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Title: Bred in the Bone

Author: James Payn

Release Date: July 15, 2004 [EBook #12024]

Language: English

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[Illustration]

BRED IN THE BONE; OR, LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON


A Novel.



BY THE AUTHOR OF

"A BEGGAR ON HORSEBACK," "GWENDOLINE'S HARVEST," "CARLYON'S YEAR," "ONE
OF THE FAMILY," "WON--NOT WOOED," &c.


_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS_.


NEW YORK: 1872.




CHAPTER I.

CAREW OF CROMPTON.


Had you lived in Breakneckshire twenty years ago, or even any where in
the Midlands, it would be superfluous to tell you of Carew of Crompton.
Every body thereabout was acquainted with him either personally or by
hearsay. You must almost certainly have known somebody who had had an
adventure with that eccentric personage--one who had been ridden down by
him, for that mighty hunter never turned to the right hand nor to the
left for any man, nor paid attention to any rule of road; or one who,
more fortunate, had been "cleared" by him on his famous black horse
_Trebizond_, an animal only second to his master in the popular esteem.
There are as many highly colored pictures of his performance of this
flying feat in existence as there are of "Dick Turpin clearing the
Turnpikegate." Sometimes it is a small tradesman cowering down in his
cart among the calves, while the gallant Squire hurtles over him with a
"Stoop your head, butcher." Sometimes it is a wagoner, reminding one of
Commodore Trunnion's involuntary deed of "derring-do," who, between two
high banks, perceives with marked astonishment this portent flying over
himself and convoy. But, at all events, the thing was done; perhaps on
more than one occasion, and was allowed on all hands not only as a fact,
but as characteristic of their sporting idol. It was "Carew all over,"
or "Just like Carew."

This phrase was also applied to many other heroic actions. The idea of
"keel-hauling," for instance, adapted from the nautical code, was said
to be practically enforced in the case of duns, attorneys, and other
objectionable persons, in the lake at Crompton; while the administration
of pommelings to poachers and agriculturists generally, by the athletic
Squire, was the theme of every tongue. These punishments, though severe,
were much sought after by a certain class, the same to which the
purchased free and independent voter belongs, for the clenched fist
invariably became an open hand after it had done its work--a golden
ointment, that is, was always applied after these inflictions, such as
healed all wounds.

Carew of Crompton might at one time have been member for the county, if
he had pleased; but he desired no seat except in the saddle, or on the
driving-box. He showed such skill in riding, and with "the ribbons,"
that some persons supposed that his talents must be very considerable in
other matters, and affected to regret their misuse; there were reports
that he knew Latin better than his own chaplain; and was, or had been,
so diligent a student of Holy Writ, that he could give you chapter and
verse for every thing. But it must be allowed that others were not
wanting to whisper that these traits of scholarship were greatly
exaggerated, and that all the wonder lay in the fact that the Squire
knew any thing of such matters at all; nay, a few even ventured to
express their opinion that, but for his recklessness and his money,
there was nothing more remarkable in Carew than in other spendthrifts;
but this idea was never mooted within twenty miles of Crompton. The real
truth is, that the time was unsuitable to the display of the Squire's
particular traits. He would have been an eminent personage had he been a
Norman, and lived in the reign of King John. Even now, if he could have
removed his establishment to Poland, and assumed the character of a
Russian proprietor, he would doubtless have been a great prince. There
was a savage magnificence about him, and also certain degrading traits,
which suggested the Hetman Platoff. Unfortunately, he was a Squire in
the Midlands. The contrast, however, of his splendid vagaries with the
quiet time and industrious locality in which he lived, while it
diminished his influence, did, on the other hand, no doubt enhance his
reputation. He was looked upon (as Waterford and Mytton used to be) as a
_lusus naturae_, an eccentric, an altogether exceptional personage, to
whom license was permitted; and the charitable divided the human race,
for his sake, into Men, Women, and Carew.

The same philosophic few, however, who denied him talent, averred that
he was half mad; and indeed Fortune had so lavishly showered her favors
on him from his birth, that it might well be that they had turned his
head. His father had died while Carew was but an infant, so that the
surplus income from his vast estates had accumulated to an enormous sum
when he attained his majority. In the mean time, his doting mother had
supplied him with funds out of all proportion to his tender years. At
ten years old, he had a pack of harriers of his own, and hunted the
county regularly twice a week. At the public school, where he was with
difficulty persuaded to remain for a short period, he had an allowance
the amount of which would have sufficed for the needs of a professional
man with a wife and family, and yet it is recorded of him that he had
the audacity--"the boy is father to the man," and it was "so like
Carew," they said--to complain to his guardian, a great lawyer, that his
means were insufficient. He also demanded a lump sum down, on the ground
that (being at the ripe age of fourteen) he contemplated marriage. The
reply of the legal dignitary is preserved, as well as the young
gentleman's application: "If you can't live upon your allowance, you may
starve, Sir; and if you marry, you shall not have your allowance."

You had only--having authority to do so--to advise Carew, and he was
positively certain to go counter to your opinion; and did you attempt to
oppose him in any purpose, you would infallibly insure its
accomplishment. He did not marry at fourteen, indeed, but he did so
clandestinely in less than three years afterward, and had issue; but at
the age of five-and-thirty, when our stage opens, he had neither wife
nor child, but lived as a bachelor at Crompton, which was sometimes
called "the open house," by reason of its profuse hospitalities; and
sometimes "Liberty Hall," on account of its license; otherwise it was
never, called any thing but Crompton; never Crompton Hall, or Crompton
Park--but simply Crompton, just like Stowe or Blenheim. And yet the park
at Crompton was as splendid an appanage of glade and avenue, of copse
and dell, as could be desired. It was all laid out upon a certain
plan--somewhere in the old house was the very parchment on which the
chase was ordered like a garden; a dozen drives here radiated from one
another like the spokes of a wheel, and here four mighty avenues made a
St. Andrew's cross in the very centre--but the area was so immense, and
the stature of the trees so great, that nothing of this formality could
be observed in the park itself. Not only were the oaks and beeches of
large, and often of giant proportions, but the very ferns grew so tall
that whole herds of fallow deer were hidden in it, and could only be
traced by their sounds. There were red deer also, almost as numerous,
with branching antlers, curiously mossed, as though they had acquired
that vegetation by rubbing, as they often did, against the high wooden
pale--itself made picturesque by age--which hedged them in their sylvan
prison for miles. Moreover, there were wild-cattle, as at Chartley
(though not of the same breed), the repute of whose fierceness kept the
few public paths that intersected this wild domain very unfrequented.
These animals, imported half a century ago, were of no use nor of
particular beauty, and would have dwindled away, from the unfitness of
the locality for their support, but that they were recruited
periodically, and at a vast expense. It was enough to cause their
present owner to strain every nerve to retain them, because they were so
universally objected to. They had gored one man to death, and
occasionally maimed others, but, as Carew, to do him justice, was by no
means afraid of them himself, and ran the same risk, and far oftener
than other people, he held he had a right to retain them. Nobody was
obliged to come into his park unless they liked, he said, and if they
did, they must "chance a tossing." The same detractors, whose opinion we
have already quoted, affirmed that the Squire kept these cattle for the
very reason that was urged against their existence; the fear of these
horned police kept the park free from strangers, and thereby saved him
half a dozen keepers.

That his determination in the matter was pig-headed and brutal, there is
no doubt; but the Squire's nature was far from exclusive, and the idea
of saving in any thing, it is certain, never entered into his head. The
time, indeed, was slowly but surely coming when the park should know no
more not only its wild-cattle, but many a rich copse and shadowy glade.
Not a stately oak nor far-spreading beech but was doomed, sooner or
later, to be cut down, to prop for a moment the falling fortunes of
their spendthrift owner; but at the time of which we speak there was no
visible sign of the coming ruin. It is recorded of a brother prodigal,
that after enormous losses and expenses, his steward informed him that
if he would but consent to live upon seven thousand a year for the next
ten years, the estate would recover itself. "Sir," returned he in anger,
"I would rather die than live on seven thousand a year." Our Carew would
have given the same reply had twice that income been suggested to him,
and been applauded for the gallant answer. The hint of any necessity for
curtailment would probably have caused him to double his expenditure
forthwith, though, indeed, that would have been difficult to effect. He
had already two packs of hounds, with which he hunted on alternate days,
and he had even endeavored to do so on the Sunday; but the obsequious
"county" had declined to go with him to that extent, and this anomaly of
the nineteenth century had been compelled to confine himself on the
seventh day to cock-fighting in the library. He kept a bear to bait (as
well as a chaplain to bully), and ferrets ran loose about Crompton as
mice do in other houses. He had a hunter for every week in the year, yet
he often rode his horses to death. He had a stud of racers, and it was
this, or rather his belief in their powers, which eventually drained his
vast resources. Not one of them ever won a great race. This was not
their fault, nor that of their trainer, but his own; he interfered in
their management, and would have things his own way; he would command
every thing, except success, which was beyond his power, and in missing
that he lost all. Otherwise, he was lucky as a mere gambler. His
audacity, and the funds he always had at his disposal, carried him
triumphantly, where many a more prudent but less wealthy player withdrew
from the contest. Games of skill had no attraction for him, but at an
earlier date in his career he had been a terror to the club-keepers in
St. James's, where his luck and obstinacy had broken a dozen banks. It
was said--and very likely with truth--that he had once cut double or
quits for ten thousand pounds.

His moral character, as respected the softer sex, was such as you might
expect from these traits. No modest woman had been seen at Crompton for
many a year; although not a few such--if at least good birth and high
position include modesty--had, since his majority, striven to give a
lawful mistress to the place. His eccentricities had not alarmed them,
and his shamelessness had not abashed them. Though his constitution was
said to be breaking up through unparalleled excesses, his heart, it was
currently reported in domestic circles, was sound: and what a noble feat
would it be to reclaim him! It was also reckoned impossible that any
amount of extravagance could have seriously embarrassed such a property
as he had inherited, indeed long since, but of which he had had the sole
control only a few years. At the time of which we speak Carew was but
thirty-five, though he looked much older. His muscles were still firm,
his limbs yet active, and his hand and eye as steady with the gun or
bridle as ever. But his bronzed face showed signs of habitual
intemperance; his head was growing prematurely bald; and once or twice,
though the fact was known to himself only, his iron nerve had of late
failed him. The secret consciousness of this last fact made him more
venturesome and reckless than ever. "Time," he swore, "should never play
_him_ tricks. He was as good a man as ever he was. There was a quarter
of a million, more or less, to be got through yet, and, by Jove, he
would see it out!" Of course he did not swear by Jove; for, as we have
said, he kept a chaplain, and was therefore no heathen.

One of the arguments that the mothers of those young ladies who sought
his hand were wont to make use of, to their great comfort, was that Mr.
Carew was a churchman. There was a private chapel at Crompton, the
existence of which, of course, explained why his presence did not grace
the parish church. Then his genealogy was of the most satisfactory
description. Carews had dwelt at Crompton in direct succession for many
a century. Charles I., it is almost unnecessary to state, had slept
there--that most locomotive of monarchs seems to have honored all old
English mansions with a night's visit--and had hunted in the chase next
morning. Queen Elizabeth had also been most graciously pleased to visit
her subject, John Carew, on which occasion a wooden tower had been
erected for her in the park, from which to see "ten buckes, all having
fayre lawe, pulled down with grey-houndes;" she shot deer, too, with her
own virgin hands, for which purpose "a cross-bowe was delivered to her
by a nymph with a sweet song." These things, however, were in no way
commemorated. Carew was all in all: his devouring egotism swallowed up
historical association. His favorite female bull-dog, with her pups,
slept in the royal martyr's apartment. The places in Crompton Chase held
remarkable were those where its present owner had made an
unprecedentedly long shot, or had beaten off one of the wild cattle
without a weapon, or had run down a stag on foot. There was no relic of
ancient times preserved whatever, except that at midsummer, as in Lyme,
that very curious custom was kept of driving the red deer round the
park, and then swimming them through the lake before the house--a very
difficult feat, by-the-by, to any save those who have been accustomed to
"drive deer." One peculiar virtue of Carew--he was addressed,
by-the-way, by all his inferiors, and some of his equals, as "Squire"
only--was, we had almost forgotten to say, his regard for truth, which
may truly be said to have been "passionate," if we consider the effect
produced in him when he discovered that any one had told him a
falsehood. He would fall upon them tooth and nail, if they were menials;
and if guests, he would forbid them his house. This was surely one
excellent trait. Yet it was maintained by those carpers already alluded
to, that to tell truth was comparatively easy in one who was as careless
of all opinion as he was independent in means; moreover, that a love of
truth is sometimes found to exist in very bad company, as in the case of
the Spartan boy who stole the fox, and if the veracious Squire did not
steal foxes (which he did, by-the-by, indirectly, for a bagged one was
his delight), he was guilty of much worse things. However, this is
certain, that Carew of Crompton never told a lie.




CHAPTER II.

WAITING FOR AN INTRODUCTION.


We have said that Carew was not exclusive; so long as he had his own way
in every thing he was good-tempered, and so very good-natured that he
permitted not only his friends but his dependents to do pretty much as
they would. He was a tyrant only by fits and starts, and in the mean
time there was anarchy at Crompton. Every soul in the place, from the
young lords, its master's guests, down to the earth-stopper's assistant,
who came for his quantum of ale to the back-door, did pretty much as
seemed right in his own eyes. There were times when every thing had to
be done in a moment under the master's eye, no matter at what loss, or
even risk to limb or life; but usually there was no particular time for
any thing--except dinner. The guests arose in the morning, or lay in bed
all day, exactly as they pleased, and had their meals in public or in
their own rooms; but when the great dinner-gong sounded for the second
time it was expected that every man should be ready for the feast, and
wearing (with the single exception of the chaplain) a red coat. The
dinner-parties at Crompton--and there was a party of the most
heterogeneous description daily--were literally, therefore, very gay
affairs; the banquet was sumptuous, and the great cellars were laid
under heavy contribution. Only, if a guest did happen to be unpunctual,
from whatever cause, even if it were illness, the host would send for
his bear, or his half-dozen bull-dogs, and proceed to the sick man's
room, with the avowed intention (and he always kept his word) of
"drawing the badger." In spite of his four-legged auxiliaries, this was
not always an easy task. His recklessness, though not often, did
sometimes meet with its match in that of the badger; and in one chamber
door at Crompton we have ourselves seen a couple of bullet-holes, which
showed that assault on one side had met with battery upon the other.
With such rough manners as Carew had, it may seem strange that he was
never called to account for them at twelve paces; but, in the first
place, it was thoroughly understood that he would have "gone out" (a
fact which has doubtless given pause to many a challenge), and would
have shot as straight as though he were partridge-shooting; and
secondly, as we have said, he had a special license for practical jokes;
the subjects of them, too, were not men of delicate susceptibilities,
for none such, by any accident, could have been his guests. In
consideration of good fare, good wine, a good mount in the
hunting-field, excellent shooting, and of a loan from the host whenever
they were without funds, men even of good position were found to "put
up" very good-naturedly with the eccentricities of the master of
Crompton, and he had his house full half the year. It is not to be
wondered at, therefore, that his servants were found willing to compound
for some occasional ill usage, in return for general laxity of rule, and
many unconsidered trifles in the way of perquisites. His huntsmen and
whips got now and then a severe beating; his grooms found it very
inconvenient when "Squire" took it into his mad head to sally forth on
horseback across country by moonlight; and still worse, when he would
have the whole stud out, and set every servant in his employ, not
excepting his fat French cook, in the saddle, to see how they would
comport themselves under the unaccustomed excitement of a steeple-chase.
But upon the whole, the retainers at Crompton had an easy berth of it,
and seldom voluntarily took their discharge.

Perhaps the best situations, as being less liable to the _per contras_
in the shape of the master's passionate outbursts, were those of the
park-keepers, of whom old Walter Grange was one. He was a bachelor, as
almost all of them were. It was not good for any one with wife or
daughter (if these were young, at least) to take service with Carew at
all; and living in a pleasant cottage, far too large for him, in the
very heart of the chase, Grange thought it no harm to take a lodger. The
same old woman who cooked his victuals and kept his rooms tidy would do
the same office for another who was not very particular in his food, and
could rough it a little in other respects; and such a one had Walter
lately found in the person of a young landscape-painter, Richard Yorke.
This gentleman was a stranger to Crompton and its neighborhood; but
having (as he said) happened to see a certain guarded advertisement in
the _Times_ headed, "To Artists and Others," that lodgings in the midst
of forest scenery could be procured for what seemed next to nothing, he
had come down from London in the autumn on the chance, and found them
suitable.

To poet or painter's eye, indeed, the lodge was charming; it was small,
of course, but very picturesquely built, and afforded the new tenant a
bow-windowed sitting-room, with an outlook such as few dwellings in
England, and probably none elsewhere, could offer. In the fore-ground
was an open lawn, on which scores of fine-plumaged pheasants strutted
briskly, and myriads of rabbits came forth at eve to play and
nibble--bordered by crops of fern, above which moved statelily the
antlered deer. A sentry oak or two of mighty girth guarded this open
space; but on both sides vast glades shut in the prospect with a wall of
checkered light and shadow that deepened into sylvan gloom. But right in
front the expanding view seemed without limit, and exhibited all
varieties of forest scenery; coppices with "Autumn's fiery finger" on
their tender leaves; still, shining pools, where water-fowl bred and
dwelt; broad pathways, across which the fallow deer could bound at
leisure; or one would leap in haste, and half a hundred follow in
groundless panic. The wealth of animal life in that green solitude,
where the voice of man was hardly ever heard, was prodigious; the rarest
birds were common there; even those who had their habitations by the sea
were sometimes lured to this as silent spot, and skimmed above its
undulating dells as o'er the billow. The eagle and the osprey had been
caught there; and, indeed, a specimen of each was caged in a sort of
aviary, which Grange had had constructed at the back of the lodge; while
Yorke's sitting-room was literally stuffed full of these strange
feathered visitants, which had fallen victims to the keeper's gun. The
horse-hair sofa had a noble cover of deer-skin; the foot-stool and the
fire-rug were made of furs, or skins that would have fetched their price
elsewhere, and been held rare, although once worn by British beast or
"varmint." The walls were stuck with antlers, and the very handle of the
bell-rope was the fore-foot of a stag. Each of these had its story; and
nothing pleased the old man better than to have a listener to his
long-winded tales of how and where and when the thing was slain. All
persons whose lives are passed in the open air, and in comparative
solitude, seem in this respect to be descendants of Dame Quickly; their
wearisome digressions and unnecessary preciseness as to date and place
try the patience of all other kinds of men, and this was the chief cross
which Grange's lodger had to bear as an offset to the excellence of his
quarters. It must be confessed that he did not bear it meekly. To stop
old Walter in mid-talk--without an open quarrel--was an absolute
impossibility; but his young companion would turn the stream of his
discourse, without much ceremony, from the records of slaughter into
another channel (almost as natural to it)--the characteristics and
peculiarities of his master Carew. Of this subject, notwithstanding that
that other made him fret and fume so, Yorke never seemed to tire.

"I should like to know your master," he had said, half musingly, after
listening to one of these strange recitals, soon after his arrival; to
which Grange had answered, laughing: "Well, Squire's a very easy one to
know. He picks up friends by every road-side, without much troubling
himself as to who they are, I promise you."

The young man's face grew dark with anger; but the idea of self-respect,
far less of pride, was necessarily strange to a servant of Carew's. So
Grange went on, unconscious of offense: "Now, if you were a young
woman," he chuckled, "and as good-looking as you are as a lad, there
would be none more welcome than yourself up at the big house. Pretty
gals, bless ye, need no introduction yonder; and yet one would have
thought that Squire would know better than to meddle with the
mischievous hussies--he took his lesson early enough, at all events.
Why, he married before he was your age, and not half so much of a man to
look at, neither. You have heard talk of that, I dare say, however, in
London?"

Richard Yorke, as the keeper had hinted, was a very handsome
lad--brown-cheeked, blue eyed, and with rich clustering hair as black as
a sloe; but at this moment he did not look prepossessing. He frowned and
flashed a furious glance upon the speaker; but old Grange, who had an
eye like a hawk, for the objects that a hawk desires, was as blind as a
mole to any evidence of human emotion short of a punch on the head, and
went on unheeding:

"Well, I thought you must ha' heard o' that too. We folk down here heard
o' nothing else for all that year. She got hold o' Squire, this ere
woman did, though he was but a school-boy, and she old enough to be his
mother, bless ye, and was married to him. And they kep' it secret for
six months; and that's what bangs me most about it all. For Carew, he
can keep nothing secret--nothing: he blurts all out; and that's why he
seems so much worse than he is to some people. Oh, she must have been a
deep one, she must!"

"You never saw her, then?" asked Yorke, carelessly shading his eyes, as
though from the westering sun, which Midas-like, was turning every thing
it touched in that broad landscape into gold.

"Oh yes, I see her; she was here with Squire near half a year. Mrs.
Carew--the old lady, I mean--was at Crompton then; and the young
one--though she was no chicken neither--she tried to get her turned out;
but she wasn't clever enough, clever as she was, for that job. Carew
loved his mother, as indeed he ought, for she had never denied him any
thing since he was born; and so, in that pitched battle between the
women, he took his mother's side. And in the end the old lady took his,
and with a vengeance. I do think that if it had not been for her, young
madam would have held on--Why, what's the matter, young gentleman? That
was an oath fit for the mouth of Squire hisself."

"It's this cursed toothache," exclaimed Yorke, passionately. "It has
worried me so ever since you began to speak that I should have gone mad
if I had not let out at it a bit. Never mind me; I'm better now."

"Well, that's like the Squire again," returned the keeper, admiringly.
"He seems allus to find hisself better for letting out at things, and at
people too, for the matter of that. To hear him sometimes, one would
almost think the ground must open; not that he means any harm, but it's
a way he's got; but it does frighten them as is not used to him, surely.
I mind that day when he first took the fox-hounds out, and Mr. Howard
the sheriff as was that year--he's dead and gone long since, and his
grandson is sheriff now again, which is cur'ous--well, he happened to
ride a bit too forward with the dogs, and our young master--Oh dear,
dear," and the old man began to chuckle like a hen that has laid two
eggs at a time, "how he did swear at the old man!"

"You were talking about Mrs. Carew the elder," observed the artist,
coolly.

"Was I? True, so I was. Well, she and the young Squire was for all the
world like a deer with her fawn--all tenderness and timidity, so long as
he was let alone; but when this 'ere woman came, as she considered his
enemy, she was as bold as a red stag--nay, as one of our wild-cattle. It
was through her, I say, that the bride got the sack at last; and when
that was done the old lady seemed to have done her work, and was content
enough when her son portioned her off, and persuaded her to live at the
dower-house at Morden; and indeed she could hardly have staid at
Crompton, with such goings on as there are now--feastings and fightings
and flirtings--"

"Just so," interrupted the young painter; "she got her way, I know. But
with respect to the younger lady, Mrs. Charles Carew, what was _she_
like, and what did people say of her?"

"Well, not much good, I reckon. What could they say of a school-mistress
who marries her pupil?"

"A school-mistress, was she?" said Yorke, in a strange husky voice. "We
never heard that in London."

"Well, she was summut of that sort, Sir, though I don't know exactly
what. Young as he was, Carew was not quite child enough to be at a
dame's school, that's true. But she was not a mere servant-girl, as some
said, any way, for she could play and sing--ay, songs that pleased him
too--and she had book-learning, I've heard, such as would have
astonished you; so that some folks said she was a witch, and had the
devil's help to catch Carew. But a woman don't want magic, bless you, to
come over a lad of seventeen--not she. What nonsense people talk! If
any pretty girl about Crompton was to take a fancy to _you_ now, as is
like enough, do you suppose--"

"But I thought you said that Mrs. Charles Carew was not a girl?"

"Nor more she was: she was five-and-thirty if she was a day; and
yet--_there_ was the wonder of it--she did not look much over twenty!
I've heard our gentlemen, when out shooting, liken her to some fine
Frenchwoman as never grew old, and was fell in love with unbeknown by
her grandson. Now, what was her name? I got it written down somewhere in
my old pocket-book; it was summut like Longclothes."

"_Ninon de l'Enclos?_" suggested Yorke, without a smile.

"Ay, that's the name. Well, Mrs. Charles Carew, as you call her, was
just like her, and a regular everlasting! She was not what you would
call pretty, but very "taking" looking, and with a bloom and freshness
on her as would have deceived any man. Her voice was like music itself,
and she moved like a stag o' ten; and the Squire being always manly
looking and swarthy, like yourself, there was really little difference
between them to look at. I dare say she's gone all to pieces now, as
women will do, while the Squire looks much the same as he did then."

"I have never even seen him," said the landscape-painter, moodily.

"Well, don't you stare at him, young master, when you do get that
chance, that's all. Some comes down here merely to look at him, as if he
was a show, and that puts him in a pretty rage, I promise you; though to
get to know him, as I say, is easy enough, if you go the right way about
it. If you were a good rider, for instance, and could lead the field one
day when the hunting begins, he'd ask you to dinner to a certainty; or
if you could drive stags--why, he would have given you a hundred pounds
last midsummer, when we couldn't get the beasts to swim the lake.
There's a pretty mess come o' that, by-the-by; for, out of the talk
there was among the gentlemen about that difficulty, the Squire laid a
bet as _he_ would drive stags; not as _we_ do, mind you, but in harness,
like carriage-horses; and, cuss me, if he hasn't had the break out half
a dozen times with four red deer in it, and you may see him tearing
through the park, with mounted grooms and keepers on the right and left
of him, all galloping their hardest, and the Squire with the ribbons,
a-holloaing like mad! For my part, I don't like such pranks, and would
much sooner not be there to see 'em. There will be mischief some day
with it yet, for all that old Lord Orford, down at Newmarket some fifty
years ago, used to do the same thing, they say. It ain't in nature that
stags should be druv four-in-hand, even by Carew. However, the Squire
won his wager; and we haven't seen none o' _that_ wild work o' late
weeks, though we may see it again any day."

"I have heard of that strange exploit," observed Yorke; "but as driving
deer, even in the ordinary way, is not my calling, and as I am no great
rider, even if I had a horse, I don't see how I am to introduce myself
to your mad Squire, and yet I have a great fancy for his acquaintance.
Do you think he'd buy any of these drawings, taken in his own park, from
his own timber?" The young man touched a portfolio, already well stocked
with studies of oak and beech. "Here is a sketch of the Decoy Pond, for
instance, with the oldest tree in the chase beside it; would not that
interest him, think you? You think not?"

"Well, young gentleman," said the keeper, frankly, "if I say no, it
ain't that I mean any slight to your drawing. It's like the tree enough,
for certain, with the very hoop of iron as I put round it with my own
hands twenty years ago--and, by the same token, it will want another
before this winter's out; but I don't think the Squire cares much for
such matters. He might, maybe, just give a look at it, or he might bid
you go to the devil for a paper-staining son of a--well--what you will.
He does not care a farthing, bless 'ee, for all the great pictures in
his own gallery, though they cost his grandfather a mint of money, and
are certainly a fine sight--so far as the frames go. And, on the other
hand, if he happens to be cross-grained that day, he might tear it up
before you could say 'Hold,' and kick you down the Hall steps into the
bargain, as he has done to many a one. That's where it is, you see, the
Squire is so chancy."

"I don't think he would kick _me_ down his Hall steps," said Yorke,
grimly.

The keeper grinned. "Well, you see, nobody can tell that till it's
tried. The Squire is a regular bruiser, I promise you, though I grant
you are a strapping young fellow, and you have told me that you know how
to use your fists. That's a great thing, mind you, for a man to ha'
learnt; a deal better than Latin or such-like, in my opinion. Folks talk
of life-preservers and pistols, but there's nothing like a good pair of
well-handled fists when one has to tackle a poacher. I've been at
Crompton, man and boy, these fifty years, and had a good many
rough-and-tumbles with that sort, and I have never had the worst of it
yet. It prevents bloodshed on both sides; for if you haven't no
shooting-iron, there's few Englishmen, poachers or not, who will draw
trigger on you; and as for a bludgeon, it's as likely to be in my hand
as another's after the first half minute."

"Is there much poaching now at Crompton?" inquired Yorke, mechanically.
It would have been plain to any less obtuse observer than his companion
that he no longer gave him his attention.

"Well, no; nothing to be called serious has happened lately; though I
dare say we shall have some scrimmages as the winter comes on; there's
allus a good deal of what I calls hanky-panky work in the fawn season.
Women and children--especially children--will come into the park, under
pretense o' picking up sticks; and they'll put away a new dropped fawn
in their bundles, if they get the chance; and then they take it home, to
be reared until it grows up, and can be sold for venison."

"I should have thought there would have been no market for such a
commodity--that is, in the case of people such as you describe,"
observed Yorke, yawning.

"Market!" echoed the keeper, contemptuously; "there'd be a market
to-morrow morning for the whole herd o' our wild-cattle, if they were
stolen to-night; there'd be a market for a rhinoceros or a halligator,
if we happened to keep 'em, bless 'ee, as easy as for a sucking pig! But
I don't call that poaching--I mean the fawn-stealing. It's the
professionals from the Midland towns as come by tens and twenties at a
time as is our trouble. We generally gets wind of 'em beforehand, and
then out we all goes, and Squire with us--for he dearly loves a
fight--and then there's broken crowns and bloody noses; but, thank God,
there's been no murder done, at least, not in my time, at Crompton. And
that reminds me, Sir, that it's time for me to start on my evening
rounds."

"Well, when you next have any news of such an incursion, Grange, I hope
you will let me make one of your party," said Yorke, good-humoredly. "I
can hit out straight from the shoulder; and perhaps I might get to know
the Squire _that_ way."

"And as likely a road to lead you into his good graces, Sir," said the
keeper, rising, "as any I know. Are you for a walk round the park this
fine evening, Sir?"

"No; not to-night, thank you, Grange. I have got to fill in this sketch
a bit that I took this morning."

"Then, good-night, Sir, for I sha'n't return before daylight."

But it was not till long after the keeper had taken his departure that
Richard Yorke turned hand or eye to his unfinished drawing. He sat
staring straight before him with steadfast eyes and thoughtful face, for
hours, murmuring to himself disjointed sentences; and ever and anon he
started up and paced the little room with rapid strides. "He shall see
me, and know me, too," muttered he, at last, between his clenched teeth,
"though it should cost one of us our lives. She shall not say I came
down to this wilderness, like some hunted beast to covert, for nothing."




CHAPTER III.

THE NIGHT-WATCH.


It was an easy thing enough, as Walter Grange had said, to make
acquaintance with Carew of Crompton, and possible even to become his
bosom friend at a short notice, for his friendships, all made in wine,
at play, or in the hunting-field, were soon cemented; but then, if the
introduction was effected in an unpropitious time or manner, it was like
enough to end in affront or downright insult. A gulf might be fixed just
where you wanted a causeway, and of this--though he had feigned to
inquire about it so innocently of the honest park-keeper--Richard Yorke
was well aware. He had, as has been hinted, come down to Crompton with
the express view of throwing himself in the way of its eccentric master,
and to do so opportunely, and he was content to bide his time. Thus,
though the autumn had far advanced, and the time had come for men of his
craft to hasten from the dropping, dripping woods, no longer fair, to
hive at home their sweet memorials of the summer time, Richard remained
at Crompton, not willingly, indeed, nor even patiently, but with that
sort of dogged resolve which is engendered, even in a restless spirit,
by long watching. He had stopped so long that he would not now give up
his watch; the fortress, indeed, showed no more sign of breach than when
he first sat down before it; but still he would not raise the siege.
This persistency excited no surprise in his house companion; Walter
Grange was no gossip, nor curious about other men's affairs; it was
easy, even for him, to see that his tenant had a proud stomach, and he
had set down his talk about desiring an introduction to Carew as merely
another phrase for wishing for a good chance of disposing of his wares
to best advantage in that market to which so many of such various
callings thronged. He did not think, as he had honestly confessed, that
there was much chance of the Squire becoming a patron of the fine arts,
but he wished the young fellow luck, and was glad, for more than one
reason, that he staid on.

It was at least three months after his young lodger's arrival that
Walter burst into his sitting-room one afternoon, without his usual
knock at the door, with the great news that he had just had word, by a
safe hand, that a gang of poachers would be in the Home Park that very
night, and that all the staff of keepers would be out in waiting for
them.

"You know," said he, quite indignant that the young man did not show his
enthusiasm, "you told me I was to be sure and let you know, Mr. Yorke;
but, of course, you needn't make one of us unless you like."

"Oh yes, I'll come," laughed the young fellow--"that is, provided it is
fine. I can't fight in the rain, even for the game laws."

"It'll be a lovely night, Sir, with just enough of moonlight to know
friends from foes," went on the keeper, rubbing his hands, and
unconsciously moistening them in his excitement. "I knew you'd come. I
said to myself: 'Mr. Yorke'll never turn tail;' and we shall be really
glad of your help, for the fact is we are short-handed. Napes is down
with the rheumatics, and two of our men are away from home, and there
ain't time to send to the out-beaters. So we shall be only
nine--including yourself--in all. Let's see," continued the old man,
counting on his fingers: "there'll be Bill Nokes, and Robert Sloane,
and--"

"Spare me the roll-call, Grange," interrupted the painter; "and tell me
where I am to be, and when, and I'll be there."

"Very good, Sir," said the keeper, musing. "I'll put you at the Squire's
oak--the one as you drawed so nicely--that'll be at the Decoy down
yonder, and close to home. You have only to use this whistle, and you'll
get help enough if you chance to be set upon; there will be a fight, no
doubt. They must be a daring lot to poach the near park, within sound of
the house: they ain't a done that these ten year; for the last time they
brought Squire and his bull-dogs out, which was a lesson to one or two
of 'em. However, he's for town, they say, to-day."

"All right, Grange; we must do without him, then," returned the young
man, cheerfully. "What time am I to be on guard?"

"You should be there at ten at latest, Sir. There'll be plenty of us
within whistle-call, you understand. But nobody will come aneist you as
has any business there; so whoever you see you must go in at."

Yorke nodded, smiling, and doubling his white fists, hit out
scientifically with his right.

"You're one after the Squire's own heart," exclaimed the keeper,
admiringly; "and I do wish you could foregather with him. What a reach
of arm you've got, and what a play of muscle! The fist is the weapon for
a poacher--that is, I mean _agin_ him--if you only know how to use it. I
can depend on the Decoy being guarded by ten, Sir, can I? for I must be
off to the head-keeper's with the rest."

"Yes, you can."

"Then, good-by, Sir, for the present."

"Now what a poor fool is that!" soliloquized the young painter,
contemptuously, as the door closed upon his late companion. "To think
that I should risk my life against a poacher's on even terms! Of course,
if they suffice, I shall only treat him to my knuckles; but if not--if
he be a giant, or there be more than one of them--then here is a better
ally than mere bone and sinew." Yorke took out of a drawer a
life-preserver, made of lead and whalebone, struck with it once, to test
its weight and elasticity, then slipped it into his shooting-jacket
pocket. "That will enlarge their organs of locality," said he, grimly;
"they will not forget the Decoy Pond in a hurry whose heads knock
against this."

He made a better supper than was usual with him that night; filled his
pocket-flask with brandy, and his pouch with tobacco; and then making
sure that the whistle Grange had given him, and which he had hung round
his neck, was within easy reach of his fingers, sallied out, well
wrapped up as to his throat, and with his hands in his pockets. If
Richard Yorke was doomed not to have life made easy for him, he made it
as easy as he could. He never omitted a precaution, unless it gave him
trouble to take it out of proportion to the advantage it conferred; he
was never imprudent, unless the passion of the moment was too strong for
him; but sometimes, unfortunately, his mere whims were in their
intensity passions, and his passions, while they lasted, fits of
madness. He was a landscape-painter, partly because he had some taste
that way, but chiefly because he hated regular work of any sort. He had
no real love for his art, and not the least touch of poetic feeling. He
knew an oak from a beech-tree, and the sort of touch that should be used
in delineating the foliage of each; a yellow primrose was to him a
yellow primrose, and he could mix the colors deftly enough which made up
its hue. His education had been by no means neglected, but it had been
of a strange sort; every thing he had learned was, as it were, for
immediate use, and of a superficial but attractive character. The
advocates of a classical curriculum would have shaken their heads at
what Richard Yorke did know, almost as severely as at his lack of
knowledge. He had read a good deal of all kinds of literature, including
much garbage; he could play a little on the piano, and speak French
with an excellent accent. In a word, he had learned every thing that had
pleased him, as well as a little Latin and some mathematics, which had
not. He knew English history far better than most young Englishmen; but
the sight of tomb or ruin had never made his heart pulse faster with an
evoked idea by a single beat. Historical associations had no charm for
him. This mighty oak, for example, under the shadow of which he now
stands sentry, and which he had transferred so deftly to his portfolio,
has no longer any interest for him. He has "done it," and its use and
pleasure are therefore departed in his eyes. He knows quite well that
though it is called the Squire's, in token, probably, of some wholesale
slaughter of wild-ducks effected by Carew from its convenient cover,
that this tree is hundreds of years old--the oldest in all the chase. He
has read the "Talking Oak," for indeed he can quote Tennyson by the
yard, and in dulcet voice; and it would have been natural enough, one
would think, in such a time and place, that some thoughts of what this
venerable monarch of the forest must have witnessed would perforce come
into his mind. The same moonlight that now shines down between its
knotted naked branches must have doubtless lit on many a pair of lovers,
for it was ever a favorite place for tryst in by-gone years. The young
monk, perhaps, may here (when Crompton was an abbey) have given double
absolution, to himself and to the girl who confessed to him her love.
Roundhead maiden and Cavalier gallant must many a time have forgotten
their political differences beneath this oak, as yet a tree not sacred
to royalty; nay, perhaps even those of. York and Lancaster may here have
been compounded for, in one red rose of a blush. Bluff Harry had haply
hunted beneath its once wide-spreading arms, and certainly the martyr
king had done so, with a score of generations of men of all sorts, dead
and gone, God alone knows whither. Though no more the bugle sounded, nor
the twanging bow was heard, there was surely an echo of their far-away
music in the young painter's ear! No, there was none.

     Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter,

was a line Richard Yorke had read, perhaps, but certainly had not
understood. He heard the bare branch creak and sway above his head as
the wind slowly took it; he heard the night-jar croak, as it flew by on
silent wing; and now and then he heard, or thought he heard, the sound
of the voices of his fellow-watchers a great way off, which was his only
touch of fancy. They were all silent, and in close hiding.

It is not to be supposed, however, that his mind was fixed upon the
matter in which he was engaged, so that other subjects were thereby
excluded from it. The repression of night-poaching was not a matter that
interested him either in principle or practice. He would just as soon
that the keeper had not reminded him of his offer to share his
watch--the whim that had once seized him to do so had died away; but
having once promised his company, he was not one to break his word. So
here he was.

The young man's thoughts were busy, then, neither with the past nor the
present, but with the future--that is, _his own_ future. The path of
life did not lie straight before Richard Yorke, as it does before most
men of his age, and in fact it came, so to speak, abruptly to a
termination exactly where he stood.

In such a case, the choice of the wayfarer becomes boundless, and is
only limited by the horizon and circumstances. As matters were, he had
scarcely enough to live on--not nearly enough to do so as his tastes and
habits suggested; and yet, by one bold stroke, with luck to back it, he
might, not "one day" (_that_ would have had small charm for him), but at
once, and for his life-long, be rich and prosperous. He could not be
said to have expectations, but his position was not without certain
contingencies, the extreme brilliancy of which might almost atone for
their vagueness. It was from a dream of future greatness, or what seemed
to him as such, wherein he saw himself wealthy and powerful, surrounded
with luxury and with the ministers of every pleasure, that he was
suddenly and sharply awakened by a trifling incident--the snapping of a
dead twig in the copse hard by. In an instant the glittering gossamer of
thought was swept aside, and the young fellow was all ear and eye. The
wind had dropped for some time, and the silence was intense; that solemn
hush seemed to pervade the forest which some poet has attributed to the
cessation of spiritual life, as though the haunters of the glade were
_waiting_ for the resumption of their occupations until the interloping
mortal should pass by. Nothing stirred, or, if so, it was motion without
sound, as when the full-feathered owl slid softly through the midnight
air above him. Not a dead leaf fell; and where the leaves had fallen
there they lay. How was it, then, that a twig broke? The deer were
couched; the pheasants sat at roost, their heads beneath that splendid
coverlet, their wing; and though there were creeping things which even
midnight did not woo to rest in that vast wilderness, Yorke had imbibed
enough of forest lore to know that the noise which he had heard was
produced by none of these. A rat in the water-rushes, or a stoat pushing
through the undergrowth, would have announced itself in a different
fashion. Again the sound was heard, and this time it was no longer the
crackling of a twig, but the breaking of a branch; then cautious
footsteps fell upon the frosty leaves, and, with a light leap on the
bank that fringed the copse, the poacher stood in the open.

That such he was, Yorke had no doubt whatever; the moonlight streamed
full upon him, and showed him to be none of the Crompton keepers,
unless, indeed, he was disguised. For an instant, it passed across his
mind that this might be Walter Grange himself--he was about the same
height and build--come to play a trick upon him to test his courage, for
the man's face was blackened like a burglar's; but this idea was
dismissed as soon as entertained. The keeper, he reflected, thought far
too seriously of the night's doings to make jest of them, and besides,
he could never have sprung upon the bank as yonder fellow did, his
limbs, though sturdy, being stiff with age and occasional rheumatism.
The intruder seemed quite alone, and it was probable, while his
confederates paid attention to the pheasants in the Home Park, that he
was bent upon making a private raid upon the sleeping water-fowl. He
had no gun, however, nor, as far as Yorke could make out, any other
weapon; and as soon as he had got near enough to the pond to admit of
it the watcher sprang out from beneath the shadow of the oak, and
placed himself between the stranger and the copse from which he
had emerged. Yorke was the taller by full six inches, and believing
himself to be more than a match for his antagonist, had not so
much as laid finger on his concealed weapon; but if he had now
any thought of doing so, it was too late; for, with a cry
of eager rage, the man turned at once, and sprang at him like a tiger.
It needed all his skill and coolness to parry the fierce blows which
fell upon him like hail, and which he had scarcely time to return. Yorke
was an adept at boxing, and in the chance encounters into which a
somewhat dissipated and reckless youth had led him, he had been an easy
victor; but it now took all he knew to "keep himself." An instant's
carelessness, or the absence of a hand in search of that which he would
now have gladly seized, and his guard, would have been broken through,
and himself placed at his foe's mercy. Nothing but his long reach
preserved him from those sledge-hammer blows, which seemed as though
each must break the arm they fell upon. As for using his whistle, the
opportunity, of course, was not afforded him; and, moreover, he had no
breath to spare for such a purpose. Breath, however, was also a
desideratum with the poacher, and the more so inasmuch as he accompanied
every blow--as Brian de Bois-Guilbert was wont to hammer home his
mace-strokes with "Ha! Beauseant, Beauseant!"--with some amazing oath.
It is recorded of an American gentleman, much given to blasphemy, that
he could entertain "an intelligent companion" for half a day with the
mere force and ingenuity of his expletives; and this singular talent
seemed to be shared by Richard Yorke's antagonist. That one of the most
accomplished roughs of the Midlands had fallen to the young painter's
lot in that night's _mêlée_, he could not for a moment doubt; but this
reflection did not go far to soothe him. He did not care for fighting
for its own sake, while his pride revolted against thus being kept at
bay by a brutal clown. If he could but get the chance, he made up his
mind to end this matter once for all, and at last the opportunity seemed
to be afforded. The poacher suddenly stepped back to the very margin of
the pond, a long oval piece of water, and not very deep, and quick as
thought, Yorke drew his deadly weapon. But at the same moment there was
a sound of racing feet, and down the drive there came two men at
headlong speed. Yorke did not doubt that they were poachers; but his
blood was up, and he was armed--he felt like an iron-clad against whom
three wooden ships were about to pit themselves. "Where I hit now I make
a hole," he muttered, savagely, and stood firm; nor did he even put his
lips to the whistle that hung round his neck.

[Illustration: "THE MAN TURNED AT ONCE, AND SPRANG AT HIM LIKE A
TIGER."]

But as the men came nearer, in the foremost he recognized Walter Grange,
and at the same moment saw his late antagonist plunge wildly into the
ice-cold pond, and begin to wade and swim across it.

"Cuss him! I durst not do it," gasped Walter, just too late, and
mindful, even in his passionate disappointment, of rheumatic pains.
"Dash after him, Bob, while Mr. Yorke and I run round."

But Bob had had the rheumatism too, or had seen the unpleasant effects
of it in others, and shook his shaggy head.

A mocking laugh burst from the poacher, already nearing the opposite
bank.

"Dang him! If I'd got a gun, I'd shoot him. Run, man!" cried Walter,
excitedly--"run, man, run! He can never get along in his wet clothes."
And off the two men started in hot pursuit.

Yorke watched them toiling round the pond, while the poacher landed,
shook himself like any water-dog, and leisurely trotted off.

"It was lucky for him," murmured he, as he replaced his weapon in his
pocket, "that the help came on _my_ side;" then lit his pipe, and
leisurely walked home.

Three hours later returned the keeper (for whose arrival he had been
sitting up), with twinkling eye and a look of triumph.

"Well, you caught the beggar, did you, Grange?"

"Oh yes, we caught him fast enough," responded the other, grinning; "we
caught the whole lot of them. And who d'ye think they were? Why, it was
the whole party from the house, as had come out to play at poachers! Who
ever heard of such a game? Some on 'em got it hot, I reckon, in the new
spinney yonder. But _that_ was no matter. We've all had our skins full
of rum punch, and a sov. apiece, because Squire says we proved ourselves
good watch-dogs. And here," continued the old man, exultingly, "are a
couple of sovs. for yourself. 'Give them to that tall young fellow,'
says Squire, 'as you posted by the Decoy Pond, for he knows how to use
his fists.' Why, that 'ere chap as you had the tussle with was Carew
hisself!"

A deadly paleness overspread the young man's cheeks.

"Was that Carew?" he said.

"Yes, indeed, it was; though none of us know'd it. You needn't look so
skeared. He ain't annoyed with you; he's pleased, bless 'ee, and here's
the proof of it."

"You may keep the guineas, Grange," said Yorke, gravely; "only keep my
secret too. If he thinks I was a night-watcher, let him continue in that
belief."

"Why, it's the best introduction to Carew as you could have!" insisted
the astonished keeper. "You have only to go up to the great house
to-morrow, and say: 'Here's the man as proved your match last night,'
and--"

"You must allow me to be the best judge of my own affairs," interrupted
the young fellow, haughtily; "so you will be so good as to say nothing
more about the matter."

"Just as you please, Sir; and I am sure you are very kind," answered the
keeper, slipping the coins into his pocket. "Squire hisself could not be
more liberal, that's certain. You are tired, I see; and I wish you
good-night, Sir, or rather good-morning."

"Good-night, Grange."

"Now, that's what I call pride," said Walter, grimly, as he closed the
door upon his lodger; "and I am sure I hope, for his sake, it may never
have a fall."

When Richard Yorke was thus left to himself he did a curious thing; he
took out the life-preserver from its receptacle, and having made up the
fire, placed it in the centre of the burning mass, so that in the
morning there was nothing left of it save a dull lump of lead.




CHAPTER IV.

ACROSS THE THRESHOLD.


A day or two passed by, and nothing more was heard of Carew's combat
with the young watcher; some other mad frolic had doubtless entered into
the Squire's head and driven that one out. The hot punch imbibed after
his swim in the Decoy Pond seemed to have averted all evil consequences,
or perhaps he was case-hardened to such things. It was not uncommon with
him to spend whole winter nights on a neighboring "broad," in pursuit of
the mere-fowl that haunted it, in water or ice or swamp. He treated his
body as an enemy, and strove to subdue it--though not for the good
reasons of the Apostle--by every sort of harshness and imprudence; or
rather he behaved toward it as a wayward father toward his child--at one
time with cruel severity, at another with the utmost luxury and
indulgence. No rich man, probably, ever gave his heir so many chances of
inheritance, or excited in him so many false hopes, as did the Squire of
Crompton, who had no heir.

The hunting season had begun with him after its usual fashion; he seldom
troubled himself to find a fox, but turned one out of a bag to insure
sport, or ran a drag over the most difficult and dangerous country that
could be selected.

Yorke had almost made up his mind to take the keeper's advice, and
distinguish himself by putting his neck to the same risks as Carew, on
horseback, in order to recommend himself to his notice, when an event
occurred by which he attained his end in another way.

Tired of the park, wherein he had dwelled so long, and which every day
the approach of winter made more bare and desolate, he had taken a
solitary walk along the highway which led to the market-town. He was
returning, and had reached the top of the long hill where the park fence
began, and a high solid gate--so that no dogs could enter--gave access
to that wild domain, when a confused murmur in the keen blue air caused
him to look back. For a mile or more the road was straight, and the
leafless trees and hedges left the prospect open to him in all
directions; at the extremity of the road was some huge moving object,
which, advancing at great speed, disclosed the Squire's mail phaeton,
drawn by four antlered stags, and followed at some distance by three or
four mounted grooms, apparently unable to keep up with him. Carew
himself was standing up like some charioteer of old, and, although he
already outstripped the very wind, was laying about him frantically with
his whip, as up the hill the frightened creatures tore as if the ground
were level. The reason of this headlong speed was at the same time made
evident by the appearance of a pack of hounds, which, followed by a
numerous field in scarlet, was coming across the grass-land in full cry.
The spectacle, though weird and strange, was by no means without a
certain grandeur--like some barbarous pageant. Yorke understood the
situation at a glance. He had heard the keeper say that, not content
with his wild progresses through the park, the Squire had sworn to drive
his stags one day into the market-town, and this he had doubtless
actually accomplished; but, on his return, he had had the misfortune to
be caught sight of by one of his own packs of hounds, which were now in
full pursuit of him, like another Actaeon. The terrified stags, with
that deep-mouthed menace of their natural enemies ringing in their ears,
at once threw off all control, and had left their grooms behind them in
half a dozen bounds. If only the harness held, they would be at the
lodge gate in a very few minutes; but, on the other hand, the hounds
were nearer to that point, which they were approaching diagonally. They
were running, of course, by sight, like greyhounds, and with greyhounds'
speed. Above their eager mellow notes, and the mad shouting of the
excited sportsmen, and the ceaseless winding of the disregarded horn,
above the thunder of his own wheels, and of the hoofs of his strange
steeds upon the wintry road, rang out Carew's hoarse tones: "The gate,
the gate!" If only that wooden wall could be interposed between his
stags and their pursuers, all might yet be well. But, though the
lodge-keeper had been drawn by the tumult to his door, he stood there
like one amazed and fascinated by the spectacle before him, and
paralyzed with the catastrophe that seemed impending.

"Gate, gate, you gaping idiot!" roared the Squire, with a frightful
curse; but the poor shaking wretch had not the power to stir; it was
Yorke himself who dashed at the latch, and threw the long gate wide to
let the madman pass, and then slammed it back upon the very jaws of the
hounds. They rushed against the solid wood like a living battering-ram,
and howled with baffled rage; and some leaped up and got their fore-paws
over it, and would have got in yet, but that Richard beat them back with
his bare hands.

In the mean time Carew and his stags swept up the park like a whirlwind,
and presently, coming to a coppice, the frightened creatures dashed into
it, doubtless for covert, where wheel and rein and antler, tangling with
trunk and branch, soon brought them to a full stop.

"Good lad!" exclaimed Carew, as Yorke hurried up to help him; "you are a
good plucked one, you are; you shall keep the lodge, if you will,
instead of that lily-livered scoundrel who was too frightened to move.
Oh, I ask pardon; you are a gentleman, are you?"

"Sir, I hope so," answered the young man, stiffly, his anger only half
subdued by the necessity for conciliation.

"Then, come up to the house and dine, whoever you are; I'll lend you a
red coat. Curse those grooms! what keeps them? One can't sit upon a
stag's head to quiet him as though he were a horse." (Two of the stags
were down, and butting, at one another with their horns.) "What a pace
we came up White Hill! I tried to time them, but I could not get my
watch out. You moved yourself like a flash of lightning, else I thought
we must have pinned you against the gate. It was well done, my lad, well
done; and I'm your debtor."

The Squire held out his hand, for the first time, for Yorke to shake.

"Why, what's this?" said he, peering into the other's eyes. "I have
seen your face before, my friend."

"Yes, Sir; a week or two ago I played the part of night-watcher in your
preserves--it was a mad prank; but"--and here the young fellow smiled
roguishly--"it was better than poaching, you must admit."

"What!" cried the Squire, delighted, "are you the fellow that had that
bout with me in the Decoy Pond? Why, I thought you were one of my own
men, and sent you something; but, of course, my scoundrels drank it. I'm
glad to see you, Sir, by daylight. It was the uncertain moonshine that
hampered me, else, by Jove, I'd have given you 'one, two!' We must have
it out another day, for a drawn battle is just the thing I hate. What's
your name, young gentleman, and where do you live?"

