested itself--that hugh ritson would risk the personal danger to bring him down. "can you put these persons into the witness-box?" "my lord, it is, i presume, within the liberties of the defendant to keep carefully out of that box, but the court will not refuse to hear the evidence of the two persons of whom i speak--the brother of paul ritson and the convict known as paul drayton." at this there was high commotion. greta had leaned back in her chair, her bosom heaving, her face shadowed by lines of pain. parson christian stood behind her with a blank expression of bewilderment. drayton's brows were tightened and his lips were drawn hard. "none of their criss-crossin' for me," he muttered. "you can ask for a new trial," said the judge. "my lord, another case is pending, and on the issue in this case the other case must largely depend." "how far has the present one proceeded?" "the defendant's case is not yet completed." during this scene hugh ritson had stood quietly by the table. he remained there with complete self-possession while counsel proceeded to explain that four days ago, in anticipation of this action and of another that had been threatened, a statutory declaration had been made in the presence of the home secretary and the law officers of the crown. the first result of that statement was that the convict drayton was now present in the court-house ready to appear at this trial. the judge signified his desire that the convict might be brought in and heard. hugh ritson motioned to a tall man who stood near, and immediately afterward a door was thrown open and another man stepped into the court-room. every eye was fixed upon him. he wore a convict's gray jacket, with the round badge marked "3. b 2001. p s," and the broad arrow beneath. his face was pale and rigid; his large eyes glittered; he was in his full manhood, but his close-cropped hair was slightly tinged with gray. he pushed his way through the people, who fell back to let him pass. when he reached the table he tapped it impatiently with one of his hands, which were fettered, and threw up his head with a glance of defiance. his whole bearing was that of a strong man who believed that every man's hand was against him, and who intended to let it be seen that his own hand was against every man's. counsel rose again, and asked that the defendant's witnesses might be recalled. this was done. "john proudfoot, job sheepshanks, thomas lowthwaite, giles raisley, look this way. who is this man?" there was a dead hush. then, one by one, the men who had been named shook their heads. they did not know the convict. indeed, he was terribly altered. the ordeal of the past two years had plowed strange lines in his face. at that moment he was less like himself than was the impostor who came there to personate him. hugh ritson's manner did not change. only a slight curl of the lip betrayed his feelings. counsel continued, "is there any one in court who recognizes him?" not a voice responded. all was silence. "will the defendant stand side by side with him?" drayton leaped up with a boisterous laugh, and swaggered his way to the opposite side of the table. as he approached, the convict looked at him keenly. "will mrs. ritson come forward again?" greta had already risen, and was holding parson christian's hand with a nervous grip. she stepped apart, and going behind the two men, she came to a stand between them. on the one side stood drayton, with a smirking face half turned toward the spectators; on the other stood the convict, his hands bound before him, his defiant glance softened to a look of tenderness, and his lips parted with the unuttered cry that was ready to burst from them. "greta," said hugh ritson, in a low tone of indescribable pathos, "which of these men is your husband?" counsel repeated the question in form. greta had slowly raised her eyes from the ground until they reached the convict's face. then in an instant, in a flash of light, with the quick cry of a startled bird, she flung herself on his neck. her fair head dropped on the frieze of the convict's jacket, and her sobs were all that broke the silence. hugh ritson's emotion surged in his throat, but he stood quietly at the table. only his slight figure swayed a little and his face quivered. his work was not yet done. "this is the answer of nature," he said quietly. hugh ritson was put into the witness-box, and in a voice that was full and strong, and that penetrated every corner of the court, he identified the convict as his brother, paul ritson. counsel for the defense had seemed to be stunned. recovering himself, he tried to smile, and said: "after this melodramatic interlude, perhaps i may be allowed to ask our new witness a few questions. did you, at the central criminal court, held at the old bailey in 1875, swear that the person who stands here in the dress of a convict was not paul ritson?" "i did." "now for my second