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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c963a15 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #66376 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/66376) diff --git a/old/66376-0.txt b/old/66376-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 6a76ce7..0000000 --- a/old/66376-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,15484 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Young Musgrave, by Mrs. Margaret Oliphant - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Young Musgrave - -Author: Mrs. Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: September 25, 2021 [eBook #66376] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at - http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images - available at The Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YOUNG MUSGRAVE *** - - - - - YOUNG MUSGRAVE. - - “Touching sacrifice: of thy worldly possessions give all, even to - the spoiling of thy goods; for thus teaches our Lord Christ, and - our blessed master San Francesco. If a poor person, more poor than - thou, would have thy habit, which it is not permitted by the rule - of the order to give, let him take it from thee: so wilt thou do no - wrong; but thy life, which is not thine, give not: it is but given - to thee for God’s service; thou canst not take it up, neither canst - thou lay it down. This rule obey if thou wouldest be free from - presumption. For our Lord Christ alone, whose life was His own, - hath power and privilege to give it away.”--_Sermons, BB. Frati - Ginepro e Lausdeo, dei Frati Minori._ - - - - - YOUNG MUSGRAVE - - - BY - - MRS. OLIPHANT - - AUTHOR OF “THE CURATE IN CHARGE” ETC. - - - “No man can redeem his brother.”--Ps. xlix. 7 - - - London - MACMILLAN AND CO. - AND NEW YORK - 1894 - - - Richard Clay and Sons, Limited, - LONDON AND BUNGAY. - -_First Edition_ (3 Vols. Crown 8vo.) 1877. _Second Edition_ (1 Vol. Crown 8vo.) - 1878. _Reprinted_ (Globe 8vo.) 1883, 1886, (Crown 8vo.) 1894. - - - - -CONTENTS. - - -PART I. - - -CHAPTER I. - - PAGE -THE FAMILY 1 - - -CHAPTER II. - -MARY 10 - - -CHAPTER III. - -THE NEW-COMERS 20 - - -PART II. - - -CHAPTER IV. - -AFTER THE SILENCE OF YEARS 30 - - -CHAPTER V. - -WAKING UP 37 - - -CHAPTER VI. - -AT THE VICARAGE 46 - - -PART III. - - -CHAPTER VII. - -THE CHILDREN AT THE CASTLE 56 - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -LADY STANTON 66 - - -CHAPTER IX. - -AT ELFDALE 77 - - -CHAPTER X. - -THE OTHER SIDE 86 - - -CHAPTER XI. - -AN AFTERNOON’S WORK 95 - - -CHAPTER XII. - -VISITORS 104 - - -PART IV. - - -CHAPTER XIII. - -FAMILY CARES 116 - - -CHAPTER XIV. - -AN UNLOOKED-FOR VISITOR 123 - - -CHAPTER XV. - -RANDOLPH 133 - - -CHAPTER XVI. - -DUCKS AND DRAKES 144 - - -CHAPTER XVII. - -THE BAMPFYLDES 156 - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - -A NEW FRIEND 169 - - -CHAPTER XIX. - -A MIDNIGHT WALK 177 - - -CHAPTER XX. - -THE COTTAGE ON THE FELLS 187 - - -CHAPTER XXI. - -AN EARLY MEETING 199 - - -CHAPTER XXII. - -THE HENS AND THE DUCKLING 208 - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - -COUSIN MARY’S OPINION 218 - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - -THE SQUIRE AT HOME 227 - - -CHAPTER XXV. - -A NEW VISITOR 240 - - -CHAPTER XXVI. - -IN SUSPENSE 249 - - -CHAPTER XXVII. - -AN APPARITION 261 - - -CHAPTER XXVIII. - -THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS 273 - - -CHAPTER XXIX. - -NELLO’S JOURNEY 282 - - -CHAPTER XXX. - -A CHILD FORLORN 295 - - -CHAPTER XXXI. - -A CRISIS AT PENNINGHAME 306 - - -CHAPTER XXXII. - -NELLO’S RESCUE 321 - - -CHAPTER XXXIII. - -THE BABES IN THE WOOD 330 - - -CHAPTER XXXIV. - -THE NEW-COMER 338 - - -CHAPTER XXXV. - -ANOTHER HELPER 348 - - -CHAPTER XXXVI. - -THE BEGINNING OF THE END 358 - - -CHAPTER XXXVII. - -A TRAITOR 366 - - -CHAPTER XXXVIII. - -THE MOTHER 373 - - -CHAPTER XXXIX. - -THE TRAGEDY ENDS 384 - - -CHAPTER XL. - -CONCLUSION 389 - - - - -YOUNG MUSGRAVE. - - - - -PART I. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -THE FAMILY. - - -It would be difficult to say how Penninghame Castle had got that -imposing name. It was an old house standing almost on the roadside, at -least at the termination of a rough country road leading from the -village, which widened into a square space at the side of the house. The -village road was lined with trees, and it pleased the Musgraves to -believe that it had been in happier days the avenue to their ancient -dwelling, while the rough square at the end had been the courtyard. The -place itself consisted of a small mansion not important enough to be -very distinctive in architecture, built on to the end of an old hall, -the only remaining portion of a much older and greater house. This hall -was entered directly by a great door of heavy oak, from which a slope of -ancient causeway descended into the road below--an entrance which was -the only thing like a castle in the whole _ensemble_, though it ought to -have led to an ancient gateway and portcullis rather than to the great -door generally wide open, through which, according to the story, a -horseman once entered to scare the guests at their feast and defy the -master at the head of the table. The hall was not used for such festive -purposes now, nor threatened by such warlike intruders. It had known -evil fortune in its day and had been degraded into a barn, its windows -blocked up, its decorations destroyed--but had come to life again for -the last fifty years and had come back to human use, though no longer as -of old. Round the corner was the front of the old mansion, built in that -pallid grey stone, which adds a sentiment of age, like the ashy paleness -of very old people, to the robust antiquity of mason-work more lasting -than any that is done now. Successive squires had nibbled at this old -front, making windows there and doorways here: windows which cut through -the string-courses above, and a prim Georgian front door, not even in -the centre of the old arched entrance which had been filled up, which -gave a certain air of disreputable irregularity to the pale and stern -old dwelling-place. Ivy and other clinging growths fortunately hid a -great deal of this, and added importance to the four great stacks of -chimneys, which, mantled in its short, large leaves and perpetual -greenness, looked like turrets, and dignified the house. A lake behind -somewhat coldly blue, and a great hill in front somewhat coldly green, -showed all the features of that north country which was not far enough -north for the wild vigour and vivifying tints of brown bracken and -heather. The lake came closely up in a little bay behind the older part -of the house where there was a rocky harbour for the boats of the -family; and between this little bay and the grey walls was the -flower-garden, old-fashioned and bright, though turned to the unkindly -east. Beyond this was a kind of broken park with some fine trees and a -great deal of rough underwood, which stretched along the further shore -of the lake and gave an air of dignity to the dwelling on that side. -This was still called “the Chase” as the house was called the Castle, in -memory it might be supposed of better days. The Musgraves had been -Cavaliers, and had wasted their substance in favour of the Charleses, -and their lands had been ravaged, their park broken up into fields, -their avenue made a common road, half by hostile neighbours, half by -vulgar intrusion, in the days when the Revolutionists had the upper -hand. So they said, at least, and pleas of this kind are respected -generally, save by the very cynical. Certainly the present occupants of -the house believed it fervently, and so did the village; and if it was -nothing more it was a great comfort and support to the family, and made -them regard the rude approach to “the Castle” with forbearance. The -public right of way had been established in those stormy times. It was a -sign even of the old greatness of the house. It was better than trim -lawns and smiling gardens, which would have required a great deal of -keeping up. It was, however, a family understanding that the first -Musgrave who made a rich marriage, or who in any other way became a -favourite of fortune, should by some vague means--an act of parliament -or otherwise--reclaim the old courtyard and avenue, and plant a pair of -magnificent gates between the castle and the village: also buy back all -the old property; also revive the title of Baron of Penninghame, which -had been in abeyance for the last two hundred years; and do many other -things to glorify and elevate the family to its pristine position; and -no Musgrave doubted that this deliverer would come sooner or later, -which took the bitterness out of their patience in the meantime and gave -them courage to wait. - -Another encouraging circumstance in their lot was that they were fully -acknowledged as the oldest family in the county. Other and richer -persons pushed in before them to its dignities, and they were no doubt -very much left out of its gaieties and pleasures; but no one doubted -that they had a right to take the lead, if ever they were rich enough. -This, however, did not seem likely, for the moment at least. The family -at Penninghame had, what is much to be avoided by families which would -be happy, a history, and a very recent one. There were two sons, but -neither of them had been seen at the Castle for nearly fifteen years, -and with the name of the elder of these there was connected a dark and -painful story, not much known to the new generation, but very well -remembered by all the middle-aged people in the county. Young Musgrave -had been for a year or two the most popular young squire in the north -country, but his brightness had ended in dismal clouds of misfortune and -trouble and bloodshedding, with perhaps crime involved, and certainly -many of the penalties of crime. He had not been seen in the north -country since the crisis which made all the world acquainted with his -unfortunate name; and his younger brother had re-appeared but once in -their father’s house, which was thus left desolate, except for the one -daughter, who had been its delight before and was now its only stay. So -far as the county knew, young Musgrave still lived, though he was never -mentioned, for there had been no signs of mourning in the house, such as -must have intimated to the neighbours the fact of John’s death--which -also of course would have made Randolph the heir. And save that once, -not even Randolph had ever come to break the monotony of life in his -father’s house. Squire Musgrave and his daughter lived there alone now. -They had been alone these fifteen years. They had little society, and -did not keep up a large establishment. He was old, and she was no longer -young enough to care for the gaieties of the rural neighbourhood. Thus -they had fallen out of the current of affairs. The family was “much -respected,” but comparatively little heard of after the undesired and -undesirable notoriety it had once gained. - -Thus abandoned by its sons, and denuded of the strongest elements of -life, it may well be supposed that the castle at Penninghame was a -melancholy house. What more easy than to conjure up the saddest picture -of such a dwelling? The old man, seated in his desolate home, brooding -over perhaps the sins of his sons, perhaps his own--some injudicious -indulgence, or untimely severity which had driven them from him; while -the sister, worn out by the monotony of her solitary life, shut herself -out from all society, and spent her life in longing for the absent, and -pleading for them--a sad, solitary woman, with no pleasure in her lot, -except that of the past. The picture would have been as appropriate as -touching, but it would not have been true. Old Mr. Musgrave was not the -erring father of romance. He was a well-preserved and spare little man, -over seventy, with cheeks of streaky red like winter apples, and white -hair, which he wore rather long, falling on the velvet collar of his -old-fashioned coat. He had been an outdoor man in his day, and had -farmed, and shot, and hunted, like others of his kind, so far as his -straitened means and limited stables permitted; but when years and -circumstances had impaired his activity he had been strong enough to -retire, of his own free will, while graceful abdication was still in his -power. He spent most of his time now in his library, with only a -constitutional walk, or easy ramble upon his steady old cob, to vary -his life, except when quarter sessions called him forth, or any other -duty of the magistracy, to which he still paid the most conscientious -attention. The Musgraves were not people whom it was easy to crush, and -Fate had a hard bargain in the old squire, who found himself one -occupation when deprived of another with a spirit not often existing in -old age. He had committed plenty of mistakes in his day, and some which -had been followed by tragical consequences, a practical demonstration of -evil which fortunately does not attend all the errors of life; but he -did not brood over them in his old library, nor indulge unavailing -compunctions, nor consider himself under any doom; but on the contrary -studied his favourite problems in genealogy and heraldry, and county -history, and corresponded with _Notes and Queries_, and was in his way -very comfortable. He it was who first pointed out that doubtful -blazoning of Marmion’s shield, “colour upon colour,” which raised so -lively a discussion; and in questions of this kind he was an authority, -and thoroughly enjoyed the little tilts and controversies involved, many -of which were as warm as their subjects were insignificant. His family -was dropping, or rather had dropped, into decay; his eldest son was -virtually lost to his family and to society; his youngest son alienated -and a stranger; and some of this at least was the father’s fault. But -neither the decay of the house, nor the reflection that he was at least -partially to blame, made any great difference to the squire. There had -no doubt been moments, and even hours, when he had felt it bitterly; but -these moments, though perhaps they count for more than years in a man’s -life, do not certainly last so long, and age has a way of counterfeiting -virtue, which is generally very successful, even to its personal -consciousness. Mr. Musgrave was generally respected, and he felt himself -to be entirely respectable. He sat in his library and worked away among -his county histories, without either compunction or regret--who could -throw a stone at him? He had been rather unfortunate in his family, that -was all that could be said. - -And Mary Musgrave, his daughter, was just as little disposed to brood -upon the past. She had shed many tears in her day, and suffered many -things. Perhaps it was in consequence of the family troubles which had -come upon her just at the turning-point in her life that she had never -married; for she had been one of the beauties of the district--courted -and admired by everybody, and wooed by many: by some who indeed still -found her beautiful, and by some who had learned to laugh at the old -unhappiness of which she was the cause. Miss Musgrave did not like these -last, which was perhaps natural; and even now there would be a tone of -satire in her voice when she noted the late marriage of one or another -of her old adorers. Women do not like men whose hearts they have broken, -to get quite healed, and console themselves; this is perhaps a poor -feeling, but it is instinctive, and though it may be stoutly struggled -against in some cases, and chidden into silence in many, it still -maintains an untolerated yet obstinate life. But neither the failure of -the adorations she once inspired nor the family misfortunes had crushed -her spirit. She lived a not unhappy life, notwithstanding all that had -happened. It was she who did everything that was done at Penninghame. -The reins which her father had dropped almost unawares she had taken up. -She managed the estate; kept the bailiff in order; did all business that -was necessary with the lawyer; and what was a greater feat still, kept -her father unaware of the almost absolute authority which she exercised -in his affairs. It had to be done, and she had not hesitated to do it; -and on the whole, she, too, though she had suffered many heartaches in -her day, was not unhappy now, but lived a life full of activity and -occupation. She was forty, and her hair began to be touched by grey--she -who had been one of the fairest flowers of the north country. A woman -always has to come down from that eminence somehow; whether she does it -by becoming some one’s wife or by merely falling back into the silence -of the past and leaving the place free for others, does not much matter. -Perhaps, indeed, it is the old maid who has the best of it. A little -romance continues to encircle her in the eyes of most of those who have -worshipped her youth. She has not married; why has she not married--that -once admired of all admirers? Has it been that she, too, sharing the lot -which she inflicted on so many, was not loved where she loved? or was -it perhaps that she had made a mistake--sent away some one, perhaps, -who knows, the very man who thought of her thus kindly and -regretfully--whom she was afterwards sorry to have sent away? Nobody -said this in words, but Mary Musgrave at forty was more tenderly thought -of than Lady Stanton, who had been the rival queen of the county. Lady -Stanton was stout now-a-days; in men’s minds, when they met her sailing -into a ball-room, prematurely indued with the duties of chaperon to her -husband’s grown-up daughters, there would arise a half-amused wonder how -they could have worshipped at her feet as they once did. “Can this -muckle wife be my true love Jean?” they said to themselves. But Miss -Musgrave, who was slim as a girl in her unwedded obscurity, and whose -eyes some people thought as bright as ever, though her hair was grey, -gave rise to no such irreverent thoughts. There were men scattered -through the world who had a romantic regard, a profound respect still, -for this woman whom they had loved, and who had preserved the -distinction of loving no one in return. Nobody had died for love of her, -though, some had threatened it; but this visionary atmosphere of past -adoration supplied a delicate homage, such as is agreeable even to an -old maiden’s heart. - -And Miss Musgrave’s life was spent chiefly in the old hall, as her -father’s was spent in his library. She had been full of gay activity in -her youth, a bold and graceful horsewoman, ready for anything that was -going; but, with the same sense of fitness that led the squire to his -retirement, she too had retired. She had put aside her riding-habits -along with, her muslins, and wore nothing but rich neutral-tinted silk -gowns. Her only extravagance was a pair of ponies, which she drove into -the county town when she had business to do, or to pay an occasional -visit to her friends: but by far the greater part of her life was spent -in the old hall, where all her favourites and allies came, and all her -poor people from the village, who found her seated like a scriptural -potentate in the gate, ready to settle all quarrels and administer -impartial justice. The hall was connected with the house by a short -passage and two doors, which shut out all interchange of sound. There -was nothing above it but the high-pitched roof, the turret chimneys, and -the ivy, nor was any interposition of servants necessary to usher in -visitors by that ever-open way. This was a thing which deeply affected -the spirits and feelings of Eastwood, the only male functionary in the -house--the most irreproachable of butlers. A door which opened straight -into the lady’s favourite sitting-room was felt by him to be an insult -to the family; it was more like a farmhouse than a castle; and as for -Miss Musgrave, she was just as bad--too affable, a deal too affable, -talking to any one that came to her, the tramps on the road as well as -the ladies and gentlemen whose unwilling steeds pranced and curveted on -the old slope of causeway. This was a standing grievance to the butler, -whoso complaint was that the “presteedge” of the family was in hourly -jeopardy; and his persistent complaint had thrown a shade of -dissatisfaction over the household. This, however, did not move the lady -of the house. Eastwood and the rest did not know, though some other -people did, that it was the proudest woman in the county whom they -accused of being too affable, and who received all the world in the old -hall without the assistance of any gentleman usher. There were no -windows in the side of the hall which fronted the road, but only this -huge oaken door, all studded with bars and elaborate hinges of iron. On -the other side there was a recess, with a large square window and -cushioned seats, “restored” by village workmen in a not very perfect -way, but still preserving the ample and noble lines of its original -design. This windowed recess was higher than the rest of the hall, the -walls of which were low, though the roof was lofty. But towards the -front the only light was from the doorway, which looked due west, and -beheld all the sunsets, flooding the ancient place with afternoon light -and glories of evening colour. The slanting light seemed to sweep in -like an actual visitor in all its sheen of crimson and purple, when the -rest of the house was in the still and hush of the grey evening. This -was where Miss Musgrave held her throne. - -Thus Penninghame Castle stood at the moment this story begins. The lake -gleaming cold towards the north, rippling against the pebbles in the -little inlet which held the two boats, the broken ground and ancient -trees of the Chase, lying eastward, getting the early lights of the -morning, as did the flower-garden, which lay bright under the old -walls. A little genial hum of the kindly north-country women-servants, -who had been there for a lifetime, or who were the daughters and cousins -of those who had been there for a lifetime, with Eastwood strutting -important among them--the one big cock among this barndoor company--made -itself audible now and then, a respectful subdued human accompaniment to -the ripple of the lake and the whispering of the wind among the trees: -and now and then a cheerful cackle of poultry, the sound of the ponies -in the stable, or the squire’s respectable cob: the heavy steps of the -gardener walking slowly along the gravel paths. But for these tranquil -sounds, which made the stillness more still, there was nothing but quiet -in and about the old house. There had been a time when much had happened -there, when there had been angry dissensions, family convulsions, storms -of mutual reproach and reproof, outbursts of tears and crying. But all -that was over. Nothing had happened at Penninghame for fifteen years. -The old squire in his library and Mary in her favourite old chamber -lived as though there were no breaks in life, no anguishes, no -convulsions, as quietly as their trees, as steadily as their old walls, -as if existence could neither change nor end. Thus they went on from day -to day and from year to year, in a routine which occupied and satisfied, -and kept the sense of living in their minds, but in a lull and hush of -all adventure, of all commotion, of all excitement. Time passed over -them and left no trace, save those touches imperceptible at the moment -which sorrow or passion could surpass in effect in one day, yet which -tell as surely at the end. This was how things were at Penninghame when -this story begins. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -MARY. - - -It was not one of Mary Musgrave’s fancies to furnish her hall like a -drawing-room. She had collected round her a few things for use, but she -was not rich enough to make her favourite place into a toy, as so many -people do, nor had she the opportunity of “picking up” rarities to -ornament it, as she might have liked to do had she been in the way of -them. The room had been a barn fifty years before. Then it became a -family storeroom, was fitted up at one end with closets and cupboards, -and held the household linen, and sometimes the winter supply of fruit. -It was Mary who had rescued it back again to gentler use; but she had -not been able to re-decorate or renew it with such careful pretence at -antiquity as is common nowadays. All that she could do for it was to -collect her own doings there, and all the implements for her work. The -windowed recess which got the morning sun was her business-room. There -stood an old secretaire, chosen not because of its age or suitability, -but because it was the only thing she had available, a necessity which -often confers as much grace as the happiest choice. Opposite the doorway -was an old buffet, rough, yet not uncharacteristic, which had been -scrubbed clean by a generous housemaid when Miss Musgrave first took to -the hall. And much it had wanted that cleansing; but the soap and the -water and the scrubbing-brush had not agreed very well, it must be -allowed, with the carved mahogany, which ought to have been oak. Between -the open door and this big piece of furniture was a square of old Turkey -carpet, very much faded, yet still agreeable to the eye, and a -spindle-legged table of Queen Anne’s days, with drawers which held Miss -Musgrave’s knitting and a book, and sometimes homelier matters, mendings -which she chose to do herself, calculations which were not meant for the -common eye. - -She was seated here, on an afternoon of October, warm with the shining -of that second summer which comes even in the north. The sunshine came -so far into the room that it caught the edges of the carpet, and made a -false show of gold upon the faded wool; and it was so warm that Miss -Musgrave had drawn her chair farther into the room than usual, and sat -in the shade to escape the unusual warmth. At this moment she was not -doing anything. She was sitting quite silent, the book she had been -reading laid open upon her knee, enjoying the sun, as people enjoy it to -whom it suddenly reveals itself after date when it is past expectation. -In the end of October in the north country, people have ceased to think -of warmth out of doors, or any blaze of kindly light from the skies--and -the morning had been grey though very mild. The sudden glow had caught -Mary as she sat, a little chilly, close to her opened door, thinking of -a shawl, and had transfigured the landscape and the heavens and her own -sentiments all at once. She was sitting with her hands in her lap, and -the open book on her knee, thinking of it, surprised by the sweetness of -it, feeling it penetrate into her very heart, though she had drawn her -chair back out of the sun. No, not thinking--people do not think of the -sunshine; but it went into her heart, bringing back a confused sweetness -of recollection and of anticipation--or rather of the anticipations -which were recollections--which had ceased to exist except in memory. -Just so does youth expect some sudden sweetness to invade its life; and -sometimes the memory of that expectation, even when unfulfilled, brings -a half sad, half sweet amusement to the solitary. It was so with this -lady seated alone in her old hall. She was Mary again, the young -daughter of the house; and at the same time she was old Miss Musgrave -smiling at herself. - -But as she did so a footstep sounded on the rough pavement of the -ascent. No one could come unheard to her retreat, which was a safeguard. -She gave a little shake to her head, and took up the open book, which -was no old favourite to be dreamed over, but a modern book; and prepared -herself for a visitor with that smoothing of the brow and closing up of -mental windows which fits us to meet strange eyes. “It is only I,” said -the familiar voice of some one who knew and understood this slight -movement: and then she dropped the book again, and let the smile come -back into her eyes. - -“Only you! then I may look as I please. I need not put on my company -garb,” she said, with a smile. - -“I should hope not,” said the new-comer, reaching the door with that -slight quickening of the breath which showed that even the half-dozen -steps of ascent was a slight tax upon him. He did not even shake hands -with her--probably they had met before that day--but took off his hat as -he crossed the threshold, as if he had been going into a church. He was -a clergyman, slim and slight, of middle size, or less than middle size, -in somewhat rusty grey, with a mildness of aspect which did not promise -much strength, bodily or mental. The Vicarage of Penninghame was a poor -one, too poor to be worth reserving for a son of the family, and it had -been given to the tutor of Mr. Musgrave’s sons twenty years ago. What -had happened was natural enough, and might be seen in his eyes still, -notwithstanding lapse of time and change of circumstances. Mr. -Pennithorne had fallen in love, always hopelessly and mildly, as became -his character, with the Squire’s daughter. He had always said it did not -matter. He had no more hope of persuading her to love him than of -getting the moon to come out of heaven, and circumstances having set -marriage before him, he had married, and was happy enough as happiness -goes. And he was the friend, and in a measure the confidant, of this -lady whom he had loved in the superlative poetical way--knew all about -her, shared her life in a manner, was acquainted with many of her -thoughts and her troubles. A different light came into his eyes when he -saw her, but he was not at all unhappy. He had a good wife and three -nice children, and the kind of life he liked. At fifty, who is there who -continues to revel in the unspeakable blisses of youth? Mr. Pennithorne -was very well content: but still when he saw Mary Musgrave--and he saw -her daily--there came a different kind of light into his eyes. - -“I was in mental _déshabille_,” she said, “and did not care to be -caught; though after all it is not everybody who can see when one is not -clothed and in one’s right mind.” - -“I never knew you out of your right mind, Miss Mary. What was it?--no -new trouble?” - -“You are always a flatterer, Mr. Pen. You have seen me in all kinds of -conditions. No, we don’t have any troubles now. Is that a rash speech? -But really I mean it. My father is in very good health and enjoys -himself, and I enjoy myself--in reason.” - -“You enjoy yourself! Yes, in the way of being good to other people.” - -“Hush!” she said, putting up her hand to stop him in his little speech, -sincere as it was. “Shall I tell you what it was that put me out of -order for any one’s eyes but an old friend’s? Nothing more than this -sunshine, Mr. Pen. Don’t you recollect when we were young how a sudden -thought of something that was coming would seize upon you, and flood you -with delight--as the sun did just now?” - -“I recollect,” he said, fixing his mild eyes upon her, and shaking his -head, with a sigh: “but it never came.” - -“That may be true enough; but the thought came, and ‘life is but -thought,’ you know; the thing might not follow. However, we are all -quite happy all the same.” - -He looked at her, still shaking his head. - -“I suppose so,” he said; “I suppose so; quite happy! but not as we meant -to be; that was what you were thinking.” - -“I did not go so far. I was not thinking at all. I _think_ that I think -very seldom. It only caught me as the old thought used to do, and -brought so many things back.” - -She smiled, but he sighed. - -“Yes, everything is very different. Yourself--to see you here, offering -up your life for others--making a sacrifice----” - -“I have made no sacrifice,” she said, somewhat proudly, then laughed. -“Is that because I am unmarried, Mr. Pen? You wedded people, you are so -sure of being better off than we are. You are too complacent. But _I_ am -not so sure of that.” - -He did not join in her laugh, but looked at her with melting eyes--eyes -in which there was some suspicion of tears. It was perhaps a trifle -unkind of her to call him complacent in his conjugality. There were a -hundred unspeakable things in his look--pity, reverence, devotion, not -the old love perhaps, but something higher; something that was never to -end. - -“On the whole, we are taking it too seriously,” she said, after a pause. -“It is over now, and the sun is going down. And you came to talk to -me?--perhaps of something in the parish that wants looking to?” - -“No--I came in only to look at you, and make sure that you were well. -The children you were visiting the other day have the scarlet fever; and -besides, I have had a feeling in my mind about you--a presentiment. I -should not have been surprised to hear that there had been--letters--or -some kind of advances made----” - -“From whom?” - -“Well,” he said, after a slight pause; “they are both brothers--both -sons--but they are not the same to me, Miss Mary. From John; he has been -so much in my mind these two or three days, I have got to dreaming about -him. Yes, yes, I know that is not worth thinking of; but we were always -in such sympathy, he and I. Don’t you believe in some communication -between minds that were closely allied? I do. It is a superstition if -you like. Nothing could happen to any of you but, if I were at ever so -great a distance, I should know.” - -“Don’t be too sure of that, Mr. Pen. Sometimes the dearest to us perish, -and we know nothing of it; but I prefer your view. You dreamt of poor -John? What did you see? Alas! dreams are the only ways of divining -anything about him now!” - -“And your father is as determined as ever?” - -“We never speak on the subject. It has disappeared like so many other -things. Why continue a fruitless discussion which only embittered him -and wore me out? If any critical moment should come, if--one must say it -plainly--my father should be like to die--then I should speak, you need -not fear.” - -“I never feared that you would do everything the best sister, the -bravest friend, could do.” - -“Do not praise me too much. I tell you I am doing nothing, and have done -nothing for years; and sometimes it strikes me with terror. If anything -should happen suddenly! My father is an old man; but talking to him now -is of no use; we must risk it. What did you see in your dream?” - -“Oh, you will laugh at me,” he said with a nervous flutter; -“nothing--except that he was here. I dreamt of him before, that time -that he came home--after----” - -“Don’t speak of it,” said Miss Musgrave, with a corresponding shiver. -“To think that such things should happen, and be forgotten, and we -should all go on so comfortably--quite comfortably! I have nothing -particular to make me happy, and yet I am as happy as most -people--notwithstanding all that I have come through, as the poor women -say.” - -“That is because you are so unselfish--so----” - -“Insensible--more like. I am the same as other people. What the poor -folk in the village come through, Mr. Pen!--loss of husbands, loss of -children, one after another, grinding poverty, and want, and anxiety, -and separation from all they care for. Is it insensibility? I never can -tell; and especially now when I share it myself. I am as happy sometimes -as when I was young. That sunshine gave me a ridiculous pleasure. What -right have I to feel my heart light?--but I did somehow--and I do -often--notwithstanding all that has happened, and all that I have ‘gone -through.’” - -Mr. Pennithorne gave a vague smile, but he made no reply; for either she -was accusing herself unjustly, or this was a mood of mind which perhaps -derogated a little from Mary Musgrave’s perfection. He had a way himself -of keeping on steadfastly on the one string of his anxiety, whatever it -might be, and worrying everybody with it--and here he lost the object of -his faithful worship. It might--nay, must--be right since so she felt; -but he lost her here. - -“And speaking of happiness,” she went on after a pause, “I want the -children to come with me to Pennington to see the archery. It is pretty, -and they will like it. And they like to drive behind my ponies. They are -quite well?--and Emily?” - -“Very well. Our cow has been ill, and she has been worrying about -it--not much to worry about you will say, you who have so much more -serious anxieties.” - -“Not at all. If I had a delicate child and wanted the milk, I should -fret very much. Will you send up for some of ours? As usually happens, -we, who don’t consume very much, have plenty.” - -“Thank you,” he said, “but you must not think that little Emmy is so -delicate. She has not much colour--neither has her mother, you know.” He -was a very anxious father, and looked up with an eager wistfulness into -her face. Little Emmy was so delicate that it hurt him like a foreboding -to hear her called so. He could not bear Miss Musgrave, whose word had -authority, to give utterance to such a thought. - -“I spoke hastily,” she said; “I did not think of Emmy. She is ever so -much stronger this year. As for paleness, I don’t mind paleness in the -least. She has such a very fair complexion, and she is twice as strong -as last year.” - -“I am so glad you think so,” he said, with the colour rising to his -face. “That is true comfort--for eyes at a little distance are so much -better than one’s own.” - -“Yes, she is a great deal stronger,” said Miss Musgrave, “but you must -send down for the milk. I was pale too, don’t you remember, when you -came first? When I was fifteen.” - -“I remember--everything,” he said; “even to the dress you wore. I bought -my little Mary something like it when I was last in town. It was -blue--how well I remember! But Mary will never be like you, though she -is your godchild.” - -“She is a great deal better; she is like her mother,” said Miss Musgrave -promptly; “and Johnny is like his father, the best possible -distribution. You are happy with your children, Mr. Pen. I envy people -their children, it is the only thing; though perhaps they would bore me -if I had them always on my hands. You think not? Yes, I am almost sure -they would bore me. We get a kind of fierce independence living alone. -To be hampered by a little thing always wanting something--wanting -attention and care--I don’t think I should like it. But Emily was born -for such cares. How well she looks with her baby in her arms--all was -the old picture over again--the Madonna and the child.” - -“Poor Emily,” he said, though why he could not have told, for Emily did -not think herself poor. Mr. Pennithorne always felt a vague pity for his -wife when he was with Miss Musgrave, as for a poor woman who had many -excellent qualities, but was here thrown into the shade. He could not -say any more. He got up to go away, consoled and made comfortable he -could not quite tell why. She was always sweet he said to himself as he -went home. What she had said about being bored by children was a mere -delusion, or perhaps a little conscious effort of self-deception, -persuading herself that to have no children and to be independent was -the best. What a wife she would have made! What a mother! he said this -to himself quite impartially, knowing well that she never could have -been wife for him, and feeling a pang at his heart for the happiness she -had lost. Married life was not unmixed happiness always; it had its -difficulties, he knew. But if _she_ had married it was not possible that -she could have been otherwise than happy. With her there could have been -no drawbacks. Mr. Pennithorne looked upon the question from a husband’s -point of view alone. - -When he was gone, Miss Musgrave sat still without changing her place, at -first with a smile, which gradually faded away from her face, like the -last suffusion of the sunshine, which was going too. She smiled at her -fast friend, to whom she knew, notwithstanding his legitimate affection -for his Emily, she herself stood first of created beings. It was a -folly, but it did not hurt him, she reflected with a faint amusement; -and Emily and the children, notwithstanding this sentiment, were first -and foremost really in his heart. Poor Mr. Pen! he had always been like -this, mildly sentimental, offering up an uninterrupted gentle incense. -But he was not in the least unhappy, though perhaps he liked by times to -think that he was. Few people were really unhappy. By moments life was -hard; but the struggle itself made a kind of happiness, a strain of -living which it was good to feel by times. This was her theory. Most -people when they come to forty have some theory or another, some settled -way of getting through their existence, and adapting themselves for it. -Hers was this: that evil was very much less than good in every way, and -that people suffered a great deal less than they gave themselves credit -for. Life had its compensations, daily and hourly, she thought. Her own -existence had no exciting source of joy in it, but how far it was from -being unhappy! Had she been unhappy she would have scoffed at herself. -What! so many things to enjoy, so many good and pleasant circumstances -around, and not happy! Would not that have been a disgrace to any woman? -So she was apt to think Mr. Pennithorne extracted a certain cunning -enjoyment from that vain love for herself which had been so visionary at -all times, and which he persuaded himself had saddened his life. She -thought it had been a harmless delusion: a secret advantage rather; -something to fall back upon; a soft and visionary grievance of which he -never wearied. And perhaps she was right. She sat looking after him with -a smile on her face. - -The sun had crept away from her open doorway as they had talked. It was -stealing further and further off, withdrawing from the line of the road, -from the village roofs, from the gleam of the lake--and like the sun her -smile stole away, from her eyes first, and then from the lingering -curves about her mouth. Why was it that he could think he felt some -action upon him of John’s mind in the far distance, while she felt none? -No kind of presentiment or premonition had come to her. It must be -foolishness she was sure--superstition; for if sympathy could thus -communicate even a vague thrill of warning from one to another through -the atmosphere of the mind, surely she was a more likely object to -receive it than Mr. Pennithorne! John knew her,--could not doubt her, -surely. Therefore to her, if to any one, this secret communication must -have come. The smile disappeared altogether from her mouth as she -entered upon this subject, and her whole face and eyes became grave and -grey, like the dull coldness of the east, half-resentful of the sunset -which still went on upon the other edge of the horizon, dispersing all -those vain reflections to every quarter except that from which the sun -rose. Could it be possible after all that John might trust Mr. -Pennithorne with a more perfect confidence, as one unconnected and -unconcerned with all that had passed, than he could give to herself? The -thought, even though founded on such visionary grounds, hurt her a -little; yet there was a kind of reason in it. He might think that she, -always at her father’s side, and able to influence him in so many ways, -might have done more for her brother; whereas with Mr. Pennithorne, who -could do nothing, the sentiment of trust would be unbroken. She sat thus -idly making it out to herself, making wondering casts of thought after -her brother in the darkness of the unknown, as inch by inch the light -stole out of the sky. It was not a fine sunset that night. The sun was -yellow and mournful; long lines of cloud broke darkly upon his sinking, -catching only sick reflections of the pale light beneath. At last he was -all gone, except one streaming yellow sheaf of rays that seemed to -strike against and barb themselves into the damp green outline of the -hill. - -Her eyes were upon this, watching that final display, which, somehow in -the absorption of her thoughts, kept her from observing an object near -at hand, an old hackney-coach from Pennington town--where there was a -railway station--which came along the road, a black, slow, lumbering -vehicle, making a dull roll of sound which might have been a country -cart. It came nearer and nearer while Miss Musgrave watched the bundle -of gold arrows flash into the hill-side and disappear. Her eyes were -dazzled by them, and chilled by their sudden disappearance, which left -all the landscape cold and wrapped in a greyness of sudden evening. Mary -came to herself with a slight shiver and shock. And at that moment the -dull roll of the cab ceased, and the thing stood revealed to her. She -rose to her feet with a thrill of wonder and expectation. The hackney -carriage had drawn up at the foot of the slope opposite to and beneath -her. What was coming? Had Mr. Pennithorne been warned after all, while -she had been left in darkness? Her heart seemed to leap into her throat, -while she stood clasping her hands together to get some strength from -them, and waiting for the revelation of this new thing, whatever it -might be. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -THE NEW-COMERS. - - -The cab was loaded with two boxes on the roof, foreign trunks, of a -different shape from those used at home; and a woman’s face, in a -fantastic foreign head-dress, peered through the window. Who could this -be? Mary stood as if spell-bound, unable to make a movement. The driver, -who was an ordinary cab-driver from Pennington, whose homely -everydayness of appearance intensified the strangeness of the others, -opened the door of the carriage, and lifted out, first a small boy, with -a scared face and a finger in his mouth, who stared at the strange -place, and the figures in the doorway, with a fixed gaze of panic, on -the eve of tears. Then out came with a bound, as if pushed from behind -as well as helped a little roughly by the cabman, the foreign woman, at -whose dress the child clutched with a frightened cry. Then there was a -pause, during which some one inside threw out a succession of wraps, -small bags, and parcels; and then there stepped forth, with a great -shawl on one arm, and a basket almost as large as herself on the other, -clearly the leading spirit of the party, a little girl who appeared to -be about ten years old. “You will wait a moment, man, till we get the -pay for you,” said this little personage in a high-pitched voice, with a -distinctness of enunciation which made it apparent that the language, -though spoken with very little accent, was unfamiliar to her. Then she -turned to the woman and said a few words much more rapidly, with as much -aid of gesture as was compatible with the burdens. Mary felt herself -look on at all this like a woman in a dream. What was it all--a dream or -reality? She felt incapable of movement, or rather too much interested -in the curious scene which was going on before her, to think of movement -or interference of any kind. When she had given her directions, whatever -they were, the little girl turned round and faced the open door and the -lady who had not moved. She gave these new circumstances a long, steady, -investigating look. They were within a dozen yards of each other, but -the chatelaine stood still and said nothing, while the little invader -inspected her, and prepared her assault. The child, who looked the -impersonation of life and purpose between her helpless companion and the -wondering stranger whom she confronted, was dark and pale, not like the -fair English children to whom Mary Musgrave was accustomed. Her dark -eyes seemed out of proportion to her small, colourless face, and gave it -an eager look of precocious intelligence. Her features were small, her -dark hair falling about her in half-curling masses, her head covered -with a little velvet cap trimmed with fur, as unlike anything children -wore in England at the time as the anxious meaning of her face was -different from ordinary baby prettiness. She made a momentary -pause--then put down the basket on the stones, threw the shawl on the -top of it, and mounted the breach with resolute courage. The stones were -rough to the little child’s feet; there was a dilation in her eyes that -looked like coming tears, and as she faced the alarming stranger, who -stood there looking at her, a burning red flush came momentarily over -her face. But she neither sat down and cried as she would have liked to -do, nor ran back again to cling to the nurse’s skirts like her little -brother. The small thing had a duty to do, and did it with a courage -which might have put heroes to shame. Resolutely she toiled her way up -to Miss Musgrave at the open door. - -“Are you--Mary?” she said; the little voice was strange yet sweet, with -its distinct pronunciation and unfamiliar accent. “Are you--Mary?” Her -big eyes seemed to search the lady all over, making a rapid comparison -with some description she had received. There was doubt in her tone when -she repeated the name a second time, and the tears visibly came nearer, -and got with a shake and tremor into her voice. - -“What do you want with Mary?” said Miss Musgrave; “who are you, little -girl?” - -“I do not think you can be Mary,” said the child. “He said your hair was -like Nello’s, but it is more like his own. And he said you were -beautiful--so you are beautiful, but old--and he never said you were -old. Oh, if you are not Mary, what shall we do? what shall we do?” - -She clasped her little hands together, and for a moment trembled on the -edge of a childish outburst, but stopped herself with a sudden curb of -unmistakable will. “I must think what is to be done,” she cried out -sharply, putting her little hands upon her trembling mouth. - -“Who are you? who are you?” cried Mary Musgrave, trembling in her turn; -“child, who was it that sent you to me?” - -The little thing kept her eyes fixed upon her, with that watchfulness -which is the only defence of weakness, ready to fly like a little wild -creature at any approach of danger. She opened a little bag which hung -by her side and took a letter from it, never taking her great eyes all -the time from Miss Musgrave’s face. “This was for you, if you were -Mary,” she said; holding the letter jealously in both hands. “But he -said, when I spoke to you, if it was you, you would know.” - -“You strange little girl!” cried Miss Musgrave, stepping out upon the -stones and holding out her hands eagerly; but the child made a little -move backward at the moment, in desperation of fear, yet courage. - -“I will not give it you! I will not give it! it is everything we -have--unless you are Mary,” she cried, with the burst of a suppressed -sob. - -“Who are you then, child? Yes, I am Mary, Mary Musgrave--give me the -letter. Is not this the house you were told of? Give me the letter--the -letter!” said Miss Musgrave, once more holding out her hands. - -And once more the child made her jealous mental comparison between what -the lady was, and what she had been told to look for. “I cannot do what -I please,” she said, with little quivering lips. “I have Nello to take -care of. He is only such a little, little child. Yes, it is the house he -told me of; but he said if you were Mary--Ah! he said you would know us -and take us into your arms, and be so kind, so kind!” - -“Little girl,” said Miss Musgrave, the tears dropping from her cheeks. -“There is only one man’s child that you can be. You are John’s little -girl, my brother John, and I am his sister Mary. But I do not know your -name, nor any thing about you. Give me John’s letter--and come to me, -come to me, my child!” - -“I am Lilias,” said the little girl; but she held back, still examining -with curious though less terrified eyes. “You will give it me back if -you are not Mary?” she went on, at length holding out the letter; but -she took no notice of the invitation to come nearer, which Mary herself -forgot in the eagerness of her anxiety to get the letter, the first -communication from her brother--if it was from her brother--for so many -years. She took it quickly, almost snatching it from the child’s -reluctant fingers, and leaning against the doorway in her agitation, -tore it hastily open. Little Lilias was agitated too, with fear and -desolate strangeness, and that terrible ignorance of any alternative -between safety and utter destruction which makes danger insupportable to -a child. What were they to do if their claims were not acknowledged? -Wander into the woods and die in the darkness like the children in the -story? Little Lilias had feared nothing till that first doubt had come -over her at the door of the house, where, her father had instructed her, -she was to be made so happy. But if they were not taken in and made -happy, what were she and Nello to do? A terror of darkness, and cold, -and starvation came upon the little girl. She would wrap the big shawl -about her little brother, but what if wild beasts or robbers should come -in the middle of the dark? Her little bosom swelled full, the sobs rose -into her throat. Oh where could she go with Nello, if this was not Mary? -But she restrained the sobs by a last effort, like a little hero. She -sat down on the stone edge of the causeway, and held her hands clasped -tight to keep herself together, and fixed her eyes upon the lady with -the letter. The lady and the letter swam and changed, through the big -tears that kept coming, but she never took those great dark, intense -eyes from Miss Musgrave’s face. The Italian nurse was bending over -Nello, fully occupied in hushing his little plaints. Nello was tired, -hungry, sleepy, cold. He had no responsibility upon him, poor little -mite, to overcome the weakness of nature. He looked no more than six, -though he was older, a small and delicate child; and he clung to his -nurse, holding her desperately, afraid of he knew not what. She had -plenty to do to take care of him without thinking of what was going on -above; though the woman was indignant to be kept waiting, and cast -fierce looks, in the intervals of petting Nello, upon the lady, the cold -Englishwoman who was so long of taking the children to her arms. As for -the cabman, emblem of the general unconcern which surrounds every -individual drama, he stood leaning calmly upon his horse, waiting for -the _dénoûment_, whatever it might be. Miss Musgrave would see him paid -one way or another, and this was the only thing for which he needed to -care. - -“Lilias,” said Miss Musgrave, going hastily to the child, with tears -running down her cheeks, “I am your aunt Mary, my darling, and you will -soon learn to know me. Come and give me a kiss, and bring me your little -brother. You are tired with your long journey, my poor child.” - -“No, no--I am not tired--only Nello; and he is h-hungry. Ah! Kiss Nello, -Nello--come and kiss him; he is the baby. And are you Mary--real, real -Mary?” cried the little girl, bursting out into sobs; “oh; I cannot -h-help it. I did not mean it; I was fr-frightened. Nello, come, come, -Mary is here.” - -“Yes, Mary is here,” said Miss Musgrave, taking the child into her arms, -who, even while she sobbed against her shoulder, put out an impatient -little hand and beckoned, crying, “Nello! Nello!” But it was not so easy -to extract Nello from his nurse’s arms. He cried and clung all the -faster from hearing his sister’s outburst; their poor little hearts were -full; and what chokings of vague misery, the fatigue and discomfort -infinitely deepened by a dumb consciousness of loneliness, danger, and -strangeness behind, were in these little inarticulate souls! something -more desperate in its inability to understand what it feared, its dim -anguish of uncomprehension, than anything that can be realized and -fathomed. Mary signed eagerly to the nurse to bring the little boy -indoors into the hall, which was not a reassuring place, vast and dark -as it was, in the dimness of the evening, to a child. But she had too -many difficulties on her hands in this strange crisis to think of that. -She had the boxes brought in also, and hastily sent the carriage away, -with a desperate sense as of burning her ships, and leaving no possible -way to herself of escape from the difficulty. The gardener, who had -appeared round the corner, attracted by the sound, presented himself as -much out of curiosity as of goodwill to assist in carrying in the boxes, -“though it would be handiest to drive round to the front door, and tak’ -them straight oop t’ stair,” he said, innocently enough. But when Miss -Musgrave gave authoritative directions that they were to be brought into -the hall, naturally the gardener was surprised. This was a proceeding -entirely unheard of, and not to be understood in any way. - -“It’ll be a deal more trouble after,” he said, under his breath, which -did not matter much. But when he had obeyed his mistress’s orders, he -went round to the kitchen full of the new event. “There’s something -oop,” the gardener said, delighted to bring so much excitement with him, -and he gave a full account of the two pale little children, the foreign -woman with skewers stuck in her hair, and finally, most wonderful of -all, the boxes which he had deposited with his own hands on the floor of -the hall. “I ken nothing about it,” he said, “but them as has been -longer aboot t’ house than me could tell a deal if they pleased; and -Miss Brown, it’s her as is wanted,” he added leisurely at the end. - -Miss Brown, who was Mary Musgrave’s maid, and had been standing -listening to his story with frequent contradictions and denials, in a -state of general protestation, started at these words. - -“You great gaby,” she said, “why didn’t you say so at first?” and -hurried out of the kitchen, not indisposed to get at the bottom of the -matter. She had been Miss Musgrave’s favourite attendant for twenty -years, and in that time had, as may be supposed, known about many things -which her superiors believed locked in the depths of their own bosoms. -She could have written the private history of the family with less -inaccuracy than belongs to most records of secret history. And she was -naturally indignant that Tom Gardener, a poor talkative creature, who -could keep nothing to himself, should have known this new and startling -event sooner than she did. She hurried through the long passage from the -kitchen, casting a stealthy glance in passing at the closed door of the -library, where the Squire sat unconscious. A subdued delight was in the -mind of the old servant; certainly it is best when there are no -mysteries in a family, when all goes well--but it is not so amusing. A -great event of which it was evident the squire was in ignorance, which -probably would have to be kept from him, and as much as possible from -the household--well, it might be unfortunate that such things should be, -but it was exciting, it woke people up. - -Miss Brown obeyed this summons with more genuine alacrity than she had -felt for years. - -Very different were the feelings of her mistress standing there in the -dimness of the old hall, her frame thrilling and her heart aching with -the appeal which her brother had made to her, out of a silence which for -more than a dozen years had been unbroken as that of the grave. She -could scarcely believe yet that she had seen his very handwriting and -read words which came straight from him and were signed by his now -unfamiliar name. The children, who crouched together frightened by the -darkness, were as phantoms to her, like a dream about which she had just -got into the stage of doubt. Till now it had been all real to her, as -dreams appear at first. But now, she stood, closing the door in the -stillness of the evening, which, still as it was, was full of curiosity -and questioning and prying eyes, and asked herself if these little -figures were real, or inventions of her fancy. Real children of her -living brother--was it true, was it possible? They were awe-stricken by -the gathering dusk, by the strange half-empty room, by the dim circle of -the unknown which surrounded them on every side. The nurse had put -herself upon a chair on the edge of the carpet, where she sat holding -the little boy on her knee, while little Lilias, who had backed slowly -towards this one familiar figure, stood leaning against her, clutching -her also with one hand, though she concealed instinctively this sign of -fear. The boy withdrew the wondering whiteness of his face from the -nurse’s shoulder now and then to give a frightened, fascinated look -around, then buried it again in a dumb trance of dismay and terror, too -frightened to cry. What was to be done with these frightened children -and the strange woman to whom they clung? Mary could not keep them here -to send them wild with alarm. They wanted soft beds, warm fires, -cheerful lights, food and comfort, and they had come to seek it in the -only house in the world which was closed by a curse and a vow against -them. Mary Musgrave was not the kind of woman who is easily frightened -by vows or curses; there was none of the romantic folly in her which -would believe in the reality of an unjust or uncalled-for malediction. -But she was persuaded of the reality of a thing which involved no -supernatural mysteries, the obstinancy of her father’s mind, and his -determination to hold by the verdict he had given. Years move and change -everything, even the hills and the seas--but not the narrow mind of an -obstinate and selfish man. She did not call him by these names; he was -her father and she did not judge him; but no more did she hope in him. -And in this wonderful moment a whole circle of possibilities ran through -her mind. She might take them to the village; but there were other -dangers there; or to the Parsonage, but Mr. Pen was weak and poor Emily -a gossip. Could she dare the danger that was nearest, and take them -somehow upstairs out of the way, and conceal them there, defying her -father? In whatever way it was settled she would not desert them--but -what was she to do? Miss Brown coming upon her suddenly in the dusk -frightened her almost as much as the children were frightened. The want -of light and the strangeness of the crisis combined made every new -figure like a ghost. - -“Yes, I sent for you. I am in--difficulty, Martha. These children have -just come--the children of a friend----” Her first idea was to conceal -the real state of the case even from her confidential and well-informed -maid. - -“Dear me,” said Miss Brown, with seeming innocence. “How strange! to -bring a little lady and gentleman without any warning. But I’ll go and -give orders, ma’am; there are plenty of rooms vacant, there need not be -any difficulty----” - -Miss Musgrave caught her by the arm. - -“What I want for the moment is light, and some food _here_. Bring me the -lamp I always use. No, not Eastwood; never mind Eastwood. I want you to -bring it, they will be less afraid in the light.” - -“There is a fire in the dining-room, ma’am, it is only a step, and -Eastwood is lighting the candles; and there you can have what you like -for them.” - -It was confidence Miss Brown wanted--nothing but confidence. With that -she was ready to do anything; without it she was Miss Musgrave’s -respectable maid, to whom all mysteries were more or less improper. She -crossed her hands firmly and waited. The room was growing darker and -darker every minute, and the foreign nurse began to lose patience. She -called “Madame! madame!” in a high voice; then poured forth into a -stream of words, so rapid and so loud as both mistress and maid thought -they had never heard spoken before. Miss Musgrave was not a great -linguist. She knew enough to be aware that it was Italian the woman was -speaking, but that was all. - -“I do not understand you,” she said in distress, going up to the little -group. But as she approached a sudden accession of terror, instantly -suppressed on the part of the little girl but irrepressible by the -younger boy, and which broke forth in a disjointed way, arrested her -steps. Were they afraid of her, these children? “Little Lilias,” she -said piteously, “be a brave child and stand by me. I cannot take you out -of this cold room yet, but lights are coming and you will be taken care -of. If I leave you alone for a little while will you promise me to be -brave and not to be afraid?” - -There was a pause, broken only by little flutterings of that nervous -exhaustion which made the children so accessible to fear. Then a small -voice said, dauntless, yet with a falter-- - -“I will stay. I will not be afraid.” - -“Thank God,” said Mary Musgrave, to herself. The child was already a -help and assistance. “Martha,” she said hastily, “tell no one; they -are--my brother’s children--” - -“Good Lord!” said Martha Brown, frightened out of her primness. “And -it’s dark, and there’s two big boxes, and master don’t know.” - -“That is the worst of all,” said Miss Musgrave sadly. She had never -spoken to any one of her father’s inexorable verdict against John and -all belonging to him. “The heir! and I must not take him into the house -of his fathers! Take care of them, take care of them while I go---- And, -Martha, say nothing--not a word.” - -“Not if they were to cut me in pieces, ma’am!” said Miss Brown -fervently. She was too old a servant to work in the dark; but confidence -restored all her faculties to her. It was not, however, in the nature of -things that she should discharge her commission without a betrayal more -or less of the emergency. “I want some milk, please,” she said to the -cook, “for my lady.” It was only in moments of importance that she so -spoke of her mistress. And the very sound of her step told a tale. - -“I told ye there was somethink oop,” said Tom Gardener, still lingering -in the kitchen. - -And to see how the house brightened up, and all the servants grew alert -in the flutter of this novelty! Nothing had happened at the castle for -so long--they had a right to a sensation. Cook, who had been there for a -long time, recounted her experience to her assistants in low tones of -mystery. - -“Ah, if ye’d known the place when the gentlemen was at home,” said cook; -“the things as happened in t’auld house--such goings on!--coming in late -and early--o’er the watter and o’er the land--and the strivings, that -was enough to make a body flee out of their skin!” She ended with a -regretful sigh for the old times. “That was life, that was!” she said. - -Meanwhile Mary Musgrave came in out of the dark hall into the lighted -warmth of the dining-room, where the glass and the silver shone red in -the firelight. How cosy and pleasant it was there! how warm and -cheerful! Just the place to comfort the children and make them forget -their miseries. The children! How easily her mind had undertaken the -charge of them--the fact of their existence; already they had become the -chief feature in her life. She paused to look at herself in the mirror -over the mantelpiece, to smooth her hair, and put the ribbon straight at -her neck. The Squire was “very particular,” and yet she did not remember -to have had this anxious desire to be pleasant to his eyes since that -day when she had crept to him to implore a reversal of his sentence. She -had obtained nothing from him then; would she be more fortunate now? The -colour had gone out of her face, but her eyes were brighter and more -resolute than usual. How her heart beat when Mr. Musgrave said, “Come -in,” calmly from the midst of his studies, as she knocked trembling at -the library door! - - - - -PART II. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -AFTER THE SILENCE OF YEARS. - - -“Come in,” said the Squire. He was sitting among his books, working with -such a genuine sense of importance as was strange to see. Mary did not -know that she thought anything in the world (except this present mission -of hers) so important as he thought his search into the heraldic -fortunes of the family. He was in full cry after a certain -“augmentation” which had got into the Musgrave arms no one well knew -how. It was only the Musgraves of Penninghame who bore this distinction, -and how did they come by it? It appeared in the thirteenth century--in -the age of the Crusades. Was it in recollection of some feat of a -Crusader?--that was the question. He put down his pen and laid one open -book upon another as she came in. He had no consciousness in his mind to -make him critical or inquiring. He did not observe her paleness, nor the -special glitter in her eyes. “I am busy,” he said, “so you must be -brief. I think I have got hold of that ‘chief’ at last. After years of -search it is exciting to find the first trace of it; but perhaps it is -best to wait till I have verified my guesses--they are still not much -more than guesses. What a satisfaction it will be when all is clear!” - -“I am glad you are to have this satisfaction, papa.” - -“Yes, I know you take little interest in it for itself. Ladies seldom -do; though I can’t tell why, for heraldry ought to be an interesting -science to them and quite within their reach. Nothing has happened about -the dinner, I hope? I notice that is your general subject when you come -into my room so late. Law business in the morning, dinner in the -evening--a very good distribution. But I want a good dinner to-night, my -dear, to celebrate my success.” - -“It is not about dinner. Father, we have been living a very quiet life -for many years.” - -“Thank Heaven!” said the old man. “Yes, a quiet life. A man of my age is -entitled to it, Mary. I never shrank from exertion in my time, nor do I -now, as this will testify.” He laid his hand with a genial complaisance -upon the half-written paper that lay before him. Then he said with a -smile, “But make haste, my dear. There is still an hour before dinner, -and I am in the spirit of my work. We need not occupy our time, you and -I, with general remarks.” - -“I did not mean it for a general remark,” she said with a tremble in her -voice. “It is that I have something important--very important to speak -of, and I don’t know how to begin.” - -“Important--very important!” he said, with the indulgence of jocular -superiority for a child’s undue gravity. “I know what these important -matters are. Some poaching rascal that you don’t know how to manage, or -a quarrel in the village? Bring them to me: but bring them to-morrow, -Mary, when my mind is at rest--I cannot give my attention now.” - -“It is neither poaching nor quarrelling,” she said. “I can manage the -village. There are other things. Father, though we have been quiet for -so many years, it is not because there has been nothing to think of--no -seeds of trouble in the past--no anxieties----” - -“I don’t know what you are thinking of,” he said, pettishly. “No -anxieties? A man has them as long as he is in the world. We are mortal. -Seeds of trouble? I have told you, Mary, that you may spare me general -remarks.” - -“Oh, nothing was further from my mind than general remarks,” she cried. -“I don’t know how to speak. Father--look here--read it; it will tell its -own story best. This is what, after the silence of years, I have -received to-day.” - -“The silence of years!” said the Squire. He had to fumble for his -spectacles, which he had taken off, though he carefully restrained -himself from betraying any special interest. A red colour had mounted to -his face. Perhaps his mind did not go so far as to divine what it was; -but still a sudden glimmering, like the tremble of pale light before the -dawn, had come into his mind. - -And this was the thunderbolt that suddenly fell upon him in his -quietness after the silence of years:-- - - “My dear Sister Mary,--This will be given to you by my little - daughter Lilias. The sight of my handwriting and of the children - will be enough to startle you, so that I need not try to soften the - shock which you must have already received. I claim from my father - shelter for my children. Their mother is dead; so are the others of - my family whose very names will never be known to my nearest - relations. Never mind that now. I am a man both sick and sorry, - worn by the world, lonely, and not much better than an adventurer. - These children are the last of our race, and the boy, however - reluctant you may be, is my father’s heir. I claim for them the - shelter of the family roof. I have no home to give them, nor can I - give them the care they require. Mary, you are a good woman: you - are blameless one way or another. I charge you with my children. - God do so to you and more also, according as you deal with them. - Some time or other before I die I will drag myself home. That you - may be sure of, unless God cuts short my life by the way, of which, - if He will, I shall not complain. - - “Your brother, - - “JOHN MUSGRAVE.” - - - -This was the letter which the Squire placed upon his mouldy books, over -the statement he had been writing. He did not speak, but read it -steadily to the end, betraying no emotion except by the glow of colour -that rose over his weather-beaten face. Who that has sat by, anxious, -watching the effect of such a letter, needs to be told with what intense -observation Mary Musgrave noted every sign of the rigid control he kept -upon himself--the tight clutch of one hand upon the table, the tremor of -the other which held the letter? But the Squire said nothing, not even -when he had visibly come to the end. He held it before him still for -some minutes; then he began to fold it elaborately--but said nothing -still. The shadow of his head with its falling locks of white hair shook -a little upon the wall. There is a peculiar tremble which shows the very -severity of restraint, and this was of that kind. - -“Father! have you nothing to say?” - -“I thought it was a subject put aside, not to be mentioned between us,” -he said. “I may be wrong--if I am wrong you can inform me; but I -supposed this and all cognate subjects to be closed between us----” - -“How can this be closed; I have ceased to importune you, but this is a -new opening. And there is more than the letter--the children----” - -“Ah!” He gave a slight cry. If he could it would have been an -exclamation of scorn, but this was too much for him; the cry was sharp -with impatient pain. - -“I could not keep _them_ a secret from you, father.” - -“I hate secrets,” he said; “nevertheless there are few families in which -they are not necessary. When he had said this he pushed the letter -towards her, drew forward his heraldry books, and took his pen in his -hand. - -“Will you say nothing to me?” she cried. “Will you give me no answer? -What am I to do?” - -“Do! It seems to me quite an unnecessary question. It is a long time -since I have given up exercising any control over you, Mary,” he said. - -“But, father, have a little pity. The house is not mine to do as I like -with.” - -“That is unfortunate,” he said with a cold precision which made it -doubtful whether he spoke satirically or in earnest. “But it is not my -fault. You cannot expect me to make place voluntarily for another; and -even if I did, as you are a woman, it would be of very little use to -you. You cannot be the heir----” - -“And this boy is!” she said with a gesture of appeal. - -Mr. Musgrave said nothing. He shook his head impatiently, pushed the -letter to her with an energy that flung it into her lap, and resumed his -writing. She stood by while he deliberately returned to his description -of the “chief,” turning up a page in his heraldry book, where all the -uses and meanings of that “augmentation” were discussed. According to -all appearance his mind took up this important question exactly where he -had left it; and he resumed his writing steadily, betraying agitation -only by a larger, bolder, and firmer handwriting than usual. His -daughter stood for a moment by his side, and watched him -speechless--then went out of the room without another word. The Squire -went on writing for a full minute more. The lines he wrote had not been -so bold, so firm, so well-defined for years. Was it because he had to -put forth the whole force that remained in him, soul and body, to get -them upon the paper at all? When all sound of her departing steps had -died out, he stopped suddenly, and, putting down his pen, let his head -drop upon the open book and its figured page. An augmentation of honour! -The days were over in which such gifts came from heralds and kings. And -instead, here were struggles of a very different kind from those which -won new blazons. But the most insensible, the most self-controlled of -men, could not take such an interruption of his studies with absolute -calm. He had never been in such desperate conflict with any man as with -this son, and here his enemy, whom nature forbade to be his enemy, his -antagonist, had come again after the silence of years and confronted -him. To see such a one pass by could not but excite a certain emotion; -but to meet him thus as it were face to face! The passion of parental -love has been often portrayed. There is no passion more fervent, none -perhaps even that can equal it; but there is another passion scarcely -less intense--that which rises involuntarily in the bosom of a man -between whom and his son there are no ties of mutual dependence, when -the younger has become as the elder, knowing good and evil, and all the -experiences of life; when there is no longer any question of authority -and obedience, and natural affection yields to a strain of feeling which -is too strong for it. Many long years had passed now since young -Musgrave ceased to be his father’s pride and boyish second in -everything. He had grown a man, his equal, and had resisted and held his -own in the conflict half a lifetime ago. All the embitterment which -close relationship gives to a deadly quarrel had been between them, and -though the father had so far got the better as to drive the rebel out of -his sight, he had not crushed his will or removed him from his -standing-ground. He was the victor, though the vanquished. His son had -not yielded, nor would ever yield. When Mr. Musgrave raised his head his -face was pale, and his head shook with a nervous tremor; all the broken -redness of his cheeks shone like pencilled lines through his pallor, -increasing it. “This will never do,” he said to himself, and rising, -went to an old oak cupboard in the corner, and poured himself a small -glass of the strongest of liqueurs. Not for all that remained of the -Musgrave property would he have shown himself so broken, so overcome. -This other man who was no younger, but only stronger than himself, was -at the same time his successor, ready to push him out of his seat; -waiting for a triumph that must come sooner or later. He had been able -to forget all about him for years; to thrust out the thought of him when -it recurred; but here the man stood once more confronting him. The -Squire was wise in his way, and knew that there was nothing in the world -so bad for the health, or so likely to give his antagonist an advantage, -as the indulgence of emotion--therefore he crushed it “upon the -threshold of the mind.” He would not give him so much help towards the -inevitable eventual triumph. He went back to his writing-table when he -had fortified himself with that potent mouthful; but, knowing himself, -tried his pen upon a stray bit of paper before he would resume his -writing. What he wrote was in the quivering lines of old age. He tore it -into pieces. No one should see such a sign of agitation in the -manuscript which was to last longer than he. He took up the most learned -of his books, and began to read with close attention. Here, at all -events, the adversary should not get the better of him; or, at least, if -thoughts did surge and rise, obliterating the old escutcheon altogether -and the lion on its “chief,” nobody should be the wiser. - -Thus the old man sat, with a desperate courage worthy a better object, -and mastered the furious excitement in his mind. But he was not thinking -of the children as perhaps the reader of this story may suppose. He was -not resisting the thrill of natural interest, the softening of heart -which might have attended that sudden arrival. He did not even realize -the existence of the children. His thoughts were of conflicts past, and -of the opponent against whom he had striven so often: the opponent whom -he could not altogether dismiss or get rid of, his rival, his heir, his -successor, his son. There was nothing he had wished as a father, as a -Musgrave, as the head of a great county family, which this man had not -done his best to undo: and as he had by ill-fortune thirty years the -advantage of his father, there was no doubt that he would, some time or -other, undo and destroy to an extent of which he was incapable now; -unless indeed he was prevented in the most disgraceful way, -incapacitated by public conviction of crime--conviction, which was only -too probable, which hung over his banished head and prevented his return -home. What would there be but pain in the thought of such a son--an -opponent if he were innocent, if he were guilty a disgrace to the family -name? The more completely the Squire could banish this thought from his -mind, the happier he was; and he had banished it with wonderful success -for many years past. He had done all he could to evade the idea that he -himself would one day be compelled to die. Many men do this who have no -painful consciousness of the heir behind who is waiting to dispossess -them; and Mr. Musgrave had, to a great degree, attained tranquillity on -this point. The habit of living seems to grow stronger with men as they -draw near the end of their lives. It has lasted so long; it has been so -steady and uninterrupted, why should it ever cease? But here was the -death’s-head rising at the feast; the executioner giving note of his -presence behind backs. John! he had dismissed him from his mind. He had -exercised even a kind of Christianity in forgetting him. But here he was -again, incapable of being forgotten. What a tremor in his blood--what -undue working of all that machinery of the heart which it was so -essential to keep in calm good order had this interruption caused! he -who had no vital energy to spare; who wanted it all for daily comfort -and that continuance which with younger people is so lightly taken for -granted. How much of that precious reserve had been consumed by this -shock! It had been done on purpose, perhaps, to try what the effect of -such a shock upon his nerves and fibres would be. - -Mr. Musgrave pushed back his chair again from the table, and gave all -his faculties to the task of calming himself down. He would not allow -himself to be overcome by John. But it took him a long time to -accomplish this, to get his pulse back to its usual rate of beating. -When he relaxed for a moment in his watch over himself, old -recollections would come back, scenes of the long warfare, words that -were as swords and smote him over again with burning and stinging -wounds. He had to calm it all down and still memory altogether if he -would recover his ordinary composure. It wanted about an hour of dinner -when he began this process. Up to that time it did not so much matter -except for wearing him out and diminishing his strength. But it was his -determination that no one should know or see this agitation which he had -not been able to master. His daughter thought she had a harder task -before her when she left him and hurried back to the ghostly -half-lighted hall where she had left the children; but what was her -work, or the commotion of her thoughts, in comparison to that which -raged within the bosom of the old man in his solitude, defying Heaven -and nature, and all gentler influences--whose conflict was for himself -only, as it was carried on unhelped and unthought of by himself alone? - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -WAKING UP. - - -Miss Musgrave went back to her visitors with a heightened colour and -assured step. Her alarm had departed along with her wistful and hopeful -ignorance as to what her father might do. Now that she knew, her courage -came back to her. When she opened the door which led out of the little -passage into the hall, the scene before her was striking and strange -enough to arrest her like a picture. The great ancient room, with its -high raftered roof and wide space, lay in darkness--all but one bright -spot in the midst where the lamp stood on the table. Miss Brown had -hastily arranged a kind of homely meal, a basket of oatcakes, some white -bread in a napkin, biscuits, home-made gingerbread, and a jug of fresh -milk. The white and brown bread, the tall white jug, the cloth upon the -tray, all helped to increase the whiteness of that spot in the gloom. -In the midst of this light sat the Italian nurse, dark and vigorous, -with the silver pins in her black hair, and red ribbons at her breast. -The pale little boy sat on her knee; he had a little fair head like an -angel in a picture, light curling hair, and a delicate complexion, white -and red, which was fully relieved against that dark background. The -child’s alarm had given way a little, but still, in the intervals of his -meal, he would pause, look round him into the gloom, and clutch with -speechless fright at his attendant, who held him close and soothed him -with all the soft words she could think of. Little Lilias stood by her -on the further side, sufficiently recovered to eat a biscuit, but -securing herself also, brave as she was, by a firm grasp of the nurse’s -arm to which she hung, tightly embracing it with her own. Miss Brown was -flitting about this strange little group, talking continuously, though -the only one among them who was disposed to talk could not understand -her, and the children were too worn out to pay any attention to what she -said. - -There was a little start and thrill among the three who held so closely -together when the lady returned. Little Lilias put down her biscuit. She -became the head of the party as soon as Miss Musgrave came back--the -plenipotentiary with whom to conduct all negotiations. Nello, on the -other hand, buried his head in his nurse’s shoulder. In the midst of all -her agitation and confusion it troubled Miss Musgrave that the child -should hide his face from her. The boy who was like herself and her -family was the one to whom her interest turned most. Lilias bore another -resemblance, which was no passport to Mary Musgrave’s heart. Yet it was -hard to resist the fascination of this child’s sense and courage; the -boy, as yet, had shown himself capable of nothing but fear. - -“Go, and have fires lighted at once in the two west rooms--make -everything ready,” Mary said, sending Miss Brown away peremptorily. It -was not a worthy feeling perhaps, but it vexed her, agitated as she was, -to see that her maid woke no alarm in the children, while she, their -nearest relation, she who, if necessary, had made up her mind to -sacrifice everything for them, was an object of fear. She thought even -that the children clung closer to their nurse and shrank more from -herself when Martha was sent away. Miss Musgrave stood at the other side -of the table and looked at them with many conflicting thoughts. It was -altogether new to her, this strange mixture of ignorance and wonder, and -almost awe, with which she felt herself contemplating these unknown -little creatures, henceforward to be wholly dependent upon her. They -were afraid of her, but she was scarcely less afraid of them, wondering -with an ache in her heart whether she would be able to feel towards them -as she ought, to bring her middle-aged thoughts into sympathy with -theirs, to be soft and gentle with them as their helplessness demanded. -Love does not always come with the first claim upon it; how was she to -love them, little unknown beings whose very existence she had never -heard of before? And Mary thought of herself with a certain pity in this -strange moment, remembering almost with a sense of injury that the -fountain of mother’s love had never been awakened in her at all. Was it -thus to be awakened? She was not an angelic woman, as poor Mr. Pen -imagined her to be. She knew this well enough, though he did not know -it. She had been young and full of herself when the family misfortunes -happened, and since then what had there been in her life to warm or -awaken the heart? Was she capable of loving? she asked herself; was -there not a chill atmosphere about her which breathed cold upon the -children and drove them away? This thought gave her a pang, as she stood -and looked at the two helpless creatures before her, too frightened now -to munch their biscuits, one gazing at her with big pathetic eyes, the -other hiding his face. An ache of helplessness and pain not less great -than theirs came into her mind. She was as helpless as they were, -looking at them across the table, as if across a world of separation -which she did not know how to bridge over, with not only them to -vanquish, but herself. At last she put out her hands with the sense of -weakness, such as perhaps she had never felt before. She had not been -able, indeed, to influence her father, but she had not felt helpless -before him; on the contrary, his hardness had stirred her to -determination on her side, and a sense of power which quickened the -flowing of her blood. But before these children she felt helpless; what -was she to do with them, how bring herself into communication with them? -She put out her hands--hands strong to guard, but powerless she thought -to attract. “Lilias, will you come to me?” she said with a tremulous -tone in her voice. - -The weariness, the strangeness, the darkness had been almost too much -for Lilias; her mouthful of biscuit and draught of milk had been too -quickly interrupted by the return of the strange, beautiful lady, with -whom she alone, she was aware, could deal. And she could not respond to -that appeal without quitting hold of Martuccia, who, though powerless to -treat with the lady, was still a safeguard against the surrounding -blackness, a something to cling to. But the child was brave as a hero, -notwithstanding the nervous susceptibility of her nature. She disengaged -her arm slowly from her one stay, keeping her eyes all the time fixed -upon Miss Musgrave, half attracted by her, half to keep herself from -seeing those dark corners in which mysterious dangers seemed to lurk; -and came forward, repressing the sob that rose in her throat, her little -pale face growing crimson with the strain of resolution which this -effort cost her. It was all Lilias could do to move round the table -quietly, not to make a rush of fright and violent clutch at the hand -held out to her--even though it was the hand of a stranger, from which -in itself she shrank. Mary put her arm round the little trembling -figure, and smoothing away the dark hair from her forehead, kissed the -little girl with lips that trembled too. She would do her duty by her; -never would she forsake her brother’s child; and with the warmth of this -resolution tears of pity and tenderness came into her eyes. But when -Lilias felt the protection of the warm soft arm about her, and the -tenderness of the kiss, her little heart burst forth with a strength of -impulse which put all laws at defiance. With a sobbing cry she threw -herself upon her new protector, caught at her dress, clung to her waist, -nestled her head into her bosom, with a close pressure which was half -gratitude, half terror, half nervous excitement. Mary was taken by -storm. She did not understand the change that came over her. A sudden -warmth seemed to come into her veins, tingling to her very -finger-points. She too, mature and self-restrained as she was, began to -weep, a sudden flood of tears rushing to her eyes against her will. “My -child, my brave little girl!” she said almost unawares, recognising in -her heart a soft surprise of feeling which was inexplicable; was this -what nature did, sheer nature? she had never felt anything like it -before. She held the child in her arms and cried over her, the tears -falling over those dark curls which had nothing to do with the -Musgraves, which even resembled another type with which the Musgraves -would have nothing to do! - -As she stood thus overcome by the double sensation of the child’s -nestling and clinging, and by the strange, sudden development of feeling -in herself, Mary Musgrave felt two soft touches upon her hand which were -not mistakable, and which made her start and flush, with the decorum of -an Englishwoman surprised. It was Martuccia, who, moved like all her -race by quick impulses of emotion, had risen hastily to her feet in -sympathy, and had kissed the lady’s hand, and put forward her little -charge to perform the same act of homage. This roused Mary from her -momentary breaking down. She took the little boy by the hand whom she -found at her feet, not quite so frightened as at first, but still -holding fast by the nurse’s skirts, and led them both into the house. -They were too much awed to make any noise, but went with her, keeping -close to her, treading in her footsteps almost, closer and closer as -they emerged into one unknown place after another. Wonder kept them -still as she took them through the cheerful lighted dining-room, and up -the stairs. Eastwood was busy about his table, putting it in that -perfect order which it was his pride to keep up (“For who is more to me -nor my family? what’s company?” said Eastwood; “it’s them as pays me as -I’m bound to please”); but Eastwood was too good a servant to manifest -any feeling. He had, of course, heard all about the arrival, not only -from the gardener, but from every one in the kitchen; and he was aware, -as nobody else was, that there had been a private interview between the -father and daughter, to which she had gone with a pale face, and come -back with nostrils expanded, and a glow of resolution upon her. Eastwood -was not an old servant, but he had learned all that there was to learn -about the family, and a little more. His interest in the Musgraves was -not so warm as that of cook for instance, who had been born in the -place, and had known them from their cradles; but he had the warm -curiosity which is common to his kind. He gave a glance from beneath his -eyebrows at the new-comers, wondering what was to become of them. Would -they be received into the house for good; and if so, would that have any -effect upon himself, Eastwood? would it, by and by, be an increase of -trouble, a something additional to do? He was no worse than his -neighbours, and the thought was instinctive and natural, for no one -likes to have additional labour. “But he’s but a little chap; it’ll be -long enough before he wants valeting--if ever,” Mr. Eastwood said to -himself. What would be wanted would be a nurse, not a valet; and if that -black-eyed foreigner didn’t stay, Eastwood knew a nice girl from the -village whom the place would just suit. So he cast no unkindly eye upon -the children as he went noiselessly about in his spotless coat, putting -down his forks, which were quite as spotless. The sight of the table -with its bouquet of autumn flowers excited Lilias. “Who is going to dine -there?” she said, with a pretty childish wile, drawing down Miss -Musgrave towards her to whisper in her ear. - -“I am, Lilias.” - -“May we come too?” said the little girl. “Nello is very good--he does -not ask for anything; we know how to behave.” - -“There will be some one else besides me,” said Mary, faltering slightly. - -“Then we do not want to come,” said Lilias with decision. “We are not -fond of strangers.” - -“I am a stranger, dear----” - -“Oh no, you are Mary!” said the child, embracing Miss Musgrave’s arm -with her own two arms clasped round it, and raising her face with the -confidence of perfect trust. These simple actions made Mary’s heart -swell as it had not done for years--as indeed it had never done in her -life. Other thrills there might have been in her day, but this fountain -had never been opened before, and the new feeling was almost as -strangely sweet to her as is the silent ecstasy in the bosom of the new -mother, whose baby has just brought into the world such an atmosphere -of love. It was like some strange new stream poured into her heart, -filling up all her veins. - -The firelight had already begun to sparkle pleasantly in the bedrooms, -and Mary found herself suddenly plunged into those pleasant cares of a -mother which make time fly so swiftly. She had found so much to do for -them, getting them to bed and making the weary little creatures -comfortable, that the bell rang for dinner before she was aware. She -left them hastily, and put herself into her evening gown with a speed -which was anxiously seconded by Miss Brown, who for her part was just as -eager to get back to the children as was her mistress. Miss Musgrave did -not know what awaited her when she went down-stairs, or what battles she -might have to fight. She had another duty now in the world beyond that -claimed by her father. He had no such need of her as these children, who -in all the wide world had no protector or succour but herself. Her heart -beat a little louder and stronger than usual; her bearing was more -dignified. The indifference which had been in her life this morning had -passed away. How strange it seemed now to think of that calm which -nothing affected much, in which she had been comparatively happy, but -which now appeared so mean and poverty-stricken. The easy quiet had gone -out of her life;--was it for ever?--and instead there had come in a -commotion of anxieties, hopes, and doubts and questions manifold; but -yet how miserable to her in comparison seemed now that long loveless -tranquillity! She was another woman, a living woman, she thought to -herself, bearing the natural burden of care, a burden sweetened by a -hundred budding tendernesses and consolations. It is well to have good -health and enough to do; these had been the bare elements of existence, -out of which she had managed to form a cold version of living; but how -different was this vivid existence, new-born yet eternal, of love and -care! She was like one inspired. If she had been offered the -alternative, as she almost expected, of leaving the house or giving up -the children, with what pride would she have drawn her cloak round her -and left her father’s house! This prospect seemed near enough and likely -enough as she walked into the dining-room, with her head high, and a -swell of conscious force in her bosom. Whatever might be coming she was -prepared for any blow. - -Mr. Musgrave, too, was late. He who was the soul of punctuality did not -enter the room for a minute or more after his daughter had hastened -there, knowing herself late--but whereas she had hurried her toilet, his -had never been more careful and precise. He took his seat with -deliberate steadiness, and insisted upon carving the mutton and -partridge which made their meal, though on ordinary occasions he left -this office to Eastwood. It gratified him, however, to-day, to prove to -himself and to her how capable he was and how steady were his nerves. -And he talked while he did this with unusual energy, going over again -all the history of the “chief.” - -“I hope it will interest the general reader,” he said. “Not many family -questions do, but this is really an elucidation of history. It throws -light upon a great many things. You scorn heraldry, Mary, I am aware.” - -“No, I do not think I scorn it.” - -“Well, at all events you are little interested; the details are not of -much importance, you think. In short, I suspect,” he added, with a -little laugh, “that if the truth were told, you and a great many other -ladies secretly look upon the science as one of those play-sciences that -keep men from being troublesome. You don’t say so, but I believe you -think we fuss and make work for ourselves in this way while you are -carrying on the real work of the world.” - -“I am not so self-important,” she said; but there was a great deal of -truth in the suggestion if her mind had been free enough to think of it. -What was it else but a play-science to keep country gentlemen too old -for fox-hunting out of mischief? This is one of the private opinions of -the gynecæum applying to many grave pursuits, an opinion which -circulates there in strictest privacy and is not spoken to the world. -Mary would have smiled at the Squire’s discrimination had her mind been -free. As it was, she could do nothing but wonder at his liveliness and -composure, and say to herself that he must be waiting till Eastwood went -away. This, no doubt, was why he talked so much, and was so genial. He -did not wish to betray anything to the man, and her heart began to beat -once more with renewed force as the moment came for his withdrawal. No -doubt the discussion she feared would come, and most likely come with -double severity then. She had seen all this process gone through before. - -But when Eastwood went away the Squire continued smiling and -conversational. He told her of a poacher who had been brought to him, a -bumpkin from a distant farm, to whom he meant to be merciful; and of -some land which was likely to be in the market, which would, if it could -be got, restore an old corner of the estate and rectify the ancient -boundary. - -“I do not suppose there is any hope of such a thing,” he said, with a -sigh. “And besides, what does it matter to me that I should care? my -time cannot be very long.” - -“The time of the family may be long enough,” she said, with a throb of -rising excitement, for surely now he would speak; “one individual is not -all.” - -“That is a sound sentiment, though perhaps it may seem a little -cold-hearted when the individual is your father, Mary.” - -“I did not mean it to be cold-hearted; you have always taught me to -consider the race.” - -“And so you ought,” he said, “though you don’t care so much for the -blazon as I could wish. I should like to talk to Burn and to see what -the lawyers would think of it. I confess I should like to be Lord of the -Manor at Critchley again before I die.” - -“And so you shall, father, so you shall!” she cried. “We could do it -with an effort: if only you would--if only you could----” - -He interrupted her hastily. - -“When Burn comes to-morrow let me see him,” he said. “This is no -question of what I could or would. If it can be done it ought to be -done. That is all I have to say. Is it not time you were having tea?” - -This was to send her away that he might have his evening nap after -dinner. Mary rose at the well-known formula, but she came softly round -to his end of the room to see that the fire was as he liked it, and -lingered behind his chair, not knowing whether to make another appeal -to him. Her presence seemed to make him restless; perhaps he divined -what was floating in her mind. He got up quickly before she had time to -speak. - -“On second thoughts,” he said, “as I was disturbed before dinner, I had -better resume my work at once. You can send me a cup of tea to the -library. It is not often that one has such a satisfactory piece of work -in hand; that charms away drowsiness. Be sure you send me a cup of tea.” - -“You will not--over-fatigue yourself, father?” said Mary, faltering. -“I--hope you will not do too much.” - -This was not what she meant to say, but these were the only words that -she could manage to form out of her lips. - -“Oh, no; do not be uneasy. I shall not overwork myself,” said the Squire -once more, with a laugh. - -And he went out of the room before her, erect and steady, looking -younger and stronger in the force of that excitement which he was so -careful to conceal. Mary did not know what to think. Was he postponing -his sentence to make it more telling? or was he, happier thought, moved -by the new event as she herself had been, warmed into forgiveness, into -relenting, into the happiness of old age in children’s children? Could -this be so? She stood over the fire in her agitation holding her hands -out to the ruddy blaze, though she was not cold. Her heart beat -violently against her breast. How uneasy a thing this life was, how -restless and full of change and commotion! Yet so much more, so much -greater than the gentler stagnation which was gone. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -AT THE VICARAGE. - - -The vicarage was stilled in the quiet of the evening, the children in -bed, the house at rest. It was not the beautiful and dignified old house -which in England is the ideal dwelling of the gentleman parson, the -ecclesiastical squire of the parish. And indeed Mr. Pennithorne was not -of that order. Though there had been many jokes when he first entered -upon the cure as to the resemblance between his name and that of the -parish, Pennithorne of Penninghame was a purely accidental coincidence. -Mr. Musgrave was the patron, but the living was not wealthy enough or -important enough to form that appropriate provision for a second son -which, according to the curious subordination and adaptation of public -wants to family interests, has become the rule in England, unique, as -are so many others. Randolph Musgrave had his rectory in one of the -midland counties, in the district which was influenced by his mother’s -family, where there was something more worth his acceptance; and his old -tutor had got the family living. Mr. Pennithorne was not a distinguished -scholar with chances of preferment through his college, and it had been -considered a great thing for him when, after dragging the young -Musgraves through a certain proportion of schooling and colleging, he -had subsided into this quiet provision for the rest of his life. He was -a clergyman’s son, with no prospects, and whatsoever glimmerings of -young ambition there might have been in him, there was no coming down -involved when he accepted the small rural vicarage where his heart was. -We have already said that in his wildest hopes a vision of the -possibility of bringing Mary Musgrave to the vicarage to share his -humble circumstances with him had never entered into Mr. Pennithorne’s -mind; but to be near her was something, and to be her trusted and -confidential friend seemed the best that life could give him. Here he -had remained ever since, being of some use to her, as he hoped, from -time to time, and some comfort at least, if nothing more, in the -convulsions of the family. During the first years of his incumbency, Mr. -Pennithorne’s own mind had been subject to many convulsions as one -suitor after another came to the Castle; but as they had all ridden away -again with what grace they could after their rejection, comfort had come -back. It was a curious passion, and one which we do not pretend to -explain. After a while, impelled by friends, by convenience, and by the -soft looks of Emily Coniston, the daughter of the clergyman in his -native place, to which he had gone on a visit, he had himself found it -possible to marry, without any failure of his allegiance to his -visionary love; but still to this day though he had been Emily’s -husband for ten years, it troubled the good vicar when any stranger came -to the Castle whose society seemed specially pleasant to Miss Musgrave. -He would hang about the place at such times like an alarmed hen when -something threatens the brood, nor ceased to cluck and flutter his wings -till the danger was over. Did he not wish her happiness? Ah, yes, and -would, he thought, have given his life to procure it; but was it -necessary that happiness should always be got in that one vulgar way? -Marriage was well enough for the vulgar, but not for Mary. It would have -been a descent from her maiden dignity, a lowering of her position. He -was willing that everybody should love her and place her on a pedestal -above all women; but it wounded his finest feelings to think that she -too, in her turn, might love. There was no man good enough or great -enough to be worthy of awakening such a sentiment in Mary Musgrave’s -breast. - -As is not unusual in such cases, Mr. Pennithorne, the chief inspiration -of whose life was a visionary passion of the most exalted and exalting -kind for a woman, had married a woman for whom no one could entertain -any very exalted or impassioned feelings. Perhaps the household drudge -is a natural double or attendant of the goddess. They “got on” very well -together, people said, and Mr. Pen put up with his wife’s little -foolishnesses and fretfulnesses, as perhaps a man could not have done -whose heart was fortified by no ideal passion. Emily was a good -housekeeper of the narrow sort, caring very little for comfort, and very -proud of her economy; and she was a good mother of the troublesome kind, -whose children are always in the foreground, always wanting something, -always claiming her attention. Mr. Pen adored them, and yet he was glad -when they were got to bed, when his wife could be spoken to without one -child clinging to her skirts, or another breaking in upon everything -with plaintive appeals to mamma. But he took it for granted that this -was how it must be, and that a more lovely course of life was -impracticable. One woman excepted, all women, he thought, were like -this; it is thus that the dogmatisms of common opinion are formed and -kept up; and what could be done but to shrug his shoulders at the -inevitable, escaping from it into his study, or with a sigh into that -world of the ideal where imagination is never ruffled by the incidents -of common life. The children were in bed on this October night, and -everything was still. The vicarage was not a handsome house, nor was it -old, but merely modern, badly built, and common-place, redeemed by -nothing but its garden, which was large, and gave a pretty surrounding -to the place in summer. But the night had become stormy, and the wind -was raving in the trees, making their close neighbourhood anything but -an advantage. Mrs. Pennithorne thought it extravagant to use two -sitting-rooms, so the family ate and lived in the dining-room--a dark -room papered and furnished as, in the days when Mr. Pen was married, it -was thought right to decorate such places, with a red flock paper of a -large pattern, which relieved the black horsehair of the furniture. The -room was not very large. It had a black marble mantel-shelf, with a -clock upon it, and some vases of Bohemian glass, and a red and blue -table-cover upon the table, about which there lingered always a certain -odour of food, especially in cold weather, when the windows were closed. -Mrs. Pennithorne sat between the fire and the table. She had some -dressmaking in hand, which made a litter about--dark winter stuff for -little Mary’s frock; and as she had no genius for this work, it was a -lingering and confusing business with her, and made her less amiable -than usual. The reason why her husband was there at all instead of being -in his study was that the evening was cold; but it had not yet become, -according to Mrs. Pen’s code, time for fires. There was one in the -dining-room, for she had not been well; but to light a second so early -in October was against all her traditions, and Mr. Pen had been driven -out of his study, where he had been sitting in his great-coat, and now -stood with his back to the fire, warming himself, poor man, in -preparation for another spell of work at his sermon. He was thin, and -felt the cold. It was this, she had just been saying, that had brought -him, and not any regard for her loneliness--which indeed was quite true. - -“No, Emily,” he said, meekly, “for I have my work to do, you know; but -while I am here, I hope you are not sorry to see me. The children were -rather late to-night.” - -“I am glad to keep them up a little for company,” she said. “It is not -so cheerful sitting here all alone, hearing the wind roaring in the -trees; and my nerves are quite gone. I never used to fear anything when -I was a young girl, but now I start at every sound. I don’t mean to -blame _you_--but it is lonely sitting by one’s self after being one of a -large family.” - -“No doubt--no doubt,” he said, soothingly. “I suppose we gain something -as years go on, but we do lose something. That must be taken for granted -in life.” - -“I don’t like your philosophy, Mr. Pennithorne,” said Emily; “the way -you have of always making out that things have to be! I don’t see it, -for my part. I think a married woman should have a great deal to cheer -her up that a girl can’t have----” - -“My dear,” he said, “perhaps I am not much--and you know the parish is -my first duty; but have you not the children?--dear children they are. I -do not think there can be any greater pleasure than one’s children----” - -“You have nothing to do but enjoy them,” said Mrs Pennithorne, slightly -softened; “but if you had to work and slave like me! There is never a -day that I have not something to do for them; mending, or making, or -darning, or something. Fathers have an easy time of it; they play with -the baby now and then, take out the elder ones for a walk, and that is -all. That is nothing but pleasure; but to sit for days and work one’s -fingers to the bone----” - -“I wish you would not, Emily. I have heard you say that Miss Price in -the village was a very good dressmaker----” - -“For those who can afford her,” said Mrs. Pennithorne. “But,” she added, -with a better inspiration, “you make me look as if I were complaining, -and I don’t want to complain. Though it is dull, William, you must -allow, sitting all the evening by one’s self----” - -“But I have to do the same,” he said, with gentle hypocrisy. “You know, -Emily, if I wrote my sermon here, we should fall to talking, which no -doubt is far pleasanter--but it is not duty, and duty must come before -all----” - -“There is more than one kind of duty,” said Mrs. Pennithorne, who was -tearing her fingers with pins putting together two sides of Mary’s -frock. While she was bending over this, the maid came into the room with -a note. There was something in the “Ah!” with which he took it which -made his wife raise her head. She was not jealous of Miss Musgrave, who -was nearly ten years older than herself, an old maid, and beneath -consideration; but she did think that William thought a great deal too -much of the Castle. “What is it now?” she said pettishly. Perhaps once -more--they had done it several times already--it was an invitation to -dinner for Mr. Pennithorne alone. But he was so much interested in what -he was reading that he did not even hear her. She sat with her scissors -in her hand, and looked at him while he read the note, his face -changing, his whole mind absorbed. He did not look like that when their -common affairs were discussed, or the education of his children, which -ought to be more interesting to him than anything else. This was other -people’s business--and how it took him up! Mrs. Pennithorne was a good -woman, and did her duty to her neighbours when it was very clearly -indicated; but still, of course, nothing could be of such consequence as -your own family, and your duty to them. And to see how he was taken up, -smiling, looking as if he might be going to cry! Nothing about Johnny or -Mary ever excited him so. Mrs. Pennithorne was not only vexed on her own -account, but felt it to be wrong. - -“Well, life is a wonderful thing,” he said suddenly. “I went to the -Castle this afternoon----” - -“You are always going to the Castle,” she said, in a fretful voice. - -“--Expressly to tell Miss Musgrave how much my mind had been occupied -about her brother John. You never knew him, Emily; but he was my pupil, -and I was very fond of him----” - -“You are very fond of all the family, I think,” she said, -half-interested, half-aggrieved. - -“Perhaps I was,” he said, with a little sigh, which, however, she did -not notice; “but John particularly. He was a fine fellow, though he was -so hot-headed. The other night I kept dreaming of him, all night -long--over and over again.” - -“That was what made you so restless, I suppose,” Mrs. Pennithorne put -in, in a parenthesis. “I am sure you have plenty belonging to yourself -to dream of, if you want to dream.” - -“--And I went to ask if they had heard anything, smiling at myself--as -she did, for being superstitious. But here is the wonderful thing: I had -scarcely left, when the thing I had foreseen arrived. A carriage drew up -containing John Musgrave’s children----” - -“Did you know John Musgrave’s children? I never knew he had any -children----” - -“Nor did I, or any one!--that is the wonder of it. I felt sure something -was happening to him or about him--and lo! the children arrived. It was -no cleverness of mine,” said Mr. Pennithorne with gentle complacency, -“but still I must say it was a wonderful coincidence. The very day!” - -Mrs. Pennithorne did not make any reply. She was not interested in a -coincidence which had nothing to do with her own family. If Mr. Pen had -divined when Johnny was to break his arm, so that they might have been -prepared for that accident! but the Musgraves had plenty of people to -take care of them, and there seemed no need for a new providential -agency to give them warning of unsuspected arrivals. She put some more -pins into little Mary’s frock--the two sides of the little bodice never -would come the same. She pulled at them, measured them, repinned them, -but could not get them right. - -“I have heard a great deal about John Musgrave,” she said with a pin in -her mouth. “What was it he did that he had to run away?” - -“My dear Emily! don’t do that, for heaven’s sake--you frighten me; and -besides, it is not--pretty--it is not becoming----” - -“I think I am old enough by this time to know what is becoming,” said -Mrs. Pennithorne with some wrath, yet growing red as she took out the -pins. She was conscious that it was not ladylike, and felt that this was -the word her husband meant to use. “If you knew the trouble it is to get -both sides the same!” she added, forgetting her resentment in vexation. - -It was a troublesome job. There are some people in whose hands -everything goes wrong. Mrs. Pen shed a tear or two over the refractory -frock. - -“My dear! I hope it is not my innocent remark----” - -“Oh no, it is not any innocent remark. It is so troublesome. Just when I -thought I had got it quite straight! But what do you know about such -things? You have nothing to say to Mary’s frock. You never would notice, -I believe, if she had not one to her back, or wore the same old rag year -after year----” - -“Yes, Emily, I should notice,” said Mr. Pen with some compunction; “and -I am very sorry that you should have so much trouble. Send for Miss -Price to-morrow, and I will pay her out of my own money. You must not -take it off the house.” - -“Oh, William! William!” said his wife, “who is it that will suffer if -your own money, as you call it, runs out? Do you think I am so -inconsiderate as only to think of what I have for the house! Isn’t it -all one purse, and will it not be the children that will suffer -eventually whoever pays? No, your money shall not be spent to save me -trouble. What is the good of us but to take trouble?” said Mrs. Pen with -heroic fortitude. - -Mr. Pen sighed. Perhaps he was more conscious of the litter of -dressmaking than of this fine sentiment. But anyhow he did not give any -applause to the heroine. He left indeed this family subject altogether, -and after a momentary pause, said, half to himself, “John Musgrave’s -children! Who could have thought it! And how strange it all is----” - -“Really, Mr. Pennithorne,” said his wife, offended, “this is too much. I -don’t believe you think one half so much of your own children as of -those Musgraves. What did they ever do for us?” - -“They did this for us, my dear, that but for them I should not have had -a home to offer you--nor a family at all,” said the vicar with a little -warmth. “I might have been still travelling with boys about the -world----” - -“Oh, William, not with your talents,” said his wife, looking at him with -admiration. With all her fretfulness and insensibility to those fine -points of internal arrangement for which he had a half-developed, -half-subdued taste, Emily had still a great admiration for her husband. -Now Mary Musgrave, who was, unknown to either, her spiritual rival, had -no admiration for good Mr. Pen at all. This gave the partner of his life -an infinite advantage. His voice softened as he replied, shaking his -head: - -“Unfortunately, my love, other people do not appreciate my talents as -you do.” - -“That is because they don’t know you so well,” she said with flattering -promptitude. Mr. Pennithorne drew a chair to the fire and sat down. It -was but rarely that he received this domestic adulation; but it warmed -him, and did him good. - -“Ah, my dear, I fear I must not lay that flattering unction to my soul,” -he said. - -“You are too modest, William; I have always said you were too modest,” -said Mrs. Pennithorne, returning good for evil. How little notice he had -taken of her fine heroic feeling and self-abnegation! Women are more -generous; she behaved very differently to him. And the fact was, he very -soon began to think that old Mr. Musgrave had made use of him, and given -him a very poor return. The vicarage was not much--and the Squire had -never attempted to do anything more. It is sweet to be told that you are -above your fate--that Providence owes you something better. He roused -himself up, however, after a time out of that unwholesome state of -self-complacency. “What a strange state of affairs it is, Emily,” he -said. He was not in the habit of making his wife his confidant on -matters that concerned the Musgraves, but in a moment of weakness his -resolution was overcome. “What a painful state of affairs! Mr. Musgrave -knows of the coming of these children, but he takes no notice, and -whether she is to be allowed to keep them or not----” - -“Dear me, think of having to get permission from your father at her time -of life,” said Mrs. Pennithorne, with a naïve pity. “And whom did he -marry, William, and what sort of person was their mother? I don’t think -you ever told me that.” - -“Their mother was--John’s wife; I must have told you of her. She was not -the person his family wished. But that often happens, my dear. It is no -sign that a man is a bad man because he may make what you may call a -mistaken choice.” - -“My dear William,” said Mrs. Pen, with authority, “there is nothing that -shows a man’s character so much as the wife he chooses; my mother always -said so. It is the best test if he is a nice feeling man or not,” the -vicar’s wife said blandly, with a little conscious smile upon her face. - -Mr. Pennithorne made no reply. There was something humorous in this -innocent little speech, considering who the speaker was, to any one who -knew. But then nobody knew; scarcely even Mr. Pennithorne himself, who -at this moment was so soothed by his wife’s “appreciation,” that he felt -himself the most devoted of husbands. He shook his head a little, -deprecating the implied condemnation of his old pupil; for the moment he -did not think of himself. - -“Now that we are sitting together, and really comfortable for once in a -way,” said Mrs. Pennithorne, dropping Mary’s bodice with all the pins, -and drawing her chair a little nearer to the fire--“it does not happen -very often--tell me, William, what it is all about, and what John -Musgrave has done.” - -Again the vicar shook his head. “It’s a long story,” he said, -reluctantly. - -“You tell things so nicely, William, I sha’n’t think it long; and think -how strange it is, knowing so much about people, and yet not knowing -anything. And of course I shall have to see the children. Poor little -things, not to be sure of shelter in their grandfather’s house! but they -will always have a friend in you.” - -“They will have Mary; what can they want more if they have _her_?” he -said suddenly, with a fervour which surprised his wife; then blushed and -faltered as he caught her eye. What right had he to speak of Miss -Musgrave so? Mrs. Pennithorne stared a little, but the slip did not -otherwise trouble her, for she saw no reason for the exaggerated respect -with which the Squire’s daughter was treated. Why should not she be -called Mary--was it not her name? - -“Mary, indeed! what does she know about children? But, William, I am -waiting, and this is the question--What did John Musgrave do?” - - - - -PART III. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -THE CHILDREN AT THE CASTLE. - - -The arrival of the children was an era at Penninghame from which -afterwards everything dated; but the immediate result was a very curious -and not very comfortable one. As they had been introduced into the -house, so they lived in it. Mr. Musgrave never mentioned them, never saw -them or appeared to see them, ignored their existence, in short, as -completely as if his faculties had been deadened in respect to them. His -life was in no way changed indeed; the extraordinary revolution which -had been made to every one else in the house by this change showed all -the more strongly from the absence of all effect upon him. He read, he -wrote, he studied, he took his usual quiet exercise exactly as he did -before, and never owned by a word or look that he was conscious of any -alteration in the household. For a little while the children were hushed -not to make a noise, and huddled away into corners to keep them out of -sight and hearing; but that arrangement was too unnatural to continue, -and it very soon happened that their presence was forced upon him by -unmistakable signs, by both sight and hearing. But the Squire took not -the slightest notice. He looked over their heads and never saw them. His -ear was engaged with other sounds and he did not hear them. By this -system of unconsciousness he deprived himself indeed of some evident -advantages; for how can you interfere with the proceedings of those -whose very existence you ignore? He could not give orders that the -children should make less noise, because he professed not to be aware of -their presence; nor send them out of his sight, when he was supposed not -to see them; and in consequence this blindness and deafness on his part -was perhaps a greater gain to them than to himself. The mental commotion -into which he had been thrown by their arrival had never been known to -any one but himself. He had a slight illness a few days after--his -liver out of order, the doctor said; and so worked off his excitement -without disclosing it to any one. After this he resumed his serenity, -and completed his heraldic study. The history of the augmentation -granted to the Musgraves in the year 1393 in remembrance of the valour -of Sir Egidio, or Giles, Musgrave in the Holy Land made rather a -sensation among students in that kind. It was a very interesting -monograph. Besides being a singularly striking chapter of family -history, it was, everybody said, a most interesting contribution to the -study of heraldic honours--how and why they were bestowed; especially as -concerning “augmentations” bestowed on the field for acts of valour--a -rare and exceptional distinction. The Squire made a little collection of -the notices that appeared in the newspapers of his “Monograph” pasting -them into a pretty little book, as is not unusual with amateur authors. -He enjoyed them a great deal more than if he had been the author of a -great history, and resented criticism with corresponding bitterness. He -was very proud of Egidio, or Giles, who died in the fifteenth century; -and it did not occur to him that there was any incongruity between this -devotion to his ancestors and the fact that he persisted in ignoring the -little boy upstairs. - -And yet day by day it grew more hard to ignore him. Mr. Musgrave in his -study, after the enthusiasm of his monograph was over, could not help -hearing voices which it was difficult to take no notice of. The -enthusiasm of composition did a great deal for him: it carried him out -of the present; it filled him with a delightful fervour and thrill of -intellectual excitement. People who are always writing get used to it, -and lose this sense of something fine and great which is the inheritance -of the amateur. Even after the shock of renewed intercourse with the -son, who had brought shame upon his name, and whom he had cast off, Mr. -Musgrave, so long as his work lasted, found himself able to forget -everything in the happiness it gave. When he woke in the morning his -first thought was of this important occupation which awaited him, and he -went to bed with the fumes of his own paragraphs in his head; he was -carried away by it. But when all this intellectual commotion was over, -and when the ennui of having nothing further to do had swallowed up the -satisfaction of having finished a great piece of work, as it so soon -does, then there came a very difficult interval for the Squire. He had -no longer anything to absorb him and keep him comfortably above the -circumstances of ordinary life; and as he sat in his library, only -reading, only writing a letter, no longer absorbed by any special study, -or by the pride and delight of recording in fine language the results of -that study, ordinary life stole back, as it has a way of doing. He began -to hear the knocks at the door, the ringing of bells, and to wonder what -they meant; to hear steps going up and down the stairs, to be aware of -Eastwood in the dining-room, and the rustle of Mary’s dress as she went -about the house in the morning, and in the afternoon passed with a soft -boom of the swinging door into her favourite hall. The routine of the -house came back to the old man. He heard the servants in the kitchen, -the ticking of that measured, leisurely old clock in the hall which took -about five minutes to spell out the hour. He was not consciously paying -any attention to these things. On the contrary, he was secluded from -them, rapt in his books, knowing nothing of what was going on; yet he -heard them all; and as he sat there through the long winter days and the -still longer winter evenings, when there was rain or storm out of doors, -and nothing to break the long, still blank of hours within, a sound -would come to him now and then, even before the care of the household -relaxed--the cry of a little voice, a running and pattering of small -feet, sometimes an outburst of laughter, a small voice of weeping, which -stirred strangely in the air about him and vaguely called forth old -half-extinct sensations, as one might run over the jarred and -half-silent keys of an old piano in the dark. This surprised him at -first in his loneliness--then, when he had realized what it was, hurt -him a little, rousing old wrath and bitterness, so that he would -sometimes lay down his pen or close his book and all the past would come -before him--the past, in which John his son had disappointed, mocked, -insulted, and baffled his father. He would not allow himself to realize -the presence of these children in the house, but he could not avoid -thinking of the individual who stood between him and them, who was so -real while they were so visionary. Always John! He had tried to live -for years without thought of him and had been tranquil; it was grievous -to be compelled thus to think of him again. This all happened, however, -in the seclusion of his own mind, in the quiet of his library, and no -one knew anything of it; not his daughter, who thought she knew his -looks by heart; nor his servant, who had spelled him out by many guesses -in the dark--as servants generally do--and imagined that he had his -master at his fingers’ ends. But during all this time while these -touches were playing upon him, bringing out ghosts of old sensations, -muffled sounds and tones forgotten, Mr. Musgrave publicly ignored the -fact that there were any children in the house, and contrived not to see -them, nor to hear them, with a force of self-government and resolution -which, in a nobler cause, would have been beyond all praise. - -The effect of the change upon Miss Musgrave was scarcely less remarkable -though very different. Her mental and moral education had been of a very -peculiar kind. The tragedy which swallowed up her brother had -interrupted the soft flowing current of her young life. All had gone -smoothly before in the natural brightness of the beginning. And Mary, -who had little passion in her temperament, who was more thoughtful than -intense, and whose heart had never been awakened by any strong -attachment beyond the ties of nature, had borne the interruption better -than most people would have borne it, and had done her duty between her -offending brother and her enraged father with less strain and violence -of suffering than might have been imagined. And she had got through the -more quiet years since without bitterness, with a self-adaptation to the -primitive monotony of existence which was much helped, as most such -virtues are, by temperament. She had formed her own theory of life, as -most people do by the time they reach even the earliest stages of middle -age; and this theory was the philosophical one that happiness, or the -calm which does duty for happiness in most mature lives, was in reality -very independent of events; that it came from within, not from without; -and that life was wonderfully equal, neither bringing so much good, nor -so much evil, as people of lively imaginations gave it credit for doing. -Thus she had herself lived, not unhappy, except at the very crisis of -the family life. She had suffered then. Who could hope (she said to -herself) to do other than suffer one time or another in their life? But -since then the calm and regularity of existence had come back, the -routine which charms time away and brings content. There had no doubt -been expectations in her mind which had come to nothing--expectations of -more active joy, more actual well-being, than had ever fallen to her -lot; but these expectations had gradually glided away, and no harm had -been done. If she had no intensity of enjoyment, neither had she any -wretchedness. She had enough to do; her life was full, and she was -fairly happy. So she said to herself; so she had said many a day to Mr. -Pen, who shook his mildly melancholy head and dissented--as far as he -ever dissented from anything said by Miss Mary. Her brother was -lost--away--wandering in the darkness of the great world as in a desert. -But if he had been near at hand, absorbed in his married life, his wife, -who was not of her species, and his unknown children, would not he have -been just as much lost to Mary? So she persuaded herself at least; and -so lived tranquilly, happy enough--certainly not unhappy;--and why -should an ordinary mortal, youth being over, wish for more? - -Now, however, all at once, so great a change had happened to her, that -Mary could no longer understand, or even believe in, this state of mind -which had been hers for so many years. Perfectly still, tranquil, -fearing nothing--when her own flesh and blood were in such warfare in -the world! How was it possible? Wondering pangs of self-reproach seized -her; mysteries of death and of birth, such as had never touched her -maidenly quiet, seemed to surround her, and mock at her former ease. All -this time the gates of heaven had been opening and shutting to John. -Hope sometimes, sometimes despair, love, anguish, want, pain, had -struggled for him, while she had sat and looked on so calmly, and -reasoned so placidly about the general equality of life. How could she -have done it? The revelation was as painful as it was overwhelming. -Nature seized upon her with a grip of iron, and avenged upon her in a -moment all the indifferences of her previous life. The appeal of these -frightened children, the solemn charge laid upon her by her brother, -awoke her with a start and shiver. How had she dared to sit and look -through calm windows, or on the threshold by her tranquil door, upon -the struggles, pangs, and labours of the other human creatures about -her? Was it excuse enough that she was neither wife nor mother? had she -therefore nothing to do in guarding, and continuing, and handing down -the nobler successions of life? Mary was startled altogether out of the -state of mind habitual to her. Instead of remaining the calm lady of the -manor, the female Squire, the lawgiver of the village which she had -hitherto been--a little above the problems that were brought to her, a -little wanting in consideration of motives and meaning, perhaps now and -then too decided in her judgment, seeing the distinction between right -and wrong too clearly, and entertaining a supreme, though gentle -contempt for the trimmings and compromises, as well as for the fusses -and agitations of the ordinary world--she felt herself to have plunged -all at once into the midst of those agitations at a single step. She -became anxious, timorous, yet rash, faltering even in opinion, -hesitating, vacillating--she who had been so decided and so calm. Her -feelings were all intensified, the cords of her nature tightened, as it -were, vibrating to the lightest touch. And at the same time, which was -strange enough, while thus the little circle, in which she stood, became -full of such intense, unthought-of interest, the world widened around -her as it had never widened before; into darknesses and silences -indeed--but still with an extended horizon which expanded her heart. -John was there in the wide unknown, which stretched round this one warm, -lighted spot, wandering she knew not where, a solitary man. She had -never realized him so before; and not only John, but thousands like him, -strangers, wanderers, strugglers with fate. This sudden breath of -novelty, of enlightenment, expanded her heart like a sob. Her composure, -her satisfaction, her tranquillity fled from her; but how much greater, -more real and true, more penetrating and actual, became her existence -and the world! And all this was produced, not by any great mental -enlightenment, any sudden development of character, but by the simple -fact that two small helpless creatures had been put into her hands and -made absolutely dependent upon her. This was all; but the whole world -could not have been more to Mary. It changed her in every way. She who -had been so rooted in her place, so absorbed in her occupations, would -have relinquished all, had it been necessary, and gone out solitary into -the world for the children. Could there be any office so important, any -trust so precious? This, which sounded like the vulgarest commonplace, -and at the same time most fictitious high-flown sentiment, on the lips -of Mrs. Pennithorne, became all at once, in a moment, the leading -principle of Miss Musgrave’s life. - -But she had to undergo various petty inconveniences from the curiosity -of her neighbours, and their anxiety to advise her as to what she should -do in the “trying circumstances.” What could she know about children? -Mrs. Pen, for one, thought it very important to give Miss Musgrave the -benefit of her advice. She made a solemn visit to inspect them, and tell -her what she ought to do. The little boy, she felt sure, was delicate, -and would require a great deal of care; but the thing that troubled Mrs. -Pennithorne the most was that Miss Musgrave could not be persuaded to -put on mourning for her brother’s wife. Notwithstanding that it was, as -Mary pleaded, five years since she died, the vicar’s wife thought that -crape would be a proof that all “misunderstandings” were over, and would -show a Christian feeling. And when she could not make this apparent to -the person principally concerned, she did all she could to impress it -upon her husband, whom she implored to “speak to”--both father and -daughter--on the subject. Most people would have been all the more -particular to put on crape, and to wear it deep, because there had been -“misunderstandings.” “Misunderstandings!” cried Mr. Pen. It was not, -however, he who spoke to Miss Musgrave, but she who spoke to him on this -important subject; and what she said somewhat bewildered the vicar, who -could not fathom her mind in this respect. - -“Emily thinks we should put on mourning,” she said. “And, do you know, I -really believe that is the reason that poor John is so much more in my -thoughts?” - -“What--the mourning?” the vicar asked faltering. - -“_Her_ death. Hitherto the idea of one has been mingled with that of the -other. Now he is just John; everything else has melted away; there is -nothing but himself to think of. He has never been only John before. Do -you know what I mean, Mr. Pen?” - -The vicar shook his head. He wondered if this could be a touch of -feminine jealousy, knowing that even Mary was not perfect; and this gave -him a momentary pang. - -“I don’t suppose that I should feel so;--I was very fond of John--but I, -of course, could not be jealous--I mean of his love for one -unworthy----” - -“How do you know even that she was unworthy? It is not that, Mr. Pen. -But she was nothing to us, and confused him in our minds. Now he is -himself--and where is he?” said Miss Musgrave, with tears in her eyes. - -“In God’s hands--in God’s hands, Miss Mary! and God bless him wherever -he is--and I humbly beg your pardon,” cried Mr. Pen, with an excess of -compunction which she scarcely understood. His feelings were almost too -warm Mary thought. - -And as the news got spread through those invisible channels which convey -reports all over a country, many were the visitors that came to the -Castle to see what the story meant, though they did not announce this as -the object of their visit. Among these visitors the most important was -Lady Stanton, who had been Mary’s rival in beauty when the days were. -They had not been rivals indeed to their own consciousness, but warm -friends, in their youth and day of triumph; but events had separated the -two girls, and the two women rarely met, and had outgrown all -acquaintance; for Lady Stanton had been involved, almost more -immediately than Mary Musgrave, in the tragedy which had so changed life -at Penninghame, and this had changed their relations like everything -else. This lady arrived one day to the great surprise of everybody, and -came in with timid eagerness and haste, growing red and growing pale as -she held out her hands to her old friend. - -“We never quarrelled,” she said; “why should we never see each other? Is -there any reason?” - -“No reason,” said Miss Musgrave, making room upon the sofa beside her. -But such an unexpected appeal agitated her, and for the moment she could -not satisfy herself as to the object of the visit. Lady Stanton, -however, was of a very simple mind, and could not conceal what that -object was. - -“Oh, Mary,” she said, the tears coming into her eyes, “I heard that -John’s children had come home. Is it true? You know I always took an -interest----” And here she stopped, making a gulp of some emotion which, -to a superficial spectator, might have seemed out of place in Sir Henry -Stanton’s wife. She had grown stout, but that does not blunt the -feelings. “I should like to see them,” she said, with an appeal in her -eyes which few people could withstand. And Mary was touched too, partly -by this sudden renewal of an old love, partly by the thought of all that -had happened since she last sat by her old companion’s side, who was a -Mary too. - -“I cannot bring them here,” she said, “but I will take you to the hall -to see them. My father likes them to be kept--in their own part of the -house.” - -“Oh, I hope he is kind to them!” said Lady Stanton, clasping her white -dimpled hands. “Are they like your family? I hope they are like the -Musgraves. But likenesses are so strange--mine are not like me,” said -the old beauty, plaintively. Perhaps the trouble in her face was less on -account of her own private trials in this respect than out of alarm lest -John Musgrave’s children should bear the likeness of another face of -which she could not think with kindness. There was so little disguise in -her mind, that this sentiment also found its way into words. “Oh Mary,” -she cried, “you and I were once the two beauties, and everybody was at -our feet; but that common girl was more thought of than either you or -me.” - -“Hush!” said Mary Musgrave, putting up her hand; “she is dead.” - -“Is she dead?” Lady Stanton was struck with a momentary horror; for it -was a contemporary of whom they were speaking, and she could not but be -conscious of a little shiver in her own well-developed person, to think -of the other who was clay. “That is why they have come home?” she said, -half under her breath. - -“Yes; and because he cannot carry them about with him wherever he -goes.” - -“You have heard from him, Mary? I hope he is doing well. I hope he is -not--very--heart-broken. If you are writing you might say I inquired. He -might like to know that he was remembered; and you know I always -took--an interest----” - -“I know you always had the kindest heart.” - -“I always took an interest, notwithstanding everything; and--will he -come home? Now surely he might come home. It is so long ago; and surely -now no one would interfere.” - -“I cannot say anything about that, for I don’t know,” said Miss -Musgrave; “he does not say. Will you come and see the children, Lady -Stanton?” - -“Oh, Mary, what have I done that you should call me Lady Stanton? I have -never wished to stand aloof. It has not been my doing. Do you remember -what friends we were? and I couldn’t call you Miss Musgrave if I tried. -When I heard of the children I thought this was an opening,” said Lady -Stanton, faltering a little. She told her little fib, which was an -innocent one; but she was true at bottom and told it ill; and what -difference did it make whether she sought the children for Mary’s sake, -or Mary for the children’s? Miss Musgrave accepted her proffered embrace -with kindness, yet with a smile. She was touched by the emotion of her -old friend, and by the remnants of that “interest” which had survived -fifteen years of married life, and much increase of substance. Perhaps a -harsher judge might have thought the emotion slightly improper. But poor -John had got but hard measure in the world; and a little compensating -faithfulness was a salve to his sister’s feelings. She led her visitor -downstairs and through the narrow passage, in all her wealth of silk and -amplitude of shadow. Mary herself was still as slim as when they had -skimmed about these passages together; and she was Mary still; for once -in a way she felt herself not without some advantage over Sir Henry’s -wife. - -Nello was standing full in the light when the ladies went into the hall, -and he it was who came forward to be caressed by the pretty lady, who -took to him all the more warmly that she had no boys of her own. Lady -Stanton fairly cried over his fair head, with its soft curls. “What a -little Musgrave he is!” she cried; “how like his father! I cannot help -being glad he is like his father.” But when this vision of splendour -and beauty, which Lilias came forward to admire, saw the little girl, -she turned from her with a slight shiver. “Ah!” she cried, retreating, -“is that--the little girl?” And the sight silenced her, and drove her -away. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -LADY STANTON. - - -Lady Stanton drove home from that visit with her heart and her eyes -full. She was not intellectual, nor even clever, but a soft creature, -made up of feelings easily touched, not perhaps very profound, nor -likely to obscure to her the necessary course of daily living, but still -true enough and faithful in their way. She might have been able to make -sacrifices had she come in the way of them or found them necessary, but -no such chance of moral devotion had come to her; nor had any teachings -of experience or philosophy of middle age, such as works upon the -majority of us, hardened her soft heart, or swept away the little -romantic impulses, the quick sensibilities of youth. A nature so fresh -indeed was scarcely compatible with much exercise of the intellectual -faculties at all. Lady Stanton rarely read, and never under any -circumstances read anything (of her own will and impulse) which rose -above the most primitive and familiar elements; but on the other hand, -the gentle sentimentalities which she did read went straight to her -heart. She thought Mrs. Hemans the first of poets, and cried her eyes -out over Mr. Dickens’s “Little Nell.” Anything about an unhappy love, or -about a dead child, would move her more than Shakespeare; and she shed -tears as ready as the morning dew. Practically, it is true, she had gone -through a certain amount of experience like other people, and her -everyday life was more or less affected by it; but in her heart Lady -Stanton was still the same Mary Ridley whose gentle being had been -involved in the wildest of tragic stories, even though she had come -down to so commonplace a daily routine now. That story, so long past, -took the place in her being of all the poetry and romance which the most -of us get glorified from the hands of genius; and all her associations -were attached to that one personal episode, which was unparalleled in -life as she knew life. When she read one of the novels which pleased -her, she would compare the situations in it with this; when she lingered -over the vague melodious verses which represented poetry to her, there -was always a little appropriation in her heart of their soft measures to -the dim long past emergency. And now, here it was brought back upon her -by every circumstance that could bring the past near. Her love--was it -her love that was recalled to her? But then there was no love in it -properly so called. She had taken an interest in John Musgrave, her -friend’s brother--always had taken an interest in him; but she had no -right to do so at any time, being betrothed to young Lord Stanton, who, -for his part, had forgotten her for the sake of that dressmaker’s girl -at Penninghame, to whom John Musgrave too had given his heart. What a -complication it was! Mary Ridley, who had a pretty property close to -his, had been destined for Lord Stanton from the beginning of time, and -the boy and girl had lightly acquiesced, and had been happy enough in -the parental arrangement. They had liked each other--well enough; they -had been as gay as possible in the lightheartedness of their youth, and -had taken this for happiness. Why should not they be happy? they were -exactly suited to each other. She was the prettiest girl in the county -(except the other Mary), and he was proud of her sweet looks, and fond -of her, certainly fond of her; whereas she, unawakened, undisturbed, -notwithstanding the interest she had always taken in John Musgrave, -would have made him the most affectionate and charming wife in the -world. Thus the early story had flowed on all smoothness and sunshine, -the flowers blooming, the sun shining; until, one fatal day, young Lord -Stanton, riding through Penninghame village on his way to the old -Castle, had seen Lily, Miss Price’s assistant, at the window of the -dressmaker’s parlour. Fatal day! full of all the issues of death. - -It is needless to inquire what manner of woman this Lily was, for whom -these two men lost themselves and their existence. She did not know of -any tragedy likely to be involved, but brushed about in her homely -village way through these webs of fate, twisting the threads innocently -enough, and throwing the weaving into endless confusion. Whether Lord -Stanton was murdered by John Musgrave, as many people thought at first, -or killed accidentally in a hot, sudden encounter, as most people -believed now, was a thing which perhaps would never be cleared up. The -guilty man (if he was guilty) had paid the penalty of his deed in exile, -in poverty, in misery, ever since. His life had been as much broken off -at that point as Stanton’s was who died--and the two families had been -equally plunged into woe and mourning; though indeed it was the -Musgraves who suffered most, by reason of the stigma put upon them, by -the shame of John’s flight and of his marriage, and by the fact that he -was still a criminal pursued by justice, though justice had long -slackened her pursuit. As for the Stantons, there was nobody to mourn -much. Aunts and uncles and cousins console themselves sooner than -fathers and mothers, and the boy brother, who had succeeded to the -title, had been too young to be capable of sustained sorrow. Everybody -at that time had sympathized with the young bride who had lost her -future husband, and her coronet, and all the joys of life in this sudden -and miserable way, for there was no concealing what the cause of the -quarrel was, and that Lord Stanton had been unfaithful to the beautiful -Mary. Nobody knew, however, the complication which gave her a double -pang, the knowledge that not only the man who was her own property, her -betrothed husband, but the man in whom, innocently in girlish -simplicity, she had avowed herself to “take an interest,” had preferred -to her the village Lily, who was nobody and nothing, who had not been -blameless between them, and whom everybody condemned. Everybody -condemned: but _they_ loved her. Both of them! this secret and poignant -addition to her trial Mary Ridley never confided to any one, but it -still thrilled through and through her at any allusion to that old long -past tragedy. Both of them!--the man whose best love was due to her, and -the man who had caught her own girlish shy eyes, all unaware to either, -somehow, innocently, unavowedly, in such a visionary way as harmed no -one; both! It was hard. She wept for them both tenderly, abundantly, for -the one not less than the other; and a little--with a cry in her heart -of protestation and appeal--for herself, put aside, thrown over for this -woman who was nothing, who was nobody, yet who was better beloved than -she. All this had welled up in Lady Stanton’s heart when she saw the -little girl who had Lily’s face. She had been unable to restrain the -sting of old wonder and pain; the keen piercing of the old wound which -she had felt to her heart. Both of them! and now a little ghost of this -Lily, her shadow, her representative, had come back again to look her in -the face. She cried as she drove back that long silent way by herself to -Elfdale. It was seldom she had the chance of being so long alone, and -there was a kind of luxury about it, not unmingled with compunction and -a sense of guilt. - -For it still remains to be told how Mary Ridley came to be Lady Stanton, -although Lord Stanton, who was the betrothed husband of her youth, had -been killed, and all that apparently smooth and straightforward story -had ended in grief and separation. She had married after some years a -middle-aged cousin of her dead lover, Sir Henry Stanton, who had not -long before come back from India where he had spent most of his life. It -was but a poor fate for the beautiful Mary. Sir Henry had left his -career and a full accomplished life behind him, when he first came to -settle at Elfdale to the passive existence of a gentleman in the -country, who could scarcely be called a country gentleman. He had been -married and had children, a family of sons and daughters, and had only a -second chapter of less vivid meaning, a sort of postscriptal life, to -offer her. Why she had accepted him nobody could well say,--but she made -him a good wife, kind, smiling, always gentle, though sadly put to it -now and then to preserve unbroken the sweet good-temper with which -nature had gifted her. So fair and sweet as she was, to get only the -remains of a man’s heart after all, to be made use of as their chaperon -and caretaker by his big, unlovely daughters; to have her own children, -two dainty, lovely, fairy girls, kept in the background,--no more than -“the little ones”--of no account in the house--all these things were -somewhat trying, and a strange reversal of all that life had seemed to -promise her, and all that had been indicated by the early worship which -surrounded her youth. But perhaps few women could have carried this -inappropriate fate as well. All those contradictions of circumstances, -all those travesties of what might have been, met with no gloom or -sourness of disappointment in her. The very fact that she was Lady -Stanton carried with it a certain aggravation, a parrot-like adhesion to -the letter and change of the spirit, such as had been in the promises -made to Macbeth. Mary might have thought herself the victim of a -perverse fate, keeping the word of promise to the ear and breaking it to -the heart, had she been perversely disposed--but instead of that, all -her thoughts at the present moment were occupied with the fact that she -had taken an unfair advantage of Laura and Lydia, in not telling them -where she was going, that they might have come with her had they been so -disposed. She had stolen a march upon them; they would think it unkind. -But then she could not have gone to Penninghame had Laura and Lydia been -with her. Though they were so much less concerned than she had been, -they kept up the Stanton feud with the Musgraves. They had no “interest” -in John--on the contrary, they were of the few who still believed that -he had “murdered” Lord Stanton--and would have had him hanged if he ever -returned to England. They would not have entered the house, or permitted -any kind inquiries in their presence. And therefore it was that she had -stolen away without letting them know, and was at present conscious--in -addition to all the jumble of emotions in her heart--of a certain prick -of guilt. - -The Stantons were a great county family as well as the Musgraves, but in -a very different way. When the Musgraves had been at their greatest, the -Stantons had been nobody. They were nothing more than persistent, -thrifty folk at first, adding field to field, building on ever a new -addition to their old house. Then wealth had come, and then local -importance; and last of all celebrity. The first who brought anything -like fame to the name, and introduced the race to the knowledge of the -world, was a soldier, a general under the Duke of Marlborough, who got -a baronetcy and a reputation, and had a handsome new coat of arms -invented for him--very appropriately gained indeed, on the field of -battle, just as the augmentation of the Musgraves’ blazon had been -gained, but a few hundred years too late unfortunately, and therefore -not telling for nearly so much as if it had been won in the fifteenth -century. The next man was a lawyer, who so cultivated that profession -that it brought his son, in the reign of the Georges, to the bench, and -a peerage--and since that time the family had taken their place among -the magnates of the north country. Young Walter Lord Stanton was a much -greater man than John Musgrave, though not half so great a man in one -sense of the word. Two or three generations, however, tell just as much -upon the individual mind as twenty, and the young peer was conscious of -all his advantages over the commoner, without any sense of inferiority -in point of race. And now the other Lord Stanton, Geoffrey, who had -succeeded that unfortunate young man, was the greatest personage of his -years in the district, regarded with interest by all his neighbours and -with more than interest by some; for was it not in his power to make one -of his feminine contemporaries, however humble she might be by birth, -and however poor in this world’s goods, a great lady?--and so long as -human nature remains as it is, this cannot cease to be a very potent -attraction. Indeed the wonder is that young women should not be -altogether demoralized by the perpetual recurrence of such chances of -undeserved, unearned elevation. Young Lord Stanton could do this. He -could give fine houses and lands, a title, and all the good things of -this earth to his cousin Laura, or his cousin Lydia, or any other girl -in the county that pleased him. Therefore it cannot be wondered at if -his appearance fluttered the dovecotes with sentiments as powerful and -more pleasant than those which fill the nests at the appearance of -predatory hawk or eagle. But any such flutter of feeling was held in -Elfdale to be an unwarrantable impertinence on the part of the other -ladies of the county. Long ago, at the time when at six years old he had -succeeded to his stepbrother, there had been a tacit family -understanding to the effect that one of Sir Henry’s daughters should be -the young lord’s wife. Sir Henry, though old enough to have been the -father of his murdered cousin would have been his heir but for -Geoff--and it was universally allowed to be hard upon him that when such -an unlikely chance happened, as that young Lord Stanton should die, -there should be this boy coming in the way forestalling his claim. -Nobody had wanted that child who was suddenly turned into a personage of -so much importance--not even his father, who had married with a -single-minded idea of being comfortable in his own person, and who was -much annoyed by the prospect of “a second family”--a prospect which was -happily, however, cut short by his own speedy death. When therefore -Walter Lord Stanton was killed, it was very generally felt that Sir -Henry had a real grievance in the existence of the little stepbrother, -who was in the way of everybody except his poor mother, whom the old -lord had married to nurse him, and who had taken the unwarrantable -liberty of adding little Geoffrey to the family. Poor little Geoff! he -was bullied on all hands so long as his brother lived; and then, what a -change came over his life and that of his mother, who was as pale and -shy as her boy! Great good fortune may change even complexion, and Geoff -as he grew to be a man was no longer pale. But Sir Henry never quite got -over the blow dealt him by this succession. He had not resented Walter. -Walter was so to speak the natural heir--and nobody expected him to die; -but when he did die, so out of all calculation, to think there should be -that boy! Sir Henry did not get over it for years--it was a positive -wrong not to be forgotten. - -Accordingly, as a small compensation to his injured feelings, all the -family had tacitly decided that Geoff should marry one of his cousins. -This, it is true, was but a very small compensation, for Sir Henry was -not the kind of parent who lives in his children and is indifferent to -his own glory and greatness. Even now, fifteen years after the event, he -was not an old man, and it made up very poorly for his personal -disappointment that Laura or Lydia should share the advancement of which -he had been deprived. Still it was so understood. Geoff paid many -holiday visits at Elfdale, though there was no particular friendship -between Sir Henry and the widowed Lady Stanton, who was Geoff’s guardian -as well as his mother, and things were going smoothly enough between -the young people. They liked each other, and had no objection to be -together as much as was possible, and already the sisters had settled -between them “which of us it is to be.” This Lydia, who was the most -strong-minded, had thought desirable from the moment when she had become -aware what was intended. “It does not matter at present,” she said, “we -are none of us in love, and one is just as good as another, but we had -better draw lots, or something--or toss up, as the boys do.” And what -the mystic ordeal had been which decided this question we are unable to -say, but decided it was in favour of Laura, who was the prettiest, and -only a year younger than Geoff. Lydia, as soon as the die was cast, -constituted herself the guardian of her sister’s fortunes so far as the -young lord was concerned, and made herself into a quaint and really -pretty version of a matchmaking mother on Laura’s behalf. Thus it will -be seen that it was into the very heart of the opposite faction that -Lady Stanton drove home with those tears in her soft eyes, and all that -commotion of old thoughts in her heart. If they could have seen into it -and known that it was the image of John Musgrave that had roused that -commotion, what would these girls have said, towards whom she felt so -guilty as having stolen a march upon them? “The murderer!” they would -have cried with a shriek of horror. Lady Stanton could not, it is clear, -have taken them to Penninghame with her, and surely she had a right to -use her own horses and carriage; but still she felt guilty as she -subdued, with all the effort she could make, the excitement in her -heart. - -When she went in, she retired at once upstairs, and announced herself, -through her maid, to have a headache, and had a cup of tea in her own -room, to which her own children, little Fanny and Annie, a pair of -inseparables, came noiselessly like two doves on the wing. Annie and -Fanny liked nothing in the world so much as to get mamma to themselves -like this, in the stillness of her room, with everybody else shut out. -One was ten and the other eleven; they were about the same height, had -the same flowing curly locks of light brown hair, the same rose-tinted -faces, walked in each other’s steps, or rather flew about their little -world of carpeted stairs and passages, together, always in sudden soft -flights--like doves, as we have said, on the wing. “Is your head very -bad, mamma?” they said; and the gentle hypocrite blushed as she replied. -No, it was not very bad; a little quiet would make it quite well. They -took off her “things” for her, and brought her her soft white -dressing-gown, in which she looked like the mother of all the doves, and -let down her hair, which was not much darker, and quite as abundant as -their own--and gave her her cup of tea, thus soothing every tingling -nerve; and by this time Lady Stanton’s head was not bad at all, though -now and then one of them would administer eau-de-cologne or rosewater. -She told them of the children she had seen--little orphans who had no -mother--and the two crept closer to her, to hear of that awful, -incomprehensible desolation, each clasping an arm of hers with two -small, eager hands. To be without a mother! Annie and Fanny held their -breath in reverential silence and pity; but wondered a little that it -was the little boy (“called Nello--what a funny name!”) that mamma spoke -of, not the girl, who was ten (“just the same age as me”). - -But not even the sympathy of her children, and the trance of interest -which kept them breathless, could make Lady Stanton speak of the little -girl. Her mother’s face! that face which had taken the best of -everything in existence from Mary Ridley--how could Lady Stanton speak -of it? She made some efforts to get over the feeling, but not with much -success. But the rest restored her, and enabled her to appear, her -headache quite charmed away, and her nerves still, at dinner. She took a -little more care with her toilette than usual, by way of propitiation to -the angry gods. And though Laura and Lydia were not much short of twenty -years younger than their stepmother, it would have been an indifferent -judge who had turned from her to them even in the fresh bloom of their -youth. She came downstairs very conciliatory, ready to make the best of -everything, and to make amends to them for all disloyal thoughts, and -for having cheated them of their drive. - -“I hope your head is better, my Lady,” said Laura. “We have been -wondering all the afternoon wherever you had gone.” - -The girls had a certain strain of vulgarity in them somehow, which could -not be quite eradicated from their speech. - -“I went out for a drive as usual,” said Lady Stanton. “I thought I heard -you say that you meant to walk.” - -“Oh yes; we wanted to walk to the village to settle about the school -children,” said Laura; and Lydia added, “But I am sure we never said -so,” and looked suspiciously at her stepmother. - -“I went by the Langdale woods, and all the way to Penninghame water,” -said the culprit, very explanatory. “The lake looked so cold. I should -not like to live near it. It chills all the landscape, and I am sure -puts dreary thoughts into people’s heads. And as I was there, Henry,” -she added, addressing her husband, “I did what you will think an odd -thing.” Lady Stanton’s bosom heaved a little, and her breath came quick. -It would have been far easier to say nothing about it; but then she knew -by experience that everything gets found out. She made a momentary pause -before the confession which she tried to treat so lightly. “I ran in for -a moment to the old Castle and saw Mary--Mary, you know. We were great -friends, she and I, when we were young, and it was such a temptation -passing the old place.” - -“What whim took you near the old place?” said Sir Henry, gruffly. “I -cannot think of any place in the world that should lie less in your -way.” - -“Well, that is true,” she said, breathing a little more freely now that -the worst was told, “and the proof of it is that I have not been there -for years.” - -“I hope it will be still longer before you go again,” said her husband. - -He did not say any more because of the servants, and because he had too -much good sense to do or say anything that would lessen his wife’s -importance; but he was not pleased, and this troubled her, for she had a -delicate conscience. She looked at him wistfully, and was imprudent -enough in her anxiety to pursue the subject, and make bad worse. - -“It is strange to see an old friend whom you have known when you were -young, after so many years,” she said; “though Mary is not so much -altered as I am. You remember her, Henry? She was always so pretty; -handsomer than--any one I know.” - -It was on her lips to say “handsomer than ever I was,” which was the -real sentiment in her mind--a sentiment partly originating in the -semi-guilt and humility produced by the consciousness of having grown -stout, a kind of development which troubles women. She was very deeply -aware of this, and it silenced all the claims of vanity. She had lost -her figure; whereas Mary was still slim and straight as an arrow. -Whatever might have been once, there was now no comparison between the -two. - -“Do you mean Miss Musgrave?” cried the girls, one after the other. “Miss -Musgrave! that old creature--that old maid--that man’s sister?” - -“She is no older than I am,” said Lady Stanton, with a flush on her -face; “she was my dear friend in the old days. She is beautiful still, -as much as she ever was, I think, and good; she has always been good.” - -“That will do,” said Sir Henry interposing. “We need not discuss the -family; but I think you will see, my dear, that there could not be much -pleasure in any intercourse at this time of day--whatever might have -been the case when you were young.” - -“Intercourse--there could never be any intercourse,” cried Lydia, coming -to the front. “Fancy, papa! intercourse with such people--after all that -has happened! That would be tempting Providence; and it would be an -insult to Geoff.” - -“Let Geoff take care of his own affairs,” said Sir Henry, angrily; and -he gave a forcible twist to the conversation, and threw it into another -channel; but Lady Stanton was very silent all the evening afterwards. -She had wanted to conciliate, and she had not succeeded; and how indeed -could she, among her hostile family, keep up any intercourse with her -old friend? - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - -AT ELFDALE. - - -Nevertheless this meeting could not be got out of Lady Stanton’s mind. -She thought of it constantly; and in the stillness of her own room, when -nobody but the little girls were by, she talked to them of the children, -especially of little Nello, who had attracted her most. What a place of -rest and refreshment that was for her, after all her trials with Laura -and Lydia, and the seriousness of Sir Henry, who was displeased that she -should have gone to Penninghame, and showed it in the way most painful -to the soft-hearted woman, by silence, and a gravity which made her feel -her indiscretion to her very heart. But notwithstanding Sir Henry’s -annoyance, she could not but relieve her mind by going over the whole -scene with Fanny and Annie, who knew, without a word said, that these -private talks in which they delighted--in which their mother told them -all manner of stories, and took them back with her into the time of her -youth, and made them acquainted with all her early friends--were not to -be repeated, but were their own special privilege to be kept for -themselves alone. They had already heard of Mary Musgrave, and knew her -intimately, as children do know the early companions of whom an -indulgent mother tells them, to satisfy their boundless appetite for -narrative. “And what are they to Mary?” the little girls asked, -breathless in their interest about these strange children. They had -already been told; but the relationship of aunt did not seem a very -tender one to Annie and Fanny, who knew only their father’s sisters, old -ladies to whom the elder girls, children of the first marriage, seemed -the only legitimate and correct Stantons, and who looked down upon these -little interlopers as unnecessary intruders. “Only their aunt!--is that -all?” - -They were not in Lady Stanton’s room this time, but seated on an ottoman -in the great bow-window, one on either side of her. Laura and Lydia were -out; Sir Henry was in his library; the coast was clear; no one was -likely to come in and dismiss the children with a sharp word, such -as--“Go away, little girls--there is no saying a word to your mother -while you are there!” or “The little ones again! When we were children -we were kept in the nursery.” The children were aware now that when such -speeches were made, it was better for them not to wait for their -mother’s half-pained, half-beseeching look, but to run away at once, not -to provoke any discussion. They were wise little women, and were, by -nature, of their mother’s faction in this house, where both they and -she, though she was the mistress of it, were more or less on sufferance. -But at present everybody was out of the way. They were ready to fly off, -with their pretty hair fluttering like a gleam of wings, should any of -their critics appear; but the girls had gone a long way, and Sir Henry -was very busy. It was a chance such as seldom occurred. - -“All? when children have not a mother, their aunt is next best; -sometimes she is even better--much better,” said Lady Stanton, thinking -in her heart that John’s wife was not likely to have been of any great -service to her children. “And Mary is not like any one you know. She is -a beautiful lady--not old, like Aunt Rebecca--though Aunt Rebecca is -always very kind. I hope you have not forgotten those beautiful sashes -she gave you.” - -“I don’t think very much of an aunt,” said Fanny, who was the saucy one, -with a shrug of her little shoulders. - -“It must be different,” said Annie, hugging her mother’s arm. They were -not impressed by the happiness of those poor little stranger children in -being with Mary. “Has the little girl got no name, mamma--don’t you know -her name? You say Nello; but that is the boy; though it is more like a -girl than a boy.” - -“It is German--or something--I don’t remember. The little girl is called -Lilias. Oh yes, it is a pretty name enough, but I don’t like it. I once -knew one whom I did not approve of----” - -“We knew,” said Fanny, nodding her head at Annie, who nodded back again; -“Mamma, we knew you did not like the little girl.” - -“I! not like her! Oh, children, how can you think me so unjust? I hope I -am not unjust,” cried Lady Stanton, almost with tears. “Mary is very -proud of her little niece. And she is very good to little Nello. Yes, -perhaps I like him best, but there is no harm in that. He is a -delightful little boy. If you could have had a little brother like -that----” - -“We have only--big brothers,” said Annie, regretfully; “that is -different.” - -“Yes, that is different. You could not imagine Charley with long, fair -curls, and a little tunic, could you?” This made the children laugh, and -concealed a little sigh on their mother’s part; for Charlie was a big -dragoon, and Lady Stanton foresaw would not have too much consideration, -should they ever require his help, for the little sisters whom he -undisguisedly felt to be in his way. - -“I wonder if she wishes he was a little girl.” - -“I wonder! How she must want to have a sister! A little brother would be -very nice, too; we used to play at having a little brother; but it would -not be like Fanny and me. Does she like being at the Castle, mamma?” - -It troubled Lady Stanton that they should think of nothing but this -little girl. It was Lilias that had won their interest, and she could -not tell them why it was that she shrank from Lilias. “They have left -their poor papa all alone and sad,” she said, in a low voice. “I used to -know him too. And it must make them sad to think of him so far away.” - -Once more the children were greatly puzzled. They were not on such terms -of tender intimacy with their father as were thus suggested, but, on the -whole, were rather pleased than otherwise when he was absent, and did -not follow him very closely with their thoughts. They were slightly -humbled as they realized the existence of so much greater susceptibility -and lovingness on the part of the little girl in whom they were so much -interested, than they themselves possessed. How she surpassed them in -this as well as in other things! She talked German as well as English -(if it was German; their mother was not clear what language it -was)--think of that! So perhaps it was not wonderful that she should be -so much fonder of her papa. And a moment of silence ensued. Lady Stanton -did not remark the confused pause in the minds of her children, because -her own mind was filled with wistful compassion for the lonely man whom -she had been thinking of more or less since ever she left Penninghame. -Where was he, all alone in the world, shut out from his own house, an -exile from his country--even his children away from him, in whom perhaps -he had found some comfort? - -This momentary silence was interrupted abruptly by the sound of a voice. -“Are you there, Cousin Mary? and what are you putting your heads -together about?” - -At this sound, before they found out what it was, the children -disengaged themselves suddenly each from her separate clinging to her -mother’s arm, and approached each other as if for flight; but, falling -back to their places when they recognized the voice, looked at each -other, and said both together, with tones of relief, “Oh, it’s only -Geoff!” - -Nothing more significant of the inner life of the family, and the -position of these two little intruders, could have been. - -Geoff came forward with his boyish step and voice in all the smiling -confidence of youth. “I thought I should startle you. Is it a story that -is being told, or are you plotting something? Fanny and Annie, leave her -alone for a moment. It is my turn now.” - -“O Geoff! it is about a little girl and a boy--mamma will tell you too, -if you ask her; and there’s nobody in. We thought at first you were -papa, but he’s so busy. Come and sit here.” - -Geoff came up, and kissed Lady Stanton on her soft, still beautiful -cheek. He was a son of the house, and privileged. He sat down on the -stool the children had placed for him. “I am glad there’s nobody in,” he -said. “Of course the girls will be back before I go; but I wanted to -speak to you--about something.” - -“Shall the children go, Geoff?” - -“Fancy! do you want them to hate me? No, go on with the story. This is -what I like. Isn’t it pleasant, Annie and Fanny, to have her all to -ourselves? Do you mind me?” - -“Oh, not in the least, Geoff--not in the very least. You are like--what -is he like, Annie?--a brother, not a big brother, like Charley: but -something young, something nice, like what mamma was telling us of--a -_little_ brother--grown up----” - -“Is this a sneer at my height?” he said; “but go on, don’t let me stop -the story. I like stories--and most other pleasant things.” - -“It was no story,” said Lady Stanton. “I was telling them only of some -children:--you are very good and forgiving, Geoff--but I fear you will -be angry with me when you know. I was--out by myself--and -notwithstanding all we have against them, I went to see Mary Musgrave. -There! I must tell you at once, and get it over. I shall be sorry if it -annoys you; but Mary and I,” she said, faltering, “were such friends -once, and I have not seen her for years.” - -“Why should I be annoyed--why should I be angry? I am not an avenger. -Poor Cousin Mary! you were out--by yourself!--was that your only reason -for going?” - -“Indeed it is true enough. It is very seldom I go out without the girls: -and they--feel strongly, you know, about that.” - -“What have they to do with it? Yes, I know: they are _plus royalistes -que le roi_. But this is not the story.” - -“Yes, indeed it is, my dear boy. I was telling Annie and Fanny of two -poor children. They belong to a man who is--banished from his own -country. He did wrong--when he was young--oh so many, so many years -ago!--and he is still wandering about the world without a home, and far -from his friends. He was young then, and now--it is so long ago;--ah, -Geoff, you must not be angry with me. The little children are with Mary. -She did not tell me much, for her heart did not soften to me as mine did -to her. But there they are; the mother dead who was at the bottom of it -all; and nobody to care for them but Mary; all through something that -happened before they were born.” - -Lady Stanton grew red as she spoke, her voice trembled, her whole aspect -was full of emotion. The young man shook his head-- - -“I suppose a great many of us suffer from harm done before we were -born,” he said, gravely. “This is no solitary instance.” - -“Ah, Geoff, it is natural, quite natural, that you should feel so. I -forgot how deeply you were affected by all that happened then.” - -“I did not mean that,” he said, gravely. His youthful face had changed -out of its light-hearted calm. “Indeed I had heard something of this, -and I wanted to speak to you----” - -“Run away, my darlings,” said Lady Stanton; “go and see what--nurse is -about. Make her go down with you to the village and take the tea and -sugar to the old women in the almshouses. This is the day--don’t you -remember?” - -“So it is,” said Annie. “But we did not want to remember,” said Fanny; -“we liked better to stay with you.” - -However, they went off, reluctant yet obedient. They were used to being -sent away. It was seldom their mother who did it, willingly--but -everybody else did it with peremptory determination--and the little -girls were used to obey. They untwined themselves from her arms, to -which they had been clinging, and went away close together, with a soft -rush and sweep as of one movement. - -“There go the doves,” said Geoff, looking after them with kind -admiration like that of a brother. It pleased Lady Stanton to see the -friendly pleasure in them which lighted the young man’s eyes. Whoever -married him, he would always, she thought, be a brother to her neglected -children, who counted for so little in the family. She looked after them -with that mother-look which, whether in joy or sorrow, is close upon -tears. Then she turned to him with eyes softened by that unspeakable -tenderness: - -“Whatever you wish,” she said. “Tell me, Geoff; I am ready to hear.” - -“I am as bad as the rest. You have to send them away for me too.” - -“There is some reason in it this time. If you have heard about the -little Musgraves you know how miserable it all is,” said Lady Stanton. -“The old man will have nothing to say to them. He lets them live there, -but takes no notice--his son’s children! And Mary has everything upon -her shoulders.” - -“Cousin Mary, will it hurt you much to tell me all about it?” said the -young man. “Forgive me, I know it must be painful; but all that is so -long over, and everything is so changed----” - -“You mean I have married and forgotten,” she said, her lips beginning to -quiver. - -“I scarcely remember anything about it,” said Geoff, looking away from -her that his eyes might not disturb her more, “only a confused sort of -excitement and wretchedness, and then a strange new sense of importance. -We had been nobodies till then--my mother and I. But I have heard a few -things lately. Walter,--will it pain you if I speak of him?” - -“Poor Walter!--no. Geoff, you must understand that Walter loved somebody -else better than me.” - -She said this half in honest avowal of that humiliation which had been -one of the great wonders of her life, partly in excuse of her own easy -forgetfulness of him. - -“I have heard that too, Cousin Mary, with wonder; but never mind. He -paid dearly for his folly. The other----” - -“Geoff,” said Lady Stanton, with a trembling voice, “the other is living -still, and he has paid dearly for it all this time. We must not be hard -upon him. I do not want to excuse him--it would be strange if I should -be the one to excuse him; but only----” - -“I am very sorry for him, Cousin Mary. I am glad you feel as I do. -Walter may have been in the wrong for anything I know. I do not think it -was murder.” - -“That I am sure it was not! John Musgrave was not the man to do a -murder--oh, no, no; Geoff! he was not that kind of man!” - -Geoff looked up surprised at her eager tone and the trembling in her -voice. - -“You knew him--well?” he said, with that indifferent composure with -which people comment upon the past, not knowing what depths those are -over which they skim so lightly. Could he have seen into the agitation -in Lady Stanton’s heart! But he would not have understood nor realized -the commotion that was there. - -“I always--took an interest in him,” she said, faltering; and then she -felt it her duty to do her best for him as an old friend. “I had known -him all my life, Geoff, as well as I knew Walter. He was hasty and -high-spirited, but so kind--he would have gone out of his way to help -any one. Before he saw that young woman everybody was fond of John.” - -“Did you know _her_ too?” - -“No, no; I did not know her. God forbid! She was the destruction of -every one who cared for her,” said Lady Stanton with a little outburst. -Then she made an effort to subdue herself. “Perhaps I am not just to -her,” she said with a faint smile. “She was preferred to me, you know, -Geoff; and they say a woman cannot forget that--perhaps it is true.” - -“How could he? was he mad?” Geoff said. Geoff was himself tenderly, -filially in love with his cousin Mary. He thought there was nobody in -the world so beautiful and so kind. And even now she was not understood -as she ought to be. Sir Henry thought her a good enough wife, a faithful -creature, perfectly trustworthy, and so forth. It was in this light that -all regarded her. Something better than an upper servant, a little -dearer than a governess; something to be made use of, to do everything -for everybody. She who, Geoff thought in his enthusiasm, was more lovely -and sweet than the youngest of them, and ought to be held pre-eminent -and sacred by everybody round her. This was not the lot that had fallen -to her in life. - -“So I am not the best judge, you see,” said Lady Stanton with a little -sigh. “In those days one felt more strongly perhaps. It all seems so -vivid and clear,” she added half apologetically, though without entirely -realizing how much light these half-confessions threw on her present -state of less lively feeling, “that is the effect of being young----” - -“I think you will always be young,” he said tenderly; then added after a -pause, “Was it a quarrel about--the woman?--” He blushed himself as he -said so, feeling the wrong to her--yet only half knowing the wonder it -was in her thoughts, the double pain it brought. - -“I think so. They were both fond of her; and Walter ought not to have -been fond of her. John--was quite free. He was in no way engaged to any -one. He had a right to love her if he pleased. But Walter interfered, -and he was richer, greater, a far better match. So I suppose she -wavered. This is my own explanation of it. They met then when their -hearts were wild against each other, and there was a struggle. Ah, -Geoff! Has it not cost John Musgrave his life as well as Walter? Has he -ever ventured to show himself in his own country since? And now their -poor little children have come home to Mary; but he will never be able -to come home.” - -“It is hard,” said Geoff thoughtfully. “I wish I knew the law. Fifteen -years is it? I was about six then. Could anything be done? I wonder if -anything could be done.” - -She put her hand on his shoulder with an affectionate caressing touch, -“Thanks for the thought, my dear boy--even if nothing could be done.” - -“You take a great deal of interest in him, Cousin Mary?” - -“Yes,” she said quickly; “I told you we were all young people together; -and his sister was my dear friend. We were called the two Maries in -those days. We were thought--pretty,” she said with a vivid blush and a -little laugh. “You may have heard?” - -Geoff kissed the pretty hand which had been laid on his shoulder, and -which was perhaps a little fuller and more dimply than was consistent -with perfection. “I have eyes,” he said, with a little of the shyness of -his years, “and I have always had a right as a Stanton to be proud of my -cousin Mary. I wonder if Miss Musgrave is as beautiful as you are; I -don’t believe it for my part.” - -“She is far prettier--she is not stout,” said Lady Stanton with a sigh; -and then she laughed, and made her confession over again with a -half-jest, which did not make her regret less real, “and I have lost my -figure. I have developed, as people say. Mary is as slim as ever. Ah, -you may laugh, but that makes a great difference; I feel it to the -bottom of my heart.” - -Geoff looked at her with tender admiration in his eyes. “There has never -been a time when I have not thought you the most beautiful woman in all -the world,” he said, “and that all the great beauties must have been -like you. You were always the dream of fair women to me--now one, now -the other--all except Cleopatra. You never could have been like that -black-browed witch----” - -“Hush! boy. I am too old to be flattered now; and I am stout,” she -said, with that faint laugh of annoyance and humiliation just softened -by jest. Geoff’s honest praise brought no blush to her soft matronly -cheeks, but she liked it, as it pleased her when the children called her -“Pretty Mamma.” They loved _her_ the best, though people had not always -done so. The fact that she had grown stout did not affect their -admiration. Only those who have known others to be preferred to -themselves can realize what this is. After a moment’s hesitation, she -added in a low voice: “I wonder--will you go and see them? It would have -a great effect in the neighbourhood. Oh, Geoff, forgive me if I am -saying too much; perhaps it would not be possible, perhaps it might be -wrong in your position. You must take the advice of somebody more -sensible, less affected by their feelings. Everybody likes you, Geoff, -and you deserve it, my dear; and you are Lord Stanton. It would have a -great effect upon the county; it would be almost like clearing him----” - -“Then I will go--at once--this very day,” said Geoff, starting up. - -“Oh no, no, no,” she said, catching him by the arm; “first of all you -must speak to--some one more sensible than me.” - - - - -CHAPTER X. - -THE OTHER SIDE. - - -While Lady Stanton spread the news of the arrival of the Musgrave -children among the upper classes, this information was given to the -lower, an equally or perhaps even more important influence in their -history, by an authority of a very different kind, to whom, indeed, it -would have been bitter to think that she was the channel of -communication with the lower orders. But such is the irony of -circumstances that it was Mrs. Pennithorne, who prided herself upon her -gentility, and who would have made any sacrifice rather than descend to -a sphere beneath her, who conveyed the report, which ran through the -village like wildfire, and which spread over the surrounding country as -rapidly and effectually as if it had been made known by beacons on the -hill-tops. The village was more interested in the news than any other -circle in the county could be, partly because the reigning house in a -village is its standing romance, the drama most near to it, and most -exciting when there is any drama at all; and partly for still more -impressive personal reasons. The Castle had done much for the district -in this way, having supplied it with more exciting food in the way of -story and incident than any other great house in the north country. -There had been a long interval of monotony, but now it appeared to all -concerned that the more eventful circle of affairs was about to begin -again. The manner in which the story fully reached the village was -simple enough. Mrs. Pennithorne had, as might have been expected, failed -entirely with Mary’s frock. It would not “come” as she wanted it to -come, let her do what she would; and when all her own efforts had -failed, and the stuff was effectually spoiled, soiled, and crumpled, and -incapable of ever looking better than second-hand under any -circumstances, she called in the doctor, as people are apt to do when -they have cobbled at themselves in vain. The dress doctor in Penninghame -and the neighbourhood, the rule of fashion, the grand authority for -everything in the way of _chiffons_, was a certain Miss Price, a lively -little old woman, who had one of the best houses in the village, where -she let lodgings on occasion, but always made dresses. She had been in -business for a great many years, and was an authority both up and down -the water. It was not agreeable to Miss Price to be called in at the -last moment, as it were, to heal the ailments of Mary’s frock; but -partly because it was the clergyman’s house, and partly because of the -gossip which was always involved, she obeyed the summons, as she had -done on many previous occasions. And she did her best, as Mrs. -Pennithorne had done her worst, upon the little habiliment. “Ladies know -nothing about such things,” the little dressmaker said, pinning and -unpinning with energetic ease and rapidity. And the Vicar’s wife, who -looked on helpless but admiring, accepted the condemnation because of -the flattery involved; for Mrs. Pen was elevated over Miss Price by so -brief an interval that this accusation was a kind of acknowledgment of -her gentility, and did her good, though it was not meant to be -complimentary. She liked to feel that hers was that ladylike uselessness -which is only appropriate to high position. She simpered a little, and -avowed that indeed she had never been brought up to know about such -things; and while Miss Price put the spoiled work to rights the Vicar’s -wife did her best to entertain the beneficent fairy who was bringing the -chaos into order. She did not blurt out suddenly the news with which she -was overbrimming, but brought it forth cunningly in the course of -conversation in the most agreeable way. - -“Is there any news, Miss Price?” she said; “but I tell the Vicar that -nothing ever happens here. The people don’t even die.” - -“I beg your pardon, ma’am. There’s two within the last three months; but -to be sure they were long past threescore and ten.” - -“That is what I say. It’s so healthy at Penninghame. Look at the old -Squire now, how hale and hearty he is--and after all he has come -through.” - -“Yes, he has come through a deal,” said Miss Price, putting her pins in -her mouth, “and that’s too true.” - -“Poor old man; and still more and more to put up with. Have you seen the -children, Miss Price? Oh dear! didn’t you know? Perhaps I ought not to -have mentioned it; but people cannot hide up children as they hide -secrets. I have been living here for ten years, and I scarcely know the -rights of the story about John Musgrave yet.” - -“Children!” said Miss Price, with a start which shook the pins out of -her fingers. “To be sure--that came in a coach from Pennington with a -play-acting sort of a woman? But what has that to do with Mr. John?” - -The dressmaker dropped Mary’s frock upon her knees in the excitement of -her feelings. There was more than curiosity involved. “To be sure,” she -said. “To be sure!” going on with her own thoughts, “where should they -come but to the Castle? and who should have them but his family? -’Lizabeth Bampfylde is an honest woman, but not even me, I wouldn’t -trust the children to her. His children! though they would be hers -too----” - -“What do you mean, Miss Price?” said Mrs. Pen, half offended; “are you -going out of your senses? I tell you something about the Squire’s -family, and you get into a way about it as if it could be anything to -you.” - -Miss Price recovered her composure with a rapid effort, but her little -pale countenance reddened. - -“Nothing to me, ma’am,” she said, with what she felt to be a proper -pride. “But if Mr. John has children, they had a mother as well as a -father; and there was a time when that was something to me.” - -“Oh!” cried the Vicar’s wife, “then you knew Mrs. John? tell me about -her. She was a low girl, that is all I know.” - -“She was no low girl, whoever told you,” cried the little dressmaker. -“She was one as folks were fond of, as fond as if she had been a -princess. She was no more low than--I am; she was----” - -“Oh, I did not mean to offend you, Miss Price. Of course I know how -respectable you are--but not the equal of the Squire, you know, or -of----” - -Miss Price looked at the woman who had spoiled Mary’s frock. There she -stood, limp, and faded, and genteel, with no capacity in her fingers and -not much in her head, with a smile of conscious superiority yet -condescension. Miss Price was not her equal. “Good Lord! as if I would -be that useless,” she said to herself, “for all the money in the world! -or to be as grand as the Queen!” But though she was at once exasperated -and contemptuous, politeness and policy at once forbade her to say -anything. She would not “set up her face to a lady,” even when so very -unimpressive as Mrs. Pennithorne; and it did not become the dressmaker -in the village to be openly scornful of the Vicar’s wife. She saved -herself by taking up again with energy and devotion the scattered pins -and the miserable little spoiled bodice of Mary’s frock. - -“I am glad you know about this girl,” said Mrs. Pen, satisfied to have -subdued her opponent, “for I want so much to hear about her. One cannot -get much information from a gentleman, Miss Price. They tell you, ‘Oh -yes, she was a pretty creature!’ as if that is all you cared to know.” - -“It’s what tells most with the gentlemen, ma’am,” said Miss Price, -recovering her composure. “Yes, that she was. I’ve looked at her many a -time and said just the same to myself. ‘Well, you are a pretty -creature!’ I don’t wonder if their heads get turned when they are as -pretty as that; though it isn’t only the pretty ones that get their -heads turned. The girls that I’ve had through my hands! and not one in -ten that went through with the business and kept it up as it ought to be -kept up.” - -“Was Mrs. John Musgrave in the business? Was she in your hands? I -declare! Did he marry her from your house?” - -“She was come of wild folks,” said Miss Price; “there was gipsy blood in -them. They had a little bit of a sheep farm up among the hills in their -best days, and a lone house, where there wasn’t a stranger to be seen -twice in a year. ’Lizabeth Bampfylde, that’s her mother, comes about the -village still. I can’t tell you what she does, she sells her eggs and -chickens, and maybe she does tell fortunes. I won’t say. She never told -me mine. I took a fancy to the lass, and I said, ‘Bring her to me. I’ll -take her; I’ll train her a bit. Oh, how little we know! If I had but let -her bide on the fells!--but what a pretty one she was! Such eyes as she -had; and a skin that wasn’t to say dark--it was brown, but so clear! -like the water when the sun is in it.” - -“You seem to think a great deal of people being pretty.” - -“So I do, ma’am, more than I ought. A woman should have more sense. I’m -near as easy led away as the gentlemen. But there’s different kinds of -beauty, and that is what they never see as want it most. There’s pretty -faces that I can’t abide. They seem to give me a turn. Now that’s where -the men fails,” said the little dressmaker; “all’s one to them, good or -bad, they never see any difference. Lily was never one of the bad ones, -poor dear. Lily? yes, that was the young woman; but she’s not such a -young woman, not a girl now. She’ll be thirty-seven or eight, close upon -that, if she’s living this day.” - -“She is not living--she died five years ago; and Miss Musgrave won’t -believe me that she ought to go into black for her,” said Mrs. -Pennithorne. - -“Ah!” said Miss Price with a sharp cry. She dropped her work at her feet -with an indifference to it which deeply aggrieved Mrs. Pen. The -announcement took her altogether by surprise, and went to her heart. -“Dead! oh my poor Lily, my poor Lily! Was I thinking ill o’ thee? Dead! -and so many left--and her in her prime!” Sudden sobs stopped the good -little woman’s speech, with which she struggled as she went on, making a -brave effort to recover herself as she picked up the little dress. “I -beg your pardon, ma’am, but it was so sudden; it took me unprepared. Oh, -ma’am, that’s the worst of it when you have to do with girls. Few of -them go through with the business, though it would be best for them; -they turn every one to her own way; that’s Scripture, but I mean it. -They marry, and they think themselves so grand with their children, and -it kills ’em. Oh, if I had but left her on the fells! or if she had -stuck by the business like me!” - -“I did not think you took so much interest in her,” said Mrs. Pen, -feeling guilty. “If I had known you cared, I would have been more -careful what I said. But nobody seemed to think much of _her_. It is -always the Musgraves the Vicar speaks of.” - -“The Vicar thought of nothing but Miss Mary,” said Miss Price hastily; -then she corrected herself, “I mean of womanfolk,” she said; “the -Musgraves, ma’am, as you say, that was all he thought of. And that’s -always the way, as far as I can judge. The gentry thinks of their own -side, and we that are but small folks, we think of ours; it’s natural. -Miss Musgrave was not much to me. I never made her but one thing, and -that was a cotton, a common morning frock; she was too grand to have her -things made by the likes of me; but Lily, she sat by my side and sewed -at the same seam. And she’s dead! the bonniest lass on all the water, as -the village folks say.” - -“You don’t talk like the village folks, Miss Price.” - -“No. I’m from the south, as they call it--except when a word creeps in -now and again through being so long here. It’s all pinned and straight, -ma’am, now. It was done almost before I heard the news--and I’m glad of -it, for my eyesight goes when I begin to cry. I don’t think you can go -wrong now,” said Miss Price with a sigh, knowing the powers of her -patroness in that direction. “It’s as well as I can make it--pinned and -basted, and straight before your hand. No, thank you kindly, nothing -for me. I’m that put out that the best thing I can do is to get home.” - -“But dear me, Miss Price--as she is not even a relation!” - -“A relation, what’s that? A girl that you’ve brought up is more than a -relation,” cried the dressmaker, forgetting her manners. And she made up -her patterns tremulously in a little bundle, and hurried out with the -briefest leavetaking, which was not civil, Mrs. Pennithorne said -indignantly. But Miss Price, in her way, was as important as the Vicar’s -wife herself, being alone in her profession, and enjoying a monopoly. It -is possible to be rude, when you are a monopolist, without damage to -your trade; but this, to do her justice, was not the motive which -actuated the little dressmaker, who, in her nature, was anxiously -polite, and indisposed to offend any one; but the news she had heard was -too much for all her little decorums. She made a long round out of her -way to pass by the Castle, though she could scarcely tell why she did -so--nor it was not the children that were most in her mind. Indeed she -scarcely remembered them at all, in her excitement of pain and hot grief -which took the shape of a kind of fiery resentment against life and -nature. Children! what was the good of the children--helpless things -that took a woman’s life, and made even the rest of death bitter to her, -wringing her heart with misery to leave them after costing her her life! -She was an old maid not by accident, but by nature; and what were a -couple of miserable little children in exchange for the life of Lily! -But when, not expecting to see them, not thinking of them save in this -bitter way, Miss Price saw the two children at the door of the hall, -another quick springing sensation rose suddenly in her hasty soul. She -went slowly past, gazing at them, trying to say to herself that she -hated the sight of them, Lily’s slayers! But her kind heart was too much -for her quick temper, and as soon as they were out of sight, the little -dressmaker sat down by the wayside and cried, sobbing like a child. -Little dreadful creatures, who had worn their mother to death, and -killed her in her prime! Poor little forlorn orphans, without a mother! -She did not know which feeling was the warmest and strongest. But she -reached home so shaken between the two emotions, that her present -assistant, who filled the place to which Miss Price had hoped to train -Lily, and who was a good girl with no nonsense in her head, fully -intending to go through with the business, was frightened by the -appearance of her principal, who stumbled into the little parlour all -garlanded with paper patterns, with tremulous step and blanched cheeks, -as if she had seen a ghost. - -“Something’s to do!” cried the girl. - -Miss Price made no immediate reply, but sank into a chair to get her -breath. - -“Oh nothing; nothing you know of,” she said at last, “nothing that need -trouble you;” and then after a pause, “nothing that will warn you even, -not one of you, silly things. You’d all do just the same to-morrow, -though it was to cost you your lives.” - -“I’ll run and get you a cup of tea,” said Sarah, which showed her to be -a young woman of sense. Where lives the woman to whom this cordial, -promptly and as it were accidentally administered, does not do good? -Miss Price gradually recovered herself as she sipped the fragrant tea, -and told her story with many sighs and lamentations, yet not without a -certain melancholy pleasure. - -“If girls would only think,” she said; “if they would take a warning; -but ne’er a one of you will do that. You think it’s grand to marry a -gentleman; but it would be far better to go through with the business -like I’ve done, far better! though you’ll never think so.” - -Sarah was respectfully sympathetic; she shook her head with a look of -awe and melancholy acquiescence; but nevertheless she did not think so. -She was only twenty, and thirty-seven was a good age. To marry a -gentleman, even at the risk of dying at thirty-seven like Lily, was -better than living till sixty like Miss Price; but she did not say so. -She acquiesced, and even cried over the lost Lily, whom she had never -seen, with the easy emotion of a girl. She herself meant sincerely to go -through with the business; but anyhow Sarah was as much excited by the -news as heart could desire. Miss Price was very determined that it -should not be talked of, that the story should not be spread in the -village. “Don’t let them say _again_ it came from us,” she said; but -however that might be, before the next morning it had spread through -the parish, and beyond the parish. Such things get into the atmosphere. -What can conceal a secret? It is the one thing certain to be found out, -and which every one is bound to know. There was nothing else talked -about in the cottages or when neighbours met, for some days. The men -talked of it over their beer, even, in the public-houses. “She were a -bonnie lass,” the elder ones said; and all the girls in the district -felt that they individually might have been Lily, and felt sad for her. -The children (who could not be hid) were followed by eager looks of -curiosity when they appeared, and the resemblance of Lilias to her -mother was too remarkable not to strike every one who had known her; and -the entire story which had excited the district so deeply in its time, -and which, with its mixture of all the sentiments which are most -interesting to humanity, was almost as exciting still as ever, was -retold, a hundred times over, for the benefit of the younger generation. -In these lower regions, as was natural, the interest all centred in the -beautiful girl, who, though “come of wild folk,” and not even an -appropriate bride for a well-to-do hopeful of the village, had “the -offer of” two gentlemen, one the young lord, and the other the young -squire. Had such fortune ever come before to a lass from the fells? How -she had been courted! not as the village lovers wooed with a sense of -equality, at least, if not perhaps something more; but John Musgrave and -young Lord Stanton had thought nobody in the world like her. And the -young lord, poor fellow! had even broken his word for her, a sin which -was but a glory the more to Lily in the eyes of the village -critics--however bitterly it might have been condemned had his forsaken -bride been a village maiden too. That this rivalry should have gone the -length of blood, all for Lily’s sweet looks, was a thing the middle-aged -narrators shook their heads over with many a moral, “You see what the -like of that comes to, lasses,” they said. But the lasses only put their -heads closer, and felt their hearts beat higher. To be fought for, to be -died for! It was terrible, no doubt, but glorious. “Such things never -happen nowadays” they said to themselves with a sigh. - -And the news did not stop down below in the plain, but mounted with the -winds and the clouds, and reached lone places in the fells, where it -raised a wilder excitement still--at least in one melancholy and -solitary place. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - -AN AFTERNOON’S WORK. - - -“You must not cry, Nello; for one thing you are too big to cry; or if -you are not too big you are too old. You are eight--past! and then the -old gentleman downstairs is such a funny, funny old man, that he will -eat us, Nello, if we make a noise.” - -“I don’t believe you,” said the little boy, whom England had much -improved in strength. “Old men do not eat children,” but he drew back a -little, and stopped crying all the same. - -“We do not know no-ting about old men in England,” said Lilias--the _th_ -was still a difficulty to her; and they both pronounced their _rs_ in a -way which was unfamiliar to English ears, though the letter exists and -retains its natural sound in the north country. “They are very very -strange; they sit in a chair all day, like the wild beasts. I go to the -door and peep in. He has no cap on his head like Don Pepé, but a bare -place here, where the cap should be, and white hair. And he never moves -nor speaks. Sometimes I think he will be cut out of wood; and then all -at once he rises up,--and me, I run away.” - -“Are you not afraid, Lilias? I should be frightened,” said the little -boy, looking at her with large wondering eyes. - -“That is because you are only eight, but I am twelve, and one is never -frightened after twelve. I run away, and it makes me beat and thump -here,” Lilias put her hand to her heart to indicate the place, “and I -like it.” - -“Yes,” said the little brother, “when you run it makes that beat; but I -do not like it.” - -“Ah, you are a baby,” said Lilias. She stood with her dark hair shaken -back, and her eyes shining, an image of visionary daring. Nothing could -be more unlike than these two children. The boy had all the features of -his race, blue eyes, fair hair, with a touch of gold in it, a fair -complexion, browned and reddened, indeed, with his long journey and the -warm sun he had been used to, but already changing into the pink and -white of English childhood. But there were none of the Musgrave features -in Lilias. Her dark eyes, dancing with life and energy, her warm colour, -clear brown with an underlying rose tint, and a downy bloomy surface -which softened every outline, and her crisp, yet shining dark hair, all -belonged, not only to a different species, but to a different type of -race. The Musgraves were robust and strong, but their strength was not -of this buoyant kind. The cloud of anxiety which had been about her on -her first appearance, that mystery of doubt with which a little human -creature regards the strange and novel, in whatever form, not knowing if -harm or good may be coming, had floated away, and Lilias had already -taken back her natural character. She was at home in the house, every -room of it, though she knew that she was hidden and thrust into corners, -on account of “the old gentleman downstairs.” This did not depress or -trouble her, but felt like a joke, a mystification and masquerading such -as is dear to childhood. She threw herself into the spirit of it with -enjoyment, instead of brooding over it with melancholy consciousness, -which was what Mary, forgetting childhood, as all grown people do, had -feared. - -The children were in the hall, which had now grown so familiar to them -that they could not understand how they had ever feared it. It was one -of those exceptional days which occur now and then in the winter before -the turn of the year. The whole world was full of sunshine. There was -not a cloud in the sky, and the great green hill in front of them rose -up in dazzling clearness of relief, like a visible way of ascent into -heaven. There was not a breath stirring; the trees, without a leaf upon -them, printed themselves against the blue of the sky and the green of -the hill, in minute perfection of branch and twig, like a photograph. -The lake was as still and as blue as the sky--everything lay in the -sunshine charmed and stilled, hanging motionless as it were between -earth and heaven. The sense that it was mid-winter, the natural season -of storms, seemed to have got into the air, which wondered over its own -stillness, and into the skies, which excelled themselves in lightness -and soft blueness, snatching this moment of delight with a fearful joy. -Earth took that ecstasy as one who was well aware that she could not -answer for the morrow. The great doorway of the hall stood wide open; it -was after mid-day, and the sun streamed in, having got to the west so -much earlier than in summer. Lilias and her little brother, children of -the sun, were planted in the midst of it, enjoying it with unconscious -exhilaration. Martuccia sat in the open doorway, basking in it, -knitting; a tranquil, almost motionless figure, with that faculty of -repose which is no doubt awarded to nurses in compensation for the -endless calls upon their activity. She had put a little tartan -shawl--congenial garment--upon her fine shoulders, and, with her silver -pins and glowing black hair all whitened by the sunshine, sat perfectly -motionless except for the little rustle of her hands and click of her -knitting-needles. It seemed immaterial whether it might be years or -moments that the robust and comely watcher should hold that peaceful -guardian place. She was paying no attention to the children, yet the -lightest appeal, a querulous exclamation, a longer pause than usual, -anything or nothing, would have brought her to her nurselings. It was -the repose of the mother, who sees everything and feels everything, even -when she does not see: and the additional security which her presence -brought to them, though she sat apart and had nothing to do with their -talk or their play, the strong support of the background which she made, -it would be hard to tell in words. They had been playing in the spacious -place, all lighted and warmed through and through with sunshine. Miss -Musgrave had not yet made her appearance; either she had less time to -spend in her favourite resort, or the fact that it had been appropriated -to the children, as specially suitable in its size and separateness for -their enjoyment, had made her relinquish its use. The great bay window -in the recess gave back a reflected light from the shining of the lake, -which added a colder tone to the prevailing brightness; and in the old -fireplace there burned a smouldering fire, half coals half wood. Every -feature of the place had grown familiar to the two little things who -were once so alarmed by its dark corners--so familiar that they could -not understand how they had ever been afraid. The kind old spacious -silent hall sheltered them with a large passive protection not unlike -that of Martuccia herself. - -But the afternoon languor had stolen upon the boy and girl, -notwithstanding the brightness. They, had come to a pause in their round -of amusement, and though half-tired, were yet looking about with all -their quick senses for some new delight. A little scuffle, a little -quarrel and crying fit on Nello’s part, which had been put a stop to by -the warning of Lilias already recorded, had left them free for a new -start, but not with the old plays, which were worn out for the moment. -They made an unconscious pause, and looked about them to find some -novelty; and both pounced upon one at the same moment with a burst of -sudden and unlooked-for rapture. A great broad sheet of something white -lay stretched out on Mary’s table, in company with an open colour-box -and brushes--a sight too tempting to be resisted by any child, -especially after the exhaustion of a long day’s play. It was wonderful -that they had overlooked it so long. They caught sight of it -simultaneously now, and the result was a sudden rush of eager curiosity. -The boy got first to the goal; perhaps he had been by a second of time -the first to start. He grasped one side of the white sheet with his hot -little hand, and climbing into the chair which stood before it, threw -himself upon the new wonder. “It is Mary’s,” said Lilias, making a -feeble effort to hold him back; but her own curiosity was much stronger -than her sense of duty to Mary, who allowed them to see everything and -share everything she had. They both leant over the table breathless, the -mysterious whiteness crackling beneath their hands. It was a sheet of -dazzling white vellum, ornamented with what they considered beautiful -pictures, a puzzling, yet a tempting sight to the children. It was -nothing less than a genealogical tree, their own pedigree, which Miss -Musgrave, skilled in such works, was preparing for her father, -ornamented with emblazoned coats of arms, some of them unfinished and -inviting completion with a seductive force which made the children’s -hearts beat. - -“What is it?” said Nello, in a tone of awe. - -“I know,” said Lilias, confidently; “it is a copy. You have had no -education, you don’t know what a copy is: but me, I have done them, -though never any so pretty as this. Mary is a grown-up lady, old, not -like us; it must be Mary’s copy. You should not touch it, you are too -little.” - -“I will try,” cried Nello, with his eyes upon the brushes. Already he -had rubbed against something not yet dry, and had smudged the colour, to -the horror of his sister. He had both his elbows upon it and the greater -part of his small person. - -“Oh, what have you done, you naughty boy!” cried Lilias; “you cannot do -it. Let me!” - -“Yes, I will do it, I will do it!” cried Nello, seizing the crackling -vellum and dashing at it with a brush full of colour. Lilias had to -stand and look on, sorest of miseries, while her little brother -performed badly what she felt she could have done well. There was a -large shield in the centre, upon which the cherished “augmentation,” the -chief ornament of the Musgrave arms, was slightly drawn. Gules on a -shield argent, it ought to have been--Nello made a blurred dash of -bright blue, surrounded by a sea of red. “How it is pretty!” he cried in -his half-foreign speech, with a crow of triumph. Colour upon colour! and -such colour! the sight would have driven Mr. Musgrave wild. - -Lilias uttered a cry of horror; but the work of destruction was very -captivating. Close to the vellum was the original draught of the -genealogical tree, from which Mary had been copying. Lilias took -possession of this, and carried it away to the table in the recess. She -meant only to look at it, but the temptation was too much for her. At -the bottom of the page an escutcheon void of all colour gradually caught -her eye, a little white space which might be made, she thought, to -resemble the others with great advantage to the whole. That this came -opposite to the name of John Musgrave was nothing to the child, but the -sight of it wrought her by degrees into a sort of creative frenzy. She -would not spoil it as Nello was doing, but to complete what was wanting -could be no harm. Lilias took a brush and filled it with fine broad -vermilion, a colour about which there could be no mistake, and painted -the vacant shield a strong decided gules, safe from any accident. The -outline was not very firm, and there were overflowings and runs of -colour outside, but at all events the hue was undeniable. She was -standing looking at it with a satisfied yet agitated mind, with the -brush still in her hand, when her elbow was grasped by some one behind -and a hand laid on her shoulder. In the start she gave, the child’s arm -made a nervous jerk of the brush over the paper, and ran a tremulous -line of red over some half-dozen of the kindred names. “Mary!” she cried -with a sudden perception of wrong-doing. But Lilias did not weep or -excuse herself. She got quite pale, with a red spot on each cheek, and -stood, not even dropping the brush, looking up at her judge, with the -corners of her mouth suddenly turned downwards, and a gleam of awakened -understanding in her alarmed eyes. - -“Lilias! I thought I could trust you; what have you been doing?” cried -Mary. “And Nello?” she added, looking round with dismay at the more -important work. Nello had already been roused to that instinctive sense -of harm which comes with the arrival of an aggrieved person. But he did -not face his victim as Lilias did. He threw down his streaming pencil on -the vellum, got down from his chair in the twinkling of an eye, and fled -to take shelter with Martuccia, who, ever ready to defend, and yet -unaware who was wrong, put an arm round him at once and faced Miss -Musgrave with prompt defiance. - -“Oh Mary!” cried Lilias, trembling, “Nello did not mean it. He is so -little. Nello did not know.” - -Mary was not so angelically sweet as to be indifferent to the damage -done, but she had not the freedom of reproof which people exercise with -children familiar to them. The little meddlers were still strangers. So -she restrained herself and said nothing. She went to the parchment and -began to sponge off the still wet colour. Nello kept in his refuge -regarding her from afar, ready to bolt behind Martuccia if she made any -hostile advances and hide himself in his nurse’s skirt. But Lilias -followed Miss Musgrave closely as her shadow. She watched the sponging -with the gravest anxious attention. She kept herself close against -Mary’s dress, touching it, and put herself in Mary’s way, and interposed -her wistful face, now quite pale and troubled, between the vellum and -Mary’s eyes. At last her aunt said, perhaps somewhat peevishly, “What do -you want, child? You have done harm enough for one morning. Pray go out -of my way.” - -“Have we done much harm?” said Lilias, with strained and anxious eyes. - -“Yes; you have spoiled my week’s work, you mischievous children,” said -Mary, melting a little. “I shall have to do it over again. I did not -expect this, Lilias, from you.” - -“It was very, very bad of me,” said the child, with perfect seriousness, -her eyes slowly filling; “but Nello is such a little fellow--he did not -know----” - -“Then why did you do it, Lilias?” - -The child looked up searchingly into her face. “I think it must have -been the devil,” she said, with portentous gravity, drawing a heavy -sigh. - -An impulse of laughter came to Miss Musgrave in the midst of her -annoyance; but partly she restrained it for high moral reasons, and -partly she was still too much annoyed to give way to laughter. “What do -you know about--the devil?” she said. “I think it was your own little -mischievous hands, and your curiosity.” - -“Oh, I know a great deal about him. Mr. Pennithorne told us on Sunday; -and Martuccia must be of the same religion as Mr. Pen, for she worships -him too,” said Lilias, aware of the advantages of digression when things -were so serious as they were now. - -“Worships him, Lilias! You must not use such words.” - -“They are always thinking of him, and they say he does everything. They -are very, very afraid of him,” said Lilias seriously, “and so am I--he -can do whatever he pleases; but I cannot think he is as strong as God.” - -“And it was he who made you spoil my papers----?” - -“Oh, Mary, not Nello--only me. Nello is such a little fellow, he did not -mean it--he did not know what he was doing----” - -“And did you?” - -Lilias pressed very close against Mary’s side. Her heart was beating -loudly in her brave little bosom. Her sense of crime had not been -lightened by the postponement of the punishment which must, she -thought, be coming. But it was not in her to fly as her brother had -done. She took a furtive hold of Mary’s gown. No hope of any forgiveness -was in her serious soul; yet to whom could she cling in earth and heaven -but only to this inflictor of stern justice? She kept her eyes fixed on -Mary’s face, that she might see the fearful doom which was coming--that -would always be a help in bearing it--and kept close to her, pressing -against her. “_Aie-tu peur de moi? cache-toi dans mes bras_”--this was -the child’s impulse in her penitence and terror. - -Mary forgot her vellum and its stains. She put her arm round the child, -whose eyes opened a little wider thinking the judgment was coming, but -who never shrank. “You will not do it again,” she said. Lilias could not -understand that it was over. She bent back a little the better to see -Mary’s face. - -“Will you not punish me?” said the child. Between the fear and the -wonder she was breathless. This was the most wonderful of all. - -“No, dear--you will never do it again.” - -“Nor Nello?” She put her arms round Mary’s arm, with that soft clinging -which is irresistible in a child, and leant her head against her, and -began to sob as if her heart would break. Then Nello, seeing the worst -was over, came out from his shelter, venturing a few steps, then a few -more. Forgiveness did not touch him, as punishment would have done. He -came slowly, ready to turn and fly at any hostile demonstration. Nello -had, as it were, an army at his back, his ships to take refuge in; but -still it was with great caution that he made his advance. This little -exhibition of character, however, soon melted in a more agreeable -sentiment. As soon as the contingency was over, both the children, -restored to a tremulous ease of mind, were seized with a common impulse -of curiosity and interest. They forgot their own culpability in watching -the obliteration of the damage they had done. Fortunately the discovery -had been made in time, and the process of reparation, if not so -exciting, was almost as interesting to them as the delicious frenzy of -mischief in which they had wrought this harm. They pressed upon Mary as -she worked, one at each side. When the last trace had disappeared they -gave a cry of joy. How clever Mary was! She could do everything. As for -Nello, he was unmoved morally by the spectacle; it had been amusing all -through, all but the moment of fear, which fortunately came to nothing. -But Lilias never forgot this scene, and still less did Mary forget it, -whose heart seemed to be learning a hundred sweet and subtle lessons, -and to whom the child, even in her naughtiness, was like an angel, -leading her to depths unsounded, nay, unthought of till now. - -But when they had gone away, joyous as usual, to their “tea,” which was -a meal much scorned and wondered at by Martuccia, Mary went to the other -table where lay the draught of the more important document upon which -Lilias had been employed when she came into the hall. At this she smiled -and shuddered, with a curious mixture of feelings. The little girl’s -mischief had taken a symbolical form. The blank shield which represented -her mother was blurred and blood-red, and a stroke like blood ran across -her father’s name; and that of her father’s father, from the little pool -of red in the daubed shield. Lilias knew nothing of the lives from which -her little life had sprung. It was accident, caprice, a child’s fancy -for bright colour--yet it made Mary shudder even when she smiled. - -Another incident, which she paid less attention to--indeed, did not -think of at all--happened this same evening. She went to the door where -Martuccia had been seated, her own favourite place, though now in great -part given up to the children and their attendant, to look out upon the -evening before she left the hall. When she had looked at the sky where -the early wintry sunset was just over, leaving deep gorgeous tints of -red and yellow upon a blue which was deepened by coming frost, Mary’s -look came back, carelessly enough, by the lower level of the long brown -road. And it was with a momentary start that she found herself almost -face to face with an unthought-of spectator, who was standing at the -foot of the little slope, gazing intently up to the hall door. Mary was -puzzled to see that though the woman’s appearance was like that of many -of the older women about, she did not know her; and at the same time she -was equally perplexed by a consciousness that the face looking up at her -thus eagerly was not that of a stranger. She could not associate it with -any name, yet she seemed acquainted with the features, which were fine, -and of an unusual cast. The stranger’s look was so intense that it -struck Miss Musgrave like an audible petition. “Did you want anything?” -she said with natural courtesy, making a step towards her. The woman -turned sharp round on her heels with a hasty wave of her hand, and went -hurriedly away towards the village without further reply. Who could she -be? Mary asked herself lightly, and went in and forgot all about her. -The people are independent in their ways, and not grateful for a casual -address, in the north. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - -VISITORS. - - -“My Lord Stanton, ma’am,” said Eastwood, with a certain expansion in the -throat and fulness of voice, like that swell and gurgle which -accompanies in a bird the fullest tide of song. Who has not heard that -roll in the voice of the man who mouths a title like a succulent morsel? -A butler who loves his family, and who has the honour of announcing to -them the visit of the greatest potentate about, is a happy man. And this -was what Eastwood felt, as he uttered with a nightingale trill and swell -of satisfaction this honoured name. - -“Lord--_whom_----?” Mary rose to her feet so much startled that she did -not know what she said. - -“Lord Stanton, ma’am,” the butler repeated. “He asked if you would -receive him. He said as he would not come in till I asked would you -receive him, ma’am. I said you was at home, and not engaged--but he -said----” - -“Lord Stanton!” The name seemed to hurt her, and a kind of dull fear -rose in Mary’s mind. She knew, of course, who it was! the young -successor of the man who, with intention or not, her brother had brought -to his death. She knew well enough about Geoff. It had not been possible -to hear the name at any time without interest, and in this way Mary had -learned as much as strangers knew of the young lord. But what could he -want here? A subdued panic seized her. She did not know what he could -do, or if he could do anything; but that he should come merely as a -friend did not seem probable. And how then had he come? She made a -tremendous pause before she said, “Let him come in, Eastwood.” Eastwood -thought Miss Musgrave was very properly impressed by the name of the -young lord. - -Geoff, for his part, waited outside, anxious as to how he was to be -received, and very desirous in his boyish generosity to make a good -impression. He had driven to Penninghame, a long way, and his horses, -drawn up at the door, made a great show, when the children passed, -stealing round the corner like little intruders, but so much attracted -by this sight, that they almost forgot their orders never to approach -the hall door. Geoff himself was standing at some distance from his -phaeton, waiting for his answer; but even Lilias was old enough to know -that to address commendatory remarks and friendly overtures to a horse -or a dog is more easy and natural than to address a man. She said, “Oh, -look, Nello, what lovely horses!” but only ventured to look up shyly -into the friendly face of their owner, though she was not without an -impression that he, too, was nice, and that he might give his friends a -drive perhaps, with the lovely horses, a service which was not in the -power of the animals themselves. - -Geoff went up to them, holding out his hand. “You are the little -Musgraves, I suppose?” he said. - -The boy hung back, as usual, hanging by Martuccia’s skirts. “Yes,” said -Lilias, looking at him intently, as she always did; and she added at -once, “This is Nello,” and did her best to put her small brother in the -foreground, though he resisted, holding back and close to his protector. - -“Is he shy, or is he frightened? He need not be frightened of me,” said -Geoff, unconsciously conscious of the facts between them which might -have caused the child’s timidity had he been old enough to know. “Nello -is an odd name for a boy.” - -“Because you do not know where he came from,” said Lilias quickly. -“Nello is born in Florence. Here you will call him John. It is not so -pretty. And me, I am born in France,” she continued; “but we are -English children. That does not make any difference.” - -“Don’t you think so?” said simple Geoff. The little woman of twelve who -thus fixed him with her great beautiful eyes, made him feel a boy in -comparison with her mature childhood. She never relaxed in her watchful -look. This was a habit Lilias had got, a habit born of helplessness, and -of the sense of responsibility for her brother which was so strong in -her mind. That intent, half-suspicious vigilance, as of one fully aware -that he might mean harm, and quick to note the approach of danger, -disconcerted Geoff, who meant nothing but good. “I know two little -girls,” he said, trying to be conciliatory, “who would like very much to -know you.” - -“Ah!” said Lilias, melting a little, but shaking her head. “I have to -take care of Nello; but if they would come here, and would not mind -Nello,” she added, “perhaps I might play with them. I could -ask--Mary----” - -“Who is--Mary?” - -“Oh! don’t you know? If you do not know Mary we should not talk to -you--we only ought to talk to friends--and besides, you have no right to -call her Mary if you do not know her,” said Lilias. She turned back to -say this after she had gone a few steps away from him, following Nello, -who, tired of the conversation, had gone on with his guardian to the -Chase. - -“That is quite true, and I beg your pardon,” said Geoff; “it must be -Miss Musgrave you mean.” - -Lilias nodded approving. She began to take an interest in this big boy. -He was not strictly handsome, but had a bright, attractive countenance, -and the child scarcely ever saw any male creature except Eastwood and -Mr. Pen. “Have you come to see her?” she asked wistfully; “are you going -to be a--friend?” - -“Yes,” said Geoff with a little emotion, “if she will let me. I am -waiting to know. And tell me your name?” he added, with a slight tremor -in his voice, for he was young and easily touched. “I will always be a -friend to you.” - -“I am Lilias,” she said shyly, giving him her hand, for which he had -held out his. And this was how Eastwood found them when he came bustling -out to inform my lord that Miss Musgrave would see his lordship, if he -would be good enough to step this way. Eastwood was much “struck” to see -his lordship holding “little Miss’s” hand. It raised little Miss in the -butler’s opinion. “If she had been a bit older, now!” he said to -himself. Geoff was half reluctant to leave this little new acquaintance -for the audience which he had come here expressly to ask. Mary was not -likely to be so easily conciliated as little Lilias. And being a lord -did not make him less shy. He waved his hand and took off his hat with a -little sigh, as he followed Eastwood into the house; and Lilias, for her -part, followed Nello slowly, with various thoughts in her small head. -These it must be allowed were chiefly about the little girls who wanted -to make friends with her--and of whom her lonely imagination made -ecstatic pictures--and of the lovely horses who could spin her away over -the broad country, if that big boy would let them. But Lilias did not -think very much about the big boy himself. - -Geoff went in blushing and tremulous to Miss Musgrave’s drawing-room. It -was not a place so suitable to Mary as her favourite hall, being dark -and somewhat low, not worthy either of her or of Penninghame Castle. She -was standing, waiting to receive him, and after the bow with which he -greeted her, Geoff did not know what to say to disclose his object. His -object itself was vague, and he had no previous knowledge of her, as his -cousin Mary had, to warrant him in addressing her. She offered him a -chair, and she sat down opposite him; and then there began an -embarrassing pause which she would not, and which he did not seem able -to, break. At last, faltering and stammering-- - -“I came, Miss Musgrave,” he began, “to say--I came to tell you--I came -to ask--Circumstances,” cried Geoff, impatient of his own incapacity, -“seem to have made our families enemies. I don’t know why they should -have done so.” - -“If the story is true, Lord Stanton, it is easy enough to see how they -should have done so. My brother was concerned, they say, in your -brother’s death.” - -“No one could prove that he did it, Miss Musgrave.” - -“He did not do it with intention, I am sure,” she said. “But so much is -true. It was done, and how could we be friends after? We should have -been angels--you to pardon the loss you had sustained, we to pardon the -wrong we had done.” - -There was a gleam of agitation and pain in her eyes which might well -have been taken for anger. The young man was discouraged. - -“May I not say anything, then?” he said, wistfully. “My cousin Mary, -Lady Stanton, whom you know, told me--but if you are set against us too, -what need to say anything? I had hoped indeed, that you----” - -“What did you hope about me? I should be glad of any approach. I grieved -for your brother as if he had been mine. Oh more, I think, more! if it -had been poor John who had died----” - -“It would have been better,” said the young man. “Yes, yes, Miss -Musgrave, that is what I feel; Walter had the best of it. Your brother -has been more than killed. But I came to say, that so far as we are -concerned, there need not be any more misery. Let him come home, Miss -Musgrave, let him come home! We none of us can tell now how Walter -died.” - -Mary was moved beyond the power of words. She got up hastily and took -his hand, and pressed it between her own. - -“Thank you, I shall always thank you!” she cried, “whether he comes home -or not. Oh, my dear boy, who are you that come with mercy on your lips? -You are not like the rest of us!” - -Mary was thinking of others, more near, whose wrongs were not as the -Stantons’, but whom nothing could induce to forgive. - -“I am my mother’s son,” said Geoff, his eyes brighter than usual, with a -smile lighting up the moisture in them. What Mary said seemed a tribute -to his mother, and this made him glad. “She does not know, but she would -say so. Let him come home. I heard of the children, and that your -brother----” - -“Yes,” said Miss Musgrave, “from Mary. She told you. She always took an -interest in him. Do you know,” she added in a low voice of horror, “that -there is a verdict against him, a coroner’s verdict of murder?” - -She shuddered at the word as she said it, and so did he. - -“But not a just one. No jury would say it was--that: not now----” - -“Heaven knows what a jury would say. It is all half forgotten now; and -as for the dates, and all those trifles that tell in a trial, who knows -anything about them? Even I--could I swear to the hour my brother went -out that morning? I could once, and did, and it is all written down. But -I don’t seem sure of anything now, not that there ever was a Walter -Stanton, or that I had a brother John; and I am one of the interested; -the people who were not specially interested, do you think they would -have better memories? Ah, no; and he fled; God help him! I don’t know -why he did it. That was against him; though I don’t think anyone -believes that John Musgrave did _that_, now.” - -“I am sure they do not, and that is why I came. Let him come home, Miss -Musgrave. He would not have been convicted had he been tried. I have -been reading it all up, and I have taken advice. He would be cleared. -And if there is risk in it, we would all stand by him. I would stand by -him,” said the young man with a generous flush of resolution, “so much -as I am worth. I want you to tell him so. Tell him to come home.” - -Mary shook her head. How long she had been calm about this terrible -domestic tragedy, and how it all rose upon her now! She got up, in her -agitation, and walked about the room. - -“How could he risk it--how could he risk it--with that sentence against -him?” she said; then after a while she came back to her seat, and looked -at Geoff piteously with a heartrending look in her eyes. She was past -crying, which would have relieved her. “That is not all,” she said in a -low voice. “Alas, alas! if all was well, and he might come home when he -pleased, it would matter less. I know nothing about him, Lord Stanton. I -don’t know my brother any longer, nor where he is, nor how he is living -now.” - -“But his children have just come to you!” - -“Yes, out of the unknown. No one knows anything about him; and suddenly -they came out of the darkness, as I tell you. That is where he is: out -in the world, in the dark, in the unknown----” - -“There are ways of penetrating the unknown,” said Geoff, cheerfully. -“There are advertisements; everybody sees the _Times_ nowadays. It goes -all over the world. Wherever there is an Englishman he sees it somehow. -Let us advertise.” - -“He would not see it.” - -“Then a detective--let us send some one----” - -“Oh no, no, no,--not that. I could not bear that. We must let him alone -till he comes of his own accord. Let well alone,” said Mary, in her -panic. She scarcely knew what she said. - -“Well! do you call it well, Miss Musgrave, that your brother should be -away from his home, from everything he loves--his country lost to him, -his position, all his friends?” - -“He has not been separated from everything he loves; he had wife and -children; does a man care for anything else? What was this old house to -him, and--us--in comparison? His wife is dead--that was God’s doing; and -his children have come home--that is his own choice. I say, let well -alone, Lord Stanton; when he wishes it he will--come--back; but not to -those he loves,” Mary said in a low tone. - -Geoff could not fathom her meaning, it was beyond him. The accusation -under which John Musgrave lay was bad enough. It was cowardly of him (he -thought) to fly and leave this stigma, uncontested, upon his own name; -but that there should be any further mystery did not seem possible to -the young man. Perhaps there was something wrong with the family, some -incipient insanity, monomania, eccentricity. He could not understand it. -But at least he had shown his goodwill, if no more. - -“I must not dictate to you, Miss Musgrave,” he said; “you know best,” -and he rose to go away, but stood hesitating, reluctant to consent to -the failure of his generous mission. “If I can be of any use, at any -time,” he added, blushing and faltering; “not that I can do much: but if -you should--change your mind--if you should--think----” - -She took his hand once more in both of hers. - -“I shall always think that you have the kindest and most generous heart: -and are a friend--a true friend--to John, and everybody in trouble.” - -“I hope so,” said the youth, fervently; “but that is nothing;--to you, -Miss Musgrave, if I can ever be of any use.” - -“I will ask you, if it ever can be,” she said. “I will not forget.” - -He kept hold of her hands when she loosed them, and with a confused -laugh and change of tone, asked “About the children? I met them just -now. Might I bring my little cousins, Lady Stanton’s children, to see -them? They want to meet.” - -“Sir Henry would not like it, though she might. Sir Henry is not like -you.” - -“I know; he is _plus royalist que le roi_. But the children would. And -they don’t deny me anything,” said Geoff, with a little laugh. - -He scarcely knew why this was--but it was so; nothing was denied to him; -he was the _enfant gâté_ of Elfdale. Miss Musgrave was not, however, -quite so complacent. She gave an assent which was cold and unwilling, -and which quenched Geoff’s genial enthusiasm. He went back to his -phaeton quite subdued and silent. “But I will see that little thing -again,” he said to himself. - -In the mean time, while this conversation had been going on, Lilias had -wandered forth alone into the Chase. Martuccia had gone before with -Nello, while Lilias talked to the young man; and now the child followed -dreamily, as she was in the habit of doing, her eyes abstracted, her -whole being rapt in a separate consciousness, which surrounded her like -an atmosphere of her own. She knew vaguely that the little brother and -his nurse were in front of her; but the watchfulness of Lilias had -relaxed, and she was not thinking of Nello. He was safe; here was no one -who could interfere with him. She had taken up a branch of a tree which -lay in her path and had caught her childish fancy, and with this she -went on, using it like a pilgrim’s staff, and saying a kind of low -chant, without words, to herself, to which the rough staff was made to -keep time. What was she thinking of? everything, nothing; thought indeed -was not necessary to the fresh soul in that subdued elation and -speechless gladness. There was a vague sense in her mind of the brisk -air, the sunshine, the blue sky, the floating clouds, all in one; but -had the clouds been low upon the trees, and the air all damp instead of -all exhilaration, it would have made little difference to Lilias. Her -spring of unconscious blessedness was within herself. Her song was not -music nor her movements harmony in any way that could be accounted for -by rule; and indeed the low succession of sounds which came from her -lips unawares, and to which her little steps and the stroke of the rough -stick kept time, was more inartificial than even the twittering of the -birds. A small, passive, embodied happiness went roaming along the -rough, woodland path, with soft-glowing abstracted eyes that saw -everything, yet nothing; with a little abstracted soul, all freshness -and gladness, that took note of everything, yet nothing; a little -pilgrim among life’s mysteries and wonders, herself the greatest wonder -of all, throbbing with a soft consciousness, yet knowing nothing. Thus -she went pacing on under the bare trees, and murmured her inarticulate -chant, and kept time to it, a poet in being, though not in thought. Not -far off the lake splashed softly upon the stones of the beach, and that -north country air, which is vocal as the winds of the south, sounded a -whole mystery of tones and semi-tones, deep through the fir-trees, -shrill through the beeches, low and soft over the copse; and the brook, -half-hidden in the overgreenness of the grass, added its tinkle; all -surrounding the little figure which gave the central point of conscious -intelligence to the landscape; but were all quite unnecessary to Lilias -marching along in her dream to her own music, a something higher than -they, a thing full of other and deeper suggestions, the wonder of the -world. - -Lilias woke up, however, out of this other world, all in a moment, into -the conscious existence of a lively, brave, fancifully-timid child, when -she found herself suddenly confronted by a stranger, who did not pass on -as strangers usually did, making a mere momentary jar and pause in the -visionary atmosphere, but who made a decided pause, and stopped her. A -little thrill of fear sprang up in the child’s breast, and she would -have hurried on, or even run away, but for the pride of honour and -courage in her little venturesome spirit which made it impossible to -fly. It was an old woman who stood in her path, tall but stooping, -dressed in a large grey cloak, the hood of which covered her white thick -muslin cap. She was a woman considerably over sixty, with handsome -features and brilliant dark eyes, and, notwithstanding her stooping -figure, full of vigour and power. She carried a basket on her arm under -her cloak, and had a stick in her hand, and at her neck a red -handkerchief just showed, which would have replaced the hood on her cap -had it been less cold. Just so the fairy in the fairy-tales appears to -the little maiden in the wood, the Cinderella by the kitchen-fire. -Lilias was not at all sure that it was not that poetical old woman who -looked at her with those shining eyes. She made a brief, instantaneous -resolution to draw water for her, or pick up sticks, or do anything she -might require. - -“Little Miss, you belong to the Castle, don’t you now? and where may you -come from?” was what the problematical fairy said, with a something wet -and gleaming in her eyes such as never obscures the sight of fairies. -Lilias was overawed by the tone of eager meaning, though she did not -understand it, in the questioning voice, yet might not have answered but -for that feeling that it was unsafe, as much experience had proved, to -be less than obsequiously civil to old women with wands in their hands -who could make (if you were so naughty as to give a rude answer) toads -and frogs drop from your mouth. - -“Yes,” she said, with a little tremble in her clear, childish voice. “We -come a very, very long way--over the mountains, and then over the sea.” - -“Do you know the name of the place you came from, little Miss?” - -“Oh yes, I know it very well, we were so often there. It was Bagni di -Lucca. It was a very, very long way. Nello----” - -But the child paused. Why introduce Nello? who was not visible, to the -knowledge of this uncertain person? who, if she was a fairy, might be a -wicked one, or, if she was a woman, might be unkind, for anything Lilias -knew. She stopped short nervously, and it was evident that the old woman -had not taken any notice of the name. - -“Little Miss, your mamma would be sorry to send you away?” - -“It was papa,” said the little girl, with wondering eyes. “Poor -mamma;--I was quite little when--it was when Nello was a little, little -small baby. Now we have nobody but papa.” - -The old woman staggered and almost fell, but supported herself by her -stick for a moment, while Lilias uttered a scream of terror; then sat -down with a groan upon a fallen tree. “It’s nothing new, nothing new,” -she said to herself; “I felt it long ago,” and covered her face with her -hands, with once more a heavy groan. Little Lilias did not know what to -do. She had screamed when the old woman staggered, not knowing what was -going to happen; but what was she to do now, alone with this strange -companion, seated there on the fallen trunk and rocking herself to and -fro, with her face hidden in her hands. It did not occur to the child to -associate this sudden trouble with the information she had herself -given. What could this stranger have to do with her? And poor mamma had -receded far into the background of Lilias’s memory, not even now an -occasion of tears. She did not, however, need to go into this reasoning, -but simply supposed that the poor old fairy was ill, or that something -had happened to her, and never at all connected effect and cause. She -stood for a little time irresolute, then, overcoming her own fears, went -up to the sufferer and stroked her compassionately on the shoulder. “Are -you ill, old woman?” she said. - -“Oh, call me Granny--call me Granny, my pretty dear!” - -Lilias was more puzzled than ever; but she made up her mind that she -would do whatever was asked of her by this disguised personage, who -might turn into--anything, in a moment. “Yes, Granny,” she said, -trembling, and still stroking the old woman’s shoulder. “I hope you are -not ill.” - -The answer she made to this was suddenly to clasp her arms round Lilias, -who could scarcely suppress a cry of horror. What a strange--what a very -strange old woman! Fortunately Lilias, brought up in a country where -servants are friends, had no feeling of repulsion from the embrace. She -was a little frightened, and did not understand it--that was all. The -old woman’s breast heaved with great sobs; there could be no doubt that -she was very deeply, strongly moved. She was “very sorry about -something,” according to Lilias’ simple explanation. She clasped the -child close, and kissed her with a tearful face, which left traces of -its weeping upon the fresh cheeks. The little girl wiped them off, -wondering. How could she tell why this was? Perhaps it was only to try -her if she was the kind of little girl who was uncivil, or not; but she -did not indeed try to account for it. It was not very pleasant, but she -put up with it, partly in fear, partly in sympathy, partly because, as -we have said, she had no horror of the too near approach of a poor old -woman, as an English-bred child might have had. Poor old creature, how -sorry she was about something! though Lilias could not imagine what it -was. - -“God bless you, honeysweet,” said the old woman. “You’ve got her dear -face, my jewel. It isn’t that I didn’t know it years and years ago. I -was told it in my sleep; I read it in the clouds and on the water. Oh, -if you think I wasn’t warned! But you’ve got her bonnie face. You’ll be -a beauty, a darling beauty, like the rest of us. And look you here, -little Miss, my jewel. If you see me when the gentry’s with you you’ll -take no notice; but if you see me by myself you’ll give me a kiss and -call me Granny. That’s fixed between us, honey, and you won’t forget? -Call me Granny again, to give me a little comfort, my pretty dear.” - -“Yes, Granny,” said the child, trembling. The old woman kissed her -again, drying her tears. - -“God bless you, and God bless you!” she said. “You can’t be none the -worse of your old Granny’s blessing. And mind, if you’re with the -gentlefolks you’ll take no notice. Oh, my honeysweet, my darling child!” - -Lilias looked after her with wondering, disturbed eyes. What a strange -old woman she was! How strange that she should behave so! and yet Lilias -did not attempt to inquire why. Grown-up people in her experience did a -great many strange things. It was of no use trying to fathom what they -meant, and this strange old person was only a little more strange than -the rest, and startling to the calm little being who had grown in the -midst of family troubles and mysteries without divining any of them. -Strangely enough, the old woman felt equally independent of any -necessity for explanation. It seemed so clear in her mind that everybody -must know the past and understand her claims, whatever they were. She -had no more idea of the tranquillity of innocent ignorance in Lilias’s -mind than the little girl had of the mysteries of her experience. Lilias -watched her going away through the high columns of the trees with great -wonder yet respect, and it was not till she had disappeared that the -little girl went on after Nello. Nello would have been frightened by -that curious apparition. He would have cried perhaps, and struggled, and -would not have said Granny. Perhaps he would have angered her. What a -good thing that Nello had not been here! - - - - -PART IV. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - -FAMILY CARES. - - -Lilias did not say much about the adventure in the wood, nothing at all -indeed to Mary or any one in authority; nor did it dwell in her mind as -a thing of much importance. The kind of things that strike a child’s -mind as wonderful are not always those which would most impress an older -person. There were many things at Penninghame very curious and strange -to the little girl. The big chimneys of the old house, for instance, the -sun-dial in the old garden, and on a lower level the way in which Cook’s -cap kept on, which seemed to Lilias miraculous, no means of securing it -being visible. She pondered much on these things, trying to arrive at -feasible theories in respect to them, but there was no theory required -about the other very natural incident. That an old woman should meet her -in the woods, and kiss her, and ask to be called granny, and cry over -her,--there was nothing wonderful in that; and indeed if, as she already -suspected, it was no old woman at all, but a fairy, such as those in the -story-books, who would probably appear again and set her tasks to do, -much more difficult than calling her granny, and end by transforming -herself into a beautiful lady--this would still remain quite -comprehensible, not by any means unparalleled in the experience of one -who had already mastered a great deal of literature treating of such -subjects. She was interested but not surprised, for was it not always to -a child or children by themselves in a wood that fairies did speak? She -told Nello about the meeting, who was not surprised any more than she -was; for though he was not very fond of reading himself, he had shared -all his sister’s, having had true histories of fairies read to him -almost ever since he could recollect anything. He made some cynical -remarks prompted by his manhood, but it was like much manly cynicism, -only from the lips, no deeper. “I thought fairies were all dead,” he -said. - -“Oh, Nello; when you know they are spirits and never die! they are -hundreds and hundreds of years older than we are, but they never die; -and it is always children that see them. I thought she would tell us to -do something----” - -“I would not do something,” said Nello; “I would say, ‘Old woman, do it -yourself.’” - -“And do you know what would happen then?” said Lilias, severely; -“whenever you opened your mouth, a toad or a frog would drop out of it.” - -“I should not mind; how funny it would be! how the people would be -surprised.” - -“They would be frightened--fancy! every word you said; till all round -there would be things creeping and creeping and crawling all over you; -slimy cold things that would make people shiver and shriek. Oh!” said -Lilias recoiling and putting up her hands, as if to put him away; “the -frogs! squatting and jumping all over the floor.” - -At this lively realization of his problematical punishment, Nello -himself grew pale, and nervously looked about him. “I would kill her!” -he cried, furiously; “what right would she have to do that to me?” - -“Because you did not obey her, Nello.” - -“And why should I obey her?” cried the boy; “she is not papa, or -Martuccia--or Mary.” - -“But we must always do what the fairies tell us,” said Lilias, “not -perhaps because they have a right--for certainly it is different with -papa--but because they would hurt us if we didn’t; and then if you are -good and pick up the sticks, or draw the water from the well, then she -gives you such beautiful presents. Oh! I will do whatever she tells -_me_.” - -“What kind of presents, Lily? I want a little horse to ride--there are a -great many things that I want. Do fairies give you what you want, or -only what they like?” - -This was a puzzling question; and on the spur of the moment Lilias did -not feel able to answer such a difficulty. “If you do it for the -presents, not because they ask you, they will not give you anything,” -she said; “that would be all wrong if you did it for the presents.” - -“But you said----” - -“Oh, Nello; you are too little, you don’t understand,” cried the elder -sister, like many another perplexed authority; “when you are older you -will know what I mean. I can tell you things, but I can’t make you -understand?” - -“What is it he cannot understand?” said Mary, coming suddenly upon their -confidential talk. The two children came apart hastily, and Lilias, who -had two red spots of excitement on her cheeks, looked up startled, with -lips apart. Nello laughed with a sense of mischief. He was fond of his -sister, but to get her into trouble had a certain flavour of fun in it, -not disagreeable to him. - -“It is about the fairies,” he cried, volubly. “She says you should do -what they tell you. She says they give you beautiful presents. She says, -she----” - -“Oh, about the fairies!” said Mary, calmly, with a smile, going on -without any more notice. Lilias was very angry with her brother, but -what was the use? And she was frightened lest she should be made to look -ridiculous, a danger which is always present to the sensitive mind of a -child. “I will never, never talk to you again,” she said to him under -her breath; but knew she would talk to him again as soon as her mind -wanted disburdening, and was not afraid. - -And of how many active thoughts, and wonderful musings, and lively -continued motion of two small minds and bodies, the old hall was witness -in those quiet days! Mary coming and going, and the solid figure of -Martuccia in the sunshine, these two older and more important persons -were as shadows in comparison with that ceaseless flow of existence. The -amount of living in the whole house beside, was not half equal to that -which went on in the motherly calm of the old hall, which held these two -small things like specks in its tranquil embrace, where so much had come -to pass. There was always something going on there. Such lively -counterfeitings of the older life, such deeply-laid plans, dispersed in -a moment by sudden changes of purpose, such profound gravity upset by -the merest chance interruption, such perpetual busyness without thought -of rest. Their days went on thus without hindrance or interruption, -nothing being required of them except to be amused and healthy, and -competent to occupy and please themselves. Had they been dull children, -or subject to the precocious _ennui_ which is sometimes to be seen even -in a nursery, no doubt measures would have been taken to bring about a -better state of affairs; but as they were always busy, always gay, they -were left completely to their own devices, protected, sheltered, and -ignored, enjoying the freedom of a much earlier age, a freedom from all -teaching and interference, such as seldom overpasses the first five -years of human life. Mary had her whole _métier_ to learn in respect to -the children, and there were many agitating circumstances which -pre-occupied her mind and kept her from realizing the more simple -necessities of the matter. It had cost her so much to establish them -there, and the tacit victory over fate, unnatural prejudice, and all the -bondage of family troubles, had been so great, that the trembling -satisfaction of having gained it blunted her perceptions of further -necessity. It was from a humble quarter that enlightenment first came to -her. Her teacher was Miss Brown, her maid, who had early melted to the -children, and who by this time was their devoted vassal, and especially -the admiring slave of Nello, whom, with determined English propriety, -she called Master John. Miss Brown’s affection was not unalloyed by -other sentiments. Her love for the children indeed was intensified by -strenuous disapproval of their other guardians--Martuccia with her -foreign fashions, and Miss Musgrave, who was ignorant as a baby herself, -and knew nothing about “children’s ways.” Between these two incapable -persons her life became a burden to Miss Brown. “I can’t get my night’s -rest for thinking of it,” she said to Cook, who like herself had the -interest of many years’ service in the “the family.” “I would up and -speak,” said Cook. “Speak!” cried Miss Brown, “I’m always speaking; but -what can a body do, when folks won’t understand?” It is the lament of -the superior intelligence over all the world. However, Miss Brown -finally made up her mind to speak, and did so, pointing out that Master -John was eight, though he looked no more than six, and that “schooling” -was indispensable. The suggestion when once made could not be disputed, -and it raised a great perturbation in Mary’s breast. She sent away the -maid with some haste and impatience, but she could not send away the -thought. - -And the more Mary thought upon this matter, the more serious it grew; -she brooded over it till her head ached; and she was glad beyond measure -to see Mr. Pennithorne coming slowly along the road. She could see him -almost from the moment his spare figure turned the corner from the -village; the outline and movement of him was so familiar to her, as he -grew upon the quiet distance drawing nearer and nearer. It was seldom -that she anticipated his approach with so much satisfaction. Not that -Mr. Pennithorne, good man, was likely to invent an outlet out of a -difficulty, but he was the only person to whom she could talk with -absolute freedom upon this subject, and to put it forth in audible -words, and set it thus in order to her own ear and mind, was always an -advantage. How like Mr. Pen it was to come on so quietly step after -step, while she was waiting impatient for him! not a step quicker than -usual, no swing of more rapid motion in the droop of his long coat. Why -should he quicken his steps? She laughed to herself at her own childish -impatience. Ought he not to have divined that she wanted him urgently -after all these years? Mary had gone into the hall, the children being -absent on their daily walk. They were so much in her thoughts that she -was glad to get them out of her sight for the moment and thus relieve -the air which rustled and whispered with them. She went out to meet the -slowly approaching counsellor. It was summer by this time, and all was -green and fair, if still somewhat cold in its greenness to a southern -eye. The sunshine was blazing over the lake, just approaching noon, and -the sky was keenly blue, so clear that the pleasure of it was almost a -pain, where the green shoulder of the hill stood against it in high -relief. It was seldom that Mary was at leisure so early, and very seldom -that in the morning when both were busy she should have a visit from Mr. -Pen. As she made a few steps down the slope that led from the hall door, -to meet him, the sunshine caught her full, streaming from behind the -corner of the house. It caught in her hair, and shone in it, showing its -unimpaired gloss and brightness. Mr. Pennithorne was dazzled by it as he -came up, and asked himself if she was superior to time as to most things -else, and, after all those years, was young as well as lovely still? - -“I am very glad to see you,” she said, holding out her hand. “I just -wanted you; it is some good fairy that has sent you so early to-day.” - -His face brightened up with an answering gleam; or was it only the sun -that had got hold of him too, and woke reflections in his middle-aged -eyes? “I am very happy to have come when you wanted me,” he said, his -eyelids growing moist with pleasure. He went in to the hall, where all -was comparative dusk after that brilliant shining of the noon, and sat -down on the stool which was Martuccia’s usual place. “Whatever you want, -Miss Mary, here I am,” her faithful servant said. - -Then she unfolded to him her difficulty: “Their education!” what was she -to do? what could be done? Mr. Pen sat by her very sympathetically and -heard everything. He was not very clever about advising, seeing that it -was generally from her that he took advice, instead of giving it. But he -listened, and did not see his way out of it, which of itself was a -comfort to Mary. If he had been clever, and had struck out a new idea at -once, it is doubtful whether she would have liked it half so well. She -went into the whole question, and eased her mind at least. What was she -to do? Mr. Pen shook his head. He was quite ready to take Nello, and -teach him all he remembered, after a life spent in rural forgetfulness, -of Latin and Greek; but Lilias! and Lilias was the most urgent as being -the eldest. There was no school within reach, and a governess, as Mr. -Pen suggested with a little trembling--a governess! where could Mary put -her,--what could she do with her? It seemed hopeless to think of that. - -“I don’t know what you will think of what I am going to say--but there -is Randolph, Miss Mary; he is a family man himself. I suppose--of -course--he knows about the children?” - -“Randolph!” said Mary, faltering; “Mr. Pen, you know what Randolph is as -well as I do.” - -“People change,” said Mr. Pen, evasively. “It is not for me to say -anything; but perhaps--he ought to know.” - -“He has never taken any interest in the house; he has never cared to -be--one of us,” said Mary. “Perhaps because he was brought up away from -us. You know all about it. When he came back--when he was with you and -poor John---- You know him as well as I do,” she concluded abruptly. “I -don’t see what help we could have from him.” - -“He is a family man himself,” said the vicar. “When children come they -bring new feelings; they open the heart. He was not like you--or poor -John; but he was like a great many people in this world; he would not be -unkind. You write to him sometimes?” - -“Once or twice a year. He writes to ask how my father is--I often wonder -why. He has only been here once since--since it all happened. He would -not have it known that he was one of the family which was so much talked -about--that he was the brother of----” Mary stopped with a flash of -indignation in her eyes. “He has separated himself altogether from us, -as you know; but he asks from time to time how my father is, though I -scarcely know why.” - -“And you have told him, I suppose, about the children?” - -“No, Mr. Pen; he turned his back upon poor John from the beginning. Why -should I tell him? what has he to do with it? We have left our subject -altogether talking of Randolph, who is quite apart from it. Let us go -back to our sheep--our lambs in this case. What is to be done with -them?” - -“I will do what I can for them, as I did for their father,” said the -vicar. “I was thinking that little Johnny must very soon--and Mary might -as well--They can come to me for an hour or two every day; that would be -something. But I think Randolph should be told. I think Randolph ought -to know. He might be thinking, he might be calculating----” - -“What, Mr. Pen?” Mary confronted him with head erect and flashing eyes. -“Why should he think or calculate about us? He has separated himself -from the family. John’s children are nothing to him.” - -It was not often that Mr. Pen was worldly wise; but he had an -inspiration this time. He shook his head slowly. “It is just that; -John’s children might make all the difference to him,” he said. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - -AN UNLOOKED-FOR VISITOR. - - -Mr. Pennithorne went home thoughtful, and Miss Musgrave remained behind, -if not exactly turned in a new direction, yet confused and excited in -her mental being by the introduction of a new element. Randolph -Musgrave, though her brother, was less known to Mary than he was to the -tutor who had travelled and lived with him in the interval during which -he had made his nearest approach to friendship with his own family. He -had been brought up by an uncle on the mother’s side who did not love -the Musgraves, and had succeeded to the family living belonging to that -race, and lived now, as he had been brought up, in an atmosphere quite -different from that which belonged to his nominal home in the north. -Except now and then, in a holiday visit, Randolph had scarcely spent any -portion of his life at Penninghame, except the short period just before, -and for a little time after, his university career, when he shared with -his brother John the special instructions of Mr. Pennithorne. The two -young men had worked together then, or made believe to work, and they -had travelled together; but being of very different dispositions, and -brought up in ways curiously unlike, they had not been made into cordial -friends by this period of semi-artificial union. Randolph had been -trained to entertain but a small opinion of everything at Penninghame, -and when Penninghame became public property, and John and all his -affairs and peculiarities were discussed in the newspapers, the younger -son did something very like the Scriptural injunction--shaking the dust -from off his feet as he departed. He went away after some painful scenes -with his father. It was not the old Squire’s fault that his eldest son -had become in the eyes of the world a criminal; but Randolph was as -bitter at the ignominy brought upon his name as if it had been a family -contrivance to annoy and distress him, and had gone away vowing that -never again would he have anything to do with his paternal home. There -had been a long gap in their relations after that, but at his marriage -there had been a kind of reconciliation, enough to give a decorous -aspect to his relations with his “people.” He had brought his bride to -his father’s house, and since then he had written, as Mary said, now and -then, once or twice in the year, to inquire after his father’s health. -This was not much, but it saved appearances, and prevented the open -scandal of a family quarrel. But Mary, who replied punctiliously to -these questions, did not see the need of making a further intimation to -him of anything that affected the family. What had he to do with John’s -children? She would no more have thought of informing him of any private -event in her own history, or of looking to him for sympathy, than she -would have stopped a beggar on the road to communicate her good or evil -fortune. But the very name of Randolph suggested new complications. She -was glad to escape from the whole matter and listen to the account of -the lessons when Lilias and Nello came back from one of their earliest -experiences of the instruction given by Mr. Pennithorne. The children -came in breathless with the story they had to tell. “Then he made me -read out of all the books,” said Lilias, her dark eyes shining; “but -Nello, because he was so little, one book was enough for him.” - -“But it was not a girl’s book,” said Nello; “it was only for Johnnie and -me.” - -“And I looked in it,” said his sister; “it is all mixed with -Italian--such funny Italian: instead of _padre_ it was put _payter_--Mr. -Pen called it so. But it would not do for Nello, when we go back, to say -his Italian like that. Even Martuccia would laugh, and Martuccia is not -educated.” - -“It was Latin,” said Nello; “Mr. Pen said so. He said girls didn’t want -Latin. Girls learn to dance and sing; but I--and Johnnie----” - -“Will Mr. Pen teach me to dance--and sing, Mary?” said Lilias, with a -grave face. - -“And me, I wrote a copy,” said Nello, indifferent to the interruption; -“look!” and he held up fingers covered with ink. “You cannot read it -yet, but you will soon be able to read it, Mr. Pen says. And then I will -write you a letter, Mary.” - -“It would be better to write letters to some one far off,” said Lilias, -half scornful of his want of information. “You can _talk_ to Mary, -Nello. It is to far-off people that one makes letters.” - -“We have nobody that is far off,” said Nello, shaking his head with the -sudden consciousness of a want not hitherto realized. “Then I need not -write copies any more.” - -“Your father is far off, Nello,” said Mary; “your poor papa, who never -hears any news of you. Some time I hope you will be able to write to -him, and ask him to come home.” - -“Oh,” cried Lilias, “you need not be sorry about that, Mary. He will -come home. Some day, in a moment when you are thinking of nothing, there -will be a step on the stair, and Martuccia will give a shriek; and it -will be as if the sun came shining out, and it will be papa! He is -always like that--but you never know when he will come.” - -Mary’s eyes filled in spite of herself. What long, long years it was -that she had thought but little of John! and yet there suddenly seemed -to come before her a vision of his arrival from school or from college, -all smiles and, making the old roof ring with his shout of pleasure. Was -it possible that this would happen over again--that he would come in a -moment, as his little daughter said? But Lilias did not know all the -difficulties, nor the one great obstacle that stood in John’s way, and -which perhaps he might never get over. She forgot herself in these -thoughts, and did not perceive that Lilias was gazing wistfully at her, -endeavouring with all her childish might to penetrate her mind and know -the occasion of these tears. Mary was recalled to herself by feeling the -child’s arm steal round her, and the soft touch of a little hand and -handkerchief upon her wet eyes. “You are crying,” said Lilias. “Mary, -is it for papa?--why should you cry for papa?” - -“My darling, we don’t know where he is, nor anything about him--” - -“That does not matter,” said Lilias, winking rapidly to throw off the -sympathetic tears which had gathered in her own eyes; “he is always like -that. We never knew where he was; but just when he could, just when it -was possible, he came home. We never could tell when it would be--it -might be any day. Some time when we are forgetting and not expecting -him. Ah----!” cried the child, with a ring of wonder in the sudden -exclamation. The hall-door was open as usual, and on the road was a -distant figure just visible which drew from Lilias this sudden cry. She -ran to the door, clutching her brother--“Come, Nello, Nello!” and rushed -forth. Mary sat still, thinking her heart had stopped in her breast--or -was it not rather suffocating her by the wildness of its beating? She -sat immovable, watching the little pair at the door. Could it be that -John had come home? John! he who would be the most welcome yet the most -impossible of visitors; he who had a right to everything, yet dared not -be seen in the old house. She sat and trembled, not daring to look out, -already planning what she could do, what was to be done. - -But the children stopped short at the door. Lilias, with the wind in her -skirts and her ribbons, half-flying, stopped; and Nello stopped, who -went by her impulse, not by his own. They paused: they stood for a -moment gazing; then they turned back sadly. - -“Oh no, no!” said Lilias. “No, Mary! no. It is a little, something -like--a very little; it is the walking, and the shape of him. But no, -no, it is not papa!” - -“Papa!” said Nello, “was that why you looked? I knew better. Papa is all -that much more tall. Why are you crying, Lily? There is nothing that -makes cry.” - -“I am disappointed,” said the little girl, who had seated herself -suddenly on the floor and wept. It was a sudden sharp shower, but it was -soon over; she sprang up drying her eyes. “But it will be for -to-morrow!” she cried. - -Mary sat behind and looked on. She did not think again of the chance -resemblance Lilias had seen, but only of the children themselves, with -whom her heart was tuning itself more and more in sympathy. She had -become a mother late and suddenly, without any gradual growth of -feeling--leaping into it, as it were; and every response her mind made -to the children was a new wonder to her. She looked at them, or rather -at Lilias, who was always the leader in her rapid changes of sentiment, -with a half-amused adoration. The crying and the smiles went to her -heart as nothing else had ever done; and even Nello’s calm, the steadier -going of the slower, less developed intelligence, which was so often -carried along in the rush without any conscious intention, and which was -so ready to take the part of the wise and say, “I knew it,” moved Mary -with that mixture of pleased spectatorship and profound personal feeling -which makes the enthusiasm of parents. Nello’s slowness might have -seemed want of feeling in another child, and Lilias’s impetuosity a -giddy haste and heedlessness; but all impartiality was driven from her -mind by the sense that the children were her own. And she sat in a -pleased abstraction yet lively readiness, following the little current -of this swiftly-flowing, softly-babbling childhood which was so fair and -pleasant to her eyes. The two set up an argument between themselves as -she sat looking on. It was about some minute point in the day’s work -which was so novel and unaccustomed; but trivial as it was Mary listened -with a soft glow of light in her eyes. The finest drama in the world -could not have taken her out of herself like the two little actors, -playing their sincerest and most real copy of life before her. They were -so much in earnest, and to her it was such exquisite play and delicate -delightful fooling! And until the light in the open doorway was suddenly -darkened by some one appearing, a figure which made her heart jump, she -thought no more of the passer-by on the road who had roused the -children. Her heart jumped, and then she followed her heart by rising -suddenly to her feet, while the children stopped in their argument, -rushed together for mutual support, and stood shyly with their heads -together, the arrested talk still hovering about their lips. Seen thus -against the light the visitor was undecipherable to Mary. She saw him, -nothing but a black shadow, towards which she went quietly and said-- - -“I beg your pardon, this is a private door,” with a polite defence of -her own sanctuary. - -“I came to look for--my sister,” said the voice, which was one which -woke agitating memories in her. “I am a--stranger. I came---- Ah! it is -Mary after all.” - -“Randolph!” she cried, with a gasp in her throat. - -A thrill of terror, almost superstitious, came over her. What did it all -mean? Good Mr. Pennithorne in his innocence had spoken to her of John, -and that very day John’s children had arrived; he had spoken of -Randolph, and Randolph was here. Was it fate, or some mysterious -influence unknown? She was so startled that she forgot to go through the -ordinary formulas of seeming welcome, and said nothing but his name. - -“Yes; I hope you are well,” he said, holding out his hand; “and that my -father is well. I thought I would come and see how you were all getting -on.” - -“It is a long time since you have been here,” she said. What could she -say? She was not glad to see him, as a sister ought to be. And then -there was a pause. - -The children stood staring open-mouthed while these chill greetings were -said. (“I wonder who it is?” said Lilias, under her breath. “It is the -one who is a little, a very little, like papa.” “It is a--gentleman,” -said Nello. “Oh you silly, silly little boy! not to know that at the -very first; but Mary is not very glad to see him,” said the little -girl.) - -Mary did not even ask her visitor to come in; he stood still at the -door, looking round him with watchful, unfriendly eyes. This was not a -place for any one to come who was not tender of Mary, and of whomsoever -she might shelter there. She did not want him in that special place. - -“Shall we go round to the house?” she said; “my father ought to know -that you are here, and he never comes into the hall.” - -“I am very well where I am,” Randolph said. “I know it was always a -favourite place with you. Do not change your sitting-room for me. You -have it in very nice order, Mary. I see you share the popular passion -for art furnishing; and children too! This is something more novel -still. Who are the children, may I ask? They are visitors from the -neighbourhood I suppose?” - -“No,” she said, faltering still more, “they are not -visitors--they--belong to us----” Mary could not tell how it was that -her lips trembled, and she hesitated to pronounce the name. She made an -effort at last and got it out with difficulty. “They are--John’s -children.” - -“John’s children! here is a wonderful piece of news,” said Randolph; but -she saw by his countenance that it was no news. Howsoever he had heard -it, Mary perceived in a moment not only that he knew, but that this was -his real errand here. He stood with the appropriate gesture of one -struck dumb in amazement; but he was not really surprised, only watchful -and eager. This made his sister more nervous than ever. - -“Children,” she said, “come here--this is your uncle Randolph; come and -speak to him.” Mary was so much perplexed that she could not see what -was best to do--whether to be anxiously conciliatory and convince -Randolph in spite of himself, without seeming to notice his opposition, -or to defy him; the former, however, was always the safest way. He did -not make any advance, but stood with a half-smile on his face, while the -children drew near with suspicious looks. - -“It is the--gentleman who is--a little--not very much, just a little, -like papa,” said Lilias, going forward, but slowly, and with that look -of standing on the defensive which children unconsciously adopt to those -they do not trust. - -Nello hung on to her skirts, and did as she did, regarding the stranger -with cloudy eyes. Randolph put out his hand coldly to be shaken; his -smile broadened into a half-laugh of amusement and contempt. - -“So they are said to be his children, are they?” - -“They _are_ his children,” said Mary. - -Randolph shrugged his shoulders and laughed. “They look like foreigners -anyhow,” he said. “My father, I suppose, is delighted. It must be a new -experience both for him and you.” - -“Go away, my darlings, go to Martuccia; you see I have some business -with--this gentleman.” She could not again repeat the title she had -given him. When the curious little spectators had gone, she turned to -Randolph, who stood watching their exit, with an anxiety she did not -attempt to conceal. “For Heaven’s sake do not talk to my father about -them! I ask it as a favour. He consents tacitly that they should be -here, but he takes no notice of them. Do not call his attention to them. -It is the only thing I ask of you.” - -He looked at her fixedly still, with that set smile on his face with -which he had looked at the children. - -“I am scarcely the person to be called upon to make things smooth with -my father,” he said. “Come, come; my father is old, and can be made to -believe anything, let us allow. But what do you mean by it, Mary, what -do _you_ mean? You were never any friend to me.” - -“Friend to _you_! I am your sister, Randolph, though you don’t seem to -remember it much. And what have you to do with it?” asked Mary, with a -certain amount of exasperation in her voice; for of all offensive things -in the world there is none so offensive as this pretence of finding you -out in a transparent deception. Mary grew red and hot in spite of -herself. - -“I have a great deal to do with it. I have not only my own interests to -take care of, but my boy’s. And why you should prefer to us, about whom -there can be no doubt, these little impostors, these supposed children -of John----” - -“Randolph,” said Mary, with tears in her eyes, “there is no supposing -about them. Oh don’t go against us and against truth and justice! They -brought me a letter from their father. There was no room to doubt, no -possibility. John himself is most unfortunate----” - -“Unfortunate! that is not the word I should use.” - -“But why remember it against _them_, poor little things, who have done -no harm? Oh, Randolph, I have never been otherwise than your friend when -I had the chance. Be mine now! There are a hundred things about which I -want to consult you. You have a family of your own; you have been -trained to it; you know how to take care of children. I wanted to ask -your advice, to have your help----” - -“Do you think me a fool then,” he cried, “as silly as yourself? that you -try to get _me_ to acknowledge this precious deception, and give you my -support against myself? Why should I back you up in a wicked contrivance -against my own interests?” - -“What is it you mean? Who has been guilty of wicked contrivances?” cried -Mary, aghast. She gazed at him with such genuine surprise that he was -arrested in his angry vituperation, and changed his tone to one of -mockery, which affected her more. - -“Well,” he said, “let us allow that it is your first attempt, Mary, and -that is why you do it so clumsily. The mistakes good people make when -they first attempt to do badly are touching. Villany, like everything -else, requires experience. But it is too funny to expect _me_ to be the -one to stand up for you, to persuade my father to believe you.” - -“Oh,” she said, clasping her hands, “do you think this is what I ask? It -is you who mistake, Randolph. It has never occurred to my father, or any -one else, not to believe. He never doubted any more than I was capable -of doubting. I will show you John’s letter.” - -Randolph put up his hand, waving off the suggested proof. - -“It is quite unnecessary. I am not to be taken in by such simple means. -You forget I have a stake in it--which clears the judgment. And I warn -you, Mary, that I am here to look after my personal interests, not to -foist any nondescript brat into the family. I give you notice--it is not -to help your schemes, it is for my own interests I am here.” - -“What do interests mean?” she said wondering. “Your own interests!--what -does _that_ mean? I know _I_ have none.” - -“No--it cannot make much difference to you whatever happens; therefore -you are free to plot at your leisure. I understand that fully; but, my -dear, _I_ am here to look after myself--and my boy. You forget I have an -heir of my own.” - -Mary looked at him with a dulness of intelligence quite unusual to her. -There are things in the most limited minds which genius itself could not -divine. The honourable and generous, and the selfish and grasping, do -not know what each other mean. They are as if they spoke a different -language. And her brother was to Mary as if he veiled his meaning in an -unknown tongue. She gazed at him with a haze of dulness in her eyes. -What was it he intended to let her know? Disbelief of her, a suggestion -that she lied! and something more--she could not make out what, as the -rule of his own conduct! He looked at her, on the other hand, with an -air of penetration, a clever consciousness of seeing through and through -her and her designs, which excited Mary to exasperation. How could they -ever understand each other with all this between? - -“I am going to see my father,” said Randolph; “that of course is the -object of my visit; I suppose he will not refuse to keep me for a day or -two. And in the mean time why should we quarrel? I only warn you that I -come with my eyes open, and am not to be made a dupe of. Good-bye for -the present--we shall meet no doubt at dinner the best of friends.” - -Mary stood still where he left her, and watched him as he went slowly -down the slope and round the corner of the house. He was shorter than -John and stouter, with that amplitude of outline which a wealthy rural -living and a small parish are apt to confer. A comfortable man, fond of -good living, fond of his ease; yet taking the trouble to come here, for -what?--to baffle some supposed wicked contrivances and plots against -himself. Mary remembered that Randolph had taken the great family -misfortune as a special wrong to him. How dared the evil fates to -interfere with his comfort or rumour to assail his name? He had said -frankly that it could be nothing to the others in comparison. And was it -once more the idea that he himself was touched, which had roused him out -of his comfortable rectory to come here and assert himself? But how did -the arrival of John’s children affect that? Mary, in her long calm, had -not entered into those speculations about the future which most people -more or less think necessary when the head of the house is old. She had -not asked herself what would happen when her father died, except vaguely -in respect to herself, knowing that she would then in all likelihood -leave the old Castle. John was the heir. Somehow or other, she did not -know how, the inheritance would be taken up for him. This had been the -conclusion in her mind without reason given or required. And Randolph -had not come into the sphere of her imagination at all as having -anything to do with it. What should he have to do with it when there was -John? And even now Mary did not know and could not understand the reason -of his objection to John’s children. She stood and looked after him with -a dull beating of pain in her heart. And as he turned round the corner -of the old house towards the door, he looked back and waved his hand. -The gesture and look, she could scarcely tell why, gave her a sensation -of sickening dismay and pain. She turned and went in, shutting the door -in the sudden pang this gave her. And to shut the great door of the hall -was the strangest thing, except in the very heart of winter. While the -sun was shining and the air genial, such a thing had never happened -before. It seemed in itself a portent of harm. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - -RANDOLPH. - - -Randolph Musgrave was a squire-parson, a class which possesses the -features of two species without fully embodying either--which may be -finer than either, the two halves of the joint character tempering each -other--or may be a travesty of both, exaggerating their mutual defects. -He was of the latter rather than of the former development. His living -was small in one sense and large in another, the income being large, but -the people few and very much given up to dissent, a fact which soured -his character without moving him to exertion. He was not fond of -exertion in any case, and it was all but hopeless in this. But not less -was he daily and hourly irritated by the little Bethels and Salems, the -lively Methodists, the pragmatical Baptists, who led his people away. -They made him angry, for he was easily moved to anger, and they -increased that tendency to listen to gossip and be moved by small -matters which is one of the temptations of a rural life. He had become -accustomed to make much of petty wrongs, calling them insults and -crimes, and perhaps to be more disposed to petty vengeances than a man -who is placed in the position of an example to others ought to be; and -whereas he had always been disposed to consider himself a sacred person, -above the ordinary slights of fortune, this tendency had grown and -strengthened so, that every petty pin-prick was like a poisoned arrow to -him. By natural laws of reverberation he heard more evil of himself, had -more mishaps in the way of gossip, of receiving letters not intended for -him, and otherwise surprising the sentiments of his neighbours, than -almost any one else ever had--which had made him suspicious of his -neighbours in the highest degree, and ready to believe every small -offence a premeditated insult. This perhaps made him all the more ready -to believe that his sister had conceived a villanous plan against him -and his. He would not have done such a thing himself; but was not his -life full of such attempts made upon him by others? everybody almost -whom he encountered having one time or other conspired against his hopes -or happiness. But he had always found out the plots in time. It was true -that this villany might be John’s, of whom he would have believed -anything; and Mary herself might be the dupe: but most likely it was -Mary, who did not like him nor his wife, and who would no doubt be -capable of anything to banish him finally from Penninghame, and set up -there some creature of her own. This was the idea which had come into -his mind, when he heard accidentally of the arrival which had made so -much commotion in the north country. He had talked it over with his wife -till they both saw gunpowder plots and conspiracies incalculable in it. -“You had better go and see into it yourself,” Mrs. Randolph said. “I -will,” was the Rector’s energetic reply. “And believe nobody, believe -nothing but what you see with your own eyes.” “Never! I will put faith -in nobody,” Randolph had said. And it was in this frame of mind that he -had come here. He meant to believe nobody save when they warned him of -plots against himself: to trust nothing save that all the world was in a -league to work him harm. But for this determined pre-conclusion, he -might perhaps have been less certain of his sister’s enmity to himself, -and of the baseness of the deception she was practising; but he had no -doubt whatever on this matter now. And he meant to expose her -remorselessly. Why should he mince matters? His father was an old man -and might die at any moment, and this villany ought to be exposed at -once. - -With these thoughts in his mind he went round to the great door. How -different was the grey north-country house from anything he was used to! -The thought of his snug parsonage embosomed in greenery, roses climbing -to the chimney-stacks, clustering about all the windows, soft velvet -lawns and strict inclosures keeping all sacred--made him shiver at sight -of the irregular building, the masses of ivy fostering damp, the open -approach, a common road free to everybody. If it ever was his, or rather -when it was his--for these supposititious children would soon be done -away with, and John, a man under the ban of the law, how could he ever -appear to claim his inheritance?--_when_ it was his, he would soon make -a difference. He would bring forward the boundaries of the Chase so as -to inclose the Castle. He would make the road into a stately avenue as -it once was and ought to be. What did it matter who objected? He would -do it; let the village burst with rage. The very idea of exasperating -the village and making it own his power, made the idea all the more -delightful. He would soon change all this; let it but get into his -hands. In the midst of these thoughts, however, Randolph met a somewhat -ludicrous rebuff from Eastwood, who opened the door suddenly and softly, -as was his fashion, as if he hoped to find the visitor out in something -improper. “Who shall I say, sir?” said Eastwood, deferentially. This -gave Randolph a sense of the most ludicrous discomfiture; for to be -asked what name is to be announced when you knock at the door of your -father’s house is a curious sensation. It was nobody’s fault unless it -might have been Randolph’s own, but the feeling was disagreeable. He -stood for a moment dumb, staring at the questioner--then striding inside -the door, pushed Eastwood out of his way. When he was within, however, -somewhat conciliated by the alarmed aspect of the butler, who did not -know whether to resist or what to do, he changed his mind. - -“I don’t want to startle my father,” he said; “say Mr. Randolph Musgrave -has arrived.” - -“I beg your pardon humbly, sir,” cried Eastwood. - -“No, no, it was not your fault.” Randolph replied. It was not the -servant’s fault; but it was _their_ fault who had made his home a place -of disgrace, and no longer a fit home for him. - -The Squire was seated among his books, feeling the drowsy influence of -the afternoon. He had no Monograph to support his soul, and no better -occupation than to rummage dully through the records of antiquity, -cheered up and enlivened if he found something to reply to in _Notes and -Queries_, but otherwise living a heavy kind of half-animate life. When -the critiques and the letters about that Monograph had ended, what a -blank there was! and no other work was at hand to make up, or to tempt -him to further exertions. The corner of land that he desired to attain -had been bought, and had given him pleasure; but after a while his eyes -were satisfied with the contemplation, and his mind almost satisfied -with the calculation, of so many additional acres added to the property. -The sweetness of it lay in the thought that the property was growing, -that there was sufficient elasticity in the family income to make the -acquisition of even a little bit of land possible. The Squire thought -this was the fruit of his own self-denial, and it gave him that glow of -conscious virtue which was once supposed to be the appropriate and -unfailing reward of good actions, till conscious virtue went out of -fashion. This was sweet; and it was sweet to go and look at the new -fields which restored the old boundary of the Penninghame estate in that -direction; but such gratifications cease to be sustaining to life after -a time. And Mr. Musgrave was dull sitting among his books; the sounds -were in his ears which he was always hearing now--the far-off ring of -voices that made him sensible of those inmates in his house whom he -never noticed, who were to him as if they did not exist. When the mind -is not very closely occupied, sounds thus heard in the house come -strangely across the quiescent spirit of the solitary. Voices beloved -are as music, are as sunshine, conveying a sense of happiness and soft -exhilaration. Hearing them far off, though beyond the reach of hearing, -so to speak, does not the very distant sound, the tone of love in them, -make work sweet and the air warm, softening everything round the -recluse? But these were not voices beloved. The old man listened to -them--or rather, not permitting himself to listen, _heard_ them acutely -through the mist of a separation which he did not choose to overcome. -They were like something from another world, voices in the air, -inarticulate, mysterious, known yet unknown. He turned the leaves idly -when these strange suggestions came to him in his solitude; he had -nothing to do with them, and yet so much. This was how he was sitting, -dully wistful, in that stillness of age which when it is not glad must -be sad, and hearing almost, as if he were already a ghost out of his -grave, the strange yet familiar stir in the unseen stairs and passages, -the movements of the kindly house---- - -“Mr. Randolph Musgrave!” The Squire was very much startled by the name. -He rose hastily, and stood leaning upon his writing-table to see who it -was that followed Eastwood into the room after a minute’s interval. It -seemed scarcely possible to him that it could be his son. “Randolph!” he -said. The children’s voices had made him think, in spite of himself, of -the time--was it centuries ago?--when there were two small things -running about those old passages continually, and a beautiful young -mother smiling upon them--and him. This had softened his heart, though -by means which he would not have acknowledged. He looked out eagerly -with a sensation of pleasure and relief for his son. He would (perhaps) -take Randolph’s advice, perhaps get some enlightenment from him. But the -shock set his nerves off, and made him tremulous, though it was a shock -of pleasure; and it hurt his pride so to be seen trembling, that he held -himself up strained and rigid against his table. “Randolph! you are a -stranger indeed,” he said, and his countenance lighted up with a cloudy -and tremulous smile. - -(“Strange that he was never seen here before in my time,” said Eastwood -as he withdrew. “I’ve seen a many queer things in families, but never -nothing more queer than this--two sons as never have been seen in the -house, and children as the Squire won’t give in he owns them. I thought -he’d have walked right straight over little master Saturday last as if -no one was there. But I don’t like the looks of _’im_. When he’s master -here I march, and that I can tell you--pretty fast, Missis Cook.” - -“Mr. Randolph? He’ll never be master here, thank God for it,” said Cook -with pious fervour, “or more than you will go.”) - -“Yes,” said Randolph, walking in, “I have been a stranger, but how can -we help that! It is life that separates us. We must all run our own -course. I hope you are well, sir. You look well--for your time of life.” - -It is not a pleasant thing to be told that you look well for your time -of life--unless indeed you are ninety, and the time of life is itself a -matter of pride. The Squire knew he was old, and that soon he must -resign his place to others; but he did not care for such a distinct -intimation that others thought so too. - -“I am very well,” he said, curtly. “You are so completely a stranger, -Randolph, that I cannot make the usual remarks on your personal -appearance. You deny me the opportunity of judging if you look ill or -well.” - -“Ah,” said Randolph, “that is just what I said. We must all run our own -course. My duties are at the other end of England, and I cannot be -always running back and forward; but I hope to stay a few days now if -you will have me. Relations should see each other now and then. I have -just had a glimpse of Mary in the old hall as usual. She did not know me -at first, nor, I daresay, if I had not seen her there, should I have -known her”-- - -“Mary is little changed,” said the Squire. - -“So you think, sir, seeing her every day; but there is a great change -from what she was ten years ago. She was still a young woman then, and -handsome. I am afraid even family partiality cannot call her anything -but an old maid now.” - -Mr. Musgrave did not make any reply. He was not a particularly -affectionate father, but Mary was part of himself, and it did not please -him to hear her spoken of so. - -“And, by the bye,” said Randolph, “how did such a thing happen I wonder? -for she _was_ handsome;--handsome and well-born, and with a little -money. It is very odd she never has married. Was there anything to -account for it? or is it mere ill-luck?” - -“Ill-luck to whom?” said the Squire. “Do you think perhaps your sister -never had the chance, as people say? You may dismiss that idea from your -mind. She has had enough of chances. I don’t know any reason; but there -must have been one, I suppose. Either that nobody came whom she cared -for, or--I really cannot form any other idea,” he concluded, sharply. It -was certain that he would not have Mary discussed. - -“I meant no harm,” said Randolph. “She has got the old hall very nicely -done up. It is not a place I would myself care to keep up, if the Castle -were in my hands; but she has made it very nice. I found her there -with--among her favourite studies,” he added, after a momentary pause. -It was too early to begin direct upon the chapter of the children, he -felt. The Squire did not show any sign of special understanding. He -nodded his head in assent. - -“She was always fond of the hall,” he said. “I used to think she suited -it. And now that she is--past her youth, as you say----” - -“Well into middle age I say, sir, like other people; which is a more -serious affair for a woman than for a man; but I suppose all hopes are -over now. She is not likely to marry at her time of life.” This was the -second time he had mentioned the time of life. And the Squire did not -like it; he answered curtly---- - -“No, I don’t think it likely that Mary will marry. But yourself, -Randolph, how are things going with you? You have not come so far merely -to calculate your sister’s chances. Your wife is well, I hope; and your -boy?” - -“Quite well. You are right in thinking, sir, that I did not come without -an object. We are all getting on in life. I thought it only proper that -there should be some understanding among us as to family -affairs--something decided in the case of any emergency. We are all -mortal----” - -“And I the most mortal of all, you will say, at my ‘time of life,’ -Randolph,” said the Squire, with a smile, which was far from genial. “I -daresay you are quite right, perfectly right. I am an old man, and -nobody can tell what an hour may bring forth.” - -“That is true at every age,” said Randolph, with professional -seriousness. “The idea ought to be familiar to the youngest among us. In -the midst of life we are in death. I recommend everybody over whom I -have the least influence to settle their affairs, so that they may not -leave a nest of domestic contentions behind them. It is only less -important than needful spiritual preparation, which of course should be -our first care.” - -“Just so,” said Mr. Musgrave. “I presume you don’t mean to bring me to -book on that point?” - -“Certainly not, sir--unless there is any special point upon which I -could be of use; but you are as well able to judge as I am, and have -access to all the authorities,” said Randolph with dignity. “Besides, -there is your own clergyman at hand, who is no doubt quite equal to the -duties of his position. It is old Pennithorne, is it not?” he added, -with a momentary lapse into a more familiar tone. “But there is no -question of that. In such matters a man of your experience, sir, ought -to be able to instruct the best of us.” - -“The bench of bishops even,” said the Squire, “sometimes I think I -could--at my time of life. But that is not the question, as you say.” - -“No indeed--not to say that my best advice in every way is at your -service, sir; but I thought very likely it would be an ease to your mind -to see me, to give me any instructions or directions--in short, to feel -that your nearest representative understood your wishes, whatever might -happen.” - -Now Randolph was evidently his father’s representative, John being out -of the question; and that John was absolutely out of the question, not -only from external circumstances, but from the strong prejudice and -prepossession against him in his father’s mind, was certain. Yet the -Squire resented this assumption as much as if John had been his -dearly-beloved son and apparent heir. - -“Thanks,” he said, “I feel your care for my comfort--but after all, you -are not my direct representative.” - -“Sir!” cried Randolph reddening, “need I remind you of the disabilities, -the privation of all natural rights----” - -“You need not remind me of anything,” said Mr. Musgrave, getting up -hurriedly. “I don’t care to discuss that question--or anything else of -the kind. Suppose we go and join Mary, who must be in the drawing-room, -I suppose? It is she, after all, who is really my representative, -knowing everything about my affairs.” - -“She--is a woman,” said Randolph, with a tone of contempt. - -“That is undeniable--but women are not considered exactly as they used -to be in such matters.” - -“I hope, sir,” said the clergyman, with dignity, “that neither my sister -nor you add your influence to the foolish movement about women’s -rights.” - -“Do you mean that Mary does not want a vote?” said the Squire. “No, I -don’t suppose it has occurred to her. We add our influence to very few -public movements, Randolph, bad or good. The Musgraves are not what they -once were in the county; the leading part we once took is taken by -others who are richer than we are. Progress is not the thing for old -families, for progress means money.” - -“There are other reasons why the Musgraves do not take their proper -place. I have hopes, sir,” said Randolph, “that under more favourable -circumstances--if we, perhaps, were to draw more together----” - -“What do you mean, sir?” said the Squire; “it was you who separated -yourself from us, not us from you. You were too good, being a clergyman, -as you said, to encounter the odium of our position. That’s enough, -Randolph. It is not an agreeable subject. Let us dismiss it as it has -been dismissed these fifteen years; and come--to Mary’s part of the -house.” - -“Then, am I to understand,” said Randolph, sharply, rising, yet holding -back, “that your mind is changing as old age gains upon you, that you -are going to accept the disgrace of the family? and that it is with your -sanction that Mary is receiving--adopting----” - -He stopped, overawed in spite of himself, by the old man’s look, who -stood with his face fixed looking towards him, restraining with all his -force the tremor of his nerves. The Squire had been subject all his life -to sudden fits of passion, and had got the habit of subduing, by -ignoring them, as all his family well knew. He made no reply, but the -restrained fire in his eyes impressed even the dull imagination of his -son, who was pertinacious rather than daring, and had no force in him to -stand against passion. Mr. Musgrave turned round quickly, and took up -his book, which lay on a table near. - -“Mary sent you a copy of the Monograph?” he said; “but I don’t remember -that you gave me your opinion of it. It has had a very flattering -reception generally. I could not have expected so much interest in the -public mind on a question of such exclusive family interest. But so it -has been. I have kept all the notices, and the letters I have received -on the subject. You shall see them by and by; and I think you will agree -with me, that a more flattering reception could scarcely have been. All -sorts of people have written to me. It appears,” said the Squire, with -modest pride, “that I have really been able to throw some light upon a -difficulty. After dinner, Randolph, if you are interested, you shall see -my collection.” - -“My time is short,” said Randolph, “and with so many more serious -matters to discuss----” - -“I know few things more serious than the history of the family honours,” -said the Squire, “especially as you have a boy to inherit the old -blazon; but we’ll go into all that this evening, as your stay is to be -short. Better come and see Mary before dinner. She will want to know all -about your home-concerns, and your wife. The house is unchanged, you -will perceive,” the Squire continued, talking cheerfully as he led the -way; and the sound of his voice, somewhat high-pitched and shrill with -age, travelled far through the old passages. “I hope no sacrilegious -hands will ever change the house. My heirs may add to it if they please, -but it is a monument of antiquity, which ought never to be -touched--except to mend it delicately as Mary mends her old lace. This -way, Randolph; I believe you have forgotten the way.” - -They were standing in an angle of the fine oak staircase, where the -Squire waited till his son came up to him. At this moment a rush of -small footsteps, and a whispering voice--“Run, Nello, Nello! he is -coming,” was audible above. Randolph looked up quickly, with a look of -intelligence, into the old man’s face. But the Squire did not move a -muscle. His countenance was blank as that of a deaf man. If he had -heard, he allowed no sign of hearing to be visible. “Come along,” he -said, “it seems to me that my wind is better than yours even at my time -of life,” with a half-sarcastic smile. Was he hard of hearing? a -hypothesis rather agreeable to think of; or what was the meaning of it? -Were these obnoxious children the pets of the house? but why should they -run because he was coming. The hostile visitor was perplexed, and could -not make it out. He followed into the drawing-room without a word, while -the small footsteps were still audible. Mary was seated at a low table -on which there was work, but she was not working. She rose to receive -them with a certain formality; for except after dinner, when the Squire -would sometimes come for a cup of tea, or when there were visitors in -the house, she was generally alone in the low quaint drawing-room, which -transported even the unimaginative Randolph back to childhood. The -panelled walls, the spindle-legged furniture, the inlaid cabinets and -tables, were all exactly as he remembered them. This touched him a -little, though he had all the robustness against impression which -fortifies a slow intelligence. “It seems like yesterday that I was -here,” he said. - -This, in her turn, touched Mary, whose excitement made her subject to -the lightest flutter of emotion. She smiled at him with greater kindness -than she had yet felt. “Yes,” she said. “I feel so sometimes, too, when -I look round; but it tells less upon us who are here always. And so much -has happened since then.” - -“Ah, I suppose so: though you seem to vegetate pretty much in the old -ways. Those children though, for instance,” said Randolph, with a laugh, -“scurrying off in such haste as we came within hearing, that is not like -the old ways. Are you ashamed of them, or afraid to have them here? I -should not wonder, for my part.” - -The tears sprang to Mary’s eyes. She did not say anything in the sudden -shock, but looked at Randolph piteously with a silent reproach. It was -the first time since the day of their arrival that any public mention -had been made of the children in her father’s presence. And there was a -pause which seemed to her full of fate. - -“You must not look at me so,” said her brother. “I gave you fair -warning. My father is not to be given up to your plots without a -remonstrance at least. I believe it is a conspiracy, sir, from beginning -to end. Do you intend our old family, with all the honours you are so -proud of, to drop into disgrace? With the shadow of crime on it,” cried -Randolph, warming into excitement; then, with a dull perception of -something still more telling, his father’s weak point, “and the bar -sinister of vice?” he said. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - -DUCKS AND DRAKES. - - -The Squire made use of that discretion which is the better part of -valour. When Randolph for the second time insisted upon coming to an -understanding on family affairs, which meant deciding what was to be -done on the Squire’s death, Mr. Musgrave, not knowing how else to foil -his son, got up and came away. “You can settle these matters with Mary,” -he said, quietly enough. It would not have been dignified to treat the -suggestion in any other way. But he went out with a slight acceleration -of his pulses, caused half by anger and half by the natural human thrill -of feeling with which a man has his own death brought home to him. The -Squire knew that there was nothing unnatural in this anticipation of his -own end. He was aware that it required to be done, and the emergency -prepared for; but yet it was not agreeable to him. He thought they might -have awaited the event, although in another point of view it would have -been imprudent to await the event. He felt that there was something -undesirable, unlovely, in the idea of your children consulting over you -for their own comfort “afterwards.” But then his children were no longer -children whose doings touched his affections much--they were middle-aged -people, as old as he was--and in fact it _was_ important that they -should come to an arrangement and settle everything. Only he could -not--and this being so, would not--do it; and he said to himself that -the cause of his refusal was no reluctance on his own part to consider -the inevitable certainty of his own death, but only the intolerableness -of the inquiry in other respects. He walked out in a little strain and -excitement of feeling, though outwardly his calm was intense. He -steadied himself, mind and body, by an effort, putting a smile upon his -lip, and walking with a deliberate slow movement. He would have scorned -himself had he showed any excitement; but strolled out with a leisurely -slow step and a smile. They would talk the matter out, the two whom he -had left; even though Mary’s heart would be more with him than with her -brother, still she would be bound to follow Randolph’s lead. They would -talk of his health, of how he was looking feeble, his age beginning to -tell upon him, and how it would be very expedient to know what the -conditions of his will were, and whether he had made any provision for -the peculiar circumstances, or arrangement for the holding of the -estate. “I ought to be the first person considered,” he thought he heard -Randolph saying. Randolph had always thought himself the first person to -be considered. At this penetration of his own the Squire smiled again, -and walked away very steadily, very slowly, humming a bar of an -old-fashioned air. - -He went thus through the broken woodland towards the east, and strolled -into the Chase like a man taking a walk for pleasure. The birds sang -overhead, little rabbits popped out from the great tree-trunks, and a -squirrel ran up one of them and across a long branch, where it sat -peering at him. All was familiar, certain, well known; he had seen the -same sights and heard the same sounds for the last seventy years; and -the sunshine shone with the same calm assurance of shining as at other -times, and all this rustling, breathing life went on as it had always -gone on. There was scarcely a leaf, scarcely a moss-covered stone that -did not hide or shelter something living. The air was full of life; -sounds of all kinds, twitter and hum and rustle, his own step among -other movements, his own shadow moving across the sunshine. And he felt -well enough, not running over with health and vigour as he had sometimes -felt long ago, not disposed to vault over walls and gates in that -unlicensed exuberance which belongs to youth only, but well -enough--quite well, in short; steady afoot, his breathing easy, his head -clear, everything about him comfortable. Notwithstanding which, his -children were discussing, as in reference to a quite near and probable -event, what was to be done when he should die! The Squire smiled at the -thought, but it was a smile which got fixed and painful on his lip, and -was not spontaneous or agreeable. The amusement to be got from such an -idea is not of a genial kind. He was over seventy, and he knew, who -better? that threescore and ten has been set down as the limit of mortal -life. No doubt he must die--every man must die. It was a thing before -him not to be eluded; the darkness, indeed, was very near, according to -all ordinary law; but the Squire did not feel it, was not in his soul -convinced of it. He believed it, of course; all other men of his age -die, and in their case the precautions of the family are prudent and -natural; in his own case it is true he did not feel the necessity; but -yet no doubt it must be so. He kept smiling to himself; so living as he -was, and everything round, it was an odd sort of discord to think of -dying. He felt a kind of blank before him, a sense of being shut in. So -one feels when one walks along a bit of road surrounded with walls, a -_cul de sac_ from which there is no outlet. A sense of imprisonment is -in it, of discouragement, too little air to breathe, too little space to -move in--certainly a disagreeable, stifling, choking sensation. -Involuntarily a sigh came from his breast; and yet he smiled -persistently, feeling in himself a kind of defiance to all the world, a -determination to be amused at it all, notwithstanding the sentence they -were passing against him. - -While the Squire continued his walk, amid the twitter of the birds and -the warble and the crackle and rustle and hum in the woods, and all the -sounds of living, now and then another sound struck in--a sound not -necessarily near, for in that still summer air sounds travel easily--an -echo of voices, now one soft cry or laugh, now a momentary babble. It -struck the old man as if an independent soul had been put into the -scene. He knew very well what it meant--very well--no one better. By -very dint of his opposition to them he recognized the sound of the -children wherever they were. They were there now, the little things -whose presence had moved Randolph to this assault upon his father. They -were altogether antagonistic to Randolph, or rather he to them; this -gave them a curious perverse interest in their grandfather’s eyes. They -offered him an outlet from his _cul de sac_; the pressure seemed -suddenly removed which had bowed him down; in a moment he felt relieved, -delivered from that sense of confinement. A new idea was like the -opening of a door to the old man; he was no longer compelled to -contemplate the certainty before him, but was let softly down into the -pleasant region of uncertainty--the world of happy chances. The very -character of the smile upon his face changed. It became more natural, -more easy, although he did not know the children, nor had any intention -of noticing them. But they were there, and Randolph might scheme as he -liked; here was one who must bring his schemes to confusion. A vague -lightening came into the Squire’s thoughts. He was reprieved, if not -from the inevitable conclusion, at least from the necessity of -contemplating it; and he continued his walk with a lighter heart. By and -by, after a somewhat long round, and making sundry observations to -himself about the state of the timber which would bear cutting, and -about the birds which, without any keeper to care for them, were -multiplying at their own will, and might give some sport in September, -Mr. Musgrave found himself by the lake again with that fascination -towards the water which is so universal. The lake gleamed through the -branches, prolonging the blue of the sky, and calling him with soft -plashing upon the beach, the oldest of his friends, accompaniment of so -many thoughts, and of all the vicissitudes of his life. He went towards -it now in the commotion of feeling which was subsiding into calm, a calm -which had something of fatigue in it; for reluctant as he was to enter -into the question of age and the nearly approaching conclusion, the fact -of age made him easily tired with everything, and with nothing more than -excitement. He was fatigued with the strain he had been put to, and had -fallen into a languid state which was not unpleasant; the condition in -which we are specially disposed to be easily amused if any passive -amusement comes in our way. - -So it happened that as he walked along the margin of the lake, with the -water softly foaming over the pebbles at his feet, Mr. Musgrave’s ear -was caught by a series of sharp little repetitions of sound, like a -succession of small reports--one, two, three. He listened in the mild, -easily-roused, and not very active curiosity of such a moment, and -recognized with a smile the sound of pebbles skipping across the water; -presently he saw the little missiles gleaming along from ripple to -ripple, flung by a skilful but not very strong hand. The Squire did not -even ask himself who it was, but went on quietly, doubting nothing. -Suddenly turning round a corner upon the edge of a small bay, he saw a -little figure between him and the shining water, making ducks and drakes -with varying success. - -The Squire’s step was inaudible on the turf, and he paused in sympathy -with the play. He himself had made ducks and drakes in the Penninghame -water as long as he could recollect. He had taught his little boys to do -it; he could not tell how it was that this suddenly came to his mind -just now--though how it should do so with Randolph, a middle-aged, -calculating parson, talking about family arrangements--Pah! but even -this recollection did not affect him now as it did before. Never mind -Randolph. This little fellow chose the stones with judgment, and really, -for such a small creature, launched them well. The Squire felt half -disposed to step forward and try his skill too. When one shot failed he -was half-sorry, half-inclined to chuckle as over an antagonist; and when -there came a great success, a succession of six or seven reports one -after another as the flat pebble skimmed over fold after fold of the -water, he could not help saying, “Bravo!” in generous applause; -generous, for somehow or other he felt as if he were playing on the -other side. This sensation aroused him; he had not been so -self-forgetting for many a day. “Bravo!” he cried, with something like -glee in his voice. - -The little boy turned round hastily. What a strange meeting! Oddly -enough it had never occurred to the Squire to think who it was. -Strangers were rife enough in these regions, and people would now and -then come to Penninghame with their families--who would stray into the -Chase, taking it for public property. But for the ducks and drakes -which interested him, he would probably have collared the little fellow, -and demanded to know what right he had to be here. He was therefore -quite unprepared for the encounter, and looked with the strangest -emotions of wonder and half-terror into the face which was so familiar -to him, but so strange, the face of his grandson and heir. When once he -had seen the child no further doubt was possible. He stared at him as if -he had been a little ghost. He had not presence of mind to turn on his -heel and go away at once, which would have been the only way of keeping -up his former tactics; he was speechless and overpowered; and there was -nobody by to spy upon him, no grown-up spectators--not even the other -child to observe what he did, or listen to what he said. In this case -the Squire did not feel the need to be vigilant, which in other -circumstances would have given him self-command. Thus the shock and -surprise, and the perfect freedom of his position, unwatched and unseen, -alike broke down all his defences. After the first start he stood still -and gazed at the child, who still, more frankly and with much less -emotion, gazed at him. - -“Who are you, sir?” the grandfather said, with a tone that was meant to -be very peremptory. The jar in it was incomprehensible to Nello: but yet -it gave him greater courage. - -“I am Ne--that is to say,” the little fellow answered, with a sudden -flush and change of countenance, “my name, it is John.” - -“John what? Speak up, sir. Do you know you are a little trespasser, and -have no business to be here?” - -“Oh yes, I have a business to be here,” said Nello. “I don’t know what -it is to be a trespasser. I live at the Castle, me. I can come when I -please, and nobody has any business to send me away.” - -“Do you know who I am?” asked the Squire, bending his brows. Nello -looked at him curiously, half amused, though he was half frightened. He -had never been so near, or looked his grandfather in the face before. - -“I _know_; but I may not tell,” said Nello. He shook his head, and -though he was not very quick-witted, some latent sense of fun brought a -mischievous look to his face. “We know very well, but we are never to -tell,” he added, shaking his head once more, looking up with watchful -eyes, as children have a way of doing, to take his cue from the -expression of the elder face; and there was something very strange in -that gleam of fun in Nello’s eyes. “We know, but we are never, never to -tell. - -“Who told you so?” - -“It was--Martuccia,” said the boy, with precocious discretion. His look -grew more and more inquisitive and investigating. Now that he had the -opportunity he determined to examine the old man well and to make out -the kind of person he was. - -Mr. Musgrave did not answer. He on his side was investigating too, with -less keenness and more feeling than the child showed. He would have been -unmoved by the beauty of Lilias, though it was much greater than that of -Nello. The little girl would have irritated him; but with the boy he -felt himself safe, he could not tell how; he was more a child, less a -stranger. Mr. Musgrave himself could not have explained it, but so it -was. A desire to get nearer to his descendant came into the old man’s -mind; old recollections crept upon him, and stole away all his strength. -“You know who I am; do you know who you are, little fellow?” he asked, -with a strange break in his voice. - -“I told you; you are--the old gentleman at home,” said Nello. “I know -all about it. And me? I am John. There is no wonder about that. It is -just--me. We were not always here. We are two children who have come a -long way. But now I know English quite well, and I have lessons every -day.” - -“Who gives you lessons, my little boy?” The Squire drew a step nearer. -He had himself had a little brother sixty years ago, who was like Nello. -So it seemed to him now. He would not think he had likewise had a son -thirty years ago, whom Nello was like. He crept a little nearer the -child, shuffling his foot along the turf, concealing the approach from -himself. Had he been asked why he changed his position, he would have -said it was a little damp, boggy, not quite sure footing just there. - -“Mr. Pen gives us lessons,” said Nello. “I have a book all to myself. It -is Latin, it is more easy than English. But it takes a great deal of -time; it does not leave so much for play.” - -“How long have you been at your lessons, my little man?” - -The Squire’s eyes began to soften, a smile came into them. His heart was -melting. He gave a furtive glance round, and there was nobody near to -make him afraid, not even the little girl. - -“Oh, a long, long time,” said Nello. “One whole hour, it was as much as -that, or perhaps six hours. I did not think anything could be so long.” - -“One whole hour!” the Squire said in a voice of awe; and his eyes melted -altogether into smiling, and his voice into a mellow softness which it -had not known for years. Ah! this was the kind of son for an old man to -have, not such as Randolph. Randolph was a hard, disagreeable equal, -superior in so much as he had, or thought he had, many more years before -him; but the child was delightful. He did the Squire good. “Or perhaps -six hours! And when did this long spell of study happen? Is it long -ago?” - -“There was no spell,” said Nello. “And it was to-day. I readed in my -book, and so did Lily; but as she is a girl it was different from mine. -Girls are not clever, Martuccia says. She can’t make the stones skim. -That was a good one when you said ‘Bravo!’ Where did you find out to say -Bravo? They don’t talk like that here.” - -“It was a very good one,” said the Squire; “suppose we were to try -again.” - -“Oh! can _you_ do it?” said Nello, with round eyes of wonder. “Can you -do it as well as me?” - -“When I was a child,” said the Squire, quite overcome, “I had a little -brother just like you. We used to come out here, to this very place, and -play ducks and drakes. He would make them go half across the water. You -should have seen them skimming. As far out as that boat. Do you see that -boat----” - -“When he was no bigger than me? And what did you do? were you little -too? did you play against him? did he beat you? I wish I had a brother,” -said Nello. “But you can’t have quite forgotten, though you are an old -gentleman. Try now! There are capital stones here. I wish I could send -one out as far as that boat. Come, come! Won’t you come and try?” - -The Squire gave another searching look round. He had a sort of -shame-faced smile on his face. He was a little shy of himself in this -new development. But there was no one near, not so much as a squirrel or -a rabbit, which could watch and tell. The birds were singing high up in -the tree-tops, quite absorbed in their own business; nothing was taking -any notice. And the child had come close to him, quite confiding and -fearless, with eager little eyes, waiting for his decision. He was the -very image of that little brother so long lost. The Squire seemed to -lose himself for a moment in a vague haze of personal uncertainty -whether all this harsh, hard life had not been a delusion, and whether -he himself still was not a child. - -“Come and try,” cried Nello, more and more emboldened, and catching at -his coat. When the old man felt the touch, it was all he could do to -suppress a cry. It was strange to him beyond measure, a touch not like -any other--his own flesh and blood. - -“You must begin then,” he said, a strange falter in his voice, -half-laughing, half-crying. That is one sign of age, that it is so much -nearer to the springs of emotion than anything else, except youth. -Indeed, are not these two the fitting partners, not that middle state, -that insolent strength which stands between? The Squire permitted -himself to be dragged to the margin of his own water, which lay all -smiling in soft ripples before him as it had done when he was a child. -Nello was as grave as a judge in the importance of the occasion, -breathless with excitement and interest. He sought out his little store -of stones with all the solemnity of a connoisseur, his little brows -puckered, his red lips drawn in; but the Squire was shy and tremulous, -half-laughing, half-crying, ashamed of his own weakness, and more near -being what you might call happy (a word so long out of use for him!) -than he had been, he could not remember when. - -Nello was vexed with his first throw. “When one wants to do very good, -one never can,” he said, discomfited as his shot failed. “Now you try, -now you try; it is your turn.” How the Squire laughed, tremulous, the -broken red in his old cheeks flushing with pleasure and shame! He failed -too, which encouraged Nello, who for his part made a splendid shot the -second time. “Two, three, four, _five_, SIX, SEVEN!” cried the child in -delight. “Don’t be afraid, you will do better next time. Me too, I could -not make a shot at all at first. Now come, now come, it is your turn -again.” - -What a thing it is to have a real long summer afternoon! It was -afternoon when the Squire’s calm was broken by his son Randolph; and it -was afternoon still, dropping into evening, but with a sun still bright -and not yet low in the sky when Mr. Musgrave warmed to his work, and, -encouraged by Nello, made such ducks and drakes as astonished himself. -He got quite excited as they skimmed and danced across the water. “Two, -three, four, five, _six_, _seven_, EIGHT!” Nello cried, with a shriek of -delight. How clever the old gentleman was--how much nicer than _girls_. -He had not enjoyed his play so much for--never before, Nello thought. -“Come back to-morrow--will you come back to-morrow?” he said at every -interval. He had got a playmate now after his own heart--better than Mr. -Pen’s Johnnie, who was small and timid--better than any one he had ever -seen here. - -The two players did not in the growing excitement of their game think -any more of the chance of spectators; and did not see a second little -figure which came running across the grass through the maze of the -trees, and stopped wondering in the middle of the brushwood, holding -back the branches with her hands to gaze at the strange scene. Lilias -was never quite clear of the idea that this wood was fairy-land: so she -was not surprised at anything she saw. Yet at this, for the first -moment, she was tempted to be surprised. The old gentleman! playing at -ducks and drakes with Nello! He who pretended never to see them, who -looked over their heads whenever they appeared, for whom they always had -to run out of the way, who never took any notice! Lilias stood for two -or three whole minutes, holding the branches open, peeping through with -a rapt gaze of wonder; yet not surprised. She applied her little -faculties at once, on the instant, to solve the mystery; and what so -natural as that the old gentleman had been “only pretending” all the -time? Half the pleasure which Lilias herself had in her life came from -“pretending.” Pretending to be Queen Elizabeth, pretending to be a -fairy and change Nello into a lion or a mouse, both of which things -Nello “pretended” to be with equal success; pretending to be Mr. Pen -preaching a sermon, pretending to be Mary, pretending even now and then -to be “the old gentleman” himself, sitting up in a chair with a big -book, just like him. She stood and peeped through the branches, and made -up her mind to this in a way that took away all her surprise. No doubt -he was “only pretending” when he would not let it be seen that he saw -them. Motives are not necessary to investigators of twelve; there was -nothing strange in it; for was not pretending the chief occupation, the -chief recreation of life? She stood and made this out to her own -satisfaction, and then with self-denial and with a sigh went back to -Martuccia. It was very tempting to see the pebbles skimming across the -water, and so easy it seemed! “Me too, me too,” Lilias could scarcely -help calling out. But then it came into her head that perhaps it was -herself whom the old gentleman disliked. Perhaps he would not go on -playing if she claimed a share, perhaps he would begin “pretending” not -to see her. So Lilias sighed, and with self-denial gave up this new -pleasure. It was very nice for Nello to have some one to play with--some -one _new_. He was always the lucky one; but then he was the youngest, -such a little fellow. She went back and told Martuccia he was playing, -he was coming soon, he was not in any mischief--which was what the -careful elder sister and mild indulgent nurse most feared. - -When Lilias let the branches go, however, with self-denial which was -impulsive though so true, the sweep with which they came together again -made more sound than could have been made by a rabbit or squirrel, and -startled the Squire, who was quite hot and excited in his new sport. He -came to himself with a start, and with the idea of having been seen, -felt a pang of shame and half-anger. He looked round him and could see -nobody; but the branches still vibrated as if some one had been there; -and his very forehead, weather-beaten as it was, flushed red with the -idea of having been seen, perhaps by Randolph himself. This gave him a -kind of offence and resentment and self-assertion which mended matters. -Why should he care for Randolph? What had Randolph to do with it? Was he -to put himself under tutelage, and conform to the tastes of a fellow -like that, a parson, an interloper? But all the same this possibility -stopped the Squire. “There, my little man,” he said with some confusion, -dropping his stone, “there! I think it is time to stop now.” - -“Oh!--was it some one come for you?” said Nello, following the direction -of the old gentleman’s eyes. “Stay a little longer, just a little -longer. Can’t you do just what you please--not like me----” - -“Can you not do what you please, my little boy?” The Squire was a little -tremulous with the unusual exertion. Perhaps it was time to stop. He -stooped down to lave his hand in the water where it came shallow among -the rocks, and that act took away his breath still more, and made him -glad to pause a moment before he went away. - -“It is a shame,” said Nello, “there is Lily, and there is Martuccia, and -there is Mary,--they think I am too little to take care of myself; but I -am not too little--I can do a great many things that they can’t do. But -come to-morrow, won’t you _try_ to come to-morrow?” said the child, -coming close up to his grandfather, and taking hold of the skirt of his -coat. “Oh please, please _try_ to come! I never have any one to play -with, and it has been such fun. Say you will come! Don’t you think you -could come if you were to _try_?” - -The Squire burst out into a broken laugh. It would have been more easy -to cry, but that does not do for a man. He put his soft old tremulous -hand upon the boy’s head. “Little Johnny,” he said, “little -Johnny!--that was my little brother’s name, long, long ago.” - -“Did he play with you? I wish I had a little brother. I have nothing but -girls,” said Nello. “But say you will come to-morrow--do say you will -try!” - -The Squire gave another look round him. Nobody was there, not a mouse or -a bird. He took the child’s head between his trembling hands, and -stooped down, and gave him a hasty kiss upon his soft round -forehead--“God bless you, little man!” he said, and then turned round -defiant, and faced the world--the world of tremulous branches and -fluttering leaves, for there was nothing else to spy upon the -involuntary blessing and caress. Then he plunged through the very -passage in the brushwood where the branches had shaken so -strangely--feeling that if it was Randolph he could defy him. What right -had Randolph to control his actions? If he chose to acknowledge this -child who belonged to him, who was the image of the little -Johnny of sixty years ago, what was that to any one? What had -Randolph,--_Randolph_, of all men in the world,--to do with it? He would -tell him so to his face if he were there. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - -THE BAMPFYLDES. - - -The same day on which these incidents occurred the Stanton family were -in full conclave at Elfdale. It was the birthday of Laura, and there -were various merrymakings on hand, an afternoon party, designed to -include all her “young friends,” besides a more select company in the -evening. As Laura was the one whom the family intended to be Lady -Stanton, her affairs, with the willing consent, and indeed by the active -energy of her sister, were generally pushed into the foreground. And -Geoff and his mother were the chief of the guests specially invited, the -only visitors who were staying in the house. - -To say that the family intended Laura to be Lady Stanton is perhaps too -wild a statement, though this settlement of conflicting claims had been -tacitly decided upon when they were children. It was chiefly Lydia who -actively intended it now, moved and backed up by some of the absent -brothers, who thought it “hard luck” that the young unnecessary Geoff -should have interfered between their father and the title, and vowed by -Jove that the only fit thing to do in the circumstances was to marry him -to one of the girls. Lydia, however, was the most active mind in the -establishment at Elfdale, and carried things her own way, so that though -Sir Henry disliked fuss, and disliked Geoff’s mother, who had done him -so much wrong, yet the party in the evening had been specially selected -to suit her, and Maria, Lady Stanton, was established in the house. - -“It can’t last long, papa,” Lydia said; “but we can’t have Geoff without -her.” - -“What do you want with Geoff?” growled Sir Henry. - -“Papa! in the first place he is our cousin; and Laura likes him; and you -know we girls must marry somebody. You can’t get commissions and -nominations for us, more’s the pity; so we must marry. And Laura may as -well have Stanton as any one else, don’t you think? and of course in -that case she ought to be on good terms with her mother-in-law; and -people expect us----” - -“Oh, that will do,” said Sir Henry, “ask whom you like, only free me -from all this clatter. But keep that woman off me with her sanctified -airs, confound her,” said the baronet. He had forgiven Geoff for being -born, but he could not forgive Geoff’s mother for bringing him so -unnecessarily into the world. - -And thus it was that Geoff and his mother were at Elfdale. The elder -Lady Stanton was no more disposed to go than Sir Henry was to ask her. -Visits of this kind are not rare--the inviters unwilling to ask, the -invited indisposed to go; and with such cordial results as might be -anticipated. “I care for nobody in that house except Cousin Mary,” Lady -Stanton said, “and even she perhaps--though it is wrong to say so, -Geoff, my dear boy, for of course everybody means for the best.” With -these mutual objections the party had met all the same. The other Lady -Stanton was very mild and very religious. She could not prevent herself -from having an occasional opinion--that is to say, as she explained it -herself, for “caring for” one person more than another; but that was -because she had not seen enough of the others perhaps--had not quite -understood them. “Yes, Geoff, I do not doubt, my dear, that the girls -are very nice. So many things are changed since my time. Manners are -different. And we are all such prejudiced, unjust creatures, we -constantly take the outside for our standard as if that was everything. -There is but One that sees fully, and what a blessing, Geoff, that it -is Him whom we have most to deal with!” said his mother. For it was one -of her troubles in life that she had uneasy instincts about the people -she met with, and likings and dislikings such as she felt--the latter at -least--a true Christian ought not to indulge in. There was a constant -conflict of duty in her against such rebellious feelings. As for Cousin -Mary, Sir Henry Stanton’s wife, she was one of those whom Geoff’s mother -had no difficulty in liking, but a cold doubt had been breathed into her -mind as to the “influence” which this lady might exercise over her boy. -She could not quite get it out of her thoughts. Mary could mean no harm, -that was certain, but--and then Lady Stanton would upbraid herself for -the evil imagination that could thus believe in evil. So that altogether -she was not happy to go to Elfdale. When she was there, however, the -family paid her a sort of court, though the girls frankly considered her -a hypocrite. What did that matter? “All the people one meets with are -humbugs more or less,” Lydia said with superior philosophy. Lydia was -the one who saw through everybody, and was always unmasking false -pretensions. Laura only acquiesced in the discoveries her sister made, -and generally followed her in whatever was going on. - -The morning of the birthday dawned brightly and promised to be all that -could be desired, and the presents were pretty enough to please any -_débutante_. Laura was nineteen, and so far as the county gaieties went -she had been already “out” for nearly a year. Any more splendid -introduction into society had been denied to the girls. They had -entertained dreams of London, and had practised curtseys for a -problematical drawing-room during one whole year, but it had come to -nothing, Sir Henry being economical and Lady Stanton shy. It was to -their stepmother’s account that Laura and Lydia set down this wrong, -feeling convinced that if she had been their _real_ mother she would -have managed it somehow. “You’ll see she’ll find some way of doing it -when these little things grow up,” the elder sisters said to each other, -and they bore her a grudge in consequence, and looked at her with -glances of reproaches whenever London was spoken of--though that she was -not their real mother could not be held to be poor Mary’s fault. -However, all this was forgotten on the merry morning, when with the -delights of the garden party and a dance before them they came to -breakfast and found Laura’s place at table blocked up with presents. -Many of them it is true were not of very much value, but there was a -pretty bracelet from Geoff and a locket from his mother, which amply -rewarded the young ladies for their determination to have their cousin -and his mother invited. The opening of the presents made a little -pleasant commotion. The donors were all moved by an agreeable curiosity -to see how their gifts were received, and as Laura was lavish in her -expressions of delight and Lydia in generous admiration, and the little -girls hovered behind in fluttering awe, curiosity, and excitement, a -general air of family concord, sympathy, and happiness was diffused over -the scene. There was not very much love perhaps in the ill-compacted -household. But Sir Henry could not help sharing the infection of the -half-real amiability of the moment, and his wife could not but brighten -under any semblance of kindness. They sat down quite happily to -breakfast and began to chatter about the amusements of the afternoon. -Even little Fanny and Annie were allowed to have their say. To them was -allotted a share in the croquet, even in the delightful responsibility -of arranging the players. All the old fogies, the old-fashioned people, -the curate and his sister, the doctor and his niece, the humbler -neighbours, were reserved for that pastime which is out of fashion--the -girls kept the gayer circle and the more novel amusements for Geoff and -their own set. And moved by the general good-nature of the moment Sir -Henry made apologies to his guests for the occupations which would -occupy his morning. He was an active magistrate, and found in this -version of public duty a relief from the idleness of his retired life. - -“I have that scamp Bampfylde in hand again,” he said; “he is never out -of mischief. Have you ever seen that fellow, Geoff? Wild Bampfylde they -call him. I think the keepers have a sneaking kindness for him. There is -not a poaching trick he is not up to. I am tired of hearing his name.” - -“What did you say was his name?” said Geoff’s mother. - -The other Lady Stanton had looked up too with a little start, which -attracted Geoff’s attention. He stopped short in the middle of an -animated discussion with the girls on the arrangements of the afternoon, -to hear what was being said. - -“Ah! to be sure--Bampfylde; for the moment I had forgotten,” Sir Henry -said. “Yes--that family of course, and a handsome fellow; as fine a man -as you could see in the north country. Certainly they are a good-looking -race.” - -“I suppose it is gipsy blood,” said the elder Lady Stanton, with a sigh. -“Poor people! Yes, I say poor people, Sir Henry, for there is no one to -care what evil ways they take. So far out of the way among the hills, no -teaching, no clergyman; oh, I make every excuse for them! They will not -be judged as we are, with our advantages.” - -“I don’t know about our advantages,” said Sir Henry, somewhat grimly; -“but I sha’n’t make excuses for them. A pest to the country; not to -speak of the tragedy they were involved in----” - -“Oh, don’t let us speak of that,” said Mary, under her breath. - -Sir Henry gave her a look which irritated young Geoff. The young man -felt himself his beautiful cousin’s champion, and he would have liked to -call even her husband to account for such a glance under frowning -eyebrows at so gentle a creature. Sir Henry for his part did not like -his wife to show any signs of recollecting her own past history. He did -not do very much to make her forget it, and was a cold and indifferent -husband, but still he was affronted that she should be able to remember -that she had not always been his wife. - -“I wish it did not hurt you, Cousin Mary,” said Geoff, interposing, “for -I should like to speak of it, to have it all gone into. I am sure there -is wrong somewhere. You said yourself about that young Musgrave----” - -“Oh hush, hush, Geoff!” she said under her breath. - -“He cannot be young now,” said the elder lady. “I am very sorry for him -too, my dear. It is not given to us to see into men’s hearts, but I -never believed that John Musgrave---- I beg your pardon, Mary, for -naming him before you, of course it must be painful. And to me too. But -it is such a long time ago, and I think if it were all to do over -again----” - -“It would have been done over again and the whole case sifted if John -Musgrave had not behaved like a fool, or a guilty man,” said Sir Henry. -“It is not a pleasant subject for discussion, is it? I was an idiot to -bring up the fellow’s name. I forgot what good memories you ladies -have,” he said, getting up and breaking up the party. And there was -still a frown upon his face as he looked at his wife. - -“What is the matter with papa?” cried the girls in a breath. “You have -been upsetting him. You have worried him somehow!” exclaimed Lydia, -turning upon her stepmother. “And everything was going so well, and he -was in such a good humour. But it is always the way just when we want a -little peace and comfort. I never saw such a house as ours! And he is -not very unreasonable, not when you know how to manage him--papa.” - -As for Mary, she broke down and cried, but smiled again, trying to keep -up appearances. “It is nothing,” she said; “your father is not angry. It -will all be right in a moment. I suppose I am very silly. Run, little -ones, and bring me some eau-de-cologne, quick! You must not think Sir -Henry was really annoyed,” she said, turning to Lady Stanton. “He is -just a little impatient; you know he has all his old Indian ways; and I -am so silly.” - -“I don’t think you are silly,” said Lady Stanton, who herself was -flushed and excited. “It was natural you should be disturbed, and I too. -Sir Henry need not have been so impatient; but we don’t know his -motives,” she added hastily, with the habitual apology she made for -everybody who was or seemed in the wrong. - -“Oh, how tiresome it all is,” cried Lydia, stamping her foot, “when -people will make scenes! Come along, Geoff; come with us and let us see -what is to be done. Everything has to be done still. I meant to ask papa -to give the orders; but when he is put out, it is all over. Do come; -there are the hoops to put up, and everything to do. Laura, never mind -your tiresome presents. Come along! or the people will be here, and -nothing will be done.” - -“That is how they always go on,” said Laura, following her sister with -her lap full of her treasures, “Come, Geoff. It is so easy to put papa -out; and when he is put out he is no good for anything. Do come. I do -not think this time, Lydia, it was _her_ fault.” - -“Oh, it is always her fault,” said the harsher sister: “and sending -these two tiresome children for the eau-de-cologne! She always sends -them for the eau-de-cologne. As if that could do any good! like putting -out a fire with rose-water. There now, Laura, put your rubbish away, and -I will begin settling everything with Geoff.” - -The young man obeyed the call unwillingly; but he went with his cousins, -having no excuse to stay, and did their work obediently, though his mind -was full of very different things. He had put aside the Musgrave -business since his visit to Penninghame, not knowing how to act, and he -had not spoken of it to his mother; but now it returned upon him with -greater interest than ever. Bampfylde he knew was the name of the girl -whom John Musgrave had married, whom his brother Walter had loved, and -whom the quarrel was about; and she it was who, with her mother, had -been accused of helping young Musgrave’s escape. All the story seemed to -reopen even upon him with the name; and how much more upon those two -ladies who were so much more deeply interested. The two girls and their -games had but a slight hold of Geoff’s mind in comparison with this -deeper question. He did what they wanted him, but he was _distrait_ and -preoccupied; and as soon as he was free went anxiously in search of his -mother, who, he hoped, would tell him more about it. He knew all about -it, but not as people must do who had been involved in the -circumstances, and helped to enact that sad drama of real life. He found -his mother very thoughtful and preoccupied too, seated alone in a little -sitting-room up-stairs, which was Lady Stanton’s special sanctum. The -elder Lady Stanton was very serious. She welcomed her son with a -momentary smile and no more. “I have been thinking over that dreadful -story,” she said; “it has all come back upon me, Geoff. Sometimes a name -is enough to bring back years of one’s life. I was then as Mary is now. -No, no, my dear, your good father was very different from Sir Henry; but -a stepmother is often not very happy. It used to be the other way, the -story-books say. Oh, Geoff, young people don’t mean it--they don’t -think; but they can make a poor woman’s life very wretched. It has -brought everything back to me. That--and the name of this man.” - -“You have never told me much about it, mother.” - -“What was the use, my dear? You were too young to do anything; and then, -what was there to do? Poor Mr. Musgrave fled, you know. Everybody said -that was such a pity. It would have been brought in only manslaughter if -he had not escaped and gone away.” - -“Then it was madness and cowardice,” said Geoff. - -“It was the girl,” said his mother. “No, I am not blaming her; perhaps -she knew no better. And his father and all his family were so opposed. -Perhaps they thought, to fly away out of everybody’s reach, the two -together, was the best way out of it. When young people are so much -attached to each other,” said the anxious mother, faltering, half afraid -even to speak of such mysteries to her son, “they are tempted to think -that being together is everything. But it is not everything, Geoff. Many -others, as well as John Musgrave, have lost themselves for such a -delusion as that.” - -“Is it a delusion?” Geoff asked, making his mother tremble. Of whom -could the boy be thinking? He was thinking of nobody--till it suddenly -occurred to him how the eyes of that little girl at Penninghame might -look if they were older; and that most likely it was the same eyes which -had made up to John Musgrave for the loss of everything. After all, -perhaps this unfortunate one, whom everybody pitied, might have had some -compensation. As he was thinking thus, and his mother was watching him, -very anxious to know what he was thinking, Lady Stanton came in suddenly -by a private door, which opened from her own room. She had a little -additional colour on her cheeks, and was breathless with haste. - -“Oh, where is Geoff, I wonder?” she said; then seeing him, ran up to -him. “Geoff, there is some one down-stairs you will like to see. If you -are really so interested in all that sad story--really so anxious to -help poor John----” - -“Yes, who is it? Tell me who it is, and I will go.” - -“Elizabeth Bampfylde is down-stairs,” she said, breathless, putting her -hand to her heart. “The mother of the man Sir Henry was speaking of--the -mother of--the girl. There is no one knows so much as that woman. She is -sitting there all alone, and there is nobody in the way.” - -“Mary!” cried the elder lady, “is it right to plunge my boy into it? We -have suffered enough already. Is it right to make Geoff a victim--Geoff, -who knows nothing about it? Oh, my dear, I know you mean it for the -best!” - -Mary fell back abashed and troubled. - -“I did not mean to harm him, Lady Stanton. I did not think it would harm -him. Never mind; never mind, if your mother does not approve. After all, -perhaps, she knows no more than we do,” she said, with an attempt at a -smile. “The sight of her made me forget myself.” - -“Where is she?” said the young man. - -“Ah! that is just what overcame me,” said Mary, with a sob, and a -strange smile at the irony of fate--“down-stairs in _my_ husband’s room. -I have seen her often in the road and in the village--but here, in my -house! Never mind, Geoff; it was she that helped him to get out of -prison. They were bold, they had no fear of anything; not like us, who -are ladies, who cannot stir a step without being watched. Never mind, -never mind! it is not really of any consequence. She is sitting there -in--in my husband’s room!” Mary said, with a sob and a little hysterical -laugh. It was not strange to the others, but simple enough and natural. -She alone knew how strange it was. “But stop, stop--oh, don’t pay any -attention. Don’t go now, Geoff!” - -“Geoff! my dear Geoff!” cried his mother running to the door after him, -but for once Geoff paid no attention. He hurried down-stairs, clearing -them four or five steps at a time. The ladies could not have followed -him if they would. The door of Sir Henry’s business room stood open, and -he could see an old woman seated like a statue, in perfect stillness, on -a bench against the wall. She wore a large grey cloak with a hood -falling back upon her shoulders, and a white cap, and sat with her hands -crossed in her lap, waiting. She raised her eyes quickly when he came in -with a look of anxiety and expectation, but when she found it was not -the person she expected, bowed her fine head resignedly and relapsed -into quiet. The delay which is always so irksome did not seem to affect -her. There was something in the pose of the figure which showed that to -be seated there quite still and undisturbed was not disagreeable to her. -She was not impatient. She was an old woman and glad to rest; she could -wait. - -“You are waiting for Sir Henry?” Geoff said, in his eagerness. “Have you -seen him? Can I do anything for you?” - -“No, sir. I hope you’ll forgive me rising. I have walked far and I’m -tired. Time is not of so much consequence now as it used to be. I can -bide.” She gave him a faint smile as she spoke, and looked at him with -eyes undimmed, eyes that reminded him of the child at Penninghame. Her -voice was fine too, large and melodious, and there was nothing fretful -or fidgety about her. Except for one line in her forehead everything -about her was calm. She could bide. - -And this is a power which gives its possessor unbounded superiority over -the impatient and restless. Geoff was all curiosity, excitement, and -eagerness. “I don’t think Sir Henry will have any time for you to-day,” -he said; “tell me what it is. I will do all I can for you. I should like -to be of use to you. Sir Henry is going to his luncheon presently. I -don’t think you will see him to-day.” - -Just at this moment a servant came in with the same information, but it -was given in a somewhat different tone. “Look here, old lady,” said the -man, “you’ll have to clear out of this. There’s a party this afternoon, -and Sir Henry he hasn’t got any time for the likes of you. So march is -the word.--I beg your lordship ten thousand pardons. I didn’t see as -your lordship was there.” - -“You had better learn to be civil to every one,” said Geoff, -indignantly; “beg _her_ pardon, not mine. You are--Mrs. Bampfylde, I -think? May I speak to you, since Sir Henry cannot see you? I have very -urgent business----” - -She rose slowly, paying no attention to the man--looking only at Geoff. -“And you are the young lord?” she said with an intent look. There was a -certain dignity about her movements, though she seemed to set herself in -motion with difficulty, stiffly, as if the exertion cost her something. -“I’ve had a long walk,” she added, with a faint smile and half apology -for the effort, “there’s where age tells. And all my trouble for -nothing!” - -“If I can be of any use to you I will,” said Geoff. Then he paused and -added, “I want you to do something for me.” - -“What is it that old ’Lizabeth Bampfylde could do for a fine young -gentleman? Your fortune?--ay, I’ll give you your fortune easy; a kind -tongue and a bright eye carries that all over the world. And you look as -if you had a kind heart.” - -“It is not my fortune,” he said with an involuntary smile. - -“You’re no believer in the likes of that? May be you have never met with -one that had the power. It runs in families; it runs in the blood. There -was one of your house, my young lord, that I could have warned of what -was coming. I saw it in his face. And, oh that I had done it! But he -would not have been warned. Oh! what that would have saved me and mine, -as well as you and yours!” - -“You think of my brother then when you see me?” he said, eager at once -to follow out this beginning. She looked at him again with a -scrutinizing gaze. - -“What had I to do with your brother, young gentleman? He never asked me -for his fortune any more than you; he did not believe in the likes of -me. It is only the silly folk and the simple folk that believe in us. I -wish they would be guided by us that are our own flesh and blood--and -then they would never get into trouble like my boy.” - -“What has he done?” asked Geoff, thinking to conciliate. He had followed -her out of the house, and was walking by her side through the -shrubberies by the back way. - -“What has he done? Something, nothing. He’s taken a fish in the river, -or a bird out of the wood. They’re God’s creatures, not yours, or Sir -Henry’s. But the rich and the great, that have every dainty they can set -their face to, make it a crime for a poor lad when he does that.” - -Geoff did not make any answer, for he had a respect for game, and would -not commit himself; but he said, “I will do anything I can for your son, -if you will help me. Yes, you can help me, and I think you know you can, -Mrs. Bampfylde.” - -“I am called ’Lizabeth,” said the old woman, with dignity, as if she had -said, I am called Princess. Her tone had so much effect upon Geoff that -he cried, “I beg your pardon,” instinctively, and faltered and coloured -as he went on-- - -“I want to know about what happened when I was a child--about my -brother’s death--about--the man who caused it. They tell me you know -more than any one else. I am not asking for idle curiosity. You know a -great deal, or so I have heard, about John Musgrave.” - -“Hus--sh!” she cried, “it is not safe to say names--you never know who -may hear.” - -“But all the world may hear,” said Geoff. “I am not afraid. I want him -to come home. I want him to be cleared. If you know anything that can -help him, tell me. I will never rest now till I have got that sentence -changed and he is cleared.” - -The old woman looked at him, growing pale, with a sort of alarmed -admiration. “You’re a bold boy,” she said, “very bold! It’s because -you’re so young--how should you know? When a man has enemies we should -be careful how we name him. It might bring ill-luck or more harm.” - -“I don’t believe much in ill-luck, and I don’t believe in enemies at -all,” said Geoff, with the confidence of his years. - -“Oh!” she cried, with a long moan, wringing her hands. “Oh, God help -you, innocent boy!” - -“No,” Geoff repeated, more boldly still, “neither in enemies nor in -ill-luck, if the man himself is innocent. But I believe in friends. I am -one; and if you are one--if you are his friend, his true friend, why, -there is nothing we may not do for him,” the young man cried, standing -still to secure her attention. She paused too for a moment, gazing at -him, with a low cry now and then of wonder and distress; her mind was -travelling over regions to which young Geoff had no clue, but his -courage and confidence had compelled her attention at least. She -listened while he went on repeating his appeal; only to tell him what -she knew, what she remembered--to tell him everything. It seemed all so -simple to Geoff; he went on with his pleadings, following through the -winding walk. It was all he could do to keep up with her large and -steady stride as she went on quickening her pace. The stiffness had -disappeared, and she walked like one accustomed to long tramping over -moor and hill. - -“My young lord,” she exclaimed abruptly, stopping him in the midst of a -sentence, “you’ve talked long enough; I know all you can say now; and -here’s the bargain I’ll make. If my lad gets free, I’ll take his -advice--and if he consents, and you have a mind to come up to the fells -and see me where I bide----” - -“Certainly I will come,” cried Geoff, feeling a delightful gleam of -adventure suddenly light up his more serious purpose. “Certainly I will -come; only tell me where I shall find you----” - -“You’re going too fast, my young gentleman. I said if my lad gets free. -Till I have talked to him I’ll tell you nothing. And my bit of a place -is a lonely place where few folk ever come near.” - -“I can find it,” said Geoff. “I do not mind how lonely it is. I will -come--to-morrow, whenever you please.” - -“Not till my lad comes to fetch you,” said ’Lizabeth, with a gleam of -shrewd humour crossing her face for a moment. “I must see my lad first, -and hear what he says, and then I’ll send him to show you the way.” - -“It would be better not to make it dependent on that chance,” said Geoff -prudently. “He might not care to come; I don’t know your son; why should -he take so much trouble for me? He may decline to do it, or he may -dislike my interference, or----” - -“Or he may not get free,” said ’Lizabeth, stopping short, and dismissing -her young attendant almost imperiously. “Here you and me part paths, my -young lord. It will be soon enough to say more when my lad is free.” - -Geoff was left standing at the outer gate, startled by the abruptness of -his dismissal, but incapable he felt of resisting. He gazed after her as -she sped along the road with long swift steps, half-appalled, greatly -excited, and with a touch of amusement too. “I am to cheat justice for -her in the first place, and elude the law,” he said to himself as he -watched her disappearing along the dusty road. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - -A NEW FRIEND. - - -The result of this interview was that Geoff, as was natural, threw -himself body and soul into the cause of Wild Bampfylde. When he had once -made up his mind to this, a certain comic element in the matter -delighted him and gave him double fervour. The idea of defeating justice -was delightful to the young man, not much older than a schoolboy. He -talked to all the people he met about the case of this wild man of the -woods, this innocent savage, to whom all the sylvan sins came by nature; -and he engaged the best lawyer who could be had to defend him, and if -possible get the wild fellow free. Where was the harm? Wild Bampfylde -had never been guilty of violence to any human creature, he ascertained. -It was only the creatures of the woods he waged war against, not even -the gamekeepers. And when Sir Henry, coming home from Quarter Sessions, -informed the party that Wild Bampfylde had managed to get off by some -quibble, the magistrates being fairly tired of convicting him, everybody -was delighted to hear of the safety of Geoff’s _protégé_ except the two -elder ladies, who showed no satisfaction. Neither of them were glad, -notwithstanding that Geoff was so much interested; Lady Stanton from a -vague concern for her son, and Mary because of the prejudice in her -which all her gentleness could not eradicate. She looked at Geoff with -tears in her eyes. “You will have nothing to do with them,” she said; -“him nor any of them? Oh, Geoff, promise!” which was inconsistent, as it -was she herself who had put the old mother in his way. But Geoff only -laughed, and asked what he could have to do with them, and made no -promise. This episode had not interfered with the business of life, with -the afternoon party or the dinner, the dancing or the croquet. All had -“gone off” as well as possible. Laura and Lydia had “enjoyed -themselves” to their hearts’ content. They had been admired and praised -and fêted, and every one had said it was a delightful party. What more -could any young lady of nineteen desire? Geoff was very good-natured, -and did everything that was asked of him. And Laura wore his bracelet, -which was much admired by her friends, and gave rise to many pleasant -suggestions. “He is just the very person for you,” Lydia said -reflectively, as she examined it. “Now I should have liked emeralds or -diamonds, or grown-up jewels; but the turquoises are the very thing for -you. He sees your taste. If he were not Lord Stanton, just for simple -suitableness you should marry Geoff--he is the very person for you.” - -“I do not see why I should be made to marry any one for simple -suitableness, as if I were a baby,” was Laura’s protestation; but she -liked the turquoises, and she did not dislike the hints and smiling -gossip. And when young Lord Stanton and his mother went away, the house -regretted them from the highest to the lowest. The little girls stood -behind backs, crying, when the carriage drove away. “I should like to -know what they have to cry about,” Lydia said; “what is Geoff to them? -It is such nonsense; but they always are encouraged in everything. You -two little things, stop that, and be off with you! You are always in -some one’s way.” - -“He is as much our cousin as yours,” said Fanny, who was always known to -be saucy; but they skimmed away in a panic when Lydia turned round upon -them, not knowing what she might do. “Oh, how nice it would be to have -nothing but a mamma!” they said to each other as they alighted in her -room, where it was always quiet, and smoothed down their ruffled plumes. -Poor little doves! it was not for Geoff alone they were crying, for -Geoff’s mother had been very good to them. They had hung about her for -hours, and had stories told to them, and the world seemed an empty sort -of place when these two visitors went away. - -The mother and son drove home to their own house, he a little sorry, she -a little glad. It was wrong perhaps to be glad, implying a kind of tacit -censure on the people she had left; but there was no harm in being -happy to get home. Stanton Hall was not an immemorial place like -Penninghame, nor a cosy unpretending country house like Elfdale, but a -great mansion intended to be grand and splendid, and overawe the -country. The splendour had fallen into a little disuse during Geoff’s -long minority, but as he had lived chiefly at home with his mother, it -had proportionately gained in comfort and the home aspect which only -being lived in can give to a house. They lived chiefly in one wing, -leaving the state part of the mansion almost unoccupied. Geoff had not -been brought up as most youths of his age are brought up. His mother had -been too timorous, both physically and spiritually, to trust her child -amid all the appalling dangers and indulgences of a public school. And -he had not even, more wonderful still, gone to any university. She was -his sole guardian, no one sharing her powers, for it never had been -supposed that little Geoff would be anybody in particular, or that it -was of the least importance how his mother brought him up. His education -had therefore been chiefly conducted at home by a tutor, chosen rather -for his goodness than his learning. Did it matter very much? Geoff was -not very clever, and it does not require much learning, as Mrs. -Hardcastle concluded in the case of her son Tony Lumpkin, to spend -fifteen thousand a year. Geoff had learned a great many things which -university men do not much meddle with, and he had forgotten as -successfully as any university man could do. He had a great deal less -Greek, but a good deal more French than most of those heroes; and he was -a good, honest, simple-hearted boy, as, Heaven be praised, in spite of -their many advantages, a great many of those same university men manage -to be. And, in short, he was very much like his contemporaries, though -brought up so very differently--a fact which would have wounded his -mother’s feelings more than anything else you could have said; for if -the result is just about the same as it would have been by the other -process, what is the good of taking a great deal of additional trouble? -Mr. Tritton, the tutor, had been all alone at Stanton during this visit -to Elfdale. He was a very good man. He had been as kind as a father to -Geoff from the moment he took charge of him, and had watched over him -with unfailing care; indeed he was like a second mother as -well--perhaps more like that than the other--very anxious not to -“over-tire” his pupil, or to put any strain on his faculties. They were -the most peaceful household that could be conceived, and Geoff, -according to all rule, ought to have grown up a very feminine youth. But -by good luck he had not done so. In that demure household he got to be a -lively, energetic, out-door sort of person, and loved adventure, and -loved life perhaps all the better in consequence of the meek atmosphere -of quietness which surrounded him. To tell the truth it was he who, for -a long time, had held the helm of the house in his hand, and had -everything his own way. - -Mr. Tritton was upon the steps to welcome them, and the servants, who -were glad to see them back after the week of quiet. Who does not know -the kind of servants Lady Stanton would have?--men and women who had -seen the boy grow up, and thought or seemed to think there was nobody in -the world like Geoff--a housekeeper to whom her mistress was very -obsequious and conciliatory, but whom Geoff treated with a familiarity -which sometimes froze the very blood in his mother’s veins, who would -not for the world have taken such liberties; and a butler, who felt -himself an independent country gentleman, and went and came very much at -his own pleasure, and governed his inferiors _en bon prince_, but with a -lively sense of his own importance. These all received the travellers -with cordiality at the door, and brought them tea and were very kind to -them. It was quite touching and gratifying to Lady Stanton that they -should always be so kind. Harris, the butler, took her little -travelling-bag, and carried it into the drawing-room with his own hand; -and Mrs. Benson herself came to pour out her cup of tea. “I hope your -ladyship is not too much tired with your long drive,” Mrs. Benson said; -and Harris kindly lingered to hear her reply, and to assure her that all -had been going on well at Stanton while she was away. - -Geoff did not pay so much attention to the kindness of the servants. He -went off to the stables to give some orders, leaving Mr. Tritton with -his mother. Geoff called his tutor Old Tritton as easily as if he had -mixed in the world of men at Eton or Oxford, and went off about his own -business unconcerned. But when he had turned the corner of the house to -the stables, Geoff’s whistle stopped suddenly. He found a man standing -there with his back against the wall, whose appearance startled him. A -poacher is a thing that is obnoxious to every country gentleman, however -easy his principles may be on the question of game; and a tramp is a -thing that nobody with a house worth robbing can away with. The figure -that presented itself thus suddenly before Lord Stanton’s eyes was the -quintessence of both; a tall, loose-limbed man, with strong black locks -and an olive skin, in coarse velveteen and gaiters, and a coat with -multitudinous pockets, with a red handkerchief knotted round his neck, a -soft felt hat crushed into all manner of shapes, and a big stick in his -hand. He stood in a careless attitude, at his ease, leaning against the -wall. What had such a man to do there? and yet there he was for a -purpose, as any one could see, lying in wait; was it to rob, or to kill? -Geoff’s heart gave a little leap at the sight of the intruder. He had -not had much experience of this kind. - -“What are you doing here?” he asked sharply, the instincts of property -and authority springing up in disapproval and resistance. What had such -a fellow to do here? - -“I am doing nothing,” said the man, not changing his attitude, or even -taking off his hat, or showing the smallest mark of respect. He -continued even to lounge against the wall with rude indifference. “I am -here on your business, not on mine,” he said, carelessly. - -“On my business! Yes, I know,” said Geoff, suddenly bethinking himself; -“you are Bampfylde? I am glad you’ve got off; and you come to me -from----” - -“Old ’Lizabeth; that is about it. She’s a funny woman: whatever silly -thing she wants she always gets her way. She wants you now, and I’ve -come to fetch you. I suppose you’ll come, since she says it. And you’d -better make up your mind soon, for it does not suit me to stay here.” - -“I suppose not,” said Geoff, scarcely noticing what he said. - -“Why should you suppose not!” said the man, rousing himself with an air -of offence. He was taller than Geoff, a lanky but muscular figure. “I -have eyes and feelings as well as you. I like a fine place. Why -shouldn’t I take my pleasure looking at it? You have a deal more, and -yet you’re not content.” - -“We were not discussing our feelings,” said Geoff, half contemptuous, -half sympathetic. “You have brought me a message, perhaps from your -mother?” - -“I’ve come from old ’Lizabeth. She says if you like to start to-night -along with me we’ll talk your business over, and if she can satisfy you -she will. Look you here, my young lord, your lordship’s a deal of -consequence to some, but it’s nothing to her and me. Come, if you like -to come; it’s your business, not our’s. If there’s danger it’s your own -risk, if there’s any good it’s you that will have it, not us----” - -“Danger!” said Geoff; “the danger of a walk up the fells! and good--to -me? Yes, you can say it is to me if you like, but you ought to be more -interested than I am. However, words don’t matter. Yes, let us say the -good is mine, and the danger, if any, is mine----” - -“Have it your own way,” said Bampfylde. “I’ll come back again, since -you’ve made up your mind, at ten to-night and show you the way.” - -“But why at night?” said Geoff; “to-morrow would be better. It is not -too far to go in a day.” - -“There’s the difference between you and us. Night is our time, you see. -It must be by night or not at all. Would you like to walk with me across -country, my lord? I don’t think you would, nor I wouldn’t like it. We -shouldn’t look natural together. But at night all’s one. I’ll be here at -ten; there’s a moon--and a two hours’ walk, or say three at the most, -it’s nothing to a young fellow like you.” - -This was a very startling proposition, and Geoff did not know what to -make of it. It grew more and more like a mysterious adventure, and -pleased him on that side; but he was a modern young man, with a keen -perception of absurdity, and everything melodramatic was alarming to -him. Why should he walk mysteriously in the middle of the night to a -cottage about which there need be no mystery on a perfectly innocent and -honest errand? He stared at his strange visitor with a perplexity beyond -words. - -“What possible object could be gained,” he said at last, “by going in -the night?” - -“Oh, if you’re afraid!” said this strange emissary, “don’t go--that’s -all about it: neither me nor her are forcing you to hear what we may -happen to know.” - -“I am not afraid,” said Geoff, colouring. It was an accusation which was -very hard to bear. “But there is reason in all things. I don’t want to -be ridiculous--” The man shrugged his shoulders--he laughed--nothing -could have been more galling. Geoff standing, looking at him, felt the -blood boiling in his veins. - -“Quite right too,” said Bampfylde. “What can we know that’s worth the -trouble? You’ll take a drive up some day in your coach and four, and -oblige us. That is just what I would do myself.” - -“In Heaven’s name, what am I expected to do?” cried Geoff; “make a -melodramatic ass of myself, and go in the middle of the night?” - -“I’m no scholar: long words are not my sort. Do or don’t, that’s the -thing I understand, and it is easy to settle. If you’re not coming, say -No, and I’ll go. If you are coming, let me know, and I’ll be here. -There’s nothing to make such a wonder about.” - -Geoff was in great doubt what was best to do. The adventure pleased him; -but the idea of ridicule held him back. “It is not pleasant to be -thought a fool,” he said. Then, nettled by the jeer in the face of this -strange fellow who kept his eyes--great, dark, and brilliant as they -were--fixed upon him, the young man cut the knot hurriedly. “Then never -mind the absurdity; be here at ten, as you say, and wait if I am not -ready. I don’t want everybody to know what a fool I am,” he said. - -“You are coming then?” said the man with a laugh. “That’s plucky -whatever happens. You’re not afraid?” - -“Pooh!” cried Geoff, turning away. He was too indignant and annoyed to -speak. He went on impatiently to the stables, leaving the stranger where -he stood. He was not afraid; but his young frame thrilled in every fibre -with excitement. Had not adventures of this kind sounded somewhat -ridiculous to the ideas of to-day, the mysterious expedition would have -been delightful to him. But that uneasy sense of the ridiculous kept -down his anticipations. What could old ’Lizabeth have to tell that could -justify such precautions? But if she chose to be fantastic about her -secret, whatever it was, he must humour her. When he went in again, -there was no sign of his visitor, except the half-effaced mark of a -footstep on the soft gravel. The man had ground the heel of his boot -into it while he stood talking, and there it was, his mark to show the -place where he had been. - -The evening passed very strangely to young Lord Stanton. He heard his -mother and Mr. Tritton talking calmly of to-morrow. To-morrow the old -family lawyer was expected, and some of the arrangements attendant on -his coming of age, which was approaching, were to be discussed; and he -was asked, What he would like--in one or two respects. Should this be -done, or that, when his birthday came? Geoff could not tell what curious -trick of imagination affected him. He caught himself asking, Would he -ever come of age? Would to-morrow be just as the other days, no more and -no less? How absurd the question was! What could possibly happen to him -in a long mountain walk, even though it might be through the darkness? -There is nothing in that homely innocent country to make midnight -dangerous. Wild Bampfylde might be an exciting sort of companion; but -what more? As for enemies, Geoff remembered what he had said so short a -time before. He did not believe in them; why should he? he himself, he -felt convinced, possessed no such thing in all the world. - -But it was astonishing how difficult it was that evening to get free. -Lady Stanton, who generally was fatigued with the shortest journey, was -cheerful and talkative to-night, and overflowing with plans; and even -Mr. Tritton was entertaining. It was only by saying that he had letters -to write that Geoff at last managed to get away. He disliked writing -letters so much that the plea was admitted with smiles. “We must not -balk such a virtuous intention,” the tutor said. He went into the -library with a beating heart. This room had a large window which opened -upon the old-fashioned bowling-green. Geoff changed his dress with great -speed and quiet, putting on a rough shooting suit. The night was dark, -but soft, with stars faintly lighting up a hazy sky. He stepped out from -the big window and closed it after him. The air was very fresh, a little -chilly, as even a midsummer night generally is in the north country. He -gave a little nervous shiver as he came out into the darkness and -dullness. “There’s some one walking over your grave,” said a voice at -his elbow. Geoff started, to his own intense shame and annoyance, as if -he had received a shot. “Very likely,” he said, commanding himself; -“over all our graves perhaps. That harms nobody. You are there, -Bampfylde? That’s well; don’t talk, but go on.” - -“You’re a good bold one after all,” said the voice by his side. Geoff’s -heart beat uneasily at the sound, and yet the commendation gave him a -certain pleasure. He was more at his ease when they emerged from the -shadow of the house, and he could see the outline of his companion’s -figure, and realize him as something more than a voice. He gave a -somewhat longing look back at the scattered lights in the windows as he -set out thus through the silence and darkness. Would any one find out -that he was gone? But his spirit rose as they went on, at a steady pace, -swinging along under the deep hedgerows, and across the frequent bridges -where so many streamlets kept crossing the road, adding an unseen tinkle -to the sounds of the summer night. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - -A MIDNIGHT WALK. - - -When young Lord Stanton left his own house with Wild Bampfylde there was -a tingle of excitement in the young man’s veins. Very few youths of his -age are to be found so entirely home-bred as Geoff. He had never been in -the way of mischief, and he had no natural tendency to lead him -thitherward, so that he had passed these first twenty years of his -existence without an adventure, without anything occurring to him that -might not have been known to all the world. To leave your own house -when other people are thinking of going to bed, for an expedition you -know not where, under the guidance of you know not whom, is a -sufficiently striking beginning to the path of mystery and adventure; -and there was a touch of personal peril in it which gave Geoff a little -tingle in his veins. His brother had been killed by some one with whom -this wild fellow was closely connected; it was a secret of blood which -the young man had set himself to solve one way or other; and this no -doubt affected his imagination, and for a short time the consciousness -of danger was strong in him, quickening his pulses and making his heart -beat. This was increased by a sense of wrong-doing, in so far as Geoff -felt that he might be exposing the tranquil household he had left behind -to agonies of apprehension about him, did he not return sufficiently -early to escape being found out. Finally, on the top of this -consciousness of conditional fault came a feeling, perhaps the most -strong of all, of the possible absurdity of his position. Romantic -adventure, if it never ceases to be attractive to the young, is looked -upon with different eyes at different periods, and the nineteenth -century has agreed to make a joke of melodrama. Instead of being moved -by a fine romantic situation, the modern youth laughs; and the idea of -finding himself in such picturesque and dramatic circumstances strikes -him as the most curious and laughable, if not ridiculous, idea. To -recognize himself as setting out, like the hero of a novel or a play (of -the old school), to search out a mystery--into the haunts of a -law-defying and probably law-breaking class, under the guidance of a -theatrical vagrant, tramp, or gipsy, to ask counsel of the weird old -woman, bright-eyed and solemn, who held all the threads of the story in -her hands, filled Geoff with mingled confusion and amusement. He had -almost laughed to himself as he realized it; but with the laugh a flush -came over his face--what would other people think? He felt that he would -be laughed at as romantic, jibed at as being able to believe that any -real or authentic information could be obtained in this ridiculous way. -’Lizabeth Bampfylde in the witness-box would no doubt be valuable, but -the romances she might tell in her own house, to a young man evidently -so credulous and of such a theatrical temperament--these two things -were entirely different, and he would be thoroughly laughed at for his -foolishness. - -This consciousness of something ridiculous in the whole business -reassured him, however; and better feelings rose as he went on with a -half-pleased, half-excited, exhilaration and curiosity. The night was -fine, warm, and genial, but dark; a few stars shone large and lambent in -the veiled sky, but there was as yet no moon, so that all the light -there was was concentrated above in the sky, and the landscape -underneath was wrapped in darkness, a soft, cool, incense-breathing -obscurity--for night is as full of odours as the morning. It is full of -sounds too, all the more mysterious for having no kind of connection -with the visible; and no country is so full of sounds as the North -country, where the road will now thread the edge of a dark, unseen, -heathery, thymy moor, and now cross, at a hundred links and folds, the -course of some invisible stream, or some dozens of little runlets -tinkling on their way to a bigger home of waters. Now dark hedgerows -would close in the path; now it would open up and widen into that world -of space, the odorous, dewy moorland; now lead by the little street, the -bridge, the straggling outskirts of a village. Generally all was quiet -in the hamlets, the houses closed, the inhabitants in bed, but sometimes -there would be a sudden gleam of lightness into the night, a dazzle from -an open door or unshuttered window. The first of these rural places was -Stanton, the village close to the great House, where Geoff unconsciously -stole closer into the shadow, afraid to be seen. Here it was the smithy -that was still open, a dazzling centre of light in the gloom. The smith -came forward to his door as they passed, roused by the steady tread of -their footsteps, and looked curiously out upon them, his figure relieved -against the red background of light. “What, Dick! is’t you, lad?” he -said, peering out. “Got off again? that’s right, that’s right; and who’s -that along with you this fine night?” Bampfylde did not stop to reply, -to Geoff’s great relief. He went on with long swinging steps, taking no -notice. “If anybody asks you, say you don’t know,” he said as he went -on, throwing back a sort of challenge into the gloom. He did not talk to -his companion. Sometimes he whistled low, but as clearly as a bird, -imitating indeed the notes of the birds, the mournful cry of the -lapwing, the grating call of the corn-crake; sometimes he would sing to -himself low crooning songs. In this way they made rapid progress to the -foot of the hills. - -Geoff had been glad of the silence at first; it served to deliver him -from those uncomfortable thoughts which had filled his mind, the -vagabond’s carelessness reassuring and calming his excitement; for -neither the uneasy sense of danger he had started with, nor the equally -uneasy sense of the ludicrous which had possessed him, were consistent -with the presence of this easy, unexcited companion, who conducted -himself as if he were alone, and would stop and listen to the whirr and -flutter of wild creatures in the hedgerows or on the edge of the moor, -as if he had forgotten Geoff’s very presence. All became simple as they -went on, the very continuance of the walk settling down and calming the -agitation of the outset. By and by, however, Geoff began to be impatient -of the silence, and of the interest his companion showed in everything -except himself. Could he be, perhaps, one of the “naturals” who are so -common in the North, a little less imbecile than usual, but still -incapable of continuous attention? Thus, after his first half-alarmed, -half-curious sense of the solemnity of the enterprise, Geoff came back -to an everyday boyish impatience of its unusual features and a -disposition to return to the lighter intercourse of ordinary life. - -“How far have we to go now?” he asked. They had come to the end of the -level, and were just about to ascend the lower slopes of hilly country -which shut in the valley. The fells rising before them made the -landscape still more dark and mysterious, and seemed to thrust -themselves between the wayfarers’ eyes and that light which seemed to -retire more and more into the clear pale shining of the sky. - -“Tired already?” said the man, with a shrug of his shoulders. He had -stopped to investigate a hollow under a great gorse-bush, just below the -level of the road, from which came rustlings and scratchings -indistinguishable. Bampfylde raised himself with a half-laugh, and came -back to Geoff’s side. “These small creatures is never tired,” he said; -“they scuds about all day, and sleep that light at night that a breath -wakes them; and yet they’re but small, not so big as my hand; and knows -their way, they does, wherever they’ve got to go.” - -“I allow they are cleverer than I am,” said Geoff, good-humouredly, “but -then they cannot speak to ask their way. Men have a little advantage. -And even I am not so ignorant as you think. I have been on the fells in -a mist, and knew my way, or guessed it. At all events, I got home again, -and that is something.” - -“There will be no mist to-night,” said Bampfylde, looking up at the sky. - -“No; but it is dark enough for anything. Look here, I trust you, and you -might trust me. You know why I am going.” - -“How do you trust me, my young lord?” - -“Well,” said Geoff; “supposing I am a match for you, one man against -another, how can I tell you have not got comrades about? My brother lost -his life--by some one connected with you. Did you know my brother?” - -The suddenness of this question took his companion by surprise. He -wavered for a moment, and fell backward with an involuntary movement of -alarm. - -“What’s that for, lad, bringing up a dead man’s name out here in the -dark, and near midnight? Do you want to fley me? _I_ never meddled with -him. He would be safe in his bed this night, and married to his bonnie -lady, and bairns in his house to heir his title and take your lordship -from you, if there had been nobody but me.” - -“I believe that,” said Geoff, softened. “They say you never harmed man.” - -“No, nor beast--except varmint, or the like of a hare or so--when the -old wife wanted a bit o’ meat. Never man. For man’s blood is precious,” -said the wild fellow with a shudder. “There’s something in it that’s not -in a brute. If I were to kill you or you me in this lonesome place, -police and that sort might never find it out; but all the same, the -place would tell--there would be something there different; they say -man’s blood never rubs out.” - -Geoff felt a little thrill run through his own veins as he saw his -companion shiver and tremble; but it was not fear. The words somehow -established perfect confidence between himself and his guide; and he had -all the simplicity of mind of a youth whose faith had never been -tampered with, and who believed with the unshaken sincerity of -childhood. “The stain on the mind never wears out,” he said, -thoughtfully. “I knew a boy once who had shot his brother without -knowing it. How horrible it was! he never forgot it; and yet it was not -his fault.” - -“Ah! I wish as I had been that lucky--to shoot my brother by accident,” -said Wild Bampfylde, with a long sigh, shaking into its place a pouch or -game-bag which he wore across his shoulder. “It would have been the best -thing for him,” he added, in answer to Geoff’s cry of protest; “then he -wouldn’t have lived--for worse----” - -“Have you a brother so unfortunate?” - -“Unfortunate! I don’t know if that is what you call it. Yes, -unfortunate. He never meant bad. I don’t credit it.” - -“You are not speaking,” said Geoff, in a very low voice, overpowered at -once with curiosity and interest, “of John Musgrave?” - -“The young Squire? No, I don’t mean him; he’s bad, and bad enough, but -not so bad. You’ve got a deal to learn, my young lord. And what’s your -concern with all that old business? If another man’s miserable, _that_ -don’t take bit or sup from you--nor a night’s rest, unless you let it. -You’ve got everything that heart could desire. Why can’t you be content, -and let other folks be?” - -“When we could help them, Bampfylde?” said Geoff. “Is that the way you -would be done by? Left to languish abroad; left with a stain on your -name, and no one to hold out a hand for you--nobody to try to get you -righted; only thinking of their own comfort, and the bit and the sup and -the night’s rest?” - -“You’ve never done without neither one nor t’other,” came in a hoarse -undertone from Bampfylde’s lips. “It’s fine talking; but it’s little you -know.” - -“No, I’ve never had the chance,” said Geoff. “I can’t tell what it’s -like, that’s true; but if it ever comes my way----” - -“Ah, ay! it’s fine talking--it’s fine talking!” - -Geoff did not know how to reply. He went on impatiently, tossing aloft -his young head, as a horse does, excited by his own words like the -playing of a trumpet. They proceeded so up a stiff bit of ascent that -taxed their strength and their breathing, and made conversation less -practicable. The winding mountain road seemed to pierce into the very -fastnesses of the hills, and the tall figure of the vagrant a stop in -advance of him appeared to Geoff like the shadow of some ghostly pioneer -working his way into the darkness. No twinkle of a lamp, no outline of -any inhabited place looming against the lighter risings of the manifold -slopes, encouraged their progress. The hills, which would have made the -very brightness of the morning dark, increased the gloom of the night. -Only the tinkle of here and there a little stream, the sound of their -own footsteps as they passed on, one in advance of the other, the small -noises which came so distinctly through the air--here a rustle, there a -jar of movement, something stirring under a stone, something moving amid -the heather, were to be heard. Bampfylde himself was stilled by these -great shadows. His whistle dropped; and the low croon of song which he -had raised from time to time did not take its place. He became almost -inaudible, as he was almost invisible; only the sound of a measured step -and a large confused outline seen at times against the uncertain -openings and bits of darkling sky. - -When they came abreast again, however, on a comparatively smooth level, -after a stiff piece of climbing, he spoke suddenly. “It’s queer work -going like this through the dark. Many a night I have done it with no -company, and then a man’s drawn out of himself watching the living -things: one will stir at your foot, and one go whirr and strike across -your very face, for they put more trust in you in the dark. You see they -have the use of their eyesight, and the like of you and me haven’t. So -they know their advantage. But put a man down beside another man, and -a’s changed. I cannot understand the meaning of it. It puts things in -your head, and it puts away the innocent creatures. Men’s seldom -innocent: but they’re awful strange,” said the vagrant, with a sigh. - -“Do you think they are so strange? I am not sure that I do,” said Geoff, -bewildered a little. “They are just like everything else--one is dull, -one is clever; but except for that----” - -“Clever! it’s the creatures that are clever. Did you ever see a bird -make a fuss to get you off where her nest was? A woman wouldn’t have -sense to do that. She’d run and shriek, and get hold of her bairns; but -the bird’s clever. That’s what I calls clever. It’s something stranger -than that. When a man’s beside you, all’s different; there’s him -thinking and you thinking; and though you’re close, and I can grip -you”--here Bampfylde seized upon Geoff with a sudden, startling grasp, -which alarmed the young man--“I can’t tell no more than Adam where your -mind is. Asking your pardon, my young lord, I didn’t mean to startle -you,” he added, dropping his hold. “Now the creatures is all there; you -know where you have ’em. Far the contrary with a man.” - -Geoff was not given to abstract thoughts, and this sudden entry into the -regions of the undiscovered perplexed him. “You like company, then?” he -said, doubtfully. He knew a great deal more than his companion did of -almost everything that could be suggested, but not of this. - -“Like company? it’s confusing, very confusing. But the creatures is -simple. You can watch their ways, and they’re never double-minded. -They’re at one thing, one thing at a time. Now, a man, there’s notions -in his head, and you can never tell how they got there.” - -“I suppose,” said young Geoff, perplexed yet reverential, “it is because -men are immortal; not like the beasts that perish.” - -“Ay, ay--I suppose they perish,” said Bampfylde. “What would they be -like us for, and sicken, and pine? They get the good of it all the time; -run wild as they like, and do mischief as they like, and never put in -gaol for it. You think they’re sleeping now? and so they are, and waking -too--as still as the stones and as lively as the stars up yonder. That’s -them; but us, if we’re sleeping, it’s for hours long, and dreams with -it; one bit of you lying like a log, t’other bit of you off at the ends -of the airth. So, if you’re woke sudden, chances are you aren’t there to -be woke--and there’s a business; but the creatures, they’re always -there.” - -“That is true,” said Geoff, who was slightly overawed, and thought this -very fine and poetical--finer than anything he had ever realized before. -“But sometimes they are ill, I suppose, and suffer too?” - -“Then them that is merciful puts them out of their pain. The -hardest-hearted ones will do that. A bird with a broken wing, or a beast -with a broken leg, unless it be one of the gentlefolks’ pets, that’s -half mankind, and has to suffer for it because his master’s fond of him -(and that’s funny too)--the worst of folks will put them out of their -pain. But a man--we canna’ do it,” cried the vagrant; “there’s law -again’ it, and more than law. If it was nothing but law, little the -likes of me would mind; but there’s something written here,” he said, -putting his hand to his breast; “something that hinders you.” - -“I hope so indeed,” said Geoff, a little breathless, with a sense of -horror; “you would not take away a life?” - -“But the creatures, ay; they have the best of it. You point your gun at -them, or you wring their necks, and it’s all over. I’m fond of the -creatures--creatures of all kinds. I’m fond of being out with them on a -heathery moor like this all myself. They know me, and there’s no fear in -them. In the morning early, when the air’s all blue with the dawn, the -stirring and the moving there is, and the scudding about, setting the -house in order! A thing not the size of your hand will come out with two -bright eyes, and cock its head and look up at you. A cat may look at a -king; a bit of a moor chicken, or a rabbit the size o’ my thumb, up and -faces you, and, ‘Who are you, my man?’ That is what they looks like; but -you never see them like that after it’s full day.” - -“Then is night their happy time?” said Geoff, humouring his strange -companion. - -“Night, they’re free. There’s none about that wishes them harm; and -though I snare varmint, and sometimes take a hare or a bird,--I’ll not -deny it, my young lord, though you were to clap me in prison again -to-morrow--they’re not afraid o’ me; they know I’ll not harm them. Even -the varmint, if they didn’t behave bad and hurt the rest, I’d never have -the heart. When you go back, if you do go back----” - -“I must go back,” said Geoff, very gravely. “Why should not I? You don’t -think I could stay up here?” - -“I was not thinking one thing or another. The like of you is contrary. -I’ve little to do with men; but when you go, if you go, it might be -early morning, the blue time, at the dawn. Then’s the time to see; when -there’s all the business to be done afore the day, and after the night. -Children is curious,” said Bampfylde, with a softening of his voice, -which felt in the darkness like a slowly dawning smile; “but creatures -is more curious yet. I like to watch them. You’ll see all the life -that’s in the moors if it’s that time when you go.” - -“I suppose if there is anything to tell me I cannot go sooner,” said -Geoff. His tone was grave, and so was his face, though that was -invisible. “Then it will be day before I get home, and they will all -know--perhaps I was a fool.” - -“For coming?” said the man, turning round to peer into his face though -it was covered by the darkness; and then he gave a low laugh. “I could -have told you that!” - -For a moment Geoff’s blood ran colder; he felt a little thrill of -dismay. Was this strange creature a “natural” as he had thought, or did -what he said imply danger? But no more was said for a long time. -Bampfylde sank back again all at once into the silence he had so -suddenly broken, or rather into the low crooning of monotonous old songs -with which he had beguiled the first part of the journey. There was a -kind of slumbrous soothing in them which half-interested, half-stupefied -Geoff. They all went to one tune, a tune not like anything he knew--a -kind of low chant, recalling several airs that did not vary from verse -to verse, but repeated itself, and so lulled the wayfarer that all -active sensation seemed to go from him, and the monotonous, mechanical -movement of his limbs seemed to beat time to the croon of sound which -accompanied the gradual march. There was something weird in it, -something like “the woven paces and the waving hands” of the -enchantress. Geoff felt his eyes grow heavy, and his head sinking on his -breast, as the low, regular tramp and chant went on. - -At length, all at once, the hills seemed to clear away from the sky, -opening up on either hand; and straight before them, hanging low, like -a signal of trouble, a late risen and waning moon that seemed thrust -forward out into the air, and hanging from the sky, appeared in the -luminous but mournful heaven in front of them. There is always something -more or less baleful and troublous in this sudden apparition, so late -and out of date, of a waning moon; the oil seems low in the lamp, the -light ready to be extinguished, the flame quivering in the socket. -Between them and the sky stood a long, low cottage, rambling and -extensive, with a rough, grey stone wall built round it, upon which the -pale moonlight shone. Long before they reached it, as soon as their -steps could be audible, the mingled baying and howling of a dog was -heard, rising doleful and ominous in the silence; and from under the -roof--which was half rough thatch and half the coarse tiles used for -labourers’ cottages--a light strangely red against the radiance of the -moon flickered with a livid glare. A strange black silhouette of a house -it was, with the low moonlight full upon it, showing here and there in a -ghostly full white upon a bit of wall or roof, and contrasting with the -red light in the window: it made a mystic sort of conclusion to the -journey. Bampfylde directed his steps towards it without a word. He -knocked a stroke or two on the door, which seemed to echo over all the -country and up to the mountain-tops in their great stillness. “We are at -home, now,” he said. - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - -THE COTTAGE ON THE FELLS. - - -There was a sound of movement within the house, but no light visible as -they stood at the door. Then a window was cautiously opened, and a voice -called out into the darkness, “Is that you, my lad?” Geoff felt more and -more the little thrill of alarm which was quite instinctive, and meant -nothing except excited fancy; such precautions looked unlike the -ordinary ease and freedom of a peasant’s house. A minute after the door -was opened, and ’Lizabeth Bampfylde made her appearance. She had her -red handkerchief as usual tied over her white cap, and the flash of this -piece of colour and of the old woman’s brilliant eyes were the first -things which warmed the gloom, the blackness and whiteness and mystic -midnight atmosphere. She made an old-fashioned curtsey, with a certain -dignity in it, when she saw Geoff, and her face, which had been somewhat -eager in expression, paled and saddened instantly. The young man saw her -arms come together with a gesture of pain, though the candle she held -prevented the natural clasp of the hands. She was not glad to see him, -though she had sent for him. This troubled Geoff, whom from his -childhood most people had been pleased to see. “You’ve come, then, my -young lord?” she said, with a half-suppressed groan. - -“Indeed, I thought you wanted me to come,” he said, unreasonably annoyed -by this absence of welcome; “you sent for me.” - -“You thought the lad would be daunted,” said Wild Bampfylde, “and I told -you he would not be daunted if he had any metal in him. So now you’re at -the end of all your devices. Come in and welcome, my young lord. I’m -glad of it, for one.” - -Saying this, the vagrant disappeared into the gloom of the interior, -where his step was audible moving about, and was presently followed by -the striking of a light, which revealed, through an open door, the -old-fashioned cottage kitchen, so far in advance of other moorland -cottages of the same kind, that it had a little square entrance from the -door, which did not open direct into the family living-room. This rude -little ante-room had even a kind of rude decoration, dimly apparent by -the light of ’Lizabeth’s candle. A couple of old guns hung on one wall, -another boasted a deer’s head with fine antlers. Once upon a time it had -evidently been prized and cared for. The open door of the room into -which Bampfylde had gone showed the ordinary cottage dresser with its -gleaming plates (a decoration which in these days has mounted from the -kitchen to the drawing-room), deal table, and old-fashioned settle, -lighted dimly by a small lamp on the mantelpiece, and the smouldering -red of the fire. ’Lizabeth closed the door slowly, and with trembling -hands, which trembled still more when Geoff attempted to help her. “No, -no; go in, go in, my young gentleman. Let me be. It’s me to serve the -like of you, not the like of you to open or shut my door for me. Ah, -these are the ways that make you differ from common folk!” she said, as -the young man stood back to let her pass. “My son leaves me to do -whatever’s to be done, and goes in before me, and calls me to serve him; -but the like of you--. It was that, and not his name or his money, that -took my Lily’s heart.” - -Geoff followed her into the kitchen. It was low and large, with a small -deep-set window at each corner, as is usual in such cottages. Before the -fire was spread a large rug of home manufacture, made of scraps of -coloured cloth, arranged in an indistinct pattern upon a black -background, and Bampfylde was occupying himself busily, putting forward -a large high easy-chair in front of the fire, and breaking the -“gathered” coals to give at once heat and light. “Sit you down there,” -he said, thrusting Geoff into it almost with violence, “you’re little -used to midnight strolling. Me, it’s meat and drink to me to be free and -aneath the stars. Let her be, let her be. She’s not like one of your -ladies. Her own way, that’s all the like of her can ever get to please -them--and she’s gotten that,” he said, giving another vigorous poke to -the fire. Up here among the fells the fire was pleasant, though it was -the middle of August: and Geoff’s young frame was sufficiently unused to -such long trudges to make him glad of the rest. He sat down and looked -round him with a grateful sense of the warmth and repose. A -north-country cottage was no strange place to young Lord Stanton, and -all the tremour of the adventure had passed from him at the sight of the -light and the homely, kindly interior. No harm could possibly happen in -so familiar an atmosphere, and in such a natural place. Meantime old -’Lizabeth, with a thrill of agitation in her movements which was very -apparent, busied herself in laying the table, putting down a clean -tablecloth, and placing bread, cheese, and milk upon it. “I have wine, -if you like wine better,” she said. “He will get it, but he takes none -himself--nothing, poor lad, nothing. He’s a good son and a good -lad--many a time I’ve thanked God that He’s left me such a lad to be the -comfort of my old age.” - -Wild Bampfylde gave a laugh which was harsh and broken. “You were not -always so thankful,” he said, producing out of some unseen corner a -black bottle; “but the milk is better of its kind, being natural, than -the wine.” - -“Hush, lad; milk is little to the like of him; but _that’s_ good, for I -have it here for--a sick person. Take something, take something, young -gentleman. You can trust them that have broken bread in your presence, -and sat at your table. Well, if you will have the milk, though it costs -but little, it’s good too; I would not give my brown cow for ne’er a one -in the dales; and eat a bit of the wheaten bread,--it’s baker’s bread, -like what you eat at your own grand house. I would not be so mean as to -set you down, a gentleman like you, to what’s good and good enough for -us. The griddle-cake! no, but you’ll not eat that, my young lord, not -that; it’s o’er homely for the like of you.” - -“I am not hungry,” said Geoff, “and I came here, you know, not to eat -and drink, but to hear something you had to tell me, Mrs. Bampfylde--” - -“My name is ’Lizabeth--nobody says mistress to me.” - -“Well; but you have something to tell me. I left home without any -explanation, and I wish to get back soon, that they--that my mother,” -said Geoff, half-ashamed, yet too proud to omit the apparently (he -thought) childish excuse, since it was true, “may not be uneasy.” - -“Your mother? forgive me that did not mind your mother! Oh, you’re a -good lad; you’re worthy a woman’s trust that thinks of your mother, and -dares to say it! Ay, ay--there’s plenty to tell; if I can make up my -mind to it--if I can make up my mind!” - -“Was not your mind made up then,” said Geoff with some impatience, “when -in this way, in the night, you sent for me?” - -“Oh lad!” cried ’Lizabeth, wringing her hands. “How was I to know you -would come, the like of you to the like of me? I put it on Providence -that has been often contrairy--oh, aye contrairy, to mine and me. I -shouldn’t have tempted God. I said to myself, if he comes it will be the -hand of Heaven. But who was to think you would come? You a lord, and a -fine young gentleman, and me a poor old woman, old as your grandmother. -I thought my heart would have sunk to my shoes when I saw he had come -after a’!” - -“I told you he would come,” said Bampfylde, who stood leaning against -the mantelpiece. He had taken his bread and cheese from the table, and -was eating it where he stood. - -“Of course I would come,” said Geoff. “I could not suppose you would -send for me for nothing. I knew it must be something important. Tell me -now, for here I am.” - -’Lizabeth sat down, dropping into a wooden arm-chair at the end of the -table with a kind of despair, and throwing her apron over her head, fell -a-crying feebly. “What am I to do? what am I to do?” she said, sobbing. -“I have tempted Providence--Oh, but I forgot what was written, ‘Thou -shalt not tempt the Lord thy God.’” - -For a minute or two neither of the men spoke, and the sounds of her -distress were all that was audible. Once or twice, indeed, Geoff thought -he heard a faint sound, like the echo of some low wail or moan, come -through the silence. Not the moan itself, but an echo, a ghost of it. -But his companions took no notice of this, and he thought he must be -mistaken. Everything besides was still. The fire by this time had burned -up, and now and then broke into a little flutter of flame; the clock -went on ticking with that measured steady movement which ‘beats out the -little lives of men;’ and the broken sobs grew lower. An impatience of -the stillness began to take possession of Geoff, but what was he to do? -He restrained himself with an effort. - -“You should make a clean breast,” said Bampfylde, munching his bread and -cheese as he spoke, with his eyes fixed on the fire, not looking at his -mother. “Long since it would have been well to do it and an ease to your -mind. I would make a clean breast now.” - -“Oh, lad, a clean breast, a clean breast!” she said, rocking herself. -“If it was only me it concerned--if it was only me!” - -“If it was only you what would it matter?” said the vagrant, with a -philosophy which sounded less harsh to the person addressed than to him -who looked on. “You--you’re old, and you’ll die, and there would be an -end of it; but them that suffer most have years and years before them, -and if you die before you do justice----” - -“Then _you_ can tell, that have aye wanted to tell!” she cried with a -hot outburst of indignation mingled with tears. Then she resumed that -monotonous movement, rocking herself again and again, and calmed herself -down. It is not so intolerable to a peasant to be told of his or her -approaching end as it is to others. She was used to plain speech, and -was it not reasonable what he said? “It’s all true, quite true. I’m old, -and I cannot bide here for ever to watch him and think of him--and I -might make a friend, the Lord grant it, and find one to stand by -him----” - -“You mean another, a second one,” said her son. He stood through all -this side dialogue munching his bread and cheese without once glancing -at her even, his shoulders high against the mantelpiece, his eyes cast -down. - -After a moment’s interval ’Lizabeth rose. She came forward moving feebly -in her agitation to where Geoff sat. “My young lord, if I tell you -_that_ that I would rather die than tell--that that breaks my heart; -you’ll mind that I am doing it to make amends to the dead and to the -living--and--you’ll swear to me first to keep it secret? You’ll swear -your Bible oath?--without that, not another word.” - -“Swear!” said Geoff, in alarm. - -“Just swear--you can do it as well, they tell me, in one place as -another, in a private house or a justice court. I hope we have Bibles -here--Bibles enough--if we but make a right use of them,” said the old -woman, perplexed, mingling the formulas of common life with the -necessities of an extraordinary and unrealized emergency. “Here is a -Testament, that is what is taken to witness in the very court itself. -You’ll lay your hand upon it, and you’ll kiss the book and swear. Where -are you going to, young man?” - -Geoff rose and pushed away the book she had placed before him. He was -half indignant, half disappointed. “Swear!” he said, “do you know what I -want this information for? Is it to lock it up in my mind, as you seem -to have done? I want it for use. I want it to help a man who has been -cruelly treated between you. I have no right to stand up for him,” said -Geoff, his nostrils expanding, his cheeks flushing, “but I feel for -him--and do you think I will consent to put my last chance away, and -hear your story for no good? No indeed; if I am not to make use of it I -will go back again and find out for myself--I don’t want to be told.” - -The old woman, and it may be added her son also, stood and gazed upon -the glowing eager countenance of the young man with a mingling of -feelings which it would be impossible to describe. Admiration, surprise, -and almost incredulity were in them. He had not opposed them hitherto, -and it was almost impossible to believe that he would have the courage -to oppose them so decidedly; but as he stood confronting them, young, -simple, ingenuous, reasonable, they were both convinced of their error. -Geoff would yield no more than the hill behind. His very simplicity and -easiness made him invulnerable. Wild Bampfylde burst into that sudden -broken laugh which is with some the only evidence of emotion. He came -forward hastily and patted Geoff’s shoulder, “That’s right, my lad, -that’s right,” he cried. - -“You will not,” said old ’Lizabeth; “not swear?--and not hear me?--oh, -but you’re bold--oh, but you’ve a stout heart to say that to me in my -ain house! Then the Lord’s delivered me, and I’ll say nothing,” she said -with a sudden cry of delight. - -Her son came up and took her by the arm. “Look here,” he said, “it was -me that brought him. I did not approve, but I did your bidding, as I’ve -always done your bidding; but I’ve changed my mind if you’ve changed -yours. Now that he is here, make no more fuss, but tell him; for, -remember, I know everything as well as you do, and if you will not, I -will. We have come too far to go back now. Tell him; or I will take him -where he can see with his own eyes.” - -“See! what will he see?” cried ’Lizabeth, with a flush of angry colour. -“Do you threaten me, lad? He’ll see a poor afflicted creature; but that -will tell him nothing.” - -“Mother! are you aye the same? Still _him_, always him, whatever -happens. What has there been that has not yielded to him? the rest of -us, your children as well, and justice and honour and right and your own -comfort, and the young Squire’s life. Oh, it’s been a bonnie business -from first to last! And if you will not tell now, then there is no hope -that I can see; and I will do it myself. I am not threatening; but what -must be, must be. Mother, I’ll have to do it myself.” - -When he first addressed her as mother, ’Lizabeth had started with a -little cry. What might be the reason that made this mode of expression -unusual it was impossible to say; but it affected the old woman as -nothing had yet done. She looked up at him with a wondering, wistful -inquiry in her face, as if to ask in what meaning he used the -word--kindly or unkindly, taunting or loving? When he repeated the name -she started up as if the sound stung her, and stood for a moment like -one driven half out of herself by force of pressure. She looked wildly -round her as if looking for some escape, then suddenly seized the -lighted candle, which still burned on the table. “Then if it must be, -let it be,” she said. “Oh, lad! it’s years and years since I’ve heard -that name! you that would not, and him that could not, and her that was -far away; was there ever a mother as sore punished?” But it would seem -that this expression of feeling exhausted the more generous impulse, for -she set down the light on the table again, and dropping into her seat, -threw her apron over her head. “No, I canna do it; I canna do it. Let -him die in quiet. It canna be long.” - -The vagrant watched her with a keen scrutiny quite unlike his usual -careless ways. “It’s not them as are a burden on the earth that dies,” -he said. “You’ve said that long--let him die in peace; let him die in -peace. Am I wishing him harm? There’s ne’er a one will hurt _him_. He’s -safe enough. Whoever suffers, it will not be him.” - -“Oh, lad, lad!” cried the mother, uncovering her face to look at him. At -’Lizabeth’s age there are no floods of tears possible. Her eyes were -drawn together and full of moisture--that was all, She looked at him -with a passion of reproach and pain. “Did you say suffer? What’s a’ the -troubles that have been into this house to his affliction? My son, my -son, my miserable lad! You that can come and go as you like, that have a -mind free, that have your light heart--oh ay, you have a light heart, -or how could you waste your days and your nights among beasts and wild -things? How can the like of you judge the like of him?” - -During this long discussion, to which he had no sort of clue, Geoff -stood looking from one to another in a state of perplexity impossible to -describe. It could not be John Musgrave they were talking of? Who could -it be? Some one who was “afflicted,” yet who had been exempt from -burdens which had fallen in his stead upon others. Young Lord Stanton, -who had come here eager to hear all the story in which he was so much -interested, anxious to discover everything, stood, his eyes growing -larger, his lips dropping apart in sheer wonder, listening; and feeling -all the time that these two peasants spoke a different language from -himself, and one to which he had no clue. Just then, however, in the -dead silence after ’Lizabeth had spoken, the faint sound like a muffled -cry which he had heard before, broke in more loudly. It made Geoff -start, who could not guess what it meant, and it roused his companions -effectually, who did know. ’Lizabeth wrung her hands; she raised her -head in an agony of listening. “He has got one of his ill turns,” she -said. Bampfylde, too, abandoned his careless attitude by the -mantelpiece, and stood up watchful, startled into readiness and -preparation as for some emergency. But the cry was not repeated, and -gradually the tension relaxed again. “It would be but an ill dream,” -said ’Lizabeth, pressing a handkerchief to her wet eyes. - -Geoff did not know what to do. He was in the midst of some family -mystery, which might or might not relate to the other mystery which it -was his object to clear up; and this intense atmosphere of anxiety awoke -the young man’s ready sympathies. All his feelings had changed since he -came into the cottage. He who had come a stranger, ready to extract what -they could tell by any means, harsh or kind, and who did not know what -harshness he might encounter or what danger he might himself run, had -passed over entirely to their side. He was as safe as in his own house; -he was as deeply interested as he would have been in a personal trouble. -His voice faltered as he spoke. “I don’t know what it is that distresses -you,” he said; “I don’t want to pry into your trouble; but if I can -help you you know I will, and I will betray none of your secrets that -you trust me with. I will say nothing more than is necessary to clear -Musgrave--if Musgrave can be cleared. - -“Musgrave! Musgrave!” cried old ’Lizabeth, impatiently; “it’s him you -all think of, not my boy. And what has he lost, when all’s done? He got -his way, and he got my Lily; never since then have I set eyes on her, -and never will. I paid him the price of my Lily for what he did; and was -that nothing? Musgrave! Speak no more o’ Musgrave to me!” - -“Oh, mother,” said her son, with kindred impatience, as he walked -towards her and seized her arm in sudden passion; “oh, ’Lizabeth -Bampfylde! You do more than murder men, for you kill the pity in them! -What’s all you have done compared to what John Musgrave has done? and -me--am I nothing? Two--three of us! Lily, too, you’ve sacrificed Lily! -And is it all to go on to another generation, and the wrong to last? I -think you have a heart of stone--a heart of stone to them and to me!” - -At this moment there was another louder cry, and mother and son started -together with one impulse, forgetting their struggle. ’Lizabeth took up -the candle from the table, and Bampfylde hastily went to a cupboard in -the corner, from which he took out something. He made an imperative sign -to Geoff to follow, as he hurried after his mother. They went through a -narrow winding passage lighted only by the flickering of the candle -which ’Lizabeth carried, and by what looked like a mass of something -white breaking the blackness, but was in reality the moonlight streaming -in through a small window. At the end of the passage was a steep stair, -almost like a ladder. Already Geoff, hurrying after the mother and son, -was prepared by the cries for what the revelation was likely to be; and -he was scarcely surprised when, after careful reconnoitring by an -opening in the door, defended by iron bars, they both entered hastily, -though with precaution, leaving him outside. Geoff heard the struggle -that ensued, the wild cries of the madman, the aggravation of frenzy -which followed, when it was evident they had secured him. Neither mother -nor son spoke, but went about their work with the precision of long -use. Geoff had not the heart to look in through the opening which -Bampfylde had left free. Why should he spy upon them? He could not tell -what connection this prison chamber had with the story of John Musgrave, -but there could be little doubt of the secret here inclosed. He did not -know how long he waited outside, his young frame all thrilling with -excitement and painful sympathy. How could he help them? was what the -young man thought. It was against the law, he knew, to keep a lunatic -thus in a private house, but Geoff thought only of the family, the -mysterious burden upon their lives, the long misery of the sufferer. He -was overawed, as youth naturally is, by contact with misery so hopeless -and so terrible. After a long time Bampfylde came out, his dress torn -and disordered, and great drops of moisture hanging on his forehead. -“Have you seen him?” he asked in a whisper. He did not understand -Geoff’s hesitation and delicacy, but with a certain impatience pointed -him to the opening in the door, which was so high up that Geoff had to -ascend two rough wooden steps placed there for the purpose, to look -through. The room within was higher than could have been supposed from -the height of the cottage; it was not ceiled, but showed the -construction of the roof, and in a rude way it was padded here and -there, evidently to prevent the inmate doing himself a mischief. The -madman lay upon a mattress on the floor, so confined now that he could -only lie there and pant and cry; his mother sat by him, motionless. -Though his face was wild and distorted, and his eyes gleaming furiously -out of its paleness, this unhappy creature had the same handsome -features which distinguished the family. Young Geoff could scarcely -restrain a shiver, not of fear, but of nervous excitement, as he looked -at this miserable sight. Old ’Lizabeth sat confronting him, unconscious -of the hurried look which was all Geoff could give. She was clasping her -knees with her hands in one of those forced and rigid attitudes almost -painful, which seem to give a kind of ease to pain--and sat with her -head raised, and her strained eyes pitifully vacant, in that pause of -half-unconsciousness in which all the senses are keen, yet the mind -stilled with very excitement. “I cannot spy upon them,” said Geoff, in a -whisper. “Is it safe to leave her there?” - -“Quite safe; and at his maddest he never harmed her,” said Bampfylde, -leading the way down-stairs. “That’s my brother,” he said, with -bitterness, when they had reached the living-room again; “my gentleman -brother! him that was to be our honour and glory. You see what it’s come -to; but nothing will win her heart from him. If we should all perish, -what of that? ’Lizabeth Bampfylde will aye have saved her son from -shame. But come, come, sit down and eat a bit, my young lord. At your -age the like of all this is bad for you.” - -“For me--what does it matter about me?” cried Geoff; “you seem to have -borne it for years.” - -“You may say that: for years--and would for years more, if she had her -way; but a man must eat and drink, if his heart be sore. Take a morsel -of something and a drink to give you strength to go home.” - -“I am very, very sorry for you,” said Geoff, “but--you will think it -heartless to say so--I have learned nothing. There is some mystery, but -I knew as much as that before.” - -Bampfylde was moving about in the back-ground searching for something. -He re-appeared as Geoff spoke with a bottle in his hand, and poured out -for him a glass of dark-coloured wine. It was port, the wine most -trusted in such humble houses. “Take this,” he said; “take it, it’s -good, it will keep up your strength; and bide a moment till she comes. -She will tell you herself--or if not I will tell you; but now you’ve -seen all the mysteries of this house, she will have to yield, she will -have to yield at the last.” - -Geoff obeyed, being indeed very much exhausted and shaken by all that -had happened. He swallowed the sweet, strong decoction of unknown -elements, which Bampfylde called port wine, and believed in as a -panacea, and tried to eat a morsel of the oat-cake. They heard the -distant moans gradually die out, as the blueness of dawn stole in at the -window. Bampfylde, whose tongue seemed to be loosed by this climax of -excitement, began to talk; he told Geoff of the long watch of years -which they had kept, how his mother and he relieved each other, and how -they had hoped the patient was growing calmer, how he had mended and -calmed down, sometimes for long intervals, but then grown worse again; -and the means they had used to restrain him, and all the details of his -state. When the ice was thus broken, it seemed a relief to talk of it. -“He was to make all our fortunes,” Bampfylde said; “he was a -gentleman--and he was a great scholar. All her pride was in him; and -this is what it’s come to now.” - -They had fallen into silence when ’Lizabeth came in. Their excitement -had decreased, thanks to the conversation and the natural relief which -comes after a crisis, but hers was still at its full height. She came in -solemnly, and sat down amongst them, the blue light from the window -making a paleness about her as she placed herself in front of it; though -the lamp was still burning on the mantelshelf, and the fire kept up a -ruddy variety of light. She seated herself in the big wooden arm-chair -with a solemn countenance and fixed her eyes upon Geoff, who, moved -beyond measure by pity and reverence, did not know what to think. - -“He will have told you,” she said. “I would have died sooner, my young -lord; and soon I’ll die--but, my boy first, I pray God. Ay, you’ve seen -him now. That was him that was my pride; that was the hope I had in my -life; that was him that killed young Lord Stanton and made John Musgrave -an exile and a wanderer. Ay--you know it all now.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - -AN EARLY MEETING - - -Geoff left the cottage when the sun had just risen. He was half-giddy, -half-stunned by the strange new light, unexpected up to the last moment, -which had been thrown upon the whole question which he had undertaken to -solve. He was giddy too with fatigue, the night’s watch, the long walk, -the want of sleep. Besides all these confusing influences there is -something in the atmosphere of the very early morning, the active -stillness, the absence of human life, the pre-occupation of Nature with -a hundred small (as it were) domestic cares such as she never exhibits -to the eye of man, that moves the mind of an unaccustomed observer to a -kind of rapture, bewildering in its solemn influence. To come out from -the lonely little house folded among the hills, with all its miseries -past and present, its sad story, its secret, the atmosphere of human -suffering in it, to all the still glory of the summer morning, was of -itself a bewilderment. The same world, and only a step between them: but -one all pain and darkness, mortal anguish and confusion--the other all -so clear, so sweet, so still, solemn with the serious beginning of the -new day, and instinct with that great, still pressure of something more -than what is seen, some soul of earth and sky which goes deeper than all -belief, and which no sceptic of the higher kind, but only the gross and -earthly, can disbelieve in. Young Geoff disbelieving nothing, his heart -full of the faith and conviction of youth, came out into this wide -purity and calm with an expansion of all his being. It was all he could -do not to burst into sudden tears when he felt the sudden relief--the -dew crept to his eyelids though it did not fall, his bosom contracted -and expanded as with a sob. To this world of mountain and cloud--of -rising sunshine and soft-breathing air, and serene delicious silence, -pervaded by the soft indistinguishable hum of unseen water and rustling -grasses, and minute living creatures unseen too beneath the mountain -herbage--what is the noblest palace built with hands but a visible -limitation and contraction of the world, an appropriation of a petty -corner out of which human conceit makes its centre of the earth? -Bampfylde, who had come out with him, and to whom the story Geoff had -just heard was not new, felt the relief more simply. He drew a long -breath of refreshment and ease, expanding his breast and stretching out -his arms; and then this rough vagrant fellow, unconscious of literature, -did what Virgil in the _Purgatorio_ did in such a morning for his poet -companion; he spread both his hands upon the fragrant grass, all heavy -with the early dew, and bathed his face and weary eyes. - -“That’s life,” said the man of woods and hills; the freshness of nature -was all the help he had, all the support as well as all the poetry his -maimed existence could possess. - -Bampfylde went with his young companion round the shoulder of the hill -to show him the way. It was a nearer and shorter road to the level -country than that by which they had come, for Geoff was anxious to get -home early. Bampfylde pointed out to him the line of road which twisted -about and about like a ribbon, crossing now one slope, now another, till -it disappeared upon the shadowed side of the green hill which presided -over Penninghame, and beyond which the lake gleamed blue, not yet -reached by the sunshine. - -“It’s like the story,” he said; “it’s like a parable; ye come by -Stanton, my young lord, and ye go by Penninghame. It’s your nearest way; -and there, if you ask at John Armstrong’s in the village, ye’ll get a -trap to take you home.” - -Geoff was not sufficiently free in mind to be able to give any attention -to the parable. Those fantastic symbolisms of accident or circumstance -which so often would seem to be arranged like shadows of more important -matters by some elfish secondary providence, need a spirit at rest to -enter into them. He was glad to be alone, to realise all that he had -heard, to compose the wonderful tangle of new information and new -thoughts into something coherent, without troubling himself about the -fact that he was now bending his steps direct, the representative of -Walter Stanton who had been killed, towards the house from which John -Musgrave had been wrongfully driven for having killed him. He did not -even yet know all the particulars of the story, and as he endeavoured to -disentangle them in his mind Geoff felt in his bewilderment that -absolute want of control over his own intelligence and thoughts which is -the common result of fatigue and overstrain. Instead of thinking out the -imbroglio and deciding what was to be done, his mind, like a tired -child, kept playing with the rising light which touched every moment a -new peak and caught every moment a new reflection in some bit of -mountain stream or waterfall, or even in a ditch or moorland cutting, so -impartial is Heaven; or his ear was caught by that hum of mystic -indistinguishable multitude--“the silence of the hills,” so called--the -soft rapture of sound in which not one tone is distinct or anything -audible; or his eye by the gradual unrolling of the landscape as he went -on, one fold opening beyond another, the distant hills on one hand, the -long stretch of Penninghame water with all its miniature bays and -curves. Then for a little while he lost the lake by a doubling of the -path, which seemed to reinclose him among the hollows of the hills, and -which pleased his languid faculties with the complete change of its -shade and greenness; until turning the next corner, he found the sun -triumphant over all the landscape, and Penninghame water lying like a -sheet of silver or palest gold, dazzling and flashing between its -slopes. This wonderful glory so suddenly bursting upon him completed the -discomfiture of young Geoff’s attempts at thought. He gave it up then, -and went on with weary limbs and a mind full of languid soft delight in -the air about him and the scene before his eyes, attempting no more -deductions from what he had heard or arrangements as to what he should -do. Emotion and exertion together had worn him out. - -About the time he resigned himself (with the drowsy surprise we feel in -dreams) to this incapable state, his eye was caught by a speck upon the -road beneath advancing towards him, so small in the distance that -Geoff’s languid imagination, capable of no more active exercise, began -to wonder who the little pilgrim could be, so little and so lonely, and -so early astir. Perhaps it was the distance that made the advancing -passenger look so small. Little Lilias at the Castle would have -satisfied her mind by the easy conclusion that it was some little fairy -old woman, the traveller most naturally to be met with at such an hour -and place. But Geoff, more artificial, did not think of that. He kept -watching the little wayfarer, as the figure appeared and disappeared on -the winding road. By and by he made out that it was either a very small -woman or a little girl, coming on steadily to meet him, with now and -then an occasional pause for breath, for the ascent was steep. Geoff’s -mind got quite entangled with this little figure. Who could it be? who -could she be? A little cottager bound on some early expedition, seeking -some of the mountain fruits, blackberries, cranberries, wild -strawberries, perhaps; but then she never turned aside to the rougher -ground, but kept on the path;--or she might be going to some farmhouse -to get milk for the family breakfast: but then there were no farmhouses -in that direction. Altogether Geoff felt himself quite sufficiently -occupied as he came gradually downwards watching this child, his limbs -feeling heavy, and his head somewhat light. At last, after losing sight -of the little figure which had given him for some time a sort of distant -companionship, another turn brought him full in sight of her, and so -near that he recognised her with the most curious and startling -interest. He could not restrain an exclamation of surprise. It was the -little girl whom he had met at the door of Penninghame Castle, John -Musgrave’s child, the most appropriate, yet the most extraordinary, of -all encounters he could have made. He stood still in his surprise, -awaiting her: and as for little Lilias, she made a sudden spring towards -him, holding out her hand with a cry of joy, her little pale face -crimsoned over with relief and pleasure. Her heart and limbs were -beginning to fail her; she had begun to grow frightened and discouraged -by the loneliness; and to see a face that had been seen before, that had -looked friendly, that recognised her--what a relief it was to the little -wayfaring soul! She sprang forward to him, and then in the comfort of it -fairly broke down, and sobbed and cried, trying to smile all the time, -and to tell him that she was glad, and that he must not mind. - -Geoff, however, minded very much. He was full of concern and sympathy. -He took her hand, and putting his arm round her (for she was still a -child), led her to the soft, mossy bank on the edge of the path, and -placed her there to rest. He was not at all sorry to place himself -beside her, notwithstanding his haste. He, too, was so young and so -tired! though for the moment he forgot both his fatigue and his youth, -and felt most fatherly, soothing the little girl, and entreating her to -take comfort, and not to cry. - -“Oh,” said little Lilias, when she recovered the power of speech, “I am -not crying for trouble, _now_; I am crying for pleasure. It was so -lonely. I thought everybody must be dead, and there was no one but only -me in all the world.” - -“That was exactly what I felt too,” said Geoff; “but what are you doing -here, so far away, and all alone? Have you lost yourself? Has anything -happened? When you have rested a little, you must come back with me, and -I will take you home.” - -The tears were still upon the child’s cheeks, and two great lucid pools -in her eyes, which made their depths of light more unfathomable than -ever. And after the sudden flush of excitement and pleasure, Lilias had -paled again; her little countenance was strangely white; her dark hair -hung, loosely curling, about her cheeks; her eyes were full of pathetic -meaning. Geoff, who had thrown himself down beside her, with one arm -half round her, and holding her small hand in his, felt his young breast -swell with the tenderest sympathy. What was the child’s trouble that was -so great? Poor little darling! How sweet it was to be able to fill up -her world, and prove to her that there was not “only me.” One other made -all the difference; and Geoff felt this as much as she did. Her face had -gleamed so often across his imagination since he saw it: the most -innocent visitant that could come and look a young man in the face in -the midst of his dreams--only a child! He felt disposed to kiss the -little hand in half fondness, half reverence; but did not, being -restrained by something more reverent and tender still. - -“I would like to go with you,” said Lilias, “but not home. I am not -going home. I am going up there--up, I don’t know how far--where the old -woman lives. I am trying to find something out, something about papa. -Oh, I wonder if you know! Are you a friend of my papa? You look as if -you had a friend’s face--but I don’t know your name.” - -“My name--is Geoffrey Stanton--but most people call me Geoff. I should -like you to call me Geoff--and I am a friend, little Lily. You are Lily -_too_, are you not? I am a sworn friend to your papa.” - -“Lilias,” said the child, with a sigh; “but I don’t think I am little -any more. I was little when I came, but old; oh! much older than any one -thought. They thought I was only ten because I was so little; but I was -twelve! and that will soon be a year ago. I have always taken care of -Nello as long as I can remember, and that makes one old, you know. And -now here is this about papa, which I never knew, which I never heard of, -which is not true, I know. I know it is not true. Papa kill any one! -_papa?