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diff --git a/old/68569-0.txt b/old/68569-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 7569613..0000000 --- a/old/68569-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,16316 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Wyvern mystery, by Joseph Sheridan -Le Fanu - -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: The Wyvern mystery - -Author: Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu - -Illustrator: B. S. Le Fanu - -Release Date: July 19, 2022 [eBook #68569] - -Language: English - -Produced by: an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WYVERN MYSTERY *** - - - - - - [IMAGE: images/img_000_th.jpg - CAPTION: “She stood up--how pretty she was!--looking on her work.”] - - - - - THE - WYVERN MYSTERY - - A Novel. - - BY - J. S. LE FANU, - AUTHOR OF “UNCLE SILAS,” “GUY DEVERELL,” ETC. - - - _WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY B. S. LE FANU._ - - - London: - WARD AND DOWNEY, - 12, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN. - 1889. - - - - - CONTENTS. - - I. ALICE MAYBELL - II. THE VALE OF CARWELL - III. THE GRANGE - IV. THE OLD SQUIRE AND ALICE MAYBELL - V. THE TERRACE GARDEN - VI. THE OLD SQUIRE UNLIKE HIMSELF - VII. THE SQUIRE’S ELDEST SON COMES HOME - VIII. NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH - IX. IN WHICH THE SQUIRE LOSES HIS GOLD-HEADED CANE - X. THE DRIVE OVER CRESSLEY COMMON BY MOONLIGHT - XI. HOME - XII. THE OMEN OF CARWELL GRANGE - XIII. AN INSPECTION OF CARWELL GRANGE - XIV. A LETTER - XV. HARRY ARRIVES - XVI. A PARTY OF THREE - XVII. MILDRED TARNLEY’S WARNING STORY - XVIII. THE BROTHERS’ WALK - XIX. COMING IN - XX. HARRY APPEARS AT THE GRANGE - XXI. HARRY’S BEER AND CONVERSATION - XXII. THE TROUT - XXIII. THE VISITOR - XXIV. THE SUMMONS - XXV. LILLY DOGGER IS SENT TO BED - XXVI. THE LADY HAS HER TEA - XXVII. THROUGH THE HOUSE - XXVIII. THE BELL RINGS - XXIX. TOM IS ORDERED UP - XXX. THE OLD SOLDIER GROWS MORE FRIENDLY, AND FRIGHTENS MRS. TARNLEY - XXXI. NEWS FROM CRESSLEY COMMON - XXXII. AN UNLOOKED-FOR RETURN - XXXIII. CHARLES FAIRFIELD ALONE - XXXIV. AWAKE - XXXV. RESTLESS - XXXVI. THROUGH THE WALL - XXXVII. A MESSENGER - XXXVIII. UNREASONABLE BERTHA - XXXIX. AN ABDUCTION - XL. PURSUIT - XLI. DAY--TWILIGHT--DARKNESS - XLII. HATHERTON - XLIII. THE WELCOME - XLIV. THE WYKEFORD DOCTOR - XLV. SPEECH RETURNS - XLVI. HARRY DRINKS A GLASS AND SPILLS A GLASS - XLVII. HOME TO WYVERN - XLVIII. A TWILIGHT VISIT - XLIX. THE HEIR OF THE FAIRFIELDS - L. BERTHA VELDERKAUST - LI. SERGEANT-MAJOR ARCHDALE - LII. A TALK WITH THE SQUIRE - LIII. HARRY FAIRFIELD GROWS UNEASY - LIV. A DRIVE TO TWYFORD - LV. HOW FARES THE CHILD? - LVI. THE OLD SQUIRE LEAVES WYVERN - LVII. MARJORY TREVELLIAN - LVIII. THE ENCHANTED GARDEN - LIX. AN OLD FRIEND - LX. TOM ORANGE - LXI. THE HOUR AND THE MAN - LXII. THE MARCH TO NOULTON FARM - LXIII. A SILENT FAREWELL - LXIV. THE MARCH BY NIGHT - CONCLUSION - - - - - THE WYVERN MYSTERY. - - CHAPTER I. - ALICE MAYBELL. - -In the small breakfast parlour of Oulton, a pretty girl, Miss Alice -Maybell, with her furs and wrappers about her, and a journey of forty -miles before her--not by rail--to Wyvern, had stood up to hug and kiss -her old aunt, and bid her good-bye. - -“Now, do sit down again; you need not be in such a hurry--you’re not -to go for ten minutes or more,” said the old lady; “do, there’s a -darling.” - -“If I’m not home before the sun goes down, aunt, Mr. Fairfield will be -so angry,” said the girl, laying a hand on each shoulder of kind old -Lady Wyndale, and looking fondly, but also sadly, into her face. - -“Which Mr. Fairfield, dear--the old or the young one?” - -“Old Mr. Fairfield, the Squire, as we call him at Wyvern. He’ll really -be angry, and I’m a little bit afraid of him, and I would not vex him -for the world--he has always been so kind.” - -As she answered, the young lady blushed a beautiful crimson, and the -old lady, not observing it, said-- - -“Indeed, I don’t know why I said young--young Mr. Fairfield is old -enough, I think, to be your father; but I want to know how you liked -Lord Tremaine. I told you how much he liked you. I’m a great believer -in first impressions. He was so charmed with you, when he saw you in -Wyvern Church. Of course he ought to have been thinking of something -better; but no matter--the fact was so, and now he is, I really think, -in love--very much--and who knows? He’s such a charming person, and -there is everything to make it--I don’t know what word to use--but you -know Tremaine is quite a beautiful place, and he does not owe a -guinea.” - -“You dear old auntie,” said the girl, kissing her again on the cheek, -“wicked old darling--always making great matches for me. If you had -remained in India, you’d have married me, I’m sure, to a native -prince.” - -“Native fiddlestick; of course I could if I had liked, but you never -should have married a Mahomedan with my consent. Never mind though; -you’re sure to do well; marriages are made in heaven, and I really -believe there is no use in plotting and planning. There was your -darling mamma, when we were both girls together, I said I should never -consent to marry a soldier or live out of England, and I did marry a -soldier, and lived twelve years of my life in India; and she, poor -darling, said again and again, she did not care who her husband might -be, provided he was not a clergyman, nor a person living all the year -round in the country--_that_ no power could induce her to consent to, -and yet she did consent, and to both one and the other, and married a -clergyman, and a poor one, and lived and died in the country. So, -after all, there’s not much use in planning beforehand.” - -“Very true, auntie; none in the world, I believe.” - -The girl was looking partly over her shoulder, out of the window, -upward towards the clouds, and she sighed heavily; and recollecting -herself, looked again in her aunt’s face and smiled. - -“I wish you could have stayed a little longer here,” said her aunt. - -“I wish I could,” she answered slowly, “I was thinking of talking over -a great many things with you--that is, of telling you all my long -stories; but while those people were staying here I could not, and now -there is not time.” - -“What long stories, my dear?” - -“Stupid stories, I should have said,” answered Alice. - -“Well come, is there anything to tell?” demanded the old lady, looking -in her large, dark eyes. - -“Nothing worth telling--nothing that is--” and she paused for the -continuation of her sentence. - -“That is what?” asked her aunt. - -“I was going to talk to you, darling,” answered the girl, “but I could -not in so short a time--so short a time as remains now,” and she -looked at her watch--a gift of old Squire Fairfield’s. “I should not -know how to make myself understood, I have so many hundred things, and -all jumbled up in my head, and should not know how to begin.” - -“Well, I’ll begin for you. Come--have any visitors looked in at Wyvern -lately?” said her aunt. - -“Not one,” she answered. - -“No new faces?” - -“No, indeed.” - -“Are there any new neighbours?” persisted the old lady. - -“Not one. No, aunt, it isn’t that.” - -“And where are these elderly young gentlemen, the two Mr. Fairfields?” -asked the old lady. - -The girl laughed, and shook her head. - -“Wandering at present. Captain Fairfield is in London.” - -“And his charming younger brother--where is he?” asked Lady Wyndale. - -“At some fair, I suppose, or horse-race; or, goodness knows where,” -answered the girl. - -“I was going to ask you whether there was an affair of the heart,” -said her aunt. “But there does not seem much material; and what was -the subject? Though I can’t hear it all, you may tell me what it was -to be about.” - -“About fifty things, or nothings. There’s no one on earth, auntie, -darling, but you I can talk anything over with; and I’ll write, or, if -you let me, come again for a day or two, very soon--may I?” - -“Of course, _no_,” said her aunt gaily. “But we are not to be quite -alone, all the time, mind. There are people who would not forgive me -if I were to do anything so selfish, but I promise you ample time to -talk--you and I to ourselves; and now that I think, I should like to -hear by the post, if you will write and say anything you like. You may -be quite sure nobody shall hear a word about it.” - -By this time they had got to the hall-door. - -“I’m sure of that, darling,” and she kissed the kind old lady. - -“And are you _quite_ sure you would not like a servant to travel with -you; he could sit beside the driver?” - -“No, dear auntie, my trusty old Dulcibella sits inside to take care of -me.” - -“Well, dear, are you quite sure? I should not miss him the least.” - -“Quite, dear aunt, I assure you.” - -“And you know you told me you were quite happy at Wyvern,” said Lady -Wyndale, returning her farewell caress, and speaking low, for a -servant stood at the chaise-door. - -“Did I? Well, I shouldn’t have said that, for--I’m _not_ happy,” -whispered Alice Maybell, and the tears sprang to her eyes as she -kissed her old kinswoman; and then, with her arms still about her -neck, there was a brief look from her large, brimming eyes, while her -lip trembled; and suddenly she turned, and before Lady Wyndale had -recovered from that little shock, her pretty guest was seated in the -chaise, the door shut, and she drove away. - -“What can it be, poor little thing?” thought Lady Wyndale, as her eyes -anxiously followed the carriage in its flight down the avenue. - -“They have shot her pet-pigeon, or the dog has killed her guinea-pig, -or old Fairfield won’t allow her to sit up till twelve o’clock at -night, reading her novel. Some childish misery, I dare say, poor -little soul!” - -But for all that she was not satisfied, and her poor, pale, troubled -look haunted her. - - - - - CHAPTER II. - THE VALE OF CARWELL. - -In about an hour and a half this chaise reached the Pied Horse, on -Elverstone Moor. Having changed horses at this inn, they resumed their -journey, and Miss Alice Maybell, who had been sad and abstracted, now -lowered the window beside her, and looked out upon the broad, shaggy -heath, rising in low hillocks, and breaking here and there into -pools--a wild, and on the whole a monotonous and rather dismal expanse. - -“How fresh and pleasant the air is here, and how beautiful the purple -of the heath!” exclaimed the young lady with animation. - -“There now--that’s right--beautiful it is, my darling; that’s how I -like to see my child--pleasant-like and ’appy, and not mopin’ and -dull, like a sick bird. Be that way always; _do_, dear.” - -“You’re a kind old thing,” said the young lady, placing her slender -hand fondly on her old nurse’s arm, “good old Dulcibella: you’re -always to come with me wherever I go.” - -“That’s just what Dulcibella’d like,” answered the old woman, who was -fat, and liked her comforts, and loved Miss Alice more than many -mothers love their own children, and had answered the same reminders, -in the same terms, a good many thousand times in her life. - -Again the young lady was looking out of the window--not like one -enjoying a landscape as it comes, but with something of anxiety in her -countenance, with her head through the open window, and gazing forward -as if in search of some expected object. - -“Do you remember some old trees standing together at the end of this -moor, and a ruined windmill, on a hillock?” she asked suddenly. - -“Well,” answered Dulcibella, who was not of an observant turn, “I -suppose I do, Miss Alice; perhaps there is.” - -“I remember it very well, but not _where_ it is; and when last we -passed, it was dark,” murmured the young lady to herself, rather than -to Dulcibella, whom upon such points she did not much mind. “Suppose -we ask the driver?” - -She tapped at the window behind the box, and signed to the man, who -looked over his shoulder. When he had pulled up she opened the front -window and said-- - -“There’s a village a little way on--isn’t there?” - -“Shuldon--yes’m, two mile and a bit,” he answered. - -“Well, before we come to it, on the left there is a grove of tall -trees and an old windmill,” continued the pretty young lady, looking -pale. - -“Gryce’s mill we call it, but it don’t go this many a day.” - -“Yes, I dare say; and there is a road that turns off to the left, just -under that old mill?” - -“That’ll be the road to Church Carwell.” - -“You must drive about three miles along that road.” - -“That’ll be out o’ the way, ma’am--three, and three back--six miles--I -don’t know about the hosses.” - -“You must try, I’ll pay you--listen,” and she lowered her voice. -“There’s one house--an old house--on the way, in the Vale of Carwell; -it is called Carwell Grange--do you know it?” - -“Yes’m; but there’s no one livin’ there.” - -“No matter--there is; there is an old woman whom I want to see; that’s -where I want to go, and you must manage it, I shan’t delay you many -minutes, and you’re to tell no one, either on the way or when you get -home, and I’ll give you two pounds for yourself.” - -“All right,” he answered, looking hard in the pale face and large dark -eyes that gazed on him eagerly from the window. “Thank’ye, Miss, all -right, we’ll wet their mouths at the Grange, or you wouldn’t mind -waiting till they get a mouthful of oats, I dessay?” - -“No, certainly; anything that is necessary, only I have a good way -still to go before evening, and you won’t delay more than you can -help?” - -“Get along, then,” said the man, briskly to his horses, and forthwith -they were again in motion. - -The young lady pulled up the window, and leaned back for some minutes -in her place. - -“And where are we going to, dear Miss Alice?” inquired Dulcibella, who -dimly apprehended that they were about to deviate from the straight -way home, and feared the old Squire, as other Wyvern folk did. - -“A very little way, nothing of any consequence; and Dulcibella, if you -really love me as you say, one word about it, to living being at -Wyvern or anywhere else, you’ll never say--you promise?” - -“You know me well, Miss Alice--I don’t talk to no one; but I’m -sorry-like to hear there’s anything like a secret. I dread secrets.” - -“You need not fear this--it is nothing, no secret, if people were not -unreasonable, and it shan’t be a secret long, perhaps, only be true to -me.” - -“True to you! Well, who should I be true to if not to you, darling? -and never a word about it will pass old Dulcibella’s lips, talk who -will; and are we pretty near it?” - -“Very near, I think; it’s only to see an old woman, and get some -information from her--nothing, only I don’t wish it to be talked -about, and I know you won’t.” - -“Not a word, dear. I never talk to any one, not I, for all the world.” - -In a few minutes more they crossed a little bridge spanning a brawling -stream, and the chaise turned the corner of a by-road to the left, -under the shadow of a group of tall and sombre elms, overtopped by the -roofless tower of the old windmill. Utterly lonely was the road, but -at first with only a solitariness that partook of the wildness and -melancholy of the moor which they had been traversing. Soon, however, -the uplands at either side drew nearer, grew steeper, and the -scattered bushes gathered into groups, and rose into trees, thickening -as the road proceeded. Steeper grew the banks, higher and gloomier. -Precipitous rocks showed their fronts, overtopped by trees and copse. -The hollow which they had entered by the old windmill had deepened -into a valley and was now contracted to a dark glen, overgrown by -forest, and relieved from utter silence only by the moan and tinkle of -the brook that wound its way through stones and brambles, in its -unseen depths. Along the side of this melancholy glen about half way -down, ran the narrow road, near the point where they now were, it -makes an ascent, and as they were slowly mounting this an open -carriage--a shabby, hired, nondescript vehicle--appeared in the deep -shadow, at some distance, descending towards them. The road is so -narrow that two carriages could not pass one another without risk. -Here and there the inconvenience is provided against by a recess in -the bank, and into one of these the distant carriage drew aside. A -tall female figure, with feet extended on the opposite cushion, sat or -rather reclined in the back seat. There was no one else in the -carriage. She was wrapped in gray tweed, and the driver had now turned -his face towards her, and was plainly receiving some orders. - -Miss Maybell, as the carriage entered this melancholy pass, had grown -more and more anxious; and pale and silent, was looking forward -through the window, as they advanced. At sight of this vehicle, drawn -up before them, a sudden fear chilled the young lady with, perhaps, a -remote prescience. - - - - - CHAPTER III. - THE GRANGE. - -The excited nerves of children people the darkness of the nursery -with phantoms. The moral and mental darkness of suspense provokes, -after its sort, a similar phantasmagoria. Alice Maybell’s heart grew -still, and her cheeks paled as she looked with most unreasonable alarm -upon the carriage, which had come to a standstill. - -There was, however, the sense of a great stake, of great helplessness, -of great but undefined possible mischiefs, such as to the “look-out” -of a rich galleon in the old piratical days, would have made a strange -sail, on the high seas, always an anxious object on the horizon. - -And now Miss Alice Maybell was not reassured by observing the enemy’s -driver get down, and taking the horses by the head, back the carriage -far enough across the road, to obstruct their passage, and this had -clearly been done by the direction of the lady in the carriage. - -They had now reached the point of obstruction, the driver pulled up; -Miss Maybell had lowered the chaise window and was peeping. She saw a -tall woman, wrapped up and reclining, as I have said. Her face she -could not see, for it was thickly veiled, but she held her hand, from -which she had pulled her glove, to her ear, and it was not a young -hand nor very refined,--lean and masculine, on the contrary, and its -veins and sinews rather strongly marked. The woman was listening, -evidently, with attention, and her face, veiled as it was, was turned -away so as to bring her ear towards the speakers in the expected -colloquy. - -Miss Alice Maybell saw the driver exchange a look with hers that -seemed to betoken old acquaintance. - -“I say, give us room to pass, will ye?” said Miss Maybell’s man. - -“Where will you be going to?” inquired the other, and followed the -question with a jerk of his thumb over his shoulder, toward the lady -in the tweed wrappers, putting out his tongue and winking at the same -time. - -“To Church Carwell,” answered the man. - -“To Church Carwell, ma’am,” repeated the driver over his shoulder to -the reclining figure. - -“What to do there?” said she, in a sharp under-tone, and with a -decided foreign accent. - -“What to do there?” repeated the man. - -“Change hosses, and go on.” - -“On _where_?” repeated the lady to her driver. - -“On where?” repeated he. - -“Doughton,” fibbed Miss Maybell’s man, and the same repetition ensued. - -“Not going to the Grange?” prompted the lady, in the same under-tone -and foreign accent, and the question was transmitted as before. - -“What Grange?” demanded the driver. - -“Carwell Grange.” - -“No.” - -Miss Alice Maybell was very much frightened as she heard this -home-question put, and, relieved by the audacity of her friend on the -box, who continued-- - -“Now then, you move out of that.” - -The tall woman in the wrappers nodded, and her driver accordingly -pulled the horses aside, with another grin and a wink to his friend, -and Miss Maybell drove by to her own great relief. - -The reclining figure did not care to turn her face enough to catch a -passing sight of the people whom she had thus arbitrarily detained. - -She went her way toward Gryce’s mill, and Miss Maybell pursuing hers -toward Carwell Grange, was quickly out of sight. - -A few minutes more and the glen expanded gently, so as to leave a long -oval pasture of two or three acres visible beneath, with the little -stream winding its way through the soft sward among scattered trees. -Two or three cows were peacefully grazing there, and at the same point -a converging hollow made its way into the glen at their right, and -through this also spread the forest, under whose shadow they had -already been driving for more than two miles. - -Into this, from the main road, diverged a ruder track, with a rather -steep ascent. This by-road leads up to the Grange, rather a stiff -pull. The driver had to dismount and lead his horses, and once or -twice expressed doubts as to whether they could pull their burden up -the hill. - - - [IMAGE: images/img_011_th.jpg - CAPTION: The Grange.] - - -Alice Maybell, however, offered not to get out. She was nervous, and -like a frightened child who gets its bed-clothes about its head, the -instinct of concealment prevailed, and she trembled lest some other -inquirer should cross her way less easily satisfied than the first. - -They soon reached a level platform, under the deep shadow of huge old -trees, nearly meeting overhead. The hoarse cawing of a rookery came -mellowed by short distance on the air. For all else, the place was -silence itself. - -The man came to the door of the carriage to tell his “fare” that they -had reached the Grange. - -“Stay where you are, Dulcibella, I shan’t be away many minutes,” said -the young lady, looking pale, as if she was going to execution. - -“I will, Miss Alice; but you must get a bit to eat, dear, you’re -hungry, I know by your looks; get a bit of bread and butter.” - -“Yes, yes, Dulcie,” said the young lady, not having heard a syllable -of this little speech, as looking curiously at the old place, under -whose walls they had arrived, she descended from the chaise. - -Under the leafy darkness stood two time-stained piers of stone, with a -wicket open in the gate. Through this she peeped into a paved yard, -all grass-grown, and surrounded by a high wall, with a fine mantle of -ivy, through which showed dimly the neglected doors and windows of -out-offices and stables. At the right rose, three stories high, with -melancholy gables and tall chimneys, the old stone house. - -So this was Carwell Grange. Nettles grew in the corners of the yard, -and tufts of grass in the chinks of the stone steps, and the worn -masonry was tinted with moss and lichens, and all around rose the -solemn melancholy screen of darksome foliage, high over the -surrounding walls, and outtopping the gray roof of the house. - -She hesitated at the door, and then raised the latch; but a bolt -secured it. Another hesitation, and she ventured to knock with a -stone, that was probably placed there for the purpose. - -A lean old woman, whose countenance did not indicate a pleasant -temper, put out her head from a window, and asked: - -“Well, an’ what brings _you_ here?” - -“I expected--to see a friend here,” she answered timidly; “and--and -you are Mrs. Tarnley--I _think_?” - -“I’m the person,” answered the woman. - -“And I was told to show you this--and that you would admit me.” - -And she handed her, through the iron bars of the window, a little oval -picture in a shagreen case, hardly bigger than a pennypiece. - -The old lady turned it to the light and looked hard at it, saying, -“Ay--ay--my old eyes--they won’t see as they used to--but it is -so--the old missus--yes--it’s all right, Miss,” and she viewed the -young lady with some curiosity, but her tones were much more -respectful as she handed her back the miniature. - -“I’ll open the door, please ’m.” - -And almost instantly Miss Maybell heard the bolts withdrawn. - -“Would you please to walk in--my lady? I can only bring ye into the -kitchen. The apples is in the parlour, and the big room’s full o’ -straw--and the rest o’ them is locked up. It’ll be Master I know who -ye’ll be looking arter?” - -The young lady blushed deeply--the question was hardly shaped in the -most delicate way. - -“There was a woman in a _barooche_, I think they call it, asking was -any one here, and asking very sharp after Master, and I told her he -wasn’t here this many a day, nor like to be--and ’twas that made me a -bit shy o’ you; you’ll understand, just for a bit.” - -“And is he--is your master?”--and she looked round the interior of the -house. - -“No, he b’aint come; but here’s a letter--what’s your name?” she added -abruptly, with a sudden access of suspicion. - -“Miss Maybell,” answered she. - -“Yes--well--you’ll excuse me, Miss, but I was told to be sharp, and -wide-awake, you see. Will you come into the kitchen?” - -And without awaiting her answer the old woman led the way into the -kitchen--a melancholy chamber, with two narrow windows, darkened by -the trees not far off, that overshadowed the house. - -A crooked little cur dog, with protruding ribs, and an air of -starvation, flew furiously at Miss Maybell, as she entered, and was -rolled over on his back by a lusty kick from the old woman’s shoe; and -a cat sitting before the fire, bounced under the table to escape the -chances of battle. - -A little bit of fire smouldered in a corner of the grate. An oak -stool, a deal chair, and a battered balloon-backed one, imported from -better company, in a crazed and faded state, had grown weaker in the -joints, and more ragged and dirty in its antique finery in its present -fallen fortunes. There was some cracked delf on the dresser, and -something was stewing in a tall saucepan, covered with a broken plate, -and to this the old woman directed her attention first, stirring its -contents, and peering into it for a while; and when she had replaced -it carefully, she took the letter from her pocket, and gave it to Miss -Maybell, who read it standing near the window. - -As she read this letter, which was a short one, the young lady looked -angry, with bright eyes and a brilliant flush, then pale, and then the -tears started to her eyes, and turning quite away from the old woman, -and still holding up the letter as if reading it, she wept in silence. - -The old woman, if she saw this, evinced no sympathy, but continued to -fidget about, muttering to herself, shoving her miserable furniture -this way or that, arranging her crockery on the dresser, visiting the -saucepan that sat patiently on the embers, and sometimes kicking the -dog, with an unwomanly curse, when he growled. Drying her eyes, the -young lady took her departure, and with a heavy heart left this dismal -abode; but with the instinct of propitiation, strong in the unhappy, -and with the melancholy hope of even buying a momentary sympathy, she -placed some money in the dark hand of the crone, who made her a -courtesy and a thankless “thankee, Miss,” on the step, as her eye -counted over the silver with a greedy ogle, that lay on her lean palm. - -“Nothing for nothing.” On the whole a somewhat mercenary type of -creation is the human. The post-boy reminded the young lady, as she -came to the chaise-door, that she might as well gratify him, there and -then, with the two pounds which she had promised. And this done, she -took her place beside old Dulcibella, who had dropped into a reverie -near akin to a doze, and so, without adventure they retraced their -way, and once more passing under the shadow of Gryce’s mill, entered -on their direct journey to Wyvern. - -The sun was near the western horizon, and threw the melancholy tints -of sunset over a landscape, undulating and wooded, that spread before -them, as they entered the short, broad avenue that leads through two -files of noble old trees, to the gray front of many-chimneyed Wyvern. - - - - - CHAPTER IV. - THE OLD SQUIRE AND ALICE MAYBELL. - -Wyvern is a very pretty old house. It is built of a light gray stone, -in the later Tudor style. A portion of it is overgrown with thick ivy. -It stands not far away from the high road, among grand old trees, and -is one of the most interesting features in a richly-wooded landscape, -that rises into little hills, and, breaking into rocky and -forest-darkened glens, and sometimes into dimpling hollows, where the -cattle pasture beside pleasant brooks, presents one of the prettiest -countries to be found in England. - -The old squire, Henry Fairfield, has seen his summer and his autumn -days out. It is winter with him now. - -He is not a pleasant picture of an English squire, but such, -nevertheless, as the old portraits on the walls of Wyvern here and -there testify, the family of Fairfield have occasionally turned out. - -He is not cheery nor kindly. Bleak, dark, and austere as a northern -winter, is the age of that gaunt old man. - -He is too proud to grumble, and never asked any one for sympathy. But -it is plain that he parts with his strength and his pleasures -bitterly. Of course, seeing the old churchyard, down in the hollow at -the left, as he stands of an evening on the steps, thoughts will -strike him. He does not acquiesce in death. He resents the order of -things. But he keeps his repinings to himself, and retaliates his -mortification on the people about him. - -Though his hair is snowy, and his shoulders stooped, there is that in -his length of bone and his stature that accords with the tradition of -his early prowess and activity. - -He has long been a widower--fully thirty years. He has two sons, and -no daughter. Two sons whom he does not much trust--neither of them -young--Charles and Henry. - -By no means young are they. The elder, now forty-three, the younger -only a year or two less. Charles has led a wandering life, and tried a -good many things. He had been fond of play, and other expensive -follies. He had sobered, however, people thought, and it might be his -mission, notwithstanding his wild and wasteful young days, to pay off -the debts of the estate. - -Henry, the younger son, a shrewd dealer in horses, liked being king of -his company, condescended to strong ale, made love to the bar-maid at -the “George,” in the little town of Wyvern, and affected the -conversation of dog-fanciers, horse-jockeys, wrestlers, and similar -celebrities. - -The old Squire was not much considered, and less beloved, by his sons. -The gaunt old man was, however, more feared by these matured scions -than their pride would have easily allowed. The fears of childhood -survive its pleasures. Something of the ghostly terrors of the nursery -haunt us through life, and the tyrant of early days maintains a -strange and unavowed ascendancy over the imagination, long after his -real power to inflict pain or privation has quite come to an end. - -As this tall, grim, handsome old man moves about the room, as he -stands, or sits down, or turns eastward at the Creed in church--as he -marches slowly toppling along the terrace, with his gold-headed cane -in his hand, surveying the long familiar scenes which will soon bloom -and brown no more for him--with sullen eyes, thinking his solitary -thoughts--as in the long summer evenings he dozes in the great chair -by the fire, which even in the dog-days smoulders in the drawing-room -grate--looking like a gigantic effigy of winter--a pair of large and -soft gray eyes follow, or steal towards him--removed when -observed--but ever and anon returning. People have remarked this, and -talked it over, and laughed and shook their heads, and built odd -speculations upon it. - -Alice Maybell had grown up from orphan childhood under the roof of -Wyvern. The old squire had been, after a fashion, kind to that pretty -waif of humanity, which a chance wave of fortune had thrown at his -door. She was the child of a distant cousin, who had happened, being a -clergyman, to die in occupation of the vicarage of Wyvern. Her young -mother lay, under the branches of the two great trees, in the lonely -corner of the village churchyard; and not two years later the Vicar -died, and was buried beside her. - -Melancholy, gentle Vicar! Some good judges, I believe, pronounced his -sermons admirable. Seedily clothed, with kindly patience visiting his -poor; very frugal--his pretty young wife and he were yet happy in the -light and glow of the true love that is eternal. He was to her the -nonpareil of vicars--the loveliest, wisest, wittiest, and best of men. -She to him--what shall I say? The _same_ beautiful first love. Never a -day older. Every summer threw new gold on her rich hair, and a softer -and brighter bloom on her cheeks, and made her dearer and dearer than -he could speak. He could only look and feel his heart swelling with a -vain yearning to tell the love that lighted his face with its glory -and called a mist to his kind eye. - -And then came a time when she had a secret to tell her Willie. Full of -a wild fear and delight, in their tiny drawing-room, clasped in each -other’s arms, they wept for joy, and a kind of wonder and some dim -unspoken tremblings of fear, and loved one another, it seemed, as it -were more desperately than ever. - -And then, as he read aloud to her in the evenings, her pretty fingers -were busy with a new sort of work, full of wonderful and delightful -interest. A little guest was coming, a little creature with an -immortal soul, that was to be as clever and handsome as Willie. - -“And, oh, Willie, darling, don’t you hope I may live to see it? Ah, -Willie, would not it be sad?” - -And then the Vicar, smiling through tears, would put his arms round -her, and comfort her, breaking into a rapturous castle-building and a -painting of pictures of this great new happiness and treasure that was -coming. - -And so in due time the little caps and frocks and all the tiny -wardrobe were finished; and the day came when the long-pictured -treasure was to come. It was there; but its young mother’s eyes were -dim, and the pretty hands that had made its little dress and longed to -clasp it were laid beside her, never to stir again. - -“The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away--blessed be the name of -the Lord.” Yes, blessed be the name of the Lord for that love that -outlives the separation of death--that saddens and glorifies memory -with its melancholy light, and illuminates far futurity with a lamp -whose trembling ray is the thread that draws us toward heaven. Blessed -in giving and in taking--blessed for the yearning remembrances, and -for the agony of hope. - -The little baby--the relic--the treasure was there. Poor little -forlorn baby! And with this little mute companion to look at and sit -by, his sorrow was stealing away into a wonderful love; and in this -love a consolation and a living fountain of sympathy with his darling -who was gone. - -A trouble of a new kind had come. Squire Fairfield, who wanted money, -raised a claim for rent for the vicarage and its little garden. The -Vicar hated law and feared it, and would no doubt have submitted; but -this was a battle in which the Bishop took command, and insisted on -fighting it out. It was a tedious business. - -It had lasted two years nearly, and was still alive and angry, when -the Reverend William Maybell took a cold, which no one thought would -signify. A brother clergyman from Willowford kindly undertook his duty -for one Sunday, and on the next he had died. - -The Wyvern doctor said the vis-vitæ was wanting--he had lived quite -too low, and had not stamina, and so sank like a child. - -But there was more. When on Sundays, as the sweet bell of Wyvern -trembled in the air, the Vicar had walked alone up to the old gray -porch, and saw the two trees near the ivied nook of the -churchyard-wall, a home-sickness yearned at his heart, and when the -hour came his spirit acquiesced in death. - -Old Squire Fairfield knew that it was the Bishop who really, and, as I -believe, rightly opposed him, for to this day the vicarage pays no -rent; but the proud and violent man chose to make the Vicar feel his -resentment. He beheld him with a gloomy and thunderous aspect, never a -word more would he exchange with him; he turned his back upon him; he -forbid him the footpath across the fields of Wyvern, that made the way -to church shorter. He walked out of church grimly when his sermon -began. He turned the Vicar’s cow off the common, and made him every -way feel the weight of his displeasure. - -Well, now the Vicar was dead. He had borne it all very gently and -sadly, and it was over, a page in the past, no line erasable, no line -addible for ever. - -“So Parson’s dead and buried; serve him right,” said the Squire of -Wyvern. “Thankless rascal. You go down and tell them I must have the -house up on the 24th, and if they don’t go, you bundle ’em out, Thomas -Rooke.” - -“There’ll be the Vicar’s little child there; who’s to take it in, -Squire?” asked Tom Rooke, after a hesitation. - -“You may, or the Bishop, d---- him.” - -“I’m a poor man, and, for the Bishop, he’s not like to----” - -“Let ’em try the workhouse,” said the Squire, “where many a better -man’s brat is.” - -And he gave Tom Rooke a look that might have knocked him down, and -turned his back on him and walked away. - -A week or so after he went down himself to the vicarage with Tom -Rooke. Old Dulcibella Crane went over the lower part of the house with -Tom, and the Squire strode up the stairs, and stooping his tall head -as he entered the door, walked into the first room he met with, in a -surly mood. - -The clatter of his boots prevented his hearing, till he had got well -into the room, the low crying of a little child in a cradle. He stayed -his step for a moment. He had quite forgotten that unimportant being, -and he half turned to go out again, but changed his mind. He stooped -over the cradle, and the little child’s crying ceased. It was a very -pretty face and large eyes, still wet with tears, that looked up with -an earnest wondering gaze at him from out the tiny blankets. - - - [IMAGE: images/img_019.jpg - CAPTION: - “The clatter of his boots prevented his hearing, till he had got well - into the room, the low crying of a little child in a cradle. He stayed - his step for a moment. He had quite forgotten that unimportant being, - and he half turned to go out again, but changed his mind.”] - - -Old Dulcibella Crane had gone down, and the solitude, no doubt, -affrighted it, and there was consolation even in the presence of the -grim Squire, into whose face those large eyes looked with innocent -trust. - -Who would have thought it? Below lay the little image of utter human -weakness; above stooped a statue of inflexibility and power, a strong -statue with a grim contracted eye. There was a heart, steeled against -man’s remonstrance, and a pride that would have burst into fury at a -hint of reproof. Below lay the mere wonder and vagueness of dumb -infancy. Could contest be imagined more hopeless! But “the faithful -Creator,” who loved the poor Vicar, had brought those eyes to meet. - -The little child’s crying was hushed; big tears hung in its great -wondering eyes, and the little face looked up pale and forlorn. It was -a gaze that lasted while you might count four or five. But its -mysterious work of love was done. “All things were made by Him, and -without Him was not anything made that was made.” - -Squire Fairfield walked round this room, and went out and examined the -others, and went downstairs in silence, and when he was going out at -the hall-door he stopped and looked at old Dulcibella Crane, who stood -courtesying at it in great fear, and said he-- - -“The child’ll be better at home wi’ me, up at Wyvern, and I’ll send -down for it and you in the afternoon, till--something’s settled.” - -And on this invitation little Alice Maybell and her nurse, Dulcibella -Crane, came to Wyvern Manor, and had remained there now for twenty -years. - - - - - CHAPTER V. - THE TERRACE GARDEN. - -Alice Maybell grew up very pretty; not a riant beauty, without much -colour, rather pale, indeed, and a little sad. What struck one at -first sight was a slender figure, with a prettiness in every motion. A -clear-tinted oval face, with very large dark gray eyes, such as Chaucer -describes in his beauties as “ey-es gray as glass,” with very long -lashes; her lips of a very brilliant red, with even little teeth, and -when she smiled a great many tiny soft dimples. - -This pretty creature led a lonely life at Wyvern. Between her and the -young squires, Charles and Henry, there intervened the great gulf of -twenty years, and she was left very much to herself. - -Sometimes she rode into the village with the old Squire; she sat in -the Wyvern pew every Sunday; but except on those and like occasions, -the townsfolk saw little of her. - -“’Taint after her father or mother she takes with them airs of hers; -there was no pride in the Vicar or poor Mrs. Maybell, and she’ll never -be like her mother, a nice little thing she was.” - -So said Mrs. Ford of the “George” Inn at Wyvern--but what she called -pride was in reality shyness. - -About Miss Maybell there was a very odd rumour afloat in the town. It -had got about that this beautiful young lady was in love with old -Squire Fairfield--or at least with his estate of Wyvern. - -The village doctor was standing with his back to his drawing-room -fire, and the newspaper in his left hand lowered to his knee--as he -held forth to his wife, and romantic old Mrs. Diaper--at the -tea-table. - -“If she is in love with that old man, as they say, take my word for -it, she’ll not be long out of a mad-house.” - -“How do you mean, my dear?” asked his wife. - -“I mean it is not love at all, but incipient mania. Her lonely life up -there at Wyvern would make any girl odd, and it’s setting her -mad--that’s how I mean.” - -“My dear sir,” remonstrated fat Mrs. Diaper, who was learned as well -as romantic, “romance takes very whimsical shape at times; Vanessa was -in love with Dean Swift, and very young men were passionately in love -with Ninon de l’Enclos.” - -“Tut--stuff--did I ever hear!” exclaimed Mrs. Buttle, derisively, “who -ever thought of love or romance in the matter? The young lady thinks -it would be very well to be mistress of Wyvern, and secure a -comfortable jointure, and so it would; and if she can make that -unfortunate old man fancy her in love with him, she’ll bring him to -that, I have very little doubt. I never knew a quiet minx that wasn’t -sly--smooth water.” - -In fact, through the little town of Wyvern, shut out for the most part -from the forest grounds, and old gray manor-house of the same name, it -came to be buzzed abroad and about that, whether for love, or from a -motive more sane, though less refined, pretty Miss Alice Maybell had -set her heart on marrying her surly old benefactor, whose years were -enough for her grandfather. - -It was an odd idea to get into people’s heads; but why were her large -soft gray eyes always following the Squire by stealth? - -And, after all, what is incredible of the insanities of ambition? or -the subtilty of women? - -In the stable-yard of Wyvern Master Charles had his foot in the -stirrup, and the old fellow with a mulberry-coloured face, and little -gray eyes, who held the stirrup-leather at the other side, said, -grinning-- - -“I wish ye may get it.” - -“Get what?” said Charles Fairfield, arresting his spring for a moment -and turning his dark and still handsome face, with a hard look at the -man, for there was something dry and sly in his face and voice. - -“What we was talking of--the old house and the land,” said the man. - -“Hey, is that all?” said the young squire as he was still called at -four-and-forty, throwing himself lightly into the saddle. “I’m pretty -easy about that. Why, what’s the matter?” - -“What if the old fellow took it in his head to marry?” - -“Marry--eh? well, if he did, I don’t care; but what the devil makes -you talk like that? why, man, there’s black and white, seal and -parchment for that, the house and acres are settled, Tom; and who do -you think would marry him?” - -“You’re the last to hear it; any child in the town could tell you, -Miss Alice Maybell.” - -“Oh! do they really? I did not think of that,” said the young squire, -first looking in old Tom’s hard gray eyes. Then for a moment at his -own boot thoughtfully, and then he swung himself into the saddle, and -struck his spur in his horse’s side, and away he plunged, without -another word. - -“He don’t like it, not a bit,” said Tom, following him with askance -look as he rode down the avenue. “No more do I, she’s always -a-watching of the Squire, and old Harry does throw a sheep’s eye at -her, and she’s a likely lass; what though he be old, it’s an old rat -that won’t eat cheese.” - -As Tom stood thus, he received a poke on the shoulder with the end of -a stick, and looking round saw old Squire Harry. - -The Squire’s face was threatening. “Turn about, d--n ye, what were you -saying to that boy o’ mine?” - -“Nothin’ as I remember,” lied Tom, bluntly. - -“Come, what was it?” said the hard old voice, sternly. - -“I said Blackie’d be the better of a brushin-boot, that’s all, I -mind.” - -“You lie, I saw you look over your shoulder before you said it, and -while he was talkin’ he saw me a-comin’, and he looked away--I caught -ye at it, ye pair of false, pratin’ scoundrels; ye were talkin’ o’ -me--come, what did he say, sirrah?” - -“Narra word about ye.” - -“You lie; out wi’ it, sir, or I’ll make your head sing like the church -bell.” - -And he shook his stick in his great tremulous fist, with a look that -Tom well knew. - -“Narra word about you from first to last,” said Tom; and he cursed and -swore in support of his statement, for a violent master makes liars of -his servants, and the servile vices crop up fast and rank under the -shadow of tyranny. - -“I don’t believe you,” said the Squire irresolutely, “you’re a liar, -Tom, a black liar; ye’ll choke wi’ lies some day--you--fool!” - -But the Squire seemed partly appeased, and stood with the point of his -stick now upon the ground, looking down on little Tom, with a somewhat -grim and dubious visage, and after a few moments’ silence he asked-- - -“Where’s Miss Alice?” - -“Takin’ a walk, sir.” - -“_Where_, I say?” - -“She went towards the terrace-garden,” answered Tom. - -And toward the terrace-garden walked with a stately, tottering step -the old Squire, with his great mastiff at his heels. Under the shadow -of tall trees, one side of their rugged stems lighted with the yellow -sunset, the other in soft gray, while the small birds were singing -pleasantly high over his head among quivering leaves. - -He entered the garden, ascending five worn steps of stone, between two -weather-worn stone-urns. It is a pretty garden, all the prettier -though sadder for its neglected state. Tall trees overtop its walls -from without, and those gray walls are here and there overgrown with a -luxuriant mantle of ivy; within are yew-trees and wonderfully tall old -myrtles; laurels not headed down for fifty years, and grown from -shrubs into straggling, melancholy trees. Its broad walls are now -overgrown with grass, and it has the air and solitude of a ruin. - -In this conventual seclusion, seated under the shade of a great old -tree, he saw her. The old-fashioned rustic seat on which she sat is -confronted by another, with what was once a gravel walk between. - -More erect, shaking himself up as it were, he strode slowly toward -her. Her head was supported by her hand--her book on her lap--she -seemed lost in a reverie, as he approached unawares over the thick -carpet of grass and weeds. - -“Well, lass, what brings you here? You’ll be sneezing and coughing for -this; won’t you--sneezing and coughing--a moist, dark nook ye’ve -chosen,” said Squire Harry, placing himself, nevertheless, on the seat -opposite. - -She started at the sound of his voice, and as she looked up in his -face, he saw that she had been crying. - -The Squire said nothing, but stiffly scuffled and poked the weeds and -grass at his feet, for a while, with the end of his stick, and -whistled low, some dreary old bars to himself. - -At length he said abruptly, but in a kind tone-- - -“You’re no child, now; you’ve grown up; you’re a well-thriven, -handsome young woman, little Alice. There’s not one to compare wi’ ye; -of all the lasses that come to Wyvern Church ye bear the bell, ye do, -ye bear the bell; ye know it. Don’t ye? Come, say lass; don’t ye know -there’s none to compare wi’ ye?” - -“Thank you, sir. It’s very good of you to think so--you’re always so -kind,” said pretty Alice, looking very earnestly up in his face, her -large tearful eyes wider than usual, and wondering, and, perhaps, -hoping for what might come next. - -“I’ll be kinder, may-be; never ye mind; ye like Wyvern, lass--the old -house; well, it’s snug, it is. It’s a good old English house: none o’ -your thin brick walls and Greek pillars, and scrape o’ rotten plaster, -like my Lord Wrybroke’s sprawling house, they think so fine--but they -don’t think it, only they say so, and they lie, just to flatter the -peer; d---- them. They go to London and learn courtiers’ ways there; -that wasn’t so when I was a boy; a good old gentleman that kept house -and hounds here was more, by a long score, than half a dozen fine -Lunnon lords; and you’re handsomer, Alice, and a deal better, and a -better lady, too, than the best o’ them painted, fine ladies, that’s -too nice to eat good beef or mutton, and can’t call a cabbage a -cabbage, I’m told, and would turn up their eyes, like a duck in -thunder, if a body told ’em to put on their pattens, and walk out, as -my mother used, to look over the poultry. But what was that you were -saying--I forget?” - -“I don’t think, sir--I don’t remember--was I saying anything? I--I -don’t recollect,” said Alice, who knew that she had contributed -nothing to the talk. - -“And you like Wyvern,” pursued the old man, with a gruff sort of -kindness, “well, you’re right; it’s not bin a bad home for ye, and -ye’d grieve to leave it. Ay--you’re right, there’s no place like -it--there’s no air like it, and ye love Wyvern, and ye _sha’n’t_ leave -it, Alice.” - -Alice Maybell looked hard at him; she was frightened, and also -agitated. She grew suddenly pale, but the Squire not observing this, -continued-- - -“That is, unless ye be the greatest fool in the country’s side. You’d -miss Wyvern, and the old woods, and glens, and spinnies, and, mayhap, -ye’d miss the old man a bit too--not so old as they give out though, -and ’tisn’t always the old dog gives in first--mind ye--nor the young -un that’s the best dog, neither. I don’t care that stick for my -sons--no more than they for me--that’s reason. They’re no comfort to -me, nor never was. They’d be devilish glad I was carried out o’ Wyvern -Hall feet foremost.” - -“Oh, sir, you can’t think--” - -“Hold your little fool’s tongue; I’m wiser than you. If it warn’t for -you, child, I don’t see much my life would be good for. You don’t wish -me dead, like those cubs. Hold your tongue, lass. I see some one’s bin -frightenin’ you; but I’m not going to die for a bit. Don’t you take -on; gi’e us your hand.” - -And he took it, and held it fast in his massive grasp. - -“Ye’ve been cryin’, ye fool. Them fellows bin sayin’ I’m breakin’ up. -It’s a d--d lie. I’ve a mind to send them about their business. I’d do -it as ready as put a horse over a three-foot wall; but I’ve twelve -years’ life in me yet. I’m good for fourteen years, if I live as long -as my father did. He took his time about it, and no one heard me -grumble, and I’ll take mine. Don’t ye be a fool; I tell you there’s no -one goin’ to die here, that I know of. There’s gentle blood in your -veins, and you’re a kind lass, and I’ll take care o’ you--mind, I’ll -do it, and I’ll talk to you again.” - -And so saying, he gave her hand a parting shake, and let it drop, and -rising, he turned away, and strode stiffly from the garden. He was not -often so voluble; and now the whole of this talk seemed to Alice -Maybell a riddle. He could not be thinking of marrying; but was he -thinking of leaving her the house and a provision for her life? - - - - - CHAPTER VI. - THE OLD SQUIRE UNLIKE HIMSELF. - -He talked very little that night in the old-fashioned drawing-room, -where Alice played his favourite old airs for him on the piano, which -he still called the “harpsichord.” He sat sometimes dozing, sometimes -listening to her music, in the great chair by the fire. He ruminated, -perhaps, but he did not open the subject, whatever it might be, which -he had hinted at. - - - [IMAGE: images/img_027.jpg - CAPTION: - “He sat sometimes dozing, sometimes listening to her music, in the - great chair by the fire.”] - - -But before ten o’clock came, he got up and stood with his back to the -fire. Is there any age at which folly has quite done with us, and we -cease from building castles in the air? - -“My wife was a tartar,” said he rather abruptly, “and she was always -telling me I’d marry again before she was cold in her grave, and I -made answer, ‘I’ve had enough of that market, I thank you; one wife in -a life is one too many.’ But she wasn’t like you--no more than chalk -to cheese--a head devil she was. Play me the ‘Week before Easter’ -again, lass.” - -And the young lady thrice over played that pretty but vulgar old air; -and when she paused the gaunt old Squire chanted the refrain from the -hearth-rug, somewhat quaveringly and discordantly. - -“You should have heard Tom Snedly sing that round a bowl of punch. My -sons, a pair o’ dull dogs--we were pleasanter fellows then--I don’t -care if they was at the bottom of the Lunnon canal. Gi’e us the -‘Lincolnshire Poacher,’ lass. Pippin-squeezing rascals--and never -loved me. I sometimes think I don’t know what the world’s a-comin’ to. -I’d be a younger lad by a score o’ years, if neighbours were as I -remember ’em.” - -At that moment entered old Tom Ward, who, like his master, had seen -younger, if not better days, bearing something hot in a silver tankard -on a little tray. Tom looked at the Squire. The Squire pointed to the -little table by the hearth-rug, and pulled out his great gold watch, -and found it was time for his “night-cap.” - -Tom was skilled in the brew that pleased his master, and stood with -his shrewd gray eye on him, till he had swallowed his first glass, -then the Squire nodded gruffly, and he knew all was right, and was -relieved, for every one stood in awe of old Fairfield. - -Tom was gone, and the Squire drank a second glass, slowly, and then a -third, and stood up again with his back to the fire and filled his -glass with the last precious drops of his cordial, and placed it on -the chimney-piece, and looked steadfastly on the girl, whose eyes -looked sad on the notes, while her slender fingers played those -hilarious airs which Squire Fairfield delighted to listen to. - -“Down in the mouth, lass--hey?” said the Squire with a suddenness that -made the unconscious girl start. - -When she looked up he was standing grinning upon her, from the -hearth-rug, with his glass in his fingers, and his face flushed. - -“You girls, when you like a lad, you’re always in the dumps--ain’t -ye?--mopin’ and moultin’ like a sick bird, till the fellow comes out -wi’ his mind, and then all’s right, flutter and song and new feathers, -and--come, what do you think o’ me, lass?” - -She looked at him dumbly, with a colourless and frightened face. She -saw no object in the room but the tall figure of the old man, flushed -with punch, and leering with a horrid jollity, straight before her -like a vivid magic-lantern figure in the dark. He was grinning and -wagging his head with exulting encouragement. - -Had Squire Fairfield, as men have done, all on a sudden grown insane; -and was that leering mask, the furrows and contortions of which, and -its glittering eyes, were fixing themselves horribly on her brain, a -familiar face transformed by madness? - -“Come, lass, do ye like me?” demanded the phantom. - -“Well, you’re tongue-tied, ye little fool--shame-faced, and all that, -I see,” he resumed after a little pause. “But you _shall_ answer--ye -must; you do--you like old Wyvern, the old Squire. You’d feel strange -in another place--ye would, and a younger fellow would not be a tithe -so kind as me--and I like ye well, chick-a-biddy, chick-a-biddy--ye’ll -be my little queen, and I’ll keep ye brave satins and ribbons, and -laces, and lawn; and I’ll gi’e ye the jewellery--d’ye -hear?--necklaces, and ear-rings, and bodkins, and all the rest, for -your own, mind; for the Captain nor Jack shall never hang them on wife -o’ theirs, mind ye--and ye’ll be the grandest lady has ever bin in -Wyvern this hundred years--and ye’ll have nothing to do but sit all -day in the window, or ride in the coach, and order your maids about; -and I’ll leave you every acre and stick and stone, and silver spoon, -that’s in or round about Wyvern--for you’re a good lass, and I’ll make -a woman of you; and I’d like to break them young rascals’ necks--they -never deserved a shilling o’ mine; so gi’e’s your hand, lass, and the -bargain’s made.” - -So the Squire strode a step or two nearer, extending his huge bony -hand, and Alice, aghast, stared with wide open eyes fixed on him, and -exclaiming faintly, “Oh, sir!--oh, Mr. Fairfield!” - -“_Oh_! to be sure, and _oh_, Squire Fairfield!” chuckled he, mimicking -the young lady, as he drew near; “ye need not be shy, nor scared by -me, little Alice; I like you too well to hurt the tip o’ your little -finger, look ye--and you’ll sleep on’t, and tell me all to-morrow -morning.” - -And he laid his mighty hands, that had lifted wrestlers from the -earth, and hurled boxers headlong in his day, tremulously on her two -little shoulders. “And ye’ll say good-night, and gi’e me a buss; -good-night to ye, lass, and we’ll talk again in the morning, and ye’ll -say naught, mind, to the boys, d----n ’em, till all’s settled--ye -smooth-cheeked, bright-eyed, cherry-lipped little”---- - -And here the ancient Squire boisterously “bussed” the young lady, as -he had threatened, and two or three times again, till scrubbed by the -white stubble of his chin, she broke away, with her cheeks flaming, -and still more alarmed, reached the door. - -“Say good-night, won’t ye, hey?” bawled the Squire, still in a chuckle -and shoving the chairs out of his way as he stumbled after her. - -“Good-night, sir,” cried she, and made her escape through the door, -and under the arch that opened from the hall, and up the stairs toward -her room, calling as unconcernedly as she could, but with tremulous -eagerness to her old servant, “Dulcibella, are you there?” and -immensely relieved when she heard her kindly old voice, and saw the -light of her candle. - -“I say--hallo--why wench, what the devil’s come over ye?” halloed the -voice of the old man from the foot of the stairs. “That’s the trick -of you rogues all--ye run away to draw us after; well, it won’t -do--another time. I say, good-night, ye wild bird.” - -“Thank you, sir--good-night, sir--good-night, sir,” repeated the voice -of Alice, higher and higher up the stairs, and he heard her door shut. - -He stood with a flushed face, and a sardonic grin for a while, looking -up the stairs, with his big bony hand on the banister, and wondering -how young he was; and he laughed and muttered pleasantly, and resolved -it should all be settled between them next evening; and so again he -looked at his watch, and found that she had not gone, after all, -earlier than usual, and went back to his fire, and rang the bell, and -got a second “night-cap,” as he called his flagon of punch. - -Tom remarked how straight the Squire stood that night, with his back -to the fire, eyeing him as he entered from the corners of his eyes, -with a grin, and a wicked wag of his head. - -“A dull dog, Tom. Who’s a-goin’ to hang ye? D--n ye, look brighter, or -I’ll stir ye up with the poker. Never shake your head, man; ye may -brew yourself a tankard o’ this, and ye’ll find you’re younger than ye -think for, and some of the wenches will be throwing a sheep’s eye at -you--who knows?” - -Tom did not quite know what to make of this fierce lighting up of -gaiety and benevolence. An inquisitive glance he fixed stealthily on -his master, and thanked him dubiously--for he was habitually afraid of -him; and as he walked away through the passages, he sometimes thought -the letter that came that afternoon might have told of the death of -old Lady Drayton, or some other relief of the estate; and sometimes -his suspicions were nearer to the truth, for in drowsy houses like -Wyvern, where events are few, all theses of conversation are valuable -and speculation is active, and you may be sure that what was talked of -in the town was no mystery in the servants’ hall, though more gossiped -over than believed. - -Men who are kings in very small dominions are whimsical, as well as -imperious--eccentricity is the companion of seclusion--and the Squire -had a jealous custom, in his house, which was among the oddities of -his despotism; it was simply this: the staircase up which Alice -Maybell flew, that night, to old Dulcibella and her room, is that -which ascends the northern wing of the house. A strong door in the -short passage leading to it from the hall shuts it off from the rest -of the building on that level. - -For this young lady, then, while she was still a child, Squire -Fairfield had easily made an Oriental seclusion in his household, by -locking, with his own hand, that door every night, and securing more -permanently the doors which, on other levels, afforded access to the -same wing. - -He had a slight opinion of the other sex, and an evil one of his own, -and would have no Romeo and Juliet tragedies. As he locked this door -after Miss Alice Maybell’s “good-night,” he would sometimes wag his -head shrewdly and wink to himself in the lonely oak hall, as he -dropped the key into his deep coat pocket--“safe bind, safe find,” -“better sure than sorry,” and other wise saws seconding the -precaution. - -So this night he recollected the key, as usual, which in the early -morning, when he drank his glass of beer at his room-door, he handed -to old Mrs. Durdin, who turned it in the lock, and restored access for -the day. - -This custom was too ancient--reaching back beyond her earliest -memory--to suggest the idea of an affront, and so it was acquiesced in -and never troubled Miss Maybell; the lock was not tampered with, the -door was never passed, although the Squire, versed in old saws, was -simple to rely on that security against a power that laughs at -locksmiths. - - - - - CHAPTER VII. - THE SQUIRE’S ELDEST SON COMES HOME. - -Thus was old Squire Fairfield unexpectedly transformed, and much to -the horror of pretty Alice Maybell, appeared in the character of a -lover, grim, ungainly, and without the least chance of that brighter -transformation which ultimately more than reconciles “beauty” to her -conjugal relations with the “beast.” - -Grotesque and even ghastly it would have seemed at any time. But now -it was positively dismaying, and poor troubled little Alice Maybell, -on reaching her room, sat down on the side of her bed, and to the -horror and bewilderment of old Dulcibella, wept bitterly and long. - -The harmless gabble of the old nurse, who placed herself by her side, -patting her all the time upon the shoulder, was as the sound of a -humming in the woods in summer time, or the crooning of a brook. -Though her ear was hardly conscious of it, perhaps it soothed her. - -Next day there was a little stir at Wyvern, for Charles--or as he was -oftener called, Captain Fairfield--arrived. This “elderly young -gentleman,” as Lady Wyndale called him, led a listless life there. He -did not much affect rustic amusements; he fished now and then, but -cared little for shooting, and less for hunting. His time hung heavy -on his hands, and he did not well know what to do with himself. He -smoked and strolled about a good deal, and rode into Wyvern and talked -with the townspeople. But the country plainly bored him, and not the -less that his sojourn had been in London, and the contrast made -matters worse. Alice Maybell had a headache that morning, and not -caring to meet the Squire earlier than was inevitable, chose to say -so. - -The Captain, who, travelling by the mail, had arrived at eight -o’clock, took his place at the breakfast-table at nine, and received -for welcome a gruff nod from the Squire, and the tacit permission to -grasp the knuckles which he grudgingly extended to him to shake. - -In that little drama in which the old Squire chose now to figure, his -son Charles was confoundedly in the way. - -“Well, and what were you doin’ in Lunnon all this time?” grumbled -Squire Harry when he had finished his rasher and his cup of coffee, -after a long, hard look at Charles, who, in happy unconsciousness, -crunched his toast, and read the county paper. - -“I beg your pardon, sir, I didn’t hear--you were saying?” said -Charles, looking up and lowering the paper. - -“Hoo--yes--I was saying, I don’t think you went all the way to Lunnon -to say your prayers in St. Paul’s; you’ve bin losing money in those -hells and places; when your pocket’s full away you go and leave it wi’ -them town blackguards, and back you come as empty as a broken sack to -live on me, and so on. Come, now, how much rent do you take by the -year from that place your fool of a mother left ye--the tartar!--hey?” - -“I think, sir, about three hundred a year,” answered Charles. - -“Three hundred _and eighty_,” said the old man, with a grin and a wag -of his head. “I’m not so old that I can’t remember _that_--three -hundred and eighty; and ye flung that away in Lunnon taverns and -operas, on dancers and dicers, and ye come back here without a -shillin’ left to bless yourself, to ride my horses and drink my wine; -and ye call that fair play. Come along, here.” - -And, followed by his mastiff, he marched stiffly out of the room. - -Charles was surprised at this explosion, and sat looking after the -grim old man, not knowing well what to make of it, for Squire Harry -was openhearted enough, and never counted the cost of his -hospitalities, and had never grudged him his home at Wyvern before. - -“Much he knows about it,” thought Charles; “time enough, though. If -I’m _de trop_ here I can take my portmanteau and umbrella, and make my -bow and go cheerfully.” - -The tall Captain, however, did not look cheerful, but pale and angry, -as he stood up and kicked the newspaper, which fell across his foot, -fiercely. He looked out of the window, with one hand in his pocket, in -sour rumination. Then he took his rod and flies and cigar-case, and -strolled down to the river, where, in that engrossing and monotonous -delight, celebrated of old by Venables and Walton, he dreamed away the -dull hours. - -Blessed resource for those mysterious mortals to whom nature accords -it--stealing away, as they wander solitary along the devious -river-bank, the memory, the remorse, and the miseries of life, like -the flow and music of the shadowy Lethe. - -This Captain did not look like the man his father had described -him--an anxious man, rather than a man of pleasure--a man who was no -sooner alone than he seemed to brood over some intolerable care, and, -except during the exercise of his “gentle craft,” his looks were -seldom happy or serene. - -The hour of dinner came. A party of three, by no means well assorted. -The old Squire in no genial mood and awfully silent. Charles silent -and abstracted too; his body sitting there eating its dinner, and his -soul wandering with black care and other phantoms by far-off Styx. The -young lady had her own thoughts to herself, uncomfortable thoughts. - -At last the Squire spoke to the intruder, with a look that might have -laid him in the Red Sea. - -“In my time young fellows were more alive, and had something to say -for themselves. I don’t want your talk myself over my victuals, but -you should ’a spoke to _her_--’tisn’t civil--’tweren’t the way in my -day. I don’t think ye asked her ‘How are ye?’ since ye came back. -Lunnon manners, maybe.” - -“Oh, but I assure you I did. I could not have made such an omission. -Alice will tell you I was not quite so stupid,” said Charles, raising -his eyes, and looking at her. - -“Not that it signifies, mind ye, the crack of a whip, whether ye did -or no,” continued the Squire; “but ye may as well remember that ye’re -not brother and sister exactly, and ye’ll call her Miss Maybell, and -not Alice no longer.” - -The Captain stared. The old Squire looked resolutely at the -brandy-flask from which he was pouring into his tumbler. Alice -Maybell’s eyes were lowered to the edge of her plate, and with the tip -of her finger she fiddled with the crumbs on the table-cloth. She did -not know what to say, or what might be coming. - -So soon as the Squire had quite compounded his brandy-and-water he -lifted his surly eyes to his son with a flush on his aged cheek, and -wagged his head with oracular grimness, and silence descended again -for a time upon the three kinsfolk. - -This uncomfortable party, I suppose, were off again, each on their own -thoughts, in another minute. But no one said a word for some time. - -“By-the-bye, Alice--Miss Maybell, I mean--I saw in London a little -picture that would have interested you,” said the Captain, “an -enamelled miniature of Marie Antoinette, a pretty little thing, only -the size of your watch; you can’t think how spirited and beautiful it -was.” - -“And why the dickens didn’t ye buy it, and make her a compliment of -it? Much good tellin’ her how pretty it was,” said the Squire, -sulkily; “’twasn’t for want o’ money. D---- it, in my day a young -fellow ’d be ashamed to talk of such a thing without he had it in his -pocket to make an offer of;” and the old Squire muttered sardonically -to his brandy-and-water, and neither Miss Alice nor Captain Fairfield -knew well what to say. The old man seemed bent on extinguishing every -little symptom of a lighting up of the gloom which his presence -induced. - -They came at last into the drawing-room. The Squire took his -accustomed place by the fire. In due time came his “night-cap.” Miss -Alice played his airs over and over on the piano. The Captain yawned -stealthily into his hand at intervals, and at last stole away. - -“Well, Ally, here we are at last, girl. That moping rascal’s gone to -his bed; I thought he’d never ’a gone. And now come here, ye little -fool, I want to talk to ye. Come, I say, what the devil be ye afeared -on? I’d like to see the fellow ’d be uncivil to you. My wife, as soon -as the lawyers can write out the parchments, the best settlements has -ever bin made on a Fairfield’s wife since my great uncle’s time. Why, -ye look as frightened, ye pretty little fool, as if I was a-going to -rob ye, instead of making ye lady o’ Wyvern, and giving ye every -blessed thing I have on earth. That’s right!” - -He had taken her timid little hand in his bony and tremulous grasp. - -“I’ll have ye grander than any that ever has been”--he was looking in -her face with an exulting glare of admiration--“and I’ll give ye the -diamonds for your own, mind, and I’ll have your picture took by a -painter. There was never a lady o’ Wyvern fit to hold a candle to ye, -and I’m a better man than half the young fellows that’s going; and -ye’ll do as ye like--wi’ servants, and house and horses and all--I’ll -deny ye in nothing. And why, sweetheart, didn’t you come down this -morning? Was you ailing, child--was pretty Ally sick in earnest?” - -“A headache, sir. I--I have it still--if--if you would not mind, I’ll -be better, sir, in my room. I’ve had a very bad headache. It will be -quite well, I daresay, by to-morrow. You are very kind, sir; you have -always been very kind, sir; I never can thank you--never, never, sir, -as I feel.” - -“Tut, folly, nonsense, child; wait till all’s done, and thank me then, -if ye will. I’ll make ye as fine as the queen, and finer.” Every now -and then he emphasized his harangue by kissing her cheeks and lips, -which added to her perplexity and terror, and made her skin flame with -the boisterous rasp of his stubbled chin. “And ye’ll be my little -duchess, my beauty; ye will, my queen o’ diamonds, you -roguey-poguey-woguey, as cunning as a dog-fox;” and in the midst of -these tumultuous endearments she managed to break away from the -amorous ogre, and was out of the door, and up the stairs to her room, -and old Dulcibella, before his tardy pursuit had reached the -cross-door. - -An hour has passed, and the young lady stood up, and placing her arms -about her neck, kissed old Dulcibella. - -“Will you take a candle, darling,” she said, “and go down and see -whether the cross-door is shut?” - -Down went Dulcibella, the stairs creaking under her, and the young -lady, drying her eyes, looked at her watch, drew the curtain at the -window, placed the candle on the table near it, and then, shading her -eyes with her hand, looked out earnestly. - -The window did not command the avenue, it was placed in the side of -the house. A moonlighted view she looked out upon; a soft declivity, -from whose grassy slopes rose grand old trees, some in isolation, some -in groups of twos and threes, all slumbering in the hazy light and -still air, and beyond rose, softer in the distance, gentle undulating -uplands, studded with trees, and near their summits, more thickly -clothed in forest. - -She opened the window softly, and looking out, sighed in the fresh air -of night, and heard from the hollow the distant rush and moan of -running waters, and her eye searched the foreground of this landscape. -The trunk of one of the great trees near the house seemed to become -animated, and projected a human figure, nothing awful or ghastly--a -man in a short cloak, with a wide-awake hat on. Seeing the figure in -the window, he lifted his hand, looking towards her, and approaching -the side of the house with caution, glanced this way and that till he -reached the house. - -The old servant at the same time returned and told her that the door -_was_ locked as usual. - -“You remain here, Dulcibella--no--I shan’t take a candle,” and with a -heavy sigh she left the room, and treading lightly descended the -stairs, and entered a wainscoted room, on the ground floor--with two -windows, through which came a faint reflected light. Standing close to -the nearer of these was the man with whom she had exchanged from the -upper room the signals I have mentioned. - - - - - CHAPTER VIII. - NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. - -Swiftly she went to the window and raised it without noise, and in a -moment they were locked in each other’s arms. - -“Darling, darling,” was audible; and-- - -“Oh, Ry! do you love me still?” - -“Adore you, darling! adore you, my little violet, that grew in the -shade--my only, only darling.” - -“And I have been so miserable. Oh, Ry--that heart-breaking -disappointment--that dreadful moment--you’ll never know half I felt; -as I knocked at that door, expecting to see my own darling’s face--and -then--I could have thrown myself from the rock over that glen. But -you’re here, and I have you after all--and now I must never lose you -again--never, never.” - -“Lose me, darling; you never did, and never shall; but I could not -go--I dare not. Every fellow, you know, owes money, and I’m in that -sorry plight like the rest, and just what I told you would have -happened, and that you know would have been worse; but I think that’s -all settled, and lose me! not for one moment _ever_ can you lose me, -my beautiful idol.” - -“Oh, yes--that’s so delightful, and Ry and his poor violet will be so -happy, and he’ll never love any one but her.” - -“Never, darling, never.” - -And he never did. - -“_Never_--of _course_, never.” - -“And I’m sure it could not be helped your not being at Carwell.” - -“Of course it couldn’t--how could it! Don’t you know everything? -You’re my own reasonable, wise little girl, and you would not like to -bore and worry your poor Ry. I wish to God I were my own master, and -you’d soon see then who loves you best in all the world.” - -“Oh, yes, I’m sure of it.” - -“Yes, darling, you are; if we are to be happy, you must be sure of it. -If there’s force in language, or proof in act, you can’t doubt me--you -must know how I adore you--what motive on earth could I have in saying -so, but one?” - -“None, none, darling, darling Ry--it’s only my folly, and you’ll -forgive your poor foolish little bird; and oh, Ry, is not this -dreadful--but better, I suppose, that is, when a few miserable hours -are over, and I gone--and we happy--your poor little violet and Ry -happy together for the rest of our lives.” - -“I think so, I do, all our days; and you understand everything I told -you?” - -“Everything--yes--about to-morrow morning--quite.” - -“The walk isn’t too much?” - -“Oh, nothing.” - -“And old Dulcibella shall follow you early in the day to Draunton--you -remember the name of the house?” - -“Yes, the Tanzy Well.” - -“Quite right, wise little woman, and you know, darling, you must not -stir out--quiet as it is, you might be seen; it is only a few hours’ -caution, and then we need not care; but I don’t want pursuit, and a -scene, and to agitate my poor little fluttered bird more than is -avoidable. Even when you look out of the window keep your veil down; -and--and just reach the Tanzy House, and do as I say, and you may -leave all the rest to me. Wait a moment--who’s here? No--no--nothing. -But I had better leave you now--yes, darling--it is wiser--some of the -people may be peeping, and I’ll go.” - -And so a tumultuous good-night, wild tears, and hopes, and panic, and -blessings, and that brief interview was over. - -The window was shut, and Alice Maybell in her room--the lovers not to -meet again till forty miles away; and with a throbbing heart she lay -down, to think and cry, and long for the morning she dreaded. - -Morning came, and the breakfast hour, and the old Squire over his cup -of coffee and rasher, called for Mrs. Durdin, the housekeeper, and -said he-- - -“Miss Alice, I hear, is ailing this morning; ye can see old -Dulcibella, and make out would she like the doctor should look in, and -would she like anything nice for breakfast--a slice of the goose-pie, -or _what_? and send down to the town for the doctor if she or old -Dulcibella thinks well of it, and if it should be in church time, call -him out of his pew, and find out what she’d like to eat or drink;” and -with his usual gruff nod he dismissed her. - -“I should be very happy to go to the town if you wish, sir,” said -Charles Fairfield, desiring, it would seem, to re-establish his -character for politeness, “and I’m extremely sorry, I’m sure, that -poor Ally--I mean, that Miss Maybell--is so ill.” - -“You won’t cry though, I warrant; and there’s people enough in Wyvern -to send of her messages without troubling you,” said the Squire. - -The Captain, however fiercely, had let this unpleasant speech pass -unchallenged. - -The old Squire was two or three times at the foot of the stairs before -church-time, bawling inquiries after Miss Alice’s health, and messages -for her private ear, to old Dulcibella. - -The Squire never missed church. He was as punctual as his ancestor, -old Sir Thomas Fairfield, who was there every Sunday and feast-day, -lying on his back praying, in tarnished red, blue, and gold -habiliments of the reign of James I., in which he died, and took the -form of painted stone, and has looked straight up, with his side to -the wall, and his hands joined in supplication ever since. If the old -Squire did not trouble himself with reading, nor much with prayer, and -thought over such topics as suited him, during divine service--he at -least went through the drill of the rubrics decorously, and stood -erect, sat down, or kneeled, as if he were the ordained fugleman of -his tenantry assembled in the old church. - -Captain Fairfield, a handsome fellow, notwithstanding his years, with -the keen blue eye of his race--a lazy man, and reserved, but with the -hot blood of the Fairfields in his veins, which showed itself -dangerously on occasion, occupied a corner of this great oak -enclosure, at the remote end from his father. Like him he pursued his -private ruminations with little interruption from the liturgy in which -he ostensibly joined. These ruminations were, to judge from his -countenance, of a saturnine and sulky sort. He was thinking over his -father’s inhospitable language, and making up his mind, for though -indolent, he was proud and fiery, to take steps upon it, and to turn -his back, perhaps for many a day, on Wyvern. - -The sweet old organ of Wyvern pealed, and young voices swelled the -chorus of love and praise, and still father and son were confronted in -dark antipathy. The Vicar read his text from Holy Writ, and preached -on the same awful themes; the transitoriness of our days; love, truth, -purity, eternal life, death eternal; and still this same unnatural -chill and darkness was between them. Moloch sat unseen by the old -man’s side, and in the diapason of the organ moaned his thirst for his -sacrifices. Evil spirits amused the young man’s brain with pictures of -his slights and wrongs, and with their breath heated his vengeful -heart. The dreams of both were interrupted by the Vicar’s sonorous -blessing, and they shook their ears, and kneeled down, and their -dreams came back again. - -So it was Sunday--“better day, better deed”--when a smouldering -quarrel broke suddenly into fire and thunder in the manor-house of -Wyvern. - -There is, we know, an estate of £6,000 a year, in a ring fence, round -this old house. It owes something alarming, but the parish, village, -and manor of Wyvern have belonged, time out of mind, to the Fairfield -family. - -A very red sunset, ominous of storm, floods the western sky with its -wild and sullen glory. The leaves of the great trees from whose -recesses the small birds are singing their cheery serenade, flash and -glimmer in it, as if a dew of fire had sprinkled them, and a blood-red -flush lights up the brown feathers of the little birds. - -These Fairfields are a handsome race--showing handsome, proud English -faces. Brown haired, sometimes light, sometimes dark, with generally -blue eyes, not mild, but fierce and keen. - -They are a race of athletes; tall men, famous all that country round, -generation after generation, for prowess in the wrestling ring, at -cudgels, and other games of strength. Famous, too, for worse matters. -Strong-willed, selfish, cruel, on occasion, but with a generosity and -courage that make them in a manner popular. The character of the -Fairfields has the vices, and some of the better traits of feudalism. - -Charles Fairfield had been making up his mind to talk to his father. -He had resolved to do so on his way home from church. With the cool -air and clearer light, outside the porch, came a subsidence of his -haste, and nodding here and there to friend or old acquaintance, as he -strode through the church-yard, he went a solitary way home, instead -of opening his wounds and purposes then to his father. - -“Better at home; better at Wyvern; in an hour or so I’ll make all -ready, and see him then.” - -So home, if home it was, by a lonely path, looking gloomily down on -the daisies, strode Charles Fairfield. - - - - - CHAPTER IX. - IN WHICH THE SQUIRE LOSES HIS GOLD-HEADED CANE. - -The sun, as I have said, was sinking among the western clouds with a -melancholy glare; Captain Fairfield was pacing slowly to and fro upon -the broad terrace that extends, with a carved balustrade, and many a -stone flower-pot, along the rear of the old house. The crows were -winging their way home, and the air was vocal with their faint cawings -high above the gray roof, and the summits of the mighty trees, now -glowing in that transitory light. His horse was ready saddled, and his -portmanteau and other trifling effects had been despatched some hours -before. - -“Is there any good in bidding him good-bye?” hesitated the Captain. - -He was thinking of descending the terrace steps at the further end, -and as he mounted his horse, leaving his valedictory message with the -man who held it. But the spell of childhood is not easily broken when -it has been respected for so many after-years. The Captain had never -got rid of the childish awe which began before he could remember. The -virtues are respected; but such vices as pride, violence, and -hard-heartedness in a father, are more respected still. - -Charles could approach a quarrel with that old despot; he could stand -at the very brink, and with a resentful and defiant eye scan the -abyss; but he could not quite make up his mind to the plunge. The old -beast was so utterly violent and incalculable in his anger that no one -could say to what weapons and extremities he might be driven in a -combat with him, and where was the good in avowed hostilities? Must -not a very few years, now, bring humiliation and oppression to an end? - -Charles Fairfield was saved the trouble of deciding for himself, -however, by the appearance of old Squire Harry, who walked forth from -the handsome stone door-case upon the terrace, where his son stood -ready for departure. - -The old man was walking with a measured tread, holding his head very -high, with an odd flush on his face, and a sardonic smile, and he was -talking inaudibly to himself. Charles saw in all this the signs of -storm. In the old man’s hand was a letter firmly clutched. If he saw -his son, who expected to be accosted by him, he passed him by with as -little notice as he bestowed on the tall rose-tree that grew in the -stone pot by his side. - -The Squire walked down the terrace, southward, towards the steps, the -wild sunset sky to his right, the flaming windows of the house to his -left. When he had gone on a few steps, his tall son followed him. -Perhaps he thought it better that Squire Harry should be informed of -his intended departure from his lips than that he should learn it from -the groom who held the bridle of his horse. - -The Squire did not descend the steps, however; he stopped short of -them, and sat down in one of the seats that are placed at intervals -under the windows. He leaned with both hands on his cane, the point of -which he ground angrily into the gravel; in his fingers was still -crumpled the letter. He was looking down with a very angry face, -illuminated by the wild western sky, shaking his head and muttering. - -The tall, brown Captain stalked towards him, and touched his hat, -according to his father’s reverential rule. - -“May I say a word, sir?” he asked. - -The old man stared in his face and nodded fiercely, and with this -ominous invitation he complied. - -“You were pleased, sir,” said he, “yesterday to express an opinion -that, with the income I have, I ought to support myself, and no longer -to trouble Wyvern. It was stupid of me not to think of that -myself--very stupid--and all I can do is to lose no time about it; and -so I have sent my traps away, and am going to follow now, sir; and I -couldn’t go, of course, sir, without saying farewell to you and----” -He was on the point of adding--“thanking you for all your kindness;” -but he recollected himself. _Thank_ him, indeed! No, he could not -bring himself to that. “And I am leaving now, sir, and good-bye.” - -“Ho, turning your back on Wyvern, like all the rest! Well, sir, the -world’s wide, you can choose your road. I don’t ask none o’ ye to stay -and see me off--not I. I’ll not be without some one when I die to shut -down my eyes, I dare say. Get ye gone.” - -“I thought, sir--in fact I was quite convinced,” said Charles -Fairfield, a little disconcerted, “that you had quite made up your -mind, as I have mine, sir.” - -“So I had, sir--so I had. Don’t suppose I care a rush, sir, who -goes--not a d--d rush--not I. Better an empty house than a bad -tenant.” - -Up rose the old man as he spoke, “Away with them, say I; bundle ’em -out--off wi’ them, bag and baggage; there’s more like ye--read -_that_,” and he thrust the letter at him like a pistol, and leaving it -in his hand, turned and stalked slowly up the terrace, while the -Captain read the following note:-- - - - “Sir,--I hardly venture to hope that you will ever again think of me - with that kindness which circumstances compel me so ungratefully to - requite. I owe you more than I can ever tell. I began to experience - your kindness in my infancy, and it has never failed me since. Oh, - sir, do not, I entreat, deny