YOUNG MUSGRAVE.

     “Touching sacrifice: of thy worldly possessions give all, even to
     the spoiling of thy goods; for thus teaches our Lord Christ, and
     our blessed master San Francesco. If a poor person, more poor than
     thou, would have thy habit, which it is not permitted by the rule
     of the order to give, let him take it from thee: so wilt thou do no
     wrong; but thy life, which is not thine, give not: it is but given
     to thee for God’s service; thou canst not take it up, neither canst
     thou lay it down. This rule obey if thou wouldest be free from
     presumption. For our Lord Christ alone, whose life was His own,
     hath power and privilege to give it away.”--_Sermons, BB. Frati
     Ginepro e Lausdeo, dei Frati Minori._




                            YOUNG MUSGRAVE


                                  BY

                             MRS. OLIPHANT

                 AUTHOR OF “THE CURATE IN CHARGE” ETC.


             “No man can redeem his brother.”--Ps. xlix. 7


                                London
                           MACMILLAN AND CO.
                             AND NEW YORK
                                 1894


                    Richard Clay and Sons, Limited,
                          LONDON AND BUNGAY.

_First Edition_ (3 Vols. Crown 8vo.) 1877. _Second Edition_ (1 Vol. Crown 8vo.)
     1878. _Reprinted_ (Globe 8vo.) 1883, 1886, (Crown 8vo.) 1894.




CONTENTS.


PART I.


CHAPTER I.

                                                                    PAGE
THE FAMILY                                                             1


CHAPTER II.

MARY                                                                  10


CHAPTER III.

THE NEW-COMERS                                                        20


PART II.


CHAPTER IV.

AFTER THE SILENCE OF YEARS                                            30


CHAPTER V.

WAKING UP                                                             37


CHAPTER VI.

AT THE VICARAGE                                                       46


PART III.


CHAPTER VII.

THE CHILDREN AT THE CASTLE                                            56


CHAPTER VIII.

LADY STANTON                                                          66


CHAPTER IX.

AT ELFDALE                                                            77


CHAPTER X.

THE OTHER SIDE                                                        86


CHAPTER XI.

AN AFTERNOON’S WORK                                                   95


CHAPTER XII.

VISITORS                                                             104


PART IV.


CHAPTER XIII.

FAMILY CARES                                                         116


CHAPTER XIV.

AN UNLOOKED-FOR VISITOR                                              123


CHAPTER XV.

RANDOLPH                                                             133


CHAPTER XVI.

DUCKS AND DRAKES                                                     144


CHAPTER XVII.

THE BAMPFYLDES                                                       156


CHAPTER XVIII.

A NEW FRIEND                                                         169


CHAPTER XIX.

A MIDNIGHT WALK                                                      177


CHAPTER XX.

THE COTTAGE ON THE FELLS                                             187


CHAPTER XXI.

AN EARLY MEETING                                                     199


CHAPTER XXII.

THE HENS AND THE DUCKLING                                            208


CHAPTER XXIII.

COUSIN MARY’S OPINION                                                218


CHAPTER XXIV.

THE SQUIRE AT HOME                                                   227


CHAPTER XXV.

A NEW VISITOR                                                        240


CHAPTER XXVI.

IN SUSPENSE                                                          249


CHAPTER XXVII.

AN APPARITION                                                        261


CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS                                              273


CHAPTER XXIX.

NELLO’S JOURNEY                                                      282


CHAPTER XXX.

A CHILD FORLORN                                                      295


CHAPTER XXXI.

A CRISIS AT PENNINGHAME                                              306


CHAPTER XXXII.

NELLO’S RESCUE                                                       321


CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE BABES IN THE WOOD                                                330


CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE NEW-COMER                                                        338


CHAPTER XXXV.

ANOTHER HELPER                                                       348


CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE BEGINNING OF THE END                                             358


CHAPTER XXXVII.

A TRAITOR                                                            366


CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE MOTHER                                                           373


CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE TRAGEDY ENDS                                                     384


CHAPTER XL.

CONCLUSION                                                           389




YOUNG MUSGRAVE.




PART I.




CHAPTER I.

THE FAMILY.


It would be difficult to say how Penninghame Castle had got that
imposing name. It was an old house standing almost on the roadside, at
least at the termination of a rough country road leading from the
village, which widened into a square space at the side of the house. The
village road was lined with trees, and it pleased the Musgraves to
believe that it had been in happier days the avenue to their ancient
dwelling, while the rough square at the end had been the courtyard. The
place itself consisted of a small mansion not important enough to be
very distinctive in architecture, built on to the end of an old hall,
the only remaining portion of a much older and greater house. This hall
was entered directly by a great door of heavy oak, from which a slope of
ancient causeway descended into the road below--an entrance which was
the only thing like a castle in the whole _ensemble_, though it ought to
have led to an ancient gateway and portcullis rather than to the great
door generally wide open, through which, according to the story, a
horseman once entered to scare the guests at their feast and defy the
master at the head of the table. The hall was not used for such festive
purposes now, nor threatened by such warlike intruders. It had known
evil fortune in its day and had been degraded into a barn, its windows
blocked up, its decorations destroyed--but had come to life again for
the last fifty years and had come back to human use, though no longer as
of old. Round the corner was the front of the old mansion, built in that
pallid grey stone, which adds a sentiment of age, like the ashy paleness
of very old people, to the robust antiquity of mason-work more lasting
than any that is done now. Successive squires had nibbled at this old
front, making windows there and doorways here: windows which cut through
the string-courses above, and a prim Georgian front door, not even in
the centre of the old arched entrance which had been filled up, which
gave a certain air of disreputable irregularity to the pale and stern
old dwelling-place. Ivy and other clinging growths fortunately hid a
great deal of this, and added importance to the four great stacks of
chimneys, which, mantled in its short, large leaves and perpetual
greenness, looked like turrets, and dignified the house. A lake behind
somewhat coldly blue, and a great hill in front somewhat coldly green,
showed all the features of that north country which was not far enough
north for the wild vigour and vivifying tints of brown bracken and
heather. The lake came closely up in a little bay behind the older part
of the house where there was a rocky harbour for the boats of the
family; and between this little bay and the grey walls was the
flower-garden, old-fashioned and bright, though turned to the unkindly
east. Beyond this was a kind of broken park with some fine trees and a
great deal of rough underwood, which stretched along the further shore
of the lake and gave an air of dignity to the dwelling on that side.
This was still called “the Chase” as the house was called the Castle, in
memory it might be supposed of better days. The Musgraves had been
Cavaliers, and had wasted their substance in favour of the Charleses,
and their lands had been ravaged, their park broken up into fields,
their avenue made a common road, half by hostile neighbours, half by
vulgar intrusion, in the days when the Revolutionists had the upper
hand. So they said, at least, and pleas of this kind are respected
generally, save by the very cynical. Certainly the present occupants of
the house believed it fervently, and so did the village; and if it was
nothing more it was a great comfort and support to the family, and made
them regard the rude approach to “the Castle” with forbearance. The
public right of way had been established in those stormy times. It was a
sign even of the old greatness of the house. It was better than trim
lawns and smiling gardens, which would have required a great deal of
keeping up. It was, however, a family understanding that the first
Musgrave who made a rich marriage, or who in any other way became a
favourite of fortune, should by some vague means--an act of parliament
or otherwise--reclaim the old courtyard and avenue, and plant a pair of
magnificent gates between the castle and the village: also buy back all
the old property; also revive the title of Baron of Penninghame, which
had been in abeyance for the last two hundred years; and do many other
things to glorify and elevate the family to its pristine position; and
no Musgrave doubted that this deliverer would come sooner or later,
which took the bitterness out of their patience in the meantime and gave
them courage to wait.

Another encouraging circumstance in their lot was that they were fully
acknowledged as the oldest family in the county. Other and richer
persons pushed in before them to its dignities, and they were no doubt
very much left out of its gaieties and pleasures; but no one doubted
that they had a right to take the lead, if ever they were rich enough.
This, however, did not seem likely, for the moment at least. The family
at Penninghame had, what is much to be avoided by families which would
be happy, a history, and a very recent one. There were two sons, but
neither of them had been seen at the Castle for nearly fifteen years,
and with the name of the elder of these there was connected a dark and
painful story, not much known to the new generation, but very well
remembered by all the middle-aged people in the county. Young Musgrave
had been for a year or two the most popular young squire in the north
country, but his brightness had ended in dismal clouds of misfortune and
trouble and bloodshedding, with perhaps crime involved, and certainly
many of the penalties of crime. He had not been seen in the north
country since the crisis which made all the world acquainted with his
unfortunate name; and his younger brother had re-appeared but once in
their father’s house, which was thus left desolate, except for the one
daughter, who had been its delight before and was now its only stay. So
far as the county knew, young Musgrave still lived, though he was never
mentioned, for there had been no signs of mourning in the house, such as
must have intimated to the neighbours the fact of John’s death--which
also of course would have made Randolph the heir. And save that once,
not even Randolph had ever come to break the monotony of life in his
father’s house. Squire Musgrave and his daughter lived there alone now.
They had been alone these fifteen years. They had little society, and
did not keep up a large establishment. He was old, and she was no longer
young enough to care for the gaieties of the rural neighbourhood. Thus
they had fallen out of the current of affairs. The family was “much
respected,” but comparatively little heard of after the undesired and
undesirable notoriety it had once gained.

Thus abandoned by its sons, and denuded of the strongest elements of
life, it may well be supposed that the castle at Penninghame was a
melancholy house. What more easy than to conjure up the saddest picture
of such a dwelling? The old man, seated in his desolate home, brooding
over perhaps the sins of his sons, perhaps his own--some injudicious
indulgence, or untimely severity which had driven them from him; while
the sister, worn out by the monotony of her solitary life, shut herself
out from all society, and spent her life in longing for the absent, and
pleading for them--a sad, solitary woman, with no pleasure in her lot,
except that of the past. The picture would have been as appropriate as
touching, but it would not have been true. Old Mr. Musgrave was not the
erring father of romance. He was a well-preserved and spare little man,
over seventy, with cheeks of streaky red like winter apples, and white
hair, which he wore rather long, falling on the velvet collar of his
old-fashioned coat. He had been an outdoor man in his day, and had
farmed, and shot, and hunted, like others of his kind, so far as his
straitened means and limited stables permitted; but when years and
circumstances had impaired his activity he had been strong enough to
retire, of his own free will, while graceful abdication was still in his
power. He spent most of his time now in his library, with only a
constitutional walk, or easy ramble upon his steady old cob, to vary
his life, except when quarter sessions called him forth, or any other
duty of the magistracy, to which he still paid the most conscientious
attention. The Musgraves were not people whom it was easy to crush, and
Fate had a hard bargain in the old squire, who found himself one
occupation when deprived of another with a spirit not often existing in
old age. He had committed plenty of mistakes in his day, and some which
had been followed by tragical consequences, a practical demonstration of
evil which fortunately does not attend all the errors of life; but he
did not brood over them in his old library, nor indulge unavailing
compunctions, nor consider himself under any doom; but on the contrary
studied his favourite problems in genealogy and heraldry, and county
history, and corresponded with _Notes and Queries_, and was in his way
very comfortable. He it was who first pointed out that doubtful
blazoning of Marmion’s shield, “colour upon colour,” which raised so
lively a discussion; and in questions of this kind he was an authority,
and thoroughly enjoyed the little tilts and controversies involved, many
of which were as warm as their subjects were insignificant. His family
was dropping, or rather had dropped, into decay; his eldest son was
virtually lost to his family and to society; his youngest son alienated
and a stranger; and some of this at least was the father’s fault. But
neither the decay of the house, nor the reflection that he was at least
partially to blame, made any great difference to the squire. There had
no doubt been moments, and even hours, when he had felt it bitterly; but
these moments, though perhaps they count for more than years in a man’s
life, do not certainly last so long, and age has a way of counterfeiting
virtue, which is generally very successful, even to its personal
consciousness. Mr. Musgrave was generally respected, and he felt himself
to be entirely respectable. He sat in his library and worked away among
his county histories, without either compunction or regret--who could
throw a stone at him? He had been rather unfortunate in his family, that
was all that could be said.

And Mary Musgrave, his daughter, was just as little disposed to brood
upon the past. She had shed many tears in her day, and suffered many
things. Perhaps it was in consequence of the family troubles which had
come upon her just at the turning-point in her life that she had never
married; for she had been one of the beauties of the district--courted
and admired by everybody, and wooed by many: by some who indeed still
found her beautiful, and by some who had learned to laugh at the old
unhappiness of which she was the cause. Miss Musgrave did not like these
last, which was perhaps natural; and even now there would be a tone of
satire in her voice when she noted the late marriage of one or another
of her old adorers. Women do not like men whose hearts they have broken,
to get quite healed, and console themselves; this is perhaps a poor
feeling, but it is instinctive, and though it may be stoutly struggled
against in some cases, and chidden into silence in many, it still
maintains an untolerated yet obstinate life. But neither the failure of
the adorations she once inspired nor the family misfortunes had crushed
her spirit. She lived a not unhappy life, notwithstanding all that had
happened. It was she who did everything that was done at Penninghame.
The reins which her father had dropped almost unawares she had taken up.
She managed the estate; kept the bailiff in order; did all business that
was necessary with the lawyer; and what was a greater feat still, kept
her father unaware of the almost absolute authority which she exercised
in his affairs. It had to be done, and she had not hesitated to do it;
and on the whole, she, too, though she had suffered many heartaches in
her day, was not unhappy now, but lived a life full of activity and
occupation. She was forty, and her hair began to be touched by grey--she
who had been one of the fairest flowers of the north country. A woman
always has to come down from that eminence somehow; whether she does it
by becoming some one’s wife or by merely falling back into the silence
of the past and leaving the place free for others, does not much matter.
Perhaps, indeed, it is the old maid who has the best of it. A little
romance continues to encircle her in the eyes of most of those who have
worshipped her youth. She has not married; why has she not married--that
once admired of all admirers? Has it been that she, too, sharing the lot
which she inflicted on so many, was not loved where she loved? or was
it perhaps that she had made a mistake--sent away some one, perhaps,
who knows, the very man who thought of her thus kindly and
regretfully--whom she was afterwards sorry to have sent away? Nobody
said this in words, but Mary Musgrave at forty was more tenderly thought
of than Lady Stanton, who had been the rival queen of the county. Lady
Stanton was stout now-a-days; in men’s minds, when they met her sailing
into a ball-room, prematurely indued with the duties of chaperon to her
husband’s grown-up daughters, there would arise a half-amused wonder how
they could have worshipped at her feet as they once did. “Can this
muckle wife be my true love Jean?” they said to themselves. But Miss
Musgrave, who was slim as a girl in her unwedded obscurity, and whose
eyes some people thought as bright as ever, though her hair was grey,
gave rise to no such irreverent thoughts. There were men scattered
through the world who had a romantic regard, a profound respect still,
for this woman whom they had loved, and who had preserved the
distinction of loving no one in return. Nobody had died for love of her,
though, some had threatened it; but this visionary atmosphere of past
adoration supplied a delicate homage, such as is agreeable even to an
old maiden’s heart.

And Miss Musgrave’s life was spent chiefly in the old hall, as her
father’s was spent in his library. She had been full of gay activity in
her youth, a bold and graceful horsewoman, ready for anything that was
going; but, with the same sense of fitness that led the squire to his
retirement, she too had retired. She had put aside her riding-habits
along with, her muslins, and wore nothing but rich neutral-tinted silk
gowns. Her only extravagance was a pair of ponies, which she drove into
the county town when she had business to do, or to pay an occasional
visit to her friends: but by far the greater part of her life was spent
in the old hall, where all her favourites and allies came, and all her
poor people from the village, who found her seated like a scriptural
potentate in the gate, ready to settle all quarrels and administer
impartial justice. The hall was connected with the house by a short
passage and two doors, which shut out all interchange of sound. There
was nothing above it but the high-pitched roof, the turret chimneys, and
the ivy, nor was any interposition of servants necessary to usher in
visitors by that ever-open way. This was a thing which deeply affected
the spirits and feelings of Eastwood, the only male functionary in the
house--the most irreproachable of butlers. A door which opened straight
into the lady’s favourite sitting-room was felt by him to be an insult
to the family; it was more like a farmhouse than a castle; and as for
Miss Musgrave, she was just as bad--too affable, a deal too affable,
talking to any one that came to her, the tramps on the road as well as
the ladies and gentlemen whose unwilling steeds pranced and curveted on
the old slope of causeway. This was a standing grievance to the butler,
whoso complaint was that the “presteedge” of the family was in hourly
jeopardy; and his persistent complaint had thrown a shade of
dissatisfaction over the household. This, however, did not move the lady
of the house. Eastwood and the rest did not know, though some other
people did, that it was the proudest woman in the county whom they
accused of being too affable, and who received all the world in the old
hall without the assistance of any gentleman usher. There were no
windows in the side of the hall which fronted the road, but only this
huge oaken door, all studded with bars and elaborate hinges of iron. On
the other side there was a recess, with a large square window and
cushioned seats, “restored” by village workmen in a not very perfect
way, but still preserving the ample and noble lines of its original
design. This windowed recess was higher than the rest of the hall, the
walls of which were low, though the roof was lofty. But towards the
front the only light was from the doorway, which looked due west, and
beheld all the sunsets, flooding the ancient place with afternoon light
and glories of evening colour. The slanting light seemed to sweep in
like an actual visitor in all its sheen of crimson and purple, when the
rest of the house was in the still and hush of the grey evening. This
was where Miss Musgrave held her throne.

Thus Penninghame Castle stood at the moment this story begins. The lake
gleaming cold towards the north, rippling against the pebbles in the
little inlet which held the two boats, the broken ground and ancient
trees of the Chase, lying eastward, getting the early lights of the
morning, as did the flower-garden, which lay bright under the old
walls. A little genial hum of the kindly north-country women-servants,
who had been there for a lifetime, or who were the daughters and cousins
of those who had been there for a lifetime, with Eastwood strutting
important among them--the one big cock among this barndoor company--made
itself audible now and then, a respectful subdued human accompaniment to
the ripple of the lake and the whispering of the wind among the trees:
and now and then a cheerful cackle of poultry, the sound of the ponies
in the stable, or the squire’s respectable cob: the heavy steps of the
gardener walking slowly along the gravel paths. But for these tranquil
sounds, which made the stillness more still, there was nothing but quiet
in and about the old house. There had been a time when much had happened
there, when there had been angry dissensions, family convulsions, storms
of mutual reproach and reproof, outbursts of tears and crying. But all
that was over. Nothing had happened at Penninghame for fifteen years.
The old squire in his library and Mary in her favourite old chamber
lived as though there were no breaks in life, no anguishes, no
convulsions, as quietly as their trees, as steadily as their old walls,
as if existence could neither change nor end. Thus they went on from day
to day and from year to year, in a routine which occupied and satisfied,
and kept the sense of living in their minds, but in a lull and hush of
all adventure, of all commotion, of all excitement. Time passed over
them and left no trace, save those touches imperceptible at the moment
which sorrow or passion could surpass in effect in one day, yet which
tell as surely at the end. This was how things were at Penninghame when
this story begins.




CHAPTER II.

MARY.


It was not one of Mary Musgrave’s fancies to furnish her hall like a
drawing-room. She had collected round her a few things for use, but she
was not rich enough to make her favourite place into a toy, as so many
people do, nor had she the opportunity of “picking up” rarities to
ornament it, as she might have liked to do had she been in the way of
them. The room had been a barn fifty years before. Then it became a
family storeroom, was fitted up at one end with closets and cupboards,
and held the household linen, and sometimes the winter supply of fruit.
It was Mary who had rescued it back again to gentler use; but she had
not been able to re-decorate or renew it with such careful pretence at
antiquity as is common nowadays. All that she could do for it was to
collect her own doings there, and all the implements for her work. The
windowed recess which got the morning sun was her business-room. There
stood an old secretaire, chosen not because of its age or suitability,
but because it was the only thing she had available, a necessity which
often confers as much grace as the happiest choice. Opposite the doorway
was an old buffet, rough, yet not uncharacteristic, which had been
scrubbed clean by a generous housemaid when Miss Musgrave first took to
the hall. And much it had wanted that cleansing; but the soap and the
water and the scrubbing-brush had not agreed very well, it must be
allowed, with the carved mahogany, which ought to have been oak. Between
the open door and this big piece of furniture was a square of old Turkey
carpet, very much faded, yet still agreeable to the eye, and a
spindle-legged table of Queen Anne’s days, with drawers which held Miss
Musgrave’s knitting and a book, and sometimes homelier matters, mendings
which she chose to do herself, calculations which were not meant for the
common eye.

She was seated here, on an afternoon of October, warm with the shining
of that second summer which comes even in the north. The sunshine came
so far into the room that it caught the edges of the carpet, and made a
false show of gold upon the faded wool; and it was so warm that Miss
Musgrave had drawn her chair farther into the room than usual, and sat
in the shade to escape the unusual warmth. At this moment she was not
doing anything. She was sitting quite silent, the book she had been
reading laid open upon her knee, enjoying the sun, as people enjoy it to
whom it suddenly reveals itself after date when it is past expectation.
In the end of October in the north country, people have ceased to think
of warmth out of doors, or any blaze of kindly light from the skies--and
the morning had been grey though very mild. The sudden glow had caught
Mary as she sat, a little chilly, close to her opened door, thinking of
a shawl, and had transfigured the landscape and the heavens and her own
sentiments all at once. She was sitting with her hands in her lap, and
the open book on her knee, thinking of it, surprised by the sweetness of
it, feeling it penetrate into her very heart, though she had drawn her
chair back out of the sun. No, not thinking--people do not think of the
sunshine; but it went into her heart, bringing back a confused sweetness
of recollection and of anticipation--or rather of the anticipations
which were recollections--which had ceased to exist except in memory.
Just so does youth expect some sudden sweetness to invade its life; and
sometimes the memory of that expectation, even when unfulfilled, brings
a half sad, half sweet amusement to the solitary. It was so with this
lady seated alone in her old hall. She was Mary again, the young
daughter of the house; and at the same time she was old Miss Musgrave
smiling at herself.

But as she did so a footstep sounded on the rough pavement of the
ascent. No one could come unheard to her retreat, which was a safeguard.
She gave a little shake to her head, and took up the open book, which
was no old favourite to be dreamed over, but a modern book; and prepared
herself for a visitor with that smoothing of the brow and closing up of
mental windows which fits us to meet strange eyes. “It is only I,” said
the familiar voice of some one who knew and understood this slight
movement: and then she dropped the book again, and let the smile come
back into her eyes.

“Only you! then I may look as I please. I need not put on my company
garb,” she said, with a smile.

“I should hope not,” said the new-comer, reaching the door with that
slight quickening of the breath which showed that even the half-dozen
steps of ascent was a slight tax upon him. He did not even shake hands
with her--probably they had met before that day--but took off his hat as
he crossed the threshold, as if he had been going into a church. He was
a clergyman, slim and slight, of middle size, or less than middle size,
in somewhat rusty grey, with a mildness of aspect which did not promise
much strength, bodily or mental. The Vicarage of Penninghame was a poor
one, too poor to be worth reserving for a son of the family, and it had
been given to the tutor of Mr. Musgrave’s sons twenty years ago. What
had happened was natural enough, and might be seen in his eyes still,
notwithstanding lapse of time and change of circumstances. Mr.
Pennithorne had fallen in love, always hopelessly and mildly, as became
his character, with the Squire’s daughter. He had always said it did not
matter. He had no more hope of persuading her to love him than of
getting the moon to come out of heaven, and circumstances having set
marriage before him, he had married, and was happy enough as happiness
goes. And he was the friend, and in a measure the confidant, of this
lady whom he had loved in the superlative poetical way--knew all about
her, shared her life in a manner, was acquainted with many of her
thoughts and her troubles. A different light came into his eyes when he
saw her, but he was not at all unhappy. He had a good wife and three
nice children, and the kind of life he liked. At fifty, who is there who
continues to revel in the unspeakable blisses of youth? Mr. Pennithorne
was very well content: but still when he saw Mary Musgrave--and he saw
her daily--there came a different kind of light into his eyes.

“I was in mental _déshabille_,” she said, “and did not care to be
caught; though after all it is not everybody who can see when one is not
clothed and in one’s right mind.”

“I never knew you out of your right mind, Miss Mary. What was it?--no
new trouble?”

“You are always a flatterer, Mr. Pen. You have seen me in all kinds of
conditions. No, we don’t have any troubles now. Is that a rash speech?
But really I mean it. My father is in very good health and enjoys
himself, and I enjoy myself--in reason.”

“You enjoy yourself! Yes, in the way of being good to other people.”

“Hush!” she said, putting up her hand to stop him in his little speech,
sincere as it was. “Shall I tell you what it was that put me out of
order for any one’s eyes but an old friend’s? Nothing more than this
sunshine, Mr. Pen. Don’t you recollect when we were young how a sudden
thought of something that was coming would seize upon you, and flood you
with delight--as the sun did just now?”

“I recollect,” he said, fixing his mild eyes upon her, and shaking his
head, with a sigh: “but it never came.”

“That may be true enough; but the thought came, and ‘life is but
thought,’ you know; the thing might not follow. However, we are all
quite happy all the same.”

He looked at her, still shaking his head.

“I suppose so,” he said; “I suppose so; quite happy! but not as we meant
to be; that was what you were thinking.”

“I did not go so far. I was not thinking at all. I _think_ that I think
very seldom. It only caught me as the old thought used to do, and
brought so many things back.”

She smiled, but he sighed.

“Yes, everything is very different. Yourself--to see you here, offering
up your life for others--making a sacrifice----”

“I have made no sacrifice,” she said, somewhat proudly, then laughed.
“Is that because I am unmarried, Mr. Pen? You wedded people, you are so
sure of being better off than we are. You are too complacent. But _I_ am
not so sure of that.”

He did not join in her laugh, but looked at her with melting eyes--eyes
in which there was some suspicion of tears. It was perhaps a trifle
unkind of her to call him complacent in his conjugality. There were a
hundred unspeakable things in his look--pity, reverence, devotion, not
the old love perhaps, but something higher; something that was never to
end.

“On the whole, we are taking it too seriously,” she said, after a pause.
“It is over now, and the sun is going down. And you came to talk to
me?--perhaps of something in the parish that wants looking to?”

“No--I came in only to look at you, and make sure that you were well.
The children you were visiting the other day have the scarlet fever; and
besides, I have had a feeling in my mind about you--a presentiment. I
should not have been surprised to hear that there had been--letters--or
some kind of advances made----”

“From whom?”

“Well,” he said, after a slight pause; “they are both brothers--both
sons--but they are not the same to me, Miss Mary. From John; he has been
so much in my mind these two or three days, I have got to dreaming about
him. Yes, yes, I know that is not worth thinking of; but we were always
in such sympathy, he and I. Don’t you believe in some communication
between minds that were closely allied? I do. It is a superstition if
you like. Nothing could happen to any of you but, if I were at ever so
great a distance, I should know.”

“Don’t be too sure of that, Mr. Pen. Sometimes the dearest to us perish,
and we know nothing of it; but I prefer your view. You dreamt of poor
John? What did you see? Alas! dreams are the only ways of divining
anything about him now!”

“And your father is as determined as ever?”

“We never speak on the subject. It has disappeared like so many other
things. Why continue a fruitless discussion which only embittered him
and wore me out? If any critical moment should come, if--one must say it
plainly--my father should be like to die--then I should speak, you need
not fear.”

“I never feared that you would do everything the best sister, the
bravest friend, could do.”

“Do not praise me too much. I tell you I am doing nothing, and have done
nothing for years; and sometimes it strikes me with terror. If anything
should happen suddenly! My father is an old man; but talking to him now
is of no use; we must risk it. What did you see in your dream?”

“Oh, you will laugh at me,” he said with a nervous flutter;
“nothing--except that he was here. I dreamt of him before, that time
that he came home--after----”

“Don’t speak of it,” said Miss Musgrave, with a corresponding shiver.
“To think that such things should happen, and be forgotten, and we
should all go on so comfortably--quite comfortably! I have nothing
particular to make me happy, and yet I am as happy as most
people--notwithstanding all that I have come through, as the poor women
say.”

“That is because you are so unselfish--so----”

“Insensible--more like. I am the same as other people. What the poor
folk in the village come through, Mr. Pen!--loss of husbands, loss of
children, one after another, grinding poverty, and want, and anxiety,
and separation from all they care for. Is it insensibility? I never can
tell; and especially now when I share it myself. I am as happy sometimes
as when I was young. That sunshine gave me a ridiculous pleasure. What
right have I to feel my heart light?--but I did somehow--and I do
often--notwithstanding all that has happened, and all that I have ‘gone
through.’”

Mr. Pennithorne gave a vague smile, but he made no reply; for either she
was accusing herself unjustly, or this was a mood of mind which perhaps
derogated a little from Mary Musgrave’s perfection. He had a way himself
of keeping on steadfastly on the one string of his anxiety, whatever it
might be, and worrying everybody with it--and here he lost the object of
his faithful worship. It might--nay, must--be right since so she felt;
but he lost her here.

“And speaking of happiness,” she went on after a pause, “I want the
children to come with me to Pennington to see the archery. It is pretty,
and they will like it. And they like to drive behind my ponies. They are
quite well?--and Emily?”

“Very well. Our cow has been ill, and she has been worrying about
it--not much to worry about you will say, you who have so much more
serious anxieties.”

“Not at all. If I had a delicate child and wanted the milk, I should
fret very much. Will you send up for some of ours? As usually happens,
we, who don’t consume very much, have plenty.”

“Thank you,” he said, “but you must not think that little Emmy is so
delicate. She has not much colour--neither has her mother, you know.” He
was a very anxious father, and looked up with an eager wistfulness into
her face. Little Emmy was so delicate that it hurt him like a foreboding
to hear her called so. He could not bear Miss Musgrave, whose word had
authority, to give utterance to such a thought.

“I spoke hastily,” she said; “I did not think of Emmy. She is ever so
much stronger this year. As for paleness, I don’t mind paleness in the
least. She has such a very fair complexion, and she is twice as strong
as last year.”

“I am so glad you think so,” he said, with the colour rising to his
face. “That is true comfort--for eyes at a little distance are so much
better than one’s own.”

“Yes, she is a great deal stronger,” said Miss Musgrave, “but you must
send down for the milk. I was pale too, don’t you remember, when you
came first? When I was fifteen.”

“I remember--everything,” he said; “even to the dress you wore. I bought
my little Mary something like it when I was last in town. It was
blue--how well I remember! But Mary will never be like you, though she
is your godchild.”

“She is a great deal better; she is like her mother,” said Miss Musgrave
promptly; “and Johnny is like his father, the best possible
distribution. You are happy with your children, Mr. Pen. I envy people
their children, it is the only thing; though perhaps they would bore me
if I had them always on my hands. You think not? Yes, I am almost sure
they would bore me. We get a kind of fierce independence living alone.
To be hampered by a little thing always wanting something--wanting
attention and care--I don’t think I should like it. But Emily was born
for such cares. How well she looks with her baby in her arms--all was
the old picture over again--the Madonna and the child.”

“Poor Emily,” he said, though why he could not have told, for Emily did
not think herself poor. Mr. Pennithorne always felt a vague pity for his
wife when he was with Miss Musgrave, as for a poor woman who had many
excellent qualities, but was here thrown into the shade. He could not
say any more. He got up to go away, consoled and made comfortable he
could not quite tell why. She was always sweet he said to himself as he
went home. What she had said about being bored by children was a mere
delusion, or perhaps a little conscious effort of self-deception,
persuading herself that to have no children and to be independent was
the best. What a wife she would have made! What a mother! he said this
to himself quite impartially, knowing well that she never could have
been wife for him, and feeling a pang at his heart for the happiness she
had lost. Married life was not unmixed happiness always; it had its
difficulties, he knew. But if _she_ had married it was not possible that
she could have been otherwise than happy. With her there could have been
no drawbacks. Mr. Pennithorne looked upon the question from a husband’s
point of view alone.

When he was gone, Miss Musgrave sat still without changing her place, at
first with a smile, which gradually faded away from her face, like the
last suffusion of the sunshine, which was going too. She smiled at her
fast friend, to whom she knew, notwithstanding his legitimate affection
for his Emily, she herself stood first of created beings. It was a
folly, but it did not hurt him, she reflected with a faint amusement;
and Emily and the children, notwithstanding this sentiment, were first
and foremost really in his heart. Poor Mr. Pen! he had always been like
this, mildly sentimental, offering up an uninterrupted gentle incense.
But he was not in the least unhappy, though perhaps he liked by times to
think that he was. Few people were really unhappy. By moments life was
hard; but the struggle itself made a kind of happiness, a strain of
living which it was good to feel by times. This was her theory. Most
people when they come to forty have some theory or another, some settled
way of getting through their existence, and adapting themselves for it.
Hers was this: that evil was very much less than good in every way, and
that people suffered a great deal less than they gave themselves credit
for. Life had its compensations, daily and hourly, she thought. Her own
existence had no exciting source of joy in it, but how far it was from
being unhappy! Had she been unhappy she would have scoffed at herself.
What! so many things to enjoy, so many good and pleasant circumstances
around, and not happy! Would not that have been a disgrace to any woman?
So she was apt to think Mr. Pennithorne extracted a certain cunning
enjoyment from that vain love for herself which had been so visionary at
all times, and which he persuaded himself had saddened his life. She
thought it had been a harmless delusion: a secret advantage rather;
something to fall back upon; a soft and visionary grievance of which he
never wearied. And perhaps she was right. She sat looking after him with
a smile on her face.

The sun had crept away from her open doorway as they had talked. It was
stealing further and further off, withdrawing from the line of the road,
from the village roofs, from the gleam of the lake--and like the sun her
smile stole away, from her eyes first, and then from the lingering
curves about her mouth. Why was it that he could think he felt some
action upon him of John’s mind in the far distance, while she felt none?
No kind of presentiment or premonition had come to her. It must be
foolishness she was sure--superstition; for if sympathy could thus
communicate even a vague thrill of warning from one to another through
the atmosphere of the mind, surely she was a more likely object to
receive it than Mr. Pennithorne! John knew her,--could not doubt her,
surely. Therefore to her, if to any one, this secret communication must
have come. The smile disappeared altogether from her mouth as she
entered upon this subject, and her whole face and eyes became grave and
grey, like the dull coldness of the east, half-resentful of the sunset
which still went on upon the other edge of the horizon, dispersing all
those vain reflections to every quarter except that from which the sun
rose. Could it be possible after all that John might trust Mr.
Pennithorne with a more perfect confidence, as one unconnected and
unconcerned with all that had passed, than he could give to herself? The
thought, even though founded on such visionary grounds, hurt her a
little; yet there was a kind of reason in it. He might think that she,
always at her father’s side, and able to influence him in so many ways,
might have done more for her brother; whereas with Mr. Pennithorne, who
could do nothing, the sentiment of trust would be unbroken. She sat thus
idly making it out to herself, making wondering casts of thought after
her brother in the darkness of the unknown, as inch by inch the light
stole out of the sky. It was not a fine sunset that night. The sun was
yellow and mournful; long lines of cloud broke darkly upon his sinking,
catching only sick reflections of the pale light beneath. At last he was
all gone, except one streaming yellow sheaf of rays that seemed to
strike against and barb themselves into the damp green outline of the
hill.

Her eyes were upon this, watching that final display, which, somehow in
the absorption of her thoughts, kept her from observing an object near
at hand, an old hackney-coach from Pennington town--where there was a
railway station--which came along the road, a black, slow, lumbering
vehicle, making a dull roll of sound which might have been a country
cart. It came nearer and nearer while Miss Musgrave watched the bundle
of gold arrows flash into the hill-side and disappear. Her eyes were
dazzled by them, and chilled by their sudden disappearance, which left
all the landscape cold and wrapped in a greyness of sudden evening. Mary
came to herself with a slight shiver and shock. And at that moment the
dull roll of the cab ceased, and the thing stood revealed to her. She
rose to her feet with a thrill of wonder and expectation. The hackney
carriage had drawn up at the foot of the slope opposite to and beneath
her. What was coming? Had Mr. Pennithorne been warned after all, while
she had been left in darkness? Her heart seemed to leap into her throat,
while she stood clasping her hands together to get some strength from
them, and waiting for the revelation of this new thing, whatever it
might be.




CHAPTER III.

THE NEW-COMERS.


The cab was loaded with two boxes on the roof, foreign trunks, of a
different shape from those used at home; and a woman’s face, in a
fantastic foreign head-dress, peered through the window. Who could this
be? Mary stood as if spell-bound, unable to make a movement. The driver,
who was an ordinary cab-driver from Pennington, whose homely
everydayness of appearance intensified the strangeness of the others,
opened the door of the carriage, and lifted out, first a small boy, with
a scared face and a finger in his mouth, who stared at the strange
place, and the figures in the doorway, with a fixed gaze of panic, on
the eve of tears. Then out came with a bound, as if pushed from behind
as well as helped a little roughly by the cabman, the foreign woman, at
whose dress the child clutched with a frightened cry. Then there was a
pause, during which some one inside threw out a succession of wraps,
small bags, and parcels; and then there stepped forth, with a great
shawl on one arm, and a basket almost as large as herself on the other,
clearly the leading spirit of the party, a little girl who appeared to
be about ten years old. “You will wait a moment, man, till we get the
pay for you,” said this little personage in a high-pitched voice, with a
distinctness of enunciation which made it apparent that the language,
though spoken with very little accent, was unfamiliar to her. Then she
turned to the woman and said a few words much more rapidly, with as much
aid of gesture as was compatible with the burdens. Mary felt herself
look on at all this like a woman in a dream. What was it all--a dream or
reality? She felt incapable of movement, or rather too much interested
in the curious scene which was going on before her, to think of movement
or interference of any kind. When she had given her directions, whatever
they were, the little girl turned round and faced the open door and the
lady who had not moved. She gave these new circumstances a long, steady,
investigating look. They were within a dozen yards of each other, but
the chatelaine stood still and said nothing, while the little invader
inspected her, and prepared her assault. The child, who looked the
impersonation of life and purpose between her helpless companion and the
wondering stranger whom she confronted, was dark and pale, not like the
fair English children to whom Mary Musgrave was accustomed. Her dark
eyes seemed out of proportion to her small, colourless face, and gave it
an eager look of precocious intelligence. Her features were small, her
dark hair falling about her in half-curling masses, her head covered
with a little velvet cap trimmed with fur, as unlike anything children
wore in England at the time as the anxious meaning of her face was
different from ordinary baby prettiness. She made a momentary
pause--then put down the basket on the stones, threw the shawl on the
top of it, and mounted the breach with resolute courage. The stones were
rough to the little child’s feet; there was a dilation in her eyes that
looked like coming tears, and as she faced the alarming stranger, who
stood there looking at her, a burning red flush came momentarily over
her face. But she neither sat down and cried as she would have liked to
do, nor ran back again to cling to the nurse’s skirts like her little
brother. The small thing had a duty to do, and did it with a courage
which might have put heroes to shame. Resolutely she toiled her way up
to Miss Musgrave at the open door.

“Are you--Mary?” she said; the little voice was strange yet sweet, with
its distinct pronunciation and unfamiliar accent. “Are you--Mary?” Her
big eyes seemed to search the lady all over, making a rapid comparison
with some description she had received. There was doubt in her tone when
she repeated the name a second time, and the tears visibly came nearer,
and got with a shake and tremor into her voice.

“What do you want with Mary?” said Miss Musgrave; “who are you, little
girl?”

“I do not think you can be Mary,” said the child. “He said your hair was
like Nello’s, but it is more like his own. And he said you were
beautiful--so you are beautiful, but old--and he never said you were
old. Oh, if you are not Mary, what shall we do? what shall we do?”

She clasped her little hands together, and for a moment trembled on the
edge of a childish outburst, but stopped herself with a sudden curb of
unmistakable will. “I must think what is to be done,” she cried out
sharply, putting her little hands upon her trembling mouth.

“Who are you? who are you?” cried Mary Musgrave, trembling in her turn;
“child, who was it that sent you to me?”

The little thing kept her eyes fixed upon her, with that watchfulness
which is the only defence of weakness, ready to fly like a little wild
creature at any approach of danger. She opened a little bag which hung
by her side and took a letter from it, never taking her great eyes all
the time from Miss Musgrave’s face. “This was for you, if you were
Mary,” she said; holding the letter jealously in both hands. “But he
said, when I spoke to you, if it was you, you would know.”

“You strange little girl!” cried Miss Musgrave, stepping out upon the
stones and holding out her hands eagerly; but the child made a little
move backward at the moment, in desperation of fear, yet courage.

“I will not give it you! I will not give it! it is everything we
have--unless you are Mary,” she cried, with the burst of a suppressed
sob.

“Who are you then, child? Yes, I am Mary, Mary Musgrave--give me the
letter. Is not this the house you were told of? Give me the letter--the
letter!” said Miss Musgrave, once more holding out her hands.

And once more the child made her jealous mental comparison between what
the lady was, and what she had been told to look for. “I cannot do what
I please,” she said, with little quivering lips. “I have Nello to take
care of. He is only such a little, little child. Yes, it is the house he
told me of; but he said if you were Mary--Ah! he said you would know us
and take us into your arms, and be so kind, so kind!”

“Little girl,” said Miss Musgrave, the tears dropping from her cheeks.
“There is only one man’s child that you can be. You are John’s little
girl, my brother John, and I am his sister Mary. But I do not know your
name, nor any thing about you. Give me John’s letter--and come to me,
come to me, my child!”

“I am Lilias,” said the little girl; but she held back, still examining
with curious though less terrified eyes. “You will give it me back if
you are not Mary?” she went on, at length holding out the letter; but
she took no notice of the invitation to come nearer, which Mary herself
forgot in the eagerness of her anxiety to get the letter, the first
communication from her brother--if it was from her brother--for so many
years. She took it quickly, almost snatching it from the child’s
reluctant fingers, and leaning against the doorway in her agitation,
tore it hastily open. Little Lilias was agitated too, with fear and
desolate strangeness, and that terrible ignorance of any alternative
between safety and utter destruction which makes danger insupportable to
a child. What were they to do if their claims were not acknowledged?
Wander into the woods and die in the darkness like the children in the
story? Little Lilias had feared nothing till that first doubt had come
over her at the door of the house, where, her father had instructed her,
she was to be made so happy. But if they were not taken in and made
happy, what were she and Nello to do? A terror of darkness, and cold,
and starvation came upon the little girl. She would wrap the big shawl
about her little brother, but what if wild beasts or robbers should come
in the middle of the dark? Her little bosom swelled full, the sobs rose
into her throat. Oh where could she go with Nello, if this was not Mary?
But she restrained the sobs by a last effort, like a little hero. She
sat down on the stone edge of the causeway, and held her hands clasped
tight to keep herself together, and fixed her eyes upon the lady with
the letter. The lady and the letter swam and changed, through the big
tears that kept coming, but she never took those great dark, intense
eyes from Miss Musgrave’s face. The Italian nurse was bending over
Nello, fully occupied in hushing his little plaints. Nello was tired,
hungry, sleepy, cold. He had no responsibility upon him, poor little
mite, to overcome the weakness of nature. He looked no more than six,
though he was older, a small and delicate child; and he clung to his
nurse, holding her desperately, afraid of he knew not what. She had
plenty to do to take care of him without thinking of what was going on
above; though the woman was indignant to be kept waiting, and cast
fierce looks, in the intervals of petting Nello, upon the lady, the cold
Englishwoman who was so long of taking the children to her arms. As for
the cabman, emblem of the general unconcern which surrounds every
individual drama, he stood leaning calmly upon his horse, waiting for
the _dénoûment_, whatever it might be. Miss Musgrave would see him paid
one way or another, and this was the only thing for which he needed to
care.

“Lilias,” said Miss Musgrave, going hastily to the child, with tears
running down her cheeks, “I am your aunt Mary, my darling, and you will
soon learn to know me. Come and give me a kiss, and bring me your little
brother. You are tired with your long journey, my poor child.”

“No, no--I am not tired--only Nello; and he is h-hungry. Ah! Kiss Nello,
Nello--come and kiss him; he is the baby. And are you Mary--real, real
Mary?” cried the little girl, bursting out into sobs; “oh; I cannot
h-help it. I did not mean it; I was fr-frightened. Nello, come, come,
Mary is here.”

“Yes, Mary is here,” said Miss Musgrave, taking the child into her arms,
who, even while she sobbed against her shoulder, put out an impatient
little hand and beckoned, crying, “Nello! Nello!” But it was not so easy
to extract Nello from his nurse’s arms. He cried and clung all the
faster from hearing his sister’s outburst; their poor little hearts were
full; and what chokings of vague misery, the fatigue and discomfort
infinitely deepened by a dumb consciousness of loneliness, danger, and
strangeness behind, were in these little inarticulate souls! something
more desperate in its inability to understand what it feared, its dim
anguish of uncomprehension, than anything that can be realized and
fathomed. Mary signed eagerly to the nurse to bring the little boy
indoors into the hall, which was not a reassuring place, vast and dark
as it was, in the dimness of the evening, to a child. But she had too
many difficulties on her hands in this strange crisis to think of that.
She had the boxes brought in also, and hastily sent the carriage away,
with a desperate sense as of burning her ships, and leaving no possible
way to herself of escape from the difficulty. The gardener, who had
appeared round the corner, attracted by the sound, presented himself as
much out of curiosity as of goodwill to assist in carrying in the boxes,
“though it would be handiest to drive round to the front door, and tak’
them straight oop t’ stair,” he said, innocently enough. But when Miss
Musgrave gave authoritative directions that they were to be brought into
the hall, naturally the gardener was surprised. This was a proceeding
entirely unheard of, and not to be understood in any way.

“It’ll be a deal more trouble after,” he said, under his breath, which
did not matter much. But when he had obeyed his mistress’s orders, he
went round to the kitchen full of the new event. “There’s something
oop,” the gardener said, delighted to bring so much excitement with him,
and he gave a full account of the two pale little children, the foreign
woman with skewers stuck in her hair, and finally, most wonderful of
all, the boxes which he had deposited with his own hands on the floor of
the hall. “I ken nothing about it,” he said, “but them as has been
longer aboot t’ house than me could tell a deal if they pleased; and
Miss Brown, it’s her as is wanted,” he added leisurely at the end.

Miss Brown, who was Mary Musgrave’s maid, and had been standing
listening to his story with frequent contradictions and denials, in a
state of general protestation, started at these words.

“You great gaby,” she said, “why didn’t you say so at first?” and
hurried out of the kitchen, not indisposed to get at the bottom of the
matter. She had been Miss Musgrave’s favourite attendant for twenty
years, and in that time had, as may be supposed, known about many things
which her superiors believed locked in the depths of their own bosoms.
She could have written the private history of the family with less
inaccuracy than belongs to most records of secret history. And she was
naturally indignant that Tom Gardener, a poor talkative creature, who
could keep nothing to himself, should have known this new and startling
event sooner than she did. She hurried through the long passage from the
kitchen, casting a stealthy glance in passing at the closed door of the
library, where the Squire sat unconscious. A subdued delight was in the
mind of the old servant; certainly it is best when there are no
mysteries in a family, when all goes well--but it is not so amusing. A
great event of which it was evident the squire was in ignorance, which
probably would have to be kept from him, and as much as possible from
the household--well, it might be unfortunate that such things should be,
but it was exciting, it woke people up.

Miss Brown obeyed this summons with more genuine alacrity than she had
felt for years.

Very different were the feelings of her mistress standing there in the
dimness of the old hall, her frame thrilling and her heart aching with
the appeal which her brother had made to her, out of a silence which for
more than a dozen years had been unbroken as that of the grave. She
could scarcely believe yet that she had seen his very handwriting and
read words which came straight from him and were signed by his now
unfamiliar name. The children, who crouched together frightened by the
darkness, were as phantoms to her, like a dream about which she had just
got into the stage of doubt. Till now it had been all real to her, as
dreams appear at first. But now, she stood, closing the door in the
stillness of the evening, which, still as it was, was full of curiosity
and questioning and prying eyes, and asked herself if these little
figures were real, or inventions of her fancy. Real children of her
living brother--was it true, was it possible? They were awe-stricken by
the gathering dusk, by the strange half-empty room, by the dim circle of
the unknown which surrounded them on every side. The nurse had put
herself upon a chair on the edge of the carpet, where she sat holding
the little boy on her knee, while little Lilias, who had backed slowly
towards this one familiar figure, stood leaning against her, clutching
her also with one hand, though she concealed instinctively this sign of
fear. The boy withdrew the wondering whiteness of his face from the
nurse’s shoulder now and then to give a frightened, fascinated look
around, then buried it again in a dumb trance of dismay and terror, too
frightened to cry. What was to be done with these frightened children
and the strange woman to whom they clung? Mary could not keep them here
to send them wild with alarm. They wanted soft beds, warm fires,
cheerful lights, food and comfort, and they had come to seek it in the
only house in the world which was closed by a curse and a vow against
them. Mary Musgrave was not the kind of woman who is easily frightened
by vows or curses; there was none of the romantic folly in her which
would believe in the reality of an unjust or uncalled-for malediction.
But she was persuaded of the reality of a thing which involved no
supernatural mysteries, the obstinancy of her father’s mind, and his
determination to hold by the verdict he had given. Years move and change
everything, even the hills and the seas--but not the narrow mind of an
obstinate and selfish man. She did not call him by these names; he was
her father and she did not judge him; but no more did she hope in him.
And in this wonderful moment a whole circle of possibilities ran through
her mind. She might take them to the village; but there were other
dangers there; or to the Parsonage, but Mr. Pen was weak and poor Emily
a gossip. Could she dare the danger that was nearest, and take them
somehow upstairs out of the way, and conceal them there, defying her
father? In whatever way it was settled she would not desert them--but
what was she to do? Miss Brown coming upon her suddenly in the dusk
frightened her almost as much as the children were frightened. The want
of light and the strangeness of the crisis combined made every new
figure like a ghost.

“Yes, I sent for you. I am in--difficulty, Martha. These children have
just come--the children of a friend----” Her first idea was to conceal
the real state of the case even from her confidential and well-informed
maid.

“Dear me,” said Miss Brown, with seeming innocence. “How strange! to
bring a little lady and gentleman without any warning. But I’ll go and
give orders, ma’am; there are plenty of rooms vacant, there need not be
any difficulty----”

Miss Musgrave caught her by the arm.

“What I want for the moment is light, and some food _here_. Bring me the
lamp I always use. No, not Eastwood; never mind Eastwood. I want you to
bring it, they will be less afraid in the light.”

“There is a fire in the dining-room, ma’am, it is only a step, and
Eastwood is lighting the candles; and there you can have what you like
for them.”

It was confidence Miss Brown wanted--nothing but confidence. With that
she was ready to do anything; without it she was Miss Musgrave’s
respectable maid, to whom all mysteries were more or less improper. She
crossed her hands firmly and waited. The room was growing darker and
darker every minute, and the foreign nurse began to lose patience. She
called “Madame! madame!” in a high voice; then poured forth into a
stream of words, so rapid and so loud as both mistress and maid thought
they had never heard spoken before. Miss Musgrave was not a great
linguist. She knew enough to be aware that it was Italian the woman was
speaking, but that was all.

“I do not understand you,” she said in distress, going up to the little
group. But as she approached a sudden accession of terror, instantly
suppressed on the part of the little girl but irrepressible by the
younger boy, and which broke forth in a disjointed way, arrested her
steps. Were they afraid of her, these children? “Little Lilias,” she
said piteously, “be a brave child and stand by me. I cannot take you out
of this cold room yet, but lights are coming and you will be taken care
of. If I leave you alone for a little while will you promise me to be
brave and not to be afraid?”

There was a pause, broken only by little flutterings of that nervous
exhaustion which made the children so accessible to fear. Then a small
voice said, dauntless, yet with a falter--

“I will stay. I will not be afraid.”

“Thank God,” said Mary Musgrave, to herself. The child was already a
help and assistance. “Martha,” she said hastily, “tell no one; they
are--my brother’s children--”

“Good Lord!” said Martha Brown, frightened out of her primness. “And
it’s dark, and there’s two big boxes, and master don’t know.”

“That is the worst of all,” said Miss Musgrave sadly. She had never
spoken to any one of her father’s inexorable verdict against John and
all belonging to him. “The heir! and I must not take him into the house
of his fathers! Take care of them, take care of them while I go---- And,
Martha, say nothing--not a word.”

“Not if they were to cut me in pieces, ma’am!” said Miss Brown
fervently. She was too old a servant to work in the dark; but confidence
restored all her faculties to her. It was not, however, in the nature of
things that she should discharge her commission without a betrayal more
or less of the emergency. “I want some milk, please,” she said to the
cook, “for my lady.” It was only in moments of importance that she so
spoke of her mistress. And the very sound of her step told a tale.

“I told ye there was somethink oop,” said Tom Gardener, still lingering
in the kitchen.

And to see how the house brightened up, and all the servants grew alert
in the flutter of this novelty! Nothing had happened at the castle for
so long--they had a right to a sensation. Cook, who had been there for a
long time, recounted her experience to her assistants in low tones of
mystery.

“Ah, if ye’d known the place when the gentlemen was at home,” said cook;
“the things as happened in t’auld house--such goings on!--coming in late
and early--o’er the watter and o’er the land--and the strivings, that
was enough to make a body flee out of their skin!” She ended with a
regretful sigh for the old times. “That was life, that was!” she said.

Meanwhile Mary Musgrave came in out of the dark hall into the lighted
warmth of the dining-room, where the glass and the silver shone red in
the firelight. How cosy and pleasant it was there! how warm and
cheerful! Just the place to comfort the children and make them forget
their miseries. The children! How easily her mind had undertaken the
charge of them--the fact of their existence; already they had become the
chief feature in her life. She paused to look at herself in the mirror
over the mantelpiece, to smooth her hair, and put the ribbon straight at
her neck. The Squire was “very particular,” and yet she did not remember
to have had this anxious desire to be pleasant to his eyes since that
day when she had crept to him to implore a reversal of his sentence. She
had obtained nothing from him then; would she be more fortunate now? The
colour had gone out of her face, but her eyes were brighter and more
resolute than usual. How her heart beat when Mr. Musgrave said, “Come
in,” calmly from the midst of his studies, as she knocked trembling at
the library door!




PART II.




CHAPTER IV.

AFTER THE SILENCE OF YEARS.


“Come in,” said the Squire. He was sitting among his books, working with
such a genuine sense of importance as was strange to see. Mary did not
know that she thought anything in the world (except this present mission
of hers) so important as he thought his search into the heraldic
fortunes of the family. He was in full cry after a certain
“augmentation” which had got into the Musgrave arms no one well knew
how. It was only the Musgraves of Penninghame who bore this distinction,
and how did they come by it? It appeared in the thirteenth century--in
the age of the Crusades. Was it in recollection of some feat of a
Crusader?--that was the question. He put down his pen and laid one open
book upon another as she came in. He had no consciousness in his mind to
make him critical or inquiring. He did not observe her paleness, nor the
special glitter in her eyes. “I am busy,” he said, “so you must be
brief. I think I have got hold of that ‘chief’ at last. After years of
search it is exciting to find the first trace of it; but perhaps it is
best to wait till I have verified my guesses--they are still not much
more than guesses. What a satisfaction it will be when all is clear!”

“I am glad you are to have this satisfaction, papa.”

“Yes, I know you take little interest in it for itself. Ladies seldom
do; though I can’t tell why, for heraldry ought to be an interesting
science to them and quite within their reach. Nothing has happened about
the dinner, I hope? I notice that is your general subject when you come
into my room so late. Law business in the morning, dinner in the
evening--a very good distribution. But I want a good dinner to-night, my
dear, to celebrate my success.”

“It is not about dinner. Father, we have been living a very quiet life
for many years.”

“Thank Heaven!” said the old man. “Yes, a quiet life. A man of my age is
entitled to it, Mary. I never shrank from exertion in my time, nor do I
now, as this will testify.” He laid his hand with a genial complaisance
upon the half-written paper that lay before him. Then he said with a
smile, “But make haste, my dear. There is still an hour before dinner,
and I am in the spirit of my work. We need not occupy our time, you and
I, with general remarks.”

“I did not mean it for a general remark,” she said with a tremble in her
voice. “It is that I have something important--very important to speak
of, and I don’t know how to begin.”

“Important--very important!” he said, with the indulgence of jocular
superiority for a child’s undue gravity. “I know what these important
matters are. Some poaching rascal that you don’t know how to manage, or
a quarrel in the village? Bring them to me: but bring them to-morrow,
Mary, when my mind is at rest--I cannot give my attention now.”

“It is neither poaching nor quarrelling,” she said. “I can manage the
village. There are other things. Father, though we have been quiet for
so many years, it is not because there has been nothing to think of--no
seeds of trouble in the past--no anxieties----”

“I don’t know what you are thinking of,” he said, pettishly. “No
anxieties? A man has them as long as he is in the world. We are mortal.
Seeds of trouble? I have told you, Mary, that you may spare me general
remarks.”

“Oh, nothing was further from my mind than general remarks,” she cried.
“I don’t know how to speak. Father--look here--read it; it will tell its
own story best. This is what, after the silence of years, I have
received to-day.”

“The silence of years!” said the Squire. He had to fumble for his
spectacles, which he had taken off, though he carefully restrained
himself from betraying any special interest. A red colour had mounted to
his face. Perhaps his mind did not go so far as to divine what it was;
but still a sudden glimmering, like the tremble of pale light before the
dawn, had come into his mind.

And this was the thunderbolt that suddenly fell upon him in his
quietness after the silence of years:--

     “My dear Sister Mary,--This will be given to you by my little
     daughter Lilias. The sight of my handwriting and of the children
     will be enough to startle you, so that I need not try to soften the
     shock which you must have already received. I claim from my father
     shelter for my children. Their mother is dead; so are the others of
     my family whose very names will never be known to my nearest
     relations. Never mind that now. I am a man both sick and sorry,
     worn by the world, lonely, and not much better than an adventurer.
     These children are the last of our race, and the boy, however
     reluctant you may be, is my father’s heir. I claim for them the
     shelter of the family roof. I have no home to give them, nor can I
     give them the care they require. Mary, you are a good woman: you
     are blameless one way or another. I charge you with my children.
     God do so to you and more also, according as you deal with them.
     Some time or other before I die I will drag myself home. That you
     may be sure of, unless God cuts short my life by the way, of which,
     if He will, I shall not complain.

                                                  “Your brother,

                                                       “JOHN MUSGRAVE.”



This was the letter which the Squire placed upon his mouldy books, over
the statement he had been writing. He did not speak, but read it
steadily to the end, betraying no emotion except by the glow of colour
that rose over his weather-beaten face. Who that has sat by, anxious,
watching the effect of such a letter, needs to be told with what intense
observation Mary Musgrave noted every sign of the rigid control he kept
upon himself--the tight clutch of one hand upon the table, the tremor of
the other which held the letter? But the Squire said nothing, not even
when he had visibly come to the end. He held it before him still for
some minutes; then he began to fold it elaborately--but said nothing
still. The shadow of his head with its falling locks of white hair shook
a little upon the wall. There is a peculiar tremble which shows the very
severity of restraint, and this was of that kind.

“Father! have you nothing to say?”

“I thought it was a subject put aside, not to be mentioned between us,”
he said. “I may be wrong--if I am wrong you can inform me; but I
supposed this and all cognate subjects to be closed between us----”

“How can this be closed; I have ceased to importune you, but this is a
new opening. And there is more than the letter--the children----”

“Ah!” He gave a slight cry. If he could it would have been an
exclamation of scorn, but this was too much for him; the cry was sharp
with impatient pain.

“I could not keep _them_ a secret from you, father.”

“I hate secrets,” he said; “nevertheless there are few families in which
they are not necessary. When he had said this he pushed the letter
towards her, drew forward his heraldry books, and took his pen in his
hand.

“Will you say nothing to me?” she cried. “Will you give me no answer?
What am I to do?”

“Do! It seems to me quite an unnecessary question. It is a long time
since I have given up exercising any control over you, Mary,” he said.

“But, father, have a little pity. The house is not mine to do as I like
with.”

“That is unfortunate,” he said with a cold precision which made it
doubtful whether he spoke satirically or in earnest. “But it is not my
fault. You cannot expect me to make place voluntarily for another; and
even if I did, as you are a woman, it would be of very little use to
you. You cannot be the heir----”

“And this boy is!” she said with a gesture of appeal.

Mr. Musgrave said nothing. He shook his head impatiently, pushed the
letter to her with an energy that flung it into her lap, and resumed his
writing. She stood by while he deliberately returned to his description
of the “chief,” turning up a page in his heraldry book, where all the
uses and meanings of that “augmentation” were discussed. According to
all appearance his mind took up this important question exactly where he
had left it; and he resumed his writing steadily, betraying agitation
only by a larger, bolder, and firmer handwriting than usual. His
daughter stood for a moment by his side, and watched him
speechless--then went out of the room without another word. The Squire
went on writing for a full minute more. The lines he wrote had not been
so bold, so firm, so well-defined for years. Was it because he had to
put forth the whole force that remained in him, soul and body, to get
them upon the paper at all? When all sound of her departing steps had
died out, he stopped suddenly, and, putting down his pen, let his head
drop upon the open book and its figured page. An augmentation of honour!
The days were over in which such gifts came from heralds and kings. And
instead, here were struggles of a very different kind from those which
won new blazons. But the most insensible, the most self-controlled of
men, could not take such an interruption of his studies with absolute
calm. He had never been in such desperate conflict with any man as with
this son, and here his enemy, whom nature forbade to be his enemy, his
antagonist, had come again after the silence of years and confronted
him. To see such a one pass by could not but excite a certain emotion;
but to meet him thus as it were face to face! The passion of parental
love has been often portrayed. There is no passion more fervent, none
perhaps even that can equal it; but there is another passion scarcely
less intense--that which rises involuntarily in the bosom of a man
between whom and his son there are no ties of mutual dependence, when
the younger has become as the elder, knowing good and evil, and all the
experiences of life; when there is no longer any question of authority
and obedience, and natural affection yields to a strain of feeling which
is too strong for it. Many long years had passed now since young
Musgrave ceased to be his father’s pride and boyish second in
everything. He had grown a man, his equal, and had resisted and held his
own in the conflict half a lifetime ago. All the embitterment which
close relationship gives to a deadly quarrel had been between them, and
though the father had so far got the better as to drive the rebel out of
his sight, he had not crushed his will or removed him from his
standing-ground. He was the victor, though the vanquished. His son had
not yielded, nor would ever yield. When Mr. Musgrave raised his head his
face was pale, and his head shook with a nervous tremor; all the broken
redness of his cheeks shone like pencilled lines through his pallor,
increasing it. “This will never do,” he said to himself, and rising,
went to an old oak cupboard in the corner, and poured himself a small
glass of the strongest of liqueurs. Not for all that remained of the
Musgrave property would he have shown himself so broken, so overcome.
This other man who was no younger, but only stronger than himself, was
at the same time his successor, ready to push him out of his seat;
waiting for a triumph that must come sooner or later. He had been able
to forget all about him for years; to thrust out the thought of him when
it recurred; but here the man stood once more confronting him. The
Squire was wise in his way, and knew that there was nothing in the world
so bad for the health, or so likely to give his antagonist an advantage,
as the indulgence of emotion--therefore he crushed it “upon the
threshold of the mind.” He would not give him so much help towards the
inevitable eventual triumph. He went back to his writing-table when he
had fortified himself with that potent mouthful; but, knowing himself,
tried his pen upon a stray bit of paper before he would resume his
writing. What he wrote was in the quivering lines of old age. He tore it
into pieces. No one should see such a sign of agitation in the
manuscript which was to last longer than he. He took up the most learned
of his books, and began to read with close attention. Here, at all
events, the adversary should not get the better of him; or, at least, if
thoughts did surge and rise, obliterating the old escutcheon altogether
and the lion on its “chief,” nobody should be the wiser.

Thus the old man sat, with a desperate courage worthy a better object,
and mastered the furious excitement in his mind. But he was not thinking
of the children as perhaps the reader of this story may suppose. He was
not resisting the thrill of natural interest, the softening of heart
which might have attended that sudden arrival. He did not even realize
the existence of the children. His thoughts were of conflicts past, and
of the opponent against whom he had striven so often: the opponent whom
he could not altogether dismiss or get rid of, his rival, his heir, his
successor, his son. There was nothing he had wished as a father, as a
Musgrave, as the head of a great county family, which this man had not
done his best to undo: and as he had by ill-fortune thirty years the
advantage of his father, there was no doubt that he would, some time or
other, undo and destroy to an extent of which he was incapable now;
unless indeed he was prevented in the most disgraceful way,
incapacitated by public conviction of crime--conviction, which was only
too probable, which hung over his banished head and prevented his return
home. What would there be but pain in the thought of such a son--an
opponent if he were innocent, if he were guilty a disgrace to the family
name? The more completely the Squire could banish this thought from his
mind, the happier he was; and he had banished it with wonderful success
for many years past. He had done all he could to evade the idea that he
himself would one day be compelled to die. Many men do this who have no
painful consciousness of the heir behind who is waiting to dispossess
them; and Mr. Musgrave had, to a great degree, attained tranquillity on
this point. The habit of living seems to grow stronger with men as they
draw near the end of their lives. It has lasted so long; it has been so
steady and uninterrupted, why should it ever cease? But here was the
death’s-head rising at the feast; the executioner giving note of his
presence behind backs. John! he had dismissed him from his mind. He had
exercised even a kind of Christianity in forgetting him. But here he was
again, incapable of being forgotten. What a tremor in his blood--what
undue working of all that machinery of the heart which it was so
essential to keep in calm good order had this interruption caused! he
who had no vital energy to spare; who wanted it all for daily comfort
and that continuance which with younger people is so lightly taken for
granted. How much of that precious reserve had been consumed by this
shock! It had been done on purpose, perhaps, to try what the effect of
such a shock upon his nerves and fibres would be.

Mr. Musgrave pushed back his chair again from the table, and gave all
his faculties to the task of calming himself down. He would not allow
himself to be overcome by John. But it took him a long time to
accomplish this, to get his pulse back to its usual rate of beating.
When he relaxed for a moment in his watch over himself, old
recollections would come back, scenes of the long warfare, words that
were as swords and smote him over again with burning and stinging
wounds. He had to calm it all down and still memory altogether if he
would recover his ordinary composure. It wanted about an hour of dinner
when he began this process. Up to that time it did not so much matter
except for wearing him out and diminishing his strength. But it was his
determination that no one should know or see this agitation which he had
not been able to master. His daughter thought she had a harder task
before her when she left him and hurried back to the ghostly
half-lighted hall where she had left the children; but what was her
work, or the commotion of her thoughts, in comparison to that which
raged within the bosom of the old man in his solitude, defying Heaven
and nature, and all gentler influences--whose conflict was for himself
only, as it was carried on unhelped and unthought of by himself alone?




CHAPTER V.

WAKING UP.


Miss Musgrave went back to her visitors with a heightened colour and
assured step. Her alarm had departed along with her wistful and hopeful
ignorance as to what her father might do. Now that she knew, her courage
came back to her. When she opened the door which led out of the little
passage into the hall, the scene before her was striking and strange
enough to arrest her like a picture. The great ancient room, with its
high raftered roof and wide space, lay in darkness--all but one bright
spot in the midst where the lamp stood on the table. Miss Brown had
hastily arranged a kind of homely meal, a basket of oatcakes, some white
bread in a napkin, biscuits, home-made gingerbread, and a jug of fresh
milk. The white and brown bread, the tall white jug, the cloth upon the
tray, all helped to increase the whiteness of that spot in the gloom.
In the midst of this light sat the Italian nurse, dark and vigorous,
with the silver pins in her black hair, and red ribbons at her breast.
The pale little boy sat on her knee; he had a little fair head like an
angel in a picture, light curling hair, and a delicate complexion, white
and red, which was fully relieved against that dark background. The
child’s alarm had given way a little, but still, in the intervals of his
meal, he would pause, look round him into the gloom, and clutch with
speechless fright at his attendant, who held him close and soothed him
with all the soft words she could think of. Little Lilias stood by her
on the further side, sufficiently recovered to eat a biscuit, but
securing herself also, brave as she was, by a firm grasp of the nurse’s
arm to which she hung, tightly embracing it with her own. Miss Brown was
flitting about this strange little group, talking continuously, though
the only one among them who was disposed to talk could not understand
her, and the children were too worn out to pay any attention to what she
said.

There was a little start and thrill among the three who held so closely
together when the lady returned. Little Lilias put down her biscuit. She
became the head of the party as soon as Miss Musgrave came back--the
plenipotentiary with whom to conduct all negotiations. Nello, on the
other hand, buried his head in his nurse’s shoulder. In the midst of all
her agitation and confusion it troubled Miss Musgrave that the child
should hide his face from her. The boy who was like herself and her
family was the one to whom her interest turned most. Lilias bore another
resemblance, which was no passport to Mary Musgrave’s heart. Yet it was
hard to resist the fascination of this child’s sense and courage; the
boy, as yet, had shown himself capable of nothing but fear.

“Go, and have fires lighted at once in the two west rooms--make
everything ready,” Mary said, sending Miss Brown away peremptorily. It
was not a worthy feeling perhaps, but it vexed her, agitated as she was,
to see that her maid woke no alarm in the children, while she, their
nearest relation, she who, if necessary, had made up her mind to
sacrifice everything for them, was an object of fear. She thought even
that the children clung closer to their nurse and shrank more from
herself when Martha was sent away. Miss Musgrave stood at the other side
of the table and looked at them with many conflicting thoughts. It was
altogether new to her, this strange mixture of ignorance and wonder, and
almost awe, with which she felt herself contemplating these unknown
little creatures, henceforward to be wholly dependent upon her. They
were afraid of her, but she was scarcely less afraid of them, wondering
with an ache in her heart whether she would be able to feel towards them
as she ought, to bring her middle-aged thoughts into sympathy with
theirs, to be soft and gentle with them as their helplessness demanded.
Love does not always come with the first claim upon it; how was she to
love them, little unknown beings whose very existence she had never
heard of before? And Mary thought of herself with a certain pity in this
strange moment, remembering almost with a sense of injury that the
fountain of mother’s love had never been awakened in her at all. Was it
thus to be awakened? She was not an angelic woman, as poor Mr. Pen
imagined her to be. She knew this well enough, though he did not know
it. She had been young and full of herself when the family misfortunes
happened, and since then what had there been in her life to warm or
awaken the heart? Was she capable of loving? she asked herself; was
there not a chill atmosphere about her which breathed cold upon the
children and drove them away? This thought gave her a pang, as she stood
and looked at the two helpless creatures before her, too frightened now
to munch their biscuits, one gazing at her with big pathetic eyes, the
other hiding his face. An ache of helplessness and pain not less great
than theirs came into her mind. She was as helpless as they were,
looking at them across the table, as if across a world of separation
which she did not know how to bridge over, with not only them to
vanquish, but herself. At last she put out her hands with the sense of
weakness, such as perhaps she had never felt before. She had not been
able, indeed, to influence her father, but she had not felt helpless
before him; on the contrary, his hardness had stirred her to
determination on her side, and a sense of power which quickened the
flowing of her blood. But before these children she felt helpless; what
was she to do with them, how bring herself into communication with them?
She put out her hands--hands strong to guard, but powerless she thought
to attract. “Lilias, will you come to me?” she said with a tremulous
tone in her voice.

The weariness, the strangeness, the darkness had been almost too much
for Lilias; her mouthful of biscuit and draught of milk had been too
quickly interrupted by the return of the strange, beautiful lady, with
whom she alone, she was aware, could deal. And she could not respond to
that appeal without quitting hold of Martuccia, who, though powerless to
treat with the lady, was still a safeguard against the surrounding
blackness, a something to cling to. But the child was brave as a hero,
notwithstanding the nervous susceptibility of her nature. She disengaged
her arm slowly from her one stay, keeping her eyes all the time fixed
upon Miss Musgrave, half attracted by her, half to keep herself from
seeing those dark corners in which mysterious dangers seemed to lurk;
and came forward, repressing the sob that rose in her throat, her little
pale face growing crimson with the strain of resolution which this
effort cost her. It was all Lilias could do to move round the table
quietly, not to make a rush of fright and violent clutch at the hand
held out to her--even though it was the hand of a stranger, from which
in itself she shrank. Mary put her arm round the little trembling
figure, and smoothing away the dark hair from her forehead, kissed the
little girl with lips that trembled too. She would do her duty by her;
never would she forsake her brother’s child; and with the warmth of this
resolution tears of pity and tenderness came into her eyes. But when
Lilias felt the protection of the warm soft arm about her, and the
tenderness of the kiss, her little heart burst forth with a strength of
impulse which put all laws at defiance. With a sobbing cry she threw
herself upon her new protector, caught at her dress, clung to her waist,
nestled her head into her bosom, with a close pressure which was half
gratitude, half terror, half nervous excitement. Mary was taken by
storm. She did not understand the change that came over her. A sudden
warmth seemed to come into her veins, tingling to her very
finger-points. She too, mature and self-restrained as she was, began to
weep, a sudden flood of tears rushing to her eyes against her will. “My
child, my brave little girl!” she said almost unawares, recognising in
her heart a soft surprise of feeling which was inexplicable; was this
what nature did, sheer nature? she had never felt anything like it
before. She held the child in her arms and cried over her, the tears
falling over those dark curls which had nothing to do with the
Musgraves, which even resembled another type with which the Musgraves
would have nothing to do!

As she stood thus overcome by the double sensation of the child’s
nestling and clinging, and by the strange, sudden development of feeling
in herself, Mary Musgrave felt two soft touches upon her hand which were
not mistakable, and which made her start and flush, with the decorum of
an Englishwoman surprised. It was Martuccia, who, moved like all her
race by quick impulses of emotion, had risen hastily to her feet in
sympathy, and had kissed the lady’s hand, and put forward her little
charge to perform the same act of homage. This roused Mary from her
momentary breaking down. She took the little boy by the hand whom she
found at her feet, not quite so frightened as at first, but still
holding fast by the nurse’s skirts, and led them both into the house.
They were too much awed to make any noise, but went with her, keeping
close to her, treading in her footsteps almost, closer and closer as
they emerged into one unknown place after another. Wonder kept them
still as she took them through the cheerful lighted dining-room, and up
the stairs. Eastwood was busy about his table, putting it in that
perfect order which it was his pride to keep up (“For who is more to me
nor my family? what’s company?” said Eastwood; “it’s them as pays me as
I’m bound to please”); but Eastwood was too good a servant to manifest
any feeling. He had, of course, heard all about the arrival, not only
from the gardener, but from every one in the kitchen; and he was aware,
as nobody else was, that there had been a private interview between the
father and daughter, to which she had gone with a pale face, and come
back with nostrils expanded, and a glow of resolution upon her. Eastwood
was not an old servant, but he had learned all that there was to learn
about the family, and a little more. His interest in the Musgraves was
not so warm as that of cook for instance, who had been born in the
place, and had known them from their cradles; but he had the warm
curiosity which is common to his kind. He gave a glance from beneath his
eyebrows at the new-comers, wondering what was to become of them. Would
they be received into the house for good; and if so, would that have any
effect upon himself, Eastwood? would it, by and by, be an increase of
trouble, a something additional to do? He was no worse than his
neighbours, and the thought was instinctive and natural, for no one
likes to have additional labour. “But he’s but a little chap; it’ll be
long enough before he wants valeting--if ever,” Mr. Eastwood said to
himself. What would be wanted would be a nurse, not a valet; and if that
black-eyed foreigner didn’t stay, Eastwood knew a nice girl from the
village whom the place would just suit. So he cast no unkindly eye upon
the children as he went noiselessly about in his spotless coat, putting
down his forks, which were quite as spotless. The sight of the table
with its bouquet of autumn flowers excited Lilias. “Who is going to dine
there?” she said, with a pretty childish wile, drawing down Miss
Musgrave towards her to whisper in her ear.

“I am, Lilias.”

“May we come too?” said the little girl. “Nello is very good--he does
not ask for anything; we know how to behave.”

“There will be some one else besides me,” said Mary, faltering slightly.

“Then we do not want to come,” said Lilias with decision. “We are not
fond of strangers.”

“I am a stranger, dear----”

“Oh no, you are Mary!” said the child, embracing Miss Musgrave’s arm
with her own two arms clasped round it, and raising her face with the
confidence of perfect trust. These simple actions made Mary’s heart
swell as it had not done for years--as indeed it had never done in her
life. Other thrills there might have been in her day, but this fountain
had never been opened before, and the new feeling was almost as
strangely sweet to her as is the silent ecstasy in the bosom of the new
mother, whose baby has just brought into the world such an atmosphere
of love. It was like some strange new stream poured into her heart,
filling up all her veins.

The firelight had already begun to sparkle pleasantly in the bedrooms,
and Mary found herself suddenly plunged into those pleasant cares of a
mother which make time fly so swiftly. She had found so much to do for
them, getting them to bed and making the weary little creatures
comfortable, that the bell rang for dinner before she was aware. She
left them hastily, and put herself into her evening gown with a speed
which was anxiously seconded by Miss Brown, who for her part was just as
eager to get back to the children as was her mistress. Miss Musgrave did
not know what awaited her when she went down-stairs, or what battles she
might have to fight. She had another duty now in the world beyond that
claimed by her father. He had no such need of her as these children, who
in all the wide world had no protector or succour but herself. Her heart
beat a little louder and stronger than usual; her bearing was more
dignified. The indifference which had been in her life this morning had
passed away. How strange it seemed now to think of that calm which
nothing affected much, in which she had been comparatively happy, but
which now appeared so mean and poverty-stricken. The easy quiet had gone
out of her life;--was it for ever?--and instead there had come in a
commotion of anxieties, hopes, and doubts and questions manifold; but
yet how miserable to her in comparison seemed now that long loveless
tranquillity! She was another woman, a living woman, she thought to
herself, bearing the natural burden of care, a burden sweetened by a
hundred budding tendernesses and consolations. It is well to have good
health and enough to do; these had been the bare elements of existence,
out of which she had managed to form a cold version of living; but how
different was this vivid existence, new-born yet eternal, of love and
care! She was like one inspired. If she had been offered the
alternative, as she almost expected, of leaving the house or giving up
the children, with what pride would she have drawn her cloak round her
and left her father’s house! This prospect seemed near enough and likely
enough as she walked into the dining-room, with her head high, and a
swell of conscious force in her bosom. Whatever might be coming she was
prepared for any blow.

Mr. Musgrave, too, was late. He who was the soul of punctuality did not
enter the room for a minute or more after his daughter had hastened
there, knowing herself late--but whereas she had hurried her toilet, his
had never been more careful and precise. He took his seat with
deliberate steadiness, and insisted upon carving the mutton and
partridge which made their meal, though on ordinary occasions he left
this office to Eastwood. It gratified him, however, to-day, to prove to
himself and to her how capable he was and how steady were his nerves.
And he talked while he did this with unusual energy, going over again
all the history of the “chief.”

“I hope it will interest the general reader,” he said. “Not many family
questions do, but this is really an elucidation of history. It throws
light upon a great many things. You scorn heraldry, Mary, I am aware.”

“No, I do not think I scorn it.”

“Well, at all events you are little interested; the details are not of
much importance, you think. In short, I suspect,” he added, with a
little laugh, “that if the truth were told, you and a great many other
ladies secretly look upon the science as one of those play-sciences that
keep men from being troublesome. You don’t say so, but I believe you
think we fuss and make work for ourselves in this way while you are
carrying on the real work of the world.”

“I am not so self-important,” she said; but there was a great deal of
truth in the suggestion if her mind had been free enough to think of it.
What was it else but a play-science to keep country gentlemen too old
for fox-hunting out of mischief? This is one of the private opinions of
the gynecæum applying to many grave pursuits, an opinion which
circulates there in strictest privacy and is not spoken to the world.
Mary would have smiled at the Squire’s discrimination had her mind been
free. As it was, she could do nothing but wonder at his liveliness and
composure, and say to herself that he must be waiting till Eastwood went
away. This, no doubt, was why he talked so much, and was so genial. He
did not wish to betray anything to the man, and her heart began to beat
once more with renewed force as the moment came for his withdrawal. No
doubt the discussion she feared would come, and most likely come with
double severity then. She had seen all this process gone through before.

But when Eastwood went away the Squire continued smiling and
conversational. He told her of a poacher who had been brought to him, a
bumpkin from a distant farm, to whom he meant to be merciful; and of
some land which was likely to be in the market, which would, if it could
be got, restore an old corner of the estate and rectify the ancient
boundary.

“I do not suppose there is any hope of such a thing,” he said, with a
sigh. “And besides, what does it matter to me that I should care? my
time cannot be very long.”

“The time of the family may be long enough,” she said, with a throb of
rising excitement, for surely now he would speak; “one individual is not
all.”

“That is a sound sentiment, though perhaps it may seem a little
cold-hearted when the individual is your father, Mary.”

“I did not mean it to be cold-hearted; you have always taught me to
consider the race.”

“And so you ought,” he said, “though you don’t care so much for the
blazon as I could wish. I should like to talk to Burn and to see what
the lawyers would think of it. I confess I should like to be Lord of the
Manor at Critchley again before I die.”

“And so you shall, father, so you shall!” she cried. “We could do it
with an effort: if only you would--if only you could----”

He interrupted her hastily.

“When Burn comes to-morrow let me see him,” he said. “This is no
question of what I could or would. If it can be done it ought to be
done. That is all I have to say. Is it not time you were having tea?”

This was to send her away that he might have his evening nap after
dinner. Mary rose at the well-known formula, but she came softly round
to his end of the room to see that the fire was as he liked it, and
lingered behind his chair, not knowing whether to make another appeal
to him. Her presence seemed to make him restless; perhaps he divined
what was floating in her mind. He got up quickly before she had time to
speak.

“On second thoughts,” he said, “as I was disturbed before dinner, I had
better resume my work at once. You can send me a cup of tea to the
library. It is not often that one has such a satisfactory piece of work
in hand; that charms away drowsiness. Be sure you send me a cup of tea.”

“You will not--over-fatigue yourself, father?” said Mary, faltering.
“I--hope you will not do too much.”

This was not what she meant to say, but these were the only words that
she could manage to form out of her lips.

“Oh, no; do not be uneasy. I shall not overwork myself,” said the Squire
once more, with a laugh.

And he went out of the room before her, erect and steady, looking
younger and stronger in the force of that excitement which he was so
careful to conceal. Mary did not know what to think. Was he postponing
his sentence to make it more telling? or was he, happier thought, moved
by the new event as she herself had been, warmed into forgiveness, into
relenting, into the happiness of old age in children’s children? Could
this be so? She stood over the fire in her agitation holding her hands
out to the ruddy blaze, though she was not cold. Her heart beat
violently against her breast. How uneasy a thing this life was, how
restless and full of change and commotion! Yet so much more, so much
greater than the gentler stagnation which was gone.




CHAPTER VI.

AT THE VICARAGE.


The vicarage was stilled in the quiet of the evening, the children in
bed, the house at rest. It was not the beautiful and dignified old house
which in England is the ideal dwelling of the gentleman parson, the
ecclesiastical squire of the parish. And indeed Mr. Pennithorne was not
of that order. Though there had been many jokes when he first entered
upon the cure as to the resemblance between his name and that of the
parish, Pennithorne of Penninghame was a purely accidental coincidence.
Mr. Musgrave was the patron, but the living was not wealthy enough or
important enough to form that appropriate provision for a second son
which, according to the curious subordination and adaptation of public
wants to family interests, has become the rule in England, unique, as
are so many others. Randolph Musgrave had his rectory in one of the
midland counties, in the district which was influenced by his mother’s
family, where there was something more worth his acceptance; and his old
tutor had got the family living. Mr. Pennithorne was not a distinguished
scholar with chances of preferment through his college, and it had been
considered a great thing for him when, after dragging the young
Musgraves through a certain proportion of schooling and colleging, he
had subsided into this quiet provision for the rest of his life. He was
a clergyman’s son, with no prospects, and whatsoever glimmerings of
young ambition there might have been in him, there was no coming down
involved when he accepted the small rural vicarage where his heart was.
We have already said that in his wildest hopes a vision of the
possibility of bringing Mary Musgrave to the vicarage to share his
humble circumstances with him had never entered into Mr. Pennithorne’s
mind; but to be near her was something, and to be her trusted and
confidential friend seemed the best that life could give him. Here he
had remained ever since, being of some use to her, as he hoped, from
time to time, and some comfort at least, if nothing more, in the
convulsions of the family. During the first years of his incumbency, Mr.
Pennithorne’s own mind had been subject to many convulsions as one
suitor after another came to the Castle; but as they had all ridden away
again with what grace they could after their rejection, comfort had come
back. It was a curious passion, and one which we do not pretend to
explain. After a while, impelled by friends, by convenience, and by the
soft looks of Emily Coniston, the daughter of the clergyman in his
native place, to which he had gone on a visit, he had himself found it
possible to marry, without any failure of his allegiance to his
visionary love; but still to this day though he had been Emily’s
husband for ten years, it troubled the good vicar when any stranger came
to the Castle whose society seemed specially pleasant to Miss Musgrave.
He would hang about the place at such times like an alarmed hen when
something threatens the brood, nor ceased to cluck and flutter his wings
till the danger was over. Did he not wish her happiness? Ah, yes, and
would, he thought, have given his life to procure it; but was it
necessary that happiness should always be got in that one vulgar way?
Marriage was well enough for the vulgar, but not for Mary. It would have
been a descent from her maiden dignity, a lowering of her position. He
was willing that everybody should love her and place her on a pedestal
above all women; but it wounded his finest feelings to think that she
too, in her turn, might love. There was no man good enough or great
enough to be worthy of awakening such a sentiment in Mary Musgrave’s
breast.

As is not unusual in such cases, Mr. Pennithorne, the chief inspiration
of whose life was a visionary passion of the most exalted and exalting
kind for a woman, had married a woman for whom no one could entertain
any very exalted or impassioned feelings. Perhaps the household drudge
is a natural double or attendant of the goddess. They “got on” very well
together, people said, and Mr. Pen put up with his wife’s little
foolishnesses and fretfulnesses, as perhaps a man could not have done
whose heart was fortified by no ideal passion. Emily was a good
housekeeper of the narrow sort, caring very little for comfort, and very
proud of her economy; and she was a good mother of the troublesome kind,
whose children are always in the foreground, always wanting something,
always claiming her attention. Mr. Pen adored them, and yet he was glad
when they were got to bed, when his wife could be spoken to without one
child clinging to her skirts, or another breaking in upon everything
with plaintive appeals to mamma. But he took it for granted that this
was how it must be, and that a more lovely course of life was
impracticable. One woman excepted, all women, he thought, were like
this; it is thus that the dogmatisms of common opinion are formed and
kept up; and what could be done but to shrug his shoulders at the
inevitable, escaping from it into his study, or with a sigh into that
world of the ideal where imagination is never ruffled by the incidents
of common life. The children were in bed on this October night, and
everything was still. The vicarage was not a handsome house, nor was it
old, but merely modern, badly built, and common-place, redeemed by
nothing but its garden, which was large, and gave a pretty surrounding
to the place in summer. But the night had become stormy, and the wind
was raving in the trees, making their close neighbourhood anything but
an advantage. Mrs. Pennithorne thought it extravagant to use two
sitting-rooms, so the family ate and lived in the dining-room--a dark
room papered and furnished as, in the days when Mr. Pen was married, it
was thought right to decorate such places, with a red flock paper of a
large pattern, which relieved the black horsehair of the furniture. The
room was not very large. It had a black marble mantel-shelf, with a
clock upon it, and some vases of Bohemian glass, and a red and blue
table-cover upon the table, about which there lingered always a certain
odour of food, especially in cold weather, when the windows were closed.
Mrs. Pennithorne sat between the fire and the table. She had some
dressmaking in hand, which made a litter about--dark winter stuff for
little Mary’s frock; and as she had no genius for this work, it was a
lingering and confusing business with her, and made her less amiable
than usual. The reason why her husband was there at all instead of being
in his study was that the evening was cold; but it had not yet become,
according to Mrs. Pen’s code, time for fires. There was one in the
dining-room, for she had not been well; but to light a second so early
in October was against all her traditions, and Mr. Pen had been driven
out of his study, where he had been sitting in his great-coat, and now
stood with his back to the fire, warming himself, poor man, in
preparation for another spell of work at his sermon. He was thin, and
felt the cold. It was this, she had just been saying, that had brought
him, and not any regard for her loneliness--which indeed was quite true.