question. did you also swear that the defendant was your brother, and therefore not paul drayton." "i did." "then you were guilty of perjury at that time, or you are guilty of perjury now?" "i was guilty of perjury then." the judge interposed and asked if the witness was awakened to the enormity of the crime to which he confessed. hugh ritson bent his head. "are you conscious that you are rendering yourself liable to penal servitude?" "i have signed a declaration of my guilt." the answers were given in perfect calmness, but a vein of pathos ran through every word. "do you know that a few years back many a poor wretch whose crime was trifling compared with yours has gone from the dock to the gallows?" "my guilt is unmitigated guilt. i make a voluntary statement. i am not here to appeal for mercy." there was the hush of awe in the court. the face of the convict wore an expression of amazement. counsel smiled again. "i presume you know that the effect of the law officers of the crown, believing the story that you tell us now is that, if they do so, the man whom you call your brother will be put into possession of the estate of which your late father died seized?" "he is entitled to it." counsel turned to the jury with a smile. "it is always necessary to find some standard by which to judge of human actions. the witness quarreled with the defendant four days ago, and this is his revenge. but i appeal to the court. is this story credible? is it not a palpable imposture?" the judge again interposed. "men do not risk so much for a lie. the witness knows that when the court rises the sheriff may take him into custody." at this counsel rose again and asked the bench not to play into the hands of the witness by apprehending him. "let the convict be examined," said the judge. paul ritson raised his head; greta sunk into a chair beneath him. he was not sworn. the warder in charge put in an entry from the books of the prison. it ran: "paul drayton, five feet eleven inches, brown hair and eyes, aged thirty, licensed victualer, born in london, convicted of robbery at the scene of a railway accident." "does that entry properly describe you?" asked the judge. the convict's eyes wandered. "what's going on?" he said, in a tone of bewilderment. "attend, my man. are you paul ritson, the eldest son of the late allan ritson?" "why do you want to know?" said the convict. "it befits a witness who is permitted to come from the scene of a degrading punishment to give a prompt and decisive answer. what is your name, sir?" "find it out." "my man," said the judge, more suavely, "we sit here in the name of the law, and the law could wish to stand your friend." (the convict laughed bitterly.) "pray help us to a decision in the present perplexing case by a few frank answers. if you are paul drayton, you go back to portland to complete the term of your imprisonment. if it can be proved that you are paul ritson, your case will be laid before the home officials, with the result that you will be liberated and re-established in your estate. first of all, which is your name--paul drayton or paul ritson?" the convict did not answer at first. then he said in a low tone: "no law can re-establish me." the judge added: "bethink you, if you are paul ritson, and an innocent man, the law can restore you to your young wife." visibly moved by this reference, the convict's eyes wandered to where greta sat beside him, and the tension of his gaze relaxed. the judge began again: "you have been recognized by two witnesses--one claiming to be your brother, the other to be your wife--as paul ritson. are you that person?" the convict's face showed the agony he suffered. in a vague, uncertain, puzzled way he was thinking of the consequences of his answer. if he said he was paul ritson, it seemed to him that it must leak out that he was not the eldest legitimate son of his father. then all the fabric of his mother's honor would there and then tumble to the ground. he recalled his oath; could he pronounce six words and not violate it? no, not six syllables. how those mouthing gossips would glory to see a good name trailed in the dust! "are you paul ritson, the eldest son and heir of allan ritson?" the convict looked again at greta. she rose to her feet beside him. all her soul was in her face, and cried: "answer, answer!" "i can not answer," said the convict, in a loud, piercing voice. at that terrible moment his strength seemed to leave him. he sunk backward into the chair from which greta had risen. she stood over him and put her hand tenderly on his head. "tell them it is true," she pleaded, "tell them you are my husband; tell them so; oh, tell them, tell them!" she cried in a tone of piteous supplication. he raised to hers his weary eyes with a dumb cry for mercy from the appeal of love. only hugh ritson, of all who were there present, understood what was in the convict's heart. "paul ritson is the rightful