_ Do you know what that means? It is as if---- the sky should -kill some one, or the beautiful kind light, or a little child. All that, -all that, sooner than papa! Me, I have often felt as if I could kill -somebody; but _he_----” the tears were streaming in a torrent down the -child’s cheeks, and got into her voice; but she went on, “he! people -don’t know what they are saying. I do not know any words to tell you how -different he is--that it is impossible, _impossible_! _impossible_!” she -cried, her voice rising in intensity of emphasis. As for Geoff, he held -her hand ever closer, and kept gazing at her with the tears coming to -his own eyes. - -“He did not do it,” he said. “Listen to me, Lilias, and if you write to -him, you can tell him. Tell him Geoffrey Stanton knows everything, and -will never rest till he is cleared. Do you know what I mean? You must -tell him----” - -“But I never write--we do not know where he is; but tell me over again -for me, _me_. He did not do it! Do you think I do not know that? But Mr. -Geoff (if that is your name), come with me up to the old woman, and take -her to the tribunal, and make her tell what she knows. That is the right -way, Martuccia says so, and I have read it in books. She must go to the -judge, and she must say it all, and have it written down in a book. It -is like that--I am not so ignorant. Come with me to the old woman, Mr. -Geoff.” - -“What old woman?” he asked. “And tell me how you heard of all this, -Lilias? You did not know it when I saw you before.” - -“Last night--only last night; there is a man, an unkind, disagreeable -man, who is at the Castle now. Mary said he was my uncle Randolph. They -were in the hall, and I heard them talking. That man said it all; but -Mary did not say No as I do, she only cried. And then I rushed and asked -Miss Brown what it meant. Miss Brown is Mary’s maid, and she knows -everything. She told me about a gentleman, and then of some one who was -mamma, and of an old woman who could tell it all, up, up on the -mountain. I think, perhaps, it is the same old woman I saw.” - -“Did you see her? When did you see her, Lily?” - -“I was little then,” said Lilias, with mournful, childish dignity. “I -had not begun to know. I thought, perhaps, it was a fairy. Yes, you will -laugh. I was only not much better than a child. And when children are in -the woods, don’t you know, fairies often come? I was ignorant, that was -what I thought. She was very kind. She kissed me, and asked if I would -call her granny. Poor old woman! She was very very sorry for something. -I think that must be the old woman. She knows everything, Miss Brown -says. Mr. Geoff,” said Lilias turning round upon him, putting her two -clasped hands suddenly upon his shoulder, and fixing her eyes upon his -face, “I am going to her, will you not come with me? It is dreadful, -dreadful, to go away far alone--everything looks so big and so high, and -one only, one is so small; and everything is singing altogether, and it -is all so still; and then your heart beats and thumps, and you have no -breath, and it is so far, far away. Mr. Geoff, oh! I would love you so -much, I would thank you for ever, I would do anything for you, if you -would only come with me! I am not really tired; only frightened. If I -could have brought Nello, it would have been nothing. I should have had -him to take care of,--but Nello is such a little fellow. He does not -understand anything; he could not know about papa as I do, and as you -seem to do. Mr. Geoff, when was it you saw papa? Oh! will you come up, -up yonder, and go to the old woman with me?” - -“Dear little Lily,” said Geoff, holding her in his arms, “you are not -able to walk so far; it is too much for you; you must come with me, -home.” - -“I am able to go to the end of the world,” cried Lilias, proudly. “I am -not tired. Oh, if you had never come I should have gone on, straight on! -I was thinking, perhaps, you would go with me, that made me so stupid. -No, never mind, since you do not choose to come. Good-bye, Mr. Geoff. -No, I am not angry. Perhaps you are tired yourself:--and then,” said -Lilias, her voice quivering, “you are not papa’s child, and it is not -your business. Oh! I am quite able to go on. I am not tired--not at all -tired; it was only,” she said, vehemently, the tears overpowering her -voice, “only because I caught sight of you so suddenly, and I thought -‘he will come with me,’ and it made my heart so easy--but never mind, -never mind!” - -By this time she was struggling to escape from him, to go on drying her -tears with a hasty hand. Her lips were quivering, scarcely able to form -the words. The disappointment, after that little burst of hope, was -almost more than Lilias could bear. - -“Lily,” he said, holding her fast, despite her struggles, “listen first. -I have just been there. I have seen the old woman. There is nothing more -for you to do, dear. Won’t you listen to me,--won’t you believe me? Dear -little Lily, I have found out everything. I know everything. I cannot -tell it you all, out here on the hill-side; but it was another who did -it, and your father was so kind, so good, that he allowed it to be -supposed it was he, to save the other man----” - -“Ah!” cried Lilias, ceasing to struggle, “ah! yes, that is like him. I -know my papa, there! yes, that is what he would do. Oh, Mr. Geoff, dear -Mr. Geoff, tell me more, more!” - -“As we go home,” said Geoff. He was so tired that it was all he could do -to raise himself again from the soft cushions of the mossy grass. He -held Lilias still by the hand. And in this way the two wearied young -creatures went down the rest of the long road together--she, eager, with -her face raised to him; he stooping towards her. They leaned against -each other in their weariness, walking on irregularly, now slow, now -faster, hand in hand. And oh! how much shorter the way seemed to Lilias -as she went back. She vowed never, never to tell any one; never to talk -of it except to Mr. Geoff: while Geoff, on his part, promised that -everything should be set right, that everybody should know her father to -be capable of nothing evil, but of everything good; that all should be -well with him; that he should come and live at home for ever, and that -all good people should be made happy, and all evil ones confounded. The -one was scarcely more confident than the other that all this was -possible and likely, as the boy and the girl came sweetly down the hill -together, tired but happy, with traces of tears about their eyes, but -infinite relief in their hearts. The morning, now warm with the full -glory of the sun, was sweet beyond all thought--the sky, fathomless -blue, above them--the lake a dazzling sheet of silver at their feet. -Here and there sounds began to stir of awakening in the little -farmhouses, and under the thatched cottage eaves; but still they had the -earth all to themselves like a younger Adam and Eve--nothing but blue -space and distance, sweet sunshine warming and rising, breathing of -odours and soft baptism of dew upon the new-created pair. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - -THE HENS AND THE DUCKLING. - - -It was still early, and Stanton, so easy-going and leisurely a house, -was not yet astir when Geoff got home. Hours of sunshine and morning -light are over even in August before seven o’clock, which was the -earliest hour at which Lady Stanton’s servants, who were all “so kind” -to her, began to stir. They kept earlier hours at Penninghame, where -Geoff managed to get a dog-cart, with an inquisitive driver, who -recognised, and would fain have discovered what brought him from home at -that hour. The young man, however, first took leave of his little -companion, whom he deposited safely at the door of the old hall, which -was already open, and where they parted with mutual vows of reliance and -faith in each other. These vows, however, were not exchanged by the -hall-gate, but in a shady corner of the Chase, where the two young -creatures paused for a moment. - -“You will trust me that I will do everything for him, as if he had been -my own father?” said Geoff. - -Lilias, over whom some doubts had begun to steal, faltered a little, and -replied with some hesitation: - -“I would rather it was me; I would rather find out everything, and bring -him home,” she said. - -“But, Lily, what could you do? while you see I know a great deal -already,” Geoff said. Now that he was about to vanish out of her sight -the bargain began to feel less satisfactory to the little woman, who was -thus condemned, as so many grown women have been, to wait indefinitely -for the action of another, in a matter so deeply interesting to herself. -Lilias looked at him wistfully, with an anxious curve over her eyebrows, -and a quiver in her mouth. The tension of suspense had begun for her, -which is one of the hardest burdens of a woman. Oh, if she could but -have gone herself, not waiting for any one, to the old woman on the -hill! It was true the mountains were very lonely, and the relief of -meeting Geoff had been intense; and though she had not gone half way, or -nearly so much, her limbs were aching with the unusual distance; but yet -to be tired, and lonely, and frightened is nothing, as Lilias felt, to -this waiting, which might never come to an end. And already the ease and -comfort and sudden relief with which she had leant upon Geoff’s -understanding and sympathy, had evaporated a little, leaving behind only -the strange story about her father, the sudden discovery of trouble and -sorrow which had startled her almost into womanhood out of childhood. -She looked up into Geoff’s face very wistfully--very anxiously; her eyes -dilated, and gleaming with that curve over them which once indented in -young brows so seldom altogether disappears again. - -“Oh, Mr. Geoff!” she said, “but papa--is not your papa: and you will -perhaps have other things to do: or--perhaps--you will forget. But me, I -shall be always thinking, I shall never forget,” said the little girl. - -“And neither shall I forget, my little Lily!” he cried. He too was -nervous and tremulous with excitement and fatigue. He stooped towards -her, holding her hands. “Give me a kiss, Lily, and I will never forget.” - -The day before she would not have thought much of that infantile -salutation--and she put up her soft cheek readily enough, with the -child’s simple habit; but when the two faces touched, a flood of colour -came over both, scorching Lilias, as it seemed, with a sense of shame -which bewildered her, which she did not understand. She drew back -hastily, with a sudden cry. Sympathy, or some other feeling still more -subtle and incomprehensible, made Geoff’s young countenance flame too. -He looked at her with a tenderness that brought the tears to his eyes. - -“You are only a child,” he said, hastily, apologetically; “and I suppose -I am not much more, as people say,” he added, with a little broken -laugh. Then, after a pause--“But, Lily, we will never forget that we -have met this morning; and what one of us does will be for both of us; -and you will always think of me as I shall always think of you. Is it a -bargain, Lily?” - -“Always!” said the little girl, very solemnly; and she gave him her hand -again which she had drawn away, and her other cheek; and this time the -kiss got accomplished solemnly, as if it had been a religious ceremony -on both sides--which indeed, perhaps, in one way or another it was. - -When Geoff felt himself carried rapidly, after this, behind a fresh -country horse, with the inquisitive ruddy countenance of Robert Gill -from the “Penninghame Arms” by his side, along the margin of Penninghame -Water towards his home, there was a thrill and tremor in him which he -could not quite account for. By the time he had got half way home, -however, he had begun to believe that the tremor meant nothing more than -a nervous uncertainty as to how he should get into Stanton, and in what -state of abject terror he might find his mother. Even to his own -unsophisticated mind, the idea of being out all night had an alarming -and disreputable sound; and probably Lady Stanton had been devoured by -all manner of terrors. The perfectly calm aspect of the house, however, -comforted Geoff; no one seemed stirring, except in the lower regions, -where the humblest of its inhabitants--the servants’ servants--were -preparing for their superiors. - -Geoff dismissed his dog-cart outside the gates, leaving upon the mind of -Robert Gill a very strong certainty that the young lord was “a wild one, -like them that went before him,” and had been upon “no good gait.” -“Folks don’t stay out all night, and creep into th’ house through a side -door as quiet as pussy, for good,” said the rural sage, with perfect -reasonableness. - -As for Geoff, he stole up through the shrubberies to reconnoitre the -house and see where he could most easily make an entrance, with a -half-comic sense of vagabondism; a man who behaved so ought to be -guilty. But he was greatly surprised to see the library window through -which he had come out on the previous night wide open; and yet more -surprised to hear, at the sound of his own cautious footstep on the -gravel, a still more cautious movement within, and to descry the kindly -countenance of Mr. Tritton, his tutor, with a red nose and red eyes as -from want of sleep, looking out with great precaution. - -Mr. Tritton’s anxious countenance lighted up at the sight of him. He -came to the window very softly, but with great eagerness, to admit -Geoff, and threw himself upon his pupil. “Where have you been--where -have you been? But thank God you have come back,” he cried, in a voice -which was broken by agitation. - -Geoff could not but laugh, serious as he had been before. Good Mr. -Tritton had a dressing-gown thrown over his evening toilet of the -previous night; his white tie was all rumpled and disreputable. He had -caught a cold, poor good man, with the open window, and sneezed even as -he received his prodigal; his nose was red, and so were his eyes, which -watered, half with cold, half with emotion. - -“Oh, my dear Geoff,” he cried, with a shiver: “what is the cause of -this? I have spent a most unhappy night. What can be the cause of it! -But thank God you have come back; and if I can keep it from the -knowledge of her ladyship, I will.” Then, though he was so tired and so -serious, Geoff could not but laugh. - -“Have you been sitting up for me? How good of you! and what a cold you -have got!” he said, struggling between mirth and gratitude. “Have you -kept it from my mother? But I have been doing no harm, master. You need -not look at me so anxiously. I have been walking almost all the night, -and doing no harm.” - -“My dear Geoff? I have been very uneasy, of course. You never did -anything of the kind before. Walking all night? you must be dead tired; -but that is secondary, quite secondary: if you can really assure me, on -your honour----” said the anxious tutor, looking at him, with his little -white whiskers framing his little red face, more like a good little old -woman than ever, and with a look of the most anxious scrutiny in his -watery eyes. Mr. Tritton was very virtuous and very particular in his -own bachelorly person, and there had crept upon him besides something -of the feminine fervour of anxiety about his charge, which was in the -air of this feminine and motherly house. - -“On my honour!” said Geoff, meeting his gaze with laughing eyes. - -And a pang of relief filled Mr. Tritton’s mind. He was almost overcome -by it, and could have cried but for his dignity--and, indeed, did cry -for his cold. He said, faltering, “Thank Heaven, Geoff! I have been very -anxious, my dear boy. Your mother does not know anything about it. I -found the window open, and then I found your room vacant. I thought you -might have--stepped out--perhaps gone to smoke a cigar. A cigar in the -fresh air after dinner is perhaps the least objectionable form of the -indulgence, as you have often heard me say. So I waited, especially as I -had something to say to you. Then as I found you did not come in, I -became anxious--yes, very anxious as the night went on. You never did -anything of the kind before; and when the morning came and awoke me--for -I suppose I must have dozed, though I was too miserable to sleep, in a -draught----” - -“Yes, I see, you have caught cold. Go to bed now, master, and so shall -I,” said Geoff. “I am dead tired. What a sneeze! and all on my account; -and you have such bad colds.” - -“Yes,” said Mr. Tritton, blowing his nose vehemently, “I have very bad -colds. They last so long. I have sneezed so I really did fear the house -would be roused, but servants fortunately sleep through anything. Geoff! -I don’t want to force confidence, but it really would be right that you -should confide in me: otherwise how can I be sure that her -ladyship--ought not,” said the good man with a fresh sneeze, “to -know--?” - -“You ought to be in bed, and so ought I,” said Geoff. “I will tell my -mother, don’t fear; but perhaps it will be as well not to say anything -more just at present. Master, you must really go this moment and take -care of yourself. Come, and I will see you to your room----” - -“Ah! it is my part to look after you, Geoff,” said good Mr. Tritton. “It -might be supposed--her ladyship might think--that I had neglected----” - -“Come along,” said Geoff, arbitrarily, “to bed.” And how glad he was to -stretch out his own young limbs and forget everything in the profound -sleep of his age! Mr. Tritton had very much the worst of it. He did -nothing but sneeze for the next two hours, waking himself up every time -he went to sleep; and his head ached, and his eyes watered, and the good -man felt thoroughly wretched. - -“Oh, there is that poor Mr. Tritton with one of his bad colds again,” -Lady Stanton said, who was disturbed by the sound; and, though she was a -good woman, the pity in her face was not unmixed by other sentiments. -“We shall have nothing but sneezing for the next month,” she said to -herself in an undertone. And doubtless still less favourable judgments -were pronounced down-stairs. A glass was found on the table of the -library in which Mr. Tritton, good man, had taken some camphor by way of -staving off his cold while he sat and watched. Harris the butler, -perversely and unkindly (for who could mistake the smell of camphor?) -declared that “old Tritton had been making a night of it. He don’t -surprise me with his bad colds,” said that functionary; “look at the -colour of his nose!” And indeed it could not be denied that this was -red, as the nose of a man subject to fits of sneezing is apt to be. - -When Geoff woke in the broad sunshine, and found that it was nearly -noon, his first feeling of consternation was soon lost in the strange -realization of all that had happened since his last waking, which -suddenly came upon his mind like something new, and more real than -before. The perspective even of a few hours’ sleep makes any new fact or -discovery more distinct. So many emotions had followed each other -through his mind, that such an interval was necessary to make him feel -the real importance of all that he had heard and seen. ’Lizabeth -Bampfylde had said what there was to say in few words, but the facts -alone were sufficient to make the strange story clear. The chief -difficulty was that Geoff had never heard of the elder son, whom the -vagrant called his gentleman brother, and to whom the family and more -than the family seemed to have been sacrificed. He did not remember any -mention of the Bampfyldes except of the mother and daughter who had -helped John Musgrave to escape, and one of whom had disappeared with -him, and the mystery which surrounded this other individual, who seemed -really the chief actor in the tragedy, had yet to be made out. His mind -was full of this as he dressed hastily, with sundry interruptions. The -household had not quite made out the events of the past night, but that -there had been something “out of the common” was evident to the meanest -capacity. The library window had been open all night, which was the -fault of Mr. Tritton, who had undertaken to close it, begging Harris to -go to bed, and not to mind. Mr. Tritton himself had been seen by an -early scullion in his white tie, very much ruffled, at six o’clock; and -the volleys of sneezing which had disturbed the house at seven had been -distinctly heard moving about like musketry on a march, now at one -point, now another, of the corridor and stairs. To crown all these -strange commotions was the fact that the young master of the house, -instead of obeying Harris’s call at half-past seven, did not budge (and -then with reluctance) till eleven o’clock. If all these occurrences -meant nothing, why then Mr. Harris pronounced himself a Dutchman; and -the wonder breathed upwards from the kitchen and housekeeper’s room to -my lady’s chamber, where her maid did all a maid could do (and this is -not little, as most heads of a family know) to awaken suspicion. It was -suggested to her ladyship that it was very strange that Mr. Tritton -should have been walking about the house at six in the morning, waking -up my lady with his sneezings--and it was a mercy there had not been a -robbery, with the library window “open to the ground,” left open all -night: and then for my lord to be in bed at eleven was a thing that had -never happened before since his lordship had the measles. “I hope he is -not sickening for one of these fevers,” Lady Stanton’s attendant said. - -This made Geoff’s mother start, and give a suppressed scream of -apprehension, and inquire anxiously whether there was any fever about. -She had already in her cool drawing-room, over her needlework, felt a -vague uneasiness. Geoff had never, since those days of the measles, -missed breakfast and prayers before; he had sent her word that he had -overslept himself, that he had been sitting up late on the previous -night--but altogether it was odd. Lady Stanton, however, subdued her -panic, and sat still and dismissed her maid, waiting with many tremors -in her soul till Geoff should come to account for himself. He had been -the best boy in the world, and had never given her any anxiety; but all -Lady Stanton’s neighbours had predicted the coming of a time when Geoff -would “break out,” and when the goodness of his earlier days would but -increase the riot of the inevitable sowing of wild oats. Lady Stanton -had smiled at this, but with a smouldering sense of insecurity in her -heart; alarmed, though she knew there was no cause. Mothers are an order -of beings peculiarly constituted, full of certainties and doubts, which -moment by moment give each other the lie. Ah, no, Geoff would not “break -out,” would not “go wrong;” it was not in him. He was too true, too -honourable, too pure--did not she know every thought in his mind, and -feeling in his heart? But oh, the anguish if Geoff should not be so true -and so pure--if he should be weak, be tempted and fall, and stain the -whiteness which his mother so deeply trusted in, yet so trembled for! -Who can understand such paradoxes? She would have believed no harm of -her boy--and yet in her horror of harm for him the very name of evil -gave her a panic. Nothing wonderful in that. She sat and trembled to the -very tyings of her shoe, and yet was sure, certain, ready to answer to -the whole world for her son, who had done no evil. Other women who have -sons know what Lady Stanton felt. She sat nervously still, listening to -every sound, till he should come and explain himself. Why was he so -late? What had happened last night to make the house uneasy? Lady -Stanton would not allow herself to think that she was alarmed. It was -true that pulses beat in her ears, and her heart mounted to her throat, -but she sat still as a statue, and went on with her knitting. “One may -not be able to help being foolish, but one can always help showing it,” -she said to herself. - -The sight of Geoff when he appeared, fresh and blooming, made all the -throbbings subside at once. She even made a fine effort to laugh. “What -does this mean, Geoff? I never knew you so late. The servants have been -trying to frighten me, and I hear Mr. Tritton has got a very bad cold,” -she said, getting the words out hurriedly, afraid lest she might break -down or betray herself. She eyed him very curiously over her knitting, -but she made believe not to be looking at him at all. - -“Yes; poor old Tritton,” he said; “it is my fault; he sat up for me. I -went out----” he made a little pause; for Geoff reflected that other -people’s secrets were not his to confide, even to his mother--“with wild -Bampfylde, who came, I suppose, out of gratitude for what little I did -for him.” - -“You went out--with that poacher fellow, Geoff?” - -“Yes:” he nodded, meeting her horrified eyes quite calmly and with a -smile; “why not, mother? You did not think I should be afraid of him, I -hope?” - -“Oh how very imprudent, Geoff! You, whose life is of so much value!--who -are so very important to me and everybody!” - -“Most fellows are important who have mothers to make a fuss,” he said, -smiling. “I don’t think there is much more in me than the rest. But he -has not harmed me much, you can see. I have all my limbs as usual; I am -none the worse.” - -“Thank God for that!” said Lady Stanton; “but you must not do the like -again. Indeed, indeed, Geoff, you are too bold; you must not put -yourself in the way of trouble. Think of your poor brother. Oh, my dear, -what an example! You must not be so rash again.” - -“I will not be rash--in that way,” he said. “But, mother, I want you to -tell me something. You remember all about it: did you ever know of any -more Bampfyldes? There was the mother, and this fellow. Did you ever -know of any other?” - -“You are missing out the chief one, Geoff--Lily, the girl.” - -“Yes, yes; I know about her. I did not mean the girl. But think! Were -those three all? Were there more--another----?” - -Lady Stanton shook her head. “I do not remember any other. I think three -were quite enough. There is mischief in one even, of that kind.” - -“What do you mean by that kind? You did not know them. I hope my mother -is not one of the kind who, not knowing people, are unjust to them.” - -“Geoff!” Lady Stanton was bewildered by this grand tone. She looked up -at him with sudden curiosity, and this curiosity was mixed inevitably -with some anxiety too; for, when your son betrays an unjustifiable -partisanship, what so natural as to feel that he must have “some -motive”? “Of course I did not mean to be unjust. But I do not pretend to -remember everything that came out on the trial. It was the mother and -daughter that interested me. You should ask your cousin Mary; she -recollects better than I do. But have you heard anything about another? -What did the poacher say? Had you a great deal of conversation with him? -And don’t you think it was rash to put yourself in the power of such a -lawless sort of fellow? Thank God! you are safe and sound.” - -“What do you mean about putting myself in his power? Do you think I am -not a match for him? He is not such a giant, mother. Yes, I am quite -safe and sound. And we had a great deal of talk. I never met with -anybody so interesting. He talked about everything; chiefly about ‘the -creatures,’ as he calls them.” - -“What creatures?” said Lady Stanton, wondering and alarmed. There were -“creatures” in the world, this innocent lady knew, about whom a vagabond -was very likely to talk, but who could not be mentioned between her and -her boy. - -“The wild things in the woods, birds and mice, and such small deer, and -all their ways, and what they mean, and how to make acquaintance with -them. I don’t suppose he knows very much out of books,” said young -Geoff; “but the bit of dark moor grew quite different with that wild -fellow in it--like the hill in the _Lady of the Lake_, when all Clan -Alpine got up from behind the rocks and the bushes. Don’t you remember, -mother? One could hear ‘the creatures’ rustling and moving, and -multitudes of living things one never gave a thought to. It felt like -poetry, too, though I don’t know any poem like it. It was very strange -and interesting. That pleases me more than your clever people,” said -Geoff. - -“Oh, my dear, I beg your pardon,” said Lady Stanton, suddenly getting up -and kissing her boy’s cheek as she passed him. She went away to hide the -penitence in her eyes. As for Geoff, he took this very easily and -simply. He thought it was natural she should apologize to Bampfylde for -not thinking well of him. He had not a notion of the shame of -evil-thinking thus brought home to her, which scorched Lady Stanton’s -cheeks. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - -COUSIN MARY’S OPINION. - - -Geoff spent the remainder of this day at home, looking once more over -the file of old newspapers in which the Musgrave case was printed at -such length, the _Times_ and the local papers, with all their little -diversities of evidence, one supplementing another; but lie could not -make out any reference at all distinct to a third person in the story. -The two suitors of the village beauty, one of whom she preferred in -feeling, though the second of them had evidently made her waver in her -allegiance by the attractions of his superior rank and wealth, were -enough to fill up the canvas. They were so naturally and appropriately -pitted against each other, that neither the curiosity of the period nor -the art of the story-teller required any additional actor in the little -tragedy. What more natural than that these two rivals should -meet--should go from angry words to blows--and that, in the frenzy of -the moment, one should give to the other the fatal but unpremeditated -stroke which made an end of his rivalry and his life? The public -imagination is simple, and loves a simple story, and this was so -well-constructed and well-balanced--perfect in all its parts. What more -likely than that the humble coquette should hesitate and almost swerve -from her faith to her accepted lover when the young lord, so much more -splendid than the young squire, came on the scene? or that, when her -wavering produced such fatal consequences, the poor girl, not being -wicked, but only foolish, should have devoted herself with heroism to -the man whom she had been the means of drawing into deadly peril? Geoff, -however, with his eyes enlightened, could dimly perceive the traces of -another person unaccounted for, who had appeared casually in the course -of the drama. Indeed, the counsel for the prosecution had expressed his -regret that he could not call this person as a witness, as he was -supposed to have emigrated, and no trace could be found of him. His -name, however, was not mentioned, though the counsel for the defence, -evidently in complete ignorance, taunted his learned brother with the -non-appearance of this mysterious stranger, and defied him to prove, by -the production of him, that there had ever been feelings of bitter -animosity between Musgrave and Lord Stanton. “The jury would like to -know more about this anonymous gentleman,” the coroner had said. But no -evidence had ever been produced. Geoff searched through the whole case -carefully, making various notes, and feeling that he himself, anxious as -he had been, had never before noticed, except in the most incidental -way, these slight, mysterious references. Even now he was misty about -it. He was so tired, indeed, that his mind was less clear than usual; -and when good Mr. Tritton appeared in the afternoon, very red with -perpetual sneezing, his eyes running as with tears, he found Geoff in -the library, in a great chair, with all the papers strewed about, -sleeping profoundly, the old yellow _Times_ in his hand, and the -_Dalesman’s Gazette_ at his feet. The young man jumped up when Mr. -Tritton laid his hand on his shoulder, with quite unnecessary energy, -almost knocking down his respected instructor. “Take care, take care, -Geoff!” he cried; “I am not going to hurt you, my boy!” a speech which -amused Geoff greatly, who could have picked Mr. Tritton up and thrown -him across his shoulder. This interruption of his studies stopped them -for the time; but next morning--not without causing his mother some -anxiety--he proposed to ride over once more to Elfdale, to consult -Cousin Mary. - -“It is but two days since we left, my dear,” Lady Stanton said, with a -sigh, thinking of all she had heard on the subject of “elderly sirens”; -but Geoff showed her so clearly how it was that he must refer his -difficulties to the person most qualified to solve them, that his mother -yielded; though she too began to ask herself why her son should be so -much concerned about John Musgrave. What was John Musgrave to Geoff? She -did not feel that it was quite appropriate that the person most -interested about poor Walter’s slayer should be Walter’s successor, he -who had most profited by the deed. - -Geoff, however, had his way, and went to his cousin Mary with a great -deal of caution and anxiety, to hear all that she knew, and carefully to -conceal from her what he knew. He found her fortunately by herself, in -the languor of the afternoon, even Annie and Fanny having left her for -some garden game or other. Lady Stanton the younger was much surprised -to see her young cousin, and startled by his sudden appearance. “What is -the matter?” she asked, with a woman’s ready terror; and was still more -surprised that nothing was the matter, and that Geoff was but paying her -a simple visit. It may even be suspected that for a moment his mother’s -alarm communicated itself to Mary. Was it to see _her_ the boy had come -back so soon and so far? The innocent, kind woman was alarmed. She had -known herself a beauty for years, and she knew the common opinion (not -in her experience quite corroborated by fact) that for a beautiful face -a man will commit any folly. Was she in danger (“at my age!”) of -becoming a difficulty and a trouble to Geoff? But Geoff soon relieved -her mind, making her blush hotly at her own self-conceit and folly. - -“I have come to ask you some questions,” he said; “you remember the man, -the poacher, whom you spoke to me about--the brother, you -know?--Bampfylde, whom they call Wild Bampfylde?” - -“I know,” said Lady Stanton, with a suppressed shiver. - -“I met him--the other night--and we got talking. I want you to tell me, -Cousin Mary: did you ever hear of--another of them--a brother they had?” - -“Ah! that is it,” said Lady Stanton, clasping her hands together. - -“That is what? Do you know anything about him? I should like to find -out; from something they--from something this poacher fellow said--he is -not a bad fellow,” said Geoff, in an undertone, with a kind of apology -in his mind to the vagrant of whom he seemed to be speaking -disrespectfully. - -“Oh, Geoff, don’t have anything to do with them, dear. You don’t know -the ways of people like that. Young men think it is fine to show that -they are above the prejudices of their class, but it never comes to any -good. Poor Walter, if he had never seen her face, might have been--and -poor John--” - -“But, Cousin Mary, about the brother?” - -“Yes: he was their brother, but we did not find it out for a long time. -He was very clever, they said, and a scholar, but ashamed to belong to -such poor people. He never went there when he could help it. He took no -notice, I believe, of the others. He pretended to be a stranger visiting -the Lakes.” - -“Cur!” said Geoff. - -“Ye--es: it was not--nice; but it must be a temptation, Geoff, when a -man has been brought up so differently. Some relation had given him his -education, and he was very clever. I have never felt sure whether it was -a happy thing for a boy to be brought so far out of his class. He met -John Musgrave somewhere, but John did not know who he was. And just -about the time it all happened he went away. I used to think perhaps he -might have known something; but I suppose he thought it would all come -out, and his family be known. Fancy being ashamed of your own mother, -Geoff! But it was hard upon him too--an old woman who would tell your -fortune--who would stand with her basket in the market, you know: and -he, a great scholar, and considered a gentleman. It _was_ hard; I don’t -excuse him, but I was sorry for him; and I always thought if he came -back again, that he might know----” - -Lady Stanton was not accustomed to speak so long and continuously. Her -delicate cheeks were stained with red patches; her breath came quick. - -“Do you mean to say he has turned up again--at last?” she added, with a -little gasp. - -“I have heard of him,” said Geoff. “I wondered--if he could have -anything to do with it.” - -“I will tell you all about him, Geoff. It was John Musgrave who met with -him somewhere. Mary could tell you, too. She was John’s only sister, and -I her great friend; and I always took an interest. They met, I think, -abroad--and he--was of use to John somehow--I forget exactly:--that is -to say, Mr. Bampfield (he spelt his name differently from the others) -did something for him--in short, John said he saved his life. It was -among the Alps, on some precipice, or something of that sort. You see I -can only give you my recollection,” said Lady Stanton, falteringly -conscious of remembering everything about it. “John asked him to -Penninghame, but he would not come. He told us this new friend of his -knew the country quite well, but no one could get out of him where he -had lived. And then he came on a visit to some one else--to the -Fieldings, at Langdale--that was the family; and we all knew him. He was -very handsome; but who was to suppose that a gentleman visiting in such -a house was old ’Lizabeth’s son, or--or--that girl’s brother? No one -thought of such a thing. It was John who found it out at the very last. -It was because of something about myself. Oh, Geoff, I was not -offended--I was only sorry. Poor fellow! he was wrong, but it was hard -upon him. He thought he--took a fancy to me; and poor John was so -indignant. No, I assure you not on that account,” said Lady Stanton, -growing crimson to the eyes, and becoming incoherent. “Never! we were -like brother and sister. John never had such a thought in his mind. I -always--always took an interest in _him_--but there was never anything -of _that_ kind.” - -Young Geoff felt himself blush too, as he listened to this confession. -He coloured in sympathy and tender fellow-feeling for her; for it was -not hard to read between the lines of Cousin Mary’s humble story. John -“never had such a thought in his mind;” but she “had always taken an -interest.” And the blush on her cheek and the water in her eyes told of -that interest still. - -Then Geoff grew redder still, with another feeling. The madman in the -cottage had dared to lift his eyes to this woman so much above him. - -“I don’t wonder Musgrave was furious,” he said. - -“That is the right word,” she said, with a faint smile; “he was furious; -and Walter--your brother--laughed. I did not like that--it was -insulting. We were all young people together. Why should not he have -cared for--me?--when both of _them_----. But we must not think of -that--we must not talk of that, Geoff--we cannot blame your poor -brother. He is dead, poor fellow; and such a death, in the very flower -of his youth! What were a few little silly boyish faults to that? He -died, you know, and all the trouble came. Walter had been very -stinging--very insulting, to that poor fellow just the day before, and -he could not bear it. He went off that very day, and I have never heard -of him again. I don’t think people in general even knew who he was. The -Fieldings do not to this day. But Walter’s foolish joking drove him -away. Poor Walter, he had a way of talking--and I suppose he must have -found the secret out--or guessed. I have often--often wondered whether -Mr. Bampfield knew anything, whether if he had come back he would have -said anything about any quarrel between them. I used to pray for him to -be found, and then I used to pray that he might not be found; for I -always thought he could throw some light--and after all, what could that -light be but of one kind?” - -“Did any one ever--suspect--_him_?” - -“Geoff! you frighten me. Him! whom? You know who was suspected. I don’t -think it was intended, Geoff. I know--I know he did not mean it; but who -but one could have done if? There could not, alas, be any doubt about -that.” - -“If Bampfield had been insulted and made angry, as you say, why should -not he have been suspected as well as Musgrave? The one, it seems to me, -was just as likely as the other----” - -“Geoff! you take away my breath! But he was away; he left the day -before.” - -“Suppose it was found out that he did not go away, Cousin Mary? Was he -more or less likely than Musgrave was to have done a crime?” - -Lady Stanton looked at him with her eyes wide open, and her lips apart. - -“You do not--mean anything? You have not--found out anything, Geoff?” - -“I--can’t tell,” he said. “I think I have got a clue. If it were found -out that Bampfield did not go away--that he was still here, and met poor -Walter that fatal morning, what would you say then, you who knew them -all?” - -All the colour ebbed out of Lady Stanton’s face. She kept looking at -him with wistful eyes, into which tears had risen, questioning him with -an earnestness beyond speech. - -“I dare not say the words,” she said, faltering; “I don’t venture to say -the words. But, Geoff, you would not speak like this if you did not mean -something. Do you think--really _think_--oh, it is not possible--it is -not possible!--it is only a fancy. You can’t--suppose--that it -matters--much--to me. You are only--speculating. Perhaps it ought not to -matter much to me. But oh, Geoff! if--if you knew what that time was in -my life. Do you mean anything--do you mean anything, my dear?” - -“You have not answered my question,” he said. “Which was the most likely -to have done a crime?” - -Lady Stanton wrung her hands; she could not speak, but kept her eyes -upon him in beseeching suspense. - -Geoff felt that he had raised a spirit beyond his power to calm again, -and he had not intended to commit himself or betray so soon what he had -heard. - -“Nothing must be known as yet,” he said; “but I think I have some reason -to speak. Bampfield did not leave the country when you thought he did. -He saw poor Walter that morning. If Musgrave saw him at all----” - -Lady Stanton gave a little cry--“You mean Walter, Geoff?” - -“Yes; if Musgrave saw him at all, it was not till after. And Bampfield -was the brother of the girl John was going to marry, and had saved his -life.” - -“My God!” This was no profane exclamation in Mary’s mouth. She said it -low to herself, clasping her hands together, her face utterly -colourless, her eyes wild with wonder and excitement. The shock of this -disclosure had driven away the rising tears: and yet Geoff did not mean -it as a disclosure. He had trusted in the gentle slowness of her -understanding. But there are cases in which feeling supplies all, and -more than all, that intellect could give. She said nothing, but sat -there silent, with her hands clasped, thinking it over, piecing -everything together. No one like Mary had kept hold of every detail; she -remembered everything as clearly as if (God forbid!) it had happened -yesterday. She put one thing to another which she remembered but no one -else did: and gradually it all became clear to her. Geoff, though he was -so much more clever, did not understand the process by which in silence -she arranged and perceived every point; but then Geoff had not the -minute acquaintance with the subject nor the feeling which touched every -point with interest. By and by Mary began to sob, her gentle breast -heading with emotion. “Oh, Geoff,” she cried, “what a heart--what a -heart! He is like our Saviour; he has given his life for his enemy. Not -even his friend; he was not fond of him; he did not love him. Who could -love him--a man who was ashamed of his own, his very own people? I--oh, -how little and how poor we are! I might have done it perhaps for my -friend; but he--he is like our Saviour.” - -“Don’t say so. It was not just--it was not right; he ought not to have -done it,” cried Geoff. “Think, if it saved something, how much trouble -it has made.” - -“Then it is all true!” she cried, triumphant. In perfect good faith and -tender feeling Mary had made her comment upon this strange, sad -revelation; yet she could not but feel all the same the triumph of -having thus caught Geoff, and of establishing beyond all doubt that it -was true. She fell a-crying in the happiness of the discovery. The -moment it was certain, the solemnity of it blew aside, as do the mists -before the wind. “Then he will come home again; he will have his poor -little children, and all will be well,” she said; and cried as if her -heart would break. It was vain for Geoff to tell her that nothing was as -yet proved, that he did not know how to approach the subject; no -difficulties troubled Mary. Her heart was delivered as of a load; and -why should not everything at once be told? But she wept all the same, -and Geoff had no clue to the meaning of her tears. She was glad beyond -measure for John Musgrave; but yet while he was an exile, who had -(secretly) stood up for him as she had done? But when he came home, what -would Mary have to do with him? Nothing! She would never see him, though -she had always taken an interest, and he would never know what interest -she had taken. How glad she was! and yet how the tears poured down! - -Geoff had a long ride home. He was half alarmed that he had allowed so -much to be known, but yet he had not revealed Lizabeth’s secret. Mary -had required no particulars, no proof. The suggestion was enough for -her. She was not judge or jury--but one to whom the slightest outlet -from that dark maze meant full illumination. Geoff could not but -speculate a little on the surface of the subject as he rode along -through the soft evening, in that unbroken yet active solitude which -makes a long ride or walk the most pleasant and sure moment for -“thinking over.” Geoff’s thoughts were quite superficial, as his -knowledge was. He wondered if John Musgrave had “taken an interest” in -Mary as she had done in him; and how it was that Mary had been his -brother’s betrothed, yet with so warm a sympathy for his brother’s -supposed slayer? And how it was that John Musgrave, if he had responded -at all to the “interest” she took in him, could have loved and married -Lily? All this perplexed Geoff. He did not go any deeper; he did not -think of the mingled feelings of the present moment, but only of the -tangled web of the past. - -It grew dark before he got home. No moon, and a cloudy night disturbed -by threatenings or rather promise of rain, which the farmers were -anxious for, as they generally are when a short break of fine weather -bewilders their operations, in the north. As he turned out of the last -cross road, and got upon the straight way to Stanton, he suddenly became -aware of some one running by him on the green turf that edged the road -and in the shadow of the hedgerow. Geoff was startled by the first sight -of this moving shadow running noiselessly by his side. It was a safe -country, where there was no danger from thieves, and a “highwayman” was -a thing of the last century. But still Geoff shortened his whip in his -hand with a certain sense of insecurity. As he did so a voice came from -the shadow of the hedge. “It is but me, my young lord.” “You!” he cried. -He was relieved by the sound, for a close attendant on the road in the -dark, when all faces are alike undiscernible, is not pleasant. “What are -you doing here, Bampfylde? Are you snaring my birds, or scaring them, or -have you come to look after me?” - -“Neither the one nor the other,” said Wild Bampfylde. “I have other -thoughts in my mind than the innocent creatures that harm no one. My -young lord, I cannot tell you what is coming, but something is coming. -It’s no you, and it’s no me, but it’s in the air; and I’m about, -whatever happens. If you want me, I’ll aye be within call. Not that I’m -spying on you; but whatever happens, I’m here.” - -“And I want you. I want to ask you something,” cried Geoff; but he was -slow in putting his next question. It was about his cousin; and what he -wanted was some one who would see, without forcing him to put them into -words, the thoughts that arose in his mind. Therefore it was a long time -before he spoke again. But in the silence that ensued it soon became -evident to Geoff that the figure running along under the shadow of the -bushes had disappeared. He stopped his horse, but heard no footfall. -“Are you there, Bampfylde?” but his own voice was all he heard, falling -with startling effect into the silence. The vagrant had disappeared, and -not a creature was near. Geoff went on with a strange mixture of -satisfaction and annoyance. To have this wanderer “about” seemed a kind -of aid, and yet to have his movements spied upon did not please the -young man. But Bampfylde was no spy. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - -THE SQUIRE AT HOME. - - -The Squire went home after his game of ducks and drakes in the most -curious, bewildered state of mind. The shock of all these recent events -had affected him much more than any one was aware, and Randolph’s visit -and desire to make sure about “family arrangements,” had filled up the -already almost overflowing measure of secret pain. It had momentarily -recalled, like a stimulant too sharp and strong, not only his usual -power of resistance, but a force of excitement strong enough to -overwhelm the faculties which for the time it invigorated; and while he -walked about his woods after his first interview with his son, the -Squire was on the edge of a catastrophe, his brain reeling, his -strained powers on the verge of giving way. The encounter with little -Nello on the lake-side had exercised a curious arresting power upon the -old and worn edifice of the mind which was just then tottering to its -fall. It stopped this fall for the moment. The trembling old walls were -not perhaps in a less dangerous state, but the wind that had threatened -them dropped, and the building stood, shaken to its foundation, and at -the mercy of the next blast, but yet so far safe--safe for the moment, -and with all the semblance of calm about it. To leave metaphor, the -Squire’s mind was hushed and lulled by that encounter with the soft -peacefulness of childhood, in the most curious, and to himself, -inexplicable way. Not, indeed, that he tried to explain. He was as -unconscious of what was going on in himself as most of us are. He did -not know that the various events which had shaken him had anything more -than pain in them--he was unaware of the danger. Even Randolph’s -appearance and the thought of the discussions which must go on when his -back was turned, as to the things that would happen after his death--he -was not aware that there was more in them than an injury against which -his whole spirit revolted. He did not know that this new annoyance had -struck at the very stronghold of vitality, the little strength left to -him. Which of us does know when the _coup-de-grâce_ is given? He only -knew the hurt--the wound--and the forlorn stand he had made against it, -and the almost giddy lightness with which he had tried to himself to -smile it down, and feel himself superior. Neither did he know what Nello -had done for him. His meeting with the child was like the touch of -something soft and healing upon a wound. The contact cooled and calmed -his entire being. It seemed to put out of his mind all sense of wounding -and injury. It did more; it took all distinctness at once from the moral -and the physical landmarks round him. The harsher outlines of life grew -blurred and dim, and instead of the bitter facts of the past, which he -had so long determined to ignore, and the facts of the present which had -so pushed themselves upon him, the atmosphere fell all into a soft -confusion. A kind of happiness stole over him. What had he to be happy -about? yet he was so. Sometimes in our English summers there is a mist -of heat in the air, confusing all the lines of the landscape as much as -a fog in winter--in which the hills and lakes and sky are nothing but -one dazzle and faint glory of suppressed light and warmth--light -confusing but penetrating: warmth perhaps stifling to the young and -active, but consolatory to those whose blood runs chill. This was the -mental condition in which the Squire was. His troubles seemed to die -away, though he had so many of them. Randolph, his middle-aged son, -ceased to be an assailant and invader, and dropped into the dark like -other troublesome things--not a son to be proud of, but one to put up -with easily enough. John? he did not remember much about John; but he -remembered very distinctly his old playfellow little Johnny, his little -brother. “Eighteen months--only eighteen months between them:” he almost -could hear the tone in which his mother said that long ago. If Johnny -had lived he would have been--how old would he have been now? Johnny -would have been seventy-four or so had he lived--but the Squire did not -identify the number of years. There was eighteen months between them, -that was all he could remember, and of that he sat and mused, often -saying the words over to himself with a soft dreamy smile upon his face. -He was often not quite clear that it was not Johnny himself, little -Johnny, with whom he had been playing on the water-side. - -This change affected him in all things. He had never been so entirely -amiable. When Randolph returned to the assault, the Squire would smile -and make no reply. He was no longer either irritated or saddened by -anything his son might say--indeed he did not take much notice of him -one way or another, but would speak of the weather, or take up a book, -smiling, when his son began. This was very bewildering to the family. -Randolph, who was dull and self-important, was driven half frantic by -it, thinking that his father meant to insult him. But the Squire had no -purpose of any kind, and Mary, who knew him better, at last grew vaguely -alarmed without knowing what she feared. He kept up all his old habits, -took his walks as usual, dressed with his ordinary care--but did -everything in a vague and hazy way, requiring to be recalled to himself -when anything important happened. When he was in his library, where he -had read and written and studied so much, the Squire arranged all his -tools as usual, opened his book, even began to write his letters, -putting the date--but did no more. Having accomplished that beginning he -would lean back in his chair and muse for hours together. It was not -thinking even, but only musing; no subject abode with him in these long -still hours, and not even any consistent thread of recollections. -Shadows of the past came sailing--floating about him, that was all; very -often only that soft, wandering thought about little Johnny, occupied -all his faculties.--Eighteen months between them, no more! He rarely got -beyond that fact, though he never could quite tell whether it was the -little brother’s face or another--his son’s, or his son’s son’s--which -floated through this mist of recollections. He was quite happy in the -curious trance which had taken possession of him. He had no active -personal feelings, except that of pleasure in the recollection and -thought of little Johnny--a thought which pleased and amused, and -touched his heart. All anger and harm went out of the old man; he spoke -softly when he spoke at all, and suffered himself to be disturbed as he -never would have done before. Indeed he was far too gentle and good to -be natural. The servants talked of his condition with dismay, yet with -that agreeable anticipation of something new which makes even a “death -in the house” more or less desirable. “Th’ owd Squire’s not long for -this world,” the Cook and Tom Gardener said to each other. As for -Eastwood, he shook his head with mournful importance. “I give you my -word, I might drop a trayful of things at his side, and he wouldn’t take -no notice,” the man said, almost tearfully; “it’s clean again nature, -that is.” And the other servants shook their heads, and said in their -turn that they “didn’t like the looks of him,” and that certainly the -Squire was not long for this world. - -This same event of Randolph’s visit had produced other results almost as -remarkable. It had turned little Lilias all at once into the slim -semblance of a woman, grown-up, and full of thoughts. It is perhaps too -much to say that she had grown in outward appearance as suddenly as she -had done in mind; but it is no unusual thing in the calmest domestic -quiet, where no commotion is, nor fierce, sudden heat of excitement to -quicken a tardy growth, that the elder members of a family should wake -up all in a moment, to notice how a child has grown. She had perhaps -been springing up gradually; but now in a moment every one perceived it; -and the moment was coincident with that in which Lilias heard with -unspeakable wrath, horror, shame, pity, and indignation, her father’s -story--that he would be put in prison if he came back; that he dared not -come back; that he might be--executed. (Lilias would not permit even her -thoughts to say hanged--most ignominious of all endings--though Miss -Brown had not hesitated to employ the word.) This suggestion had struck -into her soul like a fiery arrow. The guilt suggested might have -impressed her imagination also; but the horrible reality of the penalty -had gone through and through the child. All the wonderful enterprises -she had planned on the moment are past our telling. She would go to the -Queen and get his pardon. She would go to the old woman on the hills and -find out everything. Ah! what would she not do? And then had come the -weary pilgrimage which Geoff had intercepted; and now the ache of pity -and terror had yielded to that spell of suspense which, more than -anything else, takes the soul out of itself. What had come to the child? -Miss Brown said; and all the maids and Martuccia watched her without -saying anything. Miss Brown, who had been the teller of the story, did -not think of identifying it with this result. She said, and all the -female household said, that if Miss Lily had been a little older, they -knew what they would have thought. And the only woman in the house who -took no notice was Mary--herself so full of anxieties that her mind had -little leisure for speculation. She said, yes, Lilias had grown; yes, -she was changing. But what time had she to consider Lilias’ looks in -detail? Randolph was Mary’s special cross; he was always about, always -in her way, making her father uncomfortable, talking at the children. -Mary felt herself hustled about from place to place, wearied and worried -and kept in perpetual commotion. She could not look into the causes of -the Squire’s strange looks and ways; she could not give her attention to -the children; she could scarcely even do her business, into which -Randolph would fain have forced his way, while her all-investigating -brother was close by. Would he but go away and leave the harassed -household in peace! - -But Randolph for his part was not desirous of going away. He could not -go away, he represented to himself, without coming to some understanding -with his father, though that understanding seemed as far off as ever. So -he remained from day to day, acting as a special irritant to the whole -household. He had nothing to do, and consequently he roamed about the -garden, pointing out to the gardener a great many imperfections in his -work; and about the stables, driving well-nigh out of his wits the -steady-going, respectable groom, who nowadays had things very much his -own way. He found fault with the wine, making himself obnoxious to -Eastwood, and with the made dishes, exasperating Cook. Indeed there was -nothing disagreeable which this visitor did not do to set his father’s -house by the ears. Finally sauntering into the drawing-room, where Mary -sat, driven by him out of her favourite hall, where his comments -offended her more than she could bear, he reached the climax of all -previous exasperations by suddenly urging upon her the undeniable fact -that Nello ought to go to school. “The boy,” Randolph called him; -nothing would have induced him to employ any pet name to a child, -especially a foreign name like Nello--his virtue was of too severe an -order to permit any such trifling. He burst out with this advice all at -once. “You should send the boy to school; he ought to be at school. Old -Pen’s lessons are rubbish. The boy should be at school, Mary,” he said. -This sudden fulmination disturbed Mary beyond anything that had gone -before, for it was quite just and true. “And I know a place--a nice -homely, good sort of place, where he would be well taught and well taken -care of,” he added. “Why should not you get him ready at once? and I -will place him there on my way home.” This was, to do him justice, a -sudden thought, not premeditated--an idea which had flashed into his -mind since he began to speak, but which immediately gained -attractiveness to him, when he saw the consternation in Mary’s eyes. - -“Oh, thank you, Randolph,” she said, faintly. Had not Mr. Pen -advised--had not she herself thought of asking her brother’s advice, who -was himself the father of a boy, and no doubt knew better about -education than she did? “But,” she added, faltering, “he could not be -got ready in a moment; it would require a little time. I fear that it -would not be possible, though it is so very kind.” - -“Possible? Oh yes, easily possible, if you give your mind to it,” cried -Randolph; and he pointed out to her at great length the advantages of -the plan, while Mary sat trembling, in spite of herself, feeling that -her horror of the idea was unjustifiable, and that she would probably -have no excuse for rejecting so reasonable and apparently kind a -proposal. Was it kind? It seemed so on the outside; and how could she -venture to impute bad motives to Randolph, when he offered to serve her? -She did not know what reply to make; but her mind was thrown into sudden -and most unreasonable agitation. She got up at last, agitated and -tremulous, and explained that she was compelled to go out to visit some -of her poor people. “I have not been in the village since you came,” she -said, breathless in her explanations; “and there are several who are -ill; and I have something to say to Mr. Pen.” - -“Oh, yes, consult old Pen, of course,” Randolph had said. “I would not -deprive a lady of her usual spiritual adviser because she happens to be -my sister. Of course you must talk it over with Pen.” This assumption of -her dependence upon poor Mr. Pen’s advice galled Mary, who had by no -means elected Mr. Pen to be her spiritual adviser. However, she would -not stay to argue the question, but hurried away anxiously with a sense -of escape. She had escaped for the moment; yet she had a painful sense -in her mind that she could not always escape from Randolph. The proposal -was sudden, but it was reasonable and kind--quite kind. It was the thing -a good uncle ought to do; no one but would think better of Randolph that -he was willing to take so much trouble. Randolph for his part felt that -it was very kind; he had no other meaning in the original suggestion; -but when he had thus once put it forth, a curious expansion of the idea -came into his mind. Little Nello was a terrible bugbear to Randolph. He -had long dwelt upon the thought that it was he who would succeed to -Penninghame on his father’s death--at first, perhaps, nominally on -John’s account. But there was very little chance that John would dare -the dangers of a trial, and reappear again, to be arraigned for murder, -of which crime Randolph had always simply and stolidly believed him -guilty; and the younger brother had entertained no doubt that, sooner or -later, the unquestioned inheritance would fall into his hands. But this -child baffled all his plans. What could be done while he was there? -though there was no proof who he was, and none that he was legitimate, -or anything but a little impostor: certainly, he was as far from being a -lawful and proper English heir--such as an old family like the Musgraves -ought to have--such as his own boy would be--as could be supposed. And -of course, the best that could be done for himself was to send him to -school. It was only of Nello that Randolph thought in this way. The -little girl, though a more distinct individual, did not trouble him. She -might be legitimate enough--another Mary, to whom, of course, Mary would -leave her money--and there would be an end of it. Randolph did not -believe, even if there had been no girl of John’s, that Mary’s money -would ever come his way. She would alienate it rather, he felt -sure--found a hospital for cats, or something of that description (for -Mary was nothing but a typical old maid to Randolph, who regarded -her, as an unmarried woman, with much masculine and married -contemptuousness), rather than let it come to his side of the family. So -let that pass--let the girl pass; but for the boy! That little, small, -baby-faced Nello--a little nothing--a creature that might be crushed by -a strong hand--a thing unprotected, unacknowledged, without either power -or influence, or any one to care for him! how he stood in Randolph’s -way! But he did not at this moment mean him any harm; that is, no -particular harm. The school he had suddenly thought of had nothing wrong -in it; it was a school for the sons of farmers or poor clergymen, and -people in “reduced circumstances.” It would do Nello a great deal of -good. It would clear his mind from any foolish notion of being the heir. -And he would be out of the way; and once at school, there is no telling -what may happen between the years of ten and twenty. But of one thing -Randolph was quite sure--that he meant no harm, no particular harm, to -the boy. - -When Mary left him in this hurried way, he strolled out in search of -something to amuse or employ the lingering afternoon. Tom Gardener now -gave him nothing but sullen answers, and the groom began to dash about -pails of water, and make hideous noises as soon as he appeared, so that -it did not consist with his dignity to have anything more to say to -these functionaries; so that sheer absence of occupation, mingled with a -sudden interest in the boy, on whose behalf he had thus been suddenly -“led” to interfere, induced Randolph to look for the children. They were -not in their favourite place at the door of the old hall, and he turned -his steps instinctively to the side of the water, the natural attraction -to everybody at Penninghame. When he came within sight of the little -cove where the boats lay, he saw that it was occupied by the little -group he sought. He went towards them with some eagerness, though not -with any sense of interest or natural beauty such as would have moved -most people. Nello was seated on the edge of the rocky step relieved -against the blue water; Lilias placed higher up, with the wind ruffling -her brown curls, and the slant sunshine grazing her cheek. The boy had a -book open on his knees, but was trying furtive ducks and drakes under -cover of the lesson, except when Lilias recalled him to it, when he -resumed his learning with much demonstration, saying it over under his -breath with visibly moving lips. Lilias had got through her own portion -of study. Mr. Pen’s lessons were not long or severe, and she had a -girl’s conscientiousness and quickness in learning. Her book was closed -on her knee; her head turned a little towards that road which she -watched with a long dreamy gaze, looking for some one--but some one very -visionary and far away. Her pensive, abstracted look and pose, and the -sudden growth and development which had so suddenly changed Lilias, -seemed to have charmed the little girl out of childhood altogether. Was -she looking already for the fairy prince, the visionary hero? And to say -the truth, though she was still only a child, this was exactly what -Lilias was doing. It was the knight-deliverer, the St. George who kills -the dragon, the prince with shoes of swiftness and invisible coat, -brought down to common life, and made familiar by being entitled “Mr. -Geoff,” for whom, with that kind of visionary childish anticipation -which takes no note of possibilities, she was looking. Time and the -world are at once vaster, and vaguer, and more narrow at her age than at -any other. He might come _now_, suddenly appearing at any moment; and -Lilias could not but feel vaguely disappointed every moment that he did -not appear. And yet there was no knowing when he would come, to-morrow, -next year, she could not tell when. Meanwhile she kept her eyes fixed on -the distance, watching for him. But Lilias was not thinking of herself -in conjunction with “Mr. Geoff.” She was much too young for love; no -flutter of even possible sentiment disturbed the serenity of her soul. -Nevertheless her mind was concentrated upon the young hero as entirely -as the mind of any dreaming maiden could be. He was more than her hero; -he was her representative, doing for her the work which perhaps Lilias -was not old enough or strong enough to do. So other people, grown-up -people, thought at least. And until he came she could do nothing, know -nothing. Already, by this means, the child had taken up the burden of -her womanhood. Her eyes “were busy in the distance shaping things,” that -made her heart beat quick. She was waiting already, not for love to -come, of which at her age she knew nothing, but for help to come, which -she would have given her little life to bestow, but could not, her own -hand being too slight and feeble to give help. This thought gave her a -pang, while the expectation of help kept her in that woman’s purgatory -of suspense. Why could not she do it herself? but yet there was a -certain sweetness in the expectation which was vague, and had not -existed long enough to be tedious. And yet how long, how long it was -even since yesterday! From daylight to dusk, even in August, what a -world of time. Every one of these slow, big round hours floated by -Lilias like clouds when there is no wind, moving imperceptibly; great -globes of time never to be done with. Her heart gave a throb whenever -any one appeared. But it was Tom Gardener, it was Mr. Pen, it was some -one from the village, it was never Mr. Geoff; and finally here was some -one quite antagonistic, the enemy in person, the stranger whom people -called Uncle Randolph. Lilias gave her little brother a note of warning; -and she opened her own book again. - -When Randolph approached, they had thus the air of being very busily -employed, both;--Lilias intent upon her book, while Nello, furtively -feeling in his pocket for the stones which he had stored there for use, -busied himself, to all appearance, with his lesson, repeating it to -himself with moving lips. Randolph had taken very little notice of the -children, except by talking at them to his sister. He came to a pause -now, and looked at them with curiosity--or at least he looked at Nello; -for after all, it did not matter about the girl. She might be John’s -daughter, or she might not; but in any case she was not worth a thought. -He did not see the humour of the preternatural closeness of study which -the children exhibited; but it afforded a means of opening -communications. - -“Are these your lessons for Mr. Pennithorne?” he said. - -Nello, to whom the question was addressed, made no answer. Was he not -much to busy to answer? his eyes were riveted upon his book. Lilias kept -silence too as long as politeness would let her; but at last the -rudeness of it struck her acutely. This might be an enemy, but children -ought not to be rude. She therefore said timidly, “Yes;” and added by -way of explanation, “Nello’s is Latin; but me, it is only English I -have.” - -“Is it hard?” said Randolph, still directing his question to the boy. - -Nello gave a glance out of the corner of his eyes at his questioner, but -said nothing, only learned harder than ever; and again it became -needful, for the sake of courtesy, that Lilias should answer. - -“The Latin is not hard,” she said; “oh, not near so hard as the English. -It is so easy to say; but Mr. Pen does not know how it goes; he says it -all wrong; he says it like English. I hope Nello will not learn it that -way.” - -Randolph stared at her, but took no further notice. “Can’t you speak?” -he said to Nello, “when I ask you a question? Stop your lesson and -listen to me. Shouldn’t you like to go to school?” - -Nello looked up with round and astonished eyes, and equally roundly, -with all the force of the monosyllable, said “No,” as probably he would -have answered to any question. - -“No? but you don’t know what school is; not lessons only, but a number -of fellows to play with, and all kinds of games. You would like it a -great deal better than being here, and learning with Mr. Pennithorne.” - -“No,” said Nello again; but his tone was less sure, and he paused to -look into his questioner’s face. “Would Lily come too?” he said, -suddenly accepting the idea. For from No to Yes is not a very long way -at eight years old. - -“Why, you don’t want to drag a girl with you,” said Randolph, laughing; -“a girl who can’t play at anything, wherever you go?” - -This argument secured Nello’s attention. He said, “N--no,” reddening a -little, and with a glance at Lilias, against whose sway he dared -scarcely rebel all at once; but the sense of superiority even at such an -early age is sweet. - -“He must not go without me,” cried Lilias, roused. “I am to take care of -him _always_! Papa said so. Oh, don’t listen, Nello, to this--gentleman! -You know what I told you--papa is perhaps coming home. Mr. Geoff -said--Mr. Geoff knows something that will make everything right again. -Mr. Geoff is going to fetch papa----” - -“Oh!” cried Nello, reproachfully, “you said I was not to tell; and there -you have gone and told yourself!” - -“What is that? what is that?” asked Randolph, pricking up his ears. - -But the boy and girl looked at each other and were silent. The curious -uncle felt that he would most willingly have whipped them both, and that -amiable sentiment showed itself in his face. - -“And, Lily,” said Nello, “I think the old gentleman would not let me go. -He will want me to play with; he has never had anybody to play with -for--I don’t know how long--never since a little boy called little -Johnny: and he said that was my name too----” - -“Oh, Nello! now it is you who are forgetting; he said (you know you told -me) that you were never, never to tell!” - -Randolph turned from one to another, bewildered. What did they mean? -Had they the audacity to play upon his fears, the little foundlings, the -little impostors! He drew a long breath of fury, and clenched his fist -involuntarily. “Children should never have secrets,” he said. “Do you -know it is wicked, very wicked? You ought to be whipped for it. Tell me -directly what you mean!” - -But this is not the way to get at any child’s secret. The brother and -sister looked at each other, and shut fast their mouths. As for Nello, -he felt the edges of that stone in his pocket, and thought he would like -to throw it at the man. Lilias had no stone, and was not warlike; but -she looked at him with the calm of superior knowledge. “It would be -dishonourable,” she said, faltering over the pronunciation, but firm in -the sentiment, “to tell what we were told not to tell.” - -“You are going to school with me--on Saturday,” said Randolph, with a -virulence of irritation which children are just as apt to call forth as -their elders. “You will be taught better there; you will not venture to -conceal anything, I can tell you, my boy.” - -And he left them with an angry determination to carry out his plans, and -to give over Nello to hands that would tame him effectually, “the best -thing for him.” The children, though they had secretly enjoyed his -discomfiture, were a little appalled by this conclusion. “Oh, Nello, I -will tell you what he is--he is the wicked uncle in the _Babes in the -Wood_. He will take you and leave you somewhere, where you will lose -yourself and starve, and never be heard of. But I will find you. I will -go after you. I will never leave you!” cried Lilias with sudden tears. - -“I could ask which way to go,” said Nello, much impressed, however, by -this view. “I can speak English now. I could ask the way home; or -something better!--listen, Lily--if he takes me, when we have gone ten -miles, or a hundred miles, I will run away!” - - - - -CHAPTER XXV. - -A NEW VISITOR. - - -Notwithstanding her dislike to have it supposed that Mr. Pen was her -spiritual adviser, Mary did make a hurried visit to the Vicarage to ask -his advice. Not that she had much confidence in the good Vicar’s advice; -but to act in such a case, where experience fails you altogether, -entirely on your own judgment without even the comfort of “talking it -over,” is a hard thing to do. “Talking it over” is always an advantage. -The for and against of any argument are always clearer when they are put -into words and made audible, and thus acquire, as it were, though they -may be your own words, a separate existence. Thus Mary became her own -adviser when she consulted Mr. Pen, and there was no one else at hand -who could fulfil this office. They talked it over anxiously, Mr. Pen -being, as she knew he would be, entirely on Randolph’s side. To him it -appeared that it would be a great advantage for Nello to be taken to -school by his uncle. It would be “the right thing to do”--better than if -Mary did it--better than Mr. Pen himself could do it. Mary could not -find any arguments to meet this conventional certainty. She restrained -her distrust and fear, but she could not say anything against the fact -that it was kind of Randolph to propose this, and that it would be -injurious and unkind on her part to reject it. She went home dispirited -and cast down, but set to work at once with the practical preparations. -Saturday was the day on which Randolph had said he must go--and it was -already Thursday--and there was not a moment to lose. But it was not -till the Friday afternoon, the eve of separation, that Miss Musgrave -could screw her courage to the point of informing the children what lay -before them. The afternoon was half over, and the sun beginning to send -long rays aslant from the west. She came in from the village, where she -had gone in mere restlessness, feeling that this communication could be -delayed no longer; but she disliked it so much herself that the thought -of Nello’s consternation and the tears of Lilias was almost more than -their tender guardian could bear. - -But when she came in sight of the old hall door, a group encountered her -which bewildered Mary. A young man on horseback had drawn up at the side -of the ascent, and with his hat off, and the sun shining upon his -curling hair and smiling countenance, was looking up and talking to -little Lilias, who leaned over the low wall, like a lady of romance -looking over her battlements. The sun gleamed full upon Lilias too, -lighting up her dark eyes and warmly-tinted cheek and the hair which -hung about her shoulders, and making a pretty picture. Her face was full -of earnest meaning, grave and eager and tremulous. Nello, at the hall -door, above this strange pair, contemplated them with a mixture of -jealousy and wonder. Mary had come upon them so suddenly that she could -hear the young man answering something to the eager demands of the -little girl. “But, you are sure, quite sure? Oh, are you certain, Mr. -Geoff?” - -“Quite sure,” he was saying. “But you must think of me all the time, -Lily; you must think of nothing but me--promise me that, and I shall not -be afraid.” - -“I promise!” cried Lilias, clasping her hands. Mary stood and listened -altogether confounded, and Nello, from above, bewildered and only half -satisfied, looked on. Who was the young man? It seemed to Miss Musgrave -that she had seen him before. And what was it that had changed Lilias -into this little princess, this small heroine? The heroic aspect, -however, gave way before Mary could interfere, and the child murmured -something softer, something less unlike the little girl with all whose -ways Mary was familiar. - -“But I always think of you,” she said; “always! since _that_ day.” - -“Do you, indeed, my little Lily? That makes me happy. You must always -keep up so good a custom.” - -And the young man smiled, with eyes full of tenderness, and took the -child’s hand and held it in his own. Lilias was too young for any -comment or false interpretation, but what did it mean? The spectator -behind, besides, was too much astonished to move. - -“Good-bye, my Lily; good-bye, Nello,” cried the young man, nodding his -head to the children. And then he put on his hat and rode round the -corner towards the door. - -Lilias stood looking after him, like a little saint in an ecstasy. She -clasped her hands again, and looked up to the sky, her lips moving, and -tears glittering in her eyes. - -“Oh, Nello, don’t you think God will help him?” she said, one tear -overbrimming suddenly, and rolling down her cheek. She started when -Mary, with tones a little sharpened by consternation, called her. Lilias -had no sense of shame in her innocent mind, but as there is no telling -in what light those curious beings called grown-up people might regard a -child’s actions, a little thrill of alarm went through her. What might -Mary say? What would she think when she knew that Mr. Geoff “had come to -set everything right about papa”? Lilias felt instinctively that Geoff’s -mission would not appear in exactly the same light to Mary as it did to -herself. She turned round with a sudden flush of surprise and agitation -on her face. It looked like the blush of a maturer sentiment to Mary. - -“At twelve years old!” she said to herself! And unconsciously there -glanced through her mind a recollection of the first Lily--the child’s -mother--she who had been the beginning of all the trouble. Was it in the -blood? - -“Who is that gentleman?” Mary asked, with much disturbance of mind. -“Lilias! I could not have expected this of you.” - -Lilias followed into the hall, very still and pale, feeling herself a -culprit, though she did not know why. Her hands dropped straight by her -side, after the manner of a creature accused; and she looked up to Mary -with eyes full of vague alarm, into which the tears were ready to come -at a moment’s notice. - -“I have not done anything wrong?” she said, turning her assertion into a -faltering question. “It was Mr. Geoff.” - -“Mr. Geoff!--who is Mr. Geoff?” - -“He is--very kind--oh, very kind, Mary; he is--some one who knows about -papa: he is--the gentleman who once came with two beautiful horses in a -carriage (oh, don’t you remember, Nello?) to see _you_.” - -“Yes,” said Nello, with ready testimony; “he said I should ride upon -them. They were two bay horses, in one of those high-up funny carriages, -not like Mary’s carriage. I wonder if I might ride upon his horse now?” - -“To see _me_?” Mary was entirely bewildered. “And what do you mean about -your father?” she said. “Knows about papa! Lilias! come here; I am not -angry. What does he know about papa?” - -Lilias came up slowly to her side, half unwilling to communicate her own -knowledge on this point. For Mary had not told her the secret, she -remembered suddenly. But the confusion of Lilias was interrupted by -something more startling and agitating. Eastwood came into the hall, -with a certain importance and solemnity. “If you please, ma’am,” he -said, “my Lord Stanton has just come in, and I’ve shown him into the -library--to my master. I thought you would like to know.” - -“Lord Stanton--to my father, Eastwood? my father ought not to be -troubled with strangers. Lord Stanton!--to be sure it was that boy. -Quick, say that I shall be glad to see him up-stairs.” - -“If you please, ma’am, his lordship asked for my master; and my -master--he said, ‘Yes, certainly.’ He was quite smiling like, and -cheerful. He said, ‘Yes; certainly, Eastwood.’ So, what was I to do? I -showed his lordship in--and there they are now--as friendly--as -friendly, if I may venture to make a comparison: His lordship,” said -Eastwood, prudently pausing before he committed himself to metaphor, -“is, if I may make bold to say so, one of the nicest young gentleman!” - -Mary had risen hastily to interrupt this dangerous interview, which -alarmed her. She stood, paying no attention to Eastwood while the man -was talking, feeling herself crowded and pressed on all hands by a -multitude of thoughts. The hum of them was in her ears, like the sound -of a throng of people. Should she go to the library, whatever her father -might think of the interruption? Should she stop this meeting at all -hazards? or should she let it go on, and that come which would? All was -confusion around her, her heart beating loudly in her ears, and a -hundred suggestions sounding through that stormy throbbing. But when -Eastwood’s commonplace voice, to which she had been paying no heed, -stopped, Mary’s thoughts came to a stop also. She grew faint, and the -light seemed to vanish from her eyes. - -The Squire had been sitting alone all day. He had seemed to all the -servants (the most accurate of observers in such a case) more feeble -than usual. His daughter, agitated and full of trouble about other -things, had not remarked any change. But Eastwood had shaken his head -down-stairs, and had said that he did not like the looks of master. He -had never been so gentle before. Whatever you said to him he smiled, -which was not at all the Squire’s way. And though he had a book before -him, Eastwood had remarked that he did not read. He would cast his eyes -upon his book when any one went in, but it was always the same page. -Eastwood had made a great many pretences of business, in order to see -how his master was--pretences which the Squire in his usual health would -have put a stop to summarily, but which to-day he either did not observe -at all, or received smilingly. In this way Eastwood had remarked a great -many things which filled him with dismay; for he liked his old master, -and the place suited him to perfection. He noticed the helpless sort of -way in which Mr. Musgrave sat; his knees feebly leaning against each -other, his fingers falling in a heap upon the arm of his chair, his -eyelids half covering his eyes. It was half the instinct of obedience, -and half a benevolent desire to rouse his master, which made Eastwood -introduce the visitor into the library without consulting Miss Musgrave. -Judging by his own feelings, the man felt that nothing was so likely to -stimulate and rouse up the Squire as a visit from a lord. There were not -too many of them about; visitors of any kind, indeed, were not over -plentiful at Penninghame; and a nice, cheerful, affable young lordship -was a thing to do anybody good. - -And Geoff went in, full of the mission he had taken in hand. It was a -bold thing to do, after all he had heard of the inexorable old Squire -who had shut his heart to his son, and would hear nothing of him, as -everybody said. But it seemed to Geoff, in the rash generosity of his -youth, that if he, who was the representative of the injured family, -were to interfere, the other must be convinced--must yield, at least, -to reason, and consent to consider the subject. But he did not expect a -very warm reception, and went in with a beating heart. - -Mr. Musgrave had risen up to receive him; he had not failed in any of -his faculties. He could still hear as well as he did twenty years -before, and Lord Stanton’s name was unusual enough to call his attention -for the moment. He had raised himself from his chair, and stood leaning -forward, supporting himself with both hands upon the writing-table -before him. This had been a favourite attitude, when he had no occasion -for support; but now the feeble hands leaned heavily with all the weight -of his frame upon them. He said the name that had been announced to him -with a wavering of suspicion in his tone, “Lord Stanton!” then pointed -with a tremulous sweep of his hand to a seat, and himself dropped back -into his chair. He was not the stern old chief whom Geoff expected to -find in arms against every suggestion of mercy, but a feeble old man, -smiling faintly, with a kind of veiled intelligence in his eyes. He -murmured something about “an unusual pleasure,” which Geoff could not -make out. - -“I have come to you, sir, about important business. I hope you will not -think I am taking too much upon myself. I thought, as I was--the chief -person on one side, and you on the other, that you might allow me to -speak?” - -Geoff was as nervous as a child; his colour went and came. It awed him, -he could scarcely tell why, to see the feebleness of the old figure, the -dreary, abstracted look in the old face. - -“Surely--surely,” said the old man. “Why should you not speak to me? Our -family is perhaps better known; but yours, Mr.--I mean, my Lord Stanton, -yours is--” - -He half forgot what he was saying, getting slower and slower, and now -stopped all at once. Then, after a moment, rousing himself, resumed, -with a wave of his hand, “Surely--you must say--what you have to say.” - -This was worse for Geoff than if he had forbidden him altogether. What -could he do to rouse interest in the old man’s breast? - -“I want to speak, sir,” he said, faltering, “of your son.” - -“My son?--ah! yes, Randolph is here. He is too old for me--too old--not -like a son. What does it matter who is your father when it comes to that -age?” - -“It was not Randolph, sir. I did not know him; but it is your other -son--your eldest son, I mean--John.” - -“Eh?” The old man roused up a little. “John--that was my little brother; -we called him Johnny--a delightful boy. There is just such another in -the house now, I believe. I think he is in the house.” - -“Oh, sir!” said Geoff, “I want to speak to you--to plead with you for -some one who is not in the house--for your son John--John who has been -so long away. You know--don’t you know whom I mean?--your eldest son, -Mr. Musgrave--_John_, who left us and left everything so many years -ago.” - -A wavering light came over the old man’s face. He opened his eyes wide -and gazed at Geoff, who, for his part, was too much troubled and alarmed -to know what to do. - -“Eh!” he said again, with a curious blank stare, “my--what? Son? but not -Randolph. No more about sons, they are a trouble and a sorrow. To tell -the truth I am drowsy rather. I suppose--I have not been very well. Have -you seen the little boy?” - -“The little boy?--your grandson, sir?” - -“Eh! you call him that! He is just such another as little Johnny, my -little brother, who was eighteen months younger than I. You were saying -something else, my--my--friend! But to tell the truth, this is all I am -good for now. The elders would like to push us from the scene; but the -little ones,” said the Squire, with a curious sudden break of laughter, -which sounded full of tears, “the little ones--are fond of old people; -that is all I am good for nowadays--to play with the little boy----” - -“Oh, sir!” said Geoff in his eagerness, “it is something very different -that is expected of you. To save the little boy’s father--your son--to -bring him back with honour. It is honour, not shame, that he deserves. I -who am a stranger, who am the brother of the man who was killed, I have -come to entreat you to do John Musgrave justice. You know how he has -been treated. You know, to our disgrace, not his, that there is still a -sentence against him. It is John Musgrave--John Musgrave we ought to -think of. Listen to me--oh, listen to me! Your son--” - -The old man rose to his feet, and stood wavering, gazing with troubled -wide-open eyes, full of the dismal perplexity of an intelligence which -feels itself giving way. “John Musgrave!” he said, with pale lips which -trembled and dropped apart; and a thrill and trembling came over his -whole frame. Geoff sprang up and came towards him in alarm to support -him, but the Squire waved him away with both his tremulous hands, and -gave a bewildered look round him as if for some other prop. Suddenly he -caught sight of the little carved oak cupboard against the wall. “Ah!” -he said, with an exclamation of relief. This was what he wanted. He -turned and made a feeble step towards it, opened it, and took from it -the cordial which he used in great emergencies, and to which he turned -vaguely in this utter overthrowal of all his forces now. But then ensued -a piteous spectacle; all his strength was not sufficient to pour it out. -He made one or two despairing efforts, then put the bottle and glass -down upon the table with a low cry, and sank back into his chair. He -looked at Geoff with the very anguish of feebleness in his eyes. “Ah!” -he faltered, “it is true--they are right. I am old--old--and good for -nothing. Let them push me away, and take my place.” A few sobs, bitter -and terrible, came with the words, and two or three tears dropped down -the old man’s grey-pale cheeks. The depth of mortal humiliation was in -this last cry. - -Geoff almost wept too in the profound pity of his generous young -soul--it went to his very heart. “Let me help you,” he cried, pouring -out the cordial with anxious care. It was all the Squire could do to put -it to his lips. He laid one of his trembling hands upon Geoff’s shoulder -as he gave back the glass, and whispered to him hoarsely, “Not -Randolph,” he said; “don’t let Randolph come. Bring me--do you -know?--the little boy.” - -“Yes, sir, yes,” cried Geoff; “I understand.” - -The old Squire still held him with a hand which was heavy as lead upon -his arm, “God bless you, my lad,” he said. He did not know who Geoff -was; but trusted to him as in utter prostration we trust to any hand -held out to us. And a little temporary ease came with the potion. He -smiled feebly once more, laid back his head, and closed his eyes. “My -little Johnny!” he said; and his hands fell as Eastwood had described -them, the fingers crumbled together all in a heap, upon the arms of his -chair. - -Geoff rushed out of the room with a beating heart, feeling himself all -at once thrust into a position of importance in this unknown house. He -had never seen death or its approach, and in his inexperience did not -know how difficult it was to shuffle off the coils of mortality. He -thought the old man was dying. Accordingly, he rushed up the slope to -the old hall like a whirlwind, where Mary and the children were. “Come, -come,” he cried; “he is ill, very ill!” and snatching Nello’s reluctant -hand, ran back, dragging the child with him, who resisted with all his -might. “Come, your grandfather wants you,” cried Geoff. Mary followed, -alarmed, and wondering, and--scarcely knowing where she went in her -agitation--found herself, behind the young man and the boy, at the door -of that sacred library which the children had never entered, and where -their very existence was ignored. Her father was lying back in his great -chair; Eastwood, whom Geoff had hastily summoned, standing behind. The -old man’s heavy eyes were watching the door, his old limbs huddled -together in the chair, like something inanimate thrown down in a heap, -and lying as it fell. At sight of this awful figure, little Nello gave a -loud cry of childish terror, and turning round, would have fled but for -Geoff, who stood behind him. At the sound of the child’s voice, the old -man roused himself feebly; he moved his arms--extending them in -intention at least--and his lips with inaudible words. “Go to him, go to -him!” cried Geoff in an imperative whisper. Little Nello was not without -courage, though he was afraid. Finding the way of escape blocked up, he -turned round again, stood irresolute for a moment, and then advanced -with the strength of desperation. The old man, with a last effort, put -out his arms, and drew the child between his knees. “My little Johnny!” -he said, with an only half-articulate outbreak of crying and strange -laughter. Then his arms fell powerless; his head drooped on his breast. -Nello broke out wildly into crying; but stood fascinated between the -feeble knees. - -Was he dead? Geoff thought so in his simplicity as he led the child -away, and left Mary and the servants, whom he had summoned, in this -death-chamber. He led Nello back to the hall, and sat down beside the -children and talked to them in low tones. His mind was full of awe and -solemn feeling; his own youth, and strength, and happiness seeming a -kind of insult to the old and dying. He went back after a while very -grave and humble, to ask how it was, and what he could do. But the -Squire was not dead. He was stricken by that _avant-courier_ of the -great king, who kills the mind before the body dies. It was “a stroke,” -Eastwood said, in all the awe, yet importance, of so tragic an event. He -had seen it coming for weeks before, he said. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI. - -IN SUSPENSE. - - -Randolph Musgrave was extremely annoyed at the turn things had taken. On -the day of his father’s seizure indeed a kind of serene solemnity came -over him. He would not have been so indiscreet or indecorous as to admit -that he was glad of the “stroke” which might terminate the Squire’s -life; such an evil sentiment was far from him. Still if his dear father -was indeed in the providence of God to be taken away from this mortal -scene, there was a sad satisfaction in having it happen while he was -still at the Castle and ready to be of use. As the only male member of -the family, it was indeed very important that he should be there on such -a melancholy occasion. Mary would have enough on her hands with the -nursing and the strictly feminine duties, and he was the only one to -turn to, the only one who could do anything. He telegraphed to his wife -what the sad occasion was that detained him, and went to bed with a -comfortable sense that his visit had not been in vain. It was melancholy -to think that all might be over before the morning; but yet he could do -no good by staying up and wearing himself out. If it should so happen -that his own sad prognostications were correct, why then he had occasion -for all his strength, for he it would be who must do everything. And no -martyr could have contemplated the stake with more elevated resignation -and satisfaction than Randolph looked at the labours and troubles he -would have to take upon him. He lay down, solemnly going over them in -his mind--the details of the funeral, the reading of the will, the -taking possession of the estate. He resolved that he would take -possession in his brother’s name. No one knew where John was; he could -not be called at a moment’s notice like respectable men. Nor, indeed, -would it be kind to think of such a thing as bringing him here to the -endangerment of his life. No, he would take possession for his brother. -He would put his brother’s little son to school. The girl of course -would go with Mary, who for her part must, he supposed, have the house -on the way to Pennington, which was called the Dower-house, though he -did not think an unmarried sister had any real right to a place which -was intended for the widow of the previous Squire. But that might pass: -Mary had been accustomed to have everything her own way, and she should -have the Dower-house by grace at least, if not by right. He fell asleep -as he was arranging all these things with a great deal of serious -satisfaction. Of course it was sad: what is there in this vale of tears -that is not mixed with sadness? But it was not (he said to himself) as -if his father were a young man, or carried off in the midst of his work. -He was old, he had lived out the life of man, he had arrived at the time -when a man has a right to expect that his day is over, and must know -that in the course of nature he ought to give place to his successors. -And as things were to take such a serious turn, how well it was that he, -Randolph, should be on the spot to do everything! His satisfaction in -this was really the foremost feeling in his mind. - -But all was not over in the morning, as Randolph had so certainly -anticipated. He got up in the same solemnized but resigned and serene -condition, and wondered a little to see how late it was. For indeed the -turn things had taken, though so serious, had been peace-inspiring, -removing anxiety from his mind, and he had slept later than usual in -consequence. And it was clear that as yet there had been “no change.” -Eastwood, who was late too, having stayed up late on the previous night -indulging the solemn excitement which was natural to this crisis, came -in with profound seriousness and an air as solemn as Randolph’s. “Just -the same, sir,” he said; “the doctor is with him now.” Randolph could -not help a slight sensation of disappointment. He had made up his mind -so distinctly what was to happen, and there are cases in which even good -news are out of place. It was with less resignation and more anxiety -that he hurried out to hear what the doctor said. - -And he was much provoked and annoyed when a week later there was still -no progress made, and it became apparent that no such easy solution of -all difficulties as he had expected was to be looked for. The Squire was -in much the same state on the next Saturday and the next, and it was -apparent that the illness was to be a lingering and tedious one--the -kind of thing which wears out everybody round. When people are going to -die, what a pity that they should not do it speedily, relieving both -themselves and others! But nature, so often acting in a manner contrary -to all prognostications, was not to be hurried. To jog her gently on, -and relieve the sufferer authoritatively from his troubles, is not yet -permissible in England. On the contrary, medical science acts just the -other way, with questionable mercy, prolonging lives in which there is -nothing but suffering, and stimulating the worn-out machinery of the -frame to go on a little longer, to suffer a little more, with all that -wheezing and creaking of the rusty wheels which bears witness to the -unnaturalness of the process. This was what Randolph felt with much -restrained warmth of annoyance. It was unnatural; it was almost impious. -Two doctors, a professional nurse, and Mary, who was as good, all -labouring by every possible invention to keep mere life in their -patient. Was it right to do so? Providence had evidently willed to -release the old man, but science was forcing him to remain imprisoned in -the flesh. It was very hard upon the Squire, and upon Randolph too, -especially as the latter could not venture to express his real -sentiments on this matter, but was compelled to be glad of every little -sign of tenacity and vitality which the patient gave. If it had been -recovery indeed, he said to himself, there might have been some reason -for satisfaction; but as it was only holding by life, mere existing and -nothing more, what ground was there for thankfulness? It would be better -for the sufferer himself, better for everybody, that it should be over -soon. After this state of things had lasted for a fortnight, Randolph -could not bear it any longer. He sent for Mary from the sick room, and -gave her to understand that he must go. - -“Had I expected he would last so long,” he said, “I should have gone -last week. Of course it does not matter for you who have nothing else to -do; but my work and my time are of importance. If anything were likely -to happen directly, of course I should think it my duty to stay; but, so -far as I can see, nothing is likely to happen,” said Randolph in an -aggrieved tone. Mary was too sad to laugh and too languid to be angry, -but there came a gleam of mingled resentment and amusement into her -eyes. - -“It is not for us to wish that anything should happen,” she said. - -“Wish? Did I talk of wishing? I stated a fact. And in the meantime my -parish is being neglected and my work waiting for me. I cannot hang on -here for ever. Of course,” Randolph added, “if anything should happen, -you have only to telegraph, and I will come.” - -“I don’t see that it is necessary, Randolph. My father may rally, or he -may linger for months, the doctors say; and whatever happens--of course -you shall hear immediately; but so far as I am concerned, it does not -seem necessary to disturb your work and unsettle your parish----” - -“That is ridiculous; of course I shall come the moment I am summoned. It -is quite essential that there should be some man to manage matters. And -the boy is all ready,” he added; “you had his outfit prepared before my -father’s attack came on. Let them pack up for him, and on Friday we -shall go.” - -“The boy! How could I send him away now, when my father might recover -his consciousness, and want him?” - -“My father want him? This is too much,” said Randolph--“my father, from -whom you concealed his very existence--who never cared for children at -any time. My _father_? What could he possibly want with the boy? He -should have gone a fortnight ago. I wrote to enter his name of course, -and the money is running on. I can’t afford to pay for nothing whatever -you may do, Mary. Let his things be packed up, and let him go with me.” - -“I think your brother is right,” said the Vicar, who was present. “Nello -is doing no good with me. We have been so much disturbed with all that -has taken place; and Emily has been so poorly--you know how poorly she -has been--and one feels with one’s own children the time can always be -made up somehow. That is the worst of lessons at home,” said Mr. Pen, -with a sigh. - -“But my father sent for him--wanted him; how can I send the child away! -Mr. Pen, you know, if Randolph does not, that he is the heir, and his -grandfather has a right to have him close at hand.” - -“It is no use arguing with women,” said Randolph, white with rage. “I -don’t understand this nonsense about my father wanting him. I don’t -believe a word of it. But I tell you this, Mary, if he is the heir, I am -his uncle, his next friend; and I say, he sha’n’t lose his time here and -get ruined among a pack of women. He must go to school. Supposing even -that my father did want him (which is absolute absurdity; why, my father -pretends not to know of his existence!) would you put a selfish old -man’s fancy against the boy’s good?” - -“Randolph! how do you dare, when he is so ill,” cried Mary, with -trembling lips, “to speak of my father so!” - -“It is true enough anyhow,” said the undutiful son. “When he is so ill! -Why, that is the reason I can speak freely. One would not hurt his -feelings if he could ever know it. But he was always known to be -selfish. I did not think there was any doubt about that. The boy must -not be ruined for an old man’s whim, even if it is true.” - -“It is dreadful to go against you,” said the Vicar, looking at her with -piteous eyes, beseeching her forgiveness; “but Randolph is in the right. -Nello is losing his time; he is doing no good; he ought to go to -school.” - -“You too!” cried Mary. She could not but smile, though the tears were in -her eyes. And poor Mr. Pen’s dissent from her cost the good man so much. -He looked at her, his eyes too filling, with deprecating, beseeching, -wistful looks, as a dog does. When he thus took part so distinctly -against Mary, conscience, it was clear, must have been strong within Mr. -Pen. He had tried hard for her sake to overcome the habit of irregular -hours and desultory occupation which had grown upon him, and to give the -children their lessons steadily, at the same hours, day by day. But poor -Mr. Pen had not known how hard it would be to accomplish this. The idea -of being able to make up the failing lessons at any odd moment which -made the children at the Vicarage so uncertain in their hours, had soon -returned after the first bracing up of duty towards Lilias and Nello had -come to an end. And then Mrs. Pen had been ill, and could not bear the -noise of the children; and then the Squire had been ill, upsetting -everybody and everything; and then--the Vicar did not know what more to -say for himself. He had got out of the way of teaching, out of the habit -of exact hours, and Emily had been very poorly, and, on the whole, -Randolph was right, and the boy ought to go to school. - -Several of these discussions, however, took place before Mary gave way. -The account Randolph had heard of the last scene in the library, before -the Squire had his “stroke,” had not been at all satisfactory to his -mind. He sincerely believed (though with an uneasy sense of something in -it that sounded like truth) that this story was a fabrication to suit a -purpose. But, on the other hand, his own intentions were very distinct. -The mere fact that such a story had been invented showed the meaning on -the other side. This boy was to be foisted into the place which, for -years, he had supposed himself to occupy. John not being possible, who -but Randolph could fill that place? Another heir was ridiculous, was -shameful, and a wrong to him. He would not suffer it. What right had -John, an outlaw and exile, to have a son, if it came to that? He would -not allow the child to stay here to be petted and pampered, and made to -believe himself the heir. For, in the end, Randolph had made up his mind -that the boy could not and should not be admitted to the advantages of -heirship without a very different kind of proof of identity from any -they possessed. And it would be ruin to the child to be allowed to fill -such a false position now. The mere idea of it filled him with -suppressed rage. He did not mean the boy any harm--not any real harm. On -the contrary, it would be a real advantage to him in any case to be bred -up frugally and industriously; and this he would insist upon, in spite -of every resistance. He would not leave the child here to have him -wormed into the old man’s affections, made a tool of by Mary in John’s -interests, and to his own detriment. He was determined to get rid of -Nello, whatever it cost him: not to do him harm, but to get him out of -the way. This idea began to possess him like a mania--to get rid of the -child who was more dangerous, a great deal more dangerous, than John -himself. And all the circumstances of the house favoured his removal at -this moment, when the Squire’s illness occupied everybody’s attention. -And then it was a great point to have enlisted on his side the reluctant -and abashed, yet conscientious support of Mr. Pen. - -As for the children themselves, a subtle discomfort had stolen into -their life. The old gentleman’s illness, though it did not affect them, -affected the house. The severe and dangerous illness of an important -member of any household has always a confusing influence upon domestic -life. It changes the centre of existence, so that everything, which once -radiated from the cheerful hearth becomes absorbed in the sick-chamber, -making of it the temporary and fictitious centre of the dwelling. In -this changed orbit, all the stars of the household firmament shine, and -beyond it everything is left cold, and sunless, and neglected. Children -are always the first to feel this atmospheric change, which affects them -more than it does the watchers and nurses, whose time and minds are -absorbed in the new occupation. It was as if the sun had gone out of the -sky to the children at Penninghame. They were left free indeed, to go -and come as they liked, nobody attempting to hustle them out of the way, -to say, “Run, children, some one is coming.” All the world might go and -come, and it did not matter. Neither did it matter to them now where -they went, for every room was equally dreary and empty. Mary, who meant -home to them, and to whom they carried all their grievances and -pleasures, had disappeared from their view; and Miss Brown, who was -their directress in minor matters, had become invisible too, swallowed -up by that sick-room, which absorbed everything. It was no pleasure to -roam about the drawing-room, generally forbidden ground, and even -through and through the passages from the hall to the dining-room, -though they had so often longed to do it, when nobody was to be found -there, either to laugh with them, or to find fault. Even Eastwood was -swept up in the same whirlpool; and as for Mary, their domestic -divinity, all that was seen of her was when she passed from one room to -another, crossing the corridor, disappearing within the door of the -mysterious chamber, where doctors and nurses, and every sort of -medicine, and drinks, and appliances of all kinds, were being taken. How -could the old gentleman want so much? Twice over a new kind of bed was -taken into that strange gulf of a sick-room, and all so -silently--Eastwood standing on the stairs, deprecating with voice and -gesture, “No noise, no noise!” That was what everybody said. Mary would -smile at them when she met them, or wave her hand from the end of the -corridor, or over the stairs. Sometimes she would pause and stoop down -and kiss them, looking very pale and worn out. “No, dear, he is no -better,” she would say. Except for these encounters, and the accounts -which the servants gave them of their grandfather’s state,--how he was -lying, just breathing, knowing nobody, not able to speak,--accounts -which froze the children’s blood in their veins--they had no life at -all; only dull meals which they ate under this shadow, and dull hours in -which, having nothing to do, they huddled together, weary and lonely, -and with nothing before them but to go to bed. Out of doors it was not -much better. Mr. Pen had fallen into all the old disorder of his ways, -out of which he had made a strenuous effort to wake for their benefit. -He never was ready for them when they went with their lessons. “I will -hear you to-morrow,” he would say, looking at them with painful -humility, feeling the grave countenance of Lilias more terrible than -that of any judge; and when to-morrow came, there were always a hundred -excuses. “Go on to the next page and learn the next lesson. I have had -such a press of work--and Mrs. Pennithorne is so poorly,” the poor man -would say. All this shook the pillars of the earth to Lilias and Nello. -They were shaken out of everything they knew, and left to blunder out -their life as best they could, without any guide. - -And this was hardest upon the one who understood it least. Lilias, whose -mind was open to everything, and who sat looking out as from a door, -making observations, keenly interested in all that went on, and at the -same time with a reserve of imagination to fall back upon, was fully -occupied at least if nothing more. Every day she watched for “Mr. Geoff” -with news of her father. The suspense was too visionary to crush her -with that sickening depression which affects elder minds. All had a -softening vagueness and confusion to the child. She hoped and hoped, and -cried with imaginative misery, then dried her eyes and hoped again. She -thought everything would come right if Mr. Geoff would only bring papa; -and Mr. Geoff’s ability sooner or later to find and bring papa she never -doubted. It was dreadful to have to wait so long--so long; but still -every morning, any morning he might come. This hope in her mind absorbed -Lilias, and made her silent, indisposed for play. At other times she -would talk eagerly, demanding her brother’s interest and response to -things he did not understand. Children can go on a long time without -understanding, each carrying on his or her monologue, two separate -streams, which, flowing tranquilly together, feel like something mutual, -and answer all the ends of intercourse; and in this way neither of them -was aware how far apart they were. But Nello was dull; he had so little -to do. He had no pony, he could not play cricket as Johnny Pen did with -the village boys. He was small, even for his age, and he had not been -educated in the art of knocking about as English boys are. He was even a -little timid of the water and the boats, in which other boys might have -found solace. Half of his time he wandered about, listless, not knowing -what to make of himself. - -This was the condition of mind in which Randolph met him on one of -these lingering afternoons. The child had strayed out all by himself; he -was standing by the water-side at his old amusement, but not enjoying it -this time. “What are you doing?” said his uncle, calling out to him as -he approached. Randolph was not a favourite with the children; but it -was half an amusement to see any one coming near, and to have to answer -a question. He said “Nothing,” with a sigh; not a single skip could he -get out of those dull slates. The water would not carry them; they would -not go; they went to the bottom with a prosaic splash and thud. How -different from that day with the old gentleman, when they flew as if -they had been alive! Perhaps this new comer might have luck, and do as -well as the old gentleman. “Will you have a try?” he said; “here is a -good one--it ought to be a good one; but I can’t make them go to-day.” - -“I--have a try?” Randolph was startled by the suggestion. But he was -anxious to conciliate the little fellow whom he wanted so much to get -rid of. And it was only for once. He took suspiciously (for he was -always suspicious) the stone Nello held out to him, and looked at it as -if it might be poison--or it might be an attempt on his dignity got up -by somebody. When he had satisfied himself that it was a common piece of -slate, he took courage, and, with a smile that sat very awkwardly upon -his face, threw it, but with the most complete unsuccess. - -“Ah! you are not good, like the old gentleman; his skipped seven times! -He was so clever at it! I wish he was not ill,” said Nello, checking an -incipient yawn. It was, perhaps, the first time any one had uttered such -a wish. It had been taken for granted, even by his daughter, that the -Squire’s illness was the most natural thing in the world. - -“Did he really come and play with you? But old men are no better than -children,” said Randolph. “I suppose he had nothing else to do.” - -“It is very nice to have somebody to play with when you have nothing -else to do,” said Nello, reflectively. “And he was clever. You--you -don’t know even how to throw; you throw like a girl--like this. But this -is how the old gentleman did,” cried Nello, suiting the action to the -word, “and so do I.” - -“Do you know nothing but these baby-games? I suppose you never played -cricket?” said Randolph, with, though he was a man, a pleasurable sense -of being thus able to humiliate the little creature beside him. Nello -coloured to the roots of his hair. - -“I do not like cricket. Must every one like the same things? It is too -hot; and one cannot play by oneself,” the boy added with a sigh. - -“You ought not to play by yourself, it is not good for you. Have you no -one to play with, little boy?” - -“Nobody,” said Nello, with emphasis; “not one person. There is Lily; but -what does it matter about a girl? And sometimes Johnny Pen comes. He is -not much good; he likes the green best, and all the village boys. Then -they say I am too little;--and I don’t know them,” the boy added with a -gleam of moisture in his eyes. The village boys had not been kind to -Nello; they had laughed at him for a little foreigner, and made remarks -about his hair, which was cut straight across his forehead. “I don’t -want to know them.” This was said with vehemence; for Nello was sore at -the want of appreciation which had been shown him. They did not care for -_him_, but they made a great deal of Johnny Pen! - -“You should go to school; that is where all boys should go. A boy should -not be brought up like a little girl; he should learn to use his hands, -and his fists even. Now, what should you do if there was a fight?” - -“A fight?” Nello grew pale and then grew red. “If it was--some one else, -I would walk away; but if it was me--if any one touched me, I should -kill him!” cried the child, setting his little white teeth. - -Randolph ought professionally to have improved the occasion; but he only -laughed--that insulting laugh which is offensive to everybody, and -specially exasperates a child. “How could you kill him? That is easier -said than done, my boy.” - -“I would get a gun, or a sword; but first,” said Nello, calming down, “I -would tell him to go away, because I should not _wish_ to kill him. I -have seen people fighting with guns and swords--have you?” - -Here Randolph, being obliged to own himself inferior, fell back upon -what was right, as he ought to have done before. - -“Fighting is very wrong,” he said. “It is dreadful to think of people -cutting each other to pieces, like wild beasts; but it is not so bad if -you defend yourself with your fists. Only foreigners fight with swords; -it is thoroughly un-English. You should never fight; but you would have -to defend yourself if you were at school.” - -Nello looked at his uncle with an agreeable sense of superiority. “But I -have seen _real_ fighting,” he said; “not like children. I saw them -fighting the Austrians--that was not wrong. Papa said so. It was to get -back their houses and their country. I was little then, and I was -frightened. But they won!” cried the boy, with a gleam in his dark eyes. -What a little savage he was! Randolph was startled by the sudden -reference to “papa,” and this made him more warm and eager in his turn. - -“Whoever has trained you to be a partisan has done very wrong,” he said. -“What do you know about it? But look here, my little man. I am going -away on Friday, and you are to come with me. It will be a great deal -better for you than growing up like a little girl here. You are exactly -like a little girl now, with your long hair and your name which is a -girl’s name. You would be Jack if you were at school. I want to make a -man of you. You will never be anything but a little lady if you don’t go -to school. Come; you have only to put on a frock like your sister. -Nelly! Why, that’s a girl’s name! You should be Jack if you were at -school.” - -“I am not a girl!” cried Nello. His face grew crimson, and he darted his -little brown fist--not so feebly as his size promised--in his uncle’s -face. Randolph took a step backwards in his surprise. “I hate you!” -cried the child. “You shall never, never come here when I am a man. When -the old gentleman is dead, and papa is dead, and everything is mine, I -will shut up all the doors, I will turn out the dogs, and you shall -never come here. I know now it is true what Lily says--you are the bad -uncle that killed the babes in the wood. But when I am a big man and -grown up, you shall never come here!” - -“So!” said Randolph, furious but politic; “it is all to be yours? I did -not know that. The castle, and the woods, and everything? How do you -know it will be yours?” - -“Oh! everybody knows that,” said Nello, recovering his composure as -lightly as he had lost it; “Martuccia and every one. But first the old -gentleman must be dead, and, I think, papa. I am not so sure about papa. -And do you think they would teach me cricket at school, and to fight? I -don’t really care for cricket, not really. But Johnny Pen and the rest, -they think so much of it. I should like to knock down all their wickets, -and get all the runs; that would teach them! and lick them after!” said -the bloodthirsty Nello, with gleaming eyes. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII. - -AN APPARITION. - - -Thus Randolph overcame Nello’s opposition to school, to his own extreme -surprise. Though he had a child of his own, and all the experiences of a -middle-aged clergyman, he had never yet learned the A B C of childhood. -But it may be supposed that the conversation generally had not made him -love his nephew more dearly. He shook his fist at the boy as he ran -along the water-side, suddenly seized by the delight of the novelty and -the thought of Johnny Pen’s envy. “If I had you, my boy!” Randolph said, -between his teeth, thinking grimly of the heirship which the child was -so sure of. Pride would have a fall in this as in other cases. The -child’s pretensions would not count for very much where he was going. To -be flogged out of all such nonsense would be far the best thing for him; -and a good flogging never did a boy much harm. Randolph, though he was -not a bad man, felt a certain gratification in thinking of the change -that would occur in Nello’s life. There was nothing wrong about the -school; it was a very humble place, where farmers’ sons were trained -roughly but not unkindly. It would make a man of the delicate little -half-foreign boy, who knew nothing about cricket. No doubt it would be -different from anything he was used to; but what of that? It was the -best thing for him. Randolph was not cruel, but still it gave him a -little pleasure to think how the impudent little wretch would be brought -to his senses; no harm done to him--no _real_ harm--but only such a -practical lesson as would sweep all nonsense out of his head. If Nello -had been a man of his own age, a rival, he could not have anticipated -his humiliation with more zest. He would have liked to be a boy himself -to fag the little upstart. There would be probably no fagging at the -farmers’ school, but there would be--well! he smiled to himself. Nello -would not like it; but it would bring the little monkey to his senses, -and for that good purpose there was no objection to be taken to the -means. - -And as he walked through the Chase, through the trees, seeing in the -distance before him the blunt turret-chimneys, all veiled and dignified -with ivy, of the old house, many thoughts were in Randolph’s heart. He -was a Musgrave, after all, if not a very fine example of the race. His -wife was well off. If it had not been for John, who was a criminal, and -this boy--what he would have done for the old place! What he might do -still, if things went---- well! Was that, perhaps, the word to -use--well? That is, if John could be somehow disposed of, prevented from -coming home, and the boy pushed quietly to one side. As for John, he -could not come home. It would be death--perhaps; certainly renewed -disgrace. He would have to stand his trial, and, if he fled from that -trial once, how was he likely to be able to face it now? He would stay -abroad, of course--the only safe place for him. If he could but be -communicated with, wherever he was, and would send for his son and -daughter, some arrangement might be made: a share of the income settled -upon him, and the family inheritance left for those who could enjoy it. -This would be, in every way, the best thing that could be done; best for -John himself; best for the house which had been always an honourable -one, and never connected with disgrace. It is so easy to believe what -one wishes that Randolph, after a while, going over the subject in his -mind, succeeded in smoothing away all difficulties, except, indeed, the -initial one of getting into correspondence, one way or another, with -John. If this could be done, surely all the rest was smooth enough! John -was not a fool; he must see that he could not come home. He must see how -difficult it would be to prove his marriage and his son’s birth, and -make everything clear (though why this should be so difficult Randolph -did not explain even to himself). Then he must see equally well that, to -put the property and the old castle into the hands of a man with money, -who could really do something to improve them, would be far better for -the family than to go on as he (John) must do, having no money, if even -he could come lawfully into possession. All this was so evident, no man -in his senses could refuse to see it. And as for communicating with -John: there was, of course, one way, which seemed the natural way, and -which surely must be infallible in that case as in most other cases--the -_Times_. However far out of the world John might be, surely he would -have opportunities from year to year of seeing the _Times_! No -Englishman, even though banished, could live without that. And, sooner -or later, if often enough repeated, the advertisement must reach him. -Suppose it to be put something in this form:--“J. M., of P.--His brother -R. wishes to communicate with him on urgent business connected with the -death of their father.” This would attract no particular attention from -any one, and John could not fail to perceive that he was meant. Thus he -had, to his satisfaction, made everything clear. - -It was just when he came to this satisfactory settlement of the -difficulty, so perfectly easy in theory, though no doubt there might be -certain difficulties about carrying it out, that Randolph suddenly saw, -a little way before him, some one making his way through the trees. The -Chase was private, and very few people had the right of coming here; -neither did Randolph see whence this unexpected passenger had come, for -there was no tributary path by which he might have made his way down to -the foot-walk through the elms and oaks. He was within easy sight, -obscured a little by the brushwood, and with his back to the spectator; -but the sight of him gave Randolph a great start and shock, which he -could not very well explain. The man was in dark clothes, with a broad -felt hat, quite unlike anything worn in this district; and there was -something about his attitude and walk (no doubt a merely fantastic -resemblance, or some impression on his mind from his pre-occupation with -the idea of John) which recalled his brother to Randolph’s mind. He was -more startled than words could say. For a moment he could not even think -or move, but stood open-mouthed, staring at the figure before him, which -went on straight, not turning to the right or to the left. - -When Randolph came to himself, he tried to laugh at his own folly--then -coughed loudly and meaningly, by way of catching the stranger’s -attention, and seeing who it was. But his cough attracted no manner of -attention from the wayfarer, who went on pushing through the trees, like -one who knew every turn and winding. Randolph was at the end of his -invention. If he called out “Hi!” it might turn out to be somebody of -importance. If he spoke more politely, and called the stranger to halt, -he might be a nobody--if indeed it was not----. A vague impression, half -of fear, came upon him. What nonsense it was! In broad daylight, in so -well-known and familiar a place. Had it been in the dark, in any of the -ghostly passages of the old house! but out here in the sunshine, in the -open air! - -Randolph took off his hat, to let the air blow freely about him for he -had grown hot and uncomfortable. His hand with the hat in it dropped for -a moment between him and the other who was so near him. When he raised -it again there was no one there. He rubbed his eyes, looked again, and -darted forward to see whether the man was hiding among the trees; but -there was no one there. Randolph took off his hat once more, to wipe his -streaming forehead; his hand trembled so that he could scarcely do it. -What did it mean? When he had convinced himself there was no one to be -seen, he turned and hurried away from the place, with his heart beating -loudly in his breast. He never looked behind him, but hastened on till -he had got to the broad road, where there was not a bush to hide an -apparition. Then he permitted himself to draw breath. - -It would be doing Randolph injustice to suppose that after he was out of -the shadow of the trees, and in safety, with a broad level bit of road -before him, on which everything was distinctly visible all round, he -could be capable of believing that he had seen a ghost. Nothing of the -kind. It must have been one of the people about the place, poking among -the bushes, who had disappeared under the branches of the trees, and -whom he thought like John only because he had been thinking of John--or -perhaps his thought of John had produced an optical delusion, and -imagination had painted some passing shadow as a substantial thing, and -endued it with his brother’s image. It might have been merely an -eccentric tree, on the outline of which fancy had wrought, showing a -kind of grotesque resemblance. It might be, and probably was, just -nothing at all. And it was supremely ridiculous that his heart should so -thump for such an absurd delusion; but thump it did, and that in the -most violent manner. He was out of breath, though he had made no -exertion. And he could not pick up his thoughts where he had dropped -them, when he saw that--figure. A thrill as of guilt was in his soul; he -was afraid to begin again where he had left off. He found himself still -rather breathless before the house, looking up at the veiled windows of -his father’s room. For the first time Randolph thought with a little awe -of his father lying there between life and death. He had not thought of -him at all in his own person, but rather of the Squire officially, the -old life who kept a younger generation out of the estate. It was time -the elders were out of the way, and age superseded by middle age. But -now for a moment he realized the man lying helpless there, in the very -pathway of death--not freed by the Great Deliverer, but imprisoned by -Him, all his senses and faculties bound up, a captive tied hand and foot -by the grim potency who conquers all men. Randolph was frightened -altogether by the mysterious encounter and impressed with awe. If there -had been daily service he would have gone to church, but as there was -nothing of the sort in Penninghame, he went into the library to read a -good book as the next best thing to do. But he could not stay in the -library. The silence of it was awful. He seemed to see his father, -seated there in his usual chair, silent, gazing at him with eyes of -disapproval that went through and through him. After five minutes he -could stand it no longer. He took his good book, and went out to the -side of the water, within sight of the road where people were coming -and going. It was a comfort to him to see even the doctor’s boy with his -phials, and the footman who came with his mistress’s card to inquire how -the Squire was. And he looked out, but looked in vain, with mingled -eagerness and fear for the broad hat he had seen so mysteriously -appearing and disappearing. Who could it be?--some stranger -astray in the Chase--some one of the many tourists who wander -everywhere--or--Randolph shuddered in spite of himself. - -It is generally people without imagination, or with the most elementary -and rude embryo of that poetic faculty, who see ghosts. This sounds like -a paradox, yet there is reason in it. The people who are literal and -matter-of-fact in mind, are those to whom wonders and prodigies come -naturally; those who possess the finer eye of fancy do not need those -actual revelations. Randolph’s was as stolid a mind as ever asked for a -sign--and he had not asked for a sign in this case, nor felt that -anything of the kind was necessary; but his entire mental balance was -upset by what he had seen, or supposed himself to have seen; and he -could not free his mind from the impression. As he sat and read, or -rather pretended to read, his mind kept busy with the one question--What -was it? Was it a real person, a stranger who had got astray, and -stumbled into some copse or brushwood, which Randolph had forgotten--a -man with a chance resemblance to John, heightened by the pre-occupation -and previous reference to John in Randolph’s mind? or was it John -himself, come to look after his own interests--John--in the body, or out -of the body, who could tell? - -As for Nello, he ran home by the water-side, his mind possessed by the -new thing that was about to be accomplished--school! Boys to play with, -novelty of all kinds, and then that cricket, which he pretended to -despise, but secretly admired and desired with all his heart--the game -which came to Johnny Pen by nature, but which the little foreign boy -could not master; all this buzzed through his little head. When he came -home from school he would know all about it; he would have played with -much better players than Johnny Pen ever saw. The revolution in his -thoughts was great and sudden. But as he ran home, eager to tell Lilias -about the change in his fortunes, Nello too met with a little -adventure. He came suddenly, just as he emerged from the woods upon the -water-side where it was open to the road, on a man whom he had -repeatedly seen before, and who was generally accompanied by a dog, -which was Nello’s admiration. The dog was not with his master now; but -he took a something white and furry out of his great pocket, which -stopped Nello even in the hot current of his excitement. - -“Would you like to have this, my little gentleman?” the man said. - -It was a white rabbit, with the biggest ears that Nello had ever seen. -How his eyes danced that had been all aglow before! - -“But I have no money,” he said, disposed to cry in disappointment as -sudden as his delight. - -“It’s not for money, it’s a present,” said the stranger, with a smile, -“and I’ll give you another soon. They tell me you’re going to school, my -young gentleman; is that true?” - -“Am I to have it all for myself, or will you come back again for it, and -take it away? Oh yes, I’m going to school,” said Nello, drooping into -indifference. “Will it eat out of my hand? Has it got a name? And am I -to have it all for myself?” The rabbit already had eclipsed school for -the moment in Nello’s mind. - -“It’s all for you, and better things than that--and what day are you -going, my bonnie little lad?” - -“To-morrow; oh give it me! I want to show it to Lily,” cried the child. -“Thank you very much. Let me run and show it to Lily. We never, never -had a rabbit before.” - -The man stood and looked after Nello with a tender illumination of his -dark face. “The old woman likes the other best; but this one is mine,” -he said to himself. As for Nello, he flew home with his precious burden, -out of breath. He said a man had given it to him; but thought of the -donor no more. - -Randolph spent this, his last evening at home, in anything but an -agreeable way; he was altogether unhinged, nervous, and restless, not -caring to sit alone. In this respect he was in harmony with the house, -which was all upset, tremulous, and full of excitement and expectation. -Human nature is always impatient of the slow progress of fate. After -the thunderclap of a great event, it is painful to relapse into -stillness, and feel the ordinary day resuming its power without any -following out of the convulsion. But dramatic sequence, rapidity, and -completeness are rare in human affairs. All the little crowd of -lookers-on outside the Squire’s room watched eagerly for some change. -Two or three women were always hanging about the passages, ready, as -they said, to run for anything that might be wanted, and always in the -way to learn if anything occurred. They kept a little lamp burning on -the table against the wall, at either end of which was a chair, on which -sometimes Cook herself, sometimes lesser functionaries, would be found, -but always two together, throwing exaggerated shadows on the wall, and -talking in whispers of their own fears, and how well they had perceived -what was coming. There was not one of them that had not intended, one -time or other, to make so bold as to speak to Miss Mary. “But trouble is -always soon enough when it comes,” they said, shaking their heads. Then -Eastwood would come and join them, his shadow wavering over the -staircase. When the privileged persons who had the _entrée_ went or -came, Miss Brown or the nurse, or even Mary herself, there was a little -thrill and universal movement. - -“Change! no, there’s no change--there never will be but one change,” -Miss Brown said, standing solemnly by the table, with the light on her -grave face; and it was upon this Rembrandtish group that Randolph came, -as he wandered about in a similar frame of mind, glad to find himself in -company with others, though these others were only the maids of the -house. - -“Is my father worse?” he asked, pausing, with his arm upon the -banisters. Such a group of eager, pale faces! and the darkness all round -in which others still might be lurking unseen. - -“No change, sir,” said Miss Brown, shaking her head. She was impatient -too, like the rest, but yet felt a sort of superior resignation, as one -who was in the front of affairs. And she had something to say besides. -She gave a glance at the other women, who responded with secret nods of -encouragement, then cleared her throat and delivered her soul--“Mr. -Randolph, sir, might I make so bold as to say a word?” - -“Say whatever you like,” said Randolph. He could not help but give a -little glance round him, to make sure that there was no one else about. - -“It is just this, sir--when you see him lying there, that white, as if -he was gone already, and know that better he can’t be--oh, it brings a -many thoughts into the mind! I’ve stood by dying beds before now, and -seen them as were marked for death, but I never saw it more clear. And -oh, Mr. Randolph, if there were things that might lie on his mind, and -keep him from going quiet, as an old gentleman ought! If there were -folks he ought to see afore all’s over----!” - -“I don’t see what you are driving at,” Randolph said hastily. “Speak out -if you’ve anything to say.” - -“Oh, sir,” said Miss Brown, “don’t you think----. I am not one that -likes to interfere, but I am an old servant, and when a body has been -long about a place, it’s natural to feel an interest. If it wasn’t your -family at all--if it was another that your advice was asked -for--shouldn’t you say that Mr. John ought to know?” - -This appeal startled Randolph. He had not been looking for it; and he -gave an uncomfortable look round him. Then he felt a strange irritation -and indignation that were more easy to express. “Am I my brother’s -keeper?” he said. “I don’t know where Mr. John is, that I should go and -hunt for him to let him know.” - -“Oh, sir,” said Miss Brown, “don’t you be angry! Cook here is like me: -she thinks it’s only his due. I would say it to Miss Mary, not troubling -you that are ‘most a stranger, but she’s night and day, she never will -leave her father; she has a deal upon her. And a gentleman knows ways -that womanfolk don’t think of. If you would be but that kind, Mr. -Randolph! Oh, where there’s a will there’s always a way!” - -“It is none of my business,” said Randolph; “and I don’t know where he -is,” he added, looking round him once more. He might be here already in -the dark, waiting till the breath was out of his father’s body--waiting -to seize possession of the house, felon as he was. And if Randolph was -the means of betraying him into the hands of justice, what would -everybody say? He went abruptly away down the uncarpeted, polished -stairs, on which his hasty step rang and slid. John, always John! he -seemed to be in the air. Even Eastwood, when he attended him with his -bed-candle, could not refrain from adding a word. “The doctor looks very -serious, sir,” Eastwood said; “and if there’s any telegraph to be sent, -I’ll keep the groom ready to go at a moment’s notice. ‘It would be well -to send for all friends,’ the doctor said.” - -“I don’t know any one to send for,” said Randolph peremptorily; “let the -groom go to bed.” And he went to bed himself sooner than usual, to get -rid of these appeals and of equally imperative thoughts. He went to bed, -but he could not go to sleep, and kept his candle burning half the -night. He heard the watchers moving about in his father’s room, which -was over-head, all the night through. Sometimes there would be a little -rush of steps, and then he held his breath, thinking this might be at -last the “change” which was looked for. But then everything grew still -again, and he dozed, with the one poor candle, feeble but steadfast -watcher, burning on till it became a pale intruder into the full glory -of day. - -Randolph, however, slept deeply in the morning, and got up with the -greater part of those cobwebs blown away. John lost his hold upon the -imagination in daylight, and he was able to laugh at his foolish alarm. -How could it be John whom he had seen? He durst not show himself in the -country where still his crime was so well remembered, and the sentence -out against him. And as for the appearance being anything more than -mortal, or less than human, Randolph laughed at the state of his own -nerves which rendered such an idea tenable for a moment. He was a -materialist by nature--as so many are; though he said his creed without -any intrusive doubts; and the absurdity was too patent after he had -slept and been refreshed. But no doubt it was bad for his health, bad -for his _morale_, to stay here. There was something in the atmosphere -that was demoralizing; the air had a creeping sensation in it as of -something more than met the eye. Death was in it; death, creeping on -slowly, silently--loitering about with faint odours of mortality and -sickening stillness. Randolph felt that he must escape into a more -natural and wholesome air before further harm was done. - -As for Mary, the occupations of the sick-room, and the sudden problems -of the hereafter thus thrust upon her, were enough to fill her mind, and -make her even comparatively indifferent to the departure of Nello, -though it was against her judgment. It was not the hereafter of the -spirit, which thus lay death-bound on the verge of the unseen, which -occupied her. We must all die, everybody knows; but who thinks it true -in their own case until it comes? Mary had known very well that a man -much over seventy could not live very much longer; but it was only when -her father fell back in his chair unconscious, his body motionless, his -mind veiled within blinding mists, that she felt the real weight of all -that was to follow. It was for her to act as soon as the breath should -be out of his body. She did not trust her younger brother, and she did -not know what to do for her elder brother. The crisis had arrived while -she was still unprepared. She went down mechanically to see Randolph go -away, her eyes seeing many other things more clearly than she saw the -two figures actually before her; the man suspicious as usual, and -putting no faith in her--the boy in a subdued excitement, his eyes -sparkling with the light of novelty and adventure. Randolph had gone -into his father’s room that morning, and had walked suspiciously round -the bed, making quite sure that the “no change” was true. “I suppose he -may last like this for weeks yet?” he said, in a querulous -undertone--and yet not so low but that everybody heard it--to the -doctor. “Oh, hush, for Heaven’s sake, Randolph! How can you tell that he -does not hear?” said Mary. “Pshaw how can he hear?” Randolph replied, -turning with a certain contempt from the helpless and powerless frame -which lay there making no sign, yet living when it would be so much -better that he should die. The awe of such a presence gives way to -familiarity and weariness even with the most reverent watcher; but -Randolph, though he had no desire to be indecorous, could not help -feeling a certain irritation at his father, who balked him by this -insensibility just as he had balked him while yet he had all his wits -about him. It seemed incredible that this half-dead, half-living -condition, which brought everything to a standstill, should not be more -or less a man’s own fault. - -Thus he went away, irritated and baffled, but still full of excitement; -the moment which must decide all could not be very far off. He left the -strongest charges upon the household, from his sister to Eastwood, to -send for him instantly when “any change” occurred. “If it should be -to-morrow,” he said; “I shall hold myself always ready.” He kept his -eyes fixed on the Castle as long as he could see it, feeling that even -now there might be a sign recalling him. And he thought he had made up -his mind what to do. He would bring his wife with him and take -possession at once. Mary would not be able to look after everything; or, -at least, if she should be, she ought not to be; no really -delicate-minded woman, no _lady_ should be able to make any exertion at -such a moment. He would come with his household, as a kindness to Mary, -and take possession at once. - -As for Nello, he took leave very cavalierly of Lilias, who cried, yet -would not cry, angry at his desertion and deeply wounded by his -indifference, at the door. Poor little Lilias, it was her first -disappointment in life. He was not thinking of her, but a great deal of -his new portmanteau and the sandwiches put up for him, and the important -position as a traveller in which he stood--but neither was Nello unkind. -He took pains to console his sister. - -“Don’t cry,” he said, “Lily I shall come back in the holidays, and -sometimes I will write you letters; and there is always the white rabbit -I gave you, and little Mary Pen for you to play with.” - -“I don’t want to play,” said Lilias, with a burst of tears; “is play -everything? I am too old for that. But oh, Nello, you are going to leave -me, and you don’t care. You do not care for Mary, or Martuccia, or any -one. Me, I should not mind--but you do not love _any one_. You care for -nobody but yourself.” - -“Oh yes I do,” said Nello, “everybody,” and he cracked the coachman’s -whip which was placed in readiness; “but boys have to go out and see the -world; Eastwood says so. If I don’t like being at school I shall come -back and stay at home, and then you will have me again; but I hope not, -and I don’t think so, for school is jolly, very jolly, so Uncle Randolph -says.” - -“You can go with Uncle Randolph,” cried Lilias, in a blaze of sharp -anger, “and I hope you will not come back. I hope you will always stay -away, you cruel, cruel boy!” - -This bewildered Nello for a moment, as did the hurried wiping of Lilias’ -eyes and the tremulous quiver of her lip with which it was accompanied; -but there was no time for more. He laughed and waved his hand to her as -he was hurried into the carriage. He had scarcely ever looked so gay -before. He took off his hat and waved it as he went out of sight. -Hurrah! they heard his shrill little voice shouting. Lilias sat down on -the ground and cried her heart out. It was not only that he was -unkind--but Nello thus showed himself wanting to all the needs of the -situation. No little hero of a story had ever gone away without a -tribute to the misery of parting. This thought contracted her heart with -a visionary pang more exquisite than the real. Nello was no hero, -nothing but a little cruel, common, vulgar boy, not fit to put into any -story, to go away so. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII. - -THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS. - - -While these events were going on at the Castle, Lord Stanton, for his -part, had come to a standstill in the matter which he had been drawn -into so inadvertently, and which had become so very serious an -occupation in his life. He was young, and unacquainted with the ways of -the world, and he did not know what step to take next. And he too was -paralyzed by the sudden catastrophe which had happened to the Squire. -Was it his fault? He could scarcely help an uneasy sense that by -agitating him unduly he had helped to bring on the sudden attack, and -thus he had left the Castle that evening with a heavy burden on his -mind. And Geoff, with entire unconsciousness of the lingering pangs of -life and the tenacity of the human frame, believed, without any doubt, -that Mr. Musgrave would die, and did not know what was to be done about -the exile, whose condition would thus be completely changed. In the -mean time it seemed to him necessary to wait until the issue of this -illness should be known. Thus his doubtfulness was supplanted by an -apparent necessity, and the time went on with nothing done. - -He went at first daily to inquire for the old man, and never failed to -see Lilias somewhere waiting for him with serious, intent face, and eyes -which questioned even when the lips did not speak. Lilias did not say -much at any time. She examined his face with her eyes and said “Papa?” -with a voice which trembled; but it became by degrees less easy to -satisfy Lilias by telling her, as he did so often, that he had not -forgotten, that he was doing everything that could be done, smoothing -the way for her father’s return, or waiting till he could more -successfully smooth the way. “You do not believe me, Lily,” Geoff said, -with a sense of being doubted, which hurt him sadly. “Yes; but he is not -your papa, Mr. Geoff, and you are grown up and don’t want any one,” -Lilias said, with her lip quivering. The visionary child was deeply cast -down by the condition of the house and the recollection of the -melancholy rigid figure which she had seen carried past, with a pang of -indescribable pain and terror. Lilias seemed to see him lying in his -room, where Mary now spent almost all her time, pale with that deadly -ashen paleness, his faded eyes half open, his helpless hands lying like -bits of rag, all the grey fingers huddled together. Fright and sorrow -together brought a sob out of her heart whenever she thought of this; -not moving, not able to speak, or turn round, or look up at those who -watched him; and still not dead! Lilias felt her heart stand still as -she thought of her grandfather. And she had no one to take refuge with. -Martuccia was frightened too, and would not go up or down stairs alone. -Lilias, for her part, did all she could, out of pride, and shame of her -own weakness, to conceal her terror; but oh, to have papa nigh to creep -close to, to feel safe because he was there! A few tears dropped from -her eyes. “You are grown up and you don’t want any one.” This went to -Geoff’s heart. - -“Oh Lily, don’t you think they would let you come to my mother?” he -cried; “this is too sad for you, this dismal house; and if Nello goes -away as you said----” - -“Do you think I would go and leave Mary all alone? Nobody is sorry for -Mary except me--and Mr. Pen. When she comes out of her room I go and I -kiss her hand, and she cries. She would be more ill and more weary,” -said Lilias, with a precocious understanding, “if there was not some -little thing to give her an excuse and make her cry.” - -“My little Lily! who taught you all that? it must have been the angels,” -cried Geoff, kissing in his turn the little hand. - -But this touch had the same effect upon Lilias that her own kiss had on -Mary. She cried and sobbed and did her best to swallow it down. “Oh Mr. -Geoff! I want papa!” she cried, with that little convulsive break in her -voice which is so pitiful in a child. She was seated on Mary’s chair at -the door of the hall, and he on the threshold at her feet. Geoff did not -know what kind of half-admiring, half-pitying sentiment he had for this -child. He could not admire her enough, or wonder at her. She was but a -child, not equal to him in his young manhood; and yet that very -childhood in its unconsciousness was worlds above him, he thought. He -felt like the man in the story who loved the fairy maiden--the young -Immortal; would she give up her visionary paradise for his sake and -learn to look at him, not as an angel but as a woman? but for that she -must be a woman first, and at present she was but a child. When he -kissed her hand it cost Lilias no blush. She accepted it with childish, -angelical dignity. “She took the kiss sedately--” and the dark fountains -of her eyes filled full, and two great tears tumbled over, and a piteous -quiver came to her lips, and she said, “Oh, Mr. Geoff, I want papa!” - -This was when the Squire had been ill about a week, six or seven days -before Randolph took Nello away. Geoff went home riding, very full of -thought. What could he do to please his little Lily? He preferred that -she should creep close to himself and tell him her troubles, but he -could not resist that plaint, and even though it should be against -himself he must try what he could do to bring her father to her. Geoff -thought a great deal on this subject, but it was very fatiguing and -unsatisfactory, for he did not know what to do, and after a while he -relapsed into the pleasanter path, and began to think of Lily. “Because -of the angels,” he said to himself as he jogged softly along, much more -slowly and reflectively than his horse liked to go. He forgot where he -was going and the engagements he had, and everything that was practical -and important, as he rambled on. The day was sweet in early autumn, the -lake rippling musically upon the beach, the sky blue and crossed by -floating atoms of snowy cloud. Everything in the world was sweet and -pleasant to the young man. “Because of the angels;” he had never been -quite clear what these words meant, but he seemed to see quite plainly -now, though he could no more have explained than he could have written -_Hamlet_. “Because of the angels!” He seemed to make a little song of it -as he went on, a drowsy, delicious burden like the humming of the bee. -It was not he that said it, he thought, but it murmured all about him, -wrapping him in a soft enchantment. Such a visionary love as his, -perhaps, has need of those intoxications of ethereal fancy: for nothing -can be so like the love of an angel as that of a young man possessed by -a tender visionary passion for a child. - -Geoff was so rapt in his own thoughts that he did not see for some time -the beckonings and signals that were coming to him from a carriage drawn -up on the road to which the path descended, along which he was moving so -gently. When his attention was at last caught, he saw it was his Cousin -Mary, leaning half out of the window in her eagerness. - -“Give your horse to the footman and come in here--I have so much to say -to you,” she said. - -But when he had done as she told him and taken his seat beside her, Lady -Stanton kept looking at her young cousin. - -“What is it?” she said; “you keep on smiling, and there is a little -drowsy, dreamy, intoxicated air about you; what has happened, Geoff?” - -“Nothing; and it is unkind to say I look intoxicated. Could you not find -a prettier word?” - -“I believe you are really, really!--Geoff, I think I know what it means, -and I hope it is somebody very nice. Tell me, who is she?” - -“This is strange,” said Geoff; “indeed, it is true, I have been visiting -a lady; but she is only twelve years old,” he said, turning to her with -a vivid blush. - -“Oh, Geoff!” Mary’s brow contracted, “you do not mean _that_ little -girl?” - -“Why shouldn’t I mean her? I will make you my confessor, Cousin Mary. I -don’t think. I shall ever marry any one but little Lily. Of course she -is very little, and when she is grown up she will probably have nothing -to say to me; but I shall never care for any one else. Why should you -shake your head? I never saw any one like her,” said Geoff, growing -solemn, and shaking off his blush as he saw himself opposed. - -“Oh, Geoff!” Mary shook her head and contracted her beautiful brow, “I -do not think anything good can come out of that family; but I must not -speak. I am jealous, I suppose. How did you know I did not want you for -Annie or Fanny?” she went on with a smile that was a little strained and -fictitious; for Mary knew very well that she was jealous, but not for -Annie, or Fanny, or Geoff. - -“Hush,” he said, “I loved you before Lily, but you could not have me; it -is Lily, failing you. If you could but have seen her just now! The -Squire is lying between life and death, and Miss Musgrave, who was so -good to her, is with him night and day, and poor little Lily is so -lonely and frightened. She looks at me with her little lip all -quivering, and says, ‘Papa! I want papa.’” Geoff almost cried himself to -recollect her piteous tone, and the tears came to Mary’s eyes. - -“Ah! if she takes after _him_, Geoff! but that is just what I want to -talk to you about. I have done something that you may think rash. I have -spoken to Sir Henry. He is--well, he has his faults like the rest of -us--but he is just; he would not do a wrong thing. I told him that you -had found out something----” - -“What did he say?” cried Geoff, breathless, for Lady Stanton made a -sudden pause. - -She was looking across him out at the window; her eyes had strayed past -his face, looking away from him as people do with a natural artifice to -allow the first signs of displeasure to blow over, before they look an -offended person in the face. But as she looked, Lady Stanton’s -countenance changed, her lips fell apart, her eyes widened out, her face -paled, as if a cloud had passed over it. She gave a great cry, “Oh -John, _John_!” she said. - -“What is it?--who is it?” cried Geoff. - -She made him signs to have the carriage stopped; she could not speak. -Geoff did what he could to make the coachman hear him; but it was by no -means the affair of a moment to gain the attention of that functionary, -and induce him to stop. When, however, this was accomplished, Geoff -obeyed the passionate desire in Lady Stanton’s face, who all the time -had been straining to look out, and jumped to the ground. He looked -round anxiously, while she, half out of the carriage, gazed back, fixing -her eyes upon one of those recesses in the road which are common in the -north country. “I see no one,” said Geoff. He came back to the place on -which her gaze was fixed, and looked behind the wall that bounded it, -and all about, but could see nothing. When he returned he found that -Mary had fallen back in her corner, and was weeping bitterly. “He looked -at me with such reproachful eyes. Oh, he need not; there was no reason. -I would have saved or served him with my life,” she cried; “and he had -never any claim on me, Geoff, never any claim on me!--why should he come -and look at me with such reproachful eyes? If he is dead, he ought to -know better than that. Surely he ought to know----” - -The carriage, standing in the middle of the road, the young man -searching about, not knowing what he was looking for; the coachman -superbly indifferent on the box, contemplating the agitation of his -inferiors with god-like calm; the footman, on Geoff’s horse, with his -mouth open, staring, while the beautiful lady wept inside, made the -strangest picture. As a matter of course, the footman, riding on in -advance, had seen nothing and nobody. He avowed frankly that he was not -taking any notice of the folks on the road. He might have seen a man -seated on the stones, he could not be certain. Neither had the coachman -taken any notice. Foot passengers did not interest either of these -functionaries. And Lady Stanton did not seem able to give any further -explanation. The only thing to be done was to go on. She had been on her -way to Stanton to give Geoff the advantage of Sir Henry’s advice and -opinion, and thither, accordingly, they proceeded after this -interruption. Geoff took his place again beside his cousin, perhaps a -little impatient of the stoppage; but as she lay back in the corner, -covering her face with her hands, Geoff’s heart was too soft not to -forget every other sentiment. He thought only of consoling her. - -“Tell me what it was,” he said, soothingly. “You saw--some one? Do not -cry so bitterly. You never harmed anybody in your life. Tell me--you -thought you saw----?” - -“I saw _him_, as plainly as I see you, Geoff; don’t tell me it was a -fancy. He was sitting, resting, like a man tired with walking, dusty and -worn out. I noticed his weary look before I saw his face, and just as we -passed he raised his head. Oh, why should he have looked at _me_ like -that, Geoff? No, I never did any one harm, much less him. I have always -stood up for him, you know, since you first spoke to me. I have always -said, always--even before this was found out: living people mistake each -other continually; but the dead--the dead ought to know----” - -“Who is dead?” said Geoff; “are you speaking of John Musgrave, who is as -much alive as I am?” - -“If he were a living man,” said Mary, solemnly, “how could I have seen -him? Geoff, it is no mistake. I saw him, as I see you.” - -“And is that why you think him dead?” said Geoff, with natural surprise. - -Lady Stanton raised herself erect in her corner. “Geoff, oh, can you not -understand?” she cried. But she did not herself quite understand what -she meant. She thought from the suddenness of it, from the shock it gave -her, and from the disappearance of the wayfarer, which was so -inexplicable, that it was an apparition she had seen. John Musgrave -could not be there, in the flesh, seated by the roadside; it was not -possible; but when Geoff asked whether having seen him was an argument -for thinking him dead, she had nothing to say. She wrung her hands. “I -have seen him whether he is living or dead,” she repeated, “and he -looked at me with such eyes. He was not young as he used to be, but -worn, and a little grey. I came to tell you what Sir Henry said; but -here is something far, far more important. Know him! Could I mistake -him, do you think?--how could I mistake him? Geoff, how could it be -_he_, sitting there without any warning, without a word? but if it was -he, if that was possible, why are we going on like this? Are we to -desert him?--give him up? I am talking folly,” she said, again clasping -her hands. “Oh, Geoff, a living man would not have looked at me with -such eyes.” - -“He has not very much right to happy eyes, has he?” said Geoff; “coming -home an outlaw, not venturing to speak to any one. It would not be half -so sad if he were a ghost. But to come back, and not to dare to trust -even his friends, not to know if he has any friends, not to be able to -go home and see his children like any other man, to rest on the stones -at the roadside, he to whom all the land belongs! I don’t wonder he -looked sad,” cried Geoff, half-sympathetic, half-indignant. “How was he -to know even that he would find a friend in you?” - -Mary was sobbing, scarcely able to speak. “Oh, tell them to go back -again--tell them to go back,” she cried. There was no way of satisfying -her but this: the carriage turned slowly round, rolling like a ship at -sea. The coachman was disgusted and unwilling. “What did she want now?” -he said, telegraphing with uplifted hands and eyes to the surprised -footman on Geoff’s horse. Lady Stanton was not a hard mistress like her -stepdaughters, nor fantastical and unreasonable as they were. She took -the carriage humbly when she could get it, and would consult this very -coachman’s convenience before bringing him out, which no one else -thought of doing. Nevertheless Lady Stanton had her character in the -house, and human nature required that it should be kept up. She was the -stepmother, the scapegoat. “What is she after now?” the coachman said. - -She got out of the carriage herself, trembling, to aid in the search, -and the footman getting down, looked everywhere, even under the stones, -and in the roadside hedges, but no one was there. When they resumed -their way again, Mary lay back in her corner too much worn out with -excitement and emotion to be able even to speak. Geoff could not tell -whether she was glad or sorry to be brought to acknowledge that it was -more likely to be John Musgrave whom she had seen than his ghost. She -was convinced by his reasoning. Oh, yes; no doubt, she said, it must be -so. Because you saw a man unexpectedly, that was no reason for supposing -him to be dead. Oh, no--Geoff was quite right; she saw the reason of all -he said. But Mary’s head and her heart and all her being thrilled with -the shock. There was a ringing in her ears, and pulses were beating all -over, and her blood coursing through her veins. The very country, so -familiar, seemed to change its aspect. No stronger commentary could have -been on the passage of time than the sudden glimpse of the face which -she had seen just now on the roadside. But Mary did not think of that. -The lake and the rural road that ran by it, and the hills in the -distance, seemed to take again the colours of her youth. He was nothing -to her, and never had been. She had not loved him, only had “taken an -interest.” But all that was most poignant in her life came back to her, -with the knowledge that he was here. Once more it seemed to be that time -when all is vivid, when every day may be the turning-point of life--the -time that was consciously but a drift and floating on of hour by hour -when it existed, as is the present moment--but which, looking back upon -it, seemed the time of free action, of choice, of every possibility. Was -it so? Might he be met with round any corner--this man who had been -banished so long? In the face of death and danger had he come back, he -whom nobody had expected ever to come back? A strange half-question -whether everything else had come back with him, and half-certainty that -nothing for her could change, was in Mary’s mind as she lay back, -quivering with emotion, hearing Geoff’s voice in her ears, not knowing a -word he said. What had Geoff to do with it--young Geoff, to whom nothing -had ever happened? She smiled vaguely to herself to think that the boy -could think he knew. How was he to know?--he was not of that time. But -all the people in the road, and the very water itself, and the villages -and houses, seemed to ask her, Was it true? - -This was all the evidence on the subject from which a judgment could be -formed. Randolph Musgrave (who told no one) had seen, in his own words, -a something, a some one, whose face he did not see, but who suggested -John to him so strongly that his very heart seemed to stop beating--then -disappeared. And Lady Stanton from the window of the carriage, driving -past, saw a face, which was John Musgrave’s face grown older and worn, -with hair that was slightly grey, instead of the brown curls of former -years, and which disappeared too in the twinkling of an eye, and being -searched for, could be found no more. What was it?--an apparition -conjured up by their interest or their fears? or John Musgrave, in his -own person, come home? - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX. - -NELLO’S JOURNEY. - - -Randolph Musgrave drove from the door of his father’s house with a sigh -of relief, yet of anxiety. He had not done what he meant to do, and -affairs were more critical than when he went to Penninghame a few weeks -before; but it was something at least to be out of the troubled -atmosphere, and he had arranged in his own mind what he should do, which -was in its way a gain, as soon as the breath was out of the old man’s -body,--but when would that be? It was not to be desired, Randolph said -to himself piously, that his father should linger long; his life was -neither of use nor comfort to any one, and no pleasure, no advantage to -himself. To lie there speechless, motionless, as much shut out of all -human intercourse as if he were already in his coffin--what could any -one desire but that, as soon as might be, it should come to an end? - -He did not pay very much attention to his small companion. For the -moment, Nello, having been thus secured and brought within his power, -had no further importance, and Randolph sat with knitted brows pondering -all he was to do, without any particular reference to the child. Nello -had left the Castle easily enough; he had parted from Mary and from -Lilias without any lingering of emotion, getting over it as quickly as -possible. When it came to that he was eager to be off, to set out into -the world. The little fellow’s veins were full of excitement; he -expected to see, he did not know what wonderful things, what objects of -entrancing interest, as soon as he got outside the little region where -everything was known to him. “Good-bye, Mary--good-bye, Lily,” he said, -waving his hand. He had his own little portmanteau with his name on it, -a new little silver watch in his pocket--what could child want more? -Lily, though she was his sister, was not a sensation like that watch. He -took it out, and turned it round and round, and opened the case, and -wound it up--he had wound it up twice this morning already, so that one -turn of the key was all that was practicable. Nothing at the Castle, -nothing in the society of Lily, was equal to this. He compared his watch -with the clock at the druggist’s in the village and found it fast: he -compared it with the clock at the station and found that slow. He did -not take any notice of his uncle, nor his uncle of him; each was -indifferent, though partly hostile, to the other. Randolph was at his -ease because he had this child, this troublesome atom, who might do harm -though he could do no good, in his power; but Nello was at his ease -through pure indifference. He was not at the moment frightened of his -uncle, and no other sentiment in regard to him had been developed in his -mind. As calm as if Randolph had been a cabbage, Nello sat by his side, -and looked at his watch. The watch excited him, but his uncle----. Thus -they went on, an unsympathetic pair. Nello stood about on the platform -and looked at everything, while Randolph took the tickets. He was -slightly hurt to hear that a half-ticket was still enough for himself, -and moved away at once to the other side of the station, where the -locomotive enthralled him. He stood and gazed at it with transport. What -he would have given to have travelled there with the man who drove it, -and left Uncle Randolph behind! But still Nello took his place in the -train with much indifference to Uncle Randolph. He was wholly occupied -with what was going on before and about him: the rush across country, -trees and fields flying by, and the stations where there was always -something new, the groups of people standing about, the rush of some for -the train, the late arrival just as the doors were shut of those who -were too late. These last made Nello laugh, their blank looks were so -funny--and yet he was sorry for them; for what a thing it must be, he -thought, to see other people go rushing out over the world to see -everything, while you yourself were left dull at home! He remembered -once himself being left with Martuccia in the still, deserted house when -all the others had gone to the _festa_; how he thought the day would -never end--and Martuccia thought so too. This made him sorry, very -sorry, for the people who had lost their train. It did not occur to -Nello that it might be no _festa_ he was going to, or they were going -to. What could any one want more than the journey itself? If you wearied -of seeing the trains rush past, and counting the houses, now on one -side, now on another, there was the endless pleasure of dashing up to -one station after another, where Nello could look down with fine -superiority on the people who were not going, on the children above all, -who looked up envious, and envied him, he felt sure. - -By and by, however, though he would not confess it to himself, the -delights of the journey began to pall: his little eyes grew fatigued -with looking, and his little mind with the continuous spectacle of those -long, flying breadths of country; and even the stations lost their -charm. He would have liked to have somebody to talk to, and cast one or -two wistful glances to see whether Uncle Randolph was practicable, but -found no encouragement in that countenance, pre-occupied, and somewhat -lowering by nature, which appeared now and then in the wavering of the -train, over the newspaper his uncle was reading. What a long time it -took to read that paper! How it crackled when it was opened out! How -tired Nello grew of seeing it opposite to him! And he began to grow -cramped with sitting; his limbs wanted stretching, his mind wanted -change; and he began to be hungry. Randolph, who scorned the poor -refreshments of the railway, and thought it better to wait for his meal -till he reached home, did not think of the difference between himself -and the child. They travelled on and on through the dulness of the -afternoon. Nello, who had been so excited, felt disposed to sleep, but -was too proud to yield to it; and then he began to think of his sister -and the home he had left. It is natural, it is selfish, to remember home -when we miss its comforts: but if that is not of the higher nature of -love, it is yet the religion of the weak, and not despised by the great -Succourer who bids men call upon Him in time of trouble. Nello’s heart, -when he began to feel tired and famished, recurred, with a pathetic -trust in the tenderness and in the certainty of the well-being that -abode there, to his home. - -When they stopped at a lively, bustling junction to change their -direction, things mended a little. Nello ventured to buy himself a cake, -his uncle not interfering, as they waited. “You will spoil your stomach -with that sweet stuff,” Randolph said, but he allowed the child to -munch. And they had half-an-hour to wait, which of itself was something. -Nello walked about, imitating Randolph’s longer stride, though he did -not accompany his uncle; and though he felt forlorn and very small among -the crowd, marched about and looked at everything as the gentlemen did, -recovering his spirits a little. And suddenly, with a great glow of -pleasure all over him, Nello spied, among the strangers who were -hurrying to and fro, a face he had seen before; it is true it was only -the face of the countryman who had accosted him in the Chase, and with -whom he had but a small acquaintance, but even this was something in the -waste of the unknown that surrounded him. The boy rushed up to him with -a gleam of joy upon his small countenance. “I say, have you come -from--home?” - -“Yes, my little gentleman,” said Wild Bampfylde. “I’m taking a journey -like you, but I like best to tramp on my two legs. I’m going no farther -in your carriages, that give you the cramp. I reckon you’re tired too.” - -“A little,” said Nello; “but that’s no matter. What have you in your -basket?--is it another rabbit? I gave mine to Lily. They would not let -me bring it, though I wanted to bring it. School, you know,” said the -boy, seriously, “is not like home. You have to be just like as if you -were grown up there. Little--you cannot help being little; but you have -to be like as if you were grown up there.” - -“Ay, ay, that’s the way to take it,” said the countryman, looking down -with a twinkle in his eye, half smiling, half sad, at the small creature -beside him. “The thing is to be a man, and to mind that you must stand -up like a man, whatever happens. If one hits you, you must hit him -again, and be sure not to cry.” - -“Hit me!” said Nello--“cry? Ah, you do not know the kind of school I am -going to--for you are not a gentleman,” he added, looking with superb -condescension at his adviser. “I like you just the same,” said Nello, -“but you are not a gentleman, are you? and how can you know?” - -“The Lord forbid!” said Bampfylde, “one’s enough in a family. It would -be ill for us, and maybe for you too, if I were a gentleman. Look you -here, my little man. Look at the bonnie bird in this basket--it’s better -than your rabbit. A rabbit, though it’s one o’ God’s harmless creatures, -has little sense, and cannot learn; but this bonnie thing is of use to -God and man, as well as being bonnie to look at. Look at him! what a -bonnie head he has, and an eye as meaning as your own.” - -“A pigeon!” said Nello, with a cry of delight. “Oh, I wish I might have -him! Do you think I might have him? I could put him under the seat, and -nobody would see the basket; and then when we got there----” - -“Ay, that’s the question--when you got there?” - -“I would say--it was my--fishing-basket,” said Nello. “_He_ said they -went fishing; and nobody would know. I would say Mary had--put things in -it: nobody would ever find out, and I would keep it in my room, and buy -seed for it and give it water, and it would live quite comfortable. And -it would soon come to know me, wouldn’t it? and hop about and sit on my -shoulder. Oh, let me have it; won’t you let me have it? Look here, I -have a great deal of money,” cried Nello, turning out his pocket; “five -shillings to spend, and a sovereign Mary gave me. I will give you money -for it, as much money as ever you please----” - -“Whisht, my little lad; put back your money and keep it safe, for you’ll -have need of it. I brought the bird to give you. If they’re kind folks -they’ll let you keep him. You must keep him safe, and take care he has -his meat every day; and if they’re unkind to you or treat you bad, put -you his basket in the window and open the lid, and, puff! he’ll flee -away and let your friends know.” - -“But I should not like him to flee away. I would like him to stay with -me always, and sit on my shoulder, and eat out of my hand.” - -“My little gentleman,” said Bampfylde. “I’m afraid your uncle will hear -us. Try to understand. If you’re ill-used, if they’re unkind, let the -bird fly, and he’ll come and tell us. Mind now, what I’m saying. He’ll -come and tell us. Did you never read in your story-books----” - -“Then it is an enchanted bird,” said Nello, looking down, very gravely, -into the basket. Lily had read to him of such things. He was not very -much surprised: but a bird that some day would turn into a young prince -did not attract him so much as one that would hop on his shoulder -without ulterior object. He looked down at it very seriously, with more -respect perhaps, but not so warm an interest. His little face had lost -its animation. How Lily would have glowed and brightened at the thought! -But Nello was no idealist. He preferred a real pigeon to all the -enchanted princes in the world. - -“Nay,” said Bampfylde, with a gleam of a smile across his dark face, -“it’s no fairy, but it’s a carrier. Did you never hear of that? And when -you let it fly it will fly to me, and let me know that you are wanting -something--that they’re not kind to you, or that you’re wanting to be -away.” - -“Oh, they’ll be kind,” said Nello, carelessly; “I would rather he would -stay with me, and never, never fly away.” - -“I’ll put him in the carriage for you,” said Bampfylde, hurriedly, “for -here’s somebody coming. And don’t you let any one know that you were -speaking to me, or ever saw me before. And God bless you, my little -gentleman!” said the vagrant, suddenly disappearing among the crowd. - -While Nello stood staring after him, Randolph came up, and tapped him -sharply on the shoulder. - -“What are you staring at? Have you seen any one you know?” - -It was Nello’s first lesson in deceiving. - -“I--I was looking at a man--with wild beasts,” he said. - -“With wild beasts!--in the station?--here?” - -“Yes, white rabbits and pigeons--and things; at least,” said Nello to -himself, “he once had a white rabbit, if he hasn’t got one now.” - -“Rabbits!” said Randolph. “Come along, here is our train. It is late; -and before I have got you settled, and got back here again, and am able -to think of myself, it will be midnight, I believe. You children don’t -know what a trouble you are. I shall have lost my day looking after you. -I should have been at home now but for you; and little gratitude I am -likely to get, when all is done.” - -This moved Nello’s spirit, for of all things in the world there is -nothing that so excites opposition among great and little, as a claim -upon our gratitude. Anything and everything else the mind may concede, -but even a child kicks against this demand. Nello’s feelings towards his -uncle were not unkind; but, little as he was, instinct woke in him an -immediate resistance. - -“It was not me that did it,” he said; “it was you. I should have stayed -at home, and when the old gentleman is better he would have come out and -played with me. And Mary would have let me stay. I like home,” said -Nello, “and perhaps I shall not like school; but if I don’t like it,” he -added, brightening and forgetting the secret he had been so sworn to -keep, “I know how to get away.” - -“How shall you get away?” said Randolph. But he was so sure of this -matter, which was in his own hands, that he did not wait for any answer. -“They will take care of that at school,” he said; “and it will be the -worse for you, my boy, if you make yourself disagreeable. Come along, or -we shall miss the train.” - -Nello saw that the basket had been placed under his seat as he got in; -and as the train swept away from the station, he caught a glimpse of the -lonely figure of his new friend, standing among the little crowd that -watched the departure. Bampfylde made a warning gesture to the child, -who, forgetful of precaution, nodded and waved his hand in reply. - -“Who is that?” cried Randolph, suspiciously, getting up to cast a -searching look behind. - -“Oh, it is the man with the wild beasts,” Nello said. - -And then came another silent sweep through the green smooth country, -which was not like the hilly north. It was all Nello could do to keep -himself from pulling his basket from beneath the seat, and examining his -new treasure. He could hear it rustling and fluttering its wings -against the wickerwork. Oh, to be able to take it out, to give it some -crumbs of biscuit which were still in his pocket, to begin to train it -to know him! Nello only restrained himself painfully, by the thought -that if he betrayed his own secret thus, his pigeon might be taken from -him. How eager he was now to be there! “Are there many more stations?” -he asked, anxiously; then counted them on his fingers--one, two, three. -And how delighted he was when they came at last to the little place, -standing alone in a plain, with no other house visible that Nello could -see (but he did not look; he was so anxious about his pigeon), which was -their journey’s end. A kind of farmer’s shandry, half cart, half gig, -with a rough horse, and a rougher driver, was in waiting. Nello got his -basket out with his own hands, and put his little great-coat over it, so -that no one could see. His heart beat loudly with fright, lest his uncle -should hear the sounds beneath the cover--the rustle and flutter. But -Randolph’s mind was otherwise engaged. As for the boy, he thought of -nothing but this treasure, which he was so happy to feel in his arms. He -could carry it so, quite comfortably, with the little great-coat over -it; he neither remarked the rudeness of the jolting vehicle, nor the -bare country, with here and there a flat line of road running between -turnip and potato fields. When they came to the house--a new, square -house, in the middle of the fields--Nello thought nothing about it one -way or another. He thought, “I wonder which will be my window; I wonder -where I can keep the bird.” That was all. His little soul, all eagerness -after his new delight, had room for nothing more. - -Randolph and his charge were taken into a plain room, very simply -furnished and not over-dainty in point of cleanness, where the principal -of the school, a man in rusty black, came to receive them. There was -nothing repulsive in his looks, nothing more in any way than the same -plain unvarnished rusticity and homeliness which showed in his house. -The school was intended for farmers’ sons, and the education was partly -industrial--honest, simple training, without either deceit or villany -involved, though not at all suitable for Nello. It was with reluctance -even that so young a boy had been accepted at all; and the schoolmaster -looked at him with doubtfulness, as the slim little curled darling, so -different from his other pupils, came in, hugging his basket. - -“He’s young, and he’s small,” said Mr. Swan. - -“Very young, and small for his age,” Randolph echoed. “All the more -reason why he should lead an out-of-door life, and learn that he is a -boy, and will one day be a man.” - -Then Nello was put into the hands of the principal’s wife, while -Randolph gave further directions. - -“His case is quite peculiar,” the uncle said. “He is an orphan, or as -good as an orphan, and I took him from the hands of ladies who were -making a fool of the boy. What he wants is hardening. You must not be -led away by his delicate looks; he is a strong boy, and he wants -hardening. Send him out to the fields, let him learn to work like the -rest, and don’t listen to any complaints. Above all, don’t let him send -complaints home.” - -“I never interfere with what they write home,” said honest Mr. Swan. - -“But you must in this case. If he sends home a complaining letter, his -aunt will rush here next morning and take him away. I am his uncle, and -I won’t permit that--and a family quarrel is what will follow, unless -you will exercise your discretion. Keep him from writing, or keep him -from grumbling. You will be the saving of the boy.” - -“It is a great responsibility to undertake. I should not have undertaken -it, had I known----” - -“I am sure you have too serious a sense of the good that can be done, to -shrink from responsibility,” said Randolph; “but, indeed, are we not all -responsible for everything we touch? If you find him too much for you, -write to me. Don’t write to what he calls ‘home.’ And do not let him be -taken away without my authority. I have to protect him from injudicious -kindness. A parcel of women--you know what harm they can do to a boy, -petting and spoiling him. He will never be a man at all, if you don’t -take him in hand.” - -With these arguments, Randolph overcame the resistance of the -schoolmaster, and with redoubled injunctions that it was himself that -was to be communicated with, in case of anything happening to Nello, -went away. He was in haste to get back for his train; and “No, no,” he -said, “you need not call the boy--the fewer partings the better. I don’t -want to upset him. Tell him I was obliged to hurry away.” - -And it would be impossible to describe with what relief Randolph threw -himself into the clumsy shandry, to go away. He had got the boy disposed -of--for the moment at least--where no harm could happen to him, but also -where he could do no harm. If his grandfather regained his -consciousness, and, remembering that freak of his dotage, called again -for the boy, it would be out of Mary’s power to spoil everything by -humouring the old man, and reviving all those images which it would be -much better to make an end of. And when the Squire’s life was over, how -much easier to take all those measures which it was so advisable to -take, without the little interloper about, whom foolish people would no -doubt insist on calling the heir. The heir! Let him stay here, and get a -little strength and manhood, to struggle for his rights, if he had any -rights. More must be known of him than any one knew as yet, Randolph -said to himself, before he, for one, would acknowledge him as the heir. - -Nello was taken into Mrs. Swan’s parlour, and there had some bread and -butter offered to him, which he accepted with great satisfaction. The -bread was dry and the butter salt, but he was hungry, which made it very -agreeable. - -“You’ll have your tea with the rest at six,” said Mrs. Swan; “and now -come I’ll show you where you are to sleep. What is that you’re -carrying?” - -“A basket,” said Nello, in the mildest tone; and she asked no further -questions, but led him upstairs, not however to the little bedroom of -which the child had been dreaming, where he could keep his new pet in -safety, but to a long dormitory, containing about a dozen beds. - -“This is yours, my little man, and you must be tidy and keep your things -in order. There are no nurses here, and the boys are a bit rough; but -you will soon get used to them. Put down your things here; this chair is -yours, and that washing-stand, and----” - -“Must I sleep there?” cried Nello. It was not so much the little -bed--the close neighbourhood of the other boys--that appalled him; but -where was there a window for his bird? “Mayn’t I have that bed?” he -said, pointing to one which stood near the window at the end of the -room. - -“I daresay,” said Mrs. Swan; “why that is for the head boy, and you are -the least, and the last. It is only by a chance that there is room for -you at all here.” - -“But I don’t want to be here,” said Nello. “Oh, mayn’t I be by the -window? The head boy hasn’t got a----. What would it matter to him? but -I want to be there. I want to be at the window.” - -“My little master, you’ll be where I choose to place you,” said Mrs. -Swan, becoming irritated. “We allow no self-will, and no rebellion -here.” - -“But what shall I do with my----.” Nello did not venture to name the -name of the bird. He crept up to the head of the little bed which was to -be allotted to him, and surveyed the blank wall tearfully. There was but -a very little space between him and the next bed, and he was in the -middle of the room, the darkest part of it. Nello began to cry. He -called upon Mary, and upon Martuccia, in his heart. Neither of them -would suffer him to be treated so. “Oh, mayn’t I go to another room -where there is a window?” he cried, through his tears. - -“My word, that one is a stubborn one; you will have your hands full with -him,” said Mrs. Swan, leaving Nello to have his cry out, which -experience had taught her was the best way. She found her husband very -serious, and full of care, thinking over the charge he had received. - -“It’s a gentleman’s son, not one of the commoner sort,” he said; “but -why they should have brought him to me--such a little fellow--is more -than I can see.” - -Nello sat by his little bed and cried. His heart was full, and his -little frame worn out. In the state of depression which had followed -upon the delight of the morning, novelty had departed, and strangeness -had come in its place--a very different matter; everything was strange -wherever he turned: and no place to put his pigeon! By and by the vacant -spaces would fill, and boys--boys whom he did not know--big boys, rough -boys, and that head boy, who had the window--would pour in; and he had -no place to put his bird. - -Nello’s tears fell like summer rain upon the precious basket, till the -storm had worn itself out. Then, first symptom of amelioration, his ear -was caught by the rustle of the bird in the cage. He took it up, then -placed it in his lap, then opened the cover a little way, and, -entrancing moment! saw it--the glossy head, the keen little eye gleaming -at him, the soft, ruffled feathers. It made a small dab at him as he -peered in--and oh, how delighted, how miserable, how frightened was -Nello! He drew back from the tiny assault, then approached his head -closer, and took from his pocket a bit of his bread and butter, which he -had saved on purpose. Then he sat down on the floor, a small creature, -scarcely visible, hidden between the beds, betraying himself only by the -reverberation of the sobs which still shook his little bosom from time -to time, entranced over his bird. The pigeon gurgled its soft coo, as it -picked up the crumbs. The little boy, after his trouble, forgot -everything but this novel delight; a thing all his own, feeding from his -hand already, looking up at him sidelong, with that glimmer of an eye, -with a flutter towards him if it could but have got loose. No doubt when -he set it free it would come upon his shoulder directly. Nello lost -himself and all his grief in pleasure. He forgot even that he had not a -window in which to hang his bird. - -By and by, however, there came a rush and a tramp of feet, and eleven -big boys, earthy and hot from the field where they had been working, -came pouring in. They filled the room like a flood, like a whirlwind, -catching Nello upon their surface as the stream would catch a straw. One -of the big, hobnailed fellows stumbled over him as he sat on the floor. - -“Hallo, what’s here?” he cried; “what little kid are you?” seizing the -child by the shoulders. He did not mean any harm, but grasped the little -boy’s shoulder with the grip of a playful ploughman. Then there was a -rush of the whole band to see what it was. The new boy! but such a -boy--a baby--a gentleman baby--a creature of a different order. - -“Let’s see him,” they cried, tumbling over each other, while Nello, -dragged to his feet, stood shrinking, confronting them, making trial of -all the manhood he possessed. He would not cry; he drew back against his -bed, and doubled his little fist, his heart heaving, his lip quivering. - -“I have done no harm,” said Nello, with a sob in his voice; and the head -boy called out, good-humouredly enough, though the thunder of his boyish -bass sounded to Nello like the voice of doom, to “let him be.” - -“What’s he got there?” he asked. - -The basket was snatched from the child’s hand, notwithstanding his -resistance. Nello gave a great cry when it was taken from him. - -“Oh, my bird, my pigeon, my bird!--you are not to hurt my bird.” - -“Give it here,” said the head boy. - -But the first who had seized the treasure held it fast. - -“I’ve got it, and I’ll keep it,” he cried. - -“Give it here!” shouted the other. - -The conflict and the cloud of big forms, and the rough voices and -snatchings, filled Nello with speechless dismay. He leaned back against -his bed, and watched with feelings indescribable the basket which -contained his treasure pulled and dragged about from one to another. -First the handle gave way, then the lid was torn off, as one after -another snatched at it. Oh, why was Nello so small and weak, and the -others so big and strong! - -“Give it here!” shouted the head boy; but in the midst of the scuffle, -something happened which frightened them all--the bird got loose, -carefully as it had been secured, flew up over their heads, fluttered -for a moment, driven wild by the cloud of arms stretched out to catch -it, and then, with a sweep of its wings, darted out through the open -window, and was seen no more. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX. - -A CHILD FORLORN. - - -Nello sobbed himself to sleep that night, scarcely conscious of the -hubbub that was going on around him. He had watched with a pang -unspeakable the escape of his bird, then had rushed blindly among the -culprits, fighting and struggling in a passion of tears and childish -rage, raining down harmless blows all around him, struggling to get out -after it, to try to bring it back. Then Nello had been caught, too -desperate to know who held him, in the hands of the head boy, who paid -no more attention to his kicks and struggles than to his cries, and held -him until, half dead with passion and misery, the poor little fellow -sank exhausted, almost fainting, in the rough hands of his captors. Then -the boys, who were not cruel, laid him on his bed and summoned Mrs. -Swan. They all crowded round her to tell their story. Nobody had meant -any harm. They had taken his basket to look at it, and the pigeon had -got loose. “And it was a carrier!” the head boy said regretfully. They -were as sorry as Nello could be, though by this time, under the combined -influences of loneliness, desolation, homesickness, weariness, and loss, -poor little Nello was almost beyond feeling the full extent of his -troubles. “He’s a mammy’s boy,” said Mrs. Swan, who was rough, but not -unkind. “He has never been at school before. A spoiled child, by all I -can see.” But why had a spoiled child been sent here? This was what the -good woman could not understand. - -Nello slept and forgot his woes; and when he was awoke in the morning by -the tumult, all the eleven jumping out of bed at once, performing their -noisy but scanty ablutions, tossing boots about, and scrambling for -clothes, the child lay trembling yet anxious, and half amused in spite -of himself. The rough fun that was going on tempted Nello to laugh, -though he was miserable. He shrank from them all, so big, so loud, so -coarsely clothed, and in such a hurry; but he was tickled by their -horse-play with each other--the hits and misses with which their -missiles went and came. When the head boy was caught by a pillow -straight in the face as he approached to execute justice upon one of the -laggards, Nello could not restrain a little broken chuckle, which -attracted the attention of the combatants. This, however, drew upon him -the arrest of fate. “I say, little one, ain’t you going to get -up?--bell’s rung!” said his next neighbour. The head boy was aggrieved -by the poor little laugh. “Get up, you lazy little beggar!” he cried. “I -say, let’s toss him!” cried another, with sudden perception of fun to be -had easily. The boys meant no particular harm; but they made a -simultaneous rush at the little trembling creature. Nello felt himself -seized, he knew not for what purpose. Then the noise, and the rude, -laughing faces--which looked to him in his fright like demons--all swam -in giddy uncertainty round him, and the poor little fellow came down -upon the floor, slipping out of their rough and careless hands, faint -and sick and sore, his head turning, his little bones aching. But though -in his giddiness and faintness he scarcely saw anything--even the faces -turning into misty spectres--Nello’s spirit survived for a moment the -collapse of his little frame. He got to his feet in a frenzy, and struck -out at them with his white little childish fists. “I will kill you!” -cried Nello, through his teeth; and a great horse-laugh got up. But this -was soon extinguished in dismay and horror when the little fellow fell -back fainting. They all gathered around, horror-stricken. “Lift him on -his bed,” said the head boy almost in a whisper. They did not know -anything about faints; they thought the child was dead. Then there was a -pause. In their horror it occurred to more than one inexperienced -imagination to hide the little body and run away. “What can they do to -us?” said another, awe-stricken. “We didn’t mean it.” For a moment the -boys had all that thrill of horrible sensation which ought to (but, it -would seem, does not always) accompany homicide. At the end, however, -humanity prevailed over villanous panic, and Mrs. Swan was called to the -rescue. The boys were too glad to troop away, already subject to -punishment on account of being late, and, huddling together, went down -to the schoolroom in a band, where vengeance awaited them--though not -for Nello’s murder, as some of them thought. - -Nello came to himself at last, after giving Mrs. Swan a great deal of -trouble; and there was nothing for it but to leave him in bed all day; -for the child was bruised with the fall, aching in every limb, and too -resentful and wretched to make any effort. He lay and cried and brooded, -what between childish plans of vengeance and equally childish projects -of escape. Oh, the pangs of impotence with which the small boy wronged -contemplated the idea of those big fellows who had been so cruel to him! -How should weakness be aware that strength does not intend to be cruel? -Nello could not be tolerant, or understanding, at his age, even if there -had not been his aching bones to prove the wickedness of his assailants. -He hated them all. How could he help hating them? He lay and planned -what he would do to them. But Nello’s dreams were not malicious. At the -last moment, when they had suffered torments of dread in prospect of the -punishment which he permitted them (in his fancy) to see approaching, -Nello’s vengeance suddenly turned into magnanimous contempt. He would -not condescend to reprisals; he would crush them with forgiveness as -soon as they saw his power. Such were the plans which the child lay and -concocted, and which amused him, though he was not aware of it. But when -the boys came in Nello shrank to the farther side of his bed; he would -not look at them; he would not listen to the rough inquiries. When they -went away again, however, and he was left alone, a sudden fit of longing -came over him. Oh, to see somebody he knew!--somebody that was kind! -Schemes of vengeance pall, like every other amusement. He gazed round -upon the bare walls, the range of beds, the strange, ugly, desolate -place. He could not tell if it was worse when the savages were there, -filling it with noise, stumblings of heavy feet, cries of rough voices, -or when the sounds all died away, and he was left lonely, not a soul to -speak to him; no kind hand to touch his hot little head; nobody to give -him a drink, though he wanted it so much. Nello had to clamber out of -bed, to pour himself out a cup of water from the great brown jug, which -he could scarcely lift--and fell upon his bed again, utterly heartsick -and desolate. Nobody to give him a drink! How they used to pet him when -he had a headache! How Martuccia would croon over him, and bathe his -head, and kiss his hands, and bring him everything she could think of -to please him! And Mary would come and stand by his side, and put her -cool, white hand upon his head--that hand which he had once called “as -soft as snow.” Nello remembered the smile that came on Mary’s face when -he had called her hand “as soft as snow.” He did not himself see the -poetry of the phrase, but he thought he could feel again that mingled -coolness, and softness, and whiteness. And Lily! Lily would sit by him -all day long, and read to him, or sing to him, or tell him stories, or -play when he got a little better and could play. A great lump came in -Nello’s throat. “Oh, my Lily!” he cried, with a lamentable cry. He had -no mother to appeal to, poor child--not even the imagination of a -mother. Lily had been everything. Nothing had ever been so bad with him -but could be borne when Lily was there. Naturally he had not so much -felt the want of Lily when it was pleasure (as he thought) that he was -going to. He could part with her without much emotion in the excitement -of novelty and childish hope; but now----. Nello turned his face to the -wall and sobbed. The lonely place--all the lonelier for bearing traces -of that rude multitude--held him, a little atom, in its midst. Nobody -heard his crying, or cared. He tore the bedclothes with his little -frantic hands, with that sense of the intolerable which comes so easily -to a child. But what did it matter that it was intolerable? Little -Nello, like older people, had to bear it all the same. - -It was best to leave the child quiet, the Swans thought. They were not -unkind, but they were not used to take much trouble. The boys who came -to them generally were robust boys, able to take care of themselves, and -to whom it did no harm to be hustled about--who enjoyed the scrimmages -and struggles. Mrs. Swan had her own children to look after. “I’ve left -him to himself; he’s better to be quite quiet,” she said to her husband, -and the husband approved; “far better for him to be quiet.” Attempts to -amuse a child, in such circumstances, would have been foolish, they -thought, and as for petting and sympathising with him, far better that -he should get accustomed to it, and make up his mind to put up with it -like the rest. They could not make any difference between one and -another; and if he had a day’s rest, and was allowed to lie in bed, -what could the child want more? There was no imagination in the house -lively enough to _envisager_ the circumstances from Nello’s point of -view, or to understand what chills of terror, what flushes of passion, -came over the child, when the others poured in to bed again in the -evening, driving him desperate with fear and wild with anger. Who could -imagine anything so vehement in the mind of such a little boy? But Nello -was not molested that next evening; they were disposed rather to be -obsequious to him, asking, in their rough way, how he was, and offering -him half-eaten apples and bits of sticky sweetmeats, by way of -compensation. But Nello would not listen to these clumsy overtures. He -turned his face to the wall persistently, and would have nothing to say -to them. Even the tumult that was going on did not tempt him to turn -round, though, after the first moment of fright, the crowd in the room -was rather comforting than otherwise to Nello. The sound of their voices -kept him from that melancholy absorption in himself. - -Next morning he had to get up, though he was still sick and sore. Nello -was so obstinate in his refusal to do so, that the master himself had to -be summoned. Mr. Swan would stand no nonsense. - -“Get up, my boy,” he said, “you’ll get no good lying there. There has -nothing happened to you more than happens to new boys everywhere. Come, -you’re not a baby to cry. Get up, and be a man.” - -“I want to go home,” said Nello. - -“I daresay you do; but you’re not going home. So your plan is to make -the best of it,” said the schoolmaster. “Now come, I let you off -yesterday; but I’ll send a man to take you out of bed if you don’t get -up now. Come along, boy. I see you want to be a baby, as your uncle -said.” - -“I am no baby,” cried Nello, furious; but the schoolmaster only laughed. - -“I give you half-an-hour,” he said; and in half-an-hour, indeed, Nello, -giddy and weak, managed to struggle down to the schoolroom. His watch -was no longer going. He had forgotten it in the misery of the past day; -it lay there dead, as Nello felt--and his bird was flown. He stumbled -downstairs, feeling as if he must fall at each step, and took his seat -on the lowest bench. The lessons were not much, but Nello was not equal -to them. The big figures about seemed to darken the very air to the -boy--to darken it, and fill it up. He had no room to breathe. His hand -shook, so that he could not write a copy, which seemed a simple matter -enough. “Put him at the very bottom; he knows nothing,” Mr. Swan said to -his assistant; and how this galled the poor little gentleman, to whom, -in his feebleness, this was the only way left of proving a little -superiority, what words could say? Poor little Nello! he cried over the -copy, mingling his tears with the ink, and blurring the blurred page -still more. He could not get the figures right in the simplest of sums. -He was self-convicted of being not only the least, but the very last, -the dunce of the school. When the others went out to play, he sat -wretched in a corner of the wretched schoolroom, where there was no air -to breathe. He had not energy enough to do anything or think of -anything; and it was only the sight of another boy, seated at a desk -writing a letter, which put it into his head that he too might find a -way of appeal against this cruelty. He could not write anything but the -largest of large hands. But he tore a leaf out of the copybook, and -scrawled a few lines across it. “I am verrey meeserble,” he wrote; “Oh, -Lily, ask Mary to kome and take me home.” - -“Will you put it into a cover for me?” he said to the boy who was -writing, who proved to be the very head boy who reigned over Nello’s -room. “Oh, please, put it into a cover. I’ll forgive you if you will,” -cried Nello. - -The head boy looked at him with a grin. - -“You little toad, don’t you forgive me without that? I never meant to -hurt you,” he said: but melting, he added, “give it here.” Nello’s -epistle, written across the lined paper, in big letters, did not seem to -require any ceremony as a private communication. The head boy read it -and laughed. “They won’t pay any attention,” he said; “they never do. -Little boys are always miserable. And won’t you catch it from Swan if he -sees it!” - -“It is for my sister Lily; it is not for Mr. Swan,” cried the child, -upon which the head boy laughed again. - -That letter never reached Penninghame. The schoolmaster read it -according to his orders, and put it into the fire. He wrote himself to -the address which Nello had given, to say that the little gentleman was -rather homesick, but pretty well; and that perhaps it would be better, -in the circumstances, not to write to him till he had got a little -settled down, and used to his new home. He hoped his little pupil would -soon be able to write a decent letter; but he feared his education had -been very much neglected hitherto, Mr. Swan wrote. Thus it came to pass -that Nello lived on, day after day, eagerly expecting some event which -never happened. He expected, first of all, Mary to arrive in a beautiful -chariot, such as was wont to appear in Lily’s stories, with beautiful -prancing horses--(where they were to come from, Nello never asked -himself, though he was intimately acquainted with the two brown ponies -and the cob, which were all the inhabitants of the Squire’s stables), -and with an aspect splendid, but severe, to proceed to the punishment of -his adversaries. Nello did not settle what deaths they were to die; but -all was arranged except that insignificant circumstance. Mary would -come; she would punish all who had done wrong; she would give presents -to those who had been kind; and all the boys who had laughed at little -Nello would see him drive away glorious behind those horses, with their -arching necks, and high-stepping, dainty feet. Then after a few days, -which produced nothing, Nello settled, with a pang of visionary -disappointment, that it was Mr. Pen who could come. He would not make a -splendid dash up to the door like Mary in her chariot; but still he -would deliver the little captive. Another day, and Nello, coming down -and down in his demands, thought it might at least be Martuccia, or -perhaps Miss Brown, who would come for him. That would not be so -satisfactory to his pride, for he felt that the boys would laugh and -jeer at him, and say it was his nurse who had come; but still even Miss -Brown would be good to see in this strange place. At the end of the -week, however, all Nello’s courage fled. He thought then faintly of a -letter, and watched when the postman came with packets of letters for -the other boys. He could not read writing very well; but he could make -it out if they would only write to him. Why would not they write to him? -Had they forgotten him altogether, clean forgotten him, though he had -been but a week away? - -Nello did what he was told to do at school: but he was very slow about -it, being so little, and so unused to work--for which he was punished; -and he could not learn his lessons for brooding over his troubles, and -wondering when _they_ would come, or what they could mean; and naturally -he was punished for that too. The big boys hustled him about; they -played him a hundred tricks: they laughed at his timid, baby-washings, -his carefulness, the good order to which he had been trained. To toss -everything about, to do everything loudly, and noisily, and carelessly, -was the religion of Mr. Swan’s boys, as everything that was the reverse -of this had been the religion in which Nello was trained. Poor little -boy, his life was as full of care as if he had been fifty. He was sent -here and there on a hundred errands; he had impositions which he could -not write, and lessons which he could not learn; and not least, perhaps, -meals which he could not eat; and out-of-door tasks quite unsuitable for -him, and which he could not perform. He was for ever toiling after -something he ought to have done. He grew dirty, neglected, unkempt, -miserable. He could not clean his own boots, which was one thing -required of him; but plastered him self all over with mysterious -blacking, in a vain attempt to fulfil this task, he who had scarcely -dressed himself till now, scarcely brushed his own hair. He kept up a -struggle against all these labours, which were more cruel than those of -Hercules, as long as he had the hope within him that somebody must come -to deliver him; for, with a childish jump at what he wished, he had -believed that some one might come “to-morrow,” when he sent, or thought -he sent, his letter away. The to-morrow pushed itself on and on, hope -getting fainter, and misery stronger, yet still seemed to gleam upon -him, a possibility still. “Oh, pray God send Mary,” he said, every night -and morning. When a week was over, he added a more urgent cry, “Oh, pray -God send _some one_, only some one! Oh, pray God take me home!” the -child cried. He repeated it one night aloud, in the exhaustion of his -disappointment, with an irrepressible moaning and crying: “Oh, pray God -take me home!” He was very tired, poor little boy; he was half wrapped -in his little bit of curtain, to hide him as he said his prayers, and he -had fallen half asleep while he said them, and was struggling with -drowsiness, and duty, and a hope which though now falling more and more -into despondency, still gave pertinacity to his prayer. He was anxious, -very anxious to press this petition on God’s notice. Repetition; is not -that the simplest primitive necessity of earnest supplication? Perhaps -God might not take any notice the first time, but He might the next. -“Oh, take me home. Oh, pray God take me home!” God too, like Mary and -the rest, seemed to pay no attention; but God did not require written -letters or directions in a legible hand: He could be approached more -easily. So Nello repeated and repeated, half-asleep, yet with his little -heart full of trouble, and all his cares awake, this appeal to the only -One who could help him, “Oh, pray God, pray God, take me home!” - -But in this trance of beseeching supplication, half asleep, half -conscious, poor little Nello caught the eye of one of his room-fellows, -who pointed out the spectacle to the rest. “Little beggar! pretending to -say his prayers; and much he cares for his prayers, going to sleep in -the middle of them,” they said. Then one wag suggested, “Let’s wake him -up!” It was a very funny idea. They got his water-jug, a small enough -article indeed, not capable of doing very much harm. Had poor little -Nello been less sleepy in his half-dream of pathetic appeal, he must -have heard the titterings and whisperings behind him; but he was too -much wrapt in that drowsy, painful abstraction, to take any notice, till -all at once he started bolt upright, crying and gasping, woke up and -drenched by the sudden dash of cold water over him. A shout of laughter -burst from all the room, as Nello turned round frantic, and flew at the -nearest of his assailants with impotent rage. What did the big fellow -care for his little blows? he lay back and laughed and did not mind, -while the small creature in his drenched nightgown, his face crimson -with rage, his little frame shivering, his curly locks falling about his -cheeks, flew at his throat. The head boy, however, awakening to a sense -of the indiscretion, and perhaps touched by a pang of remorse at sight -of the misery and fury in the child’s face, got hold of Nello in his -strong arms, and plucked the wet garment off him, and threw him into his -bed. “Let the child alone, I tell you. I won’t have him meddled with,” -he said to the others--and covered him up with the bedclothes. Poor -little Nello! he wanted to strike at and struggle with his defender. He -was wild with rage and misery. His small heart was full, and he could -bear no more. - -After this, however, the boys, half ashamed of themselves, got quickly -to bed; and darkness, and such silence as can exist in the heavy -atmosphere where twelve rustics sleep and snore, succeeded to the tumult -and riot. Nello, exhausted, sobbed himself to sleep under the -bedclothes; but woke up in the middle of the night to remember all his -wrongs and his misery. His cup was full; even God would not pay any -attention to him, and it seemed to Nello that it would be better to die -than to bear this any longer. Though the dark frightened him, it was -less alarming than the rough boys, the hard lessons, the pangs of -longing and waiting for a deliverance which never came. He had still the -sovereign which Mary gave him, and the watch he had been so proud of, -though that was dead now, and he had not spirit enough left to wind it -up. It was October, and the nights were long. Though it was but in -reality between two and three o’clock in the morning, Nello thought it -would soon be time for all these savage companions to get out of bed -again, and for the noisy dreadful day to begin. He got up very quietly, -trembling at every sound. There was a window at the end of the room -through which the moon shone, and the light gave him a little -consolation. He kept his eye fixed upon it, and groped for his clothes, -and put them on very stealthily. If any one should hear him, he would be -lost; but Nello’s little rustlings, like a bird in the dark, what were -they to break the slumbers of all those outdoor lads, who slept -violently, as they did everything else! No one stirred; the snoring and -the breathing drowned all the little misadventures which chilled Nello -with terror, as when his boots dropt out of his hand, or the buttons on -his trousers struck shrilly against the chair. Nothing happened; nobody -stirred, and Nello crept out of the room, holding his breath with the -courage of despair. He got downstairs, trembling and stumbling at almost -every step. When he got to the lower story, that kind moon, which had -seemed to look at him through the window, almost to smile at him in -encouragement and cheerful support, showed him a little window which had -been left open by some chance. He clambered through and found himself in -the garden. There was a great dog in front of the house, of which Nello -was in mortal terror; but here at the back there was no dog, only the -kitchen garden, with the tranquil breadth of a potato-field on the other -side of the hedge. It was not easy to get through that hedge; but a -small boy not quite nine years old can go through gaps which would -scarcely show to the common eye. It scratched him and tore his trousers; -but there was nothing in such simple accidents to stop the little -fugitive. And what it was to feel himself outside, free and safe, and -all his tormentors snoring! Nello looked up at the moon, which was -mellow and mild, not white as usual, and which seemed to smile at him. -The potato-field was big and black, with its long lines running to a -point on either side of him; and the whole world seemed to lie round him -dark and still; nothing stirred, except now and then a rat in the ditch, -which chilled Nello with horror. Had he known it was so early, the child -would have been doubly frightened; but he felt that it was morning, not -night, which encouraged him. And how big the world was! how vast, and -silent, and solitary! only Nello, one little atom, with a small heart -beating, a little pulse throbbing in the midst of that infinite quiet. -The space grew vaster, the stillness more complete, the distance more -visionary, and there was a deeper sable in the dark, because of Nello’s -little heart beating so fast, and his eyes that took everything in. What -was he to do, poor little soul, there by himself in the open country, in -the unknown world all in the middle of the night! - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI. - -A CRISIS AT PENNINGHAME. - - -All this time the old Squire lay in the same stupor of death in life. He -did not rally. Sometimes there was a look in his eyes--a quiver as of -meaning, between the half-closed lids. But they could not tell what it -meant, or indeed if it was anything but vague reflection of the light -that would break in through a drawn curtain or raised blind. There he -lay, day after day, wearing out all his nurses. If he ever slept, or -ever was awake, no one could tell; but this old man, in the grip of -deadly disease, lay there motionless, and tired out all the younger -people who watched over him. A nurse had been got for him from the -nearest town, and Mary was rarely out of the sick-chamber. Both of these -attendants were worn to death as the monotonous days and nights went -past; but the Squire lay just the same. They grew pale and hollow-eyed, -but he apparently had stopped short at the point where he was when their -vigil began. - -In these circumstances all the world flocked to Penninghame to inquire -for Mr. Musgrave. Rural importance shows in such circumstances. He was -“by rights” the greatest man in the district, though superior wealth had -come in and taken his pre-eminence from him--but everybody recollected -his pretensions now. Inquiries came for him daily from every one near -who could pretend to be anything. The great great people, and the small -great people, the new families and the old, the clergy (who were as good -as anybody), and all who sought for a place among the gentry, with -whatever hope or right, all interested themselves about the invalid. -“His eldest son is still living, I believe. And what will happen when -Mr. Musgrave dies?” the people asked. And all who had any possibility of -knowing, all who had any right to know, exerted themselves to supply -answers to this question. One had it on the best authority, that John -Musgrave was waiting, ready to come home, and that there would be -another trial immediately. Some, on the other hand, were certain that -John Musgrave never would come home at all to tempt Providence. “There -will be an effort made to pass him over, and make his little son heir -instead,” they said; and some believed it to be certain that the other -brother would pension him off, so that the house might not be shamed by -a convict squire. - -Naturally, Mary knew nothing about these discussions. She spent her time -in her father’s room, relieving the nurse when her hours for sleep came, -resting herself only when she could no longer bear up against the -fatigue, seeing nobody but Mr. Pen and Lilias. Mary took little notice -now of Nello’s departure, and the schoolmaster’s letter. It had all been -done against her will, but she was too much occupied, now that it was -done, to dwell upon it. It was very shameful that he was so backward, -and perhaps Mr. Pen and Randolph were right in sending him to school. -Her mind was too much pre-occupied for the moment to give anything but -this half-angry, reluctant assent to what had been done. And perhaps it -would be better _now_ if Lilias could go to school too, out of this -melancholy house, out of the loneliness which was so hard upon the -child. But Lilias was the only consolation Mary herself had; she had -grown to be part of herself during this long year. It might be doing the -child injustice, as she feared; but how could she send her only -companion, her consoler and sympathiser, away? As for Lilias, though she -was deeply moved by Nello’s departure, the want of news of him did not -move her much. Her father never wrote, never communicated with the -child. They had not the custom of letters. It was very dreary, no doubt, -but still when he came back unexpectedly, perhaps just at the moment he -was most wanted, stepping in, with all the delight of surprise added to -the pleasure of again seeing the absent, that was worth waiting for. -This was the philosophy of the family. It was not their habit to write -letters. Lilias accepted her own loneliness with resignation, not -thinking of any possible alleviation; and she watched, sitting at the -door of the old hall, for every one who might come along the road. It -was October--the days getting short, the air more chilly, the sun less -genial. The woods began to put on robes of colour, as if the rosy sunset -clouds had floated down among them. The air blew cold in her face, as -she sat outside the hall door. Martuccia within, in the background, -shivered, and drew her shawl more closely across her ample shoulders. -But Lilias did not feel the cold. She was looking out for some one--for -papa, who might come all at once, at any time--for Mr. Geoff, who might -bring news of papa--for something to come and break the monotony of this -life. Something Lilias felt sure must be coming; it could not go on like -this for ever. - -“Nello was always company for his sister,” Mary said. Though she -assented, she could not but complain. She had come out to breathe the -air, and was walking up and down, Mr. Pen by her side. “It is very hard -upon Lily, just at this moment, when everything is hanging in the -balance, that her little brother should have been sent away.” - -“It would be very well,” said Mr. Pen, “if you would send her away too. -Nello wanted it. He would never have learned anything at home. He will -come back so much improved. If he is to be received as the heir of -everything----” - -“If, Mr. Pen?” - -“Well; I would not go against you for the world; but there is truth in -what Randolph says. Randolph says there must be certificates of his -birth, and all that; quite easy--quite easy to get--but where is your -brother John to look after it all? He ought to be here now.” - -“Yes, he ought to be here. But would it be safe for him to come, Mr. -Pen?” - -“Miss Mary, I can’t help wondering about that,” said Mr. Pen, with -troubled looks--had he grown unfaithful to John?