“No, Emily,” he said, meekly, “for I have my work to do, you know; but
while I am here, I hope you are not sorry to see me. The children were
rather late to-night.”

“I am glad to keep them up a little for company,” she said. “It is not
so cheerful sitting here all alone, hearing the wind roaring in the
trees; and my nerves are quite gone. I never used to fear anything when
I was a young girl, but now I start at every sound. I don’t mean to
blame _you_--but it is lonely sitting by one’s self after being one of a
large family.”

“No doubt--no doubt,” he said, soothingly. “I suppose we gain something
as years go on, but we do lose something. That must be taken for granted
in life.”

“I don’t like your philosophy, Mr. Pennithorne,” said Emily; “the way
you have of always making out that things have to be! I don’t see it,
for my part. I think a married woman should have a great deal to cheer
her up that a girl can’t have----”

“My dear,” he said, “perhaps I am not much--and you know the parish is
my first duty; but have you not the children?--dear children they are. I
do not think there can be any greater pleasure than one’s children----”

“You have nothing to do but enjoy them,” said Mrs Pennithorne, slightly
softened; “but if you had to work and slave like me! There is never a
day that I have not something to do for them; mending, or making, or
darning, or something. Fathers have an easy time of it; they play with
the baby now and then, take out the elder ones for a walk, and that is
all. That is nothing but pleasure; but to sit for days and work one’s
fingers to the bone----”

“I wish you would not, Emily. I have heard you say that Miss Price in
the village was a very good dressmaker----”

“For those who can afford her,” said Mrs. Pennithorne. “But,” she added,
with a better inspiration, “you make me look as if I were complaining,
and I don’t want to complain. Though it is dull, William, you must
allow, sitting all the evening by one’s self----”

“But I have to do the same,” he said, with gentle hypocrisy. “You know,
Emily, if I wrote my sermon here, we should fall to talking, which no
doubt is far pleasanter--but it is not duty, and duty must come before
all----”

“There is more than one kind of duty,” said Mrs. Pennithorne, who was
tearing her fingers with pins putting together two sides of Mary’s
frock. While she was bending over this, the maid came into the room with
a note. There was something in the “Ah!” with which he took it which
made his wife raise her head. She was not jealous of Miss Musgrave, who
was nearly ten years older than herself, an old maid, and beneath
consideration; but she did think that William thought a great deal too
much of the Castle. “What is it now?” she said pettishly. Perhaps once
more--they had done it several times already--it was an invitation to
dinner for Mr. Pennithorne alone. But he was so much interested in what
he was reading that he did not even hear her. She sat with her scissors
in her hand, and looked at him while he read the note, his face
changing, his whole mind absorbed. He did not look like that when their
common affairs were discussed, or the education of his children, which
ought to be more interesting to him than anything else. This was other
people’s business--and how it took him up! Mrs. Pennithorne was a good
woman, and did her duty to her neighbours when it was very clearly
indicated; but still, of course, nothing could be of such consequence as
your own family, and your duty to them. And to see how he was taken up,
smiling, looking as if he might be going to cry! Nothing about Johnny or
Mary ever excited him so. Mrs. Pennithorne was not only vexed on her own
account, but felt it to be wrong.

“Well, life is a wonderful thing,” he said suddenly. “I went to the
Castle this afternoon----”

“You are always going to the Castle,” she said, in a fretful voice.

“--Expressly to tell Miss Musgrave how much my mind had been occupied
about her brother John. You never knew him, Emily; but he was my pupil,
and I was very fond of him----”

“You are very fond of all the family, I think,” she said,
half-interested, half-aggrieved.

“Perhaps I was,” he said, with a little sigh, which, however, she did
not notice; “but John particularly. He was a fine fellow, though he was
so hot-headed. The other night I kept dreaming of him, all night
long--over and over again.”

“That was what made you so restless, I suppose,” Mrs. Pennithorne put
in, in a parenthesis. “I am sure you have plenty belonging to yourself
to dream of, if you want to dream.”

“--And I went to ask if they had heard anything, smiling at myself--as
she did, for being superstitious. But here is the wonderful thing: I had
scarcely left, when the thing I had foreseen arrived. A carriage drew up
containing John Musgrave’s children----”

“Did you know John Musgrave’s children? I never knew he had any
children----”

“Nor did I, or any one!--that is the wonder of it. I felt sure something
was happening to him or about him--and lo! the children arrived. It was
no cleverness of mine,” said Mr. Pennithorne with gentle complacency,
“but still I must say it was a wonderful coincidence. The very day!”

Mrs. Pennithorne did not make any reply. She was not interested in a
coincidence which had nothing to do with her own family. If Mr. Pen had
divined when Johnny was to break his arm, so that they might have been
prepared for that accident! but the Musgraves had plenty of people to
take care of them, and there seemed no need for a new providential
agency to give them warning of unsuspected arrivals. She put some more
pins into little Mary’s frock--the two sides of the little bodice never
would come the same. She pulled at them, measured them, repinned them,
but could not get them right.

“I have heard a great deal about John Musgrave,” she said with a pin in
her mouth. “What was it he did that he had to run away?”

“My dear Emily! don’t do that, for heaven’s sake--you frighten me; and
besides, it is not--pretty--it is not becoming----”

“I think I am old enough by this time to know what is becoming,” said
Mrs. Pennithorne with some wrath, yet growing red as she took out the
pins. She was conscious that it was not ladylike, and felt that this was
the word her husband meant to use. “If you knew the trouble it is to get
both sides the same!” she added, forgetting her resentment in vexation.

It was a troublesome job. There are some people in whose hands
everything goes wrong. Mrs. Pen shed a tear or two over the refractory
frock.

“My dear! I hope it is not my innocent remark----”

“Oh no, it is not any innocent remark. It is so troublesome. Just when I
thought I had got it quite straight! But what do you know about such
things? You have nothing to say to Mary’s frock. You never would notice,
I believe, if she had not one to her back, or wore the same old rag year
after year----”

“Yes, Emily, I should notice,” said Mr. Pen with some compunction; “and
I am very sorry that you should have so much trouble. Send for Miss
Price to-morrow, and I will pay her out of my own money. You must not
take it off the house.”

“Oh, William! William!” said his wife, “who is it that will suffer if
your own money, as you call it, runs out? Do you think I am so
inconsiderate as only to think of what I have for the house! Isn’t it
all one purse, and will it not be the children that will suffer
eventually whoever pays? No, your money shall not be spent to save me
trouble. What is the good of us but to take trouble?” said Mrs. Pen with
heroic fortitude.

Mr. Pen sighed. Perhaps he was more conscious of the litter of
dressmaking than of this fine sentiment. But anyhow he did not give any
applause to the heroine. He left indeed this family subject altogether,
and after a momentary pause, said, half to himself, “John Musgrave’s
children! Who could have thought it! And how strange it all is----”

“Really, Mr. Pennithorne,” said his wife, offended, “this is too much. I
don’t believe you think one half so much of your own children as of
those Musgraves. What did they ever do for us?”

“They did this for us, my dear, that but for them I should not have had
a home to offer you--nor a family at all,” said the vicar with a little
warmth. “I might have been still travelling with boys about the
world----”

“Oh, William, not with your talents,” said his wife, looking at him with
admiration. With all her fretfulness and insensibility to those fine
points of internal arrangement for which he had a half-developed,
half-subdued taste, Emily had still a great admiration for her husband.
Now Mary Musgrave, who was, unknown to either, her spiritual rival, had
no admiration for good Mr. Pen at all. This gave the partner of his life
an infinite advantage. His voice softened as he replied, shaking his
head:

“Unfortunately, my love, other people do not appreciate my talents as
you do.”

“That is because they don’t know you so well,” she said with flattering
promptitude. Mr. Pennithorne drew a chair to the fire and sat down. It
was but rarely that he received this domestic adulation; but it warmed
him, and did him good.

“Ah, my dear, I fear I must not lay that flattering unction to my soul,”
he said.

“You are too modest, William; I have always said you were too modest,”
said Mrs. Pennithorne, returning good for evil. How little notice he had
taken of her fine heroic feeling and self-abnegation! Women are more
generous; she behaved very differently to him. And the fact was, he very
soon began to think that old Mr. Musgrave had made use of him, and given
him a very poor return. The vicarage was not much--and the Squire had
never attempted to do anything more. It is sweet to be told that you are
above your fate--that Providence owes you something better. He roused
himself up, however, after a time out of that unwholesome state of
self-complacency. “What a strange state of affairs it is, Emily,” he
said. He was not in the habit of making his wife his confidant on
matters that concerned the Musgraves, but in a moment of weakness his
resolution was overcome. “What a painful state of affairs! Mr. Musgrave
knows of the coming of these children, but he takes no notice, and
whether she is to be allowed to keep them or not----”

“Dear me, think of having to get permission from your father at her time
of life,” said Mrs. Pennithorne, with a naïve pity. “And whom did he
marry, William, and what sort of person was their mother? I don’t think
you ever told me that.”

“Their mother was--John’s wife; I must have told you of her. She was not
the person his family wished. But that often happens, my dear. It is no
sign that a man is a bad man because he may make what you may call a
mistaken choice.”

“My dear William,” said Mrs. Pen, with authority, “there is nothing that
shows a man’s character so much as the wife he chooses; my mother always
said so. It is the best test if he is a nice feeling man or not,” the
vicar’s wife said blandly, with a little conscious smile upon her face.

Mr. Pennithorne made no reply. There was something humorous in this
innocent little speech, considering who the speaker was, to any one who
knew. But then nobody knew; scarcely even Mr. Pennithorne himself, who
at this moment was so soothed by his wife’s “appreciation,” that he felt
himself the most devoted of husbands. He shook his head a little,
deprecating the implied condemnation of his old pupil; for the moment he
did not think of himself.

“Now that we are sitting together, and really comfortable for once in a
way,” said Mrs. Pennithorne, dropping Mary’s bodice with all the pins,
and drawing her chair a little nearer to the fire--“it does not happen
very often--tell me, William, what it is all about, and what John
Musgrave has done.”

Again the vicar shook his head. “It’s a long story,” he said,
reluctantly.

“You tell things so nicely, William, I sha’n’t think it long; and think
how strange it is, knowing so much about people, and yet not knowing
anything. And of course I shall have to see the children. Poor little
things, not to be sure of shelter in their grandfather’s house! but they
will always have a friend in you.”

“They will have Mary; what can they want more if they have _her_?” he
said suddenly, with a fervour which surprised his wife; then blushed and
faltered as he caught her eye. What right had he to speak of Miss
Musgrave so? Mrs. Pennithorne stared a little, but the slip did not
otherwise trouble her, for she saw no reason for the exaggerated respect
with which the Squire’s daughter was treated. Why should not she be
called Mary--was it not her name?

“Mary, indeed! what does she know about children? But, William, I am
waiting, and this is the question--What did John Musgrave do?”




PART III.




CHAPTER VII.

THE CHILDREN AT THE CASTLE.


The arrival of the children was an era at Penninghame from which
afterwards everything dated; but the immediate result was a very curious
and not very comfortable one. As they had been introduced into the
house, so they lived in it. Mr. Musgrave never mentioned them, never saw
them or appeared to see them, ignored their existence, in short, as
completely as if his faculties had been deadened in respect to them. His
life was in no way changed indeed; the extraordinary revolution which
had been made to every one else in the house by this change showed all
the more strongly from the absence of all effect upon him. He read, he
wrote, he studied, he took his usual quiet exercise exactly as he did
before, and never owned by a word or look that he was conscious of any
alteration in the household. For a little while the children were hushed
not to make a noise, and huddled away into corners to keep them out of
sight and hearing; but that arrangement was too unnatural to continue,
and it very soon happened that their presence was forced upon him by
unmistakable signs, by both sight and hearing. But the Squire took not
the slightest notice. He looked over their heads and never saw them. His
ear was engaged with other sounds and he did not hear them. By this
system of unconsciousness he deprived himself indeed of some evident
advantages; for how can you interfere with the proceedings of those
whose very existence you ignore? He could not give orders that the
children should make less noise, because he professed not to be aware of
their presence; nor send them out of his sight, when he was supposed not
to see them; and in consequence this blindness and deafness on his part
was perhaps a greater gain to them than to himself. The mental commotion
into which he had been thrown by their arrival had never been known to
any one but himself. He had a slight illness a few days after--his
liver out of order, the doctor said; and so worked off his excitement
without disclosing it to any one. After this he resumed his serenity,
and completed his heraldic study. The history of the augmentation
granted to the Musgraves in the year 1393 in remembrance of the valour
of Sir Egidio, or Giles, Musgrave in the Holy Land made rather a
sensation among students in that kind. It was a very interesting
monograph. Besides being a singularly striking chapter of family
history, it was, everybody said, a most interesting contribution to the
study of heraldic honours--how and why they were bestowed; especially as
concerning “augmentations” bestowed on the field for acts of valour--a
rare and exceptional distinction. The Squire made a little collection of
the notices that appeared in the newspapers of his “Monograph” pasting
them into a pretty little book, as is not unusual with amateur authors.
He enjoyed them a great deal more than if he had been the author of a
great history, and resented criticism with corresponding bitterness. He
was very proud of Egidio, or Giles, who died in the fifteenth century;
and it did not occur to him that there was any incongruity between this
devotion to his ancestors and the fact that he persisted in ignoring the
little boy upstairs.

And yet day by day it grew more hard to ignore him. Mr. Musgrave in his
study, after the enthusiasm of his monograph was over, could not help
hearing voices which it was difficult to take no notice of. The
enthusiasm of composition did a great deal for him: it carried him out
of the present; it filled him with a delightful fervour and thrill of
intellectual excitement. People who are always writing get used to it,
and lose this sense of something fine and great which is the inheritance
of the amateur. Even after the shock of renewed intercourse with the
son, who had brought shame upon his name, and whom he had cast off, Mr.
Musgrave, so long as his work lasted, found himself able to forget
everything in the happiness it gave. When he woke in the morning his
first thought was of this important occupation which awaited him, and he
went to bed with the fumes of his own paragraphs in his head; he was
carried away by it. But when all this intellectual commotion was over,
and when the ennui of having nothing further to do had swallowed up the
satisfaction of having finished a great piece of work, as it so soon
does, then there came a very difficult interval for the Squire. He had
no longer anything to absorb him and keep him comfortably above the
circumstances of ordinary life; and as he sat in his library, only
reading, only writing a letter, no longer absorbed by any special study,
or by the pride and delight of recording in fine language the results of
that study, ordinary life stole back, as it has a way of doing. He began
to hear the knocks at the door, the ringing of bells, and to wonder what
they meant; to hear steps going up and down the stairs, to be aware of
Eastwood in the dining-room, and the rustle of Mary’s dress as she went
about the house in the morning, and in the afternoon passed with a soft
boom of the swinging door into her favourite hall. The routine of the
house came back to the old man. He heard the servants in the kitchen,
the ticking of that measured, leisurely old clock in the hall which took
about five minutes to spell out the hour. He was not consciously paying
any attention to these things. On the contrary, he was secluded from
them, rapt in his books, knowing nothing of what was going on; yet he
heard them all; and as he sat there through the long winter days and the
still longer winter evenings, when there was rain or storm out of doors,
and nothing to break the long, still blank of hours within, a sound
would come to him now and then, even before the care of the household
relaxed--the cry of a little voice, a running and pattering of small
feet, sometimes an outburst of laughter, a small voice of weeping, which
stirred strangely in the air about him and vaguely called forth old
half-extinct sensations, as one might run over the jarred and
half-silent keys of an old piano in the dark. This surprised him at
first in his loneliness--then, when he had realized what it was, hurt
him a little, rousing old wrath and bitterness, so that he would
sometimes lay down his pen or close his book and all the past would come
before him--the past, in which John his son had disappointed, mocked,
insulted, and baffled his father. He would not allow himself to realize
the presence of these children in the house, but he could not avoid
thinking of the individual who stood between him and them, who was so
real while they were so visionary. Always John! He had tried to live
for years without thought of him and had been tranquil; it was grievous
to be compelled thus to think of him again. This all happened, however,
in the seclusion of his own mind, in the quiet of his library, and no
one knew anything of it; not his daughter, who thought she knew his
looks by heart; nor his servant, who had spelled him out by many guesses
in the dark--as servants generally do--and imagined that he had his
master at his fingers’ ends. But during all this time while these
touches were playing upon him, bringing out ghosts of old sensations,
muffled sounds and tones forgotten, Mr. Musgrave publicly ignored the
fact that there were any children in the house, and contrived not to see
them, nor to hear them, with a force of self-government and resolution
which, in a nobler cause, would have been beyond all praise.

The effect of the change upon Miss Musgrave was scarcely less remarkable
though very different. Her mental and moral education had been of a very
peculiar kind. The tragedy which swallowed up her brother had
interrupted the soft flowing current of her young life. All had gone
smoothly before in the natural brightness of the beginning. And Mary,
who had little passion in her temperament, who was more thoughtful than
intense, and whose heart had never been awakened by any strong
attachment beyond the ties of nature, had borne the interruption better
than most people would have borne it, and had done her duty between her
offending brother and her enraged father with less strain and violence
of suffering than might have been imagined. And she had got through the
more quiet years since without bitterness, with a self-adaptation to the
primitive monotony of existence which was much helped, as most such
virtues are, by temperament. She had formed her own theory of life, as
most people do by the time they reach even the earliest stages of middle
age; and this theory was the philosophical one that happiness, or the
calm which does duty for happiness in most mature lives, was in reality
very independent of events; that it came from within, not from without;
and that life was wonderfully equal, neither bringing so much good, nor
so much evil, as people of lively imaginations gave it credit for doing.
Thus she had herself lived, not unhappy, except at the very crisis of
the family life. She had suffered then. Who could hope (she said to
herself) to do other than suffer one time or another in their life? But
since then the calm and regularity of existence had come back, the
routine which charms time away and brings content. There had no doubt
been expectations in her mind which had come to nothing--expectations of
more active joy, more actual well-being, than had ever fallen to her
lot; but these expectations had gradually glided away, and no harm had
been done. If she had no intensity of enjoyment, neither had she any
wretchedness. She had enough to do; her life was full, and she was
fairly happy. So she said to herself; so she had said many a day to Mr.
Pen, who shook his mildly melancholy head and dissented--as far as he
ever dissented from anything said by Miss Mary. Her brother was
lost--away--wandering in the darkness of the great world as in a desert.
But if he had been near at hand, absorbed in his married life, his wife,
who was not of her species, and his unknown children, would not he have
been just as much lost to Mary? So she persuaded herself at least; and
so lived tranquilly, happy enough--certainly not unhappy;--and why
should an ordinary mortal, youth being over, wish for more?

Now, however, all at once, so great a change had happened to her, that
Mary could no longer understand, or even believe in, this state of mind
which had been hers for so many years. Perfectly still, tranquil,
fearing nothing--when her own flesh and blood were in such warfare in
the world! How was it possible? Wondering pangs of self-reproach seized
her; mysteries of death and of birth, such as had never touched her
maidenly quiet, seemed to surround her, and mock at her former ease. All
this time the gates of heaven had been opening and shutting to John.
Hope sometimes, sometimes despair, love, anguish, want, pain, had
struggled for him, while she had sat and looked on so calmly, and
reasoned so placidly about the general equality of life. How could she
have done it? The revelation was as painful as it was overwhelming.
Nature seized upon her with a grip of iron, and avenged upon her in a
moment all the indifferences of her previous life. The appeal of these
frightened children, the solemn charge laid upon her by her brother,
awoke her with a start and shiver. How had she dared to sit and look
through calm windows, or on the threshold by her tranquil door, upon
the struggles, pangs, and labours of the other human creatures about
her? Was it excuse enough that she was neither wife nor mother? had she
therefore nothing to do in guarding, and continuing, and handing down
the nobler successions of life? Mary was startled altogether out of the
state of mind habitual to her. Instead of remaining the calm lady of the
manor, the female Squire, the lawgiver of the village which she had
hitherto been--a little above the problems that were brought to her, a
little wanting in consideration of motives and meaning, perhaps now and
then too decided in her judgment, seeing the distinction between right
and wrong too clearly, and entertaining a supreme, though gentle
contempt for the trimmings and compromises, as well as for the fusses
and agitations of the ordinary world--she felt herself to have plunged
all at once into the midst of those agitations at a single step. She
became anxious, timorous, yet rash, faltering even in opinion,
hesitating, vacillating--she who had been so decided and so calm. Her
feelings were all intensified, the cords of her nature tightened, as it
were, vibrating to the lightest touch. And at the same time, which was
strange enough, while thus the little circle, in which she stood, became
full of such intense, unthought-of interest, the world widened around
her as it had never widened before; into darknesses and silences
indeed--but still with an extended horizon which expanded her heart.
John was there in the wide unknown, which stretched round this one warm,
lighted spot, wandering she knew not where, a solitary man. She had
never realized him so before; and not only John, but thousands like him,
strangers, wanderers, strugglers with fate. This sudden breath of
novelty, of enlightenment, expanded her heart like a sob. Her composure,
her satisfaction, her tranquillity fled from her; but how much greater,
more real and true, more penetrating and actual, became her existence
and the world! And all this was produced, not by any great mental
enlightenment, any sudden development of character, but by the simple
fact that two small helpless creatures had been put into her hands and
made absolutely dependent upon her. This was all; but the whole world
could not have been more to Mary. It changed her in every way. She who
had been so rooted in her place, so absorbed in her occupations, would
have relinquished all, had it been necessary, and gone out solitary into
the world for the children. Could there be any office so important, any
trust so precious? This, which sounded like the vulgarest commonplace,
and at the same time most fictitious high-flown sentiment, on the lips
of Mrs. Pennithorne, became all at once, in a moment, the leading
principle of Miss Musgrave’s life.

But she had to undergo various petty inconveniences from the curiosity
of her neighbours, and their anxiety to advise her as to what she should
do in the “trying circumstances.” What could she know about children?
Mrs. Pen, for one, thought it very important to give Miss Musgrave the
benefit of her advice. She made a solemn visit to inspect them, and tell
her what she ought to do. The little boy, she felt sure, was delicate,
and would require a great deal of care; but the thing that troubled Mrs.
Pennithorne the most was that Miss Musgrave could not be persuaded to
put on mourning for her brother’s wife. Notwithstanding that it was, as
Mary pleaded, five years since she died, the vicar’s wife thought that
crape would be a proof that all “misunderstandings” were over, and would
show a Christian feeling. And when she could not make this apparent to
the person principally concerned, she did all she could to impress it
upon her husband, whom she implored to “speak to”--both father and
daughter--on the subject. Most people would have been all the more
particular to put on crape, and to wear it deep, because there had been
“misunderstandings.” “Misunderstandings!” cried Mr. Pen. It was not,
however, he who spoke to Miss Musgrave, but she who spoke to him on this
important subject; and what she said somewhat bewildered the vicar, who
could not fathom her mind in this respect.

“Emily thinks we should put on mourning,” she said. “And, do you know, I
really believe that is the reason that poor John is so much more in my
thoughts?”

“What--the mourning?” the vicar asked faltering.

“_Her_ death. Hitherto the idea of one has been mingled with that of the
other. Now he is just John; everything else has melted away; there is
nothing but himself to think of. He has never been only John before. Do
you know what I mean, Mr. Pen?”

The vicar shook his head. He wondered if this could be a touch of
feminine jealousy, knowing that even Mary was not perfect; and this gave
him a momentary pang.

“I don’t suppose that I should feel so;--I was very fond of John--but I,
of course, could not be jealous--I mean of his love for one
unworthy----”

“How do you know even that she was unworthy? It is not that, Mr. Pen.
But she was nothing to us, and confused him in our minds. Now he is
himself--and where is he?” said Miss Musgrave, with tears in her eyes.

“In God’s hands--in God’s hands, Miss Mary! and God bless him wherever
he is--and I humbly beg your pardon,” cried Mr. Pen, with an excess of
compunction which she scarcely understood. His feelings were almost too
warm Mary thought.

And as the news got spread through those invisible channels which convey
reports all over a country, many were the visitors that came to the
Castle to see what the story meant, though they did not announce this as
the object of their visit. Among these visitors the most important was
Lady Stanton, who had been Mary’s rival in beauty when the days were.
They had not been rivals indeed to their own consciousness, but warm
friends, in their youth and day of triumph; but events had separated the
two girls, and the two women rarely met, and had outgrown all
acquaintance; for Lady Stanton had been involved, almost more
immediately than Mary Musgrave, in the tragedy which had so changed life
at Penninghame, and this had changed their relations like everything
else. This lady arrived one day to the great surprise of everybody, and
came in with timid eagerness and haste, growing red and growing pale as
she held out her hands to her old friend.

“We never quarrelled,” she said; “why should we never see each other? Is
there any reason?”

“No reason,” said Miss Musgrave, making room upon the sofa beside her.
But such an unexpected appeal agitated her, and for the moment she could
not satisfy herself as to the object of the visit. Lady Stanton,
however, was of a very simple mind, and could not conceal what that
object was.

“Oh, Mary,” she said, the tears coming into her eyes, “I heard that
John’s children had come home. Is it true? You know I always took an
interest----” And here she stopped, making a gulp of some emotion which,
to a superficial spectator, might have seemed out of place in Sir Henry
Stanton’s wife. She had grown stout, but that does not blunt the
feelings. “I should like to see them,” she said, with an appeal in her
eyes which few people could withstand. And Mary was touched too, partly
by this sudden renewal of an old love, partly by the thought of all that
had happened since she last sat by her old companion’s side, who was a
Mary too.

“I cannot bring them here,” she said, “but I will take you to the hall
to see them. My father likes them to be kept--in their own part of the
house.”

“Oh, I hope he is kind to them!” said Lady Stanton, clasping her white
dimpled hands. “Are they like your family? I hope they are like the
Musgraves. But likenesses are so strange--mine are not like me,” said
the old beauty, plaintively. Perhaps the trouble in her face was less on
account of her own private trials in this respect than out of alarm lest
John Musgrave’s children should bear the likeness of another face of
which she could not think with kindness. There was so little disguise in
her mind, that this sentiment also found its way into words. “Oh Mary,”
she cried, “you and I were once the two beauties, and everybody was at
our feet; but that common girl was more thought of than either you or
me.”

“Hush!” said Mary Musgrave, putting up her hand; “she is dead.”

“Is she dead?” Lady Stanton was struck with a momentary horror; for it
was a contemporary of whom they were speaking, and she could not but be
conscious of a little shiver in her own well-developed person, to think
of the other who was clay. “That is why they have come home?” she said,
half under her breath.

“Yes; and because he cannot carry them about with him wherever he
goes.”

“You have heard from him, Mary? I hope he is doing well. I hope he is
not--very--heart-broken. If you are writing you might say I inquired. He
might like to know that he was remembered; and you know I always
took--an interest----”

“I know you always had the kindest heart.”

“I always took an interest, notwithstanding everything; and--will he
come home? Now surely he might come home. It is so long ago; and surely
now no one would interfere.”

“I cannot say anything about that, for I don’t know,” said Miss
Musgrave; “he does not say. Will you come and see the children, Lady
Stanton?”

“Oh, Mary, what have I done that you should call me Lady Stanton? I have
never wished to stand aloof. It has not been my doing. Do you remember
what friends we were? and I couldn’t call you Miss Musgrave if I tried.
When I heard of the children I thought this was an opening,” said Lady
Stanton, faltering a little. She told her little fib, which was an
innocent one; but she was true at bottom and told it ill; and what
difference did it make whether she sought the children for Mary’s sake,
or Mary for the children’s? Miss Musgrave accepted her proffered embrace
with kindness, yet with a smile. She was touched by the emotion of her
old friend, and by the remnants of that “interest” which had survived
fifteen years of married life, and much increase of substance. Perhaps a
harsher judge might have thought the emotion slightly improper. But poor
John had got but hard measure in the world; and a little compensating
faithfulness was a salve to his sister’s feelings. She led her visitor
downstairs and through the narrow passage, in all her wealth of silk and
amplitude of shadow. Mary herself was still as slim as when they had
skimmed about these passages together; and she was Mary still; for once
in a way she felt herself not without some advantage over Sir Henry’s
wife.

Nello was standing full in the light when the ladies went into the hall,
and he it was who came forward to be caressed by the pretty lady, who
took to him all the more warmly that she had no boys of her own. Lady
Stanton fairly cried over his fair head, with its soft curls. “What a
little Musgrave he is!” she cried; “how like his father! I cannot help
being glad he is like his father.” But when this vision of splendour
and beauty, which Lilias came forward to admire, saw the little girl,
she turned from her with a slight shiver. “Ah!” she cried, retreating,
“is that--the little girl?” And the sight silenced her, and drove her
away.




CHAPTER VIII.

LADY STANTON.


Lady Stanton drove home from that visit with her heart and her eyes
full. She was not intellectual, nor even clever, but a soft creature,
made up of feelings easily touched, not perhaps very profound, nor
likely to obscure to her the necessary course of daily living, but still
true enough and faithful in their way. She might have been able to make
sacrifices had she come in the way of them or found them necessary, but
no such chance of moral devotion had come to her; nor had any teachings
of experience or philosophy of middle age, such as works upon the
majority of us, hardened her soft heart, or swept away the little
romantic impulses, the quick sensibilities of youth. A nature so fresh
indeed was scarcely compatible with much exercise of the intellectual
faculties at all. Lady Stanton rarely read, and never under any
circumstances read anything (of her own will and impulse) which rose
above the most primitive and familiar elements; but on the other hand,
the gentle sentimentalities which she did read went straight to her
heart. She thought Mrs. Hemans the first of poets, and cried her eyes
out over Mr. Dickens’s “Little Nell.” Anything about an unhappy love, or
about a dead child, would move her more than Shakespeare; and she shed
tears as ready as the morning dew. Practically, it is true, she had gone
through a certain amount of experience like other people, and her
everyday life was more or less affected by it; but in her heart Lady
Stanton was still the same Mary Ridley whose gentle being had been
involved in the wildest of tragic stories, even though she had come
down to so commonplace a daily routine now. That story, so long past,
took the place in her being of all the poetry and romance which the most
of us get glorified from the hands of genius; and all her associations
were attached to that one personal episode, which was unparalleled in
life as she knew life. When she read one of the novels which pleased
her, she would compare the situations in it with this; when she lingered
over the vague melodious verses which represented poetry to her, there
was always a little appropriation in her heart of their soft measures to
the dim long past emergency. And now, here it was brought back upon her
by every circumstance that could bring the past near. Her love--was it
her love that was recalled to her? But then there was no love in it
properly so called. She had taken an interest in John Musgrave, her
friend’s brother--always had taken an interest in him; but she had no
right to do so at any time, being betrothed to young Lord Stanton, who,
for his part, had forgotten her for the sake of that dressmaker’s girl
at Penninghame, to whom John Musgrave too had given his heart. What a
complication it was! Mary Ridley, who had a pretty property close to
his, had been destined for Lord Stanton from the beginning of time, and
the boy and girl had lightly acquiesced, and had been happy enough in
the parental arrangement. They had liked each other--well enough; they
had been as gay as possible in the lightheartedness of their youth, and
had taken this for happiness. Why should not they be happy? they were
exactly suited to each other. She was the prettiest girl in the county
(except the other Mary), and he was proud of her sweet looks, and fond
of her, certainly fond of her; whereas she, unawakened, undisturbed,
notwithstanding the interest she had always taken in John Musgrave,
would have made him the most affectionate and charming wife in the
world. Thus the early story had flowed on all smoothness and sunshine,
the flowers blooming, the sun shining; until, one fatal day, young Lord
Stanton, riding through Penninghame village on his way to the old
Castle, had seen Lily, Miss Price’s assistant, at the window of the
dressmaker’s parlour. Fatal day! full of all the issues of death.

It is needless to inquire what manner of woman this Lily was, for whom
these two men lost themselves and their existence. She did not know of
any tragedy likely to be involved, but brushed about in her homely
village way through these webs of fate, twisting the threads innocently
enough, and throwing the weaving into endless confusion. Whether Lord
Stanton was murdered by John Musgrave, as many people thought at first,
or killed accidentally in a hot, sudden encounter, as most people
believed now, was a thing which perhaps would never be cleared up. The
guilty man (if he was guilty) had paid the penalty of his deed in exile,
in poverty, in misery, ever since. His life had been as much broken off
at that point as Stanton’s was who died--and the two families had been
equally plunged into woe and mourning; though indeed it was the
Musgraves who suffered most, by reason of the stigma put upon them, by
the shame of John’s flight and of his marriage, and by the fact that he
was still a criminal pursued by justice, though justice had long
slackened her pursuit. As for the Stantons, there was nobody to mourn
much. Aunts and uncles and cousins console themselves sooner than
fathers and mothers, and the boy brother, who had succeeded to the
title, had been too young to be capable of sustained sorrow. Everybody
at that time had sympathized with the young bride who had lost her
future husband, and her coronet, and all the joys of life in this sudden
and miserable way, for there was no concealing what the cause of the
quarrel was, and that Lord Stanton had been unfaithful to the beautiful
Mary. Nobody knew, however, the complication which gave her a double
pang, the knowledge that not only the man who was her own property, her
betrothed husband, but the man in whom, innocently in girlish
simplicity, she had avowed herself to “take an interest,” had preferred
to her the village Lily, who was nobody and nothing, who had not been
blameless between them, and whom everybody condemned. Everybody
condemned: but _they_ loved her. Both of them! this secret and poignant
addition to her trial Mary Ridley never confided to any one, but it
still thrilled through and through her at any allusion to that old long
past tragedy. Both of them!--the man whose best love was due to her, and
the man who had caught her own girlish shy eyes, all unaware to either,
somehow, innocently, unavowedly, in such a visionary way as harmed no
one; both! It was hard. She wept for them both tenderly, abundantly, for
the one not less than the other; and a little--with a cry in her heart
of protestation and appeal--for herself, put aside, thrown over for this
woman who was nothing, who was nobody, yet who was better beloved than
she. All this had welled up in Lady Stanton’s heart when she saw the
little girl who had Lily’s face. She had been unable to restrain the
sting of old wonder and pain; the keen piercing of the old wound which
she had felt to her heart. Both of them! and now a little ghost of this
Lily, her shadow, her representative, had come back again to look her in
the face. She cried as she drove back that long silent way by herself to
Elfdale. It was seldom she had the chance of being so long alone, and
there was a kind of luxury about it, not unmingled with compunction and
a sense of guilt.

For it still remains to be told how Mary Ridley came to be Lady Stanton,
although Lord Stanton, who was the betrothed husband of her youth, had
been killed, and all that apparently smooth and straightforward story
had ended in grief and separation. She had married after some years a
middle-aged cousin of her dead lover, Sir Henry Stanton, who had not
long before come back from India where he had spent most of his life. It
was but a poor fate for the beautiful Mary. Sir Henry had left his
career and a full accomplished life behind him, when he first came to
settle at Elfdale to the passive existence of a gentleman in the
country, who could scarcely be called a country gentleman. He had been
married and had children, a family of sons and daughters, and had only a
second chapter of less vivid meaning, a sort of postscriptal life, to
offer her. Why she had accepted him nobody could well say,--but she made
him a good wife, kind, smiling, always gentle, though sadly put to it
now and then to preserve unbroken the sweet good-temper with which
nature had gifted her. So fair and sweet as she was, to get only the
remains of a man’s heart after all, to be made use of as their chaperon
and caretaker by his big, unlovely daughters; to have her own children,
two dainty, lovely, fairy girls, kept in the background,--no more than
“the little ones”--of no account in the house--all these things were
somewhat trying, and a strange reversal of all that life had seemed to
promise her, and all that had been indicated by the early worship which
surrounded her youth. But perhaps few women could have carried this
inappropriate fate as well. All those contradictions of circumstances,
all those travesties of what might have been, met with no gloom or
sourness of disappointment in her. The very fact that she was Lady
Stanton carried with it a certain aggravation, a parrot-like adhesion to
the letter and change of the spirit, such as had been in the promises
made to Macbeth. Mary might have thought herself the victim of a
perverse fate, keeping the word of promise to the ear and breaking it to
the heart, had she been perversely disposed--but instead of that, all
her thoughts at the present moment were occupied with the fact that she
had taken an unfair advantage of Laura and Lydia, in not telling them
where she was going, that they might have come with her had they been so
disposed. She had stolen a march upon them; they would think it unkind.
But then she could not have gone to Penninghame had Laura and Lydia been
with her. Though they were so much less concerned than she had been,
they kept up the Stanton feud with the Musgraves. They had no “interest”
in John--on the contrary, they were of the few who still believed that
he had “murdered” Lord Stanton--and would have had him hanged if he ever
returned to England. They would not have entered the house, or permitted
any kind inquiries in their presence. And therefore it was that she had
stolen away without letting them know, and was at present conscious--in
addition to all the jumble of emotions in her heart--of a certain prick
of guilt.

The Stantons were a great county family as well as the Musgraves, but in
a very different way. When the Musgraves had been at their greatest, the
Stantons had been nobody. They were nothing more than persistent,
thrifty folk at first, adding field to field, building on ever a new
addition to their old house. Then wealth had come, and then local
importance; and last of all celebrity. The first who brought anything
like fame to the name, and introduced the race to the knowledge of the
world, was a soldier, a general under the Duke of Marlborough, who got
a baronetcy and a reputation, and had a handsome new coat of arms
invented for him--very appropriately gained indeed, on the field of
battle, just as the augmentation of the Musgraves’ blazon had been
gained, but a few hundred years too late unfortunately, and therefore
not telling for nearly so much as if it had been won in the fifteenth
century. The next man was a lawyer, who so cultivated that profession
that it brought his son, in the reign of the Georges, to the bench, and
a peerage--and since that time the family had taken their place among
the magnates of the north country. Young Walter Lord Stanton was a much
greater man than John Musgrave, though not half so great a man in one
sense of the word. Two or three generations, however, tell just as much
upon the individual mind as twenty, and the young peer was conscious of
all his advantages over the commoner, without any sense of inferiority
in point of race. And now the other Lord Stanton, Geoffrey, who had
succeeded that unfortunate young man, was the greatest personage of his
years in the district, regarded with interest by all his neighbours and
with more than interest by some; for was it not in his power to make one
of his feminine contemporaries, however humble she might be by birth,
and however poor in this world’s goods, a great lady?--and so long as
human nature remains as it is, this cannot cease to be a very potent
attraction. Indeed the wonder is that young women should not be
altogether demoralized by the perpetual recurrence of such chances of
undeserved, unearned elevation. Young Lord Stanton could do this. He
could give fine houses and lands, a title, and all the good things of
this earth to his cousin Laura, or his cousin Lydia, or any other girl
in the county that pleased him. Therefore it cannot be wondered at if
his appearance fluttered the dovecotes with sentiments as powerful and
more pleasant than those which fill the nests at the appearance of
predatory hawk or eagle. But any such flutter of feeling was held in
Elfdale to be an unwarrantable impertinence on the part of the other
ladies of the county. Long ago, at the time when at six years old he had
succeeded to his stepbrother, there had been a tacit family
understanding to the effect that one of Sir Henry’s daughters should be
the young lord’s wife. Sir Henry, though old enough to have been the
father of his murdered cousin would have been his heir but for
Geoff--and it was universally allowed to be hard upon him that when such
an unlikely chance happened, as that young Lord Stanton should die,
there should be this boy coming in the way forestalling his claim.
Nobody had wanted that child who was suddenly turned into a personage of
so much importance--not even his father, who had married with a
single-minded idea of being comfortable in his own person, and who was
much annoyed by the prospect of “a second family”--a prospect which was
happily, however, cut short by his own speedy death. When therefore
Walter Lord Stanton was killed, it was very generally felt that Sir
Henry had a real grievance in the existence of the little stepbrother,
who was in the way of everybody except his poor mother, whom the old
lord had married to nurse him, and who had taken the unwarrantable
liberty of adding little Geoffrey to the family. Poor little Geoff! he
was bullied on all hands so long as his brother lived; and then, what a
change came over his life and that of his mother, who was as pale and
shy as her boy! Great good fortune may change even complexion, and Geoff
as he grew to be a man was no longer pale. But Sir Henry never quite got
over the blow dealt him by this succession. He had not resented Walter.
Walter was so to speak the natural heir--and nobody expected him to die;
but when he did die, so out of all calculation, to think there should be
that boy! Sir Henry did not get over it for years--it was a positive
wrong not to be forgotten.

Accordingly, as a small compensation to his injured feelings, all the
family had tacitly decided that Geoff should marry one of his cousins.
This, it is true, was but a very small compensation, for Sir Henry was
not the kind of parent who lives in his children and is indifferent to
his own glory and greatness. Even now, fifteen years after the event, he
was not an old man, and it made up very poorly for his personal
disappointment that Laura or Lydia should share the advancement of which
he had been deprived. Still it was so understood. Geoff paid many
holiday visits at Elfdale, though there was no particular friendship
between Sir Henry and the widowed Lady Stanton, who was Geoff’s guardian
as well as his mother, and things were going smoothly enough between
the young people. They liked each other, and had no objection to be
together as much as was possible, and already the sisters had settled
between them “which of us it is to be.” This Lydia, who was the most
strong-minded, had thought desirable from the moment when she had become
aware what was intended. “It does not matter at present,” she said, “we
are none of us in love, and one is just as good as another, but we had
better draw lots, or something--or toss up, as the boys do.” And what
the mystic ordeal had been which decided this question we are unable to
say, but decided it was in favour of Laura, who was the prettiest, and
only a year younger than Geoff. Lydia, as soon as the die was cast,
constituted herself the guardian of her sister’s fortunes so far as the
young lord was concerned, and made herself into a quaint and really
pretty version of a matchmaking mother on Laura’s behalf. Thus it will
be seen that it was into the very heart of the opposite faction that
Lady Stanton drove home with those tears in her soft eyes, and all that
commotion of old thoughts in her heart. If they could have seen into it
and known that it was the image of John Musgrave that had roused that
commotion, what would these girls have said, towards whom she felt so
guilty as having stolen a march upon them? “The murderer!” they would
have cried with a shriek of horror. Lady Stanton could not, it is clear,
have taken them to Penninghame with her, and surely she had a right to
use her own horses and carriage; but still she felt guilty as she
subdued, with all the effort she could make, the excitement in her
heart.

When she went in, she retired at once upstairs, and announced herself,
through her maid, to have a headache, and had a cup of tea in her own
room, to which her own children, little Fanny and Annie, a pair of
inseparables, came noiselessly like two doves on the wing. Annie and
Fanny liked nothing in the world so much as to get mamma to themselves
like this, in the stillness of her room, with everybody else shut out.
One was ten and the other eleven; they were about the same height, had
the same flowing curly locks of light brown hair, the same rose-tinted
faces, walked in each other’s steps, or rather flew about their little
world of carpeted stairs and passages, together, always in sudden soft
flights--like doves, as we have said, on the wing. “Is your head very
bad, mamma?” they said; and the gentle hypocrite blushed as she replied.
No, it was not very bad; a little quiet would make it quite well. They
took off her “things” for her, and brought her her soft white
dressing-gown, in which she looked like the mother of all the doves, and
let down her hair, which was not much darker, and quite as abundant as
their own--and gave her her cup of tea, thus soothing every tingling
nerve; and by this time Lady Stanton’s head was not bad at all, though
now and then one of them would administer eau-de-cologne or rosewater.
She told them of the children she had seen--little orphans who had no
mother--and the two crept closer to her, to hear of that awful,
incomprehensible desolation, each clasping an arm of hers with two
small, eager hands. To be without a mother! Annie and Fanny held their
breath in reverential silence and pity; but wondered a little that it
was the little boy (“called Nello--what a funny name!”) that mamma spoke
of, not the girl, who was ten (“just the same age as me”).

But not even the sympathy of her children, and the trance of interest
which kept them breathless, could make Lady Stanton speak of the little
girl. Her mother’s face! that face which had taken the best of
everything in existence from Mary Ridley--how could Lady Stanton speak
of it? She made some efforts to get over the feeling, but not with much
success. But the rest restored her, and enabled her to appear, her
headache quite charmed away, and her nerves still, at dinner. She took a
little more care with her toilette than usual, by way of propitiation to
the angry gods. And though Laura and Lydia were not much short of twenty
years younger than their stepmother, it would have been an indifferent
judge who had turned from her to them even in the fresh bloom of their
youth. She came downstairs very conciliatory, ready to make the best of
everything, and to make amends to them for all disloyal thoughts, and
for having cheated them of their drive.

“I hope your head is better, my Lady,” said Laura. “We have been
wondering all the afternoon wherever you had gone.”

The girls had a certain strain of vulgarity in them somehow, which could
not be quite eradicated from their speech.

“I went out for a drive as usual,” said Lady Stanton. “I thought I heard
you say that you meant to walk.”

“Oh yes; we wanted to walk to the village to settle about the school
children,” said Laura; and Lydia added, “But I am sure we never said
so,” and looked suspiciously at her stepmother.

“I went by the Langdale woods, and all the way to Penninghame water,”
said the culprit, very explanatory. “The lake looked so cold. I should
not like to live near it. It chills all the landscape, and I am sure
puts dreary thoughts into people’s heads. And as I was there, Henry,”
she added, addressing her husband, “I did what you will think an odd
thing.” Lady Stanton’s bosom heaved a little, and her breath came quick.
It would have been far easier to say nothing about it; but then she knew
by experience that everything gets found out. She made a momentary pause
before the confession which she tried to treat so lightly. “I ran in for
a moment to the old Castle and saw Mary--Mary, you know. We were great
friends, she and I, when we were young, and it was such a temptation
passing the old place.”

“What whim took you near the old place?” said Sir Henry, gruffly. “I
cannot think of any place in the world that should lie less in your
way.”

“Well, that is true,” she said, breathing a little more freely now that
the worst was told, “and the proof of it is that I have not been there
for years.”

“I hope it will be still longer before you go again,” said her husband.

He did not say any more because of the servants, and because he had too
much good sense to do or say anything that would lessen his wife’s
importance; but he was not pleased, and this troubled her, for she had a
delicate conscience. She looked at him wistfully, and was imprudent
enough in her anxiety to pursue the subject, and make bad worse.

“It is strange to see an old friend whom you have known when you were
young, after so many years,” she said; “though Mary is not so much
altered as I am. You remember her, Henry? She was always so pretty;
handsomer than--any one I know.”

It was on her lips to say “handsomer than ever I was,” which was the
real sentiment in her mind--a sentiment partly originating in the
semi-guilt and humility produced by the consciousness of having grown
stout, a kind of development which troubles women. She was very deeply
aware of this, and it silenced all the claims of vanity. She had lost
her figure; whereas Mary was still slim and straight as an arrow.
Whatever might have been once, there was now no comparison between the
two.

“Do you mean Miss Musgrave?” cried the girls, one after the other. “Miss
Musgrave! that old creature--that old maid--that man’s sister?”

“She is no older than I am,” said Lady Stanton, with a flush on her
face; “she was my dear friend in the old days. She is beautiful still,
as much as she ever was, I think, and good; she has always been good.”

“That will do,” said Sir Henry interposing. “We need not discuss the
family; but I think you will see, my dear, that there could not be much
pleasure in any intercourse at this time of day--whatever might have
been the case when you were young.”

“Intercourse--there could never be any intercourse,” cried Lydia, coming
to the front. “Fancy, papa! intercourse with such people--after all that
has happened! That would be tempting Providence; and it would be an
insult to Geoff.”

“Let Geoff take care of his own affairs,” said Sir Henry, angrily; and
he gave a forcible twist to the conversation, and threw it into another
channel; but Lady Stanton was very silent all the evening afterwards.
She had wanted to conciliate, and she had not succeeded; and how indeed
could she, among her hostile family, keep up any intercourse with her
old friend?




CHAPTER IX.

AT ELFDALE.


Nevertheless this meeting could not be got out of Lady Stanton’s mind.
She thought of it constantly; and in the stillness of her own room, when
nobody but the little girls were by, she talked to them of the children,
especially of little Nello, who had attracted her most. What a place of
rest and refreshment that was for her, after all her trials with Laura
and Lydia, and the seriousness of Sir Henry, who was displeased that she
should have gone to Penninghame, and showed it in the way most painful
to the soft-hearted woman, by silence, and a gravity which made her feel
her indiscretion to her very heart. But notwithstanding Sir Henry’s
annoyance, she could not but relieve her mind by going over the whole
scene with Fanny and Annie, who knew, without a word said, that these
private talks in which they delighted--in which their mother told them
all manner of stories, and took them back with her into the time of her
youth, and made them acquainted with all her early friends--were not to
be repeated, but were their own special privilege to be kept for
themselves alone. They had already heard of Mary Musgrave, and knew her
intimately, as children do know the early companions of whom an
indulgent mother tells them, to satisfy their boundless appetite for
narrative. “And what are they to Mary?” the little girls asked,
breathless in their interest about these strange children. They had
already been told; but the relationship of aunt did not seem a very
tender one to Annie and Fanny, who knew only their father’s sisters, old
ladies to whom the elder girls, children of the first marriage, seemed
the only legitimate and correct Stantons, and who looked down upon these
little interlopers as unnecessary intruders. “Only their aunt!--is that
all?”

They were not in Lady Stanton’s room this time, but seated on an ottoman
in the great bow-window, one on either side of her. Laura and Lydia were
out; Sir Henry was in his library; the coast was clear; no one was
likely to come in and dismiss the children with a sharp word, such
as--“Go away, little girls--there is no saying a word to your mother
while you are there!” or “The little ones again! When we were children
we were kept in the nursery.” The children were aware now that when such
speeches were made, it was better for them not to wait for their
mother’s half-pained, half-beseeching look, but to run away at once, not
to provoke any discussion. They were wise little women, and were, by
nature, of their mother’s faction in this house, where both they and
she, though she was the mistress of it, were more or less on sufferance.
But at present everybody was out of the way. They were ready to fly off,
with their pretty hair fluttering like a gleam of wings, should any of
their critics appear; but the girls had gone a long way, and Sir Henry
was very busy. It was a chance such as seldom occurred.

“All? when children have not a mother, their aunt is next best;
sometimes she is even better--much better,” said Lady Stanton, thinking
in her heart that John’s wife was not likely to have been of any great
service to her children. “And Mary is not like any one you know. She is
a beautiful lady--not old, like Aunt Rebecca--though Aunt Rebecca is
always very kind. I hope you have not forgotten those beautiful sashes
she gave you.”

“I don’t think very much of an aunt,” said Fanny, who was the saucy one,
with a shrug of her little shoulders.

“It must be different,” said Annie, hugging her mother’s arm. They were
not impressed by the happiness of those poor little stranger children in
being with Mary. “Has the little girl got no name, mamma--don’t you know
her name? You say Nello; but that is the boy; though it is more like a
girl than a boy.”

“It is German--or something--I don’t remember. The little girl is called
Lilias. Oh yes, it is a pretty name enough, but I don’t like it. I once
knew one whom I did not approve of----”

“We knew,” said Fanny, nodding her head at Annie, who nodded back again;
“Mamma, we knew you did not like the little girl.”

“I! not like her! Oh, children, how can you think me so unjust? I hope I
am not unjust,” cried Lady Stanton, almost with tears. “Mary is very
proud of her little niece. And she is very good to little Nello. Yes,
perhaps I like him best, but there is no harm in that. He is a
delightful little boy. If you could have had a little brother like
that----”

“We have only--big brothers,” said Annie, regretfully; “that is
different.”

“Yes, that is different. You could not imagine Charley with long, fair
curls, and a little tunic, could you?” This made the children laugh, and
concealed a little sigh on their mother’s part; for Charlie was a big
dragoon, and Lady Stanton foresaw would not have too much consideration,
should they ever require his help, for the little sisters whom he
undisguisedly felt to be in his way.

“I wonder if she wishes he was a little girl.”

“I wonder! How she must want to have a sister! A little brother would be
very nice, too; we used to play at having a little brother; but it would
not be like Fanny and me. Does she like being at the Castle, mamma?”

It troubled Lady Stanton that they should think of nothing but this
little girl. It was Lilias that had won their interest, and she could
not tell them why it was that she shrank from Lilias. “They have left
their poor papa all alone and sad,” she said, in a low voice. “I used to
know him too. And it must make them sad to think of him so far away.”

Once more the children were greatly puzzled. They were not on such terms
of tender intimacy with their father as were thus suggested, but, on the
whole, were rather pleased than otherwise when he was absent, and did
not follow him very closely with their thoughts. They were slightly
humbled as they realized the existence of so much greater susceptibility
and lovingness on the part of the little girl in whom they were so much
interested, than they themselves possessed. How she surpassed them in
this as well as in other things! She talked German as well as English
(if it was German; their mother was not clear what language it
was)--think of that! So perhaps it was not wonderful that she should be
so much fonder of her papa. And a moment of silence ensued. Lady Stanton
did not remark the confused pause in the minds of her children, because
her own mind was filled with wistful compassion for the lonely man whom
she had been thinking of more or less since ever she left Penninghame.
Where was he, all alone in the world, shut out from his own house, an
exile from his country--even his children away from him, in whom perhaps
he had found some comfort?

This momentary silence was interrupted abruptly by the sound of a voice.
“Are you there, Cousin Mary? and what are you putting your heads
together about?”

At this sound, before they found out what it was, the children
disengaged themselves suddenly each from her separate clinging to her
mother’s arm, and approached each other as if for flight; but, falling
back to their places when they recognized the voice, looked at each
other, and said both together, with tones of relief, “Oh, it’s only
Geoff!”

Nothing more significant of the inner life of the family, and the
position of these two little intruders, could have been.

Geoff came forward with his boyish step and voice in all the smiling
confidence of youth. “I thought I should startle you. Is it a story that
is being told, or are you plotting something? Fanny and Annie, leave her
alone for a moment. It is my turn now.”

“O Geoff! it is about a little girl and a boy--mamma will tell you too,
if you ask her; and there’s nobody in. We thought at first you were
papa, but he’s so busy. Come and sit here.”

Geoff came up, and kissed Lady Stanton on her soft, still beautiful
cheek. He was a son of the house, and privileged. He sat down on the
stool the children had placed for him. “I am glad there’s nobody in,” he
said. “Of course the girls will be back before I go; but I wanted to
speak to you--about something.”

“Shall the children go, Geoff?”

“Fancy! do you want them to hate me? No, go on with the story. This is
what I like. Isn’t it pleasant, Annie and Fanny, to have her all to
ourselves? Do you mind me?”

“Oh, not in the least, Geoff--not in the very least. You are like--what
is he like, Annie?--a brother, not a big brother, like Charley: but
something young, something nice, like what mamma was telling us of--a
_little_ brother--grown up----”

“Is this a sneer at my height?” he said; “but go on, don’t let me stop
the story. I like stories--and most other pleasant things.”

“It was no story,” said Lady Stanton. “I was telling them only of some
children:--you are very good and forgiving, Geoff--but I fear you will
be angry with me when you know. I was--out by myself--and
notwithstanding all we have against them, I went to see Mary Musgrave.
There! I must tell you at once, and get it over. I shall be sorry if it
annoys you; but Mary and I,” she said, faltering, “were such friends
once, and I have not seen her for years.”

“Why should I be annoyed--why should I be angry? I am not an avenger.
Poor Cousin Mary! you were out--by yourself!--was that your only reason
for going?”

“Indeed it is true enough. It is very seldom I go out without the girls:
and they--feel strongly, you know, about that.”

“What have they to do with it? Yes, I know: they are _plus royalistes
que le roi_. But this is not the story.”

“Yes, indeed it is, my dear boy. I was telling Annie and Fanny of two
poor children. They belong to a man who is--banished from his own
country. He did wrong--when he was young--oh so many, so many years
ago!--and he is still wandering about the world without a home, and far
from his friends. He was young then, and now--it is so long ago;--ah,
Geoff, you must not be angry with me. The little children are with Mary.
She did not tell me much, for her heart did not soften to me as mine did
to her. But there they are; the mother dead who was at the bottom of it
all; and nobody to care for them but Mary; all through something that
happened before they were born.”

Lady Stanton grew red as she spoke, her voice trembled, her whole aspect
was full of emotion. The young man shook his head--

“I suppose a great many of us suffer from harm done before we were
born,” he said, gravely. “This is no solitary instance.”

“Ah, Geoff, it is natural, quite natural, that you should feel so. I
forgot how deeply you were affected by all that happened then.”

“I did not mean that,” he said, gravely. His youthful face had changed
out of its light-hearted calm. “Indeed I had heard something of this,
and I wanted to speak to you----”

“Run away, my darlings,” said Lady Stanton; “go and see what--nurse is
about. Make her go down with you to the village and take the tea and
sugar to the old women in the almshouses. This is the day--don’t you
remember?”

“So it is,” said Annie. “But we did not want to remember,” said Fanny;
“we liked better to stay with you.”

However, they went off, reluctant yet obedient. They were used to being
sent away. It was seldom their mother who did it, willingly--but
everybody else did it with peremptory determination--and the little
girls were used to obey. They untwined themselves from her arms, to
which they had been clinging, and went away close together, with a soft
rush and sweep as of one movement.

“There go the doves,” said Geoff, looking after them with kind
admiration like that of a brother. It pleased Lady Stanton to see the
friendly pleasure in them which lighted the young man’s eyes. Whoever
married him, he would always, she thought, be a brother to her neglected
children, who counted for so little in the family. She looked after them
with that mother-look which, whether in joy or sorrow, is close upon
tears. Then she turned to him with eyes softened by that unspeakable
tenderness:

“Whatever you wish,” she said. “Tell me, Geoff; I am ready to hear.”

“I am as bad as the rest. You have to send them away for me too.”

“There is some reason in it this time. If you have heard about the
little Musgraves you know how miserable it all is,” said Lady Stanton.
“The old man will have nothing to say to them. He lets them live there,
but takes no notice--his son’s children! And Mary has everything upon
her shoulders.”

“Cousin Mary, will it hurt you much to tell me all about it?” said the
young man. “Forgive me, I know it must be painful; but all that is so
long over, and everything is so changed----”

“You mean I have married and forgotten,” she said, her lips beginning to
quiver.

“I scarcely remember anything about it,” said Geoff, looking away from
her that his eyes might not disturb her more, “only a confused sort of
excitement and wretchedness, and then a strange new sense of importance.
We had been nobodies till then--my mother and I. But I have heard a few
things lately. Walter,--will it pain you if I speak of him?”

“Poor Walter!--no. Geoff, you must understand that Walter loved somebody
else better than me.”

She said this half in honest avowal of that humiliation which had been
one of the great wonders of her life, partly in excuse of her own easy
forgetfulness of him.

“I have heard that too, Cousin Mary, with wonder; but never mind. He
paid dearly for his folly. The other----”

“Geoff,” said Lady Stanton, with a trembling voice, “the other is living
still, and he has paid dearly for it all this time. We must not be hard
upon him. I do not want to excuse him--it would be strange if I should
be the one to excuse him; but only----”

“I am very sorry for him, Cousin Mary. I am glad you feel as I do.
Walter may have been in the wrong for anything I know. I do not think it
was murder.”

“That I am sure it was not! John Musgrave was not the man to do a
murder--oh, no, no; Geoff! he was not that kind of man!”

Geoff looked up surprised at her eager tone and the trembling in her
voice.

“You knew him--well?” he said, with that indifferent composure with
which people comment upon the past, not knowing what depths those are
over which they skim so lightly. Could he have seen into the agitation
in Lady Stanton’s heart! But he would not have understood nor realized
the commotion that was there.

“I always--took an interest in him,” she said, faltering; and then she
felt it her duty to do her best for him as an old friend. “I had known
him all my life, Geoff, as well as I knew Walter. He was hasty and
high-spirited, but so kind--he would have gone out of his way to help
any one. Before he saw that young woman everybody was fond of John.”

“Did you know _her_ too?”

“No, no; I did not know her. God forbid! She was the destruction of
every one who cared for her,” said Lady Stanton with a little outburst.
Then she made an effort to subdue herself. “Perhaps I am not just to
her,” she said with a faint smile. “She was preferred to me, you know,
Geoff; and they say a woman cannot forget that--perhaps it is true.”

“How could he? was he mad?” Geoff said. Geoff was himself tenderly,
filially in love with his cousin Mary. He thought there was nobody in
the world so beautiful and so kind. And even now she was not understood
as she ought to be. Sir Henry thought her a good enough wife, a faithful
creature, perfectly trustworthy, and so forth. It was in this light that
all regarded her. Something better than an upper servant, a little
dearer than a governess; something to be made use of, to do everything
for everybody. She who, Geoff thought in his enthusiasm, was more lovely
and sweet than the youngest of them, and ought to be held pre-eminent
and sacred by everybody round her. This was not the lot that had fallen
to her in life.

“So I am not the best judge, you see,” said Lady Stanton with a little
sigh. “In those days one felt more strongly perhaps. It all seems so
vivid and clear,” she added half apologetically, though without entirely
realizing how much light these half-confessions threw on her present
state of less lively feeling, “that is the effect of being young----”

“I think you will always be young,” he said tenderly; then added after a
pause, “Was it a quarrel about--the woman?--” He blushed himself as he
said so, feeling the wrong to her--yet only half knowing the wonder it
was in her thoughts, the double pain it brought.

“I think so. They were both fond of her; and Walter ought not to have
been fond of her. John--was quite free. He was in no way engaged to any
one. He had a right to love her if he pleased. But Walter interfered,
and he was richer, greater, a far better match. So I suppose she
wavered. This is my own explanation of it. They met then when their
hearts were wild against each other, and there was a struggle. Ah,
Geoff! Has it not cost John Musgrave his life as well as Walter? Has he
ever ventured to show himself in his own country since? And now their
poor little children have come home to Mary; but he will never be able
to come home.”

“It is hard,” said Geoff thoughtfully. “I wish I knew the law. Fifteen
years is it? I was about six then. Could anything be done? I wonder if
anything could be done.”

She put her hand on his shoulder with an affectionate caressing touch,
“Thanks for the thought, my dear boy--even if nothing could be done.”

“You take a great deal of interest in him, Cousin Mary?”

“Yes,” she said quickly; “I told you we were all young people together;
and his sister was my dear friend. We were called the two Maries in
those days. We were thought--pretty,” she said with a vivid blush and a
little laugh. “You may have heard?”

Geoff kissed the pretty hand which had been laid on his shoulder, and
which was perhaps a little fuller and more dimply than was consistent
with perfection. “I have eyes,” he said, with a little of the shyness of
his years, “and I have always had a right as a Stanton to be proud of my
cousin Mary. I wonder if Miss Musgrave is as beautiful as you are; I
don’t believe it for my part.”

“She is far prettier--she is not stout,” said Lady Stanton with a sigh;
and then she laughed, and made her confession over again with a
half-jest, which did not make her regret less real, “and I have lost my
figure. I have developed, as people say. Mary is as slim as ever. Ah,
you may laugh, but that makes a great difference; I feel it to the
bottom of my heart.”

Geoff looked at her with tender admiration in his eyes. “There has never
been a time when I have not thought you the most beautiful woman in all
the world,” he said, “and that all the great beauties must have been
like you. You were always the dream of fair women to me--now one, now
the other--all except Cleopatra. You never could have been like that
black-browed witch----”

“Hush! boy. I am too old to be flattered now; and I am stout,” she
said, with that faint laugh of annoyance and humiliation just softened
by jest. Geoff’s honest praise brought no blush to her soft matronly
cheeks, but she liked it, as it pleased her when the children called her
“Pretty Mamma.” They loved _her_ the best, though people had not always
done so. The fact that she had grown stout did not affect their
admiration. Only those who have known others to be preferred to
themselves can realize what this is. After a moment’s hesitation, she
added in a low voice: “I wonder--will you go and see them? It would have
a great effect in the neighbourhood. Oh, Geoff, forgive me if I am
saying too much; perhaps it would not be possible, perhaps it might be
wrong in your position. You must take the advice of somebody more
sensible, less affected by their feelings. Everybody likes you, Geoff,
and you deserve it, my dear; and you are Lord Stanton. It would have a
great effect upon the county; it would be almost like clearing him----”

“Then I will go--at once--this very day,” said Geoff, starting up.

“Oh no, no, no,” she said, catching him by the arm; “first of all you
must speak to--some one more sensible than me.”




CHAPTER X.

THE OTHER SIDE.


While Lady Stanton spread the news of the arrival of the Musgrave
children among the upper classes, this information was given to the
lower, an equally or perhaps even more important influence in their
history, by an authority of a very different kind, to whom, indeed, it
would have been bitter to think that she was the channel of
communication with the lower orders. But such is the irony of
circumstances that it was Mrs. Pennithorne, who prided herself upon her
gentility, and who would have made any sacrifice rather than descend to
a sphere beneath her, who conveyed the report, which ran through the
village like wildfire, and which spread over the surrounding country as
rapidly and effectually as if it had been made known by beacons on the
hill-tops. The village was more interested in the news than any other
circle in the county could be, partly because the reigning house in a
village is its standing romance, the drama most near to it, and most
exciting when there is any drama at all; and partly for still more
impressive personal reasons. The Castle had done much for the district
in this way, having supplied it with more exciting food in the way of
story and incident than any other great house in the north country.
There had been a long interval of monotony, but now it appeared to all
concerned that the more eventful circle of affairs was about to begin
again. The manner in which the story fully reached the village was
simple enough. Mrs. Pennithorne had, as might have been expected, failed
entirely with Mary’s frock. It would not “come” as she wanted it to
come, let her do what she would; and when all her own efforts had
failed, and the stuff was effectually spoiled, soiled, and crumpled, and
incapable of ever looking better than second-hand under any
circumstances, she called in the doctor, as people are apt to do when
they have cobbled at themselves in vain. The dress doctor in Penninghame
and the neighbourhood, the rule of fashion, the grand authority for
everything in the way of _chiffons_, was a certain Miss Price, a lively
little old woman, who had one of the best houses in the village, where
she let lodgings on occasion, but always made dresses. She had been in
business for a great many years, and was an authority both up and down
the water. It was not agreeable to Miss Price to be called in at the
last moment, as it were, to heal the ailments of Mary’s frock; but
partly because it was the clergyman’s house, and partly because of the
gossip which was always involved, she obeyed the summons, as she had
done on many previous occasions. And she did her best, as Mrs.
Pennithorne had done her worst, upon the little habiliment. “Ladies know
nothing about such things,” the little dressmaker said, pinning and
unpinning with energetic ease and rapidity. And the Vicar’s wife, who
looked on helpless but admiring, accepted the condemnation because of
the flattery involved; for Mrs. Pen was elevated over Miss Price by so
brief an interval that this accusation was a kind of acknowledgment of
her gentility, and did her good, though it was not meant to be
complimentary. She liked to feel that hers was that ladylike uselessness
which is only appropriate to high position. She simpered a little, and
avowed that indeed she had never been brought up to know about such
things; and while Miss Price put the spoiled work to rights the Vicar’s
wife did her best to entertain the beneficent fairy who was bringing the
chaos into order. She did not blurt out suddenly the news with which she
was overbrimming, but brought it forth cunningly in the course of
conversation in the most agreeable way.

“Is there any news, Miss Price?” she said; “but I tell the Vicar that
nothing ever happens here. The people don’t even die.”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am. There’s two within the last three months; but
to be sure they were long past threescore and ten.”

“That is what I say. It’s so healthy at Penninghame. Look at the old
Squire now, how hale and hearty he is--and after all he has come
through.”

“Yes, he has come through a deal,” said Miss Price, putting her pins in
her mouth, “and that’s too true.”

“Poor old man; and still more and more to put up with. Have you seen the
children, Miss Price? Oh dear! didn’t you know? Perhaps I ought not to
have mentioned it; but people cannot hide up children as they hide
secrets. I have been living here for ten years, and I scarcely know the
rights of the story about John Musgrave yet.”

“Children!” said Miss Price, with a start which shook the pins out of
her fingers. “To be sure--that came in a coach from Pennington with a
play-acting sort of a woman? But what has that to do with Mr. John?”

The dressmaker dropped Mary’s frock upon her knees in the excitement of
her feelings. There was more than curiosity involved. “To be sure,” she
said. “To be sure!” going on with her own thoughts, “where should they
come but to the Castle? and who should have them but his family?
’Lizabeth Bampfylde is an honest woman, but not even me, I wouldn’t
trust the children to her. His children! though they would be hers
too----”

“What do you mean, Miss Price?” said Mrs. Pen, half offended; “are you
going out of your senses? I tell you something about the Squire’s
family, and you get into a way about it as if it could be anything to
you.”

Miss Price recovered her composure with a rapid effort, but her little
pale countenance reddened.

“Nothing to me, ma’am,” she said, with what she felt to be a proper
pride. “But if Mr. John has children, they had a mother as well as a
father; and there was a time when that was something to me.”

“Oh!” cried the Vicar’s wife, “then you knew Mrs. John? tell me about
her. She was a low girl, that is all I know.”

“She was no low girl, whoever told you,” cried the little dressmaker.
“She was one as folks were fond of, as fond as if she had been a
princess. She was no more low than--I am; she was----”

“Oh, I did not mean to offend you, Miss Price. Of course I know how
respectable you are--but not the equal of the Squire, you know, or
of----”

Miss Price looked at the woman who had spoiled Mary’s frock. There she
stood, limp, and faded, and genteel, with no capacity in her fingers and
not much in her head, with a smile of conscious superiority yet
condescension. Miss Price was not her equal. “Good Lord! as if I would
be that useless,” she said to herself, “for all the money in the world!
or to be as grand as the Queen!” But though she was at once exasperated
and contemptuous, politeness and policy at once forbade her to say
anything. She would not “set up her face to a lady,” even when so very
unimpressive as Mrs. Pennithorne; and it did not become the dressmaker
in the village to be openly scornful of the Vicar’s wife. She saved
herself by taking up again with energy and devotion the scattered pins
and the miserable little spoiled bodice of Mary’s frock.

“I am glad you know about this girl,” said Mrs. Pen, satisfied to have
subdued her opponent, “for I want so much to hear about her. One cannot
get much information from a gentleman, Miss Price. They tell you, ‘Oh
yes, she was a pretty creature!’ as if that is all you cared to know.”

“It’s what tells most with the gentlemen, ma’am,” said Miss Price,
recovering her composure. “Yes, that she was. I’ve looked at her many a
time and said just the same to myself. ‘Well, you are a pretty
creature!’ I don’t wonder if their heads get turned when they are as
pretty as that; though it isn’t only the pretty ones that get their
heads turned. The girls that I’ve had through my hands! and not one in
ten that went through with the business and kept it up as it ought to be
kept up.”

“Was Mrs. John Musgrave in the business? Was she in your hands? I
declare! Did he marry her from your house?”

“She was come of wild folks,” said Miss Price; “there was gipsy blood in
them. They had a little bit of a sheep farm up among the hills in their
best days, and a lone house, where there wasn’t a stranger to be seen
twice in a year. ’Lizabeth Bampfylde, that’s her mother, comes about the
village still. I can’t tell you what she does, she sells her eggs and
chickens, and maybe she does tell fortunes. I won’t say. She never told
me mine. I took a fancy to the lass, and I said, ‘Bring her to me. I’ll
take her; I’ll train her a bit. Oh, how little we know! If I had but let
her bide on the fells!--but what a pretty one she was! Such eyes as she
had; and a skin that wasn’t to say dark--it was brown, but so clear!
like the water when the sun is in it.”

“You seem to think a great deal of people being pretty.”

“So I do, ma’am, more than I ought. A woman should have more sense. I’m
near as easy led away as the gentlemen. But there’s different kinds of
beauty, and that is what they never see as want it most. There’s pretty
faces that I can’t abide. They seem to give me a turn. Now that’s where
the men fails,” said the little dressmaker; “all’s one to them, good or
bad, they never see any difference. Lily was never one of the bad ones,
poor dear. Lily? yes, that was the young woman; but she’s not such a
young woman, not a girl now. She’ll be thirty-seven or eight, close upon
that, if she’s living this day.”

“She is not living--she died five years ago; and Miss Musgrave won’t
believe me that she ought to go into black for her,” said Mrs.
Pennithorne.

“Ah!” said Miss Price with a sharp cry. She dropped her work at her feet
with an indifference to it which deeply aggrieved Mrs. Pen. The
announcement took her altogether by surprise, and went to her heart.
“Dead! oh my poor Lily, my poor Lily! Was I thinking ill o’ thee? Dead!
and so many left--and her in her prime!” Sudden sobs stopped the good
little woman’s speech, with which she struggled as she went on, making a
brave effort to recover herself as she picked up the little dress. “I
beg your pardon, ma’am, but it was so sudden; it took me unprepared. Oh,
ma’am, that’s the worst of it when you have to do with girls. Few of
them go through with the business, though it would be best for them;
they turn every one to her own way; that’s Scripture, but I mean it.
They marry, and they think themselves so grand with their children, and
it kills ’em. Oh, if I had but left her on the fells! or if she had
stuck by the business like me!”

“I did not think you took so much interest in her,” said Mrs. Pen,
feeling guilty. “If I had known you cared, I would have been more
careful what I said. But nobody seemed to think much of _her_. It is
always the Musgraves the Vicar speaks of.”

“The Vicar thought of nothing but Miss Mary,” said Miss Price hastily;
then she corrected herself, “I mean of womanfolk,” she said; “the
Musgraves, ma’am, as you say, that was all he thought of. And that’s
always the way, as far as I can judge. The gentry thinks of their own
side, and we that are but small folks, we think of ours; it’s natural.
Miss Musgrave was not much to me. I never made her but one thing, and
that was a cotton, a common morning frock; she was too grand to have her
things made by the likes of me; but Lily, she sat by my side and sewed
at the same seam. And she’s dead! the bonniest lass on all the water, as
the village folks say.”

“You don’t talk like the village folks, Miss Price.”

“No. I’m from the south, as they call it--except when a word creeps in
now and again through being so long here. It’s all pinned and straight,
ma’am, now. It was done almost before I heard the news--and I’m glad of
it, for my eyesight goes when I begin to cry. I don’t think you can go
wrong now,” said Miss Price with a sigh, knowing the powers of her
patroness in that direction. “It’s as well as I can make it--pinned and
basted, and straight before your hand. No, thank you kindly, nothing
for me. I’m that put out that the best thing I can do is to get home.”

“But dear me, Miss Price--as she is not even a relation!”

“A relation, what’s that? A girl that you’ve brought up is more than a
relation,” cried the dressmaker, forgetting her manners. And she made up
her patterns tremulously in a little bundle, and hurried out with the
briefest leavetaking, which was not civil, Mrs. Pennithorne said
indignantly. But Miss Price, in her way, was as important as the Vicar’s
wife herself, being alone in her profession, and enjoying a monopoly. It
is possible to be rude, when you are a monopolist, without damage to
your trade; but this, to do her justice, was not the motive which
actuated the little dressmaker, who, in her nature, was anxiously
polite, and indisposed to offend any one; but the news she had heard was
too much for all her little decorums. She made a long round out of her
way to pass by the Castle, though she could scarcely tell why she did
so--nor it was not the children that were most in her mind. Indeed she
scarcely remembered them at all, in her excitement of pain and hot grief
which took the shape of a kind of fiery resentment against life and
nature. Children! what was the good of the children--helpless things
that took a woman’s life, and made even the rest of death bitter to her,
wringing her heart with misery to leave them after costing her her life!
She was an old maid not by accident, but by nature; and what were a
couple of miserable little children in exchange for the life of Lily!
But when, not expecting to see them, not thinking of them save in this
bitter way, Miss Price saw the two children at the door of the hall,
another quick springing sensation rose suddenly in her hasty soul. She
went slowly past, gazing at them, trying to say to herself that she
hated the sight of them, Lily’s slayers! But her kind heart was too much
for her quick temper, and as soon as they were out of sight, the little
dressmaker sat down by the wayside and cried, sobbing like a child.
Little dreadful creatures, who had worn their mother to death, and
killed her in her prime! Poor little forlorn orphans, without a mother!
She did not know which feeling was the warmest and strongest. But she
reached home so shaken between the two emotions, that her present
assistant, who filled the place to which Miss Price had hoped to train
Lily, and who was a good girl with no nonsense in her head, fully
intending to go through with the business, was frightened by the
appearance of her principal, who stumbled into the little parlour all
garlanded with paper patterns, with tremulous step and blanched cheeks,
as if she had seen a ghost.

“Something’s to do!” cried the girl.

Miss Price made no immediate reply, but sank into a chair to get her
breath.

“Oh nothing; nothing you know of,” she said at last, “nothing that need
trouble you;” and then after a pause, “nothing that will warn you even,
not one of you, silly things. You’d all do just the same to-morrow,
though it was to cost you your lives.”

“I’ll run and get you a cup of tea,” said Sarah, which showed her to be
a young woman of sense. Where lives the woman to whom this cordial,
promptly and as it were accidentally administered, does not do good?
Miss Price gradually recovered herself as she sipped the fragrant tea,
and told her story with many sighs and lamentations, yet not without a
certain melancholy pleasure.

“If girls would only think,” she said; “if they would take a warning;
but ne’er a one of you will do that. You think it’s grand to marry a
gentleman; but it would be far better to go through with the business
like I’ve done, far better! though you’ll never think so.”

Sarah was respectfully sympathetic; she shook her head with a look of
awe and melancholy acquiescence; but nevertheless she did not think so.
She was only twenty, and thirty-seven was a good age. To marry a
gentleman, even at the risk of dying at thirty-seven like Lily, was
better than living till sixty like Miss Price; but she did not say so.
She acquiesced, and even cried over the lost Lily, whom she had never
seen, with the easy emotion of a girl. She herself meant sincerely to go
through with the business; but anyhow Sarah was as much excited by the
news as heart could desire. Miss Price was very determined that it
should not be talked of, that the story should not be spread in the
village. “Don’t let them say _again_ it came from us,” she said; but
however that might be, before the next morning it had spread through
the parish, and beyond the parish. Such things get into the atmosphere.
What can conceal a secret? It is the one thing certain to be found out,
and which every one is bound to know. There was nothing else talked
about in the cottages or when neighbours met, for some days. The men
talked of it over their beer, even, in the public-houses. “She were a
bonnie lass,” the elder ones said; and all the girls in the district
felt that they individually might have been Lily, and felt sad for her.
The children (who could not be hid) were followed by eager looks of
curiosity when they appeared, and the resemblance of Lilias to her
mother was too remarkable not to strike every one who had known her; and
the entire story which had excited the district so deeply in its time,
and which, with its mixture of all the sentiments which are most
interesting to humanity, was almost as exciting still as ever, was
retold, a hundred times over, for the benefit of the younger generation.
In these lower regions, as was natural, the interest all centred in the
beautiful girl, who, though “come of wild folk,” and not even an
appropriate bride for a well-to-do hopeful of the village, had “the
offer of” two gentlemen, one the young lord, and the other the young
squire. Had such fortune ever come before to a lass from the fells? How
she had been courted! not as the village lovers wooed with a sense of
equality, at least, if not perhaps something more; but John Musgrave and
young Lord Stanton had thought nobody in the world like her. And the
young lord, poor fellow! had even broken his word for her, a sin which
was but a glory the more to Lily in the eyes of the village
critics--however bitterly it might have been condemned had his forsaken
bride been a village maiden too. That this rivalry should have gone the
length of blood, all for Lily’s sweet looks, was a thing the middle-aged
narrators shook their heads over with many a moral, “You see what the
like of that comes to, lasses,” they said. But the lasses only put their
heads closer, and felt their hearts beat higher. To be fought for, to be
died for! It was terrible, no doubt, but glorious. “Such things never
happen nowadays” they said to themselves with a sigh.

And the news did not stop down below in the plain, but mounted with the
winds and the clouds, and reached lone places in the fells, where it
raised a wilder excitement still--at least in one melancholy and
solitary place.




CHAPTER XI.

AN AFTERNOON’S WORK.


“You must not cry, Nello; for one thing you are too big to cry; or if
you are not too big you are too old. You are eight--past! and then the
old gentleman downstairs is such a funny, funny old man, that he will
eat us, Nello, if we make a noise.”

“I don’t believe you,” said the little boy, whom England had much
improved in strength. “Old men do not eat children,” but he drew back a
little, and stopped crying all the same.

“We do not know no-ting about old men in England,” said Lilias--the _th_
was still a difficulty to her; and they both pronounced their _rs_ in a
way which was unfamiliar to English ears, though the letter exists and
retains its natural sound in the north country. “They are very very
strange; they sit in a chair all day, like the wild beasts. I go to the
door and peep in. He has no cap on his head like Don Pepé, but a bare
place here, where the cap should be, and white hair. And he never moves
nor speaks. Sometimes I think he will be cut out of wood; and then all
at once he rises up,--and me, I run away.”

“Are you not afraid, Lilias? I should be frightened,” said the little
boy, looking at her with large wondering eyes.

“That is because you are only eight, but I am twelve, and one is never
frightened after twelve. I run away, and it makes me beat and thump
here,” Lilias put her hand to her heart to indicate the place, “and I
like it.”

“Yes,” said the little brother, “when you run it makes that beat; but I
do not like it.”

“Ah, you are a baby,” said Lilias. She stood with her dark hair shaken
back, and her eyes shining, an image of visionary daring. Nothing could
be more unlike than these two children. The boy had all the features of
his race, blue eyes, fair hair, with a touch of gold in it, a fair
complexion, browned and reddened, indeed, with his long journey and the
warm sun he had been used to, but already changing into the pink and
white of English childhood. But there were none of the Musgrave features
in Lilias. Her dark eyes, dancing with life and energy, her warm colour,
clear brown with an underlying rose tint, and a downy bloomy surface
which softened every outline, and her crisp, yet shining dark hair, all
belonged, not only to a different species, but to a different type of
race. The Musgraves were robust and strong, but their strength was not
of this buoyant kind. The cloud of anxiety which had been about her on
her first appearance, that mystery of doubt with which a little human
creature regards the strange and novel, in whatever form, not knowing if
harm or good may be coming, had floated away, and Lilias had already
taken back her natural character. She was at home in the house, every
room of it, though she knew that she was hidden and thrust into corners,
on account of “the old gentleman downstairs.” This did not depress or
trouble her, but felt like a joke, a mystification and masquerading such
as is dear to childhood. She threw herself into the spirit of it with
enjoyment, instead of brooding over it with melancholy consciousness,
which was what Mary, forgetting childhood, as all grown people do, had
feared.

The children were in the hall, which had now grown so familiar to them
that they could not understand how they had ever feared it. It was one
of those exceptional days which occur now and then in the winter before
the turn of the year. The whole world was full of sunshine. There was
not a cloud in the sky, and the great green hill in front of them rose
up in dazzling clearness of relief, like a visible way of ascent into
heaven. There was not a breath stirring; the trees, without a leaf upon
them, printed themselves against the blue of the sky and the green of
the hill, in minute perfection of branch and twig, like a photograph.
The lake was as still and as blue as the sky--everything lay in the
sunshine charmed and stilled, hanging motionless as it were between
earth and heaven. The sense that it was mid-winter, the natural season
of storms, seemed to have got into the air, which wondered over its own
stillness, and into the skies, which excelled themselves in lightness
and soft blueness, snatching this moment of delight with a fearful joy.
Earth took that ecstasy as one who was well aware that she could not
answer for the morrow. The great doorway of the hall stood wide open; it
was after mid-day, and the sun streamed in, having got to the west so
much earlier than in summer. Lilias and her little brother, children of
the sun, were planted in the midst of it, enjoying it with unconscious
exhilaration. Martuccia sat in the open doorway, basking in it,
knitting; a tranquil, almost motionless figure, with that faculty of
repose which is no doubt awarded to nurses in compensation for the
endless calls upon their activity. She had put a little tartan
shawl--congenial garment--upon her fine shoulders, and, with her silver
pins and glowing black hair all whitened by the sunshine, sat perfectly
motionless except for the little rustle of her hands and click of her
knitting-needles. It seemed immaterial whether it might be years or
moments that the robust and comely watcher should hold that peaceful
guardian place. She was paying no attention to the children, yet the
lightest appeal, a querulous exclamation, a longer pause than usual,
anything or nothing, would have brought her to her nurselings. It was
the repose of the mother, who sees everything and feels everything, even
when she does not see: and the additional security which her presence
brought to them, though she sat apart and had nothing to do with their
talk or their play, the strong support of the background which she made,
it would be hard to tell in words. They had been playing in the spacious
place, all lighted and warmed through and through with sunshine. Miss
Musgrave had not yet made her appearance; either she had less time to
spend in her favourite resort, or the fact that it had been appropriated
to the children, as specially suitable in its size and separateness for
their enjoyment, had made her relinquish its use. The great bay window
in the recess gave back a reflected light from the shining of the lake,
which added a colder tone to the prevailing brightness; and in the old
fireplace there burned a smouldering fire, half coals half wood. Every
feature of the place had grown familiar to the two little things who
were once so alarmed by its dark corners--so familiar that they could
not understand how they had ever been afraid. The kind old spacious
silent hall sheltered them with a large passive protection not unlike
that of Martuccia herself.

But the afternoon languor had stolen upon the boy and girl,
notwithstanding the brightness. They, had come to a pause in their round
of amusement, and though half-tired, were yet looking about with all
their quick senses for some new delight. A little scuffle, a little
quarrel and crying fit on Nello’s part, which had been put a stop to by
the warning of Lilias already recorded, had left them free for a new
start, but not with the old plays, which were worn out for the moment.
They made an unconscious pause, and looked about them to find some
novelty; and both pounced upon one at the same moment with a burst of
sudden and unlooked-for rapture. A great broad sheet of something white
lay stretched out on Mary’s table, in company with an open colour-box
and brushes--a sight too tempting to be resisted by any child,
especially after the exhaustion of a long day’s play. It was wonderful
that they had overlooked it so long. They caught sight of it
simultaneously now, and the result was a sudden rush of eager curiosity.
The boy got first to the goal; perhaps he had been by a second of time
the first to start. He grasped one side of the white sheet with his hot
little hand, and climbing into the chair which stood before it, threw
himself upon the new wonder. “It is Mary’s,” said Lilias, making a
feeble effort to hold him back; but her own curiosity was much stronger
than her sense of duty to Mary, who allowed them to see everything and
share everything she had. They both leant over the table breathless, the
mysterious whiteness crackling beneath their hands. It was a sheet of
dazzling white vellum, ornamented with what they considered beautiful
pictures, a puzzling, yet a tempting sight to the children. It was
nothing less than a genealogical tree, their own pedigree, which Miss
Musgrave, skilled in such works, was preparing for her father,
ornamented with emblazoned coats of arms, some of them unfinished and
inviting completion with a seductive force which made the children’s
hearts beat.

“What is it?” said Nello, in a tone of awe.

“I know,” said Lilias, confidently; “it is a copy. You have had no
education, you don’t know what a copy is: but me, I have done them,
though never any so pretty as this. Mary is a grown-up lady, old, not
like us; it must be Mary’s copy. You should not touch it, you are too
little.”

“I will try,” cried Nello, with his eyes upon the brushes. Already he
had rubbed against something not yet dry, and had smudged the colour, to
the horror of his sister. He had both his elbows upon it and the greater
part of his small person.

“Oh, what have you done, you naughty boy!” cried Lilias; “you cannot do
it. Let me!”

“Yes, I will do it, I will do it!” cried Nello, seizing the crackling
vellum and dashing at it with a brush full of colour. Lilias had to
stand and look on, sorest of miseries, while her little brother
performed badly what she felt she could have done well. There was a
large shield in the centre, upon which the cherished “augmentation,” the
chief ornament of the Musgrave arms, was slightly drawn. Gules on a
shield argent, it ought to have been--Nello made a blurred dash of
bright blue, surrounded by a sea of red. “How it is pretty!” he cried in
his half-foreign speech, with a crow of triumph. Colour upon colour! and
such colour! the sight would have driven Mr. Musgrave wild.