"I live close by, Sir; I am in lodgings for the present."

"Ay, ay, for the hunting, I suppose," said the impetuous Squire. "Hark
to those devils of dogs; they are howling yet; they would have had my
stags by this time but for you. Well, well; send for your portmanteau,
and take up your quarters at Crompton; you shall have a hearty welcome;
only don't be late for dinner--seven, Sir, sharp. Here are my knavish
grooms at last."

And, under cover of the fire of imprecations which the Squire poured
upon his approaching retainers, the young landscape-painter withdrew. He
had obtained his end at last, and he wished to retire before Carew
should put that question to him for a second time--what is your
name?--which, at such a moment, it would, for certain reasons, have been
embarrassing to answer.

He betook himself at once to the keeper's lodge, and packing up his
wardrobe, which, though of modest dimensions, comprised all that was
requisite for a gentleman's costume, dispatched it to the great house.
He followed it himself shortly afterward, only waiting to dash off a
note by the afternoon's post for town. It was literally a "hurried
line," and would have better suited these later telegraphic days, when
thoughts, though wire-drawn, are compressed, and brevity is the soul of
cheapness, as of wit. "_I have got my foot in, and however it may be
pinched, will keep the door open. Direct to me at Crompton_."

It was not a nice trait in the young man, if it was a characteristic
one, that he did not take the trouble even to leave so much word as that
for the old keeper, who was engaged in his outdoor duties, but simply
inclosed the few shillings in which he was indebted to him inside an
envelope, addressed to Walter Grange. The old man liked him, as he well
knew, and would have prized a few words of farewell; but Yorke was in a
hurry to change his quarters for the better; he had climbed from low to
high, and gave no further thought to the ladder which had so far served
him. But yet he had some prudence too. Though he had dwelled so long in
the Carew domains, so careful had he been not to intrude his presence
inopportunely on its master, that he had never so much as seen, except
at a distance, the mansion to which he was now an invited guest. How
grand it showed, as his elastic step drew near it, with tower and turret
standing up against the gloomy November sky, and all its broad-winged
front alive with light! How good it would be to call so fine a place his
home! How excellent to be made heir to the childless man who ruled it,
and who could leave it to whomsoever his whim might choose!

It was unusual for a guest to approach Crompton for the first time on
foot. The Squire's jovial friends used for the most part strange
conveyances, such as tandems and randoms, and the great flower-beds in
the lawn in front gave sign that some such equipage had been lately
driven up not altogether with dexterity. It is difficult at all times to
drive "unicorn," and more so if the horses are not used to that method
of progression, and still more so if the charioteer is somewhat
inebriated; and all these conditions had been fulfilled a few minutes
previously in the case of Mr. Frederick Chandos, a young gentleman of
twenty-one years of age, but of varied experience, who had just arrived
that day on his first visit. But when Yorke appeared at the front-door,
there was no less attention paid to him than if he had driven up with
four-in-hand. Obsequious footmen assisted him to take off his wrappers
in the great hall, whose vastness dwarfed the billiard-table in its
centre to bagatelle proportions. A profusion of wax-lights--and no
others were permitted at Crompton, save in the servants' offices--showed
eight shining pillars of rare marble, and a grand staircase broad enough
for a coach-and-four, and up which, indeed, Carew _had_ ridden horses
for a wager; while all the walls were hung with huge-figured
tapestry--"The Tent of Darius" and "The Entry of Alexander into
Babylon," both miracles of patient art. The grandeur of the stately
place was marred, however, by signs of revel and rough usage. The
Persian monarch, spared by his Grecian conqueror, had been deprived, by
some more modern barbarian, of his eyes; while the face of his royal
consort had been cut out of the threaded picture, to judge by the ragged
end of the canvas, by a penknife. The very pillars were notched in
places, as though some mad revelers had striven to climb to the pictured
ceiling, from which gods and men looked down upon them with amaze; the
thick-piled carpet of the stairs was cut and torn, doubtless by horses'
hoofs; and here and there a gap in the gilt balusters showed where they
had been torn away in brutal frolic. A groom of the chambers preceded
the new guest up stairs, and introduced him to a bachelor's apartment,
small, but well furnished in the modern style, whither his portmanteau
had been already taken. "Squire has given orders, Sir," said he,
respectfully, "that he should be informed as soon as you arrived. What
name shall I say, Sir? But here he is himself."

As the groom withdrew, Carew made his appearance at the open door. He
was smoking a cigar, although it was within an hour of dinner-time; and
at his heels slouched a huge bull-dog, who immediately began to growl
and sniff at the new guest. "Quiet, you brute!" exclaimed the Squire,
with his customary garnish of strong expletive. "Welcome to Crompton,
Mr.--I forget your name; or rather you forgot, I think, to favor me with
it."

"My name is Richard Yorke, Sir."

"Yorke, Yorke--that sounds easterly. You are of the Cambridgeshire
stock, I reckon, are you not?"

"No, Sir," returned the other, with a slight tremor in his voice, which
he could not control; "I come from nearer home. Your wife's first
husband was called Yorke, if you remember, and I bear his name,
although I am her lawful son, by you, Sir."




CHAPTER V.

AT CROMPTON.


After the bold avowal made at the conclusion of the last chapter,
Richard Yorke and his father (for such indeed he was) stood confronting
one another, for near a minute, without a word. A tempest of evil
passions swept over Carew's swarthy face, and his eyes flashed with a
fire that seemed to threaten personal violence. The bull-dog, too, as
though perceiving his master's irritation with the stranger, began to
growl again; and this, perhaps, was fortunate for the young man, as
affording a channel for the Squire's pent-up wrath. With a great oath,
leveled alike at man and brute, he raised his foot, and kicked the
latter to the other side of the room.

"Impudent bastard!" cried he; "how dare you show your face beneath my
roof?"

"How _dare_ I?" responded the young man, excitedly, and with his
handsome face aglow. "Because there was naught to fear; and if there
were, I should not have feared it."

"Tut, tut! so bold a game could never have entered into your young head.
Your mother must have set you on to do it--come, Sir, the truth, the
truth."

"She did not set me on, father," insisted the other, earnestly. "I came
here of my own will. I have been dwelling within a stone's-throw of your
house these six months, in hopes to see you face to face. She told me
_not_ to come--I swear she did."

"So much the better for her," ejaculated the Squire, grimly. "If I
thought that she had any hand in this, not another shilling of my money
should she ever touch. It was agreed between us," he continued,
passionately--"and I, for my part, am a man who keeps his word--that she
and hers should never meddle more with me and mine; and now she has
broken faith."

"Nay, Sir, but she has not," returned the young man, firmly. "I tell you
it was against her will that I came hither."

"The devil it was!" exclaimed the Squire, suddenly bursting into a wild
laugh. "If you get your way with _her_, when she says 'no,' you must be
a rare one. You are my son for certain, however, or you would never dare
to stand here. It was a rash step, young Sir, and might have ended in
the horse-pond. I had half a mind to set my bull-dog at you. Since you
_are_ here, however, you can stay. But let us understand one another. I
am your father, in a sense, as I am father, for aught I know, to half
the parish; but as to being lawfully so, the law has happened to have
decided otherwise. I know what you would say about 'the rights of it;'
but that's beside the question; the law, I say, for once, is on my side,
and I stand by it. Egad, I have good reason to do so; and if your mother
had been _your_ wife, as she was mine, you would be with me so far. Now,
look you," and here again the speaker's manner changed with his shifting
mood, "if ever again you venture to address me as your father, or to
boast of me as such, I will have you turned out neck and crop; but as
Mr. Richard Yorke, my guest, you will be welcome at Crompton, so long as
we two suit each other; only beware, young Sir, that you tell me no
lies. I shall soon get rid of you on these terms," continued the Squire,
with a chuckle; "for to speak truth must be as difficult to you,
considering the stock you come of, as dancing on the tight-rope. Your
mother, indeed, was a first-rate rope-dancer in that way, and I rarely
caught her tripping; but you--"

"Sir," interrupted the young man, passionately, "is this your
hospitality?"

"True, lad, true," answered the Squire, good-humoredly; "I had intended
to have forgotten Madam Yorke's existence. Well, Sir, what _are_
you?--what do you do, I mean, for a livelihood--beside 'night-watching?'"

"I am a landscape-painter, Sir."

"Umph!" grunted Carew, contemptuously; "you don't get fat on that
pasture, I reckon. Have you never done any thing else?"

For a single instant the young man hesitated to reply; then answered,
"Never."

"You are quite sure of that?" inquired the other, suspiciously.

"Quite sure."

"Good! Here, come with me."

His host led the way along an ample corridor, hung with tall pictures of
their common ancestors, and opened the door of another bedroom. It was
of a vast size; and even when the Squire had lit the candles upon the
mantle-piece, and those which clustered on either side of the great
pier-glass, the darkness did but give place to a sort of shining gloom:
the cause of this strange effect was the peculiarity of the furniture;
the walls were of bog-oak, relieved, like those of a ball-room, by
silver sconces; the chairs were of the same material. The curiosity of
the room was, however, the bedstead; this was of an immense size, and
adorned above with ostrich feathers, which gave it the appearance of a
funeral car; the pillars were of solid ebony, as were also the carved
head and foot boards; it was hung with crimson damask curtains, trimmed
with gold braid; and upon its coverlet of purple silk lay a quilt of
Brussels point lace of exquisite design.

"I will have your traps brought in here," said Carew, throwing away the
end of his cigar, and drawing from his pocket a heap of filberts; "it
will be more convenient. You will find a room through yonder door, where
you can sit and paint to your heart's content."

"You lodge me so splendidly, Sir, that I shall feel like Christopher
Sly," observed the young fellow, gratefully.

"Ay, sly enough, I'll warrant," returned the Squire, who had just
cracked a nut and found it a bad one. "That's Bred in the Bone with you,
I reckon. Look yonder!" As he spoke, a porcelain vase clock upon the
chimney-piece struck the half hour, and a gilt serpent sprang from the
pedestal, showing its fang, which was set in brilliants. "That's my
serpent clock, which always reminds me of Madam, your mother, and the
more so, because it goes for a twelvemonth, which was just the time she
and I went in double harness. But here are your clothes, and you must be
quick in getting into them, for we dine sharp at Crompton.--Watson, go
to my man, and bid him fetch a red coat for this gentleman.--You'll
hear the gong, Mr. Yorke, five minutes before dinner is served." And
with a careless nod to his guest, and a whistle to his four-footed
companion, Carew sauntered off.

The young man would have given much to have had half an hour at his
disposal to think over the events of the last few minutes, and to
reflect upon his present position; but there was no time to lose, if he
would avoid giving umbrage to his host by being late. He therefore
dressed in haste, and before the first note of the gong was heard was
fully equipped. If the Squire, in introducing him to this splendid
lodging, had had it in his mind to overcome him by a mere exhibition of
magnificence, the design had failed; it was only Yorke's artistic sense
that had been impressed; the fact was that the young fellow was of that
character on whom superiority of any sort has small effect; while in the
present case the signs of wealth about him gave him self-confidence,
rather than any feeling of inferiority; insomuch as he considered
himself "by rights," as the Squire had said, the heir of all he saw, and
by no means despaired of becoming so, not only _de jure_, but _de
facto_. Certainly, as he now regarded himself in the pier-glass in his
scarlet coat, it was not to be wondered at that he reflected
complacently that, so far as personal appearance went, he was not likely
to find a superior in any of the company he was about to meet. A
handsomer young fellow had indeed never answered the importunate summons
of the Crompton gong.

He had no difficulty about finding his way to the drawing-room, for a
stream of red-coated guests was already setting thither from their
respective chambers, and he entered it with them unannounced. This was
the only apartment in the house which did not bear traces of mischievous
damage, because, as on the present occasion, it was used for exactly
five minutes every evening, and at no other time whatever. After dinner
the Squire's guests invariably adjourned to the billiard-table or the
library, and the yellow drawing-room was left alone in its magnificence.
This neglected apartment had probably excited more envy in the female
mind than any at Crompton, although there were drawing-rooms galore
there, as well as one or two such exquisite boudoirs as might have
tempted a nun from her convent. It was a burning shame, said the matrons
of Breakneckshire, that the finest room in the county should not have a
lawful mistress to grace it; and it was not their fault (as has been
hinted) that that deficiency had not been supplied. It was really a
splendid room, not divided in any way, as is usual with rooms of such
vast extent, but comprehending every description of architectural
vagary--bay-windows, in each of which half a dozen persons might sit and
move, and recesses where as many could ensconce themselves, without
their presence being dreamed of by the occupants of the central space.

At present, however, the flood of light that poured from chandelier and
bracket, and flashed upon the gorgeous furniture and on the red coats of
the guests, seemed to forbid concealment, and certainly afforded a
splendid spectacle--a diplomatic reception, or a fancy-ball, could for
brilliancy scarcely have exceeded it, though the parallel went no
farther; for, with all this pomp and circumstance, there was not the
slightest trace of ceremony. New guests, like Yorke himself, flocked in,
and stood and stared, or paraded the room; while the less recent
arrivals laughed and chatted together noisily, with their backs to the
fires--of which there were no less than three alight--or lolled at full
length upon the damask sofas. These persons were not, upon the whole, of
an aristocratic type; many of them, indeed, were of good birth, and all
had taken the usual pains with their costume, but a life of dissipation
had set its vulgarizing mark on them: on the seniors the pallid and
exhausted look of the _roué_ was indeed rarely seen--country air and
rough exercise had forbidden that--but drink and hard living had written
their autographs upon them in another and worse handwriting. Blotches
and pimples had indeed so erased their original likeness to gentlemen
that it was even whispered by the scandalous that it was to prevent the
confusion with his menials, that must needs have otherwise arisen, that
the Squire of Crompton compelled his guests to wear red coats. The
_habitués_ of the place, who were the contemporaries of the Squire, had,
as it were, gone to seed. But there was a sprinkling of a better class,
or, at all events, of a class that had not as yet sunk so low as they in
the mire of debauchery: a young lord or two in their minority, whom
their parents or guardians could not coerce into keeping better company;
and other young gentlemen of fashion, in whose eyes Carew was "A
devilish good fellow at bottom;" "Quite a character, by Jove!" and "A
sort of man to know." Among these last was Mr. Frederick Chandos, who
had so lately got among the chrysanthemums with his gig-wheels, and Mr.
Theodore Fane, his bosom friend, who always sat beside him on his
driving-seat, and in return for sharing his perils, was reported to have
the whip-hand of him. Nor was old age itself without its representative
in the person of Mr. Byam Byll, once a master of fox-hounds, now a
pauperized gourmand, who, in consideration of his coarse wit and
"gentlemen's stories," was permitted to have the run of his teeth at
Crompton. This Falstaff to the Squire's Prince Hal was a rotund and
portly man, like his great prototype, but singularly handsome. His smile
was winning yet, and, in spite of his load of years and fat, he still
considered himself agreeable to the fair sex.

For this information and much more, respecting the character of his
fellow-guests, Yorke was indebted to a very singular personage, who had
introduced himself to him as "Parson Whymper," and whom he now knew to
be the Squire's chaplain. The reverend divine was as proud of that
office (and infinitely more comfortable in it) as though he had been
chaplain to an archbishop. He was the only man present who wore a black
coat, and he had a grave voice and insinuating manner, which really did
smack something of the pulpit.

"Mr. Yorke," said he, blandly, "I make no apology for introducing myself
to you; Carew and I have been just having a talk about you, and he has
no secrets from his ghostly adviser. I take your hand with pleasure. I
seem to feel it is the flesh and blood of my best friend. Sooner or
later, mark me, he will own as much, and, be sure, no effort of mine
shall be wanting to insure so desirable a consummation."

Yorke flushed with pleasure, not at the honeyed terms, nor the good-will
they evidenced, but at the news itself--the fact of his father having
revealed their relationship to him seemed so full of promise--and yet he
resented the man's professions, the audacity of which seemed certainly
to imply that he was taken for a fool.

"I am sure, Mr. Whymper," said he, stiffly, "I ought to be greatly
obliged to you."

"Hush! Not Mr. Whymper, if you please, for that's a fine here. Every
body at Crompton calls me 'Parson.' Obliged, Sir! Not at all. It is only
natural that, being what I am, I should wish you well. The law, it is
true, has decided against your legitimacy, but the Church is bound to
think otherwise. In my eyes you are the Squire's only son"--here he made
a whispering-trumpet of his brawny hands, and added with great
significance--"and heir."

"I see," said Yorke, smiling in spite of himself.

"Of course you do; did you think I was trifling with your intelligence?
I tell you that it is quite on the cards that you may recover your lost
position, and regain what is morally your own again. Carew is delighted
with you, not so much because you saved his stags as because you fought
such a good battle with him by the Decoy Pond. He has been consulting me
professionally as to whether it would be contrary to the tables of
affinity to have another set-to with you. I am sorry my reply was in the
negative, for, now I look at you, I do believe you would have thrashed
him; but I was so afraid of his getting the better of you, which might
have ruined your fortunes."

Richard could only repeat his thanks for the good clergyman's kindness.
"You know nobody here, I suppose," observed the latter, "and, with a few
exceptions, which I will name to you, that is not of much consequence.
It is a shifting lot: they are here to-day and gone to-morrow, as says
the Scripture, and I wish they were all going to-morrow except Byam
Ryll. That's old Byam yonder, with the paunch and his hands behind him;
he has nowhere else to put them, poor fellow." And here Parson Whymper
launched into biography as aforesaid.

The clock on the chimney-piece, on which the two were leaning, broke in
upon the divine's scarcely less dulcet accents with its silver quarter.

"This is the first time," said Whymper, "that I have ever known your
father late; and to you belongs the honor of having caused him to
transgress his own immutable rule."

While he was yet speaking a hunting-horn was blown in the hall beneath,
and the whole company turned _en masse_, like a field of poppies before
a sudden wind, to the door where Carew was standing.




CHAPTER VI.

THE FEAST OF LAPITHAE


The host himself led the way down stairs; while the rear of the party
was brought up by Mr. Whymper, to whom Yorke attached himself.

When they reached the dining-room, and before they took their seats at
the ample table, the chaplain, with sonorous voice, gave a view holloa!
which was the Crompton grace.

"It is very distressing to me to have to act in this way," whispered he
to his young friend, whose countenance betrayed considerable
astonishment; but it is the custom of the house; and, after all, there
is no great harm in it. _De minimis non curat lex_, you know."

"That does not hold good with respect to the law of affiliation,
parson," observed Mr. Byam Ryll, who sat on the other side of him, "if,
at least, I have not forgotten my _Burns_."

"I always understood that Burns had very loose views upon such matters,"
returned the chaplain, demurely.

"My dear parson, your remark is like that excellent condiment which I
wish I could see at this otherwise well-provided table--caviare to the
multitude. Why is it not furnished? You have only to say the word." Here
he addressed himself to Yorke: "This worthy divine who sits at the
bottom of the table, young gentleman, and who has neglected his duty in
not having introduced us, is all-powerful here; and we all endeavor to
make friends of him; nor is that circumstance, it is whispered, the only
respect in which he resembles the mammon of unrighteousness."

A shadow of annoyance crossed the parson's smiling face.

"Mr. Richard Yorke," said he, "this is Mr. Byam Ryll, our unlicensed
jester."

"The parson, on the contrary," retorted the other, with twinkling eyes,
"is our Vice, and gives himself every license. What is the matter with
Carew to-night? He looks glum. I dare say he has been eating greens and
bacon at some farm-house, and is now regretting the circumstance. He has
no moral courage, poor fellow, and knows not how to deny his appetite."

"You never did such a wasteful thing in your life, Byam, I'll warrant,"
said the parson, smiling; "and yet some say that you have been a
profligate."

"I know it," replied the gourmand, shaking his head; "and I forgive
them. They call me a slave to my stomach; if it be so, I at least serve
a master of some capacity, which is not the case with every body."

"You are saying something about _me_, you big fat man," cried Carew,
from the other end of the table, and his voice had a very unpleasant
grasp in it. "Come, out with it!"

"If our venerable friend does not stoop to deception," whispered the
parson into Yorke's ear, "he will now find himself in an ugly hole."

"I was observing that you did not eat your lamperns, Squire," said the
stout gentleman, "and remarked that you were in no want of a feeder."

"What's a feeder?" returned the host, ill-temperedly. "If it's a bib,
you'll soon want one yourself, for, egad, you're getting near your
second childhood!"

"It must have been my plumpness and innocence which suggested that
idea," responded the other, smiling. "But if you have never known a
feeder, you have missed a great advantage, Squire. When you dine with my
Lord Mayor the question is always asked, will you have a feeder, or will
you not? If you say 'Yes,' you pay your half-guinea, and get him. He is
generally a grave old gentleman like myself, and much resembles a
beneficed clergyman. He stands behind your chair throughout the feast,
and delicately suggests what it is best for you to eat, to drink, and to
avoid. 'No; _no_ salmon,' he murmurs, if you have had turbot already;
and, '_Now_, a glass of Burgundy, _if_ you please, Sir;'
or, '_Now_, a glass of sherry.' If an indigestible or ill-compounded
_entree_ is handed, he will whisper 'No, Sir: neither now nor never,'
with quite an outburst of honest indignation; nor will he suffer you to
take Gruyere cheese, nor port with your Stilton. The consequence is,
that the next morning you feel as lively as though you had not feasted
on the previous evening, and convinced that you made a good investment
of your half-guinea in securing his services. If there was a feeder at
Crompton," concluded the old gourmand, sighing, and with a hypocritical
look, "it would be a boon to some of you young fellows, and might
produce a healthy and devout old age."

"That's a good one!" "Well done, Byam!" "You won't beat that!" resounded
from all sides, for such were the terms in which the gallery at Crompton
expressed their approbation, whether of man or beast; but Mr. Frederick
Chandos and a few others, inclusive of Mr. Theodore Fane, kept a
dignified silence, as over a joke that was beyond their capacities--they
reserved their high approval for "gentlemen's stories" only. As for the
grim Squire, for whom alone the narrative had been served and garnished,
at so very short a notice, he observed upon it, that "when he had used
up old Byam's brains he should now have the less scruple in turning him
out-of-doors, inasmuch as it seemed there was a profession in town that
was just suited to him."

How wondrous is the power of naked wealth--of the mere money! Simply
because he had a large rent-roll, this mad Carew could find not only
companions of his own calibre--reckless good-for-naughts, or dull
debauchees--but could command gray beard experience, wit, the art of
pleasing, in one man; and in another (what he was not less destitute of,
and needed more), politic management and common-sense. We do not say, as
the Squire himself sometimes did, when in a good-humor with his two
satellites, that Parson Whymper and Byam Ryll had more brains in their
little fingers than all his other friends had in their whole bodies, but
it was certain that, even when drunk, they were wiser than the others
when sober; the one had astuteness enough for a great statesman (or what
has passed for such in England) to hold the most discordant elements
together, and to make what is rotten seem almost sound; and, indeed,
without his chaplain's dextrous skidding, Carew would long ago have
irretrievably lost social caste, and dissipated his vast means to the
last shilling. On the other hand, Byam Ryll was gifted with even rarer
qualities; he was essentially a man of mark and character, and might
have made his fortune in any pursuit by his own wits; but his fortune
had been ready-made when he came of age, and he had occupied himself
very agreeably instead in getting through it, in which he had quite
succeeded. Parson Whymper, who had never known what it was to have a
ten-pound note to call his own, was now no worse off than he. They would
both have frankly owned, had they been asked, that they detested work of
any kind. Yet the chaplain had almost as much business on his hands as
the bursar of a great college, in the administration of Carew's affairs,
besides filling an office which was by no means a sinecure, in that of
his master of the ceremonies. Many a rudeness in that house would have
been bitterly avenged, and many a quarrel would have had a serious
termination, but for the good offices of Parson Whymper. Nor would Mr.
Byam Ryll have been considered by every body to earn an easy livelihood
in making jests out of every occasion, to tickle the fancy of a
dull-witted audience and of a patron, as often as not, morose; yet the
flesh-pots of Egypt had attracted both these men to the Squire's
service, their poverty as well as their will consenting; and in exchange
for meat and drink, and lodging of the best, they had sold themselves
into slavery. Upon the whole, they were well disposed to one another;
the bond of intelligence united them against the rich "roughs" with whom
they had to deal; they tilted together, side by side, against the
_canaille_; yet each, from the bitter consciousness of his own
degradation, took pleasure in the humiliation or discomfiture of the
other, at the rude hands of their common master.

"Profession," said Chandos, in reply to Carew's last remark; "gad, your
ancient friend is lucky to have found one in these days. They tell me
that no young gentleman can now get his living without answering
questions, writing down things, drawing maps, and passing--What the
deuce do they call them?"

"Hanged if _I_ know," said the Squire. "Ask Byam; he knows every thing."

"I say, Mr. Byam," drawled the young man, somewhat insolently, but
without being aware that he was addressing a stranger by his Christian
name, "Carew says you know every thing. What is it that a gentleman is
now obliged to go through before he can get any of these snug things one
used to get for the asking? What is the confounded thing one has to
pass?"

"Muster," answered Ryll, derisively, as though it was a riddle.

Carew laughed aloud. The nearer a retort approached to a practical joke,
provided it was not at his own expense, the better he liked it.

"What did the old beggar say?" inquired Mr. Frederick Chandos, his fair
face crimson with anger.

"He asked for the mustard; he didn't hear you," answered the Squire,
mischievously; "he never does hear a fellow who lisps."

"I asked you, Mr. Byam," repeated the young man with tipsy gravity,
"what is the name of those examinations?"

"The name of the gentleman on my left, Mr. Chandos, is Ryll, and not
Byam--except to his intimate friends," interposed the chaplain; "and the
name you are in want of is competitive."

"That's it," said the young man, slapping the table, and forgetting both
his mistake and his anger in the unaccustomed acquisition of an idea.
"Competitive examination is what they call it Well, you know, there was
my young brother--confound him!--looking to me to pay his bills; and, in
fact, having nothing to live upon, poor devil, except what I gave him.
So, of course, I was anxious to get him off my hands."

"Very natural," assented Carew. "For my part, I could never see what
younger brothers were born for."

"You'd see it less if you had one to keep," continued Chandos. "In old
times, now, I could have got Jack something warm and snug under
government, or in the colonies; and so I should now, but for one
thing--that he had to pass one of these cursed examinations first.
However, as it had to be done, and as Jack, according to his own
account, was as much out of form for one as another of them, I
recommended him to try his luck for something in India; for as long as
you can keep a fellow on the other side of the world he can't dun
you--not to hurt; it ain't like coming and calling _himself_; and you
needn't read his letters unless you like. Well, 'India be it,' says
Jack; 'that's as good a place as another;' though, in my opinion, he
never expected to go there. He thought he had no chance whatever of
pulling through, and so did I, for the fact is, Jack is a born fool."

"Did you say he was your brother, or only your half-brother?" inquired
Mr. Byam Ryll, with an appearance of great interest.

"My very own brother, Sir," replied the unconscious Chandos, flattered
to find such attention paid to him; "and as like to me as one thimble, I
mean as one pea, is to another. Well, the strange thing is, the deuce
alone knows how it happened, but _Jack got through_." Here he took a
bumper of port, as though in honor of that occasion. "It's a perfect
marvel, but the best thing for _him_ (as well as for me) in the world.
Nobody ever went out under better auspices, for the governor of Bengal
is our cousin, and Jack was to school with his private sec.: it's a
first-rate connection. Our family has been connected with India for ever
so long. I'll tell you how."

"It is a most admirable connection," observed Mr. Byam Ryll; "and the
whole circumstances of the case will, I have no doubt, be interesting in
the highest degree to the natives of Bengal. Your brother should embody
them in a neat speech, and deliver it from the deck of the steamer
before he lands."

It is probable that Mr. Frederick Chandos would have so far
misunderstood the nature of this observation as to have accepted it as a
compliment had not Carew burst into a series of wild laughs, which
betokened high approval, and was one of his few tokens of enjoyment. He
had evinced unmistakable signs of discontent and boredom before his
intellectual henchman had thus struck in on his behalf; and he was
really gratified for the rescue. Chandos was muttering some drunken
words of insolence and anger; but Carew bore him down.

"Pooh, pooh! Old Byam was right!" cried he, with boisterous mirth. "I
dare say all that long story of yours _may_ interest those black
fellows; but for me, I care nothing about it. It's all rubbish. Be
quiet, you young fool, I say; it's too early yet for buffets. Here,
bring the beaker."

This was a magnificent tankard, the pride of Crompton, which, at the
conclusion of dinner, was always filled with port-wine, and passed round
the table. It was lined with silver gilt, but made of ivory, and had a
cover of the same, both finely carved. On the bowl was portrayed a
Forest Scene, with Satyrs pursuing Nymphs; on the lid was the Battle of
the Centaurs; while the stem was formed by a sculptured figure of
Hercules. If the artist, Magnus Berg, who had fashioned it long ago in
his own Rhine Land, had had foresight of the sort of company into whose
hands his work was in these days to pass he could not have hit upon more
apt devices. His Satyrs and his Centaurs had here their representatives
in the flesh; while the thews and sinews of the son of Alcmene had their
counterpart in those of the man who now stood up at the head of that
splendid table, and drank such a draught as though the port were porter.
It was a feat to hold it with one hand, and therefore Carew did so; but
to empty it at a draught was, even for him, an impossibility, for it
held three bottles of wine. Though the Squire could be acquitted of
entertaining reverence for any thing human or divine, he had a sort of
superstitious regard for his beaker, and believed that so long as he had
it in his possession--like the "Luck of Eden Hall"--no great harm could
happen to him. He attached all the importance of a religious
ceremony--and, indeed, it was the only one he practiced--to the using of
this goblet, and resented any levity during the process as though it
were sacrilege. But to stand up after dinner, and much less to support
this elaborate drinking-vessel, was not always an easy matter with the
Squire's guests, and so it happened on the present occasion. The usage
was, that one held the cover while his neighbor drank from the cup,
after a ceremonious bow to him; and it fell to the lot of Mr. Frederick
Chandos to perform this latter duty immediately after his host, and
while there was still much wine in the goblet. Uncertain as to his
footing, and trembling with irritation, as well as with the weight of
his burden, he hesitated to drink. Perhaps, in his already wine-muddled
brain, he had some vague idea of passing the vessel on, and thereby
showing his displeasure; but, at all events, the hesitation was
unfortunate for him, for, with a fierce ejaculation of impatience, Carew
crammed the great cover on the young man's head, which, like the helmet
of Otranto, came down over nose and chin. Maddened with the insult,
Chandos dashed the contents of the goblet into what he thought was the
Squire's face, but which was indeed the white cravat and waistcoat of
his opposite neighbor; and then began a scene that Smollett alone could
have described or Hogarth painted. It was as though a concerted signal
had been given for a free fight among all the Squire's guests. The one
art that was practiced among them was that of boxing, and almost every
man present had a neat way of hitting out with one hand or the other,
which he believed to be unique, and the effect of which he was most
curious to observe. The less skillful with their fists used any other
weapons that came handy. The dessert service of Dresden porcelain,
elaborately enameled with views of the chief towns of Germany, had once
been the marriage portion of a princess, and was justly held to be one
of the rarest treasures of Crompton; but it was no more respected now
than if it had furnished forth the table of Pirithous. The plates
skimmed about like quoits, and all the board became a wreck of glass and
china. Above the clamor and the fighting could be heard Carew's strident
voice demanding his beaker, pouring unimaginable anathemas against any
one who should do it damage, and threatening to unmuzzle and bring in
his bear. The servants, not unused to such mad tumults, gathered in a
mass at the doorway, and awaited with equanimity the subsidence of the
storm among their betters. It came at last, and found the scene of
contest not unlike a ship after storm--the decks all but clean swept,
and the crew (who had broken into the spirit-room) exhausted.

Richard Yorke, who, with his two neighbors, had taken no part in the
affray beyond defending himself from blows or missiles, was even more
astonished at the general good-humor that now succeeded than at the
fracas itself. If there had been any bad blood among the combatants, it
seemed to have been spilled, for there was now nothing but laughter and
applausive drumming of fists upon the table. The company were as pleased
with their own performance as the holiday faces that greet with such
exuberant joy the havoc upon the stage at pantomime time. The _habitués_
of Crompton, indeed, were not unlike wild school-boys, with a Lord of
Misrule for their master, and "give and take" for their one good
precept. Nay, the rude outbreak had even a beneficial effect, for it cut
short the orgie, which might, and probably would, have otherwise been
prolonged for hours. There was no dissentient voice when Mr. Byam Ryll
arose and observed, in demure accents: "Suppose, my dear friends, that
we join the ladies."




CHAPTER VII.

YORKE REPORTS PROGRESS.


I trust it will not be imagined, and far less hoped for, by any reader
of this sober narrative, that the phrase which concluded the last
chapter implies that he or she is about to be introduced to bad company.
The fair sex will not be without their representatives in our story, and
that soon; but they will not be such as blushed unseen (if they blushed
at all) in the bowers at Crompton. Mr. Ryll's suggestion, "Let us join
the ladies," was only an elegant way he had, and which was well
understood by his audience, of proposing an adjournment to the
billiard-room. If that worthy old gentleman could be said to have had
any source of income whatever, it was the billiard-table; and hence it
was that he was always ready to proceed thither. Nor had he boasted
without reason, a while ago, of his powers of self-denial, for he would
often forego a glass of generous wine (when he felt that he had had
enough), in order to keep his hand steady for the game at pool, which
invariably took place at Crompton after dinner. His extreme obesity,
though it deprived him of some advantages in the way of "reach," was,
upon the whole, a benefit to him. His antagonists lost the sense of his
superiority of skill in their enjoyment of the ridiculous and
constrained postures in which he was compelled to place himself, and he
was well content to see them laugh and lose. None but a first-rate
player could have held his own among that company, whose intelligence
had been directed to this particular pursuit for most of their natural
lives; and even "Tub Ryll," as they called him, had to supplement his
dexterity by other means to make success secure. His liveliest sallies,
his bitterest jests, were all reserved for these occasions, so that
mirth or anger was forever unstringing the nerves of his competitors,
and diminishing their chance of gain. It was difficult to unstring the
nerves of Parson Whymper, who ran him very close in skill, and sometimes
divided the spoil with him; but on the present occasion he had a wordy
weapon to baffle even that foe. This consisted in constant allusion to
the latter's supposed reversionary interest in the living at Crompton,
the incumbent whereof was ancient and infirm, and which was in the
Squire's gift. This piece of preferment was the object of the chaplain's
dearest hopes, and the last subject he would have chosen to jest upon,
especially in the presence of its patron.

"Is he to have it, Squire, or is he not?" would be Tub Ryll's serious
inquiry, just as it was the parson's turn to play on him, or, "Who backs
the vicar elect?"--observations which seldom failed to cost that
expectant divine a sovereign, for the play at the Hall table, although
not so high as was going on in the Library with those who patronized
cards, was for considerable stakes. Carew, who enjoyed, above all
things, this embarrassing pleasantry, would return an ambiguous reply,
so that the problem remained without a solution. But when the disgusted
chaplain at last threw up his cue, in a most unusual fit of dudgeon, the
Squire put the question to the company, as a case of church preferment
of which he was unwilling to take the sole responsibility. "The sum," he
said, "which had been offered to him for the next presentation would
exactly defray the cost of his second pack of hounds, which his chaplain
himself had advised him to put down; so the point to be considered--"

"The hounds, the hounds!" broke in this impatient audience, amidst roars
of laughter. And nobody knew better than poor Parson Whymper that this
verdict would be more final than that of most other ecclesiastical
synods, and that he had lost his preferment. It was Carew's humor to
take jest for earnest (as it was to turn into ridicule what was
serious), and to pretend that his word was pledged to decisions to which
nobody else would have attached the slightest weight; it pleased him to
feel that his lightest word was law, or perhaps it was a part of the
savage adoration which he professed to pay to truth.

Byam Ryll felt a genuine regret that he had pushed matters so far,
though Whymper himself was to blame for having shown temper, and thereby
precipitated the catastrophe. But he did not play the less skillfully on
that account; and, moreover, had no rival to divide the pool with him.

"I would give five pounds if somebody would beat him," muttered the
discontented parson within Yorke's hearing, who was standing aloof with
his cigar watching the game.

"I think I _could_," said the young man, quietly, "if I _had_ five
pounds."

As the pool was two pounds, and the lives were one, this was exactly the
amount of pecuniary risk to be run, and which want of the necessary
funds had alone prevented the young man from incurring.

"Here is a fiver," replied the parson, softly.

"But I really have no money," remonstrated Yorke, though his fine face
lit up for a moment with delight (for he was a gambler to the core),
"nor any expectation of--"

"Yes, yes; you have expectations enough," answered the other, hurriedly.
"You may give me that living yet yourself--who knows? Take a ball,
man--take a ball."

So, when another game commenced, the young landscape-painter, who had
spent at least as much of his short life at those boards of green cloth
called "public tables" as in studying the verdant hues of nature, made
one of the combatants, and not a little astonished them by his
performance. He had the eye of a hawk, with the litheness of a young
panther; and his prudence during the late debauch had preserved his
steadiness of hand. Mr. Theodore Fane had the misfortune to be his
immediate predecessor, and was "potted" at long distances.

"By Jove!" exclaimed he, sulkily, upon losing his last life by a double,
"you must have lived by your wits, young gentleman, to have learned to
play pool like that."

"I have," returned Yorke, without moving a muscle, and preparing to
strike again. "You will come to do the same, if you play much at this
game--but your sad end will not be protracted. You will starve to death
with considerable rapidity."

"My dear Mr. Yorke," said Byam Ryll, approvingly, "you have won my
heart, though I can't afford to let you win my sovereigns; I like you,
but I must kill you off, I see."

"Unless--" said Yorke.

"Unless what?" inquired Ryll, as he made his stroke at Yorke's ball,
which was quite safe, and grazed it with his own, which, gliding off
another ball, found its way into a pocket. For once, he had really
allowed himself to be "put off" his aim.

"Unless you commit suicide," replied the young fellow, smiling. "I was
about to warn you of the danger of that kiss."

"You are worse than a highway robber, young Sir," said the annoyed old
gentleman.

"That's true," returned Yorke, "for I take your money and your 'life.'"

The young fellow repaid his loan that night, besides putting half a
dozen sovereigns into his own pocket; and there was other fruit from
that investment.

Carew was delighted with his son's skill, though his wit was somewhat
wasted on him. "Why the deuce did you not play in the first game?" said
he, when the party broke up to adjourn to the hazard-table. "I suppose
it was your confounded cunning" (and here his face grew dark, as though
with some recollection of the past); "you wanted to see how they played
before you pitted yourself against them--did you? How like, how like!"

"I had no money, Sir, until Parson Whymper lent me some."

"Oh, that was it--was it?" said the Squire. "Well, well, that was not
your fault, lad, nor shall it be mine--here, catch," and out of his
breeches-pocket he took a roll of crumpled notes and flung them at him;
then suddenly turned upon his heels, with what sounded like a muttered
execration at his own folly.

Yorke did not risk this unexpected treasure on the chances of the dice,
but retired to his own room. It was a dainty chamber, as we have said,
and offered in its appointments a curious contrast to his late
sleeping-room in the keeper's lodge. He opened the door of communication
to which the Squire had referred, and found himself in a sort of
boudoir, in which, as in his own room, a good fire was burning. By the
lover of art-furniture, this latter apartment would have been pronounced
a perfect gem. Here also every article was of ebony, and flashed back
the blaze from the red coals like dusky mirrors. Yorke lit the
candles--huge waxen ones, such as the pious soul in peril sees in his
mind's eye, and promises to his saint--and looked around him with
curiosity. Like the little Marchioness of Mr. Richard Swiveller, he had
never seen such things, "except in shops;" or rather, he had seen single
specimens of such exposed in windows of great furniture warehouses,
rather as a wonder and a show than with any hope to tempt a purchaser.
On one hand stood an ebony cabinet, elaborately carved with fruit and
flowers; it was divided into three parts, and their shut doors faced
with plate-glass gave it the appearance of a tripartite altar with its
sacred fire kindled. A casket almost as large glowed close beside it,
enriched with figures and landscapes, and with shining locks and hinges,
as he afterward discovered, of solid gold. A book-case of the same
precious wood was filled with volumes bound in scarlet--all French
novels, superbly if not very decorously illustrated. But the article
which astonished the new tenant of this chamber most was the ebony
escritoire that occupied its centre, with every thing set out for
ornament or use that is seen on a lady's writing-table. It was
impossible that such nick-nacks as he there beheld could be intended for
male use, and still less for such men as were the Squire's guests. Did
this chamber and its neighbor apartment usually own a female
proprietress? and if so, why was _he_ placed there? This idea by no
means alarmed the young landscape-painter, who had no more _mauvaise
honte_, nor dislike to adventures of gallantry, than Gil Blas de
Santillane. He sat down at the escritoire, and, taking up a gilt pen
with a ridiculous silk tassel, began a letter to the same person to whom
that day he had already dispatched a missive; but this time it was not
so brief: the day of brilliant dies and illuminated addresses had not as
yet set in, so he wrote at the top of the little scented sheet, in a
bold free hand, the word Crompton! and put a note of admiration after
it. Had you seen his face as he did so, you would have said it was a
note of triumph.

"My DEAR MOTHER,--_Veni, vidi, vici_--I have come, I have seen him, and
I am at all events tolerated. The perilous moment was when I told him
who I was. He said he was half disposed to set his bull-dog at me, but
he didn't; on the contrary, he at once bid me exchange my bachelor's
quarters for the two chambers I at present occupy, and which remind me
of the _Arabian Nights_. I have never seen any thing like them; the
furniture of both is of ebony; but the most curious part of the affair
is, that they are evidently designed for a lady. Imagine your Richard
sleeping under a coverlet of real Brussels lace! Every thing in the
house, however, is magnificent, or was so once, before it was damaged by
barbarous revel. Such orgies as I have witnessed to-night would seem
incredible, if I wrote them; the _Modern Midnight Entertainment_ of old
Hogarth will supply you with the _dramatis personae_; but the splendor
of the surroundings immensely heightened the effect of it all. Carew and
his friends might have sat for Alaric and his Goths carousing amidst the
wreck of the art treasures of Rome. Nothing that he has affords him any
satisfaction; though, if it is of great cost, Chaplain Whymper tells me
that he derives a momentary pleasure from its willful damage. This man
and one other are the only persons of intelligence about Carew; but even
they have no influence with him that can be depended on. If madness were
always hereditary indeed, I might consider myself doomed. You were right
there, I own; but you must needs allow that in undertaking this
adventure contrary to your advice I have effected something. The
chaplain is already speculating upon my future fortunes, and he knows
his patron better than any body; at all events, if I am turned out of
doors to-morrow (which I am aware is quite on the cards), I shall have
three hundred pounds in my pocket, which Carew, with a 'Catch that,'
threw me in notes, exactly as you throw a chicken-bone to _Dandy_ as he
sits on his hind-legs, though I did not 'beg' for them, I do assure you.
The immediate cause of my being invited hither was as follows [here the
writer described his exploit with the stags]. This, with our match at
fisticuffs by moonlight, had greatly inclined Carew to favor me; yet,
when the disclosure of my identity was made, I thought for a moment all
my pains were lost. He resented the intrusion exceedingly; but then he
had himself invited me to be his guest; and he holds his word as good as
his bond. Indeed, by what the chaplain tells me, it will soon be held
something better, for even his vast estate is crumbling away, acre by
acre, beneath the load of lavish expenditure it has to bear. There must
be much, however, at the worst, to be picked up among the _debris_ of
such a fortune."

"I am aware that it is in the last degree improbable that Carew will be
persuaded to make a will in _any body's_ favor at present. He imagines,
I think, that the whole world is made for his sole enjoyment--it almost
might be so, for all he sees to the contrary--and never dreams that he
will die. But it is also certain that he will die early; and more than
likely that he will come to grief, when he has lost his nerve, in one or
other of the mad exploits which he will be too proud to discontinue.
Then will your Richard become the most assiduous and painstaking of
nurses that ever humored crack-brained patient. But there! I have made a
dozen programmes of what is to happen, and this is but a specimen. Who
can tell? I may be heir of Crompton yet, or I may come back to you
to-morrow like a bad penny, and with what the vulgar describe as a flea
in my ear."

"It will not surprise you to learn that you are personally held in great
disfavor here, though the chaplain (who has heard all from the Squire's
lips) speaks of you with due respect. The last thing that is desired at
Crompton is, of course, the return of its lawful mistress. Carew himself
is very bitter against you, which is doubtless owing to the good offices
of grandmamma. The clock has just struck four, which bids me close this
letter, though of all the Squire's guests, to judge by the wrangling
that is going on in the Library below stairs, the first to retire will
be your affectionate son, RICHARD YORKE."

"P.S.--I forgot to say that Carew made the most pointed inquiries as to
whether I had any other profession than that of landscape-painting.
Would it not be strangely comical if he should bestir himself to get me
some Civil appointment! I almost fancied he must have been thinking of
doing so, from some scraps of talk I heard him let fall at dinner.
Curiously enough, by-the-by, who should have been sitting at his
right-hand, but Frederick Chandos, Jack's brother! 'Good Heaven!' (you
will say), 'suppose it had been Jack himself;' however, it was not."




CHAPTER VIII.

HOW BENEDICT BECAME A BACHELOR.


Notwithstanding the late hour at which Yorke retired to his sumptuous
couch, he was up the next morning betimes. He was restless, and eager to
explore the splendors of the house, that had been so nearly his
inheritance, for it was not without a stubborn contest that the law had
deprived him of what he still believed to be his rights. Nor had
Crompton, in his eyes (as we have hinted), only the interest of
Might-have-been; it had that of Might-be also. If not absolutely
sanguine, he was certainly far from hopeless of fortune making him that
great amends; at all events, while the opportunity was afforded him,
which he well knew might be lost forever by his own imprudence, or
through the caprice of another, he resolved not to neglect it. It was
broad daylight, yet not a soul was stirring in all the stately place;
nothing but the echo of his own footsteps, as he trod the corridor, and
entered the great Picture-gallery, met his attentive ear. The collection
of old masters at Crompton was varied and valuable; he could have spent
hours among them with infinite pleasure, if the intoxicating thought
that they all might be one day his own had not been present to mar their
charms. He regarded them less as an admiring disciple, or a connoisseur,
than as an appraiser. The homely life-scenes of Jan Stein, the saintly
creations of Paul Veronese, the warmth of Rubens, and the stateliness of
Vandyck, were all measured by one standard--that of price. The contents
of this one room alone, thought he, "represent no moderate fortune."

When his eye strayed to the tall windows, and rested on the wooded acres
which owned in mad Carew a nominal master, the beauty of dale and upland
touched him not at all. "I wonder now," sighed he, "how much of this is
dipped?" It was a good sign, he thought, that in one room he found a
cabinet containing no less than fifty antique cameos; for, if the
pressure of pecuniary difficulty had really begun to be severe, the
Squire would surely have parted with what must have been in his view
useless lumber, and was so easily convertible into cash. The Library
offered a strange spectacle: chairs thrown down, and broken glasses,
bore witness to the wildness of last night's revel; the splendid carpet
was strewn with the ends and ashes of cigars, and with packs of cards;
and on the table, scratched in all directions by the sharp spurs of
fighting-cocks, still lay the dice and caster. The atmosphere was so
heavy with the fumes of wine and smoke that Yorke was glad to escape
from it, through a half-opened window, into the morning air.

How bright and fresh it was! How much there was of bracing enjoyment, of
wholesome gayety, in the mere breath of it; how much of invigorating
delight in the mere sight of the glittering turf, the beaded trees, to
which the hoar-frost had lent its jewels! But such cheap luxuries are
not only unknown to those who are sleeping off their debauch of the past
night during the brightest hours of the day; they are also lost upon
those who rise early in the morning, to follow the strong drink of greed
and envious expectation. Richard Yorke enjoyed them not, save that he
felt his lungs play more freely. A couple of gardeners were at work upon
the lawn, of one of whom he asked the way to the stables, the report of
the completeness and perfection of which had often reached him. The
house and its furniture--nay, the house and its inmates--were of less
consequence in the Squire's eyes than the arrangements of his
loose-boxes. The old dynasty of Houyhnhnms was re-established at
Crompton; the Horse bare sway, or was at least held in higher account
than the Human. The Horse, the Hound, the Pheasant, the Bag-fox, and,
fifthly, Man, were there the gradations of rank; and a compound
being--half man, half brute--was, by a not unparalleled freak of
fortune, the master of all. Carew had never fed his mares with human
flesh, but there was a legend that he had rubbed a friend over with
anise-seed, and offered that dainty morsel to his dogs. The victim was
snatched away again, however, by some officious underling, who justified
his interference upon the ground that the hounds would have been spoiled
by such an indulgence; and the Squire had pardoned him. This was one of
the stories about the Master of Crompton which divided the country into
those who believed it and those who did not; but Walter Grange had told
it to Richard as a characteristic fact.

The stables were indeed a marvel, not only of cleanliness and comfort,
but, if it had been possible by any arts of daintiness to make them
cox-combs, such would Carew's horses have become. They had
looking-glasses in their own glossy coats, and yet it was not well for
one of them to be an especial favorite with its master, for it more than
once happened that he would ride such so often and so long that it fell
under him, killed with kindness, overwhelmed with his oppressive favor.
On such occasions, if the Squire happened to have been as devoted as
usual to his brandy flask, he would shed copious tears, which many
instanced as a proof that he was neither selfish nor cold-hearted.

The kennels were of vast proportions, hedged in by high palisades,
through the interstices of which many a black muzzle now protruded,
sniffing like ill-tempered women, or uttering shrill whines of despair.
As Yorke, with his hands buried in his pockets, for they were cold,
though his head was too well provided with clustering hair to be
conscious of the absence of a hat, was contemplating this spectacle with
cynical amusement, up strode the chaplain, wholesome and ruddy-looking.

"You are up betimes--as Crompton hours go--Mr. Yorke; I hope such good
habits will not be undermined by evil associations. How I envy you your
constitution, to be able to face this November mist with a bare head!"

"Nay, parson," rejoined the young man, "you must have risen early
yourself to know that there _was_ a mist. It's clear enough now all
round. I suppose our impatient friends yonder," pointing to the kennel,
where all the dogs, hearing the chaplain's voice, were now in full
chorus, "will have their will this morning?"

"Yes; it is this pack's turn to hunt."

"I wish, for your sake, Mr. Whymper, that there was only one pack,"
observed Yorke, with good-natured earnestness.

"Ah, you are referring to that foolish talk about the living last night.
Poor Ryll is quite broken-hearted about it this morning; and, in fact,
he did do me an ill turn, though, I am sure, without intending it. It is
the misfortune of a professed wit--and especially of a poor one--that he
can not afford to be silent."

"You take it more good-humoredly than I should," said Yorke. "I should
be inclined to charge something for a joke made at my own expense, where
the loss was so considerable."

"You don't look of a very revengeful disposition, neither," returned the
chaplain, critically.

"I have never experienced the feeling of revenge," answered the young
man, frankly; "but I know what it is to feel wronged, and I think it is
lucky that it is the law, and not an individual, that has done me the
mischief--one can't have a vendetta against the law, you know. But, if
it were a man, ay, though he were my own flesh and blood, he should pay
for it--yes, sevenfold. I would not put up with injustice from any human
being; and where I could, if the law would not help me, I would right
myself with the strong hand."

It was curious to see the effect which this objectless passion wrought
upon the young man's face, and even figure. His lithe limbs seemed to
grow rigid; his right hand was clenched convulsively; his handsome
Spanish countenance was lit up with a sort of dusky glow.

"My dear young friend," said the chaplain, quietly, "my profession,
perhaps, ought to suggest to me some serious arguments against the
disposition which you so unmistakably evince; but I will confine myself
to saying that such a temper as yours is not to be kept for nothing. It
is only men in your father's position who can indulge themselves in such
a luxury, I do assure you. You'll come to grief with it some day."

Yorke laughed, good-humoredly. "What must be, will be. Let us hope there
will be no occasion for the display of my fire-works. I suppose, what
with his two packs of hounds and the rest of it, even my father will be
brought to behave himself demurely, sooner or later."

"I should like to see Carew demure," said the chaplain, smiling;
"although not reduced to that state by the extremities of poverty. Yes,
as you say," he added, in a graver tone, "the pace at which he has been
going these twenty years has begun to tell on his fortune. But it is not
the dogs that will ruin him (as they ruined poor Ryll, with his few
thousands), nor yet his hunters. It is his race-horses on the Downs
yonder that will bring him to his piece of bread."

"I suppose so," said Yorke, sighing, not so much on Carew's account as
on his own; "he backs a horse because it is his own. That is his
confounded egotism."

"Your tie of relationship, Mr. Yorke, does not, I perceive, make you
blind to your father's foibles."

"Why should it?" rejoined the young man, passionately. "Am I to feel
grateful to him for begetting me? What has he done to make me feel that
I owe him aught? Do you suppose I thank him for being admitted here,
unacknowledged, uninvited in my own proper person? For being permitted
to take my fill at the common trough along with his drunken swine?"