me one last proof of your - generosity--your _forgiveness_. I leave Wyvern, and before these lines - are in your hand, I shall have found another home. Soon, I trust, I - shall be able to tell my benefactor _where_. In the meantime may God - recompense you, as I never can, for all your goodness to me. I leave - the place where all my life has passed amid continual and unmerited - kindness with the keenest anguish. Aggravated by my utter inability at - present to repay your goodness by the poor acknowledgment of my - confidence. Pray, sir, pardon me; pray restore me to your good opinion, - or, at least if you cannot forgive and receive me again into your - favour, spare me the dreadful affliction of your detestation, and in - mercy try to forget - - “Your unhappy, but ever grateful - “Alice Maybell.” - - -When Charles Fairfield, having read this through, raised his eyes, -they lighted on the old man, returning, and now within a few steps of -him. - -“Well, there’s a lass for ye! I reared her like a child o’ my -own--better, kinder than ever child was reared, and she’s hardly come -to her full growth when she serves me like that. D--n ye, are ye -tongue-tied? _what_ do you think of her?” - -“It would not be easy, sir, on that letter, to pronounce,” said -Charles Fairfield, disconcerted. “There’s nothing there to show what -her reasons are.” - -“Ye’r no Fairfield--ye’r not, ye’r none. If ye were, ye’d know when -ye’r house was insulted; but ye’r none; ye’r a cold-blooded sneak, and -no Fairfield.” - -“I don’t see that anything I could say, sir, would mend the matter,” -said the Captain. - -“Like enough; but I’ll tell ye what I think of her,” thundered the old -man, half beside himself. And his language became so opprobrious and -frantic, that his son said, with a proud glare and a swarthy flush on -his face-- - -“I take my leave, sir; for language like that I’ll not stay to hear.” - -“But ye’ll not take ye’r leave, sir, till I choose, and ye shall -stay,” yelled the old Squire, placing himself between the Captain and -the steps. “And I’d like to know why ye shouldn’t hear her called what -she is--a -- and a --.” - -“Because she’s _my_ wife, sir,” retorted Charles Fairfield, whitening -with fury. - -“She is, is she?” said the old man, after a long gaping pause. “Then -ye’r a worse scoundrel, ye black-hearted swindler, than I took you -for--and ye’ll take that--” - -And trembling with fury, he whirled his heavy cane in the air. But -before it could descend, Charles Fairfield caught the hand that held -it. - -“None o’ that--none o’ that, sir,” he said with grim menace, as the -old man with both hands and furious purpose sought to wrest the cane -free. - -“Do you _want_ me to do it?” - -The gripe of old Squire Harry was still powerful, and it required an -exertion of the younger man’s entire strength to wring the -walking-stick from his grasp. - -Over the terrace balustrade it flew whirling, and old Squire Harry in -the struggle lost his feet, and fell heavily on the flags. - -There was blood already on his temple and white furrowed cheek, and he -looked stunned. The young man’s blood was up--the wicked blood of the -Fairfields--but he hesitated, stopped, and turned. - -The old Squire had got to his feet again, and was holding giddily by -the balustrade. His hat still lay on the ground, his cane was gone. -The proud old Squire was a tower dismantled. To be met and foiled so -easily in a feat of strength--to have gone down at the first tussle -with the “youngster,” whom he despised as a “milksop” and a “Miss -Molly,” was to the old Hercules, who still bragged of his early -prowess, and was once the lord of the wrestling ring for five and -twenty miles round, perhaps for the moment the maddest drop in the cup -of his humiliation. - -Squire Harry with his trembling hand clutched on the stone balustrade, -his tall figure swaying a little, had drawn himself up and held his -head high and defiantly. There was a little quiver in his white old -features, a wild smile in his eyes, and on his thin, hard lips, -showing the teeth that time had left him; and the blood that patched -his white hair trickled down over his temple. - -Charles Fairfield was agitated, and felt that he could have burst into -tears--that it would have been a relief to fall on his knees before -him for pardon. But the iron pride of the Fairfields repulsed this -better emotion. He did, however, approach hurriedly, with an excited -and troubled countenance, and he said hastily-- - -“I’m awfully sorry, but it wasn’t my fault; you know it wasn’t. No -Fairfield ever stood to be struck yet; I only took the stick, sir. -D--n it, if it had been my mother I could not have done it more -gently. I could not help your tripping. I couldn’t; and I’m awfully -sorry, by ----, and you won’t remember it against me? Say you won’t. -It’s the last time you’ll ever see me in life, and there’s no use in -parting at worse odds than we need; and--and--won’t you shake hands, -sir?” - -“I say, son Charlie, ye’ve spilled my blood,” said the old man. “May -God damn ye for it; and if ever ye come into Wyvern after this, while -there’s breath in my body I’ll shoot ye like a poacher.” - -And with this paternal speech, Squire Harry turned his back and -tottered stately and grimly into the house. - - - - - CHAPTER X. - THE DRIVE OVER CRESSLEY COMMON BY MOONLIGHT. - -The old Squire of Wyvern wandered from room to room, and stood in -this window and that. An hour after the scene on the terrace, he was -trembling still and flushed, with his teeth grimly set, sniffing, and -with a stifling weight at his heart. - -Night came, and the drawing-room was lighted up, and the Squire rang -the bell, and sent for old Mrs. Durdin. - -That dapper old woman, with a neat little cap on, stood prim in the -doorway and curtsied. She knew, of course, pretty well what the Squire -was going to tell her, and waited in some alarm to learn in what tone -he would make his communication. - -“Well,” said the Squire, sternly, holding his head very high, “Miss -Alice is gone. I sent for you to tell ye, as y’re housekeeper here. -She’s gone; she’s left Wyvern.” - -“She’ll be coming again, sir, soon?” said the old woman after a pause. - -“No, not she--no,” said the Squire. - -“Not returnin’ to Wyvern, sir?” - -“While there’s breath in my body she’ll never darken these doors.” - -“Sorry she should ’a displeased you, sir,” said the good-natured -little woman with a curtsey. - -“_Displease_ ye! Who said she displeased me? It ain’t the turning of a -pennypiece to me--_me_, by ----. Ha, ha! that’s funny.” - -“And--what do you wish done with the bed and the furniture, sir? Shall -I leave it still in the room, please?” - -“Out o’ window wi’t--pitch it after her; let the work’us people send -up and cart it off for the poor-house, where she should ’a bin, if I -hadn’t a bin the biggest fool in the parish.” - -“I’ll have it took down and moved, sir,” said the old woman, -interpreting more moderately; “and the same with Mrs. Crane’s room; -Dulcibella, she’s gone too?” - -“Ha, ha! well for her--plotting old witch. I’ll have her ducked in the -pond if she’s found here; and never you name them, one or t’other -more, unless you want to go yourself. I’m fifty pounds better. I -didn’t know how to manage or look after her--they’re all alike. If I -chose it I could send a warrant after her for the clothes on her back; -but let her be. Away wi’ her--a good riddance; and get her who may, I -give him joy o’ her.” - -The Squire was glad to see Tom Ward that night, and had a second -tankard of punch. - -“Old servant, Tom; I believe the old folk’s the best after all,” said -he. “It’s a d--d changed world, Tom. Things were otherwise in our -time; no matter, I’ll pay ’em off yet.” - -And old Harry Fairfield fell asleep in his chair, and after an hour -wakened up with a dream of little Ally’s music still in his ears. - -“Play it again, child, play it again,” he said, and listened--to -silence and looked about the empty room, and the sudden pain came -again, with a dreadful yearning mixed with his anger. - -The Squire cursed her for a devil, a wild-cat, a viper, and he walked -round the room with his hands clenched in his coat pockets, and the -proud old man was crying. With straining and squeezing the tears oozed -and trickled from his wrinkled eyelids down his rugged cheeks. - -“I don’t care a d--n, I hate her; I don’t know what it’s for, I be -such a fool; I’m _glad_ she’s gone, and I pray God the sneak she’s -gone wi’ may break her heart, and break his own d--d neck after, over -Carwell scaurs.” - -The old man took his candle and from old habit, in the hall, was -closing the door of the staircase that led up to her room. - -“Ay, ay,” said he, bitterly, recollecting himself, “the stable-door -when the nag’s stole. I don’t care if the old house was blown down -to-night--I wish it was. She was a kind little thing before that d--d -fellow--what could she see in him--good for nothing--old as I am, I’d -pitch him over my head like a stook o’ barley. Here was a plot, she -was a good little thing, but see how she was drew into it, d--n her, -they’re all so false. I’ll find out who was in it, I will; I’ll find -it all out. There’s Tom Sherwood, _he’s_ one. I’ll pitch ’em all out, -neck and crop, out o’ Wyvern doors. I’d rather fill my house wi’ rats -than the two-legged vermin. Let ’em pack away to Carwell and starve -with that big pippin-squeezing ninny. I hope in God’s justice he’ll -never live to put his foot in Wyvern. I could shoot myself, I think, -but for that. She might ’a waited till the old man died, at any rate; -I was kind to her--a fool--a fool.” - -And the tall figure of the old man, candle in hand, stalked slowly -from the dim hall and vanished up the other staircase. - -While this was going on at Wyvern, nearly forty miles away, under the -bright moonlight, a chaise, in which were seated the young lady whose -departure had excited so strange a sensation there, and her faithful -old servant, Dulcibella Crane, was driving rapidly through a -melancholy but not unpleasing country. - -A wide undulating plain, with here and there patches of picturesque -natural wood, oak, and whitethorn, and groups of silver-stemmed -birch-trees spread around them. Those were the sheep-walks of Cressley -Common. The soil is little better than peat, over which grows a short -velvet verdure, altogether more prized by lovers of the picturesque -than by graziers of Southdowns. Could any such scene look prettier -than it did in the moonlight? The solitudes, so sad and solemn, the -lonely clumps and straggling trees, the gentle hollows and hills, and -the misty distance in that cold illusive light acquire the interest -and melancholy of mystery. - -The young lady’s head was continually out of the window, sometimes -looking forward, sometimes back, upon the road they had traversed. -With an anxious look and a heavy sigh she threw herself back in her -seat. - -“You’re not asleep, Dulcibella?” she said, a little peevishly. - -“No Miss, no dear.” - -“You don’t seem to have much to trouble you?” continued the young -lady. - -“_I_? Law bless you, dear, nothing, thank God.” - -“None of your own, and my troubles don’t vex you, that’s plain,” said -her young mistress, reproachfully. - -“I did not think, dear, you was troubled about anything--law! I hope -nothing’s gone wrong, darling,” said the old woman with more energy -and a simple stare in her mistress’s face. - -“Well, you know he said he’d be with us as we crossed Cressley Common, -and this is it, and he’s not here, and I see no sign of him.” - -And the young lady again popped her head out of the window, and, her -survey ended, threw herself back once more with another melancholy -moan. - -“Why, Miss Alice, dear, you’re not frettin’ for that?” said -Dulcibella. “Don’t you know, dear, if he isn’t here he’s somewhere -else? We’re not to be troubling ourselves about every little thing -like, and who knows, poor gentleman, what’s happened to delay him?” - -“That’s just what I say, Dulcibella; you’ll set me mad! Something has -certainly happened. You know he owes money. Do you think they have -arrested him? If they have, what’s to become of us? Oh! Dulcibella, -_do_ tell me what you really think.” - -“No, no, no--there now--there’s a darling, don’t you be worrying -yourself about nothing; look out again, and who knows but he’s -coming?” - -So said old Dulcibella, who was constitutionally hopeful and -contented, and very easy about Master Charles, as she still called -Charles Fairfield. - -She was not remarkable for prescience, but here the worthy creature -fluked prophetically; for Alice Maybell, taking her advice, did look -out again, and she thought she saw the distant figure of a horseman in -pursuit. - -She rattled at the window calling to the driver, and the man who sat -beside him, and succeeded in making them hear her, and pull the horses -up. - -“Look back and see if that is not your master coming,” she cried -eagerly. - -He was still too distant for recognition, but the rider was -approaching fast. The gentlemen of the road, once a substantial -terror, were now but a picturesque tradition; the appearance of the -pursuing horseman over the solitudes of Cressley Common would else -have been anything but a source of pleasant anticipation. On he came, -and now the clink of the horse-shoes sounded sharp on the clear night -air. And now the rider passed the straggling trees they had just left -behind them, and now his voice was raised and recognised, and in a few -moments more, pale and sad in the white moonlight as Leonora’s phantom -trooper, her stalwart lover pulled up his powerful hunter at the -chaise window. - -A smile lighted up his gloomy face as he looked in. - -“Well, darling, I _have_ overtaken you at Cressley Common; and is my -little woman quite well, and happy to see her Ry once more?” - -His hand had grasped hers as he murmured these words through the -window. - -“Oh, Ry, darling--I’m so happy--you must let Tom ride the horse on, -and do you come in and sit here, and Dulcibella can take my cloaks and -sit by the driver. Come, darling, I want to hear everything.” - -And so this little arrangement was completed, as she said, and Charles -Fairfield sat himself beside his beautiful young wife, and as they -drove on through the moonlit scene, he pressed her hand and kissed her -lovingly. - - - - - CHAPTER XI. - HOME. - -“Oh, darling, I can scarcely believe it,” she murmured, smiling, and -gazing up with her large soft eyes into his, “it seems to me like -heaven that I can look, and speak, and say everything without danger, -or any more concealment, and always have my Ry with me--never to be -separated again, you know, darling, while we live.” - -“Poor little woman,” said he, fondly, looking down with an answering -smile, “she does love me a little bit, I think.” - -“And Ry loves his poor little bird, doesn’t he?” - -“Adores her--idolatry--_idolatry_.” - -“And we’ll be so happy!” - -“I hope so, darling.” - -“_Hope_?” echoed she, chilled, and a little piteously. - -“I’m _sure_ of it, darling--quite certain,” he repeated, laughing -tenderly; “she’s such a foolish little bird, one must watch their -phrases; but I was only thinking--I’m afraid you hardly know what a -place this Carwell is.” - -“Oh, darling, you forget I’ve seen it--the most picturesque spot I -ever saw--the very place I should have chosen--and any place you know, -with you! But that’s an old story.” - -His answer was a kiss, and-- - -“Darling, I can never deserve half your love.” - -“All I desire on earth is to live alone with my Ry.” - -“Yes, darling, we’ll make out life very well here, I’m sure--my only -fear is for you. I’ll go out with my rod, and bring you home my basket -full of trout, or sometimes take my gun, and kill a hare or a rabbit, -and we’ll live like the old Baron and his daughters in the -fairy-tale--on the produce of the streams, and solitudes about -us--quite to ourselves; and I’ll read to you in the evenings, or we’ll -play chess, or we’ll chat while you work, and I’ll tell you stories of -my travels, and you’ll sing me a song, won’t you?” - -“Too delighted--singing for joy,” said little Alice, in a rapture at -his story of the life that was opening to them, “oh, tell more.” - -“Well--yes--and you’ll have such pretty flowers.” - -“Oh, yes--flowers--I love them--not expensive ones--for we are poor, -you know; and you’ll see how prudent I’ll be--but annuals, they are so -cheap--and I’ll sow them myself, and I’ll have the most beautiful you -ever saw. Don’t you love them, Ry?” - -“Nothing so pretty, darling, on earth, except yourself.” - -“What is my Ry looking out for?” - -Charles Fairfield had more than once put his head out of the window, -looking as well as he could along the road in advance of the horses. - -“Oh, nothing of any consequence, I only wanted to see that our man had -got on with the horse, he might as well knock up the old woman, and -see that things were, I was going to say, comfortable, but less -miserable than they might be.” - -He laughed faintly as he said this, and he looked at his watch, as if -he did not want her to see him consult it, and then he said-- - -“Well, and you were saying--oh--about the flowers--annuals--Yes.” - -And so they resumed. But somehow it seemed to Alice that his ardour -and his gaiety were subsiding, that his thoughts were away, and pale -care stealing over him like the chill of death. Again she might have -remembered the ghostly Wilhelm, who grew more ominous and spectral as -he and his bride neared the goal of their nocturnal journey. - -“I don’t think you hear me, Ry, and something has gone wrong,” she -said at last in a tone of disappointment, that rose even to alarm. - -“Oh! tell me, Charlie, if there is anything you have not told me yet? -you’re afraid of frightening me.” - -“Nothing, nothing, I assure you, darling; what nonsense you do talk, -you poor foolish little bird. No, I mean nothing, but I’ve had a sort -of quarrel with the old man; you need not have written that letter, or -at least it would have been better if you had told me about it.” - -“But, darling, I couldn’t, I had no opportunity, and I could not leave -Wyvern, where he had been so good to me all my life, without a few -words to thank him, and to entreat his pardon; you’re not angry, -darling, with your poor little bird?” - -“Angry, my foolish little wife, you little know your Ry; he loves his -bird too well to be ever angry with her for anything, but it was -unlucky, at least his getting it just when he did, for, you may -suppose, it did not improve his temper.” - -“Very angry, I’m afraid, was he? But though he’s so fiery, he’s -generous; I’m sure he’ll forgive us, in a little time, and it will all -be made up; don’t you think so?” - -“No, darling, I don’t. Take this hill quietly, will you?” he called -from the window to the driver; “you may walk them a bit, there’s near -two miles to go still.” - -Here was another anxious look out, and he drew his head in, muttering, -and then he laid his hand on hers, and looked in her face and smiled, -and he said-- - -“They are such fools, aren’t they? and--about the old man at -Wyvern--oh, no, you mistake him, he’s not a man to forgive; we can -reckon on nothing but mischief from that quarter, and, in fact, he -knows all about it, for he chose to talk about you as if he had a -right to scold, and that I couldn’t allow, and I told him so, and that -you were my wife, and that no man living should say a word against -you.” - -“My own brave Ry; but oh! what a grief that I should have made this -quarrel; but I love you a thousand times more; oh, my darling, we are -everything now to one another.” - -“Ho! never mind,” he exclaimed with a sudden alacrity, “there he is. -All right, Tom, is it?” - -“All right, sir,” answered the man whom he had despatched before them -on the horse, and who was now at the roadside still mounted. - -“He has ridden back to tell us she’ll have all ready for our -arrival--oh, no, darling,” he continued gaily, “don’t think for a -moment I care a farthing whether he’s pleased or angry. He never liked -me, and he cannot do us any harm, none in the world, and sooner or -later Wyvern _must_ be mine;” and he kissed her and smiled with the -ardour of a man whose spirits are, on a sudden, quite at ease. - -And as they sat, hand pressed in hand, she sidled closer to him, with -the nestling instinct of the bird, as he called her, and dreamed that -if there were a heaven on earth, it would be found in such a life as -that on which she was entering, where she would have him “all to -herself.” And she felt now, as they diverged into the steeper road and -more sinuous, that ascended for a mile the gentle wooded uplands to -the grange of Carwell, that every step brought her nearer to Paradise. - -Here is something paradoxical; is it? that this young creature should -be so in love with a man double her own age. I have heard of cases -like it, however, and I have read, in some old French writer--I have -forgot who he is--the rule laid down with solemn audacity, that there -is no such through-fire-and-water, desperate love as that of a girl -for a man past forty. Till the hero has reached that period of -autumnal glory, youth and beauty can but half love him. This -encouraging truth is amplified and emphasized in the original. I -extract its marrow for the comfort of all whom it may concern. - -On the other hand, however, I can’t forget that Charles Fairfield had -many unusual aids to success. In the first place, by his looks, you -would have honestly guessed him at from four or five years under his -real age. He was handsome, dark, with white even teeth, and fine dark -blue eyes, that could glow ardently. He was the only person at Wyvern -with whom she could converse. He had seen something of the world, -something of foreign travel; had seen pictures, and knew at least the -names of some authors; and in the barbarous isolation of Wyvern, where -squires talked of little but the last new plough, fat oxen, and -kindred subjects, often with a very perceptible infusion of the -country _patois_--he was to a young lady with any taste either for -books or art, a resource, and a companion. - -And now the chaise was drawing near to Carwell Grange. With a -childish delight she watched the changing scene from the window. The -clumps of wild trees drew nearer to the roadside. Winding always -upward, and steeper and steeper, was the narrow road. The wood -gathered closer around them. The trees were loftier and more solemn, -and cast sharp shadows of foliage and branches on the white roadway. -All the way her ear and heart were filled with the now gay music of -her lover’s talk. At last through the receding trees that crowned the -platform of the rising grounds they had been ascending, gables, -chimneys, and glimmering windows showed themselves in the broken -moonlight; and now rose before them, under a great ash tree, a -gatehouse that resembled a small square tower of stone, with a steep -roof, and partly clothed in ivy. No light gleamed from its windows. -Tom dismounted, and pushed open the old iron gate that swung over the -grass-grown court with a long melancholy screak. - -It was a square court with a tolerably high wall, overtopped by the -sombre trees, whose summits, like the old roofs and chimneys, were -silvered by the moonlight. - -This was the front of the building, which Alice had not seen before, -the great entrance and hall-door of Carwell Grange. - - - - - CHAPTER XII. - THE OMEN OF CARWELL GRANGE. - -The high wall that surrounded the courtyard, and the towering foliage -of the old trees, were gloomy. Still if the quaint stone front of the -house had shown through its many windows the glow of life and welcome, -I dare say the effect of those sombre accessories would have been lost -in pleasanter associations, and the house might have showed cheerily -and cozily enough. As it was, with no relief but the cold moonlight -that mottled the pavement and tipped the chimney tops, the silence and -deep shadow were chilling, and it needed the deep enthusiasm of true -love to see in that dismal frontage the delightful picture that Alice -Maybell’s eyes beheld. - -“Welcome, darling, to our poor retreat, made bright and beautiful by -your presence,” said he, with a gush of tenderness; “but how unworthy -to receive you none knows better than your poor Ry. Still for a short -time--and it will be but short--you will endure it. Delightful your -presence will make it to me; and to you, darling, my love will perhaps -render it tolerable. Take my hand, and get down; and welcome to -Carwell Grange.” - -Lightly she touched the ground, with her hand on his strong arm, for -love rather than for assistance. - -“I know how I shall like this quaint, quiet place,” said she, “love -it, and grow perhaps fit for no other, if only my darling is always -with me. You’ll show it all to me in daylight to-morrow--won’t you?” - -Their little talk was murmured, and unheard by others, under friendly -cover of the snorting horses, and the talk of the men about the -luggage. - -“But I must get our door opened,” said he with a little laugh; and -with the heavy old knocker he hammered a long echoing summons at the -door. - -In a minute more lights flickered in the hall. The door was opened, -and the old woman smiling her best, though that was far from being -very pleasant. Her eye was dark and lifeless and never smiled, and -there were lines of ill-temper, or worse, near them which never -relaxed. Still she was doing her best, dropping little courtesies all -the time, and holding her flaring tallow candle in its brass -candlestick, and thus illuminating the furrows and minuter wrinkles of -her forbidding face with a yellow light that suited its box-wood -complexion. - -Behind her, with another mutton-fat, for this was a state occasion, -stood a square-shouldered little girl, some twelve years old, with a -brown, somewhat flat face, and no good feature but her dark eyes and -white teeth. This was Lilly Dogger, who had been called in to help the -crone who stood in the foreground. With a grave, observing stare, she -was watching the young lady, who, smiling, stepped into the hall. - -“Welcome, my lady--very welcome to Carwell,” said the old woman. -“Welcome, Squire, very welcome to Carwell.” - -“Thank you very much. I’m sure I shall like it,” said the young lady, -smiling happily; “it is such a fine old place; and it’s so quiet--I -like quiet.” - -“Old enough and quiet enough, anyhow,” answered the old woman. “You’ll -not see many new faces to trouble you here, Miss--Ma’am, my lady, I -mean.” - -“But we’ll all try to make her as pleasant and as comfortable as we -can!” said Charles Fairfield, clapping the old woman on the shoulder a -little impatiently. - -“There don’t lay much in _my_ way to make her time pass pleasant, -Master Charles; but I suppose we’ll all do what we can?” - -“And more we can’t,” said Charles Fairfield. “Come, darling. I -suppose there’s a bit of fire somewhere; it’s a little cold, isn’t -it?” - -“A fire burning all day, sir, in the cedar-room; and the kettle’s -a-boiling on the hob, if the lady ’d like a cup o’ tea?” - -“Yes, of course,” said Charles; “and a fire in the room upstairs?” - -“Yes, so there is, sir, a great fire all day long, and everything well -aired.” - -“Well, darling, shall we look first at the cedar-room?” he asked, and -smiling, hand in hand, they walked through the hall, and by a -staircase, and through a second and smaller hall, with a back stair -off it, and so into a comfortable panelled-room, with a great cheery -fire of mingled coal and wood, and old-fashioned furniture, which -though faded, was scrupulously neat. - -Old and homely as was the room, it agreeably surprised Alice, who was -prepared to be delighted with everything, and at sight of this, -exclaimed quite in a rapture--so honest a rapture that Charles -Fairfield could not forbear laughing, though he felt also very -grateful. - -“Well, I admit,” he said, looking round, “it does look wonderfully -comfortable, all things considered; but here, I am afraid, is the -beginning and the end of our magnificence--for the present, of course, -and by-and-by, little by little, we may improve and extend; but I -don’t think in the whole house there’s a habitable room--sitting-room -I mean--but this,” he laughed. - -“It is the pleasantest room I ever was in, Charlie--a delightful -room--I’m more than content,” said she. - -“You are a good little creature,” said he, “at all events, the best -little wife in the world, determined to make the best of everything, -and as I said, we certainly shall be better very soon, and in the mean -time, good humour and cheerfulness will make our quarters, poor as -they are, brighter and better than luxury and ill-temper could find in -a palace. Here are tea-things, and a kettle boiling--very primitive, -very cosy--we’ll be more like civilised people to-morrow or next day, -when we have had time to look about us, and in the meantime, suppose I -make tea while you run upstairs and put off your things--what do you -say?” - -“Yes, certainly,” and she looked at the old woman, who stood with her -ominous smile at the door. - -“I ought to have told you her name, Mildred Tarnley--the _genius -loci_. Mildred, you’ll show your mistress to her room.” - -And he and his young wife smiled a mutual farewell. A little curious -she was to see something more of the old house, and she peeped about -her as she went up, and asked a few questions as they went along. “And -this room,” she asked, peeping into a door that opened from the back -stairs which they were ascending, “it has such a large fireplace and -little ovens, or what are they?” - -“It was the still-room once, my lady, my mother remembered the time, -but it was always shut up in my day.” - -“Oh, and can you tell me--I forget--where is my servant?” - -“Upstairs, please, with your things, ma’am, when the man brought up -your boxes.” - -Still looking about her and delaying, she went on. There was nothing -stately about this house; but there was that about it which, if Alice -had been in less cheerful and happy spirits, would have quelled and -awed her. Thick walls, windows deep sunk, double doors now and then, -wainscoting, and oak floors, warped with age. - -On the landing there was an archway admitting to a gallery. In this -archway was no door, and, on the landing, Alice Fairfield, as I may -now call her, stood for a moment and looked round. - -Happy as she was, I cannot tell what effect these faintly lighted -glimpses of old and desolate rooms, aided by the repulsive -companionship of her ancient guide, may have insensibly wrought upon -her imagination, or what a trick that faculty may have just then -played upon her senses, but turning round to enter the gallery under -the open arch, the old woman standing by her, with the candle raised a -little, Alice Fairfield stepped back, startled, with a little -exclamation of surprise. - - - [IMAGE:images/img_057.jpg - CAPTION: THE OMEN OF CARWELL GRANGE.] - - -The ugly face of old Mildred Tarnley peeped curiously over the young -lady’s shoulder. She stepped before her and peered, right and left, -into the gallery; and then, with ominous inquiry into the young lady’s -eyes, “I thought it might be a bat, my lady; there was one last night -got in,” she said; “but there’s no such a thing now--was you afeared -of anything, my lady?” - -“I--didn’t you see it?” said the young lady, both frightened and -disconcerted. - -“I saw’d nothing, ma’am.” - -“It’s very odd. I _did_ see it; I _swear_ I saw it, and felt the air -all stirred about my face and dress by it.” - -“On here, miss--my lady; was it?” - -“Yes; _here_, before us. I--weren’t you looking?” - -“Not that way, miss--I don’t know,” she said. - -“Well, something fell down before us--all the way--from the top to the -bottom of this place.” - -And with a slight movement of her hand and eyes, she indicated the -open archway before which they stood. - -“Oh, lawk! Well, I dare to say it may a bin a fancy, just.” - -“Yes; but it’s very odd--a great heavy curtain of black fell down in -folds from the top to the floor just as I was going to step through. -It seemed to make a little cloud of dust about our feet; and I felt a -wind from it quite distinctly.” - -“Hey, then it was a _black_ curtain, I suppose,” said the old woman, -looking hard at her. - -“Yes--but why do you suppose so?” - -“Sich nonsense is always black, ye know. I see’d nothing--nothing--no -more there was nothing. Didn’t ye see me walk through?” - -And she stepped back and forward, candle in hand, with an -uncomfortable laugh. - -“Oh, I know perfectly well there is nothing; but I saw it. I--I wish -I hadn’t,” said the young lady. - -“I wish ye hadn’t, too,” said Mildred Tarnley, pale and lowering. -“Them as says their prayers, they needn’t be afeard o’ sich things; -and, for my part, I never see’d anything in the Grange, and I’m an old -woman, and lived here girl, and woman, good sixty years and more.” - -“Let us go on, please,” said Alice. - -“At your service, my lady,” said the crone, with a courtesy, and -conducted her to her room. - - - - - CHAPTER XIII. - AN INSPECTION OF CARWELL GRANGE. - -Through an open door, at the end of this short gallery, the pleasant -firelight gleamed, sufficiently indicating the room that had been -prepared for her reception. She felt a little oddly and frightened, and -the sight of old Dulcibella Crane in the cheerful light, busily -unpacking her boxes, reassured her. - -The grim old woman, Mildred Tarnley, stopped at the door. - -“It’s very well aired, ma’am,” she said, making a little courtesy. - -“It looks very comfortable; thank you--everything so neat; and such a -bright nice fire,” said Alice, smiling on her as well as she could. - -“There’s the tapestry room, and the leather room; but they’re not so -dry as this, though it’s wainscot.” - -“Oak, I think--isn’t it?” said the young lady, looking round. - -“Yes, ma’am; and there’s the pink paper chamber and dressing room; but -they’re gone very poor--and the bed and all that being in here, I -thought ’twas the best o’ the lot; an’ there’s lots o’ presses and -cupboards in the wall, and the keys in them, and the locks all right; -and I do think it’s the most comfortablest room, my lady. That is the -dressing-room in there, please; and do you like some more wood or coal -on the fire, ma’am?” - -“Not any; it is very nice--thanks.” - -And Alice sat down before the fire, and the smile seemed to evaporate -in its glow, and she looked very grave--and even anxious. Mildred -Tarnley made her courtesy, looked round the room, and withdrew. - -“Well, Dulcibella, when are you going to have your tea?” asked Alice, -kindly. - -“I’ll make a cup here, dear, if you think I may, after I’ve got your -things in their places, in a few minutes’ time.” - -“Would you like that better than taking it downstairs with the -servant?” - -“Yes, dear, I would.” - -“I don’t think you like her, Dulcibella?” - -“I can’t say I mislike her, dear; I han’t spoke ten words wi’ her--she -may be very nice--I don’t know.” - -“There’s something not very pleasant about her face, don’t you think?” -said Alice. - -“Well, dear, but you _are_ sharp; there’s no hiding my thoughts from -you; but there’s many a face we gets used to that doesn’t seem so -agreeable-like at first. I think this rack ’ll do very nice for -hanging your cloak on,” she said, taking it from the young lady’s -hands. “You’re tired a bit, I’m afeard; ye look a bit tired--ye do.” - -“No, nothing,” said her young mistress, “only I can’t help feeling -sorry for poor old Wyvern and the Squire, old Mr. Fairfield--it seems -so unkind; and there was a good deal to think about; and, I don’t know -how, I feel a little uncomfortable, in spite of so much that should -cheer me; and now I must run down and take a cup of tea--come with me -to the top of the stairs, and just hold the candle till I have got -down.” - -When she reached the head of the stairs she was cheered by the sound -of Charles Fairfield’s voice, singing, in his exuberant jollity, the -appropriate ditty, “Jenny, put the kettle on,--Barney, blow the -bellows strong,” &c. - -And, hurrying downstairs, she found him ready to make tea, with his -hand on the handle of the tea-pot, and the fire brighter than ever. - -“Well, you didn’t stay very long, good little woman. I was keeping up -my spirits with a song; and, in spite of my music, beginning to miss -you.” - -And, meeting her as she entered the room, he led her, with his arm -about her waist, to a chair, in which, with a kiss, he placed her. - -“All this seems to me like a dream. I can’t believe it; but, if it be, -woe to the fool who wakes me! No, darling, it’s no dream, is it?” he -said, smiling, and kissed her again. “The happiest day of _my_ life,” -he said, and through his eyes smiled upon her a flood of the tenderest -love. - -A little more such talk, and then they sat down to that memorable cup -of tea--“the first in our own house.” - -The delightful independence--the excitement, the importance--_all_ our -own--cups, spoons, room, servants--and the treasure secured, and the -haven of all our hopes no longer doubtful or distant. Glorious, -beautiful dream! from which death, wrinkles, duns, are quite -obliterated. Sip while you may, your pleasant cup of--madness, from -that fragile, pretty china, and may the silver spoon wherewith you -stir it, prove to have come into the world at the moment of your -birth, where fortune is said to place it sometimes. Next morning the -sun shone clear over Carwell Grange, bringing into sharp relief the -joints and wrinkles of the old gray masonry, the leaves and tendrils -of the ivy, and the tufts of grass which here and there sprout fast in -the chinks of the parapet, and casting, with angular distinctness upon -the shingled roof, the shadows of the jackdaws that circled about the -old chimney. A twittering of small birds fills the air, and the solemn -cawing comes mellowed on the ear from the dark rookery at the other -side of the ravine, that, crossing at the side of the Grange, -debouches on the wider and deeper glen that is known as the Vale of -Carwell. - -Youth enjoys a change of abode, and with the instinct of change and -adventure proper to its energies, delights in a new scene. - -Charles Fairfield accompanied his young wife, who was full of -curiosity, and her head busy with a hundred plans, as in gay and eager -spirits she surveyed her little empire. - -“This is the garden--I tell you, lest you should mistake it for the -forest where the enchanted princess slept, surrounded by great trees -and thickets--it excels even the old garden at Wyvern. There are -pear-trees, and plum, and cherry, and apple. Upon my word, I forgot -they were so huge, and the jungles are raspberries and gooseberries -and currants. Did you ever see such thickets, and nettles between. I’m -afraid you’ll not make much of this. When I was a boy those great -trees looked as big and mossgrown as they do now, and bore such odd -crabbed little fruit, and not much even of that.” - -“It will be quite beautiful when it is weeded, and flowers growing in -the shade, and climbing plants trained up the stems of the trees, and -it shan’t cost us anything; but you’ll see how wonderfully pretty it -will be.” - -“But what is to become of all your pretty plans, if flowers won’t grow -without sun. I defy any fairy--even my own bright little one--to make -them grow here; but, if you won’t be persuaded, by all means let us -try. I think there’s sunshine wherever you go, and I should not -wonder, after all, if nature relented, and beautiful miracles were -accomplished under your influence.” - -“I know you are laughing at me,” she said. - -“No, darling--I’ll never laugh at you--you can make me believe -whatever you choose; and now that we have looked over all the wild -beauties of our neglected paradise, in which, you good little -creature, you are resolved to see all kinds of capabilities and -perfections--suppose we go now to the grand review of our goods and -chattels, that you planned at breakfast--cups, saucers, plates, -knives, forks, spoons, and all such varieties.” - -“Oh, yes, let us come, Ry, it will be such fun, and so useful, and old -Mrs. Tarnley said she would have a list made out,” said Alice, to whom -the new responsibilities and dignities of her married state were full -of interest and importance. - -So in they came together, and called for old Mildred, with a list of -their worldly goods; and they read the catalogue together, with every -now and then a peal of irrepressible laughter. - -“I had not an idea how near we were to our last cup and saucer,” said -Charles, “and the dinner-service is limited to seven plates, two of -which are cracked.” - -The comic aspect of their poverty was heightened, perhaps, by Mrs. -Tarnley’s peculiar spelling. The old woman stood in the doorway of the -sitting-room while the revision was proceeding, mightily displeased at -this levity, looking more than usually wrinkled and bilious, and -rolling her eyes upon them, from time to time, with a malignant ogle. - -“I was never good at the pen--I know that--but your young lady desired -me, and I did my best, and very des_pick_able it be, no doubt,” said -Mildred, with grizzly scorn. - -“Oh, my! I am so sorry--I assure you, Mrs. Tarnley--pray tell her, -Charlie--we were laughing only at there being so few things left.” - -“Left! I don’t know what ye mean by _left_, ma’am--there’s not another -woman as ever I saw would keep his bit o’ delf and chaney half as long -as me; I never was counted a smasher o’ things--no more I was.” - -“But we didn’t think you broke them; did we, Charlie?” appealed poor -little Alice, who, being new to authority, was easily bullied. - -“Nonsense, old Mildred--don’t be a fool,” said Charles Fairfield, not -in so conciliatory a tone as Alice would have wished. - -“Well, fool’s easily said, and there’s no lack o’ fools, high or low, -Master Charles, and I don’t pretend to be no scholar; but I’ve read -that o’er much laughing ends, ofttimes, in o’er much crying--the Lord -keep us all from grief.” - -“Hold your tongue--what a bore you are,” exclaimed he, sharply. - -Mrs. Tarnley raised her chin, and looked askance, but made no answer, -she was bitter. - -“Why the devil, old Mildred, can’t you try to look pleasant for once?” -he persisted. “I believe there’s not a laugh _in_ you, nor even a -smile, is there?” - -“I’m not much given to laughin’, thankee, sir, and there’s people, -mayhap, should be less so, if they’d only take warnin’, and mind what -they seed over night; and if the young lady don’t want me no longer, -I’d be better back in the kitchen before the chicken burns, for -Lilly’s out in the garden rootin’ out the potatoes for dinner.” - -And after a moment’s silence she dropped a little courtesy, and -assuming permission, took her departure. - - - - - CHAPTER XIV. - A LETTER. - -Alice looked a little paler, her husband a little discontented. Each -had a different way of reading her unpleasant speech. - -“Don’t mind that old woman, darling, don’t let her bore you. I do -believe she has some as odious faults as are to be found on earth.” - -“I don’t know what she means by a warning,” said Alice. - -“Nor I, darling, I am sure; perhaps she has had a winding-sheet on her -candle, or a coffin flew out of the fire, or a death-watch ticked in -the wainscot,” he answered. - -“A warning, what could she mean?” repeated Alice, slowly, with an -anxious gaze in his eyes. - -“My darling, how can you? A stupid old woman!” said he a little -impatiently, “and thoroughly ill-conditioned. She’s in one of her -tempers, just because we laughed, and fancied it was at her; and -there’s nothing she’d like better than to frighten you, if she could. -I’ll pack her off, if I find her playing any tricks.” - -“Oh, the poor old thing, not for the world; she’ll make it up with me, -you’ll find; I don’t blame her the least, if she thought that, and -I’ll tell her we never thought of such a thing.” - -“Don’t mind her, she’s not worth it--we’ll just make out a list of the -things that we want; I’m afraid we want a great deal more than we can -get, for you have married a fellow, in all things but love, as poor as -a church mouse.” - -He laughed, and kissed her, and patted her smiling cheek. - -“Yes, it will be such fun buying these things; such a funny little -dinner service, and breakfast things, and how far away is Naunton?” - -“I’m not so sure we can get them at Naunton. Things come from London -so easily now,” said he. - -“Oh, but there is such a nice little shop, I remarked it in Naunton,” -said she, eagerly. - -“Oh, is there?” said he, “I forgot, I believe you drove through it.” - -“I did,” she answered, “and the whole pleasure of getting them, would -be buying them with you.” - -“You kind little darling,” he said, with a faint smile, “so it would -to me, I know, choosing them with you; but are you sure there is a -place there?” - -“Such a nice little shop, with a great red and blue jug, hanging over -the door for a sign,” she insisted, cheerily, “and there is something -pleasant, isn’t there, in the sort of queer rustic things one would -meet in such an out-of-the-way place?” - -“Yes, so there is, but, however, we’ll think about it, and, in fact, -it doesn’t matter a farthing where we get them.” - -Our friend Charles seemed put out a little, and his slight -unaccountable embarrassment piqued her curiosity, and made her ever so -little uncomfortable. She was still, however, a very young wife, and -in awe of her husband. It was, therefore, rather timidly that she -said,-- - -“And why, darling Ry, can’t we decide now, and go to-morrow, and -choose our plates, and cups, and saucers? it would be such a pleasant -little adventure to look forward to.” - -“So it might, but we’ll have to make up our minds to have many days go -by, and weeks too, here, with nothing pleasant to look forward to. You -knew very well,” he continued, not so sharply, “when you married me, -that I owed money, and was a poor miserable devil, and not my own -master, and you really must allow me to decide what is to be done, -when a trifle might any day run us into mischief. There now, your eyes -are full of tears, how can you be so foolish?” - -“But, indeed, Ry, I’m not,” she pleaded, smiling through them. “I was -only sorry, I was afraid I had vexed you.” - -“Vexed me! you darling; not the least, I am only teased to think I am -obliged to deny you anything, much less to hesitate about gratifying -so trifling a wish as this; but so it is, and such my hard fate; and -though I seem to be vexed, it is not with you, you must not mistake, -_never_, darling, with you; but in proportion as I love you, the sort -of embarrassment into which you have ventured with your poor Ry, -grieves and even enrages him, and the thought, too, that so small a -thing would set it all to rights. But we are not the only people, of -course, there are others as badly off, and a great deal worse; there -now, darling, you must not cry, you really mustn’t; you must never -fancy for a moment when anything happens to vex me, that I could be -such a brute as to be angry with you; what’s to become of me, if you -ever suffer such a chimera to enter your pretty little head? I do -assure you, darling, I’d rather blow my brains out, than inflict a -single unhappy hour upon you; there now, won’t you kiss me, and look -quite happy again? and come, we’ll go out again; you did not see the -kennel, and the brewhouse, and fifty other interesting ruins; we must -be twice as happy as ever for the rest of the day.” - -And so this little cloud, light and swift, but still a cloud, blew -over, and the sun shone out warm and brilliant again. - -The buildings, which enclosed three sides of the quadrangle which they -were now examining, were, with the exception of the stables, in such a -state of dilapidation as very nearly to justify in sober earnest the -term “ruins,” which he had half jocularly applied to them. - -“You may laugh as you will,” said Alice, “but I think this might be -easily made quite a beautiful place--prettier even than Wyvern.” - -“Yes, very easily,” he laughed, “if a fellow had two or three thousand -pounds to throw away upon it. Whenever I have--and I may yet,--you may -restore, and transform, and do what you like, I’ll give you _carte -blanche_, and in better hands I believe neither house nor money could -be placed. No one has such taste--though it is hardly for _me_ to say -that.” - -Just at that moment the clank of a horse-shoe was heard on the -pavement, and, turning his head, Charles saw his man, Tom Sherwood, -ride into the yard. Tom touched his hat and dismounted. - -“A letter, sir.” - -“Oh!” said Charles, letting go his wife’s arm, and walking quickly -towards him. - -The man handed him a letter. Alice was standing, forgotten for the -time, on the middle of the pavement, while her husband opened and read -his letter. - -When he had done he turned about and walked a few steps towards her, -but still thinking anxiously and plainly not seeing her, and he -stopped and read it through again. - -“Oh, darling, I beg your pardon, I’m so stupid. What were we talking -about? Oh! yes, the house, this old place. If I live to succeed to -Wyvern you shall do what you like with this place, and we’ll live here -if you like it best.” - -“Well, I don’t think I should like to live here always,” she said, and -paused. - -She was thinking of the odd incident of the night before, and there -lurked in one dark corner of her mind just the faintest image of -horror, very faint, but still genuine, and which, the longer she -looked at it grew the darker; “and I was going to ask you if we could -change our room.” - -“I think, darling,” said he, looking at her steadily, “the one we have -got is almost the only habitable bed-room in the house, and certainly -the most comfortable, but if you like any other room better--have you -been looking?” - -“No, darling, only I’m such a coward, and so foolish; I fancied I saw -something when I was going into it last night--old Mrs. Tarnley was -quite close to me.” - -“If you saw _her_ it was quite enough to frighten any one. But what -was it--robber, or only a ghost?” he asked. - -“Neither, only a kind of surprise and a fright. I did not care to talk -about it last night, and I thought it would have quite passed away by -to-day; but I can’t quite get rid of it--and, shall I tell it all to -you now?” answered Alice. - -“You must tell me all, by-and-by,” he laughed; “you shall have any -room you like better, only remember they’re all equally old; and now, -_I_ have a secret to tell you. Harry is coming to dine with us; he’ll -be here at six--and--look here, how oddly my letters come to me.” - -And he held the envelope he had just now opened by the corner before -her eyes. It was thus:-- - - - “Mr. Thomas Sherwood, - “Post Office, - “Naunton. - “To be called for.” - - -“There’s evidence of the caution I’m obliged to practise in that part -of the world. The world will never be without sin, poverty, and -attorneys; and there is a cursed fellow there with eyes wide open and -ears erect, and all sorts of poisoned arrows of the law to shoot at -poor wayfarers like me; and that’s the reason why I’d rather buy our -modest teacups in London, and not be so much as heard of in Naunton. -Don’t look so frightened, little woman, every fellow has a dangerous -dun or two, and I’m not half so much in peril as fifty I could name. -Only my father’s angry, you know, and when that quarrel gets to be -known it mayn’t help my credit, or make duns more patient. So I must -keep well earthed here till the dogs are quiet again; and now, my wise -little housekeeper will devise dinner enough for our hungry brother, -who will arrive, in two hours’ time, with the appetite that Cressley -Common gives every fellow with as little to trouble him as Harry has.” - - - - - CHAPTER XV. - HARRY ARRIVES. - -Six o’clock came, and seven, and not until half-past seven, when they -had nearly given him up, did Henry Fairfield arrive at the Grange. - -“How does Madam Fairfield?” bawled Master Harry, as he strode across -the floor, and kissed Alice’s pretty cheek. “Odds bobbins!--as the -man says in the playhouse--I believe I bussed ye, did I? But don’t let -him be angry; I wasn’t thinkin’, Charlie, no more than the fellow that -put farmer Gleeson’s fippun-note in his pocket last Trutbury fair. And -how’s all wi’ ye, Charlie, hey? I’m glad to see the old house is -standing still with a roof on since last gale. And how do ye like it, -Alice? Rayther slow I used to think it; but you two wise heads are so -in love wi’ one another ye’d put up in the pound, or the cow-house, or -the horse-pond, for sake o’ each other’s company. ‘I loved her sweet -company better than meat,’ as the song says; and that reminds me--can -the house afford a hungry man a cut o’ beef or mutton and a mug of -ale? I asked myself to dinner, ye know, and that’s a bargain there’s -two words to, sometimes.” - -Master Harry was a wag, after a clumsy rustic fashion--an habitual -jester, and never joked more genially than when he was letting his -companion in for what he called a “soft thing,” in the shape of an -unsound horse or a foolish wager. - -His jocularity was supposed to cover a great deal of shrewdness, and -some dangerous qualities also. - -While their homely dinner was being got upon the table, honest Harry -quizzed the lord and lady of Carwell Grange in the same vein of -delicate banter, upon all their domestic arrangements, and when he -found that there was but one sitting-room in a condition to receive -them, his merriment knew no bounds. - -“Upon my soul, you beat the cobbler in the song that ‘lived in a -stall, that served him for parlour, and kitchen, and hall,’ for -there’s no mention of the cobbler’s wife, and he, being a single man, -you know, you and your lady double the wonder, don’t ye, Alice, two -faces under a hood, and a devilish pinched little hood, too, heh? ha, -ha, ha!” - -“When did you get to Wyvern?” asked Charles Fairfield, after a -considerable pause. - -“Last night,” answered his brother. - -“You saw the old man?” - -“Not till morning,” answered Henry, with a waggish leer, and a sly -glance at Alice. - -It was lost, however, for the young lady was looking dreamily and -sadly away, thinking, perhaps, of the old Squire, not without -self-upbraidings, and hearing nothing, I am sure, of all they said. - -“Did you breakfast with him?” - -“By Jove, I did, sir.” - -“Well?” - -“Well? Nothing particular, only let me see how long his -stick--his--his stick and his arm, together--say five feet six. Well, -I counsel you, brother, not to go within five foot six inches of the -old gentleman till he cools down a bit, anyhow.” - -“No, we’ll not try that,” said Charles, “and he may cool down, as you -say, or nurse his wrath, as he pleases, it doesn’t much matter to me; -he _was_ very angry, but sometimes the thunder and flame blow off, you -know, and the storm hurts no one.” - -“I hope so,” said Henry, with a sort of laugh. “When I tell you to -keep out of the way, mind, I’m advising you against myself. The more -you and the old boy wool each other, the better for Hal.” - -“He can’t unsettle the place, Harry--not that I want to see him--I -never owed him much love, and I think _now_ he’d be glad to see me a -beggar.” - -Harry laughed again. - -“Did you ever hear of a bear with a sore head?” said Harry. “Well, -that’s him, at present, and I give you fair notice, I think he’ll -leave all he can away from you.” - -“So let him; if it’s to you, Harry, I don’t grudge it,” said the elder -son. - -“That’s a handsome speech, bless the speaker. Can you give me a glass -of brandy? This claret I never could abide,” said Harry, with another -laugh; “besides it will break you.” - -“I’ve but two bottles, and they have been three years here. Yes, you -can have brandy, it’s here.” - -“I’ll get it,” said Alice, brightening up in the sense of her -house-keeping importance. “It’s--I _think_ it’s in this, ain’t it?” -she said, opening one of the presses inserted in the wainscot. - -“Let me, darling, it’s there, I ought to know, I put it there myself,” -said Charles, getting up, and taking the keys from her and opening -another cupboard. - -“I’m so stupid!” said Alice, blushing, as she surrendered them, “and -so useless; but you’re always right, Charlie.” - -“He’s a wonderful fellow, ain’t he?” said Harry, winking agreeably at -Charles; “I never knew a bran new husband that wasn’t. Wait a bit and -the gold rubs off the ginger-bread--Didn’t old Dulcibella--how’s -she?--never buy you a ginger-bread husband down at Wyvern Fair? and -they all went, I warrant, the same road; the gilding rubs away, and -then off with his head, and eat him up slops! That’s not bad -cognac--where do you get it?--don’t know, of course; well, it _is_ -good.” - -“Glad you like it, Harry,” said his brother. “It was very kind of you -coming over here so soon; you must come often--won’t you?” - -“Well, you know, I thought I might as well, just to tell you how -things was--but, mind, is any one here?” - -He looked over his shoulder to be sure that the old servant was not -near. - -“Mind you’re not to tell the folk over at Wyvern that I came here, -because you know it wouldn’t serve me, noways, with the old chap up -there, and there’s no use.” - -“You may be very easy about that, Harry. I’m a banished man, you know. -I shall never see the old man’s face again; and rely on it, I sha’n’t -write.” - -“I don’t mean him alone,” said Harry, replenishing his glass; “but -don’t tell any of them Wyvern people, nor you, Alice. Mind--I’m going -back to-night, as far as Barnsley, and from there I’ll go to Dawling, -and round, d’ye mind, south, by Leigh Watton, up to Wyvern, and I’ll -tell him a thumpin’ lie if he asks questions.” - -“Don’t fear any such thing, Harry,” said Charles. - -“Fear! I’m not afeard on him, nor never was.” - -“Fancy, then,” said Charles. - -“Only,” continued Harry, “I’m not like you--I han’t a house and a bit -o’ land to fall back on; d’ye see? He’d have me on the ropes if I -vexed him. He’d slap Wyvern door in my face, and stop my allowance, -and sell my horses, and leave me to the ’sizes and the lawyers for my -rights; and I couldn’t be comin’ here spongin’ on you, you know.” - -“You’d always be welcome, Harry,” said Charles. - -“Always,” echoed his wife, in whom every one who belonged to Charlie -had a welcome claim. - -But Harry went right on with his speech without diverging to thank -them. - -“And you’ll be snug enough here, you see, and I might go whistle, and -dickins a chance I’ll ha’ left but to go list or break horses, or -break stones, by jingo; and I ha’ run risks enough in this thing o’ -yours--not but I’m willin’ to run more, if need be; but there’s no -good in getting myself into pound, you know.” - -“By me, Harry. You don’t imagine I could be such a fool,” exclaimed -Charles. - -“Well, I think ye’ll allow I stood to ye like a brick, and didn’t funk -nothin’ that was needful--and I’d do it over again, I would.” - -Charles took one hand of the generous fellow, and Alice took the -other, and the modest benefactor smiled gruffly and flushed a little, -and looked down as they poured forth in concert their acknowledgments. - -“Why, see how you two thanks me. I always says to fellows, ‘keep your -thanks to yourselves, and do me a good turn when it lies in your -ways.’ There’s the sort o’ thanks that butters a fellow’s -parsnips--and so--say no more.” - - - - - CHAPTER XVI. - A PARTY OF THREE. - -“I’d tip you a stave, only I’ve got a hoarseness since yesterday, and -I’d ask Alice to play a bit, only there’s no piano here to kick up a -gingle with, and Charlie never sang a note in his life, and”--standing -before the fire, he yawned long and loud--“by Jove, that wasn’t over -civil of me, but old friends need not be stiff, and I vote we yawn all -round for company; and I’ll forgive ye, for my hour’s come, and I’ll be -taking the road.” - -“I wish so much I had a bed to offer you, Harry; but you know all -about it--there hasn’t been time to arrange anything,” said Charles. - -“Won’t you stay and take some tea?” urged Alice. - -“I never could abide it, child; thank ye all the same,” said he, “I’d -as soon drink a mug o’ whey.” - -“And what about the gray hunter--you did not sell him yet?” asked -Charles. - -“I don’t well know what to do about him,” answered his brother. “I’d a -sold him for fifty, only old Clinker wouldn’t pass him for sound. -Clinker and me, we had words about that.” - -“I want fifty pounds very much, if I could get it,” said Charles. - -“I never knew a fellow that didn’t want fifty very bad, if he could -get it,” laughed Harry; “but you’ll not be doin’ that bad, I’m afeard, -if ye get half the money.” - -“The devil!--do you really--why I thought, with luck, I might get -seventy. I’m hard up, Harry, and I know you’ll do your best for me,” -said Charles, to whom this was really a serious question. - -“And with luck so you might; but chaps isn’t easy done these times; -and though I swear it’s only his mouth, he steps short at the off -side, and a fellow with an eye in his head won’t mistake his action.” - -“You will do the best you can for me, Harry, I know,” said Charles, -who knew nothing about horses, and was lazy in discussion. “But it’s -rather a blow just now, when a poor devil wants every shilling he can -get together, to find himself fifty pounds nearly out of pocket.” - -Was it fancy, or did Alice’s pretty ear hear truly? It seemed to her -that the tone in which Charlie spoke was a little more sour than need -be, that it seemed to blame her as the cause of altered circumstances, -and to hint, though very faintly, an unkind repentance. His eye met -hers; full and sad it looked, and his heart smote him, for the -intangible reproof was deserved. - -“And here’s the best little wife in the world,” he said, “who would -save a lazy man like me a little fortune in a year, and make that -unlucky fifty pounds, if I could but get it, do as much as a hundred.” - -And his hand was fondly placed on her shoulder, as he looked in her -loving eyes. - -“A good house-wife is she, that’s something,” said Harry, who was -inspecting his spur. “Though by Jove it was hardly at Wyvern she -learned thrift.” - -“All the more merit,” said Charles, “it’s all her wise, good little -self.” - -“No, no; I can’t take all that praise; it’s your great kindness, -Charlie. But I’ll try. I’ll learn all I can, and I’m sure the real -secret is to be very anxious to do it well.” - -“Ay, to be sure,” interrupted Harry, who, having completed his little -arrangement, placed his foot again on the ground. “The more you like -it the better you’ll do it--pare the cheeses, skin the flints, kill -the fleas for the hide and tallow, pot the potato-skins, sweat the -shillin’s and all that, and now I’ll be going. Good-night, Alice. Will -you let Charlie see me down to the end o’ the lane, and I’ll send him -safe back to you? Come along, Charlie. God bless you, girl, and I’ll -look in again whenever I have a bit o’ news to tell ye.” - -And with that elegant farewell, he shook Alice by the hand and clapped -her on the shoulder, and “chucked” her under the chin. - -“And don’t ye be faint-hearted, mind, ’twill all come right, and I -didn’t think this place was so comfortable as it is. It is a snug old -house with a bit o’ coal and a faggot o’ wood, and a pair o’ bright -eyes, and a glass o’ that, a man might make shift for a while. I’d do -it myself. I didn’t think it was so snug by half, and I’d rayther stay -here to-night by a long chalk than ride to Barnsley, I can tell ye. -Come, Charlie, it’s time I should be on the road; and she says, don’t -you, Alice, you may see me a bit o’ the way.” - -And so the leave-taking came to an end, and Charlie and Harry went out -together; and Alice wondered what had induced Harry to come all that -way for so short a visit, with so very little to tell. Perhaps, -however, his own business, for he was always looking after horses, and -thought nothing of five-and-thirty miles, had brought him to the verge -of Cressley Common, and if so, he would have come on the few -additional miles, if only to bait his horse and get his dinner. - -Perhaps the old Squire at Wyvern had broken out more angrily, and was -threatening something in which there was real danger to Charlie, which -the brothers did not choose to tell her. A kindly secrecy and -considerate, but seldom unsuspected, and being so often fifty-fold -more torturing than downright ghastly frankness. - -There had been a little chill and shadow over the party of three, she -thought. Charlie thought his brother Harry the most thorough partisan -that ever man had, and the most entirely sympathetic. If that were so, -and should not he know best? Harry had certainly laughed and joked -after his fashion, and enjoyed himself, and there could not be much -wrong. But Charlie--was not there something more upon his mind than -she quite knew? She stood too much in awe of her husband to follow -them, as she would have wished, and implore of them if there was any -new danger to let her hear it all. In her ear was the dismal -iteration, as it were, of this little “death-watch” and sighing, she -got up and opened the window-shutter and looked out upon the -moonlighted scene. - -A little platform of grass stood between the wall of the house and the -precipitous edge of the vale of Marlow. Tall trees stood silent and -lonely sentinels without the old gray walls, and a low ivied parapet -guarded the sudden descent of the riven and wooded cliff. The broken -screen of the solemn forest foreground showed in the distance the -thicker masses of the wood that topped the summit of the further side -of that sombre glen. Stiller, sadder scene fancy never painted. - -She had opened the shutter, uncertain whether the window commanded the -point from which her husband and his brother might be expected to -emerge, for the geography of this complicated house was still new to -her, and disappointed, she lingered in contemplation of a view which -so well accorded with the melancholy of her lonely misgivings. - -How soon in the possession of our heart’s desire comes the sense of -disappointment, and the presence of the worm, and promise of the -blight among the flowers of our vernal days. Pitch the tent or drop -the anchor where we may, always a new campaign opening, always a new -voyage beginning--quiet nowhere. - -“I dare say it is only my folly--that nothing has gone wrong, and that -they have no secrets to hide from me. I have no one else; he would not -shut me out from his confidence, and leave me quite alone. No, Ry, you -could not.” - -With a full heart she turned again from the window. - -“He’ll come again in a minute; he’ll not walk far with Harry.” - -She went to the door, and opening it, listened. She heard a step enter -the passage from the stable-yard, and called to ask who was there. It -was only Tom, who had let out Master Harry’s horse, and opened the -gate for him. He led it out, and they walked together--Master Harry -with the bridle in his hand, and Master Charles walking beside him. -They took the narrow way along the little glen towards Cressley -Common. - -She knew that he would return probably in a few minutes; and more and -more she wondered what those minutes might contain, she partly -wondered at her own anxiety. So she returned to the room and waited -there for him. But he remained longer away than she expected. The -tea-things were on the table deserted. The fire flickered its genial -invitation in vain, and she, growing more uncomfortable and lonely, -and perhaps a little high at being thus forsaken, went upstairs to pay -old Dulcibella Crane a visit. - - - - - CHAPTER XVII. - MILDRED TARNLEY’S WARNING STORY. - -As she reached the top of the stairs she called to the old servant, -not, I think, caring to traverse the haunted flooring that intervened -alone. She heard Dulcibella talking, and a moment after her old nurse -appeared, and standing by her shoulder Mildred Tarnley. - -“Oh, Mrs. Tarnley! I’m so glad to see you--you’ve been paying -Dulcibella a visit. Pray, come back, and tell me some stories about -this old house; you’ve been so long here, and know it so well, that -you must have a great deal to tell.” - -The old woman, with the unpleasant face, made a stiff courtesy. - -“At your service, ma’am,” she said, ungraciously. - -“That is if it don’t inconvenience you,” pleaded Alice, who was still -a little afraid of her. - -“’Tis as you please, ma’am,” said the old servant, with another dry -courtesy. - -“Well, I’m so glad you can come. Dulcibella, have we a little bit of -fire? Oh, yes, I see--it looks so cheerful.” - -So they entered the old-fashioned bedroom. - -“I hope, Mrs. Tarnley, I’m not keeping you from your tea?” - -“No, I thank ye, ma’am. I’ve ’ad my tea an hour agone,” answered the -old woman. - -“And you must sit down, Mrs. Tarnley,” urged Alice. - -“I’ll stand, if ye please, ma’am,” said the withered figure -perversely. - -“I should be so much happier if you would sit down, Mildred,” urged -her young mistress; “but if you prefer it--I only mean that whatever -is most comfortable to you you should do. I wanted so much to hear -something about this old house. You remember what happened when I was -coming upstairs with you--when I was so startled.” - -“I didn’t see it, miss--ma’am. I only heard you say summat,” answered -Mildred Tarnley. - -“Oh, yes, I know; but you spoke to-day of a warning, and you looked -when it happened as if you had heard of it before.” - -The old woman raised her chin, and with her hands folded together made -another courtesy, which mutually seemed to say-- - -“If you have anything to ask, ask it.” - -“Do you remember,” inquired Alice, “having ever heard of anything -strange being seen at that passage near the head of the stairs?” - -“I ought, ma’am,” answered the old woman discreetly. - -“And what was it?” inquired Alice. - -“I don’t know, ma’am, would the master be pleased if he was to hear I -was talkin’ o’ such things to you,” suggested Mildred. - -“He’d only laugh as I should, I assure you. I’m not the least a -coward; so you need not be afraid of my making a fool of myself. Now, -do tell me what it was!” - -“Well, ma’am, you’ll be pleased to remember ’tis you orders me, in -case Master Charles should turn on me about it; but, as you say, -ma’am, there’s many thinks ’tis all nothin’ but old ’oman’s tales and -fribble-frabble; and ’tisn’t for me to say----” - -“I’ll take all the blame to myself,” said Alice. - -“There’s no blame in’t as I’m aware on; and if there was I wouldn’t -ask no one to take it on themselves more than their right share; and -that I’d take leave to lay on them myself, without stoppin’ to ask -whether they likes it or no; but only I told you, ma’am, that I should -have your orders, and wi’ them I’ll comply.” - -“Yes, certainly, Mrs. Tarnley--and now do kindly go on,” said Alice. - -“Well, please, ma’am, you’ll tell me what you saw?” - -“A heavy black drapery fell from the top of the arch through which we -pass to the gallery outside the door, and for some seconds closed up -the entire entrance,” answered the young lady. - -“Ay, ay, no doubt that’s it; but there was no drapery there, ma’am, -sich as this world’s loom ever wove. Them as weaves that web is light -o’ hand and heavy o’ heart, and the de’el himself speeds the shuttle,” -and as she said this the old woman smiled sourly. “I was talking o’ -that very thing to Mrs. Crane here when you came up, ma’am.” - -“Yes,” said old Dulcibella, quietly; “it was very strange, surely.” - -“And there came quite a cloud of dust from it rolling along the -floor,” continued Alice. - -“Yes, so there would--so there does; ’tis always so,” said Mrs. -Tarnley, with the same faint ugly smile; “not that there’s a grain o’ -dust in all the gallery, for the child Lily Dogger and me washed it -out and swept it clean. Dust ye saw; but that’s no real dust, like -what the minister means when he says, ‘Dust to dust.’ No, no, a finer -dust by far--the dust o’ death. No more clay in that than in yon -smoke, or the mist in Carwell Glen below; no dust at all, but sich -dust as a ghost might shake from its windin’ sheet--an appearance, ye -understand; that’s all, ma’am--like the rest.” - -Alice smiled, but old Mildred’s answering smile chilled her, and she -turned to Dulcibella; but good Mrs. Crane looked in her face with -round eyes of consternation and a very solemn countenance. - -“I see, Dulcibella, if my courage fails I’m not to look to you for -support. Well, Mrs. Tarnley, don’t mind--I shan’t need her help; and -I’m not a bit afraid, so pray go on.” - -“Well, ye see, ma’am, this place and the house came into the family, -my grandmother used to say, more than a hundred years ago; and I was a -little thing when I used to hear her say so, and there’s many a year -added to the tale since then; but it was in the days o’ Sir Harry -Fairfield. They called him Harry Boots in his day, for he was never -seen except in his boots, and for the matter o’ that seldom out o’ the -saddle; for there was troubles in them days, and militia and yeomanry, -and dear knows what all--and the Fairfields was ever a bold, -dare-devil stock, and them dangerous times answered them well--and -what with dragooning, and what with the hunting-field, I do suppose -his foot was seldom out o’ the stirrup. So my grandmother told me some -called him Booted Fairfield and more called him Harry Boots--that was -Sir Harry Fairfield o’ them days.” - -“I think I’ve seen his picture, haven’t I?--at Wyvern. It’s in the -hall, at the far end from the door, near the window, with a long wig -and lace cravat, and a great steel breast-plate?” inquired Alice. - -“Like enough, miss--ma’am, I mean--I don’t know, I’m sure--but he was -a great man in his time, and would have his picture took, no doubt. -His wife was a Carwell--an heiress--there’s not a Carwell in this -country now, nor for many a day has been. ’Twas she brought Carwell -Grange and the Vale o’ Carwell to the Fairfields--poor thing--pretty -she was. Her picture was never took to Wyvern, and much good her land, -and houses, and good looks done her. The Fairfields was wild folk. I -don’t say there wasn’t good among ’em, but whoever else they was good -to, they was seldom kind to their wives. Hard, bad husbands they -was--that’s sure.” - -Alice smiled, and stirred the fire quietly, but did not interrupt, and -as the story went on, she sighed. - -“They said she was very lonesome here. Well, it is a lonesome place, -you know--awful lonesome, and always the same. For old folk like me it -doesn’t matter, but young blood’s different, you know, and they likes -to see the world a bit, and talk and hear what’s a-foot, be it fun or -change, or what not; and she was very lonesome, mopin’ about the old -garden, plantin’ flowers, or pluckin’ roses--all to herself--or cryin’ -in the window--while Harry Boots was away wi’ his excuses--now wi’ his -sogerin’, and now wi’ the hounds, and truly wi’ worse matters, if all -were out. So, not twice in a year was his face--handsome Harry Boots, -they ca’d him--seen down here, and his pretty lady was sick and sore -and forsaken, down in her own lonesome house, by the Vale of Carwell, -where I’m telling you this.” - -Alice smiled, and nodded in sign of attention, and the old woman went -on. - -“I often wonder they try to hide these things--’twould be better -sometimes they were more out-spoken, for sooner or later all will out, -and then there’s wild work, and mayhap it’s past ever makin’ up -between them. So stories travel a’most without legs to carry ’em, and -there’s no gainsaying the word o’ God that said, ‘let there be light,’ -for, sooner or later, light ’twill be, and all will be cleared up, and -the wicked doin’s of Harry Boots, far away, and cunning, as all was -done, come clear to light, so as she could no longer have hope or -doubt in the matter. Poor thing--she loved him better than -life--better than her soul, mayhap, and that’s all she got by’t--a bad -villain that was.” - -“He was untrue to her?” said Alice. - -“Lawk! to be sure he was,” replied Mrs. Tarnley, with a cynical scorn. - -“And so she had that to think of all alone, along with the rest--for -she might have had a greater match than Sir Harry--a lord he was. I -forget his name, but he’d a given his eyes a’most to a got her. But a’ -wouldn’t do, for she loved Booted Harry Fairfield, and him she’d have, -and wouldn’t hear o’ no other, and so she had enough to think on here, -in Carwell Grange. The house she had brought the Fairfields--poor bird -alone, as we used to say--but the rest of her time wasn’t very -long--it wasn’t to be--she used to walk out sometimes, but she talked -to no one, and she cared for nothin’ after that; and there’s the long -sheet o’ water, in the thick o’ the trees, with the black yew-hedge -round it.” - -“I know,” said Alice, “a very high hedge, and trees behind it--it is -the darkest place I ever saw--beyond the garden. Isn’t that the place?” - -“Yes, that’s it; she used to walk round it--sometimes -cryin’--sometimes not; and there she was found drowned, poor thing. -Some said ’twas by mischance, for the bank was very steep and -slippery--it had been rainy weather--where she was found, and more -said she made away wi’ herself, and that’s what was thought among the -Carwell folk, as my grandmother heared; for what’s a young creature to -do wi’ nothing more to look to, and all alone, wi’ no one ever to talk -to, and the heart quite broke?” - -“You said, I think, that there was a picture here?” inquired Alice. - -“I said ’twasn’t took to Wyvern, ma’am; there was a picture here they -said ’twas hers--my grandmother said so, and she should know. ’Twas -the only picture I remember in the Grange.” - -“And where is it?” inquired Alice. - -“Dropped to pieces long ago. ’Twas in the room they called the -gun-room, in my day. The wall was damp; ’twas gone very poor and -rotten in my time, and so black you could scarce make it out. Many a -time when I was a bit of a girl, some thirteen or fourteen years old, -I stood on the table, for a long time together a-looking at it. But it -was dropping away that time in flakes, and the canvas as rotten as -tinder, and every time it got a stir it lost something, till ye -couldn’t make nothing of it. It’s all gone long ago, and the frame -broke up I do suppose.” - -“What a pity!” said Alice. “Oh, what a pity! Can you, do you think, -remember anything of it?” - -“She was standin’--you could see the point o’ the shoe--white satin it -looked like, wi’ a buckle that might be diamonds; there was a nosegay, -I mind, in her fingers, wi’ small blue flowers, and a rose, but the -face was all faded and dark, except just a bit o’ the mouth, red, and -smilin’ at the corner--very pretty. But ’twas all gone very dark, you -know, and a deal o’ the paintin’ gone; and that’s all I ever seen o’ -the picture.” - -“Well, and did anything more happen?” asked Alice. - -“Hoo! yes, lots. Down comes Booted Fairfield, now there was no one -left to care whether he came or went. The Carwell people didn’t love -him, but ’twas best to keep a civil tongue, for the Fairfields were -dangerous folk always, ’twas a word and a blow wi’ them, and no one -cared to cross them, and he made a bother about it to be sure, and had -the rooms hung wi’ black, and the staircase and the drapery hung over -the arch in the gallery, outside, down to the floor, for she, poor -thing, lay up here.” - -“Not in this room!” said Alice, who even at that distance of time did -not care to invade the sinister sanctity of the lady’s room. - -“No, not this, the room at t’ other end o’ the gallery; ’t would -require a deal o’ doing up, and plaster, and paper, before you could -lie in’t. But Harry Boots made a woundy fuss about his dead wife. They -was cunning after a sort, them Fairfields, and I suppose he thought -’twas best to make folk think he loved his wife, at least to give ’em -something good to say o’ him if they liked, and he gave alms to the -poor, and left a good lump o’ money they say for the parish, both at -Cressley Church and at Carwell Priory--they call the vicarage so--and -he had a grand funeral as ever was seen from the Grange, and she was -buried down at the priory, which the Carwells used to be, in a new -vault, where she was laid the first, and has been the last, for Booted -Fairfield married again, and was buried with his second wife away at -Wyvern. So the poor thing, living and dying, has been to herself.” - -“But is there any story to account for what I saw as I came into the -gallery with you?” asked Alice. - -“I told you, miss, it was hung with black, as I heard my grandmother -say, and thereupon the story came, for there was three ladies of the -Fairfield family at different times before you, ma’am, as saw the same -thing. Well, ma’am, at the funeral, as I’ve heard say, the young lord -that liked her well, if she’d a had him--and liked her still in spite -of all--gave Sir Harry a lick or two wi’ the rough side o’ his tongue, -and a duel came out o’ them words more than a year afterwards, and -Harry Boots was killed, and he’s buried away down at Wyvern.” - -“Well, see there! Ain’t it a wonder how gentlemen that has all this -world can give, will throw away their lives at a word, like that,” -moralized Dulcibella Crane--“and not knowing what’s to become o’ them, -when they’ve lost all here--all in the snap of a pistol. If it was a -poor body, ’twould be another matter, but--well it does make a body -stare.” - -“You mentioned, Mrs. Tarnley, that something had occurred about some -ladies of the Fairfield family; what was it?” inquired Alice. - -“Well, they say Sir Harry--that’s Booted Fairfield, you know--brought -his second wife down here, only twelve months after the first one -died, and she saw, at the very same place, when she was setting her -first step on the gallery, the same thing ye seen yourself; and two -months after he was in his grave, and she in a madhouse.” - -“Well, I think, Mrs. Tarnley, ye needn’t be tellin’ all that to -frighten the young lady.” - -“Frighten the young lady? And why not, if she’s frighted wi’ truth. -She has asked for the truth, and she’s got it. Better to fright the -young lady than fool her,” answered Mildred Tarnley, coldly and -sternly. - -“I don’t say you should fool her, by no chance,” answered honest -Dulcibella; “but there’s no need to be filling her head wi’ them -frightful fancies. Ye ha’ scared her, and ye saw her turn pale.” - -“Ay, and so well she ought. There was three other women o’ the -Fairfields seen the same thing, in the self-same place, and every one -to her sorrow. One fell over the pixie’s cliff; another died in fits, -poor thing, wi’ her first baby; and the last was flung beside the -quarry in Cressley Common, ridin’ out to see the hunt, and was never -the better o’t in brain or bone after. Don’t tell me, woman. I know -rightly what I’m doin’.” - -“Pray, Dulcibella, don’t. I assure you, Mrs. Tarnley, I’m very much -obliged,” interposed Alice Fairfield, frighted at the malignant -vehemence of the old woman. - -“Obliged! Not you; why should you?” retorted Mildred Tarnley. “Ye’re -not obliged; ye’re frightened, I dare say. But ’tis all true; and no -Fairfield has any business bringing his wife to Carwell Grange; and -Master Charles knows that as well as me; and, now, the long and the -short o’t ’s this, ma’am--ye’ve got your warning, and ye had better -quit this without letting grass grow under your feet. You’ve seen your -warnin’, ma’am, and I a’ told you, stark enough, the meanin’ o’t. My -conscience is clear, and ye’ll do as ye like; and if, after this, ye -expect me to spy for you, and fetch and carry stories, and run myself -into trouble with other people, to keep you out of it, ye’re clean out -o’ your reckoning. Ye’ll have no more warnings, mayhap--none from -me--and so ye may take it, ma’am, or leave it, as ye see fit; and now -Mildred Tarnley’s said her say. Ye have my story, and ye have my -counsel; and if ye despise both one and t’other, and your own eyesight -beside, ye’ll even take what’s coming.” - -“Ye _shouldn’t_ be frightening Miss Alice like that, I tell you, you -should not. Don’t grow frightened at any such a story, dear. I say -it’s a shame. Don’t you see how ye have her as white as a handkercher, -in a reg’lar state.” - -“No, Dulcibella, indeed,” said Alice, smiling, very pale, and her eyes -filled up with tears. - -“I’ll frighten her no more; and that you may be sure on; and if what I -told her be frightful, ’tisn’t me as made it so. Thankless work it -be; but ’tisn’t her nor you I sought to please, but just to take it -off my shoulders, and leave her none to blame but herself if she turns -a deaf ear. It’s ill offering counsel to a wilful lass. Ye’ll excuse -me, ma’am, for speaking so plain, but better now than too late,” she -added, recollecting herself a little. “And can I do anything, please, -ma’am, below stairs? I should be going, for who knows what that child -may be a-doing all this time?” - -“Thanks, very much; no, not anything,” said Alice. - -And Mildred Tarnley, with a hard, dark glance at her, dropped another -stiff little courtesy, and withdrew. - -“Well, I never see such a one as that,” said old Dulcibella, gazing -after her, as it were through the panel of the door. “You must not -let her talk that way to you, my darling. She’s no business to talk up -to her mistress that way. I don’t know what sort o’ manners people has -in these here out o’ the way places, I’m sure; but I think ye’ll do -well, my dear, to keep that one at arm’s length, and make her know her -place. Nothing else but encroaching and impudence, and domineering -from such as her, and no thanks for any condescension, only the more -affable you’ll be, the more saucy and conceited she’ll grow, and I -don’t think she likes you, Miss Alice, no more I do.” - -It pains young people, and some persons always, to hear from an -impartial observer such a conclusion. There is much mortification, and -often some alarm. - -“Well, it doesn’t much matter,” said Alice. “I don’t think she can -harm me much. I don’t suppose she would if she could, and I don’t mind -such stories.” - -“Why should you, my dear? No one minds the like now-a-days.” - -“But I wish she liked me; there are so few of us here. It is such a -little world, and I have never done anything to vex her. I can’t think -what good it can do her hating me.” - -“No good, dear; but she’s bin here so long--the only hen in the house, -and she doesn’t like to be drove off the roost, I suppose; and I don’t -know why she told you all that, if it wasn’t to make your mind uneasy; -and, dear knows, there’s enough to trouble it in this moping place -without her riggamarolin’ sich a yarn.” - -“Hush, Dulcibella; isn’t that a horse? Perhaps Charles is coming -home.” - -She opened the window, which commanded a view of the stable-yard. - -“And is he gone a-riding?” asked old Dulcibella. - -“No; there’s nothing,” said Alice, gently. “Besides, you remind me he -did not take a horse; he only walked a little way with Mr. Henry; and -he’ll soon be back. Nothing is going wrong, I hope.” - -And, with a weary sigh, she threw herself into a great chair by the -fire; and thought, and listened, and dreamed away a long time, before -Charlie’s step and voice were heard again in the old house. - - - - - CHAPTER XVIII. - THE BROTHERS’ WALK. - -When the host and his guest had gone out together, to the paved yard, -it was already night, and the moon was shining brilliantly. - -Tom had saddled the horse, and at the first summons led him out; and -Harry, with a nod and a grin, for he was more prodigal of his smiles -than of his shillings, took the bridle from his fingers, and with -Charlie by his side, walked forth silently from the yard gate, upon -that dark and rude track which followed for some distance the -precipitous edge of the ravine which opens upon the deeper glen of -Carwell. - -Very dark was this narrow road, overhung and crossed by towering -trees, through whose boughs only here and there an angular gleam or -minute mottling of moonlight hovered and floated on the white and -stony road, with the uneasy motion of the branches, like little -flights of quivering wings. - -There was a silence corresponding with this darkness. The clank of the -horse’s hoof, and their own more muffled tread were the only sounds -that mingled with the sigh and rustle of the boughs above them. The -one was expecting, the other meditating, no very pleasant topic, and -it was not the business of either to begin, for a little. - -They were not walking fast. The horse seemed to feel that the human -wayfarers were in a sauntering mood, and fell accommodatingly into a -lounging gait like theirs. - -If there were eyes there constructed to see in the dark, they would -have seen two countenances, one sincere, the other adjusted to that -sort of sham sympathy and regret which Hogarth, with all his delicacy -and power, portrays in the paternal alderman who figures in the last -picture of “Marriage à la Mode.” - -There was much anxiety in Charles’ face, and a certain brooding shame -and constraint which would have accounted for his silence. In that -jolly dog, Harry, was discoverable, as I have said, quite another -light and form of countenance. There was a face that seemed to have -discharged a smile, that still would not quite go. The eyelids -drooped, the eyebrows raised, a simulated condolence, such as we all -have seen. - -In our moral reviews of ourselves we practise optical delusions even -upon our own self-scrutiny, and paint and mask our motives, and fill -our ears with excuses and with downright lies. So inveterate is the -habit of deceiving, and even in the dark we form our features by -hypocrisy, and scarcely know all this. - -“Here’s the turn at last to Cressley Common; there’s no talking -comfortably among these trees; it’s so dark, any one might be at your -elbow and you know nothing about it--and so the old man is very -angry.” - -“Never saw a fellow so riled,” answered Harry; “you know what he is -when he is riled, and I never saw him so angry before. If he knew I -was here--but you’ll take care of me?” - -“It’s very kind of you, old fellow; I won’t forget it, indeed I won’t, -but I ought to have thought twice: I ought not to have brought poor -Alice into this fix; for d---- me, if I know how we are to get on.” - -“Well, you know, it’s only just a pinch, an ugly corner, and you are -all right--it can’t last.” - -“It may last ten years, or twenty, for that matter,” said Charlie. “I -was a fool to sell out. I don’t know what we are to do; do you?” - -“You’re too down in the mouth; can’t ye wait and see? there’s nothing -yet, and it won’t cost ye much carrying on down here.” - -“Do you think, Harry, it would be well to take up John Wauling’s farm, -and try whether I could not make something of it in my own hands?” -asked Charles. - -Harry shook his head. - -“You don’t?” said Charlie. - -“Well, no, I don’t; you’d never make the rent of it,” answered Harry; -“besides, if you begin upsetting things here, the people will begin to -talk, and that would not answer; you’ll need to be d----d quiet.” - -There was here a pause, and they walked on in silence until the thick -shadows of the trees began to break a little before them, and the -woods grew more scattered; whole trees were shadowed in distinct -outline, and the wide common of Cressley, with its furze and fern, and -broad undulations, stretched mistily before them. - -“About money--you know, Charlie, there’s money enough at present and -no debts to signify; I mean, if you don’t make them you needn’t. You -and Alice, with the house and garden, can get along on a trifle. The -tenants give you three hundred a year, and you can manage with two.” - -“Two hundred a year!” exclaimed Charlie, opening his eyes. - -“Ay, two hundred a year!