Lilias uttered a cry of horror; but the work of destruction was very
captivating. Close to the vellum was the original draught of the
genealogical tree, from which Mary had been copying. Lilias took
possession of this, and carried it away to the table in the recess. She
meant only to look at it, but the temptation was too much for her. At
the bottom of the page an escutcheon void of all colour gradually caught
her eye, a little white space which might be made, she thought, to
resemble the others with great advantage to the whole. That this came
opposite to the name of John Musgrave was nothing to the child, but the
sight of it wrought her by degrees into a sort of creative frenzy. She
would not spoil it as Nello was doing, but to complete what was wanting
could be no harm. Lilias took a brush and filled it with fine broad
vermilion, a colour about which there could be no mistake, and painted
the vacant shield a strong decided gules, safe from any accident. The
outline was not very firm, and there were overflowings and runs of
colour outside, but at all events the hue was undeniable. She was
standing looking at it with a satisfied yet agitated mind, with the
brush still in her hand, when her elbow was grasped by some one behind
and a hand laid on her shoulder. In the start she gave, the child’s arm
made a nervous jerk of the brush over the paper, and ran a tremulous
line of red over some half-dozen of the kindred names. “Mary!” she cried
with a sudden perception of wrong-doing. But Lilias did not weep or
excuse herself. She got quite pale, with a red spot on each cheek, and
stood, not even dropping the brush, looking up at her judge, with the
corners of her mouth suddenly turned downwards, and a gleam of awakened
understanding in her alarmed eyes.

“Lilias! I thought I could trust you; what have you been doing?” cried
Mary. “And Nello?” she added, looking round with dismay at the more
important work. Nello had already been roused to that instinctive sense
of harm which comes with the arrival of an aggrieved person. But he did
not face his victim as Lilias did. He threw down his streaming pencil on
the vellum, got down from his chair in the twinkling of an eye, and fled
to take shelter with Martuccia, who, ever ready to defend, and yet
unaware who was wrong, put an arm round him at once and faced Miss
Musgrave with prompt defiance.

“Oh Mary!” cried Lilias, trembling, “Nello did not mean it. He is so
little. Nello did not know.”

Mary was not so angelically sweet as to be indifferent to the damage
done, but she had not the freedom of reproof which people exercise with
children familiar to them. The little meddlers were still strangers. So
she restrained herself and said nothing. She went to the parchment and
began to sponge off the still wet colour. Nello kept in his refuge
regarding her from afar, ready to bolt behind Martuccia if she made any
hostile advances and hide himself in his nurse’s skirt. But Lilias
followed Miss Musgrave closely as her shadow. She watched the sponging
with the gravest anxious attention. She kept herself close against
Mary’s dress, touching it, and put herself in Mary’s way, and interposed
her wistful face, now quite pale and troubled, between the vellum and
Mary’s eyes. At last her aunt said, perhaps somewhat peevishly, “What do
you want, child? You have done harm enough for one morning. Pray go out
of my way.”

“Have we done much harm?” said Lilias, with strained and anxious eyes.

“Yes; you have spoiled my week’s work, you mischievous children,” said
Mary, melting a little. “I shall have to do it over again. I did not
expect this, Lilias, from you.”

“It was very, very bad of me,” said the child, with perfect seriousness,
her eyes slowly filling; “but Nello is such a little fellow--he did not
know----”

“Then why did you do it, Lilias?”

The child looked up searchingly into her face. “I think it must have
been the devil,” she said, with portentous gravity, drawing a heavy
sigh.

An impulse of laughter came to Miss Musgrave in the midst of her
annoyance; but partly she restrained it for high moral reasons, and
partly she was still too much annoyed to give way to laughter. “What do
you know about--the devil?” she said. “I think it was your own little
mischievous hands, and your curiosity.”

“Oh, I know a great deal about him. Mr. Pennithorne told us on Sunday;
and Martuccia must be of the same religion as Mr. Pen, for she worships
him too,” said Lilias, aware of the advantages of digression when things
were so serious as they were now.

“Worships him, Lilias! You must not use such words.”

“They are always thinking of him, and they say he does everything. They
are very, very afraid of him,” said Lilias seriously, “and so am I--he
can do whatever he pleases; but I cannot think he is as strong as God.”

“And it was he who made you spoil my papers----?”

“Oh, Mary, not Nello--only me. Nello is such a little fellow, he did not
mean it--he did not know what he was doing----”

“And did you?”

Lilias pressed very close against Mary’s side. Her heart was beating
loudly in her brave little bosom. Her sense of crime had not been
lightened by the postponement of the punishment which must, she
thought, be coming. But it was not in her to fly as her brother had
done. She took a furtive hold of Mary’s gown. No hope of any forgiveness
was in her serious soul; yet to whom could she cling in earth and heaven
but only to this inflictor of stern justice? She kept her eyes fixed on
Mary’s face, that she might see the fearful doom which was coming--that
would always be a help in bearing it--and kept close to her, pressing
against her. “_Aie-tu peur de moi? cache-toi dans mes bras_”--this was
the child’s impulse in her penitence and terror.

Mary forgot her vellum and its stains. She put her arm round the child,
whose eyes opened a little wider thinking the judgment was coming, but
who never shrank. “You will not do it again,” she said. Lilias could not
understand that it was over. She bent back a little the better to see
Mary’s face.

“Will you not punish me?” said the child. Between the fear and the
wonder she was breathless. This was the most wonderful of all.

“No, dear--you will never do it again.”

“Nor Nello?” She put her arms round Mary’s arm, with that soft clinging
which is irresistible in a child, and leant her head against her, and
began to sob as if her heart would break. Then Nello, seeing the worst
was over, came out from his shelter, venturing a few steps, then a few
more. Forgiveness did not touch him, as punishment would have done. He
came slowly, ready to turn and fly at any hostile demonstration. Nello
had, as it were, an army at his back, his ships to take refuge in; but
still it was with great caution that he made his advance. This little
exhibition of character, however, soon melted in a more agreeable
sentiment. As soon as the contingency was over, both the children,
restored to a tremulous ease of mind, were seized with a common impulse
of curiosity and interest. They forgot their own culpability in watching
the obliteration of the damage they had done. Fortunately the discovery
had been made in time, and the process of reparation, if not so
exciting, was almost as interesting to them as the delicious frenzy of
mischief in which they had wrought this harm. They pressed upon Mary as
she worked, one at each side. When the last trace had disappeared they
gave a cry of joy. How clever Mary was! She could do everything. As for
Nello, he was unmoved morally by the spectacle; it had been amusing all
through, all but the moment of fear, which fortunately came to nothing.
But Lilias never forgot this scene, and still less did Mary forget it,
whose heart seemed to be learning a hundred sweet and subtle lessons,
and to whom the child, even in her naughtiness, was like an angel,
leading her to depths unsounded, nay, unthought of till now.

But when they had gone away, joyous as usual, to their “tea,” which was
a meal much scorned and wondered at by Martuccia, Mary went to the other
table where lay the draught of the more important document upon which
Lilias had been employed when she came into the hall. At this she smiled
and shuddered, with a curious mixture of feelings. The little girl’s
mischief had taken a symbolical form. The blank shield which represented
her mother was blurred and blood-red, and a stroke like blood ran across
her father’s name; and that of her father’s father, from the little pool
of red in the daubed shield. Lilias knew nothing of the lives from which
her little life had sprung. It was accident, caprice, a child’s fancy
for bright colour--yet it made Mary shudder even when she smiled.

Another incident, which she paid less attention to--indeed, did not
think of at all--happened this same evening. She went to the door where
Martuccia had been seated, her own favourite place, though now in great
part given up to the children and their attendant, to look out upon the
evening before she left the hall. When she had looked at the sky where
the early wintry sunset was just over, leaving deep gorgeous tints of
red and yellow upon a blue which was deepened by coming frost, Mary’s
look came back, carelessly enough, by the lower level of the long brown
road. And it was with a momentary start that she found herself almost
face to face with an unthought-of spectator, who was standing at the
foot of the little slope, gazing intently up to the hall door. Mary was
puzzled to see that though the woman’s appearance was like that of many
of the older women about, she did not know her; and at the same time she
was equally perplexed by a consciousness that the face looking up at her
thus eagerly was not that of a stranger. She could not associate it with
any name, yet she seemed acquainted with the features, which were fine,
and of an unusual cast. The stranger’s look was so intense that it
struck Miss Musgrave like an audible petition. “Did you want anything?”
she said with natural courtesy, making a step towards her. The woman
turned sharp round on her heels with a hasty wave of her hand, and went
hurriedly away towards the village without further reply. Who could she
be? Mary asked herself lightly, and went in and forgot all about her.
The people are independent in their ways, and not grateful for a casual
address, in the north.




CHAPTER XII.

VISITORS.


“My Lord Stanton, ma’am,” said Eastwood, with a certain expansion in the
throat and fulness of voice, like that swell and gurgle which
accompanies in a bird the fullest tide of song. Who has not heard that
roll in the voice of the man who mouths a title like a succulent morsel?
A butler who loves his family, and who has the honour of announcing to
them the visit of the greatest potentate about, is a happy man. And this
was what Eastwood felt, as he uttered with a nightingale trill and swell
of satisfaction this honoured name.

“Lord--_whom_----?” Mary rose to her feet so much startled that she did
not know what she said.

“Lord Stanton, ma’am,” the butler repeated. “He asked if you would
receive him. He said as he would not come in till I asked would you
receive him, ma’am. I said you was at home, and not engaged--but he
said----”

“Lord Stanton!” The name seemed to hurt her, and a kind of dull fear
rose in Mary’s mind. She knew, of course, who it was! the young
successor of the man who, with intention or not, her brother had brought
to his death. She knew well enough about Geoff. It had not been possible
to hear the name at any time without interest, and in this way Mary had
learned as much as strangers knew of the young lord. But what could he
want here? A subdued panic seized her. She did not know what he could
do, or if he could do anything; but that he should come merely as a
friend did not seem probable. And how then had he come? She made a
tremendous pause before she said, “Let him come in, Eastwood.” Eastwood
thought Miss Musgrave was very properly impressed by the name of the
young lord.

Geoff, for his part, waited outside, anxious as to how he was to be
received, and very desirous in his boyish generosity to make a good
impression. He had driven to Penninghame, a long way, and his horses,
drawn up at the door, made a great show, when the children passed,
stealing round the corner like little intruders, but so much attracted
by this sight, that they almost forgot their orders never to approach
the hall door. Geoff himself was standing at some distance from his
phaeton, waiting for his answer; but even Lilias was old enough to know
that to address commendatory remarks and friendly overtures to a horse
or a dog is more easy and natural than to address a man. She said, “Oh,
look, Nello, what lovely horses!” but only ventured to look up shyly
into the friendly face of their owner, though she was not without an
impression that he, too, was nice, and that he might give his friends a
drive perhaps, with the lovely horses, a service which was not in the
power of the animals themselves.

Geoff went up to them, holding out his hand. “You are the little
Musgraves, I suppose?” he said.

The boy hung back, as usual, hanging by Martuccia’s skirts. “Yes,” said
Lilias, looking at him intently, as she always did; and she added at
once, “This is Nello,” and did her best to put her small brother in the
foreground, though he resisted, holding back and close to his protector.

“Is he shy, or is he frightened? He need not be frightened of me,” said
Geoff, unconsciously conscious of the facts between them which might
have caused the child’s timidity had he been old enough to know. “Nello
is an odd name for a boy.”

“Because you do not know where he came from,” said Lilias quickly.
“Nello is born in Florence. Here you will call him John. It is not so
pretty. And me, I am born in France,” she continued; “but we are
English children. That does not make any difference.”

“Don’t you think so?” said simple Geoff. The little woman of twelve who
thus fixed him with her great beautiful eyes, made him feel a boy in
comparison with her mature childhood. She never relaxed in her watchful
look. This was a habit Lilias had got, a habit born of helplessness, and
of the sense of responsibility for her brother which was so strong in
her mind. That intent, half-suspicious vigilance, as of one fully aware
that he might mean harm, and quick to note the approach of danger,
disconcerted Geoff, who meant nothing but good. “I know two little
girls,” he said, trying to be conciliatory, “who would like very much to
know you.”

“Ah!” said Lilias, melting a little, but shaking her head. “I have to
take care of Nello; but if they would come here, and would not mind
Nello,” she added, “perhaps I might play with them. I could
ask--Mary----”

“Who is--Mary?”

“Oh! don’t you know? If you do not know Mary we should not talk to
you--we only ought to talk to friends--and besides, you have no right to
call her Mary if you do not know her,” said Lilias. She turned back to
say this after she had gone a few steps away from him, following Nello,
who, tired of the conversation, had gone on with his guardian to the
Chase.

“That is quite true, and I beg your pardon,” said Geoff; “it must be
Miss Musgrave you mean.”

Lilias nodded approving. She began to take an interest in this big boy.
He was not strictly handsome, but had a bright, attractive countenance,
and the child scarcely ever saw any male creature except Eastwood and
Mr. Pen. “Have you come to see her?” she asked wistfully; “are you going
to be a--friend?”

“Yes,” said Geoff with a little emotion, “if she will let me. I am
waiting to know. And tell me your name?” he added, with a slight tremor
in his voice, for he was young and easily touched. “I will always be a
friend to you.”

“I am Lilias,” she said shyly, giving him her hand, for which he had
held out his. And this was how Eastwood found them when he came bustling
out to inform my lord that Miss Musgrave would see his lordship, if he
would be good enough to step this way. Eastwood was much “struck” to see
his lordship holding “little Miss’s” hand. It raised little Miss in the
butler’s opinion. “If she had been a bit older, now!” he said to
himself. Geoff was half reluctant to leave this little new acquaintance
for the audience which he had come here expressly to ask. Mary was not
likely to be so easily conciliated as little Lilias. And being a lord
did not make him less shy. He waved his hand and took off his hat with a
little sigh, as he followed Eastwood into the house; and Lilias, for her
part, followed Nello slowly, with various thoughts in her small head.
These it must be allowed were chiefly about the little girls who wanted
to make friends with her--and of whom her lonely imagination made
ecstatic pictures--and of the lovely horses who could spin her away over
the broad country, if that big boy would let them. But Lilias did not
think very much about the big boy himself.

Geoff went in blushing and tremulous to Miss Musgrave’s drawing-room. It
was not a place so suitable to Mary as her favourite hall, being dark
and somewhat low, not worthy either of her or of Penninghame Castle. She
was standing, waiting to receive him, and after the bow with which he
greeted her, Geoff did not know what to say to disclose his object. His
object itself was vague, and he had no previous knowledge of her, as his
cousin Mary had, to warrant him in addressing her. She offered him a
chair, and she sat down opposite him; and then there began an
embarrassing pause which she would not, and which he did not seem able
to, break. At last, faltering and stammering--

“I came, Miss Musgrave,” he began, “to say--I came to tell you--I came
to ask--Circumstances,” cried Geoff, impatient of his own incapacity,
“seem to have made our families enemies. I don’t know why they should
have done so.”

“If the story is true, Lord Stanton, it is easy enough to see how they
should have done so. My brother was concerned, they say, in your
brother’s death.”

“No one could prove that he did it, Miss Musgrave.”

“He did not do it with intention, I am sure,” she said. “But so much is
true. It was done, and how could we be friends after? We should have
been angels--you to pardon the loss you had sustained, we to pardon the
wrong we had done.”

There was a gleam of agitation and pain in her eyes which might well
have been taken for anger. The young man was discouraged.

“May I not say anything, then?” he said, wistfully. “My cousin Mary,
Lady Stanton, whom you know, told me--but if you are set against us too,
what need to say anything? I had hoped indeed, that you----”

“What did you hope about me? I should be glad of any approach. I grieved
for your brother as if he had been mine. Oh more, I think, more! if it
had been poor John who had died----”

“It would have been better,” said the young man. “Yes, yes, Miss
Musgrave, that is what I feel; Walter had the best of it. Your brother
has been more than killed. But I came to say, that so far as we are
concerned, there need not be any more misery. Let him come home, Miss
Musgrave, let him come home! We none of us can tell now how Walter
died.”

Mary was moved beyond the power of words. She got up hastily and took
his hand, and pressed it between her own.

“Thank you, I shall always thank you!” she cried, “whether he comes home
or not. Oh, my dear boy, who are you that come with mercy on your lips?
You are not like the rest of us!”

Mary was thinking of others, more near, whose wrongs were not as the
Stantons’, but whom nothing could induce to forgive.

“I am my mother’s son,” said Geoff, his eyes brighter than usual, with a
smile lighting up the moisture in them. What Mary said seemed a tribute
to his mother, and this made him glad. “She does not know, but she would
say so. Let him come home. I heard of the children, and that your
brother----”

“Yes,” said Miss Musgrave, “from Mary. She told you. She always took an
interest in him. Do you know,” she added in a low voice of horror, “that
there is a verdict against him, a coroner’s verdict of murder?”

She shuddered at the word as she said it, and so did he.

“But not a just one. No jury would say it was--that: not now----”

“Heaven knows what a jury would say. It is all half forgotten now; and
as for the dates, and all those trifles that tell in a trial, who knows
anything about them? Even I--could I swear to the hour my brother went
out that morning? I could once, and did, and it is all written down. But
I don’t seem sure of anything now, not that there ever was a Walter
Stanton, or that I had a brother John; and I am one of the interested;
the people who were not specially interested, do you think they would
have better memories? Ah, no; and he fled; God help him! I don’t know
why he did it. That was against him; though I don’t think anyone
believes that John Musgrave did _that_, now.”

“I am sure they do not, and that is why I came. Let him come home, Miss
Musgrave. He would not have been convicted had he been tried. I have
been reading it all up, and I have taken advice. He would be cleared.
And if there is risk in it, we would all stand by him. I would stand by
him,” said the young man with a generous flush of resolution, “so much
as I am worth. I want you to tell him so. Tell him to come home.”

Mary shook her head. How long she had been calm about this terrible
domestic tragedy, and how it all rose upon her now! She got up, in her
agitation, and walked about the room.

“How could he risk it--how could he risk it--with that sentence against
him?” she said; then after a while she came back to her seat, and looked
at Geoff piteously with a heartrending look in her eyes. She was past
crying, which would have relieved her. “That is not all,” she said in a
low voice. “Alas, alas! if all was well, and he might come home when he
pleased, it would matter less. I know nothing about him, Lord Stanton. I
don’t know my brother any longer, nor where he is, nor how he is living
now.”

“But his children have just come to you!”

“Yes, out of the unknown. No one knows anything about him; and suddenly
they came out of the darkness, as I tell you. That is where he is: out
in the world, in the dark, in the unknown----”

“There are ways of penetrating the unknown,” said Geoff, cheerfully.
“There are advertisements; everybody sees the _Times_ nowadays. It goes
all over the world. Wherever there is an Englishman he sees it somehow.
Let us advertise.”

“He would not see it.”

“Then a detective--let us send some one----”

“Oh no, no, no,--not that. I could not bear that. We must let him alone
till he comes of his own accord. Let well alone,” said Mary, in her
panic. She scarcely knew what she said.

“Well! do you call it well, Miss Musgrave, that your brother should be
away from his home, from everything he loves--his country lost to him,
his position, all his friends?”

“He has not been separated from everything he loves; he had wife and
children; does a man care for anything else? What was this old house to
him, and--us--in comparison? His wife is dead--that was God’s doing; and
his children have come home--that is his own choice. I say, let well
alone, Lord Stanton; when he wishes it he will--come--back; but not to
those he loves,” Mary said in a low tone.

Geoff could not fathom her meaning, it was beyond him. The accusation
under which John Musgrave lay was bad enough. It was cowardly of him (he
thought) to fly and leave this stigma, uncontested, upon his own name;
but that there should be any further mystery did not seem possible to
the young man. Perhaps there was something wrong with the family, some
incipient insanity, monomania, eccentricity. He could not understand it.
But at least he had shown his goodwill, if no more.

“I must not dictate to you, Miss Musgrave,” he said; “you know best,”
and he rose to go away, but stood hesitating, reluctant to consent to
the failure of his generous mission. “If I can be of any use, at any
time,” he added, blushing and faltering; “not that I can do much: but if
you should--change your mind--if you should--think----”

She took his hand once more in both of hers.

“I shall always think that you have the kindest and most generous heart:
and are a friend--a true friend--to John, and everybody in trouble.”

“I hope so,” said the youth, fervently; “but that is nothing;--to you,
Miss Musgrave, if I can ever be of any use.”

“I will ask you, if it ever can be,” she said. “I will not forget.”

He kept hold of her hands when she loosed them, and with a confused
laugh and change of tone, asked “About the children? I met them just
now. Might I bring my little cousins, Lady Stanton’s children, to see
them? They want to meet.”

“Sir Henry would not like it, though she might. Sir Henry is not like
you.”

“I know; he is _plus royalist que le roi_. But the children would. And
they don’t deny me anything,” said Geoff, with a little laugh.

He scarcely knew why this was--but it was so; nothing was denied to him;
he was the _enfant gâté_ of Elfdale. Miss Musgrave was not, however,
quite so complacent. She gave an assent which was cold and unwilling,
and which quenched Geoff’s genial enthusiasm. He went back to his
phaeton quite subdued and silent. “But I will see that little thing
again,” he said to himself.

In the mean time, while this conversation had been going on, Lilias had
wandered forth alone into the Chase. Martuccia had gone before with
Nello, while Lilias talked to the young man; and now the child followed
dreamily, as she was in the habit of doing, her eyes abstracted, her
whole being rapt in a separate consciousness, which surrounded her like
an atmosphere of her own. She knew vaguely that the little brother and
his nurse were in front of her; but the watchfulness of Lilias had
relaxed, and she was not thinking of Nello. He was safe; here was no one
who could interfere with him. She had taken up a branch of a tree which
lay in her path and had caught her childish fancy, and with this she
went on, using it like a pilgrim’s staff, and saying a kind of low
chant, without words, to herself, to which the rough staff was made to
keep time. What was she thinking of? everything, nothing; thought indeed
was not necessary to the fresh soul in that subdued elation and
speechless gladness. There was a vague sense in her mind of the brisk
air, the sunshine, the blue sky, the floating clouds, all in one; but
had the clouds been low upon the trees, and the air all damp instead of
all exhilaration, it would have made little difference to Lilias. Her
spring of unconscious blessedness was within herself. Her song was not
music nor her movements harmony in any way that could be accounted for
by rule; and indeed the low succession of sounds which came from her
lips unawares, and to which her little steps and the stroke of the rough
stick kept time, was more inartificial than even the twittering of the
birds. A small, passive, embodied happiness went roaming along the
rough, woodland path, with soft-glowing abstracted eyes that saw
everything, yet nothing; with a little abstracted soul, all freshness
and gladness, that took note of everything, yet nothing; a little
pilgrim among life’s mysteries and wonders, herself the greatest wonder
of all, throbbing with a soft consciousness, yet knowing nothing. Thus
she went pacing on under the bare trees, and murmured her inarticulate
chant, and kept time to it, a poet in being, though not in thought. Not
far off the lake splashed softly upon the stones of the beach, and that
north country air, which is vocal as the winds of the south, sounded a
whole mystery of tones and semi-tones, deep through the fir-trees,
shrill through the beeches, low and soft over the copse; and the brook,
half-hidden in the overgreenness of the grass, added its tinkle; all
surrounding the little figure which gave the central point of conscious
intelligence to the landscape; but were all quite unnecessary to Lilias
marching along in her dream to her own music, a something higher than
they, a thing full of other and deeper suggestions, the wonder of the
world.

Lilias woke up, however, out of this other world, all in a moment, into
the conscious existence of a lively, brave, fancifully-timid child, when
she found herself suddenly confronted by a stranger, who did not pass on
as strangers usually did, making a mere momentary jar and pause in the
visionary atmosphere, but who made a decided pause, and stopped her. A
little thrill of fear sprang up in the child’s breast, and she would
have hurried on, or even run away, but for the pride of honour and
courage in her little venturesome spirit which made it impossible to
fly. It was an old woman who stood in her path, tall but stooping,
dressed in a large grey cloak, the hood of which covered her white thick
muslin cap. She was a woman considerably over sixty, with handsome
features and brilliant dark eyes, and, notwithstanding her stooping
figure, full of vigour and power. She carried a basket on her arm under
her cloak, and had a stick in her hand, and at her neck a red
handkerchief just showed, which would have replaced the hood on her cap
had it been less cold. Just so the fairy in the fairy-tales appears to
the little maiden in the wood, the Cinderella by the kitchen-fire.
Lilias was not at all sure that it was not that poetical old woman who
looked at her with those shining eyes. She made a brief, instantaneous
resolution to draw water for her, or pick up sticks, or do anything she
might require.

“Little Miss, you belong to the Castle, don’t you now? and where may you
come from?” was what the problematical fairy said, with a something wet
and gleaming in her eyes such as never obscures the sight of fairies.
Lilias was overawed by the tone of eager meaning, though she did not
understand it, in the questioning voice, yet might not have answered but
for that feeling that it was unsafe, as much experience had proved, to
be less than obsequiously civil to old women with wands in their hands
who could make (if you were so naughty as to give a rude answer) toads
and frogs drop from your mouth.

“Yes,” she said, with a little tremble in her clear, childish voice. “We
come a very, very long way--over the mountains, and then over the sea.”

“Do you know the name of the place you came from, little Miss?”

“Oh yes, I know it very well, we were so often there. It was Bagni di
Lucca. It was a very, very long way. Nello----”

But the child paused. Why introduce Nello? who was not visible, to the
knowledge of this uncertain person? who, if she was a fairy, might be a
wicked one, or, if she was a woman, might be unkind, for anything Lilias
knew. She stopped short nervously, and it was evident that the old woman
had not taken any notice of the name.

“Little Miss, your mamma would be sorry to send you away?”

“It was papa,” said the little girl, with wondering eyes. “Poor
mamma;--I was quite little when--it was when Nello was a little, little
small baby. Now we have nobody but papa.”

The old woman staggered and almost fell, but supported herself by her
stick for a moment, while Lilias uttered a scream of terror; then sat
down with a groan upon a fallen tree. “It’s nothing new, nothing new,”
she said to herself; “I felt it long ago,” and covered her face with her
hands, with once more a heavy groan. Little Lilias did not know what to
do. She had screamed when the old woman staggered, not knowing what was
going to happen; but what was she to do now, alone with this strange
companion, seated there on the fallen trunk and rocking herself to and
fro, with her face hidden in her hands. It did not occur to the child to
associate this sudden trouble with the information she had herself
given. What could this stranger have to do with her? And poor mamma had
receded far into the background of Lilias’s memory, not even now an
occasion of tears. She did not, however, need to go into this reasoning,
but simply supposed that the poor old fairy was ill, or that something
had happened to her, and never at all connected effect and cause. She
stood for a little time irresolute, then, overcoming her own fears, went
up to the sufferer and stroked her compassionately on the shoulder. “Are
you ill, old woman?” she said.

“Oh, call me Granny--call me Granny, my pretty dear!”

Lilias was more puzzled than ever; but she made up her mind that she
would do whatever was asked of her by this disguised personage, who
might turn into--anything, in a moment. “Yes, Granny,” she said,
trembling, and still stroking the old woman’s shoulder. “I hope you are
not ill.”

The answer she made to this was suddenly to clasp her arms round Lilias,
who could scarcely suppress a cry of horror. What a strange--what a very
strange old woman! Fortunately Lilias, brought up in a country where
servants are friends, had no feeling of repulsion from the embrace. She
was a little frightened, and did not understand it--that was all. The
old woman’s breast heaved with great sobs; there could be no doubt that
she was very deeply, strongly moved. She was “very sorry about
something,” according to Lilias’ simple explanation. She clasped the
child close, and kissed her with a tearful face, which left traces of
its weeping upon the fresh cheeks. The little girl wiped them off,
wondering. How could she tell why this was? Perhaps it was only to try
her if she was the kind of little girl who was uncivil, or not; but she
did not indeed try to account for it. It was not very pleasant, but she
put up with it, partly in fear, partly in sympathy, partly because, as
we have said, she had no horror of the too near approach of a poor old
woman, as an English-bred child might have had. Poor old creature, how
sorry she was about something! though Lilias could not imagine what it
was.

“God bless you, honeysweet,” said the old woman. “You’ve got her dear
face, my jewel. It isn’t that I didn’t know it years and years ago. I
was told it in my sleep; I read it in the clouds and on the water. Oh,
if you think I wasn’t warned! But you’ve got her bonnie face. You’ll be
a beauty, a darling beauty, like the rest of us. And look you here,
little Miss, my jewel. If you see me when the gentry’s with you you’ll
take no notice; but if you see me by myself you’ll give me a kiss and
call me Granny. That’s fixed between us, honey, and you won’t forget?
Call me Granny again, to give me a little comfort, my pretty dear.”

“Yes, Granny,” said the child, trembling. The old woman kissed her
again, drying her tears.

“God bless you, and God bless you!” she said. “You can’t be none the
worse of your old Granny’s blessing. And mind, if you’re with the
gentlefolks you’ll take no notice. Oh, my honeysweet, my darling child!”

Lilias looked after her with wondering, disturbed eyes. What a strange
old woman she was! How strange that she should behave so! and yet Lilias
did not attempt to inquire why. Grown-up people in her experience did a
great many strange things. It was of no use trying to fathom what they
meant, and this strange old person was only a little more strange than
the rest, and startling to the calm little being who had grown in the
midst of family troubles and mysteries without divining any of them.
Strangely enough, the old woman felt equally independent of any
necessity for explanation. It seemed so clear in her mind that everybody
must know the past and understand her claims, whatever they were. She
had no more idea of the tranquillity of innocent ignorance in Lilias’s
mind than the little girl had of the mysteries of her experience. Lilias
watched her going away through the high columns of the trees with great
wonder yet respect, and it was not till she had disappeared that the
little girl went on after Nello. Nello would have been frightened by
that curious apparition. He would have cried perhaps, and struggled, and
would not have said Granny. Perhaps he would have angered her. What a
good thing that Nello had not been here!




PART IV.




CHAPTER XIII.

FAMILY CARES.


Lilias did not say much about the adventure in the wood, nothing at all
indeed to Mary or any one in authority; nor did it dwell in her mind as
a thing of much importance. The kind of things that strike a child’s
mind as wonderful are not always those which would most impress an older
person. There were many things at Penninghame very curious and strange
to the little girl. The big chimneys of the old house, for instance, the
sun-dial in the old garden, and on a lower level the way in which Cook’s
cap kept on, which seemed to Lilias miraculous, no means of securing it
being visible. She pondered much on these things, trying to arrive at
feasible theories in respect to them, but there was no theory required
about the other very natural incident. That an old woman should meet her
in the woods, and kiss her, and ask to be called granny, and cry over
her,--there was nothing wonderful in that; and indeed if, as she already
suspected, it was no old woman at all, but a fairy, such as those in the
story-books, who would probably appear again and set her tasks to do,
much more difficult than calling her granny, and end by transforming
herself into a beautiful lady--this would still remain quite
comprehensible, not by any means unparalleled in the experience of one
who had already mastered a great deal of literature treating of such
subjects. She was interested but not surprised, for was it not always to
a child or children by themselves in a wood that fairies did speak? She
told Nello about the meeting, who was not surprised any more than she
was; for though he was not very fond of reading himself, he had shared
all his sister’s, having had true histories of fairies read to him
almost ever since he could recollect anything. He made some cynical
remarks prompted by his manhood, but it was like much manly cynicism,
only from the lips, no deeper. “I thought fairies were all dead,” he
said.

“Oh, Nello; when you know they are spirits and never die! they are
hundreds and hundreds of years older than we are, but they never die;
and it is always children that see them. I thought she would tell us to
do something----”

“I would not do something,” said Nello; “I would say, ‘Old woman, do it
yourself.’”

“And do you know what would happen then?” said Lilias, severely;
“whenever you opened your mouth, a toad or a frog would drop out of it.”

“I should not mind; how funny it would be! how the people would be
surprised.”

“They would be frightened--fancy! every word you said; till all round
there would be things creeping and creeping and crawling all over you;
slimy cold things that would make people shiver and shriek. Oh!” said
Lilias recoiling and putting up her hands, as if to put him away; “the
frogs! squatting and jumping all over the floor.”

At this lively realization of his problematical punishment, Nello
himself grew pale, and nervously looked about him. “I would kill her!”
he cried, furiously; “what right would she have to do that to me?”

“Because you did not obey her, Nello.”

“And why should I obey her?” cried the boy; “she is not papa, or
Martuccia--or Mary.”

“But we must always do what the fairies tell us,” said Lilias, “not
perhaps because they have a right--for certainly it is different with
papa--but because they would hurt us if we didn’t; and then if you are
good and pick up the sticks, or draw the water from the well, then she
gives you such beautiful presents. Oh! I will do whatever she tells
_me_.”

“What kind of presents, Lily? I want a little horse to ride--there are a
great many things that I want. Do fairies give you what you want, or
only what they like?”

This was a puzzling question; and on the spur of the moment Lilias did
not feel able to answer such a difficulty. “If you do it for the
presents, not because they ask you, they will not give you anything,”
she said; “that would be all wrong if you did it for the presents.”

“But you said----”

“Oh, Nello; you are too little, you don’t understand,” cried the elder
sister, like many another perplexed authority; “when you are older you
will know what I mean. I can tell you things, but I can’t make you
understand?”

“What is it he cannot understand?” said Mary, coming suddenly upon their
confidential talk. The two children came apart hastily, and Lilias, who
had two red spots of excitement on her cheeks, looked up startled, with
lips apart. Nello laughed with a sense of mischief. He was fond of his
sister, but to get her into trouble had a certain flavour of fun in it,
not disagreeable to him.

“It is about the fairies,” he cried, volubly. “She says you should do
what they tell you. She says they give you beautiful presents. She says,
she----”

“Oh, about the fairies!” said Mary, calmly, with a smile, going on
without any more notice. Lilias was very angry with her brother, but
what was the use? And she was frightened lest she should be made to look
ridiculous, a danger which is always present to the sensitive mind of a
child. “I will never, never talk to you again,” she said to him under
her breath; but knew she would talk to him again as soon as her mind
wanted disburdening, and was not afraid.

And of how many active thoughts, and wonderful musings, and lively
continued motion of two small minds and bodies, the old hall was witness
in those quiet days! Mary coming and going, and the solid figure of
Martuccia in the sunshine, these two older and more important persons
were as shadows in comparison with that ceaseless flow of existence. The
amount of living in the whole house beside, was not half equal to that
which went on in the motherly calm of the old hall, which held these two
small things like specks in its tranquil embrace, where so much had come
to pass. There was always something going on there. Such lively
counterfeitings of the older life, such deeply-laid plans, dispersed in
a moment by sudden changes of purpose, such profound gravity upset by
the merest chance interruption, such perpetual busyness without thought
of rest. Their days went on thus without hindrance or interruption,
nothing being required of them except to be amused and healthy, and
competent to occupy and please themselves. Had they been dull children,
or subject to the precocious _ennui_ which is sometimes to be seen even
in a nursery, no doubt measures would have been taken to bring about a
better state of affairs; but as they were always busy, always gay, they
were left completely to their own devices, protected, sheltered, and
ignored, enjoying the freedom of a much earlier age, a freedom from all
teaching and interference, such as seldom overpasses the first five
years of human life. Mary had her whole _métier_ to learn in respect to
the children, and there were many agitating circumstances which
pre-occupied her mind and kept her from realizing the more simple
necessities of the matter. It had cost her so much to establish them
there, and the tacit victory over fate, unnatural prejudice, and all the
bondage of family troubles, had been so great, that the trembling
satisfaction of having gained it blunted her perceptions of further
necessity. It was from a humble quarter that enlightenment first came to
her. Her teacher was Miss Brown, her maid, who had early melted to the
children, and who by this time was their devoted vassal, and especially
the admiring slave of Nello, whom, with determined English propriety,
she called Master John. Miss Brown’s affection was not unalloyed by
other sentiments. Her love for the children indeed was intensified by
strenuous disapproval of their other guardians--Martuccia with her
foreign fashions, and Miss Musgrave, who was ignorant as a baby herself,
and knew nothing about “children’s ways.” Between these two incapable
persons her life became a burden to Miss Brown. “I can’t get my night’s
rest for thinking of it,” she said to Cook, who like herself had the
interest of many years’ service in the “the family.” “I would up and
speak,” said Cook. “Speak!” cried Miss Brown, “I’m always speaking; but
what can a body do, when folks won’t understand?” It is the lament of
the superior intelligence over all the world. However, Miss Brown
finally made up her mind to speak, and did so, pointing out that Master
John was eight, though he looked no more than six, and that “schooling”
was indispensable. The suggestion when once made could not be disputed,
and it raised a great perturbation in Mary’s breast. She sent away the
maid with some haste and impatience, but she could not send away the
thought.

And the more Mary thought upon this matter, the more serious it grew;
she brooded over it till her head ached; and she was glad beyond measure
to see Mr. Pennithorne coming slowly along the road. She could see him
almost from the moment his spare figure turned the corner from the
village; the outline and movement of him was so familiar to her, as he
grew upon the quiet distance drawing nearer and nearer. It was seldom
that she anticipated his approach with so much satisfaction. Not that
Mr. Pennithorne, good man, was likely to invent an outlet out of a
difficulty, but he was the only person to whom she could talk with
absolute freedom upon this subject, and to put it forth in audible
words, and set it thus in order to her own ear and mind, was always an
advantage. How like Mr. Pen it was to come on so quietly step after
step, while she was waiting impatient for him! not a step quicker than
usual, no swing of more rapid motion in the droop of his long coat. Why
should he quicken his steps? She laughed to herself at her own childish
impatience. Ought he not to have divined that she wanted him urgently
after all these years? Mary had gone into the hall, the children being
absent on their daily walk. They were so much in her thoughts that she
was glad to get them out of her sight for the moment and thus relieve
the air which rustled and whispered with them. She went out to meet the
slowly approaching counsellor. It was summer by this time, and all was
green and fair, if still somewhat cold in its greenness to a southern
eye. The sunshine was blazing over the lake, just approaching noon, and
the sky was keenly blue, so clear that the pleasure of it was almost a
pain, where the green shoulder of the hill stood against it in high
relief. It was seldom that Mary was at leisure so early, and very seldom
that in the morning when both were busy she should have a visit from Mr.
Pen. As she made a few steps down the slope that led from the hall door,
to meet him, the sunshine caught her full, streaming from behind the
corner of the house. It caught in her hair, and shone in it, showing its
unimpaired gloss and brightness. Mr. Pennithorne was dazzled by it as he
came up, and asked himself if she was superior to time as to most things
else, and, after all those years, was young as well as lovely still?

“I am very glad to see you,” she said, holding out her hand. “I just
wanted you; it is some good fairy that has sent you so early to-day.”

His face brightened up with an answering gleam; or was it only the sun
that had got hold of him too, and woke reflections in his middle-aged
eyes? “I am very happy to have come when you wanted me,” he said, his
eyelids growing moist with pleasure. He went in to the hall, where all
was comparative dusk after that brilliant shining of the noon, and sat
down on the stool which was Martuccia’s usual place. “Whatever you want,
Miss Mary, here I am,” her faithful servant said.

Then she unfolded to him her difficulty: “Their education!” what was she
to do? what could be done? Mr. Pen sat by her very sympathetically and
heard everything. He was not very clever about advising, seeing that it
was generally from her that he took advice, instead of giving it. But he
listened, and did not see his way out of it, which of itself was a
comfort to Mary. If he had been clever, and had struck out a new idea at
once, it is doubtful whether she would have liked it half so well. She
went into the whole question, and eased her mind at least. What was she
to do? Mr. Pen shook his head. He was quite ready to take Nello, and
teach him all he remembered, after a life spent in rural forgetfulness,
of Latin and Greek; but Lilias! and Lilias was the most urgent as being
the eldest. There was no school within reach, and a governess, as Mr.
Pen suggested with a little trembling--a governess! where could Mary put
her,--what could she do with her? It seemed hopeless to think of that.

“I don’t know what you will think of what I am going to say--but there
is Randolph, Miss Mary; he is a family man himself. I suppose--of
course--he knows about the children?”

“Randolph!” said Mary, faltering; “Mr. Pen, you know what Randolph is as
well as I do.”

“People change,” said Mr. Pen, evasively. “It is not for me to say
anything; but perhaps--he ought to know.”

“He has never taken any interest in the house; he has never cared to
be--one of us,” said Mary. “Perhaps because he was brought up away from
us. You know all about it. When he came back--when he was with you and
poor John---- You know him as well as I do,” she concluded abruptly. “I
don’t see what help we could have from him.”

“He is a family man himself,” said the vicar. “When children come they
bring new feelings; they open the heart. He was not like you--or poor
John; but he was like a great many people in this world; he would not be
unkind. You write to him sometimes?”

“Once or twice a year. He writes to ask how my father is--I often wonder
why. He has only been here once since--since it all happened. He would
not have it known that he was one of the family which was so much talked
about--that he was the brother of----” Mary stopped with a flash of
indignation in her eyes. “He has separated himself altogether from us,
as you know; but he asks from time to time how my father is, though I
scarcely know why.”

“And you have told him, I suppose, about the children?”

“No, Mr. Pen; he turned his back upon poor John from the beginning. Why
should I tell him? what has he to do with it? We have left our subject
altogether talking of Randolph, who is quite apart from it. Let us go
back to our sheep--our lambs in this case. What is to be done with
them?”

“I will do what I can for them, as I did for their father,” said the
vicar. “I was thinking that little Johnny must very soon--and Mary might
as well--They can come to me for an hour or two every day; that would be
something. But I think Randolph should be told. I think Randolph ought
to know. He might be thinking, he might be calculating----”

“What, Mr. Pen?” Mary confronted him with head erect and flashing eyes.
“Why should he think or calculate about us? He has separated himself
from the family. John’s children are nothing to him.”

It was not often that Mr. Pen was worldly wise; but he had an
inspiration this time. He shook his head slowly. “It is just that;
John’s children might make all the difference to him,” he said.




CHAPTER XIV.

AN UNLOOKED-FOR VISITOR.


Mr. Pennithorne went home thoughtful, and Miss Musgrave remained behind,
if not exactly turned in a new direction, yet confused and excited in
her mental being by the introduction of a new element. Randolph
Musgrave, though her brother, was less known to Mary than he was to the
tutor who had travelled and lived with him in the interval during which
he had made his nearest approach to friendship with his own family. He
had been brought up by an uncle on the mother’s side who did not love
the Musgraves, and had succeeded to the family living belonging to that
race, and lived now, as he had been brought up, in an atmosphere quite
different from that which belonged to his nominal home in the north.
Except now and then, in a holiday visit, Randolph had scarcely spent any
portion of his life at Penninghame, except the short period just before,
and for a little time after, his university career, when he shared with
his brother John the special instructions of Mr. Pennithorne. The two
young men had worked together then, or made believe to work, and they
had travelled together; but being of very different dispositions, and
brought up in ways curiously unlike, they had not been made into cordial
friends by this period of semi-artificial union. Randolph had been
trained to entertain but a small opinion of everything at Penninghame,
and when Penninghame became public property, and John and all his
affairs and peculiarities were discussed in the newspapers, the younger
son did something very like the Scriptural injunction--shaking the dust
from off his feet as he departed. He went away after some painful scenes
with his father. It was not the old Squire’s fault that his eldest son
had become in the eyes of the world a criminal; but Randolph was as
bitter at the ignominy brought upon his name as if it had been a family
contrivance to annoy and distress him, and had gone away vowing that
never again would he have anything to do with his paternal home. There
had been a long gap in their relations after that, but at his marriage
there had been a kind of reconciliation, enough to give a decorous
aspect to his relations with his “people.” He had brought his bride to
his father’s house, and since then he had written, as Mary said, now and
then, once or twice in the year, to inquire after his father’s health.
This was not much, but it saved appearances, and prevented the open
scandal of a family quarrel. But Mary, who replied punctiliously to
these questions, did not see the need of making a further intimation to
him of anything that affected the family. What had he to do with John’s
children? She would no more have thought of informing him of any private
event in her own history, or of looking to him for sympathy, than she
would have stopped a beggar on the road to communicate her good or evil
fortune. But the very name of Randolph suggested new complications. She
was glad to escape from the whole matter and listen to the account of
the lessons when Lilias and Nello came back from one of their earliest
experiences of the instruction given by Mr. Pennithorne. The children
came in breathless with the story they had to tell. “Then he made me
read out of all the books,” said Lilias, her dark eyes shining; “but
Nello, because he was so little, one book was enough for him.”

“But it was not a girl’s book,” said Nello; “it was only for Johnnie and
me.”

“And I looked in it,” said his sister; “it is all mixed with
Italian--such funny Italian: instead of _padre_ it was put _payter_--Mr.
Pen called it so. But it would not do for Nello, when we go back, to say
his Italian like that. Even Martuccia would laugh, and Martuccia is not
educated.”

“It was Latin,” said Nello; “Mr. Pen said so. He said girls didn’t want
Latin. Girls learn to dance and sing; but I--and Johnnie----”

“Will Mr. Pen teach me to dance--and sing, Mary?” said Lilias, with a
grave face.

“And me, I wrote a copy,” said Nello, indifferent to the interruption;
“look!” and he held up fingers covered with ink. “You cannot read it
yet, but you will soon be able to read it, Mr. Pen says. And then I will
write you a letter, Mary.”

“It would be better to write letters to some one far off,” said Lilias,
half scornful of his want of information. “You can _talk_ to Mary,
Nello. It is to far-off people that one makes letters.”

“We have nobody that is far off,” said Nello, shaking his head with the
sudden consciousness of a want not hitherto realized. “Then I need not
write copies any more.”

“Your father is far off, Nello,” said Mary; “your poor papa, who never
hears any news of you. Some time I hope you will be able to write to
him, and ask him to come home.”

“Oh,” cried Lilias, “you need not be sorry about that, Mary. He will
come home. Some day, in a moment when you are thinking of nothing, there
will be a step on the stair, and Martuccia will give a shriek; and it
will be as if the sun came shining out, and it will be papa! He is
always like that--but you never know when he will come.”

Mary’s eyes filled in spite of herself. What long, long years it was
that she had thought but little of John! and yet there suddenly seemed
to come before her a vision of his arrival from school or from college,
all smiles and, making the old roof ring with his shout of pleasure. Was
it possible that this would happen over again--that he would come in a
moment, as his little daughter said? But Lilias did not know all the
difficulties, nor the one great obstacle that stood in John’s way, and
which perhaps he might never get over. She forgot herself in these
thoughts, and did not perceive that Lilias was gazing wistfully at her,
endeavouring with all her childish might to penetrate her mind and know
the occasion of these tears. Mary was recalled to herself by feeling the
child’s arm steal round her, and the soft touch of a little hand and
handkerchief upon her wet eyes. “You are crying,” said Lilias. “Mary,
is it for papa?--why should you cry for papa?”

“My darling, we don’t know where he is, nor anything about him--”

“That does not matter,” said Lilias, winking rapidly to throw off the
sympathetic tears which had gathered in her own eyes; “he is always like
that. We never knew where he was; but just when he could, just when it
was possible, he came home. We never could tell when it would be--it
might be any day. Some time when we are forgetting and not expecting
him. Ah----!” cried the child, with a ring of wonder in the sudden
exclamation. The hall-door was open as usual, and on the road was a
distant figure just visible which drew from Lilias this sudden cry. She
ran to the door, clutching her brother--“Come, Nello, Nello!” and rushed
forth. Mary sat still, thinking her heart had stopped in her breast--or
was it not rather suffocating her by the wildness of its beating? She
sat immovable, watching the little pair at the door. Could it be that
John had come home? John! he who would be the most welcome yet the most
impossible of visitors; he who had a right to everything, yet dared not
be seen in the old house. She sat and trembled, not daring to look out,
already planning what she could do, what was to be done.

But the children stopped short at the door. Lilias, with the wind in her
skirts and her ribbons, half-flying, stopped; and Nello stopped, who
went by her impulse, not by his own. They paused: they stood for a
moment gazing; then they turned back sadly.

“Oh no, no!” said Lilias. “No, Mary! no. It is a little, something
like--a very little; it is the walking, and the shape of him. But no,
no, it is not papa!”

“Papa!” said Nello, “was that why you looked? I knew better. Papa is all
that much more tall. Why are you crying, Lily? There is nothing that
makes cry.”

“I am disappointed,” said the little girl, who had seated herself
suddenly on the floor and wept. It was a sudden sharp shower, but it was
soon over; she sprang up drying her eyes. “But it will be for
to-morrow!” she cried.

Mary sat behind and looked on. She did not think again of the chance
resemblance Lilias had seen, but only of the children themselves, with
whom her heart was tuning itself more and more in sympathy. She had
become a mother late and suddenly, without any gradual growth of
feeling--leaping into it, as it were; and every response her mind made
to the children was a new wonder to her. She looked at them, or rather
at Lilias, who was always the leader in her rapid changes of sentiment,
with a half-amused adoration. The crying and the smiles went to her
heart as nothing else had ever done; and even Nello’s calm, the steadier
going of the slower, less developed intelligence, which was so often
carried along in the rush without any conscious intention, and which was
so ready to take the part of the wise and say, “I knew it,” moved Mary
with that mixture of pleased spectatorship and profound personal feeling
which makes the enthusiasm of parents. Nello’s slowness might have
seemed want of feeling in another child, and Lilias’s impetuosity a
giddy haste and heedlessness; but all impartiality was driven from her
mind by the sense that the children were her own. And she sat in a
pleased abstraction yet lively readiness, following the little current
of this swiftly-flowing, softly-babbling childhood which was so fair and
pleasant to her eyes. The two set up an argument between themselves as
she sat looking on. It was about some minute point in the day’s work
which was so novel and unaccustomed; but trivial as it was Mary listened
with a soft glow of light in her eyes. The finest drama in the world
could not have taken her out of herself like the two little actors,
playing their sincerest and most real copy of life before her. They were
so much in earnest, and to her it was such exquisite play and delicate
delightful fooling! And until the light in the open doorway was suddenly
darkened by some one appearing, a figure which made her heart jump, she
thought no more of the passer-by on the road who had roused the
children. Her heart jumped, and then she followed her heart by rising
suddenly to her feet, while the children stopped in their argument,
rushed together for mutual support, and stood shyly with their heads
together, the arrested talk still hovering about their lips. Seen thus
against the light the visitor was undecipherable to Mary. She saw him,
nothing but a black shadow, towards which she went quietly and said--

“I beg your pardon, this is a private door,” with a polite defence of
her own sanctuary.

“I came to look for--my sister,” said the voice, which was one which
woke agitating memories in her. “I am a--stranger. I came---- Ah! it is
Mary after all.”

“Randolph!” she cried, with a gasp in her throat.

A thrill of terror, almost superstitious, came over her. What did it all
mean? Good Mr. Pennithorne in his innocence had spoken to her of John,
and that very day John’s children had arrived; he had spoken of
Randolph, and Randolph was here. Was it fate, or some mysterious
influence unknown? She was so startled that she forgot to go through the
ordinary formulas of seeming welcome, and said nothing but his name.

“Yes; I hope you are well,” he said, holding out his hand; “and that my
father is well. I thought I would come and see how you were all getting
on.”

“It is a long time since you have been here,” she said. What could she
say? She was not glad to see him, as a sister ought to be. And then
there was a pause.

The children stood staring open-mouthed while these chill greetings were
said. (“I wonder who it is?” said Lilias, under her breath. “It is the
one who is a little, a very little, like papa.” “It is a--gentleman,”
said Nello. “Oh you silly, silly little boy! not to know that at the
very first; but Mary is not very glad to see him,” said the little
girl.)

Mary did not even ask her visitor to come in; he stood still at the
door, looking round him with watchful, unfriendly eyes. This was not a
place for any one to come who was not tender of Mary, and of whomsoever
she might shelter there. She did not want him in that special place.

“Shall we go round to the house?” she said; “my father ought to know
that you are here, and he never comes into the hall.”

“I am very well where I am,” Randolph said. “I know it was always a
favourite place with you. Do not change your sitting-room for me. You
have it in very nice order, Mary. I see you share the popular passion
for art furnishing; and children too! This is something more novel
still. Who are the children, may I ask? They are visitors from the
neighbourhood I suppose?”

“No,” she said, faltering still more, “they are not
visitors--they--belong to us----” Mary could not tell how it was that
her lips trembled, and she hesitated to pronounce the name. She made an
effort at last and got it out with difficulty. “They are--John’s
children.”

“John’s children! here is a wonderful piece of news,” said Randolph; but
she saw by his countenance that it was no news. Howsoever he had heard
it, Mary perceived in a moment not only that he knew, but that this was
his real errand here. He stood with the appropriate gesture of one
struck dumb in amazement; but he was not really surprised, only watchful
and eager. This made his sister more nervous than ever.

“Children,” she said, “come here--this is your uncle Randolph; come and
speak to him.” Mary was so much perplexed that she could not see what
was best to do--whether to be anxiously conciliatory and convince
Randolph in spite of himself, without seeming to notice his opposition,
or to defy him; the former, however, was always the safest way. He did
not make any advance, but stood with a half-smile on his face, while the
children drew near with suspicious looks.

“It is the--gentleman who is--a little--not very much, just a little,
like papa,” said Lilias, going forward, but slowly, and with that look
of standing on the defensive which children unconsciously adopt to those
they do not trust.

Nello hung on to her skirts, and did as she did, regarding the stranger
with cloudy eyes. Randolph put out his hand coldly to be shaken; his
smile broadened into a half-laugh of amusement and contempt.

“So they are said to be his children, are they?”

“They _are_ his children,” said Mary.

Randolph shrugged his shoulders and laughed. “They look like foreigners
anyhow,” he said. “My father, I suppose, is delighted. It must be a new
experience both for him and you.”

“Go away, my darlings, go to Martuccia; you see I have some business
with--this gentleman.” She could not again repeat the title she had
given him. When the curious little spectators had gone, she turned to
Randolph, who stood watching their exit, with an anxiety she did not
attempt to conceal. “For Heaven’s sake do not talk to my father about
them! I ask it as a favour. He consents tacitly that they should be
here, but he takes no notice of them. Do not call his attention to them.
It is the only thing I ask of you.”

He looked at her fixedly still, with that set smile on his face with
which he had looked at the children.

“I am scarcely the person to be called upon to make things smooth with
my father,” he said. “Come, come; my father is old, and can be made to
believe anything, let us allow. But what do you mean by it, Mary, what
do _you_ mean? You were never any friend to me.”

“Friend to _you_! I am your sister, Randolph, though you don’t seem to
remember it much. And what have you to do with it?” asked Mary, with a
certain amount of exasperation in her voice; for of all offensive things
in the world there is none so offensive as this pretence of finding you
out in a transparent deception. Mary grew red and hot in spite of
herself.

“I have a great deal to do with it. I have not only my own interests to
take care of, but my boy’s. And why you should prefer to us, about whom
there can be no doubt, these little impostors, these supposed children
of John----”

“Randolph,” said Mary, with tears in her eyes, “there is no supposing
about them. Oh don’t go against us and against truth and justice! They
brought me a letter from their father. There was no room to doubt, no
possibility. John himself is most unfortunate----”

“Unfortunate! that is not the word I should use.”

“But why remember it against _them_, poor little things, who have done
no harm? Oh, Randolph, I have never been otherwise than your friend when
I had the chance. Be mine now! There are a hundred things about which I
want to consult you. You have a family of your own; you have been
trained to it; you know how to take care of children. I wanted to ask
your advice, to have your help----”

“Do you think me a fool then,” he cried, “as silly as yourself? that you
try to get _me_ to acknowledge this precious deception, and give you my
support against myself? Why should I back you up in a wicked contrivance
against my own interests?”

“What is it you mean? Who has been guilty of wicked contrivances?” cried
Mary, aghast. She gazed at him with such genuine surprise that he was
arrested in his angry vituperation, and changed his tone to one of
mockery, which affected her more.

“Well,” he said, “let us allow that it is your first attempt, Mary, and
that is why you do it so clumsily. The mistakes good people make when
they first attempt to do badly are touching. Villany, like everything
else, requires experience. But it is too funny to expect _me_ to be the
one to stand up for you, to persuade my father to believe you.”

“Oh,” she said, clasping her hands, “do you think this is what I ask? It
is you who mistake, Randolph. It has never occurred to my father, or any
one else, not to believe. He never doubted any more than I was capable
of doubting. I will show you John’s letter.”

Randolph put up his hand, waving off the suggested proof.

“It is quite unnecessary. I am not to be taken in by such simple means.
You forget I have a stake in it--which clears the judgment. And I warn
you, Mary, that I am here to look after my personal interests, not to
foist any nondescript brat into the family. I give you notice--it is not
to help your schemes, it is for my own interests I am here.”

“What do interests mean?” she said wondering. “Your own interests!--what
does _that_ mean? I know _I_ have none.”

“No--it cannot make much difference to you whatever happens; therefore
you are free to plot at your leisure. I understand that fully; but, my
dear, _I_ am here to look after myself--and my boy. You forget I have an
heir of my own.”

Mary looked at him with a dulness of intelligence quite unusual to her.
There are things in the most limited minds which genius itself could not
divine. The honourable and generous, and the selfish and grasping, do
not know what each other mean. They are as if they spoke a different
language. And her brother was to Mary as if he veiled his meaning in an
unknown tongue. She gazed at him with a haze of dulness in her eyes.
What was it he intended to let her know? Disbelief of her, a suggestion
that she lied! and something more--she could not make out what, as the
rule of his own conduct! He looked at her, on the other hand, with an
air of penetration, a clever consciousness of seeing through and through
her and her designs, which excited Mary to exasperation. How could they
ever understand each other with all this between?

“I am going to see my father,” said Randolph; “that of course is the
object of my visit; I suppose he will not refuse to keep me for a day or
two. And in the mean time why should we quarrel? I only warn you that I
come with my eyes open, and am not to be made a dupe of. Good-bye for
the present--we shall meet no doubt at dinner the best of friends.”

Mary stood still where he left her, and watched him as he went slowly
down the slope and round the corner of the house. He was shorter than
John and stouter, with that amplitude of outline which a wealthy rural
living and a small parish are apt to confer. A comfortable man, fond of
good living, fond of his ease; yet taking the trouble to come here, for
what?--to baffle some supposed wicked contrivances and plots against
himself. Mary remembered that Randolph had taken the great family
misfortune as a special wrong to him. How dared the evil fates to
interfere with his comfort or rumour to assail his name? He had said
frankly that it could be nothing to the others in comparison. And was it
once more the idea that he himself was touched, which had roused him out
of his comfortable rectory to come here and assert himself? But how did
the arrival of John’s children affect that? Mary, in her long calm, had
not entered into those speculations about the future which most people
more or less think necessary when the head of the house is old. She had
not asked herself what would happen when her father died, except vaguely
in respect to herself, knowing that she would then in all likelihood
leave the old Castle. John was the heir. Somehow or other, she did not
know how, the inheritance would be taken up for him. This had been the
conclusion in her mind without reason given or required. And Randolph
had not come into the sphere of her imagination at all as having
anything to do with it. What should he have to do with it when there was
John? And even now Mary did not know and could not understand the reason
of his objection to John’s children. She stood and looked after him with
a dull beating of pain in her heart. And as he turned round the corner
of the old house towards the door, he looked back and waved his hand.
The gesture and look, she could scarcely tell why, gave her a sensation
of sickening dismay and pain. She turned and went in, shutting the door
in the sudden pang this gave her. And to shut the great door of the hall
was the strangest thing, except in the very heart of winter. While the
sun was shining and the air genial, such a thing had never happened
before. It seemed in itself a portent of harm.




CHAPTER XV.

RANDOLPH.


Randolph Musgrave was a squire-parson, a class which possesses the
features of two species without fully embodying either--which may be
finer than either, the two halves of the joint character tempering each
other--or may be a travesty of both, exaggerating their mutual defects.
He was of the latter rather than of the former development. His living
was small in one sense and large in another, the income being large, but
the people few and very much given up to dissent, a fact which soured
his character without moving him to exertion. He was not fond of
exertion in any case, and it was all but hopeless in this. But not less
was he daily and hourly irritated by the little Bethels and Salems, the
lively Methodists, the pragmatical Baptists, who led his people away.
They made him angry, for he was easily moved to anger, and they
increased that tendency to listen to gossip and be moved by small
matters which is one of the temptations of a rural life. He had become
accustomed to make much of petty wrongs, calling them insults and
crimes, and perhaps to be more disposed to petty vengeances than a man
who is placed in the position of an example to others ought to be; and
whereas he had always been disposed to consider himself a sacred person,
above the ordinary slights of fortune, this tendency had grown and
strengthened so, that every petty pin-prick was like a poisoned arrow to
him. By natural laws of reverberation he heard more evil of himself, had
more mishaps in the way of gossip, of receiving letters not intended for
him, and otherwise surprising the sentiments of his neighbours, than
almost any one else ever had--which had made him suspicious of his
neighbours in the highest degree, and ready to believe every small
offence a premeditated insult. This perhaps made him all the more ready
to believe that his sister had conceived a villanous plan against him
and his. He would not have done such a thing himself; but was not his
life full of such attempts made upon him by others? everybody almost
whom he encountered having one time or other conspired against his hopes
or happiness. But he had always found out the plots in time. It was true
that this villany might be John’s, of whom he would have believed
anything; and Mary herself might be the dupe: but most likely it was
Mary, who did not like him nor his wife, and who would no doubt be
capable of anything to banish him finally from Penninghame, and set up
there some creature of her own. This was the idea which had come into
his mind, when he heard accidentally of the arrival which had made so
much commotion in the north country. He had talked it over with his wife
till they both saw gunpowder plots and conspiracies incalculable in it.
“You had better go and see into it yourself,” Mrs. Randolph said. “I
will,” was the Rector’s energetic reply. “And believe nobody, believe
nothing but what you see with your own eyes.” “Never! I will put faith
in nobody,” Randolph had said. And it was in this frame of mind that he
had come here. He meant to believe nobody save when they warned him of
plots against himself: to trust nothing save that all the world was in a
league to work him harm. But for this determined pre-conclusion, he
might perhaps have been less certain of his sister’s enmity to himself,
and of the baseness of the deception she was practising; but he had no
doubt whatever on this matter now. And he meant to expose her
remorselessly. Why should he mince matters? His father was an old man
and might die at any moment, and this villany ought to be exposed at
once.

With these thoughts in his mind he went round to the great door. How
different was the grey north-country house from anything he was used to!
The thought of his snug parsonage embosomed in greenery, roses climbing
to the chimney-stacks, clustering about all the windows, soft velvet
lawns and strict inclosures keeping all sacred--made him shiver at sight
of the irregular building, the masses of ivy fostering damp, the open
approach, a common road free to everybody. If it ever was his, or rather
when it was his--for these supposititious children would soon be done
away with, and John, a man under the ban of the law, how could he ever
appear to claim his inheritance?--_when_ it was his, he would soon make
a difference. He would bring forward the boundaries of the Chase so as
to inclose the Castle. He would make the road into a stately avenue as
it once was and ought to be. What did it matter who objected? He would
do it; let the village burst with rage. The very idea of exasperating
the village and making it own his power, made the idea all the more
delightful. He would soon change all this; let it but get into his
hands. In the midst of these thoughts, however, Randolph met a somewhat
ludicrous rebuff from Eastwood, who opened the door suddenly and softly,
as was his fashion, as if he hoped to find the visitor out in something
improper. “Who shall I say, sir?” said Eastwood, deferentially. This
gave Randolph a sense of the most ludicrous discomfiture; for to be
asked what name is to be announced when you knock at the door of your
father’s house is a curious sensation. It was nobody’s fault unless it
might have been Randolph’s own, but the feeling was disagreeable. He
stood for a moment dumb, staring at the questioner--then striding inside
the door, pushed Eastwood out of his way. When he was within, however,
somewhat conciliated by the alarmed aspect of the butler, who did not
know whether to resist or what to do, he changed his mind.

“I don’t want to startle my father,” he said; “say Mr. Randolph Musgrave
has arrived.”

“I beg your pardon humbly, sir,” cried Eastwood.

“No, no, it was not your fault.” Randolph replied. It was not the
servant’s fault; but it was _their_ fault who had made his home a place
of disgrace, and no longer a fit home for him.

The Squire was seated among his books, feeling the drowsy influence of
the afternoon. He had no Monograph to support his soul, and no better
occupation than to rummage dully through the records of antiquity,
cheered up and enlivened if he found something to reply to in _Notes and
Queries_, but otherwise living a heavy kind of half-animate life. When
the critiques and the letters about that Monograph had ended, what a
blank there was! and no other work was at hand to make up, or to tempt
him to further exertions. The corner of land that he desired to attain
had been bought, and had given him pleasure; but after a while his eyes
were satisfied with the contemplation, and his mind almost satisfied
with the calculation, of so many additional acres added to the property.
The sweetness of it lay in the thought that the property was growing,
that there was sufficient elasticity in the family income to make the
acquisition of even a little bit of land possible. The Squire thought
this was the fruit of his own self-denial, and it gave him that glow of
conscious virtue which was once supposed to be the appropriate and
unfailing reward of good actions, till conscious virtue went out of
fashion. This was sweet; and it was sweet to go and look at the new
fields which restored the old boundary of the Penninghame estate in that
direction; but such gratifications cease to be sustaining to life after
a time. And Mr. Musgrave was dull sitting among his books; the sounds
were in his ears which he was always hearing now--the far-off ring of
voices that made him sensible of those inmates in his house whom he
never noticed, who were to him as if they did not exist. When the mind
is not very closely occupied, sounds thus heard in the house come
strangely across the quiescent spirit of the solitary. Voices beloved
are as music, are as sunshine, conveying a sense of happiness and soft
exhilaration. Hearing them far off, though beyond the reach of hearing,
so to speak, does not the very distant sound, the tone of love in them,
make work sweet and the air warm, softening everything round the
recluse? But these were not voices beloved. The old man listened to
them--or rather, not permitting himself to listen, _heard_ them acutely
through the mist of a separation which he did not choose to overcome.
They were like something from another world, voices in the air,
inarticulate, mysterious, known yet unknown. He turned the leaves idly
when these strange suggestions came to him in his solitude; he had
nothing to do with them, and yet so much. This was how he was sitting,
dully wistful, in that stillness of age which when it is not glad must
be sad, and hearing almost, as if he were already a ghost out of his
grave, the strange yet familiar stir in the unseen stairs and passages,
the movements of the kindly house----

“Mr. Randolph Musgrave!” The Squire was very much startled by the name.
He rose hastily, and stood leaning upon his writing-table to see who it
was that followed Eastwood into the room after a minute’s interval. It
seemed scarcely possible to him that it could be his son. “Randolph!” he
said. The children’s voices had made him think, in spite of himself, of
the time--was it centuries ago?--when there were two small things
running about those old passages continually, and a beautiful young
mother smiling upon them--and him. This had softened his heart, though
by means which he would not have acknowledged. He looked out eagerly
with a sensation of pleasure and relief for his son. He would (perhaps)
take Randolph’s advice, perhaps get some enlightenment from him. But the
shock set his nerves off, and made him tremulous, though it was a shock
of pleasure; and it hurt his pride so to be seen trembling, that he held
himself up strained and rigid against his table. “Randolph! you are a
stranger indeed,” he said, and his countenance lighted up with a cloudy
and tremulous smile.

(“Strange that he was never seen here before in my time,” said Eastwood
as he withdrew. “I’ve seen a many queer things in families, but never
nothing more queer than this--two sons as never have been seen in the
house, and children as the Squire won’t give in he owns them. I thought
he’d have walked right straight over little master Saturday last as if
no one was there. But I don’t like the looks of _’im_. When he’s master
here I march, and that I can tell you--pretty fast, Missis Cook.”

“Mr. Randolph? He’ll never be master here, thank God for it,” said Cook
with pious fervour, “or more than you will go.”)

“Yes,” said Randolph, walking in, “I have been a stranger, but how can
we help that! It is life that separates us. We must all run our own
course. I hope you are well, sir. You look well--for your time of life.”

It is not a pleasant thing to be told that you look well for your time
of life--unless indeed you are ninety, and the time of life is itself a
matter of pride. The Squire knew he was old, and that soon he must
resign his place to others; but he did not care for such a distinct
intimation that others thought so too.

“I am very well,” he said, curtly. “You are so completely a stranger,
Randolph, that I cannot make the usual remarks on your personal
appearance. You deny me the opportunity of judging if you look ill or
well.”

“Ah,” said Randolph, “that is just what I said. We must all run our own
course. My duties are at the other end of England, and I cannot be
always running back and forward; but I hope to stay a few days now if
you will have me. Relations should see each other now and then. I have
just had a glimpse of Mary in the old hall as usual. She did not know me
at first, nor, I daresay, if I had not seen her there, should I have
known her”--

“Mary is little changed,” said the Squire.

“So you think, sir, seeing her every day; but there is a great change
from what she was ten years ago. She was still a young woman then, and
handsome. I am afraid even family partiality cannot call her anything
but an old maid now.”

Mr. Musgrave did not make any reply. He was not a particularly
affectionate father, but Mary was part of himself, and it did not please
him to hear her spoken of so.

“And, by the bye,” said Randolph, “how did such a thing happen I wonder?
for she _was_ handsome;--handsome and well-born, and with a little
money. It is very odd she never has married. Was there anything to
account for it? or is it mere ill-luck?”

“Ill-luck to whom?” said the Squire. “Do you think perhaps your sister
never had the chance, as people say? You may dismiss that idea from your
mind. She has had enough of chances. I don’t know any reason; but there
must have been one, I suppose. Either that nobody came whom she cared
for, or--I really cannot form any other idea,” he concluded, sharply. It
was certain that he would not have Mary discussed.

“I meant no harm,” said Randolph. “She has got the old hall very nicely
done up. It is not a place I would myself care to keep up, if the Castle
were in my hands; but she has made it very nice. I found her there
with--among her favourite studies,” he added, after a momentary pause.
It was too early to begin direct upon the chapter of the children, he
felt. The Squire did not show any sign of special understanding. He
nodded his head in assent.

“She was always fond of the hall,” he said. “I used to think she suited
it. And now that she is--past her youth, as you say----”

“Well into middle age I say, sir, like other people; which is a more
serious affair for a woman than for a man; but I suppose all hopes are
over now. She is not likely to marry at her time of life.” This was the
second time he had mentioned the time of life. And the Squire did not
like it; he answered curtly----

“No, I don’t think it likely that Mary will marry. But yourself,
Randolph, how are things going with you? You have not come so far merely
to calculate your sister’s chances. Your wife is well, I hope; and your
boy?”

“Quite well. You are right in thinking, sir, that I did not come without
an object. We are all getting on in life. I thought it only proper that
there should be some understanding among us as to family
affairs--something decided in the case of any emergency. We are all
mortal----”

“And I the most mortal of all, you will say, at my ‘time of life,’
Randolph,” said the Squire, with a smile, which was far from genial. “I
daresay you are quite right, perfectly right. I am an old man, and
nobody can tell what an hour may bring forth.”

“That is true at every age,” said Randolph, with professional
seriousness. “The idea ought to be familiar to the youngest among us. In
the midst of life we are in death. I recommend everybody over whom I
have the least influence to settle their affairs, so that they may not
leave a nest of domestic contentions behind them. It is only less
important than needful spiritual preparation, which of course should be
our first care.”

“Just so,” said Mr. Musgrave. “I presume you don’t mean to bring me to
book on that point?”

“Certainly not, sir--unless there is any special point upon which I
could be of use; but you are as well able to judge as I am, and have
access to all the authorities,” said Randolph with dignity. “Besides,
there is your own clergyman at hand, who is no doubt quite equal to the
duties of his position. It is old Pennithorne, is it not?” he added,
with a momentary lapse into a more familiar tone. “But there is no
question of that. In such matters a man of your experience, sir, ought
to be able to instruct the best of us.”

“The bench of bishops even,” said the Squire, “sometimes I think I
could--at my time of life. But that is not the question, as you say.”

“No indeed--not to say that my best advice in every way is at your
service, sir; but I thought very likely it would be an ease to your mind
to see me, to give me any instructions or directions--in short, to feel
that your nearest representative understood your wishes, whatever might
happen.”

Now Randolph was evidently his father’s representative, John being out
of the question; and that John was absolutely out of the question, not
only from external circumstances, but from the strong prejudice and
prepossession against him in his father’s mind, was certain. Yet the
Squire resented this assumption as much as if John had been his
dearly-beloved son and apparent heir.

“Thanks,” he said, “I feel your care for my comfort--but after all, you
are not my direct representative.”

“Sir!” cried Randolph reddening, “need I remind you of the disabilities,
the privation of all natural rights----”

“You need not remind me of anything,” said Mr. Musgrave, getting up
hurriedly. “I don’t care to discuss that question--or anything else of
the kind. Suppose we go and join Mary, who must be in the drawing-room,
I suppose? It is she, after all, who is really my representative,
knowing everything about my affairs.”

“She--is a woman,” said Randolph, with a tone of contempt.

“That is undeniable--but women are not considered exactly as they used
to be in such matters.”

“I hope, sir,” said the clergyman, with dignity, “that neither my sister
nor you add your influence to the foolish movement about women’s
rights.”

“Do you mean that Mary does not want a vote?” said the Squire. “No, I
don’t suppose it has occurred to her. We add our influence to very few
public movements, Randolph, bad or good. The Musgraves are not what they
once were in the county; the leading part we once took is taken by
others who are richer than we are. Progress is not the thing for old
families, for progress means money.”

“There are other reasons why the Musgraves do not take their proper
place. I have hopes, sir,” said Randolph, “that under more favourable
circumstances--if we, perhaps, were to draw more together----”

“What do you mean, sir?” said the Squire; “it was you who separated
yourself from us, not us from you. You were too good, being a clergyman,
as you said, to encounter the odium of our position. That’s enough,
Randolph. It is not an agreeable subject. Let us dismiss it as it has
been dismissed these fifteen years; and come--to Mary’s part of the
house.”

“Then, am I to understand,” said Randolph, sharply, rising, yet holding
back, “that your mind is changing as old age gains upon you, that you
are going to accept the disgrace of the family? and that it is with your
sanction that Mary is receiving--adopting----”

He stopped, overawed in spite of himself, by the old man’s look, who
stood with his face fixed looking towards him, restraining with all his
force the tremor of his nerves. The Squire had been subject all his life
to sudden fits of passion, and had got the habit of subduing, by
ignoring them, as all his family well knew. He made no reply, but the
restrained fire in his eyes impressed even the dull imagination of his
son, who was pertinacious rather than daring, and had no force in him to
stand against passion. Mr. Musgrave turned round quickly, and took up
his book, which lay on a table near.

“Mary sent you a copy of the Monograph?” he said; “but I don’t remember
that you gave me your opinion of it. It has had a very flattering
reception generally. I could not have expected so much interest in the
public mind on a question of such exclusive family interest. But so it
has been. I have kept all the notices, and the letters I have received
on the subject. You shall see them by and by; and I think you will agree
with me, that a more flattering reception could scarcely have been. All
sorts of people have written to me. It appears,” said the Squire, with
modest pride, “that I have really been able to throw some light upon a
difficulty. After dinner, Randolph, if you are interested, you shall see
my collection.”

“My time is short,” said Randolph, “and with so many more serious
matters to discuss----”

“I know few things more serious than the history of the family honours,”
said the Squire, “especially as you have a boy to inherit the old
blazon; but we’ll go into all that this evening, as your stay is to be
short. Better come and see Mary before dinner. She will want to know all
about your home-concerns, and your wife. The house is unchanged, you
will perceive,” the Squire continued, talking cheerfully as he led the
way; and the sound of his voice, somewhat high-pitched and shrill with
age, travelled far through the old passages. “I hope no sacrilegious
hands will ever change the house. My heirs may add to it if they please,
but it is a monument of antiquity, which ought never to be
touched--except to mend it delicately as Mary mends her old lace. This
way, Randolph; I believe you have forgotten the way.”

They were standing in an angle of the fine oak staircase, where the
Squire waited till his son came up to him. At this moment a rush of
small footsteps, and a whispering voice--“Run, Nello, Nello! he is
coming,” was audible above. Randolph looked up quickly, with a look of
intelligence, into the old man’s face. But the Squire did not move a
muscle. His countenance was blank as that of a deaf man. If he had
heard, he allowed no sign of hearing to be visible. “Come along,” he
said, “it seems to me that my wind is better than yours even at my time
of life,” with a half-sarcastic smile. Was he hard of hearing? a
hypothesis rather agreeable to think of; or what was the meaning of it?
Were these obnoxious children the pets of the house? but why should they
run because he was coming. The hostile visitor was perplexed, and could
not make it out. He followed into the drawing-room without a word, while
the small footsteps were still audible. Mary was seated at a low table
on which there was work, but she was not working. She rose to receive
them with a certain formality; for except after dinner, when the Squire
would sometimes come for a cup of tea, or when there were visitors in
the house, she was generally alone in the low quaint drawing-room, which
transported even the unimaginative Randolph back to childhood. The
panelled walls, the spindle-legged furniture, the inlaid cabinets and
tables, were all exactly as he remembered them. This touched him a
little, though he had all the robustness against impression which
fortifies a slow intelligence. “It seems like yesterday that I was
here,” he said.

This, in her turn, touched Mary, whose excitement made her subject to
the lightest flutter of emotion. She smiled at him with greater kindness
than she had yet felt. “Yes,” she said. “I feel so sometimes, too, when
I look round; but it tells less upon us who are here always. And so much
has happened since then.”

“Ah, I suppose so: though you seem to vegetate pretty much in the old
ways. Those children though, for instance,” said Randolph, with a laugh,
“scurrying off in such haste as we came within hearing, that is not like
the old ways. Are you ashamed of them, or afraid to have them here? I
should not wonder, for my part.”

The tears sprang to Mary’s eyes. She did not say anything in the sudden
shock, but looked at Randolph piteously with a silent reproach. It was
the first time since the day of their arrival that any public mention
had been made of the children in her father’s presence. And there was a
pause which seemed to her full of fate.

“You must not look at me so,” said her brother. “I gave you fair
warning. My father is not to be given up to your plots without a
remonstrance at least. I believe it is a conspiracy, sir, from beginning
to end. Do you intend our old family, with all the honours you are so
proud of, to drop into disgrace? With the shadow of crime on it,” cried
Randolph, warming into excitement; then, with a dull perception of
something still more telling, his father’s weak point, “and the bar
sinister of vice?” he said.




CHAPTER XVI.

DUCKS AND DRAKES.


The Squire made use of that discretion which is the better part of
valour. When Randolph for the second time insisted upon coming to an
understanding on family affairs, which meant deciding what was to be
done on the Squire’s death, Mr. Musgrave, not knowing how else to foil
his son, got up and came away. “You can settle these matters with Mary,”
he said, quietly enough. It would not have been dignified to treat the
suggestion in any other way. But he went out with a slight acceleration
of his pulses, caused half by anger and half by the natural human thrill
of feeling with which a man has his own death brought home to him. The
Squire knew that there was nothing unnatural in this anticipation of his
own end. He was aware that it required to be done, and the emergency
prepared for; but yet it was not agreeable to him. He thought they might
have awaited the event, although in another point of view it would have
been imprudent to await the event. He felt that there was something
undesirable, unlovely, in the idea of your children consulting over you
for their own comfort “afterwards.” But then his children were no longer
children whose doings touched his affections much--they were middle-aged
people, as old as he was--and in fact it _was_ important that they
should come to an arrangement and settle everything. Only he could
not--and this being so, would not--do it; and he said to himself that
the cause of his refusal was no reluctance on his own part to consider
the inevitable certainty of his own death, but only the intolerableness
of the inquiry in other respects. He walked out in a little strain and
excitement of feeling, though outwardly his calm was intense. He
steadied himself, mind and body, by an effort, putting a smile upon his
lip, and walking with a deliberate slow movement. He would have scorned
himself had he showed any excitement; but strolled out with a leisurely
slow step and a smile. They would talk the matter out, the two whom he
had left; even though Mary’s heart would be more with him than with her
brother, still she would be bound to follow Randolph’s lead. They would
talk of his health, of how he was looking feeble, his age beginning to
tell upon him, and how it would be very expedient to know what the
conditions of his will were, and whether he had made any provision for
the peculiar circumstances, or arrangement for the holding of the
estate. “I ought to be the first person considered,” he thought he heard
Randolph saying. Randolph had always thought himself the first person to
be considered. At this penetration of his own the Squire smiled again,
and walked away very steadily, very slowly, humming a bar of an
old-fashioned air.

He went thus through the broken woodland towards the east, and strolled
into the Chase like a man taking a walk for pleasure. The birds sang
overhead, little rabbits popped out from the great tree-trunks, and a
squirrel ran up one of them and across a long branch, where it sat
peering at him. All was familiar, certain, well known; he had seen the
same sights and heard the same sounds for the last seventy years; and
the sunshine shone with the same calm assurance of shining as at other
times, and all this rustling, breathing life went on as it had always
gone on. There was scarcely a leaf, scarcely a moss-covered stone that
did not hide or shelter something living. The air was full of life;
sounds of all kinds, twitter and hum and rustle, his own step among
other movements, his own shadow moving across the sunshine. And he felt
well enough, not running over with health and vigour as he had sometimes
felt long ago, not disposed to vault over walls and gates in that
unlicensed exuberance which belongs to youth only, but well
enough--quite well, in short; steady afoot, his breathing easy, his head
clear, everything about him comfortable. Notwithstanding which, his
children were discussing, as in reference to a quite near and probable
event, what was to be done when he should die! The Squire smiled at the
thought, but it was a smile which got fixed and painful on his lip, and
was not spontaneous or agreeable. The amusement to be got from such an
idea is not of a genial kind. He was over seventy, and he knew, who
better? that threescore and ten has been set down as the limit of mortal
life. No doubt he must die--every man must die. It was a thing before
him not to be eluded; the darkness, indeed, was very near, according to
all ordinary law; but the Squire did not feel it, was not in his soul
convinced of it. He believed it, of course; all other men of his age
die, and in their case the precautions of the family are prudent and
natural; in his own case it is true he did not feel the necessity; but
yet no doubt it must be so. He kept smiling to himself; so living as he
was, and everything round, it was an odd sort of discord to think of
dying. He felt a kind of blank before him, a sense of being shut in. So
one feels when one walks along a bit of road surrounded with walls, a
_cul de sac_ from which there is no outlet. A sense of imprisonment is
in it, of discouragement, too little air to breathe, too little space to
move in--certainly a disagreeable, stifling, choking sensation.
Involuntarily a sigh came from his breast; and yet he smiled
persistently, feeling in himself a kind of defiance to all the world, a
determination to be amused at it all, notwithstanding the sentence they
were passing against him.

While the Squire continued his walk, amid the twitter of the birds and
the warble and the crackle and rustle and hum in the woods, and all the
sounds of living, now and then another sound struck in--a sound not
necessarily near, for in that still summer air sounds travel easily--an
echo of voices, now one soft cry or laugh, now a momentary babble. It
struck the old man as if an independent soul had been put into the
scene. He knew very well what it meant--very well--no one better. By
very dint of his opposition to them he recognized the sound of the
children wherever they were. They were there now, the little things
whose presence had moved Randolph to this assault upon his father. They
were altogether antagonistic to Randolph, or rather he to them; this
gave them a curious perverse interest in their grandfather’s eyes. They
offered him an outlet from his _cul de sac_; the pressure seemed
suddenly removed which had bowed him down; in a moment he felt relieved,
delivered from that sense of confinement. A new idea was like the
opening of a door to the old man; he was no longer compelled to
contemplate the certainty before him, but was let softly down into the
pleasant region of uncertainty--the world of happy chances. The very
character of the smile upon his face changed. It became more natural,
more easy, although he did not know the children, nor had any intention
of noticing them. But they were there, and Randolph might scheme as he
liked; here was one who must bring his schemes to confusion. A vague
lightening came into the Squire’s thoughts. He was reprieved, if not
from the inevitable conclusion, at least from the necessity of
contemplating it; and he continued his walk with a lighter heart. By and
by, after a somewhat long round, and making sundry observations to
himself about the state of the timber which would bear cutting, and
about the birds which, without any keeper to care for them, were
multiplying at their own will, and might give some sport in September,
Mr. Musgrave found himself by the lake again with that fascination
towards the water which is so universal. The lake gleamed through the
branches, prolonging the blue of the sky, and calling him with soft
plashing upon the beach, the oldest of his friends, accompaniment of so
many thoughts, and of all the vicissitudes of his life. He went towards
it now in the commotion of feeling which was subsiding into calm, a calm
which had something of fatigue in it; for reluctant as he was to enter
into the question of age and the nearly approaching conclusion, the fact
of age made him easily tired with everything, and with nothing more than
excitement. He was fatigued with the strain he had been put to, and had
fallen into a languid state which was not unpleasant; the condition in
which we are specially disposed to be easily amused if any passive
amusement comes in our way.

So it happened that as he walked along the margin of the lake, with the
water softly foaming over the pebbles at his feet, Mr. Musgrave’s ear
was caught by a series of sharp little repetitions of sound, like a
succession of small reports--one, two, three. He listened in the mild,
easily-roused, and not very active curiosity of such a moment, and
recognized with a smile the sound of pebbles skipping across the water;
presently he saw the little missiles gleaming along from ripple to
ripple, flung by a skilful but not very strong hand. The Squire did not
even ask himself who it was, but went on quietly, doubting nothing.
Suddenly turning round a corner upon the edge of a small bay, he saw a
little figure between him and the shining water, making ducks and drakes
with varying success.

The Squire’s step was inaudible on the turf, and he paused in sympathy
with the play. He himself had made ducks and drakes in the Penninghame
water as long as he could recollect. He had taught his little boys to do
it; he could not tell how it was that this suddenly came to his mind
just now--though how it should do so with Randolph, a middle-aged,
calculating parson, talking about family arrangements--Pah! but even
this recollection did not affect him now as it did before. Never mind
Randolph. This little fellow chose the stones with judgment, and really,
for such a small creature, launched them well. The Squire felt half
disposed to step forward and try his skill too. When one shot failed he
was half-sorry, half-inclined to chuckle as over an antagonist; and when
there came a great success, a succession of six or seven reports one
after another as the flat pebble skimmed over fold after fold of the
water, he could not help saying, “Bravo!” in generous applause;
generous, for somehow or other he felt as if he were playing on the
other side. This sensation aroused him; he had not been so
self-forgetting for many a day. “Bravo!” he cried, with something like
glee in his voice.

The little boy turned round hastily. What a strange meeting! Oddly
enough it had never occurred to the Squire to think who it was.
Strangers were rife enough in these regions, and people would now and
then come to Penninghame with their families--who would stray into the
Chase, taking it for public property. But for the ducks and drakes
which interested him, he would probably have collared the little fellow,
and demanded to know what right he had to be here. He was therefore
quite unprepared for the encounter, and looked with the strangest
emotions of wonder and half-terror into the face which was so familiar
to him, but so strange, the face of his grandson and heir. When once he
had seen the child no further doubt was possible. He stared at him as if
he had been a little ghost. He had not presence of mind to turn on his
heel and go away at once, which would have been the only way of keeping
up his former tactics; he was speechless and overpowered; and there was
nobody by to spy upon him, no grown-up spectators--not even the other
child to observe what he did, or listen to what he said. In this case
the Squire did not feel the need to be vigilant, which in other
circumstances would have given him self-command. Thus the shock and
surprise, and the perfect freedom of his position, unwatched and unseen,
alike broke down all his defences. After the first start he stood still
and gazed at the child, who still, more frankly and with much less
emotion, gazed at him.

“Who are you, sir?” the grandfather said, with a tone that was meant to
be very peremptory. The jar in it was incomprehensible to Nello: but yet
it gave him greater courage.

“I am Ne--that is to say,” the little fellow answered, with a sudden
flush and change of countenance, “my name, it is John.”

“John what? Speak up, sir. Do you know you are a little trespasser, and
have no business to be here?”

“Oh yes, I have a business to be here,” said Nello. “I don’t know what
it is to be a trespasser. I live at the Castle, me. I can come when I
please, and nobody has any business to send me away.”

“Do you know who I am?” asked the Squire, bending his brows. Nello
looked at him curiously, half amused, though he was half frightened. He
had never been so near, or looked his grandfather in the face before.

“I _know_; but I may not tell,” said Nello. He shook his head, and
though he was not very quick-witted, some latent sense of fun brought a
mischievous look to his face. “We know very well, but we are never to
tell,” he added, shaking his head once more, looking up with watchful
eyes, as children have a way of doing, to take his cue from the
expression of the elder face; and there was something very strange in
that gleam of fun in Nello’s eyes. “We know, but we are never, never to
tell.