"Nay, my friend," interposed the chaplain, coldly; "the food and wine
are of the best; and we should never scoff at good victual. If you have
so proud a stomach, why are you here? It embarrasses you to answer the
question. Let me, then, shape the reply. 'I have a sense of my own
dignity,' you would say, 'far keener than that of my father's flatterers
and favorites; but, on the other hand, I humiliate myself for a much
greater stake.'"

"_I_ humiliate myself?" reiterated the young man, angrily.

"You take money that is not very gracefully offered for your acceptance,
my young friend," said the chaplain, quietly.

"You saw him, did you?" cried Richard, hoarse with shame and passion.

"No; I did not; but I heard him swearing at you at the hazard-table for
having emptied his pockets; and I am familiar with his mode of bestowing
presents. You must forgive me, Mr. Yorke," added Parson Whymper, dryly;
"but you ought to know that when a man has lost his own self-respect, he
is, naturally averse to the profession of independence in another."

"If you deem yourself a dependent, Mr. Chaplain," replied Yorke,
bitterly, "you still permit yourself some frankness."

"Yes; that is one of the few virtues which are practiced at Crompton.
You will find me speak the truth."

There was irony in Parson Whymper's tone; and yet the young man felt
that he was not the subject of its cynicism. Was it possible that this
hard-drinking, hard-riding, hard-headed divine was scornful of himself,
and of his own degraded position? Yorke did not credit him with any such
fine feeling. He had read of Swift at Temple's, and could understand the
great Dean's bitterness against a shallow master and his insolent
guests, but that a man should become despicable to himself, was
unintelligible to him.

"Of course," continued the chaplain, smiling at his evident
bewilderment, "I could have been as smooth-spoken as you please, my
young friend; but I had estimated your good sense too highly to endeavor
to conciliate you by such vapid arts."

"I thank you," said Yorke, thoughtfully. "I hope you were right there; I
am sure at least that from your mouth I could hear home truths, which
from another's would be very unpalatable. You are good enough to speak
as though you would wish us to be friends. I am going to ask you,
therefore, to do me a favor."

"I will do any thing that lies in my power; but do not, for your own
sake, press me to influence your father----"

"No, no; it is not that," broke in the other, hastily. "It lies with
yourself to grant my request. I wish to hear from you the true story of
Carew's marriage with my mother."

"The _true story_?" echoed Parson Whymper. "Nay; I can not vouch for
being possessed of that. I have only heard it from your grandmother: the
counsel for the prosecution is scarcely a reliable authority for the
facts of a case."

"And I have only heard the defense," said Yorke. "Let me now, for the
first time, know what was urged upon the other side, and so weightily,"
the young man gloomily added, "that it made my mother an outcast, and
myself a disgraced and penniless lad. You see, I know exactly what was
the end of it all, so do not fear to shock me."

"There can be no disgrace where one has not one's self to blame," urged
the chaplain.

"You think so?" broke in the other, bitterly. "What! not when one's
mother is to blame, for instance? Well, please begin."

"I had much rather not," said the chaplain. "It would be much better for
you to get the newspaper report of the case--I can tell you the exact
date--and read both _pro_ and _con_."

"No report was ever published, Mr. Whymper; the case was heard with
closed doors, or suppressed by Carew's influence. So much, perhaps--to
judge by your face--the better for me."

"I think it would be better for you not to hear it, even now, Mr.
Yorke," returned the chaplain, not without a touch of tenderness in his
tone. "But, if you insist upon it, come to my private room, and let us
breakfast together first, then we will have the story over our cigars."

Accordingly, the two repaired to the apartment in question--a very snug
one, on the ground-floor, but so strewn with documents and letters that
it resembled a lawyer's sanctum. The morning meal--which, in the host's
case, consisted of a game-pie and a tankard of strong ale--having been
here dispatched, and their cigars lighted, Parson Whymper began as
follows:

"It must have been in the autumn of 1821 that Carew finally left
school--the public school of Harton. He got into some difficulties with
the authorities--refused, I believe, to apologize for some
misdemeanor--so that he had to be privately withdrawn----"

"I beg your pardon there," remarked Yorke, hastily. "He was expelled, as
I happen to know for certain."

"Very likely," said the chaplain, slowly expelling the smoke from his
lips; "indeed, I should say most likely. But remember mine is
professedly an _ex parte_ statement. Mrs. Carew--I mean Mrs. Carew the
elder--is solely responsible for it. Of course, she softened down the
facts against her son, and I have no doubt made compensation for so
doing by highly coloring the offenses of her daughter-in-law. I told
you, you would not like the story. Is it still your wish that I should
proceed with it?"

"Yes, yes," said Yorke; "go on. I was a fool to interrupt you." But the
chaplain noticed that the young man held his open palm before his face,
under pretense of shielding it from the fire, and that his cheeks grew
scarlet as the tale went on, nevertheless.

"Carew was not seventeen then, when he left school for the house of a
gentleman of the name of Hardcastle, in Berkshire, as his private pupil.
It was understood that he was to have his particular care and attention,
but not his exclusive services. There were one or two other
pupils--rather queer ones as it would seem; but Mr. Hardcastle
advertised in the newspapers for lads of position, but neglected
education--young fellows, in short, who had proved unmanageable at
home--and undertook to reform them by his system. It was no wonder,
then, that Carew found some strange companions. The strangest of all,
however, under the circumstances, was surely the tutor's niece, Miss
Hardcastle herself."

"Why strangest?" interrupted Yorke.

"I think Mrs. Carew the elder meant to imply that this young lady, being
possessed of great physical advantages, should have been the last person
selected by Mr. Hardcastle as his housekeeper, and the companion of his
pupils, and the more so since he was well aware, as it afterward turned
out, that she had already succeeded in victimizing (such was Mrs.
Carew's expression) one of these very lads. That was years ago, it is
true; and it might well be imagined that a lady of the mature age of
five-and-thirty might have outlived her charms; but in her particular
case this was not so. Miss Hardcastle, as she was called, was still very
beautiful, high-spirited, and an excellent horsewoman. She was also--if
that had been necessary to obtain her purpose--well-read and
accomplished. Being clever, good-looking, and not easily shocked,
however, she was more than competent to secure the affections of young
Carew. She was, nevertheless, as I have said, literally old enough to be
his mother; and the idea of the affair having been a love-match, in the
usual sense of the expression, was simply preposterous. That Miss
Hardcastle was herself of this opinion seems evident from her having
enjoined secrecy upon her youthful bridegroom. They lived together as
man and wife, under Mr. Hardcastle's roof, for near six months before
their marriage was proclaimed. Then young Mrs. Carew took a bold step:
she persuaded her husband to bring her to his house, under the roof of
which his mother was then residing. But they did not come (as one might
have imagined) in the fashion of two runaway lovers, who seek
forgiveness for their youthful ardor with penitence and submission. The
bridegroom was full of wild mirth at having at last done something
seriously to astonish the world. He was fond of his mother, after his
own fashion; but so far from entreating her forgiveness, he did not even
perceive any particular necessity for conciliation. The bride was full
of triumph; she had not risked much, and she had won a great stake. It
would have been better for her could she have borne her success with
more modesty. Her mother-in-law was transported with rage, which she was
too wise to exhibit. She knew her son far better than his new wife did;
and she felt that opposition was for the present hopeless; but she took
counsel with her son's guardian, and bided her time. It came at last,
though very slowly. Carew was devoted to his spouse for a whole
twelvemonth--a longer time than youth and beauty combined have ever
enthralled him since. Even when her tender tones--for she had the
sweetest voice that ever woman possessed--failed to thrill him, and her
queenly form to charm, he would probably not have consented to take part
against her, but for her own imprudence. She lost her temper with him
upon a matter where it is difficult for the wisest of her sex to keep
it: she grew jealous."

"Without cause?" inquired Yorke, gloomily. His cigar had gone out,
though he still held it between his white lips.

"No; not without cause. That is a point, I fancy, about which my
informant had her reasons for not being explicit."

"What!" cried the young man, indignantly. "She threw some one in her
son's way, to divert his attention from his lawful wife?"

"Perhaps; I can't say for certain. I am not defending her, Mr. Yorke;
but remember, she loved her son. She beheld him a victim to an artful
woman. He was not in her eyes as he is in mine, and perhaps in yours. He
had, she argued, capabilities of good, an affectionate and trustful
nature; he was the best _parti_ in the county, and had chosen his
tutor's niece--a woman old enough to have borne him. Besides, she was
_not_ his lawful wife. The dowager had secretly taken legal opinion upon
that matter, and was only waiting for an opportunity to test it. It was
essential for this that her son should desire his own freedom; and at
last he did so. I have told you the occasion. In the whirlwind of her
wrath, your mother told Carew some home truths; above all, let him know
she despised him, and had inveigled him into marriage. He had no other
name for her, henceforth, but Serpent."

"I know," said Yorke. "Go on."

"It was within two months of your birth that this quarrel took place.
Had you been born, and especially here at Crompton, I think the rupture
would never have happened. Your grandmother felt that too, and did her
utmost to precipitate matters, and, as you know, she was successful. Her
daughter-in-law was compelled to leave the house, and an action was
commenced in an ecclesiastical court. The validity of the marriage was
contested on the ground of undue publication of the bans, both parties
having a knowledge of the fact. I am a parson, you know, and this bit of
law lies in my way. The bride appeared in the register as spinster,
whereas she was the widow of an old pupil of her uncle's, whose surname
you bear. It was not an easy victory by any means. The judge of the
Consistory Court held that the inaccuracy in question was insufficient
to invalidate the ceremony; but Carew, or rather your grandmother,
appealed to the Court of Arches, and got the decision reversed. The
marriage was therefore declared null and void. Very hard lines it was
for you, Mr. Yorke; and--and that's the whole story."

"I thank you," said the young man, gravely. "I can easily imagine that
it might have been told by other lips in harsher terms."

They were silent for full a minute, Yorke busying himself with the
titles of the documents upon the table, written out in the chaplain's
sprawling hand.

"Your mother must be a most remarkable woman," observed the latter,
thoughtfully. "Is she still young-looking for her age?"

"Yes; very. What a queer docket is here! '_Tin Mine. Refused_:' What does
that mean?"

"It is an application from one Trevethick, an inn-keeper, to purchase a
disused mine at Gethin, on the west coast of Cornwall, which Carew has
declined. Two thousand pounds was offered on the nail, a sum far beyond
its value; but it is one of his crazes that his property there is very
valuable, and it's evident that this Trevethick thinks so too--whereas
it is only picturesque. For grandeur of position, Gethin Castle, or
rather what is left of it, for it is a ruin, is indeed unequaled! You
should take your sketch-book down there, some day. May I ask, by-the-by,
are you only an amateur in that way, or a professional?"

"I am an artist by profession. I live by my pencil, save for what my
mother allows me out of Carew's pittance. That is small enough, you
know. Hollo! there are the hounds coming round to the front! I suppose
Carew and the rest of them will soon be in the saddle?"

"And you have never made money by any other means?" pursued the
chaplain, thoughtfully.

"Never. Why do you ask?"

"Well, it seemed so strange that a lad like you should find purchasers
for his works," returned the chaplain, carelessly. "The Picture-gallery
here will be of service to you, no doubt."

"Yes. I shall get my education at Crompton, if I get nothing else," said
Yorke; "and indeed, as I have no desire to peril my neck out hunting, I
shall set to work at once. Good-morning, Mr. Chaplain, and many thanks."
And with a nod and a smile, the young man left the room.

Parson Whymper looked after him with a grave face. "I wonder whether
Fane was right," he muttered. "He seemed quite positive; though, 'tis
true, he owed him a grudge for potting him at pool. There was something
wrong in that young fellow's face as he said 'Never,' when I asked him
that question as to whether he gained money by other means. If he lied,
the lying must have come from the mother's side. That woman must be a
marvel. Well, I'm sorry, for I should have liked Richard Yorke to have
had his chance here."




CHAPTER IX.

IN BLOOMSBURY.


It was the evening of the day after Yorke had listened to his own
biography, and night had long fallen upon the shivering woods of
Crompton; the rain fell heavily also upon roof and sky-light with thud
and splash. It was a wretched night, even in town, where man has sought
out so many inventions to defy foul weather and the powers of darkness.
The waste-pipes could not carry off the water from the houses fast
enough, choke and gurgle as they would; the contents of the gutters
overflowed the streets; and wherever the gas-lights shone was reflected
a damp glimmer. In a large room on the ground-floor of Rupert Street,
Bloomsbury, sat a woman writing, and undisturbed by the dull beating of
the rain without. She often raised her head, intermitted her occupation,
and appeared to listen; but it was to the voices of her Past that she
was giving heed, and not to the ceaseless patter of the rain. What power
they have with us, those voices! While they speak to us we hear nothing
else; we know of nothing that is taking place; there is no Present at
all; we are living our lives again. If purely, so much the better for
us; if vilely, viciously, there is no end to the contaminating
association. It is to escape this that some men work, and others pray.
The furniture of the room was peculiar to the neighborhood; massive, yet
cheap. It had been good once; but long before it came into the hands of
her who now owned it. There was the round bulging looking-glass; the
side-board was adapted for quite a magnificent show of plate and
tankards--only there were none; a horse-hair sofa, from which you would
have seen the intestines protruding had it not been for the continuous
gloom. If the sun ever visited Rupert Street, it shone on the other side
of the way. On the mantel-piece were two of those huge shells in which
the tropic deep is ever murmuring. Who that has taken lodgings in London
does not know them? Who has not sometimes forgotten the commonplaces of
his life in listening to those cold lifeless lips? If you take them up
on their own tropic shore, they will tell you of the roar of London
streets.

There were two articles in the room, however, which were peculiar to
itself. The one was a human skull--to all appearance, the same as all
other skulls, the virtue of which has gone out of them, though it had
once belonged to no common man. The second object could still less be
termed an ornament than the first, although it was a picture. It
depicted a woman of frightful aspect, having but one eye, and a
hare-lip; she was standing up, and appeared to be declaiming or
dictating; while an old cripple, at a table beside her, took down her
words in writing. If you had gone all over the rest of the house--and it
was a large one--you would have found nothing else remarkable, or which
did not smack of Bloomsbury. It was, indeed, nothing but a
lodging-house, and the room we have described was the private apartment
of its mistress. She might consult her own private taste, she
considered, in her own room, else the skull and the picture occasionally
rather shocked "the daintier sense" of the new lodgers, to whom the
landlady gave audience in this apartment. She is as little like a
lodging-house keeper, to look at, as can be imagined. Her cheeks are
firm and fresh-colored, her teeth white and shining, her eyes quite
bright, and her hands plump. To one who knows her age, as we do--she is
fifty-three--she looks like an old woman who has found out the secret of
perpetual youth, but has kept it for her own use, as, in such a case,
every woman probably would do. There is only one piece of deception in
her appearance; her black hair, which clusters over her forehead like a
girl's, is dyed of that color: it is in reality as white as snow. By
lamp-light, as you see her now, she might be a woman of five-and-twenty,
penning a letter to her love. But she is, in fact, writing to her son;
for it is Mrs. Yorke. Writing to him, but not thinking of him, surely,
when she frowns as now, and leans back in her chair with that menacing
and angry look. No; her anger is not directed against _him_, although he
has left her and home, long since, upon an adventure of which she
disapproved.

"You will gain nothing for yourself, Richard," was her warning; "and,
perhaps, may wreck even _my_ scanty fortunes." But, as we know, her son
had taken his own way (as he was wont to do), and had so far prospered.
She was writing a reply to the letter she had received from him from
Crompton that very morning, and the task was one that naturally evoked
some bitter memories.

"So he put him in the ebony chamber, did he?" they ran on. "Ay, that was
_my_ room once. What a pretty chime that serpent-clock had; and how
often have I heard it in the early morning as I lay there--alone! If it
had not been for that hateful woman, I might have been listening to it
now! He seems as mad as ever, by Dick's account, and, I do not doubt, as
brutal and as selfish! And yet it was _he_ that suffered, _he_ that was
wronged, _he_ that was to be pitied! His wife was the adventuress,
forsooth! who deserved all she got. Oh, these men, these men, that treat
us as they please, because they are so sure of sympathy, even from our
fellow-slaves and sisters!"

She bent again to her occupation, but only for a minute. "All this is
labor in vain, Dick," muttered she, laying down her pen; "the luck is
gone both from you and from me. If I were thirty years younger, indeed,
and might have my chance once more, I would tame your father yet. I
ought to have beaten his meek-faced mother out of doors; I ought to have
trained his bold-eyed girl to work my will with him. She should have
been my accomplice, and not hers; but, now, what boots it that old age
has spared me? Yonder is the only woman!"--she looked toward the
picture--"who has found a way to win mankind, save as their toy. My
reign has been longer than that of most; but it is over." She rose, and,
holding up the lamp, surveyed herself, with a mocking face, in the round
glass. "And this was once Jane Hardcastle, was it? _This_ was her face,
and _this_ her figure! No drunkard, staggering home through such a night
as this, could take me for her now! She had wits too; and better for me
had I lost them with all the rest; then I should not have the sense to
be so bitter! What a future she must once have had before her, if she
had but known what men were made of! It is only when too late that such
women discover what they have missed. This mad Carew was tinder to a
flash of these bright eyes; and the fool Yorke, except in his wild
creeds, as pliant as a hazel twig. I used to think yonder woman was an
idiot, because she believed in a place of torment; but she was right
there. Yes, Joanna," she continued, apostrophizing the picture, "I'm
compelled to confess that you are right; for, being in hell, it is idle
to deny its existence."

She placed the lamp once more upon the table, yet did not seat herself
beside it, but walked hastily up and down the room. "To be young no
more, to be poor and powerless, to have no hope in this world nor belief
in a better, to have lost even belief in one's self--is not that to be
in Gehenna? I am punished for my sins, men say. Hypocrites! liars! Why
is _he_ not punished? Why is he proud, and strong, and prosperous? Sins?
If Judgment-day should come to-morrow, my soul would be as pure as snow
beside that man's! ay, and beside most men's! Joanna here knew _that_--I
suppose by inspiration; for how else should she? What's that?"

Amidst the pelting of the rain, which had increased within the last few
hours rather than diminished, the pulling of the house-bell could be
heard. Mrs. Yorke drew forth her watch--a jeweled trinket of exquisite
beauty, one of the few relics of her palmy time. "Past midnight," she
murmured, "and all the lodgers are within. Who can it be?"

The bell pealed forth again.

She went into the hall, where the gas was burning, and unlocked the
door. At the same time somebody flung himself violently against it, but
the chain was up.

"Who is it?" inquired she; and it was strange, at such a moment, to hear
how very soft and musically she spoke, although, when talking to herself
a while ago, her tones had been harsh and bitter as her mood.

"It is I, mother," returned the voice from outside.

She unhitched the chain and let him in. "I knew it would be so, Dick,"
said she, quietly.

Richard was pale and haggard, and shone from head to foot with the rain,
which poured off his water-proof coat in streams.

"You were right, mother," said he, as he kissed her cheek. "No
reproaches. Let me have food and fire."

She brought him socks and slippers, made a cheerful blaze, and set cold
meat and spirits upon the table.

He ate voraciously, and drank his hot brandy-and-water, while Mrs. Yorke
worked busily at an antimacassar, in silence.

"You are not disappointed at seeing me, that's one thing, mother?"

"No. Read that." She pushed across to him the letter she had been
writing to him that evening, and pointed to this sentence: "You have my
good wishes, but _not_ my hopes--I have no hopes. I shall be surprised
if I do not have you back again before the week is out."

"Just so," said the young man, cynically. "You have the pleasure, then,
which your dear friend Joanna there never enjoyed, of seeing your own
prophecy accomplished; and I, for my part, have three hundred pounds to
solace myself with for what has certainly been a disappointment."

"I am glad you are so philosophic, Dick. It is the best thing we can be,
if we can't be religious. How did it all happen?"

"I scarcely know the plot (for there _was_ a plot), but only the
_dénouement_. I had offended a certain Mr. Fane, toady-in-ordinary to
Frederick Chandos."

"Ah!" cried Mrs. Yorke, shaking her head.

"Yes; you were right again, mother, there--the whole affair is a tribute
to your sagacity, if you will only permit me to narrate it to you. I say
that this fellow Fane, when walking with his patron's brother, stupid
Jack, had me pointed out to him in town one day as the man who had
'pulled him through,' as he called it. Can you imagine how even such a
fool as he could have been so mad? It was an act of suicide, which, so
far as I know, fools never commit. Well, Fane was pretty certain of the
identity of your humble servant, which he was, moreover, anxious to
establish, because I had beaten him at pool, and given him the rough
side of my tongue."

"Oh, Dick, Dick! have skillful hand and ready speech been only given you
to make enemies?"

Richard laughed, and lighted a cigar.

"Well, sometimes, mother, the most prudent of us are carried away by our
own genius. I am told that even you, for instance, lost your temper upon
a certain occasion down at Crompton--gave a 'piece of your mind' to my
father, which, it seems, he took as a sample of the whole of it. There,
don't be angry: the provocation, it must be allowed, was in your case
greater than mine; but then you pique yourself on your self-control!
However, this Fane did hate me, and told the chaplain of his suspicions;
the good parson was my friend, however, and all might have gone well,
but for this oaf--this idiot Jack--coming down to Carew's in person. He
could never get any coin out of 'Fred,' it appears, by letter; or,
perhaps, he couldn't 'write!' But there he was in the big drawing-room
when I went in last night, and Carew saw his jaw drop at the sight of
me. He had not the sense to shut it even afterward, though I told him he
had made a mistake, and gave him every chance. I could have persuaded
him, indeed, out of his own identity--and much more mine--only that he
appealed to Fane; and then the game was up. It would have made me laugh
had I not been so savage. Carew turned us both out of the house
together. His love of truth would not permit him, it seems, to harbor
us. So Jack and I went to the inn, played _écarte_ all night, and parted
the best of friends this morning. But I'll be even with that fellow
Fane--yes; by Heaven, I will, if it's a score of years hence!"

Perhaps the light satiric tone which the young man had used throughout
his narrative was little in accordance with the feelings which really
agitated him; but, at all events, his last few words were full of
malignant passion.

"Be even, Dick, by all means, with every body," observed Mrs. Yorke,
coolly, "but do not indulge yourself in revenge. Revenge is like a game
at battle-door, wherein one can never tell who will have the last hit."

"At the same time, it is one of those few luxuries which those who have
least to lose can best afford," said Richard, with the air of a
moralist.

"It is not cheap, however, even to them," returned Mrs. Yorke, still
busy with her antimacassar. "It may cost one one's life, for instance."

"And what then?" inquired Richard, carelessly.

"Nobody knows 'what then,' Dick. Our fanatic yonder had one opinion; our
philosopher there"--she pointed to the skull--"another. Both of them
know by this time, and yet can not tell us. It is the one case where the
experience of others can not benefit ourselves."

This subject had no charms for Richard. When we are what is vulgarly
called "in the sulks," and displeased (if we were to own it) with the
system of universal government in this world, the next seems of but
little importance. There may be a miscarriage of justice (that is, a
thwarting of our particular wishes) even _there_. Perhaps Mrs. Yorke was
aware that her son's clouded face did not portend religious or
metaphysical speculation, for she abruptly changed the subject.

"And what are you going to do, Dick, now that this Crompton plan has
failed?"

He did not answer, but stood with his back to the fire, moodily stroking
his silken mustache.

"Richard"--she rose, and placed her plump white hand upon his
shoulder;--"it is very, very seldom that I ask a favor of you, but I am
about to do so now. Promise me that you will never again undertake for
another what you undertook for this man Chandos."

He laughed, as he had laughed before, in bitter fashion. "Why not? It
was fifty pounds down; and apparently no risk: that is, no risk from the
law, which has omitted to provide for the contingency. Next to being
above the law is surely to be ahead of it. Besides, I am really a public
benefactor. Without my help, the state would already have been deprived
of the services of four young gentlemen, all of excellent families. Of
course, such a calling has its disadvantages. It is very difficult to
obtain clients. The offer of one's valuable assistance is liable to be
declined uncivilly--it requires the talents of a diplomatist to convey
it without offense--still, I possess those talents. Again, undoubtedly
the profession is in itself temporary, can never be permanent; but then,
has not nature especially favored me for it, after my mother's model?
Shall I not be a boy at forty, and blooming at fifty-three? The idea of
you being fifty-three, mother!"

As they stood together side by side it seemed, indeed, impossible that
this young man could be her son, far less the offspring of her middle
age. She smiled upon him sadly, patting his handsome cheek. "And is my
Richard so full-grown a man," said she, "as, to flatter, and not to
grant?" It was impossible to imagine a more winsome voice, or a more
tender tone.

"Nay, mother; I will promise, if you please," said the young fellow,
kissing her. "And now, let us divide this Crompton spoil together." He
pulled out his purse, and counted the contents. "There is Carew's three
hundred, a few pounds I won at pool, and dull Jack's IOU for
twenty--worth, perhaps, five. Come, we two are partners in the game of
life, you know, and must share alike."

"No, Dick, no," returned his mother, tenderly; "it is enough for me to
see you win." She shut the purse, and forced it back into his unwilling
hand. "Some day, I trust, you will sweep away a great stake--though not
as you gained this."

"Ah, you mean an heiress! You think that every woman must needs fall in
love with me, because _you_ have done so, mother."

His rage and bitterness had vanished, as though by magic; her tone and
touch had spirited them away.

"Perhaps I do, dear. Go to bed, and dream of one. You must be very
tired. I ought not to say that I am glad to see you back, Dick; yet how
can I help it?"




CHAPTER X.

OVER THE EMBERS.


It was one of the peculiarities of Jane Yorke that she took but little
sleep. The household had long retired, and she put the remains of her
son's meal away with her own hands, then sat down by the fire, thinking.
She had more subject for thought than most women; her life had been
eventful, her experience strange. We know what her second husband--the
man who repudiated her and her child--had been and was. Her first
husband had been scarcely less remarkable. Leonard Yorke was a young man
of respectable family, and of tolerable means. His parents were dead,
and his relatives and himself had parted company early. They were sober,
steady people, connected with the iron trade: a share in their house of
business at Birmingham, carried on in the name of his two uncles, was
the only tie between him and them, save that of kinship. They were
strong Unitarians, strong political economists, strong in their rugged
material fashion every way. They did not know what to do with a nephew
who was a religious zealot, and thought all the world was out of joint;
and they had characteristically sought for assistance in the advertising
columns of the _Times_. Mr. Hardcastle therein proclaimed himself as
having a specialty for the reduction and reform of intractable young
gentlemen, and they had consigned Leonard to his establishment. It was
the best thing that they could think of--for they were genuinely
conscientious men--and they did not grudge the money, though the tutor's
terms were high. Jane was then a very young girl--so young, indeed, that
parents and guardians would scarcely have taken alarm had they been
aware of her being beneath the same roof with their impressionable
charges; and she was childish-looking even for her tender years. Leonard
Yorke, gentle and good-humored, was moved with compassion toward the
orphan girl, as guileless-eyed as a saint in a picture; he pitied her
poverty, and, still more, the worldly character of her uncle and her
surroundings. She was wholly ignorant of the spiritual matters which
engrossed his being, and yet so willing to be taught. She sat at his
feet, and listened by the hour to the outpourings of his fervid zeal. If
she did not understand them, she was in no worse position than himself.
His tongue was fluent. His words were like a lambent flame, playing with
some indestructible material. His mind was weak, and devoted to
metaphysical speculations--mysticisms: the _arcana coelestia_ of
Swedenborg was Holy Writ to him. He believed in three heavens, and their
opposites. Jane's endeavors were directed to make him believe in a
fourth heaven. Childlike and immature in appearance, she was in
character exceedingly precocious. Her intelligence was keen and
practical. In very early years it had been instilled into her that her
future welfare would depend upon her own exertions, and she never forgot
the lesson. Her uncle was very generous to her; but he was not the man
to have saved money for his own offspring, if he had had any, and far
less for his niece; he spent every shilling of his income. Little Jane
would secretly have preferred to receive in hard cash the sums which he
lavished upon her in indulgences; she would have dispensed with her
pony, and kept a steed in the stable for herself of another sort. The
rainy day was certain to come some time or other to her, and she would
have liked to have made provision for it--a difficult matter for most of
us, and for her impossible. She was wise enough, even then, to know how
Uncle Hardcastle would have received any suggestion of a prudential
nature, and she held her tongue.

In Leonard Yorke, if she did not comprehend his doctrine of "perpetual
subsistence," she perceived a provision for her future. At
one-and-twenty, indeed, he made his pupil his wife, to the astonishment
rather than the scandal of the neighborhood. They opined that it was
only in the East, or in royal families who wedded by proxy, that brides
ran so young. Jane Hardcastle, however, was in reality eighteen years of
age.

Yorke Brothers, of Birmingham, had nothing to say against the match, but
they objected to a Swedenborgian partner in the iron trade, and bought
their nephew at a fair price out of the business. They did not offer to
take him back again, when, five years later, he became a true believer
in the faith of Mary Joanna Southcott and the coming of the young
Shiloh. This lady, whose portrait, with that of her spiritual
amanuensis, hung in Mrs. Yorke's sitting-room, had been her only rival
in the affections of her husband. She had not been jealous of her upon
that account, feeling pretty certain, perhaps, that the "affinity"
between them was Platonic; but she had rather grudged the money with
which he had so lavishly relieved the "perplexities" of "the handmaid."
The amanuensis used to issue I O U's at Joanna's dictation, to be paid
with enormous interest Hereafter, and Leonard Yorke was always ready to
discount her paper. There was no one that subscribed more munificently
than he did toward the famous "cradle," or looked more devoutly for its
expected tenant. Even when that long-looked-for 19th of October had come
and gone without sign, and two months later his poor deluded idol passed
away into that future with which she had been so rashly familiar, he was
faithful to her yet, and kept the "seal" which she had given him--his
passport to the realms of bliss--as his dearest treasure. He had
scarcely any other "effects" by that time, for, actuated by his too
fervent faith, he had been living upon the principle of his fortune; and
at five-and-thirty years of age Mrs. Yorke found herself a widow, with a
stock of very varied experience indeed, but not much more of worldly
wealth than she had had to start with. It was hard, after half a
lifetime, to resume the same semi-relative, semi-dependent position
under her uncle's roof which she had occupied before; but no better
offered itself, and she was glad to accept it. Her natural attractions
were still wondrously preserved to her; and, perhaps, on the occasion of
her second nuptials (and the fact of her first was carefully concealed),
her age excited less astonishment than her youth had done in the former
instance.

Yet now at fifty-three, this woman, as remarkable for her talents as for
her beauty, and who, if but for a brief period, had once stood "on
fortune's crowning slope," found herself with little beyond a bare
subsistence, which she received without gratitude from the hands of
Carew. What she derived from her lodging-house defrayed the somewhat
lavish expenditure of her son Richard. She was far, however, from
complaining of his extravagances. She wished him to live like a
gentleman, and not to soil his hands with ignoble, pursuits. She felt a
genuine pleasure--only known to mothers--in gathering toilsomely
together what she knew he would lightly spend. She was for the present
amply repaid by the reflection that her Dick was as handsome and
well-appointed a young fellow as was to be seen in London, with an air
and manner that would become a prince. It was only a question of time,
she thought, when the princess should appear, be captivated, and raise
him to the sphere for which she had taken care to fit him. In the mean
time, it was only natural that he should enjoy himself after the manner
of other youth of great expectations. She was not averse to his
dissipations, for in them indeed lay his best chance of getting
acquainted with young men of this class; nor, so far, had she been
disappointed. It would be surprising to many a stately pater-familias to
learn how easily acquaintanceship, and even friendship, is contracted
with his male offspring, if they be among the pleasure-seekers of the
town. A young man of good address and exterior, with plenty of money in
his pocket, does not require introduction. The club door soon flies open
to him, but not that of the home. Richard was on tolerably intimate
terms with Chandos, and other young men of the same class--but he had
never been introduced to their sisters. It was here that Mrs. Yorke made
her mistake: she thought she understood society because she had studied
two exceptional phases of it. There is nobody more short-sighted than
the Bohemian, who imagines he is a citizen of the world; his round of
life may have no fence in the shape of convention, yet it is often, very
limited, and it is outside every other.

Mrs. Yorke judged of all men by her knowledge of her late husband and of
Carew, and of women by herself. If it had not been for the
artificialities of society, she might have been right; but they are
powerful, and she knew little about them. In some matters she was
exceedingly sagacious. She did not entertain the alarm which would have
been felt by some mothers with respect to her son's morals, probably
exposed to some danger by his mode of life; perhaps she had not their
scruples; and yet it is strange to see how light those weigh, even with
our severest matrons, when any question of "position" is in the other
scale: they will not only permit their sons to herd with _roués_,
provided they are persons of distinction, but even accept them for their
sons-in-law. Mrs. Yorke, being daughterless, had no temptation to commit
this latter crime, but she was not displeased to imagine her Richard a
man of gallantry; he would in that case be less likely to fall a victim
to undowered charms. "It is not your man-about-town who sacrifices his
future in a love-match," was her reflection. On the other hand, no one
knew better than herself what an easy prey to woman's wiles is a young
gentleman without experience. It was for this reason, as well as because
she loved to have her boy about her, that she had opposed Richard's
going to Midlandshire. She knew Carew too well to hope that he would
ever take into favor a son of hers, and she distrusted the country, with
its opportunities for ensnaring youth into matrimonial engagements.
Thirty years ago, in a fortnight of village life together, she would
have backed herself to have got a promise of marriage out of the Pope;
and she did not believe this to be one of the lost arts among young
persons of her sex.

Thus Mrs. Yorke had strained every nerve to get the necessary funds to
make town-life pleasant to her son, and yet she had not succeeded. It
was not so much that he found his allowance insufficient, for he had
various means of supplementing it, one of them (at which we have already
hinted) a strange one enough; but the wayward fit was on him that takes
so many of us in the early dawn of manhood; he was restless and eager
for change, and the lessons which his mother had caused him to receive
in landscape-painting furnished him with an excuse for wandering. She
had had him taught to sketch, because it was a likely sort of
accomplishment to aid the scheme of life which she had planned for him;
and he had taken up with the art more seriously than with any thing
else. But it was not in Richard's nature to apply himself with assiduity
to any pursuit. Such callings as lay within his means and opportunities
he was incapacitated for by education and temper. He could not have
occupied any subordinate position that required respectful
behavior--submission to the will of a master. He had had to put the
greatest restraint upon himself during his brief residence at Crompton,
and it was more than doubtful if he could have maintained his position
there as a dependent in any case. He was gentle and good-humored, genial
and agreeable, when pleased; but he had that personal pride which is as
stubborn as any haughtiness of descent, and infinitely more inflammable.
It was no idle brag when he told the Crompton chaplain that he would put
up with injustice from no man (if he could help it), and would repay his
wrong-doer sevenfold (if he got the chance). His sense of right was very
acute and sensitive, especially as respected himself. All his passions
were strong. Much of this might probably be said of any young gentleman
of position accustomed to have his own way: lads of spirit (who can
afford it) do not put up with slights; young noblemen in moments of
exhilaration may even pitch into policemen; and generally, where there
is no temptation to offend, much is forgiven. The danger in Richard
Yorke's case was that his position was far from assured, while he had
done some things which might prove great obstacles to his ever winning
one. He had all the sensitiveness and impatience of one born to fortune,
without the money.

Mrs. Yorke was too wise a woman not to be acquainted with her son's
character. Her love for him was very great; as great and disinterested
as that with which the most religious and well-principled of women
regard their offspring; but it did not blind her to his faults. Her
experience of life had not led her to expect perfection; her standard of
morals was of very moderate height, and Dick came fully up to it; yet
she felt that her son was headstrong, impulsive, and occasionally
ungovernable. He had taken his own line in respect to his dealings with
Chandos and with others, in spite of her urgent entreaties. Her
opposition, though fruitless, had indeed been so strenuous that the
subject was a sore one between them; and had the opportunity been less
palpable, she would scarcely have ventured to revert to it that night.
She had done so, however, and carried her point. He had passed his word
to her that he would undertake no more such hazards, and Dick's word was
as steadfast as Carew's. He was aimless and indolent; but as a mean man,
who brings himself to perform some act of munificence, will effect it
unsparingly, or a selfish man, "when he is about it," will be all
self-abnegation; so, when he _had_ made up his mind, his determination
was rock. Mrs. Yorke then felt sure of her son so far, and rejoiced at
it. But she was disturbed about him on other accounts. Perhaps,
notwithstanding her assertion to the contrary, she may have had some
scanty hopes of her son's success at Crompton; or perhaps his want of it
placed before her for the first time the gigantic obstacles that lay in
his social path. Were the times really gone by which she had known,
wherein personal beauty, and youth, and grace of manner could win their
way to any height? Or did she misjudge her own sex, while so sagacious
an observer of the other? Her Dick was still very young; but his
appearance should surely have done something for him even now; yet
hitherto it had won him nothing but friendships of doubtful value, one
of which, indeed, had just done him infinite hurt. Were girls with
fortunes, then, as prudent and calculating as those who were penniless,
as she had been? It did not strike her that they were infinitely more
unapproachable; or rather, such was her estimation of her son's
attractions, that she thought he had only to be seen in his opera-stall
to become the magnet of every female heart. Had she been mistaken
altogether in her plan for his future?

As she sat over the dropping embers of the fire, while the ceaseless
rain huddled against the pane without, a terrible vision crossed her
mind. She saw her son, no longer young, wan with dissipation and excess,
peevish and fretting for the luxuries which she herself, old and
decrepit, could no longer procure for him. She even heard a voice
reproaching her as the cause of their common ruin: "Why did you humor
me, woman, when I should have been corrected? Why did you bring me up to
beggary, as though I had been a prince? why have taught me nothing
whereby I could now at least earn my daily bread? Why did you let me
lavish in my youth the money which, frugally husbanded, might now have
supported us in comfort? Why did you do all this--you who were so
boastful of your worldly wisdom?" For a moment, so great was her mental
anguish, that she almost looked her age--not that the picture had any
terrors for herself, but upon her son's account alone. She may not have
been penitent, as good folks are, but her heart was full of another's
woe, and had no room left for one selfish regret. She had (in her
vision) ruined both; but it was only for dear Dick that her tears fell.
If the guardian angel, which is said to watch for a time by every one of
us, had not given up his disappointing vigil at poor Mrs. Yorke's elbow,
a tremor of delight then stirred him limb and wing. Nay, perhaps in the
Great Day, when all our plans shall be scrutinized, whether they have
been carried out or not, this poor, impotent, fallacious one, which
worldly Mrs. Yorke had formed for her son's future, will stand,
perchance, when others which recommend themselves better to human eyes
have toppled down, because built on the rotten foundations of self.
There will certainly be many worse ones. She did not propose to sell her
offspring, as match-making mothers do, to evil bidders. In her doting
thought her Dick would make any woman happy as his wife. At all events,
right or wrong, judicious or otherwise, her scheme must now be adhered
to: it was too late to take up with any other. The vision of its failure
had faded away, and she could think the matter out with her usual
calmness.

The gray dawn creeping through the shutter-chinks found her thinking
still; but ere the dull sounds of awakening life were heard above
stairs, and before the coming of the sleepy, slatternly maid to "do the
parlor," Mrs. York had arrived at her conclusion.

The early matin prime, she was wont to say, was always her brightest
hour, but it found her, on the present occasion, white and worn, not
with her long vigil, but because it was "borne in upon her," as poor
Joanna used to say, that her son and she must part for his own good: so
soon as the spring should come she would bid him go. London, where all
was prudence and constraint, was no place to win the bride she sought
for him. He should go forth into the country, where even heiresses were
still girls, and win her, as troubadour of old, but with sketch-book in
hand instead of harp. Not a promising scheme, one might say; but then,
what schemes for a young man's future, who has no money, _are_ promising
nowadays? Moreover, it could be said of it (as can not be often said)
that, such as it was, her Richard was by nature adapted for it;
and--though this was a less satisfactory reflection--was adapted for
nothing else.




CHAPTER XI.

THE GUIDE TO GETHIN.


It is the spring-time, that time of all the year when those "in city
pent" desire most to leave it, if only for a day or two, and breathe the
air of the mountain or the sea; the time when the freshest incense
arises from the great altar of Nature, and all men would come to worship
at it if they could. Even the old, who so far from the East have
traveled that they have well-nigh forgotten their priesthood, feel the
sacred longing; in their sluggish blood there still beats a pulse in
spring-time, as the sap stirs in the ancient tree; but the young turn to
the open fields with rapture, and drink the returning sunbeams in like
wine. To draw breath beneath the broad sky is to them an intoxication,
and the very air kisses their cheek like the red lips of love.

With his face set ever southward or westward, Richard Yorke has traveled
afoot for days, nor yet has tired; neither coach nor train has carried
him, and all the luggage that he possesses is in the knapsack on his
back, to which is strapped his sketch-book, like a shield. He is
striding across a heath-clad moor, with stony ridges, and here and there
a distant mine-chimney--a desolate barren scene enough, but with
sunshine, and a breeze from the unseen sea. It is classic ground, for
here, or hereabouts, twelve centuries ago, was fought "that last weird
battle in the west," wherein King Arthur perished, and many a gallant
knight, Lancelot, or Galahad, may have pricked across that Cornish moor
before him on a less promising quest than even his. How silent and how
solitary it was; for even what men were near were underground, and not a
roof to be seen any where, nor track of man nor beast, nor even a tree.
There had been men enough, and beasts and trees too, in old
times--heathen and ravening creatures, and huge forests; but it seemed,
as the wayfarer looked around him, as though all things had been as he
now beheld them from the beginning of creation. Richard, artist though
he was by calling, had not the soul to take pleasure in a picture for
the filling in of which so much imagination was required; and he turned
aside to one of the stony hills, and climbed it, in hopes to see some
dwelling-place of man. He was gregarious by nature, and, besides, he was
in want of his mid-day meal.

There was feast enough before him for his eyes.

In front lay a great table-land, indented here and there with three
chasm-like bays, which showed how high the cliffs were which they cut.
In one, nestled a fishing-town, with its harbor; in another, a low white
range of cottages hung on the green hill-side; and in the third, at sea,
as it appeared, stood up an ancient castle, huge and rugged. This last
object was of such enormous size that Richard rubbed his eyes like one
in a dream. He had heard of Cornish giants, and certainly here was a
habitation fit for the king of them. A lonely church upon the clifftop
beyond it, by affording him some measure of the probable size of this
edifice, increased his incredulity. He looked again, and saw that it was
not a castle, though the sun yet seemed to light up tower and battlement
quite vividly, but only one isolated rock of vast size and picturesque
proportions; upon the crown of which, however, there were certainly
walls, and what looked to be broken towers. "That must be Gethin," said
the young man, cheerily. "I must be at the end of my journey." Unless,
indeed, he should take ship, there was not much more opportunity for
travel. Before him stretched in all directions the limitless sea.

So magnificent had been the prospect that, when Richard descended and
pursued his trackless way again along the moor, he half doubted whether
that fair vision had not been a mere figment of his brain; the more so,
since what view there was about him seemed now to contract rather than
to expand; the horizon grew more limited; and presently nor sea, nor
land, nor even sky was to be seen. There was no rain, but his hair and
mustache were wet with a fog that was as thick as wool. By touch rather
than by sight he presently became aware that he had left the heath, and
was walking on down-land. Suppose he were nearing the verge of that line
of cliff's which he had just seen, and should come to it before he was
aware! As he paused, in some apprehension of this, all of a sudden a
song broke upon his ear, like a solemn chant:

    "Keep us, O keep us, King of kings,
    Under thine own almighty wings."

He did not recognize the words, but the tone in which they were sung,
though muffled by the dense atmosphere, struck him as especially sweet
and earnest. The next instant, walking rapidly, with a light and
graceful motion, the dim figure of a young girl passed in front of him,
and the mist closed behind her, though he still heard her pious psalm.
Richard stood like one enchanted. Was she an angel sent to warn him of
his peril, or an evil spirit clothed in beauty and holiness to lure him
on to it? He gave a great shout, and the harmonious voice, already
faint, grew still at once. He cried out again: "I am a stranger here,
and have lost my way; pray, help me."

Then once more through the mist came the young girl, this time without
her song, and stood before him; she was very beautiful, but with a pale
face and frightened eyes. "She is crazed, poor soul," thought Richard;
and he smiled upon her with genuine pity. She put her hand to her side,
as though in pain, or to repress some tumult of her heart.

"Where is it you wish to go, Sir?"

"To Gethin; where there is an inn, I believe. Is it not so?"

"Yes, Sir." Her words were sane and concise enough, but the tone in
which they were spoken was tremulous and alarmed.

"You are not afraid of me, are you?" said Richard, in the voice that he
had inherited from his mother.

"No, Sir, no," answered she, hurriedly; "only the fog was so thick, and
I was startled. I did not expect to find any body here. It is very
lonely about Gethin, and we do not in general see any of the quality who
come to sketch and such like"--and she pointed to his portfolio--"until
much later in the year."

"I am not the quality," rejoined Richard, smiling, "but only a wandering
artist, who has heard of the beauties of Gethin. What has been told me,
however, comes far short of the reality, believe me;" and he cast a
glance of genuine admiration upon the blushing girl.

A slender fair-haired maiden she was, with soft blue eyes, over which
the lids were modestly but attractively drooped. One who had a great
experience of the sex--if not a very respectable one--has left on record
a warning against eyelids. "A wicked woman," says he, "will take you
with her eyelids."

It does not, however, require wickedness to ensnare a young gentleman by
these simple means.

"I wish, my pretty damsel," said Richard, softly, "that I painted
figures instead of landscapes, for then I should ask you to be my
model."

It was not modesty so much as sheer ignorance which kept the young girl
silent; she had never heard of a painter's model; but the tone in which
her new acquaintance spoke implied a compliment, and she looked more
confused than ever.

"Have you often so thick a fog as this at Gethin?"

"Not often, Sir; this is a very bad one, and you might have come to harm
in it. Some folks believe that in such weather the Pixies come abroad,
as they do at night, to mislead travelers who have lost their way; and,
indeed, the clifftop lies not a hundred yards in front of you."

"Oh, you think I was misled by a bad fairy, do you?" returned Richard,
in an amused and bantering tone. "Well, at all events, I have now met
with a good one; and may I ask what name she goes by?"

"My name is Trevethick, Sir," said the damsel, simply. "I am no angel,
but I am going to the place you seek; it is this way, Sir."

It was evident that his banter had not pleased her. The same tone that
is found agreeable in the town does not always prove welcome in the
country. She motioned with her hand to the southward, and began to walk
so fast that Richard could not easily keep pace with her.

"But are there really fairies about here?" inquired he, seriously. "I am
quite a stranger to these parts, and should be glad to learn all I can."

"Nay, Sir, I can not say; I have myself never seen one, though I know
some who have, or say they have. There are tales of worse than Pixies
told about that moor you have come across. You might have met the Demon
Horse that tempts the tired traveler to mount him, and then carries him
nobody knows whither; but, for certain, he is never seen again."

"Then the spirits about here are all bad, are they? I suppose to make up
for the goodness and the beauty of the mortals, eh?"

"Nay, they are not all bad, Sir," continued the young girl, gravely;
"the Spriggans, who guard the buried treasures of the giants, have often
helped a poor man out of their store; or, at least, 'tis said so."

"And the giants--are they all dead?"

"Yes, indeed, Sir, long ago," answered the damsel; "though that they
lived here once is true enough. There's Bonza's Chair, you must have
passed before the fog came on, and could not but have noticed; and the
hurling-stones he used to throw for pastime with his brother, they are
to be seen still; but all that about his having such long arms that he
could snatch the sailors from the decks of ships as they went by, is, in
my judgment, but an old wife's tale, and I don't credit it. There, see,
Sir; the fog is thinning; that is the castle yonder. When you see it
thus in air it is a sign of storm."

The mist, instead of lifting, was growing less dense above, as it melted
before the rays of the sun, and the ruin which Richard had seen from the
hill-range was now once more visible, without the pedestal of rock on
which it was placed. It was a glorious sight, though weird and spectral,
and the young painter halted in mute admiration. The scene seemed
scarcely of the earth at all.

"Most folks are pleased with that when they first see it," remarked his
companion, with the flattered air of one who exhibits some wonder of his
own to a well-pleased stranger. "You are very lucky, Sir; it is not
often one gets so good a view."

"I am lucky, too, in having so fair a guide to show it me," said
Richard, gallantly. "There is a church in air too: what is that?"

"That is Gethin church, Sir. It stands all by itself, a mile from the
village; but folks say that the tower was first built for a landmark for
the ships, and that the church and church-yard were added afterward."

"Then people die here, do they, even in this land of dreams?" said
Richard, half to himself.

"Die, Sir? Oh yes," answered the young girl, sadly; "my own mother died
two years ago, and lies buried there in yonder lonesome place. But it is
not usual for Gethin folks to die so young, except by shipwreck."

"Are there many wrecks here, then?"

"Yes, Sir, and will be to all time; our church-yard is half full of
drowned men. On the nights before storm, up yonder, you may hear them
calling out each other's names."

"Have _you_ ever heard them?"

"Not I, Sir, thanks be to Heaven. I would not venture there at night for
the best cargo that ever came to Turlock."

"Where is Turlock?"

"The port there behind us, Sir; you can see the houses now, but not the
harbor. It winds beneath the cliff, so that a ship can scarcely make it,
save in smooth weather, though, when it once does so, it is safe enough.
To see the great green waves rush in and turn, and turn, and waste
themselves in their wild fury, as though they searched for it in
anger--ah! it's an awful sight."

"That is in winter-time only, I suppose?"

"Nay, Sir; we have storms at other seasons. Whenever I see such a sign
as the castle without the crag--it's all clear now, you see, because the
wind is rising--then am I thankful that my father is no sailor. Most
folk are such at Gethin that are not miners."

"Then your father is a miner, is he?"

"No, Sir, not now, though he once was. Every body knows John Trevethick
about here, and why he don't work underground."

"How was that, then?" inquired Richard, with interest. "You must
remember I am a stranger, and know nothing."

"Well, Sir, it was years ago, and before I was born. Father was just
married, though he was not a young man for a bridegroom, and was down
Turlock pit-hole with Harry Coe (Solomon's father), putting in shot for
blasting. They had worked underground together for five-and-twenty
years, and were fast friends, though Coe was an older man, and a
widower, with Solomon almost of age. They were deep down in the shaft,
and one at a time was all that the man at the windlass above could haul
up; and they had put in their shot, and given them the signal. One was
to go up first, of course, and then the second to light the match, and
follow him with all speed. Now, while they were still both at the
bottom, it struck Coe that the match was too long, and he took a couple
of stones, a flat and a sharp one, to cut it shorter. He did cut it
shorter, but at the same time kindled the match. Both shouted their
loudest, and sprang at the basket, but the man at the windlass could not
lift the double weight. You see, Sir, it was certain death to both of
them, unless one should give way. Then Coe jumped out, crying to father
'Go aloft, John. In one minute I shall be in heaven.' It was he who had
caused the disaster, and therefore, as he doubtless thought, should be
the one to suffer for it; besides, he reflected, perhaps, that he was an
old man, and had no bride at home to mourn for him; still, it was a
noble deed, and I never denied it."

"Denied it!" exclaimed Richard; "I should think not. Why should you?"
and he looked up with wonder into his companion's face. It was one blush
from brow to chin.

"Well, Sir," continued she, disregarding his interruption, "my father
was hurried up; and as he looked over the basket the charge exploded,
and the great stones flew up and blackened his face. In a minute more he
was safe above-ground."

"But the poor man below?"

"He was dead, Sir. It could not have been otherwise. Father took it so
to heart that he never did a day's work underground again. And when I
was born, a few months afterward, I was christened Harry--though that's
a lad's name--in memory of the friend that saved his life by the
sacrifice of his own."

"He might well have done that, and even more," said Richard, "if more
could have been done."

"That's just what father says, Sir," answered the young girl, quietly.
"But when things have happened so long ago--before one was born--they
don't come home to one quite so strong, you see. Father keeps not only
his old gratitude, but his old tastes. He cares more for mines and
machinery and such like than for any thing else; he is a better mechanic
than any in Turlock, where I have just been to the watch-maker's to get
him some steel springs. You should see the locks he makes, and the rings
he turns. He will be so pleased if you ask him to show them to you."

"I shall certainly ask him to do so, if I get the chance," said Richard,
eagerly. "Is that your house with the pretty garden?"

"No, Sir; that's the parson's. Nobody can get flowers to grow as he
does. The next house at the top of the hill is ours."

"Why, I thought that would be the inn!" exclaimed Richard, looking at
the little white-washed house, with its sign-board, or what seemed to be
such, swinging in the rising breeze.

"It _is_ the inn," said his companion, quietly, but not without a
roguish smile. "Father keeps the _Gethin Castle_, although he has many
other trades."

"And is that he, at the door yonder?" inquired Richard, pointing to a
tall, thick-set man of middle age, who was standing beneath the little
portico, with a pipe in his mouth.

"No, Sir, that is not father," replied the girl, with sudden gravity;
"that is Solomon Coe."