--“if he is innocent, -why shouldn’t he come _now_? No jury would convict----” - -Mary stopped him with a motion of her hand. “Randolph has been gaining -you over to his side,” she said. They were walking up and down the road -close to the house. Just where the great gates ought to be--if the -Musgraves were ever rich enough to restore the courtyard of the old -Castle--was the limit of their walk. Mary could not allow herself to be -out of reach even for an hour. She was here, ready to be called, in case -her father should come to any semblance of himself. “I do not say he has -not some reason on his side, now that my father is--as he is. -Everything seems to have grown so much nearer. It is dreadful not to -know where John is, not to be able to communicate with him. I wrote to -the last place where they were living--the place the children came -from--but I have never had any answer. When my poor father goes--as go -he must, I suppose--what am I to do?” - -“You must let Randolph manage for you. Randolph must do it. God knows, -Miss Mary, I don’t want to go against you----” - -“But you do,” she said with a half-smile. She smiled at it, but she did -not like it. It is hard, even when a dog who has been your special -follower turns away and follows some one else. - -“You never did it before since we have known each other, Mr. Pen.” - -Poor Mr. Pen felt the reproach. He was ready to weep himself, and looked -at her with wistful, deprecating eyes; but was it not for her sake? - -“I don’t know what else to say to you. It breaks my heart to go against -you,” he said. “Whatever pleases you seems always best to me. But -Randolph says--and I cannot deny it, Miss Mary, there’s truth in what he -says.” - -“Yes, there’s truth in what he says. He has got the child away, and -placed him out of reach, with your help, Mr. Pen; and he will push the -father away, out of his just place, and make all the difficulties -double. He has put you against him already that was his friend, and he -will put other people against him. I begin to see what he is aiming at;” -cried Mary, clasping her hands together, with indignant vehemence. - -Mr. Pen did not know what to say or do to soothe her. He was full of -compunction, feeling himself guilty. He to have turned against her! He -felt all the horror of it to his very heart. - -“We should be just to Randolph too,” he said, tremulously; “he means to -do what is right. And if I seem to cross you, ’tis but to serve you, -Miss Mary. How could you stand in the breach, and bear all that will -have to be borne? If Randolph does not come to do what has to be done, -you would have to do it; and it would be more than should be put upon -you.” - -“Have I ever shrunk from what has to be done?” she said, with again a -half-smile of pained surprise. - -Mr. Pen had no answer to make; he knew very well she had not failed -hitherto; and in his heart he was aware that Randolph’s motives were -very different from Mary’s. Still, he held with a gentle obstinacy to -the lesson he had learned. It was going against her, but it was for her -sake. They took one or two turns together in silence, neither saying any -more. As they turned again, however, towards the house for the third -time, Eastwood met them, hurrying from the door. Nurse had sent -downstairs for Miss Musgrave, begging her to come without delay. The -urgent message, and the man’s haste and anxious, eager looks, frightened -Mary. The household generally had come to that state of expectation -which welcomes any event, howsoever melancholy, as a relief to the -strain of nerve and strength which long suspense produces. Eastwood was -eager that there might be some change--if for the better, so much the -better--but that was scarcely to be looked for--anyhow a change, a new -event. The same thrill of anticipation ran through Mary’s veins. Was it -come now--the moment of fate, the crisis which would affect so many? She -bade Mr. Pen to follow her, with a movement of her hand. “Wait in the -library,” she said, as she went upstairs. - -While Mary took the air in this anxious little promenade up and down, -Lilias sat at the hall door, looking out upon the road, looking far away -for the something that was coming. She did not know that the rider on -the pale horse was the most likely passenger to come that way. Happier -visitors were in Lilias’ thoughts--her father himself to clear up -everything, who would go and fetch Nello back, and put all right that -was wrong; or Mr. Geoff, who was not so good, but yet very comforting, -and between whom and Lilias there existed a link of secret alliance, -unknown to anybody, which was sweet to the child. Lilias was looking out -far upon the road, vaguely thinking of Geoff, for he was the most likely -person to come--he who rode along the road so often to ask for the -Squire: far more likely than her father, who was a hope rather than an -expectation. She was looking far away, as is the wont of the dreamer, -pursuing her hope to the very horizon whence it might come--when -suddenly, all at once, Lilias woke to the consciousness that there was -some one standing near her, close to her, saying nothing, but looking at -her with that intent look which wakes even a sleeper when fixed upon -him, much more a dreamer, linked to common earth by the daylight, and -all the sounds and touches of ordinary life. She rose to her feet with a -start--frightened yet satisfied--for here was something which had -happened, if not the something for which she looked. But Lilias’ eyes -enlarged to twice their size, and her heart gave a great jump, when she -saw that the figure standing beside her was that of the old woman whom -she had met in the Chase. - -’Lizabeth had come up unobserved from the water-side. She was dressed -exactly as she had been when Lilias saw her before, with the hood of her -grey cloak over her white cap--a stately figure, notwithstanding the -homely dress. - -Lilias gave a cry at the sight, and ran to her. “Oh, old woman!” she -cried--“oh, I want to ask you--I want to ask you so many things.” - -“Honeysweet!” said ’Lizabeth, with a glow in her dark eyes. She did not -for the moment think either of what she had come to say, or of the risk -that attended her communications with her daughter’s child. She thought -only of the face she saw reflected in that other face, and of the secret -property she had in the child who was so beautiful and so sweet. This -was ’Lizabeth’s heiress, the inheritor of the beauty which the old woman -had been conscious of in her own person, and still more conscious of in -the person of her daughter. Lilias was the third in that fair line. -Pride filled the old woman’s heart, along with the warm gush of -tenderness. No one had ever looked at Lilias with such passionate love -and admiration. She did not venture to take the child into her arms as -she had done in the solitude of the woods, but she looked at her with -all her heart in her eyes. - -Lilias seized her by the hand and drew her to the seat from which she -had herself risen. “Come!” she said eagerly. “They say you know -everything about papa--and I have a right to know; no one has so good a -right to hear as I. Oh, tell me! tell me! Sit down here and rest. I once -went up the hill, far away up the hill, to go to you, but there I met -Mr. Geoff. Do you know Mr. Geoff? Come, come, sit down here and tell me -about papa----” - -“My darling,” said. ’Lizabeth, “blessings on your bonnie face! but I -dare not stay. Some time--soon, if it’s God’s will, you’ll hear all the -like of you could understand, and you’ll get him back to enjoy his own. -God bless my bairn that would give me her own seat, and think no shame -of old ’Lizabeth! That’s like my Lily,” the old woman said, with ready -tears. “But listen, honey, for this is what I came to say. You must tell -the lady to send and bring back the little boy. The bairn is in trouble. -I cannot tell you what kind of trouble, but she must send and bring him -back. My honey, do you hear what I say?” - -“The little boy, and the lady?” said Lilias, wondering; then she -exclaimed suddenly with a cry of pain, “Nello! my little brother!” and -in her eagerness caught ’Lizabeth’s hands and drew her down upon the -seat. - -“Ay, just your little brother, my honeysweet. My lad is away that would -go and look after him, so you must tell the lady. No, no, I must not -stay. The time will maybe come. But tell the lady, my darling. The -little boy has need of her, or of you. He is too little a bairn to be -away among strangers. I cannot think upon his name--nor I cannot think,” -said ’Lizabeth, with a gleam of grandmotherly disapproval, “what my Lily -could be thinking of to give a little lad such an outlandish name. But -tell the lady to send and bring him home.” - -“Oh, I will go, I will go directly. Wait till I tell you what Mary -says,” cried Lilias; and without pausing a moment, she rushed through -the hall, her hair flying behind her, her face flushed with eagerness. -The old woman stood for a moment looking after her with a smile; -listening to the sound of the doors which swung behind the child in her -rapid course through the passages which led to the inhabited part of the -house. ’Lizabeth stood stately yet rustic in her grey cloak, with her -hands folded, and looked after Lilias with a tender smile on her face. -She had nothing left to be proud of, she so proud by nature, and to whom -it was the essence of life to have something belonging to her in which -she could glory. ’Lizabeth’s pride had been broken down with many a -blow, but it sprang up again vigorous as ever on the small argument of -this child. Her beauty, her childish refinement and ladyhood, gave the -old woman a pleasure more exquisite perhaps than any she had ever felt -in her life. There was little in her lot now to give her pleasure. Her -daughter was dead, her days full of the hideous charge which she had -concealed for so many years from all the world; and she was old, -approaching the end of all things, with nothing better to hope for than -that death might release her unfortunate son before herself. At this -moment even a worse terror and misery was upon her; yet as she stood -there, looking after the little princess who was of her blood, her -representative, yet so much above anything that had ever belonged to -’Lizabeth, there was a glow through all her veins, more warm, more sweet -than any she had ever felt in her life. Pride, and love, and delight -swelled in her. Her child’s child--heir of her face, her voice, all the -little traits of attitude and gesture, which mark individuality--and yet -the young lady of the Castle, born to a life so different from hers. She -stood so, gazing after Lilias till the sound of her feet and the door, -closing behind her, had died away. Her heart was so full that she turned -to Martuccia sitting motionless behind with her knitting. “Oh, that her -life may be as sweet as her face!” she said involuntarily. Martuccia -turned upon her with a smile, but shook her head and said, “Not speak -Inglese.” The sound of the voice called ’Lizabeth to herself. The smile -faded from her face. Little had she to smile for, less than ever at this -moment. She sighed, coming to herself, and turned and walked away. - -Lilias ran against Mary as she entered the house at Eastwood’s call. -“Oh!” she cried, breathless, “Nello! will you send for Nello? Oh, Mary, -he is in trouble, the old woman says--he is ill, or he is unhappy, or I -cannot tell you what it is. Will you send for him, will you send for -him, Mary? What shall I do? for papa will think it was my fault. Oh, -Mary, Mary, send for my Nello! Wait a moment, only wait a moment, and -hear what the old woman says----” - -“Speak to her, Mr. Pen,” said Mary; “I cannot stay.” She was going to -her father, who must, she felt sure, want her more urgently than Lilias -could. Even then it went to Mary’s heart to neglect the child’s appeal. -“Mr. Pen will hear all about it, Lilias,” she said, as she hastened -upstairs. But Mr. Pen paid very little attention to what Lilias said. - -“An old woman! What old woman? My dear child, you cannot expect us at -such a moment as this--” said the Vicar. He was walking up and down the -library with his ears open to every sound, expecting to be called to the -Squire’s bedside, feeling in his pocket for his prayer-book. For it -seemed to Mr. Pen that the hasty summons could mean only one thing. It -must be death that had come--and it would be a happy release--what else -could any one say? But death, even when it is a happy release, is a -serious visitor to come into a house. He has to be received with due -preparation, like the potentate he is. Not without services of solemn -meaning, attendants kneeling round the solemn bedside, the commendatory -prayer rising from authorised lips--not without these formulas should -the destroying angel be received into a Christian house. He was ready -for his part, and waiting to be called; and to be interrupted at such a -moment by tales of an old woman, by the grumblings of a fretful child -sent to school against his will--even the gentle Mr. Pen rebelled. He -would not hear what Lilias said. “Your grandfather is very ill, my -dear,” he told her solemnly, “very ill. In an hour or so you may have no -grandfather, Lilias; he is going to appear in the presence of God----” - -“Is he afraid of God, Mr. Pen?” asked Lilias with solemn eyes. - -“Afraid!--you--you do not understand. It is a solemn thing--a very -solemn thing,” said the Vicar, “to go into God’s presence! to stand -before Him and answer----” - -“Oh!” cried the little girl, interrupting him, “Nello is far worse, far -worse. Would God do him any harm, Mr. Pen? But cruel people might do a -little boy a great deal of harm. God is what takes care of us. The old -gentleman will be safe, quite safe there; but my Nello! he is so little, -and he never was away from me before. _I_ always took care of him -before. I said you were not to send him away, but you would not pay any -attention. Oh, my Nello, my Nello, Mr. Pen!” - -“Hush, Lilias, you do not know what you are speaking of. What can -Nello’s troubles be? Perhaps the people will not pet him as he has been -petted; that will do him no harm whatever--it will be better for him. My -dear, you are too little to know. Hush, and let me listen. I must be -ready when I am called for. Nothing that can happen to Nello can be of -so much importance as this is now.” - -And the Vicar went to the door to look out and listen. Lilias followed -him with her anxious eyes. She was awed, but she was not afraid for the -old gentleman. Would God hurt him? but anybody that was strong could -hurt Nello. She made one more appeal when the Vicar had returned, -hearing nothing and leaving the door ajar. - -“Mr. Pen! oh, please, please, think of Nello a little! What am I to do? -Papa said, ‘Lily, I trust him to you--you are to take care of him.’ What -shall I say to papa if he comes home and asks me, ‘Where is my little -Nello?’ Papa may come any day. That is his way, he never writes to tell -us, but when he can, he comes. He might come to-day,” cried Lilias. “Mr. -Pen, oh, send somebody for Nello. Will you not listen to me? What should -I say to papa if he came home to-day?” - -“My dear little Lilias,” said Mr. Pen, shaking his head mournfully, -“your papa will not come to-day. Heaven knows if he will ever be able to -come. You must not think it is such an easy matter. There are things -which make it very difficult for him to come home; things of which you -don’t know----” - -“Yes,” said Lilias eagerly, “about the man who was killed; but papa did -not do it, Mr. Pen.” - -Mr. Pen shook his head again. “Who has told the child?” he said. “I hope -not--I hope not, Lilias; but that is what nobody knows.” - -“Yes,” she cried, “Mr. Geoff knows; he told me. He says it was another -man, and that papa went away to save him. Mr. Pen, papa may come any -day.” - -“Who is Mr. Geoff?” said the Vicar; but he did not pay any attention to -what the child was saying. There seemed to be a sound on the stairs of -some one coming down. “Oh, run away, my dear! run away! Run and play, -or do whatever you like. I have not time to attend to you now.” - -Lilias did not say a word more, or even look at him again, but walked -away with a stately tread, not condescending even to turn her head -towards him. In this solemn way she went back to the hall, expecting to -find ’Lizabeth; but when she found that even the old woman was gone, in -whom she put a certain trust as the one person who knew everything, -Lilias had a moment of black despair. What was she to do? She stood and -gazed out into vacancy--her eyes intent, her mind passionately at work. -It was to her after all, and not to Mary, that Nello had been intrusted, -and if nobody would think of him, or attend to him, it was she who must -interfere for her brother. She stood for a minute or two fixed--then -turned hastily, paying no attention to Martuccia, and went to her room. -Lilias, too, had a sovereign, which Mary had given her, and something -more besides. She took her money out of its repository, and put on her -hat and jacket. A great resolution was in her face. She had seen at last -what was the only thing to do. - -“I think, ma’am, there is a change,” the nurse said, as Mary noiselessly -but swiftly, as long nursing teaches women to move, came into the room. -The nurse was an experienced person. When Miss Brown, and even Mary -herself, had seen “a change,” or fancied they had seen it, before, nurse -had never said so. It was the first time she had called any one to the -Squire’s room, or made the slightest movement of alarm. She led the way -now to the bedside. The patient was lying in much the same attitude as -before, but he was moving his hands restlessly, his lips were moving, -and his head on the pillow. “He is saying something, but I cannot make -out what it is,” the nurse said. Mary put her ear close to the -inarticulate mouth. How dreadful was that living prison of -flesh!--living, yet dead--the spirit pent up and denied all its usual -modes of utterance. Mary wrung her hands with a sense of the intolerable -as she tried in vain to distinguish the words, which seemed to be -repeated over and over again, though they could make nothing of them. -“Cannot you help us?--can you make it out? Is there nothing we can do?” -she cried; “no cordial to give him strength?” but the nurse could only -shake her head, and the doctor when he came was equally helpless. He -told Mary it was a sign of returning consciousness--which, indeed, was -evident enough--but could not even say whether this promised for or -against recovery. The nurse, it was clear, did not think it a good sign. -He might even recover his speech _at the end_, she said. And hours -passed while they waited, watching closely lest any faint beginning of -sound should struggle through. The whole night was passed in this way. -Mary never left the bedside. It was not that he could say anything of -great importance to any one but himself. The Squire was helpless as -respected his estate. It was entailed, and went to his eldest son, -whether he liked it or not; and his will was made long ago, and all his -affairs settled. What he had to say could not much affect any one; but -of all pitiful sights, it seemed to his daughter the most pitiful, to -see this old man, always so entirely master of himself, trying to make -some communication which all their anxiety could not decipher. Could he -be himself aware of how it was that no response was made to him?--could -he realise the horror of the position?--something urgent to say, and no -way of getting to the ears of those concerned, notwithstanding their -most anxious attention? “No, no,” the nurse said; “he’s all in a maze; -he maybe don’t even know what he’s saying;” and the constant movement -and evident repetition gave favour to this idea. Mary stood by him, and -looked at him, however, with a pain as great as if he had been -consciously labouring on one side to express himself as she was on the -other to understand him, instead of lying, as was most probable, in a -feverish dream, through which some broken gleam of fancy or memory -struggled. When the chilly dawn broke upon the long night, that -dreariest and coldest moment of a vigil, worn out with the long strain, -she dropped asleep in the chair by her father’s bedside. But when she -woke hurriedly, a short time after, while yet it was scarcely full day, -the nurse was standing by her with a hand upon her shoulder. The woman -had grasped at her to wake her. “Listen, ma’am! he says--‘the little -boy,’” she said; Mary sprang up, shaking off her drowsiness in a moment. -The old man’s face had recovered a little intelligence--a faint flush -seemed to waver about his ashy cheeks. It was some time before, even -now, she could make any meaning out of the babble that came from his -lips. Then by degrees she gleaned, now one word, now another. “Little -boy--little Johnny; bring the little boy.” She could scarcely imagine -even now that there was meaning in the desire. Most likely it was but -some pale reflection, through the dim awakening of the old man’s mind, -of the last idea that was in it. It went on, however, in one long strain -of mumbled repetition--“Little Johnny--little boy.” There seemed nothing -else in his mind to say. The nurse laid her hand once more on Mary’s -arm, as she stood by her, listening. “If you can humour the poor -gentleman, ma’am, you ought to do it,” said the woman. She was a -stranger, and did not know the story of the house. - -What could Mary do? She sent out one of the servants to call Mr. Pen, -who had stayed late on the previous night, always holding his book open -with his finger at the place, but who got up now obedient at her -summons, though his wife had not meant to let him be disturbed for -hours. Then the feeble demand went on so continuously, that Mary in -despair sent Miss Brown for Lilias, vaguely hoping that the presence of -the one child, if not the other, might perhaps be of some use in the dim -state of semi-consciousness in which her father seemed to be. Miss Brown -went with hesitation and a doubtful look, which Mary was too much -occupied to notice, but came back immediately to say that Miss Lilias -had got up early and gone out. “Gone out!” Mary said, surprised; but she -had no leisure to be disturbed about anything, her whole mind being -pre-occupied. She went downstairs to Mr. Pen when he came. He had his -prayer-book all ready. To dismiss the departing soul with all its -credentials, with every solemnity that became such a departure, was what -he thought of. He was altogether taken by surprise by Mary’s hasty -address-- - -“Mr. Pen, you must go at once and bring Nello. I cannot send a servant. -He would not, perhaps, be allowed to come. If you will go, you can fetch -him at once--to-morrow early.” - -“But, Miss Mary----” - -“Don’t say anything against it, Mr. Pen. He is asking for the little -boy, the little boy! Nello must come, and come directly. You would not -cross him in perhaps the last thing he may ever ask for?” cried Mary, -the tears of agitation and weariness coming in a sudden gush from her -eyes. - -“Let me send for your brother,” said the Vicar. “Let me send for -Randolph. He will know best what to do.” - -“Randolph! what has he to do with it?” she cried. “Oh go, Mr. Pen; do -not vex me now.” - -“I will go.” Mr. Pen closed his book with regret and put it into his -pocket. He did not like the idea that the old Squire should depart out -of the world like any common man, uncared for. After his long connection -with the family, that such a thing should happen without him! Mr. -Musgrave had not perhaps been so regardful as was to be desired of all -the services of the Church, and Mr. Pen was all the more anxious, now -that he could have everything his own way, that all should be done in -order. But how could he resist Mary’s will and wish? He put his book in -his pocket with a sigh. - -“I will do what you wish, Miss Mary; but--it is a journey of many -hours--and trains may not suit. Do you think he will--go on--so long?” - -“He is asking for the little boy,” said Mary, hastily. “Come and see -him, and it will go to your heart. How can I tell you any more? We do -not know even whether he is to live or to die.” - -“Ah, you must not cherish false hopes,” said the Vicar, as he followed -her upstairs. The servants were peeping on the staircase and at the -doors; they were half disappointed, like Mr. Pen, that the “change” was -not more decided. They had hoped that all was nearly over at last. - -The darkened room, where the night-light was still burning though full -day broke in muffled through the half-shuttered windows, was of itself -very impressive to Mr. Pen, coming out of the fresh fulness of the -morning light. He followed Mary, going elaborately on tiptoe round the -foot of the great heavily-curtained bed. The Squire’s head had been -propped up a little. He had become even a little more conscious since -Mary had left him. But his voice was so babbling and inarticulate that -Mr. Pen, unused to it, and deeply touched by the condition in which he -saw his old friend and patron, could not make out the words--“Bring the -little boy--the little boy, not Randolph--little Johnny: bring the -little boy.” Thus he went murmuring on, and there had gradually come a -kind of wish into the face, and a kind of consciousness of their -presence. “I wanted to bring Lilias, but Lilias they tell me has gone -out; I cannot tell where she can have gone,” Mary whispered. “And he -never took any notice of Lilias--it is the boy he wants--listen, Mr. -Pen, always the boy.” - -“I cannot make anything of it,” said Mr. Pen, moved to tears. - -“Oh listen! He says, ‘Not Randolph, the boy!’ It is the boy he wants. -Look! I almost think he knows you. Oh, what is it he wants?” cried Mary. - -The light which had been so nearly extinguished was leaping up in the -socket. A sudden convulsion seemed to run over the old man’s frame: he -made an effort to raise himself. His ashen face grew red, perspiration -burst out upon his forehead. Ghost-like and rigid as he was, he moved -himself upward as if to get from his bed. The nurse had put herself -quietly at her post on one side and she called to Mary to go to the -other, while poor Mr. Pen stood by helpless, as if he were assisting at -a visible resurrection. “Don’t get excited, ma’am,” the nurse said -steadily; “one moment! I hear the doctor coming upstairs.” - -The steady tread of some one approaching reassured the women as they -half aided, half controlled, the spasmodic force of apparent recovery. -The foot came nearer and nearer, thank God. The door opened and some one -came in. - -It was not the doctor. It was a tall man with light hair mingled with -grey and a fair complexion turned brown. He came straight into the room -like one familiar with the place. Miss Brown, who stood near the door, -recoiled with a quivering cry, and Mr. Pen, whom he encountered next, -fell back with the same quaver of consternation in his voice. He went to -where Mary stood, who alone had not looked at him, her eyes being intent -on her father’s face. He put her aside tenderly, taking her place. “This -is my work as much as yours,” he said. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII. - -NELLO’S RESCUE. - - -The house was very still in the afternoon languor--all its life -suspended. Between the sick-room, in which all the interest of the -family existence was absorbed, and the servants’ part of the house, in -which life went on cheerfully enough under all circumstances, but -without any intrusion into the still world above-stairs, there was -nothing going on. Little Lilias went up into her own room, and down all -the long staircases and passages, without meeting or seeing any one. -Martuccia was in the old hall, tranquilly knitting and waiting for her -young lady’s return; but the house was empty of all sound or presence, -nobody visible. It was like the enchanted palace through which the young -prince walks, meeting no one, until he reaches the one chamber in which -the secret lies. This idea passed through the mind of Lilias, -pre-occupied as she was. Any one might come in--might pass from room to -room, finding all deserted, until he had penetrated to the dim centre of -the family life where death was hovering. She went down the oak -staircase with her light foot, a little tremulous, but inspired with -resolution. It was the afternoon of Nello’s last day at school. He had -not quite made up his mind, or been driven by childish misery, to the -determination of running away when his sister set out to succour him. -Had he waited, Lilias no doubt would have arrived in time to introduce a -new element into the matter; but what could the little girl’s arrival -have effected? Who would have given any importance to that? They would -have taken Lilias in, and made a little prisoner of her, and sent her -back. As it was, neither knew anything of what the other was doing. -Lilias had opened her most secret place, a little old-fashioned wooden -box, in which she kept some special relics, little trinkets, half toys, -half ornaments, which she had brought with her, and the remains of the -money which her father had given her when he sent the little party away. -There had been something over when they arrived, and Lilias had guarded -it carefully. She took it out now, and put the purse containing it -within the bodice of her dress--the safest place. It might be wanted for -Nello. He had the best right to everything; and if he was in trouble---- -Lilias did not try to think what kind of trouble the little boy could be -in. She took her little store, and went away with her heart beating -high. This time she would herself do it; she would not trust to any one. -Mr. Geoff had undertaken to deliver her father, and stopped her; but he -had not done it. Already a long time had elapsed, and nothing had -happened. She would not trust to Mr. Geoff or any one this time. If old -’Lizabeth had not gone away before Lilias returned to the hall, she had -thoughts of asking the old woman to go with her; and even a weak -inclination to take Martuccia as a companion and support had crossed her -mind. Martuccia would have been useless, but she would have made all the -difference between a feasible expedition and an impossible one; but -perhaps it was for this very reason that Lilias rejected the idea. No; -this time she would be kept back by no advice. She would go to Nello’s -aid by herself. He should owe his deliverance to no one but his sister. -Who could understand him so well--know so well what he must want? And it -was to her that papa had intrusted Nello. She made dismal pictures to -herself of her little brother in trouble. What could “in trouble” mean? -She thought of him as out in the cold, out in the rain, crying, with no -place to go to; lost in a strange country, or perhaps ill with a fever, -and nobody to sit by him, nobody to give him a drink when he wanted it, -and tell him stories. What other kind of trouble was possible? That he -might not be able to learn his lessons without her to help him, and that -he might perhaps be whipped--could such an atrocity be?--just gleamed -across the child’s thoughts; but it made her heart beat so with rage and -indignation, and her cheeks burn with such a flush, that she thrust the -idea aside; but so long as he was unhappy, so long as he wanted her, was -not that enough? She buttoned her little coat with a stout but trembling -heart, and took a shawl over her arm (was not that how travellers always -provided themselves?) and, with her sovereign in her hand for immediate -expenditure, and her purse in her bosom, went down the silent stairs. -How still, how deserted it seemed! Mr. Pen came out from the library -door when he heard the step, to see who it was, but took no notice of -her except a momentary glance of disappointment. Thus she went out of -the house brave and resolute, yet with a tremor of the unknown in her -breast. - -Lilias knew what to do: to walk to Pennington, where the railway station -was, and then to take a ticket, and to get into a railway carriage. The -walk along the highroad was long, but it was not so overwhelming as that -early expedition she had made all alone up into the hills when she had -met Geoff. How glad she had been to meet him, and to hear from him that -she need go no further! Lilias had not ceased to believe in Mr. Geoff, -but nothing had been done, and her heart was sick of the waiting. She -did not want to meet him now; her little heart gave a jump when she saw -any one riding towards her; but it was certain she did not want to meet -Geoff, to have her mission again taken out of her hands. Nothing was -more likely than that she should meet him, and her eyes travelled along -the dusty line of road, somewhat wistfully looking out--in hopes not to -see him--which much resembled the hope of seeing him, though it was -differently expressed. And now and then a cloud of dust would rise--now -and then a horseman would appear far off, skimming lightly over the long -line of road, which it took Lilias so much time to get over. Once a -beautiful carriage dashed past her, with the beautiful lady in it whom -she had once seen, and who had kissed and cried over Nello without -taking much notice of Lilias. Could it be that the beautiful lady had -heard too that he was in trouble? Lilias mended her pace and pushed on. -What fancies she met with as she plodded along the road! It was a long -dusty highway, running for a little while in sight of the lake, then -turning through the village, then striking across the country up and -down, as even a highroad is obliged to do in the north country, where -there is nothing but heights and hollows. It seemed to stretch into -infinity before Lilias, mounting one brae after another, showing in a -long level line here and there; appearing on the other side of that -clump of trees, beyond that far-off farmhouse, looking as if it led -without pause back to the end of the world. Lilias wove one dream after -another as she went along from landmark to landmark. How vivid they -were! So real, that the child seemed to enact every scene in them as -they floated through her mind; far more real than the actual events of -her life. She saw herself arriving at a great spacious place, which was -Nello’s school--undefined, yet lofty and wide and splendid, with marble -pillars, and great colonnades and halls. She saw people coming to gaze -and wonder at the little girl--the little wandering princess--who had -come to seek her brother. “The girl looked at them all, and said, ‘Take -me to Nello.’ The girl turned round upon them, and her lip curled with -scorn.” (Lilias suited the action to the word; and her innocent lip did -curl, with what version of fine disdain it could execute.) “What did she -care for all they could do for her? ‘It is my brother I want,’ she -said.” This was how she carried on her parable. Perhaps her own little -figure was too much in the front of all these visions. Perhaps her own -fine indifference to all blandishments and devotion to Nello was the -chief principle made apparent. This was how it ran on, however, -accompanying and shortening the way. She made long dialogues between -herself and the master, between herself and Nello. How he clung to her; -how glad he was that she had come. “It is Lily; I knew Lily would come,” -she made him say. He would not be surprised; he would know that this was -the most natural thing. If they had locked her up in prison to keep her -away from him, what would it have mattered? Lilias would have found a -way to go to him when Nello was in trouble; and Nello knew that as well -as she. - -She was very tired, however, and it was dark when she arrived at -Pennington. Lilias put on her grand air, but it was rather difficult to -impose upon the station-master and porters. They all wanted to be very -kind, to take care of her, and arrange everything for the little -traveller. The station-master called her “my dear,” and wanted Lilias to -go to his house, where his wife would take care of her till the morning. -“You are too little to travel by the night train,” he said; and the -porters were eloquent on the wickedness of sending a little lady like -this by herself. “I am going to my brother, who is ill,” Lilias said, -with dignity. “And have you no mamma to go to him, my little miss?” said -the porter, friendly, yet respectful. They were all very kind. No one -knew her, and they asked many questions to find out who she was. They -said to each other it was well seen she had no mother, and made Lilias’s -heart swell so, that she forgave them for treating her as a child, -rather than as the little princess she had dreamed of being. Finally, -they arranged for her that she should travel to the great junction where -Nello had met Bampfylde at once--and that the guard should take care of -her, and put her in the night train, which arrived at a very early hour -in the morning at the station she wanted to go to. All this was arranged -for her with the kindest care by these rough men. They installed her in -the little waiting-room till the train should go. They came and fetched -her when it was going, and placed her in her corner. “Poor little lady!” -they said. Lilias was half-humiliated, half-pleased by all these -attentions. She submitted to them, not able to be anything but grateful -to the men who were so kind to her, yet feeling uneasily that it was not -in this homely way that she meant them to be kind. They did not look up -to her, but looked down upon her with compassionate tenderness, as upon -a motherless little girl--a child who recalled children of their own. -Just so the good woman looked upon her who got into the train along with -her. “All that way, and all alone, my poor little thing?” the woman -said. It hurt Lilias’s pride to be called a poor little thing, but yet -it was pleasant to have some one to creep close to. The world did not -seem to be as it is represented in books, for nobody was unkind. Lilias -was very glad to sit close to her new acquaintance, feeling comfort -unspeakable in the breadth of the honest shoulder against which she -leant as she travelled on in the dark. Those breadths of country which -Nello had watched flying past the window were almost invisible now. Now -and then a darker gloom in the air showed where the hills were high over -the railway in a deep cutting. Sometimes there would be gleams of light -visible here and there, which showed a village. Her companion dropped -into a doze, but Lilias, leaning against her, was far too much excited -for sleep. She watched the moon come out and shine over the breadth of -country, reflecting itself in the little streams, and turning the houses -to silver. It was late then, quite late, for the moon was on the wane. -And the train was slow, stopping at every station, creeping (though -when it was in motion it seemed to fly) across the plains and valleys. -It was midnight when they got to the junction, and Lilias, with her -great eyes more wide awake than ever, was handed out. There were only a -few lights burning, and the place looked miserable and deserted, the -cold wind sweeping through it, and the two or three people who got out, -and the two porters who received them, looking like ghosts in the -imperfect light. The guard, who lived there, was very kind to the little -girl before he went off to his house. He wanted to take her with him to -make her comfortable till the morning, but Lilias could not be persuaded -to wait. At last he established her in a corner, the least chilly -possible, wrapping her shawl round her feet. - -There she was left alone, with one lamp to bear her company, the long -lines running into darkness at either side of her, blackness taking -refuge in the high roof of the station, above the watchlight of that one -lamp. How strange it was to sit all alone, with the chill of the air and -gloom of midnight all around her! Nobody was stirring in the deserted -place. The one porter had withdrawn to some warm refuge, to re-appear -when the train came. But little Lilias sat alone in her corner, sole -inhabitant of the big, chilly, desolate place. How her heart jumped to -her mouth! What tremors and terrors at first every sigh of the wind, -every creak of the lamp, gave her. But at last she perceived that -nothing was going to happen, and sat still, and did not trouble except -when imagination suggested to her a stealthy step, or some one behind in -the darkness. How dreary it was! The night wind sang a dismal cadence in -the telegraph wires, the air coursed over the deserted platforms, the -dark lines of way, and blew the flames of gas about even within the -inclosure of the lamp. Just then Nello was creeping, stumbling, out of -the window, making his way through the prickling hedge, standing alone -eyeing the moon in the potato-field. Lilias could not even see the moon -in her corner. Nothing was before her but the waning gleam of that -solitary lamp. - -At last the train came lumbering up through the darkness, and the -porters re-appeared from corners where they had been attendant. One of -them came, for Lily, kind as everybody had been, and put her into a -carriage by herself, and showed her how she could lie down and make -herself comfortable. “You’ll be there at five o’clock,” the porter said. -“Lie down, little miss, and get a sleep.” Never in her life had Lilias -been more wide awake, and there was no kind woman here with broad -shoulders to lean upon and feel safe. The train swept through the night -while she sat upright and gazed out with big, round, unslumbering eyes. - -Lilias watched and waked through the night, counting out the hours of -darkness, saying her prayers over and over, feeling herself lost in the -long whirl of distance and gloom and confusing sound; but as the night -began to tremble towards the dawning, she began to doze unawares, her -eyes closing in spite of herself, and much against her will; and it was -with a shiver that she woke up very wide awake, but feeling wretched, in -consequence of her doze, at the little roadside station, one small house -placed on the edge of a wide expanse of fields, chiefly pasture land, -and with no character at all. A great belt of wood stretched to the -right hand, to the left there was nothing but fields, and a long endless -road dividing them, visible for miles with a little turn in it here and -there, but nothing beside to break its monotony. Lilias clambered out of -the carriage when she felt the jar and clang of the stoppage, and heard -the name of the station drowsily called out. The man in charge of it -gazed at her as though she had dropped from the clouds; he did not even -see her till the train was in motion again, creaking and swinging away -into the distance. To see her standing there with her great eyes gave -him a thrill of strange sensation, almost of terror. Fatigue and -excitement had made her face paler than usual, and had drawn great -circles round her eyes. She looked like a ghost standing there in the -faint grey of the dawn, cold and trembling, yet courageous as ever. “Mr. -Swan’s? Oh yes, I can tell you the way to Mr. Swan’s; but you should -have spoken sooner. They’ve been and carried off your luggage.” Lilias -had not strength of mind to confess that she had no luggage, and indeed -was too much confused and upset by her snatch of sleep to be sure what -he was saying, and stumbled forth on the road, when he showed her how to -go, half-dazed, and scarcely more than half-conscious. But the pinch of -the keen morning air, and the sensation of strange stillness and -loneliness, soon restored her to the use of her faculties. The -benevolent railway man was loth to let her go. “It’s very early, and -you’re very small,” he said. “You’re welcome to wait here, my little -lady, till they send for you. Perhaps they did not expect you so early?” -“Oh, it does not matter,” said Lilias. “Thank you; I am quite able to -walk.” The man stood and watched her as she made her way in the faint -light along the road. He dared not leave his post, or he would have gone -with her out of sheer compassion. So young, and with such a pale little -beautiful face, and all alone at such an hour of the morning, while it -was still night! “It will be one of them boyses sisters,” he said to -himself with singular discrimination. And then he recollected the pale -little boy who had gone to Mr. Swan’s so short a time before. This gave -clue to the mysterious little passenger, which set his mind at rest. - -And Lilias went on along the darkling road. It was not possible to -mistake the road--a long white streak upon the landscape, which was -visible even in the dark; and it was not altogether dark now, but a -ghostly, damp, autumnal glimmer of morning, before the sun-rising. The -hedges had mists of gossamer over them, which would shine like rainbow -webs when the sun rose. The fields glimmered colourless still, but -growing every moment more perceptible in the chill dreariness of the -season--not cold enough for frost, yet very cold. Everything was grey, -the few shivering half-grown trees in the hedgerows, the sky all banked -with clouds, the face of the half-seen landscape. There was one cottage -by the roadside, and that was grey too, all shut up and asleep, the door -closed, the windows all black. Little Lilias, the one moving atom in -that great still landscape, felt afraid of it, and of herself, and the -sound of her own steps, which seemed loud enough to wake a whole world -of people. It seemed to Lilias that the kindly earth was dead, and she -alone a little ghost, walking about its grave. None of her dreams, none -of the poetry, nor anything out of her fairy lore could help her here. -The reality was more than any dream. How still!--how very still it -was!--how dark! and yet with that weird lightening which grew about her, -making everything more visible moment by moment, as if by some strange -magical clearing of her own tired eyes! She was so tired, so worn out; -faint for want of food, though she was not hungry--and for want of -rest, though she did not wish to go to sleep. Such an atom in all that -great grey insensible universe, and yet the only thing alive! - -No--not the only thing. Lilias’ heart contracted with a thrill, first of -relief, then of fear, when she saw something else moving besides -herself. It was in one of the great fields that stretched colourless and -vast towards the horizon. Lilias could not tell what it was. It might be -a spirit; it might be an enchanted creature bound by some spell to stay -there among the ploughed furrows; it might be some mysterious wild -beast, the legendary monster, of whose existence children are always -ready to be convinced. She concealed herself behind a bush, and looked -anxiously down the long brown furrow. It was something very little--not -so big as a man--smaller even than herself; something that toiled along -with difficulty, stumbling sometimes, and falling in the soft earth. By -and by a faint breath of sound began to steal towards her--very faint, -yet carried far on the absolute stillness of the morning. Some one who -was in trouble--some one who was _crying_. Lilias’ bosom began to swell. -She was very tired and confused herself; very lonely and frightened of -the dead world, and of her own forlorn livingness in it. But the sound -of the feeble crying brought her back to herself. Did she divine already -who it was? She scrambled through a gap in the hedge, jumped across the -ditch, and plunged too into the yielding, heavy soil of the ploughed -furrow. She was not surprised. There did not seem to be anything -wonderful in meeting her brother so. Had she not been sent to him -because he was in trouble? It was natural that he should be here in the -cold, dim morning, in the wild field, toiling along towards her, faintly -crying in the last confusion and misery of childish weariness, his way -lost, and his courage lost, and all his little bewildered faculties. She -called out “Nello!”--cautiously, lest any one should hear--“Nello!” and -then there was an outcry of amazement and joy--“Oh, Lily!” It was a -half-shriek of incredulous happiness with which poor Nello, toiling -through the field, weary, lost, forlorn, and afraid, heard the familiar -sound of her voice. He was not so much surprised either. He did not -think it was impossible, though nothing could have been more impossible -to an elder mind. Children hold no such reckonings as we do with -probability. He had been saying, “Oh, Lily! my Lily!” to himself--crying -for her--and here she was! He had no doubt of it, made no question how -she got there, but threw himself upon her with a great cry that thrilled -the dim morning through and through, and made the sleep-bound world -alive. - -And they sat down together in the furrow, and clung to each other, and -cried--for misery, but for happiness too. All seemed safe now they had -found each other. The two forlorn creatures, after their sleepless, -wintry night, felt a sudden beatitude creep over their little weary -bodies and aching hearts. Two--how different that is from one! They held -each other fast, and kissed, and were happy in the dark furrow, which -seemed big enough and dark enough to furnish them both with a grave. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII. - -THE BABES IN THE WOOD. - - -“Are you very hungry, Nello?’ - -“Oh, very, _very_. Are you? I have not had any breakfast. It was night, -dark night when I came away. Have you had any breakfast, Lily?” - -“How could I, when I have been in the railway all the night? Do you -think you can get over the ditch? Jump! I jumped, and you always could -jump better than I.” - -“You forget everything when you go to school,” said Nello, mournfully, -“and I am all trembling, I cannot help it. It is so cold. Oh Lily, if -they come up--if they find us--you will not let them take me back?” - -“Never, Nello! but let us get on, let us get on to the railway. Quick, -it is not far off. If you would only jump. Now give me your hand. I am -cold too, but we must get over it, we _must_ get over it!” said Lilias, -almost crying. Poor Nello’s limbs were cramped, he was chilled to the -heart. He did not feel it possible to get on, all the courage was gone -out of him. He had kept up until, after scrambling through many rough -places, his poor little feet had sunk in that soft, newly-ploughed -furrow. This had taken all the life out of him, and perhaps his meeting -with Lilias, and the tumult of joyful emotion it caused, had not -increased Nello’s power of endurance. He had always had the habit of -trusting to her. But Lily it was quite certain could not drag him over -the ditch. He made an effort at last to jump and failed, and stuck in -the mud. That accident seemed at the moment to make an end of them both -in their utter weariness. They mingled their tears, Lilias hanging on -upon the bank above, Nello in the heavy soil below. The cry relieved -them however, and by and by, by the help of his sister’s hand, he -managed to scramble up the bank, and get through the scattered bushes on -to the highroad. One of his feet was wet and clogged with the mud, and -oh, how tired they both were, fit for nothing but to lie down and cry -themselves to sleep. - -“Oh, Nello, if you were at home, should you ever--ever want to go away -again?” - -Nello did not make any reply. He was too tired for anything but a dull -little sob now and then, involuntary, the mere breathing of his -weakness. And the highway looked so long, longer even than the fields. -There was always some hope at the end of a field that deliverance might -come round the corner, but a long unchangeable highway, how endless it -was! They went on thus together for a little way in silence; then: “Oh, -Lily, I am so hungry,” said Nello. What could she do? She was hungry -too, more hungry than he was, for she had eaten nothing since the -afternoon of the previous day. - -“I have a shilling in my pocket, but we cannot eat a shilling,” said -poor Lilias. - -“And I have a shilling too--more than that--I have the golden sovereign -Mary gave me.” - -“We must just hurry--hurry to the railway, Nello, for we cannot eat -money, and the railway will soon take us home; or there is a place, a -big station, where we could buy a cake. Oh!’ cried Lilias, with a gleam -of eager satisfaction in her eyes. - -“What is it, Lily?” - -“Look, only look?” She dragged him forward by the arm in her eagerness. -“Oh, a few steps further, Nello--only a few steps further--look!” - -The roadside cottage which had been so blank as she passed had awoke--a -woman stood by the door--but the thing that caught Lilias’ eye was a few -stale cakes and opaque glasses with strange confectionery in them. It -was these that gave strength to her wearied feet. She hurried forward, -while the woman looked at the strange little pair in wonder. “Oh, will -you give us a little breakfast,” she said, “a little milk to drink, and -some bread and butter for this little boy?” - -“Where have you come from, you two children, at this hour in the -morning?” cried the woman in consternation. - -“Oh, we are going to the train,” said Lilias. “We are obliged to go; we -must get the early train, and we don’t know, we don’t quite know when it -goes; and my poor little brother has fallen into the mud--see! and--he -got his breakfast so very early before he came away that he is hungry -again. We have plenty of money,” cried the little girl, “plenty of -money! We will give you a shilling if you will give us some milk and -bread.” - -“A shilling--two, three shillings,” said Nello, interposing. He was so -hungry; and what was the good of shillings?--you could not eat them. The -woman looked at them suspiciously. They were not little tramps; they -were nicely dressed children, though the little boy was so muddy. She -did not see what harm it could do to take them in; likewise her heart -was touched by the poor little things standing there looking up at her -as though she was the arbiter of their fate. - -“You may come in and sit by the fire; there’s no train for two hours -yet. It’s not six o’clock. Come in, you poor little things, and rest, -and I’ll give you some nice hot tea. But you must tell me all the truth, -for I know you’ve run away from somewhere,” she said. - -“No,” said Lilias, looking her in the face. “Oh no, I have not run away -from anywhere. My little brother was not happy, and I came to fetch him, -that is all. I did not run away.” - -“And what sort of people was it that sent a baby like you?” said the -woman. “Come in, you poor little things, and sit by the fire. What could -your mother be thinking of to send you----” - -“We have not got any mother.” Nello took no share in this conversation. -He was quite lost in the delight of the hard old settle that stood by -the fire. Nestling up into the corner he thought he should like to fall -asleep there, and never move any more. “We have not got any mother,” -Lilias said, “and who could come but me? No one. I travelled all night, -and now I am going to take him home. We are children without any -mother.” Lilias could not but know that these words were a sure passport -to any woman’s heart. - -“You poor little things!” the woman said, with the tears in her eyes. -Whether it has its origin in the self-complacency of womankind, it is -difficult to say, but whereas men are generally untouched by the -unhappiness of being fatherless, women are without defence in most cases -before a motherless child. Such a plea has instant recognition with high -and low. No mother!--everything is pardoned, everything conceded to a -creature with such a plea. She was not quite satisfied with the story, -which seemed to her very improbable, but she could not refuse her -succour to the motherless children. Her little shop, such as it was, had -no visitors till much later in the day, when the village children went -past her door to school. She had made her own tea, which stood keeping -itself hot upon the hob, and she came in hastily and put out cups and -saucers, and shared the hot and comfortable fluid, though it was very -weak and would not have suited more fastidious palates than the -children’s. What life it seemed to pour into their wearied little -frames! The bread was coarse and stale, but it tasted like bread from -heaven. Nello in his corner of the settle began to blink and nod. He was -even falling asleep, when suddenly a gig rattled past the windows. The -child sprang up in a moment. “Oh, Lily, Lily!” he cried in horror, “they -are after me! what shall I do?” - -The woman had gone to the back of the house with the cups they had used, -and so was not near to hear this revelation. - -“Who is it?” cried Lilias, peering out of the window. She was restored -to herself, and the name of an enemy, a pursuer, put her on her mettle. -She had never encountered such a thing before, but she knew everything -about it, how to behave. “Come, Nello, come,” she said, “we will go out -the back way while nobody is looking. Let us go away, let us go away -before any one can come here.” - -Lilias seized some of the cakes which the woman had put in paper for -them; wonderful productions, which nothing but a child’s appetite could -contemplate, and put down two shillings in the centre of the table. On -second thoughts it seemed better to her to go out at the front and get -round under cover of the hedge to the wood on the other side of the -station, which appeared temptingly near, rather than incur the risk of -speaking to the woman. It did not occur to her that her own presence was -enough to put any one completely off the scent who was seeking Nello. -She got him away out of the house successfully, and through the gap -behind the hedge where was a little footpath. “Now we must run--run! We -must get past, while they are asking at the station. We must not say a -word to the woman or any one. Oh, Nello, run--run!” Nello, still more -anxious than she was, managed to run for a little way, but only for a -little way. He broke down of all places in the world opposite to the -station, where Mr. Swan was standing talking to the keeper. When Nello -saw him through the hedge he turned round and clasped his sister -convulsively, hiding his face on her shoulder. Lilias did not dare to -say a word. They were hid from view, yet any movement might betray them, -or any sound. She stood with trembling limbs, bearing Nello’s weight -upon her shoulder, and watched through the hawthorn bush. - -“Nobody has been here, not a mouse, far less a little boy. The train is -not due for two hours,” said the station-keeper. - -“A bit of a little fellow,” said Mr. Swan. “I can’t think he could have -got so far; more likely he’s lying behind a hedge somewhere; but I -thought it best to try first here.” - -“He’s not here,” the station-keeper said again. He answered curtly, his -sympathies being all with the fugitive, and he could not but give the -troubled schoolmaster a corner of his mind. “It’s only a month since you -lost the last one,” he said. “If it was my house the boys ran away from -I should not like it.” - -“Talk of things you know something of,” said Mr. Swan hotly; and then he -added, shaking his head; “It is not my fault. My wife and I do -everything we can, but it’s those rough boys and their practical jokes.” - -“Little fellows, they don’t seem to understand them kind of jokes,” said -the railway man. - -Mr. Swan shook his head. It was not his fault. He was sorry, and vexed, -and ashamed. “I would rather have lost the money twice over,” he said. -Then he turned and gave a searching glance all around. Lilias quaked, -and her heart sank within her. She held her little brother close to her -breast. If he should stir, if he should cry, all would be over. She knew -her situation well enough. Either their enemy would go away and get -bloodhounds and fierce wicked men to put on their track, during which -time the fugitives would have time to get into some wonderful cave, or -to be taken into some old, old house by some benevolent stranger, and so -escape; or else he would come straight to the very place where they -were, guided by some influence unfavourable to them. Lilias stood and -held her breath. “Oh, be still, Nello, be still, he is looking!” she -whispered into Nello’s ear. Her limbs were nearly giving way, but she -resisted fate and held out. - -The schoolmaster made long inspection of all the landscape. “He was -specially commended to me, too--I was warned--I was warned,” he said. -Then he turned to the station-keeper, giving him the most urgent -injunctions. “If he comes here you will secure him at once,” he said, -filling Lilias with dismay, who did not see the shrug of the man’s -shoulders, and the look with which he turned aside. Thus their retreat -was cut off, the little girl thought, with anguish indescribable; how -then were they to get home? This thought was so dreadful that Lilias was -not relieved as she otherwise would have been by the sound of the wheels -and the horse’s hoofs as the gig turned, and their enemy drove away. He -had gone in his own person, but had he not left a horrible retainer to -guard the passage? And how, oh how was she to take Nello home? She did -not know where the next station was. She did not know the way in this -strange, desolate, unknown country. “Nello,” she cried, in a whisper of -despair, “we must get into that wood, it is the only thing we can do; -they will not look for us there. I don’t know why, but I feel sure they -will not look for us there. And perhaps we shall meet some one who will -take care of us. Oh, Nello, rouse up, come quick, come quick. Perhaps -there may be a hermit living there, perhaps----. Come, Nello, can you -not go a little further? Oh, try, try.” - -“Oh, Lily, I am so tired--I am so sleepy” - -“I am tired too,” she said, a little rush of tears coming to her eyes; -and then they stumbled on together, holding each other up. The wood -looked gay and bright in the early morning. The sun had come out, which -warmed everything, and the bright autumn colour on the trees cheered the -children as a similar hour, and the beauty of the wild creatures of the -woods, cheered the poet:-- - - “Si che a bene sperar m’era cagione - Di quella fera alla gaietta pelle - L’ora del tempo, e la dolce stagione.” - -The trees seemed to sweep with a great luxuriance of shadow over a broad -stretch of country. It must be possible to find some refuge there. There -might be--a hermit, perhaps, in a little cell, who would give them nuts -and some milk from his goat--or a charcoal burner, wild but kind, like -those Lilias remembered to have seen in the forest with wild locks -hanging over their eyes. If only no magician should be there to beguile -them into his den, pretending to be kind! Thus Lilias mixed fact and -fiction, her own broken remembrances of Italian woods sounding as -fictitious among the English elms and beeches as the wildest visions of -fancy. For this wood, though it had poetic corners in it, was traversed -by the highroad, from end to end, and was as innocent of -charcoal-burners as of magicians. And it turned out a great deal further -off than they thought. They walked and walked, and still it lay before -them, smiling in its yellow and red, waving and beckoning in the -breeze, which was less chilly now that the sun was up. The sun reached -to the footpath behind the hedge, and warmed the little wayfarers -through and through--that was the best thing that had happened to -them--for how good it is to be warmed when one is chilled and weary; and -what a rising of hope and courage there is when the misty dawn disperses -before the rising of the brave sun! - -Nello almost recovered his spirits when he got within the wood. There -were side-aisles even to the highroad, and deep corners in its depths -where shelter could be had, and the ground was all flaked with shadow -and sunshine; and there were green glades, half visible at every side, -with warm grass all lit by the sun. - -“Let us go and sit down, Lily. Oh, what a pretty place to sit down! Oh, -Lily, I cannot--I cannot walk any more; I am so tired,” cried Nello. - -“I am tired too,” she said, with a quiver in her mouth, looking vainly -round for some trace of the charcoal-burner or of the hermit. All was -silent, sunny, fresh with the morning, but vacant as the fields. And -Lilias could not be satisfied with mere rest, though she wanted it so -much. “How are we to get home, if we dare not go to the railway? and -there is no other way,” she said. “Oh, Nello, it will be very nice to -rest--but how are we to get home?” - -“Oh, never mind; I am so tired,” said weary little Nello. “Look, Lily, -what a warm place. It is quite dry, and a tree to lean against. Let us -stay here.” - -Never had a more tempting spot been seen; green soft turf at one side of -the big tree, and beech-mast, soft and dry and brown, the droppings of -the trees, on the other. The foot sank in it, it was so soft, and the -early sun had dried it, and the thick boughs overhead had kept off the -dew. It was as soft as a bed of velvet, and the little branches waved -softly over it, while the greater boughs, more still, shaded and -protected the children. They sat down, utterly worn out, and Lilias took -out her cakes, which they ate together with delight, though these -dainties were far from delicious; and there, propped up against each -other, an arm of each round the other, Nello lying across Lilias’ lap, -with his head pillowed upon her; she, half-seated, half-reclining, -holding him, and held in her turn by a hollow of the tree: these babes -in the wood first nodded, then dozed, and woke and dozed again, and -finally, the yellow leaves dropping now and then upon them like a caress -of nature, the sun cherishing their little limbs, fell fast asleep in -the guardianship of God. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIV. - -THE NEW-COMER. - - -Nobody in the sick-room said a word of the great consternation and -wonder and fear that sprang to life in them at the appearance of the -stranger. How could they, though their hearts were full of it? when all -their care and skill were wanted for the patient, who, half-conscious, -struggled with them to raise himself, to get out of bed. To find out -what he wanted, to satisfy the hazy anxiety in his mind, and do for him -the something, whatever it was, that he was so anxious to do, was the -first necessity of the moment, notwithstanding the new excitement which -was wild in their veins. Where did he come from? How had he got -here?--familiar, unmistakable, as if he had been absent but a day. How -did he know he was wanted? And was it he--really _he_--after all those -dreary years? These questions surged through the minds of all the -bystanders, in an impetuous, yet secondary current. The first thing, and -the most urgent, was the Squire. Brother and sister, friend and friend, -had not leisure to take each other by the hand, or say a word of -greeting. - -Mary and her newly-arrived assistant stood side by side, touching each -other, but could not speak or make even a sign of mutual recognition. -_He_ took her place in supporting, and at the same time, restraining the -patient. _She_ held her father’s hand, with which he seemed to be -appealing to some one, or using, in dumb show, to aid some argument. - -“The little boy,” he said, hoarsely, “bring me the little boy.” - -“Is it Nello he means?” the stranger asked, in a low voice. - -“I--think so--I--suppose so,” said Mary, trembling, and wholly overcome -by this strange ease and familiarity, and even by the sound of the voice -so long silent in this place. But he took no notice--only followed his -question by another. - -“Why not bring the child then? That might satisfy him. Does he care for -the child, or is it only a fancy, a wandering in his head? Anyhow, let -them bring him. It might be of some use.” - -“Do you think he--knows? Do you think he understands--and--means what he -is saying?” - -Mary faltered forth these words, scarcely knowing what she said, feeling -that she could not explain how it was that Nello was not near--and -finding it so strange, so strange to be talking thus to--John; could it -be really John? After all that had sundered them, after the miseries -that had passed over him, the price still set upon his head, was it he -who stood so quietly, assuming his household place, taking his part in -the nursing of the old man? She could not believe her senses, and how -could she talk to him, calmly as the circumstances required, gently and -steadily, as if he had never been away? - -“Most likely not,” he said; “but something has excited his fancy, and -the sight of my boy might calm it. Let some one bring Nello.” - -He spoke with the air of one used to be obeyed, and whom also in this -particular it would be easy to obey. - -“We sent him to school. I am very sorry--I was against it,” said Mary, -trembling more and more. - -Mr. Pen was frightened too. It is one thing doing “for the best” with a -little unprotected parentless child, and quite a different thing to -answer the child’s father when he comes and asks for it. Mr. Pen paled -and reddened ten times in a minute. He added, faltering-- - -“It was by my advice--John. I thought it was the best thing for him. You -see I did not know----” - -Here he broke off abruptly, in the confusion of his mind. - -“Then it is needless saying any more,” said the stranger, hastily, with -a tone in which a little sharpness of personal disappointment and -vexation seemed to mingle. - -This conversation had been in an undertone, as attendants in a sick-room -communicate with each other, without intermitting their special services -to the patient. The Squire had been still in their hands for the moment, -ceasing to struggle, apparently caught in some dim confused way by the -sound of their voices. He looked about him confusedly, like a blind man, -turning his head slightly, as if his powers were being restored to him, -to the side on which John stood. A gleam of half-meaning, of interest, -and wavering, half-roused attention, seemed to come over his face. Then -he sank back gently on his pillows, struggling no longer. The paroxysm -was over. The nurse withdrew her hand with a sigh of relief. - -“Now,” she said, “if we leave him perfectly quiet, he may get some -sleep. I will call you in a moment if there is any change.” - -The woman saw, with her experienced eyes, that something more than could -be read on the surface was in this family combination. She put them -gently from the bedside, and shaded the patient’s eyes from the light, -for it was nearly noon by this time, and everything was brilliant -outside. The corridor, however, into which they passed outside was still -dark, as it was always, the glimmering pale reflections in the wainscot -of the long narrow window on the staircase being its sole communication -with the day. - -Mary put out her hands to her brother as they emerged from the -sick-room. - -“Is it you--you, John?” - -“Yes,” he said, grasping them, “it is I. I do not wonder you are -startled--I heard my father was worse--that there was a change--and came -in without warning. So Nello has been sent away? May I see my little -girl? You have been good to her, I am sure, Mary.” - -“I love her,” said Mary, hastily, “as if she were my own. John, do not -take my little companion away.” - -He had been grave enough, and but little moved hitherto by the meeting, -which was not so strange or unlooked-for to him as to them. Now his -countenance beamed suddenly, lighting all over, and a tender moisture -came to his eyes. - -“It is what I have desired most for her,” he said, and took his sister’s -hands again and kissed her cheek. “But send for my little Lily,” he -added, with an indescribable softening in his voice. - -Here Miss Brown, who had been following, came out from the dusk of the -room behind. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. I did not like to tell you in -your trouble; but I’m very uneasy about Miss Lily.” - -“Has she never come in yet? You said she had gone out for a walk.” - -“I said whatever I could think of to save you, Miss Mary. We none of us -know where she’s gone. I’ve sent everywhere. She is not at the Vicarage, -nor she’s not at the village; and--oh, what will Mr. John think of us?” -cried the woman in tears. “Not one in the house has seen her since -yesterday, and Martuccia, she’s breaking her heart. She says Miss Lily -has gone after her brother; she says----” - -“Is Martuccia here?” - -“Yes, sir,” said Miss Brown, with a curtsey. She could not take her eyes -off him, as she afterwards said. More serious, far more serious than -when he was a young gentleman always about the house, but the same -man--still the same man. - -“Then send her to me at once. It is you, Martha, the same as ever,” he -said, with a momentary smile in the midst of his anxiety. Just as Mr. -John used to do--always a kind word for everybody and a smile. She made -him another curtsey, crying and smiling together. - -“And glad, glad, sir, to see you come home,” she said. There was this -excuse for Miss Brown’s lingering, that Mary had rushed off at once to -find Martuccia. John bowed his head gravely. He had grown very serious. -The habit of smiling was no longer his grand characteristic. He went -downstairs into the library, the nearest sitting-room in his way, the -door of which was standing open. Eastwood was there lingering about, -pretending to put things in order, but in reality waiting for news of -the old Squire. Eastwood knew that he had not let this man in. He had -not got admission in any legitimate way. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he -began, not altogether respectfully, with the intention of demanding what -he did there. - -“What?” said the stranger, looking up with a little impatience. - -Eastwood drew back with another “Beg your pardon, sir!” and his tone was -changed. He did not know who it was, but he dared not say anything more. -This was the strangest house in the world surely, full of suspicions, -full of new people who did not come in at the front door. - -When Martuccia came, her story, which, had been almost inarticulate in -her broken English, flowed forth volubly enough to her master, whom she -recognized with a shriek of delight. She gave him a clear enough account -of what had happened. How an old woman had come, a peasant of the -country, and told Miss Lily that her little brother was in _trouble_. -This word she transferred to her narrative without attempting to -translate it, so that Mary, standing by, who did not understand the -rest, seemed to hear nothing but this word recurring again and again. -“Trouble!” it was an ominous word. Nothing but trouble seemed to -surround them. She stood and listened anxiously, though she did not -understand. - -“It is clear, then,” said her brother, turning to her, “that Lily has -gone after her little brother, supposed to be in some mysterious -trouble. When did he go, and where did he go, and who persuaded you to -send him away?” - -“It was Randolph--Randolph has been here. I believe he wanted to be -kind. He said Nello was being ruined here, and so did Mr. Pen. It was -against my will--against my wish.” - -“Randolph!” he said. This alarmed him more than all the rest. “Both my -children! I thought I should find them safe--happy in your hands, -whatever happened to me----” - -“Oh John, what can I say?” cried Mary, wringing her hands. No one could -be more guiltless of any unkind intention, but, as was natural, it was -she who bore the blame. A man may be pardoned if he is a little unjust -in such circumstances. John was ready to rush out of the house again -directly to go after his children, but what could be done unless the -railway helped him? Mary got the time-tables and consulted them -anxiously; and Mr. Pen came in and stood by; very serious and a little -crestfallen, as one of the authors of the blunder. And it was found, as -so often happens, that nothing was to be done at the moment. The early -train was going off as they talked, the next did not go till the -evening, the same by which Lilias had travelled on the night before. And -in the mean time, what might be happening to the little girl, who was -wandering about the world in search of her brother? While the brother -and sister consulted, Mr. Pen looked sorrowfully over their heads, which -were bent over these time-tables. He did not himself pretend to -understand these lines of mysterious figures. He looked from one face to -another to read what they meant. He was too much abashed by his own -share in the misfortune to put forward his advice. But when he saw that -they were both at their wits’ end, Mr. Pen suggested that the place -where Nello was was nearer to Randolph than to themselves, and that he -might get there that night if he was informed at once, and give them -news, at least let them know whether Lilias had reached the house where -her brother was. “And I will go by the first train,” Mr. Pen said -timidly. “Let me go, as I have had a hand in it. John knows I could not -mean any harm to his boy----.” - -Nobody had meant any harm, but the fact that the two children were both -gone, and one, a girl like Lilias, wandering by herself no one knew -where, was as bad as if they had meant it a hundred times over. Who -could it be who had beguiled her with this story of Nello’s trouble? If -John, who had suffered so much, and who had come from the country where -feuds and vengeance still flourish, suspected an enemy in it, suspected -even his brother who had never been his friend, who could wonder? They -telegraphed to Randolph, and to Mr. Swan, and to the stations on the -way, John himself hurrying to Pennington to do so. And then when all -this was done, which made an exciting bustle for a moment, there was -nothing further possible but to wait till evening for the train. Such -pauses are due to the very speed and superior possibilities of modern -life. A post-chaise was slower than the railway, but it could be had at -once, and those long and dreary hours of delay, of time which one feels -to be lost, and in which, while we wait, anything fatal may happen, are -the reverse side of the medal, the attendant disadvantage upon headlong -speed and annihilation of distance. What a miserable house it was during -all that eternal day! Anxieties of every kind filled their minds--those -which concerned life and the living coming uppermost and shutting out -the solemn interest of the chamber over which death had been hovering. -The Squire slept, but only his nurse, unmoved in professional calm, -watched over him; and when he woke, still wrapped in a mist and haze of -half-consciousness which subdued all his being, yet with an aspect less -deathlike, Mary came and went to and from his room, in an enforced -stillness almost beyond bearing, not daring to stay long in one place -lest she should betray herself. She dared not allow herself to think of -little Lilias, perhaps in evil hands, perhaps wandering alone. Her -little Lily! Mary felt it would be impossible to sit still, impossible -to endure at all if she did not thrust away this thought. A little -woman-child, at that tender age, too young for self-protection, too old -for absolute impunity from harm. Mary clasped her hands tightly together -and forced her thoughts into another channel. There was no lack indeed -of other channels for her anxieties; her father thus lying between life -and death, and her brother with all the penalties of old on his head, -going and coming without concealment, without even an attempt to -disguise himself. It would have been better even for John, Mary felt -instinctively, if the Squire had been visibly dying instead of rallying. -What if he should wake again to full consciousness, and order the doors -of his house to be closed against his son as he had done before? What -if, seeing this, and seeing him there without attempt at concealment, -rejected by his own family, the old prosecution should be revived and -John taken? After that--But Mary shuddered and dropped this thread of -thought also. The other, even the other was less terrible. Thus passed -this miserable day. - -Randolph had been alarmed even before the family were, though in a -different fashion. Almost as soon as he had seated himself at his -respectable clergymanly breakfast-table, after prayers and all due -offices of the morning, a telegram was put into his hand. This made his -pulse beat quicker, and he called to his wife to listen, while a whole -phantasmagoria of possibilities seemed to rise like a haze about the -yellow envelope, ugliest of inclosures. What could it be but his -father’s death that was thus intimated to him--an event which must have -such important issues? When he had read it, however, he threw it on the -table with an impatient “Pshaw! The little boy, always the little boy,” -he cried; “I think that little boy will be the death of me.” Mrs. -Randolph, who had heard of this child as the most troublesome of -children, gave all her sympathy to her husband, and he contented himself -with another message back again, saying that he had no doubt Mr. Swan -would soon find the little fugitive, who had not come to him as the -schoolmaster supposed. The day, however, which had begun thus in -excitement, soon had other incidents to make it memorable. Early in the -afternoon other telegrams came. The one he first opened was from Mr. -Pen; this at least must be what he hoped for. But instead of telling of -the Squire’s death, Mr. Pen telegraphed to him an entreaty which he -could not understand. “Lilias is missing too--for God’s sake go at once -to the school and ascertain if she is there.” What did he mean--what did -the old fool mean? - -“Here is another, Randolph,” said his wife, composing her face into -solemnity. “I fear--I fear this at least must be bad news from the -Castle.” - -In the heat of his disappointment and impatience Randolph was as nearly -as possible exclaiming in over-sincerity, “Fear!--I hope it is, with all -my heart.” But when he opened it he stood aghast; his brother’s name -stared him in the face--“John Musgrave.” How came it there--that -outlawed name? It filled him with such a hurry and ferment of agitation -that he cared nothing what the message was; he let it drop and looked up -aghast in his wife’s face. - -“Is it so?” she said, assuming the very tone, the right voice with which -a clergyman’s wife ought to speak of a death. “Alas, my poor dear -husband, is it so? is he gone indeed?” - -But Randolph forgot that he was a clergyman and all proprieties. He -threw down the hideous bit of paper and jumped to his feet and paced -about the room in his excitement. “He has come, confound him!” he cried. - -Not gone! that would have been nothing but good news--but this was bad -indeed, something unthought of, never calculated upon; worse than any -misgiving he had ever entertained. He had been uneasy about the child, -the boy whom everybody would assume to be the heir; but John--that John -should return--that he should be there before his father died--this -combination was beyond all his fears. - -After he had got over the first shock he took up the telegram to see -what it was that “John Musgrave, Penninghame Castle,”--the name written -out in full letters, almost with ostentation, no concealing or -disguising of it, though it was a name lying under the utmost penalties -of the law--had to say to him. - -“_My little daughter has been decoyed away under pretence that her -brother was in danger. You can reach the place to-day. I cannot. Will -you serve me for once, and go and telegraph if she is safe?_” This was -the communication. Randolph’s breast swelled high with what he felt to -be natural indignation. “I serve him! I go a hundred miles or so for his -convenience. I will see him--hanged first!” Hanged--yes, that was what -would happen to the fellow if he were caught, if everybody were not so -weakly indulgent, so ready to defeat the law. And this was the man who -ventured to bid his brother “serve him for once,” treating him, -Randolph, a clergyman, a person irreproachable, in this cavalier -fashion. What had he to do with it if the little girl had been decoyed -away? No doubt the little monkey, if all were known, was ready enough to -go. He hoped in his heart they were both gone together, and would never -be heard of more. - -When he came as far as this, however, Randolph pulled himself up short. -After all, he was not a bad man to rejoice in the afflictions of his -neighbours; he only wished them out of his way, he did not wish any harm -to them; and he felt that what he had just said in his heart was wicked, -and might bring down a “judgment.” To come the length of a wish that -your neighbour may not thrive is a thing that no respectable person -should allow himself to do; a little grudging of your neighbour’s -prosperity, a little secret satisfaction in his trouble, is a different -matter,--but articulately to wish him harm! This brought him to himself -and made him aware of his wife’s eyes fixed upon him with some anxiety. -She was a gentle little believing sort of woman, without any brains to -speak of, and she thought dear Randolph’s feelings had been too much for -him. Her eyes were fixed on him with devout sympathy. How much feeling -he had, though he did not speak much of it; what strong affections he -had! Randolph paused a little to calm himself down. These all-trusting -women are sometimes an exasperation unspeakable in their innocence, but -still, on the other hand, a man must often make an effort not to dispel -such belief. He said, “No, my dear, it is not what I thought; my father -is not dead, but suffering, which is almost worse; and my brother whom -you have heard of--who has been such a grief to us all--has come home -unexpectedly.” - -“Oh, Randolph!” The innocent wife went to him and took his hand and -caressed it. “How hard upon you! How much for you to bear! Two such -troubles at once.” - -“Yes, indeed,” he said, accepting her sympathy, “and the little boy whom -I told you of, whom I took to school,--well, he has run away----” - -“Oh, Randolph dear, what mountains of anxiety upon you!” - -“You may say so. I must go, I suppose, and look after this little -wretch. Put me up something in the little portmanteau--and from thence I -suppose I had better go on to Penninghame again. Who knows what trouble -may follow John’s most ill-advised return?” - -“And they all lean so on you,” said the foolish wife. Notwithstanding -these dozen years of separation between him and his family, she was able -to persuade herself of this, and that he was the prop and saviour of his -race. There is nothing that foolish wives will not believe. - -Randolph, however, wavered in his decision after he had made up his mind -to go. Why should he go, putting himself to so much trouble at John’s -order? He changed his mind half a dozen times in succession. Finally, -however, he did go, sending two messages back on his way, one to John, -the other to Mr. Pen. To John he said: “_I am alarmed beyond measure to -see your name. Is it safe for you to be there? Know nothing about -little girl, but hear that little boy has run away from school and am -going to see._” Thus he planted, or meant to plant, an additional sting -in his brother’s breast. And as he travelled along in the afternoon, -going to see after Nello, his own exasperation and resentment became so -hot within him, that when he arrived at the junction, he sent a message -of a very different tenor to Mr. Pen. He did not perhaps quite know what -he was doing. He was furious with disappointment and annoyance and -confusion, feeling himself cheated, thrust aside, put out of the place -which he ought to have filled. Nello would have had harsh justice had he -been brought before him at such a moment, “Little troublesome, -effeminate baby, good for nothing, and now to be ruined in every way. -But I wash my hands of him,” Randolph said. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXV. - -ANOTHER HELPER. - - -On that same morning when so many things occurred, young Lord Stanton -was seated in the library at Stanton, with a great deal of business to -do. He had letters to write, he had the accounts of his agent to look -over, and a hundred other very pressing matters which demanded his close -attention. Perhaps it was only natural in these circumstances that Geoff -should be unusually idle, and not at all disposed to tackle to his work. -Generally he was so much interested in what was real work that he did it -heartily, glad of the honest compulsion; but on this morning he was -unsettled, and not in his usual mood of industry. He watched the leaves -dropping from the trees outside, he listened idly to the sounds within; -he scribbled on the margin of his accounts, now a bit of Latin verse -(for Mr. Tritton was an elegant scholar), now a grotesque face, anything -but the steady calculations he ought to have made. Now and then a sudden -recollection of something he had read would cross his mind, when he -would get up in the middle of a letter to seek the book in which he -thought it was and verify his recollection on the spot, a thing he would -not have taken the trouble to do had that floating recollection had any -connection with the work in which he professed to be engaged. In short, -he was entirely idle, distracted, and _desœuvré_. Mr. Tritton was -reading to Lady Stanton in her morning room. It was early; the household -were all busy and occupied,--all except the young master of it, who -could not settle to his work. - -He was sitting thus when his easily distracted attention was caught by a -movement outside, not like anything that could be made by bird or dog, -the only two living creatures likely to be there so close to his window. -It was the same window through which he had gone out the evening he made -his night expedition to the hills. The sound caught his attention, as -anything would have done that gave him an excuse for raising his head -from the letters he was now trying to write, having given up the -accounts in despair. When he saw a shadow skirt the grass, Geoff watched -with eager interest for what would follow--then there was a pause, and -he had bent over the letter again, thinking it a mere trick of fancy, -when a sound close to him made him start and look up. Some one was -standing with his back to the morning light--standing across the -window-sill with one foot within the room. Geoff started to his feet -with momentary alarm. “Who are you? Ah! is it Bampfylde?” he said. - -“Just me, my young lord. May I come in and speak a word?” - -“Certainly--come in. But why not go to the front door and come in like -any one else? You do not suppose I should have shut my doors on _you_?” - -“Maybe, no; but I’m not a visitor for the like of you. I’m little credit -about a grand house. I’ve not come here for nothing now, but to ask you -a service.” - -“What is it, Bampfylde? If I can do anything for you I will.” - -“It’s not exactly for me, but you can do it if you will, my young lord. -It’s something I’m hindered from doing. It’s for the young ones at the -Castle, that you know of. Both the bairns are in trouble, so far as I -can judge. I gave the little boy a carrier to let off if he wanted help. -Me, and still more the old woman, we misdoubted that brother. And nigh a -week ago the carrier came home, but I was away on--on a hard job, that -I’m on still, and she did not understand. And when I saw her and told -her yesterday what the sign was, what does the old woman do but tell the -little lady--the little miss--and so far as I can hear _she’s_ away, the -creature herself, a flower of a thing, no bigger than my arm, the very -image of our Lily: her--that atom--she’s away to deliver her brother, my -young lord,” said the vagrant, leaning against the window. “I’m most -worn out by the same sort o’ work. There’s far too much of that been -done among us one way and another, and _she’s_ away now on the same -errand--to save her brother. It’s laughable if you think on’t,” he said, -with a curious gurgle in his throat of forlorn ridicule. - -Geoff, who had leaned forward at the name of the children, saw that -Bampfylde was very pale and worn, his clothes in less order than usual, -and an air of utter weariness and harassment about him. He looked like a -man who had not slept or undressed for days. - -“Has anything new happened?” Geoff asked hurriedly. “Of course I will do -whatever I can for the children--but tell me first--has anything -happened with you?” - -“Ay, plenty,” said the rough fellow with a great sigh, which was not -sentiment but fatigue. “If that will not vex you, my young lord, saving -your presence, I’ll sit down and rest my bones while I talk to you, for -I’m near dead with tiredness. _He’s_ given us the slip--I cannot tell -you how. Many a fear we’ve had, but this time it’s come true. Tuesday -was a week he got away, the day after I’d been to see about the little -lad. We thought he was but hanging about the fells in corners that none -but him and me know, as he once did before, and I got him back. But it’s -worse than that. Lord! there’s many an honest man lost on the fells in -the mists, that has a wife and bairns looking to him. Would it not be -more natural to take the likes of him, and let the father of a family go -free? I cannot touch him, but there’s no law to bind the Almighty. But -all that’s little to the purpose. He’s loose ranging about the country -and me on his heels. I’ve all but had him three or four times, but he’s -aye given me the slip.” - -“But this is terrible; it is a danger for the whole country,” said -Geoff. “The children!” The young man shuddered, he did not realize that -the children were at a distance. He thought of nothing more than perhaps -an expedition among the fells for Lilias--and what if she should fall -into the madman’s hands? “You should have help--you should rouse the -country,” he said. - -“I’ll no do that. Please God I’ll get him yet, and this will be the -end,” said Bampfylde solemnly. “She cannot make up her mind to it even -now. She’s infatuate with him. I thought it would have ended when you -put your hand into the web, my young lord.” - -“It is my fault,” said Geoff. “I should have done something more; but -then Mr. Musgrave fell ill, and I have been waiting. If he dies, -everything must be gone into. I was but waiting.” - -“I am not blaming you. She cannot bide to hear a word, and so she’s been -all this long time. Now and then her heart will speak for the -others--them that suffer and have suffered--but it aye goes back to him. -And I don’t blame her neither,” said Bampfylde. “Its aye her son to her, -that was a gentleman and her pride.” He had placed himself not on the -comfortable chair which Geoff had pushed forward for him, but on the -hard seat formed by the library steps, where he sat with his elbows on -his knees, and his head supported in his hands, thus reposing himself -upon himself. “It’s good to rest,” he said, with something of the -garrulousness of weakness, glad in his exhaustion to stretch himself -out, as it were, body and soul, and ease his mind after long silence. He -almost forgot even his mission in the charm of this momentary repose. -“Poor woman!” he added, pathetically; “I’ve never blamed her. This was -her one pride, and how it has ended--if it were but ended! No,” he went -on after a pause, “please God there will be no harm. He’s no -murdering-mad, like some poor criminals that have done less harm than -him. It’s the solitary places he flees to, not the haunts o’ men; we’re -brothers so far as that’s counting. And I drop a word of warning as I -go. I tell the folks that I hear there’s a poor creature ranging the -country that is bereft of his senses, and a man after him. I’m the man,” -said Bampfylde, with a low laugh, “but I tell nobody that; and oh the -dance he’s led me!” Then rousing himself with an effort, “But I’m losing -time, and you’re losing time, my young lord. If you would be a help to -them you should be away. Get out your horse or your trap to take you to -the train.” - -“Where has she gone--by the train?” - -“Ay--and a long road. She’s away there last night, the atom, all by -herself. That’s our blood,” said Bampfylde, with again the low laugh, -which was near tears. “But I need not say our blood neither, for her -father has suffered the most of all, poor gentleman--the most of all! -Look here, my young lord,” he said, suddenly rising up, “if I sit there -longer I’ll go to sleep, and forget everything; and we’ve no time for -sleep, neither you nor me. Here’s the place. There’s a train at -half-past eleven that gets there before dark. You cannot get back -to-night; you’ll have to leave word that you cannot get back to-night. -And go now; go, for the love of God!” - -Geoff did not hesitate; he rang the bell hastily, and ordered his -dog-cart to be ready at once, and wrote two or three lines of -explanation to his mother. And he ordered the servant, who stared at his -strange companion, to bring some food and wine. But Bampfylde shook his -head. “Not so,” he said; “not so. Bit nor sup I could not take here. We -that once made this house desolate, it’s not for us to eat in it or -drink in it. You’re o’er good, o’er good, my young lord; but I’ll not -forget the offer,” he added, the water rushing to his eyes. He stood in -front of the light stretching his long limbs in the languor of -exhaustion, a smile upon his face. - -“You have overdone yourself, Bampfylde. You are not fit for any more -exertion. What more can you do than you have done? I’ll send out all the -men about the house, and----” - -“Nay, but I’ll go to the last--as long as I can crawl. Mind you the -young ones,” he said; “and for all you’re doing, and for your good -heart, God bless you, my young lord!” - -It seemed to Geoff like a dream when he found himself standing alone in -the silent room among his books, with neither sight nor sound of any -one near. Bampfylde disappeared as he had come, in a moment, vanishing -among the shrubberies; and the young man found himself charged with a -commission he did not understand, with a piece of dirty paper in his -hand, upon which an address was rudely scrawled. What was he to do at -this school, a day’s journey off, about which he knew nothing? He would -have laughed at the wild errand had he not been too deeply impressed by -his visitor’s appearance and manner to be amused by anything thus -suggested. But wild as it was, Geoff was resolved to carry it out. Even -the vaguest intimation of danger to Lilias would have sufficed to rouse -him, but he had scarcely taken that thought into his mind. He could -think of nothing but Bampfylde, and this with a pang of sympathy and -interest which he could scarcely explain to himself. As he drove along -towards the Stanton station, the first from Pennington, his mind was -entirely occupied with this rough fellow. Something tragic about him, in -his exhaustion, in the _effusion_ of his weakness, had gone to Geoff’s -heart. He looked eagerly for traces of him--behind every bush, in every -cross-road. And to increase his anxiety, the servant who accompanied him -began to entertain him with accounts of a madman who had escaped from an -asylum, and who kept the country in alarm. “Has he been seen anywhere? -has he harmed any one?” Geoff asked, eagerly. But there were no details -to be had; nothing but the general statement. Geoff gave the man orders -to warn the gamekeepers and out-door servants, and to have him secured -if possible. It was scarcely loyal perhaps to poor Bampfylde, who had -trusted him. Thus he had no thought but Bampfylde in his mind when he -found himself in the train, rushing along on the errand he did not -understand. It was a quick train, the one express of the day; and even -at the junction there were only a few minutes to wait: very unlike the -vigil that poor little Lilias had held there in the middle of night -under the dreary flickering of the lamp. Geoff knew nothing of this; but -by dint of thinking he had evolved something like a just idea of the -errand on which he was going. Lilias had been warned that her brother -was not happy, and had gone like a little Quixote to relieve him. Geoff -could even form an idea to himself of the pre-occupation of the house -with the Squire’s illness, which would close all ears to Lilias’ appeal -about Nello’s fancied unhappiness. Little nuisance! Geoff himself felt -disposed to say--thinking any unhappiness that could happen to Nello of -much less importance than the risk of Lilias. But he had not, of course, -the least idea of Nello’s flight. He arrived at the station about five -o’clock in the afternoon, adding another bewilderment to the solitary -official there, who had been telegraphed to from Penninghame, and -already that day had been favoured by two interviews with Mr. Swan. “A -young lady? I wish all young ladies were---- Here’s a message about her; -and the schoolmaster, he’s been at me, till I am sick of my life. What -young lady could there be here? Do you think I’m a-hiding of her?” he -cried, with that instinctive suspicion of being held responsible which -is so strong in his class. Geoff however, elicited by degrees all that -there was to find out, and discovered at the same time that the matter -was much more serious than he supposed. The little boy had run away from -school; the little girl, evidently coming to meet him, had disappeared -with him. It was supposed that they must have made for the railway, as -the woman in the cottage close by had confessed to having given them -breakfast; but they had disappeared from her ken, so that she -half-thought they had been ghost-children, with no reality in them; and -though the country had been scoured everywhere, neither they, nor any -trace of them, were to be found. - -This was the altogether unsatisfactory ground upon which Geoff had to -work,--and at five o’clock on an October afternoon there is but little -time for detailed investigation of a country. His eye turned, as that of -Lilias had done, to the wood. It was the place in which she would -naturally take refuge. Had the wood been examined? he asked. Yes, every -corner of it. Geoff was at his wits’ end, and did not know what to do; -he went down the road where Lilias had gone in the morning and talked to -the woman, who told him a moving story of the tired pair, and declared -that she would not have let them go, seeing very well that they were a -little lady and gentleman, but that they had stolen away when her back -was turned. Geoff stood at the cottage door gazing round him, when he -saw something that no one else had noticed, a small matter enough. -Caught upon the hedge, which reached close to the cottage, there was a -shred of blue--the merest rag, a few threads, nothing more--such an -almost invisible indication as a savage might leave to enable his -companions to track him--a thing that could be seen only by instructed -eyes. Geoff’s eyes were inexperienced, but they were keen: and he knew -the colour of Lilias’ dress, which the other searchers were not aware -of. He disentangled the threads carefully from the twig. One long hair, -and that too was Lilias’ colour, had caught on the same thorn. This -seemed to him a trace unmistakeable, notwithstanding that the woman of -the cottage immediately claimed it. “Dear, I did not know that I had -torn my best blue dress,” she said, with genuine alarm. Geoff, however, -left her abruptly, and followed out his clue. He hastened by the -footpath behind the hedge towards the wood. It was the natural place for -Lilias to be. By this time the young man had forgotten everything except -the girl, who was at once a little child appealing to all his tenderest -sympathies, and a little visionary princess to whom he had vowed -himself. She was both in the combination of the moment--a tired child -whom he could almost carry away in his arms, who would not be afraid of -him, or shrink from these brotherly arms; but, at the same time, the -little mother-woman, the defender and protector of one more helpless -than herself. Geoff’s heart swelled with a kind of heavenly enthusiasm -and love. Never could there have been a purer passion. He hurried -through the wood and through the wood, searching in all its glades and -dells, peering into the very hollows of the old trees. There was -nothing: Was there nothing? Not a movement, not a sound, except the -birds chirping, the rush of a rabbit or squirrel, the flutter of the -leaves in the evening air. For it was evening by this time, that could -not be denied; the last, long, slant rays of the sun were sloping along -the trunks and roots of the trees, and the mossy greenness that covered -them. The day was over in which a man could work, and night--night that -would chill the children to the heart, and drive them wild with -fear--desolate, dark night, full of visionary terrors, and also real -dangers, was coming. Geoff had made up his mind certainly that they were -there. He did not think of a magician’s cave or a hermit’s cell, as -Lilias had done, but only whether there was some little hut anywhere, -where they could have found refuge,--a hollow, unknown to him, where -they might have hid themselves, not knowing a friend was near. The sun -had lit up an illumination in the west, and shone through the red and -yellow leaves with reflections of colour softer and more varying, but -still more brilliant, than their own. The world seemed all ablaze -between the two, with crimson and gold--autumn sun above, autumn foliage -below. Then tone by tone and colour by colour died out from the skies, -and the soft yet cold grey of the evening took possession of all. The -paths of the wood seemed to grow ghostly in the gathering dusk, the -colour stole out of the trees, the very sky seemed to drop lower as the -night gathered in. Geoff walked about in a kind of despair. He called -them, but there came no answer; he seemed to himself to poke into every -corner, into the damp depths where the cold dew seemed to ooze out from -the ground weighing down every leaflet. He was sure they were there. -Must they spend the night in the dark, and be frozen and frightened to -death before the morning? Geoff’s heart was full of anxiety and pity. It -seemed to him that he must stay there to keep them company, whether he -could find them or not. - -Then all at once he heard a sound like a low sob. It seemed to come from -the ground, close to where he was standing, but he could see nothing but -a little tangle of wild brambles, long branches with still a solitary -berry here and there, the leaves scanty, scarlet and brown with the -frost. They were all clustered about the trunk of a big tree, a little -thicket, prickly and impregnable, but close to the path. And was it the -breathing of the night air only, or some wild creature in the brushwood, -or human respiration, that came soft, almost indistinguishable in the -soft murmur of the wood? He stood still, scarcely venturing himself to -breathe, so intent was he to listen; and by and by he heard the sound -again. A child’s sob, the soft pathetic reverberation of a sob, such as -continues to come after the weeping is over. With trembling eagerness, -yet caution, Geoff put aside the long tangles of the bramble which fell -in a kind of arch. It was a hard piece of work, and had to be done with -caution not to disturb the poor little nestlings, if nestlings there -were. There Geoff disclosed to the waning light the prettiest pathetic -picture. It was not the same green hollow in which the children had -first taken refuge. They had been roused by the sound of passengers -through the wood, and the voices of the people who were searching for -themselves, and had woke up in fright. When these noises ceased they had -strayed deeper into the wood to another and safer shelter, Nello being -too frightened and miserable to go on as Lilias wished. At last they had -found this refuge under the bramble bushes where nobody surely could -ever find them, meaning to lie there all day and creep out at night to -continue their journey. Lilias had seated herself first, spreading out -her skirt to protect her brother from the damp. There, lying with his -head and shoulders supported on her lap, he had gone to sleep again, -while Lilias waked and pondered; very anxious, frightened too, and -dissatisfied with the loss of time, she sat erect, supporting Nello, and -gazed up at the dark figure in the twilight with alarmed eyes, which -seemed to grow larger and larger as they shone in a passion of terror -through the long tangles of the bush. Lilias had covered her brother -with her shawl--she drew it over him now, covering the white little face -on her arm, “What do you want with me? I am only resting. There is no -one here to do any harm,” she said, with the sob coming again in spite -of her. She thought it was the cruel schoolmaster, the more cruel uncle, -who had condemned Nello to so many sufferings. She held her arms over -him, protecting him--resolute not to let him be taken from her. “Oh, do -not meddle with me!” she went on, growing more and more desperate. “I -have some money I will give you, if you will only--only leave me alone. -There is nobody--but me.” - -Oh that sob! if she could only swallow it down and talk to him, this -robber chief, this Robin Hood, as if she were not afraid! for sometimes -these men are kind and do not hurt the weak. Lilias gazed, nothing but -her eyes appearing, glowing through the gathering shade: then suddenly -threw her brother off her lap in a transport of wild delight, “Oh Nello, -Nello, Nello!” she cried, till the wood rang, “it is Mr. Geoff!” - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVI. - -THE BEGINNING OF THE END. - - -Geoff took the children home without let or hindrance. There was no inn -near where they could pass the night; and as he had no legitimate right -to their custody, and was totally unknown and very young, and might not -awaken any lively faith in the bosom of authority as against the -schoolmaster or the uncle, he thought it wisest to take them away at -once. He managed to get some simplest food for them with difficulty--a -little bread and milk--and made them lie down propped amid the cushions -of a first-class carriage, which was to be hooked on to the evening -train when it arrived. Before they left the little station he had the -satisfaction of seeing Randolph Musgrave arrive, looking sour and -sullen. Geoff did not know that Randolph had done anything unkind to the -children. Certainly it was none of his fault that Lilias was there; but -what good partisan ever entered too closely into an examination of the -actual rights and wrongs of a question? Randolph might have been -innocent--as indeed he was--of any downright evil intention; but this -availed him nothing. Geoff looked out of the window of his own carriage -as they glided away from the station, and gazed with intensest schoolboy -pleasure on the glum and sour countenance of the churlish uncle, who, -but for his own intervention, might have wrought destruction to those -new babes in the wood. He shivered when he thought of the two helpless -creatures lying under the brambles too frightened to move, and feeling -to their hearts all the fantastic horrors of the darkness. Now, though -still in movement, and undergoing still further fatigue, the absolute -rest which had fallen upon their childish spirits from the mere fact -that he was there, touched the young man to the heart. They were willing -to let him take them anywhere; their cares were over. Nello had even -made a feeble little attempt to shake his draggled plumes and swagger a -little, sore and uncomfortable though he was, before he clambered into -the carriage; and Lilias lay in the nest he had made for her, looking -out with eyes of measureless content--so changed from those great, -wistful, unfathomable oceans of anxiety and fear which had looked at him -through the brambles! She put her hand into his as he settled himself in -his corner beside her--the little soft child’s hand, which he warmed in -his strong clasp, and which clung to him with a hold which did not relax -even in her dreams; for she went to sleep so, holding him fast, feeling -the sense of safety glow over her in delicious warmth and ease. Through -all the night, even when she slept, at every movement he made, her soft -fingers closed more firmly upon his hand. It was the child’s anchor of -safety; and this clinging, conscious and unconscious, went straight to -Geoff’s heart. In the dark, under the waning light of the lamp overhead, -he watched the little face sinking into sleep, with now a faint little -smile upon it--a complete relaxation of all the strained muscles--with a -sensation of happiness which was beyond words. Sometimes, for the mere -pleasure of it, he would make a movement wantonly to feel the renewed -clasp of the little hand and see the drowsy opening of the eyes. “Are -you there, Mr. Geoff?” she said now and then, with a voice as soft (he -thought) as the coo of a dove. “Yes, my Lily;” he would say, with his -heart swelling in his young bosom; and Lilias would drop to sleep again, -smiling at him, with sleepy eyes, in what ease and infinite content! As -for Nello, he snored now and then out of very satisfaction and -slumbering confidence; little snores, something between a little -cherub’s trumpet and the native utterance of the tenderest of little -pigs--at that age when even little piggies, by reason of babyhood, have -something cherubic about them too. - -At midnight, at the great junction, a tall, sunburnt, anxious-faced man -walked along the line of carriages, looking in with eager looks. “Are -these your children?” he said to Geoff, seeing the two little figures -laid up among the cushions, and not remarking how young their companion -was. He spoke abruptly, but taking off his hat with an apologetic grace, -which Geoff thought “foreign,” as we are all so apt to suppose unusual -courtesy to be. A sudden inspiration seized the young man. He did not -know who this was, but somehow he never doubted who it was the stranger -sought. “They are the little Musgraves of Penninghame,” he said, simply, -“whom I am taking home.” - -The tall stranger wavered for a moment, as though he might have fallen; -then, in a voice half-choked, he asked, “May I come beside you?” He sat -down in the seat opposite to Geoff. After an anxious inspection of the -two little faces, now settled into profound sleep, “Thank God!” he said. -“They are all I have in the world.” - -Who could it be? Geoff’s ears seemed to tingle with the words--“all I -have in the world.” He sat in his dark corner and gazed at this strange -new-comer, who was more in the light. And the new-comer gazed at him. -Seeing, after a while, the child’s hand clasped in his--a mark of trust -which, sweet as it was, kept young Geoff in a somewhat forced attitude -not comfortable for a long night journey,--“I do not know you,” he said, -“but my little girl seems to put her whole trust in you, and that must -make me your grateful servant too.” - -“Then you are John Musgrave?” cried the young man. “Oh, sir, I am -glad--most glad, that you have come home! Yes, I think she likes me; and -child or woman,” cried young Geoff, clasping the little hand close with -a sudden _effusion_, “I shall never care for any one else.” - -Serious, careworn, in peril of his life, John Musgrave laughed softly in -his beard. “This is my first welcome home,” he said. - -Geoff found a carriage waiting for him at Stanton. His first impulse -having been to take the children to his mother, he gave them up now with -a pang, having first witnessed the surprise of incredulous delight with -which Lilias flung herself at her waking upon her father. The cry with -which she hailed him, the illumination of her face, and, Geoff felt, her -utter forgetfulness of his own claims, half-vexed the young man after -his uncomfortable night; and it was with a certain pang that he gave the -children up to their natural guardian. “Papa, this is Mr. Geoff,” Lilias -said; “no one has ever been so kind; and he knows about you something -that nobody else knows.” - -John Musgrave looked up with a gleam of surprise and a faint suffusion -of colour on his serious face. “Every one here knows about _me_,” he -said, with a sigh; and then he turned to the young guardian of his -children, “Lily’s introduction is of the slightest,” he said. “I don’t -know you, nor how you have been made to take so much interest in -them--how you knew even that they wanted help: but I am grateful to you -with all my heart, all the same.” - -“I am Geoffrey Stanton,” said the young man. He did not know how to make -the announcement, but coloured high with consciousness of the pain that -must be associated with his name. But it was best, he felt, to make the -revelation at once. “The brother of Walter Stanton, whom----. As Lilias -says, sir, I know more about you than others know. I have heard -everything.” - -John Musgrave shook his head. “Everything! till death steps in to one or -another of the people concerned, that is what no one will ever know; but -so long as you do not shrink from me, Lord Stanton---- You are Lord -Stanton; is it not so?” - -“I am not making any idle brag,” said Geoff. “I know _everything_. It -was Bampfylde himself--Dick Bampfylde himself--who sent me after the -children. I know the truth of it all, and I am ready to stand by you, -sir, whenever and howsoever you want me----” - -Geoff bent forward eagerly, holding out his hand, with a flush of -earnestness and enthusiasm on his young face. Musgrave looked at him -with great and serious surprise. His face darkened and lighted up, and -he started slightly at the name of Bampfylde. At last, with a moment’s -hesitation, he took Geoff’s outstretched hand, and pressed it warmly. “I -dare not ask what it is you do know,” he said, “but there is nothing on -my hand to keep me from taking yours; and thank you a thousand -times--thank you for _them_. About everything else we can talk -hereafter.” - -In ten minutes after Geoff was whirling along the quiet country road on -his way home. It was like a dream to him that all this should have -happened since he last drove between those hedgerows, and he had the -half-disappointed, half-injured feeling of one who has not carried out -an adventure to its final end. He was worn out too, and excited, and he -did not like giving up Lily into the hands of her father. Had it been -Miss Musgrave he would have felt no difficulty. It was chilly in the -early morning, and he buttoned up his coat to his chin, and put his -hands in his pockets, and let his groom drive, who had evidently -something to say to him which could scarcely be kept in till they got -clear of the station. Geoff had seen it so distinctly in the man’s face, -that he had asked at once, “Is all right at home?” But he was too tired -to pay much attention to anything beyond that. When they had gone on for -about a quarter of an hour, the groom himself broke the silence. “I beg -your pardon, my lord----” - -“What is it?” Geoff, retired into the recesses of his big coat, had been -half asleep. - -Then the man began an excited story. He had heard a scuffle and a -struggle at a point of the road which they were about approaching when -on his way to meet his master. Wild cries “not like a human being,” he -said, and the sound of a violent encounter. “I thought of the madman I -was telling your lordship of yesterday.” “And what was it?” cried Geoff, -rousing up to instant interest; upon which the groom became apologetic. - -“How could I leave my horse, my lord?--a young beast, very fresh, as -your lordship knows. He’d have bolted if I’d have left him for a moment. -It was all I could do, as it was, to hold him in with such cries in his -ears. I sent on the first man I met. A man does not grapple with a -madman unless he is obliged to----” - -“But you sent the other man to do it,” said Geoff, half-amused, -half-angry. He sprang from the phaeton as they came to the spot which -the groom pointed out. It was a little dell, the course of a streamlet, -widening as it ascended, and clothed with trees. Geoff knew the spot -well. About half a mile further up, on a little green plateau in the -midst of the line of sheltering wood which covered these slopes, his -brother’s body had been found. He had been taken to see the spot with -shuddering interest when he was a child, and had never forgotten the -fatal place. The wood was very thick, with rank, dark, water-loving -trees; and, whether it was fancy or reality, had always seemed to Geoff -the most dismal spot in the county. All was quiet now, or so he thought -at first. But there was no mistaking the evidence of wet, broken, and -trampled grass, which showed where some deadly struggle had been. The -spot was not far from the road--about five minutes of ascent, no -more--and the young man pressed on, guided by signs of the fray, and in -increasing anxiety; for almost at the first step he saw an old -game-pouch thrown on the ground, which he recognised as having been worn -by Bampfylde. Presently he heard, a little in advance of him, a low -groan, and the sound of a sympathetic voice. “Could you walk, with my -arm to steady you? Will you try to walk, my man?” Another low moaning -cry followed. “My walking’s done in this world,” said a feeble voice. -Geoff hurried forward, stifling a cry of grief and pain. He had known it -since he first set foot on that fatal slope. It was Bampfylde’s voice; -and presently he came in sight of the group. The sympathiser was the -same labouring man, no doubt, whom his groom had sent to the rescue. -Wild Bampfylde lay propped upon the mossy bank, his head supported upon -a bush of heather. The stranger who stood by him had evidently washed -the blood from his face and unbuttoned his shirt, which was open. There -was a wound on his forehead, however, from which blood was slowly -oozing, and his face was pallid as death. “Let me be--let me be,” he -said with a groan, as his kind helper tried to raise him. Then a faint -glimmer of pleasure came over his ghastly face. “Ah, my young lord!” he -said. - -“What is it, Bampfylde? What has happened? Is he much hurt?” cried -Geoff, kneeling down by his side. The man did not say anything, but -shook his head. The vagrant himself smiled, with a kind of faint -amusement in the mournful glimmer of his eyes. - -“Not hurt, my young gentleman; just killed,” he said; “but you’re -back--and they’re safe?” - -“Safe, Bampfylde; and listen!--with their father. He has come to take -care of his own.” - -A warmer gleam lighted up the vagrant’s face. “John Musgrave here! Ah, -but it’s well timed,” he cried feebly. “My young lord, I’m grieved but -for one thing,--the old woman. Who will take care of old ’Lizabeth’? and -she’s been a good woman--if it had not been her son that went between -her and her wits. I’m sorry for her, poor old body; very, very sorry for -her, poor ’Lizabeth. He’ll never be taken now, my young lord. Now he’s -killed me, there’s none will ever take him. And so we’ll all be ended, -and the old woman left to die without one--without one----!” - -“My cart is at the foot of the hill,” said Geoff, quickly, addressing -the labourer, who stood by with tears in his eyes; “take it, and bid the -groom drive as fast as the horse will go--and he’s fresh--for the first -doctor you can find; and bid them send an easy carriage from -Stanton--quick! For every moment you save I’ll give you----” - -“I want no giving. What a man can do for poor Dick Bampfylde, I will,” -cried the other as he rushed down the slope. The vagrant smiled feebly -again. - -“They’re all good-hearted,” he said. “Not one of them but would do poor -Dick Bampfylde a good turn; that’s a pleasure, my young lord. And -you--you’re the best of all. Ay, let him go, it’ll please you; but me, -my hour’s come.” - -“Bampfylde, does it hurt you to speak? Can you tell me how it was?” - -The poor fellow’s eyes were glazing over. He made an effort, when -Geoff’s voice caught him as it were, and arrested the stupor. “Eh, my -young lord? What needs to tell? Poor creature, he did not know me for a -friend, far less a brother. And madness is strong--it’s strong. Tell the -old woman that--it was not _me_ he killed--but--one that tried to take -him. Ay--we were all playing about the beck, and her calling us to come -in--all the family; him and--Lily--and me. I was always the least -account--but it was me that would aye be first to answer;--and now we -are all coming home--Poor old ’Lizabeth--Eh! what were you saying, my -young lord?” - -“Bampfylde! has he got clean off again, after this? Where is he? Can you -tell me--for the sake of others if not for your own?” - -“For mine!--Would it mend me to tell upon him?--Nay, nay, you’ll never -take him--never now--but he’ll die--like the rest of us--that is what -puts things square, my young lord--death!--it settles all; you’ll find -him some place on the green turf--we were aye a family that liked the -green grass underneath us--you’ll find him--as peaceable as me.” - -“Oh, Bampfylde,” cried Geoff, “keep up your courage a little, the men -will come directly and carry you to Stanton.” - -“To carry me--to the kirkyard--that’s my place; and put green turf over -me--nothing but green turf. So long as you will be kind to old -’Lizabeth; she’ll live--she’s not the kind that dies--and not one of us -to the fore! What did we do--we or our fathers?” said the vagrant -solemnly. “But, oh, that’s true, true--that’s God’s word: neither he did -it nor his fathers--but that the works of God might be manifest. Eh, but -I cannot see--I cannot see how the work of God is in it. My -eyes--there’s not much good in my eyes now.” - -Geoff kneeled beside the dying man not knowing what to do or say. Should -he speak to him of religion? Should he question him about his own hard -fate, that they might bring it home to the culprit? But Bampfylde was -not able for either of these subjects. He was wading in the vague and -misty country which is between life and death. He threw out his arms in -the languor and restlessness of dying, and one of them dropped so that -the fingers dipped in the little brook. This brought another gleam of -faint pleasure to his pallid face. - -“Water--give me some--to drink,” he murmured, moving his lips. And then, -as Geoff brought it to him in the hollow of a leaf, the only thing he -could think of, and moistened his lips and bathed his forehead, “Thank -you, Lily,” he said. “That’s pleasant, oh, that’s pleasant. And what was -it brought you here--_you_ here?--they’re all safe, the young -ones--thanks to---- Eh! it’s not Lily--but I thought I saw Lily; it’s -you, my young lord?” - -“Yes, I am here--lean on me, Bampfylde. What can I do for you, what can -I do?” Geoff had never seen death, and he trembled with awe and solemn -reverence, far more deeply moved than the dying vagrant who was floating -away on gentle waves of unconsciousness. - -“Ay, Lily--d’ye hear her calling?--the house is dark, and the night’s -fine. But let’s go to her--let’s go; he was aye the last, though she -likes him best.” Bampfylde raised himself suddenly with a -half-convulsive movement. “Poor ’Lizabeth!--poor old ’Lizabeth--all -gone--all gone!” he said. - -And what an hour Geoff spent supporting the poor head and moistening the -dry lips of the man who was dead, yet could not die! He did not know -there had been such struggles in the world. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVII. - -A TRAITOR. - - -Mr. Pennithorne was at the Castle almost all the day during which so -many things occurred. While the children wandered in the wood and young -Lord Stanton went in search of them, the Vicar could not leave the -centre of anxiety. There was no possibility of going upon that quest -till the evening, and good Mr. Pen thought it his bounden duty to stay -with John to “take off his attention,” to distract his mind if possible -from the object of his anxieties. It was all John Musgrave could do, by -way of consideration for an old friend, to put up with these attentions, -but he managed to do so without betraying his impatience, and Mr. Pen -thought he had performed the first duty of friendship. He suggested -everything he could think of that might have happened; most of his -suggestions going to prove that Lilias was in very great peril indeed, -though she might be saved by various ingenious ways. And he took Mary -aside and shook his head, and said he was afraid it was a very bad -business. He believed, good man, that he was of the greatest use to them -both, and congratulated himself on having stayed to discharge this -Christian duty. But Mrs. Pen at the Vicarage got cross and nervous, and -did not think her husband was doing his duty to his home. When a -telegram came in the afternoon, she was not only curious but -frightened--for telegrams she thought were always messages of evil. What -could it tell but harm? Perhaps that her father had been taken ill (Mr. -Pen himself had no family, nor anybody to speak of belonging to him); -perhaps that the investment had gone wrong in which all their little -money was. She tore it open in great agitation, and read as follows:-- - -“_John Musgrave is in the county and near you. Do you remember what is -your duty as a magistrate, and what is the penalty of not performing -it?_” - -Mrs. Pen read this alarming missive two or three times over before she -could understand what it meant. John Musgrave! By degrees it became -clear to her. This was why her husband deserted her, and spent his whole -day at the Castle. He a magistrate, whose first duty it was to send John -Musgrave to prison. The penalty--what was the penalty? The poor woman -was in such a frenzy of agitation and terror that she did not know what -to believe. What could they do to him if it was found out? She went to -the window and looked for him; she went out and walked to the garden -gate; she was not able to keep still. The penalty--what was it? Could -they put him in prison instead of the criminal he allowed to go free? -That seemed the most natural thing, and imagination conjured up before -her the dreadful scene of Mr. Pen’s arrest, perhaps when he was going to -church, perhaps when the house was full of people--everybody -seeing--everybody knowing it. Mrs. Pen saw her husband dragged along the -road in handcuffs before she came to an end of her imaginations. Was -there nothing she could do to save him? She was ready to put herself in -the breach, to say, like a heroine, “Take me, and let him go free?” but -it did not appear to her likely that the myrmidons of the law would pay -any attention to such a touching interposition. Then it occurred to her -to look who it was, a thing she had not noticed at first, who had sent -this kind warning. But this alarmed her more and more. It was some one -who called himself “Friend,” who had taken the trouble from a distant -place in the midland counties to telegraph thus to Mr. Pennithorne. A -friend--it was then an anonymous warning, a very alarming thing indeed -to the vulgar mind. Mrs. Pen worked herself up into a state of intense -nervous agitation. She sent for the gardener that she might send him at -once to the Castle for her husband. But before he came another train of -reflections came across her mind. John Musgrave was her William’s -friend. He was devoted to the family generally, and to this member of it -in particular. Was he not capable of going to prison--of letting himself -be handcuffed and dragged along the public road, and cast into a -dungeon, rather than give up his friend to justice? Oh, what could the -poor woman do? If she could but take some step--do something to save him -before he knew. - -All at once there occurred to Mrs. Pen a plan of action which would put -everything right--save William in spite of himself, and without his -knowledge, and put John Musgrave in the hands of justice without any -action of his which could be supposed unfriendly. She herself, Mrs. Pen, -did not even know John, so that if she betrayed him it would be nothing -unkind, nobody could blame her, not Mary Musgrave herself. When the -gardener came, instead of sending him to the Castle for her husband, she -sent him to the village to order the fly in which she occasionally paid -visits; and she put on her best clothes with a quiver of anxiety and -terror in her heart. She put the telegram in her pocket, and drove -away--with a half-satisfaction in her own appearance and half-pride in -bidding the man drive to Elfdale, to Sir Henry Stanton’s, mingling with -the real anxiety in her heart. She was frightened too at what she was -about to do--but nobody could expect from her any consideration for John -Musgrave, whom she had never seen; whereas, to save her husband from the -consequences of his foolish faithfulness, was not that the evident and -first duty of a wife? It was a long drive, and she had many misgivings -as she drove along, with plenty of time to consider and reconsider all -the arguments she had already gone over; but yet when she got to Elfdale -she did not seem to have had any time to think at all. She was hurried -in, before she knew, to Sir Henry Stanton’s presence. He was the nearest -magistrate of any importance, and Mrs. Pen had a slight visiting -acquaintance, of which she was very proud, with Lady Stanton. Had she -repented at the last of her mission, she could always make out to -herself that it was Lady Stanton she had come to visit. But it was Sir -Henry whom she asked for, alarm for her husband at the last moment -getting the better of her fears. - -Sir Henry received her with a great deal of surprise. What could the -little country clergyman’s wife want with him? But he was still more -surprised when he heard her errand. John Musgrave at home!--within -reach--daring justice--defying the law! His wife had told him of some -supposed discovery which she at least imagined likely to clear Musgrave, -by bringing in another possible criminal, but that must be some merely -nonsensical theory he had no doubt, such as women and boys are apt to -indulge:--for if anything could be worse than women, Sir Henry felt it -was boys inspired by women, and carrying out their fancies. Therefore he -had paid very little regard to what his wife said. Mrs. Pennithorne had -the advantage of rousing him into excitement. “What! come back!--daring -justice to touch him--insulting the family of the man he had killed, and -the laws of the country!” Sir Henry fumed at the audacity, the evident -absence of all remorse or compunction. “He must be a shameless, -heartless ruffian,” he said; and then he looked at the harmless little -woman who had brought him this news. “It is very public-spirited to -bestir yourself in the matter,” he said. “Have you seen the man, Mrs. -Pennithorne, or how have you come to know?” - -“I have not seen him. Sir Henry. I don’t know anything about him, -therefore nobody could say that it was unkind in _me_. How can you have -any feeling for a person you never saw? I got--the news--to-day when my -husband was at the Castle--_he_ did not tell me--he has nothing to do -with it. He is a great friend of the Musgraves, Sir Henry; and I was -told if he knew and did not tell it would bring him into trouble; so I -came to you. I thought it was a wife’s duty. I did not wait till he came -in to show him the telegram, but I came straight on to you.” - -“Then you got a telegram?” - -“Did I say a telegram?” she said, frightened. “Oh--I did not think what -I was saying. But why should I conceal it? Yes, indeed, Sir Henry, this -afternoon there came a telegram. I have never had a moment’s peace since -then. I thought at first I would send for him and see what he would do, -but then I thought--he thinks so much of the Musgraves--no doubt it -would be a trouble to him to go against them; and so I thought before he -came in I would come to you. I would not do anything without consulting -my husband in any ordinary way, indeed, I assure you, Sir Henry. I am -not a woman of that kind; but in a thing that might have brought him -into such trouble----” - -“And is that telegram all you know, Mrs. Pennithorne?” - -A horrible dread that he was going to disapprove of her, instead of -commending her, ran through her mind. - -“It is all,” she said, faltering; “I have it in my pocket.” - -To show the telegram was the last thing in her mind, yet she produced it -now in impetuous self-defence. Having made such a sacrifice as she had -done, acted on her own authority, incurred the expense of the fly, -absented herself from home without anybody’s knowledge (though William -was far too much wrapped up in the Musgraves to be aware of that), it -was more than Mrs. Pennithorne could bear to have her motives thus -unappreciated. She held out the telegram without pausing to think. He -took it, and read it, with a curious look on his face. Sir Henry took a -low view of wives, and of women in general. If she belonged to him how -he would put her down, this meddling woman! but he was glad to learn -what she had to tell, and to be able to act upon it. To approve of your -informant and to use the information obtained are two very different -things. - -“This is a threat,” he said; “this is a very curious communication, Mrs. -Pennithorne. Do you know who sent it? Friend! Is it a friend in the -abstract, or does your husband know any one of the name?” - -“I don’t know who it is. Oh no, Sir Henry. William knows no one--no one -whom I don’t know! His friends are my friends. My husband is the best of -men. He has not a secret from me. If I may seem to be acting behind his -back it is only to save him, Sir Henry--only for his good.” - -“You are acting in the most public-spirited way, Mrs. Pennithorne; but -it is very strange, and I wonder who could have sent it. Do you know any -one at this place?” - -“Nobody,” she said, composing herself, yet not quite satisfied either, -for public-spirited was but a poor sort of praise. She was conscious -that she was betraying her husband as well as John Musgrave, and nothing -but distinct applause and assurance that she had saved her William could -have put her conscience quite at ease. - -“It is very odd--very odd,” he said; “but I am very much obliged to you -for bringing this information to me, and I shall lose no time in acting -upon it. For a long time, a very long time, this man has evaded the law; -but it will not do to defy it--it never does to defy it. He shall find -that it is more watchful than he thought.” - -“And, Sir Henry, of course it is of my husband I must think first. You -will not say he knew? You will not let him get into trouble about it?--a -clergyman, a man whom every one looks up to! You will save him from the -penalty, Sir Henry? Indeed I have no reason to believe he knew at all; -he has never seen this thing. I don’t suppose he knows at all. But he -might be so easily got into trouble! Oh, Sir Henry! you will not let -them bring in William’s name?” - -“I shall take care that Mr. Pennithorne is not mentioned at all,” he -said, with a polite bow; but he did not add, “You are a heroic woman and -you have saved your husband,” which was the thing poor Mrs. Pen wanted -to support her. She put back her telegram in her pocket very humbly, and -rose up, feeling herself more a culprit than a heroine, to go away. At -this moment Lady Stanton herself came in hurriedly. - -“I heard Mrs. Pennithorne was here,” she said, with a half-apology to -her husband, “and I thought I might come and ask what was the last -news from Penninghame--if there was any change. I am not -interrupting--business?” - -“No; you will be interested in the news Mrs. Pennithorne brings me,” -said Sir Henry, with a certain satisfaction. “Mr. Musgrave’s son John, -in whom you have always shown so much interest, Walter Stanton’s -murderer----” - -“No, no,” she said, with a shudder, folding her hands instinctively; -“no, no!” The colour went out of her very lips. She was about to hear -that he had died. He must have died on the very day she saw him. She -listened, looking at her husband all pale and awe-stricken, with a gasp -in her throat. - ---“Is here,” said Sir Henry, deliberately. “Here, where it was done, -defying the law.” - -Mary uttered a great cry of mingled relief and despair. - -“Then it was he--it was he--and no ghost!” she cried. - -“What! you knew and never told me? I am not so happy in my wife,” said -Sir Henry, with a threatening smile, “as Mr. Pennithorne.” - -“Oh, was it he--was it he?--no spirit--but himself? God help him,” cried -Lady Stanton, with sudden tears. “No, I could not have told you, for I -thought it was an apparition. And I would not, Henry,” she added with a -kind of generous passion, “I would not, if I could. How could I betray -an innocent man?” - -“Happily Mrs. Pennithorne has saved you the trouble,” he said, getting -up impatiently from his seat. He resented his wife’s silence, but he -scorned the other woman who had brought him the news. “Do not let me -disturb you, ladies, but this is too important for delay. The warrant -must be out to-night. I trust to your honour, or I might arrest you -both,” he said with a sneer--“two fair prisoners--lest you should warn -the man and defeat justice again.” - -“Henry, you are not going to arrest him--to _arrest_ him--after what I -told you? I told you that Geoff----” - -“Geoff! send Geoff to your nursery, to play with your children, Lady -Stanton,” he cried, in rising wrath, “rather than make a puppet of him -to carry out your own ideas. I have had enough of boys’ nonsense and -women’s. Go to your tea-table, my lady, and leave me to manage my own -concerns.” - -Then Lady Stanton--was it not natural?--with a white, self-contained -passion, turned upon the other commonplace woman by her side, who stood -trembling before the angry man, yet siding with him in her heart, as -such women do. - -“And is it you that have betrayed him?” she cried; “do you know that -your husband owes everything to him--everything? Oh, it cannot be Mr. -Pen’s doing--he loved them all too well. If it is you, how will you bear -to have his blood on your head? God knows what they may prove against -him, or what they may do to him; but whatever it is, it will be a lie, -and his blood will be on your head. Oh, how could you, a woman, betray -an innocent man?” - -Lady Stanton’s passion, Sir Henry’s lowering countenance, the sudden -atmosphere of tragedy in which she found herself, were too much for -poor Mrs. Pen. She burst into hysterical crying, and dropped down upon -the floor between these two excited people. Perhaps it was as good a way -as any other of extricating herself out of the most difficult position -in which a poor little, well-intentioned clergywoman had ever been. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVIII. - -THE MOTHER. - - -The afternoon of the day on which poor Bampfylde died was bright and -fine, one of those beautiful October days which are more lovely in their -wistful brightness, more touching, than any other period of the -year--Summer still lingering, the smile on her lip and the tear in her -eye, dressed out in borrowed splendour, her own fair garniture of -flowers and greenery worn out, but wearing her Indian mantle with a -tender grace, subdued and sweet. The late mignonette over-blown, yet -fragrant, was sweet in the little village gardens, underneath the pale -China roses that still kept up a little glow of blossom. Something had -excited the village; the people were at their doors, and gathered in -groups about. Miss Price, the dressmaker, held a little court. There was -evidently something to tell, something to talk over more than was usual. -The few passengers who were about stayed to hear, and each little knot -of people which had managed to secure a new listener was happy. They -were all in full tide of talk, commenting upon and discussing some -occurrence with a certain hush, at the same time, of awe about them, -which showed that the news was not of a joyful character--when some one -came down through the village whose appearance raised the excitement to -fever point. It was the well-known figure of the old woman in her grey -cloak--so well known up the water and down the water, which thus -suddenly appeared among them--old ’Lizabeth Bampfylde! The gossips -shrank closer together, and gazed at her with eager curiosity all, with -sympathy some. They drew away from her path with a feeling which was -half reverence and half fear. “Does she know--do you think she knows?” -some of them asked; and exclamations of, “Poor old body--poor woman,” -were rife among the kind-hearted; but all under their breath. ’Lizabeth -took no notice of the people in her path; perhaps she did not even see -them. She was warm with her long walk from the fells, and had thrown off -her hood and knotted her red handkerchief over her cap. She went along -thus with the long swing of her still vigorous limbs, stately and -self-absorbed. Whatever she knew, her mind was too much occupied to take -any notice of the people in her way. She had walked far, and she had far -to walk still. She went on steadily through the midst of them without a -pause, looking neither to the right nor the left. There was a tragic -directness in the very way she moved, going straight as a bird flies, at -least as straight as the houses permitted, minding no windings of the -road. The people in front of her stood back and whispered; the people -behind closed upon her path. Did she know? Would she have had the -fortitude to come walking down here all this long way had she known? Was -she going to Stanton, where _they_ were? Last of all, timidly, the -people said among themselves, “Should not some one tell her?--some one -should speak to her;” but by this time she had passed through the -village, and they all felt with a sensation of relief that it was too -late. - -’Lizabeth walked on steadily along the water-side. It was a long way -that she had still before her. She was going all the way down the water -to Sir Henry Stanton’s, as Mrs. Pennithorne had gone the day before. The -walk was nothing to her, and the long silence of it was grateful to her -mind. She knew nothing of what had happened on the other side of the -lake. Up in her little house among the hills, all alone in the strange -cessation of work, the dead leisure which seemed to have fallen upon -her, she had thought of everything till her head and her heart ached -alike. Everything now seemed to have gone wrong. Her daughter dead in -exile, and her daughter’s husband still a banished man, all for the sake -of him who was roaming over the country, a fugitive escaped from her -care. The life of her son Dick had been ruined by the same means. And -now the cycle of misfortune was enlarging. The little boy, who was the -heir of the Musgraves, was lost too, because he had no one to protect -him--Lily’s child; and the other Lily, the little lady whom she felt to -be her own representative as well as Lily’s, who could tell what would -become of her? It seemed to ’Lizabeth that this child was the most -precious of all. All the rest had suffered for the sake of her madman; -but the second Lily, the little princess, who had sprung from her common -stock, nothing must touch. Yet it cannot be said that it was for Lily’s -sake that she made up her mind at last; it was nothing so simple, it was -a combination and complication of many motives. He was gone out of her -hands who had been for years the absorbing occupation of her life. Dick -was after him, it was true; but if Dick failed, how was he to be got -without public help? and that help could not be given until the whole -story was told. Then her own loneliness wrought upon her, and all the -whispers and echoes that circled about the cottage, when he was not -there. Her son, ill-fated companion, the ruin of all who had any -connection with him, absorbed her so much in general, that she had no -time to survey the surroundings and think of all that was, and had been, -and might be. Was it he after all that was the cause of all the -suffering? What did he know of it? The story of Lily and of John -Musgrave was a blank to him. He knew nothing of what they had suffered, -was innocent of it in reality. Had he known, would he not have given -himself up a hundred times rather than the innocent should suffer for -him? Was it he, then, or his mother, who was the cause of all? Several -times, during their long agony, such thoughts had overwhelmed -’Lizabeth’s mind. They had come over her in full force when the children -came to the Castle, and then it was that she had been brought to the -length of revealing her secret to young Lord Stanton. Now everything was -desperate about her; the little boy lost, the madman himself lost; no -telling at any moment what misery and horror might come next. She -thought this over day after day as the time passed, and no news came; -waiting in the great loneliness, with her doors all open, that he might -come in if some new impulse, or some touch of use and wont, should lead -him back, her ears intent to hear every sound; her mind prepared (she -thought) for anything; fresh violence, perhaps violence to himself; -miserable death, terrible discovery. She thought she heard his wild -whoops and cries every time the wind raved among the hills; if a -mountain stream rushed down a little quicker than usual, swollen by the -rain, over its pebbles, she thought it was his hurrying steps. It was -always of him that her thoughts were, not of her other son who was -pursuing the madman all about, subject to the same accidents, and who -might perhaps be his victim instead of his captor. She never thought of -that. But she was driven at last to a supreme resolution. Nobody could -doubt his madness, could think it was a feint put on to escape -punishment, now. And God, who was angry, might be propitiated if at last -she made Him, though unwillingly, this sacrifice, this homage to justice -and truth. This was the idea which finally prevailed in her mind. She -would go and tell her story, and perhaps an angry God would accept, and -restore the wanderer to her. If he were safe, safe even in prison, in -some asylum, it would be better at least than his wild career of madness -among all the dangers of the hills. She had risen in the morning from -her uneasy bed, where she lay half-dressed, always watching, listening -to every sound, with this determination upon her. She would propitiate -God. She would do this thing she ought to have done so long ago. She did -not deny that she ought to have done it, and now certainly she would do -it, and God would be satisfied, and the tide of fate would turn. - -All this struggle had not been without leaving traces upon her. Her -ruddy colour, the colour of exposure as well as of health and vigour, -was not altogether gone, but she was more brown than ruddy, and this -partial paleness and the extreme gravity of her countenance added to the -stately aspect she bore. She might have been a peasant-queen, as she -moved along with her steady, long, swinging footstep, able for any -exertion, above fatigue or common weakness. A mile or two more or less, -what did that matter? It did not occur to her to go to Mr. Pennithorne, -though he was nearer, with her story. She went straight to Sir Henry -Stanton. He had a family right to be the avenger of blood. It would be -all the compensation that could be made to the Stantons, as well as a -sacrifice propitiating God. And now that she had made up her mind there -was no detail from which she shrank. ’Lizabeth never remarked the -pitying and wondering looks which were cast upon her. She went on -straight to her end with a sense of the solemnity and importance of her -mission, which perhaps gave her a certain support. It was no light thing -that she was about to do. That there was a certain commotion and -agitation about Elfdale did not strike her in the excited state of her -mind. It was natural that agitation should accompany her wherever she -went. It harmonized with her mood, and seemed to her (unconsciously) a -homage and respectful adhesion of nature to what she was about to do. - -The great door was open, the hall empty, the way all clear to the room -in which Sir Henry held his little court of justice. ’Lizabeth had come -by instinct to the great hall door--a woman with such a tragical object -does not steal in behind-backs or enter like one of the unconsidered -poor. She went in unchallenged, seeing nobody except one of the girls, -who peeped out from a door, and retreated again at sight of her. -’Lizabeth saw nothing strange in all this. She went in, more -majestically, more slowly than ever, like a woman in a procession--a -woman marching to the stake. What stake, what burning could be so -terrible? Two of the county police were at the open door; they looked at -her with wondering awe, and let her pass. What could any one say to her? -An army would have let her pass--_the mother_!--for they knew, though -she did not know. ’Lizabeth saw but vaguely a number of people in the -room--so much the better; let all hear who would hear. It would be so -much the greater propitiation to an outraged heaven. She came in with a -kind of dumb state about her, everybody giving way before her. “The -mother!” they all said to each other with dismay, yet excitement. Some -one brought her a chair with anxious and pitying looks. She put it away -with a wave of her hand, yet made a little curtsey of acknowledgment in -old-fashioned politeness. It never occurred to her mind to inquire why -she was received with such obsequious attention. She advanced to the -table at which Sir Henry sat. He too looked pityingly, kindly at her, -not like his usual severity. God had prepared everything for her -atonement--was it not an earnest of its acceptance that He should thus -have put every obstacle out of her way? - -“Sir Henry Stanton,” she said, “I’ve come to make you acquaint with a -story that all the country should have heard long ago. I’ve not had the -courage to tell it till this moment when the Lord has given me strength. -Bid them take pen and paper and put it all down in hand of write, and -I’ll set my name to it. It’s to clear them that are innocent that I’ve -come to speak, and to let it be known who was guilty; but it wasna him -that was guilty--it wasna him--but the madness in him,” she said, her -voice breaking for a moment. “My poor distracted lad!’ - -“Give her a seat,” said Sir Henry. “My poor woman, if you have any -information to give about this terrible event----” - -“Ay, I have information--plenty information. Nay, I want no seat. I’m -standing as if I was at the judgment-seat of God; there’s where I’ve -stood this many a year, and been judged, but aye held fast. What is man, -a worm, to strive with his Maker?--but me, I’ve done that, that am but a -woman. I humbly crave the Almighty’s pardon, and I’ve made up my mind to -do justice now--at the last.” - -The people about looked at each other, questioning one another what it -was, all but two, who knew what she meant. Young Lord Stanton, who was -close to the table, looked across at a tall stranger behind, by whom the -village constable was standing, and who replied to Geoff’s look by a -melancholy half-smile. The others looked at each other, and ’Lizabeth, -though she saw no one, saw this wave of meaning, and felt it natural -too. - -“Ay,” she said, “you may wonder; and you’ll wonder more before all’s -done. I am a woman that was the mother of three; bonny bairns--though I -say it that ought not; ye might have ranged the country from Carlisle to -London town, and not found their like. My Lily was the beauty of the -whole water; up or down, there was not one that you would look at when -my lass was by. What need I speak? You all know that as well as me.” - -The swell of pride in her as she spoke filled the whole company with a -thrill of admiration and wonder, like some great actress disclosing the -greatness of impassioned nature in the simplest words. She was old, but -she was beautiful too. She looked round upon them with the air of a -dethroned empress, from whom the recollection of her imperial state -could never depart. Rachel could not have done it, nor perhaps any other -of her profession. There was the sweetness of remembered triumph in the -midst of the most tragic depths; a gleam of pride and pleasure out of -the background of shame and pain. - -“Ah! that’s all gone and past,” she went on with a sigh. “My eldest lad -was more than handsome, he was a genius as well. He was taken away from -me when he was but a little lad--and never came home again till--till -the devil got hold of him, and made him think shame of his poor mother, -and the poor place he was born in. I would never have blamed him. I -would have had him hold his head with the highest, as he had a -right--for had he not gotten that place for himself?--but when he came -back to the water-side a great gentleman and scholar, and would never -have let on where he belonged to, one that is not here to bear the -blame,” said ’Lizabeth, setting her teeth--“one that is gone to his -account--and well I wot the Almighty has punished him for his ill -deeds--betrayed my lad. Some of the gentry were good to him--as good as -the angels in heaven--but some were as devils, that being their nature. -And this is what I’ve got to say:” here she made a pause, raised herself -to her full height, and threw off the red kerchief from her head in her -agitation. “I’ve come here to accuse before God, and you, Sir Henry, my -son, Abel Bampfylde, him I was most proud of and loved best, of the -murder of young Lord Stanton, which took place on the morning of the 2nd -of August, eighteen hundred and forty-five--fifteen years ago and more.” - -The sensation that followed is indescribable. Sir Henry Stanton himself -rose from his seat, excited by wonder, horror, and pity, beyond all -ordinary rule. The bystanders had but a vague sense of the extraordinary -revelation she made, so much were they moved by the more extraordinary -passion in her, and the position in which she stood. “My good woman, my -poor woman!” he cried, “this last dreadful tragedy has gone to your -brain--and no wonder. You don’t know what you say.” - -She smiled--mournfully enough, but still it was a smile--and shook her -head. “If you had said it as often to yourself as I have done--night and -day--night and day; open me when I’m dead, and you’ll find it here,” she -cried--all unaware that this same language of passion had been used -before--and pressing her hand upon her breast. “The second of August, -eighteen hundred and forty-five--if you had said it over as often as -me!” - -There was a whisper all about, and the lawyer of the district, who acted -as Sir Henry’s clerk on important occasions, stooped towards him and -said something. “The date is right. Yes, yes, I know the date is right,” -Sir Henry said, half-angrily. Then added, “There must be insanity in the -family. What more like the effort of a diseased imagination than to link -the old crime of fifteen years ago with what has happened to-day?” - -“Is it me that you call insane?” said ’Lizabeth. “Eh, if it was but me! -But well I know what I’m saying.” Then the wild looks of all around her -suddenly impressed the old woman, too much occupied hitherto to think -what their looks meant. She turned round upon them with slowly awakening -anxiety. “You’re looking strange at me,” she cried, “you’re all looking -strange at me! What is this you’re saying that has happened to-day? Oh, -my lad is mad!--he’s roaming the hills, and Dick after him; he does na -know that he’s doing; he’s out of his senses; it’s no ill meaning. Lads, -some of you tell me, I’m going distracted. What has happened to-day?” - -The change in her appearance was wonderful; her solemn stateliness and -abstraction were gone. Here was something she did not know. The flush of -anxiety came to her cheeks, her eyes contracted, her lips fell apart. - -“Tell me,” she said, “for the love of God!” - -No one moved. They looked at each other with pale, alarmed faces. How -could they tell her? Geoff stepped forward and took her by the arm very -gently. “Will you come with me?” he said. “Something has happened; -something that will grieve you deeply. I--I promised Dick to tell you, -but not here. Won’t you come with me?” - -She drew herself out of his grasp with some impatience. “There’s been -some new trouble,” she said to herself--“some new trouble! No doubt more -violence. Oh, God, forgive him; but he does not know what he’s doing. -It’s you, my young lord?--you know it’s true what I’ve been saying. But -this new trouble, what is it?--more blood? Oh, tell me the worst; I can -bear it all, say, even if he was dead.” - -“’Lizabeth,” said Geoff, with tears in his eyes--and again everybody -looked on as at a tragedy--“you are a brave woman; you have borne a -great deal in your life. He is dead; but that is not all.” - -She did not note, nor perhaps hear, the last words. How should she? The -first was enough. She stood still in the midst of them, all gazing at -her, with her hands clasped before her. For a moment she said nothing. -The last drop of blood seemed to ebb from her brown cheeks. Then she -raised her face upward, with a smile upon it. “The Lord God be praised,” -she said; “He’s taken my lad before me.” - -And when they brought to her the seat she had rejected, ’Lizabeth -allowed herself to be placed upon it. The extreme tension of both body -and mind seemed to have relaxed. The look of tragic endurance left her -face. A softened aspect of suffering, a kind of faint smile, like a wan -sunbeam, stole over it. The moisture came to her strained eyes. “Gone? -Is he gone at last? On the hill-side was it?--in some wild corner, where -none but God could be near, not his mother? And me that was dreading and -dreading I would be taken first; for who would have patience like his -mother? But after all, you know, neighbours, the father comes foremost; -and had more to do with him--more to do with him--than even me.” - -“Take her away, Geoff,” said Sir Henry. The men were all overcome with -this scene, and with the knowledge of what remained to be told. Sir -Henry was not easily moved, but there was something even in _his_ throat -which choked him. He could not bear it, though it was nothing to him. -“Geoff, this is not a place to tell her all you have got to tell. Take -her away--take her--to Lady Stanton.” - -“Nay, nay,” she said; “it’s my deathdoom, but it’s not like other -sorrow--I know well what grief is--when I heard for certain my Lily was -dead and gone, and me never to see her more. But this is not the same; -it’s my death, but I cannot call it sorrow; not like the loss of a son. -I’m glad too, if you understand that. Poor lad!--my Abel! Ay, ay; you’ll -not tell me but what God understands, and is more pitiful of His -handiwork, say than the like of you or me.” - -“Come with me,” said Geoff, taking her by the arm. “Come, and I will -tell you everything, my poor ’Lizabeth. You know you have a friend in -me.” - -“Ay, my young lord; but first let them write down what I’ve said, and -let me put my name to it. All the more because he’s dead and gone this -day.” - -“Everything shall be done as you wish,” said Geoff anxiously; “but come -with me--come with me--my poor woman; this is not a place for you.” - -“No,” she said--she would not rise from her seat. She turned round to -the table where Sir Henry and his clerk sat. “I must end my work now -it’s begun--I’ve another son, my kind gentlemen, and he will never -forgive me if I do not end my work. Write it out and let me sign. I have -but my Dick to think of now.” - -A thrill of horror ran through the little assembly: to tell her that he -too was gone, who would dare to do it? John Musgrave, whom she had not -seen, stood behind, and covered his face with his hands. Sir Henry, for -all his steady nerves and unsympathetic mind, fell back in his chair -with a low groan. Only young Geoff, his features all quivering, the -tears in his eyes, stood by her side. - -“Humour her,” he said. “Let her have her own way. None of us at this -moment surely could refuse her her way.” - -The lawyer nodded. He had a heart of flesh and not of stone; and -’Lizabeth sat and waited, with her hands clasped together, her head a -little raised, her countenance beyond the power of painting. Grief and -joy mingled in it, and relief and anguish. Her eyes were dilated and -wet, but she shed no tears; their very orbits seemed enlarged, and there -was a quivering smile upon her mouth--a smile such as makes spectators -weep. “Here I and sorrow sit.” There was never a king worthy the name -but would have felt his state as nothing in this presence. But there was -no struggle in her now. She had yielded, and all was peace about her. -She would have waited for days had it been necessary. That what she had -begun should be ended was the one thing above all. - -A man came hurriedly in as all the people present waited round, -breathless and reverential, for the completion of her testimony. Their -business, whatever it was, was arrested by force of nature. The kind old -Dogberry from the village, who had been standing by John Musgrave’s side -by way of guarding him, put up his hand to his forehead and made a -rustic bow to his supposed prisoner. “I always knowed that was how it -would turn out,” he said, as he hobbled off, to which John Musgrave -replied only by a faint smile, but stood still, as motionless as a -picture, though all semblance of restraint had melted away. But while -all waited thus reverentially a sudden messenger came rushing in, and -addressing Sir Henry in a loud voice, announced that the coroner had -sent him to make preparations for the inquest. “And he wants to know -what time it will be most convenient for the jury to inspect the two -bodies; and if they are both in the same place; and if it’s true.” - -There was a universal hush, at which the man stopped in amazement. Then -his eye, guided by the looks of the others, fell upon the old woman in -the chair. She had heard him, and she was roused. Her face turned -towards him with a growing wonder. “She here! O Lord, forgive me!” he -cried, and fell back. - -“Two bodies!” she said. A shudder came over her. She got up slowly from -her seat and looked round upon them all. “Two--another, another!--oh, my -unhappy lad!” She wrung her hands and looked round upon them, “Maybe -another house made desolate; maybe another woman--Will you tell me who -the other was?” - -Here the labouring man, who had been with Wild Bampfylde on the -hill-side, and who was standing by, suddenly succumbed to the strange -horror and anguish of the moment. He burst out loudly into tears, crying -like a child. “Oh, poor ’Lizabeth, poor ’Lizabeth!” he cried; he could -not bear any more. - -’Lizabeth looked at this man with the air of one awakening from a dream. -Then she turned a look of inquiry upon those around her. No one would -meet her eye. They shrank one behind another away from her, and more -than one man burst forth into momentary weeping like the first, and some -covered their faces in their hands. Even Geoff, sobbing like a child, -turned away from her for a moment. She held out her hands to them with a -pitiful cry, “Say it’s not that--say it’s not that!” she cried. The -shrill scream of anguish ran through the house. It brought Lady Stanton -and all the women shuddering from every corner. They all knew what it -was and how it was. The mother! What more needed to be said? They came -in and surrounded her, the frivolous girls and the rough women from the -kitchen, all together, while the men stood about looking on. Not even -Sir Henry could resist the passion of horror and sorrow which had taken -possession of the place. He cried with a voice all hoarse and trembling, -“Take her away!--take her away!” - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIX. - -THE TRAGEDY ENDS. - - -’Lizabeth Bampfylde went on to Stanton that same afternoon, where the -remains of her two sons were lying. But she would not go in Lady -Stanton’s carriage. - -“Nay, nay; carriages were never made for me. I will walk, my lady. It’s -best for me, body and soul.” - -She had recovered herself after the anguish of that discovery. Before -the sympathisers round her had ceased to sob, ’Lizabeth had raised -herself up in the midst of them like an old tower. The storm had raged -round her, but had not crushed her. Her face and even her lips had lost -all trace of colour, her eyes were hollow and widened out in their -sockets, like caves to hold the slow welling out of salt tears. There -was a convulsive trembling now in the pose of her fine head, and in her -hands; but her strength was not touched. - -“Oh, how can you walk?” Lady Stanton said; “you are not able for it.” - -“I am able for anything it’s God’s pleasure to send,” she said; “though -it’s little even He can do to me now.” The women stood round her with -pitiful looks, some of them weeping unrestrainedly; but the tears that -’Lizabeth shed came one by one, slow gathering, rarely falling. She put -on her red handkerchief over her cap again, with hands that were steady -enough till that twitch of nervous movement took them. “It should be -black,” she said, with a half-smile; “ay, I should be a’ black from head -to foot, from head to foot, if there was one left to mind.” Then she -turned upon them with again her little stately curtsey. “I’m not a woman -of many words, and ye may judge what heart I have to speak; but I thank -ye all,” and, with once more a kind of smile, she set out upon her way. - -John Musgrave had been standing by; he had spoken to no one, not even to -Lady Stanton, who, trembling with a consciousness that he was there, had -not been able, in the presence of this great anguish, to think of any -other. He, and his story, and his return, altogether had been thrown -entirely into the background by these other events. He came forward now, -and followed ’Lizabeth out of the gate. “I am going with you,” he said. -The name “mother” was on his lips, but he dared not say it. She gave a -slight glance at him, and recognised him. But if one had descended from -heaven to accompany her, what would that have been to ’Lizabeth? It was -as if they had parted yesterday. - -“Ay,” she said; then, after a pause, “it’s you that has the best right.” - -The tragedy had closed very shortly after that penultimate chapter which -ended with the death of Wild Bampfylde. When the carriage and its -attendants arrived to remove him to Stanton he was lying on Geoff’s -shoulder, struggling for his last breath. It was too late then to -disturb the agony. The men stood about reverentially till the last gasp -was over, then carried the vagrant tenderly to the foot of the hill, -with a respect which no one had ever shown him before. One of the party, -a straggler, who had strayed further up the dell in the interval of -waiting, saw traces above among the broken bushes, which made him call -some of his comrades as soon as their first duty was done. And there on -the little plateau, where Walter Stanton’s body had been found fifteen -years before, lay that of his murderer, the madman who had wrought so -much misery. He was found lying across the stream as if he had stooped -to drink, and had not been able to raise himself. The running water had -washed all traces of murder from him. When they lifted him, with much -precaution, not knowing whether his stillness might mean a temporary -swoon, or a feint of madness to beguile them, his pale marble -countenance seemed a reproach to the lookers-on. Even with the aspect of -his victim fresh in their eyes, the men could not believe that this had -ever been a furious maniac or man slayer. One of them went to look for -Geoff, and to arrest the progress of the other funeral procession. -“There’s another one, my lord,” he said, “all torn and tattered in his -clothes, but with the look of a king.” And Geoff, notwithstanding his -horror, could not but look with a certain awe upon the worn countenance. -It might have been that of a man worn with great labours, with thought, -with the high musings of philosophy, or schemes of statesmanship. He was -carried down and laid by the side of his brother whom he had killed. All -the cottagers, the men from the field, the passengers on the way, stood -looking on, or followed the strange procession. Such a piece of news, as -may be supposed, flew over the country like wildfire. There was no -family better known than the Bampfyldes, notwithstanding their humble -rank. The handsome Bampfyldes: and here they had come to an end! - -Old ’Lizabeth, as she made her way to Stanton, was followed everywhere -by the same atmosphere of sympathy. The women came out to their doors to -look after her, and even strong men sobbed as she passed. What would -become of her, poor lonely woman? She gave a great cry when she saw the -two pale faces lying peacefully together. They were both men in the full -prime of life, in the gravity of middle age, fully developed, strongly -knit, men all formed for life, and full of its matured vigour. They lay -side by side as they had lain when they were children. That one of them -had taken the life of the other, who could have imagined possible? The -poacher and vagrant looked like some great general nobly dead in -battle, the madman like a sage. Death had redeemed them from their -misery, their poverty, the misfortunes which were greater than either. -Their mother gave a great cry of anguish yet pride as she stood beside -them. “My lads,” she cried, “my two handsome lads, my bonny boys!” -’Lizabeth had come to that pass when words have no meaning to express -the depths and the heights. What could a woman say who sees her sons -stretched dead before her? She uttered one inarticulate wail of anguish, -as a dumb creature might have done, and then her overwrought soul -reeling, tottered almost on the verge of reason, and she cried out in -pride and agony, “My handsome lads! my bonny boys!” - -“Come home with me,” said John Musgrave. “We have made a bad business of -it, ’Lizabeth, you and I. This is all our sacrifice has come to. Nothing -left but your wreck of life, and mine. But come home with me. Where I -am, there will always be a place for Lily’s mother. And there is little -Lily still, and she will comfort you----” - -“Eh! comfort me!” She smiled at the word. “Nay, I must go to my own -house. I thank you, John Musgrave, and I do not deserve it at your hand. -This fifteen years it has been me that has murdered you, not my lad -yonder, not my Abel. What did he know? And I humbly beg your pardon, and -your little bairns’ pardon, on my knees--but nay, nay, I must go home. -My own house--there is no other place for me.” - -They came round her and took her hands, and pleaded with her too--Geoff, -and his mother, with the tears streaming from her eyes. “Oh, my poor -woman, my poor woman!” Lady Stanton cried, “stay here while _they_ are -here.” But nothing moved ’Lizabeth. She made her little curtsey to them -all, with that strange smile like a pale light wavering upon her face. - -“Nay, nay,” she said. “Nay, nay--I humbly thank my lady and my lord, and -a’ kind friends--but my own house, that is the only place for me.” - -“But you cannot go so far, if that were all. You must be worn out with -walking only--if there was nothing more----” - -“Me--worn out!--with walking!” It was a kind of laugh which came from -her dry throat. “Ay, very near--very near it--that will come soon, if -the Lord pleases. But good-day to you all, and my humble thanks, my lord -and my lady--you’re kind--kind to give them house-room; till Friday; but -they’ll give no trouble, no trouble!” she said, with again that -something which sounded like a laugh. Laughing or crying, it was all one -to ’Lizabeth. The common modes of expression were garments too small for -her soul. - -“Stay only to-night--it will be dark long before you can be there. Stay -to-night,” they pleaded. She broke from them with a cry. - -“I canna bide this, I canna bide it! I’m wanting the stillness of the -fells, and the arms of them about me. Let me be--oh, let me be! There’s -a moon,” she added, abruptly, “and dark or light, I’ll never lose my -way.” - -Thus they had to leave her to do as she pleased in the end. She would -not eat anything, or even sit down, but went out with her hood over her -head into the gathering shadows. They stood watching her till the sound -of her steps died out on the way--firm, steady, unfaltering steps. Life -and death, and mortal anguish, and wearing care, had done their worst -upon old ’Lizabeth. She stood like a rock against them all. - -She came down to the funeral on Friday, as she had herself appointed, -and saw her sons laid in their grave, and again she was entreated to -remain. But even little Lilias, whom her father brought forward to aid -the pleadings of the others, could not move her. “Honey-sweet!” she -said, with a tender light in her eyes; but she had more room for the -children when her heart was full of living cares. It was empty now, and -there was no room. A few weeks after, she was found dying peaceably in -her bed, giving all kinds of directions to her children. “Abel will have -your father’s watch, he aye wanted it from a baby--and Lily gets all my -things, as is befitting. They will set her up for her wedding. And Dick, -my little Dick, that has aye been the little one--who says I was not -thinking of Dick? He’s been my prop and my right hand when a’ deserted -me. The poor little house and the little bit of land, and a’ his mother -has--who should they be for, but Dick?” Thus she died tranquilly, seeing -them all round her; and all that was cruel and bitter in the lot of the -Bampfyldes came to an end. - - - - -CHAPTER XL. - -CONCLUSION. - - -John Musgrave settled down without any commotion into his natural place -in his father’s house. The old Squire himself mended from the day when -Nello, very timid, but yet brave to repress the signs of his reluctance, -was brought into his room. He played with the child as if he had been a -child himself, and so grew better day by day, and got out of bed again, -and save for a little dragging of one leg as he limped along, brought no -external sign of his “stroke” out of his sick-room. But he wrote no more -Monographs, studied no more. His life had come back to him as the Syrian -lord in the Bible got back his health after his leprosy--“like the flesh -of a little child.” The Squire recovered after a while the power of -taking his part in a conversation, and looked more venerable than ever -with his faded colour and subdued forces. But his real life was all with -little Nello, who by and by got quite used to his grandfather, and -lorded it over him as children so often do. When the next summer came, -they went out together, the Squire generally in a wheeled chair, Nello -walking, or riding by his side on the pony his grandpapa had given him. -There was no doubt now as to who was heir. When Randolph came to -Penninghame, after spending a day and a half in vain researches for -Nello, life having become too exciting at that moment at the Castle to -leave any one free to send word of the children’s safety--he found all -doubt and notion of danger over for John--- and he himself established -in his natural place. Whether the Squire had forgotten everything in his -illness, or whether he had understood the story which Mary took care to -repeat two or three times very distinctly by his bedside, no one knew. -But he never objected to John’s presence, made no question about -him--accepted him as if he had been always there. Absolutely as if there -had been no breach in the household existence at all, the eldest son -took his place; and that Nello was the heir was a thing beyond doubt in -any reasonable mind. This actual settlement of all difficulties had -already come about when Randolph came. His father took no notice of him, -and John, who thought it was his brother’s fault that his little son had -been so unkindly treated, found it difficult to afford Randolph any -welcome. He did not, however, want any welcome in such circumstances. He -stayed for a single night, feeling himself coldly looked upon by all. -Mr. Pen, who spent half his time at the Castle, more than any one turned -a cold shoulder upon his brother clergyman. - -“You felt it necessary that the child should go to school quite as much -as I did,” Randolph said, on the solitary occasion when the matter was -discussed. - -“Yes, but not to any school,” the Vicar said. “I would rather----” he -paused for a sufficiently strong image, but it was hard to find; “I -would rather--have got up at six o’clock every day, and sacrificed -everything--rather than have exposed Nello to the life he had -there;--and you who are a father yourself.” - -“Yes; but my boy has neither a girl’s name nor a girl’s want of courage. -He is not a baby that would flinch at the first rough word. I did not -know the nature of the thing,” said Randolph, with a sneer. “I have no -acquaintance with any but straightforward and manly ways.” - -The Vicar followed him out in righteous wrath. He produced from his -pocket a hideous piece of pink paper. - -“Do you know who sent this?” he asked. - -Randolph looked at it, taken aback, and tried to bluster forth an -expression of wonder-- - -“I--how should I know?” - -“What did you mean by it?” cried the gentle Vicar, in high -excitement;--“did you think I did not know my duty? did you think I was -a cold-blooded reptile like--like the man that sent that? Do you think -it was in me to betray my brother? I know nothing bad enough for him who -made such a suggestion. And he nearly gained his point. The devil knows -what tools to work with. He works with the weakness of good people as -well as with the strength of bad,” cried mild Mr. Pen, inspired for once -in his life with righteous indignation. “Judas did it himself at least, -bad as he was. He did not whisper treason in a man’s ears nor in a -woman’s heart.” - -“I don’t know what you mean,” said Randolph, with guilt in his face. - -“Not all, no; fortunately you don’t know, nor any one else, the trouble -you might have made. But no less, though it never came to pass, was it -that traitor’s fault.” - -“When you take to speaking riddles I give it up,” said Randolph, -shrugging his shoulders. - -But Mr. Pen was so hot in moral force that he was glad to get away. He -slept one night under his father’s roof, no one giving him much -attention, and then went away, never to return again; but went back to -his believing wife, too good a fate, who smoothed him down and healed -all his wounds. “My husband is like most people who struggle to do their -duty,” she said. “His brother was very ungrateful, though Randolph had -done so much for him. And the little boy, who had been dreadfully -spoiled, ran away from the school when he had cost my husband so much -trouble. And even his sister Mary showed him no kindness; that is the -way when a man is so disinterested as Randolph, doing all he can for his -own family, for their _real_ good.” - -And this, at the end, came to be what Randolph himself thought. - -Mrs. Pen, after coming home hysterical from Elfdale, made a clean breast -to her husband, and showed him the telegram, and confessed all her -apprehensions for him. What could a man do but forgive the folly or even -wickedness done for his sweet sake? And Mrs. Pen went through a few -dreadful hours, when in the morning John Musgrave came back from his -night journey and the warrant was put in force. If they should hang him -what would become of her? She always believed afterwards that it was her -William’s intervention which had saved John, and she never believed in -John’s innocence, let her husband say what he would. For Mrs. Pen said -wisely, that wherever there is smoke there must be fire, and it was no -use telling her that Lord Stanton had not been killed; for it was in the -last edition of the _Fellside History_, and therefore must be true. - -When all was over Sir Henry and Lady Stanton made a formal visit of -congratulation at Penninghame. Sir Henry told John that it had been a -painful necessity to issue the warrant, but that a man must do his duty, -whatever it is; and as, under Providence, this was the means of making -everything clear he could not regret that he had done it now. Lady -Stanton said nothing, or next to nothing. She talked a little to Mary, -making stray little remarks about the children, and drawing Nello to her -side. Lilias she was afraid of, with those great eyes. Was that child to -be Geoff’s wife? she thought. Ah! how much better, had he been the kind -young husband who should have delivered her own Annie or Fanny. This -little girl would want nothing of the kind; her father would watch over -her, he would let no one meddle with her, not like a poor woman with a -hard husband and stepdaughters. She trembled a little when she put her -hand into John’s. She looked at him with moisture in her eyes. - -“I have always believed in you, always hoped to see you here again,” she -said. - -“Come, Mary, the carriage is waiting,” said Sir Henry. He said after -that this was all that was called for, and here the intercourse between -the two houses dropped. Mary could not help “taking an interest” in John -Musgrave still, but what did it matter? everybody took an interest in -him now. - -As for Geoff, he became, as he had a way of doing, the sun of the house -at Penninghame; even the old Squire took notice of his kind, cheerful -young face. He neglected Elfdale and his young cousins, and even Cousin -Mary, whom he loved. But it was not to be supposed that John Musgrave -would allow a series of love passages to go on indefinitely for years -between his young neighbour and his daughter Lilias, as yet not quite -thirteen years old. The young man was sent away after a most affecting -parting, not to return for three years. Naturally, Lady Stanton rebelled -much, she who had kept her son at home during all his life; but what -could she do? Instead of struggling vainly she took the wiser part, and -though it was a trial to tear herself from Stanton and all the servants, -who were so kind, and the household which went upon wheels, upon velvet, -and gave her no trouble, she made up her mind to it, and took her maid -and Benson and Mr. Tritton and went “abroad” too. What is it to go -abroad when a lady is middle-aged and has a grown-up son and such an -establishment?--but she did it: “for I shall not have him very long!” -she said, with a sigh. - -Lilias was sixteen when Geoff came home. Can any one doubt that the -child had grown up with her mind full of the young hero who had acted so -great a part in her young life? When the old Squire died and Nello went -to school, a very different school from Mr. Swan’s, the idea of “Mr. -Geoff” became more and more her companion. It was not love, perhaps, in -the ordinary meaning of the word; Lilias did not know what that meant. -Half an elder brother, half an enchanted prince, more than half a hero -of romance, he wove himself with every story and every poem that was -written, to Lilias. He it was, and no Prince Ferdinand, whom Miranda -thought so fair. It was he who slew all the dragons and giants, and -delivered whole dungeons full of prisoners. Her girlhood was somewhat -lonely, chiefly because of this soft mist of semi-betrothal which was -about her. Not only was she already a woman, though a child, but a woman -separated from others, a bride doubly virginal because he was absent to -whom all her thoughts were due. “What if he should forget her?” Mary -Musgrave would say, alarmed. She thought it neither safe nor right for -the child, who was the beauty and flower of Penninghame, as she herself -had been, though in so different a way. Mary now had settled down as the -lady of Penninghame, as her brother was its lawful lord. John was not -the kind of man to make a second marriage, even if, as his sister -sometimes fancied, his first had but little satisfied his heart. But of -this he said nothing, thankful to be able at the end to redeem some -portion of the life thus swallowed up by one of those terrible, but -happily rare, mistakes, which are no less wretched that they are half -divine. He had all he wanted in his sister’s faithful companionship and -in his children. There is no more attractive household than that in -which, after the storms of life, a brother and sister set up peacefully -together the old household gods, never dispersed, which were those of -their youth. Mary was a little more careful, perhaps, of her niece, a -little more afraid of the troubles in her way, than if she had been her -daughter. She watched Lilias with great anxiety, and read between the -lines of Geoff’s letters with vague scrutiny, looking always for -indications of some change. - -Lilias was sixteen in the end of October, the third after the previous -events recorded here. She had grown to her full height, and her beauty -had a dreamy, poetical touch from the circumstances, which greatly -changed the natural expression appropriate to the liquid dark eyes and -noble features she had from her mother and her mother’s mother. Her eyes -were less brilliant than they would have been had they not looked so far -away, but they were more sweet. Her brightness altogether was tempered -and softened, and kept within that modesty of childhood to which her -youthful age really belonged, though nature and life had developed her -more than her years. Though she was grown up she kept many of her -childish ways, and still sat, as Mary had always done, at the door of -the old hall, now wonderfully decorated and restored, but yet the old -hall still. The two ladies shared it between them for all their hours of -leisure, but Mary had given up her seat at the door to the younger -inhabitant, partly because she loved to see Lilias there with the sun -upon her, partly because she herself began to feel the cool airs of the -north less halcyon than of old. The books that Lilias carried with her -were no longer fairy tales, but maturer enchantments of poetry. And -there she sat absorbed in verse and lost to all meaner delights, on the -eve of her birthday, a soft air ruffling the little curls on her -forehead, the sun shining upon her uncovered head. Lilias loved the sun. -She was not afraid of it nor her complexion, and the sun of October is -not dangerous. She had a hand up to shade the book, which was too -dazzling in the light, but nothing to keep the golden light from her. -She sat warm and glorified in the long, slanting, dazzling rays. - -Mary had heard a horse’s hoofs, and, being a little restless, came -forward softly from her seat behind to see who it was; but Lilias, lost -in the poetry and the sunshine, heard nothing. - - “She wept with pity and delight, - She blush’d with love and virgin shame, - And like the murmur of a dream - I heard her breathe my name. - - “Her bosom heaved, she stepp’d aside - As conscious of my look she stept, - Then suddenly, with timorous eye, - She fled to me and wept.” - -Mary saw what Lilias did not see, the horseman at the foot of the slope. -He looked and smiled, and signed to her over the lovely head in the -sunshine. He was brown and ruddy with health and travel, his eyes -shining, his breath coming quick. Three years! as long as a -lifetime--but it was over. Suddenly, “Lily--my little Lily,” he cried, -unable to keep silence more. - -She sprang to her feet like a startled deer; the book fell from her -hands; her eyes gave a great gleam and flash, and softened in the golden -light of sunset and tenderness. The poetry or the life, which was the -most sweet? “Yes, Mr. Geoff,” she said. - - -THE END. - - -Richard Clay and Sons, Limited, - -LONDON AND BUNGAY. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YOUNG MUSGRAVE *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Young Musgrave</p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Mrs. Margaret Oliphant</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: September 25, 2021 [eBook #66376]</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images available at The Internet Archive)</div> - -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YOUNG MUSGRAVE ***</div> -<hr class="full" /> - -<div class="c"> -<a href="images/cover.jpg"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" height="500" alt="[The image -of the book's cover is unavailable.]" /></a> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_i" id="page_i">{i}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_ii" id="page_ii">{ii}</a></span> </p> - -<p class="c">YOUNG MUSGRAVE.</p> - -<div class="blockquot1"><p>“Touching sacrifice: of thy worldly possessions give all, even to -the spoiling of thy goods; for thus teaches our Lord Christ, and -our blessed master San Francesco. If a poor person, more poor than -thou, would have thy habit, which it is not permitted by the rule -of the order to give, let him take it from thee: so wilt thou do no -wrong; but thy life, which is not thine, give not: it is but given -to thee for God’s service; thou canst not take it up, neither canst -thou lay it down. This rule obey if thou wouldest be free from -presumption. For our Lord Christ alone, whose life was His own, -hath power and privilege to give it away.”—<i>Sermons, BB. Frati -Ginepro e Lausdeo, dei Frati Minori.</i></p></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_iii" id="page_iii">{iii}</a></span> </p> - -<h1>YOUNG MUSGRAVE</h1> - -<p class="c">BY<br /> -<br /> -MRS. OLIPHANT<br /> -<br /><small> -AUTHOR OF “THE CURATE IN CHARGE” ETC.</small><br /> -<br /> -<br /> -“No man can redeem his brother.”—Ps. xlix. 7<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<span class="eng">London</span><br /> -MACMILLAN AND CO.<br /> -AND NEW YORK<br /> -1894<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_iv" id="page_iv">{iv}</a></span><br /> -<br /><small> -<span class="smcap">Richard Clay and Sons, Limited</span>,<br /> -LONDON AND BUNGAY.<br /> -<br /> -<i>First Edition</i> (3 Vols. Crown 8vo.) 1877. <i>Second Edition</i> (1 Vol. Crown 8vo.)<br /> -1878. <i>Reprinted</i> (Globe 8vo.) 1883, 1886, (Crown 8vo.) 1894.<br /></small> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_v" id="page_v">{v}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS.</h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="3" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr><th class="prt"><a href="#PART_I">PART I.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> - -<tr><td>THE FAMILY </td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_1">1</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>MARY</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_10">10</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>THE NEW-COMERS</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_20">20</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="prt"><a href="#PART_II">PART II.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>AFTER THE SILENCE OF YEARS</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_30">30</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>WAKING UP</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_37">37</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI.</a> - -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_vi" id="page_vi">{vi}</a></span></th></tr> -<tr><td>AT THE VICARAGE</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_46">46</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="prt"><a href="#PART_III">PART III.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>THE CHILDREN AT THE CASTLE</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_56">56</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>LADY STANTON</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_66">66</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>AT ELFDALE</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_77">77</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>THE OTHER SIDE</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_86">86</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>AN AFTERNOON’S WORK</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_95">95</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>VISITORS</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_104">104</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="prt"><a href="#PART_IV">PART IV.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>FAMILY CARES</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_116">116</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>AN UNLOOKED-FOR VISITOR</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_123">123</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>RANDOLPH</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_133">133</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI.</a> - -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_vii" id="page_vii">{vii}</a></span></th></tr> - -<tr><td>DUCKS AND DRAKES</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_144">144</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>THE BAMPFYLDES</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_156">156</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">CHAPTER XVIII.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>A NEW FRIEND</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_169">169</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">CHAPTER XIX.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>A MIDNIGHT WALK</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_177">177</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_XX">CHAPTER XX.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>THE COTTAGE ON THE FELLS</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_187">187</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">CHAPTER XXI.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>AN EARLY MEETING</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_199">199</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">CHAPTER XXII.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>THE HENS AND THE DUCKLING</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_208">208</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">CHAPTER XXIII.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>COUSIN MARY’S OPINION</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_218">218</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">CHAPTER XXIV.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>THE SQUIRE AT HOME</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_227">227</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">CHAPTER XXV.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>A NEW VISITOR</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_240">240</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI">CHAPTER XXVI.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>IN SUSPENSE</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_249">249</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII">CHAPTER XXVII.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>AN APPARITION</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_261">261</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII">CHAPTER XXVIII.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_273">273</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX">CHAPTER XXIX.</a> - -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_viii" id="page_viii">{viii}</a></span></th></tr> -<tr><td>NELLO’S JOURNEY</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_282">282</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_XXX">CHAPTER XXX.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>A CHILD FORLORN</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_295">295</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI">CHAPTER XXXI.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>A CRISIS AT PENNINGHAME</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_306">306</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXII">CHAPTER XXXII.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>NELLO’S RESCUE</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_321">321</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIII">CHAPTER XXXIII.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>THE BABES IN THE WOOD</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_330">330</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIV">CHAPTER XXXIV.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>THE NEW-COMER</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_338">338</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXV">CHAPTER XXXV.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>ANOTHER HELPER</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_348">348</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVI">CHAPTER XXXVI.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>THE BEGINNING OF THE END</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_358">358</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVII">CHAPTER XXXVII.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>A TRAITOR</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_366">366</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVIII">CHAPTER XXXVIII.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>THE MOTHER</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_373">373</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIX">CHAPTER XXXIX.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>THE TRAGEDY ENDS</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_384">384</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th><a href="#CHAPTER_XL">CHAPTER XL.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td>CONCLUSION</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_389">389</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_1" id="page_1">{1}</a></span></p> - -<h1>YOUNG MUSGRAVE.</h1> - -<h2><a name="PART_I" id="PART_I"></a>PART I.</h2> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I.<br /><br /> -<small>THE FAMILY.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> would be difficult to say how Penninghame Castle had got that -imposing name. It was an old house standing almost on the roadside, at -least at the termination of a rough country road leading from the -village, which widened into a square space at the side of the house. The -village road was lined with trees, and it pleased the Musgraves to -believe that it had been in happier days the avenue to their ancient -dwelling, while the rough square at the end had been the courtyard. The -place itself consisted of a small mansion not important enough to be -very distinctive in architecture, built on to the end of an old hall, -the only remaining portion of a much older and greater house. This hall -was entered directly by a great door of heavy oak, from which a slope of -ancient causeway descended into the road below—an entrance which was -the only thing like a castle in the whole <i>ensemble</i>, though it ought to -have led to an ancient gateway and portcullis rather than to the great -door generally wide open, through which, according to the story, a -horseman once entered to scare the guests at their feast and defy the -master at the head of the table. The hall was not used for such festive -purposes now, nor threatened by such warlike intruders. It had known -evil fortune in its day and had been degraded into a barn, its windows -blocked up, its decorations destroyed—but had come<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2">{2}</a></span> to life again for -the last fifty years and had come back to human use, though no longer as -of old. Round the corner was the front of the old mansion, built in that -pallid grey stone, which adds a sentiment of age, like the ashy paleness -of very old people, to the robust antiquity of mason-work more lasting -than any that is done now. Successive squires had nibbled at this old -front, making windows there and doorways here: windows which cut through -the string-courses above, and a prim Georgian front door, not even in -the centre of the old arched entrance which had been filled up, which -gave a certain air of disreputable irregularity to the pale and stern -old dwelling-place. Ivy and other clinging growths fortunately hid a -great deal of this, and added importance to the four great stacks of -chimneys, which, mantled in its short, large leaves and perpetual -greenness, looked like turrets, and dignified the house. A lake behind -somewhat coldly blue, and a great hill in front somewhat coldly green, -showed all the features of that north country which was not far enough -north for the wild vigour and vivifying tints of brown bracken and -heather. The lake came closely up in a little bay behind the older part -of the house where there was a rocky harbour for the boats of the -family; and between this little bay and the grey walls was the -flower-garden, old-fashioned and bright, though turned to the unkindly -east. Beyond this was a kind of broken park with some fine trees and a -great deal of rough underwood, which stretched along the further shore -of the lake and gave an air of dignity to the dwelling on that side. -This was still called “the Chase” as the house was called the Castle, in -memory it might be supposed of better days. The Musgraves had been -Cavaliers, and had wasted their substance in favour of the Charleses, -and their lands had been ravaged, their park broken up into fields, -their avenue made a common road, half by hostile neighbours, half by -vulgar intrusion, in the days when the Revolutionists had the upper -hand. So they said, at least, and pleas of this kind are respected -generally, save by the very cynical. Certainly the present occupants of -the house believed it fervently, and so did the village; and if it was -nothing more it was a great comfort and support to the family, and made -them regard the rude approach to “the Castle” with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_3" id="page_3">{3}</a></span> forbearance. The -public right of way had been established in those stormy times. It was a -sign even of the old greatness of the house. It was better than trim -lawns and smiling gardens, which would have required a great deal of -keeping up. It was, however, a family understanding that the first -Musgrave who made a rich marriage, or who in any other way became a -favourite of fortune, should by some vague means—an act of parliament -or otherwise—reclaim the old courtyard and avenue, and plant a pair of -magnificent gates between the castle and the village: also buy back all -the old property; also revive the title of Baron of Penninghame, which -had been in abeyance for the last two hundred years; and do many other -things to glorify and elevate the family to its pristine position; and -no Musgrave doubted that this deliverer would come sooner or later, -which took the bitterness out of their patience in the meantime and gave -them courage to wait.</p> - -<p>Another encouraging circumstance in their lot was that they were fully -acknowledged as the oldest family in the county. Other and richer -persons pushed in before them to its dignities, and they were no doubt -very much left out of its gaieties and pleasures; but no one doubted -that they had a right to take the lead, if ever they were rich enough. -This, however, did not seem likely, for the moment at least. The family -at Penninghame had, what is much to be avoided by families which would -be happy, a history, and a very recent one. There were two sons, but -neither of them had been seen at the Castle for nearly fifteen years, -and with the name of the elder of these there was connected a dark and -painful story, not much known to the new generation, but very well -remembered by all the middle-aged people in the county. Young Musgrave -had been for a year or two the most popular young squire in the north -country, but his brightness had ended in dismal clouds of misfortune and -trouble and bloodshedding, with perhaps crime involved, and certainly -many of the penalties of crime. He had not been seen in the north -country since the crisis which made all the world acquainted with his -unfortunate name; and his younger brother had re-appeared but once in -their father’s house, which was thus left desolate, except for the one -daughter, who had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_4" id="page_4">{4}</a></span> been its delight before and was now its only stay. So -far as the county knew, young Musgrave still lived, though he was never -mentioned, for there had been no signs of mourning in the house, such as -must have intimated to the neighbours the fact of John’s death—which -also of course would have made Randolph the heir. And save that once, -not even Randolph had ever come to break the monotony of life in his -father’s house. Squire Musgrave and his daughter lived there alone now. -They had been alone these fifteen years. They had little society, and -did not keep up a large establishment. He was old, and she was no longer -young enough to care for the gaieties of the rural neighbourhood. Thus -they had fallen out of the current of affairs. The family was “much -respected,” but comparatively little heard of after the undesired and -undesirable notoriety it had once gained.</p> - -<p>Thus abandoned by its sons, and denuded of the strongest elements of -life, it may well be supposed that the castle at Penninghame was a -melancholy house. What more easy than to conjure up the saddest picture -of such a dwelling? The old man, seated in his desolate home, brooding -over perhaps the sins of his sons, perhaps his own—some injudicious -indulgence, or untimely severity which had driven them from him; while -the sister, worn out by the monotony of her solitary life, shut herself -out from all society, and spent her life in longing for the absent, and -pleading for them—a sad, solitary woman, with no pleasure in her lot, -except that of the past. The picture would have been as appropriate as -touching, but it would not have been true. Old Mr. Musgrave was not the -erring father of romance. He was a well-preserved and spare little man, -over seventy, with cheeks of streaky red like winter apples, and white -hair, which he wore rather long, falling on the velvet collar of his -old-fashioned coat. He had been an outdoor man in his day, and had -farmed, and shot, and hunted, like others of his kind, so far as his -straitened means and limited stables permitted; but when years and -circumstances had impaired his activity he had been strong enough to -retire, of his own free will, while graceful abdication was still in his -power. He spent most of his time now in his library, with only a -constitutional walk, or easy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5" id="page_5">{5}</a></span> ramble upon his steady old cob, to vary -his life, except when quarter sessions called him forth, or any other -duty of the magistracy, to which he still paid the most conscientious -attention. The Musgraves were not people whom it was easy to crush, and -Fate had a hard bargain in the old squire, who found himself one -occupation when deprived of another with a spirit not often existing in -old age. He had committed plenty of mistakes in his day, and some which -had been followed by tragical consequences, a practical demonstration of -evil which fortunately does not attend all the errors of life; but he -did not brood over them in his old library, nor indulge unavailing -compunctions, nor consider himself under any doom; but on the contrary -studied his favourite problems in genealogy and heraldry, and county -history, and corresponded with <i>Notes and Queries</i>, and was in his way -very comfortable. He it was who first pointed out that doubtful -blazoning of Marmion’s shield, “colour upon colour,” which raised so -lively a discussion; and in questions of this kind he was an authority, -and thoroughly enjoyed the little tilts and controversies involved, many -of which were as warm as their subjects were insignificant. His family -was dropping, or rather had dropped, into decay; his eldest son was -virtually lost to his family and to society; his youngest son alienated -and a stranger; and some of this at least was the father’s fault. But -neither the decay of the house, nor the reflection that he was at least -partially to blame, made any great difference to the squire. There had -no doubt been moments, and even hours, when he had felt it bitterly; but -these moments, though perhaps they count for more than years in a man’s -life, do not certainly last so long, and age has a way of counterfeiting -virtue, which is generally very successful, even to its personal -consciousness. Mr. Musgrave was generally respected, and he felt himself -to be entirely respectable. He sat in his library and worked away among -his county histories, without either compunction or regret—who could -throw a stone at him? He had been rather unfortunate in his family, that -was all that could be said.</p> - -<p>And Mary Musgrave, his daughter, was just as little disposed to brood -upon the past. She had shed many tears in her day,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6">{6}</a></span> and suffered many -things. Perhaps it was in consequence of the family troubles which had -come upon her just at the turning-point in her life that she had never -married; for she had been one of the beauties of the district—courted -and admired by everybody, and wooed by many: by some who indeed still -found her beautiful, and by some who had learned to laugh at the old -unhappiness of which she was the cause. Miss Musgrave did not like these -last, which was perhaps natural; and even now there would be a tone of -satire in her voice when she noted the late marriage of one or another -of her old adorers. Women do not like men whose hearts they have broken, -to get quite healed, and console themselves; this is perhaps a poor -feeling, but it is instinctive, and though it may be stoutly struggled -against in some cases, and chidden into silence in many, it still -maintains an untolerated yet obstinate life. But neither the failure of -the adorations she once inspired nor the family misfortunes had crushed -her spirit. She lived a not unhappy life, notwithstanding all that had -happened. It was she who did everything that was done at Penninghame. -The reins which her father had dropped almost unawares she had taken up. -She managed the estate; kept the bailiff in order; did all business that -was necessary with the lawyer; and what was a greater feat still, kept -her father unaware of the almost absolute authority which she exercised -in his affairs. It had to be done, and she had not hesitated to do it; -and on the whole, she, too, though she had suffered many heartaches in -her day, was not unhappy now, but lived a life full of activity and -occupation. She was forty, and her hair began to be touched by grey—she -who had been one of the fairest flowers of the north country. A woman -always has to come down from that eminence somehow; whether she does it -by becoming some one’s wife or by merely falling back into the silence -of the past and leaving the place free for others, does not much matter. -Perhaps, indeed, it is the old maid who has the best of it. A little -romance continues to encircle her in the eyes of most of those who have -worshipped her youth. She has not married; why has she not married—that -once admired of all admirers? Has it been that she, too, sharing the lot -which she inflicted on so many, was not loved where she loved? or was -it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7">{7}</a></span> perhaps that she had made a mistake—sent away some one, perhaps, -who knows, the very man who thought of her thus kindly and -regretfully—whom she was afterwards sorry to have sent away? Nobody -said this in words, but Mary Musgrave at forty was more tenderly thought -of than Lady Stanton, who had been the rival queen of the county. Lady -Stanton was stout now-a-days; in men’s minds, when they met her sailing -into a ball-room, prematurely indued with the duties of chaperon to her -husband’s grown-up daughters, there would arise a half-amused wonder how -they could have worshipped at her feet as they once did. “Can this -muckle wife be my true love Jean?” they said to themselves. But Miss -Musgrave, who was slim as a girl in her unwedded obscurity, and whose -eyes some people thought as bright as ever, though her hair was grey, -gave rise to no such irreverent thoughts. There were men scattered -through the world who had a romantic regard, a profound respect still, -for this woman whom they had loved, and who had preserved the -distinction of loving no one in return. Nobody had died for love of her, -though, some had threatened it; but this visionary atmosphere of past -adoration supplied a delicate homage, such as is agreeable even to an -old maiden’s heart.</p> - -<p>And Miss Musgrave’s life was spent chiefly in the old hall, as her -father’s was spent in his library. She had been full of gay activity in -her youth, a bold and graceful horsewoman, ready for anything that was -going; but, with the same sense of fitness that led the squire to his -retirement, she too had retired. She had put aside her riding-habits -along with, her muslins, and wore nothing but rich neutral-tinted silk -gowns. Her only extravagance was a pair of ponies, which she drove into -the county town when she had business to do, or to pay an occasional -visit to her friends: but by far the greater part of her life was spent -in the old hall, where all her favourites and allies came, and all her -poor people from the village, who found her seated like a scriptural -potentate in the gate, ready to settle all quarrels and administer -impartial justice. The hall was connected with the house by a short -passage and two doors, which shut out all interchange of sound. There -was nothing above it but the high-pitched roof, the turret chimneys, and -the ivy, nor was any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8">{8}</a></span> interposition of servants necessary to usher in -visitors by that ever-open way. This was a thing which deeply affected -the spirits and feelings of Eastwood, the only male functionary in the -house—the most irreproachable of butlers. A door which opened straight -into the lady’s favourite sitting-room was felt by him to be an insult -to the family; it was more like a farmhouse than a castle; and as for -Miss Musgrave, she was just as bad—too affable, a deal too affable, -talking to any one that came to her, the tramps on the road as well as -the ladies and gentlemen whose unwilling steeds pranced and curveted on -the old slope of causeway. This was a standing grievance to the butler, -whoso complaint was that the “presteedge” of the family was in hourly -jeopardy; and his persistent complaint had thrown a shade of -dissatisfaction over the household. This, however, did not move the lady -of the house. Eastwood and the rest did not know, though some other -people did, that it was the proudest woman in the county whom they -accused of being too affable, and who received all the world in the old -hall without the assistance of any gentleman usher. There were no -windows in the side of the hall which fronted the road, but only this -huge oaken door, all studded with bars and elaborate hinges of iron. On -the other side there was a recess, with a large square window and -cushioned seats, “restored” by village workmen in a not very perfect -way, but still preserving the ample and noble lines of its original -design. This windowed recess was higher than the rest of the hall, the -walls of which were low, though the roof was lofty. But towards the -front the only light was from the doorway, which looked due west, and -beheld all the sunsets, flooding the ancient place with afternoon light -and glories of evening colour. The slanting light seemed to sweep in -like an actual visitor in all its sheen of crimson and purple, when the -rest of the house was in the still and hush of the grey evening. This -was where Miss Musgrave held her throne.