“Who told you so?”

“It was--Martuccia,” said the boy, with precocious discretion. His look
grew more and more inquisitive and investigating. Now that he had the
opportunity he determined to examine the old man well and to make out
the kind of person he was.

Mr. Musgrave did not answer. He on his side was investigating too, with
less keenness and more feeling than the child showed. He would have been
unmoved by the beauty of Lilias, though it was much greater than that of
Nello. The little girl would have irritated him; but with the boy he
felt himself safe, he could not tell how; he was more a child, less a
stranger. Mr. Musgrave himself could not have explained it, but so it
was. A desire to get nearer to his descendant came into the old man’s
mind; old recollections crept upon him, and stole away all his strength.
“You know who I am; do you know who you are, little fellow?” he asked,
with a strange break in his voice.

“I told you; you are--the old gentleman at home,” said Nello. “I know
all about it. And me? I am John. There is no wonder about that. It is
just--me. We were not always here. We are two children who have come a
long way. But now I know English quite well, and I have lessons every
day.”

“Who gives you lessons, my little boy?” The Squire drew a step nearer.
He had himself had a little brother sixty years ago, who was like Nello.
So it seemed to him now. He would not think he had likewise had a son
thirty years ago, whom Nello was like. He crept a little nearer the
child, shuffling his foot along the turf, concealing the approach from
himself. Had he been asked why he changed his position, he would have
said it was a little damp, boggy, not quite sure footing just there.

“Mr. Pen gives us lessons,” said Nello. “I have a book all to myself. It
is Latin, it is more easy than English. But it takes a great deal of
time; it does not leave so much for play.”

“How long have you been at your lessons, my little man?”

The Squire’s eyes began to soften, a smile came into them. His heart was
melting. He gave a furtive glance round, and there was nobody near to
make him afraid, not even the little girl.

“Oh, a long, long time,” said Nello. “One whole hour, it was as much as
that, or perhaps six hours. I did not think anything could be so long.”

“One whole hour!” the Squire said in a voice of awe; and his eyes melted
altogether into smiling, and his voice into a mellow softness which it
had not known for years. Ah! this was the kind of son for an old man to
have, not such as Randolph. Randolph was a hard, disagreeable equal,
superior in so much as he had, or thought he had, many more years before
him; but the child was delightful. He did the Squire good. “Or perhaps
six hours! And when did this long spell of study happen? Is it long
ago?”

“There was no spell,” said Nello. “And it was to-day. I readed in my
book, and so did Lily; but as she is a girl it was different from mine.
Girls are not clever, Martuccia says. She can’t make the stones skim.
That was a good one when you said ‘Bravo!’ Where did you find out to say
Bravo? They don’t talk like that here.”

“It was a very good one,” said the Squire; “suppose we were to try
again.”

“Oh! can _you_ do it?” said Nello, with round eyes of wonder. “Can you
do it as well as me?”

“When I was a child,” said the Squire, quite overcome, “I had a little
brother just like you. We used to come out here, to this very place, and
play ducks and drakes. He would make them go half across the water. You
should have seen them skimming. As far out as that boat. Do you see that
boat----”

“When he was no bigger than me? And what did you do? were you little
too? did you play against him? did he beat you? I wish I had a brother,”
said Nello. “But you can’t have quite forgotten, though you are an old
gentleman. Try now! There are capital stones here. I wish I could send
one out as far as that boat. Come, come! Won’t you come and try?”

The Squire gave another searching look round. He had a sort of
shame-faced smile on his face. He was a little shy of himself in this
new development. But there was no one near, not so much as a squirrel or
a rabbit, which could watch and tell. The birds were singing high up in
the tree-tops, quite absorbed in their own business; nothing was taking
any notice. And the child had come close to him, quite confiding and
fearless, with eager little eyes, waiting for his decision. He was the
very image of that little brother so long lost. The Squire seemed to
lose himself for a moment in a vague haze of personal uncertainty
whether all this harsh, hard life had not been a delusion, and whether
he himself still was not a child.

“Come and try,” cried Nello, more and more emboldened, and catching at
his coat. When the old man felt the touch, it was all he could do to
suppress a cry. It was strange to him beyond measure, a touch not like
any other--his own flesh and blood.

“You must begin then,” he said, a strange falter in his voice,
half-laughing, half-crying. That is one sign of age, that it is so much
nearer to the springs of emotion than anything else, except youth.
Indeed, are not these two the fitting partners, not that middle state,
that insolent strength which stands between? The Squire permitted
himself to be dragged to the margin of his own water, which lay all
smiling in soft ripples before him as it had done when he was a child.
Nello was as grave as a judge in the importance of the occasion,
breathless with excitement and interest. He sought out his little store
of stones with all the solemnity of a connoisseur, his little brows
puckered, his red lips drawn in; but the Squire was shy and tremulous,
half-laughing, half-crying, ashamed of his own weakness, and more near
being what you might call happy (a word so long out of use for him!)
than he had been, he could not remember when.

Nello was vexed with his first throw. “When one wants to do very good,
one never can,” he said, discomfited as his shot failed. “Now you try,
now you try; it is your turn.” How the Squire laughed, tremulous, the
broken red in his old cheeks flushing with pleasure and shame! He failed
too, which encouraged Nello, who for his part made a splendid shot the
second time. “Two, three, four, _five_, SIX, SEVEN!” cried the child in
delight. “Don’t be afraid, you will do better next time. Me too, I could
not make a shot at all at first. Now come, now come, it is your turn
again.”

What a thing it is to have a real long summer afternoon! It was
afternoon when the Squire’s calm was broken by his son Randolph; and it
was afternoon still, dropping into evening, but with a sun still bright
and not yet low in the sky when Mr. Musgrave warmed to his work, and,
encouraged by Nello, made such ducks and drakes as astonished himself.
He got quite excited as they skimmed and danced across the water. “Two,
three, four, five, _six_, _seven_, EIGHT!” Nello cried, with a shriek of
delight. How clever the old gentleman was--how much nicer than _girls_.
He had not enjoyed his play so much for--never before, Nello thought.
“Come back to-morrow--will you come back to-morrow?” he said at every
interval. He had got a playmate now after his own heart--better than Mr.
Pen’s Johnnie, who was small and timid--better than any one he had ever
seen here.

The two players did not in the growing excitement of their game think
any more of the chance of spectators; and did not see a second little
figure which came running across the grass through the maze of the
trees, and stopped wondering in the middle of the brushwood, holding
back the branches with her hands to gaze at the strange scene. Lilias
was never quite clear of the idea that this wood was fairy-land: so she
was not surprised at anything she saw. Yet at this, for the first
moment, she was tempted to be surprised. The old gentleman! playing at
ducks and drakes with Nello! He who pretended never to see them, who
looked over their heads whenever they appeared, for whom they always had
to run out of the way, who never took any notice! Lilias stood for two
or three whole minutes, holding the branches open, peeping through with
a rapt gaze of wonder; yet not surprised. She applied her little
faculties at once, on the instant, to solve the mystery; and what so
natural as that the old gentleman had been “only pretending” all the
time? Half the pleasure which Lilias herself had in her life came from
“pretending.” Pretending to be Queen Elizabeth, pretending to be a
fairy and change Nello into a lion or a mouse, both of which things
Nello “pretended” to be with equal success; pretending to be Mr. Pen
preaching a sermon, pretending to be Mary, pretending even now and then
to be “the old gentleman” himself, sitting up in a chair with a big
book, just like him. She stood and peeped through the branches, and made
up her mind to this in a way that took away all her surprise. No doubt
he was “only pretending” when he would not let it be seen that he saw
them. Motives are not necessary to investigators of twelve; there was
nothing strange in it; for was not pretending the chief occupation, the
chief recreation of life? She stood and made this out to her own
satisfaction, and then with self-denial and with a sigh went back to
Martuccia. It was very tempting to see the pebbles skimming across the
water, and so easy it seemed! “Me too, me too,” Lilias could scarcely
help calling out. But then it came into her head that perhaps it was
herself whom the old gentleman disliked. Perhaps he would not go on
playing if she claimed a share, perhaps he would begin “pretending” not
to see her. So Lilias sighed, and with self-denial gave up this new
pleasure. It was very nice for Nello to have some one to play with--some
one _new_. He was always the lucky one; but then he was the youngest,
such a little fellow. She went back and told Martuccia he was playing,
he was coming soon, he was not in any mischief--which was what the
careful elder sister and mild indulgent nurse most feared.

When Lilias let the branches go, however, with self-denial which was
impulsive though so true, the sweep with which they came together again
made more sound than could have been made by a rabbit or squirrel, and
startled the Squire, who was quite hot and excited in his new sport. He
came to himself with a start, and with the idea of having been seen,
felt a pang of shame and half-anger. He looked round him and could see
nobody; but the branches still vibrated as if some one had been there;
and his very forehead, weather-beaten as it was, flushed red with the
idea of having been seen, perhaps by Randolph himself. This gave him a
kind of offence and resentment and self-assertion which mended matters.
Why should he care for Randolph? What had Randolph to do with it? Was he
to put himself under tutelage, and conform to the tastes of a fellow
like that, a parson, an interloper? But all the same this possibility
stopped the Squire. “There, my little man,” he said with some confusion,
dropping his stone, “there! I think it is time to stop now.”

“Oh!--was it some one come for you?” said Nello, following the direction
of the old gentleman’s eyes. “Stay a little longer, just a little
longer. Can’t you do just what you please--not like me----”

“Can you not do what you please, my little boy?” The Squire was a little
tremulous with the unusual exertion. Perhaps it was time to stop. He
stooped down to lave his hand in the water where it came shallow among
the rocks, and that act took away his breath still more, and made him
glad to pause a moment before he went away.

“It is a shame,” said Nello, “there is Lily, and there is Martuccia, and
there is Mary,--they think I am too little to take care of myself; but I
am not too little--I can do a great many things that they can’t do. But
come to-morrow, won’t you _try_ to come to-morrow?” said the child,
coming close up to his grandfather, and taking hold of the skirt of his
coat. “Oh please, please _try_ to come! I never have any one to play
with, and it has been such fun. Say you will come! Don’t you think you
could come if you were to _try_?”

The Squire burst out into a broken laugh. It would have been more easy
to cry, but that does not do for a man. He put his soft old tremulous
hand upon the boy’s head. “Little Johnny,” he said, “little
Johnny!--that was my little brother’s name, long, long ago.”

“Did he play with you? I wish I had a little brother. I have nothing but
girls,” said Nello. “But say you will come to-morrow--do say you will
try!”

The Squire gave another look round him. Nobody was there, not a mouse or
a bird. He took the child’s head between his trembling hands, and
stooped down, and gave him a hasty kiss upon his soft round
forehead--“God bless you, little man!” he said, and then turned round
defiant, and faced the world--the world of tremulous branches and
fluttering leaves, for there was nothing else to spy upon the
involuntary blessing and caress. Then he plunged through the very
passage in the brushwood where the branches had shaken so
strangely--feeling that if it was Randolph he could defy him. What right
had Randolph to control his actions? If he chose to acknowledge this
child who belonged to him, who was the image of the little
Johnny of sixty years ago, what was that to any one? What had
Randolph,--_Randolph_, of all men in the world,--to do with it? He would
tell him so to his face if he were there.




CHAPTER XVII.

THE BAMPFYLDES.


The same day on which these incidents occurred the Stanton family were
in full conclave at Elfdale. It was the birthday of Laura, and there
were various merrymakings on hand, an afternoon party, designed to
include all her “young friends,” besides a more select company in the
evening. As Laura was the one whom the family intended to be Lady
Stanton, her affairs, with the willing consent, and indeed by the active
energy of her sister, were generally pushed into the foreground. And
Geoff and his mother were the chief of the guests specially invited, the
only visitors who were staying in the house.

To say that the family intended Laura to be Lady Stanton is perhaps too
wild a statement, though this settlement of conflicting claims had been
tacitly decided upon when they were children. It was chiefly Lydia who
actively intended it now, moved and backed up by some of the absent
brothers, who thought it “hard luck” that the young unnecessary Geoff
should have interfered between their father and the title, and vowed by
Jove that the only fit thing to do in the circumstances was to marry him
to one of the girls. Lydia, however, was the most active mind in the
establishment at Elfdale, and carried things her own way, so that though
Sir Henry disliked fuss, and disliked Geoff’s mother, who had done him
so much wrong, yet the party in the evening had been specially selected
to suit her, and Maria, Lady Stanton, was established in the house.

“It can’t last long, papa,” Lydia said; “but we can’t have Geoff without
her.”

“What do you want with Geoff?” growled Sir Henry.

“Papa! in the first place he is our cousin; and Laura likes him; and you
know we girls must marry somebody. You can’t get commissions and
nominations for us, more’s the pity; so we must marry. And Laura may as
well have Stanton as any one else, don’t you think? and of course in
that case she ought to be on good terms with her mother-in-law; and
people expect us----”

“Oh, that will do,” said Sir Henry, “ask whom you like, only free me
from all this clatter. But keep that woman off me with her sanctified
airs, confound her,” said the baronet. He had forgiven Geoff for being
born, but he could not forgive Geoff’s mother for bringing him so
unnecessarily into the world.

And thus it was that Geoff and his mother were at Elfdale. The elder
Lady Stanton was no more disposed to go than Sir Henry was to ask her.
Visits of this kind are not rare--the inviters unwilling to ask, the
invited indisposed to go; and with such cordial results as might be
anticipated. “I care for nobody in that house except Cousin Mary,” Lady
Stanton said, “and even she perhaps--though it is wrong to say so,
Geoff, my dear boy, for of course everybody means for the best.” With
these mutual objections the party had met all the same. The other Lady
Stanton was very mild and very religious. She could not prevent herself
from having an occasional opinion--that is to say, as she explained it
herself, for “caring for” one person more than another; but that was
because she had not seen enough of the others perhaps--had not quite
understood them. “Yes, Geoff, I do not doubt, my dear, that the girls
are very nice. So many things are changed since my time. Manners are
different. And we are all such prejudiced, unjust creatures, we
constantly take the outside for our standard as if that was everything.
There is but One that sees fully, and what a blessing, Geoff, that it
is Him whom we have most to deal with!” said his mother. For it was one
of her troubles in life that she had uneasy instincts about the people
she met with, and likings and dislikings such as she felt--the latter at
least--a true Christian ought not to indulge in. There was a constant
conflict of duty in her against such rebellious feelings. As for Cousin
Mary, Sir Henry Stanton’s wife, she was one of those whom Geoff’s mother
had no difficulty in liking, but a cold doubt had been breathed into her
mind as to the “influence” which this lady might exercise over her boy.
She could not quite get it out of her thoughts. Mary could mean no harm,
that was certain, but--and then Lady Stanton would upbraid herself for
the evil imagination that could thus believe in evil. So that altogether
she was not happy to go to Elfdale. When she was there, however, the
family paid her a sort of court, though the girls frankly considered her
a hypocrite. What did that matter? “All the people one meets with are
humbugs more or less,” Lydia said with superior philosophy. Lydia was
the one who saw through everybody, and was always unmasking false
pretensions. Laura only acquiesced in the discoveries her sister made,
and generally followed her in whatever was going on.

The morning of the birthday dawned brightly and promised to be all that
could be desired, and the presents were pretty enough to please any
_débutante_. Laura was nineteen, and so far as the county gaieties went
she had been already “out” for nearly a year. Any more splendid
introduction into society had been denied to the girls. They had
entertained dreams of London, and had practised curtseys for a
problematical drawing-room during one whole year, but it had come to
nothing, Sir Henry being economical and Lady Stanton shy. It was to
their stepmother’s account that Laura and Lydia set down this wrong,
feeling convinced that if she had been their _real_ mother she would
have managed it somehow. “You’ll see she’ll find some way of doing it
when these little things grow up,” the elder sisters said to each other,
and they bore her a grudge in consequence, and looked at her with
glances of reproaches whenever London was spoken of--though that she was
not their real mother could not be held to be poor Mary’s fault.
However, all this was forgotten on the merry morning, when with the
delights of the garden party and a dance before them they came to
breakfast and found Laura’s place at table blocked up with presents.
Many of them it is true were not of very much value, but there was a
pretty bracelet from Geoff and a locket from his mother, which amply
rewarded the young ladies for their determination to have their cousin
and his mother invited. The opening of the presents made a little
pleasant commotion. The donors were all moved by an agreeable curiosity
to see how their gifts were received, and as Laura was lavish in her
expressions of delight and Lydia in generous admiration, and the little
girls hovered behind in fluttering awe, curiosity, and excitement, a
general air of family concord, sympathy, and happiness was diffused over
the scene. There was not very much love perhaps in the ill-compacted
household. But Sir Henry could not help sharing the infection of the
half-real amiability of the moment, and his wife could not but brighten
under any semblance of kindness. They sat down quite happily to
breakfast and began to chatter about the amusements of the afternoon.
Even little Fanny and Annie were allowed to have their say. To them was
allotted a share in the croquet, even in the delightful responsibility
of arranging the players. All the old fogies, the old-fashioned people,
the curate and his sister, the doctor and his niece, the humbler
neighbours, were reserved for that pastime which is out of fashion--the
girls kept the gayer circle and the more novel amusements for Geoff and
their own set. And moved by the general good-nature of the moment Sir
Henry made apologies to his guests for the occupations which would
occupy his morning. He was an active magistrate, and found in this
version of public duty a relief from the idleness of his retired life.

“I have that scamp Bampfylde in hand again,” he said; “he is never out
of mischief. Have you ever seen that fellow, Geoff? Wild Bampfylde they
call him. I think the keepers have a sneaking kindness for him. There is
not a poaching trick he is not up to. I am tired of hearing his name.”

“What did you say was his name?” said Geoff’s mother.

The other Lady Stanton had looked up too with a little start, which
attracted Geoff’s attention. He stopped short in the middle of an
animated discussion with the girls on the arrangements of the afternoon,
to hear what was being said.

“Ah! to be sure--Bampfylde; for the moment I had forgotten,” Sir Henry
said. “Yes--that family of course, and a handsome fellow; as fine a man
as you could see in the north country. Certainly they are a good-looking
race.”

“I suppose it is gipsy blood,” said the elder Lady Stanton, with a sigh.
“Poor people! Yes, I say poor people, Sir Henry, for there is no one to
care what evil ways they take. So far out of the way among the hills, no
teaching, no clergyman; oh, I make every excuse for them! They will not
be judged as we are, with our advantages.”

“I don’t know about our advantages,” said Sir Henry, somewhat grimly;
“but I sha’n’t make excuses for them. A pest to the country; not to
speak of the tragedy they were involved in----”

“Oh, don’t let us speak of that,” said Mary, under her breath.

Sir Henry gave her a look which irritated young Geoff. The young man
felt himself his beautiful cousin’s champion, and he would have liked to
call even her husband to account for such a glance under frowning
eyebrows at so gentle a creature. Sir Henry for his part did not like
his wife to show any signs of recollecting her own past history. He did
not do very much to make her forget it, and was a cold and indifferent
husband, but still he was affronted that she should be able to remember
that she had not always been his wife.

“I wish it did not hurt you, Cousin Mary,” said Geoff, interposing, “for
I should like to speak of it, to have it all gone into. I am sure there
is wrong somewhere. You said yourself about that young Musgrave----”

“Oh hush, hush, Geoff!” she said under her breath.

“He cannot be young now,” said the elder lady. “I am very sorry for him
too, my dear. It is not given to us to see into men’s hearts, but I
never believed that John Musgrave---- I beg your pardon, Mary, for
naming him before you, of course it must be painful. And to me too. But
it is such a long time ago, and I think if it were all to do over
again----”

“It would have been done over again and the whole case sifted if John
Musgrave had not behaved like a fool, or a guilty man,” said Sir Henry.
“It is not a pleasant subject for discussion, is it? I was an idiot to
bring up the fellow’s name. I forgot what good memories you ladies
have,” he said, getting up and breaking up the party. And there was
still a frown upon his face as he looked at his wife.

“What is the matter with papa?” cried the girls in a breath. “You have
been upsetting him. You have worried him somehow!” exclaimed Lydia,
turning upon her stepmother. “And everything was going so well, and he
was in such a good humour. But it is always the way just when we want a
little peace and comfort. I never saw such a house as ours! And he is
not very unreasonable, not when you know how to manage him--papa.”

As for Mary, she broke down and cried, but smiled again, trying to keep
up appearances. “It is nothing,” she said; “your father is not angry. It
will all be right in a moment. I suppose I am very silly. Run, little
ones, and bring me some eau-de-cologne, quick! You must not think Sir
Henry was really annoyed,” she said, turning to Lady Stanton. “He is
just a little impatient; you know he has all his old Indian ways; and I
am so silly.”

“I don’t think you are silly,” said Lady Stanton, who herself was
flushed and excited. “It was natural you should be disturbed, and I too.
Sir Henry need not have been so impatient; but we don’t know his
motives,” she added hastily, with the habitual apology she made for
everybody who was or seemed in the wrong.

“Oh, how tiresome it all is,” cried Lydia, stamping her foot, “when
people will make scenes! Come along, Geoff; come with us and let us see
what is to be done. Everything has to be done still. I meant to ask papa
to give the orders; but when he is put out, it is all over. Do come;
there are the hoops to put up, and everything to do. Laura, never mind
your tiresome presents. Come along! or the people will be here, and
nothing will be done.”

“That is how they always go on,” said Laura, following her sister with
her lap full of her treasures, “Come, Geoff. It is so easy to put papa
out; and when he is put out he is no good for anything. Do come. I do
not think this time, Lydia, it was _her_ fault.”

“Oh, it is always her fault,” said the harsher sister: “and sending
these two tiresome children for the eau-de-cologne! She always sends
them for the eau-de-cologne. As if that could do any good! like putting
out a fire with rose-water. There now, Laura, put your rubbish away, and
I will begin settling everything with Geoff.”

The young man obeyed the call unwillingly; but he went with his cousins,
having no excuse to stay, and did their work obediently, though his mind
was full of very different things. He had put aside the Musgrave
business since his visit to Penninghame, not knowing how to act, and he
had not spoken of it to his mother; but now it returned upon him with
greater interest than ever. Bampfylde he knew was the name of the girl
whom John Musgrave had married, whom his brother Walter had loved, and
whom the quarrel was about; and she it was who, with her mother, had
been accused of helping young Musgrave’s escape. All the story seemed to
reopen even upon him with the name; and how much more upon those two
ladies who were so much more deeply interested. The two girls and their
games had but a slight hold of Geoff’s mind in comparison with this
deeper question. He did what they wanted him, but he was _distrait_ and
preoccupied; and as soon as he was free went anxiously in search of his
mother, who, he hoped, would tell him more about it. He knew all about
it, but not as people must do who had been involved in the
circumstances, and helped to enact that sad drama of real life. He found
his mother very thoughtful and preoccupied too, seated alone in a little
sitting-room up-stairs, which was Lady Stanton’s special sanctum. The
elder Lady Stanton was very serious. She welcomed her son with a
momentary smile and no more. “I have been thinking over that dreadful
story,” she said; “it has all come back upon me, Geoff. Sometimes a name
is enough to bring back years of one’s life. I was then as Mary is now.
No, no, my dear, your good father was very different from Sir Henry; but
a stepmother is often not very happy. It used to be the other way, the
story-books say. Oh, Geoff, young people don’t mean it--they don’t
think; but they can make a poor woman’s life very wretched. It has
brought everything back to me. That--and the name of this man.”

“You have never told me much about it, mother.”

“What was the use, my dear? You were too young to do anything; and then,
what was there to do? Poor Mr. Musgrave fled, you know. Everybody said
that was such a pity. It would have been brought in only manslaughter if
he had not escaped and gone away.”

“Then it was madness and cowardice,” said Geoff.

“It was the girl,” said his mother. “No, I am not blaming her; perhaps
she knew no better. And his father and all his family were so opposed.
Perhaps they thought, to fly away out of everybody’s reach, the two
together, was the best way out of it. When young people are so much
attached to each other,” said the anxious mother, faltering, half afraid
even to speak of such mysteries to her son, “they are tempted to think
that being together is everything. But it is not everything, Geoff. Many
others, as well as John Musgrave, have lost themselves for such a
delusion as that.”

“Is it a delusion?” Geoff asked, making his mother tremble. Of whom
could the boy be thinking? He was thinking of nobody--till it suddenly
occurred to him how the eyes of that little girl at Penninghame might
look if they were older; and that most likely it was the same eyes which
had made up to John Musgrave for the loss of everything. After all,
perhaps this unfortunate one, whom everybody pitied, might have had some
compensation. As he was thinking thus, and his mother was watching him,
very anxious to know what he was thinking, Lady Stanton came in suddenly
by a private door, which opened from her own room. She had a little
additional colour on her cheeks, and was breathless with haste.

“Oh, where is Geoff, I wonder?” she said; then seeing him, ran up to
him. “Geoff, there is some one down-stairs you will like to see. If you
are really so interested in all that sad story--really so anxious to
help poor John----”

“Yes, who is it? Tell me who it is, and I will go.”

“Elizabeth Bampfylde is down-stairs,” she said, breathless, putting her
hand to her heart. “The mother of the man Sir Henry was speaking of--the
mother of--the girl. There is no one knows so much as that woman. She is
sitting there all alone, and there is nobody in the way.”

“Mary!” cried the elder lady, “is it right to plunge my boy into it? We
have suffered enough already. Is it right to make Geoff a victim--Geoff,
who knows nothing about it? Oh, my dear, I know you mean it for the
best!”

Mary fell back abashed and troubled.

“I did not mean to harm him, Lady Stanton. I did not think it would harm
him. Never mind; never mind, if your mother does not approve. After all,
perhaps, she knows no more than we do,” she said, with an attempt at a
smile. “The sight of her made me forget myself.”

“Where is she?” said the young man.

“Ah! that is just what overcame me,” said Mary, with a sob, and a
strange smile at the irony of fate--“down-stairs in _my_ husband’s room.
I have seen her often in the road and in the village--but here, in my
house! Never mind, Geoff; it was she that helped him to get out of
prison. They were bold, they had no fear of anything; not like us, who
are ladies, who cannot stir a step without being watched. Never mind,
never mind! it is not really of any consequence. She is sitting there
in--in my husband’s room!” Mary said, with a sob and a little hysterical
laugh. It was not strange to the others, but simple enough and natural.
She alone knew how strange it was. “But stop, stop--oh, don’t pay any
attention. Don’t go now, Geoff!”

“Geoff! my dear Geoff!” cried his mother running to the door after him,
but for once Geoff paid no attention. He hurried down-stairs, clearing
them four or five steps at a time. The ladies could not have followed
him if they would. The door of Sir Henry’s business room stood open, and
he could see an old woman seated like a statue, in perfect stillness, on
a bench against the wall. She wore a large grey cloak with a hood
falling back upon her shoulders, and a white cap, and sat with her hands
crossed in her lap, waiting. She raised her eyes quickly when he came in
with a look of anxiety and expectation, but when she found it was not
the person she expected, bowed her fine head resignedly and relapsed
into quiet. The delay which is always so irksome did not seem to affect
her. There was something in the pose of the figure which showed that to
be seated there quite still and undisturbed was not disagreeable to her.
She was not impatient. She was an old woman and glad to rest; she could
wait.

“You are waiting for Sir Henry?” Geoff said, in his eagerness. “Have you
seen him? Can I do anything for you?”

“No, sir. I hope you’ll forgive me rising. I have walked far and I’m
tired. Time is not of so much consequence now as it used to be. I can
bide.” She gave him a faint smile as she spoke, and looked at him with
eyes undimmed, eyes that reminded him of the child at Penninghame. Her
voice was fine too, large and melodious, and there was nothing fretful
or fidgety about her. Except for one line in her forehead everything
about her was calm. She could bide.

And this is a power which gives its possessor unbounded superiority over
the impatient and restless. Geoff was all curiosity, excitement, and
eagerness. “I don’t think Sir Henry will have any time for you to-day,”
he said; “tell me what it is. I will do all I can for you. I should like
to be of use to you. Sir Henry is going to his luncheon presently. I
don’t think you will see him to-day.”

Just at this moment a servant came in with the same information, but it
was given in a somewhat different tone. “Look here, old lady,” said the
man, “you’ll have to clear out of this. There’s a party this afternoon,
and Sir Henry he hasn’t got any time for the likes of you. So march is
the word.--I beg your lordship ten thousand pardons. I didn’t see as
your lordship was there.”

“You had better learn to be civil to every one,” said Geoff,
indignantly; “beg _her_ pardon, not mine. You are--Mrs. Bampfylde, I
think? May I speak to you, since Sir Henry cannot see you? I have very
urgent business----”

She rose slowly, paying no attention to the man--looking only at Geoff.
“And you are the young lord?” she said with an intent look. There was a
certain dignity about her movements, though she seemed to set herself in
motion with difficulty, stiffly, as if the exertion cost her something.
“I’ve had a long walk,” she added, with a faint smile and half apology
for the effort, “there’s where age tells. And all my trouble for
nothing!”

“If I can be of any use to you I will,” said Geoff. Then he paused and
added, “I want you to do something for me.”

“What is it that old ’Lizabeth Bampfylde could do for a fine young
gentleman? Your fortune?--ay, I’ll give you your fortune easy; a kind
tongue and a bright eye carries that all over the world. And you look as
if you had a kind heart.”

“It is not my fortune,” he said with an involuntary smile.

“You’re no believer in the likes of that? May be you have never met with
one that had the power. It runs in families; it runs in the blood. There
was one of your house, my young lord, that I could have warned of what
was coming. I saw it in his face. And, oh that I had done it! But he
would not have been warned. Oh! what that would have saved me and mine,
as well as you and yours!”

“You think of my brother then when you see me?” he said, eager at once
to follow out this beginning. She looked at him again with a
scrutinizing gaze.

“What had I to do with your brother, young gentleman? He never asked me
for his fortune any more than you; he did not believe in the likes of
me. It is only the silly folk and the simple folk that believe in us. I
wish they would be guided by us that are our own flesh and blood--and
then they would never get into trouble like my boy.”

“What has he done?” asked Geoff, thinking to conciliate. He had followed
her out of the house, and was walking by her side through the
shrubberies by the back way.

“What has he done? Something, nothing. He’s taken a fish in the river,
or a bird out of the wood. They’re God’s creatures, not yours, or Sir
Henry’s. But the rich and the great, that have every dainty they can set
their face to, make it a crime for a poor lad when he does that.”

Geoff did not make any answer, for he had a respect for game, and would
not commit himself; but he said, “I will do anything I can for your son,
if you will help me. Yes, you can help me, and I think you know you can,
Mrs. Bampfylde.”

“I am called ’Lizabeth,” said the old woman, with dignity, as if she had
said, I am called Princess. Her tone had so much effect upon Geoff that
he cried, “I beg your pardon,” instinctively, and faltered and coloured
as he went on--

“I want to know about what happened when I was a child--about my
brother’s death--about--the man who caused it. They tell me you know
more than any one else. I am not asking for idle curiosity. You know a
great deal, or so I have heard, about John Musgrave.”

“Hus--sh!” she cried, “it is not safe to say names--you never know who
may hear.”

“But all the world may hear,” said Geoff. “I am not afraid. I want him
to come home. I want him to be cleared. If you know anything that can
help him, tell me. I will never rest now till I have got that sentence
changed and he is cleared.”

The old woman looked at him, growing pale, with a sort of alarmed
admiration. “You’re a bold boy,” she said, “very bold! It’s because
you’re so young--how should you know? When a man has enemies we should
be careful how we name him. It might bring ill-luck or more harm.”

“I don’t believe much in ill-luck, and I don’t believe in enemies at
all,” said Geoff, with the confidence of his years.

“Oh!” she cried, with a long moan, wringing her hands. “Oh, God help
you, innocent boy!”

“No,” Geoff repeated, more boldly still, “neither in enemies nor in
ill-luck, if the man himself is innocent. But I believe in friends. I am
one; and if you are one--if you are his friend, his true friend, why,
there is nothing we may not do for him,” the young man cried, standing
still to secure her attention. She paused too for a moment, gazing at
him, with a low cry now and then of wonder and distress; her mind was
travelling over regions to which young Geoff had no clue, but his
courage and confidence had compelled her attention at least. She
listened while he went on repeating his appeal; only to tell him what
she knew, what she remembered--to tell him everything. It seemed all so
simple to Geoff; he went on with his pleadings, following through the
winding walk. It was all he could do to keep up with her large and
steady stride as she went on quickening her pace. The stiffness had
disappeared, and she walked like one accustomed to long tramping over
moor and hill.

“My young lord,” she exclaimed abruptly, stopping him in the midst of a
sentence, “you’ve talked long enough; I know all you can say now; and
here’s the bargain I’ll make. If my lad gets free, I’ll take his
advice--and if he consents, and you have a mind to come up to the fells
and see me where I bide----”

“Certainly I will come,” cried Geoff, feeling a delightful gleam of
adventure suddenly light up his more serious purpose. “Certainly I will
come; only tell me where I shall find you----”

“You’re going too fast, my young gentleman. I said if my lad gets free.
Till I have talked to him I’ll tell you nothing. And my bit of a place
is a lonely place where few folk ever come near.”

“I can find it,” said Geoff. “I do not mind how lonely it is. I will
come--to-morrow, whenever you please.”

“Not till my lad comes to fetch you,” said ’Lizabeth, with a gleam of
shrewd humour crossing her face for a moment. “I must see my lad first,
and hear what he says, and then I’ll send him to show you the way.”

“It would be better not to make it dependent on that chance,” said Geoff
prudently. “He might not care to come; I don’t know your son; why should
he take so much trouble for me? He may decline to do it, or he may
dislike my interference, or----”

“Or he may not get free,” said ’Lizabeth, stopping short, and dismissing
her young attendant almost imperiously. “Here you and me part paths, my
young lord. It will be soon enough to say more when my lad is free.”

Geoff was left standing at the outer gate, startled by the abruptness of
his dismissal, but incapable he felt of resisting. He gazed after her as
she sped along the road with long swift steps, half-appalled, greatly
excited, and with a touch of amusement too. “I am to cheat justice for
her in the first place, and elude the law,” he said to himself as he
watched her disappearing along the dusty road.




CHAPTER XVIII.

A NEW FRIEND.


The result of this interview was that Geoff, as was natural, threw
himself body and soul into the cause of Wild Bampfylde. When he had once
made up his mind to this, a certain comic element in the matter
delighted him and gave him double fervour. The idea of defeating justice
was delightful to the young man, not much older than a schoolboy. He
talked to all the people he met about the case of this wild man of the
woods, this innocent savage, to whom all the sylvan sins came by nature;
and he engaged the best lawyer who could be had to defend him, and if
possible get the wild fellow free. Where was the harm? Wild Bampfylde
had never been guilty of violence to any human creature, he ascertained.
It was only the creatures of the woods he waged war against, not even
the gamekeepers. And when Sir Henry, coming home from Quarter Sessions,
informed the party that Wild Bampfylde had managed to get off by some
quibble, the magistrates being fairly tired of convicting him, everybody
was delighted to hear of the safety of Geoff’s _protégé_ except the two
elder ladies, who showed no satisfaction. Neither of them were glad,
notwithstanding that Geoff was so much interested; Lady Stanton from a
vague concern for her son, and Mary because of the prejudice in her
which all her gentleness could not eradicate. She looked at Geoff with
tears in her eyes. “You will have nothing to do with them,” she said;
“him nor any of them? Oh, Geoff, promise!” which was inconsistent, as it
was she herself who had put the old mother in his way. But Geoff only
laughed, and asked what he could have to do with them, and made no
promise. This episode had not interfered with the business of life, with
the afternoon party or the dinner, the dancing or the croquet. All had
“gone off” as well as possible. Laura and Lydia had “enjoyed
themselves” to their hearts’ content. They had been admired and praised
and fêted, and every one had said it was a delightful party. What more
could any young lady of nineteen desire? Geoff was very good-natured,
and did everything that was asked of him. And Laura wore his bracelet,
which was much admired by her friends, and gave rise to many pleasant
suggestions. “He is just the very person for you,” Lydia said
reflectively, as she examined it. “Now I should have liked emeralds or
diamonds, or grown-up jewels; but the turquoises are the very thing for
you. He sees your taste. If he were not Lord Stanton, just for simple
suitableness you should marry Geoff--he is the very person for you.”

“I do not see why I should be made to marry any one for simple
suitableness, as if I were a baby,” was Laura’s protestation; but she
liked the turquoises, and she did not dislike the hints and smiling
gossip. And when young Lord Stanton and his mother went away, the house
regretted them from the highest to the lowest. The little girls stood
behind backs, crying, when the carriage drove away. “I should like to
know what they have to cry about,” Lydia said; “what is Geoff to them?
It is such nonsense; but they always are encouraged in everything. You
two little things, stop that, and be off with you! You are always in
some one’s way.”

“He is as much our cousin as yours,” said Fanny, who was always known to
be saucy; but they skimmed away in a panic when Lydia turned round upon
them, not knowing what she might do. “Oh, how nice it would be to have
nothing but a mamma!” they said to each other as they alighted in her
room, where it was always quiet, and smoothed down their ruffled plumes.
Poor little doves! it was not for Geoff alone they were crying, for
Geoff’s mother had been very good to them. They had hung about her for
hours, and had stories told to them, and the world seemed an empty sort
of place when these two visitors went away.

The mother and son drove home to their own house, he a little sorry, she
a little glad. It was wrong perhaps to be glad, implying a kind of tacit
censure on the people she had left; but there was no harm in being
happy to get home. Stanton Hall was not an immemorial place like
Penninghame, nor a cosy unpretending country house like Elfdale, but a
great mansion intended to be grand and splendid, and overawe the
country. The splendour had fallen into a little disuse during Geoff’s
long minority, but as he had lived chiefly at home with his mother, it
had proportionately gained in comfort and the home aspect which only
being lived in can give to a house. They lived chiefly in one wing,
leaving the state part of the mansion almost unoccupied. Geoff had not
been brought up as most youths of his age are brought up. His mother had
been too timorous, both physically and spiritually, to trust her child
amid all the appalling dangers and indulgences of a public school. And
he had not even, more wonderful still, gone to any university. She was
his sole guardian, no one sharing her powers, for it never had been
supposed that little Geoff would be anybody in particular, or that it
was of the least importance how his mother brought him up. His education
had therefore been chiefly conducted at home by a tutor, chosen rather
for his goodness than his learning. Did it matter very much? Geoff was
not very clever, and it does not require much learning, as Mrs.
Hardcastle concluded in the case of her son Tony Lumpkin, to spend
fifteen thousand a year. Geoff had learned a great many things which
university men do not much meddle with, and he had forgotten as
successfully as any university man could do. He had a great deal less
Greek, but a good deal more French than most of those heroes; and he was
a good, honest, simple-hearted boy, as, Heaven be praised, in spite of
their many advantages, a great many of those same university men manage
to be. And, in short, he was very much like his contemporaries, though
brought up so very differently--a fact which would have wounded his
mother’s feelings more than anything else you could have said; for if
the result is just about the same as it would have been by the other
process, what is the good of taking a great deal of additional trouble?
Mr. Tritton, the tutor, had been all alone at Stanton during this visit
to Elfdale. He was a very good man. He had been as kind as a father to
Geoff from the moment he took charge of him, and had watched over him
with unfailing care; indeed he was like a second mother as
well--perhaps more like that than the other--very anxious not to
“over-tire” his pupil, or to put any strain on his faculties. They were
the most peaceful household that could be conceived, and Geoff,
according to all rule, ought to have grown up a very feminine youth. But
by good luck he had not done so. In that demure household he got to be a
lively, energetic, out-door sort of person, and loved adventure, and
loved life perhaps all the better in consequence of the meek atmosphere
of quietness which surrounded him. To tell the truth it was he who, for
a long time, had held the helm of the house in his hand, and had
everything his own way.

Mr. Tritton was upon the steps to welcome them, and the servants, who
were glad to see them back after the week of quiet. Who does not know
the kind of servants Lady Stanton would have?--men and women who had
seen the boy grow up, and thought or seemed to think there was nobody in
the world like Geoff--a housekeeper to whom her mistress was very
obsequious and conciliatory, but whom Geoff treated with a familiarity
which sometimes froze the very blood in his mother’s veins, who would
not for the world have taken such liberties; and a butler, who felt
himself an independent country gentleman, and went and came very much at
his own pleasure, and governed his inferiors _en bon prince_, but with a
lively sense of his own importance. These all received the travellers
with cordiality at the door, and brought them tea and were very kind to
them. It was quite touching and gratifying to Lady Stanton that they
should always be so kind. Harris, the butler, took her little
travelling-bag, and carried it into the drawing-room with his own hand;
and Mrs. Benson herself came to pour out her cup of tea. “I hope your
ladyship is not too much tired with your long drive,” Mrs. Benson said;
and Harris kindly lingered to hear her reply, and to assure her that all
had been going on well at Stanton while she was away.

Geoff did not pay so much attention to the kindness of the servants. He
went off to the stables to give some orders, leaving Mr. Tritton with
his mother. Geoff called his tutor Old Tritton as easily as if he had
mixed in the world of men at Eton or Oxford, and went off about his own
business unconcerned. But when he had turned the corner of the house to
the stables, Geoff’s whistle stopped suddenly. He found a man standing
there with his back against the wall, whose appearance startled him. A
poacher is a thing that is obnoxious to every country gentleman, however
easy his principles may be on the question of game; and a tramp is a
thing that nobody with a house worth robbing can away with. The figure
that presented itself thus suddenly before Lord Stanton’s eyes was the
quintessence of both; a tall, loose-limbed man, with strong black locks
and an olive skin, in coarse velveteen and gaiters, and a coat with
multitudinous pockets, with a red handkerchief knotted round his neck, a
soft felt hat crushed into all manner of shapes, and a big stick in his
hand. He stood in a careless attitude, at his ease, leaning against the
wall. What had such a man to do there? and yet there he was for a
purpose, as any one could see, lying in wait; was it to rob, or to kill?
Geoff’s heart gave a little leap at the sight of the intruder. He had
not had much experience of this kind.

“What are you doing here?” he asked sharply, the instincts of property
and authority springing up in disapproval and resistance. What had such
a fellow to do here?

“I am doing nothing,” said the man, not changing his attitude, or even
taking off his hat, or showing the smallest mark of respect. He
continued even to lounge against the wall with rude indifference. “I am
here on your business, not on mine,” he said, carelessly.

“On my business! Yes, I know,” said Geoff, suddenly bethinking himself;
“you are Bampfylde? I am glad you’ve got off; and you come to me
from----”

“Old ’Lizabeth; that is about it. She’s a funny woman: whatever silly
thing she wants she always gets her way. She wants you now, and I’ve
come to fetch you. I suppose you’ll come, since she says it. And you’d
better make up your mind soon, for it does not suit me to stay here.”

“I suppose not,” said Geoff, scarcely noticing what he said.

“Why should you suppose not!” said the man, rousing himself with an air
of offence. He was taller than Geoff, a lanky but muscular figure. “I
have eyes and feelings as well as you. I like a fine place. Why
shouldn’t I take my pleasure looking at it? You have a deal more, and
yet you’re not content.”

“We were not discussing our feelings,” said Geoff, half contemptuous,
half sympathetic. “You have brought me a message, perhaps from your
mother?”

“I’ve come from old ’Lizabeth. She says if you like to start to-night
along with me we’ll talk your business over, and if she can satisfy you
she will. Look you here, my young lord, your lordship’s a deal of
consequence to some, but it’s nothing to her and me. Come, if you like
to come; it’s your business, not our’s. If there’s danger it’s your own
risk, if there’s any good it’s you that will have it, not us----”

“Danger!” said Geoff; “the danger of a walk up the fells! and good--to
me? Yes, you can say it is to me if you like, but you ought to be more
interested than I am. However, words don’t matter. Yes, let us say the
good is mine, and the danger, if any, is mine----”

“Have it your own way,” said Bampfylde. “I’ll come back again, since
you’ve made up your mind, at ten to-night and show you the way.”

“But why at night?” said Geoff; “to-morrow would be better. It is not
too far to go in a day.”

“There’s the difference between you and us. Night is our time, you see.
It must be by night or not at all. Would you like to walk with me across
country, my lord? I don’t think you would, nor I wouldn’t like it. We
shouldn’t look natural together. But at night all’s one. I’ll be here at
ten; there’s a moon--and a two hours’ walk, or say three at the most,
it’s nothing to a young fellow like you.”

This was a very startling proposition, and Geoff did not know what to
make of it. It grew more and more like a mysterious adventure, and
pleased him on that side; but he was a modern young man, with a keen
perception of absurdity, and everything melodramatic was alarming to
him. Why should he walk mysteriously in the middle of the night to a
cottage about which there need be no mystery on a perfectly innocent and
honest errand? He stared at his strange visitor with a perplexity beyond
words.

“What possible object could be gained,” he said at last, “by going in
the night?”

“Oh, if you’re afraid!” said this strange emissary, “don’t go--that’s
all about it: neither me nor her are forcing you to hear what we may
happen to know.”

“I am not afraid,” said Geoff, colouring. It was an accusation which was
very hard to bear. “But there is reason in all things. I don’t want to
be ridiculous--” The man shrugged his shoulders--he laughed--nothing
could have been more galling. Geoff standing, looking at him, felt the
blood boiling in his veins.

“Quite right too,” said Bampfylde. “What can we know that’s worth the
trouble? You’ll take a drive up some day in your coach and four, and
oblige us. That is just what I would do myself.”

“In Heaven’s name, what am I expected to do?” cried Geoff; “make a
melodramatic ass of myself, and go in the middle of the night?”

“I’m no scholar: long words are not my sort. Do or don’t, that’s the
thing I understand, and it is easy to settle. If you’re not coming, say
No, and I’ll go. If you are coming, let me know, and I’ll be here.
There’s nothing to make such a wonder about.”

Geoff was in great doubt what was best to do. The adventure pleased him;
but the idea of ridicule held him back. “It is not pleasant to be
thought a fool,” he said. Then, nettled by the jeer in the face of this
strange fellow who kept his eyes--great, dark, and brilliant as they
were--fixed upon him, the young man cut the knot hurriedly. “Then never
mind the absurdity; be here at ten, as you say, and wait if I am not
ready. I don’t want everybody to know what a fool I am,” he said.

“You are coming then?” said the man with a laugh. “That’s plucky
whatever happens. You’re not afraid?”

“Pooh!” cried Geoff, turning away. He was too indignant and annoyed to
speak. He went on impatiently to the stables, leaving the stranger where
he stood. He was not afraid; but his young frame thrilled in every fibre
with excitement. Had not adventures of this kind sounded somewhat
ridiculous to the ideas of to-day, the mysterious expedition would have
been delightful to him. But that uneasy sense of the ridiculous kept
down his anticipations. What could old ’Lizabeth have to tell that could
justify such precautions? But if she chose to be fantastic about her
secret, whatever it was, he must humour her. When he went in again,
there was no sign of his visitor, except the half-effaced mark of a
footstep on the soft gravel. The man had ground the heel of his boot
into it while he stood talking, and there it was, his mark to show the
place where he had been.

The evening passed very strangely to young Lord Stanton. He heard his
mother and Mr. Tritton talking calmly of to-morrow. To-morrow the old
family lawyer was expected, and some of the arrangements attendant on
his coming of age, which was approaching, were to be discussed; and he
was asked, What he would like--in one or two respects. Should this be
done, or that, when his birthday came? Geoff could not tell what curious
trick of imagination affected him. He caught himself asking, Would he
ever come of age? Would to-morrow be just as the other days, no more and
no less? How absurd the question was! What could possibly happen to him
in a long mountain walk, even though it might be through the darkness?
There is nothing in that homely innocent country to make midnight
dangerous. Wild Bampfylde might be an exciting sort of companion; but
what more? As for enemies, Geoff remembered what he had said so short a
time before. He did not believe in them; why should he? he himself, he
felt convinced, possessed no such thing in all the world.

But it was astonishing how difficult it was that evening to get free.
Lady Stanton, who generally was fatigued with the shortest journey, was
cheerful and talkative to-night, and overflowing with plans; and even
Mr. Tritton was entertaining. It was only by saying that he had letters
to write that Geoff at last managed to get away. He disliked writing
letters so much that the plea was admitted with smiles. “We must not
balk such a virtuous intention,” the tutor said. He went into the
library with a beating heart. This room had a large window which opened
upon the old-fashioned bowling-green. Geoff changed his dress with great
speed and quiet, putting on a rough shooting suit. The night was dark,
but soft, with stars faintly lighting up a hazy sky. He stepped out from
the big window and closed it after him. The air was very fresh, a little
chilly, as even a midsummer night generally is in the north country. He
gave a little nervous shiver as he came out into the darkness and
dullness. “There’s some one walking over your grave,” said a voice at
his elbow. Geoff started, to his own intense shame and annoyance, as if
he had received a shot. “Very likely,” he said, commanding himself;
“over all our graves perhaps. That harms nobody. You are there,
Bampfylde? That’s well; don’t talk, but go on.”

“You’re a good bold one after all,” said the voice by his side. Geoff’s
heart beat uneasily at the sound, and yet the commendation gave him a
certain pleasure. He was more at his ease when they emerged from the
shadow of the house, and he could see the outline of his companion’s
figure, and realize him as something more than a voice. He gave a
somewhat longing look back at the scattered lights in the windows as he
set out thus through the silence and darkness. Would any one find out
that he was gone? But his spirit rose as they went on, at a steady pace,
swinging along under the deep hedgerows, and across the frequent bridges
where so many streamlets kept crossing the road, adding an unseen tinkle
to the sounds of the summer night.




CHAPTER XIX.

A MIDNIGHT WALK.


When young Lord Stanton left his own house with Wild Bampfylde there was
a tingle of excitement in the young man’s veins. Very few youths of his
age are to be found so entirely home-bred as Geoff. He had never been in
the way of mischief, and he had no natural tendency to lead him
thitherward, so that he had passed these first twenty years of his
existence without an adventure, without anything occurring to him that
might not have been known to all the world. To leave your own house
when other people are thinking of going to bed, for an expedition you
know not where, under the guidance of you know not whom, is a
sufficiently striking beginning to the path of mystery and adventure;
and there was a touch of personal peril in it which gave Geoff a little
tingle in his veins. His brother had been killed by some one with whom
this wild fellow was closely connected; it was a secret of blood which
the young man had set himself to solve one way or other; and this no
doubt affected his imagination, and for a short time the consciousness
of danger was strong in him, quickening his pulses and making his heart
beat. This was increased by a sense of wrong-doing, in so far as Geoff
felt that he might be exposing the tranquil household he had left behind
to agonies of apprehension about him, did he not return sufficiently
early to escape being found out. Finally, on the top of this
consciousness of conditional fault came a feeling, perhaps the most
strong of all, of the possible absurdity of his position. Romantic
adventure, if it never ceases to be attractive to the young, is looked
upon with different eyes at different periods, and the nineteenth
century has agreed to make a joke of melodrama. Instead of being moved
by a fine romantic situation, the modern youth laughs; and the idea of
finding himself in such picturesque and dramatic circumstances strikes
him as the most curious and laughable, if not ridiculous, idea. To
recognize himself as setting out, like the hero of a novel or a play (of
the old school), to search out a mystery--into the haunts of a
law-defying and probably law-breaking class, under the guidance of a
theatrical vagrant, tramp, or gipsy, to ask counsel of the weird old
woman, bright-eyed and solemn, who held all the threads of the story in
her hands, filled Geoff with mingled confusion and amusement. He had
almost laughed to himself as he realized it; but with the laugh a flush
came over his face--what would other people think? He felt that he would
be laughed at as romantic, jibed at as being able to believe that any
real or authentic information could be obtained in this ridiculous way.
’Lizabeth Bampfylde in the witness-box would no doubt be valuable, but
the romances she might tell in her own house, to a young man evidently
so credulous and of such a theatrical temperament--these two things
were entirely different, and he would be thoroughly laughed at for his
foolishness.

This consciousness of something ridiculous in the whole business
reassured him, however; and better feelings rose as he went on with a
half-pleased, half-excited, exhilaration and curiosity. The night was
fine, warm, and genial, but dark; a few stars shone large and lambent in
the veiled sky, but there was as yet no moon, so that all the light
there was was concentrated above in the sky, and the landscape
underneath was wrapped in darkness, a soft, cool, incense-breathing
obscurity--for night is as full of odours as the morning. It is full of
sounds too, all the more mysterious for having no kind of connection
with the visible; and no country is so full of sounds as the North
country, where the road will now thread the edge of a dark, unseen,
heathery, thymy moor, and now cross, at a hundred links and folds, the
course of some invisible stream, or some dozens of little runlets
tinkling on their way to a bigger home of waters. Now dark hedgerows
would close in the path; now it would open up and widen into that world
of space, the odorous, dewy moorland; now lead by the little street, the
bridge, the straggling outskirts of a village. Generally all was quiet
in the hamlets, the houses closed, the inhabitants in bed, but sometimes
there would be a sudden gleam of lightness into the night, a dazzle from
an open door or unshuttered window. The first of these rural places was
Stanton, the village close to the great House, where Geoff unconsciously
stole closer into the shadow, afraid to be seen. Here it was the smithy
that was still open, a dazzling centre of light in the gloom. The smith
came forward to his door as they passed, roused by the steady tread of
their footsteps, and looked curiously out upon them, his figure relieved
against the red background of light. “What, Dick! is’t you, lad?” he
said, peering out. “Got off again? that’s right, that’s right; and who’s
that along with you this fine night?” Bampfylde did not stop to reply,
to Geoff’s great relief. He went on with long swinging steps, taking no
notice. “If anybody asks you, say you don’t know,” he said as he went
on, throwing back a sort of challenge into the gloom. He did not talk to
his companion. Sometimes he whistled low, but as clearly as a bird,
imitating indeed the notes of the birds, the mournful cry of the
lapwing, the grating call of the corn-crake; sometimes he would sing to
himself low crooning songs. In this way they made rapid progress to the
foot of the hills.

Geoff had been glad of the silence at first; it served to deliver him
from those uncomfortable thoughts which had filled his mind, the
vagabond’s carelessness reassuring and calming his excitement; for
neither the uneasy sense of danger he had started with, nor the equally
uneasy sense of the ludicrous which had possessed him, were consistent
with the presence of this easy, unexcited companion, who conducted
himself as if he were alone, and would stop and listen to the whirr and
flutter of wild creatures in the hedgerows or on the edge of the moor,
as if he had forgotten Geoff’s very presence. All became simple as they
went on, the very continuance of the walk settling down and calming the
agitation of the outset. By and by, however, Geoff began to be impatient
of the silence, and of the interest his companion showed in everything
except himself. Could he be, perhaps, one of the “naturals” who are so
common in the North, a little less imbecile than usual, but still
incapable of continuous attention? Thus, after his first half-alarmed,
half-curious sense of the solemnity of the enterprise, Geoff came back
to an everyday boyish impatience of its unusual features and a
disposition to return to the lighter intercourse of ordinary life.

“How far have we to go now?” he asked. They had come to the end of the
level, and were just about to ascend the lower slopes of hilly country
which shut in the valley. The fells rising before them made the
landscape still more dark and mysterious, and seemed to thrust
themselves between the wayfarers’ eyes and that light which seemed to
retire more and more into the clear pale shining of the sky.

“Tired already?” said the man, with a shrug of his shoulders. He had
stopped to investigate a hollow under a great gorse-bush, just below the
level of the road, from which came rustlings and scratchings
indistinguishable. Bampfylde raised himself with a half-laugh, and came
back to Geoff’s side. “These small creatures is never tired,” he said;
“they scuds about all day, and sleep that light at night that a breath
wakes them; and yet they’re but small, not so big as my hand; and knows
their way, they does, wherever they’ve got to go.”

“I allow they are cleverer than I am,” said Geoff, good-humouredly, “but
then they cannot speak to ask their way. Men have a little advantage.
And even I am not so ignorant as you think. I have been on the fells in
a mist, and knew my way, or guessed it. At all events, I got home again,
and that is something.”

“There will be no mist to-night,” said Bampfylde, looking up at the sky.

“No; but it is dark enough for anything. Look here, I trust you, and you
might trust me. You know why I am going.”

“How do you trust me, my young lord?”

“Well,” said Geoff; “supposing I am a match for you, one man against
another, how can I tell you have not got comrades about? My brother lost
his life--by some one connected with you. Did you know my brother?”

The suddenness of this question took his companion by surprise. He
wavered for a moment, and fell backward with an involuntary movement of
alarm.

“What’s that for, lad, bringing up a dead man’s name out here in the
dark, and near midnight? Do you want to fley me? _I_ never meddled with
him. He would be safe in his bed this night, and married to his bonnie
lady, and bairns in his house to heir his title and take your lordship
from you, if there had been nobody but me.”

“I believe that,” said Geoff, softened. “They say you never harmed man.”

“No, nor beast--except varmint, or the like of a hare or so--when the
old wife wanted a bit o’ meat. Never man. For man’s blood is precious,”
said the wild fellow with a shudder. “There’s something in it that’s not
in a brute. If I were to kill you or you me in this lonesome place,
police and that sort might never find it out; but all the same, the
place would tell--there would be something there different; they say
man’s blood never rubs out.”

Geoff felt a little thrill run through his own veins as he saw his
companion shiver and tremble; but it was not fear. The words somehow
established perfect confidence between himself and his guide; and he had
all the simplicity of mind of a youth whose faith had never been
tampered with, and who believed with the unshaken sincerity of
childhood. “The stain on the mind never wears out,” he said,
thoughtfully. “I knew a boy once who had shot his brother without
knowing it. How horrible it was! he never forgot it; and yet it was not
his fault.”

“Ah! I wish as I had been that lucky--to shoot my brother by accident,”
said Wild Bampfylde, with a long sigh, shaking into its place a pouch or
game-bag which he wore across his shoulder. “It would have been the best
thing for him,” he added, in answer to Geoff’s cry of protest; “then he
wouldn’t have lived--for worse----”

“Have you a brother so unfortunate?”

“Unfortunate! I don’t know if that is what you call it. Yes,
unfortunate. He never meant bad. I don’t credit it.”

“You are not speaking,” said Geoff, in a very low voice, overpowered at
once with curiosity and interest, “of John Musgrave?”

“The young Squire? No, I don’t mean him; he’s bad, and bad enough, but
not so bad. You’ve got a deal to learn, my young lord. And what’s your
concern with all that old business? If another man’s miserable, _that_
don’t take bit or sup from you--nor a night’s rest, unless you let it.
You’ve got everything that heart could desire. Why can’t you be content,
and let other folks be?”

“When we could help them, Bampfylde?” said Geoff. “Is that the way you
would be done by? Left to languish abroad; left with a stain on your
name, and no one to hold out a hand for you--nobody to try to get you
righted; only thinking of their own comfort, and the bit and the sup and
the night’s rest?”

“You’ve never done without neither one nor t’other,” came in a hoarse
undertone from Bampfylde’s lips. “It’s fine talking; but it’s little you
know.”

“No, I’ve never had the chance,” said Geoff. “I can’t tell what it’s
like, that’s true; but if it ever comes my way----”

“Ah, ay! it’s fine talking--it’s fine talking!”

Geoff did not know how to reply. He went on impatiently, tossing aloft
his young head, as a horse does, excited by his own words like the
playing of a trumpet. They proceeded so up a stiff bit of ascent that
taxed their strength and their breathing, and made conversation less
practicable. The winding mountain road seemed to pierce into the very
fastnesses of the hills, and the tall figure of the vagrant a stop in
advance of him appeared to Geoff like the shadow of some ghostly pioneer
working his way into the darkness. No twinkle of a lamp, no outline of
any inhabited place looming against the lighter risings of the manifold
slopes, encouraged their progress. The hills, which would have made the
very brightness of the morning dark, increased the gloom of the night.
Only the tinkle of here and there a little stream, the sound of their
own footsteps as they passed on, one in advance of the other, the small
noises which came so distinctly through the air--here a rustle, there a
jar of movement, something stirring under a stone, something moving amid
the heather, were to be heard. Bampfylde himself was stilled by these
great shadows. His whistle dropped; and the low croon of song which he
had raised from time to time did not take its place. He became almost
inaudible, as he was almost invisible; only the sound of a measured step
and a large confused outline seen at times against the uncertain
openings and bits of darkling sky.

When they came abreast again, however, on a comparatively smooth level,
after a stiff piece of climbing, he spoke suddenly. “It’s queer work
going like this through the dark. Many a night I have done it with no
company, and then a man’s drawn out of himself watching the living
things: one will stir at your foot, and one go whirr and strike across
your very face, for they put more trust in you in the dark. You see they
have the use of their eyesight, and the like of you and me haven’t. So
they know their advantage. But put a man down beside another man, and
a’s changed. I cannot understand the meaning of it. It puts things in
your head, and it puts away the innocent creatures. Men’s seldom
innocent: but they’re awful strange,” said the vagrant, with a sigh.

“Do you think they are so strange? I am not sure that I do,” said Geoff,
bewildered a little. “They are just like everything else--one is dull,
one is clever; but except for that----”

“Clever! it’s the creatures that are clever. Did you ever see a bird
make a fuss to get you off where her nest was? A woman wouldn’t have
sense to do that. She’d run and shriek, and get hold of her bairns; but
the bird’s clever. That’s what I calls clever. It’s something stranger
than that. When a man’s beside you, all’s different; there’s him
thinking and you thinking; and though you’re close, and I can grip
you”--here Bampfylde seized upon Geoff with a sudden, startling grasp,
which alarmed the young man--“I can’t tell no more than Adam where your
mind is. Asking your pardon, my young lord, I didn’t mean to startle
you,” he added, dropping his hold. “Now the creatures is all there; you
know where you have ’em. Far the contrary with a man.”

Geoff was not given to abstract thoughts, and this sudden entry into the
regions of the undiscovered perplexed him. “You like company, then?” he
said, doubtfully. He knew a great deal more than his companion did of
almost everything that could be suggested, but not of this.

“Like company? it’s confusing, very confusing. But the creatures is
simple. You can watch their ways, and they’re never double-minded.
They’re at one thing, one thing at a time. Now, a man, there’s notions
in his head, and you can never tell how they got there.”

“I suppose,” said young Geoff, perplexed yet reverential, “it is because
men are immortal; not like the beasts that perish.”

“Ay, ay--I suppose they perish,” said Bampfylde. “What would they be
like us for, and sicken, and pine? They get the good of it all the time;
run wild as they like, and do mischief as they like, and never put in
gaol for it. You think they’re sleeping now? and so they are, and waking
too--as still as the stones and as lively as the stars up yonder. That’s
them; but us, if we’re sleeping, it’s for hours long, and dreams with
it; one bit of you lying like a log, t’other bit of you off at the ends
of the airth. So, if you’re woke sudden, chances are you aren’t there to
be woke--and there’s a business; but the creatures, they’re always
there.”

“That is true,” said Geoff, who was slightly overawed, and thought this
very fine and poetical--finer than anything he had ever realized before.
“But sometimes they are ill, I suppose, and suffer too?”

“Then them that is merciful puts them out of their pain. The
hardest-hearted ones will do that. A bird with a broken wing, or a beast
with a broken leg, unless it be one of the gentlefolks’ pets, that’s
half mankind, and has to suffer for it because his master’s fond of him
(and that’s funny too)--the worst of folks will put them out of their
pain. But a man--we canna’ do it,” cried the vagrant; “there’s law
again’ it, and more than law. If it was nothing but law, little the
likes of me would mind; but there’s something written here,” he said,
putting his hand to his breast; “something that hinders you.”

“I hope so indeed,” said Geoff, a little breathless, with a sense of
horror; “you would not take away a life?”

“But the creatures, ay; they have the best of it. You point your gun at
them, or you wring their necks, and it’s all over. I’m fond of the
creatures--creatures of all kinds. I’m fond of being out with them on a
heathery moor like this all myself. They know me, and there’s no fear in
them. In the morning early, when the air’s all blue with the dawn, the
stirring and the moving there is, and the scudding about, setting the
house in order! A thing not the size of your hand will come out with two
bright eyes, and cock its head and look up at you. A cat may look at a
king; a bit of a moor chicken, or a rabbit the size o’ my thumb, up and
faces you, and, ‘Who are you, my man?’ That is what they looks like; but
you never see them like that after it’s full day.”

“Then is night their happy time?” said Geoff, humouring his strange
companion.

“Night, they’re free. There’s none about that wishes them harm; and
though I snare varmint, and sometimes take a hare or a bird,--I’ll not
deny it, my young lord, though you were to clap me in prison again
to-morrow--they’re not afraid o’ me; they know I’ll not harm them. Even
the varmint, if they didn’t behave bad and hurt the rest, I’d never have
the heart. When you go back, if you do go back----”

“I must go back,” said Geoff, very gravely. “Why should not I? You don’t
think I could stay up here?”

“I was not thinking one thing or another. The like of you is contrary.
I’ve little to do with men; but when you go, if you go, it might be
early morning, the blue time, at the dawn. Then’s the time to see; when
there’s all the business to be done afore the day, and after the night.
Children is curious,” said Bampfylde, with a softening of his voice,
which felt in the darkness like a slowly dawning smile; “but creatures
is more curious yet. I like to watch them. You’ll see all the life
that’s in the moors if it’s that time when you go.”

“I suppose if there is anything to tell me I cannot go sooner,” said
Geoff. His tone was grave, and so was his face, though that was
invisible. “Then it will be day before I get home, and they will all
know--perhaps I was a fool.”

“For coming?” said the man, turning round to peer into his face though
it was covered by the darkness; and then he gave a low laugh. “I could
have told you that!”

For a moment Geoff’s blood ran colder; he felt a little thrill of
dismay. Was this strange creature a “natural” as he had thought, or did
what he said imply danger? But no more was said for a long time.
Bampfylde sank back again all at once into the silence he had so
suddenly broken, or rather into the low crooning of monotonous old songs
with which he had beguiled the first part of the journey. There was a
kind of slumbrous soothing in them which half-interested, half-stupefied
Geoff. They all went to one tune, a tune not like anything he knew--a
kind of low chant, recalling several airs that did not vary from verse
to verse, but repeated itself, and so lulled the wayfarer that all
active sensation seemed to go from him, and the monotonous, mechanical
movement of his limbs seemed to beat time to the croon of sound which
accompanied the gradual march. There was something weird in it,
something like “the woven paces and the waving hands” of the
enchantress. Geoff felt his eyes grow heavy, and his head sinking on his
breast, as the low, regular tramp and chant went on.

At length, all at once, the hills seemed to clear away from the sky,
opening up on either hand; and straight before them, hanging low, like
a signal of trouble, a late risen and waning moon that seemed thrust
forward out into the air, and hanging from the sky, appeared in the
luminous but mournful heaven in front of them. There is always something
more or less baleful and troublous in this sudden apparition, so late
and out of date, of a waning moon; the oil seems low in the lamp, the
light ready to be extinguished, the flame quivering in the socket.
Between them and the sky stood a long, low cottage, rambling and
extensive, with a rough, grey stone wall built round it, upon which the
pale moonlight shone. Long before they reached it, as soon as their
steps could be audible, the mingled baying and howling of a dog was
heard, rising doleful and ominous in the silence; and from under the
roof--which was half rough thatch and half the coarse tiles used for
labourers’ cottages--a light strangely red against the radiance of the
moon flickered with a livid glare. A strange black silhouette of a house
it was, with the low moonlight full upon it, showing here and there in a
ghostly full white upon a bit of wall or roof, and contrasting with the
red light in the window: it made a mystic sort of conclusion to the
journey. Bampfylde directed his steps towards it without a word. He
knocked a stroke or two on the door, which seemed to echo over all the
country and up to the mountain-tops in their great stillness. “We are at
home, now,” he said.




CHAPTER XX.

THE COTTAGE ON THE FELLS.


There was a sound of movement within the house, but no light visible as
they stood at the door. Then a window was cautiously opened, and a voice
called out into the darkness, “Is that you, my lad?” Geoff felt more and
more the little thrill of alarm which was quite instinctive, and meant
nothing except excited fancy; such precautions looked unlike the
ordinary ease and freedom of a peasant’s house. A minute after the door
was opened, and ’Lizabeth Bampfylde made her appearance. She had her
red handkerchief as usual tied over her white cap, and the flash of this
piece of colour and of the old woman’s brilliant eyes were the first
things which warmed the gloom, the blackness and whiteness and mystic
midnight atmosphere. She made an old-fashioned curtsey, with a certain
dignity in it, when she saw Geoff, and her face, which had been somewhat
eager in expression, paled and saddened instantly. The young man saw her
arms come together with a gesture of pain, though the candle she held
prevented the natural clasp of the hands. She was not glad to see him,
though she had sent for him. This troubled Geoff, whom from his
childhood most people had been pleased to see. “You’ve come, then, my
young lord?” she said, with a half-suppressed groan.

“Indeed, I thought you wanted me to come,” he said, unreasonably annoyed
by this absence of welcome; “you sent for me.”

“You thought the lad would be daunted,” said Wild Bampfylde, “and I told
you he would not be daunted if he had any metal in him. So now you’re at
the end of all your devices. Come in and welcome, my young lord. I’m
glad of it, for one.”

Saying this, the vagrant disappeared into the gloom of the interior,
where his step was audible moving about, and was presently followed by
the striking of a light, which revealed, through an open door, the
old-fashioned cottage kitchen, so far in advance of other moorland
cottages of the same kind, that it had a little square entrance from the
door, which did not open direct into the family living-room. This rude
little ante-room had even a kind of rude decoration, dimly apparent by
the light of ’Lizabeth’s candle. A couple of old guns hung on one wall,
another boasted a deer’s head with fine antlers. Once upon a time it had
evidently been prized and cared for. The open door of the room into
which Bampfylde had gone showed the ordinary cottage dresser with its
gleaming plates (a decoration which in these days has mounted from the
kitchen to the drawing-room), deal table, and old-fashioned settle,
lighted dimly by a small lamp on the mantelpiece, and the smouldering
red of the fire. ’Lizabeth closed the door slowly, and with trembling
hands, which trembled still more when Geoff attempted to help her. “No,
no; go in, go in, my young gentleman. Let me be. It’s me to serve the
like of you, not the like of you to open or shut my door for me. Ah,
these are the ways that make you differ from common folk!” she said, as
the young man stood back to let her pass. “My son leaves me to do
whatever’s to be done, and goes in before me, and calls me to serve him;
but the like of you--. It was that, and not his name or his money, that
took my Lily’s heart.”

Geoff followed her into the kitchen. It was low and large, with a small
deep-set window at each corner, as is usual in such cottages. Before the
fire was spread a large rug of home manufacture, made of scraps of
coloured cloth, arranged in an indistinct pattern upon a black
background, and Bampfylde was occupying himself busily, putting forward
a large high easy-chair in front of the fire, and breaking the
“gathered” coals to give at once heat and light. “Sit you down there,”
he said, thrusting Geoff into it almost with violence, “you’re little
used to midnight strolling. Me, it’s meat and drink to me to be free and
aneath the stars. Let her be, let her be. She’s not like one of your
ladies. Her own way, that’s all the like of her can ever get to please
them--and she’s gotten that,” he said, giving another vigorous poke to
the fire. Up here among the fells the fire was pleasant, though it was
the middle of August: and Geoff’s young frame was sufficiently unused to
such long trudges to make him glad of the rest. He sat down and looked
round him with a grateful sense of the warmth and repose. A
north-country cottage was no strange place to young Lord Stanton, and
all the tremour of the adventure had passed from him at the sight of the
light and the homely, kindly interior. No harm could possibly happen in
so familiar an atmosphere, and in such a natural place. Meantime old
’Lizabeth, with a thrill of agitation in her movements which was very
apparent, busied herself in laying the table, putting down a clean
tablecloth, and placing bread, cheese, and milk upon it. “I have wine,
if you like wine better,” she said. “He will get it, but he takes none
himself--nothing, poor lad, nothing. He’s a good son and a good
lad--many a time I’ve thanked God that He’s left me such a lad to be the
comfort of my old age.”

Wild Bampfylde gave a laugh which was harsh and broken. “You were not
always so thankful,” he said, producing out of some unseen corner a
black bottle; “but the milk is better of its kind, being natural, than
the wine.”

“Hush, lad; milk is little to the like of him; but _that’s_ good, for I
have it here for--a sick person. Take something, take something, young
gentleman. You can trust them that have broken bread in your presence,
and sat at your table. Well, if you will have the milk, though it costs
but little, it’s good too; I would not give my brown cow for ne’er a one
in the dales; and eat a bit of the wheaten bread,--it’s baker’s bread,
like what you eat at your own grand house. I would not be so mean as to
set you down, a gentleman like you, to what’s good and good enough for
us. The griddle-cake! no, but you’ll not eat that, my young lord, not
that; it’s o’er homely for the like of you.”

“I am not hungry,” said Geoff, “and I came here, you know, not to eat
and drink, but to hear something you had to tell me, Mrs. Bampfylde--”

“My name is ’Lizabeth--nobody says mistress to me.”

“Well; but you have something to tell me. I left home without any
explanation, and I wish to get back soon, that they--that my mother,”
said Geoff, half-ashamed, yet too proud to omit the apparently (he
thought) childish excuse, since it was true, “may not be uneasy.”

“Your mother? forgive me that did not mind your mother! Oh, you’re a
good lad; you’re worthy a woman’s trust that thinks of your mother, and
dares to say it! Ay, ay--there’s plenty to tell; if I can make up my
mind to it--if I can make up my mind!”

“Was not your mind made up then,” said Geoff with some impatience, “when
in this way, in the night, you sent for me?”

“Oh lad!” cried ’Lizabeth, wringing her hands. “How was I to know you
would come, the like of you to the like of me? I put it on Providence
that has been often contrairy--oh, aye contrairy, to mine and me. I
shouldn’t have tempted God. I said to myself, if he comes it will be the
hand of Heaven. But who was to think you would come? You a lord, and a
fine young gentleman, and me a poor old woman, old as your grandmother.
I thought my heart would have sunk to my shoes when I saw he had come
after a’!”

“I told you he would come,” said Bampfylde, who stood leaning against
the mantelpiece. He had taken his bread and cheese from the table, and
was eating it where he stood.

“Of course I would come,” said Geoff. “I could not suppose you would
send for me for nothing. I knew it must be something important. Tell me
now, for here I am.”

’Lizabeth sat down, dropping into a wooden arm-chair at the end of the
table with a kind of despair, and throwing her apron over her head, fell
a-crying feebly. “What am I to do? what am I to do?” she said, sobbing.
“I have tempted Providence--Oh, but I forgot what was written, ‘Thou
shalt not tempt the Lord thy God.’”

For a minute or two neither of the men spoke, and the sounds of her
distress were all that was audible. Once or twice, indeed, Geoff thought
he heard a faint sound, like the echo of some low wail or moan, come
through the silence. Not the moan itself, but an echo, a ghost of it.
But his companions took no notice of this, and he thought he must be
mistaken. Everything besides was still. The fire by this time had burned
up, and now and then broke into a little flutter of flame; the clock
went on ticking with that measured steady movement which ‘beats out the
little lives of men;’ and the broken sobs grew lower. An impatience of
the stillness began to take possession of Geoff, but what was he to do?
He restrained himself with an effort.

“You should make a clean breast,” said Bampfylde, munching his bread and
cheese as he spoke, with his eyes fixed on the fire, not looking at his
mother. “Long since it would have been well to do it and an ease to your
mind. I would make a clean breast now.”

“Oh, lad, a clean breast, a clean breast!” she said, rocking herself.
“If it was only me it concerned--if it was only me!”

“If it was only you what would it matter?” said the vagrant, with a
philosophy which sounded less harsh to the person addressed than to him
who looked on. “You--you’re old, and you’ll die, and there would be an
end of it; but them that suffer most have years and years before them,
and if you die before you do justice----”

“Then _you_ can tell, that have aye wanted to tell!” she cried with a
hot outburst of indignation mingled with tears. Then she resumed that
monotonous movement, rocking herself again and again, and calmed herself
down. It is not so intolerable to a peasant to be told of his or her
approaching end as it is to others. She was used to plain speech, and
was it not reasonable what he said? “It’s all true, quite true. I’m old,
and I cannot bide here for ever to watch him and think of him--and I
might make a friend, the Lord grant it, and find one to stand by
him----”

“You mean another, a second one,” said her son. He stood through all
this side dialogue munching his bread and cheese without once glancing
at her even, his shoulders high against the mantelpiece, his eyes cast
down.

After a moment’s interval ’Lizabeth rose. She came forward moving feebly
in her agitation to where Geoff sat. “My young lord, if I tell you
_that_ that I would rather die than tell--that that breaks my heart;
you’ll mind that I am doing it to make amends to the dead and to the
living--and--you’ll swear to me first to keep it secret? You’ll swear
your Bible oath?--without that, not another word.”

“Swear!” said Geoff, in alarm.

“Just swear--you can do it as well, they tell me, in one place as
another, in a private house or a justice court. I hope we have Bibles
here--Bibles enough--if we but make a right use of them,” said the old
woman, perplexed, mingling the formulas of common life with the
necessities of an extraordinary and unrealized emergency. “Here is a
Testament, that is what is taken to witness in the very court itself.
You’ll lay your hand upon it, and you’ll kiss the book and swear. Where
are you going to, young man?”

Geoff rose and pushed away the book she had placed before him. He was
half indignant, half disappointed. “Swear!” he said, “do you know what I
want this information for? Is it to lock it up in my mind, as you seem
to have done? I want it for use. I want it to help a man who has been
cruelly treated between you. I have no right to stand up for him,” said
Geoff, his nostrils expanding, his cheeks flushing, “but I feel for
him--and do you think I will consent to put my last chance away, and
hear your story for no good? No indeed; if I am not to make use of it I
will go back again and find out for myself--I don’t want to be told.”

The old woman, and it may be added her son also, stood and gazed upon
the glowing eager countenance of the young man with a mingling of
feelings which it would be impossible to describe. Admiration, surprise,
and almost incredulity were in them. He had not opposed them hitherto,
and it was almost impossible to believe that he would have the courage
to oppose them so decidedly; but as he stood confronting them, young,
simple, ingenuous, reasonable, they were both convinced of their error.
Geoff would yield no more than the hill behind. His very simplicity and
easiness made him invulnerable. Wild Bampfylde burst into that sudden
broken laugh which is with some the only evidence of emotion. He came
forward hastily and patted Geoff’s shoulder, “That’s right, my lad,
that’s right,” he cried.

“You will not,” said old ’Lizabeth; “not swear?--and not hear me?--oh,
but you’re bold--oh, but you’ve a stout heart to say that to me in my
ain house! Then the Lord’s delivered me, and I’ll say nothing,” she said
with a sudden cry of delight.

Her son came up and took her by the arm. “Look here,” he said, “it was
me that brought him. I did not approve, but I did your bidding, as I’ve
always done your bidding; but I’ve changed my mind if you’ve changed
yours. Now that he is here, make no more fuss, but tell him; for,
remember, I know everything as well as you do, and if you will not, I
will. We have come too far to go back now. Tell him; or I will take him
where he can see with his own eyes.”

“See! what will he see?” cried ’Lizabeth, with a flush of angry colour.
“Do you threaten me, lad? He’ll see a poor afflicted creature; but that
will tell him nothing.”

“Mother! are you aye the same? Still _him_, always him, whatever
happens. What has there been that has not yielded to him? the rest of
us, your children as well, and justice and honour and right and your own
comfort, and the young Squire’s life. Oh, it’s been a bonnie business
from first to last! And if you will not tell now, then there is no hope
that I can see; and I will do it myself. I am not threatening; but what
must be, must be. Mother, I’ll have to do it myself.”

When he first addressed her as mother, ’Lizabeth had started with a
little cry. What might be the reason that made this mode of expression
unusual it was impossible to say; but it affected the old woman as
nothing had yet done. She looked up at him with a wondering, wistful
inquiry in her face, as if to ask in what meaning he used the
word--kindly or unkindly, taunting or loving? When he repeated the name
she started up as if the sound stung her, and stood for a moment like
one driven half out of herself by force of pressure. She looked wildly
round her as if looking for some escape, then suddenly seized the
lighted candle, which still burned on the table. “Then if it must be,
let it be,” she said. “Oh, lad! it’s years and years since I’ve heard
that name! you that would not, and him that could not, and her that was
far away; was there ever a mother as sore punished?” But it would seem
that this expression of feeling exhausted the more generous impulse, for
she set down the light on the table again, and dropping into her seat,
threw her apron over her head. “No, I canna do it; I canna do it. Let
him die in quiet. It canna be long.”

The vagrant watched her with a keen scrutiny quite unlike his usual
careless ways. “It’s not them as are a burden on the earth that dies,”
he said. “You’ve said that long--let him die in peace; let him die in
peace. Am I wishing him harm? There’s ne’er a one will hurt _him_. He’s
safe enough. Whoever suffers, it will not be him.”

“Oh, lad, lad!” cried the mother, uncovering her face to look at him. At
’Lizabeth’s age there are no floods of tears possible. Her eyes were
drawn together and full of moisture--that was all, She looked at him
with a passion of reproach and pain. “Did you say suffer? What’s a’ the
troubles that have been into this house to his affliction? My son, my
son, my miserable lad! You that can come and go as you like, that have a
mind free, that have your light heart--oh ay, you have a light heart,
or how could you waste your days and your nights among beasts and wild
things? How can the like of you judge the like of him?”

During this long discussion, to which he had no sort of clue, Geoff
stood looking from one to another in a state of perplexity impossible to
describe. It could not be John Musgrave they were talking of? Who could
it be? Some one who was “afflicted,” yet who had been exempt from
burdens which had fallen in his stead upon others. Young Lord Stanton,
who had come here eager to hear all the story in which he was so much
interested, anxious to discover everything, stood, his eyes growing
larger, his lips dropping apart in sheer wonder, listening; and feeling
all the time that these two peasants spoke a different language from
himself, and one to which he had no clue. Just then, however, in the
dead silence after ’Lizabeth had spoken, the faint sound like a muffled
cry which he had heard before, broke in more loudly. It made Geoff
start, who could not guess what it meant, and it roused his companions
effectually, who did know. ’Lizabeth wrung her hands; she raised her
head in an agony of listening. “He has got one of his ill turns,” she
said. Bampfylde, too, abandoned his careless attitude by the
mantelpiece, and stood up watchful, startled into readiness and
preparation as for some emergency. But the cry was not repeated, and
gradually the tension relaxed again. “It would be but an ill dream,”
said ’Lizabeth, pressing a handkerchief to her wet eyes.

Geoff did not know what to do. He was in the midst of some family
mystery, which might or might not relate to the other mystery which it
was his object to clear up; and this intense atmosphere of anxiety awoke
the young man’s ready sympathies. All his feelings had changed since he
came into the cottage. He who had come a stranger, ready to extract what
they could tell by any means, harsh or kind, and who did not know what
harshness he might encounter or what danger he might himself run, had
passed over entirely to their side. He was as safe as in his own house;
he was as deeply interested as he would have been in a personal trouble.
His voice faltered as he spoke. “I don’t know what it is that distresses
you,” he said; “I don’t want to pry into your trouble; but if I can
help you you know I will, and I will betray none of your secrets that
you trust me with. I will say nothing more than is necessary to clear
Musgrave--if Musgrave can be cleared.

“Musgrave! Musgrave!” cried old ’Lizabeth, impatiently; “it’s him you
all think of, not my boy. And what has he lost, when all’s done? He got
his way, and he got my Lily; never since then have I set eyes on her,
and never will. I paid him the price of my Lily for what he did; and was
that nothing? Musgrave! Speak no more o’ Musgrave to me!”

“Oh, mother,” said her son, with kindred impatience, as he walked
towards her and seized her arm in sudden passion; “oh, ’Lizabeth
Bampfylde! You do more than murder men, for you kill the pity in them!
What’s all you have done compared to what John Musgrave has done? and
me--am I nothing? Two--three of us! Lily, too, you’ve sacrificed Lily!
And is it all to go on to another generation, and the wrong to last? I
think you have a heart of stone--a heart of stone to them and to me!”

At this moment there was another louder cry, and mother and son started
together with one impulse, forgetting their struggle. ’Lizabeth took up
the candle from the table, and Bampfylde hastily went to a cupboard in
the corner, from which he took out something. He made an imperative sign
to Geoff to follow, as he hurried after his mother. They went through a
narrow winding passage lighted only by the flickering of the candle
which ’Lizabeth carried, and by what looked like a mass of something
white breaking the blackness, but was in reality the moonlight streaming
in through a small window. At the end of the passage was a steep stair,
almost like a ladder. Already Geoff, hurrying after the mother and son,
was prepared by the cries for what the revelation was likely to be; and
he was scarcely surprised when, after careful reconnoitring by an
opening in the door, defended by iron bars, they both entered hastily,
though with precaution, leaving him outside. Geoff heard the struggle
that ensued, the wild cries of the madman, the aggravation of frenzy
which followed, when it was evident they had secured him. Neither mother
nor son spoke, but went about their work with the precision of long
use. Geoff had not the heart to look in through the opening which
Bampfylde had left free. Why should he spy upon them? He could not tell
what connection this prison chamber had with the story of John Musgrave,
but there could be little doubt of the secret here inclosed. He did not
know how long he waited outside, his young frame all thrilling with
excitement and painful sympathy. How could he help them? was what the
young man thought. It was against the law, he knew, to keep a lunatic
thus in a private house, but Geoff thought only of the family, the
mysterious burden upon their lives, the long misery of the sufferer. He
was overawed, as youth naturally is, by contact with misery so hopeless
and so terrible. After a long time Bampfylde came out, his dress torn
and disordered, and great drops of moisture hanging on his forehead.
“Have you seen him?” he asked in a whisper. He did not understand
Geoff’s hesitation and delicacy, but with a certain impatience pointed
him to the opening in the door, which was so high up that Geoff had to
ascend two rough wooden steps placed there for the purpose, to look
through. The room within was higher than could have been supposed from
the height of the cottage; it was not ceiled, but showed the
construction of the roof, and in a rude way it was padded here and
there, evidently to prevent the inmate doing himself a mischief. The
madman lay upon a mattress on the floor, so confined now that he could
only lie there and pant and cry; his mother sat by him, motionless.
Though his face was wild and distorted, and his eyes gleaming furiously
out of its paleness, this unhappy creature had the same handsome
features which distinguished the family. Young Geoff could scarcely
restrain a shiver, not of fear, but of nervous excitement, as he looked
at this miserable sight. Old ’Lizabeth sat confronting him, unconscious
of the hurried look which was all Geoff could give. She was clasping her
knees with her hands in one of those forced and rigid attitudes almost
painful, which seem to give a kind of ease to pain--and sat with her
head raised, and her strained eyes pitifully vacant, in that pause of
half-unconsciousness in which all the senses are keen, yet the mind
stilled with very excitement. “I cannot spy upon them,” said Geoff, in a
whisper. “Is it safe to leave her there?”

“Quite safe; and at his maddest he never harmed her,” said Bampfylde,
leading the way down-stairs. “That’s my brother,” he said, with
bitterness, when they had reached the living-room again; “my gentleman
brother! him that was to be our honour and glory. You see what it’s come
to; but nothing will win her heart from him. If we should all perish,
what of that? ’Lizabeth Bampfylde will aye have saved her son from
shame. But come, come, sit down and eat a bit, my young lord. At your
age the like of all this is bad for you.”

“For me--what does it matter about me?” cried Geoff; “you seem to have
borne it for years.”

“You may say that: for years--and would for years more, if she had her
way; but a man must eat and drink, if his heart be sore. Take a morsel
of something and a drink to give you strength to go home.”

“I am very, very sorry for you,” said Geoff, “but--you will think it
heartless to say so--I have learned nothing. There is some mystery, but
I knew as much as that before.”

Bampfylde was moving about in the back-ground searching for something.
He re-appeared as Geoff spoke with a bottle in his hand, and poured out
for him a glass of dark-coloured wine. It was port, the wine most
trusted in such humble houses. “Take this,” he said; “take it, it’s
good, it will keep up your strength; and bide a moment till she comes.
She will tell you herself--or if not I will tell you; but now you’ve
seen all the mysteries of this house, she will have to yield, she will
have to yield at the last.”