CHAPTER XII.

A PERILOUS CLIMB.


"Is father in?" inquired the young girl of Solomon, as he stood in the
doorway, without moving aside to let Richard pass into the house.

"No, he is not," returned the person addressed, his keen blue eye fixed
suspiciously on the stranger. "As you were so long on your errand, he
gave up his lock-work, and has gone off to the pit. He said he had never
known you loiter so."

"I did not loiter at all," returned the maiden, indignantly; "if it had
not been for the fog, I should have been home an hour ago; but one can't
walk through wool as if it were air. You had the fog here yourselves,
hadn't ye?"

It was strange to note the change in the girl's speech; not only were
her air and tone quite different from what they had been--her modesty or
shyness exchanged for a confidence and even a touch of defiance--but her
phraseology had become blunt and provincial.

"Well, any way he was angered, Harry," returned Solomon, "until I told
him of the new copper lode, as I whispered to you of this morning (you
were the first to learn it, Harry), when off he set, in good-humor
enough with all the world.--You'll come across John Trevethick, if you
want him, young man, over at Dunloppel, though I doubt whether you will
find him much of a customer--unless you are in the iron and steel line."

"I am in the knife-and-fork line just at present," answered Richard,
good-humoredly; "and, if you will be good enough to move aside, I should
like to order my dinner."

"I ax pardon," said Solomon, sulkily, withdrawing himself from the
doorway. "I did not know I was hindering custom.--Who is this young
spark, Harry?" added he, in a low tone, as the other entered the house.

"Well, he's a young gentleman, Solomon, as you could see very well if
you chose," answered the girl, angrily. "He don't look much like a
bagman, I think, any ways. I am sure father would not like you to treat
his customers in that fashion."

"I am sure he wouldn't like your escorting such customers over Turlock
Down alone."

"That's father's business, and not yours, at present, Solomon," retorted
the girl, tartly; "and perhaps it never may be yours. You take as much
upon yourself because of your new copper vein as if it was gold."

"Nay, don't say that, Harry," replied the other, with an admiring look,
from which every trace of ill feeling seemed to have departed. "If it
_were_ gold, I should be more pleased upon your account than my own, you
may depend upon it. You think I am jealous, now, of yonder bit of a lad,
but----"

"I think nothing of the kind," answered Harry, impetuously.

"Well, well," returned Solomon, soothingly; "then we'll say no more
about it. Trevethick wanted me to be away with him to pit, but I said:
'No; I'll wait for Harry, and bring her with me to Dunloppel.' It's a
great find, my girl, and may be the making of us all."

"Nay, a walk to Turlock and back is enough for one day's work, Solomon;
and, besides, I'm wet through with the fog, and must change my
things.--Hannah! Hannah!" and, raising her voice to landlady pitch, she
addressed some one within doors, "didn't you hear the parlor bell
ringing?--So never mind me, Solomon; I dare say I shall hear enough
about the lode when you and father come back;" and with that, and a
careless nod of her shapely head, the young girl pushed past her
disappointed swain, and ran up stairs.

The _Gethin Castle Inn_ was a much better house of entertainment than
might have been looked for in a spot so secluded from the world, and far
from the great arteries of travel. A coast-road passed through the
little village leading from Turlock to the now almost disused harbor at
Polwheel, and that was the sole means of getting to Gethin save on foot
or horseback. There was no traffic--to be called such--in the district.
Dunloppel, always a productive mine, was, like its more famous brother,
Botallack, situated on the sea-coast, so that neither road nor tramway
had been created for its needs; the land about was barren, except in
minerals; and not a tree was to be seen for miles. Indeed, with the
exception of the parson's garden, there was scarcely a cultivated spot
in the whole parish. The graceful sprays of the sea-tamarisk, however,
flourished every where, in lieu of foliage, and in places where
certainly foliage is seldom seen. Not only did it grow luxuriantly on
banks and similar exposed positions, as though the roaring sea-winds,
which cut off all other vegetation, favored and nourished it, but waved
its triumphant pennant upon walls and house-tops. Stony places have a
special attraction for this weed; and it takes root so readily that the
story of its importation into Gethin might have had more foundation in
fact than some other local legends equally credited. Only a few years
back the plant had been unknown there, but a wagoner of the place, on
his return journey, had plucked a sprig of it in some locality where it
grew, to serve the purpose of a whip; and, when he reached home, had
thrown it carelessly on the top of an earthen wall, where it had struck
root, and multiplied.

The cliffs, and the sea, and, above all, the ruined castle upon the
rock, were the sole attractions then which Gethin possessed--and that
they _did_ attract was an unceasing subject of wonder to its
inhabitants. Whatever could the fine folk see in a heap of stones or a
waste of water, to bring them there for hundreds of miles, was a mystery
unexplained; but the villagers were no more unwilling than professional
spiritualists to take a practical advantage of the Inexplicable. In the
winter they reaped the harvest of the sea, or explored the bowels of the
earth; in the summer they transformed themselves into "guides," and set
up curiosity-shops of shells and minerals; while, to supply
accommodation to the increasing throng of Visitors, John Trevethick, who
had always a keen eye for profit, had leased the village beer-house, and
enlarged it to the dimensions of a respectable inn. Even now, however,
the house exhibited a curious ignorance or disregard of the tastes of
those for whose use it was built--the windows of all its sitting-rooms
opened upon the straggling street, while the glorious prospect of cliff
and ocean which it commanded behind was totally ignored. Thus Richard
Yorke found himself located in an apartment which, though otherwise
tolerably comfortable, might as well have been in Bloomsbury for the
view which it afforded. The walls were ornamented by colored pictures of
the Royal Exchange and of the Thames Tunnel, London; and upon the
mantel-piece was an equestrian figure (in china) of Field-marshal the
Duke of Wellington as he appears upon the arch of Constitution Hill. The
only attempt at "local coloring" was found in the book-case--composed of
two boards and a cat's cradle--in which three odd volumes of the "Tales
of the Castle" had been placed, no doubt with reference to the grand old
ruin whose tottering walls beckoned "the quality" to Gethin.

His simple meal of bacon and eggs having been dispatched, and gratitude
failing to invest with interest the lean pigs that searched in vain for
cabbage-stalks, or the dyspeptic fowls that were moulting digestive
pebbles in the street without, Richard lit a cigar, and prepared to
saunter forth. The fog had vanished; all the sky was blue and bright.
The keen and gusty air increased in him that elasticity of spirit with
which luncheon at all stages of their life-journey inspires mankind.

"I suppose," said he, looking in at the window of the room he had just
left, and where Hannah, who was waiting-maid as well as cook, except "in
the season," was clearing away the remnants of the repast, "one can get
to the castle without a guide?"

"Nay, Sir; you must get the key first, for the man don't bide at the
cottage, except in summer-time, and the gate has got spikes at the top.
Miss Harry has got it somewheres, if you'll wait a minute."

Miss Harry herself brought it out to him. She had changed her attire for
what was an even more becoming one than that she had worn before, and
her bright brown hair was arranged with greater care, and perhaps with
more view to effect.

"The guide has not begun his duties yet, Sir," she explained, with a
smile; "and so we keep the key here. You can't fail to find the road;
but the precipice-path is a bit awkward in a wind like this, and you
must be careful to take the right one; the old ledge was broken in by
the storm last month, and has an ugly gap."

"But why not show me the way yourself, Miss Harry?" pleaded the young
fellow. "You know how easily I lose myself; and if I should come to
harm, by taking the wrong turning, you would be sorry, I'm sure."

"Indeed I should, Sir," returned the young girl, simply; "and I doubt
whether you will find any body else in the village. This news from the
mine has taken them all off, it seems; and you wouldn't know rock from
castle, unless you had one to tell you, they are so alike."

The fact was that Harry's conscience smote her for her wish to be of
service to this handsome young fellow, since she had just refused to
accompany Solomon to Dunloppel, on the score of fatigue. It was level
walking, or nearly so, to the pit-mouth, and it was a climb of many
hundreds of feet to the ruin. Still, she felt no longer tired, if she
had done so a while ago, and the stranger _might_ come to harm without a
guide.

"But you're not coming without a bonnet?" exclaimed Richard.

"Nay, Sir; I should come home without one if I went up yonder in such a
wind as this," answered she, laughing; "and I recommend you to fasten on
_your_ hat, if you wish to see it again."

"But you'll catch cold," urged Richard.

"We don't mind air at Gethin, Sir; and this shawl will cover my head, if
that's all."

It really was Harry Trevethick's custom to go bareheaded in fine weather
about her own home, though, perhaps, the consciousness that she never
looked so well in even her Sunday head-gear, as with her own ample
tresses for a covering, may have influenced her resolve. Chignons were
unknown at that time, and never had the young man beheld such wealth of
gold-tinged locks as that which blew about his fair companion's brow,
and presently streamed out behind her, as they neared the cliffs, and
met the full force of that Atlantic breeze. It blew freshly and shrilly
enough up the winding gorge through which they had to descend to the
foot of the castled rock; but by the time they reached the beach the
wind had risen to a gale. They stopped a minute within shelter of a
hollowed cliff to view the place. It was a noble spectacle. The great
waves came roaring in, and dashed themselves against the walls of slate
in sheets of foam, to fall back baffled and groaning. They had eaten the
cliff away in two dark frowning spots, which his guide said were
caverns, approachable at low-water; but the rock itself on which the
castle stood defied them; they had only succeeded in insulating it,
except for a narrow tongue of land, which now formed the sole access to
it from the shore. Even without any historical or poetic association,
the object before them--rising bare and sheer into the air to such a
height--on which a swarm of gulls, shrunk to the size of bees, were
clanging faintly, was grand and striking; but the place had been the
hold of knights and kings a thousand years ago and more. The young girl
pointed out to Richard where the main-land cliff had once projected so
as to meet the rock, and showed him on the former's brow some fragments
of rude masonry. "That was the ancient barbacan," she said, "once joined
to the castle by a draw-bridge, as was supposed, which, when drawn up,
left Gethin so that neither man nor beast could approach it without
permission of its defenders. Even now, with none to hinder one, it is a
steep and perilous way, especially in a wind like this. Perhaps it would
be better not to venture."

"But you shall take my arm, Harry," said Richard; "only let me pin your
shawl about your head first, lest those long locks of yours blind us
both."

"I can do that myself, Sir, thank you," said Harry, austerely; then
added, with a smile, to reassure him--for why should she be angry?--"you
would only have pricked your fingers, as Solomon does. No man is clever
with his hands, excepting father."

"And you say that to a painter, do you, Miss Harry--a man who lives by
his handiwork?"

"I forgot that," said Harry, penitently; "besides, I was only saying
what Solomon says."

"That was the gentleman who took me for a peddler, eh?" said Richard.
"He is not quite so wise as his namesake--is he?"

"Oh yes, Sir; Solomon Coe has a long head: the longest, father says, of
any in these parts. He has made his own way famously in the world--or,
rather, under it, for he is a miner. He used to work in the coal-pits up
Durham way, but--"

"Is that why he looks so black?" interposed Richard, laughing.

"Nay, Sir, I didn't notice _that_," said Harry, simply. "Very likely he
was down Dunloppel this morning. It half belongs to him, father says;
and if this lode turns out well, he will be very rich."

"And your father would be glad of that, would he not?"

"Yes, indeed, Sir; for Solomon is the son of his old friend and
preserver, as I told you."

"But it would not please _you_ quite so much--eh, Miss Harry?"

"Not so much as father--certainly not," answered the girl, gravely. "It
seems to me folks are rich enough when they don't spend half they get;
just as other folk--like Mr. Carew, who owns all about here--are poor
enough, with all their wealth, who pay out of their purse twice what
comes into it."

"Mr. Carew is known here for a spendthrift, is he, then?"

"Well, Sir, it's only gossip, for he has never set foot here in his
life, I reckon; but, from what we hear, he must fling away his money
finely. However, as father says, there's one excuse for him--he has
neither chick nor child of his own. Eh, but you're looking white, Sir;
Gethin air is apt to nip pretty sharp those who are not accustomed to
it. You had best not try the castle to-day."

"Yes, yes; we will go at once," cried Richard, impatiently; and, drawing
the girl's hesitating arm through his own, he moved rapidly along the
wind-swept way. Under the circumstances, there really was some danger;
but, had there been twice the peril, he would not have shrunk from it at
that moment--the chance observation of the young girl about Carew's
having no offspring had turned his blood to a white heat of wrath.
Although his mother had studiously instilled in him how foolish it was
to indulge in any expectations with respect to the Squire, he had always
entertained some secret hopes in that quarter until he had proved their
fallacy by experiment; and the failure of his expedition to Crompton
rankled in his mind. He regarded his father with the bitterest
resentment; he did not altogether forgive his mother for the share which
she had had (through her misrepresentation of her own position in the
register) in depriving him of his birth-right, and he felt himself at
odds with all the world. He had come to Gethin partly on account of what
Parson Whymper had told him of its picturesqueness, but chiefly because
it was an out-of-the-way spot, unfrequented by that society with whom he
had such good grounds for quarrel, and where he was not likely to have
his pride wounded afresh by any reference to his position; and yet he
had not been two hours in the place before the only person in it in whom
he was likely to be interested had galled him keenly. He could not long
be angry with her, however, for her involuntary offense, nor angry at
all in such fair company. She clung to him, perforce, upon the narrow
causeway, and shrank with him into whatever shelter was afforded, here
and there, upon their toilsome path, when they took breath, and gathered
strength together for once again confronting that pitiless blast. If
either of them had known how fierce a gale was imminent, they would not
certainly have ventured upon such an expedition; but, having done so,
they were resolved to go through with it. Harry had plenty of courage,
and fought her way with practiced eye and hand along the winding ledge;
and Richard was not one to own himself vanquished by difficulties before
which a woman did not quail. Twice and thrice, however, they were both
driven back again round some comparatively sheltered corner by the mere
fury of the wind, which battled with them as stubbornly as though it
were the disembodied spirits, of the ancient defenders of the place; and
when, mechanically, and almost of necessity, Richard's arm sought the
young girl's waist, whose garments made it more difficult for her to
advance than for him, she did not reject its welcome aid. Then, just as
his disengaged hand was clinging to a pinnacle of rock, his hat blew
off, exactly as she had predicted, and his dark curls mixed with hers in
wild confusion. Thus, foot by foot, they won their way, and reached at
last the iron-spiked door, the only work of modern hands on that gray
rock. This screened them from the gale; and, as they stood a while to
rest beneath its shelter, she showed him what a handsome key her father
had made for it, with cunning wards, more suitable for a banker's safe
than for such ancient relics as they guarded, and told him how the gate
was put there to exclude the summer visitors, who would otherwise enter
without fee.

"Nay, but I will pay my fee," said Richard, gallantly; and, since their
cheeks were almost touching as it was, the debt was easily discharged on
her ripe lips.

"For shame, Sir!" cried the girl, indignantly; and there was something
in her face and voice which showed him that her anger was not feigned.
"I am sorry I brought you here, mistaking you for a gentleman. Here is
the key, Sir; but I go back alone." And she freed herself roughly from
his arm, and turned to go.

"For Heaven's sake, don't!" cried Richard, earnestly. "You may call me
any thing you please, but do not let my rudeness prove your peril. I
_was_ rude, but, on my honor, I did not intend to be so. I meant no
harm, although I see I have vexed you. Forgive me, pray; I did not mean
to be either ungenerous or ungrateful. Is it thought so very wrong at
Gethin--even with such great temptation--"

"Yes, Sir, it is," she broke in, vehemently; "and I was wrong to come
with you."

"Nay, don't say that," pleaded the young fellow. "How could you be wrong
to do so great a kindness to a stranger as you have done to me? It was
my sense of it--my heartfelt sense, believe me, of the trouble and toil
you have undergone for my sake; and I don't deny, Harry, your beauty
too, of which I have never seen the like. But there, I am offending you
again. Pray, come into the shelter; it makes me sick to see you in such
danger;" and to make room for her, and at the same time to stand as much
apart from her as possible, he stepped back, forgetting the scanty space
on which he stood, and--fell!

A yard--a mile--he scarcely could say which, so overwhelming for the
instant was his sense of peril! He only knew that he was flying through
space. Then, suddenly, his feet found foothold, and his hands clung to
the gray rock, and the driving wind beat on his body ceaselessly, and
seemed to nail him where he clung.

Was it the scream of gull, or piercing cry of some spirit of the air,
that rang through his brain? or was it, indeed, the agonizing shriek of
a woman? He heard it plainly; but Harry never knew whether she had
shrieked or not. She was aware of nothing except that this unhappy man
was perishing--had, perhaps, already perished--for her sake; through
fear for her safety, and his wish not to give her offense. She was on
her knees upon the ledge, and craning over it with horror-stricken face
the next instant, and could see him plainly. His feet had fallen upon
that very part of the old path which the storms of last winter had torn
and jagged away. A few jolting fragments of rock were all that was left
of it--insufficient even for a practiced cragsman to make his way along
on either side. His head--she could not see his face--was but a yard
beneath her; but how could she get at him?

"I am here," she cried. "Be of good courage, Sir."

She had nothing to offer in the way of help at the moment; but she was
well aware of what vital importance it was that he should not lose
heart. She lay down with her face on the bare rock, and strove to reach
him; but, even had her arm been long enough, he had no hand to spare to
clasp her own. The whole force of the gale was full upon her, and
carried her hair to windward like a whip.

"Do not come too near the edge, brave girl," cried Richard, beginning to
be conscious of her efforts. "Is there no rope nor ladder?"

"Yes," answered the girl. "Keep heart. Do not look down. I must be five
minutes gone--not more."

She was up, and with the gate-key in her hand, ere she had done
speaking. Great Heaven! would that door never open? How her trembling
hands missed the keyhole; and when the key was in, how the rusty wards
opposed its turning. Then when the door was opened, it seemed as though
the winds had husbanded their strength behind it for one wild sortie,
with such fury did they rush out to beat her back. But she struggled in
somehow, and on across the howling waste of clifftop to a little hut of
stone, which formed the covering of a well. There, as she expected, she
found a rope coiled up, which was used to draw up water in an iron cup,
to gratify the curiosity of visitors as much as to quench their thirst;
for it was strange, indeed, to meet with fresh water there, the presence
of which, no doubt, had caused the place to be chosen for a fastness in
old time. With this she hurried back; and fixing one end firmly round
the door-post, she looped the other in a slip-knot, and lowered it
carefully to Richard. "Put this beneath your arms," she said; "the rope
is strong and firmly fastened. You must climb up by it, hand over hand."

It was not so easy a task for the young artist as for a Gethin man; but
he was strong and active; and where his chief difficulty lay, which was
at the clifftop, the girl's willing arms assisted him.

"You have saved my life, Harry," were his first words, when he stood in
safety. "How shall I ever repay you?"

Then this brave girl, who had never faltered where action was necessary,
began to sob and cry.

He took her hand and covered it with kisses. "I may kiss this," said he,
plaintively, "may I not?"

She did not withdraw her fingers, but neither did she cease from
weeping. Her grief seemed to be something more than that resulting from
the tension of strong feelings suddenly relaxed.

"Let me go home, let me go home!" was her sole reply to all his
entreaties that she should rest a while, and strive to calm herself. It
was with difficulty that he could support her down the steep, so
violently did she tremble. When they reached the foot of it she turned
to Richard and murmured: "I have one favor to ask of you, Sir. Will you
grant it to me?"

"Most certainly, dear girl. It would be gross ingratitude indeed if I
did not."

"Then never speak," returned she, earnestly, "of what has occurred
to-day. Never show by your manner that you feel--as you say--grateful
for what service I have been able to be to you. Let not father nor
Solomon ever know."

"It will be very hard, Harry, to keep silence--to owe you so great a
debt, without acknowledging it," said Richard, tenderly; "but, since
such is your wish, I will obey it."

"Thank you, Sir. And now I will go home alone. I was deterred by the
wind, the steepness--any thing you please--from accompanying you up
yonder; remember that. You will not mind waiting a while behind me?"

"Surely not," said Richard, wonderingly.

And the next moment she had hurried round an angle of the main-land
cliff, and was gone.




CHAPTER XIII.

FISHING FOR AN INVITATION.


"What a strange girl!" muttered Richard, as he stood in the same
hollowed rock, alone, where Harry and he had first taken shelter. "What
a compound of strength and weakness--as my mother says all girls are,
though I have never known them strong before! How eager she seemed to
part company with me, and how anxious to get home without me--and I am
never to speak of what has happened, to her father nor to Solomon! This
Solomon is her unwelcome wooer, that is clear. He is neither young nor
handsome--nor attractive in any way in her eyes, I reckon. And what a
beauty she is, to be thrown away on such a boor!"

The recollection that the door at the top of the rock had been left
open, and the key inside it, here flashed upon him. "She will be sorry
about that key," he thought; "and glad and grateful to me if I go back
and fetch it. The old man will be wroth with her for having trusted a
stranger with such a treasure. This Trevethick must be an ingenious
fellow, and a long-sighted one, no doubt. It was he who applied to
Parson Whymper for a lease of the old mine, if I remember right. Perhaps
the chaplain may help me to get it him, for I owe him something for his
daughter's sake. The idea of his having such a daughter! What rubbish is
this we artists talk of birth and beauty! Neither in life nor on canvas
have I ever seen one so fair as this girl." He meditated for a moment,
then cried out, angrily: "Heaven curse me, if I harm her! What an
ungrateful villain should I be! If there be a Gehenna, and but one man
in it, I should deserve to be that man!"

Then he began to climb the rock. He did not tarry this time for breath
nor shelter, though the wind had no whit abated, but trod right on till
he reached the spot where the catastrophe which had been so near fatal
to him had occurred. "It was a narrow escape," mused he, looking down
upon the place, not without a slight shudder. "What odd things come into
the head when Death is whispering in the ear! If it had not been for my
fair guide, where should I have been by this time? Beneath the sea, for
certain. But what else? How strange it seems that if there is any
'else,' no one, from the beginning of time till now, of all the millions
who have experienced it, should have come back to tell us! And yet there
was a man who came back from the grave once. Who was he? I recollect his
picture by Haydon; his talk must have been better worth listening to
than that of most. Is nothing true that one hears or reads, I wonder?
Here is where I kissed her! I wouldn't kiss her again, if I had the
chance; I swear I would not. I am a good boy now--all morality, if not
religion--for they do say that hell is paved with good intentions--which
seems hard. If one is to be punished for one's wicked thoughts--even if
they do not bear fruit--it is surely but reasonable that one's good
ones--even if never carried into practice--should be set down on the
credit side of the ledger."

With an exclamation of contempt or impatience, he turned from the dizzy
sight of cliff and sea, and shouldered his way through the wind-kept
doorway on to the open summit of the rock. It was a wild waste place
indeed, yet not without ample indications of having been inhabited in
days of old. Low but massive walls sketched out the ground-plan of many
a chamber, the respective uses of which could only now be guessed at.
But beneath one broken arch there was a heap of rude steps with a stone
something on it, which Richard rightly imagined had once formed an
altar. Man had worshiped there thirteen hundred years ago. Nay, not far
off, and in the very centre of this desolate hold, there was a
burial-ground, with a low wall of earth about it, which neither time,
nor the curious barbarism which marks our epoch, had much defaced. The
archaeologists had been there, of course, and discovered evidence which
had satisfied them of the presence of the remains of their
fellow-creatures; but with that they had been content. The dead had, for
the most part, been left undisturbed in their rocky graves, to await the
summons in the faith of which--and perhaps even for it--they had died.
For these were King Arthur's men (as Richard had read)--the warriors who
had helped the blameless king "to drive the heathen and to slay the
beast, to fell the forest and let in the sun."

The lonely desolation of the place, and its natural sublimity, combined
with the recollection of his late deadly peril, tinged the young man's
thoughts with an unusual seriousness; and yet he could not restrain the
cynicism that was habitual to him whenever his attention was compelled
to solemn subjects.

"Now, are these poor folks--whose creed must have been any thing but
orthodox, by all accounts--all in eternal torments, I wonder, or only
waiting to be so, for a few hundreds of years longer? Such was my
mother's friend, Joanna's, comfortable creed, and it is shared, as I
understand, by all the most excellent people. How much better (if so)
would it have been for them to have been born and cradled on this rock
as sea-gulls! Gad, to dwell here and fight for a king about whose very
existence posterity is to be in doubt in this world, and then to go to
the devil! What a nightmare view of life it seems! If, an hour ago or
so, things had turned out otherwise with _me_, I should have solved the
problem for myself. I almost wish I had. And yet it was not so when I
was clinging tooth and nail to the cliff yonder; and these folks would
not have died if they could have helped it, neither. There's something
ugly in black Death that disinclines man to woo her. This wind bites to
the marrow, and I'll go. I've seen Gethin now, and there's an end." He
turned, and walked as slowly as the blast would let him toward the gate.
"And yet, if it was warmer, and summer-time," continued he, "I should
like to sketch these things, or some of them, especially if Harry were
with me." He came out, and locked the door, and once more stood in the
shelter of it, with the key in his hand. "She'll be glad I went back for
this, and know that it was done for her sake. If she had but money,
now--this girl--and was a lady, and all that! Or if I could choose whom
I would!" He began to descend slowly, step by step; the furious gale
forgotten; his late escape from death unremembered; one thought alone
monopolizing his mind--the thought that monopolizes all men's minds (or
nearly all) at his age. It was here that his hat had blown off, and her
soft curls had played about his face; it was there that he had first
clasped her waist, and had not been rebuked. Then he fell to thinking of
all that had happened between them during the few hours that were
already an epoch in his life. Why had she looked so frightened at first
seeing him? Had he seemed to come upon her as her "fate," as some girls
say? He would ask her that some day--perhaps up yonder amidst the ruins.
He had not missed the look of annoyance which she wore when Solomon had
spoken to him so roughly, nor failed to couple it with the expressions
she had before made use of with reference to Coe the elder, and the
gratitude with which her father regarded his memory. This Solomon might
be a suitor who was backed by the old man, but certainly not encouraged
by Harry. Was she already engaged to him, tacitly or otherwise? It was
impossible, being what she was, that she should not have been wooed by
somebody.

Richard Yorke was not one of those exacting characters who demand that
the object of their affections should never have attracted those of
another; he was even reasonable enough to have forgiven her (if
necessary) for having returned them, in ignorance of the existence of a
more worthy admirer in himself. There are many more varieties of Love
than even the poets have classified; and perhaps it is in despair of
dealing with this Proteus that we elders so often ignore him in our
calculations.

The day was darkening by the time Richard reached the village. Around
the inn door were a group of miners, who stared at his bare head hard
enough, but gave way to him civilly. They were talking and laughing
loudly, and wiping their mouths with the backs of their hands. It was
evident that somebody had been "standing treat" in the narrow passage;
and leaning their elbows on the sill of the little bar window were more
miners, each with his pint pot of ale.

"Here's luck to Trevethick and Coe," said one, "for a parting toast."

"Ha, ha, that's good!" cried another, in appreciation of this commercial
epigram; "Trevethick and Coe; to be sure."

"Trevethick and Coe, and may the copper last!"

But one, emboldened by the liquor, or naturally more audacious than the
rest, put his head and shoulders through the open window, and, making a
trumpet of his two hands, whispered in a hoarse voice, audible to every
one: "And is it to be Coe and Trevethick also, Miss Harry--eh?"

Then the window was slammed down with no gentle hand, and the men went
out laughing heartily, and for the first time leaving room for Richard
to pass in. He did not look toward the bar window, but, as though he had
heard nothing, walked quickly past it into the sitting-room, which had
been allotted to him. It was strange, since what he had just heard only
confirmed the suspicions which he had already entertained, that the
words should give him annoyance; but they certainly did so. What was
more natural than that this inn-keeper's daughter should be engaged to
marry her father's friend--a man apparently well-to-do, and with a
prospect of doing better? What could be more unreasonable than for Mr.
Richard Yorke, a young gentleman whose only hope in life was to marry a
girl--or an old woman, for that matter--with a good fortune, to be
irritated at such intelligence, especially after an acquaintance with
this "Miss Harry" of about three hours at most? After a minute or two of
reflection the idea seemed to strike even himself in the same light; for
he gave a short sharp laugh, and said what a fool he was, and then lit
his pipe. Even tobacco, however, that balm of hurt minds, did not
altogether soothe him. He could think of nothing but this young girl,
whose beauty had bewitched him, and to whose courage and presence of
mind he owed his life. He had sworn to himself--and there was no
necessity to repeat it--that he meant her no harm. Indeed, it would not
be less than she deserved to ask her to be his wife. Perhaps, if this
mine, in which her father had a share, should turn out well, she would
not be so bad a match, even in point of money; but to this he did not
attach much importance. He was indulging in a dream, which he fondly
imagined was unselfish and honorable to himself in a high degree. Quite
a virtuous glow seemed to mingle with his ardent passion; though the
fact simply was (as it often is in such cases) that, for a personal
gratification, he was prepared to barter his future prospects. He did
not doubt but that what he contemplated would be for the benefit of this
young girl; he must seem like an angel to her (for love does not always
touch us with the sense of unworthiness); as, indeed, by comparison with
this man Coe, he was. His mother would be a good deal "put out," it was
true, but then she was too fond of him to be angry with him for long,
far less to break with him. He was his own master, for some time to
come, at all events, for he had two hundred pounds in his pocket.

What nonsense do the greatest philosophers sometimes discourse, when
their topic is Self-interest! It is likely enough that self-interest
actuates _them_, and in a supreme degree. When folks are by nature wise
and prudent--or if their tastes are studious, and their vices few--or
when, above all, the brain is seasoned, and the blood moves sluggishly
in the veins, then men do act for their own advantage, and keep their
eyes fixed on the main chance. But with most of us, especially when
young, self-interest, properly so called, is often but a feather's
weight in the balance of Motive. Revenge makes it kick the beam; and
Passion; and even momentary Whim. It was one of the arguments advanced
by Christian men in favor of slavery, that no man would ill-use his
slave, because it was his own property; as though the lust of cruelty in
a brutal nature were, while it lasted, not ten times as strong as the
lust of gain. There are moments when a man is ready to part with not
only his earthly prospects, but his hopes of heaven, rather than be
balked of an immediate satisfaction: that of striking his brother to the
heart, or growing rich by one stroke of fraud, or ruining forever the
woman that loves him best; and there are many men, in no such desperate
case, whose only guide is Impulse, and whose care for the morrow is
dwarfed to nothing matched with the gratification of to-day. These are
said to have no enemies but themselves, but they have victims; and,
though not apt for plots, are often more dangerous than the most
designing knaves.

Pipe after pipe smoked Richard Yorke as he sat over the fire in the
deepening twilight, so deep in thought that it quite startled him, when,
suddenly looking up, he found that all was dark. Then he rang the bell,
and Hannah entered with the wished-for candles.

"Is your master in?"

"I'll see, Sir. Do you wish to see him?"

"Yes. First bring me a bottle of sherry and two glasses, then ask him to
step in."

The serving-maid obeyed; and presently there was a heavy step in the
passage, and in strode John Trevethick, a man of sixty years or so, but
straight as a pine, and strong as an oak.

"Your servant, Sir," said he, in a gruff voice, and with no such
inclination of the head as landlords use.

"Good-evening, Mr. Trevethick. I am afraid I'm putting you to some
inconvenience by coming to Gethin so many weeks before the usual time."

"Nay, Sir; my house is open summer and winter."

"Now I wonder is this the natural manner of this boor," thought Richard,
"or has he been already prejudiced against me by the other?--And an
excellent house it is, Mr. Trevethick; I little expected to find so good
a one down here, I promise you."

"Well, I built it myself, Sir," said the landlord; "so it don't become
me to say much of that. It cost me a good bit of money, however; and
it's hard to get it back, when one's season only lasts for a month or
two."

"Ah! I'm the first swallow that you've seen this year, I dare say. Well,
I hope I herald a lucky summer. Take a glass of your own sherry, will
you?"

The landlord looked suspiciously at his guest: perhaps the phrase "your
own sherry" smote his conscience, knowing the price he paid for it, and
what it was, and what he meant to charge; but grunting: "Here's to you,
Sir," he filled his glass, and smacked his lips over it slowly.

"Solomon has not set him against me," was Richard's conclusion. "The
graceful manner of this Cornish giant is natural to him.--You have a
fine castle here, Mr. Trevethick, and nobly placed. Indeed, I never saw
the like before."

"So most folks say," answered the landlord.

"There is not much left of it, however," said Richard, smiling.

"Well, it'll last my time, at all events, and I dare say yours," was the
morose reply.

"Indeed it will, and that of many a generation to come. It is seldom one
sees such massive walls. A good deal of trouble, however, seems to have
been taken to prevent people from running away with them, to judge by
this;" and he held up the key.

"Well, the castle is mine, Sir--or, at least, I pay my rent for it; and,
I suppose, I can do what I like with my own. If there was no gate there,
do you think any body would pay me for viewing the place? Not they. Why,
there's some parties ain't even content with the key, but must have a
guide too, or else they buttons up their pockets."

It was so impossible to misunderstand the bearing of this remark that
Richard burst out into a good-humored laugh; he was really pleased
because the landlord's hint assured him that he was in ignorance that he
had had a guide. "I shall certainly pay my footing, Mr. Trevethick, the
same as if I had had an attendant--of which, however, I should have been
glad at one or two places; the wind did take my hat, and very nearly the
rest of me. But what I meant by the trouble that was taken to secure
your ruins from intruders was with reference not to the door, but to the
key of it. Why, if it were a real castle, full of furniture, it could
not be more effectually guarded. You must have good lock-smiths
hereabout, if that's a specimen of their work."

The icy landlord thawed again.

"Well, Sir, the fact is, I made that key with my own hands."

"You?" cried Richard, in affected astonishment. "Why, you must be a
mechanical genius. Look at the work! look at the wards!" and he
scrutinized them admiringly close to the candle. "Do take another glass,
Mr. Trevethick."

"Nay, Sir; I've a friend in the parlor waiting for me," rejoined the
landlord, dryly. He appeared already to regret having given way to that
momentary feeling of self-esteem.

"I wish _I_ had," observed Richard, smiling. "It's lonely work coming
down here by one's self, and finding nobody to speak to."

There was a short pause, during which Richard was rapt in admiration of
the key.

"Now, if his thick skin prove impervious to flattery," thought he, "then
will I fly my last shaft into his very gizzard."

Mr. Trevethick's skin was quite compliment-proof, if an invitation into
the bar parlor was to be the evidence of its having been pierced.

"You should come down in the summer-time, Sir," said he, coolly; "then
you will find lots of folks to talk with. At present I am afraid you
must put up with your own company." And the huge frame of the landlord
was already moving toward the door.

"I am afraid so, indeed," said Richard, carelessly. "Parson Whymper
ought to have known better than to send me down here at such a time as
this."

John Trevethick stopped at once, and Richard saw reflected in the glass
above the fire-place a look of intense interest. He could not have
supposed so phlegmatic a face was capable of so much expression.

"Parson who, did you say, Sir? Whymper?"

"Yes; an excellent friend of me and mine; the chaplain of Mr. Carew, of
Crompton. It was he who told me how I might fill my sketch-book with the
beauties of Gethin; and added, that I should have a hearty welcome from
one John Trevethick, if I gave his name."

"And that you shall, Sir," cried the landlord, returning to the table,
and striking his broad palm upon it, to give emphasis to his words. "A
friend of Mr. Whymper's should be always welcome here. How is he, Sir?
And how is Mr. Carew?"

"I have seen neither of them since I was staying at Crompton three
months ago or so," said Richard, coolly. "They were well enough then,
though the Squire was doing his best, as usual, to exhaust his
constitution and his purse; and the chaplain, as usual, also, was making
things as straight as he could, and putting the skid on where he dared.
But you know all about that, Mr. Trevethick, I dare say, almost as well
as I do. I am sorry you won't take another glass of wine."

"I think I will, if you permit me to change my mind, Sir," said the
other, suiting the action to the word. "Now, the idea of your being so
intimate with Parson Whymper, and having staid at Squire Carew's! Why,
the Squire's my landlord, and owns all about here--leastway, short of
Dunloppel. It's unlucky that this copper should have cropped out just
beyond him, as it were."

"There is no mine here belonging to him then, eh?"

"Well, no, Sir; not, properly speaking, a mine, there ain't;" and the
well-practiced hand of the landlord shook as he put down the glass, so
that it clanked against the bottle.

Richard Yorke laughed a short dry laugh, apparently at some reflection
of his own.

"Well, I'm sorry you've got your friend, landlord, and therefore can not
have a chat with me; for it is evident we should find something to talk
about together."

"And I'm sorry too, Sir. Though, if you wouldn't be too proud to come
into our bar parlor--but then I can scarcely ask a gentleman as has been
used to Crompton to do that."

"Indeed, I shall be very pleased to come," said Richard, frankly. "I
have nothing to be proud of, I assure you; and if I had, why should I
not accept the company of an honest man?"

"Very good, Sir. There's only me, and my daughter Harry, and this friend
of mine, Solomon Coe. If you'll please to walk this way."

"Let's take the bottle with us, and then, perhaps, Mr. Coe will help us
to finish it."

And bearing that token of amity in his hand, John Trevethick led the way
into the bar parlor.




CHAPTER XIV.

THE BAR PARLOR.


The bar parlor of the _Gethin Castle_ was a small snug apartment in the
rear of the house, and therefore exposed to the full fury of the
Atlantic winds, which were now roaring without, and enhanced, by their
idle menace, the comfort of its closely drawn red curtains, and its
ample fire, the gleam of which was cast back from a goodly array of
glasses and vessels of burnished pewter. Upon a well-polished oak
chest--the pride of the house, for oak was almost as rare at Gethin as
among the Esquimaux--stood a mighty punch-bowl; and on the mantel-piece
was a grotesque piece of earthen-ware, used for holding tobacco, about
which some long clay pipes and peacocks' feathers were artistically
arranged. A smell of nutmeg and lemons pervaded this apartment, and
pleasantly accorded with its almost tropical temperature; and the
contrast it altogether afforded to his own more stately but desolate
"private sitting-room," with its disused air and comfortless
surroundings, struck Richard very agreeably. On a chintz-covered sofa,
in the most retired corner of this parlor, sat Solomon Coe and Harry
Trevethick, and it was difficult to say in which of their countenances
the most astonishment appeared when the young painter presented himself
at the door. Harry's cheeks, which were not pale before, became crimson,
though she neither moved nor spoke. But Solomon rose, and, with a frown,
seemed to be asking of Trevethick the reason of this unexpected
intrusion.

"This is a friend of Mr. Whymper's," said the landlord, setting down the
sherry on the table; "and therefore, I am sure, the friend of all of us.
That's my daughter Harry, Sir; and that" (and here he grinned) "is
Solomon Coe, a very intimate friend of hers--as you may see. We are a
family party, in fact, or shall be some day; so, pray, make yourself at
home."

"I have seen Mr. Coe before," said Richard, frankly, and shaking that
gentleman's unwilling hand; "and, though he took me for a bagman, I bear
him no malice on that account."

"A bagman! Lor, Sol, what could you ha' been thinking about?" laughed
Trevethick, grimly. "Why, this here gentleman has been stopping at
Crompton with the Squire! But you mustn't mind Sol, Sir; his mind ain't
free just Well, Harry, lass, why don't you get up and shake hands with
the gentleman?"

"I have seen this young lady before, also," explained Richard. "It was
she who was good enough to get me the key of the castle, which I have
just returned, by-the-by, to your father," he added.

Harry gave him a look which showed him that his second pilgrimage up the
rock was not unappreciated.

"Did you see the chapel, Sir, and the tombs?" inquired she.

"I hardly know, indeed," said Richard. "It was the climb itself that I
enjoyed the most, and shall never forget as long as I live."

"Oh, but you must go properly over our ruins, young gentleman," said
Trevethick, with the air of a proprietor. "My girl here, or Solomon,
must show you them to-morrow, for they need a bit of explanation. Sol
knows all about them. Don't you, Sol?"

"Oh yes; _I_ know," answered Solomon, doggedly; "but nobody won't go up
to the castle to-morrow, I reckon, with this sou'wester a-blowing."

"It is a wild night, indeed," said Richard, putting aside the curtain,
and looking out through the shutterless window. "The clouds are driving
by at a frightful speed."

"Ay, and it ain't only the clouds," said Trevethick, filling his pipe,
and speaking with great gravity; "the Flying Dutchman was seen off the
point not two hours ago."

"By old Madge, I suppose?" observed Solomon, derisively.

"Yes, by old Madge," retorted the landlord, sturdily. "She as knew our
life-boat was lost last year with all hands long before she drove into
Turlock Bay, bottom upward."

"But how was that?" inquired Richard, with interest.

"Well, Sir, it was this way," said Trevethick. "It was a stormy night,
though not so bad a one as this is like to be, and the life-boat had
gone out to a disabled Indiaman. She had been away three hours or more,
when, as I was sitting in this very parlor, in came Madge, looking
scared enough. She had been to Turlock on an errand for me. So, 'Sit
down,' says I, 'and take a glass, for you look as though the wind had
blown your wits away, old woman.' 'Tain't that, John Trevethick,' says
she; 'but I'm near frightened to death. I've seen a sight as I shall
never forget to my dying day. I have just seen our life-boat men--all
nine of 'em. The Lord have mercy on their souls!' 'Well, why not?' says
I. 'Why shouldn't you ha' seen 'em? They've got back sooner than we
hoped for--that's all.' 'Nay,' said she; 'but I met 'em coming out of
Gethin--away from home--the home they will never see again--all wet and
white like corpses. They're drowned men, as sure as you stand there,
John Trevethick.' And so it turned out, poor fellows!"

"And did you tell any body of this before you knew that they were
drowned?" inquired Richard.

"Ay, that's the point," muttered Solomon, approvingly.

"No," said Trevethick. "I didn't believe the old woman, and I thought
her story would be very ill taken; so I kept it to myself. But it turned
out true for all that; the thing happened just as I say. John Trevethick
ain't no liar."

"Of course you are stating what you believe to be the fact," said
Richard, in a conciliating tone; "I don't doubt that."

"Just so; he's told it so often that he really does behave it," said
Solomon, laughing. "But what seems curious is, that it is always
Madge--purblind old woman, as wants to be thought a witch--as sees these
things--drowned sailors, and Flying Dutchmen, and so forth. I should
like to know who else has ever had the chance?"

"Lots of folks," said the landlord, doggedly.

"Well, _you_ been here these forty years," said Solomon, "have _you_
seen 'em? And Harry here has been at Gethin all her life, has _she_ seen
'em?"

There was an awkward silence. Harry had turned very pale--in terror, as
Richard thought, of the dispute between her father and Solomon becoming
serious.

"That's naught to do with it," said Trevethick, sharply. "You're no
Gethin man, Solomon, or you wouldn't talk so. Why, didn't Madge describe
the very ship as was lost off Castle Rock, the night before we ever set
eyes on her? and wasn't it printed in the paper?"

"In the next Saturday's paper: yes," replied Solomon, curtly.

"Nay, I heard the old woman with my own ears," said Harry, gravely.
"There had been no wreck when she told me she had seen the schooner.
'The _Firefly_,' said she, 'will never come nearer home than Gethin Bay:
you mark my words.' That was twelve hours, ay, and more, before she
struck."

"Forgive me for interrupting," said Richard; "but I don't understand
this matter. Is it supposed that a vessel announces her own destruction
beforehand?"

"Sometimes," said Trevethick, gravely. "A ship is as well known here--if
she belongs to this part of the coast--as a house is known in the
Midlands. Well, if she's doomed, Madge--and it ain't only Madge
neither--will see her days before she comes to her end. This _Firefly,_
for example, belonged to Polwheel, and had been away for weeks."

"But still she was expected home?" interrogated Richard.

"Ay, that's it," said Solomon, once more nodding approval. "The old
woman had that in her mind."

"Why so?" argued Trevethick. "What was the _Firefly_ to her that she
should think she saw her drive into the bay, and break to pieces against
the rock out yonder? And why should she tell her vision to Harry?"

"That certainly seems strange, indeed," said Richard, "as showing she
attached importance to the affair herself. It was a most curious
coincidence, to say the least of it. But what is this Flying Dutchman,
of which you also spoke? I did not know he ever came so far out of his
proper latitude as this."

"He's seen before great storms, however," said Trevethick; "you ask the
coast-guard men, and hear what _they_ say. There's many a craft has put
out to her from Gethin, and come quite close, so that a man might almost
reach her with a boat-hook, and then, all of a sudden, there is nothing
to be seen but the big waves."

John Trevethick had more to say to the same effect, to which Richard
listened with attentive courtesy; while at the same time he held to the
same skeptical view entertained by Solomon. Thus he won the good opinion
of both men; and of that of the girl he felt already assured. He
scarcely ever addressed himself to Harry, and as much as possible
avoided gazing at her. If the idea of his paying any serious attention
to her had ever been put into her father's mind, the intelligence that
he had been the friend and guest of Carew's had been probably sufficient
to dissipate it: the social position which that fact implied seemed to
make it out of the question that he should be Harry's suitor. It only
remained for him to disabuse Solomon of the same notion. This was at
first no easy task; but the stubbornness with which his rival resisted
his attempts at conciliation gave way by degrees, and at last vanished.
To have been able to make common cause with him upon this question of
local superstition was a great point gained. Solomon had a hard head,
and prided himself upon his freedom from such weaknesses; and he hailed
an ally in a battle-field on which he had contended at odds, five nights
out of every seven, for years. Harry, as we have seen, shared her
father's sentiments in the matter; and it was a great stroke of policy
in Richard to have espoused the other side. He would, of course, have
much preferred to agree with her--to have embraced any view which had
the attraction of her advocacy; but it now gave him genuine pleasure to
find his opposition exciting her to petulance. She was not petulant with
Solomon, but left her father to tilt with him after his own fashion.

From the superstitions of the coast they fought their way to those of
the mines. Old Trevethick believed in "Knockers" and "Buccas," spirits
who indicate the position of good lodes by blows with invisible picks;
and, as these had more immediate connection with his own affairs than
the nautical phenomena, he clung to his creed with even greater tenacity
than before. So fierce was their contention that it was with difficulty
that Richard could put in an inquiry as to whence these spirits came who
thus interested themselves in the success of human ventures.

"I know nothing of that," said Trevethick, frankly, "any more than I
know where that wind comes from that is shaking yonder pane; I only know
that it is there."

"Nay, father, but _I_ know," said Harry, with a little blush at her own
erudition: "the Buccas are the ghosts of the old Jews who crucified our
Lord, and were sent as slaves by the Roman emperor to work the Cornish
mines."

"Very like," said Trevethick, approvingly, although probably without any
clear conception of the historical picture thus presented to him. "It's
the least they could do in the spirit, after having done so much
mischief in the flesh."

The contradiction involved in this exemplary remark, combined with the
absurdity of repentance taking the form of interest in mining
speculations, was almost too much for Richard's sense of humor; but he
only nodded with gravity, as became a man who was imbibing information,
and inquired further, whether, in addition to these favorers of
industry, there were any spirits who worked ill to miners.

"Well, I can't say as there are," said the landlord, with the air of a
man who can afford to give a point in an argument; "but there's a many
things not of this world that happen underground, leastway in _our_
mines, for Sol there is from the north, and it mayn't be the same in
those parts."

"It certainly is not," interrupted Solomon, taking his pipe out of his
mouth to intensify the positiveness of his position.

"I say," continued Trevethick, reddening, "that down in Cornwall here
there is scarce a mine without its spirit o' some sort. At Wheal Vor,
for example, a man and his son were once blown to pieces while blasting;
and, nothing being left of them but fragments of flesh, the engine-man
put 'em into the furnace with his shovel; and now the pit is full of
little black dogs. I've seen one of 'em myself."

Solomon laughed aloud.

Richard was expecting an explosion of wrath. The old man turned toward
him quietly, and observed with tender gravity: "And in a certain mine,
which Sol and I are both acquainted with, a white rabbit always shows
itself before any accident which proves fatal to man. It was seen on the
day that Sol's father sacrificed his life for mine." Then he told the
story which Richard had already heard from Harry's lips, while Solomon
smoked in silence, and Harry looked hard at the fire, as though--as
Richard thought--to avoid meeting the glance of her father's hereditary
benefactor.

"You are right to remember such a noble deed as long as you live," said
Richard, when the old man had done. "My own life," added he, in a lower
tone, "was once preserved by one whom I shall love and honor as long as
I have breath."

He saw the color glow on the young girl's cheek, and the fire-light
shine with a new brilliance in her eyes. Neither Trevethick nor Solomon
had caught his observation; at the moment it was made the former was
stretching out his great hand to the latter, moved by that memory of
twenty years ago, and, perhaps, in token of forgiveness for his recent
skepticism.

"Then there's the Dead Hand at Wheal Danes, father," observed Harry, in
somewhat hasty resumption of the general subject. "That's as curious as
any, and more terrible."

"Wheal Danes!" said Solomon. "Why, how comes that about, when nobody can
never have been killed there? It's been disused ever since the Roman
time, I thought?"

"Yes, yes; so it has," answered Trevethick, impatiently.

"But I thought you told me about it yourself, father?" persisted Harry.
"How you saw the Thing, with a flame at the finger-tops, going up and
down where the ladders used to be, and heard voices calling from the
pit."

"Not I, wench--not I. That was only what was told me by other
folks.--Take another glass of your own sherry before supper, Sir; and
after that we will have a bowl of punch."

The hospitalities of Mr. Trevethick were, in fact, profuse, and his
manner toward Richard most conciliatory.

"We'll be glad to see you, Sol and I, in our little parlor, whenever you
feel in want of company," were his last words at parting for the night.
And, "Ay, ay, that's so," had been Solomon's indorsement.

Harry had said nothing; but the tender pressure of his hand, when he
wished her good-night, had not gone unreturned, and was an invitation
more welcome than words. The events of the day, the conversation of the
evening, had given him plenty of matter for reflection; but the touch of
those soft fingers was more potent, and the dreams evoked by it
swallowed up all soberer thoughts. He sat up for hours that night,
picturing to himself a future altogether new to his imagination; and
when he went to bed it was not to rest. His excited brain was fed with a
nightmare vision. He thought that he was once more with Harry on the
castled rock; his lips were pressed to hers; his arm was around her
waist, just as they had been; but, instead of his slipping alone over
the precipice, they fell together; and as they did so--not without a
wild delight mingling with his despair--she was suddenly plucked away
from him, and, as he sank headlong down, down, he saw that Solomon Coe
had caught her in his arms, and, with her father, was looking down upon
him with savage and relentless glee!




CHAPTER XV.

SOLOMON'S REMINISCENCES.


There are wild places yet in the world, and primitive folk. Even in
England there are localities of which the phrase, "It is a hundred years
behindhand," still holds good; and so it was with Gethin. Its wind-swept
moors, its rock-bound coast, had inhabitants altogether differing from
the men of fields and farms; to Richard, a man of pleasure from the
town, they seemed a foreign race. They were rough in externals, but
kindly and genial at heart; given to hospitality, and, though good at a
bargain, by no means greedy of gain. Above all there were no beggars.
The poorest Gethin man would open a gate for you, or walk a hundred
yards out of his way to show you your road, without asking for, or even
expecting, a coin. They were, however, as delighted as surprised to get
it; and before the open-handed young artist had been a week in the place
he had demoralized it by his largesses. As, however, his smile and his
thanks always accompanied these presents, he was served more for love's
sake than the money's, and enjoyed a popularity which can not be
purchased, and which yet is impossible to be won by one who has nothing
to give. He had the reputation among these simple folks, who knew how to
be frugal themselves, of having a superfluity of wealth; his air and
manner showed he had been always used to be lavish (as indeed he had),
and nourished this delusion, which extended, though upon other grounds,
to the tenants of the little inn.

John Trevethick and his friend Solomon would not have been much
impressed with the expenditure of a few pounds by an improvident youth;
but the former was well aware that the guests of Carew of Crompton were
almost without exception very wealthy men, and he judged of Richard's
social position accordingly. He had no idea that his landscape-painting
was any thing else than an amusement--as it was practiced by half the
young ladies and gentlemen who visited Gethin in the summer months; he
took him for an amateur; and if he had seen his sketches, and been a
judge of art, he would have been only fortified in his conclusion. He
liked the young fellow upon his own account, though not so much as his
handsome face and pleasant manners, combined with his desire to please,
caused others to do; for Mr. Trevethick was not at all impressionable in
such matters. Richard hated him in his heart for the scanty crop of
regard he seemed to get out of him, notwithstanding all his pains; he
had never made so continued an effort to make himself agreeable and with
so small a result; but his self-love would have been more deeply wounded
had he known that his own exertions would not have even gained him what
they did, had they not been seconded by a hidden ally in the landlord's
breast. Richard's desire to conciliate was fully reciprocated by
Trevethick, who wished above all things to make friends with the friend
of Parson Whymper; only conciliation was so much out of his line. The
old man and the young had absolutely nothing in common except their love
for Harry.