heir of his father and his mother's legitimate son," he muttered audibly. the convict turned to where his brother sat, and looked at him with a face that seemed to grapple for the missing links of a chain of facts. counsel for the defense arose. "it will be seen that the unhappy convict witness will not be used as an instrument of deception," he said. "he is paul drayton, and can not be made to pretend that he is paul ritson." the hush of awe in the court was broken by the opening of a door behind the bench. two women stood on the threshold. one of them was small, wrinkled, and old. she was mrs. drayton. the other was a nun in hood and cape. she was sister grace. hugh ritson leaned toward counsel for the plaintiff, who promptly rose and said: "the witness i spoke of as dead to the world is now present in the court." amid a buzz of conversation the nun was handed to the table. she raised her long veil and showed a calm, pale face. after the usual formalities, counsel addressed her. "mrs. ritson," he said, "tell us which of the two men who sit opposite is your son." sister grace answered in a clear, soft voice: "both are my sons. the convict is paul ritson, my son by allan ritson; the other is paul lowther, my son by an unhappy alliance with robert lowther." drayton jumped to his feet. "there, that's enough of this!" he shouted, excitedly. "damme, if i can stand any more of it!" bonnithorne reached over and whispered: "mad man, what are you doing? hold your tongue!" "it's all up. there's the old woman, too, come to give me away. here, i say, i'm paul drayton; that's what i am, if you want to know." "let the sheriff take that man before a justice of the peace," said the judge. "it was you that led me into this mess!" shouted drayton at bonnithorne. "only for you i would have been in australia by this time." "let the sheriff apprehend mr. bonnithorne also," said the judge. "as for you, sir," he continued, turning to hugh ritson, "i will report your evidence to the public prosecutor--who must be in possession of your statutory declaration--and leave the law officers to take their own course with regard to you." the action for ejectment was adjourned. drayton and bonnithorne did not trouble the world much longer. within a month they were tried and condemned together--the one for personation; both for conspiracy. paul ritson was removed in charge of his warder, to be confined in the town jail pending the arrival of instructions from the secretary of state. hugh ritson walked out of the court-room a free man. chapter xvii. hugh ritson returned to his room on the pit-brow. on his way there he passed a group of people congregated on the bridge at the town end. they fell apart as he walked through, but not an eye was raised to his, and not one glance of recognition came from his stony face. toward the middle of the afternoon a solicitor came from carlisle and executed a bill of sale on the machinery and general plant. the same evening, as the men on the day shift came up the shaft, and those on the night shift were about to go below, the wages were paid down to the last weights taken at the pit-mouth. then hugh ritson closed his doors and began afresh his melancholy perambulation of the room. that night--it was wednesday night--as darkness fell on the mountain and moorland, there was a great outcry in the vale. it started at the pit-mouth, and was taken up on every side. in less than a quarter of an hour a hundred people--men, women, and children--were gathered about the head of the shaft. there had been a run of sand in the pit, and some of the hands were imprisoned in the blocked-up workings. cries, moans, and many sounds of weeping arose on the air in one dismal chorus. "i knew it would come;" "i telt the master lang ago;" "where's my man?" "and mine?" "and my poor barn--no'but fifteen." "anybody seen my willie?" "is that thee, robbie, ma lad?--no." as every cageful of men and boys came to the surface, there was a rush of mothers, wives, and fathers to recognize their own. hugh ritson went out and pushed his way through the people. "where is the sand running?" he asked of a pitman just landed. "in the sandy vein, 2, 3, 1," answered the man. "then the shaft is clear?" "ay, but the water's blocked in the main working, and it's not safe to go down." hugh ritson had taken the man's candle out of his hand, and was fixing it with the putty in the front of his own hat. "are you ready?" he shouted to the engine-man, above the babel of voices. in another moment he had stepped into the cage and looped down the iron rail in front of it. there was a moment's silence among the panic-stricken people as the cage began to move downward. at the bottom of the shaft a group of men waited to ascend. their faces were lurid in the dim light. before the cage grounded hugh ritson could hear their breathing. "how many of you are left?" he asked. "no'but two now--giles raisley and auld