Geoff obeyed, being indeed very much exhausted and shaken by all that
had happened. He swallowed the sweet, strong decoction of unknown
elements, which Bampfylde called port wine, and believed in as a
panacea, and tried to eat a morsel of the oat-cake. They heard the
distant moans gradually die out, as the blueness of dawn stole in at the
window. Bampfylde, whose tongue seemed to be loosed by this climax of
excitement, began to talk; he told Geoff of the long watch of years
which they had kept, how his mother and he relieved each other, and how
they had hoped the patient was growing calmer, how he had mended and
calmed down, sometimes for long intervals, but then grown worse again;
and the means they had used to restrain him, and all the details of his
state. When the ice was thus broken, it seemed a relief to talk of it.
“He was to make all our fortunes,” Bampfylde said; “he was a
gentleman--and he was a great scholar. All her pride was in him; and
this is what it’s come to now.”

They had fallen into silence when ’Lizabeth came in. Their excitement
had decreased, thanks to the conversation and the natural relief which
comes after a crisis, but hers was still at its full height. She came in
solemnly, and sat down amongst them, the blue light from the window
making a paleness about her as she placed herself in front of it; though
the lamp was still burning on the mantelshelf, and the fire kept up a
ruddy variety of light. She seated herself in the big wooden arm-chair
with a solemn countenance and fixed her eyes upon Geoff, who, moved
beyond measure by pity and reverence, did not know what to think.

“He will have told you,” she said. “I would have died sooner, my young
lord; and soon I’ll die--but, my boy first, I pray God. Ay, you’ve seen
him now. That was him that was my pride; that was the hope I had in my
life; that was him that killed young Lord Stanton and made John Musgrave
an exile and a wanderer. Ay--you know it all now.”




CHAPTER XXI.

AN EARLY MEETING


Geoff left the cottage when the sun had just risen. He was half-giddy,
half-stunned by the strange new light, unexpected up to the last moment,
which had been thrown upon the whole question which he had undertaken to
solve. He was giddy too with fatigue, the night’s watch, the long walk,
the want of sleep. Besides all these confusing influences there is
something in the atmosphere of the very early morning, the active
stillness, the absence of human life, the pre-occupation of Nature with
a hundred small (as it were) domestic cares such as she never exhibits
to the eye of man, that moves the mind of an unaccustomed observer to a
kind of rapture, bewildering in its solemn influence. To come out from
the lonely little house folded among the hills, with all its miseries
past and present, its sad story, its secret, the atmosphere of human
suffering in it, to all the still glory of the summer morning, was of
itself a bewilderment. The same world, and only a step between them: but
one all pain and darkness, mortal anguish and confusion--the other all
so clear, so sweet, so still, solemn with the serious beginning of the
new day, and instinct with that great, still pressure of something more
than what is seen, some soul of earth and sky which goes deeper than all
belief, and which no sceptic of the higher kind, but only the gross and
earthly, can disbelieve in. Young Geoff disbelieving nothing, his heart
full of the faith and conviction of youth, came out into this wide
purity and calm with an expansion of all his being. It was all he could
do not to burst into sudden tears when he felt the sudden relief--the
dew crept to his eyelids though it did not fall, his bosom contracted
and expanded as with a sob. To this world of mountain and cloud--of
rising sunshine and soft-breathing air, and serene delicious silence,
pervaded by the soft indistinguishable hum of unseen water and rustling
grasses, and minute living creatures unseen too beneath the mountain
herbage--what is the noblest palace built with hands but a visible
limitation and contraction of the world, an appropriation of a petty
corner out of which human conceit makes its centre of the earth?
Bampfylde, who had come out with him, and to whom the story Geoff had
just heard was not new, felt the relief more simply. He drew a long
breath of refreshment and ease, expanding his breast and stretching out
his arms; and then this rough vagrant fellow, unconscious of literature,
did what Virgil in the _Purgatorio_ did in such a morning for his poet
companion; he spread both his hands upon the fragrant grass, all heavy
with the early dew, and bathed his face and weary eyes.

“That’s life,” said the man of woods and hills; the freshness of nature
was all the help he had, all the support as well as all the poetry his
maimed existence could possess.

Bampfylde went with his young companion round the shoulder of the hill
to show him the way. It was a nearer and shorter road to the level
country than that by which they had come, for Geoff was anxious to get
home early. Bampfylde pointed out to him the line of road which twisted
about and about like a ribbon, crossing now one slope, now another, till
it disappeared upon the shadowed side of the green hill which presided
over Penninghame, and beyond which the lake gleamed blue, not yet
reached by the sunshine.

“It’s like the story,” he said; “it’s like a parable; ye come by
Stanton, my young lord, and ye go by Penninghame. It’s your nearest way;
and there, if you ask at John Armstrong’s in the village, ye’ll get a
trap to take you home.”

Geoff was not sufficiently free in mind to be able to give any attention
to the parable. Those fantastic symbolisms of accident or circumstance
which so often would seem to be arranged like shadows of more important
matters by some elfish secondary providence, need a spirit at rest to
enter into them. He was glad to be alone, to realise all that he had
heard, to compose the wonderful tangle of new information and new
thoughts into something coherent, without troubling himself about the
fact that he was now bending his steps direct, the representative of
Walter Stanton who had been killed, towards the house from which John
Musgrave had been wrongfully driven for having killed him. He did not
even yet know all the particulars of the story, and as he endeavoured to
disentangle them in his mind Geoff felt in his bewilderment that
absolute want of control over his own intelligence and thoughts which is
the common result of fatigue and overstrain. Instead of thinking out the
imbroglio and deciding what was to be done, his mind, like a tired
child, kept playing with the rising light which touched every moment a
new peak and caught every moment a new reflection in some bit of
mountain stream or waterfall, or even in a ditch or moorland cutting, so
impartial is Heaven; or his ear was caught by that hum of mystic
indistinguishable multitude--“the silence of the hills,” so called--the
soft rapture of sound in which not one tone is distinct or anything
audible; or his eye by the gradual unrolling of the landscape as he went
on, one fold opening beyond another, the distant hills on one hand, the
long stretch of Penninghame water with all its miniature bays and
curves. Then for a little while he lost the lake by a doubling of the
path, which seemed to reinclose him among the hollows of the hills, and
which pleased his languid faculties with the complete change of its
shade and greenness; until turning the next corner, he found the sun
triumphant over all the landscape, and Penninghame water lying like a
sheet of silver or palest gold, dazzling and flashing between its
slopes. This wonderful glory so suddenly bursting upon him completed the
discomfiture of young Geoff’s attempts at thought. He gave it up then,
and went on with weary limbs and a mind full of languid soft delight in
the air about him and the scene before his eyes, attempting no more
deductions from what he had heard or arrangements as to what he should
do. Emotion and exertion together had worn him out.

About the time he resigned himself (with the drowsy surprise we feel in
dreams) to this incapable state, his eye was caught by a speck upon the
road beneath advancing towards him, so small in the distance that
Geoff’s languid imagination, capable of no more active exercise, began
to wonder who the little pilgrim could be, so little and so lonely, and
so early astir. Perhaps it was the distance that made the advancing
passenger look so small. Little Lilias at the Castle would have
satisfied her mind by the easy conclusion that it was some little fairy
old woman, the traveller most naturally to be met with at such an hour
and place. But Geoff, more artificial, did not think of that. He kept
watching the little wayfarer, as the figure appeared and disappeared on
the winding road. By and by he made out that it was either a very small
woman or a little girl, coming on steadily to meet him, with now and
then an occasional pause for breath, for the ascent was steep. Geoff’s
mind got quite entangled with this little figure. Who could it be? who
could she be? A little cottager bound on some early expedition, seeking
some of the mountain fruits, blackberries, cranberries, wild
strawberries, perhaps; but then she never turned aside to the rougher
ground, but kept on the path;--or she might be going to some farmhouse
to get milk for the family breakfast: but then there were no farmhouses
in that direction. Altogether Geoff felt himself quite sufficiently
occupied as he came gradually downwards watching this child, his limbs
feeling heavy, and his head somewhat light. At last, after losing sight
of the little figure which had given him for some time a sort of distant
companionship, another turn brought him full in sight of her, and so
near that he recognised her with the most curious and startling
interest. He could not restrain an exclamation of surprise. It was the
little girl whom he had met at the door of Penninghame Castle, John
Musgrave’s child, the most appropriate, yet the most extraordinary, of
all encounters he could have made. He stood still in his surprise,
awaiting her: and as for little Lilias, she made a sudden spring towards
him, holding out her hand with a cry of joy, her little pale face
crimsoned over with relief and pleasure. Her heart and limbs were
beginning to fail her; she had begun to grow frightened and discouraged
by the loneliness; and to see a face that had been seen before, that had
looked friendly, that recognised her--what a relief it was to the little
wayfaring soul! She sprang forward to him, and then in the comfort of it
fairly broke down, and sobbed and cried, trying to smile all the time,
and to tell him that she was glad, and that he must not mind.

Geoff, however, minded very much. He was full of concern and sympathy.
He took her hand, and putting his arm round her (for she was still a
child), led her to the soft, mossy bank on the edge of the path, and
placed her there to rest. He was not at all sorry to place himself
beside her, notwithstanding his haste. He, too, was so young and so
tired! though for the moment he forgot both his fatigue and his youth,
and felt most fatherly, soothing the little girl, and entreating her to
take comfort, and not to cry.

“Oh,” said little Lilias, when she recovered the power of speech, “I am
not crying for trouble, _now_; I am crying for pleasure. It was so
lonely. I thought everybody must be dead, and there was no one but only
me in all the world.”

“That was exactly what I felt too,” said Geoff; “but what are you doing
here, so far away, and all alone? Have you lost yourself? Has anything
happened? When you have rested a little, you must come back with me, and
I will take you home.”

The tears were still upon the child’s cheeks, and two great lucid pools
in her eyes, which made their depths of light more unfathomable than
ever. And after the sudden flush of excitement and pleasure, Lilias had
paled again; her little countenance was strangely white; her dark hair
hung, loosely curling, about her cheeks; her eyes were full of pathetic
meaning. Geoff, who had thrown himself down beside her, with one arm
half round her, and holding her small hand in his, felt his young breast
swell with the tenderest sympathy. What was the child’s trouble that was
so great? Poor little darling! How sweet it was to be able to fill up
her world, and prove to her that there was not “only me.” One other made
all the difference; and Geoff felt this as much as she did. Her face had
gleamed so often across his imagination since he saw it: the most
innocent visitant that could come and look a young man in the face in
the midst of his dreams--only a child! He felt disposed to kiss the
little hand in half fondness, half reverence; but did not, being
restrained by something more reverent and tender still.

“I would like to go with you,” said Lilias, “but not home. I am not
going home. I am going up there--up, I don’t know how far--where the old
woman lives. I am trying to find something out, something about papa.
Oh, I wonder if you know! Are you a friend of my papa? You look as if
you had a friend’s face--but I don’t know your name.”

“My name--is Geoffrey Stanton--but most people call me Geoff. I should
like you to call me Geoff--and I am a friend, little Lily. You are Lily
_too_, are you not? I am a sworn friend to your papa.”

“Lilias,” said the child, with a sigh; “but I don’t think I am little
any more. I was little when I came, but old; oh! much older than any one
thought. They thought I was only ten because I was so little; but I was
twelve! and that will soon be a year ago. I have always taken care of
Nello as long as I can remember, and that makes one old, you know. And
now here is this about papa, which I never knew, which I never heard of,
which is not true, I know. I know it is not true. Papa kill any one!
_papa?_ Do you know what that means? It is as if---- the sky should
kill some one, or the beautiful kind light, or a little child. All that,
all that, sooner than papa! Me, I have often felt as if I could kill
somebody; but _he_----” the tears were streaming in a torrent down the
child’s cheeks, and got into her voice; but she went on, “he! people
don’t know what they are saying. I do not know any words to tell you how
different he is--that it is impossible, _impossible_! _impossible_!” she
cried, her voice rising in intensity of emphasis. As for Geoff, he held
her hand ever closer, and kept gazing at her with the tears coming to
his own eyes.

“He did not do it,” he said. “Listen to me, Lilias, and if you write to
him, you can tell him. Tell him Geoffrey Stanton knows everything, and
will never rest till he is cleared. Do you know what I mean? You must
tell him----”

“But I never write--we do not know where he is; but tell me over again
for me, _me_. He did not do it! Do you think I do not know that? But Mr.
Geoff (if that is your name), come with me up to the old woman, and take
her to the tribunal, and make her tell what she knows. That is the right
way, Martuccia says so, and I have read it in books. She must go to the
judge, and she must say it all, and have it written down in a book. It
is like that--I am not so ignorant. Come with me to the old woman, Mr.
Geoff.”

“What old woman?” he asked. “And tell me how you heard of all this,
Lilias? You did not know it when I saw you before.”

“Last night--only last night; there is a man, an unkind, disagreeable
man, who is at the Castle now. Mary said he was my uncle Randolph. They
were in the hall, and I heard them talking. That man said it all; but
Mary did not say No as I do, she only cried. And then I rushed and asked
Miss Brown what it meant. Miss Brown is Mary’s maid, and she knows
everything. She told me about a gentleman, and then of some one who was
mamma, and of an old woman who could tell it all, up, up on the
mountain. I think, perhaps, it is the same old woman I saw.”

“Did you see her? When did you see her, Lily?”

“I was little then,” said Lilias, with mournful, childish dignity. “I
had not begun to know. I thought, perhaps, it was a fairy. Yes, you will
laugh. I was only not much better than a child. And when children are in
the woods, don’t you know, fairies often come? I was ignorant, that was
what I thought. She was very kind. She kissed me, and asked if I would
call her granny. Poor old woman! She was very very sorry for something.
I think that must be the old woman. She knows everything, Miss Brown
says. Mr. Geoff,” said Lilias turning round upon him, putting her two
clasped hands suddenly upon his shoulder, and fixing her eyes upon his
face, “I am going to her, will you not come with me? It is dreadful,
dreadful, to go away far alone--everything looks so big and so high, and
one only, one is so small; and everything is singing altogether, and it
is all so still; and then your heart beats and thumps, and you have no
breath, and it is so far, far away. Mr. Geoff, oh! I would love you so
much, I would thank you for ever, I would do anything for you, if you
would only come with me! I am not really tired; only frightened. If I
could have brought Nello, it would have been nothing. I should have had
him to take care of,--but Nello is such a little fellow. He does not
understand anything; he could not know about papa as I do, and as you
seem to do. Mr. Geoff, when was it you saw papa? Oh! will you come up,
up yonder, and go to the old woman with me?”

“Dear little Lily,” said Geoff, holding her in his arms, “you are not
able to walk so far; it is too much for you; you must come with me,
home.”

“I am able to go to the end of the world,” cried Lilias, proudly. “I am
not tired. Oh, if you had never come I should have gone on, straight on!
I was thinking, perhaps, you would go with me, that made me so stupid.
No, never mind, since you do not choose to come. Good-bye, Mr. Geoff.
No, I am not angry. Perhaps you are tired yourself:--and then,” said
Lilias, her voice quivering, “you are not papa’s child, and it is not
your business. Oh! I am quite able to go on. I am not tired--not at all
tired; it was only,” she said, vehemently, the tears overpowering her
voice, “only because I caught sight of you so suddenly, and I thought
‘he will come with me,’ and it made my heart so easy--but never mind,
never mind!”

By this time she was struggling to escape from him, to go on drying her
tears with a hasty hand. Her lips were quivering, scarcely able to form
the words. The disappointment, after that little burst of hope, was
almost more than Lilias could bear.

“Lily,” he said, holding her fast, despite her struggles, “listen first.
I have just been there. I have seen the old woman. There is nothing more
for you to do, dear. Won’t you listen to me,--won’t you believe me? Dear
little Lily, I have found out everything. I know everything. I cannot
tell it you all, out here on the hill-side; but it was another who did
it, and your father was so kind, so good, that he allowed it to be
supposed it was he, to save the other man----”

“Ah!” cried Lilias, ceasing to struggle, “ah! yes, that is like him. I
know my papa, there! yes, that is what he would do. Oh, Mr. Geoff, dear
Mr. Geoff, tell me more, more!”

“As we go home,” said Geoff. He was so tired that it was all he could do
to raise himself again from the soft cushions of the mossy grass. He
held Lilias still by the hand. And in this way the two wearied young
creatures went down the rest of the long road together--she, eager, with
her face raised to him; he stooping towards her. They leaned against
each other in their weariness, walking on irregularly, now slow, now
faster, hand in hand. And oh! how much shorter the way seemed to Lilias
as she went back. She vowed never, never to tell any one; never to talk
of it except to Mr. Geoff: while Geoff, on his part, promised that
everything should be set right, that everybody should know her father to
be capable of nothing evil, but of everything good; that all should be
well with him; that he should come and live at home for ever, and that
all good people should be made happy, and all evil ones confounded. The
one was scarcely more confident than the other that all this was
possible and likely, as the boy and the girl came sweetly down the hill
together, tired but happy, with traces of tears about their eyes, but
infinite relief in their hearts. The morning, now warm with the full
glory of the sun, was sweet beyond all thought--the sky, fathomless
blue, above them--the lake a dazzling sheet of silver at their feet.
Here and there sounds began to stir of awakening in the little
farmhouses, and under the thatched cottage eaves; but still they had the
earth all to themselves like a younger Adam and Eve--nothing but blue
space and distance, sweet sunshine warming and rising, breathing of
odours and soft baptism of dew upon the new-created pair.




CHAPTER XXII.

THE HENS AND THE DUCKLING.


It was still early, and Stanton, so easy-going and leisurely a house,
was not yet astir when Geoff got home. Hours of sunshine and morning
light are over even in August before seven o’clock, which was the
earliest hour at which Lady Stanton’s servants, who were all “so kind”
to her, began to stir. They kept earlier hours at Penninghame, where
Geoff managed to get a dog-cart, with an inquisitive driver, who
recognised, and would fain have discovered what brought him from home at
that hour. The young man, however, first took leave of his little
companion, whom he deposited safely at the door of the old hall, which
was already open, and where they parted with mutual vows of reliance and
faith in each other. These vows, however, were not exchanged by the
hall-gate, but in a shady corner of the Chase, where the two young
creatures paused for a moment.

“You will trust me that I will do everything for him, as if he had been
my own father?” said Geoff.

Lilias, over whom some doubts had begun to steal, faltered a little, and
replied with some hesitation:

“I would rather it was me; I would rather find out everything, and bring
him home,” she said.

“But, Lily, what could you do? while you see I know a great deal
already,” Geoff said. Now that he was about to vanish out of her sight
the bargain began to feel less satisfactory to the little woman, who was
thus condemned, as so many grown women have been, to wait indefinitely
for the action of another, in a matter so deeply interesting to herself.
Lilias looked at him wistfully, with an anxious curve over her eyebrows,
and a quiver in her mouth. The tension of suspense had begun for her,
which is one of the hardest burdens of a woman. Oh, if she could but
have gone herself, not waiting for any one, to the old woman on the
hill! It was true the mountains were very lonely, and the relief of
meeting Geoff had been intense; and though she had not gone half way, or
nearly so much, her limbs were aching with the unusual distance; but yet
to be tired, and lonely, and frightened is nothing, as Lilias felt, to
this waiting, which might never come to an end. And already the ease and
comfort and sudden relief with which she had leant upon Geoff’s
understanding and sympathy, had evaporated a little, leaving behind only
the strange story about her father, the sudden discovery of trouble and
sorrow which had startled her almost into womanhood out of childhood.
She looked up into Geoff’s face very wistfully--very anxiously; her eyes
dilated, and gleaming with that curve over them which once indented in
young brows so seldom altogether disappears again.

“Oh, Mr. Geoff!” she said, “but papa--is not your papa: and you will
perhaps have other things to do: or--perhaps--you will forget. But me, I
shall be always thinking, I shall never forget,” said the little girl.

“And neither shall I forget, my little Lily!” he cried. He too was
nervous and tremulous with excitement and fatigue. He stooped towards
her, holding her hands. “Give me a kiss, Lily, and I will never forget.”

The day before she would not have thought much of that infantile
salutation--and she put up her soft cheek readily enough, with the
child’s simple habit; but when the two faces touched, a flood of colour
came over both, scorching Lilias, as it seemed, with a sense of shame
which bewildered her, which she did not understand. She drew back
hastily, with a sudden cry. Sympathy, or some other feeling still more
subtle and incomprehensible, made Geoff’s young countenance flame too.
He looked at her with a tenderness that brought the tears to his eyes.

“You are only a child,” he said, hastily, apologetically; “and I suppose
I am not much more, as people say,” he added, with a little broken
laugh. Then, after a pause--“But, Lily, we will never forget that we
have met this morning; and what one of us does will be for both of us;
and you will always think of me as I shall always think of you. Is it a
bargain, Lily?”

“Always!” said the little girl, very solemnly; and she gave him her hand
again which she had drawn away, and her other cheek; and this time the
kiss got accomplished solemnly, as if it had been a religious ceremony
on both sides--which indeed, perhaps, in one way or another it was.

When Geoff felt himself carried rapidly, after this, behind a fresh
country horse, with the inquisitive ruddy countenance of Robert Gill
from the “Penninghame Arms” by his side, along the margin of Penninghame
Water towards his home, there was a thrill and tremor in him which he
could not quite account for. By the time he had got half way home,
however, he had begun to believe that the tremor meant nothing more than
a nervous uncertainty as to how he should get into Stanton, and in what
state of abject terror he might find his mother. Even to his own
unsophisticated mind, the idea of being out all night had an alarming
and disreputable sound; and probably Lady Stanton had been devoured by
all manner of terrors. The perfectly calm aspect of the house, however,
comforted Geoff; no one seemed stirring, except in the lower regions,
where the humblest of its inhabitants--the servants’ servants--were
preparing for their superiors.

Geoff dismissed his dog-cart outside the gates, leaving upon the mind of
Robert Gill a very strong certainty that the young lord was “a wild one,
like them that went before him,” and had been upon “no good gait.”
“Folks don’t stay out all night, and creep into th’ house through a side
door as quiet as pussy, for good,” said the rural sage, with perfect
reasonableness.

As for Geoff, he stole up through the shrubberies to reconnoitre the
house and see where he could most easily make an entrance, with a
half-comic sense of vagabondism; a man who behaved so ought to be
guilty. But he was greatly surprised to see the library window through
which he had come out on the previous night wide open; and yet more
surprised to hear, at the sound of his own cautious footstep on the
gravel, a still more cautious movement within, and to descry the kindly
countenance of Mr. Tritton, his tutor, with a red nose and red eyes as
from want of sleep, looking out with great precaution.

Mr. Tritton’s anxious countenance lighted up at the sight of him. He
came to the window very softly, but with great eagerness, to admit
Geoff, and threw himself upon his pupil. “Where have you been--where
have you been? But thank God you have come back,” he cried, in a voice
which was broken by agitation.

Geoff could not but laugh, serious as he had been before. Good Mr.
Tritton had a dressing-gown thrown over his evening toilet of the
previous night; his white tie was all rumpled and disreputable. He had
caught a cold, poor good man, with the open window, and sneezed even as
he received his prodigal; his nose was red, and so were his eyes, which
watered, half with cold, half with emotion.

“Oh, my dear Geoff,” he cried, with a shiver: “what is the cause of
this? I have spent a most unhappy night. What can be the cause of it!
But thank God you have come back; and if I can keep it from the
knowledge of her ladyship, I will.” Then, though he was so tired and so
serious, Geoff could not but laugh.

“Have you been sitting up for me? How good of you! and what a cold you
have got!” he said, struggling between mirth and gratitude. “Have you
kept it from my mother? But I have been doing no harm, master. You need
not look at me so anxiously. I have been walking almost all the night,
and doing no harm.”

“My dear Geoff? I have been very uneasy, of course. You never did
anything of the kind before. Walking all night? you must be dead tired;
but that is secondary, quite secondary: if you can really assure me, on
your honour----” said the anxious tutor, looking at him, with his little
white whiskers framing his little red face, more like a good little old
woman than ever, and with a look of the most anxious scrutiny in his
watery eyes. Mr. Tritton was very virtuous and very particular in his
own bachelorly person, and there had crept upon him besides something
of the feminine fervour of anxiety about his charge, which was in the
air of this feminine and motherly house.

“On my honour!” said Geoff, meeting his gaze with laughing eyes.

And a pang of relief filled Mr. Tritton’s mind. He was almost overcome
by it, and could have cried but for his dignity--and, indeed, did cry
for his cold. He said, faltering, “Thank Heaven, Geoff! I have been very
anxious, my dear boy. Your mother does not know anything about it. I
found the window open, and then I found your room vacant. I thought you
might have--stepped out--perhaps gone to smoke a cigar. A cigar in the
fresh air after dinner is perhaps the least objectionable form of the
indulgence, as you have often heard me say. So I waited, especially as I
had something to say to you. Then as I found you did not come in, I
became anxious--yes, very anxious as the night went on. You never did
anything of the kind before; and when the morning came and awoke me--for
I suppose I must have dozed, though I was too miserable to sleep, in a
draught----”

“Yes, I see, you have caught cold. Go to bed now, master, and so shall
I,” said Geoff. “I am dead tired. What a sneeze! and all on my account;
and you have such bad colds.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Tritton, blowing his nose vehemently, “I have very bad
colds. They last so long. I have sneezed so I really did fear the house
would be roused, but servants fortunately sleep through anything. Geoff!
I don’t want to force confidence, but it really would be right that you
should confide in me: otherwise how can I be sure that her
ladyship--ought not,” said the good man with a fresh sneeze, “to
know--?”

“You ought to be in bed, and so ought I,” said Geoff. “I will tell my
mother, don’t fear; but perhaps it will be as well not to say anything
more just at present. Master, you must really go this moment and take
care of yourself. Come, and I will see you to your room----”

“Ah! it is my part to look after you, Geoff,” said good Mr. Tritton. “It
might be supposed--her ladyship might think--that I had neglected----”

“Come along,” said Geoff, arbitrarily, “to bed.” And how glad he was to
stretch out his own young limbs and forget everything in the profound
sleep of his age! Mr. Tritton had very much the worst of it. He did
nothing but sneeze for the next two hours, waking himself up every time
he went to sleep; and his head ached, and his eyes watered, and the good
man felt thoroughly wretched.

“Oh, there is that poor Mr. Tritton with one of his bad colds again,”
Lady Stanton said, who was disturbed by the sound; and, though she was a
good woman, the pity in her face was not unmixed by other sentiments.
“We shall have nothing but sneezing for the next month,” she said to
herself in an undertone. And doubtless still less favourable judgments
were pronounced down-stairs. A glass was found on the table of the
library in which Mr. Tritton, good man, had taken some camphor by way of
staving off his cold while he sat and watched. Harris the butler,
perversely and unkindly (for who could mistake the smell of camphor?)
declared that “old Tritton had been making a night of it. He don’t
surprise me with his bad colds,” said that functionary; “look at the
colour of his nose!” And indeed it could not be denied that this was
red, as the nose of a man subject to fits of sneezing is apt to be.

When Geoff woke in the broad sunshine, and found that it was nearly
noon, his first feeling of consternation was soon lost in the strange
realization of all that had happened since his last waking, which
suddenly came upon his mind like something new, and more real than
before. The perspective even of a few hours’ sleep makes any new fact or
discovery more distinct. So many emotions had followed each other
through his mind, that such an interval was necessary to make him feel
the real importance of all that he had heard and seen. ’Lizabeth
Bampfylde had said what there was to say in few words, but the facts
alone were sufficient to make the strange story clear. The chief
difficulty was that Geoff had never heard of the elder son, whom the
vagrant called his gentleman brother, and to whom the family and more
than the family seemed to have been sacrificed. He did not remember any
mention of the Bampfyldes except of the mother and daughter who had
helped John Musgrave to escape, and one of whom had disappeared with
him, and the mystery which surrounded this other individual, who seemed
really the chief actor in the tragedy, had yet to be made out. His mind
was full of this as he dressed hastily, with sundry interruptions. The
household had not quite made out the events of the past night, but that
there had been something “out of the common” was evident to the meanest
capacity. The library window had been open all night, which was the
fault of Mr. Tritton, who had undertaken to close it, begging Harris to
go to bed, and not to mind. Mr. Tritton himself had been seen by an
early scullion in his white tie, very much ruffled, at six o’clock; and
the volleys of sneezing which had disturbed the house at seven had been
distinctly heard moving about like musketry on a march, now at one
point, now another, of the corridor and stairs. To crown all these
strange commotions was the fact that the young master of the house,
instead of obeying Harris’s call at half-past seven, did not budge (and
then with reluctance) till eleven o’clock. If all these occurrences
meant nothing, why then Mr. Harris pronounced himself a Dutchman; and
the wonder breathed upwards from the kitchen and housekeeper’s room to
my lady’s chamber, where her maid did all a maid could do (and this is
not little, as most heads of a family know) to awaken suspicion. It was
suggested to her ladyship that it was very strange that Mr. Tritton
should have been walking about the house at six in the morning, waking
up my lady with his sneezings--and it was a mercy there had not been a
robbery, with the library window “open to the ground,” left open all
night: and then for my lord to be in bed at eleven was a thing that had
never happened before since his lordship had the measles. “I hope he is
not sickening for one of these fevers,” Lady Stanton’s attendant said.

This made Geoff’s mother start, and give a suppressed scream of
apprehension, and inquire anxiously whether there was any fever about.
She had already in her cool drawing-room, over her needlework, felt a
vague uneasiness. Geoff had never, since those days of the measles,
missed breakfast and prayers before; he had sent her word that he had
overslept himself, that he had been sitting up late on the previous
night--but altogether it was odd. Lady Stanton, however, subdued her
panic, and sat still and dismissed her maid, waiting with many tremors
in her soul till Geoff should come to account for himself. He had been
the best boy in the world, and had never given her any anxiety; but all
Lady Stanton’s neighbours had predicted the coming of a time when Geoff
would “break out,” and when the goodness of his earlier days would but
increase the riot of the inevitable sowing of wild oats. Lady Stanton
had smiled at this, but with a smouldering sense of insecurity in her
heart; alarmed, though she knew there was no cause. Mothers are an order
of beings peculiarly constituted, full of certainties and doubts, which
moment by moment give each other the lie. Ah, no, Geoff would not “break
out,” would not “go wrong;” it was not in him. He was too true, too
honourable, too pure--did not she know every thought in his mind, and
feeling in his heart? But oh, the anguish if Geoff should not be so true
and so pure--if he should be weak, be tempted and fall, and stain the
whiteness which his mother so deeply trusted in, yet so trembled for!
Who can understand such paradoxes? She would have believed no harm of
her boy--and yet in her horror of harm for him the very name of evil
gave her a panic. Nothing wonderful in that. She sat and trembled to the
very tyings of her shoe, and yet was sure, certain, ready to answer to
the whole world for her son, who had done no evil. Other women who have
sons know what Lady Stanton felt. She sat nervously still, listening to
every sound, till he should come and explain himself. Why was he so
late? What had happened last night to make the house uneasy? Lady
Stanton would not allow herself to think that she was alarmed. It was
true that pulses beat in her ears, and her heart mounted to her throat,
but she sat still as a statue, and went on with her knitting. “One may
not be able to help being foolish, but one can always help showing it,”
she said to herself.

The sight of Geoff when he appeared, fresh and blooming, made all the
throbbings subside at once. She even made a fine effort to laugh. “What
does this mean, Geoff? I never knew you so late. The servants have been
trying to frighten me, and I hear Mr. Tritton has got a very bad cold,”
she said, getting the words out hurriedly, afraid lest she might break
down or betray herself. She eyed him very curiously over her knitting,
but she made believe not to be looking at him at all.

“Yes; poor old Tritton,” he said; “it is my fault; he sat up for me. I
went out----” he made a little pause; for Geoff reflected that other
people’s secrets were not his to confide, even to his mother--“with wild
Bampfylde, who came, I suppose, out of gratitude for what little I did
for him.”

“You went out--with that poacher fellow, Geoff?”

“Yes:” he nodded, meeting her horrified eyes quite calmly and with a
smile; “why not, mother? You did not think I should be afraid of him, I
hope?”

“Oh how very imprudent, Geoff! You, whose life is of so much value!--who
are so very important to me and everybody!”

“Most fellows are important who have mothers to make a fuss,” he said,
smiling. “I don’t think there is much more in me than the rest. But he
has not harmed me much, you can see. I have all my limbs as usual; I am
none the worse.”

“Thank God for that!” said Lady Stanton; “but you must not do the like
again. Indeed, indeed, Geoff, you are too bold; you must not put
yourself in the way of trouble. Think of your poor brother. Oh, my dear,
what an example! You must not be so rash again.”

“I will not be rash--in that way,” he said. “But, mother, I want you to
tell me something. You remember all about it: did you ever know of any
more Bampfyldes? There was the mother, and this fellow. Did you ever
know of any other?”

“You are missing out the chief one, Geoff--Lily, the girl.”

“Yes, yes; I know about her. I did not mean the girl. But think! Were
those three all? Were there more--another----?”

Lady Stanton shook her head. “I do not remember any other. I think three
were quite enough. There is mischief in one even, of that kind.”

“What do you mean by that kind? You did not know them. I hope my mother
is not one of the kind who, not knowing people, are unjust to them.”

“Geoff!” Lady Stanton was bewildered by this grand tone. She looked up
at him with sudden curiosity, and this curiosity was mixed inevitably
with some anxiety too; for, when your son betrays an unjustifiable
partisanship, what so natural as to feel that he must have “some
motive”? “Of course I did not mean to be unjust. But I do not pretend to
remember everything that came out on the trial. It was the mother and
daughter that interested me. You should ask your cousin Mary; she
recollects better than I do. But have you heard anything about another?
What did the poacher say? Had you a great deal of conversation with him?
And don’t you think it was rash to put yourself in the power of such a
lawless sort of fellow? Thank God! you are safe and sound.”

“What do you mean about putting myself in his power? Do you think I am
not a match for him? He is not such a giant, mother. Yes, I am quite
safe and sound. And we had a great deal of talk. I never met with
anybody so interesting. He talked about everything; chiefly about ‘the
creatures,’ as he calls them.”

“What creatures?” said Lady Stanton, wondering and alarmed. There were
“creatures” in the world, this innocent lady knew, about whom a vagabond
was very likely to talk, but who could not be mentioned between her and
her boy.

“The wild things in the woods, birds and mice, and such small deer, and
all their ways, and what they mean, and how to make acquaintance with
them. I don’t suppose he knows very much out of books,” said young
Geoff; “but the bit of dark moor grew quite different with that wild
fellow in it--like the hill in the _Lady of the Lake_, when all Clan
Alpine got up from behind the rocks and the bushes. Don’t you remember,
mother? One could hear ‘the creatures’ rustling and moving, and
multitudes of living things one never gave a thought to. It felt like
poetry, too, though I don’t know any poem like it. It was very strange
and interesting. That pleases me more than your clever people,” said
Geoff.

“Oh, my dear, I beg your pardon,” said Lady Stanton, suddenly getting up
and kissing her boy’s cheek as she passed him. She went away to hide the
penitence in her eyes. As for Geoff, he took this very easily and
simply. He thought it was natural she should apologize to Bampfylde for
not thinking well of him. He had not a notion of the shame of
evil-thinking thus brought home to her, which scorched Lady Stanton’s
cheeks.




CHAPTER XXIII.

COUSIN MARY’S OPINION.


Geoff spent the remainder of this day at home, looking once more over
the file of old newspapers in which the Musgrave case was printed at
such length, the _Times_ and the local papers, with all their little
diversities of evidence, one supplementing another; but lie could not
make out any reference at all distinct to a third person in the story.
The two suitors of the village beauty, one of whom she preferred in
feeling, though the second of them had evidently made her waver in her
allegiance by the attractions of his superior rank and wealth, were
enough to fill up the canvas. They were so naturally and appropriately
pitted against each other, that neither the curiosity of the period nor
the art of the story-teller required any additional actor in the little
tragedy. What more natural than that these two rivals should
meet--should go from angry words to blows--and that, in the frenzy of
the moment, one should give to the other the fatal but unpremeditated
stroke which made an end of his rivalry and his life? The public
imagination is simple, and loves a simple story, and this was so
well-constructed and well-balanced--perfect in all its parts. What more
likely than that the humble coquette should hesitate and almost swerve
from her faith to her accepted lover when the young lord, so much more
splendid than the young squire, came on the scene? or that, when her
wavering produced such fatal consequences, the poor girl, not being
wicked, but only foolish, should have devoted herself with heroism to
the man whom she had been the means of drawing into deadly peril? Geoff,
however, with his eyes enlightened, could dimly perceive the traces of
another person unaccounted for, who had appeared casually in the course
of the drama. Indeed, the counsel for the prosecution had expressed his
regret that he could not call this person as a witness, as he was
supposed to have emigrated, and no trace could be found of him. His
name, however, was not mentioned, though the counsel for the defence,
evidently in complete ignorance, taunted his learned brother with the
non-appearance of this mysterious stranger, and defied him to prove, by
the production of him, that there had ever been feelings of bitter
animosity between Musgrave and Lord Stanton. “The jury would like to
know more about this anonymous gentleman,” the coroner had said. But no
evidence had ever been produced. Geoff searched through the whole case
carefully, making various notes, and feeling that he himself, anxious as
he had been, had never before noticed, except in the most incidental
way, these slight, mysterious references. Even now he was misty about
it. He was so tired, indeed, that his mind was less clear than usual;
and when good Mr. Tritton appeared in the afternoon, very red with
perpetual sneezing, his eyes running as with tears, he found Geoff in
the library, in a great chair, with all the papers strewed about,
sleeping profoundly, the old yellow _Times_ in his hand, and the
_Dalesman’s Gazette_ at his feet. The young man jumped up when Mr.
Tritton laid his hand on his shoulder, with quite unnecessary energy,
almost knocking down his respected instructor. “Take care, take care,
Geoff!” he cried; “I am not going to hurt you, my boy!” a speech which
amused Geoff greatly, who could have picked Mr. Tritton up and thrown
him across his shoulder. This interruption of his studies stopped them
for the time; but next morning--not without causing his mother some
anxiety--he proposed to ride over once more to Elfdale, to consult
Cousin Mary.

“It is but two days since we left, my dear,” Lady Stanton said, with a
sigh, thinking of all she had heard on the subject of “elderly sirens”;
but Geoff showed her so clearly how it was that he must refer his
difficulties to the person most qualified to solve them, that his mother
yielded; though she too began to ask herself why her son should be so
much concerned about John Musgrave. What was John Musgrave to Geoff? She
did not feel that it was quite appropriate that the person most
interested about poor Walter’s slayer should be Walter’s successor, he
who had most profited by the deed.

Geoff, however, had his way, and went to his cousin Mary with a great
deal of caution and anxiety, to hear all that she knew, and carefully to
conceal from her what he knew. He found her fortunately by herself, in
the languor of the afternoon, even Annie and Fanny having left her for
some garden game or other. Lady Stanton the younger was much surprised
to see her young cousin, and startled by his sudden appearance. “What is
the matter?” she asked, with a woman’s ready terror; and was still more
surprised that nothing was the matter, and that Geoff was but paying her
a simple visit. It may even be suspected that for a moment his mother’s
alarm communicated itself to Mary. Was it to see _her_ the boy had come
back so soon and so far? The innocent, kind woman was alarmed. She had
known herself a beauty for years, and she knew the common opinion (not
in her experience quite corroborated by fact) that for a beautiful face
a man will commit any folly. Was she in danger (“at my age!”) of
becoming a difficulty and a trouble to Geoff? But Geoff soon relieved
her mind, making her blush hotly at her own self-conceit and folly.

“I have come to ask you some questions,” he said; “you remember the man,
the poacher, whom you spoke to me about--the brother, you
know?--Bampfylde, whom they call Wild Bampfylde?”

“I know,” said Lady Stanton, with a suppressed shiver.

“I met him--the other night--and we got talking. I want you to tell me,
Cousin Mary: did you ever hear of--another of them--a brother they had?”

“Ah! that is it,” said Lady Stanton, clasping her hands together.

“That is what? Do you know anything about him? I should like to find
out; from something they--from something this poacher fellow said--he is
not a bad fellow,” said Geoff, in an undertone, with a kind of apology
in his mind to the vagrant of whom he seemed to be speaking
disrespectfully.

“Oh, Geoff, don’t have anything to do with them, dear. You don’t know
the ways of people like that. Young men think it is fine to show that
they are above the prejudices of their class, but it never comes to any
good. Poor Walter, if he had never seen her face, might have been--and
poor John--”

“But, Cousin Mary, about the brother?”

“Yes: he was their brother, but we did not find it out for a long time.
He was very clever, they said, and a scholar, but ashamed to belong to
such poor people. He never went there when he could help it. He took no
notice, I believe, of the others. He pretended to be a stranger visiting
the Lakes.”

“Cur!” said Geoff.

“Ye--es: it was not--nice; but it must be a temptation, Geoff, when a
man has been brought up so differently. Some relation had given him his
education, and he was very clever. I have never felt sure whether it was
a happy thing for a boy to be brought so far out of his class. He met
John Musgrave somewhere, but John did not know who he was. And just
about the time it all happened he went away. I used to think perhaps he
might have known something; but I suppose he thought it would all come
out, and his family be known. Fancy being ashamed of your own mother,
Geoff! But it was hard upon him too--an old woman who would tell your
fortune--who would stand with her basket in the market, you know: and
he, a great scholar, and considered a gentleman. It _was_ hard; I don’t
excuse him, but I was sorry for him; and I always thought if he came
back again, that he might know----”

Lady Stanton was not accustomed to speak so long and continuously. Her
delicate cheeks were stained with red patches; her breath came quick.

“Do you mean to say he has turned up again--at last?” she added, with a
little gasp.

“I have heard of him,” said Geoff. “I wondered--if he could have
anything to do with it.”

“I will tell you all about him, Geoff. It was John Musgrave who met with
him somewhere. Mary could tell you, too. She was John’s only sister, and
I her great friend; and I always took an interest. They met, I think,
abroad--and he--was of use to John somehow--I forget exactly:--that is
to say, Mr. Bampfield (he spelt his name differently from the others)
did something for him--in short, John said he saved his life. It was
among the Alps, on some precipice, or something of that sort. You see I
can only give you my recollection,” said Lady Stanton, falteringly
conscious of remembering everything about it. “John asked him to
Penninghame, but he would not come. He told us this new friend of his
knew the country quite well, but no one could get out of him where he
had lived. And then he came on a visit to some one else--to the
Fieldings, at Langdale--that was the family; and we all knew him. He was
very handsome; but who was to suppose that a gentleman visiting in such
a house was old ’Lizabeth’s son, or--or--that girl’s brother? No one
thought of such a thing. It was John who found it out at the very last.
It was because of something about myself. Oh, Geoff, I was not
offended--I was only sorry. Poor fellow! he was wrong, but it was hard
upon him. He thought he--took a fancy to me; and poor John was so
indignant. No, I assure you not on that account,” said Lady Stanton,
growing crimson to the eyes, and becoming incoherent. “Never! we were
like brother and sister. John never had such a thought in his mind. I
always--always took an interest in _him_--but there was never anything
of _that_ kind.”

Young Geoff felt himself blush too, as he listened to this confession.
He coloured in sympathy and tender fellow-feeling for her; for it was
not hard to read between the lines of Cousin Mary’s humble story. John
“never had such a thought in his mind;” but she “had always taken an
interest.” And the blush on her cheek and the water in her eyes told of
that interest still.

Then Geoff grew redder still, with another feeling. The madman in the
cottage had dared to lift his eyes to this woman so much above him.

“I don’t wonder Musgrave was furious,” he said.

“That is the right word,” she said, with a faint smile; “he was furious;
and Walter--your brother--laughed. I did not like that--it was
insulting. We were all young people together. Why should not he have
cared for--me?--when both of _them_----. But we must not think of
that--we must not talk of that, Geoff--we cannot blame your poor
brother. He is dead, poor fellow; and such a death, in the very flower
of his youth! What were a few little silly boyish faults to that? He
died, you know, and all the trouble came. Walter had been very
stinging--very insulting, to that poor fellow just the day before, and
he could not bear it. He went off that very day, and I have never heard
of him again. I don’t think people in general even knew who he was. The
Fieldings do not to this day. But Walter’s foolish joking drove him
away. Poor Walter, he had a way of talking--and I suppose he must have
found the secret out--or guessed. I have often--often wondered whether
Mr. Bampfield knew anything, whether if he had come back he would have
said anything about any quarrel between them. I used to pray for him to
be found, and then I used to pray that he might not be found; for I
always thought he could throw some light--and after all, what could that
light be but of one kind?”

“Did any one ever--suspect--_him_?”

“Geoff! you frighten me. Him! whom? You know who was suspected. I don’t
think it was intended, Geoff. I know--I know he did not mean it; but who
but one could have done if? There could not, alas, be any doubt about
that.”

“If Bampfield had been insulted and made angry, as you say, why should
not he have been suspected as well as Musgrave? The one, it seems to me,
was just as likely as the other----”

“Geoff! you take away my breath! But he was away; he left the day
before.”

“Suppose it was found out that he did not go away, Cousin Mary? Was he
more or less likely than Musgrave was to have done a crime?”

Lady Stanton looked at him with her eyes wide open, and her lips apart.

“You do not--mean anything? You have not--found out anything, Geoff?”

“I--can’t tell,” he said. “I think I have got a clue. If it were found
out that Bampfield did not go away--that he was still here, and met poor
Walter that fatal morning, what would you say then, you who knew them
all?”

All the colour ebbed out of Lady Stanton’s face. She kept looking at
him with wistful eyes, into which tears had risen, questioning him with
an earnestness beyond speech.

“I dare not say the words,” she said, faltering; “I don’t venture to say
the words. But, Geoff, you would not speak like this if you did not mean
something. Do you think--really _think_--oh, it is not possible--it is
not possible!--it is only a fancy. You can’t--suppose--that it
matters--much--to me. You are only--speculating. Perhaps it ought not to
matter much to me. But oh, Geoff! if--if you knew what that time was in
my life. Do you mean anything--do you mean anything, my dear?”

“You have not answered my question,” he said. “Which was the most likely
to have done a crime?”

Lady Stanton wrung her hands; she could not speak, but kept her eyes
upon him in beseeching suspense.

Geoff felt that he had raised a spirit beyond his power to calm again,
and he had not intended to commit himself or betray so soon what he had
heard.

“Nothing must be known as yet,” he said; “but I think I have some reason
to speak. Bampfield did not leave the country when you thought he did.
He saw poor Walter that morning. If Musgrave saw him at all----”

Lady Stanton gave a little cry--“You mean Walter, Geoff?”

“Yes; if Musgrave saw him at all, it was not till after. And Bampfield
was the brother of the girl John was going to marry, and had saved his
life.”

“My God!” This was no profane exclamation in Mary’s mouth. She said it
low to herself, clasping her hands together, her face utterly
colourless, her eyes wild with wonder and excitement. The shock of this
disclosure had driven away the rising tears: and yet Geoff did not mean
it as a disclosure. He had trusted in the gentle slowness of her
understanding. But there are cases in which feeling supplies all, and
more than all, that intellect could give. She said nothing, but sat
there silent, with her hands clasped, thinking it over, piecing
everything together. No one like Mary had kept hold of every detail; she
remembered everything as clearly as if (God forbid!) it had happened
yesterday. She put one thing to another which she remembered but no one
else did: and gradually it all became clear to her. Geoff, though he was
so much more clever, did not understand the process by which in silence
she arranged and perceived every point; but then Geoff had not the
minute acquaintance with the subject nor the feeling which touched every
point with interest. By and by Mary began to sob, her gentle breast
heading with emotion. “Oh, Geoff,” she cried, “what a heart--what a
heart! He is like our Saviour; he has given his life for his enemy. Not
even his friend; he was not fond of him; he did not love him. Who could
love him--a man who was ashamed of his own, his very own people? I--oh,
how little and how poor we are! I might have done it perhaps for my
friend; but he--he is like our Saviour.”

“Don’t say so. It was not just--it was not right; he ought not to have
done it,” cried Geoff. “Think, if it saved something, how much trouble
it has made.”

“Then it is all true!” she cried, triumphant. In perfect good faith and
tender feeling Mary had made her comment upon this strange, sad
revelation; yet she could not but feel all the same the triumph of
having thus caught Geoff, and of establishing beyond all doubt that it
was true. She fell a-crying in the happiness of the discovery. The
moment it was certain, the solemnity of it blew aside, as do the mists
before the wind. “Then he will come home again; he will have his poor
little children, and all will be well,” she said; and cried as if her
heart would break. It was vain for Geoff to tell her that nothing was as
yet proved, that he did not know how to approach the subject; no
difficulties troubled Mary. Her heart was delivered as of a load; and
why should not everything at once be told? But she wept all the same,
and Geoff had no clue to the meaning of her tears. She was glad beyond
measure for John Musgrave; but yet while he was an exile, who had
(secretly) stood up for him as she had done? But when he came home, what
would Mary have to do with him? Nothing! She would never see him, though
she had always taken an interest, and he would never know what interest
she had taken. How glad she was! and yet how the tears poured down!

Geoff had a long ride home. He was half alarmed that he had allowed so
much to be known, but yet he had not revealed Lizabeth’s secret. Mary
had required no particulars, no proof. The suggestion was enough for
her. She was not judge or jury--but one to whom the slightest outlet
from that dark maze meant full illumination. Geoff could not but
speculate a little on the surface of the subject as he rode along
through the soft evening, in that unbroken yet active solitude which
makes a long ride or walk the most pleasant and sure moment for
“thinking over.” Geoff’s thoughts were quite superficial, as his
knowledge was. He wondered if John Musgrave had “taken an interest” in
Mary as she had done in him; and how it was that Mary had been his
brother’s betrothed, yet with so warm a sympathy for his brother’s
supposed slayer? And how it was that John Musgrave, if he had responded
at all to the “interest” she took in him, could have loved and married
Lily? All this perplexed Geoff. He did not go any deeper; he did not
think of the mingled feelings of the present moment, but only of the
tangled web of the past.

It grew dark before he got home. No moon, and a cloudy night disturbed
by threatenings or rather promise of rain, which the farmers were
anxious for, as they generally are when a short break of fine weather
bewilders their operations, in the north. As he turned out of the last
cross road, and got upon the straight way to Stanton, he suddenly became
aware of some one running by him on the green turf that edged the road
and in the shadow of the hedgerow. Geoff was startled by the first sight
of this moving shadow running noiselessly by his side. It was a safe
country, where there was no danger from thieves, and a “highwayman” was
a thing of the last century. But still Geoff shortened his whip in his
hand with a certain sense of insecurity. As he did so a voice came from
the shadow of the hedge. “It is but me, my young lord.” “You!” he cried.
He was relieved by the sound, for a close attendant on the road in the
dark, when all faces are alike undiscernible, is not pleasant. “What are
you doing here, Bampfylde? Are you snaring my birds, or scaring them, or
have you come to look after me?”

“Neither the one nor the other,” said Wild Bampfylde. “I have other
thoughts in my mind than the innocent creatures that harm no one. My
young lord, I cannot tell you what is coming, but something is coming.
It’s no you, and it’s no me, but it’s in the air; and I’m about,
whatever happens. If you want me, I’ll aye be within call. Not that I’m
spying on you; but whatever happens, I’m here.”

“And I want you. I want to ask you something,” cried Geoff; but he was
slow in putting his next question. It was about his cousin; and what he
wanted was some one who would see, without forcing him to put them into
words, the thoughts that arose in his mind. Therefore it was a long time
before he spoke again. But in the silence that ensued it soon became
evident to Geoff that the figure running along under the shadow of the
bushes had disappeared. He stopped his horse, but heard no footfall.
“Are you there, Bampfylde?” but his own voice was all he heard, falling
with startling effect into the silence. The vagrant had disappeared, and
not a creature was near. Geoff went on with a strange mixture of
satisfaction and annoyance. To have this wanderer “about” seemed a kind
of aid, and yet to have his movements spied upon did not please the
young man. But Bampfylde was no spy.




CHAPTER XXIV.

THE SQUIRE AT HOME.


The Squire went home after his game of ducks and drakes in the most
curious, bewildered state of mind. The shock of all these recent events
had affected him much more than any one was aware, and Randolph’s visit
and desire to make sure about “family arrangements,” had filled up the
already almost overflowing measure of secret pain. It had momentarily
recalled, like a stimulant too sharp and strong, not only his usual
power of resistance, but a force of excitement strong enough to
overwhelm the faculties which for the time it invigorated; and while he
walked about his woods after his first interview with his son, the
Squire was on the edge of a catastrophe, his brain reeling, his
strained powers on the verge of giving way. The encounter with little
Nello on the lake-side had exercised a curious arresting power upon the
old and worn edifice of the mind which was just then tottering to its
fall. It stopped this fall for the moment. The trembling old walls were
not perhaps in a less dangerous state, but the wind that had threatened
them dropped, and the building stood, shaken to its foundation, and at
the mercy of the next blast, but yet so far safe--safe for the moment,
and with all the semblance of calm about it. To leave metaphor, the
Squire’s mind was hushed and lulled by that encounter with the soft
peacefulness of childhood, in the most curious, and to himself,
inexplicable way. Not, indeed, that he tried to explain. He was as
unconscious of what was going on in himself as most of us are. He did
not know that the various events which had shaken him had anything more
than pain in them--he was unaware of the danger. Even Randolph’s
appearance and the thought of the discussions which must go on when his
back was turned, as to the things that would happen after his death--he
was not aware that there was more in them than an injury against which
his whole spirit revolted. He did not know that this new annoyance had
struck at the very stronghold of vitality, the little strength left to
him. Which of us does know when the _coup-de-grâce_ is given? He only
knew the hurt--the wound--and the forlorn stand he had made against it,
and the almost giddy lightness with which he had tried to himself to
smile it down, and feel himself superior. Neither did he know what Nello
had done for him. His meeting with the child was like the touch of
something soft and healing upon a wound. The contact cooled and calmed
his entire being. It seemed to put out of his mind all sense of wounding
and injury. It did more; it took all distinctness at once from the moral
and the physical landmarks round him. The harsher outlines of life grew
blurred and dim, and instead of the bitter facts of the past, which he
had so long determined to ignore, and the facts of the present which had
so pushed themselves upon him, the atmosphere fell all into a soft
confusion. A kind of happiness stole over him. What had he to be happy
about? yet he was so. Sometimes in our English summers there is a mist
of heat in the air, confusing all the lines of the landscape as much as
a fog in winter--in which the hills and lakes and sky are nothing but
one dazzle and faint glory of suppressed light and warmth--light
confusing but penetrating: warmth perhaps stifling to the young and
active, but consolatory to those whose blood runs chill. This was the
mental condition in which the Squire was. His troubles seemed to die
away, though he had so many of them. Randolph, his middle-aged son,
ceased to be an assailant and invader, and dropped into the dark like
other troublesome things--not a son to be proud of, but one to put up
with easily enough. John? he did not remember much about John; but he
remembered very distinctly his old playfellow little Johnny, his little
brother. “Eighteen months--only eighteen months between them:” he almost
could hear the tone in which his mother said that long ago. If Johnny
had lived he would have been--how old would he have been now? Johnny
would have been seventy-four or so had he lived--but the Squire did not
identify the number of years. There was eighteen months between them,
that was all he could remember, and of that he sat and mused, often
saying the words over to himself with a soft dreamy smile upon his face.
He was often not quite clear that it was not Johnny himself, little
Johnny, with whom he had been playing on the water-side.

This change affected him in all things. He had never been so entirely
amiable. When Randolph returned to the assault, the Squire would smile
and make no reply. He was no longer either irritated or saddened by
anything his son might say--indeed he did not take much notice of him
one way or another, but would speak of the weather, or take up a book,
smiling, when his son began. This was very bewildering to the family.
Randolph, who was dull and self-important, was driven half frantic by
it, thinking that his father meant to insult him. But the Squire had no
purpose of any kind, and Mary, who knew him better, at last grew vaguely
alarmed without knowing what she feared. He kept up all his old habits,
took his walks as usual, dressed with his ordinary care--but did
everything in a vague and hazy way, requiring to be recalled to himself
when anything important happened. When he was in his library, where he
had read and written and studied so much, the Squire arranged all his
tools as usual, opened his book, even began to write his letters,
putting the date--but did no more. Having accomplished that beginning he
would lean back in his chair and muse for hours together. It was not
thinking even, but only musing; no subject abode with him in these long
still hours, and not even any consistent thread of recollections.
Shadows of the past came sailing--floating about him, that was all; very
often only that soft, wandering thought about little Johnny, occupied
all his faculties.--Eighteen months between them, no more! He rarely got
beyond that fact, though he never could quite tell whether it was the
little brother’s face or another--his son’s, or his son’s son’s--which
floated through this mist of recollections. He was quite happy in the
curious trance which had taken possession of him. He had no active
personal feelings, except that of pleasure in the recollection and
thought of little Johnny--a thought which pleased and amused, and
touched his heart. All anger and harm went out of the old man; he spoke
softly when he spoke at all, and suffered himself to be disturbed as he
never would have done before. Indeed he was far too gentle and good to
be natural. The servants talked of his condition with dismay, yet with
that agreeable anticipation of something new which makes even a “death
in the house” more or less desirable. “Th’ owd Squire’s not long for
this world,” the Cook and Tom Gardener said to each other. As for
Eastwood, he shook his head with mournful importance. “I give you my
word, I might drop a trayful of things at his side, and he wouldn’t take
no notice,” the man said, almost tearfully; “it’s clean again nature,
that is.” And the other servants shook their heads, and said in their
turn that they “didn’t like the looks of him,” and that certainly the
Squire was not long for this world.

This same event of Randolph’s visit had produced other results almost as
remarkable. It had turned little Lilias all at once into the slim
semblance of a woman, grown-up, and full of thoughts. It is perhaps too
much to say that she had grown in outward appearance as suddenly as she
had done in mind; but it is no unusual thing in the calmest domestic
quiet, where no commotion is, nor fierce, sudden heat of excitement to
quicken a tardy growth, that the elder members of a family should wake
up all in a moment, to notice how a child has grown. She had perhaps
been springing up gradually; but now in a moment every one perceived it;
and the moment was coincident with that in which Lilias heard with
unspeakable wrath, horror, shame, pity, and indignation, her father’s
story--that he would be put in prison if he came back; that he dared not
come back; that he might be--executed. (Lilias would not permit even her
thoughts to say hanged--most ignominious of all endings--though Miss
Brown had not hesitated to employ the word.) This suggestion had struck
into her soul like a fiery arrow. The guilt suggested might have
impressed her imagination also; but the horrible reality of the penalty
had gone through and through the child. All the wonderful enterprises
she had planned on the moment are past our telling. She would go to the
Queen and get his pardon. She would go to the old woman on the hills and
find out everything. Ah! what would she not do? And then had come the
weary pilgrimage which Geoff had intercepted; and now the ache of pity
and terror had yielded to that spell of suspense which, more than
anything else, takes the soul out of itself. What had come to the child?
Miss Brown said; and all the maids and Martuccia watched her without
saying anything. Miss Brown, who had been the teller of the story, did
not think of identifying it with this result. She said, and all the
female household said, that if Miss Lily had been a little older, they
knew what they would have thought. And the only woman in the house who
took no notice was Mary--herself so full of anxieties that her mind had
little leisure for speculation. She said, yes, Lilias had grown; yes,
she was changing. But what time had she to consider Lilias’ looks in
detail? Randolph was Mary’s special cross; he was always about, always
in her way, making her father uncomfortable, talking at the children.
Mary felt herself hustled about from place to place, wearied and worried
and kept in perpetual commotion. She could not look into the causes of
the Squire’s strange looks and ways; she could not give her attention to
the children; she could scarcely even do her business, into which
Randolph would fain have forced his way, while her all-investigating
brother was close by. Would he but go away and leave the harassed
household in peace!

But Randolph for his part was not desirous of going away. He could not
go away, he represented to himself, without coming to some understanding
with his father, though that understanding seemed as far off as ever. So
he remained from day to day, acting as a special irritant to the whole
household. He had nothing to do, and consequently he roamed about the
garden, pointing out to the gardener a great many imperfections in his
work; and about the stables, driving well-nigh out of his wits the
steady-going, respectable groom, who nowadays had things very much his
own way. He found fault with the wine, making himself obnoxious to
Eastwood, and with the made dishes, exasperating Cook. Indeed there was
nothing disagreeable which this visitor did not do to set his father’s
house by the ears. Finally sauntering into the drawing-room, where Mary
sat, driven by him out of her favourite hall, where his comments
offended her more than she could bear, he reached the climax of all
previous exasperations by suddenly urging upon her the undeniable fact
that Nello ought to go to school. “The boy,” Randolph called him;
nothing would have induced him to employ any pet name to a child,
especially a foreign name like Nello--his virtue was of too severe an
order to permit any such trifling. He burst out with this advice all at
once. “You should send the boy to school; he ought to be at school. Old
Pen’s lessons are rubbish. The boy should be at school, Mary,” he said.
This sudden fulmination disturbed Mary beyond anything that had gone
before, for it was quite just and true. “And I know a place--a nice
homely, good sort of place, where he would be well taught and well taken
care of,” he added. “Why should not you get him ready at once? and I
will place him there on my way home.” This was, to do him justice, a
sudden thought, not premeditated--an idea which had flashed into his
mind since he began to speak, but which immediately gained
attractiveness to him, when he saw the consternation in Mary’s eyes.

“Oh, thank you, Randolph,” she said, faintly. Had not Mr. Pen
advised--had not she herself thought of asking her brother’s advice, who
was himself the father of a boy, and no doubt knew better about
education than she did? “But,” she added, faltering, “he could not be
got ready in a moment; it would require a little time. I fear that it
would not be possible, though it is so very kind.”

“Possible? Oh yes, easily possible, if you give your mind to it,” cried
Randolph; and he pointed out to her at great length the advantages of
the plan, while Mary sat trembling, in spite of herself, feeling that
her horror of the idea was unjustifiable, and that she would probably
have no excuse for rejecting so reasonable and apparently kind a
proposal. Was it kind? It seemed so on the outside; and how could she
venture to impute bad motives to Randolph, when he offered to serve her?
She did not know what reply to make; but her mind was thrown into sudden
and most unreasonable agitation. She got up at last, agitated and
tremulous, and explained that she was compelled to go out to visit some
of her poor people. “I have not been in the village since you came,” she
said, breathless in her explanations; “and there are several who are
ill; and I have something to say to Mr. Pen.”

“Oh, yes, consult old Pen, of course,” Randolph had said. “I would not
deprive a lady of her usual spiritual adviser because she happens to be
my sister. Of course you must talk it over with Pen.” This assumption of
her dependence upon poor Mr. Pen’s advice galled Mary, who had by no
means elected Mr. Pen to be her spiritual adviser. However, she would
not stay to argue the question, but hurried away anxiously with a sense
of escape. She had escaped for the moment; yet she had a painful sense
in her mind that she could not always escape from Randolph. The proposal
was sudden, but it was reasonable and kind--quite kind. It was the thing
a good uncle ought to do; no one but would think better of Randolph that
he was willing to take so much trouble. Randolph for his part felt that
it was very kind; he had no other meaning in the original suggestion;
but when he had thus once put it forth, a curious expansion of the idea
came into his mind. Little Nello was a terrible bugbear to Randolph. He
had long dwelt upon the thought that it was he who would succeed to
Penninghame on his father’s death--at first, perhaps, nominally on
John’s account. But there was very little chance that John would dare
the dangers of a trial, and reappear again, to be arraigned for murder,
of which crime Randolph had always simply and stolidly believed him
guilty; and the younger brother had entertained no doubt that, sooner or
later, the unquestioned inheritance would fall into his hands. But this
child baffled all his plans. What could be done while he was there?
though there was no proof who he was, and none that he was legitimate,
or anything but a little impostor: certainly, he was as far from being a
lawful and proper English heir--such as an old family like the Musgraves
ought to have--such as his own boy would be--as could be supposed. And
of course, the best that could be done for himself was to send him to
school. It was only of Nello that Randolph thought in this way. The
little girl, though a more distinct individual, did not trouble him. She
might be legitimate enough--another Mary, to whom, of course, Mary would
leave her money--and there would be an end of it. Randolph did not
believe, even if there had been no girl of John’s, that Mary’s money
would ever come his way. She would alienate it rather, he felt
sure--found a hospital for cats, or something of that description (for
Mary was nothing but a typical old maid to Randolph, who regarded
her, as an unmarried woman, with much masculine and married
contemptuousness), rather than let it come to his side of the family. So
let that pass--let the girl pass; but for the boy! That little, small,
baby-faced Nello--a little nothing--a creature that might be crushed by
a strong hand--a thing unprotected, unacknowledged, without either power
or influence, or any one to care for him! how he stood in Randolph’s
way! But he did not at this moment mean him any harm; that is, no
particular harm. The school he had suddenly thought of had nothing wrong
in it; it was a school for the sons of farmers or poor clergymen, and
people in “reduced circumstances.” It would do Nello a great deal of
good. It would clear his mind from any foolish notion of being the heir.
And he would be out of the way; and once at school, there is no telling
what may happen between the years of ten and twenty. But of one thing
Randolph was quite sure--that he meant no harm, no particular harm, to
the boy.

When Mary left him in this hurried way, he strolled out in search of
something to amuse or employ the lingering afternoon. Tom Gardener now
gave him nothing but sullen answers, and the groom began to dash about
pails of water, and make hideous noises as soon as he appeared, so that
it did not consist with his dignity to have anything more to say to
these functionaries; so that sheer absence of occupation, mingled with a
sudden interest in the boy, on whose behalf he had thus been suddenly
“led” to interfere, induced Randolph to look for the children. They were
not in their favourite place at the door of the old hall, and he turned
his steps instinctively to the side of the water, the natural attraction
to everybody at Penninghame. When he came within sight of the little
cove where the boats lay, he saw that it was occupied by the little
group he sought. He went towards them with some eagerness, though not
with any sense of interest or natural beauty such as would have moved
most people. Nello was seated on the edge of the rocky step relieved
against the blue water; Lilias placed higher up, with the wind ruffling
her brown curls, and the slant sunshine grazing her cheek. The boy had a
book open on his knees, but was trying furtive ducks and drakes under
cover of the lesson, except when Lilias recalled him to it, when he
resumed his learning with much demonstration, saying it over under his
breath with visibly moving lips. Lilias had got through her own portion
of study. Mr. Pen’s lessons were not long or severe, and she had a
girl’s conscientiousness and quickness in learning. Her book was closed
on her knee; her head turned a little towards that road which she
watched with a long dreamy gaze, looking for some one--but some one very
visionary and far away. Her pensive, abstracted look and pose, and the
sudden growth and development which had so suddenly changed Lilias,
seemed to have charmed the little girl out of childhood altogether. Was
she looking already for the fairy prince, the visionary hero? And to say
the truth, though she was still only a child, this was exactly what
Lilias was doing. It was the knight-deliverer, the St. George who kills
the dragon, the prince with shoes of swiftness and invisible coat,
brought down to common life, and made familiar by being entitled “Mr.
Geoff,” for whom, with that kind of visionary childish anticipation
which takes no note of possibilities, she was looking. Time and the
world are at once vaster, and vaguer, and more narrow at her age than at
any other. He might come _now_, suddenly appearing at any moment; and
Lilias could not but feel vaguely disappointed every moment that he did
not appear. And yet there was no knowing when he would come, to-morrow,
next year, she could not tell when. Meanwhile she kept her eyes fixed on
the distance, watching for him. But Lilias was not thinking of herself
in conjunction with “Mr. Geoff.” She was much too young for love; no
flutter of even possible sentiment disturbed the serenity of her soul.
Nevertheless her mind was concentrated upon the young hero as entirely
as the mind of any dreaming maiden could be. He was more than her hero;
he was her representative, doing for her the work which perhaps Lilias
was not old enough or strong enough to do. So other people, grown-up
people, thought at least. And until he came she could do nothing, know
nothing. Already, by this means, the child had taken up the burden of
her womanhood. Her eyes “were busy in the distance shaping things,” that
made her heart beat quick. She was waiting already, not for love to
come, of which at her age she knew nothing, but for help to come, which
she would have given her little life to bestow, but could not, her own
hand being too slight and feeble to give help. This thought gave her a
pang, while the expectation of help kept her in that woman’s purgatory
of suspense. Why could not she do it herself? but yet there was a
certain sweetness in the expectation which was vague, and had not
existed long enough to be tedious. And yet how long, how long it was
even since yesterday! From daylight to dusk, even in August, what a
world of time. Every one of these slow, big round hours floated by
Lilias like clouds when there is no wind, moving imperceptibly; great
globes of time never to be done with. Her heart gave a throb whenever
any one appeared. But it was Tom Gardener, it was Mr. Pen, it was some
one from the village, it was never Mr. Geoff; and finally here was some
one quite antagonistic, the enemy in person, the stranger whom people
called Uncle Randolph. Lilias gave her little brother a note of warning;
and she opened her own book again.

When Randolph approached, they had thus the air of being very busily
employed, both;--Lilias intent upon her book, while Nello, furtively
feeling in his pocket for the stones which he had stored there for use,
busied himself, to all appearance, with his lesson, repeating it to
himself with moving lips. Randolph had taken very little notice of the
children, except by talking at them to his sister. He came to a pause
now, and looked at them with curiosity--or at least he looked at Nello;
for after all, it did not matter about the girl. She might be John’s
daughter, or she might not; but in any case she was not worth a thought.
He did not see the humour of the preternatural closeness of study which
the children exhibited; but it afforded a means of opening
communications.

“Are these your lessons for Mr. Pennithorne?” he said.

Nello, to whom the question was addressed, made no answer. Was he not
much to busy to answer? his eyes were riveted upon his book. Lilias kept
silence too as long as politeness would let her; but at last the
rudeness of it struck her acutely. This might be an enemy, but children
ought not to be rude. She therefore said timidly, “Yes;” and added by
way of explanation, “Nello’s is Latin; but me, it is only English I
have.”

“Is it hard?” said Randolph, still directing his question to the boy.

Nello gave a glance out of the corner of his eyes at his questioner, but
said nothing, only learned harder than ever; and again it became
needful, for the sake of courtesy, that Lilias should answer.

“The Latin is not hard,” she said; “oh, not near so hard as the English.
It is so easy to say; but Mr. Pen does not know how it goes; he says it
all wrong; he says it like English. I hope Nello will not learn it that
way.”

Randolph stared at her, but took no further notice. “Can’t you speak?”
he said to Nello, “when I ask you a question? Stop your lesson and
listen to me. Shouldn’t you like to go to school?”

Nello looked up with round and astonished eyes, and equally roundly,
with all the force of the monosyllable, said “No,” as probably he would
have answered to any question.

“No? but you don’t know what school is; not lessons only, but a number
of fellows to play with, and all kinds of games. You would like it a
great deal better than being here, and learning with Mr. Pennithorne.”

“No,” said Nello again; but his tone was less sure, and he paused to
look into his questioner’s face. “Would Lily come too?” he said,
suddenly accepting the idea. For from No to Yes is not a very long way
at eight years old.

“Why, you don’t want to drag a girl with you,” said Randolph, laughing;
“a girl who can’t play at anything, wherever you go?”

This argument secured Nello’s attention. He said, “N--no,” reddening a
little, and with a glance at Lilias, against whose sway he dared
scarcely rebel all at once; but the sense of superiority even at such an
early age is sweet.

“He must not go without me,” cried Lilias, roused. “I am to take care of
him _always_! Papa said so. Oh, don’t listen, Nello, to this--gentleman!
You know what I told you--papa is perhaps coming home. Mr. Geoff
said--Mr. Geoff knows something that will make everything right again.
Mr. Geoff is going to fetch papa----”

“Oh!” cried Nello, reproachfully, “you said I was not to tell; and there
you have gone and told yourself!”

“What is that? what is that?” asked Randolph, pricking up his ears.

But the boy and girl looked at each other and were silent. The curious
uncle felt that he would most willingly have whipped them both, and that
amiable sentiment showed itself in his face.

“And, Lily,” said Nello, “I think the old gentleman would not let me go.
He will want me to play with; he has never had anybody to play with
for--I don’t know how long--never since a little boy called little
Johnny: and he said that was my name too----”

“Oh, Nello! now it is you who are forgetting; he said (you know you told
me) that you were never, never to tell!”

Randolph turned from one to another, bewildered. What did they mean?
Had they the audacity to play upon his fears, the little foundlings, the
little impostors! He drew a long breath of fury, and clenched his fist
involuntarily. “Children should never have secrets,” he said. “Do you
know it is wicked, very wicked? You ought to be whipped for it. Tell me
directly what you mean!”

But this is not the way to get at any child’s secret. The brother and
sister looked at each other, and shut fast their mouths. As for Nello,
he felt the edges of that stone in his pocket, and thought he would like
to throw it at the man. Lilias had no stone, and was not warlike; but
she looked at him with the calm of superior knowledge. “It would be
dishonourable,” she said, faltering over the pronunciation, but firm in
the sentiment, “to tell what we were told not to tell.”

“You are going to school with me--on Saturday,” said Randolph, with a
virulence of irritation which children are just as apt to call forth as
their elders. “You will be taught better there; you will not venture to
conceal anything, I can tell you, my boy.”

And he left them with an angry determination to carry out his plans, and
to give over Nello to hands that would tame him effectually, “the best
thing for him.” The children, though they had secretly enjoyed his
discomfiture, were a little appalled by this conclusion. “Oh, Nello, I
will tell you what he is--he is the wicked uncle in the _Babes in the
Wood_. He will take you and leave you somewhere, where you will lose
yourself and starve, and never be heard of. But I will find you. I will
go after you. I will never leave you!” cried Lilias with sudden tears.

“I could ask which way to go,” said Nello, much impressed, however, by
this view. “I can speak English now. I could ask the way home; or
something better!--listen, Lily--if he takes me, when we have gone ten
miles, or a hundred miles, I will run away!”




CHAPTER XXV.

A NEW VISITOR.


Notwithstanding her dislike to have it supposed that Mr. Pen was her
spiritual adviser, Mary did make a hurried visit to the Vicarage to ask
his advice. Not that she had much confidence in the good Vicar’s advice;
but to act in such a case, where experience fails you altogether,
entirely on your own judgment without even the comfort of “talking it
over,” is a hard thing to do. “Talking it over” is always an advantage.
The for and against of any argument are always clearer when they are put
into words and made audible, and thus acquire, as it were, though they
may be your own words, a separate existence. Thus Mary became her own
adviser when she consulted Mr. Pen, and there was no one else at hand
who could fulfil this office. They talked it over anxiously, Mr. Pen
being, as she knew he would be, entirely on Randolph’s side. To him it
appeared that it would be a great advantage for Nello to be taken to
school by his uncle. It would be “the right thing to do”--better than if
Mary did it--better than Mr. Pen himself could do it. Mary could not
find any arguments to meet this conventional certainty. She restrained
her distrust and fear, but she could not say anything against the fact
that it was kind of Randolph to propose this, and that it would be
injurious and unkind on her part to reject it. She went home dispirited
and cast down, but set to work at once with the practical preparations.
Saturday was the day on which Randolph had said he must go--and it was
already Thursday--and there was not a moment to lose. But it was not
till the Friday afternoon, the eve of separation, that Miss Musgrave
could screw her courage to the point of informing the children what lay
before them. The afternoon was half over, and the sun beginning to send
long rays aslant from the west. She came in from the village, where she
had gone in mere restlessness, feeling that this communication could be
delayed no longer; but she disliked it so much herself that the thought
of Nello’s consternation and the tears of Lilias was almost more than
their tender guardian could bear.

But when she came in sight of the old hall door, a group encountered her
which bewildered Mary. A young man on horseback had drawn up at the side
of the ascent, and with his hat off, and the sun shining upon his
curling hair and smiling countenance, was looking up and talking to
little Lilias, who leaned over the low wall, like a lady of romance
looking over her battlements. The sun gleamed full upon Lilias too,
lighting up her dark eyes and warmly-tinted cheek and the hair which
hung about her shoulders, and making a pretty picture. Her face was full
of earnest meaning, grave and eager and tremulous. Nello, at the hall
door, above this strange pair, contemplated them with a mixture of
jealousy and wonder. Mary had come upon them so suddenly that she could
hear the young man answering something to the eager demands of the
little girl. “But, you are sure, quite sure? Oh, are you certain, Mr.
Geoff?”

“Quite sure,” he was saying. “But you must think of me all the time,
Lily; you must think of nothing but me--promise me that, and I shall not
be afraid.”

“I promise!” cried Lilias, clasping her hands. Mary stood and listened
altogether confounded, and Nello, from above, bewildered and only half
satisfied, looked on. Who was the young man? It seemed to Miss Musgrave
that she had seen him before. And what was it that had changed Lilias
into this little princess, this small heroine? The heroic aspect,
however, gave way before Mary could interfere, and the child murmured
something softer, something less unlike the little girl with all whose
ways Mary was familiar.

“But I always think of you,” she said; “always! since _that_ day.”

“Do you, indeed, my little Lily? That makes me happy. You must always
keep up so good a custom.”

And the young man smiled, with eyes full of tenderness, and took the
child’s hand and held it in his own. Lilias was too young for any
comment or false interpretation, but what did it mean? The spectator
behind, besides, was too much astonished to move.

“Good-bye, my Lily; good-bye, Nello,” cried the young man, nodding his
head to the children. And then he put on his hat and rode round the
corner towards the door.

Lilias stood looking after him, like a little saint in an ecstasy. She
clasped her hands again, and looked up to the sky, her lips moving, and
tears glittering in her eyes.

“Oh, Nello, don’t you think God will help him?” she said, one tear
overbrimming suddenly, and rolling down her cheek. She started when
Mary, with tones a little sharpened by consternation, called her. Lilias
had no sense of shame in her innocent mind, but as there is no telling
in what light those curious beings called grown-up people might regard a
child’s actions, a little thrill of alarm went through her. What might
Mary say? What would she think when she knew that Mr. Geoff “had come to
set everything right about papa”? Lilias felt instinctively that Geoff’s
mission would not appear in exactly the same light to Mary as it did to
herself. She turned round with a sudden flush of surprise and agitation
on her face. It looked like the blush of a maturer sentiment to Mary.

“At twelve years old!” she said to herself! And unconsciously there
glanced through her mind a recollection of the first Lily--the child’s
mother--she who had been the beginning of all the trouble. Was it in the
blood?

“Who is that gentleman?” Mary asked, with much disturbance of mind.
“Lilias! I could not have expected this of you.”

Lilias followed into the hall, very still and pale, feeling herself a
culprit, though she did not know why. Her hands dropped straight by her
side, after the manner of a creature accused; and she looked up to Mary
with eyes full of vague alarm, into which the tears were ready to come
at a moment’s notice.

“I have not done anything wrong?” she said, turning her assertion into a
faltering question. “It was Mr. Geoff.”

“Mr. Geoff!--who is Mr. Geoff?”

“He is--very kind--oh, very kind, Mary; he is--some one who knows about
papa: he is--the gentleman who once came with two beautiful horses in a
carriage (oh, don’t you remember, Nello?) to see _you_.”

“Yes,” said Nello, with ready testimony; “he said I should ride upon
them. They were two bay horses, in one of those high-up funny carriages,
not like Mary’s carriage. I wonder if I might ride upon his horse now?”

“To see _me_?” Mary was entirely bewildered. “And what do you mean about
your father?” she said. “Knows about papa! Lilias! come here; I am not
angry. What does he know about papa?”

Lilias came up slowly to her side, half unwilling to communicate her own
knowledge on this point. For Mary had not told her the secret, she
remembered suddenly. But the confusion of Lilias was interrupted by
something more startling and agitating. Eastwood came into the hall,
with a certain importance and solemnity. “If you please, ma’am,” he
said, “my Lord Stanton has just come in, and I’ve shown him into the
library--to my master. I thought you would like to know.”

“Lord Stanton--to my father, Eastwood? my father ought not to be
troubled with strangers. Lord Stanton!--to be sure it was that boy.
Quick, say that I shall be glad to see him up-stairs.”

“If you please, ma’am, his lordship asked for my master; and my
master--he said, ‘Yes, certainly.’ He was quite smiling like, and
cheerful. He said, ‘Yes; certainly, Eastwood.’ So, what was I to do? I
showed his lordship in--and there they are now--as friendly--as
friendly, if I may venture to make a comparison: His lordship,” said
Eastwood, prudently pausing before he committed himself to metaphor,
“is, if I may make bold to say so, one of the nicest young gentleman!”

Mary had risen hastily to interrupt this dangerous interview, which
alarmed her. She stood, paying no attention to Eastwood while the man
was talking, feeling herself crowded and pressed on all hands by a
multitude of thoughts. The hum of them was in her ears, like the sound
of a throng of people. Should she go to the library, whatever her father
might think of the interruption? Should she stop this meeting at all
hazards? or should she let it go on, and that come which would? All was
confusion around her, her heart beating loudly in her ears, and a
hundred suggestions sounding through that stormy throbbing. But when
Eastwood’s commonplace voice, to which she had been paying no heed,
stopped, Mary’s thoughts came to a stop also. She grew faint, and the
light seemed to vanish from her eyes.

The Squire had been sitting alone all day. He had seemed to all the
servants (the most accurate of observers in such a case) more feeble
than usual. His daughter, agitated and full of trouble about other
things, had not remarked any change. But Eastwood had shaken his head
down-stairs, and had said that he did not like the looks of master. He
had never been so gentle before. Whatever you said to him he smiled,
which was not at all the Squire’s way. And though he had a book before
him, Eastwood had remarked that he did not read. He would cast his eyes
upon his book when any one went in, but it was always the same page.
Eastwood had made a great many pretences of business, in order to see
how his master was--pretences which the Squire in his usual health would
have put a stop to summarily, but which to-day he either did not observe
at all, or received smilingly. In this way Eastwood had remarked a great
many things which filled him with dismay; for he liked his old master,
and the place suited him to perfection. He noticed the helpless sort of
way in which Mr. Musgrave sat; his knees feebly leaning against each
other, his fingers falling in a heap upon the arm of his chair, his
eyelids half covering his eyes. It was half the instinct of obedience,
and half a benevolent desire to rouse his master, which made Eastwood
introduce the visitor into the library without consulting Miss Musgrave.
Judging by his own feelings, the man felt that nothing was so likely to
stimulate and rouse up the Squire as a visit from a lord. There were not
too many of them about; visitors of any kind, indeed, were not over
plentiful at Penninghame; and a nice, cheerful, affable young lordship
was a thing to do anybody good.

And Geoff went in, full of the mission he had taken in hand. It was a
bold thing to do, after all he had heard of the inexorable old Squire
who had shut his heart to his son, and would hear nothing of him, as
everybody said. But it seemed to Geoff, in the rash generosity of his
youth, that if he, who was the representative of the injured family,
were to interfere, the other must be convinced--must yield, at least,
to reason, and consent to consider the subject. But he did not expect a
very warm reception, and went in with a beating heart.

Mr. Musgrave had risen up to receive him; he had not failed in any of
his faculties. He could still hear as well as he did twenty years
before, and Lord Stanton’s name was unusual enough to call his attention
for the moment. He had raised himself from his chair, and stood leaning
forward, supporting himself with both hands upon the writing-table
before him. This had been a favourite attitude, when he had no occasion
for support; but now the feeble hands leaned heavily with all the weight
of his frame upon them. He said the name that had been announced to him
with a wavering of suspicion in his tone, “Lord Stanton!” then pointed
with a tremulous sweep of his hand to a seat, and himself dropped back
into his chair. He was not the stern old chief whom Geoff expected to
find in arms against every suggestion of mercy, but a feeble old man,
smiling faintly, with a kind of veiled intelligence in his eyes. He
murmured something about “an unusual pleasure,” which Geoff could not
make out.

“I have come to you, sir, about important business. I hope you will not
think I am taking too much upon myself. I thought, as I was--the chief
person on one side, and you on the other, that you might allow me to
speak?”

Geoff was as nervous as a child; his colour went and came. It awed him,
he could scarcely tell why, to see the feebleness of the old figure, the
dreary, abstracted look in the old face.

“Surely--surely,” said the old man. “Why should you not speak to me? Our
family is perhaps better known; but yours, Mr.--I mean, my Lord Stanton,
yours is--”

He half forgot what he was saying, getting slower and slower, and now
stopped all at once. Then, after a moment, rousing himself, resumed,
with a wave of his hand, “Surely--you must say--what you have to say.”

This was worse for Geoff than if he had forbidden him altogether. What
could he do to rouse interest in the old man’s breast?

“I want to speak, sir,” he said, faltering, “of your son.”

“My son?--ah! yes, Randolph is here. He is too old for me--too old--not
like a son. What does it matter who is your father when it comes to that
age?”

“It was not Randolph, sir. I did not know him; but it is your other
son--your eldest son, I mean--John.”

“Eh?” The old man roused up a little. “John--that was my little brother;
we called him Johnny--a delightful boy. There is just such another in
the house now, I believe. I think he is in the house.”

“Oh, sir!” said Geoff, “I want to speak to you--to plead with you for
some one who is not in the house--for your son John--John who has been
so long away. You know--don’t you know whom I mean?--your eldest son,
Mr. Musgrave--_John_, who left us and left everything so many years
ago.”

A wavering light came over the old man’s face. He opened his eyes wide
and gazed at Geoff, who, for his part, was too much troubled and alarmed
to know what to do.

“Eh!” he said again, with a curious blank stare, “my--what? Son? but not
Randolph. No more about sons, they are a trouble and a sorrow. To tell
the truth I am drowsy rather. I suppose--I have not been very well. Have
you seen the little boy?”

“The little boy?--your grandson, sir?”

“Eh! you call him that! He is just such another as little Johnny, my
little brother, who was eighteen months younger than I. You were saying
something else, my--my--friend! But to tell the truth, this is all I am
good for now. The elders would like to push us from the scene; but the
little ones,” said the Squire, with a curious sudden break of laughter,
which sounded full of tears, “the little ones--are fond of old people;
that is all I am good for nowadays--to play with the little boy----”

“Oh, sir!” said Geoff in his eagerness, “it is something very different
that is expected of you. To save the little boy’s father--your son--to
bring him back with honour. It is honour, not shame, that he deserves. I
who am a stranger, who am the brother of the man who was killed, I have
come to entreat you to do John Musgrave justice. You know how he has
been treated. You know, to our disgrace, not his, that there is still a
sentence against him. It is John Musgrave--John Musgrave we ought to
think of. Listen to me--oh, listen to me! Your son--”

The old man rose to his feet, and stood wavering, gazing with troubled
wide-open eyes, full of the dismal perplexity of an intelligence which
feels itself giving way. “John Musgrave!” he said, with pale lips which
trembled and dropped apart; and a thrill and trembling came over his
whole frame. Geoff sprang up and came towards him in alarm to support
him, but the Squire waved him away with both his tremulous hands, and
gave a bewildered look round him as if for some other prop. Suddenly he
caught sight of the little carved oak cupboard against the wall. “Ah!”
he said, with an exclamation of relief. This was what he wanted. He
turned and made a feeble step towards it, opened it, and took from it
the cordial which he used in great emergencies, and to which he turned
vaguely in this utter overthrowal of all his forces now. But then ensued
a piteous spectacle; all his strength was not sufficient to pour it out.
He made one or two despairing efforts, then put the bottle and glass
down upon the table with a low cry, and sank back into his chair. He
looked at Geoff with the very anguish of feebleness in his eyes. “Ah!”
he faltered, “it is true--they are right. I am old--old--and good for
nothing. Let them push me away, and take my place.” A few sobs, bitter
and terrible, came with the words, and two or three tears dropped down
the old man’s grey-pale cheeks. The depth of mortal humiliation was in
this last cry.

Geoff almost wept too in the profound pity of his generous young
soul--it went to his very heart. “Let me help you,” he cried, pouring
out the cordial with anxious care. It was all the Squire could do to put
it to his lips. He laid one of his trembling hands upon Geoff’s shoulder
as he gave back the glass, and whispered to him hoarsely, “Not
Randolph,” he said; “don’t let Randolph come. Bring me--do you
know?--the little boy.”

“Yes, sir, yes,” cried Geoff; “I understand.”