Upon the other hand, John Trevethick and Solomon Coe were cast almost in
the same mould. Notwithstanding the former's superstition he was
intelligent and shrewd enough in practical matters, and had, indeed,
quite a genius for mechanics. Deprived of his underground occupation by
the catastrophe with which we are acquainted, he had set his wits to
work at home on the matters with which he had hitherto but physically
concerned himself; and the labor of his head had proved more lucrative
than that of his hand. He had invented several improvements in the
working machinery of the mine which had so nearly proved his tomb; these
had been adopted, with considerable profit to himself, in other places;
and the money thus acquired he had not frittered away (as is usual in
such cases) in speculative investments. In the interim between his
giving up his trade and his reaping the fruits of his inventions he had
tasted the bitterness of poverty, and that had made him very cautious.
But he had a small share in Dunloppel, which seemed likely to turn out
very profitable; and he had built the inn, the returns from which were
more than sufficient to support him--indeed, it was rumored that John
Trevethick had been laying by a pretty penny, and could hold his head
much higher if he pleased. His pleasures were certainly not expensive,
for they consisted in fancy iron-working, the results of which brought
him in a considerable sum; and in occasionally getting drunk, which,
being a publican, he could accomplish at the most reasonable figure. He
was a hard unlovable man, and interesting only as statistics may be said
to be as compared with literature--in a hard, practical way. If
superstitious, he was by no means religious; and, though honest, he was
grasping. He took time to resolve upon a matter; but, when once his
resolution was fixed, his will was iron, and his heart was stone. It was
certainly curious that one of Trevethick's character should have
entertained so long and freshly his sentiment of gratitude even to a man
that had saved his life at the expense of his own; but even this may
have had its roots in egotism. Had the person saved been his wife or his
daughter the feeling would not perhaps have been so enduring; and in
carrying it out, as he fully purposed to do, by bestowing Harry's hand
upon Solomon, he was certainly not uninfluenced by the fact that the
latter was, pecuniarily speaking, an excellent match.

Like himself, his intended son-in-law was the architect of his own
fortunes; but he had built them up in a different way. His youth had
been spent in the coal-mines of the north; and, though no lucky stroke
of the pick can there make one rich, as it can in other underground
localities, his strength and skill had met with their full reward. And
what he had gained he had not wasted. Pound after pound he had laid by,
until enough had been saved for investment; and it was Solomon's boast
in after-years that he had never got less than ten per cent. for any of
it. It was all ventured on underground speculations, some of them
hazardous enough--but all had prospered; and here John Trevethick's
judgment, though the old man himself had not the courage to follow it,
had been of great advantage to him. Every thing he touched turned, if
not to gold, at least to tin or copper; and before the lode ceased to
yield Solomon had sold his shares at a good premium, and placed the
proceeds in another pit. He had sown, as it were, his money in the
earth, and reaped a golden harvest. And now Dunloppel, his last
venture, seemed likely to prove his best: and it was another strand in
the strong bond between himself and Trevethick that the latter had also
a share in that undertaking. There are some men with whom a common
pecuniary interest is the most binding tie of sympathy of which their
nature is capable; and never had the landlord of the _Gethin Castle_
been more closely attached to his guest and son-in-law elect than at
this time, when Richard Yorke proposed to himself to part them; as
though a gilded summer skiff should thrust itself between two laden
coal-barges, and bid them budge.

It was at least a week before Solomon Coe could be induced to open his
lips before Richard, beyond the utterance of a few pithy sentences; not
that the smouldering embers of jealousy had been fanned in the mean
time--for Richard had been prudence itself in his behavior to Harry--but
because the miner could not comprehend the young fellow, and therefore
distrusted him. The light and airy manners, which were as natural to
Richard as was John Trevethick's ponderous cunning or his own
self-satisfied reticence, seemed to Solomon mere affectation, and even
his appearance effeminate and dandified; but when he saw that he wore no
other air when conversing with the pitmen of Dunloppel--an expedition
undertaken with himself at Richard's special invitation--and marked how
actively he climbed the tall, steep ladders, and how fearlessly he
trusted himself to the rope, he acquitted him of such artful fopperies.
Of Richard's intelligence he had formed a good opinion from the time
when the latter had enlisted himself upon his side in the argument
concerning superstition; and it flattered his vanity to find so sensible
and accomplished a young fellow deferring to his opinion upon all
practical points, and apparently desirous of obtaining his views upon
them.

There was one subject, the experience of his early years, upon which
Solomon was never averse to descant, could he once be got to talk at
all; and it was a certain token--as one, at least, of the company well
knew--that his prejudice against Richard was quite surmounted when
Solomon began to unfold to him, over their punch in the bar parlor, the
annals of his underground career. Often had he done so to Harry--like
another Othello (and almost as swarthy) narrating his adventures to his
Desdemona--but never had she been so pleased to listen as now, when she
needed but to seem to hear, and, without the penalty of reply, could
feed her eyes upon young Richard's listening face. It is hard when, in
the race for woman's favor, one has to waste one's breath in making the
running for one's rival.

And yet the talk of Solomon Coe was well worth listening to. He told of
the great war which is always being waged by man beneath the earth
against the powers of Water, and Fire, and Foul Air, and of the daring
deeds he had seen wrought against them. He told of coal-pits that had
been on fire from time immemorial, above which no snow would lie, by
reason of the heat beneath, and where the grass of the meadows was
always green. He told of others which had been suddenly inundated by a
neighboring river, or by the waters from old workings, let in by a
single unlucky blow, whereby scores and scores of strong men were
overwhelmed, whose corpses floated about for months in the dark drowned
pit before their fellows above-ground could get at them.

His speech was somewhat sullen and hesitating, and what he said was
interrupted by whiffs of smoke and sips of liquor; but the nature of the
subject was so absorbing that it needed no gifts of eloquence. It
interested Richard in spite of himself; and Solomon was not indifferent
to the flattery which the young artist's attention conveyed, and
scarcely needed the entreaties of Trevethick to persuade him to throw
off his native reticence. What he forgot, and had mentioned in former
narrations, the landlord supplemented; and when "Sol" became technical
and obscure the other performed the part of chorus or explainer. If the
former had been some gifted animal, and the latter its proprietor, he
could not have taken a greater pride in the exhibition of its talent
than did the landlord in these narrations. Now he would look at Richard,
and nod and wink, as though to bespeak his special attention to what was
coming; and now he would wave his pipe, like a dumb orchestra playing
slow music, to express the tremendous nature of a situation. Perhaps he
was genuinely impressed by these thrice-told tales--perhaps he was
endeavoring, by a feigned admiration for Sol's experiences and exploits,
to justify his choice of a son-in-law not altogether suited to his
Harry. To do the _raconteur_ justice, he was by no means so egotistic as
his aider and abettor, and Trevethick would express his regrets to
Richard that it was so hard to get Sol to dismiss generalities and talk
about himself. "It's on account of Harry being here, you see," explained
he behind his horny hand, but in a tone perfectly audible to the other
tenants of the bar parlor; "or else he would tell you how the timbering
of the pit once fell upon him, so as nothing was free but his head and
his left hand; and yet he never lost his wits in all his agony, but told
the men where to saw and what to do; but he don't like to boast before
the 'gal.'"

Then Richard, taking the hint, inquired of Solomon whether any incident
particularly striking had ever happened to himself during his
underground experience; and Solomon replied, with affected carelessness;
"No, not as I know on; nothing particular."

Then Trevethick broke in with, "What! not when you was shut up in the
seam at Dunston?"

"Oh yes, to be sure," said Sol, as though the recollection of the
circumstance had only just occurred to him; "there was _that_,
certainly; but it was when I was quite a boy. I was not quite seventeen
when Dunston Colliery was drowned. The Gatton poured right in upon it,
and they have not got the water out of it in places to this day. It was
always said that the pit was being worked too near the river; but that
was little thought about by those as was most concerned, and it never
disturbed the head of a lad like me, of course. It was in the afternoon
of the 12th of December, a date as I am not likely to forget, when the
thing happened. Two mates--one old man and a middle-aged one--and myself
were at work in a heading together, when suddenly we heard a noise like
thunder. 'That's never blasting,' says one. 'The Lord have mercy on us,'
cries the other; 'it's the river come in at last!' For, as I say, the
risk was quite well known, though it was considered small, and made a
frequent jest of. Nothing that ever I heard was equal to that noise; the
waves in Gethin caverns here, during storm, are a whisper to it; the
whole pit seemed to be roaring in upon us. We all ran up the gallery,
which, fortunately for us, had a great slope, and crouched down at the
end of it. We heard the water pouring in and filling all the workings
beneath us, and then pouring in and filling ours. It reached our feet,
and left us but a very limited space, in which the air was compressed,
when the noise of the inundation ceased. There was a singing in our
ears, so that we could scarcely hear one another speak. We knew that the
whole mine had become a lake by that time, and that it would take months
to drain her, if she was ever drained. We knew that we were buried alive
hundreds of feet beneath the earth; and yet we did not quite lose heart.
There was this gleam of hope: supposing that the next gallery, which was
on a higher level than our own, was not also flooded, we could be got at
through the seam. We did not know the fact that it was more than sixty
feet of solid coal, and would have taken under ordinary circumstances at
least four weeks to dig through; we only knew that, if a door of escape
was to open any where, it must open there. We kept tapping with the
heels of our boots at equal intervals against this wall."

"The miner's signal," explained the landlord, with a wave of his pipe.

"We felt that if we were once heard, and if hard work could do it, that
our mates would save us yet; and we encouraged one another as well as we
could. But presently the oil in our lamps gave out, and we were left in
darkness; and then our hope grew faint indeed. We had knocked for
four-and-twenty hours unintermittingly without any reply. We did not
cease, however, to discuss the possibilities of escape. We knew that all
was being done for us above-ground that could be done; that the surveys
of the mine were well executed; and that it was known exactly where we
were, if we were alive at all. There were more than a hundred men
employed in the lower workings, and it was a certainty that not one of
them could have escaped death; the attention, therefore, of the
engineers would be concentrated upon those parts of the mine that might
possibly be left above water."

"On the second night of our imprisonment we heard a distinct reply to
our signal; the old man who was of our company began to weep for joy,
though he was doomed, as it turned out, poor soul! never to see the
light. 'We shall be saved,' he said; 'do not fear.' We knocked again,
and again the reply was heard--they had found us out, and would never
relax their efforts to save us. 'God bless them!' said we all. We laid
our ears close to the rock, and presently heard the strokes of the pick,
but not very distinctly. When the other said he was afraid the rock was
thick, the old man cried out: 'No, it was not that; it was because we
were dull of hearing.' The fact was, that the seam was not only thick,
but very hard. It was strange, indeed, though sounds are easily
transmitted through rocks of considerable thickness, how our feeble taps
had been heard at all. Day after day, and each day a black night, went
on; every hour was to be the last of our captivity, according to the old
man; as for me, I was almost worn out, and heavy with sleep, but he was
in constant motion, knocking and listening. Then suddenly we heard a
splash in the water beneath us--he had lost his balance, slid down the
inclined plane, and been drowned. He never stirred a limb nor uttered a
cry. His fate discouraged and alarmed us two survivors exceedingly. If
help was coming, we now felt it would never come in time. We dug into
the shale with the handles of our lamps and with our fingers, to make
our position more secure. We did not venture to speak of our late
companion's fate to one another. Horror overwhelmed us, so enfeebled had
we become through famine and fatigue. We had devoured our leather belts,
and even crumbled the rotten wood of the timber-props in water, and
eaten that; but we were now consumed by thirst, which we dared no longer
quench. We were afraid to venture down as before for the water in which
the old man had sunk to death; and it was that which had kept us alive."

"Don't forget about how you made a bucket of your boots, Sol," suggested
Trevethick, gravely.

"Yes, at last we tied a string to a boot, and got the water up that
way," continued Solomon; "but our stomachs turned against it."

"It was not so good as my punch," observed the landlord,
parenthetically, and emptying his steaming glass.

"More dark days came and went, though, of course, we could not tell how
many; then, all of a sudden, we heard a human voice, inquiring: 'How
many are you?' 'We are three,' was our reply. We had not the courage
even then to own that one of us had already been taken; death seemed
still so near to us. The aperture which had thus let in the world upon
us was also very small."

"And what was it you asked for first?" interrupted the landlord, with a
nod at Richard, as much as to say: "Listen now; this is curious."

"What we wanted was light. 'Light above all things!' was our cry. But
our deliverers could give us but little of that, for they had scarcely
any themselves. They had been working in a narrow gallery, by means of
five inclined driftways, at each of which only one man could ply his
pick at a time, and where light and air could only be procured
artificially. The coal was carried out in baskets as fast as it was hewn
out: the atmosphere in which they thus toiled like giants, naked to the
waist, was almost suffocating; yet, under these conditions, they had
literally effected in four days, to save our lives, what it would have
taken them four weeks to do, had they been working by the piece for
wages. They had even been compelled to put up ventilators, and their
lamps would only burn when close to these. They gave us broth through a
tin pipe; but almost another day elapsed before the hole was large
enough for them to carry us through it in their arms."

"And there was nobody else saved, was there?" inquired the landlord,
with a triumphant look.

"There was not," said Solomon, expressing his tobacco smoke very slowly.
"Out of a hundred and thirteen men who had been caught by the flood in
Dunston, we two were the sole survivors."

Many other stories of the like sort had Solomon to tell, and for not
one of them, was he indebted to his imagination. His experience of life
had been remarkable, and it had impressed itself upon his character. His
will was as strong as that of Trevethick, but he had less of caution;
and he was at the same time both plodding and audacious.

It would not be well, thought Richard occasionally, to have either of
these men for an enemy; and he was right. Unhappily, it was impossible
to win Harry without a quarrel with, at least, one of them, and rather
than lose her he was prepared to defy them both. If he could but have
lifted a corner of the curtain that veils the future--well, even then,
so mad was he by this time with the love of her, that he would almost
have defied them still.




CHAPTER XVI.

SPRING-TIDE.


There is a beauty in woman that takes the stranger, and another the
changeful charm of which wins its way deeper and deeper daily into the
heart of man; but in the person of Harry Trevethick these two beauties
were combined. Richard thought he had never seen any face half so fair
as that which shone upon him through the mist on the first day when he
came to Gethin; and when he had dwelt there for weeks he was of the same
opinion still. Harry was innocent, tender-hearted, and gay, and so far
the expression of her features told you truth; but it also told you more
than that, which you must needs believe, though it was not the fact. Her
face was not the index of her mind in all respects; it was rather like
the exquisite and costly dial-plate of a time-piece the works of which
are indifferent. Her air was spiritual; her voice thrilled your being
with its sweet tone; her eyes were full of earnest tenderness; but she
was weak of purpose, vacillating rather than impulsive, credulous, and
given (not from choice, but fear) to dissimulation. That last fault
Richard willingly forgave her, since it worked to his advantage; and to
the others he would have been more than human had he not been blind. For
Harry loved him. She had never said so; he had never asked her to say
so; but it was taken for granted on both sides. They were thrown much
together, for Dunloppel--a treasure-house, which proved richer and
richer the more it yielded--monopolized the attention of both Trevethick
and Solomon; they were in high good-humor, and not at all disposed for
quarrel or suspicion. Harry had always been the mistress of her own
movements, and she went, as usual, whither she liked, and Richard went
with her.

The spring was advancing, and brought its soft hues even to the barren
moors of Gethin, and bathed its gray rocks in sunshine. There was much
to see that was worth seeing, and who so fit as Harry to point out these
objects of attraction with which she had been familiar from her
childhood? They strolled along the beach to Polwheel, and she snowed him
how the harbor there had been silted up through the wrath of the
mermaids, or "merry maids," as she called them, still (under favorable
circumstances) sometimes seen sitting on the slate cliff ledges beneath
the clear blue sea. Far from ridiculing her superstitions, he led her on
to talk of them; he did not much mind what she talked about so long as
he could look at her and listen.

"But why were the Polwheel mermaids so cruel, Harry? I always imagine
them bright and beautiful beings, with golden hair almost as long as
yours, and with nothing to do but to comb it."

"That is so, when they are let alone," said Harry, simply; "but even the
weakest creatures love revenge, and will get it if they can."

"And quite right too," interrupted Richard; "but for fear of that the
strong would be more uncivil even than they are."

"Well, a mermaid was once cruelly treated by a Polwheel man--he fell in
love with her, and deserted her--and then her sisters choked up the
harbor bar."

"But how did he come to court the mermaid? That must have been
difficult; though, if I saw you sitting under water yonder, I should
certainly dive, and try."

"You would have no breath to make me pretty speeches then," said Harry,
demurely. "This mermaid was, however, a changed child. A Polwheel woman
was bathing her infant in the pool yonder beneath that arched rock, when
it suddenly gave a cry of joy, and leaped from her arms into the sea.
She thought it was drowned, but it came up the next instant more
beautiful and bright than ever. She did not herself know but that it was
her own child, but there were old folks in the town who knew that it was
in reality a mermaid's changeling. She grew up to be a lovely woman, and
the Squire of Polwheel at that time--for his race has died out
since--fell in love with her; he treated her very ill, and she died
broken-hearted, at Gethin, and was buried in our church-yard, where I
can show you the tomb."

"And did no punishment overtake the scoundrel Squire?"

"Yes. After a great revel one night, he was returning home by the sands,
and in the moonlight beheld a beautiful lady sitting by this same pool.
She was so like his dead love to look at that he was frightened at
first, but she smiled and beckoned to him, and then, clasping him in her
arms, leaped into the sea, and drowned him; and in the storm that arose
that night the merry maids filled up the harbor."

"That was hard upon Polwheel," observed Richard, "though the Squire only
got what he deserved. He must have been a bad lot."

"But the mermaid was very foolish to believe him," added Harry--"very."

They visited the Fairy Bower, did these young people--the only spot
about Gethin where trees grew; a beautiful ravine, with a fall of water,
and a caverned cell beside it, where a solitary hermit was said to have
dwelt. Notwithstanding which celibate association, it had a wishing-well
besides, into which a maiden had but to drop a pin, and wish her wish,
and straightway the face of her future husband was mirrored in the
water. Through its clear depths you might see the bottom of the pool
quite paved with pins.

"And does the charm always work?" asked Richard, laughing. "Try it
to-day."

"No, no," answered Harry, gravely; "one must be quite alone for that,
and beneath the moonlight."

On Morven Point, a grand old promontory, which pushed out many a yard to
meet the encroaching waves, and battled with long before they reached
the main land, they sat and watched the sunsets; looked down upon the
busy hive of men that worked upon the slate quarry beneath, or gazed
upon the ships that tacked and wore to make Turlock Haven. There was a
tower on this place, half ruined and with broken steps, up which they
climbed together on one occasion, and stood supporting one another upon
its dizzy top. There lay around them a splendid prospect of sea and
land, but they were looking into one another's eyes, and yet they did
not speak of that which was nearest to their hearts. It was a topic to
be avoided as long as possible. They only enjoyed these blissful
opportunities--they had only been permitted to thus stroll out together
alone and unsuspected--upon the tacit understanding that no such thing
as love could exist between them. If Harry had not plighted faith to
Solomon, her engagement to him tacitly existed nevertheless, and it was
under its aegis alone that they had been protected and indulged. It was
a part of the character of the young girl to persuade herself that she
was doing no harm so long as it was possible to entertain that delusion;
and it was all one to Richard what their love was called so long as it
_was_ love. Else, as they stood alone together in the noonday stillness,
his arm around her waist, as it had not been since that first afternoon
upon the castled rock, he must needs have told her why the heart that
pressed so close against her side was beating high. Just then, however,
he dared not. Suppose that, by any possibility, he had mistaken her
sentiments; suppose, that is, an extorted promise, or fear of her
father's anger, or what not, should compel her to deny his suit, and
cleave to Solomon; suppose even that her simplicity was such--and it was
in some things marvelously great--that she had accepted his affection as
that of a brother--a friend of her father's and of "Sol's"--but no; he
felt certain that she loved him; suppose, at all events, for whatever
reason, she was once again to reprove him for yielding to the temptation
of her lips, he felt that such a rebuke must of necessity finish all.
She could not forgive him twice, unless she gave him license to offend
forever. He dared not, therefore, speak directly of that which both were
thinking of; and yet he could not altogether ignore so sweet a subject.

"That is the moor yonder, Harry, over which I first came to Gethin--how
long ago!"

"Has the time, then, hung so very heavy on your hands?" asked she,
seriously.

"No, Harry, no; on the contrary, I have never been so happy; but when
one has a new experience, however charming it may be, it seems to
dwindle down one's past to nothing. I have had two lifetimes, as it
seems to me--one elsewhere, and one here; and yet it is but six weeks
since I met you first, Harry, out yonder, gleaming like a sunbeam
through the fog."

"I remember it well," said Harry, with a slight shiver.

"But not to sigh about it, dear, I trust? You are not afraid of me
_now_, as you were then? Do you recollect how scared you were when I
called you back that day?"

"Yes, well," answered the young girl, earnestly. "I had a reason for
being scared, though you would laugh at me if I told you what it was."

"Do I ever laugh at you, Harry, when you would have me serious?" asked
Richard, reproachfully. "Come, tell me why you shrank from me--as you
can not to-day, dear, for, see, I have got you close--and why your large
eyes looked so wild and strange that I half thought you mad? Did you
take me for a ghost?"

"No; but I had just seen what is far worse than any ghost. Did you not
mark how pale I got that same night? I thought I should have fainted
when I was asked" (it was Solomon who had put the question, but
Solomon's name was never mentioned between these two young people) "if I
had ever seen a spectre ship. I had seen one that very day--only a few
minutes before I met _you_--and on this very cliff."

"Well, and what then?" said Richard, smiling. "Neither your father, nor
any one in whom you have an interest, goes to sea. The Flying Dutchman
did not concern you, I reckon, even if he did pay you a call."

"You do not understand," said Harry, seriously; "it was not that at all.
But when the mists rise over Turlock sands, as they did that day, a
black, square-rigged vessel glides across them, which bodes ill to those
who see her; and _I_ saw her as plain as I see _you_."

"But not so near," said Richard, fondly.

"She was coming from Turlock to the quarry yonder--"

"To fetch slates," interrupted the other--"nothing more likely."

"Nay, not she; no craft would have attempted that in such weather; and,
besides, there was not a soul on board of her. She was sailing against
what little wind there was, and against the tide."

"But even if this was so, Harry, what of it? What harm has come of it?"

"Nothing as yet; nor was I greatly frightened at the time. That omen
bodes unhappiness to him or her who sees it, and I was already unhappy."

"Because I was not here to comfort you, Harry. Well, that is remedied."

She shook her head, and did not return the reassuring pressure of his
hand. "Listen!" she said. "This misery comes through the person whom he
who has seen the vision shall next meet; and I thought I knew who I
should meet on my way home--one from whom"--she sank her voice to a
whisper--"I already expected misery."

"You mean--" began Richard, eagerly.

"No matter whom I mean. It was not he who met me; that was _you_."

The hand which he held in his was cold as ice; her face was pale; and
her limbs trembled under her.

"This is folly, Harry dear. Am I likely to do you harm, to make you
miserable?"

"I do not know," said she. "I sometimes think you are."

He put the long hair back from her forehead, and gazed into her eyes,
which were now fast filling with tears. "I love you, Harry, with all my
heart," sighed he--"you know I do. And, though you are sometimes cold,
and at others seem as though you purposely avoided me, I think you love
_me_--just a little--too. Better, at all events, than the man with whom
you yourself have just confessed you expect nothing but misery."

"Hush, hush!" moaned she. "If I said that, it was very wrong."

"It was the truth, Harry. How could it be otherwise? He is not a lover
meet for such as you; he is twice your age, and rough and rude of speech
even as a suitor. Do you think he will be more tender when he is a
husband? He is no mate for you, Harry, nor you for him."

Again she shook her head, with a slow mournful movement, as though less
in dissent from his statement than in despair of remedy.

"What!" cried he, "because his father was your father's friend, does
that give him the right to be your husband?"

The young girl answered only with her sobs.

"Now tell me, darling--did you ever promise to be this man's wife in
words?"

"Yes--no--I am not sure. Oh yes, I must be his; my father has set his
mind upon it. Nay, do not smile at that; you don't know what my father
is. He is not one to cross;" and, as if at the very thought of her stern
parent's wrath, she lifted up her head from Richard's breast, and looked
around in fear.

"But suppose I win him to my side, sweet Harry?"

"That you could never do," sighed she. "I tell you you don't know him."

"Nay; but I think I do, dear; and, if I could show him that it was to
his own advantage to have me for his son-in-law, in place of--"

"You would not persuade him," interrupted the young girl, firmly--"not
even if you were Carew of Crompton's heir."

The words she had used were meant to express exhaustless wealth--for
with such was the owner of Gethin still credited in that far-away corner
of his possession--but they startled and offended Richard. "I may not be
Carew's heir," said he, haughtily; "but I have some power at Crompton,
and I can exert it in your father's favor."

Harry shook her head. "He wants for nothing," she said, "that you can
give him. He is wealthier than you imagine. He has two thousand pounds
in notes, for which he has no use; they lie in the strong-box in my
room. But there, I promised not to speak of that."

"I am not a burglar in disguise," said Richard, smiling, "and would make
your father richer rather than rob him. But why should he keep so large
a sum by him?"

"I do not know; but there it is, locked with a letter padlock which he
made himself. No human being can open it, he says, who does not know the
secret."

Richard was silent. Something else than love was occupying his thoughts,
though his fingers were making marriage rings for themselves of Harry's
golden hair. It is like entertaining angels unawares to find after one
has fallen in love that it is with an heiress.

"Dear Harry," said he at last, "I think I shall take you from your
father's willing hands; I have good hope of it, and better since I have
heard you so despairing; but, at all events, you will be mine. Let me
hear those sweet lips say so. Promise me, promise me, my darling, that
you will be my wife."

He caught and clasped her close, and she did not repulse him.

"I dare not, Richard--I dare not promise you," she murmured.

"But if your father gives me leave?" whispered he, his lips to her warm
cheek.

She uttered a soft cry of passionate joy that told him more than a
hundred phrases of assent how dear he was to her, and hid her face upon
his breast.

Oh happy hour, so bright, and yet so brief! Oh golden noon, already on
the verge of eve and blackest night!

How often in the after-time did that fair and sunny scene recur to them,
a bitter memory; how often was that first kiss of love renewed by cruel
fancy and in mocking dreams, its sweetness changed to gall!

Better for one--better, perhaps, for both--if, clasped in one another's
arms, they had fallen from that tall tower's top, and then and there had
ended life and love together!




CHAPTER XVII.

WORKING ON A PIVOT.


Never had Richard been in such high spirits as on the evening of that
day on which Harry had made confession to him of her love, and had
promised to be his wife should her father's consent be gained. It was
true that she had been far from sanguine upon the latter point; but
Richard had his reasons for being of a different opinion. It would be
better, every way, if he could obtain Trevethick's good-will; not that
he at all shared in the girl's dread of his anger, but because it really
seemed that if he married her from her father's roof he should be
fulfilling his mother's injunctions in making alliance with an heiress.
What with his two thousand pounds in gold, and his inn, and his lucky
mine, it was plain that the old man would have no despicable sum to
leave behind him; and yet, to do Richard justice, this only formed an
additional incentive to a project upon which, at all events, he had long
set his heart. He had resolved at all hazards to make the girl his wife.
His love for her was as deep as it was passionate; and now that he was
assured from her own lips of its being returned, his heart was filled
with joy, and spoke out of its abundance. It had been hitherto his habit
in that family circle round the bar-parlor fire to play the part of
listener rather than of talker. He had mainly confined himself to the
exhibition of an attentive interest in Solomon's stories, or in his
host's sagacious observations with respect to the investment of capital,
such as: "One couldn't be too cautious where one put one's money;" and,
"Where the interest was high the risk was great, and where it was low it
was not worth while to let it leave one's hand." Next to the subject of
local superstition, "investment" was the favorite subject of debate
between Trevethick and "Sol;" and Richard, whose ignorance insured his
impartiality, had been the judicious scale-holder between them. But
upon the present occasion it was the young artist who led the talk and
chose the matter. He told them of the splendors of Crompton and of the
marvelous prodigality of its owner, and they listened with greedy ears.
To vulgar natures, the topic of mere wealth is ever an attractive one,
and in the present instance there was an additional whet to appetite in
the connection of Carew with Gethin. He was naturally an object of
curiosity to his tenant Trevethick, and never before had the old man had
the opportunity of hearing at first hand of the eccentricities of the
Squire. In relating them Richard took good care to show by implication
on what intimate terms he stood with him, and hinted at the obligation
under which he had put him by throwing his park gate open so
opportunely. The impression which he left upon his audience, and desired
to leave, was, that Carew was indebted to him for having saved his life.

"Then it is likely the Squire would do any thing for you that you chose
to ask him?" observed Trevethick, with the thought of his own debt to
Solomon's father doubtless in his mind.

"Well, he certainly ought to do so," answered Richard, carelessly; "but,
on the other hand, it is not very probable that I shall put him to the
test."

"Just so," returned Trevethick, sucking at his pipe; "you're independent
of the likes of him."

"Altogether," was Richard's reply.

The old man spoke no more, but sat in a cloud of smoke and thought for
the rest of the evening. Even when "Sol" rose up to go--Harry having
retired long since, for they kept very early hours at the Gethin
Castle--the landlord did not, as usual, accompany him, but mixed himself
another glass of his favorite liquor. As for Richard, it was not his
custom to seek his bed until after midnight; so Trevethick and he were
left to one another's company. It was an opportunity to which the latter
had been looking forward for many a day, but which he had never desired
so keenly as at that moment.

"Are you likely to be at Crompton soon again?" inquired the landlord,
pursuing the subject of the evening's talk.

"I have no intention of going there at present," returned Richard. "The
fact is, Mr. Trevethick, between ourselves, I am but a poor man in
comparison with many of those I meet there, and their ways and habits
are too expensive for me."

"Ay! gambling and such like, I suppose?" observed the landlord,
cunningly. "It is 'Light come light go' with the money of that sort of
folk, I reckon."

"Just so; and though my money comes light enough--that is, I have not to
earn it, since my mother makes me an allowance--I don't choose to risk
it at the card-table."

"Quite right, quite right, young gentleman," answered the other,
approvingly. "But there are some prudent gentry even at Crompton, I
suppose. Parson Whymper, for instance, he don't gamble, do he?"

"Certainly not; he is much too sagacious a man, even if he were rich
enough, to play; but for him, indeed, some say the Squire would have
come to the end of his tether before this. He manages every thing at
Crompton, as you know."

"And yet Carew don't want money?" said the landlord, musing.

"Well, I have been his guest," returned Richard, smiling; "and it is
scarcely fair of me to speak of his embarrassments. He does not
certainly want it so much but that he can still afford to indulge his
whims, Mr. Trevethick, if that's what you mean."

"That's just what I did mean," said the old man, frankly. "Six months
ago or so I made a certain proposition to the Squire, which would have
been exceedingly to his advantage to accept--"

"And not to yours?" interrupted Richard, slyly.

"Nay, I don't say that, Sir," answered the other. "But it was one that
he ought to have been glad to accept in any case, and which it was
downright madness in him to refuse, if he wanted cash. It was a chance,
too, I will venture to say, that will never offer itself from any other
quarter. Mr. Whymper acknowledged that himself."

"I know all about the matter, Mr. Trevethick: the Squire behaved like
the dog in the manger to you. He won't work the mine himself, nor yet
let you work it."

"For mercy's sake, be quiet!" cried the landlord, earnestly, and looking
cautiously about him. "If you know all about it, you need not let others
know. What mine are you talking about? Give it a name--but speak it
under your breath, man." The old man leaned forward with a white moist
face, and peered into Richard's eyes as though he would read his soul.

"Wheal Danes was the name of the place, if I remember right," said
Richard. "Carew has a notion that the Romans did not use it up, and that
it only wants capital to make it a paying concern. It is one of his mad
ideas, doubtless."

Mr. John Trevethick was not by nature a quick appreciator of sarcasm,
but he could not misunderstand the irony expressed in Richard's words.

"And is that what you came down to Gethin about?" inquired he, with a
sort of grim despair, which had nevertheless a comical effect.

Richard could only trust himself to nod his head assentingly.

"Well," cried the other, striking the table with his fist, "if I didn't
think you was as deep as the devil the very first day that I set eyes on
you! So you are Parson Whymper's man, are you?" And here, in default of
language to express his sense of the deception that, as he supposed, had
been practiced on him, Mr. Trevethick uttered an execration terrible
enough for a Cornish giant.

"I am not Mr. Whymper's man at all," observed Richard, coolly. "Mr.
Whymper is my man--or at least he will be one day or another."

"How so?" inquired the landlord, his eyes at their full stretch, his
mouth agape, and his neglected pipe in his right hand. "Who, in the
Fiend's name, are you?"

"I am the only son and heir of Carew of Crompton," answered the young
man, deliberately.

"You? Why, Carew never had a son," exclaimed Trevethick, incredulously;
"leastways, not a lawful one. He was married once to a wench of the name
of Hardcastle, 'tis true; but that was put aside."

"I tell you I am Carew's lawful son, nevertheless," persisted Richard.
"My mother was privately married to him. Ask Parson Whymper, and he
will tell you the same. It is true that my father has not acknowledged
me, but I shall have my rights some day--and Wheal Danes along with the
rest."

The news of the young man's paternity must have been sufficiently
startling to him who thus received it for the first time, and would,
under any other circumstances, have doubtless excited his phlegmatic
nature to the utmost; but what concerns ourselves in even a slight
degree is, with some of us, more absorbing than the most vital interests
of another; and thus it was with Trevethick. The ambitious pretensions
of his lodger sank into insignificance--notwithstanding that, for the
moment, he believed in them; for how, unless he was what he professed to
be, could he know so much?--before the disappointment which had befallen
himself in the overthrow of a long-cherished scheme.

"Why, Mr. Whymper wrote me with his own hand," growled he, "that in his
judgment the mine was worthless, and that he had done all he could to
persuade the Squire to sell. And yet you come down here to gauge and
spy."

"All stratagems are fair in war and business," answered the young man,
smiling. "Come, Mr. Trevethick; whatever reasons may have brought me
here, I assure you, upon my honor, that they do not weigh with me now,
in comparison with the great regard I feel for you and yours. If you
will be frank with me, I will also be so with you; and let me say this
at the outset, that nothing which may drop from your lips shall be made
use of to prejudice your interests. I have gathered this much for
myself, that Wheal--"

"Hush, Sir! for any sake, hush!" implored the landlord, earnestly, and
holding up his huge hand for silence. "Do not give it a name again;
there is some one moving above stairs."

"It is only Solomon," observed Richard, quietly.

"I don't want Sol nor any other man alive to hear what we are talking
about, Mr. Yorke," answered Trevethick, hoarsely. "You have gathered for
yourself, you were about to say, that the mine is rich, and well worth
what I have offered for it."

"And a good deal more," interrupted Richard. "Perhaps a hundred times,
perhaps a thousand times as much. We don't make so close a secret of a
matter without our reasons. We don't see Dead Hands, with flames of fire
at the finger-tips, going up and down ladders that don't exist, without
the most excellent reasons, Mr. Trevethick. What we wish no eye to see,
nay, no ear to hear spoken of, is probably a subject of considerable
private importance to ourselves. Come, we are friends here together; I
say again, let us be frank."

Trevethick was silent for a little; he felt a lump rise in his throat,
as though nature itself forbade him to disclose the secret he had kept
so long and so jealously guarded. "I have known it for these fifty
years," he began, in a half-choking voice. "I found it out as a mere
lad, when I went down into the old mine one day for sport, with some
schoolmates. The vein lies in the lowest part of the old workings, at a
depth that we think nothing of nowadays, though it was too deep for the
old masters of the pit. I remember, as though it was yesterday, how my
heart leaped within me when my torch shone upon it, and how I fled away,
lest my school-fellows should see it also. I came back the next day
alone, to certify my great discovery. It is a good vein, if ever there
was one. The copper there may be worth tens of thousands, hundreds of
thousands, millions!" Never had the numeration table been invested with
such significance. Trevethick's giant frame shook with emotion; his eyes
literally glared with greed.

"You have been there since?" observed Richard, interrogatively.

"Often, often," answered the other, hoarsely; "I could not keep away.
But nobody else has been there. The place is dark and perilous; there
are rats, and bats, and eerie creatures all about it. And folks are
afraid, because of the Dead Hand and the Flame."

"Your hand and torch?"

"Yes. I did my best to keep the place my own; my thoughts were never
absent from it for a day. And when I had earned a little money I put it
by, and more to that, and more to that again, till I had got enough to
make a bid for the lease of the old mine. But Carew was under age; so
that fell through. I bided my time, and bid again; not much--not enough,
as I fondly thought, to excite suspicion--but still what would seem a
good price for a disused pit. Then I bid more and more; but Carew will
neither sell nor let; and my money grows and grows in vain. I tell you I
have laid by a fortune only to pour into his hand. It is ready for him
to-night; there would be no haggling, no asking for time--it would be
paid him in hard cash. How long, thought I, will this madman balk me
with his whim? He will die some day in his cups, or break his neck in
hunting, and I shall surely come in with my offer to his heir, and have
my way at last, and win my prize. But now, after all my patience and my
pains, I am overmatched by a Parson and a Boy." He spoke with uncommon
heat and passion--not complainingly. His face was dark, and his tone
violent, and even menacing. There was no mistake about his having
accepted his companion's invitation to be frank.

"Mr. Trevethick," said Richard, gravely, "your disappointment would be
natural enough, if your long-cherished plan had really failed; but you
have misunderstood me altogether. I am grateful to you for confiding to
me the whole of what I had already guessed in part; and you shall have
no reason to repent your confidence. Your secret is safer now than it
has ever been; for from my lips Mr. Whymper shall never have his
suspicions with respect to Wheal Danes confirmed. I have been too long
your guest, I feel myself too much the friend of you and yours, to act
in any way to your disadvantage."

Trevethick looked at him inquiringly, suspicion and disfavor glowing in
his dusky face. "But if your story is true, young gentleman, this mine
will be your own some day?"

"It may, or it may not be, Mr. Trevethick. My father's intentions are
not to be counted upon, as you must be well aware, for twenty-four
hours. But if ever Wheal Danes is mine--" Richard hesitated a moment,
while the landlord devoured him with his eyes.

"Well," cried he, impatiently, "what then?"

"I am willing to make over to you, as soon as I come of age, by deed,
all interest that I may have in it--on one condition."

"Make over Wheal Danes to me by deed! What! at my own price?"

"For nothing; you shall have it for a free gift."

"But the condition? What is it that you want of me that is not money?"

"I want permission from you, Mr. Trevethick, to wed, that is--for I
would not speak of love without your leave--to woo your daughter."

"To wed my daughter!" cried Trevethick, starting from his seat; "my
Harry!"

"I say provided that my suit is not displeasing to her," answered
Richard, not without a tremor in his voice, for the old man's face was
terrible to look upon. Hatred and Wrath were struggling there with
Avarice, and had the upper hand.

He rocked himself to and fro, then answered, in a stifled voice, "My
daughter's hand is already promised, young man."

"It may be so, Mr. Trevethick, but not by her, I think; and that her
heart has not been given to the man you have designed for her is
certain. You may see that for yourself."

"I tell you I have passed my word to Solomon Coe that she shall be his
wife," returned the other, gloomily, "and I am not one to go back from a
bargain."

"One can only promise what is in one's power," urged Richard; "your
daughter's heart is not yours to give. In backing this man's suit you
have already redeemed your word to him. If he has failed to win her
affections--and I think he has--let me try my chance. I am a fitter
match for her in years; I am a gentleman, and therefore fitter for her,
for she is a true lady. I love her a thousand times as much as he. As
for Wheal Danes, I would give you twenty such, if I had them, for the
leave I ask for, and the end I hope for."

It was curious to mark how the mere mention of the mine by name affected
the old man; his wrath, which seemed on the very point of explosion, was
checked and smoothed at once, like raging waves by oil; his brow,
indeed, was still dark and frowning, but he resumed his seat, and
listened, or seemed to listen, to Richard's impassioned pleading. His
genuine feeling made the young fellow eloquent, and gave a tender charm
to his always handsome face and winning tones.

Perhaps even the unsympathetic Trevethick was really somewhat touched;
at all events, he did not interrupt him, but when he had quite finished
took out his watch, and said, in a softened tone: "The hour is late, Mr.
Yorke, and you have given me much to think about, to which I can not
reply just now. Your communication has taken me altogether by surprise.
I will answer neither 'Yes' nor 'No' at present. Good-night, Sir." He
nodded, which was his usual salute at parting; but upon the young man's
eagerly stretching out his hand, he took it readily enough, and gave it
such a squeeze with his giant fingers as made Richard wince. Then,
smiling grimly, he retired.

As his heavy step toiled up stairs Richard perceived a slip of paper on
the floor, which had apparently fluttered out of the old man's
watch-case. Upon it were written the three letters, B, N, Z. As he held
it in his hand he heard the landlord's tread returning with unusual
haste, and had only just time to replace the paper, face downward, on
the sanded floor, before the other reappeared.

"I have dropped a memorandum, somewhere," said he. "It is of no great
consequence, but--Oh, here it is!" He picked it up, and replaced it in
the hollow of his great silver watch.

Richard, who was sitting where he had left him, looked up with a glance
of careless inquiry. "Good-night again, Mr. Trevethick."

"Good-night, Sir." And again the landlord smiled in his grim fashion.




CHAPTER XVIII.

BY MOONLIGHT.


Richard sat over the fire, revolving his late conversation with
Trevethick in his mind, and picturing to himself what would probably
come of it. Although the declaration of his love for Harry had been thus
suddenly made, it had not been made unadvisedly. Though he had not
expected the opportunity for stating it would have offered itself so
soon, he had planned his whole argument out beforehand, with Wheal Danes
for its pivot. And, upon the whole, he felt satisfied with its effect
upon his host. The latter had not surprised him (except by his
frankness) in his disclosure respecting the rich promise of the mine.
Richard's own observation, aided by the clew which Parson Whymper's few
chance sentences had given him, had convinced him that Wheal Danes was a
most coveted object in the landlord's eyes; and had it happened to have
fallen into his own hands, he did really suspect enough to have had it
searched for ore from top to bottom. Trevethick had therefore lost
nothing by his revelation (as his sagacity had doubtless foreseen),
while he had made a very favorable impression upon Richard by his
candor. Cornish giants, thought the latter, might be rude and brutal,
but duplicity was foreign to their character; it was not Blunderbore,
but Jack the Giant-killer, who dug pitfalls, and pretended to swallow
what he only put in a bag.

Trevethick had certainly shown strong disfavor to the young man's suit,
backed though it was by such great pretensions; and it was evident that
but for his hold upon him with respect to the mine, Richard would not
have been listened to so patiently. However, his mouth had not been
peremptorily closed at once (as he had expected it would have been),
which was a great point gained, and the longer the old man took to think
about the matter the more likely was self-interest to gain the day with
him. Supposing Richard's representations to have been correct, he was
certainly "a better match" for Harry than Solomon was; and he had no
apprehension of their being refuted. Trevethick would in all probability
write to Mr. Whymper to inquire into the truth of them--but what then?
He would certainly make no reference to the mine; and as to Richard
being Carew's lawful son, had not the chaplain himself (whom he could
count on as a friend to say all that was to his advantage besides)
admitted that, in his eyes, he was born in honest wedlock? At all
events, there would be ample excuse for his having taken such a view of
the case; while, as to his prospects, he had frankly confessed that he
was, for the present, unacknowledged by the Squire. So long, in fact, as
he could keep up the pretense of influence, either present or
contingent, at Crompton, he felt his position with Trevethick tolerably
secure. In all this scheme of dark deceit his love for Harry was
interwoven like a golden thread, and amidst all his plots and plans her
glorious face would suddenly rise unbidden, and charm him from them. He
had long since resolved to win her, but the late avowal of her love for
him, and now his partial success to gain her father's favor, seemed to
have made her his own already. How beautiful she had looked that day
upon the tower, with the sunlight on her hair! How fresh and guileless
were her ways! Her very weaknesses were lovable, and the cause of love.
How touching was her simple faith in omens, and how pleasant to combat
it, his arm about her dainty waist, as though to protect her from the
shadow of harm! How pitiful her fear of her gruff father, and of this
Cornish Solomon; and how sweet to calm it, kissing her tears away! Once
more his loving arms embraced her--once more his lips touched her warm
cheeks--when a sudden noise awakened him from his dream of bliss.

The parlor fire had long gone out. It was warm for the time of year; but
had it been otherwise he would not have replenished it. The candles,
too, had burned out, and the moon-beams were streaming through the
window; but had it been dark he would scarce have been aware of it. The
house had long ago been hushed in repose, and yet Richard felt certain
that he had heard a movement in the passage.

A stealthy step, yet not that of thief or burglar; a fairy footfall,
rather, which was music to his ear. His heart leaped up to tell him that
on the other side of the door was Harry Trevethick. He held his breath,
and trembled--not for fear. Was it possible that, knowing he was sitting
there alone, she had come down of her own choice to bear him company?
Had her father told her something--some glad tidings which she could not
keep from her lover even for a night? Or, filled with sweet dreams of
him, as he of her, had she risen in her sleep, and been drawn
involuntarily toward him by the loadstone of love? But--hark! The bolt
that fastened the house-door was softly drawn, and the latch gently
lifted. What _could_ that mean? Why was she thus going forth alone, and
clandestinely, at midnight? His heart beat faster than ever. For an
instant all that he had read or heard from his wild companions, and what
he had himself believed until he came to Gethin, of the wiles and
inconstancy of woman, flashed upon his mind. Had he, bred in the town,
and familiar with all the ways of vice, been flattered and hoodwinked by
a country wanton? Impossible. For, though there were no virtue in the
world, he felt assured that Harry loved him, and him alone. She must be
walking in her sleep. Softly, but very swiftly, he left the parlor, and
hurried to the front-door. It was closed, but unfastened. He opened it,
and looked out. All was as light as day, and yet so different. Every
object in the street, every stone in the cottage opposite, stood out
distinct and clear, but bathed in a pale and ghostly atmosphere. The
distant murmur of the sea came to him like the sigh of one just freed
from pain. Nothing else was to be heard; no human tread disturbed the
midnight stillness; but along the winding road that led to Turlock he
caught the far-off flutter of a woman's dress. She was going at rapid
speed, and the next moment had turned the corner, but not before he had
recognized his Harry; and, closing the inn door softly behind him, he
started after her like an arrow from the bow.

The scene of this pursuit was strange and weird enough, had Richard
possessed eyes for any thing but the object of it. The sky was without a
cloud, and the sea--which showed on its cold blue surface a broad and
shining path where the moon-beams lay--without a ripple. On shore there
was even less of motion. The bramble that threw its slender shadow on
the road moved not a twig. Nature, green and pale, seemed to be cast in
an enchanted sleep, and even to suspend her breathing. From the point
Richard had reached he could see the road stretching for a full mile,
like a white ribbon, save in the middle, where it dipped between high
banks. It led to Turlock only, but at this place a foot-path struck
across the fields to the Fairies' Bower. To his astonishment, though
indeed he had scarcely capacity enough for further wonder, Harry took
this path; he saw her climb the stile, and then for the first time look
round; he sank under the hedge, to hide himself; and when he cautiously
looked forth again the girl had vanished. But he knew whither she was
going now. He had assisted her across that very stile but a few days
ago; he had walked with her through the hazel copse, and skirted the
clear trout-stream by her side; and he could follow her now at utmost
speed, and with less caution, for the path was green and noiseless. He
could hear his heart beat--not from want of breath--as though in accord
with the silver treble of the stream, as he sped along. Through the
scanty foliage of the dell he saw her light dress gleam across the
wooden bridge, but he himself stopped beside it, peering through the
lattice of the branches upon her as she stood on the green bank of the
Wishing-Well.

Never had moon-beams shone upon a sight more fair. Harry was attired as
she had been on the previous evening, except that she wore a shawl,
which also served her as head-gear, like a hood. This she now
unfastened, and taking out the pin that had joined it together, held it
above the well, which showed, as in a mirror, her leaning face and
curving form, her wealth of hair, her frightened yet hopeful eyes, and
the rise and fall of her bosom, filled with anxiety and superstitious
awe. She had come to test her future--to foresee her fate--at Gethin
Wishing-Well. For an instant she poised the pin, her lips at the same
time murmuring some simple charm--then dropped it into the well's clear
depths, and watched it fall. As she did so, another figure seemed to
glide upon the liquid mirror, at the sight of which she clasped her
hands and trembled. Superstitious as she was, Harry had only half
expected that her foolish curiosity would be actually gratified. Moved
by the avowal of Richard's love that morning, the obstacles to which
seemed to her so formidable, she had wished to see her future husband,
to know how fate would decide between him she loved and him whom her
father had chosen for her, and yet she was terrified now that that
which she had desired was vouchsafed her. She scarcely dared to look
upon yonder shadowy form, although its presence seemed to assure her of
the fulfillment of her dearest wish. It was the counterfeit presentment
of Richard Yorke himself; bareheaded, just as she had seen him last in
the bar parlor, but with heightened color, an eager smile, and a loving
gratitude in his eyes, which seemed to thank her for having thus
summoned him before her. The figure was at right angles from her own,
but the face was turned toward her. She gazed upon it intently, looking
for it to faint and fade, since its mission had been accomplished. She
even drew back a little, as though to express content, yet there was the
vision still, a glorious picture in its fair round frame of moss and
greenery. Supposing it should remain there (her pale face flushed at the
thought) indelibly and forever, to tell the secret of her heart to all
the world! Then a whisper, that seemed to tremble beneath its freight of
love, whispered, "Harry! Harry!" and she looked up, and saw the
substance of the shadow, her lover, standing upon the little wooden
bridge!

Though Folly be near kin to Vice, she does not acknowledge the
relationship, and, to do Harry Trevethick justice, she would never have
made a midnight assignation with Richard in the Fairies' Bower. She was
more alarmed and shocked at the too literal fulfillment of her wish than
pleased to see him there. She shed tears for very shame. Whatever
reserve she had hitherto maintained, with respect to her affection for
him, had now, she perceived, been swept away by her own act. The scene
to which he had just been an unsuspected witness was more than
equivalent to a mere declaration of love: it was a leap-year offer of
her hand and heart. She had no strong-hold of Duty left to which to
betake herself, nor even a halting-place, such as coy maidens love to
linger at a little before they murmur, "I am yours."

There was nothing left her but revilings. She poured upon him a torrent
of contumely, reproaching him for his baseness, his cowardice, his
treachery in tracking her hither, like a spy, to overhear a confession
that should have been sacred with him of all men. Whatever that
confession might have been--and, to say truth, so utterly possessed had
she been by her passionate hopes, her loving yearnings, that she knew
not what she had merely felt, what uttered aloud--she now retracted it;
she had no tenderness for eaves-droppers, for deceivers, for--she did
not know what she was saying--for wicked young men. Above all things it
seemed necessary to be in a passion; to be as irritated and bitter
against him as possible. The copiousness of her vocabulary of abuse
surprised herself, and she did not shrink from tautology. She only
stopped at last for want of breath, and even then, as though she knew
how dangerous was silence, she bemoaned herself with sobs and sighs.

Then Richard, all tenderness and submission, explained his presence
there; showed how little he was to blame in the matter, and, indeed, how
there was neither blame nor shame to be attached to either of them;
spoke of his late interview with her father, gilding it with brightest
hopes, and cited the marvelous attributes of the Wishing-Well itself in
support of his position. He felt himself already her affianced husband;
the question of their union had become only one of time. She was
listening to him now, and had suffered him to kiss her tears away, when
suddenly she started from his embrace with a muffled cry of terror. Some
movement of beast or bird in the copse had made a rustling in the
underwood, but her fears gave it a human shape. What if Sol should have
followed them thither, as Richard had followed _her!_ What if her father
should have heard her leave his roof, as Richard had, or should miss her
from it--and--oh shame!--_miss him!_ "Home! home!" she cried. "Let me
go home." And she looked so wild with fright that he durst not hinder
her. Hardly could he keep pace with her along the winding path, with
such frantic speed she ran. At the stile she forbade him to accompany
her farther.

"What! leave you to walk alone, and at such an hour, my darling?" It was
nearly two o'clock.

"Why not?" she cried, turning upon him fiercely. "I am afraid of none
but you, and of those whom I should love, but of whom you make me
afraid." Then up the white road she glided like a ghost.