</p> - -<p>Thus Penninghame Castle stood at the moment this story begins. The lake -gleaming cold towards the north, rippling against the pebbles in the -little inlet which held the two boats, the broken ground and ancient -trees of the Chase, lying eastward, getting the early lights of the -morning, as did the flower-garden,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9">{9}</a></span> which lay bright under the old -walls. A little genial hum of the kindly north-country women-servants, -who had been there for a lifetime, or who were the daughters and cousins -of those who had been there for a lifetime, with Eastwood strutting -important among them—the one big cock among this barndoor company—made -itself audible now and then, a respectful subdued human accompaniment to -the ripple of the lake and the whispering of the wind among the trees: -and now and then a cheerful cackle of poultry, the sound of the ponies -in the stable, or the squire’s respectable cob: the heavy steps of the -gardener walking slowly along the gravel paths. But for these tranquil -sounds, which made the stillness more still, there was nothing but quiet -in and about the old house. There had been a time when much had happened -there, when there had been angry dissensions, family convulsions, storms -of mutual reproach and reproof, outbursts of tears and crying. But all -that was over. Nothing had happened at Penninghame for fifteen years. -The old squire in his library and Mary in her favourite old chamber -lived as though there were no breaks in life, no anguishes, no -convulsions, as quietly as their trees, as steadily as their old walls, -as if existence could neither change nor end. Thus they went on from day -to day and from year to year, in a routine which occupied and satisfied, -and kept the sense of living in their minds, but in a lull and hush of -all adventure, of all commotion, of all excitement. Time passed over -them and left no trace, save those touches imperceptible at the moment -which sorrow or passion could surpass in effect in one day, yet which -tell as surely at the end. This was how things were at Penninghame when -this story begins.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10">{10}</a></span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.<br /><br /> -<small>MARY.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was not one of Mary Musgrave’s fancies to furnish her hall like a -drawing-room. She had collected round her a few things for use, but she -was not rich enough to make her favourite place into a toy, as so many -people do, nor had she the opportunity of “picking up” rarities to -ornament it, as she might have liked to do had she been in the way of -them. The room had been a barn fifty years before. Then it became a -family storeroom, was fitted up at one end with closets and cupboards, -and held the household linen, and sometimes the winter supply of fruit. -It was Mary who had rescued it back again to gentler use; but she had -not been able to re-decorate or renew it with such careful pretence at -antiquity as is common nowadays. All that she could do for it was to -collect her own doings there, and all the implements for her work. The -windowed recess which got the morning sun was her business-room. There -stood an old secretaire, chosen not because of its age or suitability, -but because it was the only thing she had available, a necessity which -often confers as much grace as the happiest choice. Opposite the doorway -was an old buffet, rough, yet not uncharacteristic, which had been -scrubbed clean by a generous housemaid when Miss Musgrave first took to -the hall. And much it had wanted that cleansing; but the soap and the -water and the scrubbing-brush had not agreed very well, it must be -allowed, with the carved mahogany, which ought to have been oak. Between -the open door and this big piece of furniture was a square of old Turkey -carpet, very much faded, yet still agreeable to the eye, and a -spindle-legged table of Queen Anne’s days, with drawers which held Miss -Musgrave’s knitting and a book, and sometimes homelier matters, mendings -which she chose to do herself, calculations which were not meant for the -common eye.</p> - -<p>She was seated here, on an afternoon of October, warm with the shining -of that second summer which comes even in the north. The sunshine came -so far into the room that it caught<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11">{11}</a></span> the edges of the carpet, and made a -false show of gold upon the faded wool; and it was so warm that Miss -Musgrave had drawn her chair farther into the room than usual, and sat -in the shade to escape the unusual warmth. At this moment she was not -doing anything. She was sitting quite silent, the book she had been -reading laid open upon her knee, enjoying the sun, as people enjoy it to -whom it suddenly reveals itself after date when it is past expectation. -In the end of October in the north country, people have ceased to think -of warmth out of doors, or any blaze of kindly light from the skies—and -the morning had been grey though very mild. The sudden glow had caught -Mary as she sat, a little chilly, close to her opened door, thinking of -a shawl, and had transfigured the landscape and the heavens and her own -sentiments all at once. She was sitting with her hands in her lap, and -the open book on her knee, thinking of it, surprised by the sweetness of -it, feeling it penetrate into her very heart, though she had drawn her -chair back out of the sun. No, not thinking—people do not think of the -sunshine; but it went into her heart, bringing back a confused sweetness -of recollection and of anticipation—or rather of the anticipations -which were recollections—which had ceased to exist except in memory. -Just so does youth expect some sudden sweetness to invade its life; and -sometimes the memory of that expectation, even when unfulfilled, brings -a half sad, half sweet amusement to the solitary. It was so with this -lady seated alone in her old hall. She was Mary again, the young -daughter of the house; and at the same time she was old Miss Musgrave -smiling at herself.</p> - -<p>But as she did so a footstep sounded on the rough pavement of the -ascent. No one could come unheard to her retreat, which was a safeguard. -She gave a little shake to her head, and took up the open book, which -was no old favourite to be dreamed over, but a modern book; and prepared -herself for a visitor with that smoothing of the brow and closing up of -mental windows which fits us to meet strange eyes. “It is only I,” said -the familiar voice of some one who knew and understood this slight -movement: and then she dropped the book again, and let the smile come -back into her eyes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12">{12}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Only you! then I may look as I please. I need not put on my company -garb,” she said, with a smile.</p> - -<p>“I should hope not,” said the new-comer, reaching the door with that -slight quickening of the breath which showed that even the half-dozen -steps of ascent was a slight tax upon him. He did not even shake hands -with her—probably they had met before that day—but took off his hat as -he crossed the threshold, as if he had been going into a church. He was -a clergyman, slim and slight, of middle size, or less than middle size, -in somewhat rusty grey, with a mildness of aspect which did not promise -much strength, bodily or mental. The Vicarage of Penninghame was a poor -one, too poor to be worth reserving for a son of the family, and it had -been given to the tutor of Mr. Musgrave’s sons twenty years ago. What -had happened was natural enough, and might be seen in his eyes still, -notwithstanding lapse of time and change of circumstances. Mr. -Pennithorne had fallen in love, always hopelessly and mildly, as became -his character, with the Squire’s daughter. He had always said it did not -matter. He had no more hope of persuading her to love him than of -getting the moon to come out of heaven, and circumstances having set -marriage before him, he had married, and was happy enough as happiness -goes. And he was the friend, and in a measure the confidant, of this -lady whom he had loved in the superlative poetical way—knew all about -her, shared her life in a manner, was acquainted with many of her -thoughts and her troubles. A different light came into his eyes when he -saw her, but he was not at all unhappy. He had a good wife and three -nice children, and the kind of life he liked. At fifty, who is there who -continues to revel in the unspeakable blisses of youth? Mr. Pennithorne -was very well content: but still when he saw Mary Musgrave—and he saw -her daily—there came a different kind of light into his eyes.</p> - -<p>“I was in mental <i>déshabille</i>,” she said, “and did not care to be -caught; though after all it is not everybody who can see when one is not -clothed and in one’s right mind.”</p> - -<p>“I never knew you out of your right mind, Miss Mary. What was it?—no -new trouble?”</p> - -<p>“You are always a flatterer, Mr. Pen. You have seen me in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13">{13}</a></span> all kinds of -conditions. No, we don’t have any troubles now. Is that a rash speech? -But really I mean it. My father is in very good health and enjoys -himself, and I enjoy myself—in reason.”</p> - -<p>“You enjoy yourself! Yes, in the way of being good to other people.”</p> - -<p>“Hush!” she said, putting up her hand to stop him in his little speech, -sincere as it was. “Shall I tell you what it was that put me out of -order for any one’s eyes but an old friend’s? Nothing more than this -sunshine, Mr. Pen. Don’t you recollect when we were young how a sudden -thought of something that was coming would seize upon you, and flood you -with delight—as the sun did just now?”</p> - -<p>“I recollect,” he said, fixing his mild eyes upon her, and shaking his -head, with a sigh: “but it never came.”</p> - -<p>“That may be true enough; but the thought came, and ‘life is but -thought,’ you know; the thing might not follow. However, we are all -quite happy all the same.”</p> - -<p>He looked at her, still shaking his head.</p> - -<p>“I suppose so,” he said; “I suppose so; quite happy! but not as we meant -to be; that was what you were thinking.”</p> - -<p>“I did not go so far. I was not thinking at all. I <i>think</i> that I think -very seldom. It only caught me as the old thought used to do, and -brought so many things back.”</p> - -<p>She smiled, but he sighed.</p> - -<p>“Yes, everything is very different. Yourself—to see you here, offering -up your life for others—making a sacrifice—— ”</p> - -<p>“I have made no sacrifice,” she said, somewhat proudly, then laughed. -“Is that because I am unmarried, Mr. Pen? You wedded people, you are so -sure of being better off than we are. You are too complacent. But <i>I</i> am -not so sure of that.”</p> - -<p>He did not join in her laugh, but looked at her with melting eyes—eyes -in which there was some suspicion of tears. It was perhaps a trifle -unkind of her to call him complacent in his conjugality. There were a -hundred unspeakable things in his look—pity, reverence, devotion, not -the old love perhaps, but something higher; something that was never to -end.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14">{14}</a></span></p> - -<p>“On the whole, we are taking it too seriously,” she said, after a pause. -“It is over now, and the sun is going down. And you came to talk to -me?—perhaps of something in the parish that wants looking to?”</p> - -<p>“No—I came in only to look at you, and make sure that you were well. -The children you were visiting the other day have the scarlet fever; and -besides, I have had a feeling in my mind about you—a presentiment. I -should not have been surprised to hear that there had been—letters—or -some kind of advances made—— ”</p> - -<p>“From whom?”</p> - -<p>“Well,” he said, after a slight pause; “they are both brothers—both -sons—but they are not the same to me, Miss Mary. From John; he has been -so much in my mind these two or three days, I have got to dreaming about -him. Yes, yes, I know that is not worth thinking of; but we were always -in such sympathy, he and I. Don’t you believe in some communication -between minds that were closely allied? I do. It is a superstition if -you like. Nothing could happen to any of you but, if I were at ever so -great a distance, I should know.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t be too sure of that, Mr. Pen. Sometimes the dearest to us perish, -and we know nothing of it; but I prefer your view. You dreamt of poor -John? What did you see? Alas! dreams are the only ways of divining -anything about him now!”</p> - -<p>“And your father is as determined as ever?”</p> - -<p>“We never speak on the subject. It has disappeared like so many other -things. Why continue a fruitless discussion which only embittered him -and wore me out? If any critical moment should come, if—one must say it -plainly—my father should be like to die—then I should speak, you need -not fear.”</p> - -<p>“I never feared that you would do everything the best sister, the -bravest friend, could do.”</p> - -<p>“Do not praise me too much. I tell you I am doing nothing, and have done -nothing for years; and sometimes it strikes me with terror. If anything -should happen suddenly! My father is an old man; but talking to him now -is of no use; we must risk it. What did you see in your dream?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you will laugh at me,” he said with a nervous flutter;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15">{15}</a></span> -“nothing—except that he was here. I dreamt of him before, that time -that he came home—after—— ”</p> - -<p>“Don’t speak of it,” said Miss Musgrave, with a corresponding shiver. -“To think that such things should happen, and be forgotten, and we -should all go on so comfortably—quite comfortably! I have nothing -particular to make me happy, and yet I am as happy as most -people—notwithstanding all that I have come through, as the poor women -say.”</p> - -<p>“That is because you are so unselfish—so—— ”</p> - -<p>“Insensible—more like. I am the same as other people. What the poor -folk in the village come through, Mr. Pen!—loss of husbands, loss of -children, one after another, grinding poverty, and want, and anxiety, -and separation from all they care for. Is it insensibility? I never can -tell; and especially now when I share it myself. I am as happy sometimes -as when I was young. That sunshine gave me a ridiculous pleasure. What -right have I to feel my heart light?—but I did somehow—and I do -often—notwithstanding all that has happened, and all that I have ‘gone -through.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>Mr. Pennithorne gave a vague smile, but he made no reply; for either she -was accusing herself unjustly, or this was a mood of mind which perhaps -derogated a little from Mary Musgrave’s perfection. He had a way himself -of keeping on steadfastly on the one string of his anxiety, whatever it -might be, and worrying everybody with it—and here he lost the object of -his faithful worship. It might—nay, must—be right since so she felt; -but he lost her here.</p> - -<p>“And speaking of happiness,” she went on after a pause, “I want the -children to come with me to Pennington to see the archery. It is pretty, -and they will like it. And they like to drive behind my ponies. They are -quite well?—and Emily?”</p> - -<p>“Very well. Our cow has been ill, and she has been worrying about -it—not much to worry about you will say, you who have so much more -serious anxieties.”</p> - -<p>“Not at all. If I had a delicate child and wanted the milk, I should -fret very much. Will you send up for some of ours? As usually happens, -we, who don’t consume very much, have plenty.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_16" id="page_16">{16}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Thank you,” he said, “but you must not think that little Emmy is so -delicate. She has not much colour—neither has her mother, you know.” He -was a very anxious father, and looked up with an eager wistfulness into -her face. Little Emmy was so delicate that it hurt him like a foreboding -to hear her called so. He could not bear Miss Musgrave, whose word had -authority, to give utterance to such a thought.</p> - -<p>“I spoke hastily,” she said; “I did not think of Emmy. She is ever so -much stronger this year. As for paleness, I don’t mind paleness in the -least. She has such a very fair complexion, and she is twice as strong -as last year.”</p> - -<p>“I am so glad you think so,” he said, with the colour rising to his -face. “That is true comfort—for eyes at a little distance are so much -better than one’s own.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, she is a great deal stronger,” said Miss Musgrave, “but you must -send down for the milk. I was pale too, don’t you remember, when you -came first? When I was fifteen.”</p> - -<p>“I remember—everything,” he said; “even to the dress you wore. I bought -my little Mary something like it when I was last in town. It was -blue—how well I remember! But Mary will never be like you, though she -is your godchild.”</p> - -<p>“She is a great deal better; she is like her mother,” said Miss Musgrave -promptly; “and Johnny is like his father, the best possible -distribution. You are happy with your children, Mr. Pen. I envy people -their children, it is the only thing; though perhaps they would bore me -if I had them always on my hands. You think not? Yes, I am almost sure -they would bore me. We get a kind of fierce independence living alone. -To be hampered by a little thing always wanting something—wanting -attention and care—I don’t think I should like it. But Emily was born -for such cares. How well she looks with her baby in her arms—all was -the old picture over again—the Madonna and the child.”</p> - -<p>“Poor Emily,” he said, though why he could not have told, for Emily did -not think herself poor. Mr. Pennithorne always felt a vague pity for his -wife when he was with Miss Musgrave, as for a poor woman who had many -excellent qualities, but was here thrown into the shade. He could not -say any more. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_17" id="page_17">{17}</a></span> got up to go away, consoled and made comfortable he -could not quite tell why. She was always sweet he said to himself as he -went home. What she had said about being bored by children was a mere -delusion, or perhaps a little conscious effort of self-deception, -persuading herself that to have no children and to be independent was -the best. What a wife she would have made! What a mother! he said this -to himself quite impartially, knowing well that she never could have -been wife for him, and feeling a pang at his heart for the happiness she -had lost. Married life was not unmixed happiness always; it had its -difficulties, he knew. But if <i>she</i> had married it was not possible that -she could have been otherwise than happy. With her there could have been -no drawbacks. Mr. Pennithorne looked upon the question from a husband’s -point of view alone.</p> - -<p>When he was gone, Miss Musgrave sat still without changing her place, at -first with a smile, which gradually faded away from her face, like the -last suffusion of the sunshine, which was going too. She smiled at her -fast friend, to whom she knew, notwithstanding his legitimate affection -for his Emily, she herself stood first of created beings. It was a -folly, but it did not hurt him, she reflected with a faint amusement; -and Emily and the children, notwithstanding this sentiment, were first -and foremost really in his heart. Poor Mr. Pen! he had always been like -this, mildly sentimental, offering up an uninterrupted gentle incense. -But he was not in the least unhappy, though perhaps he liked by times to -think that he was. Few people were really unhappy. By moments life was -hard; but the struggle itself made a kind of happiness, a strain of -living which it was good to feel by times. This was her theory. Most -people when they come to forty have some theory or another, some settled -way of getting through their existence, and adapting themselves for it. -Hers was this: that evil was very much less than good in every way, and -that people suffered a great deal less than they gave themselves credit -for. Life had its compensations, daily and hourly, she thought. Her own -existence had no exciting source of joy in it, but how far it was from -being unhappy! Had she been unhappy she would have scoffed at herself. -What! so many things to enjoy, so many good and pleasant circumstances<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_18" id="page_18">{18}</a></span> -around, and not happy! Would not that have been a disgrace to any woman? -So she was apt to think Mr. Pennithorne extracted a certain cunning -enjoyment from that vain love for herself which had been so visionary at -all times, and which he persuaded himself had saddened his life. She -thought it had been a harmless delusion: a secret advantage rather; -something to fall back upon; a soft and visionary grievance of which he -never wearied. And perhaps she was right. She sat looking after him with -a smile on her face.</p> - -<p>The sun had crept away from her open doorway as they had talked. It was -stealing further and further off, withdrawing from the line of the road, -from the village roofs, from the gleam of the lake—and like the sun her -smile stole away, from her eyes first, and then from the lingering -curves about her mouth. Why was it that he could think he felt some -action upon him of John’s mind in the far distance, while she felt none? -No kind of presentiment or premonition had come to her. It must be -foolishness she was sure—superstition; for if sympathy could thus -communicate even a vague thrill of warning from one to another through -the atmosphere of the mind, surely she was a more likely object to -receive it than Mr. Pennithorne! John knew her,—could not doubt her, -surely. Therefore to her, if to any one, this secret communication must -have come. The smile disappeared altogether from her mouth as she -entered upon this subject, and her whole face and eyes became grave and -grey, like the dull coldness of the east, half-resentful of the sunset -which still went on upon the other edge of the horizon, dispersing all -those vain reflections to every quarter except that from which the sun -rose. Could it be possible after all that John might trust Mr. -Pennithorne with a more perfect confidence, as one unconnected and -unconcerned with all that had passed, than he could give to herself? The -thought, even though founded on such visionary grounds, hurt her a -little; yet there was a kind of reason in it. He might think that she, -always at her father’s side, and able to influence him in so many ways, -might have done more for her brother; whereas with Mr. Pennithorne, who -could do nothing, the sentiment of trust would be unbroken. She sat thus -idly making it out to herself, making<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_19" id="page_19">{19}</a></span> wondering casts of thought after -her brother in the darkness of the unknown, as inch by inch the light -stole out of the sky. It was not a fine sunset that night. The sun was -yellow and mournful; long lines of cloud broke darkly upon his sinking, -catching only sick reflections of the pale light beneath. At last he was -all gone, except one streaming yellow sheaf of rays that seemed to -strike against and barb themselves into the damp green outline of the -hill.</p> - -<p>Her eyes were upon this, watching that final display, which, somehow in -the absorption of her thoughts, kept her from observing an object near -at hand, an old hackney-coach from Pennington town—where there was a -railway station—which came along the road, a black, slow, lumbering -vehicle, making a dull roll of sound which might have been a country -cart. It came nearer and nearer while Miss Musgrave watched the bundle -of gold arrows flash into the hill-side and disappear. Her eyes were -dazzled by them, and chilled by their sudden disappearance, which left -all the landscape cold and wrapped in a greyness of sudden evening. Mary -came to herself with a slight shiver and shock. And at that moment the -dull roll of the cab ceased, and the thing stood revealed to her. She -rose to her feet with a thrill of wonder and expectation. The hackney -carriage had drawn up at the foot of the slope opposite to and beneath -her. What was coming? Had Mr. Pennithorne been warned after all, while -she had been left in darkness? Her heart seemed to leap into her throat, -while she stood clasping her hands together to get some strength from -them, and waiting for the revelation of this new thing, whatever it -might be.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_20" id="page_20">{20}</a></span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.<br /><br /> -<small>THE NEW-COMERS.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> cab was loaded with two boxes on the roof, foreign trunks, of a -different shape from those used at home; and a woman’s face, in a -fantastic foreign head-dress, peered through the window. Who could this -be? Mary stood as if spell-bound, unable to make a movement. The driver, -who was an ordinary cab-driver from Pennington, whose homely -everydayness of appearance intensified the strangeness of the others, -opened the door of the carriage, and lifted out, first a small boy, with -a scared face and a finger in his mouth, who stared at the strange -place, and the figures in the doorway, with a fixed gaze of panic, on -the eve of tears. Then out came with a bound, as if pushed from behind -as well as helped a little roughly by the cabman, the foreign woman, at -whose dress the child clutched with a frightened cry. Then there was a -pause, during which some one inside threw out a succession of wraps, -small bags, and parcels; and then there stepped forth, with a great -shawl on one arm, and a basket almost as large as herself on the other, -clearly the leading spirit of the party, a little girl who appeared to -be about ten years old. “You will wait a moment, man, till we get the -pay for you,” said this little personage in a high-pitched voice, with a -distinctness of enunciation which made it apparent that the language, -though spoken with very little accent, was unfamiliar to her. Then she -turned to the woman and said a few words much more rapidly, with as much -aid of gesture as was compatible with the burdens. Mary felt herself -look on at all this like a woman in a dream. What was it all—a dream or -reality? She felt incapable of movement, or rather too much interested -in the curious scene which was going on before her, to think of movement -or interference of any kind. When she had given her directions, whatever -they were, the little girl turned round and faced the open door and the -lady who had not moved. She gave these new circumstances a long, steady, -investigating look. They were within a dozen yards of each<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_21" id="page_21">{21}</a></span> other, but -the chatelaine stood still and said nothing, while the little invader -inspected her, and prepared her assault. The child, who looked the -impersonation of life and purpose between her helpless companion and the -wondering stranger whom she confronted, was dark and pale, not like the -fair English children to whom Mary Musgrave was accustomed. Her dark -eyes seemed out of proportion to her small, colourless face, and gave it -an eager look of precocious intelligence. Her features were small, her -dark hair falling about her in half-curling masses, her head covered -with a little velvet cap trimmed with fur, as unlike anything children -wore in England at the time as the anxious meaning of her face was -different from ordinary baby prettiness. She made a momentary -pause—then put down the basket on the stones, threw the shawl on the -top of it, and mounted the breach with resolute courage. The stones were -rough to the little child’s feet; there was a dilation in her eyes that -looked like coming tears, and as she faced the alarming stranger, who -stood there looking at her, a burning red flush came momentarily over -her face. But she neither sat down and cried as she would have liked to -do, nor ran back again to cling to the nurse’s skirts like her little -brother. The small thing had a duty to do, and did it with a courage -which might have put heroes to shame. Resolutely she toiled her way up -to Miss Musgrave at the open door.</p> - -<p>“Are you—Mary?” she said; the little voice was strange yet sweet, with -its distinct pronunciation and unfamiliar accent. “Are you—Mary?” Her -big eyes seemed to search the lady all over, making a rapid comparison -with some description she had received. There was doubt in her tone when -she repeated the name a second time, and the tears visibly came nearer, -and got with a shake and tremor into her voice.</p> - -<p>“What do you want with Mary?” said Miss Musgrave; “who are you, little -girl?”</p> - -<p>“I do not think you can be Mary,” said the child. “He said your hair was -like Nello’s, but it is more like his own. And he said you were -beautiful—so you are beautiful, but old—and he never said you were -old. Oh, if you are not Mary, what shall we do? what shall we do?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_22" id="page_22">{22}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>She clasped her little hands together, and for a moment trembled on the -edge of a childish outburst, but stopped herself with a sudden curb of -unmistakable will. “I must think what is to be done,” she cried out -sharply, putting her little hands upon her trembling mouth.</p> - -<p>“Who are you? who are you?” cried Mary Musgrave, trembling in her turn; -“child, who was it that sent you to me?”</p> - -<p>The little thing kept her eyes fixed upon her, with that watchfulness -which is the only defence of weakness, ready to fly like a little wild -creature at any approach of danger. She opened a little bag which hung -by her side and took a letter from it, never taking her great eyes all -the time from Miss Musgrave’s face. “This was for you, if you were -Mary,” she said; holding the letter jealously in both hands. “But he -said, when I spoke to you, if it was you, you would know.”</p> - -<p>“You strange little girl!” cried Miss Musgrave, stepping out upon the -stones and holding out her hands eagerly; but the child made a little -move backward at the moment, in desperation of fear, yet courage.</p> - -<p>“I will not give it you! I will not give it! it is everything we -have—unless you are Mary,” she cried, with the burst of a suppressed -sob.</p> - -<p>“Who are you then, child? Yes, I am Mary, Mary Musgrave—give me the -letter. Is not this the house you were told of? Give me the letter—the -letter!” said Miss Musgrave, once more holding out her hands.</p> - -<p>And once more the child made her jealous mental comparison between what -the lady was, and what she had been told to look for. “I cannot do what -I please,” she said, with little quivering lips. “I have Nello to take -care of. He is only such a little, little child. Yes, it is the house he -told me of; but he said if you were Mary—Ah! he said you would know us -and take us into your arms, and be so kind, so kind!”</p> - -<p>“Little girl,” said Miss Musgrave, the tears dropping from her cheeks. -“There is only one man’s child that you can be. You are John’s little -girl, my brother John, and I am his sister Mary. But I do not know your -name, nor any thing about<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_23" id="page_23">{23}</a></span> you. Give me John’s letter—and come to me, -come to me, my child!”</p> - -<p>“I am Lilias,” said the little girl; but she held back, still examining -with curious though less terrified eyes. “You will give it me back if -you are not Mary?” she went on, at length holding out the letter; but -she took no notice of the invitation to come nearer, which Mary herself -forgot in the eagerness of her anxiety to get the letter, the first -communication from her brother—if it was from her brother—for so many -years. She took it quickly, almost snatching it from the child’s -reluctant fingers, and leaning against the doorway in her agitation, -tore it hastily open. Little Lilias was agitated too, with fear and -desolate strangeness, and that terrible ignorance of any alternative -between safety and utter destruction which makes danger insupportable to -a child. What were they to do if their claims were not acknowledged? -Wander into the woods and die in the darkness like the children in the -story? Little Lilias had feared nothing till that first doubt had come -over her at the door of the house, where, her father had instructed her, -she was to be made so happy. But if they were not taken in and made -happy, what were she and Nello to do? A terror of darkness, and cold, -and starvation came upon the little girl. She would wrap the big shawl -about her little brother, but what if wild beasts or robbers should come -in the middle of the dark? Her little bosom swelled full, the sobs rose -into her throat. Oh where could she go with Nello, if this was not Mary? -But she restrained the sobs by a last effort, like a little hero. She -sat down on the stone edge of the causeway, and held her hands clasped -tight to keep herself together, and fixed her eyes upon the lady with -the letter. The lady and the letter swam and changed, through the big -tears that kept coming, but she never took those great dark, intense -eyes from Miss Musgrave’s face. The Italian nurse was bending over -Nello, fully occupied in hushing his little plaints. Nello was tired, -hungry, sleepy, cold. He had no responsibility upon him, poor little -mite, to overcome the weakness of nature. He looked no more than six, -though he was older, a small and delicate child; and he clung to his -nurse, holding her desperately, afraid of he knew not what. She had -plenty to do to take care<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_24" id="page_24">{24}</a></span> of him without thinking of what was going on -above; though the woman was indignant to be kept waiting, and cast -fierce looks, in the intervals of petting Nello, upon the lady, the cold -Englishwoman who was so long of taking the children to her arms. As for -the cabman, emblem of the general unconcern which surrounds every -individual drama, he stood leaning calmly upon his horse, waiting for -the <i>dénoûment</i>, whatever it might be. Miss Musgrave would see him paid -one way or another, and this was the only thing for which he needed to -care.</p> - -<p>“Lilias,” said Miss Musgrave, going hastily to the child, with tears -running down her cheeks, “I am your aunt Mary, my darling, and you will -soon learn to know me. Come and give me a kiss, and bring me your little -brother. You are tired with your long journey, my poor child.”</p> - -<p>“No, no—I am not tired—only Nello; and he is h-hungry. Ah! Kiss Nello, -Nello—come and kiss him; he is the baby. And are you Mary—real, real -Mary?” cried the little girl, bursting out into sobs; “oh; I cannot -h-help it. I did not mean it; I was fr-frightened. Nello, come, come, -Mary is here.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Mary is here,” said Miss Musgrave, taking the child into her arms, -who, even while she sobbed against her shoulder, put out an impatient -little hand and beckoned, crying, “Nello! Nello!” But it was not so easy -to extract Nello from his nurse’s arms. He cried and clung all the -faster from hearing his sister’s outburst; their poor little hearts were -full; and what chokings of vague misery, the fatigue and discomfort -infinitely deepened by a dumb consciousness of loneliness, danger, and -strangeness behind, were in these little inarticulate souls! something -more desperate in its inability to understand what it feared, its dim -anguish of uncomprehension, than anything that can be realized and -fathomed. Mary signed eagerly to the nurse to bring the little boy -indoors into the hall, which was not a reassuring place, vast and dark -as it was, in the dimness of the evening, to a child. But she had too -many difficulties on her hands in this strange crisis to think of that. -She had the boxes brought in also, and hastily sent the carriage away, -with a desperate sense as of burning her ships, and leaving no possible -way to herself of escape from the difficulty. The gardener, who had -appeared<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_25" id="page_25">{25}</a></span> round the corner, attracted by the sound, presented himself as -much out of curiosity as of goodwill to assist in carrying in the boxes, -“though it would be handiest to drive round to the front door, and tak’ -them straight oop t’ stair,” he said, innocently enough. But when Miss -Musgrave gave authoritative directions that they were to be brought into -the hall, naturally the gardener was surprised. This was a proceeding -entirely unheard of, and not to be understood in any way.</p> - -<p>“It’ll be a deal more trouble after,” he said, under his breath, which -did not matter much. But when he had obeyed his mistress’s orders, he -went round to the kitchen full of the new event. “There’s something -oop,” the gardener said, delighted to bring so much excitement with him, -and he gave a full account of the two pale little children, the foreign -woman with skewers stuck in her hair, and finally, most wonderful of -all, the boxes which he had deposited with his own hands on the floor of -the hall. “I ken nothing about it,” he said, “but them as has been -longer aboot t’ house than me could tell a deal if they pleased; and -Miss Brown, it’s her as is wanted,” he added leisurely at the end.</p> - -<p>Miss Brown, who was Mary Musgrave’s maid, and had been standing -listening to his story with frequent contradictions and denials, in a -state of general protestation, started at these words.</p> - -<p>“You great gaby,” she said, “why didn’t you say so at first?” and -hurried out of the kitchen, not indisposed to get at the bottom of the -matter. She had been Miss Musgrave’s favourite attendant for twenty -years, and in that time had, as may be supposed, known about many things -which her superiors believed locked in the depths of their own bosoms. -She could have written the private history of the family with less -inaccuracy than belongs to most records of secret history. And she was -naturally indignant that Tom Gardener, a poor talkative creature, who -could keep nothing to himself, should have known this new and startling -event sooner than she did. She hurried through the long passage from the -kitchen, casting a stealthy glance in passing at the closed door of the -library, where the Squire sat unconscious. A subdued delight was in the -mind of the old servant; certainly it is best when there are no -mysteries<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_26" id="page_26">{26}</a></span> in a family, when all goes well—but it is not so amusing. A -great event of which it was evident the squire was in ignorance, which -probably would have to be kept from him, and as much as possible from -the household—well, it might be unfortunate that such things should be, -but it was exciting, it woke people up.</p> - -<p>Miss Brown obeyed this summons with more genuine alacrity than she had -felt for years.</p> - -<p>Very different were the feelings of her mistress standing there in the -dimness of the old hall, her frame thrilling and her heart aching with -the appeal which her brother had made to her, out of a silence which for -more than a dozen years had been unbroken as that of the grave. She -could scarcely believe yet that she had seen his very handwriting and -read words which came straight from him and were signed by his now -unfamiliar name. The children, who crouched together frightened by the -darkness, were as phantoms to her, like a dream about which she had just -got into the stage of doubt. Till now it had been all real to her, as -dreams appear at first. But now, she stood, closing the door in the -stillness of the evening, which, still as it was, was full of curiosity -and questioning and prying eyes, and asked herself if these little -figures were real, or inventions of her fancy. Real children of her -living brother—was it true, was it possible? They were awe-stricken by -the gathering dusk, by the strange half-empty room, by the dim circle of -the unknown which surrounded them on every side. The nurse had put -herself upon a chair on the edge of the carpet, where she sat holding -the little boy on her knee, while little Lilias, who had backed slowly -towards this one familiar figure, stood leaning against her, clutching -her also with one hand, though she concealed instinctively this sign of -fear. The boy withdrew the wondering whiteness of his face from the -nurse’s shoulder now and then to give a frightened, fascinated look -around, then buried it again in a dumb trance of dismay and terror, too -frightened to cry. What was to be done with these frightened children -and the strange woman to whom they clung? Mary could not keep them here -to send them wild with alarm. They wanted soft beds, warm fires, -cheerful lights, food and comfort,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_27" id="page_27">{27}</a></span> and they had come to seek it in the -only house in the world which was closed by a curse and a vow against -them. Mary Musgrave was not the kind of woman who is easily frightened -by vows or curses; there was none of the romantic folly in her which -would believe in the reality of an unjust or uncalled-for malediction. -But she was persuaded of the reality of a thing which involved no -supernatural mysteries, the obstinancy of her father’s mind, and his -determination to hold by the verdict he had given. Years move and change -everything, even the hills and the seas—but not the narrow mind of an -obstinate and selfish man. She did not call him by these names; he was -her father and she did not judge him; but no more did she hope in him. -And in this wonderful moment a whole circle of possibilities ran through -her mind. She might take them to the village; but there were other -dangers there; or to the Parsonage, but Mr. Pen was weak and poor Emily -a gossip. Could she dare the danger that was nearest, and take them -somehow upstairs out of the way, and conceal them there, defying her -father? In whatever way it was settled she would not desert them—but -what was she to do? Miss Brown coming upon her suddenly in the dusk -frightened her almost as much as the children were frightened. The want -of light and the strangeness of the crisis combined made every new -figure like a ghost.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I sent for you. I am in—difficulty, Martha. These children have -just come—the children of a friend—— ” Her first idea was to conceal -the real state of the case even from her confidential and well-informed -maid.</p> - -<p>“Dear me,” said Miss Brown, with seeming innocence. “How strange! to -bring a little lady and gentleman without any warning. But I’ll go and -give orders, ma’am; there are plenty of rooms vacant, there need not be -any difficulty—— ”</p> - -<p>Miss Musgrave caught her by the arm.</p> - -<p>“What I want for the moment is light, and some food <i>here</i>. Bring me the -lamp I always use. No, not Eastwood; never mind Eastwood. I want you to -bring it, they will be less afraid in the light.”</p> - -<p>“There is a fire in the dining-room, ma’am, it is only a step,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_28" id="page_28">{28}</a></span> and -Eastwood is lighting the candles; and there you can have what you like -for them.”</p> - -<p>It was confidence Miss Brown wanted—nothing but confidence. With that -she was ready to do anything; without it she was Miss Musgrave’s -respectable maid, to whom all mysteries were more or less improper. She -crossed her hands firmly and waited. The room was growing darker and -darker every minute, and the foreign nurse began to lose patience. She -called “Madame! madame!” in a high voice; then poured forth into a -stream of words, so rapid and so loud as both mistress and maid thought -they had never heard spoken before. Miss Musgrave was not a great -linguist. She knew enough to be aware that it was Italian the woman was -speaking, but that was all.</p> - -<p>“I do not understand you,” she said in distress, going up to the little -group. But as she approached a sudden accession of terror, instantly -suppressed on the part of the little girl but irrepressible by the -younger boy, and which broke forth in a disjointed way, arrested her -steps. Were they afraid of her, these children? “Little Lilias,” she -said piteously, “be a brave child and stand by me. I cannot take you out -of this cold room yet, but lights are coming and you will be taken care -of. If I leave you alone for a little while will you promise me to be -brave and not to be afraid?”</p> - -<p>There was a pause, broken only by little flutterings of that nervous -exhaustion which made the children so accessible to fear. Then a small -voice said, dauntless, yet with a falter—</p> - -<p>“I will stay. I will not be afraid.”</p> - -<p>“Thank God,” said Mary Musgrave, to herself. The child was already a -help and assistance. “Martha,” she said hastily, “tell no one; they -are—my brother’s children—”</p> - -<p>“Good Lord!” said Martha Brown, frightened out of her primness. “And -it’s dark, and there’s two big boxes, and master don’t know.”</p> - -<p>“That is the worst of all,” said Miss Musgrave sadly. She had never -spoken to any one of her father’s inexorable verdict against John and -all belonging to him. “The heir! and I must not take him into the house -of his fathers! Take care of them, take care of them while I go—— And, -Martha, say nothing—not a word.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_29" id="page_29">{29}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Not if they were to cut me in pieces, ma’am!” said Miss Brown -fervently. She was too old a servant to work in the dark; but confidence -restored all her faculties to her. It was not, however, in the nature of -things that she should discharge her commission without a betrayal more -or less of the emergency. “I want some milk, please,” she said to the -cook, “for my lady.” It was only in moments of importance that she so -spoke of her mistress. And the very sound of her step told a tale.</p> - -<p>“I told ye there was somethink oop,” said Tom Gardener, still lingering -in the kitchen.</p> - -<p>And to see how the house brightened up, and all the servants grew alert -in the flutter of this novelty! Nothing had happened at the castle for -so long—they had a right to a sensation. Cook, who had been there for a -long time, recounted her experience to her assistants in low tones of -mystery.</p> - -<p>“Ah, if ye’d known the place when the gentlemen was at home,” said cook; -“the things as happened in t’auld house—such goings on!—coming in late -and early—o’er the watter and o’er the land—and the strivings, that -was enough to make a body flee out of their skin!” She ended with a -regretful sigh for the old times. “That was life, that was!” she said.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile Mary Musgrave came in out of the dark hall into the lighted -warmth of the dining-room, where the glass and the silver shone red in -the firelight. How cosy and pleasant it was there! how warm and -cheerful! Just the place to comfort the children and make them forget -their miseries. The children! How easily her mind had undertaken the -charge of them—the fact of their existence; already they had become the -chief feature in her life. She paused to look at herself in the mirror -over the mantelpiece, to smooth her hair, and put the ribbon straight at -her neck. The Squire was “very particular,” and yet she did not remember -to have had this anxious desire to be pleasant to his eyes since that -day when she had crept to him to implore a reversal of his sentence. She -had obtained nothing from him then; would she be more fortunate now? The -colour had gone out of her face, but her eyes were brighter and more -resolute than usual. How her heart beat when Mr. Musgrave said, “Come -in,” calmly from the midst of his studies, as she knocked trembling at -the library door!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_30" id="page_30">{30}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="PART_II" id="PART_II"></a>PART II.</h2> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br /><br /> -<small>AFTER THE SILENCE OF YEARS.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">“Come</span> in,” said the Squire. He was sitting among his books, working with -such a genuine sense of importance as was strange to see. Mary did not -know that she thought anything in the world (except this present mission -of hers) so important as he thought his search into the heraldic -fortunes of the family. He was in full cry after a certain -“augmentation” which had got into the Musgrave arms no one well knew -how. It was only the Musgraves of Penninghame who bore this distinction, -and how did they come by it? It appeared in the thirteenth century—in -the age of the Crusades. Was it in recollection of some feat of a -Crusader?—that was the question. He put down his pen and laid one open -book upon another as she came in. He had no consciousness in his mind to -make him critical or inquiring. He did not observe her paleness, nor the -special glitter in her eyes. “I am busy,” he said, “so you must be -brief. I think I have got hold of that ‘chief’ at last. After years of -search it is exciting to find the first trace of it; but perhaps it is -best to wait till I have verified my guesses—they are still not much -more than guesses. What a satisfaction it will be when all is clear!”</p> - -<p>“I am glad you are to have this satisfaction, papa.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know you take little interest in it for itself. Ladies seldom -do; though I can’t tell why, for heraldry ought to be an interesting -science to them and quite within their reach. Nothing has happened about -the dinner, I hope? I notice that is your general subject when you come -into my room so late. Law business in the morning, dinner in the -evening—a very good distribution. But I want a good dinner to-night, my -dear, to celebrate my success.”</p> - -<p>“It is not about dinner. Father, we have been living a very quiet life -for many years.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_31" id="page_31">{31}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Thank Heaven!” said the old man. “Yes, a quiet life. A man of my age is -entitled to it, Mary. I never shrank from exertion in my time, nor do I -now, as this will testify.” He laid his hand with a genial complaisance -upon the half-written paper that lay before him. Then he said with a -smile, “But make haste, my dear. There is still an hour before dinner, -and I am in the spirit of my work. We need not occupy our time, you and -I, with general remarks.”</p> - -<p>“I did not mean it for a general remark,” she said with a tremble in her -voice. “It is that I have something important—very important to speak -of, and I don’t know how to begin.”</p> - -<p>“Important—very important!” he said, with the indulgence of jocular -superiority for a child’s undue gravity. “I know what these important -matters are. Some poaching rascal that you don’t know how to manage, or -a quarrel in the village? Bring them to me: but bring them to-morrow, -Mary, when my mind is at rest—I cannot give my attention now.”</p> - -<p>“It is neither poaching nor quarrelling,” she said. “I can manage the -village. There are other things. Father, though we have been quiet for -so many years, it is not because there has been nothing to think of—no -seeds of trouble in the past—no anxieties—— ”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what you are thinking of,” he said, pettishly. “No -anxieties? A man has them as long as he is in the world. We are mortal. -Seeds of trouble? I have told you, Mary, that you may spare me general -remarks.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, nothing was further from my mind than general remarks,” she cried. -“I don’t know how to speak. Father—look here—read it; it will tell its -own story best. This is what, after the silence of years, I have -received to-day.”</p> - -<p>“The silence of years!” said the Squire. He had to fumble for his -spectacles, which he had taken off, though he carefully restrained -himself from betraying any special interest. A red colour had mounted to -his face. Perhaps his mind did not go so far as to divine what it was; -but still a sudden glimmering, like the tremble of pale light before the -dawn, had come into his mind.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_32" id="page_32">{32}</a></span></p> - -<p>And this was the thunderbolt that suddenly fell upon him in his -quietness after the silence of years:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot2"><p>“<span class="smcap">My dear Sister Mary</span>,—This will be given to you by my little -daughter Lilias. The sight of my handwriting and of the children -will be enough to startle you, so that I need not try to soften the -shock which you must have already received. I claim from my father -shelter for my children. Their mother is dead; so are the others of -my family whose very names will never be known to my nearest -relations. Never mind that now. I am a man both sick and sorry, -worn by the world, lonely, and not much better than an adventurer. -These children are the last of our race, and the boy, however -reluctant you may be, is my father’s heir. I claim for them the -shelter of the family roof. I have no home to give them, nor can I -give them the care they require. Mary, you are a good woman: you -are blameless one way or another. I charge you with my children. -God do so to you and more also, according as you deal with them. -Some time or other before I die I will drag myself home. That you -may be sure of, unless God cuts short my life by the way, of which, -if He will, I shall not complain.</p> - -<p class="rt"> -<span style="margin-right: 6em;">“Your brother,</span><br /> -“<span class="smcap">John Musgrave</span>.”<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>This was the letter which the Squire placed upon his mouldy books, over -the statement he had been writing. He did not speak, but read it -steadily to the end, betraying no emotion except by the glow of colour -that rose over his weather-beaten face. Who that has sat by, anxious, -watching the effect of such a letter, needs to be told with what intense -observation Mary Musgrave noted every sign of the rigid control he kept -upon himself—the tight clutch of one hand upon the table, the tremor of -the other which held the letter? But the Squire said nothing, not even -when he had visibly come to the end. He held it before him still for -some minutes; then he began to fold it elaborately—but said nothing -still. The shadow of his head with its falling locks of white hair shook -a little upon the wall. There is a peculiar tremble which shows the very -severity of restraint, and this was of that kind.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_33" id="page_33">{33}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Father! have you nothing to say?”</p> - -<p>“I thought it was a subject put aside, not to be mentioned between us,” -he said. “I may be wrong—if I am wrong you can inform me; but I -supposed this and all cognate subjects to be closed between us—— ”</p> - -<p>“How can this be closed; I have ceased to importune you, but this is a -new opening. And there is more than the letter—the children—— ”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” He gave a slight cry. If he could it would have been an -exclamation of scorn, but this was too much for him; the cry was sharp -with impatient pain.</p> - -<p>“I could not keep <i>them</i> a secret from you, father.”</p> - -<p>“I hate secrets,” he said; “nevertheless there are few families in which -they are not necessary. When he had said this he pushed the letter -towards her, drew forward his heraldry books, and took his pen in his -hand.</p> - -<p>“Will you say nothing to me?” she cried. “Will you give me no answer? -What am I to do?”</p> - -<p>“Do! It seems to me quite an unnecessary question. It is a long time -since I have given up exercising any control over you, Mary,” he said.</p> - -<p>“But, father, have a little pity. The house is not mine to do as I like -with.”</p> - -<p>“That is unfortunate,” he said with a cold precision which made it -doubtful whether he spoke satirically or in earnest. “But it is not my -fault. You cannot expect me to make place voluntarily for another; and -even if I did, as you are a woman, it would be of very little use to -you. You cannot be the heir—— ”</p> - -<p>“And this boy is!” she said with a gesture of appeal.</p> - -<p>Mr. Musgrave said nothing. He shook his head impatiently, pushed the -letter to her with an energy that flung it into her lap, and resumed his -writing. She stood by while he deliberately returned to his description -of the “chief,” turning up a page in his heraldry book, where all the -uses and meanings of that “augmentation” were discussed. According to -all appearance his mind took up this important question exactly where he -had left it; and he resumed his writing steadily, betraying agitation<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_34" id="page_34">{34}</a></span> -only by a larger, bolder, and firmer handwriting than usual. His -daughter stood for a moment by his side, and watched him -speechless—then went out of the room without another word. The Squire -went on writing for a full minute more. The lines he wrote had not been -so bold, so firm, so well-defined for years. Was it because he had to -put forth the whole force that remained in him, soul and body, to get -them upon the paper at all? When all sound of her departing steps had -died out, he stopped suddenly, and, putting down his pen, let his head -drop upon the open book and its figured page. An augmentation of honour! -The days were over in which such gifts came from heralds and kings. And -instead, here were struggles of a very different kind from those which -won new blazons. But the most insensible, the most self-controlled of -men, could not take such an interruption of his studies with absolute -calm. He had never been in such desperate conflict with any man as with -this son, and here his enemy, whom nature forbade to be his enemy, his -antagonist, had come again after the silence of years and confronted -him. To see such a one pass by could not but excite a certain emotion; -but to meet him thus as it were face to face! The passion of parental -love has been often portrayed. There is no passion more fervent, none -perhaps even that can equal it; but there is another passion scarcely -less intense—that which rises involuntarily in the bosom of a man -between whom and his son there are no ties of mutual dependence, when -the younger has become as the elder, knowing good and evil, and all the -experiences of life; when there is no longer any question of authority -and obedience, and natural affection yields to a strain of feeling which -is too strong for it. Many long years had passed now since young -Musgrave ceased to be his father’s pride and boyish second in -everything. He had grown a man, his equal, and had resisted and held his -own in the conflict half a lifetime ago. All the embitterment which -close relationship gives to a deadly quarrel had been between them, and -though the father had so far got the better as to drive the rebel out of -his sight, he had not crushed his will or removed him from his -standing-ground. He was the victor, though the vanquished. His son had -not yielded, nor would ever yield. When Mr. Musgrave raised his head his -face was pale, and his head shook<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_35" id="page_35">{35}</a></span> with a nervous tremor; all the broken -redness of his cheeks shone like pencilled lines through his pallor, -increasing it. “This will never do,” he said to himself, and rising, -went to an old oak cupboard in the corner, and poured himself a small -glass of the strongest of liqueurs. Not for all that remained of the -Musgrave property would he have shown himself so broken, so overcome. -This other man who was no younger, but only stronger than himself, was -at the same time his successor, ready to push him out of his seat; -waiting for a triumph that must come sooner or later. He had been able -to forget all about him for years; to thrust out the thought of him when -it recurred; but here the man stood once more confronting him. The -Squire was wise in his way, and knew that there was nothing in the world -so bad for the health, or so likely to give his antagonist an advantage, -as the indulgence of emotion—therefore he crushed it “upon the -threshold of the mind.” He would not give him so much help towards the -inevitable eventual triumph. He went back to his writing-table when he -had fortified himself with that potent mouthful; but, knowing himself, -tried his pen upon a stray bit of paper before he would resume his -writing. What he wrote was in the quivering lines of old age. He tore it -into pieces. No one should see such a sign of agitation in the -manuscript which was to last longer than he. He took up the most learned -of his books, and began to read with close attention. Here, at all -events, the adversary should not get the better of him; or, at least, if -thoughts did surge and rise, obliterating the old escutcheon altogether -and the lion on its “chief,” nobody should be the wiser.</p> - -<p>Thus the old man sat, with a desperate courage worthy a better object, -and mastered the furious excitement in his mind. But he was not thinking -of the children as perhaps the reader of this story may suppose. He was -not resisting the thrill of natural interest, the softening of heart -which might have attended that sudden arrival. He did not even realize -the existence of the children. His thoughts were of conflicts past, and -of the opponent against whom he had striven so often: the opponent whom -he could not altogether dismiss or get rid of, his rival, his heir, his -successor, his son. There was nothing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_36" id="page_36">{36}</a></span> he had wished as a father, as a -Musgrave, as the head of a great county family, which this man had not -done his best to undo: and as he had by ill-fortune thirty years the -advantage of his father, there was no doubt that he would, some time or -other, undo and destroy to an extent of which he was incapable now; -unless indeed he was prevented in the most disgraceful way, -incapacitated by public conviction of crime—conviction, which was only -too probable, which hung over his banished head and prevented his return -home. What would there be but pain in the thought of such a son—an -opponent if he were innocent, if he were guilty a disgrace to the family -name? The more completely the Squire could banish this thought from his -mind, the happier he was; and he had banished it with wonderful success -for many years past. He had done all he could to evade the idea that he -himself would one day be compelled to die. Many men do this who have no -painful consciousness of the heir behind who is waiting to dispossess -them; and Mr. Musgrave had, to a great degree, attained tranquillity on -this point. The habit of living seems to grow stronger with men as they -draw near the end of their lives. It has lasted so long; it has been so -steady and uninterrupted, why should it ever cease? But here was the -death’s-head rising at the feast; the executioner giving note of his -presence behind backs. John! he had dismissed him from his mind. He had -exercised even a kind of Christianity in forgetting him. But here he was -again, incapable of being forgotten. What a tremor in his blood—what -undue working of all that machinery of the heart which it was so -essential to keep in calm good order had this interruption caused! he -who had no vital energy to spare; who wanted it all for daily comfort -and that continuance which with younger people is so lightly taken for -granted. How much of that precious reserve had been consumed by this -shock! It had been done on purpose, perhaps, to try what the effect of -such a shock upon his nerves and fibres would be.</p> - -<p>Mr. Musgrave pushed back his chair again from the table, and gave all -his faculties to the task of calming himself down. He would not allow -himself to be overcome by John. But it took him a long time to -accomplish this, to get his pulse back to its<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_37" id="page_37">{37}</a></span> usual rate of beating. -When he relaxed for a moment in his watch over himself, old -recollections would come back, scenes of the long warfare, words that -were as swords and smote him over again with burning and stinging -wounds. He had to calm it all down and still memory altogether if he -would recover his ordinary composure. It wanted about an hour of dinner -when he began this process. Up to that time it did not so much matter -except for wearing him out and diminishing his strength. But it was his -determination that no one should know or see this agitation which he had -not been able to master. His daughter thought she had a harder task -before her when she left him and hurried back to the ghostly -half-lighted hall where she had left the children; but what was her -work, or the commotion of her thoughts, in comparison to that which -raged within the bosom of the old man in his solitude, defying Heaven -and nature, and all gentler influences—whose conflict was for himself -only, as it was carried on unhelped and unthought of by himself alone?</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.<br /><br /> -<small>WAKING UP.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Miss Musgrave</span> went back to her visitors with a heightened colour and -assured step. Her alarm had departed along with her wistful and hopeful -ignorance as to what her father might do. Now that she knew, her courage -came back to her. When she opened the door which led out of the little -passage into the hall, the scene before her was striking and strange -enough to arrest her like a picture. The great ancient room, with its -high raftered roof and wide space, lay in darkness—all but one bright -spot in the midst where the lamp stood on the table. Miss Brown had -hastily arranged a kind of homely meal, a basket of oatcakes, some white -bread in a napkin, biscuits, home-made gingerbread, and a jug of fresh -milk. The white and brown bread, the tall white jug, the cloth upon the -tray, all helped to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_38" id="page_38">{38}</a></span> increase the whiteness of that spot in the gloom. -In the midst of this light sat the Italian nurse, dark and vigorous, -with the silver pins in her black hair, and red ribbons at her breast. -The pale little boy sat on her knee; he had a little fair head like an -angel in a picture, light curling hair, and a delicate complexion, white -and red, which was fully relieved against that dark background. The -child’s alarm had given way a little, but still, in the intervals of his -meal, he would pause, look round him into the gloom, and clutch with -speechless fright at his attendant, who held him close and soothed him -with all the soft words she could think of. Little Lilias stood by her -on the further side, sufficiently recovered to eat a biscuit, but -securing herself also, brave as she was, by a firm grasp of the nurse’s -arm to which she hung, tightly embracing it with her own. Miss Brown was -flitting about this strange little group, talking continuously, though -the only one among them who was disposed to talk could not understand -her, and the children were too worn out to pay any attention to what she -said.</p> - -<p>There was a little start and thrill among the three who held so closely -together when the lady returned. Little Lilias put down her biscuit. She -became the head of the party as soon as Miss Musgrave came back—the -plenipotentiary with whom to conduct all negotiations. Nello, on the -other hand, buried his head in his nurse’s shoulder. In the midst of all -her agitation and confusion it troubled Miss Musgrave that the child -should hide his face from her. The boy who was like herself and her -family was the one to whom her interest turned most. Lilias bore another -resemblance, which was no passport to Mary Musgrave’s heart. Yet it was -hard to resist the fascination of this child’s sense and courage; the -boy, as yet, had shown himself capable of nothing but fear.</p> - -<p>“Go, and have fires lighted at once in the two west rooms—make -everything ready,” Mary said, sending Miss Brown away peremptorily. It -was not a worthy feeling perhaps, but it vexed her, agitated as she was, -to see that her maid woke no alarm in the children, while she, their -nearest relation, she who, if necessary, had made up her mind to -sacrifice everything for them, was an object of fear. She thought even -that the children<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_39" id="page_39">{39}</a></span> clung closer to their nurse and shrank more from -herself when Martha was sent away. Miss Musgrave stood at the other side -of the table and looked at them with many conflicting thoughts. It was -altogether new to her, this strange mixture of ignorance and wonder, and -almost awe, with which she felt herself contemplating these unknown -little creatures, henceforward to be wholly dependent upon her. They -were afraid of her, but she was scarcely less afraid of them, wondering -with an ache in her heart whether she would be able to feel towards them -as she ought, to bring her middle-aged thoughts into sympathy with -theirs, to be soft and gentle with them as their helplessness demanded. -Love does not always come with the first claim upon it; how was she to -love them, little unknown beings whose very existence she had never -heard of before? And Mary thought of herself with a certain pity in this -strange moment, remembering almost with a sense of injury that the -fountain of mother’s love had never been awakened in her at all. Was it -thus to be awakened? She was not an angelic woman, as poor Mr. Pen -imagined her to be. She knew this well enough, though he did not know -it. She had been young and full of herself when the family misfortunes -happened, and since then what had there been in her life to warm or -awaken the heart? Was she capable of loving? she asked herself; was -there not a chill atmosphere about her which breathed cold upon the -children and drove them away? This thought gave her a pang, as she stood -and looked at the two helpless creatures before her, too frightened now -to munch their biscuits, one gazing at her with big pathetic eyes, the -other hiding his face. An ache of helplessness and pain not less great -than theirs came into her mind. She was as helpless as they were, -looking at them across the table, as if across a world of separation -which she did not know how to bridge over, with not only them to -vanquish, but herself. At last she put out her hands with the sense of -weakness, such as perhaps she had never felt before. She had not been -able, indeed, to influence her father, but she had not felt helpless -before him; on the contrary, his hardness had stirred her to -determination on her side, and a sense of power which quickened the -flowing of her blood. But before these<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_40" id="page_40">{40}</a></span> children she felt helpless; what -was she to do with them, how bring herself into communication with them? -She put out her hands—hands strong to guard, but powerless she thought -to attract. “Lilias, will you come to me?” she said with a tremulous -tone in her voice.</p> - -<p>The weariness, the strangeness, the darkness had been almost too much -for Lilias; her mouthful of biscuit and draught of milk had been too -quickly interrupted by the return of the strange, beautiful lady, with -whom she alone, she was aware, could deal. And she could not respond to -that appeal without quitting hold of Martuccia, who, though powerless to -treat with the lady, was still a safeguard against the surrounding -blackness, a something to cling to. But the child was brave as a hero, -notwithstanding the nervous susceptibility of her nature. She disengaged -her arm slowly from her one stay, keeping her eyes all the time fixed -upon Miss Musgrave, half attracted by her, half to keep herself from -seeing those dark corners in which mysterious dangers seemed to lurk; -and came forward, repressing the sob that rose in her throat, her little -pale face growing crimson with the strain of resolution which this -effort cost her. It was all Lilias could do to move round the table -quietly, not to make a rush of fright and violent clutch at the hand -held out to her—even though it was the hand of a stranger, from which -in itself she shrank. Mary put her arm round the little trembling -figure, and smoothing away the dark hair from her forehead, kissed the -little girl with lips that trembled too. She would do her duty by her; -never would she forsake her brother’s child; and with the warmth of this -resolution tears of pity and tenderness came into her eyes. But when -Lilias felt the protection of the warm soft arm about her, and the -tenderness of the kiss, her little heart burst forth with a strength of -impulse which put all laws at defiance. With a sobbing cry she threw -herself upon her new protector, caught at her dress, clung to her waist, -nestled her head into her bosom, with a close pressure which was half -gratitude, half terror, half nervous excitement. Mary was taken by -storm. She did not understand the change that came over her. A sudden -warmth seemed to come into her veins, tingling to her very -finger-points. She too, mature and self-restrained as she was, began to -weep, a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_41" id="page_41">{41}</a></span> sudden flood of tears rushing to her eyes against her will. “My -child, my brave little girl!” she said almost unawares, recognising in -her heart a soft surprise of feeling which was inexplicable; was this -what nature did, sheer nature? she had never felt anything like it -before. She held the child in her arms and cried over her, the tears -falling over those dark curls which had nothing to do with the -Musgraves, which even resembled another type with which the Musgraves -would have nothing to do!</p> - -<p>As she stood thus overcome by the double sensation of the child’s -nestling and clinging, and by the strange, sudden development of feeling -in herself, Mary Musgrave felt two soft touches upon her hand which were -not mistakable, and which made her start and flush, with the decorum of -an Englishwoman surprised. It was Martuccia, who, moved like all her -race by quick impulses of emotion, had risen hastily to her feet in -sympathy, and had kissed the lady’s hand, and put forward her little -charge to perform the same act of homage. This roused Mary from her -momentary breaking down. She took the little boy by the hand whom she -found at her feet, not quite so frightened as at first, but still -holding fast by the nurse’s skirts, and led them both into the house. -They were too much awed to make any noise, but went with her, keeping -close to her, treading in her footsteps almost, closer and closer as -they emerged into one unknown place after another. Wonder kept them -still as she took them through the cheerful lighted dining-room, and up -the stairs. Eastwood was busy about his table, putting it in that -perfect order which it was his pride to keep up (“For who is more to me -nor my family? what’s company?” said Eastwood; “it’s them as pays me as -I’m bound to please”); but Eastwood was too good a servant to manifest -any feeling. He had, of course, heard all about the arrival, not only -from the gardener, but from every one in the kitchen; and he was aware, -as nobody else was, that there had been a private interview between the -father and daughter, to which she had gone with a pale face, and come -back with nostrils expanded, and a glow of resolution upon her. Eastwood -was not an old servant, but he had learned all that there was to learn -about the family, and a little more. His<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_42" id="page_42">{42}</a></span> interest in the Musgraves was -not so warm as that of cook for instance, who had been born in the -place, and had known them from their cradles; but he had the warm -curiosity which is common to his kind. He gave a glance from beneath his -eyebrows at the new-comers, wondering what was to become of them. Would -they be received into the house for good; and if so, would that have any -effect upon himself, Eastwood? would it, by and by, be an increase of -trouble, a something additional to do? He was no worse than his -neighbours, and the thought was instinctive and natural, for no one -likes to have additional labour. “But he’s but a little chap; it’ll be -long enough before he wants valeting—if ever,” Mr. Eastwood said to -himself. What would be wanted would be a nurse, not a valet; and if that -black-eyed foreigner didn’t stay, Eastwood knew a nice girl from the -village whom the place would just suit. So he cast no unkindly eye upon -the children as he went noiselessly about in his spotless coat, putting -down his forks, which were quite as spotless. The sight of the table -with its bouquet of autumn flowers excited Lilias. “Who is going to dine -there?” she said, with a pretty childish wile, drawing down Miss -Musgrave towards her to whisper in her ear.</p> - -<p>“I am, Lilias.”</p> - -<p>“May we come too?” said the little girl. “Nello is very good—he does -not ask for anything; we know how to behave.”</p> - -<p>“There will be some one else besides me,” said Mary, faltering slightly.</p> - -<p>“Then we do not want to come,” said Lilias with decision. “We are not -fond of strangers.”</p> - -<p>“I am a stranger, dear—— ”</p> - -<p>“Oh no, you are Mary!” said the child, embracing Miss Musgrave’s arm -with her own two arms clasped round it, and raising her face with the -confidence of perfect trust. These simple actions made Mary’s heart -swell as it had not done for years—as indeed it had never done in her -life. Other thrills there might have been in her day, but this fountain -had never been opened before, and the new feeling was almost as -strangely sweet to her as is the silent ecstasy in the bosom of the new -mother, whose baby has just brought into the world such an<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_43" id="page_43">{43}</a></span> atmosphere -of love. It was like some strange new stream poured into her heart, -filling up all her veins.</p> - -<p>The firelight had already begun to sparkle pleasantly in the bedrooms, -and Mary found herself suddenly plunged into those pleasant cares of a -mother which make time fly so swiftly. She had found so much to do for -them, getting them to bed and making the weary little creatures -comfortable, that the bell rang for dinner before she was aware. She -left them hastily, and put herself into her evening gown with a speed -which was anxiously seconded by Miss Brown, who for her part was just as -eager to get back to the children as was her mistress. Miss Musgrave did -not know what awaited her when she went down-stairs, or what battles she -might have to fight. She had another duty now in the world beyond that -claimed by her father. He had no such need of her as these children, who -in all the wide world had no protector or succour but herself. Her heart -beat a little louder and stronger than usual; her bearing was more -dignified. The indifference which had been in her life this morning had -passed away. How strange it seemed now to think of that calm which -nothing affected much, in which she had been comparatively happy, but -which now appeared so mean and poverty-stricken. The easy quiet had gone -out of her life;—was it for ever?—and instead there had come in a -commotion of anxieties, hopes, and doubts and questions manifold; but -yet how miserable to her in comparison seemed now that long loveless -tranquillity! She was another woman, a living woman, she thought to -herself, bearing the natural burden of care, a burden sweetened by a -hundred budding tendernesses and consolations. It is well to have good -health and enough to do; these had been the bare elements of existence, -out of which she had managed to form a cold version of living; but how -different was this vivid existence, new-born yet eternal, of love and -care! She was like one inspired. If she had been offered the -alternative, as she almost expected, of leaving the house or giving up -the children, with what pride would she have drawn her cloak round her -and left her father’s house! This prospect seemed near enough and likely -enough as she walked into the dining-room, with her head high, and a -swell of conscious force in her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_44" id="page_44">{44}</a></span> bosom. Whatever might be coming she was -prepared for any blow.</p> - -<p>Mr. Musgrave, too, was late. He who was the soul of punctuality did not -enter the room for a minute or more after his daughter had hastened -there, knowing herself late—but whereas she had hurried her toilet, his -had never been more careful and precise. He took his seat with -deliberate steadiness, and insisted upon carving the mutton and -partridge which made their meal, though on ordinary occasions he left -this office to Eastwood. It gratified him, however, to-day, to prove to -himself and to her how capable he was and how steady were his nerves. -And he talked while he did this with unusual energy, going over again -all the history of the “chief.”</p> - -<p>“I hope it will interest the general reader,” he said. “Not many family -questions do, but this is really an elucidation of history. It throws -light upon a great many things. You scorn heraldry, Mary, I am aware.”</p> - -<p>“No, I do not think I scorn it.”</p> - -<p>“Well, at all events you are little interested; the details are not of -much importance, you think. In short, I suspect,” he added, with a -little laugh, “that if the truth were told, you and a great many other -ladies secretly look upon the science as one of those play-sciences that -keep men from being troublesome. You don’t say so, but I believe you -think we fuss and make work for ourselves in this way while you are -carrying on the real work of the world.”</p> - -<p>“I am not so self-important,” she said; but there was a great deal of -truth in the suggestion if her mind had been free enough to think of it. -What was it else but a play-science to keep country gentlemen too old -for fox-hunting out of mischief? This is one of the private opinions of -the gynecæum applying to many grave pursuits, an opinion which -circulates there in strictest privacy and is not spoken to the world. -Mary would have smiled at the Squire’s discrimination had her mind been -free. As it was, she could do nothing but wonder at his liveliness and -composure, and say to herself that he must be waiting till Eastwood went -away. This, no doubt, was why he talked so much, and was so genial. He -did not wish to betray anything<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_45" id="page_45">{45}</a></span> to the man, and her heart began to beat -once more with renewed force as the moment came for his withdrawal. No -doubt the discussion she feared would come, and most likely come with -double severity then. She had seen all this process gone through before.</p> - -<p>But when Eastwood went away the Squire continued smiling and -conversational. He told her of a poacher who had been brought to him, a -bumpkin from a distant farm, to whom he meant to be merciful; and of -some land which was likely to be in the market, which would, if it could -be got, restore an old corner of the estate and rectify the ancient -boundary.</p> - -<p>“I do not suppose there is any hope of such a thing,” he said, with a -sigh. “And besides, what does it matter to me that I should care? my -time cannot be very long.”</p> - -<p>“The time of the family may be long enough,” she said, with a throb of -rising excitement, for surely now he would speak; “one individual is not -all.”</p> - -<p>“That is a sound sentiment, though perhaps it may seem a little -cold-hearted when the individual is your father, Mary.”</p> - -<p>“I did not mean it to be cold-hearted; you have always taught me to -consider the race.”</p> - -<p>“And so you ought,” he said, “though you don’t care so much for the -blazon as I could wish. I should like to talk to Burn and to see what -the lawyers would think of it. I confess I should like to be Lord of the -Manor at Critchley again before I die.”</p> - -<p>“And so you shall, father, so you shall!” she cried. “We could do it -with an effort: if only you would—if only you could—— ”</p> - -<p>He interrupted her hastily.</p> - -<p>“When Burn comes to-morrow let me see him,” he said. “This is no -question of what I could or would. If it can be done it ought to be -done. That is all I have to say. Is it not time you were having tea?”</p> - -<p>This was to send her away that he might have his evening nap after -dinner. Mary rose at the well-known formula, but she came softly round -to his end of the room to see that the fire was as he liked it, and -lingered behind his chair, not knowing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_46" id="page_46">{46}</a></span> whether to make another appeal -to him. Her presence seemed to make him restless; perhaps he divined -what was floating in her mind. He got up quickly before she had time to -speak.</p> - -<p>“On second thoughts,” he said, “as I was disturbed before dinner, I had -better resume my work at once. You can send me a cup of tea to the -library. It is not often that one has such a satisfactory piece of work -in hand; that charms away drowsiness. Be sure you send me a cup of tea.”</p> - -<p>“You will not—over-fatigue yourself, father?” said Mary, faltering. -“I—hope you will not do too much.”</p> - -<p>This was not what she meant to say, but these were the only words that -she could manage to form out of her lips.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no; do not be uneasy. I shall not overwork myself,” said the Squire -once more, with a laugh.</p> - -<p>And he went out of the room before her, erect and steady, looking -younger and stronger in the force of that excitement which he was so -careful to conceal. Mary did not know what to think. Was he postponing -his sentence to make it more telling? or was he, happier thought, moved -by the new event as she herself had been, warmed into forgiveness, into -relenting, into the happiness of old age in children’s children? Could -this be so? She stood over the fire in her agitation holding her hands -out to the ruddy blaze, though she was not cold. Her heart beat -violently against her breast. How uneasy a thing this life was, how -restless and full of change and commotion! Yet so much more, so much -greater than the gentler stagnation which was gone.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.<br /><br /> -<small>AT THE VICARAGE.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> vicarage was stilled in the quiet of the evening, the children in -bed, the house at rest. It was not the beautiful and dignified old house -which in England is the ideal dwelling of the gentleman parson, the -ecclesiastical squire of the parish. And indeed Mr. Pennithorne was not -of that order. Though there had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_47" id="page_47">{47}</a></span> many jokes when he first entered -upon the cure as to the resemblance between his name and that of the -parish, Pennithorne of Penninghame was a purely accidental coincidence. -Mr. Musgrave was the patron, but the living was not wealthy enough or -important enough to form that appropriate provision for a second son -which, according to the curious subordination and adaptation of public -wants to family interests, has become the rule in England, unique, as -are so many others. Randolph Musgrave had his rectory in one of the -midland counties, in the district which was influenced by his mother’s -family, where there was something more worth his acceptance; and his old -tutor had got the family living. Mr. Pennithorne was not a distinguished -scholar with chances of preferment through his college, and it had been -considered a great thing for him when, after dragging the young -Musgraves through a certain proportion of schooling and colleging, he -had subsided into this quiet provision for the rest of his life. He was -a clergyman’s son, with no prospects, and whatsoever glimmerings of -young ambition there might have been in him, there was no coming down -involved when he accepted the small rural vicarage where his heart was. -We have already said that in his wildest hopes a vision of the -possibility of bringing Mary Musgrave to the vicarage to share his -humble circumstances with him had never entered into Mr. Pennithorne’s -mind; but to be near her was something, and to be her trusted and -confidential friend seemed the best that life could give him. Here he -had remained ever since, being of some use to her, as he hoped, from -time to time, and some comfort at least, if nothing more, in the -convulsions of the family. During the first years of his incumbency, Mr. -Pennithorne’s own mind had been subject to many convulsions as one -suitor after another came to the Castle; but as they had all ridden away -again with what grace they could after their rejection, comfort had come -back. It was a curious passion, and one which we do not pretend to -explain. After a while, impelled by friends, by convenience, and by the -soft looks of Emily Coniston, the daughter of the clergyman in his -native place, to which he had gone on a visit, he had himself found it -possible to marry, without any failure of his allegiance to his -visionary love; but still to this day<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_48" id="page_48">{48}</a></span> though he had been Emily’s -husband for ten years, it troubled the good vicar when any stranger came -to the Castle whose society seemed specially pleasant to Miss Musgrave. -He would hang about the place at such times like an alarmed hen when -something threatens the brood, nor ceased to cluck and flutter his wings -till the danger was over. Did he not wish her happiness? Ah, yes, and -would, he thought, have given his life to procure it; but was it -necessary that happiness should always be got in that one vulgar way? -Marriage was well enough for the vulgar, but not for Mary. It would have -been a descent from her maiden dignity, a lowering of her position. He -was willing that everybody should love her and place her on a pedestal -above all women; but it wounded his finest feelings to think that she -too, in her turn, might love. There was no man good enough or great -enough to be worthy of awakening such a sentiment in Mary Musgrave’s -breast.</p> - -<p>As is not unusual in such cases, Mr. Pennithorne, the chief inspiration -of whose life was a visionary passion of the most exalted and exalting -kind for a woman, had married a woman for whom no one could entertain -any very exalted or impassioned feelings. Perhaps the household drudge -is a natural double or attendant of the goddess. They “got on” very well -together, people said, and Mr. Pen put up with his wife’s little -foolishnesses and fretfulnesses, as perhaps a man could not have done -whose heart was fortified by no ideal passion. Emily was a good -housekeeper of the narrow sort, caring very little for comfort, and very -proud of her economy; and she was a good mother of the troublesome kind, -whose children are always in the foreground, always wanting something, -always claiming her attention. Mr. Pen adored them, and yet he was glad -when they were got to bed, when his wife could be spoken to without one -child clinging to her skirts, or another breaking in upon everything -with plaintive appeals to mamma. But he took it for granted that this -was how it must be, and that a more lovely course of life was -impracticable. One woman excepted, all women, he thought, were like -this; it is thus that the dogmatisms of common opinion are formed and -kept up; and what could be done but to shrug his shoulders at the -inevitable, escaping from it into<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_49" id="page_49">{49}</a></span> his study, or with a sigh into that -world of the ideal where imagination is never ruffled by the incidents -of common life. The children were in bed on this October night, and -everything was still. The vicarage was not a handsome house, nor was it -old, but merely modern, badly built, and common-place, redeemed by -nothing but its garden, which was large, and gave a pretty surrounding -to the place in summer. But the night had become stormy, and the wind -was raving in the trees, making their close neighbourhood anything but -an advantage. Mrs. Pennithorne thought it extravagant to use two -sitting-rooms, so the family ate and lived in the dining-room—a dark -room papered and furnished as, in the days when Mr. Pen was married, it -was thought right to decorate such places, with a red flock paper of a -large pattern, which relieved the black horsehair of the furniture. The -room was not very large. It had a black marble mantel-shelf, with a -clock upon it, and some vases of Bohemian glass, and a red and blue -table-cover upon the table, about which there lingered always a certain -odour of food, especially in cold weather, when the windows were closed. -Mrs. Pennithorne sat between the fire and the table. She had some -dressmaking in hand, which made a litter about—dark winter stuff for -little Mary’s frock; and as she had no genius for this work, it was a -lingering and confusing business with her, and made her less amiable -than usual. The reason why her husband was there at all instead of being -in his study was that the evening was cold; but it had not yet become, -according to Mrs. Pen’s code, time for fires. There was one in the -dining-room, for she had not been well; but to light a second so early -in October was against all her traditions, and Mr. Pen had been driven -out of his study, where he had been sitting in his great-coat, and now -stood with his back to the fire, warming himself, poor man, in -preparation for another spell of work at his sermon. He was thin, and -felt the cold. It was this, she had just been saying, that had brought -him, and not any regard for her loneliness—which indeed was quite true.</p> - -<p>“No, Emily,” he said, meekly, “for I have my work to do, you know; but -while I am here, I hope you are not sorry to see me. The children were -rather late to-night.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_50" id="page_50">{50}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I am glad to keep them up a little for company,” she said. “It is not -so cheerful sitting here all alone, hearing the wind roaring in the -trees; and my nerves are quite gone. I never used to fear anything when -I was a young girl, but now I start at every sound. I don’t mean to -blame <i>you</i>—but it is lonely sitting by one’s self after being one of a -large family.”</p> - -<p>“No doubt—no doubt,” he said, soothingly. “I suppose we gain something -as years go on, but we do lose something. That must be taken for granted -in life.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t like your philosophy, Mr. Pennithorne,” said Emily; “the way -you have of always making out that things have to be! I don’t see it, -for my part. I think a married woman should have a great deal to cheer -her up that a girl can’t have—— ”</p> - -<p>“My dear,” he said, “perhaps I am not much—and you know the parish is -my first duty; but have you not the children?—dear children they are. I -do not think there can be any greater pleasure than one’s children—— ”</p> - -<p>“You have nothing to do but enjoy them,” said Mrs Pennithorne, slightly -softened; “but if you had to work and slave like me! There is never a -day that I have not something to do for them; mending, or making, or -darning, or something. Fathers have an easy time of it; they play with -the baby now and then, take out the elder ones for a walk, and that is -all. That is nothing but pleasure; but to sit for days and work one’s -fingers to the bone—— ”</p> - -<p>“I wish you would not, Emily. I have heard you say that Miss Price in -the village was a very good dressmaker—— ”</p> - -<p>“For those who can afford her,” said Mrs. Pennithorne. “But,” she added, -with a better inspiration, “you make me look as if I were complaining, -and I don’t want to complain. Though it is dull, William, you must -allow, sitting all the evening by one’s self—— ”</p> - -<p>“But I have to do the same,” he said, with gentle hypocrisy. “You know, -Emily, if I wrote my sermon here, we should fall to talking, which no -doubt is far pleasanter—but it is not duty, and duty must come before -all—— ”</p> - -<p>“There is more than one kind of duty,” said Mrs. Pennithorne, who was -tearing her fingers with pins putting together two sides<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_51" id="page_51">{51}</a></span> of Mary’s -frock. While she was bending over this, the maid came into the room with -a note. There was something in the “Ah!” with which he took it which -made his wife raise her head. She was not jealous of Miss Musgrave, who -was nearly ten years older than herself, an old maid, and beneath -consideration; but she did think that William thought a great deal too -much of the Castle. “What is it now?” she said pettishly. Perhaps once -more—they had done it several times already—it was an invitation to -dinner for Mr. Pennithorne alone. But he was so much interested in what -he was reading that he did not even hear her. She sat with her scissors -in her hand, and looked at him while he read the note, his face -changing, his whole mind absorbed. He did not look like that when their -common affairs were discussed, or the education of his children, which -ought to be more interesting to him than anything else. This was other -people’s business—and how it took him up! Mrs. Pennithorne was a good -woman, and did her duty to her neighbours when it was very clearly -indicated; but still, of course, nothing could be of such consequence as -your own family, and your duty to them. And to see how he was taken up, -smiling, looking as if he might be going to cry! Nothing about Johnny or -Mary ever excited him so. Mrs. Pennithorne was not only vexed on her own -account, but felt it to be wrong.</p> - -<p>“Well, life is a wonderful thing,” he said suddenly. “I went to the -Castle this afternoon—— ”</p> - -<p>“You are always going to the Castle,” she said, in a fretful voice.</p> - -<p>“—Expressly to tell Miss Musgrave how much my mind had been occupied -about her brother John. You never knew him, Emily; but he was my pupil, -and I was very fond of him—— ”</p> - -<p>“You are very fond of all the family, I think,” she said, -half-interested, half-aggrieved.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps I was,” he said, with a little sigh, which, however, she did -not notice; “but John particularly. He was a fine fellow, though he was -so hot-headed. The other night I kept dreaming of him, all night -long—over and over again.”</p> - -<p>“That was what made you so restless, I suppose,” Mrs. Pennithorne put -in, in a parenthesis. “I am sure you have plenty belonging to yourself -to dream of, if you want to dream.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_52" id="page_52">{52}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“—And I went to ask if they had heard anything, smiling at myself—as -she did, for being superstitious. But here is the wonderful thing: I had -scarcely left, when the thing I had foreseen arrived. A carriage drew up -containing John Musgrave’s children—— ”</p> - -<p>“Did you know John Musgrave’s children? I never knew he had any -children—— ”</p> - -<p>“Nor did I, or any one!—that is the wonder of it. I felt sure something -was happening to him or about him—and lo! the children arrived. It was -no cleverness of mine,” said Mr. Pennithorne with gentle complacency, -“but still I must say it was a wonderful coincidence. The very day!”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Pennithorne did not make any reply. She was not interested in a -coincidence which had nothing to do with her own family. If Mr. Pen had -divined when Johnny was to break his arm, so that they might have been -prepared for that accident! but the Musgraves had plenty of people to -take care of them, and there seemed no need for a new providential -agency to give them warning of unsuspected arrivals. She put some more -pins into little Mary’s frock—the two sides of the little bodice never -would come the same. She pulled at them, measured them, repinned them, -but could not get them right.</p> - -<p>“I have heard a great deal about John Musgrave,” she said with a pin in -her mouth. “What was it he did that he had to run away?”</p> - -<p>“My dear Emily! don’t do that, for heaven’s sake—you frighten me; and -besides, it is not—pretty—it is not becoming—— ”</p> - -<p>“I think I am old enough by this time to know what is becoming,” said -Mrs. Pennithorne with some wrath, yet growing red as she took out the -pins. She was conscious that it was not ladylike, and felt that this was -the word her husband meant to use. “If you knew the trouble it is to get -both sides the same!” she added, forgetting her resentment in vexation.</p> - -<p>It was a troublesome job. There are some people in whose hands -everything goes wrong. Mrs. Pen shed a tear or two over the refractory -frock.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_53" id="page_53">{53}</a></span></p><p>“My dear! I hope it is not my innocent remark—— ”</p> - -<p>“Oh no, it is not any innocent remark. It is so troublesome. Just when I -thought I had got it quite straight! But what do you know about such -things? You have nothing to say to Mary’s frock. You never would notice, -I believe, if she had not one to her back, or wore the same old rag year -after year—— ”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Emily, I should notice,” said Mr. Pen with some compunction; “and -I am very sorry that you should have so much trouble. Send for Miss -Price to-morrow, and I will pay her out of my own money. You must not -take it off the house.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, William! William!” said his wife, “who is it that will suffer if -your own money, as you call it, runs out? Do you think I am so -inconsiderate as only to think of what I have for the house! Isn’t it -all one purse, and will it not be the children that will suffer -eventually whoever pays? No, your money shall not be spent to save me -trouble. What is the good of us but to take trouble?” said Mrs. Pen with -heroic fortitude.</p> - -<p>Mr. Pen sighed. Perhaps he was more conscious of the litter of -dressmaking than of this fine sentiment. But anyhow he did not give any -applause to the heroine. He left indeed this family subject altogether, -and after a momentary pause, said, half to himself, “John Musgrave’s -children! Who could have thought it! And how strange it all is—— ”</p> - -<p>“Really, Mr. Pennithorne,” said his wife, offended, “this is too much. I -don’t believe you think one half so much of your own children as of -those Musgraves. What did they ever do for us?”</p> - -<p>“They did this for us, my dear, that but for them I should not have had -a home to offer you—nor a family at all,” said the vicar with a little -warmth. “I might have been still travelling with boys about the -world—— ”</p> - -<p>“Oh, William, not with your talents,” said his wife, looking at him with -admiration. With all her fretfulness and insensibility to those fine -points of internal arrangement for which he had a half-developed, -half-subdued taste, Emily had still a great admiration for her husband. -Now Mary Musgrave, who was, unknown to either, her spiritual rival, had -no admiration for good Mr. Pen at all. This gave the partner of his life -an infinite advantage. His voice softened as he replied, shaking his -head:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_54" id="page_54">{54}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Unfortunately, my love, other people do not appreciate my talents as -you do.”</p> - -<p>“That is because they don’t know you so well,” she said with flattering -promptitude. Mr. Pennithorne drew a chair to the fire and sat down. It -was but rarely that he received this domestic adulation; but it warmed -him, and did him good.</p> - -<p>“Ah, my dear, I fear I must not lay that flattering unction to my soul,” -he said.</p> - -<p>“You are too modest, William; I have always said you were too modest,” -said Mrs. Pennithorne, returning good for evil. How little notice he had -taken of her fine heroic feeling and self-abnegation! Women are more -generous; she behaved very differently to him. And the fact was, he very -soon began to think that old Mr. Musgrave had made use of him, and given -him a very poor return. The vicarage was not much—and the Squire had -never attempted to do anything more. It is sweet to be told that you are -above your fate—that Providence owes you something better. He roused -himself up, however, after a time out of that unwholesome state of -self-complacency. “What a strange state of affairs it is, Emily,” he -said. He was not in the habit of making his wife his confidant on -matters that concerned the Musgraves, but in a moment of weakness his -resolution was overcome. “What a painful state of affairs! Mr. Musgrave -knows of the coming of these children, but he takes no notice, and -whether she is to be allowed to keep them or not—— ”</p> - -<p>“Dear me, think of having to get permission from your father at her time -of life,” said Mrs. Pennithorne, with a naïve pity. “And whom did he -marry, William, and what sort of person was their mother? I don’t think -you ever told me that.”</p> - -<p>“Their mother was—John’s wife; I must have told you of her. She was not -the person his family wished. But that often happens, my dear. It is no -sign that a man is a bad man because he may make what you may call a -mistaken choice.”</p> - -<p>“My dear William,” said Mrs. Pen, with authority, “there is nothing that -shows a man’s character so much as the wife he chooses; my mother always -said so. It is the best test if he is a nice feeling man or not,” the -vicar’s wife said blandly, with a little conscious smile upon her face.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_55" id="page_55">{55}</a></span></p> - -<p>Mr. Pennithorne made no reply. There was something humorous in this -innocent little speech, considering who the speaker was, to any one who -knew. But then nobody knew; scarcely even Mr. Pennithorne himself, who -at this moment was so soothed by his wife’s “appreciation,” that he felt -himself the most devoted of husbands. He shook his head a little, -deprecating the implied condemnation of his old pupil; for the moment he -did not think of himself.</p> - -<p>“Now that we are sitting together, and really comfortable for once in a -way,” said Mrs. Pennithorne, dropping Mary’s bodice with all the pins, -and drawing her chair a little nearer to the fire—“it does not happen -very often—tell me, William, what it is all about, and what John -Musgrave has done.”</p> - -<p>Again the vicar shook his head. “It’s a long story,” he said, -reluctantly.</p> - -<p>“You tell things so nicely, William, I sha’n’t think it long; and think -how strange it is, knowing so much about people, and yet not knowing -anything. And of course I shall have to see the children. Poor little -things, not to be sure of shelter in their grandfather’s house! but they -will always have a friend in you.”</p> - -<p>“They will have Mary; what can they want more if they have <i>her</i>?” he -said suddenly, with a fervour which surprised his wife; then blushed and -faltered as he caught her eye. What right had he to speak of Miss -Musgrave so? Mrs. Pennithorne stared a little, but the slip did not -otherwise trouble her, for she saw no reason for the exaggerated respect -with which the Squire’s daughter was treated. Why should not she be -called Mary—was it not her name?</p> - -<p>“Mary, indeed! what does she know about children? But, William, I am -waiting, and this is the question—What did John Musgrave do?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_56" id="page_56">{56}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="PART_III" id="PART_III"></a>PART III.</h2> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.<br /><br /> -<small>THE CHILDREN AT THE CASTLE.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> arrival of the children was an era at Penninghame from which -afterwards everything dated; but the immediate result was a very curious -and not very comfortable one. As they had been introduced into the -house, so they lived in it. Mr. Musgrave never mentioned them, never saw -them or appeared to see them, ignored their existence, in short, as -completely as if his faculties had been deadened in respect to them. His -life was in no way changed indeed; the extraordinary revolution which -had been made to every one else in the house by this change showed all -the more strongly from the absence of all effect upon him. He read, he -wrote, he studied, he took his usual quiet exercise exactly as he did -before, and never owned by a word or look that he was conscious of any -alteration in the household. For a little while the children were hushed -not to make a noise, and huddled away into corners to keep them out of -sight and hearing; but that arrangement was too unnatural to continue, -and it very soon happened that their presence was forced upon him by -unmistakable signs, by both sight and hearing. But the Squire took not -the slightest notice. He looked over their heads and never saw them. His -ear was engaged with other sounds and he did not hear them. By this -system of unconsciousness he deprived himself indeed of some evident -advantages; for how can you interfere with the proceedings of those -whose very existence you ignore? He could not give orders that the -children should make less noise, because he professed not to be aware of -their presence; nor send them out of his sight, when he was supposed not -to see them; and in consequence this blindness and deafness on his part -was perhaps a greater gain to them than to himself. The mental commotion -into which he had been thrown by their arrival had never been known to -any one but himself. He had a slight illness a few<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_57" id="page_57">{57}</a></span> days after—his -liver out of order, the doctor said; and so worked off his excitement -without disclosing it to any one. After this he resumed his serenity, -and completed his heraldic study. The history of the augmentation -granted to the Musgraves in the year 1393 in remembrance of the valour -of Sir Egidio, or Giles, Musgrave in the Holy Land made rather a -sensation among students in that kind. It was a very interesting -monograph. Besides being a singularly striking chapter of family -history, it was, everybody said, a most interesting contribution to the -study of heraldic honours—how and why they were bestowed; especially as -concerning “augmentations” bestowed on the field for acts of valour—a -rare and exceptional distinction. The Squire made a little collection of -the notices that appeared in the newspapers of his “Monograph” pasting -them into a pretty little book, as is not unusual with amateur authors. -He enjoyed them a great deal more than if he had been the author of a -great history, and resented criticism with corresponding bitterness. He -was very proud of Egidio, or Giles, who died in the fifteenth century; -and it did not occur to him that there was any incongruity between this -devotion to his ancestors and the fact that he persisted in ignoring the -little boy upstairs.</p> - -<p>And yet day by day it grew more hard to ignore him. Mr. Musgrave in his -study, after the enthusiasm of his monograph was over, could not help -hearing voices which it was difficult to take no notice of. The -enthusiasm of composition did a great deal for him: it carried him out -of the present; it filled him with a delightful fervour and thrill of -intellectual excitement. People who are always writing get used to it, -and lose this sense of something fine and great which is the inheritance -of the amateur. Even after the shock of renewed intercourse with the -son, who had brought shame upon his name, and whom he had cast off, Mr. -Musgrave, so long as his work lasted, found himself able to forget -everything in the happiness it gave. When he woke in the morning his -first thought was of this important occupation which awaited him, and he -went to bed with the fumes of his own paragraphs in his head; he was -carried away by it. But when all this intellectual commotion was over, -and when the ennui of having nothing further to do had swallowed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_58" id="page_58">{58}</a></span> up the -satisfaction of having finished a great piece of work, as it so soon -does, then there came a very difficult interval for the Squire. He had -no longer anything to absorb him and keep him comfortably above the -circumstances of ordinary life; and as he sat in his library, only -reading, only writing a letter, no longer absorbed by any special study, -or by the pride and delight of recording in fine language the results of -that study, ordinary life stole back, as it has a way of doing. He began -to hear the knocks at the door, the ringing of bells, and to wonder what -they meant; to hear steps going up and down the stairs, to be aware of -Eastwood in the dining-room, and the rustle of Mary’s dress as she went -about the house in the morning, and in the afternoon passed with a soft -boom of the swinging door into her favourite hall. The routine of the -house came back to the old man. He heard the servants in the kitchen, -the ticking of that measured, leisurely old clock in the hall which took -about five minutes to spell out the hour. He was not consciously paying -any attention to these things. On the contrary, he was secluded from -them, rapt in his books, knowing nothing of what was going on; yet he -heard them all; and as he sat there through the long winter days and the -still longer winter evenings, when there was rain or storm out of doors, -and nothing to break the long, still blank of hours within, a sound -would come to him now and then, even before the care of the household -relaxed—the cry of a little voice, a running and pattering of small -feet, sometimes an outburst of laughter, a small voice of weeping, which -stirred strangely in the air about him and vaguely called forth old -half-extinct sensations, as one might run over the jarred and -half-silent keys of an old piano in the dark. This surprised him at -first in his loneliness—then, when he had realized what it was, hurt -him a little, rousing old wrath and bitterness, so that he would -sometimes lay down his pen or close his book and all the past would come -before him—the past, in which John his son had disappointed, mocked, -insulted, and baffled his father. He would not allow himself to realize -the presence of these children in the house, but he could not avoid -thinking of the individual who stood between him and them, who was so -real while they were so visionary.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_59" id="page_59">{59}</a></span> Always John! He had tried to live -for years without thought of him and had been tranquil; it was grievous -to be compelled thus to think of him again. This all happened, however, -in the seclusion of his own mind, in the quiet of his library, and no -one knew anything of it; not his daughter, who thought she knew his -looks by heart; nor his servant, who had spelled him out by many guesses -in the dark—as servants generally do—and imagined that he had his -master at his fingers’ ends. But during all this time while these -touches were playing upon him, bringing out ghosts of old sensations, -muffled sounds and tones forgotten, Mr. Musgrave publicly ignored the -fact that there were any children in the house, and contrived not to see -them, nor to hear them, with a force of self-government and resolution -which, in a nobler cause, would have been beyond all praise.</p> - -<p>The effect of the change upon Miss Musgrave was scarcely less remarkable -though very different. Her mental and moral education had been of a very -peculiar kind. The tragedy which swallowed up her brother had -interrupted the soft flowing current of her young life. All had gone -smoothly before in the natural brightness of the beginning. And Mary, -who had little passion in her temperament, who was more thoughtful than -intense, and whose heart had never been awakened by any strong -attachment beyond the ties of nature, had borne the interruption better -than most people would have borne it, and had done her duty between her -offending brother and her enraged father with less strain and violence -of suffering than might have been imagined. And she had got through the -more quiet years since without bitterness, with a self-adaptation to the -primitive monotony of existence which was much helped, as most such -virtues are, by temperament. She had formed her own theory of life, as -most people do by the time they reach even the earliest stages of middle -age; and this theory was the philosophical one that happiness, or the -calm which does duty for happiness in most mature lives, was in reality -very independent of events; that it came from within, not from without; -and that life was wonderfully equal, neither bringing so much good, nor -so much evil, as people of lively imaginations gave it credit for doing. -Thus she had herself lived, not unhappy, except at the very crisis of -the family life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_60" id="page_60">{60}</a></span> She had suffered then. Who could hope (she said to -herself) to do other than suffer one time or another in their life? But -since then the calm and regularity of existence had come back, the -routine which charms time away and brings content. There had no doubt -been expectations in her mind which had come to nothing—expectations of -more active joy, more actual well-being, than had ever fallen to her -lot; but these expectations had gradually glided away, and no harm had -been done. If she had no intensity of enjoyment, neither had she any -wretchedness. She had enough to do; her life was full, and she was -fairly happy. So she said to herself; so she had said many a day to Mr. -Pen, who shook his mildly melancholy head and dissented—as far as he -ever dissented from anything said by Miss Mary. Her brother was -lost—away—wandering in the darkness of the great world as in a desert. -But if he had been near at hand, absorbed in his married life, his wife, -who was not of her species, and his unknown children, would not he have -been just as much lost to Mary? So she persuaded herself at least; and -so lived tranquilly, happy enough—certainly not unhappy;—and why -should an ordinary mortal, youth being over, wish for more?</p> - -<p>Now, however, all at once, so great a change had happened to her, that -Mary could no longer understand, or even believe in, this state of mind -which had been hers for so many years. Perfectly still, tranquil, -fearing nothing—when her own flesh and blood were in such warfare in -the world! How was it possible? Wondering pangs of self-reproach seized -her; mysteries of death and of birth, such as had never touched her -maidenly quiet, seemed to surround her, and mock at her former ease. All -this time the gates of heaven had been opening and shutting to John. -Hope sometimes, sometimes despair, love, anguish, want, pain, had -struggled for him, while she had sat and looked on so calmly, and -reasoned so placidly about the general equality of life. How could she -have done it? The revelation was as painful as it was overwhelming. -Nature seized upon her with a grip of iron, and avenged upon her in a -moment all the indifferences of her previous life. The appeal of these -frightened children, the solemn charge laid upon her by her brother, -awoke her with a start and shiver. How had she dared to sit and look -through<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_61" id="page_61">{61}</a></span> calm windows, or on the threshold by her tranquil door, upon -the struggles, pangs, and labours of the other human creatures about -her? Was it excuse enough that she was neither wife nor mother? had she -therefore nothing to do in guarding, and continuing, and handing down -the nobler successions of life? Mary was startled altogether out of the -state of mind habitual to her. Instead of remaining the calm lady of the -manor, the female Squire, the lawgiver of the village which she had -hitherto been—a little above the problems that were brought to her, a -little wanting in consideration of motives and meaning, perhaps now and -then too decided in her judgment, seeing the distinction between right -and wrong too clearly, and entertaining a supreme, though gentle -contempt for the trimmings and compromises, as well as for the fusses -and agitations of the ordinary world—she felt herself to have plunged -all at once into the midst of those agitations at a single step. She -became anxious, timorous, yet rash, faltering even in opinion, -hesitating, vacillating—she who had been so decided and so calm. Her -feelings were all intensified, the cords of her nature tightened, as it -were, vibrating to the lightest touch. And at the same time, which was -strange enough, while thus the little circle, in which she stood, became -full of such intense, unthought-of interest, the world widened around -her as it had never widened before; into darknesses and silences -indeed—but still with an extended horizon which expanded her heart. -John was there in the wide unknown, which stretched round this one warm, -lighted spot, wandering she knew not where, a solitary man. She had -never realized him so before; and not only John, but thousands like him, -strangers, wanderers, strugglers with fate. This sudden breath of -novelty, of enlightenment, expanded her heart like a sob. Her composure, -her satisfaction, her tranquillity fled from her; but how much greater, -more real and true, more penetrating and actual, became her existence -and the world! And all this was produced, not by any great mental -enlightenment, any sudden development of character, but by the simple -fact that two small helpless creatures had been put into her hands and -made absolutely dependent upon her. This was all; but the whole world -could not have been more to Mary. It changed her in every way. She who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_62" id="page_62">{62}</a></span> -had been so rooted in her place, so absorbed in her occupations, would -have relinquished all, had it been necessary, and gone out solitary into -the world for the children. Could there be any office so important, any -trust so precious? This, which sounded like the vulgarest commonplace, -and at the same time most fictitious high-flown sentiment, on the lips -of Mrs. Pennithorne, became all at once, in a moment, the leading -principle of Miss Musgrave’s life.</p> - -<p>But she had to undergo various petty inconveniences from the curiosity -of her neighbours, and their anxiety to advise her as to what she should -do in the “trying circumstances.” What could she know about children? -Mrs. Pen, for one, thought it very important to give Miss Musgrave the -benefit of her advice. She made a solemn visit to inspect them, and tell -her what she ought to do. The little boy, she felt sure, was delicate, -and would require a great deal of care; but the thing that troubled Mrs. -Pennithorne the most was that Miss Musgrave could not be persuaded to -put on mourning for her brother’s wife. Notwithstanding that it was, as -Mary pleaded, five years since she died, the vicar’s wife thought that -crape would be a proof that all “misunderstandings” were over, and would -show a Christian feeling. And when she could not make this apparent to -the person principally concerned, she did all she could to impress it -upon her husband, whom she implored to “speak to”—both father and -daughter—on the subject. Most people would have been all the more -particular to put on crape, and to wear it deep, because there had been -“misunderstandings.” “Misunderstandings!” cried Mr. Pen. It was not, -however, he who spoke to Miss Musgrave, but she who spoke to him on this -important subject; and what she said somewhat bewildered the vicar, who -could not fathom her mind in this respect.</p> - -<p>“Emily thinks we should put on mourning,” she said. “And, do you know, I -really believe that is the reason that poor John is so much more in my -thoughts?”</p> - -<p>“What—the mourning?” the vicar asked faltering.</p> - -<p>“<i>Her</i> death. Hitherto the idea of one has been mingled with that of the -other. Now he is just John; everything else has melted away; there is -nothing but himself to think of. He has<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_63" id="page_63">{63}</a></span> never been only John before. Do -you know what I mean, Mr. Pen?”</p> - -<p>The vicar shook his head. He wondered if this could be a touch of -feminine jealousy, knowing that even Mary was not perfect; and this gave -him a momentary pang.</p> - -<p>“I don’t suppose that I should feel so;—I was very fond of John—but I, -of course, could not be jealous—I mean of his love for one -unworthy—— ”</p> - -<p>“How do you know even that she was unworthy? It is not that, Mr. Pen. -But she was nothing to us, and confused him in our minds. Now he is -himself—and where is he?” said Miss Musgrave, with tears in her eyes.</p> - -<p>“In God’s hands—in God’s hands, Miss Mary! and God bless him wherever -he is—and I humbly beg your pardon,” cried Mr. Pen, with an excess of -compunction which she scarcely understood. His feelings were almost too -warm Mary thought.</p> - -<p>And as the news got spread through those invisible channels which convey -reports all over a country, many were the visitors that came to the -Castle to see what the story meant, though they did not announce this as -the object of their visit. Among these visitors the most important was -Lady Stanton, who had been Mary’s rival in beauty when the days were. -They had not been rivals indeed to their own consciousness, but warm -friends, in their youth and day of triumph; but events had separated the -two girls, and the two women rarely met, and had outgrown all -acquaintance; for Lady Stanton had been involved, almost more -immediately than Mary Musgrave, in the tragedy which had so changed life -at Penninghame, and this had changed their relations like everything -else. This lady arrived one day to the great surprise of everybody, and -came in with timid eagerness and haste, growing red and growing pale as -she held out her hands to her old friend.</p> - -<p>“We never quarrelled,” she said; “why should we never see each other? Is -there any reason?”</p> - -<p>“No reason,” said Miss Musgrave, making room upon the sofa beside her. -But such an unexpected appeal agitated her, and for the moment she could -not satisfy herself as to the object of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_64" id="page_64">{64}</a></span> the visit. Lady Stanton, -however, was of a very simple mind, and could not conceal what that -object was.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mary,” she said, the tears coming into her eyes, “I heard that -John’s children had come home. Is it true? You know I always took an -interest—— ” And here she stopped, making a gulp of some emotion which, -to a superficial spectator, might have seemed out of place in Sir Henry -Stanton’s wife. She had grown stout, but that does not blunt the -feelings. “I should like to see them,” she said, with an appeal in her -eyes which few people could withstand. And Mary was touched too, partly -by this sudden renewal of an old love, partly by the thought of all that -had happened since she last sat by her old companion’s side, who was a -Mary too.</p> - -<p>“I cannot bring them here,” she said, “but I will take you to the hall -to see them. My father likes them to be kept—in their own part of the -house.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I hope he is kind to them!” said Lady Stanton, clasping her white -dimpled hands. “Are they like your family? I hope they are like the -Musgraves. But likenesses are so strange—mine are not like me,” said -the old beauty, plaintively. Perhaps the trouble in her face was less on -account of her own private trials in this respect than out of alarm lest -John Musgrave’s children should bear the likeness of another face of -which she could not think with kindness. There was so little disguise in -her mind, that this sentiment also found its way into words. “Oh Mary,” -she cried, “you and I were once the two beauties, and everybody was at -our feet; but that common girl was more thought of than either you or -me.”</p> - -<p>“Hush!” said Mary Musgrave, putting up her hand; “she is dead.”</p> - -<p>“Is she dead?” Lady Stanton was struck with a momentary horror; for it -was a contemporary of whom they were speaking, and she could not but be -conscious of a little shiver in her own well-developed person, to think -of the other who was clay. “That is why they have come home?” she said, -half under her breath.</p> - -<p>“Yes; and because he cannot carry them about with him wherever he -goes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_65" id="page_65">{65}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“You have heard from him, Mary? I hope he is doing well. I hope he is -not—very—heart-broken. If you are writing you might say I inquired. He -might like to know that he was remembered; and you know I always -took—an interest—— ”</p> - -<p>“I know you always had the kindest heart.”</p> - -<p>“I always took an interest, notwithstanding everything; and—will he -come home? Now surely he might come home. It is so long ago; and surely -now no one would interfere.”</p> - -<p>“I cannot say anything about that, for I don’t know,” said Miss -Musgrave; “he does not say. Will you come and see the children, Lady -Stanton?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mary, what have I done that you should call me Lady Stanton? I have -never wished to stand aloof. It has not been my doing. Do you remember -what friends we were? and I couldn’t call you Miss Musgrave if I tried. -When I heard of the children I thought this was an opening,” said Lady -Stanton, faltering a little. She told her little fib, which was an -innocent one; but she was true at bottom and told it ill; and what -difference did it make whether she sought the children for Mary’s sake, -or Mary for the children’s? Miss Musgrave accepted her proffered embrace -with kindness, yet with a smile. She was touched by the emotion of her -old friend, and by the remnants of that “interest” which had survived -fifteen years of married life, and much increase of substance. Perhaps a -harsher judge might have thought the emotion slightly improper. But poor -John had got but hard measure in the world; and a little compensating -faithfulness was a salve to his sister’s feelings. She led her visitor -downstairs and through the narrow passage, in all her wealth of silk and -amplitude of shadow. Mary herself was still as slim as when they had -skimmed about these passages together; and she was Mary still; for once -in a way she felt herself not without some advantage over Sir Henry’s -wife.</p> - -<p>Nello was standing full in the light when the ladies went into the hall, -and he it was who came forward to be caressed by the pretty lady, who -took to him all the more warmly that she had no boys of her own. Lady -Stanton fairly cried over his fair head, with its soft curls. “What a -little Musgrave he is!” she cried; “how like his father! I cannot help -being glad he is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_66" id="page_66">{66}</a></span> like his father.” But when this vision of splendour -and beauty, which Lilias came forward to admire, saw the little girl, -she turned from her with a slight shiver. “Ah!” she cried, retreating, -“is that—the little girl?” And the sight silenced her, and drove her -away.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.<br /><br /> -<small>LADY STANTON.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Lady Stanton</span> drove home from that visit with her heart and her eyes -full. She was not intellectual, nor even clever, but a soft creature, -made up of feelings easily touched, not perhaps very profound, nor -likely to obscure to her the necessary course of daily living, but still -true enough and faithful in their way. She might have been able to make -sacrifices had she come in the way of them or found them necessary, but -no such chance of moral devotion had come to her; nor had any teachings -of experience or philosophy of middle age, such as works upon the -majority of us, hardened her soft heart, or swept away the little -romantic impulses, the quick sensibilities of youth. A nature so fresh -indeed was scarcely compatible with much exercise of the intellectual -faculties at all. Lady Stanton rarely read, and never under any -circumstances read anything (of her own will and impulse) which rose -above the most primitive and familiar elements; but on the other hand, -the gentle sentimentalities which she did read went straight to her -heart. She thought Mrs. Hemans the first of poets, and cried her eyes -out over Mr. Dickens’s “Little Nell.” Anything about an unhappy love, or -about a dead child, would move her more than Shakespeare; and she shed -tears as ready as the morning dew. Practically, it is true, she had gone -through a certain amount of experience like other people, and her -everyday life was more or less affected by it; but in her heart Lady -Stanton was still the same Mary Ridley whose gentle being had been -involved in the wildest of tragic<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_67" id="page_67">{67}</a></span> stories, even though she had come -down to so commonplace a daily routine now. That story, so long past, -took the place in her being of all the poetry and romance which the most -of us get glorified from the hands of genius; and all her associations -were attached to that one personal episode, which was unparalleled in -life as she knew life. When she read one of the novels which pleased -her, she would compare the situations in it with this; when she lingered -over the vague melodious verses which represented poetry to her, there -was always a little appropriation in her heart of their soft measures to -the dim long past emergency. And now, here it was brought back upon her -by every circumstance that could bring the past near. Her love—was it -her love that was recalled to her? But then there was no love in it -properly so called. She had taken an interest in John Musgrave, her -friend’s brother—always had taken an interest in him; but she had no -right to do so at any time, being betrothed to young Lord Stanton, who, -for his part, had forgotten her for the sake of that dressmaker’s girl -at Penninghame, to whom John Musgrave too had given his heart. What a -complication it was! Mary Ridley, who had a pretty property close to -his, had been destined for Lord Stanton from the beginning of time, and -the boy and girl had lightly acquiesced, and had been happy enough in -the parental arrangement. They had liked each other—well enough; they -had been as gay as possible in the lightheartedness of their youth, and -had taken this for happiness. Why should not they be happy? they were -exactly suited to each other. She was the prettiest girl in the county -(except the other Mary), and he was proud of her sweet looks, and fond -of her, certainly fond of her; whereas she, unawakened, undisturbed, -notwithstanding the interest she had always taken in John Musgrave, -would have made him the most affectionate and charming wife in the -world. Thus the early story had flowed on all smoothness and sunshine, -the flowers blooming, the sun shining; until, one fatal day, young Lord -Stanton, riding through Penninghame village on his way to the old -Castle, had seen Lily, Miss Price’s assistant, at the window of the -dressmaker’s parlour. Fatal day! full of all the issues of death.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_68" id="page_68">{68}</a></span></p> - -<p>It is needless to inquire what manner of woman this Lily was, for whom -these two men lost themselves and their existence. She did not know of -any tragedy likely to be involved, but brushed about in her homely -village way through these webs of fate, twisting the threads innocently -enough, and throwing the weaving into endless confusion. Whether Lord -Stanton was murdered by John Musgrave, as many people thought at first, -or killed accidentally in a hot, sudden encounter, as most people -believed now, was a thing which perhaps would never be cleared up. The -guilty man (if he was guilty) had paid the penalty of his deed in exile, -in poverty, in misery, ever since. His life had been as much broken off -at that point as Stanton’s was who died—and the two families had been -equally plunged into woe and mourning; though indeed it was the -Musgraves who suffered most, by reason of the stigma put upon them, by -the shame of John’s flight and of his marriage, and by the fact that he -was still a criminal pursued by justice, though justice had long -slackened her pursuit. As for the Stantons, there was nobody to mourn -much. Aunts and uncles and cousins console themselves sooner than -fathers and mothers, and the boy brother, who had succeeded to the -title, had been too young to be capable of sustained sorrow. Everybody -at that time had sympathized with the young bride who had lost her -future husband, and her coronet, and all the joys of life in this sudden -and miserable way, for there was no concealing what the cause of the -quarrel was, and that Lord Stanton had been unfaithful to the beautiful -Mary. Nobody knew, however, the complication which gave her a double -pang, the knowledge that not only the man who was her own property, her -betrothed husband, but the man in whom, innocently in girlish -simplicity, she had avowed herself to “take an interest,” had preferred -to her the village Lily, who was nobody and nothing, who had not been -blameless between them, and whom everybody condemned. Everybody -condemned: but <i>they</i> loved her. Both of them! this secret and poignant -addition to her trial Mary Ridley never confided to any one, but it -still thrilled through and through her at any allusion to that old long -past tragedy. Both of them!—the man whose best love was due to her, and -the man who had caught her own girlish<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_69" id="page_69">{69}</a></span> shy eyes, all unaware to either, -somehow, innocently, unavowedly, in such a visionary way as harmed no -one; both! It was hard. She wept for them both tenderly, abundantly, for -the one not less than the other; and a little—with a cry in her heart -of protestation and appeal—for herself, put aside, thrown over for this -woman who was nothing, who was nobody, yet who was better beloved than -she. All this had welled up in Lady Stanton’s heart when she saw the -little girl who had Lily’s face. She had been unable to restrain the -sting of old wonder and pain; the keen piercing of the old wound which -she had felt to her heart. Both of them! and now a little ghost of this -Lily, her shadow, her representative, had come back again to look her in -the face. She cried as she drove back that long silent way by herself to -Elfdale. It was seldom she had the chance of being so long alone, and -there was a kind of luxury about it, not unmingled with compunction and -a sense of guilt.</p> - -<p>For it still remains to be told how Mary Ridley came to be Lady Stanton, -although Lord Stanton, who was the betrothed husband of her youth, had -been killed, and all that apparently smooth and straightforward story -had ended in grief and separation. She had married after some years a -middle-aged cousin of her dead lover, Sir Henry Stanton, who had not -long before come back from India where he had spent most of his life. It -was but a poor fate for the beautiful Mary. Sir Henry had left his -career and a full accomplished life behind him, when he first came to -settle at Elfdale to the passive existence of a gentleman in the -country, who could scarcely be called a country gentleman. He had been -married and had children, a family of sons and daughters, and had only a -second chapter of less vivid meaning, a sort of postscriptal life, to -offer her. Why she had accepted him nobody could well say,—but she made -him a good wife, kind, smiling, always gentle, though sadly put to it -now and then to preserve unbroken the sweet good-temper with which -nature had gifted her. So fair and sweet as she was, to get only the -remains of a man’s heart after all, to be made use of as their chaperon -and caretaker by his big, unlovely daughters; to have her own children, -two dainty, lovely, fairy girls, kept in the background,—no more than -“the little ones”—of no account<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_70" id="page_70">{70}</a></span> in the house—all these things were -somewhat trying, and a strange reversal of all that life had seemed to -promise her, and all that had been indicated by the early worship which -surrounded her youth. But perhaps few women could have carried this -inappropriate fate as well. All those contradictions of circumstances, -all those travesties of what might have been, met with no gloom or -sourness of disappointment in her. The very fact that she was Lady -Stanton carried with it a certain aggravation, a parrot-like adhesion to -the letter and change of the spirit, such as had been in the promises -made to Macbeth. Mary might have thought herself the victim of a -perverse fate, keeping the word of promise to the ear and breaking it to -the heart, had she been perversely disposed—but instead of that, all -her thoughts at the present moment were occupied with the fact that she -had taken an unfair advantage of Laura and Lydia, in not telling them -where she was going, that they might have come with her had they been so -disposed. She had stolen a march upon them; they would think it unkind. -But then she could not have gone to Penninghame had Laura and Lydia been -with her. Though they were so much less concerned than she had been, -they kept up the Stanton feud with the Musgraves. They had no “interest” -in John—on the contrary, they were of the few who still believed that -he had “murdered” Lord Stanton—and would have had him hanged if he ever -returned to England. They would not have entered the house, or permitted -any kind inquiries in their presence. And therefore it was that she had -stolen away without letting them know, and was at present conscious—in -addition to all the jumble of emotions in her heart—of a certain prick -of guilt.</p> - -<p>The Stantons were a great county family as well as the Musgraves, but in -a very different way. When the Musgraves had been at their greatest, the -Stantons had been nobody. They were nothing more than persistent, -thrifty folk at first, adding field to field, building on ever a new -addition to their old house. Then wealth had come, and then local -importance; and last of all celebrity. The first who brought anything -like fame to the name, and introduced the race to the knowledge of the -world, was a soldier, a general under the Duke of Marlborough, who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_71" id="page_71">{71}</a></span> got -a baronetcy and a reputation, and had a handsome new coat of arms -invented for him—very appropriately gained indeed, on the field of -battle, just as the augmentation of the Musgraves’ blazon had been -gained, but a few hundred years too late unfortunately, and therefore -not telling for nearly so much as if it had been won in the fifteenth -century. The next man was a lawyer, who so cultivated that profession -that it brought his son, in the reign of the Georges, to the bench, and -a peerage—and since that time the family had taken their place among -the magnates of the north country. Young Walter Lord Stanton was a much -greater man than John Musgrave, though not half so great a man in one -sense of the word. Two or three generations, however, tell just as much -upon the individual mind as twenty, and the young peer was conscious of -all his advantages over the commoner, without any sense of inferiority -in point of race. And now the other Lord Stanton, Geoffrey, who had -succeeded that unfortunate young man, was the greatest personage of his -years in the district, regarded with interest by all his neighbours and -with more than interest by some; for was it not in his power to make one -of his feminine contemporaries, however humble she might be by birth, -and however poor in this world’s goods, a great lady?—and so long as -human nature remains as it is, this cannot cease to be a very potent -attraction. Indeed the wonder is that young women should not be -altogether demoralized by the perpetual recurrence of such chances of -undeserved, unearned elevation. Young Lord Stanton could do this. He -could give fine houses and lands, a title, and all the good things of -this earth to his cousin Laura, or his cousin Lydia, or any other girl -in the county that pleased him. Therefore it cannot be wondered at if -his appearance fluttered the dovecotes with sentiments as powerful and -more pleasant than those which fill the nests at the appearance of -predatory hawk or eagle. But any such flutter of feeling was held in -Elfdale to be an unwarrantable impertinence on the part of the other -ladies of the county. Long ago, at the time when at six years old he had -succeeded to his stepbrother, there had been a tacit family -understanding to the effect that one of Sir Henry’s daughters should be -the young lord’s wife. Sir Henry, though<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_72" id="page_72">{72}</a></span> old enough to have been the -father of his murdered cousin would have been his heir but for -Geoff—and it was universally allowed to be hard upon him that when such -an unlikely chance happened, as that young Lord Stanton should die, -there should be this boy coming in the way forestalling his claim. -Nobody had wanted that child who was suddenly turned into a personage of -so much importance—not even his father, who had married with a -single-minded idea of being comfortable in his own person, and who was -much annoyed by the prospect of “a second family”—a prospect which was -happily, however, cut short by his own speedy death. When therefore -Walter Lord Stanton was killed, it was very generally felt that Sir -Henry had a real grievance in the existence of the little stepbrother, -who was in the way of everybody except his poor mother, whom the old -lord had married to nurse him, and who had taken the unwarrantable -liberty of adding little Geoffrey to the family. Poor little Geoff! he -was bullied on all hands so long as his brother lived; and then, what a -change came over his life and that of his mother, who was as pale and -shy as her boy! Great good fortune may change even complexion, and Geoff -as he grew to be a man was no longer pale. But Sir Henry never quite got -over the blow dealt him by this succession. He had not resented Walter. -Walter was so to speak the natural heir—and nobody expected him to die; -but when he did die, so out of all calculation, to think there should be -that boy! Sir Henry did not get over it for years—it was a positive -wrong not to be forgotten.</p> - -<p>Accordingly, as a small compensation to his injured feelings, all the -family had tacitly decided that Geoff should marry one of his cousins. -This, it is true, was but a very small compensation, for Sir Henry was -not the kind of parent who lives in his children and is indifferent to -his own glory and greatness. Even now, fifteen years after the event, he -was not an old man, and it made up very poorly for his personal -disappointment that Laura or Lydia should share the advancement of which -he had been deprived. Still it was so understood. Geoff paid many -holiday visits at Elfdale, though there was no particular friendship -between Sir Henry and the widowed Lady Stanton, who was Geoff’s guardian -as well as his mother, and things were going<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_73" id="page_73">{73}</a></span> smoothly enough between -the young people. They liked each other, and had no objection to be -together as much as was possible, and already the sisters had settled -between them “which of us it is to be.” This Lydia, who was the most -strong-minded, had thought desirable from the moment when she had become -aware what was intended. “It does not matter at present,” she said, “we -are none of us in love, and one is just as good as another, but we had -better draw lots, or something—or toss up, as the boys do.” And what -the mystic ordeal had been which decided this question we are unable to -say, but decided it was in favour of Laura, who was the prettiest, and -only a year younger than Geoff. Lydia, as soon as the die was cast, -constituted herself the guardian of her sister’s fortunes so far as the -young lord was concerned, and made herself into a quaint and really -pretty version of a matchmaking mother on Laura’s behalf. Thus it will -be seen that it was into the very heart of the opposite faction that -Lady Stanton drove home with those tears in her soft eyes, and all that -commotion of old thoughts in her heart. If they could have seen into it -and known that it was the image of John Musgrave that had roused that -commotion, what would these girls have said, towards whom she felt so -guilty as having stolen a march upon them? “The murderer!” they would -have cried with a shriek of horror. Lady Stanton could not, it is clear, -have taken them to Penninghame with her, and surely she had a right to -use her own horses and carriage; but still she felt guilty as she -subdued, with all the effort she could make, the excitement in her -heart.</p> - -<p>When she went in, she retired at once upstairs, and announced herself, -through her maid, to have a headache, and had a cup of tea in her own -room, to which her own children, little Fanny and Annie, a pair of -inseparables, came noiselessly like two doves on the wing. Annie and -Fanny liked nothing in the world so much as to get mamma to themselves -like this, in the stillness of her room, with everybody else shut out. -One was ten and the other eleven; they were about the same height, had -the same flowing curly locks of light brown hair, the same rose-tinted -faces, walked in each other’s steps, or rather flew about their little -world of carpeted stairs and passages, together, always in sudden<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_74" id="page_74">{74}</a></span> soft -flights—like doves, as we have said, on the wing. “Is your head very -bad, mamma?” they said; and the gentle hypocrite blushed as she replied. -No, it was not very bad; a little quiet would make it quite well. They -took off her “things” for her, and brought her her soft white -dressing-gown, in which she looked like the mother of all the doves, and -let down her hair, which was not much darker, and quite as abundant as -their own—and gave her her cup of tea, thus soothing every tingling -nerve; and by this time Lady Stanton’s head was not bad at all, though -now and then one of them would administer eau-de-cologne or rosewater. -She told them of the children she had seen—little orphans who had no -mother—and the two crept closer to her, to hear of that awful, -incomprehensible desolation, each clasping an arm of hers with two -small, eager hands. To be without a mother! Annie and Fanny held their -breath in reverential silence and pity; but wondered a little that it -was the little boy (“called Nello—what a funny name!”) that mamma spoke -of, not the girl, who was ten (“just the same age as me”).</p> - -<p>But not even the sympathy of her children, and the trance of interest -which kept them breathless, could make Lady Stanton speak of the little -girl. Her mother’s face! that face which had taken the best of -everything in existence from Mary Ridley—how could Lady Stanton speak -of it? She made some efforts to get over the feeling, but not with much -success. But the rest restored her, and enabled her to appear, her -headache quite charmed away, and her nerves still, at dinner. She took a -little more care with her toilette than usual, by way of propitiation to -the angry gods. And though Laura and Lydia were not much short of twenty -years younger than their stepmother, it would have been an indifferent -judge who had turned from her to them even in the fresh bloom of their -youth. She came downstairs very conciliatory, ready to make the best of -everything, and to make amends to them for all disloyal thoughts, and -for having cheated them of their drive.</p> - -<p>“I hope your head is better, my Lady,” said Laura. “We have been -wondering all the afternoon wherever you had gone.”</p> - -<p>The girls had a certain strain of vulgarity in them somehow, which could -not be quite eradicated from their speech.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_75" id="page_75">{75}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I went out for a drive as usual,” said Lady Stanton. “I thought I heard -you say that you meant to walk.”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes; we wanted to walk to the village to settle about the school -children,” said Laura; and Lydia added, “But I am sure we never said -so,” and looked suspiciously at her stepmother.</p> - -<p>“I went by the Langdale woods, and all the way to Penninghame water,” -said the culprit, very explanatory. “The lake looked so cold. I should -not like to live near it. It chills all the landscape, and I am sure -puts dreary thoughts into people’s heads. And as I was there, Henry,” -she added, addressing her husband, “I did what you will think an odd -thing.” Lady Stanton’s bosom heaved a little, and her breath came quick. -It would have been far easier to say nothing about it; but then she knew -by experience that everything gets found out. She made a momentary pause -before the confession which she tried to treat so lightly. “I ran in for -a moment to the old Castle and saw Mary—Mary, you know. We were great -friends, she and I, when we were young, and it was such a temptation -passing the old place.”</p> - -<p>“What whim took you near the old place?” said Sir Henry, gruffly. “I -cannot think of any place in the world that should lie less in your -way.”</p> - -<p>“Well, that is true,” she said, breathing a little more freely now that -the worst was told, “and the proof of it is that I have not been there -for years.”</p> - -<p>“I hope it will be still longer before you go again,” said her husband.</p> - -<p>He did not say any more because of the servants, and because he had too -much good sense to do or say anything that would lessen his wife’s -importance; but he was not pleased, and this troubled her, for she had a -delicate conscience. She looked at him wistfully, and was imprudent -enough in her anxiety to pursue the subject, and make bad worse.</p> - -<p>“It is strange to see an old friend whom you have known when you were -young, after so many years,” she said; “though Mary is not so much -altered as I am. You remember her, Henry? She was always so pretty; -handsomer than—any one I know.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_76" id="page_76">{76}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>It was on her lips to say “handsomer than ever I was,” which was the -real sentiment in her mind—a sentiment partly originating in the -semi-guilt and humility produced by the consciousness of having grown -stout, a kind of development which troubles women. She was very deeply -aware of this, and it silenced all the claims of vanity. She had lost -her figure; whereas Mary was still slim and straight as an arrow. -Whatever might have been once, there was now no comparison between the -two.</p> - -<p>“Do you mean Miss Musgrave?” cried the girls, one after the other. “Miss -Musgrave! that old creature—that old maid—that man’s sister?”</p> - -<p>“She is no older than I am,” said Lady Stanton, with a flush on her -face; “she was my dear friend in the old days. She is beautiful still, -as much as she ever was, I think, and good; she has always been good.”</p> - -<p>“That will do,” said Sir Henry interposing. “We need not discuss the -family; but I think you will see, my dear, that there could not be much -pleasure in any intercourse at this time of day—whatever might have -been the case when you were young.”</p> - -<p>“Intercourse—there could never be any intercourse,” cried Lydia, coming -to the front. “Fancy, papa! intercourse with such people—after all that -has happened! That would be tempting Providence; and it would be an -insult to Geoff.”</p> - -<p>“Let Geoff take care of his own affairs,” said Sir Henry, angrily; and -he gave a forcible twist to the conversation, and threw it into another -channel; but Lady Stanton was very silent all the evening afterwards. -She had wanted to conciliate, and she had not succeeded; and how indeed -could she, among her hostile family, keep up any intercourse with her -old friend?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_77" id="page_77">{77}</a></span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.<br /><br /> -<small>AT ELFDALE.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Nevertheless</span> this meeting could not be got out of Lady Stanton’s mind. -She thought of it constantly; and in the stillness of her own room, when -nobody but the little girls were by, she talked to them of the children, -especially of little Nello, who had attracted her most. What a place of -rest and refreshment that was for her, after all her trials with Laura -and Lydia, and the seriousness of Sir Henry, who was displeased that she -should have gone to Penninghame, and showed it in the way most painful -to the soft-hearted woman, by silence, and a gravity which made her feel -her indiscretion to her very heart. But notwithstanding Sir Henry’s -annoyance, she could not but relieve her mind by going over the whole -scene with Fanny and Annie, who knew, without a word said, that these -private talks in which they delighted—in which their mother told them -all manner of stories, and took them back with her into the time of her -youth, and made them acquainted with all her early friends—were not to -be repeated, but were their own special privilege to be kept for -themselves alone. They had already heard of Mary Musgrave, and knew her -intimately, as children do know the early companions of whom an -indulgent mother tells them, to satisfy their boundless appetite for -narrative. “And what are they to Mary?” the little girls asked, -breathless in their interest about these strange children. They had -already been told; but the relationship of aunt did not seem a very -tender one to Annie and Fanny, who knew only their father’s sisters, old -ladies to whom the elder girls, children of the first marriage, seemed -the only legitimate and correct Stantons, and who looked down upon these -little interlopers as unnecessary intruders. “Only their aunt!—is that -all?”</p> - -<p>They were not in Lady Stanton’s room this time, but seated on an ottoman -in the great bow-window, one on either side of her. Laura and Lydia were -out; Sir Henry was in his library; the coast was clear; no one was -likely to come in and dismiss the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_78" id="page_78">{78}</a></span> children with a sharp word, such -as—“Go away, little girls—there is no saying a word to your mother -while you are there!” or “The little ones again! When we were children -we were kept in the nursery.” The children were aware now that when such -speeches were made, it was better for them not to wait for their -mother’s half-pained, half-beseeching look, but to run away at once, not -to provoke any discussion. They were wise little women, and were, by -nature, of their mother’s faction in this house, where both they and -she, though she was the mistress of it, were more or less on sufferance. -But at present everybody was out of the way. They were ready to fly off, -with their pretty hair fluttering like a gleam of wings, should any of -their critics appear; but the girls had gone a long way, and Sir Henry -was very busy. It was a chance such as seldom occurred.</p> - -<p>“All? when children have not a mother, their aunt is next best; -sometimes she is even better—much better,” said Lady Stanton, thinking -in her heart that John’s wife was not likely to have been of any great -service to her children. “And Mary is not like any one you know. She is -a beautiful lady—not old, like Aunt Rebecca—though Aunt Rebecca is -always very kind. I hope you have not forgotten those beautiful sashes -she gave you.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think very much of an aunt,” said Fanny, who was the saucy one, -with a shrug of her little shoulders.</p> - -<p>“It must be different,” said Annie, hugging her mother’s arm. They were -not impressed by the happiness of those poor little stranger children in -being with Mary. “Has the little girl got no name, mamma—don’t you know -her name? You say Nello; but that is the boy; though it is more like a -girl than a boy.”</p> - -<p>“It is German—or something—I don’t remember. The little girl is called -Lilias. Oh yes, it is a pretty name enough, but I don’t like it. I once -knew one whom I did not approve of—— ”</p> - -<p>“We knew,” said Fanny, nodding her head at Annie, who nodded back again; -“Mamma, we knew you did not like the little girl.”</p> - -<p>“I! not like her! Oh, children, how can you think me so unjust? I hope I -am not unjust,” cried Lady Stanton, almost with tears. “Mary is very -proud of her little niece. And she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_79" id="page_79">{79}</a></span> is very good to little Nello. Yes, -perhaps I like him best, but there is no harm in that. He is a -delightful little boy. If you could have had a little brother like -that—— ”</p> - -<p>“We have only—big brothers,” said Annie, regretfully; “that is -different.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, that is different. You could not imagine Charley with long, fair -curls, and a little tunic, could you?” This made the children laugh, and -concealed a little sigh on their mother’s part; for Charlie was a big -dragoon, and Lady Stanton foresaw would not have too much consideration, -should they ever require his help, for the little sisters whom he -undisguisedly felt to be in his way.</p> - -<p>“I wonder if she wishes he was a little girl.”</p> - -<p>“I wonder! How she must want to have a sister! A little brother would be -very nice, too; we used to play at having a little brother; but it would -not be like Fanny and me. Does she like being at the Castle, mamma?”</p> - -<p>It troubled Lady Stanton that they should think of nothing but this -little girl. It was Lilias that had won their interest, and she could -not tell them why it was that she shrank from Lilias. “They have left -their poor papa all alone and sad,” she said, in a low voice. “I used to -know him too. And it must make them sad to think of him so far away.”</p> - -<p>Once more the children were greatly puzzled. They were not on such terms -of tender intimacy with their father as were thus suggested, but, on the -whole, were rather pleased than otherwise when he was absent, and did -not follow him very closely with their thoughts. They were slightly -humbled as they realized the existence of so much greater susceptibility -and lovingness on the part of the little girl in whom they were so much -interested, than they themselves possessed. How she surpassed them in -this as well as in other things! She talked German as well as English -(if it was German; their mother was not clear what language it -was)—think of that! So perhaps it was not wonderful that she should be -so much fonder of her papa. And a moment of silence ensued. Lady Stanton -did not remark the confused pause in the minds of her children, because -her own mind was filled with wistful compassion for the lonely man whom -she had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_80" id="page_80">{80}</a></span> thinking of more or less since ever she left Penninghame. -Where was he, all alone in the world, shut out from his own house, an -exile from his country—even his children away from him, in whom perhaps -he had found some comfort?</p> - -<p>This momentary silence was interrupted abruptly by the sound of a voice. -“Are you there, Cousin Mary? and what are you putting your heads -together about?”</p> - -<p>At this sound, before they found out what it was, the children -disengaged themselves suddenly each from her separate clinging to her -mother’s arm, and approached each other as if for flight; but, falling -back to their places when they recognized the voice, looked at each -other, and said both together, with tones of relief, “Oh, it’s only -Geoff!”</p> - -<p>Nothing more significant of the inner life of the family, and the -position of these two little intruders, could have been.</p> - -<p>Geoff came forward with his boyish step and voice in all the smiling -confidence of youth. “I thought I should startle you. Is it a story that -is being told, or are you plotting something? Fanny and Annie, leave her -alone for a moment. It is my turn now.”</p> - -<p>“O Geoff! it is about a little girl and a boy—mamma will tell you too, -if you ask her; and there’s nobody in. We thought at first you were -papa, but he’s so busy. Come and sit here.”</p> - -<p>Geoff came up, and kissed Lady Stanton on her soft, still beautiful -cheek. He was a son of the house, and privileged. He sat down on the -stool the children had placed for him. “I am glad there’s nobody in,” he -said. “Of course the girls will be back before I go; but I wanted to -speak to you—about something.”</p> - -<p>“Shall the children go, Geoff?”</p> - -<p>“Fancy! do you want them to hate me? No, go on with the story. This is -what I like. Isn’t it pleasant, Annie and Fanny, to have her all to -ourselves? Do you mind me?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, not in the least, Geoff—not in the very least. You are like—what -is he like, Annie?—a brother, not a big brother, like Charley: but -something young, something nice, like what mamma was telling us of—a -<i>little</i> brother—grown up—— ”</p> - -<p>“Is this a sneer at my height?” he said; “but go on, do<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_81" id="page_81">{81}</a></span>n’t let me stop -the story. I like stories—and most other pleasant things.”</p> - -<p>“It was no story,” said Lady Stanton. “I was telling them only of some -children:—you are very good and forgiving, Geoff—but I fear you will -be angry with me when you know. I was—out by myself—and -notwithstanding all we have against them, I went to see Mary Musgrave. -There! I must tell you at once, and get it over. I shall be sorry if it -annoys you; but Mary and I,” she said, faltering, “were such friends -once, and I have not seen her for years.”</p> - -<p>“Why should I be annoyed—why should I be angry? I am not an avenger. -Poor Cousin Mary! you were out—by yourself!—was that your only reason -for going?”</p> - -<p>“Indeed it is true enough. It is very seldom I go out without the girls: -and they—feel strongly, you know, about that.”</p> - -<p>“What have they to do with it? Yes, I know: they are <i>plus royalistes -que le roi</i>. But this is not the story.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, indeed it is, my dear boy. I was telling Annie and Fanny of two -poor children. They belong to a man who is—banished from his own -country. He did wrong—when he was young—oh so many, so many years -ago!—and he is still wandering about the world without a home, and far -from his friends. He was young then, and now—it is so long ago;—ah, -Geoff, you must not be angry with me. The little children are with Mary. -She did not tell me much, for her heart did not soften to me as mine did -to her. But there they are; the mother dead who was at the bottom of it -all; and nobody to care for them but Mary; all through something that -happened before they were born.”</p> - -<p>Lady Stanton grew red as she spoke, her voice trembled, her whole aspect -was full of emotion. The young man shook his head—</p> - -<p>“I suppose a great many of us suffer from harm done before we were -born,” he said, gravely. “This is no solitary instance.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, Geoff, it is natural, quite natural, that you should feel so. I -forgot how deeply you were affected by all that happened then.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_82" id="page_82">{82}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I did not mean that,” he said, gravely. His youthful face had changed -out of its light-hearted calm. “Indeed I had heard something of this, -and I wanted to speak to you—— ”</p> - -<p>“Run away, my darlings,” said Lady Stanton; “go and see what—nurse is -about. Make her go down with you to the village and take the tea and -sugar to the old women in the almshouses. This is the day—don’t you -remember?”</p> - -<p>“So it is,” said Annie. “But we did not want to remember,” said Fanny; -“we liked better to stay with you.”</p> - -<p>However, they went off, reluctant yet obedient. They were used to being -sent away. It was seldom their mother who did it, willingly—but -everybody else did it with peremptory determination—and the little -girls were used to obey. They untwined themselves from her arms, to -which they had been clinging, and went away close together, with a soft -rush and sweep as of one movement.</p> - -<p>“There go the doves,” said Geoff, looking after them with kind -admiration like that of a brother. It pleased Lady Stanton to see the -friendly pleasure in them which lighted the young man’s eyes. Whoever -married him, he would always, she thought, be a brother to her neglected -children, who counted for so little in the family. She looked after them -with that mother-look which, whether in joy or sorrow, is close upon -tears. Then she turned to him with eyes softened by that unspeakable -tenderness:</p> - -<p>“Whatever you wish,” she said. “Tell me, Geoff; I am ready to hear.”</p> - -<p>“I am as bad as the rest. You have to send them away for me too.”</p> - -<p>“There is some reason in it this time. If you have heard about the -little Musgraves you know how miserable it all is,” said Lady Stanton. -“The old man will have nothing to say to them. He lets them live there, -but takes no notice—his son’s children! And Mary has everything upon -her shoulders.”</p> - -<p>“Cousin Mary, will it hurt you much to tell me all about it?” said the -young man. “Forgive me, I know it must be painful; but all that is so -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_83" id="page_83">{83}</a></span>long over, and everything is so changed—— ”</p> - -<p>“You mean I have married and forgotten,” she said, her lips beginning to -quiver.</p> - -<p>“I scarcely remember anything about it,” said Geoff, looking away from -her that his eyes might not disturb her more, “only a confused sort of -excitement and wretchedness, and then a strange new sense of importance. -We had been nobodies till then—my mother and I. But I have heard a few -things lately. Walter,—will it pain you if I speak of him?”</p> - -<p>“Poor Walter!—no. Geoff, you must understand that Walter loved somebody -else better than me.”</p> - -<p>She said this half in honest avowal of that humiliation which had been -one of the great wonders of her life, partly in excuse of her own easy -forgetfulness of him.</p> - -<p>“I have heard that too, Cousin Mary, with wonder; but never mind. He -paid dearly for his folly. The other—— ”</p> - -<p>“Geoff,” said Lady Stanton, with a trembling voice, “the other is living -still, and he has paid dearly for it all this time. We must not be hard -upon him. I do not want to excuse him—it would be strange if I should -be the one to excuse him; but only—— ”</p> - -<p>“I am very sorry for him, Cousin Mary. I am glad you feel as I do. -Walter may have been in the wrong for anything I know. I do not think it -was murder.”</p> - -<p>“That I am sure it was not! John Musgrave was not the man to do a -murder—oh, no, no; Geoff! he was not that kind of man!”</p> - -<p>Geoff looked up surprised at her eager tone and the trembling in her -voice.</p> - -<p>“You knew him—well?” he said, with that indifferent composure with -which people comment upon the past, not knowing what depths those are -over which they skim so lightly. Could he have seen into the agitation -in Lady Stanton’s heart! But he would not have understood nor realized -the commotion that was there.</p> - -<p>“I always—took an interest in him,” she said, faltering; and then she -felt it her duty to do her best for him as an old friend. “I had known -him all my life, Geoff, as well as I knew Walter. He was hasty and -high-spirited, but so kind—he would have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_84" id="page_84">{84}</a></span> gone out of his way to help -any one. Before he saw that young woman everybody was fond of John.”</p> - -<p>“Did you know <i>her</i> too?”</p> - -<p>“No, no; I did not know her. God forbid! She was the destruction of -every one who cared for her,” said Lady Stanton with a little outburst. -Then she made an effort to subdue herself. “Perhaps I am not just to -her,” she said with a faint smile. “She was preferred to me, you know, -Geoff; and they say a woman cannot forget that—perhaps it is true.”</p> - -<p>“How could he? was he mad?” Geoff said. Geoff was himself tenderly, -filially in love with his cousin Mary. He thought there was nobody in -the world so beautiful and so kind. And even now she was not understood -as she ought to be. Sir Henry thought her a good enough wife, a faithful -creature, perfectly trustworthy, and so forth. It was in this light that -all regarded her. Something better than an upper servant, a little -dearer than a governess; something to be made use of, to do everything -for everybody. She who, Geoff thought in his enthusiasm, was more lovely -and sweet than the youngest of them, and ought to be held pre-eminent -and sacred by everybody round her. This was not the lot that had fallen -to her in life.</p> - -<p>“So I am not the best judge, you see,” said Lady Stanton with a little -sigh. “In those days one felt more strongly perhaps. It all seems so -vivid and clear,” she added half apologetically, though without entirely -realizing how much light these half-confessions threw on her present -state of less lively feeling, “that is the effect of being young—— ”</p> - -<p>“I think you will always be young,” he said tenderly; then added after a -pause, “Was it a quarrel about—the woman?—” He blushed himself as he -said so, feeling the wrong to her—yet only half knowing the wonder it -was in her thoughts, the double pain it brought.</p> - -<p>“I think so. They were both fond of her; and Walter ought not to have -been fond of her. John—was quite free. He was in no way engaged to any -one. He had a right to love her if he pleased. But Walter interfered, -and he was richer, greater, a far better match. So I suppose she -wavered. This is my own explanation of it. They met then when their -hearts were wild<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_85" id="page_85">{85}</a></span> against each other, and there was a struggle. Ah, -Geoff! Has it not cost John Musgrave his life as well as Walter? Has he -ever ventured to show himself in his own country since? And now their -poor little children have come home to Mary; but he will never be able -to come home.”</p> - -<p>“It is hard,” said Geoff thoughtfully. “I wish I knew the law. Fifteen -years is it? I was about six then. Could anything be done? I wonder if -anything could be done.”</p> - -<p>She put her hand on his shoulder with an affectionate caressing touch, -“Thanks for the thought, my dear boy—even if nothing could be done.”</p> - -<p>“You take a great deal of interest in him, Cousin Mary?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said quickly; “I told you we were all young people together; -and his sister was my dear friend. We were called the two Maries in -those days. We were thought—pretty,” she said with a vivid blush and a -little laugh. “You may have heard?”</p> - -<p>Geoff kissed the pretty hand which had been laid on his shoulder, and -which was perhaps a little fuller and more dimply than was consistent -with perfection. “I have eyes,” he said, with a little of the shyness of -his years, “and I have always had a right as a Stanton to be proud of my -cousin Mary. I wonder if Miss Musgrave is as beautiful as you are; I -don’t believe it for my part.”</p> - -<p>“She is far prettier—she is not stout,” said Lady Stanton with a sigh; -and then she laughed, and made her confession over again with a -half-jest, which did not make her regret less real, “and I have lost my -figure. I have developed, as people say. Mary is as slim as ever. Ah, -you may laugh, but that makes a great difference; I feel it to the -bottom of my heart.”</p> - -<p>Geoff looked at her with tender admiration in his eyes. “There has never -been a time when I have not thought you the most beautiful woman in all -the world,” he said, “and that all the great beauties must have been -like you. You were always the dream of fair women to me—now one, now -the other—all except Cleopatra. You never could have been like that -black-browed witch—— ”</p> - -<p>“Hush! boy. I am too old to be flattered now; and I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_86" id="page_86">{86}</a></span> am stout,” she -said, with that faint laugh of annoyance and humiliation just softened -by jest. Geoff’s honest praise brought no blush to her soft matronly -cheeks, but she liked it, as it pleased her when the children called her -“Pretty Mamma.” They loved <i>her</i> the best, though people had not always -done so. The fact that she had grown stout did not affect their -admiration. Only those who have known others to be preferred to -themselves can realize what this is. After a moment’s hesitation, she -added in a low voice: “I wonder—will you go and see them? It would have -a great effect in the neighbourhood. Oh, Geoff, forgive me if I am -saying too much; perhaps it would not be possible, perhaps it might be -wrong in your position. You must take the advice of somebody more -sensible, less affected by their feelings. Everybody likes you, Geoff, -and you deserve it, my dear; and you are Lord Stanton. It would have a -great effect upon the county; it would be almost like clearing him—— ”</p> - -<p>“Then I will go—at once—this very day,” said Geoff, starting up.</p> - -<p>“Oh no, no, no,” she said, catching him by the arm; “first of all you -must speak to—some one more sensible than me.”</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X.<br /><br /> -<small>THE OTHER SIDE.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">While</span> Lady Stanton spread the news of the arrival of the Musgrave -children among the upper classes, this information was given to the -lower, an equally or perhaps even more important influence in their -history, by an authority of a very different kind, to whom, indeed, it -would have been bitter to think that she was the channel of -communication with the lower orders. But such is the irony of -circumstances that it was Mrs. Pennithorne, who prided herself upon her -gentility, and who would have made any sacrifice rather than descend to -a sphere beneath her, who conveyed the report, which ran through the -village like<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_87" id="page_87">{87}</a></span> wildfire, and which spread over the surrounding country as -rapidly and effectually as if it had been made known by beacons on the -hill-tops. The village was more interested in the news than any other -circle in the county could be, partly because the reigning house in a -village is its standing romance, the drama most near to it, and most -exciting when there is any drama at all; and partly for still more -impressive personal reasons. The Castle had done much for the district -in this way, having supplied it with more exciting food in the way of -story and incident than any other great house in the north country. -There had been a long interval of monotony, but now it appeared to all -concerned that the more eventful circle of affairs was about to begin -again. The manner in which the story fully reached the village was -simple enough. Mrs. Pennithorne had, as might have been expected, failed -entirely with Mary’s frock. It would not “come” as she wanted it to -come, let her do what she would; and when all her own efforts had -failed, and the stuff was effectually spoiled, soiled, and crumpled, and -incapable of ever looking better than second-hand under any -circumstances, she called in the doctor, as people are apt to do when -they have cobbled at themselves in vain. The dress doctor in Penninghame -and the neighbourhood, the rule of fashion, the grand authority for -everything in the way of <i>chiffons</i>, was a certain Miss Price, a lively -little old woman, who had one of the best houses in the village, where -she let lodgings on occasion, but always made dresses. She had been in -business for a great many years, and was an authority both up and down -the water. It was not agreeable to Miss Price to be called in at the -last moment, as it were, to heal the ailments of Mary’s frock; but -partly because it was the clergyman’s house, and partly because of the -gossip which was always involved, she obeyed the summons, as she had -done on many previous occasions. And she did her best, as Mrs. -Pennithorne had done her worst, upon the little habiliment. “Ladies know -nothing about such things,” the little dressmaker said, pinning and -unpinning with energetic ease and rapidity. And the Vicar’s wife, who -looked on helpless but admiring, accepted the condemnation because of -the flattery involved; for Mrs. Pen was elevated over Miss Price by so -brief an interval<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_88" id="page_88">{88}</a></span> that this accusation was a kind of acknowledgment of -her gentility, and did her good, though it was not meant to be -complimentary. She liked to feel that hers was that ladylike uselessness -which is only appropriate to high position. She simpered a little, and -avowed that indeed she had never been brought up to know about such -things; and while Miss Price put the spoiled work to rights the Vicar’s -wife did her best to entertain the beneficent fairy who was bringing the -chaos into order. She did not blurt out suddenly the news with which she -was overbrimming, but brought it forth cunningly in the course of -conversation in the most agreeable way.</p> - -<p>“Is there any news, Miss Price?” she said; “but I tell the Vicar that -nothing ever happens here. The people don’t even die.”</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon, ma’am. There’s two within the last three months; but -to be sure they were long past threescore and ten.”</p> - -<p>“That is what I say. It’s so healthy at Penninghame. Look at the old -Squire now, how hale and hearty he is—and after all he has come -through.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, he has come through a deal,” said Miss Price, putting her pins in -her mouth, “and that’s too true.”</p> - -<p>“Poor old man; and still more and more to put up with. Have you seen the -children, Miss Price? Oh dear! didn’t you know? Perhaps I ought not to -have mentioned it; but people cannot hide up children as they hide -secrets. I have been living here for ten years, and I scarcely know the -rights of the story about John Musgrave yet.”</p> - -<p>“Children!” said Miss Price, with a start which shook the pins out of -her fingers. “To be sure—that came in a coach from Pennington with a -play-acting sort of a woman? But what has that to do with Mr. John?”</p> - -<p>The dressmaker dropped Mary’s frock upon her knees in the excitement of -her feelings. There was more than curiosity involved. “To be sure,” she -said. “To be sure!” going on with her own thoughts, “where should they -come but to the Castle? and who should have them but his family? -’Lizabeth Bampfylde is an honest woman, but not even me, I wouldn’t -trust the children to her. His children! though they would be hers -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_89" id="page_89">{89}</a></span>too—— ”</p> - -<p>“What do you mean, Miss Price?” said Mrs. Pen, half offended; “are you -going out of your senses? I tell you something about the Squire’s -family, and you get into a way about it as if it could be anything to -you.”</p> - -<p>Miss Price recovered her composure with a rapid effort, but her little -pale countenance reddened.</p> - -<p>“Nothing to me, ma’am,” she said, with what she felt to be a proper -pride. “But if Mr. John has children, they had a mother as well as a -father; and there was a time when that was something to me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” cried the Vicar’s wife, “then you knew Mrs. John? tell me about -her. She was a low girl, that is all I know.”</p> - -<p>“She was no low girl, whoever told you,” cried the little dressmaker. -“She was one as folks were fond of, as fond as if she had been a -princess. She was no more low than—I am; she was—— ”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I did not mean to offend you, Miss Price. Of course I know how -respectable you are—but not the equal of the Squire, you know, or -of—— ”</p> - -<p>Miss Price looked at the woman who had spoiled Mary’s frock. There she -stood, limp, and faded, and genteel, with no capacity in her fingers and -not much in her head, with a smile of conscious superiority yet -condescension. Miss Price was not her equal. “Good Lord! as if I would -be that useless,” she said to herself, “for all the money in the world! -or to be as grand as the Queen!” But though she was at once exasperated -and contemptuous, politeness and policy at once forbade her to say -anything. She would not “set up her face to a lady,” even when so very -unimpressive as Mrs. Pennithorne; and it did not become the dressmaker -in the village to be openly scornful of the Vicar’s wife. She saved -herself by taking up again with energy and devotion the scattered pins -and the miserable little spoiled bodice of Mary’s frock.</p> - -<p>“I am glad you know about this girl,” said Mrs. Pen, satisfied to have -subdued her opponent, “for I want so much to hear about her. One cannot -get much information from a gentleman, Miss Price. They tell you, ‘Oh -yes, she was a pretty creature!’ as if that is all you cared to know.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_90" id="page_90">{90}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“It’s what tells most with the gentlemen, ma’am,” said Miss Price, -recovering her composure. “Yes, that she was. I’ve looked at her many a -time and said just the same to myself. ‘Well, you are a pretty -creature!’ I don’t wonder if their heads get turned when they are as -pretty as that; though it isn’t only the pretty ones that get their -heads turned. The girls that I’ve had through my hands! and not one in -ten that went through with the business and kept it up as it ought to be -kept up.”</p> - -<p>“Was Mrs. John Musgrave in the business? Was she in your hands? I -declare! Did he marry her from your house?”</p> - -<p>“She was come of wild folks,” said Miss Price; “there was gipsy blood in -them. They had a little bit of a sheep farm up among the hills in their -best days, and a lone house, where there wasn’t a stranger to be seen -twice in a year. ’Lizabeth Bampfylde, that’s her mother, comes about the -village still. I can’t tell you what she does, she sells her eggs and -chickens, and maybe she does tell fortunes. I won’t say. She never told -me mine. I took a fancy to the lass, and I said, ‘Bring her to me. I’ll -take her; I’ll train her a bit. Oh, how little we know! If I had but let -her bide on the fells!—but what a pretty one she was! Such eyes as she -had; and a skin that wasn’t to say dark—it was brown, but so clear! -like the water when the sun is in it.”</p> - -<p>“You seem to think a great deal of people being pretty.”</p> - -<p>“So I do, ma’am, more than I ought. A woman should have more sense. I’m -near as easy led away as the gentlemen. But there’s different kinds of -beauty, and that is what they never see as want it most. There’s pretty -faces that I can’t abide. They seem to give me a turn. Now that’s where -the men fails,” said the little dressmaker; “all’s one to them, good or -bad, they never see any difference. Lily was never one of the bad ones, -poor dear. Lily? yes, that was the young woman; but she’s not such a -young woman, not a girl now. She’ll be thirty-seven or eight, close upon -that, if she’s living this day.”</p> - -<p>“She is not living—she died five years ago; and Miss Musgrave won’t -believe me that she ought to go into black for her,” said Mrs. -Pennithorne.</p> - -<p>“Ah!” said Miss Price with a sharp cry. She dropped her work at her feet -with an indifference to it which deeply aggrieved<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_91" id="page_91">{91}</a></span> Mrs. Pen. The -announcement took her altogether by surprise, and went to her heart. -“Dead! oh my poor Lily, my poor Lily! Was I thinking ill o’ thee? Dead! -and so many left—and her in her prime!” Sudden sobs stopped the good -little woman’s speech, with which she struggled as she went on, making a -brave effort to recover herself as she picked up the little dress. “I -beg your pardon, ma’am, but it was so sudden; it took me unprepared. Oh, -ma’am, that’s the worst of it when you have to do with girls. Few of -them go through with the business, though it would be best for them; -they turn every one to her own way; that’s Scripture, but I mean it. -They marry, and they think themselves so grand with their children, and -it kills ’em. Oh, if I had but left her on the fells! or if she had -stuck by the business like me!”</p> - -<p>“I did not think you took so much interest in her,” said Mrs. Pen, -feeling guilty. “If I had known you cared, I would have been more -careful what I said. But nobody seemed to think much of <i>her</i>. It is -always the Musgraves the Vicar speaks of.”</p> - -<p>“The Vicar thought of nothing but Miss Mary,” said Miss Price hastily; -then she corrected herself, “I mean of womanfolk,” she said; “the -Musgraves, ma’am, as you say, that was all he thought of. And that’s -always the way, as far as I can judge. The gentry thinks of their own -side, and we that are but small folks, we think of ours; it’s natural. -Miss Musgrave was not much to me. I never made her but one thing, and -that was a cotton, a common morning frock; she was too grand to have her -things made by the likes of me; but Lily, she sat by my side and sewed -at the same seam. And she’s dead! the bonniest lass on all the water, as -the village folks say.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t talk like the village folks, Miss Price.”</p> - -<p>“No. I’m from the south, as they call it—except when a word creeps in -now and again through being so long here. It’s all pinned and straight, -ma’am, now. It was done almost before I heard the news—and I’m glad of -it, for my eyesight goes when I begin to cry. I don’t think you can go -wrong now,” said Miss Price with a sigh, knowing the powers of her -patroness in that direction. “It’s as well as I can make it—pinned and -basted, and straight before your hand. No, thank you kindly, nothing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_92" id="page_92">{92}</a></span> -for me. I’m that put out that the best thing I can do is to get home.”</p> - -<p>“But dear me, Miss Price—as she is not even a relation!”</p> - -<p>“A relation, what’s that? A girl that you’ve brought up is more than a -relation,” cried the dressmaker, forgetting her manners. And she made up -her patterns tremulously in a little bundle, and hurried out with the -briefest leavetaking, which was not civil, Mrs. Pennithorne said -indignantly. But Miss Price, in her way, was as important as the Vicar’s -wife herself, being alone in her profession, and enjoying a monopoly. It -is possible to be rude, when you are a monopolist, without damage to -your trade; but this, to do her justice, was not the motive which -actuated the little dressmaker, who, in her nature, was anxiously -polite, and indisposed to offend any one; but the news she had heard was -too much for all her little decorums. She made a long round out of her -way to pass by the Castle, though she could scarcely tell why she did -so—nor it was not the children that were most in her mind. Indeed she -scarcely remembered them at all, in her excitement of pain and hot grief -which took the shape of a kind of fiery resentment against life and -nature. Children! what was the good of the children—helpless things -that took a woman’s life, and made even the rest of death bitter to her, -wringing her heart with misery to leave them after costing her her life! -She was an old maid not by accident, but by nature; and what were a -couple of miserable little children in exchange for the life of Lily! -But when, not expecting to see them, not thinking of them save in this -bitter way, Miss Price saw the two children at the door of the hall, -another quick springing sensation rose suddenly in her hasty soul. She -went slowly past, gazing at them, trying to say to herself that she -hated the sight of them, Lily’s slayers! But her kind heart was too much -for her quick temper, and as soon as they were out of sight, the little -dressmaker sat down by the wayside and cried, sobbing like a child. -Little dreadful creatures, who had worn their mother to death, and -killed her in her prime! Poor little forlorn orphans, without a mother! -She did not know which feeling was the warmest and strongest. But she -reached home so shaken between the two emotions, that her present -assistant,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_93" id="page_93">{93}</a></span> who filled the place to which Miss Price had hoped to train -Lily, and who was a good girl with no nonsense in her head, fully -intending to go through with the business, was frightened by the -appearance of her principal, who stumbled into the little parlour all -garlanded with paper patterns, with tremulous step and blanched cheeks, -as if she had seen a ghost.</p> - -<p>“Something’s to do!” cried the girl.</p> - -<p>Miss Price made no immediate reply, but sank into a chair to get her -breath.</p> - -<p>“Oh nothing; nothing you know of,” she said at last, “nothing that need -trouble you;” and then after a pause, “nothing that will warn you even, -not one of you, silly things. You’d all do just the same to-morrow, -though it was to cost you your lives.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll run and get you a cup of tea,” said Sarah, which showed her to be -a young woman of sense. Where lives the woman to whom this cordial, -promptly and as it were accidentally administered, does not do good? -Miss Price gradually recovered herself as she sipped the fragrant tea, -and told her story with many sighs and lamentations, yet not without a -certain melancholy pleasure.</p> - -<p>“If girls would only think,” she said; “if they would take a warning; -but ne’er a one of you will do that. You think it’s grand to marry a -gentleman; but it would be far better to go through with the business -like I’ve done, far better! though you’ll never think so.”</p> - -<p>Sarah was respectfully sympathetic; she shook her head with a look of -awe and melancholy acquiescence; but nevertheless she did not think so. -She was only twenty, and thirty-seven was a good age. To marry a -gentleman, even at the risk of dying at thirty-seven like Lily, was -better than living till sixty like Miss Price; but she did not say so. -She acquiesced, and even cried over the lost Lily, whom she had never -seen, with the easy emotion of a girl. She herself meant sincerely to go -through with the business; but anyhow Sarah was as much excited by the -news as heart could desire. Miss Price was very determined that it -should not be talked of, that the story should not be spread in the -village. “Don’t let them say <i>again</i> it came from us,” she said; but -however that might be, before the next morning it had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_94" id="page_94">{94}</a></span> spread through -the parish, and beyond the parish. Such things get into the atmosphere. -What can conceal a secret? It is the one thing certain to be found out, -and which every one is bound to know. There was nothing else talked -about in the cottages or when neighbours met, for some days. The men -talked of it over their beer, even, in the public-houses. “She were a -bonnie lass,” the elder ones said; and all the girls in the district -felt that they individually might have been Lily, and felt sad for her. -The children (who could not be hid) were followed by eager looks of -curiosity when they appeared, and the resemblance of Lilias to her -mother was too remarkable not to strike every one who had known her; and -the entire story which had excited the district so deeply in its time, -and which, with its mixture of all the sentiments which are most -interesting to humanity, was almost as exciting still as ever, was -retold, a hundred times over, for the benefit of the younger generation. -In these lower regions, as was natural, the interest all centred in the -beautiful girl, who, though “come of wild folk,” and not even an -appropriate bride for a well-to-do hopeful of the village, had “the -offer of” two gentlemen, one the young lord, and the other the young -squire. Had such fortune ever come before to a lass from the fells? How -she had been courted! not as the village lovers wooed with a sense of -equality, at least, if not perhaps something more; but John Musgrave and -young Lord Stanton had thought nobody in the world like her. And the -young lord, poor fellow! had even broken his word for her, a sin which -was but a glory the more to Lily in the eyes of the village -critics—however bitterly it might have been condemned had his forsaken -bride been a village maiden too. That this rivalry should have gone the -length of blood, all for Lily’s sweet looks, was a thing the middle-aged -narrators shook their heads over with many a moral, “You see what the -like of that comes to, lasses,” they said. But the lasses only put their -heads closer, and felt their hearts beat higher. To be fought for, to be -died for! It was terrible, no doubt, but glorious. “Such things never -happen nowadays” they said to themselves with a sigh.</p> - -<p>And the news did not stop down below in the plain, but mounted with the -winds and the clouds, and reached lone places<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_95" id="page_95">{95}</a></span> in the fells, where it -raised a wilder excitement still—at least in one melancholy and -solitary place.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.<br /><br /> -<small>AN AFTERNOON’S WORK.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">“You</span> must not cry, Nello; for one thing you are too big to cry; or if -you are not too big you are too old. You are eight—past! and then the -old gentleman downstairs is such a funny, funny old man, that he will -eat us, Nello, if we make a noise.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t believe you,” said the little boy, whom England had much -improved in strength. “Old men do not eat children,” but he drew back a -little, and stopped crying all the same.</p> - -<p>“We do not know no-ting about old men in England,” said Lilias—the <i>th</i> -was still a difficulty to her; and they both pronounced their <i>rs</i> in a -way which was unfamiliar to English ears, though the letter exists and -retains its natural sound in the north country. “They are very very -strange; they sit in a chair all day, like the wild beasts. I go to the -door and peep in. He has no cap on his head like Don Pepé, but a bare -place here, where the cap should be, and white hair. And he never moves -nor speaks. Sometimes I think he will be cut out of wood; and then all -at once he rises up,—and me, I run away.”</p> - -<p>“Are you not afraid, Lilias? I should be frightened,” said the little -boy, looking at her with large wondering eyes.</p> - -<p>“That is because you are only eight, but I am twelve, and one is never -frightened after twelve. I run away, and it makes me beat and thump -here,” Lilias put her hand to her heart to indicate the place, “and I -like it.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said the little brother, “when you run it makes that beat; but I -do not like it.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, you are a baby,” said Lilias. She stood with her dark hair shaken -back, and her eyes shining, an image of visionary daring. Nothing could -be more unlike than these two children. The boy had all the features of -his race, blue eyes, fair hair, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_96" id="page_96">{96}</a></span> a touch of gold in it, a fair -complexion, browned and reddened, indeed, with his long journey and the -warm sun he had been used to, but already changing into the pink and -white of English childhood. But there were none of the Musgrave features -in Lilias. Her dark eyes, dancing with life and energy, her warm colour, -clear brown with an underlying rose tint, and a downy bloomy surface -which softened every outline, and her crisp, yet shining dark hair, all -belonged, not only to a different species, but to a different type of -race. The Musgraves were robust and strong, but their strength was not -of this buoyant kind. The cloud of anxiety which had been about her on -her first appearance, that mystery of doubt with which a little human -creature regards the strange and novel, in whatever form, not knowing if -harm or good may be coming, had floated away, and Lilias had already -taken back her natural character. She was at home in the house, every -room of it, though she knew that she was hidden and thrust into corners, -on account of “the old gentleman downstairs.” This did not depress or -trouble her, but felt like a joke, a mystification and masquerading such -as is dear to childhood. She threw herself into the spirit of it with -enjoyment, instead of brooding over it with melancholy consciousness, -which was what Mary, forgetting childhood, as all grown people do, had -feared.</p> - -<p>The children were in the hall, which had now grown so familiar to them -that they could not understand how they had ever feared it. It was one -of those exceptional days which occur now and then in the winter before -the turn of the year. The whole world was full of sunshine. There was -not a cloud in the sky, and the great green hill in front of them rose -up in dazzling clearness of relief, like a visible way of ascent into -heaven. There was not a breath stirring; the trees, without a leaf upon -them, printed themselves against the blue of the sky and the green of -the hill, in minute perfection of branch and twig, like a photograph. -The lake was as still and as blue as the sky—everything lay in the -sunshine charmed and stilled, hanging motionless as it were between -earth and heaven. The sense that it was mid-winter, the natural season -of storms, seemed to have got into the air, which wondered over its own -stillness,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_97" id="page_97">{97}</a></span> and into the skies, which excelled themselves in lightness -and soft blueness, snatching this moment of delight with a fearful joy. -Earth took that ecstasy as one who was well aware that she could not -answer for the morrow. The great doorway of the hall stood wide open; it -was after mid-day, and the sun streamed in, having got to the west so -much earlier than in summer. Lilias and her little brother, children of -the sun, were planted in the midst of it, enjoying it with unconscious -exhilaration. Martuccia sat in the open doorway, basking in it, -knitting; a tranquil, almost motionless figure, with that faculty of -repose which is no doubt awarded to nurses in compensation for the -endless calls upon their activity. She had put a little tartan -shawl—congenial garment—upon her fine shoulders, and, with her silver -pins and glowing black hair all whitened by the sunshine, sat perfectly -motionless except for the little rustle of her hands and click of her -knitting-needles. It seemed immaterial whether it might be years or -moments that the robust and comely watcher should hold that peaceful -guardian place. She was paying no attention to the children, yet the -lightest appeal, a querulous exclamation, a longer pause than usual, -anything or nothing, would have brought her to her nurselings. It was -the repose of the mother, who sees everything and feels everything, even -when she does not see: and the additional security which her presence -brought to them, though she sat apart and had nothing to do with their -talk or their play, the strong support of the background which she made, -it would be hard to tell in words. They had been playing in the spacious -place, all lighted and warmed through and through with sunshine. Miss -Musgrave had not yet made her appearance; either she had less time to -spend in her favourite resort, or the fact that it had been appropriated -to the children, as specially suitable in its size and separateness for -their enjoyment, had made her relinquish its use. The great bay window -in the recess gave back a reflected light from the shining of the lake, -which added a colder tone to the prevailing brightness; and in the old -fireplace there burned a smouldering fire, half coals half wood. Every -feature of the place had grown familiar to the two little things who -were once so alarmed by its dark corners—so familiar that they could -not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_98" id="page_98">{98}</a></span> understand how they had ever been afraid. The kind old spacious -silent hall sheltered them with a large passive protection not unlike -that of Martuccia herself.</p> - -<p>But the afternoon languor had stolen upon the boy and girl, -notwithstanding the brightness. They, had come to a pause in their round -of amusement, and though half-tired, were yet looking about with all -their quick senses for some new delight. A little scuffle, a little -quarrel and crying fit on Nello’s part, which had been put a stop to by -the warning of Lilias already recorded, had left them free for a new -start, but not with the old plays, which were worn out for the moment. -They made an unconscious pause, and looked about them to find some -novelty; and both pounced upon one at the same moment with a burst of -sudden and unlooked-for rapture. A great broad sheet of something white -lay stretched out on Mary’s table, in company with an open colour-box -and brushes—a sight too tempting to be resisted by any child, -especially after the exhaustion of a long day’s play. It was wonderful -that they had overlooked it so long. They caught sight of it -simultaneously now, and the result was a sudden rush of eager curiosity. -The boy got first to the goal; perhaps he had been by a second of time -the first to start. He grasped one side of the white sheet with his hot -little hand, and climbing into the chair which stood before it, threw -himself upon the new wonder. “It is Mary’s,” said Lilias, making a -feeble effort to hold him back; but her own curiosity was much stronger -than her sense of duty to Mary, who allowed them to see everything and -share everything she had. They both leant over the table breathless, the -mysterious whiteness crackling beneath their hands. It was a sheet of -dazzling white vellum, ornamented with what they considered beautiful -pictures, a puzzling, yet a tempting sight to the children. It was -nothing less than a genealogical tree, their own pedigree, which Miss -Musgrave, skilled in such works, was preparing for her father, -ornamented with emblazoned coats of arms, some of them unfinished and -inviting completion with a seductive force which made the children’s -hearts beat.</p> - -<p>“What is it?” said Nello, in a tone of awe.</p> - -<p>“I know,” said Lilias, confidently; “it is a copy. You have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_99" id="page_99">{99}</a></span> had no -education, you don’t know what a copy is: but me, I have done them, -though never any so pretty as this. Mary is a grown-up lady, old, not -like us; it must be Mary’s copy. You should not touch it, you are too -little.”</p> - -<p>“I will try,” cried Nello, with his eyes upon the brushes. Already he -had rubbed against something not yet dry, and had smudged the colour, to -the horror of his sister. He had both his elbows upon it and the greater -part of his small person.</p> - -<p>“Oh, what have you done, you naughty boy!” cried Lilias; “you cannot do -it. Let me!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I will do it, I will do it!” cried Nello, seizing the crackling -vellum and dashing at it with a brush full of colour. Lilias had to -stand and look on, sorest of miseries, while her little brother -performed badly what she felt she could have done well. There was a -large shield in the centre, upon which the cherished “augmentation,” the -chief ornament of the Musgrave arms, was slightly drawn. Gules on a -shield argent, it ought to have been—Nello made a blurred dash of -bright blue, surrounded by a sea of red. “How it is pretty!” he cried in -his half-foreign speech, with a crow of triumph. Colour upon colour! and -such colour! the sight would have driven Mr. Musgrave wild.</p> - -<p>Lilias uttered a cry of horror; but the work of destruction was very -captivating. Close to the vellum was the original draught of the -genealogical tree, from which Mary had been copying. Lilias took -possession of this, and carried it away to the table in the recess. She -meant only to look at it, but the temptation was too much for her. At -the bottom of the page an escutcheon void of all colour gradually caught -her eye, a little white space which might be made, she thought, to -resemble the others with great advantage to the whole. That this came -opposite to the name of John Musgrave was nothing to the child, but the -sight of it wrought her by degrees into a sort of creative frenzy. She -would not spoil it as Nello was doing, but to complete what was wanting -could be no harm. Lilias took a brush and filled it with fine broad -vermilion, a colour about which there could be no mistake, and painted -the vacant shield a strong decided gules, safe from any accident. The -outline was not very firm, and there were overflowings and runs of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100">{100}</a></span> -colour outside, but at all events the hue was undeniable. She was -standing looking at it with a satisfied yet agitated mind, with the -brush still in her hand, when her elbow was grasped by some one behind -and a hand laid on her shoulder. In the start she gave, the child’s arm -made a nervous jerk of the brush over the paper, and ran a tremulous -line of red over some half-dozen of the kindred names. “Mary!” she cried -with a sudden perception of wrong-doing. But Lilias did not weep or -excuse herself. She got quite pale, with a red spot on each cheek, and -stood, not even dropping the brush, looking up at her judge, with the -corners of her mouth suddenly turned downwards, and a gleam of awakened -understanding in her alarmed eyes.</p> - -<p>“Lilias! I thought I could trust you; what have you been doing?” cried -Mary. “And Nello?” she added, looking round with dismay at the more -important work. Nello had already been roused to that instinctive sense -of harm which comes with the arrival of an aggrieved person. But he did -not face his victim as Lilias did. He threw down his streaming pencil on -the vellum, got down from his chair in the twinkling of an eye, and fled -to take shelter with Martuccia, who, ever ready to defend, and yet -unaware who was wrong, put an arm round him at once and faced Miss -Musgrave with prompt defiance.</p> - -<p>“Oh Mary!” cried Lilias, trembling, “Nello did not mean it. He is so -little. Nello did not know.”</p> - -<p>Mary was not so angelically sweet as to be indifferent to the damage -done, but she had not the freedom of reproof which people exercise with -children familiar to them. The little meddlers were still strangers. So -she restrained herself and said nothing. She went to the parchment and -began to sponge off the still wet colour. Nello kept in his refuge -regarding her from afar, ready to bolt behind Martuccia if she made any -hostile advances and hide himself in his nurse’s skirt. But Lilias -followed Miss Musgrave closely as her shadow. She watched the sponging -with the gravest anxious attention. She kept herself close against -Mary’s dress, touching it, and put herself in Mary’s way, and interposed -her wistful face, now quite pale and troubled, between the vellum and -Mary’s eyes. At last her aunt said, perhaps somewhat peevishly, “What do -you want, child?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101">{101}</a></span> You have done harm enough for one morning. Pray go out -of my way.”</p> - -<p>“Have we done much harm?” said Lilias, with strained and anxious eyes.</p> - -<p>“Yes; you have spoiled my week’s work, you mischievous children,” said -Mary, melting a little. “I shall have to do it over again. I did not -expect this, Lilias, from you.”</p> - -<p>“It was very, very bad of me,” said the child, with perfect seriousness, -her eyes slowly filling; “but Nello is such a little fellow—he did not -know—— ”</p> - -<p>“Then why did you do it, Lilias?”</p> - -<p>The child looked up searchingly into her face. “I think it must have -been the devil,” she said, with portentous gravity, drawing a heavy -sigh.</p> - -<p>An impulse of laughter came to Miss Musgrave in the midst of her -annoyance; but partly she restrained it for high moral reasons, and -partly she was still too much annoyed to give way to laughter. “What do -you know about—the devil?” she said. “I think it was your own little -mischievous hands, and your curiosity.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I know a great deal about him. Mr. Pennithorne told us on Sunday; -and Martuccia must be of the same religion as Mr. Pen, for she worships -him too,” said Lilias, aware of the advantages of digression when things -were so serious as they were now.</p> - -<p>“Worships him, Lilias! You must not use such words.”</p> - -<p>“They are always thinking of him, and they say he does everything. They -are very, very afraid of him,” said Lilias seriously, “and so am I—he -can do whatever he pleases; but I cannot think he is as strong as God.”</p> - -<p>“And it was he who made you spoil my papers——?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mary, not Nello—only me. Nello is such a little fellow, he did not -mean it—he did not know what he was doing—— ”</p> - -<p>“And did you?”</p> - -<p>Lilias pressed very close against Mary’s side. Her heart was beating -loudly in her brave little bosom. Her sense of crime had not been -lightened by the postponement of the punishment<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102">{102}</a></span> which must, she -thought, be coming. But it was not in her to fly as her brother had -done. She took a furtive hold of Mary’s gown. No hope of any forgiveness -was in her serious soul; yet to whom could she cling in earth and heaven -but only to this inflictor of stern justice? She kept her eyes fixed on -Mary’s face, that she might see the fearful doom which was coming—that -would always be a help in bearing it—and kept close to her, pressing -against her. “<i>Aie-tu peur de moi? cache-toi dans mes bras</i>”—this was -the child’s impulse in her penitence and terror.</p> - -<p>Mary forgot her vellum and its stains. She put her arm round the child, -whose eyes opened a little wider thinking the judgment was coming, but -who never shrank. “You will not do it again,” she said. Lilias could not -understand that it was over. She bent back a little the better to see -Mary’s face.</p> - -<p>“Will you not punish me?” said the child. Between the fear and the -wonder she was breathless. This was the most wonderful of all.</p> - -<p>“No, dear—you will never do it again.”</p> - -<p>“Nor Nello?” She put her arms round Mary’s arm, with that soft clinging -which is irresistible in a child, and leant her head against her, and -began to sob as if her heart would break. Then Nello, seeing the worst -was over, came out from his shelter, venturing a few steps, then a few -more. Forgiveness did not touch him, as punishment would have done. He -came slowly, ready to turn and fly at any hostile demonstration. Nello -had, as it were, an army at his back, his ships to take refuge in; but -still it was with great caution that he made his advance. This little -exhibition of character, however, soon melted in a more agreeable -sentiment. As soon as the contingency was over, both the children, -restored to a tremulous ease of mind, were seized with a common impulse -of curiosity and interest. They forgot their own culpability in watching -the obliteration of the damage they had done. Fortunately the discovery -had been made in time, and the process of reparation, if not so -exciting, was almost as interesting to them as the delicious frenzy of -mischief in which they had wrought this harm. They pressed upon Mary as -she worked, one at each side. When the last trace had disappeared they -gave a cry of joy. How clever Mary was! She could do<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103">{103}</a></span> everything. As for -Nello, he was unmoved morally by the spectacle; it had been amusing all -through, all but the moment of fear, which fortunately came to nothing. -But Lilias never forgot this scene, and still less did Mary forget it, -whose heart seemed to be learning a hundred sweet and subtle lessons, -and to whom the child, even in her naughtiness, was like an angel, -leading her to depths unsounded, nay, unthought of till now.</p> - -<p>But when they had gone away, joyous as usual, to their “tea,” which was -a meal much scorned and wondered at by Martuccia, Mary went to the other -table where lay the draught of the more important document upon which -Lilias had been employed when she came into the hall. At this she smiled -and shuddered, with a curious mixture of feelings. The little girl’s -mischief had taken a symbolical form. The blank shield which represented -her mother was blurred and blood-red, and a stroke like blood ran across -her father’s name; and that of her father’s father, from the little pool -of red in the daubed shield. Lilias knew nothing of the lives from which -her little life had sprung. It was accident, caprice, a child’s fancy -for bright colour—yet it made Mary shudder even when she smiled.</p> - -<p>Another incident, which she paid less attention to—indeed, did not -think of at all—happened this same evening. She went to the door where -Martuccia had been seated, her own favourite place, though now in great -part given up to the children and their attendant, to look out upon the -evening before she left the hall. When she had looked at the sky where -the early wintry sunset was just over, leaving deep gorgeous tints of -red and yellow upon a blue which was deepened by coming frost, Mary’s -look came back, carelessly enough, by the lower level of the long brown -road. And it was with a momentary start that she found herself almost -face to face with an unthought-of spectator, who was standing at the -foot of the little slope, gazing intently up to the hall door. Mary was -puzzled to see that though the woman’s appearance was like that of many -of the older women about, she did not know her; and at the same time she -was equally perplexed by a consciousness that the face looking up at her -thus eagerly was not that of a stranger. She could not associate it with -any name, yet she seemed acquainted with the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104">{104}</a></span> features, which were fine, -and of an unusual cast. The stranger’s look was so intense that it -struck Miss Musgrave like an audible petition. “Did you want anything?” -she said with natural courtesy, making a step towards her. The woman -turned sharp round on her heels with a hasty wave of her hand, and went -hurriedly away towards the village without further reply. Who could she -be? Mary asked herself lightly, and went in and forgot all about her. -The people are independent in their ways, and not grateful for a casual -address, in the north.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII.<br /><br /> -<small>VISITORS.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">“My</span> Lord Stanton, ma’am,” said Eastwood, with a certain expansion in the -throat and fulness of voice, like that swell and gurgle which -accompanies in a bird the fullest tide of song. Who has not heard that -roll in the voice of the man who mouths a title like a succulent morsel? -A butler who loves his family, and who has the honour of announcing to -them the visit of the greatest potentate about, is a happy man. And this -was what Eastwood felt, as he uttered with a nightingale trill and swell -of satisfaction this honoured name.</p> - -<p>“Lord—<i>whom</i>——?” Mary rose to her feet so much startled that she did -not know what she said.</p> - -<p>“Lord Stanton, ma’am,” the butler repeated. “He asked if you would -receive him. He said as he would not come in till I asked would you -receive him, ma’am. I said you was at home, and not engaged—but he -said—— ”</p> - -<p>“Lord Stanton!” The name seemed to hurt her, and a kind of dull fear -rose in Mary’s mind. She knew, of course, who it was! the young -successor of the man who, with intention or not, her brother had brought -to his death. She knew well enough about Geoff. It had not been possible -to hear the name at any time without interest, and in this way Mary had -learned as much<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105">{105}</a></span> as strangers knew of the young lord. But what could he -want here? A subdued panic seized her. She did not know what he could -do, or if he could do anything; but that he should come merely as a -friend did not seem probable. And how then had he come? She made a -tremendous pause before she said, “Let him come in, Eastwood.” Eastwood -thought Miss Musgrave was very properly impressed by the name of the -young lord.</p> - -<p>Geoff, for his part, waited outside, anxious as to how he was to be -received, and very desirous in his boyish generosity to make a good -impression. He had driven to Penninghame, a long way, and his horses, -drawn up at the door, made a great show, when the children passed, -stealing round the corner like little intruders, but so much attracted -by this sight, that they almost forgot their orders never to approach -the hall door. Geoff himself was standing at some distance from his -phaeton, waiting for his answer; but even Lilias was old enough to know -that to address commendatory remarks and friendly overtures to a horse -or a dog is more easy and natural than to address a man. She said, “Oh, -look, Nello, what lovely horses!” but only ventured to look up shyly -into the friendly face of their owner, though she was not without an -impression that he, too, was nice, and that he might give his friends a -drive perhaps, with the lovely horses, a service which was not in the -power of the animals themselves.</p> - -<p>Geoff went up to them, holding out his hand. “You are the little -Musgraves, I suppose?” he said.</p> - -<p>The boy hung back, as usual, hanging by Martuccia’s skirts. “Yes,” said -Lilias, looking at him intently, as she always did; and she added at -once, “This is Nello,” and did her best to put her small brother in the -foreground, though he resisted, holding back and close to his protector.