--that girl don’t eat sixpenn’orth in a day,” -said Harry. - -“Alice is the best little thing in the world, and will look after -everything, I know; but there are other things beside dinner and -breakfast,” said Charles, who did not care to hear his wife called -“that girl.” - -“Needs must when the Devil drives, my boy; you’ll want a hundred every -year for contingencies,” said Harry. - -“Well, I suppose so,” Charles winced, “and all the more need for a few -more hundreds; for I don’t see how any one could manage to exist on -such a pittance.” - -“You’ll have to contrive though, my lad, unless they’ll manage a _post -obit_ for you,” said Harry. - -“There is some trouble about that, and people are such d----d screws,” -said Charles, with a darkening face. - -“Al’ays was and ever will be,” said Harry, with a laugh. - -“And it’s all very fine talking of a ‘hundred a year,’ but _you_ know -and _I_ know that won’t do, and never did,” exclaimed Charles, -breaking forth bitterly, and then looking hurriedly over his shoulder. - -“Upon my soul, Charlie, I don’t know a curse about it,” answered -Harry, good-humouredly; “but if it won’t do, it won’t, that’s -certain.” - -“Quite certain,” said Charles, and sighed very heavily; and again -there was a little silence. - -“I wish I was as sharp a fellow as you are, Harry,” said Charles, -regretfully. - -“Do you really think I’m a sharp chap--do you though? I al’ays took -myself for a bit of a muff, except about cattle--I did, upon my soul,” -said Harry, with an innocent laugh. - -“You are a long way a cleverer fellow than I am, and you are not half -so lazy; and tell me what you’d do if you were in my situation?” - -“What would I do if I was in your place?” said Harry, looking up at -the stars, and whistling low for a minute. - -“Well, I couldn’t tell you off hand; ’twould puzzle a better man’s -head for a bit to answer that question--only I can tell you one thing, -I’d never agone into that situation, as ye call it, at no price; -’twouldn’t ’av answered me by no chance. But don’t you be putting your -finger in your eye yet a bit; there’s nothing to cry about now that I -knows of; time enough to hang your mouth yet, only I thought I might -as well come over and tell you.” - -“I knew, Harry, there was something to tell,” said Charles. - -“Not over much--only a trifle when all’s told,” answered Harry; “but -you are right, for it was that brought me over here. I was in Lon’on -last week, and I looked in at the place at Hoxton, and found just the -usual thing, and came away pretty much as wise as I went in.” - -“Not more reasonable?” asked Charles. - -“Not a bit,” said Harry. - -“Tell me what you said,” asked Charles. - -“Just what we agreed,” he answered. - -“Well, there was nothing in that that was not kind and conciliatory, -and common sense--was there?” pleaded Charles. - -“It did not so seem to strike the plenipotentiary,” said Harry. - -“You seem to think it very pleasant,” said Charles. - -“I wish it was pleasanter,” said Harry; “but pleasant or no, I must -tell my story straight. I ran in in a hurry, you know, as if I only -wanted to pay over the twenty pounds--you mind.” - -“Ay,” said Charles, “I wish to heaven I had it back again.” - -“Well, I don’t think it made much difference in the matter of love and -liking, I’ll not deny; but I looked round, and I swore I wondered any -one would live in such a place when there were so many nice places -where money would go three times as far in foreign countries; and I -wondered you did not think of it, and take more interest yourself, and -upon that I could see the old soger was thinking of fifty things, -suspecting poor me of foul play among the number; and I was afraid for -a minute I was going to have half a dozen claws in my smeller; but I -turned it off, and I coaxed and wheedled a bit. You’d a laughed -yourself black, till I had us both a purring like a pair of old maid’s -cats.” - -“I tell you what, Harry, there’s madness there--literal madness,” said -Charles, grasping his arm as he stopped and turned towards him, so -that Harry had to come also to a standstill. “Don’t you know it--as -mad as Bedlam? Just think!” - -Harry laughed. - -“Mad enough, by jingo,” said he. - -“But don’t you think so--actually mad?” repeated Charles. - -“Well, it is near the word, maybe, but I would not say quite -mad--worse than mad, I dare say, by chalks; but I wouldn’t place the -old soger there,” said Harry. - -“Where?” said Charles. - -“I mean exactly among the mad ’uns. No, I wouldn’t say mad, but as -vicious--and worse, mayhap.” - -“It does not matter much what we think, either of us; but I know what -another fellow would have done long ago, but I could not bring myself -to do that. I have thought it over often, but I couldn’t--I -_couldn’t_.” - -“Well, then, it ain’t no great consequence,” said Harry, and he -tightened his saddle-girth a hole or two--“no great consequence; but I -couldn’t a’ put a finger to that--mind; for I think the upperworks is -as sound as any, only there’s many a devil beside mad ’uns. I give it -in to you there.” - -“And what do you advise me to do?--this sort of thing is dreadful,” -said Charles. - -“I was going to say, I think the best thing to be done is just to -leave all that business, d’ye mind, to me.” - -Harry mounted, and leaning on his knee, he said-- - -“I think I have a knack, if you leave it to me. Old Pipeclay doesn’t -think I have any reason to play false.” - -“Rather the contrary,” said Charles, who was attentively listening. - -“No interest at all,” pursued Harry, turning his eyes towards the -distant knoll of Torston, and going on without minding Charles’ -suggestion-- - -“Look, now, that beast ’ll follow my hand as sweet as sugary-candy, -when you’d have nothing but bolting and baulking, and rearin’, or -worse. There’s plenty o’ them little French towns or German--and don’t -you be botherin’ your head about it; only do just as I tell ye, and -I’ll take all in hands.” - -“You’re an awfully good fellow, Harry; for, upon my soul, I was at my -wit’s end almost; having no one to talk to, and not knowing what any -one might be thinking of; and I feel safe in your hands, Harry, for I -think you understand that sort of work so much better than I do--you -understand people so much better--and I never was good at managing any -one, or anything for that matter; and--and when will business bring -you to town again?” - -“Three weeks or so, I wouldn’t wonder,” said Harry. - -“And I know, Harry, you won’t forget me. I’m afraid to write to you -almost; but if you’d think of any place we could meet and have a talk, -I’d be ever so glad. You have no idea how fidgety and miserable a -fellow grows that doesn’t know what’s going on.” - -“Ay, to be sure; well, I’ve no objection. My book’s made for ten days -or so--a lot of places to go to--but I’ll be coming round again, and -I’ll tip you a stave.” - -“That’s a good fellow; I know you won’t forget me,” said Charles, -placing his hand on his brother’s arm. - -“No--of course. Good-night, and take care of yourself, and give my -love to Ally.” - -“And--and Harry?” - -“Well?” answered Harry, backing his restless horse a little bit. - -“I believe that’s all.” - -“Good-night, then.” - -“Good-night,” echoed Charles. - -Harry touched his hat with a smile, and was away the next moment, -flying at a ringing trot over the narrow unfenced road that traverses -the common, and dwindling in the distant moonlight. - -“There he goes--light of heart; nothing to trouble him--life a -holiday--the world a toy.” - -He walked a little bit slowly in the direction of the disappearing -horseman, and paused again, and watched him moodily till he was fairly -out of sight. - -“I hope he won’t forget; he’s always so busy about those stupid -horses--a lot of money he makes, I dare say. I wish I knew something -about them. I must beat about for some way of turning a penny. Poor -little Alice! I hope I have not made a mull of it! I’ll save every way -I can--of course that’s due to her; but when you come to think of it, -and go over it all, there’s very little you _can_ give up. You can lay -down your horses, if you have them, except one. You must have _one_ in -a place like this--you’d run a risk of starving, or never getting your -letters, or dying for want of the doctor. And--I won’t drink wine; -brandy, or Old Tom does just as well, and I’ll give up smoking -_totally_. A fellow must make sacrifices. I’ll just work through this -one box slowly, and order no more: it’s all a habit, and I’ll give it -up.” - -So he took a cigar from his case and lighted it. - -“I’ll not spend another pound on them, and the sooner these are out -the better.” - -He sauntered slowly away with his hands in his pockets to a little -eminence about a hundred yards to the right, and mounted it, and -looked all around, smoking. I don’t think he saw much of that -extensive view; but you would have fancied him an artist in search of -the picturesque. - -His head was full of ideas of selling Carwell Grange; but he was not -quite sure that he had power, and did not half like asking his -attorney, to whom he already owed something. He thought how snug and -pleasant they might be comparatively in one of those quaint little toy -towns in Germany, where dull human nature bursts its cerements, and -floats and flutters away into a butterfly life of gold and -colour--where the punter and the croupier assist at the worship of the -brilliant and fickle goddess, and bands play sweetly, and people ain’t -buried alive in deserts and forests among dogs and “chawbacons”--where -little Alice would be all wonder and delight. Was it quite fair to -bring her down here to immure her in the mouldering cloister of -Carwell Grange? - -He had begun now to re-enter the wooded ascent toward that melancholy -mansion; his cigar was burnt out, and he said, looking toward his home -through the darkness-- - -“Poor little Alice! she does love me, I think--and that’s something.” - - - - - CHAPTER XIX. - COMING IN. - -When at last her husband entered the room where she awaited him that -night-- - -“Oh! Charlie, it is very late,” said Alice, a little reproachfully. - -“Not very, is it, darling?” said he, glancing at his watch. “By Jove! -it is. My poor little woman, I had not an idea.” - -“I suppose I am very foolish, but I love you so much, Charlie, that I -grow quite miserable when I am out of your sight.” - -“I’m sorry, my darling, but I fancied he had a great deal more to tell -me than he really had. I don’t think I’m likely, at least for a little -time, to be pressed by my duns--and--I wanted to make out exactly what -money he’s likely to get me for a horse he is going to sell, and I’m -afraid, from what he says, it won’t be very much; really, twenty -pounds, one way or other, seems ridiculous, but it does make a very -serious difference just now, and if I hadn’t such a clever, careful -little woman as you, I don’t really know what I should do.” - -He added this little complimentary qualification with an instinctive -commiseration for the pain he thought he saw in her pretty face. - -“These troubles won’t last very long, Charlie, _perhaps_. Something, -I’m sure, will turn up, and you’ll see how careful I will be. I’ll -learn everything old Mildred can teach me, ever so much, and you’ll -see what a manager I will be.” - -“You are my own little treasure. You always talk as if you were in the -way, somehow, I don’t know how. A wife like you is a greater help to -me than one with two thousand a year and the reckless habits of a fine -lady. Your wise little head and loving heart, my darling, are worth -whole fortunes to me without them, and I do believe you are the first -really good wife that ever a Fairfield married. You are the only -creature I have on earth, that I’m quite sure of--the only creature.” - -And so saying he kissed her, folding her in his arms, and, with a big -tear filling each eye, she looked up, smiling unutterable affection, -in his face. As they stood together in that embrace his eyes also -filled with tears and his smile met hers, and they seemed wrapt for a -moment in one angelic glory, and she felt the strain of his arm draw -her closer. - -Such moments come suddenly and are gone; but, remaining in memory, -they are the lights that illuminate a dark and troublous retrospect -for ever. - -“We’ll make ourselves happy here, little Ally, and I--in spite of -everything, my darling!--and I don’t know how it happened that I -stayed away so long; but I walked with Harry further than I intended, -and when he left me I loitered on Cressley Common for a time with my -head full of business; and so, without knowing it, I was filling my -poor little wife’s head with alarms and condemning her to solitude. -Well, all I can do is to promise to be a good boy and to keep better -hours for the future.” - -“That’s so like you, you are so good to your poor, foolish little -wife,” said Alice. - -“I wish I could be, darling,” said he; “I wish I could prove one-half -my love; but the time will come yet. I sha’n’t be so poor or powerless -always.” - -“But you’re not to speak so--you’re not to think that. It is while we -are poor that I can be of any use,” she said, eagerly; “very little, -very miserable my poor attempts, but nothing makes me so happy as -trying to deserve ever so little of all the kind things my Ry says of -me; and I’m sure, Charlie, although there may be cares and troubles, -we will make our time pass here very happily, and perhaps we shall -always look back on our days at Carwell as the happiest of our lives.” - -“Yes, darling, I am determined we shall be very happy,” said he. - -“And Ry will tell me everything that troubles him?” - -Her full eyes were gazing sadly up in his face. He averted his eyes, -and said-- - -“Of course I will, darling.” - -“Oh! Ry, if you knew how happy that makes me!” she exclaimed. But -there was that in the exclamation which seemed to say, “If only I -could be sure that you meant it.” - -“Of course I will--that is, everything that could possibly interest -you, for there are very small worries as well as great ones; and you -know I really can’t undertake to remember everything.” - -“Of course, darling,” she answered; “I only meant that if anything -were really--any great anxiety--upon your mind, you would not be -afraid to tell me. I’m not such a coward as I seem. You must not think -me so foolish; and really, Ry, it pains me more to think that there is -any anxiety weighing upon you, and concealed from me, than any -disclosure could; and so I _know_--won’t you?” - -“Haven’t I told you, darling, I really will,” he said, a little -pettishly. “What an odd way you women have of making a fellow say the -same thing over and over again. I wonder it does not tire you, I know -it does _us_ awfully. Now, there, see, I really do believe you are -going to cry.” - -“Oh, no, indeed!” she said, brightening up, and smiling with a sad, -little effort. - -“And now, kiss me, my poor, good little woman,--you’re not vexed with -me?--no, I’m sure you’re not,” said he. - -She smiled a very affectionate assurance. - -“And really, you poor little thing, it is awfully late, and you must -be tired, and I’ve been--no, _not_ lecturing, I’ll never lecture, I -hate it--but boring or teasing; I’m an odious dog, and I hate myself.” - -So this little dialogue ended happily, and for a time Charles -Fairfield forgot his anxieties, and a hundred pleasanter cares filled -his young wife’s head. - -In such monastic solitudes as Carwell Grange the days pass slowly, but -the retrospect of a month or a year is marvellously short. Twelve -hours without an event is very slow to get over. But that very -monotony, which is the soul of tediousness, robs the background of all -the irregularities and objects which arrest the eye and measure -distance in review, and thus it cheats the eye. - -An active woman may be well content with an existence of monotony -which would all but stifle even an indolent man. So long as there is a -household--ever so frugal--to be managed, and the more frugal the more -difficult and harassing--the female energies are tasked, and healthily -because usefully exercised. But in this indoor administration the man -is incompetent and in the way. His ordained activities are out of -doors; and if these are denied him, he mopes away his days and feels -that he cumbers the ground. - -With little resource but his fishing-rod, and sometimes, when a fit of -unwonted energy inspired him, his walking-stick, and a lonely march -over the breezy expanse of Cressley Common, days, weeks, and months, -loitered their drowsy way into the past. - -There were reasons why he did not care to court observation. Under -other circumstances he would have ridden into the neighbouring towns -and heard the news, and lunched with a friend here or there. But he -did not want any one to know that he was at the Grange; and if it -should come out that he had been seen there, he would have had it -thought that it was but a desultory visit. - -A man less indolent, and perhaps not much more unscrupulous, would -have depended upon a few offhand lies to account for his appearance, -and would not have denied himself an occasional excursion into human -society in those rustic haunts within his reach. But Charles Fairfield -had not decision to try it, nor resource for a system of fibbing, and -the easiest and dullest course he took. - -In Paradise the man had his business--“to dress and to keep” the -garden, and, no doubt, the woman hers, suitable to her sex. It is a -mistake to fancy that it is either a sign of love or conducive to its -longevity that the happy pair should always pass the entire -four-and-twenty hours in each other’s company, or get over them in -anywise without variety or usefulness. - -Charles Fairfield loved his pretty wife. She made his inactive -solitude more endurable than any man could have imagined. Still it -was a dull existence, and being also darkened with an ever-present -anxiety, was a morbid one. - -Small matters harassed him now. He brooded over trifles, and the one -care, which was really serious, grew and grew in his perpetual -contemplation until it became tremendous, and darkened his entire sky. - -I can’t say that Charles grew morose. It was not his temper, but his -spirits that failed--care-worn and gloomy--his habitual melancholy -depressed and even alarmed his poor little wife, who yet concealed her -anxieties, and exerted her music and her invention--sang songs--told -him old stories of the Wyvern folk, touched him with such tragedy and -comedy as may be found in such miniature centres of rural life, and -played backgammon with him, and sometimes écarté, and, in fact, nursed -his sick spirits, as such angelic natures will. - -Now and then came Harry Fairfield, but his visits were short and -seldom, and what was worse, Charles always seemed more harassed or -gloomy after one of his calls. There was something going on, and by no -means prosperously, she was sure, from all knowledge of which, however -it might ultimately concern her, and did immediately concern her -husband, she was jealously excluded. - -Sometimes she felt angry--oftener pained--always troubled with untold -fears and surmises. Poor little Alice! It was in the midst of these -secret misgivings that a new care and hope visited her--a trembling, -delightful hope, that hovers between life and death--sometimes in sad -and mortal fear--sometimes in delightful anticipation of a new and -already beloved life, coming so helplessly into this great -world--unknown, to be her little comrade, all dependent on that -beautiful love with which her young heart was already overflowing. - -So almost trembling--hesitating--she told her little story with smiles -and tears, in a pleading, beseeching, almost apologetic way, that -melted the better nature of Charles, who told her how welcome to him, -and how beloved for her dear sake the coming treasure should be, and -held her beating heart to his in a long, loving embrace, and more than -all, the old love revived, and he felt how lonely he would be if his -adoring little wife were gone, and how gladly he would have given his -life for hers. - -And now came all the little cares and preparations that so mercifully -and delightfully beguile the period of suspense. - -What is there so helpless as a new-born babe entering this great, -rude, cruel world? Yet we see how the beautiful and tender instincts -which are radiated from the sublime love of God, provide everything -for the unconscious comer. Let us, then, take heart of grace when, the -sad journey ended, we, children of dust, who have entered so, are -about to make the dread exit, and remembering what we have seen, and -knowing that we go in the keeping of the same “faithful Creator,” be -sure that His love and tender forecast have provided with equal care -for our entrance into another life. - - - - - CHAPTER XX. - HARRY APPEARS AT THE GRANGE. - -It was about four o’clock one afternoon, while Charles was smoking a -cigar--for notwithstanding his self-denying resolutions, his case was -always replenished still--that his brother Harry rode into the yard, -where he was puffing away contemplatively at an open stable-door. - -“Delighted to see you, Harry. I was thinking of you this moment, by -Jove, and I can’t tell you how glad I am,” said Charles, smiling as he -advanced, yet with an anxious inquiry in his eyes. - -Harry took his extended hand, having dismounted, but he was looking at -his horse, and not at Charles, as he said-- - -“The last mile or so I noticed something in the off forefoot; do you? -Look now--’taint brushing, nor he’s not gone lame, but tender like; do -you notice?” and he led him round a little bit. - -“No,” said Charles, “I don’t see anything, but I am an ignoramus, you -know--no--I think, nothing.” - -“’Taint a great deal, anyhow,” said Harry, leading him toward the open -stable-door. “I got your note, you know, and how are you all, and how -is Ally?” - -“Very well, poor little thing, we are all very well. Did you come from -Wyvern?” said Charles. - -“Yes.” - -“And the old man just as usual, I suppose?” - -“Just the same, only not growing no younger, you’ll suppose.” - -Charles nodded. - -“And a d--d deal crosser, too. There’s times, I can tell you, he won’t -stand no one nigh him--not even old Drake, d--d vicious.” - -Harry laughed. - -“They say he liked Ally--they do, upon my soul, and I wouldn’t wonder, -’tis an old rat won’t eat cheese--only you took the bit out o’ his -mouth, when you did, and that’s enough to rile a fellow, you know.” - -“Who says so?” asked Charles, with a flush on his face. - -“The servants--yes--and the townspeople--it’s pretty well about, and I -think if it came to the old boy’s ears there would be black eyes and -bloody noses about it, I do.” - -“Well, it’s a lie,” said Charles; “and don’t, like a good fellow, tell -poor little Alice there’s any such nonsense talked about her at home, -it would only vex her.” - -“Well, I won’t, if I think of it. Where’s Tom? But ’twouldn’t vex -her--not a bit--quite ’tother way--there’s never a girl in England -wouldn’t be pleased if old Parr himself wor in love wi’ her, so she -hadn’t to marry him. But the governor, by Jove, I don’t know a girl -twelve miles round Wyvern, as big an old brute as he is, would turn up -her nose at him, wi’ all he has to grease her hand. But where’s Tom? -the nag must have a feed.” - -So they bawled for Tom, and Tom appeared, and took charge of the -horse, receiving a few directions about his treatment from Master -Harry, and then Charles led his brother in. - -“I’m always glad to see you, Harry, but always, at the same time, a -little anxious when you come,” said Charles, in a low tone, as they -traversed the passage toward the kitchen. - -“’Taint much--I have to tell you something, but first gi’ me a -mouthful, for I’m as hungry as a hawk, and a mug o’ beer wouldn’t hurt -me while I’m waitin’. It’s good hungry air this; you eat a lot, I -dessay; the air alone stands you in fifty pounds a year, I reckon; -that’s paying pretty smart for what we’re supposed to have for the -takin’.” - -And Harry laughed at his joke as they entered the dark old -dining-room. - -“Ally not here?” said Harry, looking round. - -“She can’t be very far off, but I’ll manage something if she’s not to -be found.” - -So Charles left Harry smiling out of the window at the tops of the -trees, and drumming a devil’s tattoo on the pane. - -“Ho! Dulcibella. Is your mistress upstairs?” - -“I think she is gone out to the garden, sir; she took her trowel and -garden gloves, and the little basket wi’ her,” answered the old woman. - -“Well, don’t disturb her, we’ll not mind, I’ll see old Mildred.” - -So to old Mildred he betook himself. - -“Here’s Master Harry come very hungry, so send him anything you can -make out, and in the meantime some beer, for he’s thirsty, too, and, -like a good old soul, make all the haste you can.” - -And with this conciliatory exhortation he returned to the room where -he had left his brother. - -“Ally has gone out to visit her flowers, but Mildred is doing the best -she can for you, and we can go out and join Alice by-and-by, but we -are as well to ourselves for a little. I--I want to talk to you.” - -“Well, fire away, my boy, with your big oak stick, as the Irishman -says, though I’d rather have a mouthful first. Oh, here’s the -beer--thank ye, Chick-a-biddy. Where the devil did you get that -queer-looking fair one?” he asked, when the Hebe, Lilly Dogger, -disappeared; “I’ll lay you fifty it was Ally chose that one.” - -And he laughed obstreperously. - -And he poured out a tumbler of beer and drank it, and then another and -drank it, and poured out a third to keep at hand while he conversed. - -“There used to be some old pewter goblets here in the kitchen--I -wonder what’s gone wi’ them--they were grand things for drinking beer -out of--the pewter, while ye live--there’s nothing like it for -beer--or porter, by Jove. Have you got any porter?” - -“No, not any; but do, like a good old fellow, tell me anything you -have picked up that concerns me--there’s nothing pleasant, I -know--there can be nothing pleasant, but if there’s anything, I should -rather have it now, than wait, be it ever so bad.” - -“I wish you’d put some other fellow on this business, I know--for -you’ll come to hate the sight of me if I’m always bringing you bad -news; but it is _not_ good, that’s a fact; that beast is getting -unmanageable. By the law, here comes something for a hungry fellow; -thank ye, my lass, God bless ye, feeding the hungry. How can I pay ye -back, my dear? I don’t know, unless by taking ye in--ha, ha, -ha!--whenever ye want shelter, mind; but you’re too sharp, I warrant, -to let any fellow take you in, with them roguish eyes you’ve got. See -how she blushes, the brown little rogue!” he giggled after her with a -leer, as Lilly Dogger, having placed his extemporized luncheon on the -table, edged hurriedly out of the room. “Devilish fine eyes she’s -got, and a nice little set of ivories, sir. By Jove, I didn’t half see -her; pity she’s not a bit taller; and them square shoulders. But -hair--she has nice hair, and teeth and eyes goes a long way.” - -He had stuck his fork in a rasher while making his pretty speech, and -was champing away greedily by the time he had come to the end of his -sentence. - -“But what has turned up in that quarter? You were going to tell me -something when this came in,” asked Charles. - -“About the old soger? Well, if you don’t mind a fellow’s talkin’ with -his mouth full, I’ll try when I can think of it; but the noise of -eating clears a fellow’s head of everything, I think.” - -“Do, like a dear fellow. I can hear you perfectly,” urged Charles. - -“I’m afraid,” said Harry, with his mouth full, as he had promised, -“she’ll make herself devilish troublesome.” - -“Tell us all about it,” said Charles, uneasily. - -“I told you I was running up to London--we haven’t potatoes like these -up at Wyvern--and so I did go, and as I promised, I saw the old beast -at Hoxton; and hang me, but I think some one has been putting her up -to mischief.” - -“How do you mean?--what sort of mischief?” asked Charles. - -“I think she’s got uneasy about you. She was asking all sorts of -questions.” - -“Yes--well?” - -“And I wouldn’t wonder if some one was telling her--I was going to say -lies--but I mean something like the truth--ha, ha, ha! By the law, -I’ve been telling such a hatful of lies about it myself, that I hardly -know which is which, or one end from t’other.” - -“Do you mean to say she was abusing me, or _what_?” urged Charles, -very uncomfortably. - -“I don’t suppose you care very much what the old soger says of you. It -ain’t pretty, you may be sure, and it don’t much signify. But it ain’t -all talk, you know. She’s always grumblin’, and I don’t mind -_that_--her ticdooleroo, and her nerves, and her nonsense. She wants -carriage exercise, she says, and the court doctor--I forget his -name--ha, ha, ha! and she says you allow her next to nothing, and -keeps her always on the starving line, and she won’t stand it no -longer, she swears; and you’ll have to come down with the dust, my -boy.” - -And florid, stalwart Harry laughed again as if the affair was a good -joke. - -“I can’t help it, Harry, she has always had more than her share. I’ve -been too generous, I’ve been a d--d fool always.” - -Charles spoke with extreme bitterness, but quietly, and there was a -silence of two or three minutes, during which Harry’s eyes were on his -plate, and the noise of his knife and fork and the crunching of his -repast under his fine teeth, were the only sounds heard. - -Seeing that Harry seemed disposed to confine his attention for the -present to his luncheon, Charles Fairfield, who apprehended something -worse, said-- - -“If that’s all it is nothing very new. I’ve been hearing that sort of -thing for fully ten years. She’s ungrateful, and artful, and violent. -There’s no use in wishing or regretting now; but God knows, it was an -evil day for me when first I saw that woman’s face.” - -Charlie was looking down on the table as he spoke, and tapping on it -feverishly with the tips of his fingers. Harry’s countenance showed -that unpleasant expression which sometimes overcame its rustic -freshness. The attempt to discharge an unsuitable smile or a dubious -expression from the face--the attempt, shall we bluntly say, of a -rogue to look simple. - -It is a loose way of talking and thinking which limits the vice of -hypocrisy to the matter of religion. It counterfeits all good, and -dissimulates all evil, every day and hour; and among the men who -frankly admit themselves to be publicans and sinners, whose ways are -notoriously worldly, and who never affected religion, are some of the -worst and meanest hypocrites on earth. - -Harry Fairfield having ended his luncheon, had laid his knife and fork -on his plate, and leaning back in his chair, was ogling them with an -unmeaning stare, and mouth a little open, affecting a brown study; but -no effort can quite hide the meaning and twinkle of cunning, and -nothing is more repulsive than this semi-transparent mask of -simplicity. - -Thus the two brothers sat, neither observing the other much, with an -outward seeming of sympathy, but with very divergent thoughts. - -Charles, as we know, was a lazy man, with little suspicion, and rather -an admiration of his brother’s worldly wisdom and activity--with a -wavering belief in Harry’s devotion to his cause, sometimes a little -disturbed when Harry seemed for a short time hard and selfish, or -careless, but generally returning with a quiet self-assertion, like -the tide on a summer day. - -For my part I don’t exactly know how much or how little Harry cared -for Charles. The Fairfields were not always what is termed a “united” -family, and its individual members, in prosecuting their several -objects, sometimes knocked together, and occasionally, in the family -history, more violently and literally than was altogether seemly. - - - - - CHAPTER XXI. - HARRY’S BEER AND CONVERSATION. - -At last Harry, looking out of the window as he leaned back in his -chair, said, in a careless sort of way, but in a low tone-- - -“Did you ever tell Alice anything about it before you came here?” - -“Alice?” said Charles, wincing and looking very pale. “Well, you know, -why should I?” - -“You know best of course, but I thought you might, maybe,” answered -Harry, stretching himself with an imperfect yawn. - -“No,” said Charles, looking down with a flush. - -“She never heard anything about it at any time, then?--and mind, my -dear fellow, I’m only asking. You know much better than me what’s best -to be done; but the old brute will give you trouble, I’m afeard. -She’ll be writing letters, and maybe printing things; but you don’t -take in the papers here, so it won’t come so much by surprise like.” - -“Alice knows nothing of it. She never heard of her,” said Charles. - -“I wish she may have heard as little of Alice,” said Harry. - -“Why, you don’t mean to say”--began Charles, and stopped. - -“I think the woman has got some sort of a maggot in her head. I think -she has, more than common, and you’ll find I’m right.” - -Charles got up and stood at the window for a little. - -“I can’t guess what you mean, Harry. I don’t know what you think. Do -tell me, if you have any clear idea, what is she thinking of?” - -“I don’t know what to think, and upon my soul that one’s so deep,” -said Harry. “But I’d bet something she’s heard more than we’d just -like about this, and if so, there’ll be wigs on the green.” - -“There has been nothing--I mean no letter; I have not heard from her -for months--not since you saw her before. I think if there had been -anything unusual in her mind she would have written. Don’t you? I dare -say what you saw was only one of those ungoverned outbreaks of temper -that mean nothing.” - -“I hope so,” said Harry. - -“I blame myself, I’m no villain, I didn’t mean badly, but I’m a cursed -fool. It’s all quite straight though, and it doesn’t matter a farthing -what she does--not a farthing,” broke out Charles Fairfield. “But I -would not have poor little Alice frightened and made miserable, and -what had I best do, and where do you think we had best go?” He lowered -his voice, and glanced toward the door as he said this, suddenly -remembering that Alice might come in the midst of their consultation. - -“Go? For the present arn’t you well enough where you are? Wait a bit -anyhow. But I wonder you didn’t tell Alice; she ought to ’a known -something about it--oughtn’t she, before you married her, or whatever -you call it.” - -“Before I married her? of course,” said Charles sternly; “married -her!--you don’t mean, I fancy, to question my marriage?” - -Charles was looking at him with a very grim steady gaze. - -“Why, what the devil should I know, or care about lawyers’ nonsense -and pleadings, my dear fellow; I never could make head or tail of -them, only as we are talking here so confidential, you and me, -whatever came uppermost--I forget what--I just rapped out--has that -Hoxton lady any family?” - -“Don’t you know she has not?” replied Charles. - -“I know it now, but she might have a sieve full for anything I knew,” -answered Harry. - -“I think, Harry, if you really thought she and I were married, that -was too important a question for you, wasn’t it, to be forgotten so -easily?” said Charles. - -“Important, how so?” asked Harry. - -“How so, my dear Harry? Why, you can’t be serious--you haven’t forgot -that the succession to Wyvern depends on it,” exclaimed Charles -Fairfield. - -“Bah! Wyvern indeed! why, man, the thought never came near me--me -Wyvern! Sich pure rot! We Fairfields lives good long lives mostly, and -marries late sometimes; there’s forty good years before ye. Gad, -Charlie, you must think o’ summat more likely if you want folk to -believe ye. Ye’ll not hang me on that count, no, no.” - -And he laughed. - -“Well, I think so; I’m glad of it, for you know I wrote to tell you -about what is, I hope, likely to be, it has made poor little Alice so -happy, and if there should come an heir, you know he’d be another -squire of Wyvern in a long line of Fairfields, and it wouldn’t do, -Harry, to have a doubt thrown on him, and I’m glad to hear you say the -pretence of that d----d woman’s marriage is a lie.” - -“Well, you know best,” said Harry. “I’m very sorry for Alice, poor -little thing, if there’s ever any trouble at all about it.” - -And he looked through the windows along the tops of the tufted trees -that caught the sunlight softly, with his last expression of -condolence. - -“You _have_ said more than once, I don’t say to-day, that you were -sure--that you knew as well as I did there was nothing in that woman’s -story.” - -“Isn’t that some one coming?” said Harry, turning his head toward the -door. - -“No, no one,” said Charles after a moment’s silence. “But you _did_ -say so, Harry--you _know_ you did.” - -“Well, if I did I did, that’s all, but I don’t remember,” said Harry, -“and I’m sure you make a mistake.” - -“A mistake--what do you mean?” asked Charles. - -“I mean marriage or no marriage, I never meant to say as you -suppose--I know nothing about it, whatever I may think,” said Harry, -sturdily. - -“You know everything that I know, I’ve told you everything,” answered -Charles Fairfield. - -“And what o’ that? How can you or me tell whether it makes a marriage -or not, and I won’t be quoted by you or any one else, as having made -such a mouth of myself as to lay down the law in a case that might -puzzle a judge,” said Harry, darkening. - -“You believe the facts I’ve told you, I fancy,” said Charles sternly. - -“You meant truth, I’m sure o’ that, and beyond that I believe nothing -but what I have said myself, and more I won’t say for the king,” said -Harry, putting his hands in his pockets, and looking sulkily at -Charles, with his mouth a little open. - -Charles looked awfully angry. - -“You know very well, Harry, you have fifty times told me there was -nothing in it, and you have even said that the person herself thinks -so too,” he said at last, restraining himself. - -“That I never said, by ----,” said Harry, coolly, who was now standing -with his back against the window-shutters, and his hands in his -pockets. As he so spoke he crossed one sinewy leg over the other, and -continued to direct from the corner of his eye a sullen gaze upon his -brother. - -With the same oath that brother told him he lied. - -Here followed a pause, as when a train is fired and men are doubtful -whether the mine will spring. The leaves rustled and the flies hummed -happily outside as if those seconds were charged with nothing, and the -big feeble bee, who had spent the morning in walking up a pane of -glass and slipping down again, continued his stumbling exercise as if -there was nothing else worth attending to for a mile round Carwell -Grange. - -Harry had set both heels on the ground at this talismanic word; one -hand clenched had come from his pocket to his thigh, and from his eyes -“leaped” the old Fairfield fury. - -It was merely, as Harry would have said, the turn of a shilling, -whether a Fairfield battle, short, sharp, and decisive, had not tried -the issue at that instant. - -“I don’t vally a hot word spoke in haste; it’s ill raising hands -between brothers--let it pass. I’m about the last friend ye’ve left -just now, and I don’t see why ye should seek to put a quarrel on me. -It’s little to me, you know--no thanks, loss o’ time, and like to be -more kicks than ha’pence.” - -Harry spoke these words after a considerable pause. - -“I was wrong, Harry, I mean, to use such a word, and I beg your -pardon,” said Charles, extending his hand to his brother, who took his -fingers and dropped them with a rather short and cold shake. - -“Ye shouldn’t talk that way to a fellow that’s taken some trouble -about ye, and ye know I’m short tempered--we all are, and ’tisn’t the -way to handle me,” said Harry. - -“I was wrong, I know I was, and I’m sorry--I can’t say more,” answered -Charles. “But there it is! If there’s trouble about this little child -that’s coming, what am I to do? Wouldn’t it be better for me to be in -Wyvern churchyard?” - -Harry lowered his eyes with his mouth still open, to the threadbare -carpet. His hands were again both reposing quietly in his pockets. - -After a silence he said-- - -“If you had told me anything about what was in your head concerning -Alice Maybell, I’d a told you my mind quite straight; and if you ask -it now, I can only tell you one thing, and that is, I think you’re -married to t’other woman--I hate her like poison, but that’s nothing -to do wi’ it, and I’d a been for making a clear breast of it, and -telling Ally everything, and let her judge for herself. But you -wouldn’t look before you, and you’re got into a nice pound, I’m -afraid.” - -“I’m not a bit afraid about it,” said Charles, very pale. “Only for -the world, I would not have her frightened and vexed just now--and, -Harry, there’s nothing like speaking out, as you say, and I can’t help -thinking that your opinion [and at another time, perhaps, he would -have added, your memory] is biased by the estate.” - -Charles spoke bitterly or petulantly, which you will. But Harry seemed -to have made up his mind to take this matter coolly, and so he did. - -“Upon my soul I wouldn’t wonder,” he said, with a kind of laugh. -“Though if it does I give you my oath I am not aware of it. But take -it so if you like; it’s only saying a fellow loves his shirt very -well, but his skin better, and I suppose so we do, you and me, both of -us; only this I’ll say, ’twill be all straight and above board ’twixt -you and me, and I’ll do the best I can for ye--you don’t doubt that?” - -“No, Harry, you’ll not deceive me.” - -“No, of course; and as I say, I think that brute--the Hoxton -one--she’s took a notion in her head----” - -“To give me trouble?” - -“A notion,” continued Harry, “that there’s another woman in the case; -and, if you ask me, I think she’ll not rest quiet for long. She says -she’s your wife; and one way or another she’ll pitch into any girl -that says the same for herself. She’s like a mad horse, you know, when -she’s riled; and she’d kick through a wall and knock herself to pieces -to get at you. I wish she was sunk in the sea.” - -“Tell me, what do you think she is going to do?” asked Charles, -uneasily. - -“Upon my soul, I can’t guess; but ’twouldn’t hurt you, I think, if you -kept fifty pounds or so in your pocket to give her the slip, if she -should begin manœuvring with any sort o’ dodges that looked serious; -and if I hear any more I’ll let you know; and I’ve stayed here longer -than I meant; and I ha’n’t seen Ally; but you’ll make my compliments, -and tell her I was too hurried; and my nag’s had his feed by this -time; and I’ve stayed too long.” - -“Well, Harry, thank you very much. It’s a mere form asking you to -remain longer; there’s nothing to offer you worth staying for; and -this is such a place, and I so heartbroken--and--we part good -friends--don’t we?” - -“The best,” said Harry, carelessly. “Have you a cigar or two? Thanks; -you may as well make it three--thank ye--jolly good ’uns. I’ve a smart -ride before me; but I think I’ll make something of it, _rayther_. My -hands are pretty full always. I’d give ye more time if they wasn’t; -but keep your powder dry, and a sharp look out, and so will I, and gi’ -my love to Ally, and tell her to keep up her heart, and all will go -right, I dare say.” - -By this time they had threaded the passage, and were in the -stable-yard again; and mounting his horse, Harry turned, and with a -wag of his head and a farewell grin, rode slowly over the pavement, -and disappeared through the gate. - -Charles was glad that he had gone without seeing Alice. She would -certainly have perceived that something was wrong. He thought for a -moment of going to the garden to look for her, but the same -consideration prevented his doing so, and he took his fishing-rod -instead, and went off the other way, to look for a trout in the brook -that flows through Carwell Glen. - - - - - CHAPTER XXII. - THE TROUT. - -Down the glen, all the way to the ruined windmill, sauntered Charles -Fairfield, before he put his rod together and adjusted his casting -line. Very nervous he was, almost miserable. But he was not a man -instinctively to strike out a course on an emergency, or to reduce his -resolves promptly to action; neither was he able yet to think very -clearly on his situation. Somehow his brother Harry was constantly -before him in a new and dismal light. Had there not peeped out to-day, -instead of the boot of that horsey, jolly fellow, the tip of a cloven -hoof that cannot be mistaken? Oh, Harry, brother! Was he meditating -treason and going to take arms in the cause of the murderer of his -peace? He was so cunning and so energetic, that Charles stood in awe -of him, and thought if his sword were pointed at his breast, that he -might as well surrender and think no more of safety. Harry had been -too much in his confidence, and had been too often in conference with -that evil person whom he called “the old soger,” to be otherwise than -formidable as an enemy. An enemy he trusted he never would see him. An -unscrupulous one in his position could work fearful mischief to him by -a little colouring and perversion of things that had occurred. He would -not assume such a transformation possible. - -But always stood before him Harry in his altered mien and estranged -looks, as he had seen him, sullen and threatening, that day. - -What would he not have given to be sure that the wicked person whom he -now dreaded more than he feared all other powers, had formed no actual -design against him? If she had, what was the agency that had kindled -her evil passions and excited her activity? He could not fancy Harry -such a monster. - -What were her plans? Did she mean legal proceedings? He would have -given a good deal for light, no matter what it may disclose, anything -but suspense, and the phantasmal horrors with which imagination -peoples darkness. - -Never did harassed brain so need the febrifuge of the angler’s solace, -and quickly his cares and agitations subsided in that serene -absorption. - -One thing only occurred for a moment to divert his attention from his -tranquillising occupation. Standing on a flat stone near midway in the -stream, he was throwing his flies over a nook where he had seen a -trout rise, when he heard the ring of carriage wheels on the road that -passes round the base of the old windmill, and pierces the dense wood -that darkened the glen of Carwell. - -Raising his eyes he did see a carriage following that unfrequented -track. A thin screen of scattered trees prevented his seeing this -carriage very distinctly. But the road is so little a thoroughfare -that except an occasional cart, few wheeled vehicles ever traversed -it. A little anxiously he watched this carriage till it disappeared -totally in the wood. He felt uncomfortably that its destination was -Carwell Grange, and at that point conjecture failed him. - -This little incident was, I think, the only one that for a moment -disturbed the serene abstraction of his trout-fishing. - -And now the sun beginning to approach the distant hills warned him -that it was time to return. So listlessly he walked homeward, and as -he ascended the narrow and melancholy track that threads the glen of -Carwell, his evil companions, the fears and cares that tortured him, -returned. - -Near Carwell Grange the road makes a short but steep ascent, and a -slight opening in the trees displays on the eminence a little platform -on the verge of the declivity, from which a romantic view down the -glen and over a portion of the lower side unfolds itself. - -Here for a time he paused, looking westward on the sky already glowing -in the saddened splendours of sunset. From this miserable rumination -he carried away one resolution, hard and clear. It was painful to come -to it--but the torture of concealment was more dreadful. He had made -up his mind to tell Alice exactly how the facts were. One ingredient, -and he fancied just then, the worst in his cup of madness, was the -torture of secrecy, and the vigilance and the uncertainties of -concealment. Poor little Alice, he felt, ought to know. It was her -right. And the attempt longer to conceal it would make her much more -miserable, for he could not disguise his sufferings, and she would -observe them, and be abandoned to the solitary anguish of suspense. - -As he entered the Grange he was reminded of the carriage which he had -observed turning up the narrow Carwell road, by actually seeing it -standing at the summit of the short and steep ascent to the Grange. - -Coming suddenly upon this object, with its natty well-appointed air, -contrasting with the old-world neglect and homeliness of all that -surrounded, he stopped short with an odd Robinson Crusoe shyness and -surveyed the intruding vehicle. - -This survey told him nothing. He turned sharply into the back entrance -of the Grange, disturbed, and a good deal vexed. - -It could not be an invasion of the enemy. Carriage, harness, and -servants were much too smart for that. But if the neighbours had found -them out, and that this was the beginning of a series of visits, could -anything in a small way be more annoying, and even dangerous? Here was -a very necessary privacy violated, with what ulterior consequences who -could calculate. - -This was certainly Alice’s doing. Women _are_ such headstrong, silly -creatures! - - - - - CHAPTER XXIII. - THE VISITOR. - -The carriage which Charles Fairfield had seen rounding the -picturesque ruin of Gryce’s Mill, was that of Lady Wyndale. Mrs. -Tarnley opened the door to her summons, and acting on her general -instructions said “not at home.” - -But good Lady Wyndale was not so to be put off. She had old Mildred to -the side of the carriage. - -“I know my niece will be glad to see me,” she said. “I’m Lady Wyndale, -and you are to take this card in, and tell my niece, Mrs. Fairfield, I -have come to see her.” - -Mrs. Tarnley looked with a dubious scrutiny at Lady Wyndale, for she -had no idea that Alice could have an aunt with a title and a carriage. -On the whole, however, she thought it best to take the card in, and -almost immediately it was answered by Alice, who ran out to meet her -aunt and throw her arms about her neck, and led her into Carwell -Grange. - -“Oh! darling, darling! I’m so delighted to see you! It was so good of -you to come. But how did you find me out?” said Alice, kissing her -again and again. - -“There’s no use, you see, in being secret with me. I made out where -you were, though you meant to keep me quite in the dark, and I really -don’t think I ought to have come near you, and I am very much -affronted,” said kind old Lady Wyndale, a little high. - -“But auntie, darling, didn’t you get my letter, telling you that we -were married?” pleaded Alice. - -“Yes, and that you had left Wyvern; but you took good care not to tell -me where you were going, and in fact if it had not been for the good -housekeeper at Wyvern, to whom I wrote, I suppose I should have lived -and died within fifteen miles of you, thinking all the time that you -had gone to France.” - -“We were thinking of that, I told you,” pleaded Alice, eagerly. - -“Well, here you have been for three months, and I’ve been living -within a two hours’ drive of you, and dreading all the time that you -were four hundred miles away. I have never once seen your face. I -don’t think that was good-natured.” - -“Oh, dear aunt, forgive me,” entreated Alice. “You will when you know -all. If you knew how miserable I have often been, thinking how -ungrateful and odious I must have appeared, how meanly reserved and -basely suspicious, all the time longing for nothing on earth so much -as a sight of your beloved face, and a good talk over everything with -you, my best and truest friend.” - -“There, kiss me, child; I’m not angry, only sorry, darling, that I -should have lost so much of your society, which I might have enjoyed -often very much,” said the placable old lady. - -“But, darling aunt, I _must_ tell you how it was--you must hear me. -You know how I idolize you, and you can’t know, but you may imagine, -what, in this solitary place, and with cares and fears so often -troubling me, your kind and delightful society would have been to me; -but my husband made it a point, that just for the present I should -divulge our retreat to no one on earth. I pleaded for you, and in fact -there is not another person living to whom I should have dreamed of -disclosing it; but the idea made him so miserable and he urged it with -so much entreaty and earnestness that I could not without a quarrel -have told you, and he promised that my silence should be enforced only -for a very short time.” - -“Dear me! I’m so sorry,” said Lady Wyndale, very much concerned. “It -must be that the poor man is very much dipped and is literally hiding -himself here. You poor little thing! Is he in debt?” - -“I am afraid he is. I can’t tell you how miserable it sometimes makes -me; not that he allows me ever to feel it, except in these -precautions, for we are, though in a very homely way, perfectly -comfortable--you would not believe how comfortable--but we really -are,” said poor, loyal little Alice, making the best of their frugal -and self-denying life. - -“Your room is very snug. I like an old-fashioned room,” said the -good-natured old lady, looking round; “and you make it so pretty with -your flowers. Is there any ornament like them? And you have such an -exquisite way of arranging them. It is an art; no one can do it like -you. You know I always got you to undertake ours at Oulton, and you -remember Tremaine standing beside you, trying, as he said, to learn -the art, though I fancy he was studying something prettier.” - -Alice laughed; Lord Tremaine was a distant figure now, and this little -triumph a dream of the past. But is not the spirit of woman conquest? -Is not homage the air in which she lives and blooms? So Alice’s dark, -soft eyes dropped for a moment sidelong with something like the -faintest blush, and a little dimpling smile. - -“But all that’s over, you know,” said Lady Wyndale; “you would insist -on putting a very effectual extinguisher upon it, so there’s an end of -my match-making, and I hope you may be very happy your own way, and -I’m sure you will, and you know any little money trouble can’t last -long; for old Mr. Fairfield you know can’t possibly live very long, -and then I’m told Wyvern _must_ be his; and the Fairfields were always -thought to have some four or five thousand a year, and although the -estate, they say, owes something, yet a prudent little woman like you, -will get all that to rights in time.” - -“You are always so kind and cheery, you darling,” said Alice, looking -fondly and smiling in her face, as she placed a hand on each shoulder. -“It is delightful seeing you at last. But you are tired, ain’t you? -You must take something.” - -“Thanks, dear. I’ll have a little tea--nothing else. I lunched before -we set out.” - -So Alice touched the bell, and the order was taken by Mildred Tarnley. - -“And how is that nice, good-natured old creature, Dulcibella Crane? I -like her so much. She seems so attached. I hope you have her still -with you?” - -“Oh, yes. I could not exist without her--dear old Dulcibella, of -course.” - -There was here a short silence. - -“I was thinking of asking you if you could all come over to Oulton for -a month or so. I’m told your husband is such an agreeable man, and -very unlike Mr. Harry Fairfield, his brother--a mere bear, they tell -me; and do you think your husband would venture? We should be quite to -ourselves if you preferred it, and we could make it almost as quiet as -here.” - -“It is so like you, you darling, and to me would be so delightful; but -no, no, it is quite out of the question; he is really--this is a great -secret, and you won’t say a word to any one--I am afraid very much -harassed. He is very miserable about his affairs. There has been a -quarrel with old Mr. Fairfield which makes the matter worse. His -brother Harry has been trying to arrange with his creditors, but I -don’t know how that will be; and Charlie has told me that we must be -ready on very short notice to go to France or somewhere else abroad; -and I’m afraid he owes a great deal--he’s so reserved and nervous -about it; and you may suppose how I must feel, how miserable -sometimes, knowing that I am, in great measure, the cause of his being -so miserably harassed. Poor Charlie! I often think how much happier it -would have been for him never to have seen me.” - -“Did I ever hear such stuff! But I won’t say half what I was going to -say, for I can’t think you such a fool, and I must only suppose you -want me to say ever so many pretty things of you, which, in this case, -I am bound to say would be, unlike common flatteries, quite true. But -if there really is any trouble of that kind--of the least consequence -I mean--I think it quite a scandal, not only shabby but wicked, that -old Mr. Fairfield, with one foot in the grave, should do nothing. I -always knew he was a mere bruin; but people said he was generous in -the matter of money, and he ought to think that, in the course of -nature, Wyvern should have been his son’s years ago, and it is really -quite abominable his not coming forward.” - -“There’s no chance of that; there has been a quarrel,” said Alice, -looking down on the threadbare carpet. - -“Well, darling, remember, if it should come to that--I mean if he -should be advised to go away for a little, remember that your home is -at Oulton. He’ll not stay away very long, but if you accept my offer, -the longer the happier for me. You are to come over to Oulton, you -understand, and to bring old Dulcibella; and I only wish that you had -been a few years married that we might set up a little nursery in that -dull house. I think I should live ten years longer if I had the -prattle and laughing, and pleasant noise of children in the old -nursery, the same nursery where my poor dear George ran about, sixty -years ago nearly, when he was a child. We should have delightful -times, you and I, and I’d be your head nurse.” - -“My darling, I think you are an angel,” said Alice, with a little -laugh, and throwing her arms about her she wept on her thin old neck, -and the old lady, weeping also happy and tender tears, patted her -shoulder gently in that little silence. - -“Well, Alice, you’ll remember, and I’ll write to your husband as well -as to you, for this kind of invitation is never attended to, and you -would think nothing of going away and leaving your old auntie to shift -for herself; and if you will come it will be the kindest thing you -ever did, for I’m growing old and strangers don’t amuse me quite as -much as they did, and I really want a little home society to exercise -my affections and prevent my turning into a selfish old cat.” - -So the tea came in and they sipped it to the accompaniment of their -little dialogue, and time glided away unperceived, and the door opened -and Charles Fairfield, in his careless fishing costume, entered the -room. - -He glanced at Alice a look which she understood; her visitor also -perceived it; but Charles had not become a mere Orson in this -wilderness, so he assumed an air of welcome. - -“We are so glad to see you here, Lady Wyndale, though, indeed, it -ain’t easy to see any one, the room is so dark. It was so very good of -you to come this long drive to see Alice.” - -“I hardly hoped to have seen you,” replied the old lady, “for I must -go in a minute or two more, and--I’m very frank, and you won’t think -me rude, but I have learned everything, and I know that I ought not to -have come without a little more circumspection.” - -He laughed a little, and Alice thought, as well as the failing light -enabled her to see, that he looked very pale, as, laughing, he fixed -for a moment a hard look on her. - -“All is not a great deal,” he said, not knowing very well what to say. - -“No, no,” said the old lady, “there’s no one on earth, almost, who has -not suffered at one time or other that kind of passing annoyance. You -know that Alice and I are such friends, so very intimate that I feel -as if I knew her husband almost as intimately, although you were -little more than a boy when I last saw you, and I’m afraid it must -seem very impertinent my mentioning Alice’s little anxieties, but I -could not well avoid doing so without omitting an explanation which I -ought to make, because this secret little creature your wife, with -whom I was very near being offended, was perfectly guiltless of my -visit, and I learned where she was from your old housekeeper at -Wyvern, and from no one else on earth did I receive the slightest -hint, and I thought it very ill-natured, being so near a relation and -friend, and when you know me a little better, Mr. Fairfield, you’ll -not teach Alice to distrust me.” - -Then the kind old lady diverged into her plans about Alice and Oulton, -and promised a diplomatic correspondence, and at length she took her -leave for the last time, and Charles saw her into her carriage, and -bid her a polite farewell. - -Away drove the carriage, and Charles stood listlessly at the summit of -the embowered and gloomy road that descends in one direction into the -Vale of Carwell, and passes in the other, with some windings, to the -wide heath of Cressley Common. - -This visit, untoward as it was, was, nevertheless, a little stimulus. -He felt his spirits brightening, his pulse less sluggish, and -something more of confidence in his future. - -“There’s time enough in which to tell her my trouble,” thought he, as -he turned toward the house; “and by Jove! we haven’t had our dinner. I -must choose the time. To-night it shall be. We will both be, I think, -less miserable when it is told,” and he sighed heavily. - -He entered the house through the back gate, and as he passed the -kitchen door, called to Mildred Tarnley the emphatic word “dinner!” - - - - - CHAPTER XXIV. - THE SUMMONS. - -When Charles Fairfield came into the wainscoted dining-room a few -minutes later it looked very cosy. The sun had broken the pile of -western clouds, and sent low and level a red light flecked with -trembling leaves on the dark panels that faced the windows. - -Outside in that farewell glory of the day the cawing crows were heard -returning to the sombre woods of Carwell, and the small birds whistled -and warbled pleasantly in the clear air, and chatty sparrows in the -ivy round gossiped and fluttered merrily before the little community -betook themselves to their leafy nooks and couched their busy little -heads for the night under their brown wings. - -He looked through the window towards the gloriously-stained sky and -darkening trees, and he thought,-- - -“A fellow like me, who has seen out his foolish days and got to value -better things, who likes a pretty view, and a cigar, and a stroll by a -trout-brook, and a song now and then, and a book, and a friendly -guest, and a quiet glass of wine, and who has a creature like Alice to -love and be loved by, might be devilish happy in this queer lonely -corner, if only the load were off his heart.” - -He sighed; but something of that load was for the moment removed; and -as pretty Alice came in at the open door, he went to meet her, and -drew her fondly to his heart. - -“We must be very happy this evening, Alice. Somehow I feel that -everything will go well with us yet. If just a few little hitches and -annoyances were got over, I should be the happiest fellow, I think, -that ever bore the name of Fairfield; and you, darling creature, are -the light of that happiness. My crown and my life--my beautiful Alice, -my joy and my glory--I wish you knew half how I love you, and how -proud I am of you.” - -“Oh, Charlie, Charlie, this is delightful. Oh, Ry, my darling! I’m too -happy.” - -And with these words, in the strain of her slender embrace, she clung -to him as he held her locked to his heart. - -The affection was there; the love was true. In the indolent nature of -Charles Fairfield capabilities of good were not wanting. That dreadful -interval in the soul’s history, between the weak and comparatively -noble state of childhood and that later period when experience saddens -and illuminates and begins to turn our looks regretfully backward, was -long past with him. The period when women “come out” and see the -world, and men in the old-fashioned phrase “sow their wild oats”--that -glorious summer-time of self-love, sin, and folly--that bleak and -bitter winter of the soul, through which the mercy of God alone -preserves for us alive the dormant germs of good, was past for him, -without killing, as it sometimes does, all the tenderness and truth of -the nursery. In this man, Charles Fairfield, were the trodden-down but -still living affections which now, in this season, unfolded themselves -anew--simplicity unkilled, and the purity not of Eden, not of -childhood, but of _recoil_. Altogether a man who had not lost -himself--capable of being happy--capable of being regenerated. - -I know not exactly what had evoked this sudden glow and effervescence. -Perhaps it needs some manifold confluence of internal and external -conditions, trifling and unnoticed, except for such unexplained -results, to evolve these tremblings and lightings up that surprise us -like the fiercer analogies of volcanic chemistry. - -It is sad to see what appear capabilities and opportunities of a great -happiness so nearly secured, and yet by reason of some inflexible -caprice of circumstance quite unattainable. - -It was not for some hours, and until after his wife had gone to her -room, that the darkness and chill that portended the return of his -worst care crept over him as he sat and turned over the leaves of his -book. - -He got up and loitered discontentedly about the room. Stopping now -before the little bookshelves between the windows and adjusting -unconsciously their contents; now at the little oak table, and -fiddling with the flowers which Alice had arranged in a tall old -glass, one of the relics of other days of Carwell; and so on, -listless, irresolute. - -“So here I am once more--back again among my enemies! Happiness for -me, a momentary illusion--hope a cheat. My _reality_ is the blackness -of the abyss. God help me!” - -He turned up his eyes, and he groaned this prayer, unconscious that it -was a prayer. - -“I will,” he thought, “extract the sting from this miserable mystery. -Between me and Alice it shall be a secret no longer. I’ll tell her -to-morrow. I’ll look out an opportunity; I will by----” - -And to nail himself to his promise this irresolute man repeated the -same passionate oath, and he struck his hand on the table. - -Next day, therefore, when Alice was again among the flowers in the -garden he entered that antique and solemn shade with a strange -sensation at his heart of fear and grief. How would Alice look on him -after it was over? How would she bear it? - -Pale as the man who walks after the coffin of his darling, between the -tall gray piers he entered that wild and umbrageous enclosure. - -His heart seemed to stop still as he saw little Alice, all -unsuspicious of his dreadful message, working with her tiny trowel at -the one sunny spot of the garden. - -She stood up--how pretty she was!--looking on her work; and as she -stood with one tiny foot advanced, and her arms folded, with her -garden-gloves on, and the little diamond-shaped trowel glittering in -her hand, she sang low to herself an air which he remembered her -singing when she was quite a little thing long ago at Wyvern--when he -never dreamed she would be anything to him--just a picture of a little -brown-haired girl and nothing dearer. - -Then she saw him, and-- - -“Oh, Ry, darling!” she cried, as making a diagonal from the distant -point, she ran towards him through tall trees and old raspberries, and -under the boughs of over-grown fruit trees, which now-a-days bore more -moss and lichen than pears or cherries upon them. - -“Ry, how delightful! You so seldom come here, and now I have you, you -shall see all I’m doing, and how industrious I have been; and we are -going to have such a happy little ramble. Has anything happened, -darling?” she said, suddenly stopping and looking in his face. - -Here was an opportunity; but if his resolution was still there, -presence of mind failed him, and forcing a smile, he instantly -answered-- - -“Nothing, darling--nothing whatever. Come, let us look at your work; -you are so industrious, and you have such wonderful taste.” - -And as, reassured, and holding his hand, she prattled and laughed, -leading him round by the grass-grown walks to her garden, as she -called that favoured bit of ground on which the sun shone, he hardly -saw the old currant bushes or gray trunks of the rugged trees; his -sight seemed dazzled; his hearing seemed confused; and he thought to -himself-- - -“Where am I--what is this--and can it be true that I am so weak or so -mad as to be turned from the purpose over which I have been brooding -for a day and a night, and to which I had screwed my courage so -resolutely, by a smile and a question--What is this? Black currant; -and this is groundsel; and little Alice, your glove wants a stitch or -two,” he added aloud; “and oh! here we are. Now you must enlighten me; -and what a grove of little sticks, and little inscriptions. These are -your annuals, I suppose?” - -And so they talked, and she laughed and chatted very merrily, and he -had not the heart--perhaps the courage--to deliver his detested -message; and again it was postponed. - -The next day Charles Fairfield fell into his old gloom and anxieties; -the temporary relief was felt no more, and the usual reaction -followed. - -It is something to have adopted a resolution. The anguish of suspense, -at least, is ended, and even if it be to undergo an operation, and to -blow one’s own brains out, men will become composed, and sometimes -even cheerful, as the coroner’s inquest discovers, when once the way -and the end are known. - -But this melancholy serenity now failed Charles Fairfield, for without -acknowledging it, he began a little to recede from his resolution. -Then was the dreadful question, how will she bear it, and even worse, -how will she view the position? Is she not just the person to leave -forthwith a husband thus ambiguously placed, and to insist that this -frightful claim, however shadowy, should be met and determined in the -light of day? - -“I know very well what an idol she makes of me, poor little thing; but -she would not stay here an hour after she heard it; she would go -straight to Lady Wyndale. It would break her heart, but she would do -it.” - -It was this fear that restrained him. Impelling him, however, was the -thought that, sooner or later, if Harry’s story were true, his enemy -would find him out, and his last state be worse than his first. - -Again and again he cursed his own folly for not having consulted his -shrewd brother before his marriage. How horribly were his words -justified. How easy it would have been comparatively to disclose all -to Alice before leading her into such a position. He did not believe -that there was actual danger in this claim. He could swear that he -meant no villainy. Weak and irresolute, in a trying situation, he had -been--that was all. But could he be sure that the world would not -stigmatize him as a villain? - -Another day passed, and he could not tell what a day might bring--a -day of feverish melancholy, of abstraction, of agitation. - -She had gone to her room. It was twelve o’clock at night, when, having -made up his mind to make his agitating shrift, he mounted the old oak -stairs, with his candle in his hand. - -“Who’s there?” said his wife’s voice from the room. - -“I, darling.” - -And at the door she met him in her dressing-gown. Her face was pale -and miserable, and her eyes swollen with crying. - -“Oh, Ry, darling, I’m so miserable; I think I shall go mad.” - -And she hugged him fast in trembling arms, and sobbed convulsively on -his breast. - -Charles Fairfield froze with a kind of terror. He thought, “she has -found out the whole story.” She looked up in his face, and that was -the face of a ghost. - -“Oh, Ry, darling, for God’s sake tell me--is there anything very -bad--is it debt only that makes you so wretched? I am in such dreadful -uncertainty. Have mercy on your poor little miserable wife, and tell -me whatever it is--tell me all!” - -Here you would have said was something more urgent than the -opportunity which he coveted; but the sight of that gaze of wildest -misery smote and terrified him, it looked in reality so near despair, -so near insanity. - -“To tell her will be to kill her,” something seemed to whisper, and he -drew her closer to him, and kissed her and laughed. - -“Nothing on earth but money--the want of money--debt. Upon my soul -you frightened me, Alice, you looked so, so piteous. I thought you had -something dreadful to tell me; but, thank God, you are quite well, and -haven’t even seen a ghost. You must not always be such a foolish -little creature. I’m afraid this place will turn our heads. Here we -are safe and sound, and nothing wrong but my abominable debts. You -would not wonder at my moping if you knew what debt is; but I won’t -look, if I can help it, quite so miserable for the future; for, after -all, we must have money soon, and you know they can’t hang me for -owing them a few hundreds; and I’m quite angry with myself for having -annoyed you so, you poor little thing.” - -“My noble Ry, it is so good of you, you make me so happy, I did not -know what to think, but you have made me quite cheerful again, and I -really do think it is being so much alone, I watch your looks so much, -and everything preys on me so, and that seems so odious when I have my -darling along with me; but Ry will forgive his foolish little wife, I -know he will, he’s always so good and kind.” - -Then followed more reassuring speeches from Charles, and more raptures -from poor Alice. And the end was that for a time Charles was quite -turned away from his purpose. I don’t know, however, that he was able -to keep his promise about more cheerful looks, certainly not beyond a -day or two. - -A few days later he heard a tragic bit of news. Tom related to him -that the miller’s young wife, down at Raxleigh, hearing on a sudden -that her husband was drowned in the mill-stream, though ’twas nothing -after all but a ducking, was “took wi’ fits, and died in three days’ -time.” - -So much for surprising young wives with alarming stories! Charles -Fairfield listened, and made the application for himself. - -A few days later a letter was brought into the room where rather -silently Charles and his wife were at breakfast. It came when he had -almost given up the idea of receiving one for some days, perhaps -weeks, and he had begun to please himself with the idea that the delay -augured well, and Harry’s silence was a sign that the alarm was -subsiding. - -Here, however, was a letter addressed to him in Harry’s bold hand. His -poor little wife sitting next the tea-things, eyed her husband as he -opened it, with breathless alarm; she saw him grow pale as he glanced -at it; he lowered it to the tablecloth, and bit his lip, his eye still -fixed on it. - -As he did not turn over the leaf, she saw it could not be a long one, -and must all be comprised within one page. - -“Ry, darling,” she asked, also very pale, in a timid voice, “it’s -nothing very bad. Oh, darling, what is it?” - -He got up and walked to the window silently. - -“What do you say, darling?” he asked, suddenly, after a little pause. - -She repeated her question. - -“No, darling, nothing, but--but possibly we may have to leave this. -You can read it, darling.” - -He laid the letter gently on the tablecloth beside her, and she picked -it up, and read-- - - - “My dear Charlie, - - “The old soldier means business. I think you must go up to London, but - be sure to meet me to-morrow at Hatherton, say the Commercial Hotel, - at four o’clock, P.M. - - “Your affectionate brother, - “Harry Fairfield.” - - -“Who does he mean by the old soldier?” asked Alice, very much -frightened, after a silence. - -“One of those d----d people who are plaguing me,” said Charles, who -had returned to the window, and answered, still looking out. - -“And what is his real name, darling?” - -“I’m ashamed to say that Harry knows ten times as well as I all about -my affairs. I pay interest through his hands, and he watches those -people’s movements; he’s a rough diamond, but he has been very kind, -and you see his note--where is it? Oh, thanks. I must be off in half -an hour, to meet the coach at the ‘Pied Horse.’” - -“Let me go up, darling, and help you to pack, I know where all your -things are,” said poor little Alice, who looked as if she was going to -faint. - -“Thank you, darling, you are such a good little creature, and never -think of yourself--never, never--_half enough_.” - -His hands were on her shoulders, and he was looking in her face, with -sad strange eyes, as he said this, slowly, like a man spelling out an -inscription. - -“I wish--I wish a thousand things. God knows how heavy my heart is. If -you cared for yourself, Alice, like other women, or that I weren’t a -fool--but--but you, poor little thing, it was such a venture, such a -sea, such a crazy boat to sail in.” - -“I would not give up my Ry, my darling, my husband, my handsome, -clever, noble Ry--I’d lose a thousand lives if I had them, one by one, -for you, Charlie; and oh, if you left me, I should die.” - -“Poor little thing,” he said, drawing her to him with a trembling -strain, and in his eyes, unseen by her, tears were standing. - -“If you leave this, won’t you take me, Charlie? won’t you let me go -wherever you go? and oh, if they take my man--I’m to go with you, -Charlie, promise that, and oh, my darling, you’re not sorry you -married your poor little Alley.” - -“Come, darling, come up; you shall hear from me in a day or two, or -see me. This will blow over, as so many other troubles have done,” he -said, kissing her fondly. - -And now began the short fuss and confusion of a packing on brief -notice, while Tom harnessed the horse, and put him to the dogcart. - -And the moment having arrived, down came Charles Fairfield, and Tom -swung his portmanteau into its place, and poor little Alice was there -with, as Old Dulcibella said, “her poor little face all cried,” to -have a last look, and a last word, her tiny feet on the big unequal -paving stones, and her eyes following Charlie’s face, as he stepped up -and arranged his rug and coat on the seat, and then jumped down for -the last hug; and the wild, close, hurried whisperings, last words of -love and cheer from laden hearts, and pale smiles, and the last, -_really_ the last look, and the dog-cart and Tom, and the portmanteau -and Charlie, and the sun’s blessed light, disappear together through -the old gateway under the wide stone arch, with tufted ivy and -careless sparrows, and little Alice stands alone on the pavement for a -moment, and runs out to have one last wild look at the disappearing -“trap,” under the old trees, as it rattled swiftly down to the narrow -road of Carwell Valley. - -It vanished--it was gone--the tinkling of the wheels was heard no -more. The parting, for the present, was quite over, and poor little -Alice turned at last, and threw her arms about the neck of kind old -Dulcibella, who had held her when a baby in her arms in the little -room at Wyvern Vicarage, and saw her now a young wife, “wooed and -married, and a’,” in the beauty and the sorrows of life; and the light -air of autumn rustled in the foliage above her, and a withered leaf or -two fell from the sunlit summits to the shadow at her feet; and the -old woman’s kind eyes filled with tears, and she whispered homely -comfort, and told her she would have him back again in a day or two, -and not to take on so; and with her gentle hand, as she embraced her, -patted her on the shoulder, as she used in other years--that seemed -like yesterday--to comfort her in nursery troubles. But our sorrows -outgrow their simple consolations, and turn us in their gigantic -maturity to the sympathy and wisdom that is sublime and eternal. - -Days passed away, and a precious note from Charlie came. It told her -where to write to him in London, and very little more. - -The hasty scrawl added, indeed emphatically, that she was to tell his -address to no one. So she shut it up in the drawer of the -old-fashioned dressing-table, the key of which she always kept with -her. - -Other days passed. The hour was dull at Carwell Grange for Alice. But -things moved on in their dull routine without event or alarm. - -Old Mildred Tarnley was sour and hard as of old, and up to a certain -time neither darker nor brighter than customary. Upon a day, however, -there came a shadow and a fear upon her. - -Two or three times on that day and the next, was Mrs. Tarnley -gliding, when old Dulcibella with her mistress was in the garden, -about Alice’s bedroom, noiselessly as a shadow. The little girl -downstairs did not know where she was. It was known but to -herself--and what she was about. Coming down those dark stairs, and -going up, she went on tiptoe, and looked black and stern as if she was -“laying out” a corpse upstairs. - -Accidentally old Dulcibella, coming into the room on a message from -the garden, surprised lean, straight Mrs. Tarnley, feloniously trying -to turn a key, from a bunch in her hand, in the lock of the -dressing-table drawer. - -“Oh, la! Mrs. Tarnley,” cried old Dulcibella, very much startled. - -The two women stood perfectly still, staring at one another. Each -looked scared. Stiff Mildred Tarnley, without, I think, being the -least aware of it, dropped a stiff short courtesy, and for some -seconds more the silence continued. - -“What _be_ you a-doing here, Mrs. Tarnley?” at length demanded -Dulcibella Crane. - -“No occasion to tell _you_,” replied Mildred, intrepidly. “Another -one, that owed her as little as I’m like ever to do, would tell your -young mistress. But I don’t want to break her heart--what for should -I? There’s dark stories enough about the Grange without no one hangin’ -theirself in their garters. What I want is where to direct a letter to -Master Charles--that’s all.” - -“I can’t say, I’m sure,” said old Dulcibella. - -“She got a letter from him o’ Thursday last; ’twill be in it no doubt, -and that I take it, ma’am, is in this drawer, for she used not to lock -it; and I expect you, if ye love your young mistress, to help me to -get at it,” said Mrs. Tarnley, firmly. - -“Lor, Mrs. Tarnley, ma’am! _me_ to pick a lock, ma’am! I’d die first. -Ye can’t mean it?” - -“I knowd ye was a fool. I shouldn’t ’a said nothing to ye about it,” -said Mildred, with sharp disdain. - -“Lawk! I never was so frightened in my life!” responded Dulcibella. - -“Ye’ll be more so, mayhap. I wash my hands o’ ye,” said Mrs. Tarnley, -with a furious look, and a sharp little stamp on the floor. “I thought -o’ nothing but your mistress’s good, and if ye tell her I was here, -I’ll explain all, for I won’t lie under no surmises, and I think -’twill be the death of her.” - -“Oh, this place, this hawful place! I never was so frightened in my -days,” said Dulcibella, looking very white. - -“She’s in the garden now, I do suppose,” said Mildred, “and if ye mean -to tell her what I was about, ’taint a pin’s head to me, but I’ll go -out and tell her myself, and even if she lives through it, she’ll -never hold up her head more, and that’s all _you’ll_ hear from Mildred -Tarnley.” - -“Oh, dear! dear! dear! my heart, how it goes!” - -“Come, come, woman, you’re nothin’ so squeamish, I dare say.” - -“Well,” said Dulcibella; “it may be all as you say, ma’am, and I’ll -say ye this justice, I ha’n’t missed to the value of a pennypiece -since we come here, but if ye promise me, only ye won’t come up here -no more while we’re out, Mrs. Tarnley, I won’t say nothing about it.” - -“That settles it, keep your word, Mrs. Crane, and I’ll keep mine; I’ll -burn my fingers no more in other people’s messes;” and she shook the -key with a considerable gingle of the whole bunch from the keyhole, -and popped it grimly into her pocket. - -“Your sarvant, Mrs. Crane.” - -“Yours, Mrs. Tarnley, ma’am,” replied Dulcibella. - -And the interview which had commenced so brusquely, ended with -ceremony, as Mildred Tarnley withdrew. - -That old woman was in a sort of fever that afternoon and the next day, -and her temper, Lilly Dogger thought, grew more and more savage as -night approached. She had in her pocket a friendly fulsome little -letter, which had reached