The old Squire still held him with a hand which was heavy as lead upon
his arm, “God bless you, my lad,” he said. He did not know who Geoff
was; but trusted to him as in utter prostration we trust to any hand
held out to us. And a little temporary ease came with the potion. He
smiled feebly once more, laid back his head, and closed his eyes. “My
little Johnny!” he said; and his hands fell as Eastwood had described
them, the fingers crumbled together all in a heap, upon the arms of his
chair.

Geoff rushed out of the room with a beating heart, feeling himself all
at once thrust into a position of importance in this unknown house. He
had never seen death or its approach, and in his inexperience did not
know how difficult it was to shuffle off the coils of mortality. He
thought the old man was dying. Accordingly, he rushed up the slope to
the old hall like a whirlwind, where Mary and the children were. “Come,
come,” he cried; “he is ill, very ill!” and snatching Nello’s reluctant
hand, ran back, dragging the child with him, who resisted with all his
might. “Come, your grandfather wants you,” cried Geoff. Mary followed,
alarmed, and wondering, and--scarcely knowing where she went in her
agitation--found herself, behind the young man and the boy, at the door
of that sacred library which the children had never entered, and where
their very existence was ignored. Her father was lying back in his great
chair; Eastwood, whom Geoff had hastily summoned, standing behind. The
old man’s heavy eyes were watching the door, his old limbs huddled
together in the chair, like something inanimate thrown down in a heap,
and lying as it fell. At sight of this awful figure, little Nello gave a
loud cry of childish terror, and turning round, would have fled but for
Geoff, who stood behind him. At the sound of the child’s voice, the old
man roused himself feebly; he moved his arms--extending them in
intention at least--and his lips with inaudible words. “Go to him, go to
him!” cried Geoff in an imperative whisper. Little Nello was not without
courage, though he was afraid. Finding the way of escape blocked up, he
turned round again, stood irresolute for a moment, and then advanced
with the strength of desperation. The old man, with a last effort, put
out his arms, and drew the child between his knees. “My little Johnny!”
he said, with an only half-articulate outbreak of crying and strange
laughter. Then his arms fell powerless; his head drooped on his breast.
Nello broke out wildly into crying; but stood fascinated between the
feeble knees.

Was he dead? Geoff thought so in his simplicity as he led the child
away, and left Mary and the servants, whom he had summoned, in this
death-chamber. He led Nello back to the hall, and sat down beside the
children and talked to them in low tones. His mind was full of awe and
solemn feeling; his own youth, and strength, and happiness seeming a
kind of insult to the old and dying. He went back after a while very
grave and humble, to ask how it was, and what he could do. But the
Squire was not dead. He was stricken by that _avant-courier_ of the
great king, who kills the mind before the body dies. It was “a stroke,”
Eastwood said, in all the awe, yet importance, of so tragic an event. He
had seen it coming for weeks before, he said.




CHAPTER XXVI.

IN SUSPENSE.


Randolph Musgrave was extremely annoyed at the turn things had taken. On
the day of his father’s seizure indeed a kind of serene solemnity came
over him. He would not have been so indiscreet or indecorous as to admit
that he was glad of the “stroke” which might terminate the Squire’s
life; such an evil sentiment was far from him. Still if his dear father
was indeed in the providence of God to be taken away from this mortal
scene, there was a sad satisfaction in having it happen while he was
still at the Castle and ready to be of use. As the only male member of
the family, it was indeed very important that he should be there on such
a melancholy occasion. Mary would have enough on her hands with the
nursing and the strictly feminine duties, and he was the only one to
turn to, the only one who could do anything. He telegraphed to his wife
what the sad occasion was that detained him, and went to bed with a
comfortable sense that his visit had not been in vain. It was melancholy
to think that all might be over before the morning; but yet he could do
no good by staying up and wearing himself out. If it should so happen
that his own sad prognostications were correct, why then he had occasion
for all his strength, for he it would be who must do everything. And no
martyr could have contemplated the stake with more elevated resignation
and satisfaction than Randolph looked at the labours and troubles he
would have to take upon him. He lay down, solemnly going over them in
his mind--the details of the funeral, the reading of the will, the
taking possession of the estate. He resolved that he would take
possession in his brother’s name. No one knew where John was; he could
not be called at a moment’s notice like respectable men. Nor, indeed,
would it be kind to think of such a thing as bringing him here to the
endangerment of his life. No, he would take possession for his brother.
He would put his brother’s little son to school. The girl of course
would go with Mary, who for her part must, he supposed, have the house
on the way to Pennington, which was called the Dower-house, though he
did not think an unmarried sister had any real right to a place which
was intended for the widow of the previous Squire. But that might pass:
Mary had been accustomed to have everything her own way, and she should
have the Dower-house by grace at least, if not by right. He fell asleep
as he was arranging all these things with a great deal of serious
satisfaction. Of course it was sad: what is there in this vale of tears
that is not mixed with sadness? But it was not (he said to himself) as
if his father were a young man, or carried off in the midst of his work.
He was old, he had lived out the life of man, he had arrived at the time
when a man has a right to expect that his day is over, and must know
that in the course of nature he ought to give place to his successors.
And as things were to take such a serious turn, how well it was that he,
Randolph, should be on the spot to do everything! His satisfaction in
this was really the foremost feeling in his mind.

But all was not over in the morning, as Randolph had so certainly
anticipated. He got up in the same solemnized but resigned and serene
condition, and wondered a little to see how late it was. For indeed the
turn things had taken, though so serious, had been peace-inspiring,
removing anxiety from his mind, and he had slept later than usual in
consequence. And it was clear that as yet there had been “no change.”
Eastwood, who was late too, having stayed up late on the previous night
indulging the solemn excitement which was natural to this crisis, came
in with profound seriousness and an air as solemn as Randolph’s. “Just
the same, sir,” he said; “the doctor is with him now.” Randolph could
not help a slight sensation of disappointment. He had made up his mind
so distinctly what was to happen, and there are cases in which even good
news are out of place. It was with less resignation and more anxiety
that he hurried out to hear what the doctor said.

And he was much provoked and annoyed when a week later there was still
no progress made, and it became apparent that no such easy solution of
all difficulties as he had expected was to be looked for. The Squire was
in much the same state on the next Saturday and the next, and it was
apparent that the illness was to be a lingering and tedious one--the
kind of thing which wears out everybody round. When people are going to
die, what a pity that they should not do it speedily, relieving both
themselves and others! But nature, so often acting in a manner contrary
to all prognostications, was not to be hurried. To jog her gently on,
and relieve the sufferer authoritatively from his troubles, is not yet
permissible in England. On the contrary, medical science acts just the
other way, with questionable mercy, prolonging lives in which there is
nothing but suffering, and stimulating the worn-out machinery of the
frame to go on a little longer, to suffer a little more, with all that
wheezing and creaking of the rusty wheels which bears witness to the
unnaturalness of the process. This was what Randolph felt with much
restrained warmth of annoyance. It was unnatural; it was almost impious.
Two doctors, a professional nurse, and Mary, who was as good, all
labouring by every possible invention to keep mere life in their
patient. Was it right to do so? Providence had evidently willed to
release the old man, but science was forcing him to remain imprisoned in
the flesh. It was very hard upon the Squire, and upon Randolph too,
especially as the latter could not venture to express his real
sentiments on this matter, but was compelled to be glad of every little
sign of tenacity and vitality which the patient gave. If it had been
recovery indeed, he said to himself, there might have been some reason
for satisfaction; but as it was only holding by life, mere existing and
nothing more, what ground was there for thankfulness? It would be better
for the sufferer himself, better for everybody, that it should be over
soon. After this state of things had lasted for a fortnight, Randolph
could not bear it any longer. He sent for Mary from the sick room, and
gave her to understand that he must go.

“Had I expected he would last so long,” he said, “I should have gone
last week. Of course it does not matter for you who have nothing else to
do; but my work and my time are of importance. If anything were likely
to happen directly, of course I should think it my duty to stay; but, so
far as I can see, nothing is likely to happen,” said Randolph in an
aggrieved tone. Mary was too sad to laugh and too languid to be angry,
but there came a gleam of mingled resentment and amusement into her
eyes.

“It is not for us to wish that anything should happen,” she said.

“Wish? Did I talk of wishing? I stated a fact. And in the meantime my
parish is being neglected and my work waiting for me. I cannot hang on
here for ever. Of course,” Randolph added, “if anything should happen,
you have only to telegraph, and I will come.”

“I don’t see that it is necessary, Randolph. My father may rally, or he
may linger for months, the doctors say; and whatever happens--of course
you shall hear immediately; but so far as I am concerned, it does not
seem necessary to disturb your work and unsettle your parish----”

“That is ridiculous; of course I shall come the moment I am summoned. It
is quite essential that there should be some man to manage matters. And
the boy is all ready,” he added; “you had his outfit prepared before my
father’s attack came on. Let them pack up for him, and on Friday we
shall go.”

“The boy! How could I send him away now, when my father might recover
his consciousness, and want him?”

“My father want him? This is too much,” said Randolph--“my father, from
whom you concealed his very existence--who never cared for children at
any time. My _father_? What could he possibly want with the boy? He
should have gone a fortnight ago. I wrote to enter his name of course,
and the money is running on. I can’t afford to pay for nothing whatever
you may do, Mary. Let his things be packed up, and let him go with me.”

“I think your brother is right,” said the Vicar, who was present. “Nello
is doing no good with me. We have been so much disturbed with all that
has taken place; and Emily has been so poorly--you know how poorly she
has been--and one feels with one’s own children the time can always be
made up somehow. That is the worst of lessons at home,” said Mr. Pen,
with a sigh.

“But my father sent for him--wanted him; how can I send the child away!
Mr. Pen, you know, if Randolph does not, that he is the heir, and his
grandfather has a right to have him close at hand.”

“It is no use arguing with women,” said Randolph, white with rage. “I
don’t understand this nonsense about my father wanting him. I don’t
believe a word of it. But I tell you this, Mary, if he is the heir, I am
his uncle, his next friend; and I say, he sha’n’t lose his time here and
get ruined among a pack of women. He must go to school. Supposing even
that my father did want him (which is absolute absurdity; why, my father
pretends not to know of his existence!) would you put a selfish old
man’s fancy against the boy’s good?”

“Randolph! how do you dare, when he is so ill,” cried Mary, with
trembling lips, “to speak of my father so!”

“It is true enough anyhow,” said the undutiful son. “When he is so ill!
Why, that is the reason I can speak freely. One would not hurt his
feelings if he could ever know it. But he was always known to be
selfish. I did not think there was any doubt about that. The boy must
not be ruined for an old man’s whim, even if it is true.”

“It is dreadful to go against you,” said the Vicar, looking at her with
piteous eyes, beseeching her forgiveness; “but Randolph is in the right.
Nello is losing his time; he is doing no good; he ought to go to
school.”

“You too!” cried Mary. She could not but smile, though the tears were in
her eyes. And poor Mr. Pen’s dissent from her cost the good man so much.
He looked at her, his eyes too filling, with deprecating, beseeching,
wistful looks, as a dog does. When he thus took part so distinctly
against Mary, conscience, it was clear, must have been strong within Mr.
Pen. He had tried hard for her sake to overcome the habit of irregular
hours and desultory occupation which had grown upon him, and to give the
children their lessons steadily, at the same hours, day by day. But poor
Mr. Pen had not known how hard it would be to accomplish this. The idea
of being able to make up the failing lessons at any odd moment which
made the children at the Vicarage so uncertain in their hours, had soon
returned after the first bracing up of duty towards Lilias and Nello had
come to an end. And then Mrs. Pen had been ill, and could not bear the
noise of the children; and then the Squire had been ill, upsetting
everybody and everything; and then--the Vicar did not know what more to
say for himself. He had got out of the way of teaching, out of the habit
of exact hours, and Emily had been very poorly, and, on the whole,
Randolph was right, and the boy ought to go to school.

Several of these discussions, however, took place before Mary gave way.
The account Randolph had heard of the last scene in the library, before
the Squire had his “stroke,” had not been at all satisfactory to his
mind. He sincerely believed (though with an uneasy sense of something in
it that sounded like truth) that this story was a fabrication to suit a
purpose. But, on the other hand, his own intentions were very distinct.
The mere fact that such a story had been invented showed the meaning on
the other side. This boy was to be foisted into the place which, for
years, he had supposed himself to occupy. John not being possible, who
but Randolph could fill that place? Another heir was ridiculous, was
shameful, and a wrong to him. He would not suffer it. What right had
John, an outlaw and exile, to have a son, if it came to that? He would
not allow the child to stay here to be petted and pampered, and made to
believe himself the heir. For, in the end, Randolph had made up his mind
that the boy could not and should not be admitted to the advantages of
heirship without a very different kind of proof of identity from any
they possessed. And it would be ruin to the child to be allowed to fill
such a false position now. The mere idea of it filled him with
suppressed rage. He did not mean the boy any harm--not any real harm. On
the contrary, it would be a real advantage to him in any case to be bred
up frugally and industriously; and this he would insist upon, in spite
of every resistance. He would not leave the child here to have him
wormed into the old man’s affections, made a tool of by Mary in John’s
interests, and to his own detriment. He was determined to get rid of
Nello, whatever it cost him: not to do him harm, but to get him out of
the way. This idea began to possess him like a mania--to get rid of the
child who was more dangerous, a great deal more dangerous, than John
himself. And all the circumstances of the house favoured his removal at
this moment, when the Squire’s illness occupied everybody’s attention.
And then it was a great point to have enlisted on his side the reluctant
and abashed, yet conscientious support of Mr. Pen.

As for the children themselves, a subtle discomfort had stolen into
their life. The old gentleman’s illness, though it did not affect them,
affected the house. The severe and dangerous illness of an important
member of any household has always a confusing influence upon domestic
life. It changes the centre of existence, so that everything, which once
radiated from the cheerful hearth becomes absorbed in the sick-chamber,
making of it the temporary and fictitious centre of the dwelling. In
this changed orbit, all the stars of the household firmament shine, and
beyond it everything is left cold, and sunless, and neglected. Children
are always the first to feel this atmospheric change, which affects them
more than it does the watchers and nurses, whose time and minds are
absorbed in the new occupation. It was as if the sun had gone out of the
sky to the children at Penninghame. They were left free indeed, to go
and come as they liked, nobody attempting to hustle them out of the way,
to say, “Run, children, some one is coming.” All the world might go and
come, and it did not matter. Neither did it matter to them now where
they went, for every room was equally dreary and empty. Mary, who meant
home to them, and to whom they carried all their grievances and
pleasures, had disappeared from their view; and Miss Brown, who was
their directress in minor matters, had become invisible too, swallowed
up by that sick-room, which absorbed everything. It was no pleasure to
roam about the drawing-room, generally forbidden ground, and even
through and through the passages from the hall to the dining-room,
though they had so often longed to do it, when nobody was to be found
there, either to laugh with them, or to find fault. Even Eastwood was
swept up in the same whirlpool; and as for Mary, their domestic
divinity, all that was seen of her was when she passed from one room to
another, crossing the corridor, disappearing within the door of the
mysterious chamber, where doctors and nurses, and every sort of
medicine, and drinks, and appliances of all kinds, were being taken. How
could the old gentleman want so much? Twice over a new kind of bed was
taken into that strange gulf of a sick-room, and all so
silently--Eastwood standing on the stairs, deprecating with voice and
gesture, “No noise, no noise!” That was what everybody said. Mary would
smile at them when she met them, or wave her hand from the end of the
corridor, or over the stairs. Sometimes she would pause and stoop down
and kiss them, looking very pale and worn out. “No, dear, he is no
better,” she would say. Except for these encounters, and the accounts
which the servants gave them of their grandfather’s state,--how he was
lying, just breathing, knowing nobody, not able to speak,--accounts
which froze the children’s blood in their veins--they had no life at
all; only dull meals which they ate under this shadow, and dull hours in
which, having nothing to do, they huddled together, weary and lonely,
and with nothing before them but to go to bed. Out of doors it was not
much better. Mr. Pen had fallen into all the old disorder of his ways,
out of which he had made a strenuous effort to wake for their benefit.
He never was ready for them when they went with their lessons. “I will
hear you to-morrow,” he would say, looking at them with painful
humility, feeling the grave countenance of Lilias more terrible than
that of any judge; and when to-morrow came, there were always a hundred
excuses. “Go on to the next page and learn the next lesson. I have had
such a press of work--and Mrs. Pennithorne is so poorly,” the poor man
would say. All this shook the pillars of the earth to Lilias and Nello.
They were shaken out of everything they knew, and left to blunder out
their life as best they could, without any guide.

And this was hardest upon the one who understood it least. Lilias, whose
mind was open to everything, and who sat looking out as from a door,
making observations, keenly interested in all that went on, and at the
same time with a reserve of imagination to fall back upon, was fully
occupied at least if nothing more. Every day she watched for “Mr. Geoff”
with news of her father. The suspense was too visionary to crush her
with that sickening depression which affects elder minds. All had a
softening vagueness and confusion to the child. She hoped and hoped, and
cried with imaginative misery, then dried her eyes and hoped again. She
thought everything would come right if Mr. Geoff would only bring papa;
and Mr. Geoff’s ability sooner or later to find and bring papa she never
doubted. It was dreadful to have to wait so long--so long; but still
every morning, any morning he might come. This hope in her mind absorbed
Lilias, and made her silent, indisposed for play. At other times she
would talk eagerly, demanding her brother’s interest and response to
things he did not understand. Children can go on a long time without
understanding, each carrying on his or her monologue, two separate
streams, which, flowing tranquilly together, feel like something mutual,
and answer all the ends of intercourse; and in this way neither of them
was aware how far apart they were. But Nello was dull; he had so little
to do. He had no pony, he could not play cricket as Johnny Pen did with
the village boys. He was small, even for his age, and he had not been
educated in the art of knocking about as English boys are. He was even a
little timid of the water and the boats, in which other boys might have
found solace. Half of his time he wandered about, listless, not knowing
what to make of himself.

This was the condition of mind in which Randolph met him on one of
these lingering afternoons. The child had strayed out all by himself; he
was standing by the water-side at his old amusement, but not enjoying it
this time. “What are you doing?” said his uncle, calling out to him as
he approached. Randolph was not a favourite with the children; but it
was half an amusement to see any one coming near, and to have to answer
a question. He said “Nothing,” with a sigh; not a single skip could he
get out of those dull slates. The water would not carry them; they would
not go; they went to the bottom with a prosaic splash and thud. How
different from that day with the old gentleman, when they flew as if
they had been alive! Perhaps this new comer might have luck, and do as
well as the old gentleman. “Will you have a try?” he said; “here is a
good one--it ought to be a good one; but I can’t make them go to-day.”

“I--have a try?” Randolph was startled by the suggestion. But he was
anxious to conciliate the little fellow whom he wanted so much to get
rid of. And it was only for once. He took suspiciously (for he was
always suspicious) the stone Nello held out to him, and looked at it as
if it might be poison--or it might be an attempt on his dignity got up
by somebody. When he had satisfied himself that it was a common piece of
slate, he took courage, and, with a smile that sat very awkwardly upon
his face, threw it, but with the most complete unsuccess.

“Ah! you are not good, like the old gentleman; his skipped seven times!
He was so clever at it! I wish he was not ill,” said Nello, checking an
incipient yawn. It was, perhaps, the first time any one had uttered such
a wish. It had been taken for granted, even by his daughter, that the
Squire’s illness was the most natural thing in the world.

“Did he really come and play with you? But old men are no better than
children,” said Randolph. “I suppose he had nothing else to do.”

“It is very nice to have somebody to play with when you have nothing
else to do,” said Nello, reflectively. “And he was clever. You--you
don’t know even how to throw; you throw like a girl--like this. But this
is how the old gentleman did,” cried Nello, suiting the action to the
word, “and so do I.”

“Do you know nothing but these baby-games? I suppose you never played
cricket?” said Randolph, with, though he was a man, a pleasurable sense
of being thus able to humiliate the little creature beside him. Nello
coloured to the roots of his hair.

“I do not like cricket. Must every one like the same things? It is too
hot; and one cannot play by oneself,” the boy added with a sigh.

“You ought not to play by yourself, it is not good for you. Have you no
one to play with, little boy?”

“Nobody,” said Nello, with emphasis; “not one person. There is Lily; but
what does it matter about a girl? And sometimes Johnny Pen comes. He is
not much good; he likes the green best, and all the village boys. Then
they say I am too little;--and I don’t know them,” the boy added with a
gleam of moisture in his eyes. The village boys had not been kind to
Nello; they had laughed at him for a little foreigner, and made remarks
about his hair, which was cut straight across his forehead. “I don’t
want to know them.” This was said with vehemence; for Nello was sore at
the want of appreciation which had been shown him. They did not care for
_him_, but they made a great deal of Johnny Pen!

“You should go to school; that is where all boys should go. A boy should
not be brought up like a little girl; he should learn to use his hands,
and his fists even. Now, what should you do if there was a fight?”

“A fight?” Nello grew pale and then grew red. “If it was--some one else,
I would walk away; but if it was me--if any one touched me, I should
kill him!” cried the child, setting his little white teeth.

Randolph ought professionally to have improved the occasion; but he only
laughed--that insulting laugh which is offensive to everybody, and
specially exasperates a child. “How could you kill him? That is easier
said than done, my boy.”

“I would get a gun, or a sword; but first,” said Nello, calming down, “I
would tell him to go away, because I should not _wish_ to kill him. I
have seen people fighting with guns and swords--have you?”

Here Randolph, being obliged to own himself inferior, fell back upon
what was right, as he ought to have done before.

“Fighting is very wrong,” he said. “It is dreadful to think of people
cutting each other to pieces, like wild beasts; but it is not so bad if
you defend yourself with your fists. Only foreigners fight with swords;
it is thoroughly un-English. You should never fight; but you would have
to defend yourself if you were at school.”

Nello looked at his uncle with an agreeable sense of superiority. “But I
have seen _real_ fighting,” he said; “not like children. I saw them
fighting the Austrians--that was not wrong. Papa said so. It was to get
back their houses and their country. I was little then, and I was
frightened. But they won!” cried the boy, with a gleam in his dark eyes.
What a little savage he was! Randolph was startled by the sudden
reference to “papa,” and this made him more warm and eager in his turn.

“Whoever has trained you to be a partisan has done very wrong,” he said.
“What do you know about it? But look here, my little man. I am going
away on Friday, and you are to come with me. It will be a great deal
better for you than growing up like a little girl here. You are exactly
like a little girl now, with your long hair and your name which is a
girl’s name. You would be Jack if you were at school. I want to make a
man of you. You will never be anything but a little lady if you don’t go
to school. Come; you have only to put on a frock like your sister.
Nelly! Why, that’s a girl’s name! You should be Jack if you were at
school.”

“I am not a girl!” cried Nello. His face grew crimson, and he darted his
little brown fist--not so feebly as his size promised--in his uncle’s
face. Randolph took a step backwards in his surprise. “I hate you!”
cried the child. “You shall never, never come here when I am a man. When
the old gentleman is dead, and papa is dead, and everything is mine, I
will shut up all the doors, I will turn out the dogs, and you shall
never come here. I know now it is true what Lily says--you are the bad
uncle that killed the babes in the wood. But when I am a big man and
grown up, you shall never come here!”

“So!” said Randolph, furious but politic; “it is all to be yours? I did
not know that. The castle, and the woods, and everything? How do you
know it will be yours?”

“Oh! everybody knows that,” said Nello, recovering his composure as
lightly as he had lost it; “Martuccia and every one. But first the old
gentleman must be dead, and, I think, papa. I am not so sure about papa.
And do you think they would teach me cricket at school, and to fight? I
don’t really care for cricket, not really. But Johnny Pen and the rest,
they think so much of it. I should like to knock down all their wickets,
and get all the runs; that would teach them! and lick them after!” said
the bloodthirsty Nello, with gleaming eyes.




CHAPTER XXVII.

AN APPARITION.


Thus Randolph overcame Nello’s opposition to school, to his own extreme
surprise. Though he had a child of his own, and all the experiences of a
middle-aged clergyman, he had never yet learned the A B C of childhood.
But it may be supposed that the conversation generally had not made him
love his nephew more dearly. He shook his fist at the boy as he ran
along the water-side, suddenly seized by the delight of the novelty and
the thought of Johnny Pen’s envy. “If I had you, my boy!” Randolph said,
between his teeth, thinking grimly of the heirship which the child was
so sure of. Pride would have a fall in this as in other cases. The
child’s pretensions would not count for very much where he was going. To
be flogged out of all such nonsense would be far the best thing for him;
and a good flogging never did a boy much harm. Randolph, though he was
not a bad man, felt a certain gratification in thinking of the change
that would occur in Nello’s life. There was nothing wrong about the
school; it was a very humble place, where farmers’ sons were trained
roughly but not unkindly. It would make a man of the delicate little
half-foreign boy, who knew nothing about cricket. No doubt it would be
different from anything he was used to; but what of that? It was the
best thing for him. Randolph was not cruel, but still it gave him a
little pleasure to think how the impudent little wretch would be brought
to his senses; no harm done to him--no _real_ harm--but only such a
practical lesson as would sweep all nonsense out of his head. If Nello
had been a man of his own age, a rival, he could not have anticipated
his humiliation with more zest. He would have liked to be a boy himself
to fag the little upstart. There would be probably no fagging at the
farmers’ school, but there would be--well! he smiled to himself. Nello
would not like it; but it would bring the little monkey to his senses,
and for that good purpose there was no objection to be taken to the
means.

And as he walked through the Chase, through the trees, seeing in the
distance before him the blunt turret-chimneys, all veiled and dignified
with ivy, of the old house, many thoughts were in Randolph’s heart. He
was a Musgrave, after all, if not a very fine example of the race. His
wife was well off. If it had not been for John, who was a criminal, and
this boy--what he would have done for the old place! What he might do
still, if things went---- well! Was that, perhaps, the word to
use--well? That is, if John could be somehow disposed of, prevented from
coming home, and the boy pushed quietly to one side. As for John, he
could not come home. It would be death--perhaps; certainly renewed
disgrace. He would have to stand his trial, and, if he fled from that
trial once, how was he likely to be able to face it now? He would stay
abroad, of course--the only safe place for him. If he could but be
communicated with, wherever he was, and would send for his son and
daughter, some arrangement might be made: a share of the income settled
upon him, and the family inheritance left for those who could enjoy it.
This would be, in every way, the best thing that could be done; best for
John himself; best for the house which had been always an honourable
one, and never connected with disgrace. It is so easy to believe what
one wishes that Randolph, after a while, going over the subject in his
mind, succeeded in smoothing away all difficulties, except, indeed, the
initial one of getting into correspondence, one way or another, with
John. If this could be done, surely all the rest was smooth enough! John
was not a fool; he must see that he could not come home. He must see how
difficult it would be to prove his marriage and his son’s birth, and
make everything clear (though why this should be so difficult Randolph
did not explain even to himself). Then he must see equally well that, to
put the property and the old castle into the hands of a man with money,
who could really do something to improve them, would be far better for
the family than to go on as he (John) must do, having no money, if even
he could come lawfully into possession. All this was so evident, no man
in his senses could refuse to see it. And as for communicating with
John: there was, of course, one way, which seemed the natural way, and
which surely must be infallible in that case as in most other cases--the
_Times_. However far out of the world John might be, surely he would
have opportunities from year to year of seeing the _Times_! No
Englishman, even though banished, could live without that. And, sooner
or later, if often enough repeated, the advertisement must reach him.
Suppose it to be put something in this form:--“J. M., of P.--His brother
R. wishes to communicate with him on urgent business connected with the
death of their father.” This would attract no particular attention from
any one, and John could not fail to perceive that he was meant. Thus he
had, to his satisfaction, made everything clear.

It was just when he came to this satisfactory settlement of the
difficulty, so perfectly easy in theory, though no doubt there might be
certain difficulties about carrying it out, that Randolph suddenly saw,
a little way before him, some one making his way through the trees. The
Chase was private, and very few people had the right of coming here;
neither did Randolph see whence this unexpected passenger had come, for
there was no tributary path by which he might have made his way down to
the foot-walk through the elms and oaks. He was within easy sight,
obscured a little by the brushwood, and with his back to the spectator;
but the sight of him gave Randolph a great start and shock, which he
could not very well explain. The man was in dark clothes, with a broad
felt hat, quite unlike anything worn in this district; and there was
something about his attitude and walk (no doubt a merely fantastic
resemblance, or some impression on his mind from his pre-occupation with
the idea of John) which recalled his brother to Randolph’s mind. He was
more startled than words could say. For a moment he could not even think
or move, but stood open-mouthed, staring at the figure before him, which
went on straight, not turning to the right or to the left.

When Randolph came to himself, he tried to laugh at his own folly--then
coughed loudly and meaningly, by way of catching the stranger’s
attention, and seeing who it was. But his cough attracted no manner of
attention from the wayfarer, who went on pushing through the trees, like
one who knew every turn and winding. Randolph was at the end of his
invention. If he called out “Hi!” it might turn out to be somebody of
importance. If he spoke more politely, and called the stranger to halt,
he might be a nobody--if indeed it was not----. A vague impression, half
of fear, came upon him. What nonsense it was! In broad daylight, in so
well-known and familiar a place. Had it been in the dark, in any of the
ghostly passages of the old house! but out here in the sunshine, in the
open air!

Randolph took off his hat, to let the air blow freely about him for he
had grown hot and uncomfortable. His hand with the hat in it dropped for
a moment between him and the other who was so near him. When he raised
it again there was no one there. He rubbed his eyes, looked again, and
darted forward to see whether the man was hiding among the trees; but
there was no one there. Randolph took off his hat once more, to wipe his
streaming forehead; his hand trembled so that he could scarcely do it.
What did it mean? When he had convinced himself there was no one to be
seen, he turned and hurried away from the place, with his heart beating
loudly in his breast. He never looked behind him, but hastened on till
he had got to the broad road, where there was not a bush to hide an
apparition. Then he permitted himself to draw breath.

It would be doing Randolph injustice to suppose that after he was out of
the shadow of the trees, and in safety, with a broad level bit of road
before him, on which everything was distinctly visible all round, he
could be capable of believing that he had seen a ghost. Nothing of the
kind. It must have been one of the people about the place, poking among
the bushes, who had disappeared under the branches of the trees, and
whom he thought like John only because he had been thinking of John--or
perhaps his thought of John had produced an optical delusion, and
imagination had painted some passing shadow as a substantial thing, and
endued it with his brother’s image. It might have been merely an
eccentric tree, on the outline of which fancy had wrought, showing a
kind of grotesque resemblance. It might be, and probably was, just
nothing at all. And it was supremely ridiculous that his heart should so
thump for such an absurd delusion; but thump it did, and that in the
most violent manner. He was out of breath, though he had made no
exertion. And he could not pick up his thoughts where he had dropped
them, when he saw that--figure. A thrill as of guilt was in his soul; he
was afraid to begin again where he had left off. He found himself still
rather breathless before the house, looking up at the veiled windows of
his father’s room. For the first time Randolph thought with a little awe
of his father lying there between life and death. He had not thought of
him at all in his own person, but rather of the Squire officially, the
old life who kept a younger generation out of the estate. It was time
the elders were out of the way, and age superseded by middle age. But
now for a moment he realized the man lying helpless there, in the very
pathway of death--not freed by the Great Deliverer, but imprisoned by
Him, all his senses and faculties bound up, a captive tied hand and foot
by the grim potency who conquers all men. Randolph was frightened
altogether by the mysterious encounter and impressed with awe. If there
had been daily service he would have gone to church, but as there was
nothing of the sort in Penninghame, he went into the library to read a
good book as the next best thing to do. But he could not stay in the
library. The silence of it was awful. He seemed to see his father,
seated there in his usual chair, silent, gazing at him with eyes of
disapproval that went through and through him. After five minutes he
could stand it no longer. He took his good book, and went out to the
side of the water, within sight of the road where people were coming
and going. It was a comfort to him to see even the doctor’s boy with his
phials, and the footman who came with his mistress’s card to inquire how
the Squire was. And he looked out, but looked in vain, with mingled
eagerness and fear for the broad hat he had seen so mysteriously
appearing and disappearing. Who could it be?--some stranger
astray in the Chase--some one of the many tourists who wander
everywhere--or--Randolph shuddered in spite of himself.

It is generally people without imagination, or with the most elementary
and rude embryo of that poetic faculty, who see ghosts. This sounds like
a paradox, yet there is reason in it. The people who are literal and
matter-of-fact in mind, are those to whom wonders and prodigies come
naturally; those who possess the finer eye of fancy do not need those
actual revelations. Randolph’s was as stolid a mind as ever asked for a
sign--and he had not asked for a sign in this case, nor felt that
anything of the kind was necessary; but his entire mental balance was
upset by what he had seen, or supposed himself to have seen; and he
could not free his mind from the impression. As he sat and read, or
rather pretended to read, his mind kept busy with the one question--What
was it? Was it a real person, a stranger who had got astray, and
stumbled into some copse or brushwood, which Randolph had forgotten--a
man with a chance resemblance to John, heightened by the pre-occupation
and previous reference to John in Randolph’s mind? or was it John
himself, come to look after his own interests--John--in the body, or out
of the body, who could tell?

As for Nello, he ran home by the water-side, his mind possessed by the
new thing that was about to be accomplished--school! Boys to play with,
novelty of all kinds, and then that cricket, which he pretended to
despise, but secretly admired and desired with all his heart--the game
which came to Johnny Pen by nature, but which the little foreign boy
could not master; all this buzzed through his little head. When he came
home from school he would know all about it; he would have played with
much better players than Johnny Pen ever saw. The revolution in his
thoughts was great and sudden. But as he ran home, eager to tell Lilias
about the change in his fortunes, Nello too met with a little
adventure. He came suddenly, just as he emerged from the woods upon the
water-side where it was open to the road, on a man whom he had
repeatedly seen before, and who was generally accompanied by a dog,
which was Nello’s admiration. The dog was not with his master now; but
he took a something white and furry out of his great pocket, which
stopped Nello even in the hot current of his excitement.

“Would you like to have this, my little gentleman?” the man said.

It was a white rabbit, with the biggest ears that Nello had ever seen.
How his eyes danced that had been all aglow before!

“But I have no money,” he said, disposed to cry in disappointment as
sudden as his delight.

“It’s not for money, it’s a present,” said the stranger, with a smile,
“and I’ll give you another soon. They tell me you’re going to school, my
young gentleman; is that true?”

“Am I to have it all for myself, or will you come back again for it, and
take it away? Oh yes, I’m going to school,” said Nello, drooping into
indifference. “Will it eat out of my hand? Has it got a name? And am I
to have it all for myself?” The rabbit already had eclipsed school for
the moment in Nello’s mind.

“It’s all for you, and better things than that--and what day are you
going, my bonnie little lad?”

“To-morrow; oh give it me! I want to show it to Lily,” cried the child.
“Thank you very much. Let me run and show it to Lily. We never, never
had a rabbit before.”

The man stood and looked after Nello with a tender illumination of his
dark face. “The old woman likes the other best; but this one is mine,”
he said to himself. As for Nello, he flew home with his precious burden,
out of breath. He said a man had given it to him; but thought of the
donor no more.

Randolph spent this, his last evening at home, in anything but an
agreeable way; he was altogether unhinged, nervous, and restless, not
caring to sit alone. In this respect he was in harmony with the house,
which was all upset, tremulous, and full of excitement and expectation.
Human nature is always impatient of the slow progress of fate. After
the thunderclap of a great event, it is painful to relapse into
stillness, and feel the ordinary day resuming its power without any
following out of the convulsion. But dramatic sequence, rapidity, and
completeness are rare in human affairs. All the little crowd of
lookers-on outside the Squire’s room watched eagerly for some change.
Two or three women were always hanging about the passages, ready, as
they said, to run for anything that might be wanted, and always in the
way to learn if anything occurred. They kept a little lamp burning on
the table against the wall, at either end of which was a chair, on which
sometimes Cook herself, sometimes lesser functionaries, would be found,
but always two together, throwing exaggerated shadows on the wall, and
talking in whispers of their own fears, and how well they had perceived
what was coming. There was not one of them that had not intended, one
time or other, to make so bold as to speak to Miss Mary. “But trouble is
always soon enough when it comes,” they said, shaking their heads. Then
Eastwood would come and join them, his shadow wavering over the
staircase. When the privileged persons who had the _entrée_ went or
came, Miss Brown or the nurse, or even Mary herself, there was a little
thrill and universal movement.

“Change! no, there’s no change--there never will be but one change,”
Miss Brown said, standing solemnly by the table, with the light on her
grave face; and it was upon this Rembrandtish group that Randolph came,
as he wandered about in a similar frame of mind, glad to find himself in
company with others, though these others were only the maids of the
house.

“Is my father worse?” he asked, pausing, with his arm upon the
banisters. Such a group of eager, pale faces! and the darkness all round
in which others still might be lurking unseen.

“No change, sir,” said Miss Brown, shaking her head. She was impatient
too, like the rest, but yet felt a sort of superior resignation, as one
who was in the front of affairs. And she had something to say besides.
She gave a glance at the other women, who responded with secret nods of
encouragement, then cleared her throat and delivered her soul--“Mr.
Randolph, sir, might I make so bold as to say a word?”

“Say whatever you like,” said Randolph. He could not help but give a
little glance round him, to make sure that there was no one else about.

“It is just this, sir--when you see him lying there, that white, as if
he was gone already, and know that better he can’t be--oh, it brings a
many thoughts into the mind! I’ve stood by dying beds before now, and
seen them as were marked for death, but I never saw it more clear. And
oh, Mr. Randolph, if there were things that might lie on his mind, and
keep him from going quiet, as an old gentleman ought! If there were
folks he ought to see afore all’s over----!”

“I don’t see what you are driving at,” Randolph said hastily. “Speak out
if you’ve anything to say.”

“Oh, sir,” said Miss Brown, “don’t you think----. I am not one that
likes to interfere, but I am an old servant, and when a body has been
long about a place, it’s natural to feel an interest. If it wasn’t your
family at all--if it was another that your advice was asked
for--shouldn’t you say that Mr. John ought to know?”

This appeal startled Randolph. He had not been looking for it; and he
gave an uncomfortable look round him. Then he felt a strange irritation
and indignation that were more easy to express. “Am I my brother’s
keeper?” he said. “I don’t know where Mr. John is, that I should go and
hunt for him to let him know.”

“Oh, sir,” said Miss Brown, “don’t you be angry! Cook here is like me:
she thinks it’s only his due. I would say it to Miss Mary, not troubling
you that are ‘most a stranger, but she’s night and day, she never will
leave her father; she has a deal upon her. And a gentleman knows ways
that womanfolk don’t think of. If you would be but that kind, Mr.
Randolph! Oh, where there’s a will there’s always a way!”

“It is none of my business,” said Randolph; “and I don’t know where he
is,” he added, looking round him once more. He might be here already in
the dark, waiting till the breath was out of his father’s body--waiting
to seize possession of the house, felon as he was. And if Randolph was
the means of betraying him into the hands of justice, what would
everybody say? He went abruptly away down the uncarpeted, polished
stairs, on which his hasty step rang and slid. John, always John! he
seemed to be in the air. Even Eastwood, when he attended him with his
bed-candle, could not refrain from adding a word. “The doctor looks very
serious, sir,” Eastwood said; “and if there’s any telegraph to be sent,
I’ll keep the groom ready to go at a moment’s notice. ‘It would be well
to send for all friends,’ the doctor said.”

“I don’t know any one to send for,” said Randolph peremptorily; “let the
groom go to bed.” And he went to bed himself sooner than usual, to get
rid of these appeals and of equally imperative thoughts. He went to bed,
but he could not go to sleep, and kept his candle burning half the
night. He heard the watchers moving about in his father’s room, which
was over-head, all the night through. Sometimes there would be a little
rush of steps, and then he held his breath, thinking this might be at
last the “change” which was looked for. But then everything grew still
again, and he dozed, with the one poor candle, feeble but steadfast
watcher, burning on till it became a pale intruder into the full glory
of day.

Randolph, however, slept deeply in the morning, and got up with the
greater part of those cobwebs blown away. John lost his hold upon the
imagination in daylight, and he was able to laugh at his foolish alarm.
How could it be John whom he had seen? He durst not show himself in the
country where still his crime was so well remembered, and the sentence
out against him. And as for the appearance being anything more than
mortal, or less than human, Randolph laughed at the state of his own
nerves which rendered such an idea tenable for a moment. He was a
materialist by nature--as so many are; though he said his creed without
any intrusive doubts; and the absurdity was too patent after he had
slept and been refreshed. But no doubt it was bad for his health, bad
for his _morale_, to stay here. There was something in the atmosphere
that was demoralizing; the air had a creeping sensation in it as of
something more than met the eye. Death was in it; death, creeping on
slowly, silently--loitering about with faint odours of mortality and
sickening stillness. Randolph felt that he must escape into a more
natural and wholesome air before further harm was done.

As for Mary, the occupations of the sick-room, and the sudden problems
of the hereafter thus thrust upon her, were enough to fill her mind, and
make her even comparatively indifferent to the departure of Nello,
though it was against her judgment. It was not the hereafter of the
spirit, which thus lay death-bound on the verge of the unseen, which
occupied her. We must all die, everybody knows; but who thinks it true
in their own case until it comes? Mary had known very well that a man
much over seventy could not live very much longer; but it was only when
her father fell back in his chair unconscious, his body motionless, his
mind veiled within blinding mists, that she felt the real weight of all
that was to follow. It was for her to act as soon as the breath should
be out of his body. She did not trust her younger brother, and she did
not know what to do for her elder brother. The crisis had arrived while
she was still unprepared. She went down mechanically to see Randolph go
away, her eyes seeing many other things more clearly than she saw the
two figures actually before her; the man suspicious as usual, and
putting no faith in her--the boy in a subdued excitement, his eyes
sparkling with the light of novelty and adventure. Randolph had gone
into his father’s room that morning, and had walked suspiciously round
the bed, making quite sure that the “no change” was true. “I suppose he
may last like this for weeks yet?” he said, in a querulous
undertone--and yet not so low but that everybody heard it--to the
doctor. “Oh, hush, for Heaven’s sake, Randolph! How can you tell that he
does not hear?” said Mary. “Pshaw how can he hear?” Randolph replied,
turning with a certain contempt from the helpless and powerless frame
which lay there making no sign, yet living when it would be so much
better that he should die. The awe of such a presence gives way to
familiarity and weariness even with the most reverent watcher; but
Randolph, though he had no desire to be indecorous, could not help
feeling a certain irritation at his father, who balked him by this
insensibility just as he had balked him while yet he had all his wits
about him. It seemed incredible that this half-dead, half-living
condition, which brought everything to a standstill, should not be more
or less a man’s own fault.

Thus he went away, irritated and baffled, but still full of excitement;
the moment which must decide all could not be very far off. He left the
strongest charges upon the household, from his sister to Eastwood, to
send for him instantly when “any change” occurred. “If it should be
to-morrow,” he said; “I shall hold myself always ready.” He kept his
eyes fixed on the Castle as long as he could see it, feeling that even
now there might be a sign recalling him. And he thought he had made up
his mind what to do. He would bring his wife with him and take
possession at once. Mary would not be able to look after everything; or,
at least, if she should be, she ought not to be; no really
delicate-minded woman, no _lady_ should be able to make any exertion at
such a moment. He would come with his household, as a kindness to Mary,
and take possession at once.

As for Nello, he took leave very cavalierly of Lilias, who cried, yet
would not cry, angry at his desertion and deeply wounded by his
indifference, at the door. Poor little Lilias, it was her first
disappointment in life. He was not thinking of her, but a great deal of
his new portmanteau and the sandwiches put up for him, and the important
position as a traveller in which he stood--but neither was Nello unkind.
He took pains to console his sister.

“Don’t cry,” he said, “Lily I shall come back in the holidays, and
sometimes I will write you letters; and there is always the white rabbit
I gave you, and little Mary Pen for you to play with.”

“I don’t want to play,” said Lilias, with a burst of tears; “is play
everything? I am too old for that. But oh, Nello, you are going to leave
me, and you don’t care. You do not care for Mary, or Martuccia, or any
one. Me, I should not mind--but you do not love _any one_. You care for
nobody but yourself.”

“Oh yes I do,” said Nello, “everybody,” and he cracked the coachman’s
whip which was placed in readiness; “but boys have to go out and see the
world; Eastwood says so. If I don’t like being at school I shall come
back and stay at home, and then you will have me again; but I hope not,
and I don’t think so, for school is jolly, very jolly, so Uncle Randolph
says.”

“You can go with Uncle Randolph,” cried Lilias, in a blaze of sharp
anger, “and I hope you will not come back. I hope you will always stay
away, you cruel, cruel boy!”

This bewildered Nello for a moment, as did the hurried wiping of Lilias’
eyes and the tremulous quiver of her lip with which it was accompanied;
but there was no time for more. He laughed and waved his hand to her as
he was hurried into the carriage. He had scarcely ever looked so gay
before. He took off his hat and waved it as he went out of sight.
Hurrah! they heard his shrill little voice shouting. Lilias sat down on
the ground and cried her heart out. It was not only that he was
unkind--but Nello thus showed himself wanting to all the needs of the
situation. No little hero of a story had ever gone away without a
tribute to the misery of parting. This thought contracted her heart with
a visionary pang more exquisite than the real. Nello was no hero,
nothing but a little cruel, common, vulgar boy, not fit to put into any
story, to go away so.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS.


While these events were going on at the Castle, Lord Stanton, for his
part, had come to a standstill in the matter which he had been drawn
into so inadvertently, and which had become so very serious an
occupation in his life. He was young, and unacquainted with the ways of
the world, and he did not know what step to take next. And he too was
paralyzed by the sudden catastrophe which had happened to the Squire.
Was it his fault? He could scarcely help an uneasy sense that by
agitating him unduly he had helped to bring on the sudden attack, and
thus he had left the Castle that evening with a heavy burden on his
mind. And Geoff, with entire unconsciousness of the lingering pangs of
life and the tenacity of the human frame, believed, without any doubt,
that Mr. Musgrave would die, and did not know what was to be done about
the exile, whose condition would thus be completely changed. In the
mean time it seemed to him necessary to wait until the issue of this
illness should be known. Thus his doubtfulness was supplanted by an
apparent necessity, and the time went on with nothing done.

He went at first daily to inquire for the old man, and never failed to
see Lilias somewhere waiting for him with serious, intent face, and eyes
which questioned even when the lips did not speak. Lilias did not say
much at any time. She examined his face with her eyes and said “Papa?”
with a voice which trembled; but it became by degrees less easy to
satisfy Lilias by telling her, as he did so often, that he had not
forgotten, that he was doing everything that could be done, smoothing
the way for her father’s return, or waiting till he could more
successfully smooth the way. “You do not believe me, Lily,” Geoff said,
with a sense of being doubted, which hurt him sadly. “Yes; but he is not
your papa, Mr. Geoff, and you are grown up and don’t want any one,”
Lilias said, with her lip quivering. The visionary child was deeply cast
down by the condition of the house and the recollection of the
melancholy rigid figure which she had seen carried past, with a pang of
indescribable pain and terror. Lilias seemed to see him lying in his
room, where Mary now spent almost all her time, pale with that deadly
ashen paleness, his faded eyes half open, his helpless hands lying like
bits of rag, all the grey fingers huddled together. Fright and sorrow
together brought a sob out of her heart whenever she thought of this;
not moving, not able to speak, or turn round, or look up at those who
watched him; and still not dead! Lilias felt her heart stand still as
she thought of her grandfather. And she had no one to take refuge with.
Martuccia was frightened too, and would not go up or down stairs alone.
Lilias, for her part, did all she could, out of pride, and shame of her
own weakness, to conceal her terror; but oh, to have papa nigh to creep
close to, to feel safe because he was there! A few tears dropped from
her eyes. “You are grown up and you don’t want any one.” This went to
Geoff’s heart.

“Oh Lily, don’t you think they would let you come to my mother?” he
cried; “this is too sad for you, this dismal house; and if Nello goes
away as you said----”

“Do you think I would go and leave Mary all alone? Nobody is sorry for
Mary except me--and Mr. Pen. When she comes out of her room I go and I
kiss her hand, and she cries. She would be more ill and more weary,”
said Lilias, with a precocious understanding, “if there was not some
little thing to give her an excuse and make her cry.”

“My little Lily! who taught you all that? it must have been the angels,”
cried Geoff, kissing in his turn the little hand.

But this touch had the same effect upon Lilias that her own kiss had on
Mary. She cried and sobbed and did her best to swallow it down. “Oh Mr.
Geoff! I want papa!” she cried, with that little convulsive break in her
voice which is so pitiful in a child. She was seated on Mary’s chair at
the door of the hall, and he on the threshold at her feet. Geoff did not
know what kind of half-admiring, half-pitying sentiment he had for this
child. He could not admire her enough, or wonder at her. She was but a
child, not equal to him in his young manhood; and yet that very
childhood in its unconsciousness was worlds above him, he thought. He
felt like the man in the story who loved the fairy maiden--the young
Immortal; would she give up her visionary paradise for his sake and
learn to look at him, not as an angel but as a woman? but for that she
must be a woman first, and at present she was but a child. When he
kissed her hand it cost Lilias no blush. She accepted it with childish,
angelical dignity. “She took the kiss sedately--” and the dark fountains
of her eyes filled full, and two great tears tumbled over, and a piteous
quiver came to her lips, and she said, “Oh, Mr. Geoff, I want papa!”

This was when the Squire had been ill about a week, six or seven days
before Randolph took Nello away. Geoff went home riding, very full of
thought. What could he do to please his little Lily? He preferred that
she should creep close to himself and tell him her troubles, but he
could not resist that plaint, and even though it should be against
himself he must try what he could do to bring her father to her. Geoff
thought a great deal on this subject, but it was very fatiguing and
unsatisfactory, for he did not know what to do, and after a while he
relapsed into the pleasanter path, and began to think of Lily. “Because
of the angels,” he said to himself as he jogged softly along, much more
slowly and reflectively than his horse liked to go. He forgot where he
was going and the engagements he had, and everything that was practical
and important, as he rambled on. The day was sweet in early autumn, the
lake rippling musically upon the beach, the sky blue and crossed by
floating atoms of snowy cloud. Everything in the world was sweet and
pleasant to the young man. “Because of the angels;” he had never been
quite clear what these words meant, but he seemed to see quite plainly
now, though he could no more have explained than he could have written
_Hamlet_. “Because of the angels!” He seemed to make a little song of it
as he went on, a drowsy, delicious burden like the humming of the bee.
It was not he that said it, he thought, but it murmured all about him,
wrapping him in a soft enchantment. Such a visionary love as his,
perhaps, has need of those intoxications of ethereal fancy: for nothing
can be so like the love of an angel as that of a young man possessed by
a tender visionary passion for a child.

Geoff was so rapt in his own thoughts that he did not see for some time
the beckonings and signals that were coming to him from a carriage drawn
up on the road to which the path descended, along which he was moving so
gently. When his attention was at last caught, he saw it was his Cousin
Mary, leaning half out of the window in her eagerness.

“Give your horse to the footman and come in here--I have so much to say
to you,” she said.

But when he had done as she told him and taken his seat beside her, Lady
Stanton kept looking at her young cousin.

“What is it?” she said; “you keep on smiling, and there is a little
drowsy, dreamy, intoxicated air about you; what has happened, Geoff?”

“Nothing; and it is unkind to say I look intoxicated. Could you not find
a prettier word?”

“I believe you are really, really!--Geoff, I think I know what it means,
and I hope it is somebody very nice. Tell me, who is she?”

“This is strange,” said Geoff; “indeed, it is true, I have been visiting
a lady; but she is only twelve years old,” he said, turning to her with
a vivid blush.

“Oh, Geoff!” Mary’s brow contracted, “you do not mean _that_ little
girl?”

“Why shouldn’t I mean her? I will make you my confessor, Cousin Mary. I
don’t think. I shall ever marry any one but little Lily. Of course she
is very little, and when she is grown up she will probably have nothing
to say to me; but I shall never care for any one else. Why should you
shake your head? I never saw any one like her,” said Geoff, growing
solemn, and shaking off his blush as he saw himself opposed.

“Oh, Geoff!” Mary shook her head and contracted her beautiful brow, “I
do not think anything good can come out of that family; but I must not
speak. I am jealous, I suppose. How did you know I did not want you for
Annie or Fanny?” she went on with a smile that was a little strained and
fictitious; for Mary knew very well that she was jealous, but not for
Annie, or Fanny, or Geoff.

“Hush,” he said, “I loved you before Lily, but you could not have me; it
is Lily, failing you. If you could but have seen her just now! The
Squire is lying between life and death, and Miss Musgrave, who was so
good to her, is with him night and day, and poor little Lily is so
lonely and frightened. She looks at me with her little lip all
quivering, and says, ‘Papa! I want papa.’” Geoff almost cried himself to
recollect her piteous tone, and the tears came to Mary’s eyes.

“Ah! if she takes after _him_, Geoff! but that is just what I want to
talk to you about. I have done something that you may think rash. I have
spoken to Sir Henry. He is--well, he has his faults like the rest of
us--but he is just; he would not do a wrong thing. I told him that you
had found out something----”

“What did he say?” cried Geoff, breathless, for Lady Stanton made a
sudden pause.

She was looking across him out at the window; her eyes had strayed past
his face, looking away from him as people do with a natural artifice to
allow the first signs of displeasure to blow over, before they look an
offended person in the face. But as she looked, Lady Stanton’s
countenance changed, her lips fell apart, her eyes widened out, her face
paled, as if a cloud had passed over it. She gave a great cry, “Oh
John, _John_!” she said.

“What is it?--who is it?” cried Geoff.

She made him signs to have the carriage stopped; she could not speak.
Geoff did what he could to make the coachman hear him; but it was by no
means the affair of a moment to gain the attention of that functionary,
and induce him to stop. When, however, this was accomplished, Geoff
obeyed the passionate desire in Lady Stanton’s face, who all the time
had been straining to look out, and jumped to the ground. He looked
round anxiously, while she, half out of the carriage, gazed back, fixing
her eyes upon one of those recesses in the road which are common in the
north country. “I see no one,” said Geoff. He came back to the place on
which her gaze was fixed, and looked behind the wall that bounded it,
and all about, but could see nothing. When he returned he found that
Mary had fallen back in her corner, and was weeping bitterly. “He looked
at me with such reproachful eyes. Oh, he need not; there was no reason.
I would have saved or served him with my life,” she cried; “and he had
never any claim on me, Geoff, never any claim on me!--why should he come
and look at me with such reproachful eyes? If he is dead, he ought to
know better than that. Surely he ought to know----”

The carriage, standing in the middle of the road, the young man
searching about, not knowing what he was looking for; the coachman
superbly indifferent on the box, contemplating the agitation of his
inferiors with god-like calm; the footman, on Geoff’s horse, with his
mouth open, staring, while the beautiful lady wept inside, made the
strangest picture. As a matter of course, the footman, riding on in
advance, had seen nothing and nobody. He avowed frankly that he was not
taking any notice of the folks on the road. He might have seen a man
seated on the stones, he could not be certain. Neither had the coachman
taken any notice. Foot passengers did not interest either of these
functionaries. And Lady Stanton did not seem able to give any further
explanation. The only thing to be done was to go on. She had been on her
way to Stanton to give Geoff the advantage of Sir Henry’s advice and
opinion, and thither, accordingly, they proceeded after this
interruption. Geoff took his place again beside his cousin, perhaps a
little impatient of the stoppage; but as she lay back in the corner,
covering her face with her hands, Geoff’s heart was too soft not to
forget every other sentiment. He thought only of consoling her.

“Tell me what it was,” he said, soothingly. “You saw--some one? Do not
cry so bitterly. You never harmed anybody in your life. Tell me--you
thought you saw----?”

“I saw _him_, as plainly as I see you, Geoff; don’t tell me it was a
fancy. He was sitting, resting, like a man tired with walking, dusty and
worn out. I noticed his weary look before I saw his face, and just as we
passed he raised his head. Oh, why should he have looked at _me_ like
that, Geoff? No, I never did any one harm, much less him. I have always
stood up for him, you know, since you first spoke to me. I have always
said, always--even before this was found out: living people mistake each
other continually; but the dead--the dead ought to know----”

“Who is dead?” said Geoff; “are you speaking of John Musgrave, who is as
much alive as I am?”

“If he were a living man,” said Mary, solemnly, “how could I have seen
him? Geoff, it is no mistake. I saw him, as I see you.”

“And is that why you think him dead?” said Geoff, with natural surprise.

Lady Stanton raised herself erect in her corner. “Geoff, oh, can you not
understand?” she cried. But she did not herself quite understand what
she meant. She thought from the suddenness of it, from the shock it gave
her, and from the disappearance of the wayfarer, which was so
inexplicable, that it was an apparition she had seen. John Musgrave
could not be there, in the flesh, seated by the roadside; it was not
possible; but when Geoff asked whether having seen him was an argument
for thinking him dead, she had nothing to say. She wrung her hands. “I
have seen him whether he is living or dead,” she repeated, “and he
looked at me with such eyes. He was not young as he used to be, but
worn, and a little grey. I came to tell you what Sir Henry said; but
here is something far, far more important. Know him! Could I mistake
him, do you think?--how could I mistake him? Geoff, how could it be
_he_, sitting there without any warning, without a word? but if it was
he, if that was possible, why are we going on like this? Are we to
desert him?--give him up? I am talking folly,” she said, again clasping
her hands. “Oh, Geoff, a living man would not have looked at me with
such eyes.”

“He has not very much right to happy eyes, has he?” said Geoff; “coming
home an outlaw, not venturing to speak to any one. It would not be half
so sad if he were a ghost. But to come back, and not to dare to trust
even his friends, not to know if he has any friends, not to be able to
go home and see his children like any other man, to rest on the stones
at the roadside, he to whom all the land belongs! I don’t wonder he
looked sad,” cried Geoff, half-sympathetic, half-indignant. “How was he
to know even that he would find a friend in you?”

Mary was sobbing, scarcely able to speak. “Oh, tell them to go back
again--tell them to go back,” she cried. There was no way of satisfying
her but this: the carriage turned slowly round, rolling like a ship at
sea. The coachman was disgusted and unwilling. “What did she want now?”
he said, telegraphing with uplifted hands and eyes to the surprised
footman on Geoff’s horse. Lady Stanton was not a hard mistress like her
stepdaughters, nor fantastical and unreasonable as they were. She took
the carriage humbly when she could get it, and would consult this very
coachman’s convenience before bringing him out, which no one else
thought of doing. Nevertheless Lady Stanton had her character in the
house, and human nature required that it should be kept up. She was the
stepmother, the scapegoat. “What is she after now?” the coachman said.

She got out of the carriage herself, trembling, to aid in the search,
and the footman getting down, looked everywhere, even under the stones,
and in the roadside hedges, but no one was there. When they resumed
their way again, Mary lay back in her corner too much worn out with
excitement and emotion to be able even to speak. Geoff could not tell
whether she was glad or sorry to be brought to acknowledge that it was
more likely to be John Musgrave whom she had seen than his ghost. She
was convinced by his reasoning. Oh, yes; no doubt, she said, it must be
so. Because you saw a man unexpectedly, that was no reason for supposing
him to be dead. Oh, no--Geoff was quite right; she saw the reason of all
he said. But Mary’s head and her heart and all her being thrilled with
the shock. There was a ringing in her ears, and pulses were beating all
over, and her blood coursing through her veins. The very country, so
familiar, seemed to change its aspect. No stronger commentary could have
been on the passage of time than the sudden glimpse of the face which
she had seen just now on the roadside. But Mary did not think of that.
The lake and the rural road that ran by it, and the hills in the
distance, seemed to take again the colours of her youth. He was nothing
to her, and never had been. She had not loved him, only had “taken an
interest.” But all that was most poignant in her life came back to her,
with the knowledge that he was here. Once more it seemed to be that time
when all is vivid, when every day may be the turning-point of life--the
time that was consciously but a drift and floating on of hour by hour
when it existed, as is the present moment--but which, looking back upon
it, seemed the time of free action, of choice, of every possibility. Was
it so? Might he be met with round any corner--this man who had been
banished so long? In the face of death and danger had he come back, he
whom nobody had expected ever to come back? A strange half-question
whether everything else had come back with him, and half-certainty that
nothing for her could change, was in Mary’s mind as she lay back,
quivering with emotion, hearing Geoff’s voice in her ears, not knowing a
word he said. What had Geoff to do with it--young Geoff, to whom nothing
had ever happened? She smiled vaguely to herself to think that the boy
could think he knew. How was he to know?--he was not of that time. But
all the people in the road, and the very water itself, and the villages
and houses, seemed to ask her, Was it true?

This was all the evidence on the subject from which a judgment could be
formed. Randolph Musgrave (who told no one) had seen, in his own words,
a something, a some one, whose face he did not see, but who suggested
John to him so strongly that his very heart seemed to stop beating--then
disappeared. And Lady Stanton from the window of the carriage, driving
past, saw a face, which was John Musgrave’s face grown older and worn,
with hair that was slightly grey, instead of the brown curls of former
years, and which disappeared too in the twinkling of an eye, and being
searched for, could be found no more. What was it?--an apparition
conjured up by their interest or their fears? or John Musgrave, in his
own person, come home?




CHAPTER XXIX.

NELLO’S JOURNEY.


Randolph Musgrave drove from the door of his father’s house with a sigh
of relief, yet of anxiety. He had not done what he meant to do, and
affairs were more critical than when he went to Penninghame a few weeks
before; but it was something at least to be out of the troubled
atmosphere, and he had arranged in his own mind what he should do, which
was in its way a gain, as soon as the breath was out of the old man’s
body,--but when would that be? It was not to be desired, Randolph said
to himself piously, that his father should linger long; his life was
neither of use nor comfort to any one, and no pleasure, no advantage to
himself. To lie there speechless, motionless, as much shut out of all
human intercourse as if he were already in his coffin--what could any
one desire but that, as soon as might be, it should come to an end?

He did not pay very much attention to his small companion. For the
moment, Nello, having been thus secured and brought within his power,
had no further importance, and Randolph sat with knitted brows pondering
all he was to do, without any particular reference to the child. Nello
had left the Castle easily enough; he had parted from Mary and from
Lilias without any lingering of emotion, getting over it as quickly as
possible. When it came to that he was eager to be off, to set out into
the world. The little fellow’s veins were full of excitement; he
expected to see, he did not know what wonderful things, what objects of
entrancing interest, as soon as he got outside the little region where
everything was known to him. “Good-bye, Mary--good-bye, Lily,” he said,
waving his hand. He had his own little portmanteau with his name on it,
a new little silver watch in his pocket--what could child want more?
Lily, though she was his sister, was not a sensation like that watch. He
took it out, and turned it round and round, and opened the case, and
wound it up--he had wound it up twice this morning already, so that one
turn of the key was all that was practicable. Nothing at the Castle,
nothing in the society of Lily, was equal to this. He compared his watch
with the clock at the druggist’s in the village and found it fast: he
compared it with the clock at the station and found that slow. He did
not take any notice of his uncle, nor his uncle of him; each was
indifferent, though partly hostile, to the other. Randolph was at his
ease because he had this child, this troublesome atom, who might do harm
though he could do no good, in his power; but Nello was at his ease
through pure indifference. He was not at the moment frightened of his
uncle, and no other sentiment in regard to him had been developed in his
mind. As calm as if Randolph had been a cabbage, Nello sat by his side,
and looked at his watch. The watch excited him, but his uncle----. Thus
they went on, an unsympathetic pair. Nello stood about on the platform
and looked at everything, while Randolph took the tickets. He was
slightly hurt to hear that a half-ticket was still enough for himself,
and moved away at once to the other side of the station, where the
locomotive enthralled him. He stood and gazed at it with transport. What
he would have given to have travelled there with the man who drove it,
and left Uncle Randolph behind! But still Nello took his place in the
train with much indifference to Uncle Randolph. He was wholly occupied
with what was going on before and about him: the rush across country,
trees and fields flying by, and the stations where there was always
something new, the groups of people standing about, the rush of some for
the train, the late arrival just as the doors were shut of those who
were too late. These last made Nello laugh, their blank looks were so
funny--and yet he was sorry for them; for what a thing it must be, he
thought, to see other people go rushing out over the world to see
everything, while you yourself were left dull at home! He remembered
once himself being left with Martuccia in the still, deserted house when
all the others had gone to the _festa_; how he thought the day would
never end--and Martuccia thought so too. This made him sorry, very
sorry, for the people who had lost their train. It did not occur to
Nello that it might be no _festa_ he was going to, or they were going
to. What could any one want more than the journey itself? If you wearied
of seeing the trains rush past, and counting the houses, now on one
side, now on another, there was the endless pleasure of dashing up to
one station after another, where Nello could look down with fine
superiority on the people who were not going, on the children above all,
who looked up envious, and envied him, he felt sure.

By and by, however, though he would not confess it to himself, the
delights of the journey began to pall: his little eyes grew fatigued
with looking, and his little mind with the continuous spectacle of those
long, flying breadths of country; and even the stations lost their
charm. He would have liked to have somebody to talk to, and cast one or
two wistful glances to see whether Uncle Randolph was practicable, but
found no encouragement in that countenance, pre-occupied, and somewhat
lowering by nature, which appeared now and then in the wavering of the
train, over the newspaper his uncle was reading. What a long time it
took to read that paper! How it crackled when it was opened out! How
tired Nello grew of seeing it opposite to him! And he began to grow
cramped with sitting; his limbs wanted stretching, his mind wanted
change; and he began to be hungry. Randolph, who scorned the poor
refreshments of the railway, and thought it better to wait for his meal
till he reached home, did not think of the difference between himself
and the child. They travelled on and on through the dulness of the
afternoon. Nello, who had been so excited, felt disposed to sleep, but
was too proud to yield to it; and then he began to think of his sister
and the home he had left. It is natural, it is selfish, to remember home
when we miss its comforts: but if that is not of the higher nature of
love, it is yet the religion of the weak, and not despised by the great
Succourer who bids men call upon Him in time of trouble. Nello’s heart,
when he began to feel tired and famished, recurred, with a pathetic
trust in the tenderness and in the certainty of the well-being that
abode there, to his home.

When they stopped at a lively, bustling junction to change their
direction, things mended a little. Nello ventured to buy himself a cake,
his uncle not interfering, as they waited. “You will spoil your stomach
with that sweet stuff,” Randolph said, but he allowed the child to
munch. And they had half-an-hour to wait, which of itself was something.
Nello walked about, imitating Randolph’s longer stride, though he did
not accompany his uncle; and though he felt forlorn and very small among
the crowd, marched about and looked at everything as the gentlemen did,
recovering his spirits a little. And suddenly, with a great glow of
pleasure all over him, Nello spied, among the strangers who were
hurrying to and fro, a face he had seen before; it is true it was only
the face of the countryman who had accosted him in the Chase, and with
whom he had but a small acquaintance, but even this was something in the
waste of the unknown that surrounded him. The boy rushed up to him with
a gleam of joy upon his small countenance. “I say, have you come
from--home?”

“Yes, my little gentleman,” said Wild Bampfylde. “I’m taking a journey
like you, but I like best to tramp on my two legs. I’m going no farther
in your carriages, that give you the cramp. I reckon you’re tired too.”

“A little,” said Nello; “but that’s no matter. What have you in your
basket?--is it another rabbit? I gave mine to Lily. They would not let
me bring it, though I wanted to bring it. School, you know,” said the
boy, seriously, “is not like home. You have to be just like as if you
were grown up there. Little--you cannot help being little; but you have
to be like as if you were grown up there.”

“Ay, ay, that’s the way to take it,” said the countryman, looking down
with a twinkle in his eye, half smiling, half sad, at the small creature
beside him. “The thing is to be a man, and to mind that you must stand
up like a man, whatever happens. If one hits you, you must hit him
again, and be sure not to cry.”

“Hit me!” said Nello--“cry? Ah, you do not know the kind of school I am
going to--for you are not a gentleman,” he added, looking with superb
condescension at his adviser. “I like you just the same,” said Nello,
“but you are not a gentleman, are you? and how can you know?”

“The Lord forbid!” said Bampfylde, “one’s enough in a family. It would
be ill for us, and maybe for you too, if I were a gentleman. Look you
here, my little man. Look at the bonnie bird in this basket--it’s better
than your rabbit. A rabbit, though it’s one o’ God’s harmless creatures,
has little sense, and cannot learn; but this bonnie thing is of use to
God and man, as well as being bonnie to look at. Look at him! what a
bonnie head he has, and an eye as meaning as your own.”

“A pigeon!” said Nello, with a cry of delight. “Oh, I wish I might have
him! Do you think I might have him? I could put him under the seat, and
nobody would see the basket; and then when we got there----”

“Ay, that’s the question--when you got there?”

“I would say--it was my--fishing-basket,” said Nello. “_He_ said they
went fishing; and nobody would know. I would say Mary had--put things in
it: nobody would ever find out, and I would keep it in my room, and buy
seed for it and give it water, and it would live quite comfortable. And
it would soon come to know me, wouldn’t it? and hop about and sit on my
shoulder. Oh, let me have it; won’t you let me have it? Look here, I
have a great deal of money,” cried Nello, turning out his pocket; “five
shillings to spend, and a sovereign Mary gave me. I will give you money
for it, as much money as ever you please----”

“Whisht, my little lad; put back your money and keep it safe, for you’ll
have need of it. I brought the bird to give you. If they’re kind folks
they’ll let you keep him. You must keep him safe, and take care he has
his meat every day; and if they’re unkind to you or treat you bad, put
you his basket in the window and open the lid, and, puff! he’ll flee
away and let your friends know.”

“But I should not like him to flee away. I would like him to stay with
me always, and sit on my shoulder, and eat out of my hand.”

“My little gentleman,” said Bampfylde. “I’m afraid your uncle will hear
us. Try to understand. If you’re ill-used, if they’re unkind, let the
bird fly, and he’ll come and tell us. Mind now, what I’m saying. He’ll
come and tell us. Did you never read in your story-books----”

“Then it is an enchanted bird,” said Nello, looking down, very gravely,
into the basket. Lily had read to him of such things. He was not very
much surprised: but a bird that some day would turn into a young prince
did not attract him so much as one that would hop on his shoulder
without ulterior object. He looked down at it very seriously, with more
respect perhaps, but not so warm an interest. His little face had lost
its animation. How Lily would have glowed and brightened at the thought!
But Nello was no idealist. He preferred a real pigeon to all the
enchanted princes in the world.

“Nay,” said Bampfylde, with a gleam of a smile across his dark face,
“it’s no fairy, but it’s a carrier. Did you never hear of that? And when
you let it fly it will fly to me, and let me know that you are wanting
something--that they’re not kind to you, or that you’re wanting to be
away.”

“Oh, they’ll be kind,” said Nello, carelessly; “I would rather he would
stay with me, and never, never fly away.”

“I’ll put him in the carriage for you,” said Bampfylde, hurriedly, “for
here’s somebody coming. And don’t you let any one know that you were
speaking to me, or ever saw me before. And God bless you, my little
gentleman!” said the vagrant, suddenly disappearing among the crowd.

While Nello stood staring after him, Randolph came up, and tapped him
sharply on the shoulder.

“What are you staring at? Have you seen any one you know?”

It was Nello’s first lesson in deceiving.

“I--I was looking at a man--with wild beasts,” he said.

“With wild beasts!--in the station?--here?”

“Yes, white rabbits and pigeons--and things; at least,” said Nello to
himself, “he once had a white rabbit, if he hasn’t got one now.”

“Rabbits!” said Randolph. “Come along, here is our train. It is late;
and before I have got you settled, and got back here again, and am able
to think of myself, it will be midnight, I believe. You children don’t
know what a trouble you are. I shall have lost my day looking after you.
I should have been at home now but for you; and little gratitude I am
likely to get, when all is done.”

This moved Nello’s spirit, for of all things in the world there is
nothing that so excites opposition among great and little, as a claim
upon our gratitude. Anything and everything else the mind may concede,
but even a child kicks against this demand. Nello’s feelings towards his
uncle were not unkind; but, little as he was, instinct woke in him an
immediate resistance.

“It was not me that did it,” he said; “it was you. I should have stayed
at home, and when the old gentleman is better he would have come out and
played with me. And Mary would have let me stay. I like home,” said
Nello, “and perhaps I shall not like school; but if I don’t like it,” he
added, brightening and forgetting the secret he had been so sworn to
keep, “I know how to get away.”

“How shall you get away?” said Randolph. But he was so sure of this
matter, which was in his own hands, that he did not wait for any answer.
“They will take care of that at school,” he said; “and it will be the
worse for you, my boy, if you make yourself disagreeable. Come along, or
we shall miss the train.”

Nello saw that the basket had been placed under his seat as he got in;
and as the train swept away from the station, he caught a glimpse of the
lonely figure of his new friend, standing among the little crowd that
watched the departure. Bampfylde made a warning gesture to the child,
who, forgetful of precaution, nodded and waved his hand in reply.

“Who is that?” cried Randolph, suspiciously, getting up to cast a
searching look behind.

“Oh, it is the man with the wild beasts,” Nello said.

And then came another silent sweep through the green smooth country,
which was not like the hilly north. It was all Nello could do to keep
himself from pulling his basket from beneath the seat, and examining his
new treasure. He could hear it rustling and fluttering its wings
against the wickerwork. Oh, to be able to take it out, to give it some
crumbs of biscuit which were still in his pocket, to begin to train it
to know him! Nello only restrained himself painfully, by the thought
that if he betrayed his own secret thus, his pigeon might be taken from
him. How eager he was now to be there! “Are there many more stations?”
he asked, anxiously; then counted them on his fingers--one, two, three.
And how delighted he was when they came at last to the little place,
standing alone in a plain, with no other house visible that Nello could
see (but he did not look; he was so anxious about his pigeon), which was
their journey’s end. A kind of farmer’s shandry, half cart, half gig,
with a rough horse, and a rougher driver, was in waiting. Nello got his
basket out with his own hands, and put his little great-coat over it, so
that no one could see. His heart beat loudly with fright, lest his uncle
should hear the sounds beneath the cover--the rustle and flutter. But
Randolph’s mind was otherwise engaged. As for the boy, he thought of
nothing but this treasure, which he was so happy to feel in his arms. He
could carry it so, quite comfortably, with the little great-coat over
it; he neither remarked the rudeness of the jolting vehicle, nor the
bare country, with here and there a flat line of road running between
turnip and potato fields. When they came to the house--a new, square
house, in the middle of the fields--Nello thought nothing about it one
way or another. He thought, “I wonder which will be my window; I wonder
where I can keep the bird.” That was all. His little soul, all eagerness
after his new delight, had room for nothing more.

Randolph and his charge were taken into a plain room, very simply
furnished and not over-dainty in point of cleanness, where the principal
of the school, a man in rusty black, came to receive them. There was
nothing repulsive in his looks, nothing more in any way than the same
plain unvarnished rusticity and homeliness which showed in his house.
The school was intended for farmers’ sons, and the education was partly
industrial--honest, simple training, without either deceit or villany
involved, though not at all suitable for Nello. It was with reluctance
even that so young a boy had been accepted at all; and the schoolmaster
looked at him with doubtfulness, as the slim little curled darling, so
different from his other pupils, came in, hugging his basket.

“He’s young, and he’s small,” said Mr. Swan.

“Very young, and small for his age,” Randolph echoed. “All the more
reason why he should lead an out-of-door life, and learn that he is a
boy, and will one day be a man.”

Then Nello was put into the hands of the principal’s wife, while
Randolph gave further directions.

“His case is quite peculiar,” the uncle said. “He is an orphan, or as
good as an orphan, and I took him from the hands of ladies who were
making a fool of the boy. What he wants is hardening. You must not be
led away by his delicate looks; he is a strong boy, and he wants
hardening. Send him out to the fields, let him learn to work like the
rest, and don’t listen to any complaints. Above all, don’t let him send
complaints home.”

“I never interfere with what they write home,” said honest Mr. Swan.

“But you must in this case. If he sends home a complaining letter, his
aunt will rush here next morning and take him away. I am his uncle, and
I won’t permit that--and a family quarrel is what will follow, unless
you will exercise your discretion. Keep him from writing, or keep him
from grumbling. You will be the saving of the boy.”

“It is a great responsibility to undertake. I should not have undertaken
it, had I known----”

“I am sure you have too serious a sense of the good that can be done, to
shrink from responsibility,” said Randolph; “but, indeed, are we not all
responsible for everything we touch? If you find him too much for you,
write to me. Don’t write to what he calls ‘home.’ And do not let him be
taken away without my authority. I have to protect him from injudicious
kindness. A parcel of women--you know what harm they can do to a boy,
petting and spoiling him. He will never be a man at all, if you don’t
take him in hand.”

With these arguments, Randolph overcame the resistance of the
schoolmaster, and with redoubled injunctions that it was himself that
was to be communicated with, in case of anything happening to Nello,
went away. He was in haste to get back for his train; and “No, no,” he
said, “you need not call the boy--the fewer partings the better. I don’t
want to upset him. Tell him I was obliged to hurry away.”

And it would be impossible to describe with what relief Randolph threw
himself into the clumsy shandry, to go away. He had got the boy disposed
of--for the moment at least--where no harm could happen to him, but also
where he could do no harm. If his grandfather regained his
consciousness, and, remembering that freak of his dotage, called again
for the boy, it would be out of Mary’s power to spoil everything by
humouring the old man, and reviving all those images which it would be
much better to make an end of. And when the Squire’s life was over, how
much easier to take all those measures which it was so advisable to
take, without the little interloper about, whom foolish people would no
doubt insist on calling the heir. The heir! Let him stay here, and get a
little strength and manhood, to struggle for his rights, if he had any
rights. More must be known of him than any one knew as yet, Randolph
said to himself, before he, for one, would acknowledge him as the heir.

Nello was taken into Mrs. Swan’s parlour, and there had some bread and
butter offered to him, which he accepted with great satisfaction. The
bread was dry and the butter salt, but he was hungry, which made it very
agreeable.

“You’ll have your tea with the rest at six,” said Mrs. Swan; “and now
come I’ll show you where you are to sleep. What is that you’re
carrying?”

“A basket,” said Nello, in the mildest tone; and she asked no further
questions, but led him upstairs, not however to the little bedroom of
which the child had been dreaming, where he could keep his new pet in
safety, but to a long dormitory, containing about a dozen beds.

“This is yours, my little man, and you must be tidy and keep your things
in order. There are no nurses here, and the boys are a bit rough; but
you will soon get used to them. Put down your things here; this chair is
yours, and that washing-stand, and----”

“Must I sleep there?” cried Nello. It was not so much the little
bed--the close neighbourhood of the other boys--that appalled him; but
where was there a window for his bird? “Mayn’t I have that bed?” he
said, pointing to one which stood near the window at the end of the
room.

“I daresay,” said Mrs. Swan; “why that is for the head boy, and you are
the least, and the last. It is only by a chance that there is room for
you at all here.”

“But I don’t want to be here,” said Nello. “Oh, mayn’t I be by the
window? The head boy hasn’t got a----. What would it matter to him? but
I want to be there. I want to be at the window.”

“My little master, you’ll be where I choose to place you,” said Mrs.
Swan, becoming irritated. “We allow no self-will, and no rebellion
here.”

“But what shall I do with my----.” Nello did not venture to name the
name of the bird. He crept up to the head of the little bed which was to
be allotted to him, and surveyed the blank wall tearfully. There was but
a very little space between him and the next bed, and he was in the
middle of the room, the darkest part of it. Nello began to cry. He
called upon Mary, and upon Martuccia, in his heart. Neither of them
would suffer him to be treated so. “Oh, mayn’t I go to another room
where there is a window?” he cried, through his tears.

“My word, that one is a stubborn one; you will have your hands full with
him,” said Mrs. Swan, leaving Nello to have his cry out, which
experience had taught her was the best way. She found her husband very
serious, and full of care, thinking over the charge he had received.

“It’s a gentleman’s son, not one of the commoner sort,” he said; “but
why they should have brought him to me--such a little fellow--is more
than I can see.”

Nello sat by his little bed and cried. His heart was full, and his
little frame worn out. In the state of depression which had followed
upon the delight of the morning, novelty had departed, and strangeness
had come in its place--a very different matter; everything was strange
wherever he turned: and no place to put his pigeon! By and by the vacant
spaces would fill, and boys--boys whom he did not know--big boys, rough
boys, and that head boy, who had the window--would pour in; and he had
no place to put his bird.

Nello’s tears fell like summer rain upon the precious basket, till the
storm had worn itself out. Then, first symptom of amelioration, his ear
was caught by the rustle of the bird in the cage. He took it up, then
placed it in his lap, then opened the cover a little way, and,
entrancing moment! saw it--the glossy head, the keen little eye gleaming
at him, the soft, ruffled feathers. It made a small dab at him as he
peered in--and oh, how delighted, how miserable, how frightened was
Nello! He drew back from the tiny assault, then approached his head
closer, and took from his pocket a bit of his bread and butter, which he
had saved on purpose. Then he sat down on the floor, a small creature,
scarcely visible, hidden between the beds, betraying himself only by the
reverberation of the sobs which still shook his little bosom from time
to time, entranced over his bird. The pigeon gurgled its soft coo, as it
picked up the crumbs. The little boy, after his trouble, forgot
everything but this novel delight; a thing all his own, feeding from his
hand already, looking up at him sidelong, with that glimmer of an eye,
with a flutter towards him if it could but have got loose. No doubt when
he set it free it would come upon his shoulder directly. Nello lost
himself and all his grief in pleasure. He forgot even that he had not a
window in which to hang his bird.

By and by, however, there came a rush and a tramp of feet, and eleven
big boys, earthy and hot from the field where they had been working,
came pouring in. They filled the room like a flood, like a whirlwind,
catching Nello upon their surface as the stream would catch a straw. One
of the big, hobnailed fellows stumbled over him as he sat on the floor.

“Hallo, what’s here?” he cried; “what little kid are you?” seizing the
child by the shoulders. He did not mean any harm, but grasped the little
boy’s shoulder with the grip of a playful ploughman. Then there was a
rush of the whole band to see what it was. The new boy! but such a
boy--a baby--a gentleman baby--a creature of a different order.

“Let’s see him,” they cried, tumbling over each other, while Nello,
dragged to his feet, stood shrinking, confronting them, making trial of
all the manhood he possessed. He would not cry; he drew back against his
bed, and doubled his little fist, his heart heaving, his lip quivering.

“I have done no harm,” said Nello, with a sob in his voice; and the head
boy called out, good-humouredly enough, though the thunder of his boyish
bass sounded to Nello like the voice of doom, to “let him be.”

“What’s he got there?” he asked.

The basket was snatched from the child’s hand, notwithstanding his
resistance. Nello gave a great cry when it was taken from him.

“Oh, my bird, my pigeon, my bird!--you are not to hurt my bird.”

“Give it here,” said the head boy.

But the first who had seized the treasure held it fast.

“I’ve got it, and I’ll keep it,” he cried.

“Give it here!” shouted the other.

The conflict and the cloud of big forms, and the rough voices and
snatchings, filled Nello with speechless dismay. He leaned back against
his bed, and watched with feelings indescribable the basket which
contained his treasure pulled and dragged about from one to another.
First the handle gave way, then the lid was torn off, as one after
another snatched at it. Oh, why was Nello so small and weak, and the
others so big and strong!

“Give it here!” shouted the head boy; but in the midst of the scuffle,
something happened which frightened them all--the bird got loose,
carefully as it had been secured, flew up over their heads, fluttered
for a moment, driven wild by the cloud of arms stretched out to catch
it, and then, with a sweep of its wings, darted out through the open
window, and was seen no more.




CHAPTER XXX.

A CHILD FORLORN.


Nello sobbed himself to sleep that night, scarcely conscious of the
hubbub that was going on around him. He had watched with a pang
unspeakable the escape of his bird, then had rushed blindly among the
culprits, fighting and struggling in a passion of tears and childish
rage, raining down harmless blows all around him, struggling to get out
after it, to try to bring it back. Then Nello had been caught, too
desperate to know who held him, in the hands of the head boy, who paid
no more attention to his kicks and struggles than to his cries, and held
him until, half dead with passion and misery, the poor little fellow
sank exhausted, almost fainting, in the rough hands of his captors. Then
the boys, who were not cruel, laid him on his bed and summoned Mrs.
Swan. They all crowded round her to tell their story. Nobody had meant
any harm. They had taken his basket to look at it, and the pigeon had
got loose. “And it was a carrier!” the head boy said regretfully. They
were as sorry as Nello could be, though by this time, under the combined
influences of loneliness, desolation, homesickness, weariness, and loss,
poor little Nello was almost beyond feeling the full extent of his
troubles. “He’s a mammy’s boy,” said Mrs. Swan, who was rough, but not
unkind. “He has never been at school before. A spoiled child, by all I
can see.” But why had a spoiled child been sent here? This was what the
good woman could not understand.

Nello slept and forgot his woes; and when he was awoke in the morning by
the tumult, all the eleven jumping out of bed at once, performing their
noisy but scanty ablutions, tossing boots about, and scrambling for
clothes, the child lay trembling yet anxious, and half amused in spite
of himself. The rough fun that was going on tempted Nello to laugh,
though he was miserable. He shrank from them all, so big, so loud, so
coarsely clothed, and in such a hurry; but he was tickled by their
horse-play with each other--the hits and misses with which their
missiles went and came. When the head boy was caught by a pillow
straight in the face as he approached to execute justice upon one of the
laggards, Nello could not restrain a little broken chuckle, which
attracted the attention of the combatants. This, however, drew upon him
the arrest of fate. “I say, little one, ain’t you going to get
up?--bell’s rung!” said his next neighbour. The head boy was aggrieved
by the poor little laugh. “Get up, you lazy little beggar!” he cried. “I
say, let’s toss him!” cried another, with sudden perception of fun to be
had easily. The boys meant no particular harm; but they made a
simultaneous rush at the little trembling creature. Nello felt himself
seized, he knew not for what purpose. Then the noise, and the rude,
laughing faces--which looked to him in his fright like demons--all swam
in giddy uncertainty round him, and the poor little fellow came down
upon the floor, slipping out of their rough and careless hands, faint
and sick and sore, his head turning, his little bones aching. But though
in his giddiness and faintness he scarcely saw anything--even the faces
turning into misty spectres--Nello’s spirit survived for a moment the
collapse of his little frame. He got to his feet in a frenzy, and struck
out at them with his white little childish fists. “I will kill you!”
cried Nello, through his teeth; and a great horse-laugh got up. But this
was soon extinguished in dismay and horror when the little fellow fell
back fainting. They all gathered around, horror-stricken. “Lift him on
his bed,” said the head boy almost in a whisper. They did not know
anything about faints; they thought the child was dead. Then there was a
pause. In their horror it occurred to more than one inexperienced
imagination to hide the little body and run away. “What can they do to
us?” said another, awe-stricken. “We didn’t mean it.” For a moment the
boys had all that thrill of horrible sensation which ought to (but, it
would seem, does not always) accompany homicide. At the end, however,
humanity prevailed over villanous panic, and Mrs. Swan was called to the
rescue. The boys were too glad to troop away, already subject to
punishment on account of being late, and, huddling together, went down
to the schoolroom in a band, where vengeance awaited them--though not
for Nello’s murder, as some of them thought.