reuben," answered one of the men. the others, without heeding the master's question, had scrambled into the cage, and were already knocking the signal for the ascent. hugh ritson turned toward the working known among the men as the sandy vein. the cage was now rising, and the pitman who had spoken found himself left on the pit bottom; the single moment that he had given to the master had lost him his chance of a place. he cast one stern glance upward, and a muttered oath was on his lips. at the next instant he had taken the direction followed by hugh ritson, and was walking one pace behind him. in the silence the dull thud of their footsteps on the rock beneath mingled with the drip, drip of the water overhead. when they had gone a hundred yards down the narrow working there came another and far more terrible sound. it was such a sound as the sea might have made if it had rushed through a thousand crevices in the rock. it was the sound of the thousands of tons of sand as they forced their way from the dense mass above. and over the hiss as of the sea was the harsh crack of great timbers splitting like matchwood. toward the awful scene of this tumult hugh ritson quickened his steps. the man followed close at his heels. presently their passage was blocked with sand like a wall. then over their heads the cross-trees cracked, and the upright forks split and bent at the right and left of them. in another moment the ground beneath them shook under the new weight that lay on it. they stepped quickly back, and in an instant, with a groan such as the sea makes when it is sucked by the ebbing tide from a cave in a rock, the floor, with all its freight, went down a score of feet. it had fallen to an old working that lay below. then the bent forks hung from the roof in empty air. silence followed this shock, and through the silence there came a feeble cry for help. hugh ritson stepped out, plucked his candle from his hat, and held it before his feet. "where are you?" he called, and his voice came back through the echoing depths beyond. presently a man could be dimly seen clinging to a cross-piece in an alcove made for an air-shaft from the main working. to get to him the treacherous ground must be crossed, with its cracking roof, through which the sand slid even yet, and under the split timbers that still creaked. hugh ritson did not hesitate; he turned to leap down, saying, "follow me." but the man clung to him from behind. "for god's sake, dunnot!" he cried. "i can not go there. it's mair nor my life is worth!" hugh ritson twisted about, and looked him steadily in the face. "what is your name, my man?" "davey braithwaite." "then you are the young fellow whose wife died last week?" "ey," with a drooping head. "your child died before her, did it not?" "ey, he did, poor laal thing!" "your father and mother are gone, too?" "they're gone, for sure!" "and you have neither kith nor kin left in all the world?" "nay, no'but mysel' left." hugh ritson said no more; a hard smile played on his white face, and at the next instant he had leaped down on to the bed of sand below. the man recoiled a pace or two and wrung his hands. before he was aware of what had happened, giles raisley and the master were standing beside him. "where were old reuben and his gang stationed?" said hugh ritson. "in the main working; but the water is dammed up; we can never pass." they returned to the shaft bottom, and walked thence down the cutting that ran from it at right angles. a light burned far away in the dim vista of that long dark burrowing. it was a candle stuck to the rock. the men who worked by it had left it there when they rushed off for their lives. through the bottom of this working there ran a deep trough, but it was now dry. this was the channel by which the whole pit was drained. beyond the light the three men encountered another wall of sand, and from behind it and through it there came to them the dull thud and the plash of heavy water. "if auld reuben's theer, he's a dead man," said giles raisley, and he turned to go. hugh ritson had struggled to the top of the heap, and was plowing the sand away from the roof with his hands. in a little while he had forced an opening, and could see into the dark space beyond. the water had risen to a reservoir of several feet deep. but it was still four or five feet from the roof, and over the black, surging, bubbling waves the imprisoned miner could be seen clinging to a ledge of rock. half his body was already immersed. when the candle shot its streak of light through the aperture of sand, the poor creature uttered a feeble cry. in another moment the master had wormed his body through the hole and dropped slowly into the water. wading breast deep, he reached the pitman, gave him his hand, and brought him safely through the closing seam. when the cage rose to the surface again, bringing back to life and the world the last of the imprisoned