Richard watched her with anxious eyes as long as he could, then sat upon
the stile, a prey to apprehensions. To what dangers might he not have
already exposed her by his inconsiderate pursuit! Suppose some eye had
seen them on their way, or should meet her now on her return! Suppose
her own fears should prove true, and her father had already discovered
their absence! His thoughts were loyally occupied with Harry alone; but
the peril to himself was considerable. It was impossible that he could
satisfactorily explain his companionship with the inn-keeper's daughter
at such a place and hour. The truth would never be believed, even if it
could be related. She had got home by this time; but had she done so
unobserved? Otherwise, it was more than probable that he should find two
Cornish giants waiting, if not "to grind his bones to make their bread,"
at least to break them with their cudgels. In their eyes he would seem
to have been guilty of a deliberate seduction, the one of his daughter,
the other of his destined bride. Yet, not to return to Gethin in such a
case would be worse than cowardice, since his absence would be sure to
be associated with Harry's midnight expedition. He had hitherto only
despised this Trevethick and his friend, but now, since he feared them,
he began to hate them. Bodily discomfort combined with his mental
disquietude. For the first time he felt the keenness of the moonlit air,
and shivered in it, notwithstanding the hasty strides which he now was
taking homeward. Upon the hill-top he paused, and glanced about him. All
was as it had been when he set out; there was no sign of change nor
movement. The inn, with its drawn-down blinds, seemed itself asleep. The
front-door had been left ajar, doubtless by Harry; he pushed his way in,
and silently shut it to, and shot the bolt; then he took off his boots,
and walked softly up stairs in his stockinged feet. He knew that there
was at least one person in that house who was listening with beating
heart for every noise.

The ways of clandestine love have been justly described as "full of
cares and troubles, of fears and jealousies, of impatient waiting,
tediousness of delay, and sufferance of affronts, and amazements of
discovery;" and though Richard Yorke had never read those words of our
great English divine, he had already begun to exemplify them, and was
doomed to prove them to the uttermost.




CHAPTER XIX.

RICHARD BURNS HIS BOATS.


It was strange enough that day after day and week after week went by
without John Trevethick making any reference to the application his
guest had made for his daughter's hand. His silence certainly seemed to
favor it; and the more so since, notwithstanding what he knew, he put no
obstacles in the way of the young people's meeting and enjoying each
other's society as heretofore. Perhaps he had too strong a confidence in
Harry's sense of duty, or in the somewhat more than filial fear in which
she stood of him. Perhaps Richard's prudent and undemonstrative behavior
toward the girl in the presence of others deceived him. But, at all
events, the summer came and still found Richard under the same roof with
Harry, and more like one of the family than ever. Tourists of the young
man's own position in life, and even of the same profession, began to
visit Gethin, and of course "put up" at the _Castle_, but he found
nothing so attractive in their company as to withdraw him from that
homely coterie in the bar parlor for a single evening. He was always
made welcome there by both his host and Solomon; and without doubt, so
far as the former was concerned, a less sanguine man than the young
landscape-painter might have considered that his suit was tacitly
acceded to.

Even Harry herself--to whom her father's conduct was surprising
enough--had come at last to this conclusion. Only one thing militated
against this pleasant view of affairs--it was certain that the old man
had not yet opened his lips to "Sol" upon the matter. It was clear that
the miner still considered himself in the light of Harry's accepted
suitor. As a lover, he was fortunately phlegmatic, and did not demand
those little tributes of affection in the shape of smiles and whispers,
secret glances, silent pressures, which his position might have exacted;
but he would now and then pay her a blundering compliment in a manner
that could not be misinterpreted, or even make some direct allusion to
their future settlement in life, which embarrassed her still more. The
young girl, as we have hinted, was by no means incapable of
dissimulation, but she naturally revolted against having to support such
a _rôle_ as this, and would have even run the risk of precipitating what
might have been a catastrophe by undeceiving him. But Richard bade her
have patience. He had strong reasons, if they were not good ones, for
being well satisfied with the present state of affairs. In love,
notwithstanding much savage writing to the contrary, it is the woman who
suffers; it is she who is the small trader, who can least afford to
wait, while man is the capitalist. Richard saw no immediate necessity
for pressing the matter of his marriage, upon which his heart was,
nevertheless, as deeply set as ever. He would not (to do him justice)
have been parted from his Harry now for all the wealth of Carew. But he
was not parted from her, and he did not wish to risk even a temporary
separation by any act of impetuosity. Living was cheap as well as
pleasant at the _Gethin Castle_, and it was of importance to husband his
funds--to reserve as much of his resources as he could for the expenses
of his honey-moon. So far, and no farther, went his plans for the
future. He knew that his mother would not refuse to offer them a home,
even if his wife should come to him empty-handed; and the more he
humored the old man, and abstained from demanding a decision, when it
was clear the other preferred to procrastinate, the better favor he
would have with him, and consequently the better chance of gaining a
dowry with his daughter. Even if he should press matters, it was
probable, he reasoned, that Trevethick had no decisive reply to give
him. He had doubtless written to Mr. Whymper, and learned all that
Richard had already divulged to him--and no more; that is to say, that
he was, though an unacknowledged offspring of the Squire, in a very
different position, at all events, toward him than that of a mere
natural son. Trevethick could not have heard less--that is, less to his
advantage--or he certainly would not have kept silence for so long.

Such was the state of affairs at Gethin. Harry with her two suitors; her
father with his two expectant sons-in-law, each of whom had more or less
of reason for his expectation. Though Richard might be satisfied with
it, it was clear it could not last forever--nor for long. The day on
which the change took place, though it was in no wise remarkable in
other respects, he never forgot: every incident connected with it,
though disregarded at the time, impressed itself upon his mind, to be
subsequently dwelt upon a thousand times. It might have been marked in
the hitherto sunny calendar of his life as the "Last day of Thoughtless
Gayety. Here Love and Pleasure end."

It was fine weather, and there were more tourists at the inn than could
be accommodated, so Richard had given up his private sitting-room to
their temporary use. This, however, did not throw him more in Harry's
society than usual, since their presence naturally much occupied her
time. He had not, indeed, seen her since the mid-day meal which he had
taken in the bar parlor; but she had promised, if she could get away, to
call for him at a certain spot where he had gone to sketch--the
church-yard on the hill. The attraction of the castled rock was such
that few visitors sought the former spot, notwithstanding its
picturesque and wild position. How the church maintained itself on that
elevated and unsheltered hill, despite such winds as swept it in the
winter, was almost a miracle: but there it stood--as it had done for
centuries--gray, solitary, sublime. It was of considerable size, but
small in comparison with its God's-acre, which was of vast extent, and
only sparsely occupied by graves. The bare and rocky moor was almost
valueless; it is as easy for one duly qualified to consecrate a square
mile as an acre; and the materials of the low stone wall that marked its
limits had been close at hand. In one or two spots only did the dead lie
thickly; where shipwrecked mariners--the very names of whom were unknown
to those who buried them--were interred; and where the victims of the
Plague reposed by scores. Even Gethin had not escaped the ravages of
that fell scourge; and, what was very singular, had suffered from it
twice over; for, on the occasion of an ordinary burial having taken
place many generations after the first calamity, in the same spot, the
disease had broken forth afresh, and scattered broadcast in the little
hamlet ancient death. The particulars of the catastrophe, so
characteristic of this home of antique legend and hoary ruin, were
engraven on a stone above the spot, which had never since been
disturbed.

In a lone corner, as though seeking in its humility to be as distant
from the sacred edifice as possible, was a quaint old cross. It was
probably not so old by half a dozen centuries as the grave-mounds on the
rock where the ruined castle stood, but it seemed even older, because
there were words cut in its stone in a tongue that was no longer known
to man. Seated on the low wall beside it, Richard was transferring to
his sketch-book this relic of the past in his usual intermittent
manner--now gazing out upon the far-stretching sea, here blue and
bright, there shadowed by a passing cloud; now down into the village,
which stood on a lower hill, with a ravine between. He had seen the
post-cart come and go--for it came in and went out simultaneously at
that out-of-the-way hamlet, where there was no one to write
complainingly to the papers concerning the inefficiency of the mail
service--and it was almost time for Harry to come and fetch him, as she
had appointed. But presently the reason for her absence made itself
apparent in the person of her father. It was not unusual for old
Trevethick, at the close of the day, to call at the cottage in the
ravine, which the guide to the ruin inhabited in the summer months, and
see how business was doing in that quarter. If he had no eye for the
picturesque, he had a very sharp one for the shillings which were made
out of it; and Richard was not surprised to see the landlord descending
the opposite hill. "This will keep Harry at home; confound him!"
muttered the young man to himself, and then resumed his occupation. As
there was now no one to watch for, he worked with more assiduity, and
with such engrossment in his subject that he was first made conscious
that he was not alone by the sudden presence of a shadow on his
sketch-book. He looked up, not a little startled, and there was John
Trevethick standing beside him, his huge form black against the sun.

"You may well be frightened, young gentleman," were his first ominous
words; "it is only a guilty conscience that starts at a shadow."

Richard _had_ a guilty conscience; and yet the remark that was thus
addressed to him, unconciliatory, if not directly hostile, as it was,
rather reassured him than otherwise.

Trevethick's presence there, for he had never made pretense of seeking
Richard's society for its own sake--was of evil augury; his tone and
manner were morose and threatening; his swarthy face was full of pent-up
wrath; and yet it was obvious to the other that the secret was yet safe,
the divulging of which he had most cause to fear. Had it been otherwise
there would have been no mere thunder-cloud, but a tornado. "The post
has brought some ill news from Crompton," was what flashed across the
young man's brain; and the thought, though sufficiently uncomfortable,
was a relief compared with that he had first entertained, and which had
driven the color from his cheeks.

"I have no cause to be frightened, that I know of, either of you or any
other man, Mr. Trevethick," observed Richard, haughtily.

"I hear you say so," was the other's grim reply; "but I shall be better
pleased to hear you prove it."

"Prove what?"

"Two things--that you are not a bastard, nor a pauper."

Richard leaped down from the wall with a fierce oath; and for a moment
it really seemed that he would have flung himself against his gigantic
opponent, like a fretful wave against a rock of granite.

Trevethick uttered an exclamation of contempt. "Pick up your
sketch-book, young man, or one of those pretty pictures will be spoiled
by which you gain your bread. You've acted the fine gentleman at Gethin
very well, but the play is over now."

"I don't understand you, Mr. Trevethick. If you must needs be insolent,
at all events, be explicit. You have miscalled me by two names--Bastard
and Pauper. Who has put those lies into your mouth, the taste of which
you seem to relish so?"

Trevethick reached forth his huge hand, and seized the other's shoulder
with a gripe of steel. It seemed to compress bone and sinew as in a
vice; the arm between them was as a bar of iron. Richard felt powerless
as a child, and could have cried like a child--not from pain, though he
was in great pain, but from vexation and rage. It was maddening to find
himself thus physically subjugated by one whom he so utterly despised.

"Keep a civil tongue in your head, cock-sparrow," growled the giant,
"lest I wring your neck. You're a nice one to talk of lying; you, with
your tales of son and heirship to the Squire, and your offers of
copper-mines for the asking! Who told me how I had been fooled? Why,
Carew himself! You thought I should write to the parson, eh?"

Richard certainly had thought that he would have written to the parson,
but he strove to look as calm and free from disappointment as he could,
as he replied: "It was quite indifferent to me to whom you wrote, Mr.
Trevethick. There was only one account to give of my affairs; and it was
the same I had already given to you. I told you that my father did not
choose to acknowledge me for the present, and I have no doubt that your
questioning him upon the matter has made him very bitter against me; the
more so because he is well aware that he is fighting against the truth;
he knows that he was married to my mother in a lawful way, and that I am
the issue of that marriage. It is true that technical objections have
been raised against it, but his own conscience warns him that they are
worthless. Mr. Whymper will tell you the same."

"Never you mind Mr. Whymper," said the landlord, gruffly, but at the
same time relaxing his grasp upon the young man's shoulder; "the parson
needs all his cleverness to take care of himself in this matter, and
will have no helping hand to spare for you. The Squire is in a pretty
temper with you both, I promise you. Here's his letter, if you'd like to
see what he says of you in black and white; not that there's much white
in it, egad!"

It was a custom of the Squire of Crompton, unconsciously plagiarized
from the Great Napoleon, to let all letters addressed to him in an
unfamiliar hand answer themselves. They were not destroyed, but lay for
weeks or months unopened, until the fancy seized him to examine their
contents. He made, it was true, a gallant exception in the case of those
whose superscription seemed to promise a lady correspondent; but that
had not been the case with the communication from Trevethick, and hence
the long interval that had elapsed before it was attended to.
Trevethick's business letters had hitherto, as was the case with all
tenants of Crompton estate, been addressed to the chaplain only, so that
he was unaware of this peculiarity of Carew, and had naturally construed
his silence into a tacit admission of the truth of Richard's statement.

If force of language and bitterness of tone could have made up for his
previous neglect, the Squire's letter was an apology in itself. It was
short, but sharp and decisive. "The grain of truth," he wrote, "among
the bushel of lies that this young gentleman has told you is, that he
was once a guest under my roof--I forget whether for two nights or
three. He will never be there again--neither now nor after I am in my
box" (this was the Squire's playful way of alluding to the rites of
sepulture). "He has no more claim upon me than any other of my
bastards--of whom I have more than I know of--and in fact less, for I
may have deceived their mothers, whereas his played a trick on me. As to
his expectations from me, I can only tell you this much, that I expect
he will come to be hanged; as for interest, whatever he may have with my
son of a she-dog of a chaplain, he has none with me; and as for money,
so far as I know, he is a pauper, and likely to remain so as long as he
lives." There were other sentences spurted from the volcano of the
Squire's wrath, but to the same effect.

"A nice letter of recommendation, truly, and from his own father, of the
young gentleman who asked me for my daughter's hand!" growled
Trevethick. "You ought to be thankful to get out of Gethin with whole
bones. If 'Sol' was to come to know of what you asked of me, I would not
answer for even so much as that, I promise you."

"'Sol' might have known of it had you not chosen to keep it from him,
for reasons best known to yourself," said Richard, quietly. "You have
taken some time to make up your mind between us."

Trevethick winced; for the promise of the young man's interest with
respect to Wheal Danes had, in fact, been the bait which had tempted him
to temporize so long. He had never meant to give his daughter to
Richard; but he had hoped to reap an advantage, present or future, out
of the implied intention; nor did he know even yet in what relation
Richard stood with Parson Whymper.

"At all events, it's made up now," answered the landlord, curtly.

"This letter has caused you to decide against me, then?"

"That letter? Well, of course it has. Not that there ain't a heap of
other reasons; but that one's enough, I should think, even for you."

"It is just such a letter as I should have expected Carew to pen,"
observed Richard, coolly, "and does not alter the facts of the case as I
stated them to you one whit. That my father is furious with me is clear
enough; that is, because he is in the wrong, and feels it. He is angry,
you see, even with Mr. Whymper, because he knows that his view of my
case is such as I described to you. I confessed from the first that my
interest at Crompton was a contingent one. You are treating me with
great injustice, Mr. Trevethick."

"What! Have you so much brass left as to say that? You, that have asked
my permission to pay court to my daughter, under the pretense that you
were a fine gentleman, independent at present, and the heir-presumptive
to one of the richest commoners in the kingdom! How durst you do it? You
vagabond! you scoundrel!"

"You will be sorry for having said those words some day," said Richard,
hoarsely; he was choking with rage, and yet it was necessary to restrain
himself. He felt that this man would presently forbid him his
house--would separate him from his Harry forever; and that would be like
tearing out his heart-strings. Always audacious, there was nothing that
he was not now prepared to say or do to avert this. "I tell you, Mr.
Trevethick, this letter is full of lies, or rather it is written by a
madman. I am not a bastard; I am not a pauper. I have an independence of
my own, though, indeed, it is small compared with my expectations. My
mother makes me a good allowance. I am a gentleman, and I have a right
to be listened to by any man, when I ask leave to be his daughter's
lover."

"Let us leave alone your gentility, Sir, and your mother's allowances,"
sneered the landlord, "since there is no means of gauging either the one
or the other. As for your independent property--I don't believe you have
a hundred pounds in the world; but it is easy enough to prove that I am
mistaken there. Let me see the money down. Show me your three or four
thousand pounds in gold, or notes that I know, for I must needs be
particular with so clever a young gentleman; notes of the Bank of
England, or of the Miners' Bank at Plymouth. Let me hold them in my
hand, and then I shall feel that you are speaking the truth. At present,
I tell you fairly, that if I saw a check of yours, I should look upon it
as so much waste paper until I also saw it honored."

"Three thousand pounds is a large sum, Mr. Trevethick," said Richard,
thoughtfully.

"Let us say two, then," returned the landlord, mockingly. "Sell out two
thousand pounds of this independent fortune of yours, that has been
invested in the Deep Sea Cockle Mine, or in debentures of the Railway in
the Air. Let me see but two thousand pounds, Mr. Richard Yorke, and
then--and not before--may you open your lips to me again respecting my
daughter Harry." He turned upon his heel with a bitter laugh; while
Richard, as white as the sketch-book he still held in his hand, remained
speechless. A perilous thought had taken possession of his mind--a
thought that it would have been better for him to have dropped down
there dead than to have entertained, but it grew and grew apace within
him like a foul weed. Had his life of selfish pleasure angered the
long-suffering gods, and, having resolved upon his ruin, were they
already making him mad? He ran after the old man, who did not so much as
turn to look behind him, though he could not but have heard his rapid
steps. "Mr. Trevethick, I will do it," he gasped out.

"Do what?" said the other, contemptuously, striding on. "Go hang
yourself, or jump off Gethin rock into the sea?"

"I will get you the money that you speak of--the two thousand pounds.
You shall have it in your hand, and keep it for that matter, if you
please."

"What?" Unutterable astonishment stared out from the landlord's face.
For the first time since the receipt of Carew's letter he began to
discredit its contents. If this young fellow had really the immediate
command of so large a sum, there was probably much more "behind him." He
must either have a fortune in his own right, or if Carew had settled
such a sum of money on him, he must have had a reason for it--the very
reason Richard had assigned. And if so, Wheal Danes might be his to
dispose of even yet. But Trevethick was not the man to hint a doubt of
his foregone conclusions. "You have not got this money in your pocket,
have you?" said he, with a short dry laugh.

"No, Sir; but I can get a check for it from my mother, in course of
post."

"A check!" cried the other, contemptuously, all his suspicions returning
with tenfold force. "I would not give one penny for such a check."

"I will get it changed myself, Mr. Trevethick, at Plymouth. The post has
gone, but I will write to-morrow, and within the week--"

"You shall not stay here a week, nor another twenty-four hours," roared
Trevethick. "I have been made a fool of long enough. I will not listen
to another word."

But he did listen, nevertheless. No longer hampered by vague fears and
difficulties, with which he knew not how to grapple, but with a distinct
plan of operations before him, Richard's eloquence was irresistible.
Deceit, if not habitual with him, had been practiced too often to lack
the gloss of truth from his ready tongue. He actually had a scheme for
procuring the sum in question, and when he possessed confidence himself,
it was rarely, indeed, that he failed to inspire it in others. For the
second time, the landlord of the _Gethin Castle_ found himself in doubt;
he was staggered by the positiveness of the young man's assertions, and
by the force and flow of his glowing words. In spite of himself, he
began once more to think that he might have been mistaken in condemning
him as an impostor, after all; as Richard had said, Carew _was_ scarcely
sane, and when excited by wrath, a downright madman. His resolves, too,
were as untrustworthy and fickle as the winds. Trevethick felt tolerably
convinced that the money would, at all events, be forthcoming; and the
sum--large in itself--seemed the earnest of much more. Last, but not
least, there were the possibilities in connection with the mine. If he
broke altogether with Richard, and turned him out of his house outright,
might not his first act be to reveal to Parson Whymper, in revenge, all
that he knew about Wheal Danes!

"Well, well, you shall stay at Gethin, then, till your check comes,
young gentleman," said he, in a tone that was meant to be conciliatory.
"I don't wish to be uncivil to any man, and certainly not to one who has
been my guest so long. But you will keep yourself _to_ yourself,
if you please, in the mean time. The bar parlor will no longer be open
to you, until you have proved your right to be there. And I don't mean
to promise any thing certain by that, neither; but what with your fast
talking and fine speaking I'm all in a buzz."

Honest John Trevethick did not, indeed, know What to think, what to
believe, or what to propose to himself for the future. His brain,
unaccustomed to much reflection, and dulled by pretty frequent
potations, was fairly muddled. Most heartily did he wish that this young
landscape-painter had never set foot in Gethin; but yet he could not
make up his mind to summarily eject him. Upon the whole, he was almost
as glad to temporize in the matter as Richard was himself.

In point of fact, Richard Yorke had won the battle, and was for the
present master of the field; but what a struggle it had been, and at
what a loss he had obtained the victory, you might have read in his
white face and haggard eyes. As to whether it would be possible to hold
the advantage he had gained was a problem he had yet to solve. He had
committed himself to a policy which might--nay, very probably
would--succeed; but if it should fail, there would be no escape from
utter ruin. He had burned his boats, and broken down the bridge behind
him.




CHAPTER XX.

ON THE BRINK.


For four more days, Richard Yorke continued at the _Gethin Castle_--to
outward appearance, in the same relation with the landlord and his
family as before, but in reality on a totally different footing.
Trevethick had not found it practicable to exclude his late guest from
the bar parlor; he could not do so without entering into an explanation
with its other tenants, which he was not prepared for, or without
devising some excuse far beyond his powers. Notwithstanding his bluff
ways, he could tell a lie without moving a muscle; but he was incapable
of any such ambitious flight of deceit as the present state of affairs
demanded. He had, indeed, no aptitude for social diplomacy of any kind,
and suffered his change of feeling toward the young landscape-painter to
appear so plainly that even the phlegmatic Solomon observed it. He was
rather pleased than otherwise to do so. He had acquiesced in the
hospitality with which Richard had been treated, but without the
slightest sympathy with it; and, in fact, he had no sympathies save
those which were connected with his personal interests. It was evident
enough that his father-in-law elect had had some reasons of his
own--probably in relation to the property he held under Carew--for
conciliating this young gentleman; and "Sol" had taken it for granted
they were good, that is, substantial, ones. If these reasons no longer
existed, the sooner this young gentleman was got rid of the better. It
was true he had behaved himself very civilly; but his presence among
them had been, on the whole, oppressive. "Sol" rather chafed at
Richard's social superiority, though it was certainly never intruded,
and, at all events, he preferred the society of his own class, among
whom he felt himself qualified to take the lead. But the idea of
jealousy had never entered into his mind. In his eyes Richard was a mere
boy, whose years, as well as his position in life, precluded him from
any serious intentions with respect to Harry, whom, moreover, Solomon
regarded as his betrothed. If he had been married to her, he would
certainly have forbidden her "gadding about" so much with this young
fellow; but at present she was under her father's rule, and the old man
knew very well what he was about. He was glad that there now seemed a
prospect, to judge from the latter's manner, that the lad's intimacy
with Harry, and the family generally, was about to end; but it might
have lasted six months longer without "Sol's" opening his mouth about
it, so prudently had Richard played his cards--so irreproachably behaved
"before folk."

Solomon went, as usual, daily to look after affairs at Dunloppel, but
Trevethick remained within doors, under pretense that the influx of
guests, which was in fact considerable, demanded his presence. He took
care that Richard and Harry should have no opportunity of meeting alone
throughout the day; while in the evening he sat in almost total silence,
sucking his pipe, and frowning gloomily--a wet blanket upon the little
company, and the source of well-grounded terror to his daughter Harry.

Richard had told her how the matter stood; protested that he could get
the money; and argued that when that was done, her father could have no
excuse for forbidding his suit. But she knew the old man better than he,
and trembled.

On the fifth day Richard received a letter, inclosing a check for two
thousand pounds upon a London bank, from his mother, and, with an air of
quiet triumph, showed it to his host.

"That is worth nothing here," observed Trevethick, coldly; "for all I
know, the bank may not exist, or she may have no account there." But it
was plain he was surprised, and disappointed.

"Notice has been sent to Plymouth, as I am here informed," said Richard;
"so that I can get the check changed there, if you are still
dissatisfied; which, you must pardon me for saying, I do not think you
really are. Come, take my hand, and allow that you have behaved
ungenerously. You're a man of your word, I know. This proves to you I am
at least no pauper. I claim the right which you agreed to grant on that
condition, to ask your daughter's hand, and demand of you to leave her,
at all events, to grant it if she pleases. I affirm, once more, the
truth of all that I have told you as regards myself. I am Carew's only
son, begotten in lawful wedlock. He will acknowledge as much himself
some day, even though he should delay it to his dying hour. If ever I
come to possess it (and I think I shall), Wheal Danes shall be yours,
without the payment of a shilling. Even now, I do not offer myself
empty-handed. This is the sum that you yourself agreed I should show
myself possessed of; but there is more where this comes from. I ask
again, then, give me my fair chance with Harry: let her choose between
me and this man Coe."

This was a wily speech; for Richard was recapitulating the very
arguments which were presenting themselves to the old man's mind. True,
he had promised his daughter to Solomon, and would much rather have had
him for a son-in-law; but there were unquestionably great advantages in
the position of this other claimant. Trevethick was not quite the slave
to gratitude which he had professed himself to be, with respect to Coe's
father. He did feel sincerely grateful; but he had himself exaggerated
the feeling, with the very intention of making Harry understand that her
fate was fixed. He had not been blind to the fact, that from the first
she had never regarded "Sol" with favor as a suitor, and it was still
possible to break off the match without disgrace, upon the ground of her
disinclination to it. Above all, perhaps, he was actuated by the
apprehension that Richard, if refused a hearing, would disclose the
secret of Wheal Danes, and wreck the scheme upon which his heart had
been set for near half a century. One word from him would divert the
unsuspected wealth, over which he had so long gloated in anticipation,
into another's hand. But he did not like the young man better for the
precious knowledge which he alone shared with him; far otherwise; he
hated him for it, and, without being a murderer in his heart, would have
gladly welcomed the news that his mouth was closed forever by death.

"I wish such or such a one was in heaven," is a common expression, the
meaning of which is of still more general acceptation. The idea, in
fact, has doubtless flitted across the minds of most of us, though few,
let us hope, would help to realize it; for, notwithstanding its
agreeable form, it is not a benevolent aspiration. The reception of the
individual in question into the realms of bliss has less interest with
us than his removal from the earth's surface, and, consequently, from
our path upon it. We may be very civil toward this person, and we often
are; but we seldom desire him for a son-in-law. John Trevethick did not.
But still less did he desire his open enmity; the longer, at all events,
the declaration of war could be deferred the better.

"Come," urged Richard; "I am only demanding the redemption of your
promise--one," added he, precipitately, "that it lies in your own power
to redeem."

"The conditions, Mr. Yorke, have not yet been fulfilled," said
Trevethick, pointing to the check. "I must see that money in
bank-notes."

He had not the least doubt of the genuineness of the document; but his
objection would at least give him the respite of another day or two, and
a respite seemed almost a reprieve.

"As you will," answered Richard, with a faint smile. "It is a matter of
perfect indifference to me, and only costs me a journey to Plymouth. If
you will be so good as to let me have some vehicle to take me as far as
Turlock, I will pack my carpet-bag and start at once."

The landlord nodded, and withdrew without a word.

Left to himself, the smile faded from Richard's face, and was succeeded
by a look of the utmost dejection and disappointment. All had been going
so well up to that very last moment, and now all remained to be done,
just as though nothing had been done at all. The dangerous path that he
had marked out for himself had to be trodden from first to last, at the
very moment when he had seemed to have reached his journey's end by a
safe short-cut. He knew that it was the smallest grain of suspicion, if
not the mere desire to procrastinate, that had turned the scale in
Trevethick's mind, and imposed this task upon him. The genuineness of
the check had been _almost_ taken for granted--entire success had been
missed, as it were, by a hair's-breadth. And now he was as far from it
as ever. Had he been but a little more earnest, or a little more
careless in his own manner, all might have been well. The obstacle that
intervened between him and his desire still stood there, though only by
an accident, as though, after he had fairly blown it into the air, it
had resettled itself precisely in the same spot.

Richard felt like some offender against the law who had been foiled in
an ingenious scheme by the stupidity rather than the sagacity of him he
would have defrauded; or, rather, like one who has been brought to
justice by misadventure--through some blunder which Fate itself had
suggested to his prosecutor. He was filled with bitterness and
mortification, and also with fear. This miscarriage now imposed a
necessity upon him, which he had contemplated, indeed, but never looked
fairly in the face; he had always hoped it might be evaded. The only
alternative that presented itself was to give up his Harry; this swept
across his mind for a single instant--a black shadow that seemed to
plunge his whole being in night--then left it firmly set upon its
perilous purpose.

He did not seek to see her before he left; he could not trust himself so
far even as to turn his head and wave her a good-by, as he started from
the inn door, although he felt that she was watching him from an upper
window. He was afraid of the anxiety that consumed him being visible to
those loving eyes. She knew upon what errand he was going, but not the
dangers of it. But he spoke cheerfully to Trevethick, who stood beneath
the porch with moody brow, and testily found fault with horse and
harness.

"The master's in a queer temper to-day, Sir," was the driver's remark,
as they slowly climbed the hill out of the village.

"So it seems," answered Richard, absently.

The road they traveled was the same on which he had pursued Harry on
that eventful night, now months ago; every object recalled her to
him--the ruined tower on the promontory, the Fairies' Bower in the glen;
but they suggested less of love than of the peril that, for love's sake,
he was about to undergo. When they reached the point where he had met
her first, on the margin of the moor, now bright with gorse and heather,
and with its gray rocks sparkling in the sun, an overwhelming melancholy
seized him. Was it possible that the omen which had alarmed her simple
mind was really in the course of fulfillment? Was he, indeed, fated to
be the cause of misfortune to her he loved so well? If evil should
befall him, it was only too certain that it would include her in its
consequences.

"You seem a cup too low, Mr. Yorke," said the driver, wondering at the
young man's unusual silence; for his habit was to be brisk and lively
with every body.

"We'll remedy that when we get to Turlock," answered Richard,
good-naturedly, "by taking a glass of what you will together."

Accordingly, when they reached the little town, and while the
post-horses were getting ready which were to take him on the next stage
of his journey, Richard called for some liquor.

"Here's your good health, Sir," said the man, and added, in a roguish
whisper, "and our young missus's too, Sir."

"By all means," said Richard, coolly. "But why couple hers with mine?"

"Well, Sir, it do come natural like, somehow," said the man, becoming
suddenly stolid, on perceiving that his remark was by no means relished.
"I suppose it's seeing you so much about together; but I meant no
offense."

"I am sure of that," said Richard. It was on the tip of his tongue to
pursue the subject, but he restrained himself. If he had already given
occasion for gossip, he did not wish to provide fresh fuel for it in his
absence from Gethin.

When a mile or two away from Turlock he produced the check which was the
apparent cause of his irksome journey, and tearing it into minute
fragments, scattered them out of the window.

Upon the second day he arrived at Plymouth, but too late for
banking-hours, and drove to an hotel. He had had little to eat upon his
journey, yet he now sent his dinner away almost untasted; on the other
hand, though it was unusual with him to take much wine, he drank a
bottle of Champagne and some sherry, then lit a cigar, and strolled out
of doors. It was a beautiful evening; and he sauntered on the Hoe,
gazing upon that glorious prospect of sea and shore which it affords,
without paying regard to any thing, although all was as new as fair. His
mind, however, took in every object mechanically, and often presented
them to him again in after-years, just as it did that summer scene upon
the ruined tower. Was it laying in provision for itself against the
time, now drawing so nigh, when his physical eyes should have no more of
such fair sights to feed upon? Or was the circumstance only such as
attends all great changes and crises of our lives; for is not every
feature of the face of Nature, upon the eve of any vital event, thus
engraven on our recollection? Do we not note the daisies on the lawn
forever, when for one instant we look out upon it from the darkened room
wherein our loved one lies a-dying?

It presently grew too late for the ordinary signs and tokens of life;
but Richard still paced to and fro, and gazed upon the darkening waters;
he saw the light leap out upon them from the distant Eddystone, and from
the craft in harbor, and from the houses that were built upon its
margin: blue and red, and white and yellow.

There was one large vessel a great way off that he had not hitherto
observed, but which now became conspicuous by its green light. Richard,
vaguely interested in this exceptional beacon, inquired of a
miserable-looking man, who had in vain been offering his services as
cicerone, what it signified.

"Well, Sir, them colors as the ships show all mean something different;
the red is from the floating powder-magazine, and the yellow is--"

"I said the _green_ light," broke in Richard, with his usual impatience
of prolixity. "What is that vessel _there_, I say?"

"Oh, that's the convict ship, Sir; they say she is waiting until after
the 'sizes, to take the drab-jackets to Portland."

Richard nodded, and threw the man a shilling; then walked hastily away
into the town. The night was mild, but his teeth chattered, and he shook
in every limb.




CHAPTER XXI.

THE MINERS' BANK.


As, though Richard had fasted long, he could not eat, so, though he was
fatigued with the travel of the last two days, he could not sleep. He
turned from side to side upon his pillow throughout the weary night, and
strove to lose himself, and shut out thought, in vain, even for an
instant. He got up and paced the room; and, when the streaks of dawn
began to show themselves, drew up the blind, and looked forth. It was a
very different scene from that he had been accustomed to contemplate at
Gethin. In place of the waste of ocean, specked by a sail or two, whose
presence only served to intensify its solitary grandeur, the
thick-peopled city lay before him. But as yet there were no tokens of
waking life; the streets were empty, the windows shrouded, and a steady
drizzle of rain was falling, which gave promise of a wretched day. Even
when the morning advanced, it was difficult to make out the individual
buildings; but he had had the Miners' Bank pointed out to him on the
previous day, and he thought he recognized it now. It was there that the
business which he had proposed to himself was to be effected, and he
gazed at it with interest. The wisest of us are simple in some things,
and though so knowing in the ways of the world--that is, of _his_
world--Richard knew nothing of banks whatever, and wondered whether he
would have any difficulty in carrying out his object. He could not
foresee any; it seemed to him that the banking folks would be glad to
oblige him in the matter in question, since, if there was any advantage,
it would be on their side. But there were six hours yet before he could
perform this business, and since sleep was denied him, how was he to
pass the time? There was a large book upon the drawers, which he had not
hitherto observed, with the royal arms stamped upon it, and the name of
the hotel inscribed beneath them. It did not look like a devotional
work, but it was the New Testament--a work that was very literally new
to Richard Yorke. He had seen it, of course, often; was acquainted by
hearsay with its contents, and had joked about them. It is the easiest
book in the world to make jokes upon, which, perhaps, accounts for its
being so favorite a subject of ridicule with foolish persons. Shakspeare
is also easy to make fun of, but the _soupçon_ of blasphemy is in that
case wanting, which, to many, forms the chief charm of witty converse.
Richard looked at it as a dog looks at a stick; but he took it up, and
opened it at random. "Having no hope, and without God in the world."

He was not a believer in sortilege. If the text he had chanced upon had
been ever so applicable to his own condition, it would have made but
little impression upon him, and this was not very pertinent in its
application. He was by no means without hope. He had come to Plymouth
full of hope, though disappointed at its not having been already
exchanged for certainty. He had good hope of inspiring John Trevethick
with confidence in his social position, and consequently of obtaining
his consent to marry the woman who had now become indispensable to his
happiness. He had even some hope of yet inheriting a portion of his
father's great estate. He could not be accused of spiritual ambition.
Any other sort of hope than that of being in a position to enjoy himself
thoroughly had never entered into his mind. Just now, however, he was
far from enjoying himself; he was a prey to anxiety, and any opportunity
of forgetting it was welcome to him. Not without an effort to be
interested, therefore, he reflected upon these words, which seemed
rather to have been spoken in his ear aloud than merely to have caught
his eye. He had already shut the book with contemptuous impatience, but
he found himself, nevertheless, repeating: "Having no hope, and without
God in the world," and pondering upon their meaning. He wondered at
himself for taking the trouble to do so; but if he didn't do that, his
thoughts would, he knew, be even less pleasantly occupied; so he let
them slip into this novel channel. How _could_ a man be without God in
the world, if God was every where? as he had somewhere seen or heard
stated, and which he believed to be the fact. It was one of the
objections against the Bible, was his peevish reflection, that it was
self-contradictory in its assertions, and unmistakably distinct only in
its denunciations of wrath. Here was a case in point, and one which
might justly be "taken up" by a fellow, if it was worth while. As for
himself, he was no skeptic. Exeter Hall might have clasped him to her
breast (and would) upon that ground. He was accustomed to use the name
of the Creator whenever he wished to be particularly decisive; but for
any other purpose he had never named it with his lips. Even as a child,
his mother had never taught him to do so. She had never spoken to him on
religious subjects except in humorous connection with the Heads of the
two Churches to which her first husband had belonged--Emanuel Swedenborg
and Joanna Southcott. If the expression "without God in the world" meant
the living in it without the practice of religion, it certainly did have
an application to himself, but also to every one else with whom he was
acquainted. Of course he had known people who went to church--young men
of his own age, whom their parents compelled to do so, and who envied
him the liberty he enjoyed in that respect; and the poor folks at Gethin
went to chapel. But, even, there, shrewd fellows like Trevethick and
Solomon did not trouble themselves to do so. True, Harry went! But then
women, unless they were uncommonly clever, like his own mother, always
did go to hear the parsons. Parsons, as a rule, were hypocrites. He had
met one or two of them in town under circumstances that showed they had
really no more "nonsense about them" than other people, but in the
pulpit they were bound to cant. Look at Mr. Whymper, for instance--the
best specimen of them, by-the-by, he had ever known--who could doubt
that his mind was wholly set upon the main chance? To what slights and
insolences did he submit himself for the sake of feathering his own
nest; and how he had counted upon that fat living, of which the Squire
had so cruelly disappointed him! Talk of religion! why, there was Carew
himself, with thirty thousand a year, and did not spend a shilling of it
on religion! True, he kept a chaplain, but only as a check upon his
steward, to manage his estate for him. If there was really any thing in
it, would not a rich man like him have put aside a portion of his
wealth, by way of insurance--insurance against fire?--and here Richard
chuckled to himself.

It was all rubbish, these texts and things. He would dress himself, and
go out and take a walk, although it was so early. He had already heard
sounds in the house, as though somebody was astir; so he rang the bell.
It was answered by a sleepy and disheveled personage, whom he scarcely
recognized for the sleek "night chamberlain," whose duty it was to watch
while others slept, and who had given him a bed-candle not many hours
before.

"What! still up, my man?" said Richard, gayly.

"Yes, Sir. The morning mail has but just come in; we had a passenger by
it. I put him in the room under you; but he seemed a quiet one, and I
didn't think he'd 'a disturbed you."

"He did not," said Richard. "I have been awake all night, and never so
much as heard him. Can I have some hot water?"

"Not yet, Sir, I'm afraid; there's no fire alight at present. I can get
you some brandy-and-soda, Sir."

"No, no," answered Richard, smiling; "I sha'n't want that; and as for
the hot water, I can do without it; but, now you're here, just tell me,
for I am quite a stranger to your town, isn't that high roof yonder,"
and he pointed to the object in question, "the Miners' Bank?"

"Yessir, that's it. Ah, if the morning was but a little finer, you would
have a lovely view from this here window--half the town and a good slice
of the harbor! There's a splendid building out to the left there, if the
clouds would but lift a little. That's the County Jail, Sir."

"Indeed," said Richard, carelessly, and turned away. "Just take my boots
down with you, as I shall want them as soon as you can get them
cleaned."

The man did as he was bid. Directly he had left the room, Richard pulled
down the window-blind, and staggered to a chair. Perhaps want of food
and sleep had weakened him; but he sat down, looking very pale and
haggard, like one who has received a sudden shock. Why should one man
have answered him last night, "the convict ship," and now this fellow
have pointed out the jail? It was only a coincidence, of course; but if
there was ever such a thing as an evil augury, he had surely experienced
it on those two occasions. "This is what comes of burying one's self at
Gethin," thought he, smiling faintly at his own folly. "If I staid there
much longer, I should begin to believe in mermaids and the Flying
Dutchman." Jail! Why, if the very worst should happen, the matter would
only require to be explained; he was in no real peril from the law,
after all. Indeed, the very revelation which he most dreaded would only,
by exposing the true state of affairs, precipitate his happiness.
Trevethick would then be as eager as himself to hasten Harry's marriage.

Thus he reasoned until something of equanimity returned to him. Then he
attired himself, buttoning his frock-coat carefully over his chest, and
went down stairs. As he reached the next landing, a gentleman emerged
from the room immediately beneath his own, like himself, fully dressed,
and carrying his hat and great-coat. He was a small stout man, with
bushy red whiskers, a good-natured face, and little twinkling black
eyes. With a civil bow he made way for Richard to pass him, and then
followed him down stairs into the coffee-room. It was a huge apartment,
and quite empty except for their two selves. Most persons meeting in
such a Sahara would have exchanged a salutation; and Richard, gregarious
by nature besides, being eager to divert his thoughts, at once entered
into conversation.

"You are the gentleman who arrived by the mail this morning, I
conclude," said he, "otherwise you would scarcely keep such early
hours."

"Just so, Sir," answered the other, smiling. "I thought it was not worth
while to go to bed, but just gave myself a wash and brush up; and here I
am, sharp-set for breakfast."

It was plain this man was not a gentleman, but Richard cared very little
about that. He would have talked to the waiter, in default of any other
companion.

"Well, I have been to bed," said Richard, smiling, "though something I
took at dinner disagreed with me, and kept me awake all night. Do you
mean to say you are not going to take any horizontal refreshment at
all?"

"Well, no; I had some sleep in the coach, and a very little of that
article does for me. If you eat and drink enough, as I do, it is
astonishing how well you can get on without rest."

"Indeed," said Richard. "I should like to see the substitutes you take
for what I have always found an indispensable necessity. Suppose we have
breakfast together, and you shall order it."

"But not pay for it," stipulated the stout gentleman, in a tone that you
might take as either jest or earnest. "We'll go shares in that, eh?"

"Unless you will allow me to be your host, we will certainly go shares,"
said Richard, wondering to himself whether in all Gethin so great a boor
as this could be found above-ground or beneath it, or making his
business on the waters, but rather amused nevertheless.

"I don't like misunderstandings," explained the little man, "nor yet
obligations. It's not that I grudge my money, or have not as much of it
as I want, thank Heaven!"

"Then you've got more than any body else I know," said Richard,
laughing; "and I am acquainted with some rich men too."

"I dare say, Sir; you are a rich man yourself, I hope. You look like a
young gentleman with plenty of money in your pocket."

At any other time Richard would not have been displeased by such an
observation, which was, moreover, a perfectly just one. He looked from
head to heel like a young man of fortune, and had been brought up as
idly and uselessly as any such; but now he blushed and felt
uncomfortable; and his fingers, in spite of himself, sought that
breast-pocket which he had so carefully buttoned up, as though his
companion's observation had had a literal and material meaning.

"Do you know Plymouth?" asked he of the stranger, by way of turning the
conversation.

"Perfectly. Indeed, I live here; but I did not wish to arrive at home at
such an unseasonable hour as the coach comes in. If, as a resident, I
can be of any service to you, pray command me. But you don't eat, Sir."

Richard, indeed, was only playing with a piece of toast, while eggs and
ham and marmalade were disappearing with marvelous rapidity down the
throat of his companion.

"I am not like you," he answered. "Want of sleep produces want of
appetite with me. With respect to Plymouth, you are very good to offer
me your hospitality, but--"

"Services, Sir--services while in the town, I said," observed the little
man. "Let us have no misunderstanding, nor yet obligation; that's my
motto. Now, what can I do for you, short of that?"

"Well, I shall not greatly tax your prudence," rejoined Richard, this
time laughing heartily, "though you must certainly be either a Scotchman
or a lawyer, to be so anxious to act 'without prejudice.' The only
information I have to ask of you is, at what time the bank opens; for I
have got some business to do there, which I want to effect as soon as
possible, and then be off."

"The bank! Well, there's more than one bank in Plymouth," observed the
little man, scraping up the last shreds of marmalade on his plate. "They
open at different hours."

"The Miners' Company is the one I want to go to."

"That opens at nine, Sir. It's on my way home, and I shall be glad to
show it you."

"Thank you; but it was pointed out to me last night," said Richard,
stiffly; for he preferred to effect the business which he had on hand
alone. "It is still raining. What do you say to a cigar in the
smoking-room?"

"With pleasure, when I have just written three words to tell my people
of my arrival," answered the stranger; "however, I can do that as well
there as here."

And so eager did he seem for Richard's society that he had pen and paper
brought into the hotel divan, and from thence dispatched his note.

"Take one of my cigars," said Richard, good-naturedly, offering his
case.

"No, no," replied the little man, shaking his head, and looking very
grave; "you know my motto, Sir."

"A cigar," urged Richard, "is one of those things that one can accept
even from a stranger without that sense of obligation from which you
shrink so sensitively. Seriously, my good Sir, I shall feel offended if
you refuse me this small favor."

"Sooner than that shall be, Sir, I'll take your cigar," said the little
man. He held it up to the light, and sniffed at it with great zest.
"This is no common brand, I reckon."

"Well, it is better than you will get out of the waiter's box, I dare
say," answered Richard, smiling; for his cigars, like every thing else
he had about him, were of the best.

"Now I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll put this in my pocket, if you'll
allow me, young gentleman, for a treat when I get home. After an early
morning breakfast, I generally prefer a pipe;" and he produced one
accordingly from his pocket.

The room was melancholy to the last degree, being lit only from a
sky-light; relics of the last night's dissipation, in the shape of empty
glasses and ends of cigars, were still upon the small round tables;
while a two-days-old newspaper was the only literature of which the
apartment could boast.

"This place and hour would be dull enough, Sir, without your society,"
observed Richard, genially. "I don't think I was ever up so early in my
life before, nor in such a den of a place."

"It's reckoned a good inn, too, is the _George and Vulture_; but the
life of a hotel, you see, don't begin till later on in the day."

"That's a pity," said Richard, laughing, "as I sha'n't have the
opportunity of seeing it at its best. I hope to be away by 9.30, or 10
at latest."

"Ah," said the little man, "indeed!" His words were meaningless enough,
but there was really a genuine air of interest in his tone. He was a
vulgar fellow, no doubt; but Richard rather liked him, mainly because it
was evident that the other was captivated by him. He had laid himself
out to please John Trevethick and his friend Solomon for the last six
months, without success, yet here was a man who had evidently
appreciated him at once. If he was but a bagman, or something of that
sort, it was only the more creditable to his own powers of pleasing; and
his vanity--and Richard was as vain of his social attractions as a
girl--was flattered accordingly. In his solitude and wretchedness, too,
the society of this stranger had been very welcome.

"I am sorry," said Richard, when they had passed some hours together,
and it was getting near nine o'clock, "that I am obliged to leave
Plymouth so soon. It would have given me great pleasure if you could
have come and dined with me; though, indeed, I fear I have already
detained you from your family. It was the act of a good Samaritan to
keep me company so long, and I thank you heartily."

"Don't mention it, Sir--don't mention it," said the little man, quite
huskily. "I have only done my duty."

This courteous sentiment made Richard laugh. "Your duty to your
neighbor, eh?" said he. "Well, I must now wish you good-by;" and he held
out his hand with a frank smile. "Perhaps we may meet again some day."

"Perhaps so, Sir," said the other, knocking the ashes out of his pipe,
and accompanying him into the hall.

At the hotel door Richard called a fly, as it was now raining heavily.
"Shall I take you as far as the bank," said he, "since your road home
lies that way? or is even that little service contrary to your motto?"

"I have got to see to my luggage," answered the other, evasively.

"Well, good-by, then."

"Good-by."

The vehicle rattled down a street or two, then stopped before a building
of some pretension, with a tall portico and a flight of stone steps
before it. Another fly drove up at the same moment, but it did not
attract Richard's attention, which was concentrated upon the business he
had in hand, and made his heart beat very fast. He pushed his way
through the huge swinging door, and found himself in a vast room, with a
large circular counter, at which clerks were standing, each behind a
little rail. He had never been inside a bank before, and he looked
around him curiously. On the left was an opaque glass door, with
"Manager's Room" painted on it; on the right was an elevated desk, from
which every part of the apartment could be commanded; the clerk who sat
there looked down at him for an instant as he entered, but at once
resumed his occupation. Every body was busy with pen and ledger; men
were thronging in and out like bees, giving or receiving sheaves of
bank-notes, or heaps of gold and silver. Richard waited until there was
a vacant place at the counter, then stepped up with: "I want to
exchange some Bank of England notes, please, for your own notes."

"Next desk, Sir," said the man, not even looking up, but pointing with
the feather of his quill pen, then scratching away again as though he
would have overtaken the lost time.

There was a singing in Richard's ear as he repeated his request, and
fumbled in his breast-pocket for the notes; then a silence seemed to
fall upon the place, which a moment before had been so alive and noisy.
Every pen seemed to stop; the ring of the gold, the rustle of paper,
ceased; only the tick of the great clock over the centre door was heard.
"Thief, thief! thief, thief!" were the words it said.

"How much is there?" inquired the clerk, taking the bundle of notes from
Richard's hand; and his voice sounded as though it was uttered in an
empty room.

"Two thousand pounds," said Richard. "Is there any difficulty about it?
If so, I can take them elsewhere."

But the clerk had got them already, and was beginning to put down the
number of each in a great ledger. Richard had not calculated upon this
course of procedure, and had his reasons for objecting to it.

"80,431, 80,432, 80,433," read out the clerk aloud, and every soul in
the room seemed listening to him.

"That will do," said another voice close to Richard's ear, and a light
touch was laid upon his arm. Scarlet to the very temples, he looked up,
and there stood the little red-whiskered man from whom he had parted not
ten minutes before. A very grave expression was now in those twinkling
black eyes. "I have a warrant for your apprehension, young man, upon a
charge of theft," said he.

"Of theft!" said Richard, angrily. "What nonsense is this?"

"Those notes are stolen," said the little man. "Your name is Richard
Yorke, is it not?"

"What's that to you?" said Richard. "I decline--"

Here the door of the manager's room was opened, and out strode Solomon
Coe, with a look of cruel triumph on his harsh features. "That's your
man, right enough," said he. "He'd wheedle the devil, if once you let
him talk. Be off with him!"

The next moment Richard's wrists were seized, and he was hurried out
between two men--his late acquaintance of the hotel and a
policeman--down the bank steps, and into a fly that stood there in
waiting.

"To the County Jail!" cried Solomon, as he entered the vehicle after
them. Then he turned to the red-whiskered man, and inquired fiercely,
why he hadn't put the darbies on the scoundrel.

"Never you mind that," was the sharp reply. "I'm responsible for the
young gentleman's safe-keeping, and that's enough."

"Young gentleman! I am sure the young gentleman ought to be much obliged
to you," replied Solomon, contemptuously. "Young felon, you mean."

"Nobody's a felon until after trial and conviction," observed the little
man, decisively. "Let's have no misunderstanding and no obligation, Mr.
Coe; that's my motto."

Here the wheels began to rumble, and a shadow fell over the vehicle and
those it held: they were passing under the archway of the jail.




CHAPTER XXII.

LEAVING THE WORLD.


What wondrous and surpassing change may be in store for us when the soul
and body have parted company none can guess; but of all the changes of
which man has experience in this world, there is probably none so great
and overwhelming as that which he undergoes when, for the first time, he
passes the material barrier that separates guilt from innocence, and
finds himself in the clutches of the criminal law. To be no longer a
free man is a position which only one who has lost his freedom is able
to realize; the shock, of course, is greater or less according to his
antecedents. The habitual breaker of the law is aware that sooner or
later to the "stone jug" he must come; his friends have been there, and
laughed and joked about it, as Eton boys who have been "swished" make
merry with the block and rod, and affect to despise them; the situation
is, in idea at least, familiar to him; yet even he, perhaps, feels a
sinking of the heart when the door of the prison-cell clangs upon him
for the first time, and shuts him from the world. The common liberty to
go where we will is estimated, while we have it, at nothing; but, once
denied, it becomes the most precious boon in life. How infinitely more
poignant, then, must be the feelings of one thus unhappily
circumstanced, to whom the idea of such a catastrophe has never
occurred; who has always looked upon the law from the vantage-ground of
a good social position, and acquiesced in its working with complacence,
as in something which could have no personal relation to himself!

Thus it was with Richard Yorke when, for the first time, he found
himself a prisoner in the hands of Mr. Dodge, the detective, and his
blue-coated assistant. For the time he felt utterly unmanned, and might
have even fainted, or burst into tears, but for the consciousness that
Solomon Coe was sitting opposite to him. The presence of that gentleman
acted as a cordial upon him; the idea that he owed his miserable
position to that despised boor wounded him to the quick, but at the same
time gave him an outward show of calmness: he could not have broken down
before that man, though he had been standing beneath the gallows-tree.
Despondency would have utterly possessed him but for hate and rage--hate
of his rival and all who might be concerned in this catastrophe, and
rage at the arrest itself. For, though he had not the consciousness of
innocence to support him, he had no sense of guilt. He had had no
intention of absolutely stealing Trevethick's money; and yet he foresaw
how difficult it would be to clear himself of that grave charge. He also
looked back, and perceived for the first time the magnitude of the folly
which he had committed. He felt no shame for it as a crime--he had not
principle enough for that; but he recognized the extent of the
imprudence, and its mad audacity; yet he was mad and audacious still. He
had been brought up as much his own master as any youth in England, no
matter how rich or nobly born; he had never known control, nor even
(except during those few days at Crompton) what it was to control
himself; and he could not realize the fact that he might actually come
to share the fate of common thieves; to wear a prison garb; to be shut
up within stone walls for months or even years; no longer a man, but a
convict, known only by his number from other jail-birds. He did not
think it could even come to his standing in the felon's dock, subject to
the curious gaze of a hundred eyes, the indifferent regard of the stern
judge, the--In the midst of these bitter thoughts, which were indeed
disputations with his fears, the fly had stopped at the jail gate, and
Mr. Dodge, with a cheerful air, observed: "We must get out here, if you
please, Mr. Yorke."