her through the post, announcing an arrival -for the night that was now approaching. The coach that changed horses -at the “Pied Horse,” was due there at half-past eleven, P.M., but -might not be there till twelve, and then there was a long drive to -Carwell Grange. - -“I’m wore out wi’ them, I’m tired to death; I’m wore off my feet wi’ -them; I’m worked like a hoss. ’Twould be well for Mildred Tarnley, I’m -thinkin’, she was under the mould wi’ a stone at her head, and shut o’ -them all.” - - - - - CHAPTER XXV. - LILLY DOGGER IS SENT TO BED. - -That night the broad-shouldered child, Lilly Dogger, was up later -than usual. An arrear of pots and saucepans to scour, along with -customary knives and forks to clean, detained her. - -“Bustle, you huzzy, will ye?” cried the harsh voice of old Mildred, -who was adjusting the kettle on the kitchen fire, while in the -scullery the brown-eyed little girl worked away at the knife-board. A -mutton-fat, fixed in a tin sconce on the wall, so as to command both -the kitchen and the scullery, economically lighted each, the old woman -and her drudge, at her work. - -“Yes’m, please,” she said interrogatively, for the noise of her task -prevented her hearing distinctly. - -“Be alive, I say. It’s gone eleven, you slut; ye should a bin in your -bed an hour,” screeched Mildred, and then relapsed into her customary -grumble. - -“Yes, Mrs. Tarnley, please’m,” answered the little girl, resuming with -improved energy. - -Drowsy enough was the girl. If there had been a minute’s respite from -her task, I think she would have nodded. - -“Be them things rubbed up or no, or do you mean to ’a done to-night, -huzzy?” cried Mrs. Tarnley, this time so near as to startle her, for -she had unawares put her wrinkled head into the scullery. “Stop that -for to-night, I say. Leave ’em lay, ye’ll finish in the morning.” - -“Shall I take down the fire, Mrs. Tarnley, ma’am, please?” asked Lilly -Dogger, after a little pause. - -“No, ye sha’n’t. What’s that ye see on the fire; have ye eyes in your -head? Don’t you see the kettle there? How do I know but your master’ll -be home to-night, and want a cup o’ tea, or--law knows what?” - -Mrs. Tarnley looked put about, as she phrased it, and in one of those -special tempers which accompanied that state. So Lilly Dogger, eyeing -her with wide open eyes, made her a frightened little courtesy. - -“Why don’t ye get up betimes in the morning, huzzy, and then ye -needn’t be mopin’ about half the night? All the colour’s washed out o’ -your big, ugly, platter face, wi’ your laziness--as white as a turnip. -When I was a girl, if I left my work over so, I’d ’a the broomstick -across my back, I promise ye, and bread and water next day too good -for my victuals; but now ye thinks ye can do as ye like, and all’s -changed! An’ every upstart brat is as good as her betters. But don’t -ye think ye’ll come it over me, lass, don’t ye. Look up there at the -clock, will ye, or do ye want me to pull ye up by the ear--ten minutes -past eleven--wi’ your dawdling, ye limb!” - -The old woman whisked about, and putting her hand on a cupboard door, -she turned round again before opening it, and said-- - -“Come on, will ye, and take your bread if you want it, and don’t ye -stand gaping there, ye slut, as if I had nothing to do but attend upon -you, with your impittence. I shouldn’t give ye _that_.” - -She thumped a great lump of bread down on the kitchen table by which -the girl was now standing. - -“Not a bit, if I did right, and ye’ll not be sittin’ up to eat that, -mind ye; ye’ll take it wi’ ye to yer bed, young lady, and tumble in -without delay, d’ye mind? For if I find ye out o’ bed when I go in to -see all’s right, I’ll just gi’e ye that bowl o’ cold water over yer -head. In wi’ ye, an’ get ye twixt the blankets before two minutes--get -along.” - -The girl knew that Mrs. Tarnley could strike as well as “jaw,” and -seldom threatened in vain, so with eyes still fixed upon her, she took -up her fragment of loaf, with a hasty courtesy, of which the old woman -took no notice, and vanished frightened through a door that opened off -the kitchen. - -The old woman holding the candle over her head, soon peeped in as she -had threatened. - -Lilly Dogger lay close affecting to be asleep, though that feat in the -time was impossible, and was afraid that the thump, thump of her -heart, for she greatly feared Mrs. Tarnley, might be audible to that -severe listener. - -Out she went, however, without anything more, to the great relief of -the girl. - -Lilly Dogger lay awake, for fear is vigilant, and Mrs. Tarnley’s -temper she knew was capricious as well as violent. - -Through the door she heard the incessant croak of the old woman’s -voice, as she grumbled and scolded in soliloquy, poking here and there -about the kitchen. The girl lay awake, listening vaguely in the dark, -and watching the one bright spot on the whitewashed wall at the foot -of her bed, which Mrs. Tarnley’s candle in the kitchen transmitted -through the keyhole. It flitted and glided, now hither, now thither, -now up, now down, like a white butterfly in a garden, silently -indicating the movements of the old woman, and illustrating the -clatter of her clumsy old shoes. - -In a little while the door opened again, and the old woman entered, -having left her candle on the dresser outside. - -Mrs. Tarnley listened for a while, and you may be sure Lilly Dogger -lay still. Then the old woman, in a hard whisper, asked, “Are you -awake?” and listened. - -“Are ye awake, lass?” she repeated, and receiving no answer, she came -close to the bed, by way of tucking in the coverlet, in reality to -listen. - -So she stood in silence by the bed for a minute, and then very quickly -withdrew and closed the door. - -Then Lilly Dogger heard her make some arrangements in the kitchen, and -move, as she rightly concluded, a table which she placed against her -door. - -Then the white butterfly, having made a sudden sweep round the side -wall, hovered no longer on Lilly Dogger’s darkened walls, and old -Mildred Tarnley and her candle glided out of the kitchen. - -The girl had grown curious, and she got up and peeped, and found that -a clumsy little kitchen table had been placed against her door, which -opened outward. - -Through the keyhole she also saw that Mildred had not taken down the -fire. On the contrary, she had trimmed and poked it, and a kettle was -simmering on the bar. - -She did not believe that Mrs. Tarnley expected the arrival of her -master, for she had said early in the day that she thought he would -come next evening. Lilly Dogger was persuaded that Mrs. Tarnley was on -the look out for some one else, and guarding that fact with a very -jealous secrecy. - -She went again to her bed; wondering she listened for the sounds of -her return, and looked for the little patch of light on the -whitewashed wall; but that fluttering evidence of Mrs. Tarnley’s -candle did not reappear before the tired little girl fell asleep. - -She was wakened in a little time by Mrs. Tarnley’s somewhat noisy -return. She was grumbling bitterly to herself, poking the fire, and -pitching the fire-irons and other hardware about with angry -recklessness. - -The girl turned over, and notwithstanding all Mildred’s noisy -soliloquy was soon asleep again. - -Again she awoke--I suppose recalled to consciousness by some noise in -the kitchen. The little white light was in full play on the wall at -the foot of her bed, and Mrs. Tarnley was talking fluently in an -undertone. Then came a silence, during which the old Dutch clock -struck one. - -Lilly Dogger’s eyes were wide open now, and her ears erect. She heard -no one answer the old woman, who resumed her talk in a minute; and now -she seemed careful to make no avoidable noise--speaking low, and when -she moved about the kitchen treading softly, and moving anything she -had to stir gently. Altogether she was now taking as much care not to -disturb as she had shown carelessness upon the subject before. - -Lilly Dogger again slipped out of bed, and peeped through the keyhole. -But she could not see Mrs. Tarnley nor her companion, if she had one. - -Old Mildred was talking on, not in her grumbling interrupted -soliloquy, but in the equable style of one spinning a long narrative. -This hum was relieved now and then by the gentle click of a teacup, or -the jingle of a spoon. - -If Mrs. Tarnley was drinking her tea alone at this hour of night and -talking so to herself, she was doing that she had never done before, -thought the curious little girl; and she must be a-going mad. From -this latter apprehension, however, she was relieved by hearing some -one cough. It was not Mrs. Tarnley, who suspended her story, however. -But there was an unmistakable difference of tone in this cough, and -old Mildred said more distinctly something about a cure for a cough -which she recommended. - -Then came an answer in an odd drawling voice. The words she could not -hear, but there could no longer be any doubt as to the presence of a -stranger in the kitchen. - -Lilly Dogger was rather frightened, she did not quite know why, and -listened without power to form a conjecture. It was plain that the -person who enjoyed old Mildred’s hospitality was not her master, nor -her mistress, nor old Dulcibella Crane. - -As she listened, and wondered, and speculated, sleep overtook her once -more, and she quite forgot the dialogue, and the kitchen, and Mildred -Tarnley’s tea, and went off upon her own adventures in the wild land -of dreams. - - - - - CHAPTER XXVI. - THE LADY HAS HER TEA. - -“You suffers dreadful, ma’am,” said Mildred Tarnley. “Do you have -them toothaches still?” - -“’Twas not toothache--a worse thing,” said the stranger, demurely, -who, with closed eyes, and her hand propping her head, seemed to have -composed herself for a doze in the great chair. - -“Wuss than toothache! That’s bad. Earache, mayhap?” inquired Mrs. -Tarnley, with pathetic concern, though I don’t think it would have -troubled her much if her guest had tumbled over the precipice of -Carwell Valley and broken her neck among the stones in the brook. - -“Pain in my face--it is called tic,” said the lady, with closed eyes, -in a languid drawl. - -“Tic? lawk! Well, I never heard o’ the like, unless it be the -field-bug as sticks in the cattle--that’s a bad ailment, I do -suppose,” conjectured Mrs. Tarnley. - -“You may have it yourself some day,” said this lady, who spoke quietly -and deliberately, but with fluency, although her accent was foreign. -“When we are growing a little old our bones and nerves they will not -be young still. You have your rheumatism, I have my tic--the pain in -my cheek and mouth--a great deal worse, as you will find, whenever you -taste of it, as it may happen. Your tea is good--after a journey tea -is so refreshing. I cannot live without my cup of tea, though it is -not good for my tic. So, ha, ha, he-ha! There is the tea already in my -cheek--oh! Well, you will be so good to give me my bag.” - -Mildred looked about, and found a small baize bag with an umbrella and -a bandbox. - -“There’s a green bag I have here, ma’am.” - -“A baize bag?” - -“Yes, ’m.” - -“Give it to me. Ha, yes, my bibe--my bibe--and my box.” - -So this lady rummaged and extricated a pipe very like a meerschaum, -and a small square box. - -“Tibbacca!” exclaimed Mrs. Tarnley. The stranger interpreted the -exclamation, without interrupting her preparations. - -“Dobacco? no, better thing--some opium. You are afraid Mrs. Harry -Fairfield, she would smell id. No--I did not wish to disturb her -sleeb. I am quite private here, and do not wish to discover myself. -Ya, ya, ya, hoo!” - -It was another twinge. - -“Sad thing, ma’am,” said Mildred. “Better now, perhaps?” - -“Put a stool under my feed. Zere, zere, sat will do. Now you light -that match and hold to the end of ze bibe, and I will zen be bedder.” - -Accordingly Mildred Tarnley, strongly tempted to mutter a criticism, -but possibly secretly in awe of the tall and “big-made” woman who -issued these orders, proceeded to obey them. - -“No great odds of a smell arter all,” said Mrs. Tarnley, approvingly, -after a little pause. - -“And how long since Harry married?” inquired the smoker after another -silence. - -“I can’t know that nohow; but ’tis since Master Charles gave ’em the -lend o’ the house.” - -“Deeb people these Vairvields are,” laughed the big woman, drowsily. - -“When will he come here?” - -“To-morrow or next day, I wouldn’t wonder; but he never stays long, -and he comes and goes as secret-like as a man about a murder a’most.” - -“Ha, I dare say. Old Vairvield would cut him over the big shoulders -with his horsewhip, I think. And when will your master come?” - -“Master comes very seldom. Oh! ve-ry. Just when he thinks to find -Master Henry here, maybe once in a season.” - -“And where does he live--at home or where?” asked the tall visitor. - -“Well, I can’t say, I’m sure, if it baint at Wyvern. At Wyvern, I do -suppose, mostly. But I daresay he travels a bit now and again. I don’t -know, I’m sure.” - -“Because I wrote to him to Wyvern to meet me here. Is he at Wyvern?” - -“Well, faith, I can’t tell. I know no more than you, ma’am, where -Master Charles is,” said Mildred, with energy, relieved in the midst -of her rosary of lies to find herself free to utter one undoubted -truth. - -“You have been a long time in the family, Mrs. Tarnley?” drawled the -visitor, listlessly. - -“Since I was the height o’ that--before I can remember. I was born in -Carwell gate-house here. My mother was here in old Squire’s time, -meanin’ the father o’ the present Harry Fairfield o’ Wyvern that is, -and grandfather o’ the two young gentlemen, Master Charles and Master -Harry. Why, bless you, my grandfather, that is my mother’s father, was -in charge o’ the house and farm, and the woods, and the tenants, and -all; there wasn’t a tree felled, nor a cow sold, nor an acre o’ ground -took up, but jest as he said. They called him honest Tom Pennecuick; -he was thought a great deal of, my grandfather was, and Carwell never -turned in as good a penny to the Fairfields as in his time; not since, -and not before--never, and never will, that’s sure.” - -“And which do you like best, Squire Charles or Squire Harry?” inquired -the languid lady. - -“I likes Charles,” said Mrs. Tarnley, with decision. - -“And why so?” - -“Well, Harry’s a screw; ye see he’d as lief gie a joint o’ his thumb -as a sixpence. He’ll take his turn out of every one good-humoured -enough, and pay for trouble wi’ a joke and a laugh; a very pleasant -gentleman for such as has nothing to do but exchange work for his -banter and live without wages; all very fine. I never seed a shillin’ -of hisn since he had one to spend.” - -“Mr. Charles can be close-fisted too, when he likes it?” suggested the -old lady. - -“No, no, no, he’s not that sort if he had it. Open-handed enough, and -more the gentleman every way than Master Harry--more the gentleman,” -answered Mildred. - -“Yes, Harry Fairfield is a shrewd, hard man, I believe; he ought to -have helped his brother a bit; he has saved a nice bit o’ money, I -dare say,” said the visitor. - -“If he hasn’t a good handful in his kist corner, ’t’aint that he -wastes what he gets.” - -“I do suppose he’ll pay his brother a fair rent for the house?” said -the visitor. - -“Master Harry’ll pay for no more than he can help,” observed Mildred. - -“It’s a comfortable house,” pursued the stranger; “’twas so when I was -here.” - -“Warm and roomy,” acquiesced Mrs. Tarnley--“chimbley, roof, and -wall--staunch and stout; ’twill stand a hundred year to come, wi’ a -new shingle and a daub o’ mortar now and again. There’s a few jackdaws -up in the chimbleys that ought to be drew out o’ that wi’ their sticks -and dirt,” she reflected, respectfully. - -“And do you mean to tell me he pays no rent for the Grange, and keeps -his wife here?” demanded the lady, peremptorily. - -“I know nothing about their dealings,” answered Mrs. Tarnley, as -tartly. - -“And ’t’aint clear to me I should care much neither; they’ll settle -that, like other matters, without stoppin’ to ask Mildred what she -thinks o’t; and I dare say Master Harry will be glad enough to take it -for nothing, if Master Charles will be fool enough to let him.” - -“Well, he sha’n’t do that, I’ll take care,” said the lady, maintaining -her immovable pose, which, with a certain peculiarity in the tone of -her voice, gave to her an indescribable and unpleasant languor. - -“I never have two pounds to lay on top o’ one another. Jarity begins -at home. I’ll not starve for Master Harry,” and she laughed softly and -unpleasantly. - -“His wife, you say, is a starved gurate’s daughter!” - -“Parson Maybell--poor he was, down at Wyvern Vicarage--meat only twice -or thrice a week, as I have heard say, and treated old Squire Harry -bad, I hear, about his rent; and old Squire Fairfield was kind--to -_her_ anyhow, and took her up to the hall, and so when she grew up she -took her opportunity and married Master Harry.” - -“She was clever to catch such a shrewd chap--clever. Light again; I -shall have three four other puff before I go to my bed--very clever. -How did she take so well, and hold so fast, that wise fellow, Harry -Fairfield?” - -“Hoo! fancy, I do suppose, and liken’. She’s a pretty lass. All them -Fairfields married for beauty mostly. Some o’ them got land and money, -and the like, but a pretty face allays along with the fortune.” - -The blind stranger, for blind she was, smiled downward, faintly and -slily, while she was again preparing the pipe. - -“When will Harry come again?” she asked. - -“I never knows, he’s so wary; do you want to talk to him, ma’am?” said -Mildred. - -“Yes, I do,” said she; “hold the match now, Mrs. Tarnley, please.” - -So she did, and--puff, puff, puff--about a dozen times, went the -smoke, and the smoker was satisfied. - -“Well, I never knows the minute, but it mightn’t be for a fortnight,” -said Mrs. Tarnley. - -“And when Mr. Charles Fairfield come?” asked the visitor. - -“If he’s got your letter he’ll be here quick enough. If it’s missed -him he mayn’t set foot in it for three months’ time. That’s how it is -wi’ him,” answered Mildred. - -“What news of old Harry at Wyvern?” asked the stranger. - -“No news in partic’lar,” answered Mildred, “only he’s well and -hearty--but that’s no news; the Fairfields is a long-lived stock, as -every one knows; he’ll not lie in oak and wool for many a day yet, I’m -thinkin’.” - -Perhaps she had rightly guessed the object of the lady’s solicitude, -for a silence followed. - -“There’s a saying in my country--‘God’s children die young,’” said the -tall lady. - -“And here about they do say, the Devil takes care of his own,” said -Mildred Tarnley. “But see how my score o’ years be runnin’ up; I take -it sinners’ lives be lengthened out a bit by the Judge of all, to gi’e -us time to stay our thoughts a little, and repent our misdeeds, while -yet we may.” - -“You have made a little fire in my room, Mrs. Tarnley?” inquired the -stranger, who had probably no liking for theology. - -“Yes ’m; everything snug.” - -“Would you mind running up and looking? I detest a chill,” said this -selfish person. - -At that hour no doubt Mrs. Tarnley resented this tax on her -rheumatics; but though she was not a woman to curb her resentments, -she made shift on this occasion; that did not prevent her, however, -from giving the stranger a furious look, while she muttered inaudibly -a few words. - -“I’ll go with pleasure, ma’am; but I’m sure it’s all right,” she said -aloud, very civilly, and paused, thinking perhaps that the lady would -let her off the long walk upstairs to the front of the house. - -“Very good; I’ll wait here,” said the guest, unfeelingly. - -“As you please ’m,” said Mildred, and, with a parting look round the -kitchen, she took the candle, and left the lady to the light of the -fire. - -The lady was almost reclining in her chair, as if she were dozing; but -in a few moments up she stood, and placing her hand by her ear, -listened; then, with her hands advanced, she crept slowly, and as -noiselessly as a cat, across the floor. She jostled a little against -the table at Lilly Dogger’s door; then she stopped perfectly still, -withdrew the table without a sound; the door swung a little open, and -the gaunt figure in grey stood at it, listening. A very faint flicker -from the fire lighted this dim woman, who seemed for the moment to -have no more life in her than the tall, gray stone of the Druid’s hoe -on Cressley Common. - -Lilly Dogger was fast asleep; but broken were her slumbers destined to -be that night. She felt a hand on her neck, and, looking up, could not -for a while see anything, so dark was the room. - -She jumped up in a sitting posture, with a short cry of fear, thinking -that she was in the hands of a robber. - -“_Be_ quiet, fool,” said the tall woman, slipping her hand over the -girl’s mouth. “I’m a lady, a friend of Mrs. Mildred Tarnley, and I’m -come to stay in the house. Who is the lady that sleeps upstairs in the -room that used to be Mr. Harry’s? You must answer true, or I’ll pull -your ear very hard.” - -“It is the mistress, please ’m,” answered the frightened girl. - -“Married lady?” - -“Yes ’m.” - -“Who is her husband?” - -With this question the big fingers of her visitor closed upon Lilly -Dogger’s ear with a monitory pinch. - -“The master, ma’am.” - -“And what’s the master’s name, you dirdy liddle brevarigator?” - -And with these words her ear was wrung sharply. - -She would have cried, very likely, if she had been less frightened, -but she only winced, with her shoulders up to her ears, and answered -in tremulous haste-- - -“Mr. Fairfield, sure.” - -“There’s three Mr. Vairvields: there’s old Mr. Vairvield, there’s Mr. -Charles Vairvield, and there’s Mr. Harry Vairvield--you _shall_ speak -plain.” - -And at each name in her catalogue she twisted the child’s ear with a -sharp separate wring. - -“Oh, law, ma’am. Please ’m, I mean Mr. Charles Fairfield. I didn’t -mean to tell you no story, indeed, my lady.” - -“Ho, ho--yes--Charles, Charles--very goot. Now, you tell me how you -know Mr. Harry from Mr. Charles?” - -“Oh, law, ma’am! oh, law! oh, ma’am, dear! sure, you won’t pull it no -more, good lady, please--my ear’s most broke,” gasped the girl, who -felt the torture beginning again. - -“You tell truth. How do you know Mr. Charles from Mr. Harry?” - -“Mr. Charles has bigger eyes, ma’am, and Mr. Harry has lighter hair, -and a red face, please ’m, and Mr. Charles’s face is brown, and he -talks very quiet-like, and Mr. Harry talks very loud, and he’s always -travellin’ about a-horseback, and Mr. Charles is the eldest son, and -the little child they’re lookin’ for is to be the Squire o’ Wyvern.” - -The interrogator here gave her a hard pinch by the ear, perhaps -without thinking of it, for she said nothing for a minute nearly, and -the girl remained with her head buried between her shoulders, and her -eyes wide open, staring straight up where she conjectured her -examiner’s face might be. - -“Is the man that talks loud--Mr. Harry--here often?” asked the voice -at her bedside. - -“But seldom, ma’am--too busy at fairs and races, I hear them say.” - -“And Mr. Charles--is he often here?” - -“Yes ’m; master be always here, exceptin’ this time only; he’s gone -about a week.” - -“About a week, Mr. Charles?” - -“Oh, la, ma’am--yes, indeed, ma’am, dear, it’s just a week to-day -since master went.” - -Here was a silence. - -“That will do. If I find you’ve been telling me lies I’ll take ye by -the back of the neck and squeeze your face against the kitchen bars -till it’s burnt through and through--do you see; and I give you this -one chance, if you have been telling lies to say so, and I’ll forgive -you.” - -“Nothing but truth, indeed and indeed, ma’am.” - -“Old Tarnley will beat you if she hears you have told me anything. So -keep your own secret, and I’ll not tell of you.” - -She saw the brawny outline of the woman faintly like a black shadow as -she made her way through the door into the kitchen, and she heard the -door close, and the table shoved cautiously back into its place, and -then, with a beating heart, she lay still and awfully wide awake in -the dark. - - - - - CHAPTER XXVII. - THROUGH THE HOUSE. - -This stalwart lady stumbled and groped her way back to her chair, -and sat down again in the kitchen. The chair in which she sat was an -old-fashioned arm-chair of plain wood, uncoloured and clumsy. - -When Mildred Tarnley returned, the changed appearance of her guest -struck her. - -“Be ye sick, ma’am?” she asked, standing, candle in hand, by the -chair. - -The visitor was sitting bolt upright, with a large hand clutched on -each arm of the chair, with a face deadly pale and distorted by a -frown or a spasm that frightened old Mildred, who fancied, as she made -no sign, not the slightest stir, that she was in a fit, or possibly -dead. - -“For God’s sake, ma’am,” conjured old Mildred, fiercely, “_will_ ye -speak?” - -The lady in the chair started, shrugged, and gasped. It was like -shaking off a fit. - -“Ho! oh, Mildred Tarnley, I was thinking--I was thinking--did you -speak?” - -Mildred looked at her, not knowing what to make of it. Too much -laudanum--was it? or that nervous pain in her head. - -“I only asked you how you were, ma’am--you looked so bad. I thought -you was just going to work in a fit.” - -“What an old fool! I never was better in my life--_fit_! I never had a -fit--not I.” - -“You used to have ’em sometimes, long ago, ma’am, and they came in the -snap of a finger, like,” said Mildred, sturdily. - -“Clear your head of those fits, for they have left me long ago. I’m -well, I tell you--never was better. You’re old--you’re old, woman, and -that which has made you so pious is also making you blind.” - -“Well, you look a deal better now--you _do_,” said Mildred, who did -not want to have a corpse or an epileptic suddenly on her hands, and -was much relieved by the signs of returning vivacity and colour. - -“Tarnley, you’ve been a faithful creature and true to me; I hope I may -live to reward you,” said the lady, extending her hand vaguely towards -the old servant. - -“I’m true to them as gives me bread, and ever was, and that’s old -Mildred Tarnley’s truth. If she eats their bread, she’ll maintain -their right, and that’s only honest--that’s reason, ma’am.” - -“I have no right to cry no; I cry excellent, good, good, very good, -for as you are my husband’s servant, I have all the benefit of your -admirable fidelity. Boo! I am so grateful, and one day or other, old -girl, I’ll reward you--and very good tea, and every care of me. I will -tell Mr. Vairvield when he comes how good you have been--and, tell me, -how is the fire, and the bed, and the bedroom--all quite comfortable?” - -“Comfortable, quite, I hope, ma’am.” - -“Do I look quite well now?” - -“Yes ’m, pure and hearty. It was only just a turn.” - -“Yes, just so, perhaps, although I never felt it, and I could dance -now only for--fifty things, so I won’t mind.” She laughed. “I’m -sleepy, and I’m _not_ sleepy; and I love you, old Mildred Tarnley, and -you’ll tell me some more about Master Harry and his wife when we get -upstairs. Who’d have thought that wild fellow would ever tie himself -to a wife? Who’d have fancied that clever young man that loves making -money so well, would have chosen out a wife without a florin to her -fortune? Everything is so surprising. Come, let’s have a laugh, you -and me together.” - -“My laughing days is over, ma’am--not that I see much to laugh at for -any one, and many a thing I thought a laughing matter when I was young -seems o’erlike a crying matter now I’m grown old,” said old Mildred, -and snuffed the kitchen candle with her fingers. - -“Well, give me your arm, Mildred; there’s a good old thing--yes.” - -And up she got her long length. Mildred took the candle, and took the -tall lady gently by the wrist. The guest, however, placed her great -hand upon Mildred’s shoulder, and thus they proceeded through the -passages. Leaving the back stair that led to Alice’s room, at the -right, they mounted the great staircase and reached a comfortably warm -room with a fire flickering on the hearth, for the air was sharp. In -other respects the apartment had not very much to boast. - -“There’s fire here, I feel it; place my chair near it. The bed in the -old place?” said the tall woman, coming to a halt. - -“Yes ’m. Little change here, ever, I warrant ye, only the room’s bin -new papered,” answered Mildred. - -“New papered, has it? Well, I’ll sit down--thanks--and I’ll get to my -bed, just now.” - -“Shall I assist ye, ma’am?” - -“By-and-by, thanks; but not till I have eaten a bit. I have grown -hungry, what your master calls peckish. What do you advise?” - -“I would advise your eating something,” replied Mildred. - -“But what?” - -“There’s very little; there’s eggs quite new, there’s a bit o’ bacon, -and there’s about half a cold chicken--roast, and there’s a corner o’ -Cheddar cheese, and there’s butter, and there’s bread--’taint much,” -answered Mrs. Tarnley, glibly. - -“The chicken will do very nicely, and don’t forget bread and salt, -Mrs. Tarnley, and a glass of beer.” - -“Yes ’m.” - -Mrs. Tarnley poked the fire and looked about her, and then took the -only candle, marched boldly off with it, shutting the door. - -Toward the door the lady turned her face and listened. She heard old -Mildred’s step receding. - -This tall woman was not pleasant to look at. Her large features were -pitted with the small-pox and deadly pale with the pallor of anger, -and an unpleasant smile lighted up the whiteness of her face. - -“Patience, patience,” she repeated, “what a d----d trick! no matter, -wait a little.” - -She did wait a little in silence, screwing her lips and knitting her -brows, and then a new resource struck her, and she groped in her bag -and drew forth a bottle, which she applied to her lips more than once, -and seemed better. It was no febrifuge nor opiate; but though the -flicker of the fire showed no flush on her pallid features, the odour -declared it brandy. - - - - - CHAPTER XXVIII. - THE BELL RINGS. - -“Will that beast never go to bed--even there, I mind, she used to -sleep with an eye open and an ear cocked--and nowhere safe from her -never--here and there, up and down, without a stir or a breath, like a -ghost or a devil?”--thought Mrs. Tarnley. “Thank God, she’s blind now, -that will quiet her.” - -Mildred was afraid of that woman. It was not only that she was cold -and hard, but she was so awfully violent and wicked. - -“Satan’s her name. Lord help us, in what hell did he pick her up?” -Mildred would say to herself, in old times, as with the important fury -of fear, she used to knock about the kitchen utensils, and deal -violently with every chair, table, spoon, or “cannikin” that came in -her way. - -The woman had fits, and bad fits too, in old times, when she knew her -well. - -“And she drank like a fish cognac neat--and she was alive still, and -millions of people, younger and better, that never had a fit, and kept -their bodies in soberness and temperance, was gone dead and buried -since; and that drunken, shattered, battered creature, wi’ her fallin’ -sickness and her sins and her years, was here alive and strong to -plague and frighten better folk. Well, she’s ’ad small-pox, thank God, -and well mauled she is, and them spyin’, glarin’ eyes o’ hers, the -wild beast.” - -By this time Mrs. Tarnley was again in the kitchen. She did not take -down the fire yet. She did not know, for certain, whether Charles -Fairfield might not arrive. The London mail that passed by the town of -Darwynd, beyond Cressley Common, came later than that divergent stage -coach, that changed on the line of road that passes the Pied Horse. - -What a situation it would have been if Charles Fairfield and the Vrau -had found themselves _vis-à-vis_ as inside passengers in the coach that -night. Would the matter have been much mended if the Dutch woman had -loitered long enough in the kitchen for Charles to step in and -surprise her? It was a thought that occurred more than once to Mildred -with a qualm of panic. But she was afraid to hasten the stranger’s -departure to her room, for that lady’s mind swarmed with suspicion -which a stir would set in motion. - -“The Lord gave us dominion over the beast o’ the field, Parson Winyard -said in his sermon last Sunday; but we ain’t allowed to kill nor hurt, -but for food or for defence; and good old Parson Buckles, that was as -good as two of he, said, I mind, the very same words. I often thought -o’ them of late--merciful to them brutes, for they was made by the one -Creator as made ourselves. So the merciful man is merciful to his -beast--will ye?” - -Mrs. Tarnley interrupted herself sharply, dealing on the lean ribs of -the cat, who had got its head into a saucepan, a thump with a wooden -spoon, which emitted a hollow sound and doubled the thief into a -curve. - -“Merciful, of course, except when they’re arter mischief; but them -that’s noxious, and hurtful, and dangerous, we’re free to kill; and -where’s the beast so dangerous as a real bad man or woman? God forbid -I should do wrong. I’m an old woman, nigh-hand the grave, and murder’s -murder!--I do suppose and allow that’s it. Thou shalt do no murder. No -more I would--no, not if an angel said do it; no, I wouldn’t for -untold goold. But I often wondered why if ye may, wi’ a good -conscience, knock a snake on the head wi’ a stone, and chop a shovel -down smack on a toad, ye should stay your hand, and let a devil -incarnate go her murdering way through the world, blastin’ that one -wi’ lies, robbin’ this one wi’ craft, and murderin’ t’other, if it -make for her interest, wi’ poison or perjury. Lord help my poor head, -and forgive me if it be sin, but I can find neither right nor reason -in that, nor see, nohow, why she shouldn’t be killed off-hand like a -rat or a sarpent.” - -At this point the bell rang loud and sudden, and Mrs. Tarnley bounced -and blessed herself. There was no great difficulty in settling from -what quarter the summons came, for, except the hall door bell, which -was a deep-toned sonorous one, there was but one in the house in -ringing order, and that was of the bedroom where her young mistress -lay. - -“Well, here’s a go! Who’d a’ thought o’ her awake at these hours, and -out o’ her bed, and a pluckin’ at her bell. I doubt it _is_ her. The -like was never before. ’Tis enough to frighten a body. The Lord help -us.” - -Mrs. Tarnley stood straight as a grenadier on drill with her back to -the fire, the poker with which, during her homily, she had been raking -the bars, still in her hand. - -“This night ’ll be the death o’ me. Everything’s gone cross and -contrary. Here’s that young silly lass awake and out o’ her bed, that -never had an eye open at these hours, since she came to the Grange, -before; and there’s that other one in the state-room, not that far -from her, as wide awake as she; and here’s Master Charles a comin’, -mayhap, this minute wi’ his drummin’ and bellin’ at the hall door. -’Tis enough to make a body swear; ’t has given me the narves and the -tremblins, and I don’t know how it’s to end.” - -And Mrs. Tarnley unconsciously shouldered her poker as if awaiting the -assault of burglars, and vaguely thought if Charles arrived as she had -described, what power on earth could keep the peace? - -Again the bell rang. - -“Well, _there’s_ patience for ye!” - -She halted at the kitchen door, with the candle in her hand, -listening, with a stern, frightened face. She was thinking whether -Alice might not have been frightened by some fantastic terror in her -room. - -“She has that old fat fool, Dulcibella Crane, only a room off--why -don’t she call up her?” - -But Mrs. Tarnley at length did go on, and up the stairs, and heard -Alice’s voice call along the passage, in a loud tone-- - -“Mrs. Tarnley! is that _you_, Mrs. Tarnley?” - -“Me, ma’am? Yes ’m. I thought I heard your bell ring, and I had scant -time to hustle my clothes on. Is there anything uncommon a-happenin’, -ma’am, or what’s expected just now from an old woman like me?” - -“Oh, Mrs. Tarnley, I beg your pardon, I’m so sorry, and I would not -disturb you, only that I heard a noise, and I thought Mr. Charles -might have arrived.” - -“No, ma’am, he’s not come, nor no sign o’ him. You told me, ma’am, his -letter said there was but small chance o’t.” - -“So I did, Mildred--so it did. Still a chance--just a chance--and I -thought, perhaps----” - -“There’s no perhaps in it, ma’am; he baint come.” - -“Dulcibella tells me she thought some time ago she heard some one -arrive.” - -“So she did, mayhap, for there did come a message for Master Harry -from the farmer beyond Gryce’s mill; but he went his way again.” - -Mildred was fibbing with a fluency that almost surprised herself. - -“I dessay you’ve done wi’ me now, ma’am?” said Mildred. “Lugged out -o’ my bed, ma’am, at these hours--my achin’ old bones--’taint what I’m -used to, asking your pardon for making so free.” - -“I’m really very sorry--you won’t be vexed with me. Good night, -Mildred.” - -“Your servant, ma’am.” - -And Mrs. Tarnley withdrew from the door where Alice stood before her -with her dressing-gown about her shoulders, looking so pale and -deprecatory and anxious, that I wonder even Mildred Tarnley did not -pity her. - -“I’m tellin’ lies enough to break a bridge, and me that’s vowed -against lying so stiff and strong over again only Monday last.” - -She shook her head slowly, and with a sudden qualm of conscience. - -“Well, in for a penny in for a pound. It’s only for to-night; mayhap, -and I can’t help it, and if that old witch was once over the -door-stone I’d speak truth the rest o’ my days, as I ha’ done, by the -grace o’ God, for more than a month, and here’s a nice merry-go-round -for my poor old head. Who’s to keep all straight and smooth wi’ them -that’s in the house, and, mayhap comin’? And that ghost -upstairs--she’ll be gropin’ and screechin’ through the house, and then -there’ll be the devil to pay wi’ her and the poor lass up there--if I -don’t gi’e her her supper quick. Come, bustle, bustle, be alive,” she -muttered, as this thought struck her with new force; and so to the -little “safe” which served that miniature household for larder she -repaired. Plates clattered, and knives and forks, and the dishes in -the safe slid forth, and how near she was forgetting the salt! and -“the bread, all right,” so here was a tray very comfortably furnished, -and setting the candlestick upon it also, she contemplated the supper, -with a fierce sneer, and a wag of her head. - -“How sick and weak we be! Tea and toast and eggs down here, and this -little bit in her bed-room--heaven bless her--la’ love it, poor little -darling, don’t I hope it may do her good?--I wish the first mouthful -may choke her--keeping me on the trot to these hours, old beast.” - -Passing the stairs, Mrs. Tarnley crept softly, and took pains to -prevent her burden from rattling on the tray, while there rose in her -brain the furious reflection-- - -“Pretty rubbish that I should be this way among ’em!” - -And she would have liked to dash the tray on the floor at the foot of -the stairs, and to leave the startled inhabitants to their own -courses. - -This, of course, was but an emotion. The old woman completed her long -march cautiously, and knocked at the _Vrau’s_ door. - -“Come in, dear,” said the inmate, and Mildred Tarnley, with her tray -in her hands, marched into the room, and looked round peevishly for a -table to set it down on. - -“You’ll find all you said, ’m,” said old Tarnley. “Shall I set it -before you, or will you move this way, please ’m?” - -“Before me, dear.” - -So Mildred carried the table and supper over, and placed it before the -lady, who sat up and said-- - -“Good Mildred, how good you are; give me now the knife and fork, in my -fingers, and put some salt just there. Very good. How good of you to -take so much trouble for poor me, you kind old Mildred?” - -How wondrous sweet she had grown in a minute. The old servant, who -knew her, was not conciliated, but disgusted, and looked hard at the -benevolent lady, wondering what could be in her mind. - -“If everything’s right, I’ll wish you good night, ’m, and I’ll go down -to my bed, ma’am, please.” - -“Wait a while with me. Do, there’s a good soul. I’ll not detain you -long, you dear old lass.” - -“Well, ma’am, I must go down and take down the fire, and shut-to the -door, or the rats will be in from the scullery; and I’ll come up -again, ma’am, in a few minutes.” - -And not waiting for permission, Mildred Tarnley, who had an anxiety of -another sort in her head, took the candle in her hand and left the -guest at her supper by the light of the fire. - -She shut the door quickly lest her departure should be countermanded, -and trotted away and downstairs, but not to the kitchen. - - - - - CHAPTER XXIX. - TOM IS ORDERED UP. - -When she reached the foot of the stairs that leads to the gallery on -which the room occupied by Alice opens, instead of pursuing her way to -the kitchen she turned into a narrow and dark passage that is hemmed in -on the side opposite to the wall by the ascending staircase. - -The shadows of the banisters on the panelled oak flew after one -another in sudden chase as the old woman glided by, and looking up and -back she stopped at the door of a small room, constructed as we see in -similar old houses, under the stairs. On the panel of this she struck -a muffled summons with her fist and on the third or fourth the -startled voice of Tom demanded roughly from within-- - -“_What’s_ that?” - -“Hish!” said the old woman, through a bit of the open door. - -“’Tis Mrs. Tarnley--only me.” - -“Lauk, woman, ye did take a rise out o’ me. I thought ye was--I don’t -know what--I was a-dreaming, I think.” - -“Never mind, you must be awake for an hour or so,” said Mrs. Tarnley, -entering the den without more ceremony. - -Tom didn’t mind Mrs. Tarnley, nor Mrs. Tarnley Tom, a rush. She set -the candle on the tiled floor. Tom was sitting in his shirt on the -side of his “settlebed,” with his hands on his knees. - -“Ye must get on your things, Tom, and if ever you stirred yourself, be -alive now. The master’s a-comin’, and may be here, across Cressley -Common in half an hour, or might be in five minutes, and ye must go -out a bit and meet him, and--are ye awake?” - -“Starin’. Go on.” - -“Ye’ll tell him just this, the big woman as lives at Hoxton----” - -“Hoxton! _Well_?” - -“That Master Harry has all the trouble wi’, has come here, angry, in -search of Master Harry, mind, and is in the bedroom over the -hall-door. Will ye mind all that now?” - -“Ay,” said Tom, and repeated it. - -“Well, he’ll know better whether it’s best for him to come on or turn -back. But if come on he will, let him come in at the kitchen door, -mind, and you go that way, too, and he’ll find neither bolt nor bar, -but open doors, and nothing but the latch between him and the kitchen, -and me sitting by the fire; but don’t you clap a door, nor tread -heavy, but remember there’s a sharp pair of ears that ’d hear a -cricket through the three walls of Carwell Grange.” - -She took up the candle, and herself listened for a moment at the door, -and again turned her earnest and sinister face on Tom. - -“And again, I say, Tom, if ever ye was quick, be quick now,” and she -clapped her lean hand down on his shoulder with a sort of fierce -shake; “and if ever ye trod soft, go softly now, _mind_.” - -Tom, who was scratching his head, and staring in her face, nodded. - -“And mind you, the kitchen way, and afraid o’ slips, say ye the -message over again to me?” - -This he did, glibly enough. - -“Here, light your candle from this, and if ye fail your master now, -never call yourself man again.” - -Having thus charged him, she went softly from this nook with its -slanting roof, and thinking of the thankless world, and all the -trouble her old bones and brain were put to, she lost her temper, at -the foot of the great staircase, and was near turning back again to -the kitchen, or perhaps whisking out of the door herself, and marching -off to Cressley Common to meet her master, and shock and scare him all -she could, and place her resignation, as more distinguished -functionaries sometimes do theirs, in the hands of her employer, to -prove his helplessness and her own importance, and so assert herself -for time past and to come. - -Her interview with Tom had not occupied much time. She knocked at the -Vrau’s door, and entering, found that person at the close of a greedy -repast. - -Emotions of fear, I suppose, disturb the appetite, much more than -others. Not caring one farthing about Charles, she did not grieve at -his infidelity; taking profligacy for granted as the rule of life, it -did not even shock her. But she was stung with a furious pang of -jealousy, for that needs no love, being in its essence the sense of -property invaded, supremacy insulted, and self despised. In this sort -of jealousy there is neither the sublimity of despair nor the pathos -of sorrow, but simply the malice, fury, and revenge of outraged -egotism. - -There she sat, unconscious of the glimmer of the firelight, feeding as -a beast will bleeding after a blow. Beast she was, with the bestial -faculty of cherishing a long revenge, with bestial treachery and -seeming unconcern. - -“Ho oh! you’ve come back,” she cried, with playful reproach, “cruel -old girl! you leave your poor vrau alone, alone among the ghosts--now, -sit down, are you sitting? and tell me everything, and all the -news--did you bring a little brandy or what?” - -Her open hand was extended, and gently moving over the tray at about -the level of the top of a bottle. - -“No, ma’am, I haven’t none in my charge, but there’s a smell o’ brandy -about,” said Mildred, who liked saying a disagreeable thing. - -“So there ought,” said the gaunt woman placidly, and lifted a big -black bottle that lay in her lap, like a baby, folded in a grey shawl. -“But I’ll want this, don’t you see, when I’m on my rambles again--get -a little, there’s a good girl, or if you can’t get that, there’s rum -or gin, there never was a country-house without something in it; you -know very well where Harry Vairvield is there will be liquor--I know -him well.” - -“But he baint here now, as is well known to you, ma’am,” said Mildred, -dryly. - -“I’m not going to waste my drink, while I think there’s drink in the -house. Who has a right before me, old girl?” said the stranger, -grimly. - -“Tut, ma’am, ’tis childish talkin’ so, there’s none in my charge, -never a drop. Master Harry, I dare say, has summat under lock and key, -but not me, and why should I tell you a lie about the like?” - -“You never tell lies, old Mildred, I forgot that--but young as she is, -I lay my life the woman, Mrs. Harry Vairvield, upstairs, likes a nip -now and then, hey? and she has a boddle, I’ll be bound, in her -wardrobe, or if she’s shy, ’twixt her bed and her mattress, ole rogue! -you know very well, I think, does she? and if she likes it she sleeps -sound, and go you, and while she snores, borrow you the bottle.” - -“She’s nothing of the sort, she drinks nothing nowhere, much less in -her bed-room, she’s a perfect lady,” said Mrs. Tarnley, in no mood to -flatter her companion. - -“Oh, ho! that’s so like old Mildred Tarnley! Dear old cat, I’m so -amused, I could stroke her thin ribs, and pet her for making me laugh -so by her frisks and capers instead of throwing you by the neck out of -the window for scratching and spitting--I’m so good-natured. Do you -tell lies, Mildred?” - -“I ’a told a shameful lot in my day, ma’am, but not more mayhap than -many a one that hasn’t grace to say so.” - -“You read your Bible, Mildred,” said the lady, who with a knife and -fork was securing on her plate the morsels to which old Mildred helped -her. - -“Ay, ma’am, a bit now, and a bit again, never too late to repent, -ma’am.” - -“Repentance and grace, you’ll do, Mrs. Tarnley. It’s a pleasure to -hear you,” said the lady, with her mouth rather full; “and you never -see my husband?” - -“Now and again, now and again, once and away he looks in.” - -“Never stays a week or a month at a time?” - -“Week or a month!” echoed Mrs. Tarnley, looking quickly in the serene -face of the lady, and then laughing off the suggestion scornfully. -“You’re thinking of old times, ma’am.” - -“Thinking, thinking, I don’t think I was thinking at all,” said the -lady, answering Mildred’s laugh with one more careless; “old times -when he had a wife here, eh? old times! How old are they? Eh--that’s -eighteen years ago--you hardly knew me when I called here?” - -“There was a change surely. I’d like to know who wouldn’t in eighteen -years, there’s a change in me since then.” - -“I shouldn’t wonder,” said the lady, quietly. “Did he ever tell you -how we quarrelled?” - -“Not he,” answered Mildred. - -“He’s very close,” said the stranger. - -“A deal closer than Mr. Harry,” acquiesced Mildred. - -“Not like you and me, Mrs. Tarnley, that can’t keep a secret--_never_. -That tell truth, and shame the devil. I, because I don’t care a snap -of my fingers for you, or him, or the Archbishop of Canterbury; and -you, because you’re all for grace and repentance. How am I looking -to-night--tired?” - -“Tired, to be sure; you ought to be in your bed, ma’am, an hour ago; -you’re as white as that plate, ma’am.” - -“White are they?--so they used to be long ago,” said the visitor. - -“The same set, ma’am. ’Twas a long set in my mother’s time, though -’tis little better than a short set now; but I don’t think there’s -more than three plates, and the cracked butter-boat, that had a stitch -in it. You’ll mind, although ye may ’a forgot, for I usen’t to send it -up to table--only them three, and the butter-boat broke since; and -that butter-boat, ’twouldn’t a brought three ha’pence by auction, and -’twas that little slut downstairs, that doesn’t never do nothing -right, that knocked it off the shelf, with her smashing.” - -“And I’m not looking well to-night?” said this pallid woman. - -“You’d be the better of a little blood to your cheeks; you’re as white -as paper, ma’am,” answered Mildred. - -“I never _have_ any colour now, they tell me--always pale, pale, pale; -but it isn’t muddy; ’taint what you call _putty_?” - -“Well, no.” - -“Ha! no; I knew that--_no_, and I’d rather be a little pale. I don’t -like your great, coarse peony-faced women; it’s seven years in May -last since I lost my sight. Some people are persecuted; one curse -after another--rank injustice! Why should _I_ lose my sight, that -never did anything to signify--not half what others have, who enjoy -health, wealth, rank--everything. Things are topsy-turvey a bit just -now, but we’ll see them righted yet.” - - - - - CHAPTER XXX. - THE OLD SOLDIER GROWS MORE FRIENDLY, AND FRIGHTENS MRS. TARNLEY. - -The “Dutchwoman” resumed in a minute, and observed-- - -“Well, old Tarnley, there’s no good in talking where you can’t right -yourself, and where you can revenge, there’s no good in talk either; -but gone it is, and the doctors say no cutting, nothing safe in my -case; no cure, so let it be. I liked dress once; I dressed pretty -well.” - -“Beautiful!” exclaimed old Mildred, kindling for a moment into her -earlier admiration of the French and London finery, with which once -this tall and faded beauty had amazed the solitudes of Carwell. - -The bleached, big woman smiled--almost laughed with gratified vanity. - -“Yes, I was well dressed--something better than the young dowdies and -old fromps, in this part of the world. How I used to laugh at them! I -went to church, and to the races, to see them. Well, we’ll have better -times yet at Wyvern; the old man there can’t live for ever; he’s not -the Wandering Jew, and he can’t be far from a hundred; and so sure as -Charles is my husband, I’ll have you there, if you like it, or give -you a snug house, and a bit of ground, and a garden, and a snug -allowance monthly, if you like this place best. I love my own, and -you’ve been true to me, and I never failed a friend.” - -“I’m growing old and silly, ma’am--never so strong as I was took for. -The will was ever stronger with Mildred than the body, bless ye--no, -no; two or three quiet years to live as I should a lived always, wi’ -an eye on my Bible and an eye on my ways--not that I ever did aught I -need be one bit ashamed on--no, not I; honest and sober, and most -respectable, thank God, as the family will testify, and the -neighbours; but I’ll not deny, ’twould be something not that bad, if -my old bones could rest a bit,” said old Mildred. - -“Ha, girl, they _shall_; your old bones shall rest, my child,” said -the lady. - -“They’ll rest some day in the old churchyard o’ Carwell, but not much -sooner, I’m thinking,” said Mrs. Tarnley. - -“Folly, folly! ole girl! you’ve many a year to go before that journey; -you’ll live to see me, Mrs. Vairvield of Wyvern, and it won’t be a bad -day for you, old Mildred.” - -The “Dutchwoman,” or the old soldier, as they used to call her long -ago in this sequestered nook, drawled this languidly, and yawned a -long, listless yawn. - -“Well, ma’am, if you’re tired, so am I,” said Mildred, a little -tartly; “and as for dreamin’ o’ quiet in this world, I ha’ cleared my -head o’ that nonsense many a year ago. There’s little good can happen -old Mildred now, and less I look for, and none I’ll seek, ma’am; and -as for a roof over my head for nothing, and that bit o’ ground ye -spoke of, and wages to live on without no work, I don’t believe -there’s no such luck going for no one.” - -“Listen to me, Mildred,” said the stranger, more sternly than before; -“is it because I don’t swear you won’t believe? Hear, now, once for -all, and understand: I’ll make _that_ a good day for you that makes me -the lady of Wyvern. Sharp and hard I’ve been with those I owed a knock -to, but I never yet forgot a friend; you may do me a service to-morrow -or next day, _mind_, and if you stand by me, I’ll stand by you; you -need but ask and have, ask what you _will_.” - -“Well, now, ma’am--bah! what talk it is! Lawk, ma’am; don’t I know the -world, ma’am, and what sort o’ place it is? I a’ bin promised many a -fine thing in my day, and here I am still--old and weary--among the -pots and pans every night and mornin’, and up to my elbows in suds -every Saturday; that’s all that ever came o’ fine promises to Mildred -Tarnley.” - -“Well, you used to say, it’s a long lane that has no turn. You’ll -have a glass of this?” and she popped the brandy-bottle on the table -beside her, with her hand fast on its neck. - -“No brandy--no nothing, ma’am, I thank ye.” - -“What! no brandy? Pish, girl, nonsense.” - -“No, ma’am, I thank ye, I never drinks nothing o’ the sort--a mug o’ -beer after washing or the like--but my headache never would abear -brandy.” - -“Once and away--come,” solicited the old soldier. - -“No, I thank ye, ma’am; I’ll swallow nothing o’ the kind, please.” - -“What a mule! You won’t have a nip with an old friend, after so long -an absence--come, Mildred, come; where’s the glass?” - -“Here’s the glass, ’m, but not a drop for me, ma’am; I won’t drink -nothing o’ the sort, please.” - -“Not from me, I suppose; but if you mean to say you never do, I don’t -believe you,” said the Dutchwoman, more nettled, it seemed, than such -a failure of good fellowship in Mrs. Tarnley would naturally have -warranted. Perhaps she had particularly strong reasons for making old -Mildred frank, genial, and intimate that night. - -“I don’t tell lies,” said Mildred. - -“Don’t you?” said the “old soldier,” and elevated the brows of her -sightless eyes, and screwed her lips with ugly ridicule. - -Mrs. Tarnley looked with a dark shrewdness upon this meaning mask, -trying to discover the exact force of its significance. She felt very -uncomfortable. - -The blind woman’s face expanded into a broad smile. She shrugged, -shook her head, and laughed. How odiously wide her face looked as she -laughed! Mildred did not know exactly what to make of her. - -“But if you did tell lies,” drawled the lady, “even to me, what does -it matter, if you promised to tell no more? So let us shake -hands--where’s your hand?” - -And she kept shuffling her big hand upon the table, palm upward, with -its fingers groping in the air like the claws of a crab upon its back. - -“Give me--give me--give me your hand, I say,” said she. - -“’Tain’t for the like o’ me,” replied Mildred, with grim formality. - -“You’d better be friendly. Come, give me your hand.” - -“Well, ma’am, ’tain’t for me to dispute your pleasure,” answered the -old servant, and she slipped her hard fingers upon the upturned palm -of the Dutchwoman, who clutched them with a strenuous friendship, and -held them fast. - -“I like you, Tarnley; we’ve had rough words, sometimes, but no ill -blood, and I’ll do what I said. I never failed a friend, as you will -see, if only you _be_ my friend; and why or for whom should you _not_? -Tut, we’re not fools!” - -“The time is past for me to quarrel, being to the wrong side o’ sixty -more than you’d suppose, and quiet all I wants--quiet, ma’am.” - -“Yes, quiet and comfort, too, and both you shall have, Mildred -Tarnley, if you don’t choose to quarrel with those who _would_ be kind -to you, if you’d let them. Yes, indeed, who _would_ be kind, and -_very_ kind, if you’d only let them. No, leave your hand where it is, -I can’t see you, and it’s sometimes dull work talking only to a voice. -If I can’t see you I’ll feel you, and hold you, old girl--hold you -fast till I know what terms we’re on.” - -All this time she had Mildred Tarnley’s hand between hers, and was -fondling and kneading it as a rustic lover in the agonies of the -momentous question might have done fifty years ago. - -“I don’t know what you want me to say, ma’am, no more than the plate -there. Little good left in Mildred Tarnley now, and small power to -help or hurt any one, great or small, at these years.” - -“I want you to be friendly with me, that’s all; I ask no more, and it -ain’t a great deal, all things considered. Friendly talk, of course, -ain’t all I mean, that’s civility, and civility’s very well, very -pleasant, like a lady’s fan, or her lap-dog, but nothing at a real -pinch, nothing to fight a wolf with. Come, old Mildred, Mildred -Tarnley, good Mildred, can I be sure of you, _quite_ sure?” - -“Sure and certain, ma’am, in all honest service.” - -“Honest service! Yes, of course; what else could we think of? You used -to like, I remember, Mildred, a nice ribbon in your bonnet. I have two -pieces quite new. I brought them from London. Satin ribbon--purple one -is--I know you’ll like it, and you’ll drink a glass of this to please -me.” - -“Thanks for the ribbons, ma’am, I’ll not refuse ’em; but I won’t drink -nothing, ma’am, I thank you.” - -“Well, please yourself in that. Pour out a little for me, there’s a -glass, ain’t there?” - -“Yes, ’m. How much will you have, ma’am?” - -“Half a glass. There’s a dear. Stingy half glass,” she continued, -putting her finger in to gauge the quantity. “Go on, go on, remember -my long journey to-day. Do you smoke, Mildred?” - -“Smoke, ’m? No, ’m! Dear me, there’s no smell o’ tobacco, is there?” -said Mildred, who was always suspecting Tom of smoking slily in his -crib under the stairs. - -“Smell, no; but I smoke a pinch of tobacco now and again myself, the -doctor says I must, and a breath just of opium when I want it. You can -have a pipe of tobacco if you like, child, and you needn’t be shy. -Well?” - -“Ho, Fau! No, ma’am, I thank ye.” - -“Fau!” echoed the Dutchwoman, with a derisive, chilling laugh, which -apprised old Mildred of her solecism. But the lady did not mean to -quarrel. - -“What sort of dress have you for Sundays, going to church, and all -that?” - -“An old dress it is now. I had the material, ye’ll mind, when ye was -here, long ago; but it wasn’t made up till long after. It’s very -genteel, the folk all says. Chocolate colour--British cashmere--’twas -old Mrs. Hartlepool, the parson’s widow, made me a compliment o’t when -she was goin’, and I kept it all the time, wi’ whole pepper and -camphor, in my box, by my bed, and it looked as fresh when I took it -out to give it to Miss Maddox to make up as if ’twas just put new on -the counter. She did open her eyes, that’s nigh seven years gone, when -I told her how old it was.” - -“Heyday! Hi! I think I do remember that old chocolate thing. Why, it -can’t be that, that’s twenty years old. Well, look in my box, here’s -the key. You’ll see two books with green leather backs and gold. Can -ye read? I’m going to make you a present.” - -“I _can_ read, ma’am; but I scarce have time to read my Bible.” - -“The Bible’s a good book, but that’s a better,” said the lady, with -one of her titters. “But it ain’t a book I’m going to give you. Look -it out, green and gold, there are only two in the box. It is the one -that has an I and a V on the back, _four_, the fourth volume. I have -little else to amuse me. I have the news of the neighbours, but I -don’t like ’em, who could? A bad lot, they hate one another; -’twouldn’t be a worse world if they were all hanged. They hate me -because I’m a lady, so I don’t cry when baby takes the croup, nor -break my heart when papa gets into the ‘Gazette.’ Have you found it? -Why, it’s under your hand there. They would not cry their eyes out for -me, so I can see the funny side of their adventures, bless them!” - -“Is this it, ma’am?” - -“There are but two books in the box. Has it an I and a V on the back?” - -“V, O, L, I, V,” spelled out old Mildred, who was listening in a fever -for the sounds of Charles Fairfield’s arrival. - -“That’s it. That’s the book you should read. I take it in, and I hire -all the others, and a French one, from the Hoxton library. I make -Molly Jinks, the little, dirty, starving maid, read to me two hours a -day. She’s got rather to like it. How are your eyes?” - -“I can make out twelve or fourteen verses wi’ the glasses, but not -more, at one bout.” - -“Well, get on your glasses. This is the ‘Magazine of the Beau-Monde, -and Court and Vashionable Gazette,’ and full of pictures. Turn over.” - -“La, ma’am, ’tis beautiful, but what have I to do with the like?” - -“Well, look out for the puce _gros de Naples_ walking dress, about -page twenty-nine, and I’ll show you the picture afterwards. Do be -quick. I have had it four years, it’s quite good though, only I’m -grown a little fuller since, and it don’t fit now. So read it, and -you’ll see how I’ll dress you.” - -And bending her head forward and knitting her brows, she listened -absorbed, while old Mildred helped, or corrected, at every second -word, by her blind patroness, babbled and stuttered on with her in -duet recitation. - -“Walking dress,” said Mildred-- - -“Go on,” said the lady, who, having this like other descriptions in -that cherished work pretty well by heart, led off energetically with -her lean old companion, and together they read-- - -“A _pelisse_ of puce-coloured _gros de Naples_, the corsage made to -sit close to the shape, with a large round pelerine which wraps across -in front. The sleeve is excessively large at the upper part of the -arm. The fulness of the lower is more moderate. It is confined in -three places by bands and terminated by a broad wrist-band. The -pelerine and bands of the sleeves are cased with satin to correspond, -and three satin _rouleaus_ are arranged _en tablier_ on the front of -the skirt. The bonnet is of rice straw of the cottage shape, trimmed -under the brim on the right side, with a band and _nœud_ of -gold-coloured ribbon. The crown being also ornamented with -gold-coloured ribbon, and a sprig of lilac, placed perpendicularly. -Half-boots of black _gros de Naples_, tipped with black kid.” - -Here they drew breath, and Mildred Tarnley was silent for a minute, -thinking how much more like a lady her mother used to dress than _she_ -was able, and what fine presents of old clothes old Mrs. Fairfield -used to send her now and then from Wyvern. For a moment an air of -dignity, a sense of feminine vanity, showed itself in the face and -mien of Mrs. Tarnley. - -“That rice straw bonnet, with the gold-coloured _nœud_, of course I -haven’t got, nor the _gros de Naples’_ boots--they’re gone, of course, -long ago; but it reads best, altogether, and I hadn’t the heart to -stop you, nor you to stop reading till we got to the end. And look at -the pictures, you’ll easily find it; and I’ll write and have the -pelisse sent here by the day-coach. It will be here on Sunday. Do you -like it?” - -“It is a bit too fine for me, I’m afraid,” said Mildred, smiling in -spite of herself, with a grim elation; “my poor mother used to dress -herself grand enough, in her day, and keep me handsome also when I was -a young thing. But since the ladies come no more to Carwell the Grange -has been a dull place, and gives a body enough to do to live, and -little thought o’ fine dresses, and few to see them, except o’ -Sundays, if ’twas here; not but ’twould be more for the credit o’ the -family if old Mildred Tarnley, that’s known down here for housekeeper -at the Grange of Carwell, wasn’t turned out quite so poor and dowdy, -and seeing them taking the wall o’ me, which their mothers used to -courtesy to mine, at church and market, and come up here to the Grange -as humble as you please, when money was stirring at Carwell, and I, -young as I was, thought more on, a deal more, than the best o’ them.” - -“I drink your health, Mildred; as you won’t pledge me, I do it alone.” - -“I thank ye, ma’am.” - -“Ha, yes, that does me good; I’m tired to death, Mildred.” - -“There’s two on us so, ma’am; shall I get you to bed, please?” - -“In a minute; give me your hand again, girl; come, come, come,--yes, I -have it. I think you are more friendly, eh? I _think_ so; but the -little goodwill I ever show you now is _nothing_ to what I mean for -you when I come to Wyvern--nothing.” - -And she strengthened the present assurance with an oath, and grasped -Mildred’s hard brown hand very tight. - -“And you’ll be kind to me, Mildred, when I want it; and I _shall_ want -it, mind, and I’ll never forget it to you; ’twill be the making of -you. I’ll show you how much I trust you, for I’ll put myself in your -power.” - -And, hereupon, she shook her hand harder. Her face and manner were -changed, and she looked horribly frightened for some minutes. - -“I don’t blame you, Mildred, but this thing must not go on--it must -not be.” - -Mildred in her own way looked disconcerted and even agitated at this -odd speech. She screwed her mouth sharply to one side, and with her -brow knit had turned a frightened gaze on her visitor. - -“There’s things as can’t be undone, and things as can,” said she, -after a pause oracularly; “best not meddle or make--worms that is, and -dust that will be, and God over all.” - -“God over all, why not?” repeated the old soldier vaguely, and stood -up suddenly with a kind of terrified shudder, “take me, hold me, -quick.” - -“A fit? La bless us,” cried Tarnley, seizing her in her lean arms. - -The lady answered nothing, but grasped her fast by the wrist and -shoulder, and so she stood for a time shuddering and swaying. “Better -at last,” she said, “a little--put me in the chair.” - -And she made a great shuddering sigh or two, and called for water and -“hartshorn,” and the hysteria subsided. And now she seemed overpowered -with languor, and answered faintly and in monosyllables to old Mrs. -Tarnley’s uncomfortable inquiries. - -“Now I shall get a sleep,” she said at last, in low drowsy tones, -interrupted with heavy sighs, and she looked so ill that old Mildred -more than ever wished her back again at Hoxton Old Town. - -“Help me to my bed--support me--get off my things,” she moaned and -mumbled, and at last lay down with a great groaning sigh. - -“What am I to do with her now?” thought Mrs. Tarnley, who was doubtful -whether in this state she could be safely left to herself. - -But the patient set her at ease upon the point. - -“Get your ear down,” she whispered, “near, _near_--you need not stay -any longer--only--one thing--the closet with the long row of pegs and -the three presses in it, that lies between _her_ room and mine, I -remember it well--it isn’t open--I shouldn’t like her to find me -here.” - -“No, ma’am, it ain’t open, the doors were papered over, this room and -hers, as I told you, when the rooms was done up.” - -The old soldier sighed and whispered-- - -“My head is very bad, make no noise, dear, don’t move the tray, don’t -touch anything--leave me to myself, and I’ll sleep till eleven o’clock -to-morrow morning; but go out softly, and then, no noise, for my -sleep,” groaned this huge woman, “is a bird’s sleep--a bird’s sleep, -and a pin dropping wakes me, a mouse stirring wakes me--oh--oh--oh. -That’s all.” Glad to be dismissed on these easy terms, Mildred Tarnley -bid her softly good-night, having left her basket with her sal -volatile, and all other comforts, on the table at her bedside. - -And so, softly she stole on tiptoe out of the room, and closed her -door, waiting for a moment to clear her head, and be quite sure that -the “Dutchwoman,” whom they very much hated and feared, was actually -established in her bed-room at Carwell Grange. - - - - - CHAPTER XXXI. - NEWS FROM CRESSLEY COMMON. - -A pretty medley was revolving in old Mildred’s brain as she stood -outside this door, on the gallery. The epileptic old soldier, the puce -_gros de Naples_, Tom on outpost duty on Cressley Common--had he come -back? Charles Fairfield, perhaps, in the house, and that foolish poor -young wife in her room, in the centre, and herself the object of all -this manœuvring and conspiring; quite unconscious. Mildred had a good -many wires to her fingers just now; could she possibly work them all -and keep the show going? - -She was listening now, wondering whether Master Charles had arrived, -wondering whether the young lady was asleep, and wondering, most of -all, why she had been fool enough to meddle in other people’s affairs. -“What the dickens was it to her if they was all in kingdom come? If -Mildred was a roastin’ they wouldn’t, not one of ’em, walk across the -yard there, to take her off the spit--la, bless you, not a foot.” - -Mildred was troubled about many things. Among others, what was the -meaning of those oracular appeals of the Dutchwoman in which she had -seemed to know something of the real state of things. - -Down went Mildred Tarnley, softly still, for she would not risk waking -Alice, and at the foot of the second staircase she paused again. - -All was quiet, she peeped into Tom’s little room, under the staircase. -It was still empty. Into the kitchen she went, nothing had been -stirred there. - -From habit she trotted about, and settled and unsettled some of the -scanty ironmongery and earthenware, and peeped, with her candle aloft, -into this corner and that, and she removed the smoothing-iron that -stood on the window stool, holding the shutters close, and peeped into -the paved yard, tufted with grass, high over which the solemn trees -were drooping. - -Then, candle in hand, the fidgety old woman visited the back door, the -latch was in its place, and she turned about and visited the panelled -sitting-room. The smell of flowers was there, and on the little -spider-table was Alice’s work-box, and some little muslin clippings -and bits of thread and tape, the relics of that evening’s solitary -work over the little toilet on which her pretty fingers and sad eyes -were now always employed. - -Well, there was no sign of Master Charles here; so with a little more -pottering and sniffing, out she went, and again to the back door, -which softly she opened, and she toddled across the uneven pavement to -the back door, and looked out, and walked forth upon the narrow road, -that, darkened with thick trees, overhangs the edge of the ravine. - -Here she listened, and listened in vain. There was nothing but the -soft rush of the leaves overhead in the faint visitings of the night -air, and across the glen at intervals came that ghastliest of sounds, -between a long-drawn hiss and shiver, from a lonely owl. - -Interrupted at intervals by this freezing sound, the old woman -listened and muttered now and again a testy word or two. What was to -be done if, by any mischance or blunder of Tom’s, the master should -thunder his summons at the hall-door? Down of course would fly his -young wife to let him in, and be clasped in his arms, while from the -low window of the Dutchwoman that evil tenant might overhear every -word that passed, and almost touch their heads with her down-stretched -hand. - -A pretty scene it would lead to, and agreeable consequences to Mildred -herself. - -“The woman’s insane; she’s an evil spirit; many a time she would have -brained me in a start of anger if I hadn’t been sharp. The mark of the -cut glass decanter she flung at my head is in the doorcase at the foot -of the stairs this minute like the scar of a bill-hook, the mad beast. -I thank God she’s blind, though there’s an end o’ them pranks, anyhow. -But she’s a limb o’ the evil one, and where there’s a will there’s a -way, and blind though she be, I would not trust her.” - -She walked two or three steps slowly, toward Cressley Common, from -which direction she expected the approach of Charles Fairfield. - -No wonder Mildred was fidgeted, there were so many disasters on the -cards. If she could but see Charles Fairfield something at least might -be guarded against. This wiry old woman was by no means hard of -hearing--rather sharp, on the contrary, was her ear. But she listened -long in vain. - -Fearful lest something might go wrong within doors during her absence, -she was turning to go back, when she thought she heard the distant -clink of a horseshoe on the road. - -Her old heart throbbed suddenly, and frowning as she listened, with -eyes directed towards the point of approach, softly she said “hush,” -as if to quiet the faint rustle of the trees. - -Stooping forward, she listened, with her lean arm extended, every -wrinkled knuckle of her brown hand, and every black-rimmed nail -distinct in the moonlight. - -Yes, it was the clink of trotting horseshoes. She prayed heaven the -blind woman might not hear it. There was a time when her more -energetic misanthropy would possibly have enjoyed a _fracas_ such as -was now to be apprehended. But years teach us the value of quiet, the -providential instincts of growing helplessness disarm our pugnacity, -and all but quite reprobate spirits grow gentler and kinder as the -hour of parting with earth approaches. Thus had old Mildred taken her -part in this game, and as her stake became deeper and more dangerous -her zeal burnt intensely. - -Nearer and sharper came the clink, and old Mildred in her anxiety -walked on, sometimes five steps, sometimes twenty, to meet the rider. - -It was Tom who appeared, mounted on the mule. I think he took Mildred -for a ghost, for he pulled up violently more than twenty yards away, -and said, “Lord! who’s that?” - -“It’s me, Tom, Mrs. Tarnley; and is he comin’?” - -“I hardly knowed you, Mrs. Tarnley. No, I met him up near the stone.” - -“Not a coming?” urged Mildred. - -“No.” - -“Thank God. Well, and what did you tell him?” - -“I told him your message. He first asked all about the young lady, and -then I told him how she was, and then I told him your message----” - -“Ay?” - -“Word for word, and he drew bridle and stood awhile, thinkin’, and he -wished to know whether the mistress had spoke with her--Mr. Harry’s -friend, I mean--and I said I didn’t know; and he asked was the house -quiet, and no high words going, nor the new comer giving any trouble, -and I said _no_, so far as I knowed. Then, says he, I think, Tom, I -had best let Master Harry settle it his own way, so I’ll ride back -again to Darwynd, and you can come over to the old place for the horse -to-morrow; and tell Mildred I thank her for her care of us, and she -shall hear from me in a day or two, and tell no one else, mind, that -you have seen me. Well, I asked was there anything more, and he paused -a bit, and says he, no, not at present. And then again, says he, tell -Mildred Tarnley I’ll write to her, and let her know where I am, and -mind, Tom, you go yourself to the Post Office, and be sure the letters -go only to the persons they are directed to, your mistress’s to her, -and Mildred’s to _her_, and don’t you talk with that person that I -hear has come to the Grange, and if by any chance she should get into -talk with you, you must be wide awake, and tell her _nothing_, and get -away from her as quick as you can. It’s easy to escape her, for she’s -blind.” - -“So she is,” affirmed Mildred, “as that wall. Go on.” - -“‘Then,’ says he, ‘good-night, Tom, get ye home again.’ So I wished -him God speed, and I rode away, and when I was on a bit I threw a look -back again over my shoulder, and I saw him still in the same spot, no -more stirring than the stone at the roadside, thinking, I do suppose.” - -“And that’s all?” said Mildred. - -“That’s all.” - -“Bring in the beast very quiet, Tom, unless you leave him in the field -for the night, and don’t be clappin’ o’ doors or ginglin’ o’ bridle -bits. That one has an ear like a hare, and she’ll be askin’ questions; -and when you’ve done in the stable come you in this way, and I’ll let -you in softly, and don’t you be talkin’ within doors above a whisper. -Your voice is rough, and her ear is as sharp as a needle’s point.” - -Tom gave her a little nod and a great wink, and got off the mule, and -led him on the grass toward the stable-yard, and old Mildred at the -same time got in softly by the other entrance, and in the kitchen -awaited the return of Tom. - -She sat by the fire, troubled in mind, with her eyes turned askance on -the windows. What a small thing is a human body, and what a gigantic -moral sphere surrounds that little centre! That blind woman lay still -as death, on a six-foot-long bedstead, in a remote chamber. But the -direful circuit of that sphere which radiated thence enveloped old -Mildred Tarnley, go where she would, and outspread even the bourn of -the road which Charles Fairfield was to travel that night. For Mildred -Tarnley, something of molestation and horror was in it, which -forbid her to rest. - -Tom came into the yard, and Mildred was at the door, and opened it -before he could place his hand on the latch. - -“Put off them big shoes, and not a word above your breath, and not a -stir, but get ye in again to your bed as still as a mouse,” said Mrs. -Tarnley in a hard whisper, giving him a shake of the shoulder. - -“Ye’ll gi’e me a mug o’ beer, Mrs. Tarnley, and a lump o’ bread, and a -cut o’ cheese wouldn’t hurt me; I’m a bit hungry. If you won’t I must -even take a smoke, for I can’t sleep as I am.” - -“Well, I will give ye a drink and a bit o’ bread and cheese. Did ye -lock the yard-door?” - -“No,” said Tom. - -“Well, no, never you mind; I’ll do it,” said Mildred, stopping him, -“and go you straight to your room, and here’s the lantern for you; and -now get ye in, and not a sound, mind, you gi’e me your pipe here, for -you shan’t be stinkin’ the house wi’ your nasty tobaccy.” - -So Tom was got quick to his bed. - -And Mildred sat down again by the kitchen fire, to rest for a little, -feeling too tired to undress. - -“Well, I _do_ thank God of His mercy he’s _not_ a comin’; I do. Who -can tell what would be if he _was_? And now, if only Master Harry was -sure to keep away all might go right--yes, all--all might go right. -Oh, ho, ho! I wish it was, and my old head at rest, for I’m worked -worse than a horse, and wore off my feet altogether.” - -And all this time she was looking through the kitchen-window, with -dismal eyes, from her clumsy oak chair by the fire, with her feet on -the fender, and her lean shanks as close to the bars as was safe, -shaking her head from time to time as she looked out on the black -outlines of the trees which stood high and gloomy above the wall at -the other side, against the liquid moonlit sky. - - - - - CHAPTER XXXII. - AN UNLOOKED-FOR RETURN. - -In spite of her troubles, as she sat by the fire, looking out through -the window, fatigue overcame Mildred, and she nodded. But her brain -being troubled, and her attitude uneasy, she awoke suddenly from a -sinister dream, and as still unconscious where she was, her eyes opened -upon the same melancholy foliage and moonlit sky and the dim enclosure -of the yard, the scenery on which they had closed. She saw a pale face -staring in upon her through the window. The fingers were tapping gently -on the glass. - -Old Mildred blinked and shook her head to get rid of what seemed to -her a painful illusion. - -It was Charles Fairfield who stood at the window, looking wild and -miserably ill. - -Mildred stood up, and he beckoned. She signed toward the door, which -she went forthwith and opened. - -“Come in, sir,” she said. - -His saddle, by the stirrup-leather, and his bridle were in his hand. -Thus he entered the kitchen, and dropped them on the tiled floor. She -looked in his face, he looked in hers. There was a silence. It was not -Mildred’s business to open the disagreeable subject. - -“Would you please like anything?” - -“No, no supper, thanks. Give me a drink of water, I’m thirsty. I’m -tired, and--we’re quite to ourselves?” - -“Yes, sir; but wouldn’t ye better have beer?” answered she. - -“No--water--thanks.” - -And he drank a deep draught. - -“Where’s the horse, sir?” she asked after a glance at the saddle which -lay on its side on the floor. - -“In the field, the poplar field, all right--_well_?” - -“Tom told you my message, sir?” she asked, averting her eyes a little. - -“Yes--where is she--_asleep_?” - -“The mistress is in her bed, asleep I do suppose.” - -“Yes, yes, and quite well, Tom says. And where is the--the--you sent -me word there was some one here. I know whom you mean. Where is she?” - -“In the front bed-room--the old room--it will be over the hall-door, -you know--she’s in bed, and asleep, I’m thinkin’; but best not make -any stir--some folks sleep so light, ye know.” - -“It’s late,” he said, taking out his watch, but forgetting to consult -it, “and I dare say she _is_--she came to-night, yes--and she’s tired, -or ought to be--a long way.” - -He walked to the window, and was looking, with the instinct which -leads us always, in dark places, to look toward the light, above the -dusky trees to the thin luminous cloud that streaked the sky. - -“Pretty well tired myself, Mr. Charles; you may guess the night I’ve -put in; I was a’most sleepin’ myself when ye came to the window. Tom -said ye weren’t a comin’; ’tis a mercy the yard door wasn’t locked; -five minutes more and I’d have locked it.” - -“It would not have mattered much, Mildred.” - -“Ye’d a climbed, and pushed up the window, mayhap.” - -“No; I’d have walked on; a feather would have turned me from the door -as it was.” - -He turned about and looked at her dreamily. - -“On _where_?” she inquired. - -“On, anywhere; on into the glen. If you are tired, Mildred, so am I.” - -“You need a good sleep, Master Charles.” - -“A long sleep, Mildred. I’m tired. I had a mind as it was to walk on -and trouble you here no more.” - -“Walk on--hoot! nonsense, Mr. Charles; ’tisn’t come to that; giving up -your house to a one like her.” - -“I wish I was dead, Mildred. I don’t know whether it was a good or an -evil angel that turned me in here. I’d have been easier by this time -if I had gone on, and had my leap from the scaur to the bottom of the -glen.” - -“None o’ that nonsense, man!” said Mildred, sternly; “ye ha’ brought -that poor young lady into a doubtful pass, and ye must stand by her, -Charles. You’re come of no cowardly stock, and ye sha’n’t gi’e her up, -and your babe that’s comin’, poor little thing, to shame and want for -lack of a man’s heart under your ribs. I say, I know nout o’ the -rights of it; but God will judge ye if ye leave her now.” - -High was Mrs. Tarnley’s head, and very grim she looked as with her -hand on his shoulder she shook up “Master Charles” from the drowse of -death. - -“I won’t, old Tarnley,” he said at last. “You’re right--poor little -Alice, the loving little thing!” - -He turned suddenly again to the window and wept in silence strange -tears of agony. - -Old Tarnley looked at him sternly askance. I don’t think she had much -pity for him, she was in nowise given to the melting mood, and hardly -knew what that sort of whimpering meant. - -“I say,” she broke out, “I don’t know the rights of it, how should I? -but this I believe, if you thought you were truly married to that -woman that’s come to-night, you’d never a found it in your heart to -act such a villain’s part by the poor, young, foolish creature -upstairs, and make a sham wife o’ her.” - -“Never, never, by heaven. I’m no more that wretched woman’s husband -than I’m married to you.” - -“Mildred knew better than marry any one; there’s little I see but -tears and wrinkles, and oftentimes rags and hunger comes of it; but -’twill be done, marryin’ and givin’ in marriage, says the Scriptures, -’tis so now, ’twas so when Noah went into the ark, and ’twill be so -when the day of judgment breaks over us.” - -“Yes,” said Charles Fairfield, abstractedly; “of course that miserable -woman sticks at no assertion; her idea is simply to bully her way to -her object. It doesn’t matter what she says, and it never surprised -me. I always knew if she lived she’d give me trouble one day; but -that’s all; just trouble, but no more; not the slightest chance of -succeeding--not the smallest; she knows it; I know it. The only thing -that vexes me is that people who know all about it as well as I do, -and people who, of all others, should feel for me, and feel with me, -should talk as if they had doubts upon the subject now.” - -“I didn’t say so, Master Charles,” said Mildred. - -“I didn’t mean you, I meant others, quite a different person; I’m -utterly miserable; at a more unlucky moment all this could not have -happened by any possibility.” - -“Well, I’m sure I never said it; I never thought but one thing of her; -the foul-tongued wicked beast.” - -“Don’t you talk that way of her,” said Charles, savagely. “Whatever -she is she has suffered, she has been cruelly used, and I am to blame -for all. I did not mean it, but it is all my fault.” - -Mrs. Tarnley sneered, but said nothing, and a silence followed. - -“I know,” he said, in a changed way, “you mean kindly to me.” - -“Be kind to yourself. I hold it’s the best way in this bleak world, -Mr. Charles. I never was thanked for kindness yet.” - -“You have always been true to me, Mildred, in your own way--in your -own way, mind, but always true, and I’ll show you yet, if I’m spared, -that I can be grateful. You know how I am now--no power to serve any -one--no power to show my regard.” - -“I don’t complain o’ nothing,” said Mildred. - -“Has my brother been here, Mildred?” he asked. - -“Not he.” - -“No letters for me?” asked he. - -“Nothing, sir.” - -“You never get a lift when you want it--never,” said Charles, with a -bitter groan; “never was a fellow driven harder to the wall--never a -fellow nearer his wits’ ends. I’m very glad, Mildred, I have some one -to talk to--one old friend. I don’t know what to do--I can’t make up -my mind to anything, and if I hadn’t you just now, I think I should go -distracted. I have a great deal to ask you. That lady, you say, has -been in her room some time--did she talk loud--was she angry--was -there any noise?” - -“No, sir.” - -“Who saw her?” - -“No one but myself, and the man as drove her.” - -“Thank God for that. Does she know about my--did she hear that your -mistress is in the house?” - -“I said she was Master Harry’s wife, and told her, Lord forgive me, -that he was here continually, and you hardly ever, and then only for a -few hours at a time.” - -“That’s very good--she believed it?” - -“Every word, so far as I could see. I a’ told a deal o’ lies.” - -“Well, well, and what more?” - -“And the beginning of sin is like the coming in of waters, and ’twill -soon make an o’er wide gap for itself, and lay all under.” - -“Yes--and--and--you really think she believed all you said?” - -“Ay, I do,” answered she. - -“Thank God, again!” said he, with a deep sigh. “Oh, Mildred, I wish I -could think what’s best to be done. There are ever so many things in -my head.” - -She felt a trembling she thought in the hand he laid upon her arm. - -“Take a drink o’ beer, you’re tired, sir,” said she. - -“No, no--not much--never mind, I’m better as I am. How has your -mistress been?” - -“Well, midlin’--pretty well.” - -“I wish she was quite well, Mildred--it’s very unlucky. If the poor -little thing were only quite well, it would make everything easy; but -I daren’t frighten her--I daren’t tell her--it might be her death. Oh, -Mildred, isn’t all this terrible?” - -“Bad enough--I can’t deny.” - -“Would it be better to run that risk and tell her everything?” he -said. - -“Well, it _is_ a risk, an’ a great one, and it might be the same as -puttin’ a pistol to her head and killin’ her; ’tis a tryin’ time with -her, poor child, and a dangerous bed, and mind ye this, if there’s any -talk like that, and the crying and laughing fits mayhap that comes -with it, don’t ye think but the old cat will hear it, and then in the -wild talk a’s out in no time, and the fat in the fire; no, if she’s to -hear it, it can’t be helped, and the will o’ God be done; but if I was -her husband, I’d sooner die than tell her, being as she is.” - -“No, of course, no--she must not be told; I’m sure you’re right, -Mildred. I wish Harry was here, he thinks of things sometimes that -don’t strike me. I wish Harry would come, he might think of -something--he would, I dare say--he would, I’m certain.” - -“I wish that woman was back again where she came from,” said Mildred, -from whose mind the puce _gros de Naples_ was fading, for she had a -profound distrust of her veracity, and the pelisse looked very like a -puce-coloured lie. - -“Don’t, Mildred--don’t, like a good creature--you won’t for my sake, -speak harshly of that unhappy person,” he said gently this time, and -laying his hand on her shoulder. “I’m glad you are here, Mildred--I’m -very glad; I remember you as long as I can remember anything--you were -always kind to me, Mildred--always the same--true as steel.” - -He was speaking with the friendliness of distress. It is in pain that -sympathy grows precious, and with the yearning for it, returns -something of the gentleness and affection of childhood. - -“She’s come for no good,” said Mildred, “she’s sly, and she’s savage, -and if you don’t mind me saying so, I often thought she was a bit -mad--folk as has them fits, ye know, they does get sometimes -queerish.” - -“We can talk of her by-and-by,” said he; “what was in my mind was -about a different thing. For a thousand reasons I should hate a -_fracas_--I mean a row with that person at present; you know yourself -how it might affect the poor little thing upstairs. Oh, my darling, my -darling, what have I brought you into?” - -“Well, well, no help for spilled milk,” said Mildred. “What was you -a-thinking of?” - -“Oh, yes, thank you, Mildred--I was thinking--yes--if your mistress -was well enough for a journey, I’d take her away from this--I’d take -her away immediately--I’d take her quite out of the reach of -that--that restless person. I ought to have done so at once, but I was -so miserably poor, and this place here to receive us, and who could -have fancied she’d have dreamed, in her state of health, and with her -affliction--her sight, you know--of coming down here again; but I’m -the unluckiest fellow on earth; I never, by any chance, leave a blot -that isn’t hit. Don’t you think, Mildred, I had better not wake your -mistress to-night to talk over plans?” - -“Don’t you go near her; a sight of your face would tell her all wasn’t -right.” - -“I had better not see her, you think?” - -“_Don’t_ see her. So soon as you know yourself what you’re going to do -with her, and if you make up your mind to-night so much the -better--write you to tell her what she’s to do, and give me the letter -and I’ll give it to her as if it came by a messenger; and take you my -counsel--don’t you stop here a minute longer than you can. Leave -before daybreak, you’re no use here, and if she finds you ’twill but -make bad worse. When will ye lie down--you’ll not be good for nothin’ -to-morrow if ye don’t sleep a bit--lie down on the sofa in the -parlour, and your cloak is hangin’ in the passage, and be you out o’ -the house by daybreak, and I’ll have a bit o’ breakfast ready before -ye go.” - -“And there’s Lady Wyndale, I didn’t tell you, offered to take care of -Alice, your mistress, and she need only go there for the present; but -that might be too near, and I was thinking it might not do.” - -“Best out o’ reach altogether when ye go about it,” said Mildred. “Sit -here if you like it, or lie down, as I said, in the parlour, and if -you settle your mind on any plan just knock at my door, and I’ll have -my clothes about me and be ready at call, and Tom’s in his old crib -under the stair, if you want him to get the saddle on the horse, and I -won’t take down the fire, I’ll have it handy for your breakfast, and -now I can’t stop talkin’ no longer, for Mildred’s wore off her -feet--will ye take a candle, or will ye stop here?” - -“Yes, give me a candle, Mildred--thanks--and don’t mind the cloak, -I’ll get it myself, I will lie down a little, and try to sleep--I wish -I could--and if you waken shake me up in an hour or two, something -must be settled before I leave this, something _shall_ be settled, and -that poor little creature out of reach of trouble and insult. Don’t -forget. Good-night, Mildred, and God bless you, Mildred, God for ever -bless you.” - - - - - CHAPTER XXXIII. - CHARLES FAIRFIELD ALONE. - -Charles Fairfield talked of sleeping. There was little chance of -that. He placed the candle on one of the two old oak cupboards, as they -were still called, which occupied corresponding niches in the -wainscoted wall, opposite the fireplace, and he threw himself at his -length on the sofa. - -Tired enough for sleep he was; but who can stop the mill of anxious -thought into which imagination pours continually its proper grist? In -his tired head its wheels went turning, and its hammers beat with -monotonous pulsation and whirl--weariest and most wasting of fevers! - -He turned his face, like the men of old, in his anguish, to the wall. -Then he tried the other side, wide awake, and literally staring, from -point to point, in the fear and fatigue of his vain ruminations. Then -up he sat, and flung his cloak on the floor, and then to the window he -went, and, opening the shutter, looked out on the moonlight, and the -peaceful trees that seemed bowed in slumber, and stood, hardly seeing -it--hardly thinking in his confused misery. - -One hand in his pocket, the other against the window-case, to which -the stalworth good fellow, Harry, had leaned his shoulder in their -unpleasant dialogue and altercation. Harry, his chief stay, his -confidant and brother--dare he trust him now? If he might, where could -he find him? Better do his own work--better do it indifferently than -run a risk of treason. He did not quite know what to make of Harry. - -So with desultory resolution he said to himself, “Now I’ll think in -earnest, for I’ve got but two hours to decide in.” There was a pretty -little German village, quite out of the ordinary route of tourists. He -remembered its rocks and hills, its ruined castle and forest scenery, -as if he had seen them but yesterday--the very place for Alice, with -her simple tastes and real enjoyment of nature. On that point, though -under present circumstances by short journeys, they should effect -their retreat. - -In three hours’ time he would himself leave the Grange. In the -meantime he must define his plans exactly. He must write to Harry--he -must write to Alice, for he was quite clear he would not see her; and, -after all, he might have been making a great deal too much of this -odious affair, which, rightly managed, might easily end in smoke. - -Pen, ink, and paper he found, and now to clear his head and fix his -attention. Luckily he had a hundred pounds in his pocket-book. Too -hard that out of his miserable pittance, scarcely five hundred pounds -a year, he should have to pay two hundred pounds to that woman, who -never gave him an easy week, and who seemed bent on ruining him if she -could. By the dull light of the mutton-fat with which Mildred had -furnished him he wrote this note-- - - - “My darling little Woman,-- - - “You must make Dulcibella pack up your things. Tom will have a chaise - here at eleven o’clock. Drive to Wykeford and change horses there, and - go on to Lonsdale, where I will meet you _at last_. Then and there - your own, poor, loving Ry will tell you all his plans and reasons for - this sudden move. We must get away by easy stages, and baffle - possible pursuit, and then a quiet and comparatively happy interval - for my poor little fluttered bird. I live upon the hope of our - meeting. Out of reach of all trouble we shall soon be, and your poor - Ry happy, where only he can be happy, in your dear presence. I enclose - ten pounds. Pay _nothing and nobody_ at the Grange. Say I told you so. - You will reach Lonsdale, if you leave Carwell not later than eleven, - before five. Don’t delay to pack up any more than you actually want. - Leave all in charge of old Mildred, and we can easily write in a day - or two for anything we may want. - - “Ever, my own idolized little woman, - “Your own poor adoring - “Ry.” - - -So this was finished, and now for Harry: - - - “My dear Harry,-- - - “How you must hate the sight of my hand. I never write but to trouble - you. But, as you will perceive, I am myself in trouble more than - enough to warrant my asking you again to aid me if it should lie in - your way. You will best judge if you can, and how you can. The fact is - that what you apprehended turns out to be too true. That person who, - however I may have been at one time to blame, has certainly no right - to charge me with want of generosity or consideration, seems to have - made up her mind to give me all the annoyance in her power. She is at - this moment _here_ at Carwell Grange. I was absent when she arrived, - and received timely notice, and perhaps ought to have turned about, - but I could not do that without ascertaining first exactly how matters - stood at Carwell. So I am here, without any one’s being aware of it - except old Mildred, who tells me that the person in question is under - the impression that it is _you_--and not _I_--who are married, and - that it is your wife who is residing in the house. As you have been no - party to this deception, pray let her continue to think so. I shall - leave this before daybreak, my visit not having exceeded four hours. I - leave a note for poor little Alice, telling her to follow me - to-morrow--I should say _this_ morning--to Lonsdale, where I shall - meet her; and thence we get on to London, and from London, my present - idea is, to make our way to some quiet little place on the Continent, - where I mean to stay quite concealed until circumstances alter for the - better. What I want you, and _beg_ of you to do for me at present, is - just this--to sell _everything_ at Carwell that is saleable--the - horse, the mule, the two donkeys, the carts, plough, &c., &c., in fact - everything out of doors; and let the farm to Mildred’s nephew, who - wanted to take it last year. It is, including the garden, nineteen - acres. I wish him to have it, provided he pays a fair rent, because I - think he would be kind to his aunt, old Mildred. He must stipulate to - give her her usual allowances of vegetables, milk, and all the rest - from the farm; and she shall have her room, and the kitchen, and her - £8 a year as usual. Do like a good old fellow see to this, and try to - turn all you can into money for me. I shall have miserably little to - begin with, and anything you can get together will be a lift to me. If - you write under cover to J. Dylke at the old place in Westminster, it - will be sure to reach me. I don’t know whether all this is - intelligible. You may guess how distracted I am and miserable. But - there is no use in describing. I ought to beg your pardon a thousand - times for asking you to take all the trouble involved in this request. - But, dear Harry, you will ask yourself who else on earth has the poor - devil to look to in an emergency but his brother? I know my good Harry - will remember how urgent the case is. Any advice you can spare me in - my solitary trouble will be most welcome. I think I have said - everything--at least all I can think of in this miserable hurry--I - feel so helpless. But you are a clever fellow, and always were--so - much cleverer than I, and know how to manage things. God bless you, - dear Harry, I know you won’t forget how pressed I am. You were always - prompt in my behalf, and I never so needed a friend like you--for - delay here might lead to the worst annoyances. - - “Ever, dear Harry, your affectionate brother, - - “Charles Fairfield. - - “Carwell Grange.” - - -It was a relief to his mind when these letters were off it, and -something like the rude outline of a plan formed. - -Very tired was Charles Fairfield when he had folded and addressed his -letters. No physical exertion exhausts like the monotonous pain of -anxiety. For many nights he had had no sleep, but those wearying -snatches of half-consciousness in which the same troublous current is -still running through the brain, and the wasted nerves of endurance -are still tasked. He sat now in his chair, the dim red light of the -candle at his elbow, the window shutter open before him, and the cold -serene light of the moon over the outer earth and sky. - -Gazing on this, a weary sleep stole over his senses, and for a full -hour the worn-out man slept profoundly. - -Into this slumber slowly wound a dream, of which he could afterwards -remember only that it was somehow horrible. - -Dark and direful grew his slumber thus visited; and in a way that -accorded well with its terrors, he was awakened. - - - - - CHAPTER XXXIV. - AWAKE. - -In his dream, a pale frightened face approached him slowly, and -recoiling uttered a cry. The scream was horribly prolonged as the -figure receded. He thought he recognised some one--dead or living he -could not say--in the strange, Grecian face, fixed as marble, that with -enormous eyes, had looked into his. - -With this sound ringing in his ears he awoke. As is the case with -other over-fatigued men, on whom, at length, slumber has seized, he -was for a time in the attitude of wakefulness before his senses and -his recollection were thoroughly aroused, and his dream quite -dissipated. Another long shriek, and another, and another, he heard. -Charles recognised, he fancied, his wife’s voice. Scared, and wide -awake, he ran from the room--to the foot of the stairs--up the stairs. -A tread of feet he heard in the room, and the door violently shaken, -and another long, agonized scream. - -Over this roof and around it is the serenest and happiest night. The -brilliant moon, the dark azure and wide field of stars make it a night -for holy thoughts, and lovers’ vigils, so tender and beautiful. There -is no moaning night-wind, not even a rustle in the thick ivy. The -window gives no sound, except when the gray moth floating in its -shadow taps softly on the pane. You can hear the leaf that drops of -itself from the tree-top, and flits its way from bough to spray to the -ground. - -Even in that gentle night there move, however, symbols of guilt and -danger. While the small birds, with head under wing, nestle in their -leafy nooks, the white owl glides with noiseless wing, a murderous -phantom, cutting the air. The demure cat creeps on and on softly as a -gray shadow till its green eyes glare close on its prey. Nature, with -her gentleness and cruelty, her sublimity and meanness, resembles that -microcosm, the human heart, in which lodge so many contrarieties, and -the shabby contends with the heroic, the diabolic with the angelic. - -In this still night Alice’s heart was heavy. Who can account for those -sudden, silent, but terrible changes in the spiritual vision which -interpose as it were a thin coloured medium between ourselves and the -realities that surround us--how all objects, retaining their outlines, -lose their rosy glow and golden lights, and on a sudden fade into -dismallest gray and green? - -“Dulcibella, do you think he’s coming? Oh! Dulcibella, do you think -he’ll come to-night?” - -“He may, dear. Why shouldn’t he? Lie down, my child, and don’t be -sitting up in your bed so. You’ll never go asleep while you’re -listening and watching. Nothing but fidgets, and only the wider awake -the longer you watch. _Well_ I know it, and many a long hour I laid -awake myself expectin’ and listenin’ for poor Crane a comin’ home with -the cart from market, long ago. He had his failin’s--as who has not? -poor Crane--but an honest man, and good-natured, and would not hurt a -fly, and never a wry word out of his mouth, exceptin’, maybe, one or -two, which he never meant them, when he was in liquor, as who is -there, Miss Ally, will not be sometimes? But he was a kind, handsome -fellow, and sore was my heart when he was taken,” and Dulcibella wiped -her eyes. “Seven-and-twenty years agone last Stephen’s Day I buried -him in Wyvern Churchyard, and I tried to keep the little business -agoin’, but I couldn’t make it pay nohow, and when it pleased God to -take my little girl six years after, I gave all up and went to live at -the vicarage. But as I was sayin’, miss, many a long hour I sat up a -watchin’ for my poor Crane on his way home. He would sometimes stop a -bit on the way, wi’ a friend or two, at the Cat and Fiddle--’twas the -only thing I could ever say wasn’t quite as I could a’ liked in my -poor Crane. And that’s how I came to serve your good mother, miss, and -your poor father, the good vicar o’ Wyvern--there’s not been none like -him since, not one--no, indeed.” - -“You remember mamma very well?” - -“Like yesterday, miss,” said old Dulcibella, who often answered that -question. “Like yesterday, the pretty lady. She always looked so -pleasant, too--a smiling face, like the light of the sun coming into a -room.” - -“I wonder, Dulcibella, there was no picture.” - -“No picture. No, miss. Well, ye see, Miss Ally, dear, them pictures, -I’m told, costs a deal o’ money, and they were only beginnin’ you -know, and many a little expense--and Wyvern Vicarage is a small -livelihood at best, and ye must be managin’ if ye’d keep it--and good -to the poor they was with all that, and gave what many a richer one -wouldn’t, and never spared trouble for them; they counted nothin’ -trouble for no one. They loved all, and lived to one another, not a -wry word ever; what one liked t’other loved, and all in the light o’ -God’s blessin’. I never seen such a couple, never; they doted on one -another, and loved all, and they two was like one angel.” - -“Lady Wyndale has a picture of poor mamma--very small--what they call -a miniature. I think it quite beautiful. It was taken when she was not -more than seventeen. Lady Wyndale, you know, was ever so much older -than mamma.” - -“Ay, so she was, ten year and more, I dare say,” answered Dulcibella. - -“She is very fond of it--too fond to give it to me now; but she says, -kind aunt, she has left it to me in her will. And oh! Dulcibella, I -feel so lonely.” - -“Lonely! why should you, darling, wi’ a fine handsome gentleman to -your husband, that will be squire o’ Wyvern--think o’ that--squire o’ -Wyvern, and that’s a greater man than many a lord in Parliament; and -he’s good-natured, never a hard word or a skew look, always the same -quiet way wi’ him. Hoot, miss! ye mustn’t be talkin’ that way. Think -o’ the little baby that’s a comin’. Ye won’t know yourself for joy -when ye see his face, please God, and I’m a longin’ to show him to -ye.” - -“You good old Dulcibella,” said the young lady, and her eyes filled -with tears as she smiled. “But poor mamma died when I was born, and -oh, Dulcibella, do you think I shall ever see the face of the poor -little thing? Oh! wouldn’t it be sad! wouldn’t it be sad!” - -“Ye’re not to be talkin’ that nonsense, darling; ’tis sinful, wi’ all -that God has given you, a comfortable house over your head, and enough -to eat, and good friends, and a fine, handsome husband that’s kind to -you, and a blessed little child a comin’ to make every minute pleasant -to all that’s in the house. Why, ’tis a sin to be frettin’ like that, -and as for this thing or that thing, or being afeard, why, everyone’s -afeard, if they’d let themselves, and not one in a thousand comes by -any harm; and ’tis sinful, I tell ye, for ye know well ye’re in the -hands o’ the good God that’s took care o’ ye till now, and took ye out -o’ the little nursery o’ Wyvern Vicarage, when ye weren’t the length -o’ my arm, and not a friend near but poor, foolish, old Dulcibella, -that did not know where to turn. And your aunt, that only went out as -poor as your darling mamma, brought home well again from t’other end -o’ the world, and well to do, your own loving kith and kin, and good -friends raised up on every side, and the old squire, Harry o’ Wyvern, -although he be a bit angered for a while he’s another good friend, -that will be sure to make it up, whatever it is came between him and -Master Charles. Hot blood’s not the worst blood; better a blow in -haste and a shake hands after than a smile at the lips and no goodwill -wi’ it. I tell you, they’re not the worst, they hot-headed, -hard-fisted, out-spoken folk; and I’ll never forget that day to him, -when he brought you home that had no home, and me that was thinkin’ o’ -nout but the workhouse. So do or say what he will, God bless him for -that day, say I, for ’twas an angel’s part he did,” said old -Dulcibella. - -“So I feel, God knows; so I feel,” said Alice, “and I hope it may all -be made up; I’m sure it will; and, oh! Dulcibella, I have been the -cause of so much sorrow and bitterness!” - -She stopped suddenly, her eyes full of tears; but she restrained them. - -“That’s the way ye’ll always be talking. I’d like to know where they’d -be without you. Every man that marries will have care, more or less; -’tis the will o’ God; and if he hadn’t he’d never think o’ Him; and -’tis a short life at the longest, and a sore pilgrimage at the best. -So what He pleases to lay on us we must even bear wi’ a patient heart, -if we can’t wi’ a cheerful; for wi’ his blessin’ ’twill all end well.” - -“Amen,” said Alice, with a cheerier smile but a load still at her -heart; “I hope so, my good old Dulcibella. What should I do without -you? _Wait!_ hush! Is that a noise outside? No; I thought I heard a -horse’s tread, but there’s nothing. It’s too late now; there’s no -chance of him to-night. Do you think, Dulcibella, there is any -chance?” - -“Well, no, my dear; it’s gettin’ on too late--a deal too late; no, no, -we must even put that clean out of our heads. Ye’ll not get a wink o’ -sleep if you be listening for him. Well I know them fidgets, and many -a time I lay on my hot ear--now this side, now that, listening, till I -could count the veins o’ my head beating like a watch, and myself only -wider and wider awake every hour, and more fool I; and well and hearty -home wi’ him, time enough, and not a minute sooner for all my -watching. And mind ye, what I often told ye when ye were a wee thing, -and ye’ll find it true to the end o’ your days--a watch-pot never -boils.” - -Alice laughed gently. - -“I believe you are right, Dulcibella. No, he won’t come to-night. It -was only a chance, and I might have known. But, perhaps, to-morrow? -Don’t you think to-morrow?” - -“Very like, like enough, to-morrow--daylight, mayhap to breakfast--why -not?” she answered. - -“Well, I do think he may; he said, perhaps to-night, and I know, I’m -sure he’ll think how his poor wife is watching and longing to see him; -and, as you advise, I’ll put that quite out of my head; he has so many -things to look after, and he only said _perhaps_; and you think in the -morning. Well, I won’t let myself think so, it would be too -delightful; I won’t think it. But it can’t be many days, I’m -sure--and--I won’t keep you up any longer, dear old Dulcibella. I’ve -been very selfish. So, good-night.” - -And they kissed, as from little Allie’s infancy they had always done, -before settling for the night. - -“Good-night, and God love it; it mustn’t be frettin’, and God bless -you, my darling Miss Allie; and you must get to sleep, or you’ll be -looking so pale and poor in the morning, he won’t know you when he -comes.” - -So, with another hug and a kiss they parted, and old Dulcibella -leaving her young mistress’s candle burning on the table, as was her -wont, being nervous when she was alone, and screened from her eyes by -the curtain, with a final good-night and another blessing she closed -the door. - -Is there ever an unreserved and complete confidence after marriage? -Even to kind old Dulcibella she could not tell all. As she smiled a -little farewell on the faithful old soul her heart was ready to burst. -She was longing for a good cry all to herself, and now, poor little -thing, she had it. - -She cried herself, as children do, to sleep. - -An hour later the old grange was silent as the neighbouring churchyard -of Carwell. But there was not a household in the parish, or in the -county, I suppose, many of whose tenants, at that late hour, were so -oddly placed. - -In his chair in the oak-panelled room, downstairs, sat Charles -Fairfield, in that slumber of a tormented and exhausted brain, which -in its first profound submersion, resembles the torpor of apoplexy. - -In his forsaken room lay on the pillow the pale face of his young -wife, her eyelashes not yet dry, fallen asleep in the sad illusion of -his absence--better, perhaps, than his presence would have been, if -she had known but all. - -In her crib downstairs, at last asleep, lay the frightened Lilly -Dogger, her head still under the coverlet, under which she had popped -it in panic, as she thought on the possible return of the tall -unknown, and the lobe of her ear still flaming from the discipline of -her vice-like pinch. - -Under his slanting roof, in the recess of the staircase, with only his -coat off, stretched on the broad of his back, with one great horny -hand half shut under his bullet head, and the other by his side, -snored honest Tom, nothing the less soundly for his big mug of beer -and his excursion to Cressley Common. - -For a moment now we visit the bedside of good old Dulcibella. An easy -conscience, a good digestion, and an easy place in this troublesome -world, are favourable to sound slumbers, and very tranquilly she -slept, with a large handkerchief pinned closely about her innocent -bald head, and a night-cap of many borders outside it. Her thick, -well-thumbed Bible, in which she read some half-dozen verses every -night, lay, with her spectacles upon its cover, on the table by the -brass candlestick. - -Mildred Tarnley, a thin figure with many corners, lay her length in -her clothes, her old brown stuff gown her cap and broad faded ribbons -binding her busy head, and her darned black worsted stockings still on -her weary feet, ready at call to jump up, pop her feet again into her -misshapen shoes, and resume her duties. - -In her own solitary chamber, at the deserted side of the house, the -tall stranger, arrayed in a white woollen night-dress, lay her length, -not stirring. - -After Mildred Tarnley had got herself stiffly under her quilt, she was -visited with certain qualms about this person, recollections of her -abhorred activity and energy in old times, and fears that the “grim -white woman” was not resting in her bed. This apprehension grew so -intense that, tired as she was, she could not sleep. The suspicion -that, bare-footed, listening, that dreadful woman was possibly groping -her way through the house made her heart beat faster and faster. - -At last she could bear it no longer, and up she got, lighted her -candle with a match, and in her stockings glided softly through the -passage, and by the room where Charles Fairfield was at that time at -his letters. - -He recognised the step to which his ear was accustomed, and did not -trouble himself to inquire what she was about. - -So, softly, softly, softly--Mildred Tarnley found herself at the door -of the unwelcome guest and listened. You would not have supposed old -Mildred capable of a nervous tremble, but she was profoundly afraid of -this awful woman, before whose superior malignity and unearthly energy -her own temper and activity quailed. She listened, but could hear no -evidence of her presence. Was the woman there at all? Lightly, -lightly, with her nail, she tapped at the door. No answer. Then very -softly she tried the door. It was secured. - -But was the old soldier in the room still, or wandering about the -house with who could fathom what evil purpose in her head? - -The figure in white woollen was there still; she had been lying on her -side, with her pale features turned toward the door as Mildred -approached. Her blind eyes were moving in their sockets--there was a -listening smile on her lips--and she had turned her neck awry to get -her ear in the direction of the door. She was just as wide awake as -Mildred herself. - -Mildred watched for a time at the door, irresolute. Excuse enough, she -bethought her, in the feeble state in which she had left her, had she -for making her a visit. Why should she not open the door boldly and -enter? But Mildred, in something worse than solitude, was growing more -and more nervous. What if that tall, insane miscreant were waiting at -the door, in a fit of revenge for her suspected perfidy, ready to -clutch her by the throat as she opened it, and to strangle her on the -bed? And when there came from the interior of the room a weary -bleating “heigh-ho!” she absolutely bounced backward, and for a moment -froze with terror. - -She took a precaution as she softly withdrew. The passage, which is -terminated by the “old soldier’s” room, passes a dressing-room on the -left, and then opens, on the other side, upon a lobby. This door is -furnished with a key, and having secured it, Mrs. Tarnley, with that -key in her pocket, felt that she had pretty well imprisoned that evil -spirit, and returned to her own bed more serenely, and was soon lost -in slumber. - - - - - CHAPTER XXXV. - RESTLESS. - -Some lean, nervous temperaments, once fairly excited, and in presence -of a substantial cause of uneasiness, are very hard to reduce to -composure. After she had got back again, Mildred Tarnley fidgeted and -turned in her bed, and lay in the dark, with her tired eyes wide open, -and imagining, one after another, all sorts of horrors. - -She was still in her clothes; so she got up again, and lighted a -candle, and stole away, angry with herself and all the world on -account of her fussy and feverish condition, and crept up the great -stairs, and stealthily reached again the door of the “old soldier’s” -room. - -Not a sound, not a breath, could she hear from within. Gently she -opened the door which no longer resisted. The fire was low in the -grate; and, half afraid to look at the bed, she raised the candle and -did look. - -There lay the “Dutchwoman,” so still that Mrs. Tarnley felt a -sickening doubt as she stared at her. - -“Lord bless us! she’s never quite well. I wish she was somewhere -else,” said Mrs. Tarnley, frowning sharply at her from the door. - -Then, with a little effort of resolution, she walked to the bedside, -and fancied, doubtfully, that she saw a faint motion as of breathing -in the great resting figure, and she placed her fingers upon her arm, -and then passed them down to her big hand, which to her relief was -warm. - -At the touch the woman moaned and turned a little. - -“Faugh! what makes her sleep so like dead? She’d a frightened me -a’most, if I did not know better. Some folks can’t do nout like no one -else.” And Mildred would have liked to shake her up and bid her “snore -like other people, and give over her unnatural ways.” - -But she did look so pale and fixed, and altogether so unnatural, that -Mrs. Tarnley’s wrath was overawed, and, rather uneasily, she retired, -and sat for a while at the kitchen fire, ruminating and grumbling. - -“If she’s a-goin’ to die, what for should she come all the way to -Carwell? Wasn’t Lonnon good enough to die in?” - -Mrs. Tarnley only meant to warm her feet on the fender for a few -minutes. But she fell asleep, and wakened, it might be, a quarter of -an hour later, and got up and listened. - -What was it that overcame old Mildred on this night with so unusual a -sense of danger and panic at the presence of this woman? She could not -exactly define the cause. But she was miserably afraid of her, and -full of unexplainable surmises. - -“I can’t go to bed till I try again; I can’t. I don’t know what’s come -over me. It seems to me, Lor’ be wi’ us! as if the Evil One was in the -house, and I don’t know what I should do--and there’s nout o’ any -avail I can do; but quiet I can’t bide, and sleep won’t stay wi’ me -while she’s here, and I’ll just go up again to her room, and if all’s -right then, I will lie down, and take it easy for the rest o’ the -night, come what, come may: for my old bones is fairly wore out, and I -can’t hold my head up no longer.” - -Thus resolved, and sorely troubled, the old woman took the candle -again and sallied forth once more upon her grizzly expedition. - -From the panelled sitting-room, where by this time Charles Fairfield -sat in his chair locked in dismal sleep, came the faint red mist of -his candle’s light, and here she paused to listen for a moment. Well, -all was quiet there, and so on and into the passage, and so into the -great hall, as it was called, which seemed to her to have grown chill -and cheerless since she was last there, and so again cautiously up the -great stair, with its clumsy banister of oak, relieved at every turn -by a square oak block terminating in a ball, like the head of a -gigantic ninepin. Black looked the passage through this archway, at -the summit of this ascent; and for the first time Mildred was stayed -by the sinking of a superstitious horror. - -It was by putting a kind of force upon herself that she entered this -dark and silent gallery, so far away from every living being in the -house, except that one of whom secretly she stood in awe, as of -something not altogether of this earth. - -This gallery is pretty large, and about midway is placed another arch, -with a door-case, and a door that is held open by a hook, and, as -often happens in old houses, a descent of a couple of steps here -brings you to a different level of the floor. - -There may have been a reason of some other sort for the uncomfortable -introduction of so many gratuitous steps in doorways and passages, but -certainly it must have exercised the wits of the comparatively slow -persons who flourished at the period of this sort of architecture, and -prevented the drowsiest from falling asleep on the way to their -bedrooms. - -It happened that as she reached this doorway her eye was caught by a -cobweb hanging from the ceiling. For a sharp old servant like Mrs. -Tarnley, such festoonery has an attraction of antipathy that is -irresistible; she tried to knock it with her hand, but it did not -reach high enough, so she applied her fingers to loosen her apron, and -sweep it down with a swoop of that weapon. - -She was still looking up at the dusty cord that waved in the air, and -as she did so she received a long pull by the dress, from an unseen -hand below--a determined tweak--tightening and relaxing as she drew a -step back, and held the candle backward to enable her to see. - -It was not her kitten, which might have playfully followed her -upstairs--it was not a prowling rat making a hungry attack. A low -titter accompanied this pluck at her dress, and she saw the wide pale -face of the Dutchwoman turned up towards her with an odious smile. She -was seated on the step, with her shoulder leaning upon the frame of -the door. - -“You thought I was asleep under the coverlet,” she drawled: “or awake, -perhaps, in the other world--dead. I never sleep long, and I don’t die -easily--_see!_” - -“And what for are ye out o’ your bed at all, ma’am? Ye’ll break your -neck in this house, if ye go walking about, wi’ its cranky steps, and -stairs, and you blind.” - -“When you go blind, old Mildred, you’ll find your memory sharper than -you think, and steps, and corners, and doors, and chimney-pieces will -come to mind like a picture. What was I about?” - -“Well, what _was_ ye about? Sure I am I don’t know, ma’am.” - -“No, I’m sure you don’t,” said she. - -“But you should be in your bed--that I know, ma’am.” - -Still holding her dress, and with a lazy laugh, the lady made answer-- - -“So should you, old lass--a pair of us gadders; but I had a reason--I -wanted you, old Mildred.” - -“Well, ma’am, I don’t know how you’d ’a found me, for I sleep in the -five-cornered room, two doors away from the spicery--you’d never ’a -found me.” - -“I’d have tried--hit or miss--I would not have stayed where I was,” -answered the “old soldier.” - -“What, not in the state-room, ma’am--the finest room in the house, so -’twas always supposed!” - -“So be it; I don’t like it,” she answered. - -“Ye didn’t hear no noises in’t, sure?” demanded Mildred. - -“Not I,” said the Dutchwoman. “Another reason quite, girl.” - -“And what the de’il is it? It must be summat grand, I take it, that -makes ye better here, sittin’ on a hard stair, than lying your length -on a good bed.” - -“Right well said, clever Mildred. What is the state-room without a -quiet mind?” replied the old soldier, with an oracular smile. - -“What’s the matter wi’ your mind, ma’am?” said Mildred testily. - -“I’m not safe there from intrusion,” answered the lady, with little -pauses between her words to lend an emphasis to them. - -“I don’t know what you’re afeard on, ma’am,” repeated Mrs. Tarnley, -whose acquaintance with fine words was limited, and who was too proud -to risk a mistake. - -“Well, it’s just this--I won’t be pried upon by that young lady.” - -“What young lady, ma’am?” asked Mrs. Tarnley, who fancied she might -ironically mean Miss Lilly Dogger. - -“Harry Fairfield’s wife, of course, what other? I choose to be private -here,” said the Dutch dame imperiously. - -“She’ll not pry--she don’t pry on no one, and if she wished it, she -couldn’t.” - -“Why, there’s nothing between us, woman, but the long closet where you -used to keep the linen, and the broken furniture and rattle-traps” -(raddle-drabs she pronounced the word), “and she’ll come and -peep--every woman peeps and pries” (beebs and bries she called the -words)--“_I_ peep and pry. She’ll just pretend she never knew any one -was there, and she’ll walk in through the closet door, and start, and -beg my pardon, and say how sorry she is, and then go off, and tell you -next morning how many buttons are on my pelisse, and how many pins in -my pincushion, and let all the world know everything about me.” - -“But she can’t come in.” - -“Why?” - -“Why? Because, ma’am, the door is papered over.” - -“Fine protection--paper!” sneered the lady. - -“I saw her door locked myself before ’twas papered over,” said -Mildred. - -“Did you, though?” said the lady. - -“With my own eyes,” insisted Mildred. - -“I’d rather see it with mine,” joked the blind lady. “Well, see, we’ll -make a long story short. If I consent to stay in that room, I’ll lock -the door that opens into it. I’ll have a room, and not a passage, if -you please. I won’t be peeped on, or listened to. If I can’t choose my -company I’ll be alone, please.” - -“And what do you want, ma’am?” asked Mildred, whose troubles were -multiplying. - -“Another room,” said the lady, doggedly. - -Mildred paused. - -“Well, did I ever!” pondered Mrs. Tarnley, reading the lady’s features -sharply as she spoke; but they were sullen, and, for aught she could -make out, meaningless. “Well, it will do if ye can have the key, I -take it, and lock your door yourself?” - -“Not so well as another room, if you’ll give me one, but better than -nothing.” - -“Come along then, ma’am, for another room’s not to be had at no price, -and I’ll gi’ ye the key.” - -“And then, when you lock it fast, I may sleep easy. What’s that your -parson used to say--‘the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary -are at rest.’ Plenty of wicked people going, Mrs. Tarnley, and weary -enough am I,” sighed the great pale Dutchwoman. - -“There’s two on us so, ma’am,” said Mildred, as she led the lady back -to her room, and having placed her in her arm-chair by the fire, -Mildred Tarnley took the key from a brass-headed tack, on which it -hung behind the bedpost. - -“Here it is, ma’am,” she said, placing the key in her groping fingers. - -“What key is it?” asked the old soldier. - -“The key of the long linen closet that was.” - -“And how do I know that?” she inquired, twirling it round in her large -fingers, and smiling in such a way as to nettle Mrs. Tarnley, who -began-- - -“Ye may know, I take it, because Mildred Tarnley says so, and I never -yet played a trick. I never tells lies,” she concluded, pulling up on -a sudden. - -“Well, I know that. I know you’re truth itself, so far as human nature -goes; but that has its limits, and can’t fly very high off the ground. -Come, get me up--we’ll try the key. I’ll lock it myself--I’ll lock it -with my own fingers. Seeing is believing, and I can’t see; but feeling -has no fellow, and, not doubting you, Mrs. Tarnley, I’ll feel for -myself.” - -She placed her hand on Mrs. Tarnley’s shoulder, and when she had -reached the corner at the further side of the bed, where the covered -door, as she knew, was situated, with her scissors’ point, where the -crevice of the door was covered over with the paper, she ripped it -asunder (notwithstanding the remonstrances of Mildred, who told her -she was “leavin’ it not worth a rag off the road”) all round the door, -which thus freed, and discovering by her finger tips the point at -which the keyhole was placed, she broke the paper through, introduced -the key, turned it, and with very little resistance pulled the door -partly open, with an ugly grimace and a chuckle at Mildred. Then, -locking it fast, she said-- - -“And now I defy madam, do all she can--and you’ll clap the table -against it, to make more sure; and so I think I may sleep--don’t you?” - -Mildred scratched above her eyebrow with one finger for a moment, and -she said-- - -“Yes, ye might a’ slept, I’m thinkin’, as sound before if ye had a -mind, ma’am.” - -“What the dickens does the lass mean?” said the blind woman, with a -sleepy laugh. “As if people could sleep when they like. Why, woman, if -that was so there would be no such thing as fidgets.” - -“Well, I suppose, no more there wouldn’t--no more there wouldn’t. I -may take away the tray, ma’am?” - -“Let it be till morning--I want rest. Good-night. Are you -going?--good-night.” - -“Good-night, ma’am,” said Mildred, making her stiff little curtsy, -although it was lost upon the lady, and a little thoughtfully she left -the room. - -The “old soldier” listened, sitting up, for she had lain down on her -bed, and as she heard the click-clack of Mildred’s shoes grow -fainter-- - -“Yes, good-night really, Mildred; I think you need visit no more -to-night.” - -And she got up, and secured the door that opened on the gallery. - -“Good-night, old Tarnley,” she said, with a nod and an unpleasant -smirk, and then a deep and dismal sigh. Then she threw herself again -upon her bed and lay still. - -Old Mildred seemed also to have come to a like conclusion as to the -matter of further visiting for the night, for at the door, on the step -of which the Dutchwoman sitting a few minutes before had startled her, -she looked back suspiciously over her shoulder, and then shutting the -door noiselessly, she locked it--leaving that restless spirit a -prisoner till morning. - - - - - CHAPTER XXXVI. - THROUGH THE WALL. - -Alice had slept quietly for some time. The old clock at the foot of -the stairs had purred and struck twice since she had ceased listening -and thinking. It was for all that time an unbroken sleep, and then she -wakened. She had been half conscious for some time of a noise in the -room, a fidgeting little noise, that teased her sleep for a time, and -finally awoke her completely. She sat up in her bed, and heard, she -thought, a sigh in the room. Exactly from what point she could not be -certain, nor whether it was near or far. - -She drew back the curtain and looked. The familiar furniture only met -her view. In like manner all round the room. Encouraged by which -evidence she took heart of grace, and got up, and quite to satisfy -herself, made a search--as timid people will, because already morally -certain that there is no need of a search. - -Happily she was spared the terror of any discovery to account for the -sound that had excited her uneasiness. - -She turned again the key in her door, and thus secured, listened -there. Everything was perfectly still. Then into bed she got, and -listened to silence, and in low tones talking to herself, for the -sound of her own voice was reassuring, she reasoned with her tremors, -she trimmed her light and made some little clatter on the table, and -bethought her that this sigh that had so much affrighted her might be -no more than the slipping of one fold of her bed-curtain over -another--an occurrence which she remembered to have startled her once -before. - -So after a time she persuaded herself that her alarm was fanciful, and -she composed herself again to sleep. Soon, however, her evil genius -began to worry her in another shape, and something like the gnawing -and nibbling of a mouse grated on her half-sleeping ear from the -woodwork of the room. So she sat up again, and said-- - -“Hish!” - -Now toward the window, now toward the fire-place, now toward the door, -and all again was quite still. - -Alice got up, and throwing her dressing-gown about her shoulders, -opened the window-shutter and looked out upon the serene and -melancholy landscape, which this old-fashioned window with its clumsy -sashes and small panes commanded. Sweet and sad these moonlit views -that so well accord with certain moods. But the cares at Alice’s heart -were real, and returned as she quite awoke with a renewed pang--and -the cold and mournful glory of the sky and silvered woodlands neither -cheered nor soothed her. With a deep sigh she closed the shutter -again, and by the dusky candle-light returned to her bed. There at -last she did fall into a quiet sleep. - -From this she awoke suddenly and quite. Her heart was throbbing fast, -but she could not tell whether she awoke of herself or had been -aroused by some external cause. - -“Who’s there?” she cried, in a fright, as she started up and looked -about the room. - -Exactly as she called she thought she heard something fall--a heavy -and muffled sound. It might have been a room or two away, it might -have been nearer, but her own voice made the sound uncertain. She -waited in alarm and listened, but for the present all was again quiet. - -Poor little Alice knew very well that she was not herself, and her -reason took comfort from her consciousness of the excited state of her -nerves. - -“What a fool I am!” she whispered, with a sigh. “What a fool! -Everything frightens me now, I’ve grown such a coward. Oh! Charlie, -Charlie--oh, Ry darling!--when will you come back to your poor -wife--when shall this dreadful suspense be over and quiet come again?” - -Then poor little Alice cried, after the manner of women, bitterly for -a time, and then, as she used in all trouble, she prayed, and essayed -to settle again to sleep. But hardly had she begun the attempt when it -was terminated strangely. - -Again she heard the same stealthy sound, as of something cutting or -ripping. Again she cried, “Hish, hish!” but with no effect. She -fancied at the far corner of the room, about as high as she could -easily reach, that she saw some glittering object. It might be a -little bit of looking-glass pass slowly and tremulously along the -wall, horizontally, and then with the same motion, in a straight line -down the wall, glimmering faintly in the candle light. At the same -time was a slight trembling of that part of the wall, a slight, wavy -motion, and--could she believe her eyes?--a portion of the wall seemed -to yield silently, an unsuspected door slowly opened, and a tall -figure wrapt in a flannel dress came in. - -This figure crouched a little with its hand to its ear, and moved its -head slowly round as if listening in all directions in turn. Then -softly, with a large hand, it pushed back the door, which shut with a -little snap, as if with a spring-lock. - -Alice all this time was gazing upon the visitor, actually freezing -with terror, and not knowing whether the apparition was that of a -living person or not. The woollen-clothed figure, with large feet in -stockings, and no shoes on, advanced, the fingers of one hand sliding -gently along the wall. With an aspect fixed on the opposite end of the -room, and the other hand a little raised in advance, it was such a -fixed, listening look, and groping caution of motion as one might -fancy in a person getting along a familiar room in the dark. - -The feeling that she was not seen made Alice instinctively silent. She -was almost breathless. The intruder passed on thus until she had -reached the corner of the room, when she felt about for the door-case, -and having got her hand upon it she quickly transferred it to the -handle, which she turned, and tried the door two or three times. Oh! -what Alice would have given at this moment that she had not locked it, -believing, as she now did, that the stranger would have passed out -quietly from the room if this obstruction had not presented itself. - -As if her life was concentrated in her eyes, Alice gazed still at this -person, who paused for a few seconds, and lowering her head listened -fixedly. Then very cautiously she, with the tips of her fingers, -tried--was it to turn the key in the lock or to extricate it? At all -events, she failed. She removed her hand, turned a little, stood -still, and listened. - -To Alice’s horror her business in the room was plainly not over yet. -The woman stood erect, drawing a long breath, holding her underlip -slightly in her teeth, with just a little nip. She turned her face -toward the bed, and for the first time Alice now quite distinctly saw -it--pale, seamed with small-pox, blind. This large face was now turned -toward her, and the light of the candle, screened by the curtain from -Alice’s eyes, fell full upon its exaggerated and evil features. The -woman had drawn in a long, full breath, as if coming to a resolution -that needed some nerve. - -Whatever this woman had come into the room for, Alice thought, with -hope, that she, at all events, as she stood pallid and lowering before -her, with eyes white with cataract, and brows contracted in malignant -calculation, knew nothing, as she undoubtedly saw nothing, of her. - -Still as death sat Alice in her terror gazing into the sightless face -of this woman, little more than two yards removed from her. - - - [IMAGE: images/img_200.jpg - CAPTION: - “Still as death sat Alice in her terror gazing into the sightless face - of this woman.”] - - -Suddenly this short space disappeared, and with two swift steps and an -outstretched hand she stood at the bedside and caught Alice’s -night-dress, and drew her forcibly towards her. Alice as violently -resisted. With a loud scream she drew back, and the night-dress tore. -But the tall woman instantly grasped her nearer the shoulder, and -scrambling on the bed on her knees she dragged her down upon it, and -almost instantly struck at her throat with a knife. - -To make this blow she was compelled to withdraw one hand, and with a -desperate spring, Alice evaded the stroke. - -The whole thing was like a dream. The room seemed all a cloud. She -could see nothing but the white figure that was still close, climbing -swiftly over the bed, with one hand extended now and the knife in the -other. - -Not knowing how she got there, she was now standing with her back to -the wall, in the further corner of the room, staring at the dreadful -figure in a catalepsy of terror. - -There was hardly a momentary pause. She was afraid to stir lest the -slightest motion should betray her to the search of this woman. Had -she, as she stood and listened sharply, heard her breathing? - -With sudden decision, long light steps, and her hand laid to the wall, -she glided swiftly toward her. With a gasp Alice awoke, as it were, -from her nightmare, and, almost wild with terror, fled round the bed -to the door. Hastening, jostling by the furniture, gliding, on the -whole, very adroitly after her, her face strained with a horrible -eagerness and fear, came the blind woman. - -Alice tried to pull open the door. She had locked it herself, but in -her agitation forgot. - -Now she seized the key and tried to turn it, but the strong hand of -the stranger, in forcing it round a second time, had twisted it so -that it was caught in the lock and would not turn. - -Alice felt as people feel in dreams, when pursuit is urgent and some -little obstruction entangles flight and threatens to deliver the -fugitive into the hands of an implacable pursuer. A frantic pull, and -a twist or two of the key in vain, and the hand of the pursuer was all -but upon her. Again she sprang and scrambled across the bed, and it -seemed enraged by the delay, and with a face sharpening and darkening -with insanity, the murderess, guided by the sound, flung herself after -her; and now, through the room and lobbies pealed shrieks of murder, -as Alice flew before the outstretched hand of the beldame, who, balked -of her prey, followed with reckless fury, careless now against what -she struck or rushed, and clawing the air, as it seemed, within an -inch of Alice’s shoulder. - -Unequal as it appeared, in this small pen, the struggle to escape -could not have lasted very long. The old closet door, thinly covered -with paper, through which the sharp knife had glided almost without -noise, was locked, and escape through it as hopeless as through the -other door. Through the window she would have thrown herself, but it -was fastened, and one moment’s delay would have been death. Had a -weapon been in her hand, had she thought of it in this extremity of -terror, her softer instincts might have been reversed, and she might -have turned on her pursuer and fought, as timid creatures have done, -with the ferocity of despair, for her life. But the chance that might -have so transformed her did not come. Flight was her one thought, and -that ended suddenly, for tripping in the upturned carpet she fell -helplessly to the floor. In a moment, with a gasp, her pursuer was -kneeling by her side, with her hand in her dishevelled hair, and -drawing herself close for those sure strokes of the knife with which -she meant to mangle her. - -As the eyes of the white owl glare through the leaves on the awaking -bird, and its brain swims, and its little heart bounces into a gallop, -seeing its most dreadful dream accomplished, escape impossible, its -last hour come--then the talons of the spectre clutch its throat, and -its short harmless life is out, so might it have been with pretty -Alice. - -In that dreadful second of time all things that her eyes beheld looked -strange, in a new reality--the room contracted, and familiar things -were unlike themselves, and the certainty and nearness of that which -she now knew--all her life before was but a dream to her--what an -infidel, what a fool she had been--_here_ it was, and _now_--death. - -The helpless yell that burst from her lips, as this dreadful woman -shuffled nearer on her knees, was answered by a crash from the door -burst in, and a cry from a manly voice--the door flew wide, and Alice -saw her husband pale as death; with a single savage blow he stretched -her assailant on the floor,--in another moment Alice, wild with -terror, half-fainting, was in his arms. - -And--did he _strike_ her? Good God!--had he struck her! How did she -lie there bleeding? For a moment a dreadful remorse was bursting at -his heart--he would have kneeled--he could have killed himself. Oh, -manhood! Gratitude! Charity! Could he, even in a moment of frenzy, -have struck down any creature so--that had ever stood to him in the -relation of that love? What a rush of remembrances, and hell of -compunction was there!--and for a rival! She the reckless, forlorn, -guilty old love cast off, blasted with deformity and privation, and -now this last fell atrocity! Alice was clinging to him, the words -“darling, darling, my Ry, my saviour, my Ry,” were in his ears, and he -felt as if he hated Alice--hated her worse even than himself. He froze -with horror and agony as he beheld the ineffaceable image of that -white, blood-stained twitching face, with sightless eyes, and on the -floor those straggling locks of changed, grizzled hair, that once were -as black as a raven’s wing to which he used to compare them. Oh -maddening picture of degradation and cruelty! To what had they both -come at last? - -But an iron necessity was upon him, and with an energy of hypocrisy, -he said--“Alice, my treasure, my darling, you’re safe, aren’t you?” - -“Oh, darling, yes,” she gasped. - -“Not here--you mustn’t stay here--run down--she’s mad--she’s a mad -woman--not here a moment.” - -Half stunned and dreamy with horror, Alice glided down the stairs, -passing honest Tom who was stumbling up, half awake, but quite dressed -excepting his coat. - -“Run, Tom, help your master, for God’s sake,--there’s something -dreadful,” she said as she passed him with her trembling hands raised. - -“Where, ma’am, may’t be?” said Tom, pausing with a coolness that was -dreadful, she thought. - -“There, there, in his room, my room; go, for heaven’s sake!” - -Up ran Tom, making a glorious clatter with his hob-nails, and down ran -Alice, and just at the foot of the stair she met Mildred Tarnley’s -tall slim figure. The old woman drew to the banister, and stood still, -looking darkly and shrewdly at her. - -“Oh! good Mildred--oh, Mrs. Tarnley, for God’s sake don’t leave me.” - -“And what’s the row, ma’am, what is it?” asked Mrs. Tarnley, with her -lean arm supporting the poor trembling young lady who clung to her. - -“Oh, Mrs. Tarnley, take me with you--take me out--I can’t stay in the -house; take me away--into the woods--anywhere out of the house.” - -“Well, well, come down, come along,” she said, more tenderly than was -her wont, and watching her face hard from the corners of her eyes. She -was convinced that the “old soldier” was the cause of these horrors. - -“Put your arm over my shouther, ma’am; there--that’s it--an’ I’ll put -mine round you, if you don’t think I’m making too bold. There now, -you’re more easy, I think.” - -And as they got on through the passage she asked-- - -“’Twas you that skritched, hey?” - -“I? I dare say--did I?” - -“Ay did ye, with a will, whoever skritched. Ye seen summat. What may -ye have seen that frightened ye like that?” - -“We’ll talk by-and-by. I’m ill--I’m horribly ill. Come away.” - -“Come, then, if ye like best, ma’am,” said Mildred Tarnley, leading -her through the kitchen, and by the outer door into the open air, but -she had hardly got a step into the yard when the young lady, holding -her fast, stopped short in renewed terrors. - -“Oh, Mildred, if she follows us, if she overtook us out here?” - -“Hoot, ma’am, who are ye afeard on? Is it that crazy blind woman, or -who?” - -“Oh, Mildred, yes, it is she. Oh, Mildred, where shall we go, where -can I hide myself? there’s nowhere safe.” - -“Now you’re just drivin’ yourself distracted, you be. What for need ye -fear her? She’s crazy, I’ll not deny, but she’s blind too, and she -can’t follow ye here, if she was so minded. Why she couldn’t cross -the stile, nor follow ye through a spinnie. But see, ye’ve nout but -yer dressin’ gown over yer night clothes, and yer bare feet. Odd’s -I’ll not go wi’ ye--ye’ll come back, and if ye must come abroad, ye’ll -get yer cloaks and your shoon.” - -“No, no, no, Mildred, I’ll go as I am,” cried the terrified lady, at -the same time hurrying onward to the yard door. - -“Well,” said the old woman following, “wilful lass will ha’ her way, -but ye’ll clap this ower your shouthers.” - -And she placed her own shawl on them, and together they passed into -the lonely woodlands that, spreading upward from the glen of Carwell, -embower the deep ravine that flanks the side of the Grange, and -widening and deepening, enter the kindred shadows of the glen. - - - - - CHAPTER XXXVII. - A MESSENGER. - -Alice had not gone far when she was seized with a great -shivering--the mediate process by which from high hysterical tension, -nature brings down the nerves again to their accustomed tone. - -The air was soft and still, and the faint gray of morning was already -changing the darkness into its peculiar twilight. - -“Ye’ll be better presently, dear,” said the old woman, with -unaccustomed kindness. “There, there, ye’ll be nothing the worse when -a’s done, and ye’ll have a cup o’ tea when ye come back.” - -Under the great old trees near the ivied wall which screens the court -is a stone bench, and on this old Mildred was constrained to place -her. - -“There, there, there, rest a bit--rest a little bit. Hih! -cryin’--well, cry if ye will; but ye’ll ha’ more to thank God than to -cry for, if all be as I guess.” - -Alice cried on with convulsive sobs, starting every now and then, with -a wild glance towards the yard gate, and grasping the old woman’s arm. -In a very few minutes this paroxysm subsided, and she wept quietly. - -“’Twas you, ma’am, that cried out, I take it--hey? Frightened -mayhap?” - -“I was--yes--I--I’ll wait a little, and tell you -by-and-by--horribly--horribly.” - -“Ye needn’t be afeered here, and me beside ye, ma’am, and daylight -a-comin’, and I think I could gi’e a sharp guess at the matter. Ye saw -her ladyship, I do suppose? The old soger, ma’am--ay, that’s a sight -might frighten a body--like a spirit a’most--a great white-faced, -blind devil.” - -“Who is she? how did she come? She tried to kill me. Oh! Mrs. -Tarnley, I’m so terrified!” - -And with these words Alice began to cry and tremble afresh. - -“Hey! try to kill ye, did she? I’m glad o’ that--right glad o’t; -’twill rid us o’ trouble, ma’am. But la! think o’ that! And did she -actually raise her hand to you!” - -“Oh yes, Mrs. Tarnley--frightful. I’m saved by a miracle--I don’t know -how--the mercy of God only.” - -She was clinging to Mrs. Tarnley with a fast and trembling grasp. - -“Zooks! the lass _is_ frightened. Ye ha’ seen sights to-night, young -lady, ye’ll remember. Young folk loves pleasure, and the world, and -themselves ower well to trouble their heads about death or judgment, -if the Lord in His mercy didn’t shake ’em up from their dreams and -their sins. ‘Awake thou that sleepest,’ says the Word, callin’ loud in -a drunken ear, at dead o’ night, wi’ the house all round a-fire, as -the parson says. He’s a good man, though I may ha’ seen better, in -old days in Carwell pulpit. So, ’tis all for good, and in place o’ -crying ye should be praisin’ God for startlin’ ye out o’ your carnal -sleep, and makin’ ye think o’ Him, and see yourself as ye are, and not -according to the flatteries o’ your husband and your own vanity. Ye’ll -pardon me, but truth is truth, and God’s truth first of all; and -who’ll tell it ye if them as is within hearin’ won’t open their lips, -and I don’t see that Mr. Charles troubles his head much about the -matter.” - -“He is so noble, and always my guardian angel. Oh, Mrs. Tarnley, -to-night I must have perished if it had not been for him; he is always -my best friend, and so unselfish and noble.” - -“Well that’s good,” said Mildred Tarnley, coldly. “But I’m thinkin’ -something ought to be done wi’ that catamountain in there, and strike -while the iron’s hot, and they’ll never drive home that nail ye’ll -find--more like to go off when all’s done wi’ her pocket full o’ -money. ’Tis a sin, while so many an honest soul wants, and I’ll take -that just into my own old hands, I’m thinkin’, and sarve her out as -she would better women.” - -“Isn’t she mad, Mrs. Tarnley?” asked Alice. - -“And if she’s mad, to the madhouse wi’ her, an’ if she’s not, where’s -the gallows high enough for her, the dangerous harridan? For, one way -or t’other, the fiend’s in her, and the sooner judgment overtakes her, -and she’s in her coffin, the sooner the devil’s laid, and the better -for honest folk.” - -“If she is mad, it accounts for everything; but I feel as if I never -could enter that house again; and oh! Mrs. Tarnley, you _mustn’t_ -leave me. Oh, heavens! what’s that?” - -It was no great matter--Mrs. Tarnley had got up, for the yard-door had -opened and some one passed out and looked round. - -It was the girl, Lilly Dogger, who stood there looking about her under -the canopy of tall trees. - -“Hoot, ma’am, ’tis only the child Lilly Dogger--and well pleased I am, -for I was thinkin’ this minute how I could get her to me quietly. -Here, Lilly--come here, ye goose-cap--d’ye see me?” - -So, closing the door behind her, the girl approached with eyes very -wide, and a wonderfully solemn countenance. She had been roused and -scared by the sounds which had alarmed the house, huddled on her -clothes, and seeing Mrs. Tarnley’s figure cross the window, had -followed in a tremor. - -Mrs. Tarnley walked a few steps towards her, and beckoning with her -lean finger, the girl drew near. - -“Ye’ll have to go over Cressley Common, girl, to Wykeford. Ye know -Wykeford?” - -“Yes, please ’m.” - -“Well, ye must go through the village, and call up Mark Topham. Ye -know Mark Topham’s house with the green door, by the bridge-end?” - -“Yes please, Mrs. Tarnley, ma’am.” - -“And say he’ll be wanted down here at the Grange--for _murder_ -mind--and go ye on to Mr. Rodney at t’other side o’ the river. Squire -Rodney of Wrydell. Ye know that house, too?” - -“Yes, ’m,” said the girl, with eyes momentarily distending, and face -of blanker consternation. - -“And ye’ll tell Mr. Rodney there’s been bad work down here, and murder -all but done, and say ye’ve told Mark Topham, the constable, and that -it is hoped he’ll come over himself to make out the writin’s and send -away the prisoner as should go. We being chiefly women here, and -having to keep Tom Clinton at home to mind the prisoner--ye -understand--and keep all safe, having little other protection. Now run -in, lass, and clap your bonnet on, and away wi’ ye; and get ye there -as fast as your legs will carry ye, and take your time comin’ back; -and ye may get a lift, for they’ll not be walkin’, and you’re like to -get your bit o’ breakfast down at Wrydell; but if ye shouln’t, here’s -tuppence, and buy yourself a good bit o’ bread in the town. Now, ye -understand?” - -“Yes, ’m, please.” - -“And ye’ll not be makin’ mistakes, mind?” - -“No, ma’am.” - -“Then do as I bid ye, and off ye go,” said Mrs. Tarnley, despatching -her with a peremptory gesture. - -So with a quaking heart, not knowing what dangers might still be -lurking there, Lilly Dogger ran into the yard on her way to her -bonnet, and peeped through the kitchen window, but saw nothing there -in the pale gray light but “still life.” - -With a timid finger she lifted the latch, and stole into the familiar -passage as if she were exploring a haunted house. She had quaked in -her bed as thin and far away the shrill sounds of terror had -penetrated through walls and passages to her bedroom. She had murmured -“Lord bless us!” at intervals, and listened, chilled with a sense of -danger--associated in her imagination with the stranger who had -visited her room and frighted away her slumbers. And she had jumped -out of bed, and thrown on her clothes in panic, blessed herself, and -pinned and tied strings, and listened, and blessed herself again; and -seeing Mrs. Tarnley cross the window accompanied by some one else whom -she did not then recognise, and fearing to remain thus deserted in the -house more than the risk of being blown up by Mrs. Tarnley, she had -followed that grim protectress. - -Now, as on tiptoe she recrossed the kitchen with her straw bonnet in -her hand she heard on a sudden cries of fury, and words, as doors -opened and shut, reached her that excited her horror and piqued her -curiosity. - -She hastened, however, to leave the house, and again approached and -passed by the lady and Mildred Tarnley, having tied her bonnet under -her chin, and obeying Mildred’s impatient beckon, and-- - -“Run, lass, run. Stir your stumps, will ye?” - -She started at a pace that promised soon to see her across Cressley -Common. - -Old Mildred saw this with comfort. She knew that broad-shouldered, -brown-eyed lass for a shrewd and accurate messenger, and seeing how -dangerous and complicated things were growing, she was glad that -fortune had opened so short and sharp a way of getting rid of the -troubler of their peace. - -“Come in, ma’am, ye’ll catch your death o’ cold here. All’s quiet by -this time, and I’ll make the kitchen safe against the world; and Mr. -Charles is in the house, and Tom Clinton up, and all safe--and who -cares a rush for that blind old cat? Not I for one. She’ll come no -nonsense over Mildred Tarnley in her own kitchen, while there’s a -poker to rap her ower the pate. Hoot! one old blind limmer; I’d tackle -six o’ her sort, old as I am, and tumble ’em one after t’other into -the Brawl. Never ye trouble your head about that, ma’am, and I’ll bolt -the door on the passage, and the scullery door likewise, and lock ’em -if ye like; and we’ll get down old Dulcibella to sit wi’ ye, and ye’ll -be a deal less like to see that beast in the kitchen than here. -There’s Miss Crane,” by which title she indicated old Dulcibella, “a -lookin’ out o’ her window. Ho! Miss Crane--will ye please, Miss -Crane, come down and stay a bit wi’ your mistress?” - -“Thank God!--is she down there?” exclaimed she. - -“Come down, ma’am, please; she’s quite well, and she’ll be glad to see -ye.” - -Old Dulcibella’s head disappeared from the window promptly. - -“Now, ma’am, she’ll be down, and when she comes--for ye’d like to ha’ -some one by ye--I’ll go in and make the kitchen door fast.” - -“And won’t you search it well, Mrs. Tarnley, and the inner room, that -we may be certain no one is hid there? Pray do--may I rely on -you--won’t you promise?” - -“There’s nothin’ there, that I promise ye.” - -“But, oh! pray do,” urged Alice. - -“I will, ma’am, just to quiet ye. Ye need not fear, I’ll leave her no -chance, and she’ll soon be safe enough, she shall--safe enough when -she gets on her doublet of stone; and don’t ye be frightenin’ yourself -for nothin’--just keep yourself quiet, for there is nothing to fear, -and if ye will keep yourself in a fever for nothin’ ye’ll be just -making food for worms, mark my words.” - -As she spoke old Dulcibella appeared, and with a face of deep concern -waddled as fast as she could toward her young mistress, raising her -hands and eyes from time to time as she approached. - -As she drew nearer she made a solemn thanksgiving, and-- - -“Oh! my child, my child, thank God you’re well. I was a’most ready to -drop in a swound when I came into your room, just now, everything -knocked topsy-turvey, and a door cut in the wall, and all in a litter, -I couldn’t know where I was, and some one a bleedin’ all across the -floor, and one of the big, green-handled knives on the floor--Lord a’ -mercy on us--with the blade bent and blood about it. I never was so -frightened. I thought my senses was a leavin’ me, and I couldn’t tell -what I might see next, and I ready to drop down on the floor wi’ -fright. My darling child--my precious--Lord love it, and here it was, -barefooted, and but half clad, and--come in ye must, dear, ’tis enough -to kill ye.” - -“I can scarcely remember anything, Dulcibella, only one thing--oh! I’m -so terrified.” - -“Come in, darling, you’ll lose your life if you stay here as you are, -and what was it, dear, and who did you see?” - -“A woman--that dreadful blind woman, who came in at the new door; I -never saw her before.” - -“Well, _dear_! Oh, Miss Alice, darling, I couldn’t a’ believed, and -thank God you’re safe after all; that’s she I heard a screechin’ as -strong as a dozen--and frightful words, as well as I could hear, to -come from any woman’s lips. Lord help us.” - -“Where is she now?” - -“Somewhere in the front of the house, darlin’, screechin’ and laughin’ -I thought, but heaven only knows.” - -“She’s mad, Mrs. Tarnley says, and Mr. Fairfield said so too. Master -Charles is come--my darling Ry. Oh! Dulcibella, how grateful I should -be. What could I have done if he hadn’t?” - -So Dulcibella persuaded her to come into the yard, and so, through the -scullery door, at which Mildred stood, having secured all other access -to the kitchen. So in she came, awfully frightened to find herself -again in the house, but was not her husband there, and help at hand, -and the doors secured? - - - - - CHAPTER XXXVIII. - UNREASONABLE BERTHA. - -Her husband was at hand--that is to say, under the same roof, and at -that moment in the room in which the blind woman was now sitting, -bleeding from head and hand, and smiling as she talked, with the false -light of a malignant irony. - -“So, husband and wife are met again! And what have you to say after so -long a time?” - -“I’ve nothing to say. Let my deeds speak. I’ve given you year by year -fully half my income.” - -She laughed scornfully, and exclaimed merely-- - -“Magnificent man!” - -“Miserable pittance it is, but the more miserable, the harder the -sacrifice for me. I don’t say I have been able to do much; but I have -done more than my means warrant, and I don’t understand what you -propose to yourself by laying yourself out to torment and embarrass -me. What the devil do you follow me about for? Do you think I’m fool -enough to be bullied?” - -“A fine question from Charles Vairfield of Wyvern to his wife!” she -observed with a pallid simper. - -“Wife and husband are terms very easily pronounced,” said he. - -“And relations very easily made,” she rejoined. - -He was leaning with his shoulder against the high mantelpiece, and -looking upon her with a countenance in which you might have seen -disdain and fear mingling with something of compunction. - -“Relations very easily made, and still more easily affected,” he -replied. “Come, Bertha, there is no use in quarrelling over points of -law. Past is past, as Leonora says. If I have wronged you anything I -am sorry. I’ve tried to make amends; and though many a fellow would -have been tired out long ago, I continue to give you proofs that I am -not.” - -“That is a sort of benevolence,” she said, in her own language, “which -may as well be voluntary, for if it be not, the magistrates will -compel it.” - -“The magistrates are neither fools nor tyrants. You’ll make nothing of -the magistrates. You have no rights, and you know it.” - -“An odd country where a wife has no rights.” - -“Come, Bertha, there is no use in picking a quarrel. While you take me -quietly you have your share, and a good deal more. You used to be -reasonable.” - -“A reasonable wife, I suppose, gives up her position, her character, -her prospects, whenever it answers her husband to sacrifice these -trifles for his villainous pleasures. Your English wives must be meek -souls indeed if they like it. I don’t hear they are such lambs -though.” - -“I’m not going to argue law points, as I said before. Lawyers are the -proper persons to do that. You used to be reasonable, Bertha--where’s -the good in pushing things to extremes?” - -“What a gentle creature you are,” she laughed, “and how persuasive!” - -“I’m a quiet fellow enough, I believe, as men go, but I’m not -persuasive, and I know it. I wish I were.” - -“Those whom you have persuaded once are not likely to be persuaded -again. Your persuasions are not always lucky. Are they?” - -“You want to quarrel about everything. You want to leave no possible -point of agreement.” - -“Things are at a bad pass when husband and wife are so.” - -Charles looked at her angrily for a moment, and then down to the -floor, and he whistled a few bars of a tune. - -“What do you whistle for?” she demanded. - -“Come, Bertha, don’t be foolish.” - -“You were once a gentleman. It is a blackguard who whistles in reply -to a lady’s words,” she said, on a sudden stretching out her hand -tremulously, as if in search of some one to grasp. - -“Well, don’t mind. Stick to one thing at a time. For God’s sake say -what you want, and have done with it.” - -“You must acknowledge me before the world for your wife,” she answered -with resolute serenity, and raising her face, and shutting her mouth -she sniffed defiantly through her distended nostrils. - -“Come, come, Bertha, what good on earth could come of that?” - -“Little to you, perhaps.” - -“And none to you.” - -She laughed savagely. “That lie won’t do.” - -“Bertha, Bertha, we may hate one another if you will. But is it not as -well to try whether we can agree upon anything. Let us just for the -present talk intelligibly.” - -“You tried to murder me, you arch-villain.” - -“Nonsense,” said he, turning pale, “how can you talk so--how can you? -Could I help interposing? You may well be thankful that I did.” - -“You tried to murder me,” she screamed. - -“You know that’s false. I took the knife from your hand, and by doing -so I saved two lives. It was you--not I--who hurt your hand.” - -“You villain, you damned villain, I wish I could kill you dead.” - -“All the worse for you, Bertha.” - -“I wish you were dead and cold in your bed, and my hand on your face -to be sure of it.” - -“Now you’re growing angry again. I thought we had done with storm and -hysterics for a little, and could talk, and perhaps agree upon -something, or at all events not waste our few minutes in violence.” - -“Violence!--you wretch, who began it?” - -“What can you mean, Bertha?” - -“You’ve married that woman. O I know it all--I your lawful wife -living. I’ll have you transported, double-dyed villain.” - -“Where’s the good of screaming all this at the top of your voice?” he -said, at last growing angry. “You wish you could kill me? I almost -wish you could. I’ve been only too good to you, and allowed you to -trouble me too long.” - -“Ha, ha!--you’d like to put me out of the way?” - -“You’ll do that for yourself. Can’t you wait, can’t you listen, can’t -you have common reason, just for one moment? What do you want, what -do you wish? Do you want every farthing I possess on earth, and to -leave me nothing?” - -“I’m your wife, and I’ll have my rights.” - -“Now listen to me, that’s a question I need not discuss, because you -already know what I believe on the subject.” - -“You know what your brother Harry thinks.” - -“I know what it is his interest to think.” - -“You daren’t say that if he were here, you coward.” - -“And I don’t care a farthing what he thinks.” - -“Ha, ha, ha!” - -“But if it had been fifty times over, what it never was, a marriage, -your own conduct, long ago, would have dissolved it.” - -“And you allow you have married that woman?” - -“I shan’t talk to you about it; how I shall act, or may act, or _have_ -acted is my own affair, and rely upon it I’ll do nothing on the -assumption that I ever was married to you.” - -Up stood the tall woman, with hands extended toward him, wide open, -with a slightly groping motion as if opening a curtain; not a word did -she say, but her sightless eyes, which stared full at him, were -quivering with that nervous tremor which is so unpleasant to see. - -She drew breath two or three times at intervals, long and deep, almost -a sob, and then without speaking or moving more she sat down, looking -awfully white and wicked. - -For a time the old soldier had lost the thread of her discourse. -Charles heard a step not very far off. He thought his unreasonable -Bertha was about to have a fit, and opening the door he called lustily -to Mildred. - -It _was_ Mrs. Tarnley. - -“Will you get her some water, or whatever she ought to have, I think -she is ill, and pray be quick.” - -With a dark prying look Mildred glanced from one to the other. - -“It’s in a mad-house and not here the like of her should be, wi’ them -fits and frenzies,” she muttered as she applied herself to the -resuscitation of the Dutchwoman. - -On her toilet was a little group of bottles labelled “Sal-volatile,” -“Asafœtida,” “Valerian.” - -“I don’t know which is the right one, but this can’t be far wrong,” -she remarked, selecting the sal-volatile, and dropping some into the -water. - -“La! so it was a sort o’ fit. See how stiff she was. Lor’ bless us, I -do wish she was under a mad doctor. See how her feet’s stuck out, and -her thumbs tight shut in her fists, and her teeth set,” and old -Mildred applied the sal-volatile phial to the patient’s nostrils, and -gradually got her into a drowsy, yawning state, in which she seemed to -care and comprehend little or nothing of where she was or what had -befallen her. - -“Tell her I stayed till I saw her better, if she asks, and that I’m -coming back again. She says she is hurt.” - -“So much the better,” said Mildred; “that will keep her from prowling -about the house like a cat or a ghost, as she did, all night, and no -good came of it.” - -“And will you look to her wrist: she cut it last night, and it is very -clumsily tied up, and I’ll come again, tell her.” - -So, with a bewildered brain and a direful load at his heart, he left -the room. - -Where was Alice, he thought. He went downstairs and up again by the -back staircase to their room, and there found the wreck and disorder -of the odious scene he had witnessed, still undisturbed, and looking -somehow more shocking in the sober light of morning. - -From this sickening record of the occurrences of last night he turned -for a moment to the window, and looked out on the tranquil and sylvan -solitudes, and then back again upon the disorder which had so nearly -marked a scene of murder. - -“How do I keep my reason?” thought he; “is there in England so -miserable a man? Why should not I end it?” - -Between the room where he stood and the angle of that bedroom in which -at that moment was the wretch who agitated every hour of his existence -with dismay, there intervened but eight-and-twenty feet, in that -polyhedric and irregular old house. If he had but one tithe of her -wickedness he had but to take up that poker, strike through, and brain -her as she sat there. - -Why was he not a little more or a little less wicked? If the latter, -he might never have been in his present fix. If the other, he might -find a short way out of the thicket--“hew his way out with a bloody -axe”--and none but those whose secrecy he might rely on be the wiser! - -Avaunt, horrible shadows! Such beckoning phantoms from the abyss were -not tempters, but simply terrors. No, he was far more likely to load a -pistol, put the muzzle in his mouth, and blow his harassed brains out. - - - - - CHAPTER XXXIX. - AN ABDUCTION. - -So far as a man not very resolute can be said to have made up his -mind to anything, Charles Fairfield had quite made up his, driven thus -fairly into a corner, to fight his battle now, and decisively. He would -hold no terms and offer no compromise. Let her do her worst. She had -found out his secret. Oh! brother Harry, had _you_ played him false? -And she had quoted _your_ opinion against him. Had you been inflaming -this insane enemy with an impracticable confidence? - -Well, no matter, now; all the better, perhaps. There was already an -end of concealment between that enemy and himself, and soon would be -of suspense. - -“God help me! at the eve of what an abyss I stand. That wretched -woman, poor as she is, and nearly mad, in a place like London she’ll -be certain to find lawyers only too glad to take up her case, and -force me to a trial--first, a trial to prove a marriage and make costs -of me, and then, Heaven knows what more; and the publicity, and the -miserable uncertainty; and Alice, poor little Alice. Merciful Heaven! -what had she done to merit this long agony and possible ruin?” - -He peeped into the dining-room as he passed, but all was there as he -had left it. Alice had not been in it. So at the kitchen door he -knocked. - -“Who’s there? Is anyone there?” - -Encouraged by his voice old Dulcibella answered from within. The door -was opened, and he entered. - -A few moments’ silence, except for Alice’s murmured and sobbing -welcome, a trembling, close embrace, and he said, with a gentle look, -in a faint tone-- - -“Alice, darling, I have no good news to tell. Everything has gone -wrong with me, and we must leave this. Let Dulcibella go up and get -such things as are necessary to take with you; but, Dulcibella, mind -you tell nobody your mistress is leaving this. And, Alice, you’ll come -with me. We’ll go where they can neither follow nor trace us; and let -fate do its worst. We may be happier yet in our exile than ever we -were at home. And when they have banished me they have done their -worst.” - -His tenderness for Alice, frozen for a time, had returned. As she -clung to him, her large, soft gray eyes looking up in his face so -piteously moved him. He had intended a different sort of -speech--colder, dryer--and under the spell of that look had come this -sudden gush of a better feeling--the fond clasp of his arm, and the -hurried kiss he pressed upon her cheek. - -“I said, Alice, happier, _happier_, darling, a thousandfold. For the -present I speak in riddles. You have seen how miserable I am. I’ll -tell you everything by-and-by. A conspiracy, I do believe, an -unnatural conspiracy, that has worn out my miserable brain and -spirits, and harassed me to death. I’ll tell you all time enough, and -you’ll say it is a miracle I have borne it as I do. Don’t look so -frightened, you poor little thing. We are perfectly safe; I’m in no -real danger, but harassed incessantly--only harassed, and that, thank -God, shall end.” - -He kissed her again very tenderly, and again; and he said-- - -“You and Dulcibella shall go on. Clinton will drive you to Hatherton, -and there you’ll get horses and post on to Cranswell, and I will -overtake you there. I must go now and give him his directions, and I -may as well leave you this note. I wrote it yesterday. You must have -some money--there is some in it, and the names of the places, and -we’ll be there to-night. And what is it, darling? You look as if you -wished to ask me something.” - -“I--I was going to ask--but I thought perhaps I ought not until you -can tell me everything--but you spoke of a conspiracy, and I was going -to ask whether that dreadful woman who got into my room has anything -to do with it.” - -“Nonsense, child, that is a miserable mad woman;” he laughed dismally. -“Just wait a little, and you shall know all I know myself.” - -“She’s not to stay here, I mean, of course, if anything should prevent -our leaving this to-day.” - -“Why should you fancy that?” he asked, a little enigmatically. - -“Mrs. Tarnley said she was going to the madhouse.” - -“We’ll see time enough, you shall see her no more,” he said, and away -he went, and she saw him pass by the window and out of the yard. And -now she had leisure to think how ill he was looking, or rather to -remember how it had struck her when he had appeared at the door. Yes, -indeed, worn out and harassed to death. Thank God, he was now to -escape from that misery, and to secure the repose which it was only -too obvious he needed. - -Dulcibella returned with such things as she thought indispensable, and -she and her mistress were soon in more animated discussion than they -had engaged in since the scenes of the past night. - -Charles Fairfield had to make a call at farmer Chubbs’ to persuade him -to lend his horse, about which he made a difficulty. It was not far up -the glen towards Church Carwell, but when he came back he found the -Grange again in a new confusion. - -When Charles Fairfield, ascending the steep and narrow road which -under tall trees darkly mounts from the Glen of Carwell to the plateau -under the grey walls of the Grange, had reached that sylvan platform, -he saw there, looking in the direction of Cressley Common, in that -dim, religious light, Tom Clinton, in his fustian jacket, scratching -his head and looking, it seemed, with interest, after some receding -object. A little behind him, similarly engrossed, stood old Mildred -Tarnley, with her hand above her eyes, though there was little need of -artificial shade in that solemn grove, and again, a little to her -rear, peeped broad-shouldered Lilly Dogger, standing close to the -threshold of the yard door. - -Tom Clinton was first to turn about, and sauntering slowly toward the -house, he spoke something to Mrs. Tarnley, who, waiting till he -reached her, turned about in the same direction, and talking gravely, -and looking over their shoulders, as people sometimes do in the -direction in which a runaway horse has disappeared, they came to a -standstill at the door, under the great ash-tree, whose columnar stem -is mantled with thick ivy, and there again looking back, the little -girl leaning and listening, unheeded, against the door-post, the group -remained in conference. - -Had Charles Fairfield been in his usual state of mind his curiosity -would have been piqued by an appearance of activity so unusual in his -drowsy household. As it was, he cared not, but approached, looking -down upon the road with his hands in his pockets listlessly. - -Mrs. Tarnley whispered something to Tom and jogged him in the ribs, -looking all the time at the approaching figure of Charles Fairfield. - -The master of the Grange approached, looked up, and saw Tom standing -near, with the air of one who had something to say. Mrs. Tarnley had -drawn back, a little doubtful possibly, of the effect on his nerves. - -“Well, Tom, Chubbs will lend the horse,” said Charles. “We’ll go -round to the stable, I’ve a word to say.” - -Tom touched his hat, still looking in his face with an inquiring and -ominous expression. - -“Do you want to say anything particular, Tom?” asked his master, with -a sudden foreboding of some new ill. - -“Nothing, sir, but Squire Rodney of Wrydell, has come over from -Wykeford.” - -“He’s here--is he?” asked Charles, paler on a sudden. - -“He’s gone, sir, please.” - -“Gone, is he? Well, well, there’s not much in that.” - -“’Twas only, sir, that he brought two men wi’ him.” - -“Do you mean?