miners, a great cheer broke from many a lusty throat. women who had never thought to bless the master, blessed him now with fervent tongues. men who had thought little of the courage that could rest in that slight figure, fell aside at the sense of their own cowardice. under the red glow that came from the engine fire many a hard face melted. hugh ritson saw little of this, and heeded it not at all. he plucked the candle, still burning, from his hat, and threw it aside. then he walked through the people toward his room, and when he got there he shut the door, almost slamming it in the faces of those who followed. he pulled down the window-blinds, and began afresh his perambulation to and fro. he had grown paler and thinner. there was a somber light in his eyes, and his lips were whitening. his step, once quick and sure, despite his infirmity, was now less certain. he had not slept since the night of mercy's death. determined never to encounter again the pains and terrors of sleep, he had walked through the long hours of the four succeeding nights. he knew what the result must be, and did not shrink from it. once only he had thought of a quicker way to the sure goal that was before him. then he had opened a cupboard, and looked long and intently at a bottle that he took from its shelf. but he had put the bottle back. why should he play the fool, and leap the life to come? thus, night after night, he had walked and walked, never resting, never pausing, though the enfeebled limbs shook beneath him, and the four walls of the room reeled in his dazed eyes. before returning to their homes, the people gathered in the darkness about the office on the pit-brow and gave one last cheer. the master heard them, and his lip curled. "simpletons!--they don't understand," he muttered, beneath his breath, and continued his melancholy walk. next morning, a banksman, who acted as personal attendant on hugh ritson, brought him his breakfast. it was not early. the sun had risen, but the blinds of the office were still drawn, and a candle burned on the table. the man would have put out the candle and let in the sunlight, but the master forbid him. he was a methodist, and hummed psalm tunes as he went about his work. this morning he was more than usually fresh and happy when he entered with his tray; but at the sight of hugh ritson's pallid face his own face saddened. "you are a young man yet, luke," said the master. "let me see, how old are you?" "seventy-nine, sir. i was born in ninety-eight. that was when auld bonnypart was agate of us and nelson bashed him up." "i dare say you have grandchildren by this time?" "bless you, ey, and great-grandchilder, and ten of them, too; and all well and hearty, thank the lord!" the sound of a bell, slowly tolling, came from across the dale. hugh ritson's face contracted, and his eyes fell. "what bell is that?" he asked, in an altered tone. "it's like to be the church bell. they're burying poor auld matha's lass and her wee barn this morning." hugh ritson did not touch his breakfast. "luke, close the shutters," he said, "and bring more candles." he did not go out that day, but continued to walk to and fro in the darkened room. toward nightfall he grew feverish, and rang frequently the bell that summoned the banksman. he had only some casual order, some message, some unimportant explanation. at length the old man understood his purpose, and settled himself there for the night. they talked much during the early hours, and often the master laughed and jested. but the atmosphere that is breathed by a sleepless man is always heavy with sleep, and in spite of his efforts to keep awake, luke dozed away in his chair. then for hours there was a gloomy silence, broken only by the monotonous footfall within and the throb of the engine without. the next day, friday, the sun shone brilliantly, but the shutters of the little house on the pit-brow remained closed, and the candle still burned on the table. hugh ritson had grown perceptibly feebler, yet he continued his dreary walk. the old banksman was forbidden to send for a doctor, but he contrived to dispatch a messenger for parson christian. that night he watched with the master again. when the conversation failed, he sung. first, a psalm of david, "the fool hath said in his heart, there is no god;" then a revival hymn of charles wesley about ransom by christ's blood. it would have been a strange spectacle to strange eyes. the old man--young still, though seventy-nine, dear to troops of dear ones, encircled in his age by love and honor, living in poverty that was abundance, with faith that was itself the substance of things hoped for, his simple face ruddier and mellower than before--rocking his head and singing in the singleness of his heart. the other man--barely thirty, yet already old, having missed his youth, his thin cheeks pallid as linen, his eyes burning with a somber light--alone in the