Richard hesitated; he was mistrustful of his very limbs, so severely had
the sight of those stone walls shaken him.

"Your young friend does not seem much to like the idea of lodging here,"
said Solomon, with a brutal laugh.

"That is fortunate," answered the detective, dryly, "since he will not
have to do so. In my profession, Mr. Coe, we hold it a mean trick to
kick a man when he is down.--This way, Sir, if you please." For, at the
sound of Solomon's voice, Richard was up and out in a moment. "It is
merely a form that you have to go through before we go before the beak."

"A form?" asked Richard, hoarsely; "what form?"

"We shall have to search you, Sir; that's all."

"That's all," echoed Solomon, with a grin.

Richard's face changed from white to red, from red to white, by turns.

"Mr. Coe will stay where he is," said Dodge, peremptorily, as he led the
way into a little room that opened from the gate-keeper's parlor.

"I thank you for that, Mr. Dodge," said Richard, gratefully.

"Not at all, Sir. If you have any thing of a compromising nature about
you--revolvers or such like--that's my business and the beak's, not
his.--Officer do your duty."

Richard was searched accordingly. He had no revolver; but what
astonished himself more than it did the searcher was that a cigar was
found loose in his breast-pocket.

"Why, this must be the one that I gave to you this morning, Mr. Dodge."

"Just so, Sir. I put it back again as we came along. You know my motto.
When you come to be your own master again--which I hope'll be soon--then
I'll smoke it with you with pleasure; they'll keep it for you very
careful, you may depend upon it, and baccar is a thing as don't spoil.
That's a pretty bit of jewelry now--_that_ is." Mr. Dodge's remark
referred to a gold locket, with the word "Harry" outside it, written in
diamonds; and within a portrait of her, which he had executed himself.
"That's a token of some favorite brother, I dare say?"

"Yes," said Richard. "Might I keep that, if you please; or, at all
events, might I ask that it should not be shown to the man in yonder
room? It's my own, Mr. Dodge," added he, earnestly, "upon my word and
honor."

"No doubt, Sir; no doubt. There's no charge against you except as to
these notes. I must put it down on the list, because that's the law; but
you can keep it, and welcome, so far as I am concerned; though I am
afraid the Cross Key folks will not be so very easy with you."

"The Cross Key folks?"

"Well, Mr. Yorke, it's no use to hide from you that you will be sent to
Cross Key; that's the nearest jail to Gethin, I believe. I am afraid the
beak will be for committing you; the sum is so large, and the case so
clear, that I doubt whether he'll entertain the question of bail. You
have no friends in Plymouth, either, you told me."

"None," said Richard, sadly; "unless," he added, in a whisper, "I can
count you as one."

"Officer, just fetch a glass of water," said Dodge; "the prisoner says
he feels faint.--Look here, young gentleman," continued he, earnestly,
as soon as they were alone, "this is no use; I can do nothing for you
whatever, except wish you luck, which I do most heartily. I am as
helpless as a baby in this matter. I can only give you one piece of good
advice: when the beak asks if you've any thing to say, unless you have
something that will clear you, and can be proved--you know best about
that--say, 'I reserve my defense;' then, as soon as you're committed,
ask to see your solicitor; send for Weasel of Plymouth; your friends
have money, I conclude. Hush! Here's the water, young man; just sip a
little, and you'll soon come round."

Not another word, either then or afterward, did Mr. Dodge exchange with
his prisoner. Perhaps he began to think he had acted contrary to the
motto which was his guide in life in the good-will he had already shown
him. Perhaps he resented the favorable impression that the attractions
and geniality of his acquaintance at the hotel had made upon him as
unprofessional. At all events, during their drive from the jail to the
office where the magistrate was sitting--it was not open at the hour
when Richard had been arrested, or he would have been searched
there--Mr. Dodge seemed to have lost all sympathy for his "young
gentleman," chatting with the officer quite carelessly upon matters
connected with their common calling, and even offering Mr. Coe a pinch
from his snuff-box, without extending that courtesy to Yorke. Nay, when
they were just at their journey's end, he had the want of feeling to
look his prisoner straight in the face, and whistle an enlivening air.
The melody was not so popular as it has since become, or perhaps Mr.
Dodge had doubts of his ability to render it with accuracy, but, as if
to inform all whom it might concern what it was that he was executing,
he hummed aloud the fag-end of the tune, keeping time with his fist upon
his knee, "Pop goes the weasel, pop goes the weasel."

Richard understood, and thanked him with his eyes. He had no need,
however, to be reminded of the good-natured detective's word of advice.
The ignominy which he had just undergone had had the effect of revealing
to him the imminence as well as the full extent of the peril in which he
stood. Henceforward he could think of nothing--not even revenge--save
the means of extricating himself from the toils which every moment
seemed to multiply about him. The time for action was, indeed, but
short; if he was ever (for it already seemed "ever") to be free again,
the means must be taken to deliver him at once. The assizes would be
held at Cross Key--he had heard the Gethin gossips talk of them, little
thinking that they would have any interest for him--in three weeks.
Until then, at all events, he must be a prisoner; beyond that time he
would not, dared not, look.

Within ten minutes Richard Yorke stood committed to Cross Key Jail.

He followed his friend's counsel in all respects. But the messenger
dispatched for Mr. Weasel returned with the news that that gentleman was
out of town; he was very busy at that season--there were other folks in
difficulties besides our hero, urgent for his consolation and advice as
to their course of conduct before my Lord the Judge. Mr. Dodge, however,
assured Richard, upon taking leave, that he would dispatch the attorney
after him that very night.

The road to Cross Key was, for many miles, the same which he had lately
traveled in the reverse direction; yet how different it looked! He had
been in far from good spirits on that occasion, but how infinitely more
miserable was he now! The hills, the rocks, the streams were far more
beautiful than he had ever thought them, but they mocked him with their
beauty. He longed to get out of the vehicle, and feel the springy turf,
the yielding heather, beneath his feet; to lave his hands in the
sparkling brook, to lie on the moss-grown rock, and bask in the blessed
sun. Perhaps he should never see them any more--these simple everyday
beauties, of which he had scarcely taken any account when they were
freely offered for his enjoyment. He looked back on even the day before,
wherein he had certainly been wretched enough, with yearning regret. He
had at least been a free man, and when should he be free again? Ah,
when! He was, as it were, in a prison on wheels, guarded by two jailers.
Escape would have been hopeless, even had it been judicious to make the
attempt. His only consolation was, that Solomon Coe was no longer with
him to jeer at his dejected looks. He had started for Gethin with the
news, doubtless as welcome to Trevethick as to himself, of the
prisoner's committal. What would Harry say when she came to hear of it?
What would she not suffer? Richard cast himself back in his seat, and
groaned aloud. The man at his side exchanged a glance with his
companion. "He is guilty, this young fellow." "Without doubt, he's
booked." They had their little code of signals for such occasions.

The day drew on, and the soft sweet air of evening began to rise. They
had stopped here and there for refreshments, but Richard had taken
nothing; he had, however, always accompanied his custodians within doors
at the various halting-places. He was afraid of the crowd that might
gather about the vehicle to look at the man that was being taken to
prison. There was nothing to mark him as such, but it seemed to him that
nobody could fail to know it. He welcomed the approach of night. They
still traveled on for hours, since there was no House of Detention at
which he could be placed in safety on the road; at last the wheels
rumbled over the uneven stones of a little country town; they stopped
before a building similar, so far as he could see by the moonlight, to
that to which he had been taken at Plymouth: all jails are alike,
especially to the eyes of the prisoner. A great bell was rung; there was
a parley with the keeper of the gate. The whole scene resembled
something which Richard remembered to have read in a book; he knew not
what, nor where. A door in the wall was opened; they led him up some
stone steps; the door closed behind him with a clang; and its locks
seemed to bite into the stone.

"This way, prisoner," said a gruff voice.

Door after door, passage after passage; a labyrinth of stone and iron.
At last he was ushered into a small chamber, unlike any thing he had
ever seen in his life. His sleeping-room at the keeper's lodge at
Crompton was palatial compared with it. The walls were stone; the floor
of a shining brown, so that it looked wet, though it was not so. His
jailer-chamberlain pointed to a low-lying hammock, stretched upon two
straps between the walls. "There, tumble in," he said; "you will have
your bath in the morning. Look alive!"

Richard obeyed him at once. "Good-night, warder," said he.

"Night!" grumbled the other; "it's morn-in'. A pretty time to be
knockin' up people at a respectable establishment. If you want any
thin'--broiled bones, or deviled kidneys"--for the man was a wag in his
quaint way--"ring this 'ere bell. As for the other rules and regulations
of her Majesty's jail, you'll learn them at breakfast-time."

The door slammed behind him.

How the doors _did_ slam in that place! And Richard was left alone. If,
instead of the metal ewer of water that stood by his bed-head, there had
been a glass of deadliest poison, he would have seized it greedily, and
emptied it to the dregs.




CHAPTER XXIII.

THE LETTER LOOK.


On the day that Richard left Gethin, which was itself an incident to
keep the tongues of its gossips wagging for a good week, another
occurrence took place in that favored neighborhood, and one of even more
absorbing interest--the workings of Dunloppel were suspended. This, of
course, was not a wholly unexpected catastrophe. The new vein, after
giving an exceedingly rich yield for some months, had of late, it was
whispered, evinced signs of exhaustion, although the fact was not known
that for several weeks the undertaking had been carried on at a loss.
Neither Trevethick nor Solomon, who were the principal proprietors, was
the sort of man to play long at a losing game, or to send good money
after bad; so, for the present, the pit was closed. But Solomon believed
in Dunloppel; contrary to his custom, he had not disposed of a single
share when the mine was at a premium, and his stake in it was very
large.

Only a few minutes after Richard had departed for Plymouth with his
check, Solomon returned to the inn with thoughtful brow.

Trevethick was moodily smoking his pipe in the porch, still balancing
the rival claims of his sons-in-law elect, and dissatisfied with both of
them. He did not share Solomon's hopes, and he detested losing his money
above every thing. "Well, you've packed off all those fellows, I hope,
that have been eating me out of house and home for these three weeks?"

"I've closed the mine, if that's what you mean," said Solomon. "But" (he
looked cautiously up at the windows of the inn, which were all open--the
guests were out in search of the picturesque, and Harry was on the
tower, straining her eyes after Richard) "I want to have a word with you
in private, Trevethick."

"Come into the bar parlor, then," grunted the landlord, for he did not
much relish the idea of a confidential talk with Solomon just then,
since it might have relation to a matter about which he had not fully
made up his mind to give him an answer.

"Is that young painter fellow out of the way, then?" asked Solomon. "We
have never had a place to ourselves, it seems to me, since _he_ came to
Gethin."

"Yes, yes, he's far enough off," answered Trevethick, more peevishly
than before, for Sol's remark seemed to foreshadow the very subject he
would fain have avoided talking about. "He's gone to Plymouth, he is,
and won't be back these five days."

"Umph!" said Sol. If he had said, "I wish he would never come back at
all," he could not have expressed his feelings more clearly.

"Well," growled Trevethick, when they were in his sanctum, and had shut
the door, "what is it now? Bad news, of course, of some sort."

It was a habit with Trevethick, as it is with many men of his stamp, to
have a perpetual grievance against Providence--to profess themselves as
never astonished at any bad turn that _It_ may do them--and, besides, he
was on the present occasion desirous of taking up a position of
discontent beforehand, so that the expected topic might not appear to
have produced it.

"No; it's good news, Trevethick," said Solomon, quietly--"the best of
news, as it seems to me; and I hope to bring you over to the same
opinion."

"He's got some scheme for marrying Harry out of hand," thought the
harassed landlord. "How the deuce shall I put him off?"

There was not the slightest excuse for doing so; if Solomon had been of
a less phlegmatic disposition, he might have married her a year ago,
young as she was. "Read this," said he, producing a letter from his
pocket, "and tell me what you think of it. It's old Stratum's report
upon the mine."

"Ay, ay," said Trevethick, diving into his capacious pocket for his
silver spectacles. As a general rule, he was wont to receive all such
reports with discredit, and to throw cold water upon Sol's more sanguine
views; but it was several minutes before he could get himself into his
normal state of dissatisfied depression, so much relieved was he to find
that his daughter was not to be the topic of the conversation.

"Here's the plan," continued Solomon, "which accompanied the letter. I
got it just after I dismissed the men; and, upon my life, I'd half a
mind to set them on again. But I thought I'd just have a talk with you
first."

"Ay," said Trevethick--"well?" He was quite himself again now--crafty,
prudent, reticent; about as unpromising a gentleman to "get on with,"
far less get the better of in a bargain, as a Greek Jew. But Solomon was
quite accustomed to him.

"Stratum feels confident about the continuation of the lode, you see;
and also that the fault is not considerable. We shall not have to sink
fifty feet, he thinks, before we come on the vein again."

"He _thinks_" said Trevethick, contemptuously. "Is he ready to sink his
own money in it?"

"It's no good asking him that," said Solomon, coolly, "because he's got
none. But I have always found Stratum pretty correct in his judgment;
and, as for me, I believe in Dunloppel. The question is, shall I go on
with it single-handed, or will you go shares?"

"If it's so good a thing, why not keep it yourself, Sol?"

"Because my money is particularly well laid out at present, and I don't
want to shift it."

"That's just the case with mine," said Trevethick, from behind the plan.

"I thought you might have five hundred pounds or so lying idle, that's
all," returned the other. "I'd give six per cent. for it just now."

"Oh, that's another thing. Perhaps I have. I'll see about it."

"If you could get it me at once, that would be half the battle," urged
Solomon. "There are some good men at the mine whom I should not like to
lose. If I could send round to-night to tell them not to engage,
themselves elsewhere, since they're opening so many new pits just now,
that would be a relief to my mind."

"Very good; you may do that, then. I'll write for the money to-morrow."

So blunt, straightforward, and exceedingly unpleasant a man as John
Trevethick was, ought to have been the very incarnation of Truth,
whereas that last observation of his was, to say the least of it,
Jesuitical. There was no occasion to write to any body for what he had
got above stairs, locked up in his private strong-box. But he did not
wish all the world to know that, nor even his _alter ego_, Solomon Coe.

Trevethick, although a close-fisted fellow, was no miser in the vulgar
sense. He kept this vast sum at hand, partly because he had no
confidence in ordinary securities, and partly because he wished to be in
a position, at a moment's notice, to accomplish his darling scheme. If
Carew should happen to change his mind, it would be because he was in
want of ready money, and he would be in mad haste to get it. His
impatience on such occasions brooked no delay on the score of advantage;
and the man that could offer him what he wanted, as it were, in his open
hand, would be the financier he would favor in preference to a much less
grasping accommodator, who might keep him waiting for a week. It was not
so much the tempting bait of ready money that caught the Squire as the
fact of his wishes being obeyed upon the instant. He had not been used
to wait, and his pride revolted against it; and many a time had a usurer
missed his mark by not understanding with how great a bashaw he had to
deal in the person of Carew of Crompton. Trevethick was aware of this,
and indeed the chaplain had given him a hint to keep the proposed
purchase-money within easy reach, in case the Squire's mood might alter,
or his necessities demand his consent to what Mr. Whymper honestly
believed to be a very advantageous offer. Otherwise, Trevethick was not
one to keep a hoard in his house for the mere pleasure of gloating over
it. He had not looked into his strong-box for months, nor would he have
done so now, but for this unexpected demand upon it. It was safe enough,
he knew, in his daughter's room; and as for its having been opened, that
was an impossibility; the padlock hung in front of it as usual, and it
would have taken a man half a lifetime to have hit upon its open sesame
by trial. He was justly proud of that letter lock, which was his own
contrivance, invented when he was quite a young man, and had been
perforce compelled to turn his attention to mechanics, and he considered
it a marvel of skill. It was characteristic in him that he had never
revealed its secret even to his daughter. Indeed, with the exception of
Harry, nobody at Gethin--save, perhaps, Hannah, when she dusted her
young mistress's room--had ever set eyes upon it, nor, if they had,
would they have understood its meaning.

It was therefore without the slightest suspicion of its having been
tampered with, that, an hour or two after the conversation just
narrated, Trevethick repaired to his strong-box, with the intention of
taking from it the sum of money required by Solomon. The padlock was
like a little clock, except that it had the letters of the alphabet
round its face instead of figures, and three hands instead of two; this
latter circumstance insured, by its complication, the safety of the
treasure, but at the same time rendered it useless--unless he broke the
box open--to the possessor himself if by any accident he should forget
the letter time at which he had set it; and accordingly Trevethick was
accustomed to carry a memorandum of this about with him; even if he lost
it, it would be no great matter, for what meaning would it convey to any
human being to find a bit of paper with the letters B, N, Z upon it?
Harry, as we have said, was out of the house, so his daughter's room was
untenanted. He went to a cupboard, and took down the box from its usual
shelf, with the same feeling of satisfaction that an old poet recurs to
his first volume of verse; he may have written better things, and things
that have brought him more money, but those spring leaves are dearest to
him of all. So it was with Trevethick's spring lock. He adjusted the
hands, and the padlock sprang open; he lifted the lid, and the box was
empty; the two thousand pounds in Bank of England notes were gone.

He was a big bull-necked man, of what is called (in the reports of
inquests) "a full habit of body," and the discovery was almost fatal to
him. His face grew purple, the veins in his forehead stood out, and his
well-seasoned head, which liquor could so little affect, went round and
round with him, and sang like a humming-top. He was on the very brink of
a fit, which might have "annihilated space and time" (as far as he was
concerned), "and made two lovers happy." But the star of Richard Yorke
was not in the ascendant. The old man held on by the shelf of the
cupboard, and gradually came to himself. He did not even then comprehend
the whole gravity of the position; the sense of his great loss--not only
of so much wealth, but of that which he had secured with such toil, and
laid by unproductively so long for the accomplishment of his darling
purpose--monopolized his mind. Who _could_ have been the thief? was the
one question with which he concerned himself, and the answer was not
long delayed. It was the coincidence of amount in the sum stolen with
that which Richard had gone to Plymouth to realize, that turned his
suspicions upon the young artist. Why, the scoundrel had fixed upon that
very sum as the test of his possessing an independence for a reason that
was now clear enough: it was the exact limit of what he knew he could
lay his hand upon. But how _did_ he know?--or, rather (for the old man's
thoughts were still fixed upon the mechanical mystery of his loss), how
did he open the padlock? Then there flashed upon his mind that incident
of his having dropped the memorandum out of his watch-case in the bar
parlor in Richard's presence, and the whole affair seemed as clear as
day. It was Richard's intention to change the notes at Plymouth for the
paper of the Miners' Bank, or for gold, and then to exhibit it to him in
its new form as his own property. He did not believe that the young
artist intended to steal it; but he was by no means less furious with
him upon that account--quite otherwise. He piqued himself upon his
caution and long-headedness, and resented every deception practiced upon
him even more than an injury. Moreover, he felt that but for Solomon's
unexpected request for the loan the plan would have succeeded. In all
probability, he would not have discovered his loss until it had been too
late--he would not have known how to refuse the young man leave to
become his daughter's suitor; and once his son-in-law, he could scarcely
have prosecuted him for replacing two thousand pounds' worth of
bank-notes in his strong-box by notes of another kind. Exasperated
beyond all measure as Trevethick was, it did credit to his sagacity that
even at such a moment he did not conceive of Richard Yorke as being a
common thief. But he concluded him to be much worse, and deserving of
far heavier punishment, as a man that would have obtained his daughter
under false pretenses. He went down stairs, taking the box with him, to
seek his friend. Solomon had just returned from the cottage over the
way, where he had been giving orders to one of the best miners to still
hold himself engaged at Dunloppel, and had bidden him tell others the
same. He was in high spirits, and was twirling about in his large hands
Mr. Stratum's diagnosis of the mine.

"You may put that away and have done with it," said Trevethick,
hoarsely; "I have no money to lend you for that, nor nothing else. This
box held two thousand pounds of mine, but it's all gone now."

"Two thousand pounds!" exclaimed Solomon, too amazed at the magnitude of
the sum to realize what had happened to it. "Two thousand pounds in a
box!" He had always suspected that the old man kept something in a
stocking-foot, and had often rallied him upon his unnecessary caution
with respect to investments; but this statement of his appeared
incredible.

"What does it matter if it was twenty thousand, when I tell you it's
gone," said Trevethick, sullenly. "That limb of the devil, Yorke, is off
with every shilling of it."

"Do you mean to say _he's_ stolen it?" inquired the other, even more
astonished than before.

"He's taken it to Plymouth with him, that's all."

Solomon Coe was a man of action, and prompt in emergencies, but for the
moment he was fairly staggered. He had no liking for Richard, but such a
charge as this appeared incredible; it seemed more likely that the old
man had repented of his late offer of the loan of five hundred pounds,
and had invented this monstrous fiction to excuse himself.

"Where was the box kept?" asked Solomon, dryly.

For a moment or two Trevethick was silent.

"It is as I suspected," thought the other; "the old man is making up the
story as he goes on."

But the fact was that this question had gone to the very root of the
matter, and opened Trevethick's dull eyes wide. In his chagrin at his
loss (though he did believe it would be temporary), and irritation at
his sagacity having been set at naught, he had overlooked the most
serious feature of the whole catastrophe. How had Yorke come to the
knowledge that the strong-box was kept in Harry's room? and under what
circumstances had he obtained access to it?

"Where's Harry?" exclaimed Trevethick, starting up with a great oath;
for it flashed upon him that she had fled with Richard. "Where's my
daughter?"

"I saw her in the village just now," said Solomon, "talking to old
Madge. She had been for a stroll out Turlock way, she said. But what's
the use of vexing _her_ about the matter? Women are much best kept in
the dark when one don't want things to be talked about. The more quiet
you keep this story, the more chance you'll have of getting your money
back, you may depend upon it. It was in notes, of course?"

"Yes, in notes," answered the other, with a vacant look, and drumming on
the table with his right hand.

"Come, come, Trevethick, you must keep your head," remonstrated Solomon.
"I'll act for you quick enough, if you'll only supply me with the means.
It's a great loss, but it should not paralyze a man. You've got a
memorandum of the numbers of the notes?"

"Yes, yes; I have somewhere."

"Well; go and fetch it, while I order out a horse. I can get to Plymouth
before wheels can do it, and shall catch this scoundrel yet. He'll be
going there to change the notes, I reckon?"

"Yes, yes," said Trevethick; "he'll be at the _George and Vulture_; so
he said."

"Good," replied Solomon. "I'll get a warrant from old Justice Smallgood
on my way. Rouse up, man, rouse up; you shall have your money back, I
tell you, and see this rascal lagged for life into the bargain."

"If I could only get him hanged!" answered the old man, fiercely--"if I
could only get _him_ hanged, Sol, I'd let the money go, and welcome!"

Solomon stared after him, as he left the room and tramped up stairs in
search of the list of notes, with a ludicrous expression of wonder. In
_his_ eyes, no revenge at present seemed worth so extravagant a price.
But Trevethick had his reasons, or thought he had, for this excess of
hate; his slow-moving yet powerful nature resembled the python--it was
exceedingly tenacious when its object was once grasped, and it was apt
to glut itself.




CHAPTER XXIV.

A HARD ALTERNATIVE.


Solomon had ridden off, and was half-way to Turlock before Trevethick
felt himself sufficiently collected to summon Hannah, and bid her send
for her young mistress. He could not go in search of her himself and
speak what he had to ask: no bird of the air must carry her reply, no
wind of heaven breathe it, if it was such as he feared. There must be no
"scene" in public to let loose the gossips' tongues. He sat in the bar
parlor, with his huge head leaning on his hands, brooding over his
wrongs, and waiting for her--for the daughter by whose wicked
connivance, as he thought, he had been despoiled of his hard-earned
gains. He did not reproach himself for having thrown her so much with
Richard, in order that the latter might be kept in good-humor, and apt
to forward his plans as to Wheal Danes. He "wondered at their vice, and
not his folly." As to there being any thing beyond a flirtation between
the young people, he did not suspect it; but even as matters were, he
was bitterly enraged against Harry, and would have strangled Richard out
of hand if he could have got near him. It was evident to him that this
fellow had been courting his daughter, though he knew she was plighted
to another, and had wormed out of her the secret of his hoarded wealth.
Six months ago she would not for her life have dared to tell what she
knew he wished to hide; and now this young villain had wound himself so
cunningly about her that she had no will but his, and had even helped
him to rob her own flesh and blood. His heel was on that serpent's head,
however, or would be in a day or two, and _then_--The old man ground his
teeth as though his enemy were between them.

"Well, father, here I am; Hannah said you wanted me."

Harry's voice was as calm as she could make it, but her young limbs
trembled, and her face was very pale.

[Illustration: "SHE DRAGGED UPON HIS ARM."]

"Come here--nearer!" cried Trevethick, hoarsely, seizing her by the
wrist. "Do you know that you are the only creature but two--but one, I
may say, for gratitude ain't love--that I have ever loved in this
world--that I have worked for you, planned for you, and for you only,
all my life?"

"Yes, father; and I am very grateful for it," answered she,
submissively.

"No doubt," sneered the old man; "and the way you show how much you feel
it, the way you show your duty and your love to your father in return,
is to put a thief--a lying, cheating thief--in the road to rob him!"

"You must be mad, father!" exclaimed Harry, in blank amazement. "I know
no thief!"

"You know Richard Yorke, you wicked, wanton wench!" interrupted
Trevethick, passionately. "And how could _he_ have heard of yonder box
except through you? Of course you'll lie; a lie or two is nothing to one
like you. But here's the proof. The padlock has been opened, the money
taken. Who did it? Who could have done it, except him, or you?"

"As I am a living woman, father, as I hope for heaven," answered Harry,
earnestly, "I did not do it, and I do not know who did."

"You didn't, and you don't! The thing's incredible. Reach here that
Bible." He still held her by the wrist. "You shall swear that, and be
damned forever! What! you never told that villain where my money lay?"

"I did tell Mr. Yorke that, father. Pray, pray, be patient. It was long
ago; we were talking together about I know not what, and it slipped from
me that you kept money in a strong-box. That was all."

"All," said the old man, bitterly, and flinging her arm away from him,
the wrist all black and bruised with his angry clutch. "What more, or
worse, could you have told than the one secret I had bid you keep? You
told him the exact sum, too, I'll warrant? Two thousand pounds!"

"Yes, father, I did. It was very wrong, and I was very sorry directly I
had done it. But I knew the secret would be safe with a gentleman like
Mr. Yorke."

"A gentleman! A cheat, an impostor, a common rogue!"

"Oh no, oh no, father!"

"But I say 'yes.' To-morrow he will have the handcuffs on him! What!
Have you tears for him, and none for me, you slut! Perhaps you _showed_
him where the box was kept, as well as told him! Did you, _did_ you?"

There was something in Harry's frightened face that made her father rise
and lock the door.

"Speak low!" said he, in an awful voice; "you have something to tell me.
Tell it."

"Only that I love him, father--oh, so much!" pleaded Harry,
passionately. "Indeed, indeed, I could not help it! I tried to love Sol,
because you wished it, but it was no use; I felt that even before
Richard came. We walked every day together for weeks and weeks, and he
was so different from Sol, so bright and pleasant, and he loved me from
the first, he said. He told me, too, that you had listened with favor to
his suit, or, at all events, had not refused to listen--that there was
good hope of your consenting to it, and without that hope he knew he
could not win me. I only promised to be his on that condition. Speak to
me, father; pardon me, father! Don't look at me so. He never meant to
thieve, I am sure of that. You asked of him some warrant of his wealth,
some proof that he could afford to marry me. You would not have done
that had you set your face utterly against him. And I think--I
fear--though Heaven is my witness that I knew nothing of it until now,
that he took this money only to bring it back to you again, and win your
favor. It was an ill deed, if he has really done it, which even yet I do
not credit; but it was done for my sake; then for _my_ sake, father,
pity him, pardon him!" She had thrown herself upon her knees beside the
old man's chair; her long hair had come unfastened, and trailed upon the
sanded floor; her hands were clasped in an agony of supplication. No
pictured Magdalen ever looked more wretched or more beautiful.

"You have more to tell?" said the old man, harshly.

She shook her head, and uttered a plaintive moan.

"Then _I_ have," continued he. "You say you love this man; now _I_ hate
him! I do not regret that he has robbed me, since, by that act, he has
placed himself in my power, and I mean to use it to the uttermost; but
for his cozening me to my face, as he has done so long, and for his
smooth, false ways, and for his impudent tales, which I had half
believed, and for his audacious attempt to pluck you from the hand for
which I had designed you, I _hate_ him. I tell you," cried out the old
man, fiercely, "if this villain had fifty lives, and the law would help
me to them, I would exact them all! If he stood here, I would brain him
with yonder staff; and if my curse could follow him beyond the grave--as
my vengeance shall to the grave's brink--he should perish in eternal
fire! _Hate_ him? I almost hate you for having loved him; and if I
thought you would dare to cross me further by holding to him now, I'd
drive you from my door this very hour. You will never see him more; but
I shall, once. This mouth shall witness against him to the uttermost;
these ears shall hear the judge pronounce on him his righteous doom."

"No, no," gasped the young girl, faintly. "If you do not hate me yet, I
pray you to unsay those words. When you curse Richard, father, you are
cursing you know not whom." She dragged upon his arm, and brought his
ear down to the level of her mouth, and whispered in it.

The old man started to his feet, and pushed her from him with a hideous
oath; then made as though he would have unlocked the door and thrown it
wide, to drive her, as he had so lately threatened, from his roof. But
there was a noise of many feet and chattering and laughter in the
passage without, which showed that some of the tourist guests had just
come in. Only a plank intervened between that little knot of giddy
pleasure-seekers, with their jokes and small-talk, and the father and
daughter in their agony.

"Mercy! mercy!" cried the wretched girl.

Trevethick clapped his hand upon her little mouth, with, "Hush, fool!
hush!" and she felt thankful that he called her by no worse name.

"Forgive me--pity--pardon," murmured she.

"Listen!" said he, in a stem whisper. "Obey me now, you wicked, wanton
slut, or I proclaim your shame before them all; one minute will decide
your fate! Be stubborn, and you shall go forth through yonder door,
discarded, friendless, infamous, to beg your bread, or win it how you
will; be tractable, and even yet you shall have a father and a home.
Make choice, and quickly; and having made it, be you sure of this, that
it shall hold. Do you hear me, trollop?"

"I hear! I hear!" she murmured, shuddering. "I will obey you now, and
ever."

"Then marry Solomon Coe--at once--within the month."

"Oh, father, mercy!"

His fingers were on the door, and the key grated in the lock.

"The sea-air makes one famish," said a gay voice outside.

"It's lucky," laughed another, "for there is sure to be nothing for
dinner but the inevitable ham and eggs."

In another instant the final barrier between herself and public shame
would have been withdrawn by that relentless hand.

"I promise--I promise--spare me!" cried the unhappy girl, and fell
fainting on the floor.

The old man drew a long, deep breath, and wiped his forehead. His
victory had not been lightly won. He lifted his daughter up and carried
her to the sofa; then raised the little clumsy window, rarely opened,
and propped it with a stick, so that the breeze might blow upon her
tear-stained cheek. How white and worn and emptied of all joy it looked!
As he gazed upon her, a touch of pity stole into her father's face. He
poured out a little spirits in a glass, and put it to her lips. "Take a
sup of this, and you'll be better, child."

She opened her heavy eyes, and shook her head.

"You said you would have mercy, father, if I promised?"

"Yes, yes; all shall be forgotten. We will not even speak of it to one
another."

"And you will pardon _him_? You will not hurt my Richard?"

"Your Richard!"

"Yes, for he was mine once. You will not bear witness against him before
the judge? Is he not punished enough in losing me? Am _I_ not punished?"

"Silence!" exclaimed the old man, in a terrible voice. His hand,
trembling with passion, had struck against the strong-box, and at its
touch his wrath broke out in flame. "That man is dead to you henceforth!
You gave your promise without conditions. Moreover, his fate is in the
hands of the law, and not in mine."




CHAPTER XXV.

AN UNEXPECTED GUEST.


Six days had come and gone since her lover's departure from Gethin, but
no tidings of him had reached Harry's ears. Solomon had returned on the
second day, and been closeted with her father for some hours, doubtless
in consultation about Richard; but not a word had been spoken of him, in
her presence, by either. She dared not mention him to her father, and
still less could she apply for information to his rival, her now
affianced bridegroom. How much, or how little, her father had disclosed
concerning him to Sol she did not know; but the latter had evidently
closed with the terms which she had in her late strait accepted on her
own part. The bans had been put up in the church upon the hill, and in a
month she would be this man's wife. She had been congratulated upon the
coming event by all the neighbors. Some had slyly hinted--little
guessing the pain they gave to that sore heart--at her late "goings-on"
with that young gentleman-painter; they had almost suspected at one time
that he would have supplanted her old flame; but they were glad to see
matters as they were. Solomon was a steady, sagacious man, as every body
knew, and would get on in the world; and what he gained he would not
waste in foolish ways. Such an old friend of her father's, too. Nothing
could be more fitting and satisfactory in all respects. Solomon,
notoriously a laggard in love, was likened to the tortoise, who had won
the race against the hare.

To have to listen to all this well-meant twaddle was misery indeed.
Perhaps, upon the whole, good honest dullness does unknowingly inflict
more grievous wounds than the barbed satiric tongue.

To think, to picture to herself the condition of her lover--deplorable,
she was convinced, from the grim satisfaction upon Solomon's face when
he first came back--was torture. She could not read, for her mind fled
from the page, like breath from a mirror; there was nothing for it but
occupation. She busied herself as she had never done before with the
affairs of the house, which afforded some excuse for escaping from Sol's
attentions, naturally grown somewhat pressing, now that his wedded
happiness was drawing so near. The _Gethin Castle_ was not, however,
very full of guests. It had been wet for a few days, and rain spoils the
harvest of the inn-keeper even more than that of the farmer. One night,
when it was pouring heavily, and such a windfall as a new tourist was
not to have been expected by the most sanguine Boniface, a lady arrived,
alone, and took up her quarters in the very room that Richard had
vacated. Trevethick himself was at the door when she had driven up and
asked with some apparent anxiety whether she could be accommodated. She
was wrapped up, and thickly veiled, but he had observed to his daughter
what a well-spoken woman she was, and an uncommon fine one too, though
her hair was gray. She had inquired whether there were any letters
waiting for her, addressed to Mrs. Gilbert; but there was no letter.

Harry took in the new arrival's supper with her own hands. It was the
time when she would otherwise have been expected in the bar parlor, to
sit by Solomon's side, and feel his arm creep round her waist, more
hateful than a serpent's fold. A fire had been lit in the sitting-room,
on account of the inclement weather, and Mrs. Gilbert was standing
beside it with her elbow on the mantel-piece. She watched Harry come in
and out, without a word, but the expression of her face was so
searching and attentive that it embarrassed her. Under other
circumstances she would certainly have delegated her duties to Hannah,
but to evade Solomon's society she would have waited on the Sphinx. She
brought in each article one at a time, and when there was nothing more
to bring inquired deferentially whether there was any thing else that
she could do for the lady.

"Yes," said Mrs. Gilbert, gravely; the voice was soft, but the manner
most earnest and impressive. "I want five minutes' talk with you; can I
have it secure from interruption?"

"Certainly, madam," answered Harry, trembling, she knew not why.

"Close the door, girl. Come nearer, and away from the window; we must
not be overheard."

Harry was constitutionally timid, and it struck her that this poor lady
was not in her right mind. She hesitated. The other seemed to read her
thoughts.

"I am not mad, child," said she, sorrowfully, "though I have trouble
enough to make me so. You are the daughter of the landlord of this inn,
I think?"

"Yes, madam."

"And I am the mother of Richard Yorke."

She was standing in the same position, and had spoken coldly and as
sternly as such a voice as hers could speak, when something in the young
girl's face caused her whole manner to change. With a sudden impulse she
turned toward her, and held out both her arms; and Harry threw herself
into them with a passionate cry, and sobbed as though her heart would
break.

"Hush! hush!" whispered the other, tenderly; "we must not weep now, but
act!"

But the girl still sobbed on, without lifting up her face. Tears had
been strangers to her heated eyes for days, and she had longed in vain
for one sympathizing breast on which to lay her head. "I have been his
ruin," she murmured; "but for me he would never have done wrong. How
you, who are his mother, must hate me!"

"No, Harry, no!" answered the other, putting aside those rich brown
locks, and gazing upon the fair shut face attentively. "I do not wonder
at his loving you; for such beauty as yours many a man would lose his
soul! I did hate you until now. But you love my Richard truly, as I see;
and we two can not afford to be enemies. We must work together for his
good to avert the ruin of which you speak, for it is imminent. He has
sent me to you, for he can not come himself. He is in prison, Harry!"

"In prison! O Heaven, have mercy!"

She sank down on her knees, and covered her face with her hands.

"Yes, Harry, think of it. Our Richard, so bright, so dear, within prison
walls! He may pass his life there for what he has done for your sake,
unless you help him."

"Help him? I would die for him!"

"Calm yourself. Sit down. To grieve is selfish where one can do better;
when all is lost it is time enough for that. All _will_ be lost a
fortnight hence, unless we bestir ourselves. Hush! I hear a step in the
passage. Who is that?"

"It is Sol, madam--Solomon Coe."

"The man you are to marry, is it not?"

A stifled groan was the girl's reply.

"I can not speak what I have to say here," said the other, thoughtfully.
"Is there no other place? Stay. I can be ill--overfatigued with my
journey--and you will come and tend me in my own room presently. That
can be managed, can't it?"

"Yes, madam, yes."

"Then wipe your eyes--be a brave girl. Think of Richard, and not of
yourself--think of him, when yonder boor is clasping the hand that once
rested in his--think of him, when those alien lips press yours at
parting, and be strong! If I were in your place, he would find that I
had not deserted him in his trouble."

"Desert him, madam? I? Oh, never!"

"To be weak is to desert him, girl--to let yonder man and your father
suspect that any friend of Richard's is beneath this roof is to desert
him--to weep when there is need to work is to desert him. Did I not tell
you I was his own mother; and yet _I_ shed no tears! Look up, and learn
your lesson from me."

The faces of the two women were indeed in strong contrast--the younger,
yielding, feeble, despairing; the elder, calm, patient of purpose, and
inflexible. Her cheeks were plump, and radiant with health; her form
erect and composed; her eyes, indeed, betrayed anxiety, but it was from
want of confidence in the person she addressed, not in herself; the
white hair seemed to fitly crown that figure, so full of earnestness and
firmness.

"I will do my best," cried the young girl, "though I know I am but weak
and foolish. Pity me, and pray for me. I am going to the torture, but I
will be resolute. Tell Hannah--the servant-maid--that you wish me to
attend you in your room. Send for me soon, for mercy's sake! How I long
to know how I can help our Richard!"

As she left the room Mrs. Gilbert's face grew dark. "A fool! a dolt!"
she muttered, angrily. "How could he risk so much for such a stake! Oh,
Richard! Richard!"--her voice began to falter at that well-loved
name--"was this to have been the end of all my hopes? What fatal issue,
then, may not my fears have end in! my beautiful, bright boy! The only
light my lonely life possessed! to think of you as like yourself, and
then to think of you as you are now!" She looked around her on the
sordid walls, the vulgar ornaments upon the mantel-piece, the wretched
ill-chosen books; then listened to the splash of the rain in the unpaved
street. "And this was Paradise, was it, my poor boy, because this girl
dwelt in it! I ought to have known that there was danger here. His
letters few and short and far between, his patient tarrying in so wild a
place, should have been enough to warn me. But not of this; in no
nightmare dream could I have conceived this unimaginable peril. Ah, me!
ah, me!" She sat down at the untasted meal, and strove to eat. "I must
be strong, for Richard's sake," she murmured. But she soon laid down her
knife and fork to muse again. "This Trevethick is a hard, stern man, I
see. There is no hope in his mercy. The only path of safety is that
which the lawyer pointed out; but will this puling girl have the heart
and head to tread it? Will she not faint, as she nearly did just now,
and lose her wits when my Richard most requires them? And then, and
then?" As if unable to continue such reflections, she rose and rang the
bell, which Hannah answered.

"Bring me a bed-candle, girl; I will seek my room at once; and please
ask Miss Trevethick to look in upon me before she retires herself, for I
feel far from well."

"Yes, ma'am." Hannah thought within herself that the new arrival looked
uncommon fresh and well considering her years, and that her young
mistress had far more need of rest and "looking to" than she; but,
nevertheless, she gave the message; and Harry, at her usual time for
going to rest, repaired to the new-comer's room accordingly.

"Are they gone to bed, those men?" inquired Mrs. Gilbert, anxiously, as
soon as the door was closed.

"No, madam; my father and Solomon always sit up together now till late."

"Ay; plotting against my boy, I doubt not. Well, let us, then,
counterplot. Who sleeps on either side of this room?"

"No one, madam. Both rooms are empty at present; the last visitor,
except yourself, left us this evening."

"And the servants?"

"They have retired long ago up stairs."

"That's well. Sit here, then, close to me, and listen. You know that
Richard is in prison, placed there by your father and that other man on
a false charge. They know as well as I or you that he had no intention
of committing the crime of which he stands accused, and yet they both
mean to swear the contrary."

"Oh, madam, they will surely not do that!"

"But I say 'Yes;' they want revenge upon him. I know them better than
you, who have known them all your life; or perhaps you say they will
not, because you hope so. Is it possible," she broke forth, impatiently,
"that in such a strait as this, girl, you can encourage such delusions!
You are like the fool in the Scripture, of whom it is written, that
though thou shouldst bray him among wheat with a pestle, yet will not
his foolishness depart from him."

"I know I am not like you, madam," answered Harry, piteously. "Richard
has often told me how wise and brave you are; but yet my love for him is
as great as yours can be. Whatever you think fit that I should do to
help him, that shall be done. Trust me; it shall, indeed."

"That's well said, girl. Be you the hand, and I the head, then, of this
enterprise, and we shall conquer yet. I say again, that if they could,
these men would swear my Richard's life away. They might as well do that
as what they mean to do, and deprive him of his liberty; cast him for
years into prison, and herd with the worst and basest of mankind; to
work under a task-master with irons on. Do you understand, girl, what it
is to which, unless we can hinder them, these wretches would doom him?"

"Yes, yes, I do," she murmured, shuddering. "It is horrible, most
horrible! God help us!"

"We must help ourselves," answered Mrs. Gilbert, sternly.

"Yet God is surely on our side, and for the truth, madam. If they swear
falsely--"

"You must swear also," interrupted the other, angrily; "you must meet
them with their own weapons, if you would defend the innocent against
them. As it is, the law is with them, and will prove the instrument of
their vengeance. The notes were found upon his person; he strove to
change them, that he might pass their substitutes more easily. He
counted upon your father not missing them from his strong-box until it
was too late. The case is clear against him that he stole them."

"Great Heaven!" cried Harry, clasping her hands in agony; "and yet he
did not mean to steal them."

"Of course not; nay more, he did _not_ steal them, for _you gave them to
him_."

"_I_ gave them to him? Nay, I never did."

"You did--you did, girl; you acquiesced in his plan for obtaining your
father's consent to your engagement; you undertook to supply him
temporarily with the money requisite to establish his pretensions as a
man of fortune. Or, if you did _not_"--and here her voice assumed an
intense earnestness--"your Richard, the man you pretend to love, will be
a convicted felon--a prisoner for all the summer of his life, and for
the rest an outcast!"

Harry was silent; her hands were pressed to her forehead, as though to
compel her fevered brain to think without distraction. "I see, I see,"
she murmured, presently; "his fate hangs upon my word. 'So help me,
God,' is what I have first to say, and then say _that_!"

"Why not?" rejoined the other, stoutly. "Will not these men, too, call
God to witness what they know to be a lie? Will not _He_ discern the
motive that prompts _you_--desire to see a wronged man righted, the
innocent set free--and the motive that prompts _them_--malicious hate?
Or do you deem the all-seeing eye of Heaven is purblind? I tell you
this, girl, if I were in _your_ place, and the man I loved stood
_justly_ in such peril, I would swear a score such oaths to set him
free! Yet here, with justice on your side and truth, and Heaven itself,
you hesitate; you shrink from uttering a mere form of words, the spirit
of which is contrary to the letter, and for conscience sake, forsooth,
will let your lover perish! _Your_ lover! yes, but you were never _his_,
although he thinks so. I will go hence, and tell him that you refuse to
speak the thing that alone can save him from life-long wretchedness; I
will go and tell him that the girl for whose sake he has brought this
load of ruin on himself will not so much as lift it with her little
finger! You fair, foul devil, how I hate you!" She drew herself up to
her full height, and regarded the wretched girl with such contemptuous
scorn that even in her abject misery she felt its barb.

"I have not earned your hate," said Harry, with some degree of firmness,
"if I have earned your scorn; nor is it meet that you should so despise
me, because I fear to anger God."

"And man," added the other, with bitterness. "You fear your father's
wrath far more than Heaven's."

That bolt went home: the unhappy girl did indeed stand in greater terror
of her father than of the sin of perjury; and the idea of affirming upon
oath what she had but a few days before so solemnly denied to him was
filling her with consternation and dismay. Still the picture that had
just been drawn of the ruin that would assuredly befall her Richard,
unless she interposed to save him, had more vivid colors even than that
of Trevethick's anger. Let him kill her, if he would, after the trial
was over, but Richard should go free.

"I will do your bidding, madam," said she, suddenly, "though I perish,
body and soul."

"You say that now, girl, and it's well and bravely said; but will you
have strength to put your words to proof? When I am gone, and there are
none but Richard's foes about you, will you resist their menaces, their
arguments, their cajolements, and be true as steel?"

"I will, I will; I swear it," answered Harry, passionately; "they shall
never turn me from it. But suppose they prevent me from leaving Gethin,
from attending at the trial at all?"

"Well thought of!" answered Mrs. Gilbert, approvingly; "she has some
wits, then, after all, this girl. As for their forbidding you to give
evidence, however, Mr. Weasel, who is Richard's lawyer, will see to
that. You will be subpoenaed as a witness for the defense. You will say,
then, that it was you who opened the strong-box, and took out the notes,
and gave them into Richard's hand."

"But how could I open the letter padlock?"

"Good, again!" answered the other; "you have asked the very question for
which I have brought the answer. Now, listen! Have you access to your
father's watch at times when he does not wear it?"

"Yes; he does not always put it on--never on the day he goes to market,
for instance. He comes back late, you see."

"Just so; and sometimes, perhaps, not altogether sober. Very good. Now,
you once opened that watch from curiosity, and saw a paper in its case
with B N Z upon it. Those letters formed the secret by which the lock
was opened. You tried it, just in fun at first, and found they did. Do
you understand?"

"I do," said Harry.

"You will not forget, then, what you have to say; or shall I
recapitulate it?"

"There is no need," groaned Harry. "I shall remember it forever, be sure
of that, and on my death-bed most of all." With a wearied look on her
wan face, and a heavy sigh, the young girl rose to go. "Good-night,
madam. We need not speak of this again to-morrow, need we?"

"Surely not, child. My mission here is done. The rain is falling still,
and that will be a sufficient excuse for my departure. I had a sick
headache to-night--remember that--but it will be better after a night's
sleep."

"Do you sleep?" asked Harry, simply. "Ah me, I would that _I_ could
sleep!"

"Of course I do. Is it not necessary for Richard's sake that I should be
well and strong? I could weep all night and fast all day, if I let my
foolish heart have its own will. It is easy enough to grieve at any
time; one has only to think to do that. Sleep, child, sleep, and dream
of him as he will be when you have set him free; then wake to work his
freedom. I will tell him that you will do so. Press your lips to mine,
that I may carry their sweet impress back to him. One moment more. Do
not get your lesson by heart, lest they should doubt you; but hold by
this one sentence, and never swerve from it: 'I gave Richard Yorke the
notes with my own hand.' That is the key which can alone unlock his
prison-door. Good-night, good-night."




CHAPTER XXVI.

MR. ROBERT BALFOUR.


An author of sensitive organization has always a difficulty in treating
the subject of prison life. If he avoids details, the critics do not
ascribe it to delicacy, but to incompetence; if, on the other hand, he
enters into them, they nudge the elbow of the public, and hint that this
particular phase of human experience is his specialty--that he "ought to
know," because he has been "through the mill" himself. This is not kind,
of course; but the expression, "a little more than kin and less than
kind," is exceedingly applicable to the critic in relation to his humble
brother, the author. We will take a middle course, then, and exhibit
only just so much of Cross Key as may be seen in a "justice's visit."

Twenty years ago, the system of treatment of prisoners before trial
incarcerated in her Majesty's jails was not so uniform as it now is. In
some they were permitted few privileges not enjoyed by the convicts
themselves; in others a considerable difference was made between the two
classes. The establishment at Cross Key leaned to the side of
indulgence. Its inmates who were awaiting their trial were allowed to
wear their own clothes; to write letters to their friends without
supervision (though not without the suspicion of it on their own part);
and to mingle together for some hours in a common room, where that
unbroken silence which pervades all our modern Bastiles, and is perhaps
their most terrible feature, was not insisted upon. In this common room
Richard Yorke was sitting on the afternoon following his incarceration.
The principal meal of the day had been just concluded, and himself and
his fellow-guests were brooding moodily over their troubles. The
platters, the block-tin knives, so rounded that the most determined
self-destroyer could never job himself with them into Hades, and the
metal mugs had been removed, and their places on the narrow deal table
were occupied by a few periodicals of a somewhat depressing character,
though "devoted to the cultivation of quiet cheerfulness," and by a
leaden inkstand much too large to be swallowed. The prisoners--upon the
ground, perhaps, of not needing the wings of liberty for any other
purpose--were expected to furnish (from them) their own pens. There were
but half a dozen of these unfortunates; all, with two exceptions, were
of the same type--that of the ordinary agricultural criminal. Ignorant,
slouching, dogged, they might have fired a rick, or killed a keeper, or
even--sacrilegious but unthinking boors--have shot a great man's
pheasant. They did not make use of their privileges of conversation
beyond a muttered word or two, but stared stupidly at the pictures in
the magazines, wondering (as well they might) at the benevolent faces of
the landlords, clergymen, and all persons in authority therein
portrayed, or perhaps not wondering at them at all, but rather pondering
whether Bet and the children had gone into "the House" or not by this
time, or whether the man in the big wig would be hard upon themselves
next Wednesday three weeks.

One of these two exceptions was, of course, our hero, who looked, by
contrast with these poor, simple malefactors, like a being from another
world, a fallen angel, but with the evil forces of his new abode already
gathering fast within him. His capacities for ill, indeed, were ten
times theirs; and the dusky glow of his dark eyes evinced that they were
at work, though they did but ineffectually reflect the hell of hate that
was beginning to be lit within him. It flamed against the whole world of
his fellow-creatures, so mad he was with pride and scorn and rage; his
hand should be against every man henceforth, as theirs was now against
him; his motto, like the _exeunt_ exclamation of the mob in the play,
should be: "Fire, burn, slay!" He was like a spoiled child who for the
first time has received a severe punishment--for a wonder, not wholly
deserved--and who wishes, in his vengeful passion, that all mankind
might have one neck in common with his persecutor, that (forgetting he
is no Hercules) his infant arms might throttle it off-hand. The love
which he still felt for Harry and his mother, far from softening him
toward others, rather increased his bitterness of spirit. They, too,
were suffering wrong and ill-treatment, and needed an avenger. His fury
choked him, so that he had eaten nothing of what had been set before
him, and he now sat leaning with his elbows on the bare boards, staring
with heated eyes at the blank wall before him, and feeding on his own
heart.

"This is your first time in quod, I guess, young gentleman," observed a
quiet voice beside him.

Richard started. He had thrown one contemptuous glance upon the company
when they first assembled, and had decided that they possessed no more
interest for him than a herd of cattle; buried in his own sombre
thoughts, he had lost consciousness of their very presence, as of that
of the warder, who was pacing up and down the room with monotonous
tread. But now that his attention was thus drawn to his next neighbor,
he saw that he differed somewhat from the rest; not that he was more
intelligent-looking--for, indeed, there was a reckless brutality in his
expression which the others lacked--but there was a certain resolution
and strength of will in his face, which at least told of power. But it
was the tone of voice, which, coming from such a man, though it was a
gruff voice enough in itself, had something conciliatory and winning in
it, that chiefly attracted Richard. Perhaps, too, the phrase "young
gentleman" flattered his vanity. We can not throw off all our weaknesses
at a moment's notice, no matter how stupendous the crisis in our
fortunes, any more than, though our boat be sinking under us, we can
divest ourselves of our clothes with a single shrug; and sympathy and
deferential respect had still their weight with Richard Yorke. Perhaps,
too, his nature had not yet even got quit of its gregariousness, and he
was not sorry to have his acquaintance sought, though by this hang-dog
thief.