--you don’t mean--what men did he bring?” - -“Well, they was constable folk, I believe, they must a’ bin, for they -made an arrest.” - -“A _what_, do you mean?” - -“He made out a writin’, and he ’ad me in, and questioned me, but I’d -nout to tell, sir, and he asked where you was, and I told him, as you -ordered I was to say, you was gone, and he took the mistress’s her -story, and made her make oath on’t, and the same wi’ the others--Mrs. -Tarnley, and the little girl, and the blind woman, she be took up for -murder, or I don’t know for what, only he said he could not take no -bail for her, so they made her sure, and has took her off, I do -suppose, to Wykeford pris’n.” - -“Of course, that’s right, I suppose, all right, eh?” Charles looked as -if he was going to drop to the earth, so leaden was his hue, and so -meaningless the stare with which he looked in Tom’s face. - -“But--but--who sent for him? I didn’t. D---- you, who sent for him? -’Twasn’t I. And--and who’s master here? Who the devil sent for that -meddling rascal from Wykeford?” - -Charles’s voice had risen to a roar as he shook Tom furiously by the -collar. - -Springing back a bit, Tom answered, with his hand grasping his collar -where the squire had just clutched him. - -“I don’t know, I didn’t, and I don’t believe no one did. It’s a smart -run from here across the common. I don’t believe no one sent from the -Grange--I’m sure no one went from this--not a bit, not a toe, not a -soul, I’m sure and certain.” - -“What’s this, what’s this, what the devil’s all this, Tom?” said the -squire, stamping, and shaking his fist in the air, like a man -distracted. - -“Why did you let her go--why did you let them take her--d---- you? -I’ve a mind to pitch you over that cliff and smash you.” - -“Well, sir,” said Tom, making another step or two back, and himself -pale and stern now, with his open hand raised, partly in deprecation, -“where’s the good o’ blamin’ me? what could I do wi’ the law again me, -and how could I tell what you’d think, and _’twarn’t_ no one from this -sent for him, not one, but news travels apace, and who’s he can stop -it?--not me, nor _you_,” said Tom, sturdily, “and he just come over of -his own head, and nabbed her.” - -“My God! It’s done. I thought you would not have allowed me to be -trampled on, and the place insulted; I took ye for a man, Tom. Where’s -my horse--by heaven, I’ll have him. I’ll make it a day’s work he’ll -remember. That d---- Rodney, coming down to my house with his -catchpoles, to pay off old scores, and insult me.” - -With his fist clenched and raised, Charles Fairfield ran furiously -round to the stable yard, followed cautiously by Tom Clinton. - - - - - CHAPTER XL. - PURSUIT. - -Having her own misgivings as to the temper in which her master would -take this _coup_ of the arrest, Mildred Tarnley prudently kept her own -counsel, and retreated nearly to the kitchen door, while the -_éclaircissement_ took place outside. Popping in and out to see what -would come of it, old Mildred affected to be busy about her mops and -tubs. After a time, in came Tom, looking sulky and hot. - -“Is he comin’ this way?” asked Mildred. - -“Not him,” answered Tom. - -“Where is he?” - -“’Twixt this and Wykeford,” he answered, “across the common he’s -ridin’.” - -“To Wykeford, hey?” - -“To Wykeford, every foot, if he don’t run him down on the way; and -when they meet--him and Squire Rodney--’twill be hot and shrewd work -between them, I tell ye. I’d a rid wi’ him myself if there was a beast -to carry me, for three agin one is too long odds.” - -“Ye don’t mean to tell _me_!” exclaimed Mildred, planting her mop -perpendicularly on the ground, and leaning immovably on this sceptre. - -“Tell ye what?” - -“There’s goin’ to be rough work like that on the head o’t?” - -“Hot blood, ma’am. Ye know the Fairfields. They folk don’t stand long -jawin’. It’s like when the blood’s up the hand’s up too.” - -“And what’s he to fight for--not that blind beldame, sure?” - -“I want my mug o’ beer,” said Tom, turning the conversation. - -“Yes, sure,” she said, “yes, ye shall have it. But what for should -Master Charles go to wry words wi’ Squire Rodney, and what for should -there be blows and blood spillin’ between ’em? Nonsense!” - -“I can’t help ’em. I’d lend master a hand if I could. Squire Rodney’s -no fool neither--’twill e’en be fight dog, fight bear--and there’s two -stout lads wi’ him will make short work o’t.” - -“Ye don’t think he’s like to be hurt, do ye?” - -“Well, ye know, they say fightin’ dogs comes haltin’ home. He’s as -strong as two, that’s all, and has a good nag under him. Now gi’e me -my beer.” - -“’Twon’t be nothin’, Tom, don’t you think, Tom? It won’t come to -nothin’?” - -“If he comes up wi’ them ’twill be an up-and-down fight, I take it. -’Twas an unlucky maggot bit him.” - -“Bit who?” - -“What but the Divil brought Squire Rodney over here?” - -“Who knows?” answered the dame, fumbling in her pocket for the key of -the beer-cellar--“I’m goin’ to fetch your beer, Tom.” - -And away she went, and in a minute returned with his draught of beer. - -“And I think,” she said, setting it down before him, “’twas well done, -taking that beast to her right place, do it who might. She’s just a -bedlam Bess--clean out o’ her wits wi’ wickedness--mad wi’ drink and -them fits she has. We knows here what she is, and bloody work she’d a -made last night wi’ that poor young lady, that’ll never be the same -again--the old limb--and master himself, though he’s angered a bit -because Justice Rodney did not ask his leave to catch a murderer, if -ye please, down here at the Grange.” - -“There’s more in it, mayhap, than just that,” said Tom, blowing the -froth off his beer. - -“To come down here without with your leave or by your leave, to squat -in the Grange here like gipsey would on Cressley Common, as tho’ she -was lady of all--to hurt who she pleased, and live as she liked. More -in’t than that, ye say, what more?” - -“Hoot, how should I know? Mayhap she thinks she’s as good a right as -another to a bit and a welcome down here.” - -“She was here before--years enough gone now, and long enough she -stayed, and cost a pretty penny, too, I warrant you. Them was more -tired of her than me--guest ever, welcome never, they say. She was a -play-actor, or something, long ago--a great idle huzzy, never would -earn a honest penny, nor do nothing useful, all her days.” - -“Aye, Joan reels ill and winds worse, and de’il a stomach she has to -spin--that’ll be the way wi’ her, I swear--ha, ha, ha. She’ll not be -growin’ richer, I warrant--left in the mud and found in the mire--they -folk knows nout o’ thrift, and small luck and less good about ’em.” - -“If ye heard her talk, Tom, ye’d soon know what sort she is, always -cravin’--she would not leave a body a shillin’ if she could help it.” - -“Ay, I warrant, women, priests, and poultry have never enough,” said -Tom. “I know nout about her, nor who she’s a lookin’ after here, but -she’s safe enough now I take it; and bloody folks, they say, digs -their own graves. But as I said, I knows nout about her, and I say -nout, and he that judges as he runs may owertake repentance.” - -“’Tis easy judgin’ here, I’m thinkin’. Killin’ and murder’s near akin, -and when Mr. Charles cools a bit, he’ll thank Squire Rodney for -riddin’ his house of that blind serpent. ’Tis somethin’ to be so near -losing his wife. So sure as your hand’s on that mug it would a’ bin -done while the cat’s lickin’ her ear if he had not bounced in on the -minute, and once dead, dead as Adam.” - -“Who loseth his wife and sixpence hath lost a tester, they do say,” -answered Tom, with a laugh. - -“None but a born beast would say so!” said Mildred Tarnley, with a -swarthy flush, and striking her hand sternly on the table. - -“Well, ’tis only a sayin’, ye know, and no new one neither,” said Tom, -wiping his mouth with his sleeve, and standing up. “But the mistress -is a pretty lady, and a kind--and a gentle-born as all may see, and -I’d give or take a shrewd blow or two, or harm should happen her.” - -“Ye’d be no man else, Tom, and I don’t doubt ye. Little thought I last -night what was in her head, the sly villain, when I left her back -again in her bed, and the cross door shut and locked. Lord a’ mercy on -us! To think how the fiend works wi’ his own--smooth and sly -sometimes, as if butter would not melt in her mouth.” - -“’Tis an old sayin’-- - - - “‘When the cat winketh, - Little wots mouse what the cat thinketh,’” - - -said Tom, with a grin and a wag of his head. - -“She was neither sleek, nor soft, nor sly for that matter, when I saw -her. I thought she’d a’ had her claws in my chops; such a catamaran I -never did see.” - -“And how’s the young lady?” asked Tom, clapping his greasy hat on his -head. - -“Hey! dear! I’m glad ye asked,” exclaimed the old woman--“easier -she’ll be, no doubt, now _that_ devil’s gone. But, dearie me! all’s in -a jumble till Master Charles comes back, for she’ll not know, poor -thing, what she’s to do till he talks wi’ her--now all’s changed.” - -And Mildred trotted off to see for herself, and to hear what the young -lady might have to say. - - - - - CHAPTER XLI. - DAY--TWILIGHT--DARKNESS. - -In their homely sitting-room, with old Dulcibella in friendly -attendance, Mildred Tarnley found Alice. It is not always that a -dreadful impression makes itself immediately manifest. Nature rallies -all her forces at first to meet the danger. A certain excitement of -resistance sustains the system through a crisis of horror, and often -for a long time after; and it is not until this extraordinary muster -of the vital forces begins to dissolve and subside that the shattered -condition of the normal powers begins to declare itself. - -The scene which had just occurred was a dreadful ordeal for Alice. To -recount, and with effort and minuteness, to gather into order the -terrific incidents of the night preceding, relate them bit by bit to -the magistrate as he wrote them down, make oath to their truth as the -basis of a public prosecution, and most dreadful--the having to see -and identify the spectre who had murderously assailed her on the night -before. - -Every step affrighted her, the shadow of a moving branch upon the wall -chilled her with terror; the voices of people who spoke seemed to -pierce the naked nerve of her ear, and to sing through her head; even -for a moment faces, kind and familiar, seemed to flicker or darken -with direful meanings alien from their natures. - -In this nervous condition old Mildred found her. - -“I come, ma’am, to know what you’d wish to be done,” said she, -standing at the door with her usual grim little courtesy. - -“I don’t quite understand--done about what?” inquired she. - -“I mean, ma’am, Tom said you asked him to be ready to drive you from -here; but as master ha’n’t come back, and things is changed a bit -here, I thought ye might wish to make a change, mayhap.” - -“Oh, oh! thank you, Mrs. Tarnley; I forgot, I’ve been so frightened. -Oh, Mrs. Tarnley, I wish I could cry--I’d be so much better, I’m sure, -if I could cry--I feel my throat so odd and my head so confused--it -seems so many days. If I could think of anything to make me cry.” - -Mildred looked at her from the corners of her eyes darkly, as if with -a hard heart, but I think she pitied her. - -“That blind woman’s gone, the beast--I’m glad she’s away; and you’ll -be the better o’ that, ma’am, I’m thinkin’. I was afeard o’ her a’most -myself ever since last night; and Master Charles is gone, too, but -he’ll be back soon.” - -“He’ll come _to-day_?” she asked, in consternation. - -“To-day, of course, ma’am--in an hour or less, I do suppose; and it -would not be well done, I’m thinkin’, ma’am, for you to leave the -Grange till you see him again, for it’s like enough he’ll a’ changed -his plans.” - -“I was thinking so myself. I’d rather wait here to see him--he had so -much to distract him that he may easily think differently by this -time. I’m glad, Mrs. Tarnley, you think so, for now I feel confident I -may wait for his return--I think I ought to wait--and thank you, Mrs. -Tarnley, for advising me in the midst of my distractions.” - -“I just speak my mind, ma’am, and counsel’s no command, as they say; -and I never liked meddlers; and don’t love to burn my fingers in other -people’s brewes; so ye’ll please to mind, ma’am, ’tis for your own ear -I speak, and your own wit will judge; and I wouldn’t have Master -Charles looking askew, nor like to be shent by him for what’s kindly -meant to you--not that I owe much kindness nowhere, for since I could -scour a platter I ever gave work for wage. So ye’ll please not tell -Master Charles I counselled ye aught in the matter.” - -“Certainly, Mrs. Tarnley, just as you wish.” - -“Would you please wish anything to eat, ma’am?” inquired Mildred, -relapsing into her dry, official manner. - -“Nothing, Mildred--no, thanks.” - -“Ye’ll lose heart, miss, if ye don’t eat--ye must eat.” - -“Thanks, Mildred, by-and-by, perhaps.” - -Mrs. Tarnley, like many worthy people, regarded eating as a simply -mechanical process, and wondered why people affected a difficulty -about it under any circumstances. Somewhat hard of heart, and with -nerves of wire, she had no idea that a sufficient shock might rob one -not only of appetite, but positively of the power of eating for days. - -Alone, for one moment, Alice could not endure to be--haunted -unintermittingly by the vague but intense dread of a return of the -woman who had so nearly succeeded in murdering her, and with nerves -shattered in that indescribable degree which even a strong man -experiences for a long time after a murder has been attempted upon him -perfidiously and by a surprise. The worst panic comes after an -interval of many hours. - -As the day waned, more miserably nervous she became, and more defined -her terror of the Dutchwoman’s return. That straggling old house, with -no less than four doors of entrance, favoured the alarms of her -imagination. Often she thought of her kind old kinswoman, Lady -Wyndale, and her proffered asylum at her snug house at Oulton. - -But that was a momentary picture--no more. Miserable as she was at the -Grange, until she had seen her husband, learned his plans, and knew -what his wishes were, that loyal little wife could not dream of going -to Oulton. - -She remained there as the shades of evening darkened over the steep -roof and solemn trees of Carwell Grange, and more and more grew the -horror that deepened with darkness, and was aggravated and distracted -by the continued absence of her husband. - -In the sitting-room she stood, listening, with a beating heart. Every -sound, which at another time would have been unheard, now thrilled her -with hope or terror. - -Old Dulcibella in the room was also frightened--more a great deal than -she could account for. And even Mildred Tarnley--that hard and grim -old lady--was touched by the influence of that contagious fear, and -barred and locked the doors with jealous care, and even looked to the -fastenings of the windows, and caught some faint shadows of that -supernatural fear with which Alice Fairfield had come to regard the -wicked woman out of whose hands she had escaped. - -Now and then, when appealed to, she said a short word or two of -reassurance respecting Charles Fairfield’s unaccountably prolonged -absence. But the panic of the young lady in like manner on this point -began to invade her in uncomfortable misgivings. - -So uneasy had she grown that at last she despatched Tom, when sunset -had come without a sign of Charles Fairfield’s return, riding to -Wykeford. Tom had now returned. A bootless errand it had proved. At -Wykeford he learned that Charles Fairfield had been there--had been at -Squire Rodney’s house and about the town, and made inquiries. His -pursuit had been misdirected. At Wykeford is a House of Correction and -Reformatory, which institution acts as a prison of ease to the county -jail. But that jail is in the town of Hatherton, as Charles would have -easily recollected if his rage had allowed him a moment to think. Tom, -however, made no attempt further to pursue him, on conjecture, and had -returned to Carwell Grange, no wiser than he went. - - - - - CHAPTER XLII. - HATHERTON. - -Charles Fairfield, in true Fairfield wrath, had ridden at a hard -pace, which helped to keep his blood up, all the way to the bridge of -Wykeford. He had expected to overtake the magistrate easily before he -reached that point, and if he had, who knows what might have happened -next. - -Baulked at Wykeford, and learning there how long a ride interposed -before he could hope to reach him, he turned and followed in a -somewhat changed mood. - -He would himself bail that woman. The question, felony or no -felony--bailable offence or not bailable--entered not his uninstructed -head. Be she what she might, assassin--devil, he could not and would -not permit her to lie in jail. Arrested in his own house, with many -sufferings and one great wrong to upbraid him with--with rights, -imaginary he insisted, but honestly believed in, perhaps, by her--with -other rights, which his tortured heart could not deny, the melancholy -rights which are founded on outlawry and disgrace, eleemosynary, but -quite irresistible when pleaded with natures not lost to all good, and -which proclaim the dreadful equity--that vice has its duties no less -than virtue. - -Baulked in his first violent impulse, Charles rode his hot horse -quietly along the by-road that leads to Hatherton, over many a steep -and through many a rut. - -Yes, pleasant it would have been to “lick” that rascal Rodney, and -upset his dog-cart into the ditch, and liberate the distressed damsel. -But even Charles Fairfield began to perceive consequences, and to -approve a more moderate course. - -At Hatherton was there not Peregrine Hincks, the attorney who carried -his brother, Harry Fairfield, whose course, any more than that of true -love, did not always run smooth, through the short turns and breaks -that disturbed it? - -He would go straight to this artist in all manner of quips and cranks -in parchment, and tell him what he wanted--the most foolish thing -perhaps in the world, to undo that which his good fortune had done for -him, and let loose again his trouble. - -Scandal! What did the defiant soul of a Fairfield care for scandal? -Impulsive, reckless, affectionate, not ungenerous--all considerations -were lost in the one compunctious feeling. - -Two hours later he was in the office of Mr. Peregrine Hincks, who -listened to his statement with a shrewd inflexibility of face. He knew -as much as Harry Fairfield did of the person who was now under the -turnkey’s tutelage. But Charles fancied him quite in the dark, and -treated the subject accordingly. - -“We’ll send down to the jail, and learn what she’s committed for, but -_two_ will be necessary. Who will execute the recognizance with you?” - -“I’m certain Harry will do it in a moment,” said Charles. - -The attorney was very sure that Harry would do no such thing. But it -was not necessary to discuss that particular point, nor to insinuate -officiously his ideas about the county scandal which would follow his -interposition in favour of a prisoner committed upon a charge -involving an attempt upon the life of his wife, for the information -brought back from the prison was such as to convince the attorney that -bail could not be accepted in the case. - -On learning this, Charles’ wrath returned. He stood for a time at the -chimney-piece, examining in silence a candlestick that stood there, -and then to the window he went, with a haggard, angry face, and looked -out for a while with his hands in his pockets. - -“Very well. So much the worse for Rodney,” said he suddenly. “I told -you my sole motive was to snub that fellow. He chose to make an -arrest in my house--his d----d impertinence!--without the slightest -reference to me, and I made up my mind, if I could, to let his -prisoner go. That fellow wants to be kicked--I don’t care twopence -about anything else, but it’s all one--I’ll find some other way.” - -“You’d better have a glass of sherry, sir; you’re a little tired, and -a biscuit.” - -“I’ll have nothing, thanks, till I--till I--what was I going to say? -Time enough; I have lots to do at home--a great deal, Mr. Hincks--and -my head aches. I _am_ tired, but I won’t mind the wine, thank you, my -head is too bad. If I could just clear it of two or three things I’d -be all right, and rest a little. I’ve been overworked, and I’ll ride -over here to-morrow--that will do--and we’ll talk it over; and I don’t -choose the wretched, crazy woman to be shut up in prison, because that -stupid prig, Rodney, pleases to say she’s insane, and would like to -hang her, just because she was arrested at Carwell; and--and as you -say, of course, if she is insane she is best out of the way; but there -are ways of doing things, and I won’t be bullied by that vulgar snob. -By ---- if I had caught him to-day I’d have broken his neck, I -believe.” - -“Glad you did _not_ meet him, sir--a row at any time brings one into -mischief, but an interference with the course of law--don’t you see--a -very serious affair, indeed!” - -“Well, see--yes, I suppose so, and there was just another thing. -Believing, as I do, that wretched person quite mad--don’t you see?--it -would be very hard to let her--to let her half starve there where -they’ve put her--don’t you think?--and I don’t care to go down to the -place there, and all that; and if you’d just manage to let her have -this--it’s all I can do just now--but--but it’s happening at my -house--although I’m not a bit to blame, puts it on me in a way, and I -think I can’t do less than this.” - -He handed a bank-note to the attorney, and was looking all the time on -a brief that lay on the table. - -Mr. Hincks, the respectable attorney, was a little shy, also, as he -took it. - -“I’m to say you sent it to--what’s her name, by-the-by?” he asked. - -“Bertha Velderkaust, but you need not mention me--only say it was sent -to her--that’s all. I’m so vexed, because as you may suppose, I had -particular reasons for wishing to keep quiet, and I was staying there -at the Grange, you know--Carwell--and thought I might keep quiet for a -few weeks; and that wretched maniac comes down there while I was for a -few days absent, and in one of her fits makes an attack on a member of -my family; and so my little hiding-place is disclosed, for of course -such a fracas will be heard of,--it is awfully provoking--I’m rather -puzzled to know where to go.” - -Charles ceased, with a faint, dreary laugh, and the attorney looked at -his bank-note, which he held by the corners, as the mate, in Mudford’s -fine story, might at the letter which Vanderdecken wished to send to -his long-lost wife in Amsterdam. - -It was not, however, clear to him that he had any very good excuse for -refusing to do this trifling kindness for the brother of his -quarrelsome and litigious client, Harry Fairfield, who, although he -eschewed costs himself, laid them pretty heavily upon others, and was -a valuable feeder for Mr. Hincks’ office. - -This little commission, therefore, accepted, the attorney saw his -visitor downstairs. He had already lighted a candle, and in its light -he thought he never saw a man upon his legs look so ill as Charles, -and the hand which he gave Mr. Hincks at the steps was dry and -burning. - -“It’s a long ride, sir, to Carwell,” the attorney hesitated. - -“The horse has had some oats, thanks, down here,” and he nodded toward -the Plume of Feathers at which he had put up his beast, “and I shan’t -be long getting over the ground.” - -And without turning about, or a look over his shoulder, he sauntered -away, in the rising moonlight, toward the little inn. - - - - - CHAPTER XLIII. - THE WELCOME. - -Charles rode his horse slowly homeward. The moon got up before he -reached the wild expanse of Cressley Common, a wide sea of undulating -heath, with here and there a grey stone peeping above its surface in -the moonlight like a distant sail. - -Charles was feverish--worn out in body and mind--literally. Some men -more than others are framed to endure misery, and live on, and on, and -on in despair. Is this melancholy strength better, or the weakness -that faints under the first strain of the rack? Happy that at the -longest it cannot be for very long--happy that “man that is born of a -woman hath but a short time to live,” seeing that he is “full of -misery.” - -Charles was conscious only of extreme fatigue; that for days he had -eaten little and rested little, and that his short snatches of sleep, -harassed by the repetition of his waking calculations and horrors, -tired rather than refreshed him. - -When fever is brewing, just as electric lights glimmer from the sullen -mask of cloud on the eve of a storm, there come sometimes odd -flickerings that seem to mock and warn. - -Every overworked man, who has been overtaken by fever in the midst of -his toil and complications, knows well the kind of tricks his brain -has played him on the verge of that chaos. - -Charles put his hand to his breast, and felt in his pocket for a -letter, the appearance of which was sharp and clear on his retina as -if he had seen it but a moment before. - -“What have I done with it?” he asked himself--“the letter Hincks gave -me?” - -He searched his pockets for it, a letter of which this picture was so -bright--purely imaginary! He was going to turn about and search the -track he had traversed for it; but he bethought him, “To whom was the -letter written?” No answer could he find. “To whom?” To no -one--nothing--an imagination. Conscious on a sudden, he was scared. - -“I want a good rest--I want some sleep--waking dreams. This is the -way fellows go mad. What the devil can have put it into my head?” - -Now rose before him the tall trees that gather as you approach the -vale of Carwell, and soon the steep gables and chimneys of the Grange -glimmered white among their boughs. - -There in his mind, as unaccountably, was the fancy that he had met and -spoken with his father, old Squire Harry, at the Catstone, as he -crossed the moor. - -“I’ll give his message--yes, I’ll give your message.” - -And he thought what possessed him to come out without his hat, and he -looked whiter than ever. - -And then he thought, “What brought him there?” - -And then, “What _was_ his message?” - -Again a shock, a chasm--his brain had mocked him. - -Dreadful when that potent servant begins to mutiny, and instead of -honest work for its master finds pastime for itself in fearful sport. - -“My God! what am I thinking of?” he said, with a kind of chill, -looking back over his shoulder. - -His tired horse was plucking a mouthful of grass that grew at the foot -of a tree. - -“We are both used up,” he said, letting his horse, at a quicker pace, -pursue its homeward path. “Poor fellow, you are tired as well as I. -I’ll be all right, I dare say, in the morning if I could only sleep. -Something wrong--something a little wrong--that sleep will cure--all -right to-morrow.” - -He looked up as he passed toward the windows of his and Alice’s room. -When he was out a piece of the shutter was always open. But if so -to-night there was no light in the room, and with a shock and a -dreadful imperfection of recollection, the scene which occurred on the -night past returned. - -“Yes, my God! so it was,” he said, as he stopped at the yard gate. -“Alice--I forget--did I see Alice after that, did I--did they tell -me--what is it?” - -He dismounted, and felt as if he were going to faint. His finger was -on the latch, but he had not courage to raise it. Vain was his effort -to remember. Painted in hues of light was that dreadful crisis before -his eyes, but how had it ended? Was he going quite mad? - -“My God help me,” he muttered again and again. “Is there anything bad. -I can’t recall it. Is there anything very bad?” - -“Open the door, it is he, I’m sure, I heard the horse,” cried the -clear voice of Alice from within. - -“Yes, I, it’s I,” he cried in a strange rapture. - -And in another moment the door was open, and Charles had clasped his -wife to his heart. - -“Darling, darling, I’m so glad. You’re quite well?” he almost sobbed. - -“Oh, Ry, my own, my own husband, my Ry, he’s safe, he’s quite well. -Come in. Thank God, he’s back again with his poor little wife, and oh, -darling, we’ll never part again. Come in, come in, my darling.” - -Old Mildred secured the door, and Tom took the horse round to the -stable, and as she held her husband clasped in her arms, tears, long -denied to her, came to her relief, and she wept long and convulsingly. - -“Oh, Ry, it has been such a dreadful time; but you’re safe, aren’t -you?” - -“Quite. Oh! yes, quite darling--very well.” - -“But, Oh, Ry, you look so tired. You’re not ill, are you, darling?” - -“Not ill, only tired. Nothing, not much, tired and stupid, want of -rest.” - -“You must have some wine, you look so very ill.” - -“Well, yes, I’m tired. Thanks, Mildred, that will do,” and he drank -the glass of sherry she gave him. - -“A drop more?” inquired old Mildred, holding the decanter stooped over -his glass. - -“No, thanks, no, I--it tastes oddly--or perhaps I’m not quite well -after all.” - -Charles now felt his mind clear again, and his retrospect was -uncrossed by those spectral illusions of the memory that seem to -threaten the brain with subjugation. - -Better the finger of death than of madness should touch his brain, -perhaps. His love for his wife, not dethroned, only in abeyance, was -restored. Such dialogues as theirs are little interesting to any but -the interlocutors. - -With their fear and pain, agitated, troubled, there is love in their -words. Those words, then, though in him, troubled with inward -upbraidings, in her with secret fears and cares, are precious. There -may not be many more between them. - - - - - CHAPTER XLIV. - THE WYKEFORD DOCTOR. - -A few days had passed and a great change had come. Charles Fairfield, -the master of the Grange, lay in his bed, and the Wykeford doctor -admitted to Alice that he could not say what might happen. It was a -very grave case--fever--and the patient could not have been worse -handled in those early days of the attack, on which sometimes so much -depends. - -People went to and fro on tiptoe, and talked in whispers, and the -patient moaned, and prattled, unconscious generally of all that was -passing. Awful hours and days of suspense! The Doctor said, and -perhaps he was right, to kind Lady Wyndale, who came over to see -Alice, and learned with consternation the state of things, that, under -the special circumstances, her nerves having been so violently acted -upon by terror, this diversion of pain and thought into quite another -channel might be the best thing, on the whole, that could have -happened to her. - -It was now the sixth day of this undetermined ordeal. - -Alice watched the Doctor’s countenance with her very soul in her eyes, -as he made his inspection, standing at the bedside, and now and then -putting a question to Dulcibella or to Alice, or to the nurse whom he -had sent to do duty in the sick-room from Wykeford. - -“Well?” whispered poor Alice, who had accompanied him downstairs, and -pale as death, drew him into the sitting-room, and asked her question. - -“Well, Doctor, what do you think to-day?” - -“Not much to report. Very little change. We must have patience, you -know, for a day or two; and you need not to be told, my dear ma’am, -that good nursing is half the battle, and in better hands he need not -be; I’m only afraid that you are undertaking too much yourself. That -woman, Marks, you may rely upon, implicitly; a most respectable and -intelligent person; I never knew her to make a mistake yet, and she -has been more than ten years at this work.” - -“Yes, I’m sure she is. I like her very much. And don’t you think him a -little better?” she pleaded. - -“Well, you know, as long as he holds his own and don’t lose ground, he -_is_ better; that’s all we can say; not to be worse, as time elapses, -is in effect, to be better; that you _may_ say.” - -She was looking earnestly into the clear blue eyes of the old man, who -turned them kindly upon her, from under his shaggy white eyebrows. - -“Oh! thank God, then you do think him better?” - -“In that sense, yes,” he answered cautiously, “but, of course, we must -have patience, and we shall soon know more, a great deal more, and I -do sincerely hope it may all turn out quite right; but the brain has -been a good deal overpowered; there’s a tendency to a sort of state we -call comatose; it indicates too much pressure there, d’ye see. I’d -rather have him talking more nonsense, with less of that sleep, as you -suppose it, but it isn’t sleep--a very different sort of thing. I’ve -been trying to salivate him, but he’s plaguy obstinate. We’ll try -to-night what dividing the pills into four each, and shortening the -intervals a little will do; it sometimes does wonders--we’ll see--and -a great deal depends on our succeeding in salivating. If we succeeded -in effecting that, I think all the rest would proceed satisfactorily, -that’s one of our difficulties just at this moment. If you send over -your little messenger, the sooner the better, she shall have the -pills, and let him take one the moment they come--pretty flower that -is,” he interpolated, touching the petal of one that stood neglected, -in its pot, on a little table at the window. “That’s not a geranium: -it’s a pelargonium. I did not know there were such things down -here--and you’ll continue, I told her everything else, and go on just -as before.” - -“And you think he’s better--I mean just a little?” she pleaded again. - -“Well, well, you know, I said all I could, and we must hope--we must -hope, you know, that everything may go on satisfactorily, and I’ll go -further. I’ll say I don’t see at all why we should despair of such a -result. Keep up your spirits, ma’am, and be cheery. We’ll do our duty -all, and leave the rest in the hands of God.” - -“And I suppose, Dr. Willett, we shall see you to-morrow at the usual -hour?” - -“Certainly, ma’am, and I don’t think there will be any change to speak -of till, probably, Thursday.” - -And her heart sank down with one dreadful dive at mention of that day -of trial that might so easily be a day of doom. - -And she answered his farewell, and smiled faintly, and followed his -steps through the passage, freezing with that fear, it seemed, that -she did not breathe, and that her heart ceased beating, and that she -glided like a spirit. She stopped, and he passed into the yard to his -horse, turning his shrewd, pale face, with a smile and a nod, as he -stepped across the door-stone, and he said-- - -“Good-bye, ma’am, and look out for me to-morrow as usual, and be -cheery, mind. Look at the bright side, you know; there’s no reason you -shouldn’t.” - -She answered his smile as best she could, but her heart was full; an -immense sorrow was there. She was frightened. She hurried into the -homely sitting-room, and wept in an agony unspeakable. - -The doctor, she saw, pitied and wished to cheer her; but how dreadful -was his guarded language. She thought that he would speak to others in -a different vein, and so, in fact, he did. His opinion was clear -against Charles Fairfield’s chance of ever being on his feet again. -“It was a great pity--a young fellow.” The doctor thought every one -young whose years were ten less than his own. “A tall, handsome fellow -like that, and Squire of Wyvern in a year or two, and a good-natured -sort of fellow he heard. It was a pity, and that poor little wife of -his--and likely to be a mother soon--God help her.” - - - - - CHAPTER XLV. - SPEECH RETURNS. - -The dreaded day came and passed, and Charles Fairfield was not dead, -but better. The fever was abating, but never did the vital spark burn -lower in living man. Seeing that life was so low in his patient, that -there was nothing between it and death, the doctor ordered certain -measures to be taken. - -“The fever is going, you see, but his strength is not coming, nor -won’t for a while. It’s a very nice thing, I can tell you, to bring -him to land with such fine tackle. I’ve brought a salmon ten pound -weight into my net with a bit of a trout rod as light as a rush -almost. But this is nicer play--not, mind you, that I’d have you in -the dumps, ma’am, but it will be necessary to watch him as a cat would -a mouse. Now, you’ll have on the table by his bed three -bottles--decanted all, and ready for use instantaneously. Beside that -claret you’ll have a bottle of port, and you must also have a bottle -of brandy. He’ll be always at his tricks, going to faint, and you -mustn’t let him. Because, ma’am, it might not be easy to get him out -of such a faint, and a faint is death, ma’am, if it lasts long enough. -Now, you’re not to be frightened.” - -“Oh, no, Doctor Willett.” - -“No, _that_ would not do neither; but I want you clearly to see the -importance of it. Let him have the claret to his lips constantly--in a -tumbler, mind--you can’t give him too much; and whenever you see him -look faint, you must reinforce that with port; and no mincing of -matters--none of your half measures. I’d rather you made him drunk -three times a day than run the least risk once of the other thing; and -if the port doesn’t get him up quick enough, you must fire away with -the brandy; and don’t spare it--don’t be afraid--we’ll get him round, -in time, with jellies and other good things; but life must be -maintained in the meanwhile any way--every way--whatever way we can. -So mind, _three_--claret, port, brandy.” - -He held up three fingers as he named them, touching them in -succession. - -“That’s a fire it’s better should burn a bit too fiercely for an hour -than sink too low for a second; once out, out for ever.” - -“Thanks, Doctor Willett, I understand quite; and you’ll be here -to-morrow, won’t you, at the usual hour?” - -“Certainly, ma’am, and it’s high time you should begin to take a -little care of yourself; you must, indeed, or you’ll rue it; you’re -too much on your feet, and you have had no rest night or day, and it’s -quite necessary you should, unless you mean to put yourself out of the -world, which would not do at all. We can’t spare you, ma’am, we can’t -indeed--a deal too valuable.” - -For some time Charles Fairfield continued in very much the same state. -At the end of three or four days he signed faintly to Alice, who was -in the room, with her large soft eyes gazing on the invalid, whenever -she could look unperceived. She got up gently and came close to him. - -“Yes, darling,” and she lowered her head that he might speak more -easily. - -Charles whispered-- - -“Quite well?” - -“You feel quite well? Thank God,” she answered, her large eyes filling -with tears. - -“Not I--you,” he whispered with querulous impatience; “ain’t you?” - -“Quite, darling.” - -His fine blue Fairfield eyes were raised to her face. - -With a short sigh, he whispered-- - -“I’m glad.” - -She stooped gently and kissed his thin cheek. - -“I’ve been dreaming so much,” he whispered. “Will you tell me exactly -what happened--just before my illness--something happened here?” - -In a low murmur she told him. - -When she stopped he waited as if expecting more, and then he -whispered-- - -“I thought so--yes.” - -And he sighed heavily. - -“You’re tired, darling,” she said; “you must take a little wine.” - -“I hate it,” he whispered--“tired of it.” - -“But, darling, the doctor says you must--and--for my sake won’t you?” - -The faintest possible smile lighted his pale face. - -“Kind,” he whispered. - -And when she placed the glass of claret to his lips he sipped a little -and turned away his head languidly. - -“Enough. Bring me my dressing-case,” he whispered. - -She did so. - -“The key was in my purse, I think. Open it, Ally.” - -She found the key and unlocked that inlaid box. - -“Underneath there are two or three letters in a big envelope. Keep -them for me; don’t part with them,” he whispered. - -She lifted a long envelope containing some papers, and the faintest -nod indicated that they were what he sought. - -“Keep it safe. Put the case away.” - -When she came back, looking at her, he raised his eyebrows ever so -little, and moved his head. She understood his sign and stooped again -to listen. - -“She mustn’t be prosecuted, she’s mad--Ally, mind.” - -“Darling, whatever you wish.” - -“Good, Ally; that’s enough.” - -There was a little pause. - -“You did not take enough claret, darling Ry. Won’t you take a little -more for your poor little Ally?” whispered she anxiously. - -“I’m very well, darling; by-and-by sleep; is better.” - -So he laid his cheek closer to the pillow and closed his eyes, and -Alice Fairfield stole on tiptoe to her chair, and with another look at -him and a deep sigh, she sat down and took her work. - -Silent was the room, except for the low breathing of the invalid. Half -an hour passed, and Alice stole softly to the bedside. He was awake, -and said faintly-- - -“Was it your mother?” - -“Who, darling?” - -“Talking.” - -“No one was talking, darling.” - -“I saw her; I thought I heard--_not_ her--some one talking.” - -“No, darling Ry, nothing.” - -“Dreams; yes,” he murmured, and was quiet again. - -Sad and ominous seemed those little wanderings. But such things are -common in sickness. It was simply weakness. - -In a little time she came over softly, and sat down by his pillow. - -“I was looking down, Ally,” he whispered. - -“I’ll get it, darling. Something on the floor, is it?” she asked, -looking down. - -“No, down to my feet; it’s very long--stretched.” - -“Are your feet warm, darling?” - -“Quite,” and he sighed and closed his eyes. - -She continued sitting by his pillow. - -“When Willie died, my brother, I was just fifteen.” - -Then came a pause. - -“Willie was the handsomest,” he murmured on. - -“Willie was elder--nineteen, very tall. Handsome Willie, he liked me -the best. I cried a deal that day. I used to cry alone, every day in -the orchard, or by the river. He’s in the churchyard at Wyvern. I -wonder shall I see it any more. There was rain the day of the -funeral, they say it is lucky. It was a long coffin, the Fairfields -you know----” - -“Darling Ry, you are talking too much, it will tire you; take ever so -little claret, to please your poor little Ally.” - -This time he did quite quietly, and then closed his eyes, and dozed. - - - - - CHAPTER XLVI. - HARRY DRINKS A GLASS AND SPILLS A GLASS. - -About an hour after, old Dulcibella came to the door and knocked. -Charles Fairfield had slept a little, and was again awake. Into that -still darkened room she came to whisper her message. - -“Mr. Harry’s come, and he’s downstairs, and he’d like to see you, and -he wanted to know whether he could see the master.” - -“I’ll go down and see him; say I’ll see him with pleasure,” said -Alice. “Harry is here, darling,” she said gently, drawing near to the -patient, “but you can’t see him, of course.” - -“I must,” whispered the invalid peremptorily. - -“Darling, are you well enough? I’m sure you ought not. If the doctor -were here he would not allow it. Don’t think of it, darling Ry, and -he’ll come again in a few days, when you are stronger.” - -“It will do me good,” whispered Charles. “Bring him--you tire me; -_wait, she_ can tell him. I’ll see him alone; go, go, Ally, go.” - -She would have remonstrated, but she saw that in his flushed and -irritated looks, which warned her against opposing him further. - -“You are to go down, Dulcibella, and bring Mr. Harry to the room to -see your master; and, Dulcibella, like a dear good creature, won’t you -tell him how weak Master Charles is?” she urged, following her to the -lobby, “and beg of him not to stay long.” - -In a minute or two more the clank of Harry Fairfield’s boot was heard -on the stair. He pushed open the door, and stepped in. - -“Hullo! Charlie--dark enough to blind a horse here--all right, now. I -hear you’ll be on your legs again--I can’t see you, upon my soul, not -a stim a’most--before you see three Sundays--you mustn’t be tiring -yourself. I’m not talking too loud, eh? Would you mind an inch or two -more of the shutter open?” - -“No,” said Charles, faintly. “A little.” - -“There, that isn’t much. I’m beginning to see a bit now. You’ve had a -stiff bout this time, Charlie, ’twasn’t typhus, nothing infectious, -chiefly the upper story; but you had a squeak for it, my lad. I’d ’a -came over to look after you but my hands was too full.” - -“No good, Harry; could not have spoken, or seen you. Better now.” - -“A bit shaky still,” said Harry, lowering his voice. “You’ll get o’er -that, though, fast enough. Keeping your spirits up, I see,” and Harry -winked at the decanters. “Summat better than that rot-gut claret, too. -This is the stuff to put life in you. Port, yes.” He filled his -brother’s glass, smelled to it, and drank it off. “So it is, and right -good port. I’ll drink your health, Charlie,” he added, playfully -filling his glass again. - -“I’m glad you came, Harry, I feel better,” said the invalid, and he -extended his thin hand upon the bed to his brother. - -“Hoot! of course you do,” said Harry, looking hard at him, for he was -growing accustomed to the imperfect light. “You’ll do very well, and -Alice, I hear, is quite well also. And so you’ve had a visit from the -old soldier, and a bit of a row, eh?” - -“Very bad, Harry. Oh! God help me,” moaned Charles. - -“She ain’t pretty, and she ain’t pleasant--bad without and worse -within, like a collier’s sack,” said Harry, with a disgusted grimace, -lifting his eyebrows and shaking his head. - -“She’s headlong and headstrong, and so there has been bad work. I -don’t know what’s to be done.” - -“The best thing to be done’s to let her alone,” said Harry. “They’ve -put her up at Hatherton, I hear.” - -“That’s one thing,” murmured Charles, with a great sigh. “I’m a -heart-broken man, Harry.” - -“That’s easy mended. Don’t prosecute, that’s all. Get out o’ the -country when you’re well enough, and they must let her go, and maybe -the lesson won’t do her no great harm.” - -“I’m glad I have you to talk to,” murmured Charles, with another great -sigh. “I can’t get it out of my head. You’ll help me, Harry?” - -“All I can--’taint much.” - -“And, Harry, there’s a thing that troubles me.” He paused, it seemed, -exhausted. - -“Don’t mind it now, you’re tirin’ yourself. Drink a glass o’ this.” - -And he filled the glass from which he had been drinking his port. - -“No, I hate wine,” he answered. “No, no, by-and-by, perhaps.” - -“You know best,” he acquiesced. “I suppose I must drink it myself,” -which necessity he complied with accordingly. “I heard the news, you -know, and I’d a come sooner but I’m taking an action next ’sizes on a -warranty about the grey filly against that d----d rogue, Farmer Lundy, -and had to be off t’other side o’ Wyvern wi’ the lawyer. ’Taint easy -to hold your own wi’ the cheatin’ chaps that’s going now, I can tell -ye.” - -“I’m no good to talk now, Harry. You’ll find me better next time, -only, Harry, mind, remember, I mayn’t be long for this world, and--I -give you my honour--I swear, in the presence of God, who’ll judge me, -I never was married to Bertha. It’s a lie. I knew she’d give me -trouble some day; but it’s a lie. Alice is my wife. I never had a wife -but Alice, by G-- Almighty! That other’s a lie. Don’t you know it’s a -lie, Harry?” - -“Don’t be botherin’ yourself about that now,” said Harry, coldly, with -rather a sullen countenance, looking askance through the open space in -the window shutter to the distant horizon. “Long heads, my lad, and -lawyers lear for the quips and cranks o’ law. What should I know?” - -“Harry, I know you love me; you won’t let wrong be believed,” said -Charles Fairfield, in a voice suddenly stronger than he had spoken in -before. - -“I won’t let wrong be believed,” he answered coolly, perhaps sulkily; -and he looked at him steadily for a little with his mouth sullenly -open. - -“You know, Harry,” he pleaded, “there’s a little child coming: it -would not do to wrong it. Oh! Harry, don’t you love your poor, only -brother?” - -Harry looked as if he was going to say something saucy, but instead of -that, he broke into a short laugh. - -“Upon my soul, Charlie, a fellow’d think you took me for an -affidavit-man. When did I ever tell now’t but the truth? Sich rot! A -chap like me, that’s faulted always for bein’ too blunt and -plain-spoken, and as for likin’, I’d like to know what else brings me -here. Of course I don’t say I love any one, all out, as well as Harry -Fairfield. You’re my brother, and I stand by you according; but as I -said before, I love my shirt very well, but I like my skin better. -Hey! And that’s all fair.” - -“All fair, Harry--I’ll--I’ll talk no more now, Harry. I’ll lie down -for a little, and we’ll meet again.” - -Harry was again looking through the space of the open shutter, and he -yawned. He was thinking of taking his leave. - -In this “brown study” he was interrupted by a sound. It was like the -beginning of a little laugh. He looked at Charlie, who had uttered it; -his thin hand was extended toward the little table at the bed-side, -and his long arm in its shirt-sleeve. His eyes were open, but his -face was changed. Harry had seen death often enough to recognise it. -With a dreadful start, he was on his feet, and had seized his brother -by the shoulder. - -“Charlie, man--Charlie! look at me--my God!” and he seized the brandy -bottle and poured ever so much into the open lips. It flowed over from -the corners of the mouth, over cheek and chin; the throat swallowed -not; the eyes stared their earnest stare, unchanging into immeasurable -distance. Charles Fairfield was among the Fairfields of other times; -hope and fear, the troubles and the dream, ended. - - - - - CHAPTER XLVII. - HOME TO WYVERN. - -When a sick man dies he leaves his bed and his physic. His best -friend asks him not to stay, and sweetheart and kindred concur in -putting him out of doors, to lie in a bed of clay, under the sky, come -frost, or storm, or rain; a dumb outcast from fireside, tankard, and -even the talk of others. - -Tall Charles Fairfield, of the blue eyes, was, in due course, robed in -his strange white suit, boxed up and screwed down, with a plated -inscription over his cold breast, recounting his Christian and -surnames, and the tale of his years. - -If from that serene slumber he could have been called again, the loud -and exceeding bitter cry, the wild farewell of his poor little Ally -would have wakened him; but her loving Ry, her hero, slept on, with -the unearthly light on his face till the coffin-lid hid it, and in the -morning the athlete passed downstairs on men’s shoulders, and was slid -reverently into a hearse, and went away to old Wyvern churchyard. - -At ten o’clock in the morning, Charlie Fairfield was on the ground. -Was old Squire Harry there to meet his son, and follow his coffin to -the aisle of the ancient little church, and thence to his place in the -churchyard? - -Not he. - -“Serve him right,” said the Squire, when he heard it. “I’m d----d if -he’ll lie in our vault; let him go to Parson Maybell, yonder, under -the trees; _I_’ll not have him.” - -So Charles Fairfield is buried there under the drip of those -melancholy old trees, close by the gentle vicar and his good and -pretty wife, over whom the grass has grown long, and the leaves of -twenty summers have bloomed and fallen, and whose forlorn and -beautiful little child was to be his bride, and is now his widow. - -Harry Fairfield was there, with the undertaker’s black cloak over his -well-knit Fairfield shoulders. He nodded to this friend and that in -the crowd, gruffly. His face was lowering with thought, his eyes cast -down, and sometimes raised in an abstracted glare to the face of some -unobserved bystander for a few moments. Conspicuous above other -uncovered heads was his. The tall stature, and statuesque proportions -of his race would have marked him without the black mantle for the -kinsman of the dead Fairfield. - -Up to Wyvern House, after the funeral was over, went Harry. The old -man, his hat in his hand, was bareheaded, on the steps; as he -approached he nodded to his last remaining son. Three were gone now. A -faint sunlight glinted on his old features; a chill northern air -stirred his white locks. A gloomy, but noble image of winter the gaunt -old man presented. - -“Well, that’s over; where’s the lad buried?” - -“Just where you wished, sir, near Vicar Maybell’s grave, under the -trees.” - -The old Squire grunted an assent. - -“The neighbours was there, I dare say?” - -“Yes, sir, _all_--I think.” - -“I shouldn’t wonder--they liked Charlie--they did. He’s buried up -there alone--well, he deserved it. Was Dobbs there, from Craybourne? -He was good to Dobbs. He gave that fellow twenty pun’ once, like a big -fool, when Dobbs was druv to the wall, the time he lost his cattle; -_he_ was there?” - -“Yes, I saw Dobbs there, sir, he was crying.” - -“More fool Dobbs--more fool he,” said the Squire, and then came a -short pause; “cryin’ was he?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“He’s a big fool--Dobbs is a fool.” - -“A man cryin’ always looks a fool, the rum faces they makes when -they’re blubbin’,” observed Harry. “Some o’ the Wykeford folk was -there--Rodney was at his funeral.” - -“Rodney? He didn’t like a bone in his skin. Rodney’s a bad dog. What -brought Rodney to _my_ son’s funeral?” - -“He’s took up wi’ them preachin’ folk at Wykeford, I’m told, and he -came down, I s’pose, to show the swaddlers what a forgivin’, -charitable chap he is. Before he put on his hat, he come over and put -out his hand to me.” - -“And ye took it! ye know ye took it.” - -“Well, the folk was lookin’ on, and he took me so short,” said Harry. - -“Charlie wouldn’t ’a done that; he wouldn’t ’a took his hand over your -grave; but you’re not like us--never was; you were cut out for a -lawyer, I think.” - -“Well, the folk would ’a talked, ye know, sir.” - -“Talked, sir, would they?” retorted the Squire, with an angry leer, “I -never cared the crack o’ a cart-whip what the folk talked--let ’em -talk, d---- ’em. And ye had no gloves, Dickon says, nor nothin’, -buried like a dog ’a most, up in a corner there.” - -“Ye told me not to lay out a shillin’, sir,” said Harry. - -“If I did I did, but angry folk don’t always mean all they says; no -matter, we’re done wi’ it now--it’s over. He was worth ye all,” broke -out the Squire passionately; “I could ’a liked him, if he had ’a liked -me--if he had ’a let me, but he didn’t, and--there it is.” - -So the Squire walked on a little hastily, which was his way when he -chose to be alone, down the steps with gaunt, stumbling gait, and -slowly away into the tall woods close by, and in that ancestral shadow -disappeared. - -Future--present--past. The future--mist, a tint, and shadow. The cloud -on which fear and hope project their airy phantoms, living in -imagination, and peopled by romance--a dream of dreams. The present -only we possess man’s momentary dominion, plastic under his hand as -the clay under the potter’s--always a moment of the present in our -absolute power--always that fleeting, plastic moment speeding into the -past--immutable, eternal. The metal flows molten by, and then chills -and fixes for ever. So with the life of man--so with the spirit of -man. Work while it is called day. The moment fixes the retrospect, and -death the character, for ever. The heart knoweth its own bitterness. -The proud man looks on the past he has made. The hammer of Thor can’t -break it; the fire that is not quenched can’t melt it. His thoughtless -handiwork will be the same for ever. - -Old Squire Harry did not talk any more about Charlie. About a month -after this he sent to Craybourne to say that Dobbs must come up to -Wyvern. Dobbs’ heart failed him when he heard it. Every one was afraid -of old Squire Harry, for in his anger he regarded neither his own -interest nor other men’s safety. - -“Ho, Dobbs! you’re not fit for Craybourne, the farm’s too much for -you, and I’ve nothing else to gi’e ye.” Dobbs’ heart quailed at these -words. “You’re a fool, Dobbs--you’re a fool--you’re not equal to it, -man. I wonder you didn’t complain o’ your rent. It’s too much--too -high by half. I told Cresswell to let you off every rent day a good -penn’orth, for future, and don’t you talk about it to no one, ’twould -stop that.” He laid his hand on Dobbs’ shoulder, and looked not -unkindly in his face. - -And then he turned and walked away, and Dobbs knew that his audience -was over. - -And the old Squire was growing older, and grass and weeds were growing -apace over handsome Charlie Fairfield’s grave in Wyvern. But the old -man never sent to Carwell Grange, nor asked questions about Alice. -That wound was not healed, as death heals some. - -Harry came, but Alice was ill, and could not see him. Lady Wyndale -came, and her she saw, and that good-natured kinswoman made her -promise that she would come and live with her so soon as she was well -enough to leave the Grange. - -And Alice lay still in her bed, as the doctor commanded, and her heart -seemed breaking. The summer would return, but Ry would never come -again. The years would come and pass--how were they to be got over? -And, oh! the poor little thing that was coming!--what a sad welcome! -It would break her heart to look at it. “Oh, Ry, Ry, Ry, my darling!” - -So the morning broke and evening closed, and her great eyes were wet -with tears--“the rain it raineth every day.” - - - - - CHAPTER XLVIII. - A TWILIGHT VISIT. - -In the evening Tom had looked in at his usual hour, and was -recruiting himself with his big mug of beer and lump of bread and -cheese at the kitchen table, and now the keen edge of appetite removed, -he was talking agreeably. This was what he called his supper. The flush -of sunset on the sky was fading into twilight, and Tom was chatting -with old Mildred Tarnley. - -“Who’d think it was only three weeks since the funeral?” said -Tom--“three weeks to-morrow.” - -“Ay, to-morrow. ’Twas a Thursday, I mind, by the little boy comin’ -from Gryce’s mill, for the laundress’s money, by noon. Two months ago, -to look at him, you’d ’a said there was forty years’ life in him; but -death keeps no calendar, they say. I wonder Harry Fairfield isn’t here -oftener. Though she might not talk wi’ him nor see him, the sound o’ -his voice in the house would do her good--his own brother, you know.” - -“Dead men, ’tis an old sayin’, is kin to none,” said Tom. “They goes -their own gate, and so does the livin’.” - -“There’s that woman in jail. What’s to be done wi’ her, and who’s to -talk wi’ the lawyer folk?” said Mildred. - -“Ill luck came wi’ her to Carwell,” said Tom. “Pity he ever set eyes -on her; but chances will be, and how can cat help it if maid be a -fool? I don’t know nothin’ o’ that business, but in this world nout -for nout is the most of our wages, and I take it folks knows what they -are about, more or less.” - -Mildred Tarnley sniffed at this oracular speech, and turned up her -nose, and went over to the dresser and arranged some matters there. - -“The days is shortening apace. My old eyes can scarce see over here -without a candle,” she said, returning. “But there’s a many a thing to -be settled in this house, I’m thinkin’.” - -Tom nodded an acquiescence, and stood up and stretched himself, and -looked up to the darkening sky. - -“The crows is home in Carwell Wood; ’twill be time to be turning keys -and drawing of bolts,” said Tom. “Ay, many a thing ’ll want settlin’, -I doubt, down here, and who’s to do it?” - -“Ay, who’s to do it?” repeated Mildred. “I tell ye, Tom, there’s many -a thing--_too_ many a thing--more than ye wot of--enough to bring him -out o’ his grave, Tom--as I’ve heered stories, many a one, wi’ less -reason.” - -As she ceased, a clink of a horseshoe was heard in the little yard -without, and a tall figure leading a horse, as Charles Fairfield used -often to do, on his late returns to his home, looked in at the -window--in that uncertain twilight, in stature, attitude, and, as well -as she could see, in face, so much resembling the deceased master of -Carwell Grange, that Mrs. Tarnley gasped-- - -“My good Lord! Who’s that?” - -Something of the same momentary alarm puzzled Tom, who frowned wildly -at it, with his fists clenched beside him. - -It was Harry Fairfield, who exhibited, as sometimes happens in certain -lights and moments, a family resemblance, which had never struck those -most familiar with his appearance. - -“Lawk, it’s Mr. Harry; run out, Tom, and take his nag, will ye?” - -Out went Tom, and in came Harry Fairfield. He looked about him. He did -not smile facetiously and nod, and take old Mildred’s dubious hand, as -he was wont, and crack a joke, not always very welcome or very -pleasant, to the tune of-- - - - “Nobody coming to marry me-- - Nobody coming to woo.” - - -On the contrary, he looked as if he saw nothing there but walls and -twilight, and as heavy laden with gloomy thoughts as the troubled -ghost she had imagined. - -“How is Miss Ally? how is your mistress?” at last he inquired -abruptly. “Only middling?” - -“Ailing, sir,” answered Mildred, dryly. - -“Tell her I’m here, will ye? and has something to tell her and talk -over, and will make it as short as I can. Tell her I’d a come earlier, -but couldn’t, for the sessions at Wykeford, and dined wi’ a neighbour -in the town; and say I mayn’t be able to come for a good while again. -Is she up?” - -“No, sir, the doctor keeps her still to her bed.” - -“Well, old Dulcey Crane’s there; ain’t she?” - -“Ay, sir, and Lilly Dogger, too. Little good the slut’s to me these -days.” - -Harry was trying to read his watch at the darkened window. - -“Tell her all that--quick, for time flies,” said Harry. - -Harry Fairfield remained in the kitchen while old Mildred did his -message, and she speedily returned to say that Alice was sitting up by -the fire, and would see him. - -Up the dim stairs went Harry. He had not been up there since the day -he saw the undertakers at Charlie’s coffin, and had his last peep at -his darkening face. Up he strode with his hand on the banister, and -old Mildred gliding before him like a shadow. She knocked at the door. -It was not that of the room which they had occupied, where poor -Charles Fairfield had died, but the adjoining one, hurriedly arranged, -with such extemporized comforts as the primitive people of the -household could manage--homely enough, but not desolate, it looked. - -Opening the door, she said--“Here’s Master Harry, ma’am, a-comin’ to -see you.” - -Harry was already in the room. There were candles lighted on a little -table near the bed, although the shutters were still open, and the -faint twilight mingling with the light of the candles made a sort of -purple halo. Alice was sitting in a great chair by the fire in her -dressing-gown, pale, and looking very ill. She did not speak; she -extended her hand. - -“Came to see you, Ally. Troublesome world; but you must look up a bit, -you know. Troubles are but trials, they say, and can’t last for ever; -so don’t you be frettin’ yourself out o’ the world, lass, and makin’ -more food for worms.” - -And with this consolation he shook her hand. - -“I would have seen you, Harry, when you called before--it was very -kind of you--but I could not. I am better now, thank God. I can’t -believe it still, sometimes,” and her eyes filled with tears-- - -“Well, well, well,” said Harry, “where’s the good o’ cryin’; cryin’ -won’t bring him back, you know. There, there. And I want to say a word -to you about that woman that’s in jail, you know. ’Tis right you -should know everything. He should a told you more about that, don’t -you see, else ye might put your foot in it.” - -Paler still turned Alice at these words. - -“Tell them to go in there,” said he in a lower tone, indicating with -his thumb over his shoulder, a sort of recess at the far end of the -room, in which stood a table with some work on it. - -At a word from Alice old Dulcibella called Lilly Dogger into that -distant “alcove,” as Mildred termed it. - -“It’s about that woman,” he continued, in a very low tone, “about that -one--Bertha. That woman, you know, that’s in Hatherton Jail, you -remember. There’s no good prosecuting that one. Poor Charles wouldn’t -have allowed it at no price.” - -“He said so. I wouldn’t for the world,” she answered very faintly. - -“No, of course; he wished it, and we’d like to see his wishes complied -with, poor fellow, now he’s gone,” acquiesced Harry with alacrity. -“And you know about her?” he added, in a _very_ low tone. - -“Oh no, no, Harry; no, please,” she answered imploringly. - -“Well, it wouldn’t do for you, you know, to be gettin’ up in the -witness-box at the ’sizes to hang her, ye know.” - -“Oh dear, Harry; no, I never could have thought of it.” - -“Well, you are not bound, luckily; nor no one. I saw Rodney to-day -about it; there’s no recognizances--he only took the informations--and -I said you wouldn’t prosecute; nor _I_ won’t, _I’m_ sure; and the -crown won’t take it up, and so it will fall through, and end -quietly--the best way for you; for, as I told him, you’re not in -health to go down there to be battlin’ wi’ lawyers, and all sorts; -’twould never answer _you_, ye know. So here’s a slip o’ paper I -wrote, and I told him I knew you’d sign it--only sayin’ you have no -notion of prosecutin’ that woman, nor moving more in the matter.” - -He placed it in her hand. - -“I’m sure it’s quite right; it’s just what I mean. Thank you, Harry; -you’re very good.” - -“Get the ink and pen,” said Harry aloud to Dulcibella. - -“’Tis downstairs,” answered she. “I’ll fetch it.” - -And Dulcibella withdrew. Harry was poking about the shelves and the -chimney-piece. - -“This is ink,” said he, “ain’t it?” So it was, and a pen. “I think it -will write--try it, Ally.” - -So it was signed; and he had fairly described its tenor and effect to -his widowed sister-in-law. - -“I’ll see Rodney this evening and show him this, to prevent his -bothering you here about it. And,” he almost whispered, “you know -about that woman? or you don’t--do you?” - -Her lips moved, but he could hear no words. - -“She was once a fine woman--ye wouldn’t think--a devilish fine woman, -I can tell you; and she says--ye know ’twas more than likin’--she says -she has the whip hand o’ ye--first come, first served. She’s talkin’ -o’ law, and all that. She says--but it won’t make no odds now, you -know, what she says--well, she says she was his wife.” - -“Oh, God!--it’s a lie,” whispered the poor lady, with white lips, and -staring at him with darkening eyes. - -“Well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain’t,” he answered. “But it don’t -much matter now; and I daresay we’ll hear nothing about it, and dead -men’s past fooling, ye know. Good-night, Ally, and God bless you; and -take care o’ yourself, and don’t be crying your eyes out like that. -And I’ll come again as soon as I can; and any business, you know, or -anything, I’ll be always ready to do for you--and good-night, Ally, -and mind all I said.” - -Since those terrible words of his were spoken she had not heard a -syllable. He took her icy hand. He looked for a puzzled moment in her -clouded eyes, and nodded, and he called to the little girl in the -adjoining room. - -“I’m going now, child, and do you look after your mistress.” - -By a coincidence or association--something suggested by Harry -Fairfield’s looks, was it?--old Mildred Tarnley’s head was full of the -Dutchwoman when Dulcibella came into the kitchen. - -“You took out the ink, Tom, when you was weighin’ them oats to-day,” -said she, and out went Tom in search of that always errant and -mitching article. - -“I was sayin’ to Tom as ye came in, Mrs. Crane, how I hoped to see -that one in her place. I think I’d walk to Hatherton and back to see -her hanged, the false jade, wi’ her knife, and her puce pelisse, and -her divilry. Old witch!” - -“Lawk, Mrs. Tarnley, how can ye?” - -“Well, now Master Charles is under the mould, I wouldn’t spare her. -What for shouldn’t Mrs. Fairfield make her pay for the pipe she danced -to. It’s her turn now-- - - - ‘When you are anvil, hold you still, - When you are hammer, strike your fill.’ - - -And if I was Mrs. Fairfield, _maybe_ I wouldn’t make her smoke for -all.” - -“I think my lady will do just what poor Master Charles wished, and I -know nothing about the woman,” said Dulcibella, “only they all say -she’s not right in her head, Mrs. Tarnley, and I don’t think she’ll -slight his last word, and punish the woman; ’twould be the same as -sacrilege a’most; and what of her? Much matter about a wooden platter! -and its ill burning the house to frighten the mice.” - -Harry Fairfield here sauntered into the kitchen, rolling unspoken -thoughts in his mind. The conversation subsided at his approach; -Dulcibella made her courtesy and withdrew, and said he to Tom, who was -entering with the ink-bottle-- - -“Tom, run out, will ye, and get my nag ready for the road; I’ll be off -this minute.” - -Tom departed promptly. - -“Well, Mildred,” said he, eyeing her darkly from the corners of his -eyes, “sorrow comes unsent for.” - -“Ay, sure, she’s breakin’ her heart, poor thing.” - -“’Twon’t break, I warrant, for all that,” he answered; “sorrow for a -husband they say is a pain in the elbow, sharp and short.” - -“All along o’ that ugly Dutch beast. ’Twas an ill wind carried her to -Carwell,” said Mildred. - -He shut his eyes and shook his head. - -“That couldn’t do nowhere,” said he,-- - - - “‘Two cats and one mouse, - Two wives in one house.’” - - -“Master Charles was no such fool. What for should he ever a’ married -such as that? I couldn’t believe no such thing,” said Mrs. Tarnley, -sharply. - - - “‘Two dogs at one bone, - Can never agree in one,’” - - -repeated Harry, oracularly. “There’s no need, mind, to set folks’ -tongues a ringin’, nor much good in tryin’ to hide the matter, for her -people won’t never let it rest, I lay ye what ye please--never. ’Twill -be strange news up at Wyvern, but I’m afeard she’ll prove it only too -ready; ’twill shame us finely.” - -“Well, let them talk--‘As the bell clinks, so the fool thinks’--and -who the worse. I don’t believe it nohow. He never would ha’ brought -down the Fairfields to that, and if he had, he could not ha’ brought -the poor young creature upstairs into such trouble and shame. I won’t -believe it of him till it’s proved.” - -“I hope they may never prove it. But what can we do? You and I know -how they lived here, and I have heard her call him husband as often as -I have fingers and toes, but, bless ye, we’ll hold our tongues--you -will, eh? won’t ye, Mildred? ye mustn’t be talkin’.” - -“Talkin’! I ha’ nout to talk about. Fudge! man, I don’t believe -it--’tis a d----d lie, from top to bottom.” - -“I hope so,” said he. - -“A shameless liar she was, the blackest I ever heard talk.” - -“Best let sleepin’ dogs be,” said he. - -There was some silver loose in his trousers’ pocket, and he was -fumbling with it, and looking hard at Mildred as he spoke to her. -Sometimes, between his finger and thumb, he held the -shilling--sometimes the half-crown. He was mentally deciding which to -part with, and it ended by his presenting Mildred with the shilling, -and recommending her to apply this splendid “tip” to the purchase of -tea. - -Some people experience a glow after they have done a great -benevolence; as he walked into the stable-yard, Harry experienced a -sensation, but it wasn’t a glow, a chill rather. Remembering the -oblique look with which she eyed the silver coin in her dark palm, and -her scant thanks, he was thinking what a beast he was to part with his -money so lightly. - -Mildred Tarnley cynically muttered to herself in the kitchen-- - - - “‘Farewell frost, - Nothing got nor nothing lost.’ - - -Here’s a gift! Bless him! I mind the time a Fairfield would a’ been -ashamed to give an old servant such a vails. Hoot! what’s the world a -comin’ to? ’Tis time we was a goin’. But Master Harry was ever the -same--a thrifty lad he was, that looked after his pennies sharply,” -said old Mildred Tarnley, scornfully; and she dropped the coin -disdainfully into a little tin porringer that stood on the dresser. - -And Tom came in, and the doors were made sure, and Mildred Tarnley -made her modest cup of tea, and all was subsiding for the night. - -But Harry’s words had stricken Alice Fairfield. Perhaps those viewless -arrows oftener kill than people think of. Up in her homely room Alice -now lay very ill indeed. - - - - - CHAPTER XLIX. - THE HEIR OF THE FAIRFIELDS. - -At dead of night Alice was very ill, and Tom was called up to ride -across Cressley Common for the Wykeford doctor. Worse and worse she -grew. In this unknown danger--without the support of a husband’s love -or consolation--“the pains of hell gat hold of her,” the fear of death -was upon her. Glad was she in her lonely terrors to hear the friendly -voice of Doctor Willett as he came up the stairs, with a heavy, booted -step, in hurried conversation with old Dulcibella Crane, who had gone -down to meet him on hearing the sound of his arrival. - -In lower tones the doctor put his questions when he had arrived in his -patient’s room, and his manner became stern, and his measures prompt, -and it was plain that he was very much alarmed. - -Alice Fairfield was in danger--in so great danger that he would have -called in the Hatherton doctor, or any other, to share his -responsibility, if the horse which Tom drove had not had as much as he -could do that night in the long trot--and partly canter--to Wykeford -and back again to the Grange. - -Alice’s danger increased, and her state became so alarming that the -doctor was afraid to leave his patient, and stayed that night at the -Grange. - -In the morning he sent Tom to Hatherton with a summons for his brother -physician, and now this quaint household grew thoroughly alarmed. - -The lady was past the effort of speaking, almost of thinking, and lay -like a white image in her bed. Old Dulcibella happily had charge of -the money, not much, which Alice had for present use; so the doctors -had their fees, and were gone, and Doctor Willett, of Wykeford, was to -come again in the evening, leaving his patient, as he said, quieter, -but still in a very precarious state. - -When the Wykeford doctor returned he found her again too ill to think -of leaving her. At midnight Tom was obliged to mount, and ride away to -Hatherton for the other doctor. - -Before the Hatherton doctor had reached the Grange, however, a tiny -voice was crying there--a little spirit had come, a scion of the -Fairfield race. - -Mrs. Tarnley wrote to Harry Fairfield to Wyvern to announce the event, -which she did thus:-- - - - “Sir, - - “Master Harey, it has came a sirprise. Missis is this mornin’ gev - burth to a boy and air; babe is well, but Missis Fairfield low and - dangerous. - - “Your servant, - “Mildred Tarnley.” - - -Dulcibella, without consulting Mildred, any more than Mildred did her, -wrote also a letter, gentler and more gracious, but certainly no -better spelled. When these reached Wyvern, Harry was from home. - -It was not till four days had passed that Harry Fairfield arrived in -the afternoon. - -He had thrown his horse’s bridle to Tom in the stable yard, and -appeared suddenly before Mildred Tarnley in the kitchen door. - -“Well, how’s the lady in the straw?” inquired Harry, looking -uncomfortable, but smiling his best. “How is Miss Alice?” - -“Mrs. Fairfield’s very bad, and the doctor han’t much hopes of her. -She lies at God’s mercy, sir.” - -“She’ll be better, you’ll find. She’ll be all right soon. And when was -it--you put no date to your note?” - -“On Friday, I think. We’re so put about here I scarce know one day -from t’other.” - -“She’ll be better. Is any one here with her?” - -“A nurse from Hatherton.” - -“No one else? I thought Lady Wyndale might a’ come.” - -“I was goin’ to send over there, but Doctor Willett said no.” - -“Did he? Why?” - -“Not yet a bit; he says she’d be in his way and no use, and maybe -worrit her into a fever.” - -“Very like,” said Harry; “and how’s the boy--isn’t it a boy?” - -“Boy--yes, sir, a fine thumpin’ baby--and like to do well, and will -prove, belike, a true, open-handed Fairfield, and a brave Squire o’ -Wyvern.” - -“Well, that’s as it may be. I’ll not trouble him. I have more than -enough to my share as it is--and there’s some things that’s better -never than late, and I’ll live and die a bachelor. I’ve more years -than my teeth shows.” - -And Harry smiled and showed his fine teeth. - -“There’s Fairfields has took a wife later than you,” said she, eyeing -him darkly. - -“Too wise, old girl. You’ll not catch me at that work. Wives is like -Flanders’ mares, as the Squire says, fairest afar off.” - -“Hey?” snarled old Mildred, with a prolonged note. - -“No, lass, I don’t want, nohow, to be Squire o’ Wyvern--there’s more -pains than gains in it; always one thing or t’other wrong--one begs -and t’other robs, and ten cusses to one blessin’. I don’t want folks -to say o’ me as they does of some--Harry’s a hog, and does no good -till he dies.” - -“Folk do like an estate, though,” said Mildred, with another shrewd -look. - -“Ay, if all’s straight and clear, but I don’t like debts and bother, -and I a’ seen how the old boy’s worried that way till he’s fit to -drown himself in the pond. I can do something, buyin’ or sellin’; and -little and often, you know, fills the purse.” - -Mildred was silent. - -“They do say--I mean, I knows it for certain, there is a screw -loose--and you know where, I think--but how can I help that? The -Dutchwoman, I know, can prove her marriage to poor Charlie, but never -you blab--no more will I. There was no child o’ that marriage--neither -chick nor child, so, bein’ as she is, ’tis little to her how that -sow’s handled. ’Twould be a pity poor Charlie’s son should lose his -own; and ye may tell Alice I’m glad there’s a boy, and that she’ll ha’ -no trouble from me, but all the help I can, and that’s a fact, and -that’s God’s truth.” - -“Well, well, that _is_ queer!--I never heard man speak as you speak.” - -There was a cynical incredulity in Mildred Tarnley’s tone. - -“Listen, now--here we be alone, eh?” said he, looking round. - -“Ye may say so,” she said, with a discontented emphasis. - -“I’d tell you a thing in a minute, old Tarnley, only they say old -vessels must leak. Will you be staunch? Will ye hold your tongue on’t -if I tell you a thing?” - -“Ay,” said Mildred. - -“Because one barking dog sets all the street a-barking, ye know,” he -added. - -“Ye know me well, Master Harry. I could hold my tongue always when -there was need.” - -“And that’s the reason I’m going to talk to you,” said Harry, “and no -one knows it, mind, but yourself, and if it gets out I’ll know who to -blame.” - -“’Twon’t get out for me,” said Mildred, looking hard at him. - -“One devil drubs another, they say, and if the young Squire upstairs -has a foot in the mud I’ve one in the mire,” said Harry. “If his hat -has a hole, my shoe has another. And ’tis a bad bargain where both are -losers.” - -“Well, I can’t see it nohow. I don’t know what you’re drivin’ at; but -I think you’re no fool, Master Harry; ye never was that, and it’s a -cunning part, I’ve heered, to play the fool well.” - -And Harry did look very cunning as she cited this saw, and for a -moment also a little put out. But he quickly resumed, and staring in -her face surlily, said he-- - -“Well, I _am_ cunnin’; I hope I am; and you’re a little bit that way -yourself, old Mildred; no fool, anyhow, that ever I could see.” - -“Crafty I may be, I ha’ lived years and seen folk enough to make me, -but my heart weren’t set never on pelf. - - - ‘A thousand pounds and a bottle of hay - Is all one at doom’s-day.’” - - -“So it is,” said he, “but there’s a good many days ’twixt this and -doom’s-day yet, and money ’ll do more than my lord’s letter, any -place, and I’ll not deny I’d like Wyvern well enough if my hand was -free to lay on it. But I a’ thought it well over, and it wouldn’t fit -me nohow. I can’t.” - -“Ye’re the first Fairfield I ever heered say that Wyvern wouldn’t fit -him,” said she. - -“Is that beer in the jug?” he asked, nodding toward a brown jug that -stood on the dresser. - -“Yes, sir. Would ye like a drink?” - -“Ay, if it baint stale.” - -“Fresh drew, just as you was coming in, sir,” said she, setting it -down on the table. “I’ll fetch ye a glass.” - -“Never mind a glass, a rantin’ dog like me can drink out of a -well-bucket, much less a brown jug,” and clutching it carelessly by -the handle he quaffed as long and deep a draught as his ancestor and -namesake might after his exhausting flight from Worcester a couple of -hundred years before. - -“You are puzzled, old girl, and don’t know whether I be in jest or -earnest. But, good or bad, wives must be had--you know, and you never -heard of a Fairfield yet that was lucky in a wife, or hadn’t a screw -loose sometime about they sort o’ cattle; and ye’re an old servant, -Mildred, and though you be a bit testy, you’re true, and I may tell ye -things I wouldn’t tell no one, not the Governor, not my little finger; -I’d burn my shirt if it knew; and ye won’t tell no one, upon your -soul, and as ye hope to be saved?” - -“I can keep counsel, I’m good at that,” said Mildred. - -“Well, I need not say no more than this: there’s them that’s quiet -enough now, and will be, that if they thought I was Squire o’ Wyvern -I’d make the world too hot to hold me. I’d rather be Harry Fairfield -at fair and market than archbishop of hell, I can tell ye, havin’ no -likin’ for fine titles and honour, and glory, wi’ a tethered leg and a -sore heart; better to go your own gait, and eat your mouthful where ye -find it, than go in gold wi’ a broken back, that’s all, and that’s -truth. If ’twas otherwise I’d be down in the mouth, I can tell you, -about the young genman upstairs, and I’d a’ liked his birthday no -better than a shepherd loves a bright Candlemas; but as it is--no -matter, ’tis better to me than a pot o’ gold, and I drink the little -chap’s health, and I wish she had a sieve full o’ them, and that’s -God’s truth, as I stand here,” and Harry backed the declaration with -an oath. - -“Well, I believe you, Harry,” said Mildred. - -“And I’m glad o’t,” she added after a pause. - -“I’m very glad--there has been ill blood o’er much in the family,” she -resumed; “it’s time there should be peace and brotherhood, God -knows--and--I’m glad to hear you speak like that, sir.” - -And, so saying, she extended her dark, hard palm to him, and he took -it, and laughed. - -“Every man knows where his own shoe pinches,” said he; “’tis a -shrewish world, old girl, and there’s warts and chilblains where no -one guesses, but things won’t be for ever; ’tis a long lane, ye know, -that has no turning, and the burr won’t stick always.” - -“Ay, ay, Master Harry, as I’ve heard the old folks say, ‘Be the day -never so long, at last cometh even-song.’” - -“And how is the lady herself?” said he. - -“As bad as can be, a’most,” answered Mildred. - -“Who says so?” he asked. - -“The doctor; he has no opinion of her, I’m afeared, poor little -thing.” - -“The doctor--does he?--but is he any good?” - -“It’s Doctor Willett, of Wykeford. He’s thought a deal of by most folk -down here. I don’t know, I’m sure, but he seems very nice about her, I -think, and kind, and looks after the baby too.” - -“That’s right; I’m glad o’ that. I’d pay something myself rather than -it should be neglected; and what does he say o’ the boy?” - -“Doin’ very well--nothin’ against him; but, you know, ’tis only a few -days, and o’er soon to judge yet a bit.” - -“I wonder could she see me for a minute?” - -“Hoot, man! How came that in your head? Why, the room’s dark, and she -never speaks above a whisper, and not five words then, and only, -maybe, thrice in a day. Ye don’t know what way she is; ’tis just the -turn o’ a halfpenny whether she’ll live till mornin’.” - -“That’s bad. I didn’t think she could be that bad,” said he. - -“She is, then.” - -“’Twould do her no harm to know that there’s some rent--about thirty -pounds--due from Riddleswake. I’ll give Tom a bit of a note to Farmer -Wycraft, and he’ll pay it. It’s settled to her for her life--I know -that--and she’ll be wantin’ money; and see you that the child wants -nothing. I have lots o’ reasons why that child should do well. This -ain’t bad beer, I can tell you. Another mug of it wouldn’t hurt me, -and if you can make me out a mouthful of anything; I’m beastly -hungry.” - -A bit of cold corned beef, some cheese, and a loaf Mildred Tarnley -produced, and Harry made a hearty meal in the kitchen, not disturbing -that engrossing business by conversation, while old Mildred went to -and fro, into the scullery and back again, and busied herself about -her saucepans and dishes. - -“Now get me a pen and ink and a bit o’ paper. There’s no one in the -house will be the worse of a little money, and I’ll write that note.” -And so he did, and handed it to Mildred with the air of a prince who -was bestowing a gift. - -“_There!_ That will make the mare go for a while longer; and, look ye, -where’s old Dulcibella Crane? I’d like to shake hands wi’ her before I -go.” - -“Upstairs, wi’ her mistress.” - -“Tell her to come down and see me for a minute; and mind, old Tarnley, -ye must write to me often--to-morrow and next day--and--where’s my -hat?