world, desolate, apart--walking with an uncertain step and a tremor of the whole frame, which seemed to lurch for poise and balance, yet swinging his arms with the sweep of the melody, and smiling a forced smile through his hard and whitened lips. when the singing ceased, hugh ritson paused suddenly and turned to the old banksman. "luke," he said, abruptly, "i suppose there will be many to follow you when your time comes?" "ey, please god," answered the banksman, dashing away a furtive drop that had rolled on to his cheek; "there'll be my childer, and my childer's childer, and their childer, forby. maybe the barns will lay me behind the mother; poor auld body!" hugh ritson's face darkened, and he resumed his walk. "tut! what matter?" he asked himself; "the night winds are enough to moan over a man's grave." and he laughed a little. next morning--saturday morning--he wrote a letter, and sent luke to the village to post it. then he attended to some business relating to the pit. after that, he shut the door and bolted it. when the old man brought the midday meal he knocked in vain, and had to go away. night closed in, and still there came no answer to the old man's knock. when the sun had set the wind had risen. it threatened to be a tempestuous night. toward ten o'clock parson christian arrived. he had wrestled long with his own heart as to what course it was his duty to take. he had come at last in answer to the banksman's summons, and now he knocked at the door. there was no answer. the wind was loud in the trees overhead, but he could hear the restless footfall within. he knocked again, and yet again. then the bolt was drawn, and a voice at once strange and familiar cried, "come in, parson christian." he had not called or spoken. the parson entered. when his eyes fell on hugh ritson's face he shuddered as he had never shuddered before. many a time he had seen death in a living face, but never anything like this. the livid cheeks were stony, the white lips were drawn hard, the somber eyes burned like a deep, slow fire, the yellow hands were gaunt and restless. there was despair on the contracted brow, but no repentance. and the enfeebled limbs trembled, but still shuffled on--on, on, on, through their longer journey than from gabbatha to golgotha. the very atmosphere of the room breathed of death. "let me pray with you," said the parson, softly, and without any other words, he went down on his knees. "ay, pray for me--pray for me; but you lose your labor; nothing can save me." "let us call on god," said the parson. a bitter laugh broke from hugh ritson's lips. "what! and take to him the dregs and rinsings of my life? no!" "the blood of christ has ransomed the world. it can save the worst sinner of us all, and turn away the heavy wrath of god." hugh ritson broke again into a bitter laugh. "the end has come of sin, as of trouble. no matter." then, with an awful solemnity, he added: "my soul is barren. it is already given over to the undying worm. i shall die to-morrow at sunrise." "no man knows the day nor the hour--" hugh ritson repeated, with a fearful emphasis, "i shall die as the sun rises on sunday morning." parson christian remained with him the weary night through. the wind moaned and howled outside. it licked the walls as with the tongues of serpents. the parson prayed fervently, but hugh ritson's voice never once rose with his. to and fro, to and fro, the dying man continued his direful walk. at one moment he paused and said with a ghastly smile, "this dying is an old story. it has been going on every day for six thousand years, and yet we find it as terrible as ever." toward three in the morning he threw open the shutters. the windows were still dark; it seemed as if the dawn were far away. "it is coming," he said calmly. "i knew it must come soon. let us go out to meet it." with infinite effort he pulled his ulster over his shoulders, put on his hat, and opened the door. "where are you going?" said the parson, and his voice broke. "to the top of the fell." "why there?" hugh ritson turned his heavy eyes upon him. "to see the new day dawn," he said, with an awful pathos. he had already stepped out into the gloom. parson christian followed him. they took the path that led through the moor end to the foot of cat bells. the old man offered his arm, but hugh ritson shook his head and walked one pace ahead. it was a terrible journey. the wind had dropped. in the air the night and day commingled. the dying man struggled along with the firm soul of a stricken lion. step by step and with painful labor they ascended the bare side of the fell in the gray light of morning. they reached the top at last. below them the moorland lay dark and mute. the mist was around them. they seemed to stand on an islet of the clouds. in front the day-break was bursting the confines of the bleak racks of cloud. then the day came in its wondrous radiance, and flooded the