</p> - -<p>“Is he shy, or is he frightened? He need not be frightened of me,” said -Geoff, unconsciously conscious of the facts between them which might -have caused the child’s timidity had he been old enough to know. “Nello -is an odd name for a boy.”</p> - -<p>“Because you do not know where he came from,” said Lilias quickly. -“Nello is born in Florence. Here you will call him John. It is not so -pretty. And me, I am born in France,” she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106">{106}</a></span> continued; “but we are -English children. That does not make any difference.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t you think so?” said simple Geoff. The little woman of twelve who -thus fixed him with her great beautiful eyes, made him feel a boy in -comparison with her mature childhood. She never relaxed in her watchful -look. This was a habit Lilias had got, a habit born of helplessness, and -of the sense of responsibility for her brother which was so strong in -her mind. That intent, half-suspicious vigilance, as of one fully aware -that he might mean harm, and quick to note the approach of danger, -disconcerted Geoff, who meant nothing but good. “I know two little -girls,” he said, trying to be conciliatory, “who would like very much to -know you.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” said Lilias, melting a little, but shaking her head. “I have to -take care of Nello; but if they would come here, and would not mind -Nello,” she added, “perhaps I might play with them. I could -ask—Mary—— ”</p> - -<p>“Who is—Mary?”</p> - -<p>“Oh! don’t you know? If you do not know Mary we should not talk to -you—we only ought to talk to friends—and besides, you have no right to -call her Mary if you do not know her,” said Lilias. She turned back to -say this after she had gone a few steps away from him, following Nello, -who, tired of the conversation, had gone on with his guardian to the -Chase.</p> - -<p>“That is quite true, and I beg your pardon,” said Geoff; “it must be -Miss Musgrave you mean.”</p> - -<p>Lilias nodded approving. She began to take an interest in this big boy. -He was not strictly handsome, but had a bright, attractive countenance, -and the child scarcely ever saw any male creature except Eastwood and -Mr. Pen. “Have you come to see her?” she asked wistfully; “are you going -to be a—friend?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Geoff with a little emotion, “if she will let me. I am -waiting to know. And tell me your name?” he added, with a slight tremor -in his voice, for he was young and easily touched. “I will always be a -friend to you.”</p> - -<p>“I am Lilias,” she said shyly, giving him her hand, for which he had -held out his. And this was how Eastwood found them when he came bustling -out to inform my lord that Miss Musgrave<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107">{107}</a></span> would see his lordship, if he -would be good enough to step this way. Eastwood was much “struck” to see -his lordship holding “little Miss’s” hand. It raised little Miss in the -butler’s opinion. “If she had been a bit older, now!” he said to -himself. Geoff was half reluctant to leave this little new acquaintance -for the audience which he had come here expressly to ask. Mary was not -likely to be so easily conciliated as little Lilias. And being a lord -did not make him less shy. He waved his hand and took off his hat with a -little sigh, as he followed Eastwood into the house; and Lilias, for her -part, followed Nello slowly, with various thoughts in her small head. -These it must be allowed were chiefly about the little girls who wanted -to make friends with her—and of whom her lonely imagination made -ecstatic pictures—and of the lovely horses who could spin her away over -the broad country, if that big boy would let them. But Lilias did not -think very much about the big boy himself.</p> - -<p>Geoff went in blushing and tremulous to Miss Musgrave’s drawing-room. It -was not a place so suitable to Mary as her favourite hall, being dark -and somewhat low, not worthy either of her or of Penninghame Castle. She -was standing, waiting to receive him, and after the bow with which he -greeted her, Geoff did not know what to say to disclose his object. His -object itself was vague, and he had no previous knowledge of her, as his -cousin Mary had, to warrant him in addressing her. She offered him a -chair, and she sat down opposite him; and then there began an -embarrassing pause which she would not, and which he did not seem able -to, break. At last, faltering and stammering—</p> - -<p>“I came, Miss Musgrave,” he began, “to say—I came to tell you—I came -to ask—Circumstances,” cried Geoff, impatient of his own incapacity, -“seem to have made our families enemies. I don’t know why they should -have done so.”</p> - -<p>“If the story is true, Lord Stanton, it is easy enough to see how they -should have done so. My brother was concerned, they say, in your -brother’s death.”</p> - -<p>“No one could prove that he did it, Miss Musgrave.”</p> - -<p>“He did not do it with intention, I am sure,” she said. “But so much is -true. It was done, and how could we be friends after?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108">{108}</a></span> We should have -been angels—you to pardon the loss you had sustained, we to pardon the -wrong we had done.”</p> - -<p>There was a gleam of agitation and pain in her eyes which might well -have been taken for anger. The young man was discouraged.</p> - -<p>“May I not say anything, then?” he said, wistfully. “My cousin Mary, -Lady Stanton, whom you know, told me—but if you are set against us too, -what need to say anything? I had hoped indeed, that you—— ”</p> - -<p>“What did you hope about me? I should be glad of any approach. I grieved -for your brother as if he had been mine. Oh more, I think, more! if it -had been poor John who had died—— ”</p> - -<p>“It would have been better,” said the young man. “Yes, yes, Miss -Musgrave, that is what I feel; Walter had the best of it. Your brother -has been more than killed. But I came to say, that so far as we are -concerned, there need not be any more misery. Let him come home, Miss -Musgrave, let him come home! We none of us can tell now how Walter -died.”</p> - -<p>Mary was moved beyond the power of words. She got up hastily and took -his hand, and pressed it between her own.</p> - -<p>“Thank you, I shall always thank you!” she cried, “whether he comes home -or not. Oh, my dear boy, who are you that come with mercy on your lips? -You are not like the rest of us!”</p> - -<p>Mary was thinking of others, more near, whose wrongs were not as the -Stantons’, but whom nothing could induce to forgive.</p> - -<p>“I am my mother’s son,” said Geoff, his eyes brighter than usual, with a -smile lighting up the moisture in them. What Mary said seemed a tribute -to his mother, and this made him glad. “She does not know, but she would -say so. Let him come home. I heard of the children, and that your -brother—— ”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Miss Musgrave, “from Mary. She told you. She always took an -interest in him. Do you know,” she added in a low voice of horror, “that -there is a verdict against him, a coroner’s verdict of murder?”</p> - -<p>She shuddered at the word as she said it, and so did he.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109">{109}</a></span></p><p>“But not a just one. No jury would say it was—that: not now—— ”</p> - -<p>“Heaven knows what a jury would say. It is all half forgotten now; and -as for the dates, and all those trifles that tell in a trial, who knows -anything about them? Even I—could I swear to the hour my brother went -out that morning? I could once, and did, and it is all written down. But -I don’t seem sure of anything now, not that there ever was a Walter -Stanton, or that I had a brother John; and I am one of the interested; -the people who were not specially interested, do you think they would -have better memories? Ah, no; and he fled; God help him! I don’t know -why he did it. That was against him; though I don’t think anyone -believes that John Musgrave did <i>that</i>, now.”</p> - -<p>“I am sure they do not, and that is why I came. Let him come home, Miss -Musgrave. He would not have been convicted had he been tried. I have -been reading it all up, and I have taken advice. He would be cleared. -And if there is risk in it, we would all stand by him. I would stand by -him,” said the young man with a generous flush of resolution, “so much -as I am worth. I want you to tell him so. Tell him to come home.”</p> - -<p>Mary shook her head. How long she had been calm about this terrible -domestic tragedy, and how it all rose upon her now! She got up, in her -agitation, and walked about the room.</p> - -<p>“How could he risk it—how could he risk it—with that sentence against -him?” she said; then after a while she came back to her seat, and looked -at Geoff piteously with a heartrending look in her eyes. She was past -crying, which would have relieved her. “That is not all,” she said in a -low voice. “Alas, alas! if all was well, and he might come home when he -pleased, it would matter less. I know nothing about him, Lord Stanton. I -don’t know my brother any longer, nor where he is, nor how he is living -now.”</p> - -<p>“But his children have just come to you!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, out of the unknown. No one knows anything about him; and suddenly -they came out of the darkness, as I tell you. That is where he is: out -in the world, in the dark, in the unknown—— ”</p> - -<p>“There are ways of penetrating the unknown,” said Geoff, cheerfully. -“There are advertisements; everybody sees the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110">{110}</a></span> <i>Times</i> nowadays. It goes -all over the world. Wherever there is an Englishman he sees it somehow. -Let us advertise.”</p> - -<p>“He would not see it.”</p> - -<p>“Then a detective—let us send some one—— ”</p> - -<p>“Oh no, no, no,—not that. I could not bear that. We must let him alone -till he comes of his own accord. Let well alone,” said Mary, in her -panic. She scarcely knew what she said.</p> - -<p>“Well! do you call it well, Miss Musgrave, that your brother should be -away from his home, from everything he loves—his country lost to him, -his position, all his friends?”</p> - -<p>“He has not been separated from everything he loves; he had wife and -children; does a man care for anything else? What was this old house to -him, and—us—in comparison? His wife is dead—that was God’s doing; and -his children have come home—that is his own choice. I say, let well -alone, Lord Stanton; when he wishes it he will—come—back; but not to -those he loves,” Mary said in a low tone.</p> - -<p>Geoff could not fathom her meaning, it was beyond him. The accusation -under which John Musgrave lay was bad enough. It was cowardly of him (he -thought) to fly and leave this stigma, uncontested, upon his own name; -but that there should be any further mystery did not seem possible to -the young man. Perhaps there was something wrong with the family, some -incipient insanity, monomania, eccentricity. He could not understand it. -But at least he had shown his goodwill, if no more.</p> - -<p>“I must not dictate to you, Miss Musgrave,” he said; “you know best,” -and he rose to go away, but stood hesitating, reluctant to consent to -the failure of his generous mission. “If I can be of any use, at any -time,” he added, blushing and faltering; “not that I can do much: but if -you should—change your mind—if you should—think—— ”</p> - -<p>She took his hand once more in both of hers.</p> - -<p>“I shall always think that you have the kindest and most generous heart: -and are a friend—a true friend—to John, and everybody in trouble.”</p> - -<p>“I hope so,” said the youth, fervently; “but that is nothing;—to you, -Miss Musgrave, if I can ever be of any use.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111">{111}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I will ask you, if it ever can be,” she said. “I will not forget.”</p> - -<p>He kept hold of her hands when she loosed them, and with a confused -laugh and change of tone, asked “About the children? I met them just -now. Might I bring my little cousins, Lady Stanton’s children, to see -them? They want to meet.”</p> - -<p>“Sir Henry would not like it, though she might. Sir Henry is not like -you.”</p> - -<p>“I know; he is <i>plus royalist que le roi</i>. But the children would. And -they don’t deny me anything,” said Geoff, with a little laugh.</p> - -<p>He scarcely knew why this was—but it was so; nothing was denied to him; -he was the <i>enfant gâté</i> of Elfdale. Miss Musgrave was not, however, -quite so complacent. She gave an assent which was cold and unwilling, -and which quenched Geoff’s genial enthusiasm. He went back to his -phaeton quite subdued and silent. “But I will see that little thing -again,” he said to himself.</p> - -<p>In the mean time, while this conversation had been going on, Lilias had -wandered forth alone into the Chase. Martuccia had gone before with -Nello, while Lilias talked to the young man; and now the child followed -dreamily, as she was in the habit of doing, her eyes abstracted, her -whole being rapt in a separate consciousness, which surrounded her like -an atmosphere of her own. She knew vaguely that the little brother and -his nurse were in front of her; but the watchfulness of Lilias had -relaxed, and she was not thinking of Nello. He was safe; here was no one -who could interfere with him. She had taken up a branch of a tree which -lay in her path and had caught her childish fancy, and with this she -went on, using it like a pilgrim’s staff, and saying a kind of low -chant, without words, to herself, to which the rough staff was made to -keep time. What was she thinking of? everything, nothing; thought indeed -was not necessary to the fresh soul in that subdued elation and -speechless gladness. There was a vague sense in her mind of the brisk -air, the sunshine, the blue sky, the floating clouds, all in one; but -had the clouds been low upon the trees, and the air all damp instead of -all exhilaration, it would have made little difference<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112">{112}</a></span> to Lilias. Her -spring of unconscious blessedness was within herself. Her song was not -music nor her movements harmony in any way that could be accounted for -by rule; and indeed the low succession of sounds which came from her -lips unawares, and to which her little steps and the stroke of the rough -stick kept time, was more inartificial than even the twittering of the -birds. A small, passive, embodied happiness went roaming along the -rough, woodland path, with soft-glowing abstracted eyes that saw -everything, yet nothing; with a little abstracted soul, all freshness -and gladness, that took note of everything, yet nothing; a little -pilgrim among life’s mysteries and wonders, herself the greatest wonder -of all, throbbing with a soft consciousness, yet knowing nothing. Thus -she went pacing on under the bare trees, and murmured her inarticulate -chant, and kept time to it, a poet in being, though not in thought. Not -far off the lake splashed softly upon the stones of the beach, and that -north country air, which is vocal as the winds of the south, sounded a -whole mystery of tones and semi-tones, deep through the fir-trees, -shrill through the beeches, low and soft over the copse; and the brook, -half-hidden in the overgreenness of the grass, added its tinkle; all -surrounding the little figure which gave the central point of conscious -intelligence to the landscape; but were all quite unnecessary to Lilias -marching along in her dream to her own music, a something higher than -they, a thing full of other and deeper suggestions, the wonder of the -world.</p> - -<p>Lilias woke up, however, out of this other world, all in a moment, into -the conscious existence of a lively, brave, fancifully-timid child, when -she found herself suddenly confronted by a stranger, who did not pass on -as strangers usually did, making a mere momentary jar and pause in the -visionary atmosphere, but who made a decided pause, and stopped her. A -little thrill of fear sprang up in the child’s breast, and she would -have hurried on, or even run away, but for the pride of honour and -courage in her little venturesome spirit which made it impossible to -fly. It was an old woman who stood in her path, tall but stooping, -dressed in a large grey cloak, the hood of which covered her white thick -muslin cap. She was a woman considerably over sixty, with handsome -features and brilliant dark eyes, and,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113">{113}</a></span> notwithstanding her stooping -figure, full of vigour and power. She carried a basket on her arm under -her cloak, and had a stick in her hand, and at her neck a red -handkerchief just showed, which would have replaced the hood on her cap -had it been less cold. Just so the fairy in the fairy-tales appears to -the little maiden in the wood, the Cinderella by the kitchen-fire. -Lilias was not at all sure that it was not that poetical old woman who -looked at her with those shining eyes. She made a brief, instantaneous -resolution to draw water for her, or pick up sticks, or do anything she -might require.</p> - -<p>“Little Miss, you belong to the Castle, don’t you now? and where may you -come from?” was what the problematical fairy said, with a something wet -and gleaming in her eyes such as never obscures the sight of fairies. -Lilias was overawed by the tone of eager meaning, though she did not -understand it, in the questioning voice, yet might not have answered but -for that feeling that it was unsafe, as much experience had proved, to -be less than obsequiously civil to old women with wands in their hands -who could make (if you were so naughty as to give a rude answer) toads -and frogs drop from your mouth.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said, with a little tremble in her clear, childish voice. “We -come a very, very long way—over the mountains, and then over the sea.”</p> - -<p>“Do you know the name of the place you came from, little Miss?”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, I know it very well, we were so often there. It was Bagni di -Lucca. It was a very, very long way. Nello—— ”</p> - -<p>But the child paused. Why introduce Nello? who was not visible, to the -knowledge of this uncertain person? who, if she was a fairy, might be a -wicked one, or, if she was a woman, might be unkind, for anything Lilias -knew. She stopped short nervously, and it was evident that the old woman -had not taken any notice of the name.</p> - -<p>“Little Miss, your mamma would be sorry to send you away?”</p> - -<p>“It was papa,” said the little girl, with wondering eyes. “Poor -mamma;—I was quite little when—it was when Nello was a little, little -small baby. Now we have nobody but papa.”</p> - -<p>The old woman staggered and almost fell, but supported herself<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114">{114}</a></span> by her -stick for a moment, while Lilias uttered a scream of terror; then sat -down with a groan upon a fallen tree. “It’s nothing new, nothing new,” -she said to herself; “I felt it long ago,” and covered her face with her -hands, with once more a heavy groan. Little Lilias did not know what to -do. She had screamed when the old woman staggered, not knowing what was -going to happen; but what was she to do now, alone with this strange -companion, seated there on the fallen trunk and rocking herself to and -fro, with her face hidden in her hands. It did not occur to the child to -associate this sudden trouble with the information she had herself -given. What could this stranger have to do with her? And poor mamma had -receded far into the background of Lilias’s memory, not even now an -occasion of tears. She did not, however, need to go into this reasoning, -but simply supposed that the poor old fairy was ill, or that something -had happened to her, and never at all connected effect and cause. She -stood for a little time irresolute, then, overcoming her own fears, went -up to the sufferer and stroked her compassionately on the shoulder. “Are -you ill, old woman?” she said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, call me Granny—call me Granny, my pretty dear!”</p> - -<p>Lilias was more puzzled than ever; but she made up her mind that she -would do whatever was asked of her by this disguised personage, who -might turn into—anything, in a moment. “Yes, Granny,” she said, -trembling, and still stroking the old woman’s shoulder. “I hope you are -not ill.”</p> - -<p>The answer she made to this was suddenly to clasp her arms round Lilias, -who could scarcely suppress a cry of horror. What a strange—what a very -strange old woman! Fortunately Lilias, brought up in a country where -servants are friends, had no feeling of repulsion from the embrace. She -was a little frightened, and did not understand it—that was all. The -old woman’s breast heaved with great sobs; there could be no doubt that -she was very deeply, strongly moved. She was “very sorry about -something,” according to Lilias’ simple explanation. She clasped the -child close, and kissed her with a tearful face, which left traces of -its weeping upon the fresh cheeks. The little girl wiped them off, -wondering. How could she tell why this was? Perhaps it was only to try -her if she was the kind of little girl who was uncivil,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115">{115}</a></span> or not; but she -did not indeed try to account for it. It was not very pleasant, but she -put up with it, partly in fear, partly in sympathy, partly because, as -we have said, she had no horror of the too near approach of a poor old -woman, as an English-bred child might have had. Poor old creature, how -sorry she was about something! though Lilias could not imagine what it -was.</p> - -<p>“God bless you, honeysweet,” said the old woman. “You’ve got her dear -face, my jewel. It isn’t that I didn’t know it years and years ago. I -was told it in my sleep; I read it in the clouds and on the water. Oh, -if you think I wasn’t warned! But you’ve got her bonnie face. You’ll be -a beauty, a darling beauty, like the rest of us. And look you here, -little Miss, my jewel. If you see me when the gentry’s with you you’ll -take no notice; but if you see me by myself you’ll give me a kiss and -call me Granny. That’s fixed between us, honey, and you won’t forget? -Call me Granny again, to give me a little comfort, my pretty dear.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Granny,” said the child, trembling. The old woman kissed her -again, drying her tears.</p> - -<p>“God bless you, and God bless you!” she said. “You can’t be none the -worse of your old Granny’s blessing. And mind, if you’re with the -gentlefolks you’ll take no notice. Oh, my honeysweet, my darling child!”</p> - -<p>Lilias looked after her with wondering, disturbed eyes. What a strange -old woman she was! How strange that she should behave so! and yet Lilias -did not attempt to inquire why. Grown-up people in her experience did a -great many strange things. It was of no use trying to fathom what they -meant, and this strange old person was only a little more strange than -the rest, and startling to the calm little being who had grown in the -midst of family troubles and mysteries without divining any of them. -Strangely enough, the old woman felt equally independent of any -necessity for explanation. It seemed so clear in her mind that everybody -must know the past and understand her claims, whatever they were. She -had no more idea of the tranquillity of innocent ignorance in Lilias’s -mind than the little girl had of the mysteries of her experience. Lilias -watched her going away through the high columns of the trees with great -wonder yet respect, and it was not till she had disappeared that the -little girl<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116">{116}</a></span> went on after Nello. Nello would have been frightened by -that curious apparition. He would have cried perhaps, and struggled, and -would not have said Granny. Perhaps he would have angered her. What a -good thing that Nello had not been here!</p> - -<h2><a name="PART_IV" id="PART_IV"></a>PART IV.</h2> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.<br /><br /> -<small>FAMILY CARES.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Lilias</span> did not say much about the adventure in the wood, nothing at all -indeed to Mary or any one in authority; nor did it dwell in her mind as -a thing of much importance. The kind of things that strike a child’s -mind as wonderful are not always those which would most impress an older -person. There were many things at Penninghame very curious and strange -to the little girl. The big chimneys of the old house, for instance, the -sun-dial in the old garden, and on a lower level the way in which Cook’s -cap kept on, which seemed to Lilias miraculous, no means of securing it -being visible. She pondered much on these things, trying to arrive at -feasible theories in respect to them, but there was no theory required -about the other very natural incident. That an old woman should meet her -in the woods, and kiss her, and ask to be called granny, and cry over -her,—there was nothing wonderful in that; and indeed if, as she already -suspected, it was no old woman at all, but a fairy, such as those in the -story-books, who would probably appear again and set her tasks to do, -much more difficult than calling her granny, and end by transforming -herself into a beautiful lady—this would still remain quite -comprehensible, not by any means unparalleled in the experience of one -who had already mastered a great deal of literature treating of such -subjects. She was interested but not surprised, for was it not always to -a child or children by them<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117">{117}</a></span>selves in a wood that fairies did speak? She -told Nello about the meeting, who was not surprised any more than she -was; for though he was not very fond of reading himself, he had shared -all his sister’s, having had true histories of fairies read to him -almost ever since he could recollect anything. He made some cynical -remarks prompted by his manhood, but it was like much manly cynicism, -only from the lips, no deeper. “I thought fairies were all dead,” he -said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Nello; when you know they are spirits and never die! they are -hundreds and hundreds of years older than we are, but they never die; -and it is always children that see them. I thought she would tell us to -do something—— ”</p> - -<p>“I would not do something,” said Nello; “I would say, ‘Old woman, do it -yourself.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>“And do you know what would happen then?” said Lilias, severely; -“whenever you opened your mouth, a toad or a frog would drop out of it.”</p> - -<p>“I should not mind; how funny it would be! how the people would be -surprised.”</p> - -<p>“They would be frightened—fancy! every word you said; till all round -there would be things creeping and creeping and crawling all over you; -slimy cold things that would make people shiver and shriek. Oh!” said -Lilias recoiling and putting up her hands, as if to put him away; “the -frogs! squatting and jumping all over the floor.”</p> - -<p>At this lively realization of his problematical punishment, Nello -himself grew pale, and nervously looked about him. “I would kill her!” -he cried, furiously; “what right would she have to do that to me?”</p> - -<p>“Because you did not obey her, Nello.”</p> - -<p>“And why should I obey her?” cried the boy; “she is not papa, or -Martuccia—or Mary.”</p> - -<p>“But we must always do what the fairies tell us,” said Lilias, “not -perhaps because they have a right—for certainly it is different with -papa—but because they would hurt us if we didn’t; and then if you are -good and pick up the sticks, or draw the water from the well, then she -gives you such beautiful presents. Oh! I will do whatever she tells -<i>me</i>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118">{118}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“What kind of presents, Lily? I want a little horse to ride—there are a -great many things that I want. Do fairies give you what you want, or -only what they like?”</p> - -<p>This was a puzzling question; and on the spur of the moment Lilias did -not feel able to answer such a difficulty. “If you do it for the -presents, not because they ask you, they will not give you anything,” -she said; “that would be all wrong if you did it for the presents.”</p> - -<p>“But you said—— ”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Nello; you are too little, you don’t understand,” cried the elder -sister, like many another perplexed authority; “when you are older you -will know what I mean. I can tell you things, but I can’t make you -understand?”</p> - -<p>“What is it he cannot understand?” said Mary, coming suddenly upon their -confidential talk. The two children came apart hastily, and Lilias, who -had two red spots of excitement on her cheeks, looked up startled, with -lips apart. Nello laughed with a sense of mischief. He was fond of his -sister, but to get her into trouble had a certain flavour of fun in it, -not disagreeable to him.</p> - -<p>“It is about the fairies,” he cried, volubly. “She says you should do -what they tell you. She says they give you beautiful presents. She says, -she—— ”</p> - -<p>“Oh, about the fairies!” said Mary, calmly, with a smile, going on -without any more notice. Lilias was very angry with her brother, but -what was the use? And she was frightened lest she should be made to look -ridiculous, a danger which is always present to the sensitive mind of a -child. “I will never, never talk to you again,” she said to him under -her breath; but knew she would talk to him again as soon as her mind -wanted disburdening, and was not afraid.</p> - -<p>And of how many active thoughts, and wonderful musings, and lively -continued motion of two small minds and bodies, the old hall was witness -in those quiet days! Mary coming and going, and the solid figure of -Martuccia in the sunshine, these two older and more important persons -were as shadows in comparison with that ceaseless flow of existence. The -amount of living in the whole house beside, was not half equal to that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119">{119}</a></span> -which went on in the motherly calm of the old hall, which held these two -small things like specks in its tranquil embrace, where so much had come -to pass. There was always something going on there. Such lively -counterfeitings of the older life, such deeply-laid plans, dispersed in -a moment by sudden changes of purpose, such profound gravity upset by -the merest chance interruption, such perpetual busyness without thought -of rest. Their days went on thus without hindrance or interruption, -nothing being required of them except to be amused and healthy, and -competent to occupy and please themselves. Had they been dull children, -or subject to the precocious <i>ennui</i> which is sometimes to be seen even -in a nursery, no doubt measures would have been taken to bring about a -better state of affairs; but as they were always busy, always gay, they -were left completely to their own devices, protected, sheltered, and -ignored, enjoying the freedom of a much earlier age, a freedom from all -teaching and interference, such as seldom overpasses the first five -years of human life. Mary had her whole <i>métier</i> to learn in respect to -the children, and there were many agitating circumstances which -pre-occupied her mind and kept her from realizing the more simple -necessities of the matter. It had cost her so much to establish them -there, and the tacit victory over fate, unnatural prejudice, and all the -bondage of family troubles, had been so great, that the trembling -satisfaction of having gained it blunted her perceptions of further -necessity. It was from a humble quarter that enlightenment first came to -her. Her teacher was Miss Brown, her maid, who had early melted to the -children, and who by this time was their devoted vassal, and especially -the admiring slave of Nello, whom, with determined English propriety, -she called Master John. Miss Brown’s affection was not unalloyed by -other sentiments. Her love for the children indeed was intensified by -strenuous disapproval of their other guardians—Martuccia with her -foreign fashions, and Miss Musgrave, who was ignorant as a baby herself, -and knew nothing about “children’s ways.” Between these two incapable -persons her life became a burden to Miss Brown. “I can’t get my night’s -rest for thinking of it,” she said to Cook, who like herself had the -interest of many years’ service in the “the family.” “I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120">{120}</a></span> would up and -speak,” said Cook. “Speak!” cried Miss Brown, “I’m always speaking; but -what can a body do, when folks won’t understand?” It is the lament of -the superior intelligence over all the world. However, Miss Brown -finally made up her mind to speak, and did so, pointing out that Master -John was eight, though he looked no more than six, and that “schooling” -was indispensable. The suggestion when once made could not be disputed, -and it raised a great perturbation in Mary’s breast. She sent away the -maid with some haste and impatience, but she could not send away the -thought.</p> - -<p>And the more Mary thought upon this matter, the more serious it grew; -she brooded over it till her head ached; and she was glad beyond measure -to see Mr. Pennithorne coming slowly along the road. She could see him -almost from the moment his spare figure turned the corner from the -village; the outline and movement of him was so familiar to her, as he -grew upon the quiet distance drawing nearer and nearer. It was seldom -that she anticipated his approach with so much satisfaction. Not that -Mr. Pennithorne, good man, was likely to invent an outlet out of a -difficulty, but he was the only person to whom she could talk with -absolute freedom upon this subject, and to put it forth in audible -words, and set it thus in order to her own ear and mind, was always an -advantage. How like Mr. Pen it was to come on so quietly step after -step, while she was waiting impatient for him! not a step quicker than -usual, no swing of more rapid motion in the droop of his long coat. Why -should he quicken his steps? She laughed to herself at her own childish -impatience. Ought he not to have divined that she wanted him urgently -after all these years? Mary had gone into the hall, the children being -absent on their daily walk. They were so much in her thoughts that she -was glad to get them out of her sight for the moment and thus relieve -the air which rustled and whispered with them. She went out to meet the -slowly approaching counsellor. It was summer by this time, and all was -green and fair, if still somewhat cold in its greenness to a southern -eye. The sunshine was blazing over the lake, just approaching noon, and -the sky was keenly blue, so clear that the pleasure of it was almost a -pain, where the green shoulder of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121">{121}</a></span> hill stood against it in high -relief. It was seldom that Mary was at leisure so early, and very seldom -that in the morning when both were busy she should have a visit from Mr. -Pen. As she made a few steps down the slope that led from the hall door, -to meet him, the sunshine caught her full, streaming from behind the -corner of the house. It caught in her hair, and shone in it, showing its -unimpaired gloss and brightness. Mr. Pennithorne was dazzled by it as he -came up, and asked himself if she was superior to time as to most things -else, and, after all those years, was young as well as lovely still?</p> - -<p>“I am very glad to see you,” she said, holding out her hand. “I just -wanted you; it is some good fairy that has sent you so early to-day.”</p> - -<p>His face brightened up with an answering gleam; or was it only the sun -that had got hold of him too, and woke reflections in his middle-aged -eyes? “I am very happy to have come when you wanted me,” he said, his -eyelids growing moist with pleasure. He went in to the hall, where all -was comparative dusk after that brilliant shining of the noon, and sat -down on the stool which was Martuccia’s usual place. “Whatever you want, -Miss Mary, here I am,” her faithful servant said.</p> - -<p>Then she unfolded to him her difficulty: “Their education!” what was she -to do? what could be done? Mr. Pen sat by her very sympathetically and -heard everything. He was not very clever about advising, seeing that it -was generally from her that he took advice, instead of giving it. But he -listened, and did not see his way out of it, which of itself was a -comfort to Mary. If he had been clever, and had struck out a new idea at -once, it is doubtful whether she would have liked it half so well. She -went into the whole question, and eased her mind at least. What was she -to do? Mr. Pen shook his head. He was quite ready to take Nello, and -teach him all he remembered, after a life spent in rural forgetfulness, -of Latin and Greek; but Lilias! and Lilias was the most urgent as being -the eldest. There was no school within reach, and a governess, as Mr. -Pen suggested with a little trembling—a governess! where could Mary put -her,—what could she do with her? It seemed hopeless to think of that.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122">{122}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I don’t know what you will think of what I am going to say—but there -is Randolph, Miss Mary; he is a family man himself. I suppose—of -course—he knows about the children?”</p> - -<p>“Randolph!” said Mary, faltering; “Mr. Pen, you know what Randolph is as -well as I do.”</p> - -<p>“People change,” said Mr. Pen, evasively. “It is not for me to say -anything; but perhaps—he ought to know.”</p> - -<p>“He has never taken any interest in the house; he has never cared to -be—one of us,” said Mary. “Perhaps because he was brought up away from -us. You know all about it. When he came back—when he was with you and -poor John—— You know him as well as I do,” she concluded abruptly. “I -don’t see what help we could have from him.”</p> - -<p>“He is a family man himself,” said the vicar. “When children come they -bring new feelings; they open the heart. He was not like you—or poor -John; but he was like a great many people in this world; he would not be -unkind. You write to him sometimes?”</p> - -<p>“Once or twice a year. He writes to ask how my father is—I often wonder -why. He has only been here once since—since it all happened. He would -not have it known that he was one of the family which was so much talked -about—that he was the brother of—— ” Mary stopped with a flash of -indignation in her eyes. “He has separated himself altogether from us, -as you know; but he asks from time to time how my father is, though I -scarcely know why.”</p> - -<p>“And you have told him, I suppose, about the children?”</p> - -<p>“No, Mr. Pen; he turned his back upon poor John from the beginning. Why -should I tell him? what has he to do with it? We have left our subject -altogether talking of Randolph, who is quite apart from it. Let us go -back to our sheep—our lambs in this case. What is to be done with -them?”</p> - -<p>“I will do what I can for them, as I did for their father,” said the -vicar. “I was thinking that little Johnny must very soon—and Mary might -as well—They can come to me for an hour or two every day; that would be -something. But I think Randolph should be told. I think Randolph ought -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123">{123}</a></span>to know. He might be thinking, he might be calculating—— ”</p> - -<p>“What, Mr. Pen?” Mary confronted him with head erect and flashing eyes. -“Why should he think or calculate about us? He has separated himself -from the family. John’s children are nothing to him.”</p> - -<p>It was not often that Mr. Pen was worldly wise; but he had an -inspiration this time. He shook his head slowly. “It is just that; -John’s children might make all the difference to him,” he said.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.<br /><br /> -<small>AN UNLOOKED-FOR VISITOR.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Mr. Pennithorne</span> went home thoughtful, and Miss Musgrave remained behind, -if not exactly turned in a new direction, yet confused and excited in -her mental being by the introduction of a new element. Randolph -Musgrave, though her brother, was less known to Mary than he was to the -tutor who had travelled and lived with him in the interval during which -he had made his nearest approach to friendship with his own family. He -had been brought up by an uncle on the mother’s side who did not love -the Musgraves, and had succeeded to the family living belonging to that -race, and lived now, as he had been brought up, in an atmosphere quite -different from that which belonged to his nominal home in the north. -Except now and then, in a holiday visit, Randolph had scarcely spent any -portion of his life at Penninghame, except the short period just before, -and for a little time after, his university career, when he shared with -his brother John the special instructions of Mr. Pennithorne. The two -young men had worked together then, or made believe to work, and they -had travelled together; but being of very different dispositions, and -brought up in ways curiously unlike, they had not been made into cordial -friends by this period of semi-artificial union. Randolph had been -trained to entertain but a small opinion of everything at Penninghame, -and when Penninghame became public property, and John and all his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124">{124}</a></span> -affairs and peculiarities were discussed in the newspapers, the younger -son did something very like the Scriptural injunction—shaking the dust -from off his feet as he departed. He went away after some painful scenes -with his father. It was not the old Squire’s fault that his eldest son -had become in the eyes of the world a criminal; but Randolph was as -bitter at the ignominy brought upon his name as if it had been a family -contrivance to annoy and distress him, and had gone away vowing that -never again would he have anything to do with his paternal home. There -had been a long gap in their relations after that, but at his marriage -there had been a kind of reconciliation, enough to give a decorous -aspect to his relations with his “people.” He had brought his bride to -his father’s house, and since then he had written, as Mary said, now and -then, once or twice in the year, to inquire after his father’s health. -This was not much, but it saved appearances, and prevented the open -scandal of a family quarrel. But Mary, who replied punctiliously to -these questions, did not see the need of making a further intimation to -him of anything that affected the family. What had he to do with John’s -children? She would no more have thought of informing him of any private -event in her own history, or of looking to him for sympathy, than she -would have stopped a beggar on the road to communicate her good or evil -fortune. But the very name of Randolph suggested new complications. She -was glad to escape from the whole matter and listen to the account of -the lessons when Lilias and Nello came back from one of their earliest -experiences of the instruction given by Mr. Pennithorne. The children -came in breathless with the story they had to tell. “Then he made me -read out of all the books,” said Lilias, her dark eyes shining; “but -Nello, because he was so little, one book was enough for him.”</p> - -<p>“But it was not a girl’s book,” said Nello; “it was only for Johnnie and -me.”</p> - -<p>“And I looked in it,” said his sister; “it is all mixed with -Italian—such funny Italian: instead of <i>padre</i> it was put <i>payter</i>—Mr. -Pen called it so. But it would not do for Nello, when we go back, to say -his Italian like that. Even Martuccia would laugh, and Martuccia is not -educated.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125">{125}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“It was Latin,” said Nello; “Mr. Pen said so. He said girls didn’t want -Latin. Girls learn to dance and sing; but I—and Johnnie—— ”</p> - -<p>“Will Mr. Pen teach me to dance—and sing, Mary?” said Lilias, with a -grave face.</p> - -<p>“And me, I wrote a copy,” said Nello, indifferent to the interruption; -“look!” and he held up fingers covered with ink. “You cannot read it -yet, but you will soon be able to read it, Mr. Pen says. And then I will -write you a letter, Mary.”</p> - -<p>“It would be better to write letters to some one far off,” said Lilias, -half scornful of his want of information. “You can <i>talk</i> to Mary, -Nello. It is to far-off people that one makes letters.”</p> - -<p>“We have nobody that is far off,” said Nello, shaking his head with the -sudden consciousness of a want not hitherto realized. “Then I need not -write copies any more.”</p> - -<p>“Your father is far off, Nello,” said Mary; “your poor papa, who never -hears any news of you. Some time I hope you will be able to write to -him, and ask him to come home.”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” cried Lilias, “you need not be sorry about that, Mary. He will -come home. Some day, in a moment when you are thinking of nothing, there -will be a step on the stair, and Martuccia will give a shriek; and it -will be as if the sun came shining out, and it will be papa! He is -always like that—but you never know when he will come.”</p> - -<p>Mary’s eyes filled in spite of herself. What long, long years it was -that she had thought but little of John! and yet there suddenly seemed -to come before her a vision of his arrival from school or from college, -all smiles and, making the old roof ring with his shout of pleasure. Was -it possible that this would happen over again—that he would come in a -moment, as his little daughter said? But Lilias did not know all the -difficulties, nor the one great obstacle that stood in John’s way, and -which perhaps he might never get over. She forgot herself in these -thoughts, and did not perceive that Lilias was gazing wistfully at her, -endeavouring with all her childish might to penetrate her mind and know -the occasion of these tears. Mary was recalled to herself by feeling the -child’s arm steal round her, and the soft touch of a little hand and -handkerchief upon her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126">{126}</a></span> wet eyes. “You are crying,” said Lilias. “Mary, -is it for papa?—why should you cry for papa?”</p> - -<p>“My darling, we don’t know where he is, nor anything about him—”</p> - -<p>“That does not matter,” said Lilias, winking rapidly to throw off the -sympathetic tears which had gathered in her own eyes; “he is always like -that. We never knew where he was; but just when he could, just when it -was possible, he came home. We never could tell when it would be—it -might be any day. Some time when we are forgetting and not expecting -him. Ah——!” cried the child, with a ring of wonder in the sudden -exclamation. The hall-door was open as usual, and on the road was a -distant figure just visible which drew from Lilias this sudden cry. She -ran to the door, clutching her brother—“Come, Nello, Nello!” and rushed -forth. Mary sat still, thinking her heart had stopped in her breast—or -was it not rather suffocating her by the wildness of its beating? She -sat immovable, watching the little pair at the door. Could it be that -John had come home? John! he who would be the most welcome yet the most -impossible of visitors; he who had a right to everything, yet dared not -be seen in the old house. She sat and trembled, not daring to look out, -already planning what she could do, what was to be done.</p> - -<p>But the children stopped short at the door. Lilias, with the wind in her -skirts and her ribbons, half-flying, stopped; and Nello stopped, who -went by her impulse, not by his own. They paused: they stood for a -moment gazing; then they turned back sadly.</p> - -<p>“Oh no, no!” said Lilias. “No, Mary! no. It is a little, something -like—a very little; it is the walking, and the shape of him. But no, -no, it is not papa!”</p> - -<p>“Papa!” said Nello, “was that why you looked? I knew better. Papa is all -that much more tall. Why are you crying, Lily? There is nothing that -makes cry.”</p> - -<p>“I am disappointed,” said the little girl, who had seated herself -suddenly on the floor and wept. It was a sudden sharp shower, but it was -soon over; she sprang up drying her eyes. “But it will be for -to-morrow!” she cried.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127">{127}</a></span></p> - -<p>Mary sat behind and looked on. She did not think again of the chance -resemblance Lilias had seen, but only of the children themselves, with -whom her heart was tuning itself more and more in sympathy. She had -become a mother late and suddenly, without any gradual growth of -feeling—leaping into it, as it were; and every response her mind made -to the children was a new wonder to her. She looked at them, or rather -at Lilias, who was always the leader in her rapid changes of sentiment, -with a half-amused adoration. The crying and the smiles went to her -heart as nothing else had ever done; and even Nello’s calm, the steadier -going of the slower, less developed intelligence, which was so often -carried along in the rush without any conscious intention, and which was -so ready to take the part of the wise and say, “I knew it,” moved Mary -with that mixture of pleased spectatorship and profound personal feeling -which makes the enthusiasm of parents. Nello’s slowness might have -seemed want of feeling in another child, and Lilias’s impetuosity a -giddy haste and heedlessness; but all impartiality was driven from her -mind by the sense that the children were her own. And she sat in a -pleased abstraction yet lively readiness, following the little current -of this swiftly-flowing, softly-babbling childhood which was so fair and -pleasant to her eyes. The two set up an argument between themselves as -she sat looking on. It was about some minute point in the day’s work -which was so novel and unaccustomed; but trivial as it was Mary listened -with a soft glow of light in her eyes. The finest drama in the world -could not have taken her out of herself like the two little actors, -playing their sincerest and most real copy of life before her. They were -so much in earnest, and to her it was such exquisite play and delicate -delightful fooling! And until the light in the open doorway was suddenly -darkened by some one appearing, a figure which made her heart jump, she -thought no more of the passer-by on the road who had roused the -children. Her heart jumped, and then she followed her heart by rising -suddenly to her feet, while the children stopped in their argument, -rushed together for mutual support, and stood shyly with their heads -together, the arrested talk still hovering about their lips. Seen thus -against the light the visitor was undecipherable to Mary.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128">{128}</a></span> She saw him, -nothing but a black shadow, towards which she went quietly and said—</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon, this is a private door,” with a polite defence of -her own sanctuary.</p> - -<p>“I came to look for—my sister,” said the voice, which was one which -woke agitating memories in her. “I am a—stranger. I came—— Ah! it is -Mary after all.”</p> - -<p>“Randolph!” she cried, with a gasp in her throat.</p> - -<p>A thrill of terror, almost superstitious, came over her. What did it all -mean? Good Mr. Pennithorne in his innocence had spoken to her of John, -and that very day John’s children had arrived; he had spoken of -Randolph, and Randolph was here. Was it fate, or some mysterious -influence unknown? She was so startled that she forgot to go through the -ordinary formulas of seeming welcome, and said nothing but his name.</p> - -<p>“Yes; I hope you are well,” he said, holding out his hand; “and that my -father is well. I thought I would come and see how you were all getting -on.”</p> - -<p>“It is a long time since you have been here,” she said. What could she -say? She was not glad to see him, as a sister ought to be. And then -there was a pause.</p> - -<p>The children stood staring open-mouthed while these chill greetings were -said. (“I wonder who it is?” said Lilias, under her breath. “It is the -one who is a little, a very little, like papa.” “It is a—gentleman,” -said Nello. “Oh you silly, silly little boy! not to know that at the -very first; but Mary is not very glad to see him,” said the little -girl.)</p> - -<p>Mary did not even ask her visitor to come in; he stood still at the -door, looking round him with watchful, unfriendly eyes. This was not a -place for any one to come who was not tender of Mary, and of whomsoever -she might shelter there. She did not want him in that special place.</p> - -<p>“Shall we go round to the house?” she said; “my father ought to know -that you are here, and he never comes into the hall.”</p> - -<p>“I am very well where I am,” Randolph said. “I know it was always a -favourite place with you. Do not change your sitting-room for me. You -have it in very nice order, Mary. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129">{129}</a></span> see you share the popular passion -for art furnishing; and children too! This is something more novel -still. Who are the children, may I ask? They are visitors from the -neighbourhood I suppose?”</p> - -<p>“No,” she said, faltering still more, “they are not -visitors—they—belong to us—— ” Mary could not tell how it was that -her lips trembled, and she hesitated to pronounce the name. She made an -effort at last and got it out with difficulty. “They are—John’s -children.”</p> - -<p>“John’s children! here is a wonderful piece of news,” said Randolph; but -she saw by his countenance that it was no news. Howsoever he had heard -it, Mary perceived in a moment not only that he knew, but that this was -his real errand here. He stood with the appropriate gesture of one -struck dumb in amazement; but he was not really surprised, only watchful -and eager. This made his sister more nervous than ever.</p> - -<p>“Children,” she said, “come here—this is your uncle Randolph; come and -speak to him.” Mary was so much perplexed that she could not see what -was best to do—whether to be anxiously conciliatory and convince -Randolph in spite of himself, without seeming to notice his opposition, -or to defy him; the former, however, was always the safest way. He did -not make any advance, but stood with a half-smile on his face, while the -children drew near with suspicious looks.</p> - -<p>“It is the—gentleman who is—a little—not very much, just a little, -like papa,” said Lilias, going forward, but slowly, and with that look -of standing on the defensive which children unconsciously adopt to those -they do not trust.</p> - -<p>Nello hung on to her skirts, and did as she did, regarding the stranger -with cloudy eyes. Randolph put out his hand coldly to be shaken; his -smile broadened into a half-laugh of amusement and contempt.</p> - -<p>“So they are said to be his children, are they?”</p> - -<p>“They <i>are</i> his children,” said Mary.</p> - -<p>Randolph shrugged his shoulders and laughed. “They look like foreigners -anyhow,” he said. “My father, I suppose, is delighted. It must be a new -experience both for him and you.”</p> - -<p>“Go away, my darlings, go to Martuccia; you see I have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130">{130}</a></span> some business -with—this gentleman.” She could not again repeat the title she had -given him. When the curious little spectators had gone, she turned to -Randolph, who stood watching their exit, with an anxiety she did not -attempt to conceal. “For Heaven’s sake do not talk to my father about -them! I ask it as a favour. He consents tacitly that they should be -here, but he takes no notice of them. Do not call his attention to them. -It is the only thing I ask of you.”</p> - -<p>He looked at her fixedly still, with that set smile on his face with -which he had looked at the children.</p> - -<p>“I am scarcely the person to be called upon to make things smooth with -my father,” he said. “Come, come; my father is old, and can be made to -believe anything, let us allow. But what do you mean by it, Mary, what -do <i>you</i> mean? You were never any friend to me.”</p> - -<p>“Friend to <i>you</i>! I am your sister, Randolph, though you don’t seem to -remember it much. And what have you to do with it?” asked Mary, with a -certain amount of exasperation in her voice; for of all offensive things -in the world there is none so offensive as this pretence of finding you -out in a transparent deception. Mary grew red and hot in spite of -herself.</p> - -<p>“I have a great deal to do with it. I have not only my own interests to -take care of, but my boy’s. And why you should prefer to us, about whom -there can be no doubt, these little impostors, these supposed children -of John—— ”</p> - -<p>“Randolph,” said Mary, with tears in her eyes, “there is no supposing -about them. Oh don’t go against us and against truth and justice! They -brought me a letter from their father. There was no room to doubt, no -possibility. John himself is most unfortunate—— ”</p> - -<p>“Unfortunate! that is not the word I should use.”</p> - -<p>“But why remember it against <i>them</i>, poor little things, who have done -no harm? Oh, Randolph, I have never been otherwise than your friend when -I had the chance. Be mine now! There are a hundred things about which I -want to consult you. You have a family of your own; you have been -trained to it; you know how to take care of children. I wanted to ask -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131">{131}</a></span>your advice, to have your help—— ”</p> - -<p>“Do you think me a fool then,” he cried, “as silly as yourself? that you -try to get <i>me</i> to acknowledge this precious deception, and give you my -support against myself? Why should I back you up in a wicked contrivance -against my own interests?”</p> - -<p>“What is it you mean? Who has been guilty of wicked contrivances?” cried -Mary, aghast. She gazed at him with such genuine surprise that he was -arrested in his angry vituperation, and changed his tone to one of -mockery, which affected her more.</p> - -<p>“Well,” he said, “let us allow that it is your first attempt, Mary, and -that is why you do it so clumsily. The mistakes good people make when -they first attempt to do badly are touching. Villany, like everything -else, requires experience. But it is too funny to expect <i>me</i> to be the -one to stand up for you, to persuade my father to believe you.”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” she said, clasping her hands, “do you think this is what I ask? It -is you who mistake, Randolph. It has never occurred to my father, or any -one else, not to believe. He never doubted any more than I was capable -of doubting. I will show you John’s letter.”</p> - -<p>Randolph put up his hand, waving off the suggested proof.</p> - -<p>“It is quite unnecessary. I am not to be taken in by such simple means. -You forget I have a stake in it—which clears the judgment. And I warn -you, Mary, that I am here to look after my personal interests, not to -foist any nondescript brat into the family. I give you notice—it is not -to help your schemes, it is for my own interests I am here.”</p> - -<p>“What do interests mean?” she said wondering. “Your own interests!—what -does <i>that</i> mean? I know <i>I</i> have none.”</p> - -<p>“No—it cannot make much difference to you whatever happens; therefore -you are free to plot at your leisure. I understand that fully; but, my -dear, <i>I</i> am here to look after myself—and my boy. You forget I have an -heir of my own.”</p> - -<p>Mary looked at him with a dulness of intelligence quite unusual to her. -There are things in the most limited minds which genius itself could not -divine. The honourable and generous, and the selfish and grasping, do -not know what each<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132">{132}</a></span> other mean. They are as if they spoke a different -language. And her brother was to Mary as if he veiled his meaning in an -unknown tongue. She gazed at him with a haze of dulness in her eyes. -What was it he intended to let her know? Disbelief of her, a suggestion -that she lied! and something more—she could not make out what, as the -rule of his own conduct! He looked at her, on the other hand, with an -air of penetration, a clever consciousness of seeing through and through -her and her designs, which excited Mary to exasperation. How could they -ever understand each other with all this between?</p> - -<p>“I am going to see my father,” said Randolph; “that of course is the -object of my visit; I suppose he will not refuse to keep me for a day or -two. And in the mean time why should we quarrel? I only warn you that I -come with my eyes open, and am not to be made a dupe of. Good-bye for -the present—we shall meet no doubt at dinner the best of friends.”</p> - -<p>Mary stood still where he left her, and watched him as he went slowly -down the slope and round the corner of the house. He was shorter than -John and stouter, with that amplitude of outline which a wealthy rural -living and a small parish are apt to confer. A comfortable man, fond of -good living, fond of his ease; yet taking the trouble to come here, for -what?—to baffle some supposed wicked contrivances and plots against -himself. Mary remembered that Randolph had taken the great family -misfortune as a special wrong to him. How dared the evil fates to -interfere with his comfort or rumour to assail his name? He had said -frankly that it could be nothing to the others in comparison. And was it -once more the idea that he himself was touched, which had roused him out -of his comfortable rectory to come here and assert himself? But how did -the arrival of John’s children affect that? Mary, in her long calm, had -not entered into those speculations about the future which most people -more or less think necessary when the head of the house is old. She had -not asked herself what would happen when her father died, except vaguely -in respect to herself, knowing that she would then in all likelihood -leave the old Castle. John was the heir. Somehow or other, she did not -know how, the inheritance would be taken up for him. This had been the -conclusion in her mind<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133">{133}</a></span> without reason given or required. And Randolph -had not come into the sphere of her imagination at all as having -anything to do with it. What should he have to do with it when there was -John? And even now Mary did not know and could not understand the reason -of his objection to John’s children. She stood and looked after him with -a dull beating of pain in her heart. And as he turned round the corner -of the old house towards the door, he looked back and waved his hand. -The gesture and look, she could scarcely tell why, gave her a sensation -of sickening dismay and pain. She turned and went in, shutting the door -in the sudden pang this gave her. And to shut the great door of the hall -was the strangest thing, except in the very heart of winter. While the -sun was shining and the air genial, such a thing had never happened -before. It seemed in itself a portent of harm.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV.<br /><br /> -<small>RANDOLPH.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Randolph Musgrave</span> was a squire-parson, a class which possesses the -features of two species without fully embodying either—which may be -finer than either, the two halves of the joint character tempering each -other—or may be a travesty of both, exaggerating their mutual defects. -He was of the latter rather than of the former development. His living -was small in one sense and large in another, the income being large, but -the people few and very much given up to dissent, a fact which soured -his character without moving him to exertion. He was not fond of -exertion in any case, and it was all but hopeless in this. But not less -was he daily and hourly irritated by the little Bethels and Salems, the -lively Methodists, the pragmatical Baptists, who led his people away. -They made him angry, for he was easily moved to anger, and they -increased that tendency to listen to gossip and be moved by small -matters which is one<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134">{134}</a></span> of the temptations of a rural life. He had become -accustomed to make much of petty wrongs, calling them insults and -crimes, and perhaps to be more disposed to petty vengeances than a man -who is placed in the position of an example to others ought to be; and -whereas he had always been disposed to consider himself a sacred person, -above the ordinary slights of fortune, this tendency had grown and -strengthened so, that every petty pin-prick was like a poisoned arrow to -him. By natural laws of reverberation he heard more evil of himself, had -more mishaps in the way of gossip, of receiving letters not intended for -him, and otherwise surprising the sentiments of his neighbours, than -almost any one else ever had—which had made him suspicious of his -neighbours in the highest degree, and ready to believe every small -offence a premeditated insult. This perhaps made him all the more ready -to believe that his sister had conceived a villanous plan against him -and his. He would not have done such a thing himself; but was not his -life full of such attempts made upon him by others? everybody almost -whom he encountered having one time or other conspired against his hopes -or happiness. But he had always found out the plots in time. It was true -that this villany might be John’s, of whom he would have believed -anything; and Mary herself might be the dupe: but most likely it was -Mary, who did not like him nor his wife, and who would no doubt be -capable of anything to banish him finally from Penninghame, and set up -there some creature of her own. This was the idea which had come into -his mind, when he heard accidentally of the arrival which had made so -much commotion in the north country. He had talked it over with his wife -till they both saw gunpowder plots and conspiracies incalculable in it. -“You had better go and see into it yourself,” Mrs. Randolph said. “I -will,” was the Rector’s energetic reply. “And believe nobody, believe -nothing but what you see with your own eyes.” “Never! I will put faith -in nobody,” Randolph had said. And it was in this frame of mind that he -had come here. He meant to believe nobody save when they warned him of -plots against himself: to trust nothing save that all the world was in a -league to work him harm. But for this determined pre-conclusion, he -might perhaps have been less certain of his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135">{135}</a></span> sister’s enmity to himself, -and of the baseness of the deception she was practising; but he had no -doubt whatever on this matter now. And he meant to expose her -remorselessly. Why should he mince matters? His father was an old man -and might die at any moment, and this villany ought to be exposed at -once.</p> - -<p>With these thoughts in his mind he went round to the great door. How -different was the grey north-country house from anything he was used to! -The thought of his snug parsonage embosomed in greenery, roses climbing -to the chimney-stacks, clustering about all the windows, soft velvet -lawns and strict inclosures keeping all sacred—made him shiver at sight -of the irregular building, the masses of ivy fostering damp, the open -approach, a common road free to everybody. If it ever was his, or rather -when it was his—for these supposititious children would soon be done -away with, and John, a man under the ban of the law, how could he ever -appear to claim his inheritance?—<i>when</i> it was his, he would soon make -a difference. He would bring forward the boundaries of the Chase so as -to inclose the Castle. He would make the road into a stately avenue as -it once was and ought to be. What did it matter who objected? He would -do it; let the village burst with rage. The very idea of exasperating -the village and making it own his power, made the idea all the more -delightful. He would soon change all this; let it but get into his -hands. In the midst of these thoughts, however, Randolph met a somewhat -ludicrous rebuff from Eastwood, who opened the door suddenly and softly, -as was his fashion, as if he hoped to find the visitor out in something -improper. “Who shall I say, sir?” said Eastwood, deferentially. This -gave Randolph a sense of the most ludicrous discomfiture; for to be -asked what name is to be announced when you knock at the door of your -father’s house is a curious sensation. It was nobody’s fault unless it -might have been Randolph’s own, but the feeling was disagreeable. He -stood for a moment dumb, staring at the questioner—then striding inside -the door, pushed Eastwood out of his way. When he was within, however, -somewhat conciliated by the alarmed aspect of the butler, who did not -know whether to resist or what to do, he changed his mind.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136">{136}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I don’t want to startle my father,” he said; “say Mr. Randolph Musgrave -has arrived.”</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon humbly, sir,” cried Eastwood.</p> - -<p>“No, no, it was not your fault.” Randolph replied. It was not the -servant’s fault; but it was <i>their</i> fault who had made his home a place -of disgrace, and no longer a fit home for him.</p> - -<p>The Squire was seated among his books, feeling the drowsy influence of -the afternoon. He had no Monograph to support his soul, and no better -occupation than to rummage dully through the records of antiquity, -cheered up and enlivened if he found something to reply to in <i>Notes and -Queries</i>, but otherwise living a heavy kind of half-animate life. When -the critiques and the letters about that Monograph had ended, what a -blank there was! and no other work was at hand to make up, or to tempt -him to further exertions. The corner of land that he desired to attain -had been bought, and had given him pleasure; but after a while his eyes -were satisfied with the contemplation, and his mind almost satisfied -with the calculation, of so many additional acres added to the property. -The sweetness of it lay in the thought that the property was growing, -that there was sufficient elasticity in the family income to make the -acquisition of even a little bit of land possible. The Squire thought -this was the fruit of his own self-denial, and it gave him that glow of -conscious virtue which was once supposed to be the appropriate and -unfailing reward of good actions, till conscious virtue went out of -fashion. This was sweet; and it was sweet to go and look at the new -fields which restored the old boundary of the Penninghame estate in that -direction; but such gratifications cease to be sustaining to life after -a time. And Mr. Musgrave was dull sitting among his books; the sounds -were in his ears which he was always hearing now—the far-off ring of -voices that made him sensible of those inmates in his house whom he -never noticed, who were to him as if they did not exist. When the mind -is not very closely occupied, sounds thus heard in the house come -strangely across the quiescent spirit of the solitary. Voices beloved -are as music, are as sunshine, conveying a sense of happiness and soft -exhilaration. Hearing them far off, though beyond the reach of hearing, -so to speak, does not the very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137">{137}</a></span> distant sound, the tone of love in them, -make work sweet and the air warm, softening everything round the -recluse? But these were not voices beloved. The old man listened to -them—or rather, not permitting himself to listen, <i>heard</i> them acutely -through the mist of a separation which he did not choose to overcome. -They were like something from another world, voices in the air, -inarticulate, mysterious, known yet unknown. He turned the leaves idly -when these strange suggestions came to him in his solitude; he had -nothing to do with them, and yet so much. This was how he was sitting, -dully wistful, in that stillness of age which when it is not glad must -be sad, and hearing almost, as if he were already a ghost out of his -grave, the strange yet familiar stir in the unseen stairs and passages, -the movements of the kindly house——</p> - -<p>“Mr. Randolph Musgrave!” The Squire was very much startled by the name. -He rose hastily, and stood leaning upon his writing-table to see who it -was that followed Eastwood into the room after a minute’s interval. It -seemed scarcely possible to him that it could be his son. “Randolph!” he -said. The children’s voices had made him think, in spite of himself, of -the time—was it centuries ago?—when there were two small things -running about those old passages continually, and a beautiful young -mother smiling upon them—and him. This had softened his heart, though -by means which he would not have acknowledged. He looked out eagerly -with a sensation of pleasure and relief for his son. He would (perhaps) -take Randolph’s advice, perhaps get some enlightenment from him. But the -shock set his nerves off, and made him tremulous, though it was a shock -of pleasure; and it hurt his pride so to be seen trembling, that he held -himself up strained and rigid against his table. “Randolph! you are a -stranger indeed,” he said, and his countenance lighted up with a cloudy -and tremulous smile.</p> - -<p>(“Strange that he was never seen here before in my time,” said Eastwood -as he withdrew. “I’ve seen a many queer things in families, but never -nothing more queer than this—two sons as never have been seen in the -house, and children as the Squire won’t give in he owns them. I thought -he’d have walked right straight over little master Saturday last as if -no one was there.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138">{138}</a></span> But I don’t like the looks of <i>’im</i>. When he’s master -here I march, and that I can tell you—pretty fast, Missis Cook.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Randolph? He’ll never be master here, thank God for it,” said Cook -with pious fervour, “or more than you will go.”)</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Randolph, walking in, “I have been a stranger, but how can -we help that! It is life that separates us. We must all run our own -course. I hope you are well, sir. You look well—for your time of life.”</p> - -<p>It is not a pleasant thing to be told that you look well for your time -of life—unless indeed you are ninety, and the time of life is itself a -matter of pride. The Squire knew he was old, and that soon he must -resign his place to others; but he did not care for such a distinct -intimation that others thought so too.</p> - -<p>“I am very well,” he said, curtly. “You are so completely a stranger, -Randolph, that I cannot make the usual remarks on your personal -appearance. You deny me the opportunity of judging if you look ill or -well.”</p> - -<p>“Ah,” said Randolph, “that is just what I said. We must all run our own -course. My duties are at the other end of England, and I cannot be -always running back and forward; but I hope to stay a few days now if -you will have me. Relations should see each other now and then. I have -just had a glimpse of Mary in the old hall as usual. She did not know me -at first, nor, I daresay, if I had not seen her there, should I have -known her”—</p> - -<p>“Mary is little changed,” said the Squire.</p> - -<p>“So you think, sir, seeing her every day; but there is a great change -from what she was ten years ago. She was still a young woman then, and -handsome. I am afraid even family partiality cannot call her anything -but an old maid now.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Musgrave did not make any reply. He was not a particularly -affectionate father, but Mary was part of himself, and it did not please -him to hear her spoken of so.</p> - -<p>“And, by the bye,” said Randolph, “how did such a thing happen I wonder? -for she <i>was</i> handsome;—handsome and well-born, and with a little -money. It is very odd she never has married. Was there anything to -account for it? or is it mere ill-luck?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139">{139}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Ill-luck to whom?” said the Squire. “Do you think perhaps your sister -never had the chance, as people say? You may dismiss that idea from your -mind. She has had enough of chances. I don’t know any reason; but there -must have been one, I suppose. Either that nobody came whom she cared -for, or—I really cannot form any other idea,” he concluded, sharply. It -was certain that he would not have Mary discussed.</p> - -<p>“I meant no harm,” said Randolph. “She has got the old hall very nicely -done up. It is not a place I would myself care to keep up, if the Castle -were in my hands; but she has made it very nice. I found her there -with—among her favourite studies,” he added, after a momentary pause. -It was too early to begin direct upon the chapter of the children, he -felt. The Squire did not show any sign of special understanding. He -nodded his head in assent.</p> - -<p>“She was always fond of the hall,” he said. “I used to think she suited -it. And now that she is—past her youth, as you say—— ”</p> - -<p>“Well into middle age I say, sir, like other people; which is a more -serious affair for a woman than for a man; but I suppose all hopes are -over now. She is not likely to marry at her time of life.” This was the -second time he had mentioned the time of life. And the Squire did not -like it; he answered curtly——</p> - -<p>“No, I don’t think it likely that Mary will marry. But yourself, -Randolph, how are things going with you? You have not come so far merely -to calculate your sister’s chances. Your wife is well, I hope; and your -boy?”</p> - -<p>“Quite well. You are right in thinking, sir, that I did not come without -an object. We are all getting on in life. I thought it only proper that -there should be some understanding among us as to family -affairs—something decided in the case of any emergency. We are all -mortal—— ”</p> - -<p>“And I the most mortal of all, you will say, at my ‘time of life,’ -Randolph,” said the Squire, with a smile, which was far from genial. “I -daresay you are quite right, perfectly right. I am an old man, and -nobody can tell what an hour may bring forth.”</p> - -<p>“That is true at every age,” said Randolph, with professional<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140">{140}</a></span> -seriousness. “The idea ought to be familiar to the youngest among us. In -the midst of life we are in death. I recommend everybody over whom I -have the least influence to settle their affairs, so that they may not -leave a nest of domestic contentions behind them. It is only less -important than needful spiritual preparation, which of course should be -our first care.”</p> - -<p>“Just so,” said Mr. Musgrave. “I presume you don’t mean to bring me to -book on that point?”</p> - -<p>“Certainly not, sir—unless there is any special point upon which I -could be of use; but you are as well able to judge as I am, and have -access to all the authorities,” said Randolph with dignity. “Besides, -there is your own clergyman at hand, who is no doubt quite equal to the -duties of his position. It is old Pennithorne, is it not?” he added, -with a momentary lapse into a more familiar tone. “But there is no -question of that. In such matters a man of your experience, sir, ought -to be able to instruct the best of us.”</p> - -<p>“The bench of bishops even,” said the Squire, “sometimes I think I -could—at my time of life. But that is not the question, as you say.”</p> - -<p>“No indeed—not to say that my best advice in every way is at your -service, sir; but I thought very likely it would be an ease to your mind -to see me, to give me any instructions or directions—in short, to feel -that your nearest representative understood your wishes, whatever might -happen.”</p> - -<p>Now Randolph was evidently his father’s representative, John being out -of the question; and that John was absolutely out of the question, not -only from external circumstances, but from the strong prejudice and -prepossession against him in his father’s mind, was certain. Yet the -Squire resented this assumption as much as if John had been his -dearly-beloved son and apparent heir.</p> - -<p>“Thanks,” he said, “I feel your care for my comfort—but after all, you -are not my direct representative.”</p> - -<p>“Sir!” cried Randolph reddening, “need I remind you of the disabilities, -the privation of all natural rights—— ”</p> - -<p>“You need not remind me of anything,” said Mr. Musgrave, getting up -hurriedly. “I don’t care to discuss that question<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141">{141}</a></span>—or anything else of -the kind. Suppose we go and join Mary, who must be in the drawing-room, -I suppose? It is she, after all, who is really my representative, -knowing everything about my affairs.”</p> - -<p>“She—is a woman,” said Randolph, with a tone of contempt.</p> - -<p>“That is undeniable—but women are not considered exactly as they used -to be in such matters.”</p> - -<p>“I hope, sir,” said the clergyman, with dignity, “that neither my sister -nor you add your influence to the foolish movement about women’s -rights.”</p> - -<p>“Do you mean that Mary does not want a vote?” said the Squire. “No, I -don’t suppose it has occurred to her. We add our influence to very few -public movements, Randolph, bad or good. The Musgraves are not what they -once were in the county; the leading part we once took is taken by -others who are richer than we are. Progress is not the thing for old -families, for progress means money.”</p> - -<p>“There are other reasons why the Musgraves do not take their proper -place. I have hopes, sir,” said Randolph, “that under more favourable -circumstances—if we, perhaps, were to draw more together—— ”</p> - -<p>“What do you mean, sir?” said the Squire; “it was you who separated -yourself from us, not us from you. You were too good, being a clergyman, -as you said, to encounter the odium of our position. That’s enough, -Randolph. It is not an agreeable subject. Let us dismiss it as it has -been dismissed these fifteen years; and come—to Mary’s part of the -house.”</p> - -<p>“Then, am I to understand,” said Randolph, sharply, rising, yet holding -back, “that your mind is changing as old age gains upon you, that you -are going to accept the disgrace of the family? and that it is with your -sanction that Mary is receiving—adopting—— ”</p> - -<p>He stopped, overawed in spite of himself, by the old man’s look, who -stood with his face fixed looking towards him, restraining with all his -force the tremor of his nerves. The Squire had been subject all his life -to sudden fits of passion, and had got the habit of subduing, by -ignoring them, as all his family well knew. He made no reply, but the -restrained fire in his eyes impressed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142">{142}</a></span> even the dull imagination of his -son, who was pertinacious rather than daring, and had no force in him to -stand against passion. Mr. Musgrave turned round quickly, and took up -his book, which lay on a table near.</p> - -<p>“Mary sent you a copy of the Monograph?” he said; “but I don’t remember -that you gave me your opinion of it. It has had a very flattering -reception generally. I could not have expected so much interest in the -public mind on a question of such exclusive family interest. But so it -has been. I have kept all the notices, and the letters I have received -on the subject. You shall see them by and by; and I think you will agree -with me, that a more flattering reception could scarcely have been. All -sorts of people have written to me. It appears,” said the Squire, with -modest pride, “that I have really been able to throw some light upon a -difficulty. After dinner, Randolph, if you are interested, you shall see -my collection.”</p> - -<p>“My time is short,” said Randolph, “and with so many more serious -matters to discuss—— ”</p> - -<p>“I know few things more serious than the history of the family honours,” -said the Squire, “especially as you have a boy to inherit the old -blazon; but we’ll go into all that this evening, as your stay is to be -short. Better come and see Mary before dinner. She will want to know all -about your home-concerns, and your wife. The house is unchanged, you -will perceive,” the Squire continued, talking cheerfully as he led the -way; and the sound of his voice, somewhat high-pitched and shrill with -age, travelled far through the old passages. “I hope no sacrilegious -hands will ever change the house. My heirs may add to it if they please, -but it is a monument of antiquity, which ought never to be -touched—except to mend it delicately as Mary mends her old lace. This -way, Randolph; I believe you have forgotten the way.”</p> - -<p>They were standing in an angle of the fine oak staircase, where the -Squire waited till his son came up to him. At this moment a rush of -small footsteps, and a whispering voice—“Run, Nello, Nello! he is -coming,” was audible above. Randolph looked up quickly, with a look of -intelligence, into the old man’s face. But the Squire did not move a -muscle. His countenance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143">{143}</a></span> was blank as that of a deaf man. If he had -heard, he allowed no sign of hearing to be visible. “Come along,” he -said, “it seems to me that my wind is better than yours even at my time -of life,” with a half-sarcastic smile. Was he hard of hearing? a -hypothesis rather agreeable to think of; or what was the meaning of it? -Were these obnoxious children the pets of the house? but why should they -run because he was coming. The hostile visitor was perplexed, and could -not make it out. He followed into the drawing-room without a word, while -the small footsteps were still audible. Mary was seated at a low table -on which there was work, but she was not working. She rose to receive -them with a certain formality; for except after dinner, when the Squire -would sometimes come for a cup of tea, or when there were visitors in -the house, she was generally alone in the low quaint drawing-room, which -transported even the unimaginative Randolph back to childhood. The -panelled walls, the spindle-legged furniture, the inlaid cabinets and -tables, were all exactly as he remembered them. This touched him a -little, though he had all the robustness against impression which -fortifies a slow intelligence. “It seems like yesterday that I was -here,” he said.</p> - -<p>This, in her turn, touched Mary, whose excitement made her subject to -the lightest flutter of emotion. She smiled at him with greater kindness -than she had yet felt. “Yes,” she said. “I feel so sometimes, too, when -I look round; but it tells less upon us who are here always. And so much -has happened since then.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, I suppose so: though you seem to vegetate pretty much in the old -ways. Those children though, for instance,” said Randolph, with a laugh, -“scurrying off in such haste as we came within hearing, that is not like -the old ways. Are you ashamed of them, or afraid to have them here? I -should not wonder, for my part.”</p> - -<p>The tears sprang to Mary’s eyes. She did not say anything in the sudden -shock, but looked at Randolph piteously with a silent reproach. It was -the first time since the day of their arrival that any public mention -had been made of the children in her father’s presence. And there was a -pause which seemed to her full of fate.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144">{144}</a></span></p> - -<p>“You must not look at me so,” said her brother. “I gave you fair -warning. My father is not to be given up to your plots without a -remonstrance at least. I believe it is a conspiracy, sir, from beginning -to end. Do you intend our old family, with all the honours you are so -proud of, to drop into disgrace? With the shadow of crime on it,” cried -Randolph, warming into excitement; then, with a dull perception of -something still more telling, his father’s weak point, “and the bar -sinister of vice?” he said.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI.<br /><br /> -<small>DUCKS AND DRAKES.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> Squire made use of that discretion which is the better part of -valour. When Randolph for the second time insisted upon coming to an -understanding on family affairs, which meant deciding what was to be -done on the Squire’s death, Mr. Musgrave, not knowing how else to foil -his son, got up and came away. “You can settle these matters with Mary,” -he said, quietly enough. It would not have been dignified to treat the -suggestion in any other way. But he went out with a slight acceleration -of his pulses, caused half by anger and half by the natural human thrill -of feeling with which a man has his own death brought home to him. The -Squire knew that there was nothing unnatural in this anticipation of his -own end. He was aware that it required to be done, and the emergency -prepared for; but yet it was not agreeable to him. He thought they might -have awaited the event, although in another point of view it would have -been imprudent to await the event. He felt that there was something -undesirable, unlovely, in the idea of your children consulting over you -for their own comfort “afterwards.” But then his children were no longer -children whose doings touched his affections much—they were middle-aged -people, as old as he was—and in fact it <i>was</i> important that they -should come to an arrangement and settle everything. Only he could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145">{145}</a></span> -not—and this being so, would not—do it; and he said to himself that -the cause of his refusal was no reluctance on his own part to consider -the inevitable certainty of his own death, but only the intolerableness -of the inquiry in other respects. He walked out in a little strain and -excitement of feeling, though outwardly his calm was intense. He -steadied himself, mind and body, by an effort, putting a smile upon his -lip, and walking with a deliberate slow movement. He would have scorned -himself had he showed any excitement; but strolled out with a leisurely -slow step and a smile. They would talk the matter out, the two whom he -had left; even though Mary’s heart would be more with him than with her -brother, still she would be bound to follow Randolph’s lead. They would -talk of his health, of how he was looking feeble, his age beginning to -tell upon him, and how it would be very expedient to know what the -conditions of his will were, and whether he had made any provision for -the peculiar circumstances, or arrangement for the holding of the -estate. “I ought to be the first person considered,” he thought he heard -Randolph saying. Randolph had always thought himself the first person to -be considered. At this penetration of his own the Squire smiled again, -and walked away very steadily, very slowly, humming a bar of an -old-fashioned air.</p> - -<p>He went thus through the broken woodland towards the east, and strolled -into the Chase like a man taking a walk for pleasure. The birds sang -overhead, little rabbits popped out from the great tree-trunks, and a -squirrel ran up one of them and across a long branch, where it sat -peering at him. All was familiar, certain, well known; he had seen the -same sights and heard the same sounds for the last seventy years; and -the sunshine shone with the same calm assurance of shining as at other -times, and all this rustling, breathing life went on as it had always -gone on. There was scarcely a leaf, scarcely a moss-covered stone that -did not hide or shelter something living. The air was full of life; -sounds of all kinds, twitter and hum and rustle, his own step among -other movements, his own shadow moving across the sunshine. And he felt -well enough, not running over with health and vigour as he had sometimes -felt long ago, not disposed to vault over walls and gates in that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146">{146}</a></span> -unlicensed exuberance which belongs to youth only, but well -enough—quite well, in short; steady afoot, his breathing easy, his head -clear, everything about him comfortable. Notwithstanding which, his -children were discussing, as in reference to a quite near and probable -event, what was to be done when he should die! The Squire smiled at the -thought, but it was a smile which got fixed and painful on his lip, and -was not spontaneous or agreeable. The amusement to be got from such an -idea is not of a genial kind. He was over seventy, and he knew, who -better? that threescore and ten has been set down as the limit of mortal -life. No doubt he must die—every man must die. It was a thing before -him not to be eluded; the darkness, indeed, was very near, according to -all ordinary law; but the Squire did not feel it, was not in his soul -convinced of it. He believed it, of course; all other men of his age -die, and in their case the precautions of the family are prudent and -natural; in his own case it is true he did not feel the necessity; but -yet no doubt it must be so. He kept smiling to himself; so living as he -was, and everything round, it was an odd sort of discord to think of -dying. He felt a kind of blank before him, a sense of being shut in. So -one feels when one walks along a bit of road surrounded with walls, a -<i>cul de sac</i> from which there is no outlet. A sense of imprisonment is -in it, of discouragement, too little air to breathe, too little space to -move in—certainly a disagreeable, stifling, choking sensation. -Involuntarily a sigh came from his breast; and yet he smiled -persistently, feeling in himself a kind of defiance to all the world, a -determination to be amused at it all, notwithstanding the sentence they -were passing against him.</p> - -<p>While the Squire continued his walk, amid the twitter of the birds and -the warble and the crackle and rustle and hum in the woods, and all the -sounds of living, now and then another sound struck in—a sound not -necessarily near, for in that still summer air sounds travel easily—an -echo of voices, now one soft cry or laugh, now a momentary babble. It -struck the old man as if an independent soul had been put into the -scene. He knew very well what it meant—very well—no one better. By -very dint of his opposition to them he recognized the sound of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147">{147}</a></span> -children wherever they were. They were there now, the little things -whose presence had moved Randolph to this assault upon his father. They -were altogether antagonistic to Randolph, or rather he to them; this -gave them a curious perverse interest in their grandfather’s eyes. They -offered him an outlet from his <i>cul de sac</i>; the pressure seemed -suddenly removed which had bowed him down; in a moment he felt relieved, -delivered from that sense of confinement. A new idea was like the -opening of a door to the old man; he was no longer compelled to -contemplate the certainty before him, but was let softly down into the -pleasant region of uncertainty—the world of happy chances. The very -character of the smile upon his face changed. It became more natural, -more easy, although he did not know the children, nor had any intention -of noticing them. But they were there, and Randolph might scheme as he -liked; here was one who must bring his schemes to confusion. A vague -lightening came into the Squire’s thoughts. He was reprieved, if not -from the inevitable conclusion, at least from the necessity of -contemplating it; and he continued his walk with a lighter heart. By and -by, after a somewhat long round, and making sundry observations to -himself about the state of the timber which would bear cutting, and -about the birds which, without any keeper to care for them, were -multiplying at their own will, and might give some sport in September, -Mr. Musgrave found himself by the lake again with that fascination -towards the water which is so universal. The lake gleamed through the -branches, prolonging the blue of the sky, and calling him with soft -plashing upon the beach, the oldest of his friends, accompaniment of so -many thoughts, and of all the vicissitudes of his life. He went towards -it now in the commotion of feeling which was subsiding into calm, a calm -which had something of fatigue in it; for reluctant as he was to enter -into the question of age and the nearly approaching conclusion, the fact -of age made him easily tired with everything, and with nothing more than -excitement. He was fatigued with the strain he had been put to, and had -fallen into a languid state which was not unpleasant; the condition in -which we are specially disposed to be easily amused if any passive -amusement comes in our way.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148">{148}</a></span></p> - -<p>So it happened that as he walked along the margin of the lake, with the -water softly foaming over the pebbles at his feet, Mr. Musgrave’s ear -was caught by a series of sharp little repetitions of sound, like a -succession of small reports—one, two, three. He listened in the mild, -easily-roused, and not very active curiosity of such a moment, and -recognized with a smile the sound of pebbles skipping across the water; -presently he saw the little missiles gleaming along from ripple to -ripple, flung by a skilful but not very strong hand. The Squire did not -even ask himself who it was, but went on quietly, doubting nothing. -Suddenly turning round a corner upon the edge of a small bay, he saw a -little figure between him and the shining water, making ducks and drakes -with varying success.</p> - -<p>The Squire’s step was inaudible on the turf, and he paused in sympathy -with the play. He himself had made ducks and drakes in the Penninghame -water as long as he could recollect. He had taught his little boys to do -it; he could not tell how it was that this suddenly came to his mind -just now—though how it should do so with Randolph, a middle-aged, -calculating parson, talking about family arrangements—Pah! but even -this recollection did not affect him now as it did before. Never mind -Randolph. This little fellow chose the stones with judgment, and really, -for such a small creature, launched them well. The Squire felt half -disposed to step forward and try his skill too. When one shot failed he -was half-sorry, half-inclined to chuckle as over an antagonist; and when -there came a great success, a succession of six or seven reports one -after another as the flat pebble skimmed over fold after fold of the -water, he could not help saying, “Bravo!” in generous applause; -generous, for somehow or other he felt as if he were playing on the -other side. This sensation aroused him; he had not been so -self-forgetting for many a day. “Bravo!” he cried, with something like -glee in his voice.</p> - -<p>The little boy turned round hastily. What a strange meeting! Oddly -enough it had never occurred to the Squire to think who it was. -Strangers were rife enough in these regions, and people would now and -then come to Penninghame with their families—who would stray into the -Chase, taking it for public property.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149">{149}</a></span> But for the ducks and drakes -which interested him, he would probably have collared the little fellow, -and demanded to know what right he had to be here. He was therefore -quite unprepared for the encounter, and looked with the strangest -emotions of wonder and half-terror into the face which was so familiar -to him, but so strange, the face of his grandson and heir. When once he -had seen the child no further doubt was possible. He stared at him as if -he had been a little ghost. He had not presence of mind to turn on his -heel and go away at once, which would have been the only way of keeping -up his former tactics; he was speechless and overpowered; and there was -nobody by to spy upon him, no grown-up spectators—not even the other -child to observe what he did, or listen to what he said. In this case -the Squire did not feel the need to be vigilant, which in other -circumstances would have given him self-command. Thus the shock and -surprise, and the perfect freedom of his position, unwatched and unseen, -alike broke down all his defences. After the first start he stood still -and gazed at the child, who still, more frankly and with much less -emotion, gazed at him.</p> - -<p>“Who are you, sir?” the grandfather said, with a tone that was meant to -be very peremptory. The jar in it was incomprehensible to Nello: but yet -it gave him greater courage.</p> - -<p>“I am Ne—that is to say,” the little fellow answered, with a sudden -flush and change of countenance, “my name, it is John.”</p> - -<p>“John what? Speak up, sir. Do you know you are a little trespasser, and -have no business to be here?”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, I have a business to be here,” said Nello. “I don’t know what -it is to be a trespasser. I live at the Castle, me. I can come when I -please, and nobody has any business to send me away.”</p> - -<p>“Do you know who I am?” asked the Squire, bending his brows. Nello -looked at him curiously, half amused, though he was half frightened. He -had never been so near, or looked his grandfather in the face before.</p> - -<p>“I <i>know</i>; but I may not tell,” said Nello. He shook his head, and -though he was not very quick-witted, some latent sense of fun brought a -mischievous look to his face. “We know very well, but we are never to -tell,” he added, shaking his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150">{150}</a></span> head once more, looking up with watchful -eyes, as children have a way of doing, to take his cue from the -expression of the elder face; and there was something very strange in -that gleam of fun in Nello’s eyes. “We know, but we are never, never to -tell.</p> - -<p>“Who told you so?”</p> - -<p>“It was—Martuccia,” said the boy, with precocious discretion. His look -grew more and more inquisitive and investigating. Now that he had the -opportunity he determined to examine the old man well and to make out -the kind of person he was.</p> - -<p>Mr. Musgrave did not answer. He on his side was investigating too, with -less keenness and more feeling than the child showed. He would have been -unmoved by the beauty of Lilias, though it was much greater than that of -Nello. The little girl would have irritated him; but with the boy he -felt himself safe, he could not tell how; he was more a child, less a -stranger. Mr. Musgrave himself could not have explained it, but so it -was. A desire to get nearer to his descendant came into the old man’s -mind; old recollections crept upon him, and stole away all his strength. -“You know who I am; do you know who you are, little fellow?” he asked, -with a strange break in his voice.</p> - -<p>“I told you; you are—the old gentleman at home,” said Nello. “I know -all about it. And me? I am John. There is no wonder about that. It is -just—me. We were not always here. We are two children who have come a -long way. But now I know English quite well, and I have lessons every -day.”</p> - -<p>“Who gives you lessons, my little boy?” The Squire drew a step nearer. -He had himself had a little brother sixty years ago, who was like Nello. -So it seemed to him now. He would not think he had likewise had a son -thirty years ago, whom Nello was like. He crept a little nearer the -child, shuffling his foot along the turf, concealing the approach from -himself. Had he been asked why he changed his position, he would have -said it was a little damp, boggy, not quite sure footing just there.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Pen gives us lessons,” said Nello. “I have a book all to myself. It -is Latin, it is more easy than English. But it takes a great deal of -time; it does not leave so much for play.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151">{151}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“How long have you been at your lessons, my little man?”</p> - -<p>The Squire’s eyes began to soften, a smile came into them. His heart was -melting. He gave a furtive glance round, and there was nobody near to -make him afraid, not even the little girl.</p> - -<p>“Oh, a long, long time,” said Nello. “One whole hour, it was as much as -that, or perhaps six hours. I did not think anything could be so long.”</p> - -<p>“One whole hour!” the Squire said in a voice of awe; and his eyes melted -altogether into smiling, and his voice into a mellow softness which it -had not known for years. Ah! this was the kind of son for an old man to -have, not such as Randolph. Randolph was a hard, disagreeable equal, -superior in so much as he had, or thought he had, many more years before -him; but the child was delightful. He did the Squire good. “Or perhaps -six hours! And when did this long spell of study happen? Is it long -ago?”</p> - -<p>“There was no spell,” said Nello. “And it was to-day. I readed in my -book, and so did Lily; but as she is a girl it was different from mine. -Girls are not clever, Martuccia says. She can’t make the stones skim. -That was a good one when you said ‘Bravo!’ Where did you find out to say -Bravo? They don’t talk like that here.”</p> - -<p>“It was a very good one,” said the Squire; “suppose we were to try -again.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! can <i>you</i> do it?” said Nello, with round eyes of wonder. “Can you -do it as well as me?”</p> - -<p>“When I was a child,” said the Squire, quite overcome, “I had a little -brother just like you. We used to come out here, to this very place, and -play ducks and drakes. He would make them go half across the water. You -should have seen them skimming. As far out as that boat. Do you see that -boat—— ”</p> - -<p>“When he was no bigger than me? And what did you do? were you little -too? did you play against him? did he beat you? I wish I had a brother,” -said Nello. “But you can’t have quite forgotten, though you are an old -gentleman. Try now! There are capital stones here. I wish I could send -one out as far as that boat. Come, come! Won’t you come and try?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152">{152}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>The Squire gave another searching look round. He had a sort of -shame-faced smile on his face. He was a little shy of himself in this -new development. But there was no one near, not so much as a squirrel or -a rabbit, which could watch and tell. The birds were singing high up in -the tree-tops, quite absorbed in their own business; nothing was taking -any notice. And the child had come close to him, quite confiding and -fearless, with eager little eyes, waiting for his decision. He was the -very image of that little brother so long lost. The Squire seemed to -lose himself for a moment in a vague haze of personal uncertainty -whether all this harsh, hard life had not been a delusion, and whether -he himself still was not a child.</p> - -<p>“Come and try,” cried Nello, more and more emboldened, and catching at -his coat. When the old man felt the touch, it was all he could do to -suppress a cry. It was strange to him beyond measure, a touch not like -any other—his own flesh and blood.</p> - -<p>“You must begin then,” he said, a strange falter in his voice, -half-laughing, half-crying. That is one sign of age, that it is so much -nearer to the springs of emotion than anything else, except youth. -Indeed, are not these two the fitting partners, not that middle state, -that insolent strength which stands between? The Squire permitted -himself to be dragged to the margin of his own water, which lay all -smiling in soft ripples before him as it had done when he was a child. -Nello was as grave as a judge in the importance of the occasion, -breathless with excitement and interest. He sought out his little store -of stones with all the solemnity of a connoisseur, his little brows -puckered, his red lips drawn in; but the Squire was shy and tremulous, -half-laughing, half-crying, ashamed of his own weakness, and more near -being what you might call happy (a word so long out of use for him!) -than he had been, he could not remember when.</p> - -<p>Nello was vexed with his first throw. “When one wants to do very good, -one never can,” he said, discomfited as his shot failed. “Now you try, -now you try; it is your turn.” How the Squire laughed, tremulous, the -broken red in his old cheeks flushing with pleasure and shame! He failed -too, which encouraged Nello, who for his part made a splendid shot the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153">{153}</a></span> -second time. “Two, three, four, <i>five</i>, <small>SIX</small>, <small>SEVEN</small>!” cried the child in -delight. “Don’t be afraid, you will do better next time. Me too, I could -not make a shot at all at first. Now come, now come, it is your turn -again.”</p> - -<p>What a thing it is to have a real long summer afternoon! It was -afternoon when the Squire’s calm was broken by his son Randolph; and it -was afternoon still, dropping into evening, but with a sun still bright -and not yet low in the sky when Mr. Musgrave warmed to his work, and, -encouraged by Nello, made such ducks and drakes as astonished himself. -He got quite excited as they skimmed and danced across the water. “Two, -three, four, five, <i>six</i>, <i>seven</i>, <small>EIGHT</small>!” Nello cried, with a shriek of -delight. How clever the old gentleman was—how much nicer than <i>girls</i>. -He had not enjoyed his play so much for—never before, Nello thought. -“Come back to-morrow—will you come back to-morrow?” he said at every -interval. He had got a playmate now after his own heart—better than Mr. -Pen’s Johnnie, who was small and timid—better than any one he had ever -seen here.</p> - -<p>The two players did not in the growing excitement of their game think -any more of the chance of spectators; and did not see a second little -figure which came running across the grass through the maze of the -trees, and stopped wondering in the middle of the brushwood, holding -back the branches with her hands to gaze at the strange scene. Lilias -was never quite clear of the idea that this wood was fairy-land: so she -was not surprised at anything she saw. Yet at this, for the first -moment, she was tempted to be surprised. The old gentleman! playing at -ducks and drakes with Nello! He who pretended never to see them, who -looked over their heads whenever they appeared, for whom they always had -to run out of the way, who never took any notice! Lilias stood for two -or three whole minutes, holding the branches open, peeping through with -a rapt gaze of wonder; yet not surprised. She applied her little -faculties at once, on the instant, to solve the mystery; and what so -natural as that the old gentleman had been “only pretending” all the -time? Half the pleasure which Lilias herself had in her life came from -“pretending.” Pretending to be Queen Elizabeth,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154">{154}</a></span> pretending to be a -fairy and change Nello into a lion or a mouse, both of which things -Nello “pretended” to be with equal success; pretending to be Mr. Pen -preaching a sermon, pretending to be Mary, pretending even now and then -to be “the old gentleman” himself, sitting up in a chair with a big -book, just like him. She stood and peeped through the branches, and made -up her mind to this in a way that took away all her surprise. No doubt -he was “only pretending” when he would not let it be seen that he saw -them. Motives are not necessary to investigators of twelve; there was -nothing strange in it; for was not pretending the chief occupation, the -chief recreation of life? She stood and made this out to her own -satisfaction, and then with self-denial and with a sigh went back to -Martuccia. It was very tempting to see the pebbles skimming across the -water, and so easy it seemed! “Me too, me too,” Lilias could scarcely -help calling out. But then it came into her head that perhaps it was -herself whom the old gentleman disliked. Perhaps he would not go on -playing if she claimed a share, perhaps he would begin “pretending” not -to see her. So Lilias sighed, and with self-denial gave up this new -pleasure. It was very nice for Nello to have some one to play with—some -one <i>new</i>. He was always the lucky one; but then he was the youngest, -such a little fellow. She went back and told Martuccia he was playing, -he was coming soon, he was not in any mischief—which was what the -careful elder sister and mild indulgent nurse most feared.</p> - -<p>When Lilias let the branches go, however, with self-denial which was -impulsive though so true, the sweep with which they came together again -made more sound than could have been made by a rabbit or squirrel, and -startled the Squire, who was quite hot and excited in his new sport. He -came to himself with a start, and with the idea of having been seen, -felt a pang of shame and half-anger. He looked round him and could see -nobody; but the branches still vibrated as if some one had been there; -and his very forehead, weather-beaten as it was, flushed red with the -idea of having been seen, perhaps by Randolph himself. This gave him a -kind of offence and resentment and self-assertion which mended matters. -Why should he care for Randolph? What had Randolph to do with it? Was he -to put<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155">{155}</a></span> himself under tutelage, and conform to the tastes of a fellow -like that, a parson, an interloper? But all the same this possibility -stopped the Squire. “There, my little man,” he said with some confusion, -dropping his stone, “there! I think it is time to stop now.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!—was it some one come for you?” said Nello, following the direction -of the old gentleman’s eyes. “Stay a little longer, just a little -longer. Can’t you do just what you please—not like me—— ”</p> - -<p>“Can you not do what you please, my little boy?” The Squire was a little -tremulous with the unusual exertion. Perhaps it was time to stop. He -stooped down to lave his hand in the water where it came shallow among -the rocks, and that act took away his breath still more, and made him -glad to pause a moment before he went away.</p> - -<p>“It is a shame,” said Nello, “there is Lily, and there is Martuccia, and -there is Mary,—they think I am too little to take care of myself; but I -am not too little—I can do a great many things that they can’t do. But -come to-morrow, won’t you <i>try</i> to come to-morrow?” said the child, -coming close up to his grandfather, and taking hold of the skirt of his -coat. “Oh please, please <i>try</i> to come! I never have any one to play -with, and it has been such fun. Say you will come! Don’t you think you -could come if you were to <i>try</i>?”</p> - -<p>The Squire burst out into a broken laugh. It would have been more easy -to cry, but that does not do for a man. He put his soft old tremulous -hand upon the boy’s head. “Little Johnny,” he said, “little -Johnny!—that was my little brother’s name, long, long ago.”</p> - -<p>“Did he play with you? I wish I had a little brother. I have nothing but -girls,” said Nello. “But say you will come to-morrow—do say you will -try!”</p> - -<p>The Squire gave another look round him. Nobody was there, not a mouse or -a bird. He took the child’s head between his trembling hands, and -stooped down, and gave him a hasty kiss upon his soft round -forehead—“God bless you, little man!” he said, and then turned round -defiant, and faced the world—the world of tremulous branches and -fluttering leaves, for there was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156">{156}</a></span> nothing else to spy upon the -involuntary blessing and caress. Then he plunged through the very -passage in the brushwood where the branches had shaken so -strangely—feeling that if it was Randolph he could defy him. What right -had Randolph to control his actions? If he chose to acknowledge this -child who belonged to him, who was the image of the little Johnny of -sixty years ago, what was that to any one? What had -Randolph,—<i>Randolph</i>, of all men in the world,—to do with it? He would -tell him so to his face if he were there.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII.<br /><br /> -<small>THE BAMPFYLDES.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> same day on which these incidents occurred the Stanton family were -in full conclave at Elfdale. It was the birthday of Laura, and there -were various merrymakings on hand, an afternoon party, designed to -include all her “young friends,” besides a more select company in the -evening. As Laura was the one whom the family intended to be Lady -Stanton, her affairs, with the willing consent, and indeed by the active -energy of her sister, were generally pushed into the foreground. And -Geoff and his mother were the chief of the guests specially invited, the -only visitors who were staying in the house.</p> - -<p>To say that the family intended Laura to be Lady Stanton is perhaps too -wild a statement, though this settlement of conflicting claims had been -tacitly decided upon when they were children. It was chiefly Lydia who -actively intended it now, moved and backed up by some of the absent -brothers, who thought it “hard luck” that the young unnecessary Geoff -should have interfered between their father and the title, and vowed by -Jove that the only fit thing to do in the circumstances was to marry him -to one of the girls. Lydia, however, was the most active mind in the -establishment at Elfdale, and carried things her own way, so that though -Sir Henry disliked fuss,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157">{157}</a></span> and disliked Geoff’s mother, who had done him -so much wrong, yet the party in the evening had been specially selected -to suit her, and Maria, Lady Stanton, was established in the house.</p> - -<p>“It can’t last long, papa,” Lydia said; “but we can’t have Geoff without -her.”</p> - -<p>“What do you want with Geoff?” growled Sir Henry.</p> - -<p>“Papa! in the first place he is our cousin; and Laura likes him; and you -know we girls must marry somebody. You can’t get commissions and -nominations for us, more’s the pity; so we must marry. And Laura may as -well have Stanton as any one else, don’t you think? and of course in -that case she ought to be on good terms with her mother-in-law; and -people expect us—— ”</p> - -<p>“Oh, that will do,” said Sir Henry, “ask whom you like, only free me -from all this clatter. But keep that woman off me with her sanctified -airs, confound her,” said the baronet. He had forgiven Geoff for being -born, but he could not forgive Geoff’s mother for bringing him so -unnecessarily into the world.</p> - -<p>And thus it was that Geoff and his mother were at Elfdale. The elder -Lady Stanton was no more disposed to go than Sir Henry was to ask her. -Visits of this kind are not rare—the inviters unwilling to ask, the -invited indisposed to go; and with such cordial results as might be -anticipated. “I care for nobody in that house except Cousin Mary,” Lady -Stanton said, “and even she perhaps—though it is wrong to say so, -Geoff, my dear boy, for of course everybody means for the best.” With -these mutual objections the party had met all the same. The other Lady -Stanton was very mild and very religious. She could not prevent herself -from having an occasional opinion—that is to say, as she explained it -herself, for “caring for” one person more than another; but that was -because she had not seen enough of the others perhaps—had not quite -understood them. “Yes, Geoff, I do not doubt, my dear, that the girls -are very nice. So many things are changed since my time. Manners are -different. And we are all such prejudiced, unjust creatures, we -constantly take the outside for our standard as if that was everything. -There is but One that sees fully, and what a blessing,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158">{158}</a></span> Geoff, that it -is Him whom we have most to deal with!” said his mother. For it was one -of her troubles in life that she had uneasy instincts about the people -she met with, and likings and dislikings such as she felt—the latter at -least—a true Christian ought not to indulge in. There was a constant -conflict of duty in her against such rebellious feelings. As for Cousin -Mary, Sir Henry Stanton’s wife, she was one of those whom Geoff’s mother -had no difficulty in liking, but a cold doubt had been breathed into her -mind as to the “influence” which this lady might exercise over her boy. -She could not quite get it out of her thoughts. Mary could mean no harm, -that was certain, but—and then Lady Stanton would upbraid herself for -the evil imagination that could thus believe in evil. So that altogether -she was not happy to go to Elfdale. When she was there, however, the -family paid her a sort of court, though the girls frankly considered her -a hypocrite. What did that matter? “All the people one meets with are -humbugs more or less,” Lydia said with superior philosophy. Lydia was -the one who saw through everybody, and was always unmasking false -pretensions. Laura only acquiesced in the discoveries her sister made, -and generally followed her in whatever was going on.</p> - -<p>The morning of the birthday dawned brightly and promised to be all that -could be desired, and the presents were pretty enough to please any -<i>débutante</i>. Laura was nineteen, and so far as the county gaieties went -she had been already “out” for nearly a year. Any more splendid -introduction into society had been denied to the girls. They had -entertained dreams of London, and had practised curtseys for a -problematical drawing-room during one whole year, but it had come to -nothing, Sir Henry being economical and Lady Stanton shy. It was to -their stepmother’s account that Laura and Lydia set down this wrong, -feeling convinced that if she had been their <i>real</i> mother she would -have managed it somehow. “You’ll see she’ll find some way of doing it -when these little things grow up,” the elder sisters said to each other, -and they bore her a grudge in consequence, and looked at her with -glances of reproaches whenever London was spoken of—though that she was -not their real mother could not be held to be poor Mary’s fault. -However, all this was forgotten<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159">{159}</a></span> on the merry morning, when with the -delights of the garden party and a dance before them they came to -breakfast and found Laura’s place at table blocked up with presents. -Many of them it is true were not of very much value, but there was a -pretty bracelet from Geoff and a locket from his mother, which amply -rewarded the young ladies for their determination to have their cousin -and his mother invited. The opening of the presents made a little -pleasant commotion. The donors were all moved by an agreeable curiosity -to see how their gifts were received, and as Laura was lavish in her -expressions of delight and Lydia in generous admiration, and the little -girls hovered behind in fluttering awe, curiosity, and excitement, a -general air of family concord, sympathy, and happiness was diffused over -the scene. There was not very much love perhaps in the ill-compacted -household. But Sir Henry could not help sharing the infection of the -half-real amiability of the moment, and his wife could not but brighten -under any semblance of kindness. They sat down quite happily to -breakfast and began to chatter about the amusements of the afternoon. -Even little Fanny and Annie were allowed to have their say. To them was -allotted a share in the croquet, even in the delightful responsibility -of arranging the players. All the old fogies, the old-fashioned people, -the curate and his sister, the doctor and his niece, the humbler -neighbours, were reserved for that pastime which is out of fashion—the -girls kept the gayer circle and the more novel amusements for Geoff and -their own set. And moved by the general good-nature of the moment Sir -Henry made apologies to his guests for the occupations which would -occupy his morning. He was an active magistrate, and found in this -version of public duty a relief from the idleness of his retired life.</p> - -<p>“I have that scamp Bampfylde in hand again,” he said; “he is never out -of mischief. Have you ever seen that fellow, Geoff? Wild Bampfylde they -call him. I think the keepers have a sneaking kindness for him. There is -not a poaching trick he is not up to. I am tired of hearing his name.”</p> - -<p>“What did you say was his name?” said Geoff’s mother.</p> - -<p>The other Lady Stanton had looked up too with a little start, which -attracted Geoff’s attention. He stopped short in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160">{160}</a></span> middle of an -animated discussion with the girls on the arrangements of the afternoon, -to hear what was being said.</p> - -<p>“Ah! to be sure—Bampfylde; for the moment I had forgotten,” Sir Henry -said. “Yes—that family of course, and a handsome fellow; as fine a man -as you could see in the north country. Certainly they are a good-looking -race.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose it is gipsy blood,” said the elder Lady Stanton, with a sigh. -“Poor people! Yes, I say poor people, Sir Henry, for there is no one to -care what evil ways they take. So far out of the way among the hills, no -teaching, no clergyman; oh, I make every excuse for them! They will not -be judged as we are, with our advantages.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know about our advantages,” said Sir Henry, somewhat grimly; -“but I sha’n’t make excuses for them. A pest to the country; not to -speak of the tragedy they were involved in—— ”</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t let us speak of that,” said Mary, under her breath.</p> - -<p>Sir Henry gave her a look which irritated young Geoff. The young man -felt himself his beautiful cousin’s champion, and he would have liked to -call even her husband to account for such a glance under frowning -eyebrows at so gentle a creature. Sir Henry for his part did not like -his wife to show any signs of recollecting her own past history. He did -not do very much to make her forget it, and was a cold and indifferent -husband, but still he was affronted that she should be able to remember -that she had not always been his wife.</p> - -<p>“I wish it did not hurt you, Cousin Mary,” said Geoff, interposing, “for -I should like to speak of it, to have it all gone into. I am sure there -is wrong somewhere. You said yourself about that young Musgrave—— ”</p> - -<p>“Oh hush, hush, Geoff!” she said under her breath.</p> - -<p>“He cannot be young now,” said the elder lady. “I am very sorry for him -too, my dear. It is not given to us to see into men’s hearts, but I -never believed that John Musgrave—— I beg your pardon, Mary, for -naming him before you, of course it must be painful. And to me too. But -it is such a long time ago, and I think if it were all to do over -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161">{161}</a></span>again—— ”</p> - -<p>“It would have been done over again and the whole case sifted if John -Musgrave had not behaved like a fool, or a guilty man,” said Sir Henry. -“It is not a pleasant subject for discussion, is it? I was an idiot to -bring up the fellow’s name. I forgot what good memories you ladies -have,” he said, getting up and breaking up the party. And there was -still a frown upon his face as he looked at his wife.</p> - -<p>“What is the matter with papa?” cried the girls in a breath. “You have -been upsetting him. You have worried him somehow!” exclaimed Lydia, -turning upon her stepmother. “And everything was going so well, and he -was in such a good humour. But it is always the way just when we want a -little peace and comfort. I never saw such a house as ours! And he is -not very unreasonable, not when you know how to manage him—papa.”</p> - -<p>As for Mary, she broke down and cried, but smiled again, trying to keep -up appearances. “It is nothing,” she said; “your father is not angry. It -will all be right in a moment. I suppose I am very silly. Run, little -ones, and bring me some eau-de-cologne, quick! You must not think Sir -Henry was really annoyed,” she said, turning to Lady Stanton. “He is -just a little impatient; you know he has all his old Indian ways; and I -am so silly.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think you are silly,” said Lady Stanton, who herself was -flushed and excited. “It was natural you should be disturbed, and I too. -Sir Henry need not have been so impatient; but we don’t know his -motives,” she added hastily, with the habitual apology she made for -everybody who was or seemed in the wrong.</p> - -<p>“Oh, how tiresome it all is,” cried Lydia, stamping her foot, “when -people will make scenes! Come along, Geoff; come with us and let us see -what is to be done. Everything has to be done still. I meant to ask papa -to give the orders; but when he is put out, it is all over. Do come; -there are the hoops to put up, and everything to do. Laura, never mind -your tiresome presents. Come along! or the people will be here, and -nothing will be done.”</p> - -<p>“That is how they always go on,” said Laura, following her sister with -her lap full of her treasures, “Come, Geoff. It is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162">{162}</a></span> so easy to put papa -out; and when he is put out he is no good for anything. Do come. I do -not think this time, Lydia, it was <i>her</i> fault.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it is always her fault,” said the harsher sister: “and sending -these two tiresome children for the eau-de-cologne! She always sends -them for the eau-de-cologne. As if that could do any good! like putting -out a fire with rose-water. There now, Laura, put your rubbish away, and -I will begin settling everything with Geoff.”</p> - -<p>The young man obeyed the call unwillingly; but he went with his cousins, -having no excuse to stay, and did their work obediently, though his mind -was full of very different things. He had put aside the Musgrave -business since his visit to Penninghame, not knowing how to act, and he -had not spoken of it to his mother; but now it returned upon him with -greater interest than ever. Bampfylde he knew was the name of the girl -whom John Musgrave had married, whom his brother Walter had loved, and -whom the quarrel was about; and she it was who, with her mother, had -been accused of helping young Musgrave’s escape. All the story seemed to -reopen even upon him with the name; and how much more upon those two -ladies who were so much more deeply interested. The two girls and their -games had but a slight hold of Geoff’s mind in comparison with this -deeper question. He did what they wanted him, but he was <i>distrait</i> and -preoccupied; and as soon as he was free went anxiously in search of his -mother, who, he hoped, would tell him more about it. He knew all about -it, but not as people must do who had been involved in the -circumstances, and helped to enact that sad drama of real life. He found -his mother very thoughtful and preoccupied too, seated alone in a little -sitting-room up-stairs, which was Lady Stanton’s special sanctum. The -elder Lady Stanton was very serious. She welcomed her son with a -momentary smile and no more. “I have been thinking over that dreadful -story,” she said; “it has all come back upon me, Geoff. Sometimes a name -is enough to bring back years of one’s life. I was then as Mary is now. -No, no, my dear, your good father was very different from Sir Henry; but -a stepmother is often not very happy. It used to be the other way, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163">{163}</a></span> -story-books say. Oh, Geoff, young people don’t mean it—they don’t -think; but they can make a poor woman’s life very wretched. It has -brought everything back to me. That—and the name of this man.”</p> - -<p>“You have never told me much about it, mother.”</p> - -<p>“What was the use, my dear? You were too young to do anything; and then, -what was there to do? Poor Mr. Musgrave fled, you know. Everybody said -that was such a pity. It would have been brought in only manslaughter if -he had not escaped and gone away.”</p> - -<p>“Then it was madness and cowardice,” said Geoff.</p> - -<p>“It was the girl,” said his mother. “No, I am not blaming her; perhaps -she knew no better. And his father and all his family were so opposed. -Perhaps they thought, to fly away out of everybody’s reach, the two -together, was the best way out of it. When young people are so much -attached to each other,” said the anxious mother, faltering, half afraid -even to speak of such mysteries to her son, “they are tempted to think -that being together is everything. But it is not everything, Geoff. Many -others, as well as John Musgrave, have lost themselves for such a -delusion as that.”</p> - -<p>“Is it a delusion?” Geoff asked, making his mother tremble. Of whom -could the boy be thinking? He was thinking of nobody—till it suddenly -occurred to him how the eyes of that little girl at Penninghame might -look if they were older; and that most likely it was the same eyes which -had made up to John Musgrave for the loss of everything. After all, -perhaps this unfortunate one, whom everybody pitied, might have had some -compensation. As he was thinking thus, and his mother was watching him, -very anxious to know what he was thinking, Lady Stanton came in suddenly -by a private door, which opened from her own room. She had a little -additional colour on her cheeks, and was breathless with haste.</p> - -<p>“Oh, where is Geoff, I wonder?” she said; then seeing him, ran up to -him. “Geoff, there is some one down-stairs you will like to see. If you -are really so interested in all that sad story—really so anxious to -help poor John—— ”</p> - -<p>“Yes, who is it? Tell me who it is, and I will go.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164">{164}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Elizabeth Bampfylde is down-stairs,” she said, breathless, putting her -hand to her heart. “The mother of the man Sir Henry was speaking of—the -mother of—the girl. There is no one knows so much as that woman. She is -sitting there all alone, and there is nobody in the way.”</p> - -<p>“Mary!” cried the elder lady, “is it right to plunge my boy into it? We -have suffered enough already. Is it right to make Geoff a victim—Geoff, -who knows nothing about it? Oh, my dear, I know you mean it for the -best!”</p> - -<p>Mary fell back abashed and troubled.</p> - -<p>“I did not mean to harm him, Lady Stanton. I did not think it would harm -him. Never mind; never mind, if your mother does not approve. After all, -perhaps, she knows no more than we do,” she said, with an attempt at a -smile. “The sight of her made me forget myself.”</p> - -<p>“Where is she?” said the young man.</p> - -<p>“Ah! that is just what overcame me,” said Mary, with a sob, and a -strange smile at the irony of fate—“down-stairs in <i>my</i> husband’s room. -I have seen her often in the road and in the village—but here, in my -house! Never mind, Geoff; it was she that helped him to get out of -prison. They were bold, they had no fear of anything; not like us, who -are ladies, who cannot stir a step without being watched. Never mind, -never mind! it is not really of any consequence. She is sitting there -in—in my husband’s room!” Mary said, with a sob and a little hysterical -laugh. It was not strange to the others, but simple enough and natural. -She alone knew how strange it was. “But stop, stop—oh, don’t pay any -attention. Don’t go now, Geoff!”</p> - -<p>“Geoff! my dear Geoff!” cried his mother running to the door after him, -but for once Geoff paid no attention. He hurried down-stairs, clearing -them four or five steps at a time. The ladies could not have followed -him if they would. The door of Sir Henry’s business room stood open, and -he could see an old woman seated like a statue, in perfect stillness, on -a bench against the wall. She wore a large grey cloak with a hood -falling back upon her shoulders, and a white cap, and sat with her hands -crossed in her lap, waiting. She raised her eyes quickly when he came in -with a look of anxiety and expectation,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165">{165}</a></span> but when she found it was not -the person she expected, bowed her fine head resignedly and relapsed -into quiet. The delay which is always so irksome did not seem to affect -her. There was something in the pose of the figure which showed that to -be seated there quite still and undisturbed was not disagreeable to her. -She was not impatient. She was an old woman and glad to rest; she could -wait.</p> - -<p>“You are waiting for Sir Henry?” Geoff said, in his eagerness. “Have you -seen him? Can I do anything for you?”</p> - -<p>“No, sir. I hope you’ll forgive me rising. I have walked far and I’m -tired. Time is not of so much consequence now as it used to be. I can -bide.” She gave him a faint smile as she spoke, and looked at him with -eyes undimmed, eyes that reminded him of the child at Penninghame. Her -voice was fine too, large and melodious, and there was nothing fretful -or fidgety about her. Except for one line in her forehead everything -about her was calm. She could bide.</p> - -<p>And this is a power which gives its possessor unbounded superiority over -the impatient and restless. Geoff was all curiosity, excitement, and -eagerness. “I don’t think Sir Henry will have any time for you to-day,” -he said; “tell me what it is. I will do all I can for you. I should like -to be of use to you. Sir Henry is going to his luncheon presently. I -don’t think you will see him to-day.”</p> - -<p>Just at this moment a servant came in with the same information, but it -was given in a somewhat different tone. “Look here, old lady,” said the -man, “you’ll have to clear out of this. There’s a party this afternoon, -and Sir Henry he hasn’t got any time for the likes of you. So march is -the word.—I beg your lordship ten thousand pardons. I didn’t see as -your lordship was there.”</p> - -<p>“You had better learn to be civil to every one,” said Geoff, -indignantly; “beg <i>her</i> pardon, not mine. You are—Mrs. Bampfylde, I -think? May I speak to you, since Sir Henry cannot see you? I have very -urgent business—— ”</p> - -<p>She rose slowly, paying no attention to the man—looking only at Geoff. -“And you are the young lord?” she said with an<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166">{166}</a></span> intent look. There was a -certain dignity about her movements, though she seemed to set herself in -motion with difficulty, stiffly, as if the exertion cost her something. -“I’ve had a long walk,” she added, with a faint smile and half apology -for the effort, “there’s where age tells. And all my trouble for -nothing!”</p> - -<p>“If I can be of any use to you I will,” said Geoff. Then he paused and -added, “I want you to do something for me.”</p> - -<p>“What is it that old ’Lizabeth Bampfylde could do for a fine young -gentleman? Your fortune?—ay, I’ll give you your fortune easy; a kind -tongue and a bright eye carries that all over the world. And you look as -if you had a kind heart.”</p> - -<p>“It is not my fortune,” he said with an involuntary smile.</p> - -<p>“You’re no believer in the likes of that? May be you have never met with -one that had the power. It runs in families; it runs in the blood. There -was one of your house, my young lord, that I could have warned of what -was coming. I saw it in his face. And, oh that I had done it! But he -would not have been warned. Oh! what that would have saved me and mine, -as well as you and yours!”</p> - -<p>“You think of my brother then when you see me?” he said, eager at once -to follow out this beginning. She looked at him again with a -scrutinizing gaze.</p> - -<p>“What had I to do with your brother, young gentleman? He never asked me -for his fortune any more than you; he did not believe in the likes of -me. It is only the silly folk and the simple folk that believe in us. I -wish they would be guided by us that are our own flesh and blood—and -then they would never get into trouble like my boy.”</p> - -<p>“What has he done?” asked Geoff, thinking to conciliate. He had followed -her out of the house, and was walking by her side through the -shrubberies by the back way.</p> - -<p>“What has he done? Something, nothing. He’s taken a fish in the river, -or a bird out of the wood. They’re God’s creatures, not yours, or Sir -Henry’s. But the rich and the great, that have every dainty they can set -their face to, make it a crime for a poor lad when he does that.”</p> - -<p>Geoff did not make any answer, for he had a respect for game,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167">{167}</a></span> and would -not commit himself; but he said, “I will do anything I can for your son, -if you will help me. Yes, you can help me, and I think you know you can, -Mrs. Bampfylde.”</p> - -<p>“I am called ’Lizabeth,” said the old woman, with dignity, as if she had -said, I am called Princess. Her tone had so much effect upon Geoff that -he cried, “I beg your pardon,” instinctively, and faltered and coloured -as he went on—</p> - -<p>“I want to know about what happened when I was a child—about my -brother’s death—about—the man who caused it. They tell me you know -more than any one else. I am not asking for idle curiosity. You know a -great deal, or so I have heard, about John Musgrave.”</p> - -<p>“Hus—sh!” she cried, “it is not safe to say names—you never know who -may hear.”</p> - -<p>“But all the world may hear,” said Geoff. “I am not afraid. I want him -to come home. I want him to be cleared. If you know anything that can -help him, tell me. I will never rest now till I have got that sentence -changed and he is cleared.”</p> - -<p>The old woman looked at him, growing pale, with a sort of alarmed -admiration. “You’re a bold boy,” she said, “very bold! It’s because -you’re so young—how should you know? When a man has enemies we should -be careful how we name him. It might bring ill-luck or more harm.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t believe much in ill-luck, and I don’t believe in enemies at -all,” said Geoff, with the confidence of his years.</p> - -<p>“Oh!” she cried, with a long moan, wringing her hands. “Oh, God help -you, innocent boy!”</p> - -<p>“No,” Geoff repeated, more boldly still, “neither in enemies nor in -ill-luck, if the man himself is innocent. But I believe in friends. I am -one; and if you are one—if you are his friend, his true friend, why, -there is nothing we may not do for him,” the young man cried, standing -still to secure her attention. She paused too for a moment, gazing at -him, with a low cry now and then of wonder and distress; her mind was -travelling over regions to which young Geoff had no clue, but his -courage and confidence had compelled her attention at least. She -listened while he went on repeating his appeal; only to tell him what -she knew, what she remembered—to tell him everything. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168">{168}</a></span> seemed all so -simple to Geoff; he went on with his pleadings, following through the -winding walk. It was all he could do to keep up with her large and -steady stride as she went on quickening her pace. The stiffness had -disappeared, and she walked like one accustomed to long tramping over -moor and hill.</p> - -<p>“My young lord,” she exclaimed abruptly, stopping him in the midst of a -sentence, “you’ve talked long enough; I know all you can say now; and -here’s the bargain I’ll make. If my lad gets free, I’ll take his -advice—and if he consents, and you have a mind to come up to the fells -and see me where I bide—— ”</p> - -<p>“Certainly I will come,” cried Geoff, feeling a delightful gleam of -adventure suddenly light up his more serious purpose. “Certainly I will -come; only tell me where I shall find you—— ”</p> - -<p>“You’re going too fast, my young gentleman. I said if my lad gets free. -Till I have talked to him I’ll tell you nothing. And my bit of a place -is a lonely place where few folk ever come near.”</p> - -<p>“I can find it,” said Geoff. “I do not mind how lonely it is. I will -come—to-morrow, whenever you please.”</p> - -<p>“Not till my lad comes to fetch you,” said ’Lizabeth, with a gleam of -shrewd humour crossing her face for a moment. “I must see my lad first, -and hear what he says, and then I’ll send him to show you the way.”</p> - -<p>“It would be better not to make it dependent on that chance,” said Geoff -prudently. “He might not care to come; I don’t know your son; why should -he take so much trouble for me? He may decline to do it, or he may -dislike my interference, or—— ”</p> - -<p>“Or he may not get free,” said ’Lizabeth, stopping short, and dismissing -her young attendant almost imperiously. “Here you and me part paths, my -young lord. It will be soon enough to say more when my lad is free.”</p> - -<p>Geoff was left standing at the outer gate, startled by the abruptness of -his dismissal, but incapable he felt of resisting. He gazed after her as -she sped along the road with long swift steps, half-appalled, greatly -excited, and with a touch of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169">{169}</a></span> amusement too. “I am to cheat justice for -her in the first place, and elude the law,” he said to himself as he -watched her disappearing along the dusty road.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.<br /><br /> -<small>A NEW FRIEND.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> result of this interview was that Geoff, as was natural, threw -himself body and soul into the cause of Wild Bampfylde. When he had once -made up his mind to this, a certain comic element in the matter -delighted him and gave him double fervour. The idea of defeating justice -was delightful to the young man, not much older than a schoolboy. He -talked to all the people he met about the case of this wild man of the -woods, this innocent savage, to whom all the sylvan sins came by nature; -and he engaged the best lawyer who could be had to defend him, and if -possible get the wild fellow free. Where was the harm? Wild Bampfylde -had never been guilty of violence to any human creature, he ascertained. -It was only the creatures of the woods he waged war against, not even -the gamekeepers. And when Sir Henry, coming home from Quarter Sessions, -informed the party that Wild Bampfylde had managed to get off by some -quibble, the magistrates being fairly tired of convicting him, everybody -was delighted to hear of the safety of Geoff’s <i>protégé</i> except the two -elder ladies, who showed no satisfaction. Neither of them were glad, -notwithstanding that Geoff was so much interested; Lady Stanton from a -vague concern for her son, and Mary because of the prejudice in her -which all her gentleness could not eradicate. She looked at Geoff with -tears in her eyes. “You will have nothing to do with them,” she said; -“him nor any of them? Oh, Geoff, promise!” which was inconsistent, as it -was she herself who had put the old mother in his way. But Geoff only -laughed, and asked what he could have to do with them, and made no -promise. This episode had not interfered with the business of life, with -the afternoon party or the dinner, the dancing or the croquet. All had -“gone off” as well as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170">{170}</a></span> possible. Laura and Lydia had “enjoyed -themselves” to their hearts’ content. They had been admired and praised -and fêted, and every one had said it was a delightful party. What more -could any young lady of nineteen desire? Geoff was very good-natured, -and did everything that was asked of him. And Laura wore his bracelet, -which was much admired by her friends, and gave rise to many pleasant -suggestions. “He is just the very person for you,” Lydia said -reflectively, as she examined it. “Now I should have liked emeralds or -diamonds, or grown-up jewels; but the turquoises are the very thing for -you. He sees your taste. If he were not Lord Stanton, just for simple -suitableness you should marry Geoff—he is the very person for you.”</p> - -<p>“I do not see why I should be made to marry any one for simple -suitableness, as if I were a baby,” was Laura’s protestation; but she -liked the turquoises, and she did not dislike the hints and smiling -gossip. And when young Lord Stanton and his mother went away, the house -regretted them from the highest to the lowest. The little girls stood -behind backs, crying, when the carriage drove away. “I should like to -know what they have to cry about,” Lydia said; “what is Geoff to them? -It is such nonsense; but they always are encouraged in everything. You -two little things, stop that, and be off with you! You are always in -some one’s way.”</p> - -<p>“He is as much our cousin as yours,” said Fanny, who was always known to -be saucy; but they skimmed away in a panic when Lydia turned round upon -them, not knowing what she might do. “Oh, how nice it would be to have -nothing but a mamma!” they said to each other as they alighted in her -room, where it was always quiet, and smoothed down their ruffled plumes. -Poor little doves! it was not for Geoff alone they were crying, for -Geoff’s mother had been very good to them. They had hung about her for -hours, and had stories told to them, and the world seemed an empty sort -of place when these two visitors went away.</p> - -<p>The mother and son drove home to their own house, he a little sorry, she -a little glad. It was wrong perhaps to be glad, implying a kind of tacit -censure on the people she had left; but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171">{171}</a></span> there was no harm in being -happy to get home. Stanton Hall was not an immemorial place like -Penninghame, nor a cosy unpretending country house like Elfdale, but a -great mansion intended to be grand and splendid, and overawe the -country. The splendour had fallen into a little disuse during Geoff’s -long minority, but as he had lived chiefly at home with his mother, it -had proportionately gained in comfort and the home aspect which only -being lived in can give to a house. They lived chiefly in one wing, -leaving the state part of the mansion almost unoccupied. Geoff had not -been brought up as most youths of his age are brought up. His mother had -been too timorous, both physically and spiritually, to trust her child -amid all the appalling dangers and indulgences of a public school. And -he had not even, more wonderful still, gone to any university. She was -his sole guardian, no one sharing her powers, for it never had been -supposed that little Geoff would be anybody in particular, or that it -was of the least importance how his mother brought him up. His education -had therefore been chiefly conducted at home by a tutor, chosen rather -for his goodness than his learning. Did it matter very much? Geoff was -not very clever, and it does not require much learning, as Mrs. -Hardcastle concluded in the case of her son Tony Lumpkin, to spend -fifteen thousand a year. Geoff had learned a great many things which -university men do not much meddle with, and he had forgotten as -successfully as any university man could do. He had a great deal less -Greek, but a good deal more French than most of those heroes; and he was -a good, honest, simple-hearted boy, as, Heaven be praised, in spite of -their many advantages, a great many of those same university men manage -to be. And, in short, he was very much like his contemporaries, though -brought up so very differently—a fact which would have wounded his -mother’s feelings more than anything else you could have said; for if -the result is just about the same as it would have been by the other -process, what is the good of taking a great deal of additional trouble? -Mr. Tritton, the tutor, had been all alone at Stanton during this visit -to Elfdale. He was a very good man. He had been as kind as a father to -Geoff from the moment he took charge of him, and had watched over him -with unfailing care;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172">{172}</a></span> indeed he was like a second mother as -well—perhaps more like that than the other—very anxious not to -“over-tire” his pupil, or to put any strain on his faculties. They were -the most peaceful household that could be conceived, and Geoff, -according to all rule, ought to have grown up a very feminine youth. But -by good luck he had not done so. In that demure household he got to be a -lively, energetic, out-door sort of person, and loved adventure, and -loved life perhaps all the better in consequence of the meek atmosphere -of quietness which surrounded him. To tell the truth it was he who, for -a long time, had held the helm of the house in his hand, and had -everything his own way.</p> - -<p>Mr. Tritton was upon the steps to welcome them, and the servants, who -were glad to see them back after the week of quiet. Who does not know -the kind of servants Lady Stanton would have?—men and women who had -seen the boy grow up, and thought or seemed to think there was nobody in -the world like Geoff—a housekeeper to whom her mistress was very -obsequious and conciliatory, but whom Geoff treated with a familiarity -which sometimes froze the very blood in his mother’s veins, who would -not for the world have taken such liberties; and a butler, who felt -himself an independent country gentleman, and went and came very much at -his own pleasure, and governed his inferiors <i>en bon prince</i>, but with a -lively sense of his own importance. These all received the travellers -with cordiality at the door, and brought them tea and were very kind to -them. It was quite touching and gratifying to Lady Stanton that they -should always be so kind. Harris, the butler, took her little -travelling-bag, and carried it into the drawing-room with his own hand; -and Mrs. Benson herself came to pour out her cup of tea. “I hope your -ladyship is not too much tired with your long drive,” Mrs. Benson said; -and Harris kindly lingered to hear her reply, and to assure her that all -had been going on well at Stanton while she was away.</p> - -<p>Geoff did not pay so much attention to the kindness of the servants. He -went off to the stables to give some orders, leaving Mr. Tritton with -his mother. Geoff called his tutor Old Tritton as easily as if he had -mixed in the world of men at Eton or Oxford, and went off about his own -business unconcerned. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173">{173}</a></span> when he had turned the corner of the house to -the stables, Geoff’s whistle stopped suddenly. He found a man standing -there with his back against the wall, whose appearance startled him. A -poacher is a thing that is obnoxious to every country gentleman, however -easy his principles may be on the question of game; and a tramp is a -thing that nobody with a house worth robbing can away with. The figure -that presented itself thus suddenly before Lord Stanton’s eyes was the -quintessence of both; a tall, loose-limbed man, with strong black locks -and an olive skin, in coarse velveteen and gaiters, and a coat with -multitudinous pockets, with a red handkerchief knotted round his neck, a -soft felt hat crushed into all manner of shapes, and a big stick in his -hand. He stood in a careless attitude, at his ease, leaning against the -wall. What had such a man to do there? and yet there he was for a -purpose, as any one could see, lying in wait; was it to rob, or to kill? -Geoff’s heart gave a little leap at the sight of the intruder. He had -not had much experience of this kind.</p> - -<p>“What are you doing here?” he asked sharply, the instincts of property -and authority springing up in disapproval and resistance. What had such -a fellow to do here?</p> - -<p>“I am doing nothing,” said the man, not changing his attitude, or even -taking off his hat, or showing the smallest mark of respect. He -continued even to lounge against the wall with rude indifference. “I am -here on your business, not on mine,” he said, carelessly.</p> - -<p>“On my business! Yes, I know,” said Geoff, suddenly bethinking himself; -“you are Bampfylde? I am glad you’ve got off; and you come to me -from—— ”</p> - -<p>“Old ’Lizabeth; that is about it. She’s a funny woman: whatever silly -thing she wants she always gets her way. She wants you now, and I’ve -come to fetch you. I suppose you’ll come, since she says it. And you’d -better make up your mind soon, for it does not suit me to stay here.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose not,” said Geoff, scarcely noticing what he said.</p> - -<p>“Why should you suppose not!” said the man, rousing himself with an air -of offence. He was taller than Geoff, a lanky but muscular figure. “I -have eyes and feelings as well as you.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174">{174}</a></span> I like a fine place. Why -shouldn’t I take my pleasure looking at it? You have a deal more, and -yet you’re not content.”</p> - -<p>“We were not discussing our feelings,” said Geoff, half contemptuous, -half sympathetic. “You have brought me a message, perhaps from your -mother?”</p> - -<p>“I’ve come from old ’Lizabeth. She says if you like to start to-night -along with me we’ll talk your business over, and if she can satisfy you -she will. Look you here, my young lord, your lordship’s a deal of -consequence to some, but it’s nothing to her and me. Come, if you like -to come; it’s your business, not our’s. If there’s danger it’s your own -risk, if there’s any good it’s you that will have it, not us—— ”</p> - -<p>“Danger!” said Geoff; “the danger of a walk up the fells! and good—to -me? Yes, you can say it is to me if you like, but you ought to be more -interested than I am. However, words don’t matter. Yes, let us say the -good is mine, and the danger, if any, is mine—— ”</p> - -<p>“Have it your own way,” said Bampfylde. “I’ll come back again, since -you’ve made up your mind, at ten to-night and show you the way.”</p> - -<p>“But why at night?” said Geoff; “to-morrow would be better. It is not -too far to go in a day.”</p> - -<p>“There’s the difference between you and us. Night is our time, you see. -It must be by night or not at all. Would you like to walk with me across -country, my lord? I don’t think you would, nor I wouldn’t like it. We -shouldn’t look natural together. But at night all’s one. I’ll be here at -ten; there’s a moon—and a two hours’ walk, or say three at the most, -it’s nothing to a young fellow like you.”</p> - -<p>This was a very startling proposition, and Geoff did not know what to -make of it. It grew more and more like a mysterious adventure, and -pleased him on that side; but he was a modern young man, with a keen -perception of absurdity, and everything melodramatic was alarming to -him. Why should he walk mysteriously in the middle of the night to a -cottage about which there need be no mystery on a perfectly innocent and -honest errand? He stared at his strange visitor with a perplexity beyond -words.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175">{175}</a></span></p> - -<p>“What possible object could be gained,” he said at last, “by going in -the night?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, if you’re afraid!” said this strange emissary, “don’t go—that’s -all about it: neither me nor her are forcing you to hear what we may -happen to know.”</p> - -<p>“I am not afraid,” said Geoff, colouring. It was an accusation which was -very hard to bear. “But there is reason in all things. I don’t want to -be ridiculous—” The man shrugged his shoulders—he laughed—nothing -could have been more galling. Geoff standing, looking at him, felt the -blood boiling in his veins.</p> - -<p>“Quite right too,” said Bampfylde. “What can we know that’s worth the -trouble? You’ll take a drive up some day in your coach and four, and -oblige us. That is just what I would do myself.”</p> - -<p>“In Heaven’s name, what am I expected to do?” cried Geoff; “make a -melodramatic ass of myself, and go in the middle of the night?”</p> - -<p>“I’m no scholar: long words are not my sort. Do or don’t, that’s the -thing I understand, and it is easy to settle. If you’re not coming, say -No, and I’ll go. If you are coming, let me know, and I’ll be here. -There’s nothing to make such a wonder about.”</p> - -<p>Geoff was in great doubt what was best to do. The adventure pleased him; -but the idea of ridicule held him back. “It is not pleasant to be -thought a fool,” he said. Then, nettled by the jeer in the face of this -strange fellow who kept his eyes—great, dark, and brilliant as they -were—fixed upon him, the young man cut the knot hurriedly. “Then never -mind the absurdity; be here at ten, as you say, and wait if I am not -ready. I don’t want everybody to know what a fool I am,” he said.</p> - -<p>“You are coming then?” said the man with a laugh. “That’s plucky -whatever happens. You’re not afraid?”</p> - -<p>“Pooh!” cried Geoff, turning away. He was too indignant and annoyed to -speak. He went on impatiently to the stables, leaving the stranger where -he stood. He was not afraid; but his young frame thrilled in every fibre -with excitement. Had not adventures of this kind sounded somewhat -ridiculous to the ideas of to-day, the mysterious expedition would have -been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176">{176}</a></span> delightful to him. But that uneasy sense of the ridiculous kept -down his anticipations. What could old ’Lizabeth have to tell that could -justify such precautions? But if she chose to be fantastic about her -secret, whatever it was, he must humour her. When he went in again, -there was no sign of his visitor, except the half-effaced mark of a -footstep on the soft gravel. The man had ground the heel of his boot -into it while he stood talking, and there it was, his mark to show the -place where he had been.</p> - -<p>The evening passed very strangely to young Lord Stanton. He heard his -mother and Mr. Tritton talking calmly of to-morrow. To-morrow the old -family lawyer was expected, and some of the arrangements attendant on -his coming of age, which was approaching, were to be discussed; and he -was asked, What he would like—in one or two respects. Should this be -done, or that, when his birthday came? Geoff could not tell what curious -trick of imagination affected him. He caught himself asking, Would he -ever come of age? Would to-morrow be just as the other days, no more and -no less? How absurd the question was! What could possibly happen to him -in a long mountain walk, even though it might be through the darkness? -There is nothing in that homely innocent country to make midnight -dangerous. Wild Bampfylde might be an exciting sort of companion; but -what more? As for enemies, Geoff remembered what he had said so short a -time before. He did not believe in them; why should he? he himself, he -felt convinced, possessed no such thing in all the world.</p> - -<p>But it was astonishing how difficult it was that evening to get free. -Lady Stanton, who generally was fatigued with the shortest journey, was -cheerful and talkative to-night, and overflowing with plans; and even -Mr. Tritton was entertaining. It was only by saying that he had letters -to write that Geoff at last managed to get away. He disliked writing -letters so much that the plea was admitted with smiles. “We must not -balk such a virtuous intention,” the tutor said. He went into the -library with a beating heart. This room had a large window which opened -upon the old-fashioned bowling-green. Geoff changed his dress with great -speed and quiet, putting on a rough shooting suit.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177">{177}</a></span> The night was dark, -but soft, with stars faintly lighting up a hazy sky. He stepped out from -the big window and closed it after him. The air was very fresh, a little -chilly, as even a midsummer night generally is in the north country. He -gave a little nervous shiver as he came out into the darkness and -dullness. “There’s some one walking over your grave,” said a voice at -his elbow. Geoff started, to his own intense shame and annoyance, as if -he had received a shot. “Very likely,” he said, commanding himself; -“over all our graves perhaps. That harms nobody. You are there, -Bampfylde? That’s well; don’t talk, but go on.”</p> - -<p>“You’re a good bold one after all,” said the voice by his side. Geoff’s -heart beat uneasily at the sound, and yet the commendation gave him a -certain pleasure. He was more at his ease when they emerged from the -shadow of the house, and he could see the outline of his companion’s -figure, and realize him as something more than a voice. He gave a -somewhat longing look back at the scattered lights in the windows as he -set out thus through the silence and darkness. Would any one find out -that he was gone? But his spirit rose as they went on, at a steady pace, -swinging along under the deep hedgerows, and across the frequent bridges -where so many streamlets kept crossing the road, adding an unseen tinkle -to the sounds of the summer night.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX.<br /><br /> -<small>A MIDNIGHT WALK.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">When</span> young Lord Stanton left his own house with Wild Bampfylde there was -a tingle of excitement in the young man’s veins. Very few youths of his -age are to be found so entirely home-bred as Geoff. He had never been in -the way of mischief, and he had no natural tendency to lead him -thitherward, so that he had passed these first twenty years of his -existence without an adventure, without anything occurring to him that -might not have been known to all the world. To leave your own house<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178">{178}</a></span> -when other people are thinking of going to bed, for an expedition you -know not where, under the guidance of you know not whom, is a -sufficiently striking beginning to the path of mystery and adventure; -and there was a touch of personal peril in it which gave Geoff a little -tingle in his veins. His brother had been killed by some one with whom -this wild fellow was closely connected; it was a secret of blood which -the young man had set himself to solve one way or other; and this no -doubt affected his imagination, and for a short time the consciousness -of danger was strong in him, quickening his pulses and making his heart -beat. This was increased by a sense of wrong-doing, in so far as Geoff -felt that he might be exposing the tranquil household he had left behind -to agonies of apprehension about him, did he not return sufficiently -early to escape being found out. Finally, on the top of this -consciousness of conditional fault came a feeling, perhaps the most -strong of all, of the possible absurdity of his position. Romantic -adventure, if it never ceases to be attractive to the young, is looked -upon with different eyes at different periods, and the nineteenth -century has agreed to make a joke of melodrama. Instead of being moved -by a fine romantic situation, the modern youth laughs; and the idea of -finding himself in such picturesque and dramatic circumstances strikes -him as the most curious and laughable, if not ridiculous, idea. To -recognize himself as setting out, like the hero of a novel or a play (of -the old school), to search out a mystery—into the haunts of a -law-defying and probably law-breaking class, under the guidance of a -theatrical vagrant, tramp, or gipsy, to ask counsel of the weird old -woman, bright-eyed and solemn, who held all the threads of the story in -her hands, filled Geoff with mingled confusion and amusement. He had -almost laughed to himself as he realized it; but with the laugh a flush -came over his face—what would other people think? He felt that he would -be laughed at as romantic, jibed at as being able to believe that any -real or authentic information could be obtained in this ridiculous way. -’Lizabeth Bampfylde in the witness-box would no doubt be valuable, but -the romances she might tell in her own house, to a young man evidently -so credulous and of such a theatrical temperament—these two things -were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179">{179}</a></span> entirely different, and he would be thoroughly laughed at for his -foolishness.</p> - -<p>This consciousness of something ridiculous in the whole business -reassured him, however; and better feelings rose as he went on with a -half-pleased, half-excited, exhilaration and curiosity. The night was -fine, warm, and genial, but dark; a few stars shone large and lambent in -the veiled sky, but there was as yet no moon, so that all the light -there was was concentrated above in the sky, and the landscape -underneath was wrapped in darkness, a soft, cool, incense-breathing -obscurity—for night is as full of odours as the morning. It is full of -sounds too, all the more mysterious for having no kind of connection -with the visible; and no country is so full of sounds as the North -country, where the road will now thread the edge of a dark, unseen, -heathery, thymy moor, and now cross, at a hundred links and folds, the -course of some invisible stream, or some dozens of little runlets -tinkling on their way to a bigger home of waters. Now dark hedgerows -would close in the path; now it would open up and widen into that world -of space, the odorous, dewy moorland; now lead by the little street, the -bridge, the straggling outskirts of a village. Generally all was quiet -in the hamlets, the houses closed, the inhabitants in bed, but sometimes -there would be a sudden gleam of lightness into the night, a dazzle from -an open door or unshuttered window. The first of these rural places was -Stanton, the village close to the great House, where Geoff unconsciously -stole closer into the shadow, afraid to be seen. Here it was the smithy -that was still open, a dazzling centre of light in the gloom. The smith -came forward to his door as they passed, roused by the steady tread of -their footsteps, and looked curiously out upon them, his figure relieved -against the red background of light. “What, Dick! is’t you, lad?” he -said, peering out. “Got off again? that’s right, that’s right; and who’s -that along with you this fine night?” Bampfylde did not stop to reply, -to Geoff’s great relief. He went on with long swinging steps, taking no -notice. “If anybody asks you, say you don’t know,” he said as he went -on, throwing back a sort of challenge into the gloom. He did not talk to -his companion. Sometimes he whistled low, but as clearly as a bird, -imitating indeed the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180">{180}</a></span> notes of the birds, the mournful cry of the -lapwing, the grating call of the corn-crake; sometimes he would sing to -himself low crooning songs. In this way they made rapid progress to the -foot of the hills.</p> - -<p>Geoff had been glad of the silence at first; it served to deliver him -from those uncomfortable thoughts which had filled his mind, the -vagabond’s carelessness reassuring and calming his excitement; for -neither the uneasy sense of danger he had started with, nor the equally -uneasy sense of the ludicrous which had possessed him, were consistent -with the presence of this easy, unexcited companion, who conducted -himself as if he were alone, and would stop and listen to the whirr and -flutter of wild creatures in the hedgerows or on the edge of the moor, -as if he had forgotten Geoff’s very presence. All became simple as they -went on, the very continuance of the walk settling down and calming the -agitation of the outset. By and by, however, Geoff began to be impatient -of the silence, and of the interest his companion showed in everything -except himself. Could he be, perhaps, one of the “naturals” who are so -common in the North, a little less imbecile than usual, but still -incapable of continuous attention? Thus, after his first half-alarmed, -half-curious sense of the solemnity of the enterprise, Geoff came back -to an everyday boyish impatience of its unusual features and a -disposition to return to the lighter intercourse of ordinary life.</p> - -<p>“How far have we to go now?” he asked. They had come to the end of the -level, and were just about to ascend the lower slopes of hilly country -which shut in the valley. The fells rising before them made the -landscape still more dark and mysterious, and seemed to thrust -themselves between the wayfarers’ eyes and that light which seemed to -retire more and more into the clear pale shining of the sky.</p> - -<p>“Tired already?” said the man, with a shrug of his shoulders. He had -stopped to investigate a hollow under a great gorse-bush, just below the -level of the road, from which came rustlings and scratchings -indistinguishable. Bampfylde raised himself with a half-laugh, and came -back to Geoff’s side. “These small creatures is never tired,” he said; -“they scuds about all day, and sleep that light at night that a breath -wakes them; and yet<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181">{181}</a></span> they’re but small, not so big as my hand; and knows -their way, they does, wherever they’ve got to go.”</p> - -<p>“I allow they are cleverer than I am,” said Geoff, good-humouredly, “but -then they cannot speak to ask their way. Men have a little advantage. -And even I am not so ignorant as you think. I have been on the fells in -a mist, and knew my way, or guessed it. At all events, I got home again, -and that is something.”</p> - -<p>“There will be no mist to-night,” said Bampfylde, looking up at the sky.</p> - -<p>“No; but it is dark enough for anything. Look here, I trust you, and you -might trust me. You know why I am going.”</p> - -<p>“How do you trust me, my young lord?”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Geoff; “supposing I am a match for you, one man against -another, how can I tell you have not got comrades about? My brother lost -his life—by some one connected with you. Did you know my brother?”</p> - -<p>The suddenness of this question took his companion by surprise. He -wavered for a moment, and fell backward with an involuntary movement of -alarm.</p> - -<p>“What’s that for, lad, bringing up a dead man’s name out here in the -dark, and near midnight? Do you want to fley me? <i>I</i> never meddled with -him. He would be safe in his bed this night, and married to his bonnie -lady, and bairns in his house to heir his title and take your lordship -from you, if there had been nobody but me.”</p> - -<p>“I believe that,” said Geoff, softened. “They say you never harmed man.”</p> - -<p>“No, nor beast—except varmint, or the like of a hare or so—when the -old wife wanted a bit o’ meat. Never man. For man’s blood is precious,” -said the wild fellow with a shudder. “There’s something in it that’s not -in a brute. If I were to kill you or you me in this lonesome place, -police and that sort might never find it out; but all the same, the -place would tell—there would be something there different; they say -man’s blood never rubs out.”</p> - -<p>Geoff felt a little thrill run through his own veins as he saw his -companion shiver and tremble; but it was not fear. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182">{182}</a></span> words somehow -established perfect confidence between himself and his guide; and he had -all the simplicity of mind of a youth whose faith had never been -tampered with, and who believed with the unshaken sincerity of -childhood. “The stain on the mind never wears out,” he said, -thoughtfully. “I knew a boy once who had shot his brother without -knowing it. How horrible it was! he never forgot it; and yet it was not -his fault.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! I wish as I had been that lucky—to shoot my brother by accident,” -said Wild Bampfylde, with a long sigh, shaking into its place a pouch or -game-bag which he wore across his shoulder. “It would have been the best -thing for him,” he added, in answer to Geoff’s cry of protest; “then he -wouldn’t have lived—for worse—— ”</p> - -<p>“Have you a brother so unfortunate?”</p> - -<p>“Unfortunate! I don’t know if that is what you call it. Yes, -unfortunate. He never meant bad. I don’t credit it.”</p> - -<p>“You are not speaking,” said Geoff, in a very low voice, overpowered at -once with curiosity and interest, “of John Musgrave?”</p> - -<p>“The young Squire? No, I don’t mean him; he’s bad, and bad enough, but -not so bad. You’ve got a deal to learn, my young lord. And what’s your -concern with all that old business? If another man’s miserable, <i>that</i> -don’t take bit or sup from you—nor a night’s rest, unless you let it. -You’ve got everything that heart could desire. Why can’t you be content, -and let other folks be?”</p> - -<p>“When we could help them, Bampfylde?” said Geoff. “Is that the way you -would be done by? Left to languish abroad; left with a stain on your -name, and no one to hold out a hand for you—nobody to try to get you -righted; only thinking of their own comfort, and the bit and the sup and -the night’s rest?”</p> - -<p>“You’ve never done without neither one nor t’other,” came in a hoarse -undertone from Bampfylde’s lips. “It’s fine talking; but it’s little you -know.”</p> - -<p>“No, I’ve never had the chance,” said Geoff. “I can’t tell what it’s -like, that’s true; but if it ever comes my way—— ”</p> - -<p>“Ah, ay! it’s fine talking—it’s fine talking!”</p> - -<p>Geoff did not know how to reply. He went on impatiently,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183">{183}</a></span> tossing aloft -his young head, as a horse does, excited by his own words like the -playing of a trumpet. They proceeded so up a stiff bit of ascent that -taxed their strength and their breathing, and made conversation less -practicable. The winding mountain road seemed to pierce into the very -fastnesses of the hills, and the tall figure of the vagrant a stop in -advance of him appeared to Geoff like the shadow of some ghostly pioneer -working his way into the darkness. No twinkle of a lamp, no outline of -any inhabited place looming against the lighter risings of the manifold -slopes, encouraged their progress. The hills, which would have made the -very brightness of the morning dark, increased the gloom of the night. -Only the tinkle of here and there a little stream, the sound of their -own footsteps as they passed on, one in advance of the other, the small -noises which came so distinctly through the air—here a rustle, there a -jar of movement, something stirring under a stone, something moving amid -the heather, were to be heard. Bampfylde himself was stilled by these -great shadows. His whistle dropped; and the low croon of song which he -had raised from time to time did not take its place. He became almost -inaudible, as he was almost invisible; only the sound of a measured step -and a large confused outline seen at times against the uncertain -openings and bits of darkling sky.</p> - -<p>When they came abreast again, however, on a comparatively smooth level, -after a stiff piece of climbing, he spoke suddenly. “It’s queer work -going like this through the dark. Many a night I have done it with no -company, and then a man’s drawn out of himself watching the living -things: one will stir at your foot, and one go whirr and strike across -your very face, for they put more trust in you in the dark. You see they -have the use of their eyesight, and the like of you and me haven’t. So -they know their advantage. But put a man down beside another man, and -a’s changed. I cannot understand the meaning of it. It puts things in -your head, and it puts away the innocent creatures. Men’s seldom -innocent: but they’re awful strange,” said the vagrant, with a sigh.</p> - -<p>“Do you think they are so strange? I am not sure that I do,” said Geoff, -bewildered a little. “They are just like<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184">{184}</a></span> everything else—one is dull, -one is clever; but except for that—— ”</p> - -<p>“Clever! it’s the creatures that are clever. Did you ever see a bird -make a fuss to get you off where her nest was? A woman wouldn’t have -sense to do that. She’d run and shriek, and get hold of her bairns; but -the bird’s clever. That’s what I calls clever. It’s something stranger -than that. When a man’s beside you, all’s different; there’s him -thinking and you thinking; and though you’re close, and I can grip -you”—here Bampfylde seized upon Geoff with a sudden, startling grasp, -which alarmed the young man—“I can’t tell no more than Adam where your -mind is. Asking your pardon, my young lord, I didn’t mean to startle -you,” he added, dropping his hold. “Now the creatures is all there; you -know where you have ’em. Far the contrary with a man.”</p> - -<p>Geoff was not given to abstract thoughts, and this sudden entry into the -regions of the undiscovered perplexed him. “You like company, then?” he -said, doubtfully. He knew a great deal more than his companion did of -almost everything that could be suggested, but not of this.</p> - -<p>“Like company? it’s confusing, very confusing. But the creatures is -simple. You can watch their ways, and they’re never double-minded. -They’re at one thing, one thing at a time. Now, a man, there’s notions -in his head, and you can never tell how they got there.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose,” said young Geoff, perplexed yet reverential, “it is because -men are immortal; not like the beasts that perish.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, ay—I suppose they perish,” said Bampfylde. “What would they be -like us for, and sicken, and pine? They get the good of it all the time; -run wild as they like, and do mischief as they like, and never put in -gaol for it. You think they’re sleeping now? and so they are, and waking -too—as still as the stones and as lively as the stars up yonder. That’s -them; but us, if we’re sleeping, it’s for hours long, and dreams with -it; one bit of you lying like a log, t’other bit of you off at the ends -of the airth. So, if you’re woke sudden, chances are you aren’t there to -be woke—and there’s a business; but the creatures, they’re always -there.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185">{185}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“That is true,” said Geoff, who was slightly overawed, and thought this -very fine and poetical—finer than anything he had ever realized before. -“But sometimes they are ill, I suppose, and suffer too?”</p> - -<p>“Then them that is merciful puts them out of their pain. The -hardest-hearted ones will do that. A bird with a broken wing, or a beast -with a broken leg, unless it be one of the gentlefolks’ pets, that’s -half mankind, and has to suffer for it because his master’s fond of him -(and that’s funny too)—the worst of folks will put them out of their -pain. But a man—we canna’ do it,” cried the vagrant; “there’s law -again’ it, and more than law. If it was nothing but law, little the -likes of me would mind; but there’s something written here,” he said, -putting his hand to his breast; “something that hinders you.”</p> - -<p>“I hope so indeed,” said Geoff, a little breathless, with a sense of -horror; “you would not take away a life?”</p> - -<p>“But the creatures, ay; they have the best of it. You point your gun at -them, or you wring their necks, and it’s all over. I’m fond of the -creatures—creatures of all kinds. I’m fond of being out with them on a -heathery moor like this all myself. They know me, and there’s no fear in -them. In the morning early, when the air’s all blue with the dawn, the -stirring and the moving there is, and the scudding about, setting the -house in order! A thing not the size of your hand will come out with two -bright eyes, and cock its head and look up at you. A cat may look at a -king; a bit of a moor chicken, or a rabbit the size o’ my thumb, up and -faces you, and, ‘Who are you, my man?’ That is what they looks like; but -you never see them like that after it’s full day.”</p> - -<p>“Then is night their happy time?” said Geoff, humouring his strange -companion.</p> - -<p>“Night, they’re free. There’s none about that wishes them harm; and -though I snare varmint, and sometimes take a hare or a bird,—I’ll not -deny it, my young lord, though you were to clap me in prison again -to-morrow—they’re not afraid o’ me; they know I’ll not harm them. Even -the varmint, if they didn’t behave bad and hurt the rest, I’d never have -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186">{186}</a></span>the heart. When you go back, if you do go back—— ”</p> - -<p>“I must go back,” said Geoff, very gravely. “Why should not I? You don’t -think I could stay up here?”</p> - -<p>“I was not thinking one thing or another. The like of you is contrary. -I’ve little to do with men; but when you go, if you go, it might be -early morning, the blue time, at the dawn. Then’s the time to see; when -there’s all the business to be done afore the day, and after the night. -Children is curious,” said Bampfylde, with a softening of his voice, -which felt in the darkness like a slowly dawning smile; “but creatures -is more curious yet. I like to watch them. You’ll see all the life -that’s in the moors if it’s that time when you go.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose if there is anything to tell me I cannot go sooner,” said -Geoff. His tone was grave, and so was his face, though that was -invisible. “Then it will be day before I get home, and they will all -know—perhaps I was a fool.”</p> - -<p>“For coming?” said the man, turning round to peer into his face though -it was covered by the darkness; and then he gave a low laugh. “I could -have told you that!”</p> - -<p>For a moment Geoff’s blood ran colder; he felt a little thrill of -dismay. Was this strange creature a “natural” as he had thought, or did -what he said imply danger? But no more was said for a long time. -Bampfylde sank back again all at once into the silence he had so -suddenly broken, or rather into the low crooning of monotonous old songs -with which he had beguiled the first part of the journey. There was a -kind of slumbrous soothing in them which half-interested, half-stupefied -Geoff. They all went to one tune, a tune not like anything he knew—a -kind of low chant, recalling several airs that did not vary from verse -to verse, but repeated itself, and so lulled the wayfarer that all -active sensation seemed to go from him, and the monotonous, mechanical -movement of his limbs seemed to beat time to the croon of sound which -accompanied the gradual march. There was something weird in it, -something like “the woven paces and the waving hands” of the -enchantress. Geoff felt his eyes grow heavy, and his head sinking on his -breast, as the low, regular tramp and chant went on.</p> - -<p>At length, all at once, the hills seemed to clear away from the sky, -opening up on either hand; and straight before them,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187">{187}</a></span> hanging low, like -a signal of trouble, a late risen and waning moon that seemed thrust -forward out into the air, and hanging from the sky, appeared in the -luminous but mournful heaven in front of them. There is always something -more or less baleful and troublous in this sudden apparition, so late -and out of date, of a waning moon; the oil seems low in the lamp, the -light ready to be extinguished, the flame quivering in the socket. -Between them and the sky stood a long, low cottage, rambling and -extensive, with a rough, grey stone wall built round it, upon which the -pale moonlight shone. Long before they reached it, as soon as their -steps could be audible, the mingled baying and howling of a dog was -heard, rising doleful and ominous in the silence; and from under the -roof—which was half rough thatch and half the coarse tiles used for -labourers’ cottages—a light strangely red against the radiance of the -moon flickered with a livid glare. A strange black silhouette of a house -it was, with the low moonlight full upon it, showing here and there in a -ghostly full white upon a bit of wall or roof, and contrasting with the -red light in the window: it made a mystic sort of conclusion to the -journey. Bampfylde directed his steps towards it without a word. He -knocked a stroke or two on the door, which seemed to echo over all the -country and up to the mountain-tops in their great stillness. “We are at -home, now,” he said.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX.<br /><br /> -<small>THE COTTAGE ON THE FELLS.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">There</span> was a sound of movement within the house, but no light visible as -they stood at the door. Then a window was cautiously opened, and a voice -called out into the darkness, “Is that you, my lad?” Geoff felt more and -more the little thrill of alarm which was quite instinctive, and meant -nothing except excited fancy; such precautions looked unlike the -ordinary ease and freedom of a peasant’s house. A minute after the door -was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188">{188}</a></span> opened, and ’Lizabeth Bampfylde made her appearance. She had her -red handkerchief as usual tied over her white cap, and the flash of this -piece of colour and of the old woman’s brilliant eyes were the first -things which warmed the gloom, the blackness and whiteness and mystic -midnight atmosphere. She made an old-fashioned curtsey, with a certain -dignity in it, when she saw Geoff, and her face, which had been somewhat -eager in expression, paled and saddened instantly. The young man saw her -arms come together with a gesture of pain, though the candle she held -prevented the natural clasp of the hands. She was not glad to see him, -though she had sent for him. This troubled Geoff, whom from his -childhood most people had been pleased to see. “You’ve come, then, my -young lord?” she said, with a half-suppressed groan.</p> - -<p>“Indeed, I thought you wanted me to come,” he said, unreasonably annoyed -by this absence of welcome; “you sent for me.”</p> - -<p>“You thought the lad would be daunted,” said Wild Bampfylde, “and I told -you he would not be daunted if he had any metal in him. So now you’re at -the end of all your devices. Come in and welcome, my young lord. I’m -glad of it, for one.”</p> - -<p>Saying this, the vagrant disappeared into the gloom of the interior, -where his step was audible moving about, and was presently followed by -the striking of a light, which revealed, through an open door, the -old-fashioned cottage kitchen, so far in advance of other moorland -cottages of the same kind, that it had a little square entrance from the -door, which did not open direct into the family living-room. This rude -little ante-room had even a kind of rude decoration, dimly apparent by -the light of ’Lizabeth’s candle. A couple of old guns hung on one wall, -another boasted a deer’s head with fine antlers. Once upon a time it had -evidently been prized and cared for. The open door of the room into -which Bampfylde had gone showed the ordinary cottage dresser with its -gleaming plates (a decoration which in these days has mounted from the -kitchen to the drawing-room), deal table, and old-fashioned settle, -lighted dimly by a small lamp on the mantelpiece, and the smouldering -red of the fire.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189">{189}</a></span> ’Lizabeth closed the door slowly, and with trembling -hands, which trembled still more when Geoff attempted to help her. “No, -no; go in, go in, my young gentleman. Let me be. It’s me to serve the -like of you, not the like of you to open or shut my door for me. Ah, -these are the ways that make you differ from common folk!” she said, as -the young man stood back to let her pass. “My son leaves me to do -whatever’s to be done, and goes in before me, and calls me to serve him; -but the like of you—. It was that, and not his name or his money, that -took my Lily’s heart.”</p> - -<p>Geoff followed her into the kitchen. It was low and large, with a small -deep-set window at each corner, as is usual in such cottages. Before the -fire was spread a large rug of home manufacture, made of scraps of -coloured cloth, arranged in an indistinct pattern upon a black -background, and Bampfylde was occupying himself busily, putting forward -a large high easy-chair in front of the fire, and breaking the -“gathered” coals to give at once heat and light. “Sit you down there,” -he said, thrusting Geoff into it almost with violence, “you’re little -used to midnight strolling. Me, it’s meat and drink to me to be free and -aneath the stars. Let her be, let her be. She’s not like one of your -ladies. Her own way, that’s all the like of her can ever get to please -them—and she’s gotten that,” he said, giving another vigorous poke to -the fire. Up here among the fells the fire was pleasant, though it was -the middle of August: and Geoff’s young frame was sufficiently unused to -such long trudges to make him glad of the rest. He sat down and looked -round him with a grateful sense of the warmth and repose. A -north-country cottage was no strange place to young Lord Stanton, and -all the tremour of the adventure had passed from him at the sight of the -light and the homely, kindly interior. No harm could possibly happen in -so familiar an atmosphere, and in such a natural place. Meantime old -’Lizabeth, with a thrill of agitation in her movements which was very -apparent, busied herself in laying the table, putting down a clean -tablecloth, and placing bread, cheese, and milk upon it. “I have wine, -if you like wine better,” she said. “He will get it, but he takes none -himself—nothing, poor lad, nothing. He’s a good son and a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190">{190}</a></span> good -lad—many a time I’ve thanked God that He’s left me such a lad to be the -comfort of my old age.”</p> - -<p>Wild Bampfylde gave a laugh which was harsh and broken. “You were not -always so thankful,” he said, producing out of some unseen corner a -black bottle; “but the milk is better of its kind, being natural, than -the wine.”</p> - -<p>“Hush, lad; milk is little to the like of him; but <i>that’s</i> good, for I -have it here for—a sick person. Take something, take something, young -gentleman. You can trust them that have broken bread in your presence, -and sat at your table. Well, if you will have the milk, though it costs -but little, it’s good too; I would not give my brown cow for ne’er a one -in the dales; and eat a bit of the wheaten bread,—it’s baker’s bread, -like what you eat at your own grand house. I would not be so mean as to -set you down, a gentleman like you, to what’s good and good enough for -us. The griddle-cake! no, but you’ll not eat that, my young lord, not -that; it’s o’er homely for the like of you.”</p> - -<p>“I am not hungry,” said Geoff, “and I came here, you know, not to eat -and drink, but to hear something you had to tell me, Mrs. Bampfylde—”</p> - -<p>“My name is ’Lizabeth—nobody says mistress to me.”</p> - -<p>“Well; but you have something to tell me. I left home without any -explanation, and I wish to get back soon, that they—that my mother,” -said Geoff, half-ashamed, yet too proud to omit the apparently (he -thought) childish excuse, since it was true, “may not be uneasy.”</p> - -<p>“Your mother? forgive me that did not mind your mother! Oh, you’re a -good lad; you’re worthy a woman’s trust that thinks of your mother, and -dares to say it! Ay, ay—there’s plenty to tell; if I can make up my -mind to it—if I can make up my mind!”</p> - -<p>“Was not your mind made up then,” said Geoff with some impatience, “when -in this way, in the night, you sent for me?”</p> - -<p>“Oh lad!” cried ’Lizabeth, wringing her hands. “How was I to know you -would come, the like of you to the like of me? I put it on Providence -that has been often contrairy—oh, aye contrairy, to mine and me. I -shouldn’t have tempted God. I said to myself, if he comes it will be the -hand of Heaven. But who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191">{191}</a></span> was to think you would come? You a lord, and a -fine young gentleman, and me a poor old woman, old as your grandmother. -I thought my heart would have sunk to my shoes when I saw he had come -after a’!”</p> - -<p>“I told you he would come,” said Bampfylde, who stood leaning against -the mantelpiece. He had taken his bread and cheese from the table, and -was eating it where he stood.</p> - -<p>“Of course I would come,” said Geoff. “I could not suppose you would -send for me for nothing. I knew it must be something important. Tell me -now, for here I am.”</p> - -<p>’Lizabeth sat down, dropping into a wooden arm-chair at the end of the -table with a kind of despair, and throwing her apron over her head, fell -a-crying feebly. “What am I to do? what am I to do?” she said, sobbing. -“I have tempted Providence—Oh, but I forgot what was written, ‘Thou -shalt not tempt the Lord thy God.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>For a minute or two neither of the men spoke, and the sounds of her -distress were all that was audible. Once or twice, indeed, Geoff thought -he heard a faint sound, like the echo of some low wail or moan, come -through the silence. Not the moan itself, but an echo, a ghost of it. -But his companions took no notice of this, and he thought he must be -mistaken. Everything besides was still. The fire by this time had burned -up, and now and then broke into a little flutter of flame; the clock -went on ticking with that measured steady movement which ‘beats out the -little lives of men;’ and the broken sobs grew lower. An impatience of -the stillness began to take possession of Geoff, but what was he to do? -He restrained himself with an effort.</p> - -<p>“You should make a clean breast,” said Bampfylde, munching his bread and -cheese as he spoke, with his eyes fixed on the fire, not looking at his -mother. “Long since it would have been well to do it and an ease to your -mind. I would make a clean breast now.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, lad, a clean breast, a clean breast!” she said, rocking herself. -“If it was only me it concerned—if it was only me!”</p> - -<p>“If it was only you what would it matter?” said the vagrant, with a -philosophy which sounded less harsh to the person addressed than to him -who looked on. “You—you’re old, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192">{192}</a></span> you’ll die, and there would be an -end of it; but them that suffer most have years and years before them, -and if you die before you do justice—— ”</p> - -<p>“Then <i>you</i> can tell, that have aye wanted to tell!” she cried with a -hot outburst of indignation mingled with tears. Then she resumed that -monotonous movement, rocking herself again and again, and calmed herself -down. It is not so intolerable to a peasant to be told of his or her -approaching end as it is to others. She was used to plain speech, and -was it not reasonable what he said? “It’s all true, quite true. I’m old, -and I cannot bide here for ever to watch him and think of him—and I -might make a friend, the Lord grant it, and find one to stand by -him—— ”</p> - -<p>“You mean another, a second one,” said her son. He stood through all -this side dialogue munching his bread and cheese without once glancing -at her even, his shoulders high against the mantelpiece, his eyes cast -down.</p> - -<p>After a moment’s interval ’Lizabeth rose. She came forward moving feebly -in her agitation to where Geoff sat. “My young lord, if I tell you -<i>that</i> that I would rather die than tell—that that breaks my heart; -you’ll mind that I am doing it to make amends to the dead and to the -living—and—you’ll swear to me first to keep it secret? You’ll swear -your Bible oath?—without that, not another word.”</p> - -<p>“Swear!” said Geoff, in alarm.</p> - -<p>“Just swear—you can do it as well, they tell me, in one place as -another, in a private house or a justice court. I hope we have Bibles -here—Bibles enough—if we but make a right use of them,” said the old -woman, perplexed, mingling the formulas of common life with the -necessities of an extraordinary and unrealized emergency. “Here is a -Testament, that is what is taken to witness in the very court itself. -You’ll lay your hand upon it, and you’ll kiss the book and swear. Where -are you going to, young man?”</p> - -<p>Geoff rose and pushed away the book she had placed before him. He was -half indignant, half disappointed. “Swear!” he said, “do you know what I -want this information for? Is it to lock it up in my mind, as you seem -to have done? I want it for use.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193">{193}</a></span> I want it to help a man who has been -cruelly treated between you. I have no right to stand up for him,” said -Geoff, his nostrils expanding, his cheeks flushing, “but I feel for -him—and do you think I will consent to put my last chance away, and -hear your story for no good? No indeed; if I am not to make use of it I -will go back again and find out for myself—I don’t want to be told.”</p> - -<p>The old woman, and it may be added her son also, stood and gazed upon -the glowing eager countenance of the young man with a mingling of -feelings which it would be impossible to describe. Admiration, surprise, -and almost incredulity were in them. He had not opposed them hitherto, -and it was almost impossible to believe that he would have the courage -to oppose them so decidedly; but as he stood confronting them, young, -simple, ingenuous, reasonable, they were both convinced of their error. -Geoff would yield no more than the hill behind. His very simplicity and -easiness made him invulnerable. Wild Bampfylde burst into that sudden -broken laugh which is with some the only evidence of emotion. He came -forward hastily and patted Geoff’s shoulder, “That’s right, my lad, -that’s right,” he cried.</p> - -<p>“You will not,” said old ’Lizabeth; “not swear?—and not hear me?—oh, -but you’re bold—oh, but you’ve a stout heart to say that to me in my -ain house! Then the Lord’s delivered me, and I’ll say nothing,” she said -with a sudden cry of delight.</p> - -<p>Her son came up and took her by the arm. “Look here,” he said, “it was -me that brought him. I did not approve, but I did your bidding, as I’ve -always done your bidding; but I’ve changed my mind if you’ve changed -yours. Now that he is here, make no more fuss, but tell him; for, -remember, I know everything as well as you do, and if you will not, I -will. We have come too far to go back now. Tell him; or I will take him -where he can see with his own eyes.”</p> - -<p>“See! what will he see?” cried ’Lizabeth, with a flush of angry colour. -“Do you threaten me, lad? He’ll see a poor afflicted creature; but that -will tell him nothing.”</p> - -<p>“Mother! are you aye the same? Still <i>him</i>, always him, whatever -happens. What has there been that has not yielded<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194">{194}</a></span> to him? the rest of -us, your children as well, and justice and honour and right and your own -comfort, and the young Squire’s life. Oh, it’s been a bonnie business -from first to last! And if you will not tell now, then there is no hope -that I can see; and I will do it myself. I am not threatening; but what -must be, must be. Mother, I’ll have to do it myself.”</p> - -<p>When he first addressed her as mother, ’Lizabeth had started with a -little cry. What might be the reason that made this mode of expression -unusual it was impossible to say; but it affected the old woman as -nothing had yet done. She looked up at him with a wondering, wistful -inquiry in her face, as if to ask in what meaning he used the -word—kindly or unkindly, taunting or loving? When he repeated the name -she started up as if the sound stung her, and stood for a moment like -one driven half out of herself by force of pressure. She looked wildly -round her as if looking for some escape, then suddenly seized the -lighted candle, which still burned on the table. “Then if it must be, -let it be,” she said. “Oh, lad! it’s years and years since I’ve heard -that name! you that would not, and him that could not, and her that was -far away; was there ever a mother as sore punished?” But it would seem -that this expression of feeling exhausted the more generous impulse, for -she set down the light on the table again, and dropping into her seat, -threw her apron over her head. “No, I canna do it; I canna do it. Let -him die in quiet. It canna be long.”</p> - -<p>The vagrant watched her with a keen scrutiny quite unlike his usual -careless ways. “It’s not them as are a burden on the earth that dies,” -he said. “You’ve said that long—let him die in peace; let him die in -peace. Am I wishing him harm? There’s ne’er a one will hurt <i>him</i>. He’s -safe enough. Whoever suffers, it will not be him.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, lad, lad!” cried the mother, uncovering her face to look at him. At -’Lizabeth’s age there are no floods of tears possible. Her eyes were -drawn together and full of moisture—that was all, She looked at him -with a passion of reproach and pain. “Did you say suffer? What’s a’ the -troubles that have been into this house to his affliction? My son, my -son, my miserable lad! You that can come and go as you like, that have a -mind free,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195">{195}</a></span> that have your light heart—oh ay, you have a light heart, -or how could you waste your days and your nights among beasts and wild -things? How can the like of you judge the like of him?”</p> - -<p>During this long discussion, to which he had no sort of clue, Geoff -stood looking from one to another in a state of perplexity impossible to -describe. It could not be John Musgrave they were talking of? Who could -it be? Some one who was “afflicted,” yet who had been exempt from -burdens which had fallen in his stead upon others. Young Lord Stanton, -who had come here eager to hear all the story in which he was so much -interested, anxious to discover everything, stood, his eyes growing -larger, his lips dropping apart in sheer wonder, listening; and feeling -all the time that these two peasants spoke a different language from -himself, and one to which he had no clue. Just then, however, in the -dead silence after ’Lizabeth had spoken, the faint sound like a muffled -cry which he had heard before, broke in more loudly. It made Geoff -start, who could not guess what it meant, and it roused his companions -effectually, who did know. ’Lizabeth wrung her hands; she raised her -head in an agony of listening. “He has got one of his ill turns,” she -said. Bampfylde, too, abandoned his careless attitude by the -mantelpiece, and stood up watchful, startled into readiness and -preparation as for some emergency. But the cry was not repeated, and -gradually the tension relaxed again. “It would be but an ill dream,” -said ’Lizabeth, pressing a handkerchief to her wet eyes.</p> - -<p>Geoff did not know what to do. He was in the midst of some family -mystery, which might or might not relate to the other mystery which it -was his object to clear up; and this intense atmosphere of anxiety awoke -the young man’s ready sympathies. All his feelings had changed since he -came into the cottage. He who had come a stranger, ready to extract what -they could tell by any means, harsh or kind, and who did not know what -harshness he might encounter or what danger he might himself run, had -passed over entirely to their side. He was as safe as in his own house; -he was as deeply interested as he would have been in a personal trouble. -His voice faltered as he spoke. “I don’t know what it is that distresses -you,” he said; “I do<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196">{196}</a></span>n’t want to pry into your trouble; but if I can -help you you know I will, and I will betray none of your secrets that -you trust me with. I will say nothing more than is necessary to clear -Musgrave—if Musgrave can be cleared.</p> - -<p>“Musgrave! Musgrave!” cried old ’Lizabeth, impatiently; “it’s him you -all think of, not my boy. And what has he lost, when all’s done? He got -his way, and he got my Lily; never since then have I set eyes on her, -and never will. I paid him the price of my Lily for what he did; and was -that nothing? Musgrave! Speak no more o’ Musgrave to me!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mother,” said her son, with kindred impatience, as he walked -towards her and seized her arm in sudden passion; “oh, ’Lizabeth -Bampfylde! You do more than murder men, for you kill the pity in them! -What’s all you have done compared to what John Musgrave has done? and -me—am I nothing? Two—three of us! Lily, too, you’ve sacrificed Lily! -And is it all to go on to another generation, and the wrong to last? I -think you have a heart of stone—a heart of stone to them and to me!”</p> - -<p>At this moment there was another louder cry, and mother and son started -together with one impulse, forgetting their struggle. ’Lizabeth took up -the candle from the table, and Bampfylde hastily went to a cupboard in -the corner, from which he took out something. He made an imperative sign -to Geoff to follow, as he hurried after his mother. They went through a -narrow winding passage lighted only by the flickering of the candle -which ’Lizabeth carried, and by what looked like a mass of something -white breaking the blackness, but was in reality the moonlight streaming -in through a small window. At the end of the passage was a steep stair, -almost like a ladder. Already Geoff, hurrying after the mother and son, -was prepared by the cries for what the revelation was likely to be; and -he was scarcely surprised when, after careful reconnoitring by an -opening in the door, defended by iron bars, they both entered hastily, -though with precaution, leaving him outside. Geoff heard the struggle -that ensued, the wild cries of the madman, the aggravation of frenzy -which followed, when it was evident they had secured him. Neither mother -nor son spoke, but went about their work<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197">{197}</a></span> with the precision of long -use. Geoff had not the heart to look in through the opening which -Bampfylde had left free. Why should he spy upon them? He could not tell -what connection this prison chamber had with the story of John Musgrave, -but there could be little doubt of the secret here inclosed. He did not -know how long he waited outside, his young frame all thrilling with -excitement and painful sympathy. How could he help them? was what the -young man thought. It was against the law, he knew, to keep a lunatic -thus in a private house, but Geoff thought only of the family, the -mysterious burden upon their lives, the long misery of the sufferer. He -was overawed, as youth naturally is, by contact with misery so hopeless -and so terrible. After a long time Bampfylde came out, his dress torn -and disordered, and great drops of moisture hanging on his forehead. -“Have you seen him?” he asked in a whisper. He did not understand -Geoff’s hesitation and delicacy, but with a certain impatience pointed -him to the opening in the door, which was so high up that Geoff had to -ascend two rough wooden steps placed there for the purpose, to look -through. The room within was higher than could have been supposed from -the height of the cottage; it was not ceiled, but showed the -construction of the roof, and in a rude way it was padded here and -there, evidently to prevent the inmate doing himself a mischief. The -madman lay upon a mattress on the floor, so confined now that he could -only lie there and pant and cry; his mother sat by him, motionless. -Though his face was wild and distorted, and his eyes gleaming furiously -out of its paleness, this unhappy creature had the same handsome -features which distinguished the family. Young Geoff could scarcely -restrain a shiver, not of fear, but of nervous excitement, as he looked -at this miserable sight. Old ’Lizabeth sat confronting him, unconscious -of the hurried look which was all Geoff could give. She was clasping her -knees with her hands in one of those forced and rigid attitudes almost -painful, which seem to give a kind of ease to pain—and sat with her -head raised, and her strained eyes pitifully vacant, in that pause of -half-unconsciousness in which all the senses are keen, yet the mind -stilled with very excitement. “I cannot spy upon them,” said Geoff, in a -whisper. “Is it safe to leave her there?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198">{198}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Quite safe; and at his maddest he never harmed her,” said Bampfylde, -leading the way down-stairs. “That’s my brother,” he said, with -bitterness, when they had reached the living-room again; “my gentleman -brother! him that was to be our honour and glory. You see what it’s come -to; but nothing will win her heart from him. If we should all perish, -what of that? ’Lizabeth Bampfylde will aye have saved her son from -shame. But come, come, sit down and eat a bit, my young lord. At your -age the like of all this is bad for you.”</p> - -<p>“For me—what does it matter about me?” cried Geoff; “you seem to have -borne it for years.”</p> - -<p>“You may say that: for years—and would for years more, if she had her -way; but a man must eat and drink, if his heart be sore. Take a morsel -of something and a drink to give you strength to go home.”</p> - -<p>“I am very, very sorry for you,” said Geoff, “but—you will think it -heartless to say so—I have learned nothing. There is some mystery, but -I knew as much as that before.”</p> - -<p>Bampfylde was moving about in the back-ground searching for something. -He re-appeared as Geoff spoke with a bottle in his hand, and poured out -for him a glass of dark-coloured wine. It was port, the wine most -trusted in such humble houses. “Take this,” he said; “take it, it’s -good, it will keep up your strength; and bide a moment till she comes. -She will tell you herself—or if not I will tell you; but now you’ve -seen all the mysteries of this house, she will have to yield, she will -have to yield at the last.”</p> - -<p>Geoff obeyed, being indeed very much exhausted and shaken by all that -had happened. He swallowed the sweet, strong decoction of unknown -elements, which Bampfylde called port wine, and believed in as a -panacea, and tried to eat a morsel of the oat-cake. They heard the -distant moans gradually die out, as the blueness of dawn stole in at the -window. Bampfylde, whose tongue seemed to be loosed by this climax of -excitement, began to talk; he told Geoff of the long watch of years -which they had kept, how his mother and he relieved each other, and how -they had hoped the patient was growing calmer, how he had mended and -calmed down, sometimes for long intervals, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199">{199}</a></span> then grown worse again; -and the means they had used to restrain him, and all the details of his -state. When the ice was thus broken, it seemed a relief to talk of it. -“He was to make all our fortunes,” Bampfylde said; “he was a -gentleman—and he was a great scholar. All her pride was in him; and -this is what it’s come to now.”</p> - -<p>They had fallen into silence when ’Lizabeth came in. Their excitement -had decreased, thanks to the conversation and the natural relief which -comes after a crisis, but hers was still at its full height. She came in -solemnly, and sat down amongst them, the blue light from the window -making a paleness about her as she placed herself in front of it; though -the lamp was still burning on the mantelshelf, and the fire kept up a -ruddy variety of light. She seated herself in the big wooden arm-chair -with a solemn countenance and fixed her eyes upon Geoff, who, moved -beyond measure by pity and reverence, did not know what to think.</p> - -<p>“He will have told you,” she said. “I would have died sooner, my young -lord; and soon I’ll die—but, my boy first, I pray God. Ay, you’ve seen -him now. That was him that was my pride; that was the hope I had in my -life; that was him that killed young Lord Stanton and made John Musgrave -an exile and a wanderer. Ay—you know it all now.”</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI.<br /><br /> -<small>AN EARLY MEETING</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Geoff</span> left the cottage when the sun had just risen. He was half-giddy, -half-stunned by the strange new light, unexpected up to the last moment, -which had been thrown upon the whole question which he had undertaken to -solve. He was giddy too with fatigue, the night’s watch, the long walk, -the want of sleep. Besides all these confusing influences there is -something in the atmosphere of the very early morning, the active -stillness, the absence of human life, the pre-occupation of Nature with -a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200">{200}</a></span> hundred small (as it were) domestic cares such as she never exhibits -to the eye of man, that moves the mind of an unaccustomed observer to a -kind of rapture, bewildering in its solemn influence. To come out from -the lonely little house folded among the hills, with all its miseries -past and present, its sad story, its secret, the atmosphere of human -suffering in it, to all the still glory of the summer morning, was of -itself a bewilderment. The same world, and only a step between them: but -one all pain and darkness, mortal anguish and confusion—the other all -so clear, so sweet, so still, solemn with the serious beginning of the -new day, and instinct with that great, still pressure of something more -than what is seen, some soul of earth and sky which goes deeper than all -belief, and which no sceptic of the higher kind, but only the gross and -earthly, can disbelieve in. Young Geoff disbelieving nothing, his heart -full of the faith and conviction of youth, came out into this wide -purity and calm with an expansion of all his being. It was all he could -do not to burst into sudden tears when he felt the sudden relief—the -dew crept to his eyelids though it did not fall, his bosom contracted -and expanded as with a sob. To this world of mountain and cloud—of -rising sunshine and soft-breathing air, and serene delicious silence, -pervaded by the soft indistinguishable hum of unseen water and rustling -grasses, and minute living creatures unseen too beneath the mountain -herbage—what is the noblest palace built with hands but a visible -limitation and contraction of the world, an appropriation of a petty -corner out of which human conceit makes its centre of the earth? -Bampfylde, who had come out with him, and to whom the story Geoff had -just heard was not new, felt the relief more simply. He drew a long -breath of refreshment and ease, expanding his breast and stretching out -his arms; and then this rough vagrant fellow, unconscious of literature, -did what Virgil in the <i>Purgatorio</i> did in such a morning for his poet -companion; he spread both his hands upon the fragrant grass, all heavy -with the early dew, and bathed his face and weary eyes.</p> - -<p>“That’s life,” said the man of woods and hills; the freshness of nature -was all the help he had, all the support as well as all the poetry his -maimed existence could possess.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201">{201}</a></span></p> - -<p>Bampfylde went with his young companion round the shoulder of the hill -to show him the way. It was a nearer and shorter road to the level -country than that by which they had come, for Geoff was anxious to get -home early. Bampfylde pointed out to him the line of road which twisted -about and about like a ribbon, crossing now one slope, now another, till -it disappeared upon the shadowed side of the green hill which presided -over Penninghame, and beyond which the lake gleamed blue, not yet -reached by the sunshine.</p> - -<p>“It’s like the story,” he said; “it’s like a parable; ye come by -Stanton, my young lord, and ye go by Penninghame. It’s your nearest way; -and there, if you ask at John Armstrong’s in the village, ye’ll get a -trap to take you home.”</p> - -<p>Geoff was not sufficiently free in mind to be able to give any attention -to the parable. Those fantastic symbolisms of accident or circumstance -which so often would seem to be arranged like shadows of more important -matters by some elfish secondary providence, need a spirit at rest to -enter into them. He was glad to be alone, to realise all that he had -heard, to compose the wonderful tangle of new information and new -thoughts into something coherent, without troubling himself about the -fact that he was now bending his steps direct, the representative of -Walter Stanton who had been killed, towards the house from which John -Musgrave had been wrongfully driven for having killed him. He did not -even yet know all the particulars of the story, and as he endeavoured to -disentangle them in his mind Geoff felt in his bewilderment that -absolute want of control over his own intelligence and thoughts which is -the common result of fatigue and overstrain. Instead of thinking out the -imbroglio and deciding what was to be done, his mind, like a tired -child, kept playing with the rising light which touched every moment a -new peak and caught every moment a new reflection in some bit of -mountain stream or waterfall, or even in a ditch or moorland cutting, so -impartial is Heaven; or his ear was caught by that hum of mystic -indistinguishable multitude—“the silence of the hills,” so called—the -soft rapture of sound in which not one tone is distinct or anything -audible; or his eye by the gradual unrolling of the landscape as he went -on, one fold<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202">{202}</a></span> opening beyond another, the distant hills on one hand, the -long stretch of Penninghame water with all its miniature bays and -curves. Then for a little while he lost the lake by a doubling of the -path, which seemed to reinclose him among the hollows of the hills, and -which pleased his languid faculties with the complete change of its -shade and greenness; until turning the next corner, he found the sun -triumphant over all the landscape, and Penninghame water lying like a -sheet of silver or palest gold, dazzling and flashing between its -slopes. This wonderful glory so suddenly bursting upon him completed the -discomfiture of young Geoff’s attempts at thought. He gave it up then, -and went on with weary limbs and a mind full of languid soft delight in -the air about him and the scene before his eyes, attempting no more -deductions from what he had heard or arrangements as to what he should -do. Emotion and exertion together had worn him out.