--on my head, by Jove--and so on; for if anything should -happen--if little Alice should founder, you know--there should be some -one, when she’s off the hooks, to look after things a bit; and the -Governor won’t do nothing--put that out o’ yer head--and ’twill all -fall on my shoulders; and send her down to me--old Dulcibella Crane, I -mean--for I’m going, and unless I’m wanted I mayn’t see ye here for -many a day.” - -Thus charged, Mildred Tarnley went away, and in a few minutes old -Dulcibella appeared. - -From her, after he had examined her as to the state of the lady -upstairs, and of her baby, he exacted the same promise as that which -Mildred had made him--a promise to write often to Wyvern. - -He did not mind making her the same odd confidence which he had made -to Mildred. There was no need, he thought, for Dulcibella was -soft-hearted, and somewhat soft-headed, too, and by no means given to -suspicion; and as she had not the evil that attends shrewdness, -neither had she the reliability, and she was too much given to -talking, and his secret would then become more public than he cared to -make it. - -“And tell the mistress I wish her joy, do you mind, and I’d like to -stand godfather to the boy whenever the christenin’ is, and to put me -to any work she thinks I’m fit for; and tell her I wrote about a -handful o’ rent that’s coming to her; and good-bye, and take care o’ -yourself; and who’s nursin’ the baby?” - -“We feeds it wi’ goat’s milk and sich like, by direction of the -doctor. Wouldn’t ye like to see it?” - -“Not this time--I’m off--but--who’s taking charge of him?” - -“Among us the poor little darling is, but mostly me.” - -“Well, that’s right, and look after it well, and I’ll give ye a bit o’ -money--when--when it’s on a little, and don’t forget to write; and ye -needn’t say nout to old Mildred, for she’s goin’ to write too, and -might take huff if she knew that you was writin’ also, do you see?” - -“Yes, Master Harry, surely none shall know, and I’m thinkin’ ye -_would_ like to see it, and it won’t be nothin’ the worse, ye’ll find, -and it _is_ such a darlin’.” - -“And so like its poor papa that’s gone, eh? But I haven’t no time, -dear, this bout, and you may give his worship my kind regards, and -tell him the more he thrives the better I’m pleased, and old chimnies -won’t stand for ever, and he won’t be long kept out of his own, and -I’ll keep them aloof that would make or meddle or mar, and good-by, -old Dulcie Crane, and mind what I said.” - -And clapping her on the shoulder with his strong hand, he smiled after -his fashion, and wagged his head and strode into the yard, mounted his -horse, and was soon far away on the road from Carwell Grange. - - - - - CHAPTER L. - BERTHA VELDERKAUST. - -Harry Fairfield, when, crossing Cressley Common, he reached the road -that diverges eastward, took that turn, and rode towards Hatherton. - -Surely enough he looked when he slackened his pace to a walk at the -foot of the long low hill that interposes between the common and that -town. - -He had a short pipe in his pocket, with a big bowl, and a metal cover -to it, into which he stuffed some pinches of tobacco--a shilling went -a good way in that sort of smoking, and Harry was economical--and soon -his pipe was in full play. - -This narcotic helped his cogitative powers, and he had a good deal to -think about. He was going to see his old friend Bertha Velderkaust, in -her new situation, and he was considering how best to approach her. - -From such ruminations--too vague and irregular to be reduced to -logical sequence and arrangement--there arise, nevertheless, -conclusions by no means unimportant, and quite distinct enough. By -this time he had smoked his pipe out, and looked down from the summit -of this rising ground upon the pretty town spreading among the trees, -with its old tower and steeple, its court-house, its parsonage, and -that high-walled stronghold on the right, in which the object of his -visit was at present secluded. - -When, having complied with all formalities, he obtained an entrance, -and obtained permission to visit that person, it was her pleasure to -keep him waiting for some time for his audience. Harry grew cross and -impatient, the more so as he heard that she had a friend with her, -drinking tea, and reading the newspaper to her. - -As Harry Fairfield was one of those persons who are averse to -sacrificing themselves without a good consideration, the reader will -conclude that his object was not altogether to serve the “old -soldier.” If it had been only that, I think he would have left the -town of Hatherton _re infectâ_. As it was, he waited, and at last was -admitted. - -This lady, Bertha Velderkaust, chose to be known among her neighbours -in misfortune as Madame Bertha Fairfield of Wyvern, which style and -title she preferred to that by which she had been committed to the -safe keeping of the gaoler. - -When Harry Fairfield stepped into her small apartment he found her -dressed and bedizened in a way that a little surprised him. - -She had on a sky-blue satin dress, caught up at one side with a bunch -of artificial flowers. She had a lace scarf and a lace coiffure lying -flat across her head, with a miniature coronet of Roman pearl in the -centre, and lappets depending at each side. She had a double necklace -of enormous Roman pearls about her throat, and a pair of pink velvet -slippers, embroidered with beads and bugles, and this tawdry figure -sat on the side of her truckle-bed to receive him, with the air of a -princess in a pantomime. She accumulated her finery in this way, I -think, for the purpose of impressing the people about the prison with -a due sense of her position and importance. It may not have been -quite without its effect. - -“Hullo! madame, I came to tell you some news,” said he, as soon as the -door was closed. “But, by the makins! you ’most took my breath away at -first sight o’ ye.” - -“Pity to have so nice a man breathless--deplorable pity!”--or _biddy_, -as she pronounced it. “Suppose you go away. I did not ask you to come -and get your breath again in the air of my place.” - -“What place may that be--not Hoxton Old Town, hey?” - -“Not at all--Wyvern, dear child?” she said, with a quiet sneer. - -“Oh, thank ye--yes--well I will, I think, take a mouthful there as you -are so good.” - -As he concluded this speech Master Harry put out his tongue at the -blind lady with a grimace that was outrageous. - -“I’ll hide my name no longer,” she said, “I’m Mrs. Fairfield of -Wyvern.” - -“That’s as it may be,” he answered, serenely. - -“I say, I’m Mrs. Fairfield of Wyvern,” repeated she. - -“Boo!” answered Harry. - -“Beast! By that noise what do you mean?” - -“I’ll tell ye, by-and-by. Come, you mustn’t be cross, it wastes time.” - -“More time than we know what to do with in this house,” she sneered. - -“Well, that’s true for some, I’ll not deny; but there’s some as is -pretty well worked I hear--eh?--and so long as we baint, we may endure -the leisure, for as bad as that is, business here, I’m told, is a deal -worse,” and Harry laughed. - -“Pleasant was my Harry always,” again sneered the lady. - -“And ye heard of poor Charlie, of course?” he asked. - -“Yes, of course. Every one is not like you. I did hear. I don’t thank -you,” she answered, tartly, and turned her pale, malignant face toward -him. - -“But, dear girl, I could not. There was difficulties, eyes a-watchin’ -on all hands, and ears cocked, and I knew you could not be long -without knowing. So you heard; but mayhap you haven’t heard -this--there’s a child born o’ that marriage.” - -“Marriage!” and with an oath the big Dutchwoman burst into a -discordant laugh. - -For a moment Harry was alarmed, but the laugh was not -hysterical--purely emotional, and an escape for pent-up scorn and -fury. - -“Well, anyhow there’s a child--a boy--and a fine hale little chap, wi’ -a big bald head and a bawlin’ mouth as ever a mother hugged--the -darlin’.” - -“Well, let the brat lie on the dung heap, you’ll not lift him,” said -the lady. - -“I’ll not meddle or make. I’m not over-hot about Wyvern. I’d rather -have a pocket full o’ money than a house full o’ debts any day; and -anyhow there he is, and four bones that’s to walk off with my share -o’t.” - -“I should have got mourning,” said Bertha Velderkaust, speaking from -some hidden train of thought. - -“Bah! No one to see you here,” said Harry. - -“If I had money or credit, I’d have got it,” she said. - -“That’s very affectionate of you,” said Harry; “but why do you dress -like that--why do you dress like the lady wi’ the glass slipper, -Cinderella, at the king’s ball, in the story book?” - -“I should dress, you think, like Cinderella over the coal-scuttle?” - -“Well, I wouldn’t set the folk a-laughing when I was in no laughing -humour myself--not that it makes much odds, and I do suppose it don’t -matter--not it.” - -“It does matter something, perhaps, and perhaps nothing; but I know -who I am, and I won’t let myself down,” said she. “I don’t want to -lose myself among these people; I’ll keep myself distinct. I’m too -high to put my foot in the mud.” - -“Too high to put your foot in the mud--too high to put your foot on -the pavement,” said Harry, mischievously, with his eyes on this -impulsive lady, and hitching his chair off a little to secure a fair -start. “You’ll be too high, I’m thinkin’, to get your foot to ground -at all, one o’ these days, if you don’t look sharp. It’s too high a -flight, I’m told, to touch _terra firma_ wi’ the top o’ your toe--the -gallows, I mean--and that’s what you’re coming to quick, I’m afeard.” - -As Harry concluded, he stood up, intending to get out, if possible, -without the indignity of coming to hand-grips with a woman. - -The Herculean lady, in sky-blue satin and Roman pearls, leaned forward -with sharpened features, but neither extended her arm nor attempted to -rise. Then she sighed deeply, and leaned with her shoulders to the -wall. - -“Off in a coach for this bout,” thought Harry. - -“Thank you, kind lad, always the same,” she sneered, quietly. “You -wish it, no doubt, but, no, you don’t think it. I know better.” - -“Why the devil should I wish you hanged, Bertha? Don’t be a fool; -you’re not in my way, and never can be. There’s that boy, and, for -reasons of my own, I’m glad he is--I’m _glad_ he’s where he is--and -Wyvern will be for him and not for me--never!” - -“Harry, dear, you know quite well,” she drawled, softly, with a -titter, “you’ll poison that boy if you can.” - -“You lie!” said Harry, turning scarlet, and then as suddenly pale. -“You _lie_!--and so that’s answered.” - -Here followed a silence. The woman was not angry, but she tittered -again and nodded her head. - -“Wyvern’s out o’ my head. I never cared about it. I had my own -reasons. I never did,” he swore, furiously, striking his hand on the -table. “And I won’t see that boy ruined--my flesh and blood--my own -nephew. No, no, Bertha, that would never do; the boy must have his -own. I’ll see you made comfortable, but that lay won’t do--you’ll find -it won’t pay nohow.” - -“Speak out, man--what do you mean?” said Bertha. - -“Come, come, come, Bertha, you’re no fool,” wheedled he, “there isn’t -a sounder head from this to London; and though you be a bit -hot-headed, you’re not as bad as you’d have us believe--’taint the -worst, always, that has an o’er-hasty hand. Why, bless ye, girl, I’d -be sorry ye were hurt, and I’ll help to get ye out o’ this, without -scathe or scorn, if you’ll let me.” - -“Well, come; what’s in your mind, Harry Vairfield?” she asked. - -“I tell ye what it is, it can do you no good, nohow, bein’ hard on -that boy, and I know, and you know, you never were married to poor -Charlie.” - -“You lie!” cried the lady, bitterly. So they were quits on the point -of honour. - -“Now, Bertha, lass, come now--reason, reason; don’t you be in a hurry, -and just listen to reason, and I’ll make it better to you than fifty -marriages.” - -“Don’t you think I have no advice--I’ve engaged Mr. Wynell, the best -attorney in Hatherton; I know what I’m about.” - -“The better you know it, the better I’m pleased; but the lawyerfolk -likes always a bit of a row--they seldom cries kiss and be friends -until their hands be well greased, and their clients has a bellyful o’ -law; therefore it’s better that friends should put their heads -together and agree before it comes to that sort o’ milling, and I tell -ye, ye shall be cared for; _I_’ll see to it, if you don’t be kickin’ -up no rows about nothing.” - -She laughed a quiet, scornful laugh. - -“Oh ho! Master Harry, poor little fellow! he’s frightened, is he?” - -“You’re damnably mistaken,” said he. “Frightened, indeed! I’ll see -whose frightened: I know there was no marriage--I _know_ it, and it -won’t do tryin’ it on me, you’ll just get yourself into the wrong box; -where’s the use of runnin’ your head into a cotton bag?” - -“Cotton bag your own head. Who’s to do it?” - -“They’ll be clumsy fingers that can’t tie that knot, lass. Come, -you’re a clever girl, you’re not to be talking--not like a fool. I -know everything about it. If you try that on, it will turn out bad. -’Taint easy to green Harry Fairfield; I don’t think he was ever yet -fooled by a lass but where he chose to be fooled, and it’s pretty well -allowed there’s no use trying to bully him.” - -“I ought to like you, if all that be so,” said she, “for you are very -like my own self.” - -“I’m not tryin’ to bully you, girl, nor to sell ye, neither; ye were -always a bit rash, and too ready wi’ your hand; but them’s not the -worst folk goin’. We Fairfields has a touch o’ it, and we shouldn’t be -o’er hard on quick-tempered folk like that. There was no lass that -ever I met, gentle or simple, that could match ye for good looks and -pleasant talk, and ye dress so beautiful, and if ye had but your eyes -this minute, you’d have who ye liked at your feet.” - -And Harry Fairfield repeated this view of her charms with an oath. - -“If ifs and ans were pots and pans,” repeated the lady with a sigh of -gratification, and with that foreign accent and peculiar drawl which -made the homely proverb sound particularly odd; “I forget the -end--there would be no use in tinkers, I think.” - -“Well said, Bertha! but there’s none like ye, not one, this minute, so -handsome,” exclaims he. - -“Not that chit down at Carwell Grange, I dare say--eh?” - -“Alice! Not fit to stand behind your chair. If ye could but see her, -and just look in the glass, ye’d answer that question yourself,” he -replied. - -“There it is again--_if_ I could look in the glass--it is fourteen -years since I did that--_if_ I could see that fool of a -girl--if--if--_if_!” she said, with an irrepressible simper--“the old -proverb again--ifs and ans were pots and pans--’twas old Mistress -Tarnley used to say that--a d----d old witch she always was,” she -broke out, parenthetically, “and should be broke alive on the wheel.” - -“Bang away wi’ the devil’s broomstick, and break her to smash for me,” -said Harry. “But I’d sooner talk o’ yourself. Hang me, if you ever -looked better--there’s no such figure; and, by the law, it’s looking -up--it _is_--better and better every day. I like a tall lass, but ye -beat them all, by the law, and ye shows off a dress so grandly.” - -“Now don’t think, foolish thing, I like compliments--in at one ear and -out of the other,” she said, with the same smirk, shaking her great -head. - -“Hoot, lass! Compliments, indeed! Why should I? Only this, that -knowing you so long I just blurts out everything that comes uppermost, -and it’s a pity ye shouldn’t have money to dress as ye should.” - -“I never had that,” said the lady. - -“Never--I know that well--and if ye won’t be said by me, ye’ll have -less,” said Harry. - -“I don’t think you know much about it,” said Bertha, serenely. - -“Now, Bertha, child, you mustn’t keep contradictin’ me. I do know a -deal about it--_everything_. There was no marriage, _never_.” - -“As long as Charlie lived, ye never said that--you always backed me.” - -“I’m not going to tell lies for no one,” said he, sulkily. - -“Not going! Why you have been lying all your life--you’d lie for a -shilling any day--all lies, you mean, miserly liar.” - -“Come, Bertha, draw it mild, won’t ye? Did you never hear say o’ the -Fairfields that they were a quick-tempered folk? and it’s an old -saying, don’t knock a mad horse over the head.” - -“It’s true all I said,” she laughed; “and that’s why it stings.” - -“And did ye never hear that true jests breed bad blood?” he laughed. -“But no matter, I’m not a bit riled, and I won’t. I like ye better for -speaking out; I hate that mealy-mouthed talk that fine-spoken folk -goes on wi’. I likes a bit of a rub now and then; if ye were too civil -I couldn’t speak my own mind neither, and that would never do.” - -“Get along with ye. Have you any more to say?” - -“Shall I say it out, plain and short, and will ye hear it through?” he -asked. - -“Ay.” - -“Well, here it is; if ye don’t sign that, I think ye’ll be hanged.” - -“No, you don’t,” she said, more quietly. - -“I do, by ----,” he swore. - -“No, you don’t,” she repeated, in the same tone, “who is to do it? -Charlie’s gone, and vilely as he used me, he never would have done -that; and Alice won’t, she told you so. I’m better informed, I -believe, than you fancied. So don’t you suppose I am at all anxious.” - -“I wanted to take you off in a coach, and you won’t let me,” said he. - -“Thanks, simple Harry,” she sneered. - -“And I’m coming this day week, and then it will be within ten days o’ -the ’sizes.” - -“And I’ll be discharged; and I’ll bring separate actions against every -soul that had a hand in putting me here. Ask my attorney,” said the -lady, with a pale angry simper. - -“And Judge Risk is coming down, and you’d better ask your attorney, as -you talk of him, whether he’s a hangin’ judge or no.” - -“Cunning beast! all won’t do,” she said, sarcastically. - -“Well, Bertha, this day week I’ll be here, and this day week will be -your last chance, for things will begin that day, and no one can stop -them.” - -“Lord have mercy upon us!” she whined, with an ugly mockery and an -upturning of her sightless eyes. - -“You may be saying something like that in the press-room yet, if you -won’t take the trouble to think in earnest before it’s too late. Now, -listen, once for all, for it’s the last words I’ll say. That’s all -true you say: Charlie’s gone, and if he was here, instead of in -kingdom come, ’twould ’a been all one, for he wouldn’t never ’a moved -a hand in the matter, nor ’a suffered it; and as for Alice, she won’t -neither. But if you don’t sign that paper by this day week, and make -no bones about it”--here he swore a hard oath--“blind as you be, I’ll -open your eyes--and I’ll prosecute the indictment myself. Good-by, -ma’am, and _think_ between this and then.” - -Harry Fairfield strode from the room, and was still full of the grim -emotion which had animated the close of his interview, when he reached -the little inn at which but a few weeks before his brother Charles had -stabled his horse, when making his last visit to Hatherton. - - - - - CHAPTER LI. - SERGEANT-MAJOR ARCHDALE. - -Harry Fairfield was a captain in his county militia. It was right -that the House of Fairfield should be represented in that corps. -Charlie, who was of an easy compliant temper, would have taken the -commission and the light duties, if that dignity had been put upon him. -But Harry chose it. It extended his acquaintance, added to his -opportunities of selling his horses, and opened some houses, small and -great, to him, in a neighbourly fashion, when making his circuits to -fair and market. He knew something of games, too, and was shrewd at -whist and draughts, and held a sure cue at billiards. On the whole, his -commission turned him in something in the course of a year. - -It was upon some regimental business that Sergeant-Major Archdale was -awaiting his return at Wyvern. - -Harry Fairfield, as it happened, was thinking of the Sergeant as he -rode into the yard in gloomy rumination. - -“Well, Archdale, what’s the news?” said he, as he dismounted. - -The news was not a great deal. After he had heard it Harry paused for -a time, and said he-- - -“Quite well, Archdale, I hope?” - -“Well, sir, I thank you.” - -Again Harry paused. - -“How did you come, Archdale?” - -“Walked, sir.” - -“Walked, oh! very well.” - -Here was another pause. - -“Archdale, you must go in. Here, Clinton, get some luncheon for -Sergeant-Major Archdale. A drink of beer and a mouthful won’t do you -no harm; and, Archdale, before you go let me know; I may have a word, -and I’ll say it walking down the avenue. Get Mr. Archdale some -luncheon, Clinton, and some sherry.” - -“I thank you, sir,” said the Sergeant-Major. “’Tis more like a supper -for me; I’ve had my dinner, sir, some time.” - -And with a stiff military step the Sergeant followed Clinton into the -house. - -The Sergeant-Major was above the middle size, and stout of body, which -made him look shorter. His hair was closely cut, and of a pale blue -iron gray. His face was rather pale, and smooth as marble; full and -long, with a blue chin, and a sort of light upon his fixed lineaments, -not exactly a smile, but a light that was treacherous and cruel. For -the rest his military coat, which was of the old-fashioned cut, and -his shako, with all the brasses belonging to them, and his Wellington -boots, were natty and brilliant, and altogether unexceptionable, and a -more perfectly respectable-looking man you could not have found in his -rank of life in the country. - -Without a word, with a creak in his boots, he marched slowly in, with -inflexible countenance, after Clinton. - -The Squire met Harry in the hall. - -“Hollo! it’s a week a most since I set eyes on ye--ye’ll look out some -other place for that mad filly ye bought of Jim Hardress: she’s broke -a boy’s arm this morning in the stable; _I_’ll not look after him, I -promise ye; ’tis your affair, mind, and you better look sharp, and -delay may cost ye money. Ye’re over clever. The devil owes ye a cake -this many a day, and he’s a busy bishop, and he’ll pay ye a loaf yet, -I promise you. She shan’t be kicking my men--and she bites the manger -besides. Get her away, mind, or, by my soul, I’ll sell her for the -damage.” - -So old Squire Harry stalked on, and the last scion of his stock -grinned after him, sulkily, and snarled something between his teeth, -so soon as he was quite out of hearing. - -“Who’s arm’s broke, Dick, or is it all a d----d lie o’ the -Governor’s?” inquired Harry of a servant who happened to be passing at -that moment. - -“Well, yes, sir, Jim Slade’s arm was broke in the stable. ’Twas a -kick, sir.” - -“What kicked him?” - -“The new horse that came in on Thursday, sir.” - -“_Mare_, ye mean. Why that thing’s a reg’lar lamb; she never kicked no -one. A child might play wi’ her. More like ’twas the Governor kicked -him. And what did he do wi’ his arm?” - -“The doctor, down in the town, set it, and bound it up wi’ splints, -sir.” - -“Well, _I_ didn’t tell him, mind that--I wasn’t here, ye -know--good-natured of the doctor, I’ll not deny, but he shan’t be -sending in no bills to me. And how’s Jim since--gettin’ on nicely, -I’ll swear.” - -“I don’t know, sir; I didn’t see him since.” - -“Hoot! then it’s all right, I warrant ye, and ye can tell old Slade, -if he likes it, I’ll get him a bit of a writin’ to the hospital for -Jim; but it won’t be nothin’--not a bit.” - -And with this economical arrangement, Harry dismissed the subject for -the present, and took his stand upon the hall-door steps, and smoked -his pipe, awaiting the close of Sergeant-Major Archdale’s repast. - -The long shadows and lights of golden sunset faded before the guest -appeared, and twilight and the moths were abroad. - -Almost as the servant informed Harry Fairfield that Mr. Archdale was -coming round to the hall-door to receive his commands, the -Sergeant-Major appeared in front of the house, and Harry Fairfield -stepped down to the court and was received by the militiaman with a -military salute. - -“I’ll walk a bit wi’ you, Archdale; I want a word about another -matter--not regimental business. We’ll walk down towards the gate.” - -Stiffly and silently the Sergeant-Major marched beside the smoking -gentleman, who having got a little way from the house, knocked the -ashes out of his pipe, and dropped it into his pocket. - -“That militia sogerin’ is beggarly pay for a man like you, Archdale; -and I’ll want a clever fellow, by-and-by--for when the Squire goes off -the hooks, and that can’t be a long way off--I’ll have a deal o’ -trouble lookin’ after things; for there’s a young chap to succeed, and -a plaguy long minority ’twill be, and one way or another the trouble -will fall to my share, bein’ uncle, ye see, to the little fellow. Am I -making it plain what I mean?” - -“Quite plain, sir,” said the cold voice of the Sergeant-Major. - -“Well, there’s the property down at Warhampton, a devilish wide -stretch o’ land for the rental. There’s good shootin’ there, and two -keepers, but I doubt they makes away wi’ the game, and _they_ want -lookin’ after; and there’s the old park o’ Warhampton--ye know that -part o’ the country?” - -“Yes, sir, well.” - -“I know you do. Well, it should turn in a good penny more than the -Governor gets. I can’t bring it home to them, but I know what I think. -Where the horse lies down, the hair will be foun’, and I doubt the -park-book’s doctored. There’ll be a sort o’ steward wanted there, -d’ye see. D’ye know Noulton farm?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“Well, it’s a nice thing, a snug house, and as many acres as you’d -want to begin wi’; the tenant’s going after harvest--you’d be the very -man for’t, and I’ll tell them I’ll do all I can to serve my nephew, -but I must live myself too. I’ve nout but my time and my wits to turn -a penny by, and if I try to manage for him I’ll want the best help I -can get, d’ye see? and _you’re_ the man I want; I’ve got no end o’ a -character o’ ye, for honesty and steadiness and the like; and ye’re a -fellow can use his eyes, and hold his tongue; and ye’d have the farm -and the house--ye know them--rent free; and the grazing of three cows -on the common, and it’s none o’ your overstocked, bare commons, but as -sweet a bit o’ grass as ye’d find in the kingdom; and ye shall a’ -fifty pounds a year beside; and the farm’s nigh forty acres, and it’s -worth close on a hundred more. And--if ye do all we want well, and -I’m sure you will--I’ll never lose sight o’ ye while grass grows and -you and me lives.” - -“I thank you, sir,” said the cold, clear voice of Archdale. - -“And there’s a little bit of a secret--I wouldn’t tell another--about -myself, Archdale. I’ll tell _you_, though,” said Harry, lowering his -voice. - -“Yes, sir,” said Archdale, in the same cold stern way, which irritated -Harry. - -“Well, I’m not talking, mind, to Sergeant-Major Archdale, if you like -the other thing, at Noulton, best.” - -“Noulton best, sir, certainly; thank you.” - -“But to Mr. Archdale of Noulton, and steward of Warhampton, mind ye, -and ’twill be settled next harvest.” - -“I thank you, sir.” - -“Don’t walk so quick, we’re gettin’ over the ground too fast. Well, -there’s a thing you’ll have to keep dark for me.” - -“You’ll find me confidential, sir; my superior officers did.” - -“I know that well--I know you, Archdale, and that is why I chose you -out o’ a thousand, and it’s a confidential fellow--d----d -confidential--I want, for the country’s all one as the town for talk, -and tongues will keep goin’ like the bells on a sheep-walk, and -there’s many a bit o’ nonsense, that’s no great odds when all’s told, -that a chap wouldn’t like to have made the laugh or the talk o’ the -country side.” - -“Yes, sir,” said the inflexible Sergeant-Major. - -“You held the same rank in the line, Sergeant-Major, didn’t you?” - -“Yes, sir,” said the Sergeant-Major, and saluted from habit. - -“I thought so, and that says a deal for you, Mr. Archdale; and I -remember one of your papers says you were the youngest sergeant ever -made in your regiment?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“Well, that says a lot too, and a very responsible office that is. -Egad, from all I ’a seen, I’d say the sergeants has more to do with -the state of a regiment than all the other officers, commissioned or -non-commissioned, put together.” - -“There’s a good deal depends on ’em, sir.” - -“You keep to yourself, Archdale; that’s the way to rise.” - -“I was a man of few acquaintances, sir, and confidential with my -superior officers, and few words, but I meant ’em, sir, and made the -men do their duty.” - -“That’s the man for my money,” said Harry. “Will ye be ready for -Noulton Farm by the middle o’ next month?” - -“Yes, sir, I expect.” - -“I’ll settle that for ye, then, and the pay and the commonage. I’ll -settle that wi’ my father to-morrow, and we’ll get the writings -drawn.” - -“I thank you, sir.” - -“And, wait a bit. I told you,” said Harry, perhaps a very little -embarrassed, “there’s another little thing you must manage for me.” - -“Yes, sir.” - -He almost wished Mr. Archdale to ask questions and raise difficulties. -This icy surface, beneath which he saw nothing, began to embarrass -him. - -“Every fellow’s a fool once or twice in his life, you know, Archdale; -and that’s the way rogues makes money, and honest chaps is sold-- - - - ‘No fools at the fair, - No sale for bad ware,’ - - -you know?” - -He looked for sympathy in the face of the Sergeant-Major, but he found -there neither sympathy nor ridicule, but a serene, dignified, -supercilious composure. - -“Well, I’m not married, and more’s the pity,” he said, affecting a -kind of jocularity, uneasily; “but among ’em they’ve made me a present -of a brat they calls my son, and I must just put him to nurse and -provide for him, I do suppose; and keep all quiet, and ye’ll look out -some decent poor body that lives lonely and won’t ask no questions nor -give no trouble, but be content wi’ a trifle, and I’ll gi’e’t to you -every quarter for her, and she’ll never hear my name, mind, nor be the -wiser who owns it or where it came from. I’d rayther she thought ’twas -a poor body’s--if they think a fellow’s well-to-do it makes ’em -unreasonable, and that’s the reason I pitched on you, Archdale, -because ye’re a man o’ sense, and won’t be talkin’ like the pratin’ -fools that’s goin’--and is it settled? is it a bargain?” - -“Yes, sir, I thank you, quite,” said Archdale. - -“Well, then, ye shall hear from me by the end o’ the week, and not a -word, mind--till all’s signed and sealed--about Noulton Farm, and -about t’other thing--_never_. The stars is comin’ out bright, and the -sunset did ye mind; we’ll ’a frost to-night; it’s come dark very -sudden; sharp air.” - -He paused, but the non-commissioned officer did not venture a kindred -remark, even an acquiescence in these meteorological speculations. - -“And I heard the other day you made an organ for Mr. Arden. Is it -true?” said Harry, suddenly. - -“Just a small thing, three stops, sir--diapason, principal, and -dulciana.” - -“Well, I don’t know nothing myself about such gear, except to hear the -old organ o’ Wyvern o’ Sundays. But it’s clever o’ you. How did ye -learn?” - -“’Prenticed, sir, two years to an organ builder in Westminster--Mr. -Lomas--and he died, and I was put to the army,” said Archdale. - -“Well, I may give ye a lift that way, too. They were talkin’ of an -organ for Warhampton Church. We’ll see. I’ll not forget.” - -“I thank you, sir,” repeated Archdale. “Any more commands for me, -sir?” - -Mr. Archdale stood stiffly at the gate, drawn up, as it were, at right -angles to Harry Fairfield. - -“No, nothing, Archdale. I’m glad the thing suits you, and it may lie -in my way yet to make them better than you think for. Good-night, -Archdale; good-night, Sergeant-Major.” - -“Good-night, sir.” - -And Archdale wheeled to his left, and with his back toward the village -of Wyvern, marched away at so stiff and regular a quick march that you -could have fancied the accompaniment of the drums and fifes. - -Harry stood at the iron gate, one half of which was open, and he -kicked a stone listlessly into the road, and, leaning on the old iron -arabesques, he looked long after that portly figure receding in -distance and melting in twilight. - -“Night’s the mother o’ thought, I’ve heard say,” said Harry, rousing -himself, and swinging the great valve into its place with a clang. -“But thought won’t do to dine on. Hollo! Gate! gate! Jorrocks, any -one,” he shouted. “Lock the gate, some of you, and make all sure for -the night.” - -And with these orders to Jorrocks, he marched back under the ancestral -trees to the old hall of Wyvern. Who was to keep the hearth of the -Fairfields aglow? The light of the old Squire’s life was flaring low -in the socket, a tiny taper was just lighted in darksome Carwell, and -Harry Fairfield--was he ever to take his turn and illuminate the -Wyvern world? - - - - - CHAPTER LII. - A TALK WITH THE SQUIRE. - -Harry proved how hungry he was by eating a huge dinner. He had the -old dining-room to himself, and sipped his brandy and water there by a -pleasant fire of coal and spluttering wood. With a button or two -undone, he gazed drowsily into the fire, with his head thrown back and -his eyes nearly closed; and the warmth of the fire and the glow of the -alcohol flushed his cheeks and his nose and his forehead to a brilliant -crimson. - -Harry had had a hard day’s riding. Some agitations, great variety of -air, and now, as we have seen, a hearty dinner and many glasses of -brandy and water, and a hot fire before him. Naturally he fell -asleep. - -He dreamed that the old Squire was dead and buried. He forgot all -about the little boy at Carwell, and fancied that he, Harry Fairfield, -draped in the black mantle with which the demure undertaker hangs the -mourners in chief, had returned from the funeral, and was seated in -the old “oak parlour,” just in all other respects as he actually was. -As he sat there, Master of Wyvern at last, and listening, he thought, -to the rough tick of the old clock in the hall, old Tom Ward seemed to -him to bounce in, his mulberry-coloured face turned the colour of -custard, his mouth agape, and his eyes starting out of their sockets. -“Get up, Master Harry,” the old servant seemed to say, in a woundy -tremor, “for may the devil fetch me if here baint the old master back -again, and he’s in the blue room callin’ for ye.” - -“Ye lie!” gasped Harry, waking up in a horror. - -“Come, ye, quick, Master Harry, for when the Squire calls it’s ill -tarrying,” said now the real voice of Tom Ward. - -“Where?” - -“In the blue chamber.” - -“Where--where am I?” said Harry, now on his feet and looking at Tom -Ward. “By jingo, Tom, I believe I was dreaming. You gave me a hell of -a fright, and is he there really? Very well.” - -And Harry walked in and found the old Squire of Wyvern standing with -his back to the fire, tall, gaunt, and flushed, and his eyes looking -large with the glassy sheen of age. - -“Well, why didn’t ye tell me the news, ye fool?” said the Squire, as -he entered. “D----n ye, if it hadn’t a bin for Tom Ward I shouldn’t a -heerd nout o’ the matter. So there’s a brat down in Carwell -Grange--ha, ha!--marriage is honourable, I’ve heerd tell, but -housekeepin’s costly. ’Tis the old tune on the bagpipe. That’s the way -to beggar’s bush. When marriage gets into the saddle repentance gets -up at the crupper. Why the devil didn’t ye tell me the news? Why -didn’t ye tell me, ye d----d wether-head?” - -“So I would ’a told ye to-night, but I fell asleep after dinner. It’s -true enough, though, and there’s doctors, and nurses, and caudles, and -all sorts.” - -“Well for Charlie he’s out of the way--dead mice feels no cold, you -know, and she’s a bad un--Alice Maybell’s a bad un. The vicar was a -thankless loon, and she’s took after him. She went her own gait, and -much good it did her. Sweetheart and honey bird keeps no house, and -the devil’s bread is half bran. She’ll learn a lesson now. I was too -good to that huzzy. Put another man’s child in your bosom, they say, -and he’ll creep out at your sleeves. She’s never a friend now. She’s -lost Charlie and she’s lost me. Well might the cat wink when both her -eyes were out. She’d like well enough to be back here again in -Wyvern--d----n her. She knows who was her best friend by this time. -Right well pleased wi’ herself, I’ll be bound, the day she gi’ed us -the slip and ran off with the fool Charlie--down in the mouth, I -warrant her now, the jade. I dare say the parson’s down at the Grange -every day to pray wi’ my lady and talk o’ resignation. When all their -rogueries breaks down they take to cantin’ and psalm singin’, and -turns up their eyes, the limmers, and cries the Lord’s will be done. -Welcome death, quoth the rat, when the trap fell. Much thanks to ’em -for takin’ what they can’t help. Well, she’s a bad un--a -black-hearted, treacherous lass she proved, and Charlie was a soft -fellow and a mad fellow, and so his day’s over, and I was just a daft -old fool, and treated accordin’. But time and thought tames all, and -we shall all lie alike in our graves.” - -“And what’s the boy like?” the old man resumed. “Is he like Charlie?” - -“He was asleep, and the room dark, so there was no good trying to see -him,” said Harry, inventing an excuse. - -“Not a bit, dark or light, not a bit; he’s Ally’s son, and good won’t -grow from that stock--never. As the old bird crows, so crows the -young, and that foreign madam, I hear, swears she was married first to -poor Charlie, and what’s that to me?--not that spoonful of punch. -She’s up in limbo, and if her story be true, why then that boy of -Ally’s ain’t in the runnin’, and his mother, bless her heart, needn’t -trouble her head about Wyvern, nor be wishin’ the old Squire, that was -good to her, under the sod, to make way for her son, and then there’s -you to step in and claim my shoes, and my chair, and cellar key, and -then Madam--what’s her name--Van Trump, or something, will out wi’ a -bantling, I take it, and you’ll all fight it out, up and down--kick, -throttle, and bite--in the Court of Chancery, or where ye can, and -what is’t to me who wins or who loses? Not that bit o’ lemon-peel, and -if you think I’m a going to spend a handful o’ money in law to clear -up a matter that don’t concern me, no more than the cat’s whisker, -you’re a long way out in your reckonin’--be me soul ye are, for I’ll -not back none o’ ye, and I won’t sport a shillin’--and I don’t care a -d----n. Ye’ll fight the battle o’er my grave, and ye’ll take Wyvern -who can, and ’twill cost ye all round a pretty penny. Ye’ll be sellin’ -your shirts and your smocks, and ye’re pretty well in for it, and ye -can’t draw back. Well lathered is half shaved, and it won’t break my -heart, I promise you.” - -And the old man chuckled and hooted, and wagged his head fiercely as -he declaimed, in his own way, upon the row that was coming. - -“Don’t ye spare one another for my sake. Take Wyvern who can. I’ll -keep my hands in my pockets, I promise ye. What have I to do wi’ -other folks’ windmills?” - -So the old Squire stormed on more serenely than he had done for a long -time. - -“Make another tankard o’ that thing, Tom; make a big one, and brew it -well, and fetch a rummer for yourself, lad.” - -“Beggar’s breed for rich men to feed,” resumed the Squire. “A son at -the Grange o’ Carwell, no less! Well, I ’a taken enough, and too much, -on my shoulders in my day, and ’tis often the least boy carries the -biggest fiddle. She’s a sly lass--Alice. She’ll find fools enough to -help her. I ’a done wi’ her--she’s a bad un. Look at that harpsichord -thing there she used to play on,” he pointed to the piano. “I got that -down from Lunnon for her to jingle tunes at as long as she liked, and -I’d a had it smashed up and pitched in the river, only ’twould a made -her think I cared enough about her to take that trouble about her -lumber. She turned her back on me when she liked, and I’ll not turn my -face on her when she lists. A graceless huzzy she was and is, and -grace lasts but beauty blasts, and so let it be for me. That’s enough. -I take it there’s no more to tell. So take ye a candle if ye’re -sleepy, man, no use dawdlin’ sluggard’s guise, loath to bed, and loath -to rise,” and so, with a gruff nod, he dismissed him, and in came Tom -Ward with the punch before very long. - -“That’s good, Tom; that’ll warm yer ribs. How long a’ you been here? -Wyvern always, but a long time in the house, Tom, a long time wi’ the -family. ’Tis sixty years ago, Tom. I remember you in our livery, -Isabel and Blue--them’s the old colours. They don’t know the name -now--_salmon_, they calls it. We ’a seen Christmas pretty often in the -old house. We’ll not see many more, I’m thinking. The tale’s nigh -done. ’Twasn’t bad times wi’ ye here, Tom; we can’t complain; we ’a -had our share, and after cheese comes nothing, as the old folks used -to say. Take the rummer and sit ye down by the door, Tom. There’s -Master Harry. I’d rather ha’ a glass wi’ you, Tom, than a dozen wi’ -him, a d----d pippin’-squeezing rascal. Tom, ain’t he a sneak, and no -Fairfield, Tom, ain’t he, ain’t he, d---- ye?” - -“I won’t say that all out, sir. He’s a tall, handsome lad, and Master -Harry can sit down and drink his share like a man.” - -“Like a beast, ye mean. He never tells ye a pleasant story, nor laughs -like a man, and what liquor he swallows, it goes into a bad skin, Tom. -He’s not hot and hearty in his cups, like a Fairfield; he has no good -nature, Tom; he’s so close-fisted and cunnin’. I hate them fellows -that can’t buy at the market and sell at the fair, and drink when he’s -drinkin’; d---- him, he’s always a watching to _do_ ye, just like his -mother; a screw she was, and her son’s like her, crooked to sell, and -crooked to buy. I hate him sober, Tom, and I hate him drunk. Bring -your glass here, old lad; a choice mug-full ye’ve brewed to-night. -Hold it straight, you fool! - -“What was I sayin’? The old things is out o’ date, Tom; the world’s -changin’, and ’tain’t in nature, Tom, to teach old dogs tricks. I do -suppose there’s fun goin’, though I don’t see it, and the old folks -beginning to be in the way, as they were always, and things won’t -change for us. We were brave lads, we Fairfields, but there’s no one -to come now. There won’t be no one after me in Wyvern house. To the -wrestlin’ on Wyvern Fair Green when I was a boy, I mind the time when -lords and ladies id come ridin’ down for twenty miles round, and all -the old stock o’ the country, some on horseback, and some in coaches, -and silks and satins, to see the belt played for and singlestick and -quarter-staves. They were manly times, Tom, and a Fairfield ever first -in the field, and--what year is this? ay, I was twenty the week before -that day--’tis sixty-four years ago--when I threw Dick Dutton over my -shoulder and broke his collar-bone, and Dutton was counted the best -man they ever brought down here, and Meg Weeks--ye’ll mind Meg Weeks -wi’ the hazel eyes--was lookin’ on; and the wrestlin’s gone, and not a -man left in the country round that could tell a quarter-staff from a -flail; and when I’m gone to my place in the churchyard, there’s not a -Fairfield in Wyvern no longer, for I don’t count Harry one, he’s not a -Fairfield, by no chance, and never was. Charlie had it in him, -handsome Charlie. I seen many a turn in him like me, I did; and that -Captain Jolliffe’s died only t’other day that he shot in the arm at -Tewkesbury only twenty years ago for sayin’ a wry word o’ me; old -Morton read it yesterday, he says, in the Lun’on paper. But it’s all -over wi’ Charlie, and--stand up, Tom, and fill yer glass, and we’ll -drink to him.” - -Old Tom Ward was the first to speak after. - -“Hot blood and proud, sir, and a bit wild, when he was young; more -than that, there’s nout to be said by any. A brave lad, sir, and the -good-naturedest I ever see. He shouldn’t be buried where he is, alone. -I don’t like that, nohow. He wouldn’t a done so by you, Squire; he -liked ye well; he liked every one that was ever kind to him. I mind -how he cried after poor Master Willie. They two was very like and -loving. Master Willie was tall, like him, and handsome.” - -“Don’t ye be talkin’ o’ them at all, ye fool,” broke in the Squire, -violently, “stop that, and hold your tongue, Tom. D---- you, do you -think I’m foolish? Light my candle, and get ye to bed, the tankard’s -out; get ye to bed, ye d----d old fool,” and he shook the old servant -hard by the hand as he spoke. - - - - - CHAPTER LIII. - HARRY FAIRFIELD GROWS UNEASY. - -A few days later Harry Fairfield rode from Wyvern into the -picturesque little town of Wykeford, and passing the steep, narrow -bridge, pulled up near the church, at the door of Dr. Willett. Harry -had something to say to the doctor, but, like a good diplomatist, that -shrewd dealer in horses preferred letting the doctor talk a bit on his -own account first. - -He found him in slippers and dressing-gown, clipping the evergreens -that grew in front of his house, the hour of his forenoon excursion -not having yet arrived. - -“Woodman, spare that tree,” said Harry, quoting a popular song, -facetiously. - -The doctor looked up. - -“And how is Doctor Willett this morning?” said Harry. - -“Oh! oh! Is that you?” said the doctor, straightening his back with a -little effort, for he had been stooping to his task, and old backs -don’t unbend in a moment. - -“Quite well, thank you--so are you, I see.” - -“Can’t complain.” - -“And how’s the old Squire?” said the doctor. - -“How’s the old house?” answered Harry; “staunch and straight, and like -to stand for ever. I see no change in him. And all well over at -Carwell?” - -“Far from it,” said the doctor. - -“And who’s sick?” - -“The poor young mother--very ill indeed,” said he--“nervous, low, and -feverish, she has been, and yesterday, when I saw her, it was plainly -fever--quite declared.” - -“What sort of fever?” asked Harry. - -“Well, the nerves are very much engaged,” began the doctor-- - -“Take care it ain’t typhus,” said Harry. “The baby ha’n’t got it, I -hope?” - -“No, the child’s all safe.” - -“There’s typhus down at Gryce’s mill, and a child in scarlatina in the -glen, I hear.” - -“Is there? ha! It has been going a good deal at that side, I’m told,” -said Dr. Willett. “There’s Lady Wyndale at Oulton--very good-natured -she seems to be--wouldn’t she take the child and nurse it for a while? -It’s a nice place, well enclosed, and lies high--not likely to get in -there. I attended a patient there in dropsy, once, when it was let, -and the Wyndales away in India.” - -“Ay, she’s good-natured; she’d have the mother and child together, -with a welcome, but she says she won’t take no one’s babby to nurse -away from its people, and she’s right, I think, so the young chap must -stand his ground, and bide the fortune o’ war, you know. What time -shall you be there to-day?” he inquired. - -“Three o’clock.” - -“Very well, then, I’ll be passin’ at the mill end o’ the glen about -that time, and I’ll ride up, and look in, just to hear what you have -to say, and I’ll get home by Cressley Common. It will do me as well as -t’other way. I turned aside a bit to reach you, and hear the news, and -I must be joggin’ again. Good-bye, doctor. Is your church clock -right?” said Harry, looking up at the old tower and pulling out his -watch to compare. - -“‘The clock goes as it pleaseth the clerk,’ the old saw tells us, but -we all go by the clock here, and it does keep right good time,” said -old Dr. Willett, with his hand over his eyes, reading its golden hands -and figures, as Harry was. - -“Well, then, doctor, good-bye, and God bless ye,” said Harry, and away -he rode, without hearing the doctor’s farewell. - -At Carwell Grange, at three o’clock, there was the gloom and silence -of a sick house. - -The tiptoe tread of old Dulcibella, and her whisperings at the door, -were scarcely audible, and now and then a weary moan was heard in the -darkened room, and the wail and squall of a little child from another -room not far off. - -Old Mildred Tarnley had undertaken the charge of the child, while -Dulcibella, with the aid of a neighbour brought in for the occasion, -took charge of the sick lady. - -Before three o’clock came, to the surprise of this sad household, -Harry Fairfield arrived. He did not come riding; he arrived in a -tax-cart. He had got through more real work that day than many men who -were earning their bread by their labour. - -“Give this one a feed, Tom; and how’s all here?” said he, throwing the -apron off and jumping down. - -“Bad enough, I’m afraid, sir.” - -“_Worse?_” - -“I don’t know, sir, till the doctor comes; but can’t be no better, for -I heard Mrs. Crane say she didn’t close an eye all night.” - -“I hope they’re not forgetting the child in the hurry?” said Harry. - -“Mrs. Tarnley and Lilly Dogger looks after it, turn about.” - -“That wouldn’t do nohow, you know,” said Harry--“and give her a good -feed, Tom, good dog, good bone. She came at a good lick, I can tell -you, up the glen. The doctor will be here soon.” - -“Ay, sir.” - -“Well, I’ll stay till I hear what he says; and there’s sickness in -Carwell Glen here, I’m told.” - -“I dessay, sir, there’s a good deal going, I hear.” - -“Ye needn’t take her out of the shafts, Tom. Fix her head in a halter -by the gate--in the ring there, if ye have a nose-bag at hand--and -come in here. She’s as quiet as a lamb; I want to talk to you a bit. -I’m goin’ to buy two or three fillies, and think of any you may have -seen down about here. Old Tarnley’s in the kitchen now, is she?” - -“I think she is, sir.” - -“Well, think of them fillies if you can; there’s business to be done -if I can get ’em to suit.” - -So in marched Harry, and tapped at the kitchen window, and nodded and -smiled to Mrs. Tarnley. - -“So you’re all sick down here, I’m told; but sickness is better than -sadness. That’s all I can say, lass,” said Harry, pacing, much in his -usual way, into the kitchen, and clapping his big hand down on -Mildred’s shoulder. - -“Sick, sore, and _sorry_ we be, sir. Your brother’s not that long -buried that there should be no sadness in the Grange, his own house -that was, and his widow’s that is--sickness may well be better than -sadness, but ’taint turn about wi’ them here, but one and t’other, -both together. And that slut upstairs, Miss Dogger, if you please, out -of the scullery into the bed-chamber, she’s no more use to me than the -cock at the top o’ Carwell steeple. I never knew such times in Carwell -Grange; I’m wore off my old feet--I can’t stan’ it long, and I wish -twenty times in a day I was quiet at last in my grave.” - -“A gruntin’ horse and a grumblin’ wife, they say, lasts long. Never -you fear, you won’t die this time, old girl, and I wouldn’t know the -Grange if _you_ wasn’t here. ’Twill all be right again soon, I -warrant--no wind blows long at the highest, ye know, and we’ll hear -what the doctor says just now.” - -“Hoot! what can the doctor say but just the old thing? The leech to -the physic and God to the cure, and death will do as God allows, and -sickness shows us what we are, and all fears the grave as the child -does the dark. I don’t know much good he’s doin’, or much he did for -Master Charles--not but he’s as good as another, and better than many -a one, maybe--but he costs a deal o’ money, and only Lady Wyndale came -over here yesterday--poorly though she is, and not able to get out o’ -her coach--and saw Mrs. Crane, and lent a fifty-pun note to keep all -straight till the young lady, please God, may be able to look about -her, and see after ’em herself, we’d a bin at a sore pinch before the -week was out. Pity’s good, but help’s better. ’Tis well in this -miserly world there’s a kind one left here and there, that wouldn’t -let kindred want in the midst of plenty. There’s Squire Harry o’ -Wyvern and his own little grandson lyin’ up in the cradle there, and -look at you, Master Harry. I wonder you hadn’t the thought.” - -Harry laughed, perhaps, the least degree awkwardly. - -“Why, chick-a-biddy----” began Harry. - -“I’m none o’ yer chick-a-biddies. I’m old Mildred Tarnley, o’ the -Grange o’ Carwell, that’s in the service o’ the family--her and -hers--many a long year, and I speaks my mind, and I shouldn’t like the -family to be talked of as it will for meanness. If there’s a want o’ -money here in times of sickness, ’tis a shame!” - -“Well, ye know there’s no want, but the Governor’s riled just now, and -he’ll come round again; and as for me, I’m as poor a dog as is in the -parish. Take me and turn me round and round, and what more am I than -just a poor devil that lives by horses, and not always the price of a -pot o’ stout in my pocket-- - - - ‘Four farthings and a thimble - Makes the tailor’s pocket jingle.’ - - -Your tongue’s a bit too hard, Mildred; but ye mean well, and there’s -kindness at the bottom o’ the mug, though the brew be bitter.” - -“I think I hear the doctor,” said Mildred, placing her palm behind her -ear and listening. - -“Ay,” said Harry; “I hear him talkin’.” - -And forth he strode to meet him. - -Before he went up, Harry and the doctor talked together for a little -in the panelled sitting-room, with which we are familiar. - -“I’m sure to see you here, eh?” - -“Before I go? Yes. I shall look in here.” - -“All right,” said Harry, and the doctor walked up the stairs on his -exploration. - - - - - CHAPTER LIV. - A DRIVE TO TWYFORD. - -In less than ten minutes the doctor came down. - -“Well?” said Harry, over his shoulder, turning briskly from the -window. - -“No material change,” replied the doctor. “It’s not a case in which -medicine can do much. The most cheering thing about it is that her -strength has not given way, but you know it is an anxious case--a -_very_ anxious case.” - -“I hope they are taking care of the child. Old Dulcibella Crane would -be a deal better for that sort of thing than that dry old cake, -Mildred Tarnley. But then Ally would half break her heart if ye took -old Dulcibella from her, always used to her, you know. And what’s best -to be done? It would be bad enough to lose poor Ally, but it would be -worse to lose the boy, for though I’m willing to take my share of work -for the family, there’s one thing I won’t do, and that’s to marry. I’m -past the time, and d---- me if I’d take half England to do it. I’d -like to manage and nurse the estate for him, and be paid, of course, -like other fellows, and that’s what would fit my knuckle. But, by -Jove, if they kill that boy among them there will be no one to -maintain the old name of Wyvern; and kill him they will, if they leave -him in the hard hands of that wiry old girl, Mildred Tarnley. She’s a -cast-iron old maid, with the devil’s temper, and she has a dozen other -things to mind beside, and I know the child will die, and I don’t know -anything to advise, d---- me if I do.” - -“The house is in confusion, and very little attention for the child, -certainly,” said Doctor Willett. - -“And that d----d scarlatina, beyond a doubt, is in the glen there.” - -The old doctor shrugged and shook his head. - -“I talked to the Governor a bit,” said Harry, “thinking he might have -the child over to Wyvern, where it would be safe and well looked -after, but he hates the whole lot. You know it was a stolen match, and -it’s no use trying in that quarter. You’re going now, and I’ll walk a -little bit beside you; maybe you’ll think of something, and I haven’t -no money, ye may guess, to throw away; but rather than the child -shouldn’t thrive I’d make out what would answer.” - -“That’s very kind of you, sir,” said Doctor Willett, looking at him, -admiringly. “They certainly have their hands pretty full here, and a -little neglect sometimes goes a long way with a child.” - -So they walked out together, talking, and when the doctor got on his -horse Harry walked beside him part of the way towards Cressley Common. - -When he came back to the Grange, Harry asked to see old Dulcibella, -and he told her, standing on the lobby and talking in whispers-- - -“The doctor says she’s not able to understand anything as she is at -present.” - -“Well, ye know she’s wanderin’ just now, but she may clear up a bit -for a while, by-and-by.” - -“Well, the doctor says she’s not to be told a word that can fret her, -and particularly about the child, for he says this is no place for it, -and he won’t be answerable for its life if it’s left longer here, and -there’s scarlatina and fever all round, and ye have as much as ye can -well manage here already, so few as there is, without nursing -children; and Doctor Willett says he’ll have it well attended to by a -person near Wykeford, and I’ll bring old Mildred over with it to the -place this evening, and we’ll get it out o’ reach o’ the sickness -that’s goin’.” - -“Please God!” said Dulcibella, after a pause. - -“Amen,” added Harry, and walked down, whistling low, with his hands in -his pockets, to tell the same story to old Mildred Tarnley. - -“’Tis a pity,” she said, darkly, “the child should be sent away from -its home.” - -“Especially with scarlet fever and typhus all round,” said Harry. - -“And away from its mother,” she continued. - -“Much good its mother is to it.” - -“Just now she mayn’t be able to do much.” - -“Oh! but she can though,” interrupted Harry; “she may give it the -fever she’s got, whatever that is.” - -“Well, I can’t say nothin’ else but it’s a pity the child should be -took away from its natural home, and its own mother,” repeated Mrs. -Tarnley. - -“And who’s takin’ care o’t _now_?” demanded Harry. - -“Lilly Dogger,” answered she. - -“Lilly Dogger! just so; the slut! you said yourself, to-day, you -wouldn’t trust a kitten with!” - -Mrs. Tarnley couldn’t deny it. She sniffed and tossed up her chin a -little. - -“Ye forget, lass, ’twas never a Wyvern fashion nursin’ the babbies at -home. _I_ wasn’t, nor Charlie, poor fellow! nor Willie, nor none of -us. ’Twas a sayin’ with the old folk, and often ye heered it, ‘one -year a nurse, and seven years the worse;’ and we all was tall, -well-thriven lads, and lives long, without fever or broken bones or -the like, floors us untimely; and, anyhow, the doctor says, so it must -be. There’s no one here, wi’ all this sickness in the house, has time -to look after it, and the child will just come to grief unless his -orders be followed. So stick on your bonnet and roll up the young chap -in blankets, and I’ll drive ye over to the place he says. It brings me -a bit out o’ my way, but kith and kin, ye know; and I told the doctor -if he went to any expense, I’d be answerable to him myself, and I’ll -gi’e ye a pound for good luck. So ye see I’m not sich a screw all out -as ye took me for.” - -“I thank you, Master Harry, and I’ll not deny but ’twas always the way -wi’ the family to send out the children to nurse.” - -“And what Mr. Charles would ’a done himself if he was alive, as every -one of us knows; and for that reason what the lady upstairs would ’a -done if she had ’a bin able to talk about anything. I’m sorry I have -to drive ye over, but I’ll bring ye back to-night, and ye know I -couldn’t drive and manage the babby, and the folk would be wonderin’ -when the child set up the pipes in the tax-cart, and I’d soon have the -hue-and-cry behind me.” - -“Hoot! I wouldn’t allow no such thing as let the poor little thing be -druv so, all alone, like a parcel o’ shop goods. No, no. The family’s -not come to that yet a bit, I hope,” cried Mrs. Tarnley. - -“Gi’e me a lump o’ bread and cheese and a mug o’ beer. I don’t think -I ever was here before without a bit and a sup, and it wouldn’t be -lucky, ye know, to go without enough to swear by, anyhow; but there’s -no hurry, mind--ye needn’t be ready for a good hour to come, for -Willett won’t have no nurse there sooner.” - -Harry went out and had a talk with Tom Clinton, and smoked his pipe -for half an hour; and Tom thought that the young Squire was dull and -queerish, and perhaps he was not very well, for he did not eat his -bread and cheese, but drank a deal more beer than usual instead. - -“Bring a lot o’ lolly-pops and milk, or whatever it likes best, wi’ -ye, to keep it quiet. I can’t abide the bawlin’ o’ children.” - -Lilly Dogger, with red eyes and an inflamed nose, blubbered -heart-broken, and murmured to the baby--lest old Mildred should -overhear and blow her up--her leave-takings and endearments, as she -held it close in her arms. - -Beautiful though to us men, utterly mysterious is the feminine love of -babies. Lilly Dogger had led a serene, if not a very cheerful life, at -Carwell Grange up to this. But now came this parting, and her peace -was shivered. - -Old Mildred had now got up, with her threadbare brown cloak, and her -grizzly old bonnet, and had arranged the child on her lap; so, at -last, all being ready, the tax-cart was in motion. - -It was late in the autumn now. The long days were over. They had -dawdled away a longer time than they supposed before starting. It -turned out a long drive, much longer than Mildred Tarnley had -expected. The moon rose, and they had got into a part of the country -with which she was not familiar. - -They had driven fourteen miles or upward through a lonely and somewhat -melancholy country. It was, I suppose, little better than moor, but -detached groups of trees, possibly the broken and disappearing -fragments of what had once been a forest, gave it a sad sort of -picturesqueness. - -Mildred Tarnley was not a garrulous person, and had not spent her life -at Carwell Grange without learning the accomplishment of taciturnity, -but she remarked and resented the gloomy silence of Master Harry, who -had never once addressed a word to her since they started. - -Toward the close of their journey she observed that Harry Fairfield -looked frequently at his watch, and hurried the pace of the mare, and -altogether seemed to grow more and more anxious. They had been obliged -to pull up twice to enable her to feed the baby, who was now fast -asleep. - -“’Tis right,” she thought, “he should look ahead and mind his driving, -while we’re getting on, though a word now and then would not have -troubled him much. But when we stopped to feed the child there was no -excuse. He got down and settled the buckle at the horse’s head. He got -up again, and drew the rug over his knees, and he leaned on his elbow -back upon the cushion, and he never so much as asked was me or the -baby alive!” - -They now reached a gentle hollow, in which a shallow brook crossed the -road, and some four or five habitations of an humble sort stood at -either side; one under the shade of two gigantic ash trees, had a sign -depending in front, being a wayside inn of the humblest dimensions. - -A village this could hardly be termed; and at the near end Harry -pulled up before a building a little above the rank of a cottage, old -and quaint, with a large-leafed plant that, in the moonlight, looked -like a vine, growing over the prop of a sort of porch that opened -under the gable. - -If the mare was quiet at the Grange, you may be sure that her run to -Twyford had not made her less so. - -Harry helped old Tarnley down, with her little charge in her arms, and -led her silently into the neat little room, with tiers of delf -ornaments, in brilliant colours, on the cupboard, and a Dutch clock -ticking in the nook by the fire where some faggots crackled, and a -candle was burning on the table in a bright brass candlestick. - -Mrs. Tarnley’s experienced eye surveyed the room and its belongings. -She descried, moreover, a ladder stair which mounted to a loft, from -whose dormant window, as she looked from her seat in the tax-cart, she -had observed the light of a candle. - -Very humble it undoubtedly was, but nothing could be more scrupulously -clean. It had an air of decency, too, that was reassuring. There was a -woman there in a cloak and bonnet, who rose as they entered and -courtesied. - -Harry set a lumbering arm-chair by the fire, and beckoned Tarnley to -occupy it. Then he asked: - -“How soon is the Warhampton ’bus expected?” - -“Twenty-five minutes, please, sir,” answered the woman, with another -courtesy and a glance at the clock. - -“That woman from Willett’s is coming by the ’bus,” he said gruffly, to -Mildred. “’Tis a snug little place this, and as clean as a bone after -a hungry dog. Would you mind,” he continued, addressing the stranger -or hostess, whichsoever she might be, “tellin’ Archdale, if he’s here, -I want a word wi’ him at the door?” - -“He’s over the way, I think, sir, with the horse. I’ll call him, -please, sir.” - -So off she went. - -“This is where poor Charles said he’d like to have his child -nursed--Twyford; ’tis sweet air about here, considered. He was -expectin’ a babby, poor fellow, and he talked a deal wi’ me about it -the day he was took. Wouldn’t ye like a bit to eat and a glass of -beer, or somethin’? They have lots over the way, for as poor as it -looks; and here’s the pound I promised ye, lass, for luck, ye know, -when we was leaving the Grange.” - -He drew forth the hand with which he had been fumbling in his pocket -and placed the piece of gold in hers. - -“Thank you, Master Harry,” she said, making a little instinctive -effort to rise for the purpose of executing a courtesy. But Harry, -with his hand on her shoulder, repressed it. - -“Sit ye quiet, and rest yourself, after joggin’ all this way; and -what’s that bundle?” - -“The baby’s things, sir.” - -“All right. Well, and what will ye have?” - -“I feel a bit queerish, Master Harry, I thank ye. I’d rather not eat -nothin’ till I gets home, and I’ll get my cup o’ tea then.” - -“Not eat!” - -“Nothin’, sir, I thank ye, Master Harry.” - -“Well,” said Harry, so far forth relieved, but resolved, cost what it -might, to make Mildred happy on this particular occasion, “if ye won’t -eat, I’m hanged but ye shall drink some. I tell ye what it shall be, -a jug of sherry negus. Come, ye must.” - -“Well, Master Harry, as so ye will have it, I’ll not say ye nay,” -consented Mildred, graciously. - -Harry went himself to the little pot-house over the way, and saw this -nectar brewed, and brought it over in his own hand--the tankard in one -hand and the glass in the other. - -“Devilish good stuff it is, Mildred, and I’m glad, old lass, I thought -of it. I remember you liked that brew long ago, and much good may it -do you, girl.” - -He was trying to be kind. - -He had set it down on the table, and now, as he spoke, he laid his -hand on her shoulder, and she thought she might have wronged Master -Harry with his rough jests, and shrewd ways, and that he had more of -the Fairfield in his nature than she had always given him credit for. - -Out he went again, and talked with Archdale, who was in plain clothes, -and a round hat, with a great coat buttoned up to his smooth blue -chin, and a gig-whip in his hand. Archdale, as usual, was severely -placid and brief, and as Harry talked with him outside, Mildred -Tarnley thought she heard a step in the loft over her head, and -another sound that excited her curiosity. She listened, but all was -quiet again. - -Harry returned in comparatively high spirits. - -“Well, Mrs. Tarnley,” said he, “the ’bus is a bit late, I’m thinkin’, -but anyhow, he can’t wait,” and he pointed over his shoulder at Mr. -Archdale who stood at the door; “he’ll drive you back again, and he -knows the road as far as Cressley Common, and you can show him the -rest,--and you’ll want to be back again with poor Alice,--and the -doctor will look in here, often in the week--almost every day--and -tell you how the little chap’s going on. And see, here’s a very -respectable woman--what’s her name?--she was here this minute, and she -won’t be leaving till after the ’bus comes in, and you leave her the -baby, and I’ll wait here till I see it in charge of the nurse that’s -coming from Wykeford. Come in, will ye?--not _you_--the woman, I mean. -Now, Mildred, give her the baby.” - -The woman had a gentle, cheerful, and honest face; and looked down -with the angelic light of a woman’s tenderness on the sleeping face of -the little baby. - -“Lord love it,” she murmured, smiling. “What a darling little face!” - -Mildred Tarnley looked down on it, too. She said nothing. She bit her -lips hard, and her old eyes filled up with tears that welled over as -she surrendered the baby, without a word, and then hastily she went -out, mounted to her seat in the tax-cart, and was driven swiftly away -by a companion as silent as he who had conveyed her there. - - - - - CHAPTER LV. - HOW FARES THE CHILD? - -Dr. Willett called regularly at the Grange, and kind Lady Wyndale -was daily there, taking the doctor’s directions about jellies, wines, -and such other good things as the depressed state of the patient -called for, notwithstanding her fever. - -In a few days more he changed this treatment. The patient, in fact, -could not be got to swallow these things. Dr. Willett became more -perplexed. It was not exactly gastric fever, but he thought it more -resembled that flickering treacherous fire than any other fever with -which he was acquainted. - -There are sicknesses that will not be cured through the body. The mind -diseased, which is the parent of these impracticable maladies, of -which, when people die, they are said to have died of a broken -heart--disdains the apothecary’s boxes and bottles--knows nothing of -them. The heart-ache, of which it is no more than an unusually -protracted fit, has its seat in that which no apothecary can hear, -see, feel, or understand. When the immortal, and in this life, -inscrutable, spirit, which is the unseen lodger, the master, of the -body, sickens, all sickens. In its pain all below it writhe and -wither, and the body, its ultimate expression, reflects but cannot -mitigate its torment. - -Dr. Willett, too, complained that the child was ill, and that it must -have been ill before it left the Grange. - -On this point he and Mildred Tarnley had a sharp battle. - -When both parties had cooled a little he admitted that possibly the -symptoms might not have been sufficiently developed to have excited -the attention of an uninstructed observer. - -The Grange was growing all this time more awful. Death seemed to have -made his abode there, and the shadow of the hearse plumes seemed to -rest upon the windows. Courage flagged, despair supervened, and Mrs. -Tarnley’s temper grew all but insupportable. A day in such situations -seems very long, and many had passed since the baby had made his -journey to Twyford. The doctor seemed desponding, and stood longer -silent by his patient’s bed this day than usual. His questions were -briefer, and he was less communicative than usual when he was going. - -Mildred Tarnley was making up her mind that the blow was inevitable, -and was secretly wishing it might come soon, since come it must. - -The father buried but two months since, the mother sinking into an -untimely grave, and the poor little baby also dying! Was this family -accursed? What a blight was this! - -The doctor had said that he would return by Gryce’s mill. It had been -dark some time, and was now about seven o’clock. Tom was down at the -forge, Dulcibella and Lilly Dogger both upstairs, and she quite alone -in the kitchen. She was more uncomfortable than she had ever been -before about Alice that night. - -She had seen in the doctor’s countenance that day, as he told her he -would look in again on his return up the glen, that which had -profoundly alarmed her, and now, sitting alone in this dark kitchen, -she was infested by gloomy forebodings and terrible fancies. - -She went upstairs to the sick lady’s door. At that hour no amendment -was probable, and there certainly was none. Down again she went. The -idea had got into her head that the patient would die that night, and -she grew nervous, and tired of listening for death-watches, and -picking incipient winding-sheets off the candle. “I wonder Master -Harry doesn’t come here, if ’twas only to ask whether his sister was -dead or alive, and why old Willett don’t come. Smelt out a good supper -somewhere, and he’s stuffin’ his gut, I’ll warrant, while the poor -lady’s takin’ the rattles.” - -Mildred Tarnley could stand this no longer, and she went out and down -the dark road that leads to the Glen of Carwell, close by, down which, -with the uselessness of impatience, she went to look for a sight of -the absent doctor, and listen for the tread of his horse. - -Nothing cheered by that darksome walk, and the solemn and solitary -view down the Carwell road, she stood gazing down toward distant -Gryce’s mill, until she tired of that too, and in dismay and -bitterness retraced her steps toward the Grange. - -On entering the yard, she saw a man’s figure approaching her from the -kitchen door. She thought it was the doctor’s, for a moment, but it -was not, and with a “Lord! who’s that?” gasped in fear that sounded -like fury, she stood fixed as the old pump. - -“Bah! don’t you know me, woman?” said Harry Fairfield, surlily; “I -have only a few minutes. Ye’ll have to come wi’ me in the morning over -to Twyford.” - -“To Twyford?” - -“Ay, to Twyford; and why the devil do ye leave the yard-door open; I -walked into the kitchen and right up the stairs, lookin’ for ye, and -knocked at Ally’s door. I think ye’re cracked.” - -“And what’s to fear here, down in the Grange? Hoot! If ’tweren’t for -form’s sake we need never draw bolt from one Christmas to another.” - -“There was a woman found with her throat cut by the Three Pollards, -between this and Hatherton, on Tuesday. If you likes it down here, -’tis little to me. I’ll come here at eight o’clock in the morning to -fetch ye.” - -“Is the child sick?” - -“Not it. It was, but it’s gettin’ all right; that is, if it _be_ the -child.” - -“What the de’il d’ye mean, Master Harry?” - -“I was lookin’ at the child this mornin’, and d---- me, if I think -it’s the same child we left there!” said Harry. - -“Why, sir--Mr. Harry, what’s this?” - -“I say I misdoubt it’s not the same child, and ye must come over and -look at it. Don’t ye say a word o’ the matter to no one; no more did -I; if you do we’ll never come to the bottom of it.” - -“My good Lord!” exclaimed old Mildred, turning paler, and frowning -very hard. - -“I won’t stop. I won’t eat anything. I can’t delay to-night; my nag’s -by the bridle, there, beside the scales, and--any message to Wykeford? -I’ll be passing Willett’s house.” - -“Well! well!” repeated Mildred, gaping at him still, with scarcely a -breath left her, “sin is sin, be it seen or no; judgment follows. God -has feet o’ wool and hands o’ iron.” - -“Sweep before your own door, lass; ye’re a bit daft, bain’t ye?” said -Harry, with a sudden glare in his face. - -“God forgive us all!” - -“Amen,” said Harry. - -And there came a pause. - -“Women and fools will be meddlin’,” he resumed. “Lord love ye! For mad -words, deaf ears, they say. ’Pon my soul! ’twould make a cow laugh, -and if ye don’t mind ye may run yer head against the wall.” - -“I _will_ go to-morrow and look at the child,” said Mildred, with -sullen emphasis, clapping one lean hand down on the other. - -“That’s all I want ye. Come, what mischief can ye make o’ that? Clear -yer head!” - -“There’s two things shouldn’t anger ye: what ye can help and what ye -can’t,” said Mildred. “I’ll go wi’ ye in the mornin’, Master Harry.” - -“That’s the least we can do and the most. How’s Ally?” - -“Dyin’, I think; she’ll be gone before daybreak, I’m thinkin’.” - -“That’s bad,” said Harry. - -“Good hap or ill hap, as God awards. I know nout against her.” - -“Poor little thing!” said Harry. - -“I blame myself; but what could I do? If aught’s gone wrong wi’ the -child, poor lady! ’tis well she were gone too.” - -“There’s many a fellow’d knock ye on the head for less,” replied -Harry, with a very black look; “you women has a hintin’ funkin’ way -wi’ ye. Ye like to ladle the drippin’ over a fellow’s legs, and say ye -meant the mutton. Can’t ye speak out and say what ye mean, and get it -off yer stomach, and let me know, and I’ll answer it straight like a -man and a Fairfield, d---- me!” - -“I’ll go wi’ ye to-morrow; and I take it that’s what ye want.” - -“Well, this I’ll say. If ye suppose I’d hurt that poor baby to the -value of a pin’s point, you’re a stupider and a wickeder witch than I -took ye for, and I wish poor Ally could hear me, and I’d swear to her -on my knees, at her dying bed, by the Creator that made me, that I’ll -work for that boy as if he was my own, till I make him safe in Wyvern. -And can’t ye see, woman, d---- ye, that I can have but the boy’s good -in my mind when I ask ye to come over on such an errand to Twyford?” - -“Well, I do suppose--I do suppose. Eight o’clock, and there’s two feet -will be cold ere then, I’m afeard.” - -“Don’t be a fool no more, and I forgive ye, Mildred,” said he, -extending his hand; “and don’t ye mind a lick wi’ the rough side o’ my -tongue--’tis a way wi’ us Fairfields--and there wasn’t many on ’em -would ’a stood to let ye rile them as ye did me. And bolt yer doors, -mind; and, poor Ally! I hope she may do yet, and mind ye--eight -o’clock sharp.” - -So Harry departed. - -Mildred stood and looked after him for a time. - -“There’s nothin’ ever goes right at the Grange,” she said with a short -hard sigh; “nor never did, nor never will.” - -And after a pause, with another sigh, she said-- - -“No, no; I won’t think it--I couldn’t think it--’taint in one o’ them. -They might be fickle wi’ a lass, or hot tempered wi’ a man, and a bit -too hard wi’ tongue or hand, but the like o’ that--I can’t believe -it--never, and I wish I hadn’t a’ heard that. I’m most sure I heard -the child cry in the loft there; I’m sorry I didn’t say so then. I -don’t know why, and I don’t know now, what it should be no more than -another, but I didn’t like it. It looked like summat _hid_--I can’t -say. But my heart misgave me.” - -Old Mildred walked into the house. She had other thoughts now than the -poor lady upstairs. They were remorseful, though she could hardly say -for what she could blame herself. Perhaps she overrated her authority, -and fancied she could have prevented the baby’s being taken away. - -But it might be all quite right--men were so stupid about babies. A -pretty hand a Fairfield man would make of a nursery! At all events -the morrow would clear a great deal up. - -The morning came. The doctor had looked in, and, as often happened, -had surprised the lookers-on by pronouncing positively, that the -patient was _not_ worse. - -With a qualm at her heart, Mildred asked him when he had seen the -child: and watched his face hard while he answered quite frankly that -he had seen it the day before--that it was decidedly better, and might -possibly do well. - -When should he see it again? - -There was nothing alarming, probably to-morrow; certainly not later -than the next day. There was nothing urgent--the chances were rather -in favour of its recovery, but, of course, there were the risks, and -we weren’t to hollo till we were out of the wood. - -With this cheer Mildred was much comforted, so much reassured that -when eight o’clock came next morning and brought no Harry Fairfield, -she felt rather relieved of a bore than disappointed. - -Two days later Dr. Willett reported more favourably than he had yet -done on Alice. His account of the boy, however, was by no means so -cheery. - -Harry looked in still later, and talked the matter over with Mildred. - -“I thought, ye see, I might just be makin’ a fool o’ myself--and -another o’ you, so I went over there quietly next day, and I’m sure it -_was_ a mistake. The child’s thinner a deal, and its colour gone, and -it was dark a’most when I saw it, and she held the candle too low and -cast a shadow from its nose, by Jove, across its face. You never see -so queer a monkey as it looked, and so I held my tongue, but made over -here to put our heads together and make sure o’ the matter. But when I -went next day and saw it in the daylight, by Jove it was all -right--the child and no mistake. But it is grown awful thin and -wry-faced, only you couldn’t take it for any other, and the doctor -sees it every second day, and I’m glad to hear that poor little Alice -is getting on so well. She’ll be on her legs again in no time, I’m -thinking.” - -After Harry had gone, Dr. Willett arrived with a very ill account of -the baby. - -“Dying, poor little thing. Its heart wrong, and all the organs; but -you mustn’t tell poor Mrs. Fairfield. It may cost her her life, if she -begins to fret about it, and just tell her it’s quite well, for it’s -true, you know--it’s nearer heaven, and best of all when it gets -there. So tell her, when she asks, that it was sent in charge of -careful people to get it out of the reach of the infection that is in -the neighbourhood, and keep her mind quiet.” - -A few days later the news of its death arrived in the kitchen, and -Lilly Dogger, who was afraid to give way to her emotions before Mrs. -Tarnley, abruptly rose, and ran out, and throwing her apron over her -head, broke into absolute screams of crying under the great old trees -that stand by the scales. - -Here there was a sad secret to disclose when the time came, and poor -Alice was strong enough to bear the story. - -In the meantime Harry Fairfield came and had a stormy interview with -old Mildred. The doctor, he swore, didn’t know his business. The women -at Twyford had neglected the child. He’d see to it. He’d be a devil -among the tailors. He’d open their eyes for them. He had often got -fifty pounds for a less neglect of a filly. They should smoke all -round for it. And there now was Wyvern without an heir, for, d----n -him if he’d ever marry; he wouldn’t for Saint Peter. It wouldn’t -do--it couldn’t be, at no price; and there was old Wyvern, and never a -Fairfield to see tankard filled or faggot fired in the old house. - -Harry was not married, although he had insinuated some matrimonial -ambiguities in his talk with old Mildred. But I believe he swore truly -when he vowed that he never would marry. He had quite made up his mind -on that point for some time. - -For the rest, his threatenings ended in the noise they began in. In -truth there was no ground for complaint, and both nurse and doctor had -done their duty. - -Alice recovered. I do not attempt to describe the long mourning that -followed, the sweet, the bitter, and the terrible recollections that -ever after tinted the image of Carwell Grange in her memory. - -As soon as she could bear removal to her kind kinswoman, Lady Wyndale -insisted on taking her to Oulton. After a time they travelled, and -finally returned to Oulton, where they lived on together in the -happiness of great and tried affection. - -A difference of five-and-thirty years did not separate them any more -than the interval of a generation did Naomi and Ruth. Lady Wyndale, -being one of those gifted women in whom the girlish spirit burns high -and bright so long as life itself continues, full of sympathy and -gaiety, with a strong vein of romance, and a pleasant sense of the -ridiculous, and also fine immovable affections, was to one who had -suffered calamities so dire as had befallen Alice Fairfield, a more -delightful companion than any of her own age could have been. For when -it was needed, there was the graver charm of a long and sad -experience, and there were also the grander teachings of religion, and -these were not obtruded or vaunted in anywise, but rather toned her -thoughts and feelings, with their peculiar sublime and melancholy -lights, in which all things are subdued and also glorified. - - - - - CHAPTER LVI. - THE OLD SQUIRE LEAVES WYVERN. - -The old folk can’t go on living always. The King’s messenger had -called at Wyvern, and the old Squire must needs get up and go. - -Sickness was a cross he had never been used to bear, and now that it -was laid on his old shoulders he knew that he could not keep his feet -very long. - -He had the Wyvern lawyer, who did the business of the estate, up to -his room, and the parson and his own son, Harry Fairfield. He made the -attorney read the will, which he had told him to bring up with him, -and the Squire listened as it was read slowly. - -After the clergyman had gone-- - -“Have ye ought to say to that, son Harry?” said the old Squire. - -“’Tis an old will, father,” said Harry. - -“It ain’t,” said the Squire. - -“Eight years less two months,” said the lawyer. - -“About the age rum’s fit to drink,” said the old Squire. “What say ye -to it--now’s your time, son?” - -“Priests, women, and poultry, they say, has never enough. There’s bin -changes since, and I don’t see why Wyvern should be charged so heavy.” - -“There’s three hundred a year to Alice, that’s what ye mean!” said the -old Squire. - -His son was silent. - -“Well, I don’t owe her nothin’, that’s true, but I’ll let it stand, -mind. And Harry, lad, the day ye do a good thing there will be seven -new moons.” - -“What was parson a whisperin’ about in the window wi’ ye?” he asked of -the attorney after a time. - -“Some claim upon the vicarage which he thought you said you meant to -remit by will.” - -“I ’a thought upon it, and I won’t. _Paternoster_ built churches, and -Our Father pulled ’em down. There’s o’er many parsons for the -churches, and o’er many churches for the people--tell him I won’t.” - -“What the devil made you talk about that to him?” said Harry, with a -dark look, when he and the attorney had got out of the room. - -“My dear sir,” said the lawyer, “we must be true to our clients, and -beside, don’t you remember the clergyman said he’d be here to-morrow -at one to administer the Lord’s Supper, and he’ll be certain to speak -of it then to our client.” - -At nightfall the Squire grew worse, and his head wandered. - -“Tell that white-faced Vicar Maybell, there’s never a one but the -thankless in hell--I’ll not sit under none o’ his sermons--Ay, he -frowns at that.” - -“Hey, dear?” whispered the housekeeper, gazing at him from the hearth -where they were sitting. - -“And who does he mean, ma’am?” asked the nurse. - -“God knows--old times, I suppose,” she answered. - -“There’s a glass broke, Tom, who’s kicking up the row?” mumbled the -Squire,--“Play, women, and wine undoes men, laughin’--Ay, light it, -I’m very dark--Who’s he, ye fool?--Joan and my lady’s all one in the -dark.” - -“That’s Tom Ward he’s thinkin’ on?” said the nurse. - -“Ay, he liked Tom ever. He wouldn’t think ’twas Wyvern without Tom,” -answered the housekeeper. - -In a little time he said more distinctly and sternly-- - -“The dead should do nothing.--So that’s the bishop.--Ay--ay--The -devil, mind ye, isn’t always at one door.