world in a vast ocean of light. on the mountain brow hugh ritson resumed his melancholy walk. the old parson muttered, as if to himself, "wilt thou break a leaf driven to and fro? wilt thou pursue the dry stubble?" hugh ritson overheard the words, and all his manner changed. the stubborn lips softened, the somber eye melted, the contracted brow relaxed, and for the first time in all this length of years, he cried like a little child. at the same instant the sun swept up, and he fell. parson christian bent over him. the crimson of the east twas reflected on his white face. the new day had dawned. on the tuesday following two mourners stood by an open grave in the church-yard of newlands. one of them was white-headed; the other wore the jacket and cap, the badge and broad arrow of a convict. the sexton and his man had lowered the coffin to its last home, and then stepped aside. a tall man leaned on the lych-gate, and a group of men and women stood in silence by the porch of the church. the afternoon sun was low, and the shadows of the tombstones stretched far on the grass. the convict went down on his knees, and looked long into the grave. when he arose, the company that had gathered about the porch had gone, and voices singing a hymn came from within the old church. it was the village choir practicing. the world's work had begun again. chapter xviii. two days later the fell behind the ghyll was a scene of unusual animation. it was the day of the shearing. the sheep, visibly whiter and more fleecy for a washing of some days before, had been gathered into stone folds. clippers were seated on creels ranged about a turf fire, over which a pot of tar hung from a triangle of boughs. boy "catchers" brought up the sheep, one by one, and girl "helpers" carried away the fleeces, hot and odorous, and hung them over the open barn doors. as the sheep were stripped, they were tugged to the fire and branded from the bubbling tar with the smet mark of the ritsons. the metallic click of the shears was in the air, and over all was the blue sky and the brilliant sunshine. in a white overall, stained with patches of tar and some streaks of blood, smudged with soap and scraps of the clinging wool, parson christian moved among the shearers, applying plentiful doses of salve from a huge can to the snips made in the skin of the sheep by the accidents of the shears. "we might have waited for the maister afore shearing--eh?" said reuben, from one of the creels. "he'll be here before we finish, please the lord," answered the parson. "is it to-day you're to gang for him?" "yes, this afternoon." "a daub on this leg, parson, where she kicked--deuced take her!... it's like you'll bring him home in a car?" "ay; randal alston has loaned me his mare." "why, man, what a upshot we'll have, for sure--bacon pie and veal and haggis, and top stannin pie and puddings, i reckon.... just a hand to her leg, parson, while i strip the coat and waistcoat off this black-faced herdwick.... is the mistress to come home, too?" "nay, reuben, mrs. ritson has gone back to where she came from." "weel, it's no'but naturable, after all that's happent.... easy now ... be quiet, wilta ... dusta want another snip, eh?... and young mistress greta--it's like she'll be mistress now?" "it's very likely she'll come to the ghyll with her husband, reuben." "god bless her! and there's been no luck on the land since he left it--and everything a fault, too.... there, she's stripped. away with her, natt, man, and de'il tak' her." in the afternoon a vast crowd of men, women and children had gathered once more about the old town-hall at keswick. they laughed and bantered and sung. presently the door of the hall was thrown open, and two men came out. one was paul ritson, no longer clad as a convict; the other was parson christian. the people hailed them with a mighty shout, lifted them into a gig that was drawn up in the market-place, took out the horses and crowded into the shafts. then they set off with a great cheer through the town and the country road, the dust rising in clouds behind them. they took the road to the west of the valley, and as they passed under the wood, an old man, much bent, was easing a smoking fire in the charcoal pit. he paused and raised himself, his iron rod in his hand, and lifted his heavy eyes toward the clamorous company. the gig flew past with its shouts, its cheers, and its noisy laughter, and the old man turned silently back to his work. when they came near to the vicarage, paul leaped from the carriage over the heads of the men who pulled it, vaulted the gate, and bounded into the house. there was one who waited for him there, and in an instant she was locked close in his arms. "at last!" he whispered. her heart overflowed; she dropped her fair young head on his heaving breast, and wept sweet tears. parson christian came rolling up the path surrounded by a tumultuous throng. foremost and