</p> - -<p>About the time he resigned himself (with the drowsy surprise we feel in -dreams) to this incapable state, his eye was caught by a speck upon the -road beneath advancing towards him, so small in the distance that -Geoff’s languid imagination, capable of no more active exercise, began -to wonder who the little pilgrim could be, so little and so lonely, and -so early astir. Perhaps it was the distance that made the advancing -passenger look so small. Little Lilias at the Castle would have -satisfied her mind by the easy conclusion that it was some little fairy -old woman, the traveller most naturally to be met with at such an hour -and place. But Geoff, more artificial, did not think of that. He kept -watching the little wayfarer, as the figure appeared and disappeared on -the winding road. By and by he made out that it was either a very small -woman or a little girl, coming on steadily to meet him, with now and -then an occasional pause for breath, for the ascent was steep. Geoff’s -mind got quite entangled with this little figure. Who could it be? who -could she be? A little cottager bound on some early expedition, seeking -some of the mountain fruits, blackberries, cranberries, wild -strawberries, perhaps; but then she never turned aside to the rougher -ground, but kept on the path;—or she might be going to some farmhouse -to get milk for the family breakfast: but then there were no<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203">{203}</a></span> farmhouses -in that direction. Altogether Geoff felt himself quite sufficiently -occupied as he came gradually downwards watching this child, his limbs -feeling heavy, and his head somewhat light. At last, after losing sight -of the little figure which had given him for some time a sort of distant -companionship, another turn brought him full in sight of her, and so -near that he recognised her with the most curious and startling -interest. He could not restrain an exclamation of surprise. It was the -little girl whom he had met at the door of Penninghame Castle, John -Musgrave’s child, the most appropriate, yet the most extraordinary, of -all encounters he could have made. He stood still in his surprise, -awaiting her: and as for little Lilias, she made a sudden spring towards -him, holding out her hand with a cry of joy, her little pale face -crimsoned over with relief and pleasure. Her heart and limbs were -beginning to fail her; she had begun to grow frightened and discouraged -by the loneliness; and to see a face that had been seen before, that had -looked friendly, that recognised her—what a relief it was to the little -wayfaring soul! She sprang forward to him, and then in the comfort of it -fairly broke down, and sobbed and cried, trying to smile all the time, -and to tell him that she was glad, and that he must not mind.</p> - -<p>Geoff, however, minded very much. He was full of concern and sympathy. -He took her hand, and putting his arm round her (for she was still a -child), led her to the soft, mossy bank on the edge of the path, and -placed her there to rest. He was not at all sorry to place himself -beside her, notwithstanding his haste. He, too, was so young and so -tired! though for the moment he forgot both his fatigue and his youth, -and felt most fatherly, soothing the little girl, and entreating her to -take comfort, and not to cry.</p> - -<p>“Oh,” said little Lilias, when she recovered the power of speech, “I am -not crying for trouble, <i>now</i>; I am crying for pleasure. It was so -lonely. I thought everybody must be dead, and there was no one but only -me in all the world.”</p> - -<p>“That was exactly what I felt too,” said Geoff; “but what are you doing -here, so far away, and all alone? Have you lost yourself? Has anything -happened? When you have rested a little, you must come back with me, and -I will take you home.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204">{204}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>The tears were still upon the child’s cheeks, and two great lucid pools -in her eyes, which made their depths of light more unfathomable than -ever. And after the sudden flush of excitement and pleasure, Lilias had -paled again; her little countenance was strangely white; her dark hair -hung, loosely curling, about her cheeks; her eyes were full of pathetic -meaning. Geoff, who had thrown himself down beside her, with one arm -half round her, and holding her small hand in his, felt his young breast -swell with the tenderest sympathy. What was the child’s trouble that was -so great? Poor little darling! How sweet it was to be able to fill up -her world, and prove to her that there was not “only me.” One other made -all the difference; and Geoff felt this as much as she did. Her face had -gleamed so often across his imagination since he saw it: the most -innocent visitant that could come and look a young man in the face in -the midst of his dreams—only a child! He felt disposed to kiss the -little hand in half fondness, half reverence; but did not, being -restrained by something more reverent and tender still.</p> - -<p>“I would like to go with you,” said Lilias, “but not home. I am not -going home. I am going up there—up, I don’t know how far—where the old -woman lives. I am trying to find something out, something about papa. -Oh, I wonder if you know! Are you a friend of my papa? You look as if -you had a friend’s face—but I don’t know your name.”</p> - -<p>“My name—is Geoffrey Stanton—but most people call me Geoff. I should -like you to call me Geoff—and I am a friend, little Lily. You are Lily -<i>too</i>, are you not? I am a sworn friend to your papa.”</p> - -<p>“Lilias,” said the child, with a sigh; “but I don’t think I am little -any more. I was little when I came, but old; oh! much older than any one -thought. They thought I was only ten because I was so little; but I was -twelve! and that will soon be a year ago. I have always taken care of -Nello as long as I can remember, and that makes one old, you know. And -now here is this about papa, which I never knew, which I never heard of, -which is not true, I know. I know it is not true. Papa kill any one! -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205">{205}</a></span><i>papa?</i> Do you know what that means? It is as if—— the sky should -kill some one, or the beautiful kind light, or a little child. All that, -all that, sooner than papa! Me, I have often felt as if I could kill -somebody; but <i>he</i>—— ” the tears were streaming in a torrent down the -child’s cheeks, and got into her voice; but she went on, “he! people -don’t know what they are saying. I do not know any words to tell you how -different he is—that it is impossible, <i>impossible</i>! <i>impossible</i>!” she -cried, her voice rising in intensity of emphasis. As for Geoff, he held -her hand ever closer, and kept gazing at her with the tears coming to -his own eyes.</p> - -<p>“He did not do it,” he said. “Listen to me, Lilias, and if you write to -him, you can tell him. Tell him Geoffrey Stanton knows everything, and -will never rest till he is cleared. Do you know what I mean? You must -tell him—— ”</p> - -<p>“But I never write—we do not know where he is; but tell me over again -for me, <i>me</i>. He did not do it! Do you think I do not know that? But Mr. -Geoff (if that is your name), come with me up to the old woman, and take -her to the tribunal, and make her tell what she knows. That is the right -way, Martuccia says so, and I have read it in books. She must go to the -judge, and she must say it all, and have it written down in a book. It -is like that—I am not so ignorant. Come with me to the old woman, Mr. -Geoff.”</p> - -<p>“What old woman?” he asked. “And tell me how you heard of all this, -Lilias? You did not know it when I saw you before.”</p> - -<p>“Last night—only last night; there is a man, an unkind, disagreeable -man, who is at the Castle now. Mary said he was my uncle Randolph. They -were in the hall, and I heard them talking. That man said it all; but -Mary did not say No as I do, she only cried. And then I rushed and asked -Miss Brown what it meant. Miss Brown is Mary’s maid, and she knows -everything. She told me about a gentleman, and then of some one who was -mamma, and of an old woman who could tell it all, up, up on the -mountain. I think, perhaps, it is the same old woman I saw.”</p> - -<p>“Did you see her? When did you see her, Lily?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206">{206}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I was little then,” said Lilias, with mournful, childish dignity. “I -had not begun to know. I thought, perhaps, it was a fairy. Yes, you will -laugh. I was only not much better than a child. And when children are in -the woods, don’t you know, fairies often come? I was ignorant, that was -what I thought. She was very kind. She kissed me, and asked if I would -call her granny. Poor old woman! She was very very sorry for something. -I think that must be the old woman. She knows everything, Miss Brown -says. Mr. Geoff,” said Lilias turning round upon him, putting her two -clasped hands suddenly upon his shoulder, and fixing her eyes upon his -face, “I am going to her, will you not come with me? It is dreadful, -dreadful, to go away far alone—everything looks so big and so high, and -one only, one is so small; and everything is singing altogether, and it -is all so still; and then your heart beats and thumps, and you have no -breath, and it is so far, far away. Mr. Geoff, oh! I would love you so -much, I would thank you for ever, I would do anything for you, if you -would only come with me! I am not really tired; only frightened. If I -could have brought Nello, it would have been nothing. I should have had -him to take care of,—but Nello is such a little fellow. He does not -understand anything; he could not know about papa as I do, and as you -seem to do. Mr. Geoff, when was it you saw papa? Oh! will you come up, -up yonder, and go to the old woman with me?”</p> - -<p>“Dear little Lily,” said Geoff, holding her in his arms, “you are not -able to walk so far; it is too much for you; you must come with me, -home.”</p> - -<p>“I am able to go to the end of the world,” cried Lilias, proudly. “I am -not tired. Oh, if you had never come I should have gone on, straight on! -I was thinking, perhaps, you would go with me, that made me so stupid. -No, never mind, since you do not choose to come. Good-bye, Mr. Geoff. -No, I am not angry. Perhaps you are tired yourself:—and then,” said -Lilias, her voice quivering, “you are not papa’s child, and it is not -your business. Oh! I am quite able to go on. I am not tired—not at all -tired; it was only,” she said, vehemently, the tears overpowering her -voice, “only because I caught sight of you so suddenly, and I thought -‘he will<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207">{207}</a></span> come with me,’ and it made my heart so easy—but never mind, -never mind!”</p> - -<p>By this time she was struggling to escape from him, to go on drying her -tears with a hasty hand. Her lips were quivering, scarcely able to form -the words. The disappointment, after that little burst of hope, was -almost more than Lilias could bear.</p> - -<p>“Lily,” he said, holding her fast, despite her struggles, “listen first. -I have just been there. I have seen the old woman. There is nothing more -for you to do, dear. Won’t you listen to me,—won’t you believe me? Dear -little Lily, I have found out everything. I know everything. I cannot -tell it you all, out here on the hill-side; but it was another who did -it, and your father was so kind, so good, that he allowed it to be -supposed it was he, to save the other man—— ”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” cried Lilias, ceasing to struggle, “ah! yes, that is like him. I -know my papa, there! yes, that is what he would do. Oh, Mr. Geoff, dear -Mr. Geoff, tell me more, more!”</p> - -<p>“As we go home,” said Geoff. He was so tired that it was all he could do -to raise himself again from the soft cushions of the mossy grass. He -held Lilias still by the hand. And in this way the two wearied young -creatures went down the rest of the long road together—she, eager, with -her face raised to him; he stooping towards her. They leaned against -each other in their weariness, walking on irregularly, now slow, now -faster, hand in hand. And oh! how much shorter the way seemed to Lilias -as she went back. She vowed never, never to tell any one; never to talk -of it except to Mr. Geoff: while Geoff, on his part, promised that -everything should be set right, that everybody should know her father to -be capable of nothing evil, but of everything good; that all should be -well with him; that he should come and live at home for ever, and that -all good people should be made happy, and all evil ones confounded. The -one was scarcely more confident than the other that all this was -possible and likely, as the boy and the girl came sweetly down the hill -together, tired but happy, with traces of tears about their eyes, but -infinite relief in their hearts. The morning, now warm with the full -glory of the sun, was sweet beyond all thought—the sky, fathomless -blue, above them—the lake a dazzling sheet<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208">{208}</a></span> of silver at their feet. -Here and there sounds began to stir of awakening in the little -farmhouses, and under the thatched cottage eaves; but still they had the -earth all to themselves like a younger Adam and Eve—nothing but blue -space and distance, sweet sunshine warming and rising, breathing of -odours and soft baptism of dew upon the new-created pair.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII.<br /><br /> -<small>THE HENS AND THE DUCKLING.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was still early, and Stanton, so easy-going and leisurely a house, -was not yet astir when Geoff got home. Hours of sunshine and morning -light are over even in August before seven o’clock, which was the -earliest hour at which Lady Stanton’s servants, who were all “so kind” -to her, began to stir. They kept earlier hours at Penninghame, where -Geoff managed to get a dog-cart, with an inquisitive driver, who -recognised, and would fain have discovered what brought him from home at -that hour. The young man, however, first took leave of his little -companion, whom he deposited safely at the door of the old hall, which -was already open, and where they parted with mutual vows of reliance and -faith in each other. These vows, however, were not exchanged by the -hall-gate, but in a shady corner of the Chase, where the two young -creatures paused for a moment.</p> - -<p>“You will trust me that I will do everything for him, as if he had been -my own father?” said Geoff.</p> - -<p>Lilias, over whom some doubts had begun to steal, faltered a little, and -replied with some hesitation:</p> - -<p>“I would rather it was me; I would rather find out everything, and bring -him home,” she said.</p> - -<p>“But, Lily, what could you do? while you see I know a great deal -already,” Geoff said. Now that he was about to vanish out of her sight -the bargain began to feel less satisfactory to the little woman, who was -thus condemned, as so many grown<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209">{209}</a></span> women have been, to wait indefinitely -for the action of another, in a matter so deeply interesting to herself. -Lilias looked at him wistfully, with an anxious curve over her eyebrows, -and a quiver in her mouth. The tension of suspense had begun for her, -which is one of the hardest burdens of a woman. Oh, if she could but -have gone herself, not waiting for any one, to the old woman on the -hill! It was true the mountains were very lonely, and the relief of -meeting Geoff had been intense; and though she had not gone half way, or -nearly so much, her limbs were aching with the unusual distance; but yet -to be tired, and lonely, and frightened is nothing, as Lilias felt, to -this waiting, which might never come to an end. And already the ease and -comfort and sudden relief with which she had leant upon Geoff’s -understanding and sympathy, had evaporated a little, leaving behind only -the strange story about her father, the sudden discovery of trouble and -sorrow which had startled her almost into womanhood out of childhood. -She looked up into Geoff’s face very wistfully—very anxiously; her eyes -dilated, and gleaming with that curve over them which once indented in -young brows so seldom altogether disappears again.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mr. Geoff!” she said, “but papa—is not your papa: and you will -perhaps have other things to do: or—perhaps—you will forget. But me, I -shall be always thinking, I shall never forget,” said the little girl.</p> - -<p>“And neither shall I forget, my little Lily!” he cried. He too was -nervous and tremulous with excitement and fatigue. He stooped towards -her, holding her hands. “Give me a kiss, Lily, and I will never forget.”</p> - -<p>The day before she would not have thought much of that infantile -salutation—and she put up her soft cheek readily enough, with the -child’s simple habit; but when the two faces touched, a flood of colour -came over both, scorching Lilias, as it seemed, with a sense of shame -which bewildered her, which she did not understand. She drew back -hastily, with a sudden cry. Sympathy, or some other feeling still more -subtle and incomprehensible, made Geoff’s young countenance flame too. -He looked at her with a tenderness that brought the tears to his eyes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210">{210}</a></span></p> - -<p>“You are only a child,” he said, hastily, apologetically; “and I suppose -I am not much more, as people say,” he added, with a little broken -laugh. Then, after a pause—“But, Lily, we will never forget that we -have met this morning; and what one of us does will be for both of us; -and you will always think of me as I shall always think of you. Is it a -bargain, Lily?”</p> - -<p>“Always!” said the little girl, very solemnly; and she gave him her hand -again which she had drawn away, and her other cheek; and this time the -kiss got accomplished solemnly, as if it had been a religious ceremony -on both sides—which indeed, perhaps, in one way or another it was.</p> - -<p>When Geoff felt himself carried rapidly, after this, behind a fresh -country horse, with the inquisitive ruddy countenance of Robert Gill -from the “Penninghame Arms” by his side, along the margin of Penninghame -Water towards his home, there was a thrill and tremor in him which he -could not quite account for. By the time he had got half way home, -however, he had begun to believe that the tremor meant nothing more than -a nervous uncertainty as to how he should get into Stanton, and in what -state of abject terror he might find his mother. Even to his own -unsophisticated mind, the idea of being out all night had an alarming -and disreputable sound; and probably Lady Stanton had been devoured by -all manner of terrors. The perfectly calm aspect of the house, however, -comforted Geoff; no one seemed stirring, except in the lower regions, -where the humblest of its inhabitants—the servants’ servants—were -preparing for their superiors.</p> - -<p>Geoff dismissed his dog-cart outside the gates, leaving upon the mind of -Robert Gill a very strong certainty that the young lord was “a wild one, -like them that went before him,” and had been upon “no good gait.” -“Folks don’t stay out all night, and creep into th’ house through a side -door as quiet as pussy, for good,” said the rural sage, with perfect -reasonableness.</p> - -<p>As for Geoff, he stole up through the shrubberies to reconnoitre the -house and see where he could most easily make an entrance, with a -half-comic sense of vagabondism; a man who behaved so ought to be -guilty. But he was greatly surprised to see the library window through -which he had come out on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211">{211}</a></span> previous night wide open; and yet more -surprised to hear, at the sound of his own cautious footstep on the -gravel, a still more cautious movement within, and to descry the kindly -countenance of Mr. Tritton, his tutor, with a red nose and red eyes as -from want of sleep, looking out with great precaution.</p> - -<p>Mr. Tritton’s anxious countenance lighted up at the sight of him. He -came to the window very softly, but with great eagerness, to admit -Geoff, and threw himself upon his pupil. “Where have you been—where -have you been? But thank God you have come back,” he cried, in a voice -which was broken by agitation.</p> - -<p>Geoff could not but laugh, serious as he had been before. Good Mr. -Tritton had a dressing-gown thrown over his evening toilet of the -previous night; his white tie was all rumpled and disreputable. He had -caught a cold, poor good man, with the open window, and sneezed even as -he received his prodigal; his nose was red, and so were his eyes, which -watered, half with cold, half with emotion.</p> - -<p>“Oh, my dear Geoff,” he cried, with a shiver: “what is the cause of -this? I have spent a most unhappy night. What can be the cause of it! -But thank God you have come back; and if I can keep it from the -knowledge of her ladyship, I will.” Then, though he was so tired and so -serious, Geoff could not but laugh.</p> - -<p>“Have you been sitting up for me? How good of you! and what a cold you -have got!” he said, struggling between mirth and gratitude. “Have you -kept it from my mother? But I have been doing no harm, master. You need -not look at me so anxiously. I have been walking almost all the night, -and doing no harm.”</p> - -<p>“My dear Geoff? I have been very uneasy, of course. You never did -anything of the kind before. Walking all night? you must be dead tired; -but that is secondary, quite secondary: if you can really assure me, on -your honour—— ” said the anxious tutor, looking at him, with his little -white whiskers framing his little red face, more like a good little old -woman than ever, and with a look of the most anxious scrutiny in his -watery eyes. Mr. Tritton was very virtuous and very particular in his -own bachelorly person, and there had crept upon him besides<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212">{212}</a></span> something -of the feminine fervour of anxiety about his charge, which was in the -air of this feminine and motherly house.</p> - -<p>“On my honour!” said Geoff, meeting his gaze with laughing eyes.</p> - -<p>And a pang of relief filled Mr. Tritton’s mind. He was almost overcome -by it, and could have cried but for his dignity—and, indeed, did cry -for his cold. He said, faltering, “Thank Heaven, Geoff! I have been very -anxious, my dear boy. Your mother does not know anything about it. I -found the window open, and then I found your room vacant. I thought you -might have—stepped out—perhaps gone to smoke a cigar. A cigar in the -fresh air after dinner is perhaps the least objectionable form of the -indulgence, as you have often heard me say. So I waited, especially as I -had something to say to you. Then as I found you did not come in, I -became anxious—yes, very anxious as the night went on. You never did -anything of the kind before; and when the morning came and awoke me—for -I suppose I must have dozed, though I was too miserable to sleep, in a -draught—— ”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I see, you have caught cold. Go to bed now, master, and so shall -I,” said Geoff. “I am dead tired. What a sneeze! and all on my account; -and you have such bad colds.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Mr. Tritton, blowing his nose vehemently, “I have very bad -colds. They last so long. I have sneezed so I really did fear the house -would be roused, but servants fortunately sleep through anything. Geoff! -I don’t want to force confidence, but it really would be right that you -should confide in me: otherwise how can I be sure that her -ladyship—ought not,” said the good man with a fresh sneeze, “to -know—?”</p> - -<p>“You ought to be in bed, and so ought I,” said Geoff. “I will tell my -mother, don’t fear; but perhaps it will be as well not to say anything -more just at present. Master, you must really go this moment and take -care of yourself. Come, and I will see you to your room—— ”</p> - -<p>“Ah! it is my part to look after you, Geoff,” said good Mr. Tritton. “It -might be supposed—her ladyship might think—that I had neglected—— ”</p> - -<p>“Come along,” said Geoff, arbitrarily, “to bed.” And how<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213">{213}</a></span> glad he was to -stretch out his own young limbs and forget everything in the profound -sleep of his age! Mr. Tritton had very much the worst of it. He did -nothing but sneeze for the next two hours, waking himself up every time -he went to sleep; and his head ached, and his eyes watered, and the good -man felt thoroughly wretched.</p> - -<p>“Oh, there is that poor Mr. Tritton with one of his bad colds again,” -Lady Stanton said, who was disturbed by the sound; and, though she was a -good woman, the pity in her face was not unmixed by other sentiments. -“We shall have nothing but sneezing for the next month,” she said to -herself in an undertone. And doubtless still less favourable judgments -were pronounced down-stairs. A glass was found on the table of the -library in which Mr. Tritton, good man, had taken some camphor by way of -staving off his cold while he sat and watched. Harris the butler, -perversely and unkindly (for who could mistake the smell of camphor?) -declared that “old Tritton had been making a night of it. He don’t -surprise me with his bad colds,” said that functionary; “look at the -colour of his nose!” And indeed it could not be denied that this was -red, as the nose of a man subject to fits of sneezing is apt to be.</p> - -<p>When Geoff woke in the broad sunshine, and found that it was nearly -noon, his first feeling of consternation was soon lost in the strange -realization of all that had happened since his last waking, which -suddenly came upon his mind like something new, and more real than -before. The perspective even of a few hours’ sleep makes any new fact or -discovery more distinct. So many emotions had followed each other -through his mind, that such an interval was necessary to make him feel -the real importance of all that he had heard and seen. ’Lizabeth -Bampfylde had said what there was to say in few words, but the facts -alone were sufficient to make the strange story clear. The chief -difficulty was that Geoff had never heard of the elder son, whom the -vagrant called his gentleman brother, and to whom the family and more -than the family seemed to have been sacrificed. He did not remember any -mention of the Bampfyldes except of the mother and daughter who had -helped John Musgrave to escape, and one of whom had disappeared with -him, and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214">{214}</a></span> mystery which surrounded this other individual, who seemed -really the chief actor in the tragedy, had yet to be made out. His mind -was full of this as he dressed hastily, with sundry interruptions. The -household had not quite made out the events of the past night, but that -there had been something “out of the common” was evident to the meanest -capacity. The library window had been open all night, which was the -fault of Mr. Tritton, who had undertaken to close it, begging Harris to -go to bed, and not to mind. Mr. Tritton himself had been seen by an -early scullion in his white tie, very much ruffled, at six o’clock; and -the volleys of sneezing which had disturbed the house at seven had been -distinctly heard moving about like musketry on a march, now at one -point, now another, of the corridor and stairs. To crown all these -strange commotions was the fact that the young master of the house, -instead of obeying Harris’s call at half-past seven, did not budge (and -then with reluctance) till eleven o’clock. If all these occurrences -meant nothing, why then Mr. Harris pronounced himself a Dutchman; and -the wonder breathed upwards from the kitchen and housekeeper’s room to -my lady’s chamber, where her maid did all a maid could do (and this is -not little, as most heads of a family know) to awaken suspicion. It was -suggested to her ladyship that it was very strange that Mr. Tritton -should have been walking about the house at six in the morning, waking -up my lady with his sneezings—and it was a mercy there had not been a -robbery, with the library window “open to the ground,” left open all -night: and then for my lord to be in bed at eleven was a thing that had -never happened before since his lordship had the measles. “I hope he is -not sickening for one of these fevers,” Lady Stanton’s attendant said.</p> - -<p>This made Geoff’s mother start, and give a suppressed scream of -apprehension, and inquire anxiously whether there was any fever about. -She had already in her cool drawing-room, over her needlework, felt a -vague uneasiness. Geoff had never, since those days of the measles, -missed breakfast and prayers before; he had sent her word that he had -overslept himself, that he had been sitting up late on the previous -night—but altogether it was odd. Lady Stanton, however, subdued her -panic, and sat still<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215">{215}</a></span> and dismissed her maid, waiting with many tremors -in her soul till Geoff should come to account for himself. He had been -the best boy in the world, and had never given her any anxiety; but all -Lady Stanton’s neighbours had predicted the coming of a time when Geoff -would “break out,” and when the goodness of his earlier days would but -increase the riot of the inevitable sowing of wild oats. Lady Stanton -had smiled at this, but with a smouldering sense of insecurity in her -heart; alarmed, though she knew there was no cause. Mothers are an order -of beings peculiarly constituted, full of certainties and doubts, which -moment by moment give each other the lie. Ah, no, Geoff would not “break -out,” would not “go wrong;” it was not in him. He was too true, too -honourable, too pure—did not she know every thought in his mind, and -feeling in his heart? But oh, the anguish if Geoff should not be so true -and so pure—if he should be weak, be tempted and fall, and stain the -whiteness which his mother so deeply trusted in, yet so trembled for! -Who can understand such paradoxes? She would have believed no harm of -her boy—and yet in her horror of harm for him the very name of evil -gave her a panic. Nothing wonderful in that. She sat and trembled to the -very tyings of her shoe, and yet was sure, certain, ready to answer to -the whole world for her son, who had done no evil. Other women who have -sons know what Lady Stanton felt. She sat nervously still, listening to -every sound, till he should come and explain himself. Why was he so -late? What had happened last night to make the house uneasy? Lady -Stanton would not allow herself to think that she was alarmed. It was -true that pulses beat in her ears, and her heart mounted to her throat, -but she sat still as a statue, and went on with her knitting. “One may -not be able to help being foolish, but one can always help showing it,” -she said to herself.</p> - -<p>The sight of Geoff when he appeared, fresh and blooming, made all the -throbbings subside at once. She even made a fine effort to laugh. “What -does this mean, Geoff? I never knew you so late. The servants have been -trying to frighten me, and I hear Mr. Tritton has got a very bad cold,” -she said, getting the words out hurriedly, afraid lest she might break -down or betray<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216">{216}</a></span> herself. She eyed him very curiously over her knitting, -but she made believe not to be looking at him at all.</p> - -<p>“Yes; poor old Tritton,” he said; “it is my fault; he sat up for me. I -went out—— ” he made a little pause; for Geoff reflected that other -people’s secrets were not his to confide, even to his mother—“with wild -Bampfylde, who came, I suppose, out of gratitude for what little I did -for him.”</p> - -<p>“You went out—with that poacher fellow, Geoff?”</p> - -<p>“Yes:” he nodded, meeting her horrified eyes quite calmly and with a -smile; “why not, mother? You did not think I should be afraid of him, I -hope?”</p> - -<p>“Oh how very imprudent, Geoff! You, whose life is of so much value!—who -are so very important to me and everybody!”</p> - -<p>“Most fellows are important who have mothers to make a fuss,” he said, -smiling. “I don’t think there is much more in me than the rest. But he -has not harmed me much, you can see. I have all my limbs as usual; I am -none the worse.”</p> - -<p>“Thank God for that!” said Lady Stanton; “but you must not do the like -again. Indeed, indeed, Geoff, you are too bold; you must not put -yourself in the way of trouble. Think of your poor brother. Oh, my dear, -what an example! You must not be so rash again.”</p> - -<p>“I will not be rash—in that way,” he said. “But, mother, I want you to -tell me something. You remember all about it: did you ever know of any -more Bampfyldes? There was the mother, and this fellow. Did you ever -know of any other?”</p> - -<p>“You are missing out the chief one, Geoff—Lily, the girl.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes; I know about her. I did not mean the girl. But think! Were -those three all? Were there more—another——?”</p> - -<p>Lady Stanton shook her head. “I do not remember any other. I think three -were quite enough. There is mischief in one even, of that kind.”</p> - -<p>“What do you mean by that kind? You did not know them. I hope my mother -is not one of the kind who, not knowing people, are unjust to them.”</p> - -<p>“Geoff!” Lady Stanton was bewildered by this grand tone.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217">{217}</a></span> She looked up -at him with sudden curiosity, and this curiosity was mixed inevitably -with some anxiety too; for, when your son betrays an unjustifiable -partisanship, what so natural as to feel that he must have “some -motive”? “Of course I did not mean to be unjust. But I do not pretend to -remember everything that came out on the trial. It was the mother and -daughter that interested me. You should ask your cousin Mary; she -recollects better than I do. But have you heard anything about another? -What did the poacher say? Had you a great deal of conversation with him? -And don’t you think it was rash to put yourself in the power of such a -lawless sort of fellow? Thank God! you are safe and sound.”</p> - -<p>“What do you mean about putting myself in his power? Do you think I am -not a match for him? He is not such a giant, mother. Yes, I am quite -safe and sound. And we had a great deal of talk. I never met with -anybody so interesting. He talked about everything; chiefly about ‘the -creatures,’ as he calls them.”</p> - -<p>“What creatures?” said Lady Stanton, wondering and alarmed. There were -“creatures” in the world, this innocent lady knew, about whom a vagabond -was very likely to talk, but who could not be mentioned between her and -her boy.</p> - -<p>“The wild things in the woods, birds and mice, and such small deer, and -all their ways, and what they mean, and how to make acquaintance with -them. I don’t suppose he knows very much out of books,” said young -Geoff; “but the bit of dark moor grew quite different with that wild -fellow in it—like the hill in the <i>Lady of the Lake</i>, when all Clan -Alpine got up from behind the rocks and the bushes. Don’t you remember, -mother? One could hear ‘the creatures’ rustling and moving, and -multitudes of living things one never gave a thought to. It felt like -poetry, too, though I don’t know any poem like it. It was very strange -and interesting. That pleases me more than your clever people,” said -Geoff.</p> - -<p>“Oh, my dear, I beg your pardon,” said Lady Stanton, suddenly getting up -and kissing her boy’s cheek as she passed him. She went away to hide the -penitence in her eyes. As for Geoff, he took this very easily and -simply. He thought it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218">{218}</a></span> was natural she should apologize to Bampfylde for -not thinking well of him. He had not a notion of the shame of -evil-thinking thus brought home to her, which scorched Lady Stanton’s -cheeks.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.<br /><br /> -<small>COUSIN MARY’S OPINION.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Geoff</span> spent the remainder of this day at home, looking once more over -the file of old newspapers in which the Musgrave case was printed at -such length, the <i>Times</i> and the local papers, with all their little -diversities of evidence, one supplementing another; but lie could not -make out any reference at all distinct to a third person in the story. -The two suitors of the village beauty, one of whom she preferred in -feeling, though the second of them had evidently made her waver in her -allegiance by the attractions of his superior rank and wealth, were -enough to fill up the canvas. They were so naturally and appropriately -pitted against each other, that neither the curiosity of the period nor -the art of the story-teller required any additional actor in the little -tragedy. What more natural than that these two rivals should -meet—should go from angry words to blows—and that, in the frenzy of -the moment, one should give to the other the fatal but unpremeditated -stroke which made an end of his rivalry and his life? The public -imagination is simple, and loves a simple story, and this was so -well-constructed and well-balanced—perfect in all its parts. What more -likely than that the humble coquette should hesitate and almost swerve -from her faith to her accepted lover when the young lord, so much more -splendid than the young squire, came on the scene? or that, when her -wavering produced such fatal consequences, the poor girl, not being -wicked, but only foolish, should have devoted herself with heroism to -the man whom she had been the means of drawing into deadly peril? Geoff, -however, with his eyes enlightened,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219">{219}</a></span> could dimly perceive the traces of -another person unaccounted for, who had appeared casually in the course -of the drama. Indeed, the counsel for the prosecution had expressed his -regret that he could not call this person as a witness, as he was -supposed to have emigrated, and no trace could be found of him. His -name, however, was not mentioned, though the counsel for the defence, -evidently in complete ignorance, taunted his learned brother with the -non-appearance of this mysterious stranger, and defied him to prove, by -the production of him, that there had ever been feelings of bitter -animosity between Musgrave and Lord Stanton. “The jury would like to -know more about this anonymous gentleman,” the coroner had said. But no -evidence had ever been produced. Geoff searched through the whole case -carefully, making various notes, and feeling that he himself, anxious as -he had been, had never before noticed, except in the most incidental -way, these slight, mysterious references. Even now he was misty about -it. He was so tired, indeed, that his mind was less clear than usual; -and when good Mr. Tritton appeared in the afternoon, very red with -perpetual sneezing, his eyes running as with tears, he found Geoff in -the library, in a great chair, with all the papers strewed about, -sleeping profoundly, the old yellow <i>Times</i> in his hand, and the -<i>Dalesman’s Gazette</i> at his feet. The young man jumped up when Mr. -Tritton laid his hand on his shoulder, with quite unnecessary energy, -almost knocking down his respected instructor. “Take care, take care, -Geoff!” he cried; “I am not going to hurt you, my boy!” a speech which -amused Geoff greatly, who could have picked Mr. Tritton up and thrown -him across his shoulder. This interruption of his studies stopped them -for the time; but next morning—not without causing his mother some -anxiety—he proposed to ride over once more to Elfdale, to consult -Cousin Mary.</p> - -<p>“It is but two days since we left, my dear,” Lady Stanton said, with a -sigh, thinking of all she had heard on the subject of “elderly sirens”; -but Geoff showed her so clearly how it was that he must refer his -difficulties to the person most qualified to solve them, that his mother -yielded; though she too began to ask herself why her son should be so -much concerned about John Musgrave. What was John Musgrave to Geoff? She -did<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220">{220}</a></span> not feel that it was quite appropriate that the person most -interested about poor Walter’s slayer should be Walter’s successor, he -who had most profited by the deed.</p> - -<p>Geoff, however, had his way, and went to his cousin Mary with a great -deal of caution and anxiety, to hear all that she knew, and carefully to -conceal from her what he knew. He found her fortunately by herself, in -the languor of the afternoon, even Annie and Fanny having left her for -some garden game or other. Lady Stanton the younger was much surprised -to see her young cousin, and startled by his sudden appearance. “What is -the matter?” she asked, with a woman’s ready terror; and was still more -surprised that nothing was the matter, and that Geoff was but paying her -a simple visit. It may even be suspected that for a moment his mother’s -alarm communicated itself to Mary. Was it to see <i>her</i> the boy had come -back so soon and so far? The innocent, kind woman was alarmed. She had -known herself a beauty for years, and she knew the common opinion (not -in her experience quite corroborated by fact) that for a beautiful face -a man will commit any folly. Was she in danger (“at my age!”) of -becoming a difficulty and a trouble to Geoff? But Geoff soon relieved -her mind, making her blush hotly at her own self-conceit and folly.</p> - -<p>“I have come to ask you some questions,” he said; “you remember the man, -the poacher, whom you spoke to me about—the brother, you -know?—Bampfylde, whom they call Wild Bampfylde?”</p> - -<p>“I know,” said Lady Stanton, with a suppressed shiver.</p> - -<p>“I met him—the other night—and we got talking. I want you to tell me, -Cousin Mary: did you ever hear of—another of them—a brother they had?”</p> - -<p>“Ah! that is it,” said Lady Stanton, clasping her hands together.</p> - -<p>“That is what? Do you know anything about him? I should like to find -out; from something they—from something this poacher fellow said—he is -not a bad fellow,” said Geoff, in an undertone, with a kind of apology -in his mind to the vagrant of whom he seemed to be speaking -disrespectfully.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Geoff, don’t have anything to do with them, dear. You<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221">{221}</a></span> don’t know -the ways of people like that. Young men think it is fine to show that -they are above the prejudices of their class, but it never comes to any -good. Poor Walter, if he had never seen her face, might have been—and -poor John—”</p> - -<p>“But, Cousin Mary, about the brother?”</p> - -<p>“Yes: he was their brother, but we did not find it out for a long time. -He was very clever, they said, and a scholar, but ashamed to belong to -such poor people. He never went there when he could help it. He took no -notice, I believe, of the others. He pretended to be a stranger visiting -the Lakes.”</p> - -<p>“Cur!” said Geoff.</p> - -<p>“Ye—es: it was not—nice; but it must be a temptation, Geoff, when a -man has been brought up so differently. Some relation had given him his -education, and he was very clever. I have never felt sure whether it was -a happy thing for a boy to be brought so far out of his class. He met -John Musgrave somewhere, but John did not know who he was. And just -about the time it all happened he went away. I used to think perhaps he -might have known something; but I suppose he thought it would all come -out, and his family be known. Fancy being ashamed of your own mother, -Geoff! But it was hard upon him too—an old woman who would tell your -fortune—who would stand with her basket in the market, you know: and -he, a great scholar, and considered a gentleman. It <i>was</i> hard; I don’t -excuse him, but I was sorry for him; and I always thought if he came -back again, that he might know—— ”</p> - -<p>Lady Stanton was not accustomed to speak so long and continuously. Her -delicate cheeks were stained with red patches; her breath came quick.</p> - -<p>“Do you mean to say he has turned up again—at last?” she added, with a -little gasp.</p> - -<p>“I have heard of him,” said Geoff. “I wondered—if he could have -anything to do with it.”</p> - -<p>“I will tell you all about him, Geoff. It was John Musgrave who met with -him somewhere. Mary could tell you, too. She was John’s only sister, and -I her great friend; and I always took an interest. They met, I think, -abroad—and he—was of use to John somehow—I forget exactly:—that is -to say, Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222">{222}</a></span> Bampfield (he spelt his name differently from the others) -did something for him—in short, John said he saved his life. It was -among the Alps, on some precipice, or something of that sort. You see I -can only give you my recollection,” said Lady Stanton, falteringly -conscious of remembering everything about it. “John asked him to -Penninghame, but he would not come. He told us this new friend of his -knew the country quite well, but no one could get out of him where he -had lived. And then he came on a visit to some one else—to the -Fieldings, at Langdale—that was the family; and we all knew him. He was -very handsome; but who was to suppose that a gentleman visiting in such -a house was old ’Lizabeth’s son, or—or—that girl’s brother? No one -thought of such a thing. It was John who found it out at the very last. -It was because of something about myself. Oh, Geoff, I was not -offended—I was only sorry. Poor fellow! he was wrong, but it was hard -upon him. He thought he—took a fancy to me; and poor John was so -indignant. No, I assure you not on that account,” said Lady Stanton, -growing crimson to the eyes, and becoming incoherent. “Never! we were -like brother and sister. John never had such a thought in his mind. I -always—always took an interest in <i>him</i>—but there was never anything -of <i>that</i> kind.”</p> - -<p>Young Geoff felt himself blush too, as he listened to this confession. -He coloured in sympathy and tender fellow-feeling for her; for it was -not hard to read between the lines of Cousin Mary’s humble story. John -“never had such a thought in his mind;” but she “had always taken an -interest.” And the blush on her cheek and the water in her eyes told of -that interest still.</p> - -<p>Then Geoff grew redder still, with another feeling. The madman in the -cottage had dared to lift his eyes to this woman so much above him.</p> - -<p>“I don’t wonder Musgrave was furious,” he said.</p> - -<p>“That is the right word,” she said, with a faint smile; “he was furious; -and Walter—your brother—laughed. I did not like that—it was -insulting. We were all young people together. Why should not he have -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223">{223}</a></span>cared for—me?—when both of <i>them</i>——. But we must not think of -that—we must not talk of that, Geoff—we cannot blame your poor -brother. He is dead, poor fellow; and such a death, in the very flower -of his youth! What were a few little silly boyish faults to that? He -died, you know, and all the trouble came. Walter had been very -stinging—very insulting, to that poor fellow just the day before, and -he could not bear it. He went off that very day, and I have never heard -of him again. I don’t think people in general even knew who he was. The -Fieldings do not to this day. But Walter’s foolish joking drove him -away. Poor Walter, he had a way of talking—and I suppose he must have -found the secret out—or guessed. I have often—often wondered whether -Mr. Bampfield knew anything, whether if he had come back he would have -said anything about any quarrel between them. I used to pray for him to -be found, and then I used to pray that he might not be found; for I -always thought he could throw some light—and after all, what could that -light be but of one kind?”</p> - -<p>“Did any one ever—suspect—<i>him</i>?”</p> - -<p>“Geoff! you frighten me. Him! whom? You know who was suspected. I don’t -think it was intended, Geoff. I know—I know he did not mean it; but who -but one could have done if? There could not, alas, be any doubt about -that.”</p> - -<p>“If Bampfield had been insulted and made angry, as you say, why should -not he have been suspected as well as Musgrave? The one, it seems to me, -was just as likely as the other—— ”</p> - -<p>“Geoff! you take away my breath! But he was away; he left the day -before.”</p> - -<p>“Suppose it was found out that he did not go away, Cousin Mary? Was he -more or less likely than Musgrave was to have done a crime?”</p> - -<p>Lady Stanton looked at him with her eyes wide open, and her lips apart.</p> - -<p>“You do not—mean anything? You have not—found out anything, Geoff?”</p> - -<p>“I—can’t tell,” he said. “I think I have got a clue. If it were found -out that Bampfield did not go away—that he was still here, and met poor -Walter that fatal morning, what would you say then, you who knew them -all?”</p> - -<p>All the colour ebbed out of Lady Stanton’s face. She kept<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224">{224}</a></span> looking at -him with wistful eyes, into which tears had risen, questioning him with -an earnestness beyond speech.</p> - -<p>“I dare not say the words,” she said, faltering; “I don’t venture to say -the words. But, Geoff, you would not speak like this if you did not mean -something. Do you think—really <i>think</i>—oh, it is not possible—it is -not possible!—it is only a fancy. You can’t—suppose—that it -matters—much—to me. You are only—speculating. Perhaps it ought not to -matter much to me. But oh, Geoff! if—if you knew what that time was in -my life. Do you mean anything—do you mean anything, my dear?”</p> - -<p>“You have not answered my question,” he said. “Which was the most likely -to have done a crime?”</p> - -<p>Lady Stanton wrung her hands; she could not speak, but kept her eyes -upon him in beseeching suspense.</p> - -<p>Geoff felt that he had raised a spirit beyond his power to calm again, -and he had not intended to commit himself or betray so soon what he had -heard.</p> - -<p>“Nothing must be known as yet,” he said; “but I think I have some reason -to speak. Bampfield did not leave the country when you thought he did. -He saw poor Walter that morning. If Musgrave saw him at all—— ”</p> - -<p>Lady Stanton gave a little cry—“You mean Walter, Geoff?”</p> - -<p>“Yes; if Musgrave saw him at all, it was not till after. And Bampfield -was the brother of the girl John was going to marry, and had saved his -life.”</p> - -<p>“My God!” This was no profane exclamation in Mary’s mouth. She said it -low to herself, clasping her hands together, her face utterly -colourless, her eyes wild with wonder and excitement. The shock of this -disclosure had driven away the rising tears: and yet Geoff did not mean -it as a disclosure. He had trusted in the gentle slowness of her -understanding. But there are cases in which feeling supplies all, and -more than all, that intellect could give. She said nothing, but sat -there silent, with her hands clasped, thinking it over, piecing -everything together. No one like Mary had kept hold of every detail; she -remembered everything as clearly as if (God forbid!) it had happened -yesterday. She put one thing to another which she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225">{225}</a></span> remembered but no one -else did: and gradually it all became clear to her. Geoff, though he was -so much more clever, did not understand the process by which in silence -she arranged and perceived every point; but then Geoff had not the -minute acquaintance with the subject nor the feeling which touched every -point with interest. By and by Mary began to sob, her gentle breast -heading with emotion. “Oh, Geoff,” she cried, “what a heart—what a -heart! He is like our Saviour; he has given his life for his enemy. Not -even his friend; he was not fond of him; he did not love him. Who could -love him—a man who was ashamed of his own, his very own people? I—oh, -how little and how poor we are! I might have done it perhaps for my -friend; but he—he is like our Saviour.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t say so. It was not just—it was not right; he ought not to have -done it,” cried Geoff. “Think, if it saved something, how much trouble -it has made.”</p> - -<p>“Then it is all true!” she cried, triumphant. In perfect good faith and -tender feeling Mary had made her comment upon this strange, sad -revelation; yet she could not but feel all the same the triumph of -having thus caught Geoff, and of establishing beyond all doubt that it -was true. She fell a-crying in the happiness of the discovery. The -moment it was certain, the solemnity of it blew aside, as do the mists -before the wind. “Then he will come home again; he will have his poor -little children, and all will be well,” she said; and cried as if her -heart would break. It was vain for Geoff to tell her that nothing was as -yet proved, that he did not know how to approach the subject; no -difficulties troubled Mary. Her heart was delivered as of a load; and -why should not everything at once be told? But she wept all the same, -and Geoff had no clue to the meaning of her tears. She was glad beyond -measure for John Musgrave; but yet while he was an exile, who had -(secretly) stood up for him as she had done? But when he came home, what -would Mary have to do with him? Nothing! She would never see him, though -she had always taken an interest, and he would never know what interest -she had taken. How glad she was! and yet how the tears poured down!</p> - -<p>Geoff had a long ride home. He was half alarmed that he had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226">{226}</a></span> allowed so -much to be known, but yet he had not revealed Lizabeth’s secret. Mary -had required no particulars, no proof. The suggestion was enough for -her. She was not judge or jury—but one to whom the slightest outlet -from that dark maze meant full illumination. Geoff could not but -speculate a little on the surface of the subject as he rode along -through the soft evening, in that unbroken yet active solitude which -makes a long ride or walk the most pleasant and sure moment for -“thinking over.” Geoff’s thoughts were quite superficial, as his -knowledge was. He wondered if John Musgrave had “taken an interest” in -Mary as she had done in him; and how it was that Mary had been his -brother’s betrothed, yet with so warm a sympathy for his brother’s -supposed slayer? And how it was that John Musgrave, if he had responded -at all to the “interest” she took in him, could have loved and married -Lily? All this perplexed Geoff. He did not go any deeper; he did not -think of the mingled feelings of the present moment, but only of the -tangled web of the past.</p> - -<p>It grew dark before he got home. No moon, and a cloudy night disturbed -by threatenings or rather promise of rain, which the farmers were -anxious for, as they generally are when a short break of fine weather -bewilders their operations, in the north. As he turned out of the last -cross road, and got upon the straight way to Stanton, he suddenly became -aware of some one running by him on the green turf that edged the road -and in the shadow of the hedgerow. Geoff was startled by the first sight -of this moving shadow running noiselessly by his side. It was a safe -country, where there was no danger from thieves, and a “highwayman” was -a thing of the last century. But still Geoff shortened his whip in his -hand with a certain sense of insecurity. As he did so a voice came from -the shadow of the hedge. “It is but me, my young lord.” “You!” he cried. -He was relieved by the sound, for a close attendant on the road in the -dark, when all faces are alike undiscernible, is not pleasant. “What are -you doing here, Bampfylde? Are you snaring my birds, or scaring them, or -have you come to look after me?”</p> - -<p>“Neither the one nor the other,” said Wild Bampfylde. “I have other -thoughts in my mind than the innocent creatures<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227">{227}</a></span> that harm no one. My -young lord, I cannot tell you what is coming, but something is coming. -It’s no you, and it’s no me, but it’s in the air; and I’m about, -whatever happens. If you want me, I’ll aye be within call. Not that I’m -spying on you; but whatever happens, I’m here.”</p> - -<p>“And I want you. I want to ask you something,” cried Geoff; but he was -slow in putting his next question. It was about his cousin; and what he -wanted was some one who would see, without forcing him to put them into -words, the thoughts that arose in his mind. Therefore it was a long time -before he spoke again. But in the silence that ensued it soon became -evident to Geoff that the figure running along under the shadow of the -bushes had disappeared. He stopped his horse, but heard no footfall. -“Are you there, Bampfylde?” but his own voice was all he heard, falling -with startling effect into the silence. The vagrant had disappeared, and -not a creature was near. Geoff went on with a strange mixture of -satisfaction and annoyance. To have this wanderer “about” seemed a kind -of aid, and yet to have his movements spied upon did not please the -young man. But Bampfylde was no spy.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.<br /><br /> -<small>THE SQUIRE AT HOME.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> Squire went home after his game of ducks and drakes in the most -curious, bewildered state of mind. The shock of all these recent events -had affected him much more than any one was aware, and Randolph’s visit -and desire to make sure about “family arrangements,” had filled up the -already almost overflowing measure of secret pain. It had momentarily -recalled, like a stimulant too sharp and strong, not only his usual -power of resistance, but a force of excitement strong enough to -overwhelm the faculties which for the time it invigorated; and while he -walked about his woods after his first interview with his son, the -Squire was on the edge<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228">{228}</a></span> of a catastrophe, his brain reeling, his -strained powers on the verge of giving way. The encounter with little -Nello on the lake-side had exercised a curious arresting power upon the -old and worn edifice of the mind which was just then tottering to its -fall. It stopped this fall for the moment. The trembling old walls were -not perhaps in a less dangerous state, but the wind that had threatened -them dropped, and the building stood, shaken to its foundation, and at -the mercy of the next blast, but yet so far safe—safe for the moment, -and with all the semblance of calm about it. To leave metaphor, the -Squire’s mind was hushed and lulled by that encounter with the soft -peacefulness of childhood, in the most curious, and to himself, -inexplicable way. Not, indeed, that he tried to explain. He was as -unconscious of what was going on in himself as most of us are. He did -not know that the various events which had shaken him had anything more -than pain in them—he was unaware of the danger. Even Randolph’s -appearance and the thought of the discussions which must go on when his -back was turned, as to the things that would happen after his death—he -was not aware that there was more in them than an injury against which -his whole spirit revolted. He did not know that this new annoyance had -struck at the very stronghold of vitality, the little strength left to -him. Which of us does know when the <i>coup-de-grâce</i> is given? He only -knew the hurt—the wound—and the forlorn stand he had made against it, -and the almost giddy lightness with which he had tried to himself to -smile it down, and feel himself superior. Neither did he know what Nello -had done for him. His meeting with the child was like the touch of -something soft and healing upon a wound. The contact cooled and calmed -his entire being. It seemed to put out of his mind all sense of wounding -and injury. It did more; it took all distinctness at once from the moral -and the physical landmarks round him. The harsher outlines of life grew -blurred and dim, and instead of the bitter facts of the past, which he -had so long determined to ignore, and the facts of the present which had -so pushed themselves upon him, the atmosphere fell all into a soft -confusion. A kind of happiness stole over him. What had he to be happy -about? yet he was so. Sometimes in our English<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229">{229}</a></span> summers there is a mist -of heat in the air, confusing all the lines of the landscape as much as -a fog in winter—in which the hills and lakes and sky are nothing but -one dazzle and faint glory of suppressed light and warmth—light -confusing but penetrating: warmth perhaps stifling to the young and -active, but consolatory to those whose blood runs chill. This was the -mental condition in which the Squire was. His troubles seemed to die -away, though he had so many of them. Randolph, his middle-aged son, -ceased to be an assailant and invader, and dropped into the dark like -other troublesome things—not a son to be proud of, but one to put up -with easily enough. John? he did not remember much about John; but he -remembered very distinctly his old playfellow little Johnny, his little -brother. “Eighteen months—only eighteen months between them:” he almost -could hear the tone in which his mother said that long ago. If Johnny -had lived he would have been—how old would he have been now? Johnny -would have been seventy-four or so had he lived—but the Squire did not -identify the number of years. There was eighteen months between them, -that was all he could remember, and of that he sat and mused, often -saying the words over to himself with a soft dreamy smile upon his face. -He was often not quite clear that it was not Johnny himself, little -Johnny, with whom he had been playing on the water-side.</p> - -<p>This change affected him in all things. He had never been so entirely -amiable. When Randolph returned to the assault, the Squire would smile -and make no reply. He was no longer either irritated or saddened by -anything his son might say—indeed he did not take much notice of him -one way or another, but would speak of the weather, or take up a book, -smiling, when his son began. This was very bewildering to the family. -Randolph, who was dull and self-important, was driven half frantic by -it, thinking that his father meant to insult him. But the Squire had no -purpose of any kind, and Mary, who knew him better, at last grew vaguely -alarmed without knowing what she feared. He kept up all his old habits, -took his walks as usual, dressed with his ordinary care—but did -everything in a vague and hazy way, requiring to be recalled to himself -when anything important<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230">{230}</a></span> happened. When he was in his library, where he -had read and written and studied so much, the Squire arranged all his -tools as usual, opened his book, even began to write his letters, -putting the date—but did no more. Having accomplished that beginning he -would lean back in his chair and muse for hours together. It was not -thinking even, but only musing; no subject abode with him in these long -still hours, and not even any consistent thread of recollections. -Shadows of the past came sailing—floating about him, that was all; very -often only that soft, wandering thought about little Johnny, occupied -all his faculties.—Eighteen months between them, no more! He rarely got -beyond that fact, though he never could quite tell whether it was the -little brother’s face or another—his son’s, or his son’s son’s—which -floated through this mist of recollections. He was quite happy in the -curious trance which had taken possession of him. He had no active -personal feelings, except that of pleasure in the recollection and -thought of little Johnny—a thought which pleased and amused, and -touched his heart. All anger and harm went out of the old man; he spoke -softly when he spoke at all, and suffered himself to be disturbed as he -never would have done before. Indeed he was far too gentle and good to -be natural. The servants talked of his condition with dismay, yet with -that agreeable anticipation of something new which makes even a “death -in the house” more or less desirable. “Th’ owd Squire’s not long for -this world,” the Cook and Tom Gardener said to each other. As for -Eastwood, he shook his head with mournful importance. “I give you my -word, I might drop a trayful of things at his side, and he wouldn’t take -no notice,” the man said, almost tearfully; “it’s clean again nature, -that is.” And the other servants shook their heads, and said in their -turn that they “didn’t like the looks of him,” and that certainly the -Squire was not long for this world.</p> - -<p>This same event of Randolph’s visit had produced other results almost as -remarkable. It had turned little Lilias all at once into the slim -semblance of a woman, grown-up, and full of thoughts. It is perhaps too -much to say that she had grown in outward appearance as suddenly as she -had done in mind; but it is no unusual thing in the calmest domestic -quiet, where no commotion<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231">{231}</a></span> is, nor fierce, sudden heat of excitement to -quicken a tardy growth, that the elder members of a family should wake -up all in a moment, to notice how a child has grown. She had perhaps -been springing up gradually; but now in a moment every one perceived it; -and the moment was coincident with that in which Lilias heard with -unspeakable wrath, horror, shame, pity, and indignation, her father’s -story—that he would be put in prison if he came back; that he dared not -come back; that he might be—executed. (Lilias would not permit even her -thoughts to say hanged—most ignominious of all endings—though Miss -Brown had not hesitated to employ the word.) This suggestion had struck -into her soul like a fiery arrow. The guilt suggested might have -impressed her imagination also; but the horrible reality of the penalty -had gone through and through the child. All the wonderful enterprises -she had planned on the moment are past our telling. She would go to the -Queen and get his pardon. She would go to the old woman on the hills and -find out everything. Ah! what would she not do? And then had come the -weary pilgrimage which Geoff had intercepted; and now the ache of pity -and terror had yielded to that spell of suspense which, more than -anything else, takes the soul out of itself. What had come to the child? -Miss Brown said; and all the maids and Martuccia watched her without -saying anything. Miss Brown, who had been the teller of the story, did -not think of identifying it with this result. She said, and all the -female household said, that if Miss Lily had been a little older, they -knew what they would have thought. And the only woman in the house who -took no notice was Mary—herself so full of anxieties that her mind had -little leisure for speculation. She said, yes, Lilias had grown; yes, -she was changing. But what time had she to consider Lilias’ looks in -detail? Randolph was Mary’s special cross; he was always about, always -in her way, making her father uncomfortable, talking at the children. -Mary felt herself hustled about from place to place, wearied and worried -and kept in perpetual commotion. She could not look into the causes of -the Squire’s strange looks and ways; she could not give her attention to -the children; she could scarcely even do her business, into which -Randolph would fain have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232">{232}</a></span> forced his way, while her all-investigating -brother was close by. Would he but go away and leave the harassed -household in peace!</p> - -<p>But Randolph for his part was not desirous of going away. He could not -go away, he represented to himself, without coming to some understanding -with his father, though that understanding seemed as far off as ever. So -he remained from day to day, acting as a special irritant to the whole -household. He had nothing to do, and consequently he roamed about the -garden, pointing out to the gardener a great many imperfections in his -work; and about the stables, driving well-nigh out of his wits the -steady-going, respectable groom, who nowadays had things very much his -own way. He found fault with the wine, making himself obnoxious to -Eastwood, and with the made dishes, exasperating Cook. Indeed there was -nothing disagreeable which this visitor did not do to set his father’s -house by the ears. Finally sauntering into the drawing-room, where Mary -sat, driven by him out of her favourite hall, where his comments -offended her more than she could bear, he reached the climax of all -previous exasperations by suddenly urging upon her the undeniable fact -that Nello ought to go to school. “The boy,” Randolph called him; -nothing would have induced him to employ any pet name to a child, -especially a foreign name like Nello—his virtue was of too severe an -order to permit any such trifling. He burst out with this advice all at -once. “You should send the boy to school; he ought to be at school. Old -Pen’s lessons are rubbish. The boy should be at school, Mary,” he said. -This sudden fulmination disturbed Mary beyond anything that had gone -before, for it was quite just and true. “And I know a place—a nice -homely, good sort of place, where he would be well taught and well taken -care of,” he added. “Why should not you get him ready at once? and I -will place him there on my way home.” This was, to do him justice, a -sudden thought, not premeditated—an idea which had flashed into his -mind since he began to speak, but which immediately gained -attractiveness to him, when he saw the consternation in Mary’s eyes.</p> - -<p>“Oh, thank you, Randolph,” she said, faintly. Had not Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233">{233}</a></span> Pen -advised—had not she herself thought of asking her brother’s advice, who -was himself the father of a boy, and no doubt knew better about -education than she did? “But,” she added, faltering, “he could not be -got ready in a moment; it would require a little time. I fear that it -would not be possible, though it is so very kind.”</p> - -<p>“Possible? Oh yes, easily possible, if you give your mind to it,” cried -Randolph; and he pointed out to her at great length the advantages of -the plan, while Mary sat trembling, in spite of herself, feeling that -her horror of the idea was unjustifiable, and that she would probably -have no excuse for rejecting so reasonable and apparently kind a -proposal. Was it kind? It seemed so on the outside; and how could she -venture to impute bad motives to Randolph, when he offered to serve her? -She did not know what reply to make; but her mind was thrown into sudden -and most unreasonable agitation. She got up at last, agitated and -tremulous, and explained that she was compelled to go out to visit some -of her poor people. “I have not been in the village since you came,” she -said, breathless in her explanations; “and there are several who are -ill; and I have something to say to Mr. Pen.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, consult old Pen, of course,” Randolph had said. “I would not -deprive a lady of her usual spiritual adviser because she happens to be -my sister. Of course you must talk it over with Pen.” This assumption of -her dependence upon poor Mr. Pen’s advice galled Mary, who had by no -means elected Mr. Pen to be her spiritual adviser. However, she would -not stay to argue the question, but hurried away anxiously with a sense -of escape. She had escaped for the moment; yet she had a painful sense -in her mind that she could not always escape from Randolph. The proposal -was sudden, but it was reasonable and kind—quite kind. It was the thing -a good uncle ought to do; no one but would think better of Randolph that -he was willing to take so much trouble. Randolph for his part felt that -it was very kind; he had no other meaning in the original suggestion; -but when he had thus once put it forth, a curious expansion of the idea -came into his mind. Little Nello was a terrible bugbear to Randolph. He -had long dwelt upon the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234">{234}</a></span> thought that it was he who would succeed to -Penninghame on his father’s death—at first, perhaps, nominally on -John’s account. But there was very little chance that John would dare -the dangers of a trial, and reappear again, to be arraigned for murder, -of which crime Randolph had always simply and stolidly believed him -guilty; and the younger brother had entertained no doubt that, sooner or -later, the unquestioned inheritance would fall into his hands. But this -child baffled all his plans. What could be done while he was there? -though there was no proof who he was, and none that he was legitimate, -or anything but a little impostor: certainly, he was as far from being a -lawful and proper English heir—such as an old family like the Musgraves -ought to have—such as his own boy would be—as could be supposed. And -of course, the best that could be done for himself was to send him to -school. It was only of Nello that Randolph thought in this way. The -little girl, though a more distinct individual, did not trouble him. She -might be legitimate enough—another Mary, to whom, of course, Mary would -leave her money—and there would be an end of it. Randolph did not -believe, even if there had been no girl of John’s, that Mary’s money -would ever come his way. She would alienate it rather, he felt -sure—found a hospital for cats, or something of that description (for -Mary was nothing but a typical old maid to Randolph, who regarded her, -as an unmarried woman, with much masculine and married -contemptuousness), rather than let it come to his side of the family. So -let that pass—let the girl pass; but for the boy! That little, small, -baby-faced Nello—a little nothing—a creature that might be crushed by -a strong hand—a thing unprotected, unacknowledged, without either power -or influence, or any one to care for him! how he stood in Randolph’s -way! But he did not at this moment mean him any harm; that is, no -particular harm. The school he had suddenly thought of had nothing wrong -in it; it was a school for the sons of farmers or poor clergymen, and -people in “reduced circumstances.” It would do Nello a great deal of -good. It would clear his mind from any foolish notion of being the heir. -And he would be out of the way; and once at school, there is no telling -what may happen between the years of ten and twenty. But of one thing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235">{235}</a></span> -Randolph was quite sure—that he meant no harm, no particular harm, to -the boy.</p> - -<p>When Mary left him in this hurried way, he strolled out in search of -something to amuse or employ the lingering afternoon. Tom Gardener now -gave him nothing but sullen answers, and the groom began to dash about -pails of water, and make hideous noises as soon as he appeared, so that -it did not consist with his dignity to have anything more to say to -these functionaries; so that sheer absence of occupation, mingled with a -sudden interest in the boy, on whose behalf he had thus been suddenly -“led” to interfere, induced Randolph to look for the children. They were -not in their favourite place at the door of the old hall, and he turned -his steps instinctively to the side of the water, the natural attraction -to everybody at Penninghame. When he came within sight of the little -cove where the boats lay, he saw that it was occupied by the little -group he sought. He went towards them with some eagerness, though not -with any sense of interest or natural beauty such as would have moved -most people. Nello was seated on the edge of the rocky step relieved -against the blue water; Lilias placed higher up, with the wind ruffling -her brown curls, and the slant sunshine grazing her cheek. The boy had a -book open on his knees, but was trying furtive ducks and drakes under -cover of the lesson, except when Lilias recalled him to it, when he -resumed his learning with much demonstration, saying it over under his -breath with visibly moving lips. Lilias had got through her own portion -of study. Mr. Pen’s lessons were not long or severe, and she had a -girl’s conscientiousness and quickness in learning. Her book was closed -on her knee; her head turned a little towards that road which she -watched with a long dreamy gaze, looking for some one—but some one very -visionary and far away. Her pensive, abstracted look and pose, and the -sudden growth and development which had so suddenly changed Lilias, -seemed to have charmed the little girl out of childhood altogether. Was -she looking already for the fairy prince, the visionary hero? And to say -the truth, though she was still only a child, this was exactly what -Lilias was doing. It was the knight-deliverer, the St. George who kills -the dragon, the prince with shoes of swiftness and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236">{236}</a></span> invisible coat, -brought down to common life, and made familiar by being entitled “Mr. -Geoff,” for whom, with that kind of visionary childish anticipation -which takes no note of possibilities, she was looking. Time and the -world are at once vaster, and vaguer, and more narrow at her age than at -any other. He might come <i>now</i>, suddenly appearing at any moment; and -Lilias could not but feel vaguely disappointed every moment that he did -not appear. And yet there was no knowing when he would come, to-morrow, -next year, she could not tell when. Meanwhile she kept her eyes fixed on -the distance, watching for him. But Lilias was not thinking of herself -in conjunction with “Mr. Geoff.” She was much too young for love; no -flutter of even possible sentiment disturbed the serenity of her soul. -Nevertheless her mind was concentrated upon the young hero as entirely -as the mind of any dreaming maiden could be. He was more than her hero; -he was her representative, doing for her the work which perhaps Lilias -was not old enough or strong enough to do. So other people, grown-up -people, thought at least. And until he came she could do nothing, know -nothing. Already, by this means, the child had taken up the burden of -her womanhood. Her eyes “were busy in the distance shaping things,” that -made her heart beat quick. She was waiting already, not for love to -come, of which at her age she knew nothing, but for help to come, which -she would have given her little life to bestow, but could not, her own -hand being too slight and feeble to give help. This thought gave her a -pang, while the expectation of help kept her in that woman’s purgatory -of suspense. Why could not she do it herself? but yet there was a -certain sweetness in the expectation which was vague, and had not -existed long enough to be tedious. And yet how long, how long it was -even since yesterday! From daylight to dusk, even in August, what a -world of time. Every one of these slow, big round hours floated by -Lilias like clouds when there is no wind, moving imperceptibly; great -globes of time never to be done with. Her heart gave a throb whenever -any one appeared. But it was Tom Gardener, it was Mr. Pen, it was some -one from the village, it was never Mr. Geoff; and finally here was some -one quite antagonistic, the enemy in person, the stranger whom<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237">{237}</a></span> people -called Uncle Randolph. Lilias gave her little brother a note of warning; -and she opened her own book again.</p> - -<p>When Randolph approached, they had thus the air of being very busily -employed, both;—Lilias intent upon her book, while Nello, furtively -feeling in his pocket for the stones which he had stored there for use, -busied himself, to all appearance, with his lesson, repeating it to -himself with moving lips. Randolph had taken very little notice of the -children, except by talking at them to his sister. He came to a pause -now, and looked at them with curiosity—or at least he looked at Nello; -for after all, it did not matter about the girl. She might be John’s -daughter, or she might not; but in any case she was not worth a thought. -He did not see the humour of the preternatural closeness of study which -the children exhibited; but it afforded a means of opening -communications.</p> - -<p>“Are these your lessons for Mr. Pennithorne?” he said.</p> - -<p>Nello, to whom the question was addressed, made no answer. Was he not -much to busy to answer? his eyes were riveted upon his book. Lilias kept -silence too as long as politeness would let her; but at last the -rudeness of it struck her acutely. This might be an enemy, but children -ought not to be rude. She therefore said timidly, “Yes;” and added by -way of explanation, “Nello’s is Latin; but me, it is only English I -have.”</p> - -<p>“Is it hard?” said Randolph, still directing his question to the boy.</p> - -<p>Nello gave a glance out of the corner of his eyes at his questioner, but -said nothing, only learned harder than ever; and again it became -needful, for the sake of courtesy, that Lilias should answer.</p> - -<p>“The Latin is not hard,” she said; “oh, not near so hard as the English. -It is so easy to say; but Mr. Pen does not know how it goes; he says it -all wrong; he says it like English. I hope Nello will not learn it that -way.”</p> - -<p>Randolph stared at her, but took no further notice. “Can’t you speak?” -he said to Nello, “when I ask you a question? Stop your lesson and -listen to me. Shouldn’t you like to go to school?”</p> - -<p>Nello looked up with round and astonished eyes, and equally<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238">{238}</a></span> roundly, -with all the force of the monosyllable, said “No,” as probably he would -have answered to any question.</p> - -<p>“No? but you don’t know what school is; not lessons only, but a number -of fellows to play with, and all kinds of games. You would like it a -great deal better than being here, and learning with Mr. Pennithorne.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Nello again; but his tone was less sure, and he paused to -look into his questioner’s face. “Would Lily come too?” he said, -suddenly accepting the idea. For from No to Yes is not a very long way -at eight years old.</p> - -<p>“Why, you don’t want to drag a girl with you,” said Randolph, laughing; -“a girl who can’t play at anything, wherever you go?”</p> - -<p>This argument secured Nello’s attention. He said, “N—no,” reddening a -little, and with a glance at Lilias, against whose sway he dared -scarcely rebel all at once; but the sense of superiority even at such an -early age is sweet.</p> - -<p>“He must not go without me,” cried Lilias, roused. “I am to take care of -him <i>always</i>! Papa said so. Oh, don’t listen, Nello, to this—gentleman! -You know what I told you—papa is perhaps coming home. Mr. Geoff -said—Mr. Geoff knows something that will make everything right again. -Mr. Geoff is going to fetch papa—— ”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” cried Nello, reproachfully, “you said I was not to tell; and there -you have gone and told yourself!”</p> - -<p>“What is that? what is that?” asked Randolph, pricking up his ears.</p> - -<p>But the boy and girl looked at each other and were silent. The curious -uncle felt that he would most willingly have whipped them both, and that -amiable sentiment showed itself in his face.</p> - -<p>“And, Lily,” said Nello, “I think the old gentleman would not let me go. -He will want me to play with; he has never had anybody to play with -for—I don’t know how long—never since a little boy called little -Johnny: and he said that was my name too—— ”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Nello! now it is you who are forgetting; he said (you know you told -me) that you were never, never to tell!”</p> - -<p>Randolph turned from one to another, bewildered. What<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239">{239}</a></span> did they mean? -Had they the audacity to play upon his fears, the little foundlings, the -little impostors! He drew a long breath of fury, and clenched his fist -involuntarily. “Children should never have secrets,” he said. “Do you -know it is wicked, very wicked? You ought to be whipped for it. Tell me -directly what you mean!”</p> - -<p>But this is not the way to get at any child’s secret. The brother and -sister looked at each other, and shut fast their mouths. As for Nello, -he felt the edges of that stone in his pocket, and thought he would like -to throw it at the man. Lilias had no stone, and was not warlike; but -she looked at him with the calm of superior knowledge. “It would be -dishonourable,” she said, faltering over the pronunciation, but firm in -the sentiment, “to tell what we were told not to tell.”</p> - -<p>“You are going to school with me—on Saturday,” said Randolph, with a -virulence of irritation which children are just as apt to call forth as -their elders. “You will be taught better there; you will not venture to -conceal anything, I can tell you, my boy.”</p> - -<p>And he left them with an angry determination to carry out his plans, and -to give over Nello to hands that would tame him effectually, “the best -thing for him.” The children, though they had secretly enjoyed his -discomfiture, were a little appalled by this conclusion. “Oh, Nello, I -will tell you what he is—he is the wicked uncle in the <i>Babes in the -Wood</i>. He will take you and leave you somewhere, where you will lose -yourself and starve, and never be heard of. But I will find you. I will -go after you. I will never leave you!” cried Lilias with sudden tears.</p> - -<p>“I could ask which way to go,” said Nello, much impressed, however, by -this view. “I can speak English now. I could ask the way home; or -something better!—listen, Lily—if he takes me, when we have gone ten -miles, or a hundred miles, I will run away!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240">{240}</a></span>”</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XXV" id="CHAPTER_XXV"></a>CHAPTER XXV.<br /><br /> -<small>A NEW VISITOR.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Notwithstanding</span> her dislike to have it supposed that Mr. Pen was her -spiritual adviser, Mary did make a hurried visit to the Vicarage to ask -his advice. Not that she had much confidence in the good Vicar’s advice; -but to act in such a case, where experience fails you altogether, -entirely on your own judgment without even the comfort of “talking it -over,” is a hard thing to do. “Talking it over” is always an advantage. -The for and against of any argument are always clearer when they are put -into words and made audible, and thus acquire, as it were, though they -may be your own words, a separate existence. Thus Mary became her own -adviser when she consulted Mr. Pen, and there was no one else at hand -who could fulfil this office. They talked it over anxiously, Mr. Pen -being, as she knew he would be, entirely on Randolph’s side. To him it -appeared that it would be a great advantage for Nello to be taken to -school by his uncle. It would be “the right thing to do”—better than if -Mary did it—better than Mr. Pen himself could do it. Mary could not -find any arguments to meet this conventional certainty. She restrained -her distrust and fear, but she could not say anything against the fact -that it was kind of Randolph to propose this, and that it would be -injurious and unkind on her part to reject it. She went home dispirited -and cast down, but set to work at once with the practical preparations. -Saturday was the day on which Randolph had said he must go—and it was -already Thursday—and there was not a moment to lose. But it was not -till the Friday afternoon, the eve of separation, that Miss Musgrave -could screw her courage to the point of informing the children what lay -before them. The afternoon was half over, and the sun beginning to send -long rays aslant from the west. She came in from the village, where she -had gone in mere restlessness, feeling that this communication could be -delayed no longer; but she disliked it so much herself that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241">{241}</a></span> the thought -of Nello’s consternation and the tears of Lilias was almost more than -their tender guardian could bear.</p> - -<p>But when she came in sight of the old hall door, a group encountered her -which bewildered Mary. A young man on horseback had drawn up at the side -of the ascent, and with his hat off, and the sun shining upon his -curling hair and smiling countenance, was looking up and talking to -little Lilias, who leaned over the low wall, like a lady of romance -looking over her battlements. The sun gleamed full upon Lilias too, -lighting up her dark eyes and warmly-tinted cheek and the hair which -hung about her shoulders, and making a pretty picture. Her face was full -of earnest meaning, grave and eager and tremulous. Nello, at the hall -door, above this strange pair, contemplated them with a mixture of -jealousy and wonder. Mary had come upon them so suddenly that she could -hear the young man answering something to the eager demands of the -little girl. “But, you are sure, quite sure? Oh, are you certain, Mr. -Geoff?”</p> - -<p>“Quite sure,” he was saying. “But you must think of me all the time, -Lily; you must think of nothing but me—promise me that, and I shall not -be afraid.”</p> - -<p>“I promise!” cried Lilias, clasping her hands. Mary stood and listened -altogether confounded, and Nello, from above, bewildered and only half -satisfied, looked on. Who was the young man? It seemed to Miss Musgrave -that she had seen him before. And what was it that had changed Lilias -into this little princess, this small heroine? The heroic aspect, -however, gave way before Mary could interfere, and the child murmured -something softer, something less unlike the little girl with all whose -ways Mary was familiar.</p> - -<p>“But I always think of you,” she said; “always! since <i>that</i> day.”</p> - -<p>“Do you, indeed, my little Lily? That makes me happy. You must always -keep up so good a custom.”</p> - -<p>And the young man smiled, with eyes full of tenderness, and took the -child’s hand and held it in his own. Lilias was too young for any -comment or false interpretation, but what did it mean? The spectator -behind, besides, was too much astonished to move.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242">{242}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Good-bye, my Lily; good-bye, Nello,” cried the young man, nodding his -head to the children. And then he put on his hat and rode round the -corner towards the door.</p> - -<p>Lilias stood looking after him, like a little saint in an ecstasy. She -clasped her hands again, and looked up to the sky, her lips moving, and -tears glittering in her eyes.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Nello, don’t you think God will help him?” she said, one tear -overbrimming suddenly, and rolling down her cheek. She started when -Mary, with tones a little sharpened by consternation, called her. Lilias -had no sense of shame in her innocent mind, but as there is no telling -in what light those curious beings called grown-up people might regard a -child’s actions, a little thrill of alarm went through her. What might -Mary say? What would she think when she knew that Mr. Geoff “had come to -set everything right about papa”? Lilias felt instinctively that Geoff’s -mission would not appear in exactly the same light to Mary as it did to -herself. She turned round with a sudden flush of surprise and agitation -on her face. It looked like the blush of a maturer sentiment to Mary.</p> - -<p>“At twelve years old!” she said to herself! And unconsciously there -glanced through her mind a recollection of the first Lily—the child’s -mother—she who had been the beginning of all the trouble. Was it in the -blood?</p> - -<p>“Who is that gentleman?” Mary asked, with much disturbance of mind. -“Lilias! I could not have expected this of you.”</p> - -<p>Lilias followed into the hall, very still and pale, feeling herself a -culprit, though she did not know why. Her hands dropped straight by her -side, after the manner of a creature accused; and she looked up to Mary -with eyes full of vague alarm, into which the tears were ready to come -at a moment’s notice.</p> - -<p>“I have not done anything wrong?” she said, turning her assertion into a -faltering question. “It was Mr. Geoff.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Geoff!—who is Mr. Geoff?”</p> - -<p>“He is—very kind—oh, very kind, Mary; he is—some one who knows about -papa: he is—the gentleman who once came with two beautiful horses in a -carriage (oh, don’t you remember, Nello?) to see <i>you</i>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243">{243}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Nello, with ready testimony; “he said I should ride upon -them. They were two bay horses, in one of those high-up funny carriages, -not like Mary’s carriage. I wonder if I might ride upon his horse now?”</p> - -<p>“To see <i>me</i>?” Mary was entirely bewildered. “And what do you mean about -your father?” she said. “Knows about papa! Lilias! come here; I am not -angry. What does he know about papa?”</p> - -<p>Lilias came up slowly to her side, half unwilling to communicate her own -knowledge on this point. For Mary had not told her the secret, she -remembered suddenly. But the confusion of Lilias was interrupted by -something more startling and agitating. Eastwood came into the hall, -with a certain importance and solemnity. “If you please, ma’am,” he -said, “my Lord Stanton has just come in, and I’ve shown him into the -library—to my master. I thought you would like to know.”</p> - -<p>“Lord Stanton—to my father, Eastwood? my father ought not to be -troubled with strangers. Lord Stanton!—to be sure it was that boy. -Quick, say that I shall be glad to see him up-stairs.”</p> - -<p>“If you please, ma’am, his lordship asked for my master; and my -master—he said, ‘Yes, certainly.’ He was quite smiling like, and -cheerful. He said, ‘Yes; certainly, Eastwood.’ So, what was I to do? I -showed his lordship in—and there they are now—as friendly—as -friendly, if I may venture to make a comparison: His lordship,” said -Eastwood, prudently pausing before he committed himself to metaphor, -“is, if I may make bold to say so, one of the nicest young gentleman!”</p> - -<p>Mary had risen hastily to interrupt this dangerous interview, which -alarmed her. She stood, paying no attention to Eastwood while the man -was talking, feeling herself crowded and pressed on all hands by a -multitude of thoughts. The hum of them was in her ears, like the sound -of a throng of people. Should she go to the library, whatever her father -might think of the interruption? Should she stop this meeting at all -hazards? or should she let it go on, and that come which would? All was -confusion around her, her heart beating loudly in her ears, and a -hundred suggestions sounding through that stormy throbbing. But when<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244">{244}</a></span> -Eastwood’s commonplace voice, to which she had been paying no heed, -stopped, Mary’s thoughts came to a stop also. She grew faint, and the -light seemed to vanish from her eyes.</p> - -<p>The Squire had been sitting alone all day. He had seemed to all the -servants (the most accurate of observers in such a case) more feeble -than usual. His daughter, agitated and full of trouble about other -things, had not remarked any change. But Eastwood had shaken his head -down-stairs, and had said that he did not like the looks of master. He -had never been so gentle before. Whatever you said to him he smiled, -which was not at all the Squire’s way. And though he had a book before -him, Eastwood had remarked that he did not read. He would cast his eyes -upon his book when any one went in, but it was always the same page. -Eastwood had made a great many pretences of business, in order to see -how his master was—pretences which the Squire in his usual health would -have put a stop to summarily, but which to-day he either did not observe -at all, or received smilingly. In this way Eastwood had remarked a great -many things which filled him with dismay; for he liked his old master, -and the place suited him to perfection. He noticed the helpless sort of -way in which Mr. Musgrave sat; his knees feebly leaning against each -other, his fingers falling in a heap upon the arm of his chair, his -eyelids half covering his eyes. It was half the instinct of obedience, -and half a benevolent desire to rouse his master, which made Eastwood -introduce the visitor into the library without consulting Miss Musgrave. -Judging by his own feelings, the man felt that nothing was so likely to -stimulate and rouse up the Squire as a visit from a lord. There were not -too many of them about; visitors of any kind, indeed, were not over -plentiful at Penninghame; and a nice, cheerful, affable young lordship -was a thing to do anybody good.</p> - -<p>And Geoff went in, full of the mission he had taken in hand. It was a -bold thing to do, after all he had heard of the inexorable old Squire -who had shut his heart to his son, and would hear nothing of him, as -everybody said. But it seemed to Geoff, in the rash generosity of his -youth, that if he, who was the representative of the injured family, -were to interfere, the other<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245">{245}</a></span> must be convinced—must yield, at least, -to reason, and consent to consider the subject. But he did not expect a -very warm reception, and went in with a beating heart.</p> - -<p>Mr. Musgrave had risen up to receive him; he had not failed in any of -his faculties. He could still hear as well as he did twenty years -before, and Lord Stanton’s name was unusual enough to call his attention -for the moment. He had raised himself from his chair, and stood leaning -forward, supporting himself with both hands upon the writing-table -before him. This had been a favourite attitude, when he had no occasion -for support; but now the feeble hands leaned heavily with all the weight -of his frame upon them. He said the name that had been announced to him -with a wavering of suspicion in his tone, “Lord Stanton!” then pointed -with a tremulous sweep of his hand to a seat, and himself dropped back -into his chair. He was not the stern old chief whom Geoff expected to -find in arms against every suggestion of mercy, but a feeble old man, -smiling faintly, with a kind of veiled intelligence in his eyes. He -murmured something about “an unusual pleasure,” which Geoff could not -make out.</p> - -<p>“I have come to you, sir, about important business. I hope you will not -think I am taking too much upon myself. I thought, as I was—the chief -person on one side, and you on the other, that you might allow me to -speak?”</p> - -<p>Geoff was as nervous as a child; his colour went and came. It awed him, -he could scarcely tell why, to see the feebleness of the old figure, the -dreary, abstracted look in the old face.</p> - -<p>“Surely—surely,” said the old man. “Why should you not speak to me? Our -family is perhaps better known; but yours, Mr.—I mean, my Lord Stanton, -yours is—”</p> - -<p>He half forgot what he was saying, getting slower and slower, and now -stopped all at once. Then, after a moment, rousing himself, resumed, -with a wave of his hand, “Surely—you must say—what you have to say.”</p> - -<p>This was worse for Geoff than if he had forbidden him altogether. What -could he do to rouse interest in the old man’s breast?</p> - -<p>“I want to speak, sir,” he said, faltering, “of your son.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246">{246}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“My son?—ah! yes, Randolph is here. He is too old for me—too old—not -like a son. What does it matter who is your father when it comes to that -age?”</p> - -<p>“It was not Randolph, sir. I did not know him; but it is your other -son—your eldest son, I mean—John.”</p> - -<p>“Eh?” The old man roused up a little. “John—that was my little brother; -we called him Johnny—a delightful boy. There is just such another in -the house now, I believe. I think he is in the house.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, sir!” said Geoff, “I want to speak to you—to plead with you for -some one who is not in the house—for your son John—John who has been -so long away. You know—don’t you know whom I mean?—your eldest son, -Mr. Musgrave—<i>John</i>, who left us and left everything so many years -ago.”</p> - -<p>A wavering light came over the old man’s face. He opened his eyes wide -and gazed at Geoff, who, for his part, was too much troubled and alarmed -to know what to do.</p> - -<p>“Eh!” he said again, with a curious blank stare, “my—what? Son? but not -Randolph. No more about sons, they are a trouble and a sorrow. To tell -the truth I am drowsy rather. I suppose—I have not been very well. Have -you seen the little boy?”</p> - -<p>“The little boy?—your grandson, sir?”</p> - -<p>“Eh! you call him that! He is just such another as little Johnny, my -little brother, who was eighteen months younger than I. You were saying -something else, my—my—friend! But to tell the truth, this is all I am -good for now. The elders would like to push us from the scene; but the -little ones,” said the Squire, with a curious sudden break of laughter, -which sounded full of tears, “the little ones—are fond of old people; -that is all I am good for nowadays—to play with the little boy—— ”</p> - -<p>“Oh, sir!” said Geoff in his eagerness, “it is something very different -that is expected of you. To save the little boy’s father—your son—to -bring him back with honour. It is honour, not shame, that he deserves. I -who am a stranger, who am the brother of the man who was killed, I have -come to entreat you to do John Musgrave justice. You know how he has -been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247">{247}</a></span> treated. You know, to our disgrace, not his, that there is still a -sentence against him. It is John Musgrave—John Musgrave we ought to -think of. Listen to me—oh, listen to me! Your son—”</p> - -<p>The old man rose to his feet, and stood wavering, gazing with troubled -wide-open eyes, full of the dismal perplexity of an intelligence which -feels itself giving way. “John Musgrave!” he said, with pale lips which -trembled and dropped apart; and a thrill and trembling came over his -whole frame. Geoff sprang up and came towards him in alarm to support -him, but the Squire waved him away with both his tremulous hands, and -gave a bewildered look round him as if for some other prop. Suddenly he -caught sight of the little carved oak cupboard against the wall. “Ah!” -he said, with an exclamation of relief. This was what he wanted. He -turned and made a feeble step towards it, opened it, and took from it -the cordial which he used in great emergencies, and to which he turned -vaguely in this utter overthrowal of all his forces now. But then ensued -a piteous spectacle; all his strength was not sufficient to pour it out. -He made one or two despairing efforts, then put the bottle and glass -down upon the table with a low cry, and sank back into his chair. He -looked at Geoff with the very anguish of feebleness in his eyes. “Ah!” -he faltered, “it is true—they are right. I am old—old—and good for -nothing. Let them push me away, and take my place.” A few sobs, bitter -and terrible, came with the words, and two or three tears dropped down -the old man’s grey-pale cheeks. The depth of mortal humiliation was in -this last cry.</p> - -<p>Geoff almost wept too in the profound pity of his generous young -soul—it went to his very heart. “Let me help you,” he cried, pouring -out the cordial with anxious care. It was all the Squire could do to put -it to his lips. He laid one of his trembling hands upon Geoff’s shoulder -as he gave back the glass, and whispered to him hoarsely, “Not -Randolph,” he said; “don’t let Randolph come. Bring me—do you -know?—the little boy.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir, yes,” cried Geoff; “I understand.”</p> - -<p>The old Squire still held him with a hand which was heavy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248">{248}</a></span> as lead upon -his arm, “God bless you, my lad,” he said. He did not know who Geoff -was; but trusted to him as in utter prostration we trust to any hand -held out to us. And a little temporary ease came with the potion. He -smiled feebly once more, laid back his head, and closed his eyes. “My -little Johnny!” he said; and his hands fell as Eastwood had described -them, the fingers crumbled together all in a heap, upon the arms of his -chair.</p> - -<p>Geoff rushed out of the room with a beating heart, feeling himself all -at once thrust into a position of importance in this unknown house. He -had never seen death or its approach, and in his inexperience did not -know how difficult it was to shuffle off the coils of mortality. He -thought the old man was dying. Accordingly, he rushed up the slope to -the old hall like a whirlwind, where Mary and the children were. “Come, -come,” he cried; “he is ill, very ill!” and snatching Nello’s reluctant -hand, ran back, dragging the child with him, who resisted with all his -might. “Come, your grandfather wants you,” cried Geoff. Mary followed, -alarmed, and wondering, and—scarcely knowing where she went in her -agitation—found herself, behind the young man and the boy, at the door -of that sacred library which the children had never entered, and where -their very existence was ignored. Her father was lying back in his great -chair; Eastwood, whom Geoff had hastily summoned, standing behind. The -old man’s heavy eyes were watching the door, his old limbs huddled -together in the chair, like something inanimate thrown down in a heap, -and lying as it fell. At sight of this awful figure, little Nello gave a -loud cry of childish terror, and turning round, would have fled but for -Geoff, who stood behind him. At the sound of the child’s voice, the old -man roused himself feebly; he moved his arms—extending them in -intention at least—and his lips with inaudible words. “Go to him, go to -him!” cried Geoff in an imperative whisper. Little Nello was not without -courage, though he was afraid. Finding the way of escape blocked up, he -turned round again, stood irresolute for a moment, and then advanced -with the strength of desperation. The old man, with a last effort, put -out his arms, and drew the child between his knees. “My<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249">{249}</a></span> little Johnny!” -he said, with an only half-articulate outbreak of crying and strange -laughter. Then his arms fell powerless; his head drooped on his breast. -Nello broke out wildly into crying; but stood fascinated between the -feeble knees.</p> - -<p>Was he dead? Geoff thought so in his simplicity as he led the child -away, and left Mary and the servants, whom he had summoned, in this -death-chamber. He led Nello back to the hall, and sat down beside the -children and talked to them in low tones. His mind was full of awe and -solemn feeling; his own youth, and strength, and happiness seeming a -kind of insult to the old and dying. He went back after a while very -grave and humble, to ask how it was, and what he could do. But the -Squire was not dead. He was stricken by that <i>avant-courier</i> of the -great king, who kills the mind before the body dies. It was “a stroke,” -Eastwood said, in all the awe, yet importance, of so tragic an event. He -had seen it coming for weeks before, he said.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXVI.<br /><br /> -<small>IN SUSPENSE.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Randolph Musgrave</span> was extremely annoyed at the turn things had taken. On -the day of his father’s seizure indeed a kind of serene solemnity came -over him. He would not have been so indiscreet or indecorous as to admit -that he was glad of the “stroke” which might terminate the Squire’s -life; such an evil sentiment was far from him. Still if his dear father -was indeed in the providence of God to be taken away from this mortal -scene, there was a sad satisfaction in having it happen while he was -still at the Castle and ready to be of use. As the only male member of -the family, it was indeed very important that he should be there on such -a melancholy occasion. Mary would have enough on her hands with the -nursing and the strictly feminine duties, and he was the only one to -turn to, the only one who could do anything. He telegraphed to his wife -what the sad occasion was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250">{250}</a></span> that detained him, and went to bed with a -comfortable sense that his visit had not been in vain. It was melancholy -to think that all might be over before the morning; but yet he could do -no good by staying up and wearing himself out. If it should so happen -that his own sad prognostications were correct, why then he had occasion -for all his strength, for he it would be who must do everything. And no -martyr could have contemplated the stake with more elevated resignation -and satisfaction than Randolph looked at the labours and troubles he -would have to take upon him. He lay down, solemnly going over them in -his mind—the details of the funeral, the reading of the will, the -taking possession of the estate. He resolved that he would take -possession in his brother’s name. No one knew where John was; he could -not be called at a moment’s notice like respectable men. Nor, indeed, -would it be kind to think of such a thing as bringing him here to the -endangerment of his life. No, he would take possession for his brother. -He would put his brother’s little son to school. The girl of course -would go with Mary, who for her part must, he supposed, have the house -on the way to Pennington, which was called the Dower-house, though he -did not think an unmarried sister had any real right to a place which -was intended for the widow of the previous Squire. But that might pass: -Mary had been accustomed to have everything her own way, and she should -have the Dower-house by grace at least, if not by right. He fell asleep -as he was arranging all these things with a great deal of serious -satisfaction. Of course it was sad: what is there in this vale of tears -that is not mixed with sadness? But it was not (he said to himself) as -if his father were a young man, or carried off in the midst of his work. -He was old, he had lived out the life of man, he had arrived at the time -when a man has a right to expect that his day is over, and must know -that in the course of nature he ought to give place to his successors. -And as things were to take such a serious turn, how well it was that he, -Randolph, should be on the spot to do everything! His satisfaction in -this was really the foremost feeling in his mind.</p> - -<p>But all was not over in the morning, as Randolph had so certainly -anticipated. He got up in the same solemnized but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251">{251}</a></span> resigned and serene -condition, and wondered a little to see how late it was. For indeed the -turn things had taken, though so serious, had been peace-inspiring, -removing anxiety from his mind, and he had slept later than usual in -consequence. And it was clear that as yet there had been “no change.” -Eastwood, who was late too, having stayed up late on the previous night -indulging the solemn excitement which was natural to this crisis, came -in with profound seriousness and an air as solemn as Randolph’s. “Just -the same, sir,” he said; “the doctor is with him now.” Randolph could -not help a slight sensation of disappointment. He had made up his mind -so distinctly what was to happen, and there are cases in which even good -news are out of place. It was with less resignation and more anxiety -that he hurried out to hear what the doctor said.</p> - -<p>And he was much provoked and annoyed when a week later there was still -no progress made, and it became apparent that no such easy solution of -all difficulties as he had expected was to be looked for. The Squire was -in much the same state on the next Saturday and the next, and it was -apparent that the illness was to be a lingering and tedious one—the -kind of thing which wears out everybody round. When people are going to -die, what a pity that they should not do it speedily, relieving both -themselves and others! But nature, so often acting in a manner contrary -to all prognostications, was not to be hurried. To jog her gently on, -and relieve the sufferer authoritatively from his troubles, is not yet -permissible in England. On the contrary, medical science acts just the -other way, with questionable mercy, prolonging lives in which there is -nothing but suffering, and stimulating the worn-out machinery of the -frame to go on a little longer, to suffer a little more, with all that -wheezing and creaking of the rusty wheels which bears witness to the -unnaturalness of the process. This was what Randolph felt with much -restrained warmth of annoyance. It was unnatural; it was almost impious. -Two doctors, a professional nurse, and Mary, who was as good, all -labouring by every possible invention to keep mere life in their -patient. Was it right to do so? Providence had evidently willed to -release the old man, but science was forcing him to remain imprisoned in -the flesh. It was very hard upon the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252">{252}</a></span> Squire, and upon Randolph too, -especially as the latter could not venture to express his real -sentiments on this matter, but was compelled to be glad of every little -sign of tenacity and vitality which the patient gave. If it had been -recovery indeed, he said to himself, there might have been some reason -for satisfaction; but as it was only holding by life, mere existing and -nothing more, what ground was there for thankfulness? It would be better -for the sufferer himself, better for everybody, that it should be over -soon. After this state of things had lasted for a fortnight, Randolph -could not bear it any longer. He sent for Mary from the sick room, and -gave her to understand that he must go.</p> - -<p>“Had I expected he would last so long,” he said, “I should have gone -last week. Of course it does not matter for you who have nothing else to -do; but my work and my time are of importance. If anything were likely -to happen directly, of course I should think it my duty to stay; but, so -far as I can see, nothing is likely to happen,” said Randolph in an -aggrieved tone. Mary was too sad to laugh and too languid to be angry, -but there came a gleam of mingled resentment and amusement into her -eyes.</p> - -<p>“It is not for us to wish that anything should happen,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Wish? Did I talk of wishing? I stated a fact. And in the meantime my -parish is being neglected and my work waiting for me. I cannot hang on -here for ever. Of course,” Randolph added, “if anything should happen, -you have only to telegraph, and I will come.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t see that it is necessary, Randolph. My father may rally, or he -may linger for months, the doctors say; and whatever happens—of course -you shall hear immediately; but so far as I am concerned, it does not -seem necessary to disturb your work and unsettle your parish—— ”</p> - -<p>“That is ridiculous; of course I shall come the moment I am summoned. It -is quite essential that there should be some man to manage matters. And -the boy is all ready,” he added; “you had his outfit prepared before my -father’s attack came on. Let them pack up for him, and on Friday we -shall go.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253">{253}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“The boy! How could I send him away now, when my father might recover -his consciousness, and want him?”</p> - -<p>“My father want him? This is too much,” said Randolph—“my father, from -whom you concealed his very existence—who never cared for children at -any time. My <i>father</i>? What could he possibly want with the boy? He -should have gone a fortnight ago. I wrote to enter his name of course, -and the money is running on. I can’t afford to pay for nothing whatever -you may do, Mary. Let his things be packed up, and let him go with me.”</p> - -<p>“I think your brother is right,” said the Vicar, who was present. “Nello -is doing no good with me. We have been so much disturbed with all that -has taken place; and Emily has been so poorly—you know how poorly she -has been—and one feels with one’s own children the time can always be -made up somehow. That is the worst of lessons at home,” said Mr. Pen, -with a sigh.</p> - -<p>“But my father sent for him—wanted him; how can I send the child away! -Mr. Pen, you know, if Randolph does not, that he is the heir, and his -grandfather has a right to have him close at hand.”</p> - -<p>“It is no use arguing with women,” said Randolph, white with rage. “I -don’t understand this nonsense about my father wanting him. I don’t -believe a word of it. But I tell you this, Mary, if he is the heir, I am -his uncle, his next friend; and I say, he sha’n’t lose his time here and -get ruined among a pack of women. He must go to school. Supposing even -that my father did want him (which is absolute absurdity; why, my father -pretends not to know of his existence!) would you put a selfish old -man’s fancy against the boy’s good?”</p> - -<p>“Randolph! how do you dare, when he is so ill,” cried Mary, with -trembling lips, “to speak of my father so!”</p> - -<p>“It is true enough anyhow,” said the undutiful son. “When he is so ill! -Why, that is the reason I can speak freely. One would not hurt his -feelings if he could ever know it. But he was always known to be -selfish. I did not think there was any doubt about that. The boy must -not be ruined for an old man’s whim, even if it is true.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254">{254}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“It is dreadful to go against you,” said the Vicar, looking at her with -piteous eyes, beseeching her forgiveness; “but Randolph is in the right. -Nello is losing his time; he is doing no good; he ought to go to -school.”</p> - -<p>“You too!” cried Mary. She could not but smile, though the tears were in -her eyes. And poor Mr. Pen’s dissent from her cost the good man so much. -He looked at her, his eyes too filling, with deprecating, beseeching, -wistful looks, as a dog does. When he thus took part so distinctly -against Mary, conscience, it was clear, must have been strong within Mr. -Pen. He had tried hard for her sake to overcome the habit of irregular -hours and desultory occupation which had grown upon him, and to give the -children their lessons steadily, at the same hours, day by day. But poor -Mr. Pen had not known how hard it would be to accomplish this. The idea -of being able to make up the failing lessons at any odd moment which -made the children at the Vicarage so uncertain in their hours, had soon -returned after the first bracing up of duty towards Lilias and Nello had -come to an end. And then Mrs. Pen had been ill, and could not bear the -noise of the children; and then the Squire had been ill, upsetting -everybody and everything; and then—the Vicar did not know what more to -say for himself. He had got out of the way of teaching, out of the habit -of exact hours, and Emily had been very poorly, and, on the whole, -Randolph was right, and the boy ought to go to school.</p> - -<p>Several of these discussions, however, took place before Mary gave way. -The account Randolph had heard of the last scene in the library, before -the Squire had his “stroke,” had not been at all satisfactory to his -mind. He sincerely believed (though with an uneasy sense of something in -it that sounded like truth) that this story was a fabrication to suit a -purpose. But, on the other hand, his own intentions were very distinct. -The mere fact that such a story had been invented showed the meaning on -the other side. This boy was to be foisted into the place which, for -years, he had supposed himself to occupy. John not being possible, who -but Randolph could fill that place? Another heir was ridiculous, was -shameful, and a wrong to him. He would not suffer it. What right had -John, an outlaw and exile, to have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255">{255}</a></span> a son, if it came to that? He would -not allow the child to stay here to be petted and pampered, and made to -believe himself the heir. For, in the end, Randolph had made up his mind -that the boy could not and should not be admitted to the advantages of -heirship without a very different kind of proof of identity from any -they possessed. And it would be ruin to the child to be allowed to fill -such a false position now. The mere idea of it filled him with -suppressed rage. He did not mean the boy any harm—not any real harm. On -the contrary, it would be a real advantage to him in any case to be bred -up frugally and industriously; and this he would insist upon, in spite -of every resistance. He would not leave the child here to have him -wormed into the old man’s affections, made a tool of by Mary in John’s -interests, and to his own detriment. He was determined to get rid of -Nello, whatever it cost him: not to do him harm, but to get him out of -the way. This idea began to possess him like a mania—to get rid of the -child who was more dangerous, a great deal more dangerous, than John -himself. And all the circumstances of the house favoured his removal at -this moment, when the Squire’s illness occupied everybody’s attention. -And then it was a great point to have enlisted on his side the reluctant -and abashed, yet conscientious support of Mr. Pen.</p> - -<p>As for the children themselves, a subtle discomfort had stolen into -their life. The old gentleman’s illness, though it did not affect them, -affected the house. The severe and dangerous illness of an important -member of any household has always a confusing influence upon domestic -life. It changes the centre of existence, so that everything, which once -radiated from the cheerful hearth becomes absorbed in the sick-chamber, -making of it the temporary and fictitious centre of the dwelling. In -this changed orbit, all the stars of the household firmament shine, and -beyond it everything is left cold, and sunless, and neglected. Children -are always the first to feel this atmospheric change, which affects them -more than it does the watchers and nurses, whose time and minds are -absorbed in the new occupation. It was as if the sun had gone out of the -sky to the children at Penninghame. They were left free indeed, to go -and come as they liked, nobody attempting to hustle them out of the way, -to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256">{256}</a></span> say, “Run, children, some one is coming.” All the world might go and -come, and it did not matter. Neither did it matter to them now where -they went, for every room was equally dreary and empty. Mary, who meant -home to them, and to whom they carried all their grievances and -pleasures, had disappeared from their view; and Miss Brown, who was -their directress in minor matters, had become invisible too, swallowed -up by that sick-room, which absorbed everything. It was no pleasure to -roam about the drawing-room, generally forbidden ground, and even -through and through the passages from the hall to the dining-room, -though they had so often longed to do it, when nobody was to be found -there, either to laugh with them, or to find fault. Even Eastwood was -swept up in the same whirlpool; and as for Mary, their domestic -divinity, all that was seen of her was when she passed from one room to -another, crossing the corridor, disappearing within the door of the -mysterious chamber, where doctors and nurses, and every sort of -medicine, and drinks, and appliances of all kinds, were being taken. How -could the old gentleman want so much? Twice over a new kind of bed was -taken into that strange gulf of a sick-room, and all so -silently—Eastwood standing on the stairs, deprecating with voice and -gesture, “No noise, no noise!” That was what everybody said. Mary would -smile at them when she met them, or wave her hand from the end of the -corridor, or over the stairs. Sometimes she would pause and stoop down -and kiss them, looking very pale and worn out. “No, dear, he is no -better,” she would say. Except for these encounters, and the accounts -which the servants gave them of their grandfather’s state,—how he was -lying, just breathing, knowing nobody, not able to speak,—accounts -which froze the children’s blood in their veins—they had no life at -all; only dull meals which they ate under this shadow, and dull hours in -which, having nothing to do, they huddled together, weary and lonely, -and with nothing before them but to go to bed. Out of doors it was not -much better. Mr. Pen had fallen into all the old disorder of his ways, -out of which he had made a strenuous effort to wake for their benefit. -He never was ready for them when they went with their lessons. “I will -hear you to-morrow,” he would say, looking at them with painful<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257">{257}</a></span> -humility, feeling the grave countenance of Lilias more terrible than -that of any judge; and when to-morrow came, there were always a hundred -excuses. “Go on to the next page and learn the next lesson. I have had -such a press of work—and Mrs. Pennithorne is so poorly,” the poor man -would say. All this shook the pillars of the earth to Lilias and Nello. -They were shaken out of everything they knew, and left to blunder out -their life as best they could, without any guide.</p> - -<p>And this was hardest upon the one who understood it least. Lilias, whose -mind was open to everything, and who sat looking out as from a door, -making observations, keenly interested in all that went on, and at the -same time with a reserve of imagination to fall back upon, was fully -occupied at least if nothing more. Every day she watched for “Mr. Geoff” -with news of her father. The suspense was too visionary to crush her -with that sickening depression which affects elder minds. All had a -softening vagueness and confusion to the child. She hoped and hoped, and -cried with imaginative misery, then dried her eyes and hoped again. She -thought everything would come right if Mr. Geoff would only bring papa; -and Mr. Geoff’s ability sooner or later to find and bring papa she never -doubted. It was dreadful to have to wait so long—so long; but still -every morning, any morning he might come. This hope in her mind absorbed -Lilias, and made her silent, indisposed for play. At other times she -would talk eagerly, demanding her brother’s interest and response to -things he did not understand. Children can go on a long time without -understanding, each carrying on his or her monologue, two separate -streams, which, flowing tranquilly together, feel like something mutual, -and answer all the ends of intercourse; and in this way neither of them -was aware how far apart they were. But Nello was dull; he had so little -to do. He had no pony, he could not play cricket as Johnny Pen did with -the village boys. He was small, even for his age, and he had not been -educated in the art of knocking about as English boys are. He was even a -little timid of the water and the boats, in which other boys might have -found solace. Half of his time he wandered about, listless, not knowing -what to make of himself.</p> - -<p>This was the condition of mind in which Randolph met him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258">{258}</a></span> on one of -these lingering afternoons. The child had strayed out all by himself; he -was standing by the water-side at his old amusement, but not enjoying it -this time. “What are you doing?” said his uncle, calling out to him as -he approached. Randolph was not a favourite with the children; but it -was half an amusement to see any one coming near, and to have to answer -a question. He said “Nothing,” with a sigh; not a single skip could he -get out of those dull slates. The water would not carry them; they would -not go; they went to the bottom with a prosaic splash and thud. How -different from that day with the old gentleman, when they flew as if -they had been alive! Perhaps this new comer might have luck, and do as -well as the old gentleman. “Will you have a try?” he said; “here is a -good one—it ought to be a good one; but I can’t make them go to-day.”</p> - -<p>“I—have a try?” Randolph was startled by the suggestion. But he was -anxious to conciliate the little fellow whom he wanted so much to get -rid of. And it was only for once. He took suspiciously (for he was -always suspicious) the stone Nello held out to him, and looked at it as -if it might be poison—or it might be an attempt on his dignity got up -by somebody. When he had satisfied himself that it was a common piece of -slate, he took courage, and, with a smile that sat very awkwardly upon -his face, threw it, but with the most complete unsuccess.</p> - -<p>“Ah! you are not good, like the old gentleman; his skipped seven times! -He was so clever at it! I wish he was not ill,” said Nello, checking an -incipient yawn. It was, perhaps, the first time any one had uttered such -a wish. It had been taken for granted, even by his daughter, that the -Squire’s illness was the most natural thing in the world.</p> - -<p>“Did he really come and play with you? But old men are no better than -children,” said Randolph. “I suppose he had nothing else to do.”</p> - -<p>“It is very nice to have somebody to play with when you have nothing -else to do,” said Nello, reflectively. “And he was clever. You—you -don’t know even how to throw; you throw like a girl—like this. But this -is how the old gentleman did,” cried Nello, suiting the action to the -word, “and so do I.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259">{259}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Do you know nothing but these baby-games? I suppose you never played -cricket?” said Randolph, with, though he was a man, a pleasurable sense -of being thus able to humiliate the little creature beside him. Nello -coloured to the roots of his hair.</p> - -<p>“I do not like cricket. Must every one like the same things? It is too -hot; and one cannot play by oneself,” the boy added with a sigh.</p> - -<p>“You ought not to play by yourself, it is not good for you. Have you no -one to play with, little boy?”</p> - -<p>“Nobody,” said Nello, with emphasis; “not one person. There is Lily; but -what does it matter about a girl? And sometimes Johnny Pen comes. He is -not much good; he likes the green best, and all the village boys. Then -they say I am too little;—and I don’t know them,” the boy added with a -gleam of moisture in his eyes. The village boys had not been kind to -Nello; they had laughed at him for a little foreigner, and made remarks -about his hair, which was cut straight across his forehead. “I don’t -want to know them.” This was said with vehemence; for Nello was sore at -the want of appreciation which had been shown him. They did not care for -<i>him</i>, but they made a great deal of Johnny Pen!</p> - -<p>“You should go to school; that is where all boys should go. A boy should -not be brought up like a little girl; he should learn to use his hands, -and his fists even. Now, what should you do if there was a fight?”</p> - -<p>“A fight?” Nello grew pale and then grew red. “If it was—some one else, -I would walk away; but if it was me—if any one touched me, I should -kill him!” cried the child, setting his little white teeth.</p> - -<p>Randolph ought professionally to have improved the occasion; but he only -laughed—that insulting laugh which is offensive to everybody, and -specially exasperates a child. “How could you kill him? That is easier -said than done, my boy.”</p> - -<p>“I would get a gun, or a sword; but first,” said Nello, calming down, “I -would tell him to go away, because I should not <i>wish</i> to kill him. I -have seen people fighting with guns and swords—have you?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260">{260}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Here Randolph, being obliged to own himself inferior, fell back upon -what was right, as he ought to have done before.</p> - -<p>“Fighting is very wrong,” he said. “It is dreadful to think of people -cutting each other to pieces, like wild beasts; but it is not so bad if -you defend yourself with your fists. Only foreigners fight with swords; -it is thoroughly un-English. You should never fight; but you would have -to defend yourself if you were at school.”</p> - -<p>Nello looked at his uncle with an agreeable sense of superiority. “But I -have seen <i>real</i> fighting,” he said; “not like children. I saw them -fighting the Austrians—that was not wrong. Papa said so. It was to get -back their houses and their country. I was little then, and I was -frightened. But they won!” cried the boy, with a gleam in his dark eyes. -What a little savage he was! Randolph was startled by the sudden -reference to “papa,” and this made him more warm and eager in his turn.</p> - -<p>“Whoever has trained you to be a partisan has done very wrong,” he said. -“What do you know about it? But look here, my little man. I am going -away on Friday, and you are to come with me. It will be a great deal -better for you than growing up like a little girl here. You are exactly -like a little girl now, with your long hair and your name which is a -girl’s name. You would be Jack if you were at school. I want to make a -man of you. You will never be anything but a little lady if you don’t go -to school. Come; you have only to put on a frock like your sister. -Nelly! Why, that’s a girl’s name! You should be Jack if you were at -school.”</p> - -<p>“I am not a girl!” cried Nello. His face grew crimson, and he darted his -little brown fist—not so feebly as his size promised—in his uncle’s -face. Randolph took a step backwards in his surprise. “I hate you!” -cried the child. “You shall never, never come here when I am a man. When -the old gentleman is dead, and papa is dead, and everything is mine, I -will shut up all the doors, I will turn out the dogs, and you shall -never come here. I know now it is true what Lily says—you are the bad -uncle that killed the babes in the wood. But when I am a big man and -grown up, you shall never come here!”</p> - -<p>“So!” said Randolph, furious but politic; “it is all to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261">{261}</a></span> yours? I did -not know that. The castle, and the woods, and everything? How do you -know it will be yours?”</p> - -<p>“Oh! everybody knows that,” said Nello, recovering his composure as -lightly as he had lost it; “Martuccia and every one. But first the old -gentleman must be dead, and, I think, papa. I am not so sure about papa. -And do you think they would teach me cricket at school, and to fight? I -don’t really care for cricket, not really. But Johnny Pen and the rest, -they think so much of it. I should like to knock down all their wickets, -and get all the runs; that would teach them! and lick them after!” said -the bloodthirsty Nello, with gleaming eyes.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXVII.<br /><br /> -<small>AN APPARITION.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Thus</span> Randolph overcame Nello’s opposition to school, to his own extreme -surprise. Though he had a child of his own, and all the experiences of a -middle-aged clergyman, he had never yet learned the A B C of childhood. -But it may be supposed that the conversation generally had not made him -love his nephew more dearly. He shook his fist at the boy as he ran -along the water-side, suddenly seized by the delight of the novelty and -the thought of Johnny Pen’s envy. “If I had you, my boy!” Randolph said, -between his teeth, thinking grimly of the heirship which the child was -so sure of. Pride would have a fall in this as in other cases. The -child’s pretensions would not count for very much where he was going. To -be flogged out of all such nonsense would be far the best thing for him; -and a good flogging never did a boy much harm. Randolph, though he was -not a bad man, felt a certain gratification in thinking of the change -that would occur in Nello’s life. There was nothing wrong about the -school; it was a very humble place, where farmers’ sons were trained -roughly but not unkindly. It would make a man of the delicate little -half-foreign boy, who knew<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262">{262}</a></span> nothing about cricket. No doubt it would be -different from anything he was used to; but what of that? It was the -best thing for him. Randolph was not cruel, but still it gave him a -little pleasure to think how the impudent little wretch would be brought -to his senses; no harm done to him—no <i>real</i> harm—but only such a -practical lesson as would sweep all nonsense out of his head. If Nello -had been a man of his own age, a rival, he could not have anticipated -his humiliation with more zest. He would have liked to be a boy himself -to fag the little upstart. There would be probably no fagging at the -farmers’ school, but there would be—well! he smiled to himself. Nello -would not like it; but it would bring the little monkey to his senses, -and for that good purpose there was no objection to be taken to the -means.</p> - -<p>And as he walked through the Chase, through the trees, seeing in the -distance before him the blunt turret-chimneys, all veiled and dignified -with ivy, of the old house, many thoughts were in Randolph’s heart. He -was a Musgrave, after all, if not a very fine example of the race. His -wife was well off. If it had not been for John, who was a criminal, and -this boy—what he would have done for the old place! What he might do -still, if things went—— well! Was that, perhaps, the word to -use—well? That is, if John could be somehow disposed of, prevented from -coming home, and the boy pushed quietly to one side. As for John, he -could not come home. It would be death—perhaps; certainly renewed -disgrace. He would have to stand his trial, and, if he fled from that -trial once, how was he likely to be able to face it now? He would stay -abroad, of course—the only safe place for him. If he could but be -communicated with, wherever he was, and would send for his son and -daughter, some arrangement might be made: a share of the income settled -upon him, and the family inheritance left for those who could enjoy it. -This would be, in every way, the best thing that could be done; best for -John himself; best for the house which had been always an honourable -one, and never connected with disgrace. It is so easy to believe what -one wishes that Randolph, after a while, going over the subject in his -mind, succeeded in smoothing away all difficulties, except, indeed, the -initial one of getting<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263">{263}</a></span> into correspondence, one way or another, with -John. If this could be done, surely all the rest was smooth enough! John -was not a fool; he must see that he could not come home. He must see how -difficult it would be to prove his marriage and his son’s birth, and -make everything clear (though why this should be so difficult Randolph -did not explain even to himself). Then he must see equally well that, to -put the property and the old castle into the hands of a man with money, -who could really do something to improve them, would be far better for -the family than to go on as he (John) must do, having no money, if even -he could come lawfully into possession. All this was so evident, no man -in his senses could refuse to see it. And as for communicating with -John: there was, of course, one way, which seemed the natural way, and -which surely must be infallible in that case as in most other cases—the -<i>Times</i>. However far out of the world John might be, surely he would -have opportunities from year to year of seeing the <i>Times</i>! No -Englishman, even though banished, could live without that. And, sooner -or later, if often enough repeated, the advertisement must reach him. -Suppose it to be put something in this form:—“J. M., of P.—His brother -R. wishes to communicate with him on urgent business connected with the -death of their father.” This would attract no particular attention from -any one, and John could not fail to perceive that he was meant. Thus he -had, to his satisfaction, made everything clear.</p> - -<p>It was just when he came to this satisfactory settlement of the -difficulty, so perfectly easy in theory, though no doubt there might be -certain difficulties about carrying it out, that Randolph suddenly saw, -a little way before him, some one making his way through the trees. The -Chase was private, and very few people had the right of coming here; -neither did Randolph see whence this unexpected passenger had come, for -there was no tributary path by which he might have made his way down to -the foot-walk through the elms and oaks. He was within easy sight, -obscured a little by the brushwood, and with his back to the spectator; -but the sight of him gave Randolph a great start and shock, which he -could not very well explain. The man was in dark clothes, with a broad -felt hat, quite unlike anything worn<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264">{264}</a></span> in this district; and there was -something about his attitude and walk (no doubt a merely fantastic -resemblance, or some impression on his mind from his pre-occupation with -the idea of John) which recalled his brother to Randolph’s mind. He was -more startled than words could say. For a moment he could not even think -or move, but stood open-mouthed, staring at the figure before him, which -went on straight, not turning to the right or to the left.</p> - -<p>When Randolph came to himself, he tried to laugh at his own folly—then -coughed loudly and meaningly, by way of catching the stranger’s -attention, and seeing who it was. But his cough attracted no manner of -attention from the wayfarer, who went on pushing through the trees, like -one who knew every turn and winding. Randolph was at the end of his -invention. If he called out “Hi!” it might turn out to be somebody of -importance. If he spoke more politely, and called the stranger to halt, -he might be a nobody—if indeed it was not——. A vague impression, half -of fear, came upon him. What nonsense it was! In broad daylight, in so -well-known and familiar a place. Had it been in the dark, in any of the -ghostly passages of the old house! but out here in the sunshine, in the -open air!</p> - -<p>Randolph took off his hat, to let the air blow freely about him for he -had grown hot and uncomfortable. His hand with the hat in it dropped for -a moment between him and the other who was so near him. When he raised -it again there was no one there. He rubbed his eyes, looked again, and -darted forward to see whether the man was hiding among the trees; but -there was no one there. Randolph took off his hat once more, to wipe his -streaming forehead; his hand trembled so that he could scarcely do it. -What did it mean? When he had convinced himself there was no one to be -seen, he turned and hurried away from the place, with his heart beating -loudly in his breast. He never looked behind him, but hastened on till -he had got to the broad road, where there was not a bush to hide an -apparition. Then he permitted himself to draw breath.</p> - -<p>It would be doing Randolph injustice to suppose that after he was out of -the shadow of the trees, and in safety, with a broad level bit of road -before him, on which everything was distinctly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265">{265}</a></span> visible all round, he -could be capable of believing that he had seen a ghost. Nothing of the -kind. It must have been one of the people about the place, poking among -the bushes, who had disappeared under the branches of the trees, and -whom he thought like John only because he had been thinking of John—or -perhaps his thought of John had produced an optical delusion, and -imagination had painted some passing shadow as a substantial thing, and -endued it with his brother’s image. It might have been merely an -eccentric tree, on the outline of which fancy had wrought, showing a -kind of grotesque resemblance. It might be, and probably was, just -nothing at all. And it was supremely ridiculous that his heart should so -thump for such an absurd delusion; but thump it did, and that in the -most violent manner. He was out of breath, though he had made no -exertion. And he could not pick up his thoughts where he had dropped -them, when he saw that—figure. A thrill as of guilt was in his soul; he -was afraid to begin again where he had left off. He found himself still -rather breathless before the house, looking up at the veiled windows of -his father’s room. For the first time Randolph thought with a little awe -of his father lying there between life and death. He had not thought of -him at all in his own person, but rather of the Squire officially, the -old life who kept a younger generation out of the estate. It was time -the elders were out of the way, and age superseded by middle age. But -now for a moment he realized the man lying helpless there, in the very -pathway of death—not freed by the Great Deliverer, but imprisoned by -Him, all his senses and faculties bound up, a captive tied hand and foot -by the grim potency who conquers all men. Randolph was frightened -altogether by the mysterious encounter and impressed with awe. If there -had been daily service he would have gone to church, but as there was -nothing of the sort in Penninghame, he went into the library to read a -good book as the next best thing to do. But he could not stay in the -library. The silence of it was awful. He seemed to see his father, -seated there in his usual chair, silent, gazing at him with eyes of -disapproval that went through and through him. After five minutes he -could stand it no longer. He took his good book, and went out to the -side of the water, within sight of the road<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266">{266}</a></span> where people were coming -and going. It was a comfort to him to see even the doctor’s boy with his -phials, and the footman who came with his mistress’s card to inquire how -the Squire was. And he looked out, but looked in vain, with mingled -eagerness and fear for the broad hat he had seen so mysteriously -appearing and disappearing. Who could it be?—some stranger astray in -the Chase—some one of the many tourists who wander -everywhere—or—Randolph shuddered in spite of himself.</p> - -<p>It is generally people without imagination, or with the most elementary -and rude embryo of that poetic faculty, who see ghosts. This sounds like -a paradox, yet there is reason in it. The people who are literal and -matter-of-fact in mind, are those to whom wonders and prodigies come -naturally; those who possess the finer eye of fancy do not need those -actual revelations. Randolph’s was as stolid a mind as ever asked for a -sign—and he had not asked for a sign in this case, nor felt that -anything of the kind was necessary; but his entire mental balance was -upset by what he had seen, or supposed himself to have seen; and he -could not free his mind from the impression. As he sat and read, or -rather pretended to read, his mind kept busy with the one question—What -was it? Was it a real person, a stranger who had got astray, and -stumbled into some copse or brushwood, which Randolph had forgotten—a -man with a chance resemblance to John, heightened by the pre-occupation -and previous reference to John in Randolph’s mind? or was it John -himself, come to look after his own interests—John—in the body, or out -of the body, who could tell?</p> - -<p>As for Nello, he ran home by the water-side, his mind possessed by the -new thing that was about to be accomplished—school! Boys to play with, -novelty of all kinds, and then that cricket, which he pretended to -despise, but secretly admired and desired with all his heart—the game -which came to Johnny Pen by nature, but which the little foreign boy -could not master; all this buzzed through his little head. When he came -home from school he would know all about it; he would have played with -much better players than Johnny Pen ever saw. The revolution in his -thoughts was great and sudden. But as he ran home, eager to tell Lilias -about the change in his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267">{267}</a></span> fortunes, Nello too met with a little -adventure. He came suddenly, just as he emerged from the woods upon the -water-side where it was open to the road, on a man whom he had -repeatedly seen before, and who was generally accompanied by a dog, -which was Nello’s admiration. The dog was not with his master now; but -he took a something white and furry out of his great pocket, which -stopped Nello even in the hot current of his excitement.</p> - -<p>“Would you like to have this, my little gentleman?” the man said.</p> - -<p>It was a white rabbit, with the biggest ears that Nello had ever seen. -How his eyes danced that had been all aglow before!</p> - -<p>“But I have no money,” he said, disposed to cry in disappointment as -sudden as his delight.</p> - -<p>“It’s not for money, it’s a present,” said the stranger, with a smile, -“and I’ll give you another soon. They tell me you’re going to school, my -young gentleman; is that true?”</p> - -<p>“Am I to have it all for myself, or will you come back again for it, and -take it away? Oh yes, I’m going to school,” said Nello, drooping into -indifference. “Will it eat out of my hand? Has it got a name? And am I -to have it all for myself?” The rabbit already had eclipsed school for -the moment in Nello’s mind.</p> - -<p>“It’s all for you, and better things than that—and what day are you -going, my bonnie little lad?”</p> - -<p>“To-morrow; oh give it me! I want to show it to Lily,” cried the child. -“Thank you very much. Let me run and show it to Lily. We never, never -had a rabbit before.”</p> - -<p>The man stood and looked after Nello with a tender illumination of his -dark face. “The old woman likes the other best; but this one is mine,” -he said to himself. As for Nello, he flew home with his precious burden, -out of breath. He said a man had given it to him; but thought of the -donor no more.</p> - -<p>Randolph spent this, his last evening at home, in anything but an -agreeable way; he was altogether unhinged, nervous, and restless, not -caring to sit alone. In this respect he was in harmony with the house, -which was all upset, tremulous, and full of excitement and expectation. -Human nature is always<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268">{268}</a></span> impatient of the slow progress of fate. After -the thunderclap of a great event, it is painful to relapse into -stillness, and feel the ordinary day resuming its power without any -following out of the convulsion. But dramatic sequence, rapidity, and -completeness are rare in human affairs. All the little crowd of -lookers-on outside the Squire’s room watched eagerly for some change. -Two or three women were always hanging about the passages, ready, as -they said, to run for anything that might be wanted, and always in the -way to learn if anything occurred. They kept a little lamp burning on -the table against the wall, at either end of which was a chair, on which -sometimes Cook herself, sometimes lesser functionaries, would be found, -but always two together, throwing exaggerated shadows on the wall, and -talking in whispers of their own fears, and how well they had perceived -what was coming. There was not one of them that had not intended, one -time or other, to make so bold as to speak to Miss Mary. “But trouble is -always soon enough when it comes,” they said, shaking their heads. Then -Eastwood would come and join them, his shadow wavering over the -staircase. When the privileged persons who had the <i>entrée</i> went or -came, Miss Brown or the nurse, or even Mary herself, there was a little -thrill and universal movement.</p> - -<p>“Change! no, there’s no change—there never will be but one change,” -Miss Brown said, standing solemnly by the table, with the light on her -grave face; and it was upon this Rembrandtish group that Randolph came, -as he wandered about in a similar frame of mind, glad to find himself in -company with others, though these others were only the maids of the -house.</p> - -<p>“Is my father worse?” he asked, pausing, with his arm upon the -banisters. Such a group of eager, pale faces! and the darkness all round -in which others still might be lurking unseen.</p> - -<p>“No change, sir,” said Miss Brown, shaking her head. She was impatient -too, like the rest, but yet felt a sort of superior resignation, as one -who was in the front of affairs. And she had something to say besides. -She gave a glance at the other women, who responded with secret nods of -encouragement, then cleared her throat and delivered her soul—“Mr. -Randolph, sir, might I make so bold as to say a word?”</p> - -<p>“Say whatever you like,” said Randolph. He could not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269">{269}</a></span> help but give a -little glance round him, to make sure that there was no one else about.</p> - -<p>“It is just this, sir—when you see him lying there, that white, as if -he was gone already, and know that better he can’t be—oh, it brings a -many thoughts into the mind! I’ve stood by dying beds before now, and -seen them as were marked for death, but I never saw it more clear. And -oh, Mr. Randolph, if there were things that might lie on his mind, and -keep him from going quiet, as an old gentleman ought! If there were -folks he ought to see afore all’s over——!”</p> - -<p>“I don’t see what you are driving at,” Randolph said hastily. “Speak out -if you’ve anything to say.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, sir,” said Miss Brown, “don’t you think——. I am not one that -likes to interfere, but I am an old servant, and when a body has been -long about a place, it’s natural to feel an interest. If it wasn’t your -family at all—if it was another that your advice was asked -for—shouldn’t you say that Mr. John ought to know?”</p> - -<p>This appeal startled Randolph. He had not been looking for it; and he -gave an uncomfortable look round him. Then he felt a strange irritation -and indignation that were more easy to express. “Am I my brother’s -keeper?” he said. “I don’t know where Mr. John is, that I should go and -hunt for him to let him know.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, sir,” said Miss Brown, “don’t you be angry! Cook here is like me: -she thinks it’s only his due. I would say it to Miss Mary, not troubling -you that are ‘most a stranger, but she’s night and day, she never will -leave her father; she has a deal upon her. And a gentleman knows ways -that womanfolk don’t think of. If you would be but that kind, Mr. -Randolph! Oh, where there’s a will there’s always a way!”</p> - -<p>“It is none of my business,” said Randolph; “and I don’t know where he -is,” he added, looking round him once more. He might be here already in -the dark, waiting till the breath was out of his father’s body—waiting -to seize possession of the house, felon as he was. And if Randolph was -the means of betraying him into the hands of justice, what would -everybody say? He went abruptly away down the uncarpeted, polished -stairs, on<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270">{270}</a></span> which his hasty step rang and slid. John, always John! he -seemed to be in the air. Even Eastwood, when he attended him with his -bed-candle, could not refrain from adding a word. “The doctor looks very -serious, sir,” Eastwood said; “and if there’s any telegraph to be sent, -I’ll keep the groom ready to go at a moment’s notice. ‘It would be well -to send for all friends,’ the doctor said.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know any one to send for,” said Randolph peremptorily; “let the -groom go to bed.” And he went to bed himself sooner than usual, to get -rid of these appeals and of equally imperative thoughts. He went to bed, -but he could not go to sleep, and kept his candle burning half the -night. He heard the watchers moving about in his father’s room, which -was over-head, all the night through. Sometimes there would be a little -rush of steps, and then he held his breath, thinking this might be at -last the “change” which was looked for. But then everything grew still -again, and he dozed, with the one poor candle, feeble but steadfast -watcher, burning on till it became a pale intruder into the full glory -of day.</p> - -<p>Randolph, however, slept deeply in the morning, and got up with the -greater part of those cobwebs blown away. John lost his hold upon the -imagination in daylight, and he was able to laugh at his foolish alarm. -How could it be John whom he had seen? He durst not show himself in the -country where still his crime was so well remembered, and the sentence -out against him. And as for the appearance being anything more than -mortal, or less than human, Randolph laughed at the state of his own -nerves which rendered such an idea tenable for a moment. He was a -materialist by nature—as so many are; though he said his creed without -any intrusive doubts; and the absurdity was too patent after he had -slept and been refreshed. But no doubt it was bad for his health, bad -for his <i>morale</i>, to stay here. There was something in the atmosphere -that was demoralizing; the air had a creeping sensation in it as of -something more than met the eye. Death was in it; death, creeping on -slowly, silently—loitering about with faint odours of mortality and -sickening stillness. Randolph felt that he must escape into a more -natural and wholesome air before further harm was done.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271">{271}</a></span></p> - -<p>As for Mary, the occupations of the sick-room, and the sudden problems -of the hereafter thus thrust upon her, were enough to fill her mind, and -make her even comparatively indifferent to the departure of Nello, -though it was against her judgment. It was not the hereafter of the -spirit, which thus lay death-bound on the verge of the unseen, which -occupied her. We must all die, everybody knows; but who thinks it true -in their own case until it comes? Mary had known very well that a man -much over seventy could not live very much longer; but it was only when -her father fell back in his chair unconscious, his body motionless, his -mind veiled within blinding mists, that she felt the real weight of all -that was to follow. It was for her to act as soon as the breath should -be out of his body. She did not trust her younger brother, and she did -not know what to do for her elder brother. The crisis had arrived while -she was still unprepared. She went down mechanically to see Randolph go -away, her eyes seeing many other things more clearly than she saw the -two figures actually before her; the man suspicious as usual, and -putting no faith in her—the boy in a subdued excitement, his eyes -sparkling with the light of novelty and adventure. Randolph had gone -into his father’s room that morning, and had walked suspiciously round -the bed, making quite sure that the “no change” was true. “I suppose he -may last like this for weeks yet?” he said, in a querulous -undertone—and yet not so low but that everybody heard it—to the -doctor. “Oh, hush, for Heaven’s sake, Randolph! How can you tell that he -does not hear?” said Mary. “Pshaw how can he hear?” Randolph replied, -turning with a certain contempt from the helpless and powerless frame -which lay there making no sign, yet living when it would be so much -better that he should die. The awe of such a presence gives way to -familiarity and weariness even with the most reverent watcher; but -Randolph, though he had no desire to be indecorous, could not help -feeling a certain irritation at his father, who balked him by this -insensibility just as he had balked him while yet he had all his wits -about him. It seemed incredible that this half-dead, half-living -condition, which brought everything to a standstill, should not be more -or less a man’s own fault.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272">{272}</a></span></p> - -<p>Thus he went away, irritated and baffled, but still full of excitement; -the moment which must decide all could not be very far off. He left the -strongest charges upon the household, from his sister to Eastwood, to -send for him instantly when “any change” occurred. “If it should be -to-morrow,” he said; “I shall hold myself always ready.” He kept his -eyes fixed on the Castle as long as he could see it, feeling that even -now there might be a sign recalling him. And he thought he had made up -his mind what to do. He would bring his wife with him and take -possession at once. Mary would not be able to look after everything; or, -at least, if she should be, she ought not to be; no really -delicate-minded woman, no <i>lady</i> should be able to make any exertion at -such a moment. He would come with his household, as a kindness to Mary, -and take possession at once.</p> - -<p>As for Nello, he took leave very cavalierly of Lilias, who cried, yet -would not cry, angry at his desertion and deeply wounded by his -indifference, at the door. Poor little Lilias, it was her first -disappointment in life. He was not thinking of her, but a great deal of -his new portmanteau and the sandwiches put up for him, and the important -position as a traveller in which he stood—but neither was Nello unkind. -He took pains to console his sister.</p> - -<p>“Don’t cry,” he said, “Lily I shall come back in the holidays, and -sometimes I will write you letters; and there is always the white rabbit -I gave you, and little Mary Pen for you to play with.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t want to play,” said Lilias, with a burst of tears; “is play -everything? I am too old for that. But oh, Nello, you are going to leave -me, and you don’t care. You do not care for Mary, or Martuccia, or any -one. Me, I should not mind—but you do not love <i>any one</i>. You care for -nobody but yourself.”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes I do,” said Nello, “everybody,” and he cracked the coachman’s -whip which was placed in readiness; “but boys have to go out and see the -world; Eastwood says so. If I don’t like being at school I shall come -back and stay at home, and then you will have me again; but I hope not, -and I don’t think so, for school is jolly, very jolly, so Uncle Randolph -says.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273">{273}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“You can go with Uncle Randolph,” cried Lilias, in a blaze of sharp -anger, “and I hope you will not come back. I hope you will always stay -away, you cruel, cruel boy!”</p> - -<p>This bewildered Nello for a moment, as did the hurried wiping of Lilias’ -eyes and the tremulous quiver of her lip with which it was accompanied; -but there was no time for more. He laughed and waved his hand to her as -he was hurried into the carriage. He had scarcely ever looked so gay -before. He took off his hat and waved it as he went out of sight. -Hurrah! they heard his shrill little voice shouting. Lilias sat down on -the ground and cried her heart out. It was not only that he was -unkind—but Nello thus showed himself wanting to all the needs of the -situation. No little hero of a story had ever gone away without a -tribute to the misery of parting. This thought contracted her heart with -a visionary pang more exquisite than the real. Nello was no hero, -nothing but a little cruel, common, vulgar boy, not fit to put into any -story, to go away so.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII.<br /><br /> -<small>THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">While</span> these events were going on at the Castle, Lord Stanton, for his -part, had come to a standstill in the matter which he had been drawn -into so inadvertently, and which had become so very serious an -occupation in his life. He was young, and unacquainted with the ways of -the world, and he did not know what step to take next. And he too was -paralyzed by the sudden catastrophe which had happened to the Squire. -Was it his fault? He could scarcely help an uneasy sense that by -agitating him unduly he had helped to bring on the sudden attack, and -thus he had left the Castle that evening with a heavy burden on his -mind. And Geoff, with entire unconsciousness of the lingering pangs of -life and the tenacity of the human frame, believed, without any doubt, -that Mr. Musgrave would die, and did not know what was to be done about -the exile, whose condition would thus be completely<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274">{274}</a></span> changed. In the -mean time it seemed to him necessary to wait until the issue of this -illness should be known. Thus his doubtfulness was supplanted by an -apparent necessity, and the time went on with nothing done.</p> - -<p>He went at first daily to inquire for the old man, and never failed to -see Lilias somewhere waiting for him with serious, intent face, and eyes -which questioned even when the lips did not speak. Lilias did not say -much at any time. She examined his face with her eyes and said “Papa?” -with a voice which trembled; but it became by degrees less easy to -satisfy Lilias by telling her, as he did so often, that he had not -forgotten, that he was doing everything that could be done, smoothing -the way for her father’s return, or waiting till he could more -successfully smooth the way. “You do not believe me, Lily,” Geoff said, -with a sense of being doubted, which hurt him sadly. “Yes; but he is not -your papa, Mr. Geoff, and you are grown up and don’t want any one,” -Lilias said, with her lip quivering. The visionary child was deeply cast -down by the condition of the house and the recollection of the -melancholy rigid figure which she had seen carried past, with a pang of -indescribable pain and terror. Lilias seemed to see him lying in his -room, where Mary now spent almost all her time, pale with that deadly -ashen paleness, his faded eyes half open, his helpless hands lying like -bits of rag, all the grey fingers huddled together. Fright and sorrow -together brought a sob out of her heart whenever she thought of this; -not moving, not able to speak, or turn round, or look up at those who -watched him; and still not dead! Lilias felt her heart stand still as -she thought of her grandfather. And she had no one to take refuge with. -Martuccia was frightened too, and would not go up or down stairs alone. -Lilias, for her part, did all she could, out of pride, and shame of her -own weakness, to conceal her terror; but oh, to have papa nigh to creep -close to, to feel safe because he was there! A few tears dropped from -her eyes. “You are grown up and you don’t want any one.” This went to -Geoff’s heart.</p> - -<p>“Oh Lily, don’t you think they would let you come to my mother?” he -cried; “this is too sad for you, this dismal house; and if Nello goes -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275">{275}</a></span>away as you said—— ”</p> - -<p>“Do you think I would go and leave Mary all alone? Nobody is sorry for -Mary except me—and Mr. Pen. When she comes out of her room I go and I -kiss her hand, and she cries. She would be more ill and more weary,” -said Lilias, with a precocious understanding, “if there was not some -little thing to give her an excuse and make her cry.”</p> - -<p>“My little Lily! who taught you all that? it must have been the angels,” -cried Geoff, kissing in his turn the little hand.</p> - -<p>But this touch had the same effect upon Lilias that her own kiss had on -Mary. She cried and sobbed and did her best to swallow it down. “Oh Mr. -Geoff! I want papa!” she cried, with that little convulsive break in her -voice which is so pitiful in a child. She was seated on Mary’s chair at -the door of the hall, and he on the threshold at her feet. Geoff did not -know what kind of half-admiring, half-pitying sentiment he had for this -child. He could not admire her enough, or wonder at her. She was but a -child, not equal to him in his young manhood; and yet that very -childhood in its unconsciousness was worlds above him, he thought. He -felt like the man in the story who loved the fairy maiden—the young -Immortal; would she give up her visionary paradise for his sake and -learn to look at him, not as an angel but as a woman? but for that she -must be a woman first, and at present she was but a child. When he -kissed her hand it cost Lilias no blush. She accepted it with childish, -angelical dignity. “She took the kiss sedately—” and the dark fountains -of her eyes filled full, and two great tears tumbled over, and a piteous -quiver came to her lips, and she said, “Oh, Mr. Geoff, I want papa!”</p> - -<p>This was when the Squire had been ill about a week, six or seven days -before Randolph took Nello away. Geoff went home riding, very full of -thought. What could he do to please his little Lily? He preferred that -she should creep close to himself and tell him her troubles, but he -could not resist that plaint, and even though it should be against -himself he must try what he could do to bring her father to her. Geoff -thought a great deal on this subject, but it was very fatiguing and -unsatisfactory, for he did not know what to do, and after a while he -relapsed into the pleasanter path, and began to think of Lily. “Because -of the angels,” he said to himself as he jogged softly along, much<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276">{276}</a></span> more -slowly and reflectively than his horse liked to go. He forgot where he -was going and the engagements he had, and everything that was practical -and important, as he rambled on. The day was sweet in early autumn, the -lake rippling musically upon the beach, the sky blue and crossed by -floating atoms of snowy cloud. Everything in the world was sweet and -pleasant to the young man. “Because of the angels;” he had never been -quite clear what these words meant, but he seemed to see quite plainly -now, though he could no more have explained than he could have written -<i>Hamlet</i>. “Because of the angels!” He seemed to make a little song of it -as he went on, a drowsy, delicious burden like the humming of the bee. -It was not he that said it, he thought, but it murmured all about him, -wrapping him in a soft enchantment. Such a visionary love as his, -perhaps, has need of those intoxications of ethereal fancy: for nothing -can be so like the love of an angel as that of a young man possessed by -a tender visionary passion for a child.</p> - -<p>Geoff was so rapt in his own thoughts that he did not see for some time -the beckonings and signals that were coming to him from a carriage drawn -up on the road to which the path descended, along which he was moving so -gently. When his attention was at last caught, he saw it was his Cousin -Mary, leaning half out of the window in her eagerness.</p> - -<p>“Give your horse to the footman and come in here—I have so much to say -to you,” she said.</p> - -<p>But when he had done as she told him and taken his seat beside her, Lady -Stanton kept looking at her young cousin.</p> - -<p>“What is it?” she said; “you keep on smiling, and there is a little -drowsy, dreamy, intoxicated air about you; what has happened, Geoff?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing; and it is unkind to say I look intoxicated. Could you not find -a prettier word?”</p> - -<p>“I believe you are really, really!—Geoff, I think I know what it means, -and I hope it is somebody very nice. Tell me, who is she?”</p> - -<p>“This is strange,” said Geoff; “indeed, it is true, I have been visiting -a lady; but she is only twelve years old,” he said, turning to her with -a vivid blush.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277">{277}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Oh, Geoff!” Mary’s brow contracted, “you do not mean <i>that</i> little -girl?”</p> - -<p>“Why shouldn’t I mean her? I will make you my confessor, Cousin Mary. I -don’t think. I shall ever marry any one but little Lily. Of course she -is very little, and when she is grown up she will probably have nothing -to say to me; but I shall never care for any one else. Why should you -shake your head? I never saw any one like her,” said Geoff, growing -solemn, and shaking off his blush as he saw himself opposed.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Geoff!” Mary shook her head and contracted her beautiful brow, “I -do not think anything good can come out of that family; but I must not -speak. I am jealous, I suppose. How did you know I did not want you for -Annie or Fanny?” she went on with a smile that was a little strained and -fictitious; for Mary knew very well that she was jealous, but not for -Annie, or Fanny, or Geoff.</p> - -<p>“Hush,” he said, “I loved you before Lily, but you could not have me; it -is Lily, failing you. If you could but have seen her just now! The -Squire is lying between life and death, and Miss Musgrave, who was so -good to her, is with him night and day, and poor little Lily is so -lonely and frightened. She looks at me with her little lip all -quivering, and says, ‘Papa! I want papa.’<span class="lftspc">”</span> Geoff almost cried himself to -recollect her piteous tone, and the tears came to Mary’s eyes.</p> - -<p>“Ah! if she takes after <i>him</i>, Geoff! but that is just what I want to -talk to you about. I have done something that you may think rash. I have -spoken to Sir Henry. He is—well, he has his faults like the rest of -us—but he is just; he would not do a wrong thing. I told him that you -had found out something—— ”</p> - -<p>“What did he say?” cried Geoff, breathless, for Lady Stanton made a -sudden pause.</p> - -<p>She was looking across him out at the window; her eyes had strayed past -his face, looking away from him as people do with a natural artifice to -allow the first signs of displeasure to blow over, before they look an -offended person in the face. But as she looked, Lady Stanton’s -countenance changed, her lips fell apart, her eyes widened out, her face -paled, as if a cloud had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278">{278}</a></span> passed over it. She gave a great cry, “Oh -John, <i>John</i>!” she said.</p> - -<p>“What is it?—who is it?” cried Geoff.</p> - -<p>She made him signs to have the carriage stopped; she could not speak. -Geoff did what he could to make the coachman hear him; but it was by no -means the affair of a moment to gain the attention of that functionary, -and induce him to stop. When, however, this was accomplished, Geoff -obeyed the passionate desire in Lady Stanton’s face, who all the time -had been straining to look out, and jumped to the ground. He looked -round anxiously, while she, half out of the carriage, gazed back, fixing -her eyes upon one of those recesses in the road which are common in the -north country. “I see no one,” said Geoff. He came back to the place on -which her gaze was fixed, and looked behind the wall that bounded it, -and all about, but could see nothing. When he returned he found that -Mary had fallen back in her corner, and was weeping bitterly. “He looked -at me with such reproachful eyes. Oh, he need not; there was no reason. -I would have saved or served him with my life,” she cried; “and he had -never any claim on me, Geoff, never any claim on me!—why should he come -and look at me with such reproachful eyes? If he is dead, he ought to -know better than that. Surely he ought to know—— ”</p> - -<p>The carriage, standing in the middle of the road, the young man -searching about, not knowing what he was looking for; the coachman -superbly indifferent on the box, contemplating the agitation of his -inferiors with god-like calm; the footman, on Geoff’s horse, with his -mouth open, staring, while the beautiful lady wept inside, made the -strangest picture. As a matter of course, the footman, riding on in -advance, had seen nothing and nobody. He avowed frankly that he was not -taking any notice of the folks on the road. He might have seen a man -seated on the stones, he could not be certain. Neither had the coachman -taken any notice. Foot passengers did not interest either of these -functionaries. And Lady Stanton did not seem able to give any further -explanation. The only thing to be done was to go on. She had been on her -way to Stanton to give Geoff the advantage of Sir Henry’s advice and -opinion, and thither,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279">{279}</a></span> accordingly, they proceeded after this -interruption. Geoff took his place again beside his cousin, perhaps a -little impatient of the stoppage; but as she lay back in the corner, -covering her face with her hands, Geoff’s heart was too soft not to -forget every other sentiment. He thought only of consoling her.</p> - -<p>“Tell me what it was,” he said, soothingly. “You saw—some one? Do not -cry so bitterly. You never harmed anybody in your life. Tell me—you -thought you saw——?”</p> - -<p>“I saw <i>him</i>, as plainly as I see you, Geoff; don’t tell me it was a -fancy. He was sitting, resting, like a man tired with walking, dusty and -worn out. I noticed his weary look before I saw his face, and just as we -passed he raised his head. Oh, why should he have looked at <i>me</i> like -that, Geoff? No, I never did any one harm, much less him. I have always -stood up for him, you know, since you first spoke to me. I have always -said, always—even before this was found out: living people mistake each -other continually; but the dead—the dead ought to know—— ”</p> - -<p>“Who is dead?” said Geoff; “are you speaking of John Musgrave, who is as -much alive as I am?”</p> - -<p>“If he were a living man,” said Mary, solemnly, “how could I have seen -him? Geoff, it is no mistake. I saw him, as I see you.”</p> - -<p>“And is that why you think him dead?” said Geoff, with natural surprise.</p> - -<p>Lady Stanton raised herself erect in her corner. “Geoff, oh, can you not -understand?” she cried. But she did not herself quite understand what -she meant. She thought from the suddenness of it, from the shock it gave -her, and from the disappearance of the wayfarer, which was so -inexplicable, that it was an apparition she had seen. John Musgrave -could not be there, in the flesh, seated by the roadside; it was not -possible; but when Geoff asked whether having seen him was an argument -for thinking him dead, she had nothing to say. She wrung her hands. “I -have seen him whether he is living or dead,” she repeated, “and he -looked at me with such eyes. He was not young as he used to be, but -worn, and a little grey. I came to tell you what Sir Henry said; but -here is something far, far<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280">{280}</a></span> more important. Know him! Could I mistake -him, do you think?—how could I mistake him? Geoff, how could it be -<i>he</i>, sitting there without any warning, without a word? but if it was -he, if that was possible, why are we going on like this? Are we to -desert him?—give him up? I am talking folly,” she said, again clasping -her hands. “Oh, Geoff, a living man would not have looked at me with -such eyes.”</p> - -<p>“He has not very much right to happy eyes, has he?” said Geoff; “coming -home an outlaw, not venturing to speak to any one. It would not be half -so sad if he were a ghost. But to come back, and not to dare to trust -even his friends, not to know if he has any friends, not to be able to -go home and see his children like any other man, to rest on the stones -at the roadside, he to whom all the land belongs! I don’t wonder he -looked sad,” cried Geoff, half-sympathetic, half-indignant. “How was he -to know even that he would find a friend in you?”</p> - -<p>Mary was sobbing, scarcely able to speak. “Oh, tell them to go back -again—tell them to go back,” she cried. There was no way of satisfying -her but this: the carriage turned slowly round, rolling like a ship at -sea. The coachman was disgusted and unwilling. “What did she want now?” -he said, telegraphing with uplifted hands and eyes to the surprised -footman on Geoff’s horse. Lady Stanton was not a hard mistress like her -stepdaughters, nor fantastical and unreasonable as they were. She took -the carriage humbly when she could get it, and would consult this very -coachman’s convenience before bringing him out, which no one else -thought of doing. Nevertheless Lady Stanton had her character in the -house, and human nature required that it should be kept up. She was the -stepmother, the scapegoat. “What is she after now?” the coachman said.</p> - -<p>She got out of the carriage herself, trembling, to aid in the search, -and the footman getting down, looked everywhere, even under the stones, -and in the roadside hedges, but no one was there. When they resumed -their way again, Mary lay back in her corner too much worn out with -excitement and emotion to be able even to speak. Geoff could not tell -whether she was glad or sorry to be brought to acknowledge that it was -more likely to be John Musgrave whom she had seen than his ghost. She -was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281">{281}</a></span> convinced by his reasoning. Oh, yes; no doubt, she said, it must be -so. Because you saw a man unexpectedly, that was no reason for supposing -him to be dead. Oh, no—Geoff was quite right; she saw the reason of all -he said. But Mary’s head and her heart and all her being thrilled with -the shock. There was a ringing in her ears, and pulses were beating all -over, and her blood coursing through her veins. The very country, so -familiar, seemed to change its aspect. No stronger commentary could have -been on the passage of time than the sudden glimpse of the face which -she had seen just now on the roadside. But Mary did not think of that. -The lake and the rural road that ran by it, and the hills in the -distance, seemed to take again the colours of her youth. He was nothing -to her, and never had been. She had not loved him, only had “taken an -interest.” But all that was most poignant in her life came back to her, -with the knowledge that he was here. Once more it seemed to be that time -when all is vivid, when every day may be the turning-point of life—the -time that was consciously but a drift and floating on of hour by hour -when it existed, as is the present moment—but which, looking back upon -it, seemed the time of free action, of choice, of every possibility. Was -it so? Might he be met with round any corner—this man who had been -banished so long? In the face of death and danger had he come back, he -whom nobody had expected ever to come back? A strange half-question -whether everything else had come back with him, and half-certainty that -nothing for her could change, was in Mary’s mind as she lay back, -quivering with emotion, hearing Geoff’s voice in her ears, not knowing a -word he said. What had Geoff to do with it—young Geoff, to whom nothing -had ever happened? She smiled vaguely to herself to think that the boy -could think he knew. How was he to know?—he was not of that time. But -all the people in the road, and the very water itself, and the villages -and houses, seemed to ask her, Was it true?</p> - -<p>This was all the evidence on the subject from which a judgment could be -formed. Randolph Musgrave (who told no one) had seen, in his own words, -a something, a some one, whose face he did not see, but who suggested -John to him so strongly that his very heart seemed to stop beating—then -disappeared. And Lady<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282">{282}</a></span> Stanton from the window of the carriage, driving -past, saw a face, which was John Musgrave’s face grown older and worn, -with hair that was slightly grey, instead of the brown curls of former -years, and which disappeared too in the twinkling of an eye, and being -searched for, could be found no more. What was it?—an apparition -conjured up by their interest or their fears? or John Musgrave, in his -own person, come home?</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXIX.<br /><br /> -<small>NELLO’S JOURNEY.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Randolph Musgrave</span> drove from the door of his father’s house with a sigh -of relief, yet of anxiety. He had not done what he meant to do, and -affairs were more critical than when he went to Penninghame a few weeks -before; but it was something at least to be out of the troubled -atmosphere, and he had arranged in his own mind what he should do, which -was in its way a gain, as soon as the breath was out of the old man’s -body,—but when would that be? It was not to be desired, Randolph said -to himself piously, that his father should linger long; his life was -neither of use nor comfort to any one, and no pleasure, no advantage to -himself. To lie there speechless, motionless, as much shut out of all -human intercourse as if he were already in his coffin—what could any -one desire but that, as soon as might be, it should come to an end?</p> - -<p>He did not pay very much attention to his small companion. For the -moment, Nello, having been thus secured and brought within his power, -had no further importance, and Randolph sat with knitted brows pondering -all he was to do, without any particular reference to the child. Nello -had left the Castle easily enough; he had parted from Mary and from -Lilias without any lingering of emotion, getting over it as quickly as -possible. When it came to that he was eager to be off, to set out into -the world. The little fellow’s veins were full of excitement; he -expected to see,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283">{283}</a></span> he did not know what wonderful things, what objects of -entrancing interest, as soon as he got outside the little region where -everything was known to him. “Good-bye, Mary—good-bye, Lily,” he said, -waving his hand. He had his own little portmanteau with his name on it, -a new little silver watch in his pocket—what could child want more? -Lily, though she was his sister, was not a sensation like that watch. He -took it out, and turned it round and round, and opened the case, and -wound it up—he had wound it up twice this morning already, so that one -turn of the key was all that was practicable. Nothing at the Castle, -nothing in the society of Lily, was equal to this. He compared his watch -with the clock at the druggist’s in the village and found it fast: he -compared it with the clock at the station and found that slow. He did -not take any notice of his uncle, nor his uncle of him; each was -indifferent, though partly hostile, to the other. Randolph was at his -ease because he had this child, this troublesome atom, who might do harm -though he could do no good, in his power; but Nello was at his ease -through pure indifference. He was not at the moment frightened of his -uncle, and no other sentiment in regard to him had been developed in his -mind. As calm as if Randolph had been a cabbage, Nello sat by his side, -and looked at his watch. The watch excited him, but his uncle——. Thus -they went on, an unsympathetic pair. Nello stood about on the platform -and looked at everything, while Randolph took the tickets. He was -slightly hurt to hear that a half-ticket was still enough for himself, -and moved away at once to the other side of the station, where the -locomotive enthralled him. He stood and gazed at it with transport. What -he would have given to have travelled there with the man who drove it, -and left Uncle Randolph behind! But still Nello took his place in the -train with much indifference to Uncle Randolph. He was wholly occupied -with what was going on before and about him: the rush across country, -trees and fields flying by, and the stations where there was always -something new, the groups of people standing about, the rush of some for -the train, the late arrival just as the doors were shut of those who -were too late. These last made Nello laugh, their blank looks were so -funny—and yet he was sorry for them; for what a thing it must be, he -thought,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284">{284}</a></span> to see other people go rushing out over the world to see -everything, while you yourself were left dull at home! He remembered -once himself being left with Martuccia in the still, deserted house when -all the others had gone to the <i>festa</i>; how he thought the day would -never end—and Martuccia thought so too. This made him sorry, very -sorry, for the people who had lost their train. It did not occur to -Nello that it might be no <i>festa</i> he was going to, or they were going -to. What could any one want more than the journey itself? If you wearied -of seeing the trains rush past, and counting the houses, now on one -side, now on another, there was the endless pleasure of dashing up to -one station after another, where Nello could look down with fine -superiority on the people who were not going, on the children above all, -who looked up envious, and envied him, he felt sure.</p> - -<p>By and by, however, though he would not confess it to himself, the -delights of the journey began to pall: his little eyes grew fatigued -with looking, and his little mind with the continuous spectacle of those -long, flying breadths of country; and even the stations lost their -charm. He would have liked to have somebody to talk to, and cast one or -two wistful glances to see whether Uncle Randolph was practicable, but -found no encouragement in that countenance, pre-occupied, and somewhat -lowering by nature, which appeared now and then in the wavering of the -train, over the newspaper his uncle was reading. What a long time it -took to read that paper! How it crackled when it was opened out! How -tired Nello grew of seeing it opposite to him! And he began to grow -cramped with sitting; his limbs wanted stretching, his mind wanted -change; and he began to be hungry. Randolph, who scorned the poor -refreshments of the railway, and thought it better to wait for his meal -till he reached home, did not think of the difference between himself -and the child. They travelled on and on through the dulness of the -afternoon. Nello, who had been so excited, felt disposed to sleep, but -was too proud to yield to it; and then he began to think of his sister -and the home he had left. It is natural, it is selfish, to remember home -when we miss its comforts: but if that is not of the higher nature of -love, it is yet the religion of the weak, and not despised by the great -Succourer who bids men call upon Him in time of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285">{285}</a></span> trouble. Nello’s heart, -when he began to feel tired and famished, recurred, with a pathetic -trust in the tenderness and in the certainty of the well-being that -abode there, to his home.</p> - -<p>When they stopped at a lively, bustling junction to change their -direction, things mended a little. Nello ventured to buy himself a cake, -his uncle not interfering, as they waited. “You will spoil your stomach -with that sweet stuff,” Randolph said, but he allowed the child to -munch. And they had half-an-hour to wait, which of itself was something. -Nello walked about, imitating Randolph’s longer stride, though he did -not accompany his uncle; and though he felt forlorn and very small among -the crowd, marched about and looked at everything as the gentlemen did, -recovering his spirits a little. And suddenly, with a great glow of -pleasure all over him, Nello spied, among the strangers who were -hurrying to and fro, a face he had seen before; it is true it was only -the face of the countryman who had accosted him in the Chase, and with -whom he had but a small acquaintance, but even this was something in the -waste of the unknown that surrounded him. The boy rushed up to him with -a gleam of joy upon his small countenance. “I say, have you come -from—home?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, my little gentleman,” said Wild Bampfylde. “I’m taking a journey -like you, but I like best to tramp on my two legs. I’m going no farther -in your carriages, that give you the cramp. I reckon you’re tired too.”</p> - -<p>“A little,” said Nello; “but that’s no matter. What have you in your -basket?—is it another rabbit? I gave mine to Lily. They would not let -me bring it, though I wanted to bring it. School, you know,” said the -boy, seriously, “is not like home. You have to be just like as if you -were grown up there. Little—you cannot help being little; but you have -to be like as if you were grown up there.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, ay, that’s the way to take it,” said the countryman, looking down -with a twinkle in his eye, half smiling, half sad, at the small creature -beside him. “The thing is to be a man, and to mind that you must stand -up like a man, whatever happens. If one hits you, you must hit him -again, and be sure not to cry.”</p> - -<p>“Hit me!” said Nello—“cry? Ah, you do not know the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286">{286}</a></span> kind of school I am -going to—for you are not a gentleman,” he added, looking with superb -condescension at his adviser. “I like you just the same,” said Nello, -“but you are not a gentleman, are you? and how can you know?”</p> - -<p>“The Lord forbid!” said Bampfylde, “one’s enough in a family. It would -be ill for us, and maybe for you too, if I were a gentleman. Look you -here, my little man. Look at the bonnie bird in this basket—it’s better -than your rabbit. A rabbit, though it’s one o’ God’s harmless creatures, -has little sense, and cannot learn; but this bonnie thing is of use to -God and man, as well as being bonnie to look at. Look at him! what a -bonnie head he has, and an eye as meaning as your own.”</p> - -<p>“A pigeon!” said Nello, with a cry of delight. “Oh, I wish I might have -him! Do you think I might have him? I could put him under the seat, and -nobody would see the basket; and then when we got there—— ”</p> - -<p>“Ay, that’s the question—when you got there?”</p> - -<p>“I would say—it was my—fishing-basket,” said Nello. “<i>He</i> said they -went fishing; and nobody would know. I would say Mary had—put things in -it: nobody would ever find out, and I would keep it in my room, and buy -seed for it and give it water, and it would live quite comfortable. And -it would soon come to know me, wouldn’t it? and hop about and sit on my -shoulder. Oh, let me have it; won’t you let me have it? Look here, I -have a great deal of money,” cried Nello, turning out his pocket; “five -shillings to spend, and a sovereign Mary gave me. I will give you money -for it, as much money as ever you please—— ”</p> - -<p>“Whisht, my little lad; put back your money and keep it safe, for you’ll -have need of it. I brought the bird to give you. If they’re kind folks -they’ll let you keep him. You must keep him safe, and take care he has -his meat every day; and if they’re unkind to you or treat you bad, put -you his basket in the window and open the lid, and, puff! he’ll flee -away and let your friends know.”</p> - -<p>“But I should not like him to flee away. I would like him to stay with -me always, and sit on my shoulder, and eat out of my hand.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287">{287}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“My little gentleman,” said Bampfylde. “I’m afraid your uncle will hear -us. Try to understand. If you’re ill-used, if they’re unkind, let the -bird fly, and he’ll come and tell us. Mind now, what I’m saying. He’ll -come and tell us. Did you never read in your story-books—— ”</p> - -<p>“Then it is an enchanted bird,” said Nello, looking down, very gravely, -into the basket. Lily had read to him of such things. He was not very -much surprised: but a bird that some day would turn into a young prince -did not attract him so much as one that would hop on his shoulder -without ulterior object. He looked down at it very seriously, with more -respect perhaps, but not so warm an interest. His little face had lost -its animation. How Lily would have glowed and brightened at the thought! -But Nello was no idealist. He preferred a real pigeon to all the -enchanted princes in the world.</p> - -<p>“Nay,” said Bampfylde, with a gleam of a smile across his dark face, -“it’s no fairy, but it’s a carrier. Did you never hear of that? And when -you let it fly it will fly to me, and let me know that you are wanting -something—that they’re not kind to you, or that you’re wanting to be -away.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, they’ll be kind,” said Nello, carelessly; “I would rather he would -stay with me, and never, never fly away.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll put him in the carriage for you,” said Bampfylde, hurriedly, “for -here’s somebody coming. And don’t you let any one know that you were -speaking to me, or ever saw me before. And God bless you, my little -gentleman!” said the vagrant, suddenly disappearing among the crowd.</p> - -<p>While Nello stood staring after him, Randolph came up, and tapped him -sharply on the shoulder.</p> - -<p>“What are you staring at? Have you seen any one you know?”</p> - -<p>It was Nello’s first lesson in deceiving.</p> - -<p>“I—I was looking at a man—with wild beasts,” he said.</p> - -<p>“With wild beasts!—in the station?—here?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, white rabbits and pigeons—and things; at least,” said Nello to -himself, “he once had a white rabbit, if he hasn’t got one now.”</p> - -<p>“Rabbits!” said Randolph. “Come along, here is our train.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288">{288}</a></span> It is late; -and before I have got you settled, and got back here again, and am able -to think of myself, it will be midnight, I believe. You children don’t -know what a trouble you are. I shall have lost my day looking after you. -I should have been at home now but for you; and little gratitude I am -likely to get, when all is done.”</p> - -<p>This moved Nello’s spirit, for of all things in the world there is -nothing that so excites opposition among great and little, as a claim -upon our gratitude. Anything and everything else the mind may concede, -but even a child kicks against this demand. Nello’s feelings towards his -uncle were not unkind; but, little as he was, instinct woke in him an -immediate resistance.</p> - -<p>“It was not me that did it,” he said; “it was you. I should have stayed -at home, and when the old gentleman is better he would have come out and -played with me. And Mary would have let me stay. I like home,” said -Nello, “and perhaps I shall not like school; but if I don’t like it,” he -added, brightening and forgetting the secret he had been so sworn to -keep, “I know how to get away.”</p> - -<p>“How shall you get away?” said Randolph. But he was so sure of this -matter, which was in his own hands, that he did not wait for any answer. -“They will take care of that at school,” he said; “and it will be the -worse for you, my boy, if you make yourself disagreeable. Come along, or -we shall miss the train.”</p> - -<p>Nello saw that the basket had been placed under his seat as he got in; -and as the train swept away from the station, he caught a glimpse of the -lonely figure of his new friend, standing among the little crowd that -watched the departure. Bampfylde made a warning gesture to the child, -who, forgetful of precaution, nodded and waved his hand in reply.</p> - -<p>“Who is that?” cried Randolph, suspiciously, getting up to cast a -searching look behind.</p> - -<p>“Oh, it is the man with the wild beasts,” Nello said.</p> - -<p>And then came another silent sweep through the green smooth country, -which was not like the hilly north. It was all Nello could do to keep -himself from pulling his basket from beneath the seat, and examining his -new treasure. He could hear it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289">{289}</a></span> rustling and fluttering its wings -against the wickerwork. Oh, to be able to take it out, to give it some -crumbs of biscuit which were still in his pocket, to begin to train it -to know him! Nello only restrained himself painfully, by the thought -that if he betrayed his own secret thus, his pigeon might be taken from -him. How eager he was now to be there! “Are there many more stations?” -he asked, anxiously; then counted them on his fingers—one, two, three. -And how delighted he was when they came at last to the little place, -standing alone in a plain, with no other house visible that Nello could -see (but he did not look; he was so anxious about his pigeon), which was -their journey’s end. A kind of farmer’s shandry, half cart, half gig, -with a rough horse, and a rougher driver, was in waiting. Nello got his -basket out with his own hands, and put his little great-coat over it, so -that no one could see. His heart beat loudly with fright, lest his uncle -should hear the sounds beneath the cover—the rustle and flutter. But -Randolph’s mind was otherwise engaged. As for the boy, he thought of -nothing but this treasure, which he was so happy to feel in his arms. He -could carry it so, quite comfortably, with the little great-coat over -it; he neither remarked the rudeness of the jolting vehicle, nor the -bare country, with here and there a flat line of road running between -turnip and potato fields. When they came to the house—a new, square -house, in the middle of the fields—Nello thought nothing about it one -way or another. He thought, “I wonder which will be my window; I wonder -where I can keep the bird.” That was all. His little soul, all eagerness -after his new delight, had room for nothing more.</p> - -<p>Randolph and his charge were taken into a plain room, very simply -furnished and not over-dainty in point of cleanness, where the principal -of the school, a man in rusty black, came to receive them. There was -nothing repulsive in his looks, nothing more in any way than the same -plain unvarnished rusticity and homeliness which showed in his house. -The school was intended for farmers’ sons, and the education was partly -industrial—honest, simple training, without either deceit or villany -involved, though not at all suitable for Nello. It was with reluctance -even that so young a boy had been accepted at all; and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290">{290}</a></span> schoolmaster -looked at him with doubtfulness, as the slim little curled darling, so -different from his other pupils, came in, hugging his basket.</p> - -<p>“He’s young, and he’s small,” said Mr. Swan.</p> - -<p>“Very young, and small for his age,” Randolph echoed. “All the more -reason why he should lead an out-of-door life, and learn that he is a -boy, and will one day be a man.”</p> - -<p>Then Nello was put into the hands of the principal’s wife, while -Randolph gave further directions.</p> - -<p>“His case is quite peculiar,” the uncle said. “He is an orphan, or as -good as an orphan, and I took him from the hands of ladies who were -making a fool of the boy. What he wants is hardening. You must not be -led away by his delicate looks; he is a strong boy, and he wants -hardening. Send him out to the fields, let him learn to work like the -rest, and don’t listen to any complaints. Above all, don’t let him send -complaints home.”</p> - -<p>“I never interfere with what they write home,” said honest Mr. Swan.</p> - -<p>“But you must in this case. If he sends home a complaining letter, his -aunt will rush here next morning and take him away. I am his uncle, and -I won’t permit that—and a family quarrel is what will follow, unless -you will exercise your discretion. Keep him from writing, or keep him -from grumbling. You will be the saving of the boy.”</p> - -<p>“It is a great responsibility to undertake. I should not have undertaken -it, had I known—— ”</p> - -<p>“I am sure you have too serious a sense of the good that can be done, to -shrink from responsibility,” said Randolph; “but, indeed, are we not all -responsible for everything we touch? If you find him too much for you, -write to me. Don’t write to what he calls ‘home.’ And do not let him be -taken away without my authority. I have to protect him from injudicious -kindness. A parcel of women—you know what harm they can do to a boy, -petting and spoiling him. He will never be a man at all, if you don’t -take him in hand.”</p> - -<p>With these arguments, Randolph overcame the resistance of the -schoolmaster, and with redoubled injunctions that it was himself that -was to be communicated with, in case of anything<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291">{291}</a></span> happening to Nello, -went away. He was in haste to get back for his train; and “No, no,” he -said, “you need not call the boy—the fewer partings the better. I don’t -want to upset him. Tell him I was obliged to hurry away.”</p> - -<p>And it would be impossible to describe with what relief Randolph threw -himself into the clumsy shandry, to go away. He had got the boy disposed -of—for the moment at least—where no harm could happen to him, but also -where he could do no harm. If his grandfather regained his -consciousness, and, remembering that freak of his dotage, called again -for the boy, it would be out of Mary’s power to spoil everything by -humouring the old man, and reviving all those images which it would be -much better to make an end of. And when the Squire’s life was over, how -much easier to take all those measures which it was so advisable to -take, without the little interloper about, whom foolish people would no -doubt insist on calling the heir. The heir! Let him stay here, and get a -little strength and manhood, to struggle for his rights, if he had any -rights. More must be known of him than any one knew as yet, Randolph -said to himself, before he, for one, would acknowledge him as the heir.</p> - -<p>Nello was taken into Mrs. Swan’s parlour, and there had some bread and -butter offered to him, which he accepted with great satisfaction. The -bread was dry and the butter salt, but he was hungry, which made it very -agreeable.</p> - -<p>“You’ll have your tea with the rest at six,” said Mrs. Swan; “and now -come I’ll show you where you are to sleep. What is that you’re -carrying?”</p> - -<p>“A basket,” said Nello, in the mildest tone; and she asked no further -questions, but led him upstairs, not however to the little bedroom of -which the child had been dreaming, where he could keep his new pet in -safety, but to a long dormitory, containing about a dozen beds.</p> - -<p>“This is yours, my little man, and you must be tidy and keep your things -in order. There are no nurses here, and the boys are a bit rough; but -you will soon get used to them. Put down your things here; this chair is -yours, and that washing-stand, and—— ”</p> - -<p>“Must I sleep there?” cried Nello. It was not so much the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292">{292}</a></span> little -bed—the close neighbourhood of the other boys—that appalled him; but -where was there a window for his bird? “Mayn’t I have that bed?” he -said, pointing to one which stood near the window at the end of the -room.</p> - -<p>“I daresay,” said Mrs. Swan; “why that is for the head boy, and you are -the least, and the last. It is only by a chance that there is room for -you at all here.”</p> - -<p>“But I don’t want to be here,” said Nello. “Oh, mayn’t I be by the -window? The head boy hasn’t got a——. What would it matter to him? but -I want to be there. I want to be at the window.”</p> - -<p>“My little master, you’ll be where I choose to place you,” said Mrs. -Swan, becoming irritated. “We allow no self-will, and no rebellion -here.”</p> - -<p>“But what shall I do with my——.” Nello did not venture to name the -name of the bird. He crept up to the head of the little bed which was to -be allotted to him, and surveyed the blank wall tearfully. There was but -a very little space between him and the next bed, and he was in the -middle of the room, the darkest part of it. Nello began to cry. He -called upon Mary, and upon Martuccia, in his heart. Neither of them -would suffer him to be treated so. “Oh, mayn’t I go to another room -where there is a window?” he cried, through his tears.</p> - -<p>“My word, that one is a stubborn one; you will have your hands full with -him,” said Mrs. Swan, leaving Nello to have his cry out, which -experience had taught her was the best way. She found her husband very -serious, and full of care, thinking over the charge he had received.</p> - -<p>“It’s a gentleman’s son, not one of the commoner sort,” he said; “but -why they should have brought him to me—such a little fellow—is more -than I can see.”</p> - -<p>Nello sat by his little bed and cried. His heart was full, and his -little frame worn out. In the state of depression which had followed -upon the delight of the morning, novelty had departed, and strangeness -had come in its place—a very different matter; everything was strange -wherever he turned: and no place to put his pigeon! By and by the vacant -spaces would fill, and boys—boys whom he did not know—big boys, rough -boys, and that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293">{293}</a></span> head boy, who had the window—would pour in; and he had -no place to put his bird.</p> - -<p>Nello’s tears fell like summer rain upon the precious basket, till the -storm had worn itself out. Then, first symptom of amelioration, his ear -was caught by the rustle of the bird in the cage. He took it up, then -placed it in his lap, then opened the cover a little way, and, -entrancing moment! saw it—the glossy head, the keen little eye gleaming -at him, the soft, ruffled feathers. It made a small dab at him as he -peered in—and oh, how delighted, how miserable, how frightened was -Nello! He drew back from the tiny assault, then approached his head -closer, and took from his pocket a bit of his bread and butter, which he -had saved on purpose. Then he sat down on the floor, a small creature, -scarcely visible, hidden between the beds, betraying himself only by the -reverberation of the sobs which still shook his little bosom from time -to time, entranced over his bird. The pigeon gurgled its soft coo, as it -picked up the crumbs. The little boy, after his trouble, forgot -everything but this novel delight; a thing all his own, feeding from his -hand already, looking up at him sidelong, with that glimmer of an eye, -with a flutter towards him if it could but have got loose. No doubt when -he set it free it would come upon his shoulder directly. Nello lost -himself and all his grief in pleasure. He forgot even that he had not a -window in which to hang his bird.</p> - -<p>By and by, however, there came a rush and a tramp of feet, and eleven -big boys, earthy and hot from the field where they had been working, -came pouring in. They filled the room like a flood, like a whirlwind, -catching Nello upon their surface as the stream would catch a straw. One -of the big, hobnailed fellows stumbled over him as he sat on the floor.</p> - -<p>“Hallo, what’s here?” he cried; “what little kid are you?” seizing the -child by the shoulders. He did not mean any harm, but grasped the little -boy’s shoulder with the grip of a playful ploughman. Then there was a -rush of the whole band to see what it was. The new boy! but such a -boy—a baby—a gentleman baby—a creature of a different order.</p> - -<p>“Let’s see him,” they cried, tumbling over each other, while Nello, -dragged to his feet, stood shrinking, confronting them,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294">{294}</a></span> making trial of -all the manhood he possessed. He would not cry; he drew back against his -bed, and doubled his little fist, his heart heaving, his lip quivering.</p> - -<p>“I have done no harm,” said Nello, with a sob in his voice; and the head -boy called out, good-humouredly enough, though the thunder of his boyish -bass sounded to Nello like the voice of doom, to “let him be.”</p> - -<p>“What’s he got there?” he asked.</p> - -<p>The basket was snatched from the child’s hand, notwithstanding his -resistance. Nello gave a great cry when it was taken from him.</p> - -<p>“Oh, my bird, my pigeon, my bird!—you are not to hurt my bird.”</p> - -<p>“Give it here,” said the head boy.</p> - -<p>But the first who had seized the treasure held it fast.</p> - -<p>“I’ve got it, and I’ll keep it,” he cried.</p> - -<p>“Give it here!” shouted the other.</p> - -<p>The conflict and the cloud of big forms, and the rough voices and -snatchings, filled Nello with speechless dismay. He leaned back against -his bed, and watched with feelings indescribable the basket which -contained his treasure pulled and dragged about from one to another. -First the handle gave way, then the lid was torn off, as one after -another snatched at it. Oh, why was Nello so small and weak, and the -others so big and strong!</p> - -<p>“Give it here!” shouted the head boy; but in the midst of the scuffle, -something happened which frightened them all—the bird got loose, -carefully as it had been secured, flew up over their heads, fluttered -for a moment, driven wild by the cloud of arms stretched out to catch -it, and then, with a sweep of its wings, darted out through the open -window, and was seen no more.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295">{295}</a></span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XXX" id="CHAPTER_XXX"></a>CHAPTER XXX.<br /><br /> -<small>A CHILD FORLORN.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Nello</span> sobbed himself to sleep that night, scarcely conscious of the -hubbub that was going on around him. He had watched with a pang -unspeakable the escape of his bird, then had rushed blindly among the -culprits, fighting and struggling in a passion of tears and childish -rage, raining down harmless blows all around him, struggling to get out -after it, to try to bring it back. Then Nello had been caught, too -desperate to know who held him, in the hands of the head boy, who paid -no more attention to his kicks and struggles than to his cries, and held -him until, half dead with passion and misery, the poor little fellow -sank exhausted, almost fainting, in the rough hands of his captors. Then -the boys, who were not cruel, laid him on his bed and summoned Mrs. -Swan. They all crowded round her to tell their story. Nobody had meant -any harm. They had taken his basket to look at it, and the pigeon had -got loose. “And it was a carrier!” the head boy said regretfully. They -were as sorry as Nello could be, though by this time, under the combined -influences of loneliness, desolation, homesickness, weariness, and loss, -poor little Nello was almost beyond feeling the full extent of his -troubles. “He’s a mammy’s boy,” said Mrs. Swan, who was rough, but not -unkind. “He has never been at school before. A spoiled child, by all I -can see.” But why had a spoiled child been sent here? This was what the -good woman could not understand.</p> - -<p>Nello slept and forgot his woes; and when he was awoke in the morning by -the tumult, all the eleven jumping out of bed at once, performing their -noisy but scanty ablutions, tossing boots about, and scrambling for -clothes, the child lay trembling yet anxious, and half amused in spite -of himself. The rough fun that was going on tempted Nello to laugh, -though he was miserable. He shrank from them all, so big, so loud, so -coarsely clothed, and in such a hurry; but he was tickled by their -horse-play with each other—the hits and misses with which their -missiles went and came. When the head boy was caught by a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296">{296}</a></span> pillow -straight in the face as he approached to execute justice upon one of the -laggards, Nello could not restrain a little broken chuckle, which -attracted the attention of the combatants. This, however, drew upon him -the arrest of fate. “I say, little one, ain’t you going to get -up?—bell’s rung!” said his next neighbour. The head boy was aggrieved -by the poor little laugh. “Get up, you lazy little beggar!” he cried. “I -say, let’s toss him!” cried another, with sudden perception of fun to be -had easily. The boys meant no particular harm; but they made a -simultaneous rush at the little trembling creature. Nello felt himself -seized, he knew not for what purpose. Then the noise, and the rude, -laughing faces—which looked to him in his fright like demons—all swam -in giddy uncertainty round him, and the poor little fellow came down -upon the floor, slipping out of their rough and careless hands, faint -and sick and sore, his head turning, his little bones aching. But though -in his giddiness and faintness he scarcely saw anything—even the faces -turning into misty spectres—Nello’s spirit survived for a moment the -collapse of his little frame. He got to his feet in a frenzy, and struck -out at them with his white little childish fists. “I will kill you!” -cried Nello, through his teeth; and a great horse-laugh got up. But this -was soon extinguished in dismay and horror when the little fellow fell -back fainting. They all gathered around, horror-stricken. “Lift him on -his bed,” said the head boy almost in a whisper. They did not know -anything about faints; they thought the child was dead. Then there was a -pause. In their horror it occurred to more than one inexperienced -imagination to hide the little body and run away. “What can they do to -us?” said another, awe-stricken. “We didn’t mean it.” For a moment the -boys had all that thrill of horrible sensation which ought to (but, it -would seem, does not always) accompany homicide. At the end, however, -humanity prevailed over villanous panic, and Mrs. Swan was called to the -rescue. The boys were too glad to troop away, already subject to -punishment on account of being late, and, huddling together, went down -to the schoolroom in a band, where vengeance awaited them—though not -for Nello’s murder, as some of them thought.</p> - -<p>Nello came to himself at last, after giving Mrs. Swan a great<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_297" id="page_297">{297}</a></span> deal of -trouble; and there was nothing for it but to leave him in bed all day; -for the child was bruised with the fall, aching in every limb, and too -resentful and wretched to make any effort. He lay and cried and brooded, -what between childish plans of vengeance and equally childish projects -of escape. Oh, the pangs of impotence with which the small boy wronged -contemplated the idea of those big fellows who had been so cruel to him! -How should weakness be aware that strength does not intend to be cruel? -Nello could not be tolerant, or understanding, at his age, even if there -had not been his aching bones to prove the wickedness of his assailants. -He hated them all. How could he help hating them? He lay and planned -what he would do to them. But Nello’s dreams were not malicious. At the -last moment, when they had suffered torments of dread in prospect of the -punishment which he permitted them (in his fancy) to see approaching, -Nello’s vengeance suddenly turned into magnanimous contempt. He would -not condescend to reprisals; he would crush them with forgiveness as -soon as they saw his power. Such were the plans which the child lay and -concocted, and which amused him, though he was not aware of it. But when -the boys came in Nello shrank to the farther side of his bed; he would -not look at them; he would not listen to the rough inquiries. When they -went away again, however, and he was left alone, a sudden fit of longing -came over him. Oh, to see somebody he knew!—somebody that was kind! -Schemes of vengeance pall, like every other amusement. He gazed round -upon the bare walls, the range of beds, the strange, ugly, desolate -place. He could not tell if it was worse when the savages were there, -filling it with noise, stumblings of heavy feet, cries of rough voices, -or when the sounds all died away, and he was left lonely, not a soul to -speak to him; no kind hand to touch his hot little head; nobody to give -him a drink, though he wanted it so much. Nello had to clamber out of -bed, to pour himself out a cup of water from the great brown jug, which -he could scarcely lift—and fell upon his bed again, utterly heartsick -and desolate. Nobody to give him a drink! How they used to pet him when -he had a headache! How Martuccia would croon over him, and bathe his -head, and kiss<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_298" id="page_298">{298}</a></span> his hands, and bring him everything she could think of -to please him! And Mary would come and stand by his side, and put her -cool, white hand upon his head—that hand which he had once called “as -soft as snow.” Nello remembered the smile that came on Mary’s face when -he had called her hand “as soft as snow.” He did not himself see the -poetry of the phrase, but he thought he could feel again that mingled -coolness, and softness, and whiteness. And Lily! Lily would sit by him -all day long, and read to him, or sing to him, or tell him stories, or -play when he got a little better and could play. A great lump came in -Nello’s throat. “Oh, my Lily!” he cried, with a lamentable cry. He had -no mother to appeal to, poor child—not even the imagination of a -mother. Lily had been everything. Nothing had ever been so bad with him -but could be borne when Lily was there. Naturally he had not so much -felt the want of Lily when it was pleasure (as he thought) that he was -going to. He could part with her without much emotion in the excitement -of novelty and childish hope; but now——. Nello turned his face to the -wall and sobbed. The lonely place—all the lonelier for bearing traces -of that rude multitude—held him, a little atom, in its midst. Nobody -heard his crying, or cared. He tore the bedclothes with his little -frantic hands, with that sense of the intolerable which comes so easily -to a child. But what did it matter that it was intolerable? Little -Nello, like older people, had to bear it all the same.</p> - -<p>It was best to leave the child quiet, the Swans thought. They were not -unkind, but they were not used to take much trouble. The boys who came -to them generally were robust boys, able to take care of themselves, and -to whom it did no harm to be hustled about—who enjoyed the scrimmages -and struggles. Mrs. Swan had her own children to look after. “I’ve left -him to himself; he’s better to be quite quiet,” she said to her husband, -and the husband approved; “far better for him to be quiet.” Attempts to -amuse a child, in such circumstances, would have been foolish, they -thought, and as for petting and sympathising with him, far better that -he should get accustomed to it, and make up his mind to put up with it -like the rest. They could not make any difference between one and -another; and if he had a day’s rest,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_299" id="page_299">{299}</a></span> and was allowed to lie in bed, -what could the child want more? There was no imagination in the house -lively enough to <i>envisager</i> the circumstances from Nello’s point of -view, or to understand what chills of terror, what flushes of passion, -came over the child, when the others poured in to bed again in the -evening, driving him desperate with fear and wild with anger. Who could -imagine anything so vehement in the mind of such a little boy? But Nello -was not molested that next evening; they were disposed rather to be -obsequious to him, asking, in their rough way, how he was, and offering -him half-eaten apples and bits of sticky sweetmeats, by way of -compensation. But Nello would not listen to these clumsy overtures. He -turned his face to the wall persistently, and would have nothing to say -to them. Even the tumult that was going on did not tempt him to turn -round, though, after the first moment of fright, the crowd in the room -was rather comforting than otherwise to Nello. The sound of their voices -kept him from that melancholy absorption in himself.</p> - -<p>Next morning he had to get up, though he was still sick and sore. Nello -was so obstinate in his refusal to do so, that the master himself had to -be summoned. Mr. Swan would stand no nonsense.</p> - -<p>“Get up, my boy,” he said, “you’ll get no good lying there. There has -nothing happened to you more than happens to new boys everywhere. Come, -you’re not a baby to cry. Get up, and be a man.”</p> - -<p>“I want to go home,” said Nello.