Nello came to himself at last, after giving Mrs. Swan a great deal of
trouble; and there was nothing for it but to leave him in bed all day;
for the child was bruised with the fall, aching in every limb, and too
resentful and wretched to make any effort. He lay and cried and brooded,
what between childish plans of vengeance and equally childish projects
of escape. Oh, the pangs of impotence with which the small boy wronged
contemplated the idea of those big fellows who had been so cruel to him!
How should weakness be aware that strength does not intend to be cruel?
Nello could not be tolerant, or understanding, at his age, even if there
had not been his aching bones to prove the wickedness of his assailants.
He hated them all. How could he help hating them? He lay and planned
what he would do to them. But Nello’s dreams were not malicious. At the
last moment, when they had suffered torments of dread in prospect of the
punishment which he permitted them (in his fancy) to see approaching,
Nello’s vengeance suddenly turned into magnanimous contempt. He would
not condescend to reprisals; he would crush them with forgiveness as
soon as they saw his power. Such were the plans which the child lay and
concocted, and which amused him, though he was not aware of it. But when
the boys came in Nello shrank to the farther side of his bed; he would
not look at them; he would not listen to the rough inquiries. When they
went away again, however, and he was left alone, a sudden fit of longing
came over him. Oh, to see somebody he knew!--somebody that was kind!
Schemes of vengeance pall, like every other amusement. He gazed round
upon the bare walls, the range of beds, the strange, ugly, desolate
place. He could not tell if it was worse when the savages were there,
filling it with noise, stumblings of heavy feet, cries of rough voices,
or when the sounds all died away, and he was left lonely, not a soul to
speak to him; no kind hand to touch his hot little head; nobody to give
him a drink, though he wanted it so much. Nello had to clamber out of
bed, to pour himself out a cup of water from the great brown jug, which
he could scarcely lift--and fell upon his bed again, utterly heartsick
and desolate. Nobody to give him a drink! How they used to pet him when
he had a headache! How Martuccia would croon over him, and bathe his
head, and kiss his hands, and bring him everything she could think of
to please him! And Mary would come and stand by his side, and put her
cool, white hand upon his head--that hand which he had once called “as
soft as snow.” Nello remembered the smile that came on Mary’s face when
he had called her hand “as soft as snow.” He did not himself see the
poetry of the phrase, but he thought he could feel again that mingled
coolness, and softness, and whiteness. And Lily! Lily would sit by him
all day long, and read to him, or sing to him, or tell him stories, or
play when he got a little better and could play. A great lump came in
Nello’s throat. “Oh, my Lily!” he cried, with a lamentable cry. He had
no mother to appeal to, poor child--not even the imagination of a
mother. Lily had been everything. Nothing had ever been so bad with him
but could be borne when Lily was there. Naturally he had not so much
felt the want of Lily when it was pleasure (as he thought) that he was
going to. He could part with her without much emotion in the excitement
of novelty and childish hope; but now----. Nello turned his face to the
wall and sobbed. The lonely place--all the lonelier for bearing traces
of that rude multitude--held him, a little atom, in its midst. Nobody
heard his crying, or cared. He tore the bedclothes with his little
frantic hands, with that sense of the intolerable which comes so easily
to a child. But what did it matter that it was intolerable? Little
Nello, like older people, had to bear it all the same.

It was best to leave the child quiet, the Swans thought. They were not
unkind, but they were not used to take much trouble. The boys who came
to them generally were robust boys, able to take care of themselves, and
to whom it did no harm to be hustled about--who enjoyed the scrimmages
and struggles. Mrs. Swan had her own children to look after. “I’ve left
him to himself; he’s better to be quite quiet,” she said to her husband,
and the husband approved; “far better for him to be quiet.” Attempts to
amuse a child, in such circumstances, would have been foolish, they
thought, and as for petting and sympathising with him, far better that
he should get accustomed to it, and make up his mind to put up with it
like the rest. They could not make any difference between one and
another; and if he had a day’s rest, and was allowed to lie in bed,
what could the child want more? There was no imagination in the house
lively enough to _envisager_ the circumstances from Nello’s point of
view, or to understand what chills of terror, what flushes of passion,
came over the child, when the others poured in to bed again in the
evening, driving him desperate with fear and wild with anger. Who could
imagine anything so vehement in the mind of such a little boy? But Nello
was not molested that next evening; they were disposed rather to be
obsequious to him, asking, in their rough way, how he was, and offering
him half-eaten apples and bits of sticky sweetmeats, by way of
compensation. But Nello would not listen to these clumsy overtures. He
turned his face to the wall persistently, and would have nothing to say
to them. Even the tumult that was going on did not tempt him to turn
round, though, after the first moment of fright, the crowd in the room
was rather comforting than otherwise to Nello. The sound of their voices
kept him from that melancholy absorption in himself.

Next morning he had to get up, though he was still sick and sore. Nello
was so obstinate in his refusal to do so, that the master himself had to
be summoned. Mr. Swan would stand no nonsense.

“Get up, my boy,” he said, “you’ll get no good lying there. There has
nothing happened to you more than happens to new boys everywhere. Come,
you’re not a baby to cry. Get up, and be a man.”

“I want to go home,” said Nello.

“I daresay you do; but you’re not going home. So your plan is to make
the best of it,” said the schoolmaster. “Now come, I let you off
yesterday; but I’ll send a man to take you out of bed if you don’t get
up now. Come along, boy. I see you want to be a baby, as your uncle
said.”

“I am no baby,” cried Nello, furious; but the schoolmaster only laughed.

“I give you half-an-hour,” he said; and in half-an-hour, indeed, Nello,
giddy and weak, managed to struggle down to the schoolroom. His watch
was no longer going. He had forgotten it in the misery of the past day;
it lay there dead, as Nello felt--and his bird was flown. He stumbled
downstairs, feeling as if he must fall at each step, and took his seat
on the lowest bench. The lessons were not much, but Nello was not equal
to them. The big figures about seemed to darken the very air to the
boy--to darken it, and fill it up. He had no room to breathe. His hand
shook, so that he could not write a copy, which seemed a simple matter
enough. “Put him at the very bottom; he knows nothing,” Mr. Swan said to
his assistant; and how this galled the poor little gentleman, to whom,
in his feebleness, this was the only way left of proving a little
superiority, what words could say? Poor little Nello! he cried over the
copy, mingling his tears with the ink, and blurring the blurred page
still more. He could not get the figures right in the simplest of sums.
He was self-convicted of being not only the least, but the very last,
the dunce of the school. When the others went out to play, he sat
wretched in a corner of the wretched schoolroom, where there was no air
to breathe. He had not energy enough to do anything or think of
anything; and it was only the sight of another boy, seated at a desk
writing a letter, which put it into his head that he too might find a
way of appeal against this cruelty. He could not write anything but the
largest of large hands. But he tore a leaf out of the copybook, and
scrawled a few lines across it. “I am verrey meeserble,” he wrote; “Oh,
Lily, ask Mary to kome and take me home.”

“Will you put it into a cover for me?” he said to the boy who was
writing, who proved to be the very head boy who reigned over Nello’s
room. “Oh, please, put it into a cover. I’ll forgive you if you will,”
cried Nello.

The head boy looked at him with a grin.

“You little toad, don’t you forgive me without that? I never meant to
hurt you,” he said: but melting, he added, “give it here.” Nello’s
epistle, written across the lined paper, in big letters, did not seem to
require any ceremony as a private communication. The head boy read it
and laughed. “They won’t pay any attention,” he said; “they never do.
Little boys are always miserable. And won’t you catch it from Swan if he
sees it!”

“It is for my sister Lily; it is not for Mr. Swan,” cried the child,
upon which the head boy laughed again.

That letter never reached Penninghame. The schoolmaster read it
according to his orders, and put it into the fire. He wrote himself to
the address which Nello had given, to say that the little gentleman was
rather homesick, but pretty well; and that perhaps it would be better,
in the circumstances, not to write to him till he had got a little
settled down, and used to his new home. He hoped his little pupil would
soon be able to write a decent letter; but he feared his education had
been very much neglected hitherto, Mr. Swan wrote. Thus it came to pass
that Nello lived on, day after day, eagerly expecting some event which
never happened. He expected, first of all, Mary to arrive in a beautiful
chariot, such as was wont to appear in Lily’s stories, with beautiful
prancing horses--(where they were to come from, Nello never asked
himself, though he was intimately acquainted with the two brown ponies
and the cob, which were all the inhabitants of the Squire’s stables),
and with an aspect splendid, but severe, to proceed to the punishment of
his adversaries. Nello did not settle what deaths they were to die; but
all was arranged except that insignificant circumstance. Mary would
come; she would punish all who had done wrong; she would give presents
to those who had been kind; and all the boys who had laughed at little
Nello would see him drive away glorious behind those horses, with their
arching necks, and high-stepping, dainty feet. Then after a few days,
which produced nothing, Nello settled, with a pang of visionary
disappointment, that it was Mr. Pen who could come. He would not make a
splendid dash up to the door like Mary in her chariot; but still he
would deliver the little captive. Another day, and Nello, coming down
and down in his demands, thought it might at least be Martuccia, or
perhaps Miss Brown, who would come for him. That would not be so
satisfactory to his pride, for he felt that the boys would laugh and
jeer at him, and say it was his nurse who had come; but still even Miss
Brown would be good to see in this strange place. At the end of the
week, however, all Nello’s courage fled. He thought then faintly of a
letter, and watched when the postman came with packets of letters for
the other boys. He could not read writing very well; but he could make
it out if they would only write to him. Why would not they write to him?
Had they forgotten him altogether, clean forgotten him, though he had
been but a week away?

Nello did what he was told to do at school: but he was very slow about
it, being so little, and so unused to work--for which he was punished;
and he could not learn his lessons for brooding over his troubles, and
wondering when _they_ would come, or what they could mean; and naturally
he was punished for that too. The big boys hustled him about; they
played him a hundred tricks: they laughed at his timid, baby-washings,
his carefulness, the good order to which he had been trained. To toss
everything about, to do everything loudly, and noisily, and carelessly,
was the religion of Mr. Swan’s boys, as everything that was the reverse
of this had been the religion in which Nello was trained. Poor little
boy, his life was as full of care as if he had been fifty. He was sent
here and there on a hundred errands; he had impositions which he could
not write, and lessons which he could not learn; and not least, perhaps,
meals which he could not eat; and out-of-door tasks quite unsuitable for
him, and which he could not perform. He was for ever toiling after
something he ought to have done. He grew dirty, neglected, unkempt,
miserable. He could not clean his own boots, which was one thing
required of him; but plastered him self all over with mysterious
blacking, in a vain attempt to fulfil this task, he who had scarcely
dressed himself till now, scarcely brushed his own hair. He kept up a
struggle against all these labours, which were more cruel than those of
Hercules, as long as he had the hope within him that somebody must come
to deliver him; for, with a childish jump at what he wished, he had
believed that some one might come “to-morrow,” when he sent, or thought
he sent, his letter away. The to-morrow pushed itself on and on, hope
getting fainter, and misery stronger, yet still seemed to gleam upon
him, a possibility still. “Oh, pray God send Mary,” he said, every night
and morning. When a week was over, he added a more urgent cry, “Oh, pray
God send _some one_, only some one! Oh, pray God take me home!” the
child cried. He repeated it one night aloud, in the exhaustion of his
disappointment, with an irrepressible moaning and crying: “Oh, pray God
take me home!” He was very tired, poor little boy; he was half wrapped
in his little bit of curtain, to hide him as he said his prayers, and he
had fallen half asleep while he said them, and was struggling with
drowsiness, and duty, and a hope which though now falling more and more
into despondency, still gave pertinacity to his prayer. He was anxious,
very anxious to press this petition on God’s notice. Repetition; is not
that the simplest primitive necessity of earnest supplication? Perhaps
God might not take any notice the first time, but He might the next.
“Oh, take me home. Oh, pray God take me home!” God too, like Mary and
the rest, seemed to pay no attention; but God did not require written
letters or directions in a legible hand: He could be approached more
easily. So Nello repeated and repeated, half-asleep, yet with his little
heart full of trouble, and all his cares awake, this appeal to the only
One who could help him, “Oh, pray God, pray God, take me home!”

But in this trance of beseeching supplication, half asleep, half
conscious, poor little Nello caught the eye of one of his room-fellows,
who pointed out the spectacle to the rest. “Little beggar! pretending to
say his prayers; and much he cares for his prayers, going to sleep in
the middle of them,” they said. Then one wag suggested, “Let’s wake him
up!” It was a very funny idea. They got his water-jug, a small enough
article indeed, not capable of doing very much harm. Had poor little
Nello been less sleepy in his half-dream of pathetic appeal, he must
have heard the titterings and whisperings behind him; but he was too
much wrapt in that drowsy, painful abstraction, to take any notice, till
all at once he started bolt upright, crying and gasping, woke up and
drenched by the sudden dash of cold water over him. A shout of laughter
burst from all the room, as Nello turned round frantic, and flew at the
nearest of his assailants with impotent rage. What did the big fellow
care for his little blows? he lay back and laughed and did not mind,
while the small creature in his drenched nightgown, his face crimson
with rage, his little frame shivering, his curly locks falling about his
cheeks, flew at his throat. The head boy, however, awakening to a sense
of the indiscretion, and perhaps touched by a pang of remorse at sight
of the misery and fury in the child’s face, got hold of Nello in his
strong arms, and plucked the wet garment off him, and threw him into his
bed. “Let the child alone, I tell you. I won’t have him meddled with,”
he said to the others--and covered him up with the bedclothes. Poor
little Nello! he wanted to strike at and struggle with his defender. He
was wild with rage and misery. His small heart was full, and he could
bear no more.

After this, however, the boys, half ashamed of themselves, got quickly
to bed; and darkness, and such silence as can exist in the heavy
atmosphere where twelve rustics sleep and snore, succeeded to the tumult
and riot. Nello, exhausted, sobbed himself to sleep under the
bedclothes; but woke up in the middle of the night to remember all his
wrongs and his misery. His cup was full; even God would not pay any
attention to him, and it seemed to Nello that it would be better to die
than to bear this any longer. Though the dark frightened him, it was
less alarming than the rough boys, the hard lessons, the pangs of
longing and waiting for a deliverance which never came. He had still the
sovereign which Mary gave him, and the watch he had been so proud of,
though that was dead now, and he had not spirit enough left to wind it
up. It was October, and the nights were long. Though it was but in
reality between two and three o’clock in the morning, Nello thought it
would soon be time for all these savage companions to get out of bed
again, and for the noisy dreadful day to begin. He got up very quietly,
trembling at every sound. There was a window at the end of the room
through which the moon shone, and the light gave him a little
consolation. He kept his eye fixed upon it, and groped for his clothes,
and put them on very stealthily. If any one should hear him, he would be
lost; but Nello’s little rustlings, like a bird in the dark, what were
they to break the slumbers of all those outdoor lads, who slept
violently, as they did everything else! No one stirred; the snoring and
the breathing drowned all the little misadventures which chilled Nello
with terror, as when his boots dropt out of his hand, or the buttons on
his trousers struck shrilly against the chair. Nothing happened; nobody
stirred, and Nello crept out of the room, holding his breath with the
courage of despair. He got downstairs, trembling and stumbling at almost
every step. When he got to the lower story, that kind moon, which had
seemed to look at him through the window, almost to smile at him in
encouragement and cheerful support, showed him a little window which had
been left open by some chance. He clambered through and found himself in
the garden. There was a great dog in front of the house, of which Nello
was in mortal terror; but here at the back there was no dog, only the
kitchen garden, with the tranquil breadth of a potato-field on the other
side of the hedge. It was not easy to get through that hedge; but a
small boy not quite nine years old can go through gaps which would
scarcely show to the common eye. It scratched him and tore his trousers;
but there was nothing in such simple accidents to stop the little
fugitive. And what it was to feel himself outside, free and safe, and
all his tormentors snoring! Nello looked up at the moon, which was
mellow and mild, not white as usual, and which seemed to smile at him.
The potato-field was big and black, with its long lines running to a
point on either side of him; and the whole world seemed to lie round him
dark and still; nothing stirred, except now and then a rat in the ditch,
which chilled Nello with horror. Had he known it was so early, the child
would have been doubly frightened; but he felt that it was morning, not
night, which encouraged him. And how big the world was! how vast, and
silent, and solitary! only Nello, one little atom, with a small heart
beating, a little pulse throbbing in the midst of that infinite quiet.
The space grew vaster, the stillness more complete, the distance more
visionary, and there was a deeper sable in the dark, because of Nello’s
little heart beating so fast, and his eyes that took everything in. What
was he to do, poor little soul, there by himself in the open country, in
the unknown world all in the middle of the night!




CHAPTER XXXI.

A CRISIS AT PENNINGHAME.


All this time the old Squire lay in the same stupor of death in life. He
did not rally. Sometimes there was a look in his eyes--a quiver as of
meaning, between the half-closed lids. But they could not tell what it
meant, or indeed if it was anything but vague reflection of the light
that would break in through a drawn curtain or raised blind. There he
lay, day after day, wearing out all his nurses. If he ever slept, or
ever was awake, no one could tell; but this old man, in the grip of
deadly disease, lay there motionless, and tired out all the younger
people who watched over him. A nurse had been got for him from the
nearest town, and Mary was rarely out of the sick-chamber. Both of these
attendants were worn to death as the monotonous days and nights went
past; but the Squire lay just the same. They grew pale and hollow-eyed,
but he apparently had stopped short at the point where he was when their
vigil began.

In these circumstances all the world flocked to Penninghame to inquire
for Mr. Musgrave. Rural importance shows in such circumstances. He was
“by rights” the greatest man in the district, though superior wealth had
come in and taken his pre-eminence from him--but everybody recollected
his pretensions now. Inquiries came for him daily from every one near
who could pretend to be anything. The great great people, and the small
great people, the new families and the old, the clergy (who were as good
as anybody), and all who sought for a place among the gentry, with
whatever hope or right, all interested themselves about the invalid.
“His eldest son is still living, I believe. And what will happen when
Mr. Musgrave dies?” the people asked. And all who had any possibility of
knowing, all who had any right to know, exerted themselves to supply
answers to this question. One had it on the best authority, that John
Musgrave was waiting, ready to come home, and that there would be
another trial immediately. Some, on the other hand, were certain that
John Musgrave never would come home at all to tempt Providence. “There
will be an effort made to pass him over, and make his little son heir
instead,” they said; and some believed it to be certain that the other
brother would pension him off, so that the house might not be shamed by
a convict squire.

Naturally, Mary knew nothing about these discussions. She spent her time
in her father’s room, relieving the nurse when her hours for sleep came,
resting herself only when she could no longer bear up against the
fatigue, seeing nobody but Mr. Pen and Lilias. Mary took little notice
now of Nello’s departure, and the schoolmaster’s letter. It had all been
done against her will, but she was too much occupied, now that it was
done, to dwell upon it. It was very shameful that he was so backward,
and perhaps Mr. Pen and Randolph were right in sending him to school.
Her mind was too much pre-occupied for the moment to give anything but
this half-angry, reluctant assent to what had been done. And perhaps it
would be better _now_ if Lilias could go to school too, out of this
melancholy house, out of the loneliness which was so hard upon the
child. But Lilias was the only consolation Mary herself had; she had
grown to be part of herself during this long year. It might be doing the
child injustice, as she feared; but how could she send her only
companion, her consoler and sympathiser, away? As for Lilias, though she
was deeply moved by Nello’s departure, the want of news of him did not
move her much. Her father never wrote, never communicated with the
child. They had not the custom of letters. It was very dreary, no doubt,
but still when he came back unexpectedly, perhaps just at the moment he
was most wanted, stepping in, with all the delight of surprise added to
the pleasure of again seeing the absent, that was worth waiting for.
This was the philosophy of the family. It was not their habit to write
letters. Lilias accepted her own loneliness with resignation, not
thinking of any possible alleviation; and she watched, sitting at the
door of the old hall, for every one who might come along the road. It
was October--the days getting short, the air more chilly, the sun less
genial. The woods began to put on robes of colour, as if the rosy sunset
clouds had floated down among them. The air blew cold in her face, as
she sat outside the hall door. Martuccia within, in the background,
shivered, and drew her shawl more closely across her ample shoulders.
But Lilias did not feel the cold. She was looking out for some one--for
papa, who might come all at once, at any time--for Mr. Geoff, who might
bring news of papa--for something to come and break the monotony of this
life. Something Lilias felt sure must be coming; it could not go on like
this for ever.

“Nello was always company for his sister,” Mary said. Though she
assented, she could not but complain. She had come out to breathe the
air, and was walking up and down, Mr. Pen by her side. “It is very hard
upon Lily, just at this moment, when everything is hanging in the
balance, that her little brother should have been sent away.”

“It would be very well,” said Mr. Pen, “if you would send her away too.
Nello wanted it. He would never have learned anything at home. He will
come back so much improved. If he is to be received as the heir of
everything----”

“If, Mr. Pen?”

“Well; I would not go against you for the world; but there is truth in
what Randolph says. Randolph says there must be certificates of his
birth, and all that; quite easy--quite easy to get--but where is your
brother John to look after it all? He ought to be here now.”

“Yes, he ought to be here. But would it be safe for him to come, Mr.
Pen?”

“Miss Mary, I can’t help wondering about that,” said Mr. Pen, with
troubled looks--had he grown unfaithful to John?--“if he is innocent,
why shouldn’t he come _now_? No jury would convict----”

Mary stopped him with a motion of her hand. “Randolph has been gaining
you over to his side,” she said. They were walking up and down the road
close to the house. Just where the great gates ought to be--if the
Musgraves were ever rich enough to restore the courtyard of the old
Castle--was the limit of their walk. Mary could not allow herself to be
out of reach even for an hour. She was here, ready to be called, in case
her father should come to any semblance of himself. “I do not say he has
not some reason on his side, now that my father is--as he is.
Everything seems to have grown so much nearer. It is dreadful not to
know where John is, not to be able to communicate with him. I wrote to
the last place where they were living--the place the children came
from--but I have never had any answer. When my poor father goes--as go
he must, I suppose--what am I to do?”

“You must let Randolph manage for you. Randolph must do it. God knows,
Miss Mary, I don’t want to go against you----”

“But you do,” she said with a half-smile. She smiled at it, but she did
not like it. It is hard, even when a dog who has been your special
follower turns away and follows some one else.

“You never did it before since we have known each other, Mr. Pen.”

Poor Mr. Pen felt the reproach. He was ready to weep himself, and looked
at her with wistful, deprecating eyes; but was it not for her sake?

“I don’t know what else to say to you. It breaks my heart to go against
you,” he said. “Whatever pleases you seems always best to me. But
Randolph says--and I cannot deny it, Miss Mary, there’s truth in what he
says.”

“Yes, there’s truth in what he says. He has got the child away, and
placed him out of reach, with your help, Mr. Pen; and he will push the
father away, out of his just place, and make all the difficulties
double. He has put you against him already that was his friend, and he
will put other people against him. I begin to see what he is aiming at;”
cried Mary, clasping her hands together, with indignant vehemence.

Mr. Pen did not know what to say or do to soothe her. He was full of
compunction, feeling himself guilty. He to have turned against her! He
felt all the horror of it to his very heart.

“We should be just to Randolph too,” he said, tremulously; “he means to
do what is right. And if I seem to cross you, ’tis but to serve you,
Miss Mary. How could you stand in the breach, and bear all that will
have to be borne? If Randolph does not come to do what has to be done,
you would have to do it; and it would be more than should be put upon
you.”

“Have I ever shrunk from what has to be done?” she said, with again a
half-smile of pained surprise.

Mr. Pen had no answer to make; he knew very well she had not failed
hitherto; and in his heart he was aware that Randolph’s motives were
very different from Mary’s. Still, he held with a gentle obstinacy to
the lesson he had learned. It was going against her, but it was for her
sake. They took one or two turns together in silence, neither saying any
more. As they turned again, however, towards the house for the third
time, Eastwood met them, hurrying from the door. Nurse had sent
downstairs for Miss Musgrave, begging her to come without delay. The
urgent message, and the man’s haste and anxious, eager looks, frightened
Mary. The household generally had come to that state of expectation
which welcomes any event, howsoever melancholy, as a relief to the
strain of nerve and strength which long suspense produces. Eastwood was
eager that there might be some change--if for the better, so much the
better--but that was scarcely to be looked for--anyhow a change, a new
event. The same thrill of anticipation ran through Mary’s veins. Was it
come now--the moment of fate, the crisis which would affect so many? She
bade Mr. Pen to follow her, with a movement of her hand. “Wait in the
library,” she said, as she went upstairs.

While Mary took the air in this anxious little promenade up and down,
Lilias sat at the hall door, looking out upon the road, looking far away
for the something that was coming. She did not know that the rider on
the pale horse was the most likely passenger to come that way. Happier
visitors were in Lilias’ thoughts--her father himself to clear up
everything, who would go and fetch Nello back, and put all right that
was wrong; or Mr. Geoff, who was not so good, but yet very comforting,
and between whom and Lilias there existed a link of secret alliance,
unknown to anybody, which was sweet to the child. Lilias was looking out
far upon the road, vaguely thinking of Geoff, for he was the most likely
person to come--he who rode along the road so often to ask for the
Squire: far more likely than her father, who was a hope rather than an
expectation. She was looking far away, as is the wont of the dreamer,
pursuing her hope to the very horizon whence it might come--when
suddenly, all at once, Lilias woke to the consciousness that there was
some one standing near her, close to her, saying nothing, but looking at
her with that intent look which wakes even a sleeper when fixed upon
him, much more a dreamer, linked to common earth by the daylight, and
all the sounds and touches of ordinary life. She rose to her feet with a
start--frightened yet satisfied--for here was something which had
happened, if not the something for which she looked. But Lilias’ eyes
enlarged to twice their size, and her heart gave a great jump, when she
saw that the figure standing beside her was that of the old woman whom
she had met in the Chase.

’Lizabeth had come up unobserved from the water-side. She was dressed
exactly as she had been when Lilias saw her before, with the hood of her
grey cloak over her white cap--a stately figure, notwithstanding the
homely dress.

Lilias gave a cry at the sight, and ran to her. “Oh, old woman!” she
cried--“oh, I want to ask you--I want to ask you so many things.”

“Honeysweet!” said ’Lizabeth, with a glow in her dark eyes. She did not
for the moment think either of what she had come to say, or of the risk
that attended her communications with her daughter’s child. She thought
only of the face she saw reflected in that other face, and of the secret
property she had in the child who was so beautiful and so sweet. This
was ’Lizabeth’s heiress, the inheritor of the beauty which the old woman
had been conscious of in her own person, and still more conscious of in
the person of her daughter. Lilias was the third in that fair line.
Pride filled the old woman’s heart, along with the warm gush of
tenderness. No one had ever looked at Lilias with such passionate love
and admiration. She did not venture to take the child into her arms as
she had done in the solitude of the woods, but she looked at her with
all her heart in her eyes.

Lilias seized her by the hand and drew her to the seat from which she
had herself risen. “Come!” she said eagerly. “They say you know
everything about papa--and I have a right to know; no one has so good a
right to hear as I. Oh, tell me! tell me! Sit down here and rest. I once
went up the hill, far away up the hill, to go to you, but there I met
Mr. Geoff. Do you know Mr. Geoff? Come, come, sit down here and tell me
about papa----”

“My darling,” said. ’Lizabeth, “blessings on your bonnie face! but I
dare not stay. Some time--soon, if it’s God’s will, you’ll hear all the
like of you could understand, and you’ll get him back to enjoy his own.
God bless my bairn that would give me her own seat, and think no shame
of old ’Lizabeth! That’s like my Lily,” the old woman said, with ready
tears. “But listen, honey, for this is what I came to say. You must tell
the lady to send and bring back the little boy. The bairn is in trouble.
I cannot tell you what kind of trouble, but she must send and bring him
back. My honey, do you hear what I say?”

“The little boy, and the lady?” said Lilias, wondering; then she
exclaimed suddenly with a cry of pain, “Nello! my little brother!” and
in her eagerness caught ’Lizabeth’s hands and drew her down upon the
seat.

“Ay, just your little brother, my honeysweet. My lad is away that would
go and look after him, so you must tell the lady. No, no, I must not
stay. The time will maybe come. But tell the lady, my darling. The
little boy has need of her, or of you. He is too little a bairn to be
away among strangers. I cannot think upon his name--nor I cannot think,”
said ’Lizabeth, with a gleam of grandmotherly disapproval, “what my Lily
could be thinking of to give a little lad such an outlandish name. But
tell the lady to send and bring him home.”

“Oh, I will go, I will go directly. Wait till I tell you what Mary
says,” cried Lilias; and without pausing a moment, she rushed through
the hall, her hair flying behind her, her face flushed with eagerness.
The old woman stood for a moment looking after her with a smile;
listening to the sound of the doors which swung behind the child in her
rapid course through the passages which led to the inhabited part of the
house. ’Lizabeth stood stately yet rustic in her grey cloak, with her
hands folded, and looked after Lilias with a tender smile on her face.
She had nothing left to be proud of, she so proud by nature, and to whom
it was the essence of life to have something belonging to her in which
she could glory. ’Lizabeth’s pride had been broken down with many a
blow, but it sprang up again vigorous as ever on the small argument of
this child. Her beauty, her childish refinement and ladyhood, gave the
old woman a pleasure more exquisite perhaps than any she had ever felt
in her life. There was little in her lot now to give her pleasure. Her
daughter was dead, her days full of the hideous charge which she had
concealed for so many years from all the world; and she was old,
approaching the end of all things, with nothing better to hope for than
that death might release her unfortunate son before herself. At this
moment even a worse terror and misery was upon her; yet as she stood
there, looking after the little princess who was of her blood, her
representative, yet so much above anything that had ever belonged to
’Lizabeth, there was a glow through all her veins, more warm, more sweet
than any she had ever felt in her life. Pride, and love, and delight
swelled in her. Her child’s child--heir of her face, her voice, all the
little traits of attitude and gesture, which mark individuality--and yet
the young lady of the Castle, born to a life so different from hers. She
stood so, gazing after Lilias till the sound of her feet and the door,
closing behind her, had died away. Her heart was so full that she turned
to Martuccia sitting motionless behind with her knitting. “Oh, that her
life may be as sweet as her face!” she said involuntarily. Martuccia
turned upon her with a smile, but shook her head and said, “Not speak
Inglese.” The sound of the voice called ’Lizabeth to herself. The smile
faded from her face. Little had she to smile for, less than ever at this
moment. She sighed, coming to herself, and turned and walked away.

Lilias ran against Mary as she entered the house at Eastwood’s call.
“Oh!” she cried, breathless, “Nello! will you send for Nello? Oh, Mary,
he is in trouble, the old woman says--he is ill, or he is unhappy, or I
cannot tell you what it is. Will you send for him, will you send for
him, Mary? What shall I do? for papa will think it was my fault. Oh,
Mary, Mary, send for my Nello! Wait a moment, only wait a moment, and
hear what the old woman says----”

“Speak to her, Mr. Pen,” said Mary; “I cannot stay.” She was going to
her father, who must, she felt sure, want her more urgently than Lilias
could. Even then it went to Mary’s heart to neglect the child’s appeal.
“Mr. Pen will hear all about it, Lilias,” she said, as she hastened
upstairs. But Mr. Pen paid very little attention to what Lilias said.

“An old woman! What old woman? My dear child, you cannot expect us at
such a moment as this--” said the Vicar. He was walking up and down the
library with his ears open to every sound, expecting to be called to the
Squire’s bedside, feeling in his pocket for his prayer-book. For it
seemed to Mr. Pen that the hasty summons could mean only one thing. It
must be death that had come--and it would be a happy release--what else
could any one say? But death, even when it is a happy release, is a
serious visitor to come into a house. He has to be received with due
preparation, like the potentate he is. Not without services of solemn
meaning, attendants kneeling round the solemn bedside, the commendatory
prayer rising from authorised lips--not without these formulas should
the destroying angel be received into a Christian house. He was ready
for his part, and waiting to be called; and to be interrupted at such a
moment by tales of an old woman, by the grumblings of a fretful child
sent to school against his will--even the gentle Mr. Pen rebelled. He
would not hear what Lilias said. “Your grandfather is very ill, my
dear,” he told her solemnly, “very ill. In an hour or so you may have no
grandfather, Lilias; he is going to appear in the presence of God----”

“Is he afraid of God, Mr. Pen?” asked Lilias with solemn eyes.

“Afraid!--you--you do not understand. It is a solemn thing--a very
solemn thing,” said the Vicar, “to go into God’s presence! to stand
before Him and answer----”

“Oh!” cried the little girl, interrupting him, “Nello is far worse, far
worse. Would God do him any harm, Mr. Pen? But cruel people might do a
little boy a great deal of harm. God is what takes care of us. The old
gentleman will be safe, quite safe there; but my Nello! he is so little,
and he never was away from me before. _I_ always took care of him
before. I said you were not to send him away, but you would not pay any
attention. Oh, my Nello, my Nello, Mr. Pen!”

“Hush, Lilias, you do not know what you are speaking of. What can
Nello’s troubles be? Perhaps the people will not pet him as he has been
petted; that will do him no harm whatever--it will be better for him. My
dear, you are too little to know. Hush, and let me listen. I must be
ready when I am called for. Nothing that can happen to Nello can be of
so much importance as this is now.”

And the Vicar went to the door to look out and listen. Lilias followed
him with her anxious eyes. She was awed, but she was not afraid for the
old gentleman. Would God hurt him? but anybody that was strong could
hurt Nello. She made one more appeal when the Vicar had returned,
hearing nothing and leaving the door ajar.

“Mr. Pen! oh, please, please, think of Nello a little! What am I to do?
Papa said, ‘Lily, I trust him to you--you are to take care of him.’ What
shall I say to papa if he comes home and asks me, ‘Where is my little
Nello?’ Papa may come any day. That is his way, he never writes to tell
us, but when he can, he comes. He might come to-day,” cried Lilias. “Mr.
Pen, oh, send somebody for Nello. Will you not listen to me? What should
I say to papa if he came home to-day?”

“My dear little Lilias,” said Mr. Pen, shaking his head mournfully,
“your papa will not come to-day. Heaven knows if he will ever be able to
come. You must not think it is such an easy matter. There are things
which make it very difficult for him to come home; things of which you
don’t know----”

“Yes,” said Lilias eagerly, “about the man who was killed; but papa did
not do it, Mr. Pen.”

Mr. Pen shook his head again. “Who has told the child?” he said. “I hope
not--I hope not, Lilias; but that is what nobody knows.”

“Yes,” she cried, “Mr. Geoff knows; he told me. He says it was another
man, and that papa went away to save him. Mr. Pen, papa may come any
day.”

“Who is Mr. Geoff?” said the Vicar; but he did not pay any attention to
what the child was saying. There seemed to be a sound on the stairs of
some one coming down. “Oh, run away, my dear! run away! Run and play,
or do whatever you like. I have not time to attend to you now.”

Lilias did not say a word more, or even look at him again, but walked
away with a stately tread, not condescending even to turn her head
towards him. In this solemn way she went back to the hall, expecting to
find ’Lizabeth; but when she found that even the old woman was gone, in
whom she put a certain trust as the one person who knew everything,
Lilias had a moment of black despair. What was she to do? She stood and
gazed out into vacancy--her eyes intent, her mind passionately at work.
It was to her after all, and not to Mary, that Nello had been intrusted,
and if nobody would think of him, or attend to him, it was she who must
interfere for her brother. She stood for a minute or two fixed--then
turned hastily, paying no attention to Martuccia, and went to her room.
Lilias, too, had a sovereign, which Mary had given her, and something
more besides. She took her money out of its repository, and put on her
hat and jacket. A great resolution was in her face. She had seen at last
what was the only thing to do.

“I think, ma’am, there is a change,” the nurse said, as Mary noiselessly
but swiftly, as long nursing teaches women to move, came into the room.
The nurse was an experienced person. When Miss Brown, and even Mary
herself, had seen “a change,” or fancied they had seen it, before, nurse
had never said so. It was the first time she had called any one to the
Squire’s room, or made the slightest movement of alarm. She led the way
now to the bedside. The patient was lying in much the same attitude as
before, but he was moving his hands restlessly, his lips were moving,
and his head on the pillow. “He is saying something, but I cannot make
out what it is,” the nurse said. Mary put her ear close to the
inarticulate mouth. How dreadful was that living prison of
flesh!--living, yet dead--the spirit pent up and denied all its usual
modes of utterance. Mary wrung her hands with a sense of the intolerable
as she tried in vain to distinguish the words, which seemed to be
repeated over and over again, though they could make nothing of them.
“Cannot you help us?--can you make it out? Is there nothing we can do?”
she cried; “no cordial to give him strength?” but the nurse could only
shake her head, and the doctor when he came was equally helpless. He
told Mary it was a sign of returning consciousness--which, indeed, was
evident enough--but could not even say whether this promised for or
against recovery. The nurse, it was clear, did not think it a good sign.
He might even recover his speech _at the end_, she said. And hours
passed while they waited, watching closely lest any faint beginning of
sound should struggle through. The whole night was passed in this way.
Mary never left the bedside. It was not that he could say anything of
great importance to any one but himself. The Squire was helpless as
respected his estate. It was entailed, and went to his eldest son,
whether he liked it or not; and his will was made long ago, and all his
affairs settled. What he had to say could not much affect any one; but
of all pitiful sights, it seemed to his daughter the most pitiful, to
see this old man, always so entirely master of himself, trying to make
some communication which all their anxiety could not decipher. Could he
be himself aware of how it was that no response was made to him?--could
he realise the horror of the position?--something urgent to say, and no
way of getting to the ears of those concerned, notwithstanding their
most anxious attention? “No, no,” the nurse said; “he’s all in a maze;
he maybe don’t even know what he’s saying;” and the constant movement
and evident repetition gave favour to this idea. Mary stood by him, and
looked at him, however, with a pain as great as if he had been
consciously labouring on one side to express himself as she was on the
other to understand him, instead of lying, as was most probable, in a
feverish dream, through which some broken gleam of fancy or memory
struggled. When the chilly dawn broke upon the long night, that
dreariest and coldest moment of a vigil, worn out with the long strain,
she dropped asleep in the chair by her father’s bedside. But when she
woke hurriedly, a short time after, while yet it was scarcely full day,
the nurse was standing by her with a hand upon her shoulder. The woman
had grasped at her to wake her. “Listen, ma’am! he says--‘the little
boy,’” she said; Mary sprang up, shaking off her drowsiness in a moment.
The old man’s face had recovered a little intelligence--a faint flush
seemed to waver about his ashy cheeks. It was some time before, even
now, she could make any meaning out of the babble that came from his
lips. Then by degrees she gleaned, now one word, now another. “Little
boy--little Johnny; bring the little boy.” She could scarcely imagine
even now that there was meaning in the desire. Most likely it was but
some pale reflection, through the dim awakening of the old man’s mind,
of the last idea that was in it. It went on, however, in one long strain
of mumbled repetition--“Little Johnny--little boy.” There seemed nothing
else in his mind to say. The nurse laid her hand once more on Mary’s
arm, as she stood by her, listening. “If you can humour the poor
gentleman, ma’am, you ought to do it,” said the woman. She was a
stranger, and did not know the story of the house.

What could Mary do? She sent out one of the servants to call Mr. Pen,
who had stayed late on the previous night, always holding his book open
with his finger at the place, but who got up now obedient at her
summons, though his wife had not meant to let him be disturbed for
hours. Then the feeble demand went on so continuously, that Mary in
despair sent Miss Brown for Lilias, vaguely hoping that the presence of
the one child, if not the other, might perhaps be of some use in the dim
state of semi-consciousness in which her father seemed to be. Miss Brown
went with hesitation and a doubtful look, which Mary was too much
occupied to notice, but came back immediately to say that Miss Lilias
had got up early and gone out. “Gone out!” Mary said, surprised; but she
had no leisure to be disturbed about anything, her whole mind being
pre-occupied. She went downstairs to Mr. Pen when he came. He had his
prayer-book all ready. To dismiss the departing soul with all its
credentials, with every solemnity that became such a departure, was what
he thought of. He was altogether taken by surprise by Mary’s hasty
address--

“Mr. Pen, you must go at once and bring Nello. I cannot send a servant.
He would not, perhaps, be allowed to come. If you will go, you can fetch
him at once--to-morrow early.”

“But, Miss Mary----”

“Don’t say anything against it, Mr. Pen. He is asking for the little
boy, the little boy! Nello must come, and come directly. You would not
cross him in perhaps the last thing he may ever ask for?” cried Mary,
the tears of agitation and weariness coming in a sudden gush from her
eyes.

“Let me send for your brother,” said the Vicar. “Let me send for
Randolph. He will know best what to do.”

“Randolph! what has he to do with it?” she cried. “Oh go, Mr. Pen; do
not vex me now.”

“I will go.” Mr. Pen closed his book with regret and put it into his
pocket. He did not like the idea that the old Squire should depart out
of the world like any common man, uncared for. After his long connection
with the family, that such a thing should happen without him! Mr.
Musgrave had not perhaps been so regardful as was to be desired of all
the services of the Church, and Mr. Pen was all the more anxious, now
that he could have everything his own way, that all should be done in
order. But how could he resist Mary’s will and wish? He put his book in
his pocket with a sigh.

“I will do what you wish, Miss Mary; but--it is a journey of many
hours--and trains may not suit. Do you think he will--go on--so long?”

“He is asking for the little boy,” said Mary, hastily. “Come and see
him, and it will go to your heart. How can I tell you any more? We do
not know even whether he is to live or to die.”

“Ah, you must not cherish false hopes,” said the Vicar, as he followed
her upstairs. The servants were peeping on the staircase and at the
doors; they were half disappointed, like Mr. Pen, that the “change” was
not more decided. They had hoped that all was nearly over at last.

The darkened room, where the night-light was still burning though full
day broke in muffled through the half-shuttered windows, was of itself
very impressive to Mr. Pen, coming out of the fresh fulness of the
morning light. He followed Mary, going elaborately on tiptoe round the
foot of the great heavily-curtained bed. The Squire’s head had been
propped up a little. He had become even a little more conscious since
Mary had left him. But his voice was so babbling and inarticulate that
Mr. Pen, unused to it, and deeply touched by the condition in which he
saw his old friend and patron, could not make out the words--“Bring the
little boy--the little boy, not Randolph--little Johnny: bring the
little boy.” Thus he went murmuring on, and there had gradually come a
kind of wish into the face, and a kind of consciousness of their
presence. “I wanted to bring Lilias, but Lilias they tell me has gone
out; I cannot tell where she can have gone,” Mary whispered. “And he
never took any notice of Lilias--it is the boy he wants--listen, Mr.
Pen, always the boy.”

“I cannot make anything of it,” said Mr. Pen, moved to tears.

“Oh listen! He says, ‘Not Randolph, the boy!’ It is the boy he wants.
Look! I almost think he knows you. Oh, what is it he wants?” cried Mary.

The light which had been so nearly extinguished was leaping up in the
socket. A sudden convulsion seemed to run over the old man’s frame: he
made an effort to raise himself. His ashen face grew red, perspiration
burst out upon his forehead. Ghost-like and rigid as he was, he moved
himself upward as if to get from his bed. The nurse had put herself
quietly at her post on one side and she called to Mary to go to the
other, while poor Mr. Pen stood by helpless, as if he were assisting at
a visible resurrection. “Don’t get excited, ma’am,” the nurse said
steadily; “one moment! I hear the doctor coming upstairs.”

The steady tread of some one approaching reassured the women as they
half aided, half controlled, the spasmodic force of apparent recovery.
The foot came nearer and nearer, thank God. The door opened and some one
came in.

It was not the doctor. It was a tall man with light hair mingled with
grey and a fair complexion turned brown. He came straight into the room
like one familiar with the place. Miss Brown, who stood near the door,
recoiled with a quivering cry, and Mr. Pen, whom he encountered next,
fell back with the same quaver of consternation in his voice. He went to
where Mary stood, who alone had not looked at him, her eyes being intent
on her father’s face. He put her aside tenderly, taking her place. “This
is my work as much as yours,” he said.




CHAPTER XXXII.

NELLO’S RESCUE.


The house was very still in the afternoon languor--all its life
suspended. Between the sick-room, in which all the interest of the
family existence was absorbed, and the servants’ part of the house, in
which life went on cheerfully enough under all circumstances, but
without any intrusion into the still world above-stairs, there was
nothing going on. Little Lilias went up into her own room, and down all
the long staircases and passages, without meeting or seeing any one.
Martuccia was in the old hall, tranquilly knitting and waiting for her
young lady’s return; but the house was empty of all sound or presence,
nobody visible. It was like the enchanted palace through which the young
prince walks, meeting no one, until he reaches the one chamber in which
the secret lies. This idea passed through the mind of Lilias,
pre-occupied as she was. Any one might come in--might pass from room to
room, finding all deserted, until he had penetrated to the dim centre of
the family life where death was hovering. She went down the oak
staircase with her light foot, a little tremulous, but inspired with
resolution. It was the afternoon of Nello’s last day at school. He had
not quite made up his mind, or been driven by childish misery, to the
determination of running away when his sister set out to succour him.
Had he waited, Lilias no doubt would have arrived in time to introduce a
new element into the matter; but what could the little girl’s arrival
have effected? Who would have given any importance to that? They would
have taken Lilias in, and made a little prisoner of her, and sent her
back. As it was, neither knew anything of what the other was doing.
Lilias had opened her most secret place, a little old-fashioned wooden
box, in which she kept some special relics, little trinkets, half toys,
half ornaments, which she had brought with her, and the remains of the
money which her father had given her when he sent the little party away.
There had been something over when they arrived, and Lilias had guarded
it carefully. She took it out now, and put the purse containing it
within the bodice of her dress--the safest place. It might be wanted for
Nello. He had the best right to everything; and if he was in trouble----
Lilias did not try to think what kind of trouble the little boy could be
in. She took her little store, and went away with her heart beating
high. This time she would herself do it; she would not trust to any one.
Mr. Geoff had undertaken to deliver her father, and stopped her; but he
had not done it. Already a long time had elapsed, and nothing had
happened. She would not trust to Mr. Geoff or any one this time. If old
’Lizabeth had not gone away before Lilias returned to the hall, she had
thoughts of asking the old woman to go with her; and even a weak
inclination to take Martuccia as a companion and support had crossed her
mind. Martuccia would have been useless, but she would have made all the
difference between a feasible expedition and an impossible one; but
perhaps it was for this very reason that Lilias rejected the idea. No;
this time she would be kept back by no advice. She would go to Nello’s
aid by herself. He should owe his deliverance to no one but his sister.
Who could understand him so well--know so well what he must want? And it
was to her that papa had intrusted Nello. She made dismal pictures to
herself of her little brother in trouble. What could “in trouble” mean?
She thought of him as out in the cold, out in the rain, crying, with no
place to go to; lost in a strange country, or perhaps ill with a fever,
and nobody to sit by him, nobody to give him a drink when he wanted it,
and tell him stories. What other kind of trouble was possible? That he
might not be able to learn his lessons without her to help him, and that
he might perhaps be whipped--could such an atrocity be?--just gleamed
across the child’s thoughts; but it made her heart beat so with rage and
indignation, and her cheeks burn with such a flush, that she thrust the
idea aside; but so long as he was unhappy, so long as he wanted her, was
not that enough? She buttoned her little coat with a stout but trembling
heart, and took a shawl over her arm (was not that how travellers always
provided themselves?) and, with her sovereign in her hand for immediate
expenditure, and her purse in her bosom, went down the silent stairs.
How still, how deserted it seemed! Mr. Pen came out from the library
door when he heard the step, to see who it was, but took no notice of
her except a momentary glance of disappointment. Thus she went out of
the house brave and resolute, yet with a tremor of the unknown in her
breast.

Lilias knew what to do: to walk to Pennington, where the railway station
was, and then to take a ticket, and to get into a railway carriage. The
walk along the highroad was long, but it was not so overwhelming as that
early expedition she had made all alone up into the hills when she had
met Geoff. How glad she had been to meet him, and to hear from him that
she need go no further! Lilias had not ceased to believe in Mr. Geoff,
but nothing had been done, and her heart was sick of the waiting. She
did not want to meet him now; her little heart gave a jump when she saw
any one riding towards her; but it was certain she did not want to meet
Geoff, to have her mission again taken out of her hands. Nothing was
more likely than that she should meet him, and her eyes travelled along
the dusty line of road, somewhat wistfully looking out--in hopes not to
see him--which much resembled the hope of seeing him, though it was
differently expressed. And now and then a cloud of dust would rise--now
and then a horseman would appear far off, skimming lightly over the long
line of road, which it took Lilias so much time to get over. Once a
beautiful carriage dashed past her, with the beautiful lady in it whom
she had once seen, and who had kissed and cried over Nello without
taking much notice of Lilias. Could it be that the beautiful lady had
heard too that he was in trouble? Lilias mended her pace and pushed on.
What fancies she met with as she plodded along the road! It was a long
dusty highway, running for a little while in sight of the lake, then
turning through the village, then striking across the country up and
down, as even a highroad is obliged to do in the north country, where
there is nothing but heights and hollows. It seemed to stretch into
infinity before Lilias, mounting one brae after another, showing in a
long level line here and there; appearing on the other side of that
clump of trees, beyond that far-off farmhouse, looking as if it led
without pause back to the end of the world. Lilias wove one dream after
another as she went along from landmark to landmark. How vivid they
were! So real, that the child seemed to enact every scene in them as
they floated through her mind; far more real than the actual events of
her life. She saw herself arriving at a great spacious place, which was
Nello’s school--undefined, yet lofty and wide and splendid, with marble
pillars, and great colonnades and halls. She saw people coming to gaze
and wonder at the little girl--the little wandering princess--who had
come to seek her brother. “The girl looked at them all, and said, ‘Take
me to Nello.’ The girl turned round upon them, and her lip curled with
scorn.” (Lilias suited the action to the word; and her innocent lip did
curl, with what version of fine disdain it could execute.) “What did she
care for all they could do for her? ‘It is my brother I want,’ she
said.” This was how she carried on her parable. Perhaps her own little
figure was too much in the front of all these visions. Perhaps her own
fine indifference to all blandishments and devotion to Nello was the
chief principle made apparent. This was how it ran on, however,
accompanying and shortening the way. She made long dialogues between
herself and the master, between herself and Nello. How he clung to her;
how glad he was that she had come. “It is Lily; I knew Lily would come,”
she made him say. He would not be surprised; he would know that this was
the most natural thing. If they had locked her up in prison to keep her
away from him, what would it have mattered? Lilias would have found a
way to go to him when Nello was in trouble; and Nello knew that as well
as she.

She was very tired, however, and it was dark when she arrived at
Pennington. Lilias put on her grand air, but it was rather difficult to
impose upon the station-master and porters. They all wanted to be very
kind, to take care of her, and arrange everything for the little
traveller. The station-master called her “my dear,” and wanted Lilias to
go to his house, where his wife would take care of her till the morning.
“You are too little to travel by the night train,” he said; and the
porters were eloquent on the wickedness of sending a little lady like
this by herself. “I am going to my brother, who is ill,” Lilias said,
with dignity. “And have you no mamma to go to him, my little miss?” said
the porter, friendly, yet respectful. They were all very kind. No one
knew her, and they asked many questions to find out who she was. They
said to each other it was well seen she had no mother, and made Lilias’s
heart swell so, that she forgave them for treating her as a child,
rather than as the little princess she had dreamed of being. Finally,
they arranged for her that she should travel to the great junction where
Nello had met Bampfylde at once--and that the guard should take care of
her, and put her in the night train, which arrived at a very early hour
in the morning at the station she wanted to go to. All this was arranged
for her with the kindest care by these rough men. They installed her in
the little waiting-room till the train should go. They came and fetched
her when it was going, and placed her in her corner. “Poor little lady!”
they said. Lilias was half-humiliated, half-pleased by all these
attentions. She submitted to them, not able to be anything but grateful
to the men who were so kind to her, yet feeling uneasily that it was not
in this homely way that she meant them to be kind. They did not look up
to her, but looked down upon her with compassionate tenderness, as upon
a motherless little girl--a child who recalled children of their own.
Just so the good woman looked upon her who got into the train along with
her. “All that way, and all alone, my poor little thing?” the woman
said. It hurt Lilias’s pride to be called a poor little thing, but yet
it was pleasant to have some one to creep close to. The world did not
seem to be as it is represented in books, for nobody was unkind. Lilias
was very glad to sit close to her new acquaintance, feeling comfort
unspeakable in the breadth of the honest shoulder against which she
leant as she travelled on in the dark. Those breadths of country which
Nello had watched flying past the window were almost invisible now. Now
and then a darker gloom in the air showed where the hills were high over
the railway in a deep cutting. Sometimes there would be gleams of light
visible here and there, which showed a village. Her companion dropped
into a doze, but Lilias, leaning against her, was far too much excited
for sleep. She watched the moon come out and shine over the breadth of
country, reflecting itself in the little streams, and turning the houses
to silver. It was late then, quite late, for the moon was on the wane.
And the train was slow, stopping at every station, creeping (though
when it was in motion it seemed to fly) across the plains and valleys.
It was midnight when they got to the junction, and Lilias, with her
great eyes more wide awake than ever, was handed out. There were only a
few lights burning, and the place looked miserable and deserted, the
cold wind sweeping through it, and the two or three people who got out,
and the two porters who received them, looking like ghosts in the
imperfect light. The guard, who lived there, was very kind to the little
girl before he went off to his house. He wanted to take her with him to
make her comfortable till the morning, but Lilias could not be persuaded
to wait. At last he established her in a corner, the least chilly
possible, wrapping her shawl round her feet.

There she was left alone, with one lamp to bear her company, the long
lines running into darkness at either side of her, blackness taking
refuge in the high roof of the station, above the watchlight of that one
lamp. How strange it was to sit all alone, with the chill of the air and
gloom of midnight all around her! Nobody was stirring in the deserted
place. The one porter had withdrawn to some warm refuge, to re-appear
when the train came. But little Lilias sat alone in her corner, sole
inhabitant of the big, chilly, desolate place. How her heart jumped to
her mouth! What tremors and terrors at first every sigh of the wind,
every creak of the lamp, gave her. But at last she perceived that
nothing was going to happen, and sat still, and did not trouble except
when imagination suggested to her a stealthy step, or some one behind in
the darkness. How dreary it was! The night wind sang a dismal cadence in
the telegraph wires, the air coursed over the deserted platforms, the
dark lines of way, and blew the flames of gas about even within the
inclosure of the lamp. Just then Nello was creeping, stumbling, out of
the window, making his way through the prickling hedge, standing alone
eyeing the moon in the potato-field. Lilias could not even see the moon
in her corner. Nothing was before her but the waning gleam of that
solitary lamp.

At last the train came lumbering up through the darkness, and the
porters re-appeared from corners where they had been attendant. One of
them came, for Lily, kind as everybody had been, and put her into a
carriage by herself, and showed her how she could lie down and make
herself comfortable. “You’ll be there at five o’clock,” the porter said.
“Lie down, little miss, and get a sleep.” Never in her life had Lilias
been more wide awake, and there was no kind woman here with broad
shoulders to lean upon and feel safe. The train swept through the night
while she sat upright and gazed out with big, round, unslumbering eyes.

Lilias watched and waked through the night, counting out the hours of
darkness, saying her prayers over and over, feeling herself lost in the
long whirl of distance and gloom and confusing sound; but as the night
began to tremble towards the dawning, she began to doze unawares, her
eyes closing in spite of herself, and much against her will; and it was
with a shiver that she woke up very wide awake, but feeling wretched, in
consequence of her doze, at the little roadside station, one small house
placed on the edge of a wide expanse of fields, chiefly pasture land,
and with no character at all. A great belt of wood stretched to the
right hand, to the left there was nothing but fields, and a long endless
road dividing them, visible for miles with a little turn in it here and
there, but nothing beside to break its monotony. Lilias clambered out of
the carriage when she felt the jar and clang of the stoppage, and heard
the name of the station drowsily called out. The man in charge of it
gazed at her as though she had dropped from the clouds; he did not even
see her till the train was in motion again, creaking and swinging away
into the distance. To see her standing there with her great eyes gave
him a thrill of strange sensation, almost of terror. Fatigue and
excitement had made her face paler than usual, and had drawn great
circles round her eyes. She looked like a ghost standing there in the
faint grey of the dawn, cold and trembling, yet courageous as ever. “Mr.
Swan’s? Oh yes, I can tell you the way to Mr. Swan’s; but you should
have spoken sooner. They’ve been and carried off your luggage.” Lilias
had not strength of mind to confess that she had no luggage, and indeed
was too much confused and upset by her snatch of sleep to be sure what
he was saying, and stumbled forth on the road, when he showed her how to
go, half-dazed, and scarcely more than half-conscious. But the pinch of
the keen morning air, and the sensation of strange stillness and
loneliness, soon restored her to the use of her faculties. The
benevolent railway man was loth to let her go. “It’s very early, and
you’re very small,” he said. “You’re welcome to wait here, my little
lady, till they send for you. Perhaps they did not expect you so early?”
“Oh, it does not matter,” said Lilias. “Thank you; I am quite able to
walk.” The man stood and watched her as she made her way in the faint
light along the road. He dared not leave his post, or he would have gone
with her out of sheer compassion. So young, and with such a pale little
beautiful face, and all alone at such an hour of the morning, while it
was still night! “It will be one of them boyses sisters,” he said to
himself with singular discrimination. And then he recollected the pale
little boy who had gone to Mr. Swan’s so short a time before. This gave
clue to the mysterious little passenger, which set his mind at rest.

And Lilias went on along the darkling road. It was not possible to
mistake the road--a long white streak upon the landscape, which was
visible even in the dark; and it was not altogether dark now, but a
ghostly, damp, autumnal glimmer of morning, before the sun-rising. The
hedges had mists of gossamer over them, which would shine like rainbow
webs when the sun rose. The fields glimmered colourless still, but
growing every moment more perceptible in the chill dreariness of the
season--not cold enough for frost, yet very cold. Everything was grey,
the few shivering half-grown trees in the hedgerows, the sky all banked
with clouds, the face of the half-seen landscape. There was one cottage
by the roadside, and that was grey too, all shut up and asleep, the door
closed, the windows all black. Little Lilias, the one moving atom in
that great still landscape, felt afraid of it, and of herself, and the
sound of her own steps, which seemed loud enough to wake a whole world
of people. It seemed to Lilias that the kindly earth was dead, and she
alone a little ghost, walking about its grave. None of her dreams, none
of the poetry, nor anything out of her fairy lore could help her here.
The reality was more than any dream. How still!--how very still it
was!--how dark! and yet with that weird lightening which grew about her,
making everything more visible moment by moment, as if by some strange
magical clearing of her own tired eyes! She was so tired, so worn out;
faint for want of food, though she was not hungry--and for want of
rest, though she did not wish to go to sleep. Such an atom in all that
great grey insensible universe, and yet the only thing alive!

No--not the only thing. Lilias’ heart contracted with a thrill, first of
relief, then of fear, when she saw something else moving besides
herself. It was in one of the great fields that stretched colourless and
vast towards the horizon. Lilias could not tell what it was. It might be
a spirit; it might be an enchanted creature bound by some spell to stay
there among the ploughed furrows; it might be some mysterious wild
beast, the legendary monster, of whose existence children are always
ready to be convinced. She concealed herself behind a bush, and looked
anxiously down the long brown furrow. It was something very little--not
so big as a man--smaller even than herself; something that toiled along
with difficulty, stumbling sometimes, and falling in the soft earth. By
and by a faint breath of sound began to steal towards her--very faint,
yet carried far on the absolute stillness of the morning. Some one who
was in trouble--some one who was _crying_. Lilias’ bosom began to swell.
She was very tired and confused herself; very lonely and frightened of
the dead world, and of her own forlorn livingness in it. But the sound
of the feeble crying brought her back to herself. Did she divine already
who it was? She scrambled through a gap in the hedge, jumped across the
ditch, and plunged too into the yielding, heavy soil of the ploughed
furrow. She was not surprised. There did not seem to be anything
wonderful in meeting her brother so. Had she not been sent to him
because he was in trouble? It was natural that he should be here in the
cold, dim morning, in the wild field, toiling along towards her, faintly
crying in the last confusion and misery of childish weariness, his way
lost, and his courage lost, and all his little bewildered faculties. She
called out “Nello!”--cautiously, lest any one should hear--“Nello!” and
then there was an outcry of amazement and joy--“Oh, Lily!” It was a
half-shriek of incredulous happiness with which poor Nello, toiling
through the field, weary, lost, forlorn, and afraid, heard the familiar
sound of her voice. He was not so much surprised either. He did not
think it was impossible, though nothing could have been more impossible
to an elder mind. Children hold no such reckonings as we do with
probability. He had been saying, “Oh, Lily! my Lily!” to himself--crying
for her--and here she was! He had no doubt of it, made no question how
she got there, but threw himself upon her with a great cry that thrilled
the dim morning through and through, and made the sleep-bound world
alive.

And they sat down together in the furrow, and clung to each other, and
cried--for misery, but for happiness too. All seemed safe now they had
found each other. The two forlorn creatures, after their sleepless,
wintry night, felt a sudden beatitude creep over their little weary
bodies and aching hearts. Two--how different that is from one! They held
each other fast, and kissed, and were happy in the dark furrow, which
seemed big enough and dark enough to furnish them both with a grave.




CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE BABES IN THE WOOD.


“Are you very hungry, Nello?’

“Oh, very, _very_. Are you? I have not had any breakfast. It was night,
dark night when I came away. Have you had any breakfast, Lily?”

“How could I, when I have been in the railway all the night? Do you
think you can get over the ditch? Jump! I jumped, and you always could
jump better than I.”

“You forget everything when you go to school,” said Nello, mournfully,
“and I am all trembling, I cannot help it. It is so cold. Oh Lily, if
they come up--if they find us--you will not let them take me back?”

“Never, Nello! but let us get on, let us get on to the railway. Quick,
it is not far off. If you would only jump. Now give me your hand. I am
cold too, but we must get over it, we _must_ get over it!” said Lilias,
almost crying. Poor Nello’s limbs were cramped, he was chilled to the
heart. He did not feel it possible to get on, all the courage was gone
out of him. He had kept up until, after scrambling through many rough
places, his poor little feet had sunk in that soft, newly-ploughed
furrow. This had taken all the life out of him, and perhaps his meeting
with Lilias, and the tumult of joyful emotion it caused, had not
increased Nello’s power of endurance. He had always had the habit of
trusting to her. But Lily it was quite certain could not drag him over
the ditch. He made an effort at last to jump and failed, and stuck in
the mud. That accident seemed at the moment to make an end of them both
in their utter weariness. They mingled their tears, Lilias hanging on
upon the bank above, Nello in the heavy soil below. The cry relieved
them however, and by and by, by the help of his sister’s hand, he
managed to scramble up the bank, and get through the scattered bushes on
to the highroad. One of his feet was wet and clogged with the mud, and
oh, how tired they both were, fit for nothing but to lie down and cry
themselves to sleep.

“Oh, Nello, if you were at home, should you ever--ever want to go away
again?”

Nello did not make any reply. He was too tired for anything but a dull
little sob now and then, involuntary, the mere breathing of his
weakness. And the highway looked so long, longer even than the fields.
There was always some hope at the end of a field that deliverance might
come round the corner, but a long unchangeable highway, how endless it
was! They went on thus together for a little way in silence; then: “Oh,
Lily, I am so hungry,” said Nello. What could she do? She was hungry
too, more hungry than he was, for she had eaten nothing since the
afternoon of the previous day.

“I have a shilling in my pocket, but we cannot eat a shilling,” said
poor Lilias.

“And I have a shilling too--more than that--I have the golden sovereign
Mary gave me.”

“We must just hurry--hurry to the railway, Nello, for we cannot eat
money, and the railway will soon take us home; or there is a place, a
big station, where we could buy a cake. Oh!’ cried Lilias, with a gleam
of eager satisfaction in her eyes.

“What is it, Lily?”

“Look, only look?” She dragged him forward by the arm in her eagerness.
“Oh, a few steps further, Nello--only a few steps further--look!”

The roadside cottage which had been so blank as she passed had awoke--a
woman stood by the door--but the thing that caught Lilias’ eye was a few
stale cakes and opaque glasses with strange confectionery in them. It
was these that gave strength to her wearied feet. She hurried forward,
while the woman looked at the strange little pair in wonder. “Oh, will
you give us a little breakfast,” she said, “a little milk to drink, and
some bread and butter for this little boy?”

“Where have you come from, you two children, at this hour in the
morning?” cried the woman in consternation.

“Oh, we are going to the train,” said Lilias. “We are obliged to go; we
must get the early train, and we don’t know, we don’t quite know when it
goes; and my poor little brother has fallen into the mud--see! and--he
got his breakfast so very early before he came away that he is hungry
again. We have plenty of money,” cried the little girl, “plenty of
money! We will give you a shilling if you will give us some milk and
bread.”

“A shilling--two, three shillings,” said Nello, interposing. He was so
hungry; and what was the good of shillings?--you could not eat them. The
woman looked at them suspiciously. They were not little tramps; they
were nicely dressed children, though the little boy was so muddy. She
did not see what harm it could do to take them in; likewise her heart
was touched by the poor little things standing there looking up at her
as though she was the arbiter of their fate.

“You may come in and sit by the fire; there’s no train for two hours
yet. It’s not six o’clock. Come in, you poor little things, and rest,
and I’ll give you some nice hot tea. But you must tell me all the truth,
for I know you’ve run away from somewhere,” she said.

“No,” said Lilias, looking her in the face. “Oh no, I have not run away
from anywhere. My little brother was not happy, and I came to fetch him,
that is all. I did not run away.”

“And what sort of people was it that sent a baby like you?” said the
woman. “Come in, you poor little things, and sit by the fire. What could
your mother be thinking of to send you----”

“We have not got any mother.” Nello took no share in this conversation.
He was quite lost in the delight of the hard old settle that stood by
the fire. Nestling up into the corner he thought he should like to fall
asleep there, and never move any more. “We have not got any mother,”
Lilias said, “and who could come but me? No one. I travelled all night,
and now I am going to take him home. We are children without any
mother.” Lilias could not but know that these words were a sure passport
to any woman’s heart.

“You poor little things!” the woman said, with the tears in her eyes.
Whether it has its origin in the self-complacency of womankind, it is
difficult to say, but whereas men are generally untouched by the
unhappiness of being fatherless, women are without defence in most cases
before a motherless child. Such a plea has instant recognition with high
and low. No mother!--everything is pardoned, everything conceded to a
creature with such a plea. She was not quite satisfied with the story,
which seemed to her very improbable, but she could not refuse her
succour to the motherless children. Her little shop, such as it was, had
no visitors till much later in the day, when the village children went
past her door to school. She had made her own tea, which stood keeping
itself hot upon the hob, and she came in hastily and put out cups and
saucers, and shared the hot and comfortable fluid, though it was very
weak and would not have suited more fastidious palates than the
children’s. What life it seemed to pour into their wearied little
frames! The bread was coarse and stale, but it tasted like bread from
heaven. Nello in his corner of the settle began to blink and nod. He was
even falling asleep, when suddenly a gig rattled past the windows. The
child sprang up in a moment. “Oh, Lily, Lily!” he cried in horror, “they
are after me! what shall I do?”

The woman had gone to the back of the house with the cups they had used,
and so was not near to hear this revelation.

“Who is it?” cried Lilias, peering out of the window. She was restored
to herself, and the name of an enemy, a pursuer, put her on her mettle.
She had never encountered such a thing before, but she knew everything
about it, how to behave. “Come, Nello, come,” she said, “we will go out
the back way while nobody is looking. Let us go away, let us go away
before any one can come here.”

Lilias seized some of the cakes which the woman had put in paper for
them; wonderful productions, which nothing but a child’s appetite could
contemplate, and put down two shillings in the centre of the table. On
second thoughts it seemed better to her to go out at the front and get
round under cover of the hedge to the wood on the other side of the
station, which appeared temptingly near, rather than incur the risk of
speaking to the woman. It did not occur to her that her own presence was
enough to put any one completely off the scent who was seeking Nello.
She got him away out of the house successfully, and through the gap
behind the hedge where was a little footpath. “Now we must run--run! We
must get past, while they are asking at the station. We must not say a
word to the woman or any one. Oh, Nello, run--run!” Nello, still more
anxious than she was, managed to run for a little way, but only for a
little way. He broke down of all places in the world opposite to the
station, where Mr. Swan was standing talking to the keeper. When Nello
saw him through the hedge he turned round and clasped his sister
convulsively, hiding his face on her shoulder. Lilias did not dare to
say a word. They were hid from view, yet any movement might betray them,
or any sound. She stood with trembling limbs, bearing Nello’s weight
upon her shoulder, and watched through the hawthorn bush.

“Nobody has been here, not a mouse, far less a little boy. The train is
not due for two hours,” said the station-keeper.

“A bit of a little fellow,” said Mr. Swan. “I can’t think he could have
got so far; more likely he’s lying behind a hedge somewhere; but I
thought it best to try first here.”

“He’s not here,” the station-keeper said again. He answered curtly, his
sympathies being all with the fugitive, and he could not but give the
troubled schoolmaster a corner of his mind. “It’s only a month since you
lost the last one,” he said. “If it was my house the boys ran away from
I should not like it.”

“Talk of things you know something of,” said Mr. Swan hotly; and then he
added, shaking his head; “It is not my fault. My wife and I do
everything we can, but it’s those rough boys and their practical jokes.”

“Little fellows, they don’t seem to understand them kind of jokes,” said
the railway man.

Mr. Swan shook his head. It was not his fault. He was sorry, and vexed,
and ashamed. “I would rather have lost the money twice over,” he said.
Then he turned and gave a searching glance all around. Lilias quaked,
and her heart sank within her. She held her little brother close to her
breast. If he should stir, if he should cry, all would be over. She knew
her situation well enough. Either their enemy would go away and get
bloodhounds and fierce wicked men to put on their track, during which
time the fugitives would have time to get into some wonderful cave, or
to be taken into some old, old house by some benevolent stranger, and so
escape; or else he would come straight to the very place where they
were, guided by some influence unfavourable to them. Lilias stood and
held her breath. “Oh, be still, Nello, be still, he is looking!” she
whispered into Nello’s ear. Her limbs were nearly giving way, but she
resisted fate and held out.

The schoolmaster made long inspection of all the landscape. “He was
specially commended to me, too--I was warned--I was warned,” he said.
Then he turned to the station-keeper, giving him the most urgent
injunctions. “If he comes here you will secure him at once,” he said,
filling Lilias with dismay, who did not see the shrug of the man’s
shoulders, and the look with which he turned aside. Thus their retreat
was cut off, the little girl thought, with anguish indescribable; how
then were they to get home? This thought was so dreadful that Lilias was
not relieved as she otherwise would have been by the sound of the wheels
and the horse’s hoofs as the gig turned, and their enemy drove away. He
had gone in his own person, but had he not left a horrible retainer to
guard the passage? And how, oh how was she to take Nello home? She did
not know where the next station was. She did not know the way in this
strange, desolate, unknown country. “Nello,” she cried, in a whisper of
despair, “we must get into that wood, it is the only thing we can do;
they will not look for us there. I don’t know why, but I feel sure they
will not look for us there. And perhaps we shall meet some one who will
take care of us. Oh, Nello, rouse up, come quick, come quick. Perhaps
there may be a hermit living there, perhaps----. Come, Nello, can you
not go a little further? Oh, try, try.”

“Oh, Lily, I am so tired--I am so sleepy”

“I am tired too,” she said, a little rush of tears coming to her eyes;
and then they stumbled on together, holding each other up. The wood
looked gay and bright in the early morning. The sun had come out, which
warmed everything, and the bright autumn colour on the trees cheered the
children as a similar hour, and the beauty of the wild creatures of the
woods, cheered the poet:--

    “Si che a bene sperar m’era cagione
     Di quella fera alla gaietta pelle
     L’ora del tempo, e la dolce stagione.”

The trees seemed to sweep with a great luxuriance of shadow over a broad
stretch of country. It must be possible to find some refuge there. There
might be--a hermit, perhaps, in a little cell, who would give them nuts
and some milk from his goat--or a charcoal burner, wild but kind, like
those Lilias remembered to have seen in the forest with wild locks
hanging over their eyes. If only no magician should be there to beguile
them into his den, pretending to be kind! Thus Lilias mixed fact and
fiction, her own broken remembrances of Italian woods sounding as
fictitious among the English elms and beeches as the wildest visions of
fancy. For this wood, though it had poetic corners in it, was traversed
by the highroad, from end to end, and was as innocent of
charcoal-burners as of magicians. And it turned out a great deal further
off than they thought. They walked and walked, and still it lay before
them, smiling in its yellow and red, waving and beckoning in the
breeze, which was less chilly now that the sun was up. The sun reached
to the footpath behind the hedge, and warmed the little wayfarers
through and through--that was the best thing that had happened to
them--for how good it is to be warmed when one is chilled and weary; and
what a rising of hope and courage there is when the misty dawn disperses
before the rising of the brave sun!

Nello almost recovered his spirits when he got within the wood. There
were side-aisles even to the highroad, and deep corners in its depths
where shelter could be had, and the ground was all flaked with shadow
and sunshine; and there were green glades, half visible at every side,
with warm grass all lit by the sun.

“Let us go and sit down, Lily. Oh, what a pretty place to sit down! Oh,
Lily, I cannot--I cannot walk any more; I am so tired,” cried Nello.

“I am tired too,” she said, with a quiver in her mouth, looking vainly
round for some trace of the charcoal-burner or of the hermit. All was
silent, sunny, fresh with the morning, but vacant as the fields. And
Lilias could not be satisfied with mere rest, though she wanted it so
much. “How are we to get home, if we dare not go to the railway? and
there is no other way,” she said. “Oh, Nello, it will be very nice to
rest--but how are we to get home?”

“Oh, never mind; I am so tired,” said weary little Nello. “Look, Lily,
what a warm place. It is quite dry, and a tree to lean against. Let us
stay here.”

Never had a more tempting spot been seen; green soft turf at one side of
the big tree, and beech-mast, soft and dry and brown, the droppings of
the trees, on the other. The foot sank in it, it was so soft, and the
early sun had dried it, and the thick boughs overhead had kept off the
dew. It was as soft as a bed of velvet, and the little branches waved
softly over it, while the greater boughs, more still, shaded and
protected the children. They sat down, utterly worn out, and Lilias took
out her cakes, which they ate together with delight, though these
dainties were far from delicious; and there, propped up against each
other, an arm of each round the other, Nello lying across Lilias’ lap,
with his head pillowed upon her; she, half-seated, half-reclining,
holding him, and held in her turn by a hollow of the tree: these babes
in the wood first nodded, then dozed, and woke and dozed again, and
finally, the yellow leaves dropping now and then upon them like a caress
of nature, the sun cherishing their little limbs, fell fast asleep in
the guardianship of God.




CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE NEW-COMER.


Nobody in the sick-room said a word of the great consternation and
wonder and fear that sprang to life in them at the appearance of the
stranger. How could they, though their hearts were full of it? when all
their care and skill were wanted for the patient, who, half-conscious,
struggled with them to raise himself, to get out of bed. To find out
what he wanted, to satisfy the hazy anxiety in his mind, and do for him
the something, whatever it was, that he was so anxious to do, was the
first necessity of the moment, notwithstanding the new excitement which
was wild in their veins. Where did he come from? How had he got
here?--familiar, unmistakable, as if he had been absent but a day. How
did he know he was wanted? And was it he--really _he_--after all those
dreary years? These questions surged through the minds of all the
bystanders, in an impetuous, yet secondary current. The first thing, and
the most urgent, was the Squire. Brother and sister, friend and friend,
had not leisure to take each other by the hand, or say a word of
greeting.

Mary and her newly-arrived assistant stood side by side, touching each
other, but could not speak or make even a sign of mutual recognition.
_He_ took her place in supporting, and at the same time, restraining the
patient. _She_ held her father’s hand, with which he seemed to be
appealing to some one, or using, in dumb show, to aid some argument.

“The little boy,” he said, hoarsely, “bring me the little boy.”

“Is it Nello he means?” the stranger asked, in a low voice.

“I--think so--I--suppose so,” said Mary, trembling, and wholly overcome
by this strange ease and familiarity, and even by the sound of the voice
so long silent in this place. But he took no notice--only followed his
question by another.

“Why not bring the child then? That might satisfy him. Does he care for
the child, or is it only a fancy, a wandering in his head? Anyhow, let
them bring him. It might be of some use.”

“Do you think he--knows? Do you think he understands--and--means what he
is saying?”

Mary faltered forth these words, scarcely knowing what she said, feeling
that she could not explain how it was that Nello was not near--and
finding it so strange, so strange to be talking thus to--John; could it
be really John? After all that had sundered them, after the miseries
that had passed over him, the price still set upon his head, was it he
who stood so quietly, assuming his household place, taking his part in
the nursing of the old man? She could not believe her senses, and how
could she talk to him, calmly as the circumstances required, gently and
steadily, as if he had never been away?

“Most likely not,” he said; “but something has excited his fancy, and
the sight of my boy might calm it. Let some one bring Nello.”

He spoke with the air of one used to be obeyed, and whom also in this
particular it would be easy to obey.

“We sent him to school. I am very sorry--I was against it,” said Mary,
trembling more and more.

Mr. Pen was frightened too. It is one thing doing “for the best” with a
little unprotected parentless child, and quite a different thing to
answer the child’s father when he comes and asks for it. Mr. Pen paled
and reddened ten times in a minute. He added, faltering--

“It was by my advice--John. I thought it was the best thing for him. You
see I did not know----”

Here he broke off abruptly, in the confusion of his mind.

“Then it is needless saying any more,” said the stranger, hastily, with
a tone in which a little sharpness of personal disappointment and
vexation seemed to mingle.

This conversation had been in an undertone, as attendants in a sick-room
communicate with each other, without intermitting their special services
to the patient. The Squire had been still in their hands for the moment,
ceasing to struggle, apparently caught in some dim confused way by the
sound of their voices. He looked about him confusedly, like a blind man,
turning his head slightly, as if his powers were being restored to him,
to the side on which John stood. A gleam of half-meaning, of interest,
and wavering, half-roused attention, seemed to come over his face. Then
he sank back gently on his pillows, struggling no longer. The paroxysm
was over. The nurse withdrew her hand with a sigh of relief.

“Now,” she said, “if we leave him perfectly quiet, he may get some
sleep. I will call you in a moment if there is any change.”

The woman saw, with her experienced eyes, that something more than could
be read on the surface was in this family combination. She put them
gently from the bedside, and shaded the patient’s eyes from the light,
for it was nearly noon by this time, and everything was brilliant
outside. The corridor, however, into which they passed outside was still
dark, as it was always, the glimmering pale reflections in the wainscot
of the long narrow window on the staircase being its sole communication
with the day.

Mary put out her hands to her brother as they emerged from the
sick-room.

“Is it you--you, John?”

“Yes,” he said, grasping them, “it is I. I do not wonder you are
startled--I heard my father was worse--that there was a change--and came
in without warning. So Nello has been sent away? May I see my little
girl? You have been good to her, I am sure, Mary.”

“I love her,” said Mary, hastily, “as if she were my own. John, do not
take my little companion away.”

He had been grave enough, and but little moved hitherto by the meeting,
which was not so strange or unlooked-for to him as to them. Now his
countenance beamed suddenly, lighting all over, and a tender moisture
came to his eyes.

“It is what I have desired most for her,” he said, and took his sister’s
hands again and kissed her cheek. “But send for my little Lily,” he
added, with an indescribable softening in his voice.

Here Miss Brown, who had been following, came out from the dusk of the
room behind. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. I did not like to tell you in
your trouble; but I’m very uneasy about Miss Lily.”

“Has she never come in yet? You said she had gone out for a walk.”

“I said whatever I could think of to save you, Miss Mary. We none of us
know where she’s gone. I’ve sent everywhere. She is not at the Vicarage,
nor she’s not at the village; and--oh, what will Mr. John think of us?”
cried the woman in tears. “Not one in the house has seen her since
yesterday, and Martuccia, she’s breaking her heart. She says Miss Lily
has gone after her brother; she says----”

“Is Martuccia here?”

“Yes, sir,” said Miss Brown, with a curtsey. She could not take her eyes
off him, as she afterwards said. More serious, far more serious than
when he was a young gentleman always about the house, but the same
man--still the same man.

“Then send her to me at once. It is you, Martha, the same as ever,” he
said, with a momentary smile in the midst of his anxiety. Just as Mr.
John used to do--always a kind word for everybody and a smile. She made
him another curtsey, crying and smiling together.

“And glad, glad, sir, to see you come home,” she said. There was this
excuse for Miss Brown’s lingering, that Mary had rushed off at once to
find Martuccia. John bowed his head gravely. He had grown very serious.
The habit of smiling was no longer his grand characteristic. He went
downstairs into the library, the nearest sitting-room in his way, the
door of which was standing open. Eastwood was there lingering about,
pretending to put things in order, but in reality waiting for news of
the old Squire. Eastwood knew that he had not let this man in. He had
not got admission in any legitimate way. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he
began, not altogether respectfully, with the intention of demanding what
he did there.

“What?” said the stranger, looking up with a little impatience.

Eastwood drew back with another “Beg your pardon, sir!” and his tone was
changed. He did not know who it was, but he dared not say anything more.
This was the strangest house in the world surely, full of suspicions,
full of new people who did not come in at the front door.

When Martuccia came, her story, which, had been almost inarticulate in
her broken English, flowed forth volubly enough to her master, whom she
recognized with a shriek of delight. She gave him a clear enough account
of what had happened. How an old woman had come, a peasant of the
country, and told Miss Lily that her little brother was in _trouble_.
This word she transferred to her narrative without attempting to
translate it, so that Mary, standing by, who did not understand the
rest, seemed to hear nothing but this word recurring again and again.
“Trouble!” it was an ominous word. Nothing but trouble seemed to
surround them. She stood and listened anxiously, though she did not
understand.

“It is clear, then,” said her brother, turning to her, “that Lily has
gone after her little brother, supposed to be in some mysterious
trouble. When did he go, and where did he go, and who persuaded you to
send him away?”

“It was Randolph--Randolph has been here. I believe he wanted to be
kind. He said Nello was being ruined here, and so did Mr. Pen. It was
against my will--against my wish.”

“Randolph!” he said. This alarmed him more than all the rest. “Both my
children! I thought I should find them safe--happy in your hands,
whatever happened to me----”

“Oh John, what can I say?” cried Mary, wringing her hands. No one could
be more guiltless of any unkind intention, but, as was natural, it was
she who bore the blame. A man may be pardoned if he is a little unjust
in such circumstances. John was ready to rush out of the house again
directly to go after his children, but what could be done unless the
railway helped him? Mary got the time-tables and consulted them
anxiously; and Mr. Pen came in and stood by; very serious and a little
crestfallen, as one of the authors of the blunder. And it was found, as
so often happens, that nothing was to be done at the moment. The early
train was going off as they talked, the next did not go till the
evening, the same by which Lilias had travelled on the night before. And
in the mean time, what might be happening to the little girl, who was
wandering about the world in search of her brother? While the brother
and sister consulted, Mr. Pen looked sorrowfully over their heads, which
were bent over these time-tables. He did not himself pretend to
understand these lines of mysterious figures. He looked from one face to
another to read what they meant. He was too much abashed by his own
share in the misfortune to put forward his advice. But when he saw that
they were both at their wits’ end, Mr. Pen suggested that the place
where Nello was was nearer to Randolph than to themselves, and that he
might get there that night if he was informed at once, and give them
news, at least let them know whether Lilias had reached the house where
her brother was. “And I will go by the first train,” Mr. Pen said
timidly. “Let me go, as I have had a hand in it. John knows I could not
mean any harm to his boy----.”

Nobody had meant any harm, but the fact that the two children were both
gone, and one, a girl like Lilias, wandering by herself no one knew
where, was as bad as if they had meant it a hundred times over. Who
could it be who had beguiled her with this story of Nello’s trouble? If
John, who had suffered so much, and who had come from the country where
feuds and vengeance still flourish, suspected an enemy in it, suspected
even his brother who had never been his friend, who could wonder? They
telegraphed to Randolph, and to Mr. Swan, and to the stations on the
way, John himself hurrying to Pennington to do so. And then when all
this was done, which made an exciting bustle for a moment, there was
nothing further possible but to wait till evening for the train. Such
pauses are due to the very speed and superior possibilities of modern
life. A post-chaise was slower than the railway, but it could be had at
once, and those long and dreary hours of delay, of time which one feels
to be lost, and in which, while we wait, anything fatal may happen, are
the reverse side of the medal, the attendant disadvantage upon headlong
speed and annihilation of distance. What a miserable house it was during
all that eternal day! Anxieties of every kind filled their minds--those
which concerned life and the living coming uppermost and shutting out
the solemn interest of the chamber over which death had been hovering.
The Squire slept, but only his nurse, unmoved in professional calm,
watched over him; and when he woke, still wrapped in a mist and haze of
half-consciousness which subdued all his being, yet with an aspect less
deathlike, Mary came and went to and from his room, in an enforced
stillness almost beyond bearing, not daring to stay long in one place
lest she should betray herself. She dared not allow herself to think of
little Lilias, perhaps in evil hands, perhaps wandering alone. Her
little Lily! Mary felt it would be impossible to sit still, impossible
to endure at all if she did not thrust away this thought. A little
woman-child, at that tender age, too young for self-protection, too old
for absolute impunity from harm. Mary clasped her hands tightly together
and forced her thoughts into another channel. There was no lack indeed
of other channels for her anxieties; her father thus lying between life
and death, and her brother with all the penalties of old on his head,
going and coming without concealment, without even an attempt to
disguise himself. It would have been better even for John, Mary felt
instinctively, if the Squire had been visibly dying instead of rallying.
What if he should wake again to full consciousness, and order the doors
of his house to be closed against his son as he had done before? What
if, seeing this, and seeing him there without attempt at concealment,
rejected by his own family, the old prosecution should be revived and
John taken? After that--But Mary shuddered and dropped this thread of
thought also. The other, even the other was less terrible. Thus passed
this miserable day.

Randolph had been alarmed even before the family were, though in a
different fashion. Almost as soon as he had seated himself at his
respectable clergymanly breakfast-table, after prayers and all due
offices of the morning, a telegram was put into his hand. This made his
pulse beat quicker, and he called to his wife to listen, while a whole
phantasmagoria of possibilities seemed to rise like a haze about the
yellow envelope, ugliest of inclosures. What could it be but his
father’s death that was thus intimated to him--an event which must have
such important issues? When he had read it, however, he threw it on the
table with an impatient “Pshaw! The little boy, always the little boy,”
he cried; “I think that little boy will be the death of me.” Mrs.
Randolph, who had heard of this child as the most troublesome of
children, gave all her sympathy to her husband, and he contented himself
with another message back again, saying that he had no doubt Mr. Swan
would soon find the little fugitive, who had not come to him as the
schoolmaster supposed. The day, however, which had begun thus in
excitement, soon had other incidents to make it memorable. Early in the
afternoon other telegrams came. The one he first opened was from Mr.
Pen; this at least must be what he hoped for. But instead of telling of
the Squire’s death, Mr. Pen telegraphed to him an entreaty which he
could not understand. “Lilias is missing too--for God’s sake go at once
to the school and ascertain if she is there.” What did he mean--what did
the old fool mean?

“Here is another, Randolph,” said his wife, composing her face into
solemnity. “I fear--I fear this at least must be bad news from the
Castle.”

In the heat of his disappointment and impatience Randolph was as nearly
as possible exclaiming in over-sincerity, “Fear!--I hope it is, with all
my heart.” But when he opened it he stood aghast; his brother’s name
stared him in the face--“John Musgrave.” How came it there--that
outlawed name? It filled him with such a hurry and ferment of agitation
that he cared nothing what the message was; he let it drop and looked up
aghast in his wife’s face.

“Is it so?” she said, assuming the very tone, the right voice with which
a clergyman’s wife ought to speak of a death. “Alas, my poor dear
husband, is it so? is he gone indeed?”

But Randolph forgot that he was a clergyman and all proprieties. He
threw down the hideous bit of paper and jumped to his feet and paced
about the room in his excitement. “He has come, confound him!” he cried.

Not gone! that would have been nothing but good news--but this was bad
indeed, something unthought of, never calculated upon; worse than any
misgiving he had ever entertained. He had been uneasy about the child,
the boy whom everybody would assume to be the heir; but John--that John
should return--that he should be there before his father died--this
combination was beyond all his fears.

After he had got over the first shock he took up the telegram to see
what it was that “John Musgrave, Penninghame Castle,”--the name written
out in full letters, almost with ostentation, no concealing or
disguising of it, though it was a name lying under the utmost penalties
of the law--had to say to him.

“_My little daughter has been decoyed away under pretence that her
brother was in danger. You can reach the place to-day. I cannot. Will
you serve me for once, and go and telegraph if she is safe?_” This was
the communication. Randolph’s breast swelled high with what he felt to
be natural indignation. “I serve him! I go a hundred miles or so for his
convenience. I will see him--hanged first!” Hanged--yes, that was what
would happen to the fellow if he were caught, if everybody were not so
weakly indulgent, so ready to defeat the law. And this was the man who
ventured to bid his brother “serve him for once,” treating him,
Randolph, a clergyman, a person irreproachable, in this cavalier
fashion. What had he to do with it if the little girl had been decoyed
away? No doubt the little monkey, if all were known, was ready enough to
go. He hoped in his heart they were both gone together, and would never
be heard of more.