"I have never been in prison before, if that is what you mean," returned
he, civilly.

He who asked the question was a stout-built, grizzled fellow, of about
fifty years. He was dressed like a well-to-do farmer, but his accent
smacked of London rather than the country; and his hands, Richard
observed, were not so coarse and rough as might be expected in one used
to manual labor, though his limbs and frame were powerful enough for the
most arduous toil. His gray eyes looked keenly at Richard from under
their bushy brows, as he propounded a second inquiry:

"What are you in for? Forgery or embezzlement, I reckon--which is it?"

"Neither," answered Richard, laconically, a bitter smile parting his
lips in spite of himself.

"Well, now, that's curious," observed the other, coolly. "If it was not
that you were sent here with the rest of us, and not shut up by
yourself, I should have guessed 'Murder' outright, for you were looking
all that a minute ago; and since it could not be murder, I thought it
must be one of the other two."

"I don't know what I am here for," said Richard, gloomily, "except that
the charge is false."

"Oh, of course," rejoined the other, with a grim chuckle; "it's always
false the first time, and as often afterward as we can get the juries to
believe us. I'm an old hand myself, and my feelings are not easily
wounded; but I have never yet disgraced myself by pleading guilty. It's
throwing a chance away, unless you are a very beautiful young woman who
has put away her baby, and that I never was, nor did."

"Beauty in distress mollifies the court, does it?" inquired Richard,
willing to be won from his own wretchedness by talk even with a man like
this.

"Mollifies!--yes, it makes a molly of every body. I have known a judge
shed tears about it, which he is not bound to do unless he has the black
cap on--that always set him going like an onion. Why, I've seen even an
attorney use his pocket-handkerchief because of a pretty face in
trouble; but then she was his client, to be sure. Talking of attorneys,
you'll have Weasel, of course?"

Richard nodded an affirmative.

"Quite right. I should have him myself, if there was a shadow of a
chance; but, as it is, it's throwing good money out o' winder. I wish
you better luck, young gentleman, than mine is like to be; not that you
want luck, of course, but only justice."

Richard did not relish this tone of banter, and he showed it in his
look.

"Come, come," said the other, good-humoredly, "it is a pity to curdle
such a handsome face as yours with sour thoughts. Let us be friends, for
you may be glad of even a friend like me some dirty day."

"It is very likely," answered Richard, bitterly. "I see no fine days
ahead, nor yet fine friends."

"I hope you will see both," answered the other, frankly. "The first time
one finds one's self provided for so extra careful as this," with a
glance at the iron bars across the low-arched windows, "the prospect
always does seem dark. But one learns to look upon the bright side at
last. Is the figure very heavy that you're in for? Excuse my country
manners: I don't mean to be rude, nor do I ask the question from mere
curiosity; but you don't look like one to have come here for a mere
trifle."

"The amount in question is two thousand pounds."

"No whistling there!" cried the warder, peremptorily, for the "old hand"
had not been able to repress an expression of emotion at this
announcement. He looked at Richard with an air of self-complacency, such
as a gentleman of the middle classes exhibits on suddenly discovering
that he has been in familiar converse with a person of title, or a small
trader on being brought into unexpected connection with a merchant
prince. The gigantic character of the "operation" had invested this
young man with an increased interest in the stranger's eye.

"That's a great beginning," said he, admiringly, "and could scarcely
have happened with a poor devil like me. One requires to be born a
gentleman to have such opportunities. Now, I don't mind telling _you_"
here he sank his voice to a whisper, and looked cautiously about him,
"that I was forty years of age before I ever got such a haul as yours.
I've done better since, but it's been up-hill work, for all that."

"It doesn't seem to have been very hard work," said Richard, with a
meaning glance at the other's hand.

"Well, no, I can't say as it's been hard; a neat touch is what is wanted
in my profession."

"Why, you're not a pick--" Richard hesitated from motives of delicacy.

"A pickpocket? Well, I hope not, Sir, indeed," interrupted the other,
indignantly.

"Then what _are_ you?" said Richard, bluntly.

As a coy maiden blushes and hangs her head in silence when asked the
question which she is yet both proud and pleased to answer in the
affirmative, so did Mr. Robert Balfour (for such was the name of our new
acquaintance) pause and in graceful confusion rub his stubble chin with
his closed fist ere he replied: "Well, the fact is, I have been in the
gold and precious stone line these thirty years, and never in the
provinces until this present summer, when I came down here, as a Yankee
pal of mine once put it, 'to open a little jewelry store.'"

"With a crowbar?" suggested Richard, with a faint smile.

"Just so," said the other, nodding; "and it so happened that yours
truly, Bob Balfour, was caught in the very act."

"And what term of punishment do you expect for such a--"

"Such a misfortune as that?" answered Mr. Balfour, hastening to relieve
Richard's embarrassment. "Well, if I had got the swag, I
should--considering the testimonials that will be handed in--have been a
lifer. But since I did not realize so much as a weddin' _ring_, twenty
years ought to see me through it now."

Twenty years! Why, this man would be over seventy before he regained his
liberty!

"Great Heaven!" cried Richard, "can you be cheerful with such a future
before you! and at the end of it, to be turned old and penniless into
the wide world!"

A genuine pity showed itself in the young man's look and tone. A minute
before he had thought himself the most wretched of human beings; yet
here was one whose fate was even harder, and who met it without
repining. Community of trouble had already touched the heart which he
had thought was turned to stone.

"Are you sorry for me, young gentleman," inquired the convict, in an
altered voice, "you who have got so much trouble of your own to bear?"

"I am, indeed," said Richard, frankly.

"You would not write a letter for me, though, would you?" inquired the
other, wistfully. "I should like to tell--somebody as I've left at
home--where I am gone to; and the fact is, I can't write; I never
learned how to do it."

A blush came over Bob Balfour's face for the first time; the man was
ashamed of his ignorance, though not of his career of crime. "If it's
too much trouble, say so," added he, gruffly. "Perhaps it was too great
a favor to ask of a gentleman born."

"Not at all," said Richard, hastily, "if the man will bring us pen and
paper."

"Hush! the _officer_, if you please," said Balfour. "They like to be
'officered,' these gentry, every one of them. Some friends of mine
always addresses 'em as 'dogs;' but that's a mistake, when they has to
watch you."

Mr. Robert Balfour spoke a few respectful words to the warder, and the
requisite materials were soon laid upon the table. Richard dipped his
pen in the ink, and waited for directions. "It's only a few words,"
muttered Mr. Balfour, apologetically, "to my old mother. Perhaps you
have a mother yourself, young gentleman?"

"I have." He had written to her guardedly the previous day, before he
left Plymouth, to tell her the same sad news which he was now, as he
supposed, about to repeat for another, and to urge her to repair to
Cross Key at once.

Mr. Balfour beat softly on the table with his forefinger for a moment,
and then, as though he had found the key-note of the desired
composition, dictated as follows:

     "MY DEAR MOTHER,--When this comes to hand, I shall have took your
     advice, and started for the New World. There's a ship a-sailing
     from Plymouth in a day or two, and my passage in her is booked. I
     didn't like to come back to town again, for fear I should change my
     mind, and turn to the old trade. The post is queer and doubtful,
     they tell me, in these far-away parts; but you shall hear from me
     whenever I have an opportunity. All as is mine is yours, remember;
     so, use it. I have no need of money myself, for there's a place
     being kept for me, out yonder, in the carpentering line. Hoping
     this finds you well, as it leaves me, I am your dutiful son, ROBERT
     BALFOUR."

"Then you don't tell her any thing about what's happened to you?" said
Richard, wonderingly.

"Why should I? The poor soul's over seventy, and will never see me
again. It's much better that she should have a pretty picture to look at
than such a reality as this; ain't it?"

"Well, I suppose it is."

This delicate feeling on the part of Mr. Balfour jarred upon Richard.
_He_ had taken no pains to break the news of his imprisonment to _his_
mother; on the contrary, he had painted the wretchedness of his
position, with a view to set forth the urgent necessity for help, in its
most sombre colors. Of course there was a great difference in the two
cases, an immense difference; but still he resented this exhibition of
natural piety, as contrasting unpleasantly with his own conduct.

The other, however, had no suspicion of this. His thoughts, just then,
were far away; and the subject of them gave an unwonted softness to his
tone as he observed: "I thank you for this, kindly, young gentleman.
Here's the address--Earl Street, Spitalfields. It's her own house; and
she will have enough, and to spare, while she lives, thank the Lord!
Well, that's done with; and if Bob Balfour can do you a good turn for
it, he will. Hello, you're wanted."

"Richard Yorke!" repeated the warder, loudly. "Can't you hear?"

Richard had heard well enough; but the idea that it was his mother who
had come to see him had for the moment unmanned him; he well knew how
proud she had been of him; and how was he to meet her now, disgraced,
disheartened, in prison, a reputed thief! But the next instant he
reflected that her arrival could not be possibly looked for for some
days; perhaps it was Trevethick, who had, in the mean time, learned all,
and was come to announce his willingness to withdraw from the
prosecution; perhaps Harry herself was with him; perhaps--

But there was no time for further prognostication; a second warder was
at the door, beckoning impatiently, and Richard rose at once. The dull
faces of the rest were all raised toward him with a malign aspect; they
feared that some good news was come for him, that they were about to
lose a companion in misfortune. Only one held out his hand, with a "Good
luck to you, young gentleman; though I never see you again, I shall not
forget you."

"Silence there!" cried the officer in charge, as Richard passed out into
the stone passage. "You ought to know our ways better than that,
Balfour."




CHAPTER XXVII.

ATTORNEY AND CLIENT.


In a hall of stone stood a room of glass, and in that room the inmates
of Cross Key Jail were permitted to have access to their legal advisers.
They were not lost sight of by the jealous guardians of the place, one
of whom perambulated the hall throughout the interview; but though he
could see all that passed, he could hear nothing. Mr. Weasel of Plymouth
was very well known at Cross Key as being a frequent visitor to that
transparent apartment, and those prisoners whom he favored with his
attentions were justly held in high estimation by the warders, as
gentlemen who, though in difficulties, had at least some considerable
command of ready money. He was waiting now, with his hat on (which he
always wore, to increase his very limited stature), in this chamber of
audience; and so withered up he looked, and such a sharp, shrunk face he
had, that Richard, seeing him in the glass case, might have thought him
some dried specimen of humanity, not alive at all, had he not chanced to
be in the act of taking snuff; and even that was ghostly too, since it
produced the pantomimic action of sneezing without its accompanying
sound.

"Mr. Richard Yorke, I believe?" said he, as soon as they were shut up
within the walls of glass, "I am glad to make your acquaintance, Sir,
though I wish, for your sake, that it happened in another place. You'll
excuse my not offering you my hand."

Richard drew back his extended arm and turned crimson.

"Don't be offended, Sir," said the lawyer; "but the fact is, the
authorities here don't like it. There are some parties in this place who
employ very queer legal advisers; and in shaking hands, a file or a
gimlet, and a bit of tobacco, are as likely to pass as not. That warder
can see every thing, my dear young Sir; but he can no more hear what we
say than he can understand what a couple of bumble-bees are murmuring
about who are barred up in a double window. We can therefore converse
with one another as much without reserve as we please, or rather"--and
here the little man's eyes twinkled significantly--"as _you_ please.
What I hear from a client in this ridiculous place is never revealed
beyond it, except so far as it may serve his interests. If Mr. Dodge (to
whose favor, as I understand, I owe this introduction) has told you any
thing concerning me, he will, I am sure, have advised you to be quite
frank and candid."

"There was no necessity for such a warning, Mr. Weasel, in my case, I do
assure you," answered Richard, earnestly. "I have nothing to conceal
from you with respect to the circumstances of my position: they are
unfortunate, and doubtless very suspicious; but I am as innocent of this
disgraceful charge--"

"Hush, hush! my dear Sir; this will never do. It is mere waste of time,
though it might have been much worse. Good Heavens! suppose you had been
guilty, and told me _that_! you would have placed me in the most
embarrassing situation, as your professional adviser, it is possible for
the human mind to conceive. What I want to know is _your_ story, so far
as these two thousand pounds found in your possession are concerned.
Whether it is true or not, does not matter a button. I want to know
whether it _seems_ true; whether it will seem true to a judge and jury.
You have thought the matter over, of course; you have gone through it in
your own mind from beginning to end--now please to go over it to me."

The little man whipped out a note-book, leaned forward in his chair, and
looked all eye and ear, like a terrier watching at a rat-hole.

After a moment's pause, Richard stated his case pretty much as we are
already acquainted with it; the little lawyer interrupting him now and
then by a gesture, but never by a word, in order that he might set down
a point or a memorandum.

"Very good," said Mr. Weasel, when he had quite finished. "That's your
story, is it?"

"It's the truth, Sir."

"Hush! my dear young Sir. We shall have enough of that--the truth, the
whole truth, and nothing but the truth--a fortnight hence. What you and
I have to consider are the probabilities. Why did you go to Plymouth,
more than any other place, to change these notes?"

"Because I had heard there was a Miners' Bank there, and Trevethick had
mentioned the notes of that company as being as good, in his opinion, as
those of the Bank of England. I thought it would be easier to get the
Mining notes in exchange for those of the Bank of England, than others
of the same bank."

"The check which you showed this Trevethick was not, then, a _bonâ fide_
piece of paper, eh?"

"It was not," said Richard, casting down his eyes.

"Very good," answered the lawyer, so cheerfully that you would have
thought his client had cleared himself of the least suspicion upon
_that_ score, at all events. "Now, where did you get it?"

"My mother sent me a blank check, at my request, and I filled it in."

"That check is destroyed, you say--you burned it, of course?"

"No; I tore it up, and threw it out of the window of the carriage."

"The devil you did!" said Mr. Weasel, in perturbation. "That is not the
way to destroy checks. Had your mother an account at the bank on which
it was drawn?"

"Of course." said Richard, simply.

"There is nothing 'of course,' Mr. Yorke, in this matter," answered the
lawyer, gravely. "Are you quite sure?"

"Quite. She has always had an account there; though to no such amount as
two thousand pounds."

"It is a large sum," muttered the lawyer, thoughtfully, "but still they
have not lost one penny of it. In case things went against you, Mr.
Yorke, would an appeal to the prosecutor be likely to be of service?"

"Certainly not," answered Richard, hastily. "I would not accept mercy at
his hands; besides, it is not a question of mercy."

"It may come to that," observed the other, gravely. "We must not deceive
ourselves, Mr. Yorke."

"Good Heavens! do you believe, then, that I took this money with intent
to steal it?"

"What my belief is is of no consequence, one way or the other; but my
opinion is that the jury will take that view, if they hear your story as
you tell it. The fact is, you have left out the most important incident
of all: the whole case will hinge upon the young lady's having given you
these notes with her own hand. It is evident, of course, that she
sympathized with you in your scheme," pursued the lawyer, rapidly, and
holding up his finger to forbid the protest that was already rising to
Richard's lip: "nothing could be more natural, though most imprudent and
ill judged, than her behavior. She had no more idea of stealing the
money than you had; how should she, since it was in a manner her own,
she being her father's sole heiress. You and I see that clearly enough,
but to a jury used to mere matters of fact, motive has little
significance unless put into action. What we want, and what we must
have, is evidence that you got these notes, not only for this girl's
sake, but from her fingers. Nobody can hurt _her_, you know. Trevethick
could never prosecute his own daughter; indeed, the whole affair
dwindles down to a lover's stratagem, and there is no need for
prosecuting any body, if we can only put Harry Trevethick into the
witness-box. Now can we, Mr. Yorke, or can we not? that's the question."

Richard was silent; the lawyer's argument struck him with its full
force. He had no scruples on the matter for his own part, but he feared
that Harry might entertain them--they would be only too much in keeping
with her credulous and superstitious nature.

"If I could talk to her alone for five minutes," muttered Richard,
uneasily.

"That is impossible," said Mr. Weasel, with decision. "We can only play
with such cards as we hold. I could go to Gethin myself, though it would
be most inconvenient at this busy time, and refresh this young woman's
memory; but it is a delicate task, and would be looked upon by the other
side with some suspicion. Now, is there no judicious friend that can be
thoroughly depended upon--a female friend, if possible, since the affair
may require tact and sympathy--to effect this little negotiation? Think,
my good Sir, think."

"Why, there is my mother herself!" ejaculated Richard, suddenly. "She is
the wisest of women, and the very one to conduct this matter, if
properly instructed."

"Is she, now, is she?" said the lawyer, cheerily. "Come, come, that's
well, and I begin to see a little light. Let her go down to Gethin,
where, as I conclude, she is not known, and see Miss Trevethick herself.
I should like to see her beforehand, however; indeed, that is absolutely
necessary."

"In my note to her, yesterday, I asked her to call at your office in
Plymouth on her way hither," stammered Richard. "I thought it
better--that is, in the first instance--that she should hear from you
how matters stood."

Mr. Weasel took a copious pinch of snuff, and shut his eyes, as though
he were going to sneeze. Whenever a client got upon an embarrassing
topic Mr. Weasel took snuff, to obviate the necessity of looking him in
the face; while, in case of any compromising disclosure, Mr. Weasel
sneezed, to obviate hearing it.

"In a case of this kind, Mr. Yorke, not a moment is to be lost. I should
advise your mother's going direct to Gethin from my house, and making
sure of this young lady's evidence. There is even a possibility--I don't
say it is probable, but there is just a chance, you see--that she may be
subpoenaed _by the other side_."

"Just so," assented Richard, so naïvely that a smile flitted across the
little lawyer's face.

"Under these circumstances, then, this is what we will do, my dear young
Sir: Mrs. Yorke will go to the _Gethin Castle_ as a guest, and, as I
shall venture to suggest, under another name; she will then find an
opportunity of speaking to Miss Trevethick without awakening her
father's suspicions; and when she comes to Cross Key, she will have, I
trust, some good news to bring you, something to talk about (although
you must be very careful and guarded, mind that, for you will not be
left alone together, as we are) besides mere regrets and lamentations;
don't you see, don't you see?"

Richard saw exceedingly well, and felt more grateful to the lawyer for
devising such an arrangement than he would like to have confessed;
nevertheless, he did thank him heartily.

"Not at all, not at all, my dear young Sir," drawing on one of his
gloves, in signal of departure. "In a case like this, we must consult
feelings as well as array our facts; we must bring heart and head to
bear together. Speaking of head reminds me, by-the-by, of the subject of
counsel. I propose to instruct Mr. Smoothbore, who leads upon this
circuit; I gather from your letter that there will be no difficulty with
respect to funds."

"Whatever may be necessary, Mr. Weasel, for my defense will be, you may
rest assured, forthcoming. My mother--"

The smile disappeared from the lawyer's face with electrical rapidity.
"Pardon me, my young friend," said he; "but as a professional man, I
only deal with principals in these matters. The word forthcoming is a
little vague. Counsel are paid beforehand, you must remember."

We must not be angry with Mr. Weasel, who was really a good sort of man
after his kind. He was naturally cautious, and if he had been the most
trustful of mankind his experience would have taught him prudence. He
did like to see his money down; and really, as to Mr. Yorke, all he knew
of his pecuniary position was with relation to that blank check, the
history of which was not of a nature to inspire confidence.

"I was about to observe," said Richard, haughtily, "that my mother would
satisfy all claims; but, in the mean time, there were over a hundred
pounds in notes and gold which were found upon me when I was searched at
Plymouth. If you doubt me, you have only to make inquiries."

"My dear young Sir," returned the lawyer, earnestly, "this is not
courteous, this is not kind. I never doubted you from the first moment
that I saw you; no one with any knowledge of mankind could do so.
Professional etiquette compelled me to remark that I could treat with
principals only, that is all. Let me see," added he, consulting his
note-book, "have I any thing more to say? Yes, yes. With respect to this
young lady, Miss Harry Trevethick--I did not like to interrupt you at
the time, but I see I have made a memorandum--is she pretty?"

"She is very, very beautiful," said Richard, earnestly, the remembrance
of her beauty giving a tenderness to his tone.

"That's capital!" nodded the lawyer. "Old Bantam is our judge this
session, and he likes a pretty face. So do we all, for the matter of
that, I hope. You are young and good-looking yourself, too; Smoothbore
will make something of _that_, you may depend upon it. 'Gracious
Heavens, is the iron arm of the law to sunder these happy lovers for a
mere indiscretion, and make their bright young lives a blank forever?'
He'll give them something like that, Sir, in a voice broken by emotion,
and bring you off with flying colors."

"I don't care about the colors, if he only brings me off," said Richard,
grimly.

"A very natural remark, my dear young Sir, for one in your present
situation; but three weeks hence, as I both hope and believe, you will
not be so easily satisfied; the more we have, the more we want, you
know--except in the matter of time. I have very little to spare of it
just now, and must therefore take my leave."

Mr. Weasel had put on his other glove and his hat, and, with a cheerful
nod, had actually placed his fingers on the door-handle, when he
suddenly turned round, and said: "By-the-by, I had almost forgotten a
little form of words, which in your case I am sure will be _but_ a form,
and yet I do not like to omit it. I never leave a client in your
position without asking him the question; so you must excuse me, my
young friend, and not be offended."

"I am not in a position to be very sensitive about what is said to me,"
answered Richard, bitterly. "Pray ask whatever you please."

Mr. Weasel looked cautiously round, to see that the warder was not too
near, and lowered his voice to a whisper. "Is this little affair your
first, my dear young Sir? I mean," added he, "have you ever been in
trouble with the law before?"

"Certainly not," replied Richard, smiling.

"I had anticipated your answer," said the little lawyer, gayly; "but I
thought it right to make quite certain. Because, if the affair should
happen to reach a stage where the question of 'character' is mooted
(though it won't get so far as _that_, I trust, in our case), one
doesn't like to be taken altogether by surprise, do you see? You have
been a landscape-painter, you say. A most innocent and charming
occupation, I am sure, and one which Smoothbore will make the very most
of. The case altogether will afford him such opportunities that he
really ought to do it cheap. And you've never been any thing else, have
you? never had any other calling, or obtained your livelihood by any
other than quite legal and permissible means--eh? What, what? You have
not been quite frank and candid with me, my dear Sir, I fear."

"It is really not of much consequence," said Richard, hesitating.

"You must allow me to be the judge of that, Mr. Yorke," said the other,
gravely, taking off his hat once more and one of his gloves. "Imagine
yourself a good Catholic, if you please, with Father Weasel for your
priest."

The confession lasted for some minutes.

"I think you will admit that what I have told you has not much bearing
upon the matter in hand," said Richard, when he had finished.

"None at all, none at all--that is, I hope not," answered the other,
thoughtfully. "But what an interesting revelation it is! What a nice
point as to whether the matter is an offense against the law or not! How
prettily Smoothbore would treat the subject, if it chanced to come in
his way!" He looked at Richard with admiration. "You're a most
remarkable young man, Sir; I wish that circumstances permitted of my
shaking you by the hand. Good-morning, my dear Sir. You may depend upon
my not permitting the grass to grow under my feet. When your mother
comes she will have good news for you. Good-morning."

The warder took possession of Richard, while Mr. Weasel, followed by the
young man's longing eyes, was ushered to the opposite door, on the other
side of which was liberty. But the lawyer's mind was still within the
prison walls, though his legs were free, and walking up the street of
the little town toward his inn.

"Now, that is really a most remarkable young man," he murmured to
himself. "A most ingenious young fellow, upon my word. The idea of his
having invented a new crime! Why, bless my heart, it's quite an
epoch--quite an epoch!"




CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE IRON CAGE.


So long as Richard had had Mr. Weasel to bear him company, half his
troubles--so elastic was his nature, and so apt for social
intercourse--seemed to have been removed; but now that that brisk,
confident voice was heard no more, and the stone passages only echoed to
the tread of the warder and himself, his spirits sank even lower than
they had been before. Alone in his comfortless cell, he went over the
lawyer's talk anew, and it was strange how the sparks of comfort died
out of it. It was clear that in the first instance his companion had
taken a gloomy view of his case, that he looked upon Richard's own story
with utter disbelief, and was convinced it would not hold water before a
jury. His remark about the money having been recovered must have had
reference to a possible mitigation of the sentence, and therefore took
conviction for granted. Nor, upon reconsideration of the case with
calmness--the calm of loneliness and despair--was, Richard himself
admitted, any other conclusion to be arrived at by a stranger. Those who
were acquainted with his rash and impulsive character and reckless ways
would understand that he had no serious intention of robbing
Trevethick--except, that is, of his daughter; even Trevethick himself
must be aware of that; though, with that same exception before his eyes,
it was more than doubtful whether he would acknowledge it. Smarting with
the sense of the deceit that Richard had practiced (almost with success)
upon him, he might conceal his real impression of the affair, and treat
it as a common felony. Taking the brutality of Solomon's manner to him
when he was arrested as an index of his prosecutor's purpose, he felt
that this was what would happen; and if so, what chance would he have
against such evidence? Would the judge and jury be persuaded to believe
that he had acted with the romantic folly that had in reality possessed
him? And if not, to what protracted wretchedness might he not be doomed!

His old hopes, in short, lay dead within him, and he felt that his late
adviser had been right in suggesting the evidence of Harry Trevethick as
the only means to secure his acquittal. He did not look beyond _that_
for an hour. Life for the next three weeks would have but one event for
him--his trial and its result. The little attorney, whom he had seen but
once, the suasive barrister, of whom he had only heard, were from
henceforth the two persons upon earth who had the most interest for him
of all mankind. If _they_ failed him, all was lost. If they succeeded,
all, or what had now become his all, was gained. He thought of Harry
only as the being upon whose testimony his fate depended; he did not
picture her to himself in any other character, though perhaps he would
have refused to part with her even at the price of that liberty which
had become so precious in his eyes. She would surely not refuse to say
the half-dozen words which were the "open sesame" that alone could set
him free! He thought of his mother, not so much as such--the truest and
most unselfish friend he had--as the person best qualified to win Harry
over to speak those words. He was no longer ashamed to see her; his
heart was so full of anxious fear that there was no room for shame; but
he was glad that the lawyer had recommended her to visit Gethin before
coming to Cross Key. What he thirsted for was hope, a gleam of sunshine,
a whisper of good news. If his mother had not that to give him, let her
stay away. He did not wish his heart to be melted within him by regrets
and tears; if there was no hope, let it harden on, till it was as hard
as adamant, for the hour, that, however long delayed, must come at
last--of vengeance! He thought of Solomon Coe as one of a dominant race
thinks of the slave who has become his master, and was his murderer in
his heart ten times a day. He thought of him as the man who would marry
Trevethick's daughter, his own Harry, while he (Richard) rotted in jail.

Such were the bitter reflections, creeping fears, and meagre hopes which
consumed him when he was alone, that is to say, for five-sixths of the
day and all the weary night. In the society of Balfour he found, if not
solace, at least some respite from his gnawing cares. The importance
which this man had attached to the recovery of stolen goods as
mitigating the punishment of crime, and to good looks in the case of a
female witness or prisoner, corroborated as it had been by the judicial
experience of Mr. Weasel, gave him confidence in the convict's
intelligence; or, at least, in his judgment with respect to the matter
on which Richard's thoughts were solely concentrated. He was never weary
of asking this man's opinion on this point and on that of his own case,
the details of which he fully confided to him. Balfour, on his part,
gave him his best advice, and whatever comfort he could. He did not
resent, nor even seem to be aware of the fact, that the position in
which he stood himself awoke no corresponding sympathy in Richard. He
had taken a fancy to this young fellow, so different from any companion
that he had ever known; was flattered by his confidence; and felt that
enthusiasm toward him which friendship, when it exists between two
persons of widely different grades, sometimes begets in the inferior.

A week passed on, and then, at the same time and place as before,
Richard was summoned from his fellow-prisoners. He turned pale in spite
of himself, as he rose from the table to meet for the first time, since
disgrace had overwhelmed him, his mother's face.

"Don't give way, my young master," whispered Balfour, good-naturedly,
"for that will only make the old woman fret."

Richard nodded, and followed the warder, who on this occasion led the
way through a different door. "It ain't Mr. Weasel this time," said the
latter, in answer to his look of surprise; "it's a private friend, and
therefore we can't let you have the glass box." He ushered him into what
would have been a stone courtyard, except that it had a roof also of
stone. In the middle of this, running right across it, was a sort of
cage of iron, or rather a passage some six feet broad, shut in on either
side by high iron rails; within this paced an officer of the prison; and
on the other side of it stood a female figure, whom Richard at once
recognized as his mother. It was with this iron cage between them, and
in the presence of an official, that prisoners in Cross Key Jail were
alone permitted to receive the visits of their friends and kinsfolk. It
was no wonder that in an interview under such restrictions, Mr. Weasel
should have recommended caution.

To do Richard justice, however, that was not the reflection that now
passed through his mind. For all his selfish thoughts and calculations,
he had really yearned to cast himself on his mother's breast, and feel
once more her loving arms around him; to whisper in her ever-ready ear
his sorrow for the past, his anxieties for the future; and when he saw
that this was not to be, the heart that he would have poured out before
her seemed to sink and shrink within him. In this material obstacle
between them he seemed to behold a type of the dread doom that was
impending over him--separation from humanity, exclusion from the world
without, a life-long entombment within stone walls. He put his hand and
arm through the bars, mechanically, to touch his mother's fingers, and
when he found he could not reach them, he burst into tears. It was only
by a great effort that Mrs. Yorke could maintain her self-control; but
she, nevertheless, did do so. Her face was calm, and her eyes, though
full of tenderness and pity, were tearless; only her low, soft voice
gave token of the woe within her in its tremulous and faltering tones.

"Dear Richard," it said, "my own dear Richard, take heart; a few days
hence, and you will be folded in your mother's arms; not to stray from
them again, I trust, my boy, my boy!" She pressed her forehead with its
fine white hair against the cruel bars, and seemed to devour him with
her loving eyes. "All will yet be well," she continued; "your innocence
can not fail to be established, and this dreadful time will be forgotten
like an evil dream."

"Have you been to Gethin, mother?"

"Yes, dear; I only came from thence this morning. Harry sent you her
best love. Your faith in her, she bade me tell you, is not misplaced;
_she will be in the witness-box, for certain_." This last sentence was
uttered in the French tongue, and very rapidly.

"I am very sorry, ma'am," interrupted the official, who had retired to
the further extremity of the cage, "but my orders are to prohibit
conversation between prisoners and their friends in a foreign language."

"I will take care not to transgress again," said Mrs. Yorke, with a
sweet smile; "your consideration for us I am sure demands all
obedience."

"Has Mr. Weasel made his arrangements, mother?"

"Yes, all; the subpoena will be sent to Gethin to morrow. He is most
confident as to the result."

"And what does Mr. Smoothbore say? Have you seen _him_?"

"No, dear, no. But the matter on which I went to Gethin having been
satisfactorily arranged, we may consider that is all settled. Your
counsel has no doubt of being able to establish your innocence,
notwithstanding the malice of your enemies."

"But what is he like, this Smoothbore?"

"Well, the fact is, Richard, we have not got him, but another man, Mr.
Balais--quite his equal, Mr. Weasel assures me, in all respects."

"Not got him!" cried Richard, impatiently. "Why, Weasel told me
Smoothbore led the circuit. Why have we not secured him?"

"He has been retained by the other side," answered Mrs. Yorke, in a tone
that she in vain endeavored to render cheerful. "To say the truth,
Richard, the prosecutor is exhibiting the utmost vindictiveness, and
straining every nerve for a conviction. Money, which he was said to be
so fond of, is now no object with him, or at least he spares none. But
he can not bribe twelve honest men, nor a righteous judge."

"I knew it," exclaimed Richard, stamping his foot on the stone floor.
"Those sullen brutes, Trevethick and the other, would have my life, if
they could. There is nothing that they would stick at, be assured of
that--and do you put Weasel on his guard--to work my ruin. How could he
be such a dolt as to let them be beforehand with him, when he himself
said there was not an hour to be lost!"

"Indeed, Richard, all was done for the best. One could scarcely expect
Mr. Weasel to advance so large a sum as was required, without security;
and he did communicate with Mr. Smoothbore as soon as he had satisfied
himself upon that score. He assures me Mr. Balais is quite as clever a
counsel. Indeed, I should not have told you of the change, had you not
pressed the question so directly."

"Tell me all, mother; tell me every thing; I adjure you to keep nothing
back. To think and guess and fear, in a place like this, is worse than
not to know the worst. Trevethick is a miser, and yet you say he is
spending with a lavish hand. How is it you know that?"

"Why, Mr. Smoothbore's clerk is a friend of Mr. Weasel's, and he hears
from him that his master has never received so large a retaining fee as
on this occasion. The sum we offered, two days afterward, though larger
than is customary, was, he said, but a trifle compared with it."

"You have something else to tell me yet, mother--I see it in your eyes.
If you go away with it untold, you leave me on the rack."

"There is nothing more," answered his mother, hesitatingly, "or almost
nothing."

"What is it?" cried Richard, hoarsely--"what is it?"

"Well, merely this: that thinking that no money should be spared to help
you in this dreadful trouble, Richard, and having but a very little of
my own, I--I forgot my pride and steadfast resolution never to ask your
father--"

"You did not apply to Carew for money, surely?" ejaculated Richard,
angrily. "To let him know that I was here was ruin."

"It may have been ill judged, indeed, dear Richard," replied his mother,
quietly; "but it was not ill meant. Do you suppose it cost me nothing to
be his suppliant? Do you suppose I have no scorn nor hate, as you have,
for those who have wronged me and you? If fury could avail to set you
free, your mother would be as the tigress robbed of her young. It is an
easy thing enough to fume and foam; it is hard to have to clasp the
knees of those whom you despise, in vain."

"He refused you, then--this man?"

"He did, Richard. He told me--what I had not learned from you; I do not
say it to reproach you, dear--what it was that had so long detained you
at Gethin. He mentioned, in coarsest terms, your love for Harry, and how
you had misrepresented yourself to Trevethick as the heir of Crompton in
order to win her. He expressed a callous indifference to your present
peril, and added something more in menace than in warning respecting
that affair with Chandos which caused you to leave his roof. Since it
seemed you had made no secret of the matter to Mr. Weasel, I showed him
Carew's note; and his opinion is that Trevethick has spies at work to
track your past. This may or may not injure you. Mr. Weasel thinks that
it will not; but it shows the rancor with which this case is pressed by
Trevethick--a malice which we are altogether at a loss to understand."

Richard ground his heel upon the stone without reply, while his mother
looked at him in gravest sorrow.

"Your time is almost up, ma'am," said the warder; "there's only a minute
more."

"You told her how much depended on her, mother, did you?" said Richard,
rousing himself in the effort.

"Yes, dear. She will not fail us, never fear. Keep heart and hope; and
as for me, you will be sure that not a moment of my waking thoughts is
wasted upon aught but you. I shall see you again, once more at least,
before your--before the trial comes on; and Mr. Weasel will be here next
week again. Is there any thing, my own dear boy, that I can do for you?"

"One moment, mother. Carew has not punished _you_ on my account, I
trust? He has not cut off--"

"The annuity? Yes; he has stopped that."

"May he rot on earth, and perish everlastingly!"

"Hush, hush, dear; pray be calm; there is no need to fret. I can support
myself without his aid; indeed I can; and perhaps he may relent when he
gets sane, for he was like a madman at my coming to Crompton. Mr.
Whymper will do all he can, I am sure. How cruel it was of me to heed
your words, and tell you--Look to him, warder, look to my son!" she
screamed.

Richard had indeed turned deadly pale, and though his fingers still
mechanically clutched the iron rail, was swaying to and fro; the warder
unlocked the passage-gate, and ran to him just in time to save his
falling headlong on the pavement.

"Are you a man," said the agonized woman, "or iron like this"--and she
beat against the railing passionately--"that you will not let a mother
kiss her son when he is dying?"

"Nay, nay, ma'am; it's not so bad as that," said the warder,
good-naturedly; "see, he's a-coming round agen all right. I've seen a
many took like that. In half a minute he'll be himself again. It's his
trouble as does it, bless you. If you'll take my advice, you'll spare
both your son and yourself the pain of parting, and leave him as he is.
I'd go bail for it, it's just a faint, that's all."

"Let me kiss him once," implored the unhappy woman. "Oh, man, if you
have ever known a mothers love, let me kiss him once! Here is a
five-pound note--take it, and leave me still your debtor--but one kiss."

"Nay, ma'am, I can't take your money; of which, as I couldn't help
hearing you say, you have not got too much to spare. But you shall kiss
your bonnie boy, and welcome;" and with that the stout warder took the
unconscious lad up in his arms, and bore him within the passage; and
his, mother put her lips between the bars and pressed them to his
forehead once, twice, thrice.

"There, there, ma'am; that will do," muttered the man, impatiently; "and
even that is as much as my place is worth. Now, just tap at yonder door,
and they'll let you out."

Mrs. Yorke obeyed him without a word. She had heard the heavy fluttering
sigh that betokened Richard's return to consciousness, and knew that the
worst was over; unless, indeed, the coming back to life might not be the
worst of all.




CHAPTER XXIX.

IN THE COURT-HOUSE.


It is proposed by some elevators of the public mind to make us all
philosophers, and to abolish the morbid interest which mankind at
present entertains in the issues of life and death. They hold it
weakness that we should become excited by incident, or enthralled by
mystery, and prophesy a future when intelligence shall reign supreme, to
the extinction of the vulgar passion for sensation. In the mean time,
however, the sympathetic hopes and fears of humanity remain pretty much
as they have been within all living memory; and one of the greatest
treats that can be provided for the popular palate is a criminal trial.
There are many reasons why this should be the case; the courts of law
are free, and a sight that can be seen for nothing is of itself
attractive, since we are, at all events, not losing our time and money
too. Again, the most popular drama, the most popular novel, are those to
which the dénouements can not easily be guessed; and in the court-house
we see drama and novel realized with the verdict of the jury and the
sentence of the judge--a matter of anxious speculation to the very last.
Where theatres and books are rare the passion for such scenes is
proportionally stronger, and perhaps there is no periodical event which
so deeply stirs the agricultural interest--speaking socially, and not
politically--as the advent of the Judges of Assize.

At Cross Key, at all events, there was nothing else talked of for weeks
beforehand; and the case which above all others was canvassed, and
prejudged, and descanted upon over all sorts of boards--from the
mahogany one in the dining-room at Cross Key Park to the deal tripod
which held the pots and pipes at the road-side beer-house--was that of
Richard Yorke, the young gentleman-painter, who had run away with old
John Trevethick of Gethin's hoarded store. The rumor had got abroad that
he had almost run away with his daughter also, and this intensified the
interest immensely. The whole female population, from the high-sheriff's
wife down to the woman who kept the apple-stall in the market-place, was
agog to see this handsome young Lothario, and especially to hear the
evidence of his (clandestinely) betrothed, who was known to have been
subpoenaed for the defense.

There were innumerable biographies of the prisoner to be had for
nothing. He was a noble-man in disguise; he was the illegitimate son of
the prime minister; he was indirectly but immediately connected with
royalty itself; he could speak every European language (except Polish),
and painted landscapes like an angel; he had four thousand a year in
land, only waiting for him to come of age, which carried with it half
the representation of a Whig borough; he had not a penny in the world,
but had hitherto supported himself in luxury by skillful forgeries;
young as he was, he was a married man, and had a wife (three times his
age) alive. All these particulars were insisted upon and denied forty
times a day. The least scraps of trust-worthy intelligence concerning
him were greedily devoured. The turnpike-man who had opened gate to let
him through on the night he came to the jail was cross-examined as to
his appearance and demeanor. The rural policeman of the district (who
had never had a chance of seeing him) was treated to pots of ale, and
suddenly found himself the best of company. The _Castle_ at Gethin was
thronged by local tourists, who, under pretense of being attracted by
the scenery, came to stare at Harry, and, having seen her, returned to
Cross Key with marvelous stories of her charms. As the time drew on the
applications for admittance to the court-house made the life of the
under-sheriff a burden, and caused the hearts of his subordinates (who
got the half-crowns) to sing for joy.

The unhappy Richard was wholly ignorant of all this excitement. When he
pictured the court-house to himself, as he often did, he only beheld a
crowd of indifferent persons, who would pay no more attention to his own
case than to that of Balfour, or any other that might follow or precede
it. He saw himself taken out in custody, and carried in some conveyance,
such as he had arrived in, through the gaping street; but the idea of
that ordeal gave him no uneasiness. Those who saw him would forget him
the next moment, or confuse him with some other in the same wretched
plight. His mind always reverted from such reflections, as comparatively
trivial, to the issue of the trial itself. Indeed, that thought might be
said to be constant, though others intruded on it occasionally without
obscuring it, like light clouds that cross the moon. As to the details
of the scene of which he was about to be so prominent an actor, he knew
nothing; for the warders never opened their lips to him, except
officially, and Mr. Balfour had never happened to come to grief in the
course of his professional practice in that particular locality before.

But the fact was that the jail of Cross Key, though situated in so
out-of-the-way a spot, was a model establishment in its way, and built
upon the very highest principles of architecture, as connected with the
administration of the criminal law. No prisoner was ever taken out of it
for trial at all, but was conducted by an underground passage into the
court-house itself--indeed, into the very heart of it, for a flight of
steps, with a trap-door at the top, led straight into the dock, in which
he made his appearance like a Jack-in-the-box, but much more to his own
astonishment than to that of the spectators.

Imagine the unhappy Richard thus confronted, wholly unexpectedly, with a
thousand eager eyes! They devoured him on the right hand and on the
left, before him and behind him; they looked down upon him from the
galleries above with a hunger that was increased by distance. Even the
barristers in the space between him and the judge turned round to gaze
at him, and the judge himself adjusted his spectacles upon his nose to
regard him with a searching look. Not a sound was to be heard except the
monotonous voice of the clerk reading the indictment; it was plain that
every one of that vast concourse knew him, and needed not that his
neighbor should whisper, "That is he." Was his mother there? thought
Richard, and above all, Was Harry there? He looked round once upon that
peering throng; but he could catch sight of neither. The former, with a
thick veil over her features, was, indeed, watching him from a corner of
the court; but the only face he recognized was that of his attorney,
seated immediately behind a man with a wig, whom he rightly concluded to
be Mr. Sergeant Balais.

There was a sudden silence, following upon the question, "How say you,
Richard Yorke, are you guilty of this felony, or not guilty?" The
turnkey by the prisoner's side muttered harshly behind his hand, "They
have called on you to plead."

"Not guilty," answered Richard, in a loud, firm voice, and fixing his
eyes upon the judge.

A murmur of satisfaction ran softly through the court-house. His
hesitation had alarmed the curious folks; they were afraid that he might
have pleaded "Guilty," and robbed them of their treat. Not a few of
them, and perhaps all the women, were also pleased upon his own account.
He was so young and handsome that they could not choose but wish him
well, and out of his peril.

Then Mr. Smoothbore rose, and was some time about it. He was six feet
four inches high, and it seemed as though you would never see the last
of him. ("Oh, Jerryusalem, upon wheels!" was the remark that Mr. Robert
Balfour muttered to himself when some hours afterward _he_ found himself
confronted by the same gigantic counsel, instructed specially by the
crown to prosecute so notorious a marauder.) The twelve men in the box
opposite at once became all ear. Some leaned forward, as though to
anticipate by the millionth of a second the silvery accents of Mr.
Smoothbore; others leaned back with head aside, as though to concentrate
their intelligence upon them; and the foreman held his head with both
his hands, as though that portion of his person was not wholly under
control, but might make some erratic twist, and thereby lose him some
pregnant sentence. These honest men did not know Mr. Smoothbore, and
thought (for the first five minutes) that they could sit and listen to
him forever; before they had done with him they began to think that they
should have to do it.

Far be it from us to emulate the prolixity with which the learned
counsel set forth his case; it must be conceded that he did not hang
over it; his words ran as smoothly as oil, and with perfect
distinctness, and if any body missed his meaning, it was not for want of
its being sufficiently expressed. To a listener of average ability,
however, he became insupportable by repetition, which is, unhappily, not
exclusively "the vice of the pulpit." We will take care to avoid his
error. It will be sufficient to say that when he had finished Richard
stood accused not only of having stolen two thousand pounds from John
Trevethick, but of having compassed that crime under circumstances of
peculiar baseness. He had taken advantage of his superior education,
manners, and appearance, to impose himself upon the honest Cornishman as
the legitimate son of his landlord, and secured within that humble home
a footing of familiarity, only the better to compass a scheme of
villainy, which must have occurred to him at a very early period of
their acquaintance. Indeed, Mr. Smoothbore hinted that the prisoner's
profession of landscape-painting was a mere pretense and pretext, and
that it was more than probable that, having heard by some means of
Trevethick's hoard, he had come down to Gethin with the express
intention of becoming possessed of it, which his accidental discovery of
the secret of the letter padlock enabled him to do. In short, by artful
innuendo at this or that part of the story, Richard was painted as a
common thief, whose possession of such faculties as dexterity and
_finesse_ only made him a more dangerous enemy of society. There had
been rumors, Mr. Smoothbore admitted, of certain romantic circumstances
connected with the case, but he was instructed to say that they were
wholly baseless, and that the matter which the jury would have to decide
upon was simply an impudent and audacious robbery, committed in a manner
that he might stigmatize as being quite exceptionally void of
extenuation.

The speech for the prosecution immensely disappointed the general
public, already half-convinced, in spite of themselves, by Mr.
Smoothbore's impassioned clearness and straightforward simplicity, while
it pleased the jury, who were glad to hear that the matter in hand was,
after all, an ordinary one, which would necessitate no deprivation of
victuals, nor absence of fire and candle. The witnesses for the
prosecution appeared, as usual, in an order in inverse ratio to the
interest and importance of their respective testimonies--the clerk of
the Miners' Bank into whose hands the notes had been paid, policemen,
Mr. Dodge, and others, who only repeated what we already know. Even the
appearance of Solomon Coe was marked by nothing especial, save to the
eyes of the accused. In the triumphant bearing of this witness, and in
the malignant glance which he had shot toward him ere he began his tale,
Richard read that the charge against him was to be pushed to the bitter
end. It was in this man's power, more than in any other's (save one), to
extenuate or to set down in malice; and there was no doubt in his
rival's mind (though his rancor took so blunt a form that it might well
have been mistaken by others for outspoken candor) which of the two
courses Solomon had chosen. He showed neither scruple nor hesitation;
every word was distinct and decisive, and on one occasion (though the
repetition of it was forbidden by the judge) even accompanied by a blow
with his sledge-hammer fist in the way of corroboration. It seemed that
the story he had to tell was, after all, a very plain one.

When John Trevethick, who was the last witness examined for the
prosecution, strode into the box, this feeling was intensified. His
giant frame and massive features seemed, somehow, to associate
themselves with a plain story; and his evidence was as much in
consonance with his counsel's speech as evidence could be with pleading.

But when he had quite done with his unvarnished tale, and when Mr.
Smoothbore had given him a parting nod in sign that _he_ had done with
him, Sergeant Balais rose, for the first time, with an uplifted finger,
as though, but for that signal of delay, the honest landlord would have
fled incontinently, and hanged himself, like another Judas.

"You have a daughter, I believe, Mr. Trevethick?" and the Sergeant
looked at the jury, with elevated eyebrows, as though he would have
said, "If we can get even that admission out of this hoary miscreant, we
may consider ourselves fortunate."

And indeed John Trevethick did hesitate for one instant ere he replied.
He had not even looked at the prisoner before, but at that question he
gave an involuntary glance toward him, and met Richard's answering look.
When two men are fighting, each with his hands upon the throat of the
other, not for dear life, but for the longed-for death of his foe, it is
possible that in their faces some such inextinguishable lurid fire of
hatred may be seen burning as then flashed from witness-box to dock,
from dock to witness-box; but scarcely under any other circumstances
could such a look of deadly malice be exchanged between man and man. It
passed, however, in an instant, like the electric fire, and was gone,
leaving no trace behind it.

"I _have_ a daughter," replied Trevethick; and as he spoke his face,
though somewhat pale, became as blank and hard and meaningless as a wall
of stone.

"This man is about to perjure himself," thought the experienced Mr.
Balais; and he looked around him with the air of one who was convinced
of the fact.

"The prisoner at the bar was, I believe, your daughter's lover, was he
not?"

"Not that I knew of."

"Not that you know of?" repeated Mr. Balais. "Will you venture to repeat
that?"

"The witness said _knew_," interposed the judge, demurely, and ordered a
sky-light to be closed, the draught from which inconvenienced him. Every
body looked at the officer of the court who pulled the string and shut
the sky-light, as though it had been the most ingenious contrivance
known to man. Not that it was a relief to them to do so, but from that
inexplicable motive which prompts us all to observe trivial
circumstances with which we have nothing whatever to do, on any occasion
of engrossing interest. Even Richard regarded this little process of
ventilation with considerable concern, and wondered whether the judge
would feel himself better after it.

"Oh, you didn't know of this attachment between the prisoner and your
daughter at the time it was going on under your roof, but you knew of it
afterward, did you? You read of it in the papers, I suppose, eh?"

"I heard of it, after the robbery was discovered, from my daughter
herself."

"And, upon your oath, you did not know of it before then?"

"I did not."

"Nor suspect it even, perhaps?"

"Nor even suspect it."

Mr. Balais smiled, shrugged his shoulders. His principles of oratory
were Demosthenean; his motto was "Action, action, action." His. friends
on circuit called him the Balais of action. He had had some experience
of the depravity of human nature, said the shrug, but this beat every
thing, and would be really amusing but for its atrocious infamy. Good
Heavens!

"Then you never had any conversation with the prisoner with reference
to your daughter at all?"

"Never."

Mr. Balais bent down and interchanged a word or two with Mr. Weasel
behind him.

"Now be so good as to give me your best attention, Mr. Trevethick, for
upon my next question more may depend than you may be aware of. If you
have any regard for your own interests you will answer it truly; for as
sure as--"

"Is this necessary, Brother Balais?" interrupted the judge, scratching
his forehead with his forefinger, and looking up at the sky-light, as
though that matter was not satisfactorily settled even yet.

"My lud, I am instructed that nothing less than a conspiracy has been
entered into against my unfortunate client."

The judge nodded slightly, shivered considerably, and made a mental note
to complain of that infernal draught before he should dismiss the grand
jury.

"I ask you, Mr. Trevethick," continued the counsel, solemnly, "whether
or not, in a conversation which you held with the prisoner upon a
certain day last month, you mentioned two thousand pounds as the sum you
must needs see in his possession before you could listen to any
proposition of his with respect to your daughter's hand?"

"I did not."

"You never spoke of that particular sum to him at all?"

"Never at all."

It was Mr. Balais who looked up at the sky-light this time--as though he
expected a thunder-bolt.

"The notes, of which we have heard so much, as being hoarded in this
ingenious box of yours--and that you are a very ingenious man, Mr.
Trevethick, there is no doubt--this box, I say, was kept in a certain
cupboard, was it not?"

"It was."

"And now, please to look at the jury when you answer me this question:
Where was this particular cupboard situated, Mr. Trevethick?"

Into the landlord's impassive face there stole for the first time a look
of disquiet, and his harsh, monotonous voice grew tremulous as he
replied, "The cupboard was in my daughter's bedroom."

"That will do, Mr. Trevethick, _for the present_," observed Mr. Balais,
with emphasis; "though I shall probably have the opportunity of seeing
you another time"--and he glanced significantly toward the dock--"_in
another place_."




CHAPTER XXX.

FOR THE DEFENSE.


When Mr. Balais rose again it was to speak for the defense, and he
addressed the jury amidst an unbroken silence. So rapt, indeed, was the
attention of his audience that the smack of a carter's whip, as he went
by in the street below, was resented by many a frown as an impertinent
intrusion; and even the quarters of the church clock were listened to
with impatience, lest its iron tongue should drown a single sentence.
This latter interruption did not, however, often take place, for Mr.
Balais was as brief in speech as he was energetic in action. He began by
at once allowing the main facts which the prosecution had proved--that
the notes had been taken from Trevethick's box, and found in the
prisoner's possession, who had been detected in the very act of
endeavoring to change them for notes of another banking company. But
what he maintained was, that this exchange was not, as Mr. Smoothbore
had suggested, effected for the purpose of realizing the money, but
simply of throwing dust in the prosecutor's eyes. He had changed the
notes only with the intention of returning his own money to Trevethick
under another form. Even so young a man, and one so thoroughly ignorant
of the ways of the world and of business matters as was his client, must
surely have been aware, if using the money for himself had been his
object, that it could be traced in notes of the Mining Company as easily
as in notes of the Bank of England; nay, by this very proceeding of his,
he had even given them a _double_ chance of being traced. He (Mr.
Balais) was not there, of course, to justify the conduct of the prisoner
at the bar. It was unjustifiable, it was reprehensible in a very high
degree; but what he did maintain was that, even taking for granted all
that had been put in evidence, this young man's con