--If there was a good man -here he’d put a clout over that face--Ye’ll never do it.” - -Then it would sink into mumbling, and then again grow more distinct. - -At last the morning came, and the Squire so many hours nearer death, -was, nevertheless, now like himself. - -In due course the clergyman arrived, and the housekeeper, and serious -Jim Hopper of the mill, close by, attended to make up a little -congregation with whom the dying Squire was to receive that most -“comfortable” Sacrament, before setting out on his long journey. - -“You’re distinctly a Church of England man?” inquired the clergyman -gently. - -“Ay, what do you take me for?” - -“I make it a rule, dear sir, to inquire. I have once or twice found -Presbyterians and other Dissenters among the attendants at my church -at Nottingham before I came here, and I am happy to hear so clear an -answer to my inquiry,” said the clergyman with a gracious solemnity. - -“The crow thinks her own bird fairest--go on,” said Squire Harry. - -After these rites were over, the Squire needed rest. - -Then, after an hour or so, he called for Tom Ward. - -“Well, Tom, we a’ lived a long while together--here in Wyvern--you and -me, and ‘be the day never so long, at last cometh even’-song,’ as they -say, and now the doctor thinks my time be come, and I sent for ye to -shake hands, Tom, and bid ye good-bye.” - -Tom was drying his eyes hastily, and his old face was more puckered -than ever. - -“Yer honour was always kind to me----” - -“Come, Tom, ye mustn’t be cryin’, man. Penny in pocket’s a merry -companion, and I wrote ye down for somethin’ in my will, and ye a’ -brewed me many a tankard, Tom--ye’ll never brew me another--and I -wouldn’t go without a word and a shake by the hand.” - -When this was over, the nurse signed to Tom to go. - -I wonder how the grim old man, with near a week’s white stubble on his -chin, felt as he saw Tom Ward glide away softly, with tears on his -rugged cheeks. For Tom, it was the breaking up and foundering of old -Wyvern in the deep. He was too old to live in the new Wyvern that was -coming, mayhap. - -“I’ll never get the old days out o’ my head, nor ever like the new, -and ’twon’t be long, I’m thinkin’, before I follow him down the -ash-tree road to Wyvern churchyard.” - -And so for the old Squire it came, the last day of light, and the -first of death. - -It was a stately funeral in the old-fashioned way. All the good old -houses of the county were represented there. The neighbours, great and -small, mustered; the shops in the town were all shut, and the tenants -attended in masses. - -This solemn feast and pageant over, the fuss subsided, and Harry -entered upon his reign with a gravity becoming his new prerogative and -responsibilities. - -Sergeant-Major Archdale was an influential, and prosperous, and -reserved minister under the new _régime_. He had a snug berth at -Warhampton, as Harry Fairfield had promised, and from that distant -legation he was summoned every now and then to Wyvern, and there -conferred with the Squire. I have called him Sergeant-Major, but he -was so no longer. He had retired some time before from the militia and -was now plain Mr. Archdale. - - - - - CHAPTER LVII. - MARJORY TREVELLIAN. - -In order to throwing a light upon the nature of some of the duties -of Mr. Archdale, we must convey the reader in spirit, to some little -distance. - -In the sequestered country, about twelve miles south of Twyford, in a -pretty nook formed by a wooded hollow close by the old by-road to -Warhampton, stands an antique cottage, with a loft and two little -windows peeping through the very steep thatched roof and high narrow -gable--gable and wall alike streaked and crossed with those black oak -beams which formed the cage into whose interstices our ancestors built -their brick and plaster. The steep roof runs out over a little porch -which has a bench in one side of it. Another stone bench stands under -the lattice window, the woodwork of which casement, as well as the -black spars crossed and morticed in the walls, and even the curved -brick chimney, look shrunk and warped by time, by which, too, the -hatch at the door is rounded and furrowed, and the stone seat and -window stones worn into curves and hollows, and such and so venerable -is the air of the structure, with its ivy-bound porch, that one might -fancy it the very farmhouse in which Anne Hathaway passed her -girlhood. - -Here dwelt good Mrs. Marjory Trevellian, some fifty years old and -upward, with, I think, the kindest face and pleasantest laugh in that -part of the country; a widow of many years; not very happy in her -marriage, and quite content with her experience of the wedded state; -quiet, cheerful, very industrious; with a little farm of three acres, -and a cow; spinning sometimes, knitting at others, and when she could, -taking in washing, and in all things approving herself diligent, -cheerful, and honest. - -With this kind, cheery, honest dame lived a little boy, the son of a -Mr. Henry--that was all she knew distinctly about his people. She -called him her Fairy, and her Prince, and when curious people -questioned her closely, she said that his father was a merchant, -“unfortunate in business,” as the phrase is; that he was living -perhaps in concealment, and in distressed circumstances, or possibly -was dead. All she could say for certain was, that she received a very -small allowance for maintaining him, which was paid punctually every -three months in advance, and that as to the name of the boy, his -Christian name was William and his surname Henry, and that she called -him her “Prince” or her “Fairy,” and he called her “Granny.” - -She idolised this pretty boy, and he loved her with the tenderness -which a child bestows upon a loving nurse, something more than filial. - -The boy remembers no other home but this, and no other friend but -“Granny.” He was now a little past eleven. His life had been solitary, -but cheerful. Was there not the pond only thirty yards away from their -door-step, in which he sailed his fleet of ships, made of corks, which -old Peter Durdon gave him? He was a cousin of Marjory Trevellian’s, -and lived in the village two miles away. He used to call every Sunday -and to bring these corks in his pocket, and a bit of such lead as tea -is wrapped in to make the keels of their navy. He was dressed in a -blue “swallow-tailed” coat with brass buttons; his drab trousers were -very short; his stockings faded sky-blue; and his shoes clumsy and -clouted, and highly polished. He wore a chestnut wig of a long and -lank cut, and his forehead slanted back very much, and his nose came -forward, and a perpetual smile expanded his cheeks, which were as red -and smooth as a ripe apple. His countenance was not wise, though very -good-natured--rather silly, I’m afraid--and I think he took more -interest in this sort of shipping than was quite compatible with -strength of mind. - -As these ships glided with thin paper sails across the pond, while -Master Henry watched them in grave absorption, Peter’s raptures -expressed themselves in continuous peals of laughter. - -These were great occasions in the solitary life of Fairy. - -There were a set of big box-wood ninepins--skittles, I suppose, with -balls--battered and discoloured--I never knew how they got into the -cottage, but they looked a hundred years old if a day. Many a game -with these on the smooth patch of sward at the other side of the pond -had pleasant old Marjory with her darling. - -In its seclusion its life was monastic, but not in its liberty. The -boy was, on the whole, very happy. - -Looking on honest Marjory as mistress of all she surveyed, it never -struck him, that in the points in which her dietary differed from his -she was practising a compulsory economy. The article of meat was not -often found in her bill of fare. But conscientiously she placed the -little fellow’s bit of broiled meat before him every day, and told him -when he inquired why she had none for herself that she did not like -it, and that it did not agree with her, which he accepted as undoubted -truths, and wondered and regretted secretly. - -On winter evenings their tea was very cosy. A wheaten cake baked on -the griddle, a new-laid egg each, and a cup of tea from the -many-coloured delf teapot--a good deal burnt on the side next the -fire. With the door barred and the window carefully closed, the fire -burning cheerfully, and their candle lighting the party--who so happy? -And was there not the old Robinson Crusoe, with binding black with -age, and a frontispiece showing the hero with his grave countenance -and beard, his tall cap and goat-skin dress, his musket over one -shoulder and his umbrella over the other, and recounting his -marvellous life in the quaint old type of Queen Anne? And was there -not that other literary treasure, the old folio volume of Captain -Cook’s, Commodore Anson’s, and other seafaring worthies’ voyages round -or up and down the world, with no end of careful old copperplates, -showing Pacific islands, curious volcanoes, flotillas of armed canoes, -thick-lipped miscreants with rings in their noses and birds’ tails -enlivening their foreheads, and long processions of official people, -priests, &c., with a small white pocket-handkerchief each by way of -dress? But better far than these, which together with her Bible and -Prayer-Book, constituted Marjory’s library, was that good creature’s -inexhaustible collection of fairy tales, received traditionally and -recounted _vivâ voce_, and prefaced with the rhyme which even at this -distance recalls me to the nursery fireside with the far-off tones of -a kindly voice that I shall hear no more. - - - “Once upon a time there was a king and a queen, - As many have been, - But few I have seen, - Except in pictures!” - - -And starting with this little trumpeting and summons to attention--the -“oyes-oyes-oyes” and immutable prelude of an ever-varying sequel, good -Marjory, the herald of ever new wonders, would tell her tale of dwarfs -and castles, of godmother fairies, and malignant enchantresses, -broken-hearted princes and persecuted princesses, and enchanted -palaces and awful forests, till the hour came for the little fellow to -get to his bed and enter the no less wonderful land of dreams. - -Another person who contributed to the regular entertainment of the boy -was Tom Orange. - -Tom Orange called at the cottage sometimes at intervals of three -months, sometimes, for perhaps half a year, on the first of every -month, and was always made welcome by Marjory Trevellian, and feasted -with rashers and whatever else her humble larder afforded, and on -going had established a mysterious right to a shilling “tip,” which he -always made it a point should be an honourable secret among them. - -What might be the nature of his business the little boy neither knew -nor cared, but Tom Orange was in the boy’s eyes the ideal and epitome -of all that was enchanting, brilliant, and exhilarating. - -Tom was somewhat long and lean, with a face also long and always -smiling, except when it was making a grimace, an art in which he -excelled almost every other blackguard I have heard of. His clothes -and hat were seedy, and, for so merry a person, he was wonderfully -poor. - -Tom Orange’s accomplishments were infinite, he could dance a hornpipe -with all the well-known airs and graces of a sailor; he could protrude -his mouth till it assumed a shape quite unknown to physiognomists, and -with a delicate finger, turning his eyelids inside out, make the -pupils of those organs quiver strangely, while he uttered a sound like -the call of a jackdaw. He could sing a variety of comic songs, with -refrains delivered with a volubility which distanced admiration, and -made his very audience breathless, and some of these were relieved -with occasional dialogue of matchless character and humour. He could -swallow any number of pennies you pleased, and take them all out at -different angles of his body; he could put several potatoes under his -hat, and withdraw them all without touching either the hat or the -potatoes. He could keep three balls always in the air together, and he -could balance two chairs upon his chin. - -In short, as I have said, his accomplishments were innumerable and -extraordinary, and the only wonder was how so universal a genius could -possibly possess so few shillings and so many seedy articles of dress. - -Tom Orange, too, was great at skittles, and gave his pupil wonderful -new lights. - -He taught him also how to guard, stop, and strike according to the -principles of “the noble art of self-defence.” In fact, it would have -been difficult to discover a more fascinating companion and instructor -of youth. Possibly it was as well, however, that his visits were so -far between, and as brief as fortune ordained them to be. It was no -wonder, however, that these visits were looked for by the boy, as the -return of the life and excitement of an annual fair might have been by -the ingenuous youth of some other rural district. - -There was but one point on which Marjory was obliged to impose a -prohibition upon the child. It seemed a trifle, but in reality was a -gigantic privation. - -“No, darling, you mustn’t talk to any other boys, nor play with them, -nor go near them; if you do you’ll be took away by your friends, and -I’ll never see you again; and what will poor Granny do then without -her darling?” - -And Granny’s eyes filled with tears, and the boy cried and hugged her -passionately, and this little agony gave place to wild affection and a -glow of unspeakable delight and happiness, and was celebrated by a hot -cake that evening, and new-laid eggs and a great tea, and stories to -no end. - -And she found her darling that night crying in his sleep, and was sure -he was dreaming of leaving the old cottage, and she wakened him with -kisses, herself crying. - -So these two persons, notwithstanding some disparity of years, were -wonderfully happy in one another’s society and if they had each their -will, would have fixed things as they were, and neither grown older -nor younger, but just gone on living so for ever. - - - - - CHAPTER LVIII. - THE ENCHANTED GARDEN. - -Marjory Trevellian was what is accounted among her class “a good -scholar,” and she had taught the little boy to read and write, to “say -his tables,” and to “cypher,” as she termed the initiatory arithmetical -exercises. - -It was plain, however, that the boy was not abandoned to chance, but -that an eye was upon him, and some friendly, if not conscientious -direction, controlling his destiny. - -In one of his visits Tom Orange handed her a letter, written in the -same neat clerk’s hand in which the short memorandum that accompanied -each remittance was penned. Having read the letter she was thoughtful. - -When Tom had gone away, she said-- - -“You are to be taught like a gentleman, as you are, my darling, and -you’re not to be sent to school for three or four years, and in the -meantime Mr. Wharton--he’s a kind, good gentleman--is to teach you for -two hours every evening after the school is over. You know his house. -It is about a mile away from this; just half-way on the road to the -grammar school.” - -“But I’m to live at home, Granny, all the same?” inquired the boy in -great trepidation. - -“Lord love it, to be sure he is,” she answered, beaming on him with -great affection. “Only two hours, and every one likes Mr. Wharton, and -I’m desired to go to his house to take his orders, to-morrow.” - -So she did, and the new order of things was established with very -little disturbance of the old. - -The narrow road which the boy every afternoon passed to and from -Doctor Wharton’s house makes, about half-way, a sudden curve. It is a -wooded road, not without little ups and downs, and formidable ruts, -and blocks of worn old stone, so large as to shock all the rules of -modern road-making. - -Upon this curve, so as nearly to front the boy’s line of march, is a -very old fruit garden, with a discoloured ivy-grown wall, on which are -growing moss and house-leek, and here and there tufts of grass and -wall-flower. Over the wall are seen ancient standard plum and cherry -and pear-trees, and beyond them the upper windows, and the steep, grey -roof, and slender chimneys of a house as much out of date as the -garden. - -In the garden-wall is a tall door with worn fluted pilasters -corresponding in antiquity with the rest of the building and its -belongings. This stone framework has an iron door, old-fashioned and -fancifully wrought into arabesques of spikes, leaves, and stars, -facing the quiet road, and within this a strong wooden door. - -Fruit-trees are, of course, always interesting to boys, but quite -another interest mingled in the feeling with which little Willie -viewed such glimpses of the old grey house and its background of dark -and towering timber as his approach afforded, and he often wished, as -he passed, that a hole in the wall might afford him a peep into the -old garden and a glimpse of its owners. He sometimes heard their -voices. - -A clear, childish laugh he had heard more than once, from among the -tall fruit-trees and climbing roses that over-topped the wall, and a -sweet female voice also faintly prattling with the child. - -One evening, as he returned from Doctor Wharton’s, with his books -buckled in his strap swinging from his hand, having slackened his pace -as usual when he found himself under the garden wall, to his infinite -delight the inner wooden door, which had always obstructed his -curiosity, was open. The outer gate of iron rails and foliage was -locked, but through its bars he could see at last the garden. Its -trees were old and overgrown. It was wonderfully dark, with roses and -other flowers glowing here and there, and one straight walk leading up -to the house, and continuing the line of the narrow bridge which, at -the iron door, crossed what seemed a sort of moat, whose banks were -overgrown with docks and nettles. He could see part of the steps -leading up to the door of the house, and a portion of one of its -windows. The rest was concealed by the thick foliage, and the effect -of this little glimpse was increased by the deep shadow of the -foreground. - -It was not very far from sunset, and the small birds were already -singing among the boughs, and the deep shadow--the antique and -neglected air and the silence of the place--gave it, in his romantic -eyes, a character of monastic mystery and enchantment. - -As he gazed straight up the dark walk towards the house, suddenly a -man turned the corner of the yew hedge that met the bridge’s parapet -close to him, and walking straight up to the door, with a gruff look -at the little boy, shut and locked the wooden door in his face. - -So all was gone for the present. He knew there was no good in looking -through the key-hole, for envious fortune had hung a spray of -sweetbriar so as effectually to intercept the view, and nothing -remained but the dingy chocolate-coloured planks before him, and the -foliage and roses trembling over the old wall. - -Many a time again he passed and re-passed the door without a like good -hap. - -At length, however, one evening he found the envious wooden door once -more open, and the view again disclosed through the iron bars. - -A very pretty little girl, with golden hair, was standing on tip-toe -near, and with all her soul was striving to reach an apple with a -stick which she held in her tiny fingers. - -Seeing him she fixed her large eyes on him, and said, with an air of -command-- - -“Come, and climb up the tree and get me that apple.” - -His heart beat quick--there was nothing he liked better. - -“But I can’t get in,” he said, blushing; “the door is locked.” - -“Oh! I’ll call mamma--she’ll let you in. Don’t you know mamma?” - -“No, I never saw her,” answered the boy. - -“Wait there, and I’ll fetch her.” - -And so she was gone. - -The first flutter of his excitement was hardly over when he heard -steps and voices near, and the little girl returned, holding the hand -of a slight, pale lady, with a very pretty face, dressed all in black. -She had the key in her hand, and smiled gently on the little boy as -she approached. Her face was kind, and at once he trusted her. - -“Oh! he has left the inner door open again,” she said, and with a -little nod and smile of welcome she opened the door, and the boy -entered the garden. - -Both doors were now shut. - -“Look up, little boy,” said the lady in black, with a very sweet -voice. - -She liked his face. He was a very handsome little fellow, and with an -expression earnest, shy, and bright, and the indescribable character -of refinement too in his face. She smiled more kindly still, and -placing just the tip of her finger under his chin she said-- - -“You are a gentleman’s son, and you are nicely dressed. What is your -name?” - -“My papa’s name is Mr. Henry,” he answered. - -“And where do you go to school?” - -“I don’t go to school. I say lessons to Mr. Wharton--about half a mile -from this.” - -“It is great fun, I suppose, playing with the little boys--cricket, -and all that?” - -“I’m not allowed to play with the little boys.” - -“Who forbids you?” - -“My friends won’t allow me.” - -“Who are your friends?” - -“I never saw them.” - -“Really! and don’t you live with your papa?” - -“No, I live with Marjory.” - -“Do you mean with your mamma?” - -“Oh, no. She died a long time ago.” - -“And is your papa rich--why aren’t you with him?” - -“He was rich, Granny says, but he grew poor.” - -“And where is he now?” - -“I don’t know. I’m to go to school,” he said, acquiring confidence the -more he looked in that sweet face. “My friends will send me, in three -years, Granny says.” - -“You are a very nice little boy, and I’m sure a good little fellow. -We’ll have tea in a few minutes--you must stay and drink tea with us.” - -The little fellow held his straw hat in his hand, and was looking up -in the face of the lady, whose slender fingers were laid almost -caressingly on his rich brown hair as she looked down smiling, with -eyes in which “the water stood.” Perhaps these forlorn childhoods had -a peculiar interest for her. - -“And it is very polite of you taking off your hat to a lady, but put -it on again, for I’m not a bit better than you; and I’ll go and tell -them to get tea now. Dulcibella,” she called. “Dulcibella, this -little friend is coming to drink tea with us, and Amy and he will play -here till it comes, and don’t mind getting up, sit quiet and rest -yourself.” - -And she signed with her hand, smiling, to repress her attempt to rise. - -“Well, darling, play in sight o’ me, till your mamma comes back,” said -the rheumatic old woman, addressing the little girl; “and ye mustn’t -be pulling at that great rolling-stone; ye can’t move it, and ye may -break your pretty back trying.” - -With these and similar injunctions the children were abandoned to -their play. - -He found this pretty young lady imperious, but it was pleasant to be -so commanded, and the little boy climbed trees to gather her favourite -apples, and climbed the garden wall to pluck a bit of wallflower, and -at last she said-- - -“Now, we’ll play ninepins. There’s the box, set them up on the walk. -Yes, that’s right; you _have_ played; who taught you?” - -“Granny.” - -“Has Granny ninepins?” - -“Yes, ever so much bigger than these.” - -“Really! So Granny is rich, then?” - -“I think so.” - -“As rich as mamma?” - -“Her garden isn’t so big.” - -“Begin, do _you_; ah, ha! you’ve hit one, and who plays best?” - -“Tom Orange does; does your mamma know Tom Orange?” - -“I dare say she does. Dulcibella, does mamma know Tom Orange?” - -“No, my dear.” - -“No, she doesn’t,” echoed the little girl, “who is he?” - -What, not know Tom Orange! How could that be? So he narrated on that -brilliant theme. - -“Tom Orange must come to tea with mamma, I’ll tell her to ask him,” -decided the young lady. - -So these little wiseacres pursued their game, and then had their tea, -and in about an hour the little boy found himself trudging home, with -a sudden misgiving, for the first time, as to the propriety of his -having made these acquaintances without Granny’s leave. - -The kind voice, the beloved smile of Granny received him before the -cottage door. - -“Welcome, darlin’, and where was my darlin’, and what kept him from -his old Granny?” - -So they hugged and kissed, and then he related all that had happened, -and asked “was it any harm, Granny?” - -“Not a bit, darlin’, that’s a good lady, and a grand lady, and a fit -companion for ye, and see how she knew the gentle blood in your pretty -face; and ye _may_ go, as she has asked you, to-morrow evening again, -and as often as she asks ye; for it was only the little fellows that’s -going about without edication or manners, that your friends, and who -can blame them, doesn’t like ye to keep company with--and who’d blame -them, seeing they’re seldom out of mischief, and that’s the beginning -o’ wickedness, and you’re going, but oh! darlin’, not for three long -years, thank God, to a grand school where there’s none but the best.” - -So this chance acquaintance grew, and the lady seemed to take every -week a deeper interest in the fine little boy, so sensitive, generous, -and intelligent, and he very often drank tea with his new friends. - - - - - CHAPTER LIX. - AN OLD FRIEND. - -I am going now to describe the occurrences of a particular evening -on which my young friend drank tea at Stanlake Farm, which was the -name of the house with the old garden to which I have introduced the -reader. - -A light shower had driven the party in from the garden, and so the boy -and Amy were at their ninepins in the great hall, when, the door being -open, a gentleman rode up and dismounted, placing the bridle in the -hand of a groom who accompanied him. - -A tall man he was, with whiskers and hair dashed with white, and a -slight stoop. He strode into the hall, his hat on, and a whip still in -his hand. - -“Hollo! So there you are--and how is your ladyship?” said he. -“Skittles, by the law! Brayvo! Two down, by Jove! I’d rather that -young man took you in hand than I. And tell me--where’s Ally?” - -“Mamma’s in the drawing-room,” said the young lady, scarcely regarding -his presence. “Now play, it’s your turn,” she said, addressing her -companion. - -The new arrival looked at the boy and paused till he threw the ball. - -“That’s devilish good too,” said the stranger--“very near the nine. -Eh? But a miss is as good as a mile; and I don’t think he’s quite as -good as you--and she’s in the drawing-room; which is the -drawing-room?” - -“Don’t you know the drawing-room! Well, _there_ it is,” and the young -lady indicated it with her finger. “My turn now.” - -And while the game was pursued in the hall, the visitor pushed open -the drawing-room door and entered. - -“And how is Miss Ally?” - -“Oh, Harry! Really!” - -“Myself as large as life. You don’t look half pleased, Ally. But I -have nout but good news for you to-day. You’re something richer this -week than you were last.” - -“What is it, Harry? Tell me what you mean?” - -“So I will. You know that charge on Carwell--a hundred and forty -pounds a year--well, that’s dropped in. That old witch is dead--ye -might ’a seen it in the newspaper, if you take in one--Bertha -Velderkaust. No love lost between ye. Eh?” - -“Oh, Harry! Harry! _don’t_,” said poor Alice, pale, and looking -intensely pained. - -“Well, I _won’t_ then; I didn’t think ’twould vex you. Only you know -what a head devil that was--and she’s dead in the old place, Hoxton. I -read the inquest in the _Times_. She was always drinkin’. I think she -was a bit mad. She and the people in the back room were always -quarrelling; and the father’s up for that and forgery. But ’twasn’t -clear how it came about. Some swore she was out of her mind with -drink, and pitched herself out o’ the window; and some thought it -might ’a bin that chap as went in to rob her, thinkin’ she was stupid; -and so there was a tussle for’t--she was main strong, ye know--and he -chucked her out. Anyhow she got it awful, for she fell across the -spikes of the area-rails, and she hung on them with three lodged in -her side--the mad dog-fox, she was!” - -“Oh, Harry! How shocking! Oh! pray don’t!” exclaimed Alice, who looked -as if she was going to faint. - -“Well, she lay there, without breath enough to screech, twistin’ like -a worm--for three hours, it’s thought.” - -“Oh! Harry--pray don’t describe it; don’t, I implore. I feel so ill.” - -“Well, I won’t, if you say so, only she’s smashed, and cold in her -wooden surtout; and her charge is reverted to you, now; and I thought -I’d tell ye.” - -“Thank you, Harry,” she said, very faintly. - -“And when did you come here? I only heard this morning,” asked Harry. - -“Five weeks ago.” - -“Do you like it; ain’t it plaguy lonesome?” - -“I like the quiet--at least for a time,” she answered. - -“And I’m thinkin’ o’ gettin’ married--upon my soul I am. What do you -think o’ that?” - -“Really!” - -“Sure as you’re there, but it won’t be none o’ your love-matches. - - - ‘Bring something, lass, along wi’ thee, - If thou intend to live wi’ me.’ - - -That’s my motto. Sweetheart and honey-bird keeps no house, I’ve heard -say. I like a body that can look after things, and that would rather -fund fifty pounds than spend a hundred. - - - ‘A nice wife and a back door - Hath made many a rich man poor,’ - - -as they say; and besides, I’m not a young fellow no longer. I’m pushin’ -sixty, and I should be wise. And who’s the little chap that’s playin’ -skittles wi’ Amy in the hall?” - -“Oh, that’s such a nice little boy. His father’s name is Henry, and -his mother has been dead a long time. He lives with a good old woman -named Marjory Trevellian. What’s the matter, Harry?” - -“Nothing. I beg your pardon. I was thinkin’ o’ something else, and I -didn’t hear. Tell me now, and I’ll listen.” - -So she repeated her information, and Harry yawned and stretched his -arms. - - - “‘For want o’ company, - Welcome trumpery,’ - - -and I must be goin’ now. I wouldn’t mind drinkin’ a glass o’ sherry, -as you’re so pressing, for I’ve had a stiff ride, and dust’s drouthy.” - -So Harry, having completed his visit characteristically, took his -leave, and mounted his nag and rode away. - - - - - CHAPTER LX. - TOM ORANGE. - -Little Miss Amy had a slight cold, and the next tea-party was put -off for a day. On the evening following Harry’s visit at Stanlake Farm, -Marjory Trevellian being at that time absent in the village to make -some frugal purchases, who should suddenly appear before the little -boy’s eyes, as he lifted them from his fleet upon the pond, but his -friend, Tom Orange, as usual in high and delightful spirits. - -Need I say how welcome Tom was? He asked in a minute or two for -Marjory, and took her temporary absence with great good humour. Tom -affected chilliness, and indeed the evening was a little sharp, and -proposed that they should retire to the cottage, and sit down there. - -“How soon do you suppose, youngster, the old hen will come home?” - -“Who?” - -“Marjory Daw, down the chimney.” - -“Oh, Granny?” - -This nickname was the only pleasantry of Mr. Orange which did not -quite please the boy. - -Tom Orange here interpolated his performance of the jackdaw, with his -eyelids turned inside out and the pupils quivering, which, although it -may possibly have resembled the jackdaw of heraldry, was not an exact -portraiture of the bird familiar to us in natural history; and when -this was over he asked again--“How soon will she be home?” - -“She walked down to the town, and I think she can’t be more than about -half-way back again.” - -“That’s a mile, and three miles an hour is the best of her paces if -she was runnin’ for a pound o’ sausages and a new cap. Heigh ho! and -alas and alack-a-day. No one at home but the maid, and the maid’s gone -to church! I wrote her a letter the day before yesterday, and I must -read it again before she comes back. Where does she keep her letters?” - -“In her work-box on the shelf.” - -“This will be it, the wery identical fiddle!” said Tom Orange, -playfully, setting it down upon the little deal table, and, opening -it, he took out the little sheaf of letters from the end, and took -them one by one to the window, where he took the liberty of reading -them. - -I think he was disappointed, for he pitched them back again into their -nook in the little trunk-shaped box contemptuously. - -The boy regarded Tom Orange as a friend of the family so confidential, -and as a man in all respects so admirable and virtuous, that nothing -appeared more desirable and natural than that excellent person’s -giving his attention to the domestic correspondence. - -He popped the box back again in its berth. Then he treated the young -gentleman to Lingo’s song with the rag-tag-merry-derry perrywig and -hat-band, &c., and at the conclusion of the performance admitted that -he was “dry,” and with a pleasant wink, and the tip of his finger -pushing the end of his nose a good deal to the left, he asked him -whether he could tell him where Mrs. Trevellian, who would be deeply -grieved if she thought that Tom was detained for a drink till her -return, kept her liquor. - -“Yes, I can show you,” said the boy. - -“Wait a minute, my guide, my comforter, and friend,” said Tom Orange; -and he ascertained from the door-stone that no one was inconveniently -near. - -The boy was getting a tea-cup off the shelf. - -“Never mind sugar, my hero, I’ll sweeten it with a thought of Marjory -Daw.” - -The boy explained, and led him into the dark nook by the hall door. -Tom Orange, well pleased, moved almost on tiptoe, and looked curiously -and spoke under his breath, as he groped in this twilight. - -“Here it is,” said the boy, frankly. - -“Where?” - -“Here.” - -“This!” said Tom, for his friend had uncovered a crock of water. - -Tom Orange glared at him and at the water with grotesque surprise, and -the _bona fides_ of the boy and the simplicity of the situation struck -Tom comically, and, exploding good-humouredly, he sat down in -Marjory’s chair and laughed hilariously. - -Having satisfied himself by a confidential dialogue that Marjory Daw -had no private bottle of comfort anywhere, this agreeable fellow so -far forgot his thirst, that he did not mind drawing water from the -crock, and talked on a variety of subjects to the young gentleman. In -the course of this conversation he asked him two topographical -questions. One was-- - -“Did you ever hear of a place called Carwell Grange?” - -And the other resembled it. - -“Did you ever hear of a place called Wyvern?” - -“No.” - -“Think, lad. Did you never hear Mrs. Trevellian speak of Wyvern? Or of -Carwell Grange?” - -“No.” - -“Because there is the tallest mushroom you ever saw in your life -growing there, and it is grown to that degree that it blocks the door -so that the Squire can’t get into his own house, and the mushroom is -counted one of the wonders of the world upon my little word of honour -as a gentleman! And - - - ‘Since there’s neither drink nor victuals, - Suppose, my lord, we play at skittles?’ - - -And if she’s not back by the end of the game, tell her I had to go on -to the bridge to see lame Bill Withershins, and I’ll be back again -this evening, I think, or in the morning at latest.” - -The game was played, but Marjory did not appear, and Tom Orange, -entertaining his young friend with a ludicrous imitation of Bill -Withershins’ knock-knees, took his departure, leaving his delighted -companion in the state which Moore describes as being usual-- - - - “When the lamp that lighted - The traveller at first goes out.” - - -So, having watched Tom till he was quite out of sight, he returned to -his neglected navy on the pond, and delivered his admirable Crichton’s -message to Marjory Daw on her return. - - - - - CHAPTER LXI. - THE HOUR AND THE MAN. - -Supper-time came, and Tom Orange did not return. Darkness closed -over the old cottage, the poplar trees and the town, and the little -boy said his prayers under the superintendence of worthy Marjory, and -went to his bed. - -He was disturbed in his sleep by voices talking in the room. He could -only keep his eyes open for a little time, and he saw Tom Orange -talking with mammy. He was at one side of the little table and she at -another, and his head was leaning forward so as to approach -uncomfortably near to the mutton-fat with a long snuff in the middle. -Mammy, as he indiscriminately called “Granny,” was sobbing bitterly -into her apron, and sometimes with streaming eyes, speaking so low -that he could not hear, to Tom Orange. - -Interesting as was the scene, slumber stole him away, and when he next -wakened, Tom was gone, and mammy was sitting on the bed, crying as if -her heart would break. When he opened his eyes, she said-- - -“Oh, darlin’! darlin’! My man--my own, own blessed man--my darlin’!” -and she hugged him to her heart. - -He remembered transports similar when two years ago he was very ill of -a fever. - -“I’m not sick, mammy, indeed; I’m quite well,” and with these -assurances and many caresses, he again fell asleep. - -In the morning his Sunday clothes, to his wonder, were prepared for -him to put on. The little old faded crimson carpet-bag, which she had -always told him, to the no small content of his self-importance, was -his own, stood plump and locked on the little table under the clock. -His chair was close beside mammy’s. She had all the delicacies he -liked best for his breakfast. There was a thin little slice of fried -bacon, and a new-laid egg, and a hot cake, and tea--quite a grand -breakfast. - -Mammy sat beside him very close. Her arm was round him. She was very -pale. She tried to smile at his prattle, and her eyes filled up as -often as she looked at him, or heard him speak. - -Now and then he looked wonderingly in her face, and she tried to smile -her old smile and nodded, and swallowed down some tea from her cup. - -She made belief of eating her breakfast, but she could not. - -When the wondering little man had ended his breakfast, with her old -kind hands she drew him towards her. - -“Sit down on my lap, my precious--my own man--my beautiful boy--my own -angel bright. Oh, darlin’--darlin’--darlin’!” and she hugged the boy -to her heart, and sobbed over his shoulder as if her heart was -bursting. - -He remembered that she cried the same way when the doctor said he was -safe and sure to recover. - -“Mammy,” he said, kissing her, “Amy has birthdays--and I think this is -my birthday--is it?” - -“No, darlin’; no, no,” she sobbed, kissing him. “No, my darlin’, no. -Oh, no, ’taint that.” - -She got up hastily, and brought him his little boots that she had -cleaned. The boy put them on, wondering, and she laced them. - -With eyes streaming she took up one of the little cork boats, which he -kept on the window-stool floating in a wooden bowl. - -“You’ll give me one of them, darlin’--to old mammy--for a keepsake.” - -“Oh! yes. Choose a good one--the one with the gold paper on the pin; -that one sails the best of all.” - -“And--and”--she cried bitterly before she could go on--“and this is -the little box I’ll put them in,” and she picked them out of the bowl -and laid them in a cardboard box, which she quickly tied round. “And -this is the last day of poor mammy with her bright only darlin’--for -your friends are sending for you to-day, and Mr. Archdale will be here -in ten minutes, and you’re to go with him. Oh, my precious--the light -o’ the house--and to leave me alone.” - -The boy stood up, and with a cry, ran and threw his arms round her, -where she stood near the clock. - -“Oh! no, no, no. Oh! mammy, you wouldn’t; you couldn’t, you couldn’t.” - -“Oh, darlin’, you’re breaking my heart. What can I do?” - -“Don’t let me go. Oh, mammy, don’t. Oh, you couldn’t, you couldn’t.” - -“But what can I do, darlin’? Oh, darlin’, what can I do?” - -“I’ll run away, mammy, I’ll run away; and I’ll come back when they’re -gone, and stay with you.” - -“Oh, God Almighty!” she cried, “here he’s coming. I see him coming -down the hazel road.” - -“Hide me, mammy; hide me in the press. Oh, mammy, mammy, you wouldn’t -give me to him!” - -The boy had got into this large old-painted press, and coiled himself -up between two shelves. There was hardly a moment to think; and -yielding to the instinct of her desperate affection, and to the -child’s wild appeal, she locked the door, and put the key in her -pocket. - -She sat down. She was half stunned by her own audacity. She scarcely -knew what she had done. Before she could recover herself, the door -darkened, a hand crossed the hatch and opened it, and -ex-Sergeant-Major Archdale entered the cottage. - -In curt military fashion he announced himself, and demanded the boy. - -She was looking straight in this formidable man’s face, and yet it -seemed as if he were vanishing from before her eyes. - -“Where’s the boy?” inquired the chill stern voice of the Sergeant. - -It seemed to her like lifting a mountain this effort to speak. She -felt as if she were freezing as she uttered the denial. - -“He aint here.” - -“Where is he?” demanded the Sergeant’s imperturbably clear cold voice. - -“He’s run away,” she said with an effort, and the Sergeant seemed to -vanish quite away, and she thought she was on the point of fainting. - -The Sergeant glanced at the breakfast table, and saw that two had -taken tea together; he saw the carpet-bag packed. - -“H’m?” intimated Archdale, with closed lips. He looked round the -cottage room, and the Sergeant sat down wonderfully composed, -considering the disconcerting nature of the announcement. - -The ex-Sergeant-Major had in his time commanded parties in search of -deserters, and he was not a bad slaught-hound of that sort. - -“He breakfasted with you?” said he, with a cool nod toward the table. - -There was a momentary hesitation, and she cleared her voice and said-- - -“Yes.” - -Archdale rose and placed his fingers on the teapot. - -“That’s hot,” said the Sergeant with the same inflexible dignity. - -Marjory was awfully uneasy. - -“He can’t be far. Which way did he go?” - -“Out by the door. I can’t tell.” - -The ex-Sergeant-Major might have believed her the goddess of truth -itself, or might have thought her the most impudent liar in England. -You could not have gathered in the least from his countenance toward -which view his conclusions tended. - -The Sergeant’s light cold grey eye glided again round the room, and -there was another silence awfully trying to our good friend Marjory. - - - - - CHAPTER LXII. - THE MARCH TO NOULTON FARM. - -“I think, ma’am, the boy’s in the house. You’d best give him up, for -I’ll not go without him. How many rooms have you?” - -“Three and a loft, sir.” - -The Sergeant stood up. - -“I’ll search the house first, ma’am, and if he’s not here I’ll inform -the police and have him in the Hue-and-Cry; and if you have had -anything to do with the boy’s deserting, or had a hand in making away -with him anyhow, I’ll have you in gaol and punished. I must secure the -door, and you can leave the house first, if you like best.” - -“Very well, sir,” answered she. - -But at this moment came a knocking and crying from within the press. - -“Oh! no--’twasn’t mammy; ’twas I that did it. Don’t take mammy.” - -“You see, ma’am, you give useless trouble. Please open that door--I -shall have to force it, otherwise,” he added, as very pale and -trembling she hesitated. - -Standing as he might before his commanding officer, stiff, with his -heels together, with his inflexibly serene face, full before her, he -extended his hand, and said simply, “The key, ma’am.” - -In all human natures--the wildest and most stubborn--there is a point -at which submission follows command, and there was that in the -serenity of the ex-Sergeant-Major which went direct to the instinct of -obedience. - -It was quite idle any longer trying to conceal the boy. With a -dreadful ache at her heart she put her hand in her pocket and handed -him the key. - -As the door opened the little boy shrank to the very back of the -recess, from whence he saw the stout form of the Sergeant stooped low, -as his blue, smooth fixed countenance peered narrowly into the dark. -After a few seconds he seemed to discern the figure of the boy. - -“Come, you sir, get out,” said the commanding voice of the visitor, as -the cane which he carried in his hand, paid round with wax-end for -some three inches at the extremity, began switching his little legs -smartly. - -“Oh, sir, for the love of God!” cried Marjory, clinging to his hand. -“Oh, sir, he’s the gentlest little creature, and he’ll do whatever -he’s bid, and the lovingest child in the world.” - -The boy had got out by this time, and looking wonderingly in the man’s -face, was unconsciously, with the wincing of pain, lifting his leg -slightly, for the sting of the cane was quite new to him. - -“If I catch you at that work again I’ll give you five dozen,” said his -new acquaintance. - -“Is this his?” said he, touching the carpet-bag with his cane. - -“Yes, sir, please.” - -He took it in his hand, and glanced at the boy--I think it was in his -mind to make him carry it. But the child was slender, and the bag, -conscientiously packed with everything that had ever belonged to him, -was a trifle too heavy. - -“Anything else?” demanded the Sergeant-Major. - -“This--this, God bless him.” - -It was the little box with his ships. - -“And this;” and she thrust the griddle cake, broken across and rolled -up in brown paper, into the boy’s pocket. - -“And these;” and three apples she had ready, she thrust after them. - -“And ho! my blessed darlin’, my darlin’, darlin’, darlin’.” - -He was lifted up against her heart, folded fast, and hugging her round -the neck, they kissed and cried and cried and kissed, and at last she -let him down; and the Sergeant-Major, with the cane under his arm, the -carpet-bag in one hand, and the boy’s wrist firmly held in the other, -marched out of the door. - -“That’s enough--don’t follow, woman,” said he, after they had gone -about twenty yards on the path; “and I’ll report you,” he added with a -nod which, with these pleasant words, she might take as a farewell or -not as she pleased. - -She stood on the little rising ground by the hawthorn-tree, kissing -her hands wildly after him, with streaming eyes. - -“I’ll be sure to see you soon. I’d walk round the world barefoot to -see my pretty man again,” she kept crying after him; “and I’ll bring -the ninepins, I’ll be sure. Mammy’s comin’, my darlin’.” - -And the receding figure of the little boy was turned toward her all it -could. He was gazing over his shoulder, with cheeks streaming with -tears, and his little hand waving yearningly back to her until he was -out of sight. And after a while she turned back, and there was their -ninepins’ ground, and the tarn, and her sobs quickened almost to a -scream; and she sat down on the stone bench under the window--for she -could not bear to enter the dark cottage--and there, in Irish phrase, -she cried her fill. - -In the meantime Archdale and his companion, or prisoner--which you -will--pursued their march. He still held the boy’s wrist, and the boy -cried and sobbed gently to himself all the way. - -When they came down to the little hamlet called Maple Wickets he hired -a boy to carry the carpet-bag to Wunning, four miles further on, where -the Warhampton ’bus passes, as everybody knows, at half-past twelve -o’clock daily. - -They resumed their march. The Sergeant was a serenely taciturn man. He -no more thought of addressing the boy than he did of apostrophising -the cane or the carpet-bag. He let him sob on, and neither snubbed nor -consoled him, but carried his head serene and high, looking straight -before him. - -At length the novelty of the scene began to act upon the volatility of -childhood. - -As he walked by the Sergeant he began to prattle, at first timidly, -and then more volubly. - -The first instinct of the child is trust. It was a kind of consolation -to the boy to talk a great deal of his home, and Tom Orange was of -course mentioned with the usual inquiry, “Do you know Tom Orange?” - -“Why so?” - -Then followed the list of that facetious and brilliant person’s -accomplishments. - -“And are we to go near a place called Wyvern or Carwell Grange?” asked -the boy, whose memory, where his fancy was interested, was retentive. - -“Why so?” again demanded the Sergeant, looking straight before him. - -“Because Tom Orange told me there’s the biggest mushroom in the world -grown up there, and that the owner of the house can’t get in, for it -fills up the door.” - -“Tom Orange told you that?” demanded the Sergeant in the same way. - -And the boy, supposing it incredulity on his part, assured him that -Tom, who was truth itself, _had_ told him so only yesterday. - -The Sergeant said no more, and you could not have told in the least by -his face that he had made a note of it and was going to “report” Tom -Orange in the proper quarter. And in passing, I may mention that about -three weeks later Tom Orange was peremptorily dismissed from his -desultory employments under Mr. Archdale, and was sued for stealing -apples from Warhampton orchard, and some minor peccadillos, and -brought before the magistrates, among whom sat, as it so happened, on -that occasion, Squire Fairfield of Wyvern, who was “precious hard on -him,” and got him in for more than a month with hard labour. The -urchin hireling with the carpet-bag trudged on in front as the -Sergeant-Major had commanded. - -Our little friend, with many a sobbing sigh, and a great load at his -heart, yet was looking about him. - -They were crossing a moor with beautiful purple heather, such as he -had never seen before. The Sergeant had let go his wrist. He felt more -at his ease every way. - -There were little pools of water here and there which attracted the -boy’s attention, and made him open his box of cork boats and peep at -them. He wondered how they would sail in these dark little nooks, and -at last, one lying very conveniently, he paused at its margin, and -took out a ship and floated it, and another, and another. How quickly -seconds fly and minutes. - -He was roused by the distant voice of the Sergeant-Major shouting, -“Hollo, you sir, come here.” - -He looked up. The Sergeant was consulting his big silver watch as he -stood upon a little eminence of peat. - -By the time he reached him the Sergeant had replaced it, and the two -or three seals and watchkey he sported were dangling at the end of his -chain upon his paunch. The Sergeant was standing with his heels -together and the point of his cane close to the side of his boot. - -“Come to the front,” said the Sergeant. - -“Give up that box,” said he. - -The boy placed it in his hand. He uncovered it, turned over the little -navy with his fingers, and then jerked the box and its contents over -the heath at his side. - -“Don’t pick one of ’em up,” said he. - -“Move half a pace to the right,” was his next order. - -His next command was-- - -“Hold out your hand.” - -The boy looked in his face, surprised. - -The Sergeant’s face looked not a bit angrier or a bit kinder than -usual. Perfectly serene. - -“Hold out your hand, sir.” - -He held it out, and the cane descended with a whistling cut across his -fingers. Another. The boy’s face flushed with pain, and his deadened -hand sunk downward. An upward blow of the cane across his knuckles -accompanied the command, “Hold it up, sir,” and a third cut came down. - -The Sergeant was strong, and could use his wrist dexterously. - -“Hold out the other;” and the same discipline was repeated. - -Mingled with and above the pain which called up the three great black -weals across the slender fingers of each hand, was the sense of -outrage and cruelty. - -The tears sprang to his eyes, and for the first time in his life he -cried passionately under that double anguish. - -“Walk in front,” said the Sergeant, serenely. - -And squeezing and wringing his trembling hands together, the still -writhing little fellow marched along the path, with a bitterer sense -of desolation than ever. - -The ’bus was late at Wunning; and a lady in it, struck by the beauty -and sadness of the little boy’s face, said some kind words, and seemed -to take to him, he thought, with a tenderness that made his heart -fuller; and it was a labour almost too great for him to keep down the -rising sobs and the tears that were every moment on the point of -flowing over. This good Samaritan bought a bag of what were called -“Ginger-bread nuts”--quite a little store; which Archdale declined -leaving at the boy’s discretion. But I am bound to say that they were -served out to him, from day to day, with conscientious punctuality by -the Sergeant-Major, who was strictly to be depended on in all matters -of property; and would not have nibbled at one of those nuts though -his thin lips had watered and not a soul had been near. He must have -possessed a good many valuable military virtues, or he could not, I -presume, have been where he was. - -Noulton Farm is a melancholy but not an ugly place. There are a great -many trees about it. They stand too near the windows. The house is -small and old, and there is a small garden with a thick high hedge -round it. - -The members of the family were few. Miss Mary Archdale was ill when -they arrived. She was the only child of the ex-Sergeant, who was a -widower; and the new inmate of the house heard of her with a terror -founded on his awe of her silent father. - -They entered a small parlour, and the boy sat down in the chair -indicated by the Sergeant. That person hung his hat on a peg in the -hall, and placed his cane along the chimney-piece. Then he rang the -bell. - -The elderly woman who was the female staff of the kitchen entered. She -looked frightened, as all that household did, in their master’s -presence, and watched him with an alarmed eye. - -“Where’s Miss Mary?” - -“A-spitting blood, sir, please.” - -“Bring in supper,” said the Sergeant. - -The boy sat in fear at the very corner of the table. His grief would -not let him eat, and he sipped a cup of tea that was too hot, and had -neither milk nor sugar enough. The Sergeant snuffed his candle, and -put on a pair of plated spectacles, and looked through his weekly -paper. - -While he was so employed there glided into the room a very slight -girl, with large eyes and a very pale face. Her hair was brown and -rich. - -The hand with which she held her shawl across was very thin; and in -her pale face and large eyes was a timid and imploring look that -struck the little boy. She looked at him and he at her silently; her -sad eyes lingered on his face for a moment, and he felt that he liked -her. - -She took a chair very softly and sat down without saying a word. - -In a little while the Sergeant laid down his paper and looked at her. -Her large eyes were raised toward him with timid expectation, but she -did not speak. - -“Not well just now?” - -“No, sir.” - -“You take the bottle regularly?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“You’ll be better in the morning belike.” - -“I’m sure I shall, sir.” - -He lighted a candle that stood on a side-table, and his dog Bion got -up to attend him. It was a large pug-dog, gambouge-coloured, with a -black nose. The boy often afterwards wished to play with Bion, and -make his acquaintance. But he did not know how the attempt would be -taken either by the dog or his master, and so he did not venture. - -No caresses passed between the dog and the Sergeant. Each did his -duty by the other, and they understood one another, I suppose, but no -further signs of love appeared. - -The Sergeant went out and shut the door, and the girl smiled very -sweetly on the little guest, and put out her hand to welcome him. - -“I’m very glad you are come here. I was very lonely. My father is gone -to the work-room; he’s making an organ there, and he won’t come back -till a quarter to nine. That’s an hour and three-quarters. Do you -hear--listen.” - -She raised her finger and looked toward the partition as she spoke, -and he heard a booming of an organ through the wall. - -“Tony blows the organ for him.” - -Tony was a little boy from the workhouse, who cleaned knives, forks, -shoes, and made himself generally useful, being the second servant, -the only male one in their modest establishment. - -“I wish I was better, I’m so out of breath talking. We’ll be very -happy now. That’s tuning the pipes--that one’s wolving. I used to -blow the bellows for him, but the doctor says I must not, and indeed I -couldn’t now. You must eat something and drink more tea, and we’ll be -great friends, shan’t we?” - -So they talked a great deal, she being obliged to stop often for -breath, and he could see that she was very weak, and also that she -stood in indescribable awe of her father. But she said, “He’s a very -good man, and he works very hard to earn his money, but he does not -talk, and that makes people afraid of him. He won’t be back here until -he comes here to read the Bible and prayers at a quarter to nine.” - -So she talked on, but all the time in an undertone, and listening -every now and then for the boom of the pipes, and the little boy -opened his heart to her and wept bitterly, and she cried too, -silently, as he went on, and they became very near friends. She looked -as if she understood his griefs. Perhaps her own resembled them. - -The old woman came in and took away the tea things, and shortly after -the Sergeant entered and read the chapter and the prayers. - - - - - CHAPTER LXIII. - A SILENT FAREWELL. - -At Noulton Farm each day was like its brother. Inflexible hours, -inflexible duties, all proceeded with a regimental punctuality. At -meals not a word was spoken, and while the master of the house was in -it, all conversation was carried on, even in remote rooms, in an -undertone. - -Our little friend used to see the workhouse boy at prayers, morning -and evening, and occasionally to pass his pale disquieted face on the -stairs or lobbies when his duties brought him there. They eyed one -another wistfully, but dared not speak. Mr. Archdale had so ordained -it. - -That workhouse boy--perhaps he was inefficient, perhaps too much was -expected from him--but he had the misfortune perpetually to incur--I -can hardly say his master’s displeasure, for the word implies -something emotional, whereas nothing could be at all times more -tranquil and cold than that master--but his correction. - -These awful proceedings occurred almost daily, and were conducted with -the absolute uniformity which characterised the system of Noulton -Farm. At eleven o’clock the cold voice of the Sergeant-Major called -“Tony!” and Tony appeared, writhing and whimpering by anticipation. - -“My cane,” said the master, stepping into the room which he called the -workshop, where the organ, half finished, stood, stop-diapason, -dulciana, and the rest in deal rows, with white chips, chisels, lead, -saws, and glue-pots, in industrious disorder, round. Then Tony’s pale, -miserable face was seen in the “parlour,” and Miss Mary would look -down on the floor in pale silence, and our little friend’s heart would -flutter over his lesson-book as he saw the lank boy steal over to the -chimney-piece, and take down the cane, and lingeringly disappear. - -Then was heard the door of the workshop close, and then very faint the -cold clear voice of the master. Then faint and slow the measured cut -of the cane, and the whine of the boy rising to a long hideous yell, -and, “Oh, sir, dear--oh, sir, dear; oh, Mr. Archdale, oh, master, -dear, oh, master, dear!” And this sometimes so protracted that Mary -used to get up and walk round the room in a kind of agony -whispering--“Oh, poor boy. Oh, poor Tony. Oh mercy--oh goodness. Oh! -my good Lord, when will it be over!” And, sitting apart, the little -boy’s eyes as they followed her would fill with tears of horror. - -The little fellow said lessons to Mr. Archdale. There was nothing -unreasonable in their length, and his friend Mary helped him. It was -well for him, however, that he was a bright little fellow, with a good -memory, for the Sergeant was not a teacher to discriminate between -idleness and dulness. - -No one ever heard Mr. Archdale use a violent expression, or utter a -curse. He was a silent, cold, orderly person, and I think the most -cruel man I ever saw in my life. - -He had a small active horse, and a gig, in which he drove upon his -outdoor business. He had fixed days and hours for everything, except -where he meditated a surprise. - -One day the Sergeant-Major entered the room where the boy was reading -at his lessons, and, tapping him on the shoulder, put the county -newspaper into his hand; and, pointing to a paragraph, desired him to -read it, and left the room. - -It was a report of the proceedings against Tom Orange, and gave a -rather disreputable character of that amusing person. There was a -great pain at the boy’s affectionate heart as he read the hard words -dealt to his old friend, and worse still, the sentence. He was crying -silently when the Sergeant returned. That stern man took the paper, -and said in his cold, terrible tones-- - -“You’ve read that?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“And understand it?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“If I find you speaking to Thomas Orange, I’ll tie you up in the -workshop, and give you five dozen.” And with this promise he serenely -left him. - -Children are unsuspicious of death, and our little friend, who every -night used to cry in his bed silently, with a bursting heart, thinking -of his mammy and old happy times, till he fell asleep in the dark, -never dreamed that his poor friend Mary was dying--she, perhaps, -herself did not think so any more than he, but every one else said it. - -They two grew to be great friends. Each had a secret, and she trusted -hers to the little friend whom God had sent her. - -It was the old story--the troubled course of true love. Willie -Fairlace was the hero. The Sergeant-Major had found it all out, and -locked up his daughter, and treated her, it was darkly rumoured, with -cruel severity. - -He was proud of his daughter’s beauty, and had ambitious plans, I dare -say; and he got up Willie’s farm, and Willie was ruined, and had -enlisted and was gone. - -The Sergeant-Major knew the post-office people in the village, and the -lovers dared not correspond directly. But Willie’s cousin, Mrs. Page, -heard from him regularly, and there were long messages to Mary. His -letters were little else. And _now at last_ had come a friend to bear -her messages to trusty Mrs. Page, and to carry his back again to -Noulton Farm. - -After her father had gone out, or in the evening when he was at the -organ in the “workshop,” and sometimes as, wrapped in her cloak, on a -genial evening, she sat on the rustic seat under the great ash tree, -and the solemn and plaintive tones of the distant organ floated in old -church music from the open window through the trees and down the -fragrant field toward the sunset sky, filling the air with grand and -melancholy harmony, she would listen to that whispered message of the -boy’s, looking far away, and weeping, and holding the little fellow’s -hand, and asking him to say it over again, and telling him she felt -better, and thanking him, and smiling and crying bitterly. - -One evening the Sergeant was at his organ-pipes as usual. The boy as -he stood in the garden at his task, watering the parched beds, heard a -familiar laugh at the hedge, and the well-known refrain-- - - - “Tag-rag-merry-derry-perrywig and hatband-hic-hoc-horum-genetivo!” - - -It was Tom Orange himself! - -In spite of his danger the boy was delighted. He ran to the hedge, and -he and Tom, in a moment more, were actually talking. - -It became soon a very serious conversation. The distant booming of the -organ-pipes assured him that the light grey eye and sharp ear of the -Sergeant were occupied still elsewhere. - -Tom Orange was broaching a dreadful conspiracy. - -It was no less than that the boy should meet him at the foot of the -field where the two oziers grow, at eleven o’clock, on the night -following, and run away with him, and see mammy again, and come to a -nice place where he should be as happy as the day is long, and mammy -live with him always, and Tom look in as often as his own more -important business would permit. - -“I will, Tom,” said the boy, wildly and very pale. - -“And oh! Tom, I was so sorry about the trial, and what lies they -told,” said the boy, after they had talked a little longer; “and -saying that you had been with gipsies, and were a poacher; and oh! -Tom, is mammy quite well?” - -“Yes.” - -“And all my ships were lost on the moor; and how is little Toozie the -cat?” - -“Very well; blooming--blushing.” - -“And, Tom, _you_ are quite well?” - -“Never better, as I lately told Squire Harry Fairfield; and mind ye, -I’ll be even yet with the old boy in there,” and he indicated the -house with a jerk of his thumb. - -“I don’t hear the organ, Tom. Good-bye.” - -And Tom was off in a moment, and the boy had resumed his watering-pot. -And that evening he sat down with, for the first time, a tremendous -secret at his heart. - -There was one grief even in the hope of his liberation. When he -looked at poor Mary, and thought how lonely she would be. Oh! if poor -Mary could come with him! But some time or other he and Tom would come -and take her away, and she would live with him and mammy, and be one -of that happy family. - -She did not know what thoughts were in the boy’s mind as his sad -earnest eyes were fixed on her, and she smiled with a little languid -nod. - -But he need not have grieved his gentle heart on this account. There -was not to be a seeming desertion of his friend; nor anything she -could mistake for a treacherous slight. - -That morning, at two o’clock, Mary died. - -About ten minutes before, an alarm from the old servant, who slept in -the room, called up her father. - -Her faithful little friend was on his knees sobbing beside the bed, -with her wasted hand in his, as the Sergeant-Major, hastily dressed, -walked in, and stood by the curtain looking down into those large, -deep eyes. She was conscious, though she could not speak. She saw, as -she looked up her last look, a few sullen drops gather in those proud -eyes, and roll down his cheeks. Perhaps the sad, wondering look with -which she returned these signs of tenderness, smote him, and haunted -him afterwards. There was a little motion in her right hand as if she -would have liked him to take it--in sign of reconciliation--and with -those faint tokens of the love that might have been, the change of -death came, and the troubled little heart was still, and the image of -Willie Fairlace was lost in the great darkness. - -Then the little boy cried aloud wildly-- - -“Oh! Mary, pretty Mary. Oh! Mary, are you dead? Oh! isn’t it a pity; -isn’t it a pity! Oh! is she dead?” - -The Sergeant dried his eyes hastily. He hoped, I dare say, that no one -had seen his momentary weakness. He drew a long breath. With a stern -face he closed the pretty eyes that Willie Fairlace, far away now, -will never forget; and closed the little mouth that never will -complain, or sigh, or confess its sad tale more. - -“You had better get to your room, boy. Get to your bed,” said the -Sergeant, not ungently laying his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You’ll -take cold. Give him a candle.” - - - - - CHAPTER LXIV. - THE MARCH BY NIGHT. - -The next day the Sergeant was away in his gig to Wyvern, a long -journey, to report to the Squire, and obtain leave of absence from his -duties for a day or two. He was to spend that night at Hatherton, there -to make arrangements about the funeral. - -It was a relief to all at Noulton Farm, I need hardly say, when the -master of the house was away. - -A very sad day it was for the boy; a day whose gloom was every now and -then crossed by the thrill and fear of a great excitement. - -As evening darkened he went out again to the garden in the hope of -seeing Tom Orange. He would have liked that cheer at the eve of his -great venture. But Tom was not there. Neither counsel nor -encouragement to be heard; nothing but the song of the small birds -among the leaves, and the late flowers, soon to close, peeping from -among the garden plants, and the long quiet shadows of the poplars -that stood so tall and still against the western sky. - -The boy came in and had his lonely cup of tea in the “parlour,” and a -little talk with the somewhat sour and sad old servant. He was longing -for the night. Yearning to see Tom’s friendly face and to end his -suspense. - -At last the twilight was gone. The night had indeed come, and the moon -shone serenely over the old gray roof and the solemn trees; over the -dead and the living. - -The boy lay down in his bed at the accustomed early hour. The old -woman had taken away his candle and shut the door. He lay with his -eyes wide open listening with a palpitating heart for every sound. - -The inflexible regularity which the absent master had established in -his household was in the boy’s favour. He heard the servant shut and -bar the outer door at the wonted hour. He saw the boy’s candle in his -window for a while and then put out. Tony was in his bed, and for -tired Tony to lie down was generally to be asleep. - -Peeping stealthily from his lattice he saw the old servant’s candle -glimmering redly through the window on the juniper that stood near the -wall in the shadow; and soon that light also disappeared, and he knew -that the old woman had gone into her room. It was half-past ten. She -would be asleep in a quarter of an hour, and in another fifteen -minutes his critical adventure would have commenced. - -Stealthily, breathlessly, he dressed. His window looked toward the -ozier trees, where Tom was to await him. It opened, lattice fashion, -with a hinge. - -Happily the night was still, and the process of preparing to descend -perfectly noiseless. The piece of old rope that lay in the corner he -had early fixed on as his instrument of escape. He made it fast to -the bed-post, and began to let himself down the wall. The rope was too -short, and he dangled in air from the end of it for a second or two, -and then dropped to the ground. The distance of the fall, though not -much, was enough to throw him from his feet, and the dog in the -lock-up yard at the other side of the house began to bark angrily. For -a minute the boy gave himself up. - -He lay, however, perfectly still, and the barking subsided. There was -no other alarm, and he stole very softly away under cover of the -trees, and then faster down the slope toward the appointed oziers. - -There indeed was Tom Orange in that faint light, more solemn than he -ever remembered to have seen him before. Tom was thinking that the -stealing away this boy might possibly turn out the most serious -enterprise he had yet engaged in. - -He had no notion, however, of receding, and merely telling the boy to -follow him, he got into a swinging trot that tried the little fellow’s -endurance rather severely. I think they ran full three miles before -Tom came to a halt. - -Then, more like himself, he inquired how he was, and whether he -thought he could go on fifteen miles more that night. - -“Oh, yes, he could do anything that night. Quite well.” - -“Well, walk a bit that you may get breath, and then we’ll run again,” -said Tom, and so they set forward once more. - -They had now accomplished about four miles more. The little fellow was -not so fresh as at starting. A drizzling rain, too, had commenced, -with a cold change of wind, and altogether the mere adventure of -running away was not quite so pleasant, nor even Tom’s society quite -so agreeable on the occasion, as he had fancied. - -“You have done four out of the fifteen; you have only eleven of the -fifteen before you now. You have got over seven altogether up to this. -Not so bad. You’re not tired, youngster?” - -“Not the least.” - -“That’s right. You’re a good soldier. Now come, we’ll stand close -under this hedge and eat a bit.” - -They supped very heartily on great slices of bread and corned beef, -which bore ample traces of the greens in which it had been served when -hot. - -“And now, boy, you must get on to Hatherton by yourself, for I’m known -about here, and there’s a fair there in the morning, and there will be -people on the way before light. You must go a mile beyond the town, to -the George public. Mrs. Gumford keeps it, and there I’ll meet you.” -Then he detailed the route and the landmarks for the boy’s guidance. -“Take a drink of this,” said he, pulling a soda-water bottle full of -milk out of his coat pocket. - -And when he had done-- - -“Take a mouthful of this, my hero, it will keep you warm.” - -And he placed a flask of brandy to the boy’s lips, and made him -swallow a little. - -“And here’s a bit more bread, if you should be hungry. Good-night, -and remember.” - -After about an hour’s solitary walking, the boy began to grow alarmed. -Tom’s landmarks failed him, and he began to fear that he had lost his -way. In half an hour more he was sure that he was quite out of his -reckoning, and as his spirits sank he began to feel the cold wind and -drenching rain more and more. - -And now he found himself entering a town not at all answering Tom’s -description of Hatherton. - -The little town was silent, its doors and windows shut, and all except -a few old-fashioned oil-lamps dark. - -After walking listlessly about--afraid to knock and ask anywhere for -shelter--worn out, he sat down on a door-step. He leaned back and soon -fell fast asleep. - -A shake by the shoulder roused him. A policeman was stooping over him. - -“I say, get up out o’ that,” said the imperious voice of the -policeman. - -The boy was not half awake; he stared at him, his big face and -leather-bound chimney-pot looked like a dream. - -“I say,” he continued, shaking him, but not violently, “you must get -up out o’ that. You’re not to be making yourself comfortable there all -night. Come, be lively.” - -Comfortable! Lively!--all comparative--all a question of degrees. - -The boy got up as quickly as the cold and stiffness of his joints -would let him. - -Very dutifully he got up, and stood drenched, pale, and shivering in -the moonlight. - -The policeman looked down not unkindly now, at the little wayfarer. -There was something piteous, I dare say. He looked a grave, thoughtful -man, of more than fifty, and he put his hand on the child’s shoulder. - -“Ye see, boy, that was no place to sleep in.” - -“No, sir, I’ll never do it again, sir, please.” - -“You’re cold; you’d get pains in your bones.” - -“I’ll not any more, sir, please.” - -“Come with me, my boy, it’s only a step.” - -He brought the boy into his house down the lane close by. - -“There’s a fire. You warm yourself. There’s my little one in fever, so -you can’t stop long. Sit down, child, and warm yourself.” - -He gave him a drink of hot milk and a piece of bread. - -“You don’t get up, you know; there’s no need,” he added. - -I think he was afraid of his pewter spoons. He kept the little fellow -nearly half an hour, and he lent him an old bottomless sack to wrap -about his shoulders, and charged him to bring it back in the morning. -I think the man thought he might be a thief. He was a kind man--there -was a balancing of great pity and suspicion. - -The boy returned the sack with many thanks, in the first faint -twilight of morning, and set forth again for Hatherton. It was, the -fellow who directed him said, still five miles on. - -At about a mile from Hatherton, cold and wet, and fearing to be too -early at the George Inn, the rendezvous agreed on, the tired little -fellow crept in, cold and wet, to a road-side pot-house. - -At the fire of the ale-house three fellows were drinking beer. Says -one who had now and then had his eye on the boy-- - -“That boy there has run away from school.” - -I cannot describe the terror with which the little fellow heard those -words. The other two looked at him. One was a fat fellow in breeches -and top boots, and a red cloth waistcoat, and a ruddy good-humoured -face; and after a look they returned to their talk; and in a little -while the lean man, who seemed to find it hard to take his eyes off -him, said, “That’s a runaway, that chap; we ought to tell the police -and send him back to school.” - -“Well, that’s no business of ours; can’t you let him be?” said the red -waistcoat. - -“Come here,” said the lean man, beckoning him over with his hard eye -on him. - -He rose and slowly approached under that dreadful command. - -I can’t say that there was anything malevolent in that man’s face. -Somewhat sharp and stern, with a lean inflexibility of duty. To the -boy at this moment no face could have been imagined more terrific; his -only hope was in his fat companion. He turned, I am sure, an -imploring look upon him. - -“Come, Irons, let the boy alone, unless ye mean to quarrel wi’ me; -d---- me ye _shall_ let him alone! And get him his breakfast of -something hot, and be lively,” he called to the people; “and score it -up to me.” - -So, thanks to the good Samaritan in top boots and red waistcoat, the -dejected little man pursued his way comforted. - -As he walked through Hatherton he was looking into a shop window -listlessly, when he distinctly saw, reflected in the plate glass, that -which appalled him so that he thought he should have fainted. - -It was the marble, blue-chinned face of the Sergeant-Major looking -over his shoulder, with his icy gray eyes, into the same window. - -He was utterly powerless to move. His great eyes were fixed on that -dreadful shadow. He was actually touching his shoulder as he leaned -over. Happily the Sergeant did not examine the reflection, which he -would have been sure to recognise. The bird fascinated by the cold -eye of a snake, and expecting momentarily, with palpitating heart, the -spring of the reptile, may feel, when, withdrawing the spell, it -glides harmlessly away, as the boy did when he saw that dreaded man -turn away and walk with measured tread up the street. For a moment his -terror was renewed, for Bion, that yellow namesake of the philosopher, -recognising him, stood against the boy’s leg, and scratched -repeatedly, and gave him a shove with his nose, and whimpered. The boy -turned quickly, and walking away the dog left him, and ran after his -master, and took his place at his side. - - - - - CONCLUSION. - -At the George Inn, a little way out of Hatherton, the boy, to his -inexpressible delight, at last found Tom Orange. - -He told Tom at once of his adventure at the shop window, and the -occurrence darkened Tom’s countenance. He peeped out and took a long -look toward Hatherton. - -“Put the horse to the fly and bring it round at once,” said Tom, who -put his hand in his pocket and drew forth a rather showy handful of -silver. - -I don’t pretend to say, when Tom was out of regular employment, from -what pursuits exactly he drew his revenue. They had rather improved -than otherwise; but I dare say there were anxious compensations. - -The boy had eaten his breakfast before he reached Hatherton. So much -the better; for the apparition of the Sergeant-Major would have left -him totally without appetite. As it was, he was in an agony to be -gone, every moment expecting to see him approach the little inn to -arrest him and Tom. - -Tom Orange was uneasy, I am sure, and very fidgety till the fly came -round. - -“You know Squire Fairfield of Wyvern?” said the hostess, while they -were waiting. - -“Ay,” said Tom. - -“Did you hear the news?” - -“What is it?” - -“Shot the night before last in a row with poachers. Gentlemen should -leave that sort o’ work to their keepers; but they was always a -fightin’ wild lot, them Fairfields; and he’s lyin’ now a dead man--all -the same--gave over by Doctor Willett and another--wi’ a whole charge -o’ duck-shot lodged under his shoulder.” - -“And that’s the news?” said Tom, raising his eyes and looking through -the door. He had been looking down on the ground as Mrs. Gumford of -the George told her story. - -“There’s sharp fellows poachers round there, I’m told,” he said, “next -time he’d a’ been out himself with the keepers to take ’em dead or -alive. I suppose that wouldn’t answer _them_.” - -“’Tis a wicked world,” said the lady. - -“D----d wicked,” said Tom. “Here’s the fly.” - -In they got and drove off. - -Tom was gloomy, and very silent. - -“Tom, where are we going to?” asked the boy at last. - -“All right,” said Tom. “All right, my young master. You’ll find it’s -to none but good friends. And, say now--Haven’t I been a good friend -to you, Master Harry, all your days, sir? Many a mile that you know -nothing about has Tom Orange walked on your business, and down to the -cottage and back again; and where would you or her have been if it -wasn’t for poor Tom Orange?” - -“Yes, indeed, Tom, and I love you, Tom.” - -“And now, I’ve took you away from that fellow, and I’m told I’m likely -to be hanged for it. Well, no matter.” - -“Oh, Tom; poor Tom! Oh! no, no, no!” and he threw his arms round Tom’s -neck in a paroxysm of agonised affection, and, in spite of the -jolting, kissed Tom; sometimes on the cheek, on the eyebrow, on the -chin, and in a great jolt violently on the rim of his hat, and it -rolled over his shoulder under their feet. - -“Well, that is gratifyin’,” said Tom, drying his eyes. “There is some -reward for _prenciple_ after all, and if you come to be a great man -some o’ these days, you’ll not forget poor Tom Orange, that would have -spent his last bob and spilt his heart’s blood, without fee or reward, -in your service.” - -Another explosion of friendship from the boy assured Tom of his -eternal gratitude. - -“Do you know this place, sir?” asked Tom, with a return of his old -manner, as making a sudden turn the little carriage drove through an -open gate, and up to a large old-fashioned house. A carriage was -waiting at the door. - -There could be no mistake. How delightful! and who was that? Mammy! at -the hall door, and in an instant they were locked in one another’s -arms, and “Oh! the darlin’,” and “Mammy, mammy, mammy!” were the only -words audible, half stifled in sobs and kisses. - -In a minute more there came into the hall--smiling, weeping, and with -hands extended toward him, the pretty lady dressed in black, and her -weeping grew into a wild cry, as coming quickly she caught him to her -heart. “My darling, my child, my blessed boy, you’re the image--Oh! -darling, I loved you the moment I saw you, and now I know it all.” - -The boy was worn out. His march, including his divergence from his -intended route, had not been much less than thirty miles, and all in -chill and wet. - -They got him to his bed and made him thoroughly comfortable, and with -mammy at his bedside, and her hand, to make quite sure of her, fast in -his, he fell into a deep sleep. - -Alice had already heard enough to convince her of the boy’s identity, -but an urgent message from Harry, who was dying, determined her to go -at once to Wyvern to see him, as he desired. So, leaving the boy in -charge of “mammy,” she was soon on her way to the old seat of the -Fairfields. - -If Harry had not known that he was dying, no power could ever have -made him confess the story he had to tell. - -There were two points on which he greatly insisted. - -The first was, that believing that his brother was really married to -Bertha Velderkaust, he was justified in holding that his nephew had no -legal right to succeed. - -The second was, that he had resolved, although he might have wavered -lately a little, never to marry, and to educate the boy better than -ever he was educated himself, and finally to make him heir to Wyvern, -pretending him to be an illegitimate son of his own. - -Whether the Sergeant-Major knew more than he was ordered or undertook -to know, he never gave the smallest ground to conjecture. He stated -exactly what had passed between him and Harry Fairfield. By him he was -told that the child which was conveyed to Marjory Trevellian’s care -was his own unacknowledged son. - -On the very same evening, and when old Mildred Tarnley was in the -house at Twyford, was a child taken, with the seeds of consumption -already active in it, from a workhouse in another part of England and -placed there as the son of Charles Fairfield and Alice. It was when, -contrary to all assurances, this child appeared for a few days to -rally, and the situation consequent on its growing up the reputed heir -to Wyvern alarmed Harry, that he went over, in his panic, to the -Grange, and there opened his case, that the child at Twyford was a -changeling, and not his brother’s son. - -When, however, the child began to sink, and its approaching death -could no longer be doubtful, he became, as we have seen, once more -quite clear that the baby was the same which he had taken away from -Carwell Grange. - -Dr. Willett’s seeing the child so often at Twyford, also prevented -suspicion, though illogically enough, for had they reflected they -might easily have remembered that the doctor had hardly seen the child -twice after its birth while at the Grange, and that, like every one -else, he took its identity for granted when he saw it at Twyford. - -Alice returned greatly agitated late that evening. No difficulty any -longer remained, and the boy, with ample proof to sustain his claim, -was accepted as the undoubted heir to Wyvern, and the representative -of the ancient family of Fairfield. - -The boy, Henry Fairfield, was as happy as mortal can be, henceforward. -His little playmate, the pretty little girl whom Alice had adopted, -who called her “mamma,” and yet was the daughter of a distant cousin -only, has now grown up, and is as a girl even more beautiful than she -was as a child. Henry will be of age in a few months, and they are -then to be married. They now reside at Wyvern. The estate, which has -long been at nurse, is now clear, and has funded money beside. - -Everything promises a happy and a prosperous reign for the young -Fairfield. - -Mildred Tarnley, very old, is made comfortable at Carwell Grange. - -Good old Dulcibella is still living, very happy, and very kind, but -grown a little huffy, being perhaps a little over petted. In all other -respects, the effect of years being allowed for, she is just what she -always was. - -Tom Orange, with a very handsome sum presented by those whom he had -served, preferred Australia to the old country. - -Harry Fairfield had asserted, in his vehement way, while lying in his -last hours at Wyvern, that the fellow with the handkerchief over his -face who shot him was, he could all but swear, his old friend Tom -Orange. - -Tom swore that had he lived he would have prosecuted him for slander. -As it is, that eccentric genius has prospered as the proprietor of a -monster tavern at Melbourne, where there is comic and sentimental -singing, and some dramatic buffooneries, and excellent devilled -kidneys and brandy. - -Marjory Trevellian lives with the family at Wyvern, and I think if -kind old Lady Wyndale were still living the consolations of Alice -would be nearly full. - - - [The End] - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES. - -The three volume edition published by Tinsley Brothers (London, 1869) -was referenced for many of the fixes listed below. - -Minor spelling inconsistencies (_e.g._ Alley/Allie/Ally, tea-things/tea -things, etc.) have been preserved. - -Alterations to the text: - -Assorted punctuation corrections. - -Some images were relocated nearer the scene they depict. - -[Chapter V] - -Change “the old fellow with a _mulberry coloured_ face” to -_mulberry-coloured_. - -[Chapter VI] - -(which he still called the “_harpischord_.”) to _harpsichord_. - -“I’ll gi’e ye the jewellery--_dy’e_ hear?” to _d’ye_. - -[Chapter VIII] - -“of a a saturnine and sulky sort” delete one _a_. - -[Chapter IX] - -“no use in parting at worse odds _that_ we need” to _than_. - -[Chapter XIV] - -(by-and-by,” he _laaghed_; “you shall) to _laughed_. - -[Chapter XV] - -“was supposed to cover a _gread_ deal of” to _great_. - -“but _somtimes_ the thunder and flame” _sometimes_. - -“let me see how long his stick his--his stick and his...” add an -m-dash after first instance of _stick_. - -[Chapter XVI] - -“A good house-wife, is she, that’s something,” delete first comma. - -[Chapter XVII] - -“nothin’ but old _’oman’stales_ and fribble-frabble” to _’oman’s -tales_. - -[Chapter XXI] - -“but that’s nothing to do _wi’it_” to _wi’ it_. - -[Chapter XXIV] - -“swear that he meant no _villany_” to _villainy_. - -“_suprised_ lean, straight Mrs. Tarnley” to _surprised_. - -[Chapter XXVI] - -“Give it me. Ha, yes, my bibe” add _to_ after _it_. - -[Chapter XXVIII] - -“thought that _occured_ more than once” to _occurred_. - -“was not _concilitated_, but disgusted” to _conciliated_. - -[Chapter XXXV] - -“I’m thinkin,’ as sound before if ye” attach the apostrophe to -_thinkin_ to form _thinkin’_. - -“she heard the click-clack of Mildred’s _shoe_ grow fainter” to -_shoes_. - -[Chapter XXXVIII] - -“that nervous tremor which is so _pleasant_ to see” to _unpleasant_. - -[Chapter XL] - -“and there’s two stout _lad’s_ wi’ him” to _lads_. - -[Chapter XLII] - -“I am tired, _I but_ won’t mind the wine” to _but I_. - -[Chapter XLVIII] - -“Dead men, ’tis an old sayin,’ is kin” attach second appostrophe to -_sayin_ to form _sayin’_. - -[Chapter XLIX] - -“Mildred had made him--a promise write often” add _to_ after _promise_. - -[Chapter L] - -“mud--too _high: o_ put your foot on” to _high to_. - -[Chapter LI] - -“and if try to manage for him I’ll want the best...” add _I_ after -_if_. - -“and _ye_ look out some decent poor body” to _ye’ll_. - -“three stops, sir--diapason, principal, dulciana.” add _and_ to the -list. - -[Chapter LIII] - -(“That wouldn’t do nohow,” you know, said Harry) move the right -quotation mark to after _know_. - -“but one and _’tother_, both together.” to _t’other_. - -[Chapter LIV] - -“_Doctor’s_ Willett says he’ll have it well” to _Doctor_. - -[Chapter LV] - -“What the de’il d’ye ye mean, Master Harry?” delete _ye_. - -“in my mind when ask ye to come over” add _I_ after _when_. - -[Chapter LVI] - -“There’s bin changes since, and I don’t see why Wyvern should be -charged so heavy?” change question mark to a period. - -[Chapter LVI] - -“The _neighours_, great and small,” to _neighbours_. - -[Chapter LIX] - -“_Your_ something richer this week than you were” to _You’re_. - -[Chapter LX] - -“and spoke under his breath, _and_ he groped in this twilight.” to -_as_. - -[Chapter LXIII] - -“as the _Serjeant-Major_, hastily dressed” to _Sergeant-Major_. - -[Conclusion] - -“Many a mile that you nothing about has Tom...” add _know_ after -_you_. - - -[End of Text] - - - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WYVERN MYSTERY *** - -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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