When he came as far as this, however, Randolph pulled himself up short.
After all, he was not a bad man to rejoice in the afflictions of his
neighbours; he only wished them out of his way, he did not wish any harm
to them; and he felt that what he had just said in his heart was wicked,
and might bring down a “judgment.” To come the length of a wish that
your neighbour may not thrive is a thing that no respectable person
should allow himself to do; a little grudging of your neighbour’s
prosperity, a little secret satisfaction in his trouble, is a different
matter,--but articulately to wish him harm! This brought him to himself
and made him aware of his wife’s eyes fixed upon him with some anxiety.
She was a gentle little believing sort of woman, without any brains to
speak of, and she thought dear Randolph’s feelings had been too much for
him. Her eyes were fixed on him with devout sympathy. How much feeling
he had, though he did not speak much of it; what strong affections he
had! Randolph paused a little to calm himself down. These all-trusting
women are sometimes an exasperation unspeakable in their innocence, but
still, on the other hand, a man must often make an effort not to dispel
such belief. He said, “No, my dear, it is not what I thought; my father
is not dead, but suffering, which is almost worse; and my brother whom
you have heard of--who has been such a grief to us all--has come home
unexpectedly.”

“Oh, Randolph!” The innocent wife went to him and took his hand and
caressed it. “How hard upon you! How much for you to bear! Two such
troubles at once.”

“Yes, indeed,” he said, accepting her sympathy, “and the little boy whom
I told you of, whom I took to school,--well, he has run away----”

“Oh, Randolph dear, what mountains of anxiety upon you!”

“You may say so. I must go, I suppose, and look after this little
wretch. Put me up something in the little portmanteau--and from thence I
suppose I had better go on to Penninghame again. Who knows what trouble
may follow John’s most ill-advised return?”

“And they all lean so on you,” said the foolish wife. Notwithstanding
these dozen years of separation between him and his family, she was able
to persuade herself of this, and that he was the prop and saviour of his
race. There is nothing that foolish wives will not believe.

Randolph, however, wavered in his decision after he had made up his mind
to go. Why should he go, putting himself to so much trouble at John’s
order? He changed his mind half a dozen times in succession. Finally,
however, he did go, sending two messages back on his way, one to John,
the other to Mr. Pen. To John he said: “_I am alarmed beyond measure to
see your name. Is it safe for you to be there? Know nothing about
little girl, but hear that little boy has run away from school and am
going to see._” Thus he planted, or meant to plant, an additional sting
in his brother’s breast. And as he travelled along in the afternoon,
going to see after Nello, his own exasperation and resentment became so
hot within him, that when he arrived at the junction, he sent a message
of a very different tenor to Mr. Pen. He did not perhaps quite know what
he was doing. He was furious with disappointment and annoyance and
confusion, feeling himself cheated, thrust aside, put out of the place
which he ought to have filled. Nello would have had harsh justice had he
been brought before him at such a moment, “Little troublesome,
effeminate baby, good for nothing, and now to be ruined in every way.
But I wash my hands of him,” Randolph said.




CHAPTER XXXV.

ANOTHER HELPER.


On that same morning when so many things occurred, young Lord Stanton
was seated in the library at Stanton, with a great deal of business to
do. He had letters to write, he had the accounts of his agent to look
over, and a hundred other very pressing matters which demanded his close
attention. Perhaps it was only natural in these circumstances that Geoff
should be unusually idle, and not at all disposed to tackle to his work.
Generally he was so much interested in what was real work that he did it
heartily, glad of the honest compulsion; but on this morning he was
unsettled, and not in his usual mood of industry. He watched the leaves
dropping from the trees outside, he listened idly to the sounds within;
he scribbled on the margin of his accounts, now a bit of Latin verse
(for Mr. Tritton was an elegant scholar), now a grotesque face, anything
but the steady calculations he ought to have made. Now and then a sudden
recollection of something he had read would cross his mind, when he
would get up in the middle of a letter to seek the book in which he
thought it was and verify his recollection on the spot, a thing he would
not have taken the trouble to do had that floating recollection had any
connection with the work in which he professed to be engaged. In short,
he was entirely idle, distracted, and _desœuvré_. Mr. Tritton was
reading to Lady Stanton in her morning room. It was early; the household
were all busy and occupied,--all except the young master of it, who
could not settle to his work.

He was sitting thus when his easily distracted attention was caught by a
movement outside, not like anything that could be made by bird or dog,
the only two living creatures likely to be there so close to his window.
It was the same window through which he had gone out the evening he made
his night expedition to the hills. The sound caught his attention, as
anything would have done that gave him an excuse for raising his head
from the letters he was now trying to write, having given up the
accounts in despair. When he saw a shadow skirt the grass, Geoff watched
with eager interest for what would follow--then there was a pause, and
he had bent over the letter again, thinking it a mere trick of fancy,
when a sound close to him made him start and look up. Some one was
standing with his back to the morning light--standing across the
window-sill with one foot within the room. Geoff started to his feet
with momentary alarm. “Who are you? Ah! is it Bampfylde?” he said.

“Just me, my young lord. May I come in and speak a word?”

“Certainly--come in. But why not go to the front door and come in like
any one else? You do not suppose I should have shut my doors on _you_?”

“Maybe, no; but I’m not a visitor for the like of you. I’m little credit
about a grand house. I’ve not come here for nothing now, but to ask you
a service.”

“What is it, Bampfylde? If I can do anything for you I will.”

“It’s not exactly for me, but you can do it if you will, my young lord.
It’s something I’m hindered from doing. It’s for the young ones at the
Castle, that you know of. Both the bairns are in trouble, so far as I
can judge. I gave the little boy a carrier to let off if he wanted help.
Me, and still more the old woman, we misdoubted that brother. And nigh a
week ago the carrier came home, but I was away on--on a hard job, that
I’m on still, and she did not understand. And when I saw her and told
her yesterday what the sign was, what does the old woman do but tell the
little lady--the little miss--and so far as I can hear _she’s_ away, the
creature herself, a flower of a thing, no bigger than my arm, the very
image of our Lily: her--that atom--she’s away to deliver her brother, my
young lord,” said the vagrant, leaning against the window. “I’m most
worn out by the same sort o’ work. There’s far too much of that been
done among us one way and another, and _she’s_ away now on the same
errand--to save her brother. It’s laughable if you think on’t,” he said,
with a curious gurgle in his throat of forlorn ridicule.

Geoff, who had leaned forward at the name of the children, saw that
Bampfylde was very pale and worn, his clothes in less order than usual,
and an air of utter weariness and harassment about him. He looked like a
man who had not slept or undressed for days.

“Has anything new happened?” Geoff asked hurriedly. “Of course I will do
whatever I can for the children--but tell me first--has anything
happened with you?”

“Ay, plenty,” said the rough fellow with a great sigh, which was not
sentiment but fatigue. “If that will not vex you, my young lord, saving
your presence, I’ll sit down and rest my bones while I talk to you, for
I’m near dead with tiredness. _He’s_ given us the slip--I cannot tell
you how. Many a fear we’ve had, but this time it’s come true. Tuesday
was a week he got away, the day after I’d been to see about the little
lad. We thought he was but hanging about the fells in corners that none
but him and me know, as he once did before, and I got him back. But it’s
worse than that. Lord! there’s many an honest man lost on the fells in
the mists, that has a wife and bairns looking to him. Would it not be
more natural to take the likes of him, and let the father of a family go
free? I cannot touch him, but there’s no law to bind the Almighty. But
all that’s little to the purpose. He’s loose ranging about the country
and me on his heels. I’ve all but had him three or four times, but he’s
aye given me the slip.”

“But this is terrible; it is a danger for the whole country,” said
Geoff. “The children!” The young man shuddered, he did not realize that
the children were at a distance. He thought of nothing more than perhaps
an expedition among the fells for Lilias--and what if she should fall
into the madman’s hands? “You should have help--you should rouse the
country,” he said.

“I’ll no do that. Please God I’ll get him yet, and this will be the
end,” said Bampfylde solemnly. “She cannot make up her mind to it even
now. She’s infatuate with him. I thought it would have ended when you
put your hand into the web, my young lord.”

“It is my fault,” said Geoff. “I should have done something more; but
then Mr. Musgrave fell ill, and I have been waiting. If he dies,
everything must be gone into. I was but waiting.”

“I am not blaming you. She cannot bide to hear a word, and so she’s been
all this long time. Now and then her heart will speak for the
others--them that suffer and have suffered--but it aye goes back to him.
And I don’t blame her neither,” said Bampfylde. “Its aye her son to her,
that was a gentleman and her pride.” He had placed himself not on the
comfortable chair which Geoff had pushed forward for him, but on the
hard seat formed by the library steps, where he sat with his elbows on
his knees, and his head supported in his hands, thus reposing himself
upon himself. “It’s good to rest,” he said, with something of the
garrulousness of weakness, glad in his exhaustion to stretch himself
out, as it were, body and soul, and ease his mind after long silence. He
almost forgot even his mission in the charm of this momentary repose.
“Poor woman!” he added, pathetically; “I’ve never blamed her. This was
her one pride, and how it has ended--if it were but ended! No,” he went
on after a pause, “please God there will be no harm. He’s no
murdering-mad, like some poor criminals that have done less harm than
him. It’s the solitary places he flees to, not the haunts o’ men; we’re
brothers so far as that’s counting. And I drop a word of warning as I
go. I tell the folks that I hear there’s a poor creature ranging the
country that is bereft of his senses, and a man after him. I’m the man,”
said Bampfylde, with a low laugh, “but I tell nobody that; and oh the
dance he’s led me!” Then rousing himself with an effort, “But I’m losing
time, and you’re losing time, my young lord. If you would be a help to
them you should be away. Get out your horse or your trap to take you to
the train.”

“Where has she gone--by the train?”

“Ay--and a long road. She’s away there last night, the atom, all by
herself. That’s our blood,” said Bampfylde, with again the low laugh,
which was near tears. “But I need not say our blood neither, for her
father has suffered the most of all, poor gentleman--the most of all!
Look here, my young lord,” he said, suddenly rising up, “if I sit there
longer I’ll go to sleep, and forget everything; and we’ve no time for
sleep, neither you nor me. Here’s the place. There’s a train at
half-past eleven that gets there before dark. You cannot get back
to-night; you’ll have to leave word that you cannot get back to-night.
And go now; go, for the love of God!”

Geoff did not hesitate; he rang the bell hastily, and ordered his
dog-cart to be ready at once, and wrote two or three lines of
explanation to his mother. And he ordered the servant, who stared at his
strange companion, to bring some food and wine. But Bampfylde shook his
head. “Not so,” he said; “not so. Bit nor sup I could not take here. We
that once made this house desolate, it’s not for us to eat in it or
drink in it. You’re o’er good, o’er good, my young lord; but I’ll not
forget the offer,” he added, the water rushing to his eyes. He stood in
front of the light stretching his long limbs in the languor of
exhaustion, a smile upon his face.

“You have overdone yourself, Bampfylde. You are not fit for any more
exertion. What more can you do than you have done? I’ll send out all the
men about the house, and----”

“Nay, but I’ll go to the last--as long as I can crawl. Mind you the
young ones,” he said; “and for all you’re doing, and for your good
heart, God bless you, my young lord!”

It seemed to Geoff like a dream when he found himself standing alone in
the silent room among his books, with neither sight nor sound of any
one near. Bampfylde disappeared as he had come, in a moment, vanishing
among the shrubberies; and the young man found himself charged with a
commission he did not understand, with a piece of dirty paper in his
hand, upon which an address was rudely scrawled. What was he to do at
this school, a day’s journey off, about which he knew nothing? He would
have laughed at the wild errand had he not been too deeply impressed by
his visitor’s appearance and manner to be amused by anything thus
suggested. But wild as it was, Geoff was resolved to carry it out. Even
the vaguest intimation of danger to Lilias would have sufficed to rouse
him, but he had scarcely taken that thought into his mind. He could
think of nothing but Bampfylde, and this with a pang of sympathy and
interest which he could scarcely explain to himself. As he drove along
towards the Stanton station, the first from Pennington, his mind was
entirely occupied with this rough fellow. Something tragic about him, in
his exhaustion, in the _effusion_ of his weakness, had gone to Geoff’s
heart. He looked eagerly for traces of him--behind every bush, in every
cross-road. And to increase his anxiety, the servant who accompanied him
began to entertain him with accounts of a madman who had escaped from an
asylum, and who kept the country in alarm. “Has he been seen anywhere?
has he harmed any one?” Geoff asked, eagerly. But there were no details
to be had; nothing but the general statement. Geoff gave the man orders
to warn the gamekeepers and out-door servants, and to have him secured
if possible. It was scarcely loyal perhaps to poor Bampfylde, who had
trusted him. Thus he had no thought but Bampfylde in his mind when he
found himself in the train, rushing along on the errand he did not
understand. It was a quick train, the one express of the day; and even
at the junction there were only a few minutes to wait: very unlike the
vigil that poor little Lilias had held there in the middle of night
under the dreary flickering of the lamp. Geoff knew nothing of this; but
by dint of thinking he had evolved something like a just idea of the
errand on which he was going. Lilias had been warned that her brother
was not happy, and had gone like a little Quixote to relieve him. Geoff
could even form an idea to himself of the pre-occupation of the house
with the Squire’s illness, which would close all ears to Lilias’ appeal
about Nello’s fancied unhappiness. Little nuisance! Geoff himself felt
disposed to say--thinking any unhappiness that could happen to Nello of
much less importance than the risk of Lilias. But he had not, of course,
the least idea of Nello’s flight. He arrived at the station about five
o’clock in the afternoon, adding another bewilderment to the solitary
official there, who had been telegraphed to from Penninghame, and
already that day had been favoured by two interviews with Mr. Swan. “A
young lady? I wish all young ladies were---- Here’s a message about her;
and the schoolmaster, he’s been at me, till I am sick of my life. What
young lady could there be here? Do you think I’m a-hiding of her?” he
cried, with that instinctive suspicion of being held responsible which
is so strong in his class. Geoff however, elicited by degrees all that
there was to find out, and discovered at the same time that the matter
was much more serious than he supposed. The little boy had run away from
school; the little girl, evidently coming to meet him, had disappeared
with him. It was supposed that they must have made for the railway, as
the woman in the cottage close by had confessed to having given them
breakfast; but they had disappeared from her ken, so that she
half-thought they had been ghost-children, with no reality in them; and
though the country had been scoured everywhere, neither they, nor any
trace of them, were to be found.

This was the altogether unsatisfactory ground upon which Geoff had to
work,--and at five o’clock on an October afternoon there is but little
time for detailed investigation of a country. His eye turned, as that of
Lilias had done, to the wood. It was the place in which she would
naturally take refuge. Had the wood been examined? he asked. Yes, every
corner of it. Geoff was at his wits’ end, and did not know what to do;
he went down the road where Lilias had gone in the morning and talked to
the woman, who told him a moving story of the tired pair, and declared
that she would not have let them go, seeing very well that they were a
little lady and gentleman, but that they had stolen away when her back
was turned. Geoff stood at the cottage door gazing round him, when he
saw something that no one else had noticed, a small matter enough.
Caught upon the hedge, which reached close to the cottage, there was a
shred of blue--the merest rag, a few threads, nothing more--such an
almost invisible indication as a savage might leave to enable his
companions to track him--a thing that could be seen only by instructed
eyes. Geoff’s eyes were inexperienced, but they were keen: and he knew
the colour of Lilias’ dress, which the other searchers were not aware
of. He disentangled the threads carefully from the twig. One long hair,
and that too was Lilias’ colour, had caught on the same thorn. This
seemed to him a trace unmistakeable, notwithstanding that the woman of
the cottage immediately claimed it. “Dear, I did not know that I had
torn my best blue dress,” she said, with genuine alarm. Geoff, however,
left her abruptly, and followed out his clue. He hastened by the
footpath behind the hedge towards the wood. It was the natural place for
Lilias to be. By this time the young man had forgotten everything except
the girl, who was at once a little child appealing to all his tenderest
sympathies, and a little visionary princess to whom he had vowed
himself. She was both in the combination of the moment--a tired child
whom he could almost carry away in his arms, who would not be afraid of
him, or shrink from these brotherly arms; but, at the same time, the
little mother-woman, the defender and protector of one more helpless
than herself. Geoff’s heart swelled with a kind of heavenly enthusiasm
and love. Never could there have been a purer passion. He hurried
through the wood and through the wood, searching in all its glades and
dells, peering into the very hollows of the old trees. There was
nothing: Was there nothing? Not a movement, not a sound, except the
birds chirping, the rush of a rabbit or squirrel, the flutter of the
leaves in the evening air. For it was evening by this time, that could
not be denied; the last, long, slant rays of the sun were sloping along
the trunks and roots of the trees, and the mossy greenness that covered
them. The day was over in which a man could work, and night--night that
would chill the children to the heart, and drive them wild with
fear--desolate, dark night, full of visionary terrors, and also real
dangers, was coming. Geoff had made up his mind certainly that they were
there. He did not think of a magician’s cave or a hermit’s cell, as
Lilias had done, but only whether there was some little hut anywhere,
where they could have found refuge,--a hollow, unknown to him, where
they might have hid themselves, not knowing a friend was near. The sun
had lit up an illumination in the west, and shone through the red and
yellow leaves with reflections of colour softer and more varying, but
still more brilliant, than their own. The world seemed all ablaze
between the two, with crimson and gold--autumn sun above, autumn foliage
below. Then tone by tone and colour by colour died out from the skies,
and the soft yet cold grey of the evening took possession of all. The
paths of the wood seemed to grow ghostly in the gathering dusk, the
colour stole out of the trees, the very sky seemed to drop lower as the
night gathered in. Geoff walked about in a kind of despair. He called
them, but there came no answer; he seemed to himself to poke into every
corner, into the damp depths where the cold dew seemed to ooze out from
the ground weighing down every leaflet. He was sure they were there.
Must they spend the night in the dark, and be frozen and frightened to
death before the morning? Geoff’s heart was full of anxiety and pity. It
seemed to him that he must stay there to keep them company, whether he
could find them or not.

Then all at once he heard a sound like a low sob. It seemed to come from
the ground, close to where he was standing, but he could see nothing but
a little tangle of wild brambles, long branches with still a solitary
berry here and there, the leaves scanty, scarlet and brown with the
frost. They were all clustered about the trunk of a big tree, a little
thicket, prickly and impregnable, but close to the path. And was it the
breathing of the night air only, or some wild creature in the brushwood,
or human respiration, that came soft, almost indistinguishable in the
soft murmur of the wood? He stood still, scarcely venturing himself to
breathe, so intent was he to listen; and by and by he heard the sound
again. A child’s sob, the soft pathetic reverberation of a sob, such as
continues to come after the weeping is over. With trembling eagerness,
yet caution, Geoff put aside the long tangles of the bramble which fell
in a kind of arch. It was a hard piece of work, and had to be done with
caution not to disturb the poor little nestlings, if nestlings there
were. There Geoff disclosed to the waning light the prettiest pathetic
picture. It was not the same green hollow in which the children had
first taken refuge. They had been roused by the sound of passengers
through the wood, and the voices of the people who were searching for
themselves, and had woke up in fright. When these noises ceased they had
strayed deeper into the wood to another and safer shelter, Nello being
too frightened and miserable to go on as Lilias wished. At last they had
found this refuge under the bramble bushes where nobody surely could
ever find them, meaning to lie there all day and creep out at night to
continue their journey. Lilias had seated herself first, spreading out
her skirt to protect her brother from the damp. There, lying with his
head and shoulders supported on her lap, he had gone to sleep again,
while Lilias waked and pondered; very anxious, frightened too, and
dissatisfied with the loss of time, she sat erect, supporting Nello, and
gazed up at the dark figure in the twilight with alarmed eyes, which
seemed to grow larger and larger as they shone in a passion of terror
through the long tangles of the bush. Lilias had covered her brother
with her shawl--she drew it over him now, covering the white little face
on her arm, “What do you want with me? I am only resting. There is no
one here to do any harm,” she said, with the sob coming again in spite
of her. She thought it was the cruel schoolmaster, the more cruel uncle,
who had condemned Nello to so many sufferings. She held her arms over
him, protecting him--resolute not to let him be taken from her. “Oh, do
not meddle with me!” she went on, growing more and more desperate. “I
have some money I will give you, if you will only--only leave me alone.
There is nobody--but me.”

Oh that sob! if she could only swallow it down and talk to him, this
robber chief, this Robin Hood, as if she were not afraid! for sometimes
these men are kind and do not hurt the weak. Lilias gazed, nothing but
her eyes appearing, glowing through the gathering shade: then suddenly
threw her brother off her lap in a transport of wild delight, “Oh Nello,
Nello, Nello!” she cried, till the wood rang, “it is Mr. Geoff!”




CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE BEGINNING OF THE END.


Geoff took the children home without let or hindrance. There was no inn
near where they could pass the night; and as he had no legitimate right
to their custody, and was totally unknown and very young, and might not
awaken any lively faith in the bosom of authority as against the
schoolmaster or the uncle, he thought it wisest to take them away at
once. He managed to get some simplest food for them with difficulty--a
little bread and milk--and made them lie down propped amid the cushions
of a first-class carriage, which was to be hooked on to the evening
train when it arrived. Before they left the little station he had the
satisfaction of seeing Randolph Musgrave arrive, looking sour and
sullen. Geoff did not know that Randolph had done anything unkind to the
children. Certainly it was none of his fault that Lilias was there; but
what good partisan ever entered too closely into an examination of the
actual rights and wrongs of a question? Randolph might have been
innocent--as indeed he was--of any downright evil intention; but this
availed him nothing. Geoff looked out of the window of his own carriage
as they glided away from the station, and gazed with intensest schoolboy
pleasure on the glum and sour countenance of the churlish uncle, who,
but for his own intervention, might have wrought destruction to those
new babes in the wood. He shivered when he thought of the two helpless
creatures lying under the brambles too frightened to move, and feeling
to their hearts all the fantastic horrors of the darkness. Now, though
still in movement, and undergoing still further fatigue, the absolute
rest which had fallen upon their childish spirits from the mere fact
that he was there, touched the young man to the heart. They were willing
to let him take them anywhere; their cares were over. Nello had even
made a feeble little attempt to shake his draggled plumes and swagger a
little, sore and uncomfortable though he was, before he clambered into
the carriage; and Lilias lay in the nest he had made for her, looking
out with eyes of measureless content--so changed from those great,
wistful, unfathomable oceans of anxiety and fear which had looked at him
through the brambles! She put her hand into his as he settled himself in
his corner beside her--the little soft child’s hand, which he warmed in
his strong clasp, and which clung to him with a hold which did not relax
even in her dreams; for she went to sleep so, holding him fast, feeling
the sense of safety glow over her in delicious warmth and ease. Through
all the night, even when she slept, at every movement he made, her soft
fingers closed more firmly upon his hand. It was the child’s anchor of
safety; and this clinging, conscious and unconscious, went straight to
Geoff’s heart. In the dark, under the waning light of the lamp overhead,
he watched the little face sinking into sleep, with now a faint little
smile upon it--a complete relaxation of all the strained muscles--with a
sensation of happiness which was beyond words. Sometimes, for the mere
pleasure of it, he would make a movement wantonly to feel the renewed
clasp of the little hand and see the drowsy opening of the eyes. “Are
you there, Mr. Geoff?” she said now and then, with a voice as soft (he
thought) as the coo of a dove. “Yes, my Lily;” he would say, with his
heart swelling in his young bosom; and Lilias would drop to sleep again,
smiling at him, with sleepy eyes, in what ease and infinite content! As
for Nello, he snored now and then out of very satisfaction and
slumbering confidence; little snores, something between a little
cherub’s trumpet and the native utterance of the tenderest of little
pigs--at that age when even little piggies, by reason of babyhood, have
something cherubic about them too.

At midnight, at the great junction, a tall, sunburnt, anxious-faced man
walked along the line of carriages, looking in with eager looks. “Are
these your children?” he said to Geoff, seeing the two little figures
laid up among the cushions, and not remarking how young their companion
was. He spoke abruptly, but taking off his hat with an apologetic grace,
which Geoff thought “foreign,” as we are all so apt to suppose unusual
courtesy to be. A sudden inspiration seized the young man. He did not
know who this was, but somehow he never doubted who it was the stranger
sought. “They are the little Musgraves of Penninghame,” he said, simply,
“whom I am taking home.”

The tall stranger wavered for a moment, as though he might have fallen;
then, in a voice half-choked, he asked, “May I come beside you?” He sat
down in the seat opposite to Geoff. After an anxious inspection of the
two little faces, now settled into profound sleep, “Thank God!” he said.
“They are all I have in the world.”

Who could it be? Geoff’s ears seemed to tingle with the words--“all I
have in the world.” He sat in his dark corner and gazed at this strange
new-comer, who was more in the light. And the new-comer gazed at him.
Seeing, after a while, the child’s hand clasped in his--a mark of trust
which, sweet as it was, kept young Geoff in a somewhat forced attitude
not comfortable for a long night journey,--“I do not know you,” he said,
“but my little girl seems to put her whole trust in you, and that must
make me your grateful servant too.”

“Then you are John Musgrave?” cried the young man. “Oh, sir, I am
glad--most glad, that you have come home! Yes, I think she likes me; and
child or woman,” cried young Geoff, clasping the little hand close with
a sudden _effusion_, “I shall never care for any one else.”

Serious, careworn, in peril of his life, John Musgrave laughed softly in
his beard. “This is my first welcome home,” he said.

Geoff found a carriage waiting for him at Stanton. His first impulse
having been to take the children to his mother, he gave them up now with
a pang, having first witnessed the surprise of incredulous delight with
which Lilias flung herself at her waking upon her father. The cry with
which she hailed him, the illumination of her face, and, Geoff felt, her
utter forgetfulness of his own claims, half-vexed the young man after
his uncomfortable night; and it was with a certain pang that he gave the
children up to their natural guardian. “Papa, this is Mr. Geoff,” Lilias
said; “no one has ever been so kind; and he knows about you something
that nobody else knows.”

John Musgrave looked up with a gleam of surprise and a faint suffusion
of colour on his serious face. “Every one here knows about _me_,” he
said, with a sigh; and then he turned to the young guardian of his
children, “Lily’s introduction is of the slightest,” he said. “I don’t
know you, nor how you have been made to take so much interest in
them--how you knew even that they wanted help: but I am grateful to you
with all my heart, all the same.”

“I am Geoffrey Stanton,” said the young man. He did not know how to make
the announcement, but coloured high with consciousness of the pain that
must be associated with his name. But it was best, he felt, to make the
revelation at once. “The brother of Walter Stanton, whom----. As Lilias
says, sir, I know more about you than others know. I have heard
everything.”

John Musgrave shook his head. “Everything! till death steps in to one or
another of the people concerned, that is what no one will ever know; but
so long as you do not shrink from me, Lord Stanton---- You are Lord
Stanton; is it not so?”

“I am not making any idle brag,” said Geoff. “I know _everything_. It
was Bampfylde himself--Dick Bampfylde himself--who sent me after the
children. I know the truth of it all, and I am ready to stand by you,
sir, whenever and howsoever you want me----”

Geoff bent forward eagerly, holding out his hand, with a flush of
earnestness and enthusiasm on his young face. Musgrave looked at him
with great and serious surprise. His face darkened and lighted up, and
he started slightly at the name of Bampfylde. At last, with a moment’s
hesitation, he took Geoff’s outstretched hand, and pressed it warmly. “I
dare not ask what it is you do know,” he said, “but there is nothing on
my hand to keep me from taking yours; and thank you a thousand
times--thank you for _them_. About everything else we can talk
hereafter.”

In ten minutes after Geoff was whirling along the quiet country road on
his way home. It was like a dream to him that all this should have
happened since he last drove between those hedgerows, and he had the
half-disappointed, half-injured feeling of one who has not carried out
an adventure to its final end. He was worn out too, and excited, and he
did not like giving up Lily into the hands of her father. Had it been
Miss Musgrave he would have felt no difficulty. It was chilly in the
early morning, and he buttoned up his coat to his chin, and put his
hands in his pockets, and let his groom drive, who had evidently
something to say to him which could scarcely be kept in till they got
clear of the station. Geoff had seen it so distinctly in the man’s face,
that he had asked at once, “Is all right at home?” But he was too tired
to pay much attention to anything beyond that. When they had gone on for
about a quarter of an hour, the groom himself broke the silence. “I beg
your pardon, my lord----”

“What is it?” Geoff, retired into the recesses of his big coat, had been
half asleep.

Then the man began an excited story. He had heard a scuffle and a
struggle at a point of the road which they were about approaching when
on his way to meet his master. Wild cries “not like a human being,” he
said, and the sound of a violent encounter. “I thought of the madman I
was telling your lordship of yesterday.” “And what was it?” cried Geoff,
rousing up to instant interest; upon which the groom became apologetic.

“How could I leave my horse, my lord?--a young beast, very fresh, as
your lordship knows. He’d have bolted if I’d have left him for a moment.
It was all I could do, as it was, to hold him in with such cries in his
ears. I sent on the first man I met. A man does not grapple with a
madman unless he is obliged to----”

“But you sent the other man to do it,” said Geoff, half-amused,
half-angry. He sprang from the phaeton as they came to the spot which
the groom pointed out. It was a little dell, the course of a streamlet,
widening as it ascended, and clothed with trees. Geoff knew the spot
well. About half a mile further up, on a little green plateau in the
midst of the line of sheltering wood which covered these slopes, his
brother’s body had been found. He had been taken to see the spot with
shuddering interest when he was a child, and had never forgotten the
fatal place. The wood was very thick, with rank, dark, water-loving
trees; and, whether it was fancy or reality, had always seemed to Geoff
the most dismal spot in the county. All was quiet now, or so he thought
at first. But there was no mistaking the evidence of wet, broken, and
trampled grass, which showed where some deadly struggle had been. The
spot was not far from the road--about five minutes of ascent, no
more--and the young man pressed on, guided by signs of the fray, and in
increasing anxiety; for almost at the first step he saw an old
game-pouch thrown on the ground, which he recognised as having been worn
by Bampfylde. Presently he heard, a little in advance of him, a low
groan, and the sound of a sympathetic voice. “Could you walk, with my
arm to steady you? Will you try to walk, my man?” Another low moaning
cry followed. “My walking’s done in this world,” said a feeble voice.
Geoff hurried forward, stifling a cry of grief and pain. He had known it
since he first set foot on that fatal slope. It was Bampfylde’s voice;
and presently he came in sight of the group. The sympathiser was the
same labouring man, no doubt, whom his groom had sent to the rescue.
Wild Bampfylde lay propped upon the mossy bank, his head supported upon
a bush of heather. The stranger who stood by him had evidently washed
the blood from his face and unbuttoned his shirt, which was open. There
was a wound on his forehead, however, from which blood was slowly
oozing, and his face was pallid as death. “Let me be--let me be,” he
said with a groan, as his kind helper tried to raise him. Then a faint
glimmer of pleasure came over his ghastly face. “Ah, my young lord!” he
said.

“What is it, Bampfylde? What has happened? Is he much hurt?” cried
Geoff, kneeling down by his side. The man did not say anything, but
shook his head. The vagrant himself smiled, with a kind of faint
amusement in the mournful glimmer of his eyes.

“Not hurt, my young gentleman; just killed,” he said; “but you’re
back--and they’re safe?”

“Safe, Bampfylde; and listen!--with their father. He has come to take
care of his own.”

A warmer gleam lighted up the vagrant’s face. “John Musgrave here! Ah,
but it’s well timed,” he cried feebly. “My young lord, I’m grieved but
for one thing,--the old woman. Who will take care of old ’Lizabeth’? and
she’s been a good woman--if it had not been her son that went between
her and her wits. I’m sorry for her, poor old body; very, very sorry for
her, poor ’Lizabeth. He’ll never be taken now, my young lord. Now he’s
killed me, there’s none will ever take him. And so we’ll all be ended,
and the old woman left to die without one--without one----!”

“My cart is at the foot of the hill,” said Geoff, quickly, addressing
the labourer, who stood by with tears in his eyes; “take it, and bid the
groom drive as fast as the horse will go--and he’s fresh--for the first
doctor you can find; and bid them send an easy carriage from
Stanton--quick! For every moment you save I’ll give you----”

“I want no giving. What a man can do for poor Dick Bampfylde, I will,”
cried the other as he rushed down the slope. The vagrant smiled feebly
again.

“They’re all good-hearted,” he said. “Not one of them but would do poor
Dick Bampfylde a good turn; that’s a pleasure, my young lord. And
you--you’re the best of all. Ay, let him go, it’ll please you; but me,
my hour’s come.”

“Bampfylde, does it hurt you to speak? Can you tell me how it was?”

The poor fellow’s eyes were glazing over. He made an effort, when
Geoff’s voice caught him as it were, and arrested the stupor. “Eh, my
young lord? What needs to tell? Poor creature, he did not know me for a
friend, far less a brother. And madness is strong--it’s strong. Tell the
old woman that--it was not _me_ he killed--but--one that tried to take
him. Ay--we were all playing about the beck, and her calling us to come
in--all the family; him and--Lily--and me. I was always the least
account--but it was me that would aye be first to answer;--and now we
are all coming home--Poor old ’Lizabeth--Eh! what were you saying, my
young lord?”

“Bampfylde! has he got clean off again, after this? Where is he? Can you
tell me--for the sake of others if not for your own?”

“For mine!--Would it mend me to tell upon him?--Nay, nay, you’ll never
take him--never now--but he’ll die--like the rest of us--that is what
puts things square, my young lord--death!--it settles all; you’ll find
him some place on the green turf--we were aye a family that liked the
green grass underneath us--you’ll find him--as peaceable as me.”

“Oh, Bampfylde,” cried Geoff, “keep up your courage a little, the men
will come directly and carry you to Stanton.”

“To carry me--to the kirkyard--that’s my place; and put green turf over
me--nothing but green turf. So long as you will be kind to old
’Lizabeth; she’ll live--she’s not the kind that dies--and not one of us
to the fore! What did we do--we or our fathers?” said the vagrant
solemnly. “But, oh, that’s true, true--that’s God’s word: neither he did
it nor his fathers--but that the works of God might be manifest. Eh, but
I cannot see--I cannot see how the work of God is in it. My
eyes--there’s not much good in my eyes now.”

Geoff kneeled beside the dying man not knowing what to do or say. Should
he speak to him of religion? Should he question him about his own hard
fate, that they might bring it home to the culprit? But Bampfylde was
not able for either of these subjects. He was wading in the vague and
misty country which is between life and death. He threw out his arms in
the languor and restlessness of dying, and one of them dropped so that
the fingers dipped in the little brook. This brought another gleam of
faint pleasure to his pallid face.

“Water--give me some--to drink,” he murmured, moving his lips. And then,
as Geoff brought it to him in the hollow of a leaf, the only thing he
could think of, and moistened his lips and bathed his forehead, “Thank
you, Lily,” he said. “That’s pleasant, oh, that’s pleasant. And what was
it brought you here--_you_ here?--they’re all safe, the young
ones--thanks to---- Eh! it’s not Lily--but I thought I saw Lily; it’s
you, my young lord?”

“Yes, I am here--lean on me, Bampfylde. What can I do for you, what can
I do?” Geoff had never seen death, and he trembled with awe and solemn
reverence, far more deeply moved than the dying vagrant who was floating
away on gentle waves of unconsciousness.

“Ay, Lily--d’ye hear her calling?--the house is dark, and the night’s
fine. But let’s go to her--let’s go; he was aye the last, though she
likes him best.” Bampfylde raised himself suddenly with a
half-convulsive movement. “Poor ’Lizabeth!--poor old ’Lizabeth--all
gone--all gone!” he said.

And what an hour Geoff spent supporting the poor head and moistening the
dry lips of the man who was dead, yet could not die! He did not know
there had been such struggles in the world.




CHAPTER XXXVII.

A TRAITOR.


Mr. Pennithorne was at the Castle almost all the day during which so
many things occurred. While the children wandered in the wood and young
Lord Stanton went in search of them, the Vicar could not leave the
centre of anxiety. There was no possibility of going upon that quest
till the evening, and good Mr. Pen thought it his bounden duty to stay
with John to “take off his attention,” to distract his mind if possible
from the object of his anxieties. It was all John Musgrave could do, by
way of consideration for an old friend, to put up with these attentions,
but he managed to do so without betraying his impatience, and Mr. Pen
thought he had performed the first duty of friendship. He suggested
everything he could think of that might have happened; most of his
suggestions going to prove that Lilias was in very great peril indeed,
though she might be saved by various ingenious ways. And he took Mary
aside and shook his head, and said he was afraid it was a very bad
business. He believed, good man, that he was of the greatest use to them
both, and congratulated himself on having stayed to discharge this
Christian duty. But Mrs. Pen at the Vicarage got cross and nervous, and
did not think her husband was doing his duty to his home. When a
telegram came in the afternoon, she was not only curious but
frightened--for telegrams she thought were always messages of evil. What
could it tell but harm? Perhaps that her father had been taken ill (Mr.
Pen himself had no family, nor anybody to speak of belonging to him);
perhaps that the investment had gone wrong in which all their little
money was. She tore it open in great agitation, and read as follows:--

“_John Musgrave is in the county and near you. Do you remember what is
your duty as a magistrate, and what is the penalty of not performing
it?_”

Mrs. Pen read this alarming missive two or three times over before she
could understand what it meant. John Musgrave! By degrees it became
clear to her. This was why her husband deserted her, and spent his whole
day at the Castle. He a magistrate, whose first duty it was to send John
Musgrave to prison. The penalty--what was the penalty? The poor woman
was in such a frenzy of agitation and terror that she did not know what
to believe. What could they do to him if it was found out? She went to
the window and looked for him; she went out and walked to the garden
gate; she was not able to keep still. The penalty--what was it? Could
they put him in prison instead of the criminal he allowed to go free?
That seemed the most natural thing, and imagination conjured up before
her the dreadful scene of Mr. Pen’s arrest, perhaps when he was going to
church, perhaps when the house was full of people--everybody
seeing--everybody knowing it. Mrs. Pen saw her husband dragged along the
road in handcuffs before she came to an end of her imaginations. Was
there nothing she could do to save him? She was ready to put herself in
the breach, to say, like a heroine, “Take me, and let him go free?” but
it did not appear to her likely that the myrmidons of the law would pay
any attention to such a touching interposition. Then it occurred to her
to look who it was, a thing she had not noticed at first, who had sent
this kind warning. But this alarmed her more and more. It was some one
who called himself “Friend,” who had taken the trouble from a distant
place in the midland counties to telegraph thus to Mr. Pennithorne. A
friend--it was then an anonymous warning, a very alarming thing indeed
to the vulgar mind. Mrs. Pen worked herself up into a state of intense
nervous agitation. She sent for the gardener that she might send him at
once to the Castle for her husband. But before he came another train of
reflections came across her mind. John Musgrave was her William’s
friend. He was devoted to the family generally, and to this member of it
in particular. Was he not capable of going to prison--of letting himself
be handcuffed and dragged along the public road, and cast into a
dungeon, rather than give up his friend to justice? Oh, what could the
poor woman do? If she could but take some step--do something to save him
before he knew.

All at once there occurred to Mrs. Pen a plan of action which would put
everything right--save William in spite of himself, and without his
knowledge, and put John Musgrave in the hands of justice without any
action of his which could be supposed unfriendly. She herself, Mrs. Pen,
did not even know John, so that if she betrayed him it would be nothing
unkind, nobody could blame her, not Mary Musgrave herself. When the
gardener came, instead of sending him to the Castle for her husband, she
sent him to the village to order the fly in which she occasionally paid
visits; and she put on her best clothes with a quiver of anxiety and
terror in her heart. She put the telegram in her pocket, and drove
away--with a half-satisfaction in her own appearance and half-pride in
bidding the man drive to Elfdale, to Sir Henry Stanton’s, mingling with
the real anxiety in her heart. She was frightened too at what she was
about to do--but nobody could expect from her any consideration for John
Musgrave, whom she had never seen; whereas, to save her husband from the
consequences of his foolish faithfulness, was not that the evident and
first duty of a wife? It was a long drive, and she had many misgivings
as she drove along, with plenty of time to consider and reconsider all
the arguments she had already gone over; but yet when she got to Elfdale
she did not seem to have had any time to think at all. She was hurried
in, before she knew, to Sir Henry Stanton’s presence. He was the nearest
magistrate of any importance, and Mrs. Pen had a slight visiting
acquaintance, of which she was very proud, with Lady Stanton. Had she
repented at the last of her mission, she could always make out to
herself that it was Lady Stanton she had come to visit. But it was Sir
Henry whom she asked for, alarm for her husband at the last moment
getting the better of her fears.

Sir Henry received her with a great deal of surprise. What could the
little country clergyman’s wife want with him? But he was still more
surprised when he heard her errand. John Musgrave at home!--within
reach--daring justice--defying the law! His wife had told him of some
supposed discovery which she at least imagined likely to clear Musgrave,
by bringing in another possible criminal, but that must be some merely
nonsensical theory he had no doubt, such as women and boys are apt to
indulge:--for if anything could be worse than women, Sir Henry felt it
was boys inspired by women, and carrying out their fancies. Therefore he
had paid very little regard to what his wife said. Mrs. Pennithorne had
the advantage of rousing him into excitement. “What! come back!--daring
justice to touch him--insulting the family of the man he had killed, and
the laws of the country!” Sir Henry fumed at the audacity, the evident
absence of all remorse or compunction. “He must be a shameless,
heartless ruffian,” he said; and then he looked at the harmless little
woman who had brought him this news. “It is very public-spirited to
bestir yourself in the matter,” he said. “Have you seen the man, Mrs.
Pennithorne, or how have you come to know?”

“I have not seen him. Sir Henry. I don’t know anything about him,
therefore nobody could say that it was unkind in _me_. How can you have
any feeling for a person you never saw? I got--the news--to-day when my
husband was at the Castle--_he_ did not tell me--he has nothing to do
with it. He is a great friend of the Musgraves, Sir Henry; and I was
told if he knew and did not tell it would bring him into trouble; so I
came to you. I thought it was a wife’s duty. I did not wait till he came
in to show him the telegram, but I came straight on to you.”

“Then you got a telegram?”

“Did I say a telegram?” she said, frightened. “Oh--I did not think what
I was saying. But why should I conceal it? Yes, indeed, Sir Henry, this
afternoon there came a telegram. I have never had a moment’s peace since
then. I thought at first I would send for him and see what he would do,
but then I thought--he thinks so much of the Musgraves--no doubt it
would be a trouble to him to go against them; and so I thought before he
came in I would come to you. I would not do anything without consulting
my husband in any ordinary way, indeed, I assure you, Sir Henry. I am
not a woman of that kind; but in a thing that might have brought him
into such trouble----”

“And is that telegram all you know, Mrs. Pennithorne?”

A horrible dread that he was going to disapprove of her, instead of
commending her, ran through her mind.

“It is all,” she said, faltering; “I have it in my pocket.”

To show the telegram was the last thing in her mind, yet she produced it
now in impetuous self-defence. Having made such a sacrifice as she had
done, acted on her own authority, incurred the expense of the fly,
absented herself from home without anybody’s knowledge (though William
was far too much wrapped up in the Musgraves to be aware of that), it
was more than Mrs. Pennithorne could bear to have her motives thus
unappreciated. She held out the telegram without pausing to think. He
took it, and read it, with a curious look on his face. Sir Henry took a
low view of wives, and of women in general. If she belonged to him how
he would put her down, this meddling woman! but he was glad to learn
what she had to tell, and to be able to act upon it. To approve of your
informant and to use the information obtained are two very different
things.

“This is a threat,” he said; “this is a very curious communication, Mrs.
Pennithorne. Do you know who sent it? Friend! Is it a friend in the
abstract, or does your husband know any one of the name?”

“I don’t know who it is. Oh no, Sir Henry. William knows no one--no one
whom I don’t know! His friends are my friends. My husband is the best of
men. He has not a secret from me. If I may seem to be acting behind his
back it is only to save him, Sir Henry--only for his good.”

“You are acting in the most public-spirited way, Mrs. Pennithorne; but
it is very strange, and I wonder who could have sent it. Do you know any
one at this place?”

“Nobody,” she said, composing herself, yet not quite satisfied either,
for public-spirited was but a poor sort of praise. She was conscious
that she was betraying her husband as well as John Musgrave, and nothing
but distinct applause and assurance that she had saved her William could
have put her conscience quite at ease.

“It is very odd--very odd,” he said; “but I am very much obliged to you
for bringing this information to me, and I shall lose no time in acting
upon it. For a long time, a very long time, this man has evaded the law;
but it will not do to defy it--it never does to defy it. He shall find
that it is more watchful than he thought.”

“And, Sir Henry, of course it is of my husband I must think first. You
will not say he knew? You will not let him get into trouble about it?--a
clergyman, a man whom every one looks up to! You will save him from the
penalty, Sir Henry? Indeed I have no reason to believe he knew at all;
he has never seen this thing. I don’t suppose he knows at all. But he
might be so easily got into trouble! Oh, Sir Henry! you will not let
them bring in William’s name?”

“I shall take care that Mr. Pennithorne is not mentioned at all,” he
said, with a polite bow; but he did not add, “You are a heroic woman and
you have saved your husband,” which was the thing poor Mrs. Pen wanted
to support her. She put back her telegram in her pocket very humbly, and
rose up, feeling herself more a culprit than a heroine, to go away. At
this moment Lady Stanton herself came in hurriedly.

“I heard Mrs. Pennithorne was here,” she said, with a half-apology to
her husband, “and I thought I might come and ask what was the last
news from Penninghame--if there was any change. I am not
interrupting--business?”

“No; you will be interested in the news Mrs. Pennithorne brings me,”
said Sir Henry, with a certain satisfaction. “Mr. Musgrave’s son John,
in whom you have always shown so much interest, Walter Stanton’s
murderer----”

“No, no,” she said, with a shudder, folding her hands instinctively;
“no, no!” The colour went out of her very lips. She was about to hear
that he had died. He must have died on the very day she saw him. She
listened, looking at her husband all pale and awe-stricken, with a gasp
in her throat.

--“Is here,” said Sir Henry, deliberately. “Here, where it was done,
defying the law.”

Mary uttered a great cry of mingled relief and despair.

“Then it was he--it was he--and no ghost!” she cried.

“What! you knew and never told me? I am not so happy in my wife,” said
Sir Henry, with a threatening smile, “as Mr. Pennithorne.”

“Oh, was it he--was it he?--no spirit--but himself? God help him,” cried
Lady Stanton, with sudden tears. “No, I could not have told you, for I
thought it was an apparition. And I would not, Henry,” she added with a
kind of generous passion, “I would not, if I could. How could I betray
an innocent man?”

“Happily Mrs. Pennithorne has saved you the trouble,” he said, getting
up impatiently from his seat. He resented his wife’s silence, but he
scorned the other woman who had brought him the news. “Do not let me
disturb you, ladies, but this is too important for delay. The warrant
must be out to-night. I trust to your honour, or I might arrest you
both,” he said with a sneer--“two fair prisoners--lest you should warn
the man and defeat justice again.”

“Henry, you are not going to arrest him--to _arrest_ him--after what I
told you? I told you that Geoff----”

“Geoff! send Geoff to your nursery, to play with your children, Lady
Stanton,” he cried, in rising wrath, “rather than make a puppet of him
to carry out your own ideas. I have had enough of boys’ nonsense and
women’s. Go to your tea-table, my lady, and leave me to manage my own
concerns.”

Then Lady Stanton--was it not natural?--with a white, self-contained
passion, turned upon the other commonplace woman by her side, who stood
trembling before the angry man, yet siding with him in her heart, as
such women do.

“And is it you that have betrayed him?” she cried; “do you know that
your husband owes everything to him--everything? Oh, it cannot be Mr.
Pen’s doing--he loved them all too well. If it is you, how will you bear
to have his blood on your head? God knows what they may prove against
him, or what they may do to him; but whatever it is, it will be a lie,
and his blood will be on your head. Oh, how could you, a woman, betray
an innocent man?”

Lady Stanton’s passion, Sir Henry’s lowering countenance, the sudden
atmosphere of tragedy in which she found herself, were too much for
poor Mrs. Pen. She burst into hysterical crying, and dropped down upon
the floor between these two excited people. Perhaps it was as good a way
as any other of extricating herself out of the most difficult position
in which a poor little, well-intentioned clergywoman had ever been.




CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE MOTHER.


The afternoon of the day on which poor Bampfylde died was bright and
fine, one of those beautiful October days which are more lovely in their
wistful brightness, more touching, than any other period of the
year--Summer still lingering, the smile on her lip and the tear in her
eye, dressed out in borrowed splendour, her own fair garniture of
flowers and greenery worn out, but wearing her Indian mantle with a
tender grace, subdued and sweet. The late mignonette over-blown, yet
fragrant, was sweet in the little village gardens, underneath the pale
China roses that still kept up a little glow of blossom. Something had
excited the village; the people were at their doors, and gathered in
groups about. Miss Price, the dressmaker, held a little court. There was
evidently something to tell, something to talk over more than was usual.
The few passengers who were about stayed to hear, and each little knot
of people which had managed to secure a new listener was happy. They
were all in full tide of talk, commenting upon and discussing some
occurrence with a certain hush, at the same time, of awe about them,
which showed that the news was not of a joyful character--when some one
came down through the village whose appearance raised the excitement to
fever point. It was the well-known figure of the old woman in her grey
cloak--so well known up the water and down the water, which thus
suddenly appeared among them--old ’Lizabeth Bampfylde! The gossips
shrank closer together, and gazed at her with eager curiosity all, with
sympathy some. They drew away from her path with a feeling which was
half reverence and half fear. “Does she know--do you think she knows?”
some of them asked; and exclamations of, “Poor old body--poor woman,”
were rife among the kind-hearted; but all under their breath. ’Lizabeth
took no notice of the people in her path; perhaps she did not even see
them. She was warm with her long walk from the fells, and had thrown off
her hood and knotted her red handkerchief over her cap. She went along
thus with the long swing of her still vigorous limbs, stately and
self-absorbed. Whatever she knew, her mind was too much occupied to take
any notice of the people in her way. She had walked far, and she had far
to walk still. She went on steadily through the midst of them without a
pause, looking neither to the right nor the left. There was a tragic
directness in the very way she moved, going straight as a bird flies, at
least as straight as the houses permitted, minding no windings of the
road. The people in front of her stood back and whispered; the people
behind closed upon her path. Did she know? Would she have had the
fortitude to come walking down here all this long way had she known? Was
she going to Stanton, where _they_ were? Last of all, timidly, the
people said among themselves, “Should not some one tell her?--some one
should speak to her;” but by this time she had passed through the
village, and they all felt with a sensation of relief that it was too
late.

’Lizabeth walked on steadily along the water-side. It was a long way
that she had still before her. She was going all the way down the water
to Sir Henry Stanton’s, as Mrs. Pennithorne had gone the day before. The
walk was nothing to her, and the long silence of it was grateful to her
mind. She knew nothing of what had happened on the other side of the
lake. Up in her little house among the hills, all alone in the strange
cessation of work, the dead leisure which seemed to have fallen upon
her, she had thought of everything till her head and her heart ached
alike. Everything now seemed to have gone wrong. Her daughter dead in
exile, and her daughter’s husband still a banished man, all for the sake
of him who was roaming over the country, a fugitive escaped from her
care. The life of her son Dick had been ruined by the same means. And
now the cycle of misfortune was enlarging. The little boy, who was the
heir of the Musgraves, was lost too, because he had no one to protect
him--Lily’s child; and the other Lily, the little lady whom she felt to
be her own representative as well as Lily’s, who could tell what would
become of her? It seemed to ’Lizabeth that this child was the most
precious of all. All the rest had suffered for the sake of her madman;
but the second Lily, the little princess, who had sprung from her common
stock, nothing must touch. Yet it cannot be said that it was for Lily’s
sake that she made up her mind at last; it was nothing so simple, it was
a combination and complication of many motives. He was gone out of her
hands who had been for years the absorbing occupation of her life. Dick
was after him, it was true; but if Dick failed, how was he to be got
without public help? and that help could not be given until the whole
story was told. Then her own loneliness wrought upon her, and all the
whispers and echoes that circled about the cottage, when he was not
there. Her son, ill-fated companion, the ruin of all who had any
connection with him, absorbed her so much in general, that she had no
time to survey the surroundings and think of all that was, and had been,
and might be. Was it he after all that was the cause of all the
suffering? What did he know of it? The story of Lily and of John
Musgrave was a blank to him. He knew nothing of what they had suffered,
was innocent of it in reality. Had he known, would he not have given
himself up a hundred times rather than the innocent should suffer for
him? Was it he, then, or his mother, who was the cause of all? Several
times, during their long agony, such thoughts had overwhelmed
’Lizabeth’s mind. They had come over her in full force when the children
came to the Castle, and then it was that she had been brought to the
length of revealing her secret to young Lord Stanton. Now everything was
desperate about her; the little boy lost, the madman himself lost; no
telling at any moment what misery and horror might come next. She
thought this over day after day as the time passed, and no news came;
waiting in the great loneliness, with her doors all open, that he might
come in if some new impulse, or some touch of use and wont, should lead
him back, her ears intent to hear every sound; her mind prepared (she
thought) for anything; fresh violence, perhaps violence to himself;
miserable death, terrible discovery. She thought she heard his wild
whoops and cries every time the wind raved among the hills; if a
mountain stream rushed down a little quicker than usual, swollen by the
rain, over its pebbles, she thought it was his hurrying steps. It was
always of him that her thoughts were, not of her other son who was
pursuing the madman all about, subject to the same accidents, and who
might perhaps be his victim instead of his captor. She never thought of
that. But she was driven at last to a supreme resolution. Nobody could
doubt his madness, could think it was a feint put on to escape
punishment, now. And God, who was angry, might be propitiated if at last
she made Him, though unwillingly, this sacrifice, this homage to justice
and truth. This was the idea which finally prevailed in her mind. She
would go and tell her story, and perhaps an angry God would accept, and
restore the wanderer to her. If he were safe, safe even in prison, in
some asylum, it would be better at least than his wild career of madness
among all the dangers of the hills. She had risen in the morning from
her uneasy bed, where she lay half-dressed, always watching, listening
to every sound, with this determination upon her. She would propitiate
God. She would do this thing she ought to have done so long ago. She did
not deny that she ought to have done it, and now certainly she would do
it, and God would be satisfied, and the tide of fate would turn.

All this struggle had not been without leaving traces upon her. Her
ruddy colour, the colour of exposure as well as of health and vigour,
was not altogether gone, but she was more brown than ruddy, and this
partial paleness and the extreme gravity of her countenance added to the
stately aspect she bore. She might have been a peasant-queen, as she
moved along with her steady, long, swinging footstep, able for any
exertion, above fatigue or common weakness. A mile or two more or less,
what did that matter? It did not occur to her to go to Mr. Pennithorne,
though he was nearer, with her story. She went straight to Sir Henry
Stanton. He had a family right to be the avenger of blood. It would be
all the compensation that could be made to the Stantons, as well as a
sacrifice propitiating God. And now that she had made up her mind there
was no detail from which she shrank. ’Lizabeth never remarked the
pitying and wondering looks which were cast upon her. She went on
straight to her end with a sense of the solemnity and importance of her
mission, which perhaps gave her a certain support. It was no light thing
that she was about to do. That there was a certain commotion and
agitation about Elfdale did not strike her in the excited state of her
mind. It was natural that agitation should accompany her wherever she
went. It harmonized with her mood, and seemed to her (unconsciously) a
homage and respectful adhesion of nature to what she was about to do.

The great door was open, the hall empty, the way all clear to the room
in which Sir Henry held his little court of justice. ’Lizabeth had come
by instinct to the great hall door--a woman with such a tragical object
does not steal in behind-backs or enter like one of the unconsidered
poor. She went in unchallenged, seeing nobody except one of the girls,
who peeped out from a door, and retreated again at sight of her.
’Lizabeth saw nothing strange in all this. She went in, more
majestically, more slowly than ever, like a woman in a procession--a
woman marching to the stake. What stake, what burning could be so
terrible? Two of the county police were at the open door; they looked at
her with wondering awe, and let her pass. What could any one say to her?
An army would have let her pass--_the mother_!--for they knew, though
she did not know. ’Lizabeth saw but vaguely a number of people in the
room--so much the better; let all hear who would hear. It would be so
much the greater propitiation to an outraged heaven. She came in with a
kind of dumb state about her, everybody giving way before her. “The
mother!” they all said to each other with dismay, yet excitement. Some
one brought her a chair with anxious and pitying looks. She put it away
with a wave of her hand, yet made a little curtsey of acknowledgment in
old-fashioned politeness. It never occurred to her mind to inquire why
she was received with such obsequious attention. She advanced to the
table at which Sir Henry sat. He too looked pityingly, kindly at her,
not like his usual severity. God had prepared everything for her
atonement--was it not an earnest of its acceptance that He should thus
have put every obstacle out of her way?

“Sir Henry Stanton,” she said, “I’ve come to make you acquaint with a
story that all the country should have heard long ago. I’ve not had the
courage to tell it till this moment when the Lord has given me strength.
Bid them take pen and paper and put it all down in hand of write, and
I’ll set my name to it. It’s to clear them that are innocent that I’ve
come to speak, and to let it be known who was guilty; but it wasna him
that was guilty--it wasna him--but the madness in him,” she said, her
voice breaking for a moment. “My poor distracted lad!’

“Give her a seat,” said Sir Henry. “My poor woman, if you have any
information to give about this terrible event----”

“Ay, I have information--plenty information. Nay, I want no seat. I’m
standing as if I was at the judgment-seat of God; there’s where I’ve
stood this many a year, and been judged, but aye held fast. What is man,
a worm, to strive with his Maker?--but me, I’ve done that, that am but a
woman. I humbly crave the Almighty’s pardon, and I’ve made up my mind to
do justice now--at the last.”

The people about looked at each other, questioning one another what it
was, all but two, who knew what she meant. Young Lord Stanton, who was
close to the table, looked across at a tall stranger behind, by whom the
village constable was standing, and who replied to Geoff’s look by a
melancholy half-smile. The others looked at each other, and ’Lizabeth,
though she saw no one, saw this wave of meaning, and felt it natural
too.

“Ay,” she said, “you may wonder; and you’ll wonder more before all’s
done. I am a woman that was the mother of three; bonny bairns--though I
say it that ought not; ye might have ranged the country from Carlisle to
London town, and not found their like. My Lily was the beauty of the
whole water; up or down, there was not one that you would look at when
my lass was by. What need I speak? You all know that as well as me.”

The swell of pride in her as she spoke filled the whole company with a
thrill of admiration and wonder, like some great actress disclosing the
greatness of impassioned nature in the simplest words. She was old, but
she was beautiful too. She looked round upon them with the air of a
dethroned empress, from whom the recollection of her imperial state
could never depart. Rachel could not have done it, nor perhaps any other
of her profession. There was the sweetness of remembered triumph in the
midst of the most tragic depths; a gleam of pride and pleasure out of
the background of shame and pain.

“Ah! that’s all gone and past,” she went on with a sigh. “My eldest lad
was more than handsome, he was a genius as well. He was taken away from
me when he was but a little lad--and never came home again till--till
the devil got hold of him, and made him think shame of his poor mother,
and the poor place he was born in. I would never have blamed him. I
would have had him hold his head with the highest, as he had a
right--for had he not gotten that place for himself?--but when he came
back to the water-side a great gentleman and scholar, and would never
have let on where he belonged to, one that is not here to bear the
blame,” said ’Lizabeth, setting her teeth--“one that is gone to his
account--and well I wot the Almighty has punished him for his ill
deeds--betrayed my lad. Some of the gentry were good to him--as good as
the angels in heaven--but some were as devils, that being their nature.
And this is what I’ve got to say:” here she made a pause, raised herself
to her full height, and threw off the red kerchief from her head in her
agitation. “I’ve come here to accuse before God, and you, Sir Henry, my
son, Abel Bampfylde, him I was most proud of and loved best, of the
murder of young Lord Stanton, which took place on the morning of the 2nd
of August, eighteen hundred and forty-five--fifteen years ago and more.”

The sensation that followed is indescribable. Sir Henry Stanton himself
rose from his seat, excited by wonder, horror, and pity, beyond all
ordinary rule. The bystanders had but a vague sense of the extraordinary
revelation she made, so much were they moved by the more extraordinary
passion in her, and the position in which she stood. “My good woman, my
poor woman!” he cried, “this last dreadful tragedy has gone to your
brain--and no wonder. You don’t know what you say.”

She smiled--mournfully enough, but still it was a smile--and shook her
head. “If you had said it as often to yourself as I have done--night and
day--night and day; open me when I’m dead, and you’ll find it here,” she
cried--all unaware that this same language of passion had been used
before--and pressing her hand upon her breast. “The second of August,
eighteen hundred and forty-five--if you had said it over as often as
me!”

There was a whisper all about, and the lawyer of the district, who acted
as Sir Henry’s clerk on important occasions, stooped towards him and
said something. “The date is right. Yes, yes, I know the date is right,”
Sir Henry said, half-angrily. Then added, “There must be insanity in the
family. What more like the effort of a diseased imagination than to link
the old crime of fifteen years ago with what has happened to-day?”

“Is it me that you call insane?” said ’Lizabeth. “Eh, if it was but me!
But well I know what I’m saying.” Then the wild looks of all around her
suddenly impressed the old woman, too much occupied hitherto to think
what their looks meant. She turned round upon them with slowly awakening
anxiety. “You’re looking strange at me,” she cried, “you’re all looking
strange at me! What is this you’re saying that has happened to-day? Oh,
my lad is mad!--he’s roaming the hills, and Dick after him; he does na
know that he’s doing; he’s out of his senses; it’s no ill meaning. Lads,
some of you tell me, I’m going distracted. What has happened to-day?”

The change in her appearance was wonderful; her solemn stateliness and
abstraction were gone. Here was something she did not know. The flush of
anxiety came to her cheeks, her eyes contracted, her lips fell apart.

“Tell me,” she said, “for the love of God!”

No one moved. They looked at each other with pale, alarmed faces. How
could they tell her? Geoff stepped forward and took her by the arm very
gently. “Will you come with me?” he said. “Something has happened;
something that will grieve you deeply. I--I promised Dick to tell you,
but not here. Won’t you come with me?”

She drew herself out of his grasp with some impatience. “There’s been
some new trouble,” she said to herself--“some new trouble! No doubt more
violence. Oh, God, forgive him; but he does not know what he’s doing.
It’s you, my young lord?--you know it’s true what I’ve been saying. But
this new trouble, what is it?--more blood? Oh, tell me the worst; I can
bear it all, say, even if he was dead.”

“’Lizabeth,” said Geoff, with tears in his eyes--and again everybody
looked on as at a tragedy--“you are a brave woman; you have borne a
great deal in your life. He is dead; but that is not all.”

She did not note, nor perhaps hear, the last words. How should she? The
first was enough. She stood still in the midst of them, all gazing at
her, with her hands clasped before her. For a moment she said nothing.
The last drop of blood seemed to ebb from her brown cheeks. Then she
raised her face upward, with a smile upon it. “The Lord God be praised,”
she said; “He’s taken my lad before me.”

And when they brought to her the seat she had rejected, ’Lizabeth
allowed herself to be placed upon it. The extreme tension of both body
and mind seemed to have relaxed. The look of tragic endurance left her
face. A softened aspect of suffering, a kind of faint smile, like a wan
sunbeam, stole over it. The moisture came to her strained eyes. “Gone?
Is he gone at last? On the hill-side was it?--in some wild corner, where
none but God could be near, not his mother? And me that was dreading and
dreading I would be taken first; for who would have patience like his
mother? But after all, you know, neighbours, the father comes foremost;
and had more to do with him--more to do with him--than even me.”

“Take her away, Geoff,” said Sir Henry. The men were all overcome with
this scene, and with the knowledge of what remained to be told. Sir
Henry was not easily moved, but there was something even in _his_ throat
which choked him. He could not bear it, though it was nothing to him.
“Geoff, this is not a place to tell her all you have got to tell. Take
her away--take her--to Lady Stanton.”

“Nay, nay,” she said; “it’s my deathdoom, but it’s not like other
sorrow--I know well what grief is--when I heard for certain my Lily was
dead and gone, and me never to see her more. But this is not the same;
it’s my death, but I cannot call it sorrow; not like the loss of a son.
I’m glad too, if you understand that. Poor lad!--my Abel! Ay, ay; you’ll
not tell me but what God understands, and is more pitiful of His
handiwork, say than the like of you or me.”

“Come with me,” said Geoff, taking her by the arm. “Come, and I will
tell you everything, my poor ’Lizabeth. You know you have a friend in
me.”

“Ay, my young lord; but first let them write down what I’ve said, and
let me put my name to it. All the more because he’s dead and gone this
day.”

“Everything shall be done as you wish,” said Geoff anxiously; “but come
with me--come with me--my poor woman; this is not a place for you.”

“No,” she said--she would not rise from her seat. She turned round to
the table where Sir Henry and his clerk sat. “I must end my work now
it’s begun--I’ve another son, my kind gentlemen, and he will never
forgive me if I do not end my work. Write it out and let me sign. I have
but my Dick to think of now.”

A thrill of horror ran through the little assembly: to tell her that he
too was gone, who would dare to do it? John Musgrave, whom she had not
seen, stood behind, and covered his face with his hands. Sir Henry, for
all his steady nerves and unsympathetic mind, fell back in his chair
with a low groan. Only young Geoff, his features all quivering, the
tears in his eyes, stood by her side.

“Humour her,” he said. “Let her have her own way. None of us at this
moment surely could refuse her her way.”

The lawyer nodded. He had a heart of flesh and not of stone; and
’Lizabeth sat and waited, with her hands clasped together, her head a
little raised, her countenance beyond the power of painting. Grief and
joy mingled in it, and relief and anguish. Her eyes were dilated and
wet, but she shed no tears; their very orbits seemed enlarged, and there
was a quivering smile upon her mouth--a smile such as makes spectators
weep. “Here I and sorrow sit.” There was never a king worthy the name
but would have felt his state as nothing in this presence. But there was
no struggle in her now. She had yielded, and all was peace about her.
She would have waited for days had it been necessary. That what she had
begun should be ended was the one thing above all.

A man came hurriedly in as all the people present waited round,
breathless and reverential, for the completion of her testimony. Their
business, whatever it was, was arrested by force of nature. The kind old
Dogberry from the village, who had been standing by John Musgrave’s side
by way of guarding him, put up his hand to his forehead and made a
rustic bow to his supposed prisoner. “I always knowed that was how it
would turn out,” he said, as he hobbled off, to which John Musgrave
replied only by a faint smile, but stood still, as motionless as a
picture, though all semblance of restraint had melted away. But while
all waited thus reverentially a sudden messenger came rushing in, and
addressing Sir Henry in a loud voice, announced that the coroner had
sent him to make preparations for the inquest. “And he wants to know
what time it will be most convenient for the jury to inspect the two
bodies; and if they are both in the same place; and if it’s true.”

There was a universal hush, at which the man stopped in amazement. Then
his eye, guided by the looks of the others, fell upon the old woman in
the chair. She had heard him, and she was roused. Her face turned
towards him with a growing wonder. “She here! O Lord, forgive me!” he
cried, and fell back.

“Two bodies!” she said. A shudder came over her. She got up slowly from
her seat and looked round upon them all. “Two--another, another!--oh, my
unhappy lad!” She wrung her hands and looked round upon them, “Maybe
another house made desolate; maybe another woman--Will you tell me who
the other was?”

Here the labouring man, who had been with Wild Bampfylde on the
hill-side, and who was standing by, suddenly succumbed to the strange
horror and anguish of the moment. He burst out loudly into tears, crying
like a child. “Oh, poor ’Lizabeth, poor ’Lizabeth!” he cried; he could
not bear any more.

’Lizabeth looked at this man with the air of one awakening from a dream.
Then she turned a look of inquiry upon those around her. No one would
meet her eye. They shrank one behind another away from her, and more
than one man burst forth into momentary weeping like the first, and some
covered their faces in their hands. Even Geoff, sobbing like a child,
turned away from her for a moment. She held out her hands to them with a
pitiful cry, “Say it’s not that--say it’s not that!” she cried. The
shrill scream of anguish ran through the house. It brought Lady Stanton
and all the women shuddering from every corner. They all knew what it
was and how it was. The mother! What more needed to be said? They came
in and surrounded her, the frivolous girls and the rough women from the
kitchen, all together, while the men stood about looking on. Not even
Sir Henry could resist the passion of horror and sorrow which had taken
possession of the place. He cried with a voice all hoarse and trembling,
“Take her away!--take her away!”




CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE TRAGEDY ENDS.


’Lizabeth Bampfylde went on to Stanton that same afternoon, where the
remains of her two sons were lying. But she would not go in Lady
Stanton’s carriage.

“Nay, nay; carriages were never made for me. I will walk, my lady. It’s
best for me, body and soul.”

She had recovered herself after the anguish of that discovery. Before
the sympathisers round her had ceased to sob, ’Lizabeth had raised
herself up in the midst of them like an old tower. The storm had raged
round her, but had not crushed her. Her face and even her lips had lost
all trace of colour, her eyes were hollow and widened out in their
sockets, like caves to hold the slow welling out of salt tears. There
was a convulsive trembling now in the pose of her fine head, and in her
hands; but her strength was not touched.

“Oh, how can you walk?” Lady Stanton said; “you are not able for it.”

“I am able for anything it’s God’s pleasure to send,” she said; “though
it’s little even He can do to me now.” The women stood round her with
pitiful looks, some of them weeping unrestrainedly; but the tears that
’Lizabeth shed came one by one, slow gathering, rarely falling. She put
on her red handkerchief over her cap again, with hands that were steady
enough till that twitch of nervous movement took them. “It should be
black,” she said, with a half-smile; “ay, I should be a’ black from head
to foot, from head to foot, if there was one left to mind.” Then she
turned upon them with again her little stately curtsey. “I’m not a woman
of many words, and ye may judge what heart I have to speak; but I thank
ye all,” and, with once more a kind of smile, she set out upon her way.

John Musgrave had been standing by; he had spoken to no one, not even to
Lady Stanton, who, trembling with a consciousness that he was there, had
not been able, in the presence of this great anguish, to think of any
other. He, and his story, and his return, altogether had been thrown
entirely into the background by these other events. He came forward now,
and followed ’Lizabeth out of the gate. “I am going with you,” he said.
The name “mother” was on his lips, but he dared not say it. She gave a
slight glance at him, and recognised him. But if one had descended from
heaven to accompany her, what would that have been to ’Lizabeth? It was
as if they had parted yesterday.

“Ay,” she said; then, after a pause, “it’s you that has the best right.”

The tragedy had closed very shortly after that penultimate chapter which
ended with the death of Wild Bampfylde. When the carriage and its
attendants arrived to remove him to Stanton he was lying on Geoff’s
shoulder, struggling for his last breath. It was too late then to
disturb the agony. The men stood about reverentially till the last gasp
was over, then carried the vagrant tenderly to the foot of the hill,
with a respect which no one had ever shown him before. One of the party,
a straggler, who had strayed further up the dell in the interval of
waiting, saw traces above among the broken bushes, which made him call
some of his comrades as soon as their first duty was done. And there on
the little plateau, where Walter Stanton’s body had been found fifteen
years before, lay that of his murderer, the madman who had wrought so
much misery. He was found lying across the stream as if he had stooped
to drink, and had not been able to raise himself. The running water had
washed all traces of murder from him. When they lifted him, with much
precaution, not knowing whether his stillness might mean a temporary
swoon, or a feint of madness to beguile them, his pale marble
countenance seemed a reproach to the lookers-on. Even with the aspect of
his victim fresh in their eyes, the men could not believe that this had
ever been a furious maniac or man slayer. One of them went to look for
Geoff, and to arrest the progress of the other funeral procession.
“There’s another one, my lord,” he said, “all torn and tattered in his
clothes, but with the look of a king.” And Geoff, notwithstanding his
horror, could not but look with a certain awe upon the worn countenance.
It might have been that of a man worn with great labours, with thought,
with the high musings of philosophy, or schemes of statesmanship. He was
carried down and laid by the side of his brother whom he had killed. All
the cottagers, the men from the field, the passengers on the way, stood
looking on, or followed the strange procession. Such a piece of news, as
may be supposed, flew over the country like wildfire. There was no
family better known than the Bampfyldes, notwithstanding their humble
rank. The handsome Bampfyldes: and here they had come to an end!

Old ’Lizabeth, as she made her way to Stanton, was followed everywhere
by the same atmosphere of sympathy. The women came out to their doors to
look after her, and even strong men sobbed as she passed. What would
become of her, poor lonely woman? She gave a great cry when she saw the
two pale faces lying peacefully together. They were both men in the full
prime of life, in the gravity of middle age, fully developed, strongly
knit, men all formed for life, and full of its matured vigour. They lay
side by side as they had lain when they were children. That one of them
had taken the life of the other, who could have imagined possible? The
poacher and vagrant looked like some great general nobly dead in
battle, the madman like a sage. Death had redeemed them from their
misery, their poverty, the misfortunes which were greater than either.
Their mother gave a great cry of anguish yet pride as she stood beside
them. “My lads,” she cried, “my two handsome lads, my bonny boys!”
’Lizabeth had come to that pass when words have no meaning to express
the depths and the heights. What could a woman say who sees her sons
stretched dead before her? She uttered one inarticulate wail of anguish,
as a dumb creature might have done, and then her overwrought soul
reeling, tottered almost on the verge of reason, and she cried out in
pride and agony, “My handsome lads! my bonny boys!”

“Come home with me,” said John Musgrave. “We have made a bad business of
it, ’Lizabeth, you and I. This is all our sacrifice has come to. Nothing
left but your wreck of life, and mine. But come home with me. Where I
am, there will always be a place for Lily’s mother. And there is little
Lily still, and she will comfort you----”

“Eh! comfort me!” She smiled at the word. “Nay, I must go to my own
house. I thank you, John Musgrave, and I do not deserve it at your hand.
This fifteen years it has been me that has murdered you, not my lad
yonder, not my Abel. What did he know? And I humbly beg your pardon, and
your little bairns’ pardon, on my knees--but nay, nay, I must go home.
My own house--there is no other place for me.”

They came round her and took her hands, and pleaded with her too--Geoff,
and his mother, with the tears streaming from her eyes. “Oh, my poor
woman, my poor woman!” Lady Stanton cried, “stay here while _they_ are
here.” But nothing moved ’Lizabeth. She made her little curtsey to them
all, with that strange smile like a pale light wavering upon her face.

“Nay, nay,” she said. “Nay, nay--I humbly thank my lady and my lord, and
a’ kind friends--but my own house, that is the only place for me.”

“But you cannot go so far, if that were all. You must be worn out with
walking only--if there was nothing more----”

“Me--worn out!--with walking!” It was a kind of laugh which came from
her dry throat. “Ay, very near--very near it--that will come soon, if
the Lord pleases. But good-day to you all, and my humble thanks, my lord
and my lady--you’re kind--kind to give them house-room; till Friday; but
they’ll give no trouble, no trouble!” she said, with again that
something which sounded like a laugh. Laughing or crying, it was all one
to ’Lizabeth. The common modes of expression were garments too small for
her soul.

“Stay only to-night--it will be dark long before you can be there. Stay
to-night,” they pleaded. She broke from them with a cry.

“I canna bide this, I canna bide it! I’m wanting the stillness of the
fells, and the arms of them about me. Let me be--oh, let me be! There’s
a moon,” she added, abruptly, “and dark or light, I’ll never lose my
way.”

Thus they had to leave her to do as she pleased in the end. She would
not eat anything, or even sit down, but went out with her hood over her
head into the gathering shadows. They stood watching her till the sound
of her steps died out on the way--firm, steady, unfaltering steps. Life
and death, and mortal anguish, and wearing care, had done their worst
upon old ’Lizabeth. She stood like a rock against them all.

She came down to the funeral on Friday, as she had herself appointed,
and saw her sons laid in their grave, and again she was entreated to
remain. But even little Lilias, whom her father brought forward to aid
the pleadings of the others, could not move her. “Honey-sweet!” she
said, with a tender light in her eyes; but she had more room for the
children when her heart was full of living cares. It was empty now, and
there was no room. A few weeks after, she was found dying peaceably in
her bed, giving all kinds of directions to her children. “Abel will have
your father’s watch, he aye wanted it from a baby--and Lily gets all my
things, as is befitting. They will set her up for her wedding. And Dick,
my little Dick, that has aye been the little one--who says I was not
thinking of Dick? He’s been my prop and my right hand when a’ deserted
me. The poor little house and the little bit of land, and a’ his mother
has--who should they be for, but Dick?” Thus she died tranquilly, seeing
them all round her; and all that was cruel and bitter in the lot of the
Bampfyldes came to an end.




CHAPTER XL.

CONCLUSION.


John Musgrave settled down without any commotion into his natural place
in his father’s house. The old Squire himself mended from the day when
Nello, very timid, but yet brave to repress the signs of his reluctance,
was brought into his room. He played with the child as if he had been a
child himself, and so grew better day by day, and got out of bed again,
and save for a little dragging of one leg as he limped along, brought no
external sign of his “stroke” out of his sick-room. But he wrote no more
Monographs, studied no more. His life had come back to him as the Syrian
lord in the Bible got back his health after his leprosy--“like the flesh
of a little child.” The Squire recovered after a while the power of
taking his part in a conversation, and looked more venerable than ever
with his faded colour and subdued forces. But his real life was all with
little Nello, who by and by got quite used to his grandfather, and
lorded it over him as children so often do. When the next summer came,
they went out together, the Squire generally in a wheeled chair, Nello
walking, or riding by his side on the pony his grandpapa had given him.
There was no doubt now as to who was heir. When Randolph came to
Penninghame, after spending a day and a half in vain researches for
Nello, life having become too exciting at that moment at the Castle to
leave any one free to send word of the children’s safety--he found all
doubt and notion of danger over for John--- and he himself established
in his natural place. Whether the Squire had forgotten everything in his
illness, or whether he had understood the story which Mary took care to
repeat two or three times very distinctly by his bedside, no one knew.
But he never objected to John’s presence, made no question about
him--accepted him as if he had been always there. Absolutely as if there
had been no breach in the household existence at all, the eldest son
took his place; and that Nello was the heir was a thing beyond doubt in
any reasonable mind. This actual settlement of all difficulties had
already come about when Randolph came. His father took no notice of him,
and John, who thought it was his brother’s fault that his little son had
been so unkindly treated, found it difficult to afford Randolph any
welcome. He did not, however, want any welcome in such circumstances. He
stayed for a single night, feeling himself coldly looked upon by all.
Mr. Pen, who spent half his time at the Castle, more than any one turned
a cold shoulder upon his brother clergyman.

“You felt it necessary that the child should go to school quite as much
as I did,” Randolph said, on the solitary occasion when the matter was
discussed.

“Yes, but not to any school,” the Vicar said. “I would rather----” he
paused for a sufficiently strong image, but it was hard to find; “I
would rather--have got up at six o’clock every day, and sacrificed
everything--rather than have exposed Nello to the life he had
there;--and you who are a father yourself.”

“Yes; but my boy has neither a girl’s name nor a girl’s want of courage.
He is not a baby that would flinch at the first rough word. I did not
know the nature of the thing,” said Randolph, with a sneer. “I have no
acquaintance with any but straightforward and manly ways.”

The Vicar followed him out in righteous wrath. He produced from his
pocket a hideous piece of pink paper.

“Do you know who sent this?” he asked.

Randolph looked at it, taken aback, and tried to bluster forth an
expression of wonder--

“I--how should I know?”

“What did you mean by it?” cried the gentle Vicar, in high
excitement;--“did you think I did not know my duty? did you think I was
a cold-blooded reptile like--like the man that sent that? Do you think
it was in me to betray my brother? I know nothing bad enough for him who
made such a suggestion. And he nearly gained his point. The devil knows
what tools to work with. He works with the weakness of good people as
well as with the strength of bad,” cried mild Mr. Pen, inspired for once
in his life with righteous indignation. “Judas did it himself at least,
bad as he was. He did not whisper treason in a man’s ears nor in a
woman’s heart.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Randolph, with guilt in his face.

“Not all, no; fortunately you don’t know, nor any one else, the trouble
you might have made. But no less, though it never came to pass, was it
that traitor’s fault.”

“When you take to speaking riddles I give it up,” said Randolph,
shrugging his shoulders.

But Mr. Pen was so hot in moral force that he was glad to get away. He
slept one night under his father’s roof, no one giving him much
attention, and then went away, never to return again; but went back to
his believing wife, too good a fate, who smoothed him down and healed
all his wounds. “My husband is like most people who struggle to do their
duty,” she said. “His brother was very ungrateful, though Randolph had
done so much for him. And the little boy, who had been dreadfully
spoiled, ran away from the school when he had cost my husband so much
trouble. And even his sister Mary showed him no kindness; that is the
way when a man is so disinterested as Randolph, doing all he can for his
own family, for their _real_ good.”

And this, at the end, came to be what Randolph himself thought.

Mrs. Pen, after coming home hysterical from Elfdale, made a clean breast
to her husband, and showed him the telegram, and confessed all her
apprehensions for him. What could a man do but forgive the folly or even
wickedness done for his sweet sake? And Mrs. Pen went through a few
dreadful hours, when in the morning John Musgrave came back from his
night journey and the warrant was put in force. If they should hang him
what would become of her? She always believed afterwards that it was her
William’s intervention which had saved John, and she never believed in
John’s innocence, let her husband say what he would. For Mrs. Pen said
wisely, that wherever there is smoke there must be fire, and it was no
use telling her that Lord Stanton had not been killed; for it was in the
last edition of the _Fellside History_, and therefore must be true.

When all was over Sir Henry and Lady Stanton made a formal visit of
congratulation at Penninghame. Sir Henry told John that it had been a
painful necessity to issue the warrant, but that a man must do his duty,
whatever it is; and as, under Providence, this was the means of making
everything clear he could not regret that he had done it now. Lady
Stanton said nothing, or next to nothing. She talked a little to Mary,
making stray little remarks about the children, and drawing Nello to her
side. Lilias she was afraid of, with those great eyes. Was that child to
be Geoff’s wife? she thought. Ah! how much better, had he been the kind
young husband who should have delivered her own Annie or Fanny. This
little girl would want nothing of the kind; her father would watch over
her, he would let no one meddle with her, not like a poor woman with a
hard husband and stepdaughters. She trembled a little when she put her
hand into John’s. She looked at him with moisture in her eyes.

“I have always believed in you, always hoped to see you here again,” she
said.

“Come, Mary, the carriage is waiting,” said Sir Henry. He said after
that this was all that was called for, and here the intercourse between
the two houses dropped. Mary could not help “taking an interest” in John
Musgrave still, but what did it matter? everybody took an interest in
him now.

As for Geoff, he became, as he had a way of doing, the sun of the house
at Penninghame; even the old Squire took notice of his kind, cheerful
young face. He neglected Elfdale and his young cousins, and even Cousin
Mary, whom he loved. But it was not to be supposed that John Musgrave
would allow a series of love passages to go on indefinitely for years
between his young neighbour and his daughter Lilias, as yet not quite
thirteen years old. The young man was sent away after a most affecting
parting, not to return for three years. Naturally, Lady Stanton rebelled
much, she who had kept her son at home during all his life; but what
could she do? Instead of struggling vainly she took the wiser part, and
though it was a trial to tear herself from Stanton and all the servants,
who were so kind, and the household which went upon wheels, upon velvet,
and gave her no trouble, she made up her mind to it, and took her maid
and Benson and Mr. Tritton and went “abroad” too. What is it to go
abroad when a lady is middle-aged and has a grown-up son and such an
establishment?--but she did it: “for I shall not have him very long!”
she said, with a sigh.

Lilias was sixteen when Geoff came home. Can any one doubt that the
child had grown up with her mind full of the young hero who had acted so
great a part in her young life? When the old Squire died and Nello went
to school, a very different school from Mr. Swan’s, the idea of “Mr.
Geoff” became more and more her companion. It was not love, perhaps, in
the ordinary meaning of the word; Lilias did not know what that meant.
Half an elder brother, half an enchanted prince, more than half a hero
of romance, he wove himself with every story and every poem that was
written, to Lilias. He it was, and no Prince Ferdinand, whom Miranda
thought so fair. It was he who slew all the dragons and giants, and
delivered whole dungeons full of prisoners. Her girlhood was somewhat
lonely, chiefly because of this soft mist of semi-betrothal which was
about her. Not only was she already a woman, though a child, but a woman
separated from others, a bride doubly virginal because he was absent to
whom all her thoughts were due. “What if he should forget her?” Mary
Musgrave would say, alarmed. She thought it neither safe nor right for
the child, who was the beauty and flower of Penninghame, as she herself
had been, though in so different a way. Mary now had settled down as the
lady of Penninghame, as her brother was its lawful lord. John was not
the kind of man to make a second marriage, even if, as his sister
sometimes fancied, his first had but little satisfied his heart. But of
this he said nothing, thankful to be able at the end to redeem some
portion of the life thus swallowed up by one of those terrible, but
happily rare, mistakes, which are no less wretched that they are half
divine. He had all he wanted in his sister’s faithful companionship and
in his children. There is no more attractive household than that in
which, after the storms of life, a brother and sister set up peacefully
together the old household gods, never dispersed, which were those of
their youth. Mary was a little more careful, perhaps, of her niece, a
little more afraid of the troubles in her way, than if she had been her
daughter. She watched Lilias with great anxiety, and read between the
lines of Geoff’s letters with vague scrutiny, looking always for
indications of some change.

Lilias was sixteen in the end of October, the third after the previous
events recorded here. She had grown to her full height, and her beauty
had a dreamy, poetical touch from the circumstances, which greatly
changed the natural expression appropriate to the liquid dark eyes and
noble features she had from her mother and her mother’s mother. Her eyes
were less brilliant than they would have been had they not looked so far
away, but they were more sweet. Her brightness altogether was tempered
and softened, and kept within that modesty of childhood to which her
youthful age really belonged, though nature and life had developed her
more than her years. Though she was grown up she kept many of her
childish ways, and still sat, as Mary had always done, at the door of
the old hall, now wonderfully decorated and restored, but yet the old
hall still. The two ladies shared it between them for all their hours of
leisure, but Mary had given up her seat at the door to the younger
inhabitant, partly because she loved to see Lilias there with the sun
upon her, partly because she herself began to feel the cool airs of the
north less halcyon than of old. The books that Lilias carried with her
were no longer fairy tales, but maturer enchantments of poetry. And
there she sat absorbed in verse and lost to all meaner delights, on the
eve of her birthday, a soft air ruffling the little curls on her
forehead, the sun shining upon her uncovered head. Lilias loved the sun.
She was not afraid of it nor her complexion, and the sun of October is
not dangerous. She had a hand up to shade the book, which was too
dazzling in the light, but nothing to keep the golden light from her.
She sat warm and glorified in the long, slanting, dazzling rays.

Mary had heard a horse’s hoofs, and, being a little restless, came
forward softly from her seat behind to see who it was; but Lilias, lost
in the poetry and the sunshine, heard nothing.

    “She wept with pity and delight,
    She blush’d with love and virgin shame,
    And like the murmur of a dream
    I heard her breathe my name.

    “Her bosom heaved, she stepp’d aside
    As conscious of my look she stept,
    Then suddenly, with timorous eye,
    She fled to me and wept.”

Mary saw what Lilias did not see, the horseman at the foot of the slope.
He looked and smiled, and signed to her over the lovely head in the
sunshine. He was brown and ruddy with health and travel, his eyes
shining, his breath coming quick. Three years! as long as a
lifetime--but it was over. Suddenly, “Lily--my little Lily,” he cried,
unable to keep silence more.

She sprang to her feet like a startled deer; the book fell from her
hands; her eyes gave a great gleam and flash, and softened in the golden
light of sunset and tenderness. The poetry or the life, which was the
most sweet? “Yes, Mr. Geoff,” she said.


THE END.


Richard Clay and Sons, Limited,

LONDON AND BUNGAY.