lustiest were the blacksmith and the miller, and close behind came the landlord and the postman. all were shouting as if their brassy throats might crack. there was high revel at the ghyll that evening. first came the feasting in the old kitchen: huge rounds of beef, quarters of lamb, pease, and sweet puddings and pies. then came the dancing in the barn, lighted by candles in cloven sticks, and lanterns of turnips that were scooped out hollow. but at the vicarage paul and greta sat alone in silence and with clasped hands. parson christian came in and out at intervals, gossiping cheerily of the odds and ends of daily life, as if its even tenor had never been disturbed. they supped together, and sat on till midnight; and then the old christian took down his green tome and wrote: "june 30.--so paul being to return home after his long absence, i spent the forenoon on the fell shearing, and earned a stone of wool and a windle of rye. in the afternoon i set forward toward keswick, wherefor randal alston had loaned me his mare and gig. at the flying horse i lighted not, but stood while i drank a pot of ale with john proudfoot and richard parkinson and a neighbor that comes to-morrow to thatch the low barn for me. then direct to keswick, where there was a great concourse, and a hearty welcome, and much rejoicings that warmed me and came nigh to break me withal. got son paul at last, and would have driven direct home, but the good folk were not minded that it should be so, and naught would do but that they must loose the mare and run in the shafts. so we reached home about six, and found all well, and my love greta, after long waiting in her closet, very busy with paul, who had run in ahead of me. so i went out again and foddered and watered the mare, for peter is sometimes a sad fatch and will not always give a horse what is worth its trouble in the eating. and being thrang this evening a-mending the heels of my old clock boots with lath nails, whereof i bought a pennyworth at thomas seed's shop in the market-place, i saw little of paul, but left him to greta. then supped, and read a psalm and prayed in my family, and sat till full midnight. so i retire to my lodging-room, at peace with all the world, and commend my all to god. the lord forgive the sins of me and mine that we have committed in these our days of trial. blessed be god who has wrought our victory, and overcome our enemies and brought us out more than conquerors. amen." parson christian had put down the pen, and was sprinkling the writing with sand from a pepper-castor, when brother peter came in with candles in his hand and a letter under his abridged arm. "laal tom o' dint gave me this for thee," he said to paul, and dropped the letter on to his knees. "i was sa thrang with all their bodderments, that i don't know as i didna forget it." parson christian returned the green-clad book to its shelf, took up his candle, bid good-night, and went to bed. brother peter shambled out, and then paul and greta were left alone. paul opened the letter. it was inclosed in a sheet of paper that bore the stamp of the convent of st. margaret, and these words only, "sent on by sister grace." paul began to read the letter aloud, greta looking over his shoulder. but as he proceeded his voice faltered, and then he stopped. then, in silence, the eyes of both traversed the written words. they ran: "mother, i have wronged you deeply, and yours is a wrong that may never be repaired. the past does not return, and what is done is done with. it is not allowed to us to raze out the sins and the sufferings of the days that are gone; they stand and will endure. i am not so bad a man as perhaps i seem; but of what avail is it to defend myself now? and who would believe me? my life has been one long error, and the threads of my fate have been tangled. have i not passed before our little world for a stern and callous man? yet the blight of my soul has been passion. yearning for love where love could never be returned, i am the ruins of what i might have been. if i did wrong knowingly, it was not until passion mastered me; if i saw things as they did not exist, it was because passion made me blind. mother, if there is one above to watch and judge our little lives, surely he sees this, and reckons the circumstances with the deed. "tell her that i wish her peace. if i were a man used to pray, perhaps i would ask heaven to bless her. but my heart is barren of prayer. and what, after all, boots my praying? i have given her back at last to the love of a noble man. and now my wasted life is done, and this is the end--a sorry end! "mother, i shall not live to suffer the earthly punishment of my crime. never fear--my hand shall not be lifted against myself. be sure of that, whatever else may seem doubtful. but very soon this passionate and rebellious soul will stand for judgment before its awaiting god. "farewell, my mother, farewell!"