</p> - -<p>“I daresay you do; but you’re not going home. So your plan is to make -the best of it,” said the schoolmaster. “Now come, I let you off -yesterday; but I’ll send a man to take you out of bed if you don’t get -up now. Come along, boy. I see you want to be a baby, as your uncle -said.”</p> - -<p>“I am no baby,” cried Nello, furious; but the schoolmaster only laughed.</p> - -<p>“I give you half-an-hour,” he said; and in half-an-hour, indeed, Nello, -giddy and weak, managed to struggle down to the schoolroom. His watch -was no longer going. He had forgotten it in the misery of the past day; -it lay there dead, as Nello felt<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_300" id="page_300">{300}</a></span>—and his bird was flown. He stumbled -downstairs, feeling as if he must fall at each step, and took his seat -on the lowest bench. The lessons were not much, but Nello was not equal -to them. The big figures about seemed to darken the very air to the -boy—to darken it, and fill it up. He had no room to breathe. His hand -shook, so that he could not write a copy, which seemed a simple matter -enough. “Put him at the very bottom; he knows nothing,” Mr. Swan said to -his assistant; and how this galled the poor little gentleman, to whom, -in his feebleness, this was the only way left of proving a little -superiority, what words could say? Poor little Nello! he cried over the -copy, mingling his tears with the ink, and blurring the blurred page -still more. He could not get the figures right in the simplest of sums. -He was self-convicted of being not only the least, but the very last, -the dunce of the school. When the others went out to play, he sat -wretched in a corner of the wretched schoolroom, where there was no air -to breathe. He had not energy enough to do anything or think of -anything; and it was only the sight of another boy, seated at a desk -writing a letter, which put it into his head that he too might find a -way of appeal against this cruelty. He could not write anything but the -largest of large hands. But he tore a leaf out of the copybook, and -scrawled a few lines across it. “I am verrey meeserble,” he wrote; “Oh, -Lily, ask Mary to kome and take me home.”</p> - -<p>“Will you put it into a cover for me?” he said to the boy who was -writing, who proved to be the very head boy who reigned over Nello’s -room. “Oh, please, put it into a cover. I’ll forgive you if you will,” -cried Nello.</p> - -<p>The head boy looked at him with a grin.</p> - -<p>“You little toad, don’t you forgive me without that? I never meant to -hurt you,” he said: but melting, he added, “give it here.” Nello’s -epistle, written across the lined paper, in big letters, did not seem to -require any ceremony as a private communication. The head boy read it -and laughed. “They won’t pay any attention,” he said; “they never do. -Little boys are always miserable. And won’t you catch it from Swan if he -sees it!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_301" id="page_301">{301}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“It is for my sister Lily; it is not for Mr. Swan,” cried the child, -upon which the head boy laughed again.</p> - -<p>That letter never reached Penninghame. The schoolmaster read it -according to his orders, and put it into the fire. He wrote himself to -the address which Nello had given, to say that the little gentleman was -rather homesick, but pretty well; and that perhaps it would be better, -in the circumstances, not to write to him till he had got a little -settled down, and used to his new home. He hoped his little pupil would -soon be able to write a decent letter; but he feared his education had -been very much neglected hitherto, Mr. Swan wrote. Thus it came to pass -that Nello lived on, day after day, eagerly expecting some event which -never happened. He expected, first of all, Mary to arrive in a beautiful -chariot, such as was wont to appear in Lily’s stories, with beautiful -prancing horses—(where they were to come from, Nello never asked -himself, though he was intimately acquainted with the two brown ponies -and the cob, which were all the inhabitants of the Squire’s stables), -and with an aspect splendid, but severe, to proceed to the punishment of -his adversaries. Nello did not settle what deaths they were to die; but -all was arranged except that insignificant circumstance. Mary would -come; she would punish all who had done wrong; she would give presents -to those who had been kind; and all the boys who had laughed at little -Nello would see him drive away glorious behind those horses, with their -arching necks, and high-stepping, dainty feet. Then after a few days, -which produced nothing, Nello settled, with a pang of visionary -disappointment, that it was Mr. Pen who could come. He would not make a -splendid dash up to the door like Mary in her chariot; but still he -would deliver the little captive. Another day, and Nello, coming down -and down in his demands, thought it might at least be Martuccia, or -perhaps Miss Brown, who would come for him. That would not be so -satisfactory to his pride, for he felt that the boys would laugh and -jeer at him, and say it was his nurse who had come; but still even Miss -Brown would be good to see in this strange place. At the end of the -week, however, all Nello’s courage fled. He thought then faintly of a -letter, and watched when the postman came with packets of letters for -the other boys. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_302" id="page_302">{302}</a></span> could not read writing very well; but he could make -it out if they would only write to him. Why would not they write to him? -Had they forgotten him altogether, clean forgotten him, though he had -been but a week away?</p> - -<p>Nello did what he was told to do at school: but he was very slow about -it, being so little, and so unused to work—for which he was punished; -and he could not learn his lessons for brooding over his troubles, and -wondering when <i>they</i> would come, or what they could mean; and naturally -he was punished for that too. The big boys hustled him about; they -played him a hundred tricks: they laughed at his timid, baby-washings, -his carefulness, the good order to which he had been trained. To toss -everything about, to do everything loudly, and noisily, and carelessly, -was the religion of Mr. Swan’s boys, as everything that was the reverse -of this had been the religion in which Nello was trained. Poor little -boy, his life was as full of care as if he had been fifty. He was sent -here and there on a hundred errands; he had impositions which he could -not write, and lessons which he could not learn; and not least, perhaps, -meals which he could not eat; and out-of-door tasks quite unsuitable for -him, and which he could not perform. He was for ever toiling after -something he ought to have done. He grew dirty, neglected, unkempt, -miserable. He could not clean his own boots, which was one thing -required of him; but plastered him self all over with mysterious -blacking, in a vain attempt to fulfil this task, he who had scarcely -dressed himself till now, scarcely brushed his own hair. He kept up a -struggle against all these labours, which were more cruel than those of -Hercules, as long as he had the hope within him that somebody must come -to deliver him; for, with a childish jump at what he wished, he had -believed that some one might come “to-morrow,” when he sent, or thought -he sent, his letter away. The to-morrow pushed itself on and on, hope -getting fainter, and misery stronger, yet still seemed to gleam upon -him, a possibility still. “Oh, pray God send Mary,” he said, every night -and morning. When a week was over, he added a more urgent cry, “Oh, pray -God send <i>some one</i>, only some one! Oh, pray God take me home!” the -child cried. He repeated it one night aloud, in the exhaus<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_303" id="page_303">{303}</a></span>tion of his -disappointment, with an irrepressible moaning and crying: “Oh, pray God -take me home!” He was very tired, poor little boy; he was half wrapped -in his little bit of curtain, to hide him as he said his prayers, and he -had fallen half asleep while he said them, and was struggling with -drowsiness, and duty, and a hope which though now falling more and more -into despondency, still gave pertinacity to his prayer. He was anxious, -very anxious to press this petition on God’s notice. Repetition; is not -that the simplest primitive necessity of earnest supplication? Perhaps -God might not take any notice the first time, but He might the next. -“Oh, take me home. Oh, pray God take me home!” God too, like Mary and -the rest, seemed to pay no attention; but God did not require written -letters or directions in a legible hand: He could be approached more -easily. So Nello repeated and repeated, half-asleep, yet with his little -heart full of trouble, and all his cares awake, this appeal to the only -One who could help him, “Oh, pray God, pray God, take me home!”</p> - -<p>But in this trance of beseeching supplication, half asleep, half -conscious, poor little Nello caught the eye of one of his room-fellows, -who pointed out the spectacle to the rest. “Little beggar! pretending to -say his prayers; and much he cares for his prayers, going to sleep in -the middle of them,” they said. Then one wag suggested, “Let’s wake him -up!” It was a very funny idea. They got his water-jug, a small enough -article indeed, not capable of doing very much harm. Had poor little -Nello been less sleepy in his half-dream of pathetic appeal, he must -have heard the titterings and whisperings behind him; but he was too -much wrapt in that drowsy, painful abstraction, to take any notice, till -all at once he started bolt upright, crying and gasping, woke up and -drenched by the sudden dash of cold water over him. A shout of laughter -burst from all the room, as Nello turned round frantic, and flew at the -nearest of his assailants with impotent rage. What did the big fellow -care for his little blows? he lay back and laughed and did not mind, -while the small creature in his drenched nightgown, his face crimson -with rage, his little frame shivering, his curly locks falling about his -cheeks, flew at his throat. The head boy, however, awakening to a sense -of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_304" id="page_304">{304}</a></span> indiscretion, and perhaps touched by a pang of remorse at sight -of the misery and fury in the child’s face, got hold of Nello in his -strong arms, and plucked the wet garment off him, and threw him into his -bed. “Let the child alone, I tell you. I won’t have him meddled with,” -he said to the others—and covered him up with the bedclothes. Poor -little Nello! he wanted to strike at and struggle with his defender. He -was wild with rage and misery. His small heart was full, and he could -bear no more.</p> - -<p>After this, however, the boys, half ashamed of themselves, got quickly -to bed; and darkness, and such silence as can exist in the heavy -atmosphere where twelve rustics sleep and snore, succeeded to the tumult -and riot. Nello, exhausted, sobbed himself to sleep under the -bedclothes; but woke up in the middle of the night to remember all his -wrongs and his misery. His cup was full; even God would not pay any -attention to him, and it seemed to Nello that it would be better to die -than to bear this any longer. Though the dark frightened him, it was -less alarming than the rough boys, the hard lessons, the pangs of -longing and waiting for a deliverance which never came. He had still the -sovereign which Mary gave him, and the watch he had been so proud of, -though that was dead now, and he had not spirit enough left to wind it -up. It was October, and the nights were long. Though it was but in -reality between two and three o’clock in the morning, Nello thought it -would soon be time for all these savage companions to get out of bed -again, and for the noisy dreadful day to begin. He got up very quietly, -trembling at every sound. There was a window at the end of the room -through which the moon shone, and the light gave him a little -consolation. He kept his eye fixed upon it, and groped for his clothes, -and put them on very stealthily. If any one should hear him, he would be -lost; but Nello’s little rustlings, like a bird in the dark, what were -they to break the slumbers of all those outdoor lads, who slept -violently, as they did everything else! No one stirred; the snoring and -the breathing drowned all the little misadventures which chilled Nello -with terror, as when his boots dropt out of his hand, or the buttons on -his trousers struck shrilly against the chair. Nothing happened; nobody -stirred, and Nello crept out of the room, holding his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_305" id="page_305">{305}</a></span> breath with the -courage of despair. He got downstairs, trembling and stumbling at almost -every step. When he got to the lower story, that kind moon, which had -seemed to look at him through the window, almost to smile at him in -encouragement and cheerful support, showed him a little window which had -been left open by some chance. He clambered through and found himself in -the garden. There was a great dog in front of the house, of which Nello -was in mortal terror; but here at the back there was no dog, only the -kitchen garden, with the tranquil breadth of a potato-field on the other -side of the hedge. It was not easy to get through that hedge; but a -small boy not quite nine years old can go through gaps which would -scarcely show to the common eye. It scratched him and tore his trousers; -but there was nothing in such simple accidents to stop the little -fugitive. And what it was to feel himself outside, free and safe, and -all his tormentors snoring! Nello looked up at the moon, which was -mellow and mild, not white as usual, and which seemed to smile at him. -The potato-field was big and black, with its long lines running to a -point on either side of him; and the whole world seemed to lie round him -dark and still; nothing stirred, except now and then a rat in the ditch, -which chilled Nello with horror. Had he known it was so early, the child -would have been doubly frightened; but he felt that it was morning, not -night, which encouraged him. And how big the world was! how vast, and -silent, and solitary! only Nello, one little atom, with a small heart -beating, a little pulse throbbing in the midst of that infinite quiet. -The space grew vaster, the stillness more complete, the distance more -visionary, and there was a deeper sable in the dark, because of Nello’s -little heart beating so fast, and his eyes that took everything in. What -was he to do, poor little soul, there by himself in the open country, in -the unknown world all in the middle of the night!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_306" id="page_306">{306}</a></span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XXXI" id="CHAPTER_XXXI"></a>CHAPTER XXXI.<br /><br /> -<small>A CRISIS AT PENNINGHAME.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">All</span> this time the old Squire lay in the same stupor of death in life. He -did not rally. Sometimes there was a look in his eyes—a quiver as of -meaning, between the half-closed lids. But they could not tell what it -meant, or indeed if it was anything but vague reflection of the light -that would break in through a drawn curtain or raised blind. There he -lay, day after day, wearing out all his nurses. If he ever slept, or -ever was awake, no one could tell; but this old man, in the grip of -deadly disease, lay there motionless, and tired out all the younger -people who watched over him. A nurse had been got for him from the -nearest town, and Mary was rarely out of the sick-chamber. Both of these -attendants were worn to death as the monotonous days and nights went -past; but the Squire lay just the same. They grew pale and hollow-eyed, -but he apparently had stopped short at the point where he was when their -vigil began.</p> - -<p>In these circumstances all the world flocked to Penninghame to inquire -for Mr. Musgrave. Rural importance shows in such circumstances. He was -“by rights” the greatest man in the district, though superior wealth had -come in and taken his pre-eminence from him—but everybody recollected -his pretensions now. Inquiries came for him daily from every one near -who could pretend to be anything. The great great people, and the small -great people, the new families and the old, the clergy (who were as good -as anybody), and all who sought for a place among the gentry, with -whatever hope or right, all interested themselves about the invalid. -“His eldest son is still living, I believe. And what will happen when -Mr. Musgrave dies?” the people asked. And all who had any possibility of -knowing, all who had any right to know, exerted themselves to supply -answers to this question. One had it on the best authority, that John -Musgrave was waiting, ready to come home, and that there would be -another trial immediately. Some, on the other hand, were certain that -John Musgrave never would come home at all to tempt<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_307" id="page_307">{307}</a></span> Providence. “There -will be an effort made to pass him over, and make his little son heir -instead,” they said; and some believed it to be certain that the other -brother would pension him off, so that the house might not be shamed by -a convict squire.</p> - -<p>Naturally, Mary knew nothing about these discussions. She spent her time -in her father’s room, relieving the nurse when her hours for sleep came, -resting herself only when she could no longer bear up against the -fatigue, seeing nobody but Mr. Pen and Lilias. Mary took little notice -now of Nello’s departure, and the schoolmaster’s letter. It had all been -done against her will, but she was too much occupied, now that it was -done, to dwell upon it. It was very shameful that he was so backward, -and perhaps Mr. Pen and Randolph were right in sending him to school. -Her mind was too much pre-occupied for the moment to give anything but -this half-angry, reluctant assent to what had been done. And perhaps it -would be better <i>now</i> if Lilias could go to school too, out of this -melancholy house, out of the loneliness which was so hard upon the -child. But Lilias was the only consolation Mary herself had; she had -grown to be part of herself during this long year. It might be doing the -child injustice, as she feared; but how could she send her only -companion, her consoler and sympathiser, away? As for Lilias, though she -was deeply moved by Nello’s departure, the want of news of him did not -move her much. Her father never wrote, never communicated with the -child. They had not the custom of letters. It was very dreary, no doubt, -but still when he came back unexpectedly, perhaps just at the moment he -was most wanted, stepping in, with all the delight of surprise added to -the pleasure of again seeing the absent, that was worth waiting for. -This was the philosophy of the family. It was not their habit to write -letters. Lilias accepted her own loneliness with resignation, not -thinking of any possible alleviation; and she watched, sitting at the -door of the old hall, for every one who might come along the road. It -was October—the days getting short, the air more chilly, the sun less -genial. The woods began to put on robes of colour, as if the rosy sunset -clouds had floated down among them. The air blew cold in her face, as -she sat outside<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_308" id="page_308">{308}</a></span> the hall door. Martuccia within, in the background, -shivered, and drew her shawl more closely across her ample shoulders. -But Lilias did not feel the cold. She was looking out for some one—for -papa, who might come all at once, at any time—for Mr. Geoff, who might -bring news of papa—for something to come and break the monotony of this -life. Something Lilias felt sure must be coming; it could not go on like -this for ever.</p> - -<p>“Nello was always company for his sister,” Mary said. Though she -assented, she could not but complain. She had come out to breathe the -air, and was walking up and down, Mr. Pen by her side. “It is very hard -upon Lily, just at this moment, when everything is hanging in the -balance, that her little brother should have been sent away.”</p> - -<p>“It would be very well,” said Mr. Pen, “if you would send her away too. -Nello wanted it. He would never have learned anything at home. He will -come back so much improved. If he is to be received as the heir of -everything—— ”</p> - -<p>“If, Mr. Pen?”</p> - -<p>“Well; I would not go against you for the world; but there is truth in -what Randolph says. Randolph says there must be certificates of his -birth, and all that; quite easy—quite easy to get—but where is your -brother John to look after it all? He ought to be here now.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, he ought to be here. But would it be safe for him to come, Mr. -Pen?”</p> - -<p>“Miss Mary, I can’t help wondering about that,” said Mr. Pen, with -troubled looks—had he grown unfaithful to John?—“if he is innocent, -why shouldn’t he come <i>now</i>? No jury would convict—— ”</p> - -<p>Mary stopped him with a motion of her hand. “Randolph has been gaining -you over to his side,” she said. They were walking up and down the road -close to the house. Just where the great gates ought to be—if the -Musgraves were ever rich enough to restore the courtyard of the old -Castle—was the limit of their walk. Mary could not allow herself to be -out of reach even for an hour. She was here, ready to be called, in case -her father should come to any semblance of himself. “I do not say he has -not some reason on his side, now that my father <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_309" id="page_309">{309}</a></span>is—as he is. -Everything seems to have grown so much nearer. It is dreadful not to -know where John is, not to be able to communicate with him. I wrote to -the last place where they were living—the place the children came -from—but I have never had any answer. When my poor father goes—as go -he must, I suppose—what am I to do?”</p> - -<p>“You must let Randolph manage for you. Randolph must do it. God knows, -Miss Mary, I don’t want to go against you—— ”</p> - -<p>“But you do,” she said with a half-smile. She smiled at it, but she did -not like it. It is hard, even when a dog who has been your special -follower turns away and follows some one else.</p> - -<p>“You never did it before since we have known each other, Mr. Pen.”</p> - -<p>Poor Mr. Pen felt the reproach. He was ready to weep himself, and looked -at her with wistful, deprecating eyes; but was it not for her sake?</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what else to say to you. It breaks my heart to go against -you,” he said. “Whatever pleases you seems always best to me. But -Randolph says—and I cannot deny it, Miss Mary, there’s truth in what he -says.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, there’s truth in what he says. He has got the child away, and -placed him out of reach, with your help, Mr. Pen; and he will push the -father away, out of his just place, and make all the difficulties -double. He has put you against him already that was his friend, and he -will put other people against him. I begin to see what he is aiming at;” -cried Mary, clasping her hands together, with indignant vehemence.</p> - -<p>Mr. Pen did not know what to say or do to soothe her. He was full of -compunction, feeling himself guilty. He to have turned against her! He -felt all the horror of it to his very heart.</p> - -<p>“We should be just to Randolph too,” he said, tremulously; “he means to -do what is right. And if I seem to cross you, ’tis but to serve you, -Miss Mary. How could you stand in the breach, and bear all that will -have to be borne? If Randolph does not come to do what has to be done, -you would have to do it; and it would be more than should be put upon -you.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_310" id="page_310">{310}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Have I ever shrunk from what has to be done?” she said, with again a -half-smile of pained surprise.</p> - -<p>Mr. Pen had no answer to make; he knew very well she had not failed -hitherto; and in his heart he was aware that Randolph’s motives were -very different from Mary’s. Still, he held with a gentle obstinacy to -the lesson he had learned. It was going against her, but it was for her -sake. They took one or two turns together in silence, neither saying any -more. As they turned again, however, towards the house for the third -time, Eastwood met them, hurrying from the door. Nurse had sent -downstairs for Miss Musgrave, begging her to come without delay. The -urgent message, and the man’s haste and anxious, eager looks, frightened -Mary. The household generally had come to that state of expectation -which welcomes any event, howsoever melancholy, as a relief to the -strain of nerve and strength which long suspense produces. Eastwood was -eager that there might be some change—if for the better, so much the -better—but that was scarcely to be looked for—anyhow a change, a new -event. The same thrill of anticipation ran through Mary’s veins. Was it -come now—the moment of fate, the crisis which would affect so many? She -bade Mr. Pen to follow her, with a movement of her hand. “Wait in the -library,” she said, as she went upstairs.</p> - -<p>While Mary took the air in this anxious little promenade up and down, -Lilias sat at the hall door, looking out upon the road, looking far away -for the something that was coming. She did not know that the rider on -the pale horse was the most likely passenger to come that way. Happier -visitors were in Lilias’ thoughts—her father himself to clear up -everything, who would go and fetch Nello back, and put all right that -was wrong; or Mr. Geoff, who was not so good, but yet very comforting, -and between whom and Lilias there existed a link of secret alliance, -unknown to anybody, which was sweet to the child. Lilias was looking out -far upon the road, vaguely thinking of Geoff, for he was the most likely -person to come—he who rode along the road so often to ask for the -Squire: far more likely than her father, who was a hope rather than an -expectation. She was looking far away, as is the wont of the dreamer, -pursuing her hope to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_311" id="page_311">{311}</a></span> very horizon whence it might come—when -suddenly, all at once, Lilias woke to the consciousness that there was -some one standing near her, close to her, saying nothing, but looking at -her with that intent look which wakes even a sleeper when fixed upon -him, much more a dreamer, linked to common earth by the daylight, and -all the sounds and touches of ordinary life. She rose to her feet with a -start—frightened yet satisfied—for here was something which had -happened, if not the something for which she looked. But Lilias’ eyes -enlarged to twice their size, and her heart gave a great jump, when she -saw that the figure standing beside her was that of the old woman whom -she had met in the Chase.</p> - -<p>’Lizabeth had come up unobserved from the water-side. She was dressed -exactly as she had been when Lilias saw her before, with the hood of her -grey cloak over her white cap—a stately figure, notwithstanding the -homely dress.</p> - -<p>Lilias gave a cry at the sight, and ran to her. “Oh, old woman!” she -cried—“oh, I want to ask you—I want to ask you so many things.”</p> - -<p>“Honeysweet!” said ’Lizabeth, with a glow in her dark eyes. She did not -for the moment think either of what she had come to say, or of the risk -that attended her communications with her daughter’s child. She thought -only of the face she saw reflected in that other face, and of the secret -property she had in the child who was so beautiful and so sweet. This -was ’Lizabeth’s heiress, the inheritor of the beauty which the old woman -had been conscious of in her own person, and still more conscious of in -the person of her daughter. Lilias was the third in that fair line. -Pride filled the old woman’s heart, along with the warm gush of -tenderness. No one had ever looked at Lilias with such passionate love -and admiration. She did not venture to take the child into her arms as -she had done in the solitude of the woods, but she looked at her with -all her heart in her eyes.</p> - -<p>Lilias seized her by the hand and drew her to the seat from which she -had herself risen. “Come!” she said eagerly. “They say you know -everything about papa—and I have a right to know; no one has so good a -right to hear as I. Oh, tell me! tell me! Sit down here and rest. I once -went up<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_312" id="page_312">{312}</a></span> the hill, far away up the hill, to go to you, but there I met -Mr. Geoff. Do you know Mr. Geoff? Come, come, sit down here and tell me -about papa—— ”</p> - -<p>“My darling,” said. ’Lizabeth, “blessings on your bonnie face! but I -dare not stay. Some time—soon, if it’s God’s will, you’ll hear all the -like of you could understand, and you’ll get him back to enjoy his own. -God bless my bairn that would give me her own seat, and think no shame -of old ’Lizabeth! That’s like my Lily,” the old woman said, with ready -tears. “But listen, honey, for this is what I came to say. You must tell -the lady to send and bring back the little boy. The bairn is in trouble. -I cannot tell you what kind of trouble, but she must send and bring him -back. My honey, do you hear what I say?”</p> - -<p>“The little boy, and the lady?” said Lilias, wondering; then she -exclaimed suddenly with a cry of pain, “Nello! my little brother!” and -in her eagerness caught ’Lizabeth’s hands and drew her down upon the -seat.</p> - -<p>“Ay, just your little brother, my honeysweet. My lad is away that would -go and look after him, so you must tell the lady. No, no, I must not -stay. The time will maybe come. But tell the lady, my darling. The -little boy has need of her, or of you. He is too little a bairn to be -away among strangers. I cannot think upon his name—nor I cannot think,” -said ’Lizabeth, with a gleam of grandmotherly disapproval, “what my Lily -could be thinking of to give a little lad such an outlandish name. But -tell the lady to send and bring him home.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I will go, I will go directly. Wait till I tell you what Mary -says,” cried Lilias; and without pausing a moment, she rushed through -the hall, her hair flying behind her, her face flushed with eagerness. -The old woman stood for a moment looking after her with a smile; -listening to the sound of the doors which swung behind the child in her -rapid course through the passages which led to the inhabited part of the -house. ’Lizabeth stood stately yet rustic in her grey cloak, with her -hands folded, and looked after Lilias with a tender smile on her face. -She had nothing left to be proud of, she so proud by nature, and to whom -it was the essence of life to have something<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_313" id="page_313">{313}</a></span> belonging to her in which -she could glory. ’Lizabeth’s pride had been broken down with many a -blow, but it sprang up again vigorous as ever on the small argument of -this child. Her beauty, her childish refinement and ladyhood, gave the -old woman a pleasure more exquisite perhaps than any she had ever felt -in her life. There was little in her lot now to give her pleasure. Her -daughter was dead, her days full of the hideous charge which she had -concealed for so many years from all the world; and she was old, -approaching the end of all things, with nothing better to hope for than -that death might release her unfortunate son before herself. At this -moment even a worse terror and misery was upon her; yet as she stood -there, looking after the little princess who was of her blood, her -representative, yet so much above anything that had ever belonged to -’Lizabeth, there was a glow through all her veins, more warm, more sweet -than any she had ever felt in her life. Pride, and love, and delight -swelled in her. Her child’s child—heir of her face, her voice, all the -little traits of attitude and gesture, which mark individuality—and yet -the young lady of the Castle, born to a life so different from hers. She -stood so, gazing after Lilias till the sound of her feet and the door, -closing behind her, had died away. Her heart was so full that she turned -to Martuccia sitting motionless behind with her knitting. “Oh, that her -life may be as sweet as her face!” she said involuntarily. Martuccia -turned upon her with a smile, but shook her head and said, “Not speak -Inglese.” The sound of the voice called ’Lizabeth to herself. The smile -faded from her face. Little had she to smile for, less than ever at this -moment. She sighed, coming to herself, and turned and walked away.</p> - -<p>Lilias ran against Mary as she entered the house at Eastwood’s call. -“Oh!” she cried, breathless, “Nello! will you send for Nello? Oh, Mary, -he is in trouble, the old woman says—he is ill, or he is unhappy, or I -cannot tell you what it is. Will you send for him, will you send for -him, Mary? What shall I do? for papa will think it was my fault. Oh, -Mary, Mary, send for my Nello! Wait a moment, only wait a moment, and -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_314" id="page_314">{314}</a></span>hear what the old woman says—— ”</p> - -<p>“Speak to her, Mr. Pen,” said Mary; “I cannot stay.” She was going to -her father, who must, she felt sure, want her more urgently than Lilias -could. Even then it went to Mary’s heart to neglect the child’s appeal. -“Mr. Pen will hear all about it, Lilias,” she said, as she hastened -upstairs. But Mr. Pen paid very little attention to what Lilias said.</p> - -<p>“An old woman! What old woman? My dear child, you cannot expect us at -such a moment as this—” said the Vicar. He was walking up and down the -library with his ears open to every sound, expecting to be called to the -Squire’s bedside, feeling in his pocket for his prayer-book. For it -seemed to Mr. Pen that the hasty summons could mean only one thing. It -must be death that had come—and it would be a happy release—what else -could any one say? But death, even when it is a happy release, is a -serious visitor to come into a house. He has to be received with due -preparation, like the potentate he is. Not without services of solemn -meaning, attendants kneeling round the solemn bedside, the commendatory -prayer rising from authorised lips—not without these formulas should -the destroying angel be received into a Christian house. He was ready -for his part, and waiting to be called; and to be interrupted at such a -moment by tales of an old woman, by the grumblings of a fretful child -sent to school against his will—even the gentle Mr. Pen rebelled. He -would not hear what Lilias said. “Your grandfather is very ill, my -dear,” he told her solemnly, “very ill. In an hour or so you may have no -grandfather, Lilias; he is going to appear in the presence of God—— ”</p> - -<p>“Is he afraid of God, Mr. Pen?” asked Lilias with solemn eyes.</p> - -<p>“Afraid!—you—you do not understand. It is a solemn thing—a very -solemn thing,” said the Vicar, “to go into God’s presence! to stand -before Him and answer—— ”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” cried the little girl, interrupting him, “Nello is far worse, far -worse. Would God do him any harm, Mr. Pen? But cruel people might do a -little boy a great deal of harm. God is what takes care of us. The old -gentleman will be safe, quite safe there; but my Nello! he is so little, -and he never was away from me before. <i>I</i> always took care of him -before. I said you were not to send him away, but you would not pay any -attention. Oh, my Nello, my Nello, Mr. Pen!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_315" id="page_315">{315}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Hush, Lilias, you do not know what you are speaking of. What can -Nello’s troubles be? Perhaps the people will not pet him as he has been -petted; that will do him no harm whatever—it will be better for him. My -dear, you are too little to know. Hush, and let me listen. I must be -ready when I am called for. Nothing that can happen to Nello can be of -so much importance as this is now.”</p> - -<p>And the Vicar went to the door to look out and listen. Lilias followed -him with her anxious eyes. She was awed, but she was not afraid for the -old gentleman. Would God hurt him? but anybody that was strong could -hurt Nello. She made one more appeal when the Vicar had returned, -hearing nothing and leaving the door ajar.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Pen! oh, please, please, think of Nello a little! What am I to do? -Papa said, ‘Lily, I trust him to you—you are to take care of him.’ What -shall I say to papa if he comes home and asks me, ‘Where is my little -Nello?’ Papa may come any day. That is his way, he never writes to tell -us, but when he can, he comes. He might come to-day,” cried Lilias. “Mr. -Pen, oh, send somebody for Nello. Will you not listen to me? What should -I say to papa if he came home to-day?”</p> - -<p>“My dear little Lilias,” said Mr. Pen, shaking his head mournfully, -“your papa will not come to-day. Heaven knows if he will ever be able to -come. You must not think it is such an easy matter. There are things -which make it very difficult for him to come home; things of which you -don’t know—— ”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Lilias eagerly, “about the man who was killed; but papa did -not do it, Mr. Pen.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Pen shook his head again. “Who has told the child?” he said. “I hope -not—I hope not, Lilias; but that is what nobody knows.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she cried, “Mr. Geoff knows; he told me. He says it was another -man, and that papa went away to save him. Mr. Pen, papa may come any -day.”</p> - -<p>“Who is Mr. Geoff?” said the Vicar; but he did not pay any attention to -what the child was saying. There seemed to be a sound on the stairs of -some one coming down. “Oh, run away,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_316" id="page_316">{316}</a></span> my dear! run away! Run and play, -or do whatever you like. I have not time to attend to you now.”</p> - -<p>Lilias did not say a word more, or even look at him again, but walked -away with a stately tread, not condescending even to turn her head -towards him. In this solemn way she went back to the hall, expecting to -find ’Lizabeth; but when she found that even the old woman was gone, in -whom she put a certain trust as the one person who knew everything, -Lilias had a moment of black despair. What was she to do? She stood and -gazed out into vacancy—her eyes intent, her mind passionately at work. -It was to her after all, and not to Mary, that Nello had been intrusted, -and if nobody would think of him, or attend to him, it was she who must -interfere for her brother. She stood for a minute or two fixed—then -turned hastily, paying no attention to Martuccia, and went to her room. -Lilias, too, had a sovereign, which Mary had given her, and something -more besides. She took her money out of its repository, and put on her -hat and jacket. A great resolution was in her face. She had seen at last -what was the only thing to do.</p> - -<p>“I think, ma’am, there is a change,” the nurse said, as Mary noiselessly -but swiftly, as long nursing teaches women to move, came into the room. -The nurse was an experienced person. When Miss Brown, and even Mary -herself, had seen “a change,” or fancied they had seen it, before, nurse -had never said so. It was the first time she had called any one to the -Squire’s room, or made the slightest movement of alarm. She led the way -now to the bedside. The patient was lying in much the same attitude as -before, but he was moving his hands restlessly, his lips were moving, -and his head on the pillow. “He is saying something, but I cannot make -out what it is,” the nurse said. Mary put her ear close to the -inarticulate mouth. How dreadful was that living prison of -flesh!—living, yet dead—the spirit pent up and denied all its usual -modes of utterance. Mary wrung her hands with a sense of the intolerable -as she tried in vain to distinguish the words, which seemed to be -repeated over and over again, though they could make nothing of them. -“Cannot you help us?—can you make it out? Is there nothing we can do?” -she cried; “no cordial to give him strength?” but the nurse could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_317" id="page_317">{317}</a></span> only -shake her head, and the doctor when he came was equally helpless. He -told Mary it was a sign of returning consciousness—which, indeed, was -evident enough—but could not even say whether this promised for or -against recovery. The nurse, it was clear, did not think it a good sign. -He might even recover his speech <i>at the end</i>, she said. And hours -passed while they waited, watching closely lest any faint beginning of -sound should struggle through. The whole night was passed in this way. -Mary never left the bedside. It was not that he could say anything of -great importance to any one but himself. The Squire was helpless as -respected his estate. It was entailed, and went to his eldest son, -whether he liked it or not; and his will was made long ago, and all his -affairs settled. What he had to say could not much affect any one; but -of all pitiful sights, it seemed to his daughter the most pitiful, to -see this old man, always so entirely master of himself, trying to make -some communication which all their anxiety could not decipher. Could he -be himself aware of how it was that no response was made to him?—could -he realise the horror of the position?—something urgent to say, and no -way of getting to the ears of those concerned, notwithstanding their -most anxious attention? “No, no,” the nurse said; “he’s all in a maze; -he maybe don’t even know what he’s saying;” and the constant movement -and evident repetition gave favour to this idea. Mary stood by him, and -looked at him, however, with a pain as great as if he had been -consciously labouring on one side to express himself as she was on the -other to understand him, instead of lying, as was most probable, in a -feverish dream, through which some broken gleam of fancy or memory -struggled. When the chilly dawn broke upon the long night, that -dreariest and coldest moment of a vigil, worn out with the long strain, -she dropped asleep in the chair by her father’s bedside. But when she -woke hurriedly, a short time after, while yet it was scarcely full day, -the nurse was standing by her with a hand upon her shoulder. The woman -had grasped at her to wake her. “Listen, ma’am! he says—‘the little -boy,’<span class="lftspc">”</span> she said; Mary sprang up, shaking off her drowsiness in a moment. -The old man’s face had recovered a little intelligence—a faint flush -seemed to waver about his ashy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_318" id="page_318">{318}</a></span> cheeks. It was some time before, even -now, she could make any meaning out of the babble that came from his -lips. Then by degrees she gleaned, now one word, now another. “Little -boy—little Johnny; bring the little boy.” She could scarcely imagine -even now that there was meaning in the desire. Most likely it was but -some pale reflection, through the dim awakening of the old man’s mind, -of the last idea that was in it. It went on, however, in one long strain -of mumbled repetition—“Little Johnny—little boy.” There seemed nothing -else in his mind to say. The nurse laid her hand once more on Mary’s -arm, as she stood by her, listening. “If you can humour the poor -gentleman, ma’am, you ought to do it,” said the woman. She was a -stranger, and did not know the story of the house.</p> - -<p>What could Mary do? She sent out one of the servants to call Mr. Pen, -who had stayed late on the previous night, always holding his book open -with his finger at the place, but who got up now obedient at her -summons, though his wife had not meant to let him be disturbed for -hours. Then the feeble demand went on so continuously, that Mary in -despair sent Miss Brown for Lilias, vaguely hoping that the presence of -the one child, if not the other, might perhaps be of some use in the dim -state of semi-consciousness in which her father seemed to be. Miss Brown -went with hesitation and a doubtful look, which Mary was too much -occupied to notice, but came back immediately to say that Miss Lilias -had got up early and gone out. “Gone out!” Mary said, surprised; but she -had no leisure to be disturbed about anything, her whole mind being -pre-occupied. She went downstairs to Mr. Pen when he came. He had his -prayer-book all ready. To dismiss the departing soul with all its -credentials, with every solemnity that became such a departure, was what -he thought of. He was altogether taken by surprise by Mary’s hasty -address—</p> - -<p>“Mr. Pen, you must go at once and bring Nello. I cannot send a servant. -He would not, perhaps, be allowed to come. If you will go, you can fetch -him at once—to-morrow early.”</p> - -<p>“But, Miss Mary—— ”</p> - -<p>“Don’t say anything against it, Mr. Pen. He is asking for the little -boy, the little boy! Nello must come, and come<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_319" id="page_319">{319}</a></span> directly. You would not -cross him in perhaps the last thing he may ever ask for?” cried Mary, -the tears of agitation and weariness coming in a sudden gush from her -eyes.</p> - -<p>“Let me send for your brother,” said the Vicar. “Let me send for -Randolph. He will know best what to do.”</p> - -<p>“Randolph! what has he to do with it?” she cried. “Oh go, Mr. Pen; do -not vex me now.”</p> - -<p>“I will go.” Mr. Pen closed his book with regret and put it into his -pocket. He did not like the idea that the old Squire should depart out -of the world like any common man, uncared for. After his long connection -with the family, that such a thing should happen without him! Mr. -Musgrave had not perhaps been so regardful as was to be desired of all -the services of the Church, and Mr. Pen was all the more anxious, now -that he could have everything his own way, that all should be done in -order. But how could he resist Mary’s will and wish? He put his book in -his pocket with a sigh.</p> - -<p>“I will do what you wish, Miss Mary; but—it is a journey of many -hours—and trains may not suit. Do you think he will—go on—so long?”</p> - -<p>“He is asking for the little boy,” said Mary, hastily. “Come and see -him, and it will go to your heart. How can I tell you any more? We do -not know even whether he is to live or to die.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, you must not cherish false hopes,” said the Vicar, as he followed -her upstairs. The servants were peeping on the staircase and at the -doors; they were half disappointed, like Mr. Pen, that the “change” was -not more decided. They had hoped that all was nearly over at last.</p> - -<p>The darkened room, where the night-light was still burning though full -day broke in muffled through the half-shuttered windows, was of itself -very impressive to Mr. Pen, coming out of the fresh fulness of the -morning light. He followed Mary, going elaborately on tiptoe round the -foot of the great heavily-curtained bed. The Squire’s head had been -propped up a little. He had become even a little more conscious since -Mary had left him. But his voice was so babbling and inarticulate that -Mr. Pen, unused to it, and deeply touched by the condition in which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_320" id="page_320">{320}</a></span> he -saw his old friend and patron, could not make out the words—“Bring the -little boy—the little boy, not Randolph—little Johnny: bring the -little boy.” Thus he went murmuring on, and there had gradually come a -kind of wish into the face, and a kind of consciousness of their -presence. “I wanted to bring Lilias, but Lilias they tell me has gone -out; I cannot tell where she can have gone,” Mary whispered. “And he -never took any notice of Lilias—it is the boy he wants—listen, Mr. -Pen, always the boy.”</p> - -<p>“I cannot make anything of it,” said Mr. Pen, moved to tears.</p> - -<p>“Oh listen! He says, ‘Not Randolph, the boy!’ It is the boy he wants. -Look! I almost think he knows you. Oh, what is it he wants?” cried Mary.</p> - -<p>The light which had been so nearly extinguished was leaping up in the -socket. A sudden convulsion seemed to run over the old man’s frame: he -made an effort to raise himself. His ashen face grew red, perspiration -burst out upon his forehead. Ghost-like and rigid as he was, he moved -himself upward as if to get from his bed. The nurse had put herself -quietly at her post on one side and she called to Mary to go to the -other, while poor Mr. Pen stood by helpless, as if he were assisting at -a visible resurrection. “Don’t get excited, ma’am,” the nurse said -steadily; “one moment! I hear the doctor coming upstairs.”</p> - -<p>The steady tread of some one approaching reassured the women as they -half aided, half controlled, the spasmodic force of apparent recovery. -The foot came nearer and nearer, thank God. The door opened and some one -came in.</p> - -<p>It was not the doctor. It was a tall man with light hair mingled with -grey and a fair complexion turned brown. He came straight into the room -like one familiar with the place. Miss Brown, who stood near the door, -recoiled with a quivering cry, and Mr. Pen, whom he encountered next, -fell back with the same quaver of consternation in his voice. He went to -where Mary stood, who alone had not looked at him, her eyes being intent -on her father’s face. He put her aside tenderly, taking her place. “This -is my work as much as yours,” he said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_321" id="page_321">{321}</a></span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XXXII" id="CHAPTER_XXXII"></a>CHAPTER XXXII.<br /><br /> -<small>NELLO’S RESCUE.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> house was very still in the afternoon languor—all its life -suspended. Between the sick-room, in which all the interest of the -family existence was absorbed, and the servants’ part of the house, in -which life went on cheerfully enough under all circumstances, but -without any intrusion into the still world above-stairs, there was -nothing going on. Little Lilias went up into her own room, and down all -the long staircases and passages, without meeting or seeing any one. -Martuccia was in the old hall, tranquilly knitting and waiting for her -young lady’s return; but the house was empty of all sound or presence, -nobody visible. It was like the enchanted palace through which the young -prince walks, meeting no one, until he reaches the one chamber in which -the secret lies. This idea passed through the mind of Lilias, -pre-occupied as she was. Any one might come in—might pass from room to -room, finding all deserted, until he had penetrated to the dim centre of -the family life where death was hovering. She went down the oak -staircase with her light foot, a little tremulous, but inspired with -resolution. It was the afternoon of Nello’s last day at school. He had -not quite made up his mind, or been driven by childish misery, to the -determination of running away when his sister set out to succour him. -Had he waited, Lilias no doubt would have arrived in time to introduce a -new element into the matter; but what could the little girl’s arrival -have effected? Who would have given any importance to that? They would -have taken Lilias in, and made a little prisoner of her, and sent her -back. As it was, neither knew anything of what the other was doing. -Lilias had opened her most secret place, a little old-fashioned wooden -box, in which she kept some special relics, little trinkets, half toys, -half ornaments, which she had brought with her, and the remains of the -money which her father had given her when he sent the little party away. -There had been something over when they arrived, and Lilias had guarded -it carefully. She took it out now, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_322" id="page_322">{322}</a></span> put the purse containing it -within the bodice of her dress—the safest place. It might be wanted for -Nello. He had the best right to everything; and if he was in trouble—— -Lilias did not try to think what kind of trouble the little boy could be -in. She took her little store, and went away with her heart beating -high. This time she would herself do it; she would not trust to any one. -Mr. Geoff had undertaken to deliver her father, and stopped her; but he -had not done it. Already a long time had elapsed, and nothing had -happened. She would not trust to Mr. Geoff or any one this time. If old -’Lizabeth had not gone away before Lilias returned to the hall, she had -thoughts of asking the old woman to go with her; and even a weak -inclination to take Martuccia as a companion and support had crossed her -mind. Martuccia would have been useless, but she would have made all the -difference between a feasible expedition and an impossible one; but -perhaps it was for this very reason that Lilias rejected the idea. No; -this time she would be kept back by no advice. She would go to Nello’s -aid by herself. He should owe his deliverance to no one but his sister. -Who could understand him so well—know so well what he must want? And it -was to her that papa had intrusted Nello. She made dismal pictures to -herself of her little brother in trouble. What could “in trouble” mean? -She thought of him as out in the cold, out in the rain, crying, with no -place to go to; lost in a strange country, or perhaps ill with a fever, -and nobody to sit by him, nobody to give him a drink when he wanted it, -and tell him stories. What other kind of trouble was possible? That he -might not be able to learn his lessons without her to help him, and that -he might perhaps be whipped—could such an atrocity be?—just gleamed -across the child’s thoughts; but it made her heart beat so with rage and -indignation, and her cheeks burn with such a flush, that she thrust the -idea aside; but so long as he was unhappy, so long as he wanted her, was -not that enough? She buttoned her little coat with a stout but trembling -heart, and took a shawl over her arm (was not that how travellers always -provided themselves?) and, with her sovereign in her hand for immediate -expenditure, and her purse in her bosom, went down the silent stairs. -How still, how deserted it seemed! Mr. Pen came out<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_323" id="page_323">{323}</a></span> from the library -door when he heard the step, to see who it was, but took no notice of -her except a momentary glance of disappointment. Thus she went out of -the house brave and resolute, yet with a tremor of the unknown in her -breast.</p> - -<p>Lilias knew what to do: to walk to Pennington, where the railway station -was, and then to take a ticket, and to get into a railway carriage. The -walk along the highroad was long, but it was not so overwhelming as that -early expedition she had made all alone up into the hills when she had -met Geoff. How glad she had been to meet him, and to hear from him that -she need go no further! Lilias had not ceased to believe in Mr. Geoff, -but nothing had been done, and her heart was sick of the waiting. She -did not want to meet him now; her little heart gave a jump when she saw -any one riding towards her; but it was certain she did not want to meet -Geoff, to have her mission again taken out of her hands. Nothing was -more likely than that she should meet him, and her eyes travelled along -the dusty line of road, somewhat wistfully looking out—in hopes not to -see him—which much resembled the hope of seeing him, though it was -differently expressed. And now and then a cloud of dust would rise—now -and then a horseman would appear far off, skimming lightly over the long -line of road, which it took Lilias so much time to get over. Once a -beautiful carriage dashed past her, with the beautiful lady in it whom -she had once seen, and who had kissed and cried over Nello without -taking much notice of Lilias. Could it be that the beautiful lady had -heard too that he was in trouble? Lilias mended her pace and pushed on. -What fancies she met with as she plodded along the road! It was a long -dusty highway, running for a little while in sight of the lake, then -turning through the village, then striking across the country up and -down, as even a highroad is obliged to do in the north country, where -there is nothing but heights and hollows. It seemed to stretch into -infinity before Lilias, mounting one brae after another, showing in a -long level line here and there; appearing on the other side of that -clump of trees, beyond that far-off farmhouse, looking as if it led -without pause back to the end of the world. Lilias wove one dream after -another as she went along from landmark to landmark. How vivid they -were! So real, that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_324" id="page_324">{324}</a></span> the child seemed to enact every scene in them as -they floated through her mind; far more real than the actual events of -her life. She saw herself arriving at a great spacious place, which was -Nello’s school—undefined, yet lofty and wide and splendid, with marble -pillars, and great colonnades and halls. She saw people coming to gaze -and wonder at the little girl—the little wandering princess—who had -come to seek her brother. “The girl looked at them all, and said, ‘Take -me to Nello.’ The girl turned round upon them, and her lip curled with -scorn.” (Lilias suited the action to the word; and her innocent lip did -curl, with what version of fine disdain it could execute.) “What did she -care for all they could do for her? ‘It is my brother I want,’ she -said.” This was how she carried on her parable. Perhaps her own little -figure was too much in the front of all these visions. Perhaps her own -fine indifference to all blandishments and devotion to Nello was the -chief principle made apparent. This was how it ran on, however, -accompanying and shortening the way. She made long dialogues between -herself and the master, between herself and Nello. How he clung to her; -how glad he was that she had come. “It is Lily; I knew Lily would come,” -she made him say. He would not be surprised; he would know that this was -the most natural thing. If they had locked her up in prison to keep her -away from him, what would it have mattered? Lilias would have found a -way to go to him when Nello was in trouble; and Nello knew that as well -as she.</p> - -<p>She was very tired, however, and it was dark when she arrived at -Pennington. Lilias put on her grand air, but it was rather difficult to -impose upon the station-master and porters. They all wanted to be very -kind, to take care of her, and arrange everything for the little -traveller. The station-master called her “my dear,” and wanted Lilias to -go to his house, where his wife would take care of her till the morning. -“You are too little to travel by the night train,” he said; and the -porters were eloquent on the wickedness of sending a little lady like -this by herself. “I am going to my brother, who is ill,” Lilias said, -with dignity. “And have you no mamma to go to him, my little miss?” said -the porter, friendly, yet respectful. They were all very kind. No one -knew her, and they asked many questions to find out<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_325" id="page_325">{325}</a></span> who she was. They -said to each other it was well seen she had no mother, and made Lilias’s -heart swell so, that she forgave them for treating her as a child, -rather than as the little princess she had dreamed of being. Finally, -they arranged for her that she should travel to the great junction where -Nello had met Bampfylde at once—and that the guard should take care of -her, and put her in the night train, which arrived at a very early hour -in the morning at the station she wanted to go to. All this was arranged -for her with the kindest care by these rough men. They installed her in -the little waiting-room till the train should go. They came and fetched -her when it was going, and placed her in her corner. “Poor little lady!” -they said. Lilias was half-humiliated, half-pleased by all these -attentions. She submitted to them, not able to be anything but grateful -to the men who were so kind to her, yet feeling uneasily that it was not -in this homely way that she meant them to be kind. They did not look up -to her, but looked down upon her with compassionate tenderness, as upon -a motherless little girl—a child who recalled children of their own. -Just so the good woman looked upon her who got into the train along with -her. “All that way, and all alone, my poor little thing?” the woman -said. It hurt Lilias’s pride to be called a poor little thing, but yet -it was pleasant to have some one to creep close to. The world did not -seem to be as it is represented in books, for nobody was unkind. Lilias -was very glad to sit close to her new acquaintance, feeling comfort -unspeakable in the breadth of the honest shoulder against which she -leant as she travelled on in the dark. Those breadths of country which -Nello had watched flying past the window were almost invisible now. Now -and then a darker gloom in the air showed where the hills were high over -the railway in a deep cutting. Sometimes there would be gleams of light -visible here and there, which showed a village. Her companion dropped -into a doze, but Lilias, leaning against her, was far too much excited -for sleep. She watched the moon come out and shine over the breadth of -country, reflecting itself in the little streams, and turning the houses -to silver. It was late then, quite late, for the moon was on the wane. -And the train was slow, stopping at every station, creeping (though -when<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_326" id="page_326">{326}</a></span> it was in motion it seemed to fly) across the plains and valleys. -It was midnight when they got to the junction, and Lilias, with her -great eyes more wide awake than ever, was handed out. There were only a -few lights burning, and the place looked miserable and deserted, the -cold wind sweeping through it, and the two or three people who got out, -and the two porters who received them, looking like ghosts in the -imperfect light. The guard, who lived there, was very kind to the little -girl before he went off to his house. He wanted to take her with him to -make her comfortable till the morning, but Lilias could not be persuaded -to wait. At last he established her in a corner, the least chilly -possible, wrapping her shawl round her feet.</p> - -<p>There she was left alone, with one lamp to bear her company, the long -lines running into darkness at either side of her, blackness taking -refuge in the high roof of the station, above the watchlight of that one -lamp. How strange it was to sit all alone, with the chill of the air and -gloom of midnight all around her! Nobody was stirring in the deserted -place. The one porter had withdrawn to some warm refuge, to re-appear -when the train came. But little Lilias sat alone in her corner, sole -inhabitant of the big, chilly, desolate place. How her heart jumped to -her mouth! What tremors and terrors at first every sigh of the wind, -every creak of the lamp, gave her. But at last she perceived that -nothing was going to happen, and sat still, and did not trouble except -when imagination suggested to her a stealthy step, or some one behind in -the darkness. How dreary it was! The night wind sang a dismal cadence in -the telegraph wires, the air coursed over the deserted platforms, the -dark lines of way, and blew the flames of gas about even within the -inclosure of the lamp. Just then Nello was creeping, stumbling, out of -the window, making his way through the prickling hedge, standing alone -eyeing the moon in the potato-field. Lilias could not even see the moon -in her corner. Nothing was before her but the waning gleam of that -solitary lamp.</p> - -<p>At last the train came lumbering up through the darkness, and the -porters re-appeared from corners where they had been attendant. One of -them came, for Lily, kind as everybody had been, and put her into a -carriage by herself, and showed her how she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_327" id="page_327">{327}</a></span> could lie down and make -herself comfortable. “You’ll be there at five o’clock,” the porter said. -“Lie down, little miss, and get a sleep.” Never in her life had Lilias -been more wide awake, and there was no kind woman here with broad -shoulders to lean upon and feel safe. The train swept through the night -while she sat upright and gazed out with big, round, unslumbering eyes.</p> - -<p>Lilias watched and waked through the night, counting out the hours of -darkness, saying her prayers over and over, feeling herself lost in the -long whirl of distance and gloom and confusing sound; but as the night -began to tremble towards the dawning, she began to doze unawares, her -eyes closing in spite of herself, and much against her will; and it was -with a shiver that she woke up very wide awake, but feeling wretched, in -consequence of her doze, at the little roadside station, one small house -placed on the edge of a wide expanse of fields, chiefly pasture land, -and with no character at all. A great belt of wood stretched to the -right hand, to the left there was nothing but fields, and a long endless -road dividing them, visible for miles with a little turn in it here and -there, but nothing beside to break its monotony. Lilias clambered out of -the carriage when she felt the jar and clang of the stoppage, and heard -the name of the station drowsily called out. The man in charge of it -gazed at her as though she had dropped from the clouds; he did not even -see her till the train was in motion again, creaking and swinging away -into the distance. To see her standing there with her great eyes gave -him a thrill of strange sensation, almost of terror. Fatigue and -excitement had made her face paler than usual, and had drawn great -circles round her eyes. She looked like a ghost standing there in the -faint grey of the dawn, cold and trembling, yet courageous as ever. “Mr. -Swan’s? Oh yes, I can tell you the way to Mr. Swan’s; but you should -have spoken sooner. They’ve been and carried off your luggage.” Lilias -had not strength of mind to confess that she had no luggage, and indeed -was too much confused and upset by her snatch of sleep to be sure what -he was saying, and stumbled forth on the road, when he showed her how to -go, half-dazed, and scarcely more than half-conscious. But the pinch of -the keen morning air, and the sensation of strange stillness and -loneliness, soon restored her to the use of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_328" id="page_328">{328}</a></span> her faculties. The -benevolent railway man was loth to let her go. “It’s very early, and -you’re very small,” he said. “You’re welcome to wait here, my little -lady, till they send for you. Perhaps they did not expect you so early?” -“Oh, it does not matter,” said Lilias. “Thank you; I am quite able to -walk.” The man stood and watched her as she made her way in the faint -light along the road. He dared not leave his post, or he would have gone -with her out of sheer compassion. So young, and with such a pale little -beautiful face, and all alone at such an hour of the morning, while it -was still night! “It will be one of them boyses sisters,” he said to -himself with singular discrimination. And then he recollected the pale -little boy who had gone to Mr. Swan’s so short a time before. This gave -clue to the mysterious little passenger, which set his mind at rest.</p> - -<p>And Lilias went on along the darkling road. It was not possible to -mistake the road—a long white streak upon the landscape, which was -visible even in the dark; and it was not altogether dark now, but a -ghostly, damp, autumnal glimmer of morning, before the sun-rising. The -hedges had mists of gossamer over them, which would shine like rainbow -webs when the sun rose. The fields glimmered colourless still, but -growing every moment more perceptible in the chill dreariness of the -season—not cold enough for frost, yet very cold. Everything was grey, -the few shivering half-grown trees in the hedgerows, the sky all banked -with clouds, the face of the half-seen landscape. There was one cottage -by the roadside, and that was grey too, all shut up and asleep, the door -closed, the windows all black. Little Lilias, the one moving atom in -that great still landscape, felt afraid of it, and of herself, and the -sound of her own steps, which seemed loud enough to wake a whole world -of people. It seemed to Lilias that the kindly earth was dead, and she -alone a little ghost, walking about its grave. None of her dreams, none -of the poetry, nor anything out of her fairy lore could help her here. -The reality was more than any dream. How still!—how very still it -was!—how dark! and yet with that weird lightening which grew about her, -making everything more visible moment by moment, as if by some strange -magical clearing of her own tired eyes! She was so tired, so worn out; -faint for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_329" id="page_329">{329}</a></span> want of food, though she was not hungry—and for want of -rest, though she did not wish to go to sleep. Such an atom in all that -great grey insensible universe, and yet the only thing alive!</p> - -<p>No—not the only thing. Lilias’ heart contracted with a thrill, first of -relief, then of fear, when she saw something else moving besides -herself. It was in one of the great fields that stretched colourless and -vast towards the horizon. Lilias could not tell what it was. It might be -a spirit; it might be an enchanted creature bound by some spell to stay -there among the ploughed furrows; it might be some mysterious wild -beast, the legendary monster, of whose existence children are always -ready to be convinced. She concealed herself behind a bush, and looked -anxiously down the long brown furrow. It was something very little—not -so big as a man—smaller even than herself; something that toiled along -with difficulty, stumbling sometimes, and falling in the soft earth. By -and by a faint breath of sound began to steal towards her—very faint, -yet carried far on the absolute stillness of the morning. Some one who -was in trouble—some one who was <i>crying</i>. Lilias’ bosom began to swell. -She was very tired and confused herself; very lonely and frightened of -the dead world, and of her own forlorn livingness in it. But the sound -of the feeble crying brought her back to herself. Did she divine already -who it was? She scrambled through a gap in the hedge, jumped across the -ditch, and plunged too into the yielding, heavy soil of the ploughed -furrow. She was not surprised. There did not seem to be anything -wonderful in meeting her brother so. Had she not been sent to him -because he was in trouble? It was natural that he should be here in the -cold, dim morning, in the wild field, toiling along towards her, faintly -crying in the last confusion and misery of childish weariness, his way -lost, and his courage lost, and all his little bewildered faculties. She -called out “Nello!”—cautiously, lest any one should hear—“Nello!” and -then there was an outcry of amazement and joy—“Oh, Lily!” It was a -half-shriek of incredulous happiness with which poor Nello, toiling -through the field, weary, lost, forlorn, and afraid, heard the familiar -sound of her voice. He was not so much surprised either. He did not -think it was impossible,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_330" id="page_330">{330}</a></span> though nothing could have been more impossible -to an elder mind. Children hold no such reckonings as we do with -probability. He had been saying, “Oh, Lily! my Lily!” to himself—crying -for her—and here she was! He had no doubt of it, made no question how -she got there, but threw himself upon her with a great cry that thrilled -the dim morning through and through, and made the sleep-bound world -alive.</p> - -<p>And they sat down together in the furrow, and clung to each other, and -cried—for misery, but for happiness too. All seemed safe now they had -found each other. The two forlorn creatures, after their sleepless, -wintry night, felt a sudden beatitude creep over their little weary -bodies and aching hearts. Two—how different that is from one! They held -each other fast, and kissed, and were happy in the dark furrow, which -seemed big enough and dark enough to furnish them both with a grave.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII.<br /><br /> -<small>THE BABES IN THE WOOD.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">“Are</span> you very hungry, Nello?’</p> - -<p>“Oh, very, <i>very</i>. Are you? I have not had any breakfast. It was night, -dark night when I came away. Have you had any breakfast, Lily?”</p> - -<p>“How could I, when I have been in the railway all the night? Do you -think you can get over the ditch? Jump! I jumped, and you always could -jump better than I.”</p> - -<p>“You forget everything when you go to school,” said Nello, mournfully, -“and I am all trembling, I cannot help it. It is so cold. Oh Lily, if -they come up—if they find us—you will not let them take me back?”</p> - -<p>“Never, Nello! but let us get on, let us get on to the railway. Quick, -it is not far off. If you would only jump. Now give me your hand. I am -cold too, but we must get over it, we <i>must</i> get over it!” said Lilias, -almost crying. Poor Nell<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_331" id="page_331">{331}</a></span>o’s limbs were cramped, he was chilled to the -heart. He did not feel it possible to get on, all the courage was gone -out of him. He had kept up until, after scrambling through many rough -places, his poor little feet had sunk in that soft, newly-ploughed -furrow. This had taken all the life out of him, and perhaps his meeting -with Lilias, and the tumult of joyful emotion it caused, had not -increased Nello’s power of endurance. He had always had the habit of -trusting to her. But Lily it was quite certain could not drag him over -the ditch. He made an effort at last to jump and failed, and stuck in -the mud. That accident seemed at the moment to make an end of them both -in their utter weariness. They mingled their tears, Lilias hanging on -upon the bank above, Nello in the heavy soil below. The cry relieved -them however, and by and by, by the help of his sister’s hand, he -managed to scramble up the bank, and get through the scattered bushes on -to the highroad. One of his feet was wet and clogged with the mud, and -oh, how tired they both were, fit for nothing but to lie down and cry -themselves to sleep.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Nello, if you were at home, should you ever—ever want to go away -again?”</p> - -<p>Nello did not make any reply. He was too tired for anything but a dull -little sob now and then, involuntary, the mere breathing of his -weakness. And the highway looked so long, longer even than the fields. -There was always some hope at the end of a field that deliverance might -come round the corner, but a long unchangeable highway, how endless it -was! They went on thus together for a little way in silence; then: “Oh, -Lily, I am so hungry,” said Nello. What could she do? She was hungry -too, more hungry than he was, for she had eaten nothing since the -afternoon of the previous day.</p> - -<p>“I have a shilling in my pocket, but we cannot eat a shilling,” said -poor Lilias.</p> - -<p>“And I have a shilling too—more than that—I have the golden sovereign -Mary gave me.”</p> - -<p>“We must just hurry—hurry to the railway, Nello, for we cannot eat -money, and the railway will soon take us home; or there is a place, a -big station, where we could buy a cake.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_332" id="page_332">{332}</a></span> Oh!’ cried Lilias, with a gleam -of eager satisfaction in her eyes.</p> - -<p>“What is it, Lily?”</p> - -<p>“Look, only look?” She dragged him forward by the arm in her eagerness. -“Oh, a few steps further, Nello—only a few steps further—look!”</p> - -<p>The roadside cottage which had been so blank as she passed had awoke—a -woman stood by the door—but the thing that caught Lilias’ eye was a few -stale cakes and opaque glasses with strange confectionery in them. It -was these that gave strength to her wearied feet. She hurried forward, -while the woman looked at the strange little pair in wonder. “Oh, will -you give us a little breakfast,” she said, “a little milk to drink, and -some bread and butter for this little boy?”</p> - -<p>“Where have you come from, you two children, at this hour in the -morning?” cried the woman in consternation.</p> - -<p>“Oh, we are going to the train,” said Lilias. “We are obliged to go; we -must get the early train, and we don’t know, we don’t quite know when it -goes; and my poor little brother has fallen into the mud—see! and—he -got his breakfast so very early before he came away that he is hungry -again. We have plenty of money,” cried the little girl, “plenty of -money! We will give you a shilling if you will give us some milk and -bread.”</p> - -<p>“A shilling—two, three shillings,” said Nello, interposing. He was so -hungry; and what was the good of shillings?—you could not eat them. The -woman looked at them suspiciously. They were not little tramps; they -were nicely dressed children, though the little boy was so muddy. She -did not see what harm it could do to take them in; likewise her heart -was touched by the poor little things standing there looking up at her -as though she was the arbiter of their fate.</p> - -<p>“You may come in and sit by the fire; there’s no train for two hours -yet. It’s not six o’clock. Come in, you poor little things, and rest, -and I’ll give you some nice hot tea. But you must tell me all the truth, -for I know you’ve run away from somewhere,” she said.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_333" id="page_333">{333}</a></span></p> -<p>“No,” said Lilias, looking her in the face. “Oh no, I have not run away -from anywhere. My little brother was not happy, and I came to fetch him, -that is all. I did not run away.”</p> - -<p>“And what sort of people was it that sent a baby like you?” said the -woman. “Come in, you poor little things, and sit by the fire. What could -your mother be thinking of to send you—— ”</p> - -<p>“We have not got any mother.” Nello took no share in this conversation. -He was quite lost in the delight of the hard old settle that stood by -the fire. Nestling up into the corner he thought he should like to fall -asleep there, and never move any more. “We have not got any mother,” -Lilias said, “and who could come but me? No one. I travelled all night, -and now I am going to take him home. We are children without any -mother.” Lilias could not but know that these words were a sure passport -to any woman’s heart.</p> - -<p>“You poor little things!” the woman said, with the tears in her eyes. -Whether it has its origin in the self-complacency of womankind, it is -difficult to say, but whereas men are generally untouched by the -unhappiness of being fatherless, women are without defence in most cases -before a motherless child. Such a plea has instant recognition with high -and low. No mother!—everything is pardoned, everything conceded to a -creature with such a plea. She was not quite satisfied with the story, -which seemed to her very improbable, but she could not refuse her -succour to the motherless children. Her little shop, such as it was, had -no visitors till much later in the day, when the village children went -past her door to school. She had made her own tea, which stood keeping -itself hot upon the hob, and she came in hastily and put out cups and -saucers, and shared the hot and comfortable fluid, though it was very -weak and would not have suited more fastidious palates than the -children’s. What life it seemed to pour into their wearied little -frames! The bread was coarse and stale, but it tasted like bread from -heaven. Nello in his corner of the settle began to blink and nod. He was -even falling asleep, when suddenly a gig rattled past the windows. The -child sprang up in a moment. “Oh, Lily, Lily!” he cried in horror, “they -are after me! what shall I do?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_334" id="page_334">{334}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>The woman had gone to the back of the house with the cups they had used, -and so was not near to hear this revelation.</p> - -<p>“Who is it?” cried Lilias, peering out of the window. She was restored -to herself, and the name of an enemy, a pursuer, put her on her mettle. -She had never encountered such a thing before, but she knew everything -about it, how to behave. “Come, Nello, come,” she said, “we will go out -the back way while nobody is looking. Let us go away, let us go away -before any one can come here.”</p> - -<p>Lilias seized some of the cakes which the woman had put in paper for -them; wonderful productions, which nothing but a child’s appetite could -contemplate, and put down two shillings in the centre of the table. On -second thoughts it seemed better to her to go out at the front and get -round under cover of the hedge to the wood on the other side of the -station, which appeared temptingly near, rather than incur the risk of -speaking to the woman. It did not occur to her that her own presence was -enough to put any one completely off the scent who was seeking Nello. -She got him away out of the house successfully, and through the gap -behind the hedge where was a little footpath. “Now we must run—run! We -must get past, while they are asking at the station. We must not say a -word to the woman or any one. Oh, Nello, run—run!” Nello, still more -anxious than she was, managed to run for a little way, but only for a -little way. He broke down of all places in the world opposite to the -station, where Mr. Swan was standing talking to the keeper. When Nello -saw him through the hedge he turned round and clasped his sister -convulsively, hiding his face on her shoulder. Lilias did not dare to -say a word. They were hid from view, yet any movement might betray them, -or any sound. She stood with trembling limbs, bearing Nello’s weight -upon her shoulder, and watched through the hawthorn bush.</p> - -<p>“Nobody has been here, not a mouse, far less a little boy. The train is -not due for two hours,” said the station-keeper.</p> - -<p>“A bit of a little fellow,” said Mr. Swan. “I can’t think he could have -got so far; more likely he’s lying behind a hedge somewhere; but I -thought it best to try first here.”</p> - -<p>“He’s not here,” the station-keeper said again. He answered<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_335" id="page_335">{335}</a></span> curtly, his -sympathies being all with the fugitive, and he could not but give the -troubled schoolmaster a corner of his mind. “It’s only a month since you -lost the last one,” he said. “If it was my house the boys ran away from -I should not like it.”</p> - -<p>“Talk of things you know something of,” said Mr. Swan hotly; and then he -added, shaking his head; “It is not my fault. My wife and I do -everything we can, but it’s those rough boys and their practical jokes.”</p> - -<p>“Little fellows, they don’t seem to understand them kind of jokes,” said -the railway man.</p> - -<p>Mr. Swan shook his head. It was not his fault. He was sorry, and vexed, -and ashamed. “I would rather have lost the money twice over,” he said. -Then he turned and gave a searching glance all around. Lilias quaked, -and her heart sank within her. She held her little brother close to her -breast. If he should stir, if he should cry, all would be over. She knew -her situation well enough. Either their enemy would go away and get -bloodhounds and fierce wicked men to put on their track, during which -time the fugitives would have time to get into some wonderful cave, or -to be taken into some old, old house by some benevolent stranger, and so -escape; or else he would come straight to the very place where they -were, guided by some influence unfavourable to them. Lilias stood and -held her breath. “Oh, be still, Nello, be still, he is looking!” she -whispered into Nello’s ear. Her limbs were nearly giving way, but she -resisted fate and held out.</p> - -<p>The schoolmaster made long inspection of all the landscape. “He was -specially commended to me, too—I was warned—I was warned,” he said. -Then he turned to the station-keeper, giving him the most urgent -injunctions. “If he comes here you will secure him at once,” he said, -filling Lilias with dismay, who did not see the shrug of the man’s -shoulders, and the look with which he turned aside. Thus their retreat -was cut off, the little girl thought, with anguish indescribable; how -then were they to get home? This thought was so dreadful that Lilias was -not relieved as she otherwise would have been by the sound of the wheels -and the horse’s hoofs as the gig turned, and their enemy drove away. He -had gone in his own person, but had he not left a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_336" id="page_336">{336}</a></span> horrible retainer to -guard the passage? And how, oh how was she to take Nello home? She did -not know where the next station was. She did not know the way in this -strange, desolate, unknown country. “Nello,” she cried, in a whisper of -despair, “we must get into that wood, it is the only thing we can do; -they will not look for us there. I don’t know why, but I feel sure they -will not look for us there. And perhaps we shall meet some one who will -take care of us. Oh, Nello, rouse up, come quick, come quick. Perhaps -there may be a hermit living there, perhaps——. Come, Nello, can you -not go a little further? Oh, try, try.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Lily, I am so tired—I am so sleepy”</p> - -<p>“I am tired too,” she said, a little rush of tears coming to her eyes; -and then they stumbled on together, holding each other up. The wood -looked gay and bright in the early morning. The sun had come out, which -warmed everything, and the bright autumn colour on the trees cheered the -children as a similar hour, and the beauty of the wild creatures of the -woods, cheered the poet:—</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Si che a bene sperar m’era cagione<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Di quella fera alla gaietta pelle<br /></span> -<span class="i1">L’ora del tempo, e la dolce stagione.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>The trees seemed to sweep with a great luxuriance of shadow over a broad -stretch of country. It must be possible to find some refuge there. There -might be—a hermit, perhaps, in a little cell, who would give them nuts -and some milk from his goat—or a charcoal burner, wild but kind, like -those Lilias remembered to have seen in the forest with wild locks -hanging over their eyes. If only no magician should be there to beguile -them into his den, pretending to be kind! Thus Lilias mixed fact and -fiction, her own broken remembrances of Italian woods sounding as -fictitious among the English elms and beeches as the wildest visions of -fancy. For this wood, though it had poetic corners in it, was traversed -by the highroad, from end to end, and was as innocent of -charcoal-burners as of magicians. And it turned out a great deal further -off than they thought. They walked and walked, and still it lay before -them, smiling in its<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_337" id="page_337">{337}</a></span> yellow and red, waving and beckoning in the -breeze, which was less chilly now that the sun was up. The sun reached -to the footpath behind the hedge, and warmed the little wayfarers -through and through—that was the best thing that had happened to -them—for how good it is to be warmed when one is chilled and weary; and -what a rising of hope and courage there is when the misty dawn disperses -before the rising of the brave sun!</p> - -<p>Nello almost recovered his spirits when he got within the wood. There -were side-aisles even to the highroad, and deep corners in its depths -where shelter could be had, and the ground was all flaked with shadow -and sunshine; and there were green glades, half visible at every side, -with warm grass all lit by the sun.</p> - -<p>“Let us go and sit down, Lily. Oh, what a pretty place to sit down! Oh, -Lily, I cannot—I cannot walk any more; I am so tired,” cried Nello.</p> - -<p>“I am tired too,” she said, with a quiver in her mouth, looking vainly -round for some trace of the charcoal-burner or of the hermit. All was -silent, sunny, fresh with the morning, but vacant as the fields. And -Lilias could not be satisfied with mere rest, though she wanted it so -much. “How are we to get home, if we dare not go to the railway? and -there is no other way,” she said. “Oh, Nello, it will be very nice to -rest—but how are we to get home?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, never mind; I am so tired,” said weary little Nello. “Look, Lily, -what a warm place. It is quite dry, and a tree to lean against. Let us -stay here.”</p> - -<p>Never had a more tempting spot been seen; green soft turf at one side of -the big tree, and beech-mast, soft and dry and brown, the droppings of -the trees, on the other. The foot sank in it, it was so soft, and the -early sun had dried it, and the thick boughs overhead had kept off the -dew. It was as soft as a bed of velvet, and the little branches waved -softly over it, while the greater boughs, more still, shaded and -protected the children. They sat down, utterly worn out, and Lilias took -out her cakes, which they ate together with delight, though these -dainties were far from delicious; and there, propped up against each -other, an arm of each round the other, Nello lying across Lilias’ lap, -with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_338" id="page_338">{338}</a></span> his head pillowed upon her; she, half-seated, half-reclining, -holding him, and held in her turn by a hollow of the tree: these babes -in the wood first nodded, then dozed, and woke and dozed again, and -finally, the yellow leaves dropping now and then upon them like a caress -of nature, the sun cherishing their little limbs, fell fast asleep in -the guardianship of God.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV.<br /><br /> -<small>THE NEW-COMER.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Nobody</span> in the sick-room said a word of the great consternation and -wonder and fear that sprang to life in them at the appearance of the -stranger. How could they, though their hearts were full of it? when all -their care and skill were wanted for the patient, who, half-conscious, -struggled with them to raise himself, to get out of bed. To find out -what he wanted, to satisfy the hazy anxiety in his mind, and do for him -the something, whatever it was, that he was so anxious to do, was the -first necessity of the moment, notwithstanding the new excitement which -was wild in their veins. Where did he come from? How had he got -here?—familiar, unmistakable, as if he had been absent but a day. How -did he know he was wanted? And was it he—really <i>he</i>—after all those -dreary years? These questions surged through the minds of all the -bystanders, in an impetuous, yet secondary current. The first thing, and -the most urgent, was the Squire. Brother and sister, friend and friend, -had not leisure to take each other by the hand, or say a word of -greeting.</p> - -<p>Mary and her newly-arrived assistant stood side by side, touching each -other, but could not speak or make even a sign of mutual recognition. -<i>He</i> took her place in supporting, and at the same time, restraining the -patient. <i>She</i> held her father’s hand, with which he seemed to be -appealing to some one, or using, in dumb show, to aid some argument.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_339" id="page_339">{339}</a></span></p> - -<p>“The little boy,” he said, hoarsely, “bring me the little boy.”</p> - -<p>“Is it Nello he means?” the stranger asked, in a low voice.</p> - -<p>“I—think so—I—suppose so,” said Mary, trembling, and wholly overcome -by this strange ease and familiarity, and even by the sound of the voice -so long silent in this place. But he took no notice—only followed his -question by another.</p> - -<p>“Why not bring the child then? That might satisfy him. Does he care for -the child, or is it only a fancy, a wandering in his head? Anyhow, let -them bring him. It might be of some use.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think he—knows? Do you think he understands—and—means what he -is saying?”</p> - -<p>Mary faltered forth these words, scarcely knowing what she said, feeling -that she could not explain how it was that Nello was not near—and -finding it so strange, so strange to be talking thus to—John; could it -be really John? After all that had sundered them, after the miseries -that had passed over him, the price still set upon his head, was it he -who stood so quietly, assuming his household place, taking his part in -the nursing of the old man? She could not believe her senses, and how -could she talk to him, calmly as the circumstances required, gently and -steadily, as if he had never been away?</p> - -<p>“Most likely not,” he said; “but something has excited his fancy, and -the sight of my boy might calm it. Let some one bring Nello.”</p> - -<p>He spoke with the air of one used to be obeyed, and whom also in this -particular it would be easy to obey.</p> - -<p>“We sent him to school. I am very sorry—I was against it,” said Mary, -trembling more and more.</p> - -<p>Mr. Pen was frightened too. It is one thing doing “for the best” with a -little unprotected parentless child, and quite a different thing to -answer the child’s father when he comes and asks for it. Mr. Pen paled -and reddened ten times in a minute. He added, faltering—</p> - -<p>“It was by my advice—John. I thought it was the best thing for him. You -see I did not know—— ”</p> - -<p>Here he broke off abruptly, in the confusion of his mind.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_340" id="page_340">{340}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Then it is needless saying any more,” said the stranger, hastily, with -a tone in which a little sharpness of personal disappointment and -vexation seemed to mingle.</p> - -<p>This conversation had been in an undertone, as attendants in a sick-room -communicate with each other, without intermitting their special services -to the patient. The Squire had been still in their hands for the moment, -ceasing to struggle, apparently caught in some dim confused way by the -sound of their voices. He looked about him confusedly, like a blind man, -turning his head slightly, as if his powers were being restored to him, -to the side on which John stood. A gleam of half-meaning, of interest, -and wavering, half-roused attention, seemed to come over his face. Then -he sank back gently on his pillows, struggling no longer. The paroxysm -was over. The nurse withdrew her hand with a sigh of relief.</p> - -<p>“Now,” she said, “if we leave him perfectly quiet, he may get some -sleep. I will call you in a moment if there is any change.”</p> - -<p>The woman saw, with her experienced eyes, that something more than could -be read on the surface was in this family combination. She put them -gently from the bedside, and shaded the patient’s eyes from the light, -for it was nearly noon by this time, and everything was brilliant -outside. The corridor, however, into which they passed outside was still -dark, as it was always, the glimmering pale reflections in the wainscot -of the long narrow window on the staircase being its sole communication -with the day.</p> - -<p>Mary put out her hands to her brother as they emerged from the -sick-room.</p> - -<p>“Is it you—you, John?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he said, grasping them, “it is I. I do not wonder you are -startled—I heard my father was worse—that there was a change—and came -in without warning. So Nello has been sent away? May I see my little -girl? You have been good to her, I am sure, Mary.”</p> - -<p>“I love her,” said Mary, hastily, “as if she were my own. John, do not -take my little companion away.”</p> - -<p>He had been grave enough, and but little moved hitherto by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_341" id="page_341">{341}</a></span> the meeting, -which was not so strange or unlooked-for to him as to them. Now his -countenance beamed suddenly, lighting all over, and a tender moisture -came to his eyes.</p> - -<p>“It is what I have desired most for her,” he said, and took his sister’s -hands again and kissed her cheek. “But send for my little Lily,” he -added, with an indescribable softening in his voice.</p> - -<p>Here Miss Brown, who had been following, came out from the dusk of the -room behind. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. I did not like to tell you in -your trouble; but I’m very uneasy about Miss Lily.”</p> - -<p>“Has she never come in yet? You said she had gone out for a walk.”</p> - -<p>“I said whatever I could think of to save you, Miss Mary. We none of us -know where she’s gone. I’ve sent everywhere. She is not at the Vicarage, -nor she’s not at the village; and—oh, what will Mr. John think of us?” -cried the woman in tears. “Not one in the house has seen her since -yesterday, and Martuccia, she’s breaking her heart. She says Miss Lily -has gone after her brother; she says—— ”</p> - -<p>“Is Martuccia here?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir,” said Miss Brown, with a curtsey. She could not take her eyes -off him, as she afterwards said. More serious, far more serious than -when he was a young gentleman always about the house, but the same -man—still the same man.</p> - -<p>“Then send her to me at once. It is you, Martha, the same as ever,” he -said, with a momentary smile in the midst of his anxiety. Just as Mr. -John used to do—always a kind word for everybody and a smile. She made -him another curtsey, crying and smiling together.</p> - -<p>“And glad, glad, sir, to see you come home,” she said. There was this -excuse for Miss Brown’s lingering, that Mary had rushed off at once to -find Martuccia. John bowed his head gravely. He had grown very serious. -The habit of smiling was no longer his grand characteristic. He went -downstairs into the library, the nearest sitting-room in his way, the -door of which was standing open. Eastwood was there lingering about, -pretending to put things in order, but in reality waiting for news of -the old<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_342" id="page_342">{342}</a></span> Squire. Eastwood knew that he had not let this man in. He had -not got admission in any legitimate way. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he -began, not altogether respectfully, with the intention of demanding what -he did there.</p> - -<p>“What?” said the stranger, looking up with a little impatience.</p> - -<p>Eastwood drew back with another “Beg your pardon, sir!” and his tone was -changed. He did not know who it was, but he dared not say anything more. -This was the strangest house in the world surely, full of suspicions, -full of new people who did not come in at the front door.</p> - -<p>When Martuccia came, her story, which, had been almost inarticulate in -her broken English, flowed forth volubly enough to her master, whom she -recognized with a shriek of delight. She gave him a clear enough account -of what had happened. How an old woman had come, a peasant of the -country, and told Miss Lily that her little brother was in <i>trouble</i>. -This word she transferred to her narrative without attempting to -translate it, so that Mary, standing by, who did not understand the -rest, seemed to hear nothing but this word recurring again and again. -“Trouble!” it was an ominous word. Nothing but trouble seemed to -surround them. She stood and listened anxiously, though she did not -understand.</p> - -<p>“It is clear, then,” said her brother, turning to her, “that Lily has -gone after her little brother, supposed to be in some mysterious -trouble. When did he go, and where did he go, and who persuaded you to -send him away?”</p> - -<p>“It was Randolph—Randolph has been here. I believe he wanted to be -kind. He said Nello was being ruined here, and so did Mr. Pen. It was -against my will—against my wish.”</p> - -<p>“Randolph!” he said. This alarmed him more than all the rest. “Both my -children! I thought I should find them safe—happy in your hands, -whatever happened to me—— ”</p> - -<p>“Oh John, what can I say?” cried Mary, wringing her hands. No one could -be more guiltless of any unkind intention, but, as was natural, it was -she who bore the blame. A man may be pardoned if he is a little unjust -in such circumstances. John was ready to rush out of the house again -directly to go after his children, but what could be done unless the -railway helped him?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_343" id="page_343">{343}</a></span> Mary got the time-tables and consulted them -anxiously; and Mr. Pen came in and stood by; very serious and a little -crestfallen, as one of the authors of the blunder. And it was found, as -so often happens, that nothing was to be done at the moment. The early -train was going off as they talked, the next did not go till the -evening, the same by which Lilias had travelled on the night before. And -in the mean time, what might be happening to the little girl, who was -wandering about the world in search of her brother? While the brother -and sister consulted, Mr. Pen looked sorrowfully over their heads, which -were bent over these time-tables. He did not himself pretend to -understand these lines of mysterious figures. He looked from one face to -another to read what they meant. He was too much abashed by his own -share in the misfortune to put forward his advice. But when he saw that -they were both at their wits’ end, Mr. Pen suggested that the place -where Nello was was nearer to Randolph than to themselves, and that he -might get there that night if he was informed at once, and give them -news, at least let them know whether Lilias had reached the house where -her brother was. “And I will go by the first train,” Mr. Pen said -timidly. “Let me go, as I have had a hand in it. John knows I could not -mean any harm to his boy——.”</p> - -<p>Nobody had meant any harm, but the fact that the two children were both -gone, and one, a girl like Lilias, wandering by herself no one knew -where, was as bad as if they had meant it a hundred times over. Who -could it be who had beguiled her with this story of Nello’s trouble? If -John, who had suffered so much, and who had come from the country where -feuds and vengeance still flourish, suspected an enemy in it, suspected -even his brother who had never been his friend, who could wonder? They -telegraphed to Randolph, and to Mr. Swan, and to the stations on the -way, John himself hurrying to Pennington to do so. And then when all -this was done, which made an exciting bustle for a moment, there was -nothing further possible but to wait till evening for the train. Such -pauses are due to the very speed and superior possibilities of modern -life. A post-chaise was slower than the railway, but it could be had at -once, and those long and dreary hours of delay, of time which one<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_344" id="page_344">{344}</a></span> feels -to be lost, and in which, while we wait, anything fatal may happen, are -the reverse side of the medal, the attendant disadvantage upon headlong -speed and annihilation of distance. What a miserable house it was during -all that eternal day! Anxieties of every kind filled their minds—those -which concerned life and the living coming uppermost and shutting out -the solemn interest of the chamber over which death had been hovering. -The Squire slept, but only his nurse, unmoved in professional calm, -watched over him; and when he woke, still wrapped in a mist and haze of -half-consciousness which subdued all his being, yet with an aspect less -deathlike, Mary came and went to and from his room, in an enforced -stillness almost beyond bearing, not daring to stay long in one place -lest she should betray herself. She dared not allow herself to think of -little Lilias, perhaps in evil hands, perhaps wandering alone. Her -little Lily! Mary felt it would be impossible to sit still, impossible -to endure at all if she did not thrust away this thought. A little -woman-child, at that tender age, too young for self-protection, too old -for absolute impunity from harm. Mary clasped her hands tightly together -and forced her thoughts into another channel. There was no lack indeed -of other channels for her anxieties; her father thus lying between life -and death, and her brother with all the penalties of old on his head, -going and coming without concealment, without even an attempt to -disguise himself. It would have been better even for John, Mary felt -instinctively, if the Squire had been visibly dying instead of rallying. -What if he should wake again to full consciousness, and order the doors -of his house to be closed against his son as he had done before? What -if, seeing this, and seeing him there without attempt at concealment, -rejected by his own family, the old prosecution should be revived and -John taken? After that—But Mary shuddered and dropped this thread of -thought also. The other, even the other was less terrible. Thus passed -this miserable day.</p> - -<p>Randolph had been alarmed even before the family were, though in a -different fashion. Almost as soon as he had seated himself at his -respectable clergymanly breakfast-table, after prayers and all due -offices of the morning, a telegram was put<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_345" id="page_345">{345}</a></span> into his hand. This made his -pulse beat quicker, and he called to his wife to listen, while a whole -phantasmagoria of possibilities seemed to rise like a haze about the -yellow envelope, ugliest of inclosures. What could it be but his -father’s death that was thus intimated to him—an event which must have -such important issues? When he had read it, however, he threw it on the -table with an impatient “Pshaw! The little boy, always the little boy,” -he cried; “I think that little boy will be the death of me.” Mrs. -Randolph, who had heard of this child as the most troublesome of -children, gave all her sympathy to her husband, and he contented himself -with another message back again, saying that he had no doubt Mr. Swan -would soon find the little fugitive, who had not come to him as the -schoolmaster supposed. The day, however, which had begun thus in -excitement, soon had other incidents to make it memorable. Early in the -afternoon other telegrams came. The one he first opened was from Mr. -Pen; this at least must be what he hoped for. But instead of telling of -the Squire’s death, Mr. Pen telegraphed to him an entreaty which he -could not understand. “Lilias is missing too—for God’s sake go at once -to the school and ascertain if she is there.” What did he mean—what did -the old fool mean?</p> - -<p>“Here is another, Randolph,” said his wife, composing her face into -solemnity. “I fear—I fear this at least must be bad news from the -Castle.”</p> - -<p>In the heat of his disappointment and impatience Randolph was as nearly -as possible exclaiming in over-sincerity, “Fear!—I hope it is, with all -my heart.” But when he opened it he stood aghast; his brother’s name -stared him in the face—“John Musgrave.” How came it there—that -outlawed name? It filled him with such a hurry and ferment of agitation -that he cared nothing what the message was; he let it drop and looked up -aghast in his wife’s face.</p> - -<p>“Is it so?” she said, assuming the very tone, the right voice with which -a clergyman’s wife ought to speak of a death. “Alas, my poor dear -husband, is it so? is he gone indeed?”</p> - -<p>But Randolph forgot that he was a clergyman and all proprieties. He -threw down the hideous bit of paper and jumped<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_346" id="page_346">{346}</a></span> to his feet and paced -about the room in his excitement. “He has come, confound him!” he cried.</p> - -<p>Not gone! that would have been nothing but good news—but this was bad -indeed, something unthought of, never calculated upon; worse than any -misgiving he had ever entertained. He had been uneasy about the child, -the boy whom everybody would assume to be the heir; but John—that John -should return—that he should be there before his father died—this -combination was beyond all his fears.</p> - -<p>After he had got over the first shock he took up the telegram to see -what it was that “John Musgrave, Penninghame Castle,”—the name written -out in full letters, almost with ostentation, no concealing or -disguising of it, though it was a name lying under the utmost penalties -of the law—had to say to him.</p> - -<p>“<i>My little daughter has been decoyed away under pretence that her -brother was in danger. You can reach the place to-day. I cannot. Will -you serve me for once, and go and telegraph if she is safe?</i>” This was -the communication. Randolph’s breast swelled high with what he felt to -be natural indignation. “I serve him! I go a hundred miles or so for his -convenience. I will see him—hanged first!” Hanged—yes, that was what -would happen to the fellow if he were caught, if everybody were not so -weakly indulgent, so ready to defeat the law. And this was the man who -ventured to bid his brother “serve him for once,” treating him, -Randolph, a clergyman, a person irreproachable, in this cavalier -fashion. What had he to do with it if the little girl had been decoyed -away? No doubt the little monkey, if all were known, was ready enough to -go. He hoped in his heart they were both gone together, and would never -be heard of more.</p> - -<p>When he came as far as this, however, Randolph pulled himself up short. -After all, he was not a bad man to rejoice in the afflictions of his -neighbours; he only wished them out of his way, he did not wish any harm -to them; and he felt that what he had just said in his heart was wicked, -and might bring down a “judgment.” To come the length of a wish that -your neighbour may not thrive is a thing that no respectable person -should allow himself to do; a little grudging of your neighbour’s -prosperity, a little secret satisfaction in his trouble, is a different<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_347" id="page_347">{347}</a></span> -matter,—but articulately to wish him harm! This brought him to himself -and made him aware of his wife’s eyes fixed upon him with some anxiety. -She was a gentle little believing sort of woman, without any brains to -speak of, and she thought dear Randolph’s feelings had been too much for -him. Her eyes were fixed on him with devout sympathy. How much feeling -he had, though he did not speak much of it; what strong affections he -had! Randolph paused a little to calm himself down. These all-trusting -women are sometimes an exasperation unspeakable in their innocence, but -still, on the other hand, a man must often make an effort not to dispel -such belief. He said, “No, my dear, it is not what I thought; my father -is not dead, but suffering, which is almost worse; and my brother whom -you have heard of—who has been such a grief to us all—has come home -unexpectedly.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Randolph!” The innocent wife went to him and took his hand and -caressed it. “How hard upon you! How much for you to bear! Two such -troubles at once.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, indeed,” he said, accepting her sympathy, “and the little boy whom -I told you of, whom I took to school,—well, he has run away—— ”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Randolph dear, what mountains of anxiety upon you!”</p> - -<p>“You may say so. I must go, I suppose, and look after this little -wretch. Put me up something in the little portmanteau—and from thence I -suppose I had better go on to Penninghame again. Who knows what trouble -may follow John’s most ill-advised return?”</p> - -<p>“And they all lean so on you,” said the foolish wife. Notwithstanding -these dozen years of separation between him and his family, she was able -to persuade herself of this, and that he was the prop and saviour of his -race. There is nothing that foolish wives will not believe.</p> - -<p>Randolph, however, wavered in his decision after he had made up his mind -to go. Why should he go, putting himself to so much trouble at John’s -order? He changed his mind half a dozen times in succession. Finally, -however, he did go, sending two messages back on his way, one to John, -the other to Mr. Pen. To John he said: “<i>I am alarmed beyond measure to -see<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_348" id="page_348">{348}</a></span> your name. Is it safe for you to be there? Know nothing about -little girl, but hear that little boy has run away from school and am -going to see.</i>” Thus he planted, or meant to plant, an additional sting -in his brother’s breast. And as he travelled along in the afternoon, -going to see after Nello, his own exasperation and resentment became so -hot within him, that when he arrived at the junction, he sent a message -of a very different tenor to Mr. Pen. He did not perhaps quite know what -he was doing. He was furious with disappointment and annoyance and -confusion, feeling himself cheated, thrust aside, put out of the place -which he ought to have filled. Nello would have had harsh justice had he -been brought before him at such a moment, “Little troublesome, -effeminate baby, good for nothing, and now to be ruined in every way. -But I wash my hands of him,” Randolph said.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XXXV" id="CHAPTER_XXXV"></a>CHAPTER XXXV.<br /><br /> -<small>ANOTHER HELPER.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">On</span> that same morning when so many things occurred, young Lord Stanton -was seated in the library at Stanton, with a great deal of business to -do. He had letters to write, he had the accounts of his agent to look -over, and a hundred other very pressing matters which demanded his close -attention. Perhaps it was only natural in these circumstances that Geoff -should be unusually idle, and not at all disposed to tackle to his work. -Generally he was so much interested in what was real work that he did it -heartily, glad of the honest compulsion; but on this morning he was -unsettled, and not in his usual mood of industry. He watched the leaves -dropping from the trees outside, he listened idly to the sounds within; -he scribbled on the margin of his accounts, now a bit of Latin verse -(for Mr. Tritton was an elegant scholar), now a grotesque face, anything -but the steady calculations he ought to have made. Now and then a sudden -recollection of something he had read would cross his mind,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_349" id="page_349">{349}</a></span> when he -would get up in the middle of a letter to seek the book in which he -thought it was and verify his recollection on the spot, a thing he would -not have taken the trouble to do had that floating recollection had any -connection with the work in which he professed to be engaged. In short, -he was entirely idle, distracted, and <i>desœuvré</i>. Mr. Tritton was -reading to Lady Stanton in her morning room. It was early; the household -were all busy and occupied,—all except the young master of it, who -could not settle to his work.</p> - -<p>He was sitting thus when his easily distracted attention was caught by a -movement outside, not like anything that could be made by bird or dog, -the only two living creatures likely to be there so close to his window. -It was the same window through which he had gone out the evening he made -his night expedition to the hills. The sound caught his attention, as -anything would have done that gave him an excuse for raising his head -from the letters he was now trying to write, having given up the -accounts in despair. When he saw a shadow skirt the grass, Geoff watched -with eager interest for what would follow—then there was a pause, and -he had bent over the letter again, thinking it a mere trick of fancy, -when a sound close to him made him start and look up. Some one was -standing with his back to the morning light—standing across the -window-sill with one foot within the room. Geoff started to his feet -with momentary alarm. “Who are you? Ah! is it Bampfylde?” he said.</p> - -<p>“Just me, my young lord. May I come in and speak a word?”</p> - -<p>“Certainly—come in. But why not go to the front door and come in like -any one else? You do not suppose I should have shut my doors on <i>you</i>?”</p> - -<p>“Maybe, no; but I’m not a visitor for the like of you. I’m little credit -about a grand house. I’ve not come here for nothing now, but to ask you -a service.”</p> - -<p>“What is it, Bampfylde? If I can do anything for you I will.”</p> - -<p>“It’s not exactly for me, but you can do it if you will, my young lord. -It’s something I’m hindered from doing. It’s for the young ones at the -Castle, that you know of. Both the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_350" id="page_350">{350}</a></span> bairns are in trouble, so far as I -can judge. I gave the little boy a carrier to let off if he wanted help. -Me, and still more the old woman, we misdoubted that brother. And nigh a -week ago the carrier came home, but I was away on—on a hard job, that -I’m on still, and she did not understand. And when I saw her and told -her yesterday what the sign was, what does the old woman do but tell the -little lady—the little miss—and so far as I can hear <i>she’s</i> away, the -creature herself, a flower of a thing, no bigger than my arm, the very -image of our Lily: her—that atom—she’s away to deliver her brother, my -young lord,” said the vagrant, leaning against the window. “I’m most -worn out by the same sort o’ work. There’s far too much of that been -done among us one way and another, and <i>she’s</i> away now on the same -errand—to save her brother. It’s laughable if you think on’t,” he said, -with a curious gurgle in his throat of forlorn ridicule.</p> - -<p>Geoff, who had leaned forward at the name of the children, saw that -Bampfylde was very pale and worn, his clothes in less order than usual, -and an air of utter weariness and harassment about him. He looked like a -man who had not slept or undressed for days.</p> - -<p>“Has anything new happened?” Geoff asked hurriedly. “Of course I will do -whatever I can for the children—but tell me first—has anything -happened with you?”</p> - -<p>“Ay, plenty,” said the rough fellow with a great sigh, which was not -sentiment but fatigue. “If that will not vex you, my young lord, saving -your presence, I’ll sit down and rest my bones while I talk to you, for -I’m near dead with tiredness. <i>He’s</i> given us the slip—I cannot tell -you how. Many a fear we’ve had, but this time it’s come true. Tuesday -was a week he got away, the day after I’d been to see about the little -lad. We thought he was but hanging about the fells in corners that none -but him and me know, as he once did before, and I got him back. But it’s -worse than that. Lord! there’s many an honest man lost on the fells in -the mists, that has a wife and bairns looking to him. Would it not be -more natural to take the likes of him, and let the father of a family go -free? I cannot touch him, but there’s no law to bind the Almighty. But -all that’s little to the purpose.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_351" id="page_351">{351}</a></span> He’s loose ranging about the country -and me on his heels. I’ve all but had him three or four times, but he’s -aye given me the slip.”</p> - -<p>“But this is terrible; it is a danger for the whole country,” said -Geoff. “The children!” The young man shuddered, he did not realize that -the children were at a distance. He thought of nothing more than perhaps -an expedition among the fells for Lilias—and what if she should fall -into the madman’s hands? “You should have help—you should rouse the -country,” he said.</p> - -<p>“I’ll no do that. Please God I’ll get him yet, and this will be the -end,” said Bampfylde solemnly. “She cannot make up her mind to it even -now. She’s infatuate with him. I thought it would have ended when you -put your hand into the web, my young lord.”</p> - -<p>“It is my fault,” said Geoff. “I should have done something more; but -then Mr. Musgrave fell ill, and I have been waiting. If he dies, -everything must be gone into. I was but waiting.”</p> - -<p>“I am not blaming you. She cannot bide to hear a word, and so she’s been -all this long time. Now and then her heart will speak for the -others—them that suffer and have suffered—but it aye goes back to him. -And I don’t blame her neither,” said Bampfylde. “Its aye her son to her, -that was a gentleman and her pride.” He had placed himself not on the -comfortable chair which Geoff had pushed forward for him, but on the -hard seat formed by the library steps, where he sat with his elbows on -his knees, and his head supported in his hands, thus reposing himself -upon himself. “It’s good to rest,” he said, with something of the -garrulousness of weakness, glad in his exhaustion to stretch himself -out, as it were, body and soul, and ease his mind after long silence. He -almost forgot even his mission in the charm of this momentary repose. -“Poor woman!” he added, pathetically; “I’ve never blamed her. This was -her one pride, and how it has ended—if it were but ended! No,” he went -on after a pause, “please God there will be no harm. He’s no -murdering-mad, like some poor criminals that have done less harm than -him. It’s the solitary places he flees to, not the haunts o’ men; we’re -brothers so far as that’s counting. And I drop a word of warning as I -go. I tell the folks that I hear<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_352" id="page_352">{352}</a></span> there’s a poor creature ranging the -country that is bereft of his senses, and a man after him. I’m the man,” -said Bampfylde, with a low laugh, “but I tell nobody that; and oh the -dance he’s led me!” Then rousing himself with an effort, “But I’m losing -time, and you’re losing time, my young lord. If you would be a help to -them you should be away. Get out your horse or your trap to take you to -the train.”</p> - -<p>“Where has she gone—by the train?”</p> - -<p>“Ay—and a long road. She’s away there last night, the atom, all by -herself. That’s our blood,” said Bampfylde, with again the low laugh, -which was near tears. “But I need not say our blood neither, for her -father has suffered the most of all, poor gentleman—the most of all! -Look here, my young lord,” he said, suddenly rising up, “if I sit there -longer I’ll go to sleep, and forget everything; and we’ve no time for -sleep, neither you nor me. Here’s the place. There’s a train at -half-past eleven that gets there before dark. You cannot get back -to-night; you’ll have to leave word that you cannot get back to-night. -And go now; go, for the love of God!”</p> - -<p>Geoff did not hesitate; he rang the bell hastily, and ordered his -dog-cart to be ready at once, and wrote two or three lines of -explanation to his mother. And he ordered the servant, who stared at his -strange companion, to bring some food and wine. But Bampfylde shook his -head. “Not so,” he said; “not so. Bit nor sup I could not take here. We -that once made this house desolate, it’s not for us to eat in it or -drink in it. You’re o’er good, o’er good, my young lord; but I’ll not -forget the offer,” he added, the water rushing to his eyes. He stood in -front of the light stretching his long limbs in the languor of -exhaustion, a smile upon his face.</p> - -<p>“You have overdone yourself, Bampfylde. You are not fit for any more -exertion. What more can you do than you have done? I’ll send out all the -men about the house, and—— ”</p> - -<p>“Nay, but I’ll go to the last—as long as I can crawl. Mind you the -young ones,” he said; “and for all you’re doing, and for your good -heart, God bless you, my young lord!”</p> - -<p>It seemed to Geoff like a dream when he found himself standing alone in -the silent room among his books, with neither sight<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_353" id="page_353">{353}</a></span> nor sound of any -one near. Bampfylde disappeared as he had come, in a moment, vanishing -among the shrubberies; and the young man found himself charged with a -commission he did not understand, with a piece of dirty paper in his -hand, upon which an address was rudely scrawled. What was he to do at -this school, a day’s journey off, about which he knew nothing? He would -have laughed at the wild errand had he not been too deeply impressed by -his visitor’s appearance and manner to be amused by anything thus -suggested. But wild as it was, Geoff was resolved to carry it out. Even -the vaguest intimation of danger to Lilias would have sufficed to rouse -him, but he had scarcely taken that thought into his mind. He could -think of nothing but Bampfylde, and this with a pang of sympathy and -interest which he could scarcely explain to himself. As he drove along -towards the Stanton station, the first from Pennington, his mind was -entirely occupied with this rough fellow. Something tragic about him, in -his exhaustion, in the <i>effusion</i> of his weakness, had gone to Geoff’s -heart. He looked eagerly for traces of him—behind every bush, in every -cross-road. And to increase his anxiety, the servant who accompanied him -began to entertain him with accounts of a madman who had escaped from an -asylum, and who kept the country in alarm. “Has he been seen anywhere? -has he harmed any one?” Geoff asked, eagerly. But there were no details -to be had; nothing but the general statement. Geoff gave the man orders -to warn the gamekeepers and out-door servants, and to have him secured -if possible. It was scarcely loyal perhaps to poor Bampfylde, who had -trusted him. Thus he had no thought but Bampfylde in his mind when he -found himself in the train, rushing along on the errand he did not -understand. It was a quick train, the one express of the day; and even -at the junction there were only a few minutes to wait: very unlike the -vigil that poor little Lilias had held there in the middle of night -under the dreary flickering of the lamp. Geoff knew nothing of this; but -by dint of thinking he had evolved something like a just idea of the -errand on which he was going. Lilias had been warned that her brother -was not happy, and had gone like a little Quixote to relieve him. Geoff -could even form an idea to himself of the pre-occupation of the house -with the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_354" id="page_354">{354}</a></span> Squire’s illness, which would close all ears to Lilias’ appeal -about Nello’s fancied unhappiness. Little nuisance! Geoff himself felt -disposed to say—thinking any unhappiness that could happen to Nello of -much less importance than the risk of Lilias. But he had not, of course, -the least idea of Nello’s flight. He arrived at the station about five -o’clock in the afternoon, adding another bewilderment to the solitary -official there, who had been telegraphed to from Penninghame, and -already that day had been favoured by two interviews with Mr. Swan. “A -young lady? I wish all young ladies were—— Here’s a message about her; -and the schoolmaster, he’s been at me, till I am sick of my life. What -young lady could there be here? Do you think I’m a-hiding of her?” he -cried, with that instinctive suspicion of being held responsible which -is so strong in his class. Geoff however, elicited by degrees all that -there was to find out, and discovered at the same time that the matter -was much more serious than he supposed. The little boy had run away from -school; the little girl, evidently coming to meet him, had disappeared -with him. It was supposed that they must have made for the railway, as -the woman in the cottage close by had confessed to having given them -breakfast; but they had disappeared from her ken, so that she -half-thought they had been ghost-children, with no reality in them; and -though the country had been scoured everywhere, neither they, nor any -trace of them, were to be found.</p> - -<p>This was the altogether unsatisfactory ground upon which Geoff had to -work,—and at five o’clock on an October afternoon there is but little -time for detailed investigation of a country. His eye turned, as that of -Lilias had done, to the wood. It was the place in which she would -naturally take refuge. Had the wood been examined? he asked. Yes, every -corner of it. Geoff was at his wits’ end, and did not know what to do; -he went down the road where Lilias had gone in the morning and talked to -the woman, who told him a moving story of the tired pair, and declared -that she would not have let them go, seeing very well that they were a -little lady and gentleman, but that they had stolen away when her back -was turned. Geoff stood at the cottage door gazing round him, when he -saw something that no<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_355" id="page_355">{355}</a></span> one else had noticed, a small matter enough. -Caught upon the hedge, which reached close to the cottage, there was a -shred of blue—the merest rag, a few threads, nothing more—such an -almost invisible indication as a savage might leave to enable his -companions to track him—a thing that could be seen only by instructed -eyes. Geoff’s eyes were inexperienced, but they were keen: and he knew -the colour of Lilias’ dress, which the other searchers were not aware -of. He disentangled the threads carefully from the twig. One long hair, -and that too was Lilias’ colour, had caught on the same thorn. This -seemed to him a trace unmistakeable, notwithstanding that the woman of -the cottage immediately claimed it. “Dear, I did not know that I had -torn my best blue dress,” she said, with genuine alarm. Geoff, however, -left her abruptly, and followed out his clue. He hastened by the -footpath behind the hedge towards the wood. It was the natural place for -Lilias to be. By this time the young man had forgotten everything except -the girl, who was at once a little child appealing to all his tenderest -sympathies, and a little visionary princess to whom he had vowed -himself. She was both in the combination of the moment—a tired child -whom he could almost carry away in his arms, who would not be afraid of -him, or shrink from these brotherly arms; but, at the same time, the -little mother-woman, the defender and protector of one more helpless -than herself. Geoff’s heart swelled with a kind of heavenly enthusiasm -and love. Never could there have been a purer passion. He hurried -through the wood and through the wood, searching in all its glades and -dells, peering into the very hollows of the old trees. There was -nothing: Was there nothing? Not a movement, not a sound, except the -birds chirping, the rush of a rabbit or squirrel, the flutter of the -leaves in the evening air. For it was evening by this time, that could -not be denied; the last, long, slant rays of the sun were sloping along -the trunks and roots of the trees, and the mossy greenness that covered -them. The day was over in which a man could work, and night—night that -would chill the children to the heart, and drive them wild with -fear—desolate, dark night, full of visionary terrors, and also real -dangers, was coming. Geoff had made up his mind certainly that they were -there. He did not think of a magicia<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_356" id="page_356">{356}</a></span>n’s cave or a hermit’s cell, as -Lilias had done, but only whether there was some little hut anywhere, -where they could have found refuge,—a hollow, unknown to him, where -they might have hid themselves, not knowing a friend was near. The sun -had lit up an illumination in the west, and shone through the red and -yellow leaves with reflections of colour softer and more varying, but -still more brilliant, than their own. The world seemed all ablaze -between the two, with crimson and gold—autumn sun above, autumn foliage -below. Then tone by tone and colour by colour died out from the skies, -and the soft yet cold grey of the evening took possession of all. The -paths of the wood seemed to grow ghostly in the gathering dusk, the -colour stole out of the trees, the very sky seemed to drop lower as the -night gathered in. Geoff walked about in a kind of despair. He called -them, but there came no answer; he seemed to himself to poke into every -corner, into the damp depths where the cold dew seemed to ooze out from -the ground weighing down every leaflet. He was sure they were there. -Must they spend the night in the dark, and be frozen and frightened to -death before the morning? Geoff’s heart was full of anxiety and pity. It -seemed to him that he must stay there to keep them company, whether he -could find them or not.</p> - -<p>Then all at once he heard a sound like a low sob. It seemed to come from -the ground, close to where he was standing, but he could see nothing but -a little tangle of wild brambles, long branches with still a solitary -berry here and there, the leaves scanty, scarlet and brown with the -frost. They were all clustered about the trunk of a big tree, a little -thicket, prickly and impregnable, but close to the path. And was it the -breathing of the night air only, or some wild creature in the brushwood, -or human respiration, that came soft, almost indistinguishable in the -soft murmur of the wood? He stood still, scarcely venturing himself to -breathe, so intent was he to listen; and by and by he heard the sound -again. A child’s sob, the soft pathetic reverberation of a sob, such as -continues to come after the weeping is over. With trembling eagerness, -yet caution, Geoff put aside the long tangles of the bramble which fell -in a kind of arch. It was a hard piece of work, and had to be done with -caution not to disturb the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_357" id="page_357">{357}</a></span> poor little nestlings, if nestlings there -were. There Geoff disclosed to the waning light the prettiest pathetic -picture. It was not the same green hollow in which the children had -first taken refuge. They had been roused by the sound of passengers -through the wood, and the voices of the people who were searching for -themselves, and had woke up in fright. When these noises ceased they had -strayed deeper into the wood to another and safer shelter, Nello being -too frightened and miserable to go on as Lilias wished. At last they had -found this refuge under the bramble bushes where nobody surely could -ever find them, meaning to lie there all day and creep out at night to -continue their journey. Lilias had seated herself first, spreading out -her skirt to protect her brother from the damp. There, lying with his -head and shoulders supported on her lap, he had gone to sleep again, -while Lilias waked and pondered; very anxious, frightened too, and -dissatisfied with the loss of time, she sat erect, supporting Nello, and -gazed up at the dark figure in the twilight with alarmed eyes, which -seemed to grow larger and larger as they shone in a passion of terror -through the long tangles of the bush. Lilias had covered her brother -with her shawl—she drew it over him now, covering the white little face -on her arm, “What do you want with me? I am only resting. There is no -one here to do any harm,” she said, with the sob coming again in spite -of her. She thought it was the cruel schoolmaster, the more cruel uncle, -who had condemned Nello to so many sufferings. She held her arms over -him, protecting him—resolute not to let him be taken from her. “Oh, do -not meddle with me!” she went on, growing more and more desperate. “I -have some money I will give you, if you will only—only leave me alone. -There is nobody—but me.”</p> - -<p>Oh that sob! if she could only swallow it down and talk to him, this -robber chief, this Robin Hood, as if she were not afraid! for sometimes -these men are kind and do not hurt the weak. Lilias gazed, nothing but -her eyes appearing, glowing through the gathering shade: then suddenly -threw her brother off her lap in a transport of wild delight, “Oh Nello, -Nello, Nello!” she cried, till the wood rang, “it is Mr. Geoff!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_358" id="page_358">{358}</a></span>”</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXXVI.<br /><br /> -<small>THE BEGINNING OF THE END.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Geoff</span> took the children home without let or hindrance. There was no inn -near where they could pass the night; and as he had no legitimate right -to their custody, and was totally unknown and very young, and might not -awaken any lively faith in the bosom of authority as against the -schoolmaster or the uncle, he thought it wisest to take them away at -once. He managed to get some simplest food for them with difficulty—a -little bread and milk—and made them lie down propped amid the cushions -of a first-class carriage, which was to be hooked on to the evening -train when it arrived. Before they left the little station he had the -satisfaction of seeing Randolph Musgrave arrive, looking sour and -sullen. Geoff did not know that Randolph had done anything unkind to the -children. Certainly it was none of his fault that Lilias was there; but -what good partisan ever entered too closely into an examination of the -actual rights and wrongs of a question? Randolph might have been -innocent—as indeed he was—of any downright evil intention; but this -availed him nothing. Geoff looked out of the window of his own carriage -as they glided away from the station, and gazed with intensest schoolboy -pleasure on the glum and sour countenance of the churlish uncle, who, -but for his own intervention, might have wrought destruction to those -new babes in the wood. He shivered when he thought of the two helpless -creatures lying under the brambles too frightened to move, and feeling -to their hearts all the fantastic horrors of the darkness. Now, though -still in movement, and undergoing still further fatigue, the absolute -rest which had fallen upon their childish spirits from the mere fact -that he was there, touched the young man to the heart. They were willing -to let him take them anywhere; their cares were over. Nello had even -made a feeble little attempt to shake his draggled plumes and swagger a -little, sore and uncomfortable though he was, before he clambered into -the carriage; and Lilias lay in the nest he had made for her, looking -out with eyes of measureless content<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_359" id="page_359">{359}</a></span>—so changed from those great, -wistful, unfathomable oceans of anxiety and fear which had looked at him -through the brambles! She put her hand into his as he settled himself in -his corner beside her—the little soft child’s hand, which he warmed in -his strong clasp, and which clung to him with a hold which did not relax -even in her dreams; for she went to sleep so, holding him fast, feeling -the sense of safety glow over her in delicious warmth and ease. Through -all the night, even when she slept, at every movement he made, her soft -fingers closed more firmly upon his hand. It was the child’s anchor of -safety; and this clinging, conscious and unconscious, went straight to -Geoff’s heart. In the dark, under the waning light of the lamp overhead, -he watched the little face sinking into sleep, with now a faint little -smile upon it—a complete relaxation of all the strained muscles—with a -sensation of happiness which was beyond words. Sometimes, for the mere -pleasure of it, he would make a movement wantonly to feel the renewed -clasp of the little hand and see the drowsy opening of the eyes. “Are -you there, Mr. Geoff?” she said now and then, with a voice as soft (he -thought) as the coo of a dove. “Yes, my Lily;” he would say, with his -heart swelling in his young bosom; and Lilias would drop to sleep again, -smiling at him, with sleepy eyes, in what ease and infinite content! As -for Nello, he snored now and then out of very satisfaction and -slumbering confidence; little snores, something between a little -cherub’s trumpet and the native utterance of the tenderest of little -pigs—at that age when even little piggies, by reason of babyhood, have -something cherubic about them too.</p> - -<p>At midnight, at the great junction, a tall, sunburnt, anxious-faced man -walked along the line of carriages, looking in with eager looks. “Are -these your children?” he said to Geoff, seeing the two little figures -laid up among the cushions, and not remarking how young their companion -was. He spoke abruptly, but taking off his hat with an apologetic grace, -which Geoff thought “foreign,” as we are all so apt to suppose unusual -courtesy to be. A sudden inspiration seized the young man. He did not -know who this was, but somehow he never doubted who it was the stranger -sought. “They are the little Musgraves of Penninghame,” he said, simply, -“whom I am taking home.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_360" id="page_360">{360}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>The tall stranger wavered for a moment, as though he might have fallen; -then, in a voice half-choked, he asked, “May I come beside you?” He sat -down in the seat opposite to Geoff. After an anxious inspection of the -two little faces, now settled into profound sleep, “Thank God!” he said. -“They are all I have in the world.”</p> - -<p>Who could it be? Geoff’s ears seemed to tingle with the words—“all I -have in the world.” He sat in his dark corner and gazed at this strange -new-comer, who was more in the light. And the new-comer gazed at him. -Seeing, after a while, the child’s hand clasped in his—a mark of trust -which, sweet as it was, kept young Geoff in a somewhat forced attitude -not comfortable for a long night journey,—“I do not know you,” he said, -“but my little girl seems to put her whole trust in you, and that must -make me your grateful servant too.”</p> - -<p>“Then you are John Musgrave?” cried the young man. “Oh, sir, I am -glad—most glad, that you have come home! Yes, I think she likes me; and -child or woman,” cried young Geoff, clasping the little hand close with -a sudden <i>effusion</i>, “I shall never care for any one else.”</p> - -<p>Serious, careworn, in peril of his life, John Musgrave laughed softly in -his beard. “This is my first welcome home,” he said.</p> - -<p>Geoff found a carriage waiting for him at Stanton. His first impulse -having been to take the children to his mother, he gave them up now with -a pang, having first witnessed the surprise of incredulous delight with -which Lilias flung herself at her waking upon her father. The cry with -which she hailed him, the illumination of her face, and, Geoff felt, her -utter forgetfulness of his own claims, half-vexed the young man after -his uncomfortable night; and it was with a certain pang that he gave the -children up to their natural guardian. “Papa, this is Mr. Geoff,” Lilias -said; “no one has ever been so kind; and he knows about you something -that nobody else knows.”</p> - -<p>John Musgrave looked up with a gleam of surprise and a faint suffusion -of colour on his serious face. “Every one here knows about <i>me</i>,” he -said, with a sigh; and then he turned to the young guardian of his -children, “Lily’s introduction is of the slightest,” he said. “I don’t -know you, nor how you have been made to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_361" id="page_361">{361}</a></span> take so much interest in -them—how you knew even that they wanted help: but I am grateful to you -with all my heart, all the same.”</p> - -<p>“I am Geoffrey Stanton,” said the young man. He did not know how to make -the announcement, but coloured high with consciousness of the pain that -must be associated with his name. But it was best, he felt, to make the -revelation at once. “The brother of Walter Stanton, whom——. As Lilias -says, sir, I know more about you than others know. I have heard -everything.”</p> - -<p>John Musgrave shook his head. “Everything! till death steps in to one or -another of the people concerned, that is what no one will ever know; but -so long as you do not shrink from me, Lord Stanton—— You are Lord -Stanton; is it not so?”</p> - -<p>“I am not making any idle brag,” said Geoff. “I know <i>everything</i>. It -was Bampfylde himself—Dick Bampfylde himself—who sent me after the -children. I know the truth of it all, and I am ready to stand by you, -sir, whenever and howsoever you want me—— ”</p> - -<p>Geoff bent forward eagerly, holding out his hand, with a flush of -earnestness and enthusiasm on his young face. Musgrave looked at him -with great and serious surprise. His face darkened and lighted up, and -he started slightly at the name of Bampfylde. At last, with a moment’s -hesitation, he took Geoff’s outstretched hand, and pressed it warmly. “I -dare not ask what it is you do know,” he said, “but there is nothing on -my hand to keep me from taking yours; and thank you a thousand -times—thank you for <i>them</i>. About everything else we can talk -hereafter.”</p> - -<p>In ten minutes after Geoff was whirling along the quiet country road on -his way home. It was like a dream to him that all this should have -happened since he last drove between those hedgerows, and he had the -half-disappointed, half-injured feeling of one who has not carried out -an adventure to its final end. He was worn out too, and excited, and he -did not like giving up Lily into the hands of her father. Had it been -Miss Musgrave he would have felt no difficulty. It was chilly in the -early morning, and he buttoned up his coat to his chin, and put his -hands in his pockets, and let his groom drive, who had evidently<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_362" id="page_362">{362}</a></span> -something to say to him which could scarcely be kept in till they got -clear of the station. Geoff had seen it so distinctly in the man’s face, -that he had asked at once, “Is all right at home?” But he was too tired -to pay much attention to anything beyond that. When they had gone on for -about a quarter of an hour, the groom himself broke the silence. “I beg -your pardon, my lord—— ”</p> - -<p>“What is it?” Geoff, retired into the recesses of his big coat, had been -half asleep.</p> - -<p>Then the man began an excited story. He had heard a scuffle and a -struggle at a point of the road which they were about approaching when -on his way to meet his master. Wild cries “not like a human being,” he -said, and the sound of a violent encounter. “I thought of the madman I -was telling your lordship of yesterday.” “And what was it?” cried Geoff, -rousing up to instant interest; upon which the groom became apologetic.</p> - -<p>“How could I leave my horse, my lord?—a young beast, very fresh, as -your lordship knows. He’d have bolted if I’d have left him for a moment. -It was all I could do, as it was, to hold him in with such cries in his -ears. I sent on the first man I met. A man does not grapple with a -madman unless he is obliged to—— ”</p> - -<p>“But you sent the other man to do it,” said Geoff, half-amused, -half-angry. He sprang from the phaeton as they came to the spot which -the groom pointed out. It was a little dell, the course of a streamlet, -widening as it ascended, and clothed with trees. Geoff knew the spot -well. About half a mile further up, on a little green plateau in the -midst of the line of sheltering wood which covered these slopes, his -brother’s body had been found. He had been taken to see the spot with -shuddering interest when he was a child, and had never forgotten the -fatal place. The wood was very thick, with rank, dark, water-loving -trees; and, whether it was fancy or reality, had always seemed to Geoff -the most dismal spot in the county. All was quiet now, or so he thought -at first. But there was no mistaking the evidence of wet, broken, and -trampled grass, which showed where some deadly struggle had been. The -spot was not far<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_363" id="page_363">{363}</a></span> from the road—about five minutes of ascent, no -more—and the young man pressed on, guided by signs of the fray, and in -increasing anxiety; for almost at the first step he saw an old -game-pouch thrown on the ground, which he recognised as having been worn -by Bampfylde. Presently he heard, a little in advance of him, a low -groan, and the sound of a sympathetic voice. “Could you walk, with my -arm to steady you? Will you try to walk, my man?” Another low moaning -cry followed. “My walking’s done in this world,” said a feeble voice. -Geoff hurried forward, stifling a cry of grief and pain. He had known it -since he first set foot on that fatal slope. It was Bampfylde’s voice; -and presently he came in sight of the group. The sympathiser was the -same labouring man, no doubt, whom his groom had sent to the rescue. -Wild Bampfylde lay propped upon the mossy bank, his head supported upon -a bush of heather. The stranger who stood by him had evidently washed -the blood from his face and unbuttoned his shirt, which was open. There -was a wound on his forehead, however, from which blood was slowly -oozing, and his face was pallid as death. “Let me be—let me be,” he -said with a groan, as his kind helper tried to raise him. Then a faint -glimmer of pleasure came over his ghastly face. “Ah, my young lord!” he -said.</p> - -<p>“What is it, Bampfylde? What has happened? Is he much hurt?” cried -Geoff, kneeling down by his side. The man did not say anything, but -shook his head. The vagrant himself smiled, with a kind of faint -amusement in the mournful glimmer of his eyes.</p> - -<p>“Not hurt, my young gentleman; just killed,” he said; “but you’re -back—and they’re safe?”</p> - -<p>“Safe, Bampfylde; and listen!—with their father. He has come to take -care of his own.”</p> - -<p>A warmer gleam lighted up the vagrant’s face. “John Musgrave here! Ah, -but it’s well timed,” he cried feebly. “My young lord, I’m grieved but -for one thing,—the old woman. Who will take care of old ’Lizabeth’? and -she’s been a good woman—if it had not been her son that went between -her and her wits. I’m sorry for her, poor old body; very, very sorry for -her, poor ’Lizabeth. He’ll never be taken now, my young lord.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_364" id="page_364">{364}</a></span> Now he’s -killed me, there’s none will ever take him. And so we’ll all be ended, -and the old woman left to die without one—without one——!”</p> - -<p>“My cart is at the foot of the hill,” said Geoff, quickly, addressing -the labourer, who stood by with tears in his eyes; “take it, and bid the -groom drive as fast as the horse will go—and he’s fresh—for the first -doctor you can find; and bid them send an easy carriage from -Stanton—quick! For every moment you save I’ll give you—— ”</p> - -<p>“I want no giving. What a man can do for poor Dick Bampfylde, I will,” -cried the other as he rushed down the slope. The vagrant smiled feebly -again.</p> - -<p>“They’re all good-hearted,” he said. “Not one of them but would do poor -Dick Bampfylde a good turn; that’s a pleasure, my young lord. And -you—you’re the best of all. Ay, let him go, it’ll please you; but me, -my hour’s come.”</p> - -<p>“Bampfylde, does it hurt you to speak? Can you tell me how it was?”</p> - -<p>The poor fellow’s eyes were glazing over. He made an effort, when -Geoff’s voice caught him as it were, and arrested the stupor. “Eh, my -young lord? What needs to tell? Poor creature, he did not know me for a -friend, far less a brother. And madness is strong—it’s strong. Tell the -old woman that—it was not <i>me</i> he killed—but—one that tried to take -him. Ay—we were all playing about the beck, and her calling us to come -in—all the family; him and—Lily—and me. I was always the least -account—but it was me that would aye be first to answer;—and now we -are all coming home—Poor old ’Lizabeth—Eh! what were you saying, my -young lord?”</p> - -<p>“Bampfylde! has he got clean off again, after this? Where is he? Can you -tell me—for the sake of others if not for your own?”</p> - -<p>“For mine!—Would it mend me to tell upon him?—Nay, nay, you’ll never -take him—never now—but he’ll die—like the rest of us—that is what -puts things square, my young lord—death!—it settles all; you’ll find -him some place on the green turf—we were aye a family that liked the -green grass underneath us—you’ll find him—as peaceable as me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_365" id="page_365">{365}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Bampfylde,” cried Geoff, “keep up your courage a little, the men -will come directly and carry you to Stanton.”</p> - -<p>“To carry me—to the kirkyard—that’s my place; and put green turf over -me—nothing but green turf. So long as you will be kind to old -’Lizabeth; she’ll live—she’s not the kind that dies—and not one of us -to the fore! What did we do—we or our fathers?” said the vagrant -solemnly. “But, oh, that’s true, true—that’s God’s word: neither he did -it nor his fathers—but that the works of God might be manifest. Eh, but -I cannot see—I cannot see how the work of God is in it. My -eyes—there’s not much good in my eyes now.”</p> - -<p>Geoff kneeled beside the dying man not knowing what to do or say. Should -he speak to him of religion? Should he question him about his own hard -fate, that they might bring it home to the culprit? But Bampfylde was -not able for either of these subjects. He was wading in the vague and -misty country which is between life and death. He threw out his arms in -the languor and restlessness of dying, and one of them dropped so that -the fingers dipped in the little brook. This brought another gleam of -faint pleasure to his pallid face.</p> - -<p>“Water—give me some—to drink,” he murmured, moving his lips. And then, -as Geoff brought it to him in the hollow of a leaf, the only thing he -could think of, and moistened his lips and bathed his forehead, “Thank -you, Lily,” he said. “That’s pleasant, oh, that’s pleasant. And what was -it brought you here—<i>you</i> here?—they’re all safe, the young -ones—thanks to—— Eh! it’s not Lily—but I thought I saw Lily; it’s -you, my young lord?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I am here—lean on me, Bampfylde. What can I do for you, what can -I do?” Geoff had never seen death, and he trembled with awe and solemn -reverence, far more deeply moved than the dying vagrant who was floating -away on gentle waves of unconsciousness.</p> - -<p>“Ay, Lily—d’ye hear her calling?—the house is dark, and the night’s -fine. But let’s go to her—let’s go; he was aye the last, though she -likes him best.” Bampfylde raised himself suddenly with a -half-convulsive movement. “Poor ’Lizabeth!—poor old ’Lizabeth—all -gone—all gone!” he said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_366" id="page_366">{366}</a></span></p> - -<p>And what an hour Geoff spent supporting the poor head and moistening the -dry lips of the man who was dead, yet could not die! He did not know -there had been such struggles in the world.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXXVII.<br /><br /> -<small>A TRAITOR.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Mr. Pennithorne</span> was at the Castle almost all the day during which so -many things occurred. While the children wandered in the wood and young -Lord Stanton went in search of them, the Vicar could not leave the -centre of anxiety. There was no possibility of going upon that quest -till the evening, and good Mr. Pen thought it his bounden duty to stay -with John to “take off his attention,” to distract his mind if possible -from the object of his anxieties. It was all John Musgrave could do, by -way of consideration for an old friend, to put up with these attentions, -but he managed to do so without betraying his impatience, and Mr. Pen -thought he had performed the first duty of friendship. He suggested -everything he could think of that might have happened; most of his -suggestions going to prove that Lilias was in very great peril indeed, -though she might be saved by various ingenious ways. And he took Mary -aside and shook his head, and said he was afraid it was a very bad -business. He believed, good man, that he was of the greatest use to them -both, and congratulated himself on having stayed to discharge this -Christian duty. But Mrs. Pen at the Vicarage got cross and nervous, and -did not think her husband was doing his duty to his home. When a -telegram came in the afternoon, she was not only curious but -frightened—for telegrams she thought were always messages of evil. What -could it tell but harm? Perhaps that her father had been taken ill (Mr. -Pen himself had no family, nor anybody to speak of belonging to him); -perhaps that the investment had gone wrong in which all their little -money was. She tore it open in great agitation, and read as follows:—</p> - -<p>“<i>John Musgrave is in the county and near you. Do you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_367" id="page_367">{367}</a></span> remember what is -your duty as a magistrate, and what is the penalty of not performing -it?</i>”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Pen read this alarming missive two or three times over before she -could understand what it meant. John Musgrave! By degrees it became -clear to her. This was why her husband deserted her, and spent his whole -day at the Castle. He a magistrate, whose first duty it was to send John -Musgrave to prison. The penalty—what was the penalty? The poor woman -was in such a frenzy of agitation and terror that she did not know what -to believe. What could they do to him if it was found out? She went to -the window and looked for him; she went out and walked to the garden -gate; she was not able to keep still. The penalty—what was it? Could -they put him in prison instead of the criminal he allowed to go free? -That seemed the most natural thing, and imagination conjured up before -her the dreadful scene of Mr. Pen’s arrest, perhaps when he was going to -church, perhaps when the house was full of people—everybody -seeing—everybody knowing it. Mrs. Pen saw her husband dragged along the -road in handcuffs before she came to an end of her imaginations. Was -there nothing she could do to save him? She was ready to put herself in -the breach, to say, like a heroine, “Take me, and let him go free?” but -it did not appear to her likely that the myrmidons of the law would pay -any attention to such a touching interposition. Then it occurred to her -to look who it was, a thing she had not noticed at first, who had sent -this kind warning. But this alarmed her more and more. It was some one -who called himself “Friend,” who had taken the trouble from a distant -place in the midland counties to telegraph thus to Mr. Pennithorne. A -friend—it was then an anonymous warning, a very alarming thing indeed -to the vulgar mind. Mrs. Pen worked herself up into a state of intense -nervous agitation. She sent for the gardener that she might send him at -once to the Castle for her husband. But before he came another train of -reflections came across her mind. John Musgrave was her William’s -friend. He was devoted to the family generally, and to this member of it -in particular. Was he not capable of going to prison—of letting himself -be handcuffed and dragged along the public road, and cast into a -dungeon,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_368" id="page_368">{368}</a></span> rather than give up his friend to justice? Oh, what could the -poor woman do? If she could but take some step—do something to save him -before he knew.</p> - -<p>All at once there occurred to Mrs. Pen a plan of action which would put -everything right—save William in spite of himself, and without his -knowledge, and put John Musgrave in the hands of justice without any -action of his which could be supposed unfriendly. She herself, Mrs. Pen, -did not even know John, so that if she betrayed him it would be nothing -unkind, nobody could blame her, not Mary Musgrave herself. When the -gardener came, instead of sending him to the Castle for her husband, she -sent him to the village to order the fly in which she occasionally paid -visits; and she put on her best clothes with a quiver of anxiety and -terror in her heart. She put the telegram in her pocket, and drove -away—with a half-satisfaction in her own appearance and half-pride in -bidding the man drive to Elfdale, to Sir Henry Stanton’s, mingling with -the real anxiety in her heart. She was frightened too at what she was -about to do—but nobody could expect from her any consideration for John -Musgrave, whom she had never seen; whereas, to save her husband from the -consequences of his foolish faithfulness, was not that the evident and -first duty of a wife? It was a long drive, and she had many misgivings -as she drove along, with plenty of time to consider and reconsider all -the arguments she had already gone over; but yet when she got to Elfdale -she did not seem to have had any time to think at all. She was hurried -in, before she knew, to Sir Henry Stanton’s presence. He was the nearest -magistrate of any importance, and Mrs. Pen had a slight visiting -acquaintance, of which she was very proud, with Lady Stanton. Had she -repented at the last of her mission, she could always make out to -herself that it was Lady Stanton she had come to visit. But it was Sir -Henry whom she asked for, alarm for her husband at the last moment -getting the better of her fears.</p> - -<p>Sir Henry received her with a great deal of surprise. What could the -little country clergyman’s wife want with him? But he was still more -surprised when he heard her errand. John Musgrave at home!—within -reach—daring justice—defying the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_369" id="page_369">{369}</a></span> law! His wife had told him of some -supposed discovery which she at least imagined likely to clear Musgrave, -by bringing in another possible criminal, but that must be some merely -nonsensical theory he had no doubt, such as women and boys are apt to -indulge:—for if anything could be worse than women, Sir Henry felt it -was boys inspired by women, and carrying out their fancies. Therefore he -had paid very little regard to what his wife said. Mrs. Pennithorne had -the advantage of rousing him into excitement. “What! come back!—daring -justice to touch him—insulting the family of the man he had killed, and -the laws of the country!” Sir Henry fumed at the audacity, the evident -absence of all remorse or compunction. “He must be a shameless, -heartless ruffian,” he said; and then he looked at the harmless little -woman who had brought him this news. “It is very public-spirited to -bestir yourself in the matter,” he said. “Have you seen the man, Mrs. -Pennithorne, or how have you come to know?”</p> - -<p>“I have not seen him. Sir Henry. I don’t know anything about him, -therefore nobody could say that it was unkind in <i>me</i>. How can you have -any feeling for a person you never saw? I got—the news—to-day when my -husband was at the Castle—<i>he</i> did not tell me—he has nothing to do -with it. He is a great friend of the Musgraves, Sir Henry; and I was -told if he knew and did not tell it would bring him into trouble; so I -came to you. I thought it was a wife’s duty. I did not wait till he came -in to show him the telegram, but I came straight on to you.”</p> - -<p>“Then you got a telegram?”</p> - -<p>“Did I say a telegram?” she said, frightened. “Oh—I did not think what -I was saying. But why should I conceal it? Yes, indeed, Sir Henry, this -afternoon there came a telegram. I have never had a moment’s peace since -then. I thought at first I would send for him and see what he would do, -but then I thought—he thinks so much of the Musgraves—no doubt it -would be a trouble to him to go against them; and so I thought before he -came in I would come to you. I would not do anything without consulting -my husband in any ordinary way, indeed, I assure you, Sir Henry. I am -not a woman of that kind;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_370" id="page_370">{370}</a></span> but in a thing that might have brought him -into such trouble—— ”</p> - -<p>“And is that telegram all you know, Mrs. Pennithorne?”</p> - -<p>A horrible dread that he was going to disapprove of her, instead of -commending her, ran through her mind.</p> - -<p>“It is all,” she said, faltering; “I have it in my pocket.”</p> - -<p>To show the telegram was the last thing in her mind, yet she produced it -now in impetuous self-defence. Having made such a sacrifice as she had -done, acted on her own authority, incurred the expense of the fly, -absented herself from home without anybody’s knowledge (though William -was far too much wrapped up in the Musgraves to be aware of that), it -was more than Mrs. Pennithorne could bear to have her motives thus -unappreciated. She held out the telegram without pausing to think. He -took it, and read it, with a curious look on his face. Sir Henry took a -low view of wives, and of women in general. If she belonged to him how -he would put her down, this meddling woman! but he was glad to learn -what she had to tell, and to be able to act upon it. To approve of your -informant and to use the information obtained are two very different -things.</p> - -<p>“This is a threat,” he said; “this is a very curious communication, Mrs. -Pennithorne. Do you know who sent it? Friend! Is it a friend in the -abstract, or does your husband know any one of the name?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know who it is. Oh no, Sir Henry. William knows no one—no one -whom I don’t know! His friends are my friends. My husband is the best of -men. He has not a secret from me. If I may seem to be acting behind his -back it is only to save him, Sir Henry—only for his good.”</p> - -<p>“You are acting in the most public-spirited way, Mrs. Pennithorne; but -it is very strange, and I wonder who could have sent it. Do you know any -one at this place?”</p> - -<p>“Nobody,” she said, composing herself, yet not quite satisfied either, -for public-spirited was but a poor sort of praise. She was conscious -that she was betraying her husband as well as John Musgrave, and nothing -but distinct applause and assurance that she had saved her William could -have put her conscience quite at ease.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_371" id="page_371">{371}</a></span></p> - -<p>“It is very odd—very odd,” he said; “but I am very much obliged to you -for bringing this information to me, and I shall lose no time in acting -upon it. For a long time, a very long time, this man has evaded the law; -but it will not do to defy it—it never does to defy it. He shall find -that it is more watchful than he thought.”</p> - -<p>“And, Sir Henry, of course it is of my husband I must think first. You -will not say he knew? You will not let him get into trouble about it?—a -clergyman, a man whom every one looks up to! You will save him from the -penalty, Sir Henry? Indeed I have no reason to believe he knew at all; -he has never seen this thing. I don’t suppose he knows at all. But he -might be so easily got into trouble! Oh, Sir Henry! you will not let -them bring in William’s name?”</p> - -<p>“I shall take care that Mr. Pennithorne is not mentioned at all,” he -said, with a polite bow; but he did not add, “You are a heroic woman and -you have saved your husband,” which was the thing poor Mrs. Pen wanted -to support her. She put back her telegram in her pocket very humbly, and -rose up, feeling herself more a culprit than a heroine, to go away. At -this moment Lady Stanton herself came in hurriedly.</p> - -<p>“I heard Mrs. Pennithorne was here,” she said, with a half-apology to -her husband, “and I thought I might come and ask what was the last news -from Penninghame—if there was any change. I am not -interrupting—business?”</p> - -<p>“No; you will be interested in the news Mrs. Pennithorne brings me,” -said Sir Henry, with a certain satisfaction. “Mr. Musgrave’s son John, -in whom you have always shown so much interest, Walter Stanton’s -murderer—— ”</p> - -<p>“No, no,” she said, with a shudder, folding her hands instinctively; -“no, no!” The colour went out of her very lips. She was about to hear -that he had died. He must have died on the very day she saw him. She -listened, looking at her husband all pale and awe-stricken, with a gasp -in her throat.</p> - -<p>—“Is here,” said Sir Henry, deliberately. “Here, where it was done, -defying the law.”</p> - -<p>Mary uttered a great cry of mingled relief and despair.</p> - -<p>“Then it was he—it was he—and no ghost!” she cried.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_372" id="page_372">{372}</a></span></p> - -<p>“What! you knew and never told me? I am not so happy in my wife,” said -Sir Henry, with a threatening smile, “as Mr. Pennithorne.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, was it he—was it he?—no spirit—but himself? God help him,” cried -Lady Stanton, with sudden tears. “No, I could not have told you, for I -thought it was an apparition. And I would not, Henry,” she added with a -kind of generous passion, “I would not, if I could. How could I betray -an innocent man?”</p> - -<p>“Happily Mrs. Pennithorne has saved you the trouble,” he said, getting -up impatiently from his seat. He resented his wife’s silence, but he -scorned the other woman who had brought him the news. “Do not let me -disturb you, ladies, but this is too important for delay. The warrant -must be out to-night. I trust to your honour, or I might arrest you -both,” he said with a sneer—“two fair prisoners—lest you should warn -the man and defeat justice again.”</p> - -<p>“Henry, you are not going to arrest him—to <i>arrest</i> him—after what I -told you? I told you that Geoff—— ”</p> - -<p>“Geoff! send Geoff to your nursery, to play with your children, Lady -Stanton,” he cried, in rising wrath, “rather than make a puppet of him -to carry out your own ideas. I have had enough of boys’ nonsense and -women’s. Go to your tea-table, my lady, and leave me to manage my own -concerns.”</p> - -<p>Then Lady Stanton—was it not natural?—with a white, self-contained -passion, turned upon the other commonplace woman by her side, who stood -trembling before the angry man, yet siding with him in her heart, as -such women do.</p> - -<p>“And is it you that have betrayed him?” she cried; “do you know that -your husband owes everything to him—everything? Oh, it cannot be Mr. -Pen’s doing—he loved them all too well. If it is you, how will you bear -to have his blood on your head? God knows what they may prove against -him, or what they may do to him; but whatever it is, it will be a lie, -and his blood will be on your head. Oh, how could you, a woman, betray -an innocent man?”</p> - -<p>Lady Stanton’s passion, Sir Henry’s lowering countenance, the sudden -atmosphere of tragedy in which she found herself, were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_373" id="page_373">{373}</a></span> too much for -poor Mrs. Pen. She burst into hysterical crying, and dropped down upon -the floor between these two excited people. Perhaps it was as good a way -as any other of extricating herself out of the most difficult position -in which a poor little, well-intentioned clergywoman had ever been.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXVIII.<br /><br /> -<small>THE MOTHER.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> afternoon of the day on which poor Bampfylde died was bright and -fine, one of those beautiful October days which are more lovely in their -wistful brightness, more touching, than any other period of the -year—Summer still lingering, the smile on her lip and the tear in her -eye, dressed out in borrowed splendour, her own fair garniture of -flowers and greenery worn out, but wearing her Indian mantle with a -tender grace, subdued and sweet. The late mignonette over-blown, yet -fragrant, was sweet in the little village gardens, underneath the pale -China roses that still kept up a little glow of blossom. Something had -excited the village; the people were at their doors, and gathered in -groups about. Miss Price, the dressmaker, held a little court. There was -evidently something to tell, something to talk over more than was usual. -The few passengers who were about stayed to hear, and each little knot -of people which had managed to secure a new listener was happy. They -were all in full tide of talk, commenting upon and discussing some -occurrence with a certain hush, at the same time, of awe about them, -which showed that the news was not of a joyful character—when some one -came down through the village whose appearance raised the excitement to -fever point. It was the well-known figure of the old woman in her grey -cloak—so well known up the water and down the water, which thus -suddenly appeared among them—old ’Lizabeth Bampfylde! The gossips -shrank closer together, and gazed at her with eager curiosity all, with -sympathy some. They drew away<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_374" id="page_374">{374}</a></span> from her path with a feeling which was -half reverence and half fear. “Does she know—do you think she knows?” -some of them asked; and exclamations of, “Poor old body—poor woman,” -were rife among the kind-hearted; but all under their breath. ’Lizabeth -took no notice of the people in her path; perhaps she did not even see -them. She was warm with her long walk from the fells, and had thrown off -her hood and knotted her red handkerchief over her cap. She went along -thus with the long swing of her still vigorous limbs, stately and -self-absorbed. Whatever she knew, her mind was too much occupied to take -any notice of the people in her way. She had walked far, and she had far -to walk still. She went on steadily through the midst of them without a -pause, looking neither to the right nor the left. There was a tragic -directness in the very way she moved, going straight as a bird flies, at -least as straight as the houses permitted, minding no windings of the -road. The people in front of her stood back and whispered; the people -behind closed upon her path. Did she know? Would she have had the -fortitude to come walking down here all this long way had she known? Was -she going to Stanton, where <i>they</i> were? Last of all, timidly, the -people said among themselves, “Should not some one tell her?—some one -should speak to her;” but by this time she had passed through the -village, and they all felt with a sensation of relief that it was too -late.</p> - -<p>’Lizabeth walked on steadily along the water-side. It was a long way -that she had still before her. She was going all the way down the water -to Sir Henry Stanton’s, as Mrs. Pennithorne had gone the day before. The -walk was nothing to her, and the long silence of it was grateful to her -mind. She knew nothing of what had happened on the other side of the -lake. Up in her little house among the hills, all alone in the strange -cessation of work, the dead leisure which seemed to have fallen upon -her, she had thought of everything till her head and her heart ached -alike. Everything now seemed to have gone wrong. Her daughter dead in -exile, and her daughter’s husband still a banished man, all for the sake -of him who was roaming over the country, a fugitive escaped from her -care. The life of her son Dick had been ruined by the same means. And -now the cycle of misfortune<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_375" id="page_375">{375}</a></span> was enlarging. The little boy, who was the -heir of the Musgraves, was lost too, because he had no one to protect -him—Lily’s child; and the other Lily, the little lady whom she felt to -be her own representative as well as Lily’s, who could tell what would -become of her? It seemed to ’Lizabeth that this child was the most -precious of all. All the rest had suffered for the sake of her madman; -but the second Lily, the little princess, who had sprung from her common -stock, nothing must touch. Yet it cannot be said that it was for Lily’s -sake that she made up her mind at last; it was nothing so simple, it was -a combination and complication of many motives. He was gone out of her -hands who had been for years the absorbing occupation of her life. Dick -was after him, it was true; but if Dick failed, how was he to be got -without public help? and that help could not be given until the whole -story was told. Then her own loneliness wrought upon her, and all the -whispers and echoes that circled about the cottage, when he was not -there. Her son, ill-fated companion, the ruin of all who had any -connection with him, absorbed her so much in general, that she had no -time to survey the surroundings and think of all that was, and had been, -and might be. Was it he after all that was the cause of all the -suffering? What did he know of it? The story of Lily and of John -Musgrave was a blank to him. He knew nothing of what they had suffered, -was innocent of it in reality. Had he known, would he not have given -himself up a hundred times rather than the innocent should suffer for -him? Was it he, then, or his mother, who was the cause of all? Several -times, during their long agony, such thoughts had overwhelmed -’Lizabeth’s mind. They had come over her in full force when the children -came to the Castle, and then it was that she had been brought to the -length of revealing her secret to young Lord Stanton. Now everything was -desperate about her; the little boy lost, the madman himself lost; no -telling at any moment what misery and horror might come next. She -thought this over day after day as the time passed, and no news came; -waiting in the great loneliness, with her doors all open, that he might -come in if some new impulse, or some touch of use and wont, should lead -him back, her ears intent to hear every sound; her mind prepared<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_376" id="page_376">{376}</a></span> (she -thought) for anything; fresh violence, perhaps violence to himself; -miserable death, terrible discovery. She thought she heard his wild -whoops and cries every time the wind raved among the hills; if a -mountain stream rushed down a little quicker than usual, swollen by the -rain, over its pebbles, she thought it was his hurrying steps. It was -always of him that her thoughts were, not of her other son who was -pursuing the madman all about, subject to the same accidents, and who -might perhaps be his victim instead of his captor. She never thought of -that. But she was driven at last to a supreme resolution. Nobody could -doubt his madness, could think it was a feint put on to escape -punishment, now. And God, who was angry, might be propitiated if at last -she made Him, though unwillingly, this sacrifice, this homage to justice -and truth. This was the idea which finally prevailed in her mind. She -would go and tell her story, and perhaps an angry God would accept, and -restore the wanderer to her. If he were safe, safe even in prison, in -some asylum, it would be better at least than his wild career of madness -among all the dangers of the hills. She had risen in the morning from -her uneasy bed, where she lay half-dressed, always watching, listening -to every sound, with this determination upon her. She would propitiate -God. She would do this thing she ought to have done so long ago. She did -not deny that she ought to have done it, and now certainly she would do -it, and God would be satisfied, and the tide of fate would turn.</p> - -<p>All this struggle had not been without leaving traces upon her. Her -ruddy colour, the colour of exposure as well as of health and vigour, -was not altogether gone, but she was more brown than ruddy, and this -partial paleness and the extreme gravity of her countenance added to the -stately aspect she bore. She might have been a peasant-queen, as she -moved along with her steady, long, swinging footstep, able for any -exertion, above fatigue or common weakness. A mile or two more or less, -what did that matter? It did not occur to her to go to Mr. Pennithorne, -though he was nearer, with her story. She went straight to Sir Henry -Stanton. He had a family right to be the avenger of blood. It would be -all the compensation that could be made to the Stantons, as well as a -sacrifice propitiating God. And now<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_377" id="page_377">{377}</a></span> that she had made up her mind there -was no detail from which she shrank. ’Lizabeth never remarked the -pitying and wondering looks which were cast upon her. She went on -straight to her end with a sense of the solemnity and importance of her -mission, which perhaps gave her a certain support. It was no light thing -that she was about to do. That there was a certain commotion and -agitation about Elfdale did not strike her in the excited state of her -mind. It was natural that agitation should accompany her wherever she -went. It harmonized with her mood, and seemed to her (unconsciously) a -homage and respectful adhesion of nature to what she was about to do.</p> - -<p>The great door was open, the hall empty, the way all clear to the room -in which Sir Henry held his little court of justice. ’Lizabeth had come -by instinct to the great hall door—a woman with such a tragical object -does not steal in behind-backs or enter like one of the unconsidered -poor. She went in unchallenged, seeing nobody except one of the girls, -who peeped out from a door, and retreated again at sight of her. -’Lizabeth saw nothing strange in all this. She went in, more -majestically, more slowly than ever, like a woman in a procession—a -woman marching to the stake. What stake, what burning could be so -terrible? Two of the county police were at the open door; they looked at -her with wondering awe, and let her pass. What could any one say to her? -An army would have let her pass—<i>the mother</i>!—for they knew, though -she did not know. ’Lizabeth saw but vaguely a number of people in the -room—so much the better; let all hear who would hear. It would be so -much the greater propitiation to an outraged heaven. She came in with a -kind of dumb state about her, everybody giving way before her. “The -mother!” they all said to each other with dismay, yet excitement. Some -one brought her a chair with anxious and pitying looks. She put it away -with a wave of her hand, yet made a little curtsey of acknowledgment in -old-fashioned politeness. It never occurred to her mind to inquire why -she was received with such obsequious attention. She advanced to the -table at which Sir Henry sat. He too looked pityingly, kindly at her, -not like his usual severity. God had prepared everything for her -atonement—was it not an earnest of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_378" id="page_378">{378}</a></span> its acceptance that He should thus -have put every obstacle out of her way?</p> - -<p>“Sir Henry Stanton,” she said, “I’ve come to make you acquaint with a -story that all the country should have heard long ago. I’ve not had the -courage to tell it till this moment when the Lord has given me strength. -Bid them take pen and paper and put it all down in hand of write, and -I’ll set my name to it. It’s to clear them that are innocent that I’ve -come to speak, and to let it be known who was guilty; but it wasna him -that was guilty—it wasna him—but the madness in him,” she said, her -voice breaking for a moment. “My poor distracted lad!’</p> - -<p>“Give her a seat,” said Sir Henry. “My poor woman, if you have any -information to give about this terrible event—— ”</p> - -<p>“Ay, I have information—plenty information. Nay, I want no seat. I’m -standing as if I was at the judgment-seat of God; there’s where I’ve -stood this many a year, and been judged, but aye held fast. What is man, -a worm, to strive with his Maker?—but me, I’ve done that, that am but a -woman. I humbly crave the Almighty’s pardon, and I’ve made up my mind to -do justice now—at the last.”</p> - -<p>The people about looked at each other, questioning one another what it -was, all but two, who knew what she meant. Young Lord Stanton, who was -close to the table, looked across at a tall stranger behind, by whom the -village constable was standing, and who replied to Geoff’s look by a -melancholy half-smile. The others looked at each other, and ’Lizabeth, -though she saw no one, saw this wave of meaning, and felt it natural -too.</p> - -<p>“Ay,” she said, “you may wonder; and you’ll wonder more before all’s -done. I am a woman that was the mother of three; bonny bairns—though I -say it that ought not; ye might have ranged the country from Carlisle to -London town, and not found their like. My Lily was the beauty of the -whole water; up or down, there was not one that you would look at when -my lass was by. What need I speak? You all know that as well as me.”</p> - -<p>The swell of pride in her as she spoke filled the whole company with a -thrill of admiration and wonder, like some great actress disclosing the -greatness of impassioned nature in the simplest<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_379" id="page_379">{379}</a></span> words. She was old, but -she was beautiful too. She looked round upon them with the air of a -dethroned empress, from whom the recollection of her imperial state -could never depart. Rachel could not have done it, nor perhaps any other -of her profession. There was the sweetness of remembered triumph in the -midst of the most tragic depths; a gleam of pride and pleasure out of -the background of shame and pain.</p> - -<p>“Ah! that’s all gone and past,” she went on with a sigh. “My eldest lad -was more than handsome, he was a genius as well. He was taken away from -me when he was but a little lad—and never came home again till—till -the devil got hold of him, and made him think shame of his poor mother, -and the poor place he was born in. I would never have blamed him. I -would have had him hold his head with the highest, as he had a -right—for had he not gotten that place for himself?—but when he came -back to the water-side a great gentleman and scholar, and would never -have let on where he belonged to, one that is not here to bear the -blame,” said ’Lizabeth, setting her teeth—“one that is gone to his -account—and well I wot the Almighty has punished him for his ill -deeds—betrayed my lad. Some of the gentry were good to him—as good as -the angels in heaven—but some were as devils, that being their nature. -And this is what I’ve got to say:” here she made a pause, raised herself -to her full height, and threw off the red kerchief from her head in her -agitation. “I’ve come here to accuse before God, and you, Sir Henry, my -son, Abel Bampfylde, him I was most proud of and loved best, of the -murder of young Lord Stanton, which took place on the morning of the 2nd -of August, eighteen hundred and forty-five—fifteen years ago and more.”</p> - -<p>The sensation that followed is indescribable. Sir Henry Stanton himself -rose from his seat, excited by wonder, horror, and pity, beyond all -ordinary rule. The bystanders had but a vague sense of the extraordinary -revelation she made, so much were they moved by the more extraordinary -passion in her, and the position in which she stood. “My good woman, my -poor woman!” he cried, “this last dreadful tragedy has gone to your -brain—and no wonder. You don’t know what you say.”</p> - -<p>She smiled—mournfully enough, but still it was a smile—and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_380" id="page_380">{380}</a></span> shook her -head. “If you had said it as often to yourself as I have done—night and -day—night and day; open me when I’m dead, and you’ll find it here,” she -cried—all unaware that this same language of passion had been used -before—and pressing her hand upon her breast. “The second of August, -eighteen hundred and forty-five—if you had said it over as often as -me!”</p> - -<p>There was a whisper all about, and the lawyer of the district, who acted -as Sir Henry’s clerk on important occasions, stooped towards him and -said something. “The date is right. Yes, yes, I know the date is right,” -Sir Henry said, half-angrily. Then added, “There must be insanity in the -family. What more like the effort of a diseased imagination than to link -the old crime of fifteen years ago with what has happened to-day?”</p> - -<p>“Is it me that you call insane?” said ’Lizabeth. “Eh, if it was but me! -But well I know what I’m saying.” Then the wild looks of all around her -suddenly impressed the old woman, too much occupied hitherto to think -what their looks meant. She turned round upon them with slowly awakening -anxiety. “You’re looking strange at me,” she cried, “you’re all looking -strange at me! What is this you’re saying that has happened to-day? Oh, -my lad is mad!—he’s roaming the hills, and Dick after him; he does na -know that he’s doing; he’s out of his senses; it’s no ill meaning. Lads, -some of you tell me, I’m going distracted. What has happened to-day?”</p> - -<p>The change in her appearance was wonderful; her solemn stateliness and -abstraction were gone. Here was something she did not know. The flush of -anxiety came to her cheeks, her eyes contracted, her lips fell apart.</p> - -<p>“Tell me,” she said, “for the love of God!”</p> - -<p>No one moved. They looked at each other with pale, alarmed faces. How -could they tell her? Geoff stepped forward and took her by the arm very -gently. “Will you come with me?” he said. “Something has happened; -something that will grieve you deeply. I—I promised Dick to tell you, -but not here. Won’t you come with me?”</p> - -<p>She drew herself out of his grasp with some impatience. “There’s been -some new trouble,” she said to herself—“some new trouble! No doubt more -violence. Oh, God, forgive him;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_381" id="page_381">{381}</a></span> but he does not know what he’s doing. -It’s you, my young lord?—you know it’s true what I’ve been saying. But -this new trouble, what is it?—more blood? Oh, tell me the worst; I can -bear it all, say, even if he was dead.”</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">’</span>Lizabeth,” said Geoff, with tears in his eyes—and again everybody -looked on as at a tragedy—“you are a brave woman; you have borne a -great deal in your life. He is dead; but that is not all.”</p> - -<p>She did not note, nor perhaps hear, the last words. How should she? The -first was enough. She stood still in the midst of them, all gazing at -her, with her hands clasped before her. For a moment she said nothing. -The last drop of blood seemed to ebb from her brown cheeks. Then she -raised her face upward, with a smile upon it. “The Lord God be praised,” -she said; “He’s taken my lad before me.”</p> - -<p>And when they brought to her the seat she had rejected, ’Lizabeth -allowed herself to be placed upon it. The extreme tension of both body -and mind seemed to have relaxed. The look of tragic endurance left her -face. A softened aspect of suffering, a kind of faint smile, like a wan -sunbeam, stole over it. The moisture came to her strained eyes. “Gone? -Is he gone at last? On the hill-side was it?—in some wild corner, where -none but God could be near, not his mother? And me that was dreading and -dreading I would be taken first; for who would have patience like his -mother? But after all, you know, neighbours, the father comes foremost; -and had more to do with him—more to do with him—than even me.”</p> - -<p>“Take her away, Geoff,” said Sir Henry. The men were all overcome with -this scene, and with the knowledge of what remained to be told. Sir -Henry was not easily moved, but there was something even in <i>his</i> throat -which choked him. He could not bear it, though it was nothing to him. -“Geoff, this is not a place to tell her all you have got to tell. Take -her away—take her—to Lady Stanton.”</p> - -<p>“Nay, nay,” she said; “it’s my deathdoom, but it’s not like other -sorrow—I know well what grief is—when I heard for certain my Lily was -dead and gone, and me never to see her more. But this is not the same; -it’s my death, but I cannot<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_382" id="page_382">{382}</a></span> call it sorrow; not like the loss of a son. -I’m glad too, if you understand that. Poor lad!—my Abel! Ay, ay; you’ll -not tell me but what God understands, and is more pitiful of His -handiwork, say than the like of you or me.”</p> - -<p>“Come with me,” said Geoff, taking her by the arm. “Come, and I will -tell you everything, my poor ’Lizabeth. You know you have a friend in -me.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, my young lord; but first let them write down what I’ve said, and -let me put my name to it. All the more because he’s dead and gone this -day.”</p> - -<p>“Everything shall be done as you wish,” said Geoff anxiously; “but come -with me—come with me—my poor woman; this is not a place for you.”</p> - -<p>“No,” she said—she would not rise from her seat. She turned round to -the table where Sir Henry and his clerk sat. “I must end my work now -it’s begun—I’ve another son, my kind gentlemen, and he will never -forgive me if I do not end my work. Write it out and let me sign. I have -but my Dick to think of now.”</p> - -<p>A thrill of horror ran through the little assembly: to tell her that he -too was gone, who would dare to do it? John Musgrave, whom she had not -seen, stood behind, and covered his face with his hands. Sir Henry, for -all his steady nerves and unsympathetic mind, fell back in his chair -with a low groan. Only young Geoff, his features all quivering, the -tears in his eyes, stood by her side.</p> - -<p>“Humour her,” he said. “Let her have her own way. None of us at this -moment surely could refuse her her way.”</p> - -<p>The lawyer nodded. He had a heart of flesh and not of stone; and -’Lizabeth sat and waited, with her hands clasped together, her head a -little raised, her countenance beyond the power of painting. Grief and -joy mingled in it, and relief and anguish. Her eyes were dilated and -wet, but she shed no tears; their very orbits seemed enlarged, and there -was a quivering smile upon her mouth—a smile such as makes spectators -weep. “Here I and sorrow sit.” There was never a king worthy the name -but would have felt his state as nothing in this presence. But there was -no struggle in her now. She had yielded, and all was peace<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_383" id="page_383">{383}</a></span> about her. -She would have waited for days had it been necessary. That what she had -begun should be ended was the one thing above all.</p> - -<p>A man came hurriedly in as all the people present waited round, -breathless and reverential, for the completion of her testimony. Their -business, whatever it was, was arrested by force of nature. The kind old -Dogberry from the village, who had been standing by John Musgrave’s side -by way of guarding him, put up his hand to his forehead and made a -rustic bow to his supposed prisoner. “I always knowed that was how it -would turn out,” he said, as he hobbled off, to which John Musgrave -replied only by a faint smile, but stood still, as motionless as a -picture, though all semblance of restraint had melted away. But while -all waited thus reverentially a sudden messenger came rushing in, and -addressing Sir Henry in a loud voice, announced that the coroner had -sent him to make preparations for the inquest. “And he wants to know -what time it will be most convenient for the jury to inspect the two -bodies; and if they are both in the same place; and if it’s true.”</p> - -<p>There was a universal hush, at which the man stopped in amazement. Then -his eye, guided by the looks of the others, fell upon the old woman in -the chair. She had heard him, and she was roused. Her face turned -towards him with a growing wonder. “She here! O Lord, forgive me!” he -cried, and fell back.</p> - -<p>“Two bodies!” she said. A shudder came over her. She got up slowly from -her seat and looked round upon them all. “Two—another, another!—oh, my -unhappy lad!” She wrung her hands and looked round upon them, “Maybe -another house made desolate; maybe another woman—Will you tell me who -the other was?”</p> - -<p>Here the labouring man, who had been with Wild Bampfylde on the -hill-side, and who was standing by, suddenly succumbed to the strange -horror and anguish of the moment. He burst out loudly into tears, crying -like a child. “Oh, poor ’Lizabeth, poor ’Lizabeth!” he cried; he could -not bear any more.</p> - -<p>’Lizabeth looked at this man with the air of one awakening from a dream. -Then she turned a look of inquiry upon those<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_384" id="page_384">{384}</a></span> around her. No one would -meet her eye. They shrank one behind another away from her, and more -than one man burst forth into momentary weeping like the first, and some -covered their faces in their hands. Even Geoff, sobbing like a child, -turned away from her for a moment. She held out her hands to them with a -pitiful cry, “Say it’s not that—say it’s not that!” she cried. The -shrill scream of anguish ran through the house. It brought Lady Stanton -and all the women shuddering from every corner. They all knew what it -was and how it was. The mother! What more needed to be said? They came -in and surrounded her, the frivolous girls and the rough women from the -kitchen, all together, while the men stood about looking on. Not even -Sir Henry could resist the passion of horror and sorrow which had taken -possession of the place. He cried with a voice all hoarse and trembling, -“Take her away!—take her away!”</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXXIX.<br /><br /> -<small>THE TRAGEDY ENDS.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">’Lizabeth</span> Bampfylde went on to Stanton that same afternoon, where the -remains of her two sons were lying. But she would not go in Lady -Stanton’s carriage.</p> - -<p>“Nay, nay; carriages were never made for me. I will walk, my lady. It’s -best for me, body and soul.”</p> - -<p>She had recovered herself after the anguish of that discovery. Before -the sympathisers round her had ceased to sob, ’Lizabeth had raised -herself up in the midst of them like an old tower. The storm had raged -round her, but had not crushed her. Her face and even her lips had lost -all trace of colour, her eyes were hollow and widened out in their -sockets, like caves to hold the slow welling out of salt tears. There -was a convulsive trembling now in the pose of her fine head, and in her -hands; but her strength was not touched.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_385" id="page_385">{385}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Oh, how can you walk?” Lady Stanton said; “you are not able for it.”</p> - -<p>“I am able for anything it’s God’s pleasure to send,” she said; “though -it’s little even He can do to me now.” The women stood round her with -pitiful looks, some of them weeping unrestrainedly; but the tears that -’Lizabeth shed came one by one, slow gathering, rarely falling. She put -on her red handkerchief over her cap again, with hands that were steady -enough till that twitch of nervous movement took them. “It should be -black,” she said, with a half-smile; “ay, I should be a’ black from head -to foot, from head to foot, if there was one left to mind.” Then she -turned upon them with again her little stately curtsey. “I’m not a woman -of many words, and ye may judge what heart I have to speak; but I thank -ye all,” and, with once more a kind of smile, she set out upon her way.</p> - -<p>John Musgrave had been standing by; he had spoken to no one, not even to -Lady Stanton, who, trembling with a consciousness that he was there, had -not been able, in the presence of this great anguish, to think of any -other. He, and his story, and his return, altogether had been thrown -entirely into the background by these other events. He came forward now, -and followed ’Lizabeth out of the gate. “I am going with you,” he said. -The name “mother” was on his lips, but he dared not say it. She gave a -slight glance at him, and recognised him. But if one had descended from -heaven to accompany her, what would that have been to ’Lizabeth? It was -as if they had parted yesterday.</p> - -<p>“Ay,” she said; then, after a pause, “it’s you that has the best right.”</p> - -<p>The tragedy had closed very shortly after that penultimate chapter which -ended with the death of Wild Bampfylde. When the carriage and its -attendants arrived to remove him to Stanton he was lying on Geoff’s -shoulder, struggling for his last breath. It was too late then to -disturb the agony. The men stood about reverentially till the last gasp -was over, then carried the vagrant tenderly to the foot of the hill, -with a respect which no one had ever shown him before. One of the party, -a straggler, who had strayed further up the dell in the interval of -waiting, saw traces<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_386" id="page_386">{386}</a></span> above among the broken bushes, which made him call -some of his comrades as soon as their first duty was done. And there on -the little plateau, where Walter Stanton’s body had been found fifteen -years before, lay that of his murderer, the madman who had wrought so -much misery. He was found lying across the stream as if he had stooped -to drink, and had not been able to raise himself. The running water had -washed all traces of murder from him. When they lifted him, with much -precaution, not knowing whether his stillness might mean a temporary -swoon, or a feint of madness to beguile them, his pale marble -countenance seemed a reproach to the lookers-on. Even with the aspect of -his victim fresh in their eyes, the men could not believe that this had -ever been a furious maniac or man slayer. One of them went to look for -Geoff, and to arrest the progress of the other funeral procession. -“There’s another one, my lord,” he said, “all torn and tattered in his -clothes, but with the look of a king.” And Geoff, notwithstanding his -horror, could not but look with a certain awe upon the worn countenance. -It might have been that of a man worn with great labours, with thought, -with the high musings of philosophy, or schemes of statesmanship. He was -carried down and laid by the side of his brother whom he had killed. All -the cottagers, the men from the field, the passengers on the way, stood -looking on, or followed the strange procession. Such a piece of news, as -may be supposed, flew over the country like wildfire. There was no -family better known than the Bampfyldes, notwithstanding their humble -rank. The handsome Bampfyldes: and here they had come to an end!</p> - -<p>Old ’Lizabeth, as she made her way to Stanton, was followed everywhere -by the same atmosphere of sympathy. The women came out to their doors to -look after her, and even strong men sobbed as she passed. What would -become of her, poor lonely woman? She gave a great cry when she saw the -two pale faces lying peacefully together. They were both men in the full -prime of life, in the gravity of middle age, fully developed, strongly -knit, men all formed for life, and full of its matured vigour. They lay -side by side as they had lain when they were children. That one of them -had taken the life of the other, who could have imagined possible? The -poacher and vagrant looked like some<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_387" id="page_387">{387}</a></span> great general nobly dead in -battle, the madman like a sage. Death had redeemed them from their -misery, their poverty, the misfortunes which were greater than either. -Their mother gave a great cry of anguish yet pride as she stood beside -them. “My lads,” she cried, “my two handsome lads, my bonny boys!” -’Lizabeth had come to that pass when words have no meaning to express -the depths and the heights. What could a woman say who sees her sons -stretched dead before her? She uttered one inarticulate wail of anguish, -as a dumb creature might have done, and then her overwrought soul -reeling, tottered almost on the verge of reason, and she cried out in -pride and agony, “My handsome lads! my bonny boys!”</p> - -<p>“Come home with me,” said John Musgrave. “We have made a bad business of -it, ’Lizabeth, you and I. This is all our sacrifice has come to. Nothing -left but your wreck of life, and mine. But come home with me. Where I -am, there will always be a place for Lily’s mother. And there is little -Lily still, and she will comfort you—— ”</p> - -<p>“Eh! comfort me!” She smiled at the word. “Nay, I must go to my own -house. I thank you, John Musgrave, and I do not deserve it at your hand. -This fifteen years it has been me that has murdered you, not my lad -yonder, not my Abel. What did he know? And I humbly beg your pardon, and -your little bairns’ pardon, on my knees—but nay, nay, I must go home. -My own house—there is no other place for me.”</p> - -<p>They came round her and took her hands, and pleaded with her too—Geoff, -and his mother, with the tears streaming from her eyes. “Oh, my poor -woman, my poor woman!” Lady Stanton cried, “stay here while <i>they</i> are -here.” But nothing moved ’Lizabeth. She made her little curtsey to them -all, with that strange smile like a pale light wavering upon her face.</p> - -<p>“Nay, nay,” she said. “Nay, nay—I humbly thank my lady and my lord, and -a’ kind friends—but my own house, that is the only place for me.”</p> - -<p>“But you cannot go so far, if that were all. You must be worn out with -walking only—if there was nothing more—— ”</p> - -<p>“Me—worn out!—with walking!” It was a kind of laugh which came from -her dry throat. “Ay, very near—very near it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_388" id="page_388">{388}</a></span>—that will come soon, if -the Lord pleases. But good-day to you all, and my humble thanks, my lord -and my lady—you’re kind—kind to give them house-room; till Friday; but -they’ll give no trouble, no trouble!” she said, with again that -something which sounded like a laugh. Laughing or crying, it was all one -to ’Lizabeth. The common modes of expression were garments too small for -her soul.</p> - -<p>“Stay only to-night—it will be dark long before you can be there. Stay -to-night,” they pleaded. She broke from them with a cry.</p> - -<p>“I canna bide this, I canna bide it! I’m wanting the stillness of the -fells, and the arms of them about me. Let me be—oh, let me be! There’s -a moon,” she added, abruptly, “and dark or light, I’ll never lose my -way.”</p> - -<p>Thus they had to leave her to do as she pleased in the end. She would -not eat anything, or even sit down, but went out with her hood over her -head into the gathering shadows. They stood watching her till the sound -of her steps died out on the way—firm, steady, unfaltering steps. Life -and death, and mortal anguish, and wearing care, had done their worst -upon old ’Lizabeth. She stood like a rock against them all.</p> - -<p>She came down to the funeral on Friday, as she had herself appointed, -and saw her sons laid in their grave, and again she was entreated to -remain. But even little Lilias, whom her father brought forward to aid -the pleadings of the others, could not move her. “Honey-sweet!” she -said, with a tender light in her eyes; but she had more room for the -children when her heart was full of living cares. It was empty now, and -there was no room. A few weeks after, she was found dying peaceably in -her bed, giving all kinds of directions to her children. “Abel will have -your father’s watch, he aye wanted it from a baby—and Lily gets all my -things, as is befitting. They will set her up for her wedding. And Dick, -my little Dick, that has aye been the little one—who says I was not -thinking of Dick? He’s been my prop and my right hand when a’ deserted -me. The poor little house and the little bit of land, and a’ his mother -has—who should they be for, but Dick?” Thus she died tranquilly, seeing -them all round her; and all that was cruel and bitter in the lot of the -Bampfyldes came to an end.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_389" id="page_389">{389}</a></span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XL" id="CHAPTER_XL"></a>CHAPTER XXX.<br /><br /> -<small>CONCLUSION.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">John Musgrave</span> settled down without any commotion into his natural place -in his father’s house. The old Squire himself mended from the day when -Nello, very timid, but yet brave to repress the signs of his reluctance, -was brought into his room. He played with the child as if he had been a -child himself, and so grew better day by day, and got out of bed again, -and save for a little dragging of one leg as he limped along, brought no -external sign of his “stroke” out of his sick-room. But he wrote no more -Monographs, studied no more. His life had come back to him as the Syrian -lord in the Bible got back his health after his leprosy—“like the flesh -of a little child.” The Squire recovered after a while the power of -taking his part in a conversation, and looked more venerable than ever -with his faded colour and subdued forces. But his real life was all with -little Nello, who by and by got quite used to his grandfather, and -lorded it over him as children so often do. When the next summer came, -they went out together, the Squire generally in a wheeled chair, Nello -walking, or riding by his side on the pony his grandpapa had given him. -There was no doubt now as to who was heir. When Randolph came to -Penninghame, after spending a day and a half in vain researches for -Nello, life having become too exciting at that moment at the Castle to -leave any one free to send word of the children’s safety—he found all -doubt and notion of danger over for John—- and he himself established -in his natural place. Whether the Squire had forgotten everything in his -illness, or whether he had understood the story which Mary took care to -repeat two or three times very distinctly by his bedside, no one knew. -But he never objected to John’s presence, made no question about -him—accepted him as if he had been always there. Absolutely as if there -had been no breach in the household existence at all, the eldest son -took his place; and that Nello was the heir was a thing beyond doubt in -any reasonable mind. This actual settlement of all difficulties had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_390" id="page_390">{390}</a></span> -already come about when Randolph came. His father took no notice of him, -and John, who thought it was his brother’s fault that his little son had -been so unkindly treated, found it difficult to afford Randolph any -welcome. He did not, however, want any welcome in such circumstances. He -stayed for a single night, feeling himself coldly looked upon by all. -Mr. Pen, who spent half his time at the Castle, more than any one turned -a cold shoulder upon his brother clergyman.</p> - -<p>“You felt it necessary that the child should go to school quite as much -as I did,” Randolph said, on the solitary occasion when the matter was -discussed.</p> - -<p>“Yes, but not to any school,” the Vicar said. “I would rather—— ” he -paused for a sufficiently strong image, but it was hard to find; “I -would rather—have got up at six o’clock every day, and sacrificed -everything—rather than have exposed Nello to the life he had -there;—and you who are a father yourself.”</p> - -<p>“Yes; but my boy has neither a girl’s name nor a girl’s want of courage. -He is not a baby that would flinch at the first rough word. I did not -know the nature of the thing,” said Randolph, with a sneer. “I have no -acquaintance with any but straightforward and manly ways.”</p> - -<p>The Vicar followed him out in righteous wrath. He produced from his -pocket a hideous piece of pink paper.</p> - -<p>“Do you know who sent this?” he asked.</p> - -<p>Randolph looked at it, taken aback, and tried to bluster forth an -expression of wonder—</p> - -<p>“I—how should I know?”</p> - -<p>“What did you mean by it?” cried the gentle Vicar, in high -excitement;—“did you think I did not know my duty? did you think I was -a cold-blooded reptile like—like the man that sent that? Do you think -it was in me to betray my brother? I know nothing bad enough for him who -made such a suggestion. And he nearly gained his point. The devil knows -what tools to work with. He works with the weakness of good people as -well as with the strength of bad,” cried mild Mr. Pen, inspired for once -in his life with righteous indignation. “Judas did it himself at least, -bad as he was. He did not whisper treason in a man’s ears nor in a -woman’s heart.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_391" id="page_391">{391}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what you mean,” said Randolph, with guilt in his face.</p> - -<p>“Not all, no; fortunately you don’t know, nor any one else, the trouble -you might have made. But no less, though it never came to pass, was it -that traitor’s fault.”</p> - -<p>“When you take to speaking riddles I give it up,” said Randolph, -shrugging his shoulders.</p> - -<p>But Mr. Pen was so hot in moral force that he was glad to get away. He -slept one night under his father’s roof, no one giving him much -attention, and then went away, never to return again; but went back to -his believing wife, too good a fate, who smoothed him down and healed -all his wounds. “My husband is like most people who struggle to do their -duty,” she said. “His brother was very ungrateful, though Randolph had -done so much for him. And the little boy, who had been dreadfully -spoiled, ran away from the school when he had cost my husband so much -trouble. And even his sister Mary showed him no kindness; that is the -way when a man is so disinterested as Randolph, doing all he can for his -own family, for their <i>real</i> good.”</p> - -<p>And this, at the end, came to be what Randolph himself thought.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Pen, after coming home hysterical from Elfdale, made a clean breast -to her husband, and showed him the telegram, and confessed all her -apprehensions for him. What could a man do but forgive the folly or even -wickedness done for his sweet sake? And Mrs. Pen went through a few -dreadful hours, when in the morning John Musgrave came back from his -night journey and the warrant was put in force. If they should hang him -what would become of her? She always believed afterwards that it was her -William’s intervention which had saved John, and she never believed in -John’s innocence, let her husband say what he would. For Mrs. Pen said -wisely, that wherever there is smoke there must be fire, and it was no -use telling her that Lord Stanton had not been killed; for it was in the -last edition of the <i>Fellside History</i>, and therefore must be true.</p> - -<p>When all was over Sir Henry and Lady Stanton made a formal visit of -congratulation at Penninghame. Sir Henry told<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_392" id="page_392">{392}</a></span> John that it had been a -painful necessity to issue the warrant, but that a man must do his duty, -whatever it is; and as, under Providence, this was the means of making -everything clear he could not regret that he had done it now. Lady -Stanton said nothing, or next to nothing. She talked a little to Mary, -making stray little remarks about the children, and drawing Nello to her -side. Lilias she was afraid of, with those great eyes. Was that child to -be Geoff’s wife? she thought. Ah! how much better, had he been the kind -young husband who should have delivered her own Annie or Fanny. This -little girl would want nothing of the kind; her father would watch over -her, he would let no one meddle with her, not like a poor woman with a -hard husband and stepdaughters. She trembled a little when she put her -hand into John’s. She looked at him with moisture in her eyes.</p> - -<p>“I have always believed in you, always hoped to see you here again,” she -said.</p> - -<p>“Come, Mary, the carriage is waiting,” said Sir Henry. He said after -that this was all that was called for, and here the intercourse between -the two houses dropped. Mary could not help “taking an interest” in John -Musgrave still, but what did it matter? everybody took an interest in -him now.</p> - -<p>As for Geoff, he became, as he had a way of doing, the sun of the house -at Penninghame; even the old Squire took notice of his kind, cheerful -young face. He neglected Elfdale and his young cousins, and even Cousin -Mary, whom he loved. But it was not to be supposed that John Musgrave -would allow a series of love passages to go on indefinitely for years -between his young neighbour and his daughter Lilias, as yet not quite -thirteen years old. The young man was sent away after a most affecting -parting, not to return for three years. Naturally, Lady Stanton rebelled -much, she who had kept her son at home during all his life; but what -could she do? Instead of struggling vainly she took the wiser part, and -though it was a trial to tear herself from Stanton and all the servants, -who were so kind, and the household which went upon wheels, upon velvet, -and gave her no trouble, she made up her mind to it, and took her maid -and Benson and Mr. Tritton and went<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_393" id="page_393">{393}</a></span> “abroad” too. What is it to go -abroad when a lady is middle-aged and has a grown-up son and such an -establishment?—but she did it: “for I shall not have him very long!” -she said, with a sigh.</p> - -<p>Lilias was sixteen when Geoff came home. Can any one doubt that the -child had grown up with her mind full of the young hero who had acted so -great a part in her young life? When the old Squire died and Nello went -to school, a very different school from Mr. Swan’s, the idea of “Mr. -Geoff” became more and more her companion. It was not love, perhaps, in -the ordinary meaning of the word; Lilias did not know what that meant. -Half an elder brother, half an enchanted prince, more than half a hero -of romance, he wove himself with every story and every poem that was -written, to Lilias. He it was, and no Prince Ferdinand, whom Miranda -thought so fair. It was he who slew all the dragons and giants, and -delivered whole dungeons full of prisoners. Her girlhood was somewhat -lonely, chiefly because of this soft mist of semi-betrothal which was -about her. Not only was she already a woman, though a child, but a woman -separated from others, a bride doubly virginal because he was absent to -whom all her thoughts were due. “What if he should forget her?” Mary -Musgrave would say, alarmed. She thought it neither safe nor right for -the child, who was the beauty and flower of Penninghame, as she herself -had been, though in so different a way. Mary now had settled down as the -lady of Penninghame, as her brother was its lawful lord. John was not -the kind of man to make a second marriage, even if, as his sister -sometimes fancied, his first had but little satisfied his heart. But of -this he said nothing, thankful to be able at the end to redeem some -portion of the life thus swallowed up by one of those terrible, but -happily rare, mistakes, which are no less wretched that they are half -divine. He had all he wanted in his sister’s faithful companionship and -in his children. There is no more attractive household than that in -which, after the storms of life, a brother and sister set up peacefully -together the old household gods, never dispersed, which were those of -their youth. Mary was a little more careful, perhaps, of her niece, a -little more afraid of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_394" id="page_394">{394}</a></span> the troubles in her way, than if she had been her -daughter. She watched Lilias with great anxiety, and read between the -lines of Geoff’s letters with vague scrutiny, looking always for -indications of some change.</p> - -<p>Lilias was sixteen in the end of October, the third after the previous -events recorded here. She had grown to her full height, and her beauty -had a dreamy, poetical touch from the circumstances, which greatly -changed the natural expression appropriate to the liquid dark eyes and -noble features she had from her mother and her mother’s mother. Her eyes -were less brilliant than they would have been had they not looked so far -away, but they were more sweet. Her brightness altogether was tempered -and softened, and kept within that modesty of childhood to which her -youthful age really belonged, though nature and life had developed her -more than her years. Though she was grown up she kept many of her -childish ways, and still sat, as Mary had always done, at the door of -the old hall, now wonderfully decorated and restored, but yet the old -hall still. The two ladies shared it between them for all their hours of -leisure, but Mary had given up her seat at the door to the younger -inhabitant, partly because she loved to see Lilias there with the sun -upon her, partly because she herself began to feel the cool airs of the -north less halcyon than of old. The books that Lilias carried with her -were no longer fairy tales, but maturer enchantments of poetry. And -there she sat absorbed in verse and lost to all meaner delights, on the -eve of her birthday, a soft air ruffling the little curls on her -forehead, the sun shining upon her uncovered head. Lilias loved the sun. -She was not afraid of it nor her complexion, and the sun of October is -not dangerous. She had a hand up to shade the book, which was too -dazzling in the light, but nothing to keep the golden light from her. -She sat warm and glorified in the long, slanting, dazzling rays.</p> - -<p>Mary had heard a horse’s hoofs, and, being a little restless, came -forward softly from her seat behind to see who it was; but Lilias, lost -in the poetry and the sunshine, heard nothing.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“She wept with pity and delight,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She blush’d with love and virgin shame,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And like the murmur of a dream<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I heard her breathe my name.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_395" id="page_395">{395}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Her bosom heaved, she stepp’d aside<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As conscious of my look she stept,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then suddenly, with timorous eye,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She fled to me and wept.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Mary saw what Lilias did not see, the horseman at the foot of the slope. -He looked and smiled, and signed to her over the lovely head in the -sunshine. He was brown and ruddy with health and travel, his eyes -shining, his breath coming quick. Three years! as long as a -lifetime—but it was over. Suddenly, “Lily—my little Lily,” he cried, -unable to keep silence more.</p> - -<p>She sprang to her feet like a startled deer; the book fell from her -hands; her eyes gave a great gleam and flash, and softened in the golden -light of sunset and tenderness. The poetry or the life, which was the -most sweet? “Yes, Mr. Geoff,” she said.</p> - -<p class="fint">THE END.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_396" id="page_396">{396}</a></span></p> - -<p class="fint"><small><span class="smcap">Richard Clay and Sons, Limited,</span><br /> -LONDON AND BUNGAY.</small></p> - -<hr class="full